36-40

*Chapter 36: Mr. Luke Appointed *

"My days are numbered, and I need a successor. However, your arrival makes me think it might be better to groom you instead," Dumbledore said, blinking mischievously. "I’d also prefer not to see you become a dark wizard. So, would you be interested in taking over an old man’s responsibilities one day?"

“Professor, doesn’t this feel a bit... predestined?” Luke restrained the urge to quote poetry but couldn’t help his smirk.

"In time, your achievements in magic will surpass mine, and your political acumen will, too," Dumbledore said as he handed Jerry another piece of sizzling honey candy, watching the little creature eat with glee. "I’m old, and the cutthroat politics of the Wizengamot and Ministry don’t suit me anymore. I’d much rather sit in Hogwarts’ castle and bask in the sun."

“Indeed, you seem quite laid-back,” Luke admitted, genuinely believing him. If Dumbledore were power-hungry, he wouldn’t have subdued Grindelwald and locked him in Nurmengard.

“But have you considered I might be just as lazy?” Luke squinted at Dumbledore, his expression anything but gentlemanly.

Dumbledore burst into laughter, his joy uncontainable. “If you’re lazy, then no one in the world would dare call themselves hardworking! I see you sneaking into the Room of Requirement with Miss Vole every night and staying there until dawn.”

“You’re such a voyeur,” Luke replied, scowling. “That’s hardly gentlemanly.”

“Old age, my boy,” Dumbledore said unapologetically. “As your mother’s people say, ‘At seventy, one follows their heart’s desires.’ I’m over a hundred.”

“Wait, you knew my mother?” Luke asked, catching the critical detail.

“How could I not? She was Slytherin’s finest graduate!” came Phineas’ timely interjection from a portrait behind them.

Then, Phineas was promptly restrained and tied to a chair by Headmistress Derwent and the other portrait heads.

“Your mother had quite a good relationship with Severus back in the day,” Dumbledore reminisced, though a flicker of discomfort crossed his face. “Honestly, seeing how close you and Harry are now feels odd. Harry’s father, James... well, let’s just say your mother often humiliated him by hanging him upside down.”

“To be frank, her talent was unparalleled. James and his gang couldn’t hold a candle to her, even together. You’ve certainly inherited her gifts.”

Luke nodded. He didn’t know much about his mother, but he had pieced together enough.

“I honestly thought you’d handle Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort—yourself,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard. “I was quite surprised when you sought my help.”

Luke chuckled. “Well, Professor, you might not know me well enough. I’m a practical guy. If I can win, I’ll fight. If I can’t, I’ll call for reinforcements.”

Play it safe and don’t take unnecessary risks.

“Very clever,” Dumbledore said with a laugh. “But not very chivalrous.”

“To hell with chivalry,” Luke shrugged. “If I’m dead, none of it matters.”

“Ha ha ha…” Dumbledore laughed heartily. After a moment, he looked at Luke with a hint of satisfaction. “You’ve done well with the task I entrusted you. Gryffindor has already taken action. Now it’s just a matter of when Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff join in.”

“I bet it’ll be after Professor Snape deducts points,” Luke guessed. “People tend to resist change unless it directly affects their interests.”

“You’re absolutely right, Luke. As for Professor Quirrell, there’s no rush to deal with him,” Dumbledore replied.

“Why not?” Luke asked, puzzled. Wasn’t the plan to stop using Quirrell to level Harry up?

“I suspect you understand politicians better than anyone,” Dumbledore said, his face unreadable. “Unfortunately, our current Minister of Magic is nothing but a politician.”

Dumbledore wasn’t wrong; his ability to assess people was unparalleled. In the original timeline, Fudge’s handling of Voldemort’s return perfectly mirrored Britain’s traditional four-phase strategy:

1. We deny Voldemort’s return.

2. Perhaps the Death Eaters are stirring, but we need not act.

3. Maybe we should address the Azkaban breakout, but we can’t do anything.

4. We might’ve been able to act earlier, but now it’s too late.

“True. Expecting him to admit Voldemort’s return is as likely as the Weasley twins giving up their nighttime escapades,” Luke quipped, oblivious to his own penchant for nocturnal adventures.

