Chapter 461: The Phoenix's Afternoon Tea
The days leading up to Mr. Fawkes's rebirth slipped away quickly. In mid-May,
Sean received a letter containing a single, vibrant phoenix tail feather.
Headmaster Dumbledore informed him that Fawkes was due to be reborn that very
day and invited him to the office for afternoon tea.
Clutching the beautiful, shimmering feather, Sean walked into the office. The
room was empty, but he was not a wizard prone to aimless snooping. He took out
his History of Magical Careers and waited beneath the portraits.
The draft of his book still had room for refinement. For instance, in the Auror
section, he realized he should include the fact that the Ministry of Magic
screened all applicants for criminal records. This required wizards to maintain
a spotless image—if someone like Harry, for example, had been convicted for
using magic outside of school, it would have been nearly impossible for him to
become an Auror, at least according to the letter of the law.
He noted that Auror training had many modules, two of which were "Concealment
and Disguise" and "Stealth and Tracking." In the original history, Tonks had
once mentioned she easily achieved the highest score in "Concealment and
Disguise"—thanks to her innate Metamorphmagus abilities—but had nearly failed
her "Stealth and Tracking" exam.
The wizarding world was far more than just the hazy impressions in Sean's mind;
it was a place of endless detail and structured frameworks. These were things
Sean delighted in exploring. Often, he could glean extra knowledge just by
observing the evolution of magical professions.
Just as he had learned that the last remaining giant settlements had been wiped
out by the Ministry of Magic. The organization dispatched had been well-trained
Aurors, whose combat effectiveness far outstripped that of a single giant
settlement. Then there was the task of dealing with rampaging dragons—a job
handled by Aurors, typically paired with Dragon Keepers...
Interesting, isn't it? Sean thought. The disparity in individual magical ability
among wizards was staggering—an Auror could strike down a giant or subdue a
dragon, yet most adult wizards would find their knees knocking at the mere sight
of such creatures. Throughout magical history, Aurors had always shouldered
these seemingly grim tasks, and interestingly, they had always performed them
well. The fact that most dragons and giants had been cleared away by wizards was
proof enough.
Did this mean the ceiling of a wizard's magical capacity had never fallen?
Ravenclaw's memories suggested that the magical power of ancient wizards she had
witnessed was not much greater than that of modern Aurors.
Sean reached a conclusion: magic was malleable. Ancient wizards needed immense
power to earn the right to survive, so ancient magic was naturally formidable.
Modern wizards needed more convenient, efficient power, so the Standard Spell
series became simple and accessible.
"Theoretically, a wizard's magic should be limited by only one thing: the wizard
themselves. If a wizard possesses unshakable conviction and the corresponding
mental willpower, magic is born—spells, wands, gestures, these are merely
practical methods passed down for the benefit of descendants to master this
power. This explains the ultimate source of wizarding magic. In the magical
world, magic may be an objective material force, or it may be a truly idealistic
spiritual power—but within the individual wizard, the root of magic is
absolutely idealistic. As for the differences in talent between individual
wizards... keep writing, my dear boy, I am simply bursting with curiosity—"
"Good afternoon, Headmistress Dilys Derwent."
The Headmaster was not in, but the objects in the office seemed more animated
than usual. At that moment, the portrait of Dilys Derwent was watching Sean with
keen interest as the young wizard wrote down his reflections on the nature of
magic.
"Many wizards have inhabited this office, but perhaps you are the most gifted of
them all," Headmistress Derwent said kindly.
"I am not in residence, and I am not the Headmaster," Sean replied, stowing away
his parchment and quill.
"It is only a matter of time, my dear," Headmistress Derwent beamed.
Sean fell silent. Dilys Derwent's words were too blunt, reminding him of what
Dumbledore had once said: "Although if you intend to replace me, you must first
find an old wizard a place where he truly belongs."
"So, what is the source of the difference in talent between individual wizards?"
Headmistress Derwent asked with curiosity. Her question drew a crowd of other
portraits; several pairs of eyes were fixed intently on Sean.
"Magic changes reality, and reality influences magic," Sean said.
"What do you mean?" asked the old Headmaster, Everard, a man with a pale face
and short, dark bangs.
"Once a wizard's magic reaches a certain level, it begins to influence the
wizard themselves, and this influence is heritable. Thus, the descendants of
wizards manifest magical traits corresponding to their ancestors. If you study
magical history, you will find that descriptions of the founders of certain
special magical powers are always vague. It isn't that the authors of those
times didn't want to explain the source of the power; it's that the source could
not be explained. The source was the wizard themselves." Sean unfurled his
parchment again.
"A novel explanation—" the old wizard marveled.
"Is this also the reason why there is no 'Caterpillar bloodline' or 'Slug
bloodline'?" Headmistress Derwent asked with a curious, playful smile.
Sean closed his notebook, guarding it from Headmistress Derwent's prying eyes.
Caterpillar bloodlines and Slug bloodlines—that had been one of his own
questions a long time ago.
"Ravenclaw's stinginess with knowledge..." Headmistress Derwent laughed, her
face bright as a sunflower.
Avoiding the portraits who were always looking to sneak a peek at his notes for
a bit of fun, Sean turned his gaze to the geriatric bird—it looked exactly like
a turkey that had been plucked of half its feathers. Sean stared at it, and the
bird looked back with a sorrowful expression, emitting a stifled, choking sound.
Sean secretly slipped Fawkes some herbs—the highest quality ones from Diagon
Alley. Fawkes stopped feigning illness and began to chirp happily.
A crystalline song filled the office. It was the most beautiful sound Sean had
ever heard... he felt the music resonating within him, not just around him...
the sound made him think of many things, almost as if a friend were speaking
directly into his ear...
"How truly wonderful. It seems Mr. Fawkes has offered a song for our afternoon
tea." Dumbledore pushed the door open. "A phoenix's song provides encouragement,
stirs one's fighting spirit, and brings to mind the person who inspires them
most, or perhaps a cherished memory. I am quite curious—what did you hear?"
A soft fluttering of wings sounded to Sean's left. Fawkes had left his perch and
flown across the room to land on Sean's knee.
"The person who inspires me most..." Sean said softly. "I heard my own voice."
"Ah..." Dumbledore fell silent.
Fawkes blinked calmly at Sean.
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