You Just Need to Clench Your Fist

After school started, Gryffindor Quidditch training sessions became much heavier, which made Harry feel quite exhausted.

What made him feel even worse was that Snape had voluntarily applied to be the referee for the Quidditch match—given the man's nature, he would definitely favor Gryffindor's opponents during the game.

Hermione and Ron even tried to convince Harry to give up participating in this Quidditch match.

Even though they had already learned from Damon that it was Professor Quirrell, not Snape, who had attacked Harry last time, it was still full of danger.

Who knew why the seemingly honest Professor Quirrell would go after Harry? And why were all the other professors silent about it?

If Harry's Flying Broomstick was cursed again during this match, what then? Would they have to stop it on their own again?

A despicable person like Snape would surely be eager to see Harry fall and get injured during the match, preventing him from playing in future Quidditch games—that way, his Slytherin House would lose a formidable opponent.

"We have to find information about Nicolas Flamel! I have a feeling it's important!"

"Hey, why don't we go talk to Damon? Not just about Nicolas Flamel, but also about the Quidditch match. As far as I know, he doesn't plan to watch this one."

"If he's not there, what if something happens again?"

Hermione glanced at Ron, wanting to say "we can handle it ourselves," but in the end, she stayed silent—it had been so long since school started, and she had barely crossed paths with Damon, let alone had a proper conversation.

Damon was always in a hurry, and ever since he started eating that beef noodle soup, it had gotten even worse—his meal times never exceeded ten minutes, and during that time he would be reading Transfiguration Today, his focused expression making Hermione reluctant to disturb him.

She felt that her relationship with Damon was becoming increasingly distant, as if the two of them had already set off on different paths.

Even though at Christmas, Damon had given her a full set of signed collector's editions of Lockhart's books—a gift she was very satisfied with—Hermione still felt something was missing.

"You guys say—" Harry pursed his lips, "where exactly does Damon practice his spells?"

"Oh—you finally said it. I thought I was the only one curious."

"Do we have to discuss this right now? The important thing is Nicolas Flamel—once we find information about him, we can put finding Damon on the agenda next."

"Do you know where Damon is?"

The three of them spun around abruptly and saw Neville approaching them with a miserable expression.

"What—what's wrong?"

"Neville, you don't look well."

"Malfoy—he's lurking outside the library, saying that next time he sees me, he'll practice the Leg-Locker Curse on me."

"So you want Damon to stand up for you?"

"Neville, you have to fight back. He's always been arrogant. There's no reason for us to bow to him and let him have his way."

"You don't have to tell me I'm too cowardly to be in Gryffindor. Malfoy already said that to me."

Neville trudged away with a gloomy face.

"This is an opportunity! We can use Neville's situation to ask Damon for help—and bring up our own needs while we're at it, right?"

Hearing Harry's suggestion, Hermione and Ron said nothing.

Earlier, the trio had all felt that Damon was like a snow eagle on an icy cliff—aloof, handsome, and elegant, hard to describe. Even though Damon was their friend and said so himself, they always felt there was a layer between them and him, an indescribable sense of distance.

Even Hermione didn't really dare to casually strike up a conversation with Damon—in fact, every word she said to him, she had already simulated in her mind before speaking.

It was precisely because of this that even though the Duelling Prince's reputation grew stronger and stronger among the first-years, not a single reckless person dared to approach him on their own.

Rumor had it that the young witches had even formed something called the "Duelling Prince Protection Fan Club," whose main purpose was to keep anyone from getting too close to Damon White.

Clearly, they seemed to have already treated Damon as some kind of untouchable, sacred relic.

"Don't worry, I understand Damon. I have a feeling he'll give us answers this time."

After the Mirror of Erised incident, Harry's goodwill toward Damon had soared, and he also felt he understood and was closer to Damon than before.

He was confident that Damon wouldn't refuse him.

The next day, the trio, along with Neville, approached Damon as he was eating breakfast.

"Oh, all four of you came together? What's all the excitement about?"

Damon was reading a new paper in Transfiguration Today about Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration with great interest—the paper discussed the connection between magic and matter, theorizing that if one's magic was powerful enough, it might be possible to change the very essence of a transfigured object.

If successful, this would undoubtedly be a subversion of Gamp's Law.

But the person who proposed this paper hadn't achieved it either, only putting forward a few theories and conjectures—clearly, his magical power wasn't enough to support his argument.

But Damon could—he'd try it out during tonight's transfiguration practice.

"Damon."

Neville stepped forward pitifully and told him about Malfoy's threat.

The three little ones watched helplessly from the side, thinking that Damon would surely advise Neville to bravely fight back.

Unexpectedly, Damon's reaction was far more intense than theirs.

"Oh—I warned him solemnly before, and he still dares to threaten you?"

Damon stood up abruptly, startling the four of them. Many witches and wizards nearby who had been secretly watching Damon immediately turned their gazes over, making Neville's heart race a little—he wasn't used to being stared at by so many people.

Confirming that Malfoy was in the Great Hall, Damon asked:

"Neville, what do you want me to do?"

"Me? I hope you can tell him to stop trying to practice Charms on me."

"Oh, that's simple. But Neville, would you mind going a bit overboard?"

"Wha—what do you mean?"

"Go all the way. Make him remember it for good."

Damon pulled Neville to his feet and whispered in his ear:

"I'll take you to give him a thorough beating. You don't need to think about anything—just throw your fists. I'll handle everything else after that, understand?"

"Da—Damon?"

Neville didn't quite understand.

But when he met Damon's gaze, he suddenly accepted it.

Under those eyes that bred swords and fire, Neville felt he could do anything.

Not understanding, not making a decision—just accepting.

"Alright, I will—Damon, I'll do it."

"Good, Neville. Stay close to me, don't think about anything, clench your fists tight!"

And so, Neville clenched his fists tightly, staring at Malfoy with the look of a man facing his mortal enemy, following Damon toward the Slytherin table.

"Wait—what are you doing!"

Hermione's face went stark white, as if foreseeing something about to happen, drained of all color.

The trio's hearts pounded wildly, feeling as if they might leap out of their chests!

With three different emotions, they watched the tall, handsome youth lead the red-faced boy forward.

"Hey! Malfoy! What did I tell you earlier!"

The boy's roar rang out through the Great Hall.