Fragments

Tuesday morning.

Dumbledore's reply arrived faster than Zhang Wen had expected.

During breakfast, an owl flew into the Great Hall and accurately dropped the letter onto the plate in front of Zhang Wen—nearly smashing into his bowl of porridge.

Zhang Wen opened the envelope.

"Professor Zhang:

"Mordred. This name reminds me of some documents I read long ago. I need to verify certain information. Please come to my office at eight tonight. Bring Miss Pendragon.

"P.S. The password is 'Toffee Pudding.'

"—A.D."

Zhang Wen folded the letter and put it into his pocket.

Artoria sat beside him, demolishing a plate of fried eggs and bacon at her usual pace. She glanced at him as he put the letter away.

"Dumbledore?"

"Eight tonight. He has something to tell us."

"About Mordred?"

"Probably."

Artoria's chewing speed did not change at all. But the angle at which her knife cut into the fried egg shifted by one degree.

Much better than the four degrees from the shepherd's pie incident.

Progress.

Classes proceeded as usual during the day.

Second-year Boggart class.

Zhang Wen found a Boggart in a wardrobe in the staff room.

"Boggarts turn into whatever you fear most." Zhang Wen stood in front of the wardrobe. "The way to fight them is the Riddikulus Charm—turning them into something funny. Fear plus ridicule equals failure. Who wants to go first?"

No one raised a hand.

Five seconds later, Neville Longbottom raised his hand.

Zhang Wen looked at him. Three months ago, Neville would have hesitated for at least thirty seconds before raising his hand. He would not have lifted it higher than his ear, and he would have regretted it immediately afterward.

Now, Neville only hesitated for five seconds, raised his arm straight up, and did not lower it afterward.

"Mr. Longbottom. Step forward."

Neville walked up to the wardrobe.

Zhang Wen opened its door.

The Boggart burst out.

It spun in front of Neville for a second—then turned into Snape.

The entire class fell silent.

Boggart Snape wore black robes and looked down at Neville with that trademark cold, sinister gaze. His mouth curved with contempt.

Neville gripped his wand tightly.

He did not step back.

Three months ago, he would have.

"Riddikulus!" Neville shouted.

Boggart Snape's black robes turned into a garish Hawaiian shirt. A pair of flip-flops appeared on his feet, and a straw hat appeared on his head.

The whole class burst out laughing.

The Boggart began to shrink amid the laughter.

"Well done." Zhang Wen stepped forward and shut the wardrobe. "Mr. Longbottom, fifteen points to Gryffindor."

Neville's face turned bright red, but his grin stretched wide.

"Next—"

"I'll do it." Draco raised his hand.

This time, the class fell quiet for a different reason. Malfoy volunteering to face a Boggart was surprising in itself.

Zhang Wen opened the wardrobe.

The Boggart spun before Draco—

It turned into Lucius Malfoy.

But this Lucius was different from the real one. His expression was utterly indifferent—not his usual carefully cultivated reserve, but a blankness completely devoid of emotion. He looked at Draco as if he were a disappointing collectible.

The temperature in the classroom seemed to drop several degrees.

Draco's hand was trembling. But he did not step back.

"Riddikulus." His voice was softer than Neville's, but clear enough.

Boggart Lucius's long hair turned pink. His snake-head cane became a rubber chicken.

The laughter was quieter than before. Some people could not laugh.

But the Boggart was indeed shrinking.

Zhang Wen shut the wardrobe.

"Mr. Malfoy. Fifteen points to Slytherin."

Draco nodded. His face did not look good, but he stood very straight.

After class, he left quickly. Theodore followed behind him.

Zhang Wen watched their retreating backs.

What Draco feared most was not the Basilisk, not Dementors, not Voldemort.

It was his father's indifference.

Eight that evening.

The headmaster's office.

"Toffee Pudding," Zhang Wen gave the password to the gargoyle.

The spiral staircase rose, and Zhang Wen and Artoria entered Dumbledore's office.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk. An extremely old book lay open before him—its cover was dark red leather, its corners badly worn, and the writing on its spine had faded until it was almost illegible.

"Please, sit." Dumbledore gestured toward two chairs.

Fox gave a low cry from his perch.

"Mordred." Dumbledore went straight to the point. "After receiving your letter, I spent a day searching through my private collection. I found some information you may need."

