Chapter 2289 - Ch: 31-35

Chapter 31: The Only Two Friends

The door to the Headmaster's office closed behind Snape.

The portraits of past headmasters on the wall were all awake, but none made a sound. Fawkes the Phoenix stood on his perch by the door, his golden feathers shimmering slightly in the firelight of the fireplace, his dark, bright eyes watching the two silent men in the room.

Dumbledore walked behind the desk and sat down, took off his glasses, and wiped them slowly with the sleeve of his robes. He did not speak, only watching the flames dance in the fireplace, casting an orange-red light onto the stone wall opposite.

Snape stood in the center of the room, with no intention of sitting down. Dust still clung to the edges of his Blackrobes, and his face appeared even paler under the reflection of the firelight. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his gaze fell on the large portrait above the fireplace—it was Phineas Nigellus Black, one of the most unpopular headmasters in Hogwarts history and the proudest man the House of Black had ever produced.

"The boy's ability." Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself, "It's very similar to his mother's. I remember her using a similar power—wind and rock. Ancient Eastern magic?"

He didn't look at Snape; his gaze also fell on Phineas's portrait. The old headmaster in the painting was propping up his chin, his narrow grey eyes scrutinizing Snapestanding in the room, with a faint, half-smile on his lips.

"Enough."

Snape's voice was very cold, as cold as the stone walls in the dungeons.

Dumbledore turned his head to look at him.

"It is enough that the boy is safe and sound," Snape said word by word, each one squeezed out from between his teeth. "Don't use your savior games on him. That is the child of Cepheus and Long Meixiu. Don't forget how they died."

His voice trembled slightly on the last few words, but he immediately pursed his lips, suppressing that hint of a tremor. The firelight reflected in the depths of his eyes; in those eyes, usually as hollow as tunnels, something was flashing.

Dumbledore fell silent.

Snape's eyes were slightly red, but his gaze toward Dumbledore was even colder. That coldness wasn't hatred, but something more complex—it was a warning, a plea, and the final line of a man who had lost everything.

"Those were my only two friends," he said.

His voice was flat, as if stating something that had nothing to do with him. But Dumbledore heard what was underneath—a wound so deep it reached the bone, one he didn't dare touch, a place that was still bleeding after more than a decade.

In the painting, Phineas Nigellus sat up slightly, an imperceptible light flashing in his grey eyes.

Dumbledore took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn't immediately respond to Snape's words; instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze passing over Snape's shoulder to a small watercolor painting on the wall. It was a birthday gift given to him many years ago by Long Meixiu's parents—Edmund and Aurora Selwyn. The two people in the painting were still very young, standing on a hillside covered in wildflowers, smiling and waving at the viewer.

That was in 1975.

"Severus," Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice even softer than before, "the boy's ability is very powerful. Perhaps—"

"There is no 'perhaps'."

Snape interrupted him, his voice suddenly rising a pitch, echoing in the Headmaster's office.

"Only 'cannot'."

His lips barely moved as he spat out the last two words, like driving a knife into the table. Then he turned, his Blackrobes billowing behind him, and strode toward the door.

The door closed heavily behind him.

Dumbledore watched the closed door and didn't move for a long time.

The fire in the fireplace jumped, making a slight crackling sound. Fawkes shifted his position on the perch and tucked his head under his wing.

"He's right."

Dumbledore turned his head.

Phineas Nigellus Black leaned halfway out of his frame, his grey eyes staring at him. His expression was typical of the House of Black—a half-smile, with a hint of arrogance, but there was a deep seriousness in his eyes.

"My descendant?" Phineas asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "A branch of your House of Black. After you, one branch split off. Because of certain ideologies."

Phineas was silent for a moment.

"Let me guess," he said slowly. "Pure-blood?"

Dumbledore did not answer.

"The people of that branch," Phineas's voice lowered slightly, "what happened to them later?"

Dumbledore looked at the fire in the fireplace, the orange-red light dancing on his half-moon spectacles.

"They were very good," he said. "Cepheus and Long Meixiu—the boy's parents—were both outstanding during their time at school. Cepheus was highly gifted in Charms and Alchemy; Professor Flitwick still mentions him often. Long Meixiu, needless to say, her work in Potions and Ancient Runes left even Professor Slughorn in awe. They were among the first group to join the Order of the Phoenix."

He paused.

"Long Meixiu's parents, Edmund and Aurora Selwyn, were also members of the Order of the Phoenix. Edmund was a man of few words, but his Potion ingredients business provided a great deal of material support for the Order, never charging a penny. Aurora... she was the gentlest Witch I have ever met. She wasn't a combatant, but she converted the basement of their home into a temporary medical clinic; almost every injured member of the Order of the Phoenix has lain there."

His voice grew lower and lower.

"1981. Voldemort received word that the Selwyn house held important documents of the Order of the Phoenix. He went there personally. Edmund and Aurora... didn't live to see our people arrive."

Phineas did not speak.

"Cepheus and Long Meixiu sacrificed themselves a month later," Dumbledore continued. "Voldemort set a trap, and they were the targets. They could have chosen not to go—the information was clearly problematic, and Cepheus saw it too. But the distress call came from the home of an Order member. They said, what if it's real? What if someone needs them?"

His voice echoed in the Headmaster's office, soft yet heavy as stone.

"They died on the eve of victory. Less than a month later, Voldemort fell in Godric's Hollow."

Phineas leaned against the edge of the frame, his grey eyes looking out the window. The night sky outside was quiet, stars lighting up one by one.

"The boy," he said suddenly, "what is his name?"

"Polaris," Dumbledore looked up. "A House of Blacktradition—naming after stars."

Phineas gave a soft huff, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

"The north star," he said. "A good name indeed."

He spoke no more and retreated into the depths of the portrait frame.

Snape sat in his office without lighting a lamp.

The candles on the desk were unlit; moonlight from outside reflected through the water, casting swaying ripples on the floor. His office was in the dungeons, with windows facing the depths of the Black Lake. Occasionally, the tentacles of the Giant Squid would slide past the window, stirring the fragmented light in the pool.

He sat in his chair, motionless, like a wax figure.

A drawer on the desk was half-open, revealing a faded box inside. He didn't touch the box, just looked at it.

He didn't need to open it to know what was inside.

A set of Potion weighing scales, made of brass, with tiny alchemical runes engraved on every weight to allow precision down to the milligram. Cepheus had spent over half a year researching those runes, saying'Something for Severus cannot be mediocre.'

A pair of dragonhide gloves, dark brown, with fine and neat stitching, every stitch as even as if measured with a ruler. Long Meixiu had spent a whole month sewing them, unpicking and re-sewing, saying 'Severus's hands are always being burned by Potions; these will provide heat insulation.'

That was the winter of 1977. All three of them hadn't graduated yet, and everything hadn't yet reached the worst point.

He closed his eyes.

Memories surged up like a tide.

1975, Hogwarts.

Snape sat under a beech tree by the Black Lake, a copy of Advanced Potion-Making spread across his knees, but he couldn't take in a single word.

A few hours ago, James Potter and Sirius Black had cornered him in the corridor. Levicorpus. His robes had flipped down to cover his face, exposing his underwear, and the students in the entire corridor were laughing.

He had returned to the dormitory, slammed the door, and lay on his bed for a long time.

At dinner time, he didn't want to go to the Great Hall. He didn't want to see anyone's face.

Then someone knocked on his door.

He didn't answer.

There were two more knocks, the sound very gentle, with a voice speaking English with a slight Eastern accent: "Sev, I brought some food for you."

Long Meixiu.

He still didn't move.

He heard footsteps walking away, light and cautious, as if afraid of disturbing something. A paper bag was left outside the door.

Inside the paper bag were two sandwiches and a bottle of pumpkin juice. The sandwiches were freshly made from the kitchen and still warm. On the pumpkin juice bottle was a note, the handwriting belonging to Long Meixiu, neat and tidy:

"Tomorrow in Potion Class, I'll be in your group. Ignore those people. — Meixiu"

He crumpled the note in his palm and held it for a long time.

The next day, when he walked into the Potion Classclassroom, Long Meixiu had already claimed a spot in the corner. She saw him and waved, asking nothing, only pushing the textbook to the center and saying, "We're brewing Shrinking Solution today. I'll be responsible for cutting the ingredients, you'll be responsible for watching the heat?"

He nodded and sat down.

Long Meixiu's movements in cutting ingredients were very brisk, her knife skills completely different from her usual gentle demeanor. Snape glanced at her, and she noticed his gaze, smiling slightly: "My mom taught me. She said cutting ingredients must be precise and fast, but you can't be restless. If you're restless, your hand will shake, and if your hand shakes, you'll cut your finger."

She held out her hand for him to see; there were several faint scars on her fingertips.

"You've cut yourself?"

"I've cut myself several times." She withdrew her hand and continued cutting Daisy Roots. "But it's okay, you just need to cut more and you'll get better."

Shrinking Solution required precise heat control; the flame had to be maintained so that it turned from blue to purple within seven minutes, and then from purple back to blue. Snape stared at the flame beneath the cauldron, gripping a timer in his hand, without losing focus for even a second.

