Chapter 204: The Second Heartbeat
Chapter 204: The Second Heartbeat
Due to the limited number of bedrooms available, the boys had to share rooms, with three or four to a room, except for the two girls, who had a room to themselves.
Voldemort shared a room with Michael, Theo, and Ryan. Unfazed by the inconvenience, he cast a non-verbal Spell to expand the space and used the Replication Charm to turn the single bed into four.
Although these spells wouldn't last long, they would suffice for a few days, enough for their stay.
Before bed, the boys chatted about the lifelike portraits they had encountered.
"I wonder how Mrs. Black is doing," Ryan said worriedly. "Wasn't it a greater shock for her to see Mr. Regulus' body like that?"
"She already knew about Regulus' death," Voldemort said. "So... finding his body might bring her some solace, don't you think?"
After a long pause, Ryan murmured, "It's so sad... He was so young when he died... His death must have caused his family so much pain..."
Not wanting to dwell on such somber topics, Michael steered the conversation elsewhere. "The Black family portraits are so different from the ones at school."
"I expected to hear ancient stories from them before I arrived," he said. "When I first met them, I thought they were all mad. But then, when Mr. Phineas arrived, they seemed to become normal."
"Maybe they didn't want to talk to us properly because we're not pure-bloods," Voldemort speculated. "If Malfoy were a guest, they might welcome him with polite courtesy."
The boys laughed, not feeling resentful or inferior, but instead finding the idea of basing one's attitude solely on blood status rather amusing.
Michael chuckled, "So, as soon as Mr. Phineas left, they went back to sleep?"
"It might have nothing to do with attitude; they just have to," Theo replied.
"I heard from my grandfather that the magic of portraits comes from three aspects," Theo said. "The magic of the person portrayed, the spells cast by the painter, and the magic of the building the portrait is attached to."
"Usually, as time passes, the magic of the portraits weakens, and we see the people within sleeping for long periods, until one day they never wake up again."
"However, if the magic of the building is abundant and vibrant, the portraits' magic is replenished, and they can endure for a much longer time."
"So the portraits at Hogwarts appear more lively," Michael concluded thoughtfully. "But the ancient ones still sleep most of the day."
"Therefore, the Black family portraits wouldn't open their eyes unless roused by Mrs. Black," Ryan added.
"With Sirius in prison and Regulus gone, this mansion has been left unattended," Ryan said. "The portraits are dying along with the house."
Voldemort remained silent, his thoughts drifting to Gryffindor.
The portrait was one of the most lively he had ever encountered; even the former headmaster of Hogwarts wouldn't intrude into others' portraits as whimsically as Gryffindor, let alone give someone a beating.
Of course, a large part of it could be attributed to his personality.
But from Gryffindor's casual remarks, it seemed he had been alive for at least a few hundred years.
Did he not weaken over time? Or did he continuously draw magical sustenance from Hogwarts?
Voldemort had his suspicions, but he wasn't entirely sure.
...
The day had been eventful, and many of them tossed and turned all night, but Voldemort's body clock kept to its schedule, allowing him to fall asleep and wake up at his predetermined time.
Voldemort opened his eyes and reached for the bedside table. The next second, the top of the alarm clock on the cabinet cracked open, and a small yellow bird emerged, opening its beak to chirp—
Before it could make a sound, Voldemort pressed it down.
Without getting up, he pointed his wand at his heart and whispered, "Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus!"
Thump!
Voldemort's eyes snapped open in surprise, wondering if he had imagined it.
Thump!
Suddenly, he felt a second heartbeat in his chest. It was so strong that he could almost hear his heart pounding against his rib cage.
Thump!
Voldemort's heart leaped with immense joy, and he had to resist the urge to shout out loud.
He turned to share his excitement with Michael and the others, only to find them deep in slumber.
Voldemort stifled his voice, grabbed his bag from the bedside, and quickly made his way out of the bedroom. He headed to the living room, took a seat on the sofa in front of the fireplace, and pulled out the friends' journal. With flourish and flair, he wrote on the first page by the light of the fire:
"I felt the second heartbeat!"
Before long, the journal warmed up, and new words began to appear.
"Fiona: Wonderful!"
"Ferdinand: Is it the extra heartbeat needed for Animagus practice?"
"Fiona: Duh! What else could it be?"
"Fiona: My boy is amazing! Come home soon, and I'll prepare a celebration feast for you!"
"Voldemort: Okay."
"Ferdinand: Your hard work over the long months has finally paid off. You deserve it all! But don't slack off now; remember, many have failed at the final hurdle."
"Fiona: Voldemort understands! He's the most disciplined child in the world! Voldemort, all that's left is to wait for a stormy day, right?"
"Voldemort: Yes. Some people have to wait a long time for suitable weather."
"Fiona: Don't worry; we'll start looking into historical weather patterns right away!"
No further information appeared in the friends' journal.
Voldemort could almost picture his mother, her hair loose, dragging his father out of their warm bed. He imagined them bringing all the old newspapers to the fireplace, flipping through each page to record the daily temperatures from different regions.
He wanted to tell them not to go to so much trouble—just because it rained last year didn't mean it would rain this year. All he could do was patiently wait.
He also thought about how there might be easier ways to find this information, like asking the meteorological office or searching online.
But each time Voldemort picked up his quill, he ended up chuckling and putting it down again.
Why show off his cleverness at a time like this? Ferdinand probably knew about these alternative methods, but he would still go along with Fiona's plan to sift through old newspapers.
Making sacrifices for those you love is a form of happiness in itself.
"Are you contacting your girlfriend?"
A voice suddenly rang out from a corner of the room.
Voldemort was startled to find someone else in the living room. Sirius sat in a corner, almost blending into the shadows.
"Sirius?" Voldemort said, surprised, and then added, "No, my parents."
Sirius leaned back on the sofa and said, "Looks like you come from a happy family."
"How can you tell?" Voldemort asked, curious.
"You've been smiling," Sirius said, tracing an arc at the corner of his mouth with his finger. His voice was tinged with fatigue as he continued, "It's infectious, like when James first started dating Lily. It makes people want to smile along with you."
Voldemort subconsciously touched his mouth, smiling unconsciously. Suddenly remembering the tragedy of the Black family, he sobered and asked, "You haven't slept all night?"
"Yeah," Sirius said, looking up at the ceiling. "I wanted to talk to my mother, but all she cares about is whether Regulus's funeral was respectable enough. She doesn't want to talk about anything else."
Voldemort fell silent for a moment before asking, "Regulus didn't leave a portrait?"
"No," Sirius said, his voice heavy with pain. "He was so young when he died... Magical portraits and photographs are different; witches and wizards usually don't commission portraits casually."
"Perhaps you could commission a portrait of Regulus?" Voldemort suggested. "It may not be very... lively, but it could bring some comfort to Mrs. Black."
—And to you as well.
Voldemort thought.
Sirius paused, then said, "That's a good idea... I remember my mother kept Regulus's baby teeth. I think she should also have some of his hair and blood... With those as materials, the portrait might turn out more lifelike."
He fell into deep thought for a moment, then said, "Voldemort, I want to thank you."
(To be continued...)
(End of Chapter)
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