220: Chapter 220 Fourth Grade Starts School

"What on earth were you doing on the edge of the woods last night?"

Just as the Hogwarts Express pulled out of London, Hermione stood at the doorway of the Slytherin compartment, holding a stack of newspapers, her face written with an eager determination to press people into giving testimonies.

Draco looked up. "Granger, you've got the wrong compartment. The Gryffindor interrogation room is further down."

Ron poked his head out from behind her. "We just wanted to ask, were you nearby when Harry's wand went missing?"

"Ron!" Harry muttered to stop him, but he also looked at Allen Potter. "I just want to figure out if that silver light was you. A Stunning Spell was also deflected in the woods."

Theodore Nott sat by the window, slowly opening his notebook. "First day of school, internal debt collection of the Potter Family, Granger enters with newspapers, and Weasley is in charge of steering the questions off course."

Blaise Zabini was holding the pumpkin juice bought along the way, its lid unopened. "I suggest charging a fee. One sickle per question, double for follow-ups."

Hermione slammed the newspaper onto the table. "The Ministry of Magic pushed the blame onto Winky, and said Harry's wand was picked up by unknown persons. After Crouch dismissed her, she disappeared. Don't you think it's all too clean?"

Hearing Crouch, Draco's fingers immediately stopped on the knut at his cuff. He glanced at Allen and didn't interrupt.

Allen leaned against the edge of his seat, looking like he had just woken up. "Ask the Ministry of Magic."

"I asked Mr. Weasley," Hermione lowered her voice. "He also feels that Crouch is hiding something. After the match, you had Draco leave the firing line and warned him in advance not to take off his outer robe. You had foreseen this long ago."

"There were too many people, too much wine, and too many old faces at the Quidditch World Cup," Allen said. "It's not hard to guess something would happen."

Harry stared at him. "You're only telling half the story again."

"Because the other half would get you killed." Allen shifted his posture, burying his face in his scarf. "School has started; survive the banquet first."

Hermione wanted to press further, but the sound of the Witch pushing the trolley came from the other end of the corridor. Pansy poked her head out from the next compartment. "Granger, blocking the door will make the entire corridor think you're transferring houses."

Ron immediately pulled Hermione. "Let's go, they outnumber us."

Hermione didn't move. "Allen, if that night at the Quidditch World Cup has anything to do with You-Know-Who, Harry has the right to be on guard in advance."

The compartment fell silent for a moment.

Draco's face tightened, Zabini put his cup back on the table, and Nott's pen tip paused.

Allen raised his eyes to look at Harry. "Precautions start with saying less. Don't tell the details of your missing wand to a third person."

Harry gritted his teeth. "Which one do you count as?"

"A passerby."

"That line again." Harry turned and left, and Ron hurriedly followed. Hermione stayed until the last, took back her newspapers, let her gaze linger on Nott's notebook for a second, and then walked away.

Draco held it in for a long time before finally speaking, "If Potter knew that every time he survived it had to do with a 'passerby', he'd probably anger himself straight into the Hospital Wing."

"He's almost there," Zabini unscrewed the cup lid. "Granger will give him a push."

Nott closed the compartment door. "Quidditch World Cup aftermath. Winky was dismissed, whereabouts unknown. Crouch returned to the Ministry of Magic for half a day, then declined interviews on the grounds of being busy with official business. Fudge focused on suppressing the drunken riots of old Death Eaters, and the Daily Prophet wrote off Harry's wand as an accidental loss."

Draco said with a cold face, "What about my father?"

Nott looked at him. "Lucius was not nominated, nor were many pure-blood families. The Ministry of Magic only arrested a few drunkards with no background."

Draco turned his head toward the window. "When he came home, there was mud on the bottom of his cane and the smell of smoke on his robes. Mother asked him where he went, and he said he was seeing an old friend."

Zabini gave a soft tut. "That phrase, 'old friend', isn't worth much after the Quidditch World Cup."

Allen closed his eyes. "He wouldn't dare cast the Dark Mark."

Draco turned back. "Are you speaking up for him?"

"He is afraid of Lord Voldemort coming back to settle accounts, and he is afraid of the Ministry of Magic dredging up old ones. Lucius likes a winning hand; he doesn't like gambling with his life."

Draco was silent for a long time before pushing the knut back into his cuff. "If I had stayed that night, I might have seen him."

"And then?"

Draco didn't answer.

Nott wrote for him, "Draco Malfoy, first item of emotion management for the start of term: don't track your father's night-walking routes."

"Nott, if you write my name again, I'll throw your notebook out the window."

"I have three."

The train headed north all the way. In the afternoon, the corridors were full of discussions about the Quidditch World Cup, the Dark Mark, Winky, and Harry's wand. Lower-year students lowered their voices whenever they heard about the mark, while upper-year pure-blood students kept "the old faces are back" on their lips, half-seriously and half-playfully frightening others.

Flint passed by the compartment and stopped when he saw Draco. "Malfoy, your father sure was busy last night."

Before Draco could stand up, Allen pressed a knut onto the table.

The bronze face gave a soft click.

Draco sat back down, lifting his chin. "Flint, someone who can call the Quidditch World Cup fire a party probably can't even read a Portkey register."

