Chapter 13: Lin Frede of Stinchcombe

Harry’s first week at school was relatively easy; as people gradually grew accustomed to his presence, he no longer heard someone mention the Dark Lord every day. Moreover, as Professor Snape had advised, he felt perfectly safe at Hogwarts.

Yet Harry struggled to fully enjoy this relaxed school life, because Neville seemed extremely serious and would sternly urge them to study whenever Harry and Ron laughed and joked in their dormitory. To avoid him, Harry often preferred going to the library, where he enjoyed doing homework beside Zhang Qiu; sometimes, even when they said nothing at all, Harry still felt deeply at ease.

Ron hated the library most of all; when Harry went there, he would rather read that Muggle novel. Sometimes Neville also went to the library, and Harry saw him sitting with Hermione several times; sometimes, Neville invited Ron to go jogging with him on the grounds.

On Monday of the second week, Harry learned that Flying lessons were about to begin, and he looked forward to them. Which child doesn’t want to fly?

“Oh, why do we have to take Flying class with Slytherin?” Ron complained upon seeing the notice.

“I’ve been wanting to ask,” Harry said dismissively. “Why do you all hate Slytherin so much?”

“Arrogant, bitter, cold, and gloomy,” Ron said, unusually using complex vocabulary. “They’re all scum, every last one of them like slimy snakes—disgusting.”

“I must correct you,” Harry said. “If you hold a prejudice against all of Slytherin, what’s the difference between you and Malfoy? I don’t think hostility among classmates is a good thing. Even if Malfoy is unpleasant, the other Slytherin students haven’t done anything wrong.”

Harry said this in the common room. Several Gryffindor students gathered around him, chattering to explain just how evil Slytherin was.

“Everyone, quiet down, quiet down,” Harry said seriously. He naturally carried an air of heroism, and the children fell silent without realizing it.

“I’d like you all to think: Have you actually met a specific Slytherin student you dislike, or are you just forming conclusions based on hearsay?” he asked. “Like in Potions class, when the two houses barely speak to each other—how exactly did you learn so many evil deeds?”

“You’re too naive, Harry,” Neville said, appearing out of nowhere. “Slytherin gathers every self-important ambitious person—including that damned Voldemort.”

For the first time, Harry truly felt the overwhelming hatred radiating from Neville.

“Believe it or not, when Voldemort returns, these scum will flock to pledge loyalty to him,” Neville snarled. “Since Salazar Slytherin himself, they’ve despised Muggle-borns, ignored half-bloods, and masked their cruelty with arrogance.”

As Neville spoke, he stepped into the center of the crowd and pointed at Harry’s chest, teasingly saying, “Neville is my name, not yours.”

The children rarely saw two classmates from the same house and dormitory clash so openly in public, and they immediately gathered around, eager to watch the spectacle.

But Harry’s next sentence left them baffled.

“You mock me as Chamberlain—so is the Dark Lord just a little beard? Are you saying he isn’t some uniquely talented evil genius, but rather the collective choice of a social group?”

Neville’s expression visibly softened.

“No wonder,” Harry mused, “even though Voldemort is dead, you keep saying he’ll return. As long as Slytherin’s beliefs haven’t truly changed, there will always emerge some Dark Lord who represents their demands—his real name hardly matters.”

“Do you know what pure-blood nobility means in the magical world?” Neville sat down by the fireplace, and Harry sat opposite him.

“Monopoly,” Neville said softly. “Each family monopolizes one area—even the Weasleys, haven’t you monopolized all dealings with Muggles?”

Ron’s face was full of confusion.

“Including you, Potter,” Neville continued. “Besides Flammont Potter’s Hair Potion, we still can’t buy any other brand of shampoo.”

Harry recalled: Malfoy had said he could “restore the Potter legacy.” Perhaps the Potters’ former glory had mainly been in shampoo.

“Since your family sells shampoo,” Ron joked, “you could send a few bottles to Snape.”

A few onlookers laughed, and the solemn atmosphere vanished instantly.

“This is a question worth deep thought,” Neville nodded, then walked off on his own.

