After lunch, George returned once more to Gryffindor Tower, stopping in front of the Fat Lady's portrait.
Dawn followed behind him.
He would have preferred going to the library.
But there was no helping it.
According to the established timeline, the Weasley twins did return to the common room that afternoon.
Their sudden appearance would serve as indirect confirmation for his past self.
The Fat Lady was still singing.
Leaning against the wall, Dawn rubbed his temples in irritation.
Each house had its own unique entrance, but Gryffindor's was sometimes inconvenient to a ridiculous degree.
He watched as the Fat Lady clutched her chest, spinning dramatically while singing at the top of her lungs.
After a moment, he asked, "George, do you know who the Fat Lady is based on?"
"Based on?" George blinked.
"I mean, whose portrait she is," Dawn clarified.
The portrait seemed unusually lively. It likely contained a strong "presence."
Either the original subject had been powerful, or this place had always been her domain.
George shrugged. "No idea. Everyone just calls her the Fat Lady. Maybe you could ask Professor McGonagall sometime?"
Dawn gave a noncommittal response.
As the Fat Lady continued her performance, his thoughts drifted back to portraits.
Although they lacked true independent thought, portraits seemed far freer than ghosts. It was as if they truly lived in another world.
He remembered that during Christmas, the Fat Lady would spend time with another portrait named Violet, even eating and drinking within the painting.
Ghosts could not do that.
Still, ghosts had their own advantage. Portraits were copies, but ghosts were fragments of the original self.
Dawn let his thoughts wander.
Finally, the Fat Lady finished her performance. Lifting her skirt slightly, she gave a graceful curtsey and looked at the twins.
"Merlin's beard, you finally finished!" George sighed in relief and called out the password, "Honeybird!"
"Oh! Such unrefined children. Was my singing really that unpleasant?" she huffed.
The portrait swung open, revealing the entrance.
George whooped and jumped inside, nearly colliding with Hermione as she was about to leave.
"Hey! Did anyone miss me?" he greeted exaggeratedly.
The common room fell silent for a moment before erupting into laughter.
"Fred! George! You're back! No wonder it was so quiet earlier!"
"I heard you got completely wrecked by Lee yesterday, Fred!"
"Really? Lee's that good?"
"Or maybe Fred's just terrible."
The twins were clearly well-liked. As soon as they entered, the room filled with teasing and chatter.
Dawn responded casually while glancing at Avery. He avoided looking toward his past self and instead sat down on a nearby sofa.
The common room buzzed with activity.
Students talked about homework, about Dumbledore's speech, and copied assignments at incredible speed.
Seeing this, Dawn suddenly realized something.
Fred's homework had not been done.
"Brother, help me out here," he muttered inwardly.
Glancing at George, who had already started copying, Dawn decided he would borrow the work later.
With that settled, he yawned.
The exhaustion from constantly shifting perspectives the night before still lingered.
He planned to find somewhere to sleep.
But just as he stood up, his vision suddenly blurred. A wave of dizziness forced him back onto the sofa.
"Not even a moment's rest," he murmured.
Pressing his temples, he looked up.
His vision split in two.
On one side, he saw the familiar ceiling and floating candles of the common room.
On the other— Dark clouds.
Heavy rain poured down. Even sitting by the fireplace, he could feel a faint chill.
This was not Fred's body.
It was another host.
And judging from the strange environment, this was not just another perspective shift—it was a memory from the past, triggered through a connection with a dead consciousness.
So someone had activated the ritual tied to the Resurrection Stone powder during a nap?
Dawn frowned.
This time, there had been no transition through the liminal world. Or perhaps there had been—but he simply had not noticed.
He leaned back into the sofa, focusing entirely on the other perspective.
The sky was dark.
Thunder roared.
Lightning flashed.
"W-Where am I?!" a young wizard shouted, panic filling his voice.
He stood on a stone road, wearing a hooded coat. Rain hammered against him, though the fabric had been treated to repel water.
Ahead stood a dimly lit chapel, its silhouette looming in the shadows. A few figures ran toward it, seeking shelter.
The boy stared in shock.
He had been in his dormitory just moments ago. How had he ended up here?
Through his eyes, Dawn quickly recognized him.
Blaise Zabini.
A Slytherin student. Same year as Harry Potter. Son of a notoriously mysterious mother.
But Dawn's first thought was something else.
He remembered overhearing Blaise mention a dream about being a boxer shortly after using the Resurrection Stone powder.
So the connection was not a one-time event. That was unexpected.
Dawn immediately tried to sense magic.
Nothing.
He could not feel any magical power at all.
Perhaps it was because he was currently embedded within Blaise's consciousness—but he had to consider the worst possibility.
Was this another Muggle memory?
Troublesome.
He would have to let Blaise take the lead for now.
Rain poured relentlessly.
Seeing Blaise standing there like an idiot, Dawn could not hold back. "Check what you have on you first."
"W-Who said that?!" Blaise panicked, looking around wildly.
Dawn sighed, then lied smoothly. "Calm down. I'm here to help you. I'm your true inner self."
"My... inner self?" Blaise frowned.
Before Dawn could elaborate, a cold, hissing voice echoed.
"How noble. A parasite pretending to be something more."
Dawn's expression darkened.
That voice...
Lord Voldemort.
He was not surprised. But still...Parasite?
The irony.
"Shut up, Tom," Dawn sneered. "Just hearing your voice makes me sick."
"Do not call me Tom! I am Lord Voldemort!"
"Voldemort?!" Blaise nearly choked.
What kind of nightmare was this? He had already experienced one strange dream.
But this—This was worse.
He pinched his thigh.
Pain.
But the rain did not stop.
"Stop standing there! Check your belongings!" Dawn urged.
"No, find shelter first, you idiot!" Voldemort snapped.
Blaise's head throbbed. Two voices argued inside his mind.
Instinctively, he chose the safer option.
He ran toward the chapel.
Voldemort let out a mocking laugh, "Dawn Richter, you're still far inferior."
Dawn ignored him, silently marking both Voldemort and Blaise in his mind.
Dawn Richter?
Blaise's face twitched.
Wonderful. Now there were two dangerous lunatics in his head.
Why was this dream so bizarre?
Why could he not wake up?
Suppressing his panic, he finally followed Dawn's earlier instruction and searched his pockets.
He found a rolled piece of paper.
Under the chapel's eaves, he unfolded it.
It was a crude map drawn in black ink, made of simple shapes. One location was marked with a red X.
"This looks like a map of the chapel," Dawn muttered. "Was this person a thief?"
"Don't just stand there. Go inside," Voldemort ordered.
"O-Okay..."
Even in a dream, Blaise did not dare disobey.
Like a puppet on strings, he stepped into the chapel.
___________
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