The moment of camaraderie between the champions was cut short as the door swung open with a theatrical bang. Ludo Bagman practically bounced into the room, his wide grin and flamboyant energy preceding him. His robes were slightly disheveled, as though he had just sprinted from a prior engagement—perhaps a high-stakes bet that hadn't quite gone his way.
"Ah! Champions! Splendid, absolutely splendid!" he bellowed, clapping his hands together in an exaggerated display of excitement. His eyes gleamed as he swept the room, taking in each of them with the enthusiasm of a man who had long since mastered the art of making even the mundane sound thrilling.
Trailing behind him with far more measured steps was the venerable Garrick Ollivander. His presence was in stark contrast to Bagman's bombastic energy—his silver eyes calm and contemplative, his hands clasped together as though he were already deep in thought.
"Today," Bagman announced, gesturing grandly, "we uphold a great and noble tradition of the Triwizard Tournament—the Weighing of the Wands!" He let the words hang dramatically, his showman's instincts ensuring that he had the room's full attention. "This, dear champions, is a crucial step! Before you face the thrilling, heart-stopping, utterly dangerous tasks ahead—" He paused, as if realizing he might have oversold that part, then quickly recovered. "—we must ensure that your wands are in perfect working order."
He gestured with both hands toward Ollivander, who inclined his head with a serene nod. "And who better," Bagman continued, his voice dripping with reverence, "than the most esteemed wandmaker in all of Britain—nay, perhaps the world—Mr. Garrick Ollivander!"
Ollivander's pale eyes twinkled faintly as he offered a slight bow, his voice as soft as Bagman's was booming. "It is always a privilege to examine wands of such distinction," he said, his tone carrying the weight of centuries of wandlore. "A wand, after all, is an extension of the witch or wizard who wields it. They develop personalities, quirks… and, if neglected, the occasional unfortunate temper."
Bagman chuckled, clapping his hands together once more. "Right, right! So! Each of you will present your wand to Mr. Ollivander, and he shall inspect it to ensure it is in peak condition. No splinters, no… explosions, that sort of thing." He gave a lighthearted chuckle, though the twinkle of nerves in his eye suggested that such an occurrence might not be out of the question.
He glanced around the room, then brightened. "Let's begin! Cedric Diggory, if you'd be so kind!"
Cedric—who had been standing with the quiet confidence of a Hufflepuff who knew exactly what he was capable of—stepped forward, his wand held out respectfully. There was an ease to him, a natural charm that never felt forced. "Of course, sir," he said, his voice steady, as he handed over his wand.
Ollivander accepted it with delicate fingers, his grip reverent. He turned it slowly in his hand, his keen eyes scanning every inch of the polished wood. "Ah, yes," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Twelve and a quarter inches… ash… unicorn hair core… rather springy." His voice carried the same quiet awe as a scholar handling an ancient text.
Cedric nodded, watching with the kind of polite attentiveness that suggested he had always respected Ollivander's craft.
The wandmaker gave the wand an experimental wave, and from the tip emerged a stream of shimmering silver smoke rings that expanded and drifted lazily through the air before dissipating. Ollivander gave a satisfied hum. "Excellent condition, Mr. Diggory," he said approvingly. "It has been well cared for." He ran his fingers over the wood once more before handing it back. "A reliable, faithful wand… and one that will reward loyalty in kind. It will serve you well."
Cedric took the wand back with a look of quiet pride, his lips curling into that familiar, lopsided grin. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," he said sincerely, stepping back to rejoin the other champions.
—
As Cedric stepped back, Bagman—still riding the high of his own theatrical performance—clapped his hands again, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Magnifique! And now, Mademoiselle Delacour!" he announced, his voice lilting as though he were introducing a star performer to a roaring audience. "Let us see the wand that has brought such grace and brilliance to the tournament!"
Fleur Delacour moved forward with effortless poise, her silvery-blonde hair shimmering in the candlelight as though each strand had been spun from starlight itself. Her Beauxbatons uniform fit her like it had been tailored by celestial seamstresses, and when she reached Ollivander, she offered the old wandmaker a delicate nod—an acknowledgment of both respect and confidence.
She extended her wand toward him, her fingers long and elegant. "Eet eez a pleasure to meet you again, Monsieur Ollivander," she said, her French accent turning the words into something melodic and sultry without her even trying.
