Man of Archives

The conflict between the wizards didn’t affect Malfoy and Longbottom much, despite what seemed to be a deadly duel right in front of them. It was simple—Madam Pomfrey had given both first-years some potions, ensuring they’d wake up the next morning feeling refreshed, without dwelling too much on the previous evening’s events. Well, perhaps that’s not entirely accurate. They did remember what had happened in the forest, but the memories weren’t as vivid as they could’ve been.

 

In the Headmaster’s office, however, a serious conversation was taking place. After all, the appearance of such a creature in the forest near the school was neither normal nor safe for the students.

 

"So, Mr. Jody, could you remind me which spells you used?" asked the Headmaster, frowning as he returned from the Pensieve. The Pensieve is a top-tier magical artifact that can only be created by Archmages of Transfiguration with advanced knowledge of both spells and potions. It’s tailored for a specific person and works fully only for that person. Of course, it can be adjusted to allow access to third parties, but that’s uncommon, requiring great skill in Transfiguration. Such skills are usually only found in masters or higher.

 

"Protego," I told him. "Then an extensive Transfiguration and a fire-repelling spell."

 

"Hmm," murmured the wizard.

 

Snape, who was also seated at the table, didn’t look pleased. He was upset because a certain student had been in danger. If word got out, he’d have to take the heat for it. This student was, of course, Malfoy—since Snape was Draco’s godfather.

 

"Indeed," Snape nodded. "I’d like to commend you on your level of spellwork. If not for you, the outcome could’ve been very different."

 

I acknowledged his praise with a nod, waiting for what he’d say next.

 

"Alright, Severus, you saw the battle as well," said the most powerful wizard in England. "What can you say?"

 

"High level of preparedness," Snape answered immediately.

 

"And did anything seem familiar to you?" Dumbledore inquired.

 

Snape pondered for a few seconds.

 

"Yes, it did," he confirmed, validating some of Dumbledore’s thoughts.

 

"And what do you think?"

 

"It wasn’t him," Snape replied. "I’ve seen him use the same spell before. Perhaps it was someone from his Inner Circle. Or someone who’s learned the spell."

 

"I don’t believe in such coincidences," the Headmaster said, drumming his fingers on his armrest. "What about you, Minerva?"

 

"It wasn’t him," she echoed. It seemed the Gryffindor Head also knew whom they were talking about.

 

If you consider the knowledge of recent magical history, only one person fits this description—the Dark Lord Voldemort. But Potter had killed him… or had that monster found a way to return to life? In the magical world, nothing is impossible, except unexplored fields or a lack of magical power.

 

I couldn’t give an expert opinion on this since I had never encountered the Dark Lord. Overall, nothing of personal interest to me.

 

"We need to be careful," the Headmaster finally said, just as his phoenix flared, bathing the room in a red, fiery glow. "Fawkes, behave."

 

"Coo-coo-coo," the phoenix responded. For a second, it seemed as though the bird was mocking Dumbledore. No one acknowledged it.

 

With nothing else to discuss, Dumbledore dismissed us all.

 

"Mr. Jody," Snape addressed me. "You demonstrated an admirable level of skill. I’d like to invite you to a small master class with me."

 

"Thank you, Professor Snape," I nodded, feeling my heart leap slightly. A master class with Snape was priceless. "When should I come?"

 

"The day after tomorrow, at four in the afternoon," he replied.

 

I returned to the common room and immersed myself in books again. These days, I’d pick a subject and load up on all the related books in succession, leaving the analysis for later. I absorbed everything I could get my hands on, though occasionally I missed important parts because a book might have an unrelated title—like a Potions book called The Eggplant Game or The Duck That Walked on Three Legs.

 

The master class with Snape was incredibly useful for my skills. He personally worked with me on various potions—not particularly complex ones—explaining why things worked a certain way and showing me his personal improvements to the brewing process. Even those eight hours of training under his guidance had a positive impact on my abilities.

 

The next projects under the guidance of the Slytherin Head were more successful and efficient. This immediately reflected in the grades I received. Not that grades were important to me at this stage, but I didn’t show that in any way.

 

Potter, Weasley, and Granger were up to something again, conducting their own little investigation. From their discussions, I gathered they thought the Philosopher's Stone was hidden somewhere in Hogwarts. This intrigued me... I didn’t think it was true, but still. They also believed Snape was planning to steal it. That made me laugh—if anyone wouldn’t try to steal the Stone, it was Snape. Too much trouble. But could that maniac from the forest be after it? Now that was an interesting question for which I had no answer.

