Chapter 66: The Competition - Part 2
The allotted time was up.
The nine judges stood up from the faculty table and dispersed to the various workstations. The one responsible for evaluating Rhys was a middle-aged female Professorwith brown hair tied in a bun at the back of her head, wearing silver-rimmed glasses. She walked over to Rhys's workstation, picked up the bracer, and examined it thoroughly, turning it over and over.
"May I test it?" she asked.
"Yes," Rhys said.
The Professor placed the bracer on the testing stand—a metal frame embedded with several gemstones of different colors. She asked Rhys to step back a few paces, then raised her wand, aimed at the bracer, and cast "Stupefy." A beam of red light shot from the tip of her wand and struck the surface of the bracer. The gold foil patterns on the surface of the bracer flashed, and the red light was deflected, veering off at an angle and hitting the stand next to it; the stand wobbled but did not fall.
The Professor wrote a line on the scorecard. Then she switched to another spell—"Petrificus Totalus." A grey beam struck the bracer, and the serpent totem on the bracer lit up. The beam did not bounce off, but instead returned along its original path. The Professor reacted quickly, sidestepping the reflected Petrificus Totalus, and the beam hit the wall behind her, instantly creating a patch of grey stone on the wall surface.
The Professor turned around, looked at the patch of stone, then at the bracer in her hand, and wrote another line on the scorecard. She placed the bracer back on the workstation, took off her glasses to wipe the lenses, put them back on, and looked at Rhys.
"The reflection effect is not one hundred percent; it depends on the strength of the caster's spell," Rhys said. "But if the opponent is not an exceptionally powerful Wizard, this bracer can reflect a Petrificus Totaluscompletely."
The Professor nodded, said nothing more, and walked back to the faculty table with the scorecard. The nine Professors gathered together and whispered for over ten minutes. The students in the Great Hall waited quietly; some nervously rubbed their fingers, some lowered their heads to inspect their own work, and some had already given up, leaning back in their chairs and staring blankly. Fleur stood beside her workstation; her expression was calm, but her fingers were tapping lightly on the edge of the workstation.
Madame Maxime stood up. The Great Hall immediately fell silent.
"The results are in." She held a piece of parchment, unfolded it, and read aloud.
"Craftsmanship and Design—Contestant Number Twenty, nineteen points. Contestant Number Nineteen, eighteen points. Contestant Number Seven, seventeen points..." She read them off one by one, pausing when she reached Rhys, "Contestant Number Three—Polaris Black, twenty points."
A low murmur of discussion arose among the students.
"Material Management—Contestant Number Twenty, fourteen points. Contestant Number Seven, fifteen points. Contestant Number Three—twenty points."
"Safety and Standards—Contestant Number Twenty, thirteen points. Contestant Number Three—fifteen points." It was likely that Rhys had five points deducted because his action of reaching into the flames was judged as dangerous behavior.
"Process Documentation and Philosophical Thought—Contestant Number Three, ten points."
"Failure and Correction—Contestant Number Three, ten points. The highest score in the venue for all categories."
Madame Maxime closed the parchment and looked up.
"The champion of this Alchemy competition is—Polaris Black."
Applause broke out. Although the students of Beauxbatons were somewhat unconvinced, their applause was still vigorous enough. Fleur clapped first; her applause was faster than anyone else's. Rhys stood up and bowed slightly toward the faculty table.
Madame Maxime picked up a tray from the faculty table, on which four items were placed—a laurel wreath, a small monocle, a transparent quartz bottle, and a silver chain. She walked over to Rhys and placed the laurel wreath on his head. The laurel wreath, woven from gold, silver, bronze, and iron, was heavy and felt cool against his forehead. She handed him the tray, and Rhys took it; the monocle, the quartz bottle, and the chain lay quietly on the dark blue velvet cloth.
"The philosophers egg is yours," Madame Maxime said. "After it is over, Fleur will take you to retrieve it."
Rhys carried the tray back to his workstation. Fleur had already walked over from her own workstation, holding two items in her hands—a badge and a school crest. The badge was bronze, engraved with the words "Combiner," which she had earned from her evaluation grade just now; the school crest was silver, featuring the two crossed wands and three stars of Beauxbatons.
"Although I lost to you this time, I will definitely surpass you," Fleur said, thrusting the two badges into Rhys's hands. Her expression was serious, her chin slightly raised, but there was no resentment in her eyes, only a sense of certainty that said, "I know which direction I should strive toward."
Rhys looked at the badges in his hand, then at Fleur. He turned and picked up the bracer from the workstation—deep brown leather, dark silver metal, the gold foil patterns shimmering slightly in the candlelight. He handed the bracer to Fleur.
"A token of thanks for these past few days."
Fleur took it. The bracer felt heavy in her palm, and the leather still retained the lingering warmth of the furnace. She examined it over and over—the serpent totem on the back of the hand, the Runes metal wire at the wrist, and the symbols on the leather surface that she didn't quite understand. She looked up at Rhys.
"Give it a name."
Rhys thought for a moment. "Po Kong."
Fleur frowned. "Po Kong? What does that mean? It doesn't sound like French, nor does it sound like English."
Rhys smiled but did not explain. In this world, aside from the system, no one could understand the meaning of this name. A demon capable of devouring and protecting. The bracer's function was protection, not attack. Calling it Po Kong was just right.
Fleur slipped the bracer onto her left hand to try it out. The bracer looked a bit large on her arm, but the leather texture was soft, and the fit was good. She flexed her fingers; the bracer did not hinder her movements. She took the bracer off and carefully placed it into the inner pocket of her robe.
"The philosophers egg is in the school collection room," Fleur said. "I will take you there."
Dumbledore was already standing at the entrance of the Great Hall waiting for him. He leaned against the doorframe, a corner of his robe draped over the edge, holding a lemon sherbet in his hand. Seeing Rhys approach, he popped the candy into his mouth and dusted the sugar powder off his hands.
"Let's go, my boy."
Rhys followed Fleur out of the Great Hall, walked along the long corridor, crossed the circular hall, and went down two floors along the staircase on the other side. The school collection room was underground; the door was a heavy oak door with no handle, only a circular metal disc engraved with the Beauxbatons school crest. Fleur pulled a copper key from her pocket, inserted it into the keyhole in the center of the metal disc, and turned it three times. The door opened.
The collection room was not large. On all four walls were recessed glass cabinets displaying various ancient items—rusty swords, yellowed parchment, metal devices of unknown purpose, and several sealed pottery jars. In the center of the room stood an independent display case; under a glass dome, an egg-shaped glass container lay quietly on black velvet.
The philosophers egg.
It was larger than Rhys had imagined, about the size of two fists pressed together, shaped like an elongated egg, with a frosted, translucent surface that obscured what was inside. On the base of the glass dome was engraved a line of small text—"Nicolas Flamel, 1377."
Fleur opened the glass dome, took out the philosophers egg, and handed it to Rhys with both hands. The egg was cold, much lower than room temperature, as if it had just been taken out of a cellar. Rhys took it and felt that it was much lighter than it looked; holding it in his palm was like holding a mass of solidified air.
"Thank you," Rhys said.
Fleur shook her head. "You won it yourself."
The two walked out of the collection room; Fleur locked the door and put the key back in her pocket. Dumbledorestood at the top of the stairs waiting, having taken out another lemon sherbet. The three of them walked back to the Castle gate along the path they had come; sunlight spilled down from the dome, casting a huge circular patch of light on the floor of the circular hall.
Principal Madame Maxime stood at the main gate, her deep green velvet robes shimmering with a soft luster in the afternoon sun. Seeing the three of them come out, she nodded slightly.
"I will see you out," Fleur said.
Madame Maxime and Fleur accompanied Rhys and Dumbledore across the garden to the outside of the Castlegate. The water column of the Flamel Fountain shimmered in the sunlight, and the rainbow in the mist was still there. Madame Maxime stopped, and Fleur stopped as well.
Fleur turned to look at Rhys, her silvery-blonde hair fluttering gently in the wind. "I wish you were a student at Beauxbatons," she said. "No one has ever been able to study Alchemy with me like this before."
Rhys knew she was referring to those few days in the library—the two of them sitting face to face, constantly setting problems for each other, deconstructing, and optimizing. No extra communication was needed, yet every step they knew what the other was thinking.
"We can write letters," Rhys said. "Letters can also be used to discuss Alchemy."
