Chapter 61: Group Fights And Backing Up
The banquet dishes for the new term were abundant, the ghosts’ performances were clumsy and comical, and only Dumbledore’s odd jokes were not funny at all.
The little wizards were all having a great time.
After eating and drinking their fill, they returned to the Common Room in groups.
Slytherin’s Flint and Warrington walked together, with the captain asking how Professor Levent’s Muggle Studies class was, whether those previous classroom interesting anecdotes were true, even though he was in Fifth Year, and if his Ordinary Wizarding Level Examination scores were good enough, there might still be a chance for advanced classes in the next two years. Warrington could only stay silent upon hearing this; with Flint’s bottom-of-the-year scores, he actually admired that the captain could even have such an idea.
George and Fred were pestering captain Wood, wanting to see which team was so lacking in judgment to not invite the twin Beaters but invite an utterly ordinary Keeper. Harry and Ron walked beside them watching the commotion, guessing if they had a chance to receive team invitations; he thought becoming a professional Quidditch player after graduation wouldn’t be bad at all.
Hermione touched the medical toothpaste in her pocket and walked behind to intercept Professor Levent.
Lavender and Parvati wanted to follow and watch, but were sent back by Hermione.
At the Great Hall high table, Melvin got up and walked unhurriedly behind, looking at the school’s Magical Dome, thinking in his mind about the task assigned by the headmaster, pondering how to guide the little witch and the others without leaving traces.
“Professor Levent.”
Hermione stood in front of the professor, seeing he seemed lost in thought, subconsciously calling out to him, touching the toothpaste in her pocket, still feeling this gift was too strange, stammering: “During the holiday, I told Father and Mother about school matters, and they told me to thank you, and they prepared…”
The little witch spoke halfway, the latter half becoming unclear, pulling out a tube of medical toothpaste and handing it over, silently turning her head to avoid his gaze.
“Granger… never mind, I’ll just call you Hermione.”
Melvin’s mind flashed with a few thoughts, he ruffled the little witch’s hair, took the toothpaste and put it in his pocket, and conveniently pulled out a few boxes of Chocolate Frogs: “Thank your parents for me; these can be my return gift.”
The little witch’s head swayed slightly with his palm, looking at the stacked-high boxes of Chocolate Frogs, her expression a bit dazed, lowering her head to look at that outer coat pocket, involuntarily falling silent.
Hermione dazedly took the candy from the professor, and only after walking far away did she suddenly realize she forgot to ask Professor Levent about Nicolas Flamel.
Holding several boxes of Chocolate Frogs back to the lounge, with some time before lights out, Hermione found her two little partners at the round table by the window.
“Did you notice, Professor Quirrell was absent again.” Harry sorted through the information he had gathered, “He clearly didn’t leave school during the holiday, but he missed almost all the banquets; I wonder if we’ll see him in tomorrow’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class?”
“I wonder if we’ll see him…”
Ron, full from eating and drinking, sprawled on the sofa, blood concentrated in his stomach, mind blank, not caring what Harry said, just foolishly repeating.
“There must be something hidden here!” Hermione sat at the round table, placing the Chocolate Frogs on the table, “If only we could find out who Nicolas Flamel is.”
“If only we could find out who Nicolas Flamel is…”
Ron repeated halfway, then suddenly stopped, his unfocused eyes immediately sharpening, gaze locking onto a pile of unopened Chocolate Frogs, pretending to look away nonchalantly, but his peripheral vision stuck to the packaging.
“From Professor Levent.” Hermione explained simply, dividing a few boxes to the two of them, leaving a few for her roommates, continuing on about Nicolas Flamel, “I keep feeling like I’ve heard this name somewhere; it feels familiar.”
“It feels familiar…” Ron continued repeating, this time with a more excited tone.
Harry normally eyed the pile of candy: “I’ve checked all famous wizards from modern and contemporary times, but couldn’t find this name. He might just be an ordinary wizard; how do we even search for that?”
“He might just be an ordinary wizard…”
Ron was absent-minded, attention on the Chocolate Frogs, slowly pulling out a card, devoutly praying it was the rare Agrippa card he didn’t have, but seeing it was the common Dumbledore, he felt instantly disappointed.
Just about to give it to Harry, his gaze inadvertently glanced at the description below, and he exclaimed in a hushed voice: “I know where I’ve seen it!”
“Albus Dumbledore, current Hogwarts headmaster, accomplishments include defeating the dark wizard Grindelwald, and great success in alchemy with partner Nicolas Flamel…”
Hermione read the description aloud, happy to have found a clue, but also with a trace of doubt.
