“You’re asking whether there’s a potion that can make you dream?”

After afternoon classes, Snape frowned at the new professor who had stopped him in the corridor. “What do you want that for?”

“I read a book related to prophetic dreams and became curious about the things recorded in it, so I wanted to try it for myself,” Dawn explained.

Snape found the reason baffling, but couldn’t be bothered to interfere.

After a moment of silence, he said, “If you drink Living Death together with a Calming Draught, it should have that effect.

I’ll have someone deliver them to you tonight.”

“Really? Thank you for the trouble, Professor Snape.”

Dawn thanked him with a smile, brushed past him, and returned to his office.

He pulled out a chair and sat down. The teapot hopped up on its own and poured him a cup of hot water.

Dawn let out a breath, rubbed his temples, and collapsed back against the chair.

After only a single day since term began, he had already realized that being a professor was not an easy job—far more exhausting than he had imagined.

Especially when teaching from first year through seventh year, his schedule was packed nearly every day.

Fortunately, he had already decided to teach all year groups at the same pace, which meant he didn’t need to spend too much time preparing different lessons.

Thinking this, Dawn stood up and pulled open a drawer in the cabinet at the corner of the room, taking out a transparent bottle.

Several writhing necrotic worms crawled along the inner walls of the glass.

This was what he planned to cover in the second lesson for each year.

After sorting out these trivial matters, Dawn walked over to a full-length mirror and narrowed his eyes, examining the patterns rising and falling within the mist of his own magic.

Today was his official first day as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He wanted to see whether the rumored curse had had any effect on him.

However, after carefully comparing all the patterns from before his interview up until now, Dawn found no change at all.

Was the curse nothing more than a baseless rumor? Or did his double-layered customized pattern structure grant him some resistance?

Or perhaps—like Anubis’s curse—it altered the traits of the surrounding environment instead?

After a moment of thought, Dawn shook his head.

Forget it.

Speculation alone was useless.

Everything could wait until he finished modifying the nightmare lamp.

Returning to his seat, Dawn continued sketching runes on parchment, judging their individual functions through the structure of the circuits.

Bang, bang!

The light streaming in through the window gradually dimmed. Just then, there was a knock at the door.

“Professor, may I come in?” Draco’s voice sounded muffled through the door.

Pulled out of his concentration, Dawn glanced at the time and set down his quill. “Come in.”

With a creak, Draco entered carrying two bottles of potion. He looked a little stiff, yet curiously scanned the room. “Professor, Professor Snape asked me to deliver these to you.”

“Thank you for the trouble, Mr. Malfoy.” Dawn took the potions from him and placed them at the corner of the desk.

Noticing the strange runes on the parchment, Draco worked up the courage to ask, “Professor, what are you working on?”

“Some research on runes.”

“Runes?”

“A type of script that can mobilize magical power. It’s often used in alchemy. If you’re interested, you can take the elective in third year,” Dawn said casually.

“In my opinion, it’s fairly important knowledge.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully.

He seemed to realize that the new professor was far easier to talk to than expected, and asked a few more questions about runes, clearly trying to build rapport.

Dawn answered half-heartedly, while thinking to himself—if he suddenly reverted to his original appearance, what expression would Draco show?

Shock?

Disbelief?

He wouldn’t burst into tears, right?

…Hm. That actually sounded tempting to try.

Resting his chin in his hand, Dawn let his thoughts wander.

Draco didn’t stay long. After two or three minutes, he excused himself and left.

Watching Draco’s figure disappear from the office, Dawn tapped the desk lightly.

Their earlier conversation made him think of Bathilda Babbling, the professor who taught Ancient Runes. Rumor had it that she had goblin blood.

Though her presence was faint, her academic achievements were unquestionable.

Should he ask her for help?

The thought crossed Dawn’s mind, but he quickly discarded it.

Unless something urgent arose, he still preferred to study and think things through on his own.

Coming back to himself, Dawn gripped his quill again, dipped it in dragon’s blood ink, and resumed his research.

The sky gradually darkened.

A house-elf delivered his dinner—something Dawn had specifically arranged with the kitchens, as he had no desire to eat in the Great Hall every time.

After finishing the meat pie and milk, Dawn suddenly heard a faint scraping sound at the window.

Snowy, who had clearly spent the entire day playing wildly, folded her wings and flew in through the window with agile grace.

“Honestly…”

Dawn sighed.

He had originally intended for this large owl to help him deliver letters, but at this rate, she would probably be nowhere to be found when he actually needed her.

Still, her timing now was perfect.

Dawn beckoned her over. Once Snowy perched on the desk, he tipped each of the two potions slightly and dripped a bit into her beak.

Very soon, the white owl slumped onto the desk, fast asleep.

