Chapter 132: Wednesday's Quidditch
Russell was startled and immediately turned around.
Behind him stood a tall, upright elderly woman, straight as an old oak walking stick. Though deep lines carved her face like weathered trenches, her eyes remained sharp—hawk-like and piercing—with a faint trace of displeasure glinting within them.
She wore a witch's hat adorned with a stuffed vulture specimen, its feathers faded and its beak slightly cracked with age. In one hand, she carried an enormous crimson handbag.
"My apologies, ma'am," Russell said quickly. "I heard a scream just now and thought something might be wrong, so I—"
"Well then, child," she interrupted, studying him carefully.
Seeing that his expression was sincere, her tone softened.
"There is nothing here worth staring at," she repeated.
The moment Russell saw her, a thought sparked in his mind. He tested it cautiously.
"Do you happen to know Neville?"
She turned sharply, fixing him with an appraising gaze.
"I most certainly do. I am Augusta Longbottom. Neville Longbottom is my grandson. Are you one of his classmates?"
"I'm his friend," Russell replied. "Russell Fythorne."
"Oh! So you're the one."
Augusta's demeanor changed instantly. She took him by the arm, ushered him into the room, and firmly pressed him into a chair.
"Child, thank you for looking after Neville at Hogwarts. I know he has been timid since he was young. I hope he hasn't been a burden to you."
She sighed heavily, worry etched into her features.
"But I must admit—I am astonished he managed to make a friend as remarkable as you. Quite unexpected."
Her sharp eyes assessed him with open approval.
"The youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin… If only Neville were half as accomplished."
So Neville had written quite a bit about him in his letters.
"You flatter me," Russell said modestly. "Neville is excellent in his own way. He may struggle with certain subjects, but in Herbology, Professor Sprout praises him often."
"Truly?" Augusta's face lit up with rare warmth. "That is wonderful news—at least he has something he excels at."
Russell then glanced toward the two patients in the room.
"And these two are…?"
Though he was almost certain they were Neville's parents, he wanted confirmation.
Augusta's expression shifted, grief flooding her features.
"They are Neville's parents. The Death Eaters tortured them with the Cruciatus Curse. That is why they are like this."
Russell's chest tightened.
"My condolences," he said quietly. "Is there any hope for recovery?"
Augusta shook her head slowly.
"Difficult. Very difficult. Many have examined them—some among the most skilled Healers in Britain. They all say the same thing: their minds shattered under the prolonged agony of the Cruciatus Curse."
Silence settled heavily between them.
Russell reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of sweets. He stepped forward and gently placed them into the hands of Neville's parents.
"I didn't bring much. Please accept this small gesture."
"Thank you, child," Augusta said softly, discreetly wiping at the corner of her eye.
Then she seemed to remember something.
"But why are you here? It is not holiday yet. Surely you haven't…?" Concern crept into her voice.
"You misunderstand," Russell replied quickly. "I accompanied Professor Dumbledore. We brought Sirius here for treatment."
"Sirius Black?" Augusta's eyes blazed instantly. She rose to her feet in outrage. "That vile traitor! That disgusting Death Eater! Where is he?"
Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but with fury long contained.
The reason Augusta reacted so strongly was not merely because Sirius had once been branded a Death Eater.
It was also because Sirius's cousin was Bellatrix Lestrange—
and Bellatrix was one of the principal culprits responsible for what had been done to the Longbottoms.
"Please, calm down. Let me explain," Russell said quickly, stepping in front of her.
The old witch was surprisingly strong; it took him considerable effort to steady her. Only then did he carefully recount everything that had happened.
"I see…" Augusta nodded slowly. "I always felt that boy wasn't capable of such evil. I never imagined he had suffered so much himself. Take me to see him."
Russell had no reason left to refuse.
---
"Good afternoon, Augusta."
The moment they entered the room, they saw Dumbledore standing beside Sirius's bed. His clear blue eyes turned toward them.
"Professor Dumbledore," Augusta greeted him without stiffness—it was evident they had known one another for years.
"You've come to see Frank and Alice again," Dumbledore said gently. A trace of sorrow passed through his gaze. "Have they improved?"
"The same as always." Augusta shook her head, then looked at Sirius.