The solution eventually turned a standard bright green.

AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite

When Professor Slughorn came over to check, he excitedly slapped the table: "Perfect! A perfect Shrinking Solution! Mr. Snape, Ms. Long Meixiu, five points to each of you!"

Long Meixiu smiled at him and gave a thumbs-up.

That was the only time he smiled in Potion Class the entire semester.

1976, Hogwarts.

Snape stood in the shadows of the Astronomy Tower, watching the lights of the Gryffindor tower in the distance.

That afternoon, he had said those three words to Lily.

He didn't want to recall that scene. He didn't want to recall the expression on Lily's face—from shock to hurt, and then to cold disgust. He didn't want to recall how he had turned and walked away.

He had been standing on this tower for a long time. Long enough for the sunset to fade, the stars to shine, and the moon to rise to its highest point.

Footsteps came from the staircase, very light, as if not wanting to disturb him. He did not turn around.

"Severus."

It was Cepheus.

Snape did not move.

Cepheus walked over, stood beside him, and also leaned against the railing, looking at the surface of the lake in the distance. He did not speak, just stood there.

There was a long silence.

"I know what happened today," Cepheus finally spoke, his voice very calm, "and I know what you said."

Snape's fingers gripped the railing tightly.

"But Severus," Cepheus turned his head to look at him, his gray eyes bright in the moonlight—Reese looked very much like him—"do you know, the first year I met Meixiu, I also said stupid things."

Snape was taken aback.

"I called her family's Eastern magic 'juggling'," Cepheussaid, the corners of his mouth curving slightly, "she ignored me for a month."

He paused.

"Later, I chased her for an entire semester before she was willing to speak to me again."

Snape looked at him, not knowing what to say.

"What I mean is," Cepheus patted his shoulder, "you can apologize for saying the wrong thing. You can make up for doing the wrong thing. But if you lock yourself up here and do nothing, then you really will have nothing left."

He took a small box out of his pocket and stuffed it into Snape's hand.

"For you. Meixiu asked me to pass this on."

Then he turned and left, his footsteps gradually fading away on the stairs.

Snape opened the box.

Inside was a pair of dragon-hide gloves. They were dark brown with fine, neat stitching. On the inside of the gloves, two words were embroidered in silver thread—very small, hidden in the palm area, and impossible to see without looking closely.

"Severus."

He clutched the gloves in his palm and stood there for a long time.

Later, he went to apologize to Lily. Lily did not look at him and turned away. She did not forgive him, never again.

He knew what he had lost.

1977, Star-Swirl Manor.

Cepheus and Long Meixiu got engaged. There were only a few people at the engagement party—Cepheus's sister Laila, him, and the parents of both Long Meixiu and Cepheus.

Long Meixiu wore a moon-white robe, her hair put up with a silver hairpin. Cepheus stood beside her, wearing a dark gray formal suit with a white rose pinned to his chest.

When they exchanged rings, Long Meixiu's father, Edmund Selwyn, stood nearby, his eyes red, but the corners of his mouth were turned up. Her mother, Aurora Selwyn, held her husband's arm, smiling as she wiped away tears.

"Severus, catch!" Cepheus suddenly threw something at him.

Snape caught it—it was a bouquet of flowers. The flowers Long Meixiu had thrown.

"You're next," Cepheus said with a smile.

Snape clutched the flowers in his hand and did not speak.

He glanced at the other side of the Great Hall. Lily had not come.

1978, after graduation.

Snape sat in the living room of Spinner's End, with several Dark Arts books spread out on the table in front of him. The fire in the fireplace was about to go out, and the room was cold, but he did not go to add firewood.

There was a knock at the door.

He did not move.

The door was knocked a few more times, then opened on its own.

Cepheus stood at the doorway, wearing a thick coat, his scarf wrapped up to his chin. Long Meixiu stood beside him, carrying a basket in her hand, with a few snowflakes falling on her hat.

"It's snowing outside," Long Meixiu said, her tone as if she were talking about something very ordinary, "we brought hot soup."

They walked in; Long Meixiu went to the kitchen to find bowls, and Cepheus sat opposite him, looking at those Dark Arts books on the table.

"You're still studying these?"

Snape did not answer.

Cepheus was silent for a moment.

"Severus, I know what you're thinking. But there are some paths that, once you enter, you can't come back from."

"You don't understand," Snape said, his voice hoarse.

"I don't understand," Cepheus nodded, "but I do know one thing—Meixiu and I, we don't want to lose you as a friend."

Long Meixiu came out of the kitchen with the soup, placed the bowl in front of him, and sat down beside him.

"Severus," she said, her voice very soft, "you are smarter than all of them. You know what is right and what is wrong."

Snape looked at the soup in the bowl but did not drink it.

"We won't try to persuade you," Long Meixiu continued, "but we won't give up on you either. No matter where you go or what you do, as long as you return, we are here."

She pushed the soup a little closer to him.

"Drink the soup first. It won't taste good if it gets cold."

Snape picked up the bowl and took a sip.

It was borscht, sweet and sour, with cream added—his favorite flavor.

He didn't know when he had told Long Meixiu that he liked drinking this.

That night, the three of them sat in front of the dying fireplace and talked for a long time. Cepheus talked about his new discoveries in Alchemy, and Long Meixiu talked about a Potion recipe she had improved; Snape listened, occasionally interjecting a word or two.

The fire finally went out. No one went to add firewood. They just sat there in the darkness until the sky outside began to turn white.

Long Meixiu stood up and brushed the dust off her skirt.

"Severus, our wedding is in a few days. Will you come?"

Snape was silent for a long time.

"I will," he said.

Long Meixiu smiled. Cepheus smiled too.

When they left, the snow had already stopped. Long Meixiu looked back at him from the doorway and said: "Severus, no matter what happens in the future, you will always be our best friend."

The door closed.

Snape stood in front of the window, watching their backs disappear at the end of the alley.

That was the last time he saw them.

1981, Spinner's End.

The letter was delivered by Dumbledore's owl.

When Snape opened the envelope, his hand was very steady. He thought it was another mission notification from the Order of the Phoenix, or something that needed him to handle.

He unfolded the letter.

The first line read: "Severus, I am very sorry to inform you—"

He put the letter down.

He sat in the chair, watching the rain outside the window. The rain had been falling since morning and had not stopped. The puddles in the alley reflected the gray sky, and occasionally pedestrians walked by in a hurry with umbrellas.

He did not cry.

He just sat there, watching the rain.

Later, he stood up, walked to the cabinet, took out the brass weighing equipment and the pair of dragon-hide gloves, put them into a box, and packed them away.

He didn't know why he wanted to pack them away. He only knew that he couldn't let them get dusty.

That night, he sat in the unlit living room until the rain stopped.

A little moonlight shone in from outside the window, landing on the back of his hand; it was cold.

1991, Hogwarts.

Snape sat in his office, opening his eyes.

The moonlight outside the window was still there, and the water ripples were still swaying. The half-open drawer was still in its place, and the faded box lay quietly inside.

He did not touch it.

He just sat in the chair for a long time, long enough for the moonlight to move from one end of the floor to the other.

Then he stood up, walked to the window, and watched the tentacles of the Giant Squid occasionally sweeping through the depths of the Black Lake.

That child looked very much like Cepheus. Gray eyes, deep contours. But when he smiled, the curve of his mouth was like Long Meixiu's.

When he first saw Reese at the opening banquet, his fingers gripped tightly under the table. Not out of hatred, not out of fear—it was because he looked too much like them.

So much so that he thought he saw Cepheus from twenty years ago sitting at the Ravenclaw long table, with Long Meixiu sitting beside him; the two of them were huddled together reading an Alchemy book, Cepheus pointed at a line of text and said something, Long Meixiu tilted her head to think for a moment, and then used her quill to draw a small smiley face on the edge of the page.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the moonlight had moved to the ceiling.

"It's good that he's like them," he whispered, his voice so soft that only he could hear.

"Don't be like me."

By the window of the Ravenclaw tower, Reese put down his quill. He had just finished writing a letter home; Yarnball was waiting on the windowsill, tilting its head to look at him.

He folded the letter, tied it to Yarnball's leg, and stroked its little head.

"Go."

Yarnball cooed and flew out of the window, disappearing into the night.

Reese leaned back in his chair, looking at the stars outside the window. The surface of the Black Lake shimmered with silver light under the moonlight, the distant Forbidden Forest was pitch Black, and occasionally a breeze blew, causing the treetops to sway gently.

Cho Chang walked over from the common room, holding a cup of hot cocoa.

"Not asleep yet?"

"Just finished writing a letter," Reese said.

Cho Chang sat down opposite him and pushed the hot cocoa toward him.

"Anthony has been asleep for a long time. He said today's Troll incident caused him mental trauma and he needed sleep to recover."

Reese smiled and picked up the hot cocoa to take a sip.

"What about you?" Cho Chang looked at him, "Are you okay?"

Reese thought for a moment.

