I, Hogwarts Second Time Around.

Chapter 307 The Lost Souls of the Past, Return!

Shortly after Owen and the professors entered Lady Hufflepuff's final resting place.

The snow outside the castle—has lessened.

This weather is so weird and unpredictable. It's just that the wizards don't have weather satellites, otherwise they would definitely have seen a cold vortex that has been going on for months over Hogwarts.

It guides the warm, moist air currents from the Atlantic Ocean here continuously.

Moisture vapor is blocked by the high mountains surrounding Hogwarts, forming snowfall.

Every winter, the Scottish Highlands experience several heavy snowfalls, but this year, due to a cold vortex, the snowfall has lasted exceptionally long.

With the snow falling, the young wizards had far fewer recreational activities. Winter activities like ice skating on the Black Lake were only available when the snow stopped. Nobody wanted to go out when it snowed.

However, one activity is particularly popular on snowy days.

That is taking a bath.

Soaking in warm water, surrounded by colorful bubbles, and watching the snow fall through the window is definitely one of life's greatest pleasures.

However, for most young wizards, taking a comfortable bath is not an easy thing. Although each house has its own washroom, there are only individual showers, and bathtubs are definitely not available. Of course, if you have high magical power, you can also transform into a bathtub yourself. This is one of the main motivations for young wizards to learn Transfiguration.

Magic!

If you're interested, you could even research how to keep the flowing spring water at a perfect temperature of 40 degrees Celsius.

Or it could be a direct summoning of a bubble bath.

If you really can't do it yourself, you can ask the little elves to boil water for you; they'll be happy to do it.

In short, magic is definitely not a battle of two opposing forces.

Enjoyment is the theme of modern magic.

Speaking of enjoyment, the prefects' baths are much more luxurious than those of the young wizards.

The headmaster's washroom on the sixth floor immediately catches the eye upon entering, with its luxurious chandelier adorned with lit candles.

Stepping onto white marble floor tiles, all the surrounding facilities are made of marble. In the center is a rectangular bathtub, like a swimming pool, which is sunken into the ground.

The edge of the bathtub is lined with hundreds of golden faucets inlaid with various gemstones, which can be turned on to flow out various bath liquids mixed with hot water.

The huge floor-to-ceiling window faces the bathtub, and outside the window is a beautiful view of Hogwarts.

Snow-white linen curtains hung in the window, and a large pile of soft white towels sat in a corner.

A picture of a blonde mermaid in a gilded frame hangs in the center of the two floor-to-ceiling windows.

This is a restroom specifically for the use of prefects, student council presidents (male and female), and Quidditch team captains. This year, due to the tournament, warriors from each school are also allowed to use it.

Of course—that doesn't mean other junior wizards can't go in. As long as no one's inside, anyone can practically go in and have a nice, relaxing bath if they say the right password.

The entrance is on the sixth floor, the fourth door to the left of the Boris the Fool statue. If no one is inside, the door will be gray; if someone is inside, the door will turn orange.

The password was set by the student council president—that is, Irving.

Owen would usually give the password to Cedric, who would then inform the other prefects. The prefects would then inform the Quidditch captains.

However, Owen himself doesn't come here to bathe much—it's just too far. Damn it, only someone with a screw loose would run from the second basement level, wearing a bathrobe, to the sixth floor to take a bath, and then run back. Wouldn't Transfiguration be better?

At his own academy, he can find someone to scrub his back, give him a salt scrub, cupping him, and so on. What's the point of a bathhouse for one person?

The Slytherin prefects didn't go there very often either. Slytherins had their own luxurious baths, and he was even worse off than Owen, living on the third basement floor.

As for Ravenclaw

A Ravenclaw prefect who lives in another tower said that he wouldn't even come to the main building if it weren't for classes and the library, and taking a shower—what a load of crap!

So now you know who's using this bathtub.

Damn Gryffindor, they have the best of both worlds!

Miss Granger also often sneaks in here—no one dares to say a word.

She wasn't taking a bath; in her words, it was healing.

Overuse of stimulants and prolonged periods of staying up late can cause excessive tension in the nerves, and taking a bath to heal these nerves is a great option.

And it's cheap enough.

She comes about once a week.

Until one day, Owen, who was wandering around, bumped into Hermione and enthusiastically invited her to take a bath together. After that, she never went in again.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The orange door was covered in steam-like patterns, indicating that someone was using the bathroom.

