"Editor-in-chief, someone's sent in another paper," the young editor announced, clutching a parchment.
"Store it in the paper library for now," the editor-in-chief replied, waving a hand. "The new issue of The Golden Crucible is about to be typeset. I don't have time to read it."
The editor-in-chief, a middle-aged man in his fifties, had a slightly round figure draped in a loose robe. His sparse hair swirled atop his head like a messy sketch, and he puffed on a black pipe that sent wisps of smoke curling with every word.
"Editor-in-chief, I really think you should look at this one," the young editor insisted, holding out the paper.
The editor frowned, hesitating. He studied the young editor, whom he'd mentored for years. He knew the lad didn't push without reason. If he was so insistent, there had to be something worth seeing.
With a sigh, the editor took the paper and began reading. As his eyes scanned the pages, his furrowed brow softened. "The formula and process for the Forgetfulness Potion have been tweaked, cutting its brewing time significantly," he said, nodding. "It's a solid paper. Shame it's only for the Forgetfulness Potion. If it tackled a more common potion, this could've been front-page material."
The paper was strong enough to earn a spot in The Golden Crucible. But it wasn't groundbreaking—just another good submission among the journal's many.
"If it's up to standard, file it in the paper database," the editor said, handing it back. "We'll slot it into the next issue or the one after if there's space."
"Editor-in-chief, please, take another look," the young editor urged.
"What's got into you today?" the editor snapped, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "What am I looking at?"
"The address and signature," the young editor said, pointing.
Frowning, the editor flipped to the paper's cover page and read aloud, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Slytherin House, Sean Bulstrode!?" He looked up at the young editor, incredulous. "A Hogwarts student wrote this? A sixth- or seventh-year, not even graduated, submitting to The Golden Crucible?"
Wizarding journals like The Golden Crucible differed from Muggle ones. Enchanted signatures prevented plagiarism or disputes over authorship. The journal magically verified the writer's true name and origin, so editors never worried about foul play.
"Editor-in-chief, check his surname," the young editor said, leaning forward.
"Surname?" The editor glanced down, then froze. "Bulstrode? That Bulstrode?" He sucked in a breath. "I heard only two Bulstrode kids started at Hogwarts this year, both first-years. So, this paper's from a first-year? Impossible!"
"Editor-in-chief, I looked into it," the young editor said. "This Sean Bulstrode is from the Bulstrode family. He's the son of their Squib heir, the one who caused a stir recently."
"The Bulstrode family…" the editor muttered.
He plucked the pipe from his mouth, tapped it lightly, and returned it, taking a deep drag. White smoke curled from his nostrils, drifting into the cluttered office air.
After a moment's thought, the editor-in-chief fixed his gaze on the young editor. "Send a snow sculpture to contact old Mr. Bulstrode. Ask if he wants us to give special attention to this Sean Bulstrode."
The young editor blinked, clearly puzzled by the sudden order.
Seeing his protégé's confusion, the editor-in-chief stifled a groan and gave him a light kick under the desk. "You're sharp, but you're missing the bigger picture," he whispered. "We don't know the full story behind the Bulstrode rumors, and neither do I. Old Bulstrode's one of the Wizengamot's heavyweights. He keeps a low profile, but when he moves, no one dares stand in his way. If this kid's his grandson, we can't just assume it's business as usual. We need to check with him."
"Editor-in-chief, isn't The Golden Crucible about pure academics?" the young editor asked, his face earnest.
The editor's mouth twitched, tempted to kick him again. But since he'd mentored the lad, he explained patiently. "Academics come first, of course. But we also have to keep The Golden Crucible running. Without Wizengamot support and their funding, do you think we'd survive? The highest royalties in the wizarding world don't grow on trees. If Sean Bulstrode's paper was a game-changer for magic, we'd publish it even if old Mr. Bulstrode objected.
But right now, his paper's just good enough to make the cut. It won't shake the wizarding world whether we print it or not. For a paper like this, we need to weigh other factors. Got it?"
The young editor nodded slowly. "I understand. I still think The Golden Crucible should stay purely academic, but I see your point."
"Enough talk," the editor-in-chief barked, puffing out a smoky dragon-like cloud. "Get to work! Contact old Mr. Bulstrode now!"
Upon receiving the order, the young editor scribbled a polite letter and summoned a snow sculpture, its gleaming feathers shimmering like frost. The creature snatched the letter and soared off from The Golden Crucible's editorial office.
By chance—or perhaps by design—Gideon was at the Ministry of Magic that day, sipping tea with an old friend in the Wizengamot's chambers. The snow sculpture circled the bustling Ministry, dodging owls and memos, until it spotted Gideon through a window. With a haughty swoop, it delivered the letter.
Gideon opened it, scanning the words that masked inquiries as congratulations. A sly smile crept across his face. He took a quill, wrote a brief reply—"Just some clever tricks"—and handed it back to the snow sculpture, which flapped off with an indignant squawk.
Gideon lifted his teacup, took a leisurely sip, and leaned back, looking thoroughly pleased.
Back at the editorial office, the young editor rushed the reply to the editor-in-chief.
Reading Gideon's note, the editor-in-chief grinned, then turned to the young editor with a sharp command. "Retypeset the issue immediately. Finish before printing starts. Add this paper on the improved Forgetfulness Potion, place it second, and highlight his status as a Hogwarts first-year!"
"Understood!" the young editor replied, already hurrying to the typesetting room.
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Author's Note:
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