HR Chapter 104 Halloween and the Mystery of Grindelwald Part 2

In Grindelwald's tone, Ian sensed more of Dumbledore's quiet heft.

"Naturally— startling first-years and foretelling trifles hardly sway the grand scheme of things." Grindelwald ambled back to his desk.

"As for that prophecy about Tom Riddle you brought up… I've got a different take on it, actually." His words instantly hooked Ian's attention.

"What take?"

Ian eased the basket off his shoulders and plonked down across from Grindelwald. He hesitated, eyeing the untouched cup of bitter tea before him.

Then.

He lifted the cup and took tentative sips— still bitter enough to twist your face, but wizards are odd like that sometimes. This brew has a knack for sneaking into your good graces.

"Just my own thinking, even if our Headmaster mightn't see it the same way." Grindelwald tossed out a quick caveat, then glanced toward the West Tower beyond the window and spoke in a hushed tone.

"We all know Sybill Trelawney's kin trace back to Cassandra Trelawney, that famed seeress from old Greek tales."

"Cassandra Trelawney crossed Apollo, dooming her and her line to speak true prophecies no one'd ever credit."

Grindelwald recited the well-worn lore, and after Ian gave a nod, he pressed on. "Mind you, those old yarns are just that— yarns. Prophecies always ringing true isn't a curse. No Seer's got that kind of Divination clout."

"Even if a god handed it over, mortals couldn't shoulder it… Still, I reckon Trelawney's cursed alright, but her family's sight isn't anything to write home about."

"What sets them apart from most Seer clans is that priestess in their blood. Their sacred lineage outshines their knack for peering into the mists by a long shot."

Grindelwald's words left Ian gobsmacked.

"You're saying…"

His eyes widened, his face all disbelief, clearly piecing together Grindelwald's drift. The professor flashed a roguish grin.

"Spot on. The one who spun that prophecy wasn't our Professor Trelawney, but her forebear. That's why she's still kicking about, not flattened by the prophecy's recoil." Grindelwald dropped his wild take with a flourish, laying it bare for Ian.

In the same breath.

He leaned in, whispering gravely to Ian.

"Some visions can't be voiced aloud. Every Seer worth their salt knows it."

It felt like a weighty nudge— or maybe a shadow of his own past. Ian was still reeling from Grindelwald's half-mad claims.

"Spirit-calling? That's meddling with the veil between life and death, isn't it?"

Ian didn't reckon crossing that line was his alone to claim, but he hadn't pegged Trelawney's lot as having such a rare gift.

Though come to think of it, it tracked. Whenever Professor Trelawney delivered a hefty prophecy, she turned into someone else entirely and forgot it all after.

Her wild, preacher-like antics fit the mould of a medium to a tee.

"The souls of priestesses aren't like ours, and where they wander after death's different too. It's a boon for their kin." Grindelwald's lore ran deep as a Gringotts vault.

He likely wasn't off the mark on one count: decades holed up in quiet, poring over tomes and pondering, he'd surely amassed more wisdom than Dumbledore in some corners.

"The descendants reap the rewards, but the ancestors bear the brunt." Ian could picture it: Sybill Trelawney constantly rousing her old kin. Cassandra must have the patience of a saint not to hex her descendant silly.

"Ha ha ha, you have a knack for seeing the funny side!" Grindelwald roared with laughter, but then snapped back to his old self, quick as a Snitch, showing his fickle streak.

"I'm knackered. Fancy kipping here tonight?" It was plain he was shooing Ian off, tossing aside their matey chat like yesterday's Daily Prophet.

"…"

Ian reckoned even old codgers could get tetchy. He hoisted his basket back on, the bones clattering inside with a hollow rattle as he did.

Grindelwald's eyelids flickered at the din.

"Planning to bunk with those ghastly things tonight? Not worried you'll give your dorm mates stomach ache?" He ushered Ian to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom door.

"It's Halloween, Professor."

Ian winked, flicked a hand in a see-you-later, and bolted for the spiral stairs. When he glanced back, the classroom door had already thudded shut.

The lights inside still glowed.

Plain as day, Grindelwald's talk of sleep was just a dodge to get him out.

"At least I've won back my freedom, and I've scored a right haul! I'll be up all night in the Room of Requirement!" Ian bounded up the stairs, lugging the hefty bones with glee— bones from Slytherin's own descendants!

If the lore scribbled in 'Bloodlines and Beginnings' isn't too wide of the mark, he might just unlock the riddle of Parseltongue, mastering that slippery tongue to chat with the dear old basilisk.

Merlin's beard, the hours Ian squandered in the library chasing Parseltongue! That gift, buried deep in bloodlines, clearly needed some proper wizarding trickery to tease out.

"I want you to hiss at me, heirs of the four founders!" Ian, buzzing with thrill, raced toward the eighth floor where the Room of Requirement hid.

But then.

On the fourth floor, he barrelled straight into a gaggle of ghosts zipping through the air like Bludgers— at this hour, they'd every right to roam the castle, though today's lot were a cut above the usual spooks Ian knew; all decked out in posh robes and grinning like Cheshire Kneazles.

"It's little Ian, the night owl who'll never sprout an inch!" A portly ghost barred his way, wobbling as if he'd downed too much mulled mead, and nabbed him.

"He's the lad who can grab us! He's fit to join our feast! Aye, that's the ticket!" The chubby spectre crowed to the others drifting nearby.

No one bothered asking Ian's say-so— this was Edmund Grubb, snuffed it after scoffing dodgy plums right by the Great Hall's doors.

A right chatterbox of a ghost, always pestering students at supper, either green-eyed over their grub or fretting they'd tuck into something lethal as he did.

"He must've been gearing up for our bash! Look! He's brought a rattling bone brigade!" Another ghost, even broader than Edmund, latched onto Ian's basket from behind.

This was the Fat Friar, Hufflepuff's own, topped for supposedly curing a farmer's boils with a wand flick and turning a goblet into a hare for laughs.

"No, I haven't!" Ian protested quickly, but the giddy ghosts didn't care a whit, hoisting him up and soaring toward the dungeons.

To spare Ian a bruising through walls and stone, they took the direct route— thoughtful, sure, but this wasn't the kind of "spectral lift" he'd signed up for.

Being chummy with ghosts had its downsides, no doubt.

"The feast rolls on! We welcome the living little wizard!" The ghosts plonked Ian down in the dungeon classroom, aglow with flickering candlelight. Tiny black tapers burned with an eerie blue flame, casting a dour sheen even on Ian's young mug.

It felt like he'd tumbled into the edge of the Veil, the air thick with a racket like a horde of ghouls clawing at a chalkboard— teeth-grinding and spine-chilling, he half-expected to yell "Praise Salazar!" any second.

The din was downright dreadful!

"Welcome, welcome!" Nearly Headless Nick swooped over, swathed in a black velvet cloak, looking properly dapper.

"Thrilled to have a young wizard among us." He doffed his plumed hat and dipped low to Ian, oozing respect that left him squirming.

The overdone courtesy made it tricky for Ian to blurt out he'd rather scarper; he could finally grasp how folk felt when he laid on the "Hogwarts hustle" charm.

(To Be Continued…)

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