Studying and Crafting

"John, did you know the Abraxans have been losing an awful lot of feathers lately?"

Madame Maxime had been troubled lately. Something was wrong with the Abraxans she kept.

Whether they were fighting over mates or had become depressed, the Abraxans were shedding like mad.

It had not been obvious at first, but now there were visibly bald patches on their wings and manes.

Even single-malt whisky could no longer cheer them up.

Pheobe fixed her suspicious gaze on John, who had been on his best behavior ever since his arrival.

She had no evidence, but a woman's intuition told her that John Wick had something to do with this.

"Abraxans? You mean those enormous horses?"

John looked surprised and bewildered. "I don't know anything about that. I've been studying books on alchemy lately."

As he spoke, John even produced his reading list.

It was filled with works on alchemy. As a magical school with seven hundred years of history, Beauxbatons had no fewer records than Hogwarts.

In fact, thanks to an alchemical master like Nicolas Flamel, it had an especially extensive collection on alchemy-perhaps even larger than Hogwarts'.

Naturally, this included books written by Nicolas Flamel, and John had learned a great deal from them.

"Really?"

Pheobe hesitated. Looking at the reading list, she felt John seemed innocent, yet something still struck her as odd.

Still doubtful, Pheobe left.

After she left, John waited nearly an hour before leaving the library.

He returned the books to their places one by one, then rubbed his aching temples.

He had not used Top Student 2.0, because he needed to save it for when it would be more useful.

For instance, when he entered Nicolas Flamel's alchemy room.

Yes, Nicolas Flamel's alchemy room.

Following the clues Dumbledore had provided, John had spent several nights using the most primitive method: tapping and knocking around the fountain of the Flamels.

At last, he found the entrance to a secret chamber by the fountain's spout.

It was an alchemy room filled with notes and materials related to alchemy.

Something resembling a diary revealed that the room's owner was none other than the renowned Nicolas Flamel.

This was a room Nicolas Flamel had left behind from his days as a student at Beauxbatons, and every note inside had been written by his own hand.

John devoured the contents of this treasure trove. Although the young Nicolas Flamel's work was still unpolished in places, it was just right for young wizards taking their first steps into alchemy.

Aside from the notes, the greatest surprise was the diary.

John took out a quill, dipped its tip in ink, and wrote in the diary.

"Dear Nicolas, there are a few things about alchemy that I don't quite understand. I hope you can explain them to me."

After writing that line, John went on to describe the difficulties he had encountered.

When he finished, it was as though an invisible pen began writing beneath his words.

Elegant handwriting appeared on the diary's pages out of thin air.

"Of course, dear John. You may find the answer to your question in the seventh notebook from the left on the third shelf. I hope it helps."

Upon seeing the writing, John quickly rose and went to the indicated bookshelf.

In the seventh notebook from the left on the third shelf, he found notes on how to sublimate and refine a substance.

Delighted, John did not forget to write back in the diary to express his thanks.

"Thank you, Nicolas. You've been a tremendous help."

"You're welcome."

Words appeared in the diary. This was John's most delightful discovery.

It was an extraordinarily magical diary, which could also be called "Nicolas's Encyclopedia."

Nicolas Flamel had created this book to record his insights into alchemy. Placed on the bookshelf, it served as an intelligent index.

Objects capable of retaining their original owner's emotions and personality were not unheard of. The portraits on Hogwarts' walls were one such example.

They might not have many functions, but they could preserve some of their subjects' personality and wisdom.

"Nicolas's Encyclopedia," however, went far beyond those portraits. John almost felt that Nicolas Flamel himself lived inside it.

Reason told him that was impossible, though.

With this book and a room full of others, John's progress in alchemy at Beauxbatons advanced by leaps and bounds.

He even used Abraxan feathers to make a pair of flying shoes. They were slightly slower than a flying broomstick, but far more maneuverable.

He also successfully added another permanent directional charm to the badges. Wherever they were, all nine would point toward the others.

Like stars surrounding the moon, they guided one another.

John intended to keep his own badge and give the other eight to others.

If he wanted to become the next Dumbledore, he could not fight alone.

Even Dumbledore did not work alone. He had the Order of the Phoenix, the vast institution of Hogwarts behind him, and Hogwarts' connections, which reached across half the wizarding world.

John needed connections that could solidify his position, and maintaining those connections would require the badges' help.

He wanted to establish a society, or have a team that would follow his orders.

He already had someone in mind for one of the badges.

Connections.

This was what John lacked most at present. Born into a Muggle family, he had neither the extensive blood ties of pure-blood families nor the network of his parents' former classmates that came with a half-blood wizarding family.

All he could do was surround himself with capable people as best he could.

They could be gifted wizards, children of families with powerful backgrounds, or people with the integrity to never betray a friend.

John stayed in the alchemy room almost until dawn, returning to his dormitory before daybreak to sleep for two hours.

It was the holidays, so no one cared whether he was slacking off.

Some people even felt that without the black-haired boy around, everything seemed rather quiet.

"John, perhaps we could go and watch. It's the Quidditch World Cup group stage!"

After a month together, Pheobe had become increasingly close to John.

Although she was three years older than him, she did not see the black-haired boy as a child.

John carried himself like someone her own age. In fact, he seemed more mature than the boys in her year.

"The Quidditch World Cup group stage? That might be worth a look."

John waved his wand lightly, and the books on the table flew back to the shelves.

He had not expected Pheobe to be a Quidditch fan, though it was hardly surprising. After all, who didn't like Quidditch?

The Quidditch World Cup was held every four years. Any country could enter a team within twelve months of the previous tournament's final.

The last tournament had been in 1990, before John had even started school.

There were still two years until the next one, but the group stage was already in full swing.

"You said the group stage is in Bulgaria, so how do we get there?"

As soon as John finished speaking, Pheobe gave him a charming smile.

"I know somewhere with a Portkey. For just three Galleons, it can take us to Bulgaria."

There was no denying that travel was much more convenient for wizards than for Muggles. With a single Portkey, an entire family could travel anywhere in the world in no time.

John was curious about Portkeys too, so he agreed at once.

Pheobe cheered, her long silver hair brushing John's cheek. Like a delighted little girl, she said excitedly, "I've wanted to try traveling without an adult for ages!"

Her lively manner made John think she might get along very well with Gryffindor students.

Neither of them needed to bring anything, so they used Floo Powder to reach the Paris Hidden Place.

The Hidden Place was a wizarding shopping district, much like Diagon Alley.

With Pheobe leading the way, they wound through turn after turn until they finally found the Portkey in an alley at the corner of a square in the Hidden Place.

The Portkey's owner was a man wearing a bucket hat and a shabby brown trench coat.

He was unkempt and covered in stubble, and he let out a drunken belch now and then. The strong smell of alcohol made it hard not to wonder whether he had fallen into a barrel of liquor and slept there all night.

John leaned toward Pheobe and asked quietly, "Are you sure he's reliable? He won't dump us in some remote wilderness, will he?"

Pheobe was no longer quite certain either, but she tried to sound confident despite her unease. "Probably... possibly... surely he wouldn't?"