"Knock, knock"
Lupin was in his office preparing for his upcoming lessons. His desk was piled high with all sorts of books, most of them three-finger-thick reference tomes.
Suddenly, two light knocks came from the door.
"Who is it?" he asked, looking up.
"Good evening, Professor Lupin! It's Marcel Maclean."
Lupin froze upon hearing the voice.
To be honest, he was a little unsure how to deal with this particular student.
Ever since Dumbledore invited him to teach at Hogwarts, he had made an effort to get a general understanding of the students he would be teaching—after all, this was a rare, respectable job.
You know, it was incredibly difficult for a werewolf to find a suitable job. Because of this, despite not lacking in talent, he had always lived a life of poverty, hiding from place to place.
Lupin cherished this job very much.
But this child, Marcel, left him somewhat at a loss.
If Marcel were just an ordinary genius, Lupin wouldn't have had any concerns. In fact, he would have been overjoyed.
But what this student demonstrated was something that couldn't be explained simply by the word "genius."
It could be said that Lupin was already starting to worry whether he could hide his werewolf identity in front of this child. If he was found out... oh, that would be unimaginably terrible!
He really didn't want to see the terrified faces of those lovely children when they learned his identity.
That look, as if they were looking at a monster, really didn't match the innocent faces of the children—he absolutely didn't want to see it a second time.
And, if it were Marcel...
"That child would probably pull out his wand without hesitation and hit me in the face with a nasty one—that's what he did to the Dementor," Lupin couldn't help but smile bitterly.
"...Um, come in."
He hesitated for a moment, but finally answered.
The door opened. The child's face was still as calm as ever, as if nothing could surprise him too much. It was hard to imagine that it was a face that still had a touch of childishness.
"Good evening, Professor Lupin." Marcel squeezed out a smile, but he didn't know that his smile looked very creepy, and it would have been better not to smile at all.
"Good evening. What brings you to me so late?" Lupin also smiled and asked.
"Oh, yes, I'm here to bring you something."
As he spoke, Marcel took out the potion bottle containing the Wolfsbane Potion and placed it gently on top of the pile of books on Lupin's desk—there was no more free space on the desk, so he had to do this.
But Lupin looked at the small potion bottle, and the smile on his face became stiff.
"Er, oh... did Professor Snape ask you to bring it to me?" Lupin said drily. "Thank you, sorry for the trouble."
"Yes, that's right," Marcel nodded. "From now on, I will be delivering the potion to you every month."
"Damn Snivellus!" Lupin couldn't help but curse inwardly, but he had to maintain an awkward smile on his face.
"Oh—thank you! But I don't think that's very appropriate. I'll talk to Sniv... I mean, Professor Snape. I'll have him bring it himself, no need to trouble you."
"No trouble," Marcel said, spreading his hands. "In fact, Professor, I'm the one who prepares the Wolfsbane Potion every month. It doesn't take much time to deliver it..."
Before Marcel could finish, Lupin's face completely froze.
"Oh—cough cough, last month... too?" Lupin showed a complicated expression and said awkwardly.
"Yes," Marcel nodded. "Don't worry, Professor... I will keep this secret for you, don't worry."
Lupin subconsciously nodded, then immediately shook his head.
"Thank you... but... what about you?" he couldn't help but ask. "Don't you have any... other thoughts about this?"
"Other thoughts?" Marcel repeated his words, then immediately understood what he meant.
"Oh, it's nothing," he shrugged. "In my opinion, a change in bloodline is even a manifestation of an advantage. For example, Merlin—he once studied the bloodline modification of wizards. It's a very interesting magical research."
"But..." Lupin opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. "Um, alright... thank you."
"Relax, Professor," said Marcel. "Your classes are excellent, everyone likes them. I believe that even if the matter is exposed, at least among most students, their impression of you won't change much."
"I hope so..." Lupin sighed, then resolutely shook his head. "No, it's better if it's not exposed."
