Hogwarts: Harry Returns from Water Margin

Chapter 268 Fairies Stationed in Hogsmeade

Picking up where we left off, Lucius's heart skipped a beat after hearing Draco's words. To hear that this matter was actually written in black and white in a letter terrified him even more, leaving him utterly bewildered.

It should be known that Voldemort is a suspicious and mean-spirited man who cannot tolerate any dissent. If he were to learn that Draco had joined Harry's side, regardless of whether it was true or not, Voldemort would never regain his favor.

Any dangerous job involving boiling oil or a life-or-death situation would be assigned to him.

Lucius, being a shrewd man, quickly calculated the situation, then a sudden inspiration struck him. He stared at Draco and asked, "You mean Potter did this on purpose? He wants to use this letter to get rid of me?"

"I don't know," Draco answered crisply and decisively. "The only thing I'm sure of is that he didn't value my life."

"In terms of their attitude towards life, Potter and the Dark Lord are not much different."

These words were like a bucket of snow water, silencing both father and son.

After some time, Lucius suddenly said, "I'll go burn that letter."

Having said that, he turned and stood up, about to turn away.

Upon hearing this, Draco cried out urgently, "No! Dad! Don't touch that letter!"

The shout was so sudden that Lucius was startled and nearly lost his balance.

He frowned and asked, "Is there any other problem?"

Draco took a breath. "There's a talisman in that letter—something the Easterners use to store spells."

"I've seen Potter use that thing; after he chants the incantation, the talismans just start burning on their own."

"I suspect that Potter will be able to sense it as soon as the talisman starts burning."

Upon hearing this, Lucius felt a chill run down his spine and couldn't help but secretly admire Draco's meticulousness.

He lowered his head and pondered for a long time, then asked seriously, "What do you plan to do with this letter?"

"Keep it," Draco said firmly. "I didn't write a date, so this letter can be sent at any time."

"Although it's just a burden now, it might come in handy in the future."

Draco spoke slowly and deliberately, and Lucius pondered for a long time before bowing deeply.

"I understand, I'll do as you say."

After finishing their business, the two were about to disconnect the fireplace. Draco had just grabbed a pot of cold water when he suddenly heard Lucius call out from the flames, "Wait, Draco, how's your mother?"

Draco thought for a moment, "Mom is fine and misses you, but she doesn't dare to write to you."

"I see—"

Upon hearing this, Lucius remained silent for a moment, then said, "Take care."

Goodbye, Dad.

After saying this, Draco threw the pot in his hand, and with a "whoosh," the flames in the fireplace instantly went out, turning into a wisp of damp smoke.

Instead of resting, he went to the bathroom, poured out half a bottle of olive oil, tore off several pieces of toilet paper, mixed them together, and flushed them down the drain.

He glanced at the clock after he finished, and saw that only half an hour had passed.

Seeing that it was still early, he fetched hot water and washed himself thoroughly. After getting ready, he leisurely changed into clean robes and packed his belongings.

Just as he was about to leave the room, he caught a glimpse of the two wizards, a man and a woman, in the photograph by the bedside. They were drinking and laughing together, their faces beaming with joy.

When the two wizards saw Draco looking at them, they hurriedly took off their clothes and embraced each other, kissing and smacking their lips, completely losing their decorum.

Draco smirked and muttered, "Not professional at all."

Having said that, he stuffed the photograph into his pocket, opened the door, and strode away.

Descending the stairs, they found the inn's lobby deserted. The merchants who had been gathered in small groups earlier were now reduced to a few scattered individuals, and there was not a single student in sight.

Draco's heart suddenly tightened, as if his throat had been gripped, and a surge of fear welled up inside him.

Has Porter discovered my underhanded tactics?

He wanted to kill me in the hotel?

No, no, no, he will never find out that I didn't give anything away.

Draco's heart was pounding, but his face remained calm and composed as he strode toward the shop door.

As soon as he stepped out the door and looked up, he seemed to be frozen in place by a petrification spell, standing there dumbfounded. He didn't even realize that the bag containing sweets and his robe had slipped from his hand.

Two flowers bloom, one branch each.

After saying goodbye to Draco, Harry set off towards the Hog's Head.

The Hog's Head was a cramped and old place. When Harry burst in, his eyes swept across the room and he spotted Trelawney sitting alone at the counter, drinking.