"I'm okay," he said.

Cho Chang did not press him. She just sat there, looking at the starry sky outside the window with him.

The fire in the fireplace crackled, and occasionally the sound of turning pages came from the common room—there was always someone reading late at night.

Reese looked at the brightest star outside the window and suddenly remembered what his grandmother had said when he was a child long ago.

"The north star always points north. No matter where you are, as long as you find it, you will know the direction."

He had found it.

Chapter 32: Quidditch Eve

After entering November, the temperature at Hogwartsdropped suddenly.

Drafts began to blow through the Castle corridors, making the torches on the stone walls flicker and sway. The ceiling of the Great Hall changed with the weather outside, shifting from the golden fallen leaves of October to the gray-white clouds of November; occasionally, a few magical snowflakes would drift down, landing in the soup bowls of the first-year students. Ravenclaw Tower was colder than the rest of the Castle, but fortunately, the fireplace in the common room blazed brightly from morning till night, with deep blue carpets and velvet curtains keeping the chill at bay.

The impact of the Troll incident gradually subsided. No one discussed the smashed sinks in the girls' bathroom during meals anymore, Professor Flitwick stopped praising "my Mr. Black" to everyone he met, and even Polaris himself had nearly forgotten about it. Only his left shoulder still felt a faint, dull ache occasionally—the bruise left where the Troll's fist had struck. Madam Pomfrey said it would be completely healed in a few more days.

Quidditch season was about to begin.

This Saturday at noon, Ravenclaw versus Slytherin.

Polaris was the only first-year student selected for Ravenclaw this year. His position as a Beater had him training with the team since the start of the term, two afternoons a week, come rain or shine. Roger Davies was a strict captain who never went easy on him just because he was a newcomer, but he wasn't stingy with praise either. After last week's practice, Roger Davies had offered a rare "Your hitting is much steadier than when you first arrived," which Polaris took as high praise.

At noon the day before the match, the atmosphere in the Great Hall grew noticeably tense. People at the long tables of all four houses were discussing tomorrow's game, and it was especially lively over at Slytherin—Malfoy's voice could be heard from three tables away, as he described to Crabbe and Goyle how Slytherin would "teach Ravenclawa lesson" during the match.

Polaris sat in the middle of the Ravenclaw table, a plate of roast steak and mashed potatoes in front of him, eating at a leisurely pace. Cho sat opposite him, spreading butter on a piece of bread, her expression as calm as his. Anthony sat next to Polaris, with a copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) spread out before him, flipping through it as he ate, muttering under his breath.

"Aren't you guys nervous?" Anthony asked indistinctly while biting into a sandwich. "The match is tomorrow."

Polaris swallowed his food. "Nervous about what?"

"You're only a first-year, it's your first game, and the opponents are Slytherin—they play very dirty." Anthonyput down his sandwich and looked at him seriously. "If it were me, I definitely wouldn't be able to sleep tonight."

"He won't be," Cho answered for Polaris, her tone certain. "He played in practice matches during training and blocked three Bludgers back by himself; even the captain wasn't as steady as him."

Polaris smiled but didn't respond.

He wasn't nervous because he knew his trump cards. The reaction speed from the Rabbit Talisman, the strength boost from the Ox Talisman, and the Wind Demon's instinctive perception of air currents—these things were natural advantages on the pitch. Although he couldn't use them openly, the basic physical qualities they provided had already integrated into every swing of his bat and every dive. More importantly, he had been flying over Star-Swirl Manor on his Star-Swirl Brooms since he was five; flying was as natural to him as breathing.

He didn't need to be nervous. He just needed to perform normally.

Hermione walked over with her tray and sat down next to Anthony. This had become a regular occurrence lately—since Halloween, Hermione had begun to frequently appear at Polaris, Anthony, and Cho's table.

After that Troll incident, Harry and Ron indeed went to find Hermione. The next morning, Polaris saw Ron standing in front of Hermione in the corridor, his face as red as his hair, stammering out, "Um—about yesterday—I'm sorry." Harrystood beside him and nodded as well. Hermione gave them a look, said "It's fine," and then walked away clutching her books.

That was all.

Nothing further happened. They didn't become friends, they didn't eat together, and they certainly didn't save seats for each other in the library. Hermione would occasionally nod to Harry and Ron in the corridors, but it ended there.

Instead, she and Anthony—Hermione and Anthony got along surprisingly well.

"Where are you sitting to watch the match tomorrow?" Anthony asked Hermione.

"The row right behind the staff section." Hermione put down her tray and pulled a thick notebook from her bag. "I checked Ravenclaw's match records for the past five years. Your win rate is three wins and two losses, and your record against Slytherin is one win and one loss. If you win tomorrow, it'll be two wins and one loss."

Anthony leaned over to look at her notebook, his eyes lighting up. "You actually kept records? Where did you get the data?"

"The Hogwarts Quidditch Almanac, on the shelf next to the Restricted Section in the library, seventh column, third shelf. You have to register with Madam Pince in advance if you want to borrow it."

"Next to the Restricted Section?" Anthony looked at her in surprise. "How did you get in?"

"I have a library pass signed by a Professor." Hermionepulled a piece of parchment from her notebook and waved it. "Professor Flitwick said I could look up materials for Advanced Charms in the Restricted Section. I just happened to look at the Quidditch Almanac while I was there."

Anthony looked at the pass in her hand with an expression bordering on reverence. "You even won over Professor Flitwick?"

"I just asked him a few extra questions after class." Hermione tucked the pass away, her tone flat, but the corners of her mouth twitched up slightly.

Polaris looked at the two of them and couldn't help but chuckle. In a way, Anthony and Hermione were the same kind of people—meticulous in their actions, keeping perfectly neat notes, and never delaying their homework until the last minute. It was just that Hermione expanded her scope to the entire library, while Anthony only sought to master his own textbooks and notes.

"Are you guys finished eating?" Hermione closed her notebook and looked up at the entrance of the Great Hall.

Polaris followed her gaze and happened to see Harry and Ron standing up from the Gryffindor table. Both were moving quickly; Ron stuffed the last piece of a chicken leg into his mouth, his cheeks bulging, while Harry had already slung his bag over his shoulder. They almost ran out of the Great Hall, their robes fluttering behind them, nearly colliding with a Hufflepuff girl at the door.

Anthony watched their retreating figures and frowned. "What's wrong with them? They're not even eating properly."

Polaris and Cho exchanged a glance and shook their heads.

Hermione also took a look, then lowered her head to continue flipping through her notebook.

"It's probably because of tomorrow's match," she said with a hint of helplessness in her voice. "Harry is the GryffindorSeeker, and it's his first time playing. It's normal to be nervous."

She paused, glanced at Polaris and Cho, and her expression became even more helpless.

"But seeing Polaris and Cho, who are also playing for the first time, sitting here so calmly eating and reading, I just feel—never mind, forget it."

Polaris smiled and said nothing.

Hermione closed her notebook, her voice lowering slightly. "Or it could be something else. Last time Malfoychallenged Harry to a midnight duel—"

She paused and glanced at Polaris.

Polaris knew what she was thinking. Malfoy was his cousin; this was no secret in their year. Hermione was likely weighing whether to mention the stupid thing Malfoy had done in front of him.

"Go ahead," Polaris said. "What he does has nothing to do with me."

Hermione nodded and continued, "That night, I heard Malfoy was going to challenge Harry to a duel, so I went to stop them. As it turned out, Malfoy didn't show up at all, but Filch's cat found us. To avoid Filch, we ran blindly and ended up in the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor."

Polaris's fingers twitched slightly.

Cho and Anthony both looked up at the same time.

"You went to the fourth floor?" Cho's voice was very low.

"Not on purpose," Hermione said quickly. "We just wanted to find a place to hide. But when we pushed open a door—"

She lowered her voice, speaking almost in a whisper:

"There was a huge dog with three heads inside. My god, it was truly massive. It just stood there, all three heads turning at once to look at us. I felt like each of its mouths could swallow the three of us in one bite."

The sandwich in Anthony's hand stopped mid-air. "A three-headed hellhound? Isn't that something from mythology?"

"It's from Greek Mythology," Hermione said. "Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell that guards the gates of the Underworld. But—"

"But the one at Hogwarts isn't," Polaris took over.

The three of them looked at him simultaneously.

"Three-headed dogs are a type of magical creature," Polaris said, his tone calm. "Though rare, they aren't mythological beings. You can just think of it as a large dog with three heads; it's not quite as powerful as the ones in myths. However, as a watchdog, it's very suitable—with three heads guarding at once, it's very difficult to get past it."

Having said that, he speared a piece of potato and put it in his mouth.

Anthony looked at him in surprise. "How do you know so much?"

"We have books at home," Polaris replied briefly.

Hermione gave him a thoughtful look but didn't press further.

"There was a Trapdoor under its feet," she continued, her voice even lower. "I saw it then, right under the middle head. I don't know what's underneath."

"It must be something very important," Anthony said. "Otherwise, they wouldn't use a three-headed dog to guard it."

