"Enough!" Draco roared. "There's no answer to this question at all—you're just making it up!"
"Tsk, tsk, so this is all the great Malfoy can manage?" Allen replied with a smile. "It doesn't matter if you can't answer. You can ask. Do you remember what I said? You just need to do it. Do it for me. Just admit it—your Malfoy family is somewhat gifted in physical strength."
"Then tell me!" Draco lost his composure and roared again. "Who have you defeated that I couldn't?"
"The answer is simple," Allen said as he walked up to Draco, grabbed his collar, and lifted him off the ground.
"You, Draco Malfoy." Allen's tone was soft, even gentle, but his eyes—and his sudden action—were anything but friendly.
Draco trembled slightly, unable to process Allen's answer.
"Haha." Seeing Draco quivering like a startled quail, Allen smiled and gently set him down. His tone remained kind, almost affectionate.
"Don't be afraid," Allen said. "You were right about one thing—school rules forbid beating classmates. So, I can beat you, but I won't."
He smiled again. "But you could consider beating yourself. Just knock yourself down, and that would prove your physical strength. Why not give it a try? Victory might be just around the corner. It would prove the honor of the Malfoy family."
Allen's words were like the serpent tempting Adam and Eve. Deceptive. Alluring. And Draco, momentarily confused and overwhelmed, was tempted.
Ronald deserves praise here. He played his part beautifully, saying just enough to tip Draco's mind into chaos.
Draco stumbled back in a daze after Allen released him. Allen's words echoed in his mind:
The honor of the Malfoy family... defeat yourself... prove your strength...
Then, under the astonished gaze of all the watching students, Draco raised his fist—and punched himself.
Gasps echoed through the hall. Had Draco really just hit himself?
He had.
But the punch jolted Draco back to awareness.
He hadn't been hypnotized. Allen hadn't used the Imperius Curse. It was simply suggestion—a perfectly timed psychological trap. Draco was no fool. The second he landed the punch, he realized what he'd done.
Why? Why did I listen to his nonsense and hit myself?
Panic flared, but then an idea lit up in his mind.
Letting out a dramatic cry, Draco collapsed to the ground.
There! he thought, pleased with himself. He only said I had to knock myself down, not how many punches it would take. I punched myself once and fell—mission complete!
Draco smiled inwardly, pleased with his quick thinking.
Little did he know, he had danced right into Allen's plan.
Allen had set a language trap—and once Draco stepped in, unless he ignored the rules outright, every explanation led deeper into Allen's narrative.
Allen tilted his head toward Ronald and whispered something, then strolled toward Draco.
"I have a question for you, Malfoy," Allen said, standing over Draco and speaking loudly. "You knocked yourself out with one punch. Does that prove you're strong—or weak?"
Laughter exploded in the hall.
Indeed—how could knocking yourself out with a single punch be a sign of strength?
Draco's face turned crimson. His body frozen, he slowly opened his eyes, got up, and shouted, "So what? I won! I proved I can defeat myself! You lose! Hand over your wand!"
Allen didn't flinch. "No, you're the one who should hand over your wand," he said calmly, snapping his fingers. "Do you remember our bet? Ronald, remind him."
Ronald grinned. "It was to prove both physical strength and intelligence."
"Exactly," Allen said. "At best, you've proven your physical strength. But your intelligence?" He glanced around. "I don't think anyone here would call punching yourself and collapsing an act of great intellect."
Laughter erupted once again. The entry hall buzzed with joy and amusement.
Draco, now seen as a complete clown, was on the verge of exploding. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Allen's voice cut in, soft and cold:
"Of course, you can take it all back. That's fine. It'll just be a stain on the Malfoy name. But I'm sure that doesn't matter to you... right?"
That hit Draco where it hurt most.
His family name meant everything to him. He couldn't bear to see it tarnished.
"The Malfoy family never goes back on its word!" Draco growled, his eyes wet. "Here's my wand. Take it!"
He handed over a fine hawthorn wand. Allen reached out—but before he could grab it, a stern voice rang out.
"What's going on here?"
Professor McGonagall had arrived. She took in the wet robes of the gathered students, waved her wand, and a warm wind blew through the crowd.
Exclamations of surprise rang out as the students found their clothes instantly dried, even their shoes made warm and comfortable.
McGonagall then strode up to Allen and Draco, narrowing her eyes at the scene. Draco looked aggrieved. Allen looked unfazed.
She addressed Allen sharply, "What is going on?"
"A pleasant debate, Professor," Allen replied calmly. "We were discussing the relationship between noble blood, courage, and wisdom."
He said it as if he were giving a lecture at a philosophy club.
McGonagall was not fooled. Her eyes fell on the wand in Allen's hand. "You are not allowed to bully your classmates. Return Mr. Malfoy's wand."
"I'd be happy to, Professor," Allen replied, "but for the honor of his family, I believe Mr. Malfoy won't accept that."
Draco, who was hoping to get his wand back through McGonagall, froze. Allen's words had cornered him again.
Grimacing, Draco forced a proud expression. "I never break my word. That wand is his prize."