He strode forward and shouted, "Tavernkeeper! Bring two bottles of butterbeer!"

Trelawney was drinking by himself when he suddenly heard Harry's voice and trembled with fright.

As Harry sat down next to her, she was already trembling like a quail in the snow, curled up in a ball.

The bartender behind the counter was shrewd; seeing Harry's menacing approach, he feared that if this scoundrel were to unleash his fury, he would be covered in blood.

He hurriedly grabbed two bottles of butterbeer and slipped away to the back room.

Harry tilted his head back and took a sip of his drink, then turned to Trelawney and said, “Professor, you’re really hard to find! I haven’t had any of your classes these past few days, and I haven’t seen you anywhere on campus. I’ve searched high and low and still can’t find you.”

When Trelawney heard him recount the story again, he lost all interest in drinking and his face contorted in a grimace more like a mourner's.

She knew all too well how powerful Harry was at school, and feared that if she couldn't utter a single word of the prophecy, the evil spirit would get angry and kill her with a single blow.

Unfortunately, he was caught red-handed today and had nowhere to hide. He dared not use the mysterious and cryptic language he used in class anymore, and could only say in a trembling voice, "Oh, Mr. Potter, please allow me to tell you the truth, I really don't have any talent for prophecy."

"Not to mention asking me to make a real prophecy, I... I don't have that ability—"

Harry calmly poured her a full glass and said slowly, "Professor, why say such discouraging things? If you really didn't have some ability, how could you have predicted that I would be the 'savior' back then?"

"If all your prophecies were to fail, then how did Voldemort listen to your words and ultimately fall to my hand, fulfilling the prophecy?"

"I'm only asking you to speak again because you predicted such a huge undertaking."

Upon hearing this, Trelawney's face contorted in pain, and he hurriedly waved his hands, protesting, "It was an accident!"

"I can only make true prophecies when I am in a trance."

Upon hearing this, Harry rolled up his sleeves, revealing his strong arms, and pounded his chest with a loud thud.

"What's so difficult about it! Whether you're half-conscious, half-asleep, or experiencing some other dazed state, just tell me!"

"I have my own ways of making things happen!"

Trelawney was terrified when he heard Trelawney cracking his knuckles like popping beans. He hurriedly waved his hands and said, "No, no, no! Violence won't do. The state of reverie I'm talking about must be achieved naturally."

Harry's blue eyes widened. "How do you know my method won't work if you haven't even tried it?"

Seeing the growing ferocity in Harry's eyes, Trelawney panicked and, in a moment of inspiration, cried out, "My grandmother tried it! My grandmother told me all this!"

"Furthermore, we must not use violence against the prophet, as this will damage his mind!"

Trelawney kept making excuses, which really angered Harry, who was no longer able to persuade her.

He slammed his wine glass down on the table and yelled, "Professor, you're so inconsiderate! I only lent you my third eye to see a thing or two, and you're already making it as complicated as a foot binding!"

"You didn't predict it, so how can you say it won't work!"

Seeing that Harry was truly enraged, Trelawney felt a chill run down his spine, fearing a Killing Curse might strike him from the top of his head. He could only shrink back and say in a trembling voice, "Fine, fine, Mr. Potter. If you insist, I can make a prophecy for you."

"But there's one thing I need to state upfront: my predictions are very likely to be inaccurate."

Harry waved his hand: "Whether it works or not, we'll only know by trying! Professor, please perform the ritual, and I will certainly not skimp on the gold and silver rewards."

Having come to this point, Trelawney had no choice but to abandon his excuses and ask the counter for a fine porcelain teacup and a pinch of aged tea leaves.

Boiling water was poured over it, making the tea soup as thick as sauce. She didn't even strain the tea leaves, and simply pushed the teacup towards Harry.

Harry knew the proper procedure for serving tea, so he took the tea, tilted his head back, and ate it all.

Trelawney took the empty bowl, flipped it over onto the saucer, spun it around a few times, then looked up and asked in a hoarse voice, "So, Mr. Potter, what do you want to divine?"

Harry thought to himself, "He only asked me to ask for a true prophecy, but didn't set a topic. I guess I can choose whatever I want."

He pondered for a moment, then said, "I ask you, of the three of us—Voldemort, Grindelwald, and myself—who will rule the world in the future?"

Upon hearing this, the bartender wiping the glasses at the counter slipped and nearly dropped his equipment.

