Chapter 11
The plant called Subterranea had an overall grayish appearance. From its thickest, root-like base sprouted five thinner stems, and around those stems grew thin, flat, gray leaf-like structures.
It looked a bit like a human hand—or perhaps a duck's webbed foot.
Through his magical perspective, the whole plant resembled a grasping hand reaching downward.
As long as he could see the magical circuit, that was enough. Whether it was buried underground, hidden inside a tree trunk, or embedded deep in rock, he could spot it.
External shape didn't matter to him. He could see straight to the essence.
"I don't need you to dig it up," Ronan said. "Just find where it grows and tell me the location. I will handle the digging."
Gabin considered for a moment, then nodded.
Setting aside any possible reward, befriending a centaur like Ronan could be useful. If he ever needed to do something else in the Forbidden Forest later, it would make things much easier.
"Thank you very much, Void Star." Ronan bent both front legs slightly, turned his head to the right, and placed his right hand over his abdomen—a very strange gesture, but Gabin understood it as some form of centaur gratitude ritual.
"Anything else?" Hagrid asked Ronan. "Gray's got classes tomorrow. If it gets too late he won't be able to get up."
Gabin almost pointed out that tomorrow was Saturday—no classes—but he stayed quiet.
"Nothing more. Farewell, Hagrid. Farewell, Gabin." Ronan fixed his red eyes on Gabin one last time, as though seeing something unusual about him, then turned and galloped deeper into the forest.
His reddish-brown coat and scarlet tail made him look like a streak of red flame racing through the black trees.
"Can you make any sense of what the centaurs mean by 'Void Star'?" Hagrid asked, taking the lantern back and glancing at Gabin as they walked.
"Not a clue. Completely lost," Gabin replied with floating words.
"Yeah… sometimes their explanations are worse than no explanation at all," Hagrid muttered as he pushed forward.
"Right, Gray—no more of your fancy Lumos for now. Let's pick up the pace. It's freezing out here."
Hagrid walked ahead, blocking the night wind for Gabin and shoving aside any overhanging branches or undergrowth.
Gabin followed in silence, with Fang bringing up the rear. The dog gave himself a quick shake, huffed out a cloud of white breath, and nodded in firm agreement with Hagrid's complaint about the cold.
The rest of the patrol passed without incident. Gabin didn't spot any more rare finds on the way back, and no more Subterranea either. He could only hope for better luck next week when they changed their route.
Because of the meeting with Ronan, they returned later than usual. By the time Gabin reached the castle it was already around eleven at night.
Hogwarts was deserted at this hour. Even the ghosts had stopped drifting about. The stone walls seemed to radiate cold.
Gabin hugged his shoulders and shivered.
Next time I go out, I'm wearing something thicker, he thought.
Suddenly he felt something soft and furry brush against his ankle.
He looked down—and met a pair of pale, slit-pupiled eyes staring right back.
It was Mrs. Norris, the cat belonging to Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker.
Mrs. Norris's mouth curved in a smug, mocking little smile. Her eyes gleamed with challenge. Then she opened her jaws and let out a piercing yowl.
"Mrow!"
The sharp cry echoed through the empty corridors, shattering the castle's chilly silence.
She stared at Gabin, clearly expecting the usual reaction from a caught student: panic, wide eyes, and a frantic scramble to run.
Of course she would chase him relentlessly—never letting him escape—until her master Filch caught up.
Then she'd get her reward: a particularly tasty piece of dried fish.
But she was disappointed.
Gabin simply looked down at her with a calm, neutral expression. No sign of running at all.
No wonder students talk about wanting to strangle you. With that attitude, you really deserve it.
Gabin wasn't worried. He wasn't a night-wandering student, and his relationship with Filch was… well, surprisingly decent.
He didn't have to wait long. Within moments, Filch's voice came echoing from ahead.
"Oh, my sweet, did you catch them? Those wretched little brats—this time I'll give them a lesson they won't forget!"
The voice was high-pitched and carried a sickly excitement, even before Filch himself appeared.
Mrs. Norris stayed firmly behind Gabin, blocking any retreat, meowing now and then to guide her master straight to the spot.
But her hopes were dashed.
Filch came puffing and wheezing around the corner, clutching a length of rope as though ready to tie someone up on the spot.
The moment he saw Gabin, the manic glee on his face froze solid—like frost forming on glass.
"Ah… Mr. Gray," Filch said, disappointment clear in his tone, though he forced a thin smile. "It's Friday again, isn't it? Look at me—running ragged every day with those troublemakers. I lose track of time."
He chuckled awkwardly, suddenly all friendliness and warmth.
"Just got back a bit late tonight," Gabin replied with floating words.
"I know, I know. You're not like those sneaking little pests. You go on Forbidden Forest patrol every Friday—Dumbledore told me himself." Filch quickly tucked the rope away and scooped up Mrs. Norris, who had begun rubbing against his trouser leg.
"I'm terribly sorry about that, Mrs. Norris just can't tell you apart from the others. How could she know you're completely different? A rare genius—talent that could even rival Dumbledore's one day."
Filch spoke with genuine-sounding admiration, then let out a heavy sigh.
"Such a pity you're a mute. Really such a shame. Otherwise you'd be miles ahead of everyone else by now."
His face was full of regret, as though he truly felt sorry for Gabin's condition.
"If you weren't a mute, you'd already be far beyond the rest of your year. First year… let me think… oh, the Fire-Making Spell—that one's tricky."
"If you could speak, you'd probably be casting Incendio effortlessly by now."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Filch's mouth before he forced it down again, replacing it with mournful sympathy.
Gabin's mouth twitched. He really didn't want to stand here chatting with Filch any longer—he was freezing.
"Getting late. Heading back to sleep now," he wrote with floating words.
Filch looked at the wand and the glowing points drifting from it. A shadow of disappointment crossed his eyes.
"Oh—of course. My fault entirely. A wizard like you needs proper rest above all else." Filch stepped aside, cradling Mrs. Norris.
Gabin walked past, heading toward the Gryffindor common room.
Filch turned the other way, off to hunt for whatever night-wanderers might (or might not) actually exist tonight.