The news that those bastards had decided to capture people dear to me for blackmail wasn't exactly what I expected. Let's just say... I thought they'd try to weasel their way around things—not lay their cards out like this. I'll find out who they've taken hostage and act accordingly as the situation develops.
I was watching everything unfold through Maria's mind, and I can tell you—she was furious, ready to tear them apart in an instant. Without any direct orders from me, she suppressed her rage just to please me. And that, I must say—was beautiful.
Now, onto other news… Blackmail? Not cool. And it's a shame I can't easily find out exactly who they're using as leverage. That takes time—and time is something I don't have. Still, we'll see how things play out and who the hostage turns out to be.
The waiting was rough. My thoughts kept drifting—mostly to the upcoming negotiations. But once I got my head under control, things became a little easier. Winding myself up too early doesn't help.
Three hours of meditation flew by faster than I expected. Of course, it would've gone fast anyway, but without that mental break, I'd still be spiraling. And walking into important talks in that state? Not the best idea.
Fully concealed, I reached the meeting point. Maria was with me, clinging gently to my back, already calculating our next moves. I circled the building and spotted several squads trying to stay hidden. They were mixed units, but none had a mage strong enough to be a real threat. With the forces they've shown, they're not winning any battles.
Maybe they have a hidden trump card? But no… I did a second flyover, this time scanning for concealed artifacts—nothing turned up. Fine. I just have to stay ready to retreat if anything unexpected happens.
Landing smoothly, I stashed my broom in a bag and entered the hall. My concealment was still active, and thankfully, no one noticed me.
"He should be here any minute," said the corsican.
A goblin, seated at his place, opened a small watch and checked the hands. Nodding to himself, he turned his gaze to the entrance, clearly expecting me to walk through it.
Through our mental link, I instructed Maria to stay invisible and wait for my signal. Nothing more was needed. Naturally, they'd be anticipating something like this—but any element of surprise in battle grants a few extra points of advantage.
"Greetings," I said, appearing exactly where the goblin had expected me to.
Everyone in the hall froze.
"Timothy Jody," the goblin was the first to speak, rising from his seat. "I'm finally pleased to meet such a well-known individual."
"Can't say I feel the same," I replied, a little harshly. "Now then… turn on the connection."
"Not so fast, young man!" squeaked a wizard with a bandaged arm—the same one who'd blown up his own wand. Honestly, how little control do you need to attempt a spell with your mouth shut? "I demand compensation for your subordinate's actions! Because of her, I lost my hand!"
"Compensation?" I raised an eyebrow. "Listen, kid," I said, with as much disrespect as I could muster, "you're a zero when it comes to magic. I should be the one asking for compensation, not the other way around. And yes, we'll be discussing that too."
"You know—" one of his guards suddenly interrupted, cutting him off.
"Know what?" I asked.
"Nothing yet," the guard replied more calmly. "The ambassador just wanted to say he hopes the disagreements can be resolved as soon as possible."
"Oh, is that so," I drawled in response.
The ambassador shot his bodyguard a very ambiguous look. Someone might seriously regret that later—if they lived long enough to.
"All right then," I turned back to the goblin. "Show me."
"Of course," the goblin nodded and waved his hand.
At that moment, a pair of goblins activated a small artifact that projected an image onto the wall. For a brief second, the projection flickered with magical interference, but then it cleared. I saw my parents—along with Maggie and Tamara, who I hadn't visited in a while. I should have...
"Can they hear me?" I asked the goblin quietly.
"They should be able to," he replied.
"Mom, Dad, how are you?" I asked, raising my voice.
"Timothy? Is that you?" my father asked. His face lit up slightly. "Please explain to these two gentlemen that we have absolutely no connection to your magical world."
"Two gentlemen?" I asked him.
A distant, familiar voice chuckled.
Then, on the screen, a wounded, ugly man appeared. He jerked the camera toward each captive, zooming in on their faces. Then he turned it around—and I saw someone I definitely hadn't expected.
"Malfoy? What are you doing?" I asked calmly.
"Me?" the man echoed, clearly caught off guard. He hadn't expected to face me—especially not as an enemy. "Timothy…"
"Malfoy was quite helpful," the other man continued. "He gave me access to information from the British Ministry of Magic—like your parents' address. And from them, I learned about these two little Muggle whores. Ha!"
"You see?" the goblin interjected. "They're alive, and relatively healthy. I think it's time we discussed our business."
