Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 626-624: The Darkest Hour Has Arrived

Heavy rain fell in Scotland.

London was soaked.

The fine, persistent, and cool rain started falling before dawn and showed no sign of stopping by breakfast time.

Rain streaks slanted through the mist above the farm, turning the wheat fields into a hazy, undulating sea.

The raindrops pattered against the tin roof of the barn, making a dense, rhythmic sound, like countless sparrows tapping on it with their beaks.

Sheen sat by the kitchen window, holding a book, as rainwater streamed down the glass.

The magic hand mirrors of everyone in the room were ringing.

Hermione is on the phone with Percy; they seem to get along quite well.

"It's a complete mess."

Percy told her in a serious tone, "For a whole week, I was like a firefighter. People kept sending me shout letters, and of course, if you didn't open the shout letter right away, it would explode."

My desk was covered in burnt marks, and my best quill pen was reduced to a pile of charcoal.

"How many roaring letters are there?"

Hermione asked.

"Five hundred and sixty-nine letters."

Percy said.

"It seems that most people believe it."

Hermione, on the contrary, was slightly pleased. "That's better."

Justin was on the phone with Ron, who was also complaining to him: "Mom must be joking, I'm never wearing those clothes, never!"

In the mirror, he held up something for Justin to see; it appeared to be a dark purple velvet dress with a collar trimmed with what looked like moldy ruffles and matching lace trim on the cuffs.

"I'd rather be naked than wear it."

"But Mom made me naked, saying God is my witness, and she can have a good laugh now—" Ron said irritably.

"That's terrible. My dear Mrs. Weasley's taste is a little too nostalgic."

Justin gazed at the dress, his clear blue eyes turning to Ron. "I know a fine tailor. Mrs. Weasley might be convinced by his craftsmanship. Leave it to me."

Ron's face lit up with overjoyed excitement: "Um—I—really?"

"I'll try my best."

Justin said with a gentle smile.

"That's fantastic!"

"Yes! Can I do it too?"

Harry's voice could be heard beside Ron.

"We can wear the same set, just like it's a club activity."

Justin thought for a moment.

Cheers erupted from the direction of the magic mirror.

Justin, with a lingering smile, turned his gaze to the young wizard, replacing the book in his hand with a newspaper.

Attack on Auror Post in Northern Scotland: Two Aurors Lose Mental State; Residents of Northern Scotland advised against going out at night

When he turned the newspaper over, the steam from the fried eggs on the table blurred the paper.

The front-page photo shows a hospital room in St. Mungo's, with two beds side by side and two young people lying on them.

Their eyes were open, pupils intact, chests rising and falling steadily, and lips moving slightly. The caption below the photo read: "Irving Hawkins (left, 23) and Norman Fletcher (right, 25), the only survivors of a northern Scottish outpost. As of press time, the two only repeat one sentence."

Sheen had a slight impression of them.

Owen Hawkins had a barbecue at Marcus's farm last summer, shortly after graduating from the Auror training camp. After drinking too much butterbeer, he stood on a chair and performed a spell to blow bubbles with a wand, which popped all over his face.

Sheehan would never forget Norman Fletcher's face, and he even remembered that Norman's owl was gray.

He put down the toast.

"Still alive, but likely suffering from permanent psychological trauma."

Marcus stood with his back to him in front of the cast-iron stove, the butter sizzling in the frying pan. He brought up his own fried eggs, then sat down opposite Sheehan, his voice flat. "Lester Fernando, their partner, died as soon as he was taken to St. Mungo's. Nothing was found, just died."

The only sound in the living room was the slow, solidifying sound of butter on the iron pan.

"A new newspaper?"

Hermione quickly turned off the communication and sat down at the same time as Justin.

"Did the newspapers say what kind of dried product it was?"

Justin asked.

But this is not a problem.

"Nobody knows what it is, but perhaps everyone does."

Marcus picked up his teacup, took a sip, and then put it down.

He didn't regard the wizards in front of him as junior wizards at all.

A little wizard who needs to be kept in the dark and live in a false peace.

"Fudge sent three groups of Aurors to scout. One group found nothing, one group was missing a person, and the third group did not return."

