The Great Hall of Hogwarts was particularly beautiful and magnificent at this moment, thanks to the abundance of Christmas decorations.
Festive streamers of holly and mistletoe hung along the walls, and a full dozen towering Christmas trees were erected throughout the room. Some trees were hung with sparkling little icicles, while others glittered with hundreds of candles.
Watching Professors McGonagall and Flitwick magically and skillfully decorate the hall, Marcel couldn't help but want to try a little experiment of his own.
He found a small, pure white bottle from the inner pocket of his robe and carefully dripped a few drops of a liquid, which gave off wisps of cold air, onto the stand at the base of a Christmas tree.
"What did you pour down there?"
Professor McGonagall hurried over, but she wasn't immediately angry. It seemed Marcel's strategy to leave a good impression on her last time had indeed worked.
"Oh, Professor, you'll see in a moment," Marcel said with a smile.
As soon as Marcel finished speaking, the effect of the liquid became apparent. A hazy white mist rose from the base of the Christmas tree. Unlike other cold mists that tend to sink, this one swirled up around the tree, drifting toward the enchanted ceiling.
Within the white mist, specks of crystalline light flickered, giving the Christmas tree a uniquely beautiful aesthetic.
"This is a semi-finished product I concocted while studying potions. It looks beautiful, but it's a bit cold," Marcel said, looking at his masterpiece with a sense of satisfaction.
"Yes, it looks wonderful!" Professor McGonagall said with a rare smile. "Go on, add a few drops to the other trees as well! I think Albus will like this... I mean, Professor Dumbledore."
Not far away, Hermione watched the white mist-wreathed Christmas tree, her eyes sparkling.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Hermione said to Harry.
"Yeah! That's really brilliant," Harry said, looking equally impressed.
"I prefer Professor Flitwick's golden bubbles. They look so shiny," Ron said, watching as Professor Flitwick shot streams of golden bubbles from his wand, hanging them on the branches of the newly moved tree.
Hagrid was also admiring the various decorations nearby when he suddenly seemed to remember something and turned to ask the trio, "How many days until the holiday?"
"Only one day left!" said Hermione. "Oh, that reminds me—Harry, Ron, we still have half an hour before dinner. We should go to the library."
"Oh, yeah, you're right," Ron said, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Professor Flitwick.
"The library?" said Hagrid, following them out of the Great Hall. "Reading books right before the holiday? Aren't you working a bit too hard?"
"Oh, we're not studying," Harry told him cheerfully. "Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we've been trying to find out who he is."
"What!" Hagrid looked horrified. "Listen here—I've told you, drop it! It's nothin' to you what that dog's guardin'."
"We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that's all," said Hermione.
"Unless you'd like to tell us and save us the trouble?" Harry added. "We must've been through a hundred books already and we can't find him anywhere—just give us a hint! I know I've read his name somewhere."
"I'm sayin' nothin'," said Hagrid flatly.
"Well, should we just go ask Marcel, Hermione?" Ron asked her.
"I already told you, no. Marcel has been very busy lately. I don't want to bother him." It seemed this wasn't the first time Ron had suggested asking Marcel, but Hermione had consistently refused.
"But he's not busy now! Look, he's still over there helping the professors decorate the hall," Ron said, looking at Marcel, who wasn't far from them, with a puzzled expression.
Hagrid stood by, fuming, as he watched the three children discuss this right in front of him. He was at a loss for words.
"I said no!" Hermione couldn't help but shout at Ron.
Her voice was evidently a bit loud. Marcel turned his head to look at them with a curious expression, said something to Professor McGonagall, and then walked over.
"What's going on, Hermione? Why do you look so angry again?" he asked curiously.
"No, it's nothing—" "Marcel, who is Nicolas Flamel?" "Don't ask!"
The three simultaneous answers made Marcel look from Hermione to Ron to Hagrid in surprise. He then said with a smile, "Heh, two against one. I guess I won't say anything."
"Er, do you really know who Nicolas Flamel is?" Hermione asked subconsciously, hearing that Marcel seemed to know.
"Do you want to know? If you want to know, I'll tell you," Marcel thought to himself—you'll find out sooner or later anyway.
"No, that's okay," Hermione pursed her lips, hesitated for a moment, and then shook her head.
