32: Chapter 32 The Post-Match Snake Nest Undercover Battle

Slytherin lost.

On the way back to the Dungeon, no one mentioned the Golden Snitch.

Green scarves were clutched in hands; several upper-year students walked quickly, their robe hems brushing against the stone steps.

Flint was at the front of the group, his shoulders tense; whoever bumped into him would be out of luck.

Draco didn't speak the entire way.

This was actually rare.

Crabbe, holding an unfinished pumpkin pasty, took two steps, glanced at Draco, and finally couldn't help but ask, "Do you still want to eat?"

Draco stopped in his tracks.

Crabbe hid the pasty behind his back.

Goyle explained for him, "He wasn't asking you; he was asking the pasty."

Draco stared at the two of them for half a second, then turned and continued walking.

Allen lagged behind, not carrying his old suitcase, holding only a book.

The match result was worthless; the reaction after the match was what mattered.

The Slytherin Common Room was quieter than usual.

The fireplace was burning, but the firelight couldn't suppress the green shadows cast by the Black Lake.

A few second-years sat by the sofa, not even daring to laugh out loud.

Third and fourth-years gathered by the fireplace, whispering curses at Gryffindor, at Harry, at Madam Hooch, and in the end, they didn't even spare the Golden Snitch.

As soon as Flint entered, he kicked over an empty bucket by the door.

The bucket rolled out and hit the wall.

"What are you looking at?" he roared.

Several lower-years lowered their heads.

Flint had lost a lot of face today.

He had intended to use the match to bury the incident where he was punished by Professor Snape, but in the end, Harry Potter had caught the Golden Snitch with his mouth.

Worse still, the whole school was talking about how The Chosen One had beaten Slytherin in his first match.

Losing in this way made even finding an excuse sound pathetic.

Flint vented his anger on the second-year closest to him.

"You lot, go to the storage room and clean the old protective gear."

A second-year looked up, "But that's the team's job..."

Flint strode over and grabbed him by the collar.

"I said, go."

The student didn't dare say another word, and several others nearby also stood up to follow.

The Common Room became even quieter.

Draco watched this scene, his expression grim.

He loathed this behavior of Flint's, but he loathed even more that Harry had won today.

Pansy whispered from the side, "Gryffindor will definitely be partying late tonight."

Draco sneered, "They're just relying on that bit of luck Harry has."

Zabini sat by the fireplace, flipping through a book, "Luck counts as a result, too. The scoreboard doesn't care if you're convinced or not."

Draco was even more annoyed by this retort.

He looked at Allen, "Are we just going to let it go like this?"

Allen sat in a corner and opened his book, "How do you want to settle it?"

"Find Harry," Draco blurted out, "At least don't let him think Slytherin is easy to bully."

Crabbe perked up, "A fight?"

Goyle felt his pocket, "Can I finish eating first?"

Draco ignored them and stared at Allen.

From the train ride until now, he had gotten used to asking before taking action.

This was a frustrating habit, but it was useful.

Allen didn't look at him, only turned a page of the book.

"If you rush to cause trouble just because you lost one match, what difference is there between you and those Gryffindor brutes?"

Draco opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat.

That didn't sound good.

And it was even harder to refute.

Gryffindor was famous for impulse, while Slytherin lived by calculation.

If you just pounced and bit people whenever you lost, you wouldn't even have any dignity left.

Zabini glanced up at Allen, then looked back down at his book.

Nott sat by the wall, not interjecting from start to finish, his quill pausing on the parchment.

Draco suppressed his anger, "So we just let them laugh?"

"They will laugh tonight," Allen said, "And tomorrow, too. You can't stop it."

Draco's face darkened further.

Allen closed the book halfway, "But laughter has a shelf life. The brighter Harry shines today, the more people will be watching him. If you go up now, you'll only be extending the spectacle for him."

Crabbe struggled to understand, "Spectacles can be extended?"

Goyle nodded seriously, "Yes. We talked about pasties while eating, and the more we talked, the hungrier we got."

Draco couldn't take it anymore, "Shut up."

Allen continued, "Harry won today, and Gryffindor will surround him. If you go to provoke him, he'll win again. Even if he doesn't lift a finger, Weasley and Granger will be there to speak for him."

Draco gritted his teeth, "That redhead?"

"And that Muggle-born Witch," Allen reminded him, "Don't forget, she set Professor Snape's robes on fire today."

Draco was stunned.

This matter stung more than losing the match.

Their Head of House had his robes burned by a Gryffindor first-year, yet Professor Snape couldn't explain it on the spot.

Because he was saving Harry, and most people would only think he was harming Harry.

The wizarding world was sometimes consistently stupid.

Draco sat down, tugging at his collar in frustration, "Then what do we do?"

"Wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for Flint to keep being stupid."

Draco followed Allen's gaze.

Flint was leaning by the fireplace, berating people.

The teammates around him also had bad expressions; no one was matching his intensity.

Detention, suspended training, losing the match—three things piled up together; his position as captain was already unstable.

Yet he was still taking his anger out on the lower-years.

This wasn't establishing authority; it was drawing resentment onto himself.

Draco understood a little, and the fire on his face subsided quite a bit.

"You want him to fall on his own?"

Allen corrected him, "It's not what I want. It's that he's already on his way down."

Zabini closed his book and interjected, "The Flint family isn't strong enough to keep him from embarrassing himself indefinitely."

Nott finally spoke, "The team won't tolerate him forever, either."

Draco glanced at them.

He suddenly realized that everyone had been watching Flint just now, but no one had said it out loud.

Allen's one sentence had torn through that layer of paper.

This feeling was uncomfortable.

Because his mind had been full of only Harry just a moment ago.

Allen looked at Draco, "If you really want to win, don't stare at Harry's broom. Stare at Slytherin's own chair."

Draco was silent.

Crabbe scratched his head, "Chair?"

Goyle looked to the side, "Which one?"

Draco closed his eyes, "I'm not telling you to look for furniture."

Pansy couldn't help but let out a laugh, then quickly lowered her head.

The atmosphere in the Common Room eased a little.

Flint heard the commotion and looked over, "Malfoy, what are you laughing at?"

Draco was just about to speak.

Allen spoke first, "He wasn't laughing. Crabbe dropped his pasty."

Crabbe looked down, realized the pasty was still there, and quickly cooperated, "Almost."

Goyle added, "Very dangerous."

Flint glared at them for a few seconds, couldn't find a reason to lash out, could only curse, and turned to continue bothering the second-years.

Draco looked at Allen.

Allen had already returned to his book.

This deflection was light; it didn't even cause a conflict, yet it saved Draco from a pointless head-on collision.

Draco understood.

Allen wasn't afraid of trouble.

He just didn't count things with no profit into his ledger.

A moment later, Draco lowered his voice, "Then I won't go find Harry tonight."

"Good."

"But this debt can't be forgotten."

"No one is asking you to forget it," Allen said, "Just don't hold the ledger upside down."

Draco listened, then didn't refute it.

He leaned back into the sofa, looking at Flint by the fireplace, his gaze steadier than before.

Crabbe finally finished his pasty and sighed in relief, "So, are we still fighting?"

Goyle said, "If we aren't fighting, should we go to sleep?"

Allen turned a page of the book, "You can practice being quiet first."

Crabbe thought about it, "That's harder than fighting."

Goyle nodded, "I think so too."

Draco didn't scold them.

He was still watching Flint.

Before tonight, he only wanted to find Harry to vent his anger.

Now, he started waiting for Flint to keep walking into the pit.