Sheen folded the newspaper and stuffed it into the drawer under the table.

A gray striped barn cat sat on the windowsill, its tail slowly sweeping away the raindrops on the windowpane.

Like Norman's.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

This is a very strange thing, because the area around the villa has been enchanted with a Muggle expulsion spell, so apart from a few Muggles who come to deliver goods, no one should be able to find the farm.

"Hold hands tightly, Sheen, good boy. You have the key to the door, remember? Your safe house."

Marcus told the young wizards to hide, gripped his wand, and appeared confident, but in reality, cold sweat was seeping from his forehead.

Having witnessed the battle a week ago, he is now like a frightened bird.

The door was magically ripped open.

Muggle Andy stood frozen at the doorway, his smile still lingering on his face.

Andy quickly hid until he saw Marcus.

"Old McGonagall! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Old Andy! Law—"

After exchanging insults, Marcus pulled Andy into the house, but still cautiously kept the young wizards out.

Old Andy, Marcus's old neighbor, is a Muggle farmer whose face is tanned to a walnut color by the sun. He has never touched a wand in his life, but he has known Marcus for twenty years.

He knew there were secrets about the farm he couldn't ask, but he also knew what fear was.

"Something's happened up north."

He said in a very low voice, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"My son drove over from Carlisle last night and said that several people in their town went crazy last night."

She can no longer speak. She sits there with her eyes open, and doesn't respond no matter how you call her.

The doctors couldn't find the cause, and neither could the police. So they sealed off those people's houses and put up barriers. My son said that now people in Carlisle lock their doors after dark, and all the streetlights are on; nobody dares to turn them off. Do you know what those are?

"Carlisle, that's England."

Old McGonagall's eyes gleamed with a deep light. "From northern Scotland to Cumbria, the straight-line distance is over two hundred miles—"

"What are you trying to say?"

Old Andy became even more uneasy.

Marcus stared at him, his lips trembling slightly, before finally letting out a sigh.

"Don't go out lately, you old man."

Marcus was silent for a moment, then spoke.

"It was that time, that era, that person—"

Old Andy said hurriedly, then saw Marcus nod, and finally, Old Andy walked away dejectedly.

He was holding an umbrella, but it was tilted.

In the vegetable garden at his feet, the ridges of soil that Marcus had just turned over yesterday were now soaked by the rain, turning into patches of dark brown mud.

Several tomato vines lay crookedly in the mud, and no one came to support them.

Six months ago at this time, Andy, who would have come to help with farm work, would have already come out to inspect his vegetable garden wearing an oilcloth raincoat, but not today, and never again.

The faint moaning of cows could be heard from the barn, louder and more agitated than usual—they hadn't been milked for two hours.

Outside the window, the rain is still falling.

There's no intention to stop.

After old Andy came, no one spoke in the house.

To cheer up the young wizards, they went to the town's general store in the afternoon.

Marcus took them to buy flour and syrup, saying he was going to make apple pie.

It sounded like a distraction task, but Hermione didn't refuse, nor did Justin.

Because it was a small town with a few wizards, and there was an ice cream shop next to the general store that sold very delicious ice cream.

But when they arrived in town, the ice cream shops were closed. And it wasn't just the ice cream shops.

On the town's only commercial street, three shops had their shutters rolled up, and one shop had a handwritten "Closed" sign posted in its window, the ink on the sign still wet.

The grocery store was open, but the proprietress stood behind the counter wiping the same glass for a full five minutes before she snapped out of her daze when Sheen put the flour bag on the counter.

"Oh. It's you guys."

""

She put down her cup, forcing a smile. "Marcus's grandson, Sheehan, right? Flour and syrup. Okay, okay."

As she went to get something, Hermione's gaze swept over the radio in the corner of the counter.

That was a magic radio, its casing modified to resemble a teapot, with a small green light shining from the spout, receiving signals.

The volume was turned down so low it was almost drowned out by the hum of the fan in the grocery store, but Hermione still managed to make out a few words.

