Chapter 47: Tavern And Quidditch Match
The match ended, and the students gradually dispersed.
Although the wizarding world had no portrait rights regulations, Melvin felt it was still necessary to consult both teams’ players, so he found the two deans, explained the situation, and suggested they go together to communicate with the students.
Snape didn’t want to bother, casually brushed him off with a couple of words, and let Melvin find the players himself; he was rushing back to the office to deal with the scorched hem of his robe.
That’s how it was.
When Professor McGonagall brought Melvin to find the players, both teams were in the changing room sorting their team robes; the Gryffindor side was lively, laughing and playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who would stay to return the broomsticks.
The Slytherin side was more dismal; Captain Marcus Flint directly assigned the unlucky Seeker to stay and do the chores, blaming him for losing to Potter in the race for the Golden Snitch, which caused the team to lose the match. Standard Slytherin House procedure; the other players had no objections.
Gathering both teams’ players in the lounge, Melvin explained his purpose, stating that the moving picture might appear in taverns:
“……I don’t know exactly how much profit it can generate, but it can let more wizards see your performance; if you want to continue a Quidditch career after graduation, it should help you some.”
Hearing Professor Levent’s words, the players all fell into thought.
The unlucky Slytherin Seeker brightened up upon hearing the profits would be used to replace the team’s broomsticks, as if seeing hope:
“Professor Levent, when can we get the new broomsticks?”
Melvin looked at the Slytherin green team robes, pondered briefly: “Although the exact profits are uncertain, I can guarantee you that the entire Slytherin team will have Lightwheels 2000 next year.”
Guaranteed with the Malfoy family’s wealth.
The Slytherin players all lit up with joy; they could have new broomsticks next year, and then they could crash right into any Gryffindor, any Harry Potter. Fantasizing about defeating the other houses again next year, even the depression from losing today’s match dissipated.
Led by Captain Flint, they quickly agreed to the match moving picture authorization.
The Gryffindor side went smoothly too; Captain Oliver Wood was graduating next year and planned to become a professional Quidditch player; spreading the match moving picture would expand his fame and influence, making it easier to be picked by more teams.
The other players, hearing that the headmaster and their dean both agreed, all expressed trust in Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, supporting Professor Levent’s plan.
Only George and Fred were exceptions; the two huddled together muttering for a bit, then raised a question: “Professor, professor, can the profits not be used to buy broomsticks and just be given to us directly?”
Professor McGonagall glanced over and knew what they were thinking: “In principle, profits generated by the team should be used for the team, but if you insist, they can be given to your parents.”
“Then forget it.”
“Better to use it to buy broomsticks.”
“……”
Professor McGonagall was in a good mood today and didn’t scold the twins; watching the players agree to the authorization one by one, she suddenly noticed the numbers were off: “Isn’t Potter here? Where did he go?”
“He went to visit Hagrid with his friends.”
……
“I saw Snape casting a spell on Harry’s broomstick with my own eyes, his eyes fixed dead on Harry.”
“That Halloween night he broke into the fourth-floor corridor and got his leg bitten by the three-headed dog, and I discovered his secret, so he wants to murder me.”
“That three-headed dog is called Fluffy?”
“You bought it from the Greek! What is it guarding?”
“Who is Nicolas Flamel?”
“……”
Melvin stood outside the simple wooden house, listening to the voices in the room, and couldn’t help but fall into thought.
In just a few short sentences, the gamekeeper had been pumped for information by three first-year students; was Hagrid doing it on purpose or by accident?
No way to know what Hagrid was thinking, but Dumbledore arranging for Hagrid to do these things was definitely on purpose.
Several thoughts flashed through Melvin’s mind; he reached out and knocked on the wooden house door, smiling at the little witch who poked her head out: “I have something to discuss with Potter……”
The group hurriedly welcomed the elective professor inside; Hermione, needless to say, already considered herself friends with Professor Levent. Harry and Ron felt grateful to this professor because of the Halloween troll incident.
