That evening, all the students gathered in the Great Hall.
In one corner of the hall stood an old piano, its keys moving on their own, playing a soft and melodic tune. Above, the blackened ceiling glowed with the light of thousands of tiny candles, their bluish flames flickering gently. Coupled with the bizarre costumes worn by the students below, the Halloween atmosphere was both eerie and mysterious.
Normally, a Halloween masquerade should feel exciting, but tonight, it did not. The hall was filled with an oppressive silence.
Because there were dragons.
The dragon-handling team, recently returned from beyond the school grounds, had been given their own row of tables on the right side of the staff table. Each of them had a young dragon standing by their side.
All eyes were drawn to the juvenile dragons, and the stifling silence remained unbroken until Headmaster Armando Dippet, supported by the elderly Professor Jacob Bohan, entered through the hall doors.
Hoffa glanced at the staff table and noticed that nearly half of the professors were absent: Slughorn, Dumbledore, Melus, and Fatir were nowhere to be seen.
Dippet approached the grand eagle statue and cleared his throat twice. "Before the feast begins, I have a few words to say. Today, I called the dragon-handling team back to the castle—partly to evaluate their progress, which I'm very pleased with—and partly to set an example. I hope all students will learn from and aspire to the dedication of the dragon-handling team in the coming days."
He delivered a dry, uninspired speech, praising the team and urging them to stay on the right path. He spoke about how the future of Hogwarts depended on them, and so on. Afterward, with Bohan's assistance, Dippet left the staff table, followed by several professors who appeared to have other matters to discuss.
As soon as the professors left, the heavy silence in the hall shattered like glass. The students split into two visible factions almost instantly.
One group was openly friendly toward the dragon handlers, gathering around them with curious questions and animated chatter.
The other group sat farther away, their gazes filled with resentment but their expressions cold. They refused to approach the handlers and even whispered among themselves, occasionally pointing at them.
Hoffa's dormmate, Antonio, belonged to the first group. He eagerly mingled with the crowd, sitting beside the handlers and listening intently to their stories.
William, on the other hand, remained seated next to Hoffa, muttering disdainfully under his breath. "Hmph, what's the big deal about seeing a dragon? It's not like no one's ever seen one before. I saw a Norwegian Ridgeback when I was six—actually rode it, too."
Hoffa quietly ate his pumpkin pie. He knew William had been one of the students who attempted to cross the Black Lake during last year's ordeal, though he had barely managed three kilometers before turning back, exhausted.
But William continued to grumble. "They're just beasts. Fatir Drassess talks about building bridges, but seriously? I've never heard of anyone making it to Minister of Magic by taming dragons."
William's voice buzzed around Hoffa like an annoying swarm of mosquitoes. Hoffa tuned him out, his gaze fixed on Aglaia and Miranda, whom he hadn't seen in two months.
He realized, with a twinge of discomfort, that he hadn't thought of them much during their absence. Though he was staring at them now, their images seemed strangely blurred in his mind.
William kept droning on. "It's ridiculous. Swimming to raise dragons? Wasting taxpayer money like it grows on trees. And that Drassess fellow—his family runs a hospital, doesn't it? He looks shifty, like he's up to no good."
His voice mingled with the buzz of other students' chatter, creating a strange atmosphere that seemed to ferment in the air.
William continued, "If it weren't for you, those people would've been blown to bits last year. And yet, here they are, showing off. There's no way they got chosen fairly—there's definitely something shady going on with Drassess."
The endless complaints finally broke Hoffa's concentration when William gave him a heavy slap on the shoulder, snapping him back to reality.
"What?" Hoffa asked, slightly startled. He'd been zoning out and hadn't heard most of what William had said.
William leaned in. "I said, those dragon handlers aren't so impressive, are they?"
The question caused the nearby conversation to quiet noticeably. Many students turned to look at Hoffa, their eyes filled with a yearning for validation, a desperate need for someone to echo their thoughts and understand their frustrations.
For a fleeting moment, Hoffa felt as though he'd stumbled upon something intangible yet profoundly real, hovering above the Great Hall.
Looking into William's eyes, Hoffa felt a pang of guilt. Against his better judgment, he nodded. "You're right."
William's eyes lit up like fireworks. He turned to the others and exclaimed, "See? They're nothing special! Even Hoffa didn't join them after swimming across the lake!"
His words spread through the hall like a stone dropped into a still pond. Hoffa barely had time to react before the ripple became a wave, the students' whispers morphing into a chant.
"Hoffa says they're not so great."
"Hoffa says those people are nobodies."
"If not for Hoffa, they'd be dead by now."
"Hoffa says—"
By the time the rumor reached the dragon handlers, it had completely mutated.
Though Hoffa didn't know exactly what had been said, he saw one of the students whispering to the handlers. Moments later, the entire team turned their heads in unison, staring at him with expressions of shock and disbelief.
Hoffa's heart sank.
Sherlock from the dragon-handling team suddenly stood up. Aglaia and Miranda immediately tried to hold her back, but she broke free in one swift motion and strode purposefully toward the Ravenclaw table where Hoffa sat. Her gaze was cold and piercing as she stared him down.
