[Representatives from the various wizarding schools will arrive on Friday, October 30th at 6 PM. All afternoon classes will end half an hour early…]
This large notice was posted prominently in the entrance hall, clearly visible to anyone passing through. Students eager to compete in the tournament were growing more and more restless.
"Only one week left!" said Marcus Belby of Ravenclaw anxiously. "But I still haven't mastered the Stunning Spell… I wish the Spells Study Group met every day."
"You're planning to enter the tournament too?" his friend Fort laughed. "You think you'll be chosen as a Champion? The truly talented ones are the ones teaching you!"
He jerked his chin in a direction, and Belby turned to look—just in time to see Wade walking over from the greenhouses with a few friends.
Belby looked at his friend and said seriously, "Who knows what the selection criteria really are? Considering how dangerous the tournament is, I suspect age will be a factor. The school will probably prioritize adults."
Fort nodded gravely. "True… if a minor dies in the competition, the Ministry would be in big trouble."
Belby didn't catch the teasing in Fort's tone and continued:
"Plus, we don't even know what the tasks will be, right? In the past, there have been tests on solving riddles, retrieving items, identifying traps, memory, judgment, leadership…
Even if Grey is excellent, he can't be better than everyone at everything. So we might still have a chance."
"Well… when you put it that way, I guess you're not totally without hope…" Fort scratched his head. "Good luck, then."
These days, students like Belby—who still genuinely believed they had a particular strength and hoped to become the Hogwarts Champion—were few and far between.
Most students still talked about the tournament constantly, but their excitement had shifted into more of a spectator mindset.
After nearly two months of studying and training, many students—like Fort—had come to realize the gap between themselves and certain others. The fantasy of being selected as a Champion had quietly faded for them.
However, the number of people attending the Spells Study Group hadn't decreased—in fact, it had grown.
Through the twice-weekly sessions, concepts that once felt obscure were now becoming clear. Each success built their confidence and gave them a deep sense of fulfillment—a kind of satisfaction that was addictive, more so than any game.
As intelligent beings, humans have an instinctive desire to "grow stronger," to master more power, and to see tangible results from their efforts.
But most of the time, learning is hard. When progress seems nonexistent for a long stretch, it becomes a painful ordeal. People begin to give up, pretending they don't care, and instead seek out easier, low-level pleasures.
In the Spells Study Group, however, students regularly experienced the joy of breakthroughs and moments of clarity. It was as if their whole being had entered a state of lightness and flow—some even wanted to stay in that feeling forever.
That's why some students who had never intended to join at first later quietly slipped into the room during meeting times.
This included a surprising number of Slytherins—Draco Malfoy among them.
When Harry saw his "rival" walk into the club room, his eyes widened in shock. Ron, Dean, and Seamus from Gryffindor immediately wore mocking expressions, clearly eager to go over and make fun of him.
But Hermione stopped them firmly.
"Have you all forgotten the rules of the Spells Study Group?" the brown-haired girl said with her arms crossed. "There's no distinction here—not by year, not by House. Everyone is treated equally, and anyone is welcome!"
"Come on, Hermione, who do you think we're doing this for?" Ron grumbled. "Did you forget what he called you… and the things he said about us?"
"Of course I haven't forgotten!" Hermione said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "That's exactly why I'm stopping you—not for him, but for you! Do you want to break the rules and get kicked out of the Spells Study Group?"
Ron and the others: "…"
They glanced toward the platform and saw Wade quietly watching them. There was no indication in his gaze that he was going to tolerate them causing trouble with Malfoy.
Dean muttered under his breath, "Ravenclaws are really something… Sticking up for your friends should be the normal thing to do, right?"
Ron didn't say anything out loud, but deep down, he agreed—sometimes rules needed to be flexible.
Hermione raised an eyebrow and stared Dean down seriously. "Malfoy bullies others. We know he's despicable and shallow. But if we turn around and bully someone, does that make it right?"
Dean: "…" Isn't it different? It's Malfoy we're talking about!
"All right, there'll be plenty of chances to punch Malfoy later," Harry said, walking over to push Ron and the others aside. "But don't start trouble here. Remember why we're here in the first place."
Standing pale-faced in the corner, Malfoy stared blankly ahead, expressionless, as if completely unaware that the Gryffindors had just nearly started a fight over him just a few feet away.
His once-arrogant face was now shockingly gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes. It was obvious he was in terrible shape.
When the session began, Wade gave him no special treatment—no hostility, no support, just a neutral, indifferent attitude, as though Malfoy were just another anonymous student in the room.
Before coming to the study group, Malfoy had mentally prepared himself for a fight. He had imagined getting mocked by Wade, Harry, or the others. He clenched his teeth in private, believing he could endure it.
But when Wade casually offered him a few pointers and then walked right past without even glancing at him again, Malfoy realized—what was truly unbearable wasn't hatred or scorn, but the fact that he seemed utterly irrelevant. Like no one even saw him.
At 9 o'clock, the bell rang, and Wade clapped his hands, announcing the end of the day's Spells Study Group.
The moment he heard that, Malfoy was the first to yank open the door and bolt out. He rushed into the nearest bathroom, slammed the door, and leaned against the wall, trying to ease the suffocating pressure in his chest.
It took him quite a while to calm down before he finally stepped out of the stall. He placed both hands on the sink and stared into the mirror.
Just then, voices echoed from the corridor:
"Ha! Did you see his face?" a boy laughed loudly. "If his dad weren't rich, who would ever pay attention to him?"
"Still no sign of Lucius Malfoy?" another asked.
"None. My uncle works at the Ministry—he said that Mrs. Malfoy hired all kinds of people, but there's not a single lead. If you ask me, he's probably already dead."
"So Draco might inherit a huge fortune, huh?"
"What good is an inheritance if he doesn't have the strength to keep it?"
"Heard the Ministry's going to investigate Lucius Malfoy's connection to the camp attack." someone added gruffly. "If they prove he was involved, the family vault might be seized."
"Then our dear 'Young Master Malfoy' would be left with nothing… Hahaha…"
Their malicious laughter echoed down the corridor, and gradually faded into the distance. Malfoy felt his stomach churn. His throat tightened, and a chill seeped into his bones.
He could tell—those voices weren't from Gryffindor enemies. They were Slytherins.
But he didn't even have the courage to storm out of the bathroom and confront them, to expose their hypocrisy and vile behavior.
In that moment, he realized with crystal clarity: he was no longer the so-called "Young Master Malfoy," hiding behind his father's wings and doing whatever he pleased.
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