Hagrid, as the school’s gamekeeper, knew this new elective professor but wasn’t familiar; they usually just nodded in greeting when passing on the road. In his eyes, this professor always had a mild smile, dressed exquisitely and meticulously, and got along well with everyone around him……
For some reason, Hagrid couldn’t warm up to such people and didn’t even want to interact. But at this moment, he wholeheartedly welcomed Melvin’s arrival, because Harry had just been pressing him about Nicolas Flamel.
Melvin pretended he hadn’t heard anything, sat down and took the hot tea brewed by this half-giant, while sizing up the wooden house and its owner, repeating the content he had just explained to the players.
This wizard with giant blood flowing in his veins was 8 feet 6 inches tall, burly and robust; as a classmate of Voldemort’s, he was already 63 this year, but his body showed no signs of aging, with thick black hair and a deep, powerful voice, more vigorous than many young adult wizards.
The wooden house looked dirty and simple, but the materials were extremely solid: the floor was laid with ash and Scots pine, the walls spliced from teak and red cedar, ironwood and beech supporting the beams and ceiling; from the grain, they were at least centuries-old trees, sturdy and durable, naturally pest-resistant.
The walls also hung with various rare and expensive magical creature furs.
All in all, this gamekeeper’s net worth even exceeded that of many professors at the school.
“……Captain Wood said you were here, so I came over.” Melvin handed the contract he had drafted last night to Harry. “Strictly speaking, the Ministry of Magic has no relevant laws yet, and Muggle laws don’t apply to wizards, but as the Muggle Studies professor, I still think having a contract makes it more formal.”
Harry had only seen Uncle Vernon sign contracts before and never thought he’d sign one himself; though the professor said it had no legal effect, he felt a strange sense of being taken seriously and treated equally.
He skimmed through it briefly, nodding thoughtfully.
Hmm, didn’t understand it.
Out of trust in the headmaster and professor, Harry had already agreed to the plan in his heart.
While he was looking at the contract, Hermione next to him pulled out a no-frills chocolate from some workshop from her pocket: “Professor Levent, this is the chocolate you gave me last time; do you think it’s still edible? It has no production info, so I’m not sure about the shelf life.”
“……”
Melvin stared at the candy wrapper printed with Honeydukes for a moment, thinking Granger had the makings of Minister of Magic; just three months into school, and the Flume couple’s decades-old steady candy store had become an illegal workshop producing no-frills products.
“I don’t know the shelf life of magical candies either; to be safe, don’t eat it. I have fresh ones here.” Melvin pulled out a handful of candies from his pocket and scattered them on the wooden table to share.
The little wizards happily enjoyed the candies from the professor; Hagrid also tossed a few toffees into his mouth, struggling to pry apart his stuck teeth, savoring the sweetness filling his mouth, and his impression of this professor improved somewhat.
The air immediately filled with a sweet scent; the hound Fang in the corner sniffed, his short tail wagging quickly behind, and he trotted over panting.
This Neapolitan Mastiff wasn’t shy either, grinning and rubbing against Melvin a few times, shoving his head into his lap, craning to peek at the candies on the table, tail thwacking loudly.
“You can’t eat this.”
Melvin picked out the chocolate candies, unwrapped a few milk candies for him, and petted his dog head a couple times: “Theobromine and caffeine are poison to you.”
Hermione was especially sensitive to dogs now and immediately looked up: “Dogs can’t eat chocolate?”
Melvin nodded: “Dogs’ livers lack the enzymes to digest and break down chocolate; theobromine and caffeine aren’t metabolized in time, easily leading to toxin buildup and poisoning.”
Harry hurriedly asked: “What about three-headed dogs?”
“Hmm? Uh!”
Hagrid’s eyes widened, wanting to interrupt the topic, but his teeth were stuck with toffee, so he could only watch helplessly.
“A three-headed dog’s digestion is stronger than a human’s, and as a magical creature, it has magic power in its body and a large enough size; toxins are expelled before they can accumulate.” Melvin glanced at the anxious Hagrid nearby, changed his tone with a smile, and said, “But who knew such a creature’s weakness would be—”
“Professor!”
Hagrid finally broke free of the toffee’s grip, mumbling unclearly: “Don’t you still need to go to the Three Broomsticks? Better head over early; it’s Saturday, and the tavern gets busy in the afternoon.”
“Mm……You’re right; I’ll head out first then.”
