prynovel Chapter 334 Lucius McGonagall
Chapter 334 Lucius McGonagall
Chapter 334 Lucius McGonagall (6.1K) (1/2)
In another office on the same floor, neatly arranged on a mahogany table were documents requiring review and a stack of the latest "..."
The Daily Prophet.
Outside the window was a gloomy London sky, with the occasional weary owl flitting by.
Lucius Malfoy sat in a high-backed chair, holding a budget request form for events to be held after the Quidditch World Cup, the quill pen tip hovering above the parchment, but he hesitated to drop it.
His platinum blonde hair was neatly tied back, and his pale face tried to maintain its usual indifference and arrogance, but his gray-blue eyes revealed a hint of barely concealed irritation.
The numbers on the report flashed before his eyes, but they couldn't register in his mind.
He was completely unable to concentrate.
Feeling upset and confused.
He simply tossed the report aside, leaned back in his chair, and unconsciously twirled the silver handle of the snake-head cane with his long, slender fingers.
My gaze involuntarily drifted toward one of the walls of the office, across several corridors and several layers of magical protection, toward Reggie's office.
Ever since that fool, old Nott—Lucius thought to himself without any tact—prompted himself at a private gathering of some pure-blood family to "show the Mudbloods and their sympathizers a thing or two" by taking advantage of the crowds at the Quidditch World Cup and to restore "the dignity of the ancient family," Lucius almost immediately sought an opportunity, in the most discreet way, to pass this message on to his self-proclaimed "protector," Lord Reggie, a high-ranking member of the Executioner's staff.
When he delivered the message, his mind was a mixture of calculation and a subtle desire to claim credit.
See, I'm keeping a close eye on those restless fellows, and I can provide you with valuable intelligence. This should further solidify my value to you, and perhaps even secure some confirmation regarding the rumors of the Dark Lord's possible return, or at least the Executioner's attitude towards it.
However, the only response he received was a hoarse, flat "I understand."
And then, nothing more was said.
There were no further inquiries, no instructions, no specific views on the Nott Project, and no hints of any possible countermeasures by the hangman.
Like a pebble thrown into a bottomless ancient well, it doesn't even cause a ripple.
This silence made Lucius more uneasy and anxious than direct rebuke or questioning.
What exactly was the hangman planning?
Don't they care that pure-blood families are trying to stir up trouble and disrupt the fragile peace of the magical world?
This is inconsistent with the penalizers' consistent preference for "order" and "controllability".
Or is it that they have other plans, and that my intelligence is irrelevant to them, or even—already within their expectations and calculations?
Or perhaps, this silence is a test?
A test of his loyalty and judgment?
Various speculations churned in his mind, each one making him restless.
He found himself completely unable to understand Reggie, or the even more mysterious Mist Hangman behind Reggie.
This feeling of being out of control was extremely unpleasant for the Malfoy family patriarch, who was used to being in control and skilled in calculation.
He recalled some subtle signs from before: there seemed to be some unusual personnel changes and business focus adjustments within the Stone Tower Chamber of Commerce. Although it was well covered up, his spies still managed to catch some of the rumors.
Considering Reggie's indifferent reaction to his crucial information at this moment —
A chilling possibility crept into his mind: the hangmen might have a larger, more secretive plot, so much so that the riots orchestrated by the likes of Nott might just be insignificant background noise in their eyes, or even—perhaps—a cover they would be happy to see.
This thought made Lucius's throat go dry.
If that's the case, then how dangerous and awkward is this "two-faced" role? Once the storm really comes, whether it's the backlash caused by the foolish provocation of the pure-blood family or the huge waves stirred up by the Hangman's deeper plans, how should the Malfoy family, caught in the middle, deal with themselves?
He gripped the snake-head cane tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white.
Just as Lucius was troubled and trying to figure out the deeper meaning behind Reggie and the hangman's silence, the flames in the office fireplace suddenly rose and turned a bright green.
A figure stepped out from within, the ashes cleverly kept outside the magical barrier.
It was Lucius's son, Draco Malfoy.
He wore a carefully chosen, stylish wizard's robe, his hair was meticulously styled with hair wax, and his face carried the anticipation of a young man for a grand event, but in front of his father, this anticipation was carefully suppressed into a deliberately displayed composure.
He walked to the desk and stopped a short distance away.
"Father," Draco's somewhat restrained voice was clearer than usual, "I'm ready. When do we leave for the World Cup?" He imagined the view from the penthouse, the envious glances from those around him, and perhaps even encountering Potter and his poor friends crammed into the cheap stands—this filled him with excitement.
