Amid the roaring inside his skull, Ron felt himself dragged back to months earlier—to blurry memories of his own idiotic past.
In the memory, he flicked a finger against a tiny baby dragon's forehead.
As the little dragon roared in indignation, he and Harry burst out laughing.
Beside them rang Vaughn's warning:
"…Dragons hold grudges."
And Malfoy's annoying—yet now painfully sincere—advice:
"If I were you, I'd never provoke a beast like that…"
What did he reply back then?
"It's going to be sent away anyway! If it has the guts, let it come back to Hogwarts for revenge!"
In the whiteness swallowing his consciousness, Ron desperately wished he could go back in time, dive straight into his own memories, and punch both himself and Harry repeatedly.
Two idiots!
In the very last flicker of thought, he heard Nobetta's screeching "GAGAGAGA!"—a sound full of joy, satisfaction, and long-awaited vengeance.
…
The forest in the painting-world resembled the Forbidden Forest.
Towering trees. Deep shade. Thick humidity clinging to every leaf—so dense it felt like dawn fog before a storm, soaking through clothes within minutes.
But there were differences.
For one, in this forest, the mist never dispersed.
No matter how the painted sun rose overhead, no matter how harsh its rays became, it could not evaporate the moisture nor drive it into any atmospheric cycle.
Because this was a "painting."
It obeyed the creator's will.
If the creator liked misty forests, then this forest would remain forever veiled in fog.
And here, there were no animals.
Hermione had explored the Forbidden Forest before.
Despite its darkness, she remembered its vibrant life—birdsong, insect chirping, beastly howls, rustling shrubs.
A true natural forest was a symphony of never-repeated sounds.
But here, the forest was a silent, frozen scene.
RUSTLE—
A nearby bush shook. Hermione, crouching and poking grass with her wand, jerked upright and pointed her wand forward.
"It's me!"
Harry pushed through the bushes, looking thoroughly bedraggled—drenched by fog, covered in twigs and leaves.
His messy hair plastered to his forehead. His glasses nearly opaque with moisture.
He spread his empty hands and muttered, "Found nothing to eat."
Hermione lowered her wand.
"Then forget it. This place is painted… even if you did find something, it might not be edible."
Harry nodded and slumped down opposite her, staring at the ground.
They no longer knew how long they'd been wandering since leaving Chess Town.
Without a clock, time felt impossible to track. Even the shifting sun overhead was only a painted illusion—hardly a reliable reference.
After checking Hermione's injuries and crying bitterly over Ron's fate, Harry had turned silent.
Wordlessly, he led Hermione through the forest, tracking Quirrell's path.
When the sun first began tilting west, they found the spot where Quirrell had fallen…
But only charred trees remained.
Quirrell was long gone.
The good news: Hermione found fragments of the broomstick and the potion bottle Quirrell had dropped.
Harry retrieved the bottle from his pocket, staring at it blankly.
"He couldn't use magic… and without a broom, where could he hide?"
Even in a murmur, anger and hatred throbbed in his voice.
Hermione glanced at him—worried—but unsure how to comfort him.
She knew this realm was crafted by Dumbledore and Vaughn.
She suspected Ron wasn't truly dead—Vaughn would never harm his own brother.
But logically, this was still a set of trials guarding the Philosopher's Stone. Danger was normal. Deadliness was possible.
Magic accidents happened constantly.
Any wizard who claimed everything could be controlled was a liar.
What if… Ron's "death" was simply an accident?
This fear stopped her from telling Harry her suspicion.
She was terrified that, in his grief, he would turn against Dumbledore and Vaughn.
She forced herself to speak:
"You still haven't found Quirrell's tracks?"
Harry shook his head.
"The lightning must've hurt him badly," Hermione said, eyeing the potion bottle. "Remember what Firenze said? Quirrell uses unicorn blood to brew potion for… for the Dark Lord. That bottle is his."
"And Quirrell used that to heal himself. He must be desperate. Instead of searching blindly, we should force him to come find us."
Harry finally looked up.
"You mean…?"
Hermione gazed ahead—through layers of forest.
Both of them knew that direction led to the final goal of the painting-world—
The Castle.
According to the narrator, the evil fire dragon's lair.
The last trial.
After a moment's silence, Harry pocketed the bottle and nodded firmly.
"We're going to the castle."
His expression was brave—almost too brave, to the point Hermione found it unfamiliar.
The Harry she knew was impulsive.
Rashness was not bravery—it was escape disguised as courage.
But this Harry was different.
He was still grieving. Still furious.
But he was lucid—he understood her reasoning and grasped the implications immediately.
The castle likely held the Philosopher's Stone.
If they reached it and triggered the final challenge, Quirrell would have to appear.
Otherwise he'd lose the Stone forever.
Ron's "death" had changed Harry—made him grow.
But such a price…
Hermione remembered Firenze's words about Harry and Voldemort's intertwined fate.
