This was a magical whistle that mimicked the wing vibration frequency of the "Dendrivorous Hornet." This creature was not only the natural enemy of the Whomping Willow but also a social insect feared by most magical plants—they only ate plants that could move.
Marcel walked over and patted the thick roots exposed above the ground. The roots immediately trembled and moved aside, revealing a deep, dark hole.
It was a downward-sloping tunnel, just large enough for one person to lie flat and slide down. Marcel frowned, hugged the suitcase he was carrying to his chest, and then jumped in, sliding down.
The slope wasn't very long, and soon Marcel found himself in a tunnel where he had to bend over to move forward.
All light was cut off in the tunnel; it was pitch black all around. Marcel rubbed his head, which he had just bumped on the ceiling, and fumbled for his wand. He paused halfway through drawing it, but ultimately put it back.
The Ministry of Magic places a Trace on every finished wand. If an underage wizard under seventeen uses magic outside of school, it will be immediately detected. This is especially conspicuous in a sparsely populated place like this. It was best not to use it if he could avoid it, even though he was probably still within the boundaries of Hogwarts.
He took a small glass vial from the inner pocket of his robe, shook it vigorously, and it made a rustling sound like colliding gravel.
A soft glow appeared in the darkness and gradually grew brighter. If you looked closely into the bottle, you would see a strange, luminous mist forming inside, which was becoming increasingly dense.
"When I earn enough money, I must buy a convenient, portable pouch," Marcel said, patting his robe, which was stuffed with all sorts of bottles and jars, making it feel heavy.
Inside were potions, semi-finished products, and even just raw materials, but without exception, they were all very useful little gadgets.
"...Or make one myself," he was, as always, reluctant to part with his money.
He walked forward with his head down, mulling over various things. Soon, he felt the tunnel begin to slope upward. Before long, a faint glimmer of light appeared ahead.
Marcel uncorked the bottle, which was still emitting a continuous fluorescent glow. With a soft pop, the luminous mist dispersed into the tunnel and soon dissipated.
The mist inside the bottle was gone, leaving only a small amount of fine black sand at the bottom. Marcel put the cork back on.
Many potions, and even simple materials, could be used to achieve the same effects as spells. Some were even more powerful than spells, and their usage threshold was extremely low.
Of course, you had to prepare them in advance and carry them with you at all times. But the pros outweighed the cons, which was one of the reasons why potions were so expensive.
Over time, many potion formulas had been crushed into fragments by the wheels of history, left behind in the eras where they once shone. But a new generation of potioneers was always working hard, whether it was to restore old formulas or to attempt new innovations, ensuring that Potions maintained its undeniable status in the wizarding world.
"...So, I will not agree to anything less than 200 Galleons."
In a corner of the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade, a short wizard, completely wrapped in a shabby, hooded cloak made of gray felt, was speaking calmly in a muffled, western country accent.
The raspy voice, as if his vocal cords had been grated with a file, made one want to frown.
Across from him, a wizard with all his exposed skin wrapped in layers of bandages was haggling with him in an equally unpleasant, muffled voice. It sounded as if he had a wad of old phlegm stuck in his throat.
"No! cough cough, this potion of yours is a new product. Before I see its effects... cough cough... I can't put it up for sale in my shop. I can't bet my shop's reputation."
"But for a trial... cough cough... sample, this price is too expensive!"
The short wizard's tone remained calm. He said flatly, "In that case, the deal is off."
With that, he pushed himself up from the table and walked straight toward the door.
"Oh—cough cough, wait, damn it!" the bandaged wizard said weakly. "I'll pay! But, cough cough... you have to give me a better price—if you want a long-term partnership!"
"150 Galleons, valid payment," the short wizard, who had already reached the door, said impatiently over his shoulder.
"D-deal... cough cough... Deal."
The bandaged wizard waved a weak hand. He was indeed eager for such a useful new product, assuming its effects were as good as claimed.
The short wizard was, of course, a disguised Marcel. He had altered his appearance to circumvent the biggest potential disadvantage in the negotiation—his age. In the ensuing verbal sparring between equals, he had firmly held the upper hand.
