Chapter Seven: Of Mancaves and Quidditch Games.

Chapter Summary: Henri discovers a sanctuary and Draka watches a disappointing quidditch game.

Henri sat in the dimly lit corner of the library, his eyes scanning the pages of a book he had already read twice. The words blurred together as his mind wandered, unable to focus.

He had made up his mind: he wasn't coming back to Hogwarts next year. The idea had been swirling in his mind for days, and with each hex or insult from Draka and her group, the decision felt more solid. He would finish the year for his own pride—he didn't want to be the kid who couldn't even last a single year at the famed school of witchcraft and wizardry—but once the year was over, he was done. Magic, for all its wonder and promise, wasn't worth the pain it brought him.

His mother would understand, he thought. She always did. She'd be disappointed, of course, but maybe they could move back to France. Henri had always loved it there, and more than anything, he missed his best friend Philippe. They'd spent countless days sneaking into the local cemetery, playing pranks on tourists, hiding behind headstones and making eerie noises until they heard startled gasps or hurried footsteps. The memory made Henri smile, a small warmth spreading through his chest. That was the life he wanted again—simple, carefree, and surrounded by people who cared about him.

But for now, he had to endure. Classes, at least, weren't a problem. He excelled in everything, often finishing his work well before his classmates. But the free time—the endless hours with no friends to talk to, nowhere to belong—that was what gnawed at him. With no one to fill the gaps between lessons, and no desire to spend time in the common room where the chatter of his housemates only deepened his loneliness, Henri found himself wandering the vast corridors of Hogwarts.

The castle, for all the pain it held, was a marvel. It was a place straight out of fairy tales, with its towering spires, enchanted staircases, and whispering portraits. Henri couldn't deny that, even if he didn't belong here, the castle itself was magical in the truest sense of the word. So, he decided to explore. If nothing else, he would leave Hogwarts with the memory of its beauty, of its secret rooms and hidden passageways. He wouldn't let Draka or anyone else take that from him.

One afternoon, while aimlessly roaming the seventh floor, Henri discovered a door that hadn't been there the day before. It was tucked away in a shadowy alcove, almost as if it had appeared just for him. Curious, and with nothing else to do, he stepped inside.

The room was old—ancient, really. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs draped from the ceiling like forgotten banners. It looked like no one had set foot inside for centuries. But despite its state, there was something comforting about it, something that drew Henri in. He could almost imagine it as a place of refuge, a space just for him.

With nothing but time on his hands, Henri decided to clean it out. At first, it was just to keep busy, to distract himself from the overwhelming loneliness that weighed him down. But as the weeks passed and the room began to take shape, it became more than just a distraction. It became his sanctuary, his private escape from the world outside.

No one else seemed to know about the room—he never saw any other students or teachers near it. And that was fine by him. The room, which he had started to call his mancave in his head, was his secret, a place where Draka and her gang couldn't find him. Whenever the pressure of their bullying became too much, Henri would retreat to the room, curling up in one of the old armchairs he'd uncovered and letting the quiet wrap around him like a protective shield.

In his mancave, the insults and hexes couldn't reach him. He could forget, if only for a little while, about the cruel reality of Hogwarts and focus instead on the enchanting mystery of the castle itself. He had even found an old book tucked away on a dusty shelf, filled with spells and charms long forgotten by the rest of the school. It was fascinating, and it gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind when the weight of everything else became too much.

He had promised himself that when he left Hogwarts at the end of the year, he wouldn't think about Draka. He wouldn't let her poison his memories of this place. Instead, he would remember this room—this hidden corner of the castle that had become his refuge. He would remember the magical rooms and moving portraits, the suits of armor that saluted him as he passed. That was what Hogwarts would be for him. Not the bullying, not the loneliness. Just the magic.

And as long as he had this room, he could endure. Just for this year. After that, he'd be free. Free to leave, free to go back to a life that made sense, free to forget that the wizarding world had ever existed.

Draka trudged through the dim hallways of Hogwarts, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, a result of her relentless scheming and conniving against Potter and his Weasel sidekick. Each failed attempt at sabotage seemed to chip away at her resolve, making her seem more futile with every passing day. Letters from home were few and far between, increasingly critical, each one underscoring her failures and her father's palpable disappointment.

