Chapter 63: Potions Class in the Dungeon
The Potions Class classroom was located deep in the dungeon, colder than any other part of the castle.
Bone-chilling dampness seeped from the stone walls, and the wind crept in through the cracks in the door, biting into the skin. There were no fireplaces here, only a few candles flickering on iron sconces, casting a dim, yellowish hue over the narrow classroom. The air was filled with a mixture of scents—hay, metal, rotting wood, and the pungent odor unique to potion ingredients—all tangled together to form the dungeon's distinct atmosphere. The walls were lined with glass jars containing specimens like claws, scales, and fangs, and as the candlelight flickered, their shadows twisted and danced upon the stone walls.
Amster arrived very early. He sat in the corner at the back of the classroom, his chair pressed against the cold stone wall. As a teaching assistant, he had no fixed seat; this spot was far from the podium and far from the first-years, which suited him perfectly. Spread out on the table was an ancient book borrowed from Snape, its cowhide cover worn soft, the pages filled with dense annotations.
Students filed in, but the classroom remained oppressively quiet. Hermione sat in the front row, her textbook open, her expression tense. Harry and Ron were in the middle, both looking pale, clearly full of trepidation about this class.
The door opened silently.
Snape, in his black robes, looked like a cloud of darkness as he glided slowly into the classroom. The faint murmur of conversation vanished instantly. He stepped onto the podium, picked up the register, and began reading names in a slow, deliberate manner, his voice cold and low. When he reached "Harry Potter," he paused and lifted his gaze from the parchment.
"Our new... celebrity."
His voice was soft, yet it felt like shards of ice scraping against the ear.
Malfoy covered his mouth and snickered in the corner. Crabbe and Goyle let out a couple of stupid laughs, but one glance from Snape silenced them immediately.
Snape set down the register and scanned the class; no one dared to meet his gaze. He spoke, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, yet every word was clear.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. There is no foolish wand-waving here, so many of you will not believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly appreciate the delicate power of a simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes—the power to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—provided you are not the pack of dunderheads I usually have to teach."
He continued the lecture, his tone cold and hard, without a single wasted word. When he reached the infusion of wormwood and powdered root of asphodel, he stopped abruptly.
"Potter."
Harry was startled and jerked his head up.
"If I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, what would I get?"
The classroom was so quiet that only the sound of burning candle flames remained. Hermione's hand was raised straight up, but Snape didn't even look at her. Harryopened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.
"Don't know? Then let me ask you again. Where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione's hand was practically poking the ceiling. Snapeignored her, standing in front of Harry's desk, looking down at him, a cold sneer curling his lips.
"Tut, tut—it seems fame isn't everything."
Malfoy laughed out loud immediately, and Crabbe and Goyle joined in. Ron's face turned bright red; he gripped his wand so hard his knuckles turned white. Hermionelowered her hand and pressed her lips tightly together.
Snape turned and walked back to the podium, his black robes swirling behind him.
"Five points from Gryffindor for Potter's stupidity."
Harry lowered his head, staring fixedly at the desk. Ron muttered something under his breath, but one sweep of Snape's gaze silenced him instantly.
Afterward, Snape had them work in pairs to brew a potion to cure boils. He paced the classroom, his black robes dragging, his eyes as sharp as knives, letting no mistake escape his notice.
Walking over to Neville, he looked at the nearly scorched cauldron, his voice bone-chillingly cold: "Longbottom, are you planning to blow up the cauldron, or do you just want to waste ingredients? With your clumsiness, you will never brew any potion correctly."
Neville fumbled to add water, and the potion in the pot instantly turned into a murky, greenish sludge. Terrified and pale, he apologized profusely.
Snape snorted coldly and walked over to Ron.
"Weasley, look at the stuff in your pot; even a gnome wouldn't touch it. Did you pour your family's leftover slop into it? Do you think you can learn Potions just by holding a nearly broken wand? Give up now and stop embarrassing yourself here."
Ron gritted his teeth and said nothing.
When he reached Hermione, he glanced at her standard, pale blue potion and said only dismissively: "Barely passing, don't get cocky."
Hermione nodded slightly, not daring to show any expression.
Walking to Harry's side, Snape picked up the daisy roots he had chopped, held them up to the light, then tossed them back onto the table without a word; the disdain in his eyes was enough. Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Amster sat in the back, never looking up from start to finish, like a shadow merged into the wall. Yet, every time Snape passed by, he would subconsciously slow his pace, his gaze falling on the ancient book filled with red ink annotations—the book he had personally lent to Amster.
As soon as the bell rang, the students practically fled. Harry and Ron were the fastest, as if someone were chasing them. Hermione reached the door, paused, and then turned back.
She stood in front of Amster's desk, clutching the strap of her school bag, her knuckles white.
"Senior Amster," her voice was tight, "you clearly knew the answer just now, why didn't you help Harry? He's just started; he couldn't possibly answer those questions."
Amster looked up and watched her calmly.
"And so? Why should I help him?"
Hermione was taken aback.
"But you are the teaching assistant—"
"A teaching assistant is not there to answer questions for him." Amster closed the book. "Professor Snape asked him; that is his business, not mine."
Hermione opened her mouth, but couldn't find the words.
"If he can't answer, he loses points himself." Amster's tone was flat. "It has nothing to do with me."
Hermione was silent for a moment, then lowered her head.
"I understand."
She turned to leave, then stopped.
"Senior... were you treated like this before, too?"
Amster did not answer. He only recalled many years ago, sitting in an old chair in Snape's office for seven days straight, chopping daisy roots that he could never chop perfectly. Snape had never helped him answer questions, never rescued him. That was how he had learned.
Hermione looked at his expression and didn't ask again. She nodded, turned, and left, not looking back this time.
Only Amster remained in the classroom. The candle flames continued to flicker, and the scent of potions hung heavy in the cold air. He put the ancient book away, cradled it in his arms, and slowly stood up.
The dungeon remained quiet, as if nothing had ever happened.
Chapter 64 Open Day
The last weekend of October was the day when Hogwartsstudents in their third year and above were allowed to visit Hogsmeade.
The atmosphere in the castle changed starting from the early morning; corridors were filled with students hugging scarves and carrying copper knuts, their footsteps and laughter blending together to dispel much of the autumn chill.
Amster had not originally planned to go.
He was not particularly enthusiastic about Honeydukes' sweets or Zonko's joke products, preferring to stay in the Room of Requirement to quietly sort through some of his recent gains.
But this plan was broken before it even began.
Not long after dawn, the door of the Room of Requirementwas gently knocked upon.
Before he could answer, Fleur pushed the door open and walked right in. Her silvery-golden long hair shimmered softly in the dim light, and as soon as she entered, she smiled and tugged at his sleeve, her tone carrying a bit of an irresistible briskness.
"Don't hide in here; Hogsmeade is such a wonderful place, we mustn't waste it."
Poppy stood right outside the door, holding a small wicker basket whose lid was slightly lifted by the freshly baked cookies inside. Warm air drifted out from the gaps, carrying the sweet fragrance of butter and caramel.
Seeing Amster, she just smiled gently without saying much.
Penelope leaned against the wall, holding a thick book in her arms with a quiet and proper posture, as if she would never grow impatient no matter how long she waited.
Across the corridor, Cassandra held a cup of hot tea with a straight posture and a calm expression, as if she didn't care about the place they were about to visit and was merely changing locations to drink tea.
A light set of footsteps came from the top of the stairs. Cho Chang poked her head out, her dark eyes curving, and softly asked why they hadn't set off yet.
Looking at the people before him, Amster ultimately did not refuse again.
The group thus walked out of the castle along the corridor and embarked on the road to Hogsmeade.
The village streets were covered with fallen autumn leaves—golden, ochre, and dark brown—layered thickly over the paved stone road, crunching softly with every step.
