Chapter 582: Touching Happiness
"Go and help him."
Rowena Ravenclaw turned her gaze toward Godric Gryffindor.
"He isn't even my student," Gryffindor huffed, crossing his arms over his broad
chest.
"He calls you 'Teacher.'"
Ravenclaw stared at him with an unblinking, crystalline intensity until a plume
of red vapor began to rise from Godric's head. Finally, the warrior let out a
long, defeated sigh.
"Rowena... you always know exactly how to corner me."
"Even without my prompting, you would have gone," Ravenclaw said calmly.
"Who knows... that is the Mists of Eternity and Fading, the very law of this
realm. If I get lost in there, I might be horizontal for another few centuries,"
Gryffindor grumbled, kicking at the white earth. "I've spent an eternity serving
this dream-trance, and now you want me to be a laborer? You didn't even leave me
a sword... Hmph."
The more he spoke, the more piteous Godric sounded. Ravenclaw merely continued
to watch him with a look of pure, clinical skepticism.
"I expect a reward for this!" Gryffindor finally barked.
"To think you actually have the gall to say that aloud..." Rowena murmured to
herself.
"Rowena!"
"The Mists of Integrity and Judgment should really have a word with their
creator," she said, her voice returning to its usual flat, intellectual tone.
The vapor around Godric's head thickened, turning a darker, more embarrassed
shade of crimson.
"I've already given him the sword..." Gryffindor muttered, looking
uncharacteristically sheepish as he leaned against a jagged rock.
The red mist swirling above him acted as a cosmic lie-detector, confirming that
the trade had been anything but fair.
"The Mists of Judgment are literally touching your head, Godric," Rowena noted
helpfully.
Gryffindor lost all interest in haggling. "I'll help him. I'll help him,
alright? No matter what, I'll help him..."
He turned toward the horizon, where the white void was being consumed by a wall
of ink-black storm clouds. The red vapor above him didn't vanish.
"I didn't 'serve' the Lands Between! Every moment was of my own free will, and I
enjoyed every second of it! You miserable Mists of Judgment, are you satisfied
now?!" Gryffindor roared.
Only then did the red clouds finally dissipate.
"Honestly... do you have to be so harsh to an old man?!" Gryffindor shouted at
the empty air, watching the mist flee as if afraid of his temper.
"May the Mists of Judgment avoid you," Rowena whispered, reciting a proverb of
the realm.
"You're always like this," Gryffindor sighed, shaking his head. "No one can
out-argue you. But centuries have passed, Rowena. You should really go and see
our old friends."
Ravenclaw didn't look at him. She remained standing in the center of the void,
her face a mask of indifference.
"Rowena... do me a small favor?" Godric asked, his tone softening.
"What is it?"
"Mentor him. He's a good little lion, but people like him... they tend to burn
out far too quickly."
Gryffindor gave a quick, sharp grin and began to march toward the encroaching
darkness. Ravenclaw watched him go, a flicker of surprise crossing her features.
It was rare for Godric to speak with such gravity.
The warrior gave a cavalier wave of his hand and vanished into the heart of the
mist.
Far ahead, the silhouette of the Black Cat looked infinitesimally small against
the tide of the boiling mists. He looked like a tiny boat in the middle of a
Category 5 hurricane, struggling to maintain even a second of safety.
But on the other side of the waves, a powerful figure appeared at the edge of
the gloom.
Godric Gryffindor was laughing heartily, swinging a long, heavy object—nothing
more than a sturdy tree branch—to shatter the orbs of vapor as they approached.
Sean, gasping for breath atop his crumbling stone throne, wondered if he was
finally hallucinating. Is that Godric Gryffindor fighting the apocalypse with a
stick?
"Hoi! Hold on tight, little Knight!"
Gryffindor's voice was like a thunderclap. "If you let the mist take you now,
there's no coming back!"
The Cat's fur bristled. No coming back...
Death? Sean thought. He looked at his cracked Void Rune. The mist was already
beginning to seep into the fractures, seeking to wrap around his spirit and drag
him into the deep. His tail twitched with a desperate, unyielding defiance.
They had to get out. He didn't care if Albus had found his treasure or not. If
they were trapped here, the future would be a graveyard. Voldemort would return,
and there would be no one left to stop him.
But then, he looked at the cracked stone again. He could feel it in his
marrow—he wouldn't be able to return to this realm for a very long time. This
was their only chance.
A stubborn, iron-clad resolve—the core of Sean Green's character—sprouted like
wild weeds in his mind.
The Lands Between... the World Behind the Veil... the Illusion...
It promised change to those with Blind Confidence. Sean forced his mind to
expand. He would do more. He would take it all.
Cost be damned. Consequences be damned.
Perhaps man shouldn't strive to be a "rational animal" at all. Perhaps, to win,
one had to become a madman—someone willing to risk everything for a dangerous
fantasy, someone capable of fighting for the world that exists while
simultaneously charging toward the world that should exist.
