Days at Hogwarts

Chapter 752 Conversation in a Mystical Illusion

A brand new day is about to begin.

On an open-air platform in a tall building next to the airport.

A strangely dressed middle-aged witch sat suspended in mid-air, her legs dangling over the edge, half of her body leaning a hundred meters into the air, looking up at the airport. One of her hands was as clear as jade, and beside her was a wand with a phoenix tail feather core.

The closed airport has reopened, and the streetlights and signs along the street emit colorful lights. The headlights of passing vehicles leave trails of light, weaving a magnificent and dazzling spider web. Meanwhile, the sky above the airport is clear of clouds, and the bright moonlight shines obliquely, falling on the ground and glass walls like a light frost.

Bellatrix rarely observed Muggles closely, let alone so many of them. She didn't even bother to look at Mudbloods. After her sister Andromeda married a Mudblood, she was expelled from the entire family.

Now it seems that Muggles don't look much different from purebloods.

This concept shifted in Azkaban.

The entire Azkaban is filled with Dementors and criminals tortured beyond recognition. Only occasionally, every few months, can one see the patrolling wizard guards. In their spare time from the Dementors, some of the more rational prisoners gather on the rocky shore of Azkaban, gazing into the distance, hoping to see something alive.

The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, just like the sky. Sometimes she felt that the sky and the ocean were actually connected. At such times, a ferry would slowly pass by. It was a giant steel ship belonging to the Muggles, sometimes a passenger ship, but most of the time a cargo ship. When the weather was fine, the crew and passengers would stand on the deck, looking around, chatting and laughing, as it slowly sailed toward the land they could not see.

Lowly Muggles breathe freely, while pure-blood prisoners await death in silence.

"..."

Two soft tremors echoed in the air, and two figures appeared behind the witch, their staffs pointed directly at her heart.

"Bellatrix, put down your weapon."

"Give up resistance and come with us to the Ministry of Magic to face trial and repent for your crimes," Rita Skeeter snapped at the Death Eaters in front of her, but her steps instinctively retreated, hiding behind a member of the Order of the Phoenix. "Vanity Fair has been completely wiped out, and the entire Death Eater group has been arrested. You're a smart man; don't try to resist. Hand over your wand and cooperate with us. I have a good relationship with Dumbledore; when we get back to the Ministry of Magic, I can plead with Wizengamot to reduce your punishment."

"Don't make the wrong choice. Don't underestimate us just because there are only two of us. We're more than enough to deal with you. Besides, there are Aurors from the Ministry of Magic and the Magical Congress of the United States nearby. If you resist, I'll notify them immediately. Those people aren't as easy to talk to as I am."

Bellatrix's lips curled into a slight, mocking smile: "You still don't dare to call him by his name."

Rita Skeeter was not provoked: "I didn't call him by that name out of fear, it's just a habit I have from the past. You all started your escape from Easter, and I've been blending in with you all. He didn't even notice me, did he? What Dark Lord, what Voldemort, he was defeated, and not just once. When I get back to England, I will definitely write a book to record his story in detail."

Bellatrix looked at the person next to her with a cold gaze.

She was a witch whose age was hard to discern; she looked only about thirty years old, but her eyes were unusually weathered, as if she were already seventy or eighty years old. She exuded a strange aura, unlike a witch, but rather like some kind of wild beast, like... a python.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes slightly, her tone tinged with regret: "If my master had met you sooner, he would have been very happy."

He has always been close to snakes, snake-related ornaments, snake-related black magic, and especially venomous, ferocious, and magical snakes.

Nagini frowned, his wand glowing faintly as he pointed at the Death Eater sitting against the wall: "Bellatrix, your master has been killed, your companions have surrendered, give up the fight."

Bellatrix tilted her head and reached for the wand beside her. Just as the two of them were on high alert, she suddenly jumped down and plummeted straight down.

"Bella..." Rita Skeeter quickly stepped forward to look.

Nagini was even more agile, reaching the wall in the blink of an eye. She grabbed the railing with one hand, twisted her waist, and swung out a long tail that hooked onto the falling Bellatrix. It quickly wrapped around her body, tightened its grip slightly, and knocked her unconscious before tossing her back onto the rooftop.

