Harry Potter: The Golden Boy

Nicholas stood in awe, his mouth slightly agape as he observed the game of chess unfolding before him. But this wasn't the kind of chess he was accustomed to—it was magical in every sense. The carved wooden pieces moved on their own, following the commands of the two wizards seated across from each other, eyes locked in intense concentration. The pieces didn't just slide across the board; they marched, and stomped, and when one was captured, the attacking piece would clash with its opponent in a spectacularly violent manner. Knights dismounted and swung their swords, rooks crushed pawns with a thunderous crash, and bishops wielded their staffs with crackling energy.

Nicholas found himself drawn into the action, completely mesmerized. Each move seemed like a miniature battle, a war playing out on the checkered battlefield. He could almost feel the energy pulsing from the enchanted pieces, and the thrill of the match stirred something in him.

"Are you interested in a game, young master?" a familiar voice rang from behind, breaking his trance.

Nicholas turned to find George, their ever-present and composed butler, standing with a polite smile. His posture was as straight as ever, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, as if he had seen that same expression on Nicholas's face many times before.

Nicholas nodded eagerly, his excitement spilling over. "I've never seen anything like it," he admitted, his eyes still darting back to the magical chessboard. "Do they... fight like this every time?"

George gave a knowing nod. "Indeed, young master. Wizard's Chess has a certain... flair, as you can see. The pieces aren't merely guided, they are soldiers—warriors, eager to battle for their king." He paused, then added, "Should you wish to play, I can arrange for a set."

Nicholas, still fascinated, gave a quick nod, but his attention was momentarily pulled elsewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a large tent, much grander than the rest, its canvas gleaming under the enchanted lanterns hanging around the grounds. Above the entrance, a hand-carved wooden sign bore the word "Butterbeer" in large, elegant script, beckoning to those passing by.

"That's where Mark went, isn't it?" Nicholas asked, recognizing the tent.

George's gaze followed his, and he nodded. "Yes, young master. Your uncle was quite intrigued by the Butterbeer stand. He seems to be enjoying himself—quite the popular choice for wizards and witches alike."

Nicholas's gaze remained fixed on the Butterbeer tent, where the warm, golden light flickered invitingly, casting long shadows across the ground. Yet, the light only hinted at the activity within. The sounds of laughter and the faint clinking of mugs reached his ears, but the tent's interior remained concealed, as though it intentionally guarded its mysteries. It was a fitting metaphor for the magical world itself—a place filled with wonder, yet never fully revealed, always leaving something to the imagination.

He shifted uneasily on his feet, his thoughts drifting to his uncle Mark, who had disappeared into the tent not long ago. The memory of Mark's animated expression, as they neared the Butterbeer stand, tugged at Nicholas's mind. His uncle had been practically buzzing with excitement, a gleam in his eyes that Nicholas couldn't ignore. It was more than simple curiosity—it was longing, a desire to be part of something he had always been kept apart from.

Mark had never had it easy. Growing up as a squib—a person born into a wizarding family but with no magical ability—had placed him on the margins of both the Muggle and magical worlds. He had lived between them, always observing but never fully belonging to either. He had spent his life listening about the wonders of magic: wands flicking to cast spells, broomsticks soaring through the air, potions bubbling with mysterious ingredients. But it had always been someone else's magic. He had watched from the sidelines, relegated to the role of an outsider, always aware of what he lacked.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Mark had a rare opportunity to immerse himself in the wizarding world without feeling like an outsider. Surrounded by witches and wizards who didn't know his history, who didn't view him as "less," Mark was determined to seize the moment. Nicholas had sensed it earlier when Mark had turned to him with a broad smile, eyes bright with anticipation. "Tonight, Nico," he had said, "tonight, I'm not just watching—I'm part of it."

