Hogwarts: Dumbledore is My Uncle
Chapter 1 Dumbledore in the Castle
[New Author, New Book Sets Sail]
(Please leave your brains here for safekeeping, everyone; there will be Pea Shooters here, no need to worry about zombies)
On September 1, 1987, the night fell like a piece of deep blue velvet soaked in shadows, heavily shrouding Hogwarts.
The millennial stone castle stood silently in the dark, a pale golden magical halo flowing along the stone walls, its spires piercing the night sky, as quiet as if it were breathing.
Inside the Great Hall, however, was another world—over a thousand candles burned suspended in mid-air, golden-red firelight splashing across four long tables; the charred aroma of roast beef, the wheaty fragrance of hot bread, the scent of sweet-yet-not-greasy pumpkin juice mixed with a hint of butterbeer, intertwining into the uniquely warm feeling of Hogwarts that one could remember in a single bite.
Voices, the clinking of cutlery, and laughter crashed together, bustling to the point of burning hot.
Eleven-year-old Amster Dumbledore sat quietly at the very end of the staff table.
This seat had belonged to him alone ever since he could remember.
There were no questions, no discussions, as if he were naturally born to stand beside the professors, watching generation after generation of new students step into this ancient magic castle hiding countless secrets, with a special identity that belonged to no house yet was tacitly approved by the entire castle.
He turned his head slightly, looking toward the Black Lakeoutside the arched window.
The surface of the lake shimmered with a cold blue light, and the small boats carrying the new students were breaking through the night, slowly approaching the dock.
Young wizards crowded by the sides of the boats, peering out, their eyes shining like newly ignited Lumos, filled with the most primitive and burning curiosity about the magical world.
Amster's gaze softened gently for a fleeting moment, his thoughts pulled far, far back into the past by the swaying shadows of the boats.
While still in swaddling clothes, he was carried into Hogwarts by Aberforth.
Talking portraits, staircases that turned on their own, torches that were forever warm... this castle was his earliest cradle.
At the age of three, he traveled far to Huaxia, immersing his heart for three years in the mysterious magical system of the East.
Ancient incantations, unique lineage spellcraft, and cultivation methods completely different from the West were carved into his bones and blood early on.
Returning at age six, he had not reached enrollment age, could not be sorted, and could not choose classes, yet all the professors quietly kept him in their hearts—
With no one coercing or constraining him, amidst the freest guidance, he grew into the calm, aloof youth he was now, hiding unfathomable power within.
"Amster."
Professor Flitwick's high-pitched voice suddenly rang out, the short professor's eyes curving with a bright gleam, his tone brisk and enthusiastic, entirely possessing the unique vibrancy of a Charms class teacher:
"Look at these children, their eyes are full of light! That is the most moving part of magic, isn't it?"
Amster withdrew his gaze, his voice light and steady: "Yes, Professor. They have made this place warmer."
"Well said." Professor Sprout responded gently at once, her round face carrying a plain, soft smile like soil, looking at the new students as if tending to her most delicate herbology plants: "Hogwarts will wait for them to grow up slowly, just like I wait for a blade of grass to Sprout—not rushing, yet never giving up."
Amster nodded slightly, the corners of his lips curling into a faint yet sincere arc: "You have always been like this."
A single sentence made Sprout smile even more warmly, reaching out to gently pat his arm, her eyes full of undisguised favoritism.
At this very moment, Amster's gaze gently fell diagonally ahead.
Snape.
Wrapped in black robes, his complexion as gloomy as the shadows deep within a dungeon, greasy black hair clinging to his cheeks, a pair of dark eyes as cold and sharp as knives, as if able to carve through all disguises.
He lowered his eyes, seemingly staring at the goblet in his hand, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing against the rim of the cup, the chill around his body nearly condensing into frost.
Yet Amster knew better than anyone—
That cold, hidden sidelong glance, never shown to anyone, had been locked onto him from beginning to end.
This was Snape.
Never speaking soft words, never having a smiling face, never revealing a shred of care.
His care was hidden in indifference, his protection wrapped in harshness, and his expectations pressed into silence.
Awkward, proud, saying one thing while meaning another, yet incomparably sincere.
Amster did not point it out, merely nodding toward him extremely lightly and faintly.
A greeting only the two of them could understand.
Snape's fingertips paused abruptly.
The next second, he quickly averted his gaze, his expression colder and heavier than before, raising his goblet to take a sip with his head tilted back, deliberately keeping a straight face as if angrily and embarrassedly covering up his gaze from just moments ago.
That tsundere look of "I wasn't even looking at you" was so blatant it was almost impossible to hide.
A flash of extremely faint, extremely quiet amusement crossed Amster's eyes, and he did not look over again.
The clamor surged in abruptly—the new students flooded into the Great Hall.
Tender faces, nervous eyes, and curious gasps instantly filled every gap.
They gazed at the floating candles and the starry ceiling, their eyes written full of shock.
Amster watched quietly, a trace of light and shallow emotion sweeping across his heart.
He had grown from an infant to a youth at Hogwarts, witnessing countless beginnings and farewells.
And tonight, yet another batch of young wizards would write their own stories here.
The song of the Sorting Hat sounded, the sorting ceremony began, and cheers and applause rose and fell one after another.
The start-of-term feast concluded, students left one after another, and the Great Hall gradually grew quiet.
Amster stood up, nodded slightly to the professors, and walked alone toward the depths of the castle.
He did not go to Slytherin, did not go to Gryffindor, and did not go to any common room.
Familiar with the path, he turned into that hidden corridor, walking toward the place in all of Hogwarts that understood him best—
The Room of Requirement.
There hid the ancient texts he brought back from the East, the materials the professors quietly prepared for him, and the quietness, freedom, and secrets of his entire childhood.
As the night grew deeper, the castle's lights remained as gentle as ever.
Amster stood before the door, casting a glance back at the distant, darkening Great Hall, his gaze calm yet hiding an unshakable light.
Within this millennial magic castle,
His story was only just beginning to unfold.
Chapter 2: Which House Do You Want to Go To
[New author, new book sets sail]
(Please leave your brains here for safekeeping, everyone. There will be Peashooters here, so no need to worry about zombies)
A year slipped by silently.
The morning light of the Room of Requirement filtered through the carved lattice windows and fell beside Amster's pillow.
He slowly opened his eyes, his gaze landing calmly on the letter by his pillow—heavy parchment, sealed with red wax bearing the Hogwarts crest, four giant beasts surrounding a central H, solemn to the point of being rigid.
He felt not a shred of surprise, picked it up casually, and with a light flick of his fingertip, broke the wax seal.
His uncle had smilingly mentioned to him last year that even though he had lived in the castle since infancy and didn't need to rush to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters or crowd onto the Hogwarts Express, this acceptance letter still had to be delivered to him in accordance with tradition.
He pulled out the letter paper, his gaze sweeping over the lines of text he could already recite by heart, and flipped through the attached list.
It listed everything a first-year student should have: black robes, pointed hats, dragon-hide gloves, winter cloaks, and a set of standard textbooks and equipment.
Amster folded the letter paper and stuffed it back into the drawer along with the rest.
The items on the list had long since been prepared when he studied under the various professors.
His elder and phoenix feather wand lay quietly in a box on the bedside table, having accompanied him for many years longer than most students' wands.
To him, this letter was merely a formal procedure to turn that "special child living in the castle" into a truly enrolled Hogwarts student.
He got up, straightened his black wizard's robe, pinned his name tag to his collar, and pushed the door open to walk out of the Room of Requirement.
In the corridor, the portraits gathered in their frames to chat idly, the moving staircases turned sluggishly in different directions, and morning light leaked through the cracks in the stone, spreading mottled fragments of light on the floor.
When he reached the second-floor corner, he bumped head-on into a red-haired boy.
The other person was wearing a second-year black robe, with the Gryffindor lion emblem embroidered on his chest. His expression carried a youthful reserve and exuded an overly earnest sense of rules—it was Percy Weasley.
Percy recognized him at a glance, a trace of understanding flashing through his blue eyes, and he hurriedly stepped aside toward the wall.
"Good morning." Amster spoke first, his tone very light.