His critique of Fudge was spot-on: “He’s more concerned about his position than doing anything substantial. At the first sign of trouble, he bolts.”

Dumbledore laughed heartily. After a moment, he asked, “Wasn’t that a critique of your Muggle Prime Minister, Mr. Hark?”

Indeed, the current Muggle Prime Minister, Jim Hark, had unseated the once-dominant Margaret Thatcher, who had accelerated Britain’s decline. Thanks to Luke Sr.’s subtle manipulations, the bureaucratic ballast held steady.

In his past life, Luke found Americans mocking British accents amusing. Now, with a strong sense of national pride, such jokes filled him with anger. It felt akin to others mocking the Chinese language—it stirred his fists to action.

“Compared to Fudge, Hark is a saint,” Luke said disdainfully. “At least Hark wants to make a difference. Fudge, on the other hand... I can’t believe he distrusts you.”

“It’s easier to see clearly as an observer,” Dumbledore said, unconcerned. “I only care that Hogwarts’ children grow up happily. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“You’ve really let it go,” Luke thought, wondering if Dumbledore would maintain this attitude when Fudge and Lucius teamed up against him in the future.

“I’m over a hundred, Luke,” Dumbledore replied, laughing as he handed Jerry—who was climbing his beard—over to Luke. “As for Quirrell, don’t you think his presence adds some fun to Hogwarts? I won’t interfere with his teaching you. Consider it a small test.”

“Oh, it’s nearly time for Charms. If you’re late, I doubt Filius will be pleased.”

(Chapter ends)

*Chapter 37: Halloween*

During Charms class, Luke watched Seamus Finnigan accidentally explode a feather while practicing the Levitation Charm. Out of curiosity, he checked Seamus's innate talents and discovered that his talent for explosions was off the charts, maxing out at 15.

However, Harry didn't seem happy at all. Half of his face was scorched black by one of Seamus’s mishaps.

Ron wasn’t much better. After being mocked by Hermione several times in class, he now wore a gloomy expression as they walked to the Great Hall.

"You know, it’s Leviosa, not Leviosar!" Ron mimicked Hermione’s tone and exaggerated expressions, capturing her mannerisms perfectly. "No wonder she doesn’t have many friends. Honestly, with that attitude, it’s a miracle she has any friends at all!"

As he spoke, Ron felt a bump on his shoulder. Hermione brushed past him, running ahead, and they could just barely hear soft sobbing.

Ron shrugged, feeling a pang of regret. He regretted saying those things aloud, especially since Hermione had overheard them.

"I think she heard you," Harry whispered beside him.

But people are prideful, and even if they realize they're wrong, they rarely admit it. Ron felt uneasy but forced himself to continue toward the Great Hall.

Once inside, they quickly forgot about Hermione. For young wizards, there weren’t many places with such a festive atmosphere, especially with so many people gathered together in celebration. The enchanted ceiling looked like a deep, starry night sky, complete with flashes of rolling thunder, adding a touch of mystery.

Floating jack-o'-lanterns, unique to Halloween, hovered in the air, while bats darted among them, creating a truly spooky ambiance.

Luke glanced around but didn’t see Catherine anywhere. With no better options, he led Draco to a corner table and sat down.

Behind them were Gryffindor students, seemingly Hermione’s dormmates.

"Did you hear? That odd girl Hermione is still crying in the bathroom. I tried to comfort her several times, but she just chased me away," said a girl who looked a bit like a potato.

It must’ve been one of the Patil twins.

Draco, mimicking Luke’s refined manners, carefully folded his napkin diagonally and placed it on his lap. He whispered to Luke, "That Muggle-born girl—Miss Beaver, I mean—doesn’t seem to be in a good mental state."

Luke wouldn’t have liked hearing "Muggle-born," and Draco wasn’t keen on using Hermione’s name, so he opted for her nickname instead.

"When did you start caring about Granger?" Luke asked nonchalantly as he adjusted his napkin. "Just eat. Tonight’s feast looks impressive."

And indeed, it was impressive—so much so that everyone forgot about Hermione entirely.

