Chapter 51: Oil of Green Revenge, Room of Rewards, and Black Binders (1/2)
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The link is also in the synopsis.
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[
The ensuing vault cursed like the first one,
One that... terrifies the dead ones.
It dwells on the stage of completeness,
Sheltered by the oil of green revenge.
If you want to taste the reward,
accolades you need to appreciate.
But are you ready? It will be anything but easy.
The roads we walk have demons beneath,
Are you ready to face what lies underneath?
]
Quinn hummed in giddiness, staring at the riddle on his left and the third-year Hogwarts Arithmancy book on the right. It was a pure coincidence, but while doing his Arithmancy homework in the Arithmancy, he noted something written on the Arithmancy book.
It was the symbolism of number six, and according to Arithmancy, number six was the number of completeness.
It was also a perfect number, and a perfect number was a rarity. A perfect number was when all the numbers divisors, excluding the number itself, are added, and the sum equals the number itself.
Divisors of six (6) = 1, 2, and 3.
[Sum of divisors = 1 + 2 + 3 = 6]
Ancient Greek Arithmancy master Euclid had discovered the first four perfect numbers, 6, 28, 496, and 8128.
Seeing that Hogwarts didn't have floors in double digits, correlating this with Friar's last riddle, Quinn was sure that stage's meaning here was the floor.
The stage of completeness was the sixth floor of Hogwarts.
”I don't want to scan the whole damn floor just to find the entrance,” grumbled Quinn. He slid the riddle paper in front of him and reread it again.
Last time, the riddle had minimum information about the actual vault, and it was more of an introduction to the cursed vaults in general, but this time, the entire puzzle was focused on the second vault.
”Hmm, now, what does oil of green revenge mean?”
Sitting in his office, Quinn tapped on his table, looking around the room, wondering about the wording. The ticking of the clock could be heard clearly in the quiet room.
The tapping of the table turned rhythmic as he tapped out a tune. Slowly all five fingers and palm came into play, performing a tap-tune with his hand beating against the table. His head started to bob with the music.
*Slap!*
The sound of Quinn slapping his forehead with his other hand reverberated in the quiet room.
”... What are you doing, man?” scolded Quinn. He got up from his chair and paced up and down in the room. Trying to think of a solution.
Time ticked away as Quinn tried all kinds of things like doing a handstand, laying down on the floor, sitting lotus style, eyes closed, and anything that might work, but nothing worked.
After an unidentified time, Quinn ended up watching a non-magical painting on his office wall. It didn't move because of charms or did anything magical, but Quinn liked it because of its simplicity and the simplistic color palate.
”Colors are amazing,” spoke Quinn, his eyes reflecting the colors in the oil painting.
”Hmm?” Quinn tilted his head and rewound through his thoughts.
”Wait a minute.”
He turned his head to the riddle page on his desk and back to the painting on the wall. He repeated it twice before saying,
”Oil... Painting... Oil painting... Portrait... Magical Portrait... Friar, you beautiful fat monk.” From the start of the sentence, Quinn's voice rose with every word till he came to the final conclusion, and facts all fell into their place.
Quinn didn't wait for a single second before he put on his Hogwarts robe, and while he did that, his table packed itself, and the page of the riddle flew into his hand. He pocketed the page and spoke to himself as he exited the office.
”Oh yeah, I am feeling it now. There is no point in being nut if you can't have a little fun.”
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- (Scene Break) -
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Like every floor of the Hogwarts castle, the sixth floor was vast and grand. Full of different corridors and turns, with rooms that hadn't been opened in hundreds of years because the castle was so huge that the occupants never needed all the extra accommodations.
Ghost and portraits were a charming feature of Hogwarts. Its magical nature attracted ghosts to tie themselves to the castle, while people's time in the Hogwarts castle, while they were still alive, was so significant that they liked to send their portraits to the school.
Even to this day, a lot of dead people sent their portraits to Hogwarts.
'Maybe I will do the same when I am all old, sickly, and dead,' thought Quinn as he ran his way to the sixth floor.
He reached the floor and walked to the first portrait he saw.
”What's your name?”
The man in the portrait looked at Quinn before stroking his mustache as he introduced himself,
”Tatum Blakesleye is my name; mustache is my game.”
Quinn cut him off and said, ”Tate's homestead? No, that isn't anywhere near green revenge.”
He looked at the next portrait, ”What about you?”
”Lady Ebba Hornee.”
Quinn shook his head, ”From the fortress, that doesn't match either.”
Quinn went one by one to every portrait and asked their names. Trying to relate them to green revenge, but nothing matched.
He stopped after a couple of tens of portraits and grunted, ”Okay, this is taking too much time. Need to speed up the process.”
He took a deep breath and gathered his magic, and initiated the magic he wanted to use. Quinn opened his mouth and spoke, but not a single sound came out of it.
But to every portrait in his sight, they could hear the same sentence.
”Everybody, tell me your names.”
Every single portrait that could see Quinn heard the sentence, and they began moving closer to Quinn by traveling between frames. Some portrait people away from Quinn also came to see what was happening. And, tons of portrait people peered at Quinn from the picture frames on the walls.
Quinn shrug-nodded in amazement at the number, ”Alright, a little more than I was expecting, but why not? Go ahead, speak your names together at the same time.”
He closed his eyes and focused, diving deep into his magic, channeling it to enable the occlumency he had developed throughout the years. His mind thrummed with activity, and then it came.
Portraits were copies of their subjects while they were painted, which meant they too had personalities. The portraits began speaking their names; some took the lead, some followed after the first group, while others hung at the back of the group before speaking.
A cacophony of names came crashing into Quinn as he sorted through every single name that was thrown at him.
”Bonifatius Tegula.” ”Eustorgius Nerva.” ”Rodachan Nolani.”
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”Amara Nero.” ”Sionn Henness.” ”Adela Dreschnerg.”
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”Hrabanus Lentinus.” ”Eardwulf Fryee.” ”Madison Ecclestone.”
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”Sidonius Dorso.” ”Roswita Bohng.” ”Cyneric Harlowe.”
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