Trelawney's face twitched, and his lips trembled for a long time before he shakily lifted the upside-down cup and bent down to examine the tea dregs in the saucer.

"Hmm—let me see—is this a crown?"

"No, I should look at it from a different angle—ah! This is the Holy Grail!"

Before he could finish speaking, Trelawney's eyes suddenly went blank, as if his soul had left his body, and he muttered, "Of the relics of the four sages, only the last one is missing—"

"Fill the void, unite as one, and gain true power —"

After rambling on for a while, he suddenly shivered, blinked as if waking from a dream, and looked at Harry, saying, "Did I...did I just make a real prophecy?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharp as if scraping her face. "Do you think your predictions are always right?"

Trelawney chuckled, "Oh, Mr. Potter, how could I, a prophet, make false prophecies? I was just in a trance-like state."

"I only ask you if you guarantee its authenticity!"

Trelawney's lips trembled for a long time, then he suddenly blinked and two lines of tears streamed down his face. "Mr. Potter, I can't do it."

Harry's eyelids twitched as he listened, and a surge of rage welled up inside him; he wished he could end her life with a single blow.

He suppressed his murderous intent, took out ten Galleons from his pocket, and said, "Enough! Enough! If it can't be done, it can't be forced. I won't make things difficult for you."

Trelawney glanced at the Galleons on the table, then quickly withdrew his gaze, wiping away tears with his sleeve. He muttered to himself, "I was so stupid, so stupid. I only remembered that I was a descendant of the Prophet, but I ignored the fact that I hadn't completed the family rituals. I'm completely unqualified to be a professor of divination—"

Harry, finding this odd, leaned forward and asked, "What kind of ceremony? Can it possibly affect your status as a prophet?"

"It's just a rule left by my great-grandmother." Trelawney nodded and said in a low voice, "A rather primitive and cruel ritual."

Listen, dear reader: The lineage of the Trelawneys, the prophets, begins with Cassandra Trelawney, the great-grandmother of the Sibylne.

This woman was a great prophet in the magical world, and from her generation onward, she established an ironclad family rule for future generations: no elder in the clan could die of old age; they had to be personally escorted to their death by their closest relatives or direct descendants before they could be called a prophet.

Sybil's grandmother fed her great-grandmother a bowl of heartbreaking soup. When her grandmother was dying, Sybil's parents couldn't bring themselves to do such a thing.

The old grandmother, however, was a heartless woman, determined to end the life of a member of the Trelawney family. After some discussion, she summoned Sybil, the innocent child.

Unexpectedly, Sybil was out playing when her parents finally found her and dragged her home, only to discover that her grandmother had already passed away.

After hearing this old story, Harry was filled with doubt and frowned, saying, "Your family rules are so unreasonable!"

'

"Where would you find a son forced to kill his father? Could it be that my great-grandmother foresaw some misfortune and set such a strange rule?"

Trelawney shook her head. "All my great-grandmother left behind was this family rule; there were no prophecies."

Harry remained silent, pondering the matter over and over in his mind. He felt as if a fog was shrouding his eyes, clearly sensing that there was something strange about it, yet he couldn't quite grasp the reason.

Just as I was pondering this, I suddenly heard a commotion outside the bar, with a chaotic mix of voices and owl calls.

He put aside his worries for the moment, got up, and pushed open the door to take a look.

As soon as Harry left, Trelawney hurriedly reached out his claw-like hand and swept all ten Galleons on the table into his arms.

Harry pushed open the door of the pub and saw that Hogsmeade Street was already packed with people, and the noise was even more lively than the day of the public trial.

Amidst the jostling crowd, he couldn't move an inch. Harry then used Apparition, transforming into a wisp of black mist that shot up to the roof of the Hog's Head.

Standing on high ground, you can see most of the village.

Harry followed everyone's gaze toward the village entrance and saw a long, dark line of people pressing toward Hogsmeade along the main road.

He thought to himself: No wonder it's so noisy, it turns out that the troops sent by the Ministry of Magic to guard Hogsmeade have arrived.

He then focused his attention for a moment and suddenly noticed that the figures in the group were all shorter than ordinary wizards.

He frowned, and without further hesitation, transformed into a wisp of black smoke and sped to the village entrance. Upon closer inspection, he couldn't help but exclaim, "Ah!"

What kind of wizard army are these? They're clearly a group of well-armored fairies!