Chapter 142

The Gryffindor table was packed with nearly all of Gryffindor, including Harry and Ron.

Right now, they sat there, eating anything they could spear on their roasting forks—bread, flatcakes, mushrooms—while devising schemes to maximize the success of their plan, though none of these schemes were likely to be carried out, yet talking about them was still enjoyable.

Ron had begun teaching Harry wizard chess. Wizard chess was identical to Muggle chess, but its pieces were alive, making it feel more like commanding an army in battle.

Ron’s set was old and worn out; everything he owned had once belonged to someone else in his family, and this set had been his grandfather’s. But the age of the pieces made no difference—he knew them intimately and could command them effortlessly.

Harry used the set left to him by Seamus Finnigan, which didn’t trust him at all. His skill was still low, and the pieces jabbered at him from all sides, drowning his thoughts:

“Don’t send me there—can’t you see your knight? Send him instead, he’s expendable.”

“The knight won’t do.”

Harry rubbed his temples and forcibly shooed the noisy pieces away.

Around them lay books: *Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century*, *Directory of Contemporary Magical Figures*, *Major Discoveries in Modern Magic*, *Studies in Recent Magical Development*—as if they were searching for someone.

Unsurprisingly, Harry lost the game; when he and Ron exchanged glances, they both knew they were about to face that troublesome question again.

“I bet there’s some kind of trial.”

Ron declared firmly,

“Remember the Blind Passage Club? Fred and the others secretly founded it—officially called the Castle Explorers Club, but really just to sneak through hidden passages.

Their trial was to charge blindly into a wall—no one knew if there was even a passage behind it, and those who’d gone through said it was terrifying.”

Harry remembered how Fred and the others had winked at that young wizard outside the changing room:

“Yes, if you don’t close your eyes and run into it, you’ll never know there’s a passage behind.”

Then Harry’s eyes hardened:

“We’ll pass the trial!”

He thought: What could be worse than endless homework?

Professor McGonagall had harshly criticized their Transfiguration essays, and Professor Snape had coldly deducted five points from them.

If things kept up like this, Gryffindor’s house points would vanish completely.

They exchanged glances and saw the same determination in each other’s eyes.

“What are they up to?”

After finally snapping back to attention, Hermione saw Harry and Ron striding toward her with “passionate determination.”

They reached the entrance to the Great Hall and hid quietly behind a suit of armor, waiting for something.

At the entrance stood the hourglasses of the four houses, quietly displaying their points; Ravenclaw’s score, after a rollercoaster ride, now held firm in first place.

Even Ron had grown somewhat hopeless: “If we don’t win the Quidditch Cup, we’ll never overtake Ravenclaw.”

But soon he cheered up again: “Neither will Slytherin.”

The food on the tables gradually vanished, and the desserts disappeared too.

Xiang Xiang Xien was holding *The Fifth Element: An Inquiry*, preparing to leave the Great Hall for the Hope Cottage.

Then he saw the two sneaking around.

“Harry? Ron?”

They appeared too often—he asked softly.

“Oh! Xiang Xiang Xien! We want to join the trial—no matter what organization it is, we…”

Harry, startled by the unexpected voice, flinched violently.

When he realized what he’d just said, Ron’s face was already etched with despair.

“Hmm. I agree. Ron, you, and Harry. But you’ll need to ask the others.”

Xiang Xiang Xien stared at them and instantly understood what they wanted.

He himself had no objection—if everyone in the Hope Cottage agreed, he wouldn’t oppose it.

Compared to that, having Harry and Ron keep an eye out for any sign of the Dark Lord wasn’t bad at all.

“Ah—you mean, uh, I mean… there isn’t a trial? Like, we don’t have to run into walls or anything?”

Ron stammered; the sudden relief was too unexpected. He steered the conversation toward the scenario they’d already prepared, and suddenly found himself speaking more smoothly.

At the same time, his eyes inexplicably welled up—Xiang Xiang Xien had said “him” and “Harry…”

“Run into walls?”

Xiang Xiang Xien raised an eyebrow.

“Oh! Ron means—we’ll go ask right away!”

Harry clapped a hand over Ron’s mouth and dragged him away.

“...Ron, why on earth do we have to run into walls?!”

Harry said, exasperated—he’d never seen anyone willingly charging at walls.

“Oh oh—”

Ron’s face flushed red, embarrassed and annoyed, and slightly terrified.

Why had he said all that?!

“We were completely out of our minds in front of Xiang Xiang Xien.”

Harry said, and then they looked at each other and burst out laughing.

The next day, Wednesday.

Morning in the Hope Cottage.

Xiang Xiang Xien sat before the fireplace, organizing his notes.

He’d added much to his studies on Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts; as he placed the materials in the wooden cabinet by the entrance, the enchanted mirror shouted:

“Neat and clean! But the style is damn chaotic!”

Xiang Xiang Xien silently reviewed his attire: scarf, sweater, gloves, robe, and his recent hat—all from different sources.

It was accurate.

So he returned to his seat by the fireplace and resumed reading alchemy texts, since he was due at Professor Terra’s in the afternoon.

Then a commotion erupted outside.

“Mr. Finnigan, do we really need to do anything?”

That was Harry’s voice.

“Oh—right, uh, we don’t mind...”

That was Ron’s voice.

“Do you think this place is some kind of monster?”

Clearly Hermione—her tone was exasperated yet amused.

“Of course not. But remember one thing—Mr. Owl.”

Jia Jia Siting called out cheerfully.

Only then did Harry and the others notice an owl perched on the wall, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles.

“It’s so amazing...”

Ron told Harry, his voice trembling with excitement.

“Little wizards! More foolish little wizards! Answer my question!”

Mr. Owl glanced over—this time, he didn’t flap his wings.

“A talking owl—in a painting?!”

Ron jolted, nearly falling over in shock.