In the spacious pool, the young girl lay quietly in the warm water.

The bathtub was filled with bubbles, and the white foam on the surface of the water looked like clouds falling to earth. The bubbles did not cover the entire surface of the water; through the gaps, one could vaguely see that the girl's skin had become smooth and rosy from being soaked in hot water, just like a newly ripe peach.

She let her hair down, opened her arms, and let the silvery moonlight spill onto the water.

Perhaps it was an illusion, or perhaps the light from the crystal chandelier was too bright, but her silver hair seemed to appear even brighter than before.

Beneath the pool, an undercurrent surged, brushing against the body's ravines. Its crystal-clear luster carried an alluring fragrance, making one irresistibly want to pull it into their arms and play with it.

"You should tell me everything."

In the quiet bathtub where only the sound of flowing water could be heard, a stern voice, tinged with helplessness, rang out.

"It was you who wanted to board the ship, it was you who wanted to come to this country, and you started preparing last year."

An elderly, graceful witch slowly emerged from the mist. She sat down beside the bath and whispered, "I don't understand. There are many things I don't understand, but I am your headmistress."

Professor Yullari Hicks sighed, her eyes filled with a dazed look. "You know how much those old guys at the school don't want you to leave Iphamoni."

"That's why I left, Professor." The girl poked her head out of the water, her long silver hair clinging to her skin, covering her vital parts as if she were wearing a silk blouse. She leaned against the wall, the warm water heating the wall to a comfortable temperature, and she didn't feel cold at all.

"Koyater".

"Don't call me that." The girl suddenly clenched her fists and pounded the water, her bright red eyes looking at the professor. "I hate it."

The splashing water acted like a prism, obscuring her vision and blurring her face.

Then, she turned her head slightly, raised it slightly, and looked at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. The bright light stung her eyes, and in the shimmering light, she saw some afterimages. The afterimages were of a magnificent figure with the upper body of a beautiful woman, the lower body of a snake, and wings on its back.

"Stuart." Professor Eullari suddenly extended her crossed hands, and gentle magic steamed through the girl's silver hair, quickly drying it.

She then reached out, grabbed Stewart's arm, and helped her out of the water.

The moment she emerged from the water, the professor's large red robe floated automatically and landed on her.

In the dappled light and shadow, the professor saw a deep red, very light-colored tattoo on the girl's back, resembling the lines of blood vessels.

She didn't say much, but instead pulled the girl into her arms.

The professor's temperature felt hot to Stuart, even hotter than the water.

"While there's still time, I want to see you clearly, my child."

If you have a wound, don't cover it up and suffer in silence. Silence is unfortunate and does not help the wound heal at all.

"At least it won't do any harm." Stewart leaned against the professor's chest; she had never been so close to anyone before.

The last time she came so close to someone was fifteen years ago, when she was three years old and was found by a woman with the same long silver hair as her.

The young girl thought that was her mother, while the woman smiled, stroking her protruding belly, and said that she must give birth to a daughter as beautiful as her.

"And who would care?" she murmured to herself.

"People will only resent." The girl closed her eyes, her eyelashes trembling slightly, as if she were about to fall asleep. "That's enough."

"It'll be here soon."

One person died!

"Finally—it's quiet."

The girl fell silent; she was simply asleep.

The bathtub suddenly fell silent, with only the sound of flowing water in the ears.

In the steaming pool in China, a pale red stream of water began to drain automatically, the bathtub was being emptied, and it was preparing to welcome the next little wizard—all of this was done automatically.

Professor Yullari looked at the rapidly dropping water level in the bathtub, the pale reddish water causing her to frown slightly.

Wait until the last bit of water in the pool drains away.

The bottom of the pool was sparkling, and in a corner covered with foam, there seemed to be a dagger.

"Phew—" The professor sighed again. She reached out and adjusted the girl's robe so that it could cover her legs.

Then, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, his eyes filled with tenderness, as if looking at his own granddaughter, he murmured painfully, "I can't save you anymore, child."

Everyone must be responsible for their own actions.

Even if it's you.

As she spoke, regret welled in her eyes. If only she hadn't applied for retirement from Evamoni, if only she had continued as the professor of Spells.

If she could make contact with the child as soon as she enrolls, things might be different, and she wouldn't go further down the wrong path.

"Why--"

In the bathroom, the professor let the girl lean against him.

They were waiting, waiting for Dumbledore to return.

