Chapter 157: The Quidditch Season
Cyrian decided there was no point worrying about embarrassment anymore. He told Flint everything that had happened, recounting the entire story in detail.
"A dark wizard…" Flint said thoughtfully.
Combined with his long horse-like face, the expression looked rather ridiculous.
"Do you think it's possible," Flint suddenly said, "that the dark wizard was actually Fythorne in disguise?"
He proposed the theory with complete seriousness.
"Think about it," he continued. "You followed him into the Forbidden Forest, and suddenly a dark wizard shows up at that exact moment. And the two of them were never seen at the same time."
The logic barely held together.
But Cyrian believed it instantly.
After all, people often choose to believe what they want to believe.
"If that's the case," Cyrian asked, still confused, "why are Gluk and the others treating me like this?"
"Probably because you cost Slytherin a hundred points."
Cyrian clenched his teeth.
"That damn Fythorne! This whole mess is his fault! If it weren't for him, that idiot Hagrid wouldn't have caught me and dragged me to Dumbledore's office!"
"Calm down, Cyrian," Flint said.
"I actually came to talk to you about something important."
"What?"
"I want you back on the Quidditch team."
"If we win the Quidditch Cup," Flint said confidently, "then the House Cup might still go to Slytherin."
"You're right," Cyrian said, immediately perking up.
But then he hesitated.
"Didn't Addams take my position?"
"That's true," Flint admitted. "But there are still other Beater positions. And honestly—your skills are better than the others anyway."
He wasn't wrong.
Cyrian wasn't as strong as Addams, but compared to the other Beaters, he was definitely more capable.
"Thanks, Flint," Cyrian said, touched. "At times like this, I realize who my real friends are."
"No need to thank me," Flint replied casually.
"We're pure-bloods. We should help each other."
---
While things were looking up for Cyrian, Russell was facing a different kind of trouble.
"Miss Skeeter," Russell said with a sigh, "is it really necessary to interview me? Couldn't you just… make something up like you usually do?"
Russell and Rita Skeeter were sitting across from each other in an empty classroom.
Rita smiled in her overly dramatic way.
"That would be different, Mr. Fythorne."
"Oh—and I still need to thank you for the information you gave me last time."
"You mean about Sirius Black?" Russell remembered. "Looks like you made good use of it."
"Oh, absolutely," Rita said proudly.
"I'm now the deputy editor of the Daily Prophet."
"If we're doing this interview, let's get it over with," Russell said, tapping the desk impatiently. "I assume you know how to write the article."
"Of course, of course," Rita replied quickly.
But Russell's tone clearly carried a hint of warning, and her smile became slightly stiff.
"However," she added slyly, "if the reports keep praising you like this, people might start wondering whether there's some sort of relationship between us."
"I don't mind, of course," she said sweetly. "But it might affect your reputation."
Rita had just turned the tables on him.
"…You have a point," Russell admitted after a moment.
"Fine. Let me review the article before it's published. I'll mark the places where you're allowed to embellish."
"Embellish?" Rita protested. "It's called artistic enhancement."
---
The interview lasted nearly the entire afternoon.
According to Rita's plan, the interview would be split into three separate articles—Part One, Two, and Three.
That way she would have plenty of material for weeks.
---
November arrived quickly.
The weather turned bitterly cold.
The green hills surrounding Hogwarts faded into a pale gray landscape covered with frost.
The lake looked like hardened steel—cold and unyielding.
Every morning the ground was frozen.
From the castle windows, Russell often spotted Rubeus Hagrid trudging across the Quidditch pitch.
Wrapped in a long moleskin coat, wearing rabbit-fur gloves and enormous beaver-fur boots, Hagrid was usually busy scraping frost off the flying brooms on the Quidditch field.
The Quidditch season was about to begin.
During this time, Wednesday attended every training session without fail. Although Flint constantly tried to nitpick her performance, she delivered flawlessly every single time.
That left Flint both pleased and irritated.
Pleased—because the Slytherin team had grown stronger.
Irritated—because he had previously lost face in front of Wednesday and Russell, and he had never managed to reclaim his dignity.
This Saturday would be Wednesday's first match ever.
It would be Slytherin vs. Gryffindor in the season opener of Quidditch.
Even though she performed extremely well and usually acted as if nothing in the world mattered to her, Russell could clearly sense her tension after spending so much time with her.
"I'm not nervous," Wednesday said seriously, staring at Russell.
"Don't pretend in front of me," Russell replied with a grin.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and began loosening her stiff muscles. Her shoulders were rigid, the muscles tight—obvious signs of nerves.
"Fine," she admitted, lifting her chin slightly. "Maybe I am a little nervous."
"When we train," she continued thoughtfully, "it always feels like the others can't keep up with my rhythm."
She looked at Russell seriously.
"Even if I perform perfectly, if they make mistakes, we still won't win."
"There's not much you can do about that," Russell said with a shrug.
"Everyone has different levels of talent when it comes to Quidditch. You can't force it."
Then he added jokingly:
"Or after graduation, you could become a professional Quidditch player. Just join a strong team."
"A professional player?" Wednesday shook her head immediately.
"I'm not interested in that."
"After graduation, I want to become an assassin."
She said it with complete seriousness.
"That actually sounds pretty good," Russell laughed.
"When the time comes, I'll join you. The two of us together—an infamous duo of deadly assassins. Sounds pretty impressive, right?"
"That sounds stupid," she said flatly, shaking her head.
But Russell caught the faint trace of a smile hidden deep in her eyes.
---
Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor Common Room, things were far more restless.
Harry was pacing back and forth across the room, making both Hermione and Ron dizzy.
"Why does Snape have the right to confiscate that book?" Harry complained angrily.
Thanks to his improved performance in Potions, Severus Snape no longer had many opportunities to embarrass him during class.
But instead, Snape had become even more difficult in daily life.
"No," Harry muttered, pacing faster. "Tomorrow I'm going to get it back."
"I'll tell him the book belongs to a friend."
"Or I'll go to Minerva McGonagall and ask her to write a note saying I'm allowed to take it out."
The more Harry talked, the more excited he became. The plan sounded increasingly plausible to him.
"If I were you, I wouldn't do that," Ron and Hermione said simultaneously.
"Besides," Harry continued stubbornly, "if another professor is there, Snape probably won't dare refuse me."