Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 635, Section 633: Candy Wrapper

Neville Longbottom is a little wizard whose palms are always sweaty.

If someone has ever held his hand, they will find that it is always damp, cold, and slightly trembling.

This was certainly not innate; it started even before he could speak.

From a young age, he never understood why Grandma Longbottom was always sighing, why he always had nightmares, or why everyone's eyes held a mixture of pity and resentful expectation.

"You don't deserve the surname Longbottom," they said.

This voice had been heard many times, sometimes as his grandmother's harsh words, sometimes as Professor Snape's cold laughter, and sometimes as his own deepest thoughts.

His first successful spellcasting involved launching himself into the ceiling. As he fell, he lay on the ground thinking:

That's more like it. That's the real me. I'm the one who falls down and gets bruised and battered.

At that time, he understood that the word Longbottom meant "under something".

Or perhaps, his hope always lies beneath his despair.

In the thick white fog, Neville was more stunned than ever.

He timidly reached out his hand, his fingers just an inch from the black cat's furry head, and then immediately tried to pull it back.

What is he doing?

That's incredibly bold!

Mr. Castle Cat will definitely be angry—

Undoubtedly, his left hand, which was clenched, was sweating again.

But dreams are perhaps such bizarre things, their development completely different from reality.

The black cat was taken aback at first, then shook its head slowly and helplessly.

Neville felt as if a ball of yarn had brushed across his right palm, and only one thought remained in his head:

I touched it—

good luck.

"Mr. Longbottom."

Good luck is speaking —

"Someone is waiting for you, please follow me."

Good Luck's voice was childlike, but it felt like a warm fireplace in winter.

Mr. Longbottom—

Look, it's angry!

"exist!"

The chubby little wizard stood at attention.

"We still have a long way to go."

The black cat jumped onto his shoulder, its tail slowly curving upwards, pointing towards a hazy depth.

No, no problem.

Nawi stammered.

The road was longer than he had imagined.

He had been gone for an unknown period of time.

Perhaps a few seconds have passed, perhaps years have passed. Here, eternity and the instant are the same thing.

His eyes were fixed on the black cat's tail, which served as a flag guiding his path.

But just as they reached a wheat field, the black cat suddenly jumped from his left shoulder to the ground, its tail drooping limply.

It swept its gaze carefully across the golden wheat field, and Neville thought it must be brooding.

Because its tail no longer wags gently.

The black cat, unusually, lost its way in the hazy, dreamlike realm, or rather, at the boundary.

It stood in the middle of the wheat field, pondering the reasons.

It might be very simple.

The souls of the Longbottoms were not certain to begin with.

After enduring the Crucifixion Curse for an hour, fragments of the wizard's broken soul were locked within his still-breathing body, sustaining him to a minimum.

The very core of their souls, the essence richest in emotion and memory, was stripped away and banished in the continuous torment because they could not bear the pain, and ultimately sank into the hazy illusion at the boundary between life and death.

Therefore, the wizard's soul is no longer a complete part.

The reason why the black cat made this bold guess can perhaps be attributed to Tom.

He made the black cat understand that a wizard's soul can be split under extreme circumstances.

Thus, the vague sensation that existed both outside and inside the border area confirmed the black cat's guess.

It is true; the Longbottoms can indeed be found at the border, and in the most emotional and intellectually vibrant part.

However, it is also more difficult to find.

The black cat and they didn't have much interaction to begin with; their connection was as thin as a cicada's wing.

Fortunately, "Choose a direction, Mr. Longbottom."

"The black cat said."

"What?"

Neville thought he hadn't heard clearly.

You have to walk this path by yourself.

"The black cat said."

It looked towards the border.

The white fog had already begun to surge, and in the far, far distance, there were also black and red fogs, approaching like dark clouds.

"But you will not be alone, Mr. Longbottom. At the Eternal Crossroads, there exists something eternal that will guide you."

The black cat strode into the depths of the white mist.

"Where are you going—but I—I can do it—"

Neville panicked and stammered, his fists clenching nervously.

"You can do it, Mr. Longbottom."

The black cat's tone was so certain that Neville was momentarily stunned.

"But I—"

Neville was on the verge of tears.

However, the black cat disappeared in just one or two jumps.

Neville swallowed hard, looking at the hazy wheat field shrouded in mist.

There seems to be nothing certain here.

It's like an unfinished dream, a stage with only scenery but no plot. A waiting room, an eternal transit station, but the sign has been taken down.

Is anyone there?

His voice was muffled.

The fog swallowed everything, and even his own words almost didn't reach his ears.

He hesitated for a moment, then started walking.

Once again, Neville had no idea how long he had been walking.

Here, time has no meaning whatsoever—there is no shifting sun, no elongating shadows, no hunger, no fatigue.

The only option is to leave.

There was only the sensation of muscles repeatedly contracting and stretching, and the hollow echo of the soles of my feet hitting the unseen ground.

The hem of his robe brushed against his calves, each friction a reminder: you are still solid, you haven't turned into something like mist or something.

But this conviction is gradually eroding.

Neville wanted to leave, and he began to pray that it was all just a dream.

His palms started sweating again.

Loneliness, silence, and passing the time.

Neville thought this must be a nightmare.

It was like all the nightmares he had ever experienced.

Just then, a loud noise began to emanate from afar, causing the mist beneath his feet to vibrate.

He was thrown high into the air and then fell painfully to the ground.

His leg was scraped, and the injured area was bloody and mangled; his arm was in excruciating pain, and it was probably broken.

His already small eyes squinted painfully, leaving only a slit.

The pain caused sweat to drip down, soaking into my eyelids and making my pupils even more sore.

"Mr. Castle Cat, are you there? —"