Chapter 36. The voice.
On a Hogwarts afternoon, sunlight flowed through the patterns of the corridor's stained-glass windows, crushing spots of crimson gold, azure, and emerald onto the stone floor, like a scattering of shattered jewels. Edward clutched the research proposal that had been rejected by Professor Snape, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the creases of the paper. The texture of the parchment pressed against his palm, mirroring his chaotic thoughts.
The library of House of Black was no longer an option, and students from other houses... He frowned subconsciously. The innate sense of detachment was like an invisible barrier, making him instinctively resist initiating friendships. The secrets hidden in family libraries were, after all, the trump cards handed down through generations; who would easily share them with a complete stranger?
He still had to find a breakthrough from the professors.
Edward pulled his dog-eared class schedule from his bag, his fingertips lightly tracing the yellowed parchment, his gaze finally settling on two names: Professor McGonagall and Professor Quirrell.
Professor McGonagall was an authority on Transfiguration, and the essence of Transfiguration - the deconstruction and reshaping of material forms - shared an underlying logic with his research into elemental transmutation. As for Professor Quirrell, although his Defense Against the Dark Arts class always exuded an unease he could not quite name, the core of Defense Against the Dark Arts was, after all, the analysis of the origins of dark forces. Ancient dark forces were often intertwined and symbiotic with the most primal elemental magic; perhaps he could find a clue in those forgotten tomes.
Most importantly, in the classes of both these professors, he could display enough competence to support his request without having to expose the leaping, scorching flame power within him.
Having made up his mind, Edward turned and headed toward the Transfiguration classroom. The afternoon Transfiguration class had just ended, and sunlight slanted against the window frames, falling onto Professor McGonagall's dark green robes and outlining them in a soft golden edge. She was standing at the podium, holding a quill to grade the students' Transfiguration assignments; the rustling sound of the nib across the parchment was the only noise in the classroom.
"Professor McGonagall." Edward stepped forward and handed over the research proposal, his tone as steady as ever, like the surface of the Black Lake on a windless day. "I would like to apply for access to the Restricted Section to consult ancient tomes on elemental transmutation and magical resonance. Professor Flitwick has already agreed to be my recommender, and I hope you will be the second."
Professor McGonagall set down her quill and took the research proposal. Her gaze swept over the neat handwriting on the page, her sharp eyes filled with scrutiny, as if she were evaluating the precision of a Transfiguration project, or perhaps measuring the ambition of a wizard.
"elemental transmutation?" Her voice carried a hint of sternness, the final note falling into the sunlight and creating subtle ripples. "Black, your spirit of academic inquiry into magic is commendable, but you must understand that many of the tomes in the Restricted Section record theories that far exceed your current level of understanding. Transfiguration requires a step-by-step approach, one step at a time; the exploration of magic is the same."
Edward's heart sank, like a pebble dropped into the center of a lake, stirring up a ring of cold ripples. He had already guessed the outcome.
Sure enough, Professor McGonagall closed the research proposal and handed it back to him, her tone leaving no room for argument, carrying the rigor and rigidity peculiar to Transfiguration: "My view is consistent with Professor Snape's. You are only in your first year; your temperament and magical control are not yet mature. The contents of the Restricted Section are not things you should be exposed to at your age. When you reach the higher years and truly understand the boundaries of magic, perhaps I will reconsider." Rejection. Rejection again.
Edward took back the research proposal, his fingertips feeling slightly cold. He gave a slight nod to Professor McGonagall, said nothing more, and turned to walk out of the classroom. The wind in the corridor carried the dampness of the Black Lake, causing the hem of his silver-and-green school robes to sway gently, like ripples spreading across the lake's surface.
Only one choice remained - Professor Quirrell.
On Wednesday afternoon, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was always filled with a pungent smell of garlic, mixed with the faint scent of dust, making one's nose itch. Professor Quirrell, wrapped in a thick turban, stood at the podium with a tattered copy of "Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection" spread out before him, the edges of the pages curled like nibbled crackers. He stammered as he explained the spells for defending against Red Caps and Boggarts, his voice trembling with an undisguisable tremor, and from time to time, he would subconsciously touch his turban, as if something man-eating were hidden beneath it.
"The, the key to defending against a Boggart is, is to use the 'Riddikulus' charm to turn it into something you find most amusing..." Quirrell's voice shook violently; when he said the word "Boggart," he even shivered and swayed, "Y-you must not let it turn into the form you fear the most, o-otherwise..."
He didn't finish his sentence before being interrupted by his own suppressed coughing, his shoulders heaving violently.
Edward sat by the window, listening absent-mindedly. What Professor Quirrell was teaching was too superficial, all basic content from "Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection," like a glass of pumpkin juice diluted with too much water, bland and tasteless. But he still patiently listened through the entire class - after all, this was his last chance, the last key to opening the door to the Restricted Section.
The bell rang, its crisp sound shattering the dullness of the classroom. Students rushed out in a swarm, the sound of their footsteps receding like a tide, leaving only Edward and Professor Quirrell, who was still gathering his lecture notes.
"Professor Quirrell." Edward walked up and handed him the research proposal.
Professor Quirrell jumped in surprise, and the "Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection" in his hand fell to the floor with a "thud," its pages fanning out like a broken-winged butterfly. He scrambled to pick it up, the shadow beneath his turban shifting to reveal a small patch of pale skin, his voice noticeably stammering, like a jammed gear: "B-Black? W-what do you need?"
"I would like to apply for access to the Restricted Section to consult some tomes on ancient magical theories." Edward tried to make his tone sound as sincere as possible, as if handling a precious potion ingredient. "Professor Flitwick has already agreed to be my recommender, and I hope you will be the second."
Professor Quirrell took the research proposal, his gaze falling on the surname "Edward Black" at the signature line, and his body suddenly stiffened, as if hit by a silent curse.
[Black.]
A cold, raspy voice, carrying an unquestionable authority, exploded in his mind like ice shattering against rock: [Another Black. One of the most loyal minions among pure-blood families, that boy Regulus was even my Death Eater. His son... with the purest pure-blood flowing in his veins, such a child, if cultivated properly, will be a useful pawn.]
Quirrell's body trembled uncontrollably, and the shadow beneath his turban grew darker, like splashed ink. His teeth chattered, and his previously stammering voice suddenly became raspy and deep, completely devoid of its usual timidity, as if he were a different person: "elemental transmutation... ancient magical theory, a very interesting topic."
Edward keenly caught the change in his voice, his brow furrowing imperceptibly. This voice - deep, cold, and carrying a pressure that made the heart tighten - was completely different from the trembling Quirrell in class.
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