HP: Man of Archives

At one point, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

Denad entered the office, giving a slight nod without saying a word. He took one of the available chairs and waited for the others to arrive. Soon, wizards began trickling in, filling the remaining seats. When I noticed there weren't quite enough chairs, I waved my hand and conjured several more from thin air, eliciting a few curious glances from the professors.

"Once again, welcome, friends," I said to the assembled wizards. They watched me with great interest. Their conflicting emotions were as clear as if they were laid out on a platter. Many were struggling to reconcile how someone as young as I could be their superior—Headmaster of Beauxbatons, a recognized master of two magical disciplines, and, undeniably, quite handsome—while they remained mere assistants. These sentiments were mostly from the assistants, though the professors weren't entirely immune to such thoughts.

The distinction between professors and assistants was simple: professors could choose whether or not to wear the uniform, while assistants were required to do so.

"Let's get acquainted," I suggested. "As you know, my name is Timothy Jody. I am a master of Charms and Transfiguration and have traveled around the world. While I could mention many smaller accomplishments, now isn't the time for that. Your turn?"

"Madeleine Lefevre," said a tall, refined witch with dark hair tipped with silver. Part of her hair was swept into a bun. Her blue eyes studied me with great interest, though a hint of disdain lingered behind them. "I'm the Dean of Lumière House and a professor of Numerology. My assistant," she nodded toward a middle-aged wizard seated to her left, sporting a small beard and short brown hair, "is Lucien Dubois."

"A pleasure to meet you," I replied with a polite nod.

"Amélie Rousseau," said the next witch. She was short and possessed rather unremarkable features, as though she'd been cursed, neglected potions, or simply didn't care. "Dean of Verdoyant House. My assistant is Isabelle Moreau."

Isabelle gave a timid smile, though it was clear she was afraid of her professor. Intriguing.

"A pleasure," I said with another polite nod. "And what subject do you teach?"

"Potions."

"Excellent."

"Étienne Marchand," the next wizard introduced himself. His gray hair and broad shoulders commanded attention. He had the presence of a dangerous wizard—his sharp gaze and upright posture reinforced that impression—but I sensed he wasn't a duelist. "Dean of Aquilon House and professor of Charms. My assistant is Julien Boucher."

"Olivier Dufresne, Dean of Montagnard House and teacher of Combat Magic," declared the next wizard in one breath. His attire was simple and understated, but a keen eye could detect the light dragon-hide mail beneath his shirt and the sturdy boots built for swift movement. Even his wand rested in an almost combat-ready position—a true battle mage. "My assistant and apprentice is Élodie Lambert."

Élodie appeared entirely indifferent, her demeanor suggesting she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Celeste Beaumont," said another witch, flashing a broad smile and striking a subtly provocative pose. Her form-fitting outfit accentuated her figure, and unlike Amélie Rousseau, she clearly invested great effort in her appearance—flawless skin achieved through makeup, potions, and creams. "Dean of Harmonia House and professor of Transfiguration. My assistant is Alexandra Martin."

After the deans introduced themselves, the other faculty members followed. These were professors who weren't deans and, therefore, had no assistants to help with their workload during busy times.

"I'm delighted to meet you all," I said, nodding toward the group. "I'm sure you're all doing excellent work. That said, I have a few questions. What do you feel is lacking in your classes?"

"That's simple," Olivier Dufresne responded first. "My students lack adequate spaces for spell practice and training. Additionally, we need more objects for spell exercises and assistants to support dueling practice."

"Seems like you've come prepared with a wishlist," I remarked. "Impressive. What about the rest of you?"

No one else responded, their silence suggesting uncertainty about what their classes might be missing. While not ideal, it wasn't entirely unexpected. I had to admit the question had been somewhat abrupt. It was clear I'd need to observe their lessons firsthand to evaluate their teaching methods and standards. My sharpest insights would naturally be in Combat Magic, Charms, and Transfiguration. For other subjects, I'd have to rely on educated guesses and theoretical understanding.

The conversation stalled as none of the professors seemed eager to engage further. It was frustrating and disappointing, though understandable. Earning their trust would require more time, personal interactions, and perhaps some one-on-one conversations. I'd work on building that rapport subtly, ensuring they wouldn't perceive it as a deliberate strategy.

"Thank you all for coming today," I said, dismissing the group. "I hope we can work together for everyone's benefit."

