Blake didn't ask for leave from Herbology the next morning after all.
When he arrived at the greenhouse, Hermione hadn't come yet.
But as soon as Professor Sprout walked in, Hermione suddenly appeared right beside him.
Even though Blake was half‑expecting it, he still jumped a little.
"You look a bit haggard," Blake said, eyeing her face.
Hermione set down the small bag Blake had given her, then picked up a protective robe and slipped it on. She raised her tired eyes to look at him.
"But you look less haggard than me," she retorted softly. "What were you doing last night?"
Blake rubbed his dry eyes, trying to hide the fatigue.
"Just stayed up late... you know me, always working hard," he admitted. "Studied a bit too much. It's fine, really. A bit of magic potion helps."
Hermione shook her head gently.
"Anyway, it's not good to stay up late. Even if I have a thousand things to do... I still can't let myself do that."
She hesitated, then added in a low voice:
"...and... thank you for the potion."
The little pills Blake had sent her through Crookshanks really worked. No matter how exhausted she was, one pill brought her back to life, mind fresh and focused.
"You're welcome," Blake murmured, loosening the soil around the plants.
He glanced sideways at her.
"You seem so busy lately... what are you working on?"
Hermione opened her mouth, then remembered Professor McGonagall's warning. She paused, then shook her head quickly.
"Nothing special... just took a few more electives," she said, voice small.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking a little guilty, as if afraid Blake would keep questioning her. Then she quickly added:
"Don't talk now, Professor Sprout is watching."
Blake cast a glance at Sprout—who was patiently showing Neville how to handle aconite soil. Not exactly "watching them."
He couldn't help but smirk. This excuse was a bit forced, he thought.
Still, he didn't press further. Hermione didn't have to tell him.
"Working too hard isn't healthy," Blake murmured as he turned back to his aconite. "If you're ever too busy to come find me, ask Crookshanks to bring me a message. I'll send the potion through him."
Hermione hesitated.
"But... I'm not like you. I can't understand animals. How could I get Crookshanks to find you?"
"Oh... right," Blake realized.
He was a druid. Plants, beasts, even insects and fish—they all spoke to him. Over time, he'd forgotten that this wasn't normal.
"So you really can't understand animals..." he whispered, half to himself.
Hermione stared at the pot in front of Blake, eyes widening.
Because the wilted wolfsbane in his pot suddenly bloomed—a delicate purple flower, rising from the leaves almost instantly.
Blake followed her gaze, noticing the unexpected flower.
"Ah... sorry, couldn't control it."
He gently brushed his fingers over the aconite, and the fresh bloom folded back, returning to its dormant state—as if it had never happened.
Hermione stared, speechless.
"Ahem... didn't mean to," Blake mumbled, a bit embarrassed.
"I don't know how many people wish they could 'not mean to' like that," Hermione whispered.
She had seen him sprout seeds with a simple touch. But seeing it again never stopped feeling like magic itself.
Ahead, Professor Sprout continued lecturing. Blake didn't speak further. His gaze occasionally drifted, as if lost in thought.
Hermione noticed. Part of her wondered what Blake—with all his strange power and talent—could be daydreaming about. He would surely go higher, farther than anyone.
She looked away, and the familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her chest.
If I don't keep working harder... how can I ever keep up?
Herbology ended. Hermione barely had time to say goodbye before rushing away.
After using the time‑turner, every minute counted. A moment too slow, and the delicate clockwork schedule could collapse.
Blake watched her go, then quietly returned to the Room of Requirement.
That morning, Dumbledore had spoken to him.
The trial for Peter and Sirius would be held on September 20th. Dumbledore had gently insisted that Blake's help wasn't needed in the meantime.
"Focus on the things you truly care about," Dumbledore had said.
Blake understood. Dumbledore was thinking of Blake's future—of time travel, of his journey beyond this era.
Inside the Room of Requirement, the air smelled rich with magic and earth.
Blake summoned the [bdbj] system and inspected every plant. After months of cultivation, each had mutated at least five times.
He ruthlessly culled the weak ones, leaving only those with stable, powerful traits.
Then Blake turned to a small table by his wooden cabin.
On it lay the half‑mended collection bag he'd been working on for days.
The system‑rewarded "top‑grade plant collection bag" was wonderful—but too small. His true sight let him study its alchemy structure; now he tried to craft a bigger, better version.
Magical threads, runes, delicate stitches: a quiet battle of patience.
Suddenly, he paused mid‑stitch.
"Baker, are you looking for me?"
Snap!
A house‑elf appeared, head bowed, ears twitching nervously.
