After Charms class, Lynn followed Professor Flitwick to his office. When he emerged, Lynn held an extra palm-sized "notebook" in his hand.
The small booklet had a cover made of dragon hide, and the "pages" inside were not parchment, but soft-textured leaves crafted from the hide of a magical creature.
The gray-white pages had yellowed slightly, looking as if they had been around for quite a few years.
According to Professor Flitwick, pages made from the skin of Mooncalves and several other magical creatures could allow runes written with magical power to maintain their form without collapsing for about an hour or two. In the days before spells became popular, such spellbooks were essential casting aids for wizards when traveling.
However, after wands were invented and spell magic spread, spellbooks were quickly and thoroughly phased out. The one in his hand was certainly not an antique left over from a thousand years ago, but a replica Professor Flitwick had bought while traveling the world in his youth. Although it was a replica, its craftsmanship and effectiveness were actually no worse than those spellbooks of the past.
But spellbooks were merely a transitional method. In the era of rune magic, truly powerful casters almost never needed the assistance of a spellbook. Writing runes in the air using magical power was a very common and practical method, and wands could even provide extra help for this casting style.
The wand movements for modern spell magic are actually simplified forms of writing runes. The essence of modern spell design is the original rune magic. Generally, the birth of a new spell first requires determining the rune combination, then translating the runes into an incantation, and finally turning it into a spell.
The stagnation and slowness of modern spell development is also related to the fact that modern wizards rarely study Ancient Runes. If one doesn't even know runes, how can one talk about designing their own magic?
"Slang magic" that doesn't require runes does exist, but as for the effect and power of such things... one can only say that it might be somewhat useful in the hands of the inventor, but if others use it... it's not quite so reliable.
For example, take the phrase that will be heard one day in the future: "Peskipiksi Pesternomi," which originally meant "annoying pixies get away from me." This spell is a very typical piece of slang magic. The person who invented it could indeed use it to produce an effect, but if others use it, the result is very uncertain. Compared to standard spells translated from Ancient Rune programming, slang magic is extremely unstable.
Slang magic is more like a magical dialect; only the person who invented it can speak it with the right flavor.
After receiving this item, Lynn spent a lot of time studying it, to the point that he was somewhat distracted during his afternoon classes.
Soon it was time for the Halloween feast. The Great Hall had been decorated anew; thousands of bats fluttered their wings against the walls and ceiling, forming a giant dark cloud flying over people's heads. This wasn't some case of bats becoming spirits, but rather the result of Professor McGonagall's superb Transfiguration, having absolutely nothing to do with Snape.
Judging by his current attire, even if Snape used an Animagus transformation to turn into a bat, he would definitely be a Bat King—the kind whose bite causes mutations.
The golden platters were filled with all kinds of delicious food, as well as Halloween specials: Halloween haggis soup served in pumpkins, with "vampire kidneys," "eyes that died with open stares," and "maggot pasta" floating in the blood-red broth. Then there was the brain pudding covered in a sugar film, with raspberry jam "blood vessels" injected into the pink custard—both disgusting and delicious.
Of course, the bloody severed finger cookies tasted very good too. Setting aside their eye-stinging appearance, the bizarre Halloween-exclusive foods actually tasted quite nice.
"Huh? Hermione, why are you here?"
Lynn, sitting down and preparing to dig in, saw Hermione sitting with Harley. He spoke subconsciously; at this point in time, shouldn't Hermione still be squatting in a bathroom stall crying?
"Why... can't I be here?"
Hermione looked at Lynn with some confusion. "Am I supposed to be scared back to the dormitory by floating pumpkin heads?"
"I don't think pumpkin heads could scare you."
Lynn glanced at Hermione's plate, where a half-eaten portion of brain pudding sat, looking like a brain gnawed on by a zombie.
"You've got pretty heavy tastes."
"It just doesn't look good, but the taste is actually great. Do you want to try some, Lynn?"
"Maybe, but before eating brains, I plan to try this coffin bread first. The meat sauce inside smells so good."
When not sitting with Ron, Hermione indeed hadn't been angered by Ron waving his arms like a gorilla in class. And with Harley there, Hermione wasn't the type of person with no friends; her relationship with her roommates, Harley and Parvati, was quite good.
The title "Miss Know-It-All" hadn't been pinned on her either. In terms of all-around theoretical knowledge, she was still a long way behind Lynn. The gap in reading volume was evident; even if Lynn just squeezed in time to read, he could devour a book as thick as a brick in a day. This was something she couldn't achieve no matter how hard she tried—it was a gap in innate talent regarding memory.
But the happy Halloween feast was soon interrupted by an uninvited guest.
Just as people were excitedly trying those bizarre delicacies, the doors to the Great Hall were violently pushed open.
Quirrell, radiating a strong smell of garlic from his entire body, rushed into the dining hall. His large turban was askew on his head, and his face was full of terror.
Disturbed by the commotion, the young wizards stopped their whispering, and their eyes fell upon him.
Quirrell walked up to Dumbledore's seat, slumped against the table, gasping for breath, and stuttered frantically: "Troll... in the dungeons... thought you ought to know."
After saying this, he pitched forward onto the floor and fainted.
Lynn was completely unmoved, but countless screaming discussions erupted in the Great Hall. Dumbledore had to use his wand to create several loud firecracker blasts to suppress the noise and quiet everyone down.
"Prefects," Dumbledore said in a deep voice, "lead the students of your houses back to the dormitories immediately."
Upon hearing Dumbledore's words, Lynn put down his knife and fork and spoke in a low voice to Harley beside him.
"Harley, cry."
"What?"
"Just cry first."
Lynn reached out and pinched Harley's waist discreetly. The next second, Harley was streaming tears from the pain, looking up with teary eyes.
Just then, Snape, who had been about to walk toward Quirrell, stopped in his tracks. His heart felt as if it had been squeezed hard by something at that moment.
To hell with Quirrell! Get lost, get lost! Can't you see Harley is crying?! Stop getting in my way.
Quirrell, whose face was distorted after Snape stepped on the back of his head using him as a stepping stone, had to keep pretending to be unconscious. Otherwise, wouldn't his humiliation today be for nothing?
"Alright, go back. If Snape asks why you were crying, just say you were afraid of being eaten by the troll."
"I'm not a coward!"
Harley glared at Lynn angrily, but then silently nodded, agreeing to it.
"But, Lynn, tell me, are you planning to do something bad?"
Sharp-witted Harley smelled a prank. Although she hadn't caused any trouble up to now, some talents... well, if you have them, you have them.
"I'm helping others. Alright, enough talk, I have to go do some real work."
"Professor Quirrell is still waiting for me to give him his gift."
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