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The Shrieking Shack was dim and gloomy.
The grotesque, twisted wallpaper told tales of a werewolf that had once lived there.
John walked through the shack, arriving at the room where he had previously discovered the Boggart.
Since the cabinet had been moved, a gap had been left behind.
He didn't step inside. Instead, he stood at the threshold.
Turning away, he headed to another room. He was certain someone had been inside the Shrieking Shack.
The layer of dust on the floor was thinner.
He stopped in front of a door. Moonlight happened to spill into the room, and through the shadows on the floor, John could tell someone was inside.
There was a door between them. He didn't open it.
"Tell me—what should I do?" he asked, voicing his doubt.
The moon slipped behind a cloud, and the shadow vanished.
John stared at the gap beneath the door.
Suddenly, a slip of paper slid out from underneath.
John picked it up and glanced at it.
"Life through death."
He looked at the handwriting, then at the door again, but still didn't push it open.
He turned and went downstairs.
His gaze was drawn to a box.
He walked over and picked it up, then turned to glance deeply behind him.
It seemed like there was a figure standing there—faint, blurry, and unrecognizable.
When he walked out of the Shrieking Shack, he had a box in his hand.
Returning through the tunnel, beneath the Whomping Willow was a raised stone.
He removed the stone, revealing a small vial no larger than a thumb.
Under the moonlight, the blood inside glowed a vivid red.
...
The starlight in the Constellation Society was just as beautiful as it was outside.
From the day the Constellation Society was founded to now, this massive alchemical machine had never once stopped operating.
Starlight shone down onto the round table beneath the dome.
The round table split open, revealing the armory below.
The bubbling cauldron seemed as though it would never rest, and the thick smoke drifted back and forth between appearing and vanishing.
John descended the stairs and approached the cauldron.
The liquid inside continued to boil—it still seemed to be missing one final ingredient.
John slit his wrist, letting his blood drip into the cauldron.
The boiling liquid rapidly cooled.
He opened his other hand, channeling a surge of magic into it.
The liquid in the cauldron split to either side, transforming into two red dragons spiraling within.
The red dragons pulled out a vortex, and as the liquid spun, that white smoke rose once more.
This time, John drew his wand.
Like a vacuum, the wand absorbed all the rising white smoke.
The red oak wand began to turn translucent, and John's right hand was enveloped in silver.
He raised the wand high, and the stars on the dome above burst into radiance.
The starlight converged into a dazzling beam that shot down from above.
The mana crystals, which had been absorbing magic day after day, now unleashed their power—producing a force a hundred times greater than before.
Fine cracks appeared on the translucent wand as John was hit by an immense surge of power, the pallor of his face flushing with color.
His Adam's apple bobbed as he forced down the blood that threatened to rise.
Under the crushing pressure of the overwhelming magic, his entire body was nearly engulfed.
A low growl escaped his throat as he gripped the wand tightly.
"Celestial Shift."
The wand visibly bent, like a bamboo rod being forced to yield.
Even a slight movement turned into a prolonged struggle of strength.
The red dragons within the cauldron showed signs of unraveling.
John began to grow anxious.
His breathing quickened, and with great effort, the massive beam of magic slowly moved toward the cauldron.
The wand clung to the immense power, bending to an alarming degree.
Finally, the magic made contact with the cauldron.
Inside, the red dragons roared as if brought to life by the shock of power.
John was nearly spent. The moment he let go, the wand was flung from his hand, shooting straight into the armory wall like a spear.
But John couldn't relax just yet. Forcing his body upright, he stood.
With both hands cupped as if holding a crown, a magnificent coronet began to take shape in his palms beneath the radiant, rainbow-like starlight.
He gazed at the coronet and placed it upon his head.
It seemed like nothing had changed.
Yet in the depths of his mind, he felt something new take root.
Wisdom.
Those who chase it may never find it.
Those who let go have long possessed it.
In that moment, John looked at the cauldron, and his movement was perfectly timed.
His silver-covered fingers jabbed into the red dragon's body.
Like popping a balloon, the red dragon burst apart.
He reached into his pocket and opened a vial containing powder.
Fiery red powder fell in, calming the restless liquid.
"And finally—just a trace of the wizard's mysterious essence."
John began to chant, his voice like a hymn.
That mysterious substance—was emotion.
The tiniest trace of it gathered between his fingers, smaller than a speck of dust.
