Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 600, Chapter 598: The Mist Rises (4.7k)

Snape's nightmare ended when the black cat jumped out.

He felt that he was probably too tired, otherwise why would he see a black cat that looked exactly like his adopted son?

The statue still stands on the third floor of Hogwarts, and any wizard who has ever walked through Hogwarts can recognize who it is.

"The master of dreams and mists, the bridge between life and death, the symbol of eternal good fortune —"

Snape thought of those outrageous rumors and those foolish little wizards.

They spent their days wandering around at night for these illusory things, which brought him a considerable workload.

At his peak, he could catch more than a dozen students wandering around the castle at once.

An entire night tour gang was busted.

Thinking of this, a hint of sarcasm appeared on his lips.

"Good evening, Mr. Snape."

The black cat spoke, and it was a familiar, childlike voice.

Snape's upturned lips immediately disappeared, and he stared intently at the black cat.

Its tone was shrouded in mist, making it difficult to hear clearly, as if all the familiar voices were mixed together, making it impossible to distinguish which familiar person was speaking.

"Sheen Green".

His tone carried a hint of authority.

The black cat buried its head in the mist, pretending not to hear anything.

Snape didn't delve into the matter of the unresponsive black cat, but instead carefully examined his surroundings.

They were in a white, misty place, where the thickest fog was.

They are not like ordinary fog, but something that has not yet taken shape.

With just a moment's thought, Snape knew where he was.

"The legend is true."

At this moment, the look in his eyes as he looked at the black cat changed repeatedly.

Good evening, Mr. God.

Snape's body trembled slightly as he spoke in a hoarse voice.

"Are you having a nightmare?"

The black cat said its tail didn't move at all.

Snape lowered his head slightly, his already sharp gaze now tinged with an inexplicable darkness.

He definitely had a nightmare.

In the past, he would never have been moved by such things.

These are trivial matters, things he once disdained.

It was just a few people who died in the disaster.

Hasn't he seen enough disasters?

But he has clearly changed over the years.

Whose father was the deceased?

And whose child is it?

He thought of his adopted son, who was far away at Hogwarts.

Some things he couldn't understand gradually came to mind.

He had never thought of it from this perspective before, nor had he imagined that someone was thinking of him and waiting for his return.

He was a penniless man; how can you force someone who has never seen the sun to yearn for sunshine?

"Gods—"

He knew it was probably just a powerful magical creature. "Are they all that free?"

The black cat didn't speak; a cloud of mist always hovered around its head, making it impossible for Snape to see its expression, even though observing a cat's emotions was an unrealistic task.

Suddenly, it jumped down from the cloud of mist.

Snape trembled slightly as he saw the black cat heading in a certain direction, soon to disappear into the white mist.

Thinking of a certain possibility, Snape followed it without much hesitation.

He kept looking around, unaware that behind the off-white mist, a black cat was also observing him.

Longing, cowardice, wanting to see her yet thinking of backing away —

The black cat could see wisps of mist surrounding Snape, and it instinctively understood the meaning of these wisps.

If you look at it long enough, it can even read the wizard's thoughts from the mist.

This is what Lady Hufflepuff meant when she said: that she could see through the wizard's secrets?

The black cat was slightly encouraged.

With this special magical ability, its plan was already more than half successful.

A person and a cat traveled through a valley shrouded in ever-changing mist, their journey peaceful and uneventful.

Then, fog rolled in.

Snape paused abruptly, and through the churning fog, he saw many grotesque and unsightly scenes.

"Run, Professor Snape."

"The black cat said."

It seems it has said this more than once.

"What?"

Snape was somewhat confused.

"Run—everyone has things they know are meaningless but can't give up on. Dreams build bridges, and wizards can find those things they can't give up on by going back and forth."

The black cat said something that Snape only vaguely understood.

He gritted his teeth, watching the black mist surge up like a monstrous wave.

"Go where you are called, Professor Snape, and you will find your way. After all, this is the Borderlands, where the call of hearts is louder than in any other place."

The black cat gazed at the swirling mist.

It recalled the scene from Dumbledore's memory.

"Ms. Hufflepuff said, 'I am the storm.'"

A bolt of lightning cleaved through the black mist, and Snape saw the boundless black mist and the thunder that resounded through the chaos.

He clearly realized that perhaps he had really seen the so-called gods, or perhaps this was truly a long-awaited dream.

"So, what should I do next?"

He roared.

"Keep moving forward, and don't back down unless absolutely necessary."

The black cat's whiskers trembled.

