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BFH# Chapter 29: Conflict
🕑 Added 2024-12-23 04:04:26 +0000 UTC“Angelina is right, Fred. I couldn’t figure out a single question. Those mists just look like a white blur to me—nothing else.”
In Transfiguration class, Lee Jordan tossed his wand onto the table in frustration.
“We’re definitely going to fail the test, but you guys did great, and it’s unfair to keep bringing it up.”
“…Sorry, Lee, Angelina.”
Fred and George immediately became flustered and apologized.
George tried to comfort them:
“We just guessed randomly; maybe we just got lucky. Last year, we were pretty confident about our potion-making skills too, but we ended up mixing the Scab-Curing Solution with the Improved Dungbomb Formula. Snape nearly had a heart attack that day.”
“Besides, what the professors say isn’t always right. Snape’s always muttering about how everyone but the Slytherins are idiots…”
“Although, let’s be honest, we all know Flint’s the biggest idiot of them all,” he concluded.
Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch team captain, was an old rival of theirs.
They were trying to shift Lee and Angelina’s attention away from their test woes, but soon realized something was amiss. Both Lee and Angelina’s expressions, which had improved slightly, suddenly turned to shock as they stared at something behind the twins.
Fred chuckled nervously before freezing entirely. Slowly, he turned his head to see Professor McGonagall standing sternly behind them.
“It’s Professor Snape, Mr. Weasley. I hope you learn to exercise basic manners; otherwise, I’ll be forced to give you a detention to help you remember this lesson.”
“Sorry, Professor.”
Fred and George immediately bowed their heads, looking contrite.
“Alright then.”
Professor McGonagall returned to the podium and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Alright, everyone. I think I’ve figured out what’s going on today. No wonder you all seem so listless—you’re upset because of your poor performance on the Divination test. I understand.”
“But I must tell you, even I don’t have the gift of Divination. I believe Professor Vector would say the same: what’s important isn’t talent, but effort. As long as you truly apply yourselves and make use of your strengths, it doesn’t matter if you’re skilled in Divination or not. After all, you can always choose Arithmancy or Astronomy instead.”
Professor McGonagall hesitated, but ultimately couldn’t resist adding:
“…Though I dislike speaking ill of a colleague, even Professor Trelawney’s prophecies often fail to come true. Every year, she predicts that a student will die by the end of term, and yet, to this day, everyone is alive and well.”
Her example instantly lightened the mood, lifting the students out of their gloom. If even McGonagall didn’t take Divination seriously, then perhaps having no talent for it wasn’t such a big deal.
Most of the students, at least temporarily, let go of their dejection and began pondering something else instead:
If even Professor Trelawney’s predictions could be wrong, could the things Cedric and the Weasley twins foresaw in their Divination class possibly be true?
Meanwhile, after the students had all left, Victor returned to his office.
The room was as dim and eerie as ever. In the cramped space, only a single lantern on the wall cast a ghostly light. In the pale glow, Victor closed the fireplace door, sat back at his desk, and resumed his work.
At first glance, nothing seemed out of place.
But on closer inspection, small details were off. The kettle on the desk had been moved, its handle barely visible under the lower shelf.
Most noticeably, a long strand of pale blonde hair, once prominent in the gloomy painting on the wall, had vanished without a trace…
Yet, if one looked carefully, they might notice a face—pale and shadow-like—emerging from the darkened entrance of the tower depicted in the painting.
The figure in the painting moved.
She turned around.
Her face grew closer and closer to the foreground until it nearly touched the canvas…
“Have they all left?”
A melodious, crystalline voice rang out in the room.
Though no one else was visibly present, Victor seemed accustomed to this occurrence and casually took a seat.
“Yes, all the students are gone.”
“Then, have you finished your task? Did you plant the seeds of evil in those children?”
“I prefer to call it ‘suggestion,’ Miss Rapunzel. I didn’t stir up too much conflict—just ensured some students would fail their exams. As long as they remain at Hogwarts, they’ll only face more and more failures.”
“Normal people wouldn’t break under that,” the voice replied.
“Ordinary failures, perhaps not. But as you continue to teach them more in Divination, fleeting regrets could evolve into lasting envy, gradually twisting their hearts.”
“Just like the divide between Muggles and wizards.”
The girl named Rapunzel finally appeared fully within the painting.
She propped herself up on the stone windowsill of the tower, her face emerging into view. Her features bore a striking, almost unsettling beauty—rosy cheeks against pale skin, with eyes so large they seemed unnatural. Yet her gaunt frame added a haunting quality to her appearance.
It was her voice that had spoken earlier.
Rapunzel—her nickname, derived from her original name—preferred this moniker because it made her feel more human, less like the plant she was named after.
Indeed, the Rapunzel depicted in this magical painting could move.
When Harry had first seen Victor’s office, his time spent in the Muggle world had made him forget a basic fact of the wizarding world: wizarding portraits were alive.
Victor’s paintings, though created outside the wizarding world, functioned similarly. Rapunzel’s portrait, in particular, carried an eerie allure replicated through unique techniques. To avoid trouble, however, she usually pretended to be motionless.
“When Muggles and wizards coexist, Muggles long to become wizards, while wizards desperately try to distance themselves from Muggles…”
Rapunzel leaned on the windowsill, gazing at Victor. Her voice was soft yet tinged with a dangerous charm.
“Are you planning to make them pay a double price? Just like my mother and me?”
Her bony face made her expressions seem slightly unnatural, but her tone lacked malice—only a subtle magic that could unsettle the sensitive.
Victor remained calm.
“Your scenario is too idealistic. The differences between Muggles and wizards stem from many factors. What I do merely allows one or two students to trade something trivial.”
“It’s just a small experiment to save me some effort.”
“As for your mother and your situation… that’s not my concern. You both came to me voluntarily, seeking to use prophecy to escape each other.” Victor shrugged.
Why not profit from both sides?
Rapunzel glanced at him, sighing softly.
“True. But I gave up all my magic and received nothing but the news of her death in return. That wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted her to stop chasing me and live her own life.”
Her response was one Harry would have found shocking.
…In Rapunzel’s story, Victor turned out to be the true “puppet master.”
He had taken payments from both the witch and Rapunzel but had only performed one act: ensuring the witch’s death. He hadn’t even fulfilled Rapunzel’s request directly, merely taking her magic.
Yet Victor appeared unfazed by her accusations.
“She received what fate had in store for her, Miss Rapunzel. Besides, freeing yourself from a cursed magic is a blessing. At least when your mother painted you, you were still whole. Isn’t that enough?”
“Now, are you so idle? How’s the task I gave you—to enter the other paintings—progressing?”