 

Classes were over for us, as well as for the rest of the students, because everyone was preparing for exams. The seventh-years, in particular, were getting ready for their NEWTs.

 

On the evening of June 4th, I was sitting in a chair, finishing my practical assignment on Runes for the NEWTs. To avoid being disturbed, I cast a spell to conceal myself and the chair from view. I saw Longbottom looking around in confusion, as if he were searching for something.

 

Then I spotted Potter, Granger, and Weasley sneaking out.

 

"Hey, have you seen my toad?" Neville asked nervously. "I think I lost it again."

 

"Neville, go to bed," Hermione replied. "I’m sure your toad will show up tomorrow."

 

"Probably," the boy agreed. "Are you sneaking out at night? You’ll get caught by a professor, and the house will lose points again."

 

"Shush," Weasley whispered.

 

"I don’t want us to lose points," Longbottom said, reaching for his wand.

 

But Hermione was quicker.

 

"Petrificus Totalus."

 

The body-bind curse hit Longbottom, and he collapsed to the floor like a plank. Dangerous, to be honest. I’d need to check if he was alright later. Then I saw Potter and his friends disappear under an Invisibility Cloak. Not just any cloak—it was so perfect I could no longer sense them. It was as if they weren’t there at all. That was strange.

 

They quickly made their way out. I got up from my chair and hurried over to Neville. I lifted the curse, and he returned to normal.

 

"Mr. Jody," he said, slightly startled.

 

"Don’t worry, kid. I’ll keep an eye on them," I told him calmly. "Go to bed."

 

"What about my toad?"

 

"You’ll find it tomorrow."

 

"I believe you."

 

I quickly followed the invisible trio. They had an excellent cloak, but they forgot that they still had feet, and it was Weasley who gave them away, stomping like an elephant.

 

Following them wasn’t particularly hard. They headed to the third-floor, forbidden corridor. They hesitated briefly, then made their way to the door at the end of the hall. If I’m not mistaken, that door leads to a room with a passage to one of the dungeons, where students used to practice heavy-duty spells.

 

They slipped through the door, and I followed. Inside, there was a massive Cerberus. The giant, three-headed dog looked around angrily, glaring especially at a harp set off to the side. Then, from beneath the cloak, someone began playing a flute, which swiftly put the Cerberus to sleep. It looked like they knew what kind of creature was guarding the passage and had come well-prepared.

 

Once the three-headed monster finally fell asleep, they threw off the cloak. Potter immediately tucked it into his pocket—a good move. It would be bad if someone else found it. The Boy Who Lived wasn’t afraid to push the Cerberus’ paw aside and open a trapdoor I hadn’t noticed before.

 

He opened it and looked at his friends. They nodded back. Potter jumped in first, followed by Weasley.

 

"It’s soft—argh!" Weasley exclaimed.

 

Hermione jumped down after them and immediately sprang off the plant. Because that’s what it was—I was certain. I saw how the plant slowly wrapped around the boys, trying to slither into their pants.

 

"Devil’s Snare!" the girl exclaimed, concentrating so hard that wrinkles lined her forehead. "It loves darkness and damp!"

 

"Fire!" Potter shouted, as the plant silenced him by wrapping around his mouth. "I need fire!"

 

"Right!" Hermione cried. "Magico Ignis!"

 

With a flick of her wand, she cast the second-year spell, Magical Fire. A useful charm for warmth and light, it has almost no combat potential, as it can’t burn anything. But against Devil’s Snare, it works perfectly.

 

The fire instantly brightened the area. The plant recoiled quickly, releasing its grip on the boys. They fell and tried to crawl away. In truth, the Snare should have already killed them, since it’s a dangerous plant that likes to strangle its prey quickly and digest it slowly. It seemed someone had already weakened it.

 

I descended too, still unnoticed. The concealment charm continued to work excellently.

 

I caught up with them just as they reached the next challenge—a room filled with flying keys. The three of them grabbed broomsticks and began chasing the enchanted keys. Predictably, Potter was the one to catch the correct key. They unlocked the door and moved on, while I slipped through behind them.

