CHAPTER 29

Saturday's day off was spent almost entirely within the confines of the house common room. My classmates and I tackled our homework, using both our own books and library volumes that Zacharias and Justin eagerly fetched—though it took them plenty of time. It seemed they just didn't want to study. So, Hannah, Susan, Ernie, and I got all our assignments done.

Cedric and the other boys from the Quidditch team were in full swing, scouting candidates for the Chaser position—or rather, one vacant slot.

"…but the tryouts are only in two weeks…" grumbled those eager to join but, in classic teenage fashion, procrastinating until the last minute. That "last minute" had snuck up fast.

In short, the boys stirred up quite a commotion.

Finally carving out some free time in the evening, I sat in the common room, observing this peaceful bustle of students—some in casual clothes, others in school uniforms or robes with yellow linings—and gradually grew irritated. My fingers tapped a faintly familiar, habitual rhythm on the chair's armrest, and this bright hobbit-hole, misnamed a common room, slowly drove me mad. Not much, mind you—just a little. Considering no external factor could truly shake my calm, that was quite an achievement. Most likely, it stemmed from dashed expectations—I'd anticipated dungeons, after all.

I probably ought to do what I'd planned upon arriving: write to my parents. But now, or later? So I sat there, mulling it over, legs crossed, watching the same leisurely student hubbub.

"Worn out?" Justin asked, standing beside the chair, half-turned toward me, surveying the room.

"Only slightly."

"Hm…"

"Something bothering you?" I asked, still gazing at the common room.

"No—just that you're sitting in that chair like Thranduil, surveying his realm. All you need is a staff and a sword at your belt."

Thranduil, huh? A familiar name, but not from elven memories, though it sounds elvish. Something from books—fantasy, I think. Yes, exactly. It's cropped up in several lifetimes' memories. I won't dwell on it. Seems this unknown work exists here too.

Grabbing a piece of parchment and a quill from the nearby table, I balanced the sheet on my knee and began drafting the letter. It came surprisingly easily. Stripped of fluff, the content boiled down to a few phrases: arrived safely, settled in, food's great, subjects are interesting, classmates are nice, Hufflepuff house, best wishes, your son Hector.

"A letter? To whom?" Justin, still hovering nearby, asked as before.

"To my parents, of course. No matter how grown-up a child thinks they are, parents will always worry, languishing in ignorance."

In one fluid motion, I rose from the chair and looked at Justin.

"Isn't it my duty to dispel that ignorance?"

"Let's go—I'll show you where the owls are 'languishing.'"

Judging by his tone, Justin enjoyed the word "languishing," and I increasingly noticed movement nuances from various intelligent beings bubbling up from the fragments. I hope elven arrogance doesn't leak out too much—adults can't stomach it, let alone kids.

Justin led me out of the common room, through stone corridors lit by torches and hanging lamps with flickering flames. From our so-called basement level up to the main tower with its moving staircases, we encountered almost no one, but on those stairs and adjacent corridors, there was a bit more activity—students walking alone or in groups, discussing something important or chatting cheerfully.

After ascending a couple of staircases, we entered another corridor, then climbed a wide spiral staircase inside a tower. Each turn revealed a small glass window in the outer wall, offering a view of the Forbidden Forest, and every two turns, a door led to some inner room. The tower wasn't particularly wide, and the rooms seemed hardly bigger than closets—but I couldn't check. Tugging one door out of curiosity, I found it sealed so tightly in its frame it might as well have been a fake, locked by magic.

Reaching the top, we stepped into a spacious, circular room, dimly lit by a single matte lamp—sufficient, if gloomy. A cunning lattice of wooden beams and supports stretched up to the high roof, lined with rows of perches where owls roosted. Now, with dusk settling in, at least a third of the perches were empty—judging by the gaps, those owls had flown off to hunt. The rest peered at us with enormous eyes, showing neither threat nor fear—clearly smarter than their mundane kin, thanks to their magical nature.

Taking a step across the room, I crunched something underfoot. Looking down, I saw the gnawed skeleton of a sizable rodent. Only then did I notice the floor was thick with hay, strewn with skeletons, regurgitated fur pellets, and some droppings. Fortunately, the room had plenty of windows and openings, letting the wind blow through—otherwise, the stench could've been lethal.

"Well?" Justin turned to me, eyeing this less-than-pristine corner of the castle with evident displeasure.

"Hm…"

As I extended my hand and released magic in all directions, a large owl swooped from its perch and landed neatly on my forearm. A precise landing, I noted. Intriguingly, it seems these local mail-carrying magical birds respond to such a summons much like those in the elf's memories.

"Healthy bastard…" I couldn't help remarking on the bird's substantial weight—decent, yet smaller than its size suggested. "What now?"

"Huh? You give it the letter, tell it who it's for, and that's it. You can add where exactly, or whether to wait for a reply."

"At least it's free?"

"Usually, yeah," Justin shrugged. "What? I've only sent letters a couple of times. The owls here are mostly school ones—they work for the idea, I guess."

For the idea? No—they feed on magic. That's likely why there aren't many skeletons here. I recall seeing owl treats shaped like cookies in a Diagon Alley shop—part of their diet is regular food, part is magic.

"Here you go, owl," I said, handing the letter to the bird. "Deliver it to my parents—Emma or Robert Granger. Wait for a reply."

I'd included a request in the letter for them to respond if possible, figuring an owl expecting something wouldn't come as a shock.

"Hoo…" the owl hooted.