The days passed, but to no avail. The words engraved on the parchment seemed to have a life of their own, dancing in an unintelligible cadence that only increased my frustration. I had spent hours locked in the hidden room, with the curtains drawn and a single candle lit, casting long shadows on the stone walls. The silence was thick, interrupted only by the rustling of my fingers turning page after page, searching for meaning in the illegible text.
Philip was still unconscious, his breathing steady but distant, and I... I was running out of options.
"I don't have time to wait," I whispered, clenching my teeth as I stared at the text that simply refused to speak to me.
I slammed the book where I had hidden the parchment shut and leaned back against the chair. The decision was made before the thought had fully matured: I needed Alphonse. Even if he refused to help me, even if he was the one who taught me to distrust everyone, he was the only one who knew enough to give me a starting point and the only one I could trust.
It was then that I made a risky decision.
That night, under the dim light of my wand, I opened an old compartment in my trunk where I kept things that no one was supposed to see. I took out a small, dark silver cylinder with engravings worn by time. It was a Protected Memory Seal, a method my family developed generations ago, back when war forced us to protect vital information.
I placed it on the desk, wrote a letter with precise and urgent strokes, and explained to Alphonse only what was necessary:
"Alphonse,
I know you didn't expect to hear from me again so soon. Nor did I imagine I would need your guidance again in this way. I can't explain everything, not here, not now. But I have found something... ancient, very ancient. And I can't do it alone. If you ever believed I was ready to understand what you left behind, now is the time to prove it.
—D."
Before affixing the seal, I made a handwritten copy of the information I had, written in invisible ink so that it would not be easy to decipher. When I finished rewriting everything, I affixed the seal and let the magic ink dry while the owl descended from the ledge, as if it had been waiting. I tied the parchment to its leg and then placed the metal cylinder on its back. It was an ancient receptacle, a design from our family, reinforced with spells I learned in my future life, in another war. Spells that he had not even considered teaching me.
But I remembered. Everything.
"Go. Only he will know how to open it," I said as I stroked its feathers, and the owl took off into the dark night.
Two days passed before I received a reply. I was reviewing runic reading formulas, immersed in my despair, when I heard a sharp knock on the window. The same owl was returning. It carried an envelope heavier than the initial letter.
I opened it carefully.
"Dion,
I can't say you surprise me easily, but this... this is something else.
How did you learn that protection? I didn't have time to teach it, or at least not now, but well, that doesn't matter now. What you found is not just anything. This is not part of the known records, not even among the forbidden texts. The coding, the structure, the energy it emanates... It's alive. It moves. It's magic that predates the academies, predates the seals.
I'm going to need time. Don't do anything reckless.
—A."
I sighed. At least I wasn't alone in this anymore.
During the days that followed, the school resumed its usual rhythm. The teachers returned to teaching their classes with a false calm, the hallways were once again filled with laughter and whispers, although the echo of the tragedy still felt like a dull vibration in the air. Not many talked about what had happened. It was easier to look ahead. To pretend it didn't hurt.
I couldn't pretend.
Philip, for his part, still hadn't woken up. His room was bathed in constant darkness, and the healers came and went without making much noise. I went to see him every afternoon, hoping to see some sign. And finally, one afternoon, as the sun was just beginning to set behind the stained-glass windows of the east wing, I saw him move his fingers.
I approached silently, holding my breath.
"Philip," I said softly. "Can you hear me?"
His eyes opened with difficulty. They were dull, disoriented. He tried to move, but his body didn't respond. He just muttered something incomprehensible.
"Easy," I added, more to myself than to him. "You're safe now."
He stared at me for a few long seconds... or maybe he was just looking at my outline. He didn't seem to recognize me.
"Where am I?" he asked, his voice raspy.
"At Hogwarts, in the infirmary, to be exact. You've been here for weeks."
Philip frowned. He looked at the walls as if they were strange. His gaze met mine... but not with familiarity.
"Do we know each other? Who are you?"
I felt the blow to my chest. Not because of the bond—because we didn't really have one—but because every possibility of answers had just collapsed before me.
"I just... helped you. You were in danger."
"I don't remember anything..." he muttered, lowering his gaze.
A long pause enveloped us. I got up, intending to leave, but stopped at the threshold.
"When you remember something, anything... come find me. My name is Dion."
He nodded slowly, and I left, leaving behind a room as silent as the answers I sought.
__________________________________________________
Several days have passed since we escaped from that cursed dungeon. Although my wounds had healed on the outside, something continued to beat strangely inside me. Every free moment I had, my thoughts returned to the book... or whatever that ancient scroll covered in layers of incomprehensible magic was.
I tried everything. Revelation spells, translation spells, and even old runic decoding formulas I learned on my own. But nothing worked.
Some parts of the text seemed to flicker as if responding to my mana, but when I tried to read them, the letters faded or distorted as if reality itself were protecting them.
I had to do something. I needed answers. Philip... was still the same. I went to visit him in the infirmary a couple of times. Madame Pomfrey told me that his physical wounds were healing well, but something in his mind was stuck. Sometimes he muttered unintelligible things, other times he just breathed heavily. I couldn't count on him for now.
__________________________________________________
Life at Hogwarts never stopped.
In History of Magic, Professor Binns didn't even mention the tragedy.
"More than two hundred years ago," he said, floating in front of the classroom, "similar defense mechanisms were used in the ruins of Morcroft, very useful against intruders..."
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, the new substitute professor asked us to write an essay on "magical trauma and its effect on bodily mana."
Ironic.
__________________________________________________
It was impossible for me to concentrate fully. I couldn't get the parchment out of my head.
Astronomy class, for example, used to be one of my favorite moments. In times of war, nights were complicated, and quietly observing the stars was a privilege.
So being here, I discovered that there was something hypnotic about watching the sky from the highest tower, the cold brushing my cheeks as Professor Sinistra told us about constellations as if they were ancient forgotten songs.
"Can anyone tell me what pattern the constellation Lyra forms?" she asked one clear night, pointing her wand at a bright figure among the stars.
I blinked, as if waking from a dream. I raised my hand.
"A lyre," I replied. "According to ancient texts, it represents Orpheus' instrument."
"Correct, Mr. Dion," she said, with a slight smile.
My mind also remained focused on Philip's state. With his eyes closed. With that silence so characteristic of him, he did not give me any answers.
In Care of Magical Creatures class, Hagrid introduced us to some creatures that looked like cats with iridescent wings. They were docile but sensitive to human emotions.
One of them, curiously, approached me and stayed close throughout the class.
"It likes you, Dion," Hagrid commented. "These little things can sense when someone's heart is... troubled."
I just nodded, stroking the animal's soft back. If even creatures could sense what I was hiding, how much longer could I pretend?
It was after that class, in the library, that I found it.
An old tome, bound in worn leather, among the intermediate potions sections.
"Partial Memory Recovery: Alchemical Approaches."
The title was modest, but the content gave me a spark of hope.
The potions didn't promise miracles... but they did promise small advances. Mental clarity. Stability. Maybe even answers.
"Philip could remember who he was. Maybe even why he's here..."
That night, I couldn't sleep.