Bab 90: CH90 - Taunting & Testing
Bread. Tzatziki. Smoked salmon. Tomatoes. Radishes. Avocadoes.
His hands moved on their own, cobbling together the ingredients to make a breakfast sandwich without him looking. For rather than his plate, Edmund's focus was directed at the latest batch of newspapers being deposited onto the tables of the Great Hall.
The Quibbler. Wizarding World News. The Herald. Even Teen Witch Weekly had spared no time on the coverage of Binns disappearance from Hogwarts. That was not to mention the endless train of articles rolling out on the Daily Prophet, the Evening Prophet, and the Sunday Prophet—courtesy of Barnabas Cuffe and Rita Skeeter.
Speculation was rampant about how and why Binns had finally chosen—or arguably, been forced—to leave his position after over a hundred years of service. Details of the man's life were being analyzed under a telescope, and an inventory of names for his successor was being compiled. Of course, the list was relatively short and laughable in all regards, yet another shortcoming that could be laid at the ex-professor's feet.
Throughout the debacle, Dumbledore had remained silent, maintaining his usual affable demeanour—at least on the surface. Today, Edmund knew that was about to change.
Once a month, a typically dull and monotonous edition of a paper named the Magical Journal of Political Theory would release. Although it tended to be disregarded by the younger populace, the publication was a favourite of politicians from all over the globe.
And on that day, one man's face was plastered over the cover: the newest addition to the British Wizengamot, Marvolo Slytherin.
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THE SILENT ASSIMILATION OF MAGICAL CULTURE INTO MUGGLE BELIEFS: A STUDY INTO THE HISTORY OF THE LAWS AND TEACHINGS THAT MADE THIS POSSIBLE
...
September 5, 1994
...
- Marvolo Slytherin, MJPT
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A taunt. A blatant taunt.
In Edmund's eyes, this was one of the few aspects in which Marvolo would always lose to the headmaster.
Dumbledore was a rock, steadfast and unwavering. Amid controversy, he would show no signs of aggravation. In victory, he would levy no barbs.
Contrarily, the dark lord was the opposite. Despite being a master of occlumency, his emotions were as see-through as glass. During his rise as Lord Voldemort, it was an element that worked in his favour. No man or woman, be they his enemy or his follower, was willing to risk his wrath, so terrible that it was.
Voldemort was a man who could get away with boasting about his superiority because of the utter ruthlessness with which he acted.
However, Marvolo was not. If he wished to play the game of politics, there were certain boundaries in which he could operate. Boundaries that Dumbledore had decades of experience maneuvering within.
So far, Marvolo had made his moves without opposition. But as Dumbledore exited the Great Hall with his hands clasped behind his back, Edmund could not help but feel that was soon going to change.
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- (Scene Break) -
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Edmund strolled out of Potions class in good spirits.
Snape was many things: meticulous, obnoxious, petty, rude—the list could go on. However, unless the student was named Harry Potter, one thing the Potions master was not was a time waster.
Using the Room of Requirement's vast resources to his advantage, Edmund made it a point to learn all of the accelerated brewing recipes he could. Over the past year, he had developed enough trust with the brusque professor to the point where his early completions were no longer met with suspicion but rather a simple nod.
Breathing in the cool fall air, Edmund sighed with satisfaction. 'No more classes for the rest of the day. I've got a good chunk of time that I won't be missed. Might as well head to the range.'
His plan decided, he quickly made his way to the very elevator portraits he had discovered in his first week at Hogwarts.
Turning the last corner, he almost ran headfirst into another group—narrowly dodging them thanks to his mind-sense.
'Good thing, too. I doubt they would keep the matter of someone walking around under an invisibility cloak to themselves,' Edmund thought. Looking up, he grimaced. Bright orange hair, tall, lanky bodies, freckles covering their noses, and second-hand robes greeted him. The Weasley twins. 'Especially these two.'
The two had never revealed the loss of the Marauder's Map to anyone, but Edmund tended to avoid them out of principle. The twins were clever, and he did not want to draw their ire lest they discover something he did not want them to know.
Thankfully, the duo was not paying attention to their surroundings but instead wrapped up in their own conversation.
"Looks young enough," one of them commented.
"Late twenties, maybe early thirties," the other confirmed.
"Wonder why he took the job?" the first one continued.
"After Binns, I was expecting someone halfway to their deathbed," the second joked.
"Ah, brother dear, don't feel sad. After all, it's much harder to prank someone if they're dead," he replied with a devilish smirk.
The two looked at each other with evil smiles, dashing off in the direction of the Grand Staircase, no doubt to plan their next act of mischief in the privacy of their dorm.
'Hmmm,' Edmund contemplated as he knocked on the golden portrait seven times. 'New professor's here already? That was quick.'
Before opening the corresponding frame on the seventh floor, he looked down at the Marauder's Map to ensure no one was in the area.
His eyes widened, pupils constricting into pinholes. Edmund's wand slid into his hand, immediately completing the familiar motions of silencing his feet and blocking his scent. Arm extended, he stalked along the corridor, coming to a stop at the entrance of the Room of Requirement.
The area was typically barren.
Why would it not be? Aside from the Gryffindor common room, there were no areas of interest on the seventh floor. Access to the Divination classroom and the Astronomy tower was at a different level, and the Grand Staircase was quite a distance away. In all his time checking the map, Edmund had rarely seen someone in the area, except for late-night patrollers and teens looking for a deserted location.
Yet there he stood. A thin, lean man with a black overcoat and matching black trousers tucked into a pair of maroon dragonhide boots. His posture was relaxed, but despite that, Edmund knew he was ready to move at a moment's notice. His face was lightly bearded, combed tidily just like his blonde hair. His lips bore a careless grin, mirrored by the smile in his eyes.
Eyes that were looking right at him.
Two spells were all that Edmund was able to fire, even with surprise on his side. A cutter, a nasty yellow tainted by the malice in his intent, shot forward at the same time that a Protego came up to shield him.
It did nothing.
The man angled his body to the side deftly, lazily shooting Incarcerous after Incarcerous Edmund's way without pause. The rope could not be cut. It could not be burned. And at the rate at which it was enveloping him, it could not be dodged. Not by someone of his calibre.
Edmund was launched into the air like a rag doll before landing on his side, his only saving grace being his wand still clutched in his grip.
The man's smile grew feral as he squatted down next to him.
"Pitiful," he mocked.
"Hello to you too, Barty," Edmund replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"Come now," his tongue darted out to lick his lips. "I had to have revenge for that dirty shot at my back one way or another."
"Are you satisfied now?" Edmund asked.
"No," Barty denied playfully. "And thankfully, I don't have to be. The dark lord has instructed me to tutor you in the art of duelling. I can see why he thought it was necessary."
He yanked on his hair, pulling Edmund's face level with his own. "None who represent the dark lord should be so pathetic, especially one who is his supposed heir."
"Well?" Edmund spat out the blood pooling in his mouth on the ground. "Are you going to keep talking, or will you do something about it then?"
Barty chuckled, his laugh promising pain. "I like you. Perhaps this will not be such a waste of time after all."
PERTIMBANGAN PENCIPTA 
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