Lucius was pulled back from his chaotic thoughts. He glanced at his son, his gaze sweeping over his smart clothes, his face expressionless. He simply said, "Wait. I still have work to do."
After saying that, he actually lowered his head again, picked up the report that had been bothering him, and forced himself to focus his attention on those boring numbers. The tip of his quill pen hovered, as if trying to see some crucial secret.
Draco was stunned.
Today is the Quidditch World Cup finals!
Even most of the Ministry of Magic officials would be on vacation to enjoy the festivities, and even the house-elves probably knew today wasn't a day for work. Why should Father be "working diligently" here? Couldn't he just hand over those reports to his assistant? What's the harm in missing a day?
He felt a pang of doubt, and a wave of disappointment and confusion washed over him.
But he dared not show this emotion, much less question his father's arrangements.
He pursed his lips, unconsciously shuffling his toes on the ground, feeling utterly bored just standing there watching his father approve documents.
His gaze drifted to the heavy, carved wooden door of the office.
He suddenly realized that he hadn't been to the headquarters of the Shita Chamber of Commerce in a long time.
When he was a child, before his father became the vice president, he would occasionally be brought along and found everything in the building novel and impressive.
But I don't know when it started, probably before I went to Hogwarts, my father suddenly forbade me from coming here to "play" anymore, always giving the reason that "this isn't a place for you" or "I'm too busy with work." Isn't today a perfect opportunity? While my father's busy, I'll sneak out for a stroll, to see those glittering arcades and bustling shopping malls from my memories—
With that thought in mind, Draco quietly moved his feet, trying not to make a sound, and slipped towards the door.
His hand finally grasped the cold doorknob, and he gently pressed down—
"where did you go?"
His father's voice wasn't loud, and he didn't even raise his head, but it was like a cold chain that instantly bound Draco's movements.
Draco recoiled as if burned, turned around, and stood stiffly in place, trying to make his voice sound natural: "I—I don't want to disturb your work, Father. I was planning to go outside—for a walk, until you're finished."
"Things aren't getting any better outside." Lucius still didn't look up, his pen tracing a line on the report, but Draco could tell that his father's attention was completely off the documents.
Draco, feeling a little aggrieved, muttered under his breath, "I haven't been here in ages—and besides, isn't this our merchant guild? Let me see what's wrong—"
"Our chamber of commerce?"
These words were like a needle, instantly piercing Lucius's calm surface.
He suddenly raised his head, and a sharp, hawk-like light shot out from his gray eyes.
He slammed down the quill, stood up abruptly, walked around the large desk, and reached Draco in a few steps.
The imposing figure made Draco instinctively take a half step back, his back pressed against the cold door panel.
Lucius reached out and gripped his son's slightly thin shoulder tightly, the force causing Draco to frown slightly.
He looked down into his son's grey-blue eyes, which resembled his own but were still somewhat immature, and his voice was low, carrying an unprecedented seriousness and warning: "Who told you that this chamber of commerce belongs to 'us'?"
Draco was startled by his father's sudden sternness and approach, and stammered, "It's—it's Crabbe and Goyle, and—many of my Slytherin classmates say so—that the Stone Tower Merchant Guild is a business belonging to our pure-blood family, that it's—that it's our backing and our money bag—" In his mind, this was almost a kind of self-evident "common sense" in the Slytherin common room.
Lucius's pupils contracted slightly, and his grip on his son's shoulder tightened. He spoke almost word by word, in a voice only the two of them could hear: "Listen up, Draco. There is no such thing as the Malfoy family or them. They are them, and we are us. Whatever your classmates and lackeys say, you remember that."
He leaned closer, his breath on Draco's face: "This merchant guild doesn't belong to them, and it never will ever belong to us. The owner of this merchant guild is someone else. Do you understand?"
Draco was completely stunned by the look in his father's eyes that was a mixture of vigilance, apprehension, and even a hint of fear.
He had never seen his father speak in such a tone about things that the pure-blood family "shared".
He nodded blankly, his mind a complete mess.
Lucius stared at him for a few seconds, seemingly to make sure his son had taken his words to heart, before slowly releasing his grip, but his tone remained firm: "Now, go back to that chair over there and sit down. Don't go anywhere, just wait here."
Draco dared not object any further, obediently walking to a guest armchair opposite his father's desk and sitting down with his body ramrod straight, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor, no longer daring to glance around.
