Solim had always been fascinated by magic—potions, spells, transfiguration—anything that deepened his understanding of the craft. Since childhood, he'd absorbed magical knowledge like air. But not every branch of magic intrigued him. Flying, for instance, was one subject that never caught his attention.
In Solim's opinion, sitting on a broom—cushion charm or not—was uncomfortable and awkward. It wasn't about fear, or even preference. He simply found flying dull.
That afternoon marked Slytherin's first flying lesson with Gryffindor, but Solim had no intention of attending. He needed an excuse to skip it. His time was already stretched thin: he still had to handle Sierna's affairs, figure out how to persuade Professor Snape to assist him, and respond to the bad news brought by an owl the night before.
He couldn't neglect his own magical studies either. He was due to teach Neville and Hermione a small private lesson that evening, and there were still stacks of magical texts waiting to be read.
More than once, Solim caught himself wishing he could build a time-turner.
During lunch, after quickly filling his stomach, Solim made his way to the Gryffindor table. If he was skipping flying lessons, he at least needed to explain it to Neville and Hermione.
As he approached, he saw Neville holding a small glass sphere.
"This is a Remembrall," Neville was explaining to the surrounding students, unaware that Solim was behind him. "Gran says I'm always forgetting things. The Remembrall tells you when you've forgotten something. You hold it like this, and if it turns red, oh—"
The Remembrall glowed bright crimson. "—that means you've forgotten something."
"That means," Solim said softly from behind him, "you've forgotten what I told you, haven't you?"
Neville spun around so quickly that Solim almost heard his neck crack. "Solim—oh Merlin—I remember now!" he said hurriedly. Instantly, the Remembrall faded back to white.
"What's a Slytherin snake doing at the Gryffindor table?" came an unmistakable voice.
Ignoring Ronald completely, Solim patted Neville's shoulder. "Good. Be ready—I'll be checking your progress tonight. Don't let your grandmother down." He gave Hermione a small nod and turned to leave. He trusted the clever witch would keep Neville on track.
Hermione frowned as Ron muttered under his breath, dragging Neville back toward the table.
Lately, Hermione and Neville hadn't spent much time in the Gryffindor common room.
Hermione had discovered, with Solim's hints, that Hogwarts was full of unused classrooms and secret spaces. She preferred those quiet corners for studying and reading—far better than the noisy, boisterous common room.
Motivated by Solim's guidance and determined to match his level, Hermione's dedication to study had become downright intense. Solim could feel her improvement with every small lesson they shared.
Flying lessons, however, were a major event for first-years—much like a primary schooler sitting in front of a computer for the first time. Excitement buzzed through the students as they boasted of their supposed flying experience.
To an outsider, it might have sounded like a gathering of professional Quidditch players.
Neville stayed silent. He'd never touched a broom before. The only time he had "flown" was when Uncle Algie had accidentally dropped him out a window.
Hermione's approach was predictably "Hermione." She buried her nose in A Beginner's Guide to Flying, hoping theory alone could make her proficient.
"Hermione," Neville said, a little braver these days, "Solim says flying's about talent. Books won't help much." His stammer had nearly vanished—except when speaking directly to Solim.
"So what?" Hermione said defensively. "I'm Muggle-born. I've never flown before." Her anxiety about the lesson was written all over her face.
"I think it'll be fine," Neville replied. "Solim told me he's never flown either. He hates brooms."
That, of course, was one of Hermione's frustrations with Solim. He only valued charms, potions, and transfiguration—anything else, he dismissed as secondary. Hermione, on the other hand, believed every subject at Hogwarts deserved to be studied seriously.
When the joint Slytherin-Gryffindor flying class began, trouble wasn't far behind.
Just like in the stories, Neville's broom shot up uncontrollably, then crashed. Madam Hooch had to escort him to the infirmary. Harry and Draco were soon arguing over Neville's dropped Remembrall.
But before things could escalate, Hermione snapped, "If you touch Neville's things, I'll tell Solim."
Draco froze, and in that instant Harry snatched up the Remembrall. The young Malfoy's face twisted with anger. Being threatened by a "Mudblood," especially in front of Slytherins, humiliated him.
"You filthy Mudblood! You dare threaten me!" Draco shouted without thinking.
And that was all it took.
With no professor present, mixing Gryffindors and Slytherins was a recipe for chaos. By the time Professor McGonagall arrived, students from both houses were lying scattered across the grass. Each house lost one hundred points, and Draco was dragged by the ear straight to Snape's office.
When the door opened, Solim looked up in surprise. He hadn't expected McGonagall and Malfoy to appear in the middle of his conversation with Snape. In the original course of events, McGonagall should have been taking Harry to meet Wood—not delivering Draco for discipline.
"Professor Snape," McGonagall said briskly, "Mr. Malfoy insulted a Gryffindor girl during flying lessons, which led to a brawl between both houses. I haven't seen first-years fight like this in all my years teaching. I hope you can make Mr. Malfoy understand his mistake."
