Evelyn Gray's long legs, wrapped in sharply tailored charcoal-gray trousers, took steps as precise as if measured by a compass.
(Evelyn Gray was Rita's arch-nemesis, the Editor-in-Chief of one of the top magical weeklies, Witch Weekly.)
She entered through the perpetually squeaky glass door of the Daily Prophet office. Her high heels clicked against the worn marble floor—clack, clack, clack—crisp, hard, and carrying an unquestionable rhythm.
The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed to possess a certain magic, instantly cutting through the chaotic, boiling-pot noise of the office.
The buzzing magical typewriters stopped. The inkwells chasing each other in mid-air froze. An intern, currently having his head repeatedly bashed with a rolled-up parchment by a senior editor, froze mid-flinch.
Dozens of gazes—carrying surprise, curiosity, and a sliver of instinctual fear—turned in unison toward the figure walking in.
Evelyn was incredibly tall.
Even among the generally tall wizarding population, she stood out like a crane among chickens.
Her body, encased in the impeccably ironed charcoal-gray business suit without a single wrinkle, possessed lines as sharp as an unsheathed sword.
Her black hair was pinned into a meticulous bun at the back of her head, revealing a smooth forehead and a pair of gray-blue eyes.
Those eyes were like the surface of a lake frozen year-round—rippleless, yet capable of reflecting every image with a cold, clear precision.
Rita Skeeter was sitting behind her massive desk, which was piled high with reader mail, empty inkwells, and half an eaten muffin.
Her signature Quick-Quotes Quill hovered over a piece of parchment, a drop of acid-green ink still dangling from the tip.
Her face wore her trademark, sickeningly sweet smile. Seeing Evelyn walk in, her smile widened by half a fraction, her voice as shrill as a feather scratching glass.
"Oh, Evelyn, darling.
What wind blows you from that boring office of Witch Weekly—which feels like a library reading room—to our lively little place?
Have you come to... hmm, learn how to write stories that readers actually want to read?"
Evelyn did not answer.
She walked up to Rita's desk, towering nearly two heads above it.
She lowered her eyelids, her gray-blue gaze sweeping like a searchlight over Rita's face, plastered in overly thick foundation, over her tacky, fake-jewel-encrusted glasses, and finally landing on that acid-green quill.
Then, she moved.
The copy of the Daily Prophet rolled up in her hand was slammed mercilessly onto Rita's desk.
Smack!
A loud crash.
Rita's inkwell jumped, splashing acid-green ink all over the "exclusive scoop" she was halfway through writing about how some poor Squib child was abused by their family, leaving a massive stain.
The Quick-Quotes Quill trembled in mid-air as if startled, nearly dropping to the floor.
A deathly silence fell over the office.
The smile on Rita's face froze.
She looked at the newspaper slapped open on her desk. On the front page headline, a photograph of a young wizard stared out at her in terror.
The headline was printed in alarmingly large font: "Savior Hero or Cold-Blooded Monster? — The Truth Behind Former Auror Daniel Creevey's Post-War Trauma!"
"Explain, Rita."
Evelyn's voice rang out.
The voice wasn't loud, even soft, yet it acted like an ice pick, effortlessly piercing the stagnant air in the office.
There was no fiery anger in Evelyn's voice, only something far more terrifying than anger—absolute, extreme coldness.
Rita snapped back from her shock. She adjusted her glasses, re-plastered that fake smile onto her face, and elegantly pulled the newspaper toward her with long fingers painted with bright red nail polish.
"Explain what, darling?
This is our exclusive scoop. I spent an entire week digging these details out of Mr. Creevey's neighbors, the owner of the pub he frequents, and even from the beak of his own owl.
People love reading this. They want to know what heroes look like when the halo fades. This is called... hmm, satisfying the public's right to know."
Her Quick-Quotes Quill began to fly across the blank parchment next to her on its own again.
[Evelyn Gray, the Ice Queen of Witch Weekly, barged into my office aggressively, wearing her signature expression that makes it look as if the whole world owes her five hundred gold Galleons. The flames of jealousy burned in her eyes; clearly, she could not bear the fact that our Daily Prophet, relying on a keen journalistic sense and unparalleled in-depth reporting, had once again captured everyone's attention...]
"You call this in-depth reporting?"
Evelyn extended a single finger—long, with distinct knuckles, the nail trimmed cleanly and sharply.
Her fingertip tapped the photograph on the newspaper. In the photo, Daniel Creevey was curled up in a corner, hands clutching his head, his eyes unfocused and terrified.
"You broke into the home of a wizard undergoing post-war psychological treatment. You fired a Flash Charm in his face thirty-seven times until he suffered a mental breakdown from a triggered curse aftereffect.
You turned his panic, his vulnerability, his survivor's guilt over losing his comrades, entirely into a cheap drama for people's amusement.
You even fabricated the detail that he howls at the moon in the middle of the night. Rita, howling at the moon?
Do you think you're writing fairy tales?"
Every word Evelyn spoke seemed squeezed through her teeth—cold, sharp, devoid of any emotion.
"Oh, darling, don't be so serious.
A little bit of artistic embellishment is to make the story more... hmm, compelling."
Rita shrugged, her nail scratching against the newspaper with a harsh rasp. "Besides, he is a public figure. Since he enjoyed the praises of a hero, he must bear the price of being in the spotlight.
