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HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 264
🕑 Added 2025-11-12 17:48:47 +0000 UTCChapter 264: You’re Here?
Gurgle, gurgle.
In one corner of the Slytherin common room, Marcus held his wand steady, carefully controlling the flame beneath the small pot hovering midair.
He had no idea whether that professor truly thought nothing of him or not, but he was determined to show sincerity.
This cup of coffee had taken him half the evening. From planting the beans, to ripening them by spell, picking, roasting, grinding, and finally brewing—he had done every step himself.
A cup like this should satisfy Professor Kahn.
Judging the timing right, he watched the bubbles roll in the little pot, then cautiously quenched the flame and let the pot continue to float. To be safe, he conjured a tray beneath it and, with both hands supporting it like a brand-new waiter, he trembled his way back toward his seat at a cautious shuffle.
"What are you doing?"
A cool voice sounded at his side. Marcus flinched. The cup wobbled and nearly spilled.
Thankfully, his grip held; the tray steadied; the coffee remained unspilled.
He turned toward the voice, irritated—then the anger vanished when he saw who it was: Gemma. Embarrassment replaced it.
There was no help for it. He couldn’t beat her. That had been established by ample experience.
Embarrassment lasted only a heartbeat. He remembered something, and his expression turned ingratiating.
"So—can we make a deal?" Still shielding the coffee, Marcus pleaded, "You’re close with Professor Kahn, right? Could you deliver this to him for me? Tell him Marcus brewed it."
"You’re bringing Professor Kahn coffee?" Gemma’s smile turned sharp. "What is it now—did he catch you talking behind his back again?"
She had personally witnessed Marcus get caught bad-mouthing the professor once before, and she knew he’d done things like that often enough.
He had seemed to rein it in for a while, but apparently the relapse had arrived.
"N-no." Marcus tensed, then remembered he actually hadn’t been talking behind anyone’s back this time. He smoothed his face and looked at Gemma with hopeful eyes. "I’ll owe you one. Help me out?"
"Take it yourself. I’m not your waitress." Gemma waved him off and headed for the door. "I’ve got things to do. Goodbye—no, better yet, let’s not see each other again."
"Hiss—curse that woman!" Marcus ground his teeth at Farley’s retreating back, then swallowed the temper for now. He looked to where Professor Kahn stood by the frame, lowered his head, and set off, inch by inch.
Slow as he walked, the common room wasn’t large. Sooner or later, he would have to face it.
He reached Professor Kahn’s side and, doing his utmost to keep his voice from shaking, lifted his head and said, "P-professor, your coffee—"
He froze.
Because when he raised his eyes, the painting on the wall had changed completely.
The idyllic scene was gone. Dark clouds choked the sky, and half the green meadow had withered. At the center of the frame, a man and a woman stood facing each other. Waves of pressure rippled outward from them, and Marcus felt his nerves go taut.
It was only a painting, yet the pressure pressed on minds even outside the frame. No ordinary magic painting could do such a thing.
What had Professor Kahn done to trigger a change like this?
He didn’t recognize the woman. The young wizard in the pointed hat, though—the face was strangely familiar.
Who was that?
Sweat beaded on his brow as the pressure on his mind mounted. The colors in the frame deepened into a dim gloom.
It didn’t last. A hand took the coffee from Marcus, then swept once in front of his eyes. The pressure vanished.
"Thank you for the coffee."
Professor Kahn’s voice let Marcus breathe again.
Good. If the professor said so, he likely wasn’t angry.
"N-no need to thank me. It was my duty!"
He didn’t dare look up at the painting again. He turned, took a few cautious steps, then bolted, vanishing in a blink.
This place was terrifying. Whoever wanted that seat could have it. He would never sit here again.
Evans ignored Marcus’s retreat. Holding the cup, he watched the two figures in the painting with interest.
At first glance, they looked locked in solemn opposition: autumn winds sweeping the meadow, two wizards across from each other, pressure building in layered waves, the air heavy with an imminent duel to the death.
A closer look told a different story. The young wizard in the frame kept trying to escape. Every attempt failed in an instant, leaving him looking as though he had never moved at all.
Evans could see why the power gap looked so stark. Even if Merlin had been peerless, this was a portrait at best, an image spun of memory.
The Dark Wizard King, by contrast, was a projection made for war. It might even be her means of resurrection. A shard of memory losing to her was only natural.
Still, Merlin’s little gambits were many. In the short time Evans watched, he counted no fewer than ten escape methods. The gulf between them held him like a clamp. He couldn’t budge.
After trying repeatedly, Merlin gave up. He schooled his face, set his features in calm indifference, looked up at the woman before him, and his eyes seemed to hold a starfield.
"You’re here."
"…"
The woman stared back in silence, making no move to answer.
After a few seconds, perhaps finding the moment awkward, Merlin said, "This is where you say ‘I came.’"
"You make this very difficult when you refuse to play along."
"Fine, fine." Merlin lifted both hands. The reserve on his face sank into resignation. "What do you want to know?"
"Where are you?"
As though expecting the question, Merlin answered at once. "Don’t know."
The woman laughed softly, without warmth. "If the boy outside says that, I might let it pass. You really think I’ll believe it from you?"
Evans, watching, blinked. Huh?
When I said it, you didn’t believe me either.