Dawn waited a moment, then shook her awake and observed her carefully.

Only after confirming there were no problems did he finally feel reassured about the potions.

He admitted that he was being overly cautious.

Dawn organized the parchment, pulled out another book to read for a while, and at around eleven o’clock, stood up and tapped the wall beside the pointed-spout spray kettle on the cabinet.

A door immediately appeared.

Dawn turned the handle.

Beyond it was his sleeping quarters: a small bed and a sofa, no washroom, and an unlit fireplace.

He didn’t bother casting any cleaning charms. Instead, he washed himself with warm water, dried his hair, climbed into bed, twisted open the stopper, and poured the potion down his throat.

Slowly— Drowsiness crept in.

The sun rose.

Daylight burst forth.

The little bear inside the office clock jumped down, walked over to the partition, shook Dawn awake, then hurriedly climbed back to continue tugging at the clock hands.

Dawn shook his head and sat up in a daze, his pupils unfocused—until he saw the crystal vial by the bed and snapped fully awake.

What had he dreamed about last night?

Dawn felt that he must have dreamed something, yet no matter how he pressed at his temples, he couldn’t remember a thing—not even fragmented impressions.

Hm… did that actually mean last night’s dream had been normal, no different from anyone else’s?

After thinking for a bit longer and still finding nothing, Dawn gave up.

He dressed and prepared to give the advanced sixth-year class their first lesson of the school year.

However— Just as he finished gathering his things and left the room, he saw a witch in green robes hurrying down the corridor toward his office.

“Professor McGonagall?”

Dawn stopped in surprise. “Are you looking for me?”

“Yes, Professor Hickman.”

McGonagall nodded, her brows knitted with concern. “Something happened in the castle early this morning. Could you come with me?”

Something happened?

Dawn narrowed his eyes.

What kind of incident? Could it be the basilisk?

But if he remembered correctly, the first case in the original story occurred on Halloween. And the diary that caused everything was still tucked safely in his wallet.

So—had Voldemort done something during the previous school year?

Countless thoughts raced through Dawn’s mind. On the surface, he hesitated and asked, “But… my class?”

“It’s all right. The students have been gathered in the Great Hall. All morning classes have been suspended,” McGonagall explained.

Seeing this, Dawn asked no more questions and followed her.

The castle corridors were unusually empty, likely because all the students were in the Great Hall.

McGonagall led Dawn briskly up toward the seventh floor.

Dawn recognized the direction—it led toward the Gryffindor common room, which only made him more puzzled.

“Professor McGonagall, what exactly happened?”

She didn’t hide it, answering in a low voice, “Last night, Harry was attacked in his dormitory.”

“…Ah?”

Dawn halted mid-step, letting out a short sound.

Staring at McGonagall’s back, he suddenly felt a strong sense of déjà vu. Last Halloween, Dumbledore had led him to the office in much the same way.

Dawn frowned. “Do you think I did it?”

“No! Of course not. Why would you think that?”

McGonagall turned her head, giving him a strange look. “The attacker was one of Harry’s dorm-mates, a student named Dean Thomas.”

“This morning, he used the Blood Extraction Spell on Harry. Fortunately, Dumbledore discovered it shortly afterward and arrived in time to stop him.”

There was a clear culprit?

Dawn blinked slightly. “Then why did you call me over?”

“Because that spell was taught by you yesterday, I believe it’s necessary for you to be here.”

McGonagall’s expression grew serious.

“Professor Hickman, I respect your style, but I don’t think it was necessary to teach such dangerous spells in the very first lesson of the school year.”

Ah—so he’d been dragged into it.

Dawn sighed inwardly, once again feeling that peace never seemed to last long for him.

That so-called Fountain of Good Fortune bathing him—didn’t seem to have brought him much luck at all.

Or perhaps its effect was simply preventing him from being falsely accused as the murderer?

Dawn felt a bit troubled.

Still, that raised another question—why would someone named Dean suddenly attack the Boy Who Lived?

He opened his mouth, intending to ask for more details, but McGonagall was already giving the password to the Fat Lady, and the entrance to the common room opened.

So Dawn decided to inspect the scene first.

They climbed through the opening behind the portrait.

The Gryffindor common room had a completely different atmosphere from Ravenclaw’s cool quiet.

Red and gold decorated the entire room, and just looking at it conveyed a sense of warmth and passion.

Following McGonagall, Dawn arrived at Harry’s dormitory, only to find that several people were already there.

Dumbledore. Snape. Sprout.

And the other boys who shared the dormitory with Harry. Dawn spotted a visibly uneasy Neville among them.

As for Professor Flitwick—perhaps he was maintaining order in the Great Hall.

___________

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