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Chapter 25: Lettuce A Fairy Tale Comes to Hogwarts
🕑 Added 2025-07-11 14:36:04 +0000 UTCProfessor Victor had reached his limit for the day. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he shooed the eager students from his classroom like a shepherd herding sheep.
"Out, out! My workday is officially over."
The corridor erupted with excited chatter as the seventh-years spilled out, their eyes bright with possibility. These weren't naive first-years—they understood the magical world well enough to know that learning real Divination was nothing short of miraculous.
"I'm skipping my next class!" Tonks declared, throwing her arm skyward. "I have to test this immediately!"
By lunchtime, the news had swept through Hogwarts like wildfire. Even Harry had caught wind of it.
He was leaving Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom, clutching two textbooks and nursing his frustration. McGonagall had transformed her entire desk into a squealing pig during the lesson—an incredible feat that had captured Harry's complete attention. Yet despite his fascination and an entire class period of intense concentration, he couldn't make his matchstick so much as quiver. Without incantations, Transfiguration felt more like an exercise in pure perception than magic.
That's when he overheard the corridor gossip.
"Did you hear? The new professor actually knows real Divination!"
"Everyone's saying that, but I don't buy it. Can anyone really make prophecies?"
"No, you've got it wrong—it's not prophecy, it's divination. Like tea-leaf reading or crystal gazing, but he has some technique that actually works..."
"Seriously? I'm signing up for that class immediately!"
Two older Gryffindor students brushed past Harry, their whispered excitement making him ache with envy. Professor Victor's class sounded both popular and genuinely useful! Given the choice, he'd abandon every other subject to study under Victor—the only professor who spoke to him like a normal student rather than the burden of being the "Chosen One."
A piercing shriek shattered his thoughts.
"GAAAAH!"
An owl burst through an open window with all the grace of a small hurricane. Its cry was harsh and grating, like ten ravens cawing in unison, carrying an almost morbid atmosphere. Students nearby clapped their hands over their ears and gave the bird a wide berth.
The owl circled once with theatrical flair before landing squarely on Harry's shoulder, as if it had been aiming for him all along.
"For me?" Harry asked, startled.
The owl gave what could only be described as a very human nod, then extended one yellow talon to reveal a small note tied to its leg. Harry untied it carefully.
Harry,
I require your assistance preparing teaching materials for this afternoon. If you're available, please come to my office at noon. You'll find it behind the fireplace at the top of the North Tower. Knock three times.
—Victor
This was Harry's first glimpse of Victor's handwriting. The letters were clearly penned with a quill, each word flowing with elegant tails and flourishes, as formal and precise as a London legal document.
Harry's face brightened immediately. Ron, who had been walking beside him, peered curiously at the note after watching the owl's dramatic entrance.
"Victor? Isn't that the professor who got you that From Bloodline to Blasphemy book?"
"He didn't buy it—Borgin gave it to me as a gift."
Ron looked unconvinced. "Maybe. But I know Borgin's type. He's always been like the Slytherins, just like Snape. There's something off about that whole house. Nine out of ten Dark Wizards come from Slytherin."
"Professor Victor isn't like that at all," Harry protested.
Ron shot him a look that clearly said are you blind? Professor Victor had the classic appearance of a Dark Wizard straight out of a storybook! But before he could argue further, Harry was already sprinting down the corridor.
"I'm skipping lunch!" Harry called over his shoulder. "See you this afternoon!"
At half-past twelve, Harry found Victor's classroom and knocked three gentle times on the fireplace. The wall slowly rotated inward, revealing a hidden chamber that took his breath away.
If necromancers from old tales had laboratories, Harry thought, they would look exactly like this.
The windowless room was lit by a single lantern hanging from one wall, its pale flame casting everything in shades of grey and silver. Victor sat directly beneath it, his face partially hidden by his hat's brim.