The wind swept past the treetops, bringing a hint of crisp chill.
A long queue lined up outside Honeydukes, and students crowded in front of the shop window pointing and chatting, the sweet aroma of candy drifting far away.
From Zonko's Joke Shop came occasional faint explosions accompanied by bursts of laughter, making the entire street appear exceptionally lively.
Poppy walked at the very front, her pace slightly faster than usual, yet she never forgot to look back from time to time to make sure everyone was following behind, afraid someone would get distracted by the bustle of the street and get separated.
Fleur linked her arm with Cho Chang's, the two talking in low voices. She occasionally frowned slightly, carrying a bit of the French-unique pride, and whispered that the pastries at some dessert shops in Paris were even more exquisite than those in Hogsmeade.
Cho Chang merely listened quietly, occasionally letting out a soft laugh.
Penelope walked beside Amster, not saying much along the way, only occasionally looking up at the shop signs along the street with a calm gaze, holding the book in her arms securely.
Cassandra lagged at the very back, walking slowly while holding her teacup with an indifferent expression, as if the surrounding hustle and bustle had nothing to do with her. Her coming to Hogsmeade was merely shifting from the castle's common room to another windy place to drink tea.
The group gradually left the main street and walked towards the edge of the village.
It was much quieter here, lacking the clamor of the crowd, leaving only the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves.
Poppy's cottage was hidden within this tranquility, featuring stone-built walls, small windows, and a slightly withered lawn in front of the door.
She took an old key out of her pocket, unlocked the door, and turned sideways to let everyone in.
It was much warmer inside than outside.
The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, with orange-red flames leaping and emitting a soft crackling sound.
Amster was somewhat surprised; Poppy had set off together with them, leaving her no time to come ahead and light the fire.
Perhaps this cottage left behind by her grandmother possessed a bit of spirituality of its own.
Poppy placed the wicker basket on the wooden table and gently lifted the lid.
In an instant, the aroma of the cookies poured out, mixed with the faint burnt scent of firewood, gently filling the entire cottage.
She turned and entered the small kitchen to brew tea, and Fleur followed her inside. Though saying she wanted to help, she actually just stood aside and watched, occasionally asking a detail or two about baking, which added a bit of liveliness.
Cho Chang slowly walked around the room, touching the walls and looking at the fireplace, softly saying that although the cottage was small, it felt exceptionally cozy and much more comforting than any teahouse in Hogsmeade.
Penelope sat down by the table, opened her book, and let her gaze fall upon the pages, as quiet as a painting.
As for Cassandra, she chose the warmest spot beside the fireplace, placed her teacup on her knees, and stared blankly at the flames.
Amster did not sit down, instead walking over to the window.
He pushed it open a narrow crack, letting the slightly cool wind drift in.
His gaze swept past the path in front of the door and looked toward the direction leading to the Forbidden Forest.
The sky was hazy, the clouds were very low, and the branches of the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forestintertwined, their dense shadows overlapping like a silent and heavy wall.
That presence was still there.
It was identical to what he had vaguely sensed before at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, in the eighth-floor corridor, and on Hogsmeade's main street—faint, yet constantly present, sometimes strong and sometimes weak, like a pulse dormant in the dark that had never truly disappeared.
He stared at the end of the path for a moment, his brow furrowing imperceptibly before slowly relaxing as he withdrew his gaze.
Poppy came out of the kitchen carrying a tea tray and immediately saw Amster standing by the window.
She walked over gently and pressed a cup of still-steaming tea into his hands.
Her hands were very warm; when her fingertips brushed against the back of his hand, she paused for a brief instant before withdrawing them.
"What are you looking at?" Her voice was soft and gentle.
"Nothing." Amster lowered his head and took a sip; the hot tea carried a hint of honeyed sweetness, sliding down his throat and making him feel a bit more settled.
He no longer looked out the window, pressing that trace of inexplicable tension deep into his heart.
Poppy followed his gaze and glanced outside the window, seeing only the gloomy sky and swaying tree branches, with nothing unusual.
She did not press further, simply nodding gently, turning back to the table, and distributing cookies to everyone.
Fleur came out of the kitchen with an empty plate, still biting into a cookie, and mumbled that this time's cookies were even more delicious than the previous batch.
Poppy smiled slightly, saying the heat was just right.
Cho Chang picked up a piece and took a small bite, her eyes lighting up slightly as she said it was even softer and fluffier than what Honeydukes sold.
Penelope took the cookie, placed it beside the opened pages of her book, and didn't eat it immediately, just letting it sit quietly there.
Cassandra didn't move, merely glancing at the plate, letting her gaze sweep lightly past Amster before turning back to the fireplace flames.
Amster walked back from the window and sat down next to Cassandra.
She silently shifted aside a little bit and pushed her teacup toward him.
He picked it up and took a sip; the tea had already gone cold, but he didn't mind.
The few of them gathered around the table, drinking tea, eating cookies, and chatting idly.
Poppy talked about things from her childhood, saying this cottage was left to her by her grandmother. In the past, the yard was full of flowers, and once summer arrived, bees swarmed, buzzing so loudly that people couldn't sleep in the afternoon, but thinking back on it now, it was full of warmth.
Fleur said that Beauxbatons also had similar small houses, though most of them were used to store flying broomsticks.
Cho Chang smiled and said her family yard didn't grow flowers, only vegetables; whenever harvest time came, it was a full view of green.
Penelope had been listening quietly, occasionally looking up at Poppy with gentle eyes.
The sky gradually grew dark.
The wind grew stronger, and the bare tree branches beat against the window, making a soft pattering sound.
Poppy stood up and added a few more pieces of firewood to the fireplace.
The flames suddenly leaped higher, and warmth once again enveloped the entire cottage, blocking out the chill from outside completely.
Amster leaned against the back of his chair, his gaze falling upon that slender strip of night along the edge of the window frame.
That faint presence was still there, just like when he first sensed it a few months ago—neither far nor near, silent and unmoving.
He didn't speak of it, nor did he plan to investigate it right now.
Some things couldn't be rushed.
The more eager one was to approach the truth, the easier it was to be deceived by illusions.
Poppy pushed the last cookie on the table in front of him, softly saying that if he didn't eat it soon, it would get cold.
Amster picked it up and took a slow bite.
The sweetness melted in his mouth, warm and reassuring.
He looked at Poppy; she was lowering her head to tidy up the crumbs, the firelight falling on her face and her eyelashes casting shallow shadows, quiet and secure.
Outside the window, the wind was still blowing.
That dormant presence still lingered in the distance.
He looked at Poppy, then glanced at the heavy night, and ultimately said nothing.
Chapter 65: Night Walk
After the Hogsmeade weekend passed, the castle quickly returned to its usual tense and quiet rhythm. As the twilight deepened layer by layer, the common room lights went out, the dormitory doors closed gently, and Hogwarts Castle truly fell into the deep night.
There was almost no sound in the corridors. Only a few dim pumpkin lanterns remained lit on the walls, casting a faint, yellowish light that barely paved a small, blurry path on the cold flagstone floor. Most of the portraits on both sides were already fast asleep; some figures in the paintings leaned back in their chairs to rest their eyes, while others even curled up tightly in their robes and lay down, their soft, rustling snores floating in the air. Occasionally, an old wizard in a portrait would mutter in his sleep, only to be quickly swallowed up by the deeper silence. The moonlight slanted in through the high glass windows, cutting out neat patches of bright spots on the ground—cold, quiet, and completely devoid of warmth.
Amster walked from the direction of the Library, holding a few ancient books just borrowed from the Restricted Section in his arms. The book covers were heavy and old, carrying the musty smell of year-round lack of light and the scent of old ink, and the edges of the pages were slightly curled up, showing at a glance that they had not been easily flipped through for many years. His steps were light and steady, without disturbing any portraits, as he walked slowly toward the eighth floor along the deserted corridor. He had originally planned to continue studying those ancient texts and arrays in the Room of Requirementtonight and rest only in the late hours of the night, but his plan was interrupted before he even reached the place.
