Morning light, golden like honey, streamed through the diamond-paned windows of the Gryffindor Tower. As Dylan opened his eyes, tiny specks of gold dust fell from his eyelashes.
It was the weekend—finally, a break.
After a good night's sleep, Dylan felt refreshed and energized.
"Perfect. Feels like it's going to be a productive day."
As he pulled back the goose-down duvet embroidered with a lion emblem, the brass rings of the bed curtains clinked softly against the frame.
*"Scourgify!"*
A silver-white vortex burst from the tip of his wand, smoothing out the creases in his bedding and, in passing, dusting off the surface of the two-way mirror by Harry's bedside—where the glass reflected Ron, fast asleep, mouth open, drooling.
After getting out of bed, Dylan cast another cleaning spell to tidy up his sheets and then one on himself for good measure.
Glancing at his still-snoring dormmates, he casually pulled out a book signed by Gilderoy Lockhart. The gold-embossed title, *Travels with Trolls*, shimmered blindingly in the morning sun.
*Rip.*
Without hesitation, he tore out the signed title page and traced a small circle over the printed text with his wand.
*"Morpho Metab!"*
Lockhart's signature was right on the title page, just below the book's printed details. And, true to his nature, Lockhart had dramatically enlarged his signature, taking up nearly the entire lower half of the page.
But that worked perfectly for Dylan.
All he needed was to erase the printed text.
As his wand tip glowed faintly, the printed words on the torn page began to twist and morph, shifting upward until they condensed into a single short line at the top.
*"Sectumsempra!"*
With a precise flick of his wand, the gathered text—and the topmost portion of the page—was neatly sliced off.
Now, he could write the application by hand.
—Might as well go all the way.
Sure, he could've just transformed the printed text into his own handwriting with magic.
But handing in a magically altered document? That left traces, and if someone checked, they could tell.
Dylan wasn't naive enough to assume people wouldn't notice.
Writing it out himself wasn't a big deal anyway.
Before long, a completed application for borrowing books from the Restricted Section lay before him—complete with an oversized signature from Professor Lockhart.
Satisfied, he carefully folded the application, slipped it into his pocket, adjusted his robes, and set off for the Hogwarts library.
But before he could leave, someone suddenly pounded on the dormitory door.
*Bang, bang, bang!*
The oak door rattled under the forceful knocking.
Dylan raised an eyebrow, flicked his wand, and the door swung open.
Standing there was Oliver Wood.
His gloves left crescent-shaped sweat marks on the wooden door.
"Harry! You said you'd be at practice—" The Gryffindor Quidditch captain's words cut off abruptly as his damp robe hem knocked over a brass balance scale by the door, sending its pans spinning with a low hum.
Dylan noticed bits of grass stuck in Wood's curls—clearly, he'd been waiting at the pitch for a while.
The moment Wood saw Dylan, his fiery determination fizzled out.
"Oh—uh, good morning!"
Since Wood hadn't woken him up with his knocking, Dylan wasn't particularly bothered.
He gave a polite nod. "Something wrong?"
Wood blinked, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "Uh, sorry, did I wake you? I was looking for Harry. We planned to start practice early, but he still hasn't shown up—so I came to check."
Dylan glanced down at his neatly arranged robes—he was already fully dressed and ready to go.
"Well, you're not exactly early. Clearly, you didn't wake me."
Wood let out a nervous laugh. "Oh—good, good."
Dylan stepped toward the door, and Wood quickly moved aside to let him pass.
As he walked past, Dylan cast a glance back at Harry, still fast asleep, then said to Wood, "Go ahead."
And with that, after breakfast, he made his way straight to his destination.
The Hogwarts library, managed by Madam Pince, carried the mingled scents of aged parchment and magical ink.
As Dylan stepped in, the morning light spilled through the arched windows, and a suspended magical hourglass on an oak beam above him released its hundredth grain of crystal sand.
The library was utterly quiet.
It was early on a weekend, so while a few students were reading, the space remained mostly undisturbed, save for the occasional rustle of turning pages.
Madam Pince had just finished dusting *The Origins of Medieval Demons* with a feather duster inlaid with amethysts. As she walked back to her desk, the embossed golden demons on the book spines seemed to collectively hold their breath.
Dylan navigated through the towering shelves, making his way directly to Madam Pince's desk.
She settled into her chair behind the counter.
Tall and thin, her pale complexion was dotted with faint freckles. Her sharp gaze swept over the library with an air of authority.
Even in old age, her back remained rigidly straight. A distinctive black hat with a towering crown and exaggerated brim added to her formidable presence.
Dressed entirely in black, with a ruff of dark feathers at her collar, she had a certain stern elegance—like a severe but regal bird of prey.
—All things considered, she was quite beautiful. She must have been stunning in her youth. Even now, the sharpness of her features only made her more striking.
