Chapter 27
Chapter 27
“Whew. So this is where it was.”
Suer carefully checked both directions. He was alone in the eighth-floor corridor.
What he had been searching for was not actually a painting. More precisely, it was a tapestry depicting a troll and a wizard in robes.
The troll was beating the wizard with an enormous, heavy club.
The tapestry hung opposite a blank white wall.
“What am I supposed to do?” Suer rubbed his chin and frowned, straining to recall the films he had watched with his former girlfriend.
Memories yellowed with age. More than ten years had passed, and what had been indistinct even then had long since broken into scattered fragments.
Perhaps he was supposed to poke the troll with his wand?
No sooner thought than done.
“Oh. Apparently not.”
Suer put away his wand under the troll’s furious glare and rubbed his chin again.
He made several more attempts at methods that seemed remotely possible, such as tickling the troll or poking it in the eye.
Unsurprisingly, every experiment failed. The wizard in the tapestry gave Suer an imploring look. Thanks to Suer’s harassment, the enraged troll had no choice but to vent all its surplus fury upon the wizard’s head.
“What are you doing here?”
A gentle voice sounded beside him. Lost in thought, Suer jumped.
“Ah…” He glanced quickly at the newcomer, then lowered his head. “Head–Headmaster.”
“In fact, I prefer to be called Professor.” Dumbledore smiled as he stood beside Suer and studied the tapestry with him.
“You appear to find this picture rather interesting?”
“Y-yes, Professor.” Suer nodded. “I came across it by chance and thought it looked amusing.”
“Oh?” Dumbledore looked at Suer with a smile, then chuckled. “It is certainly interesting.”
“His name is Barnabas the Barmy,” Dumbledore said. “He did many things in his lifetime, but he is best known for attempting to teach trolls ballet.”
Suer nodded obediently, displaying keen interest in the tapestry’s story.
“The result was failure, followed by a vigorous beating with the trolls’ clubs.”
The story was simple.
The atmosphere was awkward.
Suer gave a few hollow chuckles and pretended to be entertained, but the amusement in Dumbledore’s eyes made it clear that he saw straight through him.
“My office is along this corridor. Would you care to sit with me for a while?” Dumbledore was the first to break the silence after the two of them had stared at the tapestry for some time.
Suer very much wanted to refuse. But when the most powerful man in the school personally extended an invitation, he could only nod obediently.
He was definitely not being coerced.
They walked at an unhurried pace. Every now and then, Dumbledore’s voice broke the quiet of the corridor as he introduced another feature of the castle. He knew everything there was to know about Hogwarts, and every painting possessed a lengthy history.
One depicted a fire-breathing dragon. Dumbledore explained it in detail, tracing its story back to the wars between goblins and wizards. Suer learned that the wizarding village of Hogsmeade had once served as a command post during one of those conflicts.
“When this dragon attacked Hogwarts, the headmaster at the time subdued it.”
“And here we are.”
Dumbledore stopped before a peculiar stone gargoyle.
“Password,” the statue said in a dull voice.
“Sherbet Lemon.”
“Password accepted.”
Suer silently watched the stone creature rotate, presenting its round backside as it revealed the passage behind it.
Beyond the statue, a spiral staircase led to a door. Through that door lay the headmaster’s office.
It was a spacious, bright, circular room. Peculiarly shaped silver instruments crowded the spindly-legged tables, and several round containers revolved while spraying white smoke in every direction.
Portraits covered the walls. Many of the elderly witches and wizards in them sat with eyes closed, snoring softly. One frame was packed with people whispering among themselves.
As Suer entered, every one of them turned to stare at him.
A tall, broad bookcase stood in one corner, its shelves crammed with volumes: Advanced Transfiguration, The Study of Human Transfiguration, Secrets of Alchemy…
In one empty compartment sat a filthy hat. Suer recognised it as the Sorting Hat.
Beside the bookcase stood a tall perch. A red-and-gold bird with three curled feathers on its head rested there, eyes closed, its head bobbing gently.
“Come, sit down.” Dumbledore conjured two sofas with a wave. “Would you like something to drink? I recommend the kitchens’ special confectionery beverage.”
Suer shook his head and sat gingerly on a sofa, perching on only half of his bottom.
Although Suer had declined, Dumbledore snapped his fingers and summoned two drinks anyway.
Another awkward silence descended. Well, not complete silence; faint murmurs drifted from the portraits on the walls from time to time.
Dumbledore took a contented sip of his drink, produced a small bag from somewhere, and popped a black object into his mouth. It crunched loudly between his teeth.
Was that–a cockroach?
Suer’s expression became extremely peculiar.
“Um… Professor?” He shifted uneasily and spoke with care.
“Oh, would you like a Cockroach Cluster?” Dumbledore took several chocolate-scented cockroaches from his pocket while tossing another into his own mouth.
Suer’s lips twitched as he watched the cockroach-shaped sweets crawl across the table.
You can keep those delicacies to yourself, thank you very much.
“No, thank you, Professor.” Suer produced a smile that was awkward but impeccably polite.
“Very well, very well.” Dumbledore muttered to himself as he reverently returned the sweets to their cloth bag. He could not understand why no one appreciated something so delicious.
“There is no need to be nervous. Should I call you Bones or Ellison?”
“Either is fine, Professor.” Suer relaxed when the blindly scurrying cockroaches disappeared back into the bag.
He was not frightened of cockroaches. He simply found the creatures disgusting, and there was a certain old trauma involved. That feeling had followed him even into a different world.
After all, anyone who had once had a cockroach half the size of his palm fly into his face would feel the same.
“Very well, Mr. Bones. Professor McGonagall tells me she has discovered a promising student. I have been meaning to speak with you ever since.” Dumbledore smiled. “It was not entirely unexpected. The Bones family has always possessed considerable talent for Transfiguration.”
“I understand that you have recently been practising transformation spells. May I ask why? Under the usual curriculum, students do not encounter this material until their fourth year.”
Suer fell silent for a moment, then answered in a faint voice.
“Because of you.”
“Because of me?” Surprise crossed Dumbledore’s face.
“Yes, Professor.” Suer nodded firmly. “Before the start of term, you and Professor McGonagall transformed a unicorn for my little sister, Angel. She was very sad when the magic wore off the next day.”
“Before I left home, I promised that I would make another unicorn for her when I returned.”
“It’s also meant to be her Christmas present.”
Understanding appeared on Dumbledore’s face. “I expect you know that Transfiguration cannot create a magical creature.”
“I know. It was a horse, Professor. What you created was only a horse with a horn.”
“That involves the theory of layered transformations.” Dumbledore nodded. “A second transformation must be overlaid upon the first. Tell me, Mr. Bones, how far have you progressed?”
With Professor McGonagall’s help, Suer had already managed a successful transformation spell. He could turn a small stool into a horse of roughly similar size.
The difficulty lay in altering the object again after its initial transformation.
Then Suer remembered that the author of the paper on layered transformations appeared to be none other than the kindly Dumbledore sitting before him.
Dumbledore listened to the account of Suer’s progress and considered it for a while. Faced with the boy’s shining eyes, he could not help smiling.
“Your approach is correct, but you are still missing a few things.”
“You should proceed like this…”
Suer nodded repeatedly. He wanted to record every word with a quill, but after searching all his pockets, he found nothing to write with. He could only devote every ounce of concentration to memorising the profound theory Dumbledore explained.
As the saying went, one conversation with a wise man was worth one conversation–
No, that wasn’t right. It was worth ten years of study.
With outside assistance, the tiger blocking Suer’s path crumbled like a figure made of mud.
Everything became clear.