Chapter 56: Transfiguration Class
The Transfiguration Class classroom was at that corner at the end of the corridor. Several moving portraits hung on the wall by the window, and the wizards inside rested their chins on their hands, their eyelids drooping as they dozed off listlessly, occasionally swaying their heads with the breeze, looking just like prefects who had pulled an all-nighter.
First-year students came in one after another, finding seats and sitting down, their fingertips rubbing their new textbooks as they whispered about yesterday's Sorting Ceremony. Someone imitated Percy's serious and proper demeanor, causing those nearby to chuckle secretly.
Amster leaned against the cold stone windowsill, with an Alchemy notebook spread out in front of him. The corners of the pages were slightly curled from him rubbing against them, but he hadn't flipped through it much.
He had no classes today—he had obtained a class-exemption slip signed by Dumbledore before the term started, and fourth-year courses always allowed students to freely choose auditing or self-study.
A few days ago, Professor McGonagall had asked a prefect to pass along a message, asking if he was willing to lend a hand because the first-year Transfiguration Classtemporarily lacked a teaching assistant.
He agreed almost immediately.
The creaking sound of the door being pushed open, mixed with the sound of running footsteps, made him raise his head.
Two boys rushed in one after the other. The red hair of the one in front was conspicuously bright in the light, followed by a dark-haired kid wearing round glasses. The collar of his school uniform was crooked, and his forehead was covered in sweat.
Both of them had "we're done for, we're late" written all over their faces. They stopped side by side at the door, supporting their knees with both hands as they panted, their toes not daring to move inward.
The tabby cat behind the podium stood up at some point, its amber eyes narrowing into slits as it stared fixedly at the door.
The next second, it leapt gracefully off the podium, its figure shifting mid-air. Its emerald-green robes cascaded down, its hair combed into a meticulous bun, and its square glasses reflected a faint shimmer—Professor McGonagallstood in front of the two new students, her brow furrowed. Her expression was colder than a cat staring at its prey, and the air seemed to sink by several degrees.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley."
Her voice was not loud, yet it sounded like it was tapping on a stone slab. The two boys' shoulders shrank abruptly, burying their heads even lower,
"Entering the classroom after the class bell rang, late. Five points from Gryffindor."
The two children slunk off to find seats in the back row.
Amster glanced over. The one wearing glasses—Harry Potter—sat down, his fingertips digging into the seams of his trousers as he secretly surveyed the classroom. His gaze paused when it swept over Amster, a flash of curiosity crossing his green eyes before he quickly looked away, pretending to lower his head to organize his textbooks.
Professor McGonagall walked back to the oak podium, her fingertips tapping lightly on the tabletop as she began her lecture.
Her voice was clear and forceful, every word carrying unquestionable majesty.
When lecturing on the dangers of Transfiguration, she raised her wand, the tip touching the podium, and chanted softly.
The next second, the podium shook and transformed into a plump, pink-and-white little piglet, which shook its head and let out a squeak.
A collective gasp of shock immediately swept through the classroom. The brown-curly-haired girl in the front row had eyes that shone brilliantly, her quill dropping onto the desk with a "clack," completely forgotten.
When the little piglet wobbled back into a podium, Professor McGonagall's gaze slowly swept across the entire class.
"Who can tell me what transformation I just performed?"
The brown-curly-haired girl raised her hand almost immediately, her arm held straight up. Professor McGonagall called her name.
"You turned the podium into a fat pig, and then turned it back."
The girl's voice was crisp and tinged with excitement,
"This is advanced Transfiguration turning inanimate objects into animate ones. It requires precise control of magic and a clear target image. The books say beginners shouldn't try it, as the price of failure can be severe."
"Five points to Gryffindor."
The corners of Professor McGonagall's mouth curved up for a split second before returning to seriousness.
She waved her wand, and with a flash of silver light, a match appeared on every student's desk,
"Turn the match into a needle. The spell is'Skim'."
A ragged chorus of "Skim" immediately rang out across the classroom, mixed with the slight sound of waving wands.
Amster closed his Alchemy notebook, tucked it under his arm, rose from the window, and slowly walked along the aisle.
The hem of his black robes brushed against the edge of the desks, his footsteps very light, his gaze falling upon everyone's wand movements and match transformations.
Walking over to the brown-curly-haired girl, he paused. One end of the match in front of her was already shimmering with silver light, slowly elongating.
"Well done."
He leaned down, his voice lowered,
"Make the magic output a bit more even, and the needle body will be smoother. Don't rush; Transfiguration cannot be rushed."
He reached out, tapping lightly with his wand, and the half-finished needle floated up, spinning around in front of him. The needle body became a bit straighter and smoother, then fell back onto the desk.
The girl's eyes widened, her mouth slightly agape, unable to close it for a long time.
Professor McGonagall walked over at some point, lowered her head to look at the needle, then raised her eyes to look at Amster, nodding slightly.
"Ten points to Slytherin."
He continued walking forward, his pace unhurried.
When he reached Harry, the boy was gripping his wand tightly, his knuckles turning white, his arms tense and straight, chanting spells hard at the match. Beads of fine sweat beaded on his forehead, and a small patch of his school uniform collar was damp.
"You're holding the wand too tightly."
Amster stopped, his voice not loud yet clear,
"Relax. It's just a tool, not an enemy. Holding it too tight will jam the magic."
Harry jerked his head up, his green eyes filled with tension and discomfort. His lips moved, but he finally nodded, loosened his hand gripping the wand, and tried adjusting the force again.
Amster didn't say much and turned to continue walking.
After taking a few steps, he heard a soft "Skim" from behind, followed by a suppressed, surprised gasp.
His steps paused, but he didn't look back, continuing forward.
He made another round, stopping beside several students and bending down to watch them practice.
Some had incorrect wand-waving angles, causing the match to wobble and revert to its original state; others mispronounced the spell, causing the silver light to flash for a fraction of a second and then extinguish.
He pointed out their problems one by one, his voice gentle yet precise, telling them where to adjust, how to control their magic, and how to grasp the rhythm of the spell.
The silver light on the matches would shine for an instant or hold for a few seconds, while gasps of astonishment and sounds of annoyance intertwined in the classroom.
Near the end of class, five or six people had successfully turned their matches into needles.
Hermione was the first; her needle was thin and bright, and Professor McGonagall showed it to the whole class, drawing much envy.
That child from the Longbottom family, whom Malfoy had mocked, also succeeded on his fourth attempt. His needle was crooked, but as he held it up, his spine was as straight as a board, as if he were clutching some precious treasure.
The end-of-class bell rang. The students frantically packed their things and headed out, and the classroom gradually grew quiet.
