It's His Turn to Consider Himself

The subsequent flying lesson went much more smoothly.

Hermione seemed to have completely overcome her initial fear and began attempting some basic turns and speed changes. Her movements were still a bit stiff, but the focus and gradually building confidence were obvious.

Caesar maintained a middle-of-the-pack level—not outstanding enough to draw attention, but never lagging behind to become a laughingstock.

When the lesson ended, Madam Hooch gave rare praise to several students who had shown marked improvement, including Hermione.

What excited the Gryffindors even more was this:

Harry Potter, the genius Seeker who could pull off breathtaking saves on his first time on a broomstick, and Hermione Granger, who had displayed excellent balance and reaction speed—

both were nominated by Professor McGonagall, who had appeared at the pitch edge to observe unnoticed, and would have the chance to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team!

This news dispelled the last traces of gloom from the previous night's conflict.

Ron chattered excitedly around Harry and Hermione, while the other little lions cast envious or congratulatory glances their way.

Caesar stood at the periphery of the crowd, watching Hermione—surrounded by friends, a genuinely happy smile finally on her face—and then glancing at Harry, whose eyes were bright with excitement. His gaze was calm and unruffled.

The liveliness belonged to them.

He turned and left the grass, heading toward the castle.

There were no classes in the afternoon.

Caesar didn't return to the common room, nor did he go to the library.

He went straight to the lower levels of Hogwarts Castle, to the less-frequented corridors and abandoned storage rooms.

The legendary-grade magical talent granted not only enhanced spellcasting ability but also a keener perception of magical materials.

In the simulations, for Hermione's sake, he had scoured nearly every place in and around Hogwarts that might yield the herbs and minerals he needed.

Now, combining those memories with his perception gave him great convenience in finding materials.

His movements were swift and silent, using his newly acquired talent and sensitivity to magical flow to avoid potential notice.

He also skillfully skirted around areas with light protective or warning enchantments.

He didn't need large quantities of materials—just enough to brew a few doses of the "Longmu" basic potion.

In the earlier simulations, he had poured his heart into researching and improving this ancient magic-nourishing potion, almost entirely to lay a foundation for Hermione and help her grow quickly.

Now, it was time to consider himself.

He had the top-tier talent, vast knowledge far beyond his age, and a deeper understanding of the essence of magic.

The only things holding him back were the not-yet-fully-developed magical capacity and physical strength of this body.

And perhaps... the not-so-bright original mind.

"Longmu" could gently and effectively widen the magical channels, enhance magical affinity, and consolidate the body's foundation for bearing magic.

This was exactly what he needed now, while staying low-key and hidden.

Collecting the materials went surprisingly smoothly.

By evening, carrying a small leather pouch treated with a simple Undetectable Extension Charm, he returned to his dormitory in the Gryffindor Tower.

He locked the door and cast simple silencing and anti-interference charms.

He didn't use a classroom or the common room—too many eyes and ears. The dormitory space was sufficient.

His top-tier talent gave him an almost instinctive grasp of heat control, material activity, and the timing of magical infusion.

Those complex processing steps and subtle reaction nodes were handled with ease in his hands.

Under the guidance of magic, wonderful fusions and transformations took place.

The air filled with a strange fragrance, a mix of fresh herbs and a faint mineral scent. The liquid in the cauldron gradually changed from murky to clear, shimmering with a rainbow-like glow.

The entire process was quiet and swift, marked by a researcher's focused efficiency.

There was none of the deliberate explanation or slowed-down steps he had used when brewing for Hermione in the simulations—only pure purposefulness.

When the last stabilizer was added, the potion in the cauldron settled into a pale gold that sparkled like starlight, with a texture like melted honey yet cool and translucent. Caesar extinguished the flame.

He carefully poured the potion into several prepared crystal vials and sealed them.

The first batch of "Longmu" prepared for himself was complete.

He then put away the crystal vials and removed the protective spells.

The dormitory returned to its ordinary state, with only the faintest trace of a strange medicinal scent—a mix of success and solitude—lingering in the quiet of dusk.

In the following days, Caesar didn't join the trio's antics. Instead, he focused entirely on improving his strength, even training alone during the Quidditch match.

Before they knew it, the holidays had arrived, and the first year was over.

Thanks to Caesar's butterfly effect and covert interference, Harry hadn't noticed anything unusual about Snape and Quirrell this semester.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station was still filled with the clamor of farewells and reunions.

Steam from the locomotive mingled with the hooting of owls, the admonitions of parents, and the excited shrieks of children.

Caesar, carrying a suitcase that looked conspicuously plain and even shabby compared to those around him, stepped down from the Hogwarts Express.

He walked straight toward the waiting area on the other side of the platform, his gaze sweeping past Harry Potter, who was surrounded by the enthusiastic Weasley family, his face expressionless.

Then he gave a slight start, because before him stood Hermione Granger, talking with her parents.

In fifteen years of simulations, he had subconsciously felt that this family should have come to greet him, then scolded him in a reproachful tone: "You couldn't even write a single letter home..."

"Caesar, you're finally out!"

Uncle Vernon rumbled as he approached, his first reaction not a hug or a greeting, but a critical, rapid once-over of Caesar.

"You didn't bring back anything strange, did you? Like a book that bites, or a teacup that runs around on its own?"

His hand was already reaching for Caesar's suitcase, as if it concealed some ferocious monster.

Caesar turned his gaze. Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley were dressed far too stiffly and conservatively for the crowd, their expressions taut, utterly out of place in the vibrant atmosphere of the magical world.

Beside them stood Dudley Dursley, another ring of fat thicker, kicking impatiently at the ground.

Petunia's lips were pressed into a pale, thin line. Her eyes darted quickly over the simple dark wizard's robe Caesar wore, then flinched away as if burned, finally settling on his face.

That look was extremely complex—holding an instinctive revulsion and fear of anything "abnormal," yet deep within, it concealed a shred of maternal concern, long suppressed and twisted.

"The journey... was it smooth?" Her voice was a little dry.

"Smooth." Caesar replied flatly, gently taking his suitcase back from Vernon's hand.

He noticed that his mother Petunia's hand, wearing a cheap ring, knuckles slightly deformed from years of labor, curled almost imperceptibly when he took the case away.