Time stretched long and slow.
Sean only felt as if he had had an exceptionally strange dream. Faint beige mist still lingered on the soft bed.
He woke up.
Michael was still asleep.
His sleeping posture could not exactly be called good, so Sean occasionally had to flick his fingers lightly and use magic to tug the blanket back over him.
Otherwise, in a place as cold and damp as the Scottish Highlands, catching a cold was a very common thing.
As common as ham with fried eggs.
What happened yesterday?
Sean could not quite remember.
He seemed to have seen Gryffindor. Oh, and Teacher Ravenclaw too.
They had walked together through a very special little town. Sean remembered that town had melodious bells and a sunset that dyed the whole sky red.
And the rest?
He vaguely remembered Headmaster Dumbledore, and someone else.
"Ariana…"
When he murmured that name, even he himself was startled.
To say nothing of the old wizard and the portraits eavesdropping outside the door.
So something important must have happened in the Borderland yesterday. But why could he not remember any of it?
It was as if—
his memories had faded.
"—Mist of Forgiveness—"
Another name slipped from his lips. This time, the beige mist actually stirred gently and drifted toward him.
Before his slightly widened eyes, he saw it strike his forehead, then coil around and float into the Void Talisman.
Only then did he realize that his Void Talisman had actually cracked with two such large fissures!
At the same time, in another part of the Borderland—
"So that's why you didn't say anything?"
Gryffindor asked carelessly, holding the scarlet sword.
"One forgets eventually."
Ravenclaw replied faintly.
"But that doesn't mean it never happened."
Gryffindor's voice carried far.
"This is a story that happened in someone's dream, but who says that means it isn't real?"
"The more one remembers, the more one cares. And caring makes one foolish."
Ravenclaw gently plucked a pure white daisy and placed it into a flowerpot she casually conjured.
She guessed dear "Miss Gray" would like it.
Like all the witches of the Borderland, she paid special attention to small white flowers.
They believed pure white flowers represented a pure heart, and that Mr. God would like such flowers.
"Ah—"
Gryffindor fell silent for a while.
"How long do you think the Borderland will take to welcome him?"
"I hope it is infinitely long. But things never change just because wizards wish them to."
Ravenclaw slowly straightened.
"A soul that has journeyed far must find something."
"Well, that's a dampener. Rarely have I been so unwilling to see a wizard."
Gryffindor worriedly spat out the blade of grass he had been holding in his mouth.
"Then you shouldn't have told him."
Ravenclaw stared straight into his eyes.
"The Borderland never promises power that comes easily. Everything here has a beginning and an end. You revealed the fact that certain special wizards can trade with the world beyond the Veil. When he needs it, he will use it. Now it has already claimed part of its payment."
"A knight is not a greedy person."
Gryffindor quickly distanced himself from blame.
"Except when fighting for everything he stands by."
Ravenclaw added, glancing sideways at the scars on Gryffindor's face.
"Rowena—the boundary between life and death is not that easy to blur."
Gryffindor muttered.
"Godric."
Ravenclaw's voice grew much more serious, and Gryffindor instinctively straightened his back.
He looked at Ravenclaw, his face full of unnatural awkwardness.
"How has Helga been lately?"
But Ravenclaw only gave him a warning look before turning toward a gentle witch carrying several flowerpots, with plants draped over her shoulders.
The corners of Ravenclaw's mouth lifted slightly, and her usually cool eyes narrowed a little.
Oh, it had been decades since he had seen her this gentle.
Gryffindor thought.
And never toward him.
Especially after he had accidentally let slip the matter of the diadem.
From that moment on, they had not seen each other for many years.
Rowena's heart was separated from them by thick walls, and finding her wooden cottage had become as difficult as climbing to the heavens.
Fortunately, she had moved into this little town.
Gryffindor's mouth curved broadly upward, and he boldly embraced Hufflepuff.
He even proudly told her to take a good look at this town.
"Godric, where is the child?"
Lady Hufflepuff also hugged him with reserved warmth, then revealed a curious expression.
"You came too late, Helga. He left long ago, and he forgot everything too. Here—this town is his work.
"What he forgot over there bore fruit here."
Gryffindor raised his brows as he spoke.
What he said was also an ancient maxim of the Borderland, as old as "May wisdom and the soul never fade" and "May the Mist of Integrity and Judgment avoid you."