Amster returned to the window, picked up his Alchemynotebook, and his fingertips rubbed against the curled corner of the page.
Hermione hugged a stack of textbooks, hesitated at the door, twisted her book spine with her fingers, and then turned back, quietly standing before him with a slightly flushed face.
"Senior Amster."
Her voice was a bit tight, but her eyes were very bright,
"Thank you for your guidance just now. I wanted to ask... in Transfiguration, how on earth should one grasp the rhythm of magic output? When I try, sometimes it cuts off suddenly, and sometimes it's too rushed, so the shape of the needle is always a bit wrong."
"Practice more."
Amster tucked the notebook under his arm, turned sideways to walk out, his tone plain.
"But I practice for a long time every day..."
Hermione hurried after him, her steps somewhat hasty, her tone carrying a hint of defiance,
"I feel like I practice facing the match all afternoon, and I still can't control the magic evenly."
"Then keep practicing."
He paused at the classroom door, turned his head to glance at her, his gaze gentle yet firm,
"First steady the magic output of the basic spells, then figure out the details. For first-year classes, learn the foundations solidly."
Having said that, he turned and rounded the corridor, leaving that pair of sparkling eyes and that stack of thick textbooks behind him.
The light in the corridor was ample. Warm sunlight spilled in through the stained glass windows, warming the stone walls and filling the air with the scent of sunshine.
He walked slowly, the hem of his black robes swaying gently beside his feet.
The image of the child earlier gripping his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white reminded him of many years ago, when he too used to grip a wand that wasn't yet fully attuned, facing a match on the desk, repeatedly chanting stiff spells, the sweat on his forehead dripping onto the textbook and blurring a small patch of water stain.
That needle, which he had worn down into a crooked shape back then, had been collected by Professor McGonagall into a wooden box, becoming the first keepsake of his early days learning Transfiguration.
Chapter 57 Charms class
The Charms class classroom was on the third floor of the castle, and its wooden door was a bit shorter than the others, just fitting Professor Flitwick's height.
First-year students crowded at the doorway, still discussing the matter of Transfiguration Class.
"Did you see that? With just a gentle tap from Senior Amster, Hermione's needle became exceptionally smooth."
"The professor said that was magic control, not a spell."
"As expected of Dumbledore, to actually be able to serve as a Transfiguration Class teaching assistant."
"Stop chatting, or Professor Flitwick will scold us if we are any later."
Harry followed the crowd into the classroom and chose a seat by the window to sit down. Ron was next to him, casually stuffing his schoolbag into the desk compartment. Hermione was already sitting in the front row, with her textbook spread flat, quill in hand, gazing intently at the podium, unwilling to lose focus for even a second.
Professor Flitwick stood on a thick stack of magic books to barely reach the edge of the podium. He smiled as he looked around the classroom, his high-pitched voice brisk and clear: "Good morning, students. Today we will learn the Levitation Charm, which is one of the most fundamental and interesting spells in Charms class. Can anyone tell me what the full name of the spell is?"
Hermione raised her hand almost immediately, her arm held straight and stiff.
"Very good, Miss Granger."
"Wingardium Leviosa." Hermione's pronunciation was standard and fluent, enunciating every word clearly, "The book says that the wand movement is more important than the pronunciation; the wrist must first flick lightly, then bring it upward."
"Perfect! Five points to Gryffindor." Professor Flitwickclapped happily.
The sound of page-turning immediately resounded in the classroom, and Ron muttered softly: "She has practically memorized the entire book." Harry did not reply, his gaze involuntarily drifting toward the back of the classroom.
Amster sat by the wall with a thick Alchemy notebook spread out in front of him, the pages covered in dense symbols and array diagrams. He had arrived earlier than most students, leaning quietly against the window as sunlight fell on the pages, emitting a faint glow. When Flitwick lectured, he occasionally raised his eyes to scan the classroom, but most of the time he simply lowered his head to read through it, his posture relaxed, looking less like a supervisor and more like someone stopping by to self-study.
Professor Flitwick patiently explained the key points of the Levitation Charm, from magic output to wand angles, from spell stress to the rhythm of force application, emphasizing them twice repeatedly. The classroom was exceptionally quiet; even Ron, who usually easily lost focus, listened attentively. Hermione, however, quietly turned her head, cast a quick glance at Amster in the back row, and immediately turned back to sit properly.
"Now, everyone begin practicing. Remember, relax your wrists and do not use excessive force." Flitwick waved his wand, a flash of silver light swept past, and a white feather fell onto every single desk.
The sound of rising and falling spells immediately filled the classroom. Some feathers remained motionless, some swayed gently, and others flew up abruptly to hit the ceiling, drawing a burst of soft laughter. Hermionesucceeded on her very first attempt, the feather hovering steadily in mid-air and slowly circling around the top of her head.
"Brilliant, Miss Granger! Ten more points to Gryffindor!" Professor Flitwick praised.
Neville Longbottom clutched his wand, his face flushing crimson, his fingers trembling with nervousness. He took a deep breath and swung his wand hard: "Wingardium Leviosa!" The feather showed no reaction at all. After several consecutive failures, sporadic taunts came from around him, causing Neville to lower his head even further and shrink his shoulders slightly.
Amster closed his notebook, stood up, walked across the aisle, and walked softly to Neville's side. He lowered his head to look at the wand in Neville's hand, his tone calm: "Is this your father's wand?"
Neville was stunned for a moment and nodded gently.
Amster did not ask further, merely reaching out to slightly lift Neville's wrist and adjust the angle: "The wand movement is too deviated; go gently upward from here, and do not use brute force."
Neville tried according to his instruction, the feather trembling slightly and slowly floating up an inch.
"Very good, Mr. Longbottom! Five points to Gryffindor!" Professor Flitwick immediately encouraged. When Nevillesat down, his cheeks were still red, but the corners of his mouth could not help curving upward slightly.
When it was Ron's turn, he gripped that old wand wrapped entirely in adhesive tape and swung it with all his might: "Wingardium Leviosa!" The wand suddenly spewed a puff of green smoke, and the feather on the desk instantly blasted into fragments.
The whole class burst into laughter. Ron's face instantly turned red to the roots of his ears, and he lowered his head in embarrassment, flusteredly cleaning up the debris. Professor Flitwick sighed softly and was just about to speak when Amster had already walked to his side.
"This is not your wand." He looked at Ron, his tone calm yet resolute.
Ron was taken aback and unable to speak.
"The wand chooses the wizard; Mr. Ollivander should have said that." Amster's voice was not loud, yet it gradually quieted the classroom, "A wand that does not belong to you cannot match your magic power, making it naturally difficult to control."