Ollivander accepted the wand with a slow, reverent nod. His aged fingers curled around the polished rosewood as if greeting an old acquaintance. He turned it over with meticulous care, running his fingertips along its length, his pale eyes gleaming with intrigue.
"Ah… yes," he murmured, as though the wand itself were whispering its secrets to him. "Nine and a half inches… rosewood… inflexible. A truly elegant construction."
He paused for half a second before his gaze flickered up to Fleur, knowing full well what lay within. There was a certain sharpness to his expression now, a curiosity that only the rarest wands could inspire. "And its core… I believe you can enlighten us?"
Fleur's lips curled in a knowing, almost playful smile. "A 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela," she said, her accent thick and rich, making the word Veela sound almost like a spell in and of itself. "From my grandmuzzer."
Ollivander's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly—not in disbelief, but in admiration. "Indeed? A most… unusual choice. Veela hair wands are rare and often temperamental—prone to moments of unpredictable passion." His fingers traced the grain of the wood. "But when wielded by the right hand… quite formidable."
Bagman, ever the one to fill a silence, leaned forward conspiratorially. "Oho! Passionate magic, you say? Well, I daresay Miss Delacour has plenty of that!" He waggled his eyebrows with a grin, clearly thinking himself charming.
Fleur turned her head slightly, giving Bagman a look so perfectly cool and unimpressed that it could have frozen a roaring fire. She didn't say anything—but she didn't need to.
Ollivander, ever the professional, ignored Bagman entirely and gave the wand a gentle flick. At once, a cascade of delicate, shimmering flowers bloomed from the tip, their petals soft and ethereal as they floated down through the air. They were unlike any ordinary flowers—iridescent, almost unreal, fading into mist the moment they touched the ground.
Ollivander nodded approvingly. "Beautiful. A wand that does not simply produce magic… but embodies it." He turned his gaze back to Fleur, his expression one of quiet respect. "It is in excellent condition, Miss Delacour. May it serve you as loyally as you serve it."
Fleur accepted her wand with a graceful flick of her wrist, her blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Merci, Monsieur Ollivander," she said softly, inclining her head ever so slightly. Then, without another glance at Bagman, she turned and stepped back to rejoin the other champions, her every movement as fluid as a dance.
—
Bagman, still riding the high of his own showmanship, clapped his hands together with a grin so wide it was a miracle his face didn't split in two. "Marvelous! Simply marvelous! Now then, ladies and gentlemen, let's turn our attention to a true legend in the making! The pride of Durmstrang! The prodigy of the Quidditch pitch! The one, the only—Viktor Krum!"
He spread his arms wide, as if expecting some sort of raucous applause. There was none. Just Viktor Krum, standing there, his signature scowl set firmly in place, his posture hunched slightly forward, as though he were always bracing against a headwind. His dark eyes flicked toward Bagman with the barest flicker of annoyance before he exhaled through his nose and stepped forward without a word.
Ollivander, unfazed by either Bagman's theatrics or Krum's stoicism, inclined his head ever so slightly as Viktor held out his wand. The old wandmaker took it with a delicate reverence, his long, bony fingers wrapping around the polished wood as if he were greeting an old friend.
"Ahhh… yes," Ollivander murmured, running his fingertips along the length of the wand with an almost absentminded curiosity. "Ten and a quarter inches… quite rigid…" He tilted the wand slightly, observing how the light played across its dark, smooth surface. "Hornbeam."
Viktor gave a single nod. "Da."
Ollivander's eyes flickered up toward the Bulgarian Seeker, peering at him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "And the core?"
"Dragon heartstring," Viktor said, his deep voice thick with his accent, clipped and efficient, as if the words were precious and should not be wasted.
Ollivander hummed approvingly. "A core known for its raw power… particularly well suited to those with strong convictions. A wand that demands mastery." He turned the wand slightly, as if feeling the weight of it. "And judging by how well it has bonded to you, Mr. Krum, I dare say you have proven yourself worthy of its loyalty."
Viktor did not respond to the compliment, merely giving another brief nod.
Bagman, never one to let a moment pass without adding something, let out a chuckle. "Yes, well, no surprises there! The lad's a natural, isn't he? You don't get to be the youngest Seeker in a century by not knowing how to handle a bit of wood, eh?" He let out another laugh, elbowing no one in particular.