Fleur's eyes brightened. She pulled a piece of parchment and a quill from her robe pocket, wrote a few lines, and handed it to Rhys. Rhys took it—it was Fleur's address, written in handwriting as neat as the notes in her textbook.
"It's a deal, then. Remember to write," Fleur said.
Rhys folded the address and put it into his pocket. "Okay."
Dumbledore reached out and placed a hand on Rhys's shoulder. Rhys bowed slightly to Madame Maxime and nodded to Fleur. Fleur stepped back and stood beside Madame Maxime. She looked at Rhys, her lips moving as if she wanted to say something, but then she swallowed it back.
Dumbledore's Apparition took the two of them away. The air twisted slightly where they had been standing, then returned to calm. Only the sound of the fountain and the distant laughter of students remained in the garden.
Fleur stood beside Madame Maxime, her gaze still lingering in the direction where Rhys had disappeared. Her expression was calm, but her fingers were clutching the cuff of her robe.
Madame Maxime turned her head to look at her. There was a hint of gentle, knowing amusement in those dark brown eyes.
"What? Can't bear to see him go?"
Fleur shook her head, her silvery-blonde hair swaying on her shoulders. "It's not that, Mentor."
"Oh?" Madame Maxime's voice carried a trace of teasing.
Fleur opened her mouth, wanting to explain—but Madame Maxime did not wait for her to finish. She reached out, patted Fleur's shoulder gently, and looked past her head toward the distant, rolling ridge line of the Pyrenees.
"Two more years," Madame Maxime said, her voice softening slightly. "The Triwizard Tournament will begin. By then, you will see him again."
Fleur dropped her hand from her cuff. She looked up at Madame Maxime. Madame Maxime had already turned and was walking toward the Castle, her deep green robe dragging a shallow trail across the grass.
Fleur glanced once more in the direction where Rhys had disappeared. The water mist from the fountain shimmered in the sunlight, the rainbow still there, but it had faded a bit since before. She took the bracer out from her inner robe pocket and looked at it again—deep brown leather, dark silver metal, the gold foil patterns shimmering slightly in the sunlight. She traced the serpent totem on the back of the bracer with her finger; it was cool, no different from ordinary metal. But she knew it was not ordinary. Just like that person's eyes, grey, looking no different from ordinary eyes, but if you looked for one more second, you would realize—there was something inside that was different from everyone else's.
Fleur tucked the bracer away and turned to follow Madame Maxime. The sound of their footsteps gradually faded on the stone path of the garden. The fountain water was still flowing, the rainbow was still there, and the wind blew over from the ridge, carrying the scent of pine and earth.
Rhys was gone. But Fleur knew that in two years, they would meet again.
Chapter 67: Parting
The world spun. When everything calmed down, Rhys and Albus Dumbledore were already standing on the small path on Mona Island. The sea breeze blew from the east, carrying the scent of salt. In the distance, several seagulls circled over the sea.
Albus Dumbledore let go, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his forehead. "Let's go, Nicolas Flamelmust be waiting anxiously."
Rhys held the philosophers egg, following AlbusDumbledore along the path toward the center of the island. The egg was still cold, held in his palm like a piece of ice that would never be warmed by body heat. He looked down into the egg—behind the frosted glass wall, something was flowing slowly, like mist, like water, like time that had not yet taken shape.
The studio door was open. Nicolas Flamel stood before the workbench, checking the furnace of the Alchemy furnace. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, saw the philosophers eggin Rhys's hand, and the corners of his mouth curled slightly.
"Back?" he said.
"Back." Rhys placed the egg on the workbench.
Nicolas Flamel walked over, held the egg with both hands, and looked at it against the light. He looked very carefully, turning the egg several times to ensure there were no cracks or flaws. Then he put the egg down and looked at Rhys.
"The last step, sublimation." Nicolas Flamel's voice was a little lighter than usual, "Put your Talisman in. Then, we wait."
Rhys fished the octagonal Talisman from his pocket—the grey-black alloy block, the Runes and Parseltonguesymbols on the back glowing faintly in the candlelight, the snake totem on the front having a deeper color after being baptized by the fire of Alchemy, like a snake that had been lurking in the dark for a long time. He opened the sealing lid of the philosophers egg—the lid was tight, and it took half a turn to unscrew. The inside of the egg was empty, the inner wall smooth, with a faint silver coating.
Rhys put the Talisman in, closed the lid, and tightened it.
Nicolas Flamel took a roll of silver sealing tape from the drawer, applied a circle along the gap of the egg lid, and then drew several symbols on the sealing tape with a thin metal rod. The sealing tape melted, merging into the connection between the lid and the egg body, becoming a single whole. Now, the philosophers egg looked like a complete, seamless glass container.
Nicolas Flamel placed the egg in the center of the Alchemyfurnace, where there was no fire.
"Wait for three days." Nicolas Flamel said, "After three days, it will know what it should become on its own."
Rhys stood before the workbench, looking at that egg. The eggshell was frosted, and he couldn't see inside. But he could feel it—the Talisman was inside, in the darkness, quietly, slowly, like a seed in the soil, becoming what it was meant to become.
Amber crawled out from Rhys's collar, wound around his arm to his wrist, its red eyes looking toward the direction of the philosophers egg, flicking its tongue.
Rhys tapped Amber's head with his finger, not looking at it, his gaze still on that egg.
Three days.
Rhys had hardly left the studio. He set up a small stool by the workbench, the philosophers egg placed in the center of the Alchemy furnace, no fire in the furnace, but the surface of the egg was constantly glowing slightly—not the kind of light from being heated, but a cold light that penetrated from the inside, like luminous stone. The eggshell was frosted, making it hard to see inside, but Rhys could feel it. The Talisman was inside, in the dark, in the sealed glass container, becoming what it was meant to become.
Amber coiled on the workbench, its triangular head resting on its body, red eyes half-open and half-closed, occasionally flicking its tongue. It was also watching that egg. Snakes were much more sensitive to temperature than humans; Amber could probably feel that something was changing inside the egg, but it didn't show curiosity or vigilance, just quietly coiled there, accompanying Rhys.
On the first day, a fine crack appeared on the surface of the egg. Rhys's heartbeat quickened, he stood up and leaned in to look—the crack was not a split, but a vein-like pattern, extending from the top of the egg downwards, branching, and branching again, becoming finer and finer. The color of the lines was dark red, like blood vessels on the frosted glass wall, like tree roots, like something that was growing.
On the second day, the lines covered the entire eggshell. Dark red lines intertwined, and from the outside, the philosophers egg looked like a stone wrapped in vines. Rhys touched the eggshell with the back of his hand—the temperature was a little higher than yesterday, not hot, but warm.
The third day.
Rhys woke up very early. The sky was not yet bright, the sea outside the window was grey-blue, and it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. When he walked to the studio, the philosophers egg was already glowing. It was not the dark red light from the cracks, but the eggshell itself that was glowing—a uniform, soft, silver-white light, like moonlight contained in an egg-shaped container.
Nicolas Flamel was already in the studio. He stood before the Alchemy furnace, holding no wand, nor any tools. He just stood there, looking at the egg.
"It is ready." Nicolas Flamel's voice was very soft, "Open it in your own way."
Rhys walked to the Alchemy furnace. He looked at the philosophers egg—the silver-white light spilled from the surface of the eggshell, not blinding, but very bright, so bright that the eggshell became translucent, and he could vaguely see something slowly rotating inside. He pressed his palm against the eggshell, feeling that familiar temperature—not hot, but warm, the kind of warmth that welled up from a very deep place and would not burn anyone.
He spoke. Parseltongue, a hoarse, hissing sound squeezed from the depths of his throat, echoed between the stone walls of the studio.
"Open."
It was just one word. But that word was not a sound, it was an intent—the most direct, unadorned command Rhys gave to the philosophers egg. The philosophers eggresponded to him. The dark red lines on the eggshell lit up simultaneously, not with the silver-white light, but a deeper, heavier red, like magma from the depths of the earth. The lines swirled, spread, and intertwined on the eggshell.
The philosophers egg split from the middle. It did not crack, but bloomed like a flower—the eggshell divided into several petals, rolling outwards, revealing the thing suspended in the air inside. The Talisman.
It floated in the very center of the egg, about a fist's distance from the workbench surface, rotating slowly and steadily on its own.