Ron gripped his wand tightly and nodded silently. Amsterturned around and returned to the back row, reopening his notebook as sunlight fell upon his profile, quiet and gentle.
Harry took a deep breath, raised his wand, gave his wrist a light flick, and steadily recited the spell: "Wingardium Leviosa." The feather floated up slowly, and although it only maintained for a few seconds, it was a genuine success.
"Well done, Mr. Potter! Five points to Gryffindor!" Professor Flitwick nodded with a smile. Harry quietly looked toward the back row; Amster was still reading with his head lowered, as if everything that had just happened had not caught his attention.
The class bell rang, and students packed up their things and left one after another. Hermione hugged her textbooks, hesitated for a moment at the door, and then turned back to walk in front of Amster.
"Senior Amster." She tilted her head up slightly, her eyes carrying serious curiosity, "How did you instantly tell just now that Neville's wand was his father's?"
Amster raised his eyes to look at her, the sunlight passing through the glass window and falling into the depths of his eyes, gentle and clear: "It's not that I saw it; Mr. Longbottom's story is one I've heard before."
Hermione wanted to continue asking, but he had already closed his notebook and stood up. When he reached the door, he suddenly stopped without turning back.
"Granger."
"Here!" Hermione responded immediately.
"You are very talented." His voice was light and faint, yet exceptionally clear, "But talent is not everything; solid practice is more important than anything else."
Having said that, he turned and walked into the corridor, his figure disappearing around the corner. Hermione stood in place, hugging her textbooks as those words echoed repeatedly in her heart, not moving for a long time.
Ron caught up from behind and patted her shoulder: "Hurry up, we're going to be late for the next class."
Hermione snapped back to her senses and hurriedly followed, muttering softly as she walked: "How on earth does he manage to do that..."
Ron sighed helplessly: "I only know that my wand blew up just now."
As the two of them walked to the corridor, Malfoy, bringing Crabbe and Goyle, passed by. He glanced at the old wand sticking out of Ron's pocket and curved his mouth into a mocking smile: "Weasley, that piece of junk of a wand of yours should have been thrown away long ago. Without even a wand that belongs to you, how could you be worthy of learning from Senior Amster?"
Ron's face darkened, and just as he was about to retort, Malfoy had already walked away laughing loudly.
Harry patted Ron's arm: "Ignore him, he's just intentionally picking a fight."
Ron gave a muffled hum and shoved his wand further into his pocket. The three of them walked side by side toward the Great Hall as the afternoon sunlight poured in through the stained-glass windows, casting mottled light and shadows on the ground and stretching their shadows very long.
Hermione walked at the very end, her fingertips gently pressing against the cover of her textbook. Amster's casual remark, "You are very talented," was like a tiny spark falling into her heart, making even her footsteps a little lighter. She secretly resolved to practice even harder in the future so as not to live up to this rare recognition.
The castle's corridors were quiet and long, and the breeze blew across the window sills, bringing a faint breath of sunlight and vegetation. The new day's classes were still continuing, and the Hogwarts life belonging to them had only just begun.
Chapter 58 Afternoon Time
After Charms class ended, Amster did not go to the Library as usual.
He went all the way up along the castle's corridor, passed through the bustling stairs, and slowly walked to the eighth floor.
Few students passed by here; the walls were cold and gloomy, with only the wind gently swirling in the corridor.
He turned the windowless corner, and that dusty wooden door silently appeared on the wall.
Warm yellow firelight seeped through the crack of the door, mixed with barely audible whispers.
Amster gently pushed open the door.
The flames in the fireplace were burning vigorously, and a wave of warmth surged up instantly, shutting out the coldness of the castle.
Fleur nestled in her most accustomed armchair, a fashion magazine mailed from France spread across her lap, her long silver hair draping over the armrest, swaying gently with her breath.
Hearing the door sound, she only raised her eyes to sweep a glance, seeing it was Amster, then lowered her head again, the corners of her lips curving slightly, continuing to turn the pages.
Poppy sat at the small table by the window, with several old books brought back from Hogsmeade placed in front of her, her fingertips gently tracing across the yellowed paper pages, as if searching for something.
A plate of freshly baked cookies was still steaming, and seeing Amster enter, she casually pushed the plate toward the direction where he usually sat, her movement natural and quiet.
Penelope leaned against the bookshelf, holding a thick History of Magic in her arms, reading very attentively.
The moment the door was pushed open, her page-turning movement paused slightly, without raising her head, yet she quietly made a little room outward, as if habitually leaving space.
Cassandra sat on the carpet in front of the fireplace, holding a cup of hot tea in her hands, her gaze falling upon the flickering flames.
She had no superfluous expression, only when Amsterentered the door, raising her eyes to meet his gaze for a split second, nodding gently, and then resuming her original appearance.
Cho Chang lay prone on another table, with several sheets of Xuan paper covered in brush calligraphy spread out in front of her, carrying a faint fragrance of ink.
She was slightly frowning at the handwriting, immediately raising her head upon hearing the commotion, and the moment she saw Amster, her eyes lit up.
"You're back."
She said softly, casually pushing the Xuan paper toward him, "Help me take a look; I always write these characters poorly."
Amster sat down beside her, lowering his head to look at the content on the paper.
That was a short poem, neat and earnest in handwriting, except that the final stroke of the character "frost" (frost) in "Suspicion ground frost" (suspected to be frost on the ground) appeared slightly frivolous.
"This horizontal stroke a bit flatter and it will be steady."
He gently tapped that character with his fingertip.
Cho Chang leaned very close, her nose almost touching the paper surface, and said in a slightly annoyed whisper: "I've practiced it several times, and every time I write it drifting here."
She laid out the paper anew, dipped the ink, and wrote slowly while holding her breath.
This time her wrist was much steadier, and every stroke was exceptionally attentive.
"Do you think this is okay?"
She held up the Xuan paper, anticipation in her eyes.
Amster glanced at it: "Much better than before."
Cho Chang immediately smiled, carefully putting the paper aside to dry.
Fleur poked her head out from behind the magazine, glancing at the two of them with a hint of banter in the depths of her eyes, but didn't speak, simply blocking the magazine in front of her face again.
Poppy looked up, smiled gently, and lowered her head again to tidy her books.
Penelope still looked at her book, the sound of turning pages light and clear.
Cassandra put down her teacup, looked toward Amster, her voice not loud, yet just enough for everyone in the room to hear: "I have something to see you about tonight."
Cho Chang looked up at her, then looked at Amster, without asking more, lowered her head and continued writing.
