Chapter 133: Silven Defeats Dumbledore

After entering March, the weather became much warmer.

Silven’s spherical wand research progressed smoothly; so far, he had produced Chengpin capable of casting spells.

Unfortunately, they were single-use only—the wand shaft would crack internally afterward.

Silven suspected it was a problem with the magical script arrangement, and recently he had been trying another method: dividing the spherical shaft like an orange into multiple equal-sized semicircles, carving the magical scripts onto each, threading them together with the core, and finally assembling them into a single unit.

The idea was sound, but the execution was far too difficult; Silven had tried repeatedly for days, each time failing at the final step.

Silven was not discouraged; failure meant trying again. And these failures weren’t entirely bad—at least when he was absorbed in the work, he completely forgot about the leaf in his mouth.

Of course, he still had to restrain himself during meals.

“Silven, are you sure this is really fine?” This was not the first time Harry had said this.

For over half a month, Silven had barely eaten anything, mostly drinking only milk and pumpkin juice.

He ate two sandwiches, three fried eggs, and one sausage in the morning, yet still felt hungry before noon—let alone Silven, who drank only one glass of milk.

Even witches who loudly claimed they were dieting weren’t as extreme as Silven; over half a month, he visibly lost weight, leaving several upper-year girls envious.

Yet not one of them could stick to Silven’s diet for even a week.

Hermione had secretly tried it too—on the third morning, she retaliated by eating five beef sandwiches and could barely walk afterward… that had happened yesterday.

Now, when she looked at Silven, her eyes carried a hint of admiration.

“You can’t keep eating like this,” Silven said, glancing at her. “Honestly, I can’t either.”

“Then why have you kept going so long?” Hermione said. “It’s been over twenty days, right?”

“Twenty-three days,” Silven said. “I’ve managed this far because of this.”

He pulled a bottle from his pocket, half-filled with orange-red potion.

“What is this?”

“A specially made vitality tonic,” Silven said. “A sip restores strength instantly. Without this, I’d probably have fainted in class weeks ago.”

“There’s such a thing?” Harry’s eyes lit up—he desperately needed something to restore stamina.

It was foreseeable that training intensity would increase further before their final Quidditch match. After all, Oliver wouldn’t lower his guard just because the opponent was Ravenclaw.

After every training session, he’d been too exhausted to walk, feeling as if he couldn’t even lift his legs; with a bottle of this potion, things would be much better.

“Where did you buy it? How much?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Snape gave it to me,” Silven said.

This answer instantly silenced Harry—he knew he could never drink any potion Snape had given him.

Ron, beside him, gaped and stammered, “B-but… Snape brewed this potion for you? How is that possible…?”

“Be more confident—it’s impossible,” Silven said. “The potion was indeed brewed by Snape, but it was given to me by Professor McGonagall.”

“Now there’s another Professor McGonagall?” Harry was even more confused.

Probably afraid I’d suddenly collapse in class one day… Silven thought, amused.

Professor McGonagall had given him this potion a week ago, when Silven had already been drinking only milk and pumpkin juice for half a month, so weak he could barely walk.

But he hadn’t told Harry any of this, nor explained anything.

It wasn’t about trust—it was purely for safety. Silven felt it was better not to tell Harry about his Animagus transformation studies.

He didn’t want to be visited by Aurors one day.

Though Silven said nothing, Hermione seemed to have guessed something, and kept staring at his mouth.

But at that moment, Silven had just finished his milk, set down the cup, and walked away.

Even with the special vitality tonic, Silven didn’t worry about stamina—but the smell of toasted bread and butter was torture.

“Just hold on a little longer… just one more week…” Silven encouraged himself.

But this week felt especially long. In Herbology, Professor Sprout was explaining the characteristics and preferences of the Dancing Umbrella Mushroom—but to Silven, it looked like a bucket of constantly jumping butter-fried eggs and fried sausages.

Once, during Potions class, he mistook the potion in his cauldron for a huge pot of beef stew.

It was only when Neville’s cauldron emitted a terrifying odor that Silven snapped back to reality.

He couldn’t describe what the smell resembled—it simply triggered instinctive fear, as if Neville had brewed the Killing Curse into a blue-purple liquid.