Awaiting final judgment.

In an unknown corner, a semi-transparent ghost cautiously poked its head out from the wall.

She wore the same round glasses as Harry Potter and had two ponytails.

Most of the time, behind her tearful expression lies a mischievous and clever face.

This time, however, there was no amusement in her eyes, but rather a hint of fear.

It peeked out briefly, glanced around, and then immediately shrank back into the wall, as if it had never been there at all.

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the other side.

A secret room in the kitchen.

Lady Hufflepuff's final resting place.

A bleak wind swept through everyone's hearts.

The solemn atmosphere lasted for a long time, about five minutes later, when everyone was preparing to leave.

As I turned around.

The apple tree, which had suddenly returned to calm, sprouted its branches once again.

Owen frowned and looked up. He saw that the branches, which were covered with fallen leaves, suddenly had countless twigs intertwined with each other, like vines, slowly carrying something down.

Little by little, the branches, like countless hands, gently placed the object on the ground.

"What is this?"

"award?"

"The Hufflepuff Trials?" Hermione, who was also a Gryffindor Trials participant, naturally thought of it.

"It looks like something—" Ron looked at the clump of things that were gradually peeling away from the branches.

Suddenly, I felt as if my heart had been tugged.

There was something about to burst out of his body.

Ron suddenly felt a tearing sensation from his chest—no, from the depths of his soul, so painful that he couldn't even open his eyes.

After those layers of branches were removed.

When he saw what was hidden under the tree trunk, his pupils constricted, his face went blank, and he was completely stunned.

A girl?

And she looks like Ginny.

He looked to be in his early twenties.

Her body seemed alive, dappled sunlight filtering through the trees onto her face, as if she were peacefully asleep.

It is a bird that only flies in dreams.

She had long, fiery red hair and wore a crown woven from thorns. Over countless years, the crown had blossomed with crimson flowers.

Her cheeks took on a warm hue under the halo of light, like the finest porcelain, so serene and tranquil.

If her right arm and left leg hadn't been missing, this peace might have truly lasted.

What's even more horrifying is that of the two arrows embedded in her body, one pierced through her back and exited through her abdomen, while the other went straight through her heart.

A broken dagger was still stuck in her lower abdomen; the handle was gone, but the blade remained inside her body forever.

Her robe was stained crimson, blood, or perhaps a withered rose.

Her beauty was as fiery as fire.

"God—"

"this--"

Everyone present was shocked.

Faced with such a horrific scene, they did not feel any fear, but rather a sense of beauty.

A kind of aesthetic beauty in death.

Who is she?

This question popped into everyone's head.

The answer wasn't difficult. In fact, Owen had already guessed the woman's identity from the sight of the wand that had fallen from her ankle.

Because it was a crystal magic wand.

Only one type of person can use this kind of magic wand.

The heirs.

"Shane Mave Weasley," Owen muttered to himself.

Of all the successors throughout history, only this one is closest in age and status to the woman standing before him now.

"She—she is Ron's ancestor." Hermione looked at the beautiful woman in front of her in astonishment, who was like a painting.

"I think that's it."

"But how could she be here, and—she—" Hermione couldn't speak, finding it hard to believe what the woman in front of her had gone through in the last moments of her life.

What kind of battle could have caused her such severe injuries?

Even his body is now crippled like this.

Hermione also saw the crystal-covered wand and immediately turned to look at Owen.

She knew the other person's identity, of course. If this person was one of the inheritors of ancient magic, then...

Her worried gaze welled up with tears, and a strong sense of fear welled up in her heart.

"It seems we are about to uncover a hidden part of history," Dumbledore said, stepping forward.

With a wave of the wand, pale blue or even colorless ripples appeared, but the girl showed no reaction.

Then he glanced at Viktor.

After exchanging a glance with the old headmaster, Victor sighed softly. Then, leaning on his magic cane, he limped forward.

He lowered his head and looked at the girl in front of him coldly.

A wisp of wind blew through the stray hairs on his forehead, as if even the wind itself felt sorrow. The sound of rustling leaves filled his ears, like weeping, or even more like a wail.

Ancient Magic

A barely perceptible hint of panic flashed in Viktor's light brown eyes.

He has always been determined to transform ancient magic into regular magic, using this energy to improve people's lives, help the weak and poor, and promote the development of lower-class wizards.

But during his time at Hogwarts, all he saw was war.

