The attack ultimately ended without consequence.
Dumbledore was still the Dumbledore everyone remembered. He protected Dean Thomas, defined the incident as an accident, and refused to allow the Ministry of Magic to intervene.
After the investigation concluded, Dean went to the hospital wing, sincerely apologized to Harry, and repeatedly assured him that everything that had happened was never his own intention.
After a rare moment of hesitation, the Boy Who Lived generously forgave him.
Dumbledore was pleased to see this outcome.
At first, he had planned to use Lockhart to teach Harry how to view fame correctly, but that idea fell apart once the plagiarism scandal was exposed.
Still, this was good as well.
The old headmaster believed that teaching Harry how to trust his companions was just as important.
And so, the incident quietly faded away.
The young witches and wizards discussed it for a time, but since the spell used had been taught by a professor and the consequences were not severe, it failed to stir up any real waves.
The castle returned to calm.
September slipped by in a peaceful atmosphere.
Another Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Dawn used Transfiguration to turn a desk into the likeness of a Dementor, and while presenting reference materials, explained this Dark creature to the third-years.
He told them where Dementors were mainly found, and the magic used to counter them—the Patronus Charm.
The students listened fairly attentively, though they were a little disappointed by the content.
Over the past month, they had noticed that the new professor had reduced his explanations from On Magical Injuries and added many more conventional topics instead.
The students said this was because someone had seriously injured a classmate with the Blood Extraction Spell on the second day of term, prompting Dumbledore to forbid further teaching of such spells.
But Dawn knew that wasn't the whole reason.
Dumbledore's restriction was only part of it.
More importantly, ever since visiting the Gryffindor common room, Dawn had been unable to calm his mind enough to invest time in preparing those more troublesome lessons.
That beautifully blooming silver star grass had left him restless, constantly and involuntarily bringing Neville's round face to mind.
Damn it.
Dawn could hardly believe that he had developed something resembling a sense of guilt.
To the point that, in his daily life, he was paying that chubby boy more attention than he ever should have, even going out of his way to do things that wasted time.
Like right now.
"Mr. Malfoy, would you kindly remove the jinx you've placed on your classmate?"
On the fifth-floor corridor, Dawn looked expressionlessly at Draco, who was surrounding and bullying Neville with his two lackeys.
Dawn had just returned to his office to put something away and was on his way to the library when he happened to see the scene.
The young heir froze when he saw the new professor, quickly straightened up, and lowered his head as he argued:
"Professor Hickman, we were just playing around. Didn't you encourage us to engage in more practical confrontations?"
"You're absolutely right, Mr. Malfoy."
Dawn let out a cold laugh.
He felt an unusual irritability boiling inside him and had no patience to explain.
"But I'm telling you to remove the jinx from your classmate now. Is that so hard to understand?"
Draco stared at Dawn in disbelief, his face paling instantly.
After delivering the potions last time, he had thought his relationship with the new professor was fairly good.
Being reprimanded like this left him feeling both aggrieved and as though his pride had been savagely trampled.
"Yes, Professor. I understand."
Draco clenched his fists, replied dully, and released the Leg-Locker Curse on Neville.
Dawn spared them a glance, uninterested in whatever they were thinking, and continued walking toward the library.
Not long after, Neville hurried after him.
"Um…"
The chubby boy called out softly. When Dawn turned around, Neville bent deeply at the waist.
"Thank you very much, Professor Hickman!"
Neville was actually quite surprised. He hadn't expected the professor—so aggressive in class and seemingly cold—to step in and help him.
He's a really great professor.
The boy felt sincere gratitude.
Dawn responded briefly.
He didn't want to interact with Neville too much and turned to leave, but after taking just two steps, he stopped abruptly.
Under Neville's puzzled gaze, Dawn remained silent for nearly three minutes before finally speaking hoarsely.
"If—if you ever run into any difficulties in the future, whether in life or in your studies, you can come to my office."
Huh?
Neville was stunned for a moment before realizing that the new professor was expressing concern for him.
But—
"Why, Professor? Why would you—"
"Because your flower is beautiful."
Dawn cut him off and turned back to look into Neville's bewildered eyes.
The moment the words left his mouth, however, he felt dazed, as though he were on the verge of losing his mind.
Treating Neville differently because of a single silver star grass?
If Dumbledore ever found out who had given him that flower, wouldn't that only increase the chance of Dawn being exposed?
Dawn could hardly believe that because of some inexplicable plant, he was now willing to take a risk far greater than the potential gain, one that could unravel his identity.
And later?
