Moonlight filtered through the tall windows of Hogwarts Castle, casting fractured shadows across the floor of the Dueling Club.
Scars from recent spellfire still lingered on the walls, and the air carried the heavy mix of sweat and nervous anticipation.
Draco Malfoy gripped his unicorn-hair wand so tightly that his knuckles turned pale.
He had originally been on his way to bother Ginny Weasley, but when he passed that insufferable Potter, he couldn't resist sneering at him. The next thing he knew, the stupid Gryffindor had challenged him to a duel.
The eerie calm in those green eyes had sent a chill down Draco's spine. He would have fled then and there, had the ever-oblivious Gilderoy Lockhart not intervened and practically dragged him into it.
Forced into the situation, Draco had spat out a few harsh words before beating a hasty, graceless retreat.
"By Merlin's beard! Potter, just you wait. Don't look down on me just because I'm young. Give it thirty years…"
Fortunately for Draco, Potter seemed to have drunk some mysterious potion tonight. Draco was sure he'd heard the insult, yet for once Potter hadn't retaliated. Instead, he'd let Draco slip away unharmed.
"Cowardly Potter," Draco muttered under his breath, though his silver-grey eyes betrayed a lingering fear. At once, his ever-faithful shadows, Crabbe and Goyle, echoed his insult in clumsy agreement.
It didn't matter that they would agree to anything he said—Draco still felt a touch better.
Then, a commotion erupted nearby, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Crabbe, Goyle—I can't see what's happening over there," Draco ordered imperiously.
The two oafs scrambled to drag over a pile of cushions, fashioning a makeshift platform. Draco stepped up onto it, chin raised, and looked over the heads of the crowd.
A circle of students had formed around Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood. The two Quidditch captains were brawling like enraged bulls, fists flying, robes torn, faces bloodied.
"How vulgar," Draco sniffed, though he didn't look away. The sight of blood spilled in raw fury had its own kind of magnetism to a boy his age.
A familiar voice drawled at his side.
"Where did you disappear to?"
Draco glanced sideways. Blaise Zabini had appeared beside him, his usually elegant posture worn thin. He looked gaunter than normal, his usual lazy smirk nowhere to be seen.
"I was nearby," Blaise said with casual indifference, though his gaze flicked toward the doors of the club, his tone taut.
Draco's eyes narrowed. Something was off. Blaise's face was as dark as ink-soaked parchment, his usual nonchalance stripped away.
"Really?" Draco twirled his wand idly. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Blaise's throat bobbed as though he were wrestling with a decision. Then, he forced a strained smile.
"Draco, actually, I—"
But his eyes clouded suddenly, and whatever he'd meant to say vanished in the haze.
"What?" Draco demanded, frowning.
"Nothing," Blaise replied smoothly, recovering in an instant. "Where's Pansy? Still sulking in the dormitory?"
"She said she had a stomachache," Draco muttered, though his attention returned quickly to the brawl. "Look, Flint's thrashing that Gryffindor idiot."
Blaise smirked faintly, lowering his voice.
"Do you know why they're fighting?"
"Of course I do." Draco's lips curled with contempt. "I overheard Flint say it himself—he's engaged to Prefect Gemma Farley. Wood, being the brainless Gryffindor he is, tried to interfere. Typical shameless behavior."
Blaise let out a short laugh, as though Draco had just told the most absurd joke.
"Flint lied. Wood and Farley have been together for years."
Draco froze, his wand nearly slipping from his hand.
"What did you say? Farley? A Slytherin prefect with Wood?"
That was more shocking than Hagrid keeping Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest.
"Why would you believe Flint?" Blaise countered coolly.
"Because they're both pure-bloods. Both Slytherins," Draco answered, as though it were obvious.
"Merlin's beard…" Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "If you were Farley, would you ever marry Flint—the brute who can't even pass an exam?"
Draco's brows furrowed. By family and appearance, Flint was certainly more suitable than a Gryffindor like Wood. It didn't add up.
"But Wood's a Gryffindor!" Draco hissed.
"So what?" Blaise smirked. "Times are changing. This is Dumbledore's era. His influence gives many pure-blood children the courage to break free from their families."
"They're all traitors!" Draco shot back hotly. "Insignificant families, nothing more."
"And what about the so-called noble Black family?" Blaise's voice was calm, sharp. "Andromeda married a Muggle-born. Sirius was a Gryffindor. The Blacks produced plenty of so-called traitors."
Draco faltered, words catching in his throat. For a split second, Blaise's gaze softened—was that… pity?
"You dare look at me like that?!" Draco shouted, face burning.
"Apologies," Blaise said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "But it's the truth, isn't it? All right, I'll shut up."
"Hmph." Draco turned away, just in time to see Wood land a punch on Flint's jaw.
