Fortunately, Alistair quickly found the Half-Blood Prince's copy of *Advanced Potion-Making* amidst the stack of old books, but wanting a more elementary potion book, he flipped through the pile once more.
At last, at the very bottom, he found *Magical Drafts and Potions*. Scribbled across the back page in crooked handwriting was a single label: the Half-Blood Prince.
They say handwriting reflects the person. The Prince's script was just like him: cramped and emaciated, small yet forceful. Alistair imagined that back then the boy must have been fragile yet tenacious, while also giving off an oppressive vibe.
The dense clusters of tiny characters left so little breathing room that Alistair sometimes had to strain, bowing his head right down to make them out.
He suddenly remembered how Snape always buried his head deep over his cauldrons while brewing, nearly falling right in. Perhaps he took his notes the same way.
Alistair frowned. That was hardly a good habit.
Clasping both books to his chest, he shut the door to the potions room and hurried toward the Great Hall. Any later and he would miss meals entirely.
"Ali!" Fred and George called out as Alistair stepped through the entrance, seated alongside Lee Jordan and Civet.
Alistair hurried over.
"What took you so long? Did the old bat give you detention?"
"No." Alistair set down his books, muttered a quiet "Scourgify" while waving his empty hands over them, and immediately dug into the food on the table.
The surrounding group stared at him in stunned silence. "How did you cast that so smoothly?" Lee Jordan asked.
"What?" Alistair looked back at him blankly.
"The spell you just did!" Lee Jordan choked on his food. "Cough, cough, cough!"
"Let me tell you!" George shoved Lee Jordan aside, gesturing wildly in front of Alistair. "You just reached your hands out like this and said 'Scourgify', and that was it!"
"Huh?" Alistair felt entirely baffled. "You guys can do that too, can't you? Is there a problem?"
"A huge problem!" Fred chimed in. "You didn't even use a wand!"
"Ah?" Alistair's eyes widened in astonishment. "I didn't use a wand just now? Then how did I cast the spell?!" Could it be that he had learned wandless magic?!
Fred rolled his eyes. "Mate! We have no idea either! Didn't you see the look on our faces?"
"Oh, Merlin!" Could this body possess some hidden ability?! Alistair looked around at the astonished faces of his peers. "I have no idea either. I'll write home and ask my mother."
***
That evening, Alistair wrote a letter and asked his owl, Lakley, to deliver it home, taking the opportunity to ask his family for some Muggle snacks—adults occasionally needed sweets to unwind.
A reply arrived very quickly the next morning:
*Dear Ali,*
*How have you been lately? You haven't written to your mother since your last injury, and we've all been so worried. We are so sorry we never told you before: the Ruerik family carries a distinct heritage. Every eldest son inherits it, and your father is the fifth-generation heir, making you the sixth.*
*Those of you who receive this heritage are different from others. You must understand that young wizards usually experience magical surges before entering school at eleven, but you do not. You experience your magical surges at twelve and sixteen respectively—meaning in your second and sixth years at Hogwarts. That was why your mother hadn't yet managed to tell you.*
*We had originally planned to ask Headmaster Dumbledore for a temporary leave of absence for you during your second year.*
*When each magical surge begins, there is a period where you will not quite feel like yourself, doing things you would never normally do. Your soul grows fragile, and only then does the surge truly begin.*
*We can never be certain how long this phase lasts; it could be quite long, or it could pass in a single instant.*
*Your grandfather experienced this surge for only a day, your father for a week, and your great-grandfather for three months. None of our ancestors ever exceeded three months, so we estimate the duration ranges anywhere from a day to roughly three months, and absolutely no longer than a year.*
*We can discuss the details in person. You need a complete physical examination.*
*Come home tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I have already arranged it with Headmaster Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall will escort you.*
*Your Mother,*
*C.R.*
Alistair furrowed his brow. Magical surges made the soul fragile—was that precisely why he had been pulled across by the original owner's soul? So was there one soul inside him now, or two?
He certainly needed a checkup, even if it risked revealing to the Rueriks that he wasn't truly their child, and even if it meant he might somehow return to his original world... Alistair massaged his temples. Returning wouldn't be bad; that was the world where he belonged, where his mother and sister were waiting for him.
Alistair jotted a few notes in his diary before climbing into bed and lying down.
Yet he could not sleep.
***
Early the next morning, Alistair arrived at the Headmaster's Office with dark circles under his eyes to wait. Professor McGonagall would take him through the Headmaster's fireplace.
The Headmaster's Office closely resembled its description in the books: portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses lined the walls, and a large desk with clawed feet stood in the center of the room.
Upon the desk rested a blank photo album, some parchment and quill pens, and a dish of sherbet lemons. Fawkes sat perched on the stand behind the door, looking rather listless.
"Professor McGonagall will be a few minutes yet, Ali. Care for a lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered cheerfully, holding out the dish.
"No, thank you, Headmaster."
Dumbledore pulled the sweets back with a look of mild disappointment. "Ali, may I ask why you seem so afraid of me?"
Alistair stiffened, frantically searching for the right words. In the end, all that managed to slip out was: "I'm not afraid of you, sir. I just think you're very impressive." Indeed, he had been avoiding Dumbledore precisely because this old fox's eyes were far too sharp; he might pierce through Alistair's facade at any moment.
He had no desire to become a specimen on display for others to watch, nor did he care to experience the feeling of having his innermost thoughts laid bare.
"Ah, well. I had no idea being impressive could be a reason for people to keep their distance," Dumbledore said with a twinkling smile, picking up a sweet, unwrapping it, and popping it into his mouth.
Alistair glanced up at him, then lowered his gaze again. "It's because your eyes are so piercing. You always seem to see right through things."
Sensing that the boy before him harbored a distinct wariness—fearing, perhaps, that Dumbledore would read his mind—Dumbledore reflected: what deep secrets could a mere child possibly keep?
It struck Dumbledore as rather odd, but he had no intention of prying. "I understand. Everyone is entitled to their little secrets." He would not repeat the mistakes of his past, growing suspicious of a child only to bring about a tragic end.
Hearing this, Alistair finally let out a breath and offered a faint smile. "If I ever need help, I'll be sure to come to you, Professor."
"The Headmaster's Office is always open to you." Dumbledore's eyes crinkled with amusement.
Outside, the sound of the stone gargoyle shifting echoed through the air. "Professor McGonagall is here," Dumbledore noted. "Very well, you may get ready to leave with her."
Professor McGonagall strode in wearing emerald-green robes. "Headmaster, we are ready."
"Off you go, then. Make sure he arrives safely," Dumbledore said with a wave of his hand.