Harry truly wanted to know about his origins. From his aunt, he’d learned a little about his mother; from the family tree provided by Sir Crawley, he’d found a few “Evans” surnames on the margins. He vaguely suspected his mother was an ordinary person who happened to awaken magic, and happened to have a few noble distant relatives—indeed, every English person had at least a few noble distant kin.

Since arriving in the magical world, he’d begun to learn about his father. When people mentioned James Potter, they only said he had bravely fought the Dark Lord, that he was the father of the Chosen One, Harry Potter. But what about before that? What was James Potter’s own life like?

What kind of man was he? What family was he born into? What were his grandparents like? Neville always spoke of his grandmother, but Harry had never had a single relative speak to him more than a few words. A faint loneliness rose in his heart—right then, how he longed to be like Neville, proudly saying to everyone, “My grandmother once said…”

Melancholy clung to Harry’s heart. When he came to his senses, he realized he had walked unconsciously to the library. He hadn’t brought any homework, but he went in anyway.

Zhang Qiu was still sitting at their usual spot. Seeing Harry’s listless expression, she asked Guanqie ly if something was wrong.

Harry sighed. “I know nothing about my parents—what they looked like, what they were like. The only thing I know is they seemed good at dealing with the Dark Lord. Now he might return any moment, but they’re gone.”

“What’s making you so sad?” Zhang Qiu asked. “Your parents, or the Dark Lord?”

“Perhaps my parents hurt me more,” Harry whispered. In truth, he was more afraid of the twenty-eight pure-blood families behind Voldemort—even the Weasleys were among them.

“Funny,” Zhang Qiu said cheerfully, pulling a book out from behind her as if by magic. “Your ancestor’s name appears in the second-year History of Magic textbook!”

Harry was surprised. “History of Magic? I didn’t think you’d read that. I mean, I thought everyone slept through Professor Binns’s class.”

“Who doesn’t?” Zhang Qiu stuck out her tongue. “But since we sleep in class, we must study harder afterward.”

Harry took the textbook and saw the neat, dense handwriting on the pages. He sighed. “Your grades must be excellent.”

“Of course—we Asians are born for O’s,” she said. “But at Hogwarts, the highest grade isn’t A—it’s O. I’ll study for a hundred days and get all O’s.”

As Zhang Qiu buried her head back in her homework, Harry flipped to the page about his ancestor. The book contained only a few brief lines.

“Lin Frede of Stinchcombe is considered one of the outstanding alchemical masters of the Middle Ages. His formulas for Bone-Growing Elixir and Stimulating Draught remain in use today. Lin Frede was also a typical pro-Muggle wizard, earning the nickname ‘Potterer’ for his frequent enthusiastic help to Muggle neighbors, and passing down the simplified surname ‘Potter’ to his descendants—most famously Flammont Potter, inventor of Hair Potion.”

The next page introduced Emeryk, the demon who once ruled terror over southern England. He lost a duel to the monster Egbert, a battle so brutal that people described it as a “massacre.”

Harry felt the two names were familiar. After thinking hard, he remembered reading about Emeryk in “The Elder Wand’s Origins.” He felt a wave of nausea and closed the book.

“If my ancestor is Lin Frede,” Harry mused, “then my talent for Potions makes sense. How wonderful—canning honor, brewing reputation, storing death—I must study Potions well.”

But today, Harry had come to the library alone, without his own Potions textbook. On a whim, he borrowed Zhang Qiu’s second-year Potions book and began flipping through it with interest.

Perhaps he truly had talent—he found himself easily understanding the book’s content. Sometimes, the combinations of ingredients made him nod in agreement; other potions surprised him—materials with seemingly unrelated properties, after proper preparation, blended perfectly together. This intricate craftsmanship fascinated him deeply.

“Oh, by the way,” Zhang Qiu said casually. “I saw a book called ‘Powerful Potions’ on the shelf the other day—it seems to be very advanced Potions knowledge. If you’re interested, you could borrow it.”

Harry was certainly interested, but when he tried to find the book, Madam Pince warned him it was a restricted book—he needed a professor’s note to borrow it. Harry had to give up, disappointed.