"Bang."

The sound of the body hitting the ground was somewhat muffled.

Rita blinked, glanced at the unconscious Death Eater on the ground, then at Nagini, her scaly tail quickly retracting into her skirt, her eyes calm and unperturbed.

She was somewhat stunned: "You're also an Animagus? How can you use transformation like this? Why didn't you say so before...?"

Nagini lowered her eyes, her gaze sweeping over Bellatrix's lower abdomen. She sighed almost imperceptibly, her expression somewhat complicated.

……

Perhaps a long time passed, or perhaps no time at all, Harry's consciousness gradually awoke from the chaos, and he slowly opened his eyes.

He was lying in a bright mist, which was like steam or the silvery glow emanating from a guardian spell, shimmering with a faint light. Everything he could see around him was silver mist, as was the ground he was lying on, neither too hot nor too cold, neither too soft nor too hard.

He had seen this silver mist before; it was not real, but a conceptual thing, existing between illusion and reality, between life and death.

"A dreamlike illusion..."

Harry remembered the promise his mother had made, and as many things connected, he understood everything.

I sat up and checked my body. My limbs were intact and my facial features were normal. It was just that I felt a little ashamed to be completely naked. As soon as this thought popped into my mind, a whole set of wizard robes appeared and I put them on easily.

Harry got up and began to explore his surroundings. Wherever his gaze fell, the silver mist condensed into shapes, sunlight began to fall, the ground began to solidify, and a bright and clean space was created.

The desolate silence was gone; faint sounds began to emerge.

Strange thuds and whimpers.

Harry looked in the direction of the sound and found a naked child under a seat. The child's skin was rough and reddish, as if it had been peeled off. The child was curled up on the ground and trembling. The child was small and weak and should have aroused pity, but Harry felt an uncontrollable disgust when he saw it.

"Stay away from him."

A gentle voice rang out, and Lily Potter walked towards him with a smile, her steps light, wearing a flowing long dress.

"Harry, you wonderful boy, brave young man..." Lily opened her arms in a gesture of embrace, her body solid, showing no sign of transparency. "I said we would meet again..."

Harry paused for a moment, then rushed over, feeling his mother's real and warm embrace, and his eyes welled up with tears.

Lily gently stroked his back, as if comforting a baby: "I told you, I told you..."

Am I dead?

I don't think so, my dear son.

There are still some things I don't understand.

"Then we'll have to ask Headmaster Dumbledore when you wake up. Now let's go see your father..."

The two strode away from the red-skinned child lying there whimpering, their voices quickly fading away.

The two figures gradually disappeared into the silver mist. This illusion, constructed by Harry's soul, gradually dissipated. The silver mist slowly blocked out the sunlight and disappeared from under the solid seat. The whimpering and crying of the red-skinned child gradually stopped. Just as the silver mist was about to engulf it, a figure walked in.

Dumbledore, dressed in a flowing dark blue robe, looked around curiously, muttering to himself:

"Hmm... this adventure is not quite what we expected."

"We are not truly dead; we are just here for a brief visit."

"Oh yes, Fox, I know, I know..."

Dumbledore saw what was under the chair, like an abandoned child, its skin cracked and bleeding from the harsh blizzard, a layer of flesh peeled away to reveal raw flesh, the little thing shivering and struggling to breathe.

His deep blue eyes were profound and bright, but there was not a trace of pity in them.

Dumbledore sat down next to the chair, the tranquil silver mist flowing like a stream, blocked out, as if the vast world had been reduced to just a small chair.

He calmly took out a black gemstone from his pocket. The gemstone had a strange, symmetrical pattern on its surface: a triangle, a circle, and a vertical line, with a crack in the middle.

When the gem was placed on the forehead of the red-skinned child, an unusual magical power surged, unleashing a raging storm.

The quietly flowing silver mist suddenly began to churn, and a fierce wind howled, as if a storm was brewing, or as if evil spirits were wailing.