As Dylan approached, Madam Pince scrutinized him.
They weren't strangers.
Back in his first year, he'd spent a great deal of time in the library catching up on magical knowledge—he'd had too much to learn, too quickly.
At the time, he hadn't even considered venturing into the Restricted Section.
That meant he and Madam Pince were familiar but had never really interacted much.
Now, however, after a full year of study, he had built a solid foundation.
And with a professor's signature conveniently within reach—valid for only this school year—why hesitate?
Even if he didn't immediately need the knowledge from the Restricted Section, reading it now and storing it in his mind would only be beneficial.
"Good morning, Madam Pince. I'd like to apply for access to the Restricted Section."
Dylan's voice was low.
The library had strict rules—one of which was keeping quiet.
—As for teachers and staff?
Rules weren't exactly made for the people who enforced them.
If the librarians weren't allowed to raise their voices, how else would they maintain order?
"Application form."
"I know."
Dylan pulled out the prepared form and placed it in front of her. "Signed by a professor. Please have a look."
Madam Pince paused, taking the form with a slight frown. Her gaze flicked between the signature and Dylan's face, sharp eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Her fingers tapped lightly on the desk, the rhythmic sound breaking the library's silence.
Dylan simply stood there, lips curled in a faint smile, patiently waiting for her to review it.
"Lockhart gave you permission…?" she muttered, her mind replaying the absurd theatrics their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had displayed since the start of term.
Then again—if it was Lockhart, maybe this wasn't so surprising.
As the librarian, Madam Pince had a deep reservoir of knowledge—far beyond what Lockhart pretended to possess.
To her, his books were nothing more than the ramblings of a man trying desperately to appear well-read.
But rules were rules.
A professor's signature granted access to the Restricted Section.
And Madam Pince was nothing if not a stickler for rules.
Though she couldn't understand why a young student was being given permission—wasn't anyone worried he'd be corrupted by certain dangerous texts?—it wasn't her place to question it.
Her skeletal fingers lifted the form, and the obsidian pendant at her throat flickered red—an alchemically enhanced charm to detect forgeries.
Silent as ever, she examined the signature.
Then, at last, she set the form down and looked up at Dylan.
"Alright, the signature is real. You may enter. But remember—these books are dangerous. Don't let yourself be blinded by knowledge that only appears dazzling on the surface."
Madam Pince's voice was low and harsh, like sandpaper scraping across a wooden desk. She spoke slowly, but every word was crisp and clear.
Dylan could hear the concern in her tone, so he gave her a serious nod.
"Thank you for the warning. I'll be careful."
With that, he was finally allowed inside.
The moment he stepped into the Restricted Section, the lighting dimmed noticeably compared to the brighter outer areas.
Above him, the arched ceiling cast web-like shadows, and matte-enchanted candle flames flickered atop bronze candelabras.
Dylan still found it too dark—bad for the eyes.
**"Lumos Solem!"**
His boots clicked against the stone floor as the tip of his wand flared with a warm golden glow, illuminating his surroundings.
Towering bookshelves loomed on all sides, packed with ancient and mysterious tomes. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment—these books had clearly been here for centuries.
Dylan reached out and grabbed one at random. The cover felt rough and slightly damp to the touch. With a hint of anticipation, he flipped it open, scanning the text.
But after just a few moments of skimming, his brows knitted together in disappointment.
**"Beginner's Shadow Curse? What a dumb spell."**
According to the book, this so-called curse couldn't even be cast directly—it required a full ritual to take effect.
And in Dylan's opinion, the ritual was way too much trouble.
It had to be performed at midnight on a full moon, in a dark corner, with a black candle burning and a raven's feather in hand. The incantation? **"Methos Umbra."**
The result? The target would be shrouded in shadow for a few minutes, causing blurry vision and sluggish movements.
Dylan scoffed.
**"A simple Petrificus Totalus or Impedimenta would be way more effective."**
Shoving the book back onto the shelf, he picked up another one—this one describing a spell called the **"Cursed Gale."**
To cast it, you had to:
1. Collect three handfuls of dried graveyard grass.
2. Mix in the tears of a pregnant fox.
3. Wrap everything in bat wings.
4. Burn it all during a thunderstorm while chanting the spell.
The effect? A gust of cursed wind strong enough to make someone lose their balance and fall over.
Dylan stared at the book for a moment before letting out a dry laugh.
**"Did the person who invented this drink expired Felix Felicis? A 'Shadow Curse'? What's next, clapping a nursery rhyme while casting to make sure it works?"**
His fingers twitched with the urge to incinerate the book with Fiendfyre.
He had initially been excited about the Restricted Section, expecting to find long-lost, powerful magic. But the first two books had completely shattered his illusions about ancient knowledge.