Her chest tightened painfully—
For Ron's uncertain fate.
For Harry's future.
For destiny's cruelty.
She reached into her pocket and drew out the "Wishing Paintbrush," the reward from Fairy Tale Town.
[Wishing Paintbrush: A magical brush usable only in the Painting World. If you make a sincere wish, it can draw any object you desire.]
[Uses remaining: 1/3]
She'd used one charge to paint a broom—then lost it to Quirrell.
Used a second to repaint another while tracking him.
She had assumed she wouldn't need the last charge.
Now she wasn't so sure.
"Dumbledore, Vaughn… what do you want me to draw?"
She didn't know.
"Hermione!"
She snapped back to reality.
Harry sat on the broom, gesturing for her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
She ran over and carefully climbed onto the broom's tail. It wasn't built for two riders.
If she weighed any more, it wouldn't get airborne at all.
Harry looked puzzled, but with Hermione settled, he pulled the handle—
And shot skyward.
On foot, the forest felt infinite.
But from the air, the distance collapsed rapidly.
The broom Hermione had drawn was a Nimbus 2000—Harry's favorite—capable of 300 km/h.
At that speed, the wind cut like blades.
But Harry ignored the sting.
He only wanted to reach the castle—retrieve the Stone—
Or kill Quirrell.
…
The castle loomed atop a cliff at the forest's end, resembling Hogwarts in style.
A long stone causeway bridged the ravine toward the forest, lined with towering guardian statues.
After what felt like forever, Harry finally slowed.
Hermione, face buried in her arms to shield against the wind, felt the broom ease.
"We're there?" she shouted.
No response.
She lifted her head a little.
The wind blurred her vision—but the castle was unmistakable.
And Harry was still flying straight toward the causeway.
"Harry—?"
Then the narrator's voice boomed across the sky:
"You and your companion have braved many dangers and finally reached the evil fire dragon's castle! Now, brave heroes—charge! Defeat the dragon! Rescue the princess!"
"Humph! Hermione—hold on!"
Harry's voice cut through the air as he yanked the broom up to full speed again.
Hermione nearly slid off.
But something far worse was happening—
As the narrator spoke, the stone guardians lining the causeway began to move.
They lifted their heads.
Turned.
And with grinding stone…
Pulled long spears from the ground.
Then—
WHOOOM—
Something screamed past Hermione's ear.
Harry cursed and dove sharply.
Only then did she realize—
The statues were throwing their spears.
She glanced forward—
And her heart nearly stopped.
Spears—countless spears—darkened the sky.
In one blink they were tiny.
In the next, they filled her entire vision like an incoming storm.
WHOOOOO—
The air shrieked as the spearstorm tore through it.
Harry, with his sharper reflexes, had already reacted—pushing the broom into a steep dive.
And at the same time—
He muttered:
"Regina!"
A translucent panel appeared before both of them:
[Queen: Reward from Chess Town. Usable only in the Painting World. Child, the Queen has witnessed your pain and your growth. When danger comes—call her name: Regina!]
[Uses remaining: 4/5 → 3/5]
The sky darkened—not from spears—
But from magic.
Grey currents poured from the void like falling veils, wrapping around Harry—turning his skin stone-grey, swelling his body—
Until the Queen stood once again in the sky.
Her sudden mass dragged her down—she slammed into the earth like a meteor.
Exactly as Harry intended.
Raw power surged into his limbs—so overwhelming he felt invincible.
He knew it was an illusion.
But the power itself was real.
The spearstorm slowed into near-stillness under his heightened senses.
He saw every rotation.
Every ripple of air the spearheads carved.
Harry reached out.
The air pushed against him—but the Queen's strength crushed that resistance.
Stone fingers exploded with air pressure—
And he seized a spear.
With his other hand, he caught Hermione and the broom as they fell.
"I'll—handle—them—GO—DOWN—SAFELY—!"
His drawn-out voice sounded ridiculous—but necessary.
The Queen's enhancement accelerated every part of him—body, senses, thoughts, and voice.
If he didn't slow his speech deliberately, he'd sound like a screaming engine.
Hermione did not hear his voice slowly like that—
To her, everything happened in an instant.
One moment she fell—
The next she was caught—
And then the air exploded.
The Queen disappeared.
Reappeared.
Disappeared again.
A blur—residual shadows—air ripping with explosive howls.
Spears shattered into dust with every flicker of the Queen's figure.
Hermione managed to land, stumbling as the ground shook violently.
She looked back—
Just in time to see the Queen crash onto the causeway—
BOOM—
A crater bloomed.
A white shockwave erupted—the Queen charging through stone guardians like a cannon round.
…
"No technique. Pure brute force."
From above, Vaughn stared down expressionlessly.
The battlefield unfolded clearly beneath them.
Harry—now the Queen again—was rampaging across the causeway, wielding two stolen spears like clubs.
It looked clumsy.
