The case was over.

Although the victim’s sons repeatedly insisted that their sister was a devout Catholic who would never take her own life, everything had already been settled before countless witnesses.

Louise had confessed to shooting her father and, overwhelmed with shame, had killed herself.

Dawn stood aside as Groot argued with the grieving family, but his thoughts remained on the case itself.

The manor’s master had likely committed suicide due to untreated post-traumatic stress disorder. A mind left to fester in silence had finally driven him to pull the trigger against his own head.

After carefully replaying the entire chain of events in his mind and finding no remaining inconsistencies, Dawn let the matter go.

He had no desire to linger and watch the quarrel continue. He informed Groot that he would be leaving.

Concerned about safety, the bearded chief assigned another officer to drive him home.

The ride was silent.

Back inside Detective Sid’s house, Dawn rubbed his face, smoothing down the excitement that had surfaced during his brief immersion in detective play.

Solving a case was exhilarating.

But once the illusion faded and reality pressed down again under the weight of world correction, he could not avoid more troubling thoughts.

He recalled everyone he had encountered in the dream.

Groot. The victim’s family. Even the officer who had driven him home.

They had all felt vividly real.

Which led him to a troubling question.

If this dream was so realistic, could his actions here somehow affect real history?

For example, would this very case unfold the same way in actual history?

The idea sounded absurd. This was not time travel, merely a dream.

Still, he felt compelled to verify.

The problem was practical. A minor 1940 murder case involving an obscure detective who relied on unreliable divination would be nearly impossible to trace in real records.

He needed something easier to confirm.

°Disapparation°

Twirling his hat and gripping his cane, Dawn pictured Hogwarts Castle and cast the Apparition spell.

Nothing happened.

The pendulum clock ticked. The room remained unchanged. He was still seated in the padded chair.

His Apparition had failed.

Dawn stood, frowning.

He glanced down at his body, expecting to see the familiar silver mist and layered diagrams.

Nothing appeared.

What was going on?

He replayed his earlier spellcasting attempts.

Could it be that, after connecting to a dead person’s mind, he could only use spells that the original owner of this body knew?

The spells he had tested earlier might have been ones Sid could cast.

But abilities unique to Dawn himself, such as phoenix-style Apparition or perception of magical diagrams, might not exist in this borrowed consciousness.

He tapped the desk thoughtfully and tried something simple.

°Accio rat°

A large gray rat flew out from between the shelves, squealing.

He cast again, drawing a thin stream of blood from it. Then another spell twisted the creature into a crude straw doll.

Dawn narrowed his eyes.

One could argue that a detective might reasonably know some uncommon spells.

But dark magic like blood extraction or straw transfiguration as well?

Too coincidental.

Another possibility formed.

If this dream was composed entirely of dead minds, perhaps when he cast a spell, the dream simply pulled the relevant magical template from some other deceased wizard who knew it.

Across the world, someone must have mastered any given spell.

But abilities unique to Dawn, like phoenix Apparition or perceiving magical structures, had no counterpart among the dead minds in this network.

Therefore, they failed.

He shook his head, setting aside theories he could not verify.

Instead of attempting to reach Hogwarts directly, he pictured Hogsmeade and Apparated again.

The scenery shifted.

This time, he succeeded.

Hogsmeade looked bleak.

In 1940, the Muggle world was at war. The wizarding world was no better. Grindelwald and his followers were clashing violently with the Ministry and Dumbledore.

Dawn’s thoughts drifted.

Grindelwald had his acolytes. Tom Riddle would have his Death Eaters.

If one day Dawn himself required believers for the sake of collective consciousness, what would he call them?

The absurd notion faded quickly.

He cast a Disillusionment Charm and headed toward Honeydukes. Since he could not Apparate into the castle directly, he would use the secret passage.

Hogwarts.

Classes were in session.

Emerging from behind the one-eyed witch statue on the third floor, Dawn navigated the shifting staircases and located a classroom in use.

Inside were only four students. Three Hufflepuffs and one Ravenclaw.

Strange.

The classroom scene was even stranger.

The students sat upright, raising hands and answering questions.

But the professor’s desk was empty.

Dawn peered through the window.

They were practicing transfiguration on matches.

In 1940, Transfiguration was taught by Dumbledore.

Dawn’s suspicion solidified.

The Resurrection Stone likely connected only to the minds of the dead. Dumbledore was alive at this time, so he did not appear here.

No matter how realistic the dream, it was still a dream.

If so, then nothing he did here could affect reality.

Still, since he was already here, he decided to test something.

He pushed the door open.

Four startled faces turned toward him.

If this dream consisted only of those already dead, Ravenclaw might well be the smallest house here.

Ignoring the questioning student, Dawn raised his wand.

°Avada Kedavra°

A flash of green light.

The boy flew backward, collapsing in a heap.

Dawn waited, watching the empty podium, half-expecting some unseen retaliation.

Nothing happened.

He glanced at the remaining three students, shrugged, and left the room.

After exiting the castle grounds, he Apparated away once more.

As the scenery shifted again, he wondered what happened to a dead mind after dying again within this network.

He arrived at Little Hangleton.

At the Gaunt shack.

Following the path he knew from reality, he quickly located the ring set with the Resurrection Stone.

Tom Riddle was only fourteen in 1940. No traps yet.

The ring was real.

Dawn lifted it.

Mist gathered.

A kindly woman in her sixties appeared.

Not his mother. Likely someone Sid had wished to see.

Dawn released the stone.

He had briefly considered whether summoning his not-yet-born mother might be possible.

He slipped the ring onto his finger, staring at the dark facets reflecting the world around him.

Another thought emerged.

What would happen if he consumed the stone’s powder inside the dream? A dream within a dream?

The image of a film about layered dreams crossed his mind.

Tempting.

Foolish.

He did not attempt it.

Then— The scenery flickered. The edges of his vision warped like melting paint.

The sun dissolved.

Darkness swallowed everything.

“Ugh.”

Dawn groaned and pushed himself upright.

A wooden ceiling.

Reality.

He was back.

What time was it? In the dream, less than a day had passed. The book’s author had slept two days.

How long had he been gone?

He opened the window and judged by the sun’s angle.

Morning.

He had arrived on Friday afternoon. At least one night had passed.

___________

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