 

The next room was a giant chessboard, with human-sized pieces towering over them. The smashed remains of broken figures in the corners suggested previous battles. This room clearly bore the marks of both McGonagall and Dumbledore’s handiwork. Here, there were two ways to win: either play the game or brute-force through it. Whoever had gone before Potter had chosen brute force. The first-years, however, chose to play the game.

 

The game was fast but tense, full of drama. Ron Weasley, of all people, took command of the pieces and sacrificed himself to win. The White Queen struck him down, leaving him unconscious with broken legs. After that, victory came in two moves, and the path to the next challenge opened.

 

Potter and Hermione rushed to Ron, but he managed to weakly urge them on.

 

"Go on without me. I’ll be fine."

 

He seemed to recover somewhat, though the pain from his broken legs was clearly still bothering him. The Gryffindors didn’t notice the extent of his injuries and pressed forward. I, however, cast a sleeping spell on Weasley and healed him just enough to ensure he wouldn’t die lying there alone.

 

The next chamber housed a troll—a dead one. Not the same troll I fought during Halloween last year, but someone had already dispatched this one, and quite efficiently at that. It was as if someone had killed it with brutal precision, leaving it sprawled on the floor as though in deep slumber.

 

Potter’s luck continued to astound me. For some reason, I was certain he was the one leading this little "crusade." But what awaited them next was far more cunning and dangerous. I was sure Snape had designed this particular trap.

 

It was becoming increasingly clear that this entire series of obstacles had been designed to stop someone. But who? Could it be that the maniac in the forest was connected to all this? With each room they passed, I grew more certain of this. Which meant that whatever was at the end of these challenges must be something of immense value, worth all the effort and risk. The only thing that came to mind was the Philosopher’s Stone. But I couldn’t believe that Nicolas Flamel had entrusted his source of immortality and wealth to Dumbledore for safekeeping. It just didn’t seem plausible.

 

Hermione quickly solved the riddle in the next room and handed Potter a vial of potion that would allow him to proceed. This girl had saved Potter’s life twice now—first, in the Devil’s Snare, and now by ensuring he drank the right potion.

 

The second vial, which Hermione drank, put her into a deep sleep. When I reached the invisible line where the fire blocked the path forward, I stopped. How could I get through? The potion that allowed passage was gone. Thinking quickly, I began rifling through my mental archive of spells, searching for something that might get me past this magical barrier. The only option I could think of was Animagus transformation.

 

Without much further thought, I turned into a bird. I hopped, flapping my wings, and in a split second, I was on the other side. The potion trap didn’t affect me. Excellent. Just perfect!

 

The next room was the last. What was happening inside was strange, to say the least. Potter was bound by ropes, standing in front of a large, beautiful mirror that radiated magic. But it wasn’t the mirror that caught my attention. It was the man standing near it—Quirrell. I hadn’t expected him. Definitely not him.

 

It seemed they were already deep into their conversation.

 

"Use the boy," a familiar voice hissed. Then, more impatiently, "Use the boy!"

 

Quirrell turned to face Potter. The boy grimaced in pain.

 

"Alright, Potter, come here," Quirrell commanded, clapping his hands. The ropes binding Potter fell to the floor. "I said, come here."

 

Potter obeyed.

 

"What do you see in the mirror?" the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor asked, his voice laced with irritation. "Tell me, what do you see? Speak!"

 

I noticed the pocket of Quirrell’s robe sag ever so slightly. If I hadn’t been watching so closely, I wouldn’t have noticed.

 

"Well?" Quirrell demanded impatiently. "What do you see?"

 

"I see myself... shaking hands with Dumbledore," Potter lied, though it was obvious to anyone that he wasn’t a good liar. "I won the House Cup for Gryffindor."

 

"Step aside!"

 

Potter didn’t need to be told twice, but as he moved, the same hissing voice rang out again:

 

"He's lying!"

 

"Potter!" Quirrell snapped.

 

"Let me speak with him," the voice hissed again. "I want him to see my face."

 

"But, Master," Quirrell said, trembling with fear and deference. "You are not strong enough yet."

 

"I am strong enough," the voice insisted.

 

Quirrell began to unwrap his turban, casting it aside completely. What I saw next chilled me to the bone. Instead of the back of Quirrell’s head, there was a hideous face—serpentine, with blood-red eyes.

 

"Harry Potter," the face hissed. "Do you see what I have become? I am now but a shadow of my former self. Only by inhabiting another's body can I take form."