The anticipation and excitement in my heart had been completely washed away by my father's sudden stern warning and those incomprehensible words, leaving only unease and doubt.
Lucius had already returned to his seat and picked up the report again, but his gaze had become incredibly deep.
The information his son inadvertently revealed confirmed some of his concerns—those foolish pure-blooded colleagues had indeed begun to become complacent and were even instilling this dangerous illusion into the next generation.
This further strengthened his resolve to quickly distance himself from those idiots and find out the true intentions of the executioner.
But then I thought again, can this boundary really be drawn clearly?
Like that "little event" tonight, I had no choice but to participate...
The evening light bathed the forests of the Scottish Highlands in a warm golden glow, while also gathering restless energy for the upcoming night's festivities.
Professor Minerva McGonagall, dressed in a dark green, simple yet well-tailored travel robe, her gray hair neatly tied in a bun at the back of her head, and her square glasses perched on her nose, walked steadily along the path leading to the perimeter of the Quidditch World Cup main stadium.
She had booked her ticket well in advance—a VIP ticket with a good seat.
As the Vice-Headmaster of Hogwarts, Head of Gryffindor, and a devoted Quidditch enthusiast and keen observer, she certainly didn't want to miss such a high-level final.
This is not only enjoyable, but also an extension of teaching and research to some extent—observing the tactical execution of top teams and the on-the-spot adaptability of Seekers is beneficial for guiding Hogwarts teams.
Passing through the bustling yet orderly entrance, she began to climb the spiraling, wide passageway with the flow of people.
The surrounding area was filled with the cacophony of various languages, and the air was thick with excitement and anticipation.
Professor McGonagall instinctively straightened her back, maintaining her usual serious expression, but her eyes behind her glasses involuntarily began to scrutinize the interior structure of the magnificent stadium.
At the same time, another person also spotted her.
So, just as Professor McGonagall climbed to the upper stands, preparing to find the entrance indicated on her ticket, a calm voice came from her side and behind: "Professor McGonagall."
Professor McGonagall paused and turned around.
Lynch stood a few steps away at a relatively quiet passageway connection, still wearing his sharp dark suit, standing out from the majority of the wizards around him who were dressed casually or in team-supporting attire.
He held no conspicuous support in his hands, simply standing there calmly, as if the bustling crowd was merely a flowing backdrop.
"Professor Lynch." Professor McGonagall nodded slightly, her tone as formal as ever, revealing little emotion.
Since Lynch joined the faculty in 1991, they had many disagreements and frictions due to differences in teaching philosophy, management style, and even how they treated students. Professor McGonagall insisted on rules and emphasized solid foundations and discipline; while Lynch focused more on practice, flexibility, and—a kind of realism that she once considered too cold.
For the first year or two, their relationship was quite cold.
However, as time went by, some things quietly changed.
She could not deny Lynch's reliability at certain crucial moments, nor could she ignore his contributions to the Hogwarts defense system.
Most importantly, she observed that, despite his different methods, Lynch had a deep, understated concern for the students' safety. This gradually transformed her initial rejection and skepticism towards him into a complex, reserved, and cautious acceptance.
The relationship wasn't exactly harmonious, but at least it wasn't so confrontational anymore.
"You're here to watch the game too?" Lin Qi walked over, his voice still clear amidst the surrounding noise.
"Yes," Professor McGonagall replied simply. "Ireland vs. Bulgaria is worth watching." She noticed that Lynch's location seemed to lead to a higher-level box area.
Lin Qi followed her gaze to the passageway behind him, then looked back at her and extended an invitation: "The view from my box is quite good. If you don't mind, it might be better for observing the details of the game than the crowded stands, especially the tactical positioning and the subtle maneuvers of the players seeking the ball."
Professor McGonagall was somewhat surprised by the invitation.
Her instinctive reaction was to refuse to maintain distance and to uphold polite boundaries with her colleagues.
Private rooms are usually reserved for high-ranking members of the Chamber of Commerce, the Ministry of Magic, or ancient families. She didn't want to get involved in such overly social or potentially conflict-ridden settings.
But when the words were on the tip of her tongue, she hesitated.
First, Lynch's tone was very calm, without the politeness or boasting common in social situations, and it was more like stating a fact that the view there was indeed better.
This was a real temptation for Professor McGonagall, who was eager to appreciate this epic showdown from a professional perspective.
Secondly, her subtle shift in her impression of Lynch over the years has made her less inclined to assume all his actions were malicious. Perhaps it really was just a simple suggestion based on their colleagueship and shared interest in Quidditch?
