0466 The News

The dreary clouds had finally parted, but Harry’s first day back at Hogwarts was far from joyous he had hoped for. The morning’s Herbology class, shared with the friendly Hufflepuffs, had been relatively bearable. Professor Sprout had tasked them with the rather disgusting but straightforward job of squeezing pus from Bubotubers – plant-like creatures that bore creepy resemblance to thick, black slugs. The viscous, yellowish-green liquid that oozed from the swollen lumps was, according to Professor Sprout, “Extremely valuable! Undiluted Bubotuber pus is an excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne.”

However, the morning took a sharp turn for the worse during their Care of Magical Creatures class. Hagrid had a penchant for dangerous creatures that he affectionately referred to as “interestin’.” True to this, Hagrid had prepared what he clearly thought was a delightful surprise for his students. With barely contained excitement, he unveiled his latest creation: Blast-Ended Skrewts.

These bizarre creatures defied easy description. Pale and shell-less, they resembled deformed, headless lobsters. Ranging from six to eight inches long, they emitted a powerful odor similar to rotting fish. Sparks flew from their rear ends at irregular intervals, propelling them forward with small explosions. The male Skrewts possessed stingers, while the females had sucker-like appendages on their bellies probably for sucking blood.

As if their appearance wasn’t alarming enough, the Skrewts quickly proved to be as dangerous as they were ugly. Their unpredictable nature meant that no student left Hagrid’s class unscathed. Some had red burns from the Skrewts’, others nursed puncture wounds from the males’ stingers, and some ones were on the receiving end of surprisingly strong bites from what appeared to be the creatures’ feeding end. Even Hagrid, with his thick skin and enormous body, didn’t escape unscathed, sporting a nasty burn on his hand by the end of the lesson.

The afternoon brought little breather. Professor Trelawney’s Divination class was held in the muggy, perfume-laden North Tower. By the time the class mercifully ended, Harry had gained nothing but a throbbing headache and a mountain of homework that will consume his entire weekend.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of classes, Harry and Ron both in low spirits shuffled towards the Great Hall and queued in line for the evening feast. The entrance hall was buzzing with the chatter of hungry students, all eager for the evening feast.

“I was just about to look for you, Harry!”

The familiar voice cut through the ruckus, and Harry turned to see Hermione descending the grand staircase. Her bushy brown hair was even more baggy than usual, likely from the day’s humid air, and she was overloaded with an intimidating stack of thick, leather-bound tomes. Her brown eyes, sharp and inquisitive, quickly took in the dejected postures of her two friends.

“What’s going on? Are you planning to eat first?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. She shifted the weight of the books in her arms, revealing the title of one: Advanced Arithmancy and Its Applications in Modern Spell Crafting. It was clearly not a text intended for fourth-year students. “Don’t we usually do Professor Watson’s running exercises before dinner?”

Harry couldn’t help but marvel at Hermione’s seemingly boundless energy and dedication to her studies. Since the start of term, it seemed she had taken on even more extracurricular reading than usual. Not only was she carrying a towering stack of books, but her bag – enchanted to be lighter and more spacious than it appeared – was visibly straining at the seams with additional weight. A quick glance at the spines showed titles far beyond their current curriculum: “Temporal Magic: Theory and Ethics,” “Comparative Magical Law: From Merlin to Modern Day,” and “The Alchemist’s Apprentice: Nicolas Flamel’s Lesser-Known Discoveries.”

Before Harry could voice a response to Hermione’s question, Ron interjected, his freckled face a picture of exaggerated weariness:

“Harry needs rest, Hermione, to recover from the fatigue of this grueling day and to mourn our weekend that’s over before it even began—”

“That’s right,” Harry nodded sincerely, grateful for Ron’s intervention. The thought of running laps around the Quidditch pitch after the day they’d had was almost too much to bear.

Hermione’s eyebrow arched skeptically, clearly unimpressed by Ron’s theatrics. However, a flicker of understanding crossed her face. She was well aware that not everyone shared her enthusiasm for constant self-improvement, and that ‘normal’ young wizards often needed time to adjust to the rigorous demands of higher-level magical education. With a small sigh, she decided not to press the issue and instead joined the queue alongside her friends.