It's quite fair, isn't it?"
The Quick-Quotes Quill wrote even faster.
[...With her impoverished imagination, she viciously speculated upon the arduous efforts I expended in pursuit of journalistic truth. Her cold heart is clearly unable to comprehend the noble sentiment of a reporter willing to bear infamy for the sake of the public's right to know...]
Evelyn leaned forward.
Her tall frame crossed the edge of the desk, the shadow cast by her upper body instantly enveloping Rita. Her hands braced on the desktop, her gray-blue eyes staring dead into the eyes behind Rita's fake jewel glasses.
The distance between the two was so close they could smell the cloyingly sweet scent of perfume mixed with ink emanating from Rita.
"Price?"
Evelyn's voice dropped even lower, as if sharing a secret only the two of them could hear. "Let's talk about price, Rita."
Her fingertip gave a light flick on the desktop, and an imperceptible fluctuation of magical power spread outward.
The Quick-Quotes Quill beside Rita, writing frantically, suddenly seemed to suffer an epileptic fit. It drew crazed circles on the parchment, slinging acid-green ink everywhere, until finally, with a snap, the shaft of the pen broke clean in two.
Rita's smile vanished completely.
"A little beetle."
Evelyn's voice was like the hiss of a venomous snake drilling into Rita's ear. "An unregistered, bright green little beetle that likes to eavesdrop on other people's windowsills.
Tell me, if the people from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures knew such a little thing was flying around unsupervised, what kind of... hmm, price... do you think they would prepare for it?"
Rita's face turned as pale as paper in that instant, but it only lasted less than three seconds.
In those eyes hidden behind the fake jewel glasses, the look of fear seemed to be ignited from within by something, rapidly replaced by a much more dangerous glint.
It was the desperate, all-or-nothing ferocity found only in a cornered beast.
"A little beetle?"
Rita laughed, her voice shrill. The laughter echoed in the pin-drop quiet office, piercing eardrums until they ached.
She stood up from her chair, her movements much faster than Evelyn expected. Those hands painted with bright red nail polish braced against the desk as she leaned forward, a vein popping out on her neck under the strained posture.
"Evelyn Gray, Chief Reporter of Witch Weekly, the Ice Queen, the moral benchmark of the journalism world."
The tip of Rita's tongue licked her upper lip, the curve of her mouth twisting into a near-manic angle.
"How clean do you think you are?"
Evelyn's eyebrow twitched, the movement so extremely subtle it was almost invisible.
But Rita caught that movement. Like a shark smelling blood, the light in her eyes grew brighter.
"In 1987, Evelyn Gray, an intern reporter for Witch Weekly, sneaked into Nurmengard Prison—which had not yet been breached at the time—to get a first-hand exclusive scoop."
Rita dragged out her words, as if savoring a delicacy with every syllable. "What method did you use to get in, darling?"
A chorus of sharp intakes of breath sounded in the office.
Nurmengard Prison, in 1987, was still one of the most heavily guarded facilities in the entire European magical world.
For an intern reporter to sneak in there and secure an exclusive interview was an event that shocked the entire journalism world back then, and it was the starting point of Evelyn Gray's career.
But no one ever knew how she got in.
"That report made you famous overnight, didn't it?"
Rita tapped her fingers twice on the desk, her nails clicking against the wood with a clack-clack. "Conversations with the Dark Lord topped the sales charts for three consecutive weeks. Your name went from being a nobody to a gold-standard brand known throughout the British magical world.
But, darling..."
She leaned forward a bit more, her voice lowered to a level only the two of them could hear.
Evelyn's expression did not change, but her right index finger twitched.
The movement was small—just a light flick of her fingertip against the side of her thigh, as if swatting away a non-existent mosquito.
The corner of Rita's eye caught that movement.
Her mouth was still speaking, her voice still shrill and biting, but her left hand had stealthily moved beneath the desktop. Her fingers formed a strange gesture within the folds of her robe.
"And in 1992, your in-depth report on werewolf rights." Rita's voice rose half an octave, as if performing for someone. "You interviewed thirty-seven werewolves, twelve of whom were on the Ministry of Magic's danger list.
How did you find them? How did you get them to talk?"
Evelyn's left hand clenched into a fist at her side, then uncurled.
As it uncurled, her pinky and ring finger curled inward, as if counting something.
Rita saw it.
She brought her right hand up from beneath the desk, pretending to adjust her hair. Her fingers lingered behind her ear for a second; bringing her index and middle fingers together, she tapped twice lightly.
"Do you know what the most interesting part is, Evelyn?"
Rita's voice suddenly became very soft, so soft it sounded like a whisper, but the movements of her lips were exaggerated—so exaggerated that anyone who could read lips could clearly see what she was saying. "The most interesting part is that every single one of your so-called 'in-depth reports' was published exactly when the Ministry of Magic needed to divert public attention.
In 1987, the week the Nurmengard interview was published, the Ministry was secretly handling a smuggling case involving three pure-blood families.
In 1992, the month the werewolf report was published, the Ministry had just passed a highly controversial biological control bill."
Her eyes stared straight at Evelyn, but her eyeballs shifted slightly to the left, turning toward a seemingly ordinary potted Devil's Ivy in the corner of the office.
The leaves of the Devil's Ivy rustled gently in the windless room.
