Chapter 508: A Beautiful Dream

“Let me see them one last time, I beg you—I am willing to give everything, anything I have…”

“If you must sacrifice anyone for your great plan, remember me.”

Sirius stared straight at Wizard Sean, who did not understand why he was so willing to risk his life for a wizard.

Unless… he had already died.

Now he was no more than a ghost.

Fortunately, Wizard Sean knew something that could ignite a soul.

“You still need to deal with Peter.”

Wizard Sean said.

“Oh, of course, but I suppose Lupin is still there. He works at your bookshop, doesn’t he?”

Sirius said.

“Then what about Harry?”

Wizard Sean said slowly.

“Harry… he has his aunt…”

Sirius hesitated.

“Why not ask him? If you don’t ask him, he loses the right to choose.”

“Sir, this is not a good decision.”

Wizard Sean whispered.

“I…”

Sirius lost all strength to argue.

“You are his godfather, aren’t you?”

Wizard Sean added the final chip.

“Of course, of course…”

Sirius’s voice grew hoarse.

“Then do it for Harry. If you clear your name, he might be eager to live with you.”

Wizard Sean smiled.

Sirius still stared blankly at the wall—in the distant Leaky Cauldron, in the room he had lived in, there was a face he knew too well.

“I’ve seen him. His face resembles his father’s, and his grandfather’s too.”

“But his eyes—they are like his mother’s.”

Sirius murmured, then suddenly turned to the young wizard.

“I owe him, sir, but I also know that if we cannot stop Voldemort from rising again… all of this is meaningless.”

“What good is defeating the darkest wizard in the world?”

Sirius’s face was grimly resolute.

“To save innocent lives.”

Wizard Sean looked at the man—the gaunt man, the man who had spent decades in prison—still holding onto courage and kindness, like a flame that could not be extinguished.

“I think you are always like me—you, a wizard Voldemort could never ignore, one who could have easily avoided this bitter battle…”

“And so I can only conclude: you fight for conscience, for the weak.”

Sirius spoke slowly, each word deliberate.

“Please, let me see them again, sir, honored sir.”

“If death comes for me tomorrow, I must know whether I still have the face to meet them—if they refuse to see me, if they hate me?”

Sirius finished, nearly begging.

Wizard Sean finally sighed:

“Sir, everyone makes mistakes.”

“But I must remind you—for some wizards, the world beyond the Veil is not necessarily beautiful.”

“Even if it is a mountain of knives or sea of fire, it does not matter.”

Sirius’s eyes brightened.

“Then, have a good dream.”

Wizard Sean said sincerely.

Immediately, a Pooka leapt out from the pendant hanging from Wizard Sean’s chest, shaped like a book.

It glanced at Sirius with disdain, then respectfully vanished with the young wizard.

Sirius felt no anger—only a wild, overwhelming joy.

He walked toward the tapestry and began clearing the glass-fronted cabinets.

This task demanded intense focus, for many items inside seemed reluctant to leave their dusty shelves.

He would exhaust himself until he could not move—only then could he sleep well.

—To welcome a beautiful dream, or to step into hell.

While cleaning, Sirius was bitten hard by a silver snuffbox; within seconds, his hand was covered in a grotesque hard crust, like a rough brown glove.

“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing.”

He chuckled foolishly, examining his hand, then tapped it lightly with his wand—the skin returned to normal.

“Definitely tumor powder inside.”

He seemed delighted, then tossed the snuffbox into the bag designated for trash.

There were still many things in the cabinet.

For example, a Pixie—Sirius killed it with a book titled *Noble by Birth: Wizarding Genealogies*;

A heavy, unopenable keepsake box—filled with a pile of ancient seals.

In a dusty box lay a First-Class Merlin Medal, awarded to Sirius’s grandfather for “contributions to the Ministry of Magic.”

“Meaning he gave them a pile of Galleons.”

Sirius hummed a tune as he tossed the medal into the trash bag.

There was also a music box; when wound, it emitted faint, ominous notes, and Sirius suddenly felt weak, drowsy.

Fortunately, his mind remained clear—he pulled out a trumpet and collapsed onto the floor.

Mist began to swirl.

Sirius awoke dazedly in a vast, white expanse.

His first act was to punch himself hard, then grinned like an idiot:

“Bloody Merlin, that hurt!”

He eagerly scanned the surroundings—and there, as expected, was a cat as black and deep as ink.

Its posture matched exactly the drawing by Newt Scamander.

“Dear Mr. Black Cat, or my revered and beloved deity.”

Sirius bowed deeply.

“Mr. Black, good evening.”

The black cat said.

It watched as misty blobs drifted naturally toward Sirius.

It leapt onto them, pressing down so they could not immediately touch Sirius.

Then, with a flick of its tail, it swept away several more misty blobs.

“I—I—I must do what? I must…”

Sirius looked around at this place, this luminous haze.

These mists were unlike any he had ever seen.

They were not vapors obscuring the surroundings—they were vapors that had not yet formed the surroundings.

The ground beneath him was white—not hot, not cold—just an existence, flat and empty.

“Give me some memories, sir.”

The black cat’s furry ears twitched.

“What memories? Oh, I must…”

Sirius was flustered until he saw the cat shape a Pensieve from mist.

“Is this possible…?”

He gaped—here, he was no different from a novice wizard.

But soon he smiled, slowly approaching the cat, whose eyes fixed on the silver threads.

On this night he had never dreamed of, dreams were the secret passage back to the past.