Just as he turned the corner leading to the trophy room, he heard very low voices coming from ahead. The voices were kept very low, but in a corridor so silent that you could hear a pin drop, they were still clearly distinguishable.
Amster stopped, leaning against the cold stone wall without making a sound.
"...Are you really sure Malfoy will come?" Ron's voice carried obvious unease, along with a bit of the stubbornness peculiar to a young man, "What if he doesn't come at all and is just playing with us?"
"He made an appointment with me in person." Harry's voice was lowered even further, yet it exuded an unyielding stubbornness, "Midnight, trophy room, he wants to duel with me."
"A duel?" Hermione's voice instantly raised a bit, then hurriedly lowered, full of anxiety, "Are you crazy, Harry! This is too ridiculous! If Filch catches us, we will definitely be given detention, and maybe even lose house points!"
"Even so, we can't let him look down on us." Ron immediately chimed in, his tone a bit aggressive, "He mocks you in the corridors all day long; if we don't go this time, he'll be even more smug in the future."
"But this is obviously a trap!" Hermione was so anxious she almost stamped her feet, "Why did he choose midnight of all times? Why the trophy room? He just wants to lure us out and then tell on us!"
"If you're scared, you can go back." Harry's voice was a bit hard.
Just then, Amster straightened up slightly and slowly walked out from the shadows.
The three of them were startled almost simultaneously, freezing in place like three frozen stakes.
Harry's face instantly flushed red, shifting abruptly from impulsiveness to panic, his eyes darting around, not knowing where to look. Ron subconsciously hid the wand in his hand behind his back, his shoulders tensing up, looking like he had been caught red-handed. Hermionepressed her lips tightly together, her face turning pale, and her hands clasped together, clearly prepared for a scolding. None of them had expected that there would still be someone else in the corridor at such a late hour.
Amster looked at the three of them with a calm gaze, showing neither harshness nor mockery.
"So late," his voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the empty corridor, "not resting in the dormitory, running all the way here."
Harry opened his mouth, wanting to explain, but didn't know where to start, his throat feeling as if it were blocked by something. Ron lowered his head without saying a word. Hermione slightly bit her lip, her eyes filled with tension and unease.
Silence dragged on in the cold air for a few seconds.
As if finally making up his mind, Harry raised his head and spoke in a somewhat dry voice: "Senior, Malfoy challenged me to a midnight duel in the trophy room... We were just heading over."
Ron and Hermione both froze for a moment, clearly not expecting him to say it so directly.
Amster didn't reply immediately, only casting a faint glance toward the end of the corridor. The direction of the trophy room was pitch black, like a silent mouth, quietly lurking in the shadows, without a trace of light or sound.
"He asks you, and you go?" His tone was calm, revealing neither joy nor anger.
Harry clenched his fists, his knuckles turning slightly white: "He provoked me in front of many people. If I don't go, he'll go around telling everyone I'm afraid of him."
"What if he doesn't go at all, but goes straight to find Filchinstead?" Amster gently interrupted him.
This sentence was like a small pebble dropped into calm water, making the three of them startle all at once.
Hermione's face turned even paler instantly—she had thought of this layer long ago, but hadn't managed to persuade Harry in time. Ron was also stunned for a moment, and that impulsive drive from earlier suddenly weakened.
Amster didn't continue lecturing, nor did he ask any further questions. He turned around, took two steps toward the direction of the eighth floor, then stopped without looking back.
"In that corridor of the trophy room, Filch patrols every night at eleven-thirty." His voice was very soft, as if he were just mentioning it casually, "He has already passed through tonight."
Having said that, he turned the corner ahead, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, never looking back again.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione froze in place, looking at each other, and that impulsive drive in their hearts almost completely dissipated in an instant. The anger ignited by the provocation earlier was thoroughly doused by this breezy reminder.
In the darkness not far away, a very, very light sound of footsteps came—scittering, noiseless; it was Mrs. Norris. Two eerie green spots of light flashed in the dark, then disappeared again, leaving behind a chill that made one's scalp tighten slightly.
Hermione gently pulled Harry's sleeve, her voice lowered to the extreme: "Let's go... Let's go back right now, and don't think about the duel anymore."
Harry glanced at Ron, then looked at the pitch-black end of the corridor, and nodded gently. The three of them hesitated no longer, turning around and hurrying toward Gryffindor Tower, their steps much faster than when they came. The courage and argument from just now were all suppressed by the danger and sobriety of the deep night.
Amster looped out from another hidden corridor and continued walking toward the eighth floor. His steps remained steady, as if that little episode just now had never happened, and as if he had never reminded anyone or exposed anything. The pumpkin lanterns on the wall swayed gently behind him, drawing his shadow very, very long, clinging to the cold stone wall, quiet and lonely.
When he reached the eighth floor, the door of the Room of Requirement was already open for him. The room was warm enough to make one heave a sigh of relief upon stepping inside; the flames in the fireplace were burning brightly and crackling, and the orange-red firelight filled the entire room, blocking the chill of the deep night outside the door.
He sat down at the desk, gently placed the ancient books from his arms aside, and then opened the notebook filled with his own notes. On the pages was the array diagram he hadn't finished drawing the previous night; the ink was already dry, and the lines were slightly grayish, stopping at an unfinished corner. He picked up the quill, dipped it in a bit of ink, and the nib gently landed on the paper, continuing to draw along the previous traces.
The rustling sound of the nib rubbing against the paper was soft and steady, blending with the sound of the flames in the fireplace, becoming the quietest accompaniment in the night.
Outside the window, moonlight spilled in large patches over the Black Lake, the surface of the lake undulating slightly, kneading the moonlight into millions of shimmering silver fragments, quietly flashing. The entire Hogwarts Castle was asleep, so quiet that even the wind seemed to slow its pace.
The unease hidden in the dark, the secret research, the sudden chance encounter, and the understatement of a reminder were all submerged in this vast and gentle silence.
Chapter 66 Halloween Troll
The Great Hall for the Halloween feast was even livelier than usual.
Huge jack-o'-lanterns floated in mid-air, casting a warm yellow glow on everyone's faces.
Bats circled beneath the ceiling, occasionally swooping down, scaring the younger students into shrinking back.
The four long tables were laden with sumptuous food; roast turkeys, pumpkin pies, and piles of sweets formed small mountains, and the air was cloyingly sweet.
Amster sat towards the back of the Slytherin long table, with only a goblet of pumpkin juice in front of him.
He didn't touch the drink, just leaned against the back of his chair, watching the noisy crowd in the Great Hall.
Fleur sat over at the Ravenclaw long table, talking with Cho Chang, her silver hair swaying in the candlelight.
Penelope and Cassandra sat together, neither speaking much; one lowered her head to flip through a book, while the other held a teacup.
Poppy was not there — she didn't much like crowded places, preferring to stay in her hut baking cookies.
Dumbledore stood up, said a few welcoming words, and announced the start of the feast.
The plates instantly piled high with food, the sound of knives and forks mixing with chatter and laughter, filling the entire Great Hall to the brim.
Amster picked up his pumpkin juice, took a sip, and put it back down.
Just then, the doors of the Great Hall were thrown open violently.
Professor Quirrell stumbled in, his turban askew, his face as white as paper.
His mouth was open, but no sound came out, and his trembling fingers pointed outside the door.
A few students near the door screamed and dodged out of the way.
Dumbledore stood up, but before he could speak, Quirrell finally cried out: "Troll — in the dungeons — thought you ought to know!"
As soon as the words fell, he fainted stiffly, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud.
The Great Hall erupted into chaos.
