Blake arrived early in the auditorium the next morning for breakfast and noticed Harry looking rather glum.
Blake immediately guessed the reason—Harry must've asked Dumbledore if he could live with his godfather and been turned down. He probably thought he'd finally escape the misery of his aunt and uncle's house. But no—he'd have to remain there until adulthood.
As Blake passed him, he remarked casually, "When you're unhappy, eat more dessert. It'll cheer you up. And once you're feeling better, you might even come up with a solution."
He genuinely respected Harry. Growing up in such a bleak environment, most people would've developed darker tendencies. But Harry hadn't—maybe because he'd had strong opposition all along. He could be sharp-tongued, but he wasn't bitter.
Harry's eyes lit up. "You know? You know what happened?"
"A lot of people heard you talking to your godfather yesterday," Blake replied with a grin. "You were both so cheerful then. But this morning, you look like a wilted cabbage. Doesn't take much to figure out your biggest hope didn't come true. Dumbledore wouldn't let you move in with him, right?"
Harry stared in disbelief. "You... guessed it?"
Blake shrugged. If he couldn't predict this kind of thing with insider knowledge, he might as well bash his head on a brick.
"Then you must have an idea!" Harry said, following him eagerly.
Blake took a seat at the Hufflepuff table and accepted a small cake from Hannah before turning to Harry. "Sometimes you need to reverse your way of thinking."
"Reverse thinking?" Harry echoed.
"Sit and eat with me," Blake offered. "Now, Dumbledore won't let you move in with your godfather. I'm guessing he gave you a reason?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. I agree with it, technically."
It was the only way to preserve the ancient protective magic his mother had left him.
"I won't ask what it is. But since you agree, that means you can't move out. So... try reversing the problem. What if Sirius moves instead?"
Harry's face lit up. That's right! Dumbledore had only said he couldn't move out—he never said Sirius couldn't move in.
"I get it! I'm writing to Sirius right now!" Harry jumped up and dashed from the hall, forgetting breakfast entirely.
Blake glanced at the sausage left in Harry's bowl and shook his head. "Still time to eat, you know..."
At that moment, owls swooped in through the skylight. Blake covered his plate instinctively. A copy of the Daily Prophet landed in front of him.
He skimmed it—Peter Pettigrew's execution made front page news.
Blake clicked his tongue. "You had great friends... why go down that path?"
With Pettigrew dead, he wondered—could the noseless one still return?
"Nothing urgent happening now... maybe I'll hunt down another Horcrux," he mused while chewing a bite of cake. "Please don't come back, noseless guy."
In the headmaster's office, Dumbledore greeted Blake.
"Next Tuesday morning, the Ministry will hold a ceremony for Sirius and you. You'll both be awarded medals."
He paused, then added, "If you'd rather not go, I can collect it on your behalf like last time."
Blake shook his head. "No, I'm going."
He had reasons. One, there were treasure chests to collect. Two, Sirius's ancestral home hid a Horcrux—if he wanted to "accidentally" find it, he needed access.
Dumbledore looked surprised. Blake had skipped the Second-Class Order of Merlin award without hesitation. Was he going just because this was First Class?
It made sense. Last time, even with significant achievements, Blake barely got the Second-Class medal. Likely annoyed, he refused to attend. Now that he was finally getting First Class, he wanted to bask in it.
Dumbledore smiled. His student was the youngest ever to receive both First and Second-Class Merlin medals.
"Then you should pick a good outfit," he said proudly.
"No worries. If that's all, I'll go—Penelope's waiting at the Duel Club," Blake said and left.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Ah, youth..."
Then he noticed something. "Where's my Lemon Olaf?"
His unopened candy box was gone.
"Oh... that kid!"
"Alright, practice like this and your Disarming Charm will be far stronger!" Blake announced to the Duel Club.
Applause erupted. Blake had just demonstrated how emotion enhances spellcasting—a revelation for many.
Penelope approached, mock-annoyed. "You finally show up after vanishing for ages..."
Though Blake had started the Duel Club, he'd barely attended. For years, Penelope handled everything.
Luckily, she was a capable Ravenclaw. The club thrived under her care. While Blake was the president in name, Penelope was the real leader.
"Sorry, Penelope... I've been busy these past years," he said, blushing. In truth, he wasn't that busy. He could finish hard tasks quickly—he just got lazy.
Penelope, genuinely busy with OWL prep, had every right to be upset.
She smiled, clearly more understanding than he deserved.
"I've read the papers. You created a life-extending potion even Professor Snape praised. And now a spell to regrow limbs? I know what you've been working on."
"And you're getting your First-Class Order of Merlin next week."
Blake's guilt grew.
"Y-Yeah... but..."
She patted his shoulder.
"I'm happy to help you with all this. Makes me feel like I'm part of your research."
Blake took her hand warmly.
"You've worked hard, Penelope. From today, I'm resuming my role here. You need to focus on your OWLs."
Penelope looked surprised—then disappointed. Without the club to manage, she'd feel... empty.
Blake, catching on, quickly said, "Actually, from today, you're the president. I'm demoting myself to vice-chair. You get to be the hands-off leader until OWLs are over."
Penelope's eyes softened. She ruffled Blake's hair into a mess.
"Don't regret it. I'm staying president until seventh year!"
"I won't regret it."
She grinned. "If you keep treating me like this, I might get tempted."
"You know, I've grown up now..." Blake said slyly.
"But you're still so young..." she murmured, guilt creeping in.
Blake's return energized the Duel Club. Meetings became daily instead of weekly. Training flourished. His routine settled into classes by day, the club by night.
The days passed swiftly.
On the day of the award ceremony, Blake woke early, having already gotten permission to skip classes.
After breakfast, he headed to Dumbledore's office, straightening his school robes.
"Change to formal wear," he said softly.
The levitating cloak shimmered, transforming his uniform into a smart tuxedo. As he stepped through the oak doors, even his shoes morphed into polished leather.
Dumbledore beamed. "Very dashing! But your hair..."
Blake's hair, left wild for ages, was now an unruly mop. He'd always relied on his enchanted scissors to handle it.
"I'll fix it," Blake said.
He ran his hand through his hair, and instantly it styled itself into a sleek, combed look—as if he'd used hair gel.
"Nice..." Blake muttered, admiring himself in a mirror. Shinier than Malfoy's.
Dumbledore blinked. "Can you teach me that? My beard gets tricky."
"You want to put gel in your beard?" Blake laughed.
"Is that inappropriate?" Dumbledore asked with mock concern.
Blake smirked. "Not at all. Honestly, it might even help you find a girlfriend."
"Oh, Blake..."