The grey-black octagonal alloy block, the same size as when Rhys put it in, but different.
Its surface had a luster, not the cold light of metal, but the warm, moist luster of jade.
The snake totem on the front was no longer a carving, but embedded—dark red lines meandered on the grey-black background, like a living snake curled on the surface of the Talisman. The Runes and Parseltongue symbols on the back changed from silver-white to gold-green, flickering in the candlelight.
Rhys reached out. The Talisman landed gently in his palm, cool, but just the right amount of cool, like water drawn from a well in summer.
Rhys looked at Nicolas Flamel. Then he disappeared. Not the transparency of the Disillusionment Charm, but a true, complete disappearance. No outline, no shadow, no sound. The space in front of the workbench was empty, only air.
After a while, Rhys's voice came from the air. "Did it work?"
Nicolas Flamel's eyebrows raised, his gaze lingering for a moment on the spot where Rhys disappeared. "It should have."
Rhys reappeared. He looked down at the Talisman in his hand, turning it over and over to look at it. "It's different from my ability. It replicated a part of my ability. Although both are invisibility, my ability can be used as I wish, while this Talisman can be used for an hour each time, and then needs a thirty-minute cooldown before it can be triggered again."
"Can it be improved?" Nicolas Flamel asked.
Rhys shook his head. "This is the limit of the replication."
Nicolas Flamel was silent for a while, then nodded. "It's already much better than expected. Ordinary invisibility cloaks on the market can't do this. Your Talisman's invisibility effect is much better than invisibility cloaks, and even the Disillusionment Charm can't compare."
Rhys clenched the Talisman in his palm, feeling the chill. Snake Talisman. His first Talisman. Not the original, but a replica, with a time limit, with a cooldown period. But it could be used. It could really be used.
"Alright, child." Nicolas Flamel's voice was much lighter than usual, "There is nothing left for me to teach you. The rest is your own path of learning."
Rhys looked up at Nicolas Flamel. The old man stood opposite the workbench, the morning light shining through the window, falling on his silver-white hair, stretching his shadow long.
His back was still slightly hunched, but today he looked thinner than usual. Rhys opened his mouth, wanting to say something—thank you, or I will come to see you often, or I still have a lot to learn. But he didn't say anything. His throat felt blocked by something, his eyes began to heat up.
"Don't be sad, child." Nicolas Flamel's voice was very soft, as light as the wind blowing over the sea, "Facing death is the brave journey. We have already stolen so much time from Death." He paused, "It is time to go to the land of the dead."
Rhys lowered his head and put the Talisman into his pocket. He didn't wipe his eyes, but his fingers were clenched tightly in his pocket.
In the living room, Perenelle had already prepared tea. Black tea, French style, with honey and a little lemon. Dumbledore sat in the armchair by the fireplace, holding a cup of tea, not speaking. Nicolas Flamel walked to the desk, picked up a piece of parchment, which was already filled with writing. He handed it to Dumbledore.
"Albus, this is my will. Please act as a witness."
Dumbledore took it, read it, and nodded. Nicolas Flameltook a leather case from the drawer and opened it; inside were rows of neat Alchemy equipment—some Rhys had seen, some he had read about in Nicolas Flamel's manuscripts. Nicolas Flamel placed the leather case on the table and pushed it to Dumbledore.
"These, all donated to Beauxbatons. My property as well." He paused, "This small cottage under my name—" He looked at Rhys, "For you."
Rhys's eyes grew hot again.
"Child, if one day you need a quiet place to return to, this cottage is your sanctuary." Nicolas Flamel's voice was very flat, as if he were talking about a very ordinary thing, "The effect of the Fidelius Charm will disappear after I die. By then, except for yourself, Dumbledore won't be able to find this place either."
Rhys opened his mouth. "Mentor—"
Nicolas Flamel shook his head. He didn't let Rhys finish.
Perenelle stood up from the sofa and walked to Rhys, holding several neatly folded sweaters and gloves.
Woolen, dark blue and dark grey, the stitches were very tight, knitted very thickly. Rhys looked at those sweaters and gloves, and suddenly understood—why this old lady was always knitting things in the living room during his studies. It wasn't to kill time, it was to knit clothes for him.
"Child, Nicolas Flamel and I have no offspring of our own." Perenelle's voice trembled slightly, but she was smiling, "Thank you for meeting you in the last moments of our lives. I made a few of these in larger sizes according to your stature. This should be enough to wear until the seventh year."
Rhys took the sweaters and gloves and held them in his arms. The wool was very soft, with a faint scent of lavender.
"Our cemetery is chosen by the garden behind the cottage." Nicolas Flamel stood by the window, back to Rhys, looking at the small patch of grass outside the window, "No need to come visit specifically. I also hope you never have to use this secret cottage."
Rhys put the sweaters and gloves on the table and walked behind Nicolas Flamel. He reached out and pressed gently on Nicolas Flamel's arm. Nicolas Flamel didn't turn back, but he placed his hand over the back of Rhys's hand. That hand was very cold, bony, about the same size as Rhys's hand, but much thinner.
"Go." Nicolas Flamel let go, "Albus is waiting for you."
Dumbledore was already standing at the door. He had changed into a dark grey robe, not the purple one he usually wore. He stood in the shadow of the porch, not speaking, just waiting quietly.
Rhys walked to the door and turned around. Nicolas Flamel and Perenelle stood at the door of the cottage, the two of them very close, Perenelle's hand linked in Nicolas Flamel's arm. The morning light shone from behind them, casting their shadows on the stone path in front of the door, overlapping, indistinguishable from each other.
Rhys looked at them deeply. The faces of the two old people, the wrinkles like a cracked riverbed, but their eyes were very bright. Nicolas Flamel's eyes were dark brown, Perenelle's eyes were light blue, and there was light in both of their eyes. Not the light reflected by candlelight, but the light that shone from within, like that of the philosophers egg.
Rhys carved those two faces into his mind. Not looking, but carving—using his eyes as a knife, carving stroke by stroke into the deepest part of his memory, into the depths of his soul. He would not forget. He would not forget this old man who had lived for more than six centuries, and this wife who had accompanied him for six hundred years. He would not forget the blue flames of the Alchemy furnace in the studio, would not forget those metal plates engraved with Runes on the workbench, would not forget the way the philosophers egg glowed in the dark.
Dumbledore reached out and placed his hand on Rhys's shoulder. The world spun.
The last thing Rhys saw was Nicolas Flamel waving at him. That hand was very thin, bony, like a sketch in the morning light. Then the cottage, the garden, the seagulls, Mona Island, all disappeared.
They stood at the gate of Star-Swirl Manor. The sun was good, the roses in the garden were blooming, red, pink, yellow, crowded together. Bangbang was the first to rush out, and seeing Rhys, his ears shook like leaves in the wind, tears already welling in his eyes.
But he didn't pounce over, because he saw Rhys's expression was not right. That expression was not sadness, but something deeper, heavier, like a person who had just buried something very important in the soil, knowing it could never be dug up again, but still having to bury it.
Rhys stood at the door, still holding those sweaters and gloves in his arms. He lowered his head and buried his face in the sweaters. The wool was warm, with the scent of lavender.
Bangbang stood beside him, not daring to speak. Kreacherstood at the door, his back straight as a board, but his hands were trembling slightly. Aunt Lyra walked out of the room, and seeing Rhys's appearance, her footsteps paused. She didn't ask "What's wrong," but just walked over, pulled Rhys gently into her arms, and patted his back slowly with one hand, just like when he had nightmares as a child.
Rhys didn't cry. He just buried his face in his aunt's shoulder, closed his eyes, and carved those two faces in his heart again.
Nicolas Flamel. Perenelle. His mentor, and his mentor's wife. That small patch of grass behind the cottage, wild flowers would bloom in spring, butterflies would be there in summer, fallen leaves in autumn, and it would be covered by snow in winter. There would be two more stones there, with two names carved on the stones. But he wouldn't go to see them. Not that he didn't want to, but it wasn't time yet.
Rhys straightened up from his aunt's arms and handed the sweaters and gloves to Bangbang. "Help me put them away." Bangbang took them, holding them carefully, as if holding something precious.
Rhys stood at the gate of Star-Swirl Manor, looking at the roses in the garden. The sun was good, the wind was light, and owls were calling in the distance. He touched the Talisman in his pocket. Cool. Snake Talisman. His first Talisman.