Screams, the dragging of chairs, and the sound of shattering plates all mixed together.
Dumbledore's voice pressed down from above, deep yet clear: "Prefects, lead the students of your respective houses back to the common rooms!"
Professor McGonagall's voice followed closely: "Everyone, immediately, quietly, evacuate in an orderly manner!"
Students pushed and shoved as they headed out.
Amster didn't crowd into the throng; leaning against the wall, he slowly moved toward the door along with the stream of people.
When he reached the door, he looked back.
Dumbledore was squatting beside Quirrell, with several professors crowding around.
The corridor was even more chaotic.
Lower-year students clustered together, some crying, some shouting, while prefects shrieked at the top of their lungs to direct them.
Gryffindor's procession was scattered, and Harry and Ron had somehow broken away from the crowd, running in the opposite direction.
Amster saw them, said nothing, and continued walking forward.
He had just rounded the stairs leading to the eighth floor when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.
Harry and Ron rushed over one after the other, both looking terrible.
Panting, Ron saw Amster, and his eyes lit up.
"Senior! Hermione — Hermione is still downstairs, she doesn't know about the troll —" Before Harry could finish, Ron was already tugging at his sleeve and charging downstairs.
Running a few steps, he stopped again and looked back at Amster.
Amster stood at the top of the stairs and glanced at them.
"Lead the way," he said.
Before the two could react, he was already heading down.
The basement corridors were damp and cold, the torches on the walls flickering unsteadily in the drafts.
A pungent, foul stench drifted from deep within, mixed with the scent of damp stone, making one's stomach churn.
Harry and Ron ran ahead, with Amster following behind at a leisurely pace, his wand already gripped in his hand at some point.
Turning the final corner, the bathroom door was half-open.
A scream came from inside.
The three of them rushed in.
Hermione was cowering in the corner, her hands covering her ears, her face pale.
Blocking the doorway was a huge gray behemoth — a twelve-foot-tall troll, its thick arms grasping a wooden club, smashing down in her direction.
The club smashed against the wall, sending flying debris splashing.
Hermione screamed and curled into a ball.
Harry and Ron froze at the door, their legs feeling as though they were filled with lead.
Amster stepped out from behind them, raised his wand, and cast no incantation.
A beam of red light shot from the tip of the wand, striking dead center on the back of the troll's head.
The troll staggered slightly, didn't fall, and turned around, its muddy little eyes glaring at them with a low roar.
The club was raised again, crashing down with a rush of wind.
Amster sidestepped to avoid it and tapped his wand twice in rapid succession — the first beam of red light struck the troll's knee, causing it to stumble and drop to its knees; the second beam of red light hit the wrist holding the club, knocking the club loose to smash against the floor and kick up a spray of stone fragments.
The troll roared as it tried to stand up.
Amster raised his wand, the tip pointing right between its brows.
"Stupefy."
A red flash crossed, the troll's massive body swayed twice, and it crashed heavily to the ground.
The floor shook slightly, and dust trickled down in flurries from the ceiling.
The bathroom fell silent.
Harry and Ron stood at the door, mouths wide open, completely motionless.
Hermione poked her head out from the corner, her face still pale, but her eyes already held a bit of life.
Amster withdrew his wand and looked back.
"It's fine now," his voice was very calm, as if he were speaking of the most ordinary thing.
Footsteps came from the end of the corridor, fast and urgent.
Professor McGonagall rushed in first, followed by Snapeand Dumbledore.
She glanced at the troll lying on the ground, then at the three first-years standing in the middle, the expression on her face shifting from shock to confusion.
"You — what is the meaning of this?"
Harry and Ron pointed at Amster simultaneously.
McGonagall looked over along their line of sight; Amsterhad already retreated to the wall, making space.
Dumbledore walked up to the troll, looked down at it for a moment, and then raised his head.
His gaze swept past Harry and Ron, landing on Amster, his blue eyes flashing in the candlelight.
He said nothing, merely giving a slight nod.
Professor McGonagall took a deep breath and turned to the three Harrys: "You three, follow me."
She led the three first-years outward, stopping for a brief moment as she passed Amster, glancing at him without saying a word before continuing on.
Snape walked at the very rear, dragging his black robes, his footsteps pausing for a moment as he passed Amster.
"Did you do this?" His voice was very low.
Amster glanced at him and didn't answer.
The corners of Snape's mouth twitched slightly as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he merely let out a cold hum and followed McGonagall away.
The corridor grew quiet.
In the distance came the footsteps of students returning to their common rooms, mixed with the voices of prefects still maintaining order.
Amster stood in place, slipping his wand into his pocket.
He glanced at the unconscious troll on the floor and turned to walk toward the eighth floor.
The door to the Room of Requirement was open, and the fire in the fireplace was burning brightly.
He sat down at the table and opened the unread notebook.
The pages still bore the half-drawn magic array diagram from last time,
Outside the window, moonlight shone upon the Black Lake, shattering into patches of silvery light.
The commotion in the castle gradually subsided, as if nothing had ever happened.
[Dear ones, mind your clothing and stay warm, I caught a bug, it's so miserable]
Chapter 67 The Argument on the Field
On the final weekend before the Quidditch season began, the morning sunlight had just spilled over the towers of Hogwarts and onto the lawn outside the castle when Cho Chang briskly knocked on the wooden door of the Room of Requirement. With a gentle creak, the wooden door opened. She stood at the entrance, clutching a copy of "Quidditch Through the Ages" whose page corners were curled and whose cover was somewhat faded from wear, her raven hair gently lifted by the morning breeze, and her bright eyes filled with expectant light.
"Gryffindor and Slytherin both have Quidditch practice today," she said, tilting her head to look into the room, her tone light and somewhat joyous, "Accompany me to the pitch to take a look, will you?"
Amster was leaning against the wooden chair by the fireplace, with an old notebook covered in array diagrams spread out before him. Hearing this, he raised his gaze to look at her indifferently, his tone calm and waveless: "You are unusually attentive to Quidditch."
"Ravenclaw's team practice is scheduled for the afternoon, and since I'm free in the morning, I might as well come and see the opponents' strength." Cho Chang righteously shook the book in her hand, a shallow smile lingering at the corners of her mouth without a trace of awkwardness.
Amster didn't say anything more, reaching out to close the notebook spread across his knees. He stood up, straightened his robes, and silently followed behind Cho Chang, walking in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. The castle path in the early morning was exceptionally quiet, with only the rustling of the wind blowing across the lawn and the gentle footsteps of the two, while sunlight filtered through the gaps in the branches and leaves, casting mottled light and shadows on the ground.
When the two walked to the Quidditch pitch, the edge of the lawn was already surrounded by quite a few students who had come to watch, gathering in twos and threes on the stands and chattering away about the upcoming practice. On the lawn to the east of the pitch, Gryffindor's players were dressed in bright scarlet team robes, neatly gathered together. Captain Wood was holding the Quidditch balls with a serious expression, repeatedly instructing the team on tactics with an urgent and earnest tone. To the west was Slytherin's team, whose players wore ink-green and silver robes. Captain Flint stood at the very front with his arms crossed, his brows tightly locked, his complexion turning grimly ugly, and an unkind aura exuding from his entire body.
Cho Chang found a good spot with an expansive view on the stands, supporting herself with both hands against the cold stone railing and leaning forward to peer into the pitch. The wind gently blew her strands of hair, brushing against her cheeks, but she didn't care in the least. She merely narrowed her eyes, intently watching the movements of the players from both teams on the pitch, looking completely like an experienced spectator.
"Gryffindor's lineup this year looks very good," she turned her head to softly comment to Amster beside her, her tone carrying professional judgment, "Wood has always been steady as a goalkeeper, with almost no flaws in defense, and the Weasley twins' cooperation in beating the Bludgers is even more flawless. I heard they even got a new Seeker this year..."
