Chapter 172: The Foolish Bird
Jon still had no idea what had happened with the stone guardian.
He rode the moving staircase upward, feeling uneasy.
Although Professor Dumbledore hadn’t reprimanded him by the shores of Black Lake, Jon couldn’t be sure the headmaster wouldn’t “settle the score” tonight.
Carefully, he pushed open the oval office door. The chatter inside made his scalp prickle.
“Is Professor Dumbledore not here?” Jon quickly poked his head in and asked.
“Oh, our Triwizard champion has arrived!” came the trademark mocking voice of Headmaster Phineas Black, from his portrait on the wall lined with past headmasters.
“Champion?” Jon stepped inside and quickly retorted, “Not yet, Headmaster Black... There’s still the final task!”
“Over thirty points ahead of second place!” Phineas rambled on. “If you don’t win the championship after that, I’ll chop off my head and give it to Fortescue to use as a Quaffle!”
Mid-sentence, he seemed to realize something.
“Wait... if you don’t win, don’t bother showing your face here again!”
“Honestly, Phineas,” said Headmaster Dexter Fortescue, eyeing Black’s head. “Your skull isn’t nearly round enough. Personally, I don’t think it would make a good Quaffle at all.”
“That’s enough...” Phineas snapped angrily.
...
Jon turned instead to Headmistress Dilys Derwent, sitting quietly in another portrait.
“Good evening, Headmistress Derwent... Is Professor Dumbledore away?”
“Yes.” Dilys nodded kindly. “Albus has gone to Mogadishu for a Wizengamot meeting of senior wizards... He won’t be back for at least two days.”
So he’d come for nothing tonight. Still, Jon let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“You needn’t worry about the Third Task,” Dilys continued, assuming his concern lay there. “The Triwizard Tournament’s third task has always been the same. The Goblet of Fire is placed in a set location, the champions enter in order of their scores, and the one who makes it through the obstacles and claims the Goblet becomes champion.”
“With the lead you have...” she added, “by the time others even step into the maze, you may already be holding the Goblet of Fire.”
Jon nodded. Looking at her familiar expression, he couldn’t help but ask curiously, “Did you also compete in the Triwizard Tournament?”
“Indeed!” Dilys chuckled. “The Tournament of 1672—I was Hogwarts’ champion then. I nearly lost to a rather dashing young man from Durmstrang, but thankfully I overtook him at the last moment.”
...
Several headmasters crowded around, offering Jon advice.
From their enthusiasm, it was clear most of them had either competed themselves or organized the event in their time.
Some even praised his performance in the Second Task.
One such was Dexter Fortescue, who had once led England to a Quidditch World Cup victory.
“A truly courageous move!” Fortescue gave Jon a thumbs-up. “I’m honestly curious—how did you end up in Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor?”
“Actually, years ago the Sorting Hat did consider sending me to Gryffindor...” Jon admitted, glancing at the grimy hat perched on the long bench nearby. “But in the end, I chose Hufflepuff.”
“What a shame,” Fortescue said with a shrug.
“Pity nothing!” Derwent shot him a glare before turning back to Jon with a warm thumbs-up.
...
After chatting for more than ten minutes, Jon began to feel weary of the portraits’ endless chatter.
“How about a game of bridge?” suggested Fortescue suddenly.
He waved his wand, and a full set of cards appeared before him. The other portraits immediately gathered around.
They paid Jon no more attention.
Jon turned his gaze away from the wall of headmasters and began surveying Dumbledore’s office. His eyes passed over the gleaming silver instruments, the Pensieve, and finally landed on the bright red bird perched on the shelf behind the door.
Fawkes, the phoenix, watched him warily.
“Two days ago, Dumbledore gave that foolish bird quite a scolding!” Phineas Black’s portrait shifted closer, his voice filled with schadenfreude. “All because it left its mark so carelessly.”
Jon nodded and cautiously approached Fawkes.
“Thank you for your help last time, Fawkes...” he said softly.
The bright red bird shot him a look of displeasure, then opened her long beak as if in challenge, warning him not to come closer.
But Jon was ready. He drew a small herb pouch from his pocket.
“Fawkes, look at this...” Jon pulled out a few shiso leaves.
Though not especially valuable in potion-making, the herb was still considered rare. It released a unique fragrance, even used as a spice, and could alter the taste of unpleasant brews.
Fawkes sniffed involuntarily.
Phoenixes were notoriously picky eaters, refusing ordinary fare. But rare herbs often proved irresistible.
Jon placed a single purple leaf on Dumbledore’s desk, then stepped back a few paces.
Fawkes stared at it for a long moment, then gave in. She flew over, snatched the leaf, and began chewing.
“Don’t worry, there’s more!” Jon produced another and tossed it toward her.
Fawkes caught it neatly in her beak.
Leaf after leaf vanished into her stomach, until finally, she could no longer contain her craving.
Fawkes flew directly to Jon’s side, eyes fixed hungrily on the pouch in his hand.
“It’s alright—help yourself!” Jon said cheerfully, opening the pouch wide.
The phoenix plunged her head inside, eating heartily.
Jon took the chance to gently stroke her wings. She offered no resistance at all.
...
The headmasters in their frames looked on, some utterly dumbfounded.
“I think...” Phineas Black sighed. “That foolish bird is hopeless.”
Author's Note
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