"Wait," the mercenary cut in. "Looks like this bastard didn't recognize me. Remember the Transfiguration Olympiad? When you killed my cousin in a duel? Remember the boys from Egypt?"
"Andrey Bolshanov?" I asked. "That's you?"
"I'm glad you recognized me," he said, twirling a wand between his fingers. "Oh, the things I've suffered because of you."
"Gentlemen—"
I raised a hand to silence the goblin, and he fell quiet immediately.
"My whole family was wiped out because you sent those boys' memories to my enemies," Andrey said. "I figured it out eventually—though it was already too late. So today, I want you to feel the same."
"You do realize I'm going to find you and destroy you, right?" I said, a flicker of rage rising in my voice. "Whatever it is you've planned—you'd better not go through with it."
"Oooh," he drawled, as if he hadn't even heard me. "I can't wait to savor the look on your face… when you watch me tear your past apart—grain by grain, stone by stone."
"Mercenary, remember our agreement," the goblin interrupted. "You were introduced by Otton the Sixth as one of the best in your field."
"Hahaha!" The man burst into loud laughter. "I don't give a damn what you want! You're just trash... Timothy, watch closely!"
He stepped toward my father, positioned himself so I could see everything—and raised his wand.
"Just watch, you bastard!"
A second later, a red spell burst from his wand and blew the head off this body's father. Even though he wasn't truly my father, I had grown attached to him.
"Like that? Huh?"
"Stop this!" the goblin demanded—but Andrey didn't even hear him.
He moved to this body's mother—another one I'd come to care for. A moment later, her head became a red mist. Her body dropped beside the father's.
"Just like I said—grain by grain, stone by stone," he sneered. "Now for your little Muggle whores."
Tamara tried to do something—anything—but what could she possibly do against a seasoned battle mage? He tore Maggie's body apart first, then began torturing Tamara.
It was all broadcast on the screen. And what I felt wasn't just rage—it was fury. Pure, incandescent hatred. Everything inside me boiled over, ready to erupt, to destroy everything and everyone.
Clenching my wand, I kept watching the torture.
Tamara didn't last long. It looked like her heart gave out—she died, too.
That horrific scene stirred something deep within me. A primal, burning urge to kill and destroy.
"Andrey," I said to the mercenary, voice cold. "You won't escape me. I'll find you—and I'll destroy you. Then I'll summon the souls of your relatives and destroy them too."
"Try and catch me!" he sneered.
"Malfoy," I turned to the blond, whose face was now whiter than his hair. "Don't think you can bury yourself somewhere. I'll dig you up, too."
"M-Mister Jody…" he stammered, trying to speak—but with a single, furious movement, I destroyed the artifact and turned my gaze toward the local schemers.
"We didn't know it would turn out like this," the goblin said. I could see it in his eyes—his carefully laid plans were crumbling, sinking like Atlantis.
"Oh, shut up. Which of you is Otton's ambassador?"
"I am," said the man with no hand, speaking loudly, even puffing up with pride—but it was the last emotion he'd ever feel. A flick of my hand sent a pinpoint stream of wind through him, shredding his body into a bloody powder. Only his legs remained standing for a few seconds.
The mercenaries with hands on their wands didn't even dare to draw them.
Then I turned to the Corsicans. They didn't manage to say a single word—before I burned them all. Every last one.
"Mister Jody!" the goblin screamed.
A ring of goblin guards had already surrounded him, and a trio armed with war hammers charged at me. But… they were nothing. Dust. One spell—and where brave warriors once stood, only scraps remained.
"You don't want to start a war against the entire goblin nation alone, do you?" the goblin shouted. "Let's come to an agreement—like respectable gentlemen."
I said nothing.
But a storm began to swirl around the lead goblin—and it obliterated the ring of guards just as effortlessly.
"There can be no peace between us now," I told him. "And until I am satisfied, there will be no more negotiations. As for war with your kind... ha! I will keep destroying you until your leaders crawl to me on their knees in the central magical square, begging for mercy. Only then… might I consider it."
"Timothy, don't make this mistake!"
Those were his final words—because I destroyed his body.
I absorbed the souls of all the dead. Among the human and goblin souls, there were demonic ones as well. Shifting my gaze to the mercenaries, I began to consider what to do with them.
They understood immediately. Both drew their wands—and snapped them in half.