Halfway through her words, she suddenly paused, turning her head to look at Amster, her gaze carrying a hint of deliberate mention: "His name is Potter, and he's even a first-year newcomer."
Amster's gaze calmly swept across the pitch without taking up the conversation, his expression remaining detached as if everything on the field could not arouse his interest.
Cho Chang didn't mind his coldness either, turning her head back to continue staring at the pitch with a definitive tone: "Being able to be selected for the House team as a Seeker in the first year—Professor McGonagall's eye has always been sharp, so there must be a reason for it. This Potter might really have extraordinary abilities."
The players of both teams were still doing pre-match warm-ups, and practice had not yet officially begun, when Flint had already led the Slytherin players in stride toward Gryffindor's team. His voice was not loud, but it was enough for the people on the stands to hear clearly: "Wood, we booked this pitch long ago, and today is our turn to use it."
Wood immediately turned around, his originally serious expression instantly sinking as he retorted in a hardline tone: "We booked it first clearly! The morning slots on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday all belong to Gryffindor, and today happens to be Friday."
"We also applied for Friday's pitch, with a slip personally approved by Professor Snape." Flint raised his chin, pointing at the Slytherin players carrying brooms behind him with a look of certainty, showing no intention of backing down whatsoever.
"Professor McGonagall approved our practice for the morning, and your slot is in the afternoon!" Wood's voice was rigid, his gaze firm and yielding not an inch. The two team captains stared face-to-face at each other like this, and a thick smell of gunpowder instantly permeated the air, ready to ignite at a touch.
Gryffindor's players successively stood behind Wood with indignant expressions; Slytherin's players also gathered by Flint's side with provocative gazes. The two sides confronted each other, and the atmosphere instantly became tense to the extreme. Fred and George poked their heads out from the back of the queue, one secretly clenching his fists and the other loosening his wrists, their eyes full of eagerness, obviously prepared to deal with conflicts at any time.
"Here it comes again, arguing over the pitch every year before the season starts, never stopping for a moment." Cho Chang muttered softly, her tone carrying full helplessness as she gently shook her head.
Flint pressed forward a step aggressively, yet Wood did not retreat in the slightest, standing steadily in place. Several Gryffindor players followed by taking a step forward, and the Slytherin side also immediately stepped up. The distance between the two sides grew closer and closer, looking on the verge of a physical conflict—
"Enough! All of you stop!"
An urgent and sharp voice suddenly came from below the stands, instantly breaking the standoff on the pitch. Professor McGonagall walked quickly to the center of the pitch, her square glasses sliding down to the bridge of her nose with a severe expression. As she strode rapidly, the hem of her robes whipped up a gust of wind, and the majesty surrounding her instantly quieted the noisy pitch by several degrees. Flint instinctively took a step back, and Wood also immediately straightened his body, restraining the hostility around him.
"Each of the two teams will take half the pitch and practice separately." Professor McGonagall's gaze coldly swept across Flint and then fell onto Wood. Her voice was not loud, but every word was resonant, carrying unquestionable majesty: "If you dare to argue and stir up trouble again, the training qualifications of both teams will be entirely canceled, and you can forget about participating in this year's Quidditch Match."
Flint opened his mouth, still wanting to argue, but meeting Professor McGonagall's severe gaze, the words at the tip of his tongue were forcefully swallowed back down. He could only wave his hand unwillingly, leading the Slytherinplayers to retreat to the east side of the pitch; Gryffindorremained on the west side. The players on both sides still glared at each other with unconvinced faces, but ultimately they did not dare to argue again and obediently began preparing for practice.
Professor McGonagall stood on the pitch for another moment, confirming that both teams had settled down and showed no signs of further conflict, before turning to walk toward the stands, her figure gradually disappearing at the entrance of the pitch.
Cho Chang let out a long sigh of relief, leaning relaxed against the railing with her chin gently resting on the back of her hand, and turned her head to look at Amster: "Just now I thought they were really going to fight; fortunately Professor McGonagall arrived in time."
"They wouldn't have fought." Amster leaned against the railing nearby, his tone flat: "Within Hogwarts' grounds, they wouldn't dare to actually throw hands; it's merely a battle of words."
Cho Chang looked at him curiously, the corners of her mouth curving slightly: "With such a lively scene on the pitch, you don't seem curious at all, nor do you feel nervous in the slightest."
"What is there to be curious about." Amster's gaze slowly swept across the pitch, his expression remaining detached: "Before every season, these two houses always argue over the pitch; the routine is entirely the same, nothing novel."
Cho Chang didn't continue this topic, quietly supporting her chin as she looked toward the pitch. At this time, practice on the field had officially begun. Wood stood in front of the goalposts, loudly directing the players' positioning and coordination, his voice resounding across the pitch; on the east side, Flint still wore an ugly expression as he stood by the sideline watching the players practice, occasionally shouting stern reprimands.
After a moment of silence, Cho Chang suddenly turned her head to look at Amster beside her, her gaze carrying a hint of curiosity: "How is your flying skill? I've never seen you ride a broom onto the pitch, nor have I seen you participate in team tryouts."
"Average." Amster answered concisely, without making much explanation.
"You're lying." Cho Chang glanced at him lightly, with a smile at the corners of her mouth and a definitive tone: "I heard Fleur say that Madam Hooch privately praised your flying skill, saying that you handle a broomstick both steadily and flexibly, outperforming many team players."
Amster lowered his gaze to look at the pitch, still without answering, his expression showing not the slightest change.
Cho Chang didn't press further either, simply smiling and looking back at the speeding players on the pitch, speaking softly: "When the official matches start, will you come to watch in person?"
"Watch." Amster indifferently spat out a single word.
Cho Chang smiled even more happily, her eyes curving into two pretty crescents. She straightened up from the railing, reached out to gently pat away the grass clippings clinging to the hem of her robes, and spoke in a brisk tone: "Let's go, there's nothing much to look at here anymore. Ravenclawhas practice this afternoon, and I need to go back and prepare well, reviewing my tactical notes."
Amster didn't say much, silently following behind her down the stands. Having walked just a few steps, he suddenly stopped and turned back to look at the pitch. Within Gryffindor's team, that short dark-haired figure had already rapidly ascended into the sky—it was Harry Potter. The broomstick beneath him carved a neat golden arc in the sunlight, flying faster than all the players on the pitch, nimbly shuttling through the air in search of traces of the Bludgers.
Cho Chang walked in front, her pace not fast, leisurely strolling along the path on the outer periphery of the pitch toward the castle. The wind blew her hair once more, the strands falling onto her shoulders and gently sliding down again. She didn't speak, and Amster also maintained his silence. The two walked side by side, one lowering her head to look at the path beneath her feet, the other raising his gaze to look at the drifting clouds on the horizon. Even without communication, they didn't feel awkward in the slightest, the atmosphere being peaceful and quiet.
When they reached the fork in the road before the castle, Cho Chang suddenly stopped, turned around to look at Amster, her gaze serious.
"Amster."
"Hm?" Amster raised his gaze to look at her.
"On the day of the match, you must remember to come." She softly exhorted, her tone carrying a hint of expectation.
Amster quietly looked at her and gently nodded.
Cho Chang smiled and waved at him, turning to trot away in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower. Her light blue skirt hem was caught by the wind, flashing at the corner of the castle before completely disappearing from sight.
Amster stood alone in place, lowering his head to glance at the old notebook tightly clutched in his hand. On the opened pages, that array diagram was still only half-drawn, the ink dry and pale. He slowly closed the notebook, turned around to walk toward the interior of the castle, his steps light and slow.
Chapter 68: A Name That Shouldn't Appear
The Restricted Section of the Library was much darker than the general reading area, and the heavy bookshelves stood like silent giants, blocking out both the noise and light of the outside world.
