Transfiguration class had just ended.

After assigning homework, Professor McGonagall hurriedly left the classroom, clearly pressured by the urgent task of securing the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Dawn packed up his things, preparing to head to the Room of Requirement for some quiet time.

Right now, his mind was brimming with ideas — about magic, about patterns, about the possibilities of using his abilities…

Because of this, he urgently needed a calm environment to sort through and record these thoughts, to create a roadmap for his school life moving forward.

However—

Unexpected, yet somehow inevitable—

He was blocked on the way.

“Hmph! Dawn Richter… that’s your name, right?”

Draco Malfoy drawled lazily, flanked by two towering cronies, blocking the corridor completely.

“Oh, look at that stupid smile on your face! You don’t actually think you did well in class and feel proud about it, do you?” Draco sneered, stepping forward and jabbing a finger just shy of Dawn’s chest.

“Ha, I know exactly what you’re thinking! Every Muggle-born who steps into the magical world thinks the same way!”

“You think you’re special, that you’re different from everyone else, don’t you?”

“Ridiculous! As a pure-blood noble, I feel it’s my duty to remind you, Richter…”

Draco lowered his voice, his words dripping with venomous malice.

“You are nothing more than a pitiful, stupid Mudblood! Even being allowed to attend school here is a mercy granted by pure-blood families like mine!”

He made no effort to hide his rage, venting the humiliation he’d suffered in class, swaggering alongside his two henchmen.

And Dawn?

How did he react?

He simply stared at Draco with scarlet, emotionless eyes.

It wasn’t because he was concerned about Draco’s background. No, Dawn had suddenly realized that his school life might already be going off track.

It had only been three days since school started, and this would be his third confrontation already.

The incident on the train hardly counted — that had been before term officially began.

His interactions with the twins weren’t a big problem either. After all, they weren’t the tattling type, and the Marauder’s Map had been stolen goods to begin with. Plus, he had told them about the Room of Requirement.

So far, he hadn’t really drawn the professors’ attention.

But after today… that might change. Because right now, Dawn was a little angry.

And for him, that was a rare emotion.

The omniscient superiority instilled by his dreams usually made him see the world from a higher perspective.

That’s why Dawn could usually view everything around him with calm detachment.

Even on the train, when Eamon had been snide and mocking, he had found it more amusing than infuriating.

But this time—

Draco had managed to break through.

The humiliation Draco had tried to inflict had stirred real anger in him.

Dawn decided that even if it meant going too far, even if it drew the professors’ attention, he would not let this insult go unanswered.

“Hey, Draco, do you know how to cry?” Dawn asked, his lips curling into a cold smile as the three boys began to turn away.

“What?” Draco turned back, frowning in confusion.

The next second—

He felt a sharp blow to his gut, and bile rose uncontrollably up his throat.

“Ugh—”

Draco doubled over, clutching his stomach, his face twisted in pain. His voice cracked as he screamed, “Goyle! Crabbe! Get him!”

The two big boys, momentarily stunned, finally processed what had happened.

They exchanged a glance. As first-years, they had yet to develop the habit of relying on magic for everything. Roaring in anger, they raised their fists and charged.

And then, in the next instant—

*BANG!* *BANG!*

Two Stunning Spells sent them flying, rolling across the floor.

“You actually used magic?!” Draco, still reeling, shouted in disbelief.

“Ah, what a curious accusation. As a wizard, what else am I supposed to use?” Dawn said coldly. He raised his wand, strolling towards Draco at an unhurried pace.

“But I do understand your point. Sometimes, fists are indeed more satisfying.”

Draco wiped the corner of his mouth and furiously pulled out his wand.

“Jelly—” he began.

But before the first syllable was fully out, a red flash flew at him, knocking his wand spinning from his hand.

Draco stumbled back two steps, dazed.

When he looked up, meeting those emotionless crimson eyes, an unexplainable terror gripped him.

“You—”

*Bang!*

Before he could finish his sentence, Dawn’s fist slammed into the side of his face.

Two of Draco’s teeth clattered to the floor. The metallic tang of blood flooded Draco’s mouth.

He clutched his face, gasping in pain.

But before he could react further, a large shadow loomed over him again. Dawn straddled him, sneering, and began raining down punches.

The cries of pain quickly faded into weak groans.

Bright red blood splattered against the aged stone walls.

It was only when the struggling beneath him weakened that Dawn finally stopped, his blood-streaked hand relaxing at last.

