Chapter 99: When He Finishes Vomiting, It

Silven hadn’t expected Harry to actually go to Mrs. Pinch and seriously propose staying in the library for a while.

Of course, it was impossible—Mrs. Pinch refused without even thinking, and suggested Harry visit the hospital wing.

After all, no slightly sane person would abandon their comfortable dorm to sleep in the library.

Harry was equally frustrated; if Colin hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor and didn’t wait for him in the common room, he never would have considered staying in the library.

“If all else fails, go to Hagrid,” Silven said. “Exaggerate the situation—he might agree to put a bed in his hut for you.”

“Never mind, I was joking,” Harry said, shaking his head. Playing the werewolf was exhausting, and Malfoy’s constant mocking had worn him down—hence the impulsive outburst to Mrs. Pinch about living in the library when he saw Colin.

“I really wish Lockhart could teach me how to deal with my admirers,” Harry said half-jokingly. “Ideally, make Colin stop taking a photo of me every day.”

“You don’t understand Lockhart at all—he’d love for someone to take his picture,” Silven said. “And he spends at least five hours a day replying to his fans’ letters.”

“Every day?” Harry’s voice rose involuntarily. “Five hours?”

“At least five hours,” Silven nodded. “That’s what he claims, anyway.”

Harry now genuinely admired Lockhart—if he had to write letters five hours a day, he’d go mad. Suddenly, Colin’s habit of greeting him didn’t seem so annoying.

Even playing the monster wasn’t so unbearable anymore… hmm, if only Hermione would use a different spell—he felt his robe’s color was fading.

“Harry, there you are.”

As he thought this, Hermione ran up from afar, visibly anxious, and blurted out:

“I heard from Ron that you’re upset… I’m sorry, Harry—are you alright…?”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” Harry said.

“Good,” Hermione whispered. “I’m sorry—I got carried away and didn’t think. I didn’t think those spells would hurt you.”

“Of course not—I’m not that fragile to be injured by a Cleaning Charm,” Harry smiled. “Thanks to you, I haven’t had to wash my robes in days.”

Seeing he could still joke, Hermione finally relaxed.

Soon Ron arrived, and the three went to the Great Hall for dinner. This time, Harry was lucky—he didn’t run into Lockhart or Colin.

…

The next weekend, Silven had planned to join Harry and the others in visiting Hagrid, but three distant dog barks made him change his mind immediately.

They were three distinct barks—excluding the possibility that Fang had three different vocal tones, the only explanation was a dog with three heads.

“Uh… you guys go ahead. I just remembered I have something else to do,” Silven said, turning toward the castle before the three could react.

Last time the three-headed dog chased him might’ve been because of dark magic—but it wasn’t impossible it genuinely wanted to… so better visit Hagrid another time.

Back in the castle, Silven went to his favorite place—the library. He stayed from morning until noon, ate a light meal, then sat straight through the afternoon, jotting down questions to ask Professor McGonagall.

When Silven finally left Professor McGonagall’s office, it was already dark outside.

Not bad—a productive day.

Silven stretched and headed toward the Great Hall. Seeing the dejected Gryffindor ghost by the corridor, he stopped to offer a few words of comfort.

“Nick, I don’t think this is your fault. The Headless Hunt’s standards are far too rigid.”

His demeanor made it obvious—he’d been rejected by the Headless Hunt again. Once a year, it had almost become a Hogwarts tradition.

“You think I’m no different from them, don’t you?” Nearly Headless Nick immediately grew agitated. “Because I still have half an inch of skin and cartilage, they’ve rejected me forty-nine times!”

Silven thought it was more than that—the Headless Hunt had existed for a long time, and Nick’s lingering bitterness suggested a long-standing grudge…

Maybe Nick only remembered the forty-nine rejections.

Silven tried patting his arm—it felt like dipping his hand into ice water.

“Don’t give up. I believe you’ll succeed one day.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re right,” Nearly Headless Nick said. “Oh, by the way—I just saw a few Gryffindor students fighting near the Black Lake. Want to check it out? Oh, I just remembered—I have other business.”

Before Silven could respond, Nearly Headless Nick suddenly shouted, “I’m going back to the castle to find Minerva—otherwise the students will be at a disadvantage against Severus… Damn Patrick Delaney, why now of all times?!”

Then he plunged straight into the nearby wall and vanished.

By then, Silven had finally reacted and started descending the stairs.

But as soon as he reached the second floor, a silver tabby cat landed lightly on the railing, then leapt effortlessly to the first floor and disappeared in an instant.

Clearly, the tabby was Professor McGonagall’s Animagus form—he’d met Nick right outside her office, and as a ghost, she could find her with a turn.

But Budebushuo , Animagus transformation was incredibly convenient—Professor McGonagall’s cat treated the floors like stairs, moving with astonishing speed.

When Silven finally ran out of the castle, he saw two groups by the Black Lake.

Snape stood out most—face dark as storm clouds, on the verge of exploding. Malfoy stood beside him, head bowed, shoulders heaving.

His two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, stood farther away—one clutching his head, the other his arm, groaning.

Opposite them stood Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall, who had just arrived.

She transformed back the moment she left the castle and hurried over.

“Can someone tell me what happened?!”

“It’s him, Professor!” Ron’s face flushed red as he pointed at Malfoy. “He called Hermione… he called her…”

“Mudblood,” Hermione spoke up. “I don’t know what it means. But I can tell it’s extremely rude.”

“More than rude,” Ron panted. “It’s the most insulting thing he could think of.”

“Mudblood…” At the word, Professor McGonagall’s face froze with ice. She turned sharply to Malfoy.

At that moment…

“Puke!”

Malfoy’s shoulder jerked again—several thick, fat slugs, dripping some mixture of slime and saliva, fell from his mouth onto the ground.

In that instant, the words McGonagall meant to say twisted in her throat and vanished—she said nothing at all.

McGonagall’s gaze lifted to the other two.

Besides Malfoy vomiting slugs, Crabbe and Goyle had also suffered injuries—whether from magic or fists, it was unclear.

Probably magic… McGonagall compared the two sides’ physiques, thinking to herself.

As for her own side, all three were unharmed—only Ron’s robe had a bit of dirt on it.

“Gryffindor, thirty points deducted,” McGonagall said. “And all three of you—detention.”

“But Professor, Malfoy started it!” Ron muttered, still indignant.

“Slytherin, ten points deducted,” McGonagall continued. “Mr. Malfoy, you must understand—some words are forbidden at this school. They reflect a wizard’s most basic decency.”

“Puke… mmm…” Malfoy tried to speak, but another slug leapt out.

McGonagall ignored him entirely and turned to Snape, as if seeking his opinion.

“I’ll handle the detention,” Snape said.

“Of course,” McGonagall nodded.

“I hope… you’ll remember today’s lesson,” Snape drawled, then turned and walked away.

“Wait, Professor!” Crabbe called out hastily. “Draco—he’s still vomiting slugs…”

“I see, Mr. Crabbe,” Snape said. “Don’t worry—once he finishes, it’ll stop on its own.”

…

(End of Chapter)