A little story began to circulate in the Borderlands.
A black cat that rarely appeared would show itself, and any wizard who met it was supposed to greet it with the calmest, happiest composure—
and then wait for good luck.
In the Muggle world, black cats often symbolize bad omens—something frightening and mysterious;
but in the Borderlands, where only wizard souls exist, the spirits believed the tale easily, almost lightly.
A wizard obsessed with adventure passed through a forest. He saw barren ground bloom with flowers, nodded in satisfaction, and carried the story away.
A kindly old grandmother passed through the same forest. Smiling, she stroked the roses in full bloom, picked up a seed, and continued down another path.
Then came a stern-looking middle-aged man. If Sean had been there, he would have recognized him at once—he looked exactly like the statue Sean had seen in the Chamber of Secrets, only with an even longer face.
The man cast a cold glance at the wooden cottage that had risen on the wasteland, took his staff, and departed without a word.
And so the story spread—
through four people.
Inside the cottage,
the fireplace burned, flames swaying, warm as it had been ten centuries ago.
They sat quietly, speaking only now and then.
Inevitably, the conversation turned to a cat—
a cat with pitch-black fur.
"Like the stars…"
Helena said softly, her voice low.
"Stars in the night—silent as constellations, distant and bright.
When you need them, you don't need words. You just have to lift your head.
The stars will walk with you for a while."
Rowena listened, her book set far away, a smile on her face.
…
By the Black Lake, there were no longer wizards running everywhere. The Forbidden Forest had blurred into an indistinct shadow.
Hogwarts had fallen asleep.
It was a night when the stars shone unusually bright.
Sean walked the corridors where portraits murmured to one another, the wizard's book stuffed with old books he'd taken from Rowena Ravenclaw's study.
Owl Gentleman had given them to him, and told him:
"In the wizarding world, the continuation of knowledge comes first."
On yellowed parchment were secrets of the magical world—things like the Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance.
It made Sean's steps noticeably lighter.
[Wizards who have been lucky enough to witness the process (I like to sit quietly in this tower for several hours, hoping to observe their movements) generally agree that the judgment of the Quill of Acceptance is far more forgiving than that of the Book of Admittance.
The tiniest hint of magic is enough to stir the Quill of Acceptance. But then the Book of Admittance will snap shut with a "bang," refusing to be written in until it has received sufficiently obvious proof of magical ability.]
Interesting.
Sean kept reading:
[In fact, the Book of Admittance is so strict for a reason:
Its record of rejecting Squibs at Hogwarts' doors is nearly flawless. Children born to wizard parents but lacking magic may occasionally carry a faint residual magical trace around them because of their parents.
But once their parents' magic no longer surrounds them, it becomes clear they have no spellcasting ability whatsoever.
The Book of Admittance rejects such people.
The Quill of Acceptance's sensitivity, paired with the Book's strictness, has never made a single mistake.]
A fascinating piece of magical craftsmanship.
Sean thought so—and hoped there would be even more intriguing entries ahead.
He was walking, absorbed in the wizarding world, when a door suddenly opened—
and pulled him inside.
"Headmaster Dumbledore?"
Sean looked around the familiar circular office and, as if realizing something, steadied himself.
"I've been wanting to talk with you," Dumbledore said with a smile, examining him, his long fingers steepled together.
"I have to ask, Sean—do you have anything you'd like to tell me," he said gently, "anything at all?"
"Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore."
Sean answered immediately.
"Oh-ho-ho…"
Dumbledore's beard quivered as he broke into a pleased expression.
They sat in the headmaster's chairs. Through the steam of his tea, Dumbledore watched the boy, as though deciding where to begin.
"At Ilvermorny…"
Sean took out a book dusted with a few purple blossoms from a repose ritual. The cover read The Book of Ghosts.
"Headmistress Isolt taught me some things about ghosts. Isolt herself was a ghost, actually.
And then…"
Dumbledore listened, smiling, and asked,
"And then?"
"I sent her on."
Sean told the truth plainly.
"Oh-ho-ho—"
Dumbledore's smile froze for a fraction of a second—then his beard shook again, warmly amused.
"Death is an anniversary for the living, but for ghosts, it's the holiday of finally finding rest," Sean added.
"It sounds like the next time you go to the Borderlands, you've gained a signpost," Dumbledore said, looking out into the quiet dark beyond the windows.
"Yes, Headmaster. And I've already met Isolt again.
I asked her to help me look for some… particular people."
"Ah…"
Dumbledore's expression turned heavy. It took effort for him to ask,
"Then did Headmistress Searle…?"
Sean shook his head lightly.
"No. Lady Searle told me that two souls' paths don't easily intersect.
But she did find a very special witch."
The kettle in the office boiled, bubbling loudly, interrupting them for a few seconds.
"What you've seen, what you're searching for, is a realm the records say no one has ever truly reached.
Sean—who did you meet?"
Dumbledore was still gentle.
"Lady Ravenclaw."
As Sean said it, the snow piled along the edge of the office roof finally gave way, sliding off into the castle grounds below with a soft whump.
"A fascinating story," Dumbledore said with a smile.
"Mmm…"
Sean sat back. Of course he understood Dumbledore—understood the wish an old man might carry.
Still, he felt a faint, quiet disappointment.
"Walk slowly, and walk steadily, Mr. Green.
You know that's the right way.
All right—then what did you do next? That book in your hands… is it one of Ravenclaw's legacies?
Honestly, even I don't know the Book of Admittance in such detail."
Dumbledore took a sip of tea, steam fogging his lashes.
"I sent on the Grey Lady."
Sean continued.
"Oh—cough cough…"
Dumbledore actually choked a little—an unusually rare sight.
"Well, well. I suppose you didn't hold a celebration for her like Sir Nicholas would?"
His tone carried a faint trace of teasing.
As for sending on Ravenclaw's ghost… well. Some wizards simply required a broader kind of tolerance.
"I don't think that was necessary…"
Sean considered it seriously. After all, for a ghost, it was the greatest holiday—something as important as a wizard's birthday.
Even if he himself had never celebrated his own.
~~~
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