Good Day

Snape examined the formula Blake had given him, his expression unreadable. "Then there's only one question left," he said. "Whether your diluent is effective."

Blake smirked. "Not only is it harmless to the potion, but it even enhances its effects. In fact, if you want to dilute a life-extending potion, you don't need a diluent at all—just mix it with water, and the effect remains pretty good. But…"

He patted his chest proudly. "I have a conscience. We won't water it down. Instead, using a small amount of diluent actually improves the potion slightly. It's better than just adding water."

Snape looked disgusted. He quickly understood the so-called "diluent formula"—it was just a bit of cheap medicinal powder mixed with water. It didn't even require boiling. Calling it a potion formula was an insult to potioneering.

"That's it? Conscience?" Snape scoffed, tossing the formula back at Blake.

Blake caught it easily. "Do you think I'm lying? Then tell me, isn't this better than just adding water?"

Snape gritted his teeth. "Yes."

"Then what's the problem?" Blake clapped his hands, his grin widening. "The more I earn, the bigger your dividends. Aren't you saving for milk powder now?"

Snape stiffened. The constipation-like expression on his face vanished, replaced by his usual deadpan stare. Whatever lingering conscience he had was wiped out by Blake's words.

"I'm not short on money, Blake. I just want the best for that child… even though she may not be born yet."

"You have so much faith in me? What if the experiment fails?"

"You won't fail." Snape stood up and opened his office door. The message was clear—it was time for Blake to leave.

Blake chuckled, not pushing his luck. "Make sure to prepare more of the diluent and take it to the store. You're a partner, after all. You can't just sit back and do nothing."

"I know. Get out." Snape waved him away impatiently.

Grindelwald's "Daily Prophet" had an immense reach, but even more powerful was the woman writing for it—Rita Skeeter.

The next morning, Blake, still drowsy and carrying Xiu Xiu in his arms, was heading to breakfast when he was swarmed by students.

"Blake! You're the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin in history!"

"Oh my God! Is it true?"

"Look, his photo is right here!"

"Wow! Blake, you're amazing!"

"Blake, is your life-extending potion for sale? Is it expensive?"

"Yeah, my grandmother isn't in great health… but if it's too expensive…"

Blake had been smiling modestly until he heard that. Instantly, his sleepiness vanished, replaced by the enthusiasm of a seasoned salesman.

"Hey! You're such a filial grandchild! Truly a role model for our generation!" He clapped the student on the shoulder dramatically. "And you're in luck! I've opened a life-extending potion shop in Diagon Alley! Specializing in this very potion!"

The students gasped in excitement.

"The store officially opens the day after tomorrow! A bottle costs just three Galleons! And listen up—the first 100 customers get a half-price discount! But supplies are limited! Three bottles per person, per day! First come, first served!"

At once, the students scattered, rushing back to their dormitories.

They weren't skeptical—Blake's Order of Merlin, Second Class was proof enough of the potion's legitimacy. If it were fake, Sir Merlin wouldn't have awarded him such an honor. And Rita Skeeter's article only added fuel to the fire. She had written that the Order of Merlin committee initially wanted to give Blake a third-class medal, but thanks to Dumbledore's persuasion, he received second-class instead.

Her writing stirred emotions effortlessly: "He should have been the youngest ever recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class!"

Many readers felt indignant on Blake's behalf, turning his perceived "injustice" into a powerful marketing tool. Grindelwald, ever strategic, had made sure the article credited Dumbledore, ensuring that the latter wouldn't publicly deny it.

Blake didn't mind. After all, he was grinning ear to ear as his system flooded him with treasure chests from those sympathizing with him.

The morning rush of "Daily Prophet" readers meant an influx of system notifications. Eventually, Blake had to turn off the alert sounds. It turned out, the system could be muted—if you just asked enough times.

Meanwhile, in a peaceful garden, Nicolas Flamel and his wife, Perenal, took a walk—without the aid of wheelchairs or magical devices.

"It's been two hundred years since we last strolled like this," Nicolas said, marveling at his improved health. His once deathly pale complexion had warmed, and his frail steps had gained vigor.

Perenal, once confined to a wheelchair for centuries, walked beside him effortlessly. "That boy is a genius," she said. "I thought he excelled in alchemy, but his talent in potions is just as remarkable."

Flamel, a master of both fields, had been astounded when he analyzed Blake's life-extending potion. Unlike the Elixir of Life, which merely delayed death, Blake's potion actively replenished vitality—something unprecedented.

Perenal frowned as she held up the "Daily Prophet." "The Order of Merlin, Second Class is too low… Who else could deserve First Class more than him?"

Flamel chuckled. "Maybe when he's an adult."

At Hogwarts, Dumbledore examined the pure, undiluted life-extending potion Blake had sent him. He wasn't obsessed with immortality, but it was a heartfelt gift from a student.

After some hesitation, he drank it. Almost instantly, he felt rejuvenated—his fatigue vanished, his strength returned, and to his surprise, half his white beard turned black. Stroking it thoughtfully, he murmured, "Grindelwald was right. Second Class is too low."

Across the world, in Nurmengard, Grindelwald held up his own gifted potion triumphantly, showing it off to Vita Rohir.

"Do you know how much this is worth? At least a thousand Galleons! But that child gave it to me!"

Vita extended her hand. "Give it to me."

Grindelwald clutched the bottle protectively. "The boy gave it to me! If you want one, buy your own!"

"I just want to check—"

"What kind of talk is that?! Do you think he'd poison me?!" Grindelwald huffed but ultimately downed the potion. Within moments, the wrinkles on his hands began to fade.

Vita's sharp eyes softened, watching in fascination. "Did you say his shop opens the day after tomorrow?"

Grindelwald smirked. "What, interested now? Didn't you dismiss his potions earlier?"

Vita stared as strands of Grindelwald's gray hair darkened before her eyes. "I was wrong."

Laughing, Grindelwald pulled out another bottle. "He sent this for you too. He said you're a good helper and can ask for more if needed."

Vita's hands trembled as she took it. "He's never even met me… He's so thoughtful."

Grindelwald sighed, impressed. That boy understands people too well. Even Vita, as tough as ice, had melted with just a few words.

That night, as Blake opened his system space, he was stunned. Several diamond-tier treasure chests had appeared.

Turning off the notification sound had been a good call—otherwise, the sheer number of alerts might've driven him mad.

A smile spread across his face. What a good day.

=============

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