Nicholas had smiled in return, but there had been a twinge of concern in his chest. While he understood his uncle's eagerness, he couldn't help but worry. The magical world was full of wonders, yes, but it was also unpredictable. Mark's excitement was genuine, yet Nicholas feared that his uncle's first real foray into wizarding culture could overwhelm him. Still, Mark had always been resourceful, even without magic. He was quick-witted, charming, and had a knack for getting along with everyone. It was one of the reasons Nicholas began to admire him. And tonight, Mark wasn't alone—he had been assigned a Ministry official to watch over him, ensuring his safety as he navigated this new experience. But that didn't completely ease Nicholas's worry.

Nicholas turned to George, who stood at his side, ever patient and composed. His voice was quieter than usual, laced with a hint of worry. "Do you think we can trust the Ministry's man to keep Uncle Mark safe?"

George, as calm as always, gave a thoughtful nod. "The official assigned to your uncle comes from a well-respected department, young master. They are known for handling situations such as these with great care. He's not there merely to protect Master Mark, but to help him navigate the many wonders the wizarding world has to offer tonight. Your uncle will be in good hands."

Nicholas let out a small, satisfied hum, though the sound was more out of relief than contentment. "As long as Uncle Mark is safe, he can enjoy himself however he likes," he murmured. Just as he spoke, a sharp hissing sound caught his attention, drawing his gaze toward a tent nearby. This particular tent was unlike the others—it was filled with cages. Owls, bats, and various other creatures were housed within, but it was the serpents that commanded his attention.

His curiosity piqued, Nicholas felt his feet move instinctively toward the tent, almost as though the creatures were calling to him. Among the cages, his eyes landed on a snake that seemed to rise taller than the rest. Its long, sinuous body lifted off the ground, coiling in a display of both elegance and menace. Its head swayed slightly, the dark eyes of the creature locking onto Nicholas's with a cold, knowing gaze. The diamond pattern that ran down its back shimmered under the lantern light, glistening as though the snake was made of polished scales rather than flesh. It held his attention in a way that no other creature could.

The snake seemed to regard him with more than just animal instinct—it was as if it was waiting for something, its tongue flicking the air between them. Nicholas felt an eerie connection, a sensation deep in his chest that tugged at him like a whisper only he could hear.

"Say, George," Nicholas said quietly, his eyes never leaving the serpent, "I've read somewhere that certain wizarding lineages can speak to serpents." His voice held a note of curiosity, tempered with excitement. "The name is right on the tip of my tongue."

George, standing just behind him, raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, young master. You are speaking of Parselmouths, those rare few wizards gifted with the ability to converse with snakes. It is a trait most commonly associated with Salazar Slytherin's bloodline."

"Salazar Slytherin!" Nicholas shouted with sudden excitement, his voice carrying through the bustling street. The wizards and witches around them turned, their curious gazes lingering on both him and George. Embarrassed by the attention, Nicholas lowered his voice but kept moving, his steps quickening as they continued down the path. "Wasn't he Godric's friend? And didn't they found Hogwarts together?" he asked, glancing at George.

George gave a dignified nod, keeping stride beside him. "Indeed, young master. Salazar Slytherin was one of the four founders of Hogwarts, along with your ancestor, Godric Gryffindor. They built the school together, but each had a different vision for the future of wizardkind. Slytherin, in particular, was known for his belief in the superiority of pure-blood wizards and his desire to teach only those he deemed worthy of the magical arts."

Nicholas furrowed his brow in thought. "I remember there were four houses, each named after the founders, with Godric leading the charge in establishing the school. But what became of Slytherin's descendants?" he wondered aloud.

George's expression darkened slightly as they passed a group of wizards exchanging pleasantries. "Slytherin's line... a tale both tragic and grim. His bloodline, once noble and feared, dwindled over the centuries. The most infamous of his descendants were the Gaunts—a proud but broken family, obsessed with their pure-blood heritage."

Nicholas's curiosity deepened. "The Gaunts? I've never heard of them."

"They kept to themselves, hidden away in isolation. Their obsession with their lineage led them down a dark path, one filled with madness and cruelty. Poverty, too, had claimed them in the end. But from that cursed line emerged one final heir—Tom Riddle," George explained, his tone taking on a somber note. "He was Slytherin's last known descendant, though the world would come to know him by another name."

