The incident began that afternoon.
Perhaps it was their long years of rivalry, but Gryffindor had grown a keen instinct for Slytherin's schemes.
All seven members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were accompanied by classmates at all times, vigilant and wary of any ambush.
Even so—
on the grassy field outside the castle walls, a group of Slytherin upper‑years led by Lucius Malfoy still managed to corner them.
The tension between the two groups crackled like a drawn bowstring.
"Ormod," Malfoy said coolly, twirling his wand between his fingers, "Gryffindor has stained wizarding honor for far too long.
If you still have a shred of pride left, step aside."
He spoke with a smug calm, his tone steeped in aristocratic superiority.
But his opponent—
Ormod, Gryffindor Quidditch captain—
simply sneered with disdain.
"I knew it.
Only a sewer rat like you could crawl out of that stinking dungeon.
Want to touch my team?
Try it—
and I'll hang you from the bathroom doors by morning."
His words lit the spark.
With a united shout, a dozen small lions raised their wands. The Slytherins did the same. The two lines faced each other, neither yielding an inch.
Among the Gryffindors stood four familiar faces—
the Marauders.
James had originally come to pester Ormod about joining the team next year.
Now, face flushed with excitement, he gripped his wand, utterly unaware how outmatched they were.
Sirius and Lupin were right beside him—young, fearless, burning with righteous Gryffindor fire. Their noble intentions had long since replaced their original errand.
Only Peter Pettigrew looked as if the ground might swallow him—trying to look brave while his shaking legs betrayed him completely.
"Very well," Lucius said, voice soft as a drawn blade.
"I'll make sure you regret ever opposing Slytherin for the rest of your lives."
The air went cold.
"Attack!"
With that order, dozens of wands flared—
streams of minor jinxes and hexes shot through the air like fireworks, bright and merciless!
The Slytherins had chosen their battleground carefully.
Far enough from the castle that the professors wouldn't detect magic at once—an empty meadow few ever visited.
Even if the fallout lost them a few House points, what did that matter?
The glory—and the "lesson" they would teach—was worth far more.
Slytherin outnumbered Gryffindor almost two to one.
Lucius had meticulously recruited and even invoked his prefect privileges to mobilize half his house.
One exchange was all it took: five Gryffindor students fell at once, struck by low‑level curses and sprawled helplessly on the grass.
Ormod barked orders, rallying the rest to fall back behind cover.
He fought like a whirlwind—
dodging, countering, stunning four Slytherins in quick succession, buying precious seconds for his team.
Lucius, ever composed, advanced with grim confidence.
Volley after volley of spells drove the Gryffindors into the dirt, pinning them in place with relentless pressure.
But the Slytherins had underestimated one thing—
the raw, reckless energy of the first‑year "Marauders."
Sirius, born of the Black family, wielded pure‑blood training to dangerous effect.
James and Lupin coordinated beautifully, covering each other with improvised timing.
And fearful little Peter—of all people—caught several Slytherins off guard, ambushing them with shaky‑but‑accurate jinxes.
They were young, clumsy, but astonishingly fierce.
Through sheer nerve and chaos, they even punched open a gap in the encirclement!
"Move!" Ormod roared. "Don't get trapped!"
Fire and curses painted the air in a kaleidoscope of light.
For a moment, the duel looked more like a small‑scale war than a schoolyard brawl.
And of course—
Ormod earned his title of captain.
He covered his team to the end, cutting down the overwhelming firepower with sheer skill.
When the chance came, he turned, leading the retreat—
but not before luring Lucius's followers forward, then doubling back suddenly to strike!
Several Slytherins dropped before they realized what had happened.
Lucius scowled and, in cold fury, fired a Trip Jinx.
It struck Ormod squarely in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.
Before he could recover, four or five of Lucius's cronies swooped in, freezing him with a Petrificus Totalus.
CRACK!
Lucius's boot slammed into his face.
Blood spurted from Ormod's nose; the crunch of breaking bone echoed across the field.
The remaining Gryffindors shouted in fury, charging back to help.
Lucius sneered—and kicked again.
And again.
Within moments, Ormod's handsome face was swollen and unrecognizable.
Behind him, Slytherin laughter rose in ugly, jeering waves.
"I'll kill you!"
One of the Gryffindor Chasers—her voice raw with rage—broke formation and sprinted forward.
She never reached him.
A cluster of Slytherins hit her with back‑to‑back Petrificus Totalus, freezing her mid‑stride.
Her eyes blazed with fury even as her body stiffened—and Lucius turned, expression twisting with contempt.
He strode forward and—
THUD!
—kicked her, hard.
Lower this time.
Blood stained the grass.
Laughter followed—cruel, triumphant.
Lucius wiped his shoe with a handkerchief, disgust barely masked.
"Strip them," he commanded, voice chilly and precise. "Every last one. Leave them by the path. Then give each a final Petrification Curse.
Let's see whether they thaw first… or get found first."
Cheers erupted.
The gathered Slytherins cracked vile jokes, their eyes glinting with fanatic light as they turned to the prefect whose cruelty they admired so much.
Lucius tilted his chin, perfectly composed in their adoration.
He glanced toward the treeline, where the last few surviving Gryffindors were fleeing terrified into the distance—
and smiled.
"After them," he ordered coldly.
"I want every filthy Mudblood in this school to remember what happens when they defy us.
Leave none standing."
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