Chapter 201. The Peculiar Beech Tree
The term very quickly drew to a close.
After that, almost everything was good news.
Lucius lost his position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors one day.
Adrian Wesson had always felt the Board barely had any presence at Hogwarts—aside from the time they engineered the Headmaster's suspension.
In his impression, the Board's main function seemed to be providing financial support to the school.
Afterwards, Cornelius Fudge suddenly sent Wesson two letters, inviting him to drop by the Ministry of Magic.
Wesson guessed it was because of Lord Voldemort, but he didn't much like Fudge, so he found a casual excuse and declined.
At the same time, Professor Sprout's large batch of Mandrakes had matured, and all the petrified students were revived.
The only pity was that those students might not have time to prepare for the end-of-year exams.
Speaking of exams, Harry's marks were very good; he placed third in his year.
Second was a girl from Ravenclaw, and first, of course, hardly needs saying—it was Hermione.
Hermione was Outstanding across all subjects.
At the end-of-term feast, Dumbledore announced this year's House Cup champion—Gryffindor, which edged out the other three Houses by a narrow margin.
That owed much to the hundred points Dumbledore awarded to Harry.
At last, the day came: the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade station.
Wesson stood on the platform with Hagrid, seeing the students off.
"Good-bye, Professor Wesson, I'll write to you."
"See you next term, Professor Wesson. I really hope you'll teach us Defence Against the Dark Arts for a while again next year..."
"Professor Wesson..."
Quite a few students greeted Wesson when they saw him, and Wesson replied to each in turn.
The scene rather surprised Hagrid. "Feels like the students all like yeh."
Wesson smiled faintly.
He knew the reason.
At some point, news that he'd solved the petrification incident had spread through the whole school.
On top of that, he'd been well received in Care of Magical Creatures and during his stint teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts; it was only natural that the students liked him.
Finally, the last student boarded the Hogwarts Express—and this year, Wesson didn't plan to take the train back.
Watching the train vanish from sight, Hagrid let out a silent sigh.
"What's wrong?" Wesson looked at him, puzzled.
"The students leavin' always makes a person feel a bit lonely," Hagrid shook his head. "Hogwarts goes quiet all of a sudden."
"You've still got the little darlings in the Forbidden Forest to keep you company," Wesson drawled. "I know you're keeping a lot of creatures in there, some of them even a bit less than by-the-book..."
"Don' say that, Professor Wesson." Hagrid hurried to stop him and explained in a low voice, "They're Hogwarts property, not mine personally..."
Wesson lifted his shoulders noncommittally.
That was true in principle, but most of it was Hagrid's own idea.
Take that colony of Acromantulas: Wesson reckoned that if not for Hagrid's objections, Dumbledore would have had them reduced to vats of Acromantula venom by now.
And Acromantula venom is worth a king's ransom on the market.
"How're yeh plannin' to spend the summer?" Hagrid changed the subject.
"Haven't entirely decided yet." Wesson shook his head, then said cheerfully, "But I've nothing urgent on. I might first go and visit Professor Kettleburn—he doesn't seem to have been in great health lately—and then head to France…"
Wesson hadn't set himself any must-do tasks for this summer.
Perhaps he would pass the holidays in a leisurely way.
As for Hagrid, naturally he would remain at Hogwarts.
The sun already hung high in the sky. Hagrid wiped the sweat from his brow and said, "I'll head back first, Professor Wesson. I've got to look in on the Forbidden Forest—seems there's been a bit o' a situation lately."
"A situation?"
There was a hint of curiosity on Wesson's face. "What happened?"
"Oh, nothin' major," Hagrid waved a hand and said offhandedly, "It's just we've been hearin' strange noises lately, an' sometimes yeh can feel the ground shakin'."
"Has it only started recently?" Wesson asked.
Some time ago, when he had been patrolling in Hagrid's stead, he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary.
"Yeah," Hagrid scratched his chin. "Reckon it's the trolls' mating season—those big lugs always kick up a right racket."
Wesson nodded and didn't give it much thought.
Trolls—nothing unusual about that.
He had seen trolls in the Forbidden Forest himself.
Only, most of the trolls in the forest were especially timid; the moment they saw him, they bolted.
Even so, faintly, Wesson had the sense he'd forgotten something important.
At that moment, somewhere deep within the Forbidden Forest.
A huge beech tree stood there in silence.
Had Wesson been present, he would have recognised it at once as the very one he had once tried to transplant to his plantation.
Now, the beech had grown even taller and more luxuriant.
What was more astonishing, the outline of a human face had surfaced on its trunk, the features picked out clearly in folded bark.
"Are you there?"
The mouth in the face on the trunk suddenly wriggled; a slit opened, and a hoarse, low voice came out.
Not far away, several trees of unknown species began to sway, their boughs and leaves rustling as if in answer to the beech's call.
"Oh, all right."
The beech's voice sounded again.
Perhaps speaking had cost it too much energy; the face on the trunk slowly blurred and finally disappeared completely.
Naturally, Wesson did not witness this scene.
After chatting with Hagrid for a while, he returned to the Hogwarts castle.
As soon as he stepped through the doors, he noticed Dumbledore standing off to the side.
"Seeing off the dear students always makes one feel sad," Dumbledore rubbed his eyes and said to Wesson. "What do you think, Professor Wesson?"
Wesson nodded slightly, then showed a puzzled expression. "What are you doing here, Professor Dumbledore?"
The two of them strolled along the corridor at an easy pace.
"The Trolley Witch on the Hogwarts Express," Dumbledore answered with a touch of emotion.
"The Trolley Witch?"
In Wesson's mind rose the image of a plump, kindly old woman.
"Did something happen?" he asked.
Dumbledore nodded. "She just told me she's nearly at retirement age. Ah, that's only natural—she'd already been working there quite a while when I was at school. By my reckoning, she must be at least a hundred and fifty."
A hundred and fifty? Even for a witch, that was undeniably an advanced age.
Wesson hesitated—how old was Dumbledore now, again?
One can only say, the working folk of the wizarding world truly have it hard.
Thankfully, he himself didn't have to worry about work.
He was a professor now only for the pleasure of it.
"But she seems to be very fond of the job," Dumbledore went on. "So I urged her to carry on a few more years, and she agreed. Mm, seeing how spry she is, she can keep at it for decades yet."
Wesson didn't know what to say.
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