Chapter 96: Setting Off!
The banquet ended, and everyone returned to their dormitories.
Hermione lay on the four-poster bed, her hands resting on the edge of the quilt. She heard Lavender yawn, then let out a satisfied long sigh, her breathing gradually becoming even. Parvati’s bed made rustling sounds; she always fidgeted for a while before finding the most comfortable sleeping position.
This night seemed no different from the more than three hundred nights before. They would fall asleep under the starlight of the Scottish Highlands, but Hermione had no sleepiness. She wasn’t sure if it was because of Professor Levent’s reprimand in the Great Hall or because the school year was about to end.
She was about to return to Hampstead Gardens in suburban London, and for two and a half months, she wouldn’t be able to cast magic.
Parvati in the next bed was still awake, her breathing not calming down.
“Hermione… Hermione…”
Her low-voiced call sounded in the dormitory: “I heard you got full marks on all other exams, but failed the practical Defence Against the Dark Arts exam. Is it true?”
“Mm.”
The final grades had been issued. The little witch ranked first in the year with an absolute lead in scores. Not only that, Harry and Ron also passed the exams with high marks. Neville scraped by, slightly weaker in Potions, but his Herbology made up for some of it…
“Don’t mind it. I think Professor Levent was deliberately messing with us. Not just us—even if Aurors came, they’d fail.”
The little witch in the darkness didn’t respond. If Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick had overseen the exam, there definitely wouldn’t have been the absurd farce of the entire school failing. But with Professor Levent doing this, for some reason, she didn’t feel anything wrong about it.
She curled a bit more into the covers and glanced at the starlight at the window, like white frost. The night sky outside was a dark blue.
The little witch began to reflect on her mistaken thoughts, thinking her roommate was right—this exam failure wasn’t entirely her fault.
It was all Professor Levent’s fault.
……
At dawn.
Edge of the Forbidden Forest.
The gamekeeper and the hound woke up, washing and brushing their teeth by the faint morning light. Fang ran around the house, occasionally barking twice, more often making low whining sounds.
Hagrid fetched a packet of bug medicine from the woodpile in the yard, scattered it in the pumpkin patch, pulled off the vines clinging to the fence, locked the door after confirming everything was fine, and walked toward the castle.
Fang carried his pink umbrella in its mouth, huffing and puffing after him, nudging him a few times with its head.
Hagrid took it, wiped the drool on his clothes, and rubbed its head: “I’ve arranged it with Ronan and the others. Over the summer vacation, you’ll go hunting with them. You’ll get a share of the roast meat and stewed soup, guaranteed to fill you up. If you get tired of the Centaur Tribe’s food, go to the castle. Mr. Filch won’t ignore you, and the house-elves in the kitchen will prepare food for you.”
“Woo…”
Fang flicked its butt, paddling its short legs along the path deep into the Forbidden Forest, its call shrill.
Not a moment to feel sad about parting from its master—the next two months were a joyful holiday of hunting and eating meat to its heart’s content.
……
The Great Hall still had Gryffindor-colored decorations. Compared to last night’s banquet, breakfast was exceptionally quiet, with only the clinking of cups and plates in the entire hall.
The four deans distributed holiday notices to each student. In the blink of an eye, the little wizards packed their luggage, sorted their schoolbags, and under Hagrid’s lead, walked out the school gate and boarded the red train parked by the platform.
“Choo! Choo!”
The whistle startled the wilderness. The wheels began to turn, crushing the morning dew on the tracks. The Hogwarts Express slowly set off toward the Muggle World.
On the grassland by the Black Lake, Melvin watched the white steam gradually dissipate, blending into the clouds in the sky.
“We should set off too.”
Professor Kettleburn chuckled twice, lightly whipping the tall Pegasus beside him with a whip braided from burlap.
The three chestnut-maned Pegasi flinched in pain, lowering their heads and bumping him staggering, drawing a few scolding laughs: “You stupid horses, I got up early to feed you fodder from Romania, gave you honey mead from The Three Broomsticks. Now that you’re full, you hit back after a couple whips?”
Melvin eyed these sturdy Pegasi.
Before the Floo Network and Portkeys became widespread, Pegasus carriages were the mainstream transport for wizards, and even now, they hadn’t completely disappeared.
There are many breeds of Pegasus, each with unique abilities. Hogwarts keeps Thestrals, Beauxbatons has Thestrals, Ilvermorny’s mountains have Thestrals—the three in front were Professor Kettleburn’s private collection, breed called Isle of Dragon.
Their manes were brownish-red, burly and robust, a bit like sweat-blooded horses. It was said their veins flowed with fire dragon bloodline; they only ate fresh pasture grass cultivated with dragon dung and loved fruit brandy.
Considering the long journey today, Professor Kettleburn had only fed them some honey mead, which seemed to displease the horses.
While installing the frame and harnesses, Kettleburn said to him: “Let me tell you, Melvin, since you’re stopping in Budapest on this trip, ride the Isle of Dragon carriage. When I went to Romania before, I always used Portkeys. I’ve been there many times; no need for entry-exit paperwork.”
