Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 584, Section 582: The Small Town

Albus started anew.

Rowing with his broken oar, I searched for the quiet yet stubborn black cat from my memory.

The storm swept across the border, and the fog gathered and dispersed repeatedly.

Albus searched for the source of the storm; he knew the child was there.

To linger for the prayers of all beings.

And it turned out exactly as he had imagined.

A distant land.

The fog, like ink splashed into clear water, surged and swallowed the last ray of sunlight.

The wind pressed in from the northwest, bending the tree trunks on the distant mountains, and the leaves turned out their silvery backs in alarm.

The air was filled with a peculiar atmosphere, damp and heavy.

A bolt of lightning tore the sky in two, followed by a clap of thunder. The rain pelted down at an angle, each drop like a pebble, whipping at the gathering mist.

"Stop, little Green—!"

Gryffindor is like a brave warrior challenging the gods, climbing step by step towards the summit of a distant mountain.

At the mountaintop, a colossal giant, so imposing that its neck could not be seen, wielded lightning, continuously striking the fading mist.

Even an eternal fog cannot gather immediately.

So they became even angrier.

The black cat's emerald green vertical pupils flashed with a cold, electric light, and the Titan-like giant ravaged the borderlands at its will.

"Ravenclaw, you haven't taught it anything at all!"

Gryffin was somewhat annoyed.

Around him, a red mist was gathering from a distant place.

Further away, the black cat sat atop the storm guard's shoulder.

It has forgotten what it was supposed to do, and it has forgotten where it is.

Only one special voice told it that it couldn't stop, because if it stopped, it would lose something.

And so it became angry for the first time in a long time. The Stormguard roared, its voice turning into a raging wind, and its arms lashed out with lightning.

"This can't go on—"

'

Gryffindor found themselves standing in the center of the mist, unnoticed.

Red mist gathered around him, floating like a crown not far above his head.

There was also some deeper white mist, drifting in from a lawn at dusk, from the white boundary.

"Then as your teacher, I'll be responsible for waking you up."

Gryffindor spread its arms wildly, and the fog of justice and judgment suddenly appeared.

He lowered his body slightly and charged through the thorns and brambles into the very heart of the storm.

It was enveloped in red mist, breaking through the storm's obstacles and becoming invincible.

But the battle ended in a way he never expected.

When the hero cleaved through the lightning and reached the summit, he encountered a sleeping god.

It lay wearily and quietly on the storm guard's shoulder, gently enveloped by some white mist.

Its ears were drooping and its tail was wagging slightly.

Gryffindor was stunned.

"Oh, it's the mist of compassion and forgiveness—"

He scratched his head. "It forgave its source."

When the storm subsided, surprisingly, the view outside the window was no longer that surging white void.

It was dusk that was about to fade away.

The sky is a gradient palette—near the horizon a rich, ripe tangerine, then rising to a rose gold, then a pale violet, finally merging with a wisp of lingering blue night sky at the highest point.

The skyline is no longer a blurry fog, but a clear silhouette of rooftops rising and falling.

An unknown town seemed to spring up spontaneously from nothingness.

Ravenclaw and Gryffindor walked through the town.

"Is this its town?"

Gryffindor looked around without any hesitation. "Oh, why aren't there this many people where I am?"

-

"Oh"

Ravenclaw laughed mockingly.

The curve of her lips disappeared in an instant, as if Gryffindor had just witnessed an illusion.

"Royna, you were just laughing at me, weren't you?"

"Gryffindor asked uncertainly."

You've misjudged.

Ravenclaw said calmly.

You are clearly smiling.

Gryffindor was furious.

"oh."

"I was just thinking about happy things," Ravenclaw said.

"What?"

Gryffindor asked.

"A town full of judges was ultimately judged by the fog of judgment for its injustice."

Ravenclaw smiled faintly.

"Ha! Gotcha! You were laughing!"

Gryffindor, seemingly unconcerned, moved closer to Ravenclaw and stared intently into her beautiful eyes.

Why is your face a little red?

Gryffindor suddenly deflated like a punctured balloon and asked cautiously.

A row of white-walled, red-tiled houses was struck by a dark shadow. Gryffindor got up, covered in dust, still unable to understand why Ravenclaw was angry.

Then he noticed that the walls of the town were indeed white—

It was a white color warmed by the afternoon sun, with some areas tinged with beige.

The red tiles on the roof have been washed by time into a gentle ochre red, with dark gaps between the tiles.

Some houses have wooden boxes and flowerpots on their windowsills, with geraniums and petunias peeking out and nodding gently in the evening breeze.

Every window was lit up.

There was little cold white light; instead, there was a warm orange glow, flickering with candlelight or the light from a fireplace. These lights seeped through the gaps in the lace curtains, casting dappled patterns of light on the stone pavement.

Behind a window in the distance, you can vaguely see a figure, looking down and doing something, perhaps knitting a sweater, or perhaps reading a book.

The wind was soft and warm, carrying the fragrance of unknown flowers—perhaps the honeyed scent of petals, or perhaps the sweet aroma emanating from fruit trees further away at dusk.

The clearest sound was the bell.

It came from the direction of the spire of a small church.

The spire soared into the sunset, its entire body made of gray stone, topped with a cross that was being gilded by the last rays of sunlight.

The bell tolled long and slowly, each sound like a pebble thrown into water, creating ripples in the air.

The bell's tolling was not a hurried timekeeping, nor a solemn declaration, but rather a gentle, inclusive, and continuous sound, like the heartbeat echoing from the depths of the earth.

One after another, before each echo completely dissipated, a new one followed, and the whole town was immersed in this endless tremor.

Ariana opened the window.

The window frame is made of wood, and it makes a creaking sound when pushed. Some of the paint has peeled off, revealing the light-colored wood underneath.

The evening breeze carries in everything: the fragrance of flowers, the sound of bells, the rustling of leaves in the distance, and the lingering warmth of the stone path after a day in the setting sun.

She leaned against the windowsill, the stone of the windowsill warmed by her body heat, the rough texture seeping through the sleeves of her cotton dress onto her skin.

"How beautiful—is this the place blessed by the gods?"

She murmured softly, her voice drifting into the chimes, carried away by the lingering sound to the distance.

When she turned her head, her smile was bright enough to make any broken heart whole again.

Her god was asleep on her shoulder, like an exhausted child.