"Maria," I called to the demoness, who had been watching my annihilation of the negotiation party with great pleasure. "Not a single goblin or demon should be left on the island. Wipe them all out."
"Yes, my lord," she said. "I will carry out your command."
Over the next four hours, she slaughtered every goblin on the island.
As for the mercenaries—I let them go, carrying a message to Otton the Sixth: either he, like the goblins, would crawl to me begging forgiveness, or I would end his entire bloodline. That meant Otton, all his children, his mistresses, and every other relative.
Next, I sent a notice to all wizards on the island: they were to appear at a mandatory assembly. Everyone—adults, children, and elders. Age and condition didn't matter. The message was clear: failure to attend would result in death. I no longer had any desire to pretend at virtue. Only one thing remained—the ruthless destruction of any resistance.
With a wave of my hand, I gathered all the bloody remains into a single pile and incinerated them with a simple spell. Then, I headed to the gathering point and quickly transfigured a raised platform for myself—like the kings of this world's past.
"My lord," Maria said as she approached. "I've cleansed the island of all goblins and demons. Not a single one left alive."
"Excellent work," I nodded. "Now we wait. Stand by my side."
The crowd began to gather quickly. But no one dared approach me or ask questions. I remained silent. My eyes were half-closed, and in my mind, I was already in London—burning Andrey and Malfoy together on the same pan. Of all people, I never expected Lucius to betray me. Never. But that was my mistake—not securing my parents, Tamara, and Maggie against a possible attack. I thought no one would stoop to killing Muggles.
Yes… I was wrong.
Within an hour, all the island's wizards had assembled. A large crowd now stood before me, watching expectantly. There was a buzz of conversation among them—no one understood why they had been summoned.
"Maria," I called out loudly to the demoness beside me. The moment my voice rang out, the wizards in the square fell silent. "Kill everyone who did not show up."
"It will be done."
The crowd grew uneasy—but I felt no emotion about what would happen to those who had failed to appear.
While she carried out the purge—though none of the homes checked so far had hidden any wizards—I turned to address the crowd directly.
"Corsicans," I began. "I will be brief. Your leaders were destroyed by me some time ago. They refused to surrender—and paid the price. Now I offer you a choice: either leave the island, or swear loyalty to me as your new king. Those who choose to leave may do so freely, taking all their possessions with them. Those who remain will transfer their assets into the treasury of the new Kingdom of Corsica. You have two hours to decide."
I waved my hand and transfigured a small flag.
"If you wish to become my subjects, stand beneath the flag," I said, just as the flag fluttered in the wind. "All others may leave the island. Once again, you have two hours to decide. After that, you will have to leave the island regardless of your preference—or become my subjects by force, with all the consequences that implies."
I already had a plan of action in mind, and I had no intention of abandoning it. Whether it seemed foolish or excessive didn't matter. I needed to vent my anger over the actions of the Bolshans—and especially Malfoy—on someone. What I would do with those who remained, I didn't yet know, but several ideas were already dancing in my head.
While the wizards loudly deliberated and tried to question me—questions I ignored—Maria completed the purge. She eliminated twenty-four families who had refused to come and were connected by blood to the leaders I had already destroyed. I felt no pity for them.
After two hours, the wizards began to leave. Not a single one approached the flag.
Well then… that was their choice.
"My lord," Maria said. "I have returned. What should we do with those preparing to leave the island?"
"I will allow them to leave unharmed."
"Perhaps I could catch a few and try to change their minds about serving you, my lord?" Maria asked. "I can arrange it quickly."
"No," I replied. "I promised they could leave the island. Let them go."
"Very well, my lord," Maria nodded with slight regret. She clearly would have liked to continue the slaughter of helpless, not particularly powerful wizards. "As you wish."
I wanted to rush to London and begin my hunt—search, then destroy—but I remained in Corsica. There were still a few things I needed to do before leaving the island to exact my revenge.
First, I had to secure the island's lands from potential European invaders who might try their luck here. Then, I needed to reinforce and improve the existing spells that diverted Muggle attention. Additionally, I intended to cast new enchantments to subtly encourage ordinary people to move away. Once all the Muggles were gone, I would complete what the goblins had once intended—I would turn the island into a fortress, one named after me.
What I would do with it afterward, I hadn't yet decided. Some ideas were beginning to take shape, but I wasn't ready to think about them just yet.
