第17章 小镜子风波

October 1st, Monday.

Zhang Wen formally announced the Handheld Mirror Project in every year's Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.

"Starting today, every student must carry a small mirror with them." He held up a palm-sized round mirror for display. "This is standard instructional equipment, as important as your textbooks and wands."

In the second-year Gryffindor and Slytherin class, the reactions were sharply divided.

On the Gryffindor side, Hermione was the first to raise her hand. "Professor Zhang, does this mirror have any special magical properties?"

"It has a Shatterproof Charm. You can't break it by dropping it."

Hermione was satisfied. The moment she received her mirror, she began examining the spell structure, muttering under her breath.

The first thing Ron did after getting his mirror was look at his own face.

"Is there something on my face?"

"There is," Harry said. "A face."

On the Slytherin side, Malfoy glanced at Zhang Wen as he took the mirror. The look was brief, but Zhang Wen caught what lay within it—a trust that was hard to describe.

It was faint, but it was there.

"What is the mirror for?" asked a Slytherin girl—Parkinson, Pansy Parkinson.

"Two things. First, use it at corridor corners to check whether there are people or obstacles on the other side. Second, when you can't observe a target directly, use the mirror's reflection to observe it indirectly."

"Why can't we observe it directly?"

"Because direct eye contact with some magical creatures can cause harm." Zhang Wen brought out the explanation he had used in the first-year class. "For example, a Basilisk—"

"Basilisks are legends," Malfoy suddenly said.

The classroom fell silent for a moment.

Zhang Wen looked at him.

"My father says Basilisks exist only in legends. They've never been proven to exist." Malfoy's tone carried his trademark arrogance, but Zhang Wen noticed a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth when he said, "My father says."

He was relaying his father's words. But he might not believe them himself.

"Legends are sometimes based on facts," Zhang Wen said calmly. "As students of defensive magic, you need to learn to deal with every possible threat—including threats that 'exist only in legends.' Better safe than sorry."

Malfoy did not argue.

"Alright." Zhang Wen clapped his hands. "Everyone, put your mirrors away. Come to me for a replacement if you lose one, but each person gets only one replacement. Lose it a second time, and five points will be deducted."

The rule was very effective. No one wanted to lose points over a mirror.

Within a day, all one hundred and twenty small mirrors had been distributed.

The effects were immediate—but not in the way Zhang Wen had expected.

First, the second-year girls treated the handheld mirrors as portable makeup mirrors. At the Gryffindor table during lunch, at least six girls were fixing their hair in the mirrors while they ate.

Second, Fred and George developed a third use for the mirrors in less than three hours—reflecting spots of light onto the back of Snape's head.

Snape walked through the corridor for five minutes before realizing there was a round spot of light bobbing around behind his head. He spun around as fast as if someone had cast a Spinning Charm on him, but the Weasley twins put their mirrors away even faster.

Snape did not catch the culprits, but his face remained dark all afternoon.

After learning about it at dinner, Zhang Wen sought out the twins.

"Could you two stop using the teaching aids I handed out to mess with Snape?"

"Technically, we were practicing 'observing a target through a reflective object.'" Fred looked perfectly innocent.

"You taught us that," George added.

Zhang Wen had no answer.

He really had taught them that.

"Don't practice on Snape next time." Zhang Wen took a step back. "Pick another target."

"Like Filch?"

"I said nothing."

The twins walked off with knowing looks.

Artoria had listened to the entire conversation.

"You're indulging them."

"I'm practicing flexible management."

"Indulging them."

"...Tactical indulgence. The Weasley twins are the hardest students in the whole school to manage. Being too forceful will only backfire. Give them some room, and they'll cooperate with you instead."

"You have a theory for everyone."

"Survival—"

"Skill. I know."

The problem that truly gave Zhang Wen a headache appeared on Wednesday.

As he graded the second-years' assignments, he noticed something strange—four students had submitted essays written in exactly the same handwriting. Not "similar." Exactly the same. The curve, slant, and spacing of every letter were completely identical.

Zhang Wen picked up the four essays and compared them carefully.

It was not plagiarism. The contents were different.

They had been ghostwritten.

Someone had written four different essays for four students in the same handwriting.

But who could make handwriting completely identical?

"A Copying Quill." Artoria came over and took a look. "They sell them in Diagon Alley. Set one quill as the master quill and another as the copy quill. Whatever the master writes, the copy automatically reproduces."

"How did you know that?"

"That little 'automatic copying spell' Hermione taught Ginny last time was a simplified version of the Copying Quill principle. I paid attention."

Zhang Wen stared at her for two seconds.

"Your ability to gather information is honestly terrifying sometimes."

"Basic competence."

Zhang Wen placed the four essays together. The names written on them were—Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and two second-year Slytherin students he did not know well.

Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy's two lackeys.

But Malfoy was unlikely to be the one ghostwriting their essays. He was arrogant, but his grades were not poor. There was no need for him to do other people's homework.

So who was it?

Zhang Wen decided to investigate.

During the next second-year class, he announced, "I have finished grading last week's essays. Several of them have obvious issues of excessive similarity. I will not name anyone publicly, but I hope the students involved will come speak to me after class."

No one came after class.

As expected.

But Zhang Wen noticed one detail—when Crabbe and Goyle heard the words "excessive similarity," they instinctively looked in one direction.

Not at Malfoy.

At a boy sitting in the corner at the back of the classroom. Black hair, thin face, almost no expression.

Theodore Nott.

Zhang Wen remembered the name.

The Nott Family was one of the pure-blood families and held a certain standing among the Death Eaters. Theodore's father, Old Nott, was a known Death Eater.

Why was this quiet boy using a Copying Quill to ghostwrite essays for his classmates?

For money? To build relationships? Or was he being coerced?

Zhang Wen decided to observe first rather than act too quickly.

Thursday afternoon, after-class tutoring time.

The Golden Trio arrived on time. But today, there was one more person.

Neville Longbottom.

"Can he join?" Harry asked. "Neville hasn't really practiced his Disarming Charm much. I think he'll improve faster if he trains with us."

Zhang Wen looked at Neville. The boy stood at the doorway, nervous but trying hard to keep his back straight.

"Of course."

Neville gave him a grateful smile and walked in to stand beside Harry.

The tutoring session began with target practice for the Disarming Charm.

Harry hit nine out of ten shots, with five landing in the inner ring. A steady performance.

Ron hit seven out of ten, with two in the inner ring. His improvement was obvious.

Hermione hit six out of ten, with four in the inner ring. Her hit rate was not the highest, but her inner-ring ratio was the best of the four. That meant her accuracy was high whenever she hit—the issue was still casting speed.

Neville.

Ten shots.

One hit. At the edge of the outer ring. It barely counted as hitting the target.

Ron tried very hard not to laugh. Hermione shot him a glare.

"Mr. Longbottom." Zhang Wen walked behind Neville. "What were you thinking about when you cast the spell?"

"I was thinking... don't miss."

"So you missed."

Neville lowered his head.

"Try not thinking about anything," Zhang Wen said. "Like Miss Granger learned—don't think, just cast."

"But Hermione thinks, 'Don't think,'" Ron cut in. "There's a special department in her brain dedicated to figuring out how not to think."

Hermione's ears turned red. "Ron!"

"Am I wrong?"

Zhang Wen held back a laugh.

"Mr. Longbottom, let's try another method." He thought for a moment. "Don't aim at the target. Aim at the wall beside it."

"Aim at the wall?"

"Yes. The more you want to hit the target, the tenser your body gets, and the more your hand shakes. If you tell yourself, 'I don't need to hit it,' you'll be less nervous. Give it a try."

Neville raised his wand uncertainly.

He looked at the wall beside the target.

"Expelliarmus."

A red beam shot out—left of the mark. But not by much. It missed by about ten centimeters.

Twice as good as before.

"Again," Zhang Wen said. "Keep looking at the wall. Don't look at the target."

Neville tried five more shots. Two of them grazed the edge of the target—though they did not count as hits, they were getting closer and closer.

The eighth shot.

Red light—right in the outer ring.

A solid hit.

Neville froze where he stood.

Harry was the first to applaud. Then Hermione. Ron hesitated for a second, then joined in.

Neville's face turned bright red. His lips trembled, but he held himself together.

He did not cry.

That was important.

A month ago, when Neville was praised, he would have been so flustered that he wanted to hide. Now, though he was still nervous, he could stand there and accept the applause.

"Not bad," Zhang Wen said. "Continue tomorrow."

After the tutoring session, the four of them left the office together.

Zhang Wen stopped Neville at the door.

"Mr. Longbottom, stay behind a moment."

Neville looked back at Harry and the others. Harry gave him an "it's fine" gesture.

"Have you been spending time with the younger Gryffindor students lately?" Zhang Wen asked.

"Sort of," Neville said. "A few first-years were grouped with me during physical training. They saw that I run faster than before, so they often come ask me how I trained."

"What about Ginny Weasley? Do you know her?"

Neville nodded. "The Weasley family's little sister. She's very quiet. Sometimes I see her sitting alone in a corner of the common room reading."

"Say hello to her next time you see her," Zhang Wen said. "Nothing deliberate, just a normal greeting."

"Alright," Neville agreed. Then he hesitated. "Professor Zhang, is Ginny having some kind of problem?"

Zhang Wen looked at him.

