Chapter 275: Grindelwald: Your Brother Doesn't Seem to Like Me
"Longbottom!"
Professor McGonagall's voice ricocheted off the stone walls, making the ashes in the fireplace jump.
"Because of your carelessness, the safety of the entire school was put at risk! From this day forward, you are forbidden from visiting Hogsmeade, you will have detention from seven to nine every evening, and "
McGonagall paused, her eyebrows knitted into a tight knot.
"No one is to tell you the password to the tower ever again!"
Neville's face went white, his lips trembling as he tried to speak.
In the end, all he could manage was a whisper so faint it was like a mosquito's buzz: "Yes, Professor."
He clutched the Memory Orb Dylan had modified, its glass surface warming in his palm.
The "canvas" of false memories inside was still blank.
He hadn't had a chance to record anything before his punishment arrived.
The following days were an ordeal for Neville.
Every morning, he had to stand in front of the Fat Lady's portrait ten minutes early.
With his school bag on his back and the Memory Orb clutched tightly in his hand, he looked like a little bird waiting to be fed.
When the first student to arrive, hurrying with a piece of bread in their mouth, mumbled the password, they didn't even spare him a glance.
Neville would quickly stare at the Memory Orb, and on the blank "canvas" in his mind, he would use his consciousness to write out the password, stroke by stroke, things like "Lions are the strongest" or "Make snakes into skewers."
He was terrified he'd forget it if he was even a moment too slow.
The Memory Orb Dylan had modified was indeed much more convenient.
He didn't need to cast a spell, and he didn't have to worry about others seeing.
Only when Neville himself stared at the orb would the words he'd written with his mind appear.
It felt like he had a sticky note in his brain.
And, if it ever got full, it was simple.
He just had to find Dylan and have him cast a counter-curse.
The "canvas" would be wiped clean.
It was much more dignified than having to bother Dylan to help him record things every time before.
But even so, those few minutes spent waiting in front of the portrait felt like an eternity.
"Well, well, if it isn't 'Password-Master'!"
Three troll guards shuffled over, their clubs dragging on the ground with a grating scrape.
The lead troll poked Neville's back with a stubby finger, splattering spit onto his school uniform.
"Forget how to talk again today? Need us to shout 'open' for you?"
Among the students walking by, some couldn't help but laugh.
A girl hurried past, glancing at Neville and curling her lip.
A few boys deliberately slowed down, winking at him and muttering "idiot" under their breath.
Neville buried his head even lower. The straps of his school bag dug into his shoulders, and the Memory Orb in his hand felt like a red-hot branding iron, but he couldn't let go.
He was afraid that if he did, he'd lose even this pathetic "memo."
By now, Sir Cadogan's portrait had been moved back to that desolate landing next to the tower.
In the painting, he still wore his rusty armor, sighing all day at the empty corridor, occasionally swinging his sword through the air as if venting his frustration at being replaced.
The Fat Lady, while she had returned to her post, was now a complete nervous wreck.
The troll guards hired to protect her stood in the corridor, their large, copper-colored eyes scanning their surroundings.
They always gathered to compare whose club was bigger, their voices so loud they could shatter glass.
And every day, as soon as they saw Neville, they would stop their conversation and mock him in unison with their rumbling voices.
The laughter would only fade away after someone gave the password and Neville, head bowed, scurried inside or left.
Neville thought this was as bad as it could get.
Until the morning of the third day.
He had waited a full fifteen minutes before a first-year student finally arrived.
The child shyly gave the password, and the Fat Lady had just opened the portrait.
As Neville was about to slip inside, the lead troll suddenly reached out with a large claw and grabbed the back of his collar.
"Wait!"
The troll's voice sounded like two rocks grinding together. It yanked Neville back and pointed a stubby finger at the notice board beside the portrait.
"Read this carefully!"
Neville looked up, and saw a new piece of parchment on the board, with Professor McGonagall's handwriting, the ink still a little damp.
It read:
Due to Neville excessively endangering school safety, in addition to the original punishment, he is also forbidden from watching all Quidditch practices this semester.
Neville's face instantly froze.
Not only did he have to be a doorman with the Fat Lady every day, but he couldn't even watch Quidditch matches this semester?
Oh my god!!!
Neville's fingers slowly tightened around the Memory Orb, the glass sphere digging painfully into his palm.