Evelyn's pupils contracted.
"What are you trying to say, Rita?"
Her voice was still cold, but her speaking speed was a tiny bit faster than before. "Are you trying to say I'm a Death Eater?"
"I didn't say anything, darling."
Rita's smile became even more sickly-sweet, so sweet it made one nauseous. "I am merely... hmm, recalling some past events.
After all, we are old colleagues. Isn't it perfectly normal to learn about each other's glorious histories?"
Her finger drew a circle on the desktop; the direction of the circle was clockwise.
Evelyn's finger also drew a circle against the side of her thigh; the direction was counter-clockwise.
The two women stared at each other, speaking completely unrelated words, but their fingers were engaging in another, silent conversation.
Rita: [Three. Corner, door, ceiling.]
Evelyn: [I know. How long?]
Rita: [At least a week. You?]
Evelyn: [Three days. Tracking Charms, on clothes.]
Rita's eyelid twitched, but her mouth continued to spew those sharp, biting words.
"Speaking of glorious histories, it does remind me. Your 1995 investigative report on Death Eater families sent the heirs of quite a few pure-blood families to Azkaban." Her voice dragged long, as if savoring a memory. "Where did you get those pieces of evidence? The Ministry's archives?"
The corner of Evelyn's mouth moved. The gesture looked like a sneer to others, but Rita knew it was another signal.
[Whose people?]
Rita's fingers responded: [Uncertain.
Could be the Minister's Office, or it could be... higher up.]
Evelyn raised an eyebrow.
[Higher up?]
Rita's fingers paused for a second, then drew a triangle on the desk.
Evelyn's expression finally changed.
She knew the meaning of that triangle all too well. Not the Ministry of Magic, not the Auror Office, but that organization that never appeared on any official documents, existing only in rumors.
"Your accusations are baseless, Rita." Evelyn's voice returned to its cold tone, but her fingers were gesturing frantically. "Every one of my reports can stand up to scrutiny; every source of information is documented. Unlike some people who rely on eavesdropping and fabrication to grab attention."
[Certain?]
Rita's fingers responded: [Uncertain.
But that potted Devil's Ivy was changed last week. I bought the previous one myself and put a mark on the leaves. This one doesn't have it.]
Evelyn's gaze swept rapidly over the potted Devil's Ivy in the corner, then moved away.
The leaves of the Devil's Ivy rustled again, the movement larger than before.
"Alright, darling, we are both smart people." Rita suddenly changed her tone, her voice becoming much slicker. "You didn't come here just to have a row with me, did you?
Spit it out, what exactly do you want?"
Evelyn straightened up, her tall frame resuming its condescending posture.
"A statement of apology, front page tomorrow." Her voice brooked no negotiation. "That is my bottom line."
"A statement of apology?" Rita's laughter rang out again, but this time it carried a trace of bitterness only Evelyn could detect. "Fine, I can write it.
But, darling, are you sure you want me to write it? Are you sure you want me to admit on paper, under my name, that I did something wrong?"
Her finger wrote a single word on the desk.
[Trap.]
Evelyn's eyes narrowed.
[What trap?]
Rita's fingers continued to write: [The moment the apology is published, it's an admission that there's a problem with my reporting. If there's a problem, there will be an investigation. If they investigate, they will trace the sources.
My sources of information... some of them leaked from your side.]
Evelyn's fingers paused.
She remembered.
For that 1995 report on Death Eater families, she had indeed leaked some information to Rita.
She had gotten that information from an anonymous informant. She didn't use it herself because the information was too sensitive; the moment it was published, it would attract the Ministry's attention.
So she gave the information to Rita, letting Rita publish it while keeping herself out of it.
If Rita's statement of apology triggered an investigation, the source of that information would be traced.
Traced back to Rita, then traced back to her, and then traced back to that informant.
And that informant was now a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Magic.
"Are you threatening me?" Evelyn's voice was as cold as if drifting from an ice cellar.
"I am reminding you, darling."
Rita's smile became pregnant with meaning. "We are grasshoppers on the same string. You drag me into the water, and you won't be getting to shore yourself either."
Her finger drew the final symbol on the desk.
[Cooperate?]
Evelyn fell silent for three seconds.
In those three seconds, the air in the office seemed to freeze. The leaves of the potted Devil's Ivy in the corner were still gently swaying, something seemed to move in the shadows by the door, and an extremely faint squeak, like a mouse scurrying over floorboards, came from a corner of the ceiling.
Evelyn's fingers moved.
[Terms?]
Rita's eyes lit up.
[Information sharing.
Tell me what you know, I tell you what I know.
And...]
Her fingers paused for a second, then wrote the final few words.
[Help me find out who swapped that potted Devil's Ivy.]
A sliver of a genuine smile finally appeared on Evelyn's lips, a smile as cold as winter moonlight.
"Very well, Rita." Her voice returned to a normal volume. "We can discuss the statement of apology further.
But the next time you write that kind of garbage, I won't be so polite."
She turned and walked toward the door, the sound of her high heels clicking on the floor echoing in the office.
When she reached the door, she stopped and looked back at Rita.
"By the way, the Devil's Ivy in your office is growing well." Her voice was very soft, so soft only Rita could hear. "But you're overwatering it; the leaves are starting to turn yellow."
