The secrets of Hogwarts Castle, according to certain accounts, were not fully known even to those who had built it.
After an afternoon spent exploring, Elias had come to accept this as fact.
He had barely scratched the surface.
The hidden passages leading outside the school grounds would have to wait for another day.
Right now, he had a different destination in mind.
He stopped opposite the tapestry on the eighth floor.
Barnabas the Barmy stared down at him, frozen mid-flail as the trolls pummeled him with clubs.
The records were specific: concentrate on what you need, walk past this wall three times, and a door would appear.
The Room of Requirement.
The Come and Go Room.
Elias slipped his notebook into his pocket and began pacing.
I need a room to practice spells.
I need a room to practice spells.
Three passes.
A door materialized in the stone.
He pushed it open.
A vast circular platform stretched before him, ringed with rusted silver suits of armor.
They stood at attention like silent sentries, waiting.
Elias stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him.
Alone.
Good.
He raised his wand and aimed at the nearest suit.
“Stupefy.”
White light flared.
The spell sailed past the armor’s shoulder without grazing it.
Elias exhaled through his nose.
He adjusted his stance, corrected his aim, and fired again.
This time the stunner flew wide, clearing the helmet by a full handspan.
So.
Applying spells in actual combat was not as simple as the textbooks implied.
He wiped his wand with a handkerchief and stepped closer.
Two paces.
Close enough that missing would be embarrassing.
He aimed for the chest plate this time—a larger target, harder to miss.
The armor clattered to the ground.
Elias did not continue.
Instead, he turned and left the room, then re-entered using the same method.
The fallen suit was still on the floor.
It had not reset.
That meant the objects inside the Room of Requirement were intentionally placed, and without outside intervention, the room preserved its last configuration.
He tested the hypothesis.
A room for brewing potions.
A room for hiding things.
A room piled high with Galleons.
A room that only opened when someone needed exactly what he needed—specific enough that no one else would ever stumble into the same request.
Not a perfect lock, but close.
Most requests worked.
The potion-brewing room even contained new cauldrons, their copper bottoms gleaming.
No Galleons.
No potion ingredients.
The hiding room, however, was piled high with generations of student detritus—broken quills, faded textbooks, a stuffed owl missing one glass eye.
Proof that many had found this place before him, by accident or design.
It did not matter.
As long as he remained the only one who could enter his specific configuration, the room was his.
A secret base.
A place to sleep, eat, study, brew long-lasting potions.
He spent another hour in the training ground, drilling his aim until his arm ached.
Then he left for the Great Hall.
Dinner was nearly over.
Only a few stragglers remained at the long tables.
Hermione was absent from Gryffindor’s bench—probably already at her evening History of Magic class.
Elias found it darkly amusing that the school scheduled Professor Binns for the evening slot.
Were they worried the students might have trouble sleeping otherwise?
He ate quickly and returned to the dormitory.
Three heads at the door.
He startled, then remembered.
Right.
He had three people tied up in his room.
Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle lay on their sides, bodies bent like bows, faces pale as parchment.
When Elias entered, they whimpered.
Tears welled in Malfoy’s eyes.
Elias flicked his wand.
The cloths stuffed into their mouths transformed back into quills and clattered to the floor.
Malfoy’s voice came out hoarse and cracking.
“I was wrong… I was wrong… please let me go… I can’t hold it in anymore…”
Can’t hold what in?
Elias had been prepared to dispense some philosophical wisdom, but then he did the math.
Five hours.
He had been binding them for five hours.
He transformed the ropes back into snakes without another word.
They slithered away into the shadows.
The three boys struggled upright, limbs numb and uncooperative.
Elias moved to help, but Malfoy flinched back with wide, terrified eyes.
Elias wisely retreated several paces.
His primary concern was startling them into urinating.
In the dormitory.
The thought alone disgusted him—he was particular about cleanliness.
They shuffled toward the washroom, supporting each other, moving with agonizing slowness.
As they passed Elias, none of them dared look at him.
They were afraid he would stop them.
Afraid he would make them embarrass themselves completely.
Elias sighed inwardly.
He was a model student.
He would not do something so reckless.
Otherwise, the three of them would be finished at this academy.
Lying on that cold floor, he had already decided: if he lost control, he would beg his father to transfer him to Durmstrang.
Anywhere but here.
Elias waited.
They did not return.
Probably too frightened to face him.
He gathered the potion-making supplies he had purchased and set off for the Room of Requirement.
He was not worried about the three reporting him.
Malfoy was the leader of their little gang—born into wizarding privilege, armored in arrogance.
He cared about his image.
Elias did not believe Malfoy would willingly complain to a professor about being outmaneuvered by his roommates in such a humiliating fashion.
And if he did?
Well.
He could argue about it later.
The real problem was his Potions skill.
It was increasing the slowest.
Brewing potions consumed hours, and he could only manage two attempts per day while still keeping up with his spell practice.
Perhaps he needed to attempt higher-level potions.
That might accelerate his growth.
But that raised another problem.
The rarer and more advanced the ingredients, the more expensive they became.
And Elias had no money.
Take the simplest boil-curing potion.
Eight ingredients: dried nettles, snake fangs, slugs, porcupine quills.
Each cost between ten Knuts and one Sickle.
The total for a single attempt came to roughly five Sickles.
But potion-making was not simply following instructions.
Ingredient preparation, timing, stirring technique, temperature control—all of it affected the final product.
He had brewed that one potion ten times at home before he was satisfied.
Three Galleons spent on a single recipe.
Over the summer, he had repeatedly practiced six potions: forgetfulness potion, weed killer, sleeping draught.
Nearly fifty Galleons’ worth of ingredients consumed in one month.
At this rate, he would run out of funds before he mastered even the basic recipes in the textbook.
I need to figure out how to make money.
The thought circled back, insistent and unsatisfied.
ORIGINAL SIN STATUS
Pride [91/120]
Wrath [64/120]
Sloth [110/120]
Greed [90→91/120]
Envy [34/120]
Gluttony [52/120]
Lust [95/120]
This story don’t stop here, y’all.
It never did, not once.
More chapters breathing and waiting right beyond this page like a river that just keeps on running.
Don’t you leave curiosity unanswered, folks.
That ain’t right.