Immersing myself in meditation, I began to analyze the knowledge I had absorbed—starting with the mind of the chief goblin, who would logically possess the most valuable information.
And I wasn't mistaken. He did, in fact, hold critical knowledge, including the locations of three hidden goblin villages where their women and children lived. These settlements were closely guarded secrets—no living wizard had known of their whereabouts. That said, he didn't know the locations of the remaining villages, so I was left with only partial information.
The others had even less to offer. Perhaps only Otton VI's messenger carried anything remotely useful—and even then, his knowledge was superficial. It wasn't enough to solve this royal problem. His destruction was no longer a question—it was inevitable. While he didn't know much, he did know that the mercenary was "not indifferent" toward me. Why they chose him, I couldn't discern. But I knew who had sent the messenger, and that would lead me to whether Andrey's involvement was deliberate… or just a cruel coincidence.
I still wanted to rush to London, to deal with it all—but I remained, watching as the wizards slowly completed their exodus from Corsica. Naturally, they tried to take as many belongings as possible to ease their transition. I didn't interfere, so their departure dragged on a bit longer.
Once the last wizard had left the island, I began casting the new spells: concealment wards, Muggle-repelling enchantments, and many more. They snapped into place as if they had always belonged. Without my current level of power, this would have required artifact crafting, magical energy sources, and weeks of work. But now, I could will it into being.
This intense work distracted me, at least temporarily, from the pain of losing my parents and my lovers. But work always comes to an end. Sooner or later, I will have to confront that pain.
"My lord," Maria said as she approached. "I understand that those who were killed were very dear to you, and that you want vengeance. If it is your wish, I will destroy the entire city—drown it in blood—and I will find the killer. Just say the word, and I'll slaughter the whole country for you, my lord."
"No need to slaughter anyone—yet," I replied. "I remember my promise to you. But now isn't the time for that."
"I understand," she exhaled with considerable restraint. "I understand perfectly. I only hope that after you deal with these villains… we will have our wonderful date."
"Of course, Maria," I nodded.
I truly intend to keep the promise I made to her. If I broke it, I'd lose all respect for myself.
"One last thing," I added. "I have another task for you."
"Of course, my lord," the demoness replied, listening with great enthusiasm.
"I need you to locate Otton VI, follow him closely, and identify all of his particularly ardent assistants and allies," I ordered. "You are forbidden from revealing yourself."
"Understood!"
***
Somewhere in London, in a large mansion, a man with long white hair burst in like a whirlwind. He looked visibly agitated—so much so that even someone who had never seen him before would notice.
"What is it, Lucius?" asked Narcissa, seated in a large armchair with her legs crossed. She held a glossy, glamorous magazine in her hands. But despite appearances, she was far from a shallow or unintelligent woman.
"I've gotten myself into a massive mess," he snapped, furiously tossing his cane aside. "Firewhisky. Now!"
In the next moment, a tray appeared, bearing a bottle made of enchanted mountain crystal filled with a bright orange liquid. Alongside it sat a matching glass. Lucius uncorked the bottle, poured himself a drink, and—ignoring every etiquette rule—downed it in one swift motion. He poured another and drank that just as quickly.
"Lucius, perhaps you could tell me what's going on before you get drunk?" Narcissa asked, setting her magazine aside.
"Do you remember the request I got to access the Ministry Archives?" he asked.
"Of course," Narcissa replied. "You were excited back then—you said it was a great chance to build useful connections."
"Well, when I went to retrieve those documents, I ended up in a basement with four Muggles—and the client who had requested access. Normally, I wouldn't have cared about the Muggles. But there was one problem…"
"What problem?" Narcissa asked warily.
"They were hostages," he said. "Hostages taken to pressure Timothy Jody. Two of them were his parents, the other two were his lovers. During a live conversation—using some unknown communication artifact—the client murdered all four of them. The last woman was tortured right in front of Timothy Jody's eyes. And I was caught up in the middle of it. Damn it!"
He poured himself another glass of Firewhisky, downed it again, and hurled the empty glass at the wall, shattering it.
"Are you saying you were involved in the murder of Timothy Jody's loved ones?" asked Nymphadora, who had just entered. "And he knows you were part of it?"
"Yes," Lucius replied grimly. The shattered glass repaired itself and returned to the tray. Now calmer, Lucius poured another drink and sank into the plush sofa facing the fireplace and a portrait of one of the Malfoy ancestors. The portrait was shaking its head disapprovingly. If it could speak, it would surely have unleashed a stream of curses.
