Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 585 (583): Soaring Proficiency (6k)

Time seemed to stretch out and slow down.

Sheen felt as if he had a very special dream, with a layer of off-white mist still clinging to the soft bed.

He woke up.

Michael is still asleep.

The other person's sleeping posture wasn't very good, and Sheen occasionally had to flick his fingers and use magic to pull the blanket over him.

Otherwise, in a cold and damp place like the Scottish Highlands, catching a cold is very common.

It's as common as ham being served with a fried egg.

What happened yesterday?

Sheen couldn't quite remember.

He thought he saw Gryffindor, and oh, and Ravenclaw teachers too.

They walked together in a special little town, a town where Sheen remembered the melodious chimes and the crimson sunset.

What else?

He vaguely remembered Dumbledore, the headmaster, but who else?

"Ariana————"

He was startled when he murmured the name.

Not to mention the old wizard and the portraits eavesdropping outside the door.

So, something big must have happened at the border yesterday, but how come he can't remember it at all?

It's as if—memories have faded.

"————The Mist of Forgiveness————"

He murmured another name, and this time, the off-white mist gently surged towards him.

In his slightly widened pupils, he saw them hit his forehead, then entwine and float into the void.

Only then did he realize that his empty talisman had two such large cracks!

Meanwhile, in another part of the same area.

"Is that why you didn't say anything?"

Gryffindor, holding his scarlet sword, asked casually.

"You'll always forget."

Ravenclaw responded calmly.

"But that doesn't mean it didn't happen."

Gryffindor's voice drifted far away, "This is a story that happened in someone's dream, but who says it isn't true?"

"The more you remember, the more you care, and caring makes you foolish."

Ravenclaw gently picked a pure white daisy and placed it in a flowerpot that appeared out of nowhere.

She guessed that her dear "Miss Grey" would like it.

Like all the witches of the borderlands, she paid special attention to the pure white flowers.

They believed that pure white flowers represented a pure heart, and that the gods would like such flowers.

"ah----"

Gryffindor was silent for a moment. "How long do you think it will take for the borderlands to welcome him?"

"I wish it could last forever. But things never change because of a wizard's expectations—"

Ravenclaw slowly straightened up. "A wandering soul must find something—"

"That's really disappointing. I rarely feel so unwilling to see a wizard."

Gryffindor spat out the grass he was holding in his mouth with some distress.

"Then you shouldn't have told him."

Ravenclaw stared intently into his eyes. "The Borderlands never promise power that comes easily; everything here always has a beginning and an end. You revealed that some special wizards can trade with the world behind the veil, and they will use it when they need it. Now it has drawn some of its reward."

"A knight is not a greedy person."

Gryffindor quickly distanced themselves from the situation.

"Except when fighting for everything we hold dear."

Ravenclaw added, glancing sideways at the scars on Gryffindor's face.

"Royna — The line between life and death is not so easily blurred."

Gryffindor muttered.

"Godric".

Ravenclaw's voice became much more serious, and Gryffindor instinctively straightened their backs.

He looked at Ravenclaw, his face full of unease.

"Helga, how have you been lately?"

To his surprise, Ravenclaw only gave him a warning look before turning to a gentle witch who was carrying several flowerpots and had plants perched on her shoulders.

Ravenclaw's lips curled up slightly, and his usually aloof eyes narrowed a little.

Oh, it's been decades since I've seen her so gentle.

Gryffindor thought.

And he has never appeared before.

Especially after he accidentally let slip about the crown.

They didn't see each other for many years after that.

Rowena's heart was separated from theirs by a thick wall, making it incredibly difficult to find her cabin.

Fortunately, she moved to this small town.

Gryffindor's lips curled into a wide smile as he embraced Hufflepuff with great enthusiasm.

He even showed off by telling her to take a good look at the town.

"Godrick, where's the child?"

Hufflepuff gave him a reserved yet warm hug, then revealed a curious expression.

"You're too late, Helga. He left long ago and has forgotten everything—look, this town is his creation."

What he forgot over there has blossomed here.

"Gryffindor said, raising his eyebrows."

He was also speaking of ancient proverbs from the borderlands, as ancient as "May wisdom and soul never fade" and "May the fog of righteousness and judgment avoid you."

The full sentence is:

What faded in the wizard's hands became eternal here; what the wizard demanded over there gave its soul here.

