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Chapter 271 – Quidditch Tournament Cancelled!!
Darren's eyes were still red.
As he spoke, his voice grew softer, as though he was slipping back into that terrible moment again.
"Severus!"
Dumbledore called urgently.
But he was a second too late—Snape had already tipped a vial against Darren's lips.
"Cough—cough!"
Darren stared up at Snape helplessly.
"Professor, I'm fine, I just…"
He simply hadn't finished deciding what to pretend next.
And now Snape had poured an entire bottle down his throat.
He strongly suspected—as always—that it was a sleeping potion.
"It's your antidote. Don't tell me you can't taste it?"
…Huh?
System, is this actually real?
He had never tasted the new antidote.
Why would he?
It was medicine.
He brewed it and it smelled strange—surely it tasted even worse.
So he had never dared drink it himself.
[Ding, this is an improved version of the antidote. Several herbs were added… they greatly improve the taste.
However, these added herbs make the brewing cost ten times higher.]
Ah.
Of course.
Snape had actually improved the potion.
Made it taste better.
Made it stronger.
All specifically—for him?
The old bat really was committed to his "good father" act.
And of course… since the first time they met, Snape had never allowed him to drink the normal version of the potion.
He always added rare herbs to make it smoother, gentler, stronger.
That level of treatment… was something only the "Goddess's son" could receive.
But Darren couldn't say any of that.
Snape would kill him with a Memory Charm if he ever said such things out loud.
So Darren forced a grateful smile.
"Professor Snape's potions really are better when improved… adding several herbs. I actually… considered that direction too.
But there are so many poor families—like the Longbottoms—they can't afford expensive ingredients. I just want people like them to be able to get treatment. They paid so much in the war…"
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +100]
[Ding, Father +100]
…
He accepted the points, then stopped talking before he confused himself further.
He finally let his eyes close.
Snape looked at the sleeping boy, a rare flicker of pride passing over his face.
Then he muttered in a dry tone, "You talked so much, and still didn't explain where the Draught of Living Death components went."
"Oh, Severus, don't interrogate Darren," Dumbledore said gently. "What we must do is find the serpent quickly.
Minerva—inform Harry that Quidditch is cancelled. All activities must stop. The students should stay in their common rooms.
We may truly have to close the school until we find the creature."
Dumbledore stood and moved toward the door.
But before he could leave, an owl swooped in and dropped a letter at his feet.
He picked it up.
The moment he read the writing on the envelope, his entire posture hardened.
"I need to go to the Ministry. Minerva, Severus—protect the school.
We may be facing more trouble… but do not worry overmuch. The most important threat remains the creature inside Hogwarts."
He drew his wand.
A swirling dark vortex opened in the air.
"Do your work well. I will return."
He stepped in and vanished.
"I must get the students inside their lounges immediately," McGonagall said. "Severus—inform Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout. We must keep the remaining students safe."
She turned and strode out.
Snape snorted softly.
He glanced at Madam Pomfrey as though considering something.
But she only smiled.
"Don't worry. He'll wake soon. He seems stable enough. I'll send him back to Slytherin once he's up.
As for explaining why no one else got the antidote and only Darren did—"
"Well," Snape replied, "a Potions Master—regardless of whether a brew passes Ministry approval—is always allowed to test his potion on himself.
He simply had a bottle of his own antidote on him. He forgot to take it earlier, remembered only upon arriving here, and drank it. Perfectly reasonable."
Snape gave a cold, proud nod.
Then he cast one more lingering, possessive look toward the child in the bed.
If Darren hadn't offended Fudge… well, perhaps then even the Ministry would accept that a Potions Master was allowed to drink his own potions.
Is it a crime to drink what one has brewed?
Ridiculous.
He swept out of the hospital wing.
"Well, well," Madam Pomfrey murmured, amused, "I must be getting old—I couldn't even think of such an excuse."
She checked Darren again with her wand.
Yes. He really was improving.
Meanwhile—
After Harry left Darren, he went straight to the locker room, changed into his Quidditch robes, and strode out.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Both teams shook hands.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle.
Harry shot upward into the sky—
"STOP! The Quidditch match is cancelled!"
Professor McGonagall's voice echoed through the stadium.
A second whistle from Madam Hooch forced everyone back to the ground.
"Professor—what happened? It's Quidditch! And this time we can definitely beat Slytherin!"
Wood looked devastated.
This should've been the easiest Slytherin victory Gryffindor ever had.
Slytherin looked exhausted, disorganized.
Gryffindor would win. Definitely.
"Think about the Quidditch Cup! Points!"
"Yeah, Professor—please reconsider!" the Weasley twins chimed in.
"There has been another attack. Everyone back to your common rooms. I will not repeat myself!"
McGonagall's tone was firm as steel.
Then her eyes fell on Harry.
"Harry… come with me."
Her voice softened in a way Harry had almost never heard.
But instead of feeling honored, Harry felt dread crawl up his spine.
Students from other houses were whispering too.
"Professor McGonagall—is… is something wrong with Darren?"
a Slytherin girl asked.
McGonagall didn't answer.
Her lips tightened.
"Harry. Ron—you come as well. Everyone else, return to your lounges. A professor will explain."
Then softly, full of worry—
"Come along, Harry… and Ron. Be brave."
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