athlete and a dedicated student, excelling at Potion-Making and Precognitive Engineering.
Albus wondered for a moment if the man had gone on to play professional Clutchcudgel, but then his eyes fell upon another newspaper clipping near the top right of the case: 'A
Deliberate or not, the result was the same: Havershift's wrist had been healed as well as possible, but he had sustained permanent damage to the tendons of his hand, dramatically reducing his ability to use a wand. In one fell swoop, his career as a Clutchcudgel athlete had been ruined.
Regardless, the team had apparently gone on to victory and had granted Havershift a Most Valuable Player award, despite the bandages that still wrapped his wrist.
As Albus scanned the rest of the case for more clues, a shadow fell over him. Glancing up, he saw Professor Jackson, President of Werewolf House, standing over him, his dark brow steely as always.
'It's good to see you taking an interest in house history, Mr. Potter,' the tall man said stoically.
Albus nodded. 'Yeah, er, I've been walking right past this case for almost a whole year and I never really stopped to look at it.' He glanced back at the glass shelves and pointed at the large framed photo. 'You know anything about this bloke?'
'Stafford Havershift?' Jackson said, smiling a little incredulously. He chuckled and shook his head. 'Of course, being from England, you might not be quite as familiar with him as the rest of us are. Mr. Havershift is the founder of Pandora Potions, the country's largest elixir and potionfabricating facility. His products are shipped the world over, everything from hair-colouring tonics to magical acids used by the military. I daresay you've probably got some of his products in your own toilet.'
Albus shrugged. 'Perhaps. So he's kind of a big deal here at Werewolf House, eh? Him being a former Werewolf and all.'
'Indeed he is,' Jackson nodded, turning serious. 'His perseverance in the face of adversity is an example to us all. As a Clipper for Team Werewolf, he led us to our first string of tournament victories in many years. I was President of Werewolf House in that time as well and I remember it quite vividly. After his unfortunate accident, he swore that he would devote himself to the support of the team for his entire life, regardless of his inability to play. He graduated, founded Pandora Potions with the help of his father, and became a global success. And yet, despite his wealth and his international business obligations, he still finds time to stay involved here at Alma Aleron. He was chairman of the Werewolf Booster Troop for many years. Just over a decade ago, he donated the bronze werewolf statue you've seen standing before this very house.'
'Is that so?' Albus replied evenly.
'He came for the dedication of it,' Jackson added, straightening his back and nodding proudly. 'It was a glorious day, attended by alumnus from decades past. There had to have been three hundred people on the slope of Victory Hill, which we had just regained after a very impressive tournament victory over Team Pixie. Mr. Havershift asked the current Clutchcudgel team to come forward so that he could have his picture taken with them and the statue. 'Stroke its muzzle,' he told them as they gathered around the statue, and I can still remember the pride in his smile, the twinkle in his eyes. 'Stroke it and see if it brings you victory,' he told them. That was the beginning of the tradition you yourself have surely witnessed. Am I correct, Mr. Potter?'
Albus nodded slowly, turning back to the smiling man in the photograph. It was a moving photograph, of course. In it, Havershift's grin was smug, confident, even a little mean.
Albus' instincts were clicking neatly into place. He didn't know as much stuff as Rose, but he was quick.
Here was a man, Stafford Havershift, whose chance at a senior-year tournament victory had been stolen away from him, along with much of the use of his right hand—his
Was it possible that no one else had figured it out? Or did they know—at least a little—and just pretend not to? To Albus, it seemed very obvious: a wealthy team supporter who just happens to be an international potion- making expert gives the team a talisman for them to rub before every game and from that day on… they never lose. Coincidence?
'You've got to be kidding me,' Albus mumbled under his breath, peering out the front window at the statue on the lawn, glinting in the moonlight. 'I mean, seriously.
A few days later, as he was coming home from classes, Albus angled over toward the statue. He glanced furtively around and then peered closely at the amber eyes set into the statue's head just over the snarling muzzle. He saw his own reflection in them, hazy but bright, tinted golden. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the cold metal of the wolf 's nose. It was skillfully cast, both soft and hard under his fingertips, worn bright by the hands that had rubbed it over the years. Feeling a slight shudder, Albus stroked his palm along the wolf's carved muzzle. A moment later, he retreated into the house, virtually running up the steps to his dormitory.
Once inside, he slammed the door and hurried to his bed. He placed his knapsack onto the bed, unzipped it, and rummaged inside until he found a sheet of light pink parchment, nearly as thin as tissue. He had just come from Potion-Making class with Professor Baruti and had secretly nicked the flimsy bit of parchment from the stash in the Potions closet. Among the Potions students, the pink parchment sheets were known as 'Teach-cheats' because of the way Professor Baruti used them to measure the ingredients of the class projects. He'd merely dip one corner into their cauldrons, examine it critically, and then suggest more eye of newt or a pinch less powdered spider bile.
Carefully, Albus lay the thin parchment onto his right hand, which was still cool from the metal of the bronze statue. With his left hand, he pressed the Teach-cheat hard against his palm. He waited ten seconds, counting slowly under his breath, and then drew his hands apart again. He carried the sheet of pink parchment to the window so he could examine it in the sunlight.
Slowly, faintly, cursive handwriting began to curl out on the paper, as if written by an invisible hand.
Albus read the words as soon as each one became clear.
