By the second week of September, Zhang Wen had gradually figured out the social ecosystem of the Hogwarts staff.
To put it simply—it was rife with factions and swirling with undercurrents, not unlike the Mages’ Association.
The staffroom was a spacious room on the second floor with a fireplace, sofas, coffee tables, and a row of teapots that were perpetually filled with hot tea.
Professors would come here during breaks to sit, have a cup of tea, and chat.
On the surface, everything was harmonious, but in reality, everyone was secretly observing the new colleague.
Zhang Wen had been under observation for an entire week.
Professor Flitwick was the most enthusiastic.
Every time they met, he would pull Zhang Wen aside to talk about Eastern magic, his questions becoming increasingly pointed.
Zhang Wen had to keep using the excuse that he studied the “Japanese school,” which was slightly different from the Chinese one, to fend him off.
Professor Sprout was very kind and gave him a self-watering cactus as a “welcome gift for a new colleague.” This cactus now sat on Zhang Wen’s office windowsill and occasionally sprayed water at Artoria.
Artoria was highly displeased with it.
Professor Trelawney—the Divination teacher—suddenly grabbed Zhang Wen’s hand when they met in the corridor, her eyes widening as she said, “I see it…
the shadow of death looming over you…”
Zhang Wen pulled his hand back.
“Thank you for the heads-up, Professor Trelawney.”
What he didn’t say was that the “shadow of death” she saw was likely just the magical residue of his Thestral tail hair wand core.
This professor’s prophecies were sometimes accurate, but most of the time, they were just meant to scare people.
As for Snape, he hadn’t sought Zhang Wen out again since the last time he came to the office to test him.
However, Zhang Wen could feel those black eyes sweeping over him from time to time at the staff table.
It wasn’t hostility; it was surveillance.
Zhang Wen could accept that.
If he were Snape, he would also keep a close eye on a new professor of unknown origin.
***
At noon on Wednesday, Zhang Wen was drinking tea in the staffroom.
Artoria wasn’t there; she had gone to the Black Lake to give Neville his first individual physical training session.
Professor McGonagall walked in.
Minerva McGonagall: Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor House, and Professor of Transfiguration.
In the original story, she was one of the most reliable staff members at Hogwarts—strict but fair, always standing by the students’ side at critical moments.
She wore deep green robes, and her gaze behind her square glasses was sharp and calm.
Her way of walking was somewhat similar to Artoria’s—back straight, gait steady, every step carrying an air of unquestionable authority.
“Professor Zhang.” McGonagall sat down opposite him.
“Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Of course.”
McGonagall poured a cup of tea, her movements brisk.
“I hear your physical training has caused some controversy.”
Word travels fast, Zhang Wen mused.
It had only been two days since Lucius’s letter arrived, and McGonagall already knew.
“A letter from the Malfoys?” Zhang Wen asked directly.
“Not just the Malfoys,” McGonagall said.
“Several parents have written to the Heads of Houses expressing their doubts.
I received three letters, and Snape received two.
All from Slytherin parents.”
“What about the Gryffindor parents?”
“Not a single complaint.” The corner of McGonagall’s mouth seemed to twitch.
“Mrs.
Weasley even sent a thank-you note, saying her son Ronald has finally started exercising.”
Zhang Wen suppressed a smile.
“Professor Zhang, I am not opposed to your physical training.” McGonagall’s tone turned serious.
“In fact, I believe this approach is quite visionary.
Wizards rely too much on their wands; it’s a long-standing issue.
But you need to be careful with your methods.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t give Lucius Malfoy anything to use against you.” McGonagall looked him in the eye.
“He has influence on the Board of Governors.
If he can prove that your teaching methods ‘harm students’ or ‘deviate from the syllabus,’ he can launch a formal inquiry.”
Zhang Wen nodded.
The Deputy Headmistress wasn’t warning him; she was helping him.
“So, what do you suggest I do?”
“Write the physical training into your teaching plan.
Note the theoretical basis and safety measures, and submit it to Dumbledore and me for approval.
Once it is part of the formal curriculum, Lucius will have no grounds to say you are tormenting students on your own whim.”
Zhang Wen looked at McGonagall.
This woman’s political acumen was no less than Dumbledore’s.
It was just that while Dumbledore liked to play the long game, McGonagall was better at handling specific practicalities.
“Thank you, Professor McGonagall.
I’ll write the plan tonight.”
“You’re welcome.” McGonagall picked up her teacup and took a sip.
“In addition—”
She set the cup down.
“Your assistant, Miss Pendragon.”
Here it comes.
Zhang Wen’s heart skipped a beat.
“I noticed she doesn’t use a wand,” McGonagall said.