Luke glanced over at Ron, who had once again transformed into a dual-wielding berserker, devouring roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with gusto. Ron’s enthusiastic eating made Luke hungry as well. He clapped his hands and pulled Jerry out of his pocket, setting him on the table. He also had Tom sit next to him, giving him a knife and fork to make sure he watched over Jerry.

Tom, to his credit, didn’t torment Jerry this time. Perhaps the Halloween feast was so lavish that he couldn’t be bothered to cause trouble. Jerry felt the same way.

Why prank each other when there’s food to enjoy?

Just as everyone was engrossed in their meals, the doors to the Great Hall slammed open. Professor Quirrell stumbled in, shouting in panic, "Troll—in the dungeon—!"

"I thought you ought to know," he added before dramatically fainting.

The hall was silent for a moment before erupting into chaos. Draco stood up and screamed, only to be yanked back down by Luke.

"Look at yourself. You’re embarrassing," Luke scolded, frowning. "What are you panicking for? The professors are all here. Do you really think a troll can cause trouble?"

Draco quieted down, still breathing heavily as he nervously scanned the room. The Great Hall had descended into utter chaos, resembling a noisy marketplace.

Dumbledore had to fire off several loud bursts of magical fireworks from his wand to restore order.

"Prefects," he said in a low, commanding voice, "lead your students back to your dormitories immediately."

The prefects swiftly began organizing their respective houses. Harry and Ron squeezed through the crowd toward Luke, whispering urgently, "Luke! Luke!"

"What’s the matter?" Luke asked, still calmly eating his fries, standing out starkly in the frantic and noisy hall. Elegance never goes out of style.

"Hermione—Hermione’s still in the dungeon—" they stammered, clearly anxious.

"I know. But you should tell the professors about this," Luke replied, wiping his mouth and pointing them in the right direction.

"But… but the professors will dock us points," Harry said worriedly.

Luke couldn’t help but laugh, covering his mouth with a napkin. "You Gryffindors… you still care about losing points?"

"Good point," Harry realized. But he was still visibly anxious. "Still, we can’t wait for the professors. Ron and I will head to the dungeon ourselves…"

Luke didn’t follow Harry and Ron to the dungeon. After all, according to the original story, these two would handle the troll just fine. Instead, he took Tom and Jerry back to the common room to brew some tea and relax.

What Luke didn’t know was that the events unfolding in the dungeon were far more dramatic than he imagined.

Catherine hadn’t been in the Great Hall during the chaos. She had intended to visit the restroom before meeting Luke to practice spells.

As she stood up, the faint sound of sobbing from one of the stalls caught her attention.

Initially, Catherine didn’t think much of it, but an uneasy feeling crept over her.

Despite her usual aloof and proud demeanor, she was secretly terrified of ghosts and other supernatural things—a fear even her parents didn’t know about, let alone her classmates.

To Hogwarts students, Catherine had always been described with three simple words: Do. Not. Mess.  

Some might wonder how she dealt with the castle’s ghosts. But Hogwarts ghosts weren’t the same as vengeful spirits—at least not the ones students had grown familiar with.

Forcing herself to stay calm, Catherine tiptoed out of her stall and nervously pulled open the door of the adjacent one.

She finally saw who was crying inside.

Catherine subtly let out a sigh of relief, her tension melting away. A mischievous smile spread across her face.

"Well, well, well," she teased. "If it isn’t little Miss Beaver of Gryffindor. Why aren’t you in the Great Hall? Hiding out here to cry? Let me guess…"

She covered her crimson lips with her hand, feigning shock. "Could it be that the little red-haired squirrel dumped you?"

(To be continued)  

Chapter 38: The Troll

"Mind your own business!" Hermione screamed, her voice shrill with anger. "You're the little beaver!"

"You're so fragile, aren't you? Look at yourself. All you can do is sit in the bathroom and cry when things go wrong," Catherine sneered, wrinkling her delicate nose. "I'm starting to believe what you said—you’re not a little beaver."

Hermione shot her a teary, resentful glare.

"Maybe you're a skunk instead. Damn..." Catherine's face lit up as if she'd made a sudden realization, then turned disdainful. "How can you even stand being in an environment that smells like this?"