In fact, he was starting to suspect that these so-called "forbidden books" were just outdated nonsense—too impractical to be taught to students, so they were dumped here to gather dust.
**"They'll throw just about anything in here, huh?"**
Dylan sighed.
And that **Cursed Gale** spell? What a joke. With all those ridiculous ingredients and rituals, by the time you finished casting, you'd probably already have been punched in the face.
Even if you **did** manage to pull it off, all it did was knock someone down.
**"Merlin's beard, did a troll step on the inventor's head?"**
Now, Dylan finally understood why Voldemort had always left Hogwarts to study Dark Magic elsewhere.
Some of the so-called "forbidden magic" here was just... **bad.**
Of course, maybe he was being unfair.
After all, these were just the books near the entrance—probably the more basic and superficial ones.
**"Hopefully, the deeper I go, the better the books get."**
Dylan sighed again. He knew he shouldn't have expected the Restricted Section to be filled with legendary, godlike magic. These books weren't inherently **powerful**—they were just considered inappropriate for general students.
Sure, the rituals were convoluted and the results underwhelming, but that was normal. At least they didn't require intense negative emotions like true Dark Magic.
However, the **philosophies** recorded in these books **were** problematic. That was likely the real reason they were restricted.
Some ancient magical rituals might **seem** brutal and shocking, but in reality, they were just relics of magic's past.
Aside from serving as historical curiosities, they were largely useless in modern spellwork—just impractical, outdated junk.
Dylan continued moving through the section, quickly pulling books off the shelves, flipping through them, and assessing their worth.
One glance was enough to tell if a book was worth his time.
If it wasn't, he put it back immediately and moved on.
Then, his fingers landed on a particular title.
**"The Theory of Soul-Dimensional Folding?"**
Dylan stopped in his tracks.
**"Finally, something promising."**
His eyes locked onto the **"Dimensional Traversal"** chapter.
For the next **two hours**, he barely moved.
By the time he was done, he hadn't explored the entire Restricted Section, but he had **stacked three books in his arms:**
1. **"Cursed Magical Artifacts and Mysterious Relics"**
2. **"The Origins of Ancient Magic and the Study of Ultimate Spells"**
3. **"The Soul: A Comprehensive Analysis and Forbidden Manipulations"**
The first book detailed various **cursed magical objects**, many of which were outdated but still served as useful references.
Even if these artifacts weren't particularly dangerous **in the wizarding world**, in the Muggle world, they'd be considered **catastrophic.**
And considering that **Muggles still traded cursed objects without realizing it**, Dylan figured it was worth learning about them—especially since his parents were involved in business.
The second book delved into the **origins of ancient magic and ultimate spells**, offering a fresh perspective on the roots of magic itself.
It even described true ancient spells—ones steeped in medieval darkness and malice.
These weren't things he could find in the regular library. Dylan planned to **study them thoroughly.**
As for the third book...
Its title was dramatic, but its content was **decent.**
It discussed the **nature of the soul and its connection to magical dimensions.**
What caught Dylan's attention the most was its section on **soul traversal between different magical planes.**
He had already mastered a **powerful Dark spell—Parasitic Possession**—which revolved around the soul.
And other spells like **Dispersing Soul Fragments, Banishment of Spirits,** and even **Legilimency and Occlumency** were also linked to the soul.
Despite his strong foundation, Dylan knew that the **true nature of the soul** couldn't be fully understood just by learning a few spells.
**Could immortality be tied to the soul?**
That was something he **wanted** to find out.
So, **any** book on the subject? He **read it.**
Unfortunately, he hadn't found anything on **soul collection.**
Even the books that **did** mention it were too **basic—useless, really.**
But this one? **This one had potential.**
After hours of searching, Dylan finally had **three books worth keeping.**
Not many, but **he was satisfied.**
Tucking them under his arm, he left the Restricted Section and headed toward Madam Pince's desk to check them out.
**"These are the books I'd like to borrow."**
The librarian paused mid-wipe, her silver registry book gleaming under the dim candlelight.
As Dylan placed the books on the counter, her bony fingers traced the **alchemical sigils** on the cover of *The Origins of Ancient Magic.*
The serpent-like patterns seemed to ooze tiny beads of **blood**, though when he looked again, it might have just been a trick of the light.
Her voice was flat.
**"Seven-day return."**
Mrs. Pince picked up the silver-plated feather quill, dipping its tip into the inkwell. As she did, a strand of shimmering purple mucus clung to the nib—it was a special anti-counterfeit ink made from the sap of slumber beans.
When she recorded the titles of the three books in the leather-bound register, the gilded letters seared into the parchment, leaving behind scorched marks and a pungent odor, reminiscent of burnt hair.
"Alright, ma'am. Thank you for your cooperation."
(End of chapter)