Percy immediately straightened his back and smiled standardly and politely: "Good morning, Amster. I am Percy Weasley, second year, Gryffindor."
He paused, as if feeling that just giving his name wasn't respectable enough, and quickly added: "My eldest brother Bill is a curse-breaker at Gringotts, and my second brother Charlie went to Romania last year to study dragons. There are also Fred and George at home, and they'll be coming here next year, plus Ron and Ginny... People in the Weasley family always go into Gryffindor."
When speaking of his family, his tone hid a trace of uncontrollable pride, and he subconsciously tidied the red hair in front of his forehead.
Amster listened quietly, his gaze falling lightly upon the emblem on Percy's chest, and he nodded: "It sounds like a very lively home."
"Indeed." Percy relaxed a bit, as if remembering something. "By the way, are you also getting sorted today? I always thought you were already considered a student here."
"Uncle said my birthday was a few days late, so this year counts as my official enrollment." Amster replied indifferently, not offering much explanation.
Percy immediately understood who the "uncle" in his words referred to, a trace of awe flashing across his face. He asked no more questions and simply accompanied him toward the Great Hall.
Along the way, he occasionally pointed at the portraits in the corridor to whisper their names, reminding him which flight of stairs loved to suddenly shift positions, acting very much like a conscientious junior senior.
In the evening, the Great Hall was brightly lit.
The floating candles burned silently, their crimson and golden light spilling across the four long tables. The sweet aroma of baked pumpkin pies and the faint malty scent of butterbeer drifted through the air.
This time, Amster did not walk toward the staff table, but instead stood at the very back of the first-year queue, standing with the other eleven-year-old children to await the start of the Sorting ceremony.
The Sorting Hat's aged song echoed through the Great Hall, hoarse yet slightly humorous.
Professor McGonagall held a roll of parchment and called out the names one by one.
When the words "Amster Dumbledore" fell clearly, the noisy Great Hall fell inexplicably silent for a fraction of a second.
Almost all gazes fell squarely upon him.
Amster walked slowly forward and sat down on that polished, gleaming wooden stool.
McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head, the brim pulled down very low, completely blocking his line of sight.
The next second, the sounds of the outside world were separated as if by a layer of fog, and an aged voice drilled directly into his mind.
"Hmm... Material of a rare sort." The Sorting Hat said leisurely, "Gryffindor's courage—you didn't retreat a single bit when facing the acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest; Ravenclaw's wisdom, Flitwick is always praising you to everyone; Hufflepuff's grounded loyalty, I see it clear as day; and Slytherin... ambition, vision, astuteness—the drive hidden in the depths of your eyes is fiercer than that of many pure-blood children."
"Child, you possess the qualities of all four Houses. Which one do you want to go to?"
Amster's consciousness did not hesitate for a fraction of a second, replying clearly in the depths of his heart: "Slytherin."
The Sorting Hat paused noticeably, its tone carrying a few extra parts of inquiry.
"Slytherin? Your surname is Dumbledore, and the entire magical world knows this name. Whichever House you casually choose, you will be held in the palm of everyone's hand. Why choose Slytherin? They value bloodline the most, and you... happen to be the most special one of all."
"Precisely because my surname is Dumbledore."
Amster's thought was calm, yet exceptionally resolute,
"Bloodline is my origin, not my capital. Slytherin believes in strength and bloodline, so I will let everyone know right where they care most—that the name Dumbledore relies not on a surname, but on true ability."
The Sorting Hat fell silent for a few seconds, then let out a low, hearty laugh.
That laughter filtered through the brim of the hat, clearly spreading across the entire Great Hall.
"Good! What a Dumbledore who doesn't rely on bloodline to make his stand!"
The next instant, that aged declaration exploded:
"Slytherin—!"
The Slytherin long table instantly burst into neat applause, silver and green scarves waving in mid-air.
Amster removed the Sorting Hat and handed it back to Professor McGonagall. As he stood up, his gaze inadvertently swept across the staff table.
Albus Dumbledore was looking at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his eyes filled with gentle gratification.
Meanwhile, Snape still wore that gloomy, cold face, yet he nodded ever so slightly, his fingertips tapping silently against the wall of his goblet.
That was an approval belonging solely to him.
Amster withdrew his gaze and walked with a straight posture toward the Slytherin long table.
Amidst the curious, scrutinizing, and probing gazes of the crowd of pure-blood students, he found an empty seat and sat down, his expression calm and composed, without a trace of awkwardness.
Night slowly crept over Hogwarts, the castle's lights remaining warm as ever.
This boy who grew up in the castle and was regarded by everyone as special finally embarked on his true magical journey in the identity of a Slytherin student.
Chapter 3: Encounter Near the Restricted Section
From the night of September 1st, the moment the Sorting Hat loudly called out "Slytherin", Amster Dumbledoreofficially integrated into the daily life of Hogwarts as a house student.
He did not take advantage of any special treatment because of his unique surname, nor was he deliberately treated differently because of the name Dumbledore. Like all first-year students, he appeared on time for every class, completed the assignments assigned by the Professor, and followed the rules of the castle, only possessing a calmness and composure etched into his bones far beyond his peers.
A month passed in the blink of an eye, and autumn permeated the entire castle.
The maple trees outside the castle were dyed a golden red, and a few withered leaves often fell under the window sills, adding a layer of quiet desolation to the millennium-old stone castle.
The afternoon sunlight pierced through the towering stained glass of the Library, shattering into mottled patches of light that fell upon a row of oak bookshelves reaching straight to the ceiling. The Hogwarts Libraryalways carried a mixed scent of old parchment, dried ink, and lavender mothballs. The deeper one walked, the dimmer the light became, with only a few floating candle lamps suspended in mid-air, casting a dim, quiet halo and wrapping the surroundings in silence.
Further ahead was the Restricted Section sealed off by a magic barrier.
A light blue shimmer gently floated in the air, carrying an oppressive sense that forbade approach. Ordinary students would instinctively quicken their pace when walking nearby; only Amster stood quietly between the bookshelf gaps outside the barrier, seemingly indifferent to that obscure pressure.
He held a thick book with a dark brown cover — Elementary Alchemy and materials Transformation Principles".
That was a reference book that only students in the fifth grade and above were qualified to read after obtaining the Professor's handwritten signature. The pages were covered with complex magic arrays, twisted ancient runic scripts, and dense derivation formulas. Even top-performing senior students might not be able to read through it smoothly.
Yet Amster merely lowered his eyes, reading line by line with a calm expression, his fingertips occasionally tapping lightly on a certain line of text, quiet and focused, showing not a shred of strain.
He had long since finished learning most of the Elementarycourses following various Professor in the castle, and now he was merely filling in those deeper and more obscure gaps in knowledge.
"...Can you understand it?"
A light and clear female voice suddenly broke the silence.
The voice was not loud, just enough for him to hear without disturbing the students reading in the distance, striking just the right balance.
Amster slowly raised his eyes.
Standing beside him was a female student of the same grade, with sleek brown curly hair, and a pair of thin round-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. The eyes behind the lenses were bright and sharp, carrying the Ravenclaw student's characteristic, almost stubborn dedication to knowledge. Her robes were neat and crisp, with her cuffs buttoned meticulously, making her look like a person who acted with rigor and meticulous thought at a glance.
Seeing him look over, the girl showed not a hint of awkwardness, but politely lifted her chin, gesturing to the book in his hand. There was only pure confusion in her tone, without a shred of contempt:
"That is a core reference book for senior Alchemy, containing a large amount of ancient runic scripts and magic derivations. Among the senior students of Ravenclaw, there are very few who can completely understand it."
Amster withdrew his gaze, letting it fall back onto the book pages. His tone was calm and natural, neither showing off nor deliberately keeping a low profile:
"Most of it can be understood, but the practical part still requires experimental verification."
Concise, restrained, and steady—completely his usual self.
The girl was slightly startled.
She had expected to hear vague evasions or pretense-filled perfunctory remarks, but she didn't expect this Slytherinboy to answer with an openness bordering on straightforwardness.
She stepped closer gently, maintaining a polite distance, her gaze quickly sweeping across the pages he had spread open. Among those dense symbols, she could only recognize a few scattered spots.