As the wizards departed, I waved my hand, restoring the office to its original state. It still didn't feel like my office, but I suspected that would change in time. Reflecting on their emotions and surface thoughts, I realized they wouldn't take me seriously unless I proved myself. That raised an interesting question: should I bother proving myself, or let them stumble back on bloodied knees, seeking reconciliation? Or perhaps there was a third path—focus on my own goals and enjoy life while they dealt with their doubts.

Could I combine multiple approaches? Why not? Perhaps it was best to act reactively. If they decided to "bull up" on me—as we used to say in my old guild—I could tighten the screws and leave them in a bloody mess. If not, I could help them improve their lessons, a task I was confident I could handle. At the same time, I could finally dive into the research projects I had long wanted to pursue.

Later that evening, I delved into the local information network, searching for knowledge that intrigued me. Naturally, I began with works by Nicolas Flamel. The search returned hundreds—if not thousands—of books, notes, diaries, and fragments. The sheer volume was overwhelming, making my head spin and my mouth water with anticipation. Suppressing my excitement, I focused on finding a book that covered the fundamentals of Alchemy. I found one quickly and queued it for download, along with another book on the effects of medical spells on human cellular structures—also by the legendary alchemist.

The first book downloaded in about an hour. I wasted no time starting the next, eager to lose myself in reading and analysis that would expand my understanding of magic even further.

Embracing my role as Headmaster of Beauxbatons, I turned my attention to the stack of folders André had brought me. They contained curricula and guidelines for review, along with a proposal to integrate demonology into the curriculum. This was a critical issue, as France had voted to support progressive changes in the magical world but had yet to implement them at the Ministry level. Ratification would take time, involving lengthy discussions among wizards, guilds, and departments to agree on both the "what" and the "how."

"My opinion is straightforward," I told André. "If demonology is to be included, it should be taught as a separate subject by a dedicated instructor with practical experience in the field, supported by multiple assistants—not just one. Demons are unpredictable."

"We understand that," André replied, nodding. "But let's say you have carte blanche. What would you do?"

"I'd establish a specialized demon-hunting unit within the gendarmerie for retraining to combat demons. Additionally, I'd propose creating a small guild under Ministry patronage dedicated to this purpose. At the school, demonology should be an elective subject offered only to students with some prior training in combat magic."

André jotted down notes. "Got it. What else?"

"Voluntary participation is key," I added. "Students should study demonology only if they choose to and only after completing foundational combat training. That would improve the program's chances of success."

"Not bad, not bad," André said, reviewing his notes. "I'll share this with the other department heads and the Minister. They'll definitely want to discuss your proposals."

The outcome? Nothing happened. No one even reached out for a more detailed explanation of my thoughts. It almost seemed as if the discussion hadn't taken place at all. Still, I was sure André had brought it up during their meeting. Oh well—easier for me. Less of a headache.

Under Rumi's meticulous leadership, the house-elves compiled an extensive dossier on every professor and assistant. Now I knew who liked what, who disliked what, their opinions on students, and a range of other useful—and some not-so-useful—details. Among the more critical findings was the revelation that the local faculty planned to resist my decisions as much as they could. They were even preparing to use underhanded methods, and thanks to Rumi's efforts, I now had their entire playbook.

I also discovered that they intended to enlist external support to pressure me into compliance. Knowing this in advance gave me a significant advantage. As the saying goes, I had the tempo. With this knowledge, I could outpace their plans before they even gained momentum.

Once again, I faced the question: do I even need to bother with this? Or would it be better to let them flail and fail under the weight of their own schemes? If I let things take their course, I might lose the chance to deal with them decisively. A tricky choice.

Oh well. Let's see how it plays out. For now, I'll stick to my plan of reacting instead of making the first move.

Later, Fleur fulfilled my request and came to see me.

"Come, have a seat," I said, gesturing toward the plush sofa.

Fleur smiled lightly as she settled into the seat. Her joy only grew when I joined her, and she immediately leaned against me, expressing her emotions through touch.

"How are things going?" I asked.

The young Delacour began speaking. Some might say she spilled everything—secrets, passwords, conspiracies, the works. But naturally, she started by expressing how happy she was to be with me and how much she hoped for our relationship to become more "intimate." At moments like this, her thoughts brimmed with unbridled mischief.