Was this a coincidence, or…
…
Monday morning.
Morning was Seventh Year Muggle Studies; the classroom had no magical teaching aids, completely ordinary.
Candle flames hanging from the ceiling lit the classroom, orange-red flames burning quietly in the fireplace, warm and stuffy, glass windows misted with vapor, leaving a thin gap for ventilation.
There weren’t many advanced class students, all quite familiar with each other; the novel courses of the first few months had brought them closer, and with half an hour until class, nearly all were there, whispering about recent interesting anecdotes.
A neighbor sending himself to the hospital, Caribbean water monsters, Romanian fire dragons, Quidditch team tryout invitations, and projection mirrors appearing in wizard taverns everywhere…
As Seventh Year students, they would be adult wizards after graduation; a few perceptive ones had already noticed a clear boundary between the school and the outside world, even though the headmaster was hailed as the greatest wizard of the age, it was hard to hear positive news about him outside the school, and the four deans were top figures in their fields, their names appearing only in a few specialist journals, let alone other elective professors.
It seemed some imperceptible power was restricting Hogwarts’ external influence.
Being able to hear news about Professor Levent during the holiday, with real impact on friends and family around them, gave the students an indescribable sense of novelty.
Melvin entered the classroom carrying materials, in a crisp black trench coat similar in style to a robe, and the students gradually quieted.
“Before the new term’s lessons begin, I have a few words.” Melvin spoke at an even pace, his voice carrying a smile, “Last year we successfully completed four rounds of review; what needed learning was learned, what needed memorizing was memorized, questions were done, theses were written, and all the hardship was endured. I believe you’ll all pass the level exams smoothly, unless someone was hit with an Obliviate by a dark wizard during the holiday.”
Noisy laughter erupted in the classroom.
“Let’s talk about something unrelated to exams.
“I know some of you will inherit the family business after graduation, or enter the Ministry of Magic as arranged by your family; parents run restaurants or general stores, and you do the same, parents are directors or department heads in some Ministry department, and you follow the same path to become directors and department heads, marry and have children within a few years, live happily, and pass it on to the next generation…
“I don’t intend to critique the rights or wrongs of these phenomena, nor do I think those of you in them need to take responsibility.
Melvin slightly raised his volume, quelling the classroom commotion: “Actually, compared to Muggle Studies, I think History of Magic might suit me better; current History of Magic is just a plain narration of magical creature history, the textbook has only objective but dry information, wizards haven’t developed historical thinking yet, and there’s a lot worth exploring there.
“But Professor Binns has no intention of retiring anytime soon, and lazy me doesn’t want to dive into vast complex historical research, so for the next half year, when there’s time, I’d like to show you some simple and interesting Muggle content with deeper meaning.”
“Professor, you said the same thing last year!” Alastor Justin called out laughing; he was Hufflepuff’s captain, average in Quidditch skills but cheerful, currently fully training Cedric to take over.
“This year it’s real, I promise.” Melvin promised with a smile.
Seventh Year students’ time was precious, so the young professor hastily ended his opening remarks and began reviewing holiday homework.
A few students had been lax during the holiday, their homework showing signs of perfunctory effort, but Melvin didn’t directly call them out, just casually teased a few remarks in class.
Five minutes before the bell,
Melvin ended class early, giving these graduates a little convenience, and sparing himself the crowd in the corridors and staircases.
At the staircase turn, Melvin saw Hagrid shrinking his neck and sneaking downstairs, his mole skin coat wrapping several thick books, with visible titles on the spines like 「fire dragon」「breeding」「hatching」.
The half-giant over eight feet tall sneaking around looked extremely comical, even more conspicuous than usual.
Hagrid turned and saw the young professor, greeting him happily: “Melvin, got time for a drink?”
“Next time; by the way, what made you suddenly interested in reading?”
“Er—” Hagrid guiltily looked away, quickening his descent, “Suddenly interested in reading; see you.”
Professor Quirrell is on the move too.
Melvin chuckled lightly, about to continue downstairs, when a commotion came from the corridor.
…
“Cl-class dismissed.”
Professor Quirrell on the podium was sallow and pale, much thinner from serious illness yet bloated, his face tinged soy-sauce color, purple headscarf also soy-sauce stained like it hadn’t been washed in ages; hearing the bell, he hurriedly announced dismissal mid-spell and left the classroom.
Many students had guessed the professor might be absent, but Defence Against the Dark Arts proceeded as usual; Professor Quirrell’s stench was even stronger, and with winter classroom ventilation poor to retain heat, by the end of the long class, the whole room reeked indescribably, like rancid lamb rotting and fermenting, masked with heavy herbal spices, stinging the eyes.
