Christmas arrived. "Harry, you can sulk by yourself for now—I'm off to buy a house," Dylan muttered under his breath.
It was late at night. The full moon hung high in the sky, and the clock had just ticked past midnight.
Dylan slipped the mandrake leaf back into his mouth and started checking his achievement notifications.
Maybe it was because the early achievements were easier to unlock. But as time went on, he'd already triggered a bunch of them here and there. Now, getting those rare, high-reward achievements wasn't as simple anymore.
Take this time, for example. At the Duelling Club, he'd hit Lockhart with a solid curse—bam, right in the face—but it didn't unlock any big, juicy achievements with fancy rewards. The only decent one was a system reward: a spell. Not even a max-level one, though.
---
**Achievement:** *Rip Open the Fraud's Belly!*
**Description:** Lockhart's a total fake! Grab him and tear him apart!
**Unlock Condition:** Make Lockhart spill his guts (figuratively or otherwise).
**Reward:** Level 5 *Obliviate* (Memory Charm)
---
Since it wasn't a maxed-out spell, Dylan didn't even get the cool illusion where he'd see himself casting it. Instead, his brain just got a sudden dump of knowledge and info.
**Notification:** Congratulations! You've mastered the Level 5 spell—*Obliviate* (Memory Charm)!
"Just a Level 5 Memory Charm, huh?" Dylan mused, giving it a quick mental test.
He had to admit, it was no surprise this spell was reserved for third- or fourth-years and up. It was tricky to learn—way too tough for younger students to handle. Sure, it wouldn't deal lethal damage in a fight, but its effects? Absolutely game-changing.
Imagine this: you're in the middle of a duel, and your opponent slings an *Obliviate* at you. Suddenly, your memories are wiped. You might forget how to cast spells—or even who you are. At that point, the fight's over. You're just a sitting duck, ready to be taken down.
"Still, my proficiency's only at Level 5. Compared to Lockhart, I'm probably nowhere near his league," Dylan reflected.
He could feel it: to make the Memory Charm really shine, you had to weaken your target's emotions first. Their emotional state—their willpower—could mess with the spell's success. If they were too worked up or had a strong enough mind, he'd need to pour in more magic and aim with pinpoint precision to pull it off.
Take Aurors casting it on Death Eaters, for instance. They often struggled because of the target's stubborn resistance. Lockhart, though? That guy could nail it every time. Of course, he had his little trick—charming people, getting cozy with them, then striking from behind when they least expected it. Sneaky bastard.
"Since just humiliating Lockhart got me a Level 5 *Obliviate*, what would it take to max it out?" Dylan wondered, flopping back onto his bed.
His mind conjured up a few vivid scenes: blasting Lockhart's legs to bits with *Reducto*, or maybe twisting his "fifth leg" off with a knotting hex. Or how about a combo spell—flay him, stuff him with straw, and light him up like a lantern? Gruesome, sure, but satisfying to imagine.
With those thoughts swirling, Dylan drifted off into a hazy sleep.
---
Over the next few days, Harry was still getting the cold shoulder from everyone at school. Dylan didn't pay it much mind—Neville had been pestering him lately, begging for a hand with something.
It wasn't a big deal, just Professor Sprout needing help dressing up all the mandrakes in the greenhouse. You know, scarves, socks, that sort of thing.
Last year, Neville wasn't that close with Sprout yet, so she'd handled it all herself, taking forever. This year, though, he and Dylan had gotten pretty friendly with her. Neville volunteered to pitch in and asked if Dylan could tag along. He wasn't shy about asking his buddies for help anymore.
Dylan didn't mind. Sprout occasionally sent him potion ingredients, and while he didn't often drop by for extra lessons, she was always happy to answer his herbology questions in detail. It was just a bit of a hassle, nothing major, so he agreed.
When Professor Sprout saw him show up, she was a little surprised. She hadn't planned on roping students into this, but Neville's enthusiasm was hard to turn down. Plus, she'd spent a whole year training him—she trusted he could handle dressing the mandrakes. What she didn't expect was Neville dragging Dylan along too.
With Dylan there, she felt even more at ease. Dressing mandrakes wasn't just about skill; it took some muscle too. She wasn't worried about Neville's know-how, but his strength? That was another story. With two of them, though, she could relax.
To dress a mandrake, you had to yank it out of its pot first. That's why you couldn't just zap clothes onto them with magic—spells could damage their roots or mess with their growth and potion-making value. They were living magical plants, after all.
