Evening fell.

Low clouds pressed down over the sky.

Dawn finally finished the tasks that had been assigned to him. With a stiff expression, he returned to the castle and opened his office on the fourth floor.

Catching the lingering smell clinging to his robes, he cast Scourgify on himself three or four times, yet still felt as if the stench of fish followed him everywhere.

He cursed under his breath.

With clear disgust, Dawn tugged at his collar, deciding to take a shower and at least scrub the sensation away on a psychological level.

He tapped the long-spouted kettle resting on the cabinet.

A handle appeared in the wall.

Dawn pushed the door open, stripped off his clothes, and walked naked into the bathroom.

Crash—

A torrent of hot water burst forth from the sculpted faucet in the wall, steam rising as it poured over his body.

Watching the curtain of water cascade down, Dawn wiped his face and couldn’t help recalling the utterly miserable afternoon he had just endured.

Earlier—

After leaving the hospital wing, he and Professor McGonagall had entered the Black Lake to inspect its waters, trying to determine whether the castle’s water source was compromised.

It had been anything but easy.

The creatures and environment of the Black Lake were deeply unpleasant.

The massive giant squid, its countless tentacles stirring dangerous currents with careless movements.

The merfolk tribe with iron-gray skin and yellowed teeth, fiercely xenophobic and nearly impossible to communicate with.

Grindylows, classified as Dark creatures, with long, thin claws and aggressive temperaments.

And the lakebed sludge, thick with fish bones and rotting flesh.

Any one of these was enough to make Dawn recoil.

He shook his head hard, forcing those memories back down.

Turning off the water, he dried himself with a towel and stepped out of the bathroom, his expression finally relaxing.

Now—

He could finally throw the tedious farce of the Boy Who Lived being attacked out of his mind and focus on what truly concerned him.

That sudden, inexplicable sense of unease had surfaced again, sticking in his throat like a bone.

Dawn could no longer ignore it. He resolved to find out exactly what was wrong.

Before, he’d had no clues at all. Even after transforming magical creatures and returning to Egypt, he hadn’t found anything out of place.

But Trelawney’s appearance that afternoon had given him a brand-new idea.

Use prophecy and revelations to find a breakthrough.

With that thought, Dawn stopped hesitating.

His body began to twist, the form of Leah Hickman warping and reshaping until, in the blink of an eye, he became a gaunt witch with wild, shoulder-length hair and a pale face.

Professor Trelawney.

Prophecy was not a spell, but an innate talent, much like a phoenix’s immortality.

That was why, earlier in the hospital wing, Dawn had copied all of Trelawney’s special sigil structures. By carefully altering the outermost layer, he had granted himself her gift of inspiration.

Of course, because he couldn’t be bothered to determine which sigils were specifically tied to inspiration, he’d copied everything wholesale—resulting in even his appearance changing.

Dawn focused inward for a moment and realized that after the transformation, the world seemed more vividly colored than before.

Was this how a Seer perceived reality?

He pondered it briefly, but with matters weighing on his mind, he chose not to investigate further just yet.

Becoming Trelawney alone wasn’t enough.

Though the witch had talent in this area, it wasn’t strong. She couldn’t prophesy at will and could only passively wait for inspiration to strike.

Dawn had no intention of staying in Trelawney’s form indefinitely, waiting idly for such a tiny chance.

He wanted to be proactive.

And so—

He thought of the book Prophecy and Dreams.

Wouldn’t entering a dream state make inspiration easier to obtain than remaining fully awake?

Dawn decided it was worth trying.

He took out his wallet and selected two potions from the stock Slughorn had left behind: a Draught of Living Death and a Calming Draught.

“Damn it. I forgot to ask Slughorn for more Felix Felicis.”

Dawn muttered in irritation.

He suspected Felix Felicis might help when searching for prophetic inspiration, but unfortunately, every drop he’d had was already consumed during the Luckspring ritual.

Lying down on the bed, Dawn didn’t hesitate.

He sealed the room with magic, downed both potions, and pulled the blanket over himself.

Soon—

Sleep crept in.

The castle at night was noisy.

Wind slipped through the cracks in the window, making the thin curtains rustle softly. Wooden furniture popped and creaked with changes in temperature, like marbles snapping together.

Dawn heard it all.

But at some point, a thought surfaced in his mind, sharp and instinctive.

I’m asleep.

Unlike the last time, when he’d slept straight through to morning without awareness, possessing the gift of inspiration allowed him to retain a low level of consciousness even after falling asleep.

It was hard to describe, similar to sleep paralysis—you couldn’t sense your body, only the movement of your thoughts.

Dawn was familiar with this sensation.

When he was younger, whenever he dreamed of those scenes that felt like memories from a previous life, he would experience this state.

Now—

Dawn stared unblinkingly into the darkness.

With his eyelids closed, all he could see were flickering white specks, like static.