"Maybe it's some kind of treasure," Hermione said, her eyes brightening. "Or something very dangerous that needs to be kept under watch."

Cho shook her head. "Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with us anyway. Headmaster Dumbledore said that anyone who goes in will die a painful death. I don't want to die a painful death."

Hermione nodded and reopened her notebook, but her eyes were still darting around, clearly still thinking about that Trapdoor.

Polaris ate quietly and didn't speak.

He knew what it was. He also knew what would happen later. But he couldn't say it now.

"Anyway, let's not talk about that." Hermione closed her notebook. "Anthony, are you going to the library this afternoon? I found a few books on advanced applications of the Levitation Charm. Didn't you say you wanted to practice that last time—"

"Yes, yes, I'm going." Anthony immediately perked up, stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, and grabbed his bag as he stood up.

Hermione also stood up and waved to Polaris and Cho. "Good luck in the match tomorrow. I'll be sitting behind the staff section, so I'll have a clear view."

The two of them walked out of the Great Hall one after the other, Anthony still asking, "Which shelf is that book you mentioned on?" while Hermione had already quickened her pace ahead, saying, "Just follow me."

Cho watched their retreating backs and couldn't help but smile. "The two of them really do get along."

"Yeah." Polaris finished his last piece of steak and put down his knife and fork.

Cho rested her chin on her hand and looked at him. "Are you really not nervous about tomorrow?"

Polaris thought for a moment. "A little. But not because of the match."

"Then because of what?"

Polaris didn't answer. He thought of the fourth-floor corridor, the three-headed dog, and the TrapdoorHermione had just mentioned. He knew where these things would eventually lead—Harry, the Philosopher's Stone, Lord Voldemort. He was now a Ravenclaw Beater, Cho's friend, Anthony's roommate, and a student Professor Flitwick liked. These identities allowed him to live a stable life at Hogwarts.

But those events would eventually come. He needed to be prepared.

"What are you thinking about?" Cho asked.

"Nothing." Polaris stood up and picked up his broom. "Let's go. There's a pre-match meeting this afternoon."

Cho didn't ask further and stood up as well. The two of them walked out of the Great Hall side by side, through the corridors, and toward the Quidditch Pitch outside.

The November wind blew in from the lake, carrying moisture and a chill. Cho shrunk her neck and pulled her scarf up a bit. Polaris walked on the windward side, blocking most of it for her.

"During the match tomorrow, will you be responsible for the left or the right side?" Cho asked.

"The right. Roger said I have more power in my right hand."

"Okay."

The pitch was in sight. The other members of the Ravenclaw team had already begun to arrive, their blue team robes particularly striking under the gray sky. Roger Davies stood at the front, tactical board in hand, his expression as serious as ever.

Polaris quickened his pace toward them.

The match was tomorrow. He took a deep breath, temporarily pushing down those thoughts about the Philosopher's Stone, Lord Voldemort, and the fourth-floor corridor.

Tomorrow, he just needed to fly.

Chapter 33: The Black Bat Mask

On a Saturday in November, Hogwarts was covered in a thin layer of frost. The stands of the Quidditch Pitch were packed with people, and the colors of the four houses were exceptionally vibrant under the gray sky. The red and gold of Gryffindor, the green and silver of Slytherin, the yellow and Black of Hufflepuff, and the blue and bronze of Ravenclaw—Reece stood at the entrance of the players' tunnel, taking a deep breath as he looked out at the sea of interwoven colors.

The cold air filled his lungs, crisp and sharp.

"Nervous?" Cho stood beside him, her long Black hair tied into a neat ponytail with a small blue Ravenclaw hair tie at the end. She had painted light gold goggles on her face, making her eyes look exceptionally bright.

Reece glanced at her. "That's the second time you've asked."

Cho smiled and didn't argue. Her fingers tapped lightly on the handle of her broom, a small habit she had when she was nervous. Reece noticed it but didn't point it out.

Roger Davies walked up from behind and patted them both on the shoulders. He was the Captain and Chaser of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, looking even more imposing in his team robes. There was no nervousness on his face, only the steady composure of a veteran.

"Ready?" His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "Slytherinplays dirty, so watch yourselves. Cho, keep a close eye on the Seeker. Reece, the right Bludger is yours. Leave the left to Andrew."

Andrew Spinnet—the other Beater, a fifth-year, tall and thin with arms significantly longer than his peers, and a very fast swing. He nodded to Reece with a serious expression.

"Let's go." Roger led the way out of the tunnel.

The roar from the stands surged over them instantly like a heatwave. Reece kicked off and took to the air, the November wind whistling past his ears, much colder than on the ground. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the entire pitch.

The Slytherin robes clustered in a mass of green below the opposite stands. Their captain, Marcus Flint, was a massive sixth-year who sat on his broom like a small mountain. He shot a disdainful look toward the Ravenclaws, his lips curled in his habitual sneer.

Madam Hooch's whistle blew.

The balls were released simultaneously. The Golden Snitch vanished into the gray sky in an instant, the Bludgers roared toward the crowd, and the Quaffle was snatched up by Flint.

Reece didn't look for the Snitch—that was Cho's job. His gaze was locked onto the two rampaging Bludgers.

The first one flew toward him.

Reece leaned to the side and swung. The Bludger changed direction, hurtling straight toward a Slytherin Chaser. The player dodged in a panic, dropping the Quaffle, which was then intercepted by Roger.

"Nice shot!" Andrew flew over from the other side and gave him a thumbs up.

The match drew blood within the third minute. The Slytherin Beaters intentionally aimed a Bludger toward Cho, but Reece anticipated its trajectory and dove, knocking the ball away with a single strike. The ball grazed the tail of Cho's broom; she didn't even look back.

"Left!" Cho shouted.

Reece turned and saw another Bludger coming from the left. Andrew was already in position and sent it toward the Slytherin Seeker. The sixth-year named Terence Higgswas forced to pull up his broom, and the Golden Snitchslipped through his fingers.

Cho gave chase.

Reece didn't follow. His task was to hold the rear and create space for Cho and the Chasers. The second Bludgercame again, this time aimed at Roger. Reece cut in from the side with a backhand swing, and the ball flew back even faster, slamming into the tail of Flint's broom. The broom jerked violently, nearly throwing Flint off, and a gasp erupted from the stands.

"Black!" Roger shouted from a distance, his tone full of approval.

The score was in a tug-of-war. Slytherin's Chasercoordination was indeed seasoned; their passing was fast and accurate, tearing through Ravenclaw's defense several times. But the Keeper, Margaret Cook—a taciturn fifth-year girl—performed exceptionally well, saving at least four goals. The score remained tight: thirty to forty, forty to forty, forty to fifty.

Reece's palms began to sweat. It wasn't from nerves, but from physical exertion. A Beater's job was much more exhausting than it looked—one had to not only judge the trajectory of the Bludgers but also control the direction and power of the strikes. Every swing required full-body strength, and after the length of a class, his arms were already starting to ache.

But he persisted.

At the sixty-minute mark, Cho suddenly accelerated.

Reece only saw her ponytail stretch into a line in the wind as she dove straight down from the center of the pitch like an arrow from a bow. The Slytherin Seeker, Higgs, also moved, but his reaction was half a beat slower—just that half a beat.

Reece knew what to do. He swung and sent a Bludgertoward Higgs, forcing him to slow down and dodge. The trajectory of that Bludger was as precise as if it had been measured with a ruler—grazing the tail of Higgs's broom and forcing him to instinctively lean back.

That single lean was the difference between victory and defeat.

Cho's hand closed around the Golden Snitch.

Madam Hooch's whistle echoed across the pitch. The Ravenclaw stands exploded.

One hundred and seventy to fifty.

Reece hovered in mid-air, watching Cho hold the Snitch high above her head. Her ponytail had come loose, and her hair draped over her shoulders, Black as ink against the gray sky. She turned her head, found him in the crowd, and smiled.

The smile was faint, but Reece saw it.

Roger was the first to rush over, grabbing Cho by the shoulders and shaking her. Bradley and Chambers(Ravenclaw's other two Chasers) closed in from both sides, and Andrew did a somersault in the air. Margaret stood in front of the goal, a rare smile appearing on her face.

Reece flew over to join them.

"That was a beautiful shot." Andrew patted him on the shoulder with enough force to feel like a Bludger strike. "That backhand in the thirtieth minute—how did you do it?"

"Luck," Reece said.

"Ravenclaw doesn't rely on luck." Roger flew over and looked at him seriously. "You played well. Keep it up for the next match against Gryffindor."

Reece nodded.

It was only when he flew back to the ground that he realized his arms were so sore he could barely lift them. The Ox Talisman was useless—he couldn't use any extraordinary power during the match; it would be too easy to detect. He relied on pure physical training and reaction speed, on the muscle memory accumulated from flying over Star-Swirl Manor since he was five years old.

It was exhausting. But worth it.

The spectators in the stands began to disperse. Reece tucked his broom under his arm and walked toward the players' tunnel. His legs felt a bit weak, and the old injury on his shoulder—where the Troll had hit him—ached slightly; it hadn't fully healed yet.

