Chapter 31 — A Midnight Ramble
Russell shrugged and let the thought go. He wasn't one for needless rumination. He opened the cover and found the book's contents messy and cramped, like a hurried hand had written them.
He skimmed through and, from the tone and the archaic grammar, guessed it must be a very old wizard's diary. The syntax was different from modern usage, but not so far off that he couldn't make sense of it.
At first he'd flicked through to kill time, but the more he read the stronger the sense of familiarity became. Wars in Britain, Avalon, the Sword in the Stone, the Round Table — it was Arthurian legend, only told from a different angle.
To check his hunch he flipped to the last page. Sure enough, the signature read Morgan le Fay — Arthur's half-sister, queen of Avalon.
Clever. The diary framed the whole saga from Morgan's point of view; whoever wrote it had imagination. Russell didn't believe for a second this was literally Morgan's handwriting — she was a figure of legend, and five centuries had passed. Still, the idea and the craftsmanship were impressive.
The thorn-crown embossed on the cover had looked cool; perhaps he'd triggered some easter-egg by opening the book.
Just as he was about to close it, the ink on the page rippled, pooled like water and then drained away, leaving a blank space.
"What on earth—?" He bent closer, prepared to inspect, when new lines slowly bled back across the whitened sheet.
"I am Mistress of Avalon, Morgan le Fay. Swear fealty and free me from my bonds; aid me and I shall make you Duke of Ireland."
Russell blinked. His first, uncharitable thought was: even the wizarding world has scammers.
He didn't hesitate. Grinning, he dipped his quill and wrote back, "I am King Arthur. I need large sums to restore my realm. Help me and I'll knight you at my round table — we'll share the world."
He snapped the book shut, assuming the exchange was a clever trick built into the volume — a gimmick that sprang to life when you reached the last page. If not, he thought, then it would be a story about a haunted book like old Tom's diary — and soul-binding such things is not something that can happen by accident in a second-hand bookstore. He wasn't Ginny Weasley after all.
What Russell could not know was that his written reply seeped into the book. Seconds later the pages streamed with text.
"You are Arthur? Impossible — he's dead. Speak!"
"Answer now!"
"By Avalon's right, I command you to reply — or I will tear your soul out and torment it for eternity."
…The words kept coming.
He shut the book and put it back in the cupboard, then called over his two roommates.
"Hey, boys — anyone up for a late-night snack?" He shoved the book away and asked, smiling at the two still-awake figures. They claimed to be tired all the time, yet never seemed to sleep — very much like his friends back in his previous life: quick to say they were exhausted, quicker still to stay up late.
"Where are we going to find food now?" James snorted. "It's curfew. I don't want Filch catching me and docking house points."
"Same," Rosen said without looking up, idly waving a strip of dried fish. "But Russell — you actually have a cat? That's brilliant." He tried persuading Ice Cream to come forward, but the cat simply sat on Russell's bed and stared like it had seen a fool.
Gaps left by Fawley's absence made his bed empty.
"Well, since you two won't come, I'll go alone," Russell said. He did, however, want a little insurance.
Night-wandering at Hogwarts is both simple and risky. The hard part is Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris — she has an uncanny eye for tracking students. The easy part is that there are plenty of ways to avoid her: an Invisibility Cloak, a Disguise Charm… Russell had neither. But he had a secret weapon: Ice Cream. If Mrs. Norris showed up, Ice Cream could cause a diversion and draw Filch's attention elsewhere.
Professors rarely patrolled the castle at night, so get past Filch and the rest would be straightforward.
Footsteps clicked down corridors in the hush of night; they sounded ominous, but Russell saw no sign of Filch. Maybe the caretaker was elsewhere on his rounds.
Familiar as it was now, he arrived at the painting of a pear, scratched its chin and waited for the tucked-in door to the kitchens to chuckle and open. It did so with a soft titter.
"Mr. Fythorne…oh my!" Poppy squealed, nearly toppling backward at the sight of Ice Cream's furry head.
"Sorry, sorry!" Russell scooped the cat up. Ice Cream looked like it had never seen a house-elf before and was simply curious.
Russell reminded himself that house-elves are powerful creatures; ordinary witches and wizards are not their equals. Perhaps the elf in front of him simply lacked the fight instinct from being so long at Hogwarts.
"It's all right, sir," the elf said, relieved. "Would you like a midnight bite?"
"Absolutely," Russell announced. "And could you please pack two extra—one for each of my roommates? And a steak for Ice Cream."
"Of course — an honour to serve," the elf chirped, bustling happily at the stove. He had no complaint about this late shift.
Russell tucked into his food. Then, suddenly, the kitchen door swung open. He didn't bother to look up; he assumed it was some other Hufflepuff scavenging supper. But the visitor's greeting made him freeze.
"Good evening, Mr. Fythorne."
Russell froze mid-bite, a chill running down his spine. The voice was far too composed—far too adult.
Someone had caught him.