Bathed in golden light, the notebook seemed to come alive, slithering up Wyzett's wrist like a silver serpent. When the glow faded, a silver bracelet remained, cool and weighty against his skin.
He turned it over in his hands, marveling at the intricate phoenix embossed along the band. The tarnished silver had an ancient, understated elegance—something quietly extraordinary.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, what is this…?"
"Try turning your wrist and saying 'open' to it," Dumbledore suggested, eyes twinkling.
Wyzett obeyed. In the blink of an eye, the bracelet melted away, reforming into the notebook and settling softly in his palm.
"Incredible!" he gasped. "Headmaster Dumbledore, is this Transfiguration as well?"
Dumbledore chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Not just Transfiguration—there's a bit of basic alchemy involved too. It's one of the little projects Grindelwald and I worked on in our youth."
He pointed to the notebook. "I've included instructions for making the bracelet in the notes."
"I see it!" Wyzett exclaimed, spotting a newly added passage. The handwriting was bold and heavy, a sharp contrast to the earlier, flowing script.
"I thought you might be interested," Dumbledore said with a knowing smile. "I've detailed every stage, from the basics to the final form. Consider it some extracurricular reading—take your time with it."
A new week dawned, and overnight, Hogwarts was plunged into winter.
The air turned sharp and cold, and heavy snow blanketed the grounds. The gray mountains surrounding the castle were transformed into stark white sentinels by ice and frost. Yet when sunlight spilled over their peaks, the snow shimmered with a gentle warmth, as if the mountains themselves had turned to polished jade.
Beside the castle, the lake had frozen solid, its surface as clear and strong as tempered glass, revealing glimpses of the magical world beneath.
The chatter about the troll still hadn't died down. In fact, after word spread that Wyzett had been sent to the Hospital Wing by Professor McGonagall, the rumors seemed to grow even wilder.
To most students, this was the only way the story made any sense. How else could a first-year possibly have faced a troll? If it had been Harry who'd performed the feat, no one would have blinked—after all, he was The Boy Who Lived, the so-called "Savior." For someone who'd defeated Voldemort as a baby, besting a troll seemed almost trivial.
Curious students began trailing Wyzett to the library. They didn't read, they didn't speak—they simply stared at him, unwavering and silent, until he felt his skin crawl. No matter how uncomfortable he grew, they refused to leave.
Helpless, Wyzett sought out quieter places to study. The Ravenclaw common room was usually a good option, except it was often packed for the same reason. His dormitory was fine for reading, but less ideal for practicing magic—he preferred not to draw attention to himself.
The secret base of Fred and George was hidden enough, but far too cramped, and their prank experiments often ended in chaos.
After much thought, Wyzett found the perfect refuge: Hagrid's hut.
Inside, the fireplace crackled with warmth. Fang, now quite friendly, would flop down at Wyzett's feet, rolling over for belly rubs.
Despite his rugged appearance, Hagrid had a knack for crafting small trinkets. He'd sit in his massive chair, whittling flutes from wood with a tiny knife. Watching a giant over three meters tall attempt such delicate work was, to Wyzett, as impressive as embroidery—an extraordinary talent in itself.
"In a few days, you'll be left in peace again," Hagrid said, whittling away at a block of wood. "Quidditch season's about to start! Once the matches begin, they'll have something else to gossip about."
"I heard from Harry you're Ravenclaw's Chaser—impressive, that! Once Quidditch kicks off, everyone'll be glued to the pitch…"
Wyzett nodded. "I think so too. The troll business will blow over soon enough."
Arsenal had already briefed him on the schedule: Gryffindor versus Slytherin in mid-November, and before the Christmas break, Ravenclaw would face Hufflepuff.
Hagrid set down his knife and rubbed his huge hands together eagerly. "Fancy some tea? And I've got fresh rock cakes—hot out the oven!"
Wyzett smiled and waved him off. "Just tea, thanks. I'm still stuffed from lunch."
Hagrid had a unique gift in the kitchen—he could take a single quality of food and push it to its absolute limit. His rock cakes, for example, were the very definition of "rock." They were so hard, they could easily be mistaken for actual stones.
Just as Hagrid rose to boil water, a soft pop echoed in the room.
A bird, about the size of a plump rooster, materialized in front of the fireplace. Its feathers were brilliantly colored, but near one wing was a nasty wound, oozing blood tinged with green.
It was a Diricawl—a magical creature closely related to the dodo. In the Muggle world, Diricawls were believed extinct, but wizards knew better: tired of Muggle harassment, these birds had simply hidden themselves away in the magical world.
Diricawls were remarkable for one thing—their ability to vanish in an instant and reappear elsewhere. Like a wizard's Apparition, but quieter, and unimpeded by anti-Apparition spells.
"Barry! What happened to you?" Hagrid yelped, fumbling the kettle so badly that water splashed into the fire, sending up a cloud of steam.
He scooped the Diricawl into his arms and set it gently on the table, examining the wound with a practiced eye.
"Injured… and poisoned too, by the looks of it. You'll need to stay here a few days, mate."
He crossed the room and took a unicorn hair bandage from the wall, preparing to dress the wound.
Seeing this, Wyzett stood up. "Hagrid, may I try? If magic works, we might not need the bandage at all…"
Hagrid's eyes widened. "You've learned healing magic already?"
Wyzett nodded modestly. "Just the basics."
"Well, if you're willing, give it a go!" Hagrid agreed, gently bringing the Diricawl over to Wyzett.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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