stjorthotic Chapter 263 Underground Tea Party
Chapter 263 Underground Tea Party
Chapter 263 Underground Tea Party (4.6K) (1/2)
Reggie, standing by the window, slowly turned around, his hoarse voice breaking the silence: "A snake—its fangs have been pulled out, yet it remains cunning." He commented, his tone unreadable, neither praising nor disgusting. "If you hadn't used your identity as the Executioner from the start, completely shattering his backbone and any remaining hope—with his skills and the resources accumulated by those pure-blood families, he could have easily caused us a lot of—trouble."
Lin Qi nodded slightly in agreement.
He reached out and pressed another inconspicuous rune on the corner of the table.
A subtle magical fluctuation flashed, and a small loudspeaker popped up on the table. He calmly spoke into the loudspeaker, "Immediately transfer the net profit rights of 'Wrinkled Gill Cloth Shop' and 'Old Smoker's Cookware Shop' for the next three years to Mr. Lucius Malfoy. Effective immediately."
After issuing this brief instruction, he raised his eyes and continued his conversation with Reggie: "Lucius Malfoy is indeed a rare talent—shrewd, astute, and patient enough. When we are strong enough to completely suppress him, he will be our most capable assistant, because he knows how to secure the greatest possible living space and benefits for himself under such pressure."
He lightly tapped his fingertips on the table, his eyes growing deep: "But we must always remember that he is an untamed beast. He is loyal to interests, not to any person or ideology. Once we show any weakness or vulnerability, he will be the first to smell blood and pounce on us without hesitation to tear us apart—just to break free of the collar around his neck, and even turn against his master."
"I understand." Reggie's voice was calm and even. "I have never—had any unrealistic illusions about people like them. Vigilance—is an instinct ingrained in my blood." His body beneath his gray robe seemed to straighten even more, like a lone wolf always on guard.
"Their every move is under control. Warehouse No. 3 in Overturned Alley—that's just a reminder. There are many similar eyes watching."
"That's precisely why I trust you with these front-line tasks, Reggie," Lynch said, his tone filled with absolute confidence. "You know them better than I do, and you're far more—adept—at dealing with them."
A moment of silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace.
"Speaking of those we need to be wary of..." Lynch suddenly spoke, his voice very soft, "How is our guest who lives in the countryside doing now?"
Reggie's fingertips trembled almost imperceptibly before he replied, "The body is recovering well; the healer's potion was very effective. The mind is still... somewhat extreme, but complete breakdowns are rare now." He paused, his grey eyes appearing particularly deep in the firelight. "Shall we begin?"
Lynch's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile: "Let's warm things up a bit. Our Mr. Blake has been out of the public eye for too long; if he doesn't show up soon, the show's hype will die down." His fingertips tapped lightly on the armrest of his chair. "We need to... pour some more oil on this dying flame."
"Where?" Reggie asked hoarsely.
"Hogwarts, of course," Lynch said with a hint of sarcasm. "We should give full credit to Minister Fudge's 'brilliance' in insisting on maintaining a heavy presence at Hogwarts."
Reggie's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly: "Hogwarts' defenses..."
"It's precisely because of the protection that it's valuable," Lynch interrupted him. "Let the entire magical world see that their most feared fugitive can come and go freely in their heavily guarded territory. That's more convincing than any declaration."
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the flow of people coming and going in Diagon Alley.
"Just let him show up at the castle, enough people to see him, but without any real evidence." Lynch turned around, his gaze sharp. "Like a ghost, leaving behind enough rumors and fear."
Reggie was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded: "I understand."
"Remember," Lynch's voice deepened, "this is just the beginning. We need to make this fire... burn just right."
On the other side, in the Potions Office at Hogwarts Castle.
The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, adding a rare touch of warmth to the perpetually cold and damp cellar office.
Snape took a sip of the clear green tea in his cup, the bitter yet refreshing taste spreading in his mouth.
He realized with some disgust that he had actually begun to get used to this brewing method—no sugar, no milk, just letting the tea leaves unfurl in hot water, just like Lynch himself: direct, pure, yet with an unsettling penetrating power.
More than two years ago, when this "hanger" stepped into his territory, every nerve in his body was filled with vigilance and resistance.
Now, this routine tea party has become a distorted norm, which makes him feel a sense of self-loathing.
"Harry's been working extra hard lately," Lynch said, setting down his teacup as casually as if he were discussing the weather, "learning the Patronus Charm from Lupin."