But what dominated the space was an enormous oil painting covering half the wall where a window should have been. The canvas was overwhelmingly dark, its centerpiece a mist-shrouded lake rendered with a haunting, faded quality that filled Harry with inexplicable dread.
In the lake's center stood a tall tower of ancient black stone. It had no door—only a single window at its peak from which a withered, golden line dropped straight to the ground. It took Harry a moment to realize that the golden line was hair. A chill ran down his spine.
Victor looked up as Harry entered, his pale face emerging from shadow. "You're here, Harry."
Harry tore his gaze from the painting and nodded. "Congratulations, Professor. I heard your first class was incredible. Students were talking about it in the corridors."
"That was nothing," Victor said dismissively. "Simply a necessary correction to this world's understanding of divination. Before today, they had no proper divination at all—only fraudulent parlor tricks."
"Fraudulent tricks?"
"Indeed. If divination cannot foresee the future, what distinguishes it from Muggle psychological counseling? At least Muggle therapy actually helps people manage their emotions..."
They chatted casually, but Harry found his attention drifting to the room's unusual furnishings. The animated teapot he'd seen before emerged from a cabinet beside Victor, walking on two short legs formed from its curved spout. It stepped carefully over scattered papers before bending to fill a teacup. Victor didn't even glance at it, clearly accustomed to its presence, but Harry stared in fascination.
After pouring the tea, the teapot seemed to shrink in fear from the wall painting, scurrying back under the desk with a nervous swoosh. Harry couldn't help but look back at the strange artwork, its long, dull-gold hair the only splash of color in the gloomy scene.
Victor noticed Harry's wandering attention and followed his gaze. "Ah, that's Lettuce. Are you interested in her?"
"Lettuce?" Harry asked, confused.
"The name of a friend's daughter. She had exceptionally long hair and later married a prince, earning her the title Princess Lettuce," Victor explained. "That's her in the painting."
Harry's confusion deepened. Named after a vegetable? How bizarre.
After a moment of silence, Victor asked, "Would you like to hear Lettuce's story? It's actually related to what I need you to help me with."
"Of course, Professor," Harry said immediately.
"Lettuce's story begins in a remote village. A villager's pregnant wife developed an unbearable craving for the lettuce growing in her neighbor's garden. So every night, she and her husband would sneak over and steal it."
Victor's voice was hoarse and low, reminiscent of his screech owl, but unlike the bird's sharp cry, his storytelling carried a heavy, oppressive quality that made Harry shiver.
"But the lettuce belonged to a witch. When she discovered the theft, she flew into a rage and swore the couple would pay in blood. The villagers fell to their knees, begging for forgiveness, explaining that the wife would waste away and die without the lettuce."
"So they struck a bargain. The witch said: 'From now on, you may eat as much lettuce as you desire. But the child you bear will belong to me.'"
"And they agreed?" Harry asked, horrified.
"They agreed," Victor confirmed calmly. "When the child was born, the witch came as promised and took her away, naming her Lettuce. Because the lettuce the woman had eaten was magical, the child's hair grew longer and longer as she aged. So the witch locked her in that high tower."
"Whenever the witch wanted to visit, she would call out: 'Lettuce, Lettuce, let down your hair!'"
"But a prince secretly witnessed this. Stunned by Lettuce's beauty, he imitated the witch, tricking her into letting down her hair. They met this way and became lovers."
"The witch discovered their secret. In her fury, she had the prince's eyes torn out by thorns and cast Lettuce into the wilderness. Both wandered the wasteland separately, but they met again by chance. Lettuce's tears healed the prince's blindness..."
"And they lived happily ever after."
Victor finished the story with the same calm tone and looked at Harry, his hollow eyes showing no emotion.
"What do you think?"
"'Happily ever after'?" Harry repeated, shuddering. "That doesn't sound very happy at all... What happened to the witch in your friend's version?"
Victor's reply was flat and matter-of-fact: "My friend was the witch, not the villagers."