“I also noticed her behavior is very…
peculiar.”
“Peculiar?”
“Like someone who has undergone rigorous military training.” McGonagall’s wording was precise.
“Not the kind that ordinary homeschooling can produce—she is a true soldier, or a knight.”
Zhang Wen had to admit that McGonagall’s powers of observation were on par with Snape’s, though her way of expressing them was more direct.
“She has indeed received knightly training,” Zhang Wen decided to tell a partial truth.
“Her family has a long history in Europe.”
“Pendragon,” McGonagall repeated the name, her reaction the same as Dumbledore’s in his office.
“That surname has a very special meaning, Professor Zhang.
“I know.”
“The surname of King Arthur,” McGonagall said.
“In the wizarding world, the Pendragon family is more than just a Muggle legend.
Merlin—yes, that Merlin—was King Arthur’s advisor.
This means the Pendragon family has a direct connection to the wizarding world.”
Zhang Wen’s heart sank.
He hadn’t expected the wizarding world’s knowledge of the Arthurian legend to be so deep.
In the Type-Moon world, King Arthur was a hidden existence, and ordinary people didn’t know the truth.
But in Harry Potter’s world, Merlin was a real historical figure known to every wizard—”Merlin’s beard” was the most common exclamation.
If someone dug deep into the “Pendragon” surname, they might unearth some very troublesome things.
“She is a descendant of the Pendragon family,” Zhang Wen said, bracing himself.
“But the family hasn’t been active in public for a long time.”
McGonagall watched him for a few seconds.
“I won’t pry,” she said, standing up.
“But if there is anything the school can assist with, please let me know at any time.”
She walked to the door and paused.
“Professor Zhang, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Gryffindor has Quidditch tryouts this Saturday afternoon.
Would you be interested in coming to watch?”
“Quidditch?” Zhang Wen was a bit surprised.
“Potter is a second-year now and can continue as Seeker.
But the team needs to recruit new members.” McGonagall’s tone was flat, but Zhang Wen could hear the pride underneath.
“As the Head of Gryffindor, I hope the staff will pay more attention to the students’ extracurricular activities.”
“I don’t really know the rules of Quidditch.”
“Then it’s the perfect time to learn.” With that, McGonagall left.
Zhang Wen took a sip of tea.
The Deputy Headmistress inviting him to watch the Quidditch tryouts was superficially a way to build rapport, but in reality, she was courting him.
In Hogwarts staff politics, attending a particular House’s event meant you were siding with that House.
McGonagall wanted him to stand with Gryffindor.
Of course, considering the three students he valued most were all in Gryffindor, he really had no reason to refuse.
***
At three in the afternoon, Artoria returned with Neville.
Neville’s state could be described in three words: more dead than alive.
He was pale, his legs were trembling, his school uniform was soaked in sweat, and he walked like a wounded soldier who had just crawled off a battlefield.
But his eyes were different from this morning.
In the morning, Neville’s eyes held his habitual cowardice and self-doubt.
Now, there was something else in them.
Small, faint, but definitely there.
“Mr.
Longbottom.” Zhang Wen stopped him in the corridor.
“How was the training?”
Neville opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say “it was terrifying,” but he caught Artoria’s gaze behind him and swallowed his words.
“It was…
very fulfilling,” he said.
Zhang Wen almost laughed.
“What did Assistant Pendragon teach you?”
“Running, squats, and—” Neville recalled.
“Evasion training.
She threw stones at me and told me to dodge.”
“She threw stones at you?”
“Small stones,” Artoria added from behind.
“And I controlled my strength.”
Zhang Wen decided not to look too deeply into what the specific standard for “controlled strength” was for the King of Knights.
A stone with “controlled strength” from her was probably still quite terrifying for a twelve-year-old child.
“Did you dodge them?” Zhang Wen asked Neville.
“Not for the first twenty,” Neville said, his voice dropping.
“And after that?”
“By the twenty-third…
I dodged one.”
When Neville said this, there was a trace of disbelief in his voice.
It was as if he himself couldn’t believe he was capable of dodging.
“Very good,” Zhang Wen said.
“Continue tomorrow.”
A flash of fear crossed Neville’s face, but he nodded nonetheless.
After he left, Zhang Wen turned to Artoria.
“He only dodged one out of thirty stones?”
“For the first day, that score is passing,” Artoria said.
“His reaction speed isn’t fast, but he has one merit.”
“What’s that?”
“He doesn’t give up.” Artoria’s tone was level, but Zhang Wen heard her approval.
“He was hit twenty-two times, yet not once did he ask to stop.”
Zhang Wen thought about the Neville in the original story.
The boy who stood tall under the Cruciatus Curse from Death Eaters.
