Chapter 46: Midnight Howls and a Weakened Silven

A lot of things happened on Christmas night.

First, Hagrid dined in the Great Hall with everyone for the first time, and because of that Silven received a special gift.

Second, the castle was extraordinarily lively that night; supposedly someone had broken into the Restricted Section of the library, causing blood-curdling, spine-chilling screams to echo from there through the second half of the night.

Filch searched the castle like a madman for the culprit, but after a whole evening of effort, he never caught so much as a glimpse of anyone, as if the person simply did not exist.

Even the ghosts, who were everywhere in the castle, had no clue at all.

By the next day, the incident had become one of the topics the ghosts chatted about to pass the time.

Nearly Headless Nick, along with the Fat Friar and Sir Podmore of the Headless Hunt, gathered around a plate of rotten, foul-smelling cheese pudding, guessing who the mysterious intruder might be.

After all, dodging Filch was no great feat; the truly impressive part was that even the ghosts and portraits hadn't spotted a thing.

"It must be those two Weasleys from your house," Sir Podmore said, cradling his head as he passed it through the cheese, as if that counted as having eaten. "They're always breaking school rules; they've probably found some secret passage no one else knows about."

Nick envied Sir Podmore's ability to take his whole head off; he had been envious of it for several hundred years.

Hearing his words just now, Nick's eyes lit up.

"It definitely wasn't the Weasley brothers," he said. "Podmore, want to know why? Just promise to let me join the Headless Hunt, and I'll tell you."

"I have plenty of time to get to the truth, Nick," Sir Podmore said, adjusting the angle of his head with his hand and smiling. "And I've told you many times already — the Headless Hunt only accepts ghosts whose heads are completely detached from their bodies."

"Don't be like that," Nearly Headless Nick pleaded. "My neck was struck forty-five times; it was only half an inch from coming all the way off… I've dreamed of joining the Headless Hunt."

"I must correct you, Nick — ghosts don't dream!"

"…"

The little chat ended on an unhappy note; Nearly Headless Nick and Sir Podmore both stormed off in a fury, leaving only the Fat Friar still sitting there.

He seemed to have expected this outcome long ago and was not at all surprised.

They were always like this, arguing endlessly over half an inch and thoroughly enjoying it; the ghosts had long grown used to the fact that the next time they met, they'd surely start bickering again.

However, from the scraps of conversation just now, the Fat Friar had found a new clue.

First, the most likely suspects, the Weasley brothers, could be ruled out — Nick seemed to have already verified that, and as the representative ghost of Gryffindor, his word was quite reliable.

But according to the Fat Lady's portrait, someone seemed to have passed right in front of her last night, so Gryffindor remained the prime suspect.

Moreover, Nick had mentioned earlier that a light in the Gryffindor dormitory had stayed on past dawn, and strange noises had drifted out from time to time.

Whether or not it had anything to do with this incident was anyone's guess.

The next night, the ghosts, thinking the library screamer would strike again, all stationed themselves near the library.

Filch thought the same.

But sadly, after an entire night, not a soul did they see, and the library was perfectly quiet.

Then came the third day.

That night there was at least some result — someone did appear on the second floor, but it was the headmaster, Dumbledore, with something unknown floating beside him.

It was large, looking like a mirror or a wooden board or something of the sort, covered by a piece of velvet cloth so that nothing could be seen.

Filch was bitterly disappointed, but he certainly didn't dare seize the headmaster and give him detention; he could only slink away again.

During the rest of the Christmas holidays, no one approached the second-floor library at night again; the castle seemed to have returned to its usual calm, and everything looked just as it always had.

No, that wasn't quite right either.

Fred and George suddenly realized they seemed to be missing a person.

Silven hadn't shown up in ages — neither on the grounds, nor at the Quidditch pitch, nor in the common room; it was as if the boy had simply vanished.

Or perhaps sneaked out of Hogwarts through a secret passage.

Fortunately, George finally discovered that Silven still appeared in the Great Hall for ten minutes every evening, which cleared him of the suspicion of having run off from school.

One evening, Fred and George timed it just right and finally caught Silven, who was hurrying over, at the door of the Great Hall.

"Finding you really wasn't easy!"

"Out with it — what on earth have you been up to lately, all secretive and mysterious!"

The two flanked Silven on either side; Fred had just opened his mouth to say more when he looked up and saw the heavy dark circles under Silven's eyes and his pale, dry lips.

"Merlin's beard!" Fred yelped, curiosity forgotten, and together with George he half-carried Silven into the Great Hall.

After five pieces of toast, three sausages, a whole roast chicken, two sandwiches, and a large bottle of pumpkin juice, Silven's complexion finally looked considerably better.

The dark circles were still there, but at least he no longer looked quite so weak.

"What on earth's the matter with you?" George couldn't hold back any longer. "You look as if you haven't eaten all day."

"It's not 'as if'…" Silven shook his head. "I really haven't eaten all day."

"Has Hogwarts banned you from the Great Hall during the day?" Fred didn't understand.

"Not exactly," Silven shook his head. "It's just that I was doing homework, and I got so into it that I kept losing track of time."

"Save that line for Quirrell," Fred said with a cold laugh. "Maybe he'd be so touched he'd add two points to Gryffindor."

"And you're the only one who'd fall for it, because no one else wraps their brain in a stupid turban," said George.

"Alright, actually I was making a wand," Silven said.

"Great, this time you can add Filch to the list," Fred shot him a look. "You don't think we don't know anything, do you?"

"'A Guide to Wand-Making and Use' — the school library has it," George said. "We've calculated that, apart from the necessary preparation, making a wand shouldn't take more than an hour."

"You definitely don't need that long, do you?"

"For a normal wand? Maybe ten minutes?" Silven said after thinking it over.

"Exactly," Fred leaned in. "You say you're making a wand, but you've been holed up in the dormitory all day — isn't that a contradiction?"

Silven scratched his head; this time he really was telling the truth.

Besides, he hadn't been in the dormitory for just one day — it had been ten. From Christmas until now, he'd been wrestling with that wand.

It was too hard. Even though the troll spine had been shrunk down to about two feet, its mass hadn't changed at all. For Silven, embedding it fully into the wand body and filling every single magical rune was undoubtedly a double trial of skill and stamina.

(End of chapter)