Chapter 183: Scritch
The sky gradually brightened.
Unfortunately, Percy stayed up too late, and excessive fatigue prevented him from waking up early, causing him to miss the Daily Prophet morning news.
Under Editor-in-Chief Guffey’s leadership, the Daily Prophet has learned to produce video news, developing a fixed format routine: starting with recent Ministry of Magic news, implementation of related policies, changes in personnel positions, and interesting anecdotes about some officials. Next comes local news from various parts of Britain, like which unlucky person mispronounced a spell and got themselves into the hospital, magical creatures escaping and causing chaos, and finally the new merchants from other countries in Diagon Alley.
The content isn’t boring, but it’s not particularly interesting either; only some information has value, while most of it is forgotten after watching.
In fact, many pure-blood wizard families have formed a habit of turning on the projection mirror during breakfast, listening to the news while eating to pass the boring early morning time.
The projection mirror is just getting started, with very rudimentary content—almost just those few programs playing on repeat: Quidditch fun matches, Animal World jungle episodes, a female singer’s new album, and Daily Prophet news.
If the projection mirror has any advantage over television, it’s probably that alchemical creations are more durable than technological creations; even after continuous playback for days, the projection mirror won’t overheat.
The projection mirror in the Hogwarts common room was like that; after a day and night of playback, some little wizards couldn’t stay up and returned to their dormitory in a daze to sleep, while the projection mirror only consumed some Floo Powder.
When Percy opened his eyes, his brother Ron was lying on the sofa opposite, sleeping crookedly with drool traces at the corner of his mouth, and the rat Scabbers was held in his arms, sleeping just as peacefully.
“Uh…”
Percy felt extremely tired; staying up late led to insufficient sleep, his head was dizzy, his eyes itched and swelled, and his whole body ached.
He had stayed up late before during grand banquets on holidays, but not until this late—probably nearly three or four in the morning—and watching the projection mirror didn’t feel strenuous but was exceptionally draining; afterward, without proper washing or rest, just lying on the sofa for a few hours, he hadn’t recovered at all.
No more, he would never stay up late again.
Percy slowly got up supporting himself on the sofa, feeling light-headed at the soles of his feet; when going upstairs, he glanced back at the projection mirror, where a group of classmates was still gathered, not sure if they were early risers or hadn’t slept at all.
……
Lunchtime, Great Hall on the first floor.
“Melvin, pass the jam please.” Professor Flitwick, sitting on the bench, reached out and called to Melvin two seats away.
“Cranberry or orange?” Melvin asked casually.
“Both jams are delicious, but I prefer raspberry.” Flitwick took the passed jam, smiling, “Thank you very much.”
With a pop, the jam jar lid was unscrewed; the goblin-halfblood professor spread a few spoonfuls on a bread slice himself, then casually handed it to Minerva beside him; Professor McGonagall naturally took it; from their student days to now, they had worked together for decades with very similar tastes.
“I’ve wanted to ask since morning, why are there so few students dining today?” Flitwick looked around the Great Hall, answering his own question, “Is it because today is Sunday?”
Professor McGonagall scanned around, also puzzled: “It shouldn’t be this few; in the past, on weekends some students didn’t come to the Great Hall for meals, eating snacks and desserts in the common room or picnicking by the lake, but that was only a minority; today at least half the students are absent.”
She seemed to remember something, turned to Melvin, and slightly furrowed her brows: “Is it because of the projection mirror?”
“…”
Melvin blinked, looking innocent.
What did that mean, why look at him?
Wasn’t it you, the deputy headmaster, who authorized the students to connect to the Floo Network?
He had issued a warning in advance and fulfilled his duties as elective professor; even if the projection mirror had a bad influence on students, it couldn’t be blamed on the projection mirror founder.
Professor McGonagall looked at the empty seats at the house table, her brows knitting together, her expression gradually turning serious.
……
“Harry, what should we bring Ron? Beef pies or apple pie?” Harry sat at the Gryffindor long table, asking Hermione beside him.
