"Wait a moment..."
Sagres took back the wand the other man handed him and called out to his future self.
He raised his left hand, revealing the faintly glowing spatiotemporal rune on the back of it.
"Did you ever give this time-travel magic a proper name?"
"You asked the right person!"
The future Sagres immediately broke into a triumphant smile.
He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and enunciated each word carefully.
"I named it the Supreme Invincible Trans-Temporal Projection and Emergency Rescue Charm."
He recited the absurdly long, deliberately ridiculous name with a perfectly straight face, then raised an eyebrow proudly and watched for the other's reaction.
The standing Sagres stared at him expressionlessly.
After two full seconds of silence, he nodded calmly and said only one word.
"Good."
The future Sagres seemed slightly disappointed by such a bland reaction.
He pouted, dropped the playful expression, and tilted his chin towards Sagres.
"Hand."
Sagres raised his left hand as instructed.
The future Sagres extended his index finger, and a restrained yet complex magical aura gathered at its tip.
He lightly touched the inside of Sagres's wrist.
A tiny, intricate brand slowly appeared there, resembling a simplified rune lock that faintly resonated with the main rune on the back of his hand.
"Remember this sensation," the future Sagres explained, his tone becoming more serious. "If you ever truly encounter a desperate situation that you cannot resolve on your own and need help, pour a large amount of magic into this mark all at once. As much as you can."
"It will act as both a beacon and a channel. Leave the rest to me."
Sagres lowered his gaze to the new mark on his wrist, sensing the peculiar connection within it.
"After injecting magic into it, do I need to maintain a particular posture or chant an incantation? And how long can the channel remain open?"
"Nothing that troublesome. Just focus on pouring magic into it and leave everything else to me."
The future Sagres shrugged.
"As for how long it lasts, that depends on the situation and on how long you can sustain it. Projecting consciousness across temporal turbulence consumes power on both sides."
Sagres nodded.
"Understood."
The future Sagres gave his present self one final look.
He said nothing more.
His figure gradually blurred like ink dissolving in water as the space around him began to distort slightly.
Just before he completely disappeared, the standing Sagres suddenly spoke.
His voice was not loud, but it reached the other man clearly.
"Have you gone back?"
The future Sagres's fading figure paused slightly.
A trace of genuine confusion seemed to cross his blurred face.
He instinctively asked, "Gone back where?"
Sagres watched that momentary, genuine reaction.
A complicated emotion flashed almost imperceptibly through his eyes.
Then he shook his head, his voice returning to its usual calm.
"Nothing."
Still looking faintly puzzled, the future Sagres gave him one last glance.
Then the spatial ripples swallowed his figure completely, and he vanished without a trace.
Silence returned to the study.
The firelight from the fireplace stretched and shortened Sagres's shadow across the room.
He lowered his gaze and stared expressionlessly at the newly branded mark on his wrist, which still emitted a faint magical glow.
He did not like this future version of himself.
Whether it was that lazy posture, as though he already knew everything, the frivolous way he treated a heavy past as casual conversation, or the possessiveness concealed beneath the guise of "help", all of it filled Sagres with instinctive disgust and vigilance.
Leaving a channel on his body that allowed another consciousness to descend into him?
That was practically the same as handing over the reins of his own fate.
And was this mark really limited to merely "inviting" his future self?
Sagres did not trust him.
Not in the slightest.
Without the slightest hesitation, Sagres raised his wand and pointed the tip directly at the mark on his wrist.
Magic gathered.
An extremely sharp silver blade of light formed out of thin air.
His eyes remained calm.
The blade flashed like lightning.
Sizzle...
The sound of burning flesh rang out.
A sharp sting followed as the branded piece of skin was cleanly cut away. Blood immediately welled from the wound, staining his wrist red.
Sagres did not wipe it away.
He simply watched as the severed fragment of skin, still faintly glowing even after leaving his body, fell from his wrist.
Before it could touch the floor, he lightly tapped his wand.
Pale Fiendfyre suddenly erupted, precisely engulfing the piece of flesh.
In an instant, both the skin and the intricately constructed magical brand upon it were completely incinerated, reduced to the finest ash before dissipating into the air.
"Heal as before."
The wound on his wrist closed instantly, but a scar remained.
Sagres did not deliberately remove it. Instead, he chose to keep it as a warning to himself.
He gently moved his wrist, still feeling the lingering pain where the skin had been cut away, but his eyes grew even calmer.
He did not need a protector from the future, and he certainly would not allow himself to become a puppet controlled from afar.
No matter how difficult or dangerous the road ahead became, he would walk it himself.
He raised his hand and looked once more at the spatiotemporal rune on the back of it, symbolising infinite possibilities and freedom.
The Möbius strip and Ouroboros continued to turn slowly, giving off a tranquil glow.
This is my own power.
He murmured the thought inwardly.
With the hidden danger on his wrist dealt with, Sagres turned his attention back to the desk.
He waved his wand expressionlessly, and the drawer slid open without a sound.
The shrunken Professor Elit Samdron had clearly not been idle.
He had built a crude ladder out of the miniature Standard Book of Spells and several enlarged owl treats. Now standing on tiptoe, he had pressed himself against one of the ventilation holes Sagres had deliberately left open and was trying to peer outside.
The sudden light and movement from the opening drawer clearly startled him.
He spun around, saw Sagres's icy gaze, and immediately looked embarrassed and panicked.
"I... I didn't see anything! Really! I've been concentrating on reading!"
Samdron hurriedly tried to climb down from his makeshift watchtower, nearly tripping in the process.
Sagres ignored the flimsy excuse.
He did not care how much Samdron had seen.
Without the slightest hesitation, he raised his wand.
"Stupefy."
A tiny flash of red light struck Samdron's miniature body with perfect accuracy.
His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed limply onto the pile of makeshift stepping stones, falling into a deep unconsciousness.
Sagres used a Levitation Charm to lift the unconscious miniature professor out of the drawer and place him on a nearby chair.
"Engorgio!"
Professor Samdron's tiny body rapidly expanded, quickly returning to normal human size.
He slumped sideways in the chair, breathing steadily as though merely asleep.
Sagres raised his wand again and pointed it at Samdron's temple. Silver light gleamed at the tip.
"Obliviate."
Powerful magic moved through Samdron's memories like a precise blade.
Every fragment involving Sagres, the replacement of his identity, and his imprisonment inside the drawer was carefully located and erased completely, like pencil marks being rubbed from a page.
Then Sagres began weaving new memories in their place.
He skilfully implanted and refined memories of everything he himself had done during this period: eliminating the giants in the Forbidden Forest, driving away the hostile goblins, dealing with the Church's Witch Hunting Squad, and rescuing the young witch Lilian.
He made Samdron believe that all these deeds had been accomplished through his own courage and judgement, while shaping the memories to fit Samdron's personality, complete with a sense of self-importance and, naturally, a lingering trace of fear.
Sagres gave the professor one final look.
After confirming that nothing had been missed, he silently left the room and departed Hogwarts.
The castle remained quiet, as though nothing had ever happened.
Only Professor Elit Samdron, sleeping with his head tilted in the chair, and the vague memories of a "hero" now resting in his mind, remained as proof that an unknown episode had once taken place there.
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