Chapter 170. Encounters in the Restricted Section
On the castle's second floor, the library was pitch-black and utterly silent, a little eerie and frightening.
"Duncan, where are you?" Fred's voice rang out, brimming with excitement.
In the past, when he and George came to the library at night to check things, they always skulked about like thieves, never as calm as they were today.
"Being invisible is brilliant!" Fred marvelled inwardly, and his desire to learn the Disillusionment Charm grew stronger.
"Right next to you—and could you keep your voice down?" Duncan rubbed the ear Fred had just deafened and complained. "We're only invisible, not vanished. The patrolling professors aren't deaf; they can hear you blundering about."
"Heh, got it," Fred replied. "So what do we do next?"
"You take the left, George the centre, I'll take the right. We go shelf by shelf," said Duncan.
"No problem, we know this place well," George said, and the sound of the twins' footsteps started up as they set off.
"Be careful, both of you," Duncan warned. "Some books in the Restricted Section are dangerous. If you aren't sure, don't touch them."
"Yeah, yeah!" Fred answered cheerfully. "We've been here before. A pitch-black book bit my hand once!"
At that, a few dark lines seemed to slide down Duncan's forehead. He suddenly felt bringing the Weasley twins into the Restricted Section had been a mistake.
But it was too late for regrets now. From the retreating footsteps, Fred and George had already dashed eagerly into the aisles.
Duncan sighed in silence, walked to the row of shelves near the windows, drew his wand, and a milky-white orb of light bloomed at its tip.
"There aren't going to be any freaky things in here, right?" Pro, perched on Duncan's shoulder, wrapped all four paws tight around his neck and spoke nervously.
"So long as you don't leave my side and don't fiddle with the books on the shelves, you won't meet anything freaky," Duncan said with a smile.
Pro nodded obediently at once, shuffled his backside closer to Duncan's neck, and tried his utmost to keep away from the books on the shelves, as though they were terrifying Niffler-eating beasts.
The Restricted Section was at the back of the library. Holding his lit wand aloft, Duncan advanced, his gaze skimming the neighbouring shelves, which held only common works.
For example: The Philosophy of the Mundane: Why the Muggles Prefer Not to Know, Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit, My Life as a Squib, Little People, Big Plans, and so on—truly a mixed bag. In this thousand-year-old library, one could find books on every field.
Duncan strolled to the boundary between the general collection and the Restricted Section, raised his foot, and carefully stepped over the rope that separated the two areas.
He looked ahead, and it was as if the light were being swallowed by some hidden monster in the dark; within, it grew even dimmer.
The books on the shelves had changed entirely—from intact volumes to ragged tomes steeped in the air of history.
One book had a dark stain on it that looked very much like blood, and from time to time it emitted faint, sorrowful wails and whispers.
It was as if some innocent, pitiable person were trapped inside the book; having finally seen a passer-by, they were anxiously begging for rescue.
Duncan leaned in, curious, to examine the faded gilt letters on the spine, and the wailing suddenly grew much clearer.
What was more, it seemed to be humming right in the depths of his mind, and an urge welled up in him.
He wanted to take the book into his arms, hide it, then find a silent, deserted place, open its pages, and read greedily.
"Duncan, what's wrong with you? Are you doing this on purpose to scare me again? Don't! Wake up!"
Pro's anxious voice burst in Duncan's ear, and a few seconds later a slight sting pricked his cheek.
Duncan started as if waking from a dream; his vision cleared, and he saw his hand raised high, reaching forward.
There was only a hair's breadth left between his fingers and the blood-stained book; he felt he was about to touch it.
Cold sweat sprang out of him; a chill shot up his spine to his scalp, and even the roots of his hair bristled.
He hastily pulled his hand back, took a steadying breath, and said, "Thanks, Pro. Otherwise, I've no idea what horrible thing I might have run into."
"Are you back to normal?" Pro patted his chest, still badly shaken. "What just happened? You scared me to death!"
"You suddenly stared at that book without moving, not even blinking, and you were reaching out to grab it!"
"If I hadn't scratched you with my claws, you'd probably be holding it by now!" At this point, Pro puffed out his chest proudly.
"Thanks. I was bewitched by that book," Duncan said, reaching up to rub Pro's head. "I underestimated their magic."
"Then let's get out of here, quickly," Pro urged. "If you get bewitched again, I don't know if I can wake you."
"All right, let's look elsewhere," Duncan nodded, cast one last glance at the book, and walked on along the shelves, deeper in.
As he moved away, the book's wails suddenly turned into a piercing scream, savagely battering Duncan's eardrums and making his head swim.
Duncan frowned, turned, and raised his wand; he transfigured the upper and lower faces of the shelf into a lid and sealed the book in. Only then did the noise cease.
"No wonder these books are kept here…" Duncan muttered under his breath, shifting his steps to get away from that nauseating spellbook as fast as possible.
After circling the shelves that lined the edge of the Restricted Section, Duncan found no clues related to the treasure in the Black Lake, but he did pick out one volume.
Scrawled across its spine in what looked like smeared, sooty letters was the title Some Commendable Ancient Magicks and Spells.
Compared with the other books in the Restricted Section, the aura it gave off was like that of a gentle little lamb—hardly frightening at all.
Clutching his wand in one hand and aiming it at the spellbook in case of accidents, Duncan slowly and cautiously reached his other hand toward the shelf.
His fingertips touched the surface of the book; instead of the dry feel of ordinary bindings, it was damp and supple, like stroking human skin.
Frowning, Duncan forced down his discomfort, took the book from the shelf, and turned it over to examine the front.
And in that moment, a sudden change erupted.
A skull painted on the cover sprang to life, braced itself against the cover, lunged at Duncan, and roared, baring broken teeth.
It had barely made it halfway when it froze—Duncan had conjured a sharp, conical wooden spike and driven it hard into its mouth.
The skull's roar cut off. Its hollow eyes twitched, then slowly contracted, sank back into the surface of the book, and went still again.
Even so, Duncan faintly felt a resentful gaze seeping from the skull's eye sockets…
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