Rita's face changed color for an instant, then returned to normal.
"Thank you for the reminder, darling." Her voice was equally soft. "I'll keep that in mind."
The glass door closed behind Evelyn with a creak.
The office returned to its cacophony; the magical typewriters began buzzing, the inkwells resumed chasing each other, and the intern being bashed on the head by the senior editor continued to be bashed.
Rita sat back down in her chair, her gaze falling on the potted Devil's Ivy in the corner.
The leaves of the Devil's Ivy were no longer swaying; it was as quiet as a real, ordinary plant.
But Rita knew that was just an illusion.
Her hands clenched into fists beneath the desktop, her nails digging into her palms, leaving several crescent-shaped red marks.
When Jerry opened his eyes, the back of his head felt like it had been repeatedly struck with a blunt object all night.
Two blood vessels in his temples were throbbing wildly. The frequency of the throbbing was completely out of sync with his heartbeat, alternating fast and slow, like two out-of-sync drummers fighting in his cranial cavity.
He rolled his eyes; the muscles in his eye sockets ached as if someone had pressed down on them hard. It took his retinas three seconds to adjust to the dim light in the room.
The fire in the fireplace had gone out, leaving only a pile of grayish-white ash behind the iron grate emitting a final wisp of pale smoke.
The curtains were drawn tight, but a sliver of pale morning light seeped through the crack. That line of light fell on the floor, perfectly illuminating a foot wearing a black leather boot.
The owner of that foot would never move again.
Jerry's gaze moved up from the leather boot, past the calf, past the knee, past the thigh, past the waist and abdomen, finally stopping on the face. It was the face of a young man, looking about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. His features were regular, his jawline strong, but at this moment, the expression on that face was frozen in twisted terror. His eyes were wide open, the pupils already beginning to cloud over. His mouth hung open, as if he wanted to shout something before he died but failed to do so.
There was a horizontal slash across his throat. The edges of the wound were as neat as if cut by a scalpel, but the depth of the cut was excessively deep—so deep that the white tracheal cartilage and the dark red cross-section of the carotid artery were visible inside.
Blood poured from that wound, covering the floor, soaking a massive dark brown stain into the wool carpet.
Jerry's brow furrowed.
"Aurora."
His voice was as raspy as sandpaper scraping. His throat was painfully dry, and when he spoke, it felt like something was blocking his windpipe.
"The wool carpet in here is very, very expensive."
He sat up from the sofa, his movements very slow. Every muscle protested, as if he had been disassembled and reassembled.
He braced his hands on the armrests of the sofa, his knuckles turning white, his nails digging into the velvet fabric.
"Could you not splatter the blood out of their bodies?"
On the other side of the room, Aurora was standing by the window with her back to Jerry. Her silhouette looked exceptionally slender in the sliver of morning light filtering through the curtain gap. Her black robes hung to her ankles, the hem stained with a few drops of dark red blood, but she seemed completely unconcerned.
She turned around and clapped her hands together. The bloodstains on her palms turned into fine beads of blood from the clapping motion, splashing into the air, and were then frozen by some invisible force, suspended in mid-air like a necklace of red pearls.
"These guys wouldn't cooperate."
Her voice was very flat, as flat as if remarking that the weather today was nice. Her face couldn't be seen clearly in the dim light, but the corners of her mouth were curved into an arc. That arc was not a smile, but an almost bored, careless expression.
"There was nothing else I could do."
Jerry's gaze moved away from her, sweeping over the other bodies in the room.
Five bodies in total.
Aside from the young man with his throat slit, there were four others.
One had collapsed next to the fireplace, a fist-sized hole in his chest. The edges of the hole were charred black, as if pierced by something high-temperature. The heart was missing entirely, leaving only scorched ribs and smoking lung lobes.
One was slumped over the desk, the back of his head half caved in. Brain matter mixed with blood flowed from the caved-in wound, soaking a patch of pink stain into the parchment on the desk.
One was curled up in a corner, his body twisted into an impossible angle. His spine had pierced through the skin of his back, the white bones reflecting a pale luster in the dim light.
The last one lay in the doorway, limbs splayed out like a discarded ragdoll. But his head was missing, leaving only a jagged cross-section on his neck. The blood vessels on the cross-section were still seeping blood, dripping onto the floor drop by drop, drip, drop, drip.
Jerry's frown deepened.
"Order of the Phoenix?"
"Tracking squad." Aurora walked over. Her steps were very light, making no sound as she stepped in the pools of blood, like a cat walking on water. "Five people, three men and two women, all veterans.
They've been staking this place out since yesterday afternoon. I originally intended to handle them after you finished the forging, but they tried to break down the door in the middle of the night, so I had to act early."
She stopped in front of Jerry, looking down at him. Her gray-blue eyes reflected a cold light in the dimness.
"Is your forging complete?"
Jerry rubbed his temples. The pressure sent an aching throb from his temples to his brow, then from his brow to the back of his head, like a snake slithering through his cranial cavity.
"It's done."
Jerry's voice was exhausted, as exhausted as if he hadn't slept for three days and three nights.
In fact, he truly hadn't slept for three days and three nights. The forging ritual (to synthesize a crystal golem of this scale) required continuous mental focus; a single second of distraction could cause the entire ritual to fail, and the price of failure was something he could not afford to bear.
