"What bleeding?"
The sharp-eared little witch imdiately caught the scent of gossip.
"Snape's leg—he was limping," Harry explained. "I saw it bleeding yesterday."
"I think last night's troll was released by Snape. He wanted to create a diversion, sneak into the door on the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor while everyone was distracted by the troll. But he must've been bitten by the three-headed dog inside, that's why he was limping."
Harry shared his deduction.
"Wait a second! Did you just say there's a three-headed dog behind that door?" Hermione motioned for a pause.
"How do you know that?"
"Didn't I tell you before?"
Both Hermione and Arthur shook their heads.
"Oh… that was when Ron and I went out at night. We ran into it then." Harry scratched his head, trying to recall.
"I ant to tell you, but at the ti you caught us sneaking out and gave us an earful. After that, I just forgot."
Ron nodded in agreent, backing Harry's story.
"But what was he even doing there?" Hermione still looked baffled.
"He wants whatever the dog is guarding."
"So, what exactly is the dog guarding?" Arthur cut in, his curiosity piqued.
After all, he had already taken the Philosopher's Stone. What had Dumbledore put there instead?
"I don't know. But Hagrid said it's top secret. The day he and I went to Diagon Alley, he withdrew sothing from Gringotts. Later that vault was broken into. I saw it in the Daily Prophet. When I asked Hagrid, he said what was stolen was a fake—the real thing was at Hogwarts. I'm guessing that's what the dog is guarding."
Harry laid out his reasoning.
At that mont, Arthur noticed Quirrell at the staff table, looking suspiciously excited. Extending his spiritual senses, Arthur detected a subtle eavesdropping spell on Harry.
Oh, great. Looks like Professor Quirrell—and our dear senior Tom—already know where the Stone is. But wait, where did old Dumbledore get a second Philosopher's Stone? Don't tell the old fox is bluffing…
Knowing Dumbledore's nature, Arthur felt the odds were high.
"Ahem. Harry, I think what you should be doing right now is eating," Arthur interjected, steering the topic away.
"You'll need plenty of energy for your match later."
"But I don't have much of an appetite…" Harry admitted nervously.
Arthur thought for a mont, then tapped Harry's plate with his wand.
The food whirred as if tossed into a blender, quickly reducing to mush. Another flick, and the mush compressed into a thumb-sized pellet.
"Magical ration bar—here, eat."
Harry blinked, then gratefully swallowed it down with so milk.
Just then, Hedwig swooped into the hall, dropping a long parcel in front of them.
"I've never gotten a package before," Harry said curiously.
"Looks like a broomstick. Open it!" Ron said eagerly.
Arthur knew at once what it was—McGonagall's gift: a Nimbus 2000.
Sure enough, tearing away the paper revealed the broom in all its sleek glory.
"It's a Nimbus 2000!" Ron exclaid.
"But who sent it?" Harry wondered aloud, only to spot Hedwig perched proudly by Professor McGonagall.
She gave him a slight nod. Harry's eyes softened in gratitude.
Behind him, team captain Oliver Wood stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
Arthur could guess his thoughts: So… this is what it ans to have connections?
He recalled the original scene, when Wood had tried to comfort Harry before their match: I lasted two minutes before a Bludger knocked out cold, and I spent a week in the hospital.
At the ti, Arthur had only wanted to say: Great pep talk. Next ti, just don't.
Looking back now, maybe there'd been so personal resentnt mixed in.
Out on the Quidditch pitch, Hermione cheered herself hoarse for Harry.
Arthur, anwhile, listlessly waved a Gryffindor flag, looking utterly uninterested.
Honestly, he found Quidditch absurd.
No wands allowed, barely any rules beyond that. Quaffle through the hoop equals points. Snitch caught equals ga over.
The longest match in history lasted six months.
Had no one considered the possibility the Snitch might just… fly off forever?
Football back in his old world was far better—at least you got to see players brawl and tear each other's shirts. Sotis that was more exciting than the ga itself.
Thanks to his influence, Hermione wasn't much of a Quidditch fan either.
She was here solely to cheer for Harry.
Then, leaning close, she whispered:
"Cousin, let's go see that three-headed dog Harry ntioned tonight, okay?"
Arthur blinked. Since the troll incident, Hermione's courage seed to have… blossod in strange ways. Now she was actually interested in Cerberus.
"Pass. Between dogs and cats, I prefer cats." Arthur shook his head.
What if Hermione dragged him through the Philosopher's Stone gauntlet that very night? Dumbledore and Voldemort both would be thrown off-script, and then what would happen to the Year One storyline?
But Hermione, hearing his words, suddenly recalled the ti she'd accidentally turned into a cat—and Arthur had hugged her tight, sniffing her fur.
Her cheeks flushed crimson.
Arthur tilted his head. What's with her all of a sudden? Why the blush?
"Co on, just once! I've never seen a dog with three heads before," she said, uncharacteristically coquettish.
So she didn't care about what the dog was guarding—she just wanted to see it.
"…Fine. Tonight, we'll go." Arthur gave in.
Just then, a wave of gasps rippled through the crowd.
Harry's broom was bucking wildly, as though trying to throw him off.
Arthur handed Hermione a pair of binoculars.
She shot him a strange look—You said you didn't care, and yet you brought these?—but quickly scanned the stands.
Her eyes narrowed. On the staff bench, Professor Snape's lips were moving silently.
"Is it Professor Snape?" Hermione blurted. "But… no, that doesn't make sense. He wouldn't really try to kill Harry…"
Arthur smirked to himself. Poor Snape. Just because he looks gloomy doesn't an he's plotting murder 24/7.
"Look again. Behind him—Professor Quirrell."
Hermione adjusted the lens. There was Quirrell, lips twitching, fists clenched, gaze fixed intently on Harry.
"It's him!" she gasped.
Why would the stamring, timid professor suddenly dare attempt murder in broad daylight?
"I'm going to help Harry!" Hermione cried, lowering the binoculars and starting toward the staff.
But Arthur caught her arm.
He knew very well Voldemort was riding on the back of Quirrell's head.
If Hermione tried sneaking up and lighting a fire, who knew what might happen?
"I'll do it."
Fixing his gaze on Quirrell's turban, Arthur whispered in his mind:
"Incendio Maxima."
At once, Quirrell's hat burst into flas.
Ever since Arthur had learned to project his ntal power, long-range casting had beco this convenient.
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