Ever since Malfoy recounted his wild night with Harry and the others, Edward felt like his brain was struggling to keep up.
According to Malfoy, after Edward lured Filch away, the five directionless students sprinted down the fourth-floor corridor in a blind panic, running miles before they were sure they'd lost him.
But by then, they were completely lost. Hearing a rustle, Hermione used a spell to unlock a door.
And they nearly died inside.
Behind the door was a three-headed dog with eyes bigger than their heads—Malfoy's exact words.
Malfoy couldn't even remember how he made it back to the dorms. All he felt was regret: why had he challenged Harry to a duel? Why had he picked Edward as his second? Why hadn't he just gone with Edward to distract Filch?
All he could recall was the beast's ferocious face, sharp claws, and drooling, foul-smelling maw.
Edward knew what this creature was.
A three-headed dog, formally called a Cerberus. Unlike some mythical creatures, this one was very real.
Based on magical creature classifications, it was probably a XXXX-level threat—dangerous enough to require advanced magical knowledge to handle.
Recalling their route from the previous night, Edward was certain Malfoy and the others had stumbled into the right-hand corridor on the fourth floor—the forbidden area Dumbledore had warned about at the start of term.
Now they knew why it was off-limits.
But what Edward couldn't figure out was why a three-headed dog was there in the first place.
Dogs, no matter where, were usually guards.
Like in Greek mythology, where Cerberus guarded the gates of the Underworld.
Was there something in that room worth protecting?
Though Edward's knightly spirit made him itch to explore the unknown, he decided to focus first on boosting his own strength—specifically, the Troll's Strength Potion.
But Snape hadn't been much help.
During Friday night's detention, Edward seized the chance to ask about it, only to get this response:
"Fresh troll bogeys, Bedivere? If you're that eager to die, I'd be happy to write to Dumbledore and have you sent to the mountains of Liechtenstein to be a troll's plaything."
"I don't recall assigning you to research something like the Troll's Strength Potion. Wizards rely on their brains—brains, got it?" Snape jabbed Edward's forehead with his wand.
"Your brain's sharper than most, but that doesn't mean you can go chasing shortcuts! Now, prepare the ingredients for Babbling Beverage and go study the next chapter of Powerful Potions!"
In short, Edward got no troll-related ingredients from Snape.
It made sense—most wizards didn't see physical strength as important. He'd have to find another way.
Time passed quietly, and things seemed to settle back into routine.
Malfoy hadn't been picking fights with Harry and the other Gryffindors lately. After all, they'd survived a near-death experience together in the fourth-floor corridor.
Still, he was fuming about Harry getting a broom—a Nimbus 2000, no less.
And it was indirectly Malfoy's fault. If he hadn't stolen Neville's Remembrall, Harry wouldn't have confronted him in the air, nearly crashed, caught Professor McGonagall's eye, and been gifted a top-of-the-line broom as an exception to the rules.
Edward had pointed this out to him, and now Malfoy was so mad he wanted to douse his head with a Water-Making Spell.
Surprisingly, the only person who shared Malfoy's frustration wasn't another Slytherin—it was Hermione.
Edward had overheard her say multiple times that rewarding Harry for breaking rules was unfair.
But to Edward, it seemed fair enough. Adventure meant high risk, high reward. Harry took the risk and reaped the benefits—simple as that.
Aside from Hermione, the Gryffindors as a whole were growing frustrated.
Their Potions grades were falling further behind the Slytherins'.
Even Crabbe and Goyle occasionally earned praise from Snape—not out of favoritism, but because their potion-brewing techniques were genuinely improving.
Slytherins like Daphne and Malfoy, who were already talented, were leaps ahead of the Gryffindors in Potions.
To make matters worse, the Gryffindors had to endure Snape's and Malfoy's taunts but couldn't talk back—they simply didn't have the skills.
Magic might betray you, but Potions didn't lie. You either knew how to brew or you didn't.
Though Edward tried to help all his classmates equally, his time and energy were limited, and the Gryffindors happened to sit farther from him.
As for Hermione, she was so frustrated she'd even blurted out, "If Hogwarts has me, why do they need Edward?"
It wasn't jealousy—she was just disappointed in herself.
Edward, however, didn't have that competitive streak. Potions—or any homework, really—took up little of his time.
Most of his energy went into researching physical enhancement potions, testing substitutes for troll bogeys and powdered troll nails in an empty classroom near the girls' bathroom.
So far, his only "success" was a potion he called "Iron Kettle Brew," which made the drinker's body temporarily hard as iron but slower than a snail.
Still, he wasn't discouraged. Even Coca-Cola started as a failed headache remedy. This potion would surely have its use someday.
Just like that, nearly two months flew by. The corridors began to smell of sweet, roasted pumpkin as Halloween approached.
On the eve of Halloween, Professor Flitwick decided to teach a more complex spell in their final Charms class: how to make objects fly.
The spell was Wingardium Leviosa.
"Don't forget the subtle wrist movement we've been practicing—a swish and flick!" Flitwick squeaked, his voice carrying over the class. "And pronounce the spell clearly. Don't turn the 'f' into an 's' like that wizard Baruffio, who ended up flat on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."
He paused, then looked at Edward expectantly. "Mr. Bedivere, would you care to demonstrate?"
This had become a standard part of every class.
"Of course, Professor Flitwick. *Wingardium Leviosa!*"
Edward casually pointed at a copy of The Standard Book of Spells at Flitwick's feet. The book floated upward, twirling in the air as if dancing a waltz.
"A splendid waltz! Three points to Slytherin! Now, everyone, start practicing with the feathers in front of you~"
The students were used to this by now. Edward pulling off a spell perfectly proved nothing.
It was only when the third student succeeded that others felt a twinge of pressure.
Why not the second? Because the second was usually whoever sat next to Edward—typically Daphne.
Hermione glared at the Slytherin side, then at Ron, her partner for the lesson, growing increasingly irritated.
Her frustration boiled over when Ron, losing patience, started wildly waving his wand at the feather in front of him.
"Stop, stop, stop! Are you trying to poke someone's eye out?" Hermione snapped.
"Why can't you just learn from Edward over there?"
read more inpatreon
ilham20