McGonagall's Invitation

By the second week of September, Zhang Wen had gradually figured out the social ecosystem among Hogwarts staff.

In short—factions stood everywhere, undercurrents ran deep, and it was remarkably similar to the Mage's Association.

The staff room was a spacious chamber on the second floor, furnished with a fireplace, sofas, coffee tables, and a row of teapots that were always full of hot tea. Professors came here between classes to sit down, have a cup of tea, and chat for a while.

On the surface, everyone got along splendidly. In reality, every one of them was quietly observing their new colleague.

Zhang Wen had been observed for an entire week.

Professor Flitwick was the most enthusiastic. Every time they met, he pulled Zhang Wen into a discussion about Eastern magic, and his questions grew increasingly tricky. Zhang Wen could only fend him off by repeatedly saying, "What I studied was a Japanese school, so it's rather different from Chinese magic."

Professor Sprout was very kind. She gave him a cactus that watered itself, calling it "a welcome gift for a new colleague." The cactus now sat on the windowsill in Zhang Wen's office, occasionally spraying Artoria with water.

Artoria was deeply dissatisfied with this.

Professor Trelawney—the Divination professor—once ran into Zhang Wen in the corridor, suddenly seized his hand, widened her eyes, and said, "I see it... the shadow of death hangs over you..."

Zhang Wen pulled his hand free. "Thank you for the warning, Professor Trelawney."

What he did not say was that the "shadow of death" she had seen was probably lingering magical residue from the Thestral tail-hair core in his wand. Her divinations could be accurate sometimes, but most of the time, she was merely frightening people.

As for Snape, he had not sought Zhang Wen out again since probing him in his office last time. Still, Zhang Wen could sense those black eyes sweeping toward him from the staff table every now and then.

It was not hostility. It was surveillance.

Zhang Wen could accept that. If he were Snape, he would also keep a close eye on a new professor of unknown origins.

On Wednesday at noon, Zhang Wen was drinking tea in the staff room.

Artoria was absent. She had gone to the Black Lake to give Neville his first one-on-one physical training session.

Professor McGonagall entered.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor House, and Professor of Transfiguration. In the original story, she was one of the most reliable members of Hogwarts staff—strict but fair, always standing with the students when it mattered.

She wore dark green robes, and her gaze behind square spectacles was sharp yet composed. There was something about the way she walked that resembled Artoria—her back straight, her steps steady, every movement carrying unquestionable authority.

"Professor Zhang." McGonagall sat opposite him. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Of course."

McGonagall poured herself a cup of tea with brisk, efficient movements.

"I heard that your physical training has caused some controversy."

The news traveled quickly. Zhang Wen sighed inwardly. Lucius's letter had arrived only two days ago, and McGonagall already knew about it.

"A letter from the Malfoy Family?" Zhang Wen asked directly.

"Not only from the Malfoys," McGonagall said. "Several parents wrote to their Heads of House to express concerns. I received three letters, and Snape received two. All from Slytherin parents."

"What about the Gryffindor parents?"

"Not a single complaint." The corner of McGonagall's mouth seemed to twitch. "Mrs. Weasley even wrote a letter of thanks, saying that Ronald Weasley had finally started exercising."

Zhang Wen barely held back a laugh.

"Professor Zhang, I do not oppose your physical training." McGonagall's tone became serious. "In fact, I believe it is a far-sighted approach. Wizards rely too heavily on their wands; that has been a longstanding issue. But you need to pay attention to how you go about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Do not give Lucius Malfoy anything he can use against you." McGonagall looked him straight in the eye. "He has influence on the Board of Governors. If he can prove that your teaching methods 'harm students' or 'deviate from the curriculum,' he can launch a formal inquiry."

Zhang Wen nodded.

The Deputy Headmistress was not warning him. She was helping him.

"So what do you suggest I do?"

"Put the physical training into your teaching plan. State the theoretical basis and safety measures, then submit it to Dumbledore and me for approval. Once it enters the formal teaching process, Lucius will have no grounds to claim that you are privately experimenting on students."

Zhang Wen looked at McGonagall.

This woman's political skill was no worse than Dumbledore's. Dumbledore simply preferred grand strategies, while McGonagall excelled at handling practical matters.

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I'll write the plan tonight."

"You're welcome." McGonagall lifted her teacup and took a sip. "Also—"

She set down the cup.

"Your teaching assistant, Miss Pendragon."

Here it came again.

Zhang Wen's heart tightened slightly.

"I noticed that she does not use a wand," McGonagall said. "I also noticed that her bearing is highly... unusual."

"Unusual?"