It was a business negotiation that was relatively satisfactory for both parties. No matter how reluctant the bandaged wizard appeared, he was determined to acquire this new product.
A new type of invisibility potion—what a tempting business opportunity!
After the bandaged wizard had tried a sample, the two signed a magical contract in duplicate, finalizing the long-term deal.
"Purchase price of two hundred, a thirty-seventy split... a good deal!"
Back in the Shrieking Shack, Marcel hung the tattered cloak in an old wardrobe and spat out a small stone chip from his mouth. His voice finally returned to normal.
He flicked the magical contract scroll, made of exquisite parchment, with his finger, a slightly excited smile on his face.
Of course, for now, the 1200 Galleons he had just earned had only just covered the massive cost of the materials consumed during his practice. And he still had to continue practicing the preparation of other potions. He was still a long way from becoming a rich man.
"No wonder the title pages of so many potions books say, 'This is an endless road paved with Galleons'," Marcel sighed. The earlier excitement had vanished along with his change in mood.
…
After Marcel secured a sales channel for his potions, everything seemed to go smoothly. His studies and research in all subjects progressed slowly but steadily with his daily investment. What made Marcel particularly happy was that he had made a real breakthrough with the Patronus Charm.
On a quiet, deserted night, Marcel stood in a spacious room provided by the Room of Requirement.
Yes, after a great deal of searching and recollection, he had finally found the location of this place. It was on the eighth floor of the castle, opposite the tapestry of "Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls."
Heaven knows how many times he had paced back and forth in front countless paintings, tapestries, and statues like a fool, trying to pinpoint the exact location.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Marcel stood straight in the center of the room, holding his wand upright in front of him like a rapier. He focused all his spirit and attention on the tip of his wand. As the pure, silvery-white light grew brighter, it detached itself from his wand.
For a moment, the light swirled around Marcel, forming a faint, silvery-white mist.
Ever since he began practicing the Patronus Charm, he had only ever been able to reach this step. In fact, he had been able to produce this silvery-white mist, full of hope and life, from his very first attempt.
But as he practiced again and again, and the mist grew denser each time, he was still unable to summon his corporeal Patronus.
This forced Marcel to re-examine the basic theory of the spell.
He consulted numerous texts again but found nothing special. The theory of this spell was mostly described vaguely, only stating that the user needed to concentrate on thinking about happy and beautiful things—in short, positive emotions.
Helpless, Marcel had to shift his focus to various examples of successfully cast Patronus Charms.
Finally, his efforts paid off. Several instances of the Patronus Charm being used to save loved ones gave him a new breakthrough. He discovered that the moment the user, compelled by the situation, wished to protect a specific person, was when the spell truly unleashed its power.
"...To protect."
Marcel thought of the first time he saw Luna in the cemetery.
In the sunset, the girl's pale-gold hair had glowed with a faint halo. She stood before the cold tombstone, silently looking at her deceased mother. In the gray-toned scene, only her back was so vivid.
Under the starry sky, when Marcel had subconsciously tried to avoid the topic of her mother, she had told him frankly that it was indeed a sad story, but it was more important to face it head-on.
Before they parted, Marcel could only remember her silvery-gray eyes. In that hazy, dreamlike gaze, there was a hidden longing to see him, her friend who was leaving for a time, again.
As Marcel recalled these memories, the dense, silvery-white mist swirling around him suddenly surged and transformed into a translucent, silver eagle that circled around him.
Marcel looked at the huge eagle before him, an embarrassed expression on his face.
"...How am I going to face Professor Sprout in the future?"
Among the four houses of Hogwarts, the eagle was the symbol of Ravenclaw. It represented justice, sharp wit, sternness, foresight, and a lofty nature.
When the Sorting Hat was sorting Marcel, its first consideration had been Ravenclaw. Although it had ultimately placed him in Hufflepuff for unknown reasons, it undoubtedly showed that Marcel had a strong affinity with Ravenclaw.
This eagle Patronus, besides being related to the emotion of "wanting to protect Luna," was probably also related to this point.
"I should just go to sleep for now."
Marcel waved his wand, dispelling the Patronus, and then left the Room of Requirement with a heart full of complicated feelings.