Silven sincerely pitied some little creature—if it had drunk that potion, it might never have woken up.

Snape gave the same assessment: he waved his wand and cleared away the unknown liquid, but this time, Neville’s cauldron vanished too.

No one knew if Snape had done it on purpose, or if the cauldron had been classified by the Cleaning Charm as irreparable trash.

From Snape’s surprised expression and the faint twitching of his cheek muscles, it was likely the latter.

A cauldron wasn’t cheap—he favored his own house, but he wouldn’t casually destroy a student’s property.

Neville’s ears turned bright red; his wand clattered onto the still-burning stove, sparking violently.

“P-p-professor,” Neville frantically picked up his wand, “I might have added too little…”

“You added one less brain,” Snape snapped his wand, extinguishing the flickering sparks. “Five points from Gryffindor. You’ve successfully lowered the lower bound of Potions.”

Several Slytherins immediately burst into sharp laughter.

But it wasn’t over—Snape turned to Silven beside him.

“And you, Ollivander, find watching your classmate humiliate yourself amusing? Why didn’t you warn him?”

“I…”

“Five more points from Gryffindor.” Snape didn’t bother listening to Silven’s explanation—he swept off like a giant black bat to Harry’s side.

“I’m sorry, Silven, I didn’t mean to…”

After Potions class, Neville trudged out of the classroom, still dazed, as if still trapped in fear.

Silven didn’t know how to comfort him, so he just patted his shoulder. “It’s fine—you’ve made history.”

“Didn’t you hear Snape just now? You lowered the lower bound of Potions. In a way, achieving that isn’t easy.”

Neville paused, thinking it over—it did make sense—but it was still hard to feel happy.

The two exited the dungeon classroom and were soon intercepted by someone.

“Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall,” Neville began stuttering again.

At Hogwarts, the person he feared most was unquestionably Snape; second was Professor McGonagall, known for her strictness.

He always felt his performance dragged Gryffindor down, so he dreaded meeting Professor McGonagall.

“You too, Longbottom,” Professor McGonagall said, then called Silven aside to an empty corridor, her voice unusually tinged with anticipation. “Today is the full moon—how did it go? Did you succeed?”

“What? Today’s the full moon?” Silven hadn’t realized it—then a surge of elation flooded his chest.

After receiving Professor McGonagall’s confirmation, he immediately opened his mouth and spat out a tender green leaf.

Though a month had passed, the leaf showed no sign of wilting—it looked fresher than ever, its edges glowing with the fluorescent hue unique to Mandrake.

“Excellent. Wonderful…” Professor McGonagall said. Though this was only the first step in Animagus transformation, Silven’s perseverance already surpassed most wizards… including the headmaster of a certain magical school.

Professor McGonagall was truly astonished, but soon she pulled out a small bottle containing a thin layer of clear water.

She had collected it that morning from the Forbidden Forest: a teaspoon of dew untouched by sunlight or human contact for seven days… ever since Silven nearly collapsed in class, she had been preparing this.

Professor McGonagall handed the bottle to Silven, instructing him to place the leaf inside, then add a pupa of the Ghost Moth and one of his own hairs.

Then she took the bottle away, saying she would perform the most crucial step for him: placing it in a dark, quiet place, where it would undergo complete transformation during a thunderstorm.

Silven was still exhilarated and didn’t notice Professor McGonagall had already vanished—nor did he realize the more important detail: she had only said she’d place the bottle in the Forbidden Forest, but never told him the exact location.

In other words, the bottle and its potion could now only be found by Professor McGonagall—if she refused, Silven could never proceed with Animagus transformation.

Silven realized this only the next day.

The savory aroma of fried pork chops and sweet pudding slightly dulled his joy and restored his mental clarity.

He then realized Professor McGonagall had never told him where she’d buried the potion. He immediately went to her office.

“When the time is right, I’ll give it to you,” Professor McGonagall said. “But not now, Silven. I want you to come to me only when you feel your second heartbeat.”

Then she dismissed him.

Watching the door shut mercilessly in front of him, Silven stood stunned, dizzy with disbelief.

He never imagined that the stern, serious Professor McGonagall had learned Snape’s tricks—playing mind games with a twelve-year-old wizard.

Professors shouldn’t act too much like Snape!

…

(End of Chapter)