The Hogwats Gaijin

The morning in the Great Hall was surprisingly calm. The enchanted ceiling reflected the pale, cloud-covered sky of early March, and the air carried the familiar smells of fried bacon, porridge and strong tea. The hum of voices at the Gryffindor table seemed almost normal — if one ignored Hermione.

She sat with a back straight as a rod, methodically and with a kind of grim concentration eating her porridge. Shadows lay under her eyes.

The rustle of hundreds of wings beneath the hall’s vaulted ceiling announced the arrival of the morning post. Owls swooped down to the tables, dropping letters and parcels. Harry tossed a small coin into the leather pouch of a grey owl and unrolled the fresh copy of the Daily Prophet, hoping to find something that didn’t concern the Tournament.

His hope collapsed instantly. From the third page Rita Skeeter smiled at him venomously, and the headline, printed in bold type, proclaimed:

“SECRET PATRONS OF THE HEARTBREAKER”

Harry felt his stomach twist with familiar anger. He quickly scanned the lines, catching the most nauseating passages:

“…As our newspaper has learned, the lawyers of the ancient and highly secretive House of Morgan have recently made an unprecedented attempt to silence the free press. My modest quill, which dared to reveal the truth about the machinations of the young Miss Granger, was threatened with serious trouble at Ministerial level.

A natural question arises: is it not enough for this ambitious Muggle-born witch to have the attention of the Tournament champions? Having secured the support of the heir to a dark clan, does she not plan to continue playing with the feelings of the poor Boy Who Lived with impunity, hiding behind the backs of her influential…”

‘Vile creature,’ Harry hissed, crumpling the newspaper with such force that his knuckles turned white. The paper gave a plaintive rustle as it turned into a shapeless ball. He was about to tell Ron when a thud caught his attention.

A large unfamiliar owl landed in front of Hermione, dropping a plump envelope of thick yellowish paper onto the table. The girl frowned, set down her knife and tore open the edge.

‘What is it?’ Ron asked with his mouth full.

Hermione pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she scanned the text.

‘“Stay away from Harry Potter, you cow,”’ she read aloud in a flat, icy voice. ‘“You’re not worth even the dirt on his…”’

She didn’t finish. From the depths of the envelope there suddenly splashed a thick, foul-smelling greenish-yellow liquid. It landed directly on Hermione’s fingers.

Everything happened in a fraction of a second. Kieran, who had been sitting opposite her and listlessly poking at his eggs, lunged forward with terrifying, animal speed. He vaulted over the table, not caring about the overturned goblets of juice, and with a sharp movement snatched the envelope from the girl’s hands, crushing it. The liquid splashed onto his wrists and palms, mixing with his old whitish scars.

Hermione let out a piercing cry. She recoiled, clutching her injured hand. Harry watched in horror as huge, ugly yellow blisters began to swell on her reddened skin right before his eyes.

‘Don’t touch your face!’ Kieran shouted, throwing the envelope onto an empty plate, which immediately began to hiss menacingly. His own hands were also starting to blister, but he seemed not to notice the pain; his gaze was fixed on Hermione.

Ron, who had gone so pale that his freckles looked black, carefully lifted the edge of the wretched envelope with the end of his fork and sniffed it. It smelt of petrol and dirty socks.

‘Merlin’s beard,’ he swallowed, showing unexpected competence. ‘That’s bubotuber pus. Undiluted! Hermione, you need to get to the hospital wing right away, before it eats in any deeper.’

Kieran immediately stepped towards her, holding out his blistered hands.

‘Come on, I’ll take you. Lean on—’

‘No!’ Hermione’s voice cracked, trembling with pain and barely suppressed tears. She sharply jerked her shoulder away, not letting Morgan touch her. ‘Don’t touch me!’

Kieran froze as if he had run into an invisible wall.

‘Hermione, you’ve got a burn,’ he tried to say more calmly, though panic flashed in his dark eyes. ‘Let’s go to Pomfrey.’

‘I said no!’ she snapped, sharp and angry, cradling her blistered hands. Her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I’ve had enough of your help, Kieran! Enough of your hovering, your rows with journalists! I can manage on my own. Do you hear me? On my own!’

A heavy silence fell. The buzz in the Great Hall died away; several students at neighbouring tables were already turning to look.

Ginny, who had materialised from nowhere, instantly assessed the situation. She firmly took Hermione by her uninjured elbow.

‘Come on. I’ll take you,’ she said to her friend, gently but firmly. Then Ginny cast a short, meaningful glance over Hermione’s head straight at Kieran. She gave the tiniest shake of her head, mouthing: “Not now.”

Kieran said nothing. His hands dropped limply to his sides. He silently watched as Ginny led the hunched, sobbing Hermione away from the hall, skilfully weaving between the tables.

When the heavy oak doors closed behind them, Morgan slowly sank back onto the bench. He paid no attention to the overturned goblet flooding the tablecloth with pumpkin juice. Harry saw the poisonous yellow blisters swelling on Kieran’s fingers, but the boy sat completely still, staring blankly at his plate. Only his heavy, ragged breathing betrayed the storm raging inside him.

The silence that had fallen over the Great Hall after Hermione’s departure was shattered by laughter.

It came from the Slytherin table — loud, barking, utterly devoid of any sympathy. Harry’s head snapped up. It was Derrick — the burly Slytherin Beater. He was guffawing, leaning back and pointing a thick finger at the puddle of pumpkin juice left where Kieran had been, cheerfully discussing something with Bole sitting next to him.

