At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

In this ancient and decaying castle, every secret carries weight, and Draco Malfoy is adept at estimating that weight.

But a conversation before he left the lounge made him uneasy.

At that moment, Draco was fastening his robe buttons in front of the mirror, and the perpetual dampness from the pool in the cellar made him feel that even the snake-shaped brooch on his collar was damp.

"...I advise you to shut up, Graham."

That was an upperclassman leaning against the sofa, lecturing a first-year student.

"Professor Snape was furious in his office yesterday, saying he had had enough of the unfounded accusations made by some students."

Without substantial, irrefutable, and irrefutable evidence,

I mean, the kind of scene that would leave Professor McGonagall speechless—you'd better not test his patience.

The current headmaster would rather lock those gossiping idiots in solitary confinement for a whole year than deduct points from Gryffindor's grades.

Draco stared at the brooch on his collar in the mirror, lost in thought.

Evidence? He had no shortage of patience. Those fools who only offered fragmented information deserved to be reprimanded by Professor Snape.

A true Slytherin never relies on hearsay; he demands power and irrefutable evidence.

His keen sense of smell, inherited from the Malfoy family, had allowed him to detect something amiss about the Gryffindor lions weeks ago.

It wasn't just Weasley's nauseating poverty, but also the lowly half-giant who was closely associated with them.

More importantly, although he is only a freshman, it does not mean that he is as lacking as some mud-born people who can only learn from books.

A family's wealth and heritage are not only reflected in its treasury, but also in the topics of conversation at the dinner table.

"My dad said that dragons are smuggled..."

With these thoughts in mind, he walked toward Hagrid's cabin, his heart pounding with excitement and high aspirations.

……

Draco hated this damn muddy grass.

The April night wind carried a damp chill, relentlessly seeping into the collar of the wizard's robes. His expensive dragon-skin boots clattered uncomfortably on the soft, decaying leaves at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"If you dare splash mud on my trousers again, Potter, I'll make you pay..."

He cursed viciously at the empty darkness, as if that could dispel the shame of his stealth.

The noble Malfoy shouldn't be sneaking around like a thief in the middle of the night. If it weren't for that piece of evidence that could get Harry Potter fired, he would never have left the warm common room of Slytherin in this weather.

All of this is thanks to Weasley, that brainless red mole.

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This afternoon at the library, Draco hid behind a huge bookshelf about "The Elf Rebellion in the Eighteenth Century" and could clearly see through the gaps the books they took away.

"Dragon Species in Great Britain and Ireland" and "From Dragon Egg to Hell".

This made Draco's heart race involuntarily. In the library of Malfoy Manor, he had been captivated countless times by the illustrations of dragons.

Dragons are symbols of power and authority, the elegance of top-tier mythical creatures, and only true ancient nobles are worthy of possessing such beings.

And now, that half-giant is actually trying to desecrate this great creature in his dilapidated wooden hut?

Draco held his breath and approached the simple, rugged-looking little wooden house.

The heat emanating from inside the room seeped through the window, making him feel slightly hot.

The thick smoke billowing from the chimney had a strange smell, like the smell of some kind of burnt feathers.

The curtains were drawn tightly, but a gap remained in the rough fabric.

Draco cautiously moved closer, and his eyes no longer held only malice, but also an almost morbid infatuation and longing.

He saw it.

Something was moving on that huge table, amidst the huddled heads of those idiots.

It was a newly hatched little monster with a row of barbed black protrusions on its back. Although its body looked like a crumpled lump of charcoal, its spiky wings reflected a mesmerizing luster in the firelight.

Draco's heart pounded in his chest, and he even forgot to breathe.

Even though it looks ugly and small now, it is a genuine fire dragon. It has never appeared in the coat of arms of the Malfoy family, but its wildness and danger are a thousand times more noble than those domesticated peacocks.

"By Merlin..." he murmured silently, his eyes fixed greedily on the little creature biting Hagrid's finger.

It was a beauty that sent shivers down his spine. Then, a surge of ecstatic destructive urge welled up within him.

This is absolutely irrefutable evidence.

Imagine what would happen to Professor McGonagall's serious face when she saw Potter hiding this forbidden creature beside her.

How moving it would be if this beautiful creature were confiscated by the Ministry of Magic, and perhaps even obtained by his father, while Potter was stripped of his wizarding status.

He originally intended to turn around and leave to call the teacher.

But he stopped, and seemed to have taken on a Gryffindor scent.

The firelight inside the house flickered.

Through the hazy mist, the silhouette of the fire dragon twisted and stretched in Draco's eyes, eventually transforming into a tangible temptation.

He needs a clearer picture.

He wanted to personally shatter the last vestiges of hope of those foolish lions.

Simply reporting is the work of mediocre people. The real Malfoy will step in himself at this great moment.

He was both the judge on the bench and the one who brought this messianic farce to an end.

He wanted to see the foolish excitement on Potter's face instantly turn into despair, and he wanted these idiots to live in immense fear for every second before the professor caught them.

Nothing pleases him more than the dying cries of his prey.

He didn't even think about whether there were any spectators watching from the shadows.

If he knew Lucian was also watching, perhaps he would have been more restrained. But right now, Draco Malfoy felt like the master of this darkness.

Draco pulled his wand from his robe pocket, his fascination with dragons and his malice towards Potter intertwined into a morbid excitement.

He stepped out of the shadows and pressed his face close to the glass of Hagrid's cabin, blurred by years of grease.

He wanted to see the scales up close, to see the barbs that hadn't yet formed, and even more so, to see the despair of these stupid lions.

In the pitch-black spring night, he whispered the incantation.

This is his verdict.

"Lumos!"

A blinding white light exploded at the tip of the staff.

In that instant, the light illuminated the astonished, stunned eyes inside the room, the beautiful, damned Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon biting Hagrid's finger, and Draco Malfoy's face outside the window, a face contorted with smug satisfaction and blasphemous joy.

In that moment, he was the judge.

Or perhaps, he's just arrogant.