Chapter 100: Snake Blood
"The strongest… the strongest…" The Slytherin players burst into laughter at Flint's words. They quite liked this idea of the "strongest strategy."
"The only one Gryffindor really needs to worry about is Harry Potter—he is an excellent Seeker," Flint said seriously. Then he grinned and pointed at Malfoy.
"But now, the best Seeker is me," Malfoy declared. His broom suddenly accelerated as he performed a series of difficult aerial maneuvers.
Gryffindor's only real advantage had been Harry's ability to catch the Golden Snitch. But now that Harry was up against Slytherin, they had become an insurmountable mountain for Gryffindor.
The Slytherin team erupted in confident cheers.
Goyle and Crabbe, however, stood still with their heads lowered, staring at their toes as if there were flowers blooming on their shoes.
Of course, there were no flowers on their shoes—but the carpet beneath them was patterned with floral designs, edged with gold and silver threads, twisting in jagged lines. Goyle followed those patterns with his eyes until they led to a dark, almost invisible figure sitting on a stool. A cold, oppressive chill seemed to emanate from that figure, wrapping around it. Goyle shivered and quickly looked away.
The small room felt extremely oppressive, and its layout was completely different from last year. Goyle remembered that the walls used to display portraits of famous Slytherin wizards—figures Malfoy once admired. Now, the walls were empty.
The patterns on the walls and floor matched—twisting, winding designs framed in gold and silver, stretching from the doorway all the way to the back wall.
When Goyle had first pushed the door open, he felt as though he had stepped into a dark lord's lair. Though the room was less than twenty square meters, it felt unfathomably deep.
It wasn't until he saw Malfoy inside that he felt some sense of relief—but the moment he entered, he regretted it. The Malfoy before him was completely different from the one he had seen during the day, and even more different from the Malfoy of last year.
Ever since the incident in the Forbidden Forest last year, when he was frightened enough to be hospitalized, Malfoy has become more and more terrifying, Goyle thought.
He didn't like the current Malfoy at all. In fact, he even wanted to switch masters. Back then, dealing with Malfoy had been easy—just stand beside him, laugh a couple of times, and help intimidate other students. He could easily complete his "tasks," enjoy snacks, gain benefits, and even scare others in Malfoy's name.
But now, Malfoy was no longer easy to deal with. He wanted too many people to suffer, and some of the things he ordered Goyle and Crabbe to do made them uneasy. Whenever they gathered information, they had to report again and again. If they failed to meet his expectations—even slightly—he would scold them harshly, or worse, curse them.
Even if it was just a binding spell, the feeling of being tightly restrained was extremely uncomfortable.
Ever since that Forbidden Forest incident, he's like a different person… almost as if he's been possessed by something from the forest, Goyle thought, shivering. He no longer even dared to consider switching masters. Just thinking about how to carry out Malfoy's orders made his heart ache—he felt completely trapped.
Crabbe, on the other hand, didn't think nearly as much as Goyle. His head wasn't small, but most of what filled it revolved around food. Whenever Malfoy sent him and Goyle to spy on Gryffindor, he always managed to get some cake. He had a knack for finding hidden food in the most inconspicuous places.
Just like now—he noticed a goblet on a small table beside Malfoy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. The goblet was filled with a thick, bright red liquid.
Crabbe tiptoed closer, searching his memory to figure out what delicious thing it might be.
"Red wine? No, wine isn't that thick… Fresh juice? Maybe grape juice or tomato juice—it looks a bit viscous…"
But he quickly dismissed that thought. "There's no pulp—just pure liquid. What is it?"
He scratched his head, troubled. For a food lover like him, not knowing what something was felt unbearable. Suddenly, inspiration struck. In all his years of eating, there was almost nothing he hadn't tried.
Whether it was rats or insects, as long as it was cooked properly, he didn't mind. Foods that others found strange weren't unusual to him at all.
"Snake blood!" A flicker of realization crossed his eyes. He remembered his mother once making snake soup—it had been incredibly delicious. The aroma as it simmered had made his mouth water.
He still remembered it clearly. Snake soup required long cooking, and he had wandered around the kitchen looking for something to eat while waiting. That was when he had seen a bowl of leftover red liquid. Without thinking, he had drunk it.
It hadn't been particularly tasty, but it wasn't terrible either. The strong, fishy smell was overwhelming—unlike anything he had ever tasted—but after that came a strange sweetness he still couldn't forget.
"But raw snake blood isn't very good. It's better when cooked into solid blood curds—it's more suitable for making different dishes," Crabbe thought, instantly turning into a "food expert." Various ways of preparing snake blood began flashing through his mind.
Amid Goyle's unease and Crabbe's food-filled thoughts, Malfoy finally stopped meditating.
He didn't immediately look at his two followers. Instead, he turned his gaze to the goblet of snake blood.
"As expected, the more suitable the snake blood is for meditation, the better the results," Malfoy thought, comparing the effects of different materials used to assist his meditation and considering which method was most effective. "It's a pity—I don't have basilisk blood. Such powerful creatures are far too rare."
A trace of regret flashed across his pale face. "Next time, I'll try mixing different types of snake blood."
Malfoy understood why his father had joined the Death Eaters after graduating. Although he had never asked, and his father had never explained, he felt that this was something he was meant to understand—something that should come naturally to him.
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