Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

France.

Nicolas Flamel had an old house in Paris, the place where he and his wife Perenelle had lived the longest—more than three centuries together.

Most of Nicolas's centuries-old book collection was stored here, housed in a tower-like library. From the bottom floor, one couldn't even see the ceiling.

Tens of thousands of books and manuscripts were arranged in silence, disturbed only when the occasional guest—usually a fellow book lover—came to visit. Only then would the House-elf, Tata, retrieve them from the shelves.

But today, that quiet was shattered.

Bang!

With a heavy crash, someone appeared out of thin air in the middle of the library—and slammed hard into a bookshelf.

Kyle didn't even have the strength to stand. He lay sprawled across the library floor, looking as though he could pass out at any moment.

Honestly, he hadn't expected the Firestorm Charm to pack such a punch. It felt as though something had torn open inside him, and in trying to control the Fiendfyre, he had poured out nearly every ounce of his strength.

It was a good thing he ran. If he'd stayed, in this state, he'd be dead for sure. Of course, he never would've poured all his magic into a single spell if he hadn't had a backup plan.

Voldemort must be losing his mind by now. Kyle had caught a glimpse of him—half his face blackened. He wasn't sure if it was from rage or the fire... either way, it brought a smile to his face.

Just then, something soft and fuzzy brushed his palm.

Turning his head, he saw the Niffler he'd stuffed into his pocket earlier now sitting comfortably on his hand, staring up at him with bright, gleaming eyes.

"Don't worry…" Kyle rasped, his voice hoarse and rough, like it was being dragged out of his throat.

"I'm fine… you… you…"

"Hm?"

Through his blurry vision, Kyle saw the little Niffler busy pawing through his gold.

Only then did he realize he'd been mistaken. That concerned look earlier? Yeah, not concern. The Niffler had been assessing whether or not he could still move. If not… well, time to loot.

And loot it did.

Once satisfied, it scurried over to Kyle's Mokeskin pouch, expertly unfastened it, and started stuffing shiny Galleons into its own pouch.

Every few seconds, it glanced up at Kyle—then, reassured, doubled its pace. By the time it was done, the pouch had been cleaned out: Galleons, Sickles, even Knuts—all gone. The little thief gave a pleased pat to its bulging pouch.

"You just wait…" Kyle muttered in exasperation.

He'd been robbed by a Niffler. Unbelievable.

"One day... I'm going to stuff you into a Graphorn's nostril."

It was the only threat he could manage right now.

...

About half an hour later, Kyle finally regained a bit of strength. Supporting himself against the wall, he staggered out of the library and collapsed onto a soft sofa, staring blankly at the dull, grey stone in his palm.

It was something Nicolas Flamel had given him years ago during his first visit here—a special kind of Portkey.

Made from a fragment of the Philosopher's Stone, it was different from ordinary Portkeys, which were bound by time limits and couldn't be stored long-term. The Philosopher's Stone's unique stability allowed it to exist indefinitely.

All it needed was a little magic, like using a wand, and it would activate instantly—bringing him straight back here.

As for why the fragment was blue... Kyle wasn't sure. Maybe it was a defective shard that had been discarded.

He still remembered that first meeting. What had he come to the library for?

Oh, right—alchemy studies, and researching how to create a Horcrux.

Thinking of Horcruxes made Kyle instinctively think of the Longbottoms in St. Mungo's.

That had been his original purpose in studying Horcruxes—to see if it was possible to separate the fractured pieces of their souls.

But with all the chaos Voldemort had stirred up over the past few years, Kyle had barely had time to focus on it.

Even Rowena Ravenclaw had told him the idea was viable, but incredibly difficult to carry out.

A shattered soul did save one the step of using murder to split it, but the Longbottoms were in such a state they couldn't even speak coherently—training them to create a Horcrux and perform the steps precisely was next to impossible.

And it wasn't a process that could be done by someone else. Once Kyle realized he'd hit a dead end, he put the project on hold.

He shook his head, deciding not to dwell on it. If even Ravenclaw had said it was difficult, then it definitely wasn't a problem that could be solved anytime soon.

He remembered Nicolas telling him when he handed over the Portkey that one day, he might find himself back here again.

Well... he'd been right.

It had just taken longer than expected. Kyle had already graduated.

Until now, he'd never had a reason to use the Portkey. Even when he needed help from Nicolas, he just visited him directly—no need for shortcuts.

And with more and more things filling his Mokeskin pouch, he'd nearly forgotten about the Portkey entirely—if it hadn't rolled into his hand by accident, he probably wouldn't have remembered it at all.