Nicholas's eyes widened in shock as the realization dawned on him. "Tom Riddle... You mean Voldemort?" he asked, his voice hushed but filled with curiosity.

George's calm demeanor remained unchanged, though his gaze sharpened slightly. "Young master, it is not wise to speak that name so openly," he said quietly, though there was no reprimand in his tone. "Among ordinary witches and wizards, the very mention of Voldemort's name invokes fear. They prefer to call him 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,' for they believe that uttering his name draws his presence near."

Nicholas frowned, glancing at George. "But... you don't seem afraid," he remarked, noticing how George's calm composure never wavered, even when discussing the darkest wizard of their age.

A subtle smile tugged at the corners of George's lips, his expression as calm as ever. "Fear, young master, is a powerful weapon. One that Voldemort wielded with unparalleled mastery. His name, and the legacy of terror he left behind, have scarred the hearts and minds of many. But those who serve the Gryff family know better. Fear holds little sway over us, for your lineage has weathered far darker days and vanquished far greater foes throughout its long and storied history."

Nicholas nodded thoughtfully, his mind racing back to the countless tales he'd read in the family library. The pages were filled with accounts of the Gryff family's triumphs—legendary battles against dark wizards and mythical creatures that had threatened the magical world. Not only had his ancestors stood shoulder-to-shoulder with some of history's most formidable witches and wizards, but they had done so without resting on the laurels of their connection to Godric Gryffindor. Their strength was not merely inherited but earned, forged through the fire of their own magical prowess and courage.

Yet, despite these glorious tales, Nicholas couldn't help but feel a pang of doubt whenever he thought about his own magic. His grandfather had always assured him that his abilities would reveal themselves in time, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. What if his magic never surfaced? What if he was a squib, like his uncle Mark? The fear lingered in the back of his mind, a shadow that clung to his thoughts despite his best efforts to push it aside. 

"You must place your trust in your grandfather, young master, as well as in your noble lineage," George advised, his voice calm and steady.

Nicholas glanced at George and noticed the faint, reassuring smile on the man's face—a reflection of the unwavering confidence he felt in their family's storied legacy. It was a reminder that he needed to believe in himself. "In time," he recalled his grandfather's encouraging words, filled with wisdom and hope.

As the clock inched closer to midnight, Nicholas finally reunited with Mark at the designated meeting spot. His uncle was a sight to behold, his cheeks flushed with merriment, a goofy grin plastered across his face as he regaled Nicholas with tales of the acquaintances he had made. "You won't believe the characters I've met!" he exclaimed, laughter bubbling up from within. However, Mark's excitement was tempered by a certain sluggishness in his steps, a telltale sign of his indulgence in something more than butterbeer—perhaps a bit too much for his first foray into the wizarding festivities.

The Ministry wizard assigned to Mark offered a hand to steady him, but Mark waved him off with a chuckle, "I've got this! No need for chivalry tonight!" George stood with an air of quiet authority merely raised an eyebrow and chose to dismiss the Ministry man with a few words.

Once they arrived at their tent, Nicholas settled beside the window, drawn to the serene beauty of the night sky. The stars twinkled like scattered diamonds against the deep blue canvas, each one seemingly whispering secrets of the universe. As he gazed out, lost in thought.

…

"SCOTLAND! SCOTLAND! SCOTLAND!"

"CANADA! CANADA! CANADA!"

The thunderous cheers of exuberant fans reverberated throughout the grandiose Quidditch stadium, an architectural marvel that surpassed anything seen in the wizarding world. The towering spires of the stadium seemed to scrape the sky, adorned with shimmering banners that proudly displayed the emblems of the competing teams. This magnificent structure, unlike any other, was a testament to the wizarding world's love for the sport—its seats crafted from enchanted wood, magically expanded to accommodate tens of thousands of spectators, each with an unyielding passion for their teams. The fans filled the stadium, a vibrant tapestry of colors and enthusiasm. Men and women, young and old, donned their team colors with pride, their clothing ranging from flamboyant robes to simple scarves emblazoned with the emblems of Scotland and Canada

Nicholas found himself perched in one of the opulent boxes high above the fray, surrounded by the most esteemed and wealthy families in the wizarding world. The luxury of the box was palpable, adorned with plush velvet seats and sparkling goblets filled with exquisite beverages. He sat between Mark, his uncle, and Godfrey, his grandfather. To Mark's left sat the Ministry wizard, his demeanor calm despite the electric atmosphere below. On Godfrey's right was George, he saw a rare tinge of excitement in the butler's eyes.