 

So, this was possession by a dark spirit. Poor Quirrell.

 

"There is always someone willing to let me in," the creature continued. "Unicorn blood made me stronger. My faithful servant, Quirrell, drank it for me, and if it hadn’t been for that wretched Jody, I’d be even stronger now. Oh, how I will enjoy his screams. I will use every dark curse I know."

 

A shiver ran down my spine. I had no desire to become the target of a deranged dark wizard.

 

"Once I possess the Philosopher’s Stone, I will brew the Elixir of Life… I will finally have my own body again. After so many years. Why not give me the Stone, Potter? I know... you have it."

 

Potter tried to back away.

 

"Don’t be a fool," the face hissed. "Join me, or meet the same fate as your parents. Oh, how they begged for mercy. How your mother screamed as I tortured her. Such sweet screams! They begged for life, but they were fools."

 

Quirrell began to move toward Potter, walking backward so the face on the back of his head could speak.

 

"You're lying!" Potter screamed, his voice nearly breaking with emotion.

 

"How touching," the face drawled. "I will kill you, and then all your friends. Oh, how I will savor their screams! Or, you could simply hand me the Stone, and I will elevate you. I will grant you and your friends knowledge beyond your wildest dreams. The world will be at your feet."

 

"I won’t!" Potter yelled again, trying to drown out his fear with his voice. He bolted, attempting to escape.

 

"Don’t let him get away!"

 

Quirrell lunged at Potter. I almost stepped in, knowing full well that a first-year wouldn’t stand a chance against Quirrell. But then something incredible happened. The Defense professor—well, former professor now—grabbed Potter.

 

Both Potter and Quirrell screamed in pain, but it wasn’t just Potter. Quirrell let out a blood-curdling scream as if he were being burned alive. He instinctively pushed Potter away and collapsed. His hands were covered in massive, red blisters that began to char at the edges. I had never seen a curse like this before. The skin was peeling away, exposing bone beneath.

 

"Kill him!" the face shrieked.

 

Quirrell reached for his wand, but Potter didn’t hesitate. He lunged at Quirrell and punched him in the face. The blow landed perfectly.

 

"Kill him!" the face screamed again.

 

"Die!" Potter shouted, gripping Quirrell's throat, staring him straight in the face.

 

"Die! Die! Die!" the first-year screamed, not letting go of the professor’s neck.

 

Quirrell tried to cast something, but the pain and his mangled hands prevented him from doing anything effective. Although luck briefly smiled on him—he somehow managed to dislodge Potter’s hand. But the boy wasn’t done. He grabbed Quirrell’s face with his palm, pressing his fingers into the professor’s eyes.

 

"Die!"

 

"Argh!" Quirrell howled in agony.

 

"Kyahhh!" shrieked the face on the back of his head.

 

"Dieee!" Potter roared again.

 

I noticed blood beginning to trickle from Quirrell’s eye sockets. It looked like Potter was about to take his first life—not just kill, but strangle someone to death.

 

He returned his hands to Quirrell’s throat and resumed choking him. I had no idea where the boy was getting this strength, but I knew I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it. He was no longer shouting, just growling like a wild beast.

 

And then Quirrell went limp, and I could feel the life leave his body. Potter slowly withdrew his hands.

 

"Hahaha!" Potter began laughing wildly. "Hahahaha!"

 

He tried to stand, but his legs gave way, and he collapsed beside Quirrell, completely drained. His body gave out as the strain and shock overtook him. He fell into unconsciousness, his breathing shallow but steady. This was my moment.

 

Without wasting any time, I moved toward Potter, keeping my wand at the ready. Carefully, I lifted the edge of his cloak and reached into his pocket. A swift Transfiguration spell, and there it was—the Philosopher’s Stone. It glowed faintly, emitting a subtle warmth, and the aura around it practically screamed of ancient, powerful magic. The soft light, the unmistakable feeling of immortality and death intertwined—it was indeed the real thing.

 

“Mister Jody,” came a voice from behind me.

 

I turned to find Dumbledore standing there, looking as calm and collected as ever, though there was a certain gravity to his gaze. He appeared battle-ready, his presence powerful and commanding.

 

“Good evening, Headmaster,” I greeted him as casually as I could.

 

“What are you doing here?” Dumbledore asked, though he had already stowed his wand away. I had no doubt he could draw it just as quickly if the need arose.