"But my brain cells are about to melt."
The corner of Aurora's mouth twitched. To others, the gesture might have looked like a smile, but Jerry knew it wasn't.
"The tracking squads of the Order of the Phoenix are not your average spies."
Her voice turned slightly serious. "They are Dumbledore's private troops; every one of them has fought their way out of the frontlines.
To be selected for the tracking squad, one must have at least five years of combat experience and pass a screening test designed by Dumbledore himself."
Her finger drew a circle in the air. The beads of blood suspended in mid-air were drawn by her movement, converging into a fist-sized blood sphere. The blood sphere spun on her fingertip like a dark red planet.
"Of these five people, two participated in the First Wizarding War, one is a former elite from the Auror Office, and two are retired from the Azkaban guard forces.
Their combined combat experience exceeds eighty years."
Jerry's eyes narrowed.
"You handled them alone?"
"Took three minutes." Aurora's tone held no trace of boasting, merely stating a fact. "If I didn't have to keep quiet so as not to disturb your forging ritual, I could have been faster."
She flicked a finger; the blood sphere burst with a pop, turning into countless fine mists of blood. The blood mist drifted in the air for two seconds before being absorbed by some invisible force, vanishing without a trace.
"But that's not the point."
She walked to the window, using a finger to pull back a corner of the curtain, and glanced outside through the crack.
"The point is, why would the Order of the Phoenix send a tracking squad to keep an eye on you?"
Jerry leaned against the back of the sofa, the back of his head resting against the velvet fabric, his eyes staring at the extinguished crystal chandelier on the ceiling.
The crystal pendants of the chandelier refracted faint rainbow colors in the morning light, twinkling like countless blinking eyes.
"Dumbledore doesn't trust me."
"Dumbledore doesn't trust anyone." Aurora's voice drifted over from the window. "But sending a tracking squad to watch you means his distrust has escalated to the point where he needs to take action.
What have you done recently to put him on guard?"
The corner of Jerry's mouth twitched.
"Too many things."
His fingers tapped the armrest of the sofa twice; the sound of his knuckles striking the velvet fabric was muffled, like a heartbeat.
Jerry stood up from the sofa. His movements were very slow, like an old man working out stiff joints.
He walked over to the corpse with the slit throat, looking down at the face frozen in terror for two seconds, then crouched down, his fingers fishing something out of the corpse's robe pocket.
It was a badge, silver, engraved with a phoenix with spread wings.
"Dispose of these bodies first."
He stuffed the badge into his own pocket and stood up. "Then, I need to go see someone."
"Who?"
Jerry walked toward the door, his footsteps stepping through the pools of blood that had already begun to coagulate, the soles of his shoes making a sticky squish-squish sound.
"Someone who can tell me exactly what Dumbledore is afraid of."
In the Gryffindor common room, the fire in the fireplace crackled, the orange-red light casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Ron Weasley bounced up from that battered armchair, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. The latest House Cup leaderboard was written on the parchment in red ink.
His face was flushed beet-red, so red it almost blended in with his hair. His mouth was split into a grin reaching his ears, revealing a row of uneven teeth.
"Harry! Harry, look!"
He shoved the parchment right into Harry's face, shoving so hard Harry had to tilt his head back, his glasses nearly slipping down his nose.
Ron's voice was as shrill as a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Everyone in the entire common room turned to look at him; a few younger students were so startled by his volume that the quills in their hands dropped to the floor.
"A difference of three hundred and nineteen points!
Three hundred and nineteen points!"
He hopped around in the empty space between the armchair and the sofa, his footsteps making muffled thump-thump-thump sounds on the carpet, like a crazed kangaroo.
"There are only four days left until the end of the House Cup!
Four days!
Even if those Slytherin snakes sharpen their heads and drill into the points, they can't possibly make up over three hundred points in four days!"
Harry sat on the sofa, still holding that dog-eared copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. His eyes lifted from the pages, looking at Ron dancing around wildly, the corner of his mouth twitching, not knowing what to say.
"Ron, calm down a bit..."
"Calm down?
Why should I calm down?"
Ron's eyes were wide as if two glass marbles were about to pop out of their sockets. He slapped the parchment onto the coffee table; the smack made the inkwell on the table jump, splashing a few drops of ink from the mouth to soak into several small black spots on the wooden surface.
"Do you know what this means?
It means that bastard whose last name is Rozier has to pack up and get out!"
His voice shot up an octave on the words "get out," so high it sounded like he was singing opera.
"He said it himself!
He said it himself in the Great Hall, in front of everyone!"
Ron's finger poked at the air, pointing in the direction of the Great Hall. Even though the Great Hall couldn't be seen from the common room at all, he poked very hard, as if trying to poke a hole in the air.
"If Slytherin's points fall behind Gryffindor's, even by just one point, he will drop out of Hogwarts!"
He mimicked Jerry's tone of voice, lowering his pitch and putting on an unfathomable air, but his acting was truly terrible; the lowered voice sounded like a duck with a cold quacking.
"One point!
He said one point!
Right now we are leading by three hundred and nineteen points!
Three hundred and nineteen!"
Ron held up three fingers and waved them in front of Harry, then held up one finger, then held up nine fingers—he didn't have enough fingers, so he had to hold out both hands, gesturing wildly in the air.
"He's finished!