On the ground, Draco stared up at him with swelling eyes full of hatred, his gaze burning even through his swollen lids.

Different from Muggle kids after all, Dawn mused. He remembered how in the original story, Neville hadn’t cried even after breaking his arm falling off a broomstick.

And Quidditch — a brutal, injury-prone sport — was wildly beloved among wizards.

Perhaps, wizards had an extraordinary tolerance for non-magical injuries.

After all, the wounds Draco suffered could probably be healed with a single bottle of potion in the infirmary.

Still—

Dawn wasn’t finished.

He smiled sweetly, pressing Draco’s writhing face down.

His voice, however, was as cold as ice, “Draco, don’t think it ends here. Next, I’m going to strip you all and hang you on the wall.”

Draco’s eyes widened in horror.

For young wizards, such cruelty was simply unimaginable.

“I am a Malfoy! You won’t dare!” Draco shouted, desperately summoning what dignity he had left.

“Dare?”

Dawn’s smile grew sharper. He drew out his wand.

In the midst of Draco’s screams, a small orange flame flickered into life.

“Watch closely, Draco. I’ll burn your clothes away, inch by inch, until either you beg me to stop, or you’re left naked, hanging from the ceiling.”

He brought the flame closer.

“Wa-wait!” Draco finally broke, unable to maintain his arrogance.

His neck twisted frantically, but no matter how he struggled, he could not move his body an inch.

Then he felt it.

A searing heat against his arm.

He actually did it.

He was really doing it. Draco’s mind went blank. Terror flooded every part of him.

The stench of burning cloth began to spread down the corridor. By the time Draco snapped out of his daze, he realized he was no longer on the floor.

He was hanging from the ceiling, staring helplessly down at Dawn.

Dawn tucked his wand back into his sleeve and looked up at the three boys, hanging like decorations.

“You’ve got some spine. You really didn’t cry. In that case, Draco, I’ll forgive your insult.”

He turned casually toward the stairs, waving a hand behind him.

“That’s that. Enjoy the view.”

“I’ll tell my father! You Mudblood! Come back! Put me down!” Draco finally broke, shouting frantically.

The cold wind blew across his exposed body. His face flushed crimson, the blush crawling down his neck.

Just the thought of being seen like this — especially by Harry, that scar-headed freak, or the Weasley boy — made Draco’s heart feel like it was burning.

His eyes stung, and despite himself, a few tears spilled over.

But by then, Dawn was already gone.

…….

“My—my goodness! Wha—what h-happened here?”

While Draco was still trapped in his mortifying imagination of being discovered, a stammering voice broke through.

“Professor Quirrell!”

Draco turned, relief flooding him at the sight of the man standing wide-eyed in the middle of the corridor.

“Professor, could you please get us down?”

“O-of course.”

Quirrell waved his wand.

A soft breeze gently lowered the three boys to the ground.

“H-here, p-put these on.”

Quirrell handed them three robes.

“B-but be careful! It’s only transfiguration. You s-should head straight back to your dormitories.”

“Thank you! My father will definitely reward you!” Draco gasped, clutching the robe around him, feeling like a man back from the brink of death.

He glanced at Quirrell again. Somehow, that ridiculous purple turban no longer seemed so ridiculous.

Quirrell asked softly, “Mr. M-Malfoy, w-would you mind telling me who d-did this to you?”

Draco hesitated for a moment, then lowered his head.

“Dawn Richter, a first-year Ravenclaw.”

He felt deeply humiliated to be saying this, admitting he had been defeated by a Mudblood. But since Professor Quirrell had seen it all, there was no point in hiding it.

“Dawn… Dawn Richter,” Quirrell muttered, repeating the name thoughtfully.

Then, nodding to the three of them, he turned and walked away.

Draco watched the professor’s retreating figure with complicated emotions — half hoping Dawn would be punished, half terrified his own humiliation would be exposed.

Just then, Crabbe, now awake, leaned in, his face twisted in resentment.

“Draco, should we tell Professor Snape? He’ll help us for sure—”

“Shut up! Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough already?!”

Draco roared, cutting him off.

The movement tugged painfully at the wounds on his face, and he gritted his teeth, adding in a low growl, “We tell no one. Not a single word. This never happened.”

Crabbe looked dissatisfied.

But Goyle, simple as always, just scratched his head, pulled on the robe Quirrell had given him, and in the next moment seemed to forget the whole thing.

Draco stormed away with his two cronies in tow.

But he knew — deep in his heart — that this matter was far from over!

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