Krum's scowl deepened, but he said nothing. Fleur, standing nearby, let out the barest hmm of disapproval at Bagman's choice of phrasing.
Oblivious, Ollivander raised the wand and gave it a gentle flick. At once, a sharp jet of red sparks burst from its tip, crackling in the air like miniature firecrackers before fizzling out into nothingness. The wandmaker observed the reaction with a quiet sense of satisfaction.
"Impeccable," he murmured, running a thumb along the grain of the wood one last time before offering it back to Viktor. "Gregorovitch made, if I'm not mistaken?"
Viktor took the wand back with the same quiet efficiency, nodding once. "Da."
Ollivander's lips twitched slightly. "A fine craftsman, no doubt. Though I must admit… I've always found his work to be a touch more—" he paused, searching for the right word, "unyielding than my own. A reflection, perhaps, of his own philosophy on magic." He tilted his head, peering at Krum once more. "But you, Mr. Krum… you have clearly made this wand your own. That is no small feat."
Viktor dipped his head in acknowledgment, then stepped back, his grip tightening around the wand as he rejoined the other champions.
—
Bagman, who seemed incapable of standing still for more than a moment, practically bounced on the balls of his feet. He clapped his hands together with a showman's enthusiasm, his broad grin so wide it looked like his face might split in two.
"Splendid, splendid!" he declared, sweeping an arm dramatically toward the final champion. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, our final contestant—Prince Haraldr of Asgard!"
His voice rang out across the hall, the words dripping with theatrical flair, as if expecting a drumroll or at least a bit of fanfare to follow. When none came, Bagman simply carried on as if it had.
"A prince, no less! We do get all sorts in the Triwizard Tournament, don't we?" He chuckled, nudging Dumbledore with his elbow before realizing that Dumbledore was neither listening nor particularly interested in encouraging him. "Ah, but of course, we must see what sort of wand a Prince of Asgard wields, eh? No pressure, my boy—no pressure at all!"
Haraldr, a picture of composed confidence, stepped forward, his long golden hair catching the flickering torchlight as he approached the venerable Mr. Ollivander. In his hand, he held his wand, an artifact unlike any other in the room—a gleaming length of smooth, dark Uru, etched with ancient runes that seemed to hum with latent energy.
Ollivander, ever the connoisseur of the arcane, stilled the moment the wand passed into his grasp. His long, bony fingers curled around it, his touch reverent, as though handling something sacred. His breath hitched, ever so slightly, and his pale, watery eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles.
The Great Hall, which had moments ago been filled with the usual murmurings of the gathered spectators, grew silent.
For a long moment, Ollivander simply looked at the wand, his aged face a mixture of fascination and something else—something that might have been awe.
Then, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he murmured, "My boy… this wand… it is unlike anything I have ever seen."
Bagman, ever incapable of letting a moment pass without inserting himself into it, let out a nervous chuckle. "Well! That is saying something, isn't it? I daresay you've seen a few wands in your time, eh, Ollivander?"
Ollivander ignored him entirely.
His fingers traced the delicate carvings along the wand's surface, lingering on the runes. He turned it over, watching the way the light shimmered against the metal. There was something alive about it—something old, something cosmic.
"You say this was crafted by your uncle?" Ollivander asked, his gaze flicking up toward Haraldr, sharp and inquisitive.
Haraldr inclined his head slightly, the corners of his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. "Indeed," he said, his voice steady, regal. "Uncle Loki forged it himself."
There was a ripple of murmurs among the Midgardian wizards gathered around, a mixture of admiration and apprehension at the name.
Bagman let out a low whistle. "Well, well, well. That's certainly something, isn't it?" He looked around, as if expecting someone to agree with him. When no one did, he cleared his throat. "Er—go on, then, Ollivander! Tell us more!"
Ollivander, however, seemed to have momentarily forgotten that anyone else was present. He was still examining the wand with an intensity that suggested he was trying to understand it, as though the wand itself held secrets that he could unlock if only he listened closely enough.
"Uru…" he murmured. "A metal not of this world… woven with the very magic of the cosmos itself." His fingers ghosted over the runes once more. "And these markings… Asgardian script, ancient and powerful." His voice dipped into something almost reverent. "The branch of Yggdrasil itself…"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise.