 

“Well, Potter and his friends decided to sneak around the school and play detectives,” I explained, nodding toward Quirrell’s lifeless body and the unconscious Potter. “And here we are.”

 

"Did you do this?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes flicking to Quirrell’s body.

 

“Quirrell?” I asked, feigning surprise. “No, that was all Potter. I didn’t expect such ferocity from a first-year, to be honest.”

 

“I see,” Dumbledore nodded, his expression thoughtful. “What you witnessed was an example of magic of the highest order.”

 

As he spoke, he moved toward Potter, his movements smooth and deliberate. I barely had time to register his quick work—his wand appeared in his hand almost too fast for me to notice as he began casting spells over the boy.

 

“When Voldemort came to kill him, Lily Potter sacrificed her life to protect her child,” Dumbledore continued, focusing on his magic. “It’s a kind of magic few are capable of. But she managed it.”

 

“I understand,” I nodded. I had read about this type of ancient magic—self-sacrifice, the purest form of protection.

 

“What were you planning to do with the Philosopher’s Stone?” Dumbledore asked abruptly, once he was satisfied with Potter’s condition.

 

I hesitated for a moment, then responded, “Is it the real thing? Or a decoy?”

 

“It is no decoy,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Nicolas Flamel has finally decided to end his life and entrusted the Stone to me for destruction.”

 

I paused, considering the enormity of that statement. “I would like to study it,” I said calmly. “It is, after all, the legendary Philosopher’s Stone.”

 

Dumbledore studied me for a long moment, then nodded slightly. “Very well. Here’s what we shall do. I will allow you to study it for four years. After that, you will return it to me, and it will be destroyed.”

 

“You’re allowing me to study the Philosopher’s Stone?” I asked, barely able to contain my surprise. I had expected him to outright refuse.

 

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded again, a small smile forming on his face. “I suspect I know why you want to study it, Mr. Jody. I was much like you once.”

 

“Thank you, Headmaster,” I said, bowing my head slightly out of respect. I quickly wrapped the Stone in a cloth and tucked it safely away in my pocket. No one could know I had it—not even think about it too much. It was far too valuable, far too dangerous.

 

“Good luck with your studies, and your NEWTs,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle, before clapping his hands. In a flash of fiery light, he disappeared, taking Potter and Quirrell’s body with him.

 

I stood there for a moment, alone in the now eerily quiet chamber. The Philosopher’s Stone—the most valuable object in the magical world—was in my possession. My mind began racing with possibilities. There were rituals I could perform, enchantments I could weave. With the Stone, I could do almost anything.

 

Returning to the Gryffindor common room, I immediately stored the Stone in a secret compartment in my bag and began casting protective charms over it. I only had a few hours before morning, but even that would be enough to keep out any curious students or house-elves. For now, the Stone was safe.

 

The following morning, the entire castle buzzed with excitement as the NEWTs began. The exams were conducted by Ministry officials and representatives from various guilds. I was fortunate that I didn’t have to sit the Transfiguration exam—I had already completed that—but I still poured all my energy into the rest of the subjects, demonstrating my advanced spellwork. My performance was strong, showcasing nearly all of my abilities. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, the NEWTs were especially challenging, though Dumbledore had announced that Professor Quirrell had fallen ill with a magical disease, a story supported by Madam Pomfrey. No one questioned it further.

 

The results of the NEWTs were posted the following week. My scores were excellent across the board, as I had expected. However, receiving the official diploma would take some time, as it needed to be signed by the Minister of Magic. With that, I could apply to any guild and earn my official apprenticeship rings.

 

Can Hogwarts graduates be considered mature wizards? Yes. Most wizards never achieve even this level of education. This year’s graduating class was particularly small, a consequence of a foolish law passed by Fudge a few years ago to demonstrate his supposed authority. Thankfully, the law had been quickly repealed.

 

Were the NEWTs difficult? For me, not at all. Nothing compares to achieving mastery in even one discipline of magic. Earning mastery in multiple subjects? That’s the kind of achievement that promises a future of great power and influence.

 

After the NEWTs were over, the seventh-years finally exhaled and enjoyed a bit of rest before heading home to prepare for the next stages of their lives.

 

“So, what are your plans, Timothy?” Izolda asked as we sat under a small tree by the lake. The water was calm and peaceful, and nearby, Nymphadora looked at me curiously.

