Chapter 9

The rural scenery outside the window rapidly faded into increasing desolation. The flat fields vanished, replaced by dense forests, winding rivers, and deep green hills.

“So you’re from the Celestial Dynasty?” Amid the children’s chatter, Harry realized that Zhang Qiu came from a land he had barely heard of.

“That’s right, but I’ve lived in Britain my whole life, returning only during holidays.” Zhang Qiu’s English was fluent, her accent perfectly natural. “My Master says this is my trial. Especially—he wants me to meet some ‘Children of Fate’ here.”

“You mean lucky people?” Harry asked.

“No, more precisely, those who appear in divination results—like Mr. Weasley.”

“Really? Maybe I’m just basking in Harry Potter’s luck.” Ron looked surprised—he’d never thought himself special. “How lucky to appear in someone else’s prophecy.”

“It’s more than that.” Zhang Qiu said. “I have a fate commentary on you. From what I can understand, you’ll lose Scabbers in third year, become a Prefect in fifth year. And this year—you’ll win a very important game of Wizard’s Chess.”

“You know Scabbers?” Ron pulled out his pet rat, its gray fur limp and dull, looking as if it had only one or two years left—it had been with the Weasleys for years.

“Oh, a rat!” Zhang Qiu looked unimpressed. “I thought Scabbers was a dog.”

“Being a Prefect isn’t special—several of my brothers were Prefects too.” Ron sighed. “Oh, by the way, Fred taught me a spell yesterday—maybe it’ll perk Scabbers up.”

“Try it, uh, cough. Raise your wand.” He lifted his wand. “Sunlight, daisies, sweet cream—yellow fat rat, nobler in appearance.”

Nothing happened.

Harry couldn’t help asking: “I’ve read that spells are short—why is yours so long?”

Zhang Qiu said: “The longer the spell, the stronger its effect. I believe this one turns the rat a color wizards find pleasing—not just plain yellow. As for why it didn’t work… I suspect you didn’t prepare daisies and cream as material components.”

Seeing their stunned, awed expressions, Zhang Qiu couldn’t resist showing off: “I learned seven secret incantations from my Master. Each is longer than the last, and each more powerful—none require any material. The first, Immortal Sand Resurrection Scroll, can summon the spirits of deceased loved ones. The seventh, Zhengyi Descent of Sacred Might Scroll…”

“Wait—you can summon the spirits of deceased loved ones!” Harry interrupted urgently. “Oh, sorry—I mean, could you try it on me? I really want to see my parents!”

“Ah, I can’t guarantee that.” Zhang Qiu hesitated. “The spirits summoned are random—but usually those closest to your most recent death. So most often, it brings back someone who just died.”

“Hey, it’s just a spirit.” Ron said. “Try it. Even if it fails, no harm done, right?”

“Alright, I’ll begin.” Zhang Qiu cleared her throat, sat upright, and began chanting a long string of Chinese: “A spark of fire can burn all things—when things perish, where does the fire remain? A breath of Dao can shroud all things—when things perish, where is the Dao…?”

At first, Harry held his breath, waiting for the foreign syllables to end. But soon he realized the incantation was far longer than he imagined. As it continued, a faint white mist began to rise in the carriage, growing thicker until he could barely see Ron’s face.

“…Yet unaware, my life and death are like the horse’s hoof, the ox’s wing—neither is, nor is not.”

As the final syllable left her lips, a flash of white light streaked through the carriage—like lightning. Then the white mist churned violently, and a dark figure slowly emerged.

“Dad… is that you?” Harry asked, voice trembling.

“It is I, good child.” The figure’s voice was high and cold—no trace of tenderness.

“Let me see who brought me back to this world—you shall be rewarded…” A pair of long, crimson, cat-like eyes emerged from the black mist, then a pale face—where the nose should have been, only two thin slits remained. “The Dark Lord never fails his servants—provided…”

Harry locked eyes with him. In that instant, the memory of that night surged into both their minds—Harry clearly saw the green light strike his forehead, then rebound, shattering the monster.

“You! You!” The face vanished into the churning black mist. “You mudblood spawn—I should have torn you and your deformed parents apart long ago! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!”