If any living wizards heard these words, perhaps they would understand the second half of the sentence.

Isn't that just black magic?

Wizards use black magic to do cruel things, to gain power and status, but they also corrupt their own souls.

Even worse, it split up.

When they reach the border, Ravenclaw will appreciate their miserable state and remark, "They got what they wanted."

"A sad regret."

Throughout the town, Helga's expression was written all over his face.

The flowers on her shoulder were also pulled out at the same time.

"Not necessarily, he might come back. Oh, I just hope he goes back soon once he arrives; it wouldn't be good if he stayed here."

.

Gryffindor said.

"Then I'll stay here, dear Rowena. May I have the honor of being your neighbor?"

Ms. Hufflepuff always had the perfect sense of proportion.

"I'll have to ask Gray."

Through the melodious chimes and the distant windows of the wooden house, Ravenclaw seemed to see a witch busily tending to flowers.

"Grey, you call her that? That's too much, Rowena."

Hufflepuff was somewhat surprised; the flowers on her shoulders stood up.

According to their students, "Ms. Grey" is hardly a flattering title.

Especially in border areas where people fear ghosts.

How could a wizard here know whose companion or relative a ghost might be?

Ghosts, in the borderlands, mean—

Never to meet again.

"That convention has been broken, remember, Helga?"

"Ravenclaw said gently."

In his eyes was a tolerance that Gryffindor had never experienced before.

He was inexplicably annoyed, yet he couldn't understand why; red mist swirled around his head.

"Oh, it's that child."

Hufflepuff murmured, her eyes soon welling up with tears, "A good boy, isn't he?"

"Perhaps my best student."

Ravenclaw smiled faintly.

"That's not fair! That should be—and you only have one student, where does the 'maybe' come from—you're just a Gryffindor!" a voice muttered loudly, as the fog gradually spread.

Even after the fog completely dissipated, Sheen on the other side still couldn't understand why the empty rune had developed cracks.

The important question is, can he still enter and exit the border area?

He frowned with worry, thinking of the timid witch in the middle of the lawn.

Fortunately, something else distracted him.

As usual, after waking up, he opened the panel and observed the progress of his soul transformation proficiency.

And record the time spent at the border.

This time, however, he was stunned.

[You have practiced Soul Transformation to legendary standards, Proficiency Level +1]

[Soul Transformation Proficiency Level Has Been Increased]

[You have practiced Soul Transformation to legendary standards, Proficiency Level +1]

[Soul Transformation Proficiency Level Has Been Increased]

What is this?

Sheen quickly looked down:

[Name: Sheehan Green]

[Transfiguration Talent: Purple (Master Transfiguration title already granted). Note: Regular wizards have Green.]

Transfiguration Classification:

Magical Transformation: Expert Level (14500/30000)

Material Deformation: Expert Level (1300/30000)

Soul Transformation: Master Level (550/3000000)

[Evaluation: A wizard who has reached the Master level in the field of shapeshifting is an outstanding figure even among the best, capable of fighting against many wizards who have barely reached the Master level.]

His soul underwent transformation, reaching the level of a master?

Sheen still couldn't quite believe it.

He gripped his wand tightly and swung it resolutely. In the blink of an eye, the wizard on the bed vanished, leaving only an owl-like creature with wide eyes, surveying its surroundings.

Sheen had never felt that his "magical loops" were so easy to understand. He even felt that if he wanted, he could transform into the appearance of other wizards.

Of course, that requires a deep understanding of other wizarding magic circuits.

Perhaps this is the secret of the disguise Magus?

Sheen thought so.

However—by legendary standards—

What happened last night?

He thought that Headmaster Dumbledore would probably know.

He pushed open the door to his dormitory, and the Ravenclaw common room was still filled with just the right number of wizards as always.

They were mostly scattered in various corners of the lounge. The Ravenclaw wizards preferred places that were close to the fire but undisturbed.

The joyful atmosphere of Christmas is still lingering.

On a late December morning, Hogwarts School was just waking up from its dream, covered in several feet of snow and with the lake frozen solid.

The Weasley brothers were punished for preaching strange theories to a young wizard all day long. This morning, Professor McGonagall, who had finally had enough, arrested them and put them in solitary confinement.

"If the great Greene weren't the principal—"

'

"Ha—then let's get rid of the new principal!"

Sheehan guessed that this was the root of Professor McGonagall's anger.