He walked through the door, and the door closed behind him.
In the living room, Bangbang had already prepared tea. Rhys sat on the sofa, Amber crawled out from his collar, coiled on his wrist, its red eyes looked around, and then retracted.
Aunt Lyra sat opposite him, not asking what happened in France. She just pushed the teacup in front of him and said, "Drink the tea and go to sleep for a while."
Rhys picked up the teacup and took a sip. Black tea, with a little honey, warm.
Chapter 68: Birthday
In the following days, Polaris slowly recovered. Those images from Mona Island still lingered in his mind—Nicolas's back standing in the morning light, the sweater Perenelle handed over, the way the philosopher's egg glowed in the darkness—but they no longer surged forth the moment he closed his eyes as they had during those first few days back, clogging his throat. They had sunk down, deep into some hidden place; invisible most of the time, yet he knew they were there.
Polaris began to write letters.
The letter to Cho was the longest, spanning three sheets of parchment. He wrote about everything from the Alchemycompetition at Beauxbatons to the sublimation process of the philosopher's egg, and from Fleur's Veela heritage to the bracers. Cho's replies were shorter than his, but each one was earnest, written in neat handwriting, and occasionally featured a small drawing in the margins—a herb, a broomstick, or an owl with its head tilted.
The letter to Anthony was the shortest.
Polaris wrote, "Finished learning Runes, finished learning Parseltongue, and made a Talisman using Alchemy." Anthony replied, "I read seven books over the break, three of which were about Alchemy. I'm going to test you the next time we meet."
The letter to Hermione was the thickest. Polaris recorded every step of the Talisman replication in detail. Hermione's reply was a five-page commentary, with asterisks marking every spot she felt could be optimized. At the end, she wrote a line: "If this method is popularized, it could change the Alchemical system of the magical world. You should organize the experimental process into a thesis."
The letter to Draco was the most casual. Polaris wrote, "The girls at Beauxbatons are more elegant than those at Hogwarts." Draco replied, "Are you implying the girls at Hogwarts aren't elegant enough? I'll pass that along to Pansy Parkinson." Polaris did not reply to that one.
When he grew tired of writing letters, he would go to his workbench to replicate the Snake Talisman.
The things he learned on Mona Island were being digested bit by bit through practice—the sublimation process of the philosopher's egg gave him a deeper understanding of "material transformation." The seven stages of ancient Alchemy were no longer just terms in a textbook, but a path he had walked with his own hands.
The first replicated Talisman took him three days, the second two days, and the third a day and a half. By the seventh, he could complete the entire process from material preparation to final activation within half a day. The effect of each Talisman was the same—invisibility for one hour with a thirty-minute cooldown. There was a gap compared to the original, but they were stable, reproducible, and could be used by people other than himself.
He kept these Talismans in a small leather case, tucked deep in a drawer of his workbench.
July 31st. Birthday. Polaris and his friends had agreed to come to the manor.
Polaris woke up very early. The sky wasn't fully bright yet, and there was still dew in the garden outside the window.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a while—the star map was still there, silver stars moving slowly along ancient orbits.
By the time Bangbang pushed the door open, Polaris had already finished washing up. Bangbang held a set of neatly folded clothes in his hands—deep gray robes, a silver collar pin, a black dragon-hide belt, and a pair of polished leather shoes. He placed the clothes on the bed, stepped back, tilted his head to look at Polaris, then stepped forward to adjust the collar, stepped back again, and nodded.
"Little Master looks so handsome today." Bangbang's eyes were sparkling.
Kreacher followed Bangbang inside, carrying a cup of hot cocoa and a small plate of biscuits. He placed the tray on the nightstand and looked Polaris up and down without saying a word, but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly—on Kreacher's face, that counted as a smile.
Polaris drank the hot cocoa, ate two biscuits, changed his clothes, and walked out of the room.
A pile of gifts had already accumulated by the sofa in the living room. The wrapping paper was colorful; some were tied with ribbons, others had cards attached, stacked together like a small mountain. Bangbang followed behind Polaris with a roll of parchment, ready to help him record who sent what—this was a House of Black tradition; gifts received must be reciprocated, for etiquette must be maintained.
Polaris sat in front of the sofa and picked up the top gift.
The gifts from his Quidditch teammates were piled together. Captain Roger sent a copy of "Advanced Quidditch Tactics," with the title page inscribed: "To the best Beater in first year, may your second year be even better." Andrew sent a pair of wrist guards, black and embroidered with the Ravenclaw eagle, sturdier than the last pair.
Neville's gift was a palm-sized cardboard box. Inside was a succulent plant, plump and emerald green, planted in a hand-molded clay pot. The handwriting on the card was wobbly: "Grandmother says succulents are easy to keep, no need to water every day. Happy Birthday. —Neville." Polaris placed the succulent on the windowsill where the sunlight reached.
Fleur's gift arrived from France, the package bearing a Beauxbatons stamp. Inside was a thin silver chain with a pendant of a small blue gemstone. The card read: "A Focus Amulet, it helps with concentration. Happy Birthday. —Fleur."
The books and snacks from his Ravenclaw classmates filled half a basket.
Lisa Turpin sent a copy of "Astronomical Observation Notes," writing on the title page, "I remember you teaching me how to observe Jupiter's moons, so I'm giving this notebook to you." There were also gifts from several classmates Polaris wasn't very familiar with: a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, two packs of Chocolate Frog, and a jar of fizzing whizbees. Polaris took the jar of Whizbees out and placed it on the coffee table, planning to share them when Cho and the others arrived.
The gifts from the Deans were at the very bottom.
Professor Flitwick sent a copy of the "Spell Dueling Manual," writing on the title page, "To Ravenclaw's most outstanding freshman, I hope you can be as brilliant on the dueling grounds as you are in the classroom."
Professor McGonagall sent a thick tome—"The Essence of Transfiguration: A Collection of Outstanding Past Theses." The inscription read: "These papers represent the highest level of Transfiguration research at Hogwarts. I hope you will benefit from them."
Professor Sprout sent a small paper bag containing several packets of plant seeds—Moonflowers, Jumping Bulbs, and a few others Polaris couldn't name. The card read, "Suitable for growing at home, easier to tend than those in the greenhouse."
Professor Snape's gift was a package, wrapped very securely. Inside was a notebook. It had a dark brown cover, worn at the edges but well-preserved. Polaris flipped to the first page and froze. It wasn't printed; it was handwritten. There were three types of handwriting—one was slender, sharp, with every letter carrying a sort of restrained dissatisfaction; another was neat, exuding a rigorous gentleness, with occasional precise diagrams in the margins; the third was elegant and lively, with a small smiley face drawn next to a sentence here and there, or a few words written in Chinese.
He turned to the title page, where a line was written: "To Polaris Black. From Severus Snape."
Polaris's finger paused on that line. He continued to flip through.
The title of the first section was "Potion Improvement Records," followed by dense recipes and annotations, recording the reasoning, process, and results of every improvement.
The handwritings were intertwined—Snape would write the original recipe, the second handwriting would propose an improvement plan in the margin, and the third handwriting would draw a smiley face next to the plan and write, "Let's try it."
Polaris flipped to the back and saw a heading—"Spell Creation." Below it was only a single page with one spell: Sectumsempra. Beneath the spell were detailed records of the creation logic, casting method, and precautions. The handwriting was entirely Snape's, but in the margin, there was a question written in the second hand: "Does this spell have any backlash on the caster?" Below the question was Snape's reply: "No. But improper control will result in self-injury."
Polaris closed the notebook and rested it on his lap.
Sectumsempra.
He had read about this spell in the original books—Snape's signature spell, powerful and capable of causing unhealable wounds.
He had never associated this spell with a "gift from Snape." But this gift contained not only Sectumsempra but also his parents' handwriting.
Cepheus Black and Long Meixiu Black, along with Snape, had written their Potion improvement records in this same notebook.
Three people, three types of handwriting, discussing the same recipe on the same page—someone proposing a plan, someone questioning it, someone drawing a smiley face.
Polaris put the notebook away, setting it aside. He needed more time to look through it, but not right now.
The final gift was from Nicolas Flamel.
The package had no stamps or postmarks; it had appeared directly in the pile of gifts.
Polaris unwrapped it; inside was a palm-sized wooden box containing a golden compass. The compass wasn't large, fitting perfectly in the palm of his hand. Its shell was brass-colored but shone brighter than common brass, emitting a soft golden glow in the candlelight.