Hearing the dismissal password, the First Year students sighed in relief, fleeing the classroom like escapees. Before the next Potions class, they were heading to the courtyard for fresh air.
Only Neville Longbottom lagged behind, slowly packing his things.
He found that slowing down and repeating a few times made him less likely to forget. Textbook knowledge or password lists, slowing down helped him remember.
Neville still used that old wand, which felt sluggish when casting, but barely usable; he tucked the old wand into the inner pocket of his robe, clipped the password list into the textbook, packed both with his notebook into his schoolbag, and put the crumpled candy wrapper in his outer coat pocket.
Standing up, he realized he was alone in the classroom, glancing out the window to see it was nice weather, morning sun in a clear sky, sunlight making clouds and snow gleam, casting spots through the windows on the walnut wood desks, the whole classroom bright.
His mood suddenly brightened from the rare winter good weather.
Neville grabbed his satchel and headed out, nearly colliding with two even fatter figures right outside the classroom, but his slowness let him stop in time; looking up, it was Slytherin’s Goyle and Crabbe, with a platinum-haired boy nearby in neat, aristocratic clothes—Malfoy.
Their expressions were unfriendly.
Draco Malfoy raised his chin arrogantly: “Look who’s this? Longbottom family’s Muggle-born, lingering so long in the classroom; you like that stench, right?”
“…”
Neville pretended not to hear, sidestepping to pass them.
Draco grew angrier at his demeanor; last term’s flying lesson, he caused him to fall from mid-air, his flying experience deeper than Potter’s, and without that mishap, he might now be the team’s recruited player, taverns nationwide screening his team winning.
【Legs Lock】
Neville turned at the sound, seeing an angry classmate raising a wand, tip aimed at his chest, a thin red light bursting out.
Neville knew this minor hex, watching it sink into his chest, then his legs slammed together by sudden force, tightly pressed, and he toppled straight forward.
He felt little inside, gaze sweeping the winter sky outside, still thinking the weather nice; just a trivial hex, and once they left, he could cast to undo it.
Crabbe and Goyle grinned, Draco smirking, deeming the comical wretched sight their victory, deliberately stepping near to kick his fallen satchel, pausing briefly at the scattered books and lists, grinding the crumpled candy wrapper underfoot.
No real harm, just an insulting gesture; the three Slytherins saw nothing wrong, nor more excessive than the hex.
But Neville on the ground suddenly looked up, staring straight at them.
Draco felt like being eyed by a lion, panicking but feigning calm to turn away.
Neville on the ground didn’t undo the spell on himself, but bent his legs to regain balance, rising into a half-crouch jump pose, springing up with legs kicking, upper body leaning forward in a pounce.
His right fist clenched high, swinging a clean arc.
The fist smashed Draco’s left cheek, his skinny body spinning like a top to the ground, half his face swelling instantly, snot and tears flowing uncontrollably.
Nearby Crabbe and Goyle froze a moment, seeing Neville pinning Draco for another punch, they lunged at Neville, the four instantly tumbling in a brawl.
“Ah!”
A scream came from the side passage.
Harry and the others back for air widened their eyes, seeing the three Slytherins ganging up on Neville alone; the Gryffindor little wizards barely thought, Seamus and Dean yelling as they joined to help, Lavender and Parvati tossing hair back, rolling up sleeves and charging in.
Hermione tried advising twice, but seeing her friends at a disadvantage, instinctively grabbed the Charms textbook.
Slytherin’s Pansy Parkinson saw Draco kicked by Harry and screamed rushing up, followed by Millicent and Daphne and others.
This quiet corridor suddenly became a battlefield, with new students joining the fight every few minutes.
…
Melvin and Professor McGonagall arrived one after the other, witnessing the scene: onlooker students circled, inside nearly all First Year Gryffindors and Slytherins, bruised and swollen, hair like the Owlery, robes askew.
“In all my years at Hogwarts, never… never have I seen such disgraceful fighting!”
Professor McGonagall was so furious her words stumbled, black-rimmed glasses flashing near-fiery glare: “How dare you! How dare you!”
“Point deduction! Detention!
“All of you, detention!”
The belated Professor Snape had no objection, coldly eyeing the brawling students, expressionless.
These injuries were nothing to wizards; Melvin didn’t see it as serious, even found it amusing.
If he wasn’t mistaken, that little witch left clear footprints on Pansy and Millicent’s backs, and even with professors arriving, she landed one more kick.
Not unworthy of a Gryffindor little witch.
The Sorting Hat was right about them.
