Chapter 310: The Quidditch World Cup Final
Dylan tucked the ordinary locket into the inner pocket of his jacket, his fingers still able to feel the cool texture of the metal casing. He followed Dumbledore onto the small boat. Dumbledore slowly rowed the oar. The splashes created by the wooden paddle hitting the surface instantly vanished upon landing on the black water.
The two traveled in silence, quickly returning to the shore. Moody was leaning against a rock, his cane propped diagonally on the ground. His other hand was still pressing the site of his earlier injury, his complexion somewhat better than before.
Seeing them return, and after Dumbledore explained the situation, Moody straightened up and grumbled coarsely, "So, we went through all that trouble—fighting Inferi, force-feeding potions—and in the end, we don't even have confirmation that the Horcrux was destroyed?" His tone was full of frustration, clearly dissatisfied with the "inconclusive" outcome of the trip.
Dumbledore walked up to him and patted his shoulder, his tone calm but methodical: "The trail isn't cold, Alastor."
"We'll split into three routes of investigation. I'll go to the Burke family; they have always been involved in the Death Eater circle."
"You go to the Prewett family; you know their background better."
"As for Dylan," he turned to Dylan, "you are still young. Go ask Sirius about the Black family's situation."
"Members of all three families joined the Death Eaters a decade ago. If we investigate carefully, we can certainly find clues about who took the Horcrux."
Dylan nodded, thinking to himself that the locket was conveniently in his hands. Perhaps he could complete the system achievement and naturally establish contact with Sirius again. Dumbledore's assignment perfectly suited his intentions. There was no need to dwell on who the R.A.B. signed in the locket's note was. Maybe this time, he could even summon Slytherin back directly? Dylan couldn't help but find the thought of Slytherin and Ravenclaw meeting amusing.
With the task settled, Dumbledore finally snapped his fingers. An orange-red flame suddenly ignited on the shore, though its temperature was not scorching. Fawkes the phoenix slowly flew out of the fire, its wings interwoven with gold and red, its tail feathers still faintly glowing.
Dumbledore was the first to grab Fawkes's tail feathers. Moody followed closely, but he grabbed too quickly, losing control of his strength. His fingers clenched, accidentally pulling off a fiery red feather. The moment the feather hit the ground, it turned into tiny sparks and vanished into the air.
Fawkes let out a call. The next moment, the three wizards and the phoenix Apparated, instantly reappearing in the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade.
The pub was dimly lit, and a faint scent of ale permeated the air. Dumbledore looked down at Fawkes, gently stroking its feathers, his tone soothing: "There, little guy. Did it hurt?"
Fawkes's eyes were glistening, as if feeling wronged, staring at a certain person, which made Moody somewhat uncomfortable. He scratched his head, his voice softer than before: "Uh, Albus... I didn't mean to. I just didn't get a firm grip during Apparition and squeezed too hard."
As he spoke, Fawkes flapped its wings and flew behind the bar. A burly man turned out from behind it—it was Aberforth Dumbledore. He was wiping a stoneware mug, his brow furrowed fiercely. Fawkes landed steadily on his shoulder, then rolled its eyes at Dumbledore and Moody. With another flash of firelight, it vanished without a trace.
"What are you doing coming here?" Aberforth slammed the mug onto the bar, staring at Dumbledore with an unfriendly tone, clearly unhappy with his brother's sudden visit.
Dumbledore, however, smiled openly, pointing to Dylan beside him: "Dylan said your cooking must be delicious, perhaps quite good, and insisted I bring him for dinner."
At this, Dylan's eyes widened sharply. Hello? Old Headmaster, what nonsense are you spewing? He hadn't said anything of the sort! He looked at Moody and saw that he, too, was wide-mouthed and confused.
A thought simultaneously popped into both their minds: "How can a person be so unreasonable and lie without batting an eye?"
But neither of them spoke it aloud, merely swallowing the thought back down.
