Chapter 19: First Meeting with Newt, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Time flew by in magic classes and Alchemy research until Easter arrived, with cherry blossoms falling all over the courtyard, and a relaxed atmosphere everywhere in Hogwarts.
In the corridors, students chatted about where they were going for the holidays, while the long tables in the Great Hall were set with Easter eggs and sweet cakes, feeling warm and cozy.
Amster had long since organized the Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them notes to bring to Newt. Inside the thick cowhide notebook were all the contents recorded over the years while following Dumbledore in the Forbidden Forest — which trees Bowtruckles liked to stay on, what the magical fluctuations of Thestrals looked like, and the frequently appearing times and tracks of Unicorns. Every stroke was written neatly, accompanied by his own hand-drawn sketches, and every line of words was filled with his genuine love for fantastic beasts.
On the early morning of departure, a thin morning mist drifted over Hogwarts, and Fawkes landed on the windowsill of the Headmaster's Office, letting out a soft call.
Amster pushed open the door to find Dumbledore stirring a cup of hot chocolate. Seeing him enter, Dumbledorecasually pushed another cup in front of him, his face full of family-like gentleness without any airs of a headmaster.
"Are you ready? Newt is already waiting for us at home." Dumbledore took a sip of the hot chocolate, his eyes curved, "That little cabin of his is so interesting, hidden full of the most special little fellows in the magical world."
Amster pulled over a chair and sat down, placing the notebook on his lap while his fingertips stroked the cover, unable to hide the anticipation in his tone: "I've been ready for a long time. The things recorded in the Forbidden Forest over the years can finally be shown to Mr. Scamander."
He had always been casual when getting along with Dumbledore, needing neither restraint nor deliberate reverence, and this relaxed appearance was rarely seen by others.
Dumbledore smiled and nodded, waving his hand to conjure a light blue Apparition glow beneath their feet: "Let's go, don't keep Newt waiting too anxiously. Those little animals of his might just be looking forward to meeting new friends."
After a slight dizziness, Amster focused his eyes to find himself standing on a lush green rural meadow, not far from a modest stone house. The front of the house was planted with unnamed magical flowers and plants, the air was filled with the fresh fragrance of grass and plants, and the sound of birds chirping and small animals rustling could be heard by his ears, showing at a glance that quite a few fantastic beasts lived here.
The door of the stone house opened, and a lean middle-aged wizard walked out, wearing a washed-out navy blue wizard robe, with slightly curly hair, gentle eyes, and a Bowtruckle perched on his shoulder—it was precisely Newt Scamander.
Seeing Dumbledore, he smiled and greeted him, then turned his gaze to Amster with a bit more approval: "This must be Amster? Albus often talks to me about you, saying that you have patience and awe for fantastic beasts."
"Hello, Mr. Scamander." Amster slightly bowed, his tone sincere and his eyes filled with joy, "I've flipped through your book "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" so many times, and I love it especially."
Newt waved his hand and turned sideways to let them into the house: "No need to be so polite, just call me Newt. The little fellows inside are very well-behaved, just don't touch that red-copper suitcase; the Swooping Evil inside hasn't fully adapted to the new environment yet."
The tone of his voice was full of deep affection for the small animals, exactly like the gentle and pure magizoologist in the original work.
As soon as he stepped inside, Amster was momentarily stunned.
The inside of the house was much larger than it looked from the outside, clearly having been cast with an Undetectable Extension Charm. There were breeding boxes everywhere, Bowtruckles jumping back and forth among the bookshelves, Mooncalves staying quietly in the corners, Diricawls calling on the branches, and a little Niffler standing on tiptoe trying to reach the gold coins on the table, only to be tapped on the nose by Newt and aggrievedly retracting, looking extremely cute.
Dumbledore was obviously overly familiar with this place, smilingly shaking his head as he walked over to the sofa and sat down, letting Amster go and look at the small animals, his eyes full of family-like indulgence.
Amster didn't casually reach out to touch them, just looking quietly and occasionally extending his fingertips to condense a bit of gentle magic, gently soothing a slightly frightened Puffskein.
That little fluffball rubbed against his finger, immediately curling into a ball and exposing its soft belly.
Newt took this scene in and grew even more appreciative: "Few young people can treat them with such patience. You know how to respect their nature, which is more important than memorizing how many theories."
Hearing this, Amster turned around and took out the thick notebook from his bag, handing it to Newt with some anticipation: "Mr. Newt, these are the notes I recorded over the years in the Forbidden Forest while observing fantastic beasts with my uncle. They write down their habits, magical fluctuations, and some of my own thoughts. I'd like to ask you to help me take a look and see if there are any mistakes."
Newt took the notebook, his fingertips gently brushing across the cover, and after opening it, his eyes slowly turned serious.
He carefully read page by page, occasionally stopping to point at a certain line of words and mutter to himself, nodding from time to time, completely immersed in the notes.
Dumbledore sat aside, watching Newt's expression with a foreknown mind, slowly sipping his teacup.
After quite a while, Newt closed the notebook and looked up at Amster, his tone filled with sincere appreciation: "Amster, this is the most attentive fantastic beasts notebook I've ever seen."
You didn't just record their appearances, you also read their magic, and even proposed new views on the nesting habits of Bowtruckles, which is very rare."
He paused, his fingers gently tapping the notebook, "I can tell that you genuinely like these creatures, not for fun, nor to complete homework. This sentiment is the most precious thing in conducting fantastic beasts research."
Hearing Newt's affirmation, Amster's eyes suddenly lit up, and his heart was both happy and excited.
He had always hoped that his dedication would be recognized, and this recognition came from the magizoologist he admired the most, making the meaning extraordinarily different.
"Thank you, I just feel that they are all living lives and should be treated seriously."
Newt smiled and returned the notebook to him with serious eyes: "Albus said you are very talented in Alchemyand Potions. Now it seems that in terms of fantastic beasts, your talent and dedication are equally outstanding."
I have an idea. When your knowledge is a bit more solid and your understanding of fantastic beasts is a bit deeper, perhaps you can come and be a special editor for "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them"."
Amster suddenly raised his head, was stunned for a moment, and then filled with immense surprise.
Becoming a special editor for "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" meant that he would have the opportunity to come into contact with those rare fantastic beasts that were usually hard to see or even completely impossible to find anywhere.
"You... you mean I can participate in the revision and writing of this book?" Amster's voice trembled slightly, full of unbelievable anticipation.
"Of course." Newt smiled and nodded, his tone very affirmative, "Your perspective of observation is very special, and your thoughts are meticulous. Much of the content in your notes can be supplemented into the book."
After you settle down for a few more years, when your knowledge and experience are more sufficient, I very much look forward to working with you to improve this book, letting more wizards understand these creatures and learn to protect them."
Dumbledore looked at Amster's joyful appearance, the smile on the corners of his mouth deepening. He stepped forward and gently patted his shoulder, his tone filled with the unique pride of family: "I told you, your talent and patience will be seen by people one day."
There was no headmaster's majesty, no burden of bloodline, simply pure happiness that his nephew's hard work was recognized.
Amster tightly grasped the notebook and solemnly spoke: "Thank you, Mr. Scamander."
"I will learn the knowledge of fantastic beasts more comprehensively as soon as possible without delaying other studies, and strive to become a special editor earlier."
In the time that followed, Newt took Amster around the cabin completely, introducing the origins and habits of fantastic beasts one by one. Amster listened very attentively, asking a few questions from time to time, and Newt answered them patiently. The two chatted very congenially, just like friends across generations.
Dumbledore followed right beside them, occasionally interjecting a word or two, looking at the light in Amster's eyes with a gentle and indulgent gaze.
Amster also personally fed the Puffskein, gently interacted with the Bowtruckle, and even helped Newt change the bedding for the Swooping Evil. Every movement was gentle and careful, making Newt even more certain that his proposal was not wrong.
As the setting sun went down, golden light spilled over the lawn, casting a warm border onto the stone house.
Amster and Dumbledore bid farewell to Newt, and Newthanded a small glass bottle containing a Bowtrucklefeather to Amster, saying with a smile: "This feather is suitable for making a magic quill, which is just right for recording fantastic beasts. I look forward to seeing new things in your notes the next time I meet you."
"Thank you for your gift, I will definitely keep it safe." Amster took the bottle and carefully put it into his bag, his eyes full of cherishing.
The glow of Apparition lit up once more, and Amsterlooked back to see Newt standing at the doorway of the stone house, with the Bowtruckle on his shoulder waving its little claws at him. The soft sounds of small animals came from inside the house, warm and reassuring.
Returning to Hogwarts, the night had slowly grown thicker.
Dumbledore and Amster walked side by side in the corridor, the corridor lights pulling their shadows very long, and the atmosphere was relaxed and warm, entirely the appearance of family getting along.
"Are you happy?" Dumbledore turned his head slightly and asked him with a smile.
Amster nodded vigorously, his eyes still flashing with an excited light, and his hand unconsciously touched the notebook and feather bottle in his bag: "Of course I am happy. In the field of fantastic beasts, Newt Scamander is the most authoritative person, and being able to get his recognition makes me really happy."
Dumbledore laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair with a natural and affectionate movement: "I believe in you, child."
"Whether it is Alchemy or fantastic beasts research, as long as you hold onto your original intention and walk forward with passion and awe, you will surely carve out a path of your own."
At the end of the corridor, Fawkes flapped its golden wings and flew over, landing gently on Amster's shoulder. A golden shimmer fell on the notebook, like a silent blessing.
Amster lowered his head to look at this notebook filled with stories of fantastic beasts, his fingertips gently brushing across the pages, and the anticipation and firmness in his heart grew clearer and clearer.
The lights of Hogwarts shone quietly in the night, and Amster's steps were steady and powerful.
He knew that in the days to come, he would continue to hone himself in the world of Alchemy, observe in the light and shadow of the Forbidden Forest, and explore in the realm of fantastic beasts, walking forward step by step firmly with this passion and promise.
And this thick notebook would also write down more stories about fantastic beasts in the passage of time, recording his perseverance and a promise belonging to ink fragrance and magic.
Chapter 20: The Mysterious Glow on the 8th Floor
The night in Hogwarts was still wrapped in the lingering warmth of Easter, and Amster walked down the corridor back to his dormitory, his fingertips still able to feel the thick fantastic beasts notes in his bag, as well as the small glass bottle containing the Bowtruckle feather.
Fawkes landed on his shoulder, its golden feathers gently brushing against his cheek.
The uncle and nephew had just returned from Newt's country cottage, and Dumbledore's words, "Just stay true to your heart," still lingered in his ears, bringing a sense of ease and reassurance.
He and Dumbledore never had the stiffness of a headmaster and a student; they were more like family members who grew up together since childhood, chatting upon meeting about hot chocolate, new discoveries in the Forbidden Forest, places where their Alchemy got stuck, and occasionally complaining to each other that the portraits in the castle were too noisy.
This ease was Amster's most comforting reliance in Hogwarts.
Days slipped by until April.
The cherry blossoms in the courtyard had long since fallen, and wisteria hung down the pillars of the eighth floor, dropping petals with a rustle whenever the wind blew.
Magic classes remained compact; practical Transfiguration, the brewing in Potions Class, and the polishing of Alchemyarrays filled his weekdays.
Yet Amster would always squeeze out time, holding his notes and walking towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest—that was what he and Newt had agreed upon, to build a more solid foundation and soon qualify as a special editor for *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them*.
That evening, he had just emerged from the Room of Requirement, still holding an unfinished Alchemy draft in his hand, intending to go to the Library to flip through a couple of ancient books to complete his train of thought.
When he reached the corner of the eighth-floor corridor, a faint silver light flashed without warning from the cracks in the stone wall, so fast it felt like an illusion, yet carrying a chilling and Ancient Magic that gently brushed against his perception.
Surrounding students walked by talking and laughing, no one stopping, let alone noticing that fleeting light.
Amster's steps paused, and he frowned.
His magical perception had always been acute, especially under Dumbledore's guidance since childhood, making him almost infallible regarding abnormal magic fluctuations.
That was not a student's prank, not magic inherent to the castle, and certainly not the residue of any spell he had ever seen—ancient, serene, carrying the heaviness of being sealed away for a century; with just a flash, it completely vanished without a trace.
Without thinking much, he turned and walked straight towards the Headmaster's Office.
For such matters, asking his uncle was the most direct way.
The door to the Headmaster's Office was not tightly closed as usual, and pushing it open brought the fragrance of lemon biscuits and hot chocolate.
Dumbledore was leaning over the desk flipping through an old book.
Seeing him enter, he casually pushed a biscuit over without even changing his posture: "What is it? Looking so serious, has the Alchemy array stumped you again?"
"No."
Amster picked up the biscuit, took a bite, and said directly, "I saw a silver light in the eighth-floor corridor; it flashed and disappeared. The magic is very old, and no one else could see it."
Dumbledore's hand turning the pages paused.
He slowly raised his head, the look behind his half-moon spectacles holding no surprise, only a knowing realization of "it's finally here."
He closed the book, stood up, and patted the corner of his robes: "Since you saw it, I will take you somewhere."
Amster followed without a second word.
He understood Dumbledore; when it was time to speak, he would naturally do so without needing extra questions.
The two of them passed through rows of chattering portraits and came before a wall draped in black velvet.
Dumbledore pulled back the curtain, revealing the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black.
This former headmaster wore an impatient look, frowning upon seeing Dumbledore, and pausing slightly when his gaze swept over Amster.
"This child saw the silver light on the eighth floor."
Dumbledore's tone was casual, as if saying the weather was nice today.
Black narrowed his eyes, looking Amster up and down for a moment, his voice hoarse and ancient: "Another little fellow who can see traces of Ancient Magic... The last one was a student over a hundred years ago. This is not ordinary talent; this is someone chosen by the essence of Hogwarts."
Ancient Magic talent.
Amster's heart stirred slightly.
His magic had been stable since childhood, he picked up Alchemy quickly, and he was exceptionally sensitive to the magic of fantastic beasts, yet he had never imagined that there was such a trait within himself.
Dumbledore did not give him time to think further, raising his hand to knock three times on the stone wall.
After a dull sound, the wall slowly moved aside, revealing a narrow secret passage before them, inside which floated a faint, dusty scent of Ancient Magic.
"You'll know once you go in."
The secret passage was not long, ending in a small secret chamber with dark, gloomy black stone on all four walls.
Four portraits of equal size hung on the wall, beneath which was carved a line of ancient text: Map Chamber.
As soon as Amster steadied himself, the wizards in the four portraits opened their eyes simultaneously.
There was no exaggerated golden light, no deafening sound, just four calm gazes falling upon him, like sizing up a belated old friend.
"Being able to see the silver light means your heart is calm enough and your magic is pure enough."
The female wizard Niamh in the middle spoke in a gentle tone, yet carrying unquestionable majesty, "We are the guardians of Hogwarts's Ancient Magic, guarding the forgotten power within the castle."
"What you saw is merely the shallowest trace."
Percival on the left had a steady voice, "From now on, you will see more and come into contact with magic that is not even recorded in textbooks."
Rookwood on the right had a sharp gaze, but without malice: "Your foundation is very stable and not impetuous; you are more suited to this power than that student from a hundred years ago."
San Bakar, the last one, smiled, his tone unexpectedly carrying a touch of tenderness toward fantastic beasts: "You like those creatures, and as it happens, Ancient Magicand nature are inherently one. Your passion will help you go further."
Amster listened quietly without being shocked out of composure, nor becoming incoherently excited.
He bowed slightly, his tone calm and earnest: "I will learn well, and I will keep the secrets here safe."
Dumbledore stood beside him, watching his unhurried demeanor, the corners of his mouth curving up quietly.
He never had to worry about this nephew being intoxicated by his talent; Amster always knew what he wanted.
The faint light in the secret chamber gently fell upon Amster, softly echoing the magic within his body, gentle and harmonious.
He suddenly understood that the agreement obtained from Newt during Easter gave direction to his passion for fantastic beasts, while the Ancient Magic talent unveiled at this moment was Hogwarts giving him another path that could take him further.
"Let's go."
Dumbledore raised his hand to pat his shoulder, a gesture as natural as could be, "We'll talk about the rest slowly when we get back; the hot chocolate is going to get cold."
Amster nodded and followed his uncle out of the secret chamber.
The walls slowly closed, hiding a century of guardianship and new expectations together within the stone walls of Hogwarts.
The wisteria in the eighth-floor corridor was still falling, and the warm yellow corridor lights stretched the shadows of the two men very long.
There was no majesty of a headmaster, no heaviness of bloodline, only the ease of family walking side by side.
Amster touched the fantastic beasts notes in his bag, and once again felt the faint tremor of that newly awakened, Ancient Magic within his body.
Alchemy, fantastic beasts, Ancient Magic... his future life was destined to be busy yet fulfilling.
The evening breeze swept through the corridor, carrying the fragrance of flowers along with an unknown, brand-new prologue.
Chapter 21 The First Trial
The faint fragrance of wisteria still lingered in the wind of the eighth-floor corridor; it had been a little over half a month since that night when Amster resonated with the Ancient Magic in the Map Chamber.
The lingering warmth of Easter had completely dissipated into the late spring, and the May wind swept across the stone walls of Hogwarts, carrying a refreshing coolness that was neither restless nor fierce, just brushing against the exposed corner of the notebook beneath his hem.
The Magical Creature notebook in his bag remained bulging, and the Bowtruckle's feather brushed against his fingertips through the glass bottle; that thread of Ancient Magic dormant in his blood would occasionally tremble gently as he stepped past the castle's old walls, so light like a butterfly's wings beating that it was almost unnoticeable without careful attention.
He and Dumbledore remained as they had always been, gathering in the Headmaster's Office in the evening to drink hot chocolate, discussing the bottlenecks of Alchemyarrays, and complaining about the chatter of the portraits; the old Headmaster never mentioned Ancient Magic much, only occasionally raising his eyes to look at him with a gentle smile in the depths of his eyes, yet never spelling anything out.
Amster did not ask either, merely hiding that trace of unusual magic away, throwing himself as usual into his classes, Alchemy, and his appointments in the Forbidden Forest, living his days leisurely and unhurriedly.
On the first morning of May, as the daylight had just crept over the castle spires, he walked towards the dungeons holding his Potions Class textbook, the stone steps beneath his feet still stained with the damp chill of night dew.
A deep voice landed in his mind without warning, devoid of ripples yet clear enough for only him to hear—it was Rackham.
"Amster."
His steps paused slightly, his fingertips tapping against the cover of the textbook, while students passing by brushed past him with laughter and chatter, no one noticing his momentary pause.
"Those chosen by the castle's origin must undergo trials before they can touch Ancient Magic. The first trial: search every forgotten corner of Hogwarts, track the scattered traces of Ancient Magic, and find its destination."
The moment the voice dissipated, that dormant thread of magic in his blood moved slightly, like a newly awakened stream, sending a faint, elusive guidance toward a remote part of the castle.
Starting from this day, Amster began shuttling through the corners of the castle during his spare time between classes.
He told no one, merely taking advantage of the sparse crowds in the early morning to step up the spiral staircase covered in a thin layer of dust; during lunch breaks, he bypassed the noisy courtyard and slipped into the abandoned old classroom on the west side; after classes ended in the evening, he walked closely along the cracks of the outer walls.
Those traces of Ancient Magic never appeared in crowded places; only at rotten table corners, rarely stepped-on steps, and gaps where the wall plaster had peeled off would they flash an extremely faint silver light, as fast as an optical illusion, and only he could precisely capture that cold and aged magic.
He used his Alchemy notes to hastily mark the locations where the traces appeared, without deliberately organizing any patterns, simply following the guidance within his body.
The traces were intermittent; sometimes he walked the entire corridor without seeing a shred of light, and sometimes just as he turned a corner, the silver light leaked out from the stone gaps, only to vanish instantly again.
After several days, his notes were covered in crooked markings, yet he still hadn't found the source of the traces.
Dumbledore noticed him leaving early and returning late, but simply adjusted the temperature of the hot chocolate to perfection every day, placed an extra piece of lemon biscuit, and Fawkes would land on his shoulder to rub against his cheek, its golden-red feathers brushing past his temples, asking no reasons, just quietly accompanying him.
The old Headmaster's silence was never detachment, but a belief that he could walk this stretch of the road well on his own.
On the fifth day of May, a light drizzle drifted in the afternoon, wetting the stone walls of Hogwarts and turning them a deep gray.
Amster bypassed the main corridor and walked forward along an abandoned passageway at the back of the third floor; even portraits were extremely rare here, the wall plaster was mottled and peeling, and only the sound of rain tapping against the windowpanes made it quiet enough to hear his own footsteps.
The magic in his blood suddenly trembled, clearer than at any time before.
He raised his eyes to look, and at the end of the passageway stood a door covered in thick dust, its sign blurred, discernible only as a girls' lavatory that had been abandoned for many years.
As soon as his fingertips touched the icy door panel, a silver light overflowed from the crack of the door, no longer a fleeting flash, but steadily flowing, carrying the familiar Ancient Magic, drawing out a pale silver band of light in the damp air.
This was the first time he had seen a continuous, persistent trace of magic; it stopped for a full three minutes before slowly extending toward the interior of the lavatory.
Amster followed the band of light, passing through crooked sinks and scattered broken porcelain pieces; the band of light finally stopped in the corner, plunging behind a pile of dilapidated wooden boxes.
He bent down to move away the dust-covered wooden boards, revealing an old wooden door about half a person tall, its wood blackened and cracked, the surface carved with circles of unfamiliar ancient symbols, their edges glowing with a faint light homologous to the silver light—the very end of the traces.
His fingertips lightly touched the wooden surface, and the magic within the symbols gently pressed close, softly merging with the power in his blood—not ostentatious, but exceptionally resolute.
Rackham's voice sounded in his mind once again, carrying a faint touch of approval within its steadiness.
"Well done, Amster. This is the destination of the first trial, and also the starting point of the second trial."
Amster withdrew his hand, straightened up, and gazed at that wooden door; the drizzle stopped at the window sill, dripping down with a soft sound.
There was no wild joy, nor any superfluous sentiment, only a clear resolve added in his heart—he had passed the first test, and the new path was hidden behind this door carved with ancient runes.
He smoothed the crumpled hem of his robes and turned to walk out of the abandoned lavatory.
The setting sun broke through the clouds, dyeing the damp and cold stone walls warm gold; the notebook in his bag rubbed against his palm, the corners of the Alchemysketches protruding, and the touch of the Bowtruckle's feather remained steadfast and reassuring.
Alchemy, Magical Creatures, and Ancient Magic—three things he held close to his heart—quietly intertwined at this moment; there was no grandiose sense of destiny, simply a stretch of road yet to be walked added to his days.
The wind swept past the castle eaves, whipping up scattered flower petals on the ground; Amster walked toward the direction of the Headmaster's Office with steady steps.
He knew that Dumbledore's hot chocolate was still warm, and the story regarding Ancient Magic had only just turned its first page.
In the unknown abandoned lavatory, the ancient symbols on the wooden door flickered with a faint light, guarding Hogwarts' millennial secrets, while waiting for the boy to push the door open once more.
Chapter 22: Wrapper and Rune Shimmer
[Who Stole My Winter Break]
(Brothers and sisters, the trusty author is back to school. Good news: I still have some drafted chapters. Bad news: I don't have many drafts left. Worse news: the first week of school is busy as hell.)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Wrapper and Rune Shimmer
The wooden door of the abandoned lavatory closed behind Amster, and the last bit of silver light sank into the wood grain, leaving no trace visible.
Amster walked back along the deserted corridor at the back of the third floor, his soles crushing a few rain-wetted wisteria flowers, their fragrance suffocated in the damp and cold stone crevices, so faint it was almost imperceptible.
The Ancient Magic that had just clung to his fingertips still lingered in his veins—neither swaying nor surging, it just stayed quietly, like carrying a small piece of cool, moist moonlight.
The setting sun slanted across the castle spires, dyeing the clouds warm.
He raised his hand to press against his chest, confirming that the tiny resonance was still there, before continuing toward the Headmaster's Office.
At the end of the corridor, the sweet aroma of hot chocolate drifted over, mixed with the slight sourness of lemon biscuits.
Dumbledore was sitting in front of the fireplace, with two cups placed on the table, and Fawkes perched on the windowsill, its gold-red tail feathers brushing away the water droplets on the glass.
"It looks like you walked a rather good path today."
The old headmaster raised his eyes, his gaze falling on the thin layer of dust staining Amster's robe hem.
Without asking for details, he simply pushed a warm porcelain cup toward him, "The dungeons have a harsh wind; warm your hands."
Amster sat down, his fingertips tapping against the cup wall.
The Fantastic Beasts notes in his bag pressed against his waist, and the Bowtruckle's feather gently nudged the coolness through a small glass bottle.
He spoke to his uncle about the course of the trial, about that door in the changing room, and about those silver Ancient Magic traces, but most of it was brushed over lightly.
Just like usual, he chatted with Dumbledore about where he got stuck in Alchemy and the newly emerged Puffskeins in the Forbidden Forest.
The old headmaster listened attentively, occasionally pointing out a key point.
His tone was light, but every word hit the nail on the head.
The dusk crept in, the portraits chatted in low voices, Fawkes occasionally let out a soft chirp, and everything was as usual.
From that day on, Amster's days split into two non-interfering lines.
By day, he attended classes obediently; by night, he hugged ancient texts to study runes, but this absolutely did not disrupt any of his plans nor delay any single matter.
In Potions Class, he brewed potions as usual.
Snape's black robes brushed past the stone tables, his cold eyes sweeping across the entire class.
Amster stood before the cauldron, controlling the fire, adding ingredients, and timing with utmost stability.
When the wolfsbane juice dripped into the potion, the light green mist rose steadily without a single flaw.
He was still that quiet, precise student in class who didn't like to join the bustle, except that during breaks he would unconsciously trace the corner of the table with his fingertips, copying the ancient rune patterns in his mind, his gaze blanking out for a split second before being quickly pulled back by the class.
During the intervals of physical guidance and practice with Cassandra in the Room of Requirement, Cassandra stood beside him, her silver-gray eyes fixed solely on her wand, her quill suspended in mid-air motionless, her posture neat and carrying a trace of natural arrogance.
She had never proactively asked, but she saw more clearly than anyone else—Amster would always look toward the remote corners of the castle during practice breaks, his fingers repeatedly rubbing the wand handle, as if chasing an invisible thread.
When practice ended that day, she put away her wand and walked over to Amster in a few steps.
Her voice was lowered, devoid of extra expression or a caring tone, sounding more like a temperatureless warning: "You've been sneaking into empty places lately."
"Hogwarts's old walls hide more than just dust; be careful and don't get yourself lost in there."
Her gaze lingered on Amster's eyelashes for half a second, her fingertips extremely lightly touching the tip of his wand before instantly pulling back.
She turned and walked back to her spot, though the tips of her ears quietly blushed a light pink.
Amster watched Cassandra's back and softly hummed an "Mn," his voice so low only he could hear, yet his heart inexplicably felt a little more relaxed.
He never let his nighttime research delay his daytime coursework.
Instead, because of the logic of the ancient runes, his Alchemy sketches became smoother and smoother, occasionally adding one or two faint symbols to the edges of his notes that only he could understand, while others would just consider them casual markings.
Penelope was the first to notice something was amiss.
After all, she was a Ravenclaw and spent every day soaking in the Library.
That day, holding a stack of thick History of Magic books, she walked over to the window where Amster often sat, and at a glance saw that his Alchemy notes were filled with unfamiliar curved lines.
She gently put down the books without making a fuss, just leaning a bit closer, her fingertips pointing at one of the symbols.
Her tone was of Ravenclaw-style calm curiosity: "This pattern... I—I've seen it in a certain book. It's very similar to the ancient runic script from several centuries ago."
Amster didn't hide it and pushed his notes toward her.
From then on, that window-side spot in the Librarynaturally became the two's fixed seats.
Penelope brought over Source of Ancient Runes and Records of Hogwarts Secret Symbols, her fingertips sliding across the yellowed pages, helping him compare shapes and check root words word by word.
Meanwhile, relying on the magical resonance in his blood, Amster corrected the ambiguous records in the books.
The two of them had their heads close together, speaking in lowered voices.
Sunlight fell upon the tops of their hair, and whenever their gazes met, both would briefly freeze before gently looking away, smiles hidden deep within their eyes—unspoken, yet very obvious.
Penelope had solid theory, and he had sharp intuition.
Through their complementarity, those obscure and difficult ancient runes became clearer day by day.
What was originally just cold wood grain patterns slowly turned into readable ancient syllables.
He no longer needed to search the entire castle for traces; he only needed to sit at the desk, tracing stroke by stroke, to feel the magic of the old era flowing within them.
On weekend evenings, Amster was accustomed to going to the kitchen to ask the house-elves for a cup of hot milk, and by the way grab some honey used for Alchemy.
As soon as he pushed open the kitchen door, the aroma of butterbeer and toasted bread surged up.
Cedric was standing in front of the counter receiving pastries handed over by a house-elf.
Seeing Amster, Hufflepuff's little sunshine immediately smiled and walked over, fishing out a small bundle wrapped in a blue-and-white checkered handkerchief from his pocket and stuffing it directly into his hand.
The hard candy pressed against his palm through the fabric, the sweet fragrance of mint mixed with honey being very faint.
"My mother sent these—mint honey candies. Sucking on one when staying up late works wonders."
Cedric patted Amster on the shoulder, his tone sincere and gentle without the slightest hint of probing, "I see you always leaving early and returning late lately, and eating meals in a rush too. Don't push yourself too hard."
Amster pinched that bag of candy and said thank you.
Cedric never asked too much or entangled; he simply quietly offered a piece of care—a typical Hufflepuff, gentle, grounded, and never overstepping boundaries.
After dark, the castle grew completely quiet.
The students returned to their common rooms, and the corridors were left with only the whispers of portraits and the light sound of the night wind blowing through the window cracks.
Amster hugged the ancient texts back to his dormitory, a tiny Lumos spell at his fingertips illuminating the desk, while the moonlight outside the window spilled in, falling upon the spread-out pages.
He simply studied the ancient runes quietly, without impatience or anxiety.
When he encountered a place where he got stuck, he would pause for a moment, take a sip of milk, and unwrap a candy given by Cedric.
The cool sweetness spread out, dispersing much of the drowsiness from staying up late.
On one side of the desk were the Potions Class textbook and Alchemy notes, and on the other were thick ancient runic texts covered in annotations.
The Fantastic Beasts notes were placed in the handiest spot, and the Bowtruckle's feather lay quietly in the glass bottle.
Cassandra would occasionally meet him in the corridor late at night.
He would be carrying books, walking toward the direction of the abandoned old classroom, his wand flicking a trace of shimmer, his footsteps light and steady.
She never stepped forward, only standing in the shadows to watch, her silver-gray eyes hiding a trace of worry that she herself refused to admit, until that bit of shimmer disappeared around the corner of the stairs, at which point she would gently turn and leave.
Penelope, on the other hand, was more direct.
Early the next morning, Amster would always find a neatly folded slip of paper inside his desk, containing rune interpretations she had organized.
Her handwriting was neat and delicate, occasionally with a tiny star drawn at the end.
When he looked up toward Ravenclaw's seats, Penelopewould rapidly blink once, then pretend to read a book while the corners of her mouth quietly curved upward.
The breeze of May was still refreshing, sweeping across the stone walls and making the wisterias in the corridor sway gently.
The noisy daytime classes, the murmurs with lowered heads in the Library, and the lamplight before the desk in the dead of night were all kneaded into late spring.
Amster's life remained simple: attending classes, doing Alchemy, researching ancient runes, and completing trials.
Around him, someone cared, someone minded, and someone silently accompanied him.
There were no ripples or dramatics—just walking forward step by step.
The candy wrapper at the corner of the desk was flipped by the evening breeze, and the runes on the notes shimmered with an extremely faint silvery brightness in the glimmer, while the Ancient Magic in his veins lay dormant quietly.
The first trial had been walked through, the door to the second was right before his eyes, and this time, he was no longer alone.
The moonlight overflowed across the windowsill, falling upon the overlapping pages of ancient texts and Alchemysketches.
The sweet fragrance of the mint candy drifted gently in the air—faint and steady, like the youth's unhurried footsteps, step by step, walking toward Hogwarts's millennium-hidden secrets.
Chapter 23: Passing the Trial, the End of the Second Year
The breeze of early summer that swept across the Forbidden Forest had not completely dissipated yet, and Hogwarts plunged squarely into June's exam season.
The stone walls were baked hot by the sun, the corridors were filled with students hurriedly rushing along holding their textbooks, and the sound of parchment and quills rubbing against each other echoed endlessly from morning till night.
For Amster, the second-year final exams were hardly a challenge at all; the spells, potion recipes, and magical plant habits that needed to be memorized were already thoroughly familiar to him, and he could easily get an Outstanding no matter how casually he took the exams.
What truly caught his attention was the trial left behind by Rookwood—a magic array so complex it gave people a headache.
In order to learn how to draw and activate it, he practiced for two whole weeks.
Most of the time, Amster immersed himself in Dumbledore's office.
There was none of the solemnity that should belong to the Headmaster's Office, only the sweetness of lemon drops, the scent of old parchment, and the soft rustle of Fawkesoccasionally flapping his wings.
He never needed to put on airs in front of his uncle, let alone be overly respectful; he would just sit down in a chair, grab some sweets and eat them, and if he drew something wrong, he would push the parchment right over, his tone as casual as if he were complaining to an elder of his own family.
"Uncle, look at this, no matter how I draw this symbol, it is not right. It looks identical to the warding rune, but it is just missing something."
Dumbledore never found it annoying; he did not even mind when his glasses slid down to the tip of his nose, and he leaned in to help him identify it bit by bit.
The old man's finger gently tapped in the middle of the patterns, his tone unhurried, without a shred of the Headmaster's airs, purely helping his own junior solve a trouble.
Rookwood's magic array was mixed with ancient runes and protective runes; many places looked similar, but the stroke arcs and connection methods were completely different.
Amster had made mistakes in several places back and forth: either missing a circle of loops, finishing too abruptly, or the position where magic power was injected was off by half an inch. Dumbledore pointed them out one by one and patiently corrected them over and over again.
During those days, Amster poured almost all his spare time into the magic array.
The empty classroom on the top floor, the open space by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the desk in the office—everywhere you could see him hunched over writing and drawing there.
At the beginning, failures were very frequent; with a slight tremble of the pen tip, the entire array would be ruined, and when the magic power dissipated, the parchment would grow slightly warm, making one's heart feel heavy along with it.
He would also get tired, his wrists aching from drawing, and occasionally could not help complaining that this trial was more grueling than ten final exams.
Dumbledore would usually hand him a cup of warm honey water, not lecturing with big principles, only reminding him not to rush.
Magic, especially an ancient array like this, was not about cleverness, but patience—a steady composure where every single stroke was not skimped on.
Amster listened, rested for a moment, and then picked up his pen to start again.
Days passed like this day by day, and June quickly came to an end.
On the final weekend, the weather was unbelievably nice, the sky was a clear, translucent blue, and even the breeze felt soft.
Amster picked a quiet lawn behind the castle; the place was spacious, and the magic flow was stable, making it very suitable for activating the magic array.
He spread the parchment he had practiced countless times onto the grass, his palms slightly sweaty, yet he was not flustered.
After two weeks of repeated refinement, those symbols had long been engraved into his mind, and the mistakes Dumbledore had corrected were remembered by him more firmly than any piece of knowledge.
Everything around was quiet, save for the sound of grass blades being blown by the wind.
Amster took a deep breath, and his pen tip fell steadily.
This time, he did not experience the slightest stutter.
Starting, turning, connecting, finishing—every stroke was clean and crisp, and the once awkward patterns now flowed as smoothly as if they had grown there by themselves.
The ancient runes and protective runes locked together perfectly, without any deviation or omission.
The moment the final stroke was completed, the parchment gave a soft flash, and pale golden light flowed slowly along the patterns, as if it had gained life.
Amster steadied his mind and smoothly channeled his magic power into the array's eye according to the incantation.
The next second, the radiance flared up fiercely, and a soft yet distinct halo spread out, enveloping the entire lawn.
Ancient and gentle magic dispersed into the air, neither dazzling nor overbearing, leaving only a solid sense of protection—the magic array had succeeded.
He stood in the light, let out a breath, and the corners of his mouth curled upward involuntarily.
After two weeks of hard work, it finally was not in vain.
When Amster brought this news to the Map Chamber, the portraits of the keepers looked at Amster with calm tones, yet carrying full recognition: "There is still a long way to go, but you are already walking on the right path."
There was no exaggerated praise, no superfluous embellishment, yet this sentence made one feel more grounded than any compliment.
Not far away, Dumbledore stood with his hands behind his back, quietly watching all this with a gentle smile on his face.
He did not step forward to disturb, just watching his nephew complete the second trial, his eyes hiding an imperceptible pride.
The results of the final exams came out quickly, and Amster unsurpressingly got all Outstandings.
The professors were already used to his excellence and no longer praised him, and even his dear Head of House, Snape, did not spew venom at him.
But only he himself knew that what was most worth being proud of this June was not the Outstandings on his report card, but successfully activating that magic array.
Exam month ended, students began packing their luggage to prepare for the summer vacation, Hogwarts gradually grew lively, yet in Amster's heart, there was an extra sense of heaviness.
He looked back at the lawn, where the sunlight fell, warm and bright.
The breeze of June blew gently past, carrying the breath of summer and also a new beginning.
Chapter 24: The Recipe in the Phoenix's Afterglow
The June breeze swept away Hogwarts' last trace of exam-season tension, gently kneading the hustle and bustle of leaving school together with the laziness of summer.
Most students dragged their suitcases through the corridors; the flagstones were warmed by the afternoon sun, and the spacious castle lost some of its usual crowding, yet gained a layer of quiet warmth.
Amster fell into a rare state of relaxation; the summer holiday at Hogwarts was extremely peaceful and beautiful, just like in previous years, leaving only him, the various professors, and his headmaster uncle.
The steady sense of security from the successful completion of the magic array trial still rested firmly deep within his heart.
His all-A report card had long been casually set aside by him; compared to those points of knowledge he had already known by heart, what truly made him feel that he had gained something this summer was the perseverance polished stroke by stroke over two weeks.
Now without any urgent tasks, he could instead sit peace of mindedly opposite his uncle, grab a handful of lemon drops, watch Fawkes quietly resting on the crossbar, and feel comfortable even while thinking of nothing at all.
Dumbledore half leaned against the old armchair, his glasses sliding to the tip of his nose, his fingertips slowly turning through a roll of ancient parchment.
He never used the identity of a headmaster to oppress his juniors; in front of Amster, he was always just that uncle who would hand over honey water, patiently point out mistakes, and quietly add a few more candies.
The afternoon sunlight passed through the circular window, falling upon Fawkes' fiery red feathers and casting a layer of soft golden light over them; occasionally, its wings would twitch lightly, letting fall a few wisps of shimmering fine feathers, quiet as an unmoving painting.
"Amster."
Dumbledore spoke suddenly, his voice gentle and slow, carrying not a trace of a commanding tone.
"Help me bring over that stack of observation records regarding Fawkes' rebirth on the far left of the bookshelf; I want to check a few details again."
Amster agreed and stood up, walking familiarly over to the bookshelf.
That stack of records was something he had glimpsed before; it was a thick stack with slightly yellowish edges, observations written stroke by stroke by his uncle over many years.
He carefully hugged it over, gently spreading it out in the center of the desk; he originally only wanted to tidy it up properly and step aside, but once his gaze fell upon those words, he could no longer move it away.
There were no flowery rhetoric, no exaggerated descriptions, only the most plain and truest records: the temperature of the flames rising, the speed of the ashes gathering, the complete process of vitality from dissipation to rebirth...
Every word and sentence spoke of the most essential power of the phoenix—neither plundering nor consuming, purely giving birth to new life from destruction.
Looking at the materials in his hands, Amster suddenly recalled the phoenix potion that he had constantly been trying to advance alongside completing the trials, intended to replenish vitality for Nicolas Flamel and his wife.
His knowledge of potions came entirely from the wizarding world's youngest Potions Master.
His Head of House was Snape, and in terms of Alchemy, he had the personal guidance of the greatest alchemist, Nicolas Flamel.
Yet no matter how he adjusted it, having tried all possible methods from beginning to end, he could never find a point as perfect as the phoenix's rebirth. All methods could not bypass a fatal flaw: either they overtaxed the spirit, or they damaged memory; never was there one that could be gentle, complete, and side-effect-free.
But at this moment, looking at the records of Fawkes' rebirth, it was as if a lamp had suddenly been lit in his mind.
All scattered thoughts gathered together in an instant.
Herb ratios, magic flow, material compatibility, the characteristics of phoenix feathers and tears...
Those once-vague nodes were now as clear as if he had witnessed them with his own eyes.
A complete, unprecedented conception fiercely crashed into his mind—the phoenix potion with the power of the phoenix as its core, replenishing vitality while strictly never damaging memory.
He almost subconsciously grabbed his quill, dipped it in ink, and began writing impatiently.
The nib slid rapidly across the paper; he recorded every single formula, step, heat control, and magic control method in his mind without missing a word, even making his breath lighter for fear that if he let go, this sudden inspiration would slip away.
Dumbledore merely watched quietly, quietly pushing a cup of warm honey water to his side, his eyes carrying a faint smile, neither disturbing nor urging him.
Until the very last character fell, Amster let out a long sigh of relief.
The ink on the paper was not yet dry; rows of handwriting were neat and eager, the first time he had ever possessed such a complete and steadfast potion conception.
He was very clear that this idea was far too bold; relying solely on himself, he could not go far at all.
He needed guidance from someone truly standing at the pinnacle of magic.
With almost no hesitation, he spread out two new sheets of letter paper.
One letter was written to Nicolas Flamel.
This Alchemy master who had lived for hundreds of years was the person in the world who best understood the balance between life and magic.
Amster wrote down his potion conception exactly as it was, with a sincere tone, no showing off, and only pure consultation.
Another letter was written to Newt Scamander.
That magizoologist who had traveled the world possessed an understanding of phoenixes far deeper than any book.
Amster hoped to obtain from him the most authentic phoenix material characteristics closest to nature.
After the letters were sent out by owls, the days continued to pass leisurely.
While perfecting his notes, Amster occasionally dabbled in some small potions, patiently waiting for a reply from afar.
Not long after, two owls landed on the windowsill one after another.
The first letter came from Nicolas Flamel.
The handwriting was steady and archaic, carrying the gentleness sedimented by time, yet hitting the nail right on the head.
The old man said in the letter that he had carefully read this conception of the phoenix potion; the direction was extremely exquisite, touching the most core part of life's magic, yet precisely because of this, it was heart-poundingly interesting and nearly as difficult as challenging the laws of nature.
The balance of magic, the stability of materials, the controllability of the phoenix's power—every step was a threshold impossible for ordinary people to cross.
Flamel did not give an answer, only gently hinting: if you want not to damage memory, you cannot forcibly extract vitality; what you need to find is not "borrowing", but "resonance".
Just a few short sentences instantly enlightened Amster.
Meanwhile, the second reply, from Newt Scamander, was much more cordial.
Aside from words of encouragement, the letter paper also enclosed a thick stack of handwritten notes, the edges of the pages even stained with a faint scent of earth.
Newt said in the letter that he had never seen such a delicate conception of a phoenix potion, and wrote down one by one the details he had gained from observing phoenixes over many years: the magic fluctuations of phoenix feathers under different emotions, the compatibility ratios with moon-grass and dittany essence, the best timing for feather collection...
He even carefully noted that the power of the phoenix most detested impatient brewing techniques and must be guided by gentle, slow, and stable magic.
Those notes lacked any academic stiffness, being entirely vivid content derived from field observations, every single sentence hitting precisely upon the points Amster needed most.
Amster read the two replies repeatedly several times and carefully put away Newt's notes.
Flamel's reminder kept him sober, knowing that the road ahead was by no means easy; while Newt's help was like a lamp, illuminating how he should take his very first step.
The sunlight outside the window was just right; Fawkessuddenly gave a soft cry, spread its fiery red wings, circled gently around the room, and landed back on the crossbar, a wisp of soft feather slowly drifting down to fall upon the parchment filled with his potion conception.
Amster gently picked up that feather, his fingertips able to feel the gentle yet steadfast vitality contained within it.
He knew that this path of research would be very long, very difficult, and perhaps fraught with countless failures.
But this summer, in the sunshine of Hogwarts and in the afterglow of the phoenix, he had already found the most precious starting point.
All things are difficult at first, but fortunately, there is always some progress.
Chapter 25: Rare Relaxation, A Hogsmeade Morning
In the blink of an eye, July arrived, and Amster's summer vacation was still extremely fulfilling, but he planned to take a break today, so he arrived in Hogsmeade early, ready to make a trip to the Hog's Head Inn.
The feather that Fawkes dropped that day was tucked by Amster into his Potions notes; it had no special purpose, just a casual placement, yet it became the page he flipped through most often all summer.
He had been mulling over the ideas for the phoenix potion, reading Flamel's reply and Newt's notes over and over again, yet he wasn't in a hurry to get into the Potions Classroom to start brewing.
When encountering things whose foundation was the origin of life, being hasty was useless; Uncle Albus often said that some things had to wait for the right timing.
The morning Hogsmeade was quiet, with hardly anyone on the road because it was summer vacation and all the students had left; the town was so quiet that one could hear the sound of the wind blowing across the roofs.
Amster walked down the path, the hem of his robe fluttered by the wind, but he didn't mind, his mind still intermittently drifting to the matter of medicinal herb proportions.
Aberforth was never the kind of person who wore his care on his face.
Unlike Albus, whose gentleness was etched into his bones, he spoke little, his expression was bland, and he always looked a bit aloof.
But Amster knew that as long as he sat down, a cup of butterbeer at just the right temperature would soon appear before him, without saying an extra word, yet it was more solid than anything else.
Perhaps this was his clumsy care as a father.
Walking to the entrance of the village, he took another look at the cabin that looked like it had been empty for a long time.
The wooden boards were gray with age, vines crawled all over half the wall, and the door was half-open, as if it had been abandoned there for many years.
He didn't stay long, walked up the slope, found a relatively flat stone to sit down, prepared to bask in the sun for a while, and then went to find his father, anyway, his bar definitely wouldn't have anyone during the day.
The surroundings were so quiet that only the sound of the wind remained.
Amster sat there, without deliberately recalling anything, but the events of this year still popped up in bits and pieces.
The tension during the magic circle trials, the details repeatedly polished in Potions Class, the roundabout principles of balance when learning Alchemy from Flamel, and the words the four Keepers said to him about Ancient Magic in the Map Chamber.
And then this summer, the phoenix potion that suddenly crashed into his mind because of Fawkes's rebirth records.
This year had not been easy, but it was very solid.
He was no longer the child who relied on elders for guidance in everything; many things were figured out bit by bit through his own repeated trial and error.
Potions, Alchemy, and that Ancient Magic he still couldn't quite grasp, like three lines slowly intertwining, gradually took shape in his heart.
Slowly sorting out his thoughts, putting all the theories and knowledge aside, Amster stood up and walked toward the direction of the Hog's Head Inn.
But as he walked, Amster's footsteps slowly came to a halt.
In the gaps of the flagstones on both sides of the path, a trace of extremely faint silver light seeped out.
It was very thin, like mist, extending all the way up the hillside along the ground, hiding into the grass.
He was far too familiar with that aura — it was the exact same kind he had seen deep inside the castle, on the walls of the corridors, and in the crevices of ancient stones.
Amster squatted down and observed carefully.
He looked into the distance following the silver light, from the empty cabin at the village entrance, to the path under his feet, to the hillside, and could even vaguely sense that this line connected all the way to Hogwarts.
So Ancient Magic wasn't just hidden inside the castle.
It was underground, in the soil, throughout the entire valley, simply sleeping all this time.
At that instant, he seemed to suddenly figure something out.
It wasn't that he had suddenly become stronger, nor was it that he had learned some new spell, that enabled him to see these silver lights.
It was that the Ancient Magic which had slumbered for too long was waking up.
Waking up, which was why it revealed traces and was captured by him.
He remembered what the four Keepers said in the Map Chamber — Ancient Magic didn't rely on fancy incantations, nor aggressive plundering; what it spoke of was nature and balance.
Looking back at the phoenix potion he had been pondering, wasn't it the same? Not seizing vitality, not harming memories, what it pursued was a gentle resonance rather than a forced borrowing.
So these two paths had walked on the exact same piece of land right from the start.
"What are you standing there daydreaming for?"
A low voice came from behind, not loud, but very clear.
Amster turned around and saw Aberforth standing under the streetlight, holding half a bottle of wine, his expression still bland with no emotion discernible, only his gaze falling upon him.
Aberforth had never liked talking about grand principles, nor did he like dragging in family or history; guarding the Hog's Head Inn and this small patch of Hogsmeade, he seemed to care about nothing, but Amster knew that not a single abnormality happening on this land could escape his eyes.
"Nothing," Amster walked over, his tone very natural without the slightest restraint, "just sat on the slope for a bit and saw some things."
Aberforth didn't press further, just glanced up the slope, then turned away and walked toward the bar.
"Squatting by the roadside early in the morning, what does that look like, still acting like a child? Come in and sit for a bit; my bar isn't open in the morning, don't worry, you won't see those rats in the sewers that you hate."
The tone was bland, with no care or admonition, just the most ordinary reminder.
But Amster knew this was already Aberforth's most straightforward care.
The door of the Hog's Head Inn was pushed open, and the smell of beer and toast drifted out, the lighting much warmer than outside.
Ever since he complained about the dirty and messy environment of the bar a few years ago, it seemed that every time he came, the bar was always clean.
Before entering the door, Amster looked back at the village entrance once more.
That streak of silver light was still there, quietly lying on the ground, extending toward the hillside, hiding in the twilight.
The phoenix feather was still tucked in his notes, Ancient Magic was slowly awakening beneath his feet, and the recipe for the potion was becoming clear in his mind bit by bit.
This summer, he didn't seem to be in a hurry to finish anything, yet he had quietly obtained many answers.
What the future would be like, he didn't know.
There were bound to be difficult roads ahead, and failure was also a possibility.
But at this moment, sitting beside the wooden table and taking the hot drink pushed over by Aberforth, he knew today wasn't the time to think about these things.