Chapter 153: Changing the Card

The TARDIS roared through time and space; after Zhang Qiu's form flickered several times, it finally stabilized. She clutched her chest, still shaken, and asked in a trembling voice, "What just happened?"

"You may not be able to stay in second year for long," the Doctor said slowly. "The strain on spacetime is too great."

"Why?" Zhang Qiu asked, confused.

"You'll understand," the Doctor replied vaguely. "But for now, you can stay here and chat with Harry again until you're ready to move on to your next stop."

"Can't we just send her directly to the next stop?" Harry asked curiously. "Don't we already know her travel time and location?"

"It's better not to," the Doctor said. "Do you remember the thought experiment I told you about? If you don't open that envelope, what do you think happens?"

The Doctor had once told Harry a story: suppose he wrote down a string of numbers and sealed them in an envelope, ensuring Harry wouldn't know what was inside until he opened it. Then Harry planned to open the envelope one hour later, and afterward travel back one hour to tell his past self the numbers.

Of course, the Harry one hour later could choose not to open the envelope, since he'd already learned the numbers from his future self.

"Now let me tell you," the Doctor continued. "You might misremember, or deliberately lie, or have your memory altered within that hour—but if you open the envelope and verify the numbers before traveling, your past self will never hear the wrong digits."

"Hearing the wrong digits… is that dangerous?" Harry remembered the Doctor saying that not opening the envelope might bring danger.

"If the numbers were just an experiment I gave you, of course it's not dangerous," Dr. Doudou said, his expression unusually serious. "But if those numbers are the code to disable the TARDIS's self-destruct, then it's dangerous. And Zhang Qiu's situation falls under 'fixed fate'—a thousand times more terrifying than the TARDIS's self-destruct code."

"Don't be so alarmist," Zhang Qiu said with a wave of her hand, smiling. "Let's sit down, have some tea, chat a little, then I'll move on to the next stop. There's no danger here."

"Go down the stairs to the basement level. The second door on the right is the tea room," the Doctor said. "You two talk. I need to repair the chameleon circuit."

"Hmm, I think he means he wants us to talk alone?" Harry said, scratching his head as he walked down the stairs. "I don't see why we'd need to avoid him—could Li Ao's identity be sensitive?"

Zhang Qiu shot him a slightly annoyed glance and said in a reproachful tone, "We'll talk about that later. Right now, go get me some tea."

Not long after, Harry arrived with a tray holding a pot of steaming black tea, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, a dessert stand piled with pastries, and an assortment of orange slices, jasmine, jam, and honey.

Zhang Qiu poured herself a cup of tea, added nothing, lifted it to her lips, and blew gently on it—without speaking.

Harry didn't think she was angry; he simply believed that after going from prison straight to the Longbottoms' home, she had not only suffered physical injuries but also endured mental strain from her confrontation with Li Ao. She must be exhausted.

Just as Harry finished brewing his tea to his taste and used a cookie to pick up a biscuit for Zhang Qiu, she finally spoke.

"Harry, do you know what the ring I gave Li Ao means?"

"No," Harry realized now that the ring might have some special significance, not merely symbolic value.

"Accepting it means Li Ao is willing to serve Ge Xuan. That means all the fate progress you lost to Neville can now be counted toward the total—even if I stop leaping to catch up, it won't affect my Master's plan."

"That's good," Harry scratched his chin. "I don't understand why your Master is so obsessed with divination, but at least you won't have to risk yourself anymore."

"But I kept leaping, didn't I?" Zhang Qiu said gloomily. "I still took risks chasing the fates predicted by divination—because you said there was a 'next stop.'"

"You know why, don't you?" Zhang Qiu sighed.

Harry knew perfectly well. Since the first day of third year, Zhang Qiu had told him this pursuit of divination wasn't just for Ge Xuan's plan—it was to prepare for the life-or-death crisis Harry might face in the future.

They stared at each other in silence. To Harry, it felt like three hours had passed, yet his tea was still too hot to drink.