When the conversation turned to the students, the less pleasant truths came to light. It appeared that the professors had quickly initiated a kind of "disciplinary education," warning students that I, being English, had no business interfering in their academic processes. Their framing was clever—very clever. They implied I intended to reform their educational system, transforming their advanced magical society into something resembling "barbaric" England. Naturally, no one addressed the obvious question: why do Hogwarts graduates produce more masters than Beauxbatons graduates? While this didn't affect me directly yet, it was clearly influencing others—Fleur among them. She felt deeply hurt and insulted.

"Don't respond to them," I told her, attempting to calm her down as her sudden tears caught me off guard. "Fleur, listen—they're just fools who don't understand what they're saying."

"But it's so unfair," she said, her sobs softening. "You haven't done anything wrong to them. I could understand if this attitude was because I'm a Veela, but you're human. The Ministry appointed you as Headmaster, acknowledging your merits and achievements. You're a master in two fields…"

"You see, Fleur, as you probably already know, many people aren't rational," I said, stroking her hair—soft and soothing to the touch. "The students are no different. But don't engage in arguments with them. It won't change how I feel about you. Still, thank you for telling me."

Fleur smiled and leaned in for a kiss. This time, I didn't resist. Her lips were as sweet as they looked.

Of course, some might question whether it's proper for a Headmaster to be involved with a student. That might hold weight if we hadn't known each other before this, if she hadn't already expressed her feelings, or if her parents disapproved. But they had never objected to our relationship. In this context, any criticism collapses under the weight of reality.

"Hee-hee," Fleur giggled as she broke the kiss. "Alright, I won't argue with them anymore."

After she left, I devised a little "trap plan." Over the next few evenings, I wandered the school discreetly, eavesdropping on student conversations. Whenever I overheard unpleasant remarks about me, I'd appear silently behind them and wait for them to notice. Their startled reactions and hurried apologies were absolutely delightful.

One early morning at breakfast, I decided to make an announcement.

"Dear friends," I began, silencing the room with a casual wave of my hand. Students and professors alike turned to me in surprise. "Word has reached me that the students of Beauxbatons wish to slightly adjust their daily routine."

The mixture of surprise and curiosity on their faces was as sweet as fresh honey.

"And since I'm a good Headmaster, I can't ignore such thoughtful requests," I continued. "From now on, curfew will begin at 9 PM. All students must be in their beds by that time. Any violations will be strictly punished. I trust you're all delighted with this new rule."

It was clear they were anything but delighted.

"But why, Headmaster?" Denad asked. "The students—and their parents—won't accept this."

"They'll have to," I replied with a smile.

I'm not entirely sure what the professors saw in that smile, but they all paled, and Olivier Dufresne turned crimson. Strange—why such reactions? I bore them no ill will. It was merely a minor disagreement.

To enforce the new rule, I delegated punishments to the house-elves, who performed their duties with astonishing efficiency. The only student they left untouched was Fleur, per my instructions. The others, if caught out of their rooms after curfew, were whisked away to random bathrooms and made to clean them by hand. Rumi, the head elf, was thrilled with his new "helpers" and only lamented that they didn't practice self-discipline when their work was subpar.

Within days, a flood of angry letters from parents arrived, complaining about their children's struggles to adjust to the new rules. Naturally, I burned them all. Reading the first letter's hysterical whining was enough for me—after that, a snap of my fingers reduced the rest to ash.

I did, however, sift out letters from people I actually knew and dealt with those separately. The rest were burned during breakfast, in full view of the silent students and professors. It seemed they hadn't yet realized there was a new sheriff in town.

Of course, I knew the students thought they could outwit me with their amateurish traps. I didn't punish them for it—on the contrary, their antics encouraged creative thinking and brought endless amusement to the house-elves. A win-win for everyone.

A letter from the Minister informing me of his planned arrival at a specific time to meet with me irritated me slightly. Technically, I understand that I'm his subordinate. Technically—because if it ever came to a real fight, his people wouldn't be of much help to him. That's precisely why I… deliberately arrived late to our meeting.

"Monsieur Jody," he greeted me irritably. "You're late."

"Am I?" I asked, feigning surprise, then glanced at the clock. "I believe I arrived just on time."

"I've been waiting for half an hour," he snapped, his irritation clearly mounting.

"I had other matters to attend to," I replied evenly. "If you'd inquired, you'd have known that. But never mind. What did you wish to discuss, Monsieur Antoine?"

He followed me into the office.