"Like someone who has received rigorous military training." McGonagall chose her words precisely. "Not the sort of thing ordinary family education could produce—an actual soldier, or a knight."

Zhang Wen had to admit that McGonagall's observational skills were on par with Snape's, though her way of expressing herself was far more direct.

"She did receive knightly training." Zhang Wen decided to tell part of the truth. "Her family has a long history in Europe."

"Pendragon." McGonagall repeated the name, reacting just as Dumbledore had in his office. "That surname carries very special meaning, Professor Zhang. You should know that."

"I do."

"King Arthur's surname," McGonagall said. "In the wizarding world, the Pendragon Family is more than a Muggle legend. Merlin—yes, that Merlin—was King Arthur's advisor. That means the Pendragon Family has direct ties to the wizarding world."

Zhang Wen's heart sank.

He had not expected the wizarding world to know so much about the legends of King Arthur. In the Type-Moon Universe, King Arthur was a closely guarded secret, and ordinary people knew nothing of the truth. But in the world of Harry Potter, Merlin had been a real historical figure, and every wizard knew his name—"Merlin's beard" was one of the most common exclamations.

If anyone dug deeply into the Pendragon surname, they might uncover something extremely troublesome.

"She is a descendant of the Pendragon Family," Zhang Wen said stiffly. "But the family has not appeared in public for a very long time."

McGonagall looked at him for several seconds.

"I will not press further." She rose to her feet. "But if there is anything you need the school's help with, please let me know at any time."

She reached the door and paused.

"Professor Zhang, there is one more thing."

"What is it?"

"Gryffindor has Quidditch tryouts on Saturday afternoon. Would you be interested in coming to watch?"

"Quidditch?" Zhang Wen was a little surprised.

"Harry Potter is in his second year now, so he can continue as Seeker. But the team needs new players." McGonagall's tone was calm, but Zhang Wen could hear the pride beneath it. "As Head of Gryffindor House, I hope the staff will pay more attention to the students' extracurricular activities."

"I don't know much about the rules of Quidditch."

"Then this is a good chance to learn." With that, McGonagall left.

Zhang Wen took a sip of tea.

The Deputy Headmistress had invited him to watch the Quidditch tryouts. On the surface, it was simply a gesture of goodwill. In truth, she was trying to draw him to her side. In Hogwarts staff politics, attending one House's activities meant that one was closer to that House.

McGonagall wanted him to side with Gryffindor.

Of course, considering that the three students he valued most were all in Gryffindor, he truly had no reason to refuse.

At three in the afternoon, Artoria returned with Neville.

Neville's condition could be summed up in four words: he wished he were dead.

His face was pale, his legs trembled, his school robes were soaked through with sweat, and he walked like a wounded soldier who had just crawled off a battlefield.

But his eyes were different from how they had been that morning.

That morning, Neville's eyes had held habitual cowardice and self-denial.

Now, there was something more in them.

It was tiny, faint, but undeniably there.

"Mr. Longbottom." Zhang Wen stopped him in the corridor. "How was the training?"

Neville opened his mouth, seemingly intending to say, "It was terrifying," but after glancing at Artoria behind him, he swallowed the words.

"It was... very fulfilling," he said.

Zhang Wen nearly laughed.

"What did Miss Pendragon teach you?"

"Running, squats, and..." Neville thought for a moment. "Dodging drills. She threw rocks at me and made me dodge."

"She threw rocks at you?"

"Small rocks," Artoria added from behind him. "And I controlled my strength."

Zhang Wen decided not to inquire into the precise standard of "controlled my strength." A rock thrown by the King of Knights with controlled strength was probably still terrifying for a twelve-year-old child.

"Did you dodge them?" Zhang Wen asked Neville.

"I didn't dodge the first twenty," Neville said, his voice growing quieter.

"And after that?"

"On the twenty-third one... I dodged one."

When Neville said that, there was a trace of disbelief in his voice.

As if he himself could not believe he had managed to dodge it.

"Very good," Zhang Wen said. "Continue tomorrow."

A flash of fear crossed Neville's face, but he still nodded.

After he left, Zhang Wen turned to Artoria.

"Out of thirty rocks, he only dodged one?"

"For the first day, that result is acceptable," Artoria said. "His reaction speed is not fast, but he has one strength."

"What is it?"

"He does not give up." Artoria's tone was calm, but Zhang Wen heard the approval in it. "He was hit twenty-two times, and not once did he ask to stop."

Zhang Wen thought of Neville in the original story.

The boy who remained standing beneath the Death Eaters' Cruciatus Curse. The boy who drew the Sword of Gryffindor before Voldemort.