Fleur seemed to be reading the magazine, but her ears quietly pricked up.
Poppy slowly ate the cookies, her expression calm.
Amster looked toward Cassandra and nodded gently.
Cassandra said no more, picked up her teacup again, her gaze falling back into the firelight, as if that sentence just now was merely an ordinary reminder.
Penelope's page-turning speed became slightly faster, as if she had breathed a sigh of relief.
Cho Chang finished writing the last character, put down her pen, stretched gently, and turned her head to look at Amster: "That Alchemy notes you mentioned last time, I flipped through it, but I couldn't understand the symbols inside at all."
"That one is used by me; if you want to learn, you must start from the basics."
Amster said.
"Then will you teach me, alright?"
She cupped her cheek, her gaze sincere.
Fleur put down the magazine, leaning back against the chair back and watching the two of them, a trace of knowing smile at the corners of her mouth.
Penelope quietly turned the pages, Cassandra held her teacup and took a shallow sip.
Amster thought for a moment: "I have basic introductory books; you can take them to read first, and ask me about the parts you don't understand."
Cho Chang nodded happily, picked up a cookie and took a bite, narrowing her eyes with satisfaction.
Seeing this, Poppy pushed the cookie plate toward her again.
The firewood in the fireplace occasionally made a crisp cracking sound, and the entire room was warm and cozy.
The sky outside the window gradually darkened, and the surface of the Black Lake shimmered with a faint layer of silver light in the twilight.
Amster leaned against the back of his chair, his gaze slowly sweeping across the people in the room.
Cho Chang lay prone on the table whispering the poem and continued practicing her writing; Penelope was still turning her book sluggishly, as if in quiet companionship; Cassandra cradled the empty teacup, gazing blankly at the flames; Fleur closed her eyes, the magazine slipping onto her lap, too lazy to even pick it up; Poppy cleared away the emptied cookie plate and brought out a new one, the steam rising slowly.
The Room of Requirement was very quiet, not with an empty desolation, but with a settled peace filled by people.
After a while, Cassandra stood up and walked to Amster's side.
"Do you have time now?"
Amster raised his eyes, then stood up.
Cho Chang looked up once, then lowered her head again, her pen tip landing steadily on the paper.
Penelope turned a page of the book without raising her head.
Fleur's magazine dropped onto the carpet, and she merely leaned lazily.
Amster followed Cassandra to the door.
Cassandra looked back at the room, lowering her voice, speaking only for him to hear: "Gemma Farley wants to see you, the Slytherin fifth-year prefect."
Amster did not reply immediately.
"She has observed you for a long time."
Cassandra said softly, "There are some things she wants to talk with you about."
Amster was silent for a moment and nodded.
"Tomorrow."
Cassandra said no more, turned back to sit by the fireplace, and picked up that empty teacup again.
Amster also returned to the table; Cho Chang had already neatly stacked the characters she had practiced, and was holding a pen drawing tiny flowers along the edge of the paper.
"Do you have time tomorrow?"
She asked without raising her head, "There are a few lines of poetry I still don't quite understand."
"For you all, I always have time."
Amster replied very crisply.
Cho Chang's lips curved upward slightly, she put down her pen, and picked up another piece of cookie.
Poppy stood up to tidy the books on the table and said softly: "It's getting late; any later and we'll miss dinner."
Fleur opened her eyes, gave a small yawn, saying with her mouth to sit a while longer, but her body was already preparing to get up.
Penelope closed her book, put it back on the bookshelf, and pulled out a new one.
Amster walked to the window, gazing at the Black Lakeoutside.
The sky had completely darkened, and moonlight spilled onto the lake surface, shattering into a patch of shimmering silver light.
The lights in the castle lit up one by one, shining through the window lattices and casting mottled light and shadows on the ground.
The fire in the fireplace was still warm, and the cracking sound filled the entire room.
The Room of Requirement was still as quiet, yet this quietness was completely different from when he came alone.
Once here was merely a hiding place to escape the hustle and bustle; now, because of the people in the room who were familiar with and cared for each other, there was added steady companionship, tacit tenderness, and a sense of secure belonging that belonged to him.
The wind swept past the window sills of the castle, carrying the slight chill of the night, yet the warmth inside the room was enough to make one stay at ease.
A day in Hogwarts slowly moved toward dusk, and this tender time hidden in the corner of the eighth floor was still quietly continuing.
Chapter 59: Dungeon Late-Night Talk
The next evening, Amster came out of the Room of Requirement and walked down the corridor toward the dungeons.
The evening at Hogwarts always carried a lazy sort of quiet; most of the students had flocked to the Great Hall, and the sounds of clashing cutlery and chatter drifted out from the open doors, only to be completely swallowed by the stone walls not far away.
Most of the portraits in the corridor were dozing with their eyes closed, and the Fat Lady was curled up in her frame without even lifting her head; only a portrait depicting an old gamekeeper opened his eyes to glance at Amster, then slowly closed them again.
Occasionally, a student would hurry past carrying books, and upon seeing him, their pace would pause for a moment before they nodded and continued on their way; no one spoke extra words, nor did anyone step closer to gawk.
The wind crept in from the top of the stairs, carrying a hint of early spring chill and swirling a bit of dust on the ground as it stealthily slid past the corner of the wall.
Cassandra was leaning against the stone wall entrance of the Slytherin common room, waiting for him.
She didn't do anything else, just stood there quietly, the hem of her black robes trailing to the ground and picking up a bit of the dungeon's dampness.
Hearing the footsteps, she raised her eyes to look at Amster without speaking, simply reaching out to press the serpentine mark on the wall; the stone door gave a muffled sound and slid open a crack.
A chilly dampness rushed over them, mixed with the warm fragrance of thoroughly burned firewood in the fireplace—a scent unique to the Slytherin common room.
The common room was buried deep in the dungeons, its four walls made of rough bluestone and hung with dark green old tapestries whose embroidered silver snakes had already faded somewhat.
Outside the window lay the Black Lake, its water murky and heavy; the moonlight filtered through, casting swaying silver patches on the floor like the shadows of fish swimming in the water.
There were not many people in the room; three middle-year students sat at a table in the corner, heads bowed as they wrote their Potions homework, the rustling sound of quills gliding across parchment very soft.
Seeing Amster enter, they stopped their quills, nodded politely, and then lowered their heads to continue writing, with no whispering and no stealthy glances.
Not far away by the bookshelf, two students were paging through books, and upon seeing him, they merely raised their eyes in acknowledgment, their expressions peaceful, entirely devoid of the guards and exclusion that Slytherinstudents commonly had in previous years.