Would he eventually do something that threatened his own life for Neville's sake?
The thought suddenly frightened him.
He felt as though he were being split in two—one half tumbling off a cliff, sliding toward an ever more unfamiliar direction, while the other clung desperately to a rope, trying to stop it.
"This isn't what I want."
Dawn took a deep breath and murmured to himself.
"Um… Professor Hickman, what did you say?"
A puzzled voice pulled Dawn back to reality.
He snapped out of it and realized that he had somehow already parted ways with Neville.
He was now standing blankly at the entrance to the library, blocking several students trying to pass.
Madam Pince was looking at him with a strange expression.
"N–nothing. Sorry, I was lost in thought."
Dawn forced a smile and hurried into the library.
This time, he didn't carefully select a book.
He pulled one at random from a shelf, spread it open, and held it up in front of his face to hide his constantly shifting expression.
In the quiet library, no one noticed that their new professor's gray eyes were flashing with a terrifying murderous intent.
At that moment, Dawn was seriously considering whether he should kill Neville right now.
He didn't want to be bound by anyone.
If this feeling was destined to become his Achilles' heel, then it would be better to sever it early, while the bond was still shallow.
As long as Neville was dead, everything would return to the proper track.
The thought came out of nowhere, rooting itself deeper and deeper in his mind, to the point that even Dawn was startled when he realized what he was thinking.
What is wrong with me?
Dawn gasped for breath, covering the side of his face with his right hand, unable to understand why such a deranged thought had suddenly appeared.
No. Read. Don't think about this nonsense. Improving myself is what really matters.
Dawn lowered his head and forced his attention onto the book.
But the dense lines of text twisted like wriggling tadpoles, slipping into his eyes and swimming straight back out of his mind. He couldn't focus at all.
"Fuck."
Dawn cursed under his breath, irritably shoving the barely opened book back onto the shelf. He decided to return to his office and properly sort out his thoughts.
Yet even after sitting down at his desk and pouring himself hot water from the teapot, he could only sit there, increasingly lost the more he thought.
For once, he felt utterly at a loss.
What should I do?
Dawn pressed his lips together, feeling a pounding ache in his head.
Then suddenly—
He thought of something.
He reached into his wallet and took out a wooden box. Opening it, he stared at the black stone inside.
The Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows.
Come to think of it, he had possessed this stone for a long time now. Yet out of some subconscious avoidance, he had never made up his mind to study it.
But now, in the midst of his anxiety, the thought of wanting to see that person one more time finally broke free of its restraints.
And so— Dawn slowly reached out and grasped the stone.
In an instant, the room subtly changed.
Strands of mist, blending pale blue and milky white, emerged in the air.
A breeze swept through.
The mist drifted and gathered, forming the outline of a woman. She reached out, as if lifting a veil, and her features gradually became clear.
She was a woman in her early thirties, wearing jeans and a white jacket. Her long hair was tied in a ponytail that slipped out from beneath a red baseball cap.
Sophia Antonis.
Dawn father's first wife.
And Dawn's biological mother.
Dawn looked at the face that had long grown blurry in his memory, his emotions tangled and indistinct.
Nostalgia?
Grief?
Yet when he had stood before the Mirror of Erised last year, what it reflected was his desire for immortality—not a longing for family.
Perhaps, over the long years since his mother's death, those old attachments had already faded into insignificant symbols, only fit to mark time in memory.
"Hey! You're Dawn, right?"
Just as Dawn's thoughts churned, the woman suddenly looked straight into his eyes and spoke with absolute certainty.
She circled him a few times, poking his cheek curiously. "How strange. How did you end up looking like this?"
Dawn opened his mouth, but swallowed his words back down. In the end, he only muttered, "I… had some work done."
He felt a bit ridiculous—running home to look for his mother just because he was troubled by certain things.
How childish.
"Ha! Liar."
The woman laughed.
"Don't try to wriggle out of it.
Every time you don't want to tell the truth, the corner of your mouth twitches just a little. Exactly the same as when you were a kid."
She wagged a finger smugly, like she'd just scored an ace in an important tennis match.
"And I'd even bet that it hasn't been long at all since we last saw each other."
"Why do you say that?" Dawn asked, genuinely puzzled. He glanced around but saw nothing that could indicate the date.
"Because you're avoiding my eyes. With a personality this awkward, you definitely wouldn't be older than eighteen right now. Well? Was I right?"
Seeing the surprise in Dawn's eyes, she burst into hearty laughter, then softened her voice.
"So, Dawn—can you let me see it? Let me see the truest version of you… the one I've always missed."
___________
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