Just as Hermione, the PE class assistant, was about to remind Harry that he wouldn’t be allowed to make excuses to avoid daily training after dinner, a grating all-too-familiar voice suddenly rang out from behind them.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

The trio turned simultaneously, their faces immediately hardening at the sight of Draco swaggering into the entrance hall, flanked by his ever-present cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy was panting, with strands of hair stuck to his forehead, evidently having just returned from the Quidditch pitch.

What struck Harry as odd, however, was that Malfoy’s eyes weren’t fixed on him, as they usually were. Instead, his gaze was locked firmly on Ron. Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick, worried glance before noticing the folded newspaper clutched in Malfoy’s hand. A sense of foreboding settled over them; whatever was printed on those pages, it couldn’t be good news for Ron.

“What?” Ron asked warily, his body tensing as if preparing for a physical exchange.

Malfoy’s thin lips curved into a smug smile. He cleared his throat with exaggerated importance, pitching his voice to carry across the now-hushed entrance hall.

“There’s something interesting!” Malfoy said unfolding the newspaper with a curl. The bold headline of the Daily Prophet was briefly visible before he began to read aloud:

“New Chaos at the Ministry of Magic—Our special correspondent Rita Skeeter writes that due to the bizarre behavior of Arthur Weasley from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, the Ministry has once again found itself in an awkward position following the Quidditch World Cup attack and the unexplained disappearance of a female employee—”

Harry’s mind raced, processing the information. The mention of Mr. Weasley barely registered before his thoughts latched onto the phrase “female employee disappearance.” A chill ran down his spine as he recalled the conversations between Mr. Weasley and Professor Watson. Hadn’t they informed the Ministry about Bertha Jorkins’ fate at the hands of Voldemort? Why was it still being referred to as an “unexplained disappearance”?

Among the Hogwarts population, quite a few students and staff members subscribed to the Daily Prophet. Hermione was also one such subscriber. The moment Malfoy began his recitation, she instinctively reached out to grab Ron’s sleeve, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robes.

“Let’s go, Ron,” she whispered urgently, her brown eyes darting between her friend’s reddening face and the growing crowd of onlookers. “Ignore Malfoy, he’s just a boring clown—”

But Ron stood his ground, his jaw clenched and freckles standing out starkly against his rapidly paling skin. He was determined to hear every word of the article, no matter how painful. Hermione, realizing the futility of trying to move Ron, turned to Harry with a pleading look. To her dismay, she found that Harry, too, was listening intently to Malfoy’s words.

The next thirty seconds felt like an eternity as Malfoy continued to read, his voice dripping with mock concern and barely concealed glee. When he finally finished, he folded the newspaper with exaggerated care, his pale, pointed face had a triumphant grin. With a theatrical flourish, he held up the front page, displaying a large photograph to the half-silent, half-murmuring crowd of young wizards in the entrance hall who were pointing at Ron.

“Look at this,” Malfoy squealed. “A picture of your parents standing in front of your house—if you can call that a house!”

Malfoy’s eyes glittered maliciously as he delivered what he clearly thought was the coup de grâce (death-blow): “And your mother—she could do with losing some weight, don’t you think? She might look a bit more respectable then.”

Ron’s entire body began to shake with suppressed rage, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The gathered students alternated between staring at Ron and shooting furtive glances at Malfoy.

“Get lost, Malfoy,” Harry, snapping out of his focused state, finally registered the silent message Hermione had been trying to convey with her increasingly frantic looks. “It’s not worth getting angry, Ron.”

“Hey, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, his smirk growing wider. “Your oversized head at the Quidditch World Cup was much more interesting than usual. Pity the Daily Prophet didn’t add your picture to the front page too!”

Harry’s emerald eyes flashed dangerously behind his glasses. “Is that so?” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What about your parents, Malfoy? Shouldn’t they also make an appearance for their mischievous little activities at the World Cup final?”