"Harry, you know I originally wrote you a card today," Zhang Qiu said carefully, speaking again.

"Yes, I remember—that was supposed to be an invitation to join the club," Harry recalled the Valentine's card.

"That's why I interrupted it," Zhang Qiu said, blushing. "I mean, I'll write you a better one next time—when we're in sixth year."

"Then…" Harry paused for a long time, then let out a quiet breath. "Then I'm looking forward to it."

Another awkward silence followed.

"I should go," Zhang Qiu gently set her cup back on the table and rummaged through her storage bag.

A strange feeling surged in Harry's chest—something dreamlike and unreal, as if he'd messed something up, leaving him unsettled.

"Zhang Qiu," he said carefully, softly, "if we set aside divination, perhaps as Pan Xi said, we'd never have had much chance to know each other. But it's precisely your obsession with divination that makes you feel frighteningly distant. Maybe what I truly fear is you becoming a stranger."

"I'm sorry," Zhang Qiu said, pulling what she'd been searching for from her bag—her sword. "But now that things have reached this point, I can't stop."

"I mean, you don't have to leave so soon. I've wanted to talk to you about this for a long time—things just kept piling up," Harry said.

"Did I misremember? Or was it future you who saved Buckbeak?" Zhang Qiu paused. "Either way, we've already talked—about fate and the players. We made ourselves perfectly clear back then."

"I know," Harry sipped his tea; it was finally cool enough. "But that was just a new confusion I developed. Before that, I wanted to ask: what does divination truly mean to you? Or rather, who are you, if you strip away divination?"

Zhang Qiu said nothing. She set down her bag and sword, gazing thoughtfully at Harry.

"I feel like I'm rambling," Harry took a breath. "But what I mean is—we've always talked about my fate, or studies, or global politics. But I don't really know you at all."

"Are you sure?" Zhang Qiu said with a faint, wry smile. "In less than half an hour between two jumps, what exactly do you hope to learn?"

Before Harry could answer, she continued: "The truth about divination is clear enough. Master Xuan's divination may serve the interests of the Celestial Court, but to make it work, we must help you defeat Voldemort. So our goals align to a large extent."

"And I admit, this year I've been obsessed—but it was for your safety. If you dislike it, that's fine. Once the crisis is resolved, and with Li Ao returning Neville's progress, I won't need to obsess over divination anymore. I want to relax too," Zhang Qiu shrugged.

"I understand—it's easy to see," Harry nodded. "But what confused me was how different you've seemed this year from the Zhang Qiu I knew before."

"As Buckbeak said that day, I've simply grown," Zhang Qiu glanced at her watch. "If you want to know more about me, we can talk slowly another time."

"After all," she added, "we're only in third year."

Yet in truth, some people already had children by third year.

"Then… good luck," Harry watched her figure slowly fade and vanish. He felt as if he'd done something monumental, as if he'd made a crucial decision—yet when he recalled their fragmented conversation, it seemed he'd said nothing at all.

Memories surged like a tide: Tom, living inside the diary, had argued tirelessly to Ginny, laying out pros and cons in exhaustive detail. That day, he'd thought clearly—he liked a simple, cheerful English country girl who loved Quidditch, warm-hearted and pure. She didn't need powerful magic or secret spells, didn't need to understand global politics—just admired him, and occasionally helped a little.

But more memories surfaced: the adventure in the afterlife, her calm confrontation with the White Palace visitors, the smiling faces in the morning corridors and evening library. And now, in this hidden current of spacetime, Harry, as a traveler, watched as Zhang Qiu raced through history's gaps, sword in hand, chasing only the faintest possibility of a "gift" for his fate.

"Maybe Tom was wrong," Harry muttered. "His experience doesn't fit me—he just liked weak little girls."

"But still, I'm only in third year. No need to rush these thoughts," Harry told himself as he walked upstairs.

"Oh, Harry, you still want to continue?" the Doctor struggled out from beneath the console. "The temporal flux capacitor is fully charged."

"Continue," Harry said absently. "I want to see this through. I still haven't figured things out."