Got Hisoka template in Harry Potter World - Chapter 14

Chapter 14: A Conversation with Consequences

The morning sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling did nothing to dispel the chill hanging over the Slytherin table. First-years who usually jostled for seats now left a conspicuous buffer around Jack Fletcher, whose plate of eggs and bacon remained untouched as he methodically peeled an orange, the citrus scent sharp in the tense air.

Draco Malfoy’s fork clattered against his plate for the third time in as many minutes, his eyes darting between Jack’s hands and the Daily Prophet he wasn’t reading.

Pansy Parkinson (stage whisper): “Merlin’s pants, Draco, if you twitch any harder you’ll sprain something.”

Draco (ignoring her): “Fletcher.”

Jack didn’t look up, separating orange segments with surgical precision. “Mm?”

Draco’s fingers tightened around his goblet. “That… thing you did last night. With the dog.”

At the neighboring Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley’s ears visibly perked up.

Jack popped an orange slice into his mouth. “What about it?”

Draco (leaning in): “Teach me.”

The entire Slytherin first-year cohort froze. Theo Nott’s quill hovered mid-notes. Daphne Greengrass’s teacup halted halfway to her lips.

Jack finally looked up, his golden-brown eyes glinting with something that wasn’t quite amusement. “No.”

Draco (slammed his palms on the table): “Why not?”

Jack wiped his fingers on a napkin, slow and deliberate. “Because you’d break your pretty little hands, Malfoy. And then who would write your daddy all those lovely complaint letters?”

A choked laugh escaped Blaise Zabini before he could smother it.

—

The gargoyle leapt aside before Jack could even speak the password (which he noted with quiet interest). The spiral staircase moved upward with unnatural speed, as if the castle itself was eager for this meeting.

Dumbledore’s office was a study in controlled chaos—whirring silver instruments, snoozing portraits of past headmasters, and a decrepit sorting hat perched on a shelf like a sleeping vulture. The headmaster himself stood by the window, backlit by morning light, his half-moon glasses reflecting the room’s oddities.

Dumbledore (without turning): “Lemon drop?”

Jack eyed the offered candy. “No thanks. I prefer my teeth.”

A chuckle. “Wise.” The old wizard finally turned, his gaze sharper than the sword of Gryffindor behind him. “You punched a three-headed dog, Mr. Fletcher.”

Jack (shrugging): “He started it.”

Dumbledore’s beard twitched. “Indeed. Though I’m more curious about the how than the why.” He gestured to a delicate silver instrument puffing violet smoke. “That was no ordinary magic.”

Jack kept his face carefully blank. “I like to fight with my fists.”

—

Dumbledore moved to his desk, tracing the edge of a worn leather tome. “There have been wizards like you before. Those who eschewed wands for… physicality.” His blue eyes pierced Jack’s facade. “Emeric the Evil favored hammer blows over hexes. And then there was Herpo the Foul, who strangled his enemies with bare hands still slick with dragon’s blood.”

Jack didn’t flinch. “I don’t know those names.”

“No?” Dumbledore smiled sadly. “The Ministry burned those particular history books. Too disturbing for modern sensibilities.” He steepled his fingers. “Magic is not for fighting, Mr. Fletcher. It is for creation. For making life easier, brighter—”

Jack (softly): “Tell that to the Dark Lord.”

A beat of silence. The portraits held their breath.

Dumbledore sighed. “You’re quite right, of course. But tell me—when you struck that poor beast… did it excite you?”

Jack’s fingers twitched—just once—before stilling. “I don’t like fighting.”

The headmaster’s gaze dropped to the boy’s hands, where faint white scars crisscrossed the knuckles. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t suppose you do.”