"I am Penelope Clearwater, a first-year Ravenclaw." She took the initiative to introduce herself, her voice light yet clear, well-structured. "I am very interested in Alchemy, ancient runic scripts, and magic theory, but the courses haven't covered them yet, so I can only read Elementarybooks in my spare time, and I can't understand a lot of them."
Mentioning her favorite Domain, her eyes noticeably brightened by a few shades—that was a heartfelt passion for knowledge, yet reined in just right by good upbringing, not flamboyant, only making one feel sincere.
"Amster Dumbledore." He simply stated his name without extra explanation.
As soon as this name was uttered, Penelope's gaze paused almost imperceptibly.
Of course she had heard of it.
At the opening Sorting ceremony, the Dumbledore who chose Slytherin had long been the focus of private discussions among first-years.
Yet she didn't show surprise, awe, or probing like others; she merely nodded gently, as if noting down an ordinary name, and the next second put her attention back onto the book.
"Are you looking up materials in a specific direction?" Penelope continued to ask, her tone rational and natural. "Alchemy has very high requirements for magic control and materials stability; the slightest deviation will cause problems, and current courses don't use anything this deep."
"It has nothing to do with class." Amster gently turned a page, his fingertips pausing for a moment on a passage of text regarding ancient metal refining. "There are just some principles I want to figure out in advance."
Penelope did not pursue the matter further.
She could tell that the boy before her did not like being overly pried into, and she was not one to pester endlessly by nature. She simply stood quietly to the side, occasionally looking at the book pages, occasionally gazing toward the shimmering Restricted Section barrier not far away, with a calm attitude and proper discretion.
"This place is close to the Restricted Section, and Madam Pince watches very strictly." She gently reminded him, her tone being the rigorous and thoughtful Ravenclaw style. "Without Professor's special permission, staying here too long makes it easy to be noticed. Also, senior books cannot be taken out of the Library without a signature."
Her reminder was clear and well-structured, speaking only of rules without preaching or carrying accusations, calm yet considerate.
Amster nodded slightly: "I know, I'll leave after finishing this section."
There was no superfluous small talk between the two, yet it wasn't awkward at all.
One read intently, the other accompanied quietly, both sinking together into the quietness unique to knowledge within the Library.
For Penelope, being able to encounter a peer in her first year who was willing to calm down and delve into high-tier theories was enough in itself to catch her attention.
She quietly watched Amster's action of turning pages, watching his calm profile when facing complex formulas, and gradually formed a clear judgment in her heart —
This composure never came from a Clan halo, but from genuinely grappling with, understanding, and pondering over it.
Moments later, Amster gently closed the book and steadily returned it to the bookshelf according to the number, his movements regular and meticulous.
"I'll be going first." He said in a low voice.
Just the moment he turned around, Penelope suddenly spoke softly.
Her voice was very light, mixed into the faint rustling of turning pages, yet exceptionally clear, just enough for the two of them to hear.
"Amster Dumbledore."
Amster's steps paused as he looked back at her.
Penelope still stood in place, her brown curls gleaming softly under the dim lamplight, the gaze behind her glasses bright and resolute, carrying Ravenclaw's unique sharpness and seriousness.
She said no polite pleasantries, made no promises to meet again, and probed no further, merely saying calmly, clearly, and word by word:
"I've remembered you."
No warmth, no ingratiation, no curiosity.
Only a sentence of pure, restrained recognition from the strong toward the strong.
Amster looked at her and nodded slightly, counting as a silent response.
He turned and strode away, his figure plunging into the bright corridor of the Library, quickly disappearing at the end of the bookshelf corner.
Penelope stood in place, her gaze lingering for an instant on the spot where he had just stayed, the corners of her mouth curling into an extremely faint, extremely satisfied arc.
Hogwarts was huge, and there were many students.
But people truly worth her remembering were never many.
And today, she remembered one.
She picked up a few copies of History of Magic that she had placed aside, walking briskly and orderly toward the circulation desk, her back quickly blending into the deep, quiet atmosphere of the Library.
Outside the window, the autumn wind swept up a golden maple leaf, gently pressing it against the glass window before slowly sliding down.
The Library returned to silence once more, as if that brief encounter had never happened.
Chapter 4 A Stranger in the Kitchen
Late at night, Hogwarts was always wrapped in a chill that seeped through the cracks of the stones.
The wind drilled through the gaps in the tower, swirling low in the empty corridor like a muffled sigh.
The suits of armor on both sides of the corridor stood silently, their metal plates occasionally clicking softly with the castle's breath before instantly returning to dead silence.
The portraits on the walls slept in disarray, some snoring lightly, others wearing smiles from their dreams in the corners of their mouths, and even the most boisterous Peeves was nowhere to be seen, leaving the entire castle sinking into the bottomless night.
Amster was woken up by a distinct sense of hunger.
He sat up from the bed in the Room of Requirement, his fingertips gently rubbing the corners of his eyes.
The lights in the room still maintained the most comfortable brightness, warm and dry, without a shred of the gloom and cold of the castle's deep night.
Ever since he accidentally unlocked the magic of this room, it had become his true dwelling—quiet, at ease, and free from prying eyes, feeling more like his own place than any house dormitory.
The discomfort of an empty stomach grew increasingly obvious; he draped a black robe over his shoulders, straightened his collar, and pushed open the door on tiptoe.
Every corridor, every flight of stairs, and every mischievous portrait in the castle was so familiar to him that he could walk them with his eyes closed.
Which staircase would turn on its own, which portrait liked to scare people in the middle of the night, and which corridor hid inconspicuous little mechanisms—he was entirely clear on all of it.
This familiarity, soaked in the castle since childhood, allowed him to walk more steadily than anyone else in the dead of night.
Moonlight poured in from the tall arched windows, spreading a patch of cold white across the ground.
He walked down along the route he knew by heart, avoiding a few noisy portraits that weren't fully asleep, steering clear of the slowly moving stairs, and finally stopped in front of the mural filled with yellow pears and green leaves.
He raised his finger and gently scratched the plump pear in the center of the painting.
The pear immediately giggled, twisted its body, and transformed into a smooth wooden door.
As soon as the door was pushed open, a rich aroma surged out—hot butter, freshly baked muffins, warm and sweet pumpkin juice, mixed with the faint burnt fragrance of fireplace firewood, striking one's nose with warmth in the freezing late night, instantly dispelling most of the chill.
But the moment he stepped inside, Amster stopped in his tracks.
In the spacious kitchen, the firewood in the fireplace crackled softly, warm light blanketed the floor, and the copper kitchen utensils were polished to a shine.
Various pastries were laid out on the long table, and in the corner next to the cupboard, a tall and straight brown-haired boy was standing on tiptoe, trying hard to reach the cookie jar on the high shelf.
Hearing the footsteps behind him, the boy instantly stiffened all over, like a small beast caught on the spot.
He slowly turned his head, his cheeks already flushed red, his clear eyes filled with the embarrassment of being caught nightwalking, standing in place at a loss, holding his breath to a bare minimum.
It was Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff.
The kitchen was so quiet that only the soft crackle of burning firewood remained, and the atmosphere was slightly taut with awkwardness.
Cedric hurriedly withdrew his hand hanging in mid-air, awkwardly scratched the back of his head, made no excuses, and honestly apologized in a low voice, his tone full of anxiety:
"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to break school rules, I just didn't eat enough tonight and was too hungry to sleep. I heard from a senior that there was food in the kitchen, so I plucked up the courage to find my way here."
He was honest to the point of being well-behaved, without a shred of naughtiness or the slightest concealment.
Amster neither blamed nor mocked him, simply raising his hand to point at the large earthenware jar in the center of the long table, his tone as casual as if speaking of the most ordinary thing:
"The pumpkin juice over there is warm."
A simple sentence instantly relaxed Cedric's tense shoulders.
Most of the embarrassment in his eyes dissipated, revealing a grateful and shy smile: "Thank you so much! My name is Cedric Diggory, first-year Hufflepuff."
"Amster."
He only gave his name, deliberately omitting the surname that was far too glaringly conspicuous in Hogwarts.
Cedric did not ask more, did not pry into his identity, and did not cast strange glances because he had once appeared at the staff table, simply treating him naturally as an ordinary peer.
