"Go help it."
Ravenclaw looked at Gryffindor.
"That isn't my student."
Gryffindor snorted.
"It called you teacher."
Ravenclaw stared straight at him until red mist began floating above Gryffindor's head again.
Then, as if conceding, he sighed.
"Rowena, you always know you can get away with it."
"Even without me, you would still do it."
Ravenclaw said calmly.
"Who knows? That is the Mist of Eternity and Fading—the rules of the Borderland. It's possible you'll see me lying in there for a few hundred years."
Gryffindor muttered.
"I worked for the Hazy Dreamscape for so long, and now I have to do hard labor for you too? You didn't even give me the sword—"
The more he spoke, the more pitiful Gryffindor sounded.
Ravenclaw, however, merely stared at him with pure, doubtful eyes.
"You have to pay me."
Gryffindor finally said in a low voice.
"You actually had the nerve to say that…"
Ravenclaw murmured to herself.
"Rowena—"
Gryffindor looked irritated.
"The Mist of Integrity and Judgment should judge its creator."
Ravenclaw returned to calm and said lightly.
The mist coiling around Gryffindor's head grew thicker.
And redder.
"I already gave it the sword—"
Gryffindor leaned against a rock, looking somewhat unnatural.
But the faintly red mist above his head proved how unfair this transaction was.
"The Mist of Integrity and Judgment is above your head."
Ravenclaw kindly reminded him.
Gryffindor completely lost interest in bargaining.
"I'll help it. Of course I'll help it. No matter what, I'll help it—"
he said slowly.
But the mist circling above his head did not leave.
"I never sold my life to the Borderland. Everything I did was my own choice, and I enjoyed it. Damn Mist of Integrity and Judgment, are you satisfied now?"
Anger appeared on Gryffindor's solemn face.
Only then did the mist slowly disperse.
"Mist of Integrity and Judgment, do you really have to be so harsh on an old man?!"
Gryffindor watched the mist disperse even faster, as if it were dodging his anger.
"Oh, may the Mist of Integrity and Judgment avoid you."
Ravenclaw softly recited a maxim of the Borderland.
"You're always like this."
Gryffindor sighed.
"We can never argue with you. But after all this time, you ought to meet an old friend."
Ravenclaw did not look at him. She stood there expressionlessly.
"Rowena, do me a small favor."
Gryffindor stopped trying to tangle over that issue.
"What?"
Ravenclaw raised an eyebrow.
"Help me teach him. He's a decent little lion. People like that always come quickly."
Gryffindor grinned and walked toward the land covered by overwhelming mist.
Ravenclaw studied Gryffindor with slight surprise. Such words rarely came from his mouth.
Gryffindor waved freely and had already vanished into the depths of the mist.
Far ahead of him, the black cat's figure had become terribly small amid the mist that swallowed everything.
Like a little boat amid surging waves, barely able to maintain a single moment of safety.
But on the other end of the waves, a vigorous figure had appeared at the edge of the sky-filling mist.
He laughed heartily, swinging the long thing in his hand, cutting apart cluster after cluster of mist.
The black cat wondered if it was so exhausted that its eyes were playing tricks on it.
Otherwise, how could it be seeing Gryffindor using a tree branch to slash through mist?
"Hey! Hold on, little knight!"
Soon, it knew this was real, because it heard Gryffindor's thunderous shout.
"If the mist sweeps you away, you'll never get back!"
The black cat felt certain that its fur had risen.
Never get back—
That meant—
death?
It thought of the cracked ravine in its Void Talisman, and the mist immediately seized the opening, wrapping around its head.
Its tail began to sway in panic and unwillingness.
They had to leave. Whether Headmaster Dumbledore had found the treasure or not.
If they could not return, it was predictable that many more souls would arrive in the Borderland next.
And without exception, they would all be sent there by Voldemort.
But—
The black cat once again thought of the cracked Void Talisman. It could feel that, for the near future, it would definitely be unable to return to the Borderland.
Did that mean they had to consider this their only chance in this lifetime?
That stubborn and resolute thought in the black cat's nature grew wildly like weeds.
The Borderland, the world beyond the Veil of Death, the hazy dreamscape—
It promised wizards that blind confidence could change the world. The black cat forced itself to think. It had to be able to do more.
Regardless of cost. Regardless of consequence.
Perhaps—
People should no longer act as—or become—rational animals.
They should become madmen, willing to risk everything for their dangerous fantasies, able to charge forward in song, willing to fight to the end for everything the world already had, and willing to advance without retreat for everything the world did not yet have.
Gryffindor saw the mist around the black cat shatter. Its green pupils no longer showed the calm of the sea.
That green was like spring, ready to break through winter snow.