"Pfft!" Neville, wearing gloves and earmuffs, grabbed a mandrake by its leafy top and tugged it out of the pot.
The mandrake popped free, startled, and was about to let out a wail. But Dylan was ready—he raised his wand, its tip glowing with a menacing vibe. Even Neville jumped a bit. The mandrake clammed up instantly.
Sure, you couldn't cast spells directly on them, but nothing said you couldn't *pretend* to—just to scare them a little. Of course, you couldn't overdo it. Too much stress might mess with their hormones and stunt their growth.
Dylan handed Neville a scarf and socks. Neville quickly dressed the mandrake and shoved it back into its pot. After a moment's thought, Dylan decided he'd pull the mandrakes out himself and let Neville handle the dressing. It'd be faster and more efficient that way.
Once Neville packed that mandrake back in, he followed Sprout's instructions—adding fresh fertilizer and reburying it.
"I'll pull, you dress," Dylan signaled with a gesture.
Neville nodded.
They got into a rhythm fast. With Sprout working alongside them, three sets of hands were way quicker than two.
After finishing another pot, Sprout waved her wand, conjuring words in the air: "Christmas is almost here. Are you two heading home?"
Neville was slipping a tiny sock onto a mandrake. He paused, nodded, and said, "I'll probably go back, Professor," without bothering with his wand.
Dylan thought for a second, then shook his head and shrugged. He wasn't sure yet.
Gripping a mandrake's leaves, he pulled hard—"Pop!"—and out it came. A piercing shriek exploded through the greenhouse. Dylan raised his wand to intimidate it like usual, but this mandrake wasn't fazed. It hesitated for a split second, then wailed even louder.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. The thing was thrashing in his grip. After a quick thought, while Neville stared in confusion, he smacked the mandrake twice across the face with his wand.
Neville froze. The mandrake went dead silent, stunned. But after a brief pause, it didn't cry again. Instead, it blinked its creepy little eyes and tilted its head toward Dylan, almost… expectantly.
Dylan could've sworn he saw a message in its gaze: "Hit me again! Do it!"
He twitched, a wave of disbelief washing over him. This mandrake was *weird*.
He waved his wand at Neville, urging him to hurry up and dress it before it kept making that freaky face—it was creeping him out, like his sanity was dropping by the second.
Neville snapped out of it, threw a scarf and socks on the thing, and Dylan stuffed it back into the pot. As Neville piled on fertilizer, the mandrake shot Dylan what looked like a flirty wink before disappearing under the soil.
Dylan shuddered. What the heck? A pervert mandrake?
"Next one, quick," he said.
Professor Sprout, watching from the side, let out a hearty chuckle.
When they finally finished the last mandrake, Neville sighed in relief, wiping sweat off his forehead with the clean part of his wrist. Even with Dylan's wand keeping them in line, the mandrakes had fought back subtly, resisting Neville's efforts to dress them. It wore him out.
Dylan couldn't do much about that—he could only scare them, not hex them. At most, he'd whack their legs—or faces—with his wand, like he'd just done.
"You kids are a lifesaver—thanks for the help! Want to come over for some tea?" Sprout asked, cleaning her hands and pulling off her earmuffs with a smile.
Dylan shook his head. "Thanks, Professor, but I've got some reading to catch up on. I'll pass."
Neville sniffed the fertilizer on his hands, nearly gagging. Dylan hit him with a quick *Scourgify*. Neville peeled off his earmuffs and shook his head too. "I'll skip it too, Professor. You should rest—we're heading back to the dorms."
"Oh, come on, you saved me so much time!" Sprout winked. "How about this? I'll give you each a herb as a thank-you. Neville, you can pick yours up later. Dylan, what do you want?"
Dylan blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected a reward for pitching in, but he wasn't about to say no.
His suitcase still had plenty of space. Compared to what he already kept in there, he could fit way more species.
After a moment, he smiled at Sprout. "How about a Chinese Chomping Cabbage? Would that be okay?"
Sprout raised an eyebrow. "A Chomping Cabbage? Those little guys are a handful. They're not like mandrakes—just crying and screaming. They're aggressive. You know that, right?"
Dylan nodded. "Yeah, I get it. I've been working on a potion lately, and I'm missing that ingredient. I was going to buy some, but since you offered, I figured I'd ask. Don't worry—I'll be careful."
Sprout chuckled. "I'm not worried about you. Those cabbages won't get the better of you. Hang on, I'll grab one."