He set the now-spent Portkey down beside him and leaned back on the sofa.

This was France—and Nicolas's old home. It was more than safe enough. Even if Voldemort turned his head into a drill, he wouldn't be able to find him here.

Still... he wondered what was happening in the Hebrides.

Voldemort had been seriously injured. He probably wouldn't want to get into another fight with that swarm of black dragons. And the Ministry of Magic—they had to have received word by now.

Even if Kyle hadn't sent a warning himself, that column of Fiendfyre shooting into the sky wouldn't have gone unnoticed. The Aurors must've arrived by now…

Lying there on the soft sofa, Kyle felt his eyelids grow heavy.

He was utterly exhausted. Facing Voldemort in a blind rage—one wrong move and he would've been caught. Not to mention that final Firestorm Charm, cast with everything he had left.

Sure, it had looked incredible. Endless flames ripping through the landscape in an instant. But it had taken a toll.

Hopefully, the Aurors would be able to extinguish the flames. Kyle wouldn't be returning anytime soon...

Still, even if they couldn't, it didn't matter much. The Firestorm Charm had binding properties—Fiendfyre included. As long as no one got too close and did something reckless, it should be fine…

Lost in thought, Kyle drifted off to sleep without even realizing it.

...

At the same time, in the Hebrides Islands.

A burst of chaotic explosions echoed through the air.

Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, apparated into place with a grim expression, followed closely by nearly twenty Aurors and an even larger group of Hit Wizards.

Scrimgeour was in a foul mood. The moment he received word that Voldemort had been spotted in the Hebrides Islands, he'd immediately assembled all the most seasoned Aurors—and made a quick detour to Hogwarts.

But Minerva McGonagall had told him that Dumbledore wasn't there. And no one knew where he had gone.

At a time like this—Dumbledore missing again. How many times had it happened now?

Though deeply displeased, Scrimgeour said nothing. Even knowing he was no match for Voldemort, he still brought his forces straight to the scene.

The same tension was written on the faces of the Aurors and Hit Wizards around him.

Led by Scrimgeour, the entire group made their way heavily into the heart of the Hebrides.

"Is You-Know-Who... really here?" someone finally asked, unable to hold it in.

"I don't know. But it's very likely," Kingsley said with a frown.

Back on the beach, he had felt it—that oppressive aura of dark magic.

And there was the fire from earlier, raging over half the island. Scorching, violent—definitely Fiendfyre.

And apart from You-Know-Who, who else could have summoned Fiendfyre on such a massive scale?

You-Know-Who… If he really was here, they were in for the fight of their lives.

"Bill, Charlie, Cedric…" Kingsley turned. "Don't wander off. Stay close to me."

"Don't worry. We know what we're doing." Charlie, the brawny one, stepped forward, his eyes scanning the landscape curiously.

He'd been eager to visit the so-called Black Dragon Archipelago for years, but never had the chance—until now.

"Good thing Fred and George didn't come," Bill muttered under his breath.

His younger brothers had wanted to tag along, but since there were already two Weasleys in the group, Scrimgeour had refused.

This wasn't a sightseeing trip. They might be facing Voldemort himself. There was no way Scrimgeour would bring the entire Weasley family. And besides, those two were notoriously difficult to manage. As owners of a magical joke shop, no one could guess what kind of mischief they might get up to.

"Er… sorry, but are you sure they didn't follow us?" Cedric asked quietly, looking toward the trees ahead.

Bill instinctively turned—and saw two identical figures darting between the trees.

It was brief, but he caught the flash of red hair—unmistakable.

"Fred... George..." Bill groaned, his teeth grinding.

They'd followed them after all.

"I should've guessed," Cedric sighed. "Especially since it was Kyle who delivered that letter."

"Ridiculous. This isn't the time for sentiment," Kingsley muttered, rubbing his temples.

Arthur and Molly were on their way too, which meant—apart from the two youngest still at school—the entire Weasley family was here.

And if they ran into Voldemort...

Kingsley's expression darkened at the thought. "Charlie, find them. No matter what, get them out of here."

"Got it." Charlie nodded and took off toward where they'd disappeared.

"I'll go too," Cedric said. "Maybe I can talk some sense into them."

"Go," Kingsley agreed without hesitation. "If you run into You-Know-Who—don't hesitate. Run. Immediately."

Truthfully, he didn't want Cedric coming along either.

They were all too young. None of them had real combat experience against You-Know-Who. But Cedric had been the one to deliver the message, and he was resolute. Both Minister Bones and Scrimgeour had agreed it was better to bring him.

"Let's hope this goes smoothly," Kingsley murmured, then followed the main group deeper into the island.