The dial was engraved with dense markings, but there were no directions—no North, no South, no East, and no West. The needle flickered gently across the face, like ears of wheat in the wind or ripples on a water's surface, elusive and shifting.
Polaris flipped the compass over. On the back was an inscription: Always points to what you treasure.
Polaris stared at those words, silent for a long time. He tucked the compass into his inner coat pocket, right against his heart. The compass was cold at first, but it soon warmed, matching his own body temperature.
The front door was pushed open. Bangbang's voice drifted in from the foyer: "Little Master! Your friends are here!"
Polaris stood up and walked toward the door.
Sunlight flooded in from outside, and four figures stepped through the backlight.
Cho led the way, her long black hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a light blue dress and held a gift box tied with a white silk ribbon.
Anthony followed behind Cho, looking a bit taller and more tanned than he had at school, with a large paper bag tucked under his arm.
Hermione walked beside Anthony, her bushy brown hair much longer than it had been at school and tied into a ponytail. She clutched a thick, heavy book in her arms.
Draco brought up the rear, his pale blonde hair combed neatly. He wore dark grey robes with a silver snake-shaped brooch pinned to his collar, and carried a small leather case in his hand.
"Happy Birthday, Polaris," Hermione spoke first. She handed him the thick book, then stepped forward and gave him a brief hug. The movement was quick and efficient, as if she were checking off a task, but the embrace was sincere.
"Muggle precision chemical instruments; I thought they might be useful for your Alchemy." Polaris took the large book—it wasn't a book, but a book-shaped box. When opened, it revealed neatly arranged glassware and metal tools.
"Thank you," Polaris said.
Hermione let go and stepped back, and Anthony had already moved forward.
Without saying a word, he pulled Polaris into a massive bear hug, using enough strength to nearly crack his ribs.
While being held, Polaris could feel that Anthony had grown much sturdier since they were at school.
"Happy Birthday, mate." Anthony released him and thrust the large paper bag into his hands. "An exquisite timer. Use it to manage your time; you get far too absorbed in your research and forget to eat and sleep."
Polaris opened the paper bag to find a brass desk clock the size of his palm. Besides the hour, minute, and second hands, there was a small needle he'd never seen before, pointing to four sectors: 'Work', 'Rest', 'Eat', and'Sleep'. Anthony had written a note on the card: "I installed this needle myself; don't blame me if it's not accurate."
Polaris chuckled. "Thank you."
Draco stood at the back, only stepping forward once Anthony had moved away.
The small leather case in his hand was dark green, embossed with the Malfoy family crest. He set the case on the floor, opened it, and took out an exquisite little box to hand to Polaris.
"A brooch, Ravenclaw's Eagle," Draco said quietly but clearly. "And a few bottles of mead I took from my mother's liquor cabinet. The alcohol content isn't high, so I think we'll be fine having some."
Polaris took the small box and opened it—a silver brooch of the Ravenclaw eagle with its wings spread and two tiny sapphires for eyes. He pinned the brooch to the collar of his robes, then took the mead out of the case bottle by bottle. There were four in total, with labels that read: 'Malfoy Manor Special Reserve Mead, 1979'.
"Thank you, Draco," Polaris said. Draco stepped forward and gave him a hug as well; the gesture was much lighter than Anthony's, but the hand patting his back was firm.
"Happy Birthday, cousin," he whispered in Polaris's ear before letting go.
Cho was the last to step forward. She stood before Polaris, the gift box tied with white silk ribbon cradled in her palms.
Her hair was longer than it had been at school, falling over her shoulders with slightly curled ends. She looked into Polaris's grey eyes.
"Happy Birthday, Polaris." She handed him the gift box.
Polaris took it, untied the white silk ribbon, and lifted the lid. Inside was a silver bracelet of moderate thickness, its surface engraved with jasmine patterns. The petals were layered and the branches elegant, carved with such precision that every petal's edge was polished smooth.
He took the bracelet out of the box and put it on his left wrist. The silver band slid slightly against his wrist before settling against his skin, feeling cool to the touch.
"Thank you," Polaris said.
The two didn't hug. They simply shared a brief look and then smiled at the same time. The smile was faint, like a breeze rippling across the water's surface, quickly settling back into stillness, though something was stirring beneath the depths.
Amber crawled out from Polaris's collar.
It had been coiled around Polaris's neck all morning, warm and motionless, like a living scarf.
It poked out its triangular head, its red eyes looking at Cho as it flicked its tongue. Cho showed no fear and didn't step back. She reached out a finger and gently stroked Amber's head.
Amber nuzzled against her fingertip, then slithered along her arm, coiling around her wrist before continuing up to her neck. It found a comfortable spot, rested its head on its own body, and closed its eyes.
Cho felt Amber's body temperature against her skin—it wasn't cold, but warm, carrying Polaris's own warmth. Her face flushed slightly, but her fingers continued to gently pet the tip of Amber's tail.
"This must be the Amber you mentioned in your letters," Cho said softly.
"Yeah," Polaris replied.
In the living room, Anthony was already unwrapping a pack of fizzing whizbees.
Hermione was nearby, flipping through the Fantastic Beasts Picture Book Polaris had left on the tea table.
Draco stood by the window, looking out at the garden with a cup of black tea Bangbang had just served, his expression uncharacteristically relaxed.
Aunt Lyra and Grandma Cassiopeia came down the stairs.
Lyra wore deep blue robes today, her hair down and draped over her shoulders, making her look younger than usual.
Cassiopeia wore a deep purple dress, her silver-grey hair styled in an impeccable updo, and the House of Black's heirloom necklace around her neck.
"Hello, children," Lyra said with a smile.
The four of them bowed slightly in unison. "Hello, Aunt Lyra." "Hello, Grandma Cassiopeia."
Cassiopeia's gaze swept over the four faces, lingering on Cho for an extra second.
Amber was still draped around Cho's neck, its head buried in her hair, sleeping soundly.
Cassiopeia's gaze moved from Amber to Cho's face, then to the silver bracelet on Polaris's left wrist, before shifting away. The corners of her mouth curled up slightly—the curve was so slight that only Lyra noticed. Her gaze also lingered on Cho for a moment before she exchanged a look with Cassiopeia.
"Why don't you let Polaris show you around the manor?" Lyra's voice was still full of mirth, but with an added note of the knowing look of an adult who knows when it's time to step away. "With us two adults around, you won't be able to truly relax. Lunch is being prepared; Bangbang will come get you when it's ready. We'll all be together again for the evening banquet." She winked at the four of them, then took Cassiopeia's arm, and the two walked out of the living room together.
Polaris stood in the middle of the living room, looking at his four friends.
Anthony had already portioned out the fizzing whizbees, one for each person, and was now unwrapping a Chocolate Frog.
Hermione was placing several sticky notes in the picture book, organizing Polaris's scribbled notes.
Draco stood by the window, his tea half-finished. He shifted his gaze from the garden to Polaris, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
Cho stood beside Polaris, Amber asleep on her neck as her fingers continued to gently stroke its tail.
"Let's go," Polaris said. "I'll show you around Star-Swirl Manor."
Chapter 69: House-elves
The garden of Star-Swirl Manor was at its best in late July.
Roses covered the entire south wall—red, pink, white—huddled together, with bees buzzing among the blossoms.
The fountain's jet sparkled in the sunlight, splashing fine mist onto the water's surface; within the mist was a small section of a rainbow, incomplete but vividly colored.
The distant oak forest had grown much taller than when Ris was a child; the old tree split by lightning had sprouted new branches, a thick limb growing diagonally from the break, its leaves denser than the trees beside it.
"This is the garden." Ris stood on the lawn, looking at the familiar corners, his lips curling up unconsciously. "Bangbang and I used to play and explore here all the time when I was little." He pointed to the old oak tree. "Once, Bangbang hid behind that tree, and I couldn't find him for the longest time. I started crying. When he heard me cry, he ran out himself, shouting, 'Little Master, Bangbang is here!'"
Ris shook his head with a smile. "Later I found out he hadn't hidden well at all; a large corner of his robe was sticking out."
Anthony stood by the fountain, caught a handful of water, and sniffed it. "No smell, just ordinary water," he said disappointedly.
"What did you think it was? Magical spring water?" Hermione stood beside him, still holding her notebook.
