“I hear that the moonmoss in the Forbidden Forest has been stripped bare by some unhinged bandit, ensuring that no matching ingredients can be harvested for at least a year?” On Saturday, inside the Potions office, Snape suddenly questioned Linus out of nowhere.
“Is there really someone that wicked?” Linus put on an act of sheer astonishment.
“The ingredients in the Forbidden Forest are the private property of Hogwarts.
Unauthorized large-scale theft is subject to prosecution by the Ministry of Magic,” Snape said coldly.
“The Ministry of Magic has excellent property protection laws.
Unfortunately, they only stipulate that theft by *wizards* is a crime; they say nothing about theft by puppets,” Linus replied patiently, slicing slug tentacles with an aluminum knife.
Today he was learning to brew the Pepperup Potion—as the name implied, a potion for treating colds.
“When you end up in Azkaban, you will regret trying to play your laughable word games in front of powerful figures,” Snape sneered menacingly.
“I’m not too worried about that.
We’ve got our own person on the Wizengamot!” Linus offered a smile and winked at Snape.
*I never seem to intimidate this kid,* Snape thought, feeling a rare touch of bewilderment.
*He isn’t afraid of me at all—completely unlike the other students.*
“One hundred stalks of moonmoss.
I will need them for next Friday’s Potions class,” Snape stated frostily.
Linus casually tossed a small pouch over to Snape.
Snape caught it and looked inside to find two hundred neatly packed stalks of moonmoss.
Saying nothing more, he stowed it away.
When class ended, Snape threw a pouch of Gold Galleons to Linus.
Linus counted them.
“Professor, isn’t this too much?
A bottle of Pepperup Potion is worth five Silver Sickles at most.
Why give six Gold Galleons?”
“Payment for the moonmoss,” Snape rasped in a low, biting voice that dropped the temperature in the office by several degrees.
Linus tightened the scarf around his neck.
“Alright then, thank you, Professor.
I’ll take my leave.”
“Get out, kid,” Snape waved a hand impatiently.
While Harry and Ron’s late-night excursions were generally confined inside the castle, Linus was always prowling around the fringes of the Forbidden Forest.
The little Gryffindor lions were truly lucky the professors hadn’t learned night-bed-check methods from the mysterious East; otherwise, Gryffindor’s nightly attendance logs would be missing at least five people.
When Charms class ended that day, Harry pulled Linus aside and whispered, “Linus, come with me tonight.
I want you to meet my family.”
Linus caught Harry’s hand firmly.
“Harry, even if it’s daytime right now, it’s still not a good time for ghost stories.”
“No, I—what I mean is, there’s a mirror, called Erised-something.
You can see my parents inside it!
They’re wonderful, really—you have to see them,” Harry said excitedly, clutching Linus’s hand.
Linus placed a free hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“If it’s the Mirror of Erised, you’re the only one who can see your family in it.” Linus paused.
“Because it reflects the deepest, most desperate desire of one’s heart.”
“H-how did you know?” Harry asked in surprise, before tapping his own forehead.
You’ve read so many books.”
“What mirror?
I want to see it too!” Ron joined the conversation.
“Alright, we’ll go together tonight.” Harry turned to Linus.
“Do you want to come, Linus?”
“No, thanks.
I have to keep an eye on my cauldron of Invisibility Potion tonight,” Linus shook his head, declining.
“Aren’t you curious about what you’d see in the mirror?” Ron asked, slapping Linus on the shoulder in disbelief.
*A Hogwarts family photo, which I’ve already seen,* Linus chuckled internally.
He gave Ron and Harry a playful bump on their shoulders.
“Gotta run, guys.
I’ve got a ton of stuff to do.”
Traversing the muddy path, Linus hurried to Greenhouse Three.
Professor Sprout looked thoroughly surprised to see him.
“Linus, today isn’t your scheduled class time.”
“But today is the harvest day for the Devil’s Snare.
I was worried you wouldn’t be able to handle it all by yourself,” Linus said as he rolled up his sleeves, put on dragon-hide gloves, and strapped his pant cuffs tight.
