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HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 262
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 18:38:05 +0000 UTCChapter 262: The Portrait in the Slytherin Common Room
"I heard Professor Kahn has had the gamekeeper covering his classes for several days now. Do you think something’s happened to him?"
"Shh! Don’t talk nonsense. Did you forget what happened in the Great Hall last time? Never discuss anything related to that one behind his back!"
"Fair enough. Let’s talk about something else. By the way, N.E.W.T.s are almost here. How’s your revision going…"
In the Slytherin common room, with the murmur of low voices drifting at the edge of his hearing, Marcus Flint set his coffee cup on the table, leaned back in his chair, and picked up the book by his elbow, reading on with lazy interest.
To anyone watching, he looked like a studious, impeccably mannered, pure Slytherin—if not for the title stamped on the cover of his book: Pure-blood Wizards’ Travel Notes. With a different spine, the academic aura might have felt more convincing.
By rights, every seventh year should have been preparing for the coming N.E.W.T.s—the most important examinations of a young wizard’s life.
But to Marcus, N.E.W.T.s were nothing worth fussing over.
He considered his knowledge solid enough, and where it wasn’t, he didn’t much care.
The Flint family wasn’t exactly minor. Exams were exams; he’d pass, obviously.
What, keep him back a year? Ha. Not happening.
Chuckling inwardly, Marcus shook the book straight and picked up where he’d left off.
It was a travelogue by a pure-blood predecessor, recording sights and impressions after leaving school. The book wasn’t ancient—only three decades old or so—but what it covered was lively and entertaining, and Marcus found it highly engaging.
A pity the writer’s grasp of pure-blood honour wasn’t as thorough as it should have been. There wasn’t nearly enough on the glory of pure-bloods for Marcus’s taste, which soured his mood a little.
After a few more pages, Marcus set the book aside again for a sip of coffee.
As he rose, his eye fell, almost by accident, on a frame hanging on the wall beside him, and he couldn’t help curling his lip.
At a glance, it was an unremarkable painting—especially compared with the other portraits crowding the Slytherin common room. This one was decidedly plain.
It showed a lush green meadow. In its centre stood a wizard in grey robes, back to the frame, absolutely still.
From the day Marcus had first come to school, he had never seen that figure so much as twitch. If the flowers and grass hadn’t occasionally swayed in the breeze, he would have taken it for a mundane Muggle painting.
The Slytherin students had gossiped plenty about it. The wildest rumour Marcus had heard claimed the painting had been left by Merlin himself, who had once studied in Slytherin.
Rubbish, in his opinion.
Everyone in the wizarding world knew the name Merlin. Whether the one from King Arthur’s era or the founder of the Order of Merlin, both were wizards of extraordinary power.
But Marcus had never seen any proof that Merlin had been a Hogwarts student.
And if this portrait were truly Merlin’s, why had the subject never spoken? Why had he never moved at all?
Even Salazar Slytherin’s own portrait, though he spent most of his time in silent contemplation, would open his eyes on occasion, watch a few students, and even answer minor questions.
Yet for this supposed Merlin, not a single student had ever glimpsed his face, let alone heard him speak, from ages past to now.
That said, the painting itself was certainly ancient. Likely, some student from the Founders’ time had hung it here for fun, and over centuries it had collected legends like dust.
After all, a portrait with no face and no other information is perfect tinder for curiosity and invention.
Marcus slanted another look at the frame, lifted his coffee, and drank, a swell of smugness warming him.
His reasoning felt airtight. Those rumour-mongers never thought for themselves. A little analysis was all it took to see the stories didn’t stand up at all.
Merlin, was it? A back view is anyone you want it to be.
He shook his head and set the cup back down, then sank deeper into his own sofa.
Come to think of it, he was pretty sure he’d heard people whispering about that one just now…
"Excuse me, could you slide over a bit?"
A voice sounded from the blind spot of his vision. Marcus frowned and waved impatiently.
"Go find your own seat. This is Marcus Flint’s spot. I don’t like anyone sitting next to me."
He had claimed this place through his own efforts back in his sixth year. It was the second-best seat in the Slytherin common room: the fire was at the perfect distance, the Black Lake viewing window was right there, and only the one sunniest, prettiest spot in the room beat it.
Unfortunately, that had been taken by that madwoman from the Fawley family. He couldn’t beat her, so he couldn’t sit there.
"Oh? You don’t like anyone sitting next to you?"
The voice beside him took on a faintly chilly note, but Marcus didn’t care. If anything, his irritation rose.
The voice sounded mature, so it was not a first-year. How could someone that old not understand basic rules?
It was familiar, though. Maybe someone he knew.
Familiar or not, that didn’t mean Marcus Flint had to give up his seat.
Ask around—aside from that, Fawley, who in all Slytherin could match Marcus Flint?
To challenge him—had they lost their mind?
Also… why had the common room gone so quiet?
He glanced at a nearby cluster of sixth-years who’d been whispering a minute ago. They were staring in his direction with a peculiar expression—was that… fear?
Combine that with the familiarity of the voice—
The thought struck him like a stunning spell. Marcus’s face went rigid.
He turned, painfully stiff, and met a pair of eyes.
A young man stood there, not much older than Marcus, wearing a roomy overcoat, hands in his pockets, a ghost of a smile on his face.
Marcus would never forget that face for as long as he lived.
Images flashed through his mind, each more terrifying than the last. He shot up from his chair so fast his head nearly cracked the ceiling. He hit the floor running, words shaking out of him in a stammer.
"P-P-Professor K-K-K-K-K-Kahn?"