Was this the revelation?

He felt uncertain.

Or had he failed, doomed to stare into darkness until he woke up?

He couldn’t tell.

Gradually, though, he vaguely heard a sound coming from far away—muffled, as if someone were singing loudly.

What were they singing?

He strained to listen.

At some unknown point, the white specks grew brighter, until suddenly they turned into real snow drifting down from the sky, bathing everything in a gentle pale glow.

A blurry sleigh swept past his vision.

The singing finally became clear.

Jingle bells, jingle bells

Jingle all the way

Oh what fun it is to ride

In a one-horse open sleigh, hey

That was Jingle Bells, written by James Lord Pierpont in 1857.

Dawn recognized the song instantly.

But before his half-dreaming mind could process what this meant, he suddenly saw fire.

Dancing candlelight.

The flames melted the snow, dyeing everything a warm orange hue.

Through the brilliant light, Dawn glimpsed a spacious room and a table laden with abundant food.

“Look, today’s Christmas. I thought since the boss is British, I’d take the liberty of buying some decorations.”

He heard someone speak beside him.

Crack—

The scene shattered in an instant.

Dawn jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed. The sudden movement sent a sharp pain through his head, cold sweat soaking the sheets beneath him.

Instinctively, he looked around.

Black robes lay scattered on the floor. Two empty bottles sat side by side on the bedside table. The sealing magic was still intact.

This was his quarters.

Everything was exactly as it had been before he fell asleep, as if he’d only dozed for a moment.

But Dawn knew that wasn’t true.

He turned toward the gap in the curtains. Bright light streamed in from outside, illuminating dust motes floating in the air.

It was morning.

Dawn took a deep breath, finding it hard to believe.

From his perspective, he’d slept only minutes—but in reality, an entire night had passed. Worse, his head throbbed as if he hadn’t rested at all.

Was this what it felt like to receive prophecy through dreams?

Pressing his temples, Dawn recalled the images that remained vividly clear even after waking.

This experience convinced him that what he’d seen wasn’t an ordinary dream, but a revelation born of inspiration.

A glint of excitement flashed in his eyes. He didn’t even bother getting dressed, remaining half-seated as he began to analyze it.

The revelation wasn’t difficult to understand.

Jingle Bells was a song associated with Christmas, and the room and dining table were scenes from the Christmas he’d spent in Egypt last year.

In other words—

The message was telling him to pay attention to Christmas.

But had there been something wrong with last year’s Christmas?

Dawn frowned, lowering his eyelids as he carefully recalled every detail of that day.

That day—he’d captured a man and completed a blood-curse experiment on him. Then Amir had called him out, and he’d shared a three-person Christmas dinner with William.

The food had been plentiful: roasted pigeon, shawarma, mallow soup, coconut yogurt cake.

To set the mood, he’d used Transfiguration to create a Christmas tree and a weather charm to make snow fall indoors.

After that, he’d eaten while reading several foreign wizarding newspapers. It was because of a New Zealand article about a “Magical Exposure Crisis” that he’d decided to leave Egypt and head to Iceland.

That was everything that happened last Christmas.

Was there something strange in all of that?

Dawn dissected each event again and again, but still found nothing out of place.

Or was the revelation warning him to be cautious of an upcoming Christmas?

His thoughts tangled into a mess, with no clear thread to follow.

And then it struck him—

Was this revelation even connected to that sudden sense of unease at all? He couldn’t be certain.

After brooding for a while, Dawn realized with frustration that the dream hadn’t brought clarity at all. If anything, it had only deepened his confusion.

Still—

As the only lead he had, he decided to investigate Christmas further.

And at that moment, he thought of Amir.

It had been a month since term began. Dawn knew Amir had been taken in by Dumbledore and was now assisting Madam Pince in the library.

But because there’d been no need, Dawn had almost no contact with him during that month.

Now, however, it seemed he needed to have a conversation with Amir.

Exhaling slowly, Dawn’s body warped once more, shifting from Professor Trelawney back into the form of Leah Hickman.

He swung his legs out of bed, ignored the clothes strewn across the floor from yesterday’s lake dive, opened the wardrobe, and donned a fresh set of robes.

Dispelling the sealing magic, Dawn left his quarters. Glancing at the clock hanging in his office, he saw it was already past nine in the morning.

It was Saturday.

With no classes scheduled, Dawn decided to go find Amir right away.

Leaving the office, he found the castle corridors livelier than usual for the weekend. Young witches and wizards shouted and chased each other about, flashes of spell-light appearing now and then.

“No magic in the corridors!” Filch’s irritable voice echoed up from another floor.

Dawn ignored it all and headed straight for the library on the fifth floor.

“Good morning, Professor Hickman.”

“Good morning, Professor Hickman.”

Several students slowed their steps, greeting him nervously. Only after he’d gone some distance did they resume their play.

___________

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