She stepped out of the greenhouse and returned shortly with a potted Chomping Cabbage, sealed in a protective container.
"Here you go, kid. I've put a shield and a silencing charm on it. Be cautious when you open it up back at the dorms—don't let it nip you."
Dylan nodded, a grateful smile tugging at his lips. "Got it. Thanks, Professor."
They said goodbye to Sprout, and Dylan and Neville headed back to the castle.
Neville didn't ask what potion Dylan needed the cabbage for. He just lifted his hand, sniffed it again, and groaned. "This smell's awful. Even spells won't get rid of it…"
He cast *Scourgify* on himself twice more.
Dylan glanced at him. Back in the greenhouse, he'd never touched the fertilizer—that was all Neville's job. Dylan just pulled the mandrakes and kept them from squirming too much. Neville handled the rest.
The mandrake fertilizer had gotten extra funky lately, thanks to the Chamber of Secrets drama. After Dylan used a mandrake restorative draught to save Mrs. Norris—and later Harry's little fanboy, Colin, too—it'd become a hot topic at Hogwarts. Sprout must've gotten orders from Dumbledore to speed up the mandrakes' growth, because she'd whipped up a special fertilizer. It stank to high heaven—faint from a distance, but up close? It could knock you out. Spells barely helped; you had to keep scrubbing with cleanser to mask it.
Carrying his Chomping Cabbage, Dylan walked with Neville into the castle. Something felt off—the air was tense. People were rushing around, hurrying to their common rooms like something had happened.
Neville noticed a few panicked faces and felt a twinge of unease. "What's going on now?"
Dylan shrugged. "No clue. But we can head to the common room and find out. I bet the little lions are already gossiping about it."
He picked up the pace, and Neville, after a beat, scurried to keep up. In times like this, sticking close to Dylan was the only thing that made him feel a tiny bit safe.
---
Sure enough, the moment they stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the chatter hit them like a wave.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley got attacked!"
"Wait, the guy from the Duelling Club? The one who got curious about Malfoy's snake, nearly got bitten, and Harry saved him?"
"How do you know Harry saved him? Everyone's saying Harry *sent* the snake after him!"
"Doesn't matter—he's petrified now!"
"Because of Harry?"
"Who knows? And that's not all—our house ghost got hit too!"
"You mean Nearly Headless Nick?"
"Yeah! Him! You should've seen him—floating there, all black and creepy-looking!"
"What? Does the mandrake draught even work on ghosts? How do they drink it?"
Dylan slowed his steps, weaving through the crowd. In just a short walk, he'd pieced it together.
The basilisk had struck again. But this time, the victims wouldn't be as lucky as Mrs. Norris or Colin. Dylan only had one dose of mandrake draught left, and he wasn't about to hand it over—he needed it for himself.
"Though, if I could snag a pound or two of phoenix tears from Dumbledore, I might be willing to part with it," he mused.
Before heading to the dorm, Neville whispered nervously, "Dylan, who do you think the Heir really is?"
Dylan knew Neville was fishing—probably wondering if it could be Harry. He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. What matters is knowing even the petrified can be brought back. That's enough."
He glanced at Neville, keeping the mandrake leaf steady in his mouth as he spoke. "Don't freak out. Even if that monster gets you, I'll bug Snape and Sprout to whip up more draught and fix you up."
Neville's face twitched. "But Colin said he just saw a blur and got petrified. What if it eats people? If it attacks me and swallows me whole…"
He looked like he might cry. "A mandrake draught won't bring me back from *that*, right?"
Dylan's mouth quirked. Fair point. If the basilisk gulped Neville down, it'd probably be too late to spit him out—unless it was just bones by then.
He pictured the pile of bones in the Chamber and shrugged it off as he stepped into the dorm. Harry and the others weren't there—probably dragged off by Hermione and Ron to lay low after the latest attack. Maybe at Hagrid's, or hauled into Dumbledore's office. Either way, not his problem.
Dylan wasn't here to babysit Harry. He'd come to this world to learn and maybe fix a few regrets—but not Harry's. Harry didn't have much to regret anyway. These little incidents wouldn't really hurt him, so Dylan saw no need to meddle.
Now, someone like Cedric Diggory? That was different. A guy who died too lightly, just to show off Voldemort's cruelty. If Dylan could save him, he would. But Harry? Harry'd be fine without him hovering.
Dylan plopped onto his bed and cracked open a book. Christmas was on the 25th—only a few days away. He'd already prepped gifts for the professors. Every year, he had to come up with double presents for them and his friends. Just thinking about what to give was a headache.