Unlike Harry, Hermione genuinely just wanted to know who Nicolas Flamel was. After seeing that Marcel's progress had far surpassed her own, she wanted to catch up to him through her own efforts, even if it was just in this one small thing.
Although she was a bit curious about what important thing was hidden behind the three-headed dog, Fluffy, for Hermione, what she valued most right now was acquiring knowledge through her own hard work.
"Then we'll just have to find him ourselves," Ron said, a little annoyed that Marcel hadn't answered.
He considered Marcel a good friend, just like Harry—he had even known him longer than Harry. But now, he wouldn't even tell him this one small answer, even though he clearly knew who Nicolas Flamel was.
Of course, Ron was only a little upset. A friend was still a friend, and Marcel always let him look at his homework when he needed it.
"Well... I'm going to the library," Hermione said, noticing that Ron had already dragged Harry to the door and was now looking at her.
"It's fine, go ahead," Marcel said with a smile. He had no time to deal with Ron's childish sulking. In any case, Ron would definitely be back in a couple of days to borrow his History of Magic essay.
He waved to Hermione, his thoughts already elsewhere.
Yes, Nicolas Flamel. After encountering the three-headed dog, Fluffy, that night, Marcel had already looked up all the information on the great alchemist. What made him hesitate was whether or not he should ask Dumbledore for an introduction to this legendary figure.
He knew that in a short time, the only Philosopher's Stone in the world, which could grant eternal life, would be destroyed.
But, setting aside whether Dumbledore would agree to his request, the key question was, what would he do even if he successfully met Nicolas Flamel?
Was he supposed to say, "Oh, I'd like to borrow your alchemy notes. You know, the ones about the Philosopher's Stone. You won't be needing them anymore anyway!"?
In fact, Marcel felt that he probably wouldn't understand them even if they were placed in front of him. What was alchemy? He didn't have a single clue.
After mulling it over, he finally gave up. Dumbledore himself had no intention of using the Philosopher's Stone to extend his own life. There was clearly a reason for that, and he and Flamel were old friends.
Having once again rejected this tempting plan, Marcel left and went to the Room of Requirement. He needed to make some preparations for Christmas.
…
The much-anticipated Christmas holiday finally arrived. Many students chose to go home for Christmas; some families had even planned short family trips. For wizards, traveling was as easy and convenient as going to work every day. A nearly three-week-long Christmas holiday was almost too much time to use up.
On the way to the Hogwarts Express, everyone was laughing and chatting, looking forward to the holiday.
Marcel, still carrying his light suitcase with his owl Malfurion perched on his shoulder, secretly slipped away from the Hogwarts Express platform. He needed to go to Hogsmeade first to personally deliver the latest batch of potions he had brewed and to settle his accounts.
The Fae-Fade Potion was proving to be very popular. Each batch sold out in a very short time. While this was great news, the problem of insufficient production was gradually becoming apparent.
There was really nothing to be done about it. The profit margin on simple-to-brew potions was usually transparent. In the wizarding world, where labor was scarce, it was always the high-end products that made the most money.
"Those chain potion shops that profit from high volume and low margins are all supported by house-elves."
When Marcel discussed this with his business partner, Mr. Tyrande, the man had clearly stated this fact.
"Behind those chain stores, there is usually one, or even several, pure-blood wizarding families. Those are the industries of the powerful."
"Well then, my dear Mr. Tyrande, here's to our continued prosperous business!" Marcel said with a smile. "I must be going—you don't mind if I use your fireplace, do you?"
"Oh—of course n-not... cough cough... not at all. Please, feel free," Tyrande's bandaged face seemed to smile.
Heaven knows if he was smiling or not. One could only guess, as you couldn't see his face anyway.
"The Lovegood Residence!" POOF!
"Oh—cough cough cough—by M-Merlin!" Tyrande jumped, startled by the great whoosh of green flames that shot up from the fireplace. "How did he do that? cough cough cough."
He was not the first person to be frightened by the strange phenomenon that occurred when Marcel used Floo powder, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. The poor fellow had developed an even greater sense of awe for the mysterious Marcel.
"...cough cough, perhaps I should... cough cough cough... find an opportunity to return that initial 50... cough... 50 Galleons to him?" Tyrande stared blankly at the empty fireplace, coughing even more violently.