This kind of interaction—without filters, without looking at status, and without speculating on background—allowed Amster to breathe a rare sigh of relief in his heart.
A few small house-elves noticed the commotion and quietly brought over warm muffins, honey-spread toast, and a dish of sweet little cookies, placing them down gently before silently retreating to the side without disturbing them in the least.
Cedric didn't say much, and every sentence was gentle and sincere.
He softly spoke of Hufflepuff's common room, saying it was close to the kitchen, forever warm and cozy, filled with the aroma of baking; he spoke of how the soil from Herbology classes always clung to the hem of his robes, retaining a faint grassy scent after being washed several times; he spoke of how he looked forward to Quidditch, but because of his shyness, he felt too embarrassed to squeeze into the front rows of the stands.
There were no trade-offs, no probings, and no tacit, knowing glances like those among Slytherin in his words—only the purest sharing.
For Amster, this was in the castle that had accompanied his entire childhood,
the first time he had an interaction that belonged solely to "Amster".
What the other person saw was not Dumbledore, not the headmaster's nephew, not that special boy, but simply him.
The two ate their pastries quietly, occasionally exchanging low words, while the warm light of the kitchen stretched their two figures long, creating a peaceful and comfortable atmosphere.
Until the hunger completely dissipated, Cedric looked at him somewhat sheepishly, his fingertips gently clutching the corner of his clothes, his tone carrying a trace of cautious anticipation:
"In the future... if I'm hungry at night again, can I still join you? Walking the corridors alone in the middle of the night, I'm still a little scared."
Amster looked into his sincere eyes, nodded gently, and a very faint, soft arc curved at the corners of his lips.
The two quietly retreated from the kitchen, shutting the room full of warmth behind the door, and walked together down the silent corridor.
Reaching the fork in the road between the Hufflepuffcommon room and the Room of Requirement, they exchanged a brief farewell and parted ways.
Amster walked back to the Room of Requirement slowly by himself, the warmth of the hot muffin still lingering on his fingertips, and a faint warmth overflowing deep within his heart.
He didn't notice that at the moment he turned around, deep within the crevices of the suit of armor at the end of the corridor,
a gaze hidden in the shadows quietly locked onto his back, remaining silent for a long time before slowly withdrawing.
Chapter 5: The Commotion Caused by a Research Paper
The warmth of November had not yet completely dissipated when the cold wind of December whipped up snowflakes, enveloping the entire Hogwarts.
The lawns were covered in a thin frost, and the Black Lakefroze over with a layer of bright ice. The wind scraped against faces with a piercing chill, and the breath of winter suddenly thrust itself into every crevice of the castle.
Ever since that chance encounter in the kitchen, the intersection between Amster and Cedric Diggory had existed faintly yet steadily.
The two occasionally bumped into each other in the corner of the Library, sitting close together, reading their own books without disturbing one another.
Meeting in the corridors, they would quietly hand over a piece of chocolate or gently nod.
Their acquaintance was not flamboyant, but comfortable and natural.
What truly stirred up waves was that research paper.
A piece independently completed by a first-year freshman, "Research on the Domestication, Cultivation, and Noise-Resistance Optimization of Mandrakes", without any private guidance from professors and without a shred of assistance from family, solely relying on solid observations and train of thought, went straight onto the "Wizarding Herbology Journal".
As soon as the news spread, all of Hogwarts was discussing it.
In Herbology Class, Professor Sprout held the photocopy, her eyes curved with a smile:
"Look at this logic, this detail — some seventh-year students couldn't write out this level of foundation."
She directly posted the paper on the most conspicuous wall of the classroom.
Professor Flitwick concealed his appreciation even less, standing on tiptoe and patting Amster's shoulder:
"Beautiful logic, solid foundation, I knew you wouldn't let people down."
That issue of the journal was solemnly placed by him in the most conspicuous position of his office.
In Potions Class, however, it was a completely different atmosphere.
Snape was wrapped in black robes, his complexion as gloomy as the shadows deep within the dungeons.
He slowly walked down the podium, his gaze sweeping across the entire class, finally landing on Amster, his voice low and hoarse, carrying his habitual sarcasm.
"Amster Dumbledore."
He drew out his tone, "It seems the time you've wasted on herbology hasn't been completely idiotic yet. This piece... is barely readable, at least better than certain idiots who can't even tell Mandrakes and hellebores apart."
He coldly glanced around at the daydreaming students.
"Don't expect your surname to prop you up. This paper still has some genuine substance."
This was already the highest recognition Snape could give.
Cold, hard, venomous, yet hiding an awkward affirmation.
On a winter afternoon, snowflakes rustled against the glass windows, and the sky was gray and stuffy.
Amster was holding his herbology textbooks and notes, having just walked to the center of the courtyard, when he was blocked by three Slytherin fourth-year students.
The leader was Marcus Belby, of pure-blood descent, with an arrogant look on his face.
"Yo, isn't this the little Dumbledore famous for relying on his headmaster uncle?"
Belby deliberately raised his voice, "A crappy paper can make it into a journal? Without your uncle calling in favors, you wouldn't even touch the fringe!"
The two lackeys immediately burst into laughter, their words becoming increasingly grating.
Amster stopped in his tracks, neither angry nor panicked, just standing quietly there with a calm look in his eyes.
"Clean up your mouth!"
A clear voice rushed over.
Percy Weasley hurried out of the corridor, his Gryffindorred-and-gold robes standing out strikingly in the gray and cold weather.
He walked straight to Amster's side, his spine held straight, facing the upperclassmen without retreating half a step.
"The paper was written by himself, and Professor Sprouthas already approved it. You cannot slander people casually!"
Belby sneered: "Someone from the Weasley family dares to meddle in my business?"
"I won't let you bully a classmate." Percy didn't budge an inch.
Amster gently pressed down on his arm and took a slight step forward.
Without any flamboyant posture, he naturally carried a settled aura.
His voice was not loud, but it spread clearly:
"Have you read the 'Wizarding Herbology Journal'?"
Belby became angry: "What business is it of yours?"
"You don't even know what my paper wrote about," Amster looked at him, his gaze calm yet sharp, "and you can't even state the basic habits of a Mandrake; what right do you have to stand here and judge me?"
The courtyard instantly fell silent.
"You target me, not because I'm not good enough, but because you can't do it."
"You bring up my surname because, aside from your so-called pure-blood status, you have nothing else to show."
Belby's face turned flush red, veins bulging, but he couldn't refute a single word.
Amster spoke indifferently, his words steady and powerful:
"I am Amster Dumbledore."
"My surname is my origin, not a weapon."
"But if you insist on forcing me to use it, I don't mind."
He paused, his tone calm and waveless.
"The paper was written by me, and the skill was learned by me."
"How you view me has nothing to do with me."
Belby lost all face under everyone's gaze, glared fiercely, and left sheepishly with his lackeys.
Percy let out a long sigh of relief, his eyes full of admiration: "You were amazing just now."
"Thank you for standing up." Amster said.
"We're friends, aren't we?" Percy smiled, losing a bit of his usual rigidity, "Next week Gryffindor is having a magic theory reading club, would you like to come?"
Amster nodded.
The setting sun sank into the Forbidden Forest, dyeing the castle spires a warm gold and driving away some of the winter chill.
Percy waved, his red-and-gold figure running into the corridor.
Amster held his books, his fingertips lightly touching the cover, the depths of his eyes still calm.
He knew very well that this matter would not end just like this.
The more steady he was, the more he established himself by strength, the more people would set their sights on him.
Slytherin's undercurrents, pure-blood prejudices, gazes hidden deep within the castle for years... would all surface bit by bit because of him.
The cold wind swept across the courtyard, the snowflakes stopped, and the sky revealed a trace of pale rosy clouds.
Amster looked at the towering Hogwarts, his expression serene.
He did not yet know that truly turbulent days had only just begun.
Chapter 6: A Letter from Afar
Hogwarts in winter was always wrapped in the scent of book pages and ink.
Amster ran back and forth between classes, the Library, and the Room of Requirement, his days packed full of notes, formulas, and experiments.
Before he came to his senses, the first semester of his first year had quietly drawn to a close.
