Slytherin Girls' Dormitory
Daphne sat at her desk, two pieces of parchment spread out before her.
She fidgeted with her quill, torn about what to write. She wanted to ask her mother:
What is the nobility of pure-bloods, really?
As the eldest daughter of the Greengrass family, she'd been raised to believe in the superiority of pure-bloods, their exceptional nature.
In her upbringing, Muggle-born witches and wizards were only slightly better than non-magical Muggles. No matter how hard they tried, they'd always be looking up at pure-bloods.
But then she thought of Lucien's baffling abilities—his effortless command of magical knowledge, his silent spellcasting, his never-before-seen Transfiguration techniques…
She'd heard from Malfoy that Lucien was Muggle-born.
So, lately, Daphne's mind had been a whirlwind of confusion. How could Lucien achieve that level of skill?
Gripping her quill tightly, she began to write on the parchment:
Dear Mother,
As you hoped, I'm doing well at Hogwarts.
I've been grappling with a question lately—about pure-bloods, about wizarding lineage…
The scratching of her quill paused as she folded the letter and reached for the second sheet, continuing:
My Dearest Astoria,
How's your health been? Make sure you take your medicine and listen to Mum.
Hogwarts is amazing—you won't be disappointed when you get here.
There's so much magic to learn, professors with all sorts of styles, and tons of students. One of them, a Ravenclaw…
…
Great Hall
It was nearly noon.
The hall was buzzing with young witches and wizards—it was Halloween, after all.
The afternoon was a half-day off, and after enduring a morning of classes, the kids were bursting with excitement.
The panic from last night's troll invasion seemed forgotten, the school brimming with festive cheer.
But there were always exceptions.
Like Malfoy, sulking in a corner of the Great Hall.
He paced nervously, occasionally waving his wand in small, jittery motions.
Last night, he'd agreed to duel Lucien at noon today.
But…
His mind kept flashing back to that creature—the monstrous thing Lucien had conjured so casually.
His already pale, gaunt face grew even whiter.
Pressing his trembling wand hand to steady it, Malfoy tried to shake off the fear.
"Come on, Malfoy, teach that kid a lesson!"
"Just a filthy… Muggle-born wizard daring to duel a pure-blood? What a joke."
A tall, burly boy passed by, his gruff voice cutting through. Marcus Flint, Slytherin's Quidditch Captain, from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families.
Maybe because Flint looked a bit like a troll himself, Malfoy's mind flicked back to last night's scene.
That savage, powerful troll had been effortlessly strangled by the terrifying creature Lucien summoned.
The already horrifying memory, amplified by fear, made Malfoy feel even worse.
"Urgh—"
He clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a gag.
"You alright, mate? Feeling off?"
"You can't play Quidditch if you're under the weather, no matter how much you say you love it or how good you are at flying…"
Not wanting to hear more of Marcus's oblivious chatter, Malfoy muttered an excuse and left the corner, slinking to the edge of a long table.
He grabbed a glass of juice and chugged it, trying to quell the nausea born of fear.
Setting the glass down, he looked up to see a few familiar faces across the table.
Ron, mouth stuffed with half a pumpkin pasty, chewed while staring at Malfoy in surprise.
Harry pushed up his glasses, a smirk creeping onto his face as he imagined Malfoy's reaction in the upcoming duel.
Hermione, on the other hand, was her usual self—just a glance at Malfoy before returning to her meal.
When Malfoy's gaze shifted, he met the friendly smile of a handsome boy.
Lucien chuckled softly.
"Good afternoon."
Whoosh.
Malfoy practically leapt to his feet, knocking over his juice in the process.
Then, in one fluid motion, Lucien watched him turn and bolt.
Lucien shook his head lightly. Poor kid was scared out of his wits last night.
Judging by Malfoy's dark circles, he probably hadn't slept either.
Well, during the duel, Lucien would make it quick—let the kid get some rest.
"Lucien, you planning to use that move from yesterday?" Ron asked, swallowing his pasty, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
He hadn't convinced Lucien to teach him that Transfiguration, but he was dying to see it again.
Lucien shook his head.
"Nah, I'll switch it up—something with a bit more flair, something dazzling."
Ideally, something like Dumbledore's Firestorm spell—showy enough to ensure no one else would dare challenge him again.
If he could study in peace at Hogwarts for a few years, that'd be perfect. What was school for if not learning?
As Malfoy hid at the farthest end of the table, catching his breath, two tall, stocky figures spotted him and called out excitedly:
"Young Master Malfoy! We finally found you!"
"Crabbe? Goyle?"
Seeing his two lackeys, Malfoy straightened up, tilted his chin, and tried to act nonchalant.
"What do you two want?"
Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a glance, both brimming with excitement.
Goyle unfurled a banner he was holding, each taking one end.
When Malfoy read the words, his vision darkened, and he nearly fainted.
"Celebrating Malfoy's Great Victory, Defending Pure-Blood Glory to the Death!"
Malfoy steadied himself, lips trembling.
"You… who told you to do this?"
Crabbe, thinking this was praise-worthy, grinned.
"I came up with the idea, and Goyle wrote it, Young Master. You like it?"
"Shame we can't draw, or we'd have added your family crest."
Not wanting to be outdone, Goyle chimed in loudly:
"Young Master, I spread the word in Slytherin. After today's duel, your fame and status are gonna skyrocket!"
"It's just a small thing—happy to help!"
The words hit Malfoy like a dagger to the heart.
He clutched his chest and slumped to the ground.
Right—he'd sworn on his family's honor yesterday, in front of plenty of witnesses. And now, with this…
No dodging the duel like he'd tricked Potter last time.
He had to fight!
But… but…
Those eerie compound eyes from Lucien's creature flashed in his mind, making his head throb and his stomach churn.
Clang—
Noon struck.
The clock's chime echoed through the Great Hall.
It snapped Malfoy back to reality, and he realized Crabbe was propping him up.
Goyle had just yanked Malfoy's wand out and was shoving it into his hand.
"Go get 'em, Young Master Malfoy!"
With their synchronized cheers, they half-carried him to the center of the hall.
The crowd had already cleared a path.
At the other end stood a boy, his dark golden hair glinting faintly in the sunlight, a polite smile on his handsome face, his emerald-green eyes fixed on Malfoy.
The boy raised his wand to his chest and said softly:
"Are you ready?"