"Oho..."
Gryffindor watched as the mist surrounding the Cat was suddenly shattered by a
concussive burst of energy. The emerald light in Sean's pupils was no longer the
calm of the sea; it was the vibrant, violent green of spring bursting through a
winter glacier.
In the Lands Between, if you believe you can summon a tidal wave, you become the
storm!
"STORM GUARDIAN!"
The voice that echoed through the layers of mist was both ancient and insane.
The sky above was no longer white. Jagged streaks of lightning tore through the
dark clouds of the unformed day.
A new titan rose. This time, its body wasn't made of granite and vine; it was
composed of pure, crackling electricity and compressed air. It held a spear made
of white lightning that effectively cut the entire realm in two.
The titan's pupils reflected the same manic fire that now burned in the Cat's
eyes. For the first time, Godric Gryffindor's expression went completely still.
"We have a problem..." he whispered.
He noticed the tiny, almost invisible threads of dark mist beginning to coil
around the Cat's head.
In this place, you can become the storm... but those who gaze into the abyss
must take care, lest they become the abyss themselves.
The Cottage.
The rain arrived without warning. It spread from the site of the battle all the
way to the small patch of green where the Dumbledores sat.
"It's raining," Albus noted, shifting in his conjured armchair.
Outside the window, the white void was gone, replaced by heavy, leaden clouds.
Raindrops began to pelt the glass—first a few stray drops, then a steady,
driving rhythm.
Then came the hail.
Ice pellets the size of peas hammered against the panes with a sound like a
thousand tiny birds pecking at the wood. Ariana pulled her shoulders in, but she
didn't look afraid. In Godric's Hollow, she would have hidden in her mother's
arms. But now, she simply turned to Albus, her eyes searching his face as if
checking to see if the weather was "allowed."
Albus stood up and walked to the window, his fingers touching the cold glass.
Everything in this illusion felt so real—even the condensation fogging the pane
was tangible.
He turned and offered Ariana a reassuring smile. "It's alright," he said softly.
"It's only rain."
"Rain... get wet..." Ariana whispered. Then, her face brightened. "Ariana...
thank Mr. God... for making brother Albus not wet..."
Dumbledore felt his heart skip a beat.
Suddenly, without warning, the light in the room failed. They were plunged into
a heavy gloom. The sound of the hail grew clearer in the darkness, emphasizing
their isolation from the rest of the world.
And then, the fire flared.
A warm, golden light erupted from the tip of Albus's wand. Ariana instinctively
moved closer, her nose nearly touching his fingers.
Albus watched her. In this moment, his world contained nothing else.
In this storm-wracked afternoon, they sat in their weathered wooden shack,
listening to the world hammer at the walls. The external lights were gone, but
the candle-glow reflected in each other's eyes was more than enough. In this
bubble of stolen time, they shared the warmth of the hearth and the steady
ticking of a clock that didn't exist.
Ariana touched her chest. Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure it was
broken. She didn't understand that the "break" was simply the feeling of it
finally starting to beat again.
Albus leaned in, using his magic to shape the flames into tiny, dancing goats
and cats. Ariana's eyes followed the fiery animals as they gamboled across the
floor.
Slowly, the environment began to shift. The white mist outside was being pulled
by the gravity of their shared peace. It began to solidify, taking on color and
texture.
First came the outline—a slanting roof, a sturdy chimney, walls covered in thick
ivy. Then the details—geraniums on the windowsill, a slightly crooked stone step
at the door, a rusted iron knocker on the gate.
A complete house had materialized.
Dumbledore's smile turned both more real and more pained.
They roasted sweet potatoes in the embers. They carved a hole in a massive
pumpkin to simmer a thick, fragrant soup. Ariana worked with intense focus,
adding "ingredients" she had remembered from a century ago. She failed to notice
the lingering shadow of grief in Albus's eyes.
Ariana sipped the pumpkin soup, the warmth spreading all the way to her toes.
She looked around at the "new" house. She ran her hand over the geraniums; she
flicked the door knocker to hear the sharp, clear ring; and finally, she
carefully began to gather the flowers Sean had given her.
Albus assisted her with a quiet solemnity, placing the flowers into pots to line
the windowsills and the edge of her bed.
A long time passed. The wind died down, and the hail turned into a soft, steady
drizzle. Ariana's voice drifted through the quiet room, sounding as light as a
dream.
"It's so good."
Albus froze. "What is, dear?"
"Not being alone..." her sleepy voice trailed off. "It's so good."
Albus closed his eyes in the dark. He didn't dare speak; he knew if he did, his
voice would shatter under the weight of his emotions.
Ariana finally succumbed to exhaustion, her head nodding. She clutched a warm
sweet potato in her palm, its heat a constant reminder of the present.
In that moment, she finally understood the strange concept the "Lestrange woman"
had described to her.
This was Happiness.
In the middle of the trivial, the domestic, and the mundane...
She had finally touched a fragment of love.
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