As it fell into the cauldron, the magic-brewed liquid evaporated in an instant.
The brilliant pillar of magic abruptly ceased.
The cauldron, no longer held steady by pressure, broke free and was flung into the air.
When it hit the ground, a massive cloud of smoke erupted from it, blanketing the entire Constellation Society.
It wasn't hot—more like a mist, cool and slightly damp.
Even John couldn't see through it. Moving forward through the white haze, he found the cauldron, still mostly intact.
Crack.
A sharp, clear splitting sound rang out. Right before John's eyes, the cauldron split in two down the middle and toppled over.
As it hit the floor, the impact shattered both halves into countless pieces.
"Well, it's definitely not intact anymore," John muttered, and with hope and anticipation, stepped up to where the cauldron had been.
He could hear his heart pounding in his chest.
The discomfort in his body seemed to ease at that very moment.
At last, he finished crossing the not-so-long distance.
With an anxious heart, he began carefully picking up the scattered shards.
It was like digging for gold in a perilous mine—each motion slow and cautious.
Finally, when he lifted a triangular piece, he caught sight of a crimson glint beneath it.
The mist gradually dispersed, and under the starlight, that flash of red shimmered clear and bright.
John picked it up, and the moment he truly felt it in his hands, he finally believed this wasn't all a dream.
"It worked."
"Haah.. It.. haha.. Really worked!"
Even though he'd anticipated this result, John couldn't help but burst into laughter.
He staggered to his feet, his body covered in dust and grime.
The armory was in ruins.
But in his hand, he gripped that object tightly and raised it high.
Looking around at the wreckage, he let out a wry smile.
"Thank Merlin for magic."
He took off the crown on his head, and it dissolved into starlight, vanishing from his hands.
After a bit of searching, he found his wand.
The red oak wand was embedded in the wall, and it took John quite a bit of effort to pull it out.
Fortunately, the wand itself was sturdy and resilient—otherwise, he would've needed to find a new one.
Leaving the armory, he noticed that the mist had seemingly taken root in the Constellation Society.
"Well, guess it can be the Society's permanent weather." John raised his wand, and the mist floated upward toward the dome.
The once-brilliant starry dome now had a few cloud-like patches drifting across it.
Once all the mist had cleared, John felt far less exhausted.
Perhaps it was the mood uplifting both body and mind.
He even had the urge to go wash up in the Prefect's Bathroom.
He was, after all, quite a mess right now.
No sooner said than done—he headed for the Prefect's Bathroom.
Enjoyed a nice, long soak.
But when he looked down, he saw his body covered in dense, black veins.
He turned his head to look the other way.
There was a mirror there.
"So it was just an illusion," said his reflection in the mirror.
But in the reflection, the black veins on his neck had already spread up to his cheeks.
He rubbed his brow, his throat itching, and coughed.
Black blood splattered across the floor as he coughed up mouthfuls of it.
On that pale face of his, the black markings grew even more distinct.
They made him look utterly terrifying.
After cleaning up the black blood, he heard a noise coming from the bathwater.
Turning around, he saw Moaning Myrtle.
"John?" Myrtle, who usually ogled boys with shameless glee, was now staring blankly at him and the black blood.
She froze for a moment, then floated over and asked, "Are you dying? If you are, can you become a ghost afterward?"
Looking at Myrtle—who didn't seem sad in the slightest—John couldn't help but choke on his own frustration.
You could've at least tried to comfort me instead of cursing me.
...
There's a subject at Hogwarts that both wizards and Muggles can learn.
But they share one thing in common—learning it is absolute torture.
No one understood this better than Malfoy.
To this day, he still didn't get why he had to memorize the details of the Goblin Rebellions of the eighteenth century.
But when exams came, all were equal.
Under Marchbanks' supervision, they returned to the Great Hall.
"John, didn't sleep well last night?" Malfoy couldn't help teasing when he saw John's complexion. "Worried you'll forget everything? I totally get that."
"Oh, and aren't you hot? Wearing a collar that high?"
John shot him a glare and retorted sarcastically, "You better think carefully about where exactly the Goblin Rebellion of the eighteenth century broke out."
With that reminder, Malfoy tried to recall—and tragically realized he couldn't.
"…I'm doomed."
He wailed in despair. John laughed heartily, then broke into a fit of coughing.
It sounded bad.
Malfoy frowned and was about to ask something when the call came: "Examinees, enter."