Chapter 585: Exploding Proficiency
Time felt as though it had been stretched thin, pulled into a long, slow ribbon.
Sean woke with the lingering sensation of a dream so vivid it had left physical
traces behind—wisps of milky-white mist still clung to the fabric of his duvet.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Across the room, Michael Corner was still fast
asleep, his snoring rhythmic and loud. Michael's sleeping habits left much to be
desired; Sean occasionally had to flick a finger to magically pull the blankets
back over his roommate to prevent the damp Highland chill from turning into a
morning cold.
What happened yesterday? Sean wondered.
The memories were blurry, like an old photograph left in the sun. He remembered
Godric Gryffindor. He remembered Rowena Ravenclaw. He remembered walking through
a beautiful, silent town where the bells tolled at sunset and the sky was the
color of a bruised peach.
And then there was one more name...
"Ariana..."
The moment he whispered the name, Sean startled himself. Outside the door, the
portraits and the stone gargoyles seemed to hold their breath. He knew something
monumental had occurred in the Lands Between, but the details were fading, the
colors of the memory bleaching into white.
"The Mists of Forgiveness..."
He spoke the phrase aloud. This time, the white vapor on his bed didn't vanish.
It surged forward, swirling around his head before diving into the Void Rune on
his chest. Only then did Sean notice the state of the artifact.
The Rune was marred by two massive, glowing fractures.
The World Behind the Veil.
"Is that why you said nothing?" Godric Gryffindor asked, leaning on the hilt of
his ruby-hilted blade.
"They always forget," Rowena Ravenclaw replied flatly.
"But that doesn't mean it didn't happen," Gryffindor noted, looking out over the
misty horizon. "It was a story born in a dream, but in this realm, who is to say
what is real and what is a shadow?"
"The more one remembers, the more one obsesses. Obsession leads to stupidity,"
Rowena said softly. She reached down and plucked a single, white daisy from the
grass, placing it into a conjured stone pot. She suspected the "Grey Lady" would
appreciate the gesture.
Like most of the women who wandered this realm, Rowena had a soft spot for
small, white flowers. To them, the purity of the blossom represented a clean
soul—something they believed the "Divine" favored.
"Ah..." Gryffindor sighed. "How long until the Lands Between brings him back to
us?"
"I hope it is an eternity. But the world rarely cares for a wizard's
expectations." Rowena straightened her back. "A wandering soul must eventually
find what it seeks."
"That's a dampener on the mood. I've rarely wanted to see a wizard less than I
want to see him," Godric grumbled, spitting out a piece of straw he'd been
chewing on.
"Then you shouldn't have told him the secret," Rowena countered, fixing him with
a piercing gaze. "The Lands Between never grants power without a price.
Everything here has a beginning and an end. You told him that a Knight could
trade with the Veil. He had a need, so he used that right. Now, the realm has
taken its payment."
"A Knight is never greedy," Gryffindor said defensively.
"Except when they are fighting for the things they love," Rowena added, glancing
at the scars on his face.
"Rowena... the boundary between life and death isn't meant to be blurred so
easily," Godric muttered.
"Godric."
Her voice turned stern, and the legendary warrior instinctively straightened his
spine. He looked at her, his expression awkward and stiff.
"Helga, how have you been?"
Ravenclaw ignored Godric's discomfort and turned to greet a gentle, warm-eyed
witch who was approaching them. The newcomer was carrying several flowerpots,
and a small, magical vine was perched affectionately on her shoulder.
The corners of Rowena's mouth lifted in a rare, genuine smile. Godric watched in
awe; he hadn't seen her look that soft in decades. She certainly never looked at
him that way—especially not after he'd let slip the secret of her lost diadem
all those years ago. They had spent a long time in silence because of that
blunder.
Godric's grin returned as he stepped forward to embrace Helga Hufflepuff,
showing off the new town that had sprouted from the mist.
"Godric, where is the boy?" Helga asked after the greeting, her eyes full of
curiosity.
"You're too late, Helga. He's already gone, and he's forgotten most of it,"
Godric said, gesturing to the houses around them. "This town is his harvest. The
things a wizard loses on the 'other side' grow into their final form here."
He was quoting an ancient proverb of the Veil: "That which fades for the living
becomes eternal for the dead; that which the living demand is paid for in soul."
It was the fundamental logic of the Dark Arts. A wizard used dark magic to
demand power and status, but the "payment" was a stain upon the soul. Some even
split their spirits entirely. When such wizards arrived in the Lands Between,
Rowena would often observe their wretched state and remark: "They have received
exactly what they sought."