This year, he decided to shuffle around some of the gifts he'd given professors before and send them out again. Not the special ones, though—like the Quidditch-themed transfiguration notebook he'd made for McGonagall. The other professors might like Quidditch a bit, but not like her. It wouldn't feel right.
For Snape, though? A potion-brewing transfiguration notebook. Open it, and it turns into a mini cauldron. Add the preset ingredients, and it brews a small batch of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. Perfect.
Trelawney could get a crystal ball transfiguration notebook. Nothing fancy—just transforms into a crystal ball. Whether she could actually divine with it was her problem. Worst case, she could still jot notes in it. Dylan hadn't bothered with her extra lessons much this year anyway. She didn't have much left to teach him—last year, maybe, but now? He'd outgrown her lessons with all the reading he'd done.
"For McGonagall this year… maybe a cat teaser wand. Not too obvious, though. Combine it with a cat-paw teacup. The tail teases cats, and if they catch it, they can chew it. The spoon end stirs tea. Tail for fun, spoon for stirring, and a chew toy all in one. Genius!"
---
Later, Harry and Ron trudged in, looking glum.
Ron started griping the second he walked through the door. "I can't believe it. I vouched for Harry, and they still don't buy it! If Harry was the Heir, Hermione'd be the first one he'd eat!"
Dylan glanced up at Ron, lips twitching. What'd Hermione ever do to you?
Harry shook his head. "It's fine. As long as I know it's not me, that's what counts."
"How's that fine?" Ron's eyes bulged. "It's not you, so why should they blame you?"
Harry sighed. "More people got hurt. Everyone's scared. I get it. At least Christmas is coming—we won't have to deal with them soon."
Ron paused, then grumbled, "Let 'em all go home early. The professors already canceled the Christmas party anyway."
When Harry didn't reply, Ron added, "I'm not going home this year. I'll stay here with you!"
Harry looked up, touched. Ron snorted and flopped onto his bed. "Loads of people are booking tickets home already. Good—let 'em clear out! We'll have the school to ourselves, and the kitchen'll whip up special Christmas grub!"
They kept muttering to each other. Neville and Seamus weren't around—probably off somewhere else.
Dylan half-listened, realizing he should start packing too. Unlike them, he wasn't sticking around for Christmas this year. There was too much to do outside Hogwarts. A rare chance to leave without begging for permission—he wasn't about to waste it.
He shut his book, sat up, and started sorting his stuff.
Ron and Harry paused, blinking at him.
"Dylan, you're not staying for Christmas?" Ron asked.
Dylan nodded. "Yeah, break starts in a couple days. I'm heading out this year."
Harry hesitated. "Are you… going home?"
Dylan glanced at him, lips pursed, dodging the question. "My parents probably miss me."
He wasn't planning to stay home long—if at all. But what he was up to? No need to spill that to Harry and Ron.
Harry went quiet. Dylan shot him a look.
"You guys'll probably get up to something here, right? I won't butt in or ask. If you've got anything cool to show for it when I'm back, just tell me then."
Harry perked up a bit, realizing Dylan wasn't ditching school out of fear of him. His mood lifted. Why would Dylan be scared of him? If he *was* the Heir and ticked Dylan off, he'd probably get a whipping himself. No one should be afraid of anyone here—least of all him, since he wasn't the Heir!
With that, Harry and Ron started chatting again. Neville and Seamus returned soon after, and seeing Dylan packing, they started on their own stuff. The dorm buzzed with light conversation, the vibe easing up.
---
Christmas Eve rolled around, and Hogwarts didn't throw a party. They'd announced the break a day early—everyone could leave ahead of schedule. The castle emptied out fast. Last year, plenty of people stayed. This year? The four houses were practically ghost towns.
Gryffindor was down to Hermione, Harry, and a few Weasleys. Free food was a perk, sure, but they were mostly there for Harry. That was the big reason, probably.
"Merry Christmas in advance, guys. You'll get my gifts tomorrow morning when you wake up," Dylan said, waving goodbye to Harry and the others. He hopped on the train leaving that evening.
Before that, he'd sent notes to the professors, asking them to leave his Christmas gifts on his dorm bed instead of sending them home. He wouldn't be there anyway.
This break, Dylan had a few plans.
