Solim left without waiting for Snape to speak. He believed the offer he had just made was something Snape couldn't refuse—and if he did, then the man in that office wasn't really Snape.
It was Thursday, and later that evening Hermione and Neville were supposed to come over to Solim's house for a small chat. But because of that afternoon's flying lesson, Solim's plans had shifted.
Solim had never been fond of "plot." This was the world of wizards and magic—not Harry Potter's story. His background and worldview were far broader than that of the so-called "Boy Who Lived."
Voldemort? Please. If he ever truly threatened the real powers behind this world, they'd crush him within minutes—Horcrux or not.
Solim always ate quickly. You ask why? Because this was the Kingdom of Ying, and wizard food wasn't much better than what Muggles served.
"Draco, finish up and follow me when you're done," Solim said to Draco, who was still wrestling with a chicken leg.
"?" Draco gave Solim a puzzled look, his mouth still full.
"Follow me to the Gryffindor table. And don't talk," Solim ordered, standing up. "Come on, finish eating. If you're not full, ask the elf to bring you a cake later in the lounge."
Draco frowned but obeyed, trailing behind as Solim walked toward the Gryffindor table. Hermione was sipping soup, looking nearly finished. Neville was eating a cake, while Ron—sitting nearby—was devouring food like he hadn't eaten in days. His cheeks were stuffed, his hands clutched two chicken legs, and he was already cramming another bite in before swallowing.
"My God," Solim muttered. "Do the Weasleys ever feed their children?"
Hermione and Neville both looked up, spotting Solim—and beside him, Draco, who wore his usual expression of disdain.
"Why did you bring him?" Hermione's voice was sharp. Her opinion of Malfoy had been poor ever since the flying lesson incident—and learning what "Mudblood" meant had only made it worse.
"You'll find out soon," Solim shrugged. "You two—take Weasley and Potter to the old place later. I've got something to tell them."
His eyes flicked to Ron, who was still inhaling food. "You'd better hurry," he added. "It's Thursday. Don't let them waste your study time."
After that, Solim turned and walked away, Draco following reluctantly.
Hermione's face showed a mix of irritation and curiosity. But knowing Solim wouldn't say more, she immediately stood and grabbed Neville—who still had frosting on his mouth. "Harry! Ron! Stop eating. Come on, follow us, hurry up!" she said briskly.
Solim led Draco down the corridor near the trophy room on the third floor. The walls were lined with portraits. When they stopped in front of one depicting a large wooden door, Solim reached out and tapped the painted doorknob three times.
A real doorknob appeared.
"What's this?" Draco asked, eyes wide.
"A secret room," Solim replied. "There are lots of them in Hogwarts." He opened the door and stepped inside first. Draco hesitated a moment, then followed. As soon as the door closed, the painted doorknob disappeared, and the portrait became perfectly ordinary again.
The circular room inside didn't look like a classroom. Three doorframes led to adjoining chambers.
"What is this place? I've never heard of it," Draco said, glancing around.
"I come here every February, April, and June," Solim said. "To tutor Neville—and Hermione sometimes." He gestured for Draco to follow him into one of the side rooms, which resembled a lounge. They sat down.
"What were you thinking this afternoon?" Solim asked. "Making such a scene?"
Draco frowned. "I—"
"I thought you were smart," Solim interrupted. "Why do you turn stupid the moment you see Potter?"
Before Draco could respond, Solim continued, "When Potter and Weasley get here, don't speak. Just wait."
The door opened again. Hermione led Harry and Ron in.
"Draco," Solim said quietly, "don't let me hear the word 'Mudblood' again. Ever." Draco scowled but stayed silent.
Solim clapped his hands. "Alright, everyone's here. Sit."
Harry and Ron exchanged wary glances but obeyed. Whatever Hermione had told them on the way had clearly worked—they were uncharacteristically quiet.
"We all know each other," Solim began, sitting upright. "So let's get to the point. Draco was wrong today. I'm apologizing on his behalf."
He shot Draco a sharp look before the boy could protest.
"Can't he apologize himself?" Ron muttered, glaring at Draco.
"Harry—may I call you that?" Solim asked, ignoring Ron.
"Of course," Harry said. "You can call me Harry." He'd always had a decent impression of Solim; unlike most Slytherins, Solim never mocked him in Potions class.
"Good," said Solim. "Actually, you and Ron got dragged into this—on the train and today. The feud between the Malfoys and the Weasleys is old news, and you two just got caught in the middle."
He raised a hand to silence any objections. "You've probably noticed it already—most pure-bloods look down on the Weasleys. They avoid them, don't talk to them. On the other hand, the Weasleys are close to half-bloods and Muggle-borns. That's the social divide."