"I thought the House of Black's fountain would at least spray some colored water."
"Then go find the Weasley brothers," Ris said.
They all laughed.
Cho stood before the wall of roses, leaning over slightly to look at the largest pink rose. Amber was still coiled around her neck, its tail draped over her shoulder and its head resting on her collarbone, red eyes half-open, lazily watching the flowers.
"Ris," Hermione closed her notebook and looked up, "what are house-elves? I mean—where do they come from? Why do they become servants to Wizards?"
Ris thought for a moment. He went to sit by the fountain, and the others gathered around.
The sun was bright, the breeze was light, and the scent of roses drifted over in waves.
"House-elves are a race conquered by Wizards in ancient wars." Ris's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear. "After their defeat, the entire race was forced into slavery for generations and underwent rigorous servitude training."
Hermione's brow furrowed.
"Once they recognize a master, house-elves must serve that family for generations," Draco took over. His voice was colder than Ris's, but not indifferent; it was the calm of someone stating a fact everyone knew.
"Unless a master takes the initiative to give them a piece of clothing, they cannot gain freedom. They are magically compelled to absolute obedience; any defiance forces them to perform severe corporal punishment on themselves." He paused. "After thousands of years, the vast majority of elves view enslavement as their highest honor and freedom as a shame, willingly accepting oppression. It has formed a deep-seated cultural shackle."
Hermione's brow furrowed even deeper. "How can this be? How can a race be willing to be enslaved?" Her voice rose slightly, her fingers gripping the edge of her notebook until her knuckles turned white. "This shouldn't be. The world is equal. They need to be liberated."
The garden fell silent for a moment. The fountain continued to flow, and the scent of roses still drifted, but no one spoke.
"But Hermione," Ris's voice was flat, "what about the demand for liberation? Would they even like it?"
Hermione opened her mouth but said nothing.
"I treat Bangbang and Kreacher as family." Ris's voice softened slightly. "They became companions of my childhood. Although they aren't allowed to own their own clothes, Bangbang and Kreacher both have many Tea towels of different colors printed with the House of Blackcrest."
Anthony stood up from the fountain and brushed the dust off his robes.
"True. Perhaps you're not aware, Hermione, but once when Ris and I were hungry, we went to the kitchens. Food appeared as soon as we sat at the table because Hogwartsalso has a large number of house-elves running the kitchens. They also wear Tea towels printed with the Hogwarts crest."
"That's already excellent treatment," Draco said, his tone not sarcastic but matter-of-fact. "The House-elf in my home wears a filthy old Pillowcase. My father wouldn't allow him to have a new one to replace it."
"It's wrong! It's wrong!" Hermione's voice rose again. "Just as people can work, work requires a wage and corresponding benefits. How can—"
"Hermione." Cho's hand pressed gently on Hermione's shoulder, her voice very gentle. "Calm yourself first."
Hermione took a deep breath, gripping and releasing her notebook repeatedly.
"There are indeed no wages," Ris said.
His gaze fell on the surface of the fountain, water droplets splashing up and falling back down, ripples spreading and disappearing. "Bangbang and Kreacher have pocket money. My aunt said it was a rule established after my mother married into the family. Ten Galleons a month. Bangbang likes to buy pretty bottle caps to collect and candy ingredients to make new flavors for me. Kreacher, on the other hand, likes to buy yarn to knit socks for me."
"But—" Hermione wanted to say more.
"Hermione," Cho interrupted her, her voice still gentle, "perhaps you could ask them what they think?"
Ris glanced at Cho and nodded. He clapped his hands.
*Pop. Pop.* Two soft sounds. Bangbang and Kreacherappeared by the fountain simultaneously. Bangbang's large eyes were wide and round, looking from Ris to Hermione, his ears twitching slightly. Kreacher stood beside Bangbang, his back straight as a rod, bowing slightly with movements so standard they looked like they were copied from an etiquette textbook.
"Little Master, what is it?" Bangbang's voice was high-pitched, tinged with nervousness—he sensed the atmosphere wasn't right.
"Little Master," Kreacher's voice was raspy but steady.
Ris looked at them, considering his words. "If—I were to give each of you a piece of clothing—"
Before he could finish, Bangbang's large eyes were instantly flooded with tears.
Those two large bat-like ears flopped down suddenly, pressing against his scalp, as if all the strength had been drained from his body.
He looked at Ris in disbelief, his lips trembling, his voice halting. "No, no, no—no—Bangbang—Bangbang doesn't want clothes—Bangbang has many, many Tea towels—Bangbang won't be greedy and steal cookies anymore—Bangbang doesn't want to lose Little Master—" He looked around as if searching for something to punish himself with—a stone in the corner, the iron railing by the fountain, anything he could use to hit himself.
"Bangbang is Little Master's friend. Little Master said Bangbang is family."
Kreacher was also stunned.
His back was no longer straight; he slumped over, clutching his head with both hands, his voice raspy and panicked as it leaked through his fingers.
"Little Master—Kreacher is useless—Kreacher cannot help Little Master—Kreacher is to be exiled—" His legs gave way and he knelt, his forehead toward the ground, preparing to bang it down.
Ris pulled out his wand. "Petrificus Totalus."
Two grey beams of light hit Bangbang and Kreachersimultaneously.
The two elves froze. Bangbang remained in the posture of looking around for something to punish himself with, while Kreacher remained with his forehead almost touching the ground. The two of them were like statues, motionless.
"Don't panic," Ris's voice wasn't loud but steady. "I was only saying that. I have no intention of driving you away. If you understand, don't punish yourselves—roll your eyes once, and I'll lift the Petrificus Totalus."
Bangbang's eyes rolled first. One circle, very slow, tears still hanging on his eyelashes.
Kreacher's eyes followed. One circle, equally slow, something shimmering in his cloudy pupils.
Ris tapped twice with his wand. "Finite Incantatem."
Bangbang and Kreacher's bodies relaxed at the same time. Bangbang stood in place, his hands wringing the edges of his Tea towel, head bowed, his shoulders still trembling slightly.
Kreacher stood up, brushed the dirt off himself, and straightened his back again, but his fingers were trembling slightly.
"Go back and continue preparing for the luncheon." Rhys's voice was very soft. "Forget what I just said."
Bangbang looked up at him, his lips moving slightly, but he didn't say a word.
Kreacher bowed deeply. The two of them Apparated at the same time, vanishing into thin air, leaving only two small patches of flattened grass by the fountain.
The garden remained quiet for a long time.
Hermione stood there, still clutching her notebook, but her fingers had stopped trembling. Her expression was complex—not anger, not confusion, but the blankness of 'I have seen something I don't know how to face.'
"Are they all like this, or is this just an isolated case?" Hermione's voice was much softer than before.
Rhys shook his head. "I don't know. At least here with me, they aren't oppressed."
Draco leaned against the stone pillar of the fountain, one hand in his pocket.
"Hermione, it probably depends on the situation. If it were the House-elf in my family, he would probably be very happy to receive clothes." He paused, looking into the distance as if thinking about something—Rhys guessed he was thinking of Dobby, the Malfoy family's House-elf who always wore a filthy old Pillowcase.
"Then have you ever thought about freeing him?" Hermione asked.
Draco was silent for a moment.
"Freeing him? To be honest, Hermione, I didn't have that thought before. In the Wizarding World, this is normal. But even if you said it today—I still wouldn't free him."
Hermione's expression changed, but Draco continued, "Because I don't have the power. The ownership of the House-elf belongs to my father. I haven't inherited the Malfoy family yet; even if I gave him clothes, he wouldn't be able to leave."
Hermione's lips moved, but she didn't speak.
"Hermione, if you really have doubts about this, you can go to the kitchen and ask the house-elves what they think after school starts." Anthony's voice came from the other side of the fountain; he was squatting by the water looking at a small fish. "The birth and establishment of a new rule also requires supporters, doesn't it?"
Hermione looked at him and, after a moment, nodded.
Rhys took them to the lakeside.
The lake was much smaller than the Black Lake at Hogwarts, but clearer, allowing the pebbles at the bottom and the occasional passing small fish to be seen. There was an old willow tree by the lake, its branches drooping to the water's surface, drawing ripples on the water whenever the wind blew.
Cho stood under the willow tree. Amber slid down from her neck, down her arm to her wrist, and then onto the drooping willow branches, coiling around like a living vine.
