landbeastnovel Chapter 287 The Frightened Banban
Chapter 287 The Frightened Banban
Chapter 287 The Frightened Banban (5.2K) (1/2)
Then, Lynch took another half-step forward, lowered his voice, and became serious and focused: "The plan has begun, the bait has been laid. Next, it's my part. I will ensure the information is delivered to those who need it in the most natural way. And you," he stared intently at Lupin, "can you now assure me that under any circumstances, there will be no more situations that could jeopardize the entire plan? I need your absolute stability, Remus."
Lupin met his own light, took a deep breath, and forcefully suppressed all his turbulent emotions, leaving only an almost icy clarity in his gray eyes. "I can," he replied simply and forcefully, each word carrying weight.
the other side.
The Gryffindor common room was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the chill of the corridor outside. The fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, casting flickering light onto the three people huddled together.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione occupied some of the most comfortable armchairs in the corner, but none of them really relaxed.
"—Then, Professor Lupin just—exploded." Harry lowered his voice and told Ron and Hermione everything that had happened in the old classroom, including the warmth Lupin showed when he talked about his father's Quidditch exploits, and the chilling anger and pain he showed when he mentioned Sirius Black.
Ron's mouth gaped slightly as he listened, and he even forgot to eat the toffee he was holding.
"Merlin's beard," he murmured, "I've never heard of Professor Lupin being like that—he's usually so gentle."
“That’s completely understandable,” Hermione said immediately, her brow furrowed with a seriousness beyond her years. “Being betrayed by his best friend, the pain that’s been building up for twelve years—seeing Harry must have caused him to break down.”
She turned to Harry, her eyes filled with doubt: "But this—contradicts Professor Lynch's claims, doesn't it? On one hand, there's Professor Lupin's genuine hatred, and on the other hand, there are the things Professor Lynch told you—those things."
"I know!" Harry scratched his already messy black hair in frustration. "The way Professor Lupin looked at Black when he talked about him—it was like he really wanted to kill him with his own hands. It felt so real, so real that it made me feel—" He paused, unsure how to describe it.
"Do you think Professor Lynch might be mistaken?" Ron chimed in, finally popping a toffee into his mouth, but looking preoccupied. "Seriously, man, while Professor Lynch is cool and knows a lot, Professor Lupin is one of the parties involved! He's closer to your father and Sirius! His hatred can't be without reason, right? I mean, if Black was truly innocent, why would Professor Lupin hate him to that extent?"
Hermione bit her lip, deep in thought. "Logically, it doesn't make sense. If Black is innocent, it means there's more to what happened back then, and the truth has been completely covered up. But Professor Lupin's reaction suggests he firmly believes it and has suffered for twelve years. This either means Professor Lynch's suspicions are wrong, or—" She looked up, her eyes fixed intently on Harry and Ron, "—or it means the deception back then was so sophisticated that even Professor Lupin was completely fooled. There must be some crucial evidence or detail that no one knew about back then, and Professor Lynch may have discovered some clues."
"But a dead hero and a living traitor everyone points the finger at—" Ron scratched his head, "Blake seems more like the murderer. And the Dementors are after him!"
“Dementors don’t care about the truth, Ron; they just follow orders,” Hermione pointed out sharply. “What if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had made a mistake back then?”
"But that's too much—" Ron opened his mouth, unable to imagine that the entire Ministry of Magic's official judgment had been wrong.
Just then, he felt Banban in his pocket wriggle restlessly, as if disturbed by their conversation.
"Oh, be quiet, Banban." He patted it gently through the fabric.
Harry felt even more confused as he listened to his two friends arguing.
Ron tends to believe Lupin's intuitive suffering and official accounts, while Hermione tries to analyze the plausibility of Uncle Lynch's views from a logical and probabilistic perspective.
They both have a point.
He himself was caught in the middle.
He should have empathized with Professor Lu Ping.
That surging, almost consuming hatred should have been his as well.
The idea of avenging his parents had taken root in his heart.
But now, Uncle Lin Qi's words were like a strong thread, pulling his heart, which was about to fall completely into hatred, back up and leaving it hanging in mid-air.
He trusted Uncle Lynch, a trust stemming from the many moments they had shared over the past few years.
But the pain and anger in Professor Lupin's eyes were just as real and scorching, making it impossible for him to easily dismiss it as "he might have been deceived."
Hatred lost its clear target and became disoriented, like a tangled mess of cotton wool blocking the chest.
Whom should he hate?
Who can he hate?
If Blake isn't the killer, then who is the real killer?
Does Professor Lupin know of this other possibility?
If he didn't know, how could he face the professor who had just opened his heart to him?
Countless questions swirled and collided in his mind, but he couldn't find a way out.
Finally, he could only raise his head and look at his two best friends, his gray-green eyes filled with unprecedented confusion and struggle. He whispered, "I don't know—I feel like I'm being torn in two. On one side is Professor Lupin, whose pain is so real that I feel I must hate Blake as much as he does; on the other side is Uncle Lynch, who makes me feel—maybe my hatred is misplaced. Now—I don't even know how to think about this anymore."