Neville was not particularly clever, but he was very sensitive to emotions like unhappiness. Because he had experienced so much unhappiness himself, he could easily recognize the same thing in others.

"She may need a few more friends," Zhang Wen said. "Just as you did once."

Neville fell silent for a second.

"I will," he said, his voice a little firmer than before. "I'll talk to her more."

"Thank you, Neville."

Zhang Wen used his name.

Neville clearly froze for a moment. Then he gave a genuine smile, turned, and ran after Harry and the others.

Artoria emerged from the corner.

"There is another node in Ginny's support network."

"Hermione is responsible for schoolwork and daily socializing. Fred and George are responsible for family warmth. Neville is responsible for empathy from a peer." Zhang Wen counted on his fingers. "Four lines moving forward at once."

"Is it enough?"

"Not enough," Zhang Wen said. "One person is still missing."

"Who?"

"Harry Potter."

Artoria looked at him.

"Ginny has a crush on Harry," Zhang Wen said. "Of all her social connections, Harry has the greatest influence on her. If Harry can take the initiative to say a few words to her—even something as simple as 'Good morning'—it'll have a huge positive effect on Ginny's mental state."

"But you can't let Harry know Ginny has a crush on him."

"Of course not. If a twelve-year-old boy finds out a girl likes him, he'll most likely react with embarrassment and avoidance. That would only make Ginny's situation worse."

"So what are you planning to do?"

Zhang Wen thought for a moment.

"Have Ron set things up."

"Ron?"

"Ginny is Ron's sister. If Ron mentions Ginny a few more times in front of Harry—something like, 'My sister's been learning such-and-such spell lately,' or, 'Ginny said you flew really well at Quidditch last time'—Harry will naturally start paying basic attention to Ginny."

"How are you going to make Ron bring Ginny up on his own?"

"I don't need to do anything." Zhang Wen smiled. "Fred and George are already paying attention to Ginny. Once the twins start interacting with her in the common room, Ron will automatically notice—'Since when were you two so close to Ginny?' Then he'll start wondering whether he's been neglecting his sister."

"And then he'll mention Ginny in front of Harry."

"Naturally."

Artoria fell silent for three seconds.

"Do you have some kind of social network topology map in your head?"

"Occupational habit."

"That is not a normal occupational habit."

"The Type-Moon Universe—"

"I know."

Friday night.

Zhang Wen was organizing the notes on the pipe diagram in his office. Artoria had just returned from patrol and was wiping down her "wooden sword"—the beechwood stick Hagrid had helped carve for her—across the desk from him.

She maintained the stick exactly as she would a real sword. She checked its surface for cracks, carefully wiped away dust and sweat with a cloth, and made sure the wrapping around the grip had not loosened.

Watching her focused profile, Zhang Wen suddenly asked, "Do you want a real sword?"

Artoria's hand paused.

"Excalibur is gone," she said. "It belongs to another world."

"I'm not talking about Excalibur. I mean a new sword. One from this world."

Artoria looked at him.

"Hogwarts has a legendary sword," Zhang Wen said. "The Sword of Gryffindor. It only appears when it is truly needed, before a true Gryffindor."

"I'm not a Gryffindor."

"You are the King of Britain," Zhang Wen said. "If there is a sword on this land that can recognize you, it must be the Sword of Gryffindor."

Artoria was silent for a long time.

"I don't need a sword," she finally said.

"But you want one."

She did not answer.

But she did not deny it.

That was enough.

Zhang Wen stored the thought away. The Sword of Gryffindor—in the original story, it had appeared inside the Sorting Hat during the Chamber of Secrets incident, and Harry had drawn it to kill the Basilisk.

If the course of events required a sword...

Then he already had someone in mind to wield it.

Late at night.

Artoria returned to her own room to rest. Zhang Wen sat by the window, looking at the black outline of the Forbidden Forest outside.

It was October.

There was an autumn chill in the air. Under the moonlight, the surface of the Black Lake gleamed with a cold silver sheen.

If everything followed the original timeline, the Chamber of Secrets would be opened for the first time around Halloween.

There were less than four weeks left.

The mirrors were in place. The roosters were in place. The pipe diagram was in place. Ginny's support network was taking shape.

But Zhang Wen knew full well—all those preparations could only reduce the chance of harm, not eliminate it.

The Chamber of Secrets would open. The Basilisk would emerge.

The only question was—when that moment came, would they be ready?

Zhang Wen closed the window and went to bed.

There would be classes tomorrow. Students to teach tomorrow. Neville Longbottom to train, Ginny to watch over, Malfoy to observe.

The daily life of a professor.

Plus a war that was about to begin.

He closed his eyes.

Five seconds later, he was asleep.

Fatigue was the best sleeping pill. Even more effective than Professor Binns's lessons.