The library was the place Anthony was most interested in. He stood in front of the bookshelves, head tilted back, looking from the bottom shelf to the top until his neck felt sore before lowering it. "Your family has the first edition of 'A Study of the Origins of Magic'?" His voice carried a tremor that was almost reverent.
Rhys nodded. "You can borrow it if you want to read it." Anthony pulled the book from the shelf and held it in his arms, not putting it down again.
Finally, Rhys took them to Bangbang and Kreacher's rooms.
The rooms were next to the kitchen, not large, but very clean. Sunlight shone through the windows, making the whole room feel warm.
Bangbang's bed was a small wooden one, the bedding folded neatly. Beside the pillow was a glass jar filled with colorful bottle caps. On the wall hung a picture frame, but the pattern inside wasn't a painting; it was made of bottle caps—the crest of the House of Black, with silver stars and golden lines, assembled from dozens of different colored bottle caps. It was put together very earnestly, with the position of every cap carefully chosen.
"Bangbang's little hobby," Rhys said.
Kreacher's room was next to Bangbang's and was even tidier than Bangbang's. The quilt on the bed was folded with sharp edges, and a small lamp sat on the bedside table, its lampshade hand-knitted by Kreacher himself in dark blue with a very tight weave. Various corners of the room were filled with knitted stuffed animals—owls, cats, dragons, and small animals Rhys couldn't name. Each was intricately knitted, with eyes embroidered with different colored threads, and some even had small buttons as decorations.
"Kreacher made them." Rhys picked up an owl plush and looked at it; the wings were embroidered with fine patterns, exactly like the feather patterns of a real owl.
Hermione stood at the door of Kreacher's room and watched for a long time.
She didn't speak, but her expression was different from before—it was the seriousness of 'I'm starting to be able to accept this.'
When they returned to the living room, Bangbang had already set out the cold platters for the luncheon. Several plates of sandwiches, a bowl of fruit salad, a large pitcher of pumpkin juice, and a plate of freshly baked cookies. Bangbang retreated after setting everything out, glancing at Rhys before he left; his eyes were still red, but he wasn't crying.
Rhys took a small leather case from his pocket and opened it. Inside, seven Talismans were arranged neatly—grayish-black octagonal alloy blocks, the snake-shaped totem on the front glowing faintly in the candlelight. He took out four and gave them to Cho, Anthony, Hermione, and Draco, one for each.
"So—" Hermione sat down and picked up a sandwich but didn't eat it, looking at Rhys, "This is the Talisman you wrote about in your letter?"
"The Snake Talisman," Rhys said. "Replicated using Alchemy. It can grant invisibility. To use it, channel magicinto it—hold it and imagine yourself disappearing. The effect lasts for one hour, then it needs a thirty-minute cooldown before it can be used again.
The four of them simultaneously looked down at the grayish-black Talisman in their palms.
Draco was the first to try. He gripped the Talisman and closed his eyes, his brow slightly furrowed. Then he disappeared. The cushion on the chair dipped slightly, proving someone was still there. After a while, he reappeared, looking down at the Talisman in his hand with a complex expression.
"This thing—" he paused, "is more convenient than a regular Invisibility Cloak."
Anthony tried it too, disappeared, reappeared, and immediately pulled a notebook from his pocket to start recording. "Effect—Instant—No delay—End—No side effects—Cooldown—To be verified," he muttered while writing.
Before trying it, Hermione asked three questions—"Is there a lower limit for magic output? Is it effective for people with insufficient magic? Is the one-hour duration a fixed value or does it vary with magic power?" Rhys answered the first two; he wasn't sure about the third and said it needed more experimentation.
Cho was the last to try. She gripped the Talisman, her eyes open, quietly looking at the Talisman in her palm as if making eye contact with it. She disappeared for a few seconds and then reappeared, turning the Talisman over to look at the Runes on the back before turning it back.
"Useful," she said. Only two words.
Draco twirled the Talisman between his fingers. "This thing—it's simply a great helper for night wandering." The corner of his mouth curled slightly; that smile wasn't Malfoy-esque arrogance, but the pure joy of 'I've found something good.'
Rhys looked at him. "Are you really a Slytherin?"
"What?"
"Not a Gryffindor?" Anthony added.
Hermione and Cho laughed at the same time. The laughter wasn't loud, but it echoed in the living room for a long time. Draco looked at Rhys, then at Anthony, tucked the Talisman into his pocket, and huffed.
"I'm a Slytherin," he said. "But I'm not brainless." Feeling that his statement was too broad, he added, "Except for Hermione."
Hermione carefully tucked the Talisman into the inner pocket of her robes and took a sip of pumpkin juice. Her expression was much more relaxed than before. Although the matter of the house-elves was still turning in her head, at least now she had a Talisman in her hand and a few friends around her who were willing to listen to her.
Cho sat beside Rhys. Amber had slid down from her neck at some point and crawled back onto Rhys's wrist. Rhys's finger lightly stroked Amber's back, and Amber's tail curled slightly.
Bangbang poked his head in from the kitchen door. "Little Master, the luncheon is ready."
Rhys stood up and reached out to his friends. "Let's go, time to eat."
Chapter 70: star-shatter and Lockhart
The luncheon lasted longer than expected.
Bangbang and Kreacher served dish after dish, from roast beef to Yorkshire pudding, from vegetable soup to apple pie, until plates were stacked high across the table.
Draco drank two glasses of mead, his face slightly flushed, and he talked much more than usual. He chatted about everything from Quidditch to Potion Class, and from Potion Class to the girls at Beauxbatons— "My father says the girls at Beauxbatons are more elegant than those at Hogwarts. Rhys, don't you agree?"
Rhys glanced at Cho. Cho was cutting her apple pie and didn't even look up.
"Each has their own merits," Rhys said.
Draco didn't press further and poured himself another half-glass of mead.
Anthony ate three pieces of apple pie and leaned back against his chair, stuffed, undoing a button on his shirt.
Hermione still had half a piece of roast beef on her plate. She had been discussing the lower limit of magical output for Talismans with Rhys, and halfway through eating, she had put down her knife and fork to pull out a notebook and draw diagrams.
Cho sat next to Rhys. She didn't eat much, but she tasted a bit of everything. Amber slid down from her neck and coiled on the table, nuzzling the back of Rhys's hand with its head before shrinking back.
Rhys cut the last piece of roast beef into small bits and gave a few to Amber. Amber flicked its tongue and swept them away.
"Have you all finished eating?" Aunt Lyra poked her head in from the doorway, carrying a tray with several glasses of pale yellow Potion. "Digestives. Bangbang said you all ate too fast." She smiled and handed a glass to everyone. "Go to the living room after you finish; I have something good to show you."
A broomstick lay on the coffee table in the living room. It wasn't the north star series Rhys had used in his first year—this one had a thinner handle, and its silver-white finish was speckled with faint glints of light, as if the night sky had been ground into powder and sprinkled over it. The twigs at the end of the handle were neatly trimmed, each shining with an oily luster, feeling as smooth as silk to the touch.
"star-shatter," Aunt Lyra stood by the broom, arms crossed, a hint of pride in her voice. "Star Vortex-north star-star-shatter. It's twelve percent faster than the Starflash you used in first year, and its turning radius is fifteen percent smaller. This year, the Ravenclaw team will be switching entirely to this model."
Draco was the first to lean in. He walked halfway around the coffee table, his gaze sweeping from the handle to the twigs and back again. He reached out to touch it but pulled back, looking up at Lyra.
"Is it faster than the Nimbus 2001?"
"The test data shows it's eight percent faster than them," Lyra's tone was flat, but the corners of her mouth curled slightly.
Draco's eyes lit up. He turned to Rhys. "Cousin—Cousin, your aunt is my aunt—ask Aunt Lyra to save one for me. I can try out for the team this year too." His voice was half a pitch higher than usual, and his speech was much faster, completely lacking the stiff reserve of the Malfoy family.
Rhys smiled. "Of course. I've already set one aside; I'll give it to you when school starts."
Draco's expression shifted from 'eager' to'surprised,' and then from'surprised' to a strained 'trying to stay calm but failing.' He cleared his throat, adjusted the brooch on his collar, and nodded. "Then it's a deal." His voice was much lower than before, but he couldn't suppress his grin.