Under no circumstances should a student say something like "get rid of the principal."

Unless she is Hogwarts' senior investigator, Headmaster Umbridge.

The conversation between the portraits, amidst the tragic expressions of the two Weasleys, made Sheehan pause in his tracks.

"Oh, he's such a good principal, isn't he?"

Dressed in a white gown, the elegant and gentle Lady Violet spoke softly.

"Perhaps he's testing me! Ha! A test!"

The knight leading the pony said, "He'll pass—no one is more suitable than him! In the end, everyone will know!"

"Relax, Sir. No one will test a sleeping child."

"He's just concerned about him," Mrs. Violet said helplessly.

"That's true—"

'

Sir Cadogan seems to be more easily persuaded by Lady Violet lately.

"Sir, look, it's little Green!" the plump lady exclaimed with delight.

Sheen also approached the portrait.

"Good morning, Sir, Lady Violet, and Lady Fat."

"Oh dear, our new junior principal—"

The fat lady's words were full of teasing.

"I told you he would achieve great things."

Sir Cadogan, beaming with pride, seemed about to pat Sheehan on the shoulder, but he clearly forgot that he was a portrait.

"Go quickly, Headmaster Dumbledore is waiting for you. He's probably in too much of a hurry; I've never seen him come to any young wizard's door before."

"Mrs. Violet said gently."

"I understand, madam."

Sheehan quickened his pace toward the principal's office.

What exactly happened last night?

Has your proficiency in soul transformation increased so much?

Headmaster Dumbledore, if he and I were both immersed in a dream, there would only be one thing that Sheehan could think of: would it be as Dumbledore imagines?

The stone beast was now completely still.

Sheehan wouldn't be surprised if it suddenly asked him if he needed to change the password to the principal's office.

Dumbledore stood by the steaming windowsill, his gaze fixed intently on the view outside.

He seemed oblivious to all the noises around him.

His thoughts drifted, transcending time.

Sheen felt that he must have been sitting there for a long time.

And just as Sheen had predicted, things turned out exactly as he had envisioned.

Because the Borderlands kept trying to keep him there, Sheen was still in the Borderlands when Dumbledore woke up.

The time difference between them was just right, enough for an old wizard to adapt to a completely different reality.

Hogwarts at four in the morning.

Dumbledore had just woken up, while Hogwarts Castle was still asleep.

The principal's office was bathed in a diluted, dark blue that was somewhere between night and dawn.

The outline of the willow tree outside the window could just be discerned in the light of day. The fox on the perch buried its beak in the feathers on its chest and occasionally let out a low, dreamlike cry. The sound echoed in the silence, hit the stone wall, and was swallowed up by the bookshelf.

Dumbledore did not get up immediately.

He sat in the chair for a long time, his back pressed against the cold wood, feeling his body become heavy again.

Breathing requires strength, heartbeats require strength, blinking requires strength; it's no longer the lightness of a dream where one seems to dissipate into specks of light.

He slowly sat up.

The half-moon shaped glasses had slipped off the bridge of his nose at some point and were now resting crookedly on the edge of the carpet.

He reached out to touch it, but stopped abruptly the moment his fingertips touched the frame.

His fingers were trembling.

Perhaps it was the cold of the Scottish Highlands, or perhaps it was a person who had carried a burden for a hundred years suddenly finding that the weight on their shoulders had disappeared, before they had even had time to learn how to unload it.

He put on his glasses.

The world became clear again.

The page in the book beside me was still stuck on the line I left before.

The silvery substance in the Pensieve rotated slowly, like a miniature, quiet night sky.

The parchment spread out on the table still bore the ink droplet from when he dipped his brush in ink.

Everything was exactly the same as when he left.

But they are different.

Everything has changed.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what had changed until he stood up, walked to the window, and suddenly realized he was at Hogwarts at four in the morning, standing and looking out the window.

He never did this at this time before.

What did he do with this time before? He would write letters on parchment, one after another, to the Ministry of Magic, to the Board of Governors, to all sorts of people who needed to be comforted, persuaded, or politely refused; or, when his quill lay idle by the inkstone, he would take off his glasses, bury his face in his hands, and wait for dawn to arrive as punctually as an interrogator.

His face, reflected in the windowpane, was covered in wrinkles, with two deep lines on the bridge of his nose from his glasses, and his cheekbones protruding against his skin.

