Chapter 517: A Misfortune

Dreams are a mysterious existence.

Sometimes they reveal the future, as Harry once experienced; sometimes they link souls, revealing in haze what cannot be attained in daylight.

Most dreams are strange and unpredictable, but for the Harbinger of Luck in the Borderlands...

Dreams are some dumplings.

Today, the Borderlands still hung thick with white mist; the black cat walked through familiar fog and found that dream dumpling.

Though the black cat rarely peered into others’ dreams—it had no wish to spy on wizards’ hidden hearts—today was different; it had to summon the dream’s guest out.

In that endless rain-drenched dream, the black cat saw young Professor Snape, and also, Spider’s Lane unlike its memory.

In its memory, Spider’s Lane was dilapidated, but never had it known such terrifying quarrels.

In the cramped room, the man roared in fury, the woman shrieked in agony; then the boy ran out.

The black cat saw him in an almost deserted playground.

A massive chimney loomed far off against the sky. Two girls swung on swings; a thin boy hid behind bushes, watching them.

The boy’s black hair was long; his clothes were wildly mismatched, as if deliberately chosen:

A pair of jeans too short, a large, long, worn-out coat clearly meant for an adult, and a shirt oddly shaped like a maternity gown.

The black cat twitched its ears—this outfit was even worse than the children of Hollyse Orphanage.

Young Professor Snape had a sallow face, a small frame, and a lean build.

He watched the younger girl swing higher than the older one, his thin face revealing unmasked longing.

“Lily, don’t do that!”

The older girl shrieked.

But when the little girl reached the peak of her swing, she let go and flew into the air—truly flew, laughing as she plunged toward the sky.

She did not crash onto the asphalt playground; instead, she glided through the air like an acrobat, hovering for a long time before landing lightly.

“Mom told you not to do that!”

Petunia slammed her heels into the ground, halting the swing with a screeching scrape, then jumped up, hands on her hips.

“Mom said you’re not allowed to do this, Lily!”

“But I’m fine,”

Lily said, still giggling,

“Petunia, watch this. See what I can do.”

Petunia glanced around—the playground was empty except for them, and Snape and the black cat, though the girls knew nothing of the latter.

Lily picked up a withered flower from the bushes where Snape hid.

Petunia stepped forward, curious yet displeased, her mind torn.

Lily waited until Petunia was close enough to see clearly, then opened her palm; the petals opened and closed rhythmically, like some strange, layered oyster.

“Stop that!”

Petunia shrieked.

“I haven’t hurt you.”

Lily said, though she still crushed the flower and threw it to the ground.

“That’s wrong,”

Petunia said, but her gaze followed the fallen flower and lingered on it for a long time,

“How did you do that?”

She asked again, her voice betraying unmistakable longing.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Young Snape could no longer contain himself; he leapt out from behind the bushes.

Petunia screamed and turned to run toward the swings; Lily, clearly startled, stayed rooted in place.

Young Snape seemed to regret his sudden appearance; he looked at Lily, a faint blush rising on his sallow cheeks.

“What’s obvious?”

Lily asked.

Young Snape looked nervous and excited. He glanced at Petunia, who lingered near the swings, then lowered his voice:

“I know what you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re… you’re a witch.”

Young Snape whispered.

Lily looked insulted.

“It’s rude to say things like that to someone!”

She turned and strode away, head held high, toward her sister.

“No!”

Young Snape said. His face had turned bright red; the black cat saw his hand tremble beside his pocket.

The black cat no longer cared why he refused to take off that ridiculous oversized coat—he didn’t want to reveal the maternity shirt beneath.

He swung his sleeves as he chased the girls, moving like a bat.

The sisters regarded him with identical disapproval, both gripping a swing post as if it were a safe zone in some game of tag.

“You are,”

Snape said to Lily,

“You’re a witch. I’ve been watching you for a while. There’s nothing wrong with it. My mother is a witch; I’m a wizard.”

Petunia’s laugh was like cold water.

“A wizard!”

She shrieked.

His sudden appearance had startled her, but now she regained her composure, and her courage returned.

“I know who you are. You’re the boy from the Snape family! They live in Spider’s Lane by the river,”

she told Lily, her tone clearly implying she considered it a vile place,

“Everyone there is crude, stupid, and ignorant!”

“Not true.”

The black cat softly rebutted, not noticing a tall shadow suddenly fixating on him from behind a tree trunk.

Then the dream abruptly shifted into nothingness; the black cat turned its head, and Professor Snape was studying it.

“What are you doing here?”

Snape’s tone was dangerously sharp; he stared at the dissolving dream scene, then turned to those green eyes.

“Looking for you.”

The black cat spoke plainly.

Snape froze, let out a cold snort, and fell silent.

His dream collapsed rapidly—this was the price a waking mind must pay; in the final second before the dream shattered and they fell into the Borderlands, the black cat saw a pair of green eyes.

Strangely, they weren’t quite the same as the ones just before.

In the white mist of the Borderlands, the wary Potions professor scanned his surroundings; he saw a half-ruined Victorian building, its faded sign reading “Children’s Home.”

Along the extended road, streetlamps flickered dimly.

Snape also saw houses, and cat statues beside them—but he thought them far from lifelike:

“Ugly.”

He sneered.

Then, as if suddenly realizing something:

The statues were ugly because they were unreal—not because they were inherently ugly.

But he said nothing; he only sneered again—his mind had thought, “Somewhat lifelike,” yet his lips twisted into another sneer.

The black cat paid no mind; the professor’s tongue and thoughts had always been at odds.

As it knew, inability to love was a learned deficiency—like being mute; true congenital muteness was rare; one could not speak because one could not hear.