Halloween was coming.
Hogwarts seemed to take this holiday rather seriously.
The moment Flins stepped out of the common room, he was greeted by the scent of roasted pumpkins, and festive decorations filled the surroundings.
Flins slowed his pace as he walked past the decorations.
The last time he had celebrated a holiday was during the Moon-Chasing Night in Nordkalai.
Although a major crisis had struck shortly after the festival, that trouble didn’t conflict with the holiday itself.
He still remembered those brief, bright moments, and he had never forgotten the frost of the past.
There was only one Transfiguration class that afternoon.
Draco had recently moved back to sit next to him; though there still weren’t many words exchanged between them, that posture alone was a statement.
The other Slytherin students had always been good at reading the wind.
Once Draco’s attitude softened, Blaise and Theodore quickly resumed their usual casual banter with Flins.
Flins didn’t say much about it.
As Transfiguration class ended, Professor McGonagall’s voice dropped evenly from the podium: “Mr.
Flins, please stay behind.”
Flins was in the midst of packing his books into his bag, his fingertips pausing for a beat.
He glanced sideways at Draco, who was also watching him.
A flash of complex emotion crossed the gray-eyed boy’s face, but that trace was quickly pressed away by a tightened mouth.
Draco said nothing.
He simply scooped up his school bag and stood up, walking toward the door with an inexplicably stubborn posture, his back vanishing into the doorway in a blink.
Flins pulled his gaze back, walked to the front of the podium, and stopped.
Professor McGonagall was sorting her graded essays into piles.
She looked up at him, her tone steady and direct:
“Mr.
Flins, I’ve noticed that you frequently zone out during my classes.
Do you have any issues with my teaching style?”
“No, Professor,” Flins shook his head slightly.
“Your lectures are wonderful—clear and accessible.”
“Good.”
Professor McGonagall set down the parchment in her hands, folding her palms together on the desk.
Her gaze fell onto his face.
“Ever since your enrollment, the other professors and I have been astonished by your talent.
Naturally, I am excluding your Potions class.”
The corners of her mouth twitched, serving as an unpractised joke.
Flins offered a cooperative, faint smile.
“You are a very talented wizard.
The essays you hand in all possess your own insights, even touching upon content usually reserved for senior years.”
Her tone remained even, but her expression grew more cautious.
“However, we’ve also noticed that you frequently read other books during class, or simply stare into space.
May I hear your thoughts on this?”
Flins was silent for a moment.
“Professor,” he began, his voice level and carrying a moderate degree of sincerity.
“I have essentially completed the self-study of first-year knowledge.
The books I read during class are mostly downward-extending supplementary readings.
Therefore, the regular coursework has limited utility for me at present.
As for the advanced materials from you and the other professors, I am fully able to comprehend them through Draco’s and Hermione’s notes.”
He paused, his voice dropping slightly:
“Of course, all of this is primarily because…
I am conducting a research project.
Consequently, I do not have much time to spend on material I have already mastered.”
While the statement sounded arrogant, it was nonetheless the absolute truth.
Ever since arriving in this world, his investigations into elemental energy and magic had never ceased.
In Teyvat, research faced too many restrictions, and any carelessness would draw the gaze of certain entities; here, it was different.
This world’s power system possessed its own rules, yet remained far looser than Teyvat’s.
If all went well, the discoveries made here might offer fresh perspectives on the rampages of the Wild Hunt, the nature of Abyss power, and even the Traveler’s mysterious constitution.
He thought of that land never far from calamity, and his eyelids drooped slightly before lifting once again.
Professor McGonagall’s gaze lingered on his pale face for a moment.
She naturally connected it to certain things—concerning that family, and those research directions of which she knew little, yet proved weighty enough to keep a professor cautious.
“Are you referring to those researches of your family…”
Her voice lowered, then trailed off, her expression turning grave.
Flins neither confirmed nor denied it.
Professor McGonagall was silent for a moment before nodding, her tone carrying a sense of proper boundaries:
“Very well.
Regarding the research directions of your family, we professors cannot offer you any assistance; that is not a domain we should interfere with.”
She paused, her tone returning to its habitual crispness:
“However, regarding your self-study progress for first-year coursework, I will administer an evaluation to you.
If you truly meet the standard, I will provide you with recommendations for advanced studies in Transfiguration.”
Flins gave a slight bow, the curve of his mouth deepening just a fraction: “Thank you, Professor.”
Professor McGonagall glanced at him, picked up the next sheet of parchment, and added flatly:
“I will mention it to the other instructors regarding your other subjects—excluding Potions, of course.”
“Albus, you didn’t tell me that child had actually taken up his family’s research.”
After Flins’s departure, Professor McGonagall stood alone in the headmaster’s office.
Her expression was severe, and her tone carried an involuntary, pressing edge of anxiety.
“Minerva, you must understand—Chudomirovich itself is not an ordinary name.
As for Kyryll, he has shouldered the expectations left by his predecessors since birth.
Even if he sits in a Hogwarts classroom now, that family’s path concerning soul and magic has never truly been severed,” Dumbledore said, picking up his teacup without drinking, simply looking down at the thin layer of rising heat on the surface of the tea.
“Those studies have always been watched.
The one in Nurmengard, the remnants of the Death Corps, the deceased Voldemort, and those Death Eaters who have never truly dispersed—they are all looking in that direction.
Even the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Mysteries cannot claim the innate talents possessed by that family.
Just how far they have advanced, or what they have discovered, no one knows.”
Professor McGonagall’s fingers tightened momentarily on the back of her chair before slowly loosening.
Dumbledore’s gaze drifted away from the teacup, falling onto the leaping flames of the hearth.
“I once met someone from that family years ago,” he said, his voice growing a shade lighter.
“It was during an autumn.
A young man suddenly appeared before me—he possessed an appearance and temperament strikingly similar to Kyryll’s.
The same paleness, the same bright yellow eyes, with that perpetual bruised shadow beneath them.
He told me his name was Flins.”
He paused, then continued: “And in the mythological legends of the Vind tribe, the name of Death itself is Flins.
This is also the first time that family appeared in the historical records of the public eye, bearing an appellation synonymous with death.”
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the bookshelves.
“So when I saw Kyryll at the Sorting ceremony, I almost thought that young man had returned.
If the ages hadn’t completely failed to match, I would have thought time had moved in a full circle, delivering the exact same person back to Hogwarts.”