That broke Hermione.

"AHHHHHHHHH!" Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs. "I am NOT a skunk! You insufferable woman!"

"I don't have time to play these childish argument games with you," Catherine said, her eyes flashing with contempt. "Whether you're a beaver or a skunk, you should realize that sulking here won't solve anything. It'll only make people look down on you even more."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but a series of loud thud-thud-thud noises interrupted her.

She wiped her eyes, got up from the toilet, and cautiously asked, "Ms. Vol—Volray, did you hear something?"

Catherine nodded, turning to face the direction the sound was coming from. A dark shadow stretched long under the light, growing closer to the bathroom door.

Who in their right mind would design a bathroom door that big?

That thought crossed both Hermione's and Catherine's minds.

A towering troll stood in the doorway, gripping a massive wooden club in one hand and staring at the door with what seemed like a glimmer of intelligence.

A wave of putrid odor, like unwashed socks left to rot for months, hit them. Hermione couldn't hold it in anymore and vomited all over the floor.

She swore she'd rather endure the garlic stench of Professor Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom than suffer this inhumane torment.

"It—it's a troll!" Hermione stammered, her face pale. Whether from the vomiting, the stench, or sheer terror, it was hard to tell.

The troll’s gaze followed the sound of her voice, and Hermione's heart sank. "Oh no, it heard us!" she said urgently.

"Dear Merlin..." Hermione's throat went dry. She felt as though all the strength had been drained from her body. Leaning weakly against the bathroom stall door, she whispered, "I read in a book that trolls are highly resistant to magic... At our age, there’s hardly any spell we can cast that will affect it..."

"Get behind me!" Catherine ordered without turning her head. She had already drawn her wand and was focused on the troll.

"No, I can’t let you face it alone—"

"Get behind me!" Catherine snapped, grabbing Hermione’s wrist and shoving her back a few feet. "If you stay here, you'll just get in the way!"

Before Hermione could respond, another loud crash echoed through the room. A second troll appeared.

"I think...we’re going to die," Hermione muttered, her voice hollow and oddly resigned.

"I doubt it’ll be today," Catherine said, her wand moving in a swift arc. A torrent of eerie green flames erupted, consuming the first troll in its entirety. Hermione stared at the sight, as if witnessing a miracle.

Catherine's mastery of Fiendfyre was terrifying.

In that moment, something indescribable stirred in Hermione’s eyes—something even she didn’t fully understand.

"*Stupefy!*"

A pale blue spell shot from Catherine’s wand, striking the second troll squarely on the forehead. The troll staggered, swaying as though drunk, before collapsing with a heavy thud.

"Hermione! Hermione!" Harry and Ron’s voices rang out. Two heads popped around the bathroom door.

The boys froze when they saw Catherine. The joy on their faces instantly faded, replaced by apprehension.

"Miss... Miss Volray..." the two stammered awkwardly.

"Red-haired squirrel and four-eyed frog?" Catherine's cold gaze swept over the pair, making them shrink back. After a pause, she tucked her wand back into her robe and said disdainfully, "If you’d arrived any later, you might’ve been able to share a jar of beaver pâté."

"Harry, Ron..." Hermione was overjoyed to see her friends. She rushed over and hugged Harry tightly. When she turned to Ron, she hesitated but then hugged him as well. "I can’t believe you two came looking for me... Oh, thank goodness."

Childhood grudges come and go quickly. Hermione had already forgotten about Ron badmouthing her earlier in the day.

"Hey, it’s just what friends do, isn’t it?" Ron said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

Harry grinned like a fool. Catherine, watching the trio come together, looked thoroughly unimpressed. "Well then," she said dryly, "if there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way, Miss Beaver and her squirrel boyfriend—oh, and the frog bestie."

All three flushed red, especially Ron, whose face seemed to be steaming. He glanced at Harry, then stole a look at Hermione, who was also blushing and looking at him. Embarrassed, he quickly turned his head away.

Harry stood there grinning stupidly, looking no smarter than the trolls.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the moment, snapping the trio out of their reverie and halting Catherine mid-step. Professor McGonagall was the first to appear, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. Her eyes fell on the unconscious troll, and she pressed a hand to her heart, trying to steady herself.