"Hmm," was all Narcissa said. "I need a drink too."
She walked over and poured herself a glass of the bright orange alcohol. The situation was quickly turning grim. Both she and Lucius knew that Timothy could be a charming person, even a delightful conversationalist—but the events at the Quidditch World Cup had proven that he was not to be underestimated. And now… Lucius had involved himself in something deeply personal, something that would provoke the worst in Timothy.
"You're saying that mercenary killed his parents and lovers?" Narcissa asked again, seeking confirmation.
"Yes," Lucius replied.
"Hmm," she exhaled slowly. "Whew. Alright. Let's think about how to resolve this."
Narcissa sipped her drink, then left the room and entered one of her private chambers. The deaths of Muggles didn't concern her much—they were, in her view, little more than currency: occasionally useful, often a nuisance. But in this case, the equation was different. If Muggles were considered commodities, then compensation could theoretically be offered. But when personal ties were involved, the matter grew far more complex. You couldn't simply replace someone's parents, and no wizard alive could resurrect the dead. As for the lovers—compensating for them would be even more complicated. How close had they been? What kind of relationships were they? Too many variables. Too many unknowns.
In short, if Timothy were somehow willing to accept compensation, the only question would be: how much? But Narcissa had a sinking feeling. He wouldn't accept anything from the Malfoys. Not money. Not reparations. Nothing but blood.
Settling into her favorite thinking chair, she pulled out a small set of magical dice—tools she often used to clear her thoughts and generate higher-level insight. The dice didn't offer exact answers, but they helped frame her decisions and sparked intuition.
She rolled them across the table. The dice spun on their own, glowing faintly, the numbers on their faces shifting and morphing mid-air. When they finally settled, she calculated the sum.
It was worse than she expected.
She couldn't explain why or how—the dice didn't offer reasons—but they confirmed what she already feared. Time was short, and the odds were getting worse by the hour. She needed to find a solution, and soon.
She should write to Timothy—propose a meeting. Perhaps she could appeal to his sense of reason, or at least delay the inevitable. As she considered her options, one thought anchored everything: her survival, and Draco's. Everything else could be sacrificed.
***
My return to Paris was expected. Rumors of the destruction of several goblin combat units—and the elimination of Corsica's leadership—had already begun to spread. Especially the latter, since refugees from Corsica were starting to appear in cities further north in France.
"I see you've resolved your little problem with Corsica," Amel said with satisfaction. "Care to tell me how it all went down?"
"Why not," I shrugged, then recounted the events—with a few strategic edits for "credibility," and a number of omissions. I didn't mention Maria's involvement or the real reason behind the fatal conflict. It was better for him not to know those details.
"Fascinating," Amel drawled. "That explains why Otto's been so angry lately."
"What are the newspapers saying?" I asked. "I haven't had a chance to look at them."
"The usual," he snorted, handing me a handful of clippings that might interest me. Some were from French newspapers—already well under Amel's control and unlikely to print anything without his "lordly" approval. Those didn't interest me much. The German, Austrian, Italian, and English clippings, however, were far more intriguing.
Since Otto VI was German, the German Ministry of Magic had fully backed his actions. Switzerland had remained officially neutral, but behind the scenes, it was clearly looking for ways to raise its standing. The Austrian and Italian ministries also expressed support for Otto—though in a more cautious, veiled manner. The Pope and his representative in the magical world, on the other hand, tried to maintain neutrality in the conflict.
The English newspapers, however, made no mention of the situation in Europe. They were busy with their own spectacle—a mass escape from Azkaban. No one understood how it had happened, and the Dementors were unable to offer a clear explanation. What was known was that the escape had been led by a certain Bellatrix Lestrange. The Ministry of Magic was scrambling to investigate and capture the fugitives, with the Aurors involved—but so far, there had been no major breakthroughs.
"What are you planning to do next?" Amel asked.
"What would you do in my place?" I asked, setting the newspaper clippings aside.
"Hmm," he mused. "I think I'd stage an attack—on myself or a close relative. Something dramatic enough to create a justification for a counterstrike."
"Is that so?" I drawled. "Don't you think that if others found out it was staged, it could backfire?"
"If I had your power, I wouldn't care about the opinions of a few jackals with three grades of rural magical schooling," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "But I'm not you, and you're not me… so I imagine you'll handle it differently."
