Chapter 139
"Like I said, he wouldn't do anything that didn't benefit him," Ron muttered to Harry beside him.
"I almost thought he really wanted to help Hagrid." Harry raised his thick Advanced Potions textbook to hide his face so Snape wouldn't notice them talking. It was afternoon—Potions class.
Later, they had learned that Lucius had entered the Ministry of Magic through this matter. Fudge had publicly described it as an outstanding contribution.
In reality, it was a compromise Fudge had made to obtain information that might help restore his reputation.
"If anyone deserves credit, it's Hagrid. What does that have to do with Malfoy's father?" Harry said, unconvinced.
"I bet his father donated a lot of gold behind the scenes," Ron said maliciously.
He wasn't wrong.
For a prominent pure-blood wizard, what they often lacked was simply a proper excuse to enter the Ministry.
Even without Hagrid, Lucius could have secured a position by donating a large sum to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, as originally planned.
Smack!
Ron suddenly felt something hit the back of his head.
He turned around, but saw nothing.
When he faced forward again, he found Snape standing beside him, arms folded, his pale, sallow face looking down coldly.
"Miss Know-It-All, it seems your warning was ineffective. Your friend failed to appreciate your efforts."
Snape didn't continue staring at Ron. Instead, he turned to Hermione, who was sitting stiffly behind them.
"Ten points from Gryffindor."
He leaned closer to her and spoke in a low, icy voice.
"And remember—this is the last time my private stores are raided. Next time, even Dumbledore won't stop me. Don't think I don't know what you intended to do with the materials you stole. If it happens again, you'll be the one drinking the potion. I look forward to hearing what you have to say under the effects of Veritaserum."
He gave Hermione a sharp glare, then swept back to the front of the classroom, his long black robes trailing behind him.
"Now then," Snape continued harshly, "the parotid glands of the black-eyed toad produce its venom. Anyone foolish enough to handle them without gloves—if your skin rots, deal with it yourself. I will not waste time on stupidity."
---
At another table, Pansy Parkinson was viciously chopping plant roots with a small knife, as if imagining they were someone in particular.
"So you saved the damsel, did you?" she muttered bitterly. "So you're the great hero now?"
After the match against Hufflepuff, the Slytherin team had celebrated briefly. She had immediately searched the stands for Malfoy.
He wasn't there.
Before the match, he had been cheering for her in the players' room. But afterward, he had vanished.
What happened next she learned from Rita Skeeter's article. Even though she knew Skeeter exaggerated everything, she still couldn't suppress the anger and jealousy.
"A hero saving a beauty? With her buck teeth?" she thought sourly.
Last year had been the same. Was he repaying that girl again?
And he hadn't even come to congratulate her—as if winning the championship meant nothing.
So Pansy decided to ignore Malfoy and sulk.
---
Malfoy, however, was completely unaware of her feelings.
From his perspective, there was nothing to congratulate. He had already obtained seven Firebolts through Fudge and arranged special training over Christmas. If the team still couldn't win under those conditions, then they had no one to blame.
So he didn't consider the matter important.
Recently, Slytherin House had been unsettled because of several revelations. Some students even felt their world collapsing. Learning that Voldemort himself was a half-blood had shaken the beliefs many of them had been raised with.
Their parents' teachings no longer matched reality.
Slytherin might produce many Dark wizards, but that didn't mean every student followed that path. Otherwise, the House would have been dissolved long ago.
Still, family influence ran deep.
The library incident had shattered many of those beliefs—and their confidence along with it.
Their crushing defeat to Ravenclaw had only reinforced that blow.
To rebuild morale, Malfoy had chosen a different approach. By sponsoring the team rather than taking the spotlight himself, he gained considerable prestige.
"Glory belongs to Slytherin," he had told them. "Not to any single person."
At the same time, he wondered privately:
Is worship of wealth really any better than worship of blood?
He didn't know.
But weakening Voldemort's influence was necessary, and the cost was worth it.
As for Pansy, he had no idea what had offended her. He simply attributed it to the mood swings of a teenage girl.
He assumed she would be happy with the championship.
What he didn't understand was that glory meant little if it wasn't shared.
Pansy was pleased they had won—but what she really wanted was his recognition. Not polite approval, but something more personal.
Malfoy, meanwhile, assumed she would come to reconcile in a few days.
Final exams were approaching. Based on past experience, she would need his help if she wanted to pass comfortably.
Later events would prove his deduction correct.
But the reason would be entirely different.
He didn't know that yet.