There is no concept of time here. After an unknown amount of time, a dark blue-green ghost suddenly emerged from within the silver mist, circled the seat a few times, and then burrowed straight into the red-skinned child's body.

Dumbledore remained calm, sitting quietly in his chair, adjusting his half-moon spectacles and stroking his long beard. When the time was almost up, he leisurely retrieved the Resurrection Stone.

Seven streams of mist entered the child's body one after another. Each time a ghost merged into it, the child grew a little. When all seven ghosts had merged into it, the child had completely transformed into an adult, namely Tom Riddle.

This face was not sculpted in the resurrection ritual. The nose was still there, but the eyes were not so scarlet, not so snake-like, and not as handsome as in his student days. The face seemed to have been boiled in a cauldron, with blurred and distorted features, bloodshot eyes, and pale skin. He was wearing a black cloak.

Dumbledore, seated in his chair, looked relaxed and unsurprised; these changes were clearly expected. "Good evening, Tom, have a seat."

"Dumbledore..."

Voldemort stared coldly at him, fine lines occasionally appearing on his body. This body was merely a temporary patchwork of several fragments of souls, at risk of collapsing and shattering at any moment: "You're dead too?"

"I don't think so. I'm just taking advantage of the magical power of the phoenix's rebirth and Harry's wonderful state of mind to come here for a visit."

A subtle red glint flashed in Voldemort's eyes: "Why am I here?"

"Perhaps it's the redemptive power of Loren's flames, or perhaps it's the effect of your messy dark magic, who knows?" Dumbledore smiled. "In any case, you're trapped here, unable to go to the world of the dead, unable to return to the world of the living. Your eyes cannot see, your voice cannot be answered, this body is merely pieced together by the magic of the Resurrection Stone, and your soul will be shattered into pieces, forever tormented in emptiness and nothingness."

Cracks appeared all over Voldemort's body, and the figure of the red-skinned child flickered and appeared intermittently.

He tried to remain calm, but he couldn't suppress the ferocious hatred in his expression.

Howling, whimpering, crying...

Different sounds emanated from this body.

"Quiet!"

Voldemort's rebuke sounded like several voices overlapping, echoing in unison. It took him considerable effort to regain his composure, and he fixed a sinister gaze on Dumbledore: "Why are you telling me all this? What do you want?"

"Having personally experienced the death you once feared most, I think perhaps you will undergo some changes." Dumbledore sat beside him, quietly observing his struggle, his attitude almost indifferent. "Perhaps you will want to repent for your past sins and take some remedial measures."

"You want to switch places with me?"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, slowing his speech, as if he had transformed back into the omnipotent Dark Lord. "I am already dead. What are you worried about, or rather... what do you want?"

"Tell me the memories you received from Slytherin, about the future, about prophecies."

"What can I get in return?"

"Hmm..." Dumbledore paused for a moment, then said solemnly, "In this endless void, before you are completely succumbed, I may occasionally have a chat with you."

"Many people might want to chat with you, but I'm not one of them."

Voldemort's face was grim as he stared intently into those deep blue eyes, trying to find any trace of leverage for bargaining or blackmail: "You worry about Mr. Morgan, that wise man born of destiny; you wonder why the great Merlin and the fairy Morgan chose him; you're curious about what Slytherin left behind… You should also know what I want?"

But Dumbledore did not respond; his gentle and calm gaze was almost indifferent.

Voldemort let out a cold laugh: "If you can't meet my conditions, I'd rather you die in endless regret, then perhaps we can meet again!"

Dumbledore looked him over for a moment through his half-moon spectacles, then calmly said, "Goodbye then, Tom."

Just as Voldemort was about to say something more, Dumbledore suddenly waved his sleeve, and the wide sleeve swept across the body, causing the wraith and child inside to suddenly scatter.

The tranquil space became lively again. Silver mist rolled, the hazy illusion flickered and trembled, and the ghosts uttered sobbing whimpers, venomous curses, and hysterical screams. All kinds of sounds intertwined and resonated with a mournful and piercing tone.

Dumbledore didn't look back and stepped into the fog.

(End of this chapter)