Ugly.
But it worked.
Even without combat training—even with movements worse than a street brawler—
speed, strength, and perception compensated for everything.
Every swing cracked a stone guardian apart.
Beside Vaughn, Dumbledore watched with glowing blue eyes, observing the magical effects around Harry carefully.
"But he's learning," he said softly. "He's sensed the promotion is Transfiguration—sensed his magic resisting—and he's forcing his magic to accept it."
"He's growing, Vaughn."
Vaughn's expression didn't change.
"This growth is false. You're exploiting Ron's 'death' to draw out his potential. Even if Harry masters this Queen-form—what good is it?"
He had always thought the trial plan was unnecessary.
But Dumbledore disagreed.
"It has meaning. The Queen-form is false, yes—but the experience is real. The fear, the pressure, the battlefield instincts. I'm not cultivating his power—I'm cultivating his spirit."
Vaughn didn't answer.
After a long moment, he looked toward the forest.
"Quirrell's here."
"Yes. The final act begins."
Dumbledore sighed and extended his hand.
"The key, please. I need to… see something."
The trials, since Vaughn's involvement, had shifted far from Dumbledore's original "child's play" designs.
The fairy-tale castle and the painting-world were only experiments—tests to learn what it took to create a "world."
And once created, that world offered vast research opportunities.
Reality was too complex to observe fully—but a controlled "pocket world" might reveal phenomena otherwise hidden.
Like fate.
Vaughn handed over the key.
"You finished my theory?"
Months ago, Vaughn had proposed:
If one could fully control a world—where every wisp of wind and every photon's path was observable—
Could fate be indirectly detected through energy's motion?
He had forgotten the idea since then.
Until now.
"What else would a legendary wizard need a whole world to observe?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"Not success yet. But closer. Your theory may indeed be right."
Vaughn narrowed his eyes.
"Fate acts on energy?"
"And on time."
Dumbledore unfurled the scroll-like key.
A thin mist expanded—rising, writhing, stretching—
Until it formed a vast translucent curtain across the sky.
The magic drained him visibly—his face paled, hands trembling.
He stared down at the castle, at the causeway.
"All that remains… is Quirinus. And time."
Vaughn's eyes gleamed.
"I want to see how time behaves in this world. Have you tested it before?"
"No, dear boy. Such alchemical artifacts are extremely rare."
"What do you expect it to look like?"
Dumbledore hesitated.
"…Hopefully not like your theory."
Time.
Linear?
Branching?
Fixed?
Mutable?
In Muggle theories, parallel timelines branched endlessly.
But Muggles could not time travel—so they could never test it.
Wizards, however—
Had the Time-Turner.
One of alchemy's greatest miracles—second only to the Philosopher's Stone.
But its effects were… peculiar.
A Time-Turner allowed travel to the past—
But the past could not be changed.
No matter what one did, events remained the same.
Some force—fate, law, reality—held the timeline rigid.
Vaughn had long been fascinated by this.
He had asked Bill to help conduct a small experiment.
Dumbledore asked, "What experiment?"
"Something simple," Vaughn said. "I smashed a vase. I asked Bill to travel back and stop me by any means."
Dumbledore frowned.
He already knew the outcome.
The vase would always break.
And indeed—
"Bill tried everything," Vaughn said. "Sending letters. Asking Professor McGonagall to use the Floo to go home. Asking Mum and Dad to retrieve the vase. Nothing worked."
"From my perspective, I smashed the vase at noon. Then received a letter later—it had been misdelivered."
"Mum and Dad only remembered Bill's request after dinner. Too late."
"And Bill himself? He tried using McGonagall's fireplace, got caught, escaped for six hours, got hungry, tried to warn his other self—but walked straight into the Hall and got detained."
"When he was locked up… his other self had just left to go back six hours."
Vaughn smiled.
"Isn't it amusing, Albus?"
"Mm…"
Dumbledore stroked his beard, deep in thought.
"It forms… a loop."
"Yes. Very much like determinism." Vaughn nodded.
"In determinism, past, present, and future are fixed. Even if you go back, you only complete what was already destined."
"Just like Bill. 'Vaughn breaks the vase' was already a fact six hours in the future—even if Bill returned to the past, countless coincidences ensured the event happened."
Dumbledore fell silent.
Wizards revered fate.
But they didn't accept it.
Every witch or wizard had regrets they wished to undo.
Time was the only reachable path toward altering destiny.
And yet—all experiments failed.
The most famous:
In 1899, the Unspeakable Eloise Mintumble's disastrous time-travel experiment.
She was trapped in the year 1402 for five days.
When she returned, she died quickly—her body aged five centuries.
But her experiment shook the wizarding world—
Because during her five days in the past, she created temporal distortions.
Tuesday lasted two-and-a-half days.
Thursday shrank to four hours.
For a moment—
Wizards believed they had glimpsed the possibility of breaking fate.
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