The trolls erupted in louder laughter, making his ears buzz.
As for the first-year student, they had long since vanished.
The Fat Lady impatiently urged, "Get in now, don't block the way!"
Neville gritted his teeth, spun around, and practically bolted out of the tower.
The back of his shirt was wrinkled from the troll's grip.
It was just like his heart, which was a crumpled mess.
He arrived at the Great Hall earlier than usual, hoping to avoid the stares that always seemed to mock him, but he didn't expect the real storm to be waiting for him at breakfast.
The magical starry sky of the Great Hall's ceiling shimmered with a pale blue light.
Plates of sizzling sausages and fried eggs were piled high on the long tables.
But the sound of the oil couldn't drown out the low whispers of the students.
Since the Sirius Black incident, the Gryffindor table had been as if under a Silencing Charm. Even Fred and George had toned down their jokes, afraid to speak too loudly lest they draw the attention of the on-edge professors.
The only continuous, jarring sound in the entire hall was the constant flapping of owls' wings.
Just then, the shadow of a barn owl suddenly covered the plate in front of Neville.
Its outstretched wings nearly knocked over Ron's pumpkin juice.
A red envelope, the color of a burning flame, with delicate patterns seared along its edges, landed in front of him.
Neville's pupils contracted, and the toast in his hand dropped with a clatter onto his plate.
He remembered that kind of envelope all too well.
"Ah, it's a Howler!"
Ron's voice cracked.
"Run, Neville! My mum's letter almost burst my eardrums!"
Neville scrambled to his feet, accidentally knocking his knee on the bench's crossbar, wincing in pain.
But he still instinctively grabbed the envelope.
The edge of the parchment was stiff, and it felt like it had just been pulled from a fireplace.
"You can't outrun it, Neville, it's too late."
Dylan's hand rested on his arm, and then he pulled out his wand.
A faint blue light flashed, gently tapping the space between Neville and the envelope.
A Silencing Charm, at least to keep others from hearing how badly Neville was about to be scolded.
Dylan used two fingers to pinch the ribbon on the Howler and gently pulled.
Hermione's hand, holding a butter knife, froze in mid-air, her eyes wide.
A few Slytherin students had already put down their forks and were propping up their chins, ready for the show.
Malfoy, at the head of the table, even pulled out a handkerchief, pretending to cover his ears.
Screeeech! The envelope exploded in front of Neville, transforming into a large, wrinkled mouth, its edges curled into sharp teeth.
It lunged forward, almost touching Neville's nose, its throat rumbling with an enraged red aura.
With every opening and closing, it sent an invisible shockwave that made the loose strands of hair on Neville's forehead tremble.
Droplets of spittle, like tiny pearls, flew from its lips and landed in Neville's oatmeal.
Neville instinctively raised his hands to cover his ears.
Judging by his expression, he was getting a severe dressing-down.
But only Neville could feel the silent roar.
Everyone else couldn't hear a single sound.
Ron, who was sitting right next to Neville, hadn't heard a thing, and his mouth fell open.
"Dylan, when I got my Howler…"
Ron's voice was tinged with a pitiful, wronged tone as he looked at Dylan.
He still remembered the school-wide laughter when that letter howled, "You have disgraced the Weasley name!"
"You just sat there and watched me make a fool of myself? You didn't even help."
Dylan tucked his wand back into his waistband and began to chew on a piece of bacon, taking his time.
"I thought Howlers were some kind of exploding dark magic, didn't I? It was the first time I'd ever seen one, so I couldn't just jump in recklessly, could I?"
He caught a glimpse of the Slytherin table out of the corner of his eye.
Malfoy was impatiently tapping the table with a silver fork, and the faces of the students who had been hoping for a laugh were filled with disappointment.
"And this time is different."
Neville's shoulders were still trembling slightly. The look he gave Dylan was a mix of gratitude and lingering fear.
He moved his lips as if to say something, but was interrupted by the Howler lunging at him again.
The mouth of the letter was so wide it could have swallowed his fist!
The edges of the parchment trembled with fury until all its anger was vented. It then went limp like a deflated balloon, turning into a pile of crumpled red paper.
Neville paused, and with a fingertip, he touched the pieces of paper.
They instantly turned to ashes and floated into his cereal bowl.
Only then did Neville let out a long breath.