"Poor child," she murmured. "Those incompetent fools at the Ministry—good for nothing but sitting in their positions and condemning innocent people."
She did not hold back her anger.
"Well, not entirely," Dumbledore said with a faint, rueful smile. "This time we must thank Cornelius. Without him, the trial might not have gone so smoothly."
"Is that so? Then perhaps the Ministry has finally done one decent thing," Augusta replied sharply, her long-standing resentment obvious.
"Well then, Augusta, we'll be on our way," Dumbledore said kindly.
"Goodbye, Professor. Goodbye, child," she nodded to both of them.
---
As they left, Russell hesitated before asking quietly:
"Professor… are those driven mad by the Cruciatus Curse truly beyond recovery? Even for you?"
"Oh, Russell," Dumbledore smiled gently, though there was something weary beneath it. "I am flattered you think so highly of me. But… I am not as powerful as you imagine. There are many things I cannot change. Sometimes all I can do is stand by and watch them happen…"
His voice grew softer and softer—until it was almost no more than a whisper.
Ariana…
---
After returning from St. Mungo's, Russell enjoyed a few peaceful days.
Snape's attitude toward him had cooled noticeably—just as Russell had anticipated. Whether Snape blamed him for helping free Sirius from Azkaban, or for handing Peter Pettigrew over to Dumbledore instead of to him, Russell couldn't be certain.
But the chill was unmistakable.
Sensing this shift, some of the Slytherin students who had previously kept their heads down began to stir again. Still, none dared openly challenge Russell. They weren't sure whether he had truly fallen out of favor or merely quarreled temporarily with Snape—and they feared his strength too much to test it.
Even Malfoy had grown cautious. Though others tried to egg him on, he didn't take the bait. Partly because he had poured all his focus into targeting Harry these days.
---
That Saturday morning, Wednesday approached Russell.
"You mean you obtained written approval from Professor Snape? And you intend to reclaim your position through an official match?"
Russell rubbed his temple. Wednesday's expression was utterly serious. Seeing that look—rare for her—he swallowed the advice he'd been about to offer.
He nodded.
"I'll come with you. Let me be your witness."
He didn't trust the Slytherins not to twist the outcome—even if she won.
---
"Fythorne? What are you doing here?"
The Slytherin team halted their training when they saw him approach.
Cyrian Rosier strode forward aggressively, broom in one hand and bat in the other.
"Here to spy? Please. Even if Ravenclaw had our playbook, you still couldn't beat us."
The rest of the team burst into laughter.
"Rosier, don't be so sure," Russell replied calmly. "I'm here as a witness for Wednesday. Just to make sure no one backtracks later."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Flint frowned. "Witness to what?"
"My bid for Beater," Wednesday said coolly.
With two fingers, she flicked the parchment bearing Snape's signed approval. The paper snapped taut midair and shot toward Flint like a dart.
He caught it, read it—and his expression darkened instantly.
"Fine. If you're so eager to bring glory to Slytherin, I'll allow it."
He pointed at Rosier.
"Cyrian is one of our Beaters. Defeat him, and his position is yours."
"Confident?" Flint asked.
Rosier was the team's strongest Beater. Flint clearly didn't believe Wednesday stood a chance.
"Of course, Captain," Rosier smirked. If he couldn't beat Russell, beating Wednesday would suffice. And since this was on the Quidditch pitch, the Addams family would hardly have grounds to complain.
"Fythorne, you may leave now," Rosier said viciously. "Unless you'd like to watch me knock Addams off her broom with a Bludger."
"That part doesn't concern me," Russell replied mildly. "What concerns me is whether you'll honor the result."
"You—!"
Rosier bristled, but Flint cut him off.
"Silence, Cyrian."
Flint leaned forward, his long face looming close. His breath was strong enough that Russell instinctively covered his nose.
"You want to witness? Fine. But stay exactly where you are. We'll be watching you."
Wednesday, Flint, and Rosier moved to the center of the pitch. The other Slytherins subtly formed a loose ring around Russell.
He remained perfectly composed.
He did not consider any of them a threat.
---
"As referee," Flint announced, a sly smile curving his lips, "I will now declare the rules of the match."
Because Russell was present, he dared not cheat outright.
But the rules?
Those had yet to be decided.