Chapter 94. Storms Converge
As November arrived, the temperature plummeted at breakneck speed, and there were far fewer fine days, with mist hanging from dawn till dusk.
The mountains around the school were blanketed in snow and ice, and the cold wind that blew from time to time was like a handful of sharp little knives, stinging one's face raw.
Every time Duncan went out, he wished he could tuck his head inside his clothes as well, just to keep a bit warmer.
And he now bitterly regretted joining the Quidditch team, because hurtling along on a broom in the freezing wind was nothing short of torture.
But the Hufflepuff players were like men shot full of stimulant, wanting to sweat it out on the Quidditch pitch every minute of every day.
If they sat in a chair for even a moment, they would leap up and bellow, "That's enough rest, lads, let's have another proper man's training!"
Then the others would rise with a roar, swing a leg over their brooms, and shoot into the sky, doing everything they could to hurl the Quaffle through the hoops.
Fortunately, Duncan had made an agreement with them in advance, and in addition his flying was solid and he was quick-witted, grasping ordinary tactics in a flash.
Otherwise, those hot-blooded youngsters would certainly have latched on to him and dragged him to the pitch to train.
After suffering a setback in the Forbidden Forest, Quirrell also quieted down, secretly searching for another chance to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
Perhaps the lesson last time had cut too deep, for Quirrell's courage had shrunk a good deal, and he did not dare act rashly again.
The potion Snape had given him did not seem to help much either, and Quirrell grew ever weaker, sometimes panting even as he walked.
There were a few times during class, head down reading from his book, when his breathing suddenly turned so laboured that Duncan thought Quirrell was about to keel over.
Fortunately, Quirrell's willpower was stubbornly strong; again and again he hovered at the brink of life and death, yet each time he pulled through, as if toying with the Grim Reaper.
After that conversation with Lord Voldemort, Snape's attitude toward Harry Potter grew even worse, and he made no attempt to hide it.
If Harry so much as moved a finger in Potions, it would earn him a volley of sneers from Snape, followed by five points neatly docked from Gryffindor.
Watching the house-point hourglasses in the Great Hall dwindle day by day, the Gryffindor students nearly went mad, and every day they went to Professor McGonagall to report Snape's vile behaviour, hoping she would rein him in and make him hold back a little.
But after a while, not only did things fail to improve, they raced headlong in an even worse direction.
Now Snape did not merely target Harry in class; even if they met in the corridor, he might find an excuse to dock a few points because Harry happened to step off with his right foot first, as if everything depended on Snape's mood at the moment he ran into him.
Finding resistance useless, the Gryffindor students gradually accepted the reality that, so long as Harry and Snape coexisted, their House could not win the House Cup.
In other words, they lay flat.
Once they faced reality, the Gryffindors suddenly felt the world grow much wider, and life became interesting and beautiful.
They no longer had to walk on eggshells for fear of losing House points, and could boldly do the madcap things in their heads.
The most accomplished among them was the "Anti-Bat Squad," led by Fred and George.
Its members would, as if by accident, station themselves along Snape's usual routes and launch attacks with Dungbombs and the like.
They strictly followed the principle of hit-and-run regardless of success, never lingering, never letting Snape catch them.
In addition, they would secretly leave revolting things on Snape's doorknob or just outside his door.
From then on, Snape's smell drifted steadily toward Quirrell's, practically marinated into him, and it felt as though even magic could not clean it away.
But none of that had anything to do with Duncan, who was busy in the case at this very moment.
"Kray, that won't do—haven't you been eating well lately?
Why are you this feeble?"
Standing atop a boulder, Duncan looked up.
High above, a burly Thunderbird was soaring beneath a sky where storm clouds were converging.
From time to time, a thick bolt of lightning came crashing down, and the Thunderbird's agile body threaded through the strikes with hair-raising finesse.
Kray did not answer; he merely circled in silence, beating his wings to churn the storm clouds hemming him in.
With Kray's motion, the lightning that had been spearing toward him hooked away mid-fall and shot straight down at Duncan on the ground.
But Duncan's brow twitched; he aimed his wand ahead and gave it the slightest flick, and that fearsome lightning bolt vanished into nothing.
After a period of accumulation, Duncan's points had once again reached a thousand, and with a bit of luck he had drawn another Magic Card.
After using it, he obtained one of Kray the Thunderbird's magical skills: Storm Convergence.
It was a skill that required a long time to cast, but its power was formidable.
At first, with the clouds gathered, he could control rain; wait a while longer, and he could call down lightning like a thunder god.
Right now he was competing with Kray in the air for control of that bank of cloud, vying to strike one another with lightning.
Kray felt a bit at a loss for words.
This was clearly his gift, yet the lad on the ground had learned it and was suppressing him with it instead.
It felt like being NTR'd to his face, and still having to applaud the other party.
Just as Duncan was preparing to call down another strike, Neville came pelting up from the distance.
He stared at the sky in amazement, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, "Duncan, it's Harry's first Quidditch match today—are you coming to watch?"
"Oh, give me a moment," Duncan said, dispersing the clouds above with his wand.
When Kray dropped down, he grinned and said, "Kray, you've got to put in more work.
You've been eating plenty; how are you this spent?
Two days ago you could still seize three-quarters of it, and today you can't even hold half.
In two more days will you be completely done for?
Kray, try a little harder and give me just a bit of pressure!"
Kray looked at the smug Duncan, turned his head aside, and shot him a sidelong, contemptuous glance without speaking.
Duncan chuckled and patted Kray's belly.
"Only teasing—you're the best.
I'm off now; I'll be back in a bit."
Kray tilted his head a fraction, then beat his wings and sped away into the distance.
"Come on," Duncan said as he walked over to Neville.
"If we head out now, we should just make the start.
Hope Ron and the others saved us seats."
"They should have," Neville said.
"I ran into Ron and Harry yesterday and told them ahead of time.
Duncan, do you think they can win today?"
"If nothing unexpected happens, yes," Duncan said with a smile.
Seeing how quick and decisive Duncan's answer was, Neville asked curiously, "You're that confident in them?"
Duncan nodded, and added silently in his heart, "It's a pity that with Harry around, it's impossible for nothing unexpected to happen."
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