Just then, a tawny owl landed on the table in front of Harry, with a brown paper envelope tied with twine in its beak.
The corner of the envelope was stained with a bit of dirt and had a blurry paw print on it, clearly having flown from the direction of the Forbidden Forest.
"Is it Hagrid's letter?"
Harry immediately recognized the scrawled handwriting on the envelope, each letter crooked as if it had been in a giant's wrestling match.
He tore open the envelope, and the parchment unfurled. Hagrid's large handwriting was so big it almost burst through the page:
"Harry, I'd like to invite you for a spot of tea this afternoon. I've baked rock cakes. It's alright if you can't leave school, just meet me at the Entrance Hall at three, and I'll come get you."
Hagrid
"He must have heard about Black," Ron said, looking over Harry's shoulder and nudging him with his elbow.
"Maybe he knows some of the details the Ministry isn't telling us, like how Black actually got into the tower."
Harry flinched. The image of the silver knife hanging over Ron's bed that night flashed in his mind.
He tightened his grip on the letter: "Yeah, maybe I can ask him some things about my parents."
"Dylan, do you want to come with us?"
He looked up at Dylan, who was spreading jam on his bread, and extended the invitation.
"Hagrid's rock cakes are a bit hard, but they're actually not bad with hot cocoa."
Dylan, who had just put the bread in his mouth, shook his head.
"No, the weather forecast this morning said there'd be some sleet on the edge of the Forbidden Forest."
He gestured to the window, where a layer of white mist clung to the castle glass.
"I don't fancy walking through mud for afternoon tea. The feeling of getting sand in your boots is just awful."
Neville silently cleaned up the ashes on his plate.
That afternoon, in the Gryffindor common room, the fire in the fireplace slowly licked at the pine logs, making a soft crackling sound.
The warm glow made the tapestries on the stone walls look particularly vibrant.
The embroidered knights and princesses seemed to be rimmed with gold.
Dylan was sunken into the deepest armchair in the corner, sprawled out like a cat, his long legs resting casually on the footstool next to him.
A pair of leather boots with a bit of mud on them were lying at his feet.
He was clearly too lazy to put them away in the shoe rack.
The copy of Advanced Potion-Making in his hand was so thick it could have been a pillow.
The book lay open on his knees, its edges frayed from wear, but for half an hour, he hadn't turned a single page.
Dylan's eyes were half-closed, seemingly focused on the dense annotations of the spells, but his pupils reflected shadows that no one else could see.
The heat from the fireplace was making his eyelids heavy.
It was the perfect opportunity to let his thoughts drift into the scenes woven by his scrying.
What was unfolding "before his eyes" was a summer in Godric's Hollow.
Seventeen-year-old Dumbledore sat under a hawthorn tree, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint scars on his forearm from magical experiments.
Across from him, Grindelwald was laughing, his chin raised, his golden hair shining in the sunlight. He twirled a hawthorn twig in his hand, the red berries on the branch swaying with his movements.
This was the scene of their first argument about "For the Greater Good."
What should have been a tense conversation was interrupted when Dumbledore suddenly reached out and brushed a piece of grass from Grindelwald's shoulder.
Their gazes met for a spark and then quickly darted away, leaving only the rustling of the hawthorn leaves in the wind.
"Tsk, so the sparks were already flying back then."
Dylan mumbled to himself, shifting into a more comfortable position and pressing the book against his stomach.
The scene shifted, jumping to a kitchen in Godric's Hollow.
Dumbledore was using magic to stir a pot, and a fragrant aroma wafted from it.
Grindelwald leaned against the door frame, toying with Dumbledore's wand.
The wand spun so quickly between his fingers it seemed to have a life of its own.
"Your brother doesn't seem to like me."
Grindelwald suddenly spoke, a hint of nonchalant provocation in his tone.
Dumbledore didn't turn around, simply lowering the flame under the pot.
"Aberforth is just… worried about me."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Grindelwald stepped forward and gently took Dumbledore's wand-free hand from behind.
Their shadows merged on the wall, and the soup in the pot let out a plop, a sound that made the silent, intimate moment feel even more fragile.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, I wonder if old Dumbledore would just use a Fiendfyre on me if he saw me looking at his past love life."
A smile unconsciously spread across Dylan's lips.
"Heh how wonderful! This kind of juicy gossip is just so entertaining to watch."
(End of Chapter)
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