A thrill of anticipation shot through Char as he watched the reward information for the Shadowthorn swirl and transform. The letters on his system panel blurred, a storm of light brewing before his eyes, as if forging new words from raw magic.
"It's worthy of being a Deathly Hallow," he breathed, his voice filled with awe. "For the Shadowthorn, this is a complete metamorphosis."
After a moment, the words finally sharpened into focus.
[The Shadowthorns you cultivated were induced to produce mutations with better traits.]
[After cultivation, the reward will be upgraded:]
[Shadow Holdings (Gold Level)]
[Tear Wounds (Silver Level)]
The first two rewards were as he expected—upgraded by one level, one gold and one silver, but otherwise unchanged. It was the last line of text that made his breath catch in his throat.
[Very small amount of ancient shadow magic enlightenment (Black Iron level)]
He stared, his heart pounding. Another reward related to ancient magic?
He had encountered two before: the ancient weather magic from the Elber Tree, and the unknown ancient magic from the Whomping Willow. To think that the mutated Shadowthorns could now provide a path to ancient shadow magic… it was almost too much to believe.
The initial shock quickly gave way to a surge of fierce excitement. The Elber Trees were a long-term project, and the Whomping Willow was still a distant dream. But the Shadowthorn, now that he had a way to bypass the Disillusionment Charm, could be planted in bulk. This meant that ancient magic, something whispered about only in the deepest lore, was finally within his grasp. He was intensely curious about its power. Perhaps it could become his next great weapon, after the Divine Edge Shadowless Spell.
But as his excitement crested, he noticed something strange. This new reward, the line of text related to ancient shadow magic, wasn't fully formed. It flickered in and out of existence, a ghostly promise that was there one moment and gone the next. He had never seen anything like it.
"This feeling…" he murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's like… there's something missing. A necessary condition to make the reward manifest."
He waited, watching intently, but the line of text continued to phase in and out. His suspicion hardened into certainty. "It seems so. But it's not surprising. The Elber Tree can provide diamond-level rewards, and that's what it took to unlock its ancient magic. The Shadowthorn's highest reward is only gold. Even with the power of a Deathly Hallow, it's not that easy to tap into something as profound as ancient magic."
Still, his resolve was firm. This was the closest he had ever come. "I'll have to go to the library. Among the books my aunt left for me, there are several specifically about the cultivation of Shadowthorns. Perhaps I can find a clue there."
His thoughts then turned to Quirrell. Though it was unlikely the weakened professor would attack him now, it was always better to be safe. He slipped the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders. With its protection, as long as Voldemort himself wasn't active, he should be completely undetectable.
The moment the cloak settled around him, a strange sensation washed over him. The fabric itself felt otherworldly, cool and fluid like running water. But it was the change in his magical senses that was truly profound.
With his platinum-level night vision, he had learned to see the faint aura of magic that emanated from all living things—wizards and magical plants alike—as shimmering motes of light. Normally, these magical "particles" diffused outwards like a gas. But now, under the cloak, something bizarre was happening. The cloak didn't just hide him from sight and sound; it was a perfect magical barrier. The particles of his own magic, instead of dissipating, were bouncing off the inside of the cloak, reflecting and ricocheting in a contained, silent storm. Not a single one could escape.
He finally understood how the cloak could block almost any magical detection. "If not a single trace of magic can escape," he reasoned, "then of course any detection spells are useless." If this had happened before, he would have just chalked it up to "magic." But now, after his breakthrough in Transfiguration and with several platinum-level spells under his belt, his understanding was far deeper.
"In the language of my past life," he thought, "the space under this cloak is a perfect magical black body. Magic can enter, but it cannot radiate out. What kind of magic, what kind of microscopic arrangement, could achieve that?"
His curiosity burned. This had to be the work of an incredibly advanced Transfiguration master. If he could only understand the principles behind it, his own magic would advance to a terrifying degree. He remembered from the books that Dumbledore had studied the cloak for years. With Dumbledore's power, he had no need for invisibility. He must have been studying its construction, a feat of magic that could challenge even his own legendary skills.
The cloak was an unimaginable treasure trove of knowledge. But as quickly as the thought came, a bitter smile touched his lips. With his current level, he could only recognize its greatness; he couldn't begin to comprehend it. It was like an elementary school student trying to read a paper on advanced number theory.
"Never mind," he sighed. "For now, the cloak is helping me cultivate Shadowthorns, and that's a big enough surprise. I'll study its principles when I'm ready. First, the library."
He walked toward the library, still shrouded in invisibility. It was late at night, long after closing hours, but it didn't matter. He moved silently between the towering bookshelves, consulting the bibliography Professor Sprout had given him and pulling down the classic texts on Shadowthorn cultivation.
The work was difficult. The books were ancient, written mostly in Latin and Hebrew, with only a small portion in Old English. But thanks to the papers his professors had assigned, he had been forced to learn how to translate these ancient texts. He was grateful for the tedious homework now.