A war that has lasted for a thousand years, about ancient magic, about gods, and now even fairies...

To be honest, when he saw the pitiful former heir in front of him, a strong sense of sorrow and confusion welled up in his heart. The wizarding community was already in a mess, and now there were people outside who were eyeing him covetously.

What role did ancient magic play in all of this?

Does it make the world a better place?

Or is it worse?

Is he an alchemist?

Or were they executioners who manufactured weapons?

Or perhaps both?

—Oh world! It shouldn't be like this!!!

The cacophony of thoughts did not stop Viktor from his work.

Like a modified creature in an alchemy classroom, he mechanically pulled a piece of primitive crystal from his pocket, the crystal seemingly forcibly kneaded together from some kind of fragment.

Then, leaning on his cane, he laboriously pulled the magic wand from it.

Dumbledore stood beside him. The old headmaster raised his hand to help him up, but when he saw the young man's resolute eyes, his hand froze in mid-air.

He watched as Victor drew countless ancient runes in the air, the runes transforming into butterfly wings, which carried the crystal as they floated to the woman's side.

"Buzz!"

The chaotic sounds, like many people whispering, gradually transformed into a kind of azure magic, slowly seeping into the woman's body like a river flowing into the sea or the tides surging back.

In an instant, a dazzling display of azure light burst forth like fireworks.

It bursts through the dome, and may even be seen from the castle.

And the first thing that changed after the ancient magic returned to the woman's body was her fiery red hair.

It turned silver in an instant.

The blood on the robe seemed to come alive, and the roses bloomed even more beautifully.

Her pale skin regained its rosy hue, and she looked as if she were coming back to life.

"Ancient magic amplifies the physiological functions of organic matter to an exaggerated degree. Even the dead—" he said calmly, then drew his wand, pointed the tip at the girl's brain, and gently rotated it, extracting the body's last memories.

Dumbledore waited nearby, then took out a vial, and Victor placed the memory into it.

"It will only be fragments, and it may not be what you want. A person's most important memories are not necessarily the memories they have before they die."

"Even a fragment is fine. I think she'll forgive us for bothering her again." Dumbledore put away the vial, glancing at Victor with a complex expression. "You should be proud of what you've done."

"Not enough." Victor placed the wand back on his cane. "It's far from enough."

He limped away, leaning on his cane.

"Mr. Weasley." Dumbledore's deep blue eyes were filled with sorrow, but on the other hand, he felt fortunate that in this turbulent era, although the enemies were becoming stronger and stronger, there was still a new generation of young people who were completely different from himself and Gellert.

Owen, Harry, Hermione.

And Victor in front of me.

They are a new generation truly determined to change the magical world—radiant and full of promise.

But he himself—seems to have grown old.

"Professor?" Ron stared intently at the still radiant woman. In a daze, he recalled his grandfather's words—that he should be proud to be a descendant of Shani Weasley.

He didn't know if he should feel proud now. But the heartache was the most real thing.

What kind of suffering did she endure?

"You should write to your parents. After all, she is your ancestor, your relative. I'm sorry I can't let you take her body away, because there are too many mysteries," the old headmaster said. "Since she chose this place at the end of her life, let her rest here in peace."

"The Weasleys could hold a memorial service."

Dumbledore reminded him.

"Don't let her leave alone." He patted Ron on the shoulder.

Upon hearing this, Ron nodded solemnly, "I know, Professor, I know."

"Alright, let's leave now. This place needs to be sealed off for now, until we figure everything out."

Dumbledore said calmly, "As for the memorial service, if you are ready, please come to my office."

"Okay, Professor."

Everything seems to have come to an end.

Next up was Snape's job.

The young wizards were taken back to the castle by the professor.

They then found a leather suitcase on a shelf in the kitchen, which contained over a hundred little elves.

This isn't all the castle's inhabitants, but rather the portion of the elves responsible for cooking.

The moment the suitcase was opened.

A 'special' little elf dressed in a bright red robe and wearing children's sneakers was the first to rush out.

It's more than that.

He cried and buried his face in Irving's arms, tears and snot streaming down his face.

He kept complaining to Owen about the evil deeds of the fairies, how they stole his mirror and cast strange spells on the box that prevented them from Apparating.

In short, after Irving comforted him for a while and promised to give him a new two-way mirror, Dobby finally stopped crying and managed a strained smile.

(End of this chapter)