The full saying was:
What fades from a wizard over there becomes eternity over here; what a wizard takes over there is paid for with the soul over here.
If a living wizard heard those words, perhaps they would understand the second half.
Was that not Dark Magic?
Wizards used Dark Magic to accomplish cruel things and seize power and status, but they also polluted their own souls.
Some went even further and split them.
When they arrived in the Borderland, Ravenclaw would admire their miserable state and comment:
"They got exactly what they wanted."
"A sorrowful regret."
In the town, Helga's feelings were written all over her face.
The flowers on her shoulders drooped at the same time.
"Not necessarily. He will return. Oh, I only hope that when he comes, he leaves quickly. It would be bad if he stayed here."
Gryffindor said.
"Then I will live here. Dear Rowena, may I have the honor of becoming your neighbor?"
Lady Hufflepuff's sense of propriety was always perfect.
"I need to ask Gray."
Through the lingering bells, through the distant wooden cottage window, Ravenclaw seemed to see the witch busily arranging flowers.
"Gray? You call her that? That's too much, Rowena."
Hufflepuff was a little surprised, and the flowers on her shoulders all stood up.
From what their students had told them, "the Gray Lady" could hardly be considered a good title.
Especially in the Borderland, where ghosts were feared.
How would the wizards here know whose companion or relative a ghost might be?
A ghost, in the Borderland, meant—
never meeting again.
"That custom has already been broken, remember, Helga?"
Ravenclaw said gently.
Her eyes held a tolerance Gryffindor had never received.
He felt inexplicably annoyed, yet could not understand why. Red mist circled near his head.
"Oh, it's that child…"
Hufflepuff murmured. Before long, tears had moistened her eyes.
"He is a good child, isn't he?"
"Perhaps my finest student."
Ravenclaw smiled faintly.
"That isn't fair! That should be—and besides, you only have one student. Where does 'perhaps' come from? You're just showing off—"
Gryffindor muttered loudly from the side, and mist gradually spread around him.
Until the mist vanished completely, Sean still had not figured out why the Void Talisman had cracked.
The important question was: could he still enter and leave the Borderland?
Thinking of the timid witch in the middle of the grass, he frowned with worry.
Fortunately, another matter distracted him.
As usual, after waking, he opened the panel to observe the progress of his Soul Transfiguration proficiency.
And to record how long he had stayed in the Borderland.
This time, he froze.
[You practiced Soul Transfiguration once at Legendary standard. Proficiency level +1]
[Soul Transfiguration proficiency level has increased]
[You practiced Soul Transfiguration once at Legendary standard. Proficiency level +1]
[Soul Transfiguration proficiency level has increased]
What was this?
Sean quickly looked down.
[Name: Sean Green]
[Transfiguration Talent: Purple (enhanced by Transfiguration Master title). Note: An ordinary wizard is Green.]
[Transfiguration Categories:]
[Magical Transfiguration: Expert (14500/30000)]
[Material Transfiguration: Expert (1300/30000)]
[Soul Transfiguration: Master (550/3000000)]
[Evaluation: A wizard whose Transfiguration has reached Master level is outstanding even among elites, enough to fight multiple wizards who have only barely stepped into Master level.]
His Soul Transfiguration had reached Master?
Sean still found it difficult to believe.
He gripped his wand and waved it firmly. In the blink of an eye, the wizard on the bed vanished, leaving only an owl-like creature staring wide-eyed around the room.
Sean had never felt his own "magical circuit" was as easy to understand as it was now. He even felt that if he wanted, he could transform into the appearance of other wizards.
Of course, that would require a deep understanding of another wizard's magical circuit.
Perhaps this was the secret of a Metamorphmagus?
Sean thought.
But—
at Legendary standard—
What had happened last night?
He thought Headmaster Dumbledore should know.
He pushed open the dormitory door. The Ravenclaw common room had, as usual, neither too many nor too few wizards.
Most of them were scattered in corners of the common room. A place close to the fire yet undisturbed was what Ravenclaw students liked most.
The cheerful atmosphere of Christmas still lingered.
On a late-December morning, Hogwarts had just woken from sleep. Several feet of snow covered everything outside, and the lake was frozen with hard ice.
The Weasley twins had been punished, because they had spent all day spreading strange theories in front of a certain young wizard. This morning, Professor McGonagall had finally lost patience and caught them for detention.
"If great Green isn't Headmaster—"
"Ha! Then we'll get rid of the new Headmaster—"
Sean guessed that was the root of Professor McGonagall's fury.
