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Hogwarts: Richie's Magic Research Diary
Hogwarts : Black family bloodline...
Hogwarts' Magical Food God
Hogwarts Animagus Chaos
The day's classes flew by. After finishing their independent study sessions, the young wizards gathered in the Great Hall for dinner.
Unsurprisingly, the main topic of conversation was Richie. The fact that a first-year Ravenclaw, their "Seven-Pointed Star" , had brought home the highly exclusive Star-Wand Dueling Medal from Beauxbatons was the biggest news Hogwarts had seen in a while.
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As the first major piece of gossip of the term, everyone was buzzing about it, and Richie could feel the constant pointing and staring. Annoyed by the attention, he speed-ran his dinner.
Instead of heading straight to the Starlight Sanctum, Richie broke off and made his way toward the Weasley twins' underground workshop.
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But just as he reached the spiral staircase, he was intercepted by an unexpected welcoming committee.
"Goyle? Crabbe?" Richie raised an eyebrow, looking at the three Slytherins blocking his path.
Draco was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the two massive lackeys were flanked by... an upperclassman? (Judging strictly by his height).
"Can I help you?" Richie asked calmly, though his wand quietly slipped down his sleeve and into his palm.
"Richie Harland," Crabbe grunted, his voice thick and aggressive. "What did you do to Draco?"
Ah. Draco. Richie immediately understood what this was about.
"I didn't do anything to him. I literally just asked him a question," Richie replied, shrugging. "You two were standing right there. You saw the whole thing".
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As he spoke, Richie subtly scanned his surroundings. Night had already fallen, but the corridor they were in was well-lit by moonlight and flaming braziers, giving him perfect visibility.
"You definitely did something to Draco!" Goyle insisted, stepping forward. "He wouldn't be acting like that otherwise!". "Whether it's a dark artifact or some kind of curse, I'm warning you—lift it right now, or else..."
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Goyle shifted his gaze to the upperclassman standing beside them. "Or else Parkinson here is going to make you regret it!"
On cue, the upperclassman let out a scoffing laugh. He stepped forward into the moonlight, revealing a face so pug-like and genuinely ugly that it physically revolted Richie.
"Ravenclaw's little 'Seven-Pointed Star,' huh?" Parkinson sneered. "Please. It's just a cheap title cooked up by a bunch of self-important bookworms trying to feel special."
"In the face of true, noble blood, all of that is completely meaningless."
Richie's expression darkened.
Catching the shift in Richie's demeanor, Parkinson's smirk widened. "And you... a filthy Mudblood from the Muggle world... you actually have the nerve to attack a pureblood family? Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"You are playing with fire," Parkinson spat. "I suggest you confess to whatever you did, drop to the floor, and start screaming, 'I'm a Mudblood! I'm a Mudblood!' If you do that, I might just let you walk away."
"If you don't? I'll personally show you what it feels like to be reduced to a puddle of reeking, green sludge."
He was practically barking at this point.
Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a look, equal parts nervous and thrilled.
"What's a Mudblood?" Richie asked suddenly.
"Ha! You don't even know what you are?!" Parkinson laughed cruelly. "Since you're so desperate to know, I'll do you a favor and explain it."
He closed the distance, looming over Richie and locking eyes with him.
"A Mudblood is a magical thief. A stain that pollutes wizarding bloodlines!" Parkinson snarled. "Your disgusting, shameless Muggle parents used some filthy, underhanded trick to spawn you, polluting our world and our blood!"
He drew his wand, jamming the tip straight toward Richie's neck. "You need to learn your place, Mudblo—"
"Expelliarmus!"
BANG!
A concussive blast of kinetic force erupted. Parkinson was violently launched backward, completely airborne.
His wand was ripped from his grip, plunging into the stone floor like a steel spike right in front of Crabbe and Goyle. The sheer shock of it caused both boys' legs to give out, sending them crashing to the floor.
Meanwhile, Parkinson executed a flawless 720-degree spin mid-air before sticking the landing—well, he would have, if there was water. Instead, he flew a solid ten meters down the corridor, violently crashing into the far wall before crumpling into a twisted, upside-down "L" shape against the stone.
If the wall hadn't stopped him, he would have kept going.
"H-how... how is that possible?!" Goyle stammered.
How could a first-year cast a spell with that kind of devastating power?.
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At the end of the hall, Parkinson felt like every muscle in his body was actively trying to tear itself off his skeleton. His ribs throbbed with agonizing, stabbing pain. He couldn't move an inch.
Even worse, through his upside-down, wildly spinning vision, he saw a dark silhouette slowly walking toward him down the corridor.
"No... no!" Parkinson choked out, genuine terror creeping into his voice.
"I've got to admit, you're pretty brave."
After effortlessly dropping Crabbe and Goyle with two quick Body-Bind Curses to stop them from running, Richie calmly strolled up to Parkinson.
He looked down at the crumpled upperclassman.
"You have absolutely zero real skill, yet you bark so loud." Richie shook his head. "I guess it's true what they say: the purer the breed, the louder the dog."
Parkinson's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
"P-pure... purebred dog?"
"What, am I wrong?" Richie sighed, deciding his neck hurt from looking down. He crouched beside Parkinson.
"In all my years alive, the only time I've ever heard anyone obsess this heavily over 'bloodlines' is when they're talking about breeding cats or dogs," Richie said smoothly. "And the owners who obsess over those pedigrees only do it for two reasons: because it looks pretty, or because it sells for a high price."
Richie paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You definitely aren't pretty. So if you're this obsessed with your bloodline..."
He leaned in close, lowering his voice.
"...is it because you're hoping to sell yourself for a good price?"
"You... you..."
Because Parkinson was completely upside down, the blood was rushing aggressively to his head. His face was a deep, violently flushed red, and he could only let out ragged, wheezing gasps.
Richie shook his head in disgust and stood back up.
"Trash."
Honestly, if he wasn't worried about catching a detention for explicit language, Richie would have happily roasted Parkinson's entire family tree back eighteen generations with deeply R-rated insults.
Leaving the broken upperclassman behind, Richie walked back over to Crabbe and Goyle. Seeing the absolute terror in their eyes, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully before waving his wand, casting a silent counter-spell.
The Body-Bind Curses snapped.
Instantly free, Crabbe and Goyle scrambled backward, kicking and completely flailing on the ground until their backs hit the wall. They had nowhere left to run.
"Y-you... you can't do this, Seven-Pointed Star!" Goyle shrieked, his voice cracking. "W-we'll tell the professors!"
"Oh? So now you want to tell the professors?" Richie raised an eyebrow. He lazily pointed his wand at Goyle.
Goyle flinched violently.
Richie casually shifted the wand to Crabbe.
Crabbe whimpered and curled into a ball.
"Are you two even wizards?" Richie scoffed, lowering his wand.
"Go ahead and tell the professors. Honestly, I'll tell them too. I'd love to ask them exactly what 'Mudblood' means."
With that, Richie turned to walk away. After a few steps, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.
"Tell your boss I'm remembering this. If he has a problem with me, tell him to act like a man and face me directly."
Richie didn't look back again, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Once he was entirely out of sight, Crabbe and Goyle completely collapsed against the cold stone, panting heavily.
"He's terrifying... he's a total psycho!" Crabbe whispered, his meaty legs still shaking.
Goyle aggressively wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, nodding frantically. That was the first time he had ever felt that kind of overwhelming, suffocating pressure from someone his own age. It felt like Richie had been physically crushing his heart.
"H-help... help me..."
A weak, pathetic groan echoed from down the hall.
Goyle and Crabbe froze, looking at each other as reality crashed back down on them.
"Parkinson!"