The night wind was cold.
It swept across Iain's very overstuffed crotch.
He watched the old professor disappear into the dark from the front of Dumbledore's old house, then finally pushed open the door and stepped into the dim little home. From inside his trousers, he pulled out the singing hat and hung it on the coat rack.
Then came the miniature solar system, a few little moving figurines, a self-writing quill, a lighter that only sparked when there was wind, and a whole assortment of little Diagon Alley souvenirs.
The young wizard did not possess Doraemon's magic pocket.
Fortunately, he did possess an exceptionally spacious crotch.
"I am a hat, I am a hat, a hat that sings a song~~"
The hat started singing again. Because it was nighttime, the volume was a little lower than before.
"I'm starving."
Iain checked the kitchen. There were eggs, tomatoes, bread, fresh brisket, and several jars of seasoning. It was clear that Dumbledore had been very thoughtful.
What the old headmaster had failed to anticipate was that Iain did not possess average cooking skills.
"I wonder whether the Hogwarts house-elves delivered these ingredients for me. Though really, they might've considered cooking them first before sending them over... Still, none of this can stump the brilliant Lord Iain."
Iain counted the ingredients, then briefly recalled the classic traits of a modern young man before transmigration: only able to order takeaway, and after transmigration, only able to cook spaghetti.
In the end, he decided not to take the risk of wasting perfectly good ingredients. Instead, he ran up to the second floor, slipped into his room, and released the all-purpose little skeleton he had been hiding there.
"Can you cook?"
Iain asked.
Click, click.
The little skeleton nodded.
It did not disappoint him.
When Iain had gone out to Diagon Alley, it had stayed inside the suitcase the whole time using both hands to "hold down the seal" on the evil diary.
"Good, good, good. As expected of my personal skeleton. At my wedding one day, you and the succubus lady from my dreams who once brought me food can sit at the same table."
Iain was overjoyed. He promptly picked up the little skeleton and ran back downstairs into the kitchen, beginning to explain the layout like a proud homeowner.
"This is the cupboard. The plates should be inside. I think the cutlery ought to be..."
Iain was still bluffing his way through the introduction and feeling around aimlessly.
Beside him, the magical little skeleton had already begun working and even pointed out where the tableware was.
"As expected of you. Not only do you have a crafty skeleton skull, you've also got ghost eyes that can see through things. In the future, when I'm bathing, you absolutely must sneak a peek as well."
"Otherwise, with how shy I am, people might not even know by graduation that I've got eight-pack abs."
Iain enthusiastically praised the little skeleton.
After that, he did not remain in the kitchen to help. Instead, he went up to the third floor, dragged Fawkes out from where he had been hiding inside the wardrobe, and plopped the phoenix back on top of his own head.
"Meow~"
After searching all over the place, Handsome Tabby finally spotted Fawkes perched atop Iain's head and tried to leap up to catch the bird, only to be smacked on the backside by Iain and sent flying more than ten feet away.
"Go, go, go. Don't come bother the external brain I've just attached."
Iain scolded his cat briefly, then immediately turned fawningly polite toward Fawkes.
"Phoenixes are born magical masters. Fawkes, quickly merge your talent and wisdom with me. Grant me the blessing of phoenix intelligence."
In truth, Iain still felt rather insecure about his White Magic talent. With Fawkes on his head, he went over to the desk and took out the books he had bought that day in Diagon Alley.
He spread them out one by one.
Introduction to Transfiguration
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1
Principles of Potions
These were all standard beginner textbooks for first-years. Since his previous attempts at learning Transfiguration had yielded no results, Iain, determined to keep studying, had now found himself a new thigh to cling to.
"..."
Fawkes settled on top of Iain's head with quiet resignation.
"Good. Intelligence link successful."
Iain was full of confidence.
Still, he was not reaching too far. He chose the simplest and most practical spell from the Hogwarts textbooks:
The Wand-Lighting Charm
The real Wand-Lighting Charm.
Not that counterfeit lighting spell the wicked diary had taught him.
Because he feared the diary might corrupt him again, Iain did not dare release it.
"When I find Tom Riddle's diary, I'll let someone even more wicked go educate it for me."
Although Iain had technically forgiven the upperclasswoman, his narrow little heart had very clearly not signed off on that forgiveness.
"I'm going to master every single first-year spell before school starts."
"When I get to school and people ask when I learned them, I'll say: I never once looked ahead in the textbook, and I never once listened to a lecture. Talent. You understand? Talent."
Muttering this to himself, Iain quickly started reading through the textbook. A beginner's textbook meant to teach young wizards was, after all, simple and careful enough in its contents.
With Iain's analytical ability, he quickly grasped the theory.
"Lumos!"
Following the textbook's instructions, he concentrated his mind and attention, pulled out his brand-new wand, and loudly spoke the incantation.
In the next moment, guided by the spell's pull on his magic, the tip of Iain's wand lit up.
The glow was there.
It was just somewhat faint and not especially strong.
"That's not bad at all."
Iain was greatly encouraged.
Perhaps linking with phoenix intelligence really had deepened his White Magic talent. He swore then and there that in the future, he would raise hundreds more magical creatures and wear them all over himself.
"Lumos!"
"Lumos!"
"Lumos!"
...
Iain began practicing over and over again.
For most young wizards, one limiting factor in spell practice was the "activity" of their magic. Other children simply could not practice spells as frequently as this.
Magic itself did not get used up.
But because of age, it had different degrees of activity.
The older a wizard grew, the more enduring their magical activity tended to become.
Of course, for very old wizards, though their magical endurance might increase, the triggering response of that magic could no longer become as swift as a young person's.
Perhaps it had something to do with imagination gradually drying up.
Or perhaps it was simply that after remaining active for so long, things stopped "surging" the way they once had.
Either way, neither of those problems applied to the young wizard now.
His own magic showed no signs whatsoever of slipping into inertia. It seemed just as tireless as he was, always just as bubbling with energy.
"As expected of my magic. It's just like me."
While Iain continued practicing,
the little skeleton came in from the kitchen carrying two plates. One held tomato-and-brisket soup. The other held sausages fried a bit too dark. It set the plates down on the table, then hurried back and brought two bowls of rice: one big bowl for Iain, one smaller bowl for itself.
Of course, the little skeleton did not eat.
It simply liked setting the table.
"Looks good. Worth praising. Way better than anything I could make."
Iain picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of the tomato and egg dish, chewing thoughtfully.
"Suitable for Americans."
That was his verdict.
The little skeleton tilted its head. Its jawbone clicked a little more softly than usual, as though asking what on earth that was supposed to mean.
"It's nothing. I just like setting up high-end dinner parties for my imaginary overseas relatives."
Iain took another huge bite, stuffing it into his mouth until his cheeks puffed out like a hamster's.
Moonlight fell through the window into the room.
A ribbon of it lay between Iain and the little skeleton sitting across from him.
It seemed to divide the living from the dead.
Though not clearly.
Only dimly.
Only softly.