Chapter 117: Poisoning
McGonagall was in an extremely foul mood.
A serious duel had just occurred earlier, and now something even more grotesque had happened—and to make matters worse, one of the people involved again was Rosier.
"This appears to be a malicious curse," Professor Flitwick said with a frown. He levitated one of the writhing worms into the air and examined it carefully.
"It was Fythorne! He cursed me!" Rosier howled, his face twisted so badly his features seemed to collapse into one another.
"It must have been the spell he cast on me this afternoon!"
He desperately tried to pin the blame on Russell. After all, Russell was the only person he'd offended recently—he couldn't think of anyone else who would want him harmed.
"Mr. Rosier, mind your words," Flitwick said sharply.
"How could a curse cast in the afternoon only take effect now? If Fythorne possessed that level of delayed casting ability, I would be the one asking him for lessons."
"Then he poisoned Rosier's food!" a student shouted suddenly.
McGonagall turned toward the speaker, her brows knitting together.
"And what evidence do you have to support such a claim?"
The student froze under the attention, swallowing nervously before stammering,
"Because… because I saw it! Fythorne's food is different from ours. He must've bribed the kitchen staff to poison Rosier's meal!"
"That is absolutely impossible," Professor Sprout said firmly.
"The house-elves would never harm a Hogwarts student. This is a binding rule left by Helga Hufflepuff herself—magically enforced."
"Then he could've poisoned the food after it was served!" Rosier insisted.
Before he could say more, his expression suddenly turned ghastly again.
The urge to vomit surged back.
"Severus, take Mr. Rosier to Madam Pomfrey at once," McGonagall ordered.
"There's no sense lingering here—and this is the Great Hall. Other students are still eating."
"Come with me," Snape said curtly.
He rummaged through his pocket and produced a small vial, handing it to Rosier.
"If you feel sick, smell this. It should suppress the nausea on the way to the hospital wing. I have no desire to clean your vomit out of the corridors."
"Thank you, Professor," Rosier said weakly.
He uncorked the vial—and was instantly hit by a stench like fermented dead fish.
Strangely enough, the dizziness and nausea vanished at once.
"Mr. Fythorne," McGonagall said, turning to Russell,
"Could you come with me, please?"
"Of course, Professor."
With a light flick of his wand, Flitwick vanished the black sludge and wriggling worms from the floor as though they had never existed.
---
Russell sat across from McGonagall in her office.
"Mr. Fythorne," she said, lips pressed together, her expression serious,
"Was what happened to Mr. Rosier truly not your doing?"
"Absolutely not, Professor," Russell replied calmly.
He genuinely had no idea what had happened to Rosier.
"Very well."
McGonagall nodded and raised her wand. With a sharp pop, a house-elf appeared before them.
It was Kevin.
"Good evening, Professor," he said, bowing politely. Then he noticed Russell—and his face instantly lit up.
"Mr. Fythorne! How was dinner tonight?" he asked eagerly.
"Excellent, Kevin," Russell said, giving him a thumbs-up.
Kevin didn't know what the gesture meant, but he understood it was praise. His face flushed bright red with excitement.
"It was my honor!"
McGonagall watched the exchange in mild disbelief. She still didn't understand why Russell was so popular with the house-elves—or why they even knew his name.
"Kevin," she said, clearing her throat to regain his attention,
"I summoned you to ask something."
"Please go ahead, Professor," Kevin said, bowing again.
"Did Mr. Fythorne ever ask you—or any house-elf—to poison Mr. Rosier's food?"
"Of course not!" Kevin exclaimed, horrified.
"How could such a thing happen? Did we do something wrong?"
His smile vanished.
"Professor, you can't doubt us like this—and Mr. Fythorne would never ask me to do something like that."
Kevin looked so distressed that he suddenly turned toward the wall, clearly intending to slam his head into it—but Russell caught him just in time.
"Kevin, I was only asking a question," Professor McGonagall said awkwardly.
"Of course I trust you. If you say it didn't happen, then it didn't. You may return now."