He leaned in, his voice cold. “If they were to make the paper, what background would fit? Your house certainly wouldn’t be appropriate. No, I think Azkaban would be quite fitting!”

The noisy entrance hall suddenly fell silent. Everyone turned their gaze to Harry, taking several seconds to react to what Potter had just said.

“Shut up, Harry—” Hermione hissed, her eyes wide with alarm as she took in the bewildered and curious looks from their fellow students. She tugged insistently on his sleeve, her voice tight with worry. “This isn’t the place to discuss this. There’s no evidence, and—”

But Malfoy’s outraged howl drowned out her words. “How dare you insult my parents, Potter!”

Draco’s normally pale face had turned an even starker shade of white, a vein pulsing angrily at his temple. He clearly understood what Harry was implying, but his eyes showed disbelief, as if he genuinely didn’t know about it.

Harry, caught up in the heat of the moment, couldn’t resist twisting the knife further. “What’s wrong?” he taunted with his green eyes blazing. “Didn’t they fill you in on their clever little schemes?”

People’s attention quickly shifted from ‘Arthur Weasley’ to what Harry was referring to. Even Ron noticed the unusual atmosphere in the entrance hall and realized what it was about. Hermione, sensing the situation spiraling out of control, moved swiftly. She walked behind the two boys who were standing there dumbly, grabbed an arm each, and without a word, tried to drag them away.

“Wait, explain yourself clearly, Potter!” Malfoy howled.

Hermione, her patience finally snapping, whirled around to face Malfoy. “Shut your mouth, Malfoy!” she yelled, her cheeks flushed with anger and exertion as she continued to pull her friends away.

BANG!

The sudden, explosive sound shattered the tense atmosphere. Several students screamed in surprise and fear. Harry felt something white-hot graze his cheek, leaving a trail of searing heat in its trail. His hand instinctively flew to his robe pocket, fingers scrabbling for his wand, but before he could draw it, a gravelly roar echoed through the entrance hall:

“Oh no you don’t, boy!”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron spun around to see Professor Moody limping down the marble staircase. He had his wand out and both his normal and magical eyes were fixed on the entrance, looking somewhat surprised.

“Nice dodge, boy,” Moody growled, his normal eye fixed on Harry while his magical eye continued its frenzied rotation. “But let’s see where you’re going to hide!”

Harry immediately turned his gaze to the entrance and saw that the marble tile where Malfoy had been standing was smoking Crabbe and Goyle stood frozen in shock, their bulky frames quivering like oversized jellies. But Malfoy himself was nowhere to be seen.

A flash of movement caught Harry’s eye, and he spotted white-blond hair disappearing through the main doors. Malfoy was fleeing.

“Did he get you?” Moody’s gruff voice cut through Harry’s stunned silence. The professor had reached the bottom of the stairs and was now standing beside the trio, his magical eye fixed on the running Malfoy.

“No,” Harry replied blankly. “Missed me.”

Without another word, Moody moved past Harry, pushing aside the terrified Crabbe and Goyle. With a grim face, he raised his wand high, and as he stepped out the door, he brought it down again!

SNAP!

The sound was like a thunderclap in the confined space of the entrance hall. A visible wave of magical energy surged from Moody’s wand, rushing towards the open doors like an invisible tidal wave. The force of the spell was so great that it created a powerful gust of wind, whipping through the hall and causing tapestries to flap wildly and loose parchments to take flight.

Harry, caught off guard, struggled to keep his eyes open against the rushing air. His glasses were nearly blown off his face, and he had to reach up quickly to secure them. The crowd of students queuing for dinner behind them let out a collective gasp of surprise.

“What’s going on?” Hermione immediately questioned when she regained her composure.

As the dust settled and vision cleared, all eyes turned expectantly towards the entrance. Professor Moody stood motionless at the threshold, his wand still pointed towards the marble steps outside. The tension in the air was palpable as students craned their necks, trying to see past the imposing figure of their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

“What are you doing–” came a voice from the bottom of the steps. Bryan glanced at the visibly shaken Draco hiding behind him, raised an eyebrow, and calmly looked towards the entrance, lowering his wand. “Professor Moody?”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep