Alchemy, when you boiled it down, was really a high-level, complicated blend of multiple magical disciplines.
Students could start taking it as an elective from sixth year onward, but only if they'd earned solid marks in Potions, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, and other related subjects.
And in the Mirror of Erised, he had seen himself holding that vial of potion, pointing at his own eye while saying the word "thread."
Rock immediately thought of someone—Mad-Eye Moody, and that magical eye of his.
Strictly speaking, Moody's eye was also a product of alchemy.
But… replacing one's eye through alchemy? Transforming that hazy, instinctive sense of magical "threads" into a physical organ?
Rock quickly shook off the thought. Absolutely not. Far too horrifying.
If that were the method, he'd rather live with his vague magical perception forever.
He glanced at the hand he had absent-mindedly pressed against the castle wall—a habit he'd picked up after leaving the Room of Requirement.
Why is it that when my hand touches a wall, I can sense things? And why can I "look inward" at my magic flow whenever I cast a spell?
Ideas bubbled up in his mind one after another. Rock's brows stayed tightly knit as he tried to latch onto that one elusive realization.
Caw—
A raven swooped just over his head, slicing through his thoughts as it flew past the tall tower and vanished from sight.
But Rock's eyes were fixed on his hands—currently disguised by a Disillusionment Charm—and suddenly he understood the point he had been chasing.
"Manifestation."
Turning one's internal magical senses outward, transforming them into something visually perceivable.
"You can't create something from nothing. You must break it down, purify it, and recombine it."
Rock murmured the final words spoken by Nicolas Flamel's phantom.
The Elixir of Life—brewed with the Philosopher's Stone—didn't actually infuse the drinker with new life force. Instead, it froze the drinker's current state of being at the moment they took it.
His magic sensing was already instinctive. What the mirror had shown him was simply his instinct yearning to become a steady, visual ability.
Just as when he touched the castle wall—through that touch, he could faintly perceive those "threads."
His hand, in that process, acted as a medium for magical perception.
"If I brewed a potion that anchored this diffuse sensing into a single sense… permanently shifting the mode of perception…"
"Turning 'feeling' into 'seeing.'"
Viewed from that angle, the idea fit perfectly with the core of alchemy—transformation and elevation.
The iris…
He thought of the self he had seen in the mirror—the spinning, nebula-like swirl of silver-gray in his eyes.
He couldn't help but smile.
The Mirror of Erised couldn't show the future, but it could reveal one's truest thoughts.
So back then, his own magic—his perception—was already telling him this was the right path?
After all, during that second deep-perception state, he had truly "seen."
With the answer finally in hand, Rock climbed the tower steps with a lightness in his stride. Time to head back.
He wasn't arrogant enough to think he had Snape's mastery of potions or Nicolas Flamel's alchemical knowledge. Not remotely.
…
The next morning, Rock, Theo, and Adam were having breakfast in the Great Hall.
By now they were familiar with Hogwarts' staircases and classrooms, so there was no need to rush out early anymore.
The Quidditch match from the day before was still every young wizard's favorite topic.
Rumor had it that during the match, when Harry Potter was supposedly being jinxed, he had purposely put on an elaborate performance just to draw attention.
Because apparently, "The Boy Who Lived" wasn't dazzling enough anymore.
According to Theo's investigation, the rumor started in Slytherin—specifically, from our dear Draco Malfoy.
This time it wasn't just old grudges—Fred and George Weasley had managed to swindle thirty Galleons out of Malfoy.
And while Malfoy hated the Weasleys even more for it, he claimed that losing thirty Galleons was still less painful than Harry Potter stealing the spotlight.
Or maybe—since Fred and George were third-years—he simply didn't dare pick a fight with them.
"You think Malfoy's got some kind of grudge against Harry?"
Theo smacked his lips, genuinely curious.
Rock didn't even look up from his "Advanced Applications of Switching Spells" exercise.
"Why couldn't it be love?"
Adam and Theo froze, slowly turning toward Rock with the same disturbed expression.
"Don't—don't say stuff like that, Rock. That's scarier than a ghost floating into our dorm room."
Adam clutched the protective charm hanging from his neck.
"Mate, that's a dangerous idea," Theo muttered, shuddering.
Rock finally looked up, exasperated.
"Oh come on. I'm just saying—if Harry were Harriet Potter, wouldn't it be possible?"
"Merlin's beard!"
"Merlin's underwear!"
"That's dangerous thinking! Rock, stop immediately."
Theo rubbed his arms, goosebumps rising all over.
Rock stood up with a sigh and left the long table. No point arguing with them.
It wasn't like the wizarding world had never had situations like that—
Actually… no. Best not think about it. Poisonous line of thought.
Their first class of the day was Charms. Before that, he needed to ask Professor Flitwick if he could renew his library slip.
Grimoire's Whimsical Variations was due soon, and Rock still found it incredibly useful—especially for sparking unusual ideas.
As always, his excellent performance in class earned him praise and house points. Afterward, Rock approached Flitwick.
"Oh! Rock!" the tiny professor said cheerfully as he hopped down from a stack of books. "Is something unclear from today's lesson?"
"No, Professor. Your lecture was wonderful as always. I just have a request."
Rock explained what he needed.
Flitwick paused, then said,
"Rock, what I've always hoped you'd learn is that spells are not rigid formulas. They're a system full of variables and interaction."
"Rhythm is merely a tool. Wand-motions are part of the process."
"But when studying failed or peculiar spells, you must know where to draw the line."
Rock instantly understood—Flitwick was worried he was sinking too deeply into Grimoire's eccentric way of thinking. He waved his hands quickly.
"That's not it at all, Professor. I just think some of the ideas inside are… unusually creative."
Which, of course, made Flitwick even more certain the book was influencing him.
Rock felt the urge to smack himself. Why did I say it like that?
Sometimes his mouth really ran off without him.