Chapter 194: Draco: Club?

Draco Malfoy’s recent days had been anything but pleasant.

The signs had started last term—ever since he’d led a group to ambush Ravenclaw’s Wade Gray, only to be nearly terrified into tears by a swarm of insects. After that, fewer people seemed willing to follow him.

Now, this term, Draco felt he’d done nothing wrong—but his friends vanished one by one. Even Crabbe and Goyle, the two dull-witted brutes he’d once counted on, had begun openly defying him.

Quidditch had been his last refuge. Thanks to his father’s generous donation of new broomsticks, the other players had fawned over him. But as Seeker, Draco had lost to Gryffindor—especially when the Golden Snitch had been right beside him, and he’d done nothing. Harry Potter had snatched it effortlessly, turning the moment into a crushing humiliation.

Draco felt bitter.

It wasn’t his fault—Potter had feigned a reckless dive, pretending to crash into Draco’s broom, distracting him just long enough to miss the Snitch. But his teammates wouldn’t listen. Flint had mocked him: “The Golden Snitch was practically shoved up your nose—what else did it have to do to get your attention?”

Montague and Bletchley burst into laughter.

“An excellent Seeker needs more than a good broom,” Derick chimed in, grinning. “He needs sharp eyes, doesn’t he, Draco?”

Once, Draco had thought Harry Potter was the most detestable person in the world—because he’d ignored Draco’s every attempt at friendship, even mocking him. But now, facing true malice from others, he realized those petty grudges were nothing.

He slammed his book shut.

The pages let out a sound like a scream in pain. On the cover, The Most Poisonous Magic slowly turned red, as if bleeding.

He wiped the blood from his fingertip with practiced ease—no longer flinching, no longer disgusted.

“So you’ve got the wrong target,” he said quietly to the person beside him. “I used to hate Potter. But now? Compared to him… I’d rather teach Crabbe and Goyle a lesson.”

Behind him stood Dobby, the house-elf.

The tiny sprite wore a tattered, filthy pillowcase. His large ears looked burned, and his forehead and thin arms were marked with scars.

Bending low, Dobby whispered in a high, thin voice: “Dobby doesn’t know why Master Malfoy is angry. Dobby attacked Harry Potter at Master’s command. Dobby only wanted to help.”

“Hmph.” Draco sneered. “If my father really wanted to help me, he’d take back the brooms he donated!”

Dobby blinked with enormous, pleading eyes. “Master… cannot do that. Master believes it would harm the Malfoy family’s reputation.”

“Never mind,” Draco said, smirking. “I’ve already taken revenge myself!” He patted The Most Poisonous Magic proudly. “See? I only learned two spells—and I’ve already fooled them all. They still don’t understand what happened!”

He swept the photos of his dorm mates off the table, kicked them into a corner, adjusted his robes, and shot a contemptuous glance at the crouching house-elf.

“I’m off to visit my injured roommate. Clean this up—don’t run out, don’t let anyone see you. And don’t you dare let me catch you.”

He tucked his wand away, slipped the magic book into his robes, and slammed the dormitory door shut behind him.

In the Common Room, Draco’s expression darkened the moment he saw others.

Silently, he slipped through the portrait hole and headed straight for the Infirmary.

Today, nearly all his dorm mates had been admitted.

Crabbe and Goyle had attacked others—unaware of protective charms—only to be wounded by their own rebounding spells.

Thinking of their bloody, bruised faces, Draco finally felt a flicker of satisfaction. His isolation had become bearable.

…

Back in the dorm, Dobby watched Draco disappear down the corridor.

Almost immediately, he darted toward the door, hand outstretched—then froze.

Don’t run out!

Draco’s casual words were a command Dobby couldn’t disobey.

With a sudden, violent jerk, he yanked his hand back—and slammed his head against the wall.

“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Trying to disobey Master’s command! Bad Dobby!”

He kept banging his head, over and over, until the pain dulled the ache in his heart. Then, with a dazed wobble, he turned and began cleaning.

Photos were restored. Curtains, sheets, pillows, and the closet were all put back in place.

No one else was in the dorm—Draco had vented his fury with reckless abandon, leaving the room in ruins. But he hadn’t used dark magic, so Dobby could manage it.

It didn’t take long.

With his stomach growling, Dobby glanced at the snacks left on the table—but didn’t dare touch them.

Draco hadn’t meant to starve him.

The boy simply didn’t think to feed his house-elf. He’d never had to consider such things at home.

Earlier, Dobby had stolen Khat Grass from the Malfoy family’s warehouse, and when he’d been caught, he’d revealed himself as the one who’d attacked Harry Potter in the maze.

Of course, no one could believe Dobby had done it to protect a boy who’d nearly died.

Lucius Malfoy punished him for acting without permission—but both father and son agreed Dobby was loyal, and capable.

So when Draco complained to his father about being bullied at school, Lucius sent Dobby to Hogwarts—to guard his son.

As a board member, Lucius could bypass Hogwarts’ protective enchantments. His house-elf could slip through the castle’s defenses like a shadow.

But since arriving, Dobby’s movements had been tightly restricted.

His master forbade him from leaving the dorm, insisted he return immediately after any errand, and warned him not to be seen by anyone—student or elf.

