How Come I Have to Submit Again?

When someone settled down to do something, time slipped away without them noticing.

Immersed in Transfiguration, Andrew had begun to develop a systematic understanding of it. Though his magic was limited by his age, making many of his transformations crude and rough, Professor McGonagall had judged his grasp of the theoretical framework as barely passing the threshold.

"For the next while, don't read too much theory," Professor McGonagall said with a faint smile when Andrew handed in a reading journal last week that was more like his personal reflections. "Without testing it yourself, theoretical knowledge will become a restraint instead. What you need now is more practice: the speed of transformation, positioning, realism, and more besides."

Only then did he finally end his frenzied days of living in the library.

And then, the miserable days began...

Time had passed far, far too quickly. When he started planning his next move, he realized something—another deadline was nearly here.

Damn it, how did time pass so fast? Didn't I just submit last month's manuscript? Why do I have to submit another one already?

He had not even properly looked at the feedback for the October issue, and it was already the end of October!

Hell, the manuscript due at the beginning of November...

Andrew glanced at the growing number of people in the library, then considered the people he had gotten to know lately. He decisively gave up on the wonderful idea of writing in the library.

As the students got past the initial novelty of school, everyone began doing what they liked. Ravenclaw first-years were also gradually getting used to life in the library. Writing a little there temporarily might go unnoticed, but spending every day scribbling away in the library—he might as well announce to his classmates that there was something wrong with him...

After considering several empty classrooms, Andrew finally found a suitable spot—an unused classroom in the castle's basement.

Since it was close to the Potions classroom and a certain professor's office, even the most mischievous Gryffindor students would not come exploring here. Just imagine it: if that professor walked out and spotted a breathing Gryffindor, they would truly be making a joke of their House's points.

As for the lighting, smell, dampness, and other issues, they were not much of a problem. Andrew could handle them for now.

The only thing he needed to watch out for was someone discovering his manuscripts. But he had prepared a half-finished essay, and he had turned every completed page of his manuscript into beads to wear around his wrist. He definitely could not fool Professor McGonagall, but other professors probably would not notice anything unless they inspected them carefully, right?

Anyway, his half-finished essay was on the effects of light on Transfiguration. If anyone asked, he would say it was a suggested topic from Professor McGonagall. With a series of half-transformed objects added in, fooling them should not be a problem.

In any case, no professor had come to inspect the room over the past three or four days.

[Gryffindor raised a short sword in his left hand, and the entire forest seemed to sing for him. Spells that seemed capable of burning even the air to ashes were cut down one after another.

With a simple sweep of his wand in his right hand, grass, rocks, and lake water seemed to come alive and surged toward Slytherin.

Yet Slytherin remained utterly unmoved. Spells that countless Dark wizards could spend their entire lives unable to cast came as easily beneath his wand as a basic Levitation Charm. With a single incantation, even the existence of those spells seemed to be erased, plunged into slumber.

Before the newly built castle of Hogwarts, spells poured down like rain. Every limit of magic imaginable was obliterated, as though the two men were the end of magic itself—the very essence of magic.

The distant onlookers could not even think of helping. No, they simply could not cast spells at all. Magic itself was nearly being erased by the two of them!]

[Only Dumbledore, relying on the Elder Wand and his own legendary strength, could still spare a little effort amid such a battle.

You won, Gryffindor.

Slytherin spoke those words. But I did not lose to you. I lost to inheritance. He can use the spells you favor to help you, while I—no one can keep pace with me.

After saying that, he left without the slightest hesitation. The land where living things had been slain in the battle was gradually covered by rainwater in the years that followed, forming what would become the Black Lake.

From that day onward, Hogwarts forever lost one of its Founders who stood at the pinnacle—the ultimate existence of Dark Magic, Slytherin.]

Perfect!

That was how Andrew judged his work.

Though it was outrageously overblown, it had flowed from start to finish in one go. He had even finished it earlier than expected.

While praising Gryffindor, it also ensured that no one could complain about Slytherin's strength—this was safe.

"At last, I don't have to stay in this pitch-black basement anymore."

He turned the final manuscript into a bead and hung it from his wrist. After checking once more to make sure he had missed nothing, he extinguished the magical flame, packed up the table and all the miscellaneous clutter, and was in such a good mood that he even began whistling.

Next, while practicing Transfiguration, I can look for some upper-years to practice spells with—the club's resources shouldn't go to waste. My practical combat ability still needs improvement, and I can catch up a little on the classes I've fallen behind in, especially Magical History. I got too carried away writing this time; who knows what major event I'll use for the next manuscript...

Come to think of it, I think there was supposed to be some kind of celebration today... I was too focused on coming here to make up my manuscript, so I never figured it out... But it's fine now. This is just about dinner time.

Just as Andrew was deciding what to eat, the feast was proceeding merrily.

The castle, decorated with thousands of bats, had quite the Halloween atmosphere, and even the appetizers had begun to arrive.

"What's Andrew off doing again?"

"Obviously, the library."

His roommates looked utterly unsurprised. Since the start of term, Andrew had been the one most likely to head to the library—though his grades did not quite match all that effort.

Still, everyone had their own hobbies, so it was not really anyone's place to say anything. There were plenty of people who specialized in a single subject—and few Ravenclaws would meddle in such matters.

Saving him a seat at the table was the height of their concern. Everyone understood boundaries.

But just as the entire Great Hall was filled with harmony, someone staggered inside.

Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—a professor with a poor reputation—practically charged toward the staff table.

"Huff... Troll... in the underground classrooms..."

Having just managed to say that to Dumbledore at the table, the professor lost his breath and collapsed before everyone.

The lively dining hall suddenly exploded like Neville's cauldron.