Chapter 112: The Death of Corvey (2 in 1)
As for Rosen, his result was the exact opposite of James's—he managed to transform his button into a beetle with no legs at all. After thinking for a moment, he came up with a solution: he placed James's "all-legs" button beetle on top of his own legless beetle and magically fused the two together.
"That's a very creative idea."
Professor McGonagall's voice suddenly came from behind him, and Rosen's body stiffened at once.
To his surprise, she didn't scold him. Instead, she raised her wand and pointed it at the beetle.
"In the future, you'll learn even more advanced Transfiguration—combining two separate objects and transforming them into a single, complete form."
The two beetles, which had previously been crudely stuck together, slowly merged. Their bodies fused seamlessly, until at last they became a perfectly formed beetle that spread its wings and flew out through the window.
Russell withdrew his gaze, lifted his wand, and gently tapped his own button. In an instant, it transformed into a beetle identical to the reference model—its shell even shifting colors as it moved.
"An excellent transformation," Professor McGonagall said with satisfaction.
"One point to Ravenclaw."
Clearly, she was quite pleased with Russell's ingenuity.
Though the Transfiguration lesson lasted only forty-five minutes, it felt like two or three hours to the students. When the bell finally rang, they looked as though they'd just survived a drought and been granted rain at last.
Unfortunately, McGonagall's next words plunged them straight into despair.
She assigned a two-foot-long essay on the principles of transforming objects into animals, due by next week.
The students wailed as they shuffled out of the classroom, heading toward their final lesson of the day.
"Who on earth designed this timetable?" James complained irritably.
"No classes all morning, and then four in a row this afternoon."
"Careful with that kind of talk," Russell reminded him.
"The professors have it much harder than we do. Think about it—each of them teaches all seven year groups. That would be unthinkable in the Muggle world."
"Come to think of it," James said, suddenly enlightened, "they were probably teaching other students all morning."
Professor Flitwick looked different today. He was dressed in an elegant formal outfit, his face bright with excitement.
"Children, I'm afraid I won't be teaching you today," he said apologetically.
"Tomorrow, I'll be competing in the preliminary round of the International Wizarding Duel Championship. Although I'm entitled to advance directly to the next stage, I believe fairness matters."
Before the students could cheer, he continued:
"I'll be leaving for Italy shortly. But don't worry—I've arranged for a substitute professor."
The classroom door swung open at that exact moment.
"Professor Dumbledore?!"
The students stared wide-eyed. Even Russell looked genuinely surprised.
What was going on?
In the original canon, Dumbledore never substituted a single class.
"Good afternoon," Dumbledore said cheerfully, giving them a wave.
"Although my former position was Transfiguration professor, I do happen to have a few insights when it comes to Charms as well."
They sat up straight and greeted him obediently.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore was not Flitwick. Though he looked kind enough, he was still the headmaster. The students instinctively reined themselves in.
"Off you go, Filius," Dumbledore said with a nod. "I look forward to seeing you on the podium."
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore!"
Flitwick nodded excitedly and left the classroom with light, eager steps.
"Very well, ladies and gentlemen," Dumbledore clapped his hands.
"Let us begin the lesson. First, attendance."
He sat at the desk, opened the roll book, and began reading names carefully.
Russell couldn't help thinking that a wizard of Dumbledore's caliber didn't really need to take attendance like this. There weren't many students in class—one glance at the list and one glance at the room would have been enough.
"We're doomed…" Cho whispered, sweating nervously.
"Marietta said she was too tired and went back to the dormitory to sleep. Professor Flitwick is always lenient—but who knew it would be Professor Dumbledore instead…"
"Miss Chang, please keep your voice down," Dumbledore said gently, adjusting his crescent-shaped glasses.
The tone wasn't harsh, but Cho immediately shut up.
"Miss Edgecombe?"
At last, Dumbledore called Marietta's name.
No one answered.
"Well then," he said slowly, "it seems someone is late on my very first substitute lesson. How unfortunate."
"Miss Chang, would you be so kind as to return to the dormitory and bring Miss Edgecombe here?"
"Yes—yes, of course!"
Cho shot to her feet as if pardoned and rushed out the door.
"Cho, what are you rushing off for?"
Cedric suddenly appeared at the corner, blocking her path.
"Sorry, it's urgent," Cho said apologetically, slipping past him.
Cedric stood there, utterly baffled, looking like Louis XVI trying to figure out what just happened.
Cho ran all the way to the common room, panting. As usual, the bronze eagle knocker posed a question:
"What grows dirtier the more it is washed?"
"Water."
Perhaps sensing her urgency, the knocker chose an easy one. The door opened at once.
"Marietta! Marietta!"
Cho burst into the dormitory and found Marietta already fast asleep.
"Wake up!"
She shook her furiously.
"What… what is it…?" Marietta muttered groggily.
"Charms class took attendance. The professor asked me to bring you back!"
"Couldn't you just tell him I wasn't feeling well?" Marietta grumbled as she reluctantly sat up.
"Why run all the way back?"
"It's Professor Dumbledore," Cho said, gulping down a mouthful of water to steady herself.
"What?!"
Marietta snapped fully awake, her face turning pale.
"Let's go. Now."
