Tonight belonged to Draco Malfoy.
After Draco's clean and decisive victory in the duel, the crowd's attention had completely shifted. No one was looking at the slumped Fred Weasley being helped to his feet, or at Lockhart with his awkward, forced smile. All eyes were on Draco, who had calmly stowed his wand and descended the stage, his robes gently trailing behind him.
The Slytherin students in particular looked at him with unrestrained excitement and admiration. It was clear—Draco had firmly cemented his status among them.
What's more, the duel made everyone realize that the rumors from last year weren't just wild exaggerations. They might very well be true.
Thanks to Fred Weasley becoming yet another stepping stone, Draco's reputation had reached new heights...
...
The events of the Duelling Club didn't seem to affect Draco at all.
As Goyle explained to Gary and the other new recruits, it was like kicking a pebble off the road—nothing worth celebrating.
"Trust me, once you've gone through Draco's hell training, you won't think that duel was anything special."
"Exactly, that was nothing."
Whatever memory Goyle and Crabbe had dredged up, their slightly contorted expressions left Gary and the others looking at them in confusion. It was hard to imagine what kind of torment could leave two hulking guys like them looking that shaken.
Still, the fact they were standing there in one piece meant it probably wasn't life-threatening... right?
Nearby, Pansy rolled her eyes at them with a look of utter disappointment. But her sly smirk gave her away.
"Hmph. You two idiots. Getting personal lessons from Draco isn't something just anyone gets. Maybe I should ask him to crank up your training."
"We were wrong!"
"Don't do that, boss lady!"
Gary and the other new guys, who clearly weren't ready to step into this "big three" dynamic, instinctively slowed their pace.
They were beginning to understand—never mess with Pansy Parkinson. Behind that sweet face was something much, much scarier.
At the same time, their gazes followed Draco's back with a mix of fervor and anticipation.
If they could get into that training, their power would definitely grow too, right?
That kind of temptation was impossible for a Slytherin to ignore...
...
After the Duelling Club ended, everyone returned to their dormitories. By the time Draco came out of the shower, Goyle and Crabbe were already fast asleep in their beds. Honestly, their carefree lives were enviable.
Draco, now dressed in velvet pajamas, sat quietly in a chair—not yet ready for bed. In fact, his eyes were fixed on the door, as if waiting for someone.
"It should be about time."
Just as he muttered that, the door creaked open. The movement was cautious, like the visitor didn't want to wake anyone.
As the figure stepped into the room, Draco got a clear look at who—or rather, what—it was.
No matter how you looked at it, this visitor wasn't human.
It was a House-elf, with a pair of large, round eyes…
"Good evening, sir."
"You're here, Dobby."
Indeed, the figure that appeared wasn't one of the Hogwarts House-elves—it was Dobby, the same House-elf who had once shown up before Draco at Malfoy Manor.
Now, Dobby bowed toward Draco in his usual awkward fashion and greeted him politely.
Had Goyle or Crabbe been awake, they surely would've been shocked to see Dobby here.
After all, this was Hogwarts—a place where not even Apparition worked. For Dobby to show up here without alerting anyone was, to put it mildly, no easy feat.
But Draco didn't bother asking how he managed it.
"I got your letter. But what's this about staying away from Hogwarts? You do realize I'm nowhere near graduating, right?"
"That thing... it entered Hogwarts. Dobby tried to stop it, but... he failed."
"That thing?"
Draco tapped his chin absentmindedly as he studied the trembling elf. He was definitely intrigued by this vague reference to "that thing."
But Dobby, now tearing up again, clearly wasn't going to explain it properly...
"Ah... sir, Dobby can't say. But sir must be careful. Best to go back to the Manor!"
Dobby looked up at Draco with teary, pleading eyes—like he was desperately hoping Draco would just pack up and go home.
Draco didn't even entertain the idea.
"You tried to stop it? What exactly did you do that you weren't supposed to?"
"Ah! That... Dobby didn't want to—but bad Dobby used magic to seal the station entrance! Dobby only wanted to stop that thing... Ah! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"
Dobby began rocking back and forth, his oversized head bobbing comically—until, suddenly, he started banging it against the foot of Crabbe's bed.
Draco briefly wondered if he should stop him, worried the bedframe might actually collapse under the impact.
"Stop that. Right now."
"Yes... sob... sir."
Draco spared a glance at Crabbe, who was muttering in his sleep, clearly not about to wake up. With a sigh, he rubbed his temple and commanded Dobby to cut it out.
"So that's the truth, huh... but if that's the case, does it mean something—or someone—is tied to Harry Potter?"
"Dobby can't say. Dobby can't say."
Draco didn't bother responding to the repeated mutterings or the sight of Dobby wiping his tears with a dirty pillowcase. He knew too well that if he tried to comfort the elf, it would only make things worse.
He'd learned that lesson before—learned just how deeply ingrained a House-elf's sense of inferiority could be.
Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, gazing out the window at the still, black surface of the lake, falling into thought.
"So they really did have a chance to come into contact..."
A memory surfaced—something Pansy had mentioned before.
His father and Pansy's father had shown up together in Diagon Alley. They'd stirred up trouble for the Weasleys, and at the time, it had all seemed strangely abrupt.
If he remembered right, they were supposedly looking for some kind of lost item... and that's why they were there...