Chapter 226

Just before dawn, En returned to Hogwarts Castle with some unremarkable honors.

His green eyes remained utterly still, revealing only a faint sorrow.

Before his return, he encountered a minor incident: a lady who had secretly transformed from a beetle persistently sought to interview him.

Though the International Alchemy Assembly was highly secretive and she knew no insider information, it was possible she took a strong interest in a wizard so young.

The castle was under a special spell prohibiting Apparition, and when En stepped outside, she appeared as if materializing from thin air:

“Such a young attendee—come here, child, look this way, let me help you preserve some lovely memories…”

She glanced around but saw no other wizards—had there been any other alchemists nearby, she would have fled farther away.

She seemed mad, but those old immortals were truly insane.

Looking at the young wizard before her, she guessed he had slipped out for air—what could have driven him to do so?

“A young genius crushed by defeat?”

“The reason alchemy is in decline—could it be that alchemists are shunning fresh blood?!”

She drifted into wild imaginings, then raised her magical camera, ready to snap several photos of En’s face.

As for her “lovely memories,” if “clever Granger girl manipulating Harry and Krum’s affections, possibly brewing love potions,” “half-giant Hagrid as gamekeeper,” and “Dumbledore is a rigid old madman” counted as such…

“A beetle turned wizard—are you a registered Animagus?”

En glanced at her neat, stiff, peculiarly curled hair and spoke.

“Ah—ah—”

Her hand holding the camera trembled; she panicked and tried to clamp her hand over En’s mouth.

At that moment, the tall, stern Professor McGonagall raised her wand toward Rita. She had just gone to Headmaster Dumbledore for a moment—where had this wizard come from?

En returned to Hogwarts Castle.

Thunder rumbled overhead, wind slammed against the castle walls, and En heard the creaking of branches snapping in the Forbidden Forest far away.

This was not good weather…

Professor McGonagall had gone to handle a backlog of administrative tasks; En bid farewell to the instructors in the Great Hall. He carried a well-concealed worry, yet it escaped none of Minerva McGonagall’s eyes.

The boy always hid things from her. He never realized someone could be relied upon… but it was not his fault, for when he most needed help, no one had ever helped him.

Minerva McGonagall took out a letter; she had long corresponded with a woman named Roland. This was a truly noble soul who had spent her life tirelessly aiding orphans.

In her hand, the letter was slightly damp:

[Dear Professor McGonagall:

Love is a hazy, vague illusion—but do you know? Perhaps true love only begins when you truly love someone’s weaknesses, someone’s flaws.

Dear lady, be careful—those who love are easily hurt, for they open themselves completely to the other.

Overly talkative: Roland]

It’s fine—we still have plenty of time. That is the best news of all.

Minerva McGonagall tucked away the damp letter and watched the young wizard’s figure grow distant.

The corridors remained noisy; after losing two Transfiguration classes, the young wizards had found a moment of respite amid their hectic final-term coursework, and they savored this hard-won ease.

En walked forward without pause until he reached the Headmaster’s office door.

He knew nothing of what had transpired within the castle, nor what choice Professor Quirrell had made. If there was anyone in Hogwarts who remained hidden, who could appear anywhere in the castle and observe everything that happened—then the answer was simple.

“Little Green, I don’t think this is dangerous—keep a positive heart, remember…”

Sir Cadogan rode his small horse, guarding the Headmaster’s office door with an air of invincibility.

“Nothing special lately—just a squirrel paused here for a moment, holding a strange button and muttering ‘cockroach cluster’—but the stone gargoyle didn’t move, because aside from those with addled minds, everyone knows Headmaster Dumbledore has left.”

“You are truly brave.”

En’s eyes still held no emotion, only a slight lowering of his head.

“I’m sorry…”

He didn’t know whom he was apologizing to—the corridor held only wind mingled with rain.

“Oh oh, don’t worry—I hid a squirrel biscuit in the corner as you said—it’s gone?! Could the squirrel have taken it?”

Sir Cadogan galloped into the painting in the corner, shoving aside the panicked women in hoop skirts.

En had already slipped away silently.

He could not imagine how much courage had once existed here, or how deep the despair had been.

“There’s still a chance…”

He reached out, and a broom fell like a meteor through the window into the second floor.

When he arrived at the doorstep of the House of Hope, Mr. Owl did not ask questions—instead, he bowed steadily:

“When Lady Ravenclaw ran tirelessly for young wizards who had no place to learn magic and died in uncontrolled bursts, I saw this gaze far too often.

Clever young wizard, you know what choice preserves your safety—but you refuse to make it, don’t you? May you know: this is true wisdom…”

En gave a slight nod and stepped into the Chamber of Hope.

Killing a unicorn is an act of extreme cruelty.

Slaughtering a pure, fragile, helpless life—once its blood touches the lips, the perpetrator gains not life, but a half-dead, cursed existence.

But what if the unicorn has not yet died?

There’s still a chance…

Inside the House of Hope, the group was locked in heated debate, unaware of the door opening.

“Justin and Firenze rushed out to save me—Bane says Firenze shouldn’t have done that… he was furious… said this would disrupt the fate foretold by the stars—the constellations must have shown Voldemort’s return… Bane thought Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me in the Forbidden Forest… I suppose that too was shown in the stars.”

Harry shouted.

“Don’t say that name!”

Ron whispered in terror, as if afraid Voldemort might hear.

“Firenze says Voldemort is in the Forbidden Forest! He drinks unicorn blood just to survive until Professor Quirrell steals the Philosopher’s Stone for him… Firenze also said…”

Harry ignored Ron, but his voice grew quieter as he imitated the centaur’s tone:

“Some say he’s dead. I think that’s pure nonsense. He has so little humanity left, he cannot truly die.”

Everyone here knew who “he” was.