"—Missing Persons——Ministry of Magic Notice: Any wizard who witnesses unusual weather phenomena is requested to contact their local Auror office immediately. To reiterate, Apparition is prohibited after dark throughout the Scottish Highlands, Cumbria, and Northumberland. Again, Apparition is prohibited after dark—"

"—A third case of a missing soul has been discovered in Yorkshire." The victim has been identified as Winston Bard, a 1978 graduate of Hogwarts and former Cursebreaker at Gringotts. Mr. Bard is currently receiving treatment at St. Mungo's. His symptoms are completely consistent with all his previous victims: his physical functions are intact, his soul is undamaged, but he only repeats one sentence: "He's here."

'

"—Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge will address the nation at 6 p.m. tonight. According to sources, Minister Fudge will formally declare a deeper state of emergency within the British magical community. This is the first time since the 1970s—"

The proprietress returned. She placed the flour bag and a jar of syrup on the counter, then picked up the glass and began wiping it.

"The people in town are afraid."

She suddenly spoke, her eyes not on them, but looking out at the empty streets, "Old Peggy moved away yesterday to her daughter's house in New York. She said the countryside wasn't safe. I said, is New York safe?"

She didn't answer me. This morning I opened her window and looked in; the chairs in the living room were overturned, and the teapot was still steeping. She left without even finishing her tea. Old Peggy never once in her life failed to finish her tea.

No one speaks.

They paid and left the grocery store carrying the flour and syrup.

The rain has stopped, and some sunshine is coming through the window.

On an August afternoon, the wheat fields rippled like golden waves in the breeze, and in the distance, the sound of a radio playing Muggle music could be heard.

Everything seemed peaceful and serene, as if the newspaper headlines were just a printing error, or the radio broadcasts were just some kind of exaggerated rehearsal.

However, the ice cream shop was not open, and the three storefronts had their roller shutters pulled down.

A sign that read "Closed" was posted in the shop window.

"Cheer up, okay?"

Marcus could no longer tolerate the atmosphere. "The world has changed. Perhaps this era is destined to be one of tears."

When he spoke, several young wizards looked at him.

"But don't let the tears of the times flow down your cheeks."

Marcus said with feigned nonchalance, "If the world wants us to cry, we should laugh instead."

When Sheen woke up the next day, the rain was pattering down again, tapping against the window with a loud "tap-tap-tap" sound.

As usual, Sheen woke up earlier than anyone else, but as he went out, he bumped into a soft embrace.

Minerva crouched down to look at him, a slight smile playing on her lips: "This year, you'll need to prepare formal robes."

Sheen then understood.

Diagon Alley.

Most shops had already closed early, and most of the lights in the shop windows were off, with only a few magic lanterns casting a dim yellow glow in the rain.

But Tuofan Clothing Store is still open.

Its shop window still has that violet magic lamp that never goes out, shining on two sets of dresses and robes used for display—one dark green; the other navy blue.

As Sheehan followed Professor McGonagall through the door, the bell on the doorframe rang out with a clear, crisp sound.

The shop was warm, like a different world from the outside. The air was filled with the steam from ironing and a faint lavender scent that was almost undetectable.

Several measuring tapes floated lazily in mid-air, one of which was measuring a witch in a pink robe. The witch stood on a low stool, frowning at herself in the mirror and muttering something like the cuffs were too tight.

"My dear Mr. Green, perhaps you will know that, long ago—when you were still a child, your mother would have thought,"

Minerva, holding Sheehan's hand, said that the self-proclaimed mother had captured the little wizard's attention.

"The future is important, but what about the present?"

Her words were soft, as if they had transported Sheen back to many years ago.

The scene shifts to when Marcus is telling Sheehan about Minerva's past.

At that time, Minerva McGonagall was a witch full of hope for the future. She possessed her mother's hidden talents and had a vision for the future.

But later she fell in love with a Muggle, and after she cruelly left him, the Muggle Douggle died during the turbulent period when Voldemort rose to power, just like now.

Minerva's eyes held a gentleness, as well as a deep-seated worry and tranquility.

"And now—"

She gently squatted down, the ends of her hair brushing against Sheen's cheek, tickling him.

Now I'm holding your hand.