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Chapter 223 — Great Sacrifice!!
In the blink of an eye, a week slipped by.
Darren had assumed the old "licking dog" would keep dragging things out, pretending nothing was wrong.
Then, one evening at dinner, he noticed something strange—his lemon drink tasted faintly off. Only because the system warned him did he realize someone had slipped a Draught of Living Death into it.
A powerful sleeping potion. It looked exactly like water. Without the system, he would never have noticed.
That night Snape came to Darren's dormitory and confirmed everything.
Snape—who'd been acting like a gruff, useless guardian—ended up sitting there most of the night, quietly shaken.
If Darren hadn't pretended the potion had taken effect and slumped as though asleep, he'd have had to feign peaceful slumber.
He recalled telling Snape off for being a nuisance, but the image of Snape carefully tucking a blanket around him—like a very inexperienced parent—stayed with him.
Darren lay staring at the ceiling, baffled. Had Snape really softened? Had he become unexpectedly careful?
—
The next morning a new poster was pinned up in the Slytherin common room.
"Dueling Club — Tonight," it proclaimed. Malfoy burst into delighted chatter. "A dueling club! Finally. We'll learn proper technique—"
Then Malfoy caught sight of Darren and immediately changed his tone.
"Of course I learned this long ago. Noble families receive proper training," Malfoy sneered, producing a bottle and dangling it—"butterbeer, anyone? Some people can only manage cheap lemon drink."
Darren only smiled politely and walked to the poster. He'd tasted butterbeer once; it was nothing to write home about.
He remembered this event from the original timeline: Gilderoy Lockhart would host the club, and something odd would happen. Tonight they'd see for themselves.
—
Eight o'clock. The Great Hall had been cleared for the show: a long stage, floating candles, the whole theatrical nonsense.
"I'm your host!" Lockhart trilled as he swept onto the stage. "Welcome, welcome—your favourite professor, Gilderoy Lockhart!"
Harry and Ron's faces fell.
"Of all the luck," Harry muttered.
"Brother," Darren teased, but Harry fumbled for a civil tone. "Professor Lockhart… well. He doesn't teach anything useful. How am I supposed to respect someone who can't teach?"
Hermione shot him a look. "Someone hurt you at your trial and you still make jokes? Come on."
"Sorry," Darren said—then [Ding, Father +100] [Ding, Father +100] [Ding, Father +100] [Ding…].
The Father message chimed again before he finished his sentence; apparently Darren's attempt to smooth things over had hit the meter. He blinked and kept his smile.
Hermione was cross. "Before your trial Lockhart said you were cowardly and would have let Death Eaters come and go. People were furious. A lot of them stopped liking him after that."
Darren frowned. "He tried to help when I disappeared, though. He said he made an effort—"
Harry stared. "He said that? Lockhart made a 'great effort'? What did that even look like?"
Darren nodded earnestly. "He followed the rescue. He said he did his best."
Ron snorted. "If that's 'best', I'd rather have no teacher at all."
"Wait—look," Harry said, suddenly alert. "Who's that coming now?"
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