"Goodbye, Professor McGonagall. Goodbye, Mr. Fythorne," Kevin said after steadying himself. He bowed deeply to both of them, then vanished from the office.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fythorne," McGonagall said, a trace of guilt crossing her face as she explained,
"I heard from some Gryffindor students that Rosier used extremely offensive language toward you this afternoon. Combined with the certainty shown by that Slytherin student, Komorgan, I allowed myself a moment of doubt."
"I understand completely, Professor," Russell replied with a smile.
"You were simply doing your duty."
"I'm very glad you see it that way," McGonagall said, visibly relieved.
"By the way—how far have you progressed in Transfiguration?"
"I've more or less finished the third-year textbooks," Russell answered.
If anything, he was being modest—he was already a third of the way through fourth year as well.
"Excellent. Truly excellent," McGonagall said, her eyes lighting up. After a brief moment of thought, she made a decision.
"Would you be willing to join my Transfiguration Club?"
Normally, such invitations were extended only to third-years and above—except in rare cases of exceptional talent.
"I'd be honored, Professor," Russell said happily.
"I can't wait."
Both of them left the conversation satisfied.
After discussion among the professors, no culprit was identified. Since Rosier's condition wasn't life-threatening, the incident was ultimately shelved.
That said, nearly every student believed Russell had something to do with it.
Most Slytherins were furious.
The other three Houses, however, quietly applauded.
After all, Rosier's remarks had offended nearly every non–pure-blood student—and even some pure-bloods took issue with him afterward.
The Weasleys.
The Longbottoms.
The Abbotts.
Russell noticed his popularity surge overnight. Students began looking at him with open admiration, which honestly made him a little embarrassed.
As for who was truly behind it all—he felt he already knew the answer.
"Wednesday, thank you," Russell said to the girl reading beside him.
"Hm?" She frowned slightly and closed her book.
"I know you were involved," Russell said with a smile.
"And you too, Thing."
A disembodied hand crawled out from behind Wednesday, sheepishly making its way toward him.
"How did you figure it out?" Wednesday asked, frowning.
"I don't believe I left any flaws. It was a perfect crime."
"You overlooked one thing," Russell said, gently patting her head.
"At Hogwarts, there are only a few people who would step in for me."
"Cedric wouldn't use this method.
The Weasley twins would've used enchanted items.
That leaves only you."
"Let me guess," he continued.
"You had Thing sneak into the kitchens and place a curse on the food served at Rosier's seat?"
"There was no need to go that far," Russell said calmly.
"Even if the professors didn't say anything, I'm fairly sure Snape figured it out. He just chose not to expose it."
"I only wanted him to get what he deserved," Wednesday said, meeting his gaze.
"He brought it on himself."
"I know," Russell said softly, reassuring her.
"I just don't want you getting dragged into this."
"Don't you trust my abilities?" he added confidently.
"If Rosier's family gets involved, then you can help."
If he could handle it himself, he would.
If the other side escalated—then all bets were off.
---
On Thursday night, Russell arrived at Snape's office as scheduled.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He waited politely.
"Enter," Snape's voice came from inside, cold and low as ever.
Seeing Russell, Snape's expression softened slightly—though his tone remained sharp.
"Go. Clean that basin of entrails over there."
"Right away, Professor," Russell replied cheerfully.
He reached for his wand, but Snape stopped him.
"Using magic damages the organs too easily. There are dragonhide gloves over there—use your hands."
"…Fair enough," Russell muttered inwardly.
Your office, your rules.
Russell sat on a small stool washing entrails by hand, while Snape read at his desk.
Surprisingly… peaceful.
Once he'd cleaned about half, Russell judged the timing right and ventured carefully:
"Professor Snape—about the textbooks you gave me earlier. May I lend them to someone else?"
"No—"
Snape stopped himself, coughed lightly, then corrected,
"I mean… those books are still useful to me."
"Since you're here anyway, I might as well say it now. You're in second year. You no longer need them."
"You may return them to me."