Chapter 36: Griffiths
The red-haired wizard idly tapped the frame of his portrait, occasionally peering over to see what the other portraits were up to. This tower was known as the Astronomy Tower—students came here every week to observe the stars and attend astronomy lessons. Most of the portraits lining the corridor were themed around the heavens. They were mostly quiet and reserved, and no one ever wanted to talk to him.
Then, he heard footsteps. A familiar face passed by—another student. Instantly, he leaned forward and called out.
"Hey, are you feeling better now? Did Mor give you medicine, right? That old coot’s Stimulating Elixir really is something—"
He expected the student to ignore him, as usual, and keep walking. But to his surprise, the student stopped. He turned, studying the portrait with a thoughtful expression.
"You’re Griffiths?" Wade asked.
"That’s me!" the red-haired wizard beamed. "Mor told you, didn’t he? Now he’s the only one who talks to me sometimes."
"Isn’t there plenty of other portraits here?" Wade gestured around.
"Ugh, don’t even get me started," Griffiths sighed. "You see that old guy across the way, the one with the starry robes and starry hat? He’s been staring at the same unchanging sky through his telescope for centuries. He only complains when I bother him. And then there’s Shalom—the one with the glasses. She’s always scribbling calculations on parchment. Never stops. Honestly, her results were confirmed by Muggle scientists over a hundred years ago, but she just keeps going."
Wade glanced over. A thin witch hunched over her desk, writing furiously, completely oblivious to the complaint.
"And those little star-watchers over there—look at them!" Griffiths grumbled. "They’re like a bunch of Cornish pixies. When they’re not observing the stars or sleeping, they’re causing chaos—knocking over the old man’s telescope, tearing up Shalom’s parchment, pulling my hair, or splashing ink all over my robes! I’ve had it!"
Griffiths let out a long, weary sigh. Even though Wade was in a dark mood, he couldn’t help but chuckle. The man’s misery was so exaggerated, so absurd, that it lifted the weight in his chest. His doubts, his gloom—everything seemed to fade.
"How long have you been hanging here?" Wade asked. "Aren’t you used to it yet?"
"Ah, you don’t understand," Griffiths said wistfully. "I used to be on the first floor, in the Great Hall. There were portraits all around me—students coming and going every day. I even taught a few pranks to the younger ones. It was fun."
"But then they wanted to hang Fosco’s portrait up too, so they moved me up here. I thought, Maybe I’ll make some new friends. But this place is boring. Absolutely soul-crushing."
"Portraits can visit each other, can’t they?" Wade asked.
"Technically, yes. But it takes effort. Most of the time, I’m stuck in my own frame."
He leaned forward eagerly. "Could you… maybe move my portrait back to the Great Hall? Or just somewhere lively? I’ll repay you!"
Wade didn’t answer right away. "I’ll have to ask Professor Mor first. If he doesn’t object, I’ll help you switch places."
Griffiths paused, then asked, "—But what if he says no?"
"Then I’ll do it secretly," Wade said. "Just not back in the Great Hall. That’d be too obvious."
"Perfect!" Griffiths practically bounced in his frame. "Go ask him now! Hurry up!"
"...Yeah, okay," Wade smiled, turning to leave.
He’d originally wanted to ask Griffiths whether Professor Mor had actually come out of his office earlier that morning, or whether Quirrell had been visiting this place often. But after a few minutes of conversation, he dropped the idea.
The red-haired wizard talked nonstop—he was clearly no good at keeping secrets. And since he’d known Professor Mor longer than Wade had, why would he trust the new student to keep quiet?
Better to handle the portrait move first. Then figure out the rest.
...
Terence Mor finally finished his seventh-year class, clutching his lesson plan tightly as he stormed out, his face flushed with anger. The students left behind looked like scolded chickens, their eyes downcast, as if they’d just survived a hurricane.
What does it mean to be “better than First Years”? Did First Years even know what alchemy was? Did they know how to write the “0” in Runic Script?
They were furious, but no one dared speak up. Under Mor’s glare, they all mumbled, "Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right."
That only made Mor angrier.
After meeting Wade, the more he looked at his carefully selected students, the more he disliked them. Then he reviewed their last alchemy artifact—his frustration deepened. He assigned five times the usual amount of work, and still felt they were getting off too easy.
Muttering under his breath, Mor returned to his office. Just as he turned the corner, he heard a cheerful voice.
"Was today’s class a success, Professor Mor? The young wizards must have learned so much!"
It was hard to stay cynical when someone was so genuinely enthusiastic. Mor couldn’t help but smile.
"Oh, Griffiths," he said.
"Who else?" Griffiths replied, leaning forward in his frame. "You know, I’ve been thinking—your students today… they’re not just lazy. They’re hopeless. They can’t even match First Years in skill or effort. What are they even doing learning alchemy? They’d be better off serving in the Ministry of Magic as decorative ornaments!"
"So you’re interested in that young wizard, huh?" Griffiths asked, grinning.
Mor fell silent for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly.
"Griffiths, gifted wizards usually show their talent early—right from their first day at school. They stand out, attract attention. But those with true potential? They’re drawn to dangerous, complex magic. They chase power, greatness, glory. Few of them are willing to slow down and study alchemy."
"But I believe the real change comes from alchemy. Only through alchemy can we truly improve the wizarding world. We must keep learning from Muggles—adopting their innovations, refining our techniques, improving our products. Only then can we grow. Only then can we avoid being wiped out by Muggles."
"But these years… I’ve made some progress—bringing Muggle inventions into our world. Still, I feel like a baby learning to walk. The farther I run, the more I realize how far behind I am. And that gap keeps growing—every single day."
"And my students? All they care about is inventing flashy magical artifacts to make money. That’s all they think about."
"But that boy… he’s different, isn’t he?" Griffiths suddenly asked.
"Yes," Mor said, a soft smile spreading across his face. "Even though he’s only eleven."
(End of Chapter)
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