Only then did she notice Solim standing quietly to the side.
"Mr. Selwyn? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in flying class? Skipping lessons isn't behavior I expect from a good student." McGonagall frowned slightly; she'd always regarded Solim as diligent.
"I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall," Solim replied politely. "I had something important to discuss with Professor Snape. It won't happen again."
He knew better than to argue. When elders corrected you—right or wrong—it was wiser to admit fault than make a scene.
Once McGonagall left, Snape turned his sharp gaze on Draco.
"There will not be a next time," he said coldly, shutting the door behind Malfoy.
Then, without another word, he returned to his desk. Solim waited a moment before speaking.
"As I was saying, Professor—I need your help."
All of Hogwarts knew that Snape favored Slytherins, though his favoritism had limits. Ever since Solim had received his grandfather's second letter, he'd been thinking of ways to persuade Snape, the Potions Master, to assist in developing a special potion.
He was trying to find a way for Squibs like Filch—or Sierna—to awaken the dormant magic within them. He'd scoured the library, but no potion in existence could revive lifeless magic.
His grandfather had tried reaching out to old colleagues, but they were too busy—or too cautious—to help. So Solim had turned to Snape, knowing full well he'd likely refuse.
When Snape did exactly that, Solim wasn't surprised.
"Avada Kedavra is quite the spell, Professor," Solim began, watching Snape's face darken. "You know it better than most. Potter survived it—Lily Evans's blood protection saved him. But that madman—" he gestured subtly toward Snape's left arm, "—why didn't he die?"
"Does this have anything to do with me?" Snape's voice was flat, his expression unreadable. Solim could tell Occlumency had already taken hold.
"Of course it does," Solim said lightly. "Tell me, Professor—have you ever heard of a horcrux?"
At that, Snape's eyes flickered, though his composure remained.
"The wizard who creates one can't truly die—not until the horcrux is destroyed," Solim continued. "So… tell me, why do you think he's still out there?"
Snape's hand moved almost unconsciously to his left arm, where the Dark Mark lay hidden beneath his sleeve.
"Voldemort will return. I don't think the Headmaster told you everything," Solim said quietly. "Do you really think Dumbledore can stop him? Protect Potter? Destroy all the horcruxes alone?"
Snape's tone was sharp. "You think you can do better?"
Solim smiled faintly. "I don't need to destroy him, nor his horcruxes. That's Dumbledore's burden. But I can help you protect Potter. You hate him, and he hates you—it's obvious to anyone with eyes. But there's no conflict between him and me. Even as a Slytherin, I can stay close to him without suspicion. My cousin's in Gryffindor, after all. That gives me reason enough."
Snape scoffed. "Ridiculous. Why do you assume I care whether Potter lives or dies?"
"Professor," Solim said, meeting his gaze, "let's not play games. I came here sincerely."
He stepped closer, resting his hands on Snape's desk. "Don't mistake me for some naïve student. I know far more than you think."
Snape's expression didn't change.
"Then let me make one final offer," Solim said. "Help me complete my potion—and I'll let you meet someone." He smiled slightly. "Lily Evans."
Snape froze. Then, as if a string had been pulled, he stood abruptly, eyes locked on Solim.
"Professor," Solim said quietly, "you really shouldn't use Legilimency so roughly. Aren't you afraid you'll turn me into an idiot?"
"She's dead," Snape said, his steady tone unable to mask the tremor underneath.
"Oh, of course she is," Solim replied calmly. "Surviving a blood curse is even rarer than surviving a Killing Curse."
He gestured for Snape to sit. "Let's talk about life for a moment. But before that—could you conjure me a chair? Your office is full of jars and vials; I can't find a suitable target for Transfiguration."
With a flick of his wand, Snape produced a wooden chair.
"Ah, with a backrest, please," Solim added quickly. "Thank you." He sat, adjusting his robes. "Now, about life."
Most wizards never contemplated life's true nature. Even those who did limited their studies to body and soul. But Solim, through the notes of a long-forgotten wizard named Lard, had learned that true life consisted of three elements: body, soul, and consciousness.
The body housed the soul, and the soul encased consciousness. Only when all three coexisted could a being be considered alive.
The ghosts of Hogwarts weren't spirits, but remnants of consciousness—echoes of will that lingered after the soul's departure.
When the body could no longer sustain the soul, death occurred. But the soul didn't vanish immediately; it aged and faded over time, eventually dissolving into nothingness when the will weakened.
Lily Evans had indeed lost her body in casting the blood curse—a sacrifice that saved her son. It was the ultimate manifestation of willpower.
Human communication, Solim continued, was merely a physical expression of conscious exchange—through sound, writing, or even eye contact. So, if Lily's will still lingered, communication remained possible—just not by ordinary means.
"Professor Snape," Solim said finally, sliding a parchment across the desk, "help me perfect this potion. Make sure it works—and I'll let you see Lily Evans again."
Snape's face had lost its habitual stillness.
"When that happens," Solim said softly, turning toward the door, "depends entirely on when you finish the potion."