"True," I snorted at Delacour's words. "I plan to eliminate Otto VI—along with all his lackeys."
He looked genuinely surprised, even a little tense. Understandably so. His recent discussions with Ministry advisors and potential allies had focused on building bridges, finding points of agreement. And here I was, casually declaring something explosive.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "A third of Europe's magical world will come to his defense. Too many owe him favors."
"Let them," I said with a nod. "If they defend him, they're my enemies too. And I have more than enough spells for them."
"Uh-huh," he muttered, unsure what to say. "And when do you plan to do this?"
"The whole world will find out," I replied. "Very soon, the situation in Europe will change dramatically."
"Can I know what you're going to do?" Amel asked. "So I can prepare."
"Let it remain a secret for now."
"All right," he said, closing his eyes. "Do as you see fit."
As if I were going to ask for his permission to act. The very idea sounded ridiculous—seeking his opinion on matters like this. Sure, he might have some interesting thoughts, but I had no desire to inquire about them.
"Then you can send the girls here," suggested Apolline, who had been sitting and quietly listening the entire time. "We'll go on a little trip while you're away handling your business."
"That's not a bad idea," I said, agreeing with the suggestion.
"How successful do you think your venture will be?" Amel asked.
"I believe it will be very successful," I replied calmly. "Not everyone can pull it off like I can."
"Do you already have any thoughts on how the wizards who support Otto VI might respond?"
"All I can say about that," I paused, thinking for a moment, "is that chaos might erupt in certain countries when Otto and several political figures from other nations perish alongside him."
"How harshly are you planning to act?" he asked, exhaling and allowing himself to relax slightly.
"We'll see," I said. "It's difficult to predict anything precisely, because there's no way to know exactly where the clash will occur—or how loud it will be."
"Understood," Amel exhaled again. "Then I'll make some preparations as well—for the potential consequences."
***
Harry Potter sat at his desk, staring out the open window. Heavy rain clouds were gathering in the sky—it looked like a storm was on its way. The events at the Quidditch World Cup had wiped out half of all Hogwarts students, leaving the school eerily quiet and hollow.
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall addressed him sharply, pulling him out of his daze. "It would be good if you paid attention to the lesson instead of daydreaming about fairies in the clouds. They don't fly up there."
"Sorry, Professor," he replied quickly.
The remaining students had grown distant from one another. No one wanted to talk, let alone gather in groups. Quidditch practices had been suspended; most teams no longer had enough players to form a roster.
Sighing, Harry turned his attention back to the board and stared blankly at the incomprehensible formula McGonagall had written. If Ron were still around, he might've cracked a joke and made him laugh—but no… Harry had killed him with his own hands. And, strangely, he didn't feel much about it. No nightmares. Just a lingering numbness. The trip to Azkaban had been far more unpleasant.
He was also beginning to suspect that Dumbledore was deliberately avoiding him. And Snape—Snape was doing everything short of physically crushing him. Detentions piled up endlessly, keeping Harry isolated from everyone else. McGonagall had tried to protest, but for some reason, Dumbledore had taken Snape's side. Harry didn't like it, but he had no choice. He obeyed, like always.
When the lesson ended, he gathered his things and made his way down to the dungeons to clean cauldrons. Again. He didn't understand where all these dirty cauldrons were coming from—especially now that half the student body was gone. But he had no desire to face Snape's cold, empty stare any more than necessary.
"Hey, psst," a voice called out.
Harry turned to see a tall woman standing in the shadows, dressed in a strange black dress with an equally odd hairstyle. Her eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Hey, kid, want me to show you something interesting?"
"Who are you, exactly?" Harry asked, startled. He noticed a few shadows flickering behind her in the corridor, but he couldn't make them out.
"Oh, sorry-sorry," she said cheerfully. "Call me Bella. And you are?"
"Harry Potter," he replied, watching her closely—expecting a reaction. And it came.
"Oh-ho!" she grinned wide. "I've heard so much about you. Hehe. By the way, I was once very well acquainted with your parents."
"Really?" Harry perked up, intrigued.
"Let's not stand around here in the hallway," she said, gesturing casually. "Let's go to Hogsmeade, and I'll tell you everything there."
"I have detention," Harry muttered.
"Who cares about that…" she waved her hand dismissively. "It doesn't help you, and it certainly doesn't do you any good."
"Alright… let's go."
Whether that was a smart decision or not—time would tell.