Early the next morning, before the first beam of dawn at Hogwarts could shine through the waters of the Black Lake into the dormitory, Flins had already noticed the movement around him.
He waited until the rustling noises in the room grew louder before sliding out of his lamp, landing silently back onto the four-poster bed.
When he drew back the bed curtains, Draco was already fully dressed, enthusiastically stuffing a thick Potions textbook into his school bag.
Hearing the noise, Draco turned around and said with high spirits:
“You’re awake?
Hurry up and get ready; we’re heading to the Great Hall together.”
Flins nodded casually.
He found himself missing the fire-water of Snezhnaya; at least that could warm his soul.
On the other side of the room, Blaise was already dressed and ready.
Instead of hurrying out the door, he leaned against a bedpost.
Seeing Flins’s reaction, he narrowed his eyes, a teasing note in his voice:
“Young Master Malfoy, you can go find your two followers first, you know.
Our charming Mr.
Flins here—leave him to Nott and me.”
Draco glared at him at once:
“Blaise, assuming you know that I dislike you calling me that.”
He lowered his voice and muttered, “Besides, those two aren’t followers.
And they take eating far too seriously; they’re probably already in the Great Hall.”
“So,” Theodore Nott’s flat voice suddenly rang out from the corner, his pitch-black eyes looking over the top of his book at Draco, “the abandoned young Master Malfoy.”
“Theodore!” Draco’s voice rose a pitch.
“We grew up together; you can’t take Blaise’s side.”
“Two against one!” Blaise cheered softly.
He leaned in toward Flins—very close, yet stopping just shy of touching him, as if maintaining an exact social distance.
“Kyryll, you’re walking with us.”
Standing beside the bed, Flins looked at Draco’s puffed-up, annoyed face, then at Blaise’s curving almond eyes, and swept a glance over Theodore’s expressionless, dark pupils.
The corners of his mouth curved up, his tone calm: “Gentlemen, do carry on bickering.
Forget about me.”
The first lesson for the new students was Transfiguration, taught by the Head of Gryffindor House—Professor Minerva McGonagall.
From everything he saw the night before, Flins had long gathered that Slytherin got along quite poorly with Gryffindor.
Inside Slytherin, “Gryffindor” was practically used as an insult.
Surprisingly, however, the Slytherin students held a clear amount of respect for this Gryffindor Head of House.
Even Blaise, whose face had carried an easy smirk the whole time, sat up straight and proper.
Flins turned his head back slightly and asked a question under his breath.
Blaise leaned in, answering in a whisper:
“Don’t look at me like that, Kyryll.
An older girl warned me earlier.
Professor McGonagall is the strictest teacher in the whole school, and the amount of homework she gives is terrifying.
We’d better take this seriously.”
Right as he finished speaking, the witch on the platform, dressed in emerald-green robes with her hair pinned tightly in an orderly bun, spoke up:
“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts.”
“Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back.
You have been warned.”
Flins gave Blaise a look that said you were right.
Blaise raised an eyebrow without answering, opened his textbook, and began taking notes diligently.
The lesson material was certainly not simple, though with Flins’s ability to grasp things, it was hardly difficult either.
Professor McGonagall filled the blackboard with core theories, transformation formulas, and cautionary points.
Dense white chalk writing covered more than half the board.
Flins watched for a moment, then tilted his head to glance at Draco scribbling furiously beside him.
The young master’s quill flew across the parchment.
Flins looked down at his own completely blank notebook and thought to himself: My Duplication Charm seems to work quite well anyway.
He drifted off into a daze.
He spaced out for so long that Draco, unable to bear it any longer, nudged him with an elbow.
Flins blinked.
Just as his eyes drifted back to the front of the classroom, Professor McGonagall’s voice rang down in a measured tone:
“Next, you will try to turn this match into a needle.
Also, please turn in an essay on the fundamentals of Transfiguration for next class, no less than ten inches long.”
She turned her head slightly, her gaze landing squarely in Flins’s direction, and added flatly:
“Furthermore, I do not wish to see anyone daydreaming in my class.”
Several pairs of eyes in the classroom followed her gaze and turned toward Flins.
Flins sat upright, his expression as calm as if nothing had happened.
Resting his fingers on his wand, he picked it up without the slightest rush.
Beside him, Draco kept his head down, pretending to flip through his book, though a gloating smile pressed at the corners of his mouth.
The practical task of turning a match into a needle was hardly a challenge for Flins.
In fact, long before term started, he had already worked through every single spell taught in the textbooks.
He had not only learned them, but practiced them until they were second nature.
Lumine had even taught him quite a few fun little spells that were not in any book, calling them “little easter eggs for the vacation.”
Therefore, when the match on his desk turned into a gleaming silver needle with a smooth, rounded eye, it took him less than three minutes in total.
He set his wand down and looked up, meeting Draco’s irritated gray eyes head-on.
Draco stared at the perfect silver needle on Flins’s desk, then looked back at his own match, which only held a faint layer of silver shine.
His face looked rather sour:
“How did you do that?
Why has mine only changed color a little bit?”
Flins glanced down at Draco’s result.
The tip of the match already showed a faint metallic sheen; though it was only a tiny bit, it was not bad at all for a first-year student trying Transfiguration for the first time.
Flins blinked, putting on an appearance of deep thought, and said earnestly:
“My dear friend, I truly do not know how to tell you how I did it.”
The tone of those words was far too serious.
Draco stared at him for two seconds, his expression shifting from confusion to annoyance.
He could tell there was subtle teasing tucked inside that “earnestness.”
With a huff, Draco ducked his head and went right back to wrestling with his match.
From behind came Blaise’s clicking tongue.
He leaned over his desk:
“Made him mad again?”
He paused, his almond eyes curving.
“Honestly, you’re Draco’s absolute natural counter.
He always seems to take a hit whenever he’s around you.”
Flins turned his head to look at him, his eyes sweeping across Blaise’s desk, where a half-transformed match was also lying.
“Oh, really?” Flins tilted his chin toward Blaise’s match and added in a flat tone, “Do you require my assistance, Mr.
Zabini?”
Blaise immediately raised his hands above his head in surrender, his face full of dramatic mock horror:
“Keep your miraculous magic to yourself, Kyryll.
I don’t need you reviewing my work in that tone.”