"How much of the unaltered history do you still remember?"
"Only one. In that former history, the Roman Empire never declined. Neither the Angles nor the Saxons ever set foot upon this land. In those days, dragons soared through the firmament, and the earth sang epics of Britannic heroes resisting Roman soldiers. I once bred the centaur people together with my beloved."
Rhiannon lowered her voice. "Our history has already been lost. I can't remember the one who was once upon my back. They have been forgotten. They never appeared again… Do you know how gods die? They do not truly die. Rather, every trace of them vanishes as history is lost—then they never appear again."
"The one spoken of by the stars," she said, "remember this: the universe does not care about gods, and it will not grieve for anyone's departure. Protect our past and our future, because that is the only remaining trace of billions of living beings in this world."
By the time the three wizards returned to Hogwarts, Rhiannon's warning was still turning over in their minds.
"Professor… have you thought of something?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "It seems we must warn the Ministry of Magic, and demand the destruction of all Time-Turners." He hesitated, but his tone was firm. "Let history go where it is meant to go. For the sake of our descendants."
"I opened Pandora's box by accident." Skyl pinched the Eye of the High Tower between his fingers. "I should retract that paper."
"Eternal Transfiguration?"
"Exactly. I proved that history can be tampered with, and I offered an answer. Difficult, yes—but it can be done."
"Imagine," Dumbledore said, standing in the fierce afternoon sunlight and yet feeling a chill, "that I never existed in this world. I would never see those flowers, never hear music. All laughter would have nothing to do with me, all tears would have nothing to do with me, and all love would not exist, either. Ah… that is more terrifying than death. I always thought I was strong enough, that I'd already seen everything…" He paused, then asked softly, "Skyl… do you think there is a realm of the dead after we die?"
"Maybe there is." Skyl wasn't sure. He was only the king of the Tower of Tomes, not the God of every other world. "Maybe there isn't."
Dumbledore suddenly laughed again. "You see? In the end, I'm just a muddled old man. I always believed death was only the start of another adventure. But the truth is even more frightening than death. I don't know whether I have the courage to face an ending that simply… vanishes."
"If you had never existed," Skyl said, "I'd just keep wandering the streets of London, then find a restaurant job doing odd work. I'd save what little I could under the boss's exploitation, try to build up a bit of capital, then experiment with stock investing. I've got plenty of good ideas for making money. Come to think of it—if you'd never sent that letter, maybe I'd have become a Muggle businessman, married in my thirties… and then one day, my child would receive an acceptance letter delivered by an owl. Or there's another possibility: I'd die in some alley and end up as an unidentified floating corpse on the Thames."
Everything he said was a fantasy from the days when he'd first arrived—when he had no one, was hungry and freezing, and only wanted one full meal, only wanted a little nest where he could sleep comfortably, struggling through grief and rage as fate toyed with him.
What happened afterward was something he'd never even dared to dream of.
Dumbledore walked slowly. He looked exhausted, like an old man crushed by illness and pain.
Skyl lightly stroked the phoenix feathers on his shoulder. "Professor."
"Yes?"
"Actually… I have a way to make history settle into certainty."
"No." Dumbledore shook his head. "Whatever you want to do, I can support you—except that. That is even more terrifying than history being tampered with, isn't it?"
"It is," Skyl said, nodding. "Very terrifying."
"Then don't make us face an ending that terrible, all right?" Dumbledore's voice was light, as if it might be scattered by the wind—like a dandelion seed that never reaches the ground.
Skyl looked into Dumbledore's sea-blue eyes. In those aged pupils lay a complicated sorrow and bitterness that was hard to put into words. He fell silent for a moment, then said, "Professor… maybe, in the future, I'll find a better way—one that makes the universe remember our names forever. One that ties the endless distances and countless people to us, intimately. Please believe me, as you always have."
After an iron stretch of silence, Dumbledore suddenly blinked playfully. "If I recall, you're taking twelve O.W.L.s. Shouldn't you be hurrying to revise?"
Skyl relaxed into a smile and gave the Headmaster a jaunty hat-tip. Fawkes lifted from his shoulder and glided toward the towers. Skyl also took his leave.