That arrogant, scowling bastard who thinks he's so great all day long, he's finished!"
"Ron, could you keep it down a bit?
Some people are still studying."
"Studying?" Ron turned around and looked at Hermione, the smile on his face growing even wider. "Hermione, aren't you happy?
That Jerry, he's a Slytherin!
He is our enemy!"
"He is just a student from another house, not an enemy."
Hermione's voice was very flat. "Moreover, the House Cup points haven't been finally tallied yet. Until the results are out, anything can happen."
"Anything can happen?"
Ron's laughter popped from his throat like hiccups, one after another, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.
"Hermione, are you bad at math?
Three hundred and nineteen points!
Four days!
Even if Slytherin can get fifty points every day, they can't catch up!
And do you think Snape would give them that many points?
Even if Snape wanted to, he'd have to have a reason!"
His fingers started gesturing in the air again, this time drawing a zero.
"Two hundred!
The maximum points Slytherin can get in the remaining four days is two hundred!
Because they have absolutely no chance at all!"
Ron spun around on the carpet, and after spinning, he hopped twice more, hopping so hard the back of the armchair wobbled.
"Do you guys remember?
That day in the Great Hall, when Jerry said that sentence, how punchable was his expression?"
A look of reminiscence appeared on his face, but that reminiscence wasn't nostalgia; it was schadenfreude, the anticipation of waiting for a good show.
"He stood by the Slytherin long table, everyone was looking at him, and he just said so casually, 'If Slytherin falls behind Gryffindor, even by just one point, I will drop out.'"
Ron mimicked Jerry's tone again; this time he even added facial expressions, squinting his eyes, pulling the corners of his mouth down, lifting his chin slightly, looking for all the world like "you mortals are unworthy of speaking to me."
"Who does he think he is?
Did he think Slytherin could win?
Did he think his little tricks could fool everyone?"
Ron's voice grew louder and louder, so loud that everyone else in the common room stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.
"And now?
Now he has to pack up and get out!
He has to slink away, pack his bags, and roll out of Hogwarts!"
Ron's arms waved in the air, like he was swatting away an invisible fly.
"I'm going to watch!
On the day the term ends, I am definitely going to watch him pack his bags! I'm going to stand at the door of the Slytherin dungeons, watch him walk out carrying his trunk, and then I'm going to say to him..."
He cleared his throat, striking a righteous posture.
"'Goodbye, Jerry. Next time before you talk big, weigh yourself first to see how many pounds and ounces you actually have.'"
Harry's brow furrowed.
"Ron, don't you think this is a bit..."
"A bit what?"
Ron turned his head, his eyes shining with excited light. "A bit satisfying?
A bit exhilarating?
A bit gratifying to the people?"
He plopped back down into the armchair; the springs of the chair let out a protesting creak under his weight. He propped his legs up on the coffee table, his heels rubbing against the parchment with the leaderboard.
"Harry, you don't know how long I've waited for this day.
From the first day of school, that Jerry hasn't liked the look of me. Every time I run into him in the corridor, he looks at me with that look, as if I'm a pile of..."
He didn't finish the word, but everyone knew what he wanted to say.
"Now it's my turn to look at him! My turn to look at him with that look!"
Ron's fingers tapped on the armrest of the chair, tapping out a cheerful rhythm, as if keeping the beat for his own victory.
"Three hundred and nineteen points.
Four days.
He is dead meat."
The flames in the fireplace crackled again; a burning log rolled out from the fire to the edge of the hearth, smoking pale smoke.
Harry looked at Ron's triumphant appearance, opened his mouth wanting to say something, but ultimately said nothing at all.
He just lowered his head and continued reading his book.
But his eyes didn't move across the pages; instead, he stared at the same line of text, staring for a very, very long time.
"These points... we cannot accept!"
The air in the common room seemed to solidify.
Ron's laughter caught in his throat, the expression on his face freezing. The corners of his mouth still maintained that wide grin, but the light in his eyes had extinguished by half.
He turned his head and looked at Harry sitting on the sofa, looking at that face illuminated flickeringly by the firelight from the hearth.
"What did you say?"
Harry closed the book in his hand; the spine and pages collided with a soft smack. His eyes didn't look at Ron, but stared at the parchment covered in numbers on the coffee table.
"I said, those points do not belong to Gryffindor."
His voice wasn't loud, but in the suddenly quieted common room, every word was as clear as if carved into stone with a knife.
Ron's mouth opened and closed, like a fish thrown onto the shore.
"Harry, what nonsense are you talking about?
Those points are, of course, ours!
They are..."
"Because we did what to be awarded them?"
Harry finally looked up, his eyes flashing with a light behind his glasses that Ron had never seen before.
It wasn't anger, it wasn't sadness, but something more complex, like a mixture of disappointment and confusion, or like a decision finally made after a long struggle.
"Ron, do you remember that Quidditch match last month?
We beat Ravenclaw, giving Gryffindor fifty points.
But in that match, I didn't catch the Golden Snitch at all... or rather, it wasn't me who caught it!"
Ron's brow furrowed.
"But..."
"The referee was Snape."
Harry's voice was very calm. "Snape called a foul on Ravenclaw and awarded us the victory.
Do you think Snape would help Gryffindor for no reason?"
Ron's mouth opened and closed again; this time he didn't say any words.