"Don't say that again. My mother was a Black too. Most of the family remains noble," Draco said stiffly.
Blaise only shrugged, unconcerned.
They watched the fight a little longer before Blaise tugged Draco's sleeve.
"Weren't you planning to bother Ginny Weasley?"
"Potter got in the way," Draco said sourly, eyes still fixed on the duel.
Blaise knew Draco too well. The truth was obvious—he'd provoked Potter and been chased off.
"Shame. She's rather pretty," Blaise mused lightly. "That fiery hair, pure-blooded too. If you didn't hate her so much, I might try my luck."
Draco scoffed. "Her? A filthy little ferret? You actually think she's attractive?"
"Prejudice," Blaise said simply, smirking.
After a pause, Blaise burst out laughing, as though at a private joke.
"What now?" Draco demanded.
"I just imagined you engaged to her. The look on your face would be priceless."
Draco stared at him in outrage. "What did you just say?"
"Not impossible," Blaise drawled. "This is Dumbledore's time. The Weasleys are loyal to him. If the Malfoys wanted to climb higher, a marriage alliance wouldn't be far-fetched…"
"Wrong." Draco cut him off sharply. "The Malfoys don't need marriage to rise higher—we're already at the top."
Blaise only shook his head. "Everyone knows your family survived the war thanks to Dumbledore's mercy. If he chose, he could topple the Malfoys with a flick of his wand."
Draco stiffened. He opened his mouth to argue but fell silent at Blaise's next words.
"You saw it yourself last holiday. Dumbledore showed up at the Ministry, and the officials who'd taken bribes bent to his will instantly. The Ministry began raiding pure-blood families. Only fools think he's just a schoolmaster."
Draco frowned deeply, but Blaise quickly changed the subject.
"You've noticed, haven't you? Farley's been brewing her own blood-replenishing potion this term—selling it, even."
"What of it?" Draco muttered, though uneasily.
"She's after independence. Like the others who abandoned the old pure-blood ways." Blaise's smile was sharp. "Guess who gave her the ingredients? Guess who let her brew them during detention?"
Draco blinked. "Her family, of course."
Blaise laughed bitterly. "No. Our Head of House. Snape improved her formula, gave her supplies and space—in the form of detention."
"Lies!" Draco snapped. "Professor Snape would never—"
"How many times has she been in detention this term?" Blaise interrupted. "For Crabbe oversleeping. For Pansy starting a row. For losing a Quidditch match. Do I need to go on?"
Draco faltered. Blaise was right. Farley had been in detention more than anyone.
Blaise smirked. "See? Our Head isn't a pure-blood idealist. He's a Slytherin through and through."
Draco swallowed hard. Blaise was suggesting Snape had abandoned pure-blood supremacy altogether.
"But the Prophet hasn't reported her being disowned," Draco tried weakly.
"Because she's her family's only heir. And Wood's not exactly a Muggle." Blaise pointed toward Farley in the crowd.
Draco pressed further, but Blaise only smirked slyly.
"Maybe if you spent less time with your little French imports and more time socializing, you'd know as much gossip as I do."
Draco stiffened—he could hardly admit those French 'imports' were potions for a dragon.
He sneered instead. "And look at you. Dark circles even potions can't hide. Hardly a model of charm."
Blaise's eyes drifted toward the window, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Memories flickered of a Muggle stepfather he had once admired—another reminder why Blaise cared little for blood purity.
Draco mistook his silence for surrender. "Fine, I'll give you a stronger potion later. French brew. That'll fix your face."
By then, Professor Flitwick had forced his way through the crowd, putting an end to the fight.
"Well, that's over," Draco muttered, tucking away his wand. "Still, more entertaining than watching Lockhart make a fool of himself."
Blaise slipped his mask of indifference back on. "Perhaps. But you'd best stay away from Farley."
"Why?" Draco asked, skeptical.
"She's in a foul mood lately." Blaise gave a knowing shrug.
Draco arched a brow. "Afraid, are you?"
"I just don't want to see my friend beaten for meddling," Blaise replied coolly, then melted back into the crowd.
Draco remained, silver eyes unsettled as he caught sight of Wood slipping out after Farley.
Moonlight pooled across the floor, illuminating bloodstains and secrets alike—but it could not brighten the confusion clouding Draco Malfoy's heart.
The duel was over, the crowd dispersed. Yet something had shifted in the shadows, quietly, irreversibly.
"Bah," Draco spat, turning to Crabbe and Goyle. "You two heard all that, didn't you?"
The two exchanged blank looks—they'd been too busy watching the fight.
"Of course! Every word," Crabbe said quickly.
"Absolutely, Draco, you're right as always," Goyle added.
Satisfied that they'd understood nothing, Draco smirked.
"Good. Now that the farce is over, it's time we find that little Weasley ferret and settle the score for what happened with the Petrifications…"
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