When a person truly devotes themselves to a task, time seems to slip away without notice.
Immersed in the study of Transfiguration, Andrew had begun to form a rudimentary system of understanding. Although limited magical reserves due to his age made many of his attempts clumsy and rough, his grasp of the theoretical framework had already earned him a reluctant "entry-level" nod from Professor McGonagall.
"Don't focus too much on theory for now," she had told him last week, a rare smile playing at her lips as she reviewed his latest notebook — which read more like a stream-of-consciousness essay than formal notes. "Without hands-on experience, theory can actually hold you back. What you need now is practice: speed, accuracy, realism… and more."
And so, Andrew finally emerged from his self-imposed exile in the library.
Then came the hard part…
Because the time had flown by too fast. When he started planning his next steps, he realized — another deadline was coming up.
"Damn it, how is it time again? Didn't I just submit last month's manuscript? Why is it due again?"
He hadn't even properly looked at the feedback from the October issue, and now it was already the end of the month!
"Bloody hell, that November submission's coming due…"
Glancing at the growing number of students in the library, Andrew mentally reviewed how many people he'd met recently — and immediately gave up on the lovely idea of writing his manuscript there.
Now that the novelty of the term had worn off, everyone was settling into their own routines. The Ravenclaw first-years were also slowly adapting to library life. You could get away with sneaking in some side work occasionally, but sitting there day after day furiously scribbling like your life depended on it? That was a great way to tell your classmates something was off about you…
After scoping out multiple unused classrooms, Andrew finally found the perfect spot — an unused room in the castle's dungeon.
Being so close to the Potions classroom and a certain professor's office made it a no-go zone even for the most daring Gryffindors. Just the thought of being caught by that professor was enough to make even the boldest lion second-guess themselves — no one wanted to see their house points evaporate.
Lighting, smell, and dampness weren't huge problems — Andrew could handle those.
His only real concern was keeping the manuscript hidden. To prepare, he carried around a half-written "paper" — officially on how lighting affects transfiguration results, conveniently one of the topics Professor McGonagall had casually mentioned. He also transfigured each completed page into a bead and wore them on his wrist. He might not fool McGonagall, but the other professors? Probably… right?
So far, it had been three or four days without a single surprise inspection.
[Excerpt from Andrew's Manuscript]
"With his left hand, Gryffindor raised his short sword, and the entire forest seemed to sing in his name. The scorching magic, burning even the air itself, was cleaved apart as though it were smoke.
With a flick of his wand in his right hand, grass, rock, and water sprang to life, surging toward Slytherin like a natural army.
Slytherin didn't even flinch. Curses so dark that most Dark Wizards could only dream of casting them flowed from his wand like beginner's levitation spells — effortless, refined. A single curse erased the others from existence, as if the very concept of them had been banished into silence.
Before the newly-built Hogwarts Castle, spells rained like a storm. The limits of magic, as mankind understood it, were burned away — these two were not just wizards; they were the very essence of magic itself.
Even the spectators couldn't lift their wands — not because they didn't want to help, but because they couldn't. Magic itself was being undone!"
…
"Only Dumbledore, with the Elder Wand and his own legendary strength, could spare a sliver of magic in a battle like this."
…
'You win, Gryffindor,' said Slytherin. 'But I did not lose to you — I lost to legacy. Legacy grants you allies who wield your spells beside you. But me? No one can follow where I tread.'
And with that, he turned and left — swift and sure. The land where the battle had ended, where magic itself had died, would one day be swallowed by rain… and become the Black Lake.
From then on, Hogwarts had forever lost one of its founding pillars — the epitome of Dark Magic, Salazar Slytherin."
Perfect.
That was Andrew's verdict on his own work.
Over-the-top? Sure. But it flowed beautifully, and he had finished it even faster than expected. Gryffindor got plenty of praise, while Slytherin's power was described with enough awe that no one could accuse him of favoritism. Safe all around.
"At last, no more rotting in this pitch-black dungeon."
He turned the final manuscript page into a bead and added it to his bracelet. After double-checking that he'd left nothing behind, he extinguished the magical fire, cleaned up the room, and even whistled a little tune as he left.
"Next up — time to return to Transfiguration practice. Maybe look into some upperclassmen's dueling groups… can't let those club resources go to waste. I should probably catch up on my missed classes too, especially History of Magic — no telling which major historical event I'll write about next…"
"Wait, wasn't there some celebration today? I got so focused on my writing, I didn't check… well, it's dinner time now, so I'm sure I didn't miss much."
Meanwhile, the banquet was in full swing.
Thousands of enchanted bats filled the castle, giving the hall a perfect Halloween atmosphere. Even the appetizers were being served.
"Where's Andrew run off to again?"
"Library, obviously."
His roommates barely reacted. Ever since term started, Andrew had been practically living in the library — even if his grades didn't quite reflect the effort.
Still, everyone had their own interests. No one in Ravenclaw saw the point in criticizing someone for focusing on one subject, even if the payoff wasn't obvious. The most they did was save him a seat at dinner — a small gesture of solidarity.
Everything was peaceful in the great hall — until someone came stumbling through the doors.
Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher with the... questionable reputation, sprinted up to the staff table.
"Th-th-there's a troll… in the dungeons…"
He barely got the words out to Dumbledore before collapsing from exhaustion.
And just like that, the great hall exploded into chaos — like Neville's cauldron going off during Potions.
T/N: For twenty chapters ahead on all my fics become a P@tron at [email protected]/LordHipposApostle