"And the core?" Ollivander pressed, his voice hushed, eager. "What essence lies at the heart of this wand?"
Haraldr's gaze remained steady. "Starlight," he said simply. "And the essence of the Phoenix Force."
This time, there was no murmur of hushed voices. Only silence. A heavy, stunned silence.
Ollivander let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the wand, as if testing the weight of it—testing the power of it. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the energy humming through the metal.
Then, ever so gently, he gave it a flick.
At once, a cascade of brilliant sparks erupted from the wand's tip—shimmering golden light intertwined with flickering red and orange embers, dancing in the air like celestial fireflies. The sparks hovered, lingering for a few heartbeats longer than they should have, before finally fading into the air, leaving behind the faintest trail of stardust that shimmered momentarily before vanishing completely.
Even Ollivander, who had seen more magic in his lifetime than most could dream of, seemed momentarily at a loss for words.
Finally, he exhaled.
"Remarkable craftsmanship," he said, his voice hushed with something that might have been reverence. He looked up at Haraldr, his pale eyes searching. "This is no ordinary wand, my boy. It is a part of you. And you…" His lips pressed together in something like satisfaction. "You have mastered it."
Haraldr took the wand back, inclining his head in gratitude. "It has been with me for many years. I could not ask for a finer companion."
Ollivander nodded, folding his hands together. "May it serve you well in the challenges ahead, Prince Haraldr. Though, I suspect, it will do far more than that."
Haraldr gave another respectful nod before stepping back to rejoin the other champions.
Bagman, finally snapping himself out of whatever stunned silence had overtaken him, let out a bark of laughter. "Well!" he said, clapping his hands together. "Wasn't that something?!" He turned to the audience, his grin returning full force. "A wand forged by Loki himself! By my stars, ladies and gentlemen, this tournament just got a whole lot more interesting!"
And with that, the wand-weighing ceremony was complete.
—
The moment Ollivander concluded his examination of Prince Haraldr's wand, Ludo Bagman—who had far too much energy for a man his age—clapped his hands together with the enthusiasm of a game show host.
"Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! That was some of the finest wandwork I've ever seen—well, Ollivander's wandwork, that is! Ha!" He let out a booming laugh, ignoring the polite but weary looks from Dumbledore and Karkaroff. "But let's not dawdle, my dear champions! Before we all rush off, I insist we get a few snapshots!"
Viktor Krum, who had barely spoken a word since handing Ollivander his wand, let out a low grunt that sounded suspiciously like no thanks. Fleur Delacour, with all the grace and elegance one would expect of a Veela, merely sighed, tossing her silvery hair over one shoulder with a magnifique air of mild exasperation.
Cedric Diggory, ever the golden boy, mustered a polite smile. "Uh, sure… I guess?"
Bagman's grin widened. "That's the spirit! Come now, come now! We must document this moment for history!"
And then—just when the champions thought they might have a moment's reprieve—she arrived.
Rita Skeeter swept into the room like she owned it, her acid-green robes billowing behind her, her lacquered nails clicking against her extraordinarily expensive quill. She radiated the smug confidence of a woman who had already written tomorrow's scandalous headline in her mind.
"Ahh, there you are, my darlings," she cooed, her painted lips stretching into a Cheshire cat grin. "What a picture you all make—youth, beauty, and, of course, power. The very embodiment of magical excellence."
Cedric shifted uncomfortably, clearly regretting his life choices.
Viktor folded his arms over his broad chest and muttered, "I do not like pictures."
Rita's quill scratched furiously on its enchanted parchment. Krum—brooding, enigmatic, a reluctant star, burdened by fame and the weight of expectation…
Fleur raised a perfectly arched brow. "I do not see why we must pose like… like performing owls!" She flicked her fingers elegantly in the air. "It is ridiculous."
Rita barely even glanced at her before scribbling something down. Fleur Delacour—beautiful, yes, but perhaps haughty? Concealing a streak of arrogance beneath that dazzling smile? One must wonder…
Prince Haraldr, meanwhile, remained utterly composed, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He had seen enough of Midgard's scribes to recognize the sort.
"Come, come, my dear champions," Rita said, snapping her fingers at the photographer who had materialized beside her. "Let's not waste precious time! Now, all together! Wands out—let's see those marvelous instruments of magic in the hands of their equally marvelous wielders!"