Snape's fingers, which were holding the teacup, tightened instantly, his knuckles turning slightly white.
Lupin.
The name immediately evoked memories of humiliation and powerlessness associated with predators, as well as disapproval of a werewolf being allowed to teach students, especially those close to Potter.
"Mr. Potter's overflowing courage and barren mind need this kind of—gentle guidance," he commented coldly, the word "gentle" dripping with venom. Allowing that werewolf to approach Potter was yet another ill-considered decision by Dumbledore.
Lynch seemed to see through his surging negative emotions, but he did not continue to criticize Lupin. He simply sighed softly, a sigh that carried an almost helpless pragmatism.
"The situation is dire, Severus. Sirius Black is still at large, and the Dementors of Azkaban surround the school—this is a threat that cannot be ignored."
Sirius Black.
The impact of this name was even greater than that of Lupin.
A chilling hatred instantly pierced his internal organs, more bone-chilling than the coldness brought by the Dementors.
That traitor, that accomplice who killed Lily—he escaped from prison, and his target is Harry Potter.
Whenever he thought of this, what burned in his chest was not only the flame of revenge, but also a burning sense of responsibility to keep his promise and protect the boy.
“And Harry,” Lynch continued, his voice steady yet precise like a dagger, “because of his past—the Dementors seemed to have a particular fondness for him. He needs a means of self-defense; that’s paramount, no matter what. The Patronus Charm is currently the most effective.”
Snape remained silent.
Anger burned in his chest, directed at Lupin, Sirius, the damn situation that forced Harry Potter to expose himself to more danger, and also at Lynch, who was so good at manipulating his heartstrings.
But he couldn't refute Lynch's last statement—Harry's safety was the top priority.
He hated the fact that he needed Lupin to teach him the spell, and he hated even more the deep-seated acceptance of it within himself.
Protecting that boy was the sole purpose of his existence, the bottom line that transcended all positions and calculations.
He ultimately said nothing, but simply drank the remaining green tea in his cup in one gulp. The excessive bitterness strangely resonated with his state of mind at that moment.
He didn't express his approval, because that would mean acquiescing to the current arrangement; but he also couldn't voice his opposition, because that could put Harry in danger.
This silence is itself an extremely complex compromise.
He knew perfectly well that Lynch was calmly observing his silence, and taking it as yet another minor...
Successful infiltration.
Lynch, in this seemingly harmless way, would sit in front of his fireplace time and time again, talking to himself about everything.
Snape knew Lynch's intention perfectly well: to subtly undermine his loyalty to Dumbledore.
Lynch never directly criticizes; he simply states the facts and subtly guides himself to discover the "imperfections" and "compromises" in those arrangements, allowing the suppressed dissatisfaction to ferment on its own.
This realization kept Snape on high alert at every tea party, yet he was powerless to stop the deliberately pointed ideas from taking root in his mind.
In the suffocating silence, Lin Qi spoke again, his voice still steady, but the content was like a dagger that had been precisely and repeatedly plunged into an old wound, stirring things up once more.
“Harry told me,” Lynch said, his gaze fixed on the leaping flames as if recounting a common occurrence, “that when a Dementor approached, a green light would flash through his mind, and he would hear—a woman’s scream.” He paused, then slowly turned to Snape, his eyes sharp and clear. “I suspect that might have been the moment Lily—died.”
"How dare you—!"
Snape sprang up from his chair, the movement so violent that he almost knocked over the small table next to him.
The anger and pain in his chest flared up instantly, but this anger did not only stem from the relentless pain that had been touched.
And it's because of this again!
Only Lynch!
Only this guy would repeatedly use this method, seemingly calmly and analytically, to lay bare Lily's death, his deepest sins and punishments, in a bloody manner before him!
Dumbledore would remain silent, and others would avoid the topic, but Lynch, this man whom he could neither control nor predict, always chose the most precise moment and the most "reasonable" excuse to tear open his never-healed scar.
The humiliation of being repeatedly spied on and stung, intertwined with the pain of losing Lily, almost drove him out of control.
However, when he met Lynch's calm, unwavering eyes, all the curses and evil thoughts that were about to burst forth were abruptly stuck in his throat.
Lynch just looked at him like that, without fear, without provocation, without even sympathy, only with an all-knowing, chilling calm.
Snape suddenly realized that he had no way to deal with this man.
force?
He had no doubt about the "hanger's" abilities.
Report them?
