Deep in the collapsed woods—
A stone hand wrapped in vines jutted out of the ground like a giant's exposed limb. Even at a glance, the enormous hand was at least twenty meters across.
More terrifying still, it was covered in complex magical circuits—proof that this wasn't simple Transfiguration. At the very least, it was formed from three advanced Transfiguration spells layered together.
It was far beyond Sean's limits.
Yet fire still burned in his slit pupils.
A cat's eyes let him see the night—and made him understand something else even more clearly.
Some things mattered more than everything else.
"After this, it's up to you," Sean said to Professor Quirrell.
Quirrell was still stunned. He watched that colossal hand erupt from the earth like a miracle, then watched it imprison the greatest white wizard of the century.
He hadn't quite recovered.
"By your will," his subconscious answered for him.
"Thank you, Professor…" Sean smiled, finally relieved.
"Briar-and-stone shelter!"
The young wizard sang the spell out loud.
No one knew when the vines had appeared—Will and Quirrell only knew that when they surged forward like a storm, the giant hand ahead was reinforced again and again with yet more Transfiguration.
This was Sean's answer to the Reversal Spell: keep layering advanced Transfiguration so the opponent had no choice but to fight him head-on.
In other words—Dumbledore reverses; Sean reinforces.
Unless the Headmaster could annihilate every single circuit of Sean's Transfiguration in an instant—like he had with Dragon, spread your wings—there was no escaping the Briar-and-stone shelter.
"Excellent Transfiguration. And you have seven minutes left, my dear Mr. Green."
Dumbledore's voice drifted from somewhere.
All around was pitch-black; beyond the glare of Fiendfyre, it was hard to see anything.
But Sean saw it: Dumbledore had pierced the Briar-and-stone shelter with a man-sized opening—opening it point-to-plane, as precisely as a needle through cloth.
Sean didn't have time to wonder how.
His body was already swaying, on the verge of collapse.
"Help me out, Professor Ravenclaw," he said.
"You should understand—this is only a lesson."
A voice answered, faint and blurred. Sean felt dizzy and heavy, like he had in the hospital a month ago.
"Professor Ravenclaw—please."
"Have I ever heard of you asking anyone for help? Still… why not?"
That voice made Sean relax.
So what is wizard magic made of, really?
If a wizard possessed all of another wizard's knowledge—if their will was built from the same memories—could they reach the same level of magic?
Ravenclaw's answer was simple: Why wouldn't they?
"Round two begins."
The black-haired boy raised his wand again.
A faintly mischievous curve touched his lips—so typical of Ravenclaw's students.
Ravenclaw House had once unanimously voted a certain Mr. Green as "the least Ravenclaw Ravenclaw."
He didn't have Ravenclaw's unfiltered hunger for knowledge, nor its common pride.
He was quiet. Flat as still water. Like an ocean—boundless, patient, deep.
"If there were a referee, I'd call this outright cheating."
Dumbledore stepped forward, speaking lightly, as if they were sharing drinks and conversation.
Will kept his bow drawn, watching Dumbledore walk straight toward Mr. Green without defense or cover, and he tensed so hard his whole body went rigid.
"The greatest wizard of the century?" the boy asked with a smile.
"Oh, that's all flattery," Dumbledore replied.
"Three minutes. How's that?" the boy said after a moment's thought.
"A very reasonable amount of time," Dumbledore agreed.
"I have to give him an answer. He doesn't have many chances—this wasn't supposed to be spent here."
The boy smiled brightly.
That expression was deep and seasoned—yet on his young face it looked almost sly.
"One rose rushing to become another rose… that's not a good thing."
Dumbledore studied him, smiling openly.
"Who knows? Are you timing it—has three minutes passed already?" the boy continued.
Dumbledore's rhythm broke; his smile froze.
He glanced toward the manor in the distance. It was nearly burned to the ground.
"Ravenclaw's wisdom…" Dumbledore sighed.
"Our student—you still have much to learn."
The boy's voice dropped, then his body swayed and collapsed into Quirrell's arms.
"Mr. Green!!"
Quirrell roared, then locked his gaze on Dumbledore.
He no longer had room to think about the strange scene just now. Veins bulged as he drove the Fiendfyre hotter and hotter.
He knew perfectly well he couldn't burn the curse away. He couldn't stop Dumbledore for even a second.
But he had to fall before Dumbledore could take the Resurrection Stone.
"You've changed a great deal—and for the better, Quirinus.
It turns out a wizard can live better after losing the intoxicating thing called power."
Dumbledore flicked his wand. Quirrell and the Pukwudgie butler found they couldn't move.
They could only watch Dumbledore walk toward the house—toward them.
In the darkness, flames still raged. Suffocating black smoke coiled around the ruins. The vicious fire-beasts devoured everything with abandon.
Without Quirrell's control, they would soon swallow the Resurrection Stone along with the curse itself.
And yet, at the most urgent moment—
Dumbledore stopped.
He looked slyly at the unconscious boy still clutching his wand, and said softly:
"Since when does an unconscious wizard grip a wand that tightly?"
Sean opened his eyes.
His slit pupils slowly widened back into normal ones.
"You let go?" Sean asked softly, looking at the house still burning.
"Surely the honorable Rowena wants more than just a chat with me?"
Dumbledore smoothly changed the subject.
"Yes, Headmaster. I still had a little magic left," Sean admitted.
He'd always known he could ask Ravenclaw to "take over," because he carried so much of her memory.
But he also knew the cost would be severe—his soul would undergo changes no one could predict.
The logic was the same as Dark Magic: it warps the caster, inevitably.
So Sean had never intended to use it.
Unless there was no other way.
"A fine practical lesson. I'd have to give you full marks for that performance," Dumbledore said warmly.
"Thank you… but… in the end, did forgetting make everything beautiful?"
Sean asked carefully.
"Probably not, my dear boy. Love and forgetting are tied in a dead knot—rust it, bury it, it still won't release us."
Dumbledore blinked kindly.
"So…"
"So I handed it all to you, child.
Do you remember? When the elderly underestimate the young, it's arrogance—and foolishness.
I still have time, my boy. I am not without choices.
So it is I who should thank you, my dear Sean.
Hope… is something as precious as honey."
Light flickered in Dumbledore's eyes—
and Sean thought he saw stars inside them.
~~~
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