Chapter 399: The Changing Atmosphere of the Castle

It was said to be the only known legendary alchemical artifact capable of extending human life. And truly, the Philosopher's Stone was nothing short of a miracle.

Thanks to its magic, Nicolas Flamel and his wife, Perenelle, had lived for over six centuries.

…

Ino lifted the Stone delicately from the velvet-lined box and held it in his palm, watching as the morning light caught its surface and scattered it into a dozen brilliant colors.

If anyone else had handed him this artifact, he might have suspected some kind of bargain or unspoken trade. But not with Dumbledore. Somehow, the Headmaster's gesture felt honest—an offering made without expectation.

Even so, Ino felt some things were better said out loud, just in case assumptions crept in where silence lingered too long.

"Professor, I'm honored to see something so extraordinary. To witness a miracle of alchemy with my own eyes... But I need to make something clear. I'll do my best. Truly. But I can't promise anything."

If there were a way to help, he would take it, quietly, without fanfare—as repayment for all the old man had endured over a lifetime. But if not… then the dream would have to continue, undisturbed.

"That's more than enough. Truly."

Dumbledore's smile was gentle, knowing. His eyes, as ever, twinkled with something that felt halfway between wisdom and sorrow.

"You see, Ariana was… special. And as her brother, I've no right to decide anything on her behalf. Not anymore."

Ino lowered the Stone back into the box and leaned into the cushions of the armchair, exhaling slowly.

"That's a rare thing to say. There are too many people who never learn that lesson."

And in that moment, he truly felt Dumbledore deserved every ounce of the reverence he received.

Selfless for the sake of others. It was a noble idea—so easy to admire, so difficult to live by.

If there was anyone in the world who would wish to see Ariana brought back to life, it was Dumbledore. Perhaps even more than Ariana herself.

But it wasn't just about family. Not entirely. To Dumbledore, her return might have meant redemption, closure—a chance to forgive himself for everything that had gone wrong.

The room was quiet for a few seconds.

Then Dumbledore spoke again, his voice lower and steadier.

"I've already been selfish once. When I was young. I don't have the right to make choices for her again."

"Well, then you'd better talk it over with her properly next time," Ino replied with a wry smile, trying to lift the heaviness from the room. "Morning sunlight's no place for such grim conversation, after all."

Dumbledore laughed, a real, hearty sound that echoed off the walls.

"Oh yes, if there is a next time, we'll certainly discuss it. Thoroughly."

Then, as though threading something deeper into his words, he added with a twinkle in his eye:

"Of course, for that to happen, night and day will need to strike a proper balance."

As a dreamweaver, Ino didn't mind dreams. In fact, he liked them. But he had also learned to distinguish dreams from reality.

A beautiful dream could be a balm. But taken too often, even healing potions could become poison.

…

Elsewhere in the castle, Professor McGonagall was facing a rather different sort of situation in her office on the third floor.

"Neville, technically, this note requires your grandmother's signature," she said, peering over her glasses. "You may be in sixth year, but you're still underage."

Neville stood awkwardly before her desk, hands clasped behind his back. He'd expected this, of course, but hearing the rejection still made his heart sink.

McGonagall sighed, rubbing at her temple.

She had no trouble dealing with the likes of Fred and George—there were spells for that, or at least firm detentions. But Neville was different. Quiet. Respectful. He didn't argue. He simply stood there with that earnest expression that made saying no feel like a betrayal.

"Well then," she said with a sigh, setting down her quill. "Tell me what's going on."

This time, Neville didn't hesitate.

"I want to visit my parents at St. Mungo's."

There was a pause. McGonagall blinked once, thrown off balance.

She had expected any number of excuses. A Quidditch injury, a Potions mishap, some nonsense about a cousin's birthday. But not this.

Her stern expression softened. In the silence that followed, she considered everything she knew about this quiet, dutiful boy.

After a long moment, she nodded and reached for her quill again.

"Go. And tell them I send my regards."

Neville's face lit up. He took the signed permission slip with both hands and bowed his head in gratitude.

"Thank you, Professor. Really."

In truth, he hadn't slept properly the night before. His mind had been racing. The idea that his parents might be able to recover, truly recover—was something he had never seriously considered.

As a child, he'd spent entire days sitting by their bedsides. But somewhere along the way, visits had grown shorter, more formal. He'd begun to accept what the Healers told him, that there was no hope. That the minds of his parents had been shattered beyond repair.

But after what he had witnessed yesterday, something in him had shifted.

He remembered his mother's eyes, the faintest flicker of recognition. The trace of a smile.

How long had she been waiting for him, lonely in that sterile room, while he stood outside the glass and convinced himself that nothing would ever change?

Neville didn't want to waste another moment.

Had it not been for his grandmother's sensibilities, he might have left school entirely.

…

At that very hour, as Neville walked the winding path toward Hogsmeade, the castle itself seemed to shimmer with a strange and subtle change.

Perhaps strange wasn't quite the right word. Not eerie. Something softer. Something warmer.

Something like a blush of spring in the middle of winter.

Even in magical schools, teenage years were what they were. And Hogwarts, for all its shifting staircases and talking portraits, was still a place of growing hearts and tangled feelings.

Of all the students navigating this odd season of emotions, Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass found themselves in perhaps the most awkward position of all.

At the far end of the fourth-floor corridor, in the usually quiet Trophy Room, two senior students stood facing one another in uncomfortable silence.

Draco wasn't sure what to say. Not after everything that had happened.

But Astoria looked just as unsure as he did.

She wasn't entirely sure when the feelings had started. Their first meeting had been years ago, long before she came to Hogwarts, at one of those stiff social gatherings her mother insisted she attend.

She hadn't even been invited. She'd simply followed Daphne in.

There had been four others there—Selwyn, Pansy, and of course, Draco.

She still remembered it vividly. She had felt so out of place, so exposed. But Draco, older by just a year, had immediately noticed her discomfort and stepped in with warm introductions and kind words.

Maybe that was when it began.

But a warm memory wasn't enough to make sense of what happened the night before.

She had met his parents. She'd been holding their daughter.

A child.

Their child.

It had been a dream. And yet…

…

At last, Draco broke the silence.

"I… I really like Lucy."

Astoria blinked, nearly choking on her own breath.

That was not the sentence she'd expected. She had braced herself for an explanation, a reassurance, maybe even a confession.

But instead… he liked the baby?

"I think you've misunderstood something, Mr. Malfoy," she said, mustering all her composure. "That was just a dream. Nothing actually happened between us."

"But… what if it wasn't just a dream?" Draco stepped forward, his voice rising with urgency. "What if it was a glimpse of the future?"

He couldn't ignore it. Not the warmth, not the belonging. In that strange dream, he'd seen something he didn't know he wanted until now—a family. A home.

He had finally understood why his father had made the sacrifices he did.

Astoria tilted her head, watching him curiously.

"Futures can change," she said. "And if you're so certain, then perhaps you ought to take a step toward making that future real. So far, you haven't."

She turned, her shoes tapping softly against the stone floor.

Draco stared after her, stunned.

Then, realizing what she meant, he ran to catch up.

"Wait! Astoria, wait—just listen for a second—"