The Shrieking Shack (Part One)

On the second day of the new school year, Pomona woke early to find everyone else in the dormitory had already gone to class. There was an extra plate by her bed, holding soft bread and blueberry jam.

Hufflepuffs never had to worry about going hungry. Though she did not know who had left it for her, Pomona was sincerely grateful. She had not even eaten dinner last night, and her stomach had long since been growling.

There were still two days until the full moon. She had to find a way to finish digging the tunnel leading off campus. To avoid attracting attention, she had to work at night. Her lack of sleep might continue until Sunday. By then, she guessed she would not even need to put on a "haggard expression"—her complexion would be terrible enough.

Once she had fully woken up, Wilhelmina's words kept resurfacing in Pomona's mind.

Could that really have been it? Had her father been bewitched by her mother, and that was why he had abandoned his daughter?

She was confused by that kind of feeling. How could anyone lose control to such an extent? Lupin had once said that there were monsters more terrifying than ghosts, and Pomona believed he had meant werewolves. He himself was a werewolf. The torment he suffered was not merely physical; it was probably psychological as well. That was what had made him mature beyond his years.

He was like that prematurely grown Whomping Willow, robbed of his childhood and thrust straight into adulthood. Those unsuspecting classmates were like clay unsuitable for its growth, nearly driving Remus Lupin mad.

Werewolves loved to bite people, yet he had to restrain that urge. He could not harm the delicious flesh and blood in his eyes, nor turn them into his own kind.

A Veela's nature, meanwhile, was to seduce humans. She had always wanted to fall in love with a man, but perhaps that was not truly her intention. In Muggle terms, it was instinct, like fish swimming back upstream.

If Dumbledore had wanted her to suppress her desires, then that old hat should have sorted her into Ravenclaw, where she could become a witch who never married for the sake of pursuing knowledge and power. Yet it had placed her in Hufflepuff, a House full of daydreamers, just as Lupin the werewolf had been placed in righteous Gryffindor. Had Dumbledore played them, or was fate simply arranged this way?

She took out her wand, the one she had bought from Ollivander. Ollivander was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a pure-blood wizarding family like Jane Weasley's, and a renowned figure in the wizarding world. Who could have imagined that Jane, who spoke so softly and had so little presence, might be favored by the Dark Lord?

Not every pure-blood family entered Slytherin. Some might not believe it, but Hufflepuff had more pure-blood aristocrats than even Slytherin. Hufflepuff had a large population, while Slytherin had quite a few half-bloods. Remove them from an already small number, and Slytherin had fewer pure-bloods than Hufflepuff.

Ancient families, sacred bloodlines—it sounded so impressive. Yet the reality was that pure-bloods were becoming ever scarcer. The Longbottom family still had no heir.

The Barty Crouch recommended by Slughorn to replace Dumbledore as the Ministry of Magic's executive director at Hogwarts came from one of the oldest pure-blood wizarding families, and was also one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. His personal strength did not compare to Albus Dumbledore's, but how could Dumbledore's obscure family name rival the power of Crouch's family?

Barty Crouch was upright and fair in several cases involving wizards and other races. He was respected by races such as goblins, and he was proficient in many languages. A Hogwarts headmaster not only had to manage the school, but also had to get along with the neighboring races.

Slughorn's recommendation of Barty Crouch was not especially because he favored pure-bloods. It was simply that once Barty Crouch became headmaster, the situation of Muggle-born students at school would worsen. They might even be denied admission altogether. Possessing strange abilities they dared not use among Muggles, they feared only that they would be treated as outsiders, as freaks.

An ordinary student naturally did not need to worry about such things. They only needed to happily enjoy studying and playing. But once she became a professor, she had to have her own stance. On the surface, hiring professors at Hogwarts was the headmaster's responsibility, but the Ministry of Magic had its own trump card. In the name of educational evaluations, they could send people to interfere with the school, even dismiss teachers they considered unsuitable. Everyone knew that was a means of eliminating dissidents. Now, the Slytherin head of House considered Pomona to be Dumbledore's person, and she also happened to be only eleven years old. Who would believe an eleven-year-old child could become a professor?

She was under enormous pressure. Believe it or not, pressure could make people keep growing, but too much pressure could break them. She needed to find some way to relieve it. She could not keep throwing herself into Pete's arms and crying.

"Can you hear me?"

She had just thrown back the blankets and sat up when a man's voice sounded behind her. She turned around, but there was nothing there.

The sight was truly terrifying. Pomona felt goosebumps rise all over her body, but beyond that, she also felt a sorrow so deep it left her weak all over. A warm sensation brushed against her neck, as though someone were breathing into the hollow of her throat.

"Who's there?"

Barefoot on the carpet, she looked around. With a soft pop, a House-elf appeared in the corner.

"What are you doing here?"

"Professor Grubbly-Plank told Honey to wake Miss at nine, or you'll be late for your second class," the little elf said timidly.

"Honey?" Pomona found the name wonderfully amusing. She had once told Lily that food made people happy. Perhaps she ought to correct that—sweets could make people blissfully happy.

"Yes, Miss. That is my name." Honey gazed at her with watery eyes, nervously twisting its fingers together.

"Can you get me some chocolate?" Pomona jumped onto the bed. At home, Madam Sprout would never have allowed her to eat chocolate first thing in the morning. But she was at Hogwarts now. Who could stop her from having chocolate for breakfast?

"Right away, Miss." Honey snapped its fingers and vanished. Pomona used the time to wash up. When she emerged from the bathroom again, there was not only bread and jam beside her bed, but also a large plate of chocolate. Honey, however, had disappeared again.

Her long-established habit of rising early had not allowed her to sleep until nine. It was too late for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but too early for her second class, Divination. After giving it some thought, she decided to visit the greenhouse, since she would have to take it over anyway.

When she stepped out of the underground dormitory, she found the sun shining brightly outside. It was nothing like yesterday's endless rain. Unfortunately, none of the four Houses had Flying Class today. Such fine weather was going to waste.

Chewing chocolate, she strolled leisurely through Hogwarts' winding corridors. Everything here had remained unchanged for years. Time itself seemed to slow within these walls. Only the occasional leaking pipe kept repeating the fact that this was a very old school.

She felt an inexplicable fear of the puddle in the corridor and carefully tiptoed around it. Then she heard that rustling hiss again, like a snake speaking. In terror, she shut her eyes and fled blindly. Only after she could no longer hear the sound did she slowly stop and open her eyes. To her surprise, she had run all the way to the greenhouse.

She had clearly never been here before, yet the place felt as familiar as though she had visited it thousands of times. It simply did not look the way she remembered. It was far too old and rundown.

She pushed open the weathered door. The handle was still shaped like Hufflepuff's badger. Then the sight inside left her stunned.

No one knew how many years it had been since the place had received proper care. The plants looked wilted and lifeless, and quite a few weeds had mixed in among them. It was far more chaotic than the tropical rainforest in the girls' common room.

"Oh, you poor little thing." Pomona stroked the leaves above the Mandrake's soil. It was small and yellow, obviously malnourished. She hurried into the preparation room to find earmuffs. After putting them on, she yanked the Mandrake from the earth. Its human-shaped roots resembled a premature baby—tiny and thin—and even its cries were feeble.

A Mandrake's cry could awaken those petrified by a Basilisk, and it could also kill people. But there was one prerequisite: its cry had to be strong enough. As for the Mandrake in her hand, its cries were so weak that Pomona doubted she even needed earmuffs.

She looked around the messy greenhouse once more. It seemed she had a great deal to do.