He focused on the prefaces, tables of contents, and abstracts, searching for any mention of ancient shadow magic. Time slipped by. Madam Pince's snores echoed through the silent library, gradually fading as morning approached.
The first rays of dawn slanted through the windows, falling on the page of the book in his hands. He gently closed it, returned it and the others to their proper places, and ticked them off his list. He had gone through four books. They contained valuable information, but no mention of ancient shadow magic. Seventeen more to go. It will take four or five more days, he thought. I hope I find something. Otherwise, I'll have to try the restricted section, or worse, figure it out from scratch.
He walked out of the library just as breakfast was beginning, the cheerful chatter of students filling the corridors. As he did, he heard the familiar flap of an owl's wings. He looked out the window and saw Professor Sprout's owl circling over the castle, looking lost and confused. He realized he was still wearing the cloak.
He quickly took it off, and the owl, seeming to breathe a sigh of relief, swooped down and dropped a letter into his hands. The message was brief.
"Char, once you receive this, please come to the Great Hall at breakfast. It is very important. You must not be absent."
He was puzzled. What could be so important? It wasn't anything he remembered from the books. He hurried to the Great Hall, but was surprised to find the doors closed and the hall strangely quiet, as if an important meeting was in progress. He hesitated, then carefully pushed the door open, hoping to slip in without disturbing anyone.
The moment he stepped inside, he froze.
The hall was silent, but every eye was on him. Students from all four houses were there, along with all the professors. Dumbledore sat at the head table, his expression serious. He nodded at Char, and his voice echoed through the vast space.
"Since Char is here, then I think we can begin."
Before Char could process what was happening, the hall erupted. Cannons and firecrackers exploded from the Hufflepuff table. Ribbons and confetti rained down. Every Hufflepuff student was holding a flag high, the words on them forming a single sentence:
"CONGRATULATIONS TO CHAR FOR PUBLISHING HIS PAPER IN FRONTIERS OF HERBOLOGY AND RECEIVING THE SECOND CLASS MEDAL OF HERBOLOGY. YOU ARE THE PRIDE OF THE SCHOOL."
Char was stunned. Dumbledore waved his wand, and even bigger fireworks exploded overhead. He beamed at Char.
"Char Sprout," he announced, his voice filled with pride, "you have set a three-century record for Hogwarts. You are the youngest student in three hundred years to publish a paper in a top academic journal. You are also the only student in a century to receive the second-class medal from the Herbology Association while still at school. As your headmaster, I am honored to present this award to a rising star in the field of herbology. At the same time, I would like to announce…"
The House Cup hourglasses appeared in the hall. Every eye widened as the sand in the Hufflepuff hourglass began to rise at an alarming speed, far surpassing the other three houses.
"For your outstanding academic performance," Dumbledore declared, "one hundred and fifty points to Hufflepuff! Now, my boy, come up on stage. You deserve this."
Char stood frozen for a full thirty seconds before he finally understood. A top journal… a medal… He had dreamed of a similar scene in his past life, accepting an award in front of a cheering crowd. But that had just been a dream. He never thought it would happen in this life. Even Harry, when he had won the House Cup, hadn't received a ceremony like this.
His gaze swept over the Hufflepuffs, their faces filled with genuine joy for him. He saw Professor Sprout wiping away tears of pride, and Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall giving him gratified looks. Even Snape… had he washed his hair today?
A slow smile spread across Char's face, a warm feeling surging through him. "So everyone knew before I did?"
He took a deep breath and walked up to the high platform. Dumbledore, his face full of emotion, bent down and placed a medal engraved with a Piranha Algae around his neck.
"It's wonderful to be young," Dumbledore sighed in a low voice. "It reminds me of my youth. When I received my first prize, all I could think about was how to spend the money. I was so poor then. In the blink of an eye, a century has passed. If you don't mind, Char, satisfy an old man's curiosity. What are you thinking about right now?"
Char looked at Dumbledore and whispered, "I'm thinking… when will my experimental field share be distributed? I have so many more trees I'm dying to plant."
Dumbledore was stunned for a moment, then burst into hearty laughter. "That really suits your personality," he said, a little helplessly. "Alright, but I have some bad news for you. We don't have any experimental field share."
Char's heart sank. But the next moment, a mysterious, cunning arc appeared on Dumbledore's lips.
"But perhaps I have a better surprise than that. After the award ceremony, you will have half a day off. You can go with Professor Sprout to have a look."
Char felt a surge of silent complaint. This old man, he still loves to keep people in suspense. The thought of the experimental fields consumed him. His Guardian Trees, the Devil's Snare, the Shadowthorns—they were all waiting. What could this surprise be?
After the ceremony, Professor Sprout waved to him. He followed her eagerly.
"To tell you the truth," she said with a mysterious smile, "I never thought Dumbledore would be so generous. I'm a little envious myself."
She led him to a place on the Hogwarts grounds he had never seen before. When he saw what was there, his eyes widened in disbelief.
"This… this is?"