"Then, I'll go back to the common room first. Good night, Professor."
"Good night, Mr. Maclean—" Lupin watched as Marcel calmly left his office. When the door closed, he couldn't help but add, "And... thank you."
…
Lately, Harry had been training for Quidditch—three times a week, without missing one.
The weather was getting colder and wetter, and the nights were getting darker. But no matter how much mud, wind, or rain there was, nothing could shake Harry's wonderful premonition: their team would finally win that huge silver Quidditch Cup.
"This is our last chance to win the Quidditch Cup—my last chance," said the Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood, to his teammates, pacing in front of them. "I'm leaving school at the end of this year... I'll never be able to play here again."
"Gryffindor hasn't won for seven years now. All right, so we've had the worst luck in the world—injuries—then the tournament's cancellation last year..." Wood swallowed, as if the memory still choked him. "But we also know we've got the best—ruddy—team in the school!"
He said, punching one fist into the other, the old manic gleam back in his eyes.
"We've got three of the best Chasers."
Wood pointed in turn to Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell.
"We've got two unbeatable Beaters."
"Stop it, Oliver, you're embarrassing us," said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.
"And we've got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match!" Wood said in a low voice, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride.
"And me," he added, as an afterthought.
"We think you're very good too, Oliver," said George.
"Spanking good Keeper," said Fred.
"The point is," Wood went on, resuming his pacing, "there's still no Marcel Maclean this year! Yes! No Marcel Maclean!"
"Oh—don't mention that point-slashing demon, don't mention him—" Fred and George said in unison.
The other team members also looked as if they had a lingering fear.
It could be said that in the term before last, Marcel's performance on the field, which dominated the whole game, had really made the team members of the other three houses lose confidence.
It was as if as long as that guy was there, the Quidditch Cup would never move. The title "Point-Slashing Demon" had been circulating among the various house teams since then.
"Oliver, this is our year! No Maclean!" said Fred.
"We'll win, Oliver! No Maclean!" said Angelina.
"Definitely," Harry added weakly. "Um, no Ma—I mean, no Maclean—"
One evening, after the night had quietly fallen, Harry had just finished another tough training session.
He was walking towards the Gryffindor common room, feeling cold and stiff, but he was still very satisfied with the practice.
When Harry slipped through the hole behind the Fat Lady's portrait, he found that the people in the common room were buzzing with excitement.
"What's happened?" he asked Ron and Hermione.
The two of them were sitting in the two best seats by the fireplace, comparing some star charts from their Astronomy class.
"First Hogsmeade weekend," said Ron, pointing to a notice on the old bulletin board. "End of October. Halloween."
"Excellent," said Fred, who had followed Harry through the portrait hole. "I need to visit Zonko's. I'm nearly out of Stink Pellets."
Harry slumped into a chair next to Ron. His elation had vanished. Hermione seemed to have read his mind.
"Harry, I'm sure you'll be able to go next time," she said. "They're bound to catch Black soon. He's been sighted once."
"Black's not going to be that stupid, trying something in Hogsmeade," said Ron. "Ask McGonagall if you can go this time, Harry. Who knows when the next one will be—"
"Ron!" Hermione said, her eyebrows raised. "Harry's supposed to stay in the school—"
"He can't be the only third year left behind," Ron argued. "Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry—"
"Yeah, I think I will," Harry said, seeming to have made up his mind.
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but just then, her cat, Crookshanks, leaped lightly onto her lap, a large dead spider dangling from his mouth.
"Does he have to eat that in front of us?" Ron snarled.
"Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?" Hermione said, completely ignoring Ron's outburst.
She looked down at Crookshanks with a gentle expression, as if she thought even the way he ate spiders was cute.
Crookshanks chewed slowly on the spider, his yellow eyes fixed on Ron.
"Just keep him over there, please," Ron said irritably, turning back to his star chart. "Scabbers is asleep in my bag!"
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