 

“I’m going to continue studying,” I said confidently. “I might even get a Muggle education.”

 

“Muggle education?” Izolda sounded surprised

 

Yes, it’s almost unheard of for wizards who graduate from Hogwarts to pursue non-magical education. Most see no point in it. But I believe Muggles have some fascinating theories and ideas that I might be able to apply to magic. It’s intriguing.

 

“Yes,” I nodded. “I’ll check it out, see how things work there, and then make my decision.”

 

“And if there’s nothing interesting?” Izolda asked, tilting her head.

 

“Then I’ll travel the world,” I replied with a shrug.

 

“A classic plan,” she smirked.

 

World travel is a popular pastime for Hogwarts graduates before they settle into serious magical careers. Sometimes, students even travel in small groups because it’s more fun and safer that way.

 

“What about you?” I asked in return.

 

A gentle breeze blew through, lifting the girls’ hair in the wind. It was a beautiful sight.

 

“I’m going to continue my studies,” Izolda said with a grin. “My plan hasn’t changed.”

 

“And Dorsani?” I asked, referring to Izolda’s servant.

 

“She’ll undergo maid training,” Izolda replied immediately. “She’ll learn all the skills she needs for her duties.”

 

“Understood,” I nodded. “And you, Nymphadora?”

 

“I’ve already been accepted into the Auror Academy,” she said simply. “So, no big decisions for me—two years of training, then fieldwork, and then full employment.”

 

It was true—various departments and ministries had approached graduates they considered promising, offering them positions. Some departments, like the Auror Office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, were extremely popular, while others, like the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures or the Sports Department, held less interest. Then there was the Tithe Department, essentially the magical tax office, which took a ten percent cut from everything a wizard made or sold.

 

Saint Mungo’s Hospital also recruited new wizards, though in much smaller numbers, as it was difficult to get in. Either you had the right connections, or you possessed exceptional knowledge. I had been invited to every department, guild, and organization possible. Excelling in every subject was something any student could be proud of. But I wasn’t in a rush to accept any offers just yet. These opportunities, while excellent, came with certain obligations, and I didn’t want that right now. I didn’t reject them outright but said I needed time to think.

 

“Well, at least your futures are all sorted out,” I teased them. “Meanwhile, I’m still figuring things out and looking for options.”

 

“And this is coming from someone with mastery in eighteen subjects,” Izolda laughed lightly. “Unbelievable.”

 

I raised my hands in surrender. She had a point.

 

“Will we still see each other?” Nymphadora asked suddenly, her tone carrying a hint of uncertainty and nervousness.

 

“Probably,” I replied thoughtfully. “But once we step off the Hogwarts Express, we’ll all begin new lives, with new adventures. Who knows where our paths will take us…”

 

For a while, silence fell between us.

 

“Well, let’s not get gloomy,” I said, breaking the somber mood. “You’ll always be able to reach me.

 

I pulled out three charmed mirrors. Each of the girls received one. Izolda didn’t mind that Dorsani got one as well, though I didn’t really ask. The servant girl seemed surprised and deeply touched by the gesture. Her face flushed red with gratitude, and she cast her eyes down shyly, which was strangely charming.

 

“Thank you,” Nymphadora beamed, a wide smile spreading across her face. “This is exactly what we need. Now we can stay in touch for sure.”

 

“Exactly,” I nodded. “If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll do what I can.”

 

“I’m really grateful,” Izolda finally said with a sigh of relief, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

 

After that, we returned to Hogwarts to sort everything out before our departure. All bags were packed, and I loaded the last of the books into my magical Archive. I figured it would take a month of analysis to get through them all, during which I’d probably feel pretty awful. But the price of knowledge was always worth it.

 

The farewell feast in the Great Hall felt festive. Students were talking among themselves, sharing their plans for the summer. Some were making arrangements with friends, while others were excitedly discussing what they would do on their own. Slytherin was especially jubilant, knowing they would be announced as the winners of the House Cup and take the School Cup home. They had the highest point total by far. Gryffindor was trailing somewhere near the bottom.

 

I spotted Potter as he entered the hall with a bandaged arm. Rumors circulated that he had had a nasty fall and injured his hand. Neither Ron Weasley nor Hermione Granger made any effort to dispel those rumors, likely understanding that it worked in Potter’s favor.

