A Difficult Life

Hogwarts Library had always recruited the most rule-abiding yet mediocrely gifted wizards as librarians.

Lemley Vinington was one such person, an old man who had done his duty for over forty years.

He was already in his sixties and had an old ailment: whenever winter came, his leg joints would stiffen up, leaving him limping wherever he went.

One morning in November, he was dusting the books in the Restricted Section of the library.

Suddenly, he heard the faint sound of pages turning behind him.

"Hmm, who is it...?"

Lemley immediately clutched his leg and turned around the corner, but the place was empty. There was no one there.

After frowning and thinking for a moment, Lemley suddenly realized what it was and cursed.

"Damn it. These cursed magical books."

The pain in his leg had put him in a terrible mood. He cursed as he smacked the shelves with his feather duster, as if he held some deep grudge against the books.

"Cleaning fifty thousand books every day for ten Galleons a month. Damn Dippet."

He muttered complaints about his work, failing to notice that one feather flung from his duster suddenly stopped in midair at the corner, completely motionless.

Only after the sound of him complaining about his superior disappeared around the corner

did the feather slowly drift down to the floor.

Hoffa dropped his invisibility, plucked the feather from his head, and sighed.

Only after he could no longer hear the librarian did he pull out another potion book and continue reading it word by word.

After November began, the air in the castle grew colder by the day. Hoffa once again began his pursuit of all manner of "extracurricular" knowledge at school.

Hoffa had not wanted to take such a risk and break school rules again so soon. After all, he had finally kept a low profile and become a student who attracted no attention.

But now, he had no choice.

The pale golden tattoo on the back of his hand absorbed more than half his magic every day. Every day. And there was no pattern to when it happened.

Sometimes in the daytime, sometimes in the middle of the night. In short, it happened once every few hours.

Although it no longer drained his magic as outrageously as it had at the beginning, emptying him completely every time,

this rate of magical depletion was something Hoffa simply could not endure.

His magic had been limited to begin with. It was barely enough for combat, but sufficient for his everyday life and studies.

Now, though, his magic often vanished halfway through class.

The most embarrassing incident had happened during Transfiguration. Dumbledore had asked Hoffa to demonstrate transforming a venomous snake into a rope.

It should have been easy.

But after Hoffa stepped onto the platform, his magic was suddenly drained by the tattoo when he was only halfway through the transformation.

Dumbledore had eagerly waited to see the result of Hoffa's transformation, only for the half-transformed rope to bite him on the hand and swell his finger up like a radish.

The whole class burst into laughter, and Hoffa made a complete fool of himself.

He searched through the records, frantically combing through every piece of information he could find, trying to figure out what exactly the pattern on his hand was.

But after half a month of searching, he had found nothing. Forget the pattern—even records related to Helheim and Thunderbirds had eluded him.

Of course, after paying such a heavy price, Hoffa had imagined that perhaps he had obtained some kind of treasure.

For example, perhaps the tattoo devoured his magic, purified it of impurities, and returned more refined magic to him.

Perhaps the tattoo could store magic and release it during battle.

Perhaps the tattoo could infuse his magic with some lightning attribute, making his spells more powerful.

Perhaps an old man lived inside the tattoo, and after absorbing enough of his magic, he would awaken and lead him to the pinnacle of life.

But.

There was nothing.

Nothing at all!

It was simply devouring his magic.

There was no feedback, no reason, no explanation.

Regardless of the time, place, or circumstances.

That was all.

It was like a destitute man struggling to make ends meet suddenly gaining another infant crying to be fed. The hardship of life forced him to seek a way out. Since he could not stop the tattoo from draining his magic, he could only focus on increasing the amount of magic he possessed.

Now, he had to find a way to increase his magic. Otherwise, if this continued, forget fighting.

Without magic, he would not be able to complete his studies. Whether he could even graduate from his first year was in question.

With no other options left, Hoffa could only choose to take another risk.

The good news was that after a long, tedious, and mind-numbing search, Hoffa had temporarily found three viable ways to increase his magic.

The first was the most ordinary and safest method: natural growth. A wizard's magical power gradually increased over time. It was a natural law. Between the ages of fourteen and seventeen, a wizard's magic would make a dramatic leap, reaching a peak around the age of thirty.

But Hoffa could not afford to wait.

The second involved soul transference in dark magic. This method was extremely dark, and very little had been recorded about it.

Hoffa felt that if he researched this subject and was discovered, he might spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. Hoffa was not a dark wizard, nor had he ever thought dark wizards were cool, so after learning a little about it, he gave up on that method.

The last method was quite ordinary and common: taking certain magical potions to quickly restore magic. Such potions had a long history of use and were relatively safe.

That was why Hoffa had spent the past few days in the potion section searching for formulas.

Hoffa found many formulas, more than one. He did not even need to search the Restricted Section; records of such formulas could be found in the ordinary section as well. This was not a forbidden potion like Polyjuice Potion. Many wizards had studied it, and the ingredients listed in the formulas were quite ordinary. Everything could be found in the Potions classroom.