"A tragic regret," Helga sighed, her shoulders drooping in sync with the flowers
on her shoulder.
"Not necessarily," Godric said. "He'll be back. I just hope that when he
arrives, he doesn't stay too long. This is no place for a living boy."
"Then I shall stay here for a while," Helga decided. "Rowena, dear, may I have
the honor of being your neighbor?"
"I'll have to ask Helena," Rowena said, looking through the windows of a nearby
cottage toward a witch busy organizing blossoms.
"You call her that now? Bold of you, Rowena," Helga teased. The name "The Grey
Lady" was not considered a polite title in the Lands Between, especially since
being a ghost here usually meant a soul was condemned to "Never Meet Again."
"The rules have been broken, Helga. Have you forgotten?" Rowena asked gently.
"Oh... the boy," Helga whispered, her eyes turning misty. "He is a good lad,
isn't he?"
"Perhaps my finest student," Rowena smiled.
"That's not fair! You only have one student! You're just showing off!"
Gryffindor grumbled, a plume of red mist rising from his head as the Mists of
Judgment began to swirl once more.
Back in the castle, Sean was still staring at the cracks in the Void Rune. Can I
still enter the Veil? he wondered. He thought of Ariana standing in the center
of the lawn and felt a sharp pang of worry.
He pushed the thought aside as he opened his system panel for his post-sleep
review. He froze.
[You have practiced Soul Transfiguration at a Legendary Standard. Level Up!]
[Soul Transfiguration proficiency has increased.] [You have practiced Soul
Transfiguration at a Legendary Standard. Level Up!] [Soul Transfiguration
proficiency has increased.]
"What...?"
Sean scrolled down, his breath hitching.
[Name: Sean Green] [Transfiguration Talent: Purple (Transfiguration Master title
active)] [Transfiguration Branches:]
- Magical Transfiguration: Expert (14,500/30,000)
- Material Transfiguration: Expert (1,300/30,000)
- Soul Transfiguration: [MASTER] (550/3,000,000)
His Soul Transfiguration had bypassed the [Expert] rank entirely and jumped
straight to [Master].
He gripped his wand and gave it a sharp, decisive wave. In the blink of an eye,
the wizard vanished from the bed. In his place sat a small, snowy-owl-like
creature, its large eyes blinking as it scanned the room.
Sean had never felt his "Magical Circuit" so clearly. The internal architecture
of his own soul was no longer a mystery; it was a map he could read with perfect
clarity. He felt that if he truly desired it, he could even mimic the magical
circuits of other wizards.
Is this the secret of the Metamorphmagus? he wondered.
But how had it happened? "Legendary Standard"? What had occurred in the dream?
He suspected Dumbledore would have the answers.
Sean stepped out of the Ravenclaw dorms. The common room was sparsely populated,
as most students were still sleeping off the Christmas feast. Those who were
awake were huddled near the fire, enjoying the rare peace of the blue-and-bronze
sanctuary.
The holiday cheer still lingered in the air. It was late December, and Hogwarts
was slowly waking up to a world buried under several feet of snow. The Great
Lake was a solid sheet of ice.
As he walked, he spotted Fred and George Weasley. They were currently serving a
detention under the watchful eye of Professor McGonagall for "distributing
unauthorized succession theories."
"If the Great Green isn't the Headmaster—" "Then we shall have to remove the
current one—"
Sean winced. He suspected that was the exact moment McGonagall had lost her
temper. One does not speak of "removing" Albus Dumbledore in front of Minerva
McGonagall.
Near the corridor walls, the portraits were engaged in their own debate.
"He's a fine choice for Headmaster, don't you think?" the elegant Lady Violet
whispered.
"It's a test! Ha! A grand trial!" Sir Cadogan shouted from his pony. "He shall
pass! No one is better suited! The world shall know his name!"
"Calm down, Sir Cadogan. No one is 'testing' a child while he sleeps," Lady
Violet sighed. "The Headmaster is simply looking out for him."
"I suppose..." The knight had become remarkably easy for Lady Violet to manage
lately.
"Look! Here comes little Green now!" the Fat Lady cried happily.
Sean approached the portraits. "Sir Cadogan, Lady Violet, Madam... good
morning."
"Ah, our new little Headmaster..." the Fat Lady teased.
"I told you he was destined for glory!" Sir Cadogan beamed. He reached out to
pat Sean on the shoulder, seemingly forgetting that he was made of oil and
canvas.
