The courtyard of Hogwarts was draped in the pale, crisp light of autumn, but the atmosphere was anything but serene. The air hummed with a cruel energy, fueled by the metallic clicking of hundreds of badges. Harry walked through the stone arches, his head down, trying to ignore the neon green glow that seemed to follow him like a curse.
Every time a student passed, the badge pinned to their chest would flash with a rhythmic, taunting pulse: 'Support Cedric Diggory - The Real Champion.'
Then, with a sickening mechanical snap, the text would shift into a jagged, glowing red: 'Potter Stinks.'
Harry's jaw was set so tight it ached. He could feel the eyes of the school on him, a heavy weight of suspicion and resentment that had settled over his shoulders the moment his name had tumbled out of the Goblet of Fire. He wasn't just a liar in their eyes; he was a glory-seeker who had stolen the spotlight from Hufflepuff.
High above the fray, perched on the thick, twisting limb of a white-barked tree, sat Draco. He looked like a prince of malice, one leg dangling carelessly while he toyed with a badge of his own. His cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, stood at the base of the tree, laughing at every student who flinched under Draco's gaze.
"Why so tense, Potter?" Draco called out, his voice cutting through the chatter of the courtyard
.
Harry stopped. He knew he should keep walking. Hermione's voice echoed in his head, telling him that Malfoy wasn't worth the breath, but the frustration of the last week was boiling over. He looked up, squinting against the sun. Draco wasn't sneering with his usual sharp-edged glee. There was something frantic in the way he gripped the tree branch, a tension in his frame that Harry recognized from that night in the forest.
"My father and I have a bet, you see," Draco continued, though his eyes didn't leave Harry's face. "I don't think you're going to last ten minutes in this tournament. He says you won't even make it past the first task. Personally, I think you'll be lucky to make it to the end of the week."
The crowd around them erupted into jeers. Harry felt the blood rush to his face, the heat of embarrassment turning into a sharp, focused anger. He took several steps toward the tree, ignoring the way Goyle moved to intercept him.
"I don't care what your father thinks, Malfoy," Harry snapped, his voice ringing out across the stone floor. "He's vile, and he's cruel, and you're just like him."
The laughter died down instantly. The mention of Lucius Malfoy always brought a chill to the air. Draco's face went pale, his grey eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and sudden, sharp defensiveness. For a second, the image of Draco trembling in the woods flashed through Harry's mind, the boy who had held him, who had whispered his name with a terrifying sincerity. This version of Draco, the one mocking him from a tree, felt like a lie. It felt like a frantic attempt to rebuild the walls that had collapsed during the Quidditch World Cup.
Draco hopped down from the branch, landing gracefully on the grass. He stepped into Harry's personal space, the "Potter Stinks" badge on his chest flashing a violent red.
"You're pathetic," Draco hissed, but as he leaned in, his voice dropped so low that only Harry could hear. "Why do you have to be so loud, Harry? Just back out. Tell them you didn't do it. You're going to get yourself killed for a cup that doesn't matter."
Harry froze. The insult everyone else heard was "pathetic," but the message underneath was a desperate warning. Draco wasn't just bullying him; he was trying to goad him into quitting because he was terrified of what was coming. The "Potter Stinks" campaign wasn't just a prank; it was a shield. If everyone hated Harry, maybe Harry would be forced to withdraw. If Harry was a pariah, maybe he would be safe.
"You don't know anything," Harry whispered back, his anger flickering into a strange, painful confusion.
Draco's lip curled, his mask snapping back into place as he realized the crowd was watching too closely. He reached out and tapped the badge on Harry's own robe, the metal cold against Harry's chest.
"I know a loser when I see one," Draco shouted for the benefit of the onlookers.
Harry turned his back, his heart racing. He began to walk away, the sound of Draco's laughter following him, but it sounded hollow. It sounded like a boy whistling in the dark to keep the monsters away.
Behind him, he heard the sound of a wand being drawn. He spun around just as Draco aimed a hex at his back, his face contorted in a grimace of performative malice. But before the spell could leave Draco's wand, a thunderous crack echoed through the courtyard.
