The special training for Little Cloak ultimately ended in failure.
As every wizard knows, special training requires the trainee to have at least some basic aptitude. Trying to teach a cripple to run is pointless, and working with Little Cloak felt like teaching a blind man to aim—no matter how much effort Evans put in, there was no real progress.
It seemed he would have to wait for Little Cloak to truly open up to him, to become a real friend, and then hope its innate talent would spark improvement. For now, all he could do was keep up with the basics: daily practice of its abilities, and a weekly feast of potion-bred worms. Even that, though, brought some results.
Sure enough, after a month, Little Cloak's magical power had grown noticeably, and its abilities had improved. The duration of Hide in Darkness had increased from two seconds to three—a full fifty percent increase! Its potential for progress was, at least in theory, immense.
Evans shook his head, glancing out the window.
December had draped Hogwarts Castle in a blanket of white snow, the whole school glowing with a strange, wintry radiance beneath the setting sun. Hogwarts looked far more magical in winter than in summer.
He turned back to the three young wizards who had just entered his cabin, their cheeks flushed from the cold. Even in this weather, they braved the wind to visit him—a sure sign their investigation had made progress.
They didn't disappoint. As soon as they spoke, they dropped a name heavy with meaning.
"Nicolas Flamel?"
"Yes, Professor Kahn, that's the name we got from Hagrid!" Hermione said excitedly. "I remember you mentioned him once when you were talking with Professor Binns!"
She looked at Evans, anticipation shining in her eyes. Finally, they'd managed to catch Professor Kahn at home before the holidays. He'd been busy lately, vanishing after every class. The other professors said he was visiting historians, but Hermione found it odd—wasn't Professor Binns already the school's historian? Why seek out others? Still, that mystery wasn't enough to distract her from the real question: Who was Nicolas Flamel?
Beside her, Harry waited eagerly for Evans's answer. For the past month, the trio had been investigating Snape—asking older students and trailing Snape after Potions class. The tracking had yielded little, and might have even made Snape suspicious, but they'd gathered plenty of rumors. Snape had joined Hogwarts the very year the Dark Lord fell, immediately replacing Professor Slughorn as Head of Slytherin. The timing was too convenient. Some even whispered that Slughorn retired out of fear of Snape—a rumor Harry found all too plausible.
After all, Snape was said to be obsessed with the Dark Arts, even inventing his own curses and hexes. To Harry, it all fit: a dark wizard, suspected Death Eater, plotting to steal something from the Headmaster. It made perfect sense.
Now, if they could just figure out what Snape wanted to steal, they might finally find proof!
Evans saw the anticipation in their faces and thought for a moment before answering quietly.
"Nicolas Flamel is a famous alchemist, and the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone," he explained. "He's a wizard who's lived since the Middle Ages—he's six hundred and sixty-five years old this year."
Since Flamel was a legendary figure of the Middle Ages, Evans knew his story well. He took the opportunity to explain the Philosopher's Stone, its powers, and its history.
The three young wizards listened, eyes wide with realization. No wonder they hadn't found Flamel's name in any modern wizarding texts—he was nearly six centuries old!
But now, they could guess what Snape was after. The Philosopher's Stone—an object that could grant immortality and limitless wealth. Who wouldn't want it? Snape, with his obsession for the Dark Arts, would covet it more than anyone.
It made sense that Flamel, after centuries of being hunted, would entrust the Stone to Dumbledore for safekeeping. The Headmaster was the greatest wizard of his age—surely he could protect it.
But perhaps Flamel hadn't counted on Dumbledore's most trusted confidant having designs on the Stone.
A flicker of determination sparked in Harry's eyes. He was one step closer to finding proof—and to ending Snape's reign.
"Do you want to come to Hagrid's for hotpot?" Evans asked, seeing their determined expressions. He thought a good meal might lift their spirits. If they dug too deep and Snape caught on, they'd definitely end up in detention.
But the trio shook their heads, excitement overriding any hunger.
"No, Professor, we need to keep investigating!" Hermione said, already pulling on her coat. The three hurried out into the cold, leaving Evans to shake his head with a wry smile.
Hotpot was always better with company, but if they weren't interested, he wouldn't invite anyone else. After days of visiting historians, his social battery was nearly drained. Still, to break the seal, he'd have to keep going. Professor Binns knew a little about everything, but not enough about the specific events Evans needed. The requirements for breaking the seal were strict; even a small gap in knowledge could ruin his chances.
But the effort was worth it. The historians had helped him fill in many missing details. In a few more days, he'd be ready to break the seal at last.
Nicolas Flamel, though…
A glint of intrigue flashed in Evans's eyes. He hadn't paid much attention to what Dumbledore was hiding before, but now that he knew the Philosopher's Stone was at Hogwarts, he couldn't help but wonder. Why not hide it under a Fidelius Charm? Or just carry it around? The Stone wasn't large—it would fit in a pocket.
The more he thought about it, the more suspicious he became. Was Dumbledore… fishing? And if so, would his three young friends end up catching the fish for him? Hopefully, as long as the "fish" didn't get too cocky, things would work out.
Shaking off those thoughts, Evans returned to his kitchen and took down a large basin from the cupboard. It was one of the hotpot ingredients for tonight. In late 20th-century Britain, it hadn't been easy to track down a whole basin of this stuff. He'd searched the Muggle world for ages before finally finding a shop that sold it.
He tapped the basin with a finger, and one of the ingredients floated out, landing next to the small orb on his wrist.
It was a pig's brain, still streaked with blood. Not the freshest, but true connoisseurs wouldn't mind a little imperfection.
Sensing the scent, the orb quivered, then suddenly expanded, transforming into a blue-green, thorny creature with delicate wings. It wrapped its wings around the brain and began to feast.
Moments later, it shrank back into an orb, reattaching itself to Evans's wrist. Only a faint, contented chewing sound could be heard from within.
Evans watched, half-amused, half-exasperated, at his anxious, light-averse companion. He hefted the basin, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the wintry air.
He'd be visiting more historians tomorrow. Tonight, he would eat well and rest—he'd earned it.
[Chapter Complete]
***
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