Chapter 109: Treasure Room

After Herbology class ended, Silven handed the scissors and the wrapped figs to Professor Sprout, then returned to the castle with the others.

“I’m hungry,” Harry said, rubbing his stomach. “I hope there’s still pumpkin pie for dinner—it was delicious.”

“That’s only for Halloween,” Hermione said. “Today should be beef pie.”

“That’s fine too,” Harry said.

After crossing the grounds, they soon reached the stone steps of the castle.

“Hurry up, Harry, we’re waiting for you!”

Oliver Wood stood at the castle entrance, dressed in the red Quidditch uniform, waving vigorously at Harry. “I was just about to go look for you in the greenhouse.”

“Oliver, what’s up?” Harry asked.

“Of course it’s training.”

Oliver Wood said, pulling out his broom from behind him. “Professor McGonagall said we can use the Quidditch pitch after Halloween. I posted the notice in the common room yesterday morning—don’t tell me you didn’t see it.”

Harry suddenly remembered—he was on the Quidditch team.

“Let’s get moving,” Oliver didn’t dwell on it, pulling him toward the pitch. “We’re two months behind—we need to make up all that lost time before our first match!”

“My broom…” Harry struggled to say, “My broom’s still in the common room—I need to go back for it.”

“Don’t worry, the Weasley twins already brought it over.”

Harry didn’t even have time to eat dinner before he was dragged off to training.

From Oliver’s tone, it seemed he wanted to make up every missed session before the match next month.

Hopefully Harry would still be standing when it was over.

Silven returned to the castle but didn’t go to the common room with Ron and Hermione—he went to the library first.

But he didn’t stay to read today; instead, he waited until most others had left, then went alone to the eighth floor and wandered aimlessly.

“This must be it,” Silven stopped in the middle of a rarely used corridor, staring thoughtfully at a tapestry on the wall.

The tapestry depicted the story of a troll beating a fool named Barnabas; opposite it was a plain wall—no paintings, no armored suits.

Alright, let’s try.

Silven began pacing in front of the wall, focusing his mind on what he needed…

A place to hide things… a place to hide things…

On his third pass, the blank wall suddenly changed… a door appeared.

A brand-new, gleaming door, with a golden handle.

The Room of Requirement, Hogwarts’ most magical chamber, said to transform into whatever its user most needed.

Someone wanting to hide from Filch during midnight wanderings would find a broom cupboard. Someone wanting to practice magic would find shelves of spellbooks, dummy targets, and defensive charms.

Silven needed a place to hide things.

He reached out, gripped the handle, and pushed down—the door opened.

When Silven saw what was inside, he sucked in a sharp breath.

It was like a vast, labyrinthine warehouse—a room larger than the Great Hall, yet with no clear path to walk.

Tall, crooked shelves crammed together, cauldrons piled like mountains, books, candlesticks, bed frames scattered everywhere—as if centuries of discarded junk had been dumped here.

Silven stood at the threshold, hesitating for a long moment before turning sharply and walking out, slamming the door shut, then resuming his pacing.

A place to hide things… preferably one where the Ravenclaw Diadem, turned into a Horcrux, would be visible the moment the door opened…

After three more attempts, Silven opened the door again… the same familiar scene.

Undeterred, he tried once more, describing his need in greater detail—but the Room of Requirement still failed to fulfill it.

Perhaps the room could change, but the entrance had to remain fixed.

Silven gritted his teeth and stepped into the cluttered room, which resembled a city.

He wanted to find the diadem, but had no idea where to begin.

The room was too large, and the walls of junk teetered precariously. He accidentally kicked an umbrella, and the mountain of trunks, kettles, and brooms collapsed, toppling hundreds of shelves and four-poster beds nearby.

Silven became more cautious, tiptoeing along the narrow path—half an hour passed, yet the road ahead seemed endless.

Fearing he’d get lost, he turned back. Along the way, he saw several diadems—but they were all ordinary decorations, not the one he sought.

Returning took another half hour—and this was only one narrow path in the “maze.”