 

He was smiling pleasantly, but I knew better. Behind that smile lay a much darker truth. Somewhere deep inside him, that aggressive boy who had been ready to strangle his mortal enemy was still there, waiting to resurface. Quirrell could attest to that.

 

Izolda and Dorsani were absent from the table. Izolda had chosen not to attend the feast, preferring to take care of her own affairs. Sitting alone at the table felt boring, and I had no interest in making small talk with the sixth-year students, who would return to Hogwarts in the fall to fill our places.

 

I left the table and wandered the empty corridors of the castle. The portraits on the walls were still moving, and the occasional ghost floated by, carefully avoiding me. Birds flew in and out through the open windows on their mysterious errands.

 

Looking out of a window, I saw the lake, calm and undisturbed, with something splashing near the shore. I continued on to the highest tower with a view of the entire grounds. The sun was slowly setting, painting the sky in deep reds and oranges. A warm breeze whispered of summer and the heat that would soon follow. I smirked at the thought, gazing out towards the Forbidden Forest. At the edge, I noticed a lone centaur, staring up at the sky. Sensing my gaze, the creature reared up on its hind legs before galloping back into the trees.

 

It had been two full years since I arrived in this world. In that time, I had made incredible progress. I had grown exponentially stronger, absorbing the power of those I had killed, mastering countless spells, and honing my skills. But even now, I felt it wasn’t enough. I needed to keep pushing forward.

 

My next big goal would be achieving mastery in one of the magical disciplines. Becoming a Master required discovering a new area of magic or advancing an existing one to new heights. After that, if I could gather enough power and knowledge, I might aim to become an Archmage. My smaller, immediate goal would be to master Charms, and possibly another subject after that. I wasn’t sure yet, but Charms would be my primary focus for now.

 

Izolda didn’t know about this, and I didn’t plan on telling her. Let her focus on her studies without worrying about me. She didn’t need to know that I was planning to surpass her in mastering magic. Though, I was certain I would do it much faster. I wondered how quickly… In less than two years, I had become a Master of Transfiguration. I figured I could achieve mastery in Charms in another two years. It would be amusing.

 

As I descended the tower, I paused by the hourglasses that tracked each house’s points. Somehow, Gryffindor had overtaken Slytherin by a few points, making us the winners of the House Cup. Interesting. I touched my wand to the numbers, waiting for the list to appear, and was surprised to see that Potter, Weasley, Hermione, and even Neville had recently received a large number of points, awarded by Dumbledore himself. How curious... what for, I wondered?

 

I was certain that next year, this would lead to even fiercer competition with Slytherin. They’d been robbed of their victory, and they knew exactly who the thieves were. It would be fun to watch.

 

***

Dumbledore sat in his office, studying the image of one of his now former students. Several smaller pictures lay beside it. Fawkes, his loyal phoenix, perched on his shoulder, also gazing at the images.

 

“Kurrrr,” the bird cooed softly.

 

“You think I did the right thing, giving him the Philosopher’s Stone?” the old wizard asked his companion.

 

“Kurr-kur-kurrrr,” Fawkes replied, as if fully understanding.

 

“I agree,” Dumbledore nodded. “I believe it will be beneficial to him.”

 

“Kurr?”

 

“You think I should take him on as a personal apprentice?” Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. It wasn’t something he had expected from his legendary bird.

 

“Kurr,” the phoenix shook its head.

 

“I don’t understand,” Dumbledore sighed. “Can’t you speak plainly?”

 

“Kuuuur,” the phoenix replied, sounding a bit offended, and it flew to its perch, turning its back on the wizard.

 

“Alright, alright,” Dumbledore chuckled, pulling out a jar of sweets. A moment later, a cup of hot tea appeared on his desk. House-elves always worked their magic, even when you didn’t ask them to. “I agree with you, though. He must find his own path. The key is not to interfere.”

 

The Headmaster set the picture aside, adding a few more female portraits to the pile. Dumbledore would never admit to anyone—under any circumstances—that he kept detailed images of all the important wizards and witches in England, along with some personal information. He had them all categorized by their attitudes toward him: positive, neutral, and negative. The group with negative attitudes was the largest, but that was to be expected. A man in his position couldn’t have a shortage of enemies or opponents.

 

After putting the photos away in a secret compartment, Dumbledore pulled out a set of tools for polishing his wand. With a delicate touch and something akin to affection, he began to meticulously clean and polish the wand’s surface.

 

"Ahh. That’s better."