Chapter 405: Star

A small story spread through the Borderlands.

A rare black cat, one that seldom appears, must be greeted by wizards with the most serene and joyful demeanor.

Then, wait for good fortune.

In the Muggle world, black cats often symbolize ill omen, fear, and mystery;

but in the Borderlands, where only wizarding souls exist, the souls readily accepted this tale.

A wizard obsessed with adventure passed through the forest; he saw barren land blooming with flowers, and, satisfied, took the story with him as he left.

A kind old grandmother passed through the forest; she smiled, touched the blooming roses, picked up a seed, and walked down another path.

A stern middle-aged man approached; if Wizard Sean were here, he would know this man was identical to the statue he had seen in the Chamber, even with a longer face.

He glanced coldly at the wooden cabin standing in the wasteland, then departed with his staff.

Regardless, the story began to spread.

Through, four people.

Inside the cottage.

The fireplace burned, flickering flames as warm as they had been for tens of centuries.

They sat in silence, occasionally uttering a few words.

Eventually, they inevitably spoke of a cat—a cat with jet-black fur.

“Like stars…”

Helena said, her voice low.

“Stars in the night, silent as constellations, distant yet bright.

When you need them, no words are needed—just lift your head, and the stars will walk with you for a while.”

Rowina listened, her book placed far away, a smile on her face.

…

The wizard who had once walked these halls had vanished, and the tower had become a patch of shadow.

Hogwarts Castle fell into slumber.

It was a night when the stars shone especially bright.

Wizard Sean walked along corridors where portraits whispered to one another, the Wizard’s Book stuffed with an old volume he had taken from Rowina Ravenclaw’s study.

The Owl had given it to him and told him:

“In the wizarding world, the continuation of knowledge is the foremost duty.”

The yellowed parchment recorded secrets of the magical world, such as the Book of Admission and the Quill of Acceptance.

This lightened Wizard Sean’s steps immeasurably.

【Those wizards fortunate enough to witness this process (I enjoy quietly spending hours in this tower, observing their actions) believe the Quill of Acceptance is more lenient than the Book of Admission.

A mere trace of magic is enough to stir the Quill of Acceptance. At such moments, the Book of Admission slams shut, refusing to be written upon until it receives unmistakable evidence of magical ability.】

Fascinating.

Wizard Sean continued reading:

【In fact, the Book of Admission is strict by design:

Its record of rejecting Squibs from Hogwarts is nearly flawless. Children born to wizard parents but lacking magic themselves sometimes carry faint residual magical traces from their parents.

But once their parents’ magic no longer surrounds them, there is no doubt they possess zero spellcasting ability.

The Book of Admission rejects such individuals.

The Quill of Acceptance’s sensitivity, paired with the Book of Admission’s strictness, has never made a single error.】

Fascinating magical artifacts.

Wizard Sean thought, hoping to find even more intriguing records within.

As he walked, lost in the world of magic, a door suddenly opened and pulled him inside.

“Headmaster Dumbledore?”

Wizard Sean looked at the familiar circular room, understanding dawning.

“I’ve always wanted to speak with you,”

Dumbledore smiled, studying him, the tips of his ten long fingers touching.

“I must ask you, Wizard Sean—do you have anything you’d like to tell me,”

he said gently,

“anything at all.”

“Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore.”

Wizard Sean answered immediately.

“Oh heh heh…”

Dumbledore’s beard trembled, revealing a delighted expression.

They sat in the Headmaster’s office chairs; Dumbledore peered through the steam of his black tea at the young wizard, as if recalling where to begin.

“At Ilvermorny…”

Wizard Sean pulled out a book stained with faint traces of the Deathbed Bloom, titled The Book of Ghosts,

“Lady Isolde taught me some knowledge about ghosts—oh, Lady Isolde herself is a ghost.

And then…”

Dumbledore listened with a smile and said:

“And then?”

“I sent her on her way.”

Wizard Sean spoke plainly.

“Oh heh heh—”

Dumbledore’s smile faltered, then his beard vibrated with delight.

“Death is the anniversary of the living, but for ghosts, it is the festival of final rest.”

Wizard Sean added.

“It seems that next time you go to the Borderlands, you’ll have a new landmark.”

Dumbledore gazed out at the quiet blackness beyond the window.

“Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore. And I’ve already met Lady Isolde.

I asked her to help me find some special people.”

Wizard Sean continued.

“Ah…”

Dumbledore’s expression grew grave; it took him great effort to ask,

“Then, has Headmaster Seraphina…”

Wizard Sean gently shook his head:

“No. Lady Seraphina told me two souls’ paths do not easily cross—but she found a particular wizard.”

The kettle in the Headmaster’s office boiled over, its gurgling interrupting their conversation for several seconds.

“What you have seen and sought is a realm never before touched by any recorded wizard.

Wizard Sean—so, whom did you meet?”

Dumbledore still wore his kind expression.

“Lady Ravenclaw.”

Wizard Sean said. Outside, the snow on the eaves of the office, unable to bear its weight, slid smoothly onto the snow below with a soft “plop.”

“A fascinating tale.”

Dumbledore smiled.

“Hmm…”

Wizard Sean sat in the chair; he understood perfectly—Dumbledore’s wish, or an old man’s longing.

He felt a faint disappointment.

“Walk slowly, walk steadily, Mr. Green.

You know this is true.

Well then—what did you do next? Is the book in your hands a relic of Ravenclaw’s?

To be honest, even I don’t know the Book of Admission this well.”

Dumbledore sipped his tea, steam clinging to his eyelids.

“I sent Lady Grey on her way.”

Wizard Sean continued.

“Oh, cough—”

Dumbledore choked slightly—an uncommon occurrence,

“Well, well, I suppose you didn’t throw her a celebration like Sir Nicholas did?”

He added with faint teasing.

As for sending off Ravenclaw’s ghost… it didn’t matter; he was always more lenient toward certain wizards…

“I don’t think it’s necessary…”

Wizard Sean thought seriously, for this was the greatest festival for ghosts—just as important as a wizard’s birthday.

Although he had never celebrated his birthday.