Chapter 168

While Eve was resting, Harry found her; her face was flushed and she looked extremely excited.

Unlike Neville and Hannah, who were cautious, Eve and Ron each enjoyed themselves thoroughly on the dance floor, dancing with many different Muggle partners until they were utterly exhausted.

"Eve, I'm asking you seriously," Harry said. "Did you come up with this party on your own, or did someone suggest you could hold one?"

Eve's face turned pale all at once.

"Don't treat me like a fool," Harry said, slightly annoyed. "Even if I'm not sure what you're thinking, if you mess up my plans—"

"Young Master Harry," the butler suddenly rushed over. "Mr. Longbottom just found me—he said he has a birthday gift for you."

"But Neville already gave me a set of potion ingredients," Harry blurted out, forgetting he'd mentioned magical-world matters—he didn't care about word choice now, because he suddenly remembered Neville had been on the dance floor the whole time, never left.

"Carson, say that again—who gave you this?" Harry narrowed his eyes and whispered.

"It was Mr. Longbottom—he knocked on my door in a hurry, said he had to leave quickly and asked me to deliver it…" Carson's voice also faded as he too noticed Neville was still enjoying himself on the dance floor.

"Take it to the parlor—I'll come shortly." Harry decided to see what it was, but not by himself; he suspected the fake Neville was up to something, so he planned to bring Sirius.

"I'll talk to you later," Harry said—he had no patience to argue with Eve now, and hurried off to find Sirius.

When Harry entered the parlor, he saw a painting on a stand, covered with a white cloth. Just from that, it might not even be a painting.

After dismissing the butler, Sirius carefully lifted the cloth with a levitation charm.

But the moment he saw the painting, Harry exhaled in relief. It showed seventeen-year-old Neville, wearing a dirty gray sweater, his face caked in blood. He was swinging Gryffindor's sword with all his strength, severing the head of a white snake, which immediately dissolved into black smoke.

Neville had described this scene to him more than once—it was what he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised. Behind Neville in the painting were the ruins of Hogwarts; the snake was the last spark of Voldemort's life.

But what troubled Harry more was that this large white snake with speckles was identical to the one he'd seen in his dreams.

"It's fine—this must be what Neville gave me," Harry muttered, stepping forward, his mind full of confusion.

A note was attached to the frame: This painting has two names: "No More," or "Hogwarts Falls."

Harry removed the note—nothing was written on the back. The painting itself held no further information. It was a magical image: the Neville within repeatedly severed the snake's head. Harry watched as the great snake turned to black smoke again and again, resetting, turning to smoke again—he stood silent, perplexed, unable to understand any of it.

"How can you be sure Neville gave you this?" Sirius said, puzzled. "As far as I know, he never left the ballroom."

"But this scene—it's clearly Neville's deepest desire," Harry murmured, stroking his chin. "If the Neville in the ballroom is Neville, and the one who delivered the painting is also Neville… then there are two Nevilles."

In Sirius's skeptical gaze, Harry uttered a phrase he himself didn't recognize: "Hypersync."

"Neville chose to deliver the painting during the ball because he knew he'd be dancing—he could avoid meeting the other Neville," Harry nodded slightly. "So it must be this: he wants to send me a message, but can't say it outright. This must involve some secret of time and fate—no, I can't even tell you."

Harry turned to Sirius. "This matter might be dangerous if spoken aloud, but you can trust that the painting is safe."

"Well, Harry's grown up—he's got secrets now," Sirius teased. "Fine, I'll take your word for it."

"I think the key words are oil painting, defeating Voldemort, and the painting's two names," Harry whispered. "'Hogwarts Falls' is understandable, but 'No More'—why say that?"

"What if it's not just a name, but also a spell?" Sirius followed Harry's train of thought. "Like how Donald activated the Seven Sins—what happens if you whisper 'No More' to the oil painting?"

"Step back—I'll try," Sirius said, pointing his wand at the painting and murmuring: "No More."

Harry noticed the air around the painting seemed to warp. The loose cloth draped over the frame vanished instantly, and Sirius collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

"That spell drained nearly all my magic," he said. "But I didn't see what it did—where did the cloth go?"