Hagrid didn't say a word the whole way. Only after Skyl had gone did he start clicking his tongue. "That mare was really beautiful."
Dumbledore agreed wholeheartedly. "It certainly was."
They both knew that Hagrid would sleep soundly when he got back.
Three days later, the Order of Merlin, Second Class arrived in Skyl's hands, commending his outstanding contribution to transfiguration theory. He refused the medal and published an apology in Transfiguration Today, apologizing that his "Eternal Transfiguration" was an unfalsifiable theory that could be seen as sensationalism, and announcing that he would withdraw the original manuscript and revise it.
In the end, after verification by the Order of Merlin, they still decided to award Skyl the Second Class.
…
After returning to the castle, Skyl went out of his way to find Harry. On the pretext of checking his learning progress, he insisted on speaking with him alone.
That "Practical Guide" had gained quite a few new pages, and it was clear Harry had already done a fair bit of research into nonverbal spellcasting.
It was the result of hard work. Besides ordinary study, he also had to attend Quidditch training after class. As the youngest Seeker on the team, he carried both the hopes of his schoolmates and their suspicion of his ability. To repay his teammates' trust, Harry always pushed himself.
Every time he dragged himself back to the study room, he wanted nothing more than to collapse and sleep. He relied entirely on alchemical draughts Hermione made to ease fatigue and sharpen his mind. He only felt time was too tight—so tight he wished he could turn one day into forty-eight hours.
"Your progress is already quite good. For a first-year, to reach this level—no matter how strict the professor, there'd be nothing to fault. But I've noticed you're very focused on Dark magic. That is not a field you should be stepping into."
Harry clenched the Guide and kept his head down, refusing to answer.
Skyl had no prejudice against Dark magic, but these theories truly weren't suitable for ordinary people—let alone a child. He had already seen it in a prophecy: Harry was studying Dark magic in order to resurrect his parents. As he dug deeper, the boy would become obsessive.
Dark magic couldn't resurrect someone. As Skyl had said long ago, at most it could bring back a thought-form—and even that would be incomplete. But for witches and wizards who could not master Eternal Transfiguration, it was almost the only path that even looked like an answer.
"I know why you're so interested in Dark magic. Have you heard the tale of the Three Brothers?"
Harry shook his head.
"Then I'll summarize it simply. The tale comes from The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It tells of three brothers who obtained three Hallows from Death. They include the Elder Wand, the Invisibility Cloak, and the Resurrection Stone. The Resurrection Stone has the power to bring back the dead."
Harry's eyes lit up.
"Just as the Philosopher's Stone is the supreme achievement of alchemy, the Resurrection Stone—viewed from a certain angle—can also be seen as the supreme achievement of Dark magic." Skyl's voice stayed steady. "But Dark magic cannot truly resurrect the dead. The wizard who possessed the Resurrection Stone summoned his beloved, who had died young, only to discover that it was as though a thick veil lay between them. The girl suffered in torment and begged him to let her rest. The one he loved was visible, yet unreachable. In the end, the wizard could no longer bear that torture and chose suicide."
As Skyl spoke, the fire in Harry's eyes dimmed little by little—then, very quickly, reignited.
"There has to be another way," he muttered.
"Harry." Skyl reached out, patted his shoulder, and met his eyes.
Those eyes brimmed with sorrow. He only wanted to be loved. He only wanted to trade magic's miracle for someone who loved him. Was that really wrong?
"Harry, listen. I made a prophecy. This prophecy is different from the ones before—it is accurate. I foresee the Death Eaters gathering, rallying around their new master. That person is you—not Voldemort. By continually devouring Horcruxes, you become a wizard more terrifying than he ever was, and you're only thirteen. You have no interest in the power you hold. You struggle only for one goal: to resurrect your family. And when you discover Dark magic cannot grant your wish, you find another way—by using a Time-Turner to tamper with history."
Harry made a face that said, all right, all right, I get it, you're making things up again.
"Don't believe me? Fine." Skyl's eyes spilled a thread of magical radiance that stabbed into Harry's pupils. The boy instantly fell straight backward, unconscious. In the deep, heavy dream he fell into, his body kept trembling without end.
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