Professor Moody had appeared, his wooden leg thumping against the stone. With a roar of "OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!" he pointed his wand at Draco. In a flash of white light, the blonde boy vanished. In his place, a small, white ferret tumbled onto the grass, his fur standing on end.
The courtyard erupted. Even the Hufflepuffs were laughing now. The ferret-Draco scrambled wildly, his tiny paws skidding on the stone as Moody bounced him up and down in the air.
Harry watched, but he didn't laugh. He saw the way the ferret looked, terrified, small, and utterly humiliated. He saw the way the creature's pink nose twitched in a panic that mirrored the look in Draco's eyes in the forest. When Professor McGonagall finally intervened and transformed Draco back, the boy collapsed on the floor, his hair disheveled and his dignity in tatters.
Draco scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting to Harry. For a moment, the mask was gone again. There was no arrogance, no "Potter Stinks" bravado. There was only a boy who had tried to play a dangerous game of protection and had ended up as the punchline of a joke.
"My father will hear about this!" Draco shrieked, but his voice broke. He turned and fled toward the dungeons, his robes billowing behind him.
Harry stood in the center of the courtyard, the "Potter Stinks" badges still clicking and flashing all around him. He reached up and unpinned the one a Slytherin had shoved onto his desk earlier that morning. He looked at the red glow of the words, then looked toward the door where Draco had disappeared.
He didn't throw the badge away. He shoved it into his pocket, his fingers curling around the cold metal. He realized then that Draco Malfoy was a liar, but not in the way everyone thought. He wasn't lying about hating Harry; he was lying about how much he wanted Harry to survive.
The stone floor of the dungeons felt like ice beneath Draco's boots, but it was nothing compared to the freezing shame circulating through his veins. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the sickening sensation of his bones shrinking, the world stretching upward until he was nothing but a small, white blur of fur and fear.
Humiliation was a physical weight, a poison he had been taught to avoid since he was old enough to hold a wand. Lucius had carved the lessons into him with surgical precision: a Malfoy is a predator, never the prey. A Malfoy is the one who watches, never the one who is watched with pity or laughter.
Yet there he was, the punchline of a schoolyard joke. What stung more than Moody's transfiguration was the realization of why he had been in that tree in the first place. He hated himself for it. He hated the way his heart had stuttered when he saw Harry's name on that parchment. The "Potter Stinks" badges were supposed to be his armor, a way to reclaim the distance he had lost in the woods.
If he could make Harry hate him again, perhaps he could stop feeling this wretched, frantic need to keep the boy alive. He had tried to warn him under the guise of an insult, a desperate attempt to save a rival who didn't want saving. It was a weakness, a crack in his foundation that threatened to bring the whole manor down.
The Great Hall was a cacophony of clattering silverware and cruel whispers. As Draco walked toward the Slytherin table, the muffled snickers followed him like a physical stench. He kept his chin high, his spine a rigid line of pure defiance, but his ears burned red. He felt small. He felt like the ferret, exposed and fragile. He reached for a goblet, his hand trembling just enough for the silver to rattle against the wood, a sound that felt as loud as a cannon blast in his own head.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. Draco stiffened, bracing for a final, cutting remark from a Gryffindor. Instead, a hand moved into his line of sight, placing a small, wrapped chocolate frog on the table beside his plate.
Draco looked up, startled. Harry stood there, his sparkling eyes devoid of the mockery Draco had expected. There was no pity, either, only a quiet, grounding understanding.
"I've had a rough week too, Malfoy," Harry murmured, his voice low enough to stay between them. "Sometimes, the world just wants to see you fall. Don't let them."
Harry didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked back to his own table, leaving Draco staring at the gold-flecked packaging. The laughter in the hall seemed to fade into a dull hum. Draco's fingers brushed the chocolate, his pulse slowing. For the first time in his life, the Malfoy pride felt like a hollow burden, and the kindness of an enemy felt like the only thing keeping him whole.