But Voldemort, in this state, had no power to cast. No matter how desperately he screamed his hatred, he could not harm Harry so much as a single hair.

“Then come.” Harry instinctively drew his pistol, aiming at the mist. “You failed to kill me ten years ago—you won’t succeed now!”

He held the gun in his right hand, lifted his hair with his left—the jagged lightning scar on his forehead throbbed fiercely. “Your so-called proud curse left only this tiny scar. How about it? Let’s see whose gun is faster!”

Voldemort fell silent. His face drifted back toward Harry’s, and his expression twisted into something strange.

“Ten years ago, I didn’t know why I couldn’t kill you.” Voldemort’s tone softened. “Perhaps even now, I have no reason to. Let it be. I am dead. If you think yourself so powerful, then live on as an orphan.”

“Actually… being an orphan isn’t so bad.” His voice carried a hint of melancholy. “No one will mock your mudblood mother. And Dumbledore will trust you—deeply, deeply, trust you. How ironic.”

Zhang Qiu’s magic was nearly spent. The mist thinned. As Voldemort faded, he burst into laughter. “Live on! Live on! Carry the scar I left you—beg and crawl wherever you go! No—carry this scar, and you are my son, Harry—Potter!”

“Bang!” Harry finally pulled the trigger. A yellow bullet lodged in the ceiling.

The black mist vanished completely. Harry gasped for breath. Zhang Qiu remained silent, her gaze strange—her left eye tilted upward left, her right eye upward right, vacant and dazed.

Ron was still lucid. He first asked Harry if he was alright. Harry slowly sat down, exhaling deeply. Then Ron tapped Zhang Qiu’s shoulder, trying to wake her.

“Wotou, hehe, bōbōjī.” She muttered a string of meaningless Chinese. Then her eyes flickered slightly back to normal, and she began mumbling incoherent English: “Hello, thank you, very much, how are you?”

The compartment door burst open. Harry instinctively looked out—it was Professor Quirrell.

He spoke sternly: “What—what just happened?”

“Nothing, Professor.” Ron stammered. “We were just joking.”

“Malfoy,” Quirrell lowered his voice. “What did you see?”

Harry then noticed three people lying outside the carriage. Two chubby boys were unconscious. Only Malfoy sat on the ground, panting heavily. His once-pristine golden hair clung wetly to his forehead—he looked utterly disheveled.

“I came to say hello,” Malfoy stammered, “but the Dark Lord—he was in here! Harry tried to duel him—it was terrifying.”

“The Dark Lord is n-not here anymore. I d-don’t want your pranks spreading panic.” Quirrell lectured sternly. “No one is to mention the Dark Lord again. Understand? And put away your Muggle toy—I don’t want to see it at Hogwarts!”

Quirrell pointed his wand at Harry’s pistol. Harry felt his hand go slack—the magazine slid out for no reason.

Quirrell swept away, displeased. Malfoy struggled to rise.

Harry glanced at Zhang Qiu—she was softly humming “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Harry hesitated, then stepped forward and pulled Malfoy up.

“Thank you, Harry.” For the first time, he spoke without arrogance. “You’re far stronger than I thought. I hope… I hope our earlier little incident won’t affect our future friendship.”

But this time, Harry wore a false smile. “If the opportunity arises, I look forward to further conversation, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Ah yes, I must attend to my two friends first.” Malfoy crouched, trying to shake the unconscious boys awake. “They’re Crabbe and Goyle. I’ll introduce you sometime.”

“Of course—should the chance arise.” Harry gave a polite reply, then gently closed the compartment door.

Zhang Qiu was softly chanting another Chinese incantation. Harry felt his thoughts subtly quicken.

“I’m sorry,” Zhang Qiu said after finishing, full of remorse. “I must have called the wrong spirit. I didn’t know this incantation drains my sanity—I failed to stop it in time. I apologize for the trouble.”

“Oh my, are you alright now?” Harry asked, concerned.

“I’m fine. The general incantation I just chanted restores sanity.” Zhang Qiu popped a candy into her mouth, speaking muffled. “Besides, Ravenclaw never lacks sanity.”

“Oh, you’re in Ravenclaw?” Ron said.

Harry said nothing, silently pondering: Why had Voldemort been summoned? And why had he suddenly changed his tone?