“Has he gotten this lazy?” Hermione was incredulous, “Staying up late at night unwilling to return to the dormitory to sleep, sleeping through breakfast, and unwilling to come to the Great Hall for lunch?”
“You know, it’s their first time with the projection mirror; it’ll be fine after a while.”
Harry didn’t think it strange; when living at the Dursleys’ home before, on Cousin Dudley’s birthday, while his uncle and aunt took the whole family out leaving him alone, he would turn on the television and play all day, having leftover pizza from the refrigerator for lunch, drinking beverages when thirsty, enjoying himself until hearing the car pull into the garage.
“And lunch for the rat Scabbers; get it a doughnut, rats must like that.” Harry acted like a dutiful restaurant delivery person.
“Oh, the rat Scabbers…” Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Ever since finding that rat, Ron had been inseparable from it, holding it while eating and sleeping; she couldn’t understand—a mangy, missing-toe rat; shouldn’t the proper way to keep it be in a cage?
“Don’t say that, Hermione…” Harry paused, recalling the rat’s appearance, also finding it hard to accept, “Ron is from a pure-blood family; wizards keeping quirky pets is normal—Professor Levent keeps a snake!”
Hermione glanced quietly at the high table, shaking her head: “Yurm is much cuter than Scabbers.”
……
Following the rotating staircase to the castle basement, Melvin walked slowly in the corridor; it was Sunday afternoon, and this floor was quiet.
Hogwarts’ basement was originally a dank dungeon, with corridors of stacked rock branching into several junctions extending in different directions: the middle one dimly lit by candlelight, leading to the Potions classroom and Professor Snape’s office, where Nic’s Deathday party was held.
The left one wound down under the Black Lake, where the Slytherin common room and dormitory were.
The brightest one on the right was Melvin’s destination, leading to the Hufflepuff Common Room, location of the Hogwarts Kitchen.
Footsteps sounded; Melvin turned to look—a blonde little witch ahead, stepping from shadow into torchlight, wearing Hufflepuff wizard robes, carrying a fruit basket.
“Good afternoon, Professor Levent.” The girl greeted lightly.
“Good afternoon, Hannah.” Melvin smiled and nodded, “The kitchen is this way, right? I heard the way to open is to tickle a fruit painting.”
“Go further in and you’ll see it; remember to tickle that pear’s armpit.”
Hannah Abo was a typical Hufflepuff, mild-mannered, same year as Hermione and the others, second year student; she could take Muggle Studies next year. Melvin was quite familiar with her because Old Tom at the Leaky Cauldron was also surnamed Abo and had a good relationship with Hannah’s mother, often mentioning her in chats.
Melvin turned right, entering bright firelight; everywhere were ancient oil paintings, unlike the talking wizard portraits upstairs—these mainly depicted food: golden-roasted turkey, snowy cream cakes, mashed potatoes and butter biscuits…
All in warm, bright tones that uplifted the mood just looking at them.
The most prominent one showed a huge silver bowl full of fruit.
Melvin examined it carefully for a moment, reached out and tickled the emerald pear; the pear immediately wriggled, giggling, its outline becoming more pronounced, gradually turning into a large green door handle.
Pulling the door handle open revealed the Hogwarts Kitchen.
The kitchen had a ceiling nearly ten meters high, area as large as the Great Hall, as grand as Slytherin’s Chamber; exquisite stoves held pots, countertops and cabinets displayed gleaming new platters and knives and forks that reflected figures, and deepest in the room was a brick fireplace.
Hot steam hit his face, the air filled with the sweet scent of bread and stewed bean meat soup.
Several quick footsteps approached—short, skinny figures standing before Melvin, wearing shabby aprons, still holding kitchen tools they hadn’t put down.
“Professor Levent, you’ve come personally; is there anything you need?”
One house-elf asked in a high-pitched squeak, “There’s evening stew in the pot, pies and pastries ready in the oven; if you want something else, we can make it right away, won’t keep you waiting long.”