"Can someone explain to me what happened here?" she demanded, her stern gaze sweeping over the group, making the three younger students squirm uncomfortably.

Catherine seemed unconcerned. After all, none of this was her fault.

Professor Snape hobbled in next, his eyes briefly darting toward Harry with concern before his expression hardened. Professor Quirrell followed, glancing at the troll before collapsing onto a toilet seat, clutching his chest and sobbing weakly.

"It’s my fault, Professor," Hermione said, stepping forward. "I thought I could handle the troll. You see, I read about them in books—"

"It was Miss Volray," she quickly added. "She saved me. She used a spell to knock out the troll." She conveniently omitted the fact that there had been two trolls and that Catherine had used Fiendfyre, knowing it would cause unnecessary trouble.

She didn’t want to cause problems for Harry and Ron or for Catherine, who had saved her life.

"Harry and Ron only came because they were worried about me," Hermione added.

Professor McGonagall turned her sharp gaze to Harry and Ron, who nodded so vigorously it was a wonder their heads didn’t fall off. It was clear the two boys weren’t exactly the brightest.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 39: Miss Walley Wants Me to Confess

“Oh, if that’s the case…” Professor McGonagall turned her gaze to Hermione, pondering aloud, “Miss Granger, you silly girl, how could you think you could handle a troll the size of a mountain all by yourself?”

Hermione bit her lip and lowered her head, avoiding Professor McGonagall’s piercing gaze.

“Because of your recklessness… and arrogance, Gryffindor will lose five points.” Professor McGonagall pursed her lips as she delivered the punishment.

The elderly professor was particularly strict with her own house.

“I must say, Miss Granger, I’m rather disappointed in you.”

Her eyes then shifted to Catherine. “I have to admit, Miss Walley, for a witch of your age to handle a troll so effortlessly, it’s beyond what the word ‘genius’ can describe.”

“Slytherin will gain 20 points for your actions.” A rare softness appeared in McGonagall’s usually stern eyes.

For the first time, she wondered if Miss Walley’s cold and aloof demeanor wasn’t as impenetrable as it seemed.

Indeed, in the two or three years since Catherine had enrolled, most of McGonagall’s sightings of her were in the context of mischief—such as using the Levicorpus spell to dangle students upside-down for fun. The Weasley twins, for example, had been left hanging from the ceiling for an hour just for calling Catherine “Poker Face.”

Otherwise, Catherine was known for single-handedly defeating groups of students in duels. The idea of her helping anyone was unheard of.

Harry glanced between McGonagall and Snape, and suddenly noticed the hem of Snape’s robe was torn, revealing a bloodied, hairy leg.

Snape, sensing Harry’s gaze, pulled his robe tighter around his leg with a scowl. Harry stared at the wound, feeling as though he was on the verge of realizing something important, though it remained just out of reach.

“If none of you are injured, please return to your common rooms. The Halloween feast is still ongoing,” McGonagall reminded the students.

“We’ll be on our way, then, Professor.” The trio politely bid farewell, while Catherine curtsied to the professors before following the group out of the underground bathroom.

“Well, well, I’ll handle the troll… This is, after all, my… specialty,” Professor Quirrell said nervously, managing a strained smile. Just as he finished, the troll on the floor sneezed, making him jump in fright.

Snape smirked disdainfully before following McGonagall out of the bathroom.

---

“So, I heard you saved Hermione?” Luke asked Catherine the next morning at the breakfast table.

He’d heard the story from Harry and Ron, who promptly fled when they saw Catherine approaching with Draco.

While Draco usually disliked Harry and Ron, he begrudgingly chose to tolerate their presence to avoid the wrath of Catherine. Draco had a knack for self-preservation, a trait inherited from his father. Like father, like son.

“Seems like you have quite the fondness for Miss Beaver,” Catherine said through gritted teeth, nearly bending her fork in half. Fighting back her annoyance, she added, “What a sweet nickname. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Her voice carried a faint bitterness.

In truth, Luke calling Hermione by her first name was unusual unless they were close friends, but their relationship was, at best, casual acquaintances. Luke had only said it to irritate Catherine.