When they finally rushed back to the classroom, Dumbledore had already finished explaining the principles of the Engorgement Charm and had instructed the students to practice on their own.
Seeing them enter, he gestured for them to come forward.
"Miss Edgecombe," he said kindly, pulling over a chair for them to sit.
"May I ask why you missed class?"
"Professor, I—"
Marietta was about to lie her way through it, but when she met Dumbledore's eyes, the words stuck in her throat.
"I was too tired, Professor," she admitted honestly.
"Ah. A perfectly reasonable reason," Dumbledore nodded—to the girls' astonishment.
"I once skipped class for the same reason myself. But looking back, that wasn't quite right, was it?"
"If you truly don't wish to attend class, you may request leave from your professor. At the very least, it shows respect. Wouldn't you agree?"
"I'm sorry, Professor," Marietta said, clutching her robe nervously, swaying slightly. She looked close to tears.
"You should say that to Filius when he returns," Dumbledore said, blinking.
"Now then, ladies, let us continue with today's lesson."
Russell stared at the chestnut on his desk, frowning.
What exactly was Dumbledore up to?
Didn't the headmaster have better things to do? Weren't there other professors available?
"Having some trouble?"
Russell snapped back to attention. Dumbledore was suddenly standing beside him.
"Oh—no," Russell replied, quickly lifting his wand.
"Engorgio."
The chestnut instantly swelled to the size of a fist.
Dumbledore smiled faintly. Without any visible movement or incantation, the shell cracked apart, revealing the nut inside—unchanged in size.
Russell's heart tightened.
Silent, wandless magic.
Dumbledore's power was terrifying.
"You see," Dumbledore explained gently,
"your Engorgement Charm only enlarged the shell. The fruit inside was unaffected."
He demonstrated again, drawing more students over to watch.
At the end of class, Dumbledore assigned no essay—only asked them to practice the Engorgement Charm diligently. By next lesson, Flitwick might be back.
"If you wish to surprise him," Dumbledore said with a smile,
"then practice well."
The moment class ended, the students rushed out eagerly, desperate to brag that Dumbledore himself had taught them.
After all, among the current Hogwarts students, none had ever attended one of his lessons.
"Russell, could you stay for a moment?"
Just as Russell was about to leave, Dumbledore called out to him.
"Yes, Professor?"
A faint sense of unease crept over him.
"I've received word from the Ministry," Dumbledore said slowly.
"Corvey—"
"He escaped?" Russell interrupted.
"No," Dumbledore replied.
"He's dead."
"Dead?" Russell stared in disbelief.
Azkaban was designed to torment, not execute. Even Voldemort would have received life imprisonment at most. Bellatrix was still alive in there, after all.
Wait. Bellatrix?
The Cup?
"…Was he murdered?" Russell asked quietly.
"Yes," Dumbledore nodded heavily.
"By an exceptionally dangerous criminal."
"And the killer?"
Dumbledore's silence was answer enough.
"I understand," Russell said at last.
"Thank you for telling me, Professor."
That evening at dinner, Russell's thoughts were still tangled in the news.
"Good evening."
Wednesday spotted him immediately and shifted seats to sit beside him.
At the Slytherin table, many students frowned at the sight. Some older students looked openly displeased.
Younger Slytherins didn't fully grasp the tension yet, but many upper-year Slytherins had grown accustomed to winning the House Cup year after year. To them, it was already theirs by right.
Had Russell added points before the Cup was announced, perhaps the hostility would've been less intense—slightly.
But instead, he had stripped away half the Cup after they had celebrated for days.
How could they accept that?
They hesitated only because of Wednesday's connection to him.
Though Russell had defeated Corvey and earned the Merlin Medal, many Slytherins believed it was luck—overblown and exaggerated. No matter how capable he was, he was still just a second-year.
When Wednesday entered Slytherin, her bloodline ensured her immediate acceptance. They assumed she would naturally distance herself from a Muggle-born like Russell.
Instead, she went further—openly sitting at Ravenclaw's table.
To some, it felt like betrayal.
"Well then, Malfoy," someone joked,
"guess you really do know Addams pretty well."
Malfoy's face darkened.
Most Slytherins were pure-bloods too—some with families as powerful as his. He couldn't outmatch them in status, nor could he win a fight.
Fuming helplessly, he clenched his fists.
Then his eyes lit up.
Potter and Weasley were walking over together, laughing.
Perfect.
"Come on," Malfoy muttered to his two hulking bodyguards.
Harry was in a good mood—he'd been praised in Herbology earlier that day. Unfortunately, an all-too-familiar voice cut in.
"Potter," Malfoy sneered, malice glinting in his eyes.
"Looks like you're having a great day."
"Get lost, Malfoy," Ron snapped.
Crabbe and Goyle moved forward immediately, cracking their knuckles.
Ron didn't flinch. He reached into his robe and pulled out Scabbers.
Crabbe froze.
Some painful memory flashed across his mind. He stumbled backward, hiding behind Malfoy and instinctively clutching his lower body.
"Idiot!" Malfoy snarled, kicking him.
"Weasley," Malfoy sneered,
"all you'll ever be is Potter's little follower. Hoping the Chosen One throws you a few Knuts so you can afford a decent robe."
"Shut up, Malfoy!"
Harry's temper exploded. He yanked his wand from his pocket—