Harry felt the air around him suddenly grow heavy. He turned his gaze to Morgan.

Morgan sat motionless, but the sound of Slytherin laughter seemed to flick some invisible switch inside him. He turned his head — slowly, unnaturally deliberately. In his empty, darkened eyes Harry saw a terrible, animal detachment.

Morgan rose from the bench without a sound.

‘Kieran, stop!’ Harry lunged forward, reaching out to grab his friend by the edge of his robe.

But his fingers closed on empty air. Kieran moved with terrifying, springy speed — the speed of a street fighter. He cleared the distance between the tables in a matter of seconds, making no sound.

Derrick didn’t even have time to stop smirking.

Kieran didn’t draw his wand. He didn’t say a word. He simply stepped up close and, pivoting his body, drove his fist — covered in weeping yellow blisters — straight into the Slytherin’s face.

There was a dull, wet crunch. Derrick’s head snapped back violently. The laughter cut off, replaced by a choked gurgle. The Slytherin’s eyes bulged with shock and pain; his hand instinctively darted inside his robes, pulling out his wand.

‘Sectum—’ he began, spitting blood.

He never finished. Kieran’s right hand lashed downward like a whip. With the edge of his palm he delivered a short, sharp blow to Derrick’s wrist. The wand slipped from the numbed fingers, clattered onto the stone floor and rolled under the table. In the same instant Kieran drove a second straight punch — hard, straight to the jaw.

‘Oi!’ Bole roared, leaping to his feet. The second Slytherin Beater, no smaller than Derrick, threw his full weight at Kieran from the side, aiming a fist at his temple.

Harry held his breath, but Morgan shifted his centre of gravity slightly and delivered a whipping, bone-crunching kick to the thigh. Bole howled, lost his balance and, flailing his arms ridiculously, crashed onto the table in a clatter of plates.

Turning back to Derrick, Kieran grabbed him by the collar of his robes and delivered a third, final blow. The big Slytherin’s eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and he slumped to the stone floor like a sack of potatoes.

The whole thing had taken no more than five seconds. Wizards didn’t fight like this. It was brutal, dirty and terrifyingly effective.

The Great Hall exploded with shouts. At the Slytherin table older students jumped to their feet, hands already reaching for their robes.

Harry acted on instinct. He pulled his wand from his pocket and stepped forward, covering his friend’s back. From the corner of his eye he saw Ron, Seamus and Fred Weasley rise beside him — their faces tense, wands pointed straight at the crowd in green and silver ties. Gryffindor did not abandon its own.

A full-scale brawl was about to erupt. Harry cast a tense glance at Malfoy, expecting him to be the first to shout a curse. Goyle had already risen, clenching his massive fists, but Draco suddenly shot out a hand, seizing his bodyguard’s forearm and yanking him back down. Malfoy stared at the slumped Derrick and the heavily breathing Morgan with an unreadable expression.

‘WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!’

Snape’s voice cut through the uproar like the crack of a whip. The Potions master was striding towards them from the staff table, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of a giant bat. His pale face was blotched with red fury. Harry rarely saw Snape like this — the professor was almost shouting, having lost his trademark icy restraint.

‘You are behaving like a wild Muggle beast, Morgan!’ Snape spat, stopping a pace away from Kieran and looking with distaste at the prone Derrick. ‘Raising your fists in my presence! Three weeks’ detention! You will clean cauldrons in the dungeons without magic until you wear your fingers to the bone and learn how to behave in civilised company! Fifty points from Gryffindor!’

Snape loomed over Kieran as though expecting an argument. But Morgan, whose hands were still clenched into fists, slowly exhaled. He raised an utterly blank gaze to the professor.

‘Yes, sir,’ Kieran replied evenly, as though they were discussing a potion recipe. ‘Sorry for disturbing your breakfast.’

Snape faltered. For a second genuine bewilderment flashed in his black eyes, quickly replaced by even greater fury.

‘Insolent brat,’ he hissed under his breath, turning towards the Slytherins. ‘Take Mr Derrick to the hospital wing. And the rest of you — back to your seats!’

Kieran turned away from the Slytherin table and returned to the Gryffindor bench just as silently. He sat down, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. Harry lowered his wand and walked over to him. The adrenaline was fading, giving way to worry.

He gently touched Morgan’s shoulder. Kieran flinched but didn’t pull away. Harry looked at his hands: the knuckles were split and covered with Derrick’s blood, but the worst were the burns from the bubotuber pus. The yellow blisters had burst from the punches, turning the boy’s palms into a single, oozing mess of ichor. It must have hurt like hell.

‘Come on,’ Harry said quietly, nodding at his hands. ‘You need to see Madam Pomfrey too. Before you lose your fingers.’

Morgan turned a glazed look to his palms as though seeing them for the first time. He gave an indifferent shrug — but didn’t argue. Slowly rising, he trudged towards the exit. Harry followed.

Walking through the Great Hall was physically difficult. The silence was ringing. Harry could feel hundreds of eyes on his back. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students literally pressed themselves against the backs of their benches as Kieran passed. They looked at him with a mixture of disgust and condemnation. To them he had just confirmed every worst rumour about the Morgan clan: aggressive, uncontrollable outsider. A true pariah.

But when they drew level with the end of the Gryffindor table, Harry noticed movement. Fred and George, standing with impassive faces, simultaneously gave Kieran a thumbs-up. Seamus nodded encouragingly, and a couple of fourth-years watched them go with open interest in their eyes. Gryffindor stood by its own.