"Reece!"

He turned his head. Anthony squeezed through the railing below the stands, clutching a scarf, his expression even more excited than the person who had actually played the match.

"Did you see that? That backhand—my god, the ball came from behind you and you swung without even looking back—I was scared to death in the stands—and then the ball flew across the pitch and hit that big Slytherin guy's broom—" He spoke as fast as if he were under a Haste Spell.

"I saw it." Hermione stepped out from behind Anthony, holding a thick notebook. Her expression was much calmer than Anthony's, but her eyes were bright. "Thirtieth minute, backhand strike, ball speed at least 1.5 times that of the Slytherin Beater. Post-match stats show your effective hit count was the highest on the field—eleven times, three more than Andrew Spinnet."

Reece looked at her. "You were taking notes?"

"Of course." Hermione flipped open the notebook to show him; it was densely packed with numbers and diagrams. "I recorded everyone's data. Your hitting accuracy was 72%, the highest on the field. Cho's Snitch capture time was six minutes and eighteen seconds, nearly four seconds faster than Higgs." She closed the notebook and added seriously, "You have a high chance of winning the next match against Gryffindor."

Anthony looked at the notebook in her hand with a complicated expression. "Are you really planning to take notes for every single match?"

"Of course," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Data doesn't lie."

Cho walked up from behind, her hair tied back again and her goggles hanging around her neck. Her face still had a post-exercise flush, and her breathing was a bit faster than usual. She walked up to Reece, pulled a piece of chocolate from her pocket, and handed it to him.

"Replenish your energy," she said.

Reece took it, peeled back the foil, and took a bite. Dark chocolate, slightly bitter, slowly melting on his tongue.

"Well played," Cho said, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.

"You too." Reece handed the chocolate back. Cho took it and took a bite as well, then the foil was taken by Anthonyand tossed into a nearby trash can.

Hermione watched their interaction, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly, but she said nothing.

The five of them walked together toward the Castle—Rhys and Cho were in the lead, while Anthony and Hermionediscussed match statistics behind them. Andrew walked with them for a while before waving and heading off at a fork in the path. A November wind blew from the lake, carrying moisture and a chill, but Rhys didn't feel that cold anymore.

His arm was still aching and his shoulder still pained him, but the lingering taste of the dark chocolate Cho had handed him remained on the tip of his tongue.

"Next match is against Gryffindor," Cho said suddenly. "Can you still play?"

Rhys glanced at her. "I can."

Cho nodded and said no more.

As they entered the Castle gates, they happened to run into Harry and Ron coming in from another corridor. Harry's face was somewhat pale, and the dark circles under his eyes were prominent. Ron walked beside him, clutching a Gryffindor scarf, looking even more nervous than Harry.

The two groups met in the entrance hall and paused.

"Good game," Harry said. His voice was a bit raspy, but his tone was sincere.

Rhys nodded. "Thanks."

Standing next to Harry, Ron's gaze shifted between Rhys and Cho. His lips moved, and he finally squeezed out, "We won't lose tomorrow."

Cho glanced at him without speaking. The four of them brushed past each other, heading toward their respective House common rooms.

In the Ravenclaw Tower common room, people were already celebrating. The first-year students gathered around the fireplace with cups of pumpkin juice; when they saw Rhys and Cho enter, a small cheer went up.

"Rhys! Cho! Over here!" Lisa Turpin waved her arms, her smile brighter than the fire in the hearth.

Rhys was pulled over, a cup of pumpkin juice thrust into his hand, and his shoulder was patted several times. He wasn't quite used to being surrounded like this, but he didn't pull away. Cho stood beside him, surrounded by several girls asking for details about the match. Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear—the position where the Golden Snitch appeared, the pursuit route, and the judgment in that final moment.

Anthony squeezed through the crowd and handed Rhys a hot towel.

"Apply this to your shoulder," he said. "You were rubbing it just now."

Rhys blinked, taking the towel. "How did you know?"

"You rub your left shoulder every time you finish a game," Anthony said. "It's been like that since the Troll incident. I'm not blind."

Rhys glanced at him and applied the towel to his left shoulder. The heat seeped in, and the aching pain eased slightly. Anthony had already turned to get some food, asking no more questions.

The common room door opened again, and Hermioneleaned halfway in. She waved at Rhys and Cho but didn't enter—this was the Ravenclaw common room, and as a Gryffindor, it wasn't convenient for her to come in. Rhys walked over and took a stack of parchment she handed him at the door.

"The match data is organized," Hermione said. "I drew a diagram of Cho's pursuit route and marked your hitting points as well."

Rhys flipped through it; the handwriting was as neat as if it were printed, with annotations next to every data point.

"Thanks."

Hermione nodded and turned to leave, then stopped.

"Rhys," she lowered her voice, "did you notice Professor Quirrell?"

Rhys's fingers tightened slightly.

"During the match, he kept looking at the staff table," Hermione's voice grew even lower. "Not at the game. At Headmaster Dumbledore. From the first minute to the last, his gaze hardly ever left."

Rhys looked at her, saying nothing.

"I noticed it too," Cho said, walking over from behind and leaning against the doorframe. Her voice was low. "Professor Quirrell was sitting at the very back of the staff table. Although he seemed to be looking forward, he wasn't watching our match. That direction was indeed toward the Professors at the front, but as for whether it was Headmaster Dumbledore, I don't know."

Rhys's heart rate quickened a bit. He knew Quirrell would cause trouble during matches—he had been waiting for this. But he needed a more reasonable excuse to intervene, not just "I know the plot."

"You mean," he weighed his words, "that he might be... interested in Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"Not just interested." Hermione frowned. "Have you ever thought that Professor Quirrell might also know about what that Cerberus in the fourth-floor corridor is guarding?"

"Why him?" Cho asked.

"Because he's the Defense Against the Dark ArtsProfessor," Hermione said. "If someone needs to 'defend' something, he should be the one who knows best. But his behavior..." She paused, seemingly choosing her words. "Don't you think he's too nervous? A Professor who teaches Defense shouldn't be that afraid."

Rhys silent for a while.

"I'll keep an eye out," he said.

Hermione glanced at him, nodded, and turned to leave.

Cho leaned against the doorframe and didn't move. Only when Hermione's footsteps faded at the end of the corridor did she speak: "You already noticed, didn't you?"

Rhys looked at her.

"The way you look at Professor Quirrell," Cho said, "has been off since the start of term. It's not fear, it's observation. You're observing him."

Rhys was silent for a few seconds.

"He definitely has issues," he said. "But I'm not sure what they are."

Cho didn't press further, only nodding. "If you need help, let me know."

She turned and walked back into the common room, her ponytail swaying slightly on her shoulder. Rhys stood at the door, watching her back, the parchment in his hand gripped tightly.

She noticed. Hermione noticed too. He didn't need to speak up himself; things were naturally being pushed in front of him—Professor Quirrell's oddity, the secret of the fourth-floor corridor, the existence of the Philosopher's Stone. These were all things Hermione and Cho had observed and deduced themselves; he was just "listening to their findings."

This was good. He didn't need to reveal how much he knew; he just had to follow these clues to get involved reasonably.

At night, Rhys lay in bed, looking at the ceiling. Anthonywas already asleep, his breathing even and steady. There was no moon outside, only stars twinkling.

He was thinking about the afternoon match, Cho's final smile, and the things Hermione had said. Quirrell was watching Dumbledore from start to finish. He knew what that meant—the Philosopher's Stone, Lord Voldemort, and everything that was about to happen.

The next match was against Gryffindor. He knew what would happen in that game—Quirrell would try to curse Harry's broom, and Hermione would go to set Snape's robes on fire. That was the starting point of the Philosopher's Stone incident and his chance to truly get involved.

But he needed more.

He needed access to Nicolas Flamel's alchemical knowledge. Not for the Philosopher's Stone itself, but for Pseudo-talismans—small items that could give ordinary people the ability to protect themselves. Grandmother, Aunt, Bangbang, Kreacher... if Lord Voldemort returned, they would need means to protect themselves.

Flamel had lived for over six hundred years; his Alchemynotes were the best reference material Rhys could think of.

How to get them? He didn't know. But the system had said that participating in key plot nodes of the original story was the prerequisite for unlocking abilities. The Philosopher's Stone incident was the biggest node this year. He had to get involved, and in the process, find a way to get close to Flamel.

Maybe through Dumbledore. Maybe through Hermione—she would eventually find Flamel's name in a book. Maybe through Harry—the Savior's halo could always open doors that were closed to ordinary people.

Regardless, he needed to get in first.

[Host participation in Quidditch match and original story event detected.]

The system's voice suddenly rang out, cold and clear.

[Unlocking conditions checking... Check passed. Bat Maskunlocked—can summon the Shadowkhan Bat Clan.]

[Mask Description: The Bat Mask corresponds to the Shadowkhan Bat Clan of the Shadow Khan. Can summon ninjas who possess wings and flight capabilities. They typically operate at night, excelling in aerial reconnaissance, high-speed raids, and encircling strikes from the air.]