And that's when they saw a sight they would never forget.

Bodies littered the path ahead—wizards dead from spells, or torn apart by dragons. Severed limbs scattered among them. It was brutal. Unrelenting.

Even the most hardened Aurors turned pale.

"Are these all from the MacFusty Clan?" someone asked.

"No." Scrimgeour, walking at the front, glanced at a corpse nearby. It wore Death Eater robes.

"Judging by the clothes, these are Death Eaters."

"All of them?"

"Yes. Every single one."

Scrimgeour frowned. Wasn't You-Know-Who supposed to be here too? Then why were all the dead Death Eaters? That didn't make sense.

They continued forward—until they came upon a path unlike anything they'd ever seen.

A blazing corridor of Fiendfyre stretched out before them, surging with flames, a searing inferno that extended impossibly far, as though it had no end.

The Fiendfyre crackled wildly, threatening to incinerate anything that dared approach, and yet... strangely, it did not spread.

"Brooms," Scrimgeour said sharply.

Everyone drew their broomsticks and rose into the air, flying above the fire.

Some flew higher, hoping to glimpse where the path led—but no matter how far they went, that blinding ribbon of golden-red flame stretched on and on.

"Get down!" Scrimgeour barked. "Do you want to give away our position?!"

"S-Sorry." The Hit Wizard quickly descended, but his legs were trembling from what he had seen.

The Fiendfyre cut across nearly the entire island, and the land it consumed had already collapsed into a trench of glowing magma. It wouldn't be long before the whole island was burned straight through.

One spell—just one—and the island was cleaved in two. That was the power of You-Know-Who?

If he had to face something like that… could he survive?

The Hit Wizard didn't know. He didn't want to know. He just clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep moving.

...

Not long after, the rest of the Order of the Phoenix arrived, Mr. Weasley among them. Mundungus was trembling, reluctant to go any further, but a scrawny old wizard gave him a sharp kick that sent him stumbling to the front with a pitiful groan.

"Everyone, be careful," Mr. Weasley warned.

Following the trail Charlie had left behind, they moved quickly through the terrain and soon caught up with the Aurors.

But after that, despite being fully prepared for battle, the group spent nearly an hour scouring the island—only to find dead Death Eaters and nothing else.

No sign of You-Know-Who. No trace of the MacFustys. It was as if they'd landed on a deserted island.

What puzzled Charlie even more was the complete absence of dragon activity.

Something wasn't right. The Hebrides Islands had been home to generations of Hebridean Black dragons. Known for their deep aversion to magic, they should have been anything but silent in the face of such widespread Fiendfyre.

Had they been taken away by You-Know-Who?

Charlie's heart skipped at the thought.

But he quickly shook his head.

No—that many dragons wouldn't vanish without a trace. If anything, it was more likely they'd all been killed.

But that wasn't good news either... What had really happened here?

Charlie's confusion was shared by everyone present. The only thing Scrimgeour could confirm now was that You-Know-Who was no longer on the island.

"Hey! What took you so long?!"

The sudden shout startled the already-tense group. Several Hit Wizards instinctively raised their wands.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

"What are you doing?!"

The voice held a mix of indignation and disbelief.

Scrimgeour turned sharply.

"Weasley?"

"Of course it's us," Fred grumbled, climbing up from the ground, visibly rattled. "Why did you attack us?!"

"I had to confirm your identities," Scrimgeour replied, his expression stern.

"It's alright. I can vouch for them."

Cedric's voice cut in suddenly. Scrimgeour looked up to see Cedric casually motioning to a button on his robe.

Only then did Scrimgeour relax.

The Ministry had recently issued new communication devices to the Aurors, and that button was the key to the system—something known only to a select few.

Cedric was one of them. That alone proved he was the real thing.

"Fred! George!"

Mrs. Weasley stormed out of the crowd, furious. "You two promised me you'd stay at the Ministry! What are you doing here?!"

"Oh—hi, Mum," Fred muttered, shrinking back.

"We're here to help. You know... find clues," George added, though he sounded less than confident.

"Clues?" Mrs. Weasley's voice rose with disbelief. "You two think you can find clues?!"

"Well, that's not entirely fair, Mum," Fred said, raising an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, we already have."

"Very important clues," George chimed in.

"While you lot were busy wandering around."

...

"Mr. Scrimgeour, over here—come take a look," Cedric cut in smoothly, stepping forward before things could escalate.

Hadn't anyone noticed Mrs. Weasley's face had gone completely black?

If he didn't step in and change the subject fast, his two hopeless friends might end up staying here forever—as permanent companions to the dead Death Eaters.