With varying degrees of enthusiasm (or lack thereof), the champions assembled. Cedric stood tall and polite, Krum scowled like a man who wanted to be anywhere else, Fleur lifted her chin in defiance, and Haraldr simply stood at ease, his regal presence effortlessly commanding attention.
"Perfect!" Rita gushed as the photographer raised his camera. "Now—smile!"
A flash of blinding white light filled the room, and for a moment, nobody could see a thing.
Krum let out a disgruntled, "Bah."
Bagman, ever the enthusiast, beamed. "That's the stuff! That's what we like to see!"
Rita clapped her hands together. "Oh, wonderful! Wonderful! I can already picture tomorrow's headline: 'The Champions and Their Wands—A Tale of Power, Prestige, and Destiny!'"
Fleur rolled her eyes. "It is just a picture. Not the story of the century."
Rita's quill twitched. Fleur Delacour—stunning, certainly, but ungracious? Perhaps even… ungrateful?
Before anyone could protest further, she turned to Haraldr with a smile so saccharine it could cause cavities. "And you, my dear prince—what a fascinating mystery you are." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if they were sharing a delicious secret. "Tell me… what exactly does a Prince of Asgard plan to do with the Triwizard Cup?"
Haraldr met her gaze evenly, a slow smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Win it."
Rita blinked, clearly hoping for something more dramatic than that. "Ah… well, yes, of course… but surely there's more to it than that?"
Haraldr inclined his head, his expression utterly unreadable. "Perhaps."
Rita's eyes gleamed. A man of mystery… intrigue… power. Oh, yes, the readers will love this.
Bagman, sensing an opportunity to regain control of the moment, clapped his hands again. "Well! That was delightful! And what a fantastic way to wrap up our little ceremony! Right, then—champions, you're free to go! But remember, the first task is just around the corner!"
Fleur turned on her heel, muttering something in rapid French that didn't sound particularly flattering. Krum gave a curt nod before striding off without another word. Cedric, ever the gentleman, murmured a polite "See you later" before following suit.
Haraldr lingered for a moment longer, casting one last amused glance at Rita before inclining his head toward Bagman. "A pleasure."
Bagman practically glowed with satisfaction. "Likewise, my boy, likewise!"
As Haraldr exited the room, he could hear the furious scratching of Rita's quill behind him. He did not need to see what she was writing to know that tomorrow's article would be filled with exaggerations, half-truths, and just the right amount of scandal to sell a few extra copies of the Daily Prophet.
He smiled to himself.
Let them talk.
The real story was only just beginning.
—
A Little Bit of Rule-Bending (For a Good Cause, Of Course)
As Rita Skeeter's enchanted quill scratched furiously in the background, filling parchment with half-truths and sensationalized nonsense, four figures gathered in a shadowed corner of the room, their expressions serious despite their usual inclination for mischief.
Loki leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his smirk firmly in place, while James Potter paced slightly, his brow furrowed. Sirius Black had one boot propped up against the wall, arms folded over his chest in what could only be described as a James Bond pose, and Remus Lupin—ever the voice of reason—stood with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, already bracing himself for the inevitable madness.
"We need to prepare Haraldr for the first task," James said, his voice low but urgent. "But we can't just tell him what it is."
Sirius scoffed. "Oh, come on, Prongs, since when have we ever played by the rules?"
Remus shot him a warning look. "Since now, apparently. Because someone"—he threw a pointed glance at Loki—"insisted that breaking the rules would disqualify Haraldr."
Loki offered a mock-innocent shrug. "I may enjoy chaos, but I do know how to play within the lines when it suits me. And right now, it suits me." His smirk widened. "Besides, what fun is a challenge if he doesn't figure it out on his own?"
James stopped pacing. "Alright. Fine. We can't tell him, but we can prepare him. The first task is dragons."
Sirius groaned. "Of course it is. Because nothing says 'fun magical competition' like giant, fire-breathing death lizards."
Remus sighed. "It's a test of courage and resourcefulness."
"More like a test of 'how much do you enjoy getting roasted alive?'" Sirius muttered.
James ignored him. "We need to get Haraldr ready to handle something big, dangerous, and unpredictable—without saying the word 'dragon.'"