She quickly weighed the options.
While refusing is in line with her usual style, it also seems a bit too rigid and cold-hearted.
After all, the other party was a colleague from Hogwarts, in such an informal setting.
"A better view is indeed helpful for analyzing tactics," Professor McGonagall finally spoke, her tone still retaining a hint of reserve, but she made a concession, "If it won't disturb your companions, then—thank you for the invitation, Professor Lynch."
"It won't bother you; they'll just express their warm welcome." Lin Qi smiled and stepped aside, gesturing, "Please come this way."
Professor McGonagall nodded and followed him, taking the main passageway and turning onto a wider, dark-carpeted staircase that clearly led to the top floor area.
The surroundings instantly quieted down, and the noise was left behind.
Following Lynch through the last section of the thickly carpeted corridor, Professor McGonagall entered a spacious penthouse box.
Compared to the bustling crowds below, this place appears exceptionally quiet and elegant.
The box is semi-open, with a wide, magically enhanced transparent railing directly in front, offering an unobstructed view of the entire magnificent stadium—the lush green field, the towering golden goalposts, the still empty stands that already exude a frenzied atmosphere, and the distant mountains gradually turning to twilight.
The interior of the box was simply yet tastefully furnished, with eight comfortable armchairs and small round tables arranged in a staggered pattern, and shelves in the corners. What caught Professor McGonagall's eye the most was the eight-pronged telescope fixed to the edge of the railing. Its metal casing gleamed, and the tubes were engraved with intricate runes. It was clearly the latest and most accurate magical observation model on the market, capable of capturing even the slightest movements on the field.
A well-dressed and quiet middle-aged male wizard attendant stood in a corner of the private room. Upon seeing them enter, he gave a slight bow.
The environment was indeed impeccable, far exceeding the experience her "premium grandstand ticket" could provide, Professor McGonagall had to admit.
"Please make yourself at home," Lin Qi gestured.
Professor McGonagall ordered a glass of light mead from the waiter, then chose an armchair near the railing with the best view. She adjusted the angle of the chair, tested the telescope's knobs—they felt smooth, and the magnification and clarity were satisfactory.
Lynch sat down diagonally opposite her, not using binoculars, but calmly watching the tide of audience members entering the venue. A waiter silently brought him a glass of water—but he just held it in his hand without bringing it to his lips.
After a brief silence, out of politeness, or perhaps to lighten the overly formal atmosphere, Professor McGonagall took the initiative to start a conversation about the upcoming grand event.
"Ireland's overall teamwork is more refined this year," she commented, her voice carrying a professional assessment. "But with Krum, Bulgaria's tactics might lean more towards attacking based on the ability of their goalkeeper. Wood—our former goalkeeper—now at Pudmere United, he analyzed Krum's diving habits and believes that the risks and rewards are extremely high."
Lynch tilted his head slightly to listen, then replied, "The balance between teamwork and superstar players is indeed an eternal theme. However, in this kind of top-level competition, on-the-spot adaptability and a bit of luck are often more important than tactics on paper." His tone was calm, as if he were exploring an objective phenomenon.
They chatted casually, their conversation revolving around Quidditch tactics, differences in the styles of international teams, and even extending to the characteristics of the various Hogwarts school teams.
The conversation wasn't particularly lively, but it maintained a polite, professional atmosphere, based on shared professional interests. Professor McGonagall observed that when the discussion ditched academic management and sensitive topics, Lynch's insights were often incisive, demonstrating that he was not entirely ignorant of these matters.
As the competition was about to begin, the stadium announcers began broadcasting the important instructions in eight languages. As the cheers from the audience grew louder and louder, a particularly loud and familiar commotion suddenly came from the corridor outside the VIP boxes.
"It's definitely this way! It's marked on the map!"
"Ron, keep your voice down! This looks like it's all private rooms!"
"Oh, look! This address! This is it! Merlin, this place is really high up!"
"Uri, are you sure this is the place? This looks like—"
"This is what it said in the letter—"
It was the voice of the Weasley children, interspersed with Harry and Hermione's distinctive voices.
The sound quickly grew closer, accompanied by hurried footsteps, and stopped outside their private room.
Professor McGonagall turned her head in surprise and looked towards the entrance of the private room.
Lin Qi's expression didn't change much, and he didn't seem surprised. He stood up and walked towards the door of the private room.
But before Liu could reach the private room, the door was politely knocked twice and then pushed shut.