Dumbledore decided to give Harry the Pensieve, even though he couldn't quite understand how it could help Harry accomplish everything he claimed.
He retrieved the shallow stone basin from a cabinet—its rim was carved with strange letters and symbols that Harry, after squinting hard, recognized as some form of ancient runes he'd seen in History of Magic. They had long since been lost to time.
Inside, the silvery substance shimmered brightly. It was unlike anything Harry had ever seen. He couldn't even tell if it was liquid or gas. It gleamed with a silver-white light, constantly swirling. Its surface rippled like water in the wind, yet churned and spun like a cloud. It was like liquid light—or solid air.
Dumbledore demonstrated how to extract and enter memories using the Pensieve.
Then, he reabsorbed all the silvery essence back into his mind, and the Pensieve dimmed, now looking like an ordinary empty bowl.
Harry curled his lip slightly. As if he were dying to see your memories, and yet you're guarding them like treasure.
…
Strolling through the quiet, ancient castle, Harry felt a chill. Normally, the place wasn't so unsettling—there were always students bustling about.
Now, with no sign of life in sight, the silence made the halls feel cold and eerie.
His footsteps echoed through the broad corridors, so clearly that he could even hear his own breathing.
A light breeze brushed against his neck, making the hairs stand on end.
Seriously? After destroying a fragment of Voldemort's soul, seeing ghosts all day long, and now I get scared by some peace and quiet?
Truly, the scariest thing is always what's inside your own mind.
Even though he had absorbed Voldemort's memories, he worried whether his mentality would be affected—but thankfully, he was still himself, Harry. Still the average young man from his previous life.
As soon as he reached Snape's dungeon, Harry let out a breath of relief.
…
On the table before Snape sat a small glass vial, half-filled with thick, bluish liquid. Tiny air bubbles floated inside—it looked slightly gelatinous.
This was the growth potion Snape had brewed.
Harry picked it up and was about to drink when a question struck him. "How long does the effect last?"
"One day."
"Only a day?"
Snape nearly cracked his eternal ice-cold façade at Harry's tone of distaste.
Noticing Snape's dangerous glare, Harry quickly changed his tune, chuckling, "A whole day—perfect! Any more and it'd be overkill, any less and it'd be a waste…"
Snape: "…"
Tilting his head back, Harry gulped down the potion.
Glug, glug.
Huh? Why does it feel weird?
Looking closely, he saw the liquid had congealed slightly, sliding down the inside of the vial like jelly.
Why does this feel so familiar? It was like eating Jell-O.
After chewing a bit—flavorless—he swallowed.
A strange sensation washed over him. The moment the "blue jelly" hit his stomach, it seemed to dissolve instantly, breaking into tiny particles that spread throughout his bones and flesh.
Then it felt as if countless little fans were blowing throughout his body, pulsing outward in waves.
His back itched. He reached to scratch it. Then his face tingled, but he resisted.
I look too good. Can't risk scratching up my face, Harry mused seriously.
He noticed the room around him shrinking—no, he was growing. His field of vision widened dramatically.
Unlike gradual growth, this instant shift felt startling—like a weight lifted, like a bird in the sky, a turtle back in water, a mountain leaping through the jungle…
As the feeling faded, he adjusted.
He looked at his hand—longer, stronger. Gone was the tiny hand of a boy.
Glancing around, he spotted a half-covered mirror.
Walking over, he caught his reflection—
Hissss…
A stranger stared back, but with hints of familiarity.
The eyes—brighter, deeper. If before they were top-grade emeralds, now they were imperial-grade.
He looked about 18.
What shocked Harry most was how handsome he had become.
No matter the age, I'm the most attractive person alive, he thought smugly.
A strange melancholy arose in him—It's so lonely being invincible. Life's like snow falling on an empty mountain…
Wait, aren't transmigrated protagonists supposed to be plain-looking? Why am I so dazzling?
Ah, I get it now. It's because the authors writing those novels weren't confident in their own looks.
Harry was lost in admiration of his own beauty.
Eventually, he turned to Snape and asked, "So… the Trace is gone now?"
Snape looked at him with a strange expression—anger and hate bubbling beneath the surface.
He wasn't looking at Harry, but at Harry's face.
Don't tell me… he's thinking of James Potter?
Seeing Snape about to lose it, Harry decided to make a quick exit.
Once outside the dungeon, he noticed his clothes felt tight.
Thankfully, he was wearing a loose wizard robe.
Looking up at the drifting white clouds, he muttered, "Let's give it a try."
Gripping his wand: "Apparate."
Pop!
Harry vanished.
He reappeared on a street in London.
Why so bold and unhidden? Because it was nighttime.
Even though he'd wasted 10 hours traveling to Hogwarts, it was still late. The street lamps were dim—moonlight was brighter.
Appearing in a shadowy corner, Harry checked around—
Uh-oh. Scratch that.
A filthy beggar was sitting by the wall, eyes wide, staring at Harry. "Guh…gh-gh-ghost…"
"I think you're the ghost," Harry replied, pointing his wand. "Stupefy."
No need for a Memory Charm—no one would believe him anyway.
The disheveled man, eyes wide in terror, watched a light beam shoot from the stranger's wand. "I'm doomed!" he cried.
…
Next morning.
The filthy man was shaken awake by a "colleague."
He suddenly recalled the night before and grabbed the other guy, yelling, "Ghost! I saw a ghost last night! He appeared outta nowhere, zapped me with a light—"
"You've lost your mind," the other said, shaking his head. "We need to move. These people won't spare even a penny."
The filthy man thumped his head a few times in frustration—then noticed a folded note underfoot.
He pounced—fifty pounds.
He kissed it like mad, crying, "No! He was an angel!"
The other beggar didn't even glance. "Definitely lost his mind."
…
Last night, after returning to London, Harry didn't head to the Leaky Cauldron.
Instead, he checked into a Muggle hotel.
After politely shaking off the flirtatious front-desk clerk who was smitten with his good looks, Harry entered his room.
Sitting quietly, he watched the clock tick… fifteen minutes passed.
Nothing. No owl.
So the Trace really is gone…
Ecstatic, Harry shed his stuffy robes, resisting the urge to howl with joy.
He paced back and forth, wand in hand, itching to cast every spell he knew.
But… he couldn't decide what to cast first.
He chuckled bitterly. So this is what they mean by "mental state not keeping up." Just like that scholar who went mad after passing the imperial exams.
"Better take a shower to calm down."
…
Eventually, Harry emerged.
Now composed—almost solemn. He glanced at his wand, but it felt... boring.
That earlier excitement? How childish.
His gaze turned serene and boundless, as if it could contain galaxies.
Perhaps this is what Buddhist monks call enlightenment. Or what Daoists call harmony with the universe.
Lying on the bed, two silent tears slid down Harry's cheeks.
Why… why did I touch myself like that in the shower…?
…
Note 1: Why would a British homeless man quote ancient Chinese phrases? Because the author gave him the lines.
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⚡🦉 THE REBIRTH OF HARRY POTTER 🦉⚡
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