The higher-ups of the Ministry of Magic sat in nearby seats, their conversations blending with laughter, the clinking of glassware adding a soft melody to their elite gathering. Among them were several prominent wizarding families, each eyeing Godfrey with barely concealed eagerness. The resurgence of the Gryff family had not gone unnoticed, and those who once thrived in the shadows were now stepping forward, hoping to reforge connections with the once-powerful house. Some had pale, almost ghostly appearances, their reserved demeanor contrasting sharply with their fervor to engage with Godfrey. His grandfather, sensing their intent, rose gracefully from his seat, extending a hand to invite them into a more open area. The move was deliberate, an unspoken invitation to negotiate, converse, and form new alliances.

"Nicholas," Godfrey called, motioning for his grandson to join him. At first, Nicholas hesitated. The noise of the gathering, the unfamiliar faces—it all felt overwhelming. He glanced at George, who leaned in and whispered, "The game won't start for another hour, young master. This is as much a part of our world as Quidditch. Observe. Learn."

With a resigned nod, Nicholas stood and followed his grandfather. As he approached, he was struck by the diversity of those surrounding Godfrey. Wizards and witches from the far reaches of the world had gathered—some with pale, almost ethereal complexions, others with a vigor that shone in their eyes, and a few whose seclusive nature seemed to cloak them in mystery. They spoke in hushed tones, yet their enthusiasm was palpable, each word measured, each glance filled with the weight of political maneuvering. Nicholas listened carefully, trying to absorb the significance of their exchanges, realizing that these were the game makers of the wizarding world, power brokers whose influence reached far beyond the Quidditch pitch.

Just then, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, excused himself from the crowd gathered around Godfrey. "Lucius Malfoy!" he called out, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation. The name alone was enough to command attention, and all eyes turned toward the entrance of the box.

A tall wizard with long, pale blonde hair stepped into view, his presence exuding an air of arrogance that was impossible to ignore. His lips curled into a thin, almost predatory smile as he acknowledged Cornelius with a slight nod. His silver-grey eyes swept across the gathering, lingering briefly on Godfrey, though he swiftly averted his gaze, as if deliberately avoiding any prolonged eye contact. Instead, his attention landed on Nicholas, and for a moment, their gazes locked. There was something unsettling about the way the man studied him—an unspoken inquiry, a flash of interest that Nicholas couldn't quite place.

Behind him followed a striking woman, elegant and poised, her beauty accentuated by her icy white hair that cascaded in soft waves, framing her aristocratic features. She carried herself with an air of quiet authority, her cold blue eyes betraying little emotion, though there was no mistaking the fierce protectiveness in her stance. She was holding the hand of a young boy, no older than Nicholas, with sleek blonde hair that shone in the stadium's light. The boy's sharp features mirrored the man's, though his expression was one of careful observation rather than arrogance. He clutched his mother's arm, his eyes flickering with curiosity as they, too, settled on Nicholas.

"Come, I'd like you to meet Lord Godfrey," Cornelius Fudge said with a gesture, his tone carrying a weight of respect that was not lost on the gathering.

Lucius Malfoy, ever composed, inclined his head slightly before responding, "I have had the honor of meeting Lord Godfrey in my younger years." His voice, which moments ago dripped with arrogance, now softened as he approached. Each step he took seemed to peel away the air of superiority that usually accompanied him, as though the sheer presence of Godfrey demanded a level of humility even from a man like Lucius. When he finally stood before the Gryff patriarch, his expression was carefully measured, though his eyes hinted at something deeper—an acknowledgment of standing before someone of greater stature. "The noble families will rejoice as word of your resurgence spreads across Britain, Lord Godfrey," he said, his tone polished but betraying a tinge of reverence, as though he were speaking not just to a peer, but to a legend.