He opened the ancient book on the desk.

"This is a fourteenth-century manuscript—The Sleepers of Britain. The author is unknown. It records known sealed entities throughout Britain during the medieval period. Most of it is legend and hearsay—but one entry is remarkably detailed."

Dumbledore turned to a page marked with a bookmark.

"'Somewhere beneath Wiltshire—according to reliable reports—sleeps the remnant soul of Mordred, Camelot's rebellious knight. This remnant soul was personally sealed by the great wizard Merlin. The date of sealing cannot be determined, but it is believed to have been shortly after the Battle of Camlann. The state of the remnant soul is—incomplete. It is said that Merlin sealed only part of Mordred's soul—approximately one-third—while the whereabouts of the rest remain unknown.'"

Zhang Wen and Artoria both seized on the key words.

"One-third," Zhang Wen said.

"Remnant soul," Artoria said.

"Yes." Dumbledore closed the book. "If this record is reliable, then what is sealed inside the wardrobe is not Mordred's complete soul. It is only a fragment, roughly one-third of her soul."

"A one-third soul fragment." Zhang Wen calculated rapidly. "The threat level is much lower than a complete soul. But still—"

"Still extremely dangerous." Dumbledore nodded. "Even one-third is the soul fragment of a legendary knight. Merlin used his strongest sealing techniques to suppress it. Fifteen hundred years have passed, and it is still trying to break free."

"What about the other two-thirds?" Artoria asked.

Her voice was calm. But Zhang Wen noticed that she leaned forward slightly in her chair—she was paying very close attention.

"The record says 'whereabouts unknown.'" Dumbledore shook his head. "Merlin may have sealed them separately elsewhere. Or they may have already dispersed. Soul fragments, if not properly preserved, gradually dissipate with time."

"But this one-third was preserved," Zhang Wen said. "Abraxas Malfoy sustained it with blood sacrifices for thirty-five years. Before him—who knows how many generations kept it going."

"Why preserve it?" Dumbledore's blue eyes turned toward Zhang Wen. "Do you have any thoughts?"

"Three possibilities. Knowledge, power, immortality."

"I lean toward the first." Dumbledore said. "Mordred—if the legends are reliable—was a central knight in Camelot's final years. She possessed a great deal of knowledge about Camelot—including Merlin's magical secrets, the combat techniques of the Round Table Knights, and King Arthur's—"

He paused and glanced at Artoria.

"King Arthur's weakness."

Artoria's expression did not change.

"For an ambitious wizard—" Dumbledore continued, "knowledge from Camelot fifteen hundred years ago would be priceless. Merlin-level sealing techniques, ancient combat magic, lost rituals—the value of such information far exceeds any amount of gold or power."

"So Abraxas was making a deal with Mordred's soul fragment," Zhang Wen said. "Trading blood for knowledge."

"Possibly. During the blood sacrifice, the soul fragment could communicate with its provider to a limited degree through the blood connection. Abraxas gave blood once a month—one chance each month to speak with Mordred."

Zhang Wen leaned back in his chair.

The whole picture became clear.

In 1927, Abraxas had somehow acquired the wardrobe. He discovered the secret within—Mordred's soul fragment. He began using blood sacrifices to sustain it and communicate with it, obtaining ancient knowledge from the era of Camelot. What he learned over those thirty-five years, and what he did with that knowledge—there was no record.

After his death, the secret was cut off. The stored blood continued the supply, but no one spoke with Mordred again. Until the blood ran out this September.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Zhang Wen said, "what do you suggest we do?"

Dumbledore fell silent for several seconds.

"Three options." He raised three fingers.

"First—reinforce the seal and restore the supply. Maintain the current state. This is the most conservative option. Its weakness is that it treats the symptoms rather than the cause, and it requires blood to be supplied indefinitely."

"Second—destroy the soul fragment completely. Use a Basilisk Fang or some other means capable of destroying souls to eliminate it directly. This is the cleanest option. The risk is that the soul fragment may go berserk during the process of opening the seal."

"Third—" Dumbledore looked at Artoria. "Speak with it. Find out what information it possesses. Then decide whether to destroy it or reseal it."

The room fell silent.

Zhang Wen looked at Artoria.

Artoria's expression remained unchanged. But the ring finger of her right hand—the one resting on the armrest—curled slightly.

That movement. Whenever the old days of Camelot were mentioned, her ring finger did that.

"Miss Pendragon." Dumbledore's voice became very gentle. "If we choose the third option, you may need to face it. Are you ready?"

Artoria looked at Dumbledore.

"I need time to think."

"Of course. There is no rush. The seal should hold for at least another four weeks. You have enough time."

Artoria nodded.

Zhang Wen stood.

"Thank you for the information, Headmaster. We'll go back and consider it."

"Professor Zhang." Dumbledore stopped him. "No matter which option we ultimately choose, I will offer my full support."

"Understood."

"And—" Dumbledore's blue eyes glinted behind his half-moon spectacles. "Take care of Miss Pendragon. This matter weighs more heavily on her than on anyone else."

Zhang Wen glanced at Artoria.

She had already risen, her back to Dumbledore and her face toward the door. Her spine was straight.

"I will," Zhang Wen said.

After leaving the headmaster's office.

The corridor was quiet. At Hogwarts in December, there was practically no one in the corridors after half past eight. There was only the faint light of the wall torches and the occasional distant sigh of a ghost.

The two of them walked side by side.

They were silent for about two minutes.

"Artoria."

"Mm."

"What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking—if we choose the third option—what I should say to her."

"You don't necessarily have to face her yourself. I can—"

"You can't." Artoria's tone was decisive. "Mordred's soul fragment—even if it is only one-third—is enough to influence an ordinary wizard's mind. Her ability to exert mental pressure was already extremely strong during the Camelot era. If you communicate with her—"

"You're worried she'll hurt me."

"She will try to control anyone who comes into contact with her. That is her instinct."

"What about you? Can she control you?"

"No. My will is stronger than hers. And—" Artoria paused. "It is unlikely that she would want to control me. That was never what she wanted."

"What did she want?"

"Recognition."

One word. Yet it carried the weight of fifteen hundred years.

Zhang Wen did not press further.

They reached the office door on the third floor.

Zhang Wen reached out to push it open.

Then he changed direction.

His hand did not push the door. Instead, it rested on Artoria's shoulder.

Artoria stopped walking.

"No work tonight," Zhang Wen said.

"There are still runes to—"

"They can wait until tomorrow. You need to rest tonight."

"I'm not tired."

"Ever since you learned that name this morning, you've been spending your energy suppressing your emotions. Your body isn't tired. Your heart is."

Artoria turned to look at him.

The corridor torchlight fell across her face, half-lit and half-shadowed.

"How did you know I was suppressing my emotions?"

"You spoke thirty percent fewer words than usual today. You ate lunch fifteen percent slower than usual. In class, you switched from standing by the window to standing in the corner—you tend to choose positions with your back against a wall when you're uneasy."

Artoria stared at him for five seconds.

"You memorized all my behavioral patterns."

"I've always been observing you. You know that."

"Observing a partn—"

"If you dare say the word 'partner,' I won't make you tea tonight."

Artoria closed her mouth.

Three seconds later, the corners of her lips lifted slightly.

"All right. Then how would you define it?"

Zhang Wen's hand was still resting on her shoulder. He could feel the line of it—firm but not rigid. Much better than this morning. This morning, her shoulder had been hard as stone.

"I'm observing someone I care about," Zhang Wen said.

He said it calmly. His voice did not tremble. His heart rate was probably around one hundred and twenty—fifty percent faster than usual, but it didn't show on the surface.

Artoria said nothing.

She looked at him.

"Care about," she repeated.

"Yes. Care about."

"You finally didn't use 'partner,' 'data analysis,' 'professional habit,' or 'basic physics.'"

"Those excuses are used up. You said it last time—don't make excuses."

"I did say that."

"So I'm not making them anymore."

The corridor was utterly silent.

Artoria raised her hand—her right hand—and touched the fingers of the hand Zhang Wen had resting on her shoulder.

Just a touch. Fingertips against fingertips.

Then she turned and pushed open the office door.

"Come in," she said. "I'll make tea."

"I said I'd make it tonight—"

"You put too much sugar in your tea."

"You like it sweet."

"I like the sweetness when you add two spoonfuls. When you make tea for yourself, you add two and a half. Your two and a half is just right for me. But when you deliberately make it for me, you only add two—half a spoonful less."

Zhang Wen paused.

She could even tell the difference in how much sugar he used when