On the very last day of the semester, a different kind of letter was delivered into his hands.
The envelope was made of fine parchment, its seal stamped with a gilded badge—a book, a cauldron, and a star, appearing exceptionally solemn in the winter light.
Its texture was much thicker than ordinary owl mail, and at a glance, one could tell that the sender was by no means ordinary.
Amster stood in the corridor and opened the envelope.
He made no unnecessary movements, simply neatly breaking the sealing wax and pulling out the letter paper.
But the moment his gaze fell upon the first line, his entire body froze.
Dear Mr. Amster Dumbledore:
I read your paper on the cultivation and optimization of Mandrakes, and I am very interested in your proposed "Mana Resonance Cultivation Method."
Your train of thought reminded me of some research from my youth.
If you are willing, we can correspond and discuss the cross-application of Alchemy and herbology.
Nicolas Flamel
Amster read the letter three times.
His fingertips tightened slightly, and even his breathing grew a fraction lighter.
Nicolas Flamel.
The creator of the Philosopher's Stone, the grandmaster of Alchemy who had lived for six hundred years, and Dumbledore's closest friend.
This name only appeared in the most ancient tomes; it was a legend, a peak, an unreachable name.
He had flipped through countless books mentioning him in the Library, yet he had never imagined that this legendary person would take the initiative to write to him.
He sat by the window in the Library for a long time.
He did not pick up his pen immediately, but quietly sorted out his thoughts, running through the ideas in his paper in his mind once more.
He was all too aware of how rare this opportunity was, allowing not a shred of perfunctoriness.
The quill dipped into the ink, the first stroke fell, and then stopped.
He feared improper wording, superficial questions, and insufficiently rigorous expressions.
He wrote and tore up, tore up and wrote, until a small pile of draft paper accumulated.
Until his emotions completely calmed down, did he solemnly write his reply.
He revised it over and over, weighing every single word.
Once finalized, he attached the Mandrake experimental data compiled from the previous semester as well—injection intensity, soil ratio, illumination duration, plant response—every single group was recorded with absolute clarity.
He handed the letter to Fawkes.
The phoenix took the envelope in its beak, turned into a ball of fire, and flew out the window.
In just a week, the reply arrived.
Flamel answered all his questions in detail, and even included a three-page handwritten outline of "Basic Principles of Alchemy."
From the essence of matter and transformation logic, to mana flow and basic array patterns, it was densely written yet simple and easy to understand.
The very last line of the letter directly ignited the little flame in Amster's heart:
"Are you interested in Alchemy? Your train of thought has already touched the edges of Alchemy. When you have time, read more books in this area."
That very day, Amster carried back three thick Alchemytomes from the Library.
He flipped through them whenever he had free time, immediately jotting down anything he didn't understand to consult in the next letter.
Over the next few months, the two of them corresponded continuously.
Flamel's replies were always very long, often accompanied by hand-drawn array pattern diagrams, discussing things with him without holding anything back.
Amster gradually came to see that magic was never isolated—Transfiguration changed form, Alchemy changed essence, and Potions adjusted efficacy; several subjects wove together into a net in his mind.
And Alchemy was the pivot of that net.
He began drawing the most basic Alchemy arrays in the Room of Requirement.
The first time he put pen to paper, he compared it against the blueprint for a long time; his mana strayed slightly, and the array pattern dissipated into a wisp of light smoke.
Undiscouraged, he wiped it clean and started over.
Once, ten times, dozens of times, until his arm grew sore, and the array pattern finally steadily glowed with a faint light.
In Potions Class, he no longer just stared at the finished product, but began to analyze the Alchemy logic behind the materials.
Observing changes, anticipating problems, and dismantling transformation paths.
When Snape lectured, his gaze would always land on him intentionally or unintentionally, hiding a trace of hard-to-detect attentiveness within his cold sharpness.
When Professor Sprout heard that he was corresponding with Flamel, her hand holding the shears paused, and her gaze was exceptionally complicated.
"Nicolas Flamel?"
"Yes."
"You are very lucky," she said softly.
"He has lived for over six hundred years, and the number of geniuses he has seen is countless; very few are truly willing to offer guidance. Study well, and do not waste this opportunity."
Professor McGonagall was even more direct, a faint smile carrying in the depths of her eyes:
"If you can truly make something of yourself in Alchemy, by the time you are in your third year, I can open a specialized elective course called 'Cross-Application of Transfiguration and Alchemy' for you—provided that you have something to teach."
Amster nodded earnestly.
"I will."
Only Snape said nothing at all.
But the next day, an old book appeared on Amster's desk.
With a worn cover and curled corners, it was a rare ancient work on Alchemy.
Tucked into the flyleaf was a note, the handwriting cold, hard, and neat:
"Gifted by Severus Snape. Return it to me after reading."
Opening the pages, they were filled with marginalia.
Circles and dots, every sentence hitting the crucial point; at a glance, it was something that could only be written by someone who had truly immersed themselves in deep study.
Amster gently closed the book, a faint warmth sweeping across his heart.
Snape never spoke soft words, never praised people, and even less would he reveal care.
Yet he would use the most silent, the most awkward, and also the most practical way to deliver truly useful things into the hands of those willing to learn.
The tail end of this semester, because of letters spanning mountains and seas, became exceptionally weighty and precious.
Amster gazed at the light snow drifting outside the window, his gaze calm and resolute.
He was very clear that his path of magic was steadily extending, step by step, toward a brand-new territory where no one had ever trodden.
Chapter 7: Summer in Devon and the Silver-Haired Girl
Correspondence with Flamel never ceased, and those earnest instructions rapidly solidified Amster's foundation in Alchemy.
A letter in early summer turned that communication on paper into a face-to-face Inheritance.
Flamel wrote in the letter:
"If you have time during the summer vacation, you might as well stay in Devon for a while.
Some Alchemy practices cannot be thoroughly explained by letter, so I will teach you in person."
Holding the letter, Amster went straight to the Headmaster's Office.
After reading it, Dumbledore's eyes behind his lenses shone slightly, and without a shred of hesitation, he agreed to the itinerary, saying he would take him there personally.
He knew Flamel too well, and he was well aware of how rare this fated opportunity was. With just a few brief instructions, everything was finalized.
Amster returned to his quarters, simply packed some clothing, and put a few Alchemy notebooks into his backpack.
In his heart, there was both anticipation and a trace of unperceived tension—this was his first time truly leaving Hogwarts to visit a Master of magic living in legends.
At the end of June, as soon as the final exams were over, Dumbledore brought him via Apparition to arrive in Devon.
It was quiet and secluded, far away from the hustle and bustle of the world.
The air was mixed with the scent of plants and soil, and the wind brushed through the forest, bringing a faint floral fragrance.
It was completely different from the heavy, gloomy chill of Hogwarts' stone castle, being refreshing and peaceful.
Flamel's residence was hidden in a quiet valley, its exterior just a simple stone house, but the interior was a world of its own.
Ancient Alchemy blueprints and Formation symbols hung on the walls, bottles and jars on the shelves faintly shimmering with light, and a faint scent of herbs and metal drifted in the air.
Everything was arranged neatly and orderly, everywhere exuding the serenity of the owner who had immersed himself in research for years.
"Welcome." Flamel smiled gently, his gaze clear and bright, entirely without the airs of a Grandmaster.
"You are even younger than I imagined. To be able to write that kind of paper in your first year is very good."
Perenelle behind him was kind and gentle, smiling as she invited them to be seated and brought out homemade pastries and drinks.
As the voice fell, the sound of a carriage landing lightly came from outside the house.
"As it happens, we have other guests today." Flamel raised an eyebrow slightly.
The door pushed open, and Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons walked in gracefully, with a tall figure and a dignified bearing.
Behind her followed a young girl of about ten years old, her silver-gold long hair cascading down to her waist, and her azure eyes looking like they were immersed in light.
She timidly yet curiously looked around, her small hand gently clutching her skirt hem, looking shy yet trying to be graceful.
Flamel made a brief introduction.
Madame Maxime looked at Amster and nodded slightly: "Dumbledore's nephew truly is outstanding."
At this moment, the girl poked her head out, her English tinged with a French accent, soft and sweet:
"Hello, my name is Fleur Delacour."
"Amster Dumbledore." He responded softly, polite and gentle.
In the following days, Amster devoted himself entirely to the practical operation of Alchemy.
Flamel demonstrated personally, teaching him how to grind moonstone, purify mercury, and control the heat for silver powder.
Every step was meticulous and clear, and the principles were explained thoroughly.
In the afternoon, he was allowed to try it with his own hands; Flamel never rushed him, only offering gentle hints just as deviations were about to appear.
At night, he patiently answered the questions Amster had accumulated, and sometimes Perenelle would join the conversation, creating a peaceful and fulfilling atmosphere.
Here, for the first time, Amster truly touched the Soul of Alchemy.
No matter how perfect the theories on paper were, they ultimately had to land on one's fingertips to truly become one's own power.
Fleur often guarded quietly on the side, ranging from watching from afar to slowly and proactively handing tools and organizing records.
She did not talk much, but she was deft-handed and meticulous.
The materials were processed evenly and properly, and the trivial organizing was done meticulously, her talent quietly revealing itself.
"Your hands are very steady." Amster praised sincerely.
Fleur's ear tips turned slightly red, the corners of her mouth quietly lifting, and her actions of lowering her head to work became a bit lighter.
Occasionally, she would secretly raise her eyes to look at his profile as he focused on the experiment, then quickly lower her head again, hiding the curiosity in her eyes.
When they were alone, she would softly ask about the daily life at Hogwarts, her eyes lighting up as she listened.
When she heard the words "Night Wandering", her eyes were full of envy, and she spoke in detail about the strict rules of Beauxbatons, her tone full of yearning for freedom and adventure.
"Can I write to you?" She suddenly raised her head earnestly, fearing rejection.
"You can." Amster nodded.
Fleur immediately ran to get paper and pen, wrote down her address, and carefully drew a small flower in the corner.
Then she carefully put away his address, like holding something precious, repeatedly exhorting him not to lose it.
"I will write, you must reply."
Time flew by, and the summer vacation passed in a flash.
Under Flamel's guidance, Amster completely solidified his Alchemy foundation, achieving a transformative growth from theoretical understanding to practical control.
Fleur had long since left ahead of time with Madame Maxime.
Upon parting, she stood by the carriage waving hard, her azure eyes full of reluctance to part, her crisp voice softly echoing in the valley:
"Remember to write!"
Dumbledore patted him lightly on the shoulder and brought him back to Hogwarts.
The setting sun cast a layer of warm gold over the castle, owls swept across the horizon, and familiar sights rushed towards him, stable and warm.
Here he had his Room of Requirement, the Professors who taught him with care, friends who accompanied him quietly, and the silver-haired girl in the distance with whom he had an agreement to correspond.
Amster looked at the towering castle, the corners of his lips gently lifting into a faint smile.
The chapter of the second year was waiting for him to open with his own hands.
Chapter 8: An Unfamiliar Gaze
The summer vacation in Devon had just drawn to a close, and the new school year at Hogwarts arrived as scheduled, pulling Amster back into the familiar rhythm of the castle.
On September 1st, the entire school came alive.
From Platform Nine and Three-Quarters to the lakeside dock, the place was filled with boisterous voices.
Students who had been reunited after a long separation gathered together to chat and laugh, sharing the minor details of their holidays, and even the ripples of the Black Lake seemed a bit more brisk.
Footsteps rang out in the corridors once more, the aroma of food drifted from the Great Hall, and even the lawns were more vibrant than usual.
Inside the Great Hall, the four House long tables were packed full.
The enchanted ceiling overhead reflected the evening night sky, dotted with starlight, and the candlelight was soft; bread and fruit juice were laid out on the long tables, waiting only for the sorting ceremony to conclude before the lively opening banquet began.
Amster sat by the window at the Slytherin long table, with a notebook on Alchemy brought back from Devon spread out in front of him.
His fingertips lightly brushed across the pages, where annotations personally written by Flamel still remained.
The surroundings were noisy, with people chatting about travels and showing off new magical items, the din blending together into one, yet it did not disturb him in the least.
He simply turned the pages quietly, immersed in his own world.
The sorting ceremony began, and the Great Hall gradually grew quiet.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the stage, her voice clearly reading out the names of the new students one by one.
The children put on the Sorting Hat with nervousness or anticipation, and applause and cheers rang out from time to time.
Amster did not look up, until a clear voice fell—
"Cassandra Vole!"
Only then did he slowly raise his eyes.
A blonde girl walked up to the stage.
Her robes were worn impeccably, her spine held straight; there was no panic of her peers, nor excessive excitement, only a scrutiny that was calm to the point of being razor-sharp.
Her gaze swept lightly across the audience, as calm as if she were evaluating something.
The Sorting Hat had barely touched the top of her head, not even taking three seconds; without hesitation, without entanglement, it delivered a crisp and decisive cry:
"Slytherin!"
She did not smile, nor was she excited; there was still little expression on her face, as if everything should have been just like this.
Lifting the hem of her robes, she walked slowly down the steps, heading toward the Slytherin long table.
As she passed by Amster, her footsteps paused slightly.
Her gaze fell upon him—direct, open, devoid of emotion, yet like a small knife tapping gently—not hostility, not curiosity, but the look of appraising an opponent.
A second later, she averted her gaze and sat down diagonally across from him.
Her posture was upright, her hands resting flat on her knees, and she no longer looked around.
Yet Amster could feel that that gaze had fallen back onto him.
It landed softly on the back of his hand and the side of his neck—not offensive, not dodging, simply a straightforward focus.
He did not turn his head, nor did he raise his eyes, simply lowering his head again to look at his notes, as if nothing had happened.
In the first week of the term, everything returned to the right track.
The class schedule was posted on the common room wall, the morning bell rang right on time, and the sounds of incantations in class, page-turning in the Library, and frolicking in the corridors pieced together the most ordinary daily life at Hogwarts.
Amster still lived life at his own pace—classes, the Library, the kitchens, the Room of Requirement.
He rarely lingered in the common room, nor did he participate in idle chatter; quiet and methodical, he was like a star steadily falling into orbit.
The only difference was that he could always sense a gaze.
Coming from that blonde first-year student—Cassandra Vole.
She never bunched up with other new students, did not chase around or make a fuss, but quietly observed everything.
After class, she would walk leisurely down the corridors, yet her gaze would always inadvertently sweep toward him; during meals, she sat diagonally opposite him, looking at him with that faint yet undisguised gaze—not speaking, not coming close, simply watching.
That evening, when Amster came out of the Library and had just turned the corridor corner, he saw her leaning against the stone wall.
In the deserted corridor, sunlight cut obliquely through the window cracks, drawing out long lights and shadows.
She stood straight, evidently waiting for him.
"Amster Dumbledore."
She spoke, her tone calm—a statement, not a question.
Amster stopped in his tracks and looked at her: "Something the matter?"
Cassandra's gaze remained direct, as calm as if stating a fact:
"You never linger in the common room.
The professors look at you differently.
When Snape passes by you, he slows his pace."
She paused, her voice steady and without ripples, "I heard that you published a paper in your first year."
Amster neither nodded nor denied it, simply looking at her quietly.
Cassandra stared at him for a few seconds, as if finishing matching the person in front of her with the information she had gathered one by one.
Then, she nodded lightly, her tone clear, resolute, and devoid of the slightest extra emotion:
"I will keep an eye on you."
Having said that, she turned and left.
Her stride was steady, without looking back, without any extra movements, and she quickly disappeared around the corridor corner.
Told straight out by a newly acquainted freshman, "I will keep an eye on you," Amster stood in the empty corridor, a trace of something faint and barely perceptible even to himself sweeping across the bottom of his heart.
That subtle care, silent and soundless, melted into his subsequent daily life.
Chapter 9: The Usual Spot in the Library
Ever since their brief encounter in the corridor, Amsterhadn't taken Cassandra's words to heart, continuing to move around the campus at his own pace. The place where he lingered most often remained the quiet Library.
On the second Wednesday of September, the afternoon sunlight wasn't too dazzling, slanting through the high glass windows of the castle into the corridor and casting long lights and shadows on the flagstone floor.