The only problem was that these formulas were all extremely ancient. Not only ancient, but incomplete. Most books were vague or merely offered broad summaries.

As for why, Hoffa found the answer in a book called Modern Applications of Ancient Potions.

(Secondary Magic Restoration Potion. This potion is patented by the European Wizarding United Chamber of Commerce. Classified by the Ministry of Magic as a Level 2X stimulant. Registration at St. Mungo's is required for use. Records shall not be provided at this time.)

Patents, stimulants, restrictions.

Hoffa rubbed his chin in the library. He had not expected such a problem, though it made sense on reflection.

He could not have been the only wizard with weak magic. Truly gifted wizards were rare.

There was surely great demand for this sort of potion. And where demand was great, monopolists would appear.

Clearly, someone had already stored these potion formulas away as trade secrets. What a sharp mind.

It was like looking up cola online in his previous life. You could find all kinds of knowledge about cola, yet it was difficult to find its true formula. Even if you did find it, it would be hard to make Coca-Cola.

There were many similar products in the wizarding world, such as Floo Powder. Its formula was simple, yet ever since it appeared in the thirteenth century, not a single person had managed to replicate it in over six hundred years.

Potion-making was a precise discipline. A slight error could lead to a vast difference.

Unable to find anything in the library, Hoffa did not give up. He copied several incomplete old formulas he had obtained onto parchment, wondering whether he should spend more time studying potions.

Though he was not particularly talented at potion-making, doing something was surely better than doing nothing.

After leaving the Restricted Section, Hoffa was still thinking about how to overcome his weakness in potions. He looked down at the parchment recording the incomplete potion formulas.

Suddenly, at the library entrance,

Hoffa caught a glimpse of a flash of silver turning out from the side. With her head lowered, she hurried along.

It was Argeleia.

She had not gone to play Quidditch today. She was actually in the library too, though he did not know what she was looking for. She held a thick roll of parchment in her hand.

Upon seeing each other, they both stepped aside at the same time. Like two drivers trying to overtake each other, the calm air instantly turned tense.

A few seconds later.

"What are you looking at?"

Argeleia glared at him fiercely and casually tucked her roll of parchment into her pocket.

Hoffa shrugged and changed directions.

"Hmph!"

Argeleia proudly raised her head and changed directions as well.

What rotten luck, Hoffa thought.

But after taking just two steps, Hoffa abruptly stopped. He turned to look at Argeleia's slender back, and a plan suddenly surfaced in his mind.

Wait, this girl...

seemed to have some skill with potions.

Friday, Slughorn's Potions class.

After completing the daily required potion lesson, Slughorn gave the students some time for independent study.

It was called independent study, but in truth, it meant allowing the students to brew a potion of their own as a daily advanced exercise.

This part had not existed during Snape's time, nor had it been present in Slughorn's previous classes.

But ever since Slughorn got a student like Argeleia, he had inexplicably added this segment. He claimed it gave every student a stage on which to display themselves, but his true intention was to give Argeleia a chance to show off.

The old man would stop at nothing to build a good relationship with this potion prodigy.

Argeleia did not disappoint him. In every Potions class, she managed to concoct something new that earned Slughorn's lavish praise and bragging, as well as points for Ravenclaw.

Of course, whenever this part came around, the other students could only watch from below. No matter what they brewed, Slughorn would not care. All they needed to do at the end of class was shout their admiration.

Though the Potions professor did not care, everyone else still had to brew something.

As dutiful supporting characters, they worked in pairs.

The protagonists, Argeleia and Tom Riddle, were paired together.

Hoffa, meanwhile, shared a worktable with Miranda.

Hoffa handled the cutting while Miranda cast the spells on the potion.

Miranda's grades were not particularly good. They could only be called mediocre. Her Potions and Transfiguration were average, as were Astronomy and Divination. Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts were average too.

After partnering with her, Hoffa's Potions grades no longer attracted Argeleia's attention.

In class,

Hoffa cut Murtlap tentacles while thinking about the magic potion formula.

Without question, someone as well-connected as Slughorn had to know the formula for a magic potion.

Hoffa looked up and glanced at Slughorn.

Slughorn's plump figure stood constantly beside Argeleia. Every so often, he made sounds of admiration, his eyes filled with appreciation and indulgence, as if even her farts smelled sweet.

Riddle, who was assisting her, also wore an attentive expression, though Hoffa did not know whether it was an act.

Hoffa lowered his head again. Slughorn was definitely not an option. Ever since the last Potions class, the old man had not even remembered his name.

Besides, Potions class was one of Argeleia's domains.

Though he had kept a low profile lately and she no longer mocked him for the time being, that did not mean she had stopped watching him.

If he dared to stand out and curry favor with Slughorn, or reveal some hidden purpose, Argeleia's personality meant she would certainly push back and suppress him again.

She was like the alpha wolf in a pack. She would ruthlessly suppress any creature within her territory that dared challenge her position as leader until it submitted.

But now was not the time to keep a low profile. For the sake of his magic, for the sake of safely passing this semester, Hoffa had to stir up a little trouble.