In the Borderland, if you believe you can raise a great wave, then you can become the storm!
"Storm Warden—"
Through layer upon layer of mist, Gryffindor could hear that mad yet solemn voice.
There was no more mist floating in the sky. Lightning suddenly tore through the day that had not yet arrived.
"Hoh—"
The mountain stood up.
This time, it was not given a body as firm as stone. Instead, it was wrapped in crackling thunder.
A spear made entirely of lightning cut across the whole Borderland in that moment.
The giant's pupils and the black cat's pupils shone with the same madness. For the first time, Gryffindor's expression froze.
"Trouble—"
He sharply noticed the thin, almost imperceptible threads of mist above the black cat's head.
In the Borderland, if you believe you can raise a great wave, then you can become the storm.
But you who gaze into the abyss must also be careful not to become the abyss.
The rain arrived. No one knew when.
From that trembling place, it spread all the way to the grass.
"It's raining."
Albus turned slightly from the armchair he had conjured.
Outside the window, the void that had been a blank white just moments ago now held heavy clouds.
Raindrops began striking the window. At first, there were only a few scattered drops, but they soon gathered into a dense drumbeat.
Then came hail.
Pea-sized hail struck the glass with crackling sounds, as if countless little birds were pecking at the windows with their beaks.
Ariana shrank her neck slightly, but she was not afraid. In the past, at Godric's Hollow, whenever there was a storm, she would hide in her mother's arms.
But now, she only turned and looked at Albus sitting in the armchair, a trace of inquiry in her eyes, as if uncertain how he would react.
Albus stood up, walked to the window, and lightly touched the cold glass with his fingers.
Everything in the illusion was so real, even the misted vapor on the glass could be seen clearly.
He turned back and gave Ariana a reassuring smile.
"It's alright,"
he said.
"It's only rain."
"Rain… makes people wet—"
Ariana spoke timidly, and then her expression brightened again.
"Ariana thanks Mr. God, because Brother Albus won't get wet now—"
Dumbledore felt his heart skip another beat.
The next moment, without warning, the light source went out.
The entire room sank into darkness.
The hail still battered every window, and in the dark, that sound became clearer, and lonelier.
And so, flames rose.
A warm fire bloomed from the tip of Dumbledore's wand.
Ariana unconsciously moved closer.
Her little nose almost touched Dumbledore's fingers.
Dumbledore looked at her, his eyes unable to contain anything else.
On this stormy afternoon, they sat in the shabby wooden cottage, listening to the rain and hail strike every window.
The lights had gone out. Candlefire had risen. All they had were each other's faces.
And in this bubble-like stretch of time, they shared endless hearth fire and unceasing bells.
Ariana thought there must be something wrong with her heart today. Otherwise, why would it be beating so violently?
Dumbledore leaned closer. Silently, he shaped the fire into tiny goats and cats.
Ariana's gaze followed the little animals that leapt out of the flames.
At some point, the void began to churn. The milky mist seemed drawn by some power, rapidly condensing and gaining color.
First came outlines: a slanted roof, a small chimney, walls covered in ivy.
Then came details: geraniums on the windowsill, a crooked stone step in front of the door, a rusty knocker on the fence gate.
A complete wooden cottage had appeared, fully and entirely.
Dumbledore's smile became more real, and more painful.
They roasted sweet potatoes. They dug a large hollow into a huge pumpkin and began simmering pumpkin soup.
Ariana very seriously added the foods she had learned to recognize over the past hundred years.
She did not notice the shadow beneath Dumbledore's gentle gaze.
Ariana drank the pumpkin soup. Its warm, sweet flavor flowed all the way into her stomach.
Then she looked around at everything that had suddenly appeared. Her small figure sometimes stood by the windowsill, carefully fiddling with the geraniums; sometimes timidly turned the knocker on the door, making a crisp sound; and more often, she carefully and devoutly gathered flowers.
At those times, Dumbledore would also help her solemnly and seriously place them into flowerpots, hang them on the wall, put them on the windowsill, or beside Ariana's bed.
After a very, very long time, the sound of the wind weakened, and the hail became fine raindrops.
Ariana's voice came from the darkness, soft as sleep-talk.
"How nice."
Albus's fingers paused.
"What?"
His voice was hoarse.
"Not alone…"
Her drowsy voice paused.
"How nice."
Albus closed his eyes in the darkness. He was afraid that if he spoke, his voice would reveal every emotion breaking through the dam.
Fortunately, Ariana soon grew truly sleepy, her head nodding again and again.
Only the large roasted sweet potato in her palm continued to give off endless warmth.
Somehow, she seemed to understand the strange thing that strange witch had once described to her.
She thought, this was what she had called happiness.
In the fragments of ordinary life, suddenly touching a shard of love.