First, robbing dark wizards was off the table. Those guys were broke—pathetic, really. Hitting them up too often would just cheapen his rep. But he could make an appearance and get his "followers"—those starry-eyed fanatics—to hand over the cash they'd collected for him. He just hoped they'd actually listened to his last speech. He vaguely recalled two Aurors mentioning he'd picked up a fangirl—Delphini?—but she'd been nabbed again. No way she'd be out this soon.
"Guess I'll let my followers stew a bit longer and gather more gold. Better not be some measly haul like a couple thousand Galleons—or worse, a few hundred. I'd rather raid Gringotts myself."
He daydreamed for a sec. "If I could slice through space, I'd just carve out Gringotts' entire vault and dump it into my own pocket dimension. How sweet would that be?"
Back in his old life, he'd always wished he could fly, teleport, or have a storage ring—go anywhere, carry anything, no sweat. He'd even soared through his dreams. Now, those dreams were real, and he had new ones to chase.
Besides that, he wanted to scope out wizarding real estate over the break. Something like 12 Grimmauld Place—the Black family's pad, a five-story Georgian townhouse in London's Islington, worth about 4.15 million pounds, according to his old-world knowledge. He'd need to check it out for himself, though.
Not that he was aiming for anything that pricey. A small place would do—something he could buy, set up as a Portkey destination, and use as a safehouse. They say a sly rabbit has three burrows; Dylan didn't even have one yet. He couldn't exactly use his parents' place as a Portkey spot. If trouble came knocking and he fled there, he'd be handing himself over on a platter. Might as well blast everyone with *Avada Kedavra* instead.
His suitcase was a secret weapon, sure. Most people just thought it was for books and experiments—a handy little room. But while he could store it in his inventory, he couldn't stash it again once he was *inside* it. And it couldn't double as a Portkey destination either. So, a private property was a must. With some space to work with, his options would open up big time.
"A small, hidden place should do. I can fund it by hunting Acromantulas—sell their venom for Galleons. Kill two birds with one stone: cash and spell mastery practice. I'm sick of grinding tiny spiders and cockroaches in my suitcase."
That grinding had earned him a title, though.
---
**Achievement:** *Cockroach Slayer*
**Description:** You're the bane of cockroaches—not a slipper, but better! One smack, and they're gone!
**Unlock Condition:** Wipe out a whole region's cockroaches.
**Reward:** Trait—*Cockroach Overlord*
---
**Trait:** *Cockroach Overlord*
**Description:** Your aura crushes the lowly! Every cockroach quakes and kneels before you!
**Effect:** Unleash your presence, and all cockroaches will freeze in fear, helpless as you squash them.
---
A pretty useless trait. Nowhere near as good as chain-casting, pet control, or even quick meditation. Did he need cockroaches to cower? Fifty spells could wipe out a swarm easy—no need to make them grovel first.
Dylan stared out the train window, the scenery blurring past.
Cedric Diggory's name floated into his mind.
He didn't know the guy well. Cedric was a Hufflepuff celeb—great at socializing, mild-mannered, good-looking, with friends all over Hogwarts (except Slytherin). Dylan only knew him through Harry—decent at Quidditch, apparently. Oh, and that one divination session where he'd seen Cedric's death. That jogged his memory of the plot.
Like he'd thought before: a lightweight death, just to hype up Voldemort's cruelty. After Cedric died, the Ministry even spun it as a Triwizard Tournament accident to cover up Voldemort's return. Seeing the Ministry's slimy faces in that vision had lit a fire in Dylan. Why should anyone die? This was a kids' story—no one was kicking the bucket unless *he* said so.
Saving Cedric would be a bonus. Easy enough, and the payoff? Huge. Cedric was connected—popular at school and beyond. His dad worked in the Ministry's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—the same folks who'd sorted Dylan's Shadowcat permit through Hagrid and Dumbledore. Not a flashy department, but with his suitcase, Dylan had big needs for magical creatures.
Coalball could chill in his pet space, but other creatures? Stuffing them in the suitcase was fine until someone noticed. Without permits, he'd be in hot water. Most of what he wanted required paperwork.
Cedric's dad could hook him up with permits *and* maybe some confiscated or rehabbed creatures the Ministry was set to release. Once Cedric graduated, with his dad's pull, he'd likely land a job there—maybe even climb to head of the department fast. Not Minister-level like Hermione's long grind, but good enough for Dylan.
"Little Voldy influenced the Ministry—why can't I? I'd just be saving a guy, and if he insists on repaying me, I'd *have* to dip into the Ministry. It's not my fault—I'm just too nice. That's charisma for you!"
---
*(Chapter End)*