“Oh, I’m so touched, little Linus!” Professor Sprout’s eyes glistened with tears.
“If we have time for emotional sentiment, we’d better use it to get this done faster.
The sun is about to set,” Linus grumbled like a pragmatic old man.
Professor Sprout seized a lurking tentacle of Devil’s Snare that was attempting a surprise attack.
“Linus, you really lack a romantic bone in your body.
I’m starting to worry that little Hermione’s future family life might be terribly dull and tedious.”
Linus gave Professor Sprout a helpless look.
“Professor, please don’t say strange things like that in front of kids.”
Professor Sprout giggled.
“I understand, little Linus.
My lips are sealed!”
Just as the evening crescent moon crept into the sky, Linus finished up his work in Greenhouse Three and hastened back toward the Great Hall for dinner.
On his way, he collided with an unplanned variable—a professor he had spent the better part of the term actively avoiding: Professor Quirrell.
Quirrell was clutching a stack of student essays as he walked toward his office, when Linus, coming from the opposite direction in equal haste, ran right into him.
The instant Quirrell tumbled to the floor, his hands flew to shield the massive turban on his head.
“Whoops!” Linus gasped, quickly scrambling to his feet to help gather the scattered homework.
“Professor, did you just finish class?”
“Y-yes, indeed,” Quirrell said as he picked up parchment off the floor.
“Did…
did Mr.
Sunwood just return from outside the castle?”
For some reason, as they both bent down, they inexplicably looked up at the exact same moment, locked eyes, let out a shared laugh, and then resumed gathering the papers around them.
The instructors usually run into life-altering troubles, so please do be careful,” Linus said, sounding like a miniature adult, just as he always presented himself before the faculty.
“Oh?” ‘Quirrell’s’ voice changed, turning into a strangely deliberate, slow drawl that attempted an aura of elegance.
Linus instantly realized—the pilot had switched.
Riddle was online.
“And what do you think of the person who cast that curse?”
“A stroke of genius, a stunning concept—casting a curse targeted at a position or role rather than a physical entity.
I’ve never been able to figure out where the medium, or anchor point, ought to be established,” Linus marvelled sincerely.
He suspected Voldemort’s innate talent in Charms was equal to his own.
“Heh heh…” ‘Quirrell’ offered a subtle smile as he took the parchment Linus handed him.
“Coincidentally, I have a fair bit of insight into the study of curses.
If you ever run into anything you don’t understand, feel free to drop by my office for a chat.”
Linus promptly proffered a polite rejection.
“Given the level of teaching demonstrated in your regular classes, I’m afraid your guidance might lead me astray.”
‘Quirrell’s’ face stiffened, veins bulging on his forehead.
“That…
is not my true capability.”
Linus feigned an understanding sigh.
“I understand.
Life forces our hands.
You look like you really need this job, Professor, and the students are very understanding and cooperative during your lectures.
However, one’s level of magical mastery is exceedingly difficult to fake.
Perhaps…
you’re simply not cut out for this line of work.”
Having said that, sensing ‘Quirrell’s’ hand tightening around his wand, Linus didn’t dare tease him any further.
He shoved the remaining parchment into the professor’s arms.
“I’ll be off to dinner now, Professor.
Early Happy Easter!”
‘Quirrell’ turned and watched Linus’s running figure vanish around the corner, remaining silent all the way back to his office.
“Master, I felt your killing intent…
Master,” Quirrell stammered in a weak, trembling voice.
“That brat…
from the moment he set eyes on you, he was maintaining a Shield Charm,” ‘Quirrell’ spat in a cold, ruthless tone.
“A Shield Charm?
How could that be?
He’s only a first-year—he hasn’t even taken his end-of-term exams!” Quirrell gasped in shock.
“Nothing is impossible.
The gulf between a mediocre fool and a true genius is wider than that between a human and a pig,” ‘Quirrell’ sneered.
“What a fascinating little brat.”