Time passed, I don't know how much.

When Snape arrived on the other side of the mist, everything around him changed dramatically.

The fog here is no longer the angry, overwhelming, reddish-brown fog;

It is no longer the pervasive, damp, and bone-chilling gray fog.

The fog here was silvery and light, like a thin veil soaked in moonlight, spreading layer upon layer beneath his feet.

There was no warmth, no wind, and no sign of life.

There was only an endless, silent void, and a faint light in the distance, its origin unknown.

Snape glanced down at himself.

The black robe was intact, and the wounds caused by being enveloped and affected by the mist while moving forward had disappeared; there was no blood on his hands.

"Is he dead?" he wondered.

In a dream?

When this thought came to him, he felt neither fear nor relief.

There was only a dry, unsatisfied feeling.

But something's not right.

He suddenly heard a sound in the distance.

He raised his head.

The fog is dissipating.

That layer of silvery whiteness itself was making way for him.

The mist slowly rolled up to both sides, revealing a straight passageway leading into the distance.

The light spilled in from the end, a warm, almost benevolent white that was not dazzling.

He saw it.

At the end of the road, in a wooden house, sat a person.

Red.

The first thing that catches the eye is red.

That deep red hue, like a cluster of solidified flames, quietly rested on her shoulder.

Then came the slender, familiar outline, with a soft edge drawn out by that layer of white light.

Her body turned slightly to him, as if she had just heard something and was about to turn around, but had not yet completed the turning motion.

Snape's body reacted before his consciousness did.

He stopped walking.

It was as if they had been suddenly bound by an invisible rope, and all their movements froze in the same instant.

at a loss.

His brain was flooded with too much information in that instant, so much so that all his thoughts collided and got stuck in his throat, making him unable to move.

That splash of red struck a switch within him, and he heard something booming in his head.

Red hair.

Green eyes.

It's really her.

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

That name, the name he had repeated countless times in his heart but never dared to utter aloud when he was sober, was now like a red-hot charcoal stuck in his trachea, unable to go up or down.

He wasn't even aware that he was breathing, or rather, he couldn't breathe anymore.

Then, his mind completely exploded.

ecstatic.

This joy was so violent, so overwhelming.

It was like a wildfire suddenly bursting forth from the ruins of his memories that had been reduced to ashes.

is her.

It's really her.

It wasn't a portrait, it wasn't a memory, it wasn't the cursed green eyes on Harry Potter's face that reminded him of his sins every day—it was her.

She stood there, bathed in light, leaving behind a quiet profile, almost as if she were turning her head away.

He wanted to rush over.

Every muscle in his body was screaming that he wanted to rush forward.

He wanted to kneel before her, to take her hand, and to say the words he had soaked in the crucible of long, dark nights, washed away with tears, but had never been able to truly utter.

sorry----

Forgive me————

I took a step forward with my foot.

Just one step.

Then he saw it.

A touch of green.

He saw green flowers.

At the same time, he keenly noticed a dark stain on the hem of Lily's robe.

Is that blood?

He wasn't sure.

But then he suddenly understood.

He is unworthy.

Although she seemed to be lingering here, waiting for something.

But could it be him?

Someone who killed her?

Although he didn't physically attack her, he was essentially killing her.

He presented the prophecy.

His betrayal pushed her into the green light of Avada Kedavra.

His hands were clean, but his tongue was not.

He felt bitter.

A genuine bitter taste rose in his throat, spreading from the back of his tongue to his entire mouth, as if he had been forced to drink a whole bottle of expired, deadly water.

He saw himself standing atop the mountain, his black robes billowing, muttering that ridiculous request: "I only ask that you spare that woman."

He thought it was love.

He thought he understood love.

But at that time, he only took jealousy as evidence of loyalty.

He will not love.

He never would.

Until he learned to gaze into the eyes she left behind.

Until he realized how much she had wanted to conspire with him during those times.

However, their paths did not intersect until after her death.

now.

Snape stepped back.

Silently, almost instinctively, they retreated.

His body knew better than his mind that he didn't deserve to go over there.

His hands were dry, but his soul was steeped in something indelible.

He could deliver intelligence to Dumbledore, he could shed blood to become a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, and he could spend the rest of his life atoning for the sins of the first half.

But some things can never be redeemed.

The bitterness didn't last long.

Because the distant roar had already resounded across the sky, he knew his time was running out.

He gazed longingly at her every move.

This morning, the fog thickened as she brewed her second pot of tea.