And Draco had forbidden all other house-elves from entering his dorm, from touching his things.

Dobby was part of that “thing.”

Cleaning the dorm was entirely his responsibility.

No one else noticed.

The castle’s other house-elves could sense the change—but Lucius had told Dobby it was insignificant.

They were tools, not keepers of secrets. Their job was to clean, prepare food, and obey.

They had no power to listen, spy, or maintain order.

Draco kept Dobby hidden, but felt no real fear.

He watched the oblivious students, even the professors—smug in the knowledge that the school’s rules were meaningless.

“What good are all those rules?” he thought. “If I want to break them, Hogwarts is defenseless. Those professors are just fools.”

He never imagined that among the eager, cheerful house-elves—those silly, overeager little sprites—there were more than a few who wanted to do something.

…

“Students won’t let Makki clean the dorm,” Makki said, puffing out his chest. “But Makki heard everything. My ears are the best—can hear from far away.”

“Thank you, Makki,” Wade said. “I’ll figure out how to meet that house-elf.”

“Be careful, Wade Gray,” Makki warned. “That little sprite—his magic is strong. Stronger than Makki.”

“I’ll be careful.” Wade paused, then asked: “Among all the house-elves in the castle, who has the strongest magic?”

“Relf,” Makki said.

“Relf?”

“He’s over one hundred and sixty years old—oldest, strongest. He tells us what to do.”

Wade understood.

Relf must be the overseer—supervisor of all the house-elves, assigning tasks, perhaps even training them.

Over one hundred and sixty… older than Dumbledore himself.

House-elves could live up to two hundred, but few did.

Many were dismissed by their masters in old age, deemed no longer useful.

The Black family had done it before.

Most house-elves, mistreated from birth, had their magic and lifespans diminished.

Relf, at over a century and a half, was a legend.

Wade was eager to speak with him.

That elf had seen history unfold.

…

The next day, the Slytherin dorm brawl made headlines across Hogwarts.

Everyone was stunned.

Slytherin was known for unity—second only to Hufflepuff. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were the ones who fought among themselves.

But Slytherins didn’t fight openly—they covered it up.

Even in the Common Room, if they clashed, they kept it hidden from outsiders.

So the illusion of unity held.

Now, this scandal broke the silence.

Students from all four houses flooded to the Infirmary—some claiming headaches, coughs, insomnia, anxiety—though their real goal was to gawk at the wounded Slytherins.

Most second-years were in bed, along with two first-years.

Outside the ward, Gryffindors laughed loudly, pretending to feel dizzy.

Slytherin students’ faces darkened.

They’d drawn the curtains around their beds—but the Gryffindors kept pulling them back, delighted.

After class, Draco returned to visit his injured roommates—planning to savor their suffering.

But before he reached the entrance, he saw a group of Gryffindors laughing and slinging arms over each other as they passed through the corridor.

Draco’s face turned stormy.

He stood at a distance, watching as students trickled into the Infirmary, until Madam Pomfrey finally lost her patience and chased them all out.

Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder.

“See it now, Draco?”

Flee, a sixth-year, whispered. “You think we stay united because we like each other? No. We stick together because if we split, enemies would laugh at us—no one would pity us. No one would help.”

“What are you talking about?” Draco frowned.

Axley, beside him, glared. “When you hurt your own, you get a moment of satisfaction—revenge. But later, you’ll realize: you’re the one being mocked. The one being scorned.”

“Because you’re Slytherin.”

“Because we are Slytherin.”

“Admit it, Draco. We’re born Slytherin. To many, that’s a stain.”

“Sorting Hat chose us—but no one in the school, no one in our future, will speak up when we’re treated unfairly.”

“Slytherin is evil, isn’t that what they say?”

“To restore our honor. To reclaim the glory of pure-blood wizards—we can’t fight among ourselves. We must stand together. Unite.”

Flee and his friends spoke in turns, their words weaving through Draco’s mind.

His prepared retort vanished.

His thoughts unraveled.

Finally, he whispered: “Then… what do we do?”

They exchanged glances. One nodded.

“Come with me, Draco,” Flee said, slipping an arm around his shoulder. “We’ve formed a club—people like us. I think… you’d be willing to join.”

They walked away, whispering, surrounded by Slytherin students.

The corridor emptied.

Then, a figure slowly appeared—like an eraser wiping a shadow from the wall.

Wade frowned, watching the group vanish into the corner.

“Fine…” he muttered to himself.

“Just because you’ve read a book doesn’t mean you can master every situation.”

But the good news?

With Draco gone to join this club, he wouldn’t be returning to the dorm anytime soon.

Perfect.

Wade walked a few steps—then stopped.

“Makki?”

From behind a pillar, a small figure emerged. Makki peeked out, whispering: “Here I am, Wade Gray.”

“Can you listen in on what they’re saying?” Wade asked. “It’s not a command—if it’s hard, it’s okay.”

Makki hesitated. “Wade Gray… are you afraid they’re planning something dangerous?”

Wade looked at him. “How did the Death Eaters first come together under Voldemort?”

The name sent a shiver through Makki.

He bowed deeply.

“Makki understands, Wade Gray.”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end