A day at Hogwarts.

Chapter 692 The Dust of History

Time seemed to stand still in this study, settling for a thousand years, like a cold tomb.

Countless bookshelves, like a silent forest, stretch to the horizon, their densely packed scrolls and ancient books bearing the weight of forgotten time.

Below the ceiling, candles identical to those in the Hogwarts dining hall floated silently, burning with cold white flames that cast a ghastly white glow over this graveyard of knowledge, sending chills down one's spine.

In the center of the room, a huge oak desk with a slanted back stands out prominently.

Its design is simple and unadorned, and the tabletop has been worn smooth and warm from years of use, reflecting the cool light of the candlelight.

To the left is a shelf holding ink bottles and quill pens, with file racks on either side. Everything remains exactly as it was when the owner last left, except for that chair, which lies overturned on the ground a short distance away, as if it had been knocked down in a hurry and no one has helped it up since.

On the wall next to the door, a mottled oil painting frame hangs forlornly.

The paint on the canvas has peeled off and blurred, and only a faint human figure can be barely discerned; the details have long been lost to time.

Who are you people?!

A deep, wary, and weathered male voice suddenly came from inside the oil painting, speaking in the same old Norman French.

Before he finished speaking, something strange happened.

The stone bricks on the surrounding walls seemed to come alive, silently sliding away to reveal more than a dozen deep holes, exuding a dangerous aura.

However, in the end, only three cave entrances echoed with heavy, dragging footsteps.

Three sets of Hogwarts-style magical armor staggered out, but they were in terrible condition. Their armor was incomplete, covered in deep red rust, and their joints made a sickening grinding sound when they moved. Their weapons were also dull and lifeless.

It's not hard to imagine that in the past, when everything was intact, the people emerging from these holes would not have been such a shabby and pitiful sight.

Charles stepped forward, his gaze calmly meeting the portrait, and replied in clear Norman French, "Hello, we are students from Gryffindor House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My name is Charles Smith."

He then introduced Harry, Hermione, and Ron behind him one by one.

Harry keenly noticed that when Charles uttered the words "Gryffindor House," the three suits of rusty armor that were about to raise their weapons paused noticeably.

The voice in the portrait seemed to soften slightly, saying, "You should leave. This isn't a place for sightseeing. If you're discovered, you'll lose points in the academy."

The tone was just like that of a teacher giving earnest advice.

Charles's heart skipped a beat, and he tentatively asked, "Excuse me, are you a professor at Hogwarts?"

The portrait remained silent for a moment before answering with a complex emotion: "I... was expelled from Slytherin."

Charles was startled; this was a figure from the school's founding era.

He thought of something and decided to show more sincerity, so he asked earnestly, "May I ask what you are researching here?"

"Let me reintroduce myself..."

He then briefly recounted his concept for the "magical grand model" and the recent achievements.

The magic in the portrait is waning; if we go into too much detail, it will be overused.

His gaze swept over the endless bookshelves around him, these ancient collections of books, their value immeasurable.

After listening, the portrait fell into a long silence.

This silence is not a sign of being frozen or avoiding the issue, but rather a deep reflection.

"This is what Gryffindor has always wanted to achieve," the voice in the portrait rang out again, tinged with emotion. "The Sorting Hat was the first step in his attempt."

Charles's eyes flashed with surprise. He never expected that his research and the ideas of the school's founders would be so closely related. He could use this as an excuse to fleece the principal. Whoever becomes the principal, he can fleece them.

“My large magical model also references the magical principles used in creating the Sorting Hat,” he truthfully replied. The portrait immediately pressed, “Where did you get it?”

Charles thought for a moment and decided to tell the truth: "It was sold to me by a doll that simulates soul control."

"Her master was a Veela who traveled the world five hundred years ago."

The portrait fell silent again, then said after a moment, "So it was her."

"I sold this magic to her."

This answer did not surprise Charles. He was more curious about the transaction itself, so he asked, "What did she use to buy it?"

It's obvious that this transaction wasn't about money; it was more about helping someone fulfill a wish.

The portrait snorted coldly, and said with a hint of pleasure, "She helped me slap Barrow a thousand times."

Charles's eyes widened instantly, and the images of Barrow the Blood and Helena Ravenclaw immediately flashed through his mind.

He blurted out, "Is it because of Helena Ravenclaw?!"

Barrow's most infamous crime was the murder of Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter, Helena.

Although he still regrets it to this day, the mistake cannot be avoided or forgiven.

The original owner of the portrait was a contemporary of them and must have known the inside story; he might even have been a stakeholder.

The voice in the portrait suddenly became agitated, shouting with a thousand years of pent-up anger: "Conspiracy! This is all a conspiracy!"

"It was Slytherin who killed Rowena and Helena!"

Charles immediately perked up his ears, as if every cell in his body was screaming "Let's get this going!"
This is absolutely a shocking secret buried in the dust of history; I wonder how delicious it must have been.

"Never mind." The portrait's mood suddenly plummeted, like a punctured balloon deflating instantly, its voice filled with endless exhaustion. "It happened so long ago... everything is beyond redemption."

Charles's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, wishing he could immediately unlock the source code of the portrait and dig out the buried secret.

But he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

"Then let's talk about the present, shall we?" He steered the conversation back on track. "Would you be willing to contribute your share to the development of magical knowledge worldwide?"

The voice in the portrait returned to its previous low and distant tone, saying, "What I study is forbidden knowledge."

Charles answered without hesitation: "Knowledge itself is neither good nor evil; it is the users who distinguish between good and evil."

The portrait fell silent once again, as if making a decision.

Finally, he spoke again, in a solemn voice, as if making a vow: "House elves, fairies, vampires, centaurs, Veela, if you can befriend them all and obtain their hair as a token, I will give you all the results of my life's research."

This condition is unexpectedly specific and seems quite difficult.

It does not require military conquest, but rather trust and connection that transcends race.

Charles nodded thoughtfully, not answering immediately, but turning to the empty space as if speaking to the air: "Dobby."

A soft popping sound came from the air.

Immediately afterwards, Dobby appeared, dressed in a well-fitting black suit, wearing oversized sunglasses that covered half of his face, a large gold chain around his neck, and a gleaming gold watch on his wrist.

He touched his bald head and said in a deep voice, "You're making things difficult for me, Dobby!"

(End of this chapter)