The peace was broken by the distant, mournful cry of a steam whistle echoing through the valley.
Jake stood at his favourite window in the Ravenclaw common room, watching as the scarlet snake of the Hogwarts Express rounded the final bend and pulled into Hogsmeade station. For the past two weeks, the castle had been his quiet, private sanctuary. Now, the tide was returning. He could already see the first of the horseless carriages making their way up the drive, bringing with them the noise, the energy, and the chaos of the full student body.
A part of him, the quiet, analytical part that had revelled in the solitude, felt a selfish pang of annoyance. His perfect, uninterrupted schedule was about to be complicated by the unpredictable variable of other people. But as he watched the familiar figures begin to stream into the Entrance Hall, a different, surprising emotion surfaced: a genuine, quiet happiness. He wasn't just watching a faceless crowd; he was looking for a familiar face.
He found her an hour later. The Ravenclaw common room, quiet for so long, was now a whirlwind of joyful reunions, students chattering excitedly about their holidays. Penelope Clearwater, her cheeks still pink from the winter cold, spotted him from across the room and her face broke into a wide, brilliant grin.
"Jake! There you are!" she said, weaving her way through the crowd. "Happy New Year! How was your Christmas? Was it as amazing as everyone says?"
"It was," Jake said, a small, genuine smile on his face. "The best I've ever had. Thank you for the chocolates, they were gone by Boxing Day."
"You're welcome!" she beamed. "My gran sent me back with a mountain of treacle fudge, we'll have to break into it later. Come on, you have to tell me everything!"
As she began to recount her own holiday adventures, Jake felt a simple, uncomplicated sense of comfort. The quiet of the castle had been peaceful, but this—this was living.
The weeks that followed were a testament to the power of a good plan. His new, meticulously constructed routine was not just effective; it was transformative. The Room of Requirement became the engine of his progress, a perfect, efficient workshop that allowed him to achieve in hours what had previously taken him days.
His mornings were a blur of focused, private work. The enchanted running track in his private gym meant no more shivering, pre-dawn runs in the snow. He could push himself to his absolute limit in perfect conditions, his ghostly pacer a constant, silent motivator.
This new efficiency carried over into his academic life. With his physical and magical training consolidated into clean, predictable blocks of time, his mind was clearer, more focused. He arrived at his classes rested and alert, his performance improving dramatically. He was no longer the exhausted boy struggling to transfigure a beetle, but a sharp, attentive student who began to once again earn the quiet, approving nods of Professor McGonagall.
His duelling practice was a slow, methodical grind. He never repeated his earlier mistake of pushing too fast. He spent hours on the most boring, fundamental aspects of the craft: footwork, balance, and the simple, clean parry of a slow-moving hex. It was tedious, unglamorous work, but with each session, the awkward stance became a little more natural, his blocks a little cleaner, the jarring shock of impact a little less severe. He was building his foundation, one perfectly deflected hex at a time.
But the most significant change was not in his power or his skill, but in his time. The Room, by making his private work so efficient, had given him back his evenings. He kept his promise to himself, spending at least two nights a week in the common room, studying with Penelope and a growing circle of other Ravenclaws. He was no longer Jake Bloom, the strange, intense loner. He was just... Jake. A quiet, ridiculously smart first-year who gave surprisingly good advice on Potions essays and had a dry, unexpected sense of humour. He was becoming a part of the house, a part of the community.
The only stalled part of his grand plan was the Alchemical Advancement Project. The empty, pristine potions lab in his perfect workshop served as a constant, silent reminder of the conversation he was waiting for. He felt no impatience. He understood that Dumbledore operated on a different timescale, and that a promise from such a man was not to be taken lightly. So he waited. He spent his scheduled library time building his theoretical foundation, devouring books on magical herbology and advanced potioneering theory. He was preparing himself, so that when the Headmaster's call finally came, he would be ready.
The new term also meant the return of Professor Snape. The first Potions class back was a tense affair. The assignment was a tricky Girding Potion, a strengthening solution that required a precise, twenty-minute simmer at a constant temperature. While other students struggled, their potions turning a murky orange or a sickly green, Jake was in his element. He treated his cauldron not just as a pot, but as a finely tuned instrument. He used a series of small, precise bursts from his wand to regulate the heat, his focus absolute.