Godfrey's deep, resonant laugh filled the space, a sound as commanding as it was warm. "I remember you well," he said, his eyes briefly distant, as if recalling a memory from a time long passed. "Your father and I were good friends, once. Though he was of Slytherin, and I of Gryffindor, there was much we saw eye to eye on." His voice held the weight of bygone days, a time when the world was perhaps simpler, and alliances more straightforward.

Lucius straightened, his gaze never faltering, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or satisfaction at being acknowledged by someone of Godfrey's stature. "He spoke of you often, my lord, with the highest regard," Lucius added, his voice tempered with an almost subtle deference. "Though our paths may have diverged, the bonds between our families remain... significant."

Godfrey gave a nod, his expression unreadable, though the subtle power in his gaze remained. "Indeed, those bonds are not easily forgotten." He turned his eyes briefly toward Nicholas, who stood at his side, absorbing every word exchanged. "And now, the next generation steps forward. It is they who will carry on these legacies."

Lucius's attention flickered to Nicholas, his eyes studying the boy with newfound interest. "The heir of Gryffindor," he murmured, his voice thoughtful. "A fine young man, no doubt. The wizarding world will be watching him closely." There was a thin smile, but behind it lay calculation—Lucius Malfoy never wasted words, and every compliment was layered with meaning.

Godfrey remained poised, his voice calm yet imbued with a subtle authority. "Let them watch," he declared, his gaze sweeping across the room, locking with various esteemed wizards who had gathered. "Our name has endured for centuries, and it will endure for centuries more." His words hung in the air, not just directed at Lucius, but at the room at large. It was more than a statement—it was a promise, one spoken with the confidence of a patriarch who had seen the rise and fall of many, yet remained steadfast.

Godfrey's sharp eyes then flickered toward the young boy standing behind Lucius, his gaze softening just slightly. "I presume the boy behind you is your heir?" There was no question in the tone, only an expectation of confirmation. His voice carried across the room, commanding attention without effort. "Nicholas, it would not be unwise to acquaint yourself with the other children. It's always advantageous to forge friendships during such gatherings."

The power in his voice was undeniable, and soon, murmurs of agreement rippled through the noble crowd. At Godfrey's suggestion, the other families began calling upon their children, ushering them forward with nods and gestures, clearly keen to display the next generation of their bloodlines. These children were not just offspring; they were future heirs to vast legacies, each one a symbol of their family's influence in the wizarding world.

Lucius, ever mindful of maintaining his family's stature, inclined his head in agreement. "Indeed, Lord Godfrey." He turned slightly, his aristocratic features remaining composed as he gestured for his son to step forward. "Draco," he called softly, his voice carrying the authority of a man who expected immediate obedience.

The young boy, pale and poised, stepped from behind Lucius with an air of quiet arrogance, his silver-blond hair slicked back, his robes immaculate. His cool, calculating gaze briefly met Godfrey's before shifting to Nicholas. There was a certain self-assuredness in the way he moved, as if he already believed himself to be above most others in the room.

Nicholas, standing beside his grandfather, felt the gentle but firm pressure of Godfrey's hand urging him forward. "Go, Nicholas. It is good to meet your peers," Godfrey's tone was softer now, meant only for Nicholas, though it left no room for refusal.

As Nicholas stepped forward, he could feel the weight of expectation in the air. Around him, other children began to gather, some looking eager, others more reserved. Each was a product of generations of wealth, power, and tradition. The heir of the Gryff family, however, held a special place among them, not just because of his family's momentous resurgence but because of the weight of history tied to their name.

