The holiday had come to an end, but traces of excitement still lingered on the students' faces—along with eager anticipation for the new term.
After all, Professor Fawley had promised that this semester, they'd be doing something different.
Yet once they actually experienced his new class, every smile disappeared.
"What on earth were we expecting?!" George groaned, pressing a hot water bottle to his swollen foot. His other hand clutched a piece of chocolate, which he bit into furiously.
Around him, other third-years in the common room mirrored his actions, all wearing the same bitter expressions. They had thought there would be a new and exciting game to play. After all, they'd already grown tired of the Light Ball game—their scores barely fluctuated anymore, and the fun of improvement was long gone.
The new version was different, sure, but it was also torture.
"What did you even do to end up like this in such a small classroom?" Ron asked gleefully, unable to hide his amusement.
George didn't even have the energy to snap back. He just gave a weary smile. "Still the Light Ball game—but now with movement added."
Fred, who had just finished his chocolate and felt the swelling in his feet easing, regained some strength and explained for the still-baffled trio.
"We had to stand in the center of a nine-square grid. Every two seconds, we had to step onto the correct square around us."
"Then, in the next two seconds, we had to return to the center. It just kept looping like that. But at the same time, our hands couldn't stop—we still had to keep up with the Light Ball game."
"And stepping on the right square doesn't even earn you points. Step on the wrong one, and you lose points."
Hermione frowned. "That actually sounds great. It should really help improve your positioning skills."
George gave a dry laugh. "It would be great—if traps didn't suddenly appear when you messed up."
"There are eight surrounding squares, and only two are right each time. If both happen to appear behind you, your ankles get caught in clamps before you even realize it!"
"The game's already hard enough, but everyone keeps getting their feet trapped. Points drop nonstop, and after two minutes, your score's less than half of what it used to be!"
As he spoke, George lifted his foot to show them the red, swollen mark on his ankle, faintly patterned with jagged lines. But as the chocolate's restorative effects kicked in, the swelling and marks visibly faded.
Ron pushed his foot away in disgust but couldn't deny the seriousness of the situation. "We can't exactly grow eyes in the back of our heads!"
George and Fred both sniffed at the memory, grimacing. "The professor said enemy spells don't have eyes either. To survive in real battles, we have to learn to move in every direction."
"Then how are we supposed to dodge spells that come from behind?" Harry asked quickly.
At that moment, Percy appeared, carrying two bottles of potion—ready to answer their question.
"Perception!"
"Every spell carries its own magical fluctuation. By sharpening your perception, you can not only sense spells coming from different directions but also determine their strength and nature through the feedback you receive."
"Moreover, when surrounded by layers of magic, you'll be able to distinguish which spells are actually harmful to you."
"Here—this is the potion I got from Madam Pomfrey. You two, drink it right now!" Percy shoved the bottles into the twins' hands, giving them no room to refuse.
George and Fred grimaced. The potion's smell alone was enough to make them queasy.
"We went through all that trouble to make the professor's special Christmas badge, and this is how he repays us!"
"Yeah, that's it—Professor Fawley's off our idol list for a month!"
They exchanged a look.
"Forget it," Fred sighed, "a week."
Grumbling, they pinched their noses and gulped down the potion.
Percy nodded in approval. "Good. In that case, hand over your professor to us! Let Professor Quirrell teach you brats instead!"
"Dream on!"
"Just because you got a Christmas present, you think you can covet our professor?"
"You didn't even get the chance to sing him a carol!"
"Go hang out with your garlic professor!"
George and Fred tossed their empty cups aside, and the three brothers immediately started bickering and wrestling in the common room, leaving Hermione's question forgotten.
"Hey, tell me first—what did the professor give you for Christmas?" she asked, pouting in frustration.
She had given the professor a book herself, but it was obvious she hadn't received a gift in return.
Harry smiled as he watched the Weasleys roughhouse but turned to explain to Hermione.
"Chocolate shaped like little imps—just like the ones sitting on their heads. Supposedly, it's infused with a potion that makes you happy. But Percy can't bring himself to eat his, so we've no idea if it's true."
"If you ask me, just getting chocolate from the professor is enough to make anyone happy. Unlike us—stuck with Chocolate Frogs."
Ron held up a box of Chocolate Frogs enviously. They'd been extra ones—thank-you gifts from George and Fred for their Christmas presents.
He was just opening the box when Hermione suddenly snatched it away.
"You were going to eat—"
He didn't get to finish before Hermione interrupted, eyes shining.
"I found Nicolas Flamel! Right here!"
Harry turned quickly, spotting the words with his sharp eyes.
"'...achieved remarkable results in alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel.'"
"Exactly!" he said excitedly, looking at Hermione. "If he worked closely with Dumbledore, then this has to be the Nicolas Flamel we're looking for!"
Ron pushed Harry's head aside irritably, having seen nothing. "What are you two talking about?"
But Hermione had already dashed off to the dormitory to get something. It wasn't until Harry showed Ron the Dumbledore card that he realized—the name they'd been hunting for all along had been right under their noses.
"I've got a thousand Dumbledore cards!" Ron groaned, smacking his forehead. "And I never noticed Nicolas Flamel's name right there!"
Just then, Hermione came rushing back, clutching a massive book—the kind heavy enough to knock them both unconscious if dropped.
With a loud thud, she dropped it onto the table.
"I should've thought of it earlier! Someone that famous had to be in a book," she said, flipping through the pages before pointing. "Here, look!"
Her voice trembled slightly with excitement as she read aloud, "Nicolas Flamel—the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone!"
"Sorry, you've got to consider where we're coming from," Ron said awkwardly, scratching his head. "So, uh… what's a Philosopher's Stone?"
Hermione gave him a sharp look. "The Philosopher's Stone can turn any metal into pure gold—and produce the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality to whoever drinks it!"
"Pure gold!" Ron's eyes widened.
"Immortality!" Harry echoed in astonishment.
Hermione glanced around cautiously. Luckily, Harry and Ron were still being avoided by most of the house, so no one was close enough to overhear.
But she failed to notice the faint gleam that flashed across the badge lying on the table in front of Harry.
"That means Nicolas Flamel must've asked Dumbledore to guard the Philosopher's Stone—and Snape is forcing Professor Fawley to steal it!"