Loki's expression remained perfectly composed, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. "A truly delicate challenge. If only we had someone who could create highly realistic, dangerous illusions for training purposes." He placed a hand to his chest in mock surprise. "Oh, wait, we do!"
Remus rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, Loki, you're very clever."
Loki's smirk deepened. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Lupin."
James, who had long since mastered the art of ignoring Loki's dramatics, pressed on. "We focus on magical creature defense. Train Haraldr to deal with large, fire-breathing beasts without actually mentioning dragons."
"Genius," Sirius said. "And if Haraldr just so happens to make the connection himself, well, that's not our fault, is it?"
"Exactly," James grinned.
Remus, still the one trying to hold things together, sighed. "Fine. But we also need to work on his wand work—dodging, shielding, disarming. If he gets cornered, he needs a way out."
"And agility," Loki added. "It won't matter how powerful he is if he's too slow to react. He needs to be fast. Unpredictable."
"Which means dueling practice," Sirius grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Finally, something I can actually help with."
James smirked. "Think you can keep up with him, Pads?"
"Please." Sirius scoffed. "I'm insulted you even asked."
Loki interjected smoothly, "We should also encourage creative thinking. Haraldr is strong, but raw power alone won't win this. He needs to use his environment, his instincts." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I could introduce… distractions during his training."
Remus shot him a wary glance. "Define 'distractions.'"
Loki gave an utterly unconvincing look of innocence. "Nothing too deadly."
"Loki—"
"Fine. Mildly deadly."
James clapped his hands together. "Perfect. We run him through magical creature defense, let Loki throw illusions at him, make sure he's quick on his feet, and definitely don't mention dragons."
Sirius smirked. "And if he just so happens to make a connection between what we're training him for and, say, a massive, fire-breathing reptile…"
Loki grinned. "Well, that would be entirely his own deduction, wouldn't it?"
The four of them exchanged a conspiratorial look.
"Alright," James said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get to it."
As they broke apart to begin preparations, Rita Skeeter's voice rang out from the other side of the room.
"Now, Prince Haraldr, tell me, how does it feel to stand among such impressive competitors?"
James grinned as he caught Haraldr's very unimpressed expression from across the room.
"Oh, he's gonna be just fine."
—
The flickering candlelight of the Hogwarts Library cast long shadows over the dark oak shelves, where a group of Slytherin Purebloods had gathered in hushed conversation. At the center of the group, Theodore Nott stood with his usual air of quiet authority, flanked by Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini.
Their gazes drifted toward a lone figure sitting by the window, silver moonlight outlining his sharp features. Draco Malfoy. He was absorbed in a book, legs crossed casually, expression unreadable.
Nott exchanged glances with Zabini and Pansy before stepping forward. "Draco Malfoy," he called smoothly. "We've been meaning to talk."
Draco didn't even glance up. "That's fascinating, Nott. Here's an idea—write me a letter, and I'll pretend to care."
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be like that, Draco. We're here to help you."
Draco finally looked up, one brow arched in lazy amusement. "That so? I wasn't aware I needed help. Must've misplaced my damsel in distress routine somewhere between not giving a damn and still not giving a damn."
Nott smirked but pressed on. "You've been away for years, raised among… foreigners." He said the last word carefully, as if testing Draco's reaction. "But you're a Malfoy. That still means something."
Draco shut his book with a decisive snap. "Oh, do enlighten me, Nott. What, exactly, does it mean to be a Malfoy? Because the last time I checked, my father's meaning landed him in prison."
Blaise stepped in, his voice smooth, diplomatic. "Draco, we're not here to argue. We're here because we respect you. We know you're strong, and we need leaders. You should be leading us."
Draco exhaled sharply, leaning back against his chair as he regarded them. "Leading you… where, exactly? Back into the good old days of worshipping Dark Lords with terrible fashion sense and even worse planning skills?" He tilted his head. "Oh, no, wait—you mean the part where we whisper about blood purity like it's a personality trait instead of a genetic coincidence. That sounds like a fantastic use of my time."
Pansy huffed. "Draco, don't be dramatic."
Draco smirked. "That's rich, coming from you, Parkinson. What's next? Are you going to clutch your pearls and faint at the scandal of it all?"
