Harry was startled the first time he heard that voice.
Besides that, there was a large telescope in the attic. In the center of the room was a glass sphere with a model of the constellations inside that Harry really liked.
On the shelves in the attic were a number of books on Magic History, all of which showed signs of frequent perusal. Mr. Ferdinand also had a thick stack of the Prophet Daily, some with densely written notes on them.
Harry felt somewhat ashamed; after he finished reading his newspapers, he would casually throw them away. Most of the time, he was most attentive to the crossword puzzles in the paper.
"Fortunately, my parents were only very interested in magic," he said.
Vid took the two of them to the attic, where he found a pile of unopened boxes and asked, "What do you want to play? I have Contra, Desert Storm, and... Hunter of Treasures?"
Vid flipped through, looking at the names on the boxes.
Most of these were Christmas presents he received last year, and some were video games brought specially from overseas by Ferdinand's business partners who knew there was a minor at home.
Although Vid wasn't interested in these, Harry and Michael were true thirteen-year-old boys and would definitely like these kinds of games.
Harry picked up another box nearby; on the cover were big-nosed old men holding swords or shields and wearing bull-headed hats.
He looked at the gemstone-encrusted sword and inexplicably felt fond of it, softly reading the name on it, "The Lost Vikings?"
"Vikings? Sounds good, let's play this one," Michael said with interest.
Harry's eyes brightened too—at the Dursley family, even though there was a game console, everything belonged to Dudley, and Harry didn't even have the right to touch it.
Though he always pretended to be indifferent, only he knew how curious and envious he really was inside.
"Alright then!"
Vid didn't mind which game they played; they opened the box, plugged in the power, and turned on the game console.
With the sound of boom boom boom, the screen turned dark and bright again, and three pixelated little men appeared on the screen.
...
"Crunch... crunch..."
The sound of boots crunching on snow echoed. Abigail and Maye Byrd walked along the edge of the street, their expressionless demeanor starkly contrasting with the joyful crowd around them.
They passed through street after street, eventually standing outside a small tavern.
A crooked sign hung above the tavern—"Antler Tavern," while near the door handle was a small wooden sign reading "Closed."
Byrd ignored the sign, tapped the door with his finger, and soon heard the sound of chains clinking inside.
An expressionless, elderly woman stood at the door.
"Come in," she said, "Bloren has been waiting for you for a long time."
Byrd took a deep breath, his expression excited. But he took a step back at this moment, signaling Abigail to walk ahead.
Abigail pressed her lips tightly, marching inside with large strides, followed closely by Byrd.
The wooden door slammed shut behind them.
Half of the tavern was underground, half above ground, the room dimly lit, and the few lamps weren't bright.
A white-haired bartender was skillfully mixing drinks, and at the bar sat a handsome man in his forties or fifties.
Next to his hand was a cocktail, but he wasn't drinking; he was looking at a garishly decorated newspaper.
Abigail recognized it at once as a popular tabloid in the British Magic World, often publishing unverified tidbits and wild guesses.
"Serra, Maye, long time no see."
The man turned around and said gently.
"Mr. Bloren." They both bowed in greeting.
"Hmm." Bloren nodded, then suddenly asked, "Have you read the latest issue of The Quibbler?"
The two exchanged glances and both shook their heads.
Byrd explained, "The Quibbler publishes weird trash... articles. I personally think it's not worth subscribing to."
"I used to think that this magazine was good for a laugh, but sometimes you can find things on it that you won't see in the Prophet Daily. For example..."
Bloren suddenly turned his gaze to Abigail, smiling, "Serra, I heard you used the Patronus Charm on the train to protect those students?"
"Yes," Abigail said softly, "Dumbledore knew I was on the train. In that kind of situation, if I didn't intervene, there would surely be questions..."
"No need to explain, I understand." Bloren smiled, "But this magazine spoke nonsense. It actually said the two Patronus that drove off the Dementors were an eagle and a Doberman. Do you think that's possible, Serra?"
"Naturally not possible," Byrd said relaxedly, "those little wizard brats probably can't distinguish between breeds of hounds, or simply saw wrong, right, Serra?"
He turned his head, but saw his companion silent, head down.
"—Serra?"
Byrd's brows furrowed, showing confusion.
Bloren gently sighed.
"Expecto Patronum, Serra." He demanded, "Let me see your Patronus."
Abigail slowly drew out her Magic Wand.
A moment later, a silver-white hound ran two circles around the room and came to Abigail's side.
Its body was thin and agile, with a narrow head, looking majestic and elegant.
It was indeed a Doberman.
Byrd's expression subtly changed; he slowly raised his eyes to look at Abigail, as if seeing a stranger.
"Abigail, your previous Patronus was clearly a Pitbull!" Byrd asked, "When did it become this?"
The silver hound dispersed and vanished. Abigail said, "I don't know."
If she had known the image of her Patronus had changed, she wouldn't have used that spell, or she would have at least hidden its form.
In spotting the Guardian God charging at the Dementor, Abigail's shock and unease were no less than those of the other students on the train.
Bloren softly asked, "Under what circumstances would the form of a Patronus change, Abigail?"
"When..." Abigail paused, "under mental trauma or... or when experiencing intense emotional change..."
"Did that school change you?" Bloren pursued, "Did they make you weaker? Make you start believing in poisonous things like love or friendship, forgetting your stance?"
Abigail: "I did not!"
"The Patronus reflects your true inner thoughts more than words," Byrd said coldly.
"Don't be so harsh, Maye, being influenced by naive children isn't anything unusual."
Bloren always spoke with a warm tone, "But Serra, while the world of children is inherently simple and kind, those children won't always remain just children."
"They'll soon graduate, freely use magic to harm innocent ordinary people, become the kind of wizard you most despise."
"Do you forget how your parents died? Thirteen years ago, two wizards chased and killed each other, using one spell to kill twelve innocent Muggles—simply because those people were on the same street!"
Abigail's eyes instantly reddened, her teeth gritting, "I have not forgotten!"
Bloren looked at her with pity and went on, "No reason, no explanation, not even an apology! Your parents died without a trace, not even worthy of a name in the wizard's papers."
"Poor child... you once joined an organization with a heart full of revenge. Later, upon gathering news, you thought those two reckless wizards had been punished, one died, the other imprisoned in the most dreadful prison."
"But how is it really? One of them became a world-renowned hero, reportedly might join the Ministry of Magic as an Auror; the other remains at large, whereabouts unknown."
"Only you... child, only you remember those who died, your parents live only in your memory."
"Abigail, how can you forget? How can you grow soft?"