The boy who pulled Gryffindor’s sword in front of Voldemort.
That kind of courage didn’t appear out of thin air.
It had always been there; it just needed someone to dig it out.
“Keep training him,” Zhang Wen said.
“I plan to introduce equipment training.”
“What equipment?”
“Wooden swords.”
“…You’re going to teach a twelve-year-old wizard swordsmanship?”
“Swordsmanship training improves reaction speed, hand-eye coordination, and split-second judgment.
These are also helpful for casting spells.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Zhang Wen looked at her.
He knew Artoria wasn’t just talking.
She was serious.
She had spotted a certain quality in Neville—a quality that only knights possessed.
“Fine,” Zhang Wen said.
“But don’t give him a real sword.”
“Of course not.
I’m not a Berserker.”
Zhang Wen nearly choked on his own saliva.
Did Artoria Pendragon just make a joke about Berserkers?
He stared at her.
Her expression hadn’t changed at all.
Whether it was a joke or a serious statement was impossible to tell.
***
Dinnertime.
The Great Hall was as lively as ever.
Zhang Wen sat at the staff table with Flitwick on his left and Artoria on his right.
Snape sat further away today, chatting with Sprout about something.
Zhang Wen noticed some subtle changes at the student tables.
At the Gryffindor table, Neville was sitting next to Harry and Ron.
Previously, Neville usually sat at the edge of the long table, keeping a distance from everyone.
But today, he was sitting right in the middle.
Harry seemed to be asking him something, and Neville answered with a flushed face while Ron made exaggerated expressions nearby.
Hermione leaned over to listen for a bit and then took out a notebook and started writing.
They were probably asking about the physical training.
At the Slytherin table, Malfoy was also saying something.
His voice wasn’t loud, but Zhang Wen saw him glance toward the staff table several times—specifically, toward Artoria.
This kid was studying her.
Zhang Wen wasn’t too worried.
Although Malfoy was annoying, he was essentially just a twelve-year-old brat shaped by his family environment.
His arrogance and prejudice were learned from Lucius, not innate.
The one who really needed watching was Lucius himself.
And—
Zhang Wen’s gaze swept across the Gryffindor table and found a little red-haired girl.
Ginny Weasley.
She sat in the corner of the table, eating quietly.
She looked perfectly normal, even a bit shy.
An ordinary first-year student.
Nothing seemed out of place.
But Zhang Wen knew that the diary was already in her hands.
Tom Riddle’s soul fragment was currently talking to her page by page, slowly gaining her trust, slowly controlling her will.
The key to the Chamber of Secrets had been handed to an eleven-year-old girl.
And that girl had absolutely no idea what she was dealing with.
Zhang Wen looked away.
It wasn’t time yet.
In the original story, the Chamber of Secrets incident wouldn’t officially erupt until around Halloween.
The first petrification occurred at the end of October—Filch’s cat, Mrs.
Norris.
There was still more than a month.
He needed to use this time to prepare.
But how to prepare?
Go directly to Ginny and confiscate the diary?
No.
He had no reason to know the diary existed.
If he showed knowledge of the diary, Dumbledore and Snape would both become suspicious—how did this professor of unknown origin know that a first-year student had one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes in her luggage?
Intervene once the incidents started?
He could, but that meant letting students be petrified.
Although petrification wasn’t fatal, letting twelve-year-old children lie in the hospital wing for months wasn’t something he could accept.
Zhang Wen took a bite of mashed potatoes and chewed, his mind racing.
“What are you thinking about?” Artoria asked.
“Thinking about what might happen next.”
“What might happen?”
Zhang Wen hesitated.
He hadn’t told Artoria about the Chamber of Secrets yet.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but the matter involved too much background knowledge of this world—Voldemort, Horcruxes, the Chamber of Secrets, Parseltongue—explaining it was too complicated.
But perhaps it was time.
“I’ll tell you when we get back tonight,” Zhang Wen whispered.
“There is something I need to let you know in advance.”
Artoria glanced at him but didn’t press.
A knight’s patience was particularly abundant when it came to waiting for intel.
“They have apple pie for dessert,” she said.
Zhang Wen smiled.
“You eat first.
I’ll think a bit longer.”
Artoria didn’t stand on ceremony.
Zhang Wen watched her elegantly yet rapidly demolish the apple pie, organizing his words in his mind.
Tonight, he would explain to Artoria what Horcruxes were, what the Chamber of Secrets was, what the Basilisk was, and—
That an eleven-year-old girl was being slowly consumed by a fragment of a soul.
How would the King of Knights react after hearing all this?
Zhang Wen didn’t need to guess.
She would want to act immediately.
And he would need to convince her to wait.
That would likely be the hardest part of the night.