Aberforth clearly didn't believe it either, but he said nothing more and turned to the back kitchen. Before long, he emerged carrying three stoneware plates, slamming them heavily onto the table. The food on the plates looked black, glistening with a strange oiliness, like burnt bread mixed with unknown wild vegetables—the presentation was awful.
Moody stared at the plate, his eyes wide, his knife and fork suspended mid-air. His expression seemed to ask: "Is this thing actually edible?"
"Hmph, eat it or don't!" Aberforth glanced at him, his tone mocking. Probably unwilling to look at Dumbledore's face anymore, he turned back to the kitchen.
Dumbledore picked up his fork and was the first to spear a piece and put it in his mouth, deliberately making a satisfied expression: "The taste is quite good, Alastor, you'll see if you try it. And Dylan, you should try it too. Didn't you keep saying the food here must be delicious?"
Dylan pursed his lips, then also picked up his fork and took a bite. Surprisingly, despite the poor look, it was crispy outside and tender inside, with a faint herbal fragrance—much tastier than it appeared.
Moody took a bite, half-skeptical, and his eyes instantly lit up. He had felt weak all over due to blood loss. Now, after a few bites of hot food, his stomach felt warm. The feeling of weakness gradually subsided, and strength returned to his limbs. In no time, he completely cleaned his plate.
Halfway through the meal, Dumbledore put down his fork and looked at Moody: "Alastor, I have a proposal—would you consider coming to Hogwarts to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts?"
Moody was momentarily stunned. He immediately pulled a palm-sized silver mirror from his pocket. It was a Sneakoscope. The mirror surface spun continuously, emitting a faint white light, the edges of the carving blurred by the rotation.
"You scoundrel, you're up to no good!" Moody pointed at the Sneakoscope, his tone wary. "I think you're trying to push me into a fire pit, aren't you?"
"Absolutely not." Dumbledore waved his hand, his tone becoming much more sincere: "Your experience in dealing with Dark Wizards can't be taught from books—how to track, how to defend, how to counterattack in dire situations. How many detours could that save the students? It would cultivate more combat-capable talents for the wizarding world and strengthen the Auror corps, allowing them to better protect ordinary people... Isn't that what you've always wanted to do?"
"Recently, a Dark Lord comparable to Voldemort has been gaining much traction. Although he hasn't appeared for a while, his subordinates seem numerous and are constantly gathering!"
"My students urgently need to grow quickly! Furthermore, let's not forget Voldemort could potentially recover at any time. The crises are everywhere."
He spoke clearly and logically, every sentence touching on Moody's concerns. Even his tone carried a convincing power. Dylan secretly sighed. If Dumbledore's eloquence were applied in ancient times, he could probably persuade stubborn monarchs to directly change national policies. If he were a debater, his opponent would likely be convinced before even speaking. Even when facing the most difficult people, he could articulate the reasoning so thoroughly that they would willingly agree.
Moody's expression gradually softened, clearly persuaded. He remained silent for a few seconds before speaking: "I need to finish the job I'm on first—I have to investigate the Prewett family matter thoroughly."
"Half of that family was sent to Azkaban by my own hand back then. I know their background well."
"If we can clarify the Horcrux matter before the end of summer—confirming it's either destroyed or find its hiding place and deal with it completely—then I'll report to Hogwarts."
Dylan's gaze fell on Moody's face. Beneath the deeply lined skin, every scar seemed to tell a story of past battles. A deep scar on his left cheek ran diagonally from his brow bone to his jaw, its edges still faintly pink—clearly an old wound compounded by new injuries. A concave scar on his right cheek made that half of his face slightly distorted, causing the corner of his eye to droop.
Dylan inwardly sighed. This was not merely a former senior Auror; this was Alastor Moody, who had countless life-and-death struggles carved into his very being! Every scar was a badge of honor in his fight against Dark Wizards!
These days, Hermione, Harry, and Ron had all invited Dylan to watch the Quidditch World Cup Final more than once. A few days ago, Hermione specifically sought him out with a golden Snitch-printed invitation. Harry and Ron enthusiastically chimed in, saying that this final would feature the Bulgarian team's star Seeker. However, he had other matters to attend to; now was not the right time to go to the stadium.