But he noticed that the persistent redness around his eyes had disappeared at some point.

He reached out and pushed open the window.

The dawn wind blew in, carrying the crisp scent of lake water, pine needles, and distant jasmine blossoms.

The calendar papers fluttered and rustled on the table behind him.

The candle flame flickered violently, but did not go out.

He took a deep breath, his lungs expanding as the cold air filled them, and for a moment a sharp pain shot through his aged body, faithfully reminding him that he was still alive that morning.

Alive.

For the first time, this word was no longer a judgment.

At the edge of the forbidden forest, the morning mist had already risen, floating thinly on the ground.

A Thestral pierced through the mist and silently disappeared into the shadows of the trees—his lips twitched when he realized he could see the Thestral.

Yes. Of course he can see. He's seen death, far more than enough.

In the past, every sighting was a judgment; only this morning, the Thestral emerged from the fog and vanished again, like a gentle forgiveness left unspoken.

He looked down at the windowsill in front of him.

He noticed a daisy next to the moss.

A tiny plant, peeking out from a crack in the rock, its white petals trembling gently in the morning breeze.

This wasn't a place where daisies should grow. The stone bricks were covered in dust, not soil; there was only shadow, no sunlight.

But it just stood there, stubbornly and quietly blooming.

Albus stared at the flower for a long time. His breath paused for a moment, then resumed, even lighter than before.

Outside the window, the first true golden-red ray of morning light finally crossed the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, flowing slowly into the window like melting honey. It first landed on the back of his hand that was holding the windowsill, then climbed inch by inch up his wrist, arm, and shoulder, and finally, completely landed on his wrinkled face.

He did not dodge away quietly as usual.

He stood there, letting the sunlight shine on him.

The blue eyes behind the crescent-shaped lenses reflected the sunlight, appearing unexpectedly clear.

The rainstorm has passed, but the snowflakes have not fallen.

The sky is clearing up.

He turned and walked toward the desk.

On the table lay an unfinished letter, addressed to the Ministry of Magic.

The parchment was already wrinkled, and the ink had long since dried.

He pulled out a chair, sat down, and picked up a quill pen.

Then he stopped.

The pen tip hovered three inches above the parchment, not falling for a long time.

He was trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, and what wording to use to convey his intentions without being impolite.

He never needed to think about these questions before; the answers were always readily available: for the greater good, for order, for everyone's safety, he should—

should.

He put down his pen.

Not today.

He doesn't want to write any letters today.

Today he only wants to do one thing.

He stood up again and walked to the bookshelf.

There was an old book with a leather cover, sandwiched between two thick volumes of magical history. Its cover had faded to an almost unrecognizable color due to its age. He pulled out the book and brushed the dust off with his thumb.

Turn it over.

Tucked inside the first page was a flattened, withered daisy. Its petals were so thin they were almost transparent, as if they would crumble into powder at the slightest touch. It had been sealed here for nearly a century.

Albus lowered his head and gently kissed the dried flower.

Then he turned to the last page—the last page that had been blank for a whole hundred years—picked up the pen he had just put down, and in his meticulous italic handwriting, wrote the ending of the book: "Next time, I will find you, dear Anna."

He put down his pen and closed the booklet.

The morning sunlight had completely bathed the desk.

Fox had returned sometime earlier and was perched on the windowsill, tilting its head and staring at him with its dark eyes.

Dumbledore smiled at it.

Then he pushed open the door to the principal's office, walked into the corridor, and stepped into the world.

The torches on both sides of the corridor were still burning and making a soft crackling sound.

Various portraits hang on the stone wall, most of them still dozing off.

As he passed by, the jazz figure in one of the paintings slightly opened one eye and mumbled sleepily, "—Good morning."

Dumbledore stopped in his tracks.

"morning."

He continued walking forward.

His footsteps echoed in the empty stone corridor, unhurried and unperturbed.

The robe gleamed softly against the dark stone wall.

Before he knew it, he had arrived at the Ravenclaw Tower, and the Hogwarts doors would always open a crack for him.

He saw the child wake up looking bewildered.

Then----

It turned into an owl.

The strange scene made him silently close the door.

Did he open the door wrong?

He returned to the principal's office.

"So, can you tell me what happened?"

When the black-haired young wizard in front of him asked that question, Dumbledore's distant attention was drawn back to the present.

He suddenly stood up.

Sheen silently took a step back.