His voice was soft, yet it landed heavily in the warm air.
Scabbers in Ron's pocket seemed to move slightly again, but no one noticed.
He and Hermione exchanged a glance, unsure how to comfort Harry.
However, the turmoil in Harry's heart could not stop the daily clock at Hogwarts.
On the contrary, for him, real life swept over him with an almost brutal intensity, and the most irresistible force was Oliver Wood and his obsessive Quidditch training.
Gryffindor's loss of their first game of the season was a nightmare for Wood, the captain who sees Quidditch as his last breath.
His response was simple, direct, and extremely effective: he increased the training frequency to five times a week.
"We must take it all back! Every ball, every second!" Wood roared at the team before their first extra practice, his eyes red and his voice hoarse, as if they hadn't just lost a game, but lost everything in their lives. "No one can stop us! Not the weather! Not even the Dementors! As long as we have the strength to hold our brooms!"
Thus, Harry's life was suddenly compressed into a simple yet harsh cycle: attending classes, eating, and dedicating almost all of his remaining free time to the howling Quidditch pitch.
Harry boarded Nimbus 2001 with a heavy heart.
The shadow of defeat, the regret for the broomstick, and the chaotic thoughts deep within him about Blake, about betrayal, about unresolved hatred all dragged him down like heavy chains.
But soon, things changed.
When Wood blew his whistle, when the Quaffle hurtled through the air, when the Golden Snitch's cunning golden glint flashed across the edge of his vision, Harry found himself with no room to think about anything else.
His mind was emptied; all the confusion, anger, and helplessness were forcibly squeezed out, replaced by the purest instincts: chasing, dodging, diving, and pulling up.
The wind howled sharply in his ears, and the icy rain or biting wind lashed against his face, bringing a distinct stinging sensation.
His palms were red from gripping the broom handle for so long, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders protested with soreness after each extreme turn and acceleration.
His lungs contracted violently like broken bellows, swallowing the cold, dry air.
All of this, instead of breaking him down, brought him a strange, almost self-destructive pleasure.
"Again!" he would yell at Wood, his voice ripped apart by the wind.
He frantically chased after the loose balls played by Katie Bell and Arya Spinnet, practicing his daring evasive maneuvers; he tirelessly circled the goalposts, assisting Angelina Jensen in attack drills; but his most intense focus was on his one-on-one Seeker training with Wood. Wood would use every method imaginable to simulate the Golden Snitch's trajectory—suddenly left and right, quick stops and starts, hovering close to the ground, or soaring straight into the sky. Harry gritted his teeth, pushing Nimbus 2001 to its limits, his eyes fixed on that single point of gold, as if it were the root of all his troubles, and if he could grasp it, everything would be solved.
By the end of training, he was often soaked in sweat—whether from sweat or mud splattered from the rain in the Scottish Highlands, his hair was more disheveled than usual, and his limbs felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead.
His steps were unsteady as he climbed down from the broom.
But this extreme exhaustion is exactly what he needs right now.
He would shuffle back to the castle with his teammates, listening to their tactical debates or simple complaints, but he himself rarely spoke.
A hot bath can temporarily soothe sore muscles, but true relief comes at night.
The moment he finally collapsed onto the four-poster bed and his head touched the pillow, his heavy eyelids immediately closed. There was no tossing and turning, no staring into the darkness at the curtains and letting his mind wander, no fragments of screams, betrayals, and blurry images of murderers disturbing his dreams—only a deep, dreamless, almost unconscious sleep that quickly engulfed him.
Harry knew perfectly well that this was a form of escapism.
He used extreme physical exhaustion to forcibly shut down the door to thought. He squandered all his mental energy on the court, in exchange for a brief moment of peace at night.
Ron and Hermione looked at him with concern.
They could see the faint shadows beneath Harry's green eyes, and the occasional moments he would appear in the common room, staring blankly at the fireplace.
But they also understood that any in-depth conversation about Blake, Lynch, or Lupin at this moment could disrupt the balance that Ha had barely maintained with his sweat.
So they simply left him dinner, handed him a hot chocolate when he returned from training, or gently woke him up when he was almost asleep on the common room table, urging him to go back to his dorm.
Harry appreciated their silence.
He clung tightly to Quidditch, using it as a shield against the turbulent fog within his heart. On the broom, in the chase, in the blank slumber after exhaustion, at least he could temporarily escape thinking about the question that tormented him most:
Whom should he hate?
Lynch took in Harry's condition over the past few days.
He watched as the dark-haired boy, like a cornered beast, poured all his confusion and anger onto the Quidditch pitch, numbing himself with almost self-destructive training intensity.
The former brilliance in those green eyes, which resembled Lily's, was replaced by a layer of oppressive gloom. Only when he sprinted with all his might on the broom would Xi Jinping's burning flame briefly ignite.