Gemma Farley was sitting on the dark green sofa by the fireplace.
She was a fifth-year student, her brown long hair simply tied back behind her head without any hair accessories, and her face held no excess expression, making her look very steady and composed.
Her school robes were neat, and while she wasn't wearing a prefect badge, just sitting there, she carried an inherent aura that prevented anyone from taking her lightly.
Hearing the footsteps, she turned her head, saw Amster, stood up, and slightly nodded.
"Amster." She spoke, her tone calm, just a normal greeting.
"Farley." Amster acknowledged, walking over to sit on the sofa opposite her.
Cassandra didn't crowd over, instead walking to the bookshelf in the distance, casually pulling out a book, and leaning against the bookshelf to page through it quietly, as if she had been reading there all along, with no intention of disturbing the two of them.
"Cassandra said you wanted to see me." Amster spoke first, his voice not loud.
Gemma looked at him, her gaze very direct, neither dodging nor flinching.
"I've kept an eye on you for a long time, starting from when those people gave you trouble in your first year."
The firewood in the fireplace crackled once, and a spark jumped.
"In the past, every day in this room people babbled about bloodline, upperclassmen bullied underclassmen, and cliques pushed people out; the professors couldn't even be bothered to care."
Gemma's tone was very flat, as if she were talking about the most ordinary thing. "It's different now; those messy matters have decreased by more than half, no one dares to pick fights casually, everyone concentrates on classes, and even the underclassmen dare to steadily stay here for self-study."
She paused, sitting slightly forward, looking a little less aloof.
"It's not that Snape's punishments work; it's what you've done, which everyone sees with their own eyes. You don't take sides, you don't associate with those people, and you don't oppress people by relying on your surname; instead, you rely on your own actions to slowly turn the atmosphere around. Now in the common room, people who share your thoughts and are willing to keep to their duties are long past being just one or two."
Amster looked at her without interrupting.
"I couldn't stand those people who always had bloodline on their lips and treated bullying as skill."
Gemma lightly tugged at the corner of her mouth, counting it as a smile; the smile was faint yet very genuine. "But I alone couldn't manage too much; I could only take care of myself and a few friends around me. Until you stood up, I didn't know that Slytherin didn't have to live as coldly and narrowly as others said."
Her tone grew heavier, very earnest.
"I'm looking for you today not to make you do anything; you've already done enough, leading this place in a good direction. I just want to tell you: I'm on your side."
Amster raised his eyes slightly. "Aren't prefects supposed to uphold the rules and stay out of these things?"
"Rules are for managing right and wrong, not for condoning wrong." Gemma answered crisply. "I am a prefect; I can suppress those who stir up trouble and steady those who are willing to do things properly. You don't have to carry it all by yourself; in the future, if there are matters needing coordination or troubles that need to be suppressed, just find me."
She didn't speak pretty words, simply and solidly laying out her stance with a firm gaze and not a shred of perfunctoriness.
The firelight from the fireplace reflected on both of their faces, warm and cozy.
The students in the corner packed up their things and left on tiptoe, making the common room even quieter; only the sound of the burning fire and the gentle splashing of the lake water against the stone wall outside the window could be heard.
"I know." Amster was silent for a moment before speaking.
This single sentence was considered accepting her sincerity.
Gemma nodded, said no more, stood up to tidy the hem of her robes, and stretched out her hand toward him.
Her fingertips were a bit cool, and her grip was very steady.
"From now on, we are on the same path."
Amster reached out, gave her hand a gentle shake, and quickly let go.
Gemma didn't stay long, turning and walking away immediately; her black robes swept across the ground with steady steps, and without looking back, she quickly disappeared at the doorway of the common room.
Cassandra only then closed her book, walked over, and sat down on the sofa next to Amster.
"Finished chatting?" she asked.
"Mhm."
Cassandra didn't press about what they talked about, reaching out to pick up the teacup on the small table beside her and handing it to him.
The cup wall was lukewarm, not burning the mouth.
"It's brewed peppermint tea, kept warm all along."
Amster took it and took a small sip; the faint peppermint flavor suppressed the chill of the dungeon, feeling very comfortable.
The Black Lake outside the window was still rippling, and the moonlight spilled onto the surface of the water, glittering silver.
The silver patches on the ground moved along with the lake water, leisurely and without any sound.
Cassandra sat right beside him, without speaking and with no intention of leaving, quietly accompanying him.
The fire in the fireplace was still burning, drawing their shadows very long and overlapping them on the stone wall so they could hardly be told apart.
Chapter 60 Marauder's Map
A few nights later, the moon rose high, illuminating the silhouette of Hogwarts Castle clearly.
Amster suddenly took it into his head to go on a night walk.
Amster walked down from the eighth-floor stairway. Tonight he had no destination, merely a sudden desire to walk around the castle.
The nighttime corridors appeared even more empty than during the day; the stone walls were freezing, and moonlight slanted in through the high windows, casting patches of bright light onto the ground like cleaved silver pieces.
He paced slowly along the corridor with very light footsteps.
Most of the figures in the portraits were already asleep, or merely resting their eyes in feigned slumber; only a few were still awake, casting lazy glances at him before turning their heads away again.
Cold wind crept in through the gaps in the stairwell, carrying nighttime dampness and causing his hair to flutter slightly.
He walked over to a window, stopped, and looked out at the pitch-black Forbidden Forest outside; the branches swayed in the wind like countless outstretched hands.
He had no clear destination, simply walking down the stairs level by level.
When he reached the middle section of the stairs, extremely light footsteps came from the corner ahead, intermingled with a pair of muffled, low-toned dialogues in familiar voices.
"...Left, further left, watch your step, don't bump into the wall."
"I am watching, it's you who walked too fast and almost crashed into it."
Amster immediately stopped, turned sideways to lean against the freezing stone wall, and held his breath.
Two red-haired figures poked out from around the corner, one behind the other, their bodies pressed very low as they carefully inched forward hugging the base of the wall.
It was Fred and George.
The two of them paid him no attention at all, their heads huddled closely together, their gazes focused entirely on an old piece of parchment clutched in Fred's hand.
"This secret passage leads directly to Honeydukes cellar," Fred's voice was so soft it was almost inaudible, his fingertips pointing at a certain spot on the parchment, "We tried it once last time, it's extremely safe."
"Then we won't have to wait for school arrangements to go to Hogsmeade in the future," George said in a low voice, a trace of excitement in his tone, "We can go whenever we want."
"What if the prefects check on us?" Fred asked.
"Just hide," George patted Fred's shoulder, "Everything is crystal clear on this map; wherever they walk, we know."
Amster watched them quietly.