The once thrilling moments of her school life now felt tainted. The small victories she had once relished, like tripping and hexing Mudbloods, had lost their luster. Even her academic accomplishments felt hollow. Last week, she had achieved a personal triumph by turning a match into a needle—a feat she had proudly accomplished as the first in her Gryffindor-Slytherin class group. Yet, this triumph was short-lived when she discovered that Henri, the Mudblood, had achieved the same feat weeks earlier in his Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class group. The realization gnawed at her insides. Being second place to a Mudblood was intolerable. It didn't matter that everyone else in the first year was behind Henri; she was Draka Malfoy. To be second to a Mudblood was not only disgraceful but also shameful. Her father's last letter had articulated his displeasure and shame with clear, cutting words.

To make matters worse, Henri had become elusive. He was rarely seen, and whenever he was, he'd quickly vanish from sight. She had put Crabbe and Goyle on his tail, hoping they might figure out where he disappeared to. In hindsight, it would have been more effective with blind toddlers than with Crabbe and Goyle. Their idiocy drove her mad. They were loyal, sure, but loyalty had its limits. Henri's disappearing act only fueled her ire. Let him hide, the coward. She'd catch him yet.

Amidst her mounting frustrations, there was one beacon of hope: Quidditch. The upcoming match between Slytherin and Gryffindor was a highlight she eagerly anticipated. It was always a classic showdown, and Draka took particular pleasure in taunting the nervous-looking Potter before the game. She imagined how satisfying it would be to see Slytherin's victory, a win that would not only avenge her personal grievances but also serve as a blow to Potter's inflated ego.

The stadium was alive with anticipation as the match began. Slytherin surged ahead with a series of well-executed plays, and Draka's spirits soared with each goal. She was not surprised to see how well-oiled the Slytherin team was; she had been watching their practice sessions, and Marcus Flint was a great captain. His greatest asset was his chasers. Slytherin was already 90 to 10 in the few minutes that the game had been on.

Draka was not so pleased with the Slytherin Seeker. He was a talented and precise player, but loathe as she was to admit it, he was not quite in Potter's league. Potter was wicked fast and had the instincts of a wild animal. The only one who could compete with Potter was me, but I'm stuck in the stands while Potter gets special permission to play in first year, she thought bitterly.

But the Slytherin chasers were making up for whatever their Seeker lacked; they were simply amazing to watch, even the highly biased commentary of Lee Jordan couldn't help pointing out. Already Slytherin was 120 to 40. Potter had to catch the Snitch, and very soon if Gryffindor hoped to win this match.

Draka could almost taste victory. The stands were filled with cheers as Slytherin maintained their generous lead, and Draka allowed herself a rare smile of satisfaction. For a moment, it seemed her hopes might come true.

Potter seemed to have noticed the Snitch and was already in motion pursuing it. Draka felt her spirits drop. Potter was too fast compared to the Slytherin Seeker; if he caught the Snitch now, Gryffindor would win, Slytherin needed more time for their wonderful chasers to increase their lead. Then Potter's broom began to wobble uncontrollably, and Draka's high spirits returned; her excitement went to new heights. Perhaps victory was within reach. The crowd's cheers grew louder as Slytherin continued to press their advantage.

She was distracted from the match momentarily when a commotion near the teachers' section caught Draka's attention. Longbottom, ever the clumsy fool, had managed to trip and fall among the teachers, causing a ruckus that drew everyone's attention. Draka's irritation flared at the interruption; she was having such a good time!

When her focus shifted back to the match, Potter had somehow regained control of his broom and was in the process of hastily landing it. Draka felt a sense of foreboding. As soon as Potter's feet touched the ground, he wretched, but no gross digested food came out. Instead, to her utter disbelief, it was the Snitch. The red side of the stadium erupted in cheers as Potter held up the golden ball triumphantly.

Draka's frustration reached a boiling point. She couldn't believe that Potter had managed to win the game in such an absurd manner. Her mind raced with indignation as she tried to rally support, arguing that Potter's act of swallowing the Snitch should not count. She insisted it was against the rules, citing that the Seeker was required to catch the Snitch, not swallow it. But her protests fell on deaf ears. Even members of her own house seemed willing to accept the loss and move on. It was as if they were resigned to the idea that under Dumbledore's reign, Potter could do no wrong.

Defeated and enraged, Draka attempted to mock Potter for his absurd stunt, but her heart wasn't in it. The usual sharpness of her jabs had fizzled, leaving her insults feeling hollow and ineffective. Potter had managed to escape yet again, and Draka could do nothing but stew in her frustration and helplessness. She watched as Potter was hoisted on the shoulders of his adoring fans, their cheers echoing through the stadium.

As the crowd celebrated their victory, Draka slunk away from the stands, her mind churning with bitter thoughts. Each failed attempt, every mockery, and every disappointment seemed to converge into a crushing weight. She was losing her touch, and the realization only fueled her determination to make Potter and his friends pay.