"In the painting," Harry said, staring at it. "Look here—on this stone, there's now a white cloth covering it. It wasn't there before."

Sirius stared at the painting, thinking. Now that he considered it, a white cloth appearing on the battlefield of Hogwarts was jarring—even though it was placed inconspicuously, it shouldn't have been there at all.

"If the spell's purpose is to compress something into the painting," Sirius frowned deeper, "and it requires such immense magic—I simply can't understand it."

"If you wanted to hide or destroy something, there are far better spells," he sheathed his wand and slowly stood. "You have no idea how taxing that spell was."

"Alright, but we still need to hide this painting," Harry opened the door—he saw no one, so he locked the parlor shut, deciding to think tomorrow about where to store it.

When Harry returned to the ballroom, Eve approached him cautiously and whispered: "I'm sorry."

"Oh? You're finally admitting fault?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Donald suggested I throw this party," Eve said, head bowed. "He told me to wear a dress with ruffled collars and lace trim—preferably light purple or light brown." She clearly chose the dress to match Ron's flamboyant formal robe.

"It's fine—I don't blame you," Harry patted her head. "But next time, tell me before you make decisions like this. Don't keep me in the dark."

"I thought Donald was a former professor—he wouldn't harm us," Eve whispered.

"You don't know Quirrell," Harry sighed. "Go on, enjoy yourself."

"Good," Eve smiled again and returned to the dance floor.

Harry pondered Donald's scheme. From their confrontation in the Chamber of Secrets during second year, he knew Donald likely had access to some fortune-teller familiar with fate—hence his foresight into so many things: the Chamber's location, the timing and places of attacks. So it wasn't surprising he knew the exact style of Ron's formal robe.

The ball also benefited Donald in another way: Eve's attire might lead Ron to interpret it as thoughtful or deliberately flattering—either way, Ron would be further pinned down, posing no threat to his pursuit of Hermione.

Given Donald's intense wariness of Ron, perhaps the prophecy indicated Ron was originally Hermione's boyfriend—making his knightly upbringing seem perfectly natural.

Harry suddenly remembered Zhang Qiu's divination: on the first-year train, she had said Hermione would end up in that carriage. If that were true, the story might have unfolded completely differently—Ron and Hermione would have grown close naturally and become friends. Add the Halloween incident, but then Hermione might not have hidden herself in the bathroom after an argument. Later, in third year, Hermione bought a cat, while Ron's pet was a rat—normally unremarkable, but Zhang Qiu's divination showed they would frequently argue over it. Who would care so much about someone else's pet unless they were very close friends?

All of this happened because Hermione never entered that carriage. A tiny choice altered nearly her entire life—how miraculous and poignant.

Moreover, Hermione said she'd been in the same carriage as Neville on the first-year train. Neville was a manly sort, so she never left to visit others. The reason Neville became so manly was undoubtedly the Tianchao man Li Ao, who was said to have a grudge against Zhang Qiu's master.

Thus, Li Ao had inadvertently created a massive dilemma for Xuan Jun—he disrupted the destined path of Ron and Hermione, leaving Zhang Qiu deeply troubled. How truly strange.

Harry watched Ron dancing and Hermione standing nearby. In fourth year, Hermione would suddenly become radiant—and Ron, already beside her, would seize the opportunity. Now, Donald, equally versed in divination, had come to intercept it. Ron remained utterly unaware. Harry sighed—fate was indeed intricate and unfathomable.

At the end of the ball, the Muggle guests gradually departed. Harry chatted with Ron a while longer, watched him return to his room, then went to bed smiling.

Aside from the painting Neville sent from the future—confusing as it was—everything else had pleased him. Though Eve had organized the ball to aid Donald, Harry had genuinely enjoyed himself; no child of his age dislikes a ball.

The next morning, Harry immediately remembered the oil painting locked in the parlor. If Ron and Hermione's union had been full of coincidences, time travelers were fate's deliberate design—this painting must conceal some secret, and someday in the future, it might prove useful.

Harry opened the door—and found a white cloth lying quietly on the floor before the painting stand.