Melvin smiled and said: “I thought the professor was some dangerous figure banned from entering other countries.”
“Haha… I’m not like that guy Newt.”
“The professor is retiring next year, right?”
“How did you know? Did Albus tell you?”
“Sort of.”
“Still have to admit old age. When young, even missing an arm or leg, I could get by. Now older, bones are brittle; on the classroom, I can barely hold back those animals.”
“Can’t hold back magical creatures, but can hold back black wizards with ill intentions. I remember during the Christmas holiday, the professor seemed to be targeting Quirinus Quirrell. Did you notice something off?”
Kettleburn continued teasing the Pegasus, grinning: “Didn’t find any evidence. Just after spending so long with magical creatures, you can sense real emotions. Some have bad tempers but good nature—reach out and pet them fine. Some seem mild but are always ready to bite. Wizards are the same.”
Melvin nodded slightly.
Professor Kettleburn loved courting death, spending years in the wilderness chasing magical creatures, trading contraband with black wizards multiple times. Surviving to this age was all thanks to his unique experience.
The Isle of Dragons calmly let them harness the frame, their dark eyes unusually lively, who knows what they were thinking.
“Melvin! Professor Keltburn!”
Ripples spread across the calm lake surface, the ground seeming to sense some tremor. The burly half-giant ran over, holding a small bear doll in hand, pink umbrella at his waist, looking indescribably comical.
After seeing the students off on the train, Hagrid immediately ran this way—not afraid of missing it, just excited: “I’m here! I’m here!”
Seeing the three Pegasi, Hagrid’s eyes went straight: “These are Isle of Dragons, right? Look at their muscles—so beautiful!”
He reached to touch their trapezius, got swatted by a tail, unperturbed, grabbed the tail shamelessly and petted a few times, then got kicked by a hoof—rear kick.
An ordinary wizard would have flown off after two hits, but the half-giant’s physique was there; two hooves didn’t injure him, though it still hurt.
“Hiss…”
Hagrid grimaced and sucked in cold air while still trying to sidle up to the Pegasus.
“You little guys are so cute!”
His rogue demeanor made even Melvin laugh.
Professor Keltburn harnessed the Pegasus frame, saw Hagrid interacting with them, seemed relieved, couldn’t help grinning: “Let’s go, we’re off too!”
The peachwood carriage was exquisitely crafted, inlaid with gold and silver carvings.
Looking closely, the silver was real silver, but the gold was actually brass.
The carriage roof was a head shorter than Hagrid, but inside, the space opened up, almost as big as the school auditorium. It was unkempt though—fodder piled on the carpet, feed troughs and other tack, only a few chairs by the window.
“Go!”
The wooden wheels with embedded cast iron crushed the wet soft grass. The carriage moved slowly for a distance, then lifted into the air, speeding over the Black Lake toward the distant mountains.
In the castle’s eighth-floor window, half-open, the silver-haired old headmaster and the phoenix poked their heads out together, watching them go, smiles tugging at their lips.
In the room, the deputy headmaster dutifully reported work: “This year’s work summary has been submitted to the Board of Governors. Mr. Malfoy didn’t say anything, but he wants to meet Melvin and Severus. Melvin’s schedule is tight, so I postponed; Severus outright refused.”
“…”
Hearing this, Dumbledore’s smile grew brighter.
“Opening work isn’t urgent. The important thing is the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Mr. Guffey wrote last week asking when this year’s hiring notice will be posted?”
The deputy headmaster said solemnly, “Headmaster, you’ve seen the mess Melvin caused. We can’t keep posting last-minute ads for professors every year; we must solve this problem.”
“Well… I already have a candidate.”
Dumbledore took a finely bound book from the bookshelf, 《I Am Magical》, the wizard on the cover smiling brilliantly.
“Gilderoy Lockhart.”
Professor McGonagall’s thick brows furrowed slightly. She had heard of this bestselling book writer. Though she disliked his style, judging by the experiences and feats in those books, Lockhart was capable of being a professor.
But were the contents of those books really his experiences?
“No other candidates?”
“I believe the students can learn a lot from Professor Lockhart, not just book knowledge.”
“…”
After Professor McGonagall left, Dumbledore sat behind the desk, took out the diadem inlaid with sapphire, his deep blue eyes reflecting the same obscure glow.
He already had some understanding of Voldemort’s Horcrux creation experience and process. Considering Voldemort wouldn’t have used founders’ relics as vessels from the start, thinking deeper, the number of Horcruxes Voldemort made might exceed his expectations.
No matter how simple the Horcrux creation process, it required tearing the soul.
In terms of magic power’s essence, the soul is the source of a wizard’s magic power. After multiple tears, Voldemort’s soul still retained consciousness and reason, without turning into a mad lunatic, and his magic power became even stronger.
According to Nicolas Flamel, Melvin might unlock the secret.
Both seemed connected to Salazar Slytherin.
How much legacy did that founder leave?
Dumbledore pondered quietly, right hand resting on the chair armrest, unconsciously tapping lightly.