Only a few wisps of dying sunset managed to squeeze through the stained glass of the high windows, casting mottled and broken patches of light on the dusty floor.
The air was filled with a slightly damp, stale scent mixed with old paper, leather, and some unknown herb.
Amster sat in the deepest corner of the Restricted Section, a spot almost entirely submerged in shadow that he had deliberately chosen.
On the wide oak table in front of him lay several old files that he had painstakingly retrieved from the highest bookshelves.
Those pieces of parchment had already turned yellow and brittle, with edges curling like withered petals; some of the handwriting had blurred into a pale brown blotch due to age, while others remained clear and sharp, as if the writer's pen tip had just left the paper not long ago.
He turned the pages very slowly and with utmost patience, his fingers brushing across each page as if caressing a forgotten piece of history, or searching for a lost key.
Madam Pince, that always stern-faced librarian, poked her head out from the end of the bookshelf, glanced at him with her sharp, hawk-like eyes, said nothing, and pulled her head back in.
The Restricted Section was not a place just anyone could openly enter, and since he had an entire table all to himself, no one disturbed him.
When he turned to the third thick file, his fingers suddenly stopped.
That page had a yellowed newspaper clipping pasted on it, with a small corner scorched by fire; the irregular burn mark resembled an ugly eye staring at the paper surface.
Fortunately, most of the handwriting remained clearly legible.
His gaze was drawn to several printed names, one of which prominently read: "Peter Pettigrew".
Beside it, a line of notes was marked in smaller, scruffier handwriting: "Auror Office, died in the line of duty in 1981."
He silently rolled that name over the tip of his tongue, over and over again.
Auror Office, died in the line of duty in 1981.
Combined together, this name and year were like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, stirring up faint ripples deep within his memories.
He was certain he had heard it somewhere before, perhaps in some lengthy Ministry of Magic report, or perhaps in the casual chats of upperclassmen, but the specific time and occasion were like a landscape shrouded in thick fog, vague and unclear, leaving only a hazy impression.
He took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, and continued flipping through the pages.
The next page was an official case record from 1981, with handwriting so scrawled it was almost illegible, and some parts blurred into a black stain by spilled ink, making it completely impossible to decipher.
Frowning, he cautiously skipped those vague paragraphs, his gaze quickly searching the paper surface until he finally found a few lines of barely recognizable handwriting: "Peter Pettigrew, real name, Peter Pettigrew; heroically sacrificed himself to protect the Potter couple, posthumously awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class."
Below that was another line of text, its ink much lighter than the main body, obviously added afterwards, carrying a sense of haste and finality: "Murderer Sirius Black, apprehended and brought to justice."
He placed these two names side by side before his eyes, silently looking at them for a moment.
One was dead, posthumously awarded the highest honor; the other was captured, becoming a traitor despised by the wizarding world.
The logical chain was clear and complete, appearing to be a tragedy whose verdict had long since been cast in stone.
But in his mind, the name moving freely about the castle on the Marauder's Map inappropriately flashed across.
That name, together with the records in this file, formed an irreconcilable contradiction.
He gently closed the file, making a muffled sound that appeared exceptionally clear in the silent Restricted Section.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbed his brow tiredly, and his gaze unconsciously drifted outside the window.
The sky had completely darkened, and the silhouette of the Forbidden Forest appeared increasingly deep and mysterious in the twilight, with overlapping tree shadows like a dormant giant beast, silently watching Hogwarts Castle.
That contradictory name was like a tiny needle, repeatedly pricking his thoughts and leaving him unable to find peace.
When he walked out of the Restricted Section carrying that stack of heavy old files, the magic lamps in the corridor had all been lit.
The warm yellow halo dispelled some of the night's chill, but could not dispel the clouds of doubt in his heart.
Having walked only a few steps, he saw Hermionecarrying a tall stack of piled books, walking toward him from the direction of the general reading area.
The girl's cheeks flushed slightly from holding the heavy objects, and a few strands of hair at her forehead were dampened by sweat, but her eyes were like lit stars, instantly brightening the moment she saw him.
"Senior." She immediately slowed her pace, a hint of imperceptible joy in her voice. "You actually managed to get into the Restricted Section? I've wanted to go in several times, but I was always chased back out."
Amster merely gave a faint "Hm" in response, his gaze sweeping across the stack of books in her arms.
Hermione noticed the obviously unusual stack of old files in his hands, a flash of curiosity passing through her eyes. Hesitating for a moment, she couldn't help asking: "You... are you investigating some case?"
Amster raised his eyes and gave her a deep look, his gaze complex and hard to decipher, but in the end he merely shook his head without answering.
He was accustomed to handling his own problems alone and did not wish to drag irrelevant people into it.
Hermione was very smart and instantly understood what he meant, not pressing further, but instead saying understandingly: "I've previously looked up some materials about Ancient Magic for you, and they're all organized. If you need any help with anything, you can let me know anytime."
"No need." Amster interrupted her; his tone could not be considered cold, but it was definitely not warm either, carrying a sense of alienation that kept people thousands of miles away.
The light on Hermione's face dimmed for a fraction of a second, but quickly returned to calmness.
She sensibly nodded, hugged her books, softly said "Then I'll head back first", and brushed past him, walking away down the corridor.
Her footsteps rang crisply in the empty corridor for a moment, then gradually disappeared around the corner.
Amster stood in place, watching her figure disappear.
He noticed that right at the very top of her stack of books was a thick copy of *Hogwarts: A History*, with several sticky notes covered in notes tucked between the pages, evidently having required a lot of hard work.
He silently withdrew his gaze and continued walking toward the eighth floor.
The corridor was extremely quiet, with only his own footsteps and the swaying light and shadows of the jack-o'-lanterns on the wall.
His shadow was stretched very long by the light, twisting and deforming on the wall, and then suddenly snapping at the corner and disappearing.
In his mind, those two names still echoed repeatedly, along with that ghost-like presence on the Marauder's Map.
One was dead, one was captured.
But the name belonging to a dead person on the Marauder's Map was still walking around the castle.
Chapter 69: The Great Moving "Home" Operation
On the weekend before the Quidditch Match, Hogwartswas filled with pre-match hustle and bustle, and the corridors were filled with the sound of students discussing the match.
Amster came back from the Library holding books and pushed open the door of the Room of Requirement. The warm firelight of the fireplace, accompanied by the faint aroma of butterbeer, rushed toward him.
Fleur was curled up in a soft armchair flipping through a Muggle fashion magazine, her silver-bright, smooth long hair hanging down the edge of the chair, glowing with a faint luster under the glimmer, her fingertips casually sliding across the pages, occasionally fiddling with the stray hair behind her ear facing herself in the mirror.
Penelope was leaning against the bookshelf, quietly reading an advanced book on Charms, wearing thin-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose, with a serious and focused expression, occasionally raising her hand to push the frame of her glasses, writing a few lines of neat annotations in the blank spaces of the pages.
Cassandra was sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace, holding a steaming cup of mint tea in her hand, her gaze quietly falling on the flickering flames, with a calm expression, only the unconscious rubbing of her fingertips against the wall of the cup revealing that she was waiting for Amster to return.
Cho Chang was lying on the small table practicing calligraphy seriously, the tip of her pen moving gently, the fragrance of ink mixed with the fresh scent of paper spreading in the air, while Poppy was carefully organizing the biscuit box nearby, her movements gentle and well-behaved, occasionally looking up at Cho Chang's handwriting, her eyes full of admiration.
The moment he pushed the door open and entered, everyone in the room raised their heads to look at him simultaneously, the originally fragmented conversations pausing for a split second before quickly returning to liveliness.
Fleur put down the magazine, glanced around the slightly crowded room, shook the butterbeer glass in her hand, and said, "Shouldn't we tidy this place up properly?"