No matter the circumstances, students should at least not say things like getting rid of the Headmaster.
Unless she was Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Headmistress Umbridge.
Beside the two Mr. Weasleys' tragic expressions, the portraits' conversation made Sean pause.
"Oh, he truly is a good Headmaster, isn't he?"
Lady Violet, graceful and gentle in a white dress, said softly.
"Perhaps he is testing him! Ha! A trial!"
the knight leading the small pony said.
"He'll pass. No one is more suited than him! Everyone will know in the end!"
"Relax, Sir. No one tests a sleeping child."
Lady Violet said helplessly.
"He's worried about him."
"That is true—"
Sir Cadogan seemed to have become more easily persuaded by Lady Violet recently.
"Sir, look, little Green is here!"
the Fat Lady said in delight.
Sean also approached the portraits.
"Good morning, Sir Cadogan, Lady Violet, Fat Lady."
"Oh my, our new little Headmaster—"
The Fat Lady's tone was full of teasing.
"I said he would accomplish great things."
Sir Cadogan looked proud. He seemed to want to pat Sean on the shoulder, but he had clearly forgotten that he was a portrait.
"Go on, now. Headmaster Dumbledore is waiting for you. Perhaps he was too anxious. I have never seen him come to a young wizard's door before."
Lady Violet said gently.
"I understand, madam."
Sean's steps toward the Headmaster's office quickened.
What exactly happened last night?
What had caused Soul Transfiguration proficiency to soar so much?
If Headmaster Dumbledore and he had both fallen into the same dream, Sean could only think of one thing. Could it be what he imagined?
The stone gargoyle was completely still now.
Even if it suddenly opened its mouth and asked whether he wanted to change the password to the Headmaster's office, Sean would not have been surprised.
Beside the steaming windowsill, Dumbledore stared deeply out the window.
He seemed to ignore all sound around him.
His thoughts had flown beyond time.
Sean felt that he must have been sitting here for a long time.
And the truth was exactly as Sean imagined.
Because the Borderland always tried to keep him, by the time Dumbledore woke up, Sean was still in the Borderland.
There was a gap of time between them. Not too much, not too little, just enough for an old wizard to adapt to a completely different reality.
Hogwarts at four in the morning.
Dumbledore had just woken, while Hogwarts Castle was still asleep.
The Headmaster's office was soaked in a diluted ink-blue color somewhere between night and dawn.
Outside the window, the outline of the Whomping Willow could just barely be distinguished in the sky's dim light. On his perch, Fawkes had buried his beak in the feathers on his chest, occasionally giving one or two low, dreamlike cries. The sound spread through the silence, struck the stone walls, and was swallowed by the bookshelves.
Dumbledore did not stand at once.
He sat in his chair for a long time, his back against the cold wood, feeling his body grow heavy again.
Breathing required strength. A heartbeat required strength. Blinking required strength. It was no longer the weightless feeling from the illusion, where he might scatter into points of light.
Slowly, he sat up.
His half-moon spectacles had slipped off his nose at some point and were lying crooked at the edge of the carpet.
He reached for them. The moment his fingertips touched the frame, he suddenly stopped.
His fingers were trembling.
Perhaps it was the cold of the Scottish Highlands. Perhaps it was because a man who had carried something for a hundred years had suddenly discovered the weight on his shoulders was gone, and had not yet learned how to put it down.
He put on the spectacles.
The world became clear again.
The page beside him was still open to the same line as before he left.
The silver substance in the Pensieve slowly swirled, like a miniature, silent night sky.
The parchment spread on the desk still held the ink blot that had dripped when he dipped his quill.
Everything was exactly as it had been when he left.
And yet it was not the same.
Everything had changed.
He could not say what had changed until he rose and walked to the window. Only then did he suddenly realize that he was standing in Hogwarts at four in the morning, watching the world outside.
He had never done this at such an hour before.
In the past, what was this time used for? Writing letters on parchment, one after another, to the Ministry, to the Board of Governors, to all manner of people who needed to be appeased, persuaded, or gently refused. Or, when the quill ran aground beside the inkwell, he would remove his spectacles, bury his face in his hands, and wait for dawn to arrive on time like an interrogator.
The window glass reflected his face: lined with wrinkles, two deep marks pressed into the bridge of his nose by the spectacles, his cheekbones standing sharply beneath the skin.