Hermione by the fireplace put down her book, her brown eyes carrying a trace of a complex look. She didn't speak, just quietly watched Harry, as if waiting for him to finish.
"And yesterday's Potions class." Harry's fingers rubbed the cover of the book, his pads grinding over the embossed gold-stamped letters. "My potion clearly exploded, yet Snape only deducted five points from me.
Five points, Ron.
Do you know how many points Snape usually deducts from me?"
"That's because... because..."
Ron's voice grew quieter and quieter, until it finally turned into a muffled mumble.
"Because what?" Harry stood up. He wasn't tall, but the moment he stood up, his shadow, cast by the firelight from the hearth, stretched very long, so long it almost covered the entire coffee table. "Because someone is manipulating all this behind the scenes?
Because someone wants Gryffindor to win?
Because someone wants Jerry to lose?"
A wave of whispering sounded in the common room.
Those younger students who had originally been watching the show began to whisper to each other. A few people's faces showed the same expression as Harry—that confused, uneasy look, like the expression of suddenly realizing something.
A third-year girl stood up; her voice was trembling a bit, but she still spoke up.
"Harry is right.
Last week in Transfiguration, I clearly turned my teacup into a rat, but the rat's tail was still the shape of the teacup handle.
Professor McGonagall still gave me ten points, saying I 'made great progress'."
Another fourth-year boy also stood up.
"Me too.
In Herbology, I watered a Venomous Tentacula to death, but Professor Sprout just said, 'It's alright, be careful next time,' and then gave Gryffindor five points.
Five points!
I watered a magical plant worth twenty gold Galleons to death, and she gave me five points!"
More and more voices rang out, like a flood with its floodgates opened, entirely uncontrollable.
"In my Flying class, I clearly broke my broom, but Madam Hooch said my 'posture was very standard'..."
"In my Charms class, I set Professor Flitwick's wig on fire, but he just smiled and said, 'It's alright, I wanted to change to a new one anyway'..."
"In my Astronomy class, I drew the star chart backward, but Professor Sinistra said I 'have a unique perspective'..."
Ron's face grew paler and paler, as white as parchment drained of blood. His lips trembled, wanting to say something, but his throat felt as if blocked by something; he couldn't utter a single word.
Harry looked at him; there was no blame in his eyes, only a deep weariness.
"Ron, Gryffindors are proud lions."
His voice was very soft, as soft as if he were talking to himself.
"A lion can lose, can be defeated, can fall to the ground covered in cuts and bruises.
But a lion cannot win victory by relying on the charity of others.
That is not victory; that is a disgrace."
The flames in the fireplace crackled again; a burning log rolled out from the fire to the edge of the hearth, leaving a scorched black mark on the stone floor.
Hermione finally spoke up.
"Harry is right."
Her voice was very calm, but within the calm carried an unquestionable firmness.
"I checked.
Starting last month, Gryffindor's scoring rate suddenly accelerated by three times.
Three times, Ron.
And at the same time, Slytherin's scoring rate slowed by half."
Her fingers gestured in the air, as if drawing an invisible chart.
"If we follow the normal scoring rate, by the end of the term, the points difference between Gryffindor and Slytherin should be less than fifty points.
But right now, we are leading by over three hundred points.
This is not normal."
Ron's body took a step backward, his back bumping into the backrest of the armchair, the legs of the chair scraping a harsh screech on the floorboards.
"But... but so what?"
His voice carried a trace of hysteria, like a drowning man clutching at a final straw.
"Even if the points are fake, even if someone is manipulating it behind the scenes, so what?
Jerry still has to get out! He said it himself!
He said it himself in the Great Hall!
As long as Slytherin falls behind by one point, he will drop out!
Right now we are leading by over three hundred points, he must keep his promise!"
Harry looked at Ron, looked at that face flushed beet-red and twisted, looked at those eyes full of unwillingness and anger.
He sighed.
"Ron, you don't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"You don't understand that if we win this way, we have lost forever."
Harry's voice was very soft, but every word felt like a stone, smashing heavily into Ron's heart.
"Jerry will drop out, yes.
But everyone will know that Gryffindor's victory is fake.
Everyone will know that we won by relying on the charity of others.
Everyone will know that the lions of Gryffindor are actually just a bunch of..."
He didn't finish the word, but everyone knew what he wanted to say.
The common room fell into a deathly silence.
The flames in the fireplace were still crackling, but the sound seemed exceptionally jarring in the silence, as if mocking something.
Ron's body slowly slid down, sliding into the armchair like a ragdoll with its bones extracted.
His eyes stared at the ceiling, something glistening in his sockets, but he blinked desperately, refusing to let that something fall.
"Then... then what should we do?"
His voice was as raspy as sandpaper scraping, carrying a trace of a tremble only he could hear.
Harry didn't answer.
Hermione didn't answer either.
No one in the common room answered.
Because no one knew the answer.
The sky outside the window had completely darkened. The moon hid behind the clouds, with only a few stars twinkling with a faint light through the gaps in the clouds.
Harry's voice echoed in the common room for a long time, so long that even the flames in the fireplace seemed to quiet down.
"We have to forfeit this House Cup."
His words were like a massive boulder smashing into a calm lake; the ripples it stirred up spread circle by circle, spreading to every corner of the common room, spreading to the ears of every Gryffindor student.