Rhys's fingers tightened slightly.

The Shadowkhan Bat Clan.

He closed his eyes, feeling that new power sink into the depths of his consciousness, like a bat folding its wings, quietly lurking in the darkness.

Aerial units. Aerial reconnaissance and strikes. He had one more tool at his disposal—though he couldn't use it now, it would definitely be useful later.

He rolled over and pulled the quilt up.

Outside the window, the stars shone one by one. He remembered the ceiling of Star-Swirl Manor, remembered lying in his cradle as a child, watching those slowly rotating star maps. Grandmother said north star always points north. No matter where you are, as long as you find it, you'll know the direction.

He knew where the direction was.

He closed his eyes and slowly sank into sleep. Anthonyrolled over in the opposite bed, muttering something in his sleep that was unintelligible. The last sound of a page turning in the common room also stopped, and the fire in the hearth gradually dimmed, leaving only a few sparks flickering in the ashes.

In the final moment before falling asleep, Rhys thought: The next match, Gryffindor. Then everything will truly begin.

Chapter 34: The Snitch and Redemption

The next day, Hogwarts was shrouded in a sudden cold snap. The sky over the Quidditch Pitch was a dull grey, the clouds hanging low, with occasional fine snowflakes drifting down. However, the stands were packed—Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor, one of the most anticipated matches of the season.

Lee Jordan's voice rang out through the megaphone charm: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the most exciting showdown of the season! Ravenclaw—the Blue Legionthat crushed Slytherin in the last match—against Gryffindor, the Gold and Red Lions featuring the Golden Boy, Potter!"

Cheers and boos intertwined in the stands. Gryffindor's red banners snapped in the cold wind, while Ravenclaw's blue banners were not to be outdone.

"The players are taking the field!" Lee Jordan shouted. "Gryffindor: Captain Wood; Chasers Johnson, Spinnet, and Bell; Beaters the Weasley Twins; and Seeker—Harry Potter! Ravenclaw: Captain Davies; Chasers Bradley and Chambers; Beaters Spinnet and Black; and Seeker—Cho Chang!"

Professor McGonagall's voice came from the commentary box: "Jordan, get to the point."

"I am getting to the point, Professor!" Lee Jordan retorted indignantly before continuing, "Of particular note is Ravenclaw's rookie—the first-year, Black! His performance as a Beater against Slytherin was nothing short of stunning, and Gryffindor's Seeker, Potter, is also a first-year. With two rising stars competing on the same field, who will come out on top?"

Rhys took to the air on his Star Swirl - Polaris - Starflashbroomstick. This broom was sponsored by his aunt, its silver-white body particularly striking against the gloomy sky. On the Gryffindor side, the Nimbus 2000 Harry rode gleamed gold in the sunlight. The contrast between the two top-tier brooms made Lee Jordan unable to resist speaking up again.

"Look at those brooms! Gryffindor's Potter is on a Nimbus 2000—currently the best-selling racing broom on the market. Meanwhile, the Ravenclaw players are riding Star Swirl - Polaris - Starflashes, which are hand-crafted with extremely low production, reportedly a special supply for the House of Black! Two completely different styles—the Nimbus 2000 is fast, while the Starflash offers better handling. It's a pity the Star Swirl isn't mass-produced, otherwise I'd want to buy one myself—"

"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang out again.

"Alright, alright, back to the game. Madam Hooch has blown the whistle—the balls are released—Gryffindortakes possession first!"

The match began.

Alicia Spinnet—Gryffindor's Chaser—grabbed the Quaffleand sped toward the Ravenclaw goal. Fred and George Weasley's coordination was seamless; the two Bludgers they hit seemed to have eyes of their own, always flying accurately toward the Ravenclaw Chasers.

Rhys kept a close eye on the Bludgers' trajectories. As one flew toward him, he leaned to the side and swung his bat. The ball changed direction and flew toward Gryffindor's half, where it was caught by George and hit right back.

"Ravenclaw's Black is hitting very steadily. In the last game against Slytherin, his number of effective hits was the highest on the field—wait, I tallied that data myself, it's not official—but it's certainly impressive!"

Professor McGonagall didn't interrupt this time, likely because the data was factual.

Gryffindor scored first. Ten to zero. Then Ravenclawequalized. Ten to ten. The score climbed back and forth, and the tug-of-war lasted for nearly an hour. Harry circled in the air, searching for the Golden Snitch. Cho was on the other side, also searching.

Rhys diverted some of his attention to observe the staff stand where Professor Quirrell was sitting. Today he didn't have time to stare constantly—the Bludgers were coming in fiercely, and the Weasley Twins' coordination was far superior to that of the two Slytherin Beaters.

"A Bludger is flying toward Ravenclaw's Black—no, it's not just flying, it's aimed! George Weasley hit that one hard! Black swings—he hits it back! The ball is heading straight for Gryffindor's Potter—Potter dives to avoid it—that was close!"

Rhys's arms began to feel sore. The Weasley Twins' shots were fast and tricky, relying not on brute force like Slytherin, but on angles and teamwork. He had to constantly adjust his position and anticipate the intersecting paths of the two Bludgers, deciding the direction of every hit in a split second.

Cho swept past above him, her ponytail fluttering in the wind. She made a gesture to Rhys—telling him to watch the left. Rhys nodded and refocused his attention on the Bludgers.

Around the seventieth minute, an accident occurred.

Harry suddenly accelerated, diving toward the bottom of the pitch. Cho moved almost simultaneously—the Golden Snitch had appeared, right near the Gryffindor goalposts.

Rhys saw the small golden speck flash in the grey sky. The two Seekers charged toward the ground one after the other, so fast that the spectators in the stands stood up.

Then Rhys saw Professor Quirrell's hands moving.

His lips were moving, his gaze fixed intently on Harry. Quirrell's scarf was blown open slightly by the wind, revealing a hint of red underneath—it wasn't the scarf, but some kind of fabric. Rhys didn't have time to think further because he saw Harry's broom suddenly jerk violently.

Harry's body lurched, and one hand slipped off the broom handle.

A chorus of gasps erupted from the stands.

"Something's wrong with Potter's broom!" Lee Jordan's voice rose several octaves. "He's sliding down—he can't hold on—Merlin's beard, he's going to fall!"

In the Gryffindor stands, Hermione was pushing her way toward the staff stand. Rhys didn't have time to see what she was doing—Harry's broom was still bucking wildly like an out-of-control beast. Harry gripped the broom handle desperately with one hand, his body swaying in the air, liable to fall at any moment.

Rhys changed direction.

He dove down, the speed of his Starflash broom instantly reaching its maximum. The wind shrieked in his ears, and his eyes were blown nearly shut, but he didn't slow down. Two Bludgers flew past him—he had no time for them. The sound of the Weasley Twins hitting the balls came from a distance, but Rhys could no longer hear it clearly.

Harry's broom gave a violent jolt, and he slipped off entirely, left hanging from the handle by only his hands.

"Potter's fallen—no, he's still hanging on—he can't hold out—"

Rhys rushed beneath Harry. He adjusted his broom's angle to hover directly below him, shouting up at the same time: "Let go!"

Harry looked down and saw him. Those green eyes were full of terror, but he didn't hesitate—he let go.

Rhys caught him.

The impact made Rhys's arm sink abruptly, and a tearing pain shot through his left shoulder—the old injury had flared up. He gritted his teeth, clamping his right arm firmly around Harry's waist while gripping the broom handle with his left hand to steady it.

The body of the Starflash trembled slightly, then stabilized.

A massive cheer erupted from the stands. Lee Jordan's voice was already cracking from shouting: "Black caught him! Ravenclaw's Black caught Potter! Both of them are on the broom—they're safe!"

At the exact same moment Rhys caught Harry, Cho's hand closed around the Golden Snitch.

Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air.

The Ravenclaw stands exploded. The blue flags surged like an ocean, and the cheers nearly brought down the sky.

One hundred and eighty to forty.

Rhys lowered the broom back to the ground. The moment his feet touched the grass, he realized he could barely lift his left arm. The old injury from the Troll incident had been completely torn open by the impact, and sharp pain spread from his shoulder all the way to his fingertips. He released Harry and leaned on the broom handle with his right hand, panting.

"Rhys!" Cho was the first to run over. Her ponytail had come undone, and her goggles were lopsided, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.

"What's wrong with your arm?" She reached out to touch his left shoulder but then pulled back, afraid of hurting him.

"It's nothing," Rhys said, though his face was very pale.

"Who are you kidding?" Cho's voice trembled slightly. She turned and waved toward the stands, "Madam Pomfrey! We need medical attention here!"

Roger Davies and the other teammates also gathered around. Andrew Spinnet landed from the air and grabbed Rhys's right shoulder: "Are you crazy? That diving speed—your broom almost flipped over—"

"He's not crazy," Cho said firmly. "He saved someone."

Bradley and Chambers stood nearby, unsure of what to say. The Keeper, Margaret Cooke, flew over from the goalposts, silently picked up Rhys's goggles from the ground, and handed them to him.

