Stabbed in the neck with a knife?

Dumbledore’s brows knitted tightly at those words, though he maintained his composure. “Madam Pomfrey, how is the situation now?”

“Don’t worry. I discovered it in time. Mr. Potter isn’t in serious danger,” Madam Pomfrey replied.

“I gave both him and the attacker a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion. They’re both fully unconscious now.”

Dumbledore’s expression relaxed somewhat. “Then, Madam Pomfrey, can you tell me who the attacking student was?”

“Colin Creevey. A first-year who enrolled this year. He came to me two hours ago because of a fever.”

As she recalled the patient’s details, Madam Pomfrey’s gaze grew complicated. “Albus, I truly can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

Dumbledore’s face grew even more grave.

He could not avoid considering a troubling question—if it wasn’t only Dean Thomas who would attack Harry, then might there be more students like this within the castle?

But unlike the headmaster’s solemn concern, Dawn raised an eyebrow, feeling oddly relieved by the news.

An attack in the hospital wing as well reduced the likelihood that someone was deliberately targeting him.

It wasn’t paranoia on Dawn’s part.

Between the Blood Extraction Curse earlier and the location of this latest attack, everything had been too closely tied to him.

That said— What method had Voldemort used?

Dawn had seen clearly in the classroom.

From the moment Thomas attacked to his subsequent denial, the special patterns within his body showed no changes at all.

That meant— No spell had influenced him during the entire process.

Had Dawn been wrong? Were these incidents actually unrelated to Tom Riddle?

He couldn’t help but ponder.

Still, he kept his thoughts to himself and had no intention of getting involved. He already had plenty of problems of his own to deal with.

Let Dumbledore investigate. When there were results, Dawn could simply ask out of curiosity.

Creak—

Footsteps hurried down the corridor.

Dawn turned his head and saw a man in black robes, nose like a hooked beak, sleeves flaring as he strode over like a bat.

Snape.

He’d arrived quickly.

Dawn felt a flicker of surprise. It hadn’t even been ten minutes since the incident. Snape really did care deeply about Harry.

“Dumbledore, at this point, do you still think Thomas is innocent?” Snape demanded as soon as he arrived, clearly already aware of who had attacked.

Dumbledore sighed. “Calm yourself, Severus. We shouldn’t accuse students without cause.”

“Accuse?” Snape sneered.

“You’re saying I’m falsely accusing a student who stabbed a classmate through the heart in front of everyone? Dumbledore, is that what you mean?”

He didn’t yet know about the second attack in the hospital wing and firmly believed Thomas was the culprit behind both incidents.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, about to explain that there were deeper complications—

But Snape cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Enough. I don’t want to hear your justifications, Dumbledore.”

He stared coldly into the headmaster’s eyes. “No matter what you think, Thomas attacked in front of Slytherin students this time.

Believe me, their fathers on the Board of Governors will not allow such a dangerous individual to remain in this castle.”

With that, Snape snorted and turned to leave without entering the hospital wing. Seeing Dumbledore here had already reassured him about Harry’s safety.

Listening to Snape’s words—half warning, half reminder—Dumbledore thought of the troublesome governors.

He removed his half-moon spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming.

“Let’s find the root of the problem first,” he murmured.

With a sigh, the headmaster drew back the curtain and entered the hospital wing.

He first checked on Harry to ensure he was stable, then went to examine the other student, Colin Creevey.

Dawn narrowed his eyes and observed as well. Just like Thomas, there was nothing to glean from the special patterns.

Before long, Professor McGonagall arrived, having heard the news, her pace hurried.

After listening to Dumbledore’s account, she asked in confusion, “Albus, if there truly is someone behind all this, what method do you think they used?”

“That’s exactly what I can’t figure out, Minerva,” Dumbledore replied, shaking his head. He then turned to Dawn. “Professor Hickman, when Thomas attacked, did you truly notice nothing unusual?”

I already said I don’t know.

Dawn felt irritated.

He wanted nothing more than to return to his own work, but knowing he couldn’t leave yet, he thought for a moment and casually offered another angle.

“Headmaster, have you heard of psychological suggestion in the Muggle world?”

“Psychological suggestion?”

“It’s a concept that leans toward the theoretical in the Muggle world,” Dawn explained.

“Supposedly, once a suggestion is implanted, the person shows no abnormalities most of the time.

But at a specific moment, or upon seeing a particular stimulus, they carry out the behavior dictated by the suggestion.”