She pointed to the empty space by the wall, her tone carrying a bit of coquettish complaint, "The bookshelves are full of your Alchemy materials and old books, and we don't even have a place to put a magazine. And if we stay here to rest at night, we can't all squeeze onto your single bed, right? I certainly don't want to fight Cassandra for a pillow."
Amster looked at the large bed he had used alone for many years, its dark brown solid wood frame still covered with the old bed sheet he brought when he first started school, which was indeed no longer suitable for so many people to use together.
He walked to the center of the room, his gaze sweeping over everyone's figure, his tone calm and clear: "We need more space. Everyone needs their own bed and their own place."
The moment his voice fell, the flame in the fireplace suddenly jumped upward, and the warm orange firelight illuminated the entire room.
The stone wall beside the bookshelf slowly moved to both sides, making a dull and steady sound, revealing a recessed space, and five compact and exquisite single beds slowly extended from inside the wall, neatly arranged in a row.
The bed frames were of dark solid wood, matching the style of Amster's large bed, and the colors of the bed sheets varied: silver-gray, dark green, goose-yellow, light blue, and warm orange, each covered with a soft down mattress, with matching pillows and nightlights placed at the head of the bed.
Fleur was the first to run over, directly choosing the goose-yellow bed, throwing the cushion onto the bed, throwing her whole body onto it to test the firmness, narrowing her eyes with satisfaction, and letting out a satisfied sigh: "It's so comfortable, much softer than the dormitory beds in the castle."
Penelope walked over to the light blue bed, placed her book on the bedside cabinet, and her fingertips gently brushed across the texture of the bed sheet without speaking, but the corners of her mouth gently raised into a slight smile, with undisguised joy in the depths of her eyes.
Cassandra glanced at the dark green bed, simply placed her teacup on the cabinet surface next to it, reached out to press the firmness of the mattress, and without extra movements, gently nodded.
Cho Chang chose the warm orange one, and Poppy chose the silver-gray one. Both of them carried a faint joy, carefully placing their small items at the head of the bed, as if arranging their own little world.
Amster stood aside quietly watching without speaking, just leaning against the bookshelf, his gaze gently sweeping over everyone's figure.
After a moment, Cho Chang sat up from the bed, holding her writing brush and rice paper, and asked softly, "Amster, is there a place for my writing brush? I can't keep writing lying on the small table all the time; my waist will get sore after a long time."
Before Amster could reply, a small wooden door quietly appeared beside the bookshelf, its hinges turning without making a single sound. Behind the door was a bright study room, with several walnut desks placed against the wall, each equipped with a soft brass desk lamp, providing gentle and comfortable light that was not dazzling.
Several pots of green plants were also placed by the window, adding a bit of vitality to the room.
Cho Chang's eyes lit up, and she happily walked in, neatly placing the rice paper and ink box on the desk by the window, and specially setting up a small inkstone rack.
Penelope followed her in, occupied a corner position, neatly stacked her reference books, and placed a small ink bottle on the desk for taking notes at any time.
Fleur also joined in the fun, arranging a small mirror, a comb, and a few Muggle lipsticks on the desk, treating this place as her own vanity table.
Cassandra did not enter the study room, but instead turned to Amster, her tone direct and carrying a bit of knowing realization: "Where are your Alchemy materials? Are they still squeezed under the bookshelf with Poppy's biscuit box? Last time when looking for wolfsbane, I almost crushed all of Poppy's gingerbread."
Amster was slightly stunned, only then remembering that his various potion bottles, cauldrons, and mortars had indeed been randomly stacked on the lower layer of the bookshelf, mixed with Poppy's snacks and sundries, and every time he looked for materials he had to rummage for half a day.
Before he could speak, a door unfolded again on the wall on the other side of the hall. Inside was a well-organized Alchemy operation room: the fire-resistant stone long table was wiped spotless, the wall shelves were arranged in layers, and large and small glass bottles, copper cauldrons, and silver mortars were all neatly arranged with clear classifications, and there was even a dedicated refrigerator used to store fresh medicinal herbs, with an excellent ventilation system so there was no need to worry about potion odors spreading to the living room.
Cassandra walked into the room, touched the hard and flat stone table, checked the weight capacity of the shelves, and nodded gently: "Not bad, much better than what you stacked in the corner before."
Penelope stood at the door and looked, saying earnestly: "We can also place a medicinal herb cabinet here. I can go to the Library to help you borrow a classification catalog, and classify them according to medicinal properties and uses, which will make it much more convenient to find them in the future."
Fleur pulled Poppy, curiously looking at the newly appeared space. Poppy was still holding a freshly baked cookie in her hand, opening her round eyes wide to look at those sparkling potion bottles, and asked in a low voice: "What are all these bottles filled with? Will there be any danger?"
Fleur smiled and rubbed her hair: "Rest assured, Amsterand Cassandra will watch over them; we just shouldn't touch them."
Cho Chang was organizing her stationery in the study room, occasionally looking up at the liveliness in the living room with a faint smile on the corners of her mouth. The originally quiet room suddenly became lively and warm, full of the atmosphere of home.
Amster stood in the center of the hall, watching the Room of Requirement change bit by bit according to everyone's needs.
This room had accompanied him for many years, from the initial crude hiding place with only a table and a bed to today where every place was filled with human breath, and every corner was endowed with new meaning, becoming exceptionally different.
The firewood in the fireplace crackled, and the warm firelight filled the entire room, drawing everyone's shadows very long.
He leaned by the window, watching their busy figures individually, still silent, but a soft feeling gradually rose in his heart, as if a warm current flowed through, dispelling the loneliness of many years.
Poppy walked over gently and stuffed a freshly baked butter biscuit into his hand, her fingertips carrying a warm temperature: "Amster, what are you thinking about?"
Amster took a bite of the biscuit; the sweetness was just right, and the aroma of butter spread in his mouth.
He replied softly: "Nothing, just feel that this room is fuller than before."
Poppy smiled, revealing two shallow dimples, turned around to continue organizing her biscuit box, categorized biscuits of different flavors, and put them into a beautiful iron box.
Outside the window, the Black Lake shimmered with silver micro-light in the night, a full moon hung high above the Forbidden Forest, bright and soft, and the moonlight spilled in through the window, falling on the floor to form mottled light and shadow.
In the distance, the towers of Hogwarts Castle stood tall in the night, transmitting a few owl hoots, forming a sharp contrast with the warm light inside the house.
Amster finished eating the biscuit and patted off the crumbs on his hands.
Fleur called him from next door to look at the comb she arranged, her voice crisp: "Amster, come and look at my newly bought Muggle comb; it makes combing hair exceptionally smooth!"
Penelope was organizing the bookshelf, arranging Amster's old books by subject classification, and even made small labels.
Cassandra was checking the materials on the operation table, putting the evening primrose into the refrigerator with skilled and serious movements.
Cho Chang pasted the characters she wrote onto the wall, which was a line of beautiful brush calligraphy: "Responsive to all needs, warmth always accompanies."
The Room of Requirement was full of sounds and figures everywhere, no longer looking like the empty appearance from before.
He was silent for a moment, stepped forward to help Cassandra carry the material box.
Cassandra glanced at him, gently pushed the heaviest box of wolfsbane in front of him, and said in a flat tone: "Move it to the shelf over there, on the third layer. Make sure it's steady."
Amster silently took it and steadily placed it in the designated position.
The fire in the fireplace remained warm and bright, the crackling sound gently echoing in the room, and the aroma of butterbeer, the sweet fragrance of biscuits, the fragrance of ink, and the faint fragrance of medicine mixed together, forming the unique scent belonging to this home.
This Room of Requirement that had accompanied him for many years finally truly felt like a home.