At this moment, Dylan was having dinner and chatting with Dumbledore and Moody in the corner of the Hog's Head Inn. The Quidditch World Cup Final had officially kicked off.
In the top-tier box at the stadium, Hermione and her group were seated on soft chairs. Sirius leaned against the box railing, his gaze casually sweeping over the stands below.
Minister Fudge wore a deep blue Minister's robe, with an exquisite silver badge pinned to the collar. He actively approached Sirius, attempting to strike up a conversation: "Mr. Black, what wonderful weather we have today. No wind—perfect for a Quidditch match, wouldn't you agree?"
Sirius merely nodded faintly, his eyes still drifting toward the center of the stadium, without any extra expression.
Fudge met a cold shoulder, awkwardly scratching his nose, his fingers unconsciously tugging at the corner of his robe. His expression was a little sour.
Just then, Lucius Malfoy slowly approached. He wore an immaculate white silk robe, the Malfoy family crest embroidered on the cuff. His hands were tucked into his robe pockets, his posture elegant but radiating detachment. He watched Sirius's retreating back, then turned to Fudge, his tone laced with subtle mockery: "Minister, you shouldn't be upset about this. I imagine this Mr. Black simply dislikes you from the bottom of his heart."
"After all, some people always feel they occupy the moral high ground and disdain associating with 'ordinary people' like us."
"Hmm—" Fudge made a muffled grunt in his throat, as if suppressing his anger, his expression darkening further than before.
Just as the atmosphere in the box became somewhat strained, Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, burst in. He wore a brightly colored red sports jacket, which was slightly dusty, suggesting he had rushed to get there. His golden hair was dampened with sweat, plastered to his forehead. He clutched a crumpled schedule in his hand.
"Apologies, apologies, I'm late!" He gasped, his round face full of urgency, his gaze quickly scanning the people in the box before settling on Fudge. "Minister—everything is ready. Can we start now?"
Fudge took a deep breath, as if swallowing his previous unpleasantness. He forced a genial smile and waved his hand: "You decide, Ludo. Proceed as planned."
Ludo immediately nodded, drew the wand tucked into his belt, pointed the tip at his throat, and clearly cast the spell: "Sonorus!"
The next moment, his voice suddenly amplified several times, exploding in the box like thunder. Even Hermione, sitting in the corner, instinctively covered her ears. The sound spread out from the box opening, echoing through the packed stadium, reverberating in every corner of the stands. The previously noisy stadium instantly fell silent. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the direction of the top-tier box.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Ludo's voice was filled with unconcealed excitement. "Welcome to the site of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup Final!"
"Today, the two teams that will engage in this ultimate showdown are—from the East of the Wizarding World, possessing the strongest Seeker—the Bulgarian National Team!"
"And our native veterans, known for their exquisite tactics—the Irish National Team!"
When the names "Bulgaria" and "Ireland" were shouted by Ludo, the stands instantly erupted in deafening cheers. Supporters of the Bulgarian team raised red flags printed with the team's crest, chanting in unison: "Bulgaria Must Win!" The Irish team's supporters waved green streamers. Some were singing traditional Irish folk songs, the cheerful tunes drifting above the stadium. All the cheering and singing mingled together, creating a vibrant scene.
Once the crowd's cheers subsided slightly, Ludo spoke again, his voice still booming.
"This Quidditch World Cup Final is proudly sponsored by the Wizarding World's emerging potion enterprise, XY Potions!"
As Ludo's words concluded, the huge scoreboard suspended in the center of the stadium suddenly lit up, displaying a clear image. Inside a silver magical cauldron, a pale purple potion slowly boiled. Round bubbles rose from the bottom of the pot, releasing a faint white halo when they burst. The background of the image was the XY Potions Workshop logo. Below the logo was a line of ornate, vine-decorated script, exceptionally prominent under the lights:
"XY Potions, dedicated to providing wizards with high-quality, life-applicable potion products! You can trust us!"
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