Herman raised his hand and pushed open the door; the wooden hinges made a very soft sound.
There were few people in the library, and those few were engrossed in their books, completely oblivious to the visitors.
For example, a senior Ravenclaw girl was sitting at one of the long tables by the window, with several thick books in front of her, big enough to be used as a pillow. Her quill was flying across the parchment, as if she was rushing to finish the last paragraph of her paper before closing time. Herman walked past her without even looking up.
The entire library seemed empty, the aisles between the bookshelves were deep and quiet, and occasionally a wall lamp would shine through, casting long, thin shadows on the floor.
Madam Pince was standing behind the counter, registering a stack of returned books, when she heard the door open and looked up.
Her gaze fell on Herman, lingering for a moment. Her scrutinizing and wary look was like those biting books in a library, ready to attack at any moment.
"First graders?" Madam Pince's voice was soft, but exceptionally clear in the quiet library. "Reading at this hour? That's rare."
She said "rare," but there was no hint of praise in her tone; it sounded more like a scrutiny.
Herman forced an awkward smile under Madam Pince's gaze, trying to make his steps appear more composed.
"Okay, I'll find a few books, and we'll be leaving soon."
He finished speaking in a low voice and walked along the aisle between the bookshelves.
Madam Pince did not respond, but Herman could feel the gaze following him from the doorway all the way to the back of the first bookshelf.
He turned into the aisle between the two rows of bookshelves, and the feeling of being watched from behind lessened a bit.
Professor Malin said to turn left after entering, and go to bookshelf number 97.
Herman subconsciously began to look at the bookshelves around him.
These bookshelves are quite sturdy, with solid wood frames and metal rivets at the edges. The varnish on the surface has darkened somewhat, giving it a warm, aged sheen.
Each row of bookshelves had a wooden sign hanging on the upper half of its side, indicating the category. The row on his left was Potions, and the row on his right was Herbology.
Herman leaned closer to take a look at the Potions sign, then turned to the front of the bookshelf.
The bookshelf is divided into layers, each layer crammed with books, spine to spine. Some are neatly arranged like a line, while others are crookedly crammed together, probably because students in the past pulled them out and put them back without putting them back in their proper places.
He looked at the front of the bookshelf for a while, scanning back and forth along the spines of the books several times, and finally found a small number in the corner of the third line: 07.
The numbers were carved into the wood and then filled in with black paint, making them a shade darker than the surrounding wood, so they were almost invisible unless you looked closely.
Herman rubbed the number with his finger, feeling a shallow indentation with his fingertip, confirming that it wasn't his imagination.
He stepped back and looked at the bookshelf next to him.
The sign on the side read "Herbology," and in the same spot on the front, he found another number: 08.
Herman suddenly realized.
These bookshelves are numbered sequentially, presumably from the same store or made by the same craftsman. The numbers are from 07 to 08, with the two adjacent rows being numbered consecutively.
He looked two more rows ahead, and sure enough, 09, 10, and so on, in neat rows.
So it seems that the 97th row of bookshelves isn't hard to find; you just need to walk slowly in order.
Herman slowly walked along the aisle between the bookshelves, his eyes scanning back and forth across the front of the bookshelves on both sides, checking the numbers as he went.
The further you go, the thicker the dust becomes on the bookshelves, and the labels on the spines start to become blurry. Some have even fallen off halfway, leaving only a small corner of the paper stuck to them.
The light from the wall lamps has become very dim here, and several lamps are not lit at all. I don't know if they are broken or if they were never installed in the first place.
After walking past a dozen or so rows of bookshelves, Herman slowed his pace.
He began to notice small details that he had never paid attention to before.
The wood on the side of the bookshelf where the classification signs hang is a lighter color than the bookshelf itself, and there's a fine crack around the paint next to the nail, as if it was nailed on later.
That's true. The classification of magical subjects, or rather the curriculum at Hogwarts, was gradually perfected over a long period after the school was established. In the beginning, there was no distinction between Herbology and Potions; all the knowledge was taught and memorized together.
The earliest Hogwarts was more like a private school, with the four Founders each bringing their own apprentices. The students learned what the teachers taught, much like the apprenticeship system in the Middle Ages.
So initially, these bookshelves probably didn't have category labels; finding a book relied entirely on the numbering sequence on the shelves.
Later, as the subjects became more and more specialized and the number of books accumulated, the administrator added classification signs to make it easier for students to find books by subject.
However, the numbering system has been retained, becoming a kind of old-fashioned tradition.
Unexpectedly, Professor Malin is still an old-fashioned Hogwarts person, finding books by their numbers, which is more accurate than by their category tags. She doesn't have to search through an entire area; at least she can find the bookshelf.
Herman continued walking down the corridor, lost in thought.
The air around was a bit cooler than at the entrance, and the dust accumulated on the bookshelves gave off a musty smell of paper and ink; you could feel the dry, slightly astringent taste when you breathed in it.
Another wall lamp above his head broke, darkening the aisle. He had to get close to the bookshelf to see the numbers on it.
She's in her 80s.
We're getting closer and closer to number 97.
Herman quickened his pace, rounded the end of a row of bookshelves, and turned into the last aisle.
Then he stopped.
A fence gate stood in his way.
The iron fence, each iron bar as thick as a thumb, was coated with a layer of black paint, but the paint had become quite mottled, revealing dark red rust underneath.
The fence stretched from the ground to almost the ceiling, its top and sides firmly fixed to the stone walls of the corridor, completely blocking any further path.
Herman instinctively reached out and grabbed the iron bar on the fence, gently shaking it to see if he could open it.
The iron fence remained completely still, without even a metallic scraping sound.
Just then, a voice came from behind him, sharp and stern, like someone suddenly ripping a bell next to his ear.
"What are you doing? Trying to sneak into the Restricted Section?!"
Herman felt as if he had been electrocuted; he jerked his hand off the fence and whirled around.
Madam Pince was standing less than two steps behind him.
She wore a dark robe, was thin, and wore square-framed glasses. Behind the lenses, her eyes were wide and her gaze was like two sharp knives, fixed directly on Herman's face.