Chapter 95: Tears

Just as Allen was sinking into utter despair and seriously considering transforming a red-hot iron to physically stop Harry’s bleeding, a sound of music drifted in from somewhere...

At first, Allen thought he was hallucinating, but the music grew louder and louder.

The sound was ethereal and mysterious, evoking exhilaration; it made the hairs on Allen’s scalp stand on end and his heart race.

The music rose higher until Allen felt it vibrating inside his own chest.

At that moment, flames suddenly erupted from the top of the nearest stone pillar.

A deep crimson bird descended from the sky, as large as a crane, playing its strange melody against the arched ceiling. It had a long, glittering golden tail like a peacock’s and golden claws that shimmered.

Allen recognized it immediately—Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix.

Though its arrival was suspiciously convenient, like a police officer arriving too late at a crime scene from a past-life movie, its presence filled Allen with boundless hope.

Fawkes flew straight to Allen and landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its massive wings, Allen saw its long, sharp golden beak and two gleaming black eyes.

The great bird fell silent, sitting calmly on Allen’s shoulder, staring curiously at his nose...

“Go tell Professor Dumbledore to save Harry—he’s dying!” Allen felt the bird’s weight pressing down; its small frame could barely hold up.

Fawkes turned its gaze away from Allen, hopped lightly to the ground, approached Harry, and rested its head on his chest, then dropped large, pearl-like tears...

Allen watched Fawkes’s actions in astonishment, puzzled by its behavior—tears were salty; wasn’t this like rubbing salt into Harry’s wounds?

But then Allen saw Fawkes’s tears shimmering on Harry’s wounds—soon, the bleeding stopped, and Harry’s breathing grew steady...

Allen’s tense heart finally eased; he relaxed completely, and only then did he realize how exhausted he was—sensations flooded his mind all at once.

He collapsed weakly onto the cold floor, gasping for breath; his entire body ached as if he’d just run a marathon, his limbs burned with countless small and large wounds, and the spot on his back struck by stones throbbed with sharp pain...

But soon he heard scratching sounds on the stone floor—Fawkes was approaching him.

Allen immediately thought of the miraculous power of its tears and looked at Fawkes hopefully. The phoenix lowered its head, struggled for a long moment, then squeezed out two tears before lifting its head again...

Allen was speechless—but those two tears instantly healed the wounds on his arm and greatly lessened the pain of his other injuries; he felt a surge of restored strength.

After resting for a while, Allen finally stood up again. He found Harry fast asleep, his complexion no longer ashen.

Allen cast a floating charm on Harry and began dragging him back—the black flames along the way had vanished.

As Allen prepared to lead Harry back, he felt he had forgotten something...

Finally, a red glow on the ground reminded him—he had forgotten the Philosopher’s Stone!

He picked up the stone glowing with red light from Professor Quirrell’s ashes; under the firelight, it shimmered with a dreamlike radiance...

Allen remembered the Stone’s purpose—he considered turning it into gold to improve his financial situation, but sadly realized the books he’d read about the Philosopher’s Stone never explained how to use it to produce gold.

Then a streak of red light shot past Allen—Fawkes had snatched the Philosopher’s Stone.

Allen finally came to his senses; he felt no regret over losing the Stone—he knew the most urgent task was still getting Harry to medical care. Even with Fawkes’s tears, Harry had lost too much blood today.

Soon, Allen led the floating Harry into the wizard’s chess chamber, where he met Hermione, Professor Snape, and Professor Dumbledore, all anxiously waiting.

To Allen’s eyes, Professor Snape—who had always seemed repulsive—now looked surprisingly handsome.

Professor Snape stepped forward to examine Harry, pouring several strangely colored potions down his throat.

“I just got back to the fourth floor when I met Professor Snape. The other professors all went to Hogsmeade—Professor Dumbledore appeared only just now,” Hermione whispered to Allen.

But Allen no longer cared to think about any of it—he only wanted to sleep.

When Allen lay down on the bed again, it was already three in the morning—he was now in the school infirmary, beside the unconscious Ron and Harry.

Hermione wanted to stay and watch over them, but Madam Pomfrey drove her away.

The white linen sheets gave him deep comfort; everything he’d experienced today felt like a dream, and his eyelids grew heavier and heavier...

But one thing still weighed on his mind—he pulled out his wand, gripped it tightly, imagined the scene of Fawkes shedding tears, and fell into deep sleep...

He didn’t know how long he’d slept—the window now showed a sunset. He struggled to sit up and saw a fuzzy head nestled at his pillow—Hermione.

Allen’s movement had woken Hermione.

“You’re awake? How do you feel?” Hermione exclaimed in delight.

“I feel fine. How are Harry and Ron?” Allen scanned the surrounding beds.

“Ron has fully recovered—he was just called away by Percy. Harry’s still unconscious, but Madam Pomfrey says his condition is stable,” Hermione quickly reported.

Their conversation was interrupted by Allen’s rumbling stomach.

Hermione laughed softly and brought over food already prepared—Allen immediately devoured it ravenously.

Full and satisfied, Allen lay back, watching Hermione as she carefully carved an apple with a small knife—his post-meal fruit, though her technique looked clumsy.

Hermione thought Allen’s eyes looked unusually bright today, glowing with an odd radiance that made her avoid his gaze; under his stare, she grew increasingly flustered.

Finally, Hermione let out a cry—her hand had been cut by the knife, blood welling up immediately.

She started to rise to find Madam Pomfrey, but Allen seized her wounded hand—her face flushed crimson.

She was forced to sit back down.

Allen sat up slowly and lifted her hand to eye level.

It was a slender, elegant hand, soft and fair, marked with calluses from years of holding quills—yet these only enhanced its beauty. Golden sunset light streamed through the window, bathing it in a dreamlike glow.

But the deep gash on her index finger disrupted the harmony—the wound still slowly oozed blood.

Allen slowly and deliberately drew Hermione’s hand to his lips...

Her face reddened further; her eyes grew anxious, yet faintly hopeful—she sensed the scene she’d seen in TV dramas was about to unfold.

She unconsciously held her breath, watching Allen quietly.

Then...

A single crystal-clear tear, tinted by the sunset, fell onto Hermione’s wound.

Hermione: ???