That courage had not appeared out of nowhere. It had always been there. It simply needed someone to bring it out.

"Keep training him," Zhang Wen said.

"I intend to add weapon training."

"What kind of weapon?"

"Wooden swords."

"...You want to teach swordsmanship to a twelve-year-old wizard?"

"Sword training can improve reaction speed, hand-eye coordination, and judgment under pressure. Those things also help with spellcasting."

Zhang Wen looked at her.

He knew Artoria was not speaking casually. She was serious. She had seen a certain quality in Neville—the kind of quality only a knight possessed.

"Fine," Zhang Wen said. "But don't give him a real sword."

"Of course not. I am not Berserker."

Zhang Wen nearly choked on his own saliva.

Had Artoria Pendragon just made a joke about Berserker?

He stared at her.

Her expression did not change in the slightest.

Whether it had been a joke or a serious statement was impossible to tell.

At dinner.

The Great Hall was as lively as ever. Zhang Wen sat at the staff table, with Flitwick on his left and Artoria on his right. Snape was seated some distance away today, talking to Sprout about something.

Zhang Wen noticed subtle changes among the students.

At the Gryffindor table, Neville sat beside Harry and Ron. In the past, Neville usually sat near the edge of the long table, keeping some distance from everyone else. But today, he sat in the middle.

Harry seemed to be asking him something. Neville answered with a red face, while Ron made exaggerated expressions beside him. Hermione leaned over to listen for a few moments, then took out a notebook and began writing.

They were probably asking about the physical training.

At the Slytherin table, Malfoy was saying something as well. His voice was low, but Zhang Wen saw him glance repeatedly toward the staff table—to be precise, toward Artoria.

The boy was studying her.

Zhang Wen was not too worried. Malfoy might be unpleasant, but at his core, he was just an unruly twelve-year-old shaped by his family environment. His arrogance and prejudice had been learned from Lucius, not born with him.

The one who truly needed watching was Lucius himself.

And—

Zhang Wen's gaze swept across the Gryffindor table and found a little red-haired girl.

Ginny Weasley.

She sat quietly in a corner of the long table, eating dinner. She looked perfectly normal, even a little shy.

An ordinary first-year student.

There was nothing unusual about her.

But Zhang Wen knew that the Diary was already in her hands. Tom Riddle's fragment of soul was speaking with her page by page at that very moment, slowly gaining her trust and gradually taking control of her will.

The key to the Chamber of Secrets had already been placed in the hands of an eleven-year-old girl.

And that girl had no idea what she was dealing with.

Zhang Wen looked away.

It was not time yet.

In the original story, the Chamber of Secrets Incident would not formally erupt until around Halloween. The first Petrificus Totalus incident would occur in late October—Filch's cat, Mrs Norris.

There was still more than a month.

He needed to use that time to prepare.

But how?

Should he go directly to Ginny and confiscate the Diary? No. He had no reason to know that it existed. If he showed knowledge of the Diary, both Dumbledore and Snape would grow suspicious—how did this professor of unknown origins know that a first-year student had Voldemort's Horcrux in her luggage?

Should he wait until the incident happened before intervening? He could, but that would mean allowing students to be Petrificus Totalus. Though Petrificus Totalus would not kill them, he could not accept letting twelve-year-old children lie in the Hospital Wing for months.

Zhang Wen picked up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and chewed, his mind racing.

"What are you thinking about?" Artoria asked.

"I'm thinking about what may happen next."

"What is it?"

Zhang Wen hesitated.

He had never told Artoria about the Chamber of Secrets. It was not that he did not trust her, but this involved too much background knowledge about this world—Voldemort, Horcruxes, the Chamber of Secrets, Parseltongue—and explaining it would be far too complicated.

But perhaps it was time.

"I'll tell you when we get back tonight," Zhang Wen said in a lowered voice. "There's something I need to tell you in advance."

Artoria glanced at him but did not press further.

A knight's patience was especially abundant when it came to waiting for intelligence.

"They have apple pie for dessert," she said.

Zhang Wen smiled.

"You eat first. I'll think a little longer."

Artoria did not stand on ceremony.

Zhang Wen watched her elegantly yet swiftly demolish the apple pie as he organized his thoughts.

Tonight, he had to explain to Artoria what a Horcrux was, what the Chamber of Secrets was, what the Basilisk was, and—

An eleven-year-old girl was slowly being consumed by a fragment of a soul.

How would the King of Knights react after hearing all that?

Zhang Wen did not need to guess.

She would want to act immediately.

And he needed to persuade her to wait.

That would probably be the hardest part of tonight.