"Off you go, Sean. Professor Dumbledore is waiting for you," Lady Violet said
gently. "He seemed quite anxious. I've never seen him pace outside a student's
door before."
"I understand, my lady," Sean said, quickening his pace.
The Headmaster's Office.
The stone gargoyle was already stationary, the door standing open as if
expecting him.
Inside, Albus Dumbledore was standing by the window, his gaze fixed on the snowy
grounds. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, his mind clearly
traversing a different timeline. Sean got the feeling the old man had been
standing there for hours.
He was right.
Dumbledore had woken at 4 AM, while Sean was still anchoring the Lands Between.
The gap in time had given the Headmaster exactly enough room to adjust to a
reality that was fundamentally different from the one he had lived in for a
century.
At four in the morning, Hogwarts had been a sanctuary of ink-blue shadows.
Dumbledore hadn't stood up immediately. He had sat in his chair, feeling the
weight of his physical body return—the ache in his knees, the beat of his heart,
the effort of drawing breath. It lacked the light, ethereal quality of the
dreamscape.
He had fumbled for his glasses, finding them crooked on the carpet. As his
fingers touched the frames, he had frozen. His hands were shaking. Not from the
cold, but from the sudden, terrifying absence of a burden he had carried for a
hundred years. He hadn't yet learned how to stand without the weight.
He put his glasses on. The world snapped into focus. The books were where he had
left them. The Pensieve was still swirling with silver light. A single ink-blot
remained on his unfinished letter to the Ministry.
Everything was the same. Yet everything was different.
He stood up and walked to the window. He had never simply watched the dawn
before. Usually, this hour was reserved for frantic correspondence or moments of
deep, dark despair.
The glass reflected a face that was deeply lined, but he noticed that the
persistent redness around his eyes—the mark of a century of private weeping—had
vanished.
He pushed the window open. The scent of pine and distant jasmine rushed in. The
cold air stung his lungs, a sharp reminder that he was alive. For the first
time, "being alive" didn't feel like a sentence.
At the edge of the Forest, a Thestral moved through the mist. Albus realized he
could see it. He had seen enough death for a dozen lifetimes. But this morning,
the creature didn't look like a symbol of judgment. It looked like a gentle,
silent witness to a tragedy that had finally ended.
He looked down at the windowsill and saw a single daisy.
It was a tiny thing, growing from a crack in the ancient stone. There was no
soil there, only dust and shadow. Yet it was blooming, white and stubborn.
Albus stared at the flower for a long time. His breath hitched, then smoothed
into a soft, steady rhythm.
The first ray of golden-red sun crested the trees, flowing into the office like
melted honey. It touched his hand, his arm, and finally, his face. He didn't
turn away. He let the light wash over him.
The storm was over. The sky was clearing.
He turned back to his desk and looked at the unfinished letter to the Ministry.
The parchment was wrinkled, the ink long dry. He picked up his quill.
Then he stopped.
Not today. He didn't want to write to the Ministry today. He only wanted to do
one thing.
He walked to his bookshelf and pulled out an old, leather-bound volume wedged
between two heavy histories of magic. The cover was faded to a nameless color.
He brushed the dust away and opened it.
On the first page was a pressed, yellowed daisy. It was thin and transparent,
ready to crumble at a touch. It had been preserved there for nearly a hundred
years.
Albus leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the dried flower. Then he turned to
the very last page—the one that had been blank for a century—and in his elegant,
slanted script, he wrote the conclusion to his own story:
"Next time, I will find you too, dear Anna."
He closed the book just as Fawkes glided back into the room, landing on the sill
to watch him with obsidian eyes. Dumbledore offered the bird a smile and walked
out into the corridor.
The torches were still flickering. The portraits were mostly dozing. As he
passed Sir Cadogan's frame, the knight cracked an eye and muttered,
"...Morning."
"Morning," Albus replied.
He walked toward the Ravenclaw Tower, the castle doors opening for him as they
always did. He watched Sean wake up in his bed. He watched the boy look muddled
and confused.
And then... he watched the boy turn into an owl.
Albus quietly closed the door. Perhaps I should have knocked, he thought.
Back in the present, Sean stared at the Headmaster. "So, sir... can you tell me
what happened?"
Dumbledore's far-off gaze snapped back to the boy. He stood up abruptly, his
eyes bright with a light Sean had never seen before.
Sean instinctively took a step back.
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