But he noticed that the ring of red around his eyes, which had lingered for years, had disappeared at some unknown moment.
He reached out and pushed the window open.
Dawn wind poured in, carrying the chill of lake water, pine needles, and distant jasmine.
The calendar sheets on the desk behind him fluttered noisily.
The candle flame shook violently but did not go out.
He took a deep breath. Cold air filled his lungs. In that instant, there was even a faint stab of pain. This old body, on this morning, faithfully reminded him that he was still alive.
Alive.
For the first time, that word was no longer a sentence.
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, morning mist had already risen, floating thinly over the ground.
A Thestral passed through the mist and silently merged into the shadows of the trees.
When he realized he could see the Thestral, the corners of his mouth moved.
Yes. Of course he could see it. He had seen death, and more than enough of it.
Only before, each time he saw one, it had been a judgment. Only this morning, that Thestral walked from the mist and disappeared back into it like an unfinished, gentle forgiveness.
He looked down at the windowsill before him.
He noticed a daisy beside the moss.
A very tiny one, peeking out from between the cracks in the stone. Its petals were white, trembling gently in the morning wind.
This was not a place where daisies should grow. There was only dust on the stone bricks, no soil; only shadow, no sunlight.
But it was there, stubbornly and quietly blooming.
Albus stared at that flower for a long time. His breath stopped for a beat, then resumed, a little lighter than before.
Outside the window, the first true golden-red ray of morning light finally crossed the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. Like melted honey, it slowly flowed in through the window, first falling on the back of the hand he had placed on the sill, then climbing inch by inch up his wrist, arm, and shoulder, until finally, completely, it rested on his wrinkled face.
He did not turn away from it as he usually did.
He stood there, letting the sunlight shine on him.
Behind the crescent lenses, his blue eyes reflected the sky and looked unexpectedly clear.
The storm had passed. Snow had not fallen.
The sky was clearing.
He turned and walked to the desk.
An unfinished letter lay on it, addressed to the Ministry of Magic.
The parchment had wrinkled, and the ink had long since dried.
He pulled out the chair, sat down, and picked up his quill.
Then he stopped.
The tip of the quill hovered three inches above the parchment for a long time without falling.
He was thinking what to say, how to say it, what words would be polite while still conveying his will.
These were questions he had never needed to think about before. The answer had always been ready: for the greater good, for order, for everyone's safety, he ought to—
Ought to.
He put down the quill.
Not today.
Today, he did not want to write any letters.
Today, he wanted to do only one thing.
He stood again and walked to the bookshelf.
There was an old leather-bound booklet there, tucked between two thick histories of magic. Because of its age, its cover had faded into an almost unrecognizable color. He pulled out the booklet and brushed the dust away with his thumb.
He opened it.
Pressed inside the first page was a flattened, withered daisy. Its petals were so thin they were almost transparent, as if one more touch would crumble them into dust. It had been sealed here for nearly a century.
Albus lowered his head and gently kissed that dried flower.
Then he turned to the final page—the final page that had remained blank for an entire hundred years—and lifted the quill he had just set aside. In his meticulous slanted handwriting, he wrote the ending of the book:
Next time, I will find you too, dear Anna.
He put down the quill and closed the booklet.
Morning sunlight had now completely covered the desk.
Fawkes had returned at some point, perching on the windowsill and tilting his head, watching him with black eyes.
Dumbledore smiled at him.
Then he pushed open the door of the Headmaster's office, walked into the corridor, and stepped into the world.
The torches on both sides of the corridor had not yet gone out, making gentle crackling sounds.
Various portraits hung on the stone walls. Most of them were still dozing.
When he passed, a knight in one of the frames opened one eye slightly and mumbled sleepily,
"—Morning."
Dumbledore stopped.
"Morning."
He continued walking.
His footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridor, neither fast nor slow, neither hurried nor idle.
His robes gave off a faint soft glow against the dark stone walls.
Without realizing it, he arrived at Ravenclaw Tower. Hogwarts' doors always opened a crack for him.
He saw that child wake with a confused expression.
And then—
turn into an owl.
The strange sight made him silently close the door.
Had he opened it the wrong way?
He returned to the Headmaster's office.
"So, can you tell me what happened?"
When the black-haired young wizard before him asked that question, Dumbledore's distant attention was pulled back into the present.
He abruptly stood up.
Sean silently stepped back.