Ron's body went stiff.
His mouth hung open, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor, his expression looking as if he had been frozen by a Petrificus Totalus curse. His eyes were wide open, so wide the bloodshot veins in his sockets were clearly visible, his pupils contracting into two small dots in the firelight of the hearth.
"For... forfeit?"
His voice squeezed from his throat, as raspy as if someone had him by the neck.
"Harry, are you crazy?
Forfeit the House Cup?
We are leading by over three hundred points!
Over three hundred points!"
"Those points are not ours."
Harry's voice was very calm, as calm as stating the most ordinary fact.
His green eyes flashed with a strange light behind his glasses; that light was not anger, not sadness, but a firmness born of deep consideration.
"Since they are not ours, we cannot accept them."
Hermione stood up from the armchair; her steps were very light, making almost no sound as she stepped on the carpet.
She walked to Harry's side, her brown eyes carrying a trace of a complex look, but mostly agreement.
"Harry is right."
Her voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet common room, every word was as clear as if carved into stone with a knife.
"If we accept these points, we are accepting a fraud.
The honor of Gryffindor is not meant to be traded, much less to be manipulated by others."
Ron's body took a step backward, then another step, until his back hit the wall. His fingers tightened on the hem of his robes, his knuckles turning white, the fabric crumpling into a ball in his hand.
"But... but Jerry..."
"Whether Jerry drops out or not, that is his own business."
There was no hesitation in Harry's voice. "But the honor of Gryffindor is everyone's business."
A wave of whispering sounded in the common room; the sound rose and fell like waves of wind blowing through a wheat field.
Some were nodding, some were shaking their heads, some faces showed expressions of confusion, some eyes glistened with tears.
"Harry, are you saying... we have to return all the points?"
"Not return them." Harry shook his head. "Forfeit. We forfeit the competition for this House Cup."
His finger pointed to the parchment covered in numbers on the coffee table, his fingertip tapping that red number.
"From this moment on, Gryffindor's points are zero."
"Zero?"
Seamus's voice shot up half an octave, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"You mean... zero?
Not even a single point?"
"Not a single point."
Harry's voice was very firm, as firm as an unshakable boulder.
"Those points are fake, they are manipulated by someone, they are a tool used to make us win a false victory.
We do not need this kind of victory. Gryffindor does not need this kind of victory."
The common room sank into a deeper silence.
The flames in the fireplace crackled; a burning log rolled out from the fire to the edge of the hearth, leaving a scorched black mark on the stone floor.
The firelight cast flickering shadows on the walls; those shadows were like a group of silent spectators, watching this unfolding revolution.
A third-year girl stood up; her eyes were red, but her voice was very clear.
"I agree with Harry."
Her words seemed to open a floodgate, and more voices rang out.
"I agree too."
"Me too."
"Gryffindor doesn't need fake points."
"We are lions, not beggars."
More and more voices grew louder and louder, surging like the tide, surging, and finally converging into an unstoppable torrent.
Ron stood in the corner, watching all this, his face as pale as a sheet of paper. His lips trembled, wanting to say something, but his throat felt as if blocked by something; he couldn't utter a single word.
Ron didn't understand.
Ron didn't understand why Harry wanted to forfeit this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; he didn't understand why those Gryffindor students would stand up one by one, expressing their agreement.
Jerry had to get out.
That bastard who scowled all day, arrogant, looking down on everyone, he had to get out.
As long as they accepted these points, as long as they won the House Cup, Jerry would have to keep his promise and drop out of Hogwarts.
Wasn't this what they had always wanted?
Wasn't this what he had always wanted?
Ron's fingers clenched tighter, his nails digging into his palms.
Something swirled in his eye sockets, but he blinked desperately, refusing to let that something fall.
"Ron."
Harry's voice came from in front of him; he looked up and saw Harry standing in front of him, his green eyes carrying a trace of gentleness he had never seen before.
"I know you hate Jerry.
I don't like him either.
But this isn't about Jerry; this is about us.
About Gryffindor."
Harry reached out his hand and patted Ron's shoulder; the warmth of his palm transmitted through the fabric of the robe—warm, steady.
"The lions of Gryffindor can lose, can be defeated, can fall to the ground covered in cuts and bruises.
But the lions of Gryffindor cannot win victory by relying on the charity of others. That is not victory; that is a disgrace."
Ron's body trembled.
He lowered his head, looking at his clenched fists, looking at the several crescent-shaped red marks in his palms, looking for a very, very long time.
Then, he released his hands.
"Alright."
His voice was as raspy as sandpaper scraping, but every word was very clear.
"Zero it is."
The corner of Harry's mouth curved into a very, very shallow smile, but illuminated by the firelight from the hearth, that smile seemed exceptionally warm.
"Thank you, Ron."
The atmosphere in the common room changed.
The excitement and triumph that originally permeated the air vanished, replaced by something heavier, more complex.
It was a relief after a struggle, a lightness after giving up false glory, a pride after finding oneself again.
The flames in the fireplace were still crackling, but the sound no longer felt jarring; instead, it carried a warm, comforting tone.
The sky outside the window had completely darkened. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, the silver moonlight spilling through the window into the common room, spilling onto that parchment covered in numbers.
But that number was no longer important.
Because from this moment on, Gryffindor's points were zero.
However, they had found their own pride!