Chapter 70: Thrilling Quidditch Match
On the day of the Quidditch Match, the sky over Hogwartswas purely blue without a shred of cloud, and the breeze swept across the pitch, carrying the warmth of grass and sunlight, yet it could not suppress the churning clamor on the stands.
The stone stands were baked hot by the sun, and the stone steps were packed so tightly that even the wind could hardly pass through. Students' moving heads leaned against each other, and the clamor rolled in layers, wrapping around the unique tense atmosphere of the field.
The red and gold flags of Gryffindor and the green and silver flags of Slytherin fluttered and intersected in the wind, and the two intense colors collided with an undisguised smell of gunpowder. Cheers, boos, and discussions mixed into a ball, making people's eardrums tremble.
Amster leaned against the stone pillar in the corner of the stands, deliberately avoiding the crowded crowd, with his back against the cold stone surface, and his gaze fell calmly toward the center of the pitch.
Fourteen players were already lined up, all with tight expressions. Wood and Flint walked to the center of the field to shake hands. Both used all their strength, their knuckles turning white, as if they wanted to crush each other's bones. The competition and hostility in their eyes were completely unmasked, and even the surrounding air became stagnant.
A sharp whistle pierced the noisy air, and fourteen brooms rose into the air at the same time. The whistling sound of the brooms cutting through the wind exploded instantly with the loud bangs on the stands.
Lee Jordan's passionate commentary boomed from the loudspeaker with a high-pitched tone that made people's earlobes tingle, but Amster didn't listen at all. His gaze swept lightly across the pitch, occasionally grazing over the figures of the speeding players, but more often than not, quietly drifting toward a remote corner on the other side of the stands.
Professor Quirrell sat there alone, still wrapped in that untimely heavy black scarf, with most of his face hidden in the fabric, his head buried extremely low, almost shrinking into his collar.
Surrounding students avoided him from afar, and the pungent smell of garlic could be clearly smelled from several rows away. That area was desolate and lonely, out of tune with the surrounding hustle and bustle, like a corner forgotten by everyone.
The match soon became fierce. Gryffindor had tacit cooperation, and their passing and positioning were smooth and flowing, every movement precise and fluent; Slytherin, on the other hand, played fiercely with constant petty actions, and the Bludgers were manipulated to frequently crash toward opponents without leaving any room. The score was tightly bitten, and neither side was willing to concede even half a point.
Harry rode his Nimbus 2000 shuttling across the sky, as fast as silver lightning, with a light posture. His gaze tightly locked onto that flickering golden light, and several times his fingertips touched the slippery Golden Snitch, only for it to skillfully shake him off and fail to grasp it.
The accident struck abruptly.
Harry's broom suddenly began to vibrate slightly. At first it was just an imperceptible tremor, and thinking it was the wind suddenly changing direction to interfere, just as he was about to raise his hand to adjust his posture, the broom under him shook wildly, like an invisible hand pulling and jolting desperately, trying its best to throw him onto the hard ground.
The Gryffindor stands instantly erupted into frightened gasps. Everyone stood up in a panic; some covered their mouths and gasped, others shouted hoarsely, full of panic.
Harry tightly grasped the rough broom handle with one hand, his knuckles turning pale from exertion. His body was thrown sideways, unable to stabilize his figure at all, his face turned pale instantly, and fine cold sweat seeped from his temples.
The stands were in chaos, with panicked shouts rising one after another. Only Amster remained completely motionless, just slightly narrowing his eyes, a trace of sharpness flashing through his gaze.
He didn't stare at the out-of-control Harry, but instead turned his head to look straight at Quirrell—that customarily timid and cowardly professor who always stammered when speaking. At this moment, his lips were moving rapidly, chanting obscure and difficult spells, his fingers tightly gripping the edge of the scarf, his knuckles tense and white. The eyes hidden behind the scarf stared gloomily at the crumbling Harry in the air, no longer retaining a shred of his usual timidity and cowardice, his gaze cold and ferocious.
The broom suddenly darted high into the air, then abruptly plummeted several feet. The violent ups and downs made Harry almost lose his grip, and screams resounded through the entire pitch. Everyone thought Harry could not escape a fall, and their hearts leaped into their throats.
Amster's gaze slowly retracted, sweeping across below the stands, only to see Hermione hurriedly rushing in front of Snape's seat, completely oblivious even as her binoculars fell to the ground and rolled far away. She stared closely at Snape, waving her wand lightly, and a small flame instantly leaped onto the hem of his black robe.
Snape jumped up abruptly, his face frighteningly gloomy. With a dark face, he quickly extinguished the flame, his brows furrowed with full anger. At the very moment he was distracted, Harry's broom suddenly stabilized, no longer shaking wildly, and recovered its steadiness.
Seizing this fleeting lifeline, Harry gritted his teeth, flipped over and sat firmly, controlling the broom to dive down rapidly. Closing his palms together, he firmly grasped the Golden Snitch that was fleeing everywhere.
The stands instantly boiled over. Gryffindor students jumped up and cheered wildly, hats and ribbons fluttering across the sky, and red and gold flags waving almost crazily. The shouts of victory shook the pitch; while the Slytherin stands were dead silent, full of loss and unwillingness.
Amster looked up toward Quirrell's position. There was already no one there, leaving only a faint trace of garlic smell that quickly dissipated in the wind without a trace.
Hermione ran up to Amster, panting heavily, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning bright, and her voice trembling with excitement and lingering fear: "Senior! It is Snape! He was casting a spell to harm Harry! I burned his robe, and the spell finally broke!"
Amster raised his eyes to look at her, his tone flat and waveless, without the slightest fluctuation: "Are you sure it is him?"
"I saw it clearly through the binoculars! He kept staring at Harry, and his lips kept moving, it is definitely him!" Hermione clenched her fists, her tone full of certainty, her eyes full of anger, "Harry almost fell to his death just now!"
Amster was silent for two seconds, and said indifferently: "Very careful observation, Miss Granger. But unfortunately, your deduction is wrong; and you shouldn't come to tell me. If you really have 100% certainty, you should find Professor McGonagall instead of telling me, a student of Slytherin."
Hermione was startled, anxious to refute, her brows tightly furrowed: "But it clearly was him..."
"Who it is doesn't matter." Amster interrupted her, his voice still calm, "Harry is fine, Gryffindor won, that's enough. I am a Slytherin, I only care about results, and I think you should have heard a saying: what the eyes see is not necessarily correct."
Hermione opened her mouth, but ultimately didn't speak again, watching Amster turn and walk toward the bottom of the stands, his back distant and resolute, stepping out of the noisy crowd step by step.
Amster walked slowly through the cheering crowd, not even brushing off the ribbons that fell on his shoulders. He looked toward Snape's previous seat; that vicinity was already empty, with a small patch of scorched black trace left on the ground, quietly lying on the stone steps.
He paused for a moment, then turned and walked toward the castle.
The corridor was empty, with most students still remaining on the pitch to celebrate, leaving only the warm light of the pumpkin lanterns swaying on the stone walls, stretching his shadow slender.
He walked steadily, replaying the details on the stands over and over in his mind: Quirrell's moving lips, the hand gripping the scarf tightly, the precise nodes of the broom going out of control and stabilizing, as well as Snape's expression when he lowered his head. All clues clearly intertwined, and the answer was already clear.
"You really say one thing and mean another, Professor. Usually in class you are the one who scolds the hardest, yet now the one helping him is still you. Oh well, it's none of my business anyway, back to doing my research."
When turning the corner of the staircase, he stopped.
The sunlight cut obliquely in from the high window, drawing a distinct line of light and shadow on the floor tiles, half immersed in brightness and half hidden in shadow, right across his feet.
He stood at the junction of light and shadow, lowering his eyes and standing quietly. The cheers outside the window faintly came over, intermittent and broken, leaving only his steady breath in the corridor, and everything around returned to silence.
(Word count: 2487 words)