"I'm very sorry, Master Blake. Bebek sends a message because Mr. Carlos's owl could not find you."
Mr. Carlos—Old Lepp, or Rip Carlos. Blake had taught him dimensional magic, but unless it was urgent, Old Lepp preferred not to use it.
"What did Tulep say?" Blake asked.
"Master Blake, Mr. Carlos asked me to tell you: the matter discussed last night ran into trouble. Details... he will tell you directly," Baker stammered.
Blake nodded.
"All right. Thank you, Baker. You may go."
"Yes, Master Blake."
Snap! Baker vanished.
Old Lepp hadn't told the elf the actual secret—recruiting house‑elves. Blake admired his caution.
But what Old Lepp didn't know: Baker was already bound in Blake's system. His loyalty was absolute.
Blake opened a dimensional door and stepped onto the mountaintop base.
Old Lepp sat in a chair outside his little house, pipe in hand.
"Good day, Master Blake," Old Lepp greeted.
"You said there was trouble. What kind?" Blake asked, sitting beside him.
"Well… not big trouble, really," Old Lepp puffed out a smoke ring. "But a small, annoying one. When I went this morning… someone else had already recruited those house‑elves."
"Oh?" Blake's brow furrowed. "Do you know who?"
"A young witch. Heard she came early and took all the elves. We were just too late."
Blake rolled his eyes.
"See? That's what happens when you sleep in."
Old Lepp spluttered on his pipe.
"Ahem! You call it 'sleeping in' if a man can't wake at dawn after going to bed at three or four?"
Blake grinned, then sighed.
"Well, there are other ways to gather information."
He glanced at a small bird perched nearby. As a druid, he could train animals to spy.
But they couldn't understand human speech, couldn't carry complex messages. To do that, he'd need enchanted tools—like tiny cameras he'd once seen in his past life.
Possible, but it meant crafting hundreds of devices—troublesome.
Old Lepp watched him quietly.
"Aren't you curious who that young witch was?"
"Not really," Blake shrugged. "Those elves stayed hidden too long. Anyone clever enough could have thought to recruit them, not just us."
Yet being cut off still stung.
Blake bit into an apple, the sweetness dulling the disappointment. Old Lepp took a long draw on his pipe.
Silence settled.
Then Blake felt it—a flicker of Supreme Magic. Someone was using the dimensional gate... to locate him.
Strange... Cassandra and the others already have my mark… who…?
Stab!
"Ahem… is there anyone here?"
A familiar voice floated through a tiny, fist‑sized dimensional door.
"Yes…" Blake answered, puzzled. The voice felt oddly familiar.
Stab!
The door expanded, and out stepped a woman Blake knew instantly.
And behind her… dozens of small, thin figures.
Blake nearly dropped his apple.
"Aunt Ariana?! How…?"
Ariana smiled warmly.
"You mean the Gate of Dimensions? You taught it to me. Well... the 'you' in the future taught me," she teased.
"Oh, it's so useful! Though… I can't use it when you're not around. But now, since you're here, I can."
In this world, Blake himself was the living "hotspot" of Supreme Magic. Near him, trusted followers could tap its power.
Blake's eyes drifted to the many house‑elves standing shyly behind Ariana.
"So… it was you who recruited them this morning?"
"Stole from you? No, no," Ariana protested lightly. "I helped you. Well… the 'you' from the future asked me to help the present you."
Blake blinked.
"Wait… so after I left in the future, you started recruiting house‑elves?"
"Exactly," Ariana smiled. She handed him a small token. "With this, you can summon any of them anytime."
"How many?" Blake asked, voice low with hope.
"Aside from those new ones I picked up this morning… you now have twenty‑five thousand three hundred sixty‑two fully trained intelligence agents."
Blake almost choked.
"T‑twenty‑five thousand?"
"Mm‑hm," Ariana repeated sweetly.
"Are there even that many house‑elves in the world?"
"Originally, no," she explained. "But you left behind a potion formula. Any elf who drinks it can bear multiple children. Over seventy, eighty years… three or four generations… well, do the math."
Blake's mouth opened, then closed.
House‑elves matured quickly, lived long, and reproduced steadily with magical help.
"I recruited them in your name," Ariana said softly. "To them, you are the one and only master."
She grinned.
"Congratulations. You've just become the largest 'slave‑owner' of the century."
Blake's mouth twitched.
Not the best title… but still. What he'd hoped to build slowly from scratch had suddenly appeared—complete and trained.
"Ariana… you really…," Blake whispered.
"Oh, you'd thank me more if I had a treasure chest system," she teased.
And Blake had to admit—even in this dark, tangled world, this moment felt like victory.