“Still thinking about your pretty senior, Fleur?” Hermione sat down beside the daydreaming Zachary Hayes, carrying a heavy stack of books.
Ever since she started talking to him more often, she had developed a habit of dropping subtle, self-taught sarcasm into her speech—though it wasn’t entirely self-taught; after spending enough time in Severus Snape’s classes, even a mute could pick up a trick or two.
…
The duel from the previous week had concluded on the spot, and Fleur left Hogwarts with Professor Durand that very day.
Surprisingly, Linus felt none of the joy of ridding himself of a headache, only the quiet melancholy of having lost a friend.
He still remembered her parting words.
Amidst the thunderous cheers of the surrounding crowd, she took back her wand from his hand and spoke of her own accord, “I’m leaving today.”
“I guessed as much.
This duel felt a bit sudden,” he had replied.
“Will you forget me?” She looked at him, her large eyes glittering with moisture.
“Stop messing around.
France and the British Isles are only separated by the English Channel.
It’s a day’s trip.
You’re making it sound like a tragic final farewell.” He swatted away her hand, which was reaching out to poke his dimple—there were so many people watching.
“You really are no fun, little Linus.” A sudden, brilliant smile broke across her face as she leaned down and kissed his cheek.
“Well then, I’m off.”
Amidst screams from the crowd that drowned out even their previous cheers, Fleur departed the dueling grounds like a queen, as if she were the true victor of the match.
…
“No, I was just thinking about the right proportions for a magic recovery potion,” Linus answered Hermione.
The Magic Recovery Potion—Linus’s latest research project.
Snape had dismissed it as a trash potion that wizards would find a waste of space even if given away for free.
“An ordinary adult wizard needs to cast a hundred high-powered spells continuously to completely drain their magical store, and that magic recovers naturally in half a day.
Pray tell, under what circumstances would anyone need a pathetic potion that recovers a mere tenth of their magic in five minutes?” Snape had demanded.
“Perhaps when he needs to single-handedly challenge the entire Ministry of Magic,” Linus had replied with a smile.
Receiving no response for a long time, Snape swished his robes and left the office, though not without leaving behind an instruction: “Mandrake root, Dragon Claw Powder, and hellebore.
Figure out the proportions yourself.
Show it to me first once you’ve brewed it.”
“That’s awesome, Linus—I mean, inventing your own potion,” Harry whispered, keeping an eye out for Madam Pince in the distance.
Having recently freed himself from the Mirror of Erised, he remembered his main objective—Nicolas Flamel—and came to the library to research.
Beside them, Ron had long been slumping over a library table, snoring softly.
Learning to sleep in the library at such a young age—anyone seeing him couldn’t help but praise his bright future.
“I found it, Harry!” Hermione’s sudden exclamation not only startled the sleeping Ron awake, but also summoned Madam Pince, who approached wielding her feather duster.
“No shouting in the library!” Madam Pince stormed over fiercely.
“Your voice isn’t exactly quiet either,” Ron muttered, having clearly failed to gauge the situation in his groggy state.
“Out!
Leave this sacred library, immediately!” Following the direction pointed out by Madam Pince’s feather duster, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Linus—who had done absolutely nothing but was nevertheless dragged along by the ear by Hermione—were ousted from the library.
“What did you find, Hermione?” Harry asked on the way back to the castle.
“I found out who Nicolas Flamel is!
He’s a famous alchemist and opera lover, and he’s achieved remarkable success in alchemy with his partner, Albus Dumbledore.
He’s the only known creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, and he’s currently—oh my goodness,” Hermione gasped, covering her mouth as she read on, “six hundred and sixty-five years old.”
“What’s the Philosopher’s Stone?” Ron asked.
“How can anyone live that long?” Harry murmured, feeling a tinge of envy.
Hermione continued reading, “The Philosopher’s Stone possesses incredible magical properties.
It can turn any metal into pure gold and produces the Elixir of Life, making the drinker immortal.”
“A magnificent invention,” Linus remarked with sincere admiration.
The deeper he delved into the magical world, the more he came to appreciate its vastness and breadth.
Average folk who stood closest to the wizards at the top of the pyramid might still be separated from them by several stories.
I’d bet Flamel asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him.
He knows someone is after the Stone, and Hogwarts is far safer than Gringotts,” Hermione analyzed.
“You’re certainly making a bold guess,” Linus remarked, receiving an elbow to his ribs from Hermione without her even turning around.
“It can make gold and make you live forever.
Now I know why Snape wants to get his hands on it,” Harry said.
*Snape probably makes money faster than you think.
His potions lab is both a money pit and a printing press,* Linus thought, though he kept it to himself.
After encountering Quirrell the other day, he had sensed a faint whiff of danger.
For now, it was better to let the kids focus on Snape; confronting the final boss too early carried unforeseen risks.
The next day was the Quidditch match: Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, with Snape serving as referee.
This had Harry worried that he might be struck down mid-air by a jinx during the game.
Ron and Hermione had stepped up their practice on the Leg-Locker Curse so they could offer Harry crucial help if Snape tried anything dirty.
At the same time, they dragged Linus to the stands to watch—all to ensure Harry survived the match.
Linus arrived at the pitch lugging a thick stack of parchment.
Indeed, even though Fleur was gone, Zachary maintained the task given by Professor Flitwick to grade the Charms homework for years one through three.
He had discovered that amidst the young wizards’ varied essays, there were occasionally clever insights that even the authors hadn’t realized—innate magical intuition, a glowing revival of their ancestral wizarding bloodlines.
Even if it was just a fleeting spark of brilliance, it offered excellent directions for his research.
For instance, Neville’s essay on the Wand-Lighting Charm noted: *’I think it could be a bit brighter, like daylight, as if it weren’t glowing at all.’*
Ron had dismissed this as nonsensical rambling that even his grandmother wouldn’t write, but it inspired a bold idea in Linus: *If the light produced by a Wand-Lighting Charm can simulate natural ambient light, could it be used to mask the red or green flashes of offensive spells, making spellcasting in combat far more concealed?*
To that end, Linus had been constantly adjusting and testing his spell.
In fact, as he sat in the stands, a tiny orb of light hovered at his fingertip—an undetectable glow that blended seamlessly into the surrounding environment.
However, to make this faint light adapt to different weather conditions, environments, and lighting, while continuously enveloping an outgoing spell, Linus still had a long way to go.