Why Do I Have to Turn In Another Manuscript?

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

Immersed in Transfiguration, Andrew began to develop a systematic understanding of it. His limited magic, a consequence of his age, left many of his transformations rough, but Professor McGonagall had judged his grasp of the theory to be just about at a beginner's level.

"For a while, don't read too much theory," Professor McGonagall told him last week when he handed in a set of reading notes that looked more like his personal reflections. A faint smile appeared on her face. "Until you've tested it yourself, theory will only hold you back. What you need now is more practice: the speed of your transformations, their placement, how lifelike they are, and more."

At that point, his frenzied days of living in the Library finally came to an end.

Then the miserable days began...

Time had passed far too quickly. As he considered his next steps, he realized something: another deadline was almost here.

"Damn it, how did time go by so fast? Didn't I just turn in last month's manuscript? Why do I have to turn in another one?"

He hadn't even had a proper look at the response to the October issue, and it was already the end of October!

"Hell, the manuscript due in early November..."

Andrew glanced at the growing number of people in the Library, then counted up how many of them he'd gotten to know lately. He promptly abandoned the lovely idea of writing his manuscript there.

Now that the novelty of school had worn off, everyone was beginning to pursue their own interests. Ravenclaw's first-years were gradually settling into life in the Library, too. He could get away with a brief stint of writing, but scribbling away there every day would practically announce to his classmates that something was up with him...

After considering several empty classrooms, Andrew finally found a good spot: an unused room in the Castle's Dungeon.

It was close to the Potions Classroom and a certain professor's Office. Not even the naughtiest Gryffindor students would come exploring here. Just imagine that professor stepping out and catching sight of a breathing Gryffindor. They might as well be gambling with their School's points.

The light, the smell, and the damp weren't much of a problem. Andrew could handle those for now.

The only thing he had to watch out for was someone discovering the manuscript. He had prepared a half-written thesis as cover and transformed each finished page of the manuscript into a bead he wore around his wrist. He certainly couldn't fool Professor McGonagall, but the other professors shouldn't notice unless they looked closely. Probably?

His half-finished thesis was about the effect of light on Transfiguration. If anyone asked, Professor McGonagall had suggested the topic. Along with an assortment of half-transformed objects, it ought to be enough to bluff his way through.

Besides, three or four days had passed without a single professor coming to check on him.

+++

[Gryffindor raised the Sword of Gryffindor in his left hand, and the entire forest seemed to sing for him. One by one, he cut down spells so fierce they seemed capable of burning the very air away.

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

Slytherin remained unfazed. Spells that countless Dark Wizards could spend their entire lives struggling to cast flowed from his Wand as effortlessly as a beginner's Levitation Charm. With a single incantation, he seemed to erase the very existence of the spells bearing down on him, sending them into slumber.

Before the Castle of a newly built Hogwarts, spells poured down like rain. Every limit of magic people could imagine was worn away, as though the two of them stood at the end of magic itself, at its very essence.

Those watching from afar could not even think of helping. No, they simply could not cast spells at all. Between the two combatants, magic itself was close to being worn away!]

[Only Dumbledore, with the Elder Wand and his own legendary power, could still muster a little strength amid such a battle.

"You win, Gryffindor," Slytherin said. "But I didn't lose to you. I lost to what you passed on. He could use the spells you loved to help you. As for me—no one can keep up with my pace."

With that, he left without a moment's hesitation. In the years that followed, rainwater gradually covered the ground where life had been extinguished by their battle, forming what would become the Black Lake.

From that day on, Hogwarts had forever lost one of its Founders who stood at the pinnacle of magic: Slytherin, the ultimate master of Dark Magic.]

Perfect!

That was Andrew's verdict on his own work.

It was wildly overblown, but it flowed from start to finish, and he had completed it even sooner than expected.

He had praised Gryffindor while making Slytherin so powerful that no one could complain. That should keep him safe.

"At last, I don't have to stay in this sunless Dungeon anymore."

He transformed the final page of his manuscript into a bead and added it to his wrist. After checking again that he had left nothing behind, he extinguished the magical flame and tidied the table and the miscellaneous clutter. In such a good mood, he even started whistling.

Next, I can practice Transfiguration and look for some spells the Upper Years use. No point letting the Club's resources go to waste. My practical skills still need work, and I can catch up on the classes I've neglected, especially Magical History. I got carried away writing this one, and I still don't know which major event to use for the next manuscript...

Come to think of it, wasn't there supposed to be some kind of celebration today? I was too busy coming here to finish the manuscript to find out... But that's not a problem now. It's just about mealtime.

++++

While Andrew considered what to eat, the feast was well underway.

The Castle, decorated with thousands of bats, had a distinctly Halloween feel. The appetizers had even begun to arrive.

"What's Andrew up to this time?"

"The Library, of course."

His roommates looked unsurprised. Since the start of term, Andrew had spent more time in the Library than anyone—though his grades didn't reflect the effort.

Still, everyone had their own interests, so it wasn't their place to say anything. Plenty of people specialized in a single subject, and few Ravenclaws would make a fuss about it.

Leaving him a place at the table was as far as their concern went. Everyone knew to give him space.

But just as the whole Dining Hall was enjoying the pleasant atmosphere, someone stumbled in.

It was Quirrell, the Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, whose reputation was hardly stellar. He practically charged toward the staff table.

"Whew... Troll... in the Underground Classroom..."

He had barely managed to say this to Dumbledore at the table when he ran out of breath and fainted in front of everyone.

The lively Dining Hall erupted like one of Neville's cauldrons.