Lily added a piece of pine wood to the firebox, and the flames licked it, creating a series of tiny crackling sounds, as if some unseen little thing was whispering in the fire.

She slowly picked up the copper kettle, poured boiling water into the coarse earthenware cup, and a few dried rose petals were scalded and turned over, slowly releasing their color.

It's a pink that's somewhere between a dream of the past and the glow of sunset, seeping into the water and into the air of this little cabin.

The cabin wasn't large, but it seemed that no one had ever really seen its boundaries.

On the wooden table by the window lay an open book, its pages occasionally turning on their own, as if an unseen reader were bending down to read it carefully.

There's an empty chair standing in the corner, but if you stare at it for too long, you always feel like someone sat on it, and you can still feel the warmth of their body.

A round mirror hangs on the wall, but it never reflects Lily's face. It only reflects the fog outside the window—the fog is a different color in the mirror, as if it leads to some other place.

Lily leaned against the window, her elbows resting on the windowsill, her palm supporting her chin.

The windowpane was covered with a layer of condensation. She drew a circle with her fingertip, and a wisp of mist seeped in from that circle, cool and carrying the scent of moss and distant rain.

Instead of closing the window, she pushed it open even wider.

The outside world is uncertain.

The shadows of the trees melted and condensed in the fog, occasionally revealing a branch with an owl perched on it, or perhaps it was just an even thicker fog.

The path stretched out faintly through the green grass, its end swallowed by the vast white expanse.

Only the black cat statue is certain.

All the wizards in the border region know the story of the lucky black cat.

Lily is waiting.

Waiting for a cat.

The wind chimes hanging above the door twitched, making a very soft sound.

Lily didn't turn her head to look.

She simply poured some tea into the empty cup opposite her and pushed it to the other side of the table.

The fire burned low in the furnace.

Time here is a very soft thing, like freshly baked bread, which can be stretched very long, long enough for the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, long enough for a leaf to fall from the branch to the ground, and then be slowly digested by the soil into the next spring.

Lily rested her chin on her crossed arms, her eyes half-closed.

She looked like she was dozing off, or perhaps listening to a distant melody.

Her lips trembled slightly, without making a sound, but if you got very close—close enough to see the fine water droplets clinging to her eyelashes—you would hear her humming a song, a song without lyrics, the melody as elusive as the fog outside the window, yet omnipresent.

It snowed at the border.

Snowflakes clung to the cabin and to Snape's hair.

Everything in my memory seems to overlap with reality.

Some hazy images inevitably surfaced in his mind.

That was a scene on a train.

"You'd better go to Slytherin."

He saw his younger self say that the young wizard was encouraged to notice that Lily was a little happier.

"Slytherin?"

A boy sitting in the private room turned around when he heard the word.

"Who wants to go to Slytherin? I don't want to stay there. What about you?"

James asked the boy who was sitting leisurely in the opposite seat.

Sirius didn't laugh.

"My whole family is Slytherin."

He said.

"Oh my God!"

James said, "I think you're pretty good!"

Sirius grinned.

"Maybe I'll break with tradition. If you had to choose, where would you want to go?"

James raised an invisible sword.

"Gryffindor, where courage lies buried deep within! Like my father."

The young wizard gave a disdainful snort, and James turned to look at him.

"What, you have a problem with that?"

"No,"

The young wizard said, but his arrogant sneer conveyed the opposite meaning: "If you'd rather have muscles than a brain—"

"So where do you want to go? It seems you're not successful in either."

Sirius suddenly interjected.

James laughed loudly.

Lily straightened up, her face flushed, and looked at James with disgust, then at Sirius.

"Let's go, Severus, let's find another private room."

Snape thought his vision must be blurry.

At those times, he should have realized that they were on the same side.

Even in the end, he was the only one who went astray.

The white mist was churning violently.

Snape realized he had to go.

He gazed at her from afar.

The snow piled up layer upon layer on his head.

When he hears the snow falling, he will recall that time when fate presented him with a flower called a rose, and its bright red color.

From that moment on, a part of him will no longer remain in the darkness.

"What I am doing now is the best, the very best thing I have ever done in my wicked life; what I will receive is the most peaceful, the most peaceful rest in my ugly life."

He turned his head, and the dream ended.

tonight.

Amidst the rising mist, I love you in a secluded place.

Border area.

The wind chimes rang again.

Inside the wooden house.

The tea was still hot, the chairs were empty, and the fire in the stove was blazing.

Everything is just right.

Except for the absence of a certain coward.