He was so absorbed, he didn't notice when Snape paused as he swept past his desk. The Potions Master didn't say a word. He simply stopped, his black eyes lingering on the perfect, shimmering turquoise of Jake's potion for a fraction of a second too long. There was no praise in that look, no approval. It was a silent, unnerving moment of pure, unblinking observation. The message was clear. I am watching you.
Jake continued his new, balanced life for two more weeks. He felt a sense of rhythm, of sustainable progress. He was growing stronger, both as a wizard and as a person. The summons, when it came, was so quiet it was almost an anticlimax.
He was in the library one Thursday evening, helping Penelope with a particularly dense Charms essay, when a soft pop sounded beside their table. A house-elf, clad in a clean, white tea towel bearing the Hogwarts crest, stood there, its large, tennis-ball eyes fixed on Jake.
"Mr Bloom, sir," the elf squeaked, bowing so low its long nose brushed the stone floor.
Jake was taken aback. "Yes?"
The elf held out a small, neatly folded piece of parchment, sealed with a simple, elegant 'AD'.
"The Headmaster will see you now."
The house-elf's words hung in the quiet air of the library, a simple sentence that carried an immense, unspoken weight. Penelope stared, her mouth slightly agape, looking from the patiently waiting elf to Jake.
"The Headmaster?" she whispered, her eyes wide. "Now? What for?"
"I'm not sure," Jake lied smoothly, already beginning to gather his books. His mind was a whirlwind, but on the surface, he was a picture of calm. "Probably a follow-up on the summer arrangements. Don't worry, I'll be back."
He followed the diminutive, tea-towel-clad guide out of the library and through the quiet, evening corridors of the castle. This journey was different from the last time he had been summoned to the seventh floor. The frantic, desperate hope of his first visit was gone, replaced by a cool, strategic focus. This was not a petition. This was a negotiation.
He dismissed the house-elf with a quiet thank you at the base of the stone gargoyle, speaking the now-familiar password, "Sherbet Lemon." As he stepped onto the ascending spiral staircase, he ran through his arguments one last time, preparing his case as if he were about to face a board of directors.
The polished oak door swung open to reveal the familiar, wondrous chaos of the Headmaster's office. This time, however, Dumbledore was not alone. Professor McGonagall stood near the fireplace, her back ramrod straight, her expression stern but not unkind. Fawkes let out a soft, welcoming trill from his perch.
"Mr Bloom," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "Thank you for coming so promptly. Please, have a seat. Professor McGonagall and I were just discussing the matter of your... extracurricular ambitions."
Jake sat, his carefully prepared arguments feeling suddenly inadequate. He decided that honesty, carefully framed, was his only viable strategy.
"You wished to discuss a way for you to acquire your own funds and materials for private study," Dumbledore began, getting straight to the point. "An unprecedented request. Professor McGonagall and I have some questions before we can even consider such a thing."
"Of course, Headmaster," Jake said.
McGonagall spoke, her voice crisp and direct. "Mr Bloom, this proposal of yours suggests a workload far beyond that of a normal first-year. We must have your assurance that this will not come at the expense of your core studies."
"It won't, Professor," Jake replied calmly. "My new training schedule is far more efficient. It has given me more time for my studies, not less. This project is for that extra time."
"And what, precisely, do you plan to purchase?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes sharp and perceptive.
"I wish to master the fundamentals, Headmaster. I want to brew a simple Cure for Boils a hundred times, until I understand not just the steps, but the why behind them. I want to purchase basic, common ingredients in bulk so I can practice the craft, not just follow the recipe." Jake replied honestly.
Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged a look. It was a surprising, and distinctly Ravenclaw, answer.
"And you believe this is the best use of your time?" McGonagall asked.
"I believe," Jake said, a new, more dangerous honesty entering his voice, "that my time is the only resource I truly have. And I have discovered a place within this castle that provides the perfect workshop for a student with a... specific need."
He saw the flash of understanding in Dumbledore's eyes. The Headmaster knew. Of course, he knew.
"The Room of Requirement," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet. It wasn't a question.
Jake simply nodded.
"I see," Dumbledore said, a thoughtful smile spreading across his face. "And in this... workshop... You practice your duelling stances and now want to grow your own plants and brew your own potions."