He had originally intended to quietly detour around them, but Fred suddenly turned his head as if startled by something.
Their gazes collided, and both were stunned for a moment.
The parchment in Fred's hand paused, the focus on his face instantly vanishing, replaced by a flash of unexpected bewilderment.
George also raised his head, and seeing Amster standing against the wall, he similarly froze in place, his body still maintaining the posture of pressing against the wall.
The three of them stood just like that at the stairwell under the moonlight, neither of them moving first.
The corridor was so quiet that one could hear the faint crackling of firewood burning in the distant fireplace, as well as their shallow breaths.
After a moment of silence, Fred recovered his senses first, subconsciously hiding the parchment in his hand behind his back, and quickly piled up his habitual cheeky smile on his face, his tone carrying a hint of deliberate lightness: "Amster, so late, still wandering around the castle?"
Amster's gaze swept over the hand hidden behind his back, and he spoke indifferently: "You are too."
"We..." Fred rolled his eyes, searching for an excuse, "We're just walking casually, taking a stroll."
"Right, a stroll." George hurriedly nodded in agreement, his eyes drifting, "The scenery of the castle at night is not bad."
Amster didn't expose them; his gaze fell straight onto the corner of the parchment exposed behind Fred, and without speaking, he simply watched quietly.
Fred glanced down following his gaze, then looked up at Amster, scratched his head, that bit of deliberate cheeky smile dissipating somewhat, sighed, and pulled the parchment out from behind his back.
He pinched the parchment and hesitated for a few seconds, then still handed it forward: "Fine, you ran into us, want to take a look?"
Amster reached out and took it.
The parchment was old and turned yellow, its edges frayed from wear, covered with deep and shallow creases, showing at a glance that it had been repeatedly folded and caressed countless times.
Lines were drawn in fine black ink on the paper, densely packed, forming the complete structural map of Hogwarts Castle. Every corridor, every classroom, every corner, and even the hidden stairs and secret passages were clearly marked without a single omission.
And even more eye-catching than the structural map were the tiny moving ink dots on the paper; beside each ink dot followed a line of extremely small handwriting, neatly writing the corresponding name.
Filch paced back and forth in the first-floor corridor, the position of his footsteps moving slowly along with the handwriting; Peeves wandered near the trophy room, his handwriting jumping around without a fixed place; at the third-floor corner, the names of two Gryffindor students nestled together, staying in place without moving; further up, in the stairwell from the eighth floor down, three names overlapped in one place—Amster Dumbledore, flanked by Fred and George, without the slightest discrepancy.
Amster's gaze paused on his own name for a transient moment, his fingertips gently caressing across the rough paper surface, and he said nothing.
Fred stepped half a step forward, his voice lowered further, carrying a trace of complacency: "Awesome right, the locations of everyone in the entire school can be seen clearly, not a single one missed."
"And all the secret passages," George also crowded over, pointing at several inconspicuous marks on the paper, "Those hidden entrances that no one usually knows about are all marked on the map, making it convenient to go anywhere."
Amster didn't look any further, folded the parchment back to its original shape, handed it back to Fred, and asked: "Who made this?"
Fred and George looked at each other, exchanged glances, and both shook their heads.
"Don't know," Fred took the map and pinched it casually in his hand, "Picked it up."
"Right, picked it up," George chimed in, "Picked it up right outside Filch's office, tossed in the corner at the time, nobody wanted it."
Amster glanced at them and did not pursue the question further.
He knew the temperament of this pair of twins; for things they didn't want to talk about, asking more was useless.
Fred carefully folded the parchment, stuffed it into the inner pocket of his robe, leaned forward again, and looked curious: "Aren't you curious at all?"
"Curious about what?" Amster leaned back against the stone wall, his tone bland.
"Curious about who made this map, what magic was used, how it can mark everyone's location." Fred scratched his head, rarely showing a bit of perplexity, "We've studied it for over a year, tried countless kinds of magic, and couldn't figure out even a shred of it; this magic is too ancient, completely unfathomable."
"But as long as it works," George patted his pocket, unconcerned, "Who made it doesn't matter, being useful is enough."
Amster didn't pick up the conversation.
He was silent for a moment, and offered a reminder: "Be careful, don't get caught by Filch."
"Rest assured, with this map around, there's no way he can catch us." Fred grinned widely, full of confidence, "Wherever he walks, we can see clearly and avoid him in advance."
"We are just like the ghosts in the castle now, coming and going without a trace." George also smiled smugly.
Amster turned around, preparing to continue walking down, but the moment his steps stepped out, he suddenly stopped again, turning his head to look at the two of them.
"That map," he paused, speaking straightforwardly, "can you lend it to me to look at for a night?"
Fred and George were stunned at the same time, obviously not expecting him to make this request.
Fred reacted the fastest, immediately pulling the folded parchment out of his pocket and handing it over without hesitation: "Of course you can, just take it."
He blinked, his tone carrying a trace of expectation, "If you can figure out the secret of this map, don't forget to tell us."
Amster took the parchment, clutching it in his hand, feeling its rough texture, and nodded: "Tomorrow at this time, I'll return it to you."
Finished speaking, he turned around and continued walking down without looking back.
From behind came the lowered conversation of Fred and George, the voices very soft, drifting into his ears.
"I said he would definitely be interested, who wouldn't be curious seeing this thing." Fred's voice carried a hint of certainty.
"That's right, whoever it is would have to ponder over it." George responded softly.
Listening to the sounds behind him, Amster curved the corners of his mouth ever so faintly, returning to calm in a flash.
Chapter 61: The Name That Shouldn't Appear
Returning to the Room of Requirement, the fire in the fireplace had burned down to glowing embers, and the orange-red light danced on the stone walls as if it were falling asleep. There were no extra sounds in the room, only the soft crackle of the charcoal slowly burning and the occasional night breeze sweeping past outside the window, making this room—which could change its appearance at any moment—feel exceptionally peaceful.
Amster sat down at the desk and gently unfurled the roll of parchment borrowed from the Weasley twins. The yellowed surface of the paper was illuminated translucent by the candlelight, and the lines upon it were fine and clear; every corridor, every classroom, and every hidden secret passage was meticulously marked, as if the creator had memorized every single stone of Hogwarts in their heart. He leaned down, his fingertips hovering over the paper, and slowly looked over the constantly moving ink dots and the names beside them one by one.
