Hogwarts: Third Dark Lord

"Well done, Wentworth!"

Dumbledore praised warmly, embracing Wentworth before shifting his gaze to the sleek broomstick in the boy's hands—the latest prototype of the Firebolt.

"I think I should write you a recommendation letter," Dumbledore mused, "to ensure you're properly placed on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. It would be a shame to let such a fine broomstick—and your talent as a Seeker—go to waste, Wentworth."

Wentworth stroked the Firebolt affectionately, but his reply was resolute.

"Thank you for the offer, Professor Dumbledore, but I'd prefer to earn my place on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team through my own skill, not by relying on the broomstick."

Dumbledore appeared momentarily surprised by Wentworth's words, then responded thoughtfully:

"No, Wentworth, you needn't be so hard on yourself. Sometimes, we must learn to use the tools at our disposal to achieve greater things."

"I once had a friend who was an exceptional wizard in his own right," Dumbledore continued, his gaze locking onto Wentworth's eyes. "Even so, he went to great lengths to obtain a wand that could further enhance his abilities."

But Wentworth, unfazed, replied calmly, "Professor, I'm certain your friend first became an extraordinary wizard and only then sought out such a wand—not the other way around."

Dumbledore froze momentarily, then burst into hearty laughter. Wentworth, baffled by the reaction, shifted uncomfortably. At that moment, three figures approached, instantly drawing Wentworth's attention.

"Good day, Headmaster Dumbledore," Lucius Malfoy greeted with uncharacteristic deference. "This is my son, Draco. He will be attending Hogwarts next year."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he appraised the boy. "Ah, a fine-looking young man! He is sure to become an excellent wizard, Lucius."

Before Lucius could continue the conversation, the thunderous sound of a cannon echoed through the stadium, eliciting a roar of excitement from the crowd. The Quidditch World Cup Final had officially begun.

Just then, Cornelius Fudge approached, speaking in a low voice, "Dumbledore, about the matter concerning Tom Riddle…"

But Dumbledore raised a silencing hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. Fudge immediately clamped his mouth shut.

Dumbledore, along with Fudge and Lucius, retreated to a private area for discussion. Not long after, Narcissa Malfoy was called away by a group of elegantly dressed witches, leaving Wentworth and Draco standing alone.

Wentworth, well aware of the boy's identity, felt no urge to strike up a conversation. It wasn't disdain—though Draco Malfoy's arrogance often stemmed from his misguided father—but rather a desire to avoid unnecessary trouble.

After all, in the original story, Draco's first encounter with Harry Potter had set the tone for their rivalry. Draco had extended his hand to Harry, but by then, Harry was already aligned with Ron and Hermione.

Still, one couldn't help but wonder: what if Harry's first acquaintance at Hogwarts had been Draco? The thought was intriguing.

Yet, while Wentworth refrained from initiating a conversation, Draco, naturally, had no such hesitation.

"Hey, are you pureblood? What's your name?" Draco asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

Wentworth glanced at him briefly before turning away without a word.

Draco's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he repeated his question, this time with a hint of irritation. Wentworth, however, replied coolly,

"It's basic courtesy to introduce yourself before asking for someone else's name. A person without manners, pureblood or not, only brings shame to their family."

Draco's face reddened further, but to Wentworth's surprise, he didn't storm off. Instead, he composed himself and said, "My name is Draco. What's yours?"

Caught off guard by the polite response, Wentworth finally relented.

"My name is Wentworth. And I believe I'm a pureblood," he added with a touch of irony, recalling his peculiar family background.

Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You're lying! I've met nearly all the purebloods my age, yet I've never seen you before. What family are you from?"

Wentworth sighed impatiently. "Do you really think pureblood families exist only in Britain?"

Draco blinked, clearly unprepared for such an answer. His expression froze as Wentworth brushed aside the hand he'd raised accusingly.

"What are you, a vampire? Why the obsession with purebloods?"

Draco puffed up defensively. "Because my father says only pureblood wizards—"

"Enough!" Wentworth interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "I already know the spiel. Purebloods are noble, purebloods are superior, blah blah blah."

Draco hesitated, his confusion evident. "But isn't it true? You're a pureblood yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes," Wentworth admitted. "And that's precisely why I can say with certainty that purebloods are nothing special. A curse will wound us, and we can die just like anyone else."

His voice trailed off as the memory of his first night in this world surfaced—dark, perilous, and all too vivid.

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