Nott's patience was wearing thin. "You may have lived in Asgard, but you're one of us. Your family has always been part of our world."
Draco's amusement faded, and his voice dropped to something far more cutting. "You don't get it, do you? I spent years among warriors who don't give a damn about who your father is or how pure your blood is. The only thing that matters in Asgard is who you are—what you can do." He stood up slowly, closing the distance between himself and Nott.
"You lot cling to history like a drunk clutching an empty bottle," he continued, his voice low and sharp. "Desperate for something that isn't there anymore. You want me to stand with you? Then give me a reason—one that isn't just a rehash of our parents' mistakes."
Nott squared his jaw. "So, what? You think you're better than us now?"
Draco smirked, his grey eyes flashing with amusement. "Oh, no, Nott. I know I am."
Blaise sighed, looking genuinely regretful. "Draco—"
Draco held up a hand. "Zabini, you're too intelligent to actually believe in this Pureblood nostalgia tour. You want real influence? Real power? Wake up. The world is changing, and if you don't change with it, you'll be left behind like a sad, outdated footnote."
He gave them all one last look—sharp, decisive, and utterly dismissive—before brushing past them.
The group of Pureblood Slytherins stood in stunned silence as Draco Malfoy walked away, his black cloak billowing behind him, his rejection ringing louder than any spell.
—
A Most Unlikely Conversation
Draco Malfoy strode out of the library, his every movement laced with the effortless confidence of someone who had just verbally eviscerated an entire group of self-important Purebloods. His black cloak billowed slightly as he moved, the echo of his sharp words still hanging in the air like the last note of a well-played symphony.
He had barely reached the dimly lit corridor when a voice called out behind him.
"Mr. Malfoy."
Draco turned on his heel, blinking in mild surprise. Of all the people to seek him out, Hermione Granger was not one he would have expected. She stood there, books clutched to her chest, her expression hesitant but resolute.
"Yes?" he replied, his tone measured, as if genuinely curious about what could possibly bring her to him.
Hermione took a steadying breath. "I, um… I overheard what you said back there."
Draco smirked, arching a brow. "Well, that explains the staring."
She huffed slightly but pressed on. "I just wanted to say... I was impressed. It's not often I hear someone from your—" She hesitated, searching for the right words.
"My what?" Draco prompted, tilting his head. "My background? My bloodline? My former Death Eater-adjacent social circle?"
Hermione flushed. "I was going to say someone from your position speaking against blood supremacy so… boldly."
Draco let out a dry chuckle. "Well, Granger, I spent my childhood in Asgard, where no one gives a damn about what blood runs through your veins unless it's bleeding out in battle. You pick up a few things."
Hermione nodded slowly, studying him. "It shows. What you said about influence, about character—it's something I wish more people understood."
Draco regarded her for a moment, then sighed dramatically. "Careful, Granger. If you keep agreeing with me, people might start thinking you like me."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. I just thought it was… refreshing to hear someone from your position actually think for themselves instead of parroting centuries-old nonsense."
Draco placed a hand over his chest in mock astonishment. "Merlin's beard, is that a compliment? From Hermione Granger? Shall I mark the date? Alert the Prophet? I think the sky might actually be falling."
Hermione exhaled sharply, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Fine. Forget I said anything." She made to turn away.
Draco's smirk softened into something more thoughtful. "I'm kidding, Granger. I do appreciate it."
She paused, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
There was a brief silence before Hermione, gathering her courage, said, "I know we don't really know each other, but if you ever need help—or, you know, just want to talk—I'm here. We're all here till the end of the tournament, after all."
Draco studied her carefully, weighing her words. There was no ulterior motive, no hidden agenda—just a genuine offer.
"That's… surprising."
Hermione crossed her arms. "Why?"
Draco smirked. "Because you—Golden Girl, Gryffindor's Moral Compass, The Brightest Witch of Her Age—are voluntarily offering to associate with me—Draco Malfoy, son of the former poster boy for generational privilege and bad life choices."
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "People change, Malfoy."
Draco considered this, then extended his hand with a smirk that was only half-mocking. "Maybe we should find out how much."
She hesitated for only a second before shaking his hand firmly.
"Maybe we should."
As they parted ways, neither of them fully understood what had just transpired. But for the first time in years, there was a possibility—a spark of something new, something neither of them had expected.
---
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