The next day, I went to the Hogwarts gardens, a green area protected by greenhouses that smelled of damp earth and magical sprouts.
I walked between the rows, following the illustrations in the book. Some roots were common… but others, like moon cardamom or night privet flower, only grew under certain enchantments.
I knelt to examine a strange plant, its petals shifting colors, when a voice startled me.
—Looking for something in particular?
I turned around. It was Professor Sprout. Her robes were stained with soil, and she wore a pair of leather gloves.
—Yes, Professor —I replied, standing up—. I'm trying to brew a potion for memory… It's not for an assignment. It's to help a friend.
She studied me with curiosity. She didn't seem annoyed… more intrigued.
—A potion like that isn't easy for someone at your level. You know that.
I nodded. —I know. But I'm willing to learn whatever it takes.
Sprout smiled, with that warm glow people have when they understand compassion without needing many words.
—Very well, Mr. Dion. If you're determined… I'll teach you what you need to know. But you'll have to come every week. Some of these plants require daily care. Agreed?
—Yes, Professor. Thank you… truly.
I felt less alone.
And just when I thought I couldn't move forward anymore, a new letter arrived.
The owl landed on my windowsill at dawn, carrying a note sealed with Alphonse's red wax crest. My heart pounded as I broke the seal.
Dion…
It has taken me far longer than expected. This language is not simply ancient… it is almost prehistoric, a vestige of archaic magic, hidden even from the most erudite.
However, I managed to identify a reference. A name: Tharandor. It is not a common place. I found only scattered mentions. From what little I deciphered, it is a place lost to time, once inhabited by a magical species now extinct… or so it was believed.
I have found no further clues, but perhaps in the Hogwarts library you may uncover more. I know that, if anyone can do it, it is you.
With respect and concern,
Alphonse.
I stared at the letter for a long time.
Tharandor…
I felt something stir inside me. One more piece of the puzzle. The story was only just beginning.
On an especially dark night, rain hammered against the windows with almost irritating persistence. The underground library creaked softly under the weight of wind and distant thunder. Dion had spent hours surrounded by books, burned-down candles, and yellowed parchments. The ancient text lay before him, that impossible book he could not fully decipher, accompanied by other, more conventional volumes he had gathered after weeks of searching the library.
There was something deeply frustrating about it all: every book that mentioned the place referenced in that mysterious text described it as nothing more than a simple fantasy, an inconsistent legend. None spoke of the creatures Dion had begun to suspect lived there. In fact, every map he found was different, as if the place had never had a definitive shape—or even a real location. Everything pointed to an invention, a fable.
Overcome by exhaustion and frustration, Dion fell asleep with the book still open.
In the silence, a faint light began to rise from the pages. The glow was soft but constant, almost imperceptible at first. The gem Dion carried responded with the same radiance. What was strange was that, until now, the gem had never reacted to the book… and yet this time, something was different. Iolita, his feline companion, had also approached the book, and her gem—identical in shape but purer in tone—glowed in unison. Without warning, one of the symbols in the book flared suddenly, triggering a kind of pulse of magical energy. It was subtle, but enough to cause a change.
I felt a tug, as if someone were ripping me out from within myself. A blink was all it took to be somewhere else.
I was standing… or at least I thought I was. My body was not my own. It was taller, sturdier, and my clothes were different: dark cloaks, thick fabrics, heavy boots caked with mud and dry leaves. Before me stretched a gloomy forest, shrouded in dense mist that coiled between the trees like smoke serpents. The air was damp and cold, heavy with an unsettling silence that pressed against my chest.
I moved forward cautiously, without knowing why my steps seemed to know where to go. That was when I saw them: two hooded figures walking a few meters ahead. There was something in their gait, in the way they spoke to each other, that compelled me to follow.
They spoke in an ancient, unknown language, guttural in sound and ritual in cadence:
—"Ethran volis… ien're thea sennor…"
—"Vaen iora'thel… ser'maka e Narth…"
I didn't understand a single word, but their tense faces and exchanged glances told me plenty. They were arguing. And between them, a white cat walked gracefully over fallen trunks. It was just like Iolita, but with snow-white fur and a gem the same bright color as mine.
Something inside me shuddered.
I followed them until the forest ended and, as if torn from a dream, an imposing structure appeared before us: a castle. Not as refined as those I had seen in engravings or stories of Hogwarts, but older, still under construction. Incomplete towers, walls lined with scaffolding, passageways draped in tarps.
Yet they did not stop there. They walked past it, into a hill covered in ivy, until they found a smaller castle, nearly forgotten. Its walls were cracked, stones covered in moss, and some sections had collapsed. It looked abandoned… until I saw them uncover a hidden passage beneath a slab moved with practiced ease.
I hid among the rubble. They entered without hesitation, and I waited. Time passed without my noticing, until one of the men came back out. Only one. The same one carrying the white cat. The creature licked its paws, and a red stain marred its fur. Blood. The man walked away slowly, without saying a word.
My instincts screamed at me to run, but curiosity—or perhaps something deeper—pulled me closer to the entrance. I was about to descend those stairs when I heard a crunch behind me.
I turned, and there it was.
A massive creature, white-furred, shining like the moon. A gem embedded in its forehead pulsed with light. Its fangs were the size of my arms, and its breath steamed like the vapor of a cave. It opened its mouth, ready to devour me.
I screamed.
And I woke up.
I couldn't breathe. I was drenched in sweat. Iolita stood in the corner of the room, bristling, staring at the book that still glowed faintly. My hands trembled. It wasn't a dream… not like the others. It was a memory. But not mine.
Or at least… not yet.
The parchment… had not changed at all.
I stared at it, hoping that something—anything—had emerged during the night. A new symbol, a blurred image, even a smudged word. But no. It remained as silent as my mind when I tried to remember how the hell I ended up at Hogwarts or why I feel that time—my time—was stolen from me.
I sighed. I couldn't stop now.