Sensing the direction of Vaughn's thoughts, Dumbledore smiled.
Countless versions of Morfin Gaunt were still calling his name from every direction, yet Dumbledore paid them no attention. Instead, he looked at Vaughn with evident interest and suddenly asked:
"My dear, what do you think talent is?"
"…Huh?"
Vaughn opened his mouth to answer, then paused.
Talent was an abstract concept. Taken literally, it meant an innate gift—but what was it, really?
No one could give a concrete definition.
It wasn't a physical substance. From a materialist perspective, one might even argue that it did not exist at all.
Before Vaughn could spiral too deeply into philosophical uncertainty, Dumbledore asked again:
"Then let me phrase it differently. Where do you think talent resides? In the body? Or…?"
Or—
The word surfaced unbidden in Vaughn's mind.
The soul.
His pupils constricted sharply, a tremor of realization passing through his eyes.
Dumbledore smiled. "Exactly. Talent is not an organ, nor bloodline, nor what Muggles call 'genes.' It cannot be quantified. In fact, it does not reside in the flesh at all."
"Talent exists only in the soul."
"Spellcasting, Transfiguration, Divination, Dark Magic… and Alchemy."
"Their sum total is what the Golden Soul Theory refers to as imperfection."
"Without spell talent, one cannot touch magic. Without Transfiguration talent, one cannot understand the relationship between magic and matter. Without Divination, one cannot perceive fate and time…"
"Your materialist worldview seeks objective truth. From another angle, it aligns remarkably well with the Golden Soul's pursuit of perfection. Both aim for the essence of matter—the true nature of the universe."
"But it is precisely these 'imperfections' that prevent us from perceiving reality as it truly is."
"Do you remember the dimensional theory you once told me?"
Vaughn nodded instinctively.
It was a scientific hypothesis he had once explained to Dumbledore:
Lower-dimensional beings cannot comprehend higher dimensions.
A two-dimensional creature, presented with a sphere, could only ever perceive a circle—the shadow of the sphere.
Thus, the circle became its truth.
"I find that theory fascinating," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Especially the projection of a sphere into a circle. It perfectly captures the confusion that has long troubled alchemists."
"If the physical world already exists, what purpose does the Ether serve?"
He blinked mischievously. "When I die, I shall finally be able to tell all those long-dead alchemists that Ether and reality are simply two aspects of the same substance. I imagine that will help them rest peacefully."
Vaughn ignored the joke.
His mind was racing.
The so-called Golden Soul Theory was not psychology—it merely borrowed its language to explain magic and alchemical observation.
Everyone should be able to enter the Ether.
Those who could not were not forbidden—they were incomplete. Their souls lacked the necessary permission.
Muggles without spell talent could never use magic.
Wizards without alchemical talent could never touch the Ether.
The "perfection" sought by the Golden Soul was nothing more than repairing these missing permissions—granting beings trapped in projection the means to see higher dimensions.
That "vision" belonged neither to body nor mind.
It belonged to the soul.
Talent resided in the soul.
Talent defined permission.
Permission defined perception.
Lost in thought, Vaughn looked at the countless Morfin Gaunts surrounding them and recalled Dumbledore's earlier communion with the Ether.
The scenes were identical.
In the Ether, something had answered Dumbledore's call.
Here, something else had responded.
Something that governed the subconscious.
Something that bridged reality and the Ether.
Suddenly, Vaughn understood.
"The soul," he said quietly. "What you just did—you were praying to Morfin Gaunt's soul, weren't you?"
Dumbledore nodded calmly.
"Then… what exactly is the soul?"
Dumbledore considered before answering.
"The Golden Soul Theory divides the human psyche into three layers.
"The first is the primary consciousness—memory, thought, cognition. If the mind is an island, this is the land above the sea.
"The second is the individual subconscious, submerged beneath the surface. It contains dreams, emotions, fantasies. It cannot exist in rational space—only in the Ether."
Vaughn knew all this by heart, but he remained silent.
Dumbledore continued:
"The third—and largest—layer lies in the deepest ocean."
"It is called the Collective Subconscious."
The term was both familiar and alien.
Vaughn recalled fragmented alchemical descriptions:
A black fog.
A phantom sea.
An endless ocean.
Islands scattered beneath amber twilight.
Light fragments drifting through darkness, accompanied not by waves—but whispers.
Utterly abstract.
Every description contradicted the last. There was no unified definition, no known path.
Until now.
Vaughn swallowed. "You're saying the Collective Subconscious… is the soul?"
"One could say that," Dumbledore replied gently.
"In your terms, these three layers are three different spaces—or states of matter."
"Reality: rational, material."
"Ether: chaotic, irrational—yet rich with possibility."
"And the third…"
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"It is what alchemists call the Archetype. The origin and the end. Infinitely vast and infinitely small."
"In your language…"
"A singularity," Vaughn whispered.
Dumbledore smiled. "A very interesting term."
Vaughn finally understood.
The soul had never been in the body.
That idea, shocking as it was, mirrored speculative quantum theories from his previous life—ideas that consciousness was information, that information never vanished.
Some theorists even proposed that the soul was a higher-dimensional entity, and reality itself merely a projection.
Projection.
Reality.
Perfection.
The parallels were uncanny.
He remembered Dumbledore's earlier question, months ago:
What is real? What is illusion?
Only now did Vaughn understand—Dumbledore had been guiding him all along.
"So how do I enter the Collective Subconscious?" Vaughn asked.
Dumbledore shook his head. "I cannot teach you that."
"Why not?"
"Because our philosophies differ," Dumbledore said lightly. "You couldn't understand the spell I used just now—any more than I can understand your personality construct."
"Memory magic is deeply personal. Teaching it across incompatible worldviews would destroy you."
"And nothing," he added softly, "is more terrifying than destroying one's worldview."
The Gaunt Legacy
Dumbledore vanished—drawn into the unknowable depths of Morfin Gaunt's soul.
Only Vaughn remained.
His thoughts were in turmoil.
Collective Subconscious = Soul.
Physics, quantum theory, information permanence—all collided in his mind.
Finally, he exhaled.
Raising his hand, he examined a thin silver strand flecked with black.
Morfin Gaunt's magical knowledge.
The black specks marked lingering Dark Magic corruption.
"Stubborn stuff," Vaughn muttered.
He stepped back.
The world inverted.
Darkness.
Then—
Light.
The Azkaban lounge reappeared, fire crackling in the hearth.
Seeing both Dumbledore and Morfin still unconscious, Vaughn draped blankets over them.
Then he tossed a phoenix feather into the fire.
With a crackle, Fawkes emerged.
"Gah!"
Vaughn laughed. "Still holding a grudge over that Killing Curse?"
"Gah!"
"Relax. Didn't I compensate you with Felix Felicis? Now fetch me Dumbledore's Pensieve."
After much negotiation—and bribery involving Snape—Fawkes returned.
Vaughn poured the silver-black memory into the Pensieve and immersed himself.
"…He really gave me Dark Magic."
Four spells.
Parseltongue – incomplete without Slytherin blood.
Necromantic Arts – raising Inferi, corpse awakening, death clouds.
Soul Theft Charm (Furantur Animarum) – ancient, invaluable.
Slytherin Bloodline Transplantation – dangerous, unfinished.
Voldemort's transformation suddenly made sense.
Vaughn smiled faintly.
"These will do."
He glanced at his system panel.
Side Quest ③
Study all known dragon magic
Progress: 0/10
"Now all I need… are experimental materials."
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