Filch was in the entrance hall, his footsteps moving slowly back and forth, evidently still doing his nightly routine inspection. Snape remained steadily in his dungeon office, his position unmoving, most likely organizing potion ingredients or grading student assignments that always made him frown. Dumbledore was in the Headmaster's Office, not walking around, looking like he was sitting in his chair gazing out the window. McGonagall was in her own office, her name moving slightly, probably still grading papers under the lamp. In Gryffindor Tower, Percy was pacing back and forth in the common room, likely worrying about prefect matters, while Ron and Harry's names were closely huddled together, resting quietly in the boys' dormitory, evidently fast asleep long ago.
His fingers paused gently at the location of the eighth floor.
At the end of the eighth-floor corridor was precisely where the Room of Requirement was located, yet that area on the map was completely clean, with no ink dots, no handwriting, and not even a trace of extra lines. He leaned closer to the candlelight and looked carefully through it once more, not even letting the crevices at the edges go, but the result remained the same.
Amster withdrew his hand, his gaze falling back onto the entire map. This piece of parchment could see through the movements of almost everyone in the castle, and could mark secret passages that even many faculty members did not know, yet it turned a blind eye to the Room of Requirement, as if this room harboring countless secrets had never belonged to Hogwarts and had never existed at all.
He stared at the map for a long time, until the candlelight flickered, before slowly folding the map and placing it by the edge of the desk.
The Alchemy notes sent by Flamel were still laid open on the desk, resting on the page he hadn't finished reading last time. The pages were filled with obscure and difficult-to-understand symbols and annotations—things he could quietly read through for an entire night on ordinary days. He casually flipped it open, his gaze falling upon those symbols, and after reading a few lines without taking in a single word, he gently closed the notebook again.
In his mind, over and over again, was entirely that map.
What kind of person made a map capable of fitting the entire Hogwarts Castle onto such a small piece of parchment?
What kind of person made a map capable of bypassing the castle's layers of magical barriers to see the location of every single person inside the castle?
He leaned back against the back of his chair and gently closed his eyes.
The moonlight outside the window passed through the glass, quietly falling onto the desktop and illuminating a small area. The Room of Requirement was very quiet, quiet enough to hear the faint crackling sounds occasionally emitted by the charcoal fire, as if the entire castle had fallen into a deep sleep along with it.
After a long time, he ultimately could not suppress the doubt in his heart and picked up that map once more.
This time he looked slower and more carefully. His gaze swept all the way up from the dungeon at the very bottom, past classrooms, corridors, staircases, the towers of various houses, then to the greenhouses and the owlery, extending all the way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Every name and every moving ink dot, he scanned through carefully, refusing to let pass any single abnormality.
Filch had already returned to his office piled high with punishment records. Mrs. Norris was roaming silently through the third-floor corridor. Snape remained in the dungeon. Dumbledore was still in the Headmaster's Officeas well, having not left.
His fingers slowly slid across the area at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, then suddenly paused without warning.
A name appeared desolately under a large tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, accompanied by no one else, neither approaching the castle nor entering the depths of the dense forest, just staying quietly right there at the boundary where darkness and light met.
Amster brought the map closer to the candlelight, squinting his eyes slightly, staring at that name, and reading it word by word for a long time to confirm that he hadn't seen wrong and hadn't misrecognized the handwriting.
Peter Pettigrew.
This name gave him an extremely faint impression, as if he had caught it in passing in the corner of an old newspaper or in some accidentally overheard conversation, too vague to grasp the specific details. He swiftly reviewed the list of all this year's new students in his mind, and screened through the names of senior students and even faculty members, checking them one by one.
None.
Among the current students of Hogwarts, there was simply no one named Peter Pettigrew.
On this year's roster of new students, there was definitely no such name either.
Why would someone who was neither a student nor a faculty member appear at the edge of the Forbidden Forestin the middle of the night? Even stranger, why was his location clearly marked by this map that only displayed people related to Hogwarts?
Amster put down the map, slowly stood up, and walked to the window.
The surface of the Black Lake shimmered with fine, fragmented silver light under the moonlight, and as a gentle breeze brushed past, faint ripples spread out in circles. The outline of the Forbidden Forest was pitch black at night, with interlacing branches like a giant beast lying dormant quietly, silent and dangerous. And that name that shouldn't have appeared was lingering right at the edge of the giant beast.
He didn't immediately turn around to look for Dumbledore, nor did he think of going to knock on Professor McGonagall's door.
He wasn't certain of anything.
He only knew that a name that completely shouldn't appear here had appeared in a place where it completely shouldn't have appeared.
Before figuring out who Peter Pettigrew actually was, why he was here, and whether he was friend or foe, any hasty report would seem far too rash, and might even just be an accidental deviation in the map's magic. He did not want to easily alarm the Headmaster over an unresolved question, nor did he want to make any rash judgments under a state of utter ignorance.
He slowly walked back to the desk, sat down again, and his fingertips unconsciously tapped lightly on the desktop. The candlelight cast shifting light and shadow upon his face, hiding all those unspoken doubts within a quiet silence.
Not knowing how long had passed, he picked up the map once more, his gaze falling upon the edge of the Forbidden Forest for yet another confirmation.
That small, clear handwriting still steadily remained in place, neither moving nor disappearing.
Peter Pettigrew.
Amster took a deep breath, carefully folded the map back to its original size, and placed it into the desk drawer.
He reopened Flamel's Alchemy notes, attempting to pull his attention back to those complex symbols. After reading a few lines, it didn't sink in. Reading a few more lines, he still remained stuck in the same place. He could clearly feel that his thoughts were being pulled away bit by bit, irresistibly, by that unfamiliar yet somewhat familiar name.
The quill was held tightly in his hand, spinning around and around.
He paused gently on the blank page, his pen tip dropped, and ultimately he only wrote down a single word: "Investigate"
He had to go flip through some materials to see whom this familiar name actually belonged to.
He closed the notebook and reached out to gently blow out the candle on the desk.
The moonlight outside the window was still there, its pure radiance casting softly into the room and falling upon the floor, like a thin layer of white frost spread across it. The Room of Requirement completely quieted down, quiet enough to hear the steady sound of his own breathing. He walked over to the small bed in the corner of the room, gently lay down, and closed his eyes, yet that name was still floating softly in his mind, refusing to disperse.
The charcoal fire in the fireplace flickered faintly one last time, then extinguished completely.
The room sank into a deeper, heavier silence.
Inside the drawer, the Marauder's Map lay quietly, hiding countless unknown secrets of Hogwarts.
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Peter Pettigrew's name also remained steadily in place, unmoving.
Chapter 62: Lost First-Years
When coming down from the eighth floor, the castle had already fallen completely silent.
The bustling noise that drifted through the daytime had long since dispersed, and even the magical aura that lingered year-round in the castle had settled down. The stone walls had absorbed a whole day's warmth, radiating a slightly cool dampness into the night.