Amster hugged a few textbooks he had just brought out from class, walking slowly along the familiar route toward the Library.
Along the way, students occasionally walked past in groups, chattering excitedly about the just-concluded classes. He simply walked quietly along one side, not cutting into the conversation nor purposely speeding up his pace.
Pushing open the heavy wooden doors of the Library, a familiar scent mixed with old book pages and ink rushed toward him.
The interior was very quiet, with only the occasional sound of page-turning and the soft rustle of feather quills sweeping across parchment.
Madam Pince walked slowly along the bookshelves holding a feather duster, her gaze sweeping sharply across every corner. Whenever anyone made a slightly loud commotion, she would immediately cast a warning glance.
Amster walked in on tiptoe, navigating familiarly through a few rows of bookshelves and turning toward the quiet area in the corner.
Penelope was already there.
She sat in her usual spot by the window, her back held straight, with three frighteningly thick History of Magicbooks piled in front of her, scattered alongside four or five thinner reference books, every single one of which had its edges curled from being flipped through.
The desk was as usual stuffed full of sticky notes, some of which read "This contradicts Chapter Three", some read "Need to check the author's background", and one simply drew a question mark. The handwriting was neat and clear, a mark that could be recognized at a glance as having been repeatedly cross-checked.
Her quill moved swiftly across the paper without even lifting her head, as if everything around her had nothing to do with her.
Amster gently sat down opposite her, trying his best not to make a sound, and slowly pulled out the book Principles of Medieval Alchemy, laying it flat on the desk.
"What are you writing?"
"A History of Magic essay." Penelope didn't even raise her head, her tone as flat as if she were talking about today's weather. "Professor Binns assigned it, about the relationship between Muggles and wizards in the Middle Ages. I've already consulted seven books; five clearly lean toward wizards, and two lean toward Muggles, not a single one is neutral."
Amster opened the book, his fingertips lingering on a line of annotated text, and asked casually, "Then how do you plan to handle it?"
"List all seven in the references." Penelope's quill paused for a fraction of a second, as if weighing her wording. "Let Professor Binns judge for himself which one is closer to the truth. Anyway, he always only ever says 'Not bad' and never points out problems. Rather than letting him find faults, it's better to give him a headache himself."
Amster couldn't help letting out a low chuckle, his voice very soft, scattering only within the small corner.
Penelope finally raised her head, looking at him quizzically. Her eyes were exceptionally bright under the dim lighting of the Library, and her brows were furrowed slightly, as if she didn't understand why he suddenly chuckled.
"What are you laughing at?"
"It's nothing." The corners of Amster's mouth still carried a faint smile. "I just think your way of writing essays is very interesting. Ordinary people would think about which book is right; what you're thinking is to let the professor judge for himself."
Penelope stared at him for two seconds, seeming to discern whether those words were praise or criticism. She wasn't accustomed to overly direct evaluations, nor was she good at distinguishing between jokes and seriousness. In the end, she shook her head slightly, gave up on delving deeper, and lowered her head again to write.
"I've found that Professor Binns doesn't actually look much at the content." She said as she wrote, her nib steady and even. "He only looks at the format and the number of references. Last time I wrote about ten books, and he gave me an O; this time I plan to write fifteen."
Amster laughed again, this time without making a sound, merely curving the corners of his lips slightly and lowering his head to turn the pages.
The Library returned to silence once more, leaving only the light, shallow breathing of the two and the subtle rustle of nibs gliding across paper.
The wind outside the window gently brushed the leaves, and the shadows swayed on the desk, failing to break this tranquility in the slightest.
After a while, the sound of the quill stopped.
Penelope put down her pen, gently rubbed her wrist, and gazed toward the distant bookshelves, as if sorting out her thoughts.
"Did you go to France for the summer vacation?" she suddenly asked.
Amster raised his head, somewhat surprised.
"How did you know?"
"Percy said so." Penelope's tone was flat as her gaze fell back onto the paper, and she reached out to straighten a crooked sticky note. "Running into him in the Great Hall the day before yesterday, he asked me if I was writing an essay with you and let it slip. He said you followed the headmaster to learn Alchemy from a friend of his."
Amster nodded, not hiding it.
"Yes, I learned from Flamel."
Penelope's nib paused gently on the paper, bleeding a small blot of ink. She quickly moved the pen away with a subtle motion, but it was still caught in Amster's eyes.
She obviously knew this name.
"Nicolas Flamel?" She raised her head, her eyes brightening for a split second, and a rare trace of fluctuation appeared in her usually calm and composed expression. "That Alchemy master? The one who has lived for over six hundred years?"
"Mhm," Amster said softly. "Keep it a secret for me."
Penelope fell silent for a few seconds, her gaze falling upon the Principles of Medieval Alchemy in front of him with a bit more earnestness in her eyes. She had always revered genuine knowledge, especially content approaching the level of legend, making it difficult for her to remain completely calm.
"What did he teach you?" she asked, a rare hint of curiosity carrying in her tone.
"The basic theories of material transformation, magic purification, and some basic arrays." Amster thought for a moment, summarizing with the simplest words. "There is a lot of content, and I'm still digesting it. Just reading books is useless for many things; you have to try them with your own hands."
Penelope nodded and lowered her head to continue writing.
But Amster noticed that her handwriting for the next ten minutes was a bit sloppier than usual—the arcs of the letters weren't round enough, and the spacing wasn't very even. She had always hated sloppy handwriting the most, always saying "If the handwriting is untidy, the train of thought won't be tidy either," but at this moment she was clearly somewhat flustered.
After another moment, as if she suddenly remembered something, she stopped her pen once again.
"Percy also said that his mother invited you to The Burrowfor Christmas."
Amster looked at her and raised an eyebrow slightly.
"How come you remember Percy's words so clearly?"
The tips of Penelope's ears turned slightly red. That bit of redness spread from the tips of her ears to her earlobes, yet she tried her best to suppress it beneath a calm expression, with only the slightly tightened corners of her mouth leaking a trace of unnaturalness.
"My memory is good," she said in a stiff tone, carrying a hint of subconscious retort. "Is that not allowed?"
Amster laughed and didn't pursue it further.
"Fine, of course it's fine."
He lowered his head to continue reading.
The light in the Library moved slowly, crawling from the desktop to the spine of the book, and then gliding slowly toward the wall. The large clock in the hall struck four times, its deep chime echoing softly in the quiet room, reminding them that there was one hour left until closing. Quite a few students began packing up their things, and only a few people remained in their original places.
Amster closed the book, slowly put it back into his bag, and stood up.
"I'm leaving first; I have things to do tonight."
Penelope raised her head, her gaze hiding a trace of imperceptible inquiry.
"What things?"
"Practicing Alchemy," he said. "The assignment assigned by Flamel needs to be completed before the weekend. Many parts require repeated testing, and it's hard to succeed on the first try."
Penelope nodded, her gaze falling back onto the book, but she didn't start writing immediately.
"Coming tomorrow?"
"The usual time," Amster said.
As he turned around and had just taken a step, he suddenly heard her voice.
"Amster."
He turned back.
Penelope looked at him, her expression still maintaining its usual calmness, but her eyes carried a bit more earnestness than usual, and her tone was exceptionally solemn.
"That assignment... if you need help, you can call me."
Amster was slightly stunned, then smiled gently.
"Alright."
He walked out of the Library, crossed the corridor, and headed in the direction of the eighth floor.
The students in the corridor gradually became more numerous; some hugged textbooks hurrying to classrooms, while others chatted and laughed as they walked toward the Great Hall. Turning an empty corner, he suddenly remembered the first time he met Penelope last year—she was also sitting in this corner, with thick books piled in front of her, looking up to ask him seriously: "Can you understand it?"
At that time, he had just arrived at Hogwarts not long ago, and many things were still unfamiliar to him. It was her quiet and steady presence that turned the Library into a reassuring place.
A year had passed, the castle remained that same castle, the classes remained those same classes, and she was still there, still that earnest, rigorous, never-slack-off person.
He smiled slightly and continued walking forward.
The door to the Room of Requirement was already open, and the fire in the fireplace was burning warmly.
Chapter 10: A Challenge from a Newcomer
The door of the Room of Requirement remained open, and the fire in the fireplace burned quietly, its warm yellow glow gently flickering against the stone walls, making the silence of the entire room all the more tender.