In Silven’s view, finding the Ravenclaw Diadem in a short time was impossible unless he skipped his holiday and lived here for two months.

Even if he were willing, the school would never allow it.

Silven suspected Harry had found the diadem on his first visit because of the resonance between Horcruxes.

Should he ask Harry to come take a look?

Silven rubbed his chin.

Getting Harry here wouldn’t be hard, and asking him to help would be simple—the only problem was Harry’s boundless curiosity and inability to keep secrets; he’d inevitably stir up new trouble.

After all, using Voldemort’s soul fragment to make a wand core wasn’t exactly legal under Wizarding Law—it was better if no one else knew.

Forget it—for now. Besides, Harry probably doesn’t have time to help anyway.

Silven shook his head and left the Room of Requirement.

…

Harry really didn’t have time—Oliver Wood trained the team like a madman, practically applying for the pitch eight times a week.

So did Marcus Flint of Slytherin; the two teams clashed often over pitch access, though the conflicts remained minor, with no one sent to the hospital wing.

Mostly because they feared Professor McGonagall would ban them from using the pitch entirely.

But the seven brand-new Firebolt 2001 brooms of Slytherin made Oliver feel insecure, so he finally scheduled training in the mornings to avoid them.

Slytherin and the other three houses trained at night—after dinner until curfew.

If he trained in the morning, he could apply for the pitch daily without being rushed to finish.

Still, he didn’t skip Gryffindor’s three weekly evening sessions.

But this made life hard for the other team members.

Every morning at five, Harry was jolted awake by Oliver Wood, half-asleep, dragging his broom to the pitch.

For days he’d looked half-dead, dark circles under his eyes growing darker; at dinner that night, he nearly fell headfirst into his porridge.

“Should I go to Professor McGonagall and get her to lock Oliver up for two days?” Silven said. He truly feared Harry would fall asleep mid-flight—two days of detention for Oliver would let everyone rest.

Also, Harry looked so exhausted, Silven couldn’t even bring himself to ask for help.

“No, don’t you dare,” Harry snapped awake, waving his hands frantically. “I’m afraid he’ll make us wake up at four when he gets out.”

He yawned. “What day is it today?”

“Tuesday,” Hermione said.

“Good,” Harry sighed in relief. Tuesday nights had no training—he could finally finish his homework and sleep early.

Seeing Harry’s listless state, Hermione felt sorry for him. “Would you like me to lend you my homework?”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said gratefully. “You’ve saved me.”

Now he could sleep an extra hour.

“Yes, thanks so much,” Ron nodded beside him.

“No training, you write it yourself,” Hermione said bluntly.

Ron scowled and turned away, refusing to speak to her.

Normally, Harry would mediate between them at this point—but now he had no energy for it.

Silven was thinking of other things.

After dinner, he went to the Room of Requirement again.

In recent days, he’d visited often—first to find the diadem, then he noticed the place was essentially a vast treasure trove.

He even found a fourteen-century seven-branched broom. Of course, the six-hundred-year-old broom was unusable now, but its handle, crafted with unique magical techniques, remained perfectly preserved.

Moreover, flying was a noble pursuit in the twelfth century, so broom materials were always top quality.

When Silven dismantled it, he could clearly see the grain inside.

Made from two-hundred-year-old white ash from the Swedish Magical Forest, preserved for over six centuries by unique magical craftsmanship.

After removing the rough outer layer, the grain of this premium white ash looked like a work of art.

He also found a sixteenth-century silver arrow. As for the Moon Dream from last century and the Comet from fifty years ago, Silven discarded them—they weren’t old enough.

He also found strange eggshells and gems, but the magic in the eggshells had vanished entirely, and the gems were worthless, even dangerous.

It made sense—this place held nothing but old furniture and items students had hidden and forgotten.

Whatever they hid was likely no good—Silven had seen a battle-axe caked in blood, and jars with stoppers still glowing with malevolent light.

Silven searched the room as usual, found no Ravenclaw Diadem, and left again.

It seemed he’d have to get Harry to help, Silven thought, returning to the common room.

…

(End of Chapter)