The first thing Dawn tested was the ability he cared about most—the power of the phoenix.

In a flicker of light, his body vanished from the room, reappearing inside the Ministry of Magic, and then in an instant, he was back again.

“Excellent. I can still ignore anti-Apparition enchantments.”

He murmured this to himself, then cast a nonlethal Killing Curse on his own reflection to ensure his resistance to it remained intact.

Once he’d verified that his two most crucial abilities were stable, Dawn began experimenting with the rest.

He turned to the wall and cast every spell he knew in quick succession. By the end, it seemed there was little change.

Still—although his magic wasn’t stronger, at least his spellcasting ability hadn’t been affected, which was good enough.

He frowned thoughtfully, then glanced toward the black lines woven through his inner magical pattern. Something occurred to him.

He hesitated, then cast a Transfiguration spell on himself.

A low hoot escaped his lips.

His body twisted sharply, feathers sprouting as his arms stretched into wings. A moment later, a brownish-black owl flapped clumsily into the air.

The floor seemed distant below him.

The strange new perspective filled him with wonder. Ignoring the snow crow that fluttered over, eager to perch beside him, Dawn circled the room a few times.

Once.

Twice.

When he’d had his fill, he landed on top of the wardrobe. He looked down, realized he was still in his owl form, and gave a small, feathery chuckle.

It had been a long while now—but he hadn’t reverted.

That was unusual. As Professor McGonagall had once said during club practice, aside from Animagi, ordinary self-Transfiguration couldn’t be sustained for long.

The body’s own magic rejected unnatural forms, forcing the transformation to end.

But now— Dawn realized he’d broken that rule.

He studied his owl body with curiosity. It seemed he could remain this way indefinitely—unless he chose to change back.

He flew to the table and stood before the mirror, examining his reflection through magical sight.

The outermost layer of his magical pattern had changed completely. The phoenix motif was gone—replaced by the features of an owl.

The inner pattern, however, remained the same.

“Just as I thought,” he murmured. He already had a theory.

When he had used the Shattering Curse to cut through the black lines, natural magic from outside had flooded in.

That meant one of those lines’ purposes was to block the influence of ambient magic.

Now his inner pattern had three layers. The deepest layer—his original essence—was still shielded by those black lines, as it was for every wizard.

But the outermost design, the new one, lay above them—exposed.

In other words:

It wasn’t protected, but immersed in natural magic.

That outer layer was now directly influenced and sustained by the magic of the world itself.

And because the transformation affected that layer, its changes naturally reflected onto Dawn’s physical body.

Understanding this, Dawn’s eyes brightened.

He willed another change, transforming into a flying squirrel. Membranes stretched between his limbs, and he glided from the tabletop to the floor.

Then— His body stretched upright again, hair turning white, eyes black. In moments, he stood there as a twenty-year-old man.

Fascinating.

Dawn grinned, experimenting further—changing shape again and again, even turning himself briefly into a walking stick just for fun.

But amid his play, another thought struck him.

If the outer layer of his pattern was steeped in natural magic, did that mean he could transform into other magical creatures too?

An image of a silver-furred ape flickered through his mind. He tried to transform into a Demiguise—but nothing happened.

Didn’t work?

He frowned but refused to give up.

He recalled the details of a Niffler’s magical pattern that he had once memorized and focused his mind, altering the abstract lines of his own magic one by one.

Gradually—

His human form vanished.

In its place stood a small, duck-billed Niffler.

The instant the transformation completed, Dawn’s senses exploded into a flood of smells.

He lifted his snout, catching a faint, irresistible scent. Following it eagerly, he scurried under the cabinet and dragged out a shiny gold coin.

Ah. So this is how a Niffler’s obsession with shiny objects feels.

Dawn tilted his furry head, observing his reflection in the mirror. The two transformations—owl and Niffler—had been achieved through entirely different processes.

He realized, after some thought, that there were two distinct ways he could now use magic.

The first was direct usage—casting spells normally, like any other wizard.

That was how he had become an owl: he hadn’t needed to understand the owl’s magical structure; the Transfiguration spell had simply taken care of it.

The second method, however, was unique to him—altering the pattern manually, line by line, to reverse-engineer a magical effect.

And now it seemed that to become a magical creature, he needed to know its pattern in detail and reproduce it precisely—he couldn’t just will it with a spell.

Why was there such a difference?

He frowned deeply.

Something in his instincts told him the reason behind that distinction was crucial—perhaps even the key to everything.