Jake's blood ran cold. He hadn't mentioned duelling. He felt completely, utterly exposed.
"A student with your level of ambition requires the proper tools," Dumbledore continued, his voice kind. "And the proper supervision." He looked at McGonagall, who gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Very well, Mr Bloom. Your request is approved, on two conditions. First, you will provide Professor Flitwick with a detailed list of every item you wish to purchase. He will approve it and place the order. An account will be set up for you at Gringotts, with a modest stipend from a Hogwarts fund for gifted orphans. You will be expected to pay it back once you are able."
Jake was stunned. "And the second condition, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Professor Flitwick has informed me of the duelling primer he gave you. An excellent choice. But theory and practice against dummies can only take you so far. I believe you will find that he will be holding... 'advanced remedial Charms tutoring'... in your workshop, once a week, starting next term. You are, of course, expected to attend."
Jake stared, his mind struggling to process the implications. He had come here for a negotiation and walked into a full-blown apprenticeship. "That's... incredibly generous, Headmaster. But that brings me to my next question. If I am to be brewing potions beyond the curriculum, am I permitted to sell the surplus?"
Professor McGonagall answered this time, her voice taking on a brisk, business-like tone. "An astute question, Mr Bloom. The answer is yes, under a strict framework. On Sunday, every fortnight, a house-elf will come to your... workshop... and collect any completed potions you wish to sell. They will be taken directly to Professor Snape for quality assurance. Only those that meet his exacting standards will be approved."
She fixed him with a stern look. "Upon his approval, the school will sell the potions to a trusted apothecary in Hogsmeade on your behalf. We will take a fifty per cent commission from all profits until the initial investment from the fund is repaid in full. There will be no interest, of course. Following the repayment, you will receive the entire sum from such sales."
It was a blatantly, absurdly one-sided deal, entirely in his favour. The school was providing the capital, the quality control, the distribution, and the storefront, and only taking a temporary commission to recoup their initial loan. Jake was overwhelmed, but his adult mind, his ingrained sense of fairness and ethics, immediately raised a counterpoint.
"Professors," he said, his voice quiet but firm, causing them both to look at him with surprise. "I am overjoyed. But I cannot accept those terms."
Before they could react, he continued, a deep, unwavering sincerity in his voice. "This life... it is a fantasy in many ways. But I am… I was an orphan too. I know what it is to have nothing. The fact that a fund like that even exists here is... it's a profound gift. I want to contribute to it."
He looked them both in the eye. "I propose a new set of terms. After the initial loan is repaid, I would like for twenty-five per cent of all my future profits to be tithed directly and permanently to the Hogwarts fund for gifted orphans. To help others like me."
The silence in the room was absolute. Dumbledore and McGonagall stared at him, their expressions a mixture of shock and profound, undisguised respect. They had come to this meeting to interrogate a potentially troublesome, overly ambitious boy. They were now faced with a young man who had just, on the spot, drafted a philanthropic business charter.
As if sensing the gravity of the moment, Fawkes launched from his perch again. He didn't land on the desk this time. He soared across the room and settled, impossibly gently, on Jake's shoulder, nudging his cheek with his warm beak and letting out a single, impossibly beautiful, bell-like note of pure approval.
McGonagall's stern facade finally broke. A slow, genuine, and deeply impressed smile spread across her face.
Dumbledore's eyes were no longer twinkling. They were shining.
"Your terms are accepted, Mr Bloom," the Headmaster said, his voice thick with an emotion Jake couldn't quite place. "Your generosity does you, and your House, a great credit." He stood, signalling the audience was over. "We expect great things from you."
As Jake pet the phoenix on his shoulder, he slowly rose. Fawkes nudging his face once more with his beak flew back to his perch with the grace only a mythical bird could have.
"Professors, I just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart and if there is anything I can do to repay you, either of you… Professor Flitwick included, just ask, please, at anytime and ill do my best," Jake said softly.
The two professors looked at each other again for a quick moment before Dumbledore's kindly voice rang out once more.
"Now now Mr Bloon, you dont want to make an old man cry now would you…"
Professor McGonnagal raised an eyebrow at this comment before saying in a crisp but not unkind tone. "Focus on your studies first and foremost, Mr Bloom, but don't forget you're only young once, and as your teachers, that's all we can ask or want".