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November 24th.
Today is a good day.
Pushing open the castle gates, he was greeted by the long-lost winter sunlight; it wasn't blinding or scorching, but like a thin layer of gold powder evenly sprinkled across the stone floor of the Entrance Hall.
In the distance, the surface of the Black Lake shimmered with light, and the tips of the trees in the Forbidden Forest were still draped in the light frost accumulated overnight, glinting with fine silver under the sun.
The weather was good.
His mood was even better.
Because just this morning, Lynn had finally fleeced another new notebook out of Dumbledore.
As he walked back to the Hufflepuff Common Room, he clutched the notebook—not too thick, but substantial in weight—and the corners of his mouth refused to stay down.
It was just that the cover of this notebook… was a bit strange.
The dark brown leather cover was heavily worn at the corners, looking older than Dumbledore himself. A line of text was printed on the cover in gold-stamped letters—
"Gale's Insights on Fiendfyre"
When Lynn took the notebook, his hand paused for a moment.
"…Gale?" He looked up at Dumbledore.
The old Principal was leisurely pouring himself a cup of tea. Hearing this, he lifted his eyelids. "What about it?"
"No," Lynn shook the notebook in his hand, "is this Gale… Grindelwald?"
Dumbledore took a sip of tea and didn't speak, only slightly arched an eyebrow.
That expression clearly said: What do you think?
Lynn was silent for a full three seconds.… but he still couldn't help but ask: "…Principal, is this notebook legit?"
"If you think it's not legit, you can give it back to me." Dumbledore reached out his hand.
Lynn instantly hid the notebook behind his back.
"Legit, it's very legit! Could anything given by the Principal be illegitimate? I'll go back right now and study hard, make progress every day, strive to bring glory to Hogwarts and not lose face for you, sir—"
Dumbledore withdrew his hand and shook his head with a smile.
Lynn clutched the notebook and slipped away faster than a rabbit, as if his feet were greased.
And now, this "Gale's Insights on Fiendfyre" was lying in his arms.
As he walked toward the Great Hall, he flipped through it casually.
The content inside was indeed solid—not mystical boasting, but real magical theory, spell-casting techniques, practical applications, and even some annotations.
Although the handwriting was as messy as chicken scratch, every line carried an arrogance of "I'm just this good; if you can't learn it, that's your problem."
Lynn read with great interest.
When he flipped to a certain page, his gaze stopped.
Protego Diabolica.
A heavy underline was drawn beneath this name, and next to it was a small annotation in that chicken-scratch handwriting: Everyone who uses it says it's good; everyone who hasn't is dead.
Lynn: "…."
He stared at this annotation for a long time.
Then he decided: [Record].
The description said that this spell could summon a barrier of fire around the caster, which could not only block most physical and magical attacks but also actively incinerate any enemies that got close.
It placed extremely high demands on the caster's magical control and fire affinity; a slight slip-up would turn one into a roast chicken.
Lynn closed the notebook with satisfaction, deciding to find an opportunity to test its effects… in the afternoon.
As he walked toward the Great Hall, he began to think about today's dinner.
Since the start of the school year, the house-elves had been pulling out all the stops in front of the international students and teachers, innovating the menu every day.
Yesterday was French escargot with Yorkshire pudding; today's lunch was South American-style beef empanadas and African-spiced roast chicken.
Lynn speculated that by evening, they would return to tradition and serve Scotch eggs.
Just as Lynn was immersed in the ultimate human philosophical question of "what to eat for lunch"—
"Tap, tap, tap—"
A burst of hurried footsteps came from the corner of the corridor.
He looked up and saw a young girl from the lower years running toward him.
Lynn's first reaction: another one wanting an autograph?
Ever since he was spat out by the Goblet of Fire and publicly announced as the champion of the "Azkaban Higher Institute," this kind of thing had happened more times than he could count.
At first, he would patiently explain, "I really didn't graduate from Azkaban," "The Goblet of Fire malfunctioned with the name," and "I'm just an ordinary Hufflepuff student."