Draco's eyes lit up as he stood before Nicholas, his usual cool demeanor giving way to an eager excitement that surprised even those who knew him well. "I never thought I'd met the heir of such a renowned family!" Draco exclaimed, his voice carrying a note of admiration. "It's not every day one meets the descendant of Godric Gryffindor himself. Your family's pure-blooded lineage is one of the finest—legendary, really. The glory of your ancestor, the founding of Hogwarts... it's all quite impressive."

Nicholas, though intrigued by Draco's enthusiasm, felt the weight of his own upbringing settle on his shoulders. His grandfather had always emphasized the importance of decorum and dignity, traits befitting the heir of the Gryff family. With a measured nod, he responded, "It is good to know you are well-versed in the history of my house, Draco. But before we speak further of bloodlines and legacies, it is only proper that we begin with formal introductions—one must uphold the manners of noble houses, after all."

Draco, clearly eager to please and aware of the expectations in such esteemed company, straightened his posture and gave a swift, enthusiastic nod. "Of course, you're absolutely right," he said, almost flustered by his own breach of decorum. He cleared his throat, offering a more formal tone this time. "I am Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, proud bearers of pure wizarding blood."

Nicholas inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the introduction. "Nicholas Gryff, heir of the Gryff family," he responded, his voice steady, with a hint of formality. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Draco."

Draco beamed, clearly pleased by the exchange, and the respect given by Nicholas. "The pleasure is mine. It's not often we meet wizards of such... esteemed lineage. I'm sure our families could achieve great things together, as they once did." 

Nicholas flashed Draco a brief smile, the kind that conveyed both amusement and understanding, before turning to greet the other children gathered around them. As the son of Marilyn, he was no stranger to such encounters, he used to find it boring, as such his initial refusal. Yet, today felt different. Surrounded by the children of some of the most powerful wizarding families from across the globe, he realized just how vast and diverse the magical world truly was.

He approached a group of peers with Draco, nodding respectfully to each as he introduced himself. The boys and girls ranged in age, hailing from countries as far as Russia and Japan to France and Spain. Each had their own customs, accents, and mannerisms, which intrigued Nicholas. Their robes were tailored in styles foreign to him, and their magical traditions seemed so different from what he had read in books or seen in Britain.

As Nicholas conversed with a French boy whose family specialized in enchanted jewelry, he found himself captivated by their discussion of ancient magical artifacts from his homeland. "In my family, we believe certain gems hold magical properties beyond what common wizardry can achieve," the boy explained in a proud but soft tone. Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. "Fascinating. I've read about the enchantments on such artifacts, but to hear someone who lives among them describe their intricacies—it's far more engaging."

Next, he found himself in conversation with a Russian girl, who spoke of wandlore and the intricate craftsmanship that her ancestors had perfected. "Our family only uses wands made from the wood of trees older than a century," she said, her accent thick but elegant. Nicholas admired the reverence she had for her heritage and how deeply it was tied to the magic she practiced. "Wandlore must be an art in itself. I'd be interested to learn more—perhaps your family's traditions differ greatly from what I know," he replied, his curiosity growing.

As he moved through the gathering, exchanging pleasantries and learning about their varied backgrounds, Nicholas felt a new appreciation for the magical world's diversity. It was a far cry from the insular environment of his family's manor. Magic, it seemed, was as vast and varied as the people who wielded it, and Nicholas found himself intrigued by the differences that shaped each wizard's identity.

It was then that he encountered a girl his age with short black hair neatly styled in a bob, her hazel eyes observing the room with quiet attention, standing slightly apart from the group. "Pansy Parkinson," She introduced herself. At first glance, she seemed soft-spoken, her demeanor almost shy compared to the others. But as Nicholas approached her, he quickly realized there was more to Pansy than met the eye.

"Hello," she said with a smile that was just a little too sweet, her voice gentle but laced with an eagerness that caught him off guard. "It's truly an honor to meet someone of your status." Her words were laced with admiration, and Nicholas immediately sensed the flattery behind them. She was, as his grandfather might have said, well-versed in the art of social maneuvering.