“Let’s have a drink together sometime; how about the Hog’s Head Inn? Better atmosphere there.”
“It’s a deal, Hagrid.”
“Goodbye!”
Watching Hagrid see Melvin out the door, Harry and Hermione itched with anger, wishing they could stuff his mouth full of toffee again.
……
Hogsmeade.
Dusk.
The sky had darkened, clouds and mist overhead dyed curtain colors; streetlights on the ground lit up one by one, shops on both sides of the street mostly closed, only a few night-operating ones lighting oil lamps.
Middle-aged wizard Tucklot, after dinner, got a chore from his wife to buy oil and salt, sauntered out the door toward the Three Broomsticks, gazing at this familiar village as he walked.
Hogsmeade was in the Scottish Highlands, cooler than London, with rolling nearby mountains and big day-night temperature swings; nights always had wind whistling over the streets, chilly.
Strolling leisurely, seeing other middle-aged wizards popping out from alleys one after another, exchanging glances, bantering and cursing good-naturedly, feeling especially contented.
Tucklot was a Hogwarts graduate, once a school heartthrob; during school he served as Slytherin prefect and Quidditch captain, leading house and team to two House Cups.
After graduation, Tucklot didn’t make the pro circuit, just became an ordinary wizard; family had some business to inherit, not as glamorous as pure-blood sacred families, just procuring Hinkypunks from Africa, making them into durable pretty lanterns, reselling to wealthy wizards.
Ancestral business, not hugely rich but with some savings, enough to support the whole family comfortably, living happily and stably.
Tucklot’s biggest hobby was Quidditch; past regrets faded with age; now he just loved watching matches, taking the whole family to the Quidditch World Cup every four years.
Tucklot was what fans called a glory hunter, supporting whoever could win; before last year’s final, he backed the higher-odds Scotland national team, and after the match, he was a die-hard Canada national fan.
Honoring glory, respecting the strong.
Tucklot saw no issue with his mindset; until the next Quidditch World Cup, he’d be a loyal Canada national fan, enjoying victor’s glory at the Three Broomsticks as one.
That’s Slytherin for you.
But this plan hit a snag; he ran into that guy Malcolm.
Malcolm was his age, once Gryffindor Quidditch captain; their school clashes were even, never got along well; after graduation became neighbors, relations eased a bit.
That guy was a die-hard Scotland national team fan; before last match they got along fine. After, he stubbornly believed Scotland was stronger, just Lamont’s short fingers cost them the championship.
The two argued from then on.
Gryffindors are all stubborn!
Tonight I’ll debate him into the ground!
With firm resolve, Tucklot pushed open the Three Broomsticks door; sure enough, Malcolm was already there, in his usual spot at the counter.
Tucklot sat next to him, not ordering butterbeer like usual but a honey mead; spotting honey mead next to him too, he smirked inwardly.
“Weren’t you all about sticking to your guns? Why not butterbeer, jumping on the honey mead bandwagon?”
“Can’t explain to a Slytherin whose brain is clogged with dragon dung maggots.”
“!!”
Combat imminent, the tavern filled with crude insults and greetings.
Onlooking patrons chuckled listening; this was too fun. Gossip on players, learning lost wizard slang; every weekend they looked forward to this spectacle with their drinks.
Madam Rosmerta silently polished glasses, used to it; when weekend patrons had gathered enough, she put the silver ladle in the wooden bucket, got up, and went to the back room.
Patrons focused on the two fans’ quarrel, occasionally fanning flames; only a few noticed the lady boss’s actions, seeing her haul out a huge transparent silver mirror from behind.
Some patrons’ attention shifted over.
Arguing intently, Tucklot and Malcolm noticed the surroundings quiet down somehow, fewer cheering; their bickering lost steam, no longer fluent, stumbling.
But they persisted depicting dragon dung in each other’s heads, until a young, loud voice rang out:
“Welcome to the Hogwarts Quidditch match this season!”
Tucklot and Malcolm turned, saw the vivid moving picture on the silver mirror, eyes bulging round, staring dead at that unfamiliar yet familiar pitch, unblinking.
“Today’s matchup is between the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams!”
Uproar exploded in the tavern.