To whom?
Dumbledore?
This thought filled him with an even deeper sense of irony and powerlessness.
He thought bitterly that in recent years, Dumbledore's trust in Lynch had grown day by day. In the face of Lynch's "remarkable" contributions and seemingly impeccable logic, his accusations at this moment, made out of personal pain, would only make him appear petty and incapable of great use.
Moreover, every word Lynch said was true, not to mention it was in the name of "caring about Harry".
A deeper sense of powerlessness extinguished his momentary rage like ice water, leaving only the humiliation and weakness of being seen through and having his wounds laid bare.
He stood frozen in place, his face deathly pale, his breathing labored.
"Calm down, Severus." Lynch's voice was deep and steady, carrying an undeniable power, as if he were soothing a child who had lost control. This made Snape feel even more embarrassed. "Lily is also a good friend of mine. I understand your pain."
This statement was like a shackle he couldn't refute.
"But the problem now is," Lynch leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing, as if trying to soothe a distraught child—a posture that seemed humiliating to Snape—"Harry was only one year old. He shouldn't have any memories of that time at all!"
These words were like shackles, binding Snape's struggling soul. He couldn't refute the fact that he had once witnessed and even envied the childhood bond between Lynch and Lily.
“You’re like me,” Lynch continued, his tone regaining its academic calm, “you could say you’re an expert in dark magic. That’s why I came to you, to see if you could possibly know the reason. How could an infant clearly remember the light of the Killing Curse and his mother’s dying scream? It doesn’t make sense.”
Snape remained frozen, but his mind was racing, temporarily being forcibly dragged from the vortex of emotion into the abyss of reason.
Yes, that's unreasonable.
Memories, especially traumatic memories, are almost impossible to retain in such a clear and concrete way at such a young age, let alone be precisely triggered by the influence of a specific magical creature.
There must be something behind this—is it some kind of remnant of dark magic?
Moreover, it's related to the Killing Curse...
Snape's thoughts clashed wildly between dark magical knowledge and fragments of painful memories as he tried to find a plausible explanation.
The mark of black magic?
Trauma of the soul?
Or is it that damned, inescapable prophecy somehow perpetuating its curse?
Countless possibilities swirled in his mind, but none of them made him certain.
This sense of powerlessness, mixed with the anger of having old wounds forcibly torn open by Lynch, and a deep suspicion of his intentions, ultimately coalesced into a cold, almost freezing anger.
He turned around abruptly, his black robe drawing a sharp arc in the air, and no longer looked at Lin Qi.
"I have no other valuable insights, Lynch," his voice seemed to come from the depths of an ice cellar, carrying an undisguised order to leave, "I think this tea party can end now."
Lin Qi showed no surprise whatsoever. He calmly stood up, as if he had already anticipated this outcome.
He didn't even try to persuade him to stay or ask any further questions; he simply nodded slightly.
"Then I won't bother you any longer, Severus. Thank you for the tea."
His tone remained calm, as if the conversation that had just stirred up a storm in Snape's heart was just another ordinary exchange.
The cellar door closed silently behind Lynch.
Snape stood frozen in place, listening to the footsteps ascending the stone steps, gradually receding into the distance, and finally disappearing into the silence.
Only the faint crackling of the fireplace, the lingering bitter taste of green tea, and the chaotic, resentful turmoil in his heart remained in the office.
Lin Qi walked up the cold stone steps, the dim torch casting his long shadow on the mottled wall, stretching and shrinking.
His face showed no superfluous expression, neither the frustration of a thwarted plan nor the pleasure of provoking Snape, only a deep, still calm.
He knew Snape had no answers, at least not now.
But it is not important.
The question about Harry's memories is a seed.
The helplessness stemming from the repeated exposure to Lily's pain is another seed.
The seeds of Dumbledore's less-than-ideal arrangements and his growing trust in himself had already been sown long ago.
He didn't need Snape to give him an answer immediately, nor did he need his approval at this moment.
He only needed to bury these seeds of doubt, pain, and unease, one by one, in the soil nourished by loyalty, regret, and loneliness.
Lynch's steps were steady, and his figure gradually blended into the relatively bright light of the upper level of the castle.
His gaze, fixed on the distance, seemed to foresee a future moment when these seeds would sprout at the right time, twist and grow, ultimately guiding that stubborn soul, immersed in self-punishment, in the direction he desired.
What needed to be buried has already been buried.
Now, all we need to do is wait.