After Charms class, Lynn followed Professor Flitwick back to his office. When he came out, he was holding a palm-sized notebook.
The cover was dragon-hide. The pages weren't parchment—they were soft, pale leather made from mooncalf and a couple other magical creatures. Slightly yellowed, clearly old.
According to Flitwick, back before spellcasting as we know it existed, wizards used books like this on the road. Runes written in pure magic could stay stable on those pages for an hour or two—long enough to cast something big without a wand. Once wands were invented and modern charms took over, the books became obsolete.
This one wasn't an ancient relic—just a high-quality replica Flitwick had picked up traveling in his younger days. Looked old, worked perfectly.
Real rune masters never needed the books anyway. Top-tier wizards could write runes straight into the air with their wand tip and fire them off instantly. Modern spell gestures? Just a simplified version of drawing runes. Every new spell still starts as a rune sequence first, then gets translated into Latin (or whatever) and turned into the incantation we actually say.
That's why new spells are so rare these days—hardly anyone studies ancient runes anymore. No runes, no new magic. Simple as that.
There are slang spells that skip runes entirely—"Peskipiksi Pesternomi" level nonsense—but those only work properly for the person who invented them. Everyone else just sounds like they're having a stroke.
Lynn spent the rest of the day half-distracted, flipping through the little book whenever he got the chance.
Fast-forward to Halloween feast.
The Great Hall looked incredible—thousands of live bats swooping overhead in a giant black cloud (McGonagall's handiwork, not Snape's, thank you very much). Jack-o'-lanterns grinned from every corner, and the tables were loaded.
Pumpkin bowls full of "vampire kidney" stew, pink brain pudding with raspberry-sauce veins, gummy eyeball pasta, sugar-glazed "severed fingers"—all disgusting and delicious.
Lynn slid into his seat and did a double-take.
"Hermione? You're… here?"
She was sitting with Harry (currently girl-mode), looking perfectly calm.
"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Did you expect me to get scared off by floating pumpkin heads?"
"Fair point." Lynn glanced at her plate—half a brain pudding that now looked like a zombie had taken a bite out of it. "Heavy breakfast choice."
"It's actually really good once you get past the look," she said defensively. "Want a bite?"
"Maybe later. I'm starting with the coffin-shaped garlic bread. Smells amazing."
Without Ron around to wave his arms like a windmill and annoy her into storming off, Hermione was actually enjoying herself. Harry and Parvati were keeping her company, and nobody had called her "insufferable know-it-all" once.
Peace didn't last.
Mid-feast, the doors slammed open.
Professor Quirgarlic stumbled in reeking of enough garlic to kill a vampire army. Turban crooked, face pale, eyes wild.
He staggered straight to Dumbledore, grabbed the table for support, and wheezed:
"Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."
Then he face-planted dramatically and passed out.
The hall erupted into screams.
Dumbledore fired a few loud bangs from his wand to shut everyone up.
"Prefects—lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately."
Lynn put down his fork, leaned toward Harry, and whispered, "Start crying."
"What?"
He pinched her side—hard.
Instant waterworks.
Harry let out a perfectly timed wail, tears streaming.
Snape, who had been heading toward Quirrell, froze like someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed. His head whipped around.
Move, you garlic-soaked idiot. Can't you see Harry's crying?!
He actually stepped on the back of Quirrell's turban as he changed direction, using the "unconscious" professor as a stepping stone.
Quirrell's face squished against the floor, but he stayed committed to the faint—couldn't ruin the performance now.
Lynn patted Harry's shoulder. "Good job. If Snape asks, say you're scared the troll will eat you."
"I'm not a baby!" Harry hissed, still sniffling on command.
"But you're adorable when you cry," Lynn teased. "Now go. I've got a Halloween present to deliver."
Harry narrowed her eyes. "You're up to something evil, aren't you?"
"Nonsense. Pure charity work."
He stood up, cracked his knuckles, and smiled sweetly at the prone, garlic-scented heap on the floor.
"Professor Quirrell's waiting for his gift."
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