"Would you like some tea? Or coffee?" I asked as he settled into a chair across from me.

"I wouldn't refuse coffee," he replied.

"Rumi, coffee for the Minister, please."

Moments later, a steaming cup of high-quality coffee appeared. Antoine looked momentarily surprised; he clearly hadn't expected such impeccable service.

"Do the house-elves obey you?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course," I replied. "I am the Headmaster of Beauxbatons."

"Strange. They never obeyed Olympie at all," he murmured, inadvertently revealing a small secret. My response had thrown him off balance slightly; if he intended to maintain control over the Headmaster, this wasn't something I should know. "But never mind. I wanted to discuss the curfew you've implemented at the school. The students' parents are causing an uproar and flooding my office and the department heads with letters."

"Unfortunate," I said, shaking my head. "Antoine, do you remember what I mentioned earlier?"

He frowned slightly, searching his memory. When he recalled, understanding dawned in his eyes.

"The professors?"

"Correct," I nodded.

"Well…" he hesitated. "Understood. Very well. There's another matter I wanted to discuss. It concerns the teaching of demonology."

"Go on," I prompted.

"During your travels, have you encountered practicing demonologists?" he asked.

It was clear they were struggling with how to introduce demonology into the curriculum. The problem wasn't just bureaucratic—it was practical. They had no qualified instructors, no contacts, and no concrete plan for implementation. Like many other countries, they would need to search extensively for candidates. Even if they found someone, other nations would likely attempt to lure those demonologists away with better offers.

I was certain capable demonologists existed somewhere, but such individuals would likely be wary. The legalization of demonology could be fleeting. As easily as the practice might be legitimized, it could also be outlawed again, leaving its practitioners vulnerable. Trust would be a significant hurdle in recruiting anyone qualified.

"To be honest, I haven't encountered anyone," I said after a moment of thought. "I think you'd need to ask Dumbledore. If I'm not mistaken, he had connections with the only well-known demonologist—Grindelwald."

"Dumbledore refuses to discuss the topic," the Minister replied with a sigh. "Fine. We'll have to keep looking and begin training demonologists within the Ministry ourselves."

"That might be the best approach," I agreed.

"Alright," the wizard exhaled heavily, signaling the end of our conversation.

After this exchange, the wave of public dissatisfaction from ordinary wizards began to subside. The Minister issued a few tearful statements to placate the public, and the flood of angry letters dwindled. Once students realized it was safer to be in their rooms by eight o'clock to avoid risking lateness, punishments ceased altogether. Even Rumi started grumbling to me about the lack of "helpers," though it was mostly for show. Beyond a few muttered complaints, he seemed content enough. The angry letters from parents also stopped.

When the professors saw that the Minister had no real authority over me, they abandoned their intrigues. They began to understand that while I might show leniency toward the students, there would be no such mercy for them if they crossed the line.

How wonderful it is when problems resolve themselves with minimal effort on my part. With this newfound equilibrium established, I turned my attention back to studying Flamel's works. In just a few weeks, my understanding of magic, potion-making, and the mechanisms behind the Philosopher's Stone had grown considerably.

One major breakthrough came in the form of a fountain. Yes, a fountain. In the central square of Beauxbatons stands a healing fountain that Nicolas Flamel created as a gift to celebrate the three-hundredth anniversary of his marriage to his wife. Beyond its artistic beauty, the fountain possesses a remarkable feature: the water it contains is imbued with healing properties. While not as potent as a Panacea, it employs mechanisms similar to those in the Philosopher's Stone.

This discovery sent my mind racing with ideas. Chief among them was this: what if it were possible to transform air or ordinary water into various potions? The fountain relies on an artifact to imbue water with healing properties, but what if this process could be achieved through a spell instead?

The standard practices of Transfiguration wouldn't suffice. While it can transform one substance into another, the transformation is temporary, and everything eventually reverts to its original state. Eternal Transfiguration was also unsuitable. This is where my broader magical knowledge—enhanced by draenei lore and a foundation in basic physics—offered new possibilities.

In the non-magical world, there's a concept called nuclear decay, a complex process governed by formulas and an intricate understanding of the physics of matter.

The critical question became this: how could magic be used to create stable, directed nuclear decay to transform water, for instance, into a Pepper-Up Potion? With this in mind, I delved deeper into the problem.

The breakthrough came while observing students practicing object shrinking. Wizards can enlarge objects without altering their structure or creating adverse effects. This led me to wonder: could this principle be applied to molecules? By enlarging individual water molecules and using magic, I hypothesized it might be possible to initiate controlled decay and transformation of each atom—following a method inspired by draenei techniques. The key questions were how difficult and dangerous such an experiment might be. The next logical step was testing, beginning with isolating a single water molecule.

Why water? Because it's a recurring element in Flamel's research. Knowing that water consists of molecules, I started by crafting a spell capable of identifying individual molecules. This proved relatively straightforward, as the fundamental algorithms for such spells are well-established; it only needed some adjustments. The next step was to "capture" the molecule and store it in a non-interactive space where it wouldn't interact with other substances. This task was similarly manageable, as existing containment spells required only slight modifications to suit my needs.

Refining these spells took nearly three weeks—a reasonable timeframe given the complexity of the task. During this period, I continued downloading and analyzing Flamel's legendary texts. They provided additional insights, though none diverged significantly from the framework of my research. Still, each piece added depth to my understanding of the possibilities ahead.

The first experiment to isolate and separate a water molecule was also the last—because it succeeded on the very first try. Using this method, I could isolate a single molecule, or two, or five, or ten… the number no longer mattered—I could do it with precision.

The next step was to enlarge a water molecule to the size of a human, ensuring it wouldn't interact with the outside world or alter its intrinsic properties. Conducting such an experiment within the school was out of the question; any mishap could put the students in danger.

Finding a remote spot in the mountains proved simple. Using Transfiguration, I constructed a small laboratory from available materials and prepared for the experiment. I reinforced the area with layers of protective magic to minimize any residual traces—unwanted attention was not an option.

After triple-checking my calculations, I crafted several artifacts to record the experiment and facilitate the enlargement of the molecule to the desired size. As a precaution, I relocated myself several hundred meters away before activating the spell.

The artifacts began to hum as they initiated the process. The molecule expanded, revealing three connected spheres. Without delay, I cast a spell to detach one of the spheres, severing its bond. The separation was met with resistance; the bond didn't break easily. Then, with a sharp snap, the bond gave way. In the next moment, a flash of light erupted. Where the enlarged molecule had been, a grayish sphere appeared—and just as quickly, it vanished, taking the molecule with it.

I waited several minutes before approaching the experiment site. Where the molecule had been, I found a perfectly hemispherical crater. The rock had been sliced cleanly, as though reality itself had been severed by an impossibly sharp blade. Most of the data-recording artifacts survived, though those closest to the sphere were destroyed.

Back at Beauxbatons, I shared a brief moment with Fleur before diving into the analysis of the data. The initial findings were promising: the molecule expanded without issue, and stability was maintained throughout the process. However, the moment the bond began breaking, the data spiked erratically, like a drunken horse running wild. When the gray sphere appeared, the most fascinating data point was the temperature—it surged tens of thousands of degrees in an instant, then plummeted to absolute zero, before finally stabilizing at ambient levels.

"Hmmm," I mused aloud. "Very interesting. Fascinating, actually. Of course, this could be used as a siege technique, but I don't currently have a need for that. If I could consolidate these actions into a single spell with consistent results, it might make a formidable weapon. But I'm not looking for a weapon."

Over the next few days, whenever I had free time from school duties, I returned to my "test range" and repeated the experiment dozens of times. The results were consistent: enlarging a single water molecule to the size of a human and detaching one atom caused an "explosion." The diameter of the crater remained constant, provided the enlargement occurred at the same height above ground. The temperature spike, the subsequent drop to absolute zero, and the return to normal temperatures were also consistent.

The idea of creating a siege spell lingered in my mind, so I decided to test the concept on similar compounds within other materials, like stone. The results were identical—a sphere appeared, followed by a melted circle. A rather effective spell, I had to admit.

The next logical step was designing a spell capable of locating the target compound within a material, enlarging it (causing destruction), and severing the bonds to trigger the explosion. Energetically, the spell wasn't overly demanding—I estimated that even a fifth-year Hogwarts student could cast it without undue strain. I had no intention of patenting the spell, at least not yet. For now, I would keep it to myself, perhaps teaching it to Hermione… and maybe Fleur.

One day, I received a letter from André, the Head of the Education Department, requesting a meeting. He asked when it would be convenient for me, and I provided a suitable time. I suspected he had news, given the recent lack of significant developments from his office.

"Hello, Timothy," André greeted, shrugging off the upper part of his robe and hanging it on a small rack. "I see you've settled in quite nicely."

He gestured at the office. While it hadn't changed much, I had added a few personal touches. In this world, certain figurines and statuettes held no significance, but for me, they were nostalgic remnants of my past life—like the dragon figurine, the model of the Magic Tower of the Council in Eru, and the map of Fiore displayed on one wall.

"Well, of course," I replied with a nod. "And how are you, my friend? What brings you here?"

"Oh, nothing too urgent," he said, waving dismissively. "We've finally finalized an agreement with the British Ministry of Magic to host the Triwizard Tournament."

"Is that so?" I nodded, leaning back slightly. "Has it been officially documented?"

"Yes, it has," André confirmed.

"And the third school?"

"Durmstrang," he replied. "Their Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, immediately accepted the invitation. I suspect he's eager to prove that his school is as strong as ever."

"As I understand it, Hogwarts will be hosting?"

"Of course," André nodded. "And since Beauxbatons will also be participating, I'd like to ask you to prepare a team to accompany you to England for the tournament. This team should be strong and competitive. Can we count on that?"

"I believe so," I replied. "I'll select talented students and ensure they're well-prepared."

"Do you already have someone in mind for Beauxbatons' champion?" he asked.

"Fleur Delacour," I said after a moment of thought. "She's a top student and highly skilled for her grade level. If the Goblet of Fire is used to choose, as in past tournaments, she has the best chance of being selected as Beauxbatons' representative."

"Understood," André nodded. "Olympia mentioned her when the Tournament was first discussed."

"There you go," I said with a small smile. "And how's progress with demonology? Any breakthroughs?"

"Not particularly," André admitted. "Other countries are facing similar challenges. Even when knowledge exists, there aren't enough demonologists to apply it. Meanwhile, demons are becoming increasingly troublesome. There have been frequent reports of supposedly slain demons resurrecting."

"That's… not good," I muttered.

"Not at all," André sighed grimly. "And still, no results. Some genius tried capturing a demon and feeding it to a Dementor—only for the opposite to happen. The demon consumed the Dementor and gained some of its abilities."

"What about the Muggles?" I asked.

"What about them?" André shrugged. "The Inquisition kept its promise and altered the memories of all Muggles on the planet. Now they genuinely believe they're experiencing the harshest winter in a millennium. Demons seem to relish preying on them—corrupting their bodies, granting them powers, and in return, the Muggles harvest souls for the demons by killing others."

"That's… bad," I said thoughtfully. "Let me share a little secret."

André immediately leaned in closer.

"I have an artifact that can destroy souls upon killing," I whispered. "I acquired it during my travels. We could test it on demon souls."

André's expression shifted, his demeanor serious. "I'll report this to the Minister and the Head of the Gendarmerie," he said. "I'm certain the latter would want to test the artifact, given the severity of the situation."

"Unfortunately, I'm the only one who can use it," I added with a hint of regret.

"I'll make sure they're aware of that too."

We chatted for a while about my travels, as André was genuinely curious about what I had seen and done. I didn't mind sharing a few interesting anecdotes, though I kept certain details to myself.

Before long, André had to leave—work awaited him. After he exited my office, I remained in my chair, lost in thought. What should I do next? Should I charge for my assistance in dealing with demons? To be honest, I didn't actually have an artifact; I was referring to the abilities of my Archive. Whether it would work on demons remained to be seen.

To clear my head, I went to the fountain created by Flamel. The gentle sound of flowing water was wonderfully calming, helping me focus on complex questions and ideas.

So far, my progress hadn't extended beyond developing the siege spell. It was clear I needed to return to the drawing board and rethink my next steps. If I wanted to transform one atom into another, the first step would be to isolate it or obtain a pure sample. The simplest approach seemed to be adapting chemical reactions I'd studied into magical processes.

For splitting water molecules, one method came to mind—what was it called? Electrolysis. I could generate electricity through magic or create a small artifact to handle the process. The latter seemed more efficient. I'd also need a way to collect the separated atoms into different containers for further use. Once I had them, I could test how the draenei transformation spell might work.

Before moving forward, though, I needed to determine if I could replicate the magic of that sorceress from another world. To do so, I returned to my familiar testing grounds, already scarred with craters from earlier experiments. Using a spell I'd never thought I'd need, I summoned a goat. It appeared wild and completely unafraid of me.