Amster walked slowly along the corridor, his soles brushing against the smoothly polished stone bricks without making the slightest unnecessary sound, for fear of breaking this thick silence.
His fingertips hung naturally at his sides, occasionally brushing against the cold walls, while that name on the Marauder's Map still hovered in his mind—Peter Pettigrew.
This name was like a fine grain of sand falling into still water, sinking silently to the bottom of his heart, yet stirring his thoughts so they could not be entirely calm.
He tried hard to recall past fragments—the handwriting on the flyleaf of old textbooks, the occasional conversation drifting in the Great Hall, the yellowed register on the hospital wing's bookshelves. He flipped through all his fragmented memories, only to find a trace of extreme familiarity, unable to grasp its specific origin, like words that had unintentionally swept across his eyes years ago without drawing his attention at the time, yet now abruptly popping up and tangling in his heart.
The wall lamps on both sides of the corridor had long since gone out, and only the silvery moonlight slanted down from the high narrow windows, cutting regular patches of bright light onto the dark gray floor tiles. The interlocking edges of light and shadow were blurred and soft, making the long corridor appear all the more deep and secluded.
Amster rounded the corner of the spiral staircase, his hand resting on the rough stone banister. The steps beneath his feet carried the coolness of the night, and just as he was about to step downward, an extremely faint sound drifted from the corner ahead, interrupting his steady pace.
He stopped immediately, leaning his body back into the nearby shadows.
Hogwarts at midnight never had superfluous movements. Filch was still patrolling various parts of the castle, and the soft sound of Mrs. Norris's claws stepping on the stone bricks was something he had vaguely heard even in the Room of Requirement. The rustling sound at this moment was clearly someone deliberately keeping their movements hushed.
A moment later, two small figures poked their heads out from the corner, both wrapped in oversized first-year school robes whose fabric hung loosely over their shoulders, looking somewhat clumsy.
The light brown curly-haired girl stood on tiptoe, leaning forward slightly, her gaze peering toward the top of the stairs, her eyes full of helplessness.
The blonde girl beside her lowered her eyes, her fingertips pinching a crumpled piece of parchment whose edges had been rubbed into frayed curls. The lines on it were crooked—a child's immature handwriting—and her brow was lightly furrowed as her gaze repeatedly scrutinized the paper.
The brown-haired girl lowered her voice to an extreme pitch, carrying a hint of timidity: "Is it this way?"
The blonde girl flipped the parchment over, looking at it against the moonlight for a long while, her tone carrying a bit of uncertainty: "The map draws this direction, but the positions of the stairs don't match."
The brown-haired girl's shoulders slumped, her voice even lighter: "Did we walk the wrong way?"
The blonde girl pursed her lips and said no more, only clenching the parchment a bit tighter.
The two looked at each other, frustration floating in their eyes as they stood in place at a loss. The night wind crept in through the window cracks, gently swaying the hems of their school robes.
Amster leaned against the stone wall, all along making no sound.
He recognized the brown-haired girl as the Hufflepuff first-year Susan Bones. During the first week of school, he had seen her by the house long table, eating quietly and never participating in the rowdiness of the classmates around her.
As for the other blonde girl, he had heard Cassandra from the same house mention that she was Daphne Greengrassof Slytherin, whose temperament was much steadier than first-years of her age, and who was always methodical in what she did.
He knew clearly in his heart that newly enrolled children could never quite figure out Hogwarts's shifting stairs and corridors. Even with a map drawn, it was hard to distinguish intricate routes, and getting lost in the middle of the night was completely normal.
Susan was the first to sense the presence in the shadows. She suddenly raised her head, bumped into Amster's figure, her face turning slightly pale, and instinctively took a step back, her back gently pressing against the cold wall.
Daphne also turned her head along with her gaze, without panic, only raising her eyebrows slightly. Her eyes carried a bit of instinctive vigilance, and she quietly moved half an inch closer to Susan's side.
"Lost?" Amster slowly walked out of the shadows, his tone flat and without a shred of blame.
Susan's cheeks instantly flushed with a blush. Lowering her head, she nodded gently, her fingers clutching the cuff of her school robe as her voice was as soft as a mosquito's: "We want to go back to the Hufflepuff common room, but we've walked in circles for a long time and can't find the entrance."
Daphne stood aside without taking up the conversation, only quietly hiding the parchment in her hand behind her back, not wanting this crude map to be seen by others.
Amster didn't look much at the hidden paper, nor did he press them on the reasons for their late-night lingering, but simply raised his hand to point downward toward the stairs, his tone clear and steady: "Go down two levels, turn left, there's a row of old wine barrels by the corridor wall. Knock on the middle one in the second row, with the rhythm thump-thump, thump, thump-thump, and the entrance will open."
Susan's eyes lit up instantly, nodding repeatedly while whispering her thanks.
Daphne put away the scrutiny in her eyes, looked at Amster, nodded gently, and calmly said two words: "Many thanks."
Susan pulled Daphne's sleeve and turned to walk down the stairs, her steps becoming much lighter.
After walking a few steps, she suddenly stopped, turned her head back, her eyes carrying a bit of timid curiosity: "Senior, what is your name?"
Amster raised his eyes to look at her, his tone concise: "Amster."
Susan was stunned for a moment, her cheeks turning red again. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something more, but Daphne had already gently pulled her arm, signaling her to leave as soon as possible.
Susan had no choice but to shut her mouth and follow Daphne briskly toward the stair corner. Before turning the bend, she glanced back one more time; Amster had already turned around and was walking toward the corridor on the other side, his figure quickly blending into the dimness.
The sound of the two girls' footsteps gradually drifted away, growing lighter and lighter, until finally disappearing completely into the depths of the cloister. The corridor returned once again to silence, leaving only the subtle sound of the wind passing through the window cracks.
Amster stood in place, quietly listening to the footsteps completely dissipate before starting to walk again.
He thought of Susan's flushed cheeks and the calmness Daphne always maintained in her eyes, not letting too many ripples rise in his heart.
Hogwarts's first-years always carried such greenness; some were timid, some were steady. In this ancient castle, they slowly fumbled for their own path, just like he was currently fumbling for the truth behind that unfamiliar name.
He walked slowly down the stairs, his footsteps echoing gently in the empty stairwell. The coolness of the stone steps transmitted up through his soles, and the air around him carried the biting cold of the late night.
Every stone brick of the castle hid stories of the past, and every corridor had been walked by generations of students. At this moment, all sounds were dead silent, and all stories were temporarily asleep, with only his footsteps moving forward slowly in the night.