Draco remained unconvinced, his gaze immediately shifting to Harry as Mrs. Hooch returned, restoring order to the class.
"Now, let's compete," Draco challenged, meeting Harry's eyes directly.
Harry nonchalantly swung one leg over the broom, hanging upside down, exuding an air of casual confidence. He glanced at Draco before relenting with a nod. "Alright, if you insist."
Yet, to Harry's surprise, Draco displayed remarkable skill on the broom, his boasts proving more than empty words.
But as Harry left Draco in the dust with a series of sharp turns and sudden bursts of speed, Draco's face paled, his confidence crumbling.
It was as if everything—his family lineage, his reputation, his prowess, even his cherished broomstick skills—had been utterly dismantled.
When Mrs. Hooch declared the end of class, Draco left in a state of near despair, his companions Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind, breathless.
"Draco, what's the matter?" Crabbe inquired.
"It's nothing, don't ask," Draco murmured softly, lost in his thoughts.
"Pure-blood supremacy," he muttered dryly, before retreating to the common room. Collapsing onto a sofa, he closed his eyes.
But soon, the hushed voices of his peers reached his ears.
Field, the boy whom Porter had knocked unconscious the previous Friday, was speaking up.
"I've had enough..."
"He needs to be taught a lesson..."
Draco's eyes snapped open, meeting Field's gaze.
"Malfoy, we're planning something for Potter. Are you in?"
But Draco's response was unexpected. He simply shook his head before rising and exiting the room.
Field frowned, watching Draco leave, then turned to Crabbe and Goyle.
"What's his deal?"
"We don't know," they replied in unison.
"And what about you two? Interested in joining us for some fun with Potter?"
The two stout boys shook their heads adamantly. "No, we're not looking for trouble."
Field smirked, muttering under his breath, "Cowards."
He had a grand scheme in mind, even recruiting two third-year wizards to assist him.
However, their efforts were in vain. After approaching, they were met with indifference.
Undeterred, the group resumed their discussion, plotting various pranks to torment Harry.
Spilling ink on his robes, sabotaging his homework, coating his comb in glue—anything to make Harry's life difficult.
As individuals merged into the collective, their initial fear of Harry dissipated, replaced by boisterous chatter.
But their revelry was cut short by a sigh.
"I don't understand what it takes for you to show me a modicum of respect. Nor do I understand what fuels your animosity towards me.
Is it because I've made a Gryffindor friend? But Slytherins and Gryffindors used to be friends."
The room fell silent as Harry stood in the doorway, facing his peers with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance. Some looked away sheepishly, while others hardened their gazes, realizing they were outnumbered.
"Why?" a tall, older student spoke up, his lips surrounded by a patchy green beard and his face dotted with acne.
"I'll tell you why, Potter," he stepped forward, his eyes burning with anger, tears welling up.
"My father died in Azkaban. Tortured to death by dementors," he confessed, his voice choked with emotion.
"All I have left of him is a piece of cloth—a suicide note written in blood," he revealed, his pain laid bare for all to see.
At that moment, Harry glimpsed the profound sorrow etched in the man's eyes, and he hesitated, retracting the sharp retort he had been poised to deliver. Instead, he offered, "I'm sorry, but I don't think this has anything to do with me."
"No!" the man erupted furiously, flecks of spittle landing on Harry's face. "If... if it weren't for you, none of this would have happened."
Harry's expression hardened, his anger simmering beneath the surface as he spoke with grave sincerity, "If there's anyone who doesn't want this to happen, I believe I'm one of them! I understand what you're going through, but perhaps we should change the subject."
"No--"
"Petrificus totalus!"
The curse came swiftly, cutting off his protest mid-roar. He froze in place, his body stiffening as he toppled forward.
Harry sidestepped to avoid his fall, his expression darkening. How many innocent people languish in Azkaban? And yet, he was the one being blamed.
Before assuming that aggrieved stance, had he ever considered the families your father had harmed? Had he ever contemplated the atrocities your father had committed?
Harry had endeavored to empathize with the man, even offering to divert the conversation.
"Harry Potter!" came a bellow.
Turning towards the source, Harry found the third-year student who had confronted him on Friday. He brandished his wand, aiming it squarely at Harry as he began to chant the incantation.
But before the spell could be unleashed, a streak of blue light flashed before his eyes, hurtling towards him.
"Locomo—"
The wizard's hand barely needed to form a gesture; a mere tap at his throat disrupted his incantation effortlessly.
Simultaneously, others joined the fray, brandishing their wands and casting spells at Harry.
However, the younger students lacked proficiency in magic, let alone combat awareness.
"Impedimenta!" ..
Harry swiftly maneuvered, dodging spells and occasionally using the wizard's own hand to halt their spellcasting. When unable to evade, he fortified himself, casting "Protego!"
A yellow spell struck him, but he remained unfazed.
"Stupefy!" Harry countered with a swift spell of his own, simultaneously delivering a punch to a nearby assailant.
With a resounding thud, the boy stumbled backward, unable to maintain his balance.
Chaos erupted throughout the lounge, drawing the attention of senior students observing from afar.