Amster stood at the doorway, not stepping inside immediately, but instead turning back to look at the empty corridor behind him.
Cassandra Vole's direct and sharp gaze seemed to still linger on his shoulders, refusing to dissipate for a long time.
He shook his head slightly, trying to cast away that inexplicable state of mind, and turned to step into the room.
The rhythm of the new school year had long since unfolded smoothly, and he originally did not want to have his mind disrupted by a newcomer who had just enrolled not long ago, but once certain thoughts took root, it was no longer possible to remain as calm and waveless as before.
The Alchemy notes brought back from Devon lay quietly spread out on the desk, with the handwriting annotated in Flamel's own hand clearly visible, yet after sitting down, he was unable to calm his mind and continue studying for a long time.
Repeatedly surfacing in his mind was always the appearance of that blonde newcomer waiting quietly for him in the corridor.
In the third week of September, the weather at Hogwartswas growing increasingly cooler, and the morning breeze was already wrapped in a crisp chill.
The leaves outside the castle gradually faded from emerald green, slowly taking on a light yellow, and then blooming bit by bit into an orange-red.
Sunlight streamed through the high glass windows, spilling onto the stone-paved floor of the corridor; bright yet thin, it ultimately could not withstand the endless wave of chill surging from the depths of the dungeon.
Slytherin's common room was located deep within the dungeon, with the dark and deep waters of the Black Lakeoutside the windows, rarely seeing sunlight year-round.
As a newcomer who had just enrolled not long ago, Cassandra had spent nearly a week before barely adapting to everything here.
The examining gazes of the upper-year students, the tacit hierarchical rules within the house, and the ubiquitous atmosphere of "supremacy of strength" in the air were completely different from the environment she was familiar with in the past.
She was not someone who easily showed her emotions to begin with, so the adaptation process was quiet and rapid.
But there was one thing that she had firmly kept in mind from the very first day she stepped up to the Slytherin long table.
Amster Dumbledore never stayed in the common room.
Every morning, he would appear by the dining table on time, quietly finish his breakfast, and then vanish from everyone's sight.
After a full day of classes ended, he never returned to the common room like other students to chat, self-study, or while away the time; he simply turned and left, not appearing again until the next morning.
As if this space belonging to Slytherin in the dungeon was merely a temporary resting place for him, without even a shred of attachment.
Cassandra saw all this in her eyes and kept it in her heart.
She even more acutely noticed that the looks the professors gave him were completely different from how they treated other students.
Whenever Professor McGonagall met him, she would always nod slightly—that was not a polite perfunctoriness, but a gesture filled with approval and reassurance, as if saying, "I know you have things under control."
Professor Snape usually wore a cold face toward everyone, with harsh words and a sharp gaze, yet every time he passed by Amster, his footsteps would subconsciously slow down for a fleeting moment.
This subtle change might have gone unnoticed by others, but it could not escape Cassandra, who had been deliberately paying attention.
Professor Flitwick was even more direct, smiling and taking the initiative to greet him every time he saw him, even casually asking, "What new spells are you practicing lately?" with a tone full of indulgence and anticipation.
For a student still in school to make several professors share a unanimous, distinct regard was already bizarre enough.
Cassandra's attention toward him gradually transformed from an initial faint curiosity into serious inquiry.
She quickly discovered that Amster always acted alone.
He did not congregate, chat, or participate in any cliques; even the Slytherin prefects treated him with a degree of politeness in his presence, not daring to order him around or joke with him casually.
There was a special aura about him; clearly standing amidst the crowd, he seemed separated by an invisible thin film—quiet, aloof, forming a world of his own.
While others were noisy, he was serene.
While others conversed, he was silent.
While others relied on companions, he relied only on himself.
Cassandra's doubts grew heavier and heavier in her heart.
She wanted to know whether this distinctiveness stemmed from his exceptionally dazzling surname, or whether he truly possessed the strength matching it.
On an ordinary afternoon after class, she followed far behind him for the very first time.
She did not follow too closely, maintaining a distance where she wouldn't be discovered, walking slowly along the corridor.
Watching him pass through the bustling entrance hall, step onto the revolving staircase, walk through corridor after corridor, and finally stop in a relatively secluded passageway on the eighth floor.
Then, under her gaze, he walked up to a bare stone wall, his figure swaying slightly before completely disappearing.
Cassandra abruptly halted her footsteps, freezing in place without moving at all.
She stared at that ordinary stone wall for a long time, her heartbeat accelerating slightly.
Countless secrets were hidden within Hogwarts Castle; this was something all students knew implicitly.
Yet she had never expected that the first secret she witnessed with her own eyes would actually be related to Amster Dumbledore.
Behind that wall, something must be hidden.
From that day on, that corridor on the eighth floor became a covert mark in her heart.
Days passed by one by one, and in the blink of an eye, it was the last Friday of September.
The sky grew dark earlier than usual, and the evening breeze passing through the corridor brought a hint of slight chill.
The figures in the portraits gradually quieted down, some dozing against their frames, others conversing in low voices, no longer as noisy as they were during the day.
Cassandra arrived early at the eighth-floor corridor, leaning against the wall and waiting quietly.
She held a thin textbook in her hand, pretending to flip through it, yet her gaze never left that stone wall.
She did not know when Amster would appear, nor was she clear on what kind of answer she actually wanted by waiting here.
She was only incomparably certain that some things could not be kept hidden in her heart for guesswork.
The waiting time was neither long nor short.
Just when she thought she might have to wait until the Library closed, a faint gleam suddenly flashed on that bare stone wall, and a wooden door slowly emerged.
The door was gently pushed open, and Amster walked out from inside.
As soon as he raised his head, he caught sight of her standing against the wall at a glance.
Without panic or dodging, Cassandra closed the book in her hand, straightened her posture steadily, and met his gaze with equanimity.
She did not evade, nor did she find excuses to cover up; since she chose to wait here, she had no intention of backing down.
"What are you doing here?" Amster spoke, his tone calm, devoid of any emotion.
"Waiting for you." Cassandra did not beat around the bush, her voice clear and firm. "I've been observing you for three weeks."
Amster raised his eyebrows slightly, seemingly a bit surprised.
"Why?"
"Because I want to know what skills you really have." She looked straight into his eyes without the slightest retreat. "A fourth-year student who makes all the professors look at him in a new light, doesn't stay in the common room, and comes and goes without a trace—I want to know whether this relies on a surname or on strength."
Amster looked at her, remaining silent for a few seconds.
The first-year newcomer before him had eyes so serious they looked neither like a fit of pique nor a provocation, but rather like carrying out a verification that must yield a result.
"How do you want to find out?" he asked slowly.
Cassandra lowered her eyes slightly, pondered for a split second, and quickly raised her head.
"Charms class." Her tone was certain. "The next class is Friday's Charms class; let's compete to see who masters that spell better."
"What spell?"
"Lumos." Cassandra answered crisply and neatly. "The most basic spell, yet it tests magical control the most. Do you dare?"
Amster watched her quietly.
Blonde hair, stubborn eyes, chin slightly raised, carrying an indomitable sharpness, her care for the strong was unmasked.
He suddenly recalled that when he first arrived at Hogwarts, he too had once been at an age where he wanted to prove everything and compete in everything.
The silence lasted for only a fleeting moment.
"Alright." He responded softly.
Cassandra nodded, without any superfluous pleasantries, and turned to prepare to leave.
She had never liked dawdling; once matters were settled, she would not linger any longer.
Yet after taking two steps, she suddenly stopped and looked back at him.
"Friday, don't be late."
As her voice fell, she turned around and hurried off, disappearing at the end of the corridor.
Amster remained standing in place, gazing at the direction where she vanished, falling silent for a moment.
This first-year newcomer—direct, sharp, with a clear goal—didn't look at all like someone who would easily give up.
He gave a light laugh, and that originally negligible concern in his heart suddenly grew clear.
A challenge from a newcomer had thus quietly broken into his new school year.
He turned around and walked toward the direction of the Room of Requirement.
The fireplace inside the room was still burning, and the warm firelight was exceptionally steady in the twilight.