“Nothing specific; I’m doing some research on very obscure materials—perhaps some of you house-elves know the information I need.” Melvin smiled mildly.
“Professor Levent, just tell us what you need!” The middle house-elf exclaimed delightedly, the others clearly following his lead, “House-elves are happy to help you!”
House-elves are absolutely loyal servants; since the school was founded a thousand years ago, Helga Hufflepuff brought these house-elves, arranging them as part of the staff; they have lived here generation after generation, responsible for students’ daily lives and the castle’s miscellaneous work.
Of course, this mutual aid is two-way.
Hogwarts is cared for by these house-elves, and the teachers and students ensure they have work and are not abused.
Starting with few students, as Hogwarts gained fame, more wizards sent their children for education; with more teachers and students, the house-elves providing services grew accordingly; successive headmasters followed the founders’ instructions, recruiting homeless house-elves.
By timeline, when the Lestrange Family fell, it was during Dumbledore’s tenure; given the headmaster’s character, he might have recruited the family’s house-elves.
Melvin came with a try-his-luck attitude: “Has anyone here worked at the Lestrange house?”
“The Lestrange house? Mr. Rabastan Lestrange, Mr. Rodolphus Lestrange, and Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange’s family?”
The house-elf shuddered, as if recalling something terrible, then craned its neck and turned: “Scritch! Scritch! Professor Levent is looking for you!”
The huge kitchen suddenly quieted, only faint sounds from the stovetops; the oven fire burned steadily, stew bubbling; all house-elves looked toward the room’s depths, the shadows to the right of the fireplace.
A figure slowly emerged from the shadows; while other house-elves were skinny with skin taut over bones, this one was covered in flab, skin several times more than needed, ears sprouting white fur, eyes cloudy—clearly elderly.
Melvin slowly crouched down, eye-level with the aged house-elf: “Are you Scritch?”
“My original name was Sachi; Scritch was what the female master changed it to after marrying in.” Scritch’s voice was hoarse and low, unlike the other shrill elves, “It means piercing scream; the female master thought my punishment screams when I erred were ugly.”
Melvin paused briefly, saying softly: “Do you know your former masters are now serving time in Azkaban?”
“I know, I know…” Scritch trembled slightly, cloudy eyes welling with tears, “Their family were all… all followers of that gentleman, the wizard whose name cannot be mentioned; under him, they treated me like vermin, until… until Mr. Potter defeated that person.”
This sparked murmurs among the other house-elves.
“Do you hate them?” Melvin asked.
“…”
Scritch wiped tears with its apron, silent for a long time without answering: “Professor Levent, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Listen, Scritch, I want to ask a favor: I need the exact location of Lestrange Manor.”
“Sir, may I know why?”
“It’s already a ruined house, abandoned for 12 years.” Melvin sighed lightly, not directly answering.
“I once thought I’d escaped it… because if the masters hadn’t met misfortune, my head would long ago have been chopped off and thrown in the trash.” Scritch’s voice was low, “But I know, I’m always a house-elf, slave of the Lestrange Family, sir. We keep masters’ secrets, stay silent, uphold family honor, never betray.”
Melvin rubbed his brow, getting a headache.
These house-elves were more stubborn than wizards when dug in; wizards considered self-interest, at least allowing threats, bribes, or deals, but house-elves didn’t even care about their own lives when obstinate.
Melvin thought, then tried a detour: “Lestrange Manor doesn’t refuse visitors; if I have an invitation from the main family, it wouldn’t be betrayal—you’d point the way, right?”
“The Lestrange wizards are all in Azkaban now,” Scritch said hollowly.
“So the manor should be inherited by other blood relatives.”
“The Covas bloodline and Cyril bloodline are both extinct; no other heirs.”
“No Lestranges left, but Bellatrix has a blood sister.”
Scritch’s expression changed, cloudy eyes widening, staring blankly: “You mean Lady Narcissa Black?”
“Now Mrs. Malfoy.”