"What did you just say?"
Hoffa looked baffled. "What did I say?"
Her anger turned into a mocking laugh. "You don't know what you said? Stop pretending to be clueless."
At that moment, another tall male student slowly walked over to Hoffa. Placing his hands firmly on the table, he spoke in a low, angry tone. "Didn't we have your back last year? Wasn't it something we all achieved together? It was a shared triumph for Hogwarts. How is it now only your personal glory?"
As he spoke, a chubby Swedish Short-Snout dragon lumbered up behind him, snorting as it stretched its heavy body.
Meanwhile, Sherlock's Hungarian Horntail quietly disappeared from its spot and began crawling toward its master.
"Step aside, Diggory. I'll handle this," Sherlock said coldly.
The tall boy glanced at her and shook his head. "Calm down, Sherlock."
"I won't say it again," she snapped, her eyes locked onto Hoffa.
The boy straightened, gave Hoffa one last look, then turned and left, taking his Short-Snout dragon with him.
As soon as he walked away, Sherlock grabbed Hoffa by the collar, her voice trembling with anger. "You can think I'm a fool. You can ignore me. But you cannot deny the effort of our team!"
Her fury was so intense that her clenched fists trembled. The words that had been passed around must have been incredibly harsh.
Hoffa tried to explain, but when he turned to the other students who had spread the rumors earlier, they had all fallen silent. No one said a word. They simply watched him. Their bizarre Halloween costumes, combined with their eerie stillness, gave them a surreal and unnerving appearance. Hoffa couldn't even distinguish one from another.
In that moment, he felt as though he had been pushed to the forefront. Their desires, their frustrations, and their collective will hung in the air like vivid symbols, impossible to ignore.
"You…" Hoffa murmured, unsure of what to say. At that moment, he realized he had become the voice of their collective will, unable to remain neutral or uninvolved.
Sherlock yanked his head to face her. "Look at me! Speak! Do you think dragon-handling is some trivial, laughable task?"
"I don't think that," Hoffa denied quickly.
"Then why did you say something so insulting!?" Sherlock's icy fingers dug into his face, nearly distorting his features.
At that moment, Miranda rushed over, grabbing Sherlock's hand in an attempt to de-escalate the situation. "It's fine! It's not a big deal. Hoffa, just apologize. That'll settle everything."
Apologize?
The moment Miranda said the word, the hundreds of students behind her turned their silent gazes into sharp, blade-like stares. The collective will in the air grew so intense it seemed to dim the entire hall.
Though none of them spoke, their message was loud and clear.
No apology.
No compromise.
This was a kind of pressure Hoffa had never felt before. In that moment, his personal thoughts no longer mattered.
He locked eyes with Sherlock's icy blue gaze and whispered, "Apologize for what? I didn't say anything."
"Didn't say anything?" Sherlock let out a laugh. After she stopped, her expression turned completely cold. "Aglaia used to talk about you with such admiration. I even had some expectations for you. But now, it seems you're nothing special after all."
Miranda was shoved aside by Sherlock and swallowed by the crowd. Sherlock drew her wand from her waist and took a step back. That single step was like a signal—every student around them stood up simultaneously. They all stepped back, wands drawn, encircling the two of them. The atmosphere became thick with tension and frenzy.
After his experiences in last year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Hoffa knew exactly what this stance meant. She was challenging him to a duel.
"Does it have to come to this?" Hoffa remained still.
"Are you always this indecisive, Bach?"
As she spoke, Hoffa felt another presence fixated on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a shadow—a juvenile Hungarian Horntail creeping silently toward him. Its wings were partially folded, and its piercing yellow eyes were locked on him with predatory intensity. The dragon's barbed tail moved ever so slightly, leaving faint scratches on the marble floor, like a young lion stalking prey under its mother's watchful eye.
Hoffa glanced at the Horntail, his tone serious. "I don't want to fight you."
"And what then?" Sherlock raised her wand to the level of her nose. "You think you're being magnanimous by refusing to stoop to my level?"
Hoffa stayed silent, but the juvenile Horntail edged closer, its presence thickening the air with danger.
"Are you going to find another excuse to leave this time?" Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Why don't you announce to everyone that you need the restroom again, Mr. Bach?"
Several members of the dragon-handling team laughed, their chuckles laced with derision.
Behind Hoffa, the crowd of students bristled, as if a nerve had been struck.
"Fight her already!"
"Who's afraid of her?"
"Does she think she's so special?"
"Just because she's a prefect?"
"Or because she's a teacher's pet?"
"Probably just got in with connections!"
"Enough!" Hoffa roared, spinning around to silence them.
"What's the point of this?" he asked, his voice sharp.
"Point?" Sherlock's expression turned steely. "The point, Hoffa Bach, is that you disrespected us.
Duel me. If you win, say whatever you want about us. But if you lose, I'll make you apologize to us in front of the entire school—loud and clear!"
(End of Chapter)
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