Chapter 30. The Train Arrives at the Station
"No, the one on my shoulder is only a fake.
It's transformed by Mori," Duncan explained with a shake of his head.
"But I did once go to Canada with my grandfather and saw a Bewitching Weasel with my own eyes, and my grandfather even found a way to collect some of its toxic miasma to bring back for study."
Duncan took a small leather ball from his pocket.
"With this, Mori is now hardly any different from the real thing."
"Oh?" Fred blinked, understanding Duncan's intent.
"You want to pin what happened here on the Bewitching Weasel?"
"If we don't cover the traces at the scene, they'll still track it back to you through the Dungbombs," Duncan said.
"All right—Hermione and Neville, go back to your own compartment and lie down in a comfortable position.
Fred, George, you two also find a spot in the corridor.
Move quickly."
"Thanks for the hard work."
As the others hurried about, Duncan stroked Mori and spoke softly.
Earlier he had used the Druid Whistle again to calm Mori, for five minutes.
Mori stuck out its tongue to lick Duncan's palm, then hopped to the floor.
Its paws scratched at students' clothing or skin, leaving traces of its activity everywhere as instructed by Duncan.
At last, it smashed through the carriage window, while Duncan scattered several dark hairs around to fake the illusion that a Bewitching Weasel had escaped the carriage from here.
With everything prepared, Duncan sent Mori back into the case, shifted other people's bodies to cover him underneath, and then pierced the leather ball.
Hiss—hiss—
The foul reek started to spread again, and the living conditions inside the carriage worsened once more.
The most pitiful were those students who were about to wake; they were knocked out by the stench again, eyes brimming with tears, itching to get up and curse.
Moments later, Duncan's head also felt heavy and muzzy.
He hurriedly tossed the leather pouch into the case and pressed several buttons on it, turning it into an ordinary trunk that could only hold luggage, erasing the last piece of evidence.
Duncan exhaled in relief and, reassured, sank into unconsciousness with the other students.
The sun slowly dipped below the horizon.
The train gradually slowed and, at last, with the toot-toot of the steam whistle, came to a halt.
Students poured from the train onto a small, dark platform like the tide.
Almost without pausing, they shouted and jostled, running straight for the carriage where Duncan and the others were, clearly already aware that a stench attack had occurred there.
"Stop, stop, no one is allowed past this point!"
A huge figure blocked the students at the front.
He held up a lantern and waved hands the size of cauldrons, shouting as he tried to hold everyone back.
"Hagrid, please let us through.
We'll just have a look and leave!" a senior student pleaded.
"No—no," Hagrid said firmly, shaking his head.
"Dumbledore said no students are to go through!"
"But our friends are in that carriage.
We want to see if they're safe!" another student said.
His words struck a chord, like dropping a great stone into a lake—or like a boiling kettle suddenly rattling its lid—instantly turning the scene noisy.
Some even tried to force their way past Hagrid.
Fluster crossed Hagrid's face; he was clearly losing control of the situation and could only keep waving his hands and shouting.
"Everyone stop."
A cold, clear woman's voice came from behind Hagrid, and the students obeyed at once, becoming as docile as lambs.
Tap—tap—
Footsteps sounded, and a black-haired witch in emerald robes appeared.
Her face was taut, lips pressed thin, exceedingly severe.
"Professor McGonagall, I—"
Hagrid scratched his head in dismay.
He hadn't managed to do what Dumbledore had asked him to do…
"Hagrid, take the first-years across the Black Lake to the castle first," Professor McGonagall said, doing her best to make her tone sound gentler.
Though something unexpected had happened, she could not afford to lose her head.
"Right!"
Hagrid nodded heavily, raised the lantern high, and led the first-years away along a steep, narrow path.
"The Head Boy and the Prefects of each House—take your Houses back to the castle in an orderly fashion," Professor McGonagall continued to instruct.
"Professor McGonagall, our friends…" one student raised a hand and said in a small voice.
"Don't worry.
We will see to their safety," Professor McGonagall said, her tone unquestionable, and motioned for the students to leave.
When the platform had grown empty again, Professor McGonagall walked back the way she had come, her face dark.
This was the worst incident she had encountered since joining Hogwarts.
It was simply unbelievable.
Someone had dared to attack the train transporting Hogwarts students and caused an entire carriage of students to fall unconscious.
Professor McGonagall clenched her fists and quickened her pace, vowing in her heart that she would catch the wretch who did this.
"The students have returned to the castle," Professor McGonagall said to the people ahead as she reached the carriage where Duncan and the others lay.
A man in grey-white robes stood before them, a white beard falling to his chest and half-moon spectacles on his nose.
At her words, he nodded silently.
His blue eyes swept over the carriage's exterior and paused for a few seconds at the broken window.
"Come, let's go up and see what exactly knocked our students out," the old man said.
"Dumbledore," Professor McGonagall said with a frown, "inside…"
"Don't worry, Minerva," Dumbledore replied with a smile.
"I've checked.
There are only unconscious students in the carriage and no other danger.
Oh, and there's a faint stink—I hope you'll all be able to tolerate it."
With that, Dumbledore stepped onto the steps and pushed open the carriage door.
The sealed stench found an outlet at once and rushed straight at him.
Dumbledore frowned without a word, glanced at the people following behind him, and stepped into the carriage.
"Careful.
Don't tread on the students on the floor," Dumbledore reminded them.
He placed his feet carefully in the gaps between students, moving cautiously along the corridor and looking for any clue he could find.
At the end of the corridor, Dumbledore turned back to the professors who were examining the scene and asked quietly, "Well?
Have any of you found anything useful?"
"This smell is rather odd," said Snape, face stony.
Though he loathed it, he dutifully flared his nostrils to sniff.
"It's not the scent of a potion.
And the more you smell it…"
His nose twitched again.
"It makes one want to sleep.
If the concentration were high enough, it ought to render people unconscious."
"Then this stink may be the reason the students passed out," Dumbledore nodded.
"But where did it come from?"
"Having heard what Snape just said, I may be able to answer your question, Dumbledore."
An elderly man with snow-white hair, who had been crouched since entering the carriage to examine the scratches on a student's face, raised his head at the question.
Smiling with confidence, he spoke.
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