Despite her soft-spoken nature, Pansy was remarkably skilled at sucking up to him. "Your family's legacy is known far and wide," she continued, "I'm sure you must feel immense pride to be the heir to such a prestigious name." Her compliments flowed effortlessly, and Nicholas had to suppress a smile. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to win his favor, but there was something almost amusing in how effortlessly Pansy shifted from shy to flattering.

Nicholas tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studied Pansy. There was something too practiced in her demeanor, but he let the moment linger before replying. "Thank you, Pansy. But titles and legacies... they're just one part of who we are, don't you think? They shape us, but they don't define us entirely."

Pansy blinked, clearly not expecting that response. She hesitated for a brief moment, then offered a delicate smile, quickly adjusting her tone. "Oh, of course," she said, her voice soft yet precise. "But surely, in your case, it must be such a grand part of who you are. You'll be a figure of great influence—everyone knows that. It's what people expect from someone of your... caliber."

Before Nicholas could reply, Draco Malfoy, who had been listening intently, chimed in with a smirk. "I'm sure he will," Draco said, his tone brimming with pride. "My father told me that only those with pure blood deserve such great influence. It's a shame we have to mingle with the others—those who don't belong." His eyes, a mirror of condescending arrogance, wandered over the crowd below, where wizards and witches of all kinds celebrated. The glint in his eyes was sharp, born from years of upbringing in a family that cherished blood purity above all else. "Do you think the same, Nicholas? Speaking of lineage, yours is the most noble, more so than most. Surely, you feel the same?"

Nicholas paused, his gaze meeting Draco's with a calm, measured look. There was a moment of silence as the question lingered in the air, thick with expectation. He could feel the eyes of the other children on him—Draco's smug confidence, Pansy's quiet interest—and knew they were waiting for him to confirm their assumptions.

But instead, Nicholas smiled, a small, knowing smile that caught them off guard. "My mother's a Muggle," he said casually, watching as the words landed like a bombshell among the group.

Draco's smirk froze, the arrogance in his expression faltering. Pansy's eyes widened in surprise, and a murmur rippled through the others, as though they couldn't quite believe what they'd just heard.

"A M-Muggle?" Draco stammered, his voice incredulous, as if the very concept of such a thing was unimaginable. "But—your lineage—you're from the Gryff family! How...?"

Nicholas leaned back slightly, his expression calm despite the ripple of shock his words had caused. "Yes, my mother's a Muggle," he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And I don't really care about being pure-blooded. It doesn't define me. It's not about blood, Draco."

The tension in the air grew as the weight of his words settled. Draco's face had gone pale, his mind clearly trying to reconcile this revelation with everything he had been taught. Pansy looked from Nicholas to Draco, her usually composed expression now full of uncertainty.

Nicholas, however, remained unfazed. "What truly matters," he continued, his voice steady and clear, "is the strength that I will forge. The power my family holds, the history we've created—no amount of pure blood can surpass that. Blood purity doesn't guarantee greatness. Power does."

Pansy, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up, her voice soft but curious. "But... if your mother's a Muggle, doesn't that—"

"Make me less of a wizard?" Nicholas cut in gently, though there was a firmness in his voice that commanded attention. "No, it doesn't. My magic comes from both sides of my heritage—my father's lineage, yes, but also from the strength of character I've inherited from my mother. That's what makes me who I am."

There was a pause as the group digested his words, the gravity of them sinking in. Draco's eyes flickered with confusion and something akin to frustration, as if his carefully constructed worldview was being challenged in a way he wasn't prepared for.

Finally, Nicholas added, "At the end of the day, Draco, what matters isn't where you come from or who your parents are. What matters is the power you wield and the mark you leave on the world."

Draco, still taken aback, said nothing for a long moment. He glanced down at the crowd again, then back at Nicholas, his face a mixture of disbelief and begrudging respect. Pansy, on the other hand, looked at Nicholas with suppressed admiration, clearly impressed by his poise and conviction.

Nicholas didn't wait for further argument. He turned his attention back to the rest of the group, offering a smile that was both warm and commanding. "Now, who else would like to discuss something a bit more interesting than bloodlines?"