Later, he found that explaining was useless; the more he explained, the more everyone thought he was covering it up, and the more he covered it up, the more excited everyone became.
Then people even started coming to him with parchment for autographs, wearing expressions of "I know a big shot from Azkaban, I'm so cool," while he signed.
Lynn: …Whatever.
So at this moment, seeing the girl stop in front of him, he reflexively reached into his pocket—
A signed photo.
Edgar had egged him on to take it before, saying, "A champion should look like a champion; in case you get famous later, we can sell these for money."
In the photo, Lynn was expressionless, with a background of Photoshopped gold and red flames, and a line of fancy script in the corner: Lynn—Champion of Azkaban Higher Institute.
Lynn had stared at this photo in silence for ten minutes back then.
Now, he skillfully handed the signed photo to the girl.
"Here."
The girl froze for a moment.
She looked down at the signed photo, then up at Lynn, then down again, then back up again.
Then she casually stuffed the photo into her pocket.
Lynn: ?
Wait. No signing ceremony? No photo together? No "wow, it's the Azkaban champion, so cool"?
After stuffing it away, the girl spoke calmly:
"Mr. Bagman asked me to take you for wand weighing, and while we're at it, to be interviewed and have photos taken for the occasion."
Lynn: "…."
Fine. He had been flattering himself.
"Wand weighing? Today?"
"Yes." The girl nodded. "All the other champions have arrived; you're the only one left."
Lynn sighed and put the unused quill back into his pocket. "Alright, lead the way."
…
The girl led him through several corridors, finally stopping at the door of a classroom that wasn't usually used.
The door was slightly ajar, and faint sounds of voices and camera clicks drifted from inside.
Lynn pushed it open.
The classroom was already packed.
The champions from the six schools were scattered in small groups. When Katya saw Lynn enter, he instinctively took half a step back.
In the center, several Ministry of Magic officials were busy.
A balding man holding a camera was directing Fleur to adjust her pose, while a young witch stood nearby, rapidly taking notes with a quill.
Lynn didn't disturb anyone and quietly found a seat against the wall.
He scanned the room and realized the process seemed to be: interview first, photos second, wand weighing last.
Just then, he felt a gaze land on him.
He turned his head.
The female reporter currently interviewing Harry was looking him up and down.
She wore eye-catching magenta robes, blonde curls perfectly set, lipstick matching her outfit, and jeweled glasses perched on her nose.
The most uncomfortable thing was her expression—it wasn't the look of a reporter; it was the look of a predator sizing up prey.
Lynn frowned. He tapped Cedric beside him and asked in a low voice, "Who's that reporter? Why does she keep staring at me?"
Cedric followed his gaze, and his expression changed instantly.
"That's Rita Skeeter." His voice dropped. "Daily Prophet. Lynn, be careful. It's never a good thing to be targeted by her."
Rita Skeeter. The name sounded familiar.
Lynn thought for a moment and remembered.
Those sensational gossip pieces in The Daily Prophet—"exclusive revelations," "shocking inside sources," and "insider reports"—all of them came from her.
She loved digging up dirt on famous people, and if there wasn't any, she would invent it. Very few people targeted by her ended well.
Lynn withdrew his gaze with mild annoyance.
It wasn't fear—he didn't have much to hide anyway.
He was just annoyed at being sized up like prey.
You'd better not mess with me.
He silently noted the name Rita Skeeter, then turned his attention away and looked at Fleur instead, who was currently being photographed in the center of the room.
Her long silver hair cascaded like a waterfall. She tilted her head slightly for the camera, lips curved into a perfect arc, deep blue eyes calm and confident.
The balding photographer clicked rapidly: "Good, very good—slightly more to the side—yes, chin up—perfect—"
Lynn rested his chin on his hand and watched.
It had to be said—looking at a beauty was indeed much more pleasant than being stared at by someone with obvious ill intent.