Anthony stood up from the sofa, walked to the coffee table, and looked at the star-shatter. He didn't know much about brooms, but he could tell the craftsmanship was exquisite—every twig was tied evenly, and there wasn't a single bubble in the finish on the handle. He nodded, said "It looks quite nice," and sat back down.
Hermione didn't look at the broom. She sat on the sofa, flipping through the notes she had just taken.
"Why don't we go to Diagon Alley together to buy supplies before school starts?" Anthony sat back on the sofa and pulled a new book list from his pocket. "I see there are a lot of new books on the list." He unfolded the list; the densely packed titles covered the entire page, much thicker than in their first year.
"Yeah, why are several of the new textbooks novels that Anthony read last year?" Hermione snatched the list from Anthony's hand, her finger tracing down the list line by line.
Rhys raised an eyebrow. He had seen those titles before—on the bestseller shelves of Flourish and Blotts, with colorful covers and the author's photo in the most prominent position: golden curls, snow-white teeth, smiling like a toothpaste advertisement.
"Are you talking about—Gilderoy Lockhart?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, him. 'Break with a Banshee', 'Gadding with Ghouls', 'Holidays with Hags', 'Travels with Trolls', 'Voyages with Vampires', 'Wandering with Werewolves', 'Year with the Yeti'—they're all his books."
"I heard from my father that he's our new Defense Against the Dark Arts Class teacher this year." Draco walked back from the coffee table, sat on the sofa, took a sip of the digestive Potion, and frowned—orange flavored, not his favorite.
The living room door was pushed open.
Lyra walked in carrying a pot of freshly brewed black tea. Hearing Draco's words, the teapot in her hand paused for a moment. She set the teapot on the coffee table and turned to look at Draco.
"Gilderoy Lockhart? Teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Lyra's voice held an uncertain tone, as if she were confirming she hadn't misheard.
"Yes, Aunt Lyra," Draco put down his glass. "My father brought the news back from the Board of Governors meeting the day before yesterday. Is there a problem?"
Lyra frowned, her gaze falling on the star-shatter broom on the coffee table, but she clearly wasn't looking at it. She seemed to be recalling something from a long time ago.
"He was a Ravenclaw senior, one year ahead of me. I started school in 1976." She paused. "His grades weren't bad when he was in school, but they weren't top-tier either. Above average, ordinary. But he always thought his talent was stunning." Lyra's fingers lightly brushed the rim of her teacup. "Back then, there were many people more excellent and dazzling than him. To get attention, he gradually started making up lies to catch people's eyes. It's just that most Ravenclaw students are quite immersed in their own worlds and didn't pay much attention to his words. As for whether students from other houses knew—I'm not sure."
The living room was quiet for a moment.
"So that means this new Professor is only twenty-eight this year?" Anthony calculated. "Then he's quite talented. To be a Professor at such a young age, and with so many personal adventure stories written into books."
Hermione nodded, her expression carrying a natural affinity for a 'young and successful author-Professor'.
Lyra's frown deepened, but she didn't say anything more.
"Should I have my father look into him?" Draco's voice carried the confidence of 'the Malfoy family is best at this sort of thing'.
Rhys shook his head.
"I don't think that's necessary. Since Headmaster Dumbledore recommended him to the Board, he must have his reasons."
He paused and took a sip from his teacup. "Besides, his books are quite interesting. If he doesn't teach well, we'll just self-study, like we did in first year."
Anthony nodded.
"True. It's not like we haven't been through it before." He said this in a relaxed tone, even carrying a hint of pride that said 'we're already very experienced'.
Lyra looked at them, shaking her head in amusement. "You kids, you must maintain basic respect for your Professors at school. No playing tricks."
The group nodded simultaneously.
Lyra picked up the empty teapot and turned to leave. At the door, she looked back once more, her gaze lingering on Rhys's face for a moment before she closed the door.
Cho sat beside Rhys. Amber slid down from her wrist and climbed up Rhys's arm to his shoulder.
Cho tilted her head to look at Rhys, her gaze staying on his face for several seconds. Rhys's expression was calm, no different from usual.
But Cho noticed—his eyes were different than before; his gaze had changed.
The change was subtle, so subtle that others wouldn't notice it at all. But Cho had been paying attention for a whole year. She had started noticing since the Trollincident. Every time Rhys was thinking about something—something truly important—his gaze would become like this.
"What are you thinking?" Cho's voice was low. "Lockhartreally does have a problem, doesn't he?"
Rhys glanced at her. Cho rested her chin on her hand, looking at him with a smile that said 'you don't have to lie to me'.
"You can't fool me. Your gaze changes when you're thinking. It was this same look when you started suspecting Professor Quirrell in first year."
Rhys put down his teacup and tapped his finger lightly on the table. "You're right. He definitely has a problem."
Hermione and Anthony both looked up. Draco put down his glass.
"He didn't go to work after graduating at eighteen." Rhys's voice was low but clear. "From what I know, he started writing books at twenty, stayed under the radar for two years, and then suddenly became famous. From 1984 until now, a total of eight years, he has written nine books." He looked at Hermione. "His latest one, 'Magical Me', the Daily Prophet says he'll be doing a signing at Flourish and Blottsin August."
He paused and turned to Hermione. "Hermione, how long does it take you to write an essay?"
Hermione thought for a moment. "For homework, including research, about a week."
"Converted into a book—roughly how many pages?"
"Maybe five pages?" Hermione wasn't sure.
"His adventures take time." Anthony's mind was racing. "Organizing them into notes takes time, optimizing them into books takes time, proofreading takes time, and coordinating with publishers takes time. He doesn't have enough time. He'd also have to travel back and forth between all those adventure locations."
"His book 'Year with the Yeti'." Cho took over the conversation. "China is quite special. Whether by normal Muggle means or Wizarding means, entry is strictly controlled. It's a bit easier for me and my parents to go back to Hong Kong, and even then, we don't go back often." She paused. "If he really went to Tibet, it's impossible for him to have stayed there for a year."
Hermione opened the book list and counted line by line.
"'Break with a Banshee', 'Gadding with Ghouls', 'Holidays with Hags', 'Travels with Trolls', 'Voyages with Vampires', 'Wandering with Werewolves', 'Year with the Yeti'—seven books." She closed the list and looked up. "Each one is five Galleons. Seven books is thirty-five Galleons. That's more than the total for all the other items needed for second year."
"Lockhart once confidently claimed that he would successfully refine the Philosopher's Stone before graduation, lead the England team to win the World Cup, and become the youngest Minister for Magic." Rhys's voice was flat. "But—he doesn't know Alchemy, and he doesn't play Quidditch." He took a sip from his teacup. "I chatted with Hagrid over the holidays and mentioned Lockhart. Hagrid has been at Hogwarts all along and has some memory of him."
"Hagrid came too?" Hermione was a bit surprised.
"Yes, a few days ago. He gave me a small Unicorn horn as a birthday gift, said it was given to him by a young Unicorn," Rhys said. "I want to research the Horse Talisman, so I asked him to find some magical creature materials related to horses for me to purchase."
Hermione didn't press about the Horse Talisman. She was thinking about Lockhart. "So—Lockhart is very likely a fraud?"
Rhys smiled, neither nodding nor shaking his head. Hermione truly lived up to being the brightest mind of their year; even before the logical chain was fully assembled, she had already seen the whole picture.
Cho looked at Rhys and smiled. The smile was light, but there was a spark in her eyes. She knew what Rhys was thinking—not 'whether to expose Lockhart', but 'when to expose him and how'. Just like in first year, he didn't rush to Professor McGonagall's office at the start to say 'Quirrellhas a problem'. Instead, he waited for the evidence to surface on its own, for Quirrell to reveal his own flaws.
"Then it's just like last year." Cho's voice was low but firm. "If there's a problem, we'll just deal with it as it comes."
The four of them looked at each other. Hermione smiled first, Anthony followed, and Draco was the last to smile—the lightest smile, but the most genuine. Their smiles shared the tacit understanding of 'I know what we're going to do together'.
Amber poked its head out from Rhys's shoulder, its red eyes looking at Cho and then at Hermione. It flicked its tongue and shrank back into Rhys's collar.
Outside the window, the midday sun had shifted to an afternoon slant, and the roses in the garden changed colors in the light and shadow. Bangbang poked his head in from the kitchen door, looked at the teacups on the coffee table, then at Rhys's expression, and ducked back to bring a new pot of black tea.