Rain suddenly began to fall from the sky.

After June arrived, Britain once again entered a season of frequent rainfall. Unfortunately, it was only a light drizzle, not enough to draw together any visible currents of natural magic.

Dawn stayed in his room under the dim yellow light, his eyes moving line by line across the ink-black text on the page.

The Patronus Charm is an extremely ancient defensive spell. It allows the caster to summon a Patronus to ward off certain forms of magic that affect the mind.

When casting it, the wizard must recall a happy memory and firmly recite the incantation, “Expecto Patronum.”

Its difficulty is extremely high. Most wizards can only produce a cloud of white mist and are unable to form a complete shape.

…

“Beep, beep, beep, beep!”

At that moment, the alarm clock on the corner of the desk suddenly began ringing.

Dawn immediately understood.

It was time for the interview.

He glanced at the time. It was June sixteenth, two in the afternoon.

He turned off the alarm, closed the book he had not yet finished, and slipped it into his wallet.

Then he stood up and headed for the attached washroom, intending to take care of his personal grooming before leaving.

While washing his hands, Dawn looked up at the mirror hanging above the sink.

Reflected in the smooth glass was a young man of about twenty-three or twenty-four, well-proportioned, with flaxen hair and gray eyes.

He was now called Leia Hickman.

Dawn gave his reflection a reserved smile, dried his hands with a towel, sprayed a little cologne at his collar and cuffs, then turned off the light and left the room.

He walked down the creaking wooden stairs.

Behind the counter, an old man with a shiny bald head hidden beneath a nightcap was polishing a glass. He looked up and grinned.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hickman. Care for a beer to wake you up?”

“Spare me, Tom,” Dawn said with a wry smile, waving his hand. “I’m heading to Hogwarts for an interview. I don’t want to show up smelling like alcohol.”

The old man in front of him was known as Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron.

In order to build up enough presence, Dawn had been staying here these days and had become somewhat familiar with him.

“Oh, right! You did mention that,” Tom said, smacking his forehead. “I’ve got a relative’s kid studying there. I’ll have to trouble you to look after them a bit.”

Then he asked with a laugh, “By the way, which position are you applying for?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Dawn replied.

“…What?”

Tom froze, his hands stopping mid-motion.

He stared at the young man in front of him, who clearly did not know the dangers of the world, his expression turning strange as he hesitated to speak.

He desperately wanted to tell him that the position was cursed. More than a dozen professors had already been lost to it, with an annual attrition rate approaching one hundred percent.

Applying for Defense Against the Dark Arts was practically asking to die.

Tom wanted to advise him to reconsider, but remembering that the interview was imminent, he felt it was inappropriate to say such things now.

So he cleared his throat and pressed his lips together.

“Don’t be nervous. Take it easy. Even if you don’t get the job, it’s no big deal. You’re still young. You’ll definitely have other paths in the future.”

He poured a glass of ice water and handed it to Dawn, hesitating before adding pointedly, “I wish you… safety.”

Safety?

Dawn raised an eyebrow, understanding the implication.

It seemed that Defense Against the Dark Arts professors meeting with misfortune had already become as much a law of the British wizarding world as Snape targeting Gryffindor.

Dawn drained the water in one go and set the glass on the counter.

“Tom, may I borrow the fireplace here?”

“Oh, of course!”

Tom nodded and pointed.

“It’s right there. Go ahead and use it. But I must remind you—when using Floo Powder, absolutely do not say the wrong name! I don’t want to see you become one of those countless unlucky souls!”

“Don’t worry.”

Dawn smiled, walked over to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of silvery powder from a small box, clearly called out “Hogwarts,” and tossed it into the flames.

Whoosh!

The fire surged upward.

With a calm expression, Dawn stepped into the fireplace and vanished amid the rising flames.

His vision twisted for an instant.

When the light stabilized again, Dawn realized he had already left the Leaky Cauldron and arrived at a familiar place.

A stone-tiled floor, walls hung with framed pictures, and a table beside the fireplace piled with books and magical instruments.

Professor McGonagall’s office.

Dawn recognized it immediately. This was where he had once taken over the Transfiguration assessment and earned his place in the club.

A wave of nostalgia washed over him. It felt as though that time belonged to another century.

“Excuse me, are you Mr. Hickman?”

Hearing the noise, Professor McGonagall stood up from behind her desk and walked over to ask.

Only then did Dawn come back to himself, realizing he had been standing in the fireplace for quite some time.

“Ah! Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

He bent slightly and stepped out. The soot clinging to him vanished the instant he left the fireplace.

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. Seeing the wandless, silent Cleaning Charm, she could not help but feel a greater sense of approval.

Regardless of anything else, being able to cast wandless magic meant this man definitely had real skill.

In recent years, the quality of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors had plummeted, something that had long worried her as deputy headmistress.

But this time, things seemed different.

A glimmer of light appeared in her eyes.

The two exchanged a few brief words.

Professor McGonagall then gestured for Dawn to follow her and led him toward the headmaster’s office.

The castle during the holidays was especially quiet, almost lifeless. Even the moving staircases seemed sluggish.

Dawn deliberately acted like it was his first time here, looking left and right, occasionally marveling aloud at certain decorations.

This behavior, to someone who regarded the school as her home, filled Professor McGonagall with pride and improved her impression of him.

They continued upward and soon reached the eighth floor.

After Professor McGonagall spoke the password “Sherbet Lemon” to a small stone statue, the wall creaked open.

After riding a spiral staircase, they entered a spacious, semicircular room.

Portraits of former headmasters lined the walls, whispering among themselves as they looked at Dawn. In a nearby cabinet, some unknown device emitted pale purple mist.

Dumbledore sat behind the desk at the far end, smiling at him.

Dawn was momentarily dazed, suddenly recalling the night he had been framed, when Dumbledore had also brought him here, standing in this very spot.

‘I’m back again, Headmaster,’ Dawn said softly to himself.

He took a deep breath and, at Dumbledore’s gesture, walked forward and sat down opposite the desk.

The old headmaster wore a gentle smile and placed a plate of sweets between them.

“Mr. Hickman, would you mind having a little chat with me?”

“Not at all,”

Dawn replied with a smile.

___________

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