Chapter 120: Firebolt

In the Torchwood meeting room, a massive long table stood centered, and against the wall at its head sat a glass display case holding the diary; all members gathered here every Sunday to voice their opinions freely or consult the wise senior sealed within the diary.

After the tour ended, the children clustered around Fontroy and left their newly built headquarters, using the secret passage on the third floor to return her to Honeydukes. Cui Ge left with her, as he had long planned to spend Christmas with his mother.

Back in his dorm, Harry lay on his bed, restless, thinking of his mother. Anyone who heard their mother screaming in plea to Voldemort before being killed would find it impossible to forget such a thing immediately.

"Puff, puff." Neville barged through the door, breathless, startling Harry into sitting upright on his bed.

"Where have you been?" Harry asked in surprise.

"I'll explain later," he mumbled, then collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

Not long after, Ron returned, holding a large cinnamon roll.

"What's wrong, Harry?" he said. "You look down."

"I'm fine," Harry replied with a sigh. "I'm just worried—Black hasn't been caught yet, and the broom problem isn't solved."

"Oh, right—do you remember that note?" Ron suddenly recalled. "I think it mentioned Christmas."

Harry pulled out the note Zhang Qiu had given him; it clearly read: "Open your precious Christmas gift."

"Think positively—maybe you'll get a new broom on Christmas Day?"

"The Firebolt costs two thousand Galleons. I had to make a huge decision buying my first one," Harry groaned. "Who would give me a broom?"

"Maybe Professor Lupin—he said he was your father's friend from school, didn't he?"

"Come on, Lupin can barely afford to feed himself," Harry shook his head. "Where would he get spare money?"

"Then maybe Snape," Ron continued his irresponsible speculation.

"Whatever. Anyway, we'll know for sure in two days," Harry quietly tucked the note away, his mood lifting slightly.

On Christmas morning, Harry stared at the pile of packages beside his bed—there was indeed one long, slender object. Unless someone had sent him a clothesline, he was nearly certain it was a broomstick.

The joy of receiving a broom flooded Harry's mind—he was about to tear it open when a hand grabbed his wrist.

"Waddiwasi!" Harry instinctively hurled the spell at the shadow inside the wardrobe.

"Calm down, Harry, it's me," Professor Doudou said. "Christmas gifts are dangerous—what if Black sent you a bomb?"

"Uh…"

"Imagine you think you've received a gift, happily untie the ribbon—and trigger the mechanism," he dramatized. "Then—BOOM!"

"You're right, Professor," Harry said, deflated. "We should take these outside to open them."

To prevent any bomb from damaging the school walls, Professor Doudou carefully maintained his Levitation Charm, moving all of Harry's gifts to an open patch of ground beside the Forbidden Forest.

Aside from Zhang Qiu, who had reserved her spot early, Harry awkwardly noticed many students—known and unknown—had gathered to watch the spectacle.

"Back, children, back! This isn't a joke!" Professor Doudou struggled to push the onlookers farther away, then began unwrapping the gifts.

"A sweater and crushed nuts," he read. "From Mrs. Wei Silai."

"Nothing unusual," Ron shrugged. "Mom gives everyone sweaters."

"But there are nuts here too," Professor Doudou pressed. "Harry, are you allergic to nuts? Nuts could have been mixed in."

Harry spent a long time explaining that Ivy's pages weren't poisoned, Sir Crowley's watch wouldn't explode, and he wasn't allergic to wool, peanuts, dairy, or anything else in the pile.

Finally, under everyone's curious stares, Professor Doudou opened the last package—the long, unmistakably broom-shaped one.

Ron, standing closest, sucked in a sharp breath and blurted: "Firebolt!"

The crowd erupted. Many gasped in awe; Harry even felt the air around him grow slightly warmer.

"No signature?" Professor Doudou examined the package. "Who sent this, Harry?"

"I suspect Professor Lupin or Professor Snape—they were both close friends of my parents," Harry said, forcing confidence.

