Chapter 87: Conflict, Fragments
The weekend had turned Hogwarts into a ghost town—almost every student had spilled out onto the Quidditch Pitch, where Ravenclaw was facing off against Slytherin. As a Ravenclaw, Wade had naturally joined his classmates in the stands.
Truth be told, Wade had never cared much for Quidditch. Flying on a broomstick through the sky was undeniably thrilling—but risking a broken neck while playing at fifty feet above the ground? To him, that was sheer madness.
Watching the game wasn’t much better. The Golden Snitch was so small that it was nearly invisible, flashing only occasionally with a glint of gold. The Seeker often spent most of the match hovering high above, seemingly doing nothing. Players zipped past at speeds faster than cars on a highway, and the Bludgers and Quaffle darted back and forth between them like lightning. Wade suspected most people couldn’t even tell what was happening—half the time, they only knew when to cheer because of the commentary.
Still, the students were wildly passionate about the sport. Who wouldn’t be, locked in a boarding school with nothing but study to break the monotony? Anything that wasn’t class—whether it was mowing the lawn or picking up trash on the nearby streets—was welcomed with enthusiasm.
Wade was the exception. He found far greater joy and fulfillment in mastering magic than in any competition.
Suddenly, the stands erupted in a wave of deafening cheers. Wade blinked, then clapped along with the others—polite, but unenthusiastic—because Ravenclaw had won.
The Seeker, a seventh-year boy, raised his right hand high, the Golden Snitch’s wings fluttering between his fingers. He circled the pitch at breakneck speed, showing off the prize to the roaring crowd. Hands shot out from all directions, reaching like fans eager to touch a celebrity.
“Ravenclaw! Ravenclaw! Ravenclaw!” The chant echoed across the stands—so loud that even Gryffindor students joined in. Watching Slytherin lose was pure joy.
Slytherin students left in grim silence.
“We’re close to Hufflepuff’s score, and we just beat Slytherin,” Michael said excitedly as they walked back toward the castle, calculating the standings. “Maybe this year, Ravenclaw could actually win the Quidditch Cup!”
“House Cup didn’t get you this excited,” Wade teased.
“How can it be the same?” Michael shrugged. “I heard Shuraya from third year say that winning the House Cup just means they repaint the Great Hall in your house’s colors for the end-of-year feast. What’s the point?”
In truth, many Ravenclaws shared Michael’s indifference toward the House Cup. High scores were fine, low ones were acceptable, even last place didn’t matter much. No one went out of their way to earn extra points in class for their house.
“That’s not true for Quidditch!” Wade countered. “There’s no real reward beyond the cup itself.”
“Come on, it’s Quidditch!” Michael said, eyes wide. “Winning the cup is the ultimate honor!”
Just then, a loud, mocking laugh cut through the air.
Malfoy arrived with two of his cronies, leaning in close and whispering, “Just won one match, and you’re already bragging? Don’t forget—House Cup has been ours for the past six years. Ravenclaw’s—”
He glared at Wade, his voice dripping with venom as he spat out the word: “—Mudblood.”
Michael’s wand snapped out instantly. “You dare—”
Malfoy leapt back, smirking. “Professor’s right behind us. You’ll be sorry if you touch me.”
“I’m not afraid!” Michael snapped. “Let the Professor hear what you said!”
He was about to shout a Dark Curse when Wade grabbed his arm.
“Malfoy,” Wade said coolly, “you really should look in a mirror. Take a good look at how ugly and vile you look right now.”
Malfoy froze. For a moment, he was speechless. Then he found another insult, one aimed at Wade’s bloodline: “You— you filthy—”
But Wade and Michael had already walked away, as if the three of them were nothing more than weeds by the path.
Behind them, Wade added, “Michael, when you meet a mean dog biting you, just kick it aside. You don’t have to lie down and bite back, do you?”
Michael, whether from low comedic tolerance or the vivid image in his head, burst into laughter. Even nearby students couldn’t help but chuckle, casting amused glances at the sullen Slytherins.
Malfoy felt the laughter like knives scraping across his skin. His face burned, his fists clenched. He nearly unleashed a Dark Curse—until the looming presence of a professor snapped him back to reality.
He stormed toward the castle in silence, seething with hatred at the double humiliation Wade had delivered. Crabbe and Goyle followed, their expressions blank, as if utterly clueless.
Every word he heard around him now sounded like mockery.
Then—out of nowhere—his own name.
“Malfoy and Wade had another fight… He must really hate Wade right now,” a girl’s voice said, tinged with concern.
Malfoy recognized the voice—Padma Patil, a Ravenclaw. She was close to Wade. Without thinking, he ducked behind a pillar and signaled for Crabbe and Goyle to hide too.
The two fat boys exchanged glances, then huddled behind him like a string of candied fruit.
Another voice—Padma’s sister—chimed in: “Of course. He’s pure-blood, after all!”
“Do you think Malfoy’s still using that Book of Friends Wade invented?” Padma asked.
“Huh?” Padma’s sister blinked. “Well… I suppose… maybe…”
“I doubt it,” Padma said, grinning. “Imagine him cursing Wade while using something Wade made. That’d be pretty funny, wouldn’t it?”
“Y-yeah… I guess… right?” Padma’s sister stammered, unsure.
She couldn’t understand—why would anyone give up such a useful tool over a petty argument? And the Book of Friends wasn’t cheap…
But seeing Padma’s confident smirk, and remembering how far behind she still was on her Potions assignment, she wisely kept quiet.
Padma glanced sideways at the shadowy figures behind the pillar, her lips curling into a sly smile.
…
The girls walked off arm-in-arm.
Malfoy stepped out from behind the pillar, face pale and now flushed red with fury. He pulled out the Book of Friends, tore it in half without hesitation, and threw the pieces onto the ground.
“Find me that Wade Gray,” he snarled. “I want to know when he goes to the Potions classroom. I won’t let him off this time.”
His mind raced through every dark spell he knew—Killing Curse… Cruciatus Curse… Entrail-Expelling Curse… No, none of those would work. Molar Club… Leg-Lock Spell… Fiendfyre…
(End of Chapter)
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