"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 311: Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans—Now with Sour and Spicy Shredded Potato
Douglas lowered his gaze, eyes fixed on the book that—at least on the surface—bore Xenophilius Lovegood's name: The Half-Blood Prince of Slytherin.
In his original plan, even if Voldemort ever stumbled upon this story, it would only be during some chaotic moment after his return from the abyss, as he once again swept through the British wizarding world—something he'd discover purely by chance.
After all, for a Dark Lord obsessed with domination, a fictional character biography was nothing but idle entertainment. The Death Eaters certainly wouldn't waste time on such nonsense, let alone present it to the cold and ruthless Voldemort himself.
At this point, both Voldemort and the fugitive Wormtail should hardly have the leisure to read tabloid stories… right?
Yet, their reaction was undeniably intriguing. Douglas could be almost certain that the rat had already leaked his intelligence to Voldemort.
With his ability to keep the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor for so long, surely even Voldemort would have to take him seriously—if not warily.
But what truly puzzled Douglas was this: Without the special circumstances of something like the Triwizard Tournament, what gave the other side such confidence that they could spirit Harry away from under his nose?
Even that pivotal tournament wouldn't officially begin for most of a year. Neither he, nor Charlie—still in Romania studying dragons—had received any word about it launching soon.
All things considered, perhaps Dumbledore's guess was right. The enemy must have caught a glimpse of this magazine and had a knee-jerk reaction. If that was the case, Voldemort's early return to Britain suddenly made perfect sense.
"Professor, you mean—even if he hasn't discovered his Horcruxes have been destroyed, just seeing this would make him suspect someone has uncovered his secret? So he's come back to check on his hiding places?" He paused, brow furrowed. "But at a time like this, he still has the mood to read a gossip magazine?"
Dumbledore was staring intently at the magazine in his hands, as if it concealed some deeper secret. His eyes flickered with a storm of thoughts.
For a long moment, the room was silent, heavy with the scent of contemplation. Time itself seemed to slow, waiting for him to lift the veil.
At last, Dumbledore spoke, his words carrying the weight of a man who'd seen too much—and the resignation of one who can only watch the pieces fall: "I think all our speculation leads to a single conclusion: This seemingly ordinary magazine is actually a carefully woven web. It not only chronicles Tom's past in exquisite detail, but even dares to predict his future."
"From the very beginning, I had a hunch this was the work of an old friend. When I asked directly, he denied it—but he also told me it wasn't Mr. Lovegood's story, though he claimed not to know who wrote it… I'm not sure I believe him."
"Tom's unusually strong reaction only proves the trap was perfectly set. Even if Tom had ignored the story, the mastermind behind it would have found a way to ensure that magazine landed in his hands."
"And consider this: Despite being wanted by the Ministry, Peter still risked bringing himself—and Tom—back to Britain. That says everything."
"It's like an invisible net, quietly drawing all the key players onto the chessboard, one by one, then nudging each piece into place. You and I are on that board now too. The only question is, do we make the first move, or wait for the chess master to play his hand?"
A shadow of frustration crossed his face. "What puzzles me most is how this friend managed to orchestrate such a complex scheme, right under heavy surveillance, and leave no trace."
Douglas fought to suppress the twitch threatening his lips.
Oh, Merlin's beard… He'd only meant this as a harmless prank—a little payback for that editor who'd made up stories about him, a chance to tease Professor Snape, and, admittedly, a way to nudge the Horcruxes into the open a bit sooner.
How had a story full of jokes and playful mischief been elevated—by Dumbledore's analysis—to a grand philosophical treatise on chess masters and pawns, of fate and manipulation?
The sudden shift left him reeling, as if a pebble he'd tossed for fun had sent ripples across the entire lake.
Thank goodness Dumbledore still suspected his "prophetic" friend. If he ever realized the great chess master he spoke of was sitting right across from him, looking just as bewildered… well, best not to think about it.
With a deep sigh, Douglas felt an unfamiliar weight settle over him—a pressure he'd never known before.
But, thanks to Dumbledore's words, he suddenly felt a strange thrill—the mix of anxiety and exhilaration a chess player feels, knowing the next move could change everything. Not a bad sensation, really…
At this point, both men were certain: Wormtail could never be acting alone on some secret mission from Voldemort. The Dark Lord was far too cunning and paranoid to trust such vital secrets—his very immortality—to a cowardly, easily manipulated servant. No, this time, Voldemort must be moving alongside him.
Seeing the tension in Douglas' brow, Dumbledore reached for the plate of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, plucked out two, popped one in his mouth, and handed the other to Douglas, his voice gentle and reassuring:
"Douglas, you mustn't be so tense… soap—ah, I mean, the courage and wisdom you've shown have already surpassed the Tom of old, and even myself. You stand for justice and conscience. It's a difficult path, but it's the right one."
He continued, his tone steady and full of quiet strength: "Remember, you're not alone on this road. You have family, friends—like stars encircling the bright moon. No matter the challenge, they'll stand by your side. What you possess isn't just magical power, but a bond that can't be broken… Er, what flavor did you get?"
To hide his true thoughts, Douglas accepted the bean and popped it into his mouth.
"Not bad—sour and spicy shredded potato!"
Dumbledore clapped him on the shoulder, laughing, "See? Your luck's better than mine—mine was soap!"
Douglas blinked, wondering when Bertie Bott's started making flavors inspired by Hogwarts kitchen recipes.
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