McGonagall’s expression turned complicated. “Professor Hickman, are you suggesting that Thomas and Creevey were controlled by something like this?”

“It’s just a hypothesis,” Dawn said, spreading his hands. “But I’m certain that when Thomas attacked, there was no magical influence acting on him.

If the attempt on Potter truly didn’t come from his own will, then why not consider non-magical methods?”

The complete absence of magical influence—that was what Dawn found most incomprehensible about all three incidents.

If magic had been involved, even remotely controlling someone under public scrutiny, he could think of ways to do it.

For example, the secondary use of magic Dumbledore had demonstrated when capturing him in Iceland last year.

One could first use Transfiguration on an object, place it on another student, and at a critical moment manipulate the attached magic to cast the Imperius Curse indirectly.

That would allow control under everyone’s eyes without arousing suspicion.

But if magic was entirely excluded— Dawn frowned, reviewing the methods currently at his disposal.

Then suddenly—

His face darkened.

His heart skipped a beat as a familiar, unsettling sensation surged through him.

It was exactly like the feeling he’d had before the Luckspring ritual, when Rita Skeeter had revealed the date to him.

What was happening?

Dawn narrowed his eyes and pressed a hand to his chest.

A fractured, uneven thudding echoed from within.

Over the past six months, he had nearly forgotten this strange sensation. Why had it resurfaced now?

Because he had thought of Iceland?

Confusion clouded his gaze.

A vague sense of dread made his heartbeat irregular, as though he were sitting in an airplane plunging toward dark storm clouds, unsure whether it would crash.

An instinct urged him urgently—he had to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.

Bang—

As Dawn’s thoughts spun, the hospital wing door was suddenly thrown open.

Hearing the rough noise, Madam Pomfrey thought it was some clumsy student and was about to scold them—

But when she turned around, she saw the figure at the door: the Divination professor, Trelawney, reeking of alcohol, eyes rolled back, swaying unsteadily.

The drunken witch staggered around the hospital wing twice, then, under Dumbledore’s darkening gaze, raised her hoarse voice and cried out:

“The demon guards the surging spring, dripping poison into its depths.

The clear waters flow through every channel of the land, and the world is left in ruins.”

“Hunt the demon, oh knight, look closely—he is there! Though you cannot find his body, in every draught you drink from the spring, his laughter is steeped within.”

The eerie echoes lingered in the room.

After speaking, Trelawney’s body went limp. She hugged her bottle and collapsed to the floor, letting out faint snores.

Dumbledore waved a hand, levitating Trelawney onto an unused bed.

McGonagall frowned. “Albus, was that a prophecy?”

“No. It was an insight,” Dumbledore replied, blue eyes gleaming thoughtfully.

“Minerva, prophecies and insights are different. The former are clearer, with discernible threads that point toward the future.”

“The latter are merely hints—vague, requiring careful interpretation to grasp their meaning.”

As he spoke, Dumbledore couldn’t help recalling the word Luckspring carved into a desk last year.

Even though it had pointed him in a direction, to this day he still didn’t know what that red-eyed boy had truly done.

Though he’d inferred from Slughorn’s reaction that Dawn was alive, his whereabouts remained a mystery.

“Albus, are you certain this insight is related to these incidents?” McGonagall questioned. She had never fully trusted Trelawney’s abilities.

Dumbledore nodded. “Trust me, Minerva.

Sybill wouldn’t joke about something like this. Her words are deeply connected to these events.”

Seeing his certainty, McGonagall stopped doubting and began trying to interpret it herself.

“The spring… could that mean the problem lies with the castle’s water supply?”

“I doubt it’s that simple,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head, then adding, “But we can start there.

Most of the castle’s drinking water comes from alchemical devices or magical condensation.

I’ll inspect those using the headmaster’s authority. The Black Lake should also be checked.”

As Dumbledore and McGonagall discussed their next steps, the headmaster suddenly turned to Dawn, who had been silent the entire time.

“Professor Hickman, do you have anything to add?”

“No,” Dawn replied after coming back to himself, his expression natural. “I know nothing about prophecies. I can’t offer anything useful.”

Yet as he spoke, his gaze drifted to Trelawney, sleeping soundly on the bed, and a sudden thought surfaced.

A seer. Insights. Dreams.

Dawn slowly narrowed his eyes.

If he currently had no clue about this strange sensation, then perhaps he could use insights to find a breakthrough.

___________

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