Chapter 73: The Club and Bullying
Harry finished his grueling training and headed to the Great Hall for dinner, where he spotted Ron and Hermione already seated at the Long Table. Hermione was flipping through her books, while Ron sat with a piece of bread in hand, deep in thought.
“Know what?” Ron suddenly said in a low, serious tone as Harry approached. “I’ve discovered a truth.”
“What?” Harry asked curiously, piling food onto his plate.
“Oh.” Ron turned to him, his expression unusually intense. “If you skip lunch, dinner becomes so much more delicious!” He took a fierce bite of the bread.
“I discovered that truth when I was three,” Harry said, mimicking Ron’s tone. “Go on, Mr. Potter. Speak.”
Ron waved a hand, speaking with exaggerated solemnity. “If you’re exhausted and starving, any meal tastes incredible!”
Harry grinned, then let out a loud “Aaah!” as he devoured half a sandwich in one bite.
Hermione glanced up from her book, then gave it a sharp, decisive tap twice to mark her notes. Once Harry had nearly finished eating, she frowned. “We’re about to have a match—why is the team training so intensely?”
“Exactly because it’s so close,” Harry groaned, his stomach twisting at the very thought. “And Snape’s refereeing.”
“Listen, mate,” Ron offered, “Snape’s definitely still bitter about you beating Slytherin last time. Maybe you should just… break your leg? Then you wouldn’t have to play.”
Hermione snorted, too tired to even bother correcting their paranoid fantasies.
“But I can’t quit,” Harry said, face grim. “Gryffindor doesn’t have a backup Seeker. If I drop out, we can’t even field a team.”
“If you’re really worried about Snape—or anyone else trying to sabotage you—then you should focus on improving your magic,” Hermione said firmly, biting back the urge to say Quirrell’s name. “We were supposed to go to the Umbrella Room yesterday. I’d already made arrangements with everyone.”
“Yeah… sorry,” Harry said, uneasy. “But Wood suddenly called for an emergency training session—”
“Because it rained yesterday,” Hermione snapped. “Hufflepuff didn’t want their players’ performance affected, so they canceled the booking. Wood scrambled to grab the pitch—like someone was going to snatch it from under his nose.”
“Don’t put it like that,” Harry pleaded, lowering his voice. “Wood’s just trying to win the House Cup. If we beat Hufflepuff, we’ll finally be ahead of Slytherin—something we haven’t done in seven years.”
Harry wasn’t usually this deferential around his friends. But lately, Hermione had been doing so much for him—letting him borrow her notes, helping him check assignments, guiding him through his History of Magic essays, and even teaching him useful spells he hadn’t yet studied.
He wasn’t made of stone. In fact, he was painfully sensitive, starved for affection. And he could feel—clearly—that Hermione truly cared, giving without expecting anything in return. So his posture, his tone, his very breath around her—everything had softened. He barely dared to breathe loudly in her presence.
“Hermione,” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow, “what’s so great about this ‘SSCamper’? We’ve never even heard of it.”
Hermione scowled. “Don’t use that nickname! SSC stands for Starlight Chasers. I swear, it’s the best study group at Hogwarts—probably the best in the entire school, at least for first-years.”
Ron’s face twisted into a look of pained awe. “A study group… No wonder it’s you, Hermione.”
Harry fell into silence, thinking.
Hogwarts had countless student-run clubs and societies—Quidditch teams, Herbology groups, even the Gobstones Club. He and Ron had heard about them, seen older students gathering for activities, but never joined any.
“Just a time-wasting pastime,” Ron had once whispered to Harry when he’d received a club invitation. “New members often get harassed by seniors. They make you do humiliating or impossible tasks—call it a ‘test.’”
With five older brothers and an air of experience, Ron’s advice had carried weight. So Harry had politely declined every invitation.
But now, it was Hermione—one of his most trusted friends—pushing him hard toward a club that promised to dramatically improve his spellcasting.
And Quirrell’s classes were a joke—half-hearted, disorganized, and barely coherent. Harry was desperate for real progress. He longed to use magic in a crisis. He longed to finally outwit someone like Malfoy—once and for all.
Still, he had to think of Ron. He didn’t want to make his best friend feel left behind.
So he was torn.
After finishing his meal, the feast vanished from the Long Table. The group gathered their things, preparing to head back to the Common Room.
As they walked, Hermione kept giving Harry instructions. “Fix your hair—make a good impression.”
Then, down the corridor, a loud, mocking laugh rang out—followed by the raucous cheers of students.
Harry froze. That laugh… it dredged up a deep, visceral memory.
“Malfoy,” he muttered, his voice thick with disgust. “He’s bullying someone again.”
He didn’t wait. He charged forward. Ron followed in an instant.
“Wait—Harry—calm down!” Hermione snapped, then hurried after them.
At the end of the corridor, Neville was surrounded by a group of Slytherins. Clutching his wand, he stammered, “M-Malfoy… what do you want?”
Draco Malfoy tapped his wand against his palm with a smirk. “Lunatic, I just learned a new spell. Thought I’d test it out.”
A low, malicious chuckle rippled through the crowd.
Neville raised his wand, trembling. “D-don’t—don’t come closer… I’ll tell Professor—”
“Legs Stiffen and Lock!”
As Neville stumbled back, Malfoy roared the incantation. The spell struck—Neville’s legs snapped together, fused into a single rigid column. He collapsed, face burning red, flailing helplessly like a fish gasping on dry land.
The Slytherins erupted into laughter. One boy kicked Neville’s wand away with a sneer.
Malfoy bowed mockingly to the crowd, radiating smug triumph—like a master magician performing a flawless trick.
Then he turned back, sneering at Neville. “Tell the Professor? Merlin’s beard—your courage is pathetic, Longbottom. Are you even a Gryffindor? Or did the Sorting Hat make a terrible mistake… dumping a big, clumsy fool like you in the wrong house?”
“Where should he go, Draco?” a high-pitched girl called out, feigning thoughtfulness. “A good question, Pansy. Let me think…”
Malfoy paused, pretending to ponder, glancing around. “How about… the trash bin?”
Neville choked back a sob.
The Slytherins howled with laughter.
“Leave him alone, Malfoy!” Harry Potter burst into the corridor like a cannonball fired from a barrel.
(End of Chapter)
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