"Ah, then it's fine," Professor Doudou nodded. "I usually don't pry into professors' privacy."

Harry reached for the broom, gently tracing its streamlined handle—he was certain it was Snape's gift.

Snape was the recognized Potions Master; he must have earned vast sums from potions—two thousand Galleons meant nothing to him. Second, Snape's feelings toward him were complicated: he cared deeply but refused to show closeness, so sending an anonymous gift made perfect sense. Third, Harry himself had planned to give Snape a Christmas gift—perhaps Kalan had mentioned it, and Snape decided to return the favor. That was entirely plausible.

"Now I must thoroughly inspect this book," Professor Doudou took away Ivy's copy of Anna Karenina. "Some advanced crimes use psychological manipulation to subtly suggest suicide—this must be prevented."

"Fine, I'm not in a hurry to read it anyway," Harry said, his entire focus on the Firebolt.

"One more thing—I must give you a Christmas gift too," Professor Doudou pulled a small box from his pocket. "It's a Sneakoscope. It spins and glows when someone suspicious is nearby."

"And," he winked, "I really liked the teddy bear you gave me."

After giving Harry the Sneakoscope, Professor Doudou rummaged through the pile again, selecting several items he deemed suspicious to take for further inspection.

"Can I borrow it for a test flight?" Ron asked, gazing at the Firebolt with envy after the professor left.

"Of course. We'll fly it at the pitch this afternoon," Harry murmured, stroking the Firebolt's tail lovingly.

"As expected," Zhang Qiu shrugged. "But the divination says you should take the broom to Professor McGonagall."

"Why?" Ron asked instinctively.

"To reassure her," Harry said cheerfully. "Tell her the Gryffindor Seeker's back."

Before lunch, they gathered the scattered gifts from outdoors and hurried to McGonagall's office. Harry proudly held up the Firebolt. "Look, Professor—this is my Christmas gift."

"Oh, my goodness!" McGonagall adjusted her glasses in astonishment. "Who sent it?"

"I think it's Professor Snape—no signature."

Professor McGonagall studied Harry for a long moment. "I'm certain this is exactly what you need—but is Snape truly this generous?"

"Actually, we met his old classmate in Hogsmeade. He told me Snape and my mother were close friends at school," Harry explained. "I planned to give him a gift too—perhaps Mr. Sangsi mentioned it by accident."

"Let me see… no dark curses on the broom," McGonagall sighed. "Well, last year I considered gifting you a Nimbus Two Thousand myself—never thought you'd buy one ahead of time."

"Hahaha," Harry scratched his head. "Anyway, Professor, I'm confident I'll win this year's Quidditch Cup."

"Of course—don't let the Firebolt down," McGonagall smiled, escorting them out of her office.

When they reached the Great Hall, Harry noticed all house tables had been moved against the walls; only one long table with twelve chairs stood in the center. Professor Dumbledore and the four Heads sat at one side, with Professor Doudou and Filch beside them.

Only three other students were present: two first-years looked extremely nervous, facing a fifth-year Slytherin who seemed annoyed.

"Merry Christmas!" Dumbledore said as Harry, Ron, and Zhang Qiu approached the table. "Only a few of us remain—sitting by house would be absurd… Sit, sit!"

"Wait," Zhang Qiu suddenly said. "I just remembered—I need to fast today…"

Before she finished, Professor Trelawney burst into the hall, wearing a gown studded with green metal plates, resembling a dragonfly.

"I was doing divination, Headmaster," her voice drifted like mist from afar. "And I was astonished—I saw myself abandoning my solitude to join your luncheon. How could I refuse fate's summons? I came at once from my tower—forgive my tardiness…"

As Dumbledore raised his wand to conjure chairs, Trelawney seized Zhang Qiu's shoulder. "You cannot leave, child. I cannot dine at a table of thirteen—first one to rise will die…"

"But Professor," Zhang Qiu retorted, "in Tianchao, fourteen people at a table means everyone dies."