"Boss Malfoy is mighty!" "A true noble!"
His two lackeys quickly jumped in with flattery, making Draco feel a bit better.
But in truth, Draco had been forced into this by Allen's manipulation. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have cared less.
Allen slipped the wand into his windbreaker with a smile, then turned to Professor McGonagall, who now had no good excuse to intervene. If she insisted on Draco taking back the wand, he'd lose face in front of everyone.
This was a carefully crafted trap.
McGonagall remained silent, studying Allen closely. Her intuition whispered that this boy would grow into someone formidable—far more troublesome than any student she had handled before.
He had taken what amounted to bullying and turned it into an intellectual duel wrapped in school pride. If this brilliance were channeled well, he might become a top student. But used the wrong way...
She shivered at the thought.
With her expression serious, she addressed the students, silencing their chatter.
Even Ronald and Harry, who were about to celebrate with Allen, stood stiffly in place.
Seeing the effect of her demeanor, McGonagall nodded with approval.
"I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and your Transfiguration professor. I will now lead you into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. Please remain quiet."
She turned, and the heavy double doors opened slowly, revealing the enchanted Great Hall beyond.
Dozens of candles floated midair.
Carved reliefs and massive stained-glass windows adorned the walls.
Four long house tables lined the hall, filled with returning students watching the newcomers enter.
At the head table sat the professors—and in the central seat, Albus Dumbledore.
Allen's Eye of Analysis activated.
[Wizard] — Hunting Level: 99
Level 99.
The highest he'd seen.
Allen felt a chill. Was this the peak of magical combat power?
He briefly worried—would his own schemes ever draw Dumbledore's attention?
Probably not. A man like Dumbledore wouldn't bother with minor student squabbles. Allen reassured himself—he had nothing to worry about.
"Hey," Ronald whispered, "my brother said the Sorting Ceremony is dangerous."
"How dangerous?" Harry asked, clearly nervous.
"They said... you have to face a fire dragon first."
"A fire dragon?" Harry went pale.
Ronald nodded solemnly. "Yeah. A full dragon. Not just... dragon liver."
He glanced at Allen.
Allen swallowed hard.
Ronald: !!!
What was that look? Are you actually drooling over a fire dragon?!
Allen loosened his collar awkwardly. "Sorry, my clothes were a bit tight."
Ronald didn't buy it. He shot Allen a skeptical look.
Then Harry chimed in, wide-eyed, "What else is tasty on a dragon?"
Without hesitation, Allen replied, "The dragon heart should be great. And maybe the tenderloin. Some parts need special cooking methods. Oh, and the dragon's waist and dragon tes—"
He paused.
He had dissected and cooked many red dragons in another world. Through that, he'd mapped out nearly every edible part. But realizing he was surrounded by children, Allen wisely stopped.
Ronald, however, had already been infected by Allen's detailed culinary imagery. He remembered the delicious taste of dragon liver on the train and subconsciously licked his lips.
Wait—what were they even talking about?
Ronald blinked. Right—the Sorting Ceremony! Not a dragon feast!
"Wait—where exactly are a dragon's eggs and waist located?" Ronald asked, puzzled.
Allen fell silent. The other kids leaned in with curious eyes.
Changing the subject, Allen said, "Your worries are unnecessary. The Great Hall isn't big enough to house a full fire dragon. So, the idea of a pre-sorting trial? Highly unlikely."
Ronald's brain switched tracks. "Maybe it's another kind of trial. They say it changes every year."
Allen pointed at two red-haired boys at the Gryffindor table. "Those your brothers?"
Ronald nodded.
"Look at them. Laughing like lunatics. Think they're scared?"
"They probably just want to see me mess up..." Ronald muttered. "But yeah, maybe you're right."
"Do you think they could take down a fire dragon?" Allen asked. "They're barely the size of one dragon liver."
"What?" Ronald blinked again, starting to feel like a fool.
As they approached the stage, Professor McGonagall stopped before a high stool. On it sat a battered old wizard's hat.
Allen frowned.
This filthy thing is the Sorting Hat?
The stench alone made his nose wrinkle.
He removed his coat and transfigured it into a wig, placing it carefully on his head.
Allen had lived in tough conditions before, but he always held to one rule—live as well as the situation allows.
No way was that grimy hat touching his real hair.
"The sorting will now begin," McGonagall announced. No fire dragons appeared.
The freshmen sighed with relief, while the older students grinned. The usual sorting rumors had worked their magic once again.
"Silence. The Sorting begins now. First up—Hannah Abbott."
A girl of plain appearance and forgettable demeanor stepped onto the stage.
The hat was placed on her head. After a long pause, it shouted, "Hufflepuff!"
Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff table.
Allen relaxed. Now came the decision.
Which house?
Slytherin? Out of the question—bad alignment.
Ravenclaw? Maybe. His [Basic Magic Mastery] might make him fit in.
Gryffindor? He wasn't reckless enough.
Hufflepuff? Close to the kitchens. Dean teaches Herbology. A greenhouse full of ingredients...
go with Hufflepuff.
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