Rhys took them with his right hand and said thank you.

Harry scrambled up from the grass. His legs were shaking, and his face was even paler than Rhys's. He walked up to Rhys, his lips moving, and finally managed just two words: "Thank you."

Rhys nodded.

Ron ran over and grabbed Harry's shoulder, looking him up and down: "Are you okay? What happened to your broom? Did someone—"

Hermione also rushed down from the stands, her face flushed, whether from running or anger. She didn't look at Ron, but walked straight to Rhys and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to give to him.

"Your shoulder is bleeding," she said, her voice steady but her fingers shaking.

Rhys looked down and saw that the shoulder of his blue team robes was indeed soaked with blood. The skin had likely been scraped when the old injury tore.

"I'll go get Madam Pomfrey." Hermione turned and ran.

Ron stood there, looking at Rhys and then at the Golden Snitch in Cho's hand, his expression complicated.

"You guys won," he said, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "But—"

"But what?" Cho turned to look at him, her voice quiet but cold.

Ron choked on her gaze for a moment but still spoke up: "If Rhys hadn't caught Harry, the match might have been suspended. The Snitch might not have been caught. You won, but it wasn't exactly fair—"

"Not fair?" Hermione had returned at some point, followed by Madam Pomfrey, her face flushed with anger. "Weasley, say that again? Rhys risked breaking his neck to save your best friend, and you say it's not fair?"

Ron's face turned red. "I didn't mean it like that—"

"Then what did you mean?" Hermione put her hands on her hips. "Gryffindor's points are earned through skill, but Ravenclaw's aren't? Was Cho catching the Snitch before or after Rhys saved Harry? Go watch the replay yourself!"

Ron opened his mouth, but not a word came out.

Harry stood by, looking embarrassed. He tugged on Ron's sleeve and said softly, "She's right. Rhys saved me, and that has nothing to do with the result of the match."

Ron muttered something and didn't speak again.

Madam Pomfrey walked over and gently pressed Rhys's left shoulder. Rhys hissed through his teeth.

"The old injury has torn; no bones are broken, but there's tendon damage," Madam Pomfrey frowned. "Hospital Wing, now."

Rhys wanted to say he could walk, but Cho had already supported him by his uninjured arm. Hermione stood on the other side, and the two of them flanked him.

"I can walk on my own," Rhys said.

"Don't be stubborn," Cho and Hermione said in unison.

Rhys fell silent.

As they passed the Gryffindor players, Fred Weasleywhistled at him: "Good game, Black." George nodded beside him, his expression unusually serious.

Rhys gave them a slight nod as he was escorted toward the Castle by Cho and Hermione.

Behind them, Lee Jordan's voice still echoed: "Ladies and gentlemen, today's match ends with a Ravenclaw victory. But I must say, this is the most brilliant match I've ever seen—not because of the score, but because of that dive. The first-year, Black—today he saved more than just a Seeker; he saved a classmate's life."

Professor McGonagall didn't interrupt him this time.

As Rhys entered the Hospital Wing, he looked back at the pitch. The spectators were leaving the stands, the colors of the four houses blending together like a flowing banner.

His left shoulder hurt intensely, bringing cold sweat to his forehead. But he didn't regret it.

That dive was his own choice. It wasn't because of the system, or unlocking abilities, or any calculation.

It was simply because someone was falling.

And he happened to be there.

The Hospital Wing doors closed behind him.

Madam Pomfrey pushed him onto a bed, muttering as she examined him. Cho sat in the chair next to him, still clutching the Golden Snitch—she had forgotten to hand it to Madam Hooch. Hermione stood by the door, telling Madam Pomfrey that "he lost a lot of blood."

Rhys closed his eyes.

He could still seem to hear the sound of the wind and the blurred cheers from the stands.

He suddenly felt that some things didn't need a reason.

Chapter 35: Citrus Candy

The ceiling of the Hospital Wing was light green, and Reese stared at it for a long time.

His left shoulder had been wrapped in layer after layer of Binding Charms by Madam Pomfrey, and now it looked like a white pumpkin was tied to his shoulder. It still hurt, but it was much better than when he had first landed—that tearing sensation had been suppressed by the Potion, turning into a dull, aching throb.

"Don't move." Madam Pomfrey held down his right shoulder while her wand drew a few circles above his left arm. "A tendon tear, but fortunately not a full break. This bottle of medicine is once every six hours, three drops each time. This one is for rubbing on, twice a day, morning and night. This bottle—"

"Madam," Anthony held up his notebook, his quill suspended in mid-air, "could you say that again? Is the rub-on bottle twice or three times a day?"

Madam Pomfrey glanced at him and offered a rare smile. "Twice. Are you in Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, Madam. Reese is my roommate."

"Then make sure you remember it clearly; don't let him be lazy about applying the medicine."

Anthony nodded solemnly and lowered his head to write in his notebook. His handwriting was neat and tidy, just as diligent as when he took notes in Charms Class.

Lying on his pillow, Reese looked at the opposite bed out of the corner of his eye.

Harry was also lying there, his face looking a bit better than when he first arrived, but he still looked shaken. Ronsat by his bedside, clutching a crumpled Gryffindor scarf, his expression looking as if he were ready to rush out and pick a fight at any moment.

Hermione stood at the foot of Reese's bed, clutching the notebook she never left without, her lips pursed as she thought about something. Cho sat in the chair by Reese's bed, still clutching the Golden Snitch—she had been holding it for nearly half an hour, and its wings were even bent out of shape.

The door was pushed open.

Snape strode in, his Black robes billowing behind him. His expression was as gloomy as usual, but his pace was much faster than normal, and he was clutching a small, dark glass bottle.

Madam Pomfrey looked up, just about to speak, but Snapehad already walked to Reese's bedside and placed the bottle on the nightstand.

"Rotator cuff tear, tendon damage." His voice was as cold as a stone slab in a cellar. "This medicine, three times a day, five drops each time. I added an extra portion of Dittany to the standard formula to speed up tendon healing."

Reese reached out to take the bottle, and Snape's hand paused for a moment.

"Don't use your left hand," he said, then pushed the bottle toward Reese's right side.

Reese picked up the bottle with his right hand, unscrewed the cap, and took a sniff.

The scent of Citrus Candy.

It was faint, but it was definitely Citrus Candy—sweet, mixed into the characteristic bitterness of the Potion, like an orange being peeled by a fireplace in winter.

Reese was stunned for a moment.

He remembered Madam Pomfrey saying that all the Potions in the Hospital Wing were brewed by Professor Snape. And Madam Pomfrey had a rule she had stuck to for years—all oral Potions had to be brewed extra bitter, "so as to remind the students to pay attention to their health and not get injured or sick so easily."

When Anthony had come to the Hospital Wing with a fever before, the medicine he received was so bitter that he couldn't stop eating sweets.

But this bottle was sweet.

Reese looked up at Snape. Snape had already turned around and was looking at Harry in the opposite bed. His gaze lingered on Harry's face for a split second, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he had been pricked by something.

"Mr. Potter." His voice returned to its usual mockery. "Next time you ride a broom, I suggest you hold on tighter. Otherwise, Mr. Black will have to risk a dislocated shoulder to save you again."

Harry's face turned a bit pale, but he didn't argue.

Ron couldn't hold it in any longer from the side. "Professor, Harry's broom was jinxed by someone—"

"Mr. Weasley," Snape's voice grew even colder, "I did not ask you."

Ron shut his mouth.

Snape glanced at Reese again. The look was very brief, so brief it was almost impossible to catch. But Reese saw it—in those eyes that were usually as hollow as tunnels, something flashed by.

Then he turned and left, his Black robes disappearing behind the door.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "He's always like this—not much of a talker, but he delivers the medicine right on time." She walked to Reese's bedside and looked at the bottle of medicine. "The scent of Citrus Candy? I told him to brew all the medicine for the Hospital Wing bitter so you all would learn your lesson. It seems an exception was made today."

She didn't say anything more and turned toward the dispensary.

Reese placed the bottle of medicine by his pillow, an indescribable feeling in his heart.

Citrus Candy.

He didn't remember ever eating candy in front of Snape. But he did often eat the salted plum candies Bangbangsent him in the common room, and occasionally he would have one before Potion Class—they were sweet and sour, and they helped sharpen his focus.

Had Snape seen him?

He didn't know.

Cho leaned over from her chair and looked at the bottle. "It smells quite nice. Much better than the one Anthonybrought back last time—that one stank like rotten socks."

Anthony looked up from his notebook. "That was for a cold; how good could it possibly smell? Besides, I didn't ask you to smell it."

"You said it yourself, the whole common room could smell it."

"That's because I accidentally spilled a little—"

Reese listened to their bickering, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly.

Madam Pomfrey poked her head out from the dispensary. "Thirty more minutes of observation. You can talk, but don't be too loud."

Cho sat back and placed the Golden Snitch from her hand onto the nightstand. One of the Snitch's wings was bent, but it was still vibrating slightly, like a wounded butterfly.

