As November rolled in, the weather in the Scottish Highlands grew increasingly bitter.
The lush, green mountains around Hogwarts had long vanished, now cloaked in gray and blanketed with snow.
It was as if a blade of frost had swept across the land, wilting every flower and tree in its path.
From the Slytherin common room's windows, you could even see the lake's surface, frozen as hard as tempered steel.
The magical creatures that usually swam near the glass seemed less lively, except for the giant squid, which still protested daily by smacking its long tentacles against the ice.
Both teachers and students had swapped their usual robes for thick, cotton-padded coats. Some of the more cold-sensitive students even tucked warming magical trinkets into their clothes.
As a result, students were either dozing off from the cozy warmth of the common rooms or shivering outside, with little enthusiasm for studying.
Even Hermione's trips to the library had noticeably dwindled.
Some things, however, remained unchanged—like Edward's morning training routine, which he'd kept up since the start of the term.
No matter how cold it got, Edward never skipped his morning exercises.
Having broken through his physical limitations and glimpsed the path to the second-tier Knight Breathing Technique, how could he not keep pushing forward?
The results were tangible, and that was Edward's greatest motivation.
He could feel himself inching closer to the next stage.
The Magic Knight Manual explained that, unlike the first-tier breathing technique, which enhanced physical attributes across the board, the second-tier technique focused less on raw physical growth and more on mastering the control of inner magical energy, making its use more intuitive and precise.
Once Edward broke through to the second tier, he'd be able to learn new, practical combat skills—like enchanting his own weapons.
Enchanting wasn't particularly difficult. Simple enchantments could be done with a wand, or by inscribing runes like Nordic or ancient symbols imbued with magical power onto a weapon.
But the enchantments described in the Magic Knight Manual were on another level—allowing the user to imbue their weapon with whatever they desired, whether it be fire, frost, lightning, poison, or even more mysterious forces.
Finally, on the first weekend of November, Edward's Knight Breathing Technique broke through.
It was the happiest moment of this chilly start to winter.
The cold season did make people sluggish, but only when it came to academics. Outside of class, nearly every student seemed to regain their energy.
The Quidditch season was about to kick off, with the opening match pitting Slytherin against their old rivals, Gryffindor.
Although Gryffindor's team captain, Oliver Wood—a fifth-year whose name sounded wooden but who looked sharp enough—tried to keep it a secret that Harry Potter had been recruited to the Gryffindor team as an exception, the news spread like wildfire.
Within a single day, the entire school knew Harry was the youngest Seeker in centuries.
Even without using his special abilities to sense the thoughts of the young witches and wizards, Edward could tell it was obvious.
Harry had broken school rules during flying lessons without punishment, received a Nimbus 2000 from Professor McGonagall in the Great Hall a few days later, and vanished with the rest of the Gryffindor team during their practice sessions.
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Even Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle—whose logical thinking wasn't exactly their strong suit—could piece it together with a little nudge.
And then there was Draco Malfoy.
He was practically fuming, cursing at the breakfast table every day that Potter would surely fall off his broom.
Of course, whenever he got halfway through his rant, he'd notice Edward watching him with a calm smile and quickly pretend nothing was wrong, furiously chewing his bread instead.
Edward, naturally, wanted Slytherin to win, but more than that, he hoped for a fair and exciting match—not a victory gained by knocking the other team's secret weapon off their broom.
That would be far too unknightly.
In his pre-Hogwarts life, he'd have called it "lacking martial virtue."
Truth be told, Edward wasn't all that interested in Quidditch—at least not the kind played on flying broomsticks. If it involved riding a Hippogriff or some other magical flying creature, he'd have been first in line to join.
For now, much of his focus was elsewhere: trying to figure out who had let that troll into the school.
Whoever endangered the school's safety needed to be found and brought to justice!
But the culprit was well-hidden, and Edward hadn't found even the slightest clue—until the clear, cold Saturday arrived: the day of the first Quidditch match.
"Stop poking your nose into everything. You've meddled in more business these past two months than I've seen in my first eleven years combined. Besides, you don't have any leads, do you? Pass me those fried eggs, thanks," said Daphne, who'd already polished off a plate of baked beans, pointing at the dish next to Edward.
She was eating more than the players who were about to take the field—though, to be fair, still less than Edward.
The Quidditch players themselves barely ate; it was a rough sport, and nobody wanted to be knocked around midair and end up vomiting in front of everyone.
Edward had to admit Daphne had a point.
With no leads, all he could do was wait for the culprit to slip up again.
Might as well relax and enjoy the Quidditch match.
With all the teachers around, surely nothing could go wrong, right?
By eleven o'clock, the Quidditch pitch near the Forbidden Forest was packed, with nearly every student and teacher climbing into the stands.
Students waved all sorts of telescopes and colorful banners to cheer for their teams.
The Slytherin seats were close to the staff section, directly across the pitch from Gryffindor.
Edward immediately spotted a massive Gryffindor banner proclaiming "Potter for the Win!" complete with a dazzling, multicolored lion that practically roared with pride.
Slytherin's cheering section was enthusiastic too, but it couldn't quite match the volume of Gryffindor's supporters.
Slytherin's reputation at Hogwarts wasn't exactly stellar, especially when they were leading in the House Cup race. Most Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students had joined the Gryffindor cheering squad.
"They're just jealous—pure, shameless jealousy!" Pansy shouted, nearly hoarse.
"It's just a banner! We've got one too!" some Slytherin students grumbled, pulling out their own.
Their green banner, emblazoned with "Slytherin for the Win!" in shimmering silver, was impressive but lacked the flair of Gryffindor's.
"Excuse me, make way," Edward said, drawing his wand and giving the Slytherin banner a quick tap.
The silver letters sprang to life, slithering across the green fabric until they formed a hissing silver serpent.
"Ohhh!!!" The Slytherin crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, as if they'd already won the match.
Edward hoped both teams would play a fair, thrilling game.
At first, that's what he thought. But soon, he realized he could barely stand to watch.
What the heck! How did the Slytherin team turn into this?