The Origins of a Family's Learning

The young wizards gathered around listened in stunned silence, only to have a sudden realization: it wasn't that Malfoy was a coward, but that his family's cowardice was hereditary!

The girl digging through the history grew more excited with every detail. "The Malfoy family is full of dirt! They brag about being the pinnacle of pure-blood status every single day."

"But their ancestor only received his fief—the very land their ancestral home sits on today—by being granted it by William the Conqueror!"

"Lucius I in the 16th century tried to woo Elizabeth I, failed, and allegedly cursed the Queen! How can they claim to be pure-blood elites when they were busy rubbing shoulders with a Muggle queen?"

Some things seem light until they are weighed, but once put on the scale, they prove to be heavier than a thousand pounds.

With the young wizards working in concert, the Malfoy family's dark history was dragged into the light, with even their most embarrassing blunders from eight centuries ago being unearthed.

Armed with this dirt, the young wizards gleefully mocked them to their faces, scouring the castle to "educate" any lone Slytherin they could find.

By now, the Slytherin students had caught on, and one by one, they walked with gloomy faces, unable to hold their heads up when they left their common room.

On Monday morning, when the Slytherin students went to the Great Hall for breakfast, they endured the mocking gazes of the other three houses the entire time, wishing they could bury their faces in their plates.

Only Tom acted as if nothing were the matter, buttering his bread with measured movements and occasionally passing jam to Daphne, looking entirely at peace with the world.

It wasn't until Malfoy walked into the hall that the entire room erupted in jeers and laughter, startling even the teachers at the high table.

Malfoy's face turned deathly pale, his lips trembling as he grabbed two pieces of bread and fled the hall without looking back, his retreat so pathetic it was impossible not to laugh.

The teachers looked on in confusion, and Albus Dumbledore glanced at Snape. Snape's face was livid; he grabbed a Slytherin prefect and strode quickly out of the hall.

Outside in the entrance hall, the prefect stammered out the full story.

When Snape heard it, his vision went black and he nearly lost his footing. It was over—the reputation Slytherin had built over hundreds of years had been completely ruined by Malfoy!

Snape was filled with regret; he never imagined that a group of first-years could cause such a massive disaster for him.

Although it was Malfoy who had embarrassed himself, the other three houses had long since elevated the incident to a house-wide level.

Malfoy was the face of Slytherin; he hadn't just shamed himself, he had shamed the entire house.

To be honest, this wasn't just one bad apple spoiling the bunch; it was a whole pot of rot from top to bottom.

It was no wonder his students had been so dejected and submissive earlier.

Under normal circumstances, they would have started an argument, but they were so humiliated and in the wrong that they didn't even have the backbone to retort.

Snape wanted to find a hole to crawl into; he was terrified that Professor McGonagall would find out, as her look would surely be dripping with sarcasm—a feeling far worse than drinking spoiled Wolfsbane Potion.

But he couldn't run; Albus Dumbledore was still waiting for his report at the high table.

He impatiently shooed away the reporting prefect and sat back at the high table with a dark expression, leaning in to whisper into Albus Dumbledore's ear.

Before long, Albus Dumbledore's perpetually smiling face turned strange, his mouth twitching as he was clearly baffled by the absurdity of it all.

No matter how quietly Snape spoke, he couldn't press his face against Albus Dumbledore's, and the heads of the other houses had long since pricked up their ears to catch the gist of it, their expressions becoming more colorful by the second.

Professor Sprout sat with her arms crossed, looking delighted, purely enjoying the spectacle.

Professor Flitwick frowned while he chuckled; he had been a dueling champion in his youth, and in his eyes, dueling was a sacred affair.

Malfoy's cowardly display was an insult to the very word "duel." Professor McGonagall, meanwhile, wore an expression of utter speechlessness, her lips moving as she struggled to find words.

Albus Dumbledore was also at a loss; he had expected some life-or-death crisis, and it turned out to be this?

Yet, the matter was neither small nor large—it was difficult to manage, and he couldn't exactly gag every student to stop them from gossiping, could he?

Seeing this, Snape quickly shifted the target toward McGonagall.

"Professor McGonagall, setting that aside, Potter and Weasley roaming the castle at night is a clear violation of school rules. There must be some accountability, surely?"

This was a blatant display of displaced anger; because his own student had embarrassed him, he wanted to take it out on the Gryffindor students.

Professor McGonagall was no pushover and immediately retorted.

"Snape, why don't you tell me why Potter and Weasley were roaming at night? Shouldn't we first ask Mr. Malfoy what kind of tricks he was up to? If there is to be a punishment, the primary culprit should be punished first!"

She emphasized the words "primary culprit" heavily, clearly pointing the finger at Malfoy.

Snape was so angry his face twitched, but he couldn't find a way to refute her.

Albus Dumbledore quickly stepped in to mediate: "Alright, alright, let's call the parties involved and clear this up face-to-face."

The two of them snorted coldly, turning their heads away and refusing to acknowledge one another.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry, Ron, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Filch with his fat cat were all brought into a small room off the corridor.

Albus Dumbledore did not come, leaving only the two heads of house, McGonagall and Snape; he trusted that McGonagall would handle the matter impartially.

Snape also knew in his heart that although McGonagall was protective, she never wavered on principles and would not show favoritism to her own students.

This was McGonagall's reputation, something he, Snape, could never learn in his entire life.

Professor McGonagall stared at Harry and Ron, her tone stern.

"Potter, tell me the truth. Did you and your friend roam the castle at midnight on Thursday and go to the Trophy Room, as the rumors suggest?"

"It was them!" Filch immediately jumped in to claim credit. "I almost caught them that day, but that blasted Peeves interfered and distracted me on purpose!"

"Filch, be quiet." Professor McGonagall's tone was flat but carried unquestionable authority as she turned back to Harry. "Speak. Is this true or not?"

At this point, Harry had nothing left to hide, so he decided to stop caring about the consequences and admitted it directly.

"Yes, Professor. Ron and I did go to the Trophy Room at midnight on Thursday."

"But we had only just arrived when Mr. Filch showed up with his cat; he was clearly targeting us, coming straight for us."

He was obviously trying to drag Malfoy down with him; if they were all going to suffer, they might as well go down together.

Professor McGonagall didn't reprimand Harry, instead turning to look at Malfoy, who was deathly pale and trembling all over. "Mr. Malfoy, do you have any explanation?"

Malfoy opened his mouth, stammering for a long time, but not a single word came out.

Snape stood to the side, fixing him with a death stare—a look that seemed to wish he could petrify the boy on the spot. This fool, he thought, he has truly disgraced Slytherin.

Professor McGonagall turned back to Filch. "Filch, was it Mr. Malfoy who told you that someone would be in the Trophy Room?"

"No, it was that big boy who is always with him; he isn't here today," Filch replied hurriedly.