He silently calculated the time, estimating the pressure Harry was under.
He knew that simply escaping couldn't last; the taut string would eventually break or need to be released.
So, seemingly unintentionally but actually deliberately, he increased the frequency of his appearances along Harry's route—brushing past each other among the bookshelves in the library, nodding in greeting in the corridor, and sitting in the faculty section not far away when dining in the Great Hall.
He was like a patient fisherman, laying out his bait and quietly waiting for the fish to swim over.
This opportunity came on a rare afternoon when there was no Quidditch practice.
After a series of rainy days, the sky finally cleared up. Although the air was still cold, the sunlight shining on the grass brought a false sense of warmth.
At Hermione's insistence that "you need some fresh air, Harry, you can't always lock yourself in the castle or the Quidditch pitch," Harry was half-dragged, half-carried by Ron and Hermione to take a walk on the grass outside the castle.
As they wandered aimlessly, chatting about trivial class matters, Harry spotted a familiar figure sitting under a beech tree not far away.
Lynch leaned against the tree trunk, his long legs crossed, and a thick, ancient book with a dark purple leather cover lay open on his lap.
The winter sun shone through the bare branches, casting dappled light on his gray suit and jet-black hair.
He looked calm and focused, as if the whole world consisted only of him and the book.
Harry stopped abruptly. All the pretense, all the dam built with exhaustion, cracked instantly when he saw this person who might hold the answer.
The doubts, struggles, and the hatred that had been forcibly suppressed for days surged through his chest like a flood.
Ron and Hermione also saw Lynch, and the two exchanged a hesitant glance.
"Harry, maybe we—" Hermione said softly, wanting to suggest leaving so as not to disturb them.
But she didn't finish her sentence. Harry, as if drawn by an invisible thread, walked straight towards the figure under the tree.
His steps were initially a little stiff, but then they became faster and faster until he almost rushed up to Lynch.
"Uncle Lynch!"
His voice sounded somewhat abrupt due to his urgency, even carrying a hint of accusation.
Lynch seemed to be startled from between the pages of the book. He slowly raised his head, his gaze shifting from the obscure words to Harry's agitated yet pale face. There was no surprise in his eyes, only a calm understanding.
"Harry," he said gently, closing the book, "what's wrong? You look uneasy."
"You're telling me Sirius Black might be innocent?" Harry blurted out, forgetting all decorum and trying to find the right words. "You're saying the real culprit might be someone else! But how is that possible? Professor Lupin—he hates Black so much, his pain can't be fake! I—I need to know! How did you come to that conclusion?"
He was panting, his gray-green eyes fixed on Lynch, like someone who had been adrift at sea for too long and had finally seen land, desperately wanting to grasp something.
Behind him, Ron and Hermione stood hesitantly, unsure whether to advance or retreat, their faces filled with worry and a hint of curiosity.
Lynch's gaze went over Harry's shoulder and landed on the two children.
He didn't gesture for them to leave or lower his voice, as other adults might do.
Instead, he gestured for them, and for Harry, to come over.
"Come here, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger." His tone was casual, as if he were merely inviting them to enjoy the scenery together. "Since you are Harry's most important friends, I think you also have the right to know a part of this matter."
Ron and Hermione walked over somewhat awkwardly and stood beside Harry, forming a small semicircle around Lynch under the tree.
Just as Lynch was about to speak again, his keen eye caught an unnatural twist in the pocket of Ron's old wizard's robe.
"There seems to be something amiss in your pocket, Mr. Weasley?" Lynch raised his chin, pointing to Ron's pocket, his tone carrying just the right amount of curiosity, breaking the previously tense atmosphere.
Ron paused for a moment, looked down, and then patted his pocket somewhat embarrassedly.
"Oh, it's Banban, my pet. It probably doesn't like staying in there for too long." He said, reaching inside to try and pull out the chubby mouse with a missing toe. "It's old and sleeps most of the time; we probably woke it up."
However, Banban, who is usually quite docile, was surprisingly resistant at this moment.
When Ron's fingers touched it, it made a faint but sharp "squeak" sound, its four little paws gripping the rough lining of the pocket tightly, its whole body curled up into a ball, desperately trying to burrow into the deepest part of the pocket.
Ron reached into his pocket a few times, but instead of getting it out, he felt it pulling him back forcefully, as if there was glue in his pocket holding it there.
"Hey! Don't do that, Scabbers!" Ron was a little embarrassed and increased his strength, trying to pull the uncooperative mouse out.
"Never mind, Mr. Weasley," Lynch interjected, a faint, almost self-deprecating expression crossing his face. "No need to force yourself. I don't seem to be very popular with small animals; they always seem a little—nervous—around me."
Perhaps it was my scent that made them uneasy.
His words were understated, attributing Scabbers' unusual resistance to himself and cleverly defusing Ron's predicament.
Ron stopped awkwardly, and through the fabric, he soothingly touched the still slightly trembling Spot, wondering what was wrong with it today.