Jeffrey Castillo
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Hogwarts Chapter 38: Owl Portrait
🕑 Added 2025-09-29 11:21:11 +0000 UTCAfter three o’clock, Hogwarts slid into a lazy weekend. For first-years, Friday felt even happier and looser than Saturday or Sunday—because on this day they could toss homework aside and enjoy some real leisure.
Walking up from the greenhouses, dew from the post-rain sunshine still clung to the hem of Sean’s robe. From Professor Sprout he’d learned that Snape was beginning a two-day brew today, so his own potion plan would have to pause. With Master Libatius Borage’s knowledge burning a hole in his pocket, he felt like a man sitting on a gold mine he couldn’t yet use.
It was just as well—he wasn’t familiar with Borage’s revised rites yet. He’d practice them to fluency in the hidden room and, while he was at it, grind some Charms proficiency.
“I’m going to chop off your head!”
“Nooo—!”
From the lawn came voices far too young for such threats. Sean glanced over—just a few first-years playing Hangman, where one kid thinks of a word and the others guess letters. Guess wrong, and it’s off with your “head.” On the other side, the snap and pop of small explosions—Exploding Snap. The cards weren’t strong, but they’d singed two players’ eyebrows.
There’s no shortage of wizarding fun beyond Quidditch, Wizard Chess, and Gobstones. In five days Michael had already tried a dozen odd games—which was also why he was still stuck in the library. If only he would stop wailing “Seaaaan, save me” when he returned to the dorms and just quietly read Sean’s notes.
Sean rolled a Fizzing Whizzbee in his fingers. He could still see Bruce being towed like a balloon by Leon; whenever Bruce started to descend, Pister would hurry over and pop another sweet into his mouth. The rest of the bag Pister had kindly handed to Sean, grinning.
“Hufflepuffs believe in—share—every—thing!” Bruce had howled.
Honey-like afternoon sunlight pooled on the castle’s ancient stone, warming it soft. Tower spires traced golden edges against a deep blue sky. Owls hooted past; a breeze lifted Sean’s hair. A far-off cry—hawks wheeling. And a tumble-footed run across the lawn—Justin.
“Sean!” he called, beaming.
Hermione puffed out her cheeks, exasperated; the wind flipped open a dark-green book in her hands, a dragon emblazoned on the cover.
“Mother says nature heals every child,” Justin whispered at Sean’s side. “Sunshine, lakeshore, breeze, grass… Though Hermione thinks none of that can beat Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them—and she’s right. It’s a great read.”
Magical creatures? Sean thought. Definitely interesting.
Justin pointed out a passage:
[I refute all the other ridiculous claims in Miss Rita Skeeter’s book. I will only add this: I am not the ‘heartless cad who abandoned poor Seraphina Picquery.’ The President made it clear that if I did not voluntarily and promptly leave New York, she would expel me by force.]
…? Sean was speechless for a moment. Gossip transcends wizard–Muggle lines, apparently.
“And this—”
[The Billywig is a native Australian insect. Those stung by a Billywig experience giddiness followed by a floating sensation. Generations of Australian young wizards have tried to catch Billywigs and urge them to sting them—just for the effect.]
“Wizards can be a bit unhinged, can’t they?” Justin shrugged. “Right, Hermione?”
“Quite. I also read that some witches and wizards turned the extract into Fizzing Whizzbees,” Hermione said, snapping the book shut with spirit.
Before she finished, Sean silently pressed one Whizzbee into each of their hands.
“Delicious,” he said gravely.
Hermione and Justin stared, wide-eyed.
…
“Floating feels great… I mean—remember? Hermione and I asked Professor Flitwick to let us use that room. He agreed at once, but said—er, what was it?” Justin stalled in the corridor; Sean could see the smile in his eyes.
“Idiot—he said ‘of course, but it depends whether the owl portrait agrees,’” Hermione said as they waited for the stairs. “He told us that in the tenth century there was only one wizarding school in Europe—Hogwarts. Students came from all over. As other schools opened, families chose closer options, and Hogwarts—built for thousands—ended up with lots of empty classrooms. Most were sealed with magic. Ours wasn’t, because…”
“Because of a particular owl portrait—one that even generations of professors can’t always answer,” Justin finished, more proud than Sean.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
With the rumble of the stairs and Justin’s knocks, the cracked, yellow canvas appeared again: the snow-white owl in a velvet waistcoat and tiny pince-nez, head cocked. It could never seem to straighten its glasses and keep hold of the old parchment at the same time.
“What are you staring at! An owl is a hawk, too!” it squawked. “No laughing! I’ll ask a hard question—one even clever little wizards can’t answer!”
Justin’s face fell. He thought, then tried to bribe the portrait with a lollipop quill.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s owl feather! Even if it is carved!”
“Oh!” Justin gulped. Hermione snorted, then watched him, all frantic hands, shove the candy-quill into Sean’s arms.
“Mouse? Would a mouse do, Mr. Owl?” Justin offered a Screaming Sugar Mouse to salvage it.
“Little wizard! Foolish little wizard! I’m a portrait!” The owl flapped; the parchment wobbled under its claws—it was livid. Hermione was shaking with laughter.
“Ah?!” Justin despaired. “Where am I supposed to find a mouse portrait?”
