Chapter 55: Sending a Letter

Time passed idly, and the class was drawing to a close. Ian took the time to examine the potions brewed by others. Most were acceptable, while the occasional low-quality ones were merely brewing failures rather than outright accidents.

At this moment, Ian was extremely glad he had not been sorted into Gryffindor—otherwise, no Potions class would be complete without a few unexpected incidents.

After the bell rang, unlike in the previous Charms class, Ian was not in a hurry to leave. Instead, he pretended to organize his textbooks and waited until everyone else had left before approaching Snape.

The reason was the message Snape had conveyed with his eyes at the end of class, which clearly indicated he had something to say.

After spending a long time together, Ian fully understood the professor's personality: he was arrogant and aloof. He preferred to communicate with a glance rather than words and would never use four words if he could say three.

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape." After speaking, Ian remained quietly to the side.

After a few seconds of silence, Snape said in his usual impassive tone, "I have an urgent matter this Wednesday, so our session has been rescheduled for tonight."

"I understand, Professor. Thank you for your guidance." Ian responded readily.

He could sense a rare kindness in Snape's words. Although it was only a brief exchange, the fact that the notoriously proud professor had taken the trouble to inform him personally was a sign of acknowledgment.

Don't linger if there's nothing to say. This was the rule Ian had learned when dealing with Snape. If there was something to discuss, they would discuss it; if not, he wouldn't impose. After confirming that Snape had nothing else to add, Ian gave a slight bow and left the Potions classroom.

After having a simple lunch in the Great Hall, Ian returned to his dormitory. Compared to the more structured schedules of other students, his own timetable had become somewhat irregular due to the third-year Charms class reshuffle.

Today was a prime example. When busy, he had two major classes back-to-back in the morning, yet when free, he had no scheduled lessons for the entire afternoon.

After returning to the dormitory, Ian decided to take a nap first. After all, habits formed over the years weren't so easily broken.

But before that, he planned to write a letter. Ever since he had bought the adorable grey owl from the Owl Post Office, he hadn't actually used it to send any letters.

He still recalled a comment he had once read on a forum in his previous life: If you don't send a letter by owl after traveling to the Wizarding World, can you really call it a proper time-travel experience?

Ian wholeheartedly agreed. After all, the entire story began with a magical letter delivered by an owl, setting in motion the extraordinary journey of love and discovery.

As for the recipient, he had already chosen Miss Hermione Granger, the ever-diligent Know-It-All. The content of the letter was an invitation to study Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration Notes together.

Although Ian had already thoroughly understood the material, he still wanted to go over it with Hermione before returning it to Professor McGonagall—if only as a favor. It also gave him the perfect opportunity to chat with Hermione and gift her the two pairs of silk socks he had bought in Hogsmeade.

Magic truly was remarkable. Unlike Muggle books, handwritten notes by powerful wizards often carried magical properties.

Their core function was to make the content easier and more intuitive for the reader, conveying the author's thoughts more clearly.

This was also why some Dark Magic books in the Restricted Section of the library emitted eerie whispers, enticing wizards to read them. The principle was the same.

It was further proof of Hogwarts' immense heritage, as the books in its library were all original manuscripts, imbued with their authors' magical imprints—fundamentally different from the mass-produced copies published by wizarding presses.

By normal reckoning, Ian and Hermione had only met two days ago, but having lived through an entire month in the apocalypse, he felt like they had been apart for far longer. He found himself missing this proud yet endearing girl.

He blew on the ink to dry it, sealed the parchment, and called over the owl waiting beside him.

Yes, he had named his owl Lily. Not as a joke aimed at Snape—he simply thought it was a beautiful name.

The magical nature of owls was fascinating. It was as if they could sense their owners' intentions. The moment Ian started writing, his normally sleepy Tawny Owl had flown over obediently, awaiting its assignment.

Ian tied the letter securely and watched as Lily took off before rolling onto his bed, ready for a well-earned nap.

At that moment, he found himself appreciating the leisurely pace of this era. If you wanted to communicate, you simply sent a letter and waited for the recipient's reply. No distractions, no constant notifications.

While modern convenience was absent, so too were the anxieties and disruptions that came with it.

Ian knew this feeling all too well. Once upon a time, he had sent a message to a girl he liked and had spent the following hours agonizing over her reply. That kind of restless anticipation was unbearable.

Even knowing that his phone would notify him of a response, he had still compulsively checked it every thirty seconds. If she didn't reply within half an hour, his mind would be flooded with endless speculation.

In short, his entire consciousness had been trapped within that tiny screen, leaving no room for anything else.

"In the past, carriages were slow, and letters took their time to arrive… The locks of old were beautifully crafted too…"

Ian softly hummed lines from Mu Xin's poem and drifted off to sleep.

He slept for nearly three hours and only awoke after the sun had shifted noticeably in the sky.

Lily had been well-behaved. After delivering the letter, she had returned and perched quietly on her shelf, not disturbing Ian's rest. Now, seeing him wake up, she fluttered over and extended her left leg—the reply securely tied to it.

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