Turning to Draco, he asked, "Tell me—why do you hate the Weasleys so much? And Ron, why do you hate the Malfoys?"
"You don't need to ask!" Draco snapped. "The Weasleys are pure-blood traitors—scum among wizards."
"Hmph! And the Malfoys are evil dark wizards!" Ron shot back instantly.
"Tsk," Solim said with a smirk. "Listen to yourselves."
He pointed at Draco. "You call them traitors—why?" Then he turned to Ron. "And you—why do you call them evil? Crabbe's and Goyle's fathers were Death Eaters like Lucius Malfoy. But you don't hate McMillan, McLaggen, or even Longbottom, and they all have dark wizards in their family lines. Why the special hatred for Malfoys?"
Draco opened his mouth, "Because the Weasleys—"
"Because they're friendly with Muggles?" Solim interrupted. "That's your reason? Plenty of pure-bloods are friendly with Muggles—Diggorys, Burns, others. Do you call them traitors too?"
Both boys fell silent.
"I thought so," Solim said coldly. "You both grew up hearing the same kind of poison—'Don't trust the Malfoys,' or 'The Weasleys are scum.' Right?"
Neither boy answered.
"You see?" Solim continued. "You two never had real enmity. You were taught to hate each other. Over time, that blind dislike turned into hostility. But I know more about your families than either of you do. Frankly, the feud between the Malfoys and the Weasleys is ancient history. It's time to let it go. The debts have been paid. The losses endured. What's left? Do you want your children and grandchildren to keep hating each other too?"
Draco looked down. Ron clenched his fists but didn't speak.
Hermione, listening closely, finally asked, "Solim, do you mean you actually know why the Malfoys and the Weasleys hate each other?"
"Yes," Solim said thoughtfully. "Their fathers know too—but I doubt they've told their sons."
"Why not?" she pressed.
"Because real hatred needs clarity," Solim said. "You have to know exactly how someone wronged you—and why you hate them. Otherwise, it's just inherited anger with no meaning. If you can't explain your hatred, what's the point?"
Hermione frowned. "So… what started it?"
"It's a long story," Solim said. "Hermione, you've studied wizarding history. How much do you know about the ancient wars—when wizards fought for their race's survival?"
"You mean when wizards fought magical creatures and races to establish the wizarding world?" she said quickly.
"Exactly," Solim nodded. "You've read more than most."
In ancient times, wizards lived miserably. Before the invention of the wand, every magical race could bully humans. Wizards' magical power was weak compared to creatures born with it. Many species, now extinct, once hunted humans for food.
But everything changed with the invention of the wand—and offensive spells soon followed. Wizards could finally fight back. Wars broke out between wizards and magical creatures. Humans gained ground, until they met the elves.
Elves were the darlings of magic—humanoid, graceful, with natural power and lifespans of eight centuries. Their magic far exceeded that of humans. A hundred-year-old elf held more magic than most human wizards could dream of.
Luckily for wizards, elves were few in number. While wizards multiplied, their society evolved. The greatest breakthroughs were the founding of the Presbyterian Council and Schuyler.
In those days, wizard families trained their young according to tradition: the Robert family excelled at potions; the Draco family mastered curses; the Sirius family specialized in magic manipulation; and the Tyrian family created powerful spells. Each family sent one master to train the next generation together—that was the beginning of Schuyler.
If the Presbyterian Council united wizardkind into one fist, then Schuyler was the power behind that punch.
Humans were weak—short-lived, fragile, magically inferior—but they had two advantages: endless ambition and high birth rates.
In the endless wars, wizards defeated or destroyed many magical races. The elves, however, endured. Both sides learned from each other. From elves came the inspiration for the Imperius Curse. From captured wizards, elves learned to wield destructive wand magic.
The war escalated. Elves' spells were devastating. Many wizards perished. But elves could not sustain a war of attrition; their population was too small, their lives too long. Eventually, they vanished from sight—retreating to hidden sanctuaries, nursing their wounds and hatred.
Years later, they used their cunning. They lured a human wizard into a trap. When he led his followers inside, none returned.
Solim paused, glancing at the faces around him. Even Ron was silent.
"The wizard's name," Solim said slowly, "was the ancestor of both the Malfoy and Weasley lines. The elves used his own magic against him. Each family blamed the other for betrayal—and since then, their descendants have carried that hatred blindly."
Draco and Ron both looked stunned.
"So you see," Solim finished, "you're not enemies. You're victims—of history and pride."
He leaned back, folding his arms. "Now you know the truth. What you do with it—that's up to you."
Silence filled the room. Hermione finally exhaled, breaking the heavy air.
"Looks like your mediation worked," she said softly.
Solim smiled faintly. "Maybe. But old grudges die hard."