Harry's voice came from the opposite side, sounding a bit hesitant. "Black, my broom—"

Cho turned her head to look at him, her expression changing slightly.

"Are you thinking about the broom too?" Her tone was a bit harder than usual. "Do you also think that if the broom hadn't malfunctioned, I wouldn't have caught the Snitch?"

Harry was stunned for a moment and quickly shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant. I wanted to ask—don't you think the timing of the broom's trouble was too coincidental?"

Cho didn't speak immediately.

Reese reached out and lightly touched her arm. Cho looked down at him, and he kept his voice very level. "Let him finish."

Harry sat up a bit more, his expression very serious. "The broom was fine when I first started chasing the Snitch. Just as I was about to reach it, it suddenly stopped obeying. It was like something was controlling it."

Ron nodded vigorously beside him. "It must have been a jinx! And it was aimed at Harry!"

"It was Snape," Ron said, his tone as certain as if he were reciting a textbook. "Slytherin already lost to Ravenclaw, so he definitely didn't want Gryffindor to win. He's always had it in for Harry—"

"It wasn't Snape."

Everyone looked at Hermione. She was standing at the foot of Reese's bed, clutching her notebook, her chin slightly raised with an expression of certainty like when she answered questions in class.

"I saw Professor Quirrell," she said.

The room went quiet for a moment.

"During the match, I was watching the staff table with my binoculars," Hermione's voice dropped, but every word was clear. "Professor Quirrell's eyes were fixed on Harry, and his mouth was moving—like he was chanting something. Professor Snape was sitting right next to him and wasn't looking at Harry at all."

Reese looked at her, his heart stirring slightly. He hadn't told Hermione anything, yet she had observed it herself—or rather, she had deduced it. Granger's mind never needed to be spoon-fed answers.

"So I rushed to the staff table," Hermione continued. "I wanted to light Professor Snape's robes on fire—not because he was the problem, but because he was the Professor closest to Quirrell. If I had bumped into Quirrell, it would have been too obvious. But if something happened to Professor Snape, he would stand up, and Quirrell would have to stop—"

"And then you burned Snape's robes?" Ron's eyes widened.

"I didn't burn them. I just lit them a little," Hermione's expression was a bit subtle. "...Just a few sparks."

"Just a few sparks," Ron repeated, his face looking as if he were saying, 'And you call that just sparks?'

Harry frowned, ignoring Ron, and asked Hermione directly, "You mean Professor Quirrell jinxed my broom? Why? Why would he want to hurt me?"

Hermione was silent for a while, then shook her head. "I don't know."

Ron opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something like "I still think it was Snape," but Harry pulled his sleeve, and he swallowed his words.

Anthony closed his notebook, his voice not loud but very clear. "These are all just our guesses. Accusing a Professoris a very serious matter."

He looked at Harry, then at Hermione.

"If we want to prove it, we can only investigate slowly in private. Guessing alone is useless."

No one replied.

The Hospital Wing fell silent again, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the fireplace. Outside, the sky had darkened, and the lights from the Castle shone through the windows, casting warm yellow patches of light on the white sheets.

Madam Pomfrey came out of the dispensary with a few small bottles. She walked to Harry's bed first, set the medicine down, and gave a few instructions like "three times a day, take after meals." Then she walked over to Reese's side and handed the medicine to Anthony.

"The one with the good memory hold onto this. Don't let him forget to rub it on."

Anthony took the medicine solemnly and put it into the safest compartment of his bag.

"Alright, you can go now," Madam Pomfrey waved them away. "Mr. Black, don't strain your left shoulder for a week. Mr. Potter, you're fine; you were just shaken up. Go back and get some good rest."

Cho stood up and stuffed the bent-winged Golden Snitchinto her pocket. Anthony carried his bag, and Hermioneheld her notebook. Reese sat up from the bed, propping himself up with his right hand on the edge, and Cho reached out to support his right arm.

"I can walk on my own."

"I know." Cho didn't let go.

The four of them walked out of the Hospital Wing, with Ron and Harry following behind. In the corridor, the two groups walked one after the other for a distance. When they were about to split at the staircase, Harry suddenly called out to Reese.

"Black."

Reese stopped and turned around.

Harry stood at the other end of the corridor, the firelight from a hearth reflected in his green eyes.

"Thank you," he said. "Not just for saving me. But for before—on the train, and the time with the Troll. You helped Hermione."

Hermione's pace faltered for a moment, but she didn't look back.

Reese looked at him and nodded. "You're welcome."

The two groups each turned and headed toward staircases in different directions.

—

Inside the Ravenclaw Tower common room, the lights were blazing.

The moment Reese pushed open the door, cheers surged over him like a tide. Blue banners fluttered overhead, the corks of pumpkin juice bottles popped out one after another, and the first-year students crowded around the door, jumping with excitement when they saw Reese and Cho enter.

"Reese! Cho! You're back!"

"Cho, that final dive of yours—I couldn't even see where the Snitch was—"

"Reese, that catch—how did you dare? At that speed—"

Lisa Turpin pressed a cup of pumpkin juice into Reese's right hand and another into Cho's. The two were pushed toward the fireplace, where the rest of the Ravenclawteam was already gathered. Roger Davies sat in the central armchair, holding a butterbeer.

"Black!" Roger stood up and raised his glass to him. "Good job."

Andrew Spinnet squeezed through from the side and patted Reese's uninjured shoulder. "That scene of you catching someone in mid-air is enough for me to brag about for three years before I graduate."

"You say that every time," Bradley said with a laugh, shaking his head.

"This time it's for real."

Reese was ushered into the best seat by the fireplace, holding his pumpkin juice, with a soft pillow propped under his shoulder. Anthony appeared from somewhere with a blanket and draped it over his knees.

"I'm not an invalid," Reese said.

"Madam Pomfrey said it's a tendon tear," Anthony said seriously, flipping open his notebook. "You need to keep warm for the first forty-eight hours; you can't catch a cold."

Reese glanced at him but didn't argue.

Cho sat on the rug next to him and finally pulled the Golden Snitch out of her pocket and set it on the table. The Snitch's wing was even more crooked now, but it was still vibrating slightly. A few first-years gathered around to look, whispering in amazement.

"I'll return it to Madam Hooch tomorrow," Cho said, her tone casual, but the corners of her mouth were turned up.

The fire in the hearth burned brightly, making the whole room feel warm and cozy. Reese leaned back in his chair, holding his pumpkin juice in his right hand, his left shoulder wrapped in Binding Charms, and the blanket Anthony had forced on him draped over his knees. Cho sat on the rug at his feet, telling Lisa about her split-second decisions at the end of the match—where the Snitch appeared, how she determined its direction, and when she accelerated.

Her voice wasn't loud, but it was steady.

Anthony sat in the armchair next to Reese, opening his notebook to re-read the precautions Madam Pomfrey had mentioned. Hermione sat next to him—she had come over from the Gryffindor side, and though a few Ravenclawstudents had glanced at her when she entered, no one said anything.

"Your notes," Hermione leaned over to look at Anthony's book, "you got the frequency of applying the medicine wrong. Madam Pomfrey said twice a day, but you wrote three times."

Anthony looked down and saw that he had indeed written it wrong. He crossed it out and rewrote it, saying as he did, "You remember that?"

"I was listening too, of course," Hermione said as if it were obvious.

Reese listened to them talk, watching the flames dance in the fireplace.

His mind was on something else.

Quirrell.

During the match today, he had seen it—not the details Hermione had observed with binoculars, but something more direct. When he dived down to catch Harry, his peripheral vision had swept across the staff table, and he had seen Quirrell's mouth moving; he had seen those eyes fixed intently on Harry's direction.

And that scarf.

When Quirrell's purple scarf was blown open by the wind, Reese saw what was underneath—it was red, not the material of a scarf, but more like the edge of some kind of turban.

Lord Voldemort was right there, attached to the back of his head.

Reese lowered his eyes and set his pumpkin juice on the table.

He knew. He had known all along. But he couldn't say it.

Hermione had already noticed Quirrell's suspicious behavior, and Anthony was right—accusing a Professorwas a serious matter; they couldn't do anything based on mere guesswork. But investigating in private... that was what Harry, Ron, and Hermione did in the original story. Now Hermione was closer to them, while things with Harry and Ron had cooled off.

He would get involved. He had to get involved—not for the Savior's spotlight, but for Nicolas Flamel's Alchemy notes. The production of Pseudo-talismans required knowledge of Alchemy, and Flamel was the greatest living Alchemist. If he could use the Philosopher's Stone incident to get in touch with Flamel, even if it was just a letter or a transcript of a manuscript, the help it would provide for his research into Pseudo-talismans would be incalculable.

But he couldn't involve his friends in the danger.

Cho, Anthony, and Hermione—they shouldn't have to take risks just because he wanted to acquire Alchemical knowledge.

"What are you thinking about?" Cho's voice came from by his feet.

Reese looked down and saw Cho looking up at him. The firelight was reflected in her eyes, making them sparkle.

"Nothing," he said. "Just thinking about today's match."

Cho glanced at him but didn't press further.