I'm Having a Hard Time

For teachers at Hogwarts during the start-of-term season, they generally encountered one of two situations:

First, new students getting lost everywhere and unable to find their classrooms.

Second, new students crying their hearts out and loudly demanding to go home.

Professor McGonagall had taught at Hogwarts for several years already, so she paid Pomona's complaints no mind at all. Although Pomona had cried like the other new students, she had been frightened into tears by the terrifying Slytherin. Overall, she felt she was doing fine—she had not been crushed into pieces as if a dragon had stepped on her.

Ah, that was life. It could save a person, and it could destroy one. At first, a colorful life felt fresh and exciting, but before long, you discovered that it was actually chaotic and disorderly, with no pattern to be found. If you did not want it to drive you mad, then find somewhere to toss all those things that troubled you but that you could not bear to throw away. Let that overly colorful life return to being dull and peaceful, and you would feel much better.

"Nick, there's something I want to ask you." Pomona found the Gryffindor ghost in front of a tapestry on the eighth floor. Nearly Headless Nick turned around, stuck a finger into his neck, and laboriously adjusted his stiff ruff. Then he grabbed his hair with his right hand, and only when his partly severed head was nearly falling off did he put it back where it belonged.

"Good afternoon, young lady. Is there anything I can do for you?"

He seemed to think he had tipped his hat, but Pomona only found it revolting. Article Sixty-Eight of the Hufflepuff Code of Conduct stated that so long as someone was not an openly declared enemy, they could be met with a smile. It was the most basic courtesy. So Pomona gave Nearly Headless Nick a sweet smile and asked foolishly, "Dear Nick, do you know where there are forbidden books besides the library and the Ravenclaw common room?"

"Books?" Nick drifted around a pillar, then said, "If you're looking in Gryffindor Tower, you'll probably have an easier time finding swords."

What else could she say?

"You aren't human. I can sense the aura of a Dryad, but you aren't a Dryad either. Hmm, how curious."

Nick rubbed his chin and floated over to examine Pomona closely.

"No one calls them Dryads anymore," Pomona corrected him.

"But that was what we called those magical creatures in my day. Ah, I remember now. I don't know where the forbidden books you mentioned are, but I do know where old books are kept."

"Really?" Pomona was overjoyed. Almost all forbidden books were old books from the Middle Ages, precisely from Nick's era. "Quick, tell me where!"

"Do you see that tapestry? Concentrate on the place you need, then walk past that stretch of wall three times. A door will appear opposite the tapestry. Go inside, and you'll find what you want."

Pomona looked in the direction Nick pointed. There was nothing at all on that wall. When she turned back to ask him more questions, he had already floated away.

Even children raised in the wizarding world felt that Hogwarts had too many secrets. Taking a deep breath, Pomona finally did as Nick had said. She imagined a room where old books were stored and walked back and forth three times. As a flash of white light passed, an old wooden door appeared in the previously empty wall. Its knocker was shaped like two badgers, making it look very Hufflepuff.

I haven't found Helga's room, have I? she fancifully wondered. She gently pushed open the door. The space inside was astonishingly large, at least two stories high and nearly large enough to hold two dining halls. In that enormous space stood a mountain of books. Perhaps if every House-elf at Hogwarts were summoned and given a century, they could clear it all away.

Pomona could not remember the title of the book she was looking for. She had only seen it mentioned in a document. It was a book about the language of plants.

Animals had mouths and could make sounds, but plants had no such organs—how could they speak? That was something to ask a Mandrake. As long as someone pulled it out of its pot, it could scream with tremendous enthusiasm.

She took out her wand. "Accio talking plants."

The mountain of books did not react.

"Accio the language of plants."

The mountain of books still did not react.

"Accio how to communicate with plants."

"Accio the secrets of plants."

"Accio plants' whispers."

She persisted for about half an hour, stopping only when she began to suspect there was something wrong with her Summoning Charm. This method simply did not work. She had to know the correct title to find the book she wanted.

Knowledge was like an ocean; one careless step and you could drown in it. Pomona had no idea how many old textbooks were among these books. If she called out the wrong title and a mountain of books came crashing down on her, she might become the first student in Hogwarts history to be crushed to death by books.

"Why did they have to plant the Whomping Willow at a time like this?" Pomona was utterly baffled. When that tree started acting up, it made a terrifying spectacle. Probably no student would dare approach it in the future. They could have planted it during the holidays. Even if the Herbology professor was absent, there were still others in the wizarding world they could consult. What was Dumbledore trying to accomplish by going to so much trouble?

"Accio How to Care for the Whomping Willow!" she blurted out recklessly. To her surprise, there really was a reaction from within the mountain of books. However, the book was buried deep inside and did not seem likely to fly out easily.

What should she do?

"Split apart!" She pointed at one corner of the book mountain, and a stack of books separated from it.

"Split apart!" She pointed to the side, and more books separated from the mountain. She repeated this four or five times, until the mountain of books finally showed signs of collapsing. Then she hurried far away and watched it topple over.

Dust that had accumulated for who knew how many centuries rose into the air, leaving her filthy and gray-faced. As she busily waved away the dust with her sleeve, a curled, yellowed old book fell at her feet.

She bent down and picked it up, brushing away the dust. The cover bore the words "How to Care for the Whomping Willow" in ornate script. But the book was handwritten, and its pages were not parchment but papyrus, a kind of paper originating in Egypt that no one used anymore.

"Please, don't let it be hieroglyphs!" Pomona prayed sincerely. Then she gritted her teeth and opened the book. Fortunately, it was written in English.

Wizards were like that—always being mysterious. Sometimes, just to show off their learning, they used lost languages to encrypt their notes. When that happened, readers had to decipher them before they could read, which was a complete waste of time.

Just then, she heard a hoarse sound coming from somewhere in the room.

It sounded like a whisper, but she could not understand the language at all. Every so often, it made hissing sounds like those of a snake, and the sound made her whole body tremble involuntarily.

She had just seen a ghost, but the monster hiding in this vast empty room was not visible like a pearly-white ghost. Perhaps what people feared was not "ghosts," but the unknown. Even wizards sometimes encountered bizarre phenomena they could not explain.

If she were a brave Gryffindor, she would take out her wand and find out what was making that sound.

If she were an inquisitive Ravenclaw, she would analyze why such a phenomenon was occurring.

If she were a proud and powerful Slytherin, she would show that overconfident thing the power of Dark magic.

But she was only a foolish Hufflepuff girl. So she turned around and ran away as fast as she had ever run in her life.

Article Sixty-Nine of the Hufflepuff Code of Conduct: when forced to make a hasty decision, trust your instincts.

Pomona was certain that whatever that thing inside was, she could not afford to provoke it. If she did not run now, when would she?