After thinking for a while and getting nowhere, he decided to set it aside and continue his experiments.

Still, one thing puzzled him.

Why, when he transformed into other magical creatures, did his body change form—yet when he used phoenix abilities, he stayed human?

Was it because the phoenix’s traits had become a permanent part of him?

Indeed, whenever he canceled his transformations, the outermost pattern naturally reverted to the phoenix mark.

Time passed as he experimented.

Dawn changed forms again and again.

He sprouted wings and soared through the room, became a roaring lion, coiled across the ceiling as a serpent, then sat on the floor as a black-and-white panda.

Finally, he turned into a Niffler again, searching every corner for glinting metal treasures.

He suddenly wished Dumbledore could see this.

The thought made him laugh at himself—how childish he was being, like a boy with a new toy, unable to resist showing off.

The old headmaster had once sworn that no wizard could become a magical creature.

But Dawn had done it.

He almost looked forward to seeing the expression on Dumbledore’s face.

After playing around for a good while, Dawn finally stopped and turned his gaze to the half-full bottle of the Fountain of Fair Fortune.

Was the rest of it still useful?

He poured a drop into his palm and checked the reflection in the mirror—no changes appeared in his magical pattern.

So it had stopped working.

Dawn felt a pang of disappointment.

But according to the story, only one person could bathe in the fountain each year. Maybe next year, it would recharge.

He screwed the lid tightly onto the crystal bottle, carefully placed it in a padded wooden box, and tucked it deep inside one of his enchanted wallets.

And then— He finally felt the exhaustion creeping up on him.

Even before the ritual, he had relied on Rage Potions to keep himself awake. For days, he had lived purely on willpower and alchemy.

Now that he no longer needed them, his body protested fiercely.

Still, though he was bone-tired, excitement kept him from wanting to rest.

He pulled up a chair, sat at the desk, and drew a fresh sheet of parchment, determined to plan what came next.

First—Voldemort.

That snake had framed him, and Dawn intended to repay it in full.

He couldn’t confront him directly yet—not while Voldemort hid at Hogwarts—but he could start collecting interest.

He would finish what he’d once planned before leaving the castle: dig up Tom Riddle Senior’s bones—and scatter them to the wind.

That thought brought a cold smirk to his lips.

Then his mind moved on to Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

If his dreams of the “original timeline” were correct, there were seven in total. Excluding the two living ones—Nagini and Harry Potter—five remained.

Ravenclaw’s Diadem, which he had already handed over to Dumbledore and was likely still in the headmaster’s office.

The Diary, Voldemort’s first Horcrux—worthless and easy to retrieve later.

But the other three— The Slytherin Locket, hidden in Grimmauld Place.

The Hufflepuff Cup, locked in Bellatrix Lestrange’s Gringotts vault. And the Resurrection Stone, once belonging to the Gaunts.

Those three were not just Horcruxes—they were priceless artifacts in their own right. The collector and the schemer in Dawn stirred eagerly.

To be frank, he wanted them.

He wasn’t afraid of Voldemort anymore.

Once he’d finished writing out his plans regarding the Dark Lord, Dawn drew another line and kept going.

He needed to return to Egypt.

The long absence of the Anubis Curse—and the strange sensations that followed him after leaving Egypt—still bothered him.

And if possible, he wanted to visit Tutankhamun’s tomb again.

The life-giving radiance that glowed within those chambers was a treasure in itself—and Dawn wanted that, too.

Next.

He would travel the world in search of magical creatures, recording their unique magical patterns—after all, this determined how many forms he could master.

Yes. That should be enough for now.

He tapped the parchment with his quill, nodding as he read over his list:

1. Scatter Voldemort’s father’s remains.

2. Locate and seize the remaining Horcruxes.

3. Return to Egypt.

4. Record magical creature patterns.

Just as he was about to put down his quill, a thought struck him—a certain round-faced boy came to mind.

He’d promised to help William with his blood-curse problem, hadn’t he?

Dawn hesitated for a moment, then added the note to his list. He’d check on the boy when he had time.

Though now that he thought about it—after Dumbledore had taken William away in Iceland, where had the boy gone?

Satisfied that nothing had been forgotten, Dawn set his quill aside, drew a long breath, and finally let the weight of fatigue crash over him.

He cast a few quick protective wards, yawned, and collapsed onto the bed.

And just before sleep claimed him, a fleeting thought crossed his drowsy mind— Once he woke, he would finish everything on his list.

And then, at last, he could find a quiet place to read in peace.

___________

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