Sensing her displeasure, Luke decided to tease her further. “Oh, absolutely. She’s adorable, don’t you think?”

Catherine glanced coldly at Hermione, who was chatting happily with Ron. “You have quite the talent for digging up treasure from mud, don’t you?” she replied icily.

The comment reminded Luke of a bottle of aged vinegar he’d bought during a trip to Shanxi.

“How about this—why don’t you have Miss Beaver accompany you to the Room of Requirement to practice spells every night? That way, I can save some time. I have no interest in babysitting an immature child,” Catherine added haughtily.

Her arrogance was in full swing, though she couldn’t help wondering why she had let those words slip. The thought of Luke choosing Hermione over her left her feeling hollow and in pain.

“Maybe I should just confess to her,” Luke said, resting his chin on his hand and pretending to contemplate.

Catherine turned her head slowly, her icy gaze locking onto Luke. Her voice was dripping with venom as she suggested, “Why don’t you confess to her right here in front of the whole school, Mr. Montbatten?”

“Great idea!” Luke clapped his hands. “Let’s do it!”

He patted Catherine’s shoulder with a grin. “And you, Miss Walley, can witness it.”

Catherine’s pupils dilated briefly before returning to normal. Her voice trembled as she forced herself to respond, “Sure, I’ll… watch.”

*All those nights practicing spells together, and all I get is a ‘Miss Walley’?!*

Clutching her fork so tightly it bent at a 90-degree angle, Catherine made up her mind to return Luke’s wand—his “Leaf” wand—later that day. She wanted nothing to do with this shameless jerk.

Luke stood up, cleared his throat, and cast a Sonorus charm to amplify his voice. He was about to declare, “Alright, everyone, attention! I have an announcement to make!” but held back.

*What am I, delivering the Declaration of Independence?*

Catherine watched his every move, her breathing heavy, her knuckles white. Finally, the fork in her hand snapped under the strain.

Her chest felt tight, as if her heart was being twisted. Waves of heat and cold alternated as dizziness clouded her mind. She forced herself to focus, her eyes locked on Luke with an intensity that could kill.

*Should I use Fiendfyre or the Imperius Curse?* Catherine’s gaze darkened as dangerous thoughts flickered in her mind.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 40: Why Are You So Skilled?!*

Luke lowered his gaze to Catherine, noticing her awkwardness and fiery anger, as well as the intense scent of lemons emanating from her.

He had wanted to confess his feelings to Catherine publicly, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a system task panel.

*Task:* Get Catherine Wolray to confess to you first.

*Description:* As the chosen one, how could you take the initiative in confessing? Maintain your pride as both a child of fate and a transmigrator. Who knows? One day, even a falling star might aid in your victory.

*Reward:* The Crown of "Griffin's Eye" and the Lightning Skill Tree.

*Failure Penalty:* None.

He didn’t really want to take on the task, but... the rewards were simply too tempting.

Who wouldn’t want to be a handsome and cool lightning mage?

The best part was that this task was challenging. Just imagining the aloof senior awkwardly confessing her feelings made Luke’s heart itch with excitement.

He flashed a sly smile at Catherine, who was glaring daggers at him, and canceled the loud voice-enhancing spell with a wave of his hand before sitting back down.

“Just messing with you, Wolray. Why are you so worked up?”

Catherine froze for a moment, holding her breath.

“To be honest, I don’t have any romantic feelings for Miss Granger.” Luke now donned a serious expression. “You might not know this, but I’m not into younger girls.”

*Diana:* Oh, absolutely. You’re so right.

“What kind of girl are you into, then?” Catherine asked coldly. Though her tone was icy, she felt a wave of relief. She was already contemplating what curse to use on him—should it be knocking out his front teeth with a spell, or roasting him with a fiery jinx?

At least she wasn’t as angry as before, so she’d ruled out the Unforgivable Curses.

“Me? I like someone three years older than me.” Luke leaned to the side, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand as he gazed at Catherine. “She should have long golden hair, a beautiful face, a tall and slender figure... Oh, and a pair of long legs would be a bonus.”