Flint's expression turned ugly. "You've gotten timid lately."

"My brain has been working well enough lately," Draco retorted. "If you want to explain to the Dean why you were chatting with a bunch of masked relatives last night, I can go with you."

The two upper-year Slytherin students in the corridor immediately stepped back half a step.

Flint cursed and left.

Zabini held the cup up to Draco. "Big improvement, you didn't call for your father."

Draco took the cup, then put it down with disgust. "You've drunk from it."

"Are you still picky?"

When the train arrived in Hogsmeade, rain clouds were pressing over the valley. The Dementors had already been withdrawn, but there were two more Ministry of Magic employees at the station. Students lined up to get into the carriages, their discussions shifting from the Quidditch World Cup to the new school year.

When Hogwarts Castle appeared across the lake, the knut inside Allen's sleeve briefly grew warm. Deep within the Portable Space, the ebony box was quiet, but the cracked pocket watch flashed inside the box.

The tip of the void tail immediately pressed down on the box lid.

The name written in advance in the family crest archives surfaced: Alastor Moody.

The banquet was noisier than usual. The Gryffindor long table surrounded Harry asking about the Quidditch World Cup, with Hermione sitting beside him, listening and taking notes. Ron told the story of "almost being stunned by the Ministry of Magic" three times, making himself sound braver each time.

On the Slytherin long table side, Draco lowered his head to cut his meat, Nott recorded the staff table, and Zabini observed the doorway. Pansy pulled the first-years away from Flint's table to keep them from hearing too much foolish talk.

"Dumbledore is going to announce something new," Nott said. "There's an extra empty seat at the staff table."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Zabini looked toward the door. "One every year, Hogwarts' most stable instability."

The doors opened.

A man leaning on a crutch walked into the Great Hall, his wooden leg tapping against the flagstones, his face crisscrossed with scars, and his magical eye rolling in its socket, sweeping across the four house long tables. The students' discussions instantly quieted down.

"Mad-Eye Moody," Draco said in a low voice. "My father says he doesn't care about decency when catching people."

"The people being caught usually don't care about the law first," Nott wrote down the appearance. "Wooden leg, magical eye, portable hip flask, gait with weight leaning left."

Allen didn't look for long.

Spatial Perception crawled along the floor of the staff table, first encountering a layer of defensive residue carried year-round by an old Auror—rough, hard, carrying the aura of old wounds. Further in, near the hip flask, there was an extremely faint metabolic residue of Polyjuice Potion, with stable intervals and precise dosage.

The deeper magic signature was wrapped very tightly, yet the tail end of the spell retraction was short, and the left wrist binding mark was clear.

Allen opened his eyes.

Nott noticed him moving and stopped his pen tip. "Is there a problem?"

"Don't stare at his magical eye."

Draco's fork paused in mid-air. "What do you mean?"

"He'll see that you're afraid."

Zabini's cup touched his lips, then he put it back down. "The real Moody would too."

Allen looked at the staff table. Moody sat down to Dumbledore's right, his magical eye turning toward the dome of the Great Hall, then toward the Slytherin long table, lingering on Allen for a brief moment.

The cracked pocket watch lit up again inside the ebony box.

Dumbledore stood up, his silver-white beard hanging down in front of his robes. He first quieted the discussions about the Quidditch World Cup, reminded students not to bring outside panic into the corridors, and then announced that the Triwizard Tournament would be held at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall exploded into uproar.

"Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will come," Dumbledore continued. "The age restriction will be jointly set by the Ministry of Magic and the school administration. Students under seventeen are forbidden to enter."

Fred and George over on the Gryffindor side immediately shouted protests. Ron was so excited he almost knocked over his pumpkin juice, Harry was still in a daze, and Hermione had already circled "jointly set by the Ministry of Magic".

Draco looked at Allen. "The Triwizard Tournament? You heard about it beforehand?"

"Goblet of Fire," Nott lowered his voice, flipping through old pages. "This word appeared in the summer vacation archives."

Zabini gently tapped the wall of his cup. "Foreign schools, the Ministry of Magic, Crouch, Moody. The venue is changed to the Castle."

Draco's face looked ugly. "Don't tell me Barty is going to change places to watch the match too."

Allen pressed his napkin to the edge of his plate, his voice so low only they could hear.

"He has already taken a seat at the staff table."

The fork in Draco's hand dropped into his plate, its sound covered by the cheers of the entire Great Hall. Nott didn't look up, but his pen tip drew a heavy line across the paper.

Zabini looked at the "Moody" on the staff table, his teacup pausing between his fingers. "First report of the fourth year: Mad-Eye is fake."

Pansy leaned in from the side. "Who are you saying is fake?"

"Shut up and eat." Draco picked up his fork, his face whiter than the plate. "Don't ask for now."

At the staff table, the fake Moody raised his hip flask and took a drink. His magical eye bypassed Professor McGonagall, bypassed Snape, and finally fell back onto the Slytherin long table.

Allen leaned back onto the edge of the table, pretending to be sleepy from the commotion of the start-of-term feast.

Inside the ebony box, the blue light of the cracked pocket watch beat briefly.

Fourth year begins, the prey has entered the door wearing Professor's robes.