Chapter 25
"Ha! Fancy a wizard's duel, do you?" Malfoy sneered, not bothering to hide his contempt for the girl in front of him.
Of course he knew her name — Hermione Granger, Gryffindor's resident know-it-all. Everyone said she ought to have been Sorted into Ravenclaw.
But book-learning wasn't what made a wizard powerful. Real strength came from duelling experience — and the hex he'd mastered only yesterday was particularly nasty. He was looking forward to giving the swotty little Muggle-born a lesson she wouldn't forget.
He was just reaching for his wand when his gaze slid past Hermione and landed on Gabin.
"Oh — Gabin. Didn't expect to see you here." Malfoy's entire demeanour flipped in an instant. The sneer vanished; his voice became warm, almost friendly. "I heard you aren't fond of Quidditch. Fancy finding you up in the stands."
The smile on his face was — astonishingly — quite genuine.
Gabin regarded the performance with weary amusement and rolled his eyes inwardly.
Truth be told, he and Malfoy had never really crossed paths much. Malfoy spent most of his time locked in his strange, obsessive rivalry with Harry Potter, which Gabin had no interest in meddling with. Toward Gabin himself, Malfoy had always been polite — even friendly, at first. He'd made several earnest attempts to befriend him early in the year.
When Gabin had declined — firmly — Malfoy hadn't retaliated with malice. He'd simply backed off, kept a respectful distance, and gone back to tormenting Harry as usual.
The reason for this unusual courtesy was simple.
"Gabin, honestly," Malfoy said now, wrinkling his nose as he glanced at Hermione and Ron, "you really ought to think about my offer. Keep away from this sort — the half-bloods and… others." He waved a hand in front of his face as though dispelling an unpleasant smell. "A pure-blood like you belongs with people who can truly understand your quality. Only we can."
He extended his right hand in a practised gesture of invitation, smile warm and expectant.
This was the second time he had made the offer. The first had been on the Hogwarts Express.
"Gabin's a pure-blood?" Ron blurted, staring at Gabin in open astonishment.
Before Gabin could respond, Malfoy cut in smoothly.
"Of course he is, Weasley. Try using that brain of yours — the one that's gone rusty from spending too much time with Muggles." Malfoy looked at Ron the way one might regard a particularly dim house-elf. "Only pure-bloods possess true talent of that calibre. It's something you'll never understand. You Weasleys have spent so long mixing with Muggles you've forgotten what real wizarding lineage means."
Gabin let out a quiet sigh.
Yes — only pure-bloods possessed exceptional magical talent.
And since he possessed exceptional magical talent… he must therefore be a pure-blood.
Even if that blood came from the East, it was still Eastern pure-blood — and that, in Malfoy's mind, was quite sufficient.
This was the unshakable logic Malfoy clung to. It explained why he treated Gabin with deference while scorning almost everyone else around him.
Hermione turned to look at Gabin. He had never once mentioned any of this to her.
Gabin gave a small shake of his head — not denial, only uncertainty.
After all, he had grown up in an orphanage. He had never known his parents.
But in the end it hardly mattered. Pure-blood or not, this world ultimately respected power, not pedigree.
Look at Voldemort — a half-blood at best — and yet he'd once had half the pure-blood old families trailing after him like eager puppies, practically chanting oaths of eternal loyalty and world domination.
Meanwhile Ron had already squared up to Malfoy, both boys drawing their wands, faces flushed with anger.
No one was watching Harry anymore as he streaked across the sky after the Snitch.
No one was keeping an eye on Snape to see whether he would try anything.
Hermione lifted her own wand, ready to back Ron up. Malfoy had Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him; on Ron's side, Neville fumbled his wand out but only managed a few stammered syllables before freezing.
At that moment Gabin flicked his wand once.
Wingardium Leviosa — but not the gentle schoolroom version.
Malfoy suddenly felt the ground vanish beneath him. His limbs flailed uselessly as though he had been plunged into deep water. He could no longer aim, could no longer even stand.
The same thing happened to Crabbe and Goyle. All three Slytherins rose gently into the air, arms and legs paddling in helpless confusion.
Gabin stepped forward until he was directly in front of Malfoy, then used the spell to rotate him upright again — eye to eye.
Truthfully, he bore Malfoy no real ill will. The boy had always been courteous toward him. His various pranks and petty cruelties had been directed elsewhere and had never touched Gabin personally.
Besides — Malfoy was twelve. Gabin's soul carried the perspective of a man nearly thirty. He had no intention of holding childish malice against a child.
But since Malfoy had come looking for trouble today… a small lesson seemed in order.
Just enough to stop him swaggering about quite so insufferably for a while.
"You seem to have forgotten something," Gabin said quietly.
Tiny motes of light drifted from the tip of his wand and arranged themselves into floating words directly in front of Malfoy's face.
"Hallowe'en. Your little prank very nearly caused a disaster. I believe Professor Snape already had words with you about it."
Malfoy's already pale face drained of what little colour it possessed. Fear flickered in his eyes.
"That — that was meant for Potter," he stammered.
"I don't care who it was meant for," Gabin replied evenly. "I only know that it ended up affecting me."
He paused, remembering.
"The smell of that troll made me sick for a week. I couldn't keep anything down."
With another lazy flick of his wand, Gabin inverted Malfoy once more — head down, feet pointing skyward. The glowing words rotated smoothly to follow.
"I'd almost forgotten about you," Gabin continued. "But since you've come looking for me… perhaps I should show you exactly how I dealt with that troll."
Malfoy gave a strangled scream.
He was upside down. The world was upside down. And far below — far too far below — was the hard wooden floor of the stands.
He remembered what Snape had told him in private: the troll's head had ended up… pulped. Like an over-ripe melon filled with white chocolate.
And now Gabin was lifting him higher. And higher.
"I'm sorry! Gabin — I'm sorry! I won't do it again!" Malfoy wailed. Tears and snot streamed upward (or downward, from his perspective) and plastered themselves across his sleek blond hair.
Gabin gave the lightest of flicks.
The Levitation Charm vanished.
Malfoy plummeted.
Hermione and Ron gasped — but the fall never ended in broken bones.
The wooden boards beneath him softened instantly, rippling like a giant trampoline. At the last second Gabin adjusted the boy's orientation so that he landed flat on his back with a muffled whump.
"Huuuuh—" Malfoy wheezed, dragging in air like a man resurrected.
He stared up at Gabin with naked terror.
"Quick — go — go—" he croaked.
Crabbe and Goyle, now released, hurriedly seized their leader under the arms and half-carried, half-dragged him away at a stumbling run.
Gabin slipped his wand back into his sleeve.
That should keep Malfoy's pranks reined in — at least where Gabin himself was concerned — for a good long while.
He wasn't cruel. Malfoy wasn't evil incarnate. A good fright was sufficient.
Of course it wouldn't stop him forever. Malfoy feared Gabin — not Harry, not Ron.
As for Hermione… well. Seeing how close she stood to Gabin, Malfoy would probably think twice before targeting her in future.
No one wanted to risk triggering another troll-death re-enactment.
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