Indeed, Catherine, standing at 5’7”, had impressively long legs.

Catherine’s cheeks suddenly flushed red. She rolled her eyes at Luke before turning away, refusing to speak further.

Still, her heart felt like the sun had broken through the clouds.

But then she remembered how Luke had teased her earlier and couldn’t resist extending one of her long legs to stomp on his foot, hard.

Luke took the hit in silence, deciding to consider it his penance for his earlier bad behavior. This was his senior, after all. Anyone else might have already flipped out at him.

“Well... I just wonder if that golden-haired older sister would ever like me back.” Luke smirked mischievously. “What do you think, Catherine?—Can I call you that?”

“It’s your mouth; I can’t control it, can I?” Catherine replied icily, but the blush on her face betrayed her true thoughts.

“Hey, then help me guess—does she like me or not?” Luke continued teasing, completely unbothered, a shameless little rogue through and through.

*Why are you so skilled at this? Just how many girls have you flirted with?!*

Catherine fumed internally, biting down hard on the candy in her mouth, which cracked loudly.

“No response? I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Scram.”

Luke glanced at the flushed senior, then out at the fiery red autumn scenery, muttering to himself, “The season of the white album is almost here again...”

After the competition, he decided, he would prepare a special surprise for Catherine.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Snape limping toward Harry.

“Good luck today, Potter,” Snape said, forcing a strained smile as Harry looked at him in confusion. “If you had the courage to face a troll, then a little Quidditch match should be no problem—even if your opponent is... Slytherin.”

He immediately regretted his words.

He had genuinely wanted to show some concern for Potter. Seeing those familiar eyes even made him happy. But then he remembered the boy was Gryffindor’s Seeker—and that he had James Potter’s insufferable face. The words that came out were tinged with sarcasm.

Worse, standing before him were three little brats: a genius Muggle-born witch, a redhead, and a boy with green eyes. Wasn’t this a knockoff version of Lily?!

It made Professor Snape want to scream internally.

With a dramatic swoop of his cloak, he vanished like a great bat in the students’ line of sight.

“I’ve figured it out!” Harry whispered to Ron and Hermione as he watched Snape’s retreating, limping figure.

No need to ask—Snape was about to be blamed for something again.

Honestly, why did he always wear that black cloak?

The other two leaned in as Harry continued, “Did you see Professor Snape’s leg? He was limping. I saw the scars on his leg in the dungeons before... I bet he tried to get past that three-headed dog! I’d bet my Nimbus 2000 that he’s the one who let the troll in, as a distraction.”

Hermione’s eyes widened like saucers. “No, that’s impossible! I know he might not like Gryffindor, but he’d never betray Dumbledore—”

Technically, Snape had never betrayed Dumbledore since becoming a teacher.

“Hermione, you always think too highly of the professors.” Ron shrugged. “The real question is, what’s his goal? And what’s that big dog guarding?”

“Stop worrying,” Hermione said, picking up a piece of toast. “Eat something. You have a match in an hour, and you’ll need your strength. Otherwise, you’ll regret it.”

“But I’m not hungry,” Harry muttered, his mind consumed by thoughts of Snape. While he didn’t emotionally believe Snape would harm Dumbledore, his "brilliant" instincts told him something was off.

“Potter, Potter!” Draco Malfoy’s voice interrupted from behind, pulling Harry back to reality.

Turning, Harry asked, “What is it, Malfoy?”

“Seekers are prime targets, Potter,” Malfoy said casually. “I wouldn’t want you to lose to Slytherin just because you were too hungry to keep up. That’d be a disgrace.”

“Thanks, Malfoy.”

Harry instantly regretted it.

When had Malfoy ever meant well?

Malfoy, grinning, stabbed a sausage with his fork. “Why don’t I treat you to a sausage and two fried eggs, Potter?”

“Shut it, Malfoy.” Harry rolled his eyes. If he didn’t have a match to prepare for, he’d definitely give Malfoy a piece of his mind.

Delighted, Draco planned to share this joke with Luke when Catherine wasn’t around.

Of course, if Catherine was there, not even twenty Malfoys would dare.

*(End of Chapter)*