"Baa-aa!" the goat bleated, staring at me with a calm but slightly vacant expression.

"What are you looking at?" I muttered, meeting its gaze.

The first attempt at casting the spell failed—it accomplished absolutely nothing. However, there was a silver lining: even in failure, I felt something. A subtle movement of magical energy, unlike anything I'd experienced before. It was as if I were training a muscle group I'd never used. My body knew the mechanics of the motion, but I couldn't execute it—at least not yet. All I needed was more practice.

The difference, of course, was that this wasn't sports; it was magic—an art. If a sentient being can wield one form of magic, learning a second is easier. Naturally, much depends on the individual, but the groundwork is already laid.

"Let's try again."

On the thirtieth attempt, the spell finally worked. The goat vanished in a puff of white smoke, and in its place stood a chicken. The bewildered chicken immediately began running in circles, squawking loudly. I caught it with a spell and transformed it back into a goat.

The goat now looked slightly deranged, its eyes darting around wildly. Understandable—not everyone comes through such an ordeal unscathed.

"Cluck-baa?" the goat muttered, glancing suspiciously at the world and then at me.

"Ready for another round?"

As if understanding me, the goat made a break for it. But magic was on my side. Immobilizing it, I repeated the transformation—chicken, goat, chicken again. Once I felt confident in casting the spell, I expanded my repertoire, transforming the goat into a variety of animals. By the twentieth transformation, it seemed to have resigned itself to its fate.

"Woof-cluck-quack-baa!" it exclaimed. "Baa-aa-aa!"

"All right, you're free now—free as a bird," I said, watching the goat bolt away at such speed it almost seemed to Apparate.

With my confidence restored, I returned to Beauxbatons and resumed my tedious theoretical calculations. Dull as they were, they were essential. When the time came to present my research on Transfiguration to earn the title of Master, these calculations would be a critical part of my dissertation. They were also indispensable for verifying spells, adjusting formulas, and ensuring precision in my work.

Meanwhile, I continued filling the Archive with new knowledge. Its growing collection was invaluable—not only for future endeavors but also for navigating current challenges. Questions that might have taken months—or even years—to solve were now within reach, thanks to its vast resources.

****

Young Brielle Ville scrubbed furiously at the filthy toilet lid. This was the price he had to pay for being late to his room. Once he realized he wouldn't make it back in time, he had already resigned himself to the consequences. Punishment was inevitable. The arrival of the new Headmaster had been the hottest topic of discussion, but since the Headmaster was English, discontent quickly spread among the students.

And then, he did something no one expected. He subjected nearly every student to humiliation, deprivation, and torment, carried out by the house-elves with chilling enthusiasm.

"Tut-tut," clicked the tongue of the house-elf overseeing punishments that day. "You missed a spot. Start over from the beginning."

With a snap of its fingers, the toilet reverted to its filthy, foul-smelling state, reeking of excrement and urine. Those who resisted faced even harsher penalties. A smack across the back with a stick, a "coincidental" tumble of a heavy kettle onto their heads, or being dunked headfirst into the filth. The house-elves took particular delight in breaking those who dared defy the new rules.

Defiant students were met with even more creative punishments: fingers slammed in doors, followed by the elves apologizing profusely; knees struck with sticks, after which the elf would bash its own head against the cold tiles until it bled, blaming the students for the act.

It soon became too much for the students. Letters to their parents flooded out of the school, begging for intervention. They hoped the new Headmaster—whom they had quietly begun calling "The Monster Headmaster"—would rescind the rules out of fear. Instead, he publicly burned the letters without even opening them, right in front of the students.

Since the school was attended by children of important and influential wizards, the letters kept coming. The students waited eagerly for the Minister's intervention, but even he could not overturn the Headmaster's decision. It was a total defeat. When the students continued sending desperate letters, they were told to adapt to the situation.

It was only then that many of the "pureblood" students began to notice their classmates from non-magical families. These students received the fewest punishments—not because they were favored, but because they returned to their rooms on time. When the purebloods began following suit, the punishments ceased for them as well.

Over time, the rule was begrudgingly accepted and became part of the school culture.

Brielle fully understood what awaited him and worked diligently to finish his task. He had no desire to spend half the night in a stinking bathroom. The sooner he returned to his room, the sooner he could escape this misery.