Compared to Gryffindor, which came in second, Slytherin had taken the House Cup with a comfortable lead. Without any strange or unreasonable bonus points this year, it would have been impossible for anyone to surpass them.
This year’s House Cup held no surprises. Or rather, under fair and open circumstances, it had naturally ended up in Slytherin’s hands...
True, the Chamber of Secrets incident had spared them from losing points for rule-breaking, and they did have a know-it-all who excelled at earning extra points in class.
But without the Quidditch Cup, it would have been nearly impossible to overcome Slytherin with just that.
Especially with Snape, their Potions professor, always ready to deduct Harry Potter’s points for the smallest of reasons, neatly canceling out all of Hermione’s efforts.
And when the Gryffindors thought about that pale golden figure shining like the sun on the Quidditch pitch, they could only groan. The players in particular knew that next year’s training was bound to be brutal.
After all, for their captain Oliver Wood, it would be his final chance at the championship...
So the little lions of Gryffindor were in low spirits, not only because the Quidditch Cup had slipped through their fingers again, but also because, whether waiting for the train or seated aboard it, the Slytherin snakes wasted no time in using the sharp tongues they had learned from Snape against them.
Even the older Slytherins, though less childish, wore arrogant smirks that made the Gryffindors bristle.
The rest of the school simply watched with amusement.
After all, while no one openly discussed it, Dumbledore’s favoritism the previous year had left its mark.
And more importantly, many of them had to admit—they truly admired Draco Malfoy of Slytherin...
...
Draco Malfoy’s rise as a hero was something some were happy to see, and others could hardly bear.
Take, for instance, the Weasley twins, who at that very moment slammed their compartment door shut.
Bang!
“Damn it, you should all hear what those idiots out there are saying!”
“They’re actually saying we couldn’t have won the House Cup without Dumbledore’s help... Ha!”
“And listen to this one—cough, ahem! [They tried to stop the great Mr. Malfoy, but no one could imagine his power].”
Fred’s mocking, sing-song voice didn’t make anyone laugh. Instead, the air in the compartment grew heavy.
The only one untouched by it all was Hermione Granger, sitting quietly by the window with a book in hand.
Her soft brown hair, her bright, intelligent eyes, her focused expression—all together formed a picture of beauty. Yet the faint sadness about her carried a quiet ache... though no one else in the compartment noticed.
“Harry, next year! Next year we have to take the Quidditch Cup. Not just for Wood, but to show those damn Slytherins who the true Chosen One is!”
“Even if you say that...”
“Harry, that won’t do. Remember, you defeated You-Know-Who. You did brilliantly last year. You need to believe in yourself more!”
Fred gave Harry a hard slap on the back, as if to shake confidence into him.
“That’s right. When I told Ginny about your adventure last year, she practically saw you as her idol...”
“George!!”
As the petite, red-faced figure lunged at George, Harry couldn’t help but picture another face—a beautiful one, with cool, distant eyes.
If he had been the one to defeat the Basilisk, would he have drawn that gaze to himself?
Perhaps George’s words did have some effect, for Harry clenched his fists tightly.
If only I’d been just a little faster...
What no one knew was that after Dumbledore’s hints, and after realizing he too was a Parseltongue, Harry had also figured out what monster lay within the Chamber.
But he had been slower than Draco. By the time he had moved to act, he had run into Hermione, who was leading Snape into the Chamber to rescue him. That was the real reason Harry ended up there with them.
And so, Harry couldn’t help but wonder—if he had acted just a bit sooner, would he have been the one hailed as the hero...?
...
Since the end-of-term feast the night before, Pansy had been positively glowing.
Every glance she cast at Draco brimmed with pride and adoration. Her radiance drew plenty of attention, and though Draco himself remained the true center of the room, it did nothing to dim her charm.
Unfortunately, it was all too clear where her heart already lay...
“Draco, just look at their faces. Isn’t it hilarious?”
“That’s exactly how it should be. After all, they made me cry so badly last year.”
Draco tugged at the corner of his mouth, a little helpless in the face of Pansy’s high spirits. Still, he didn’t spoil her mood, keeping his worries to himself.
For compared to the House Cup or his soaring fame, what troubled Draco far more was Voldemort, lurking somewhere in the shadows.
Even if he hadn’t been the one to destroy the Horcrux, and even if he doubted Voldemort’s fragmented soul had learned of all that had transpired in the Chamber, Draco had seen enough of him to recognize the Dark Lord’s dangerous instability.
Facing him in person, Draco understood—this was no leader worth following. And Draco himself was not someone willing to live in another’s shadow.
His gaze drifted to the scenery rushing past the window, his eyes deep with thought.
Sixteen-year-old Voldemort... no wonder Dumbledore called him the most gifted student Hogwarts had ever seen.
Recalling the battle with him, and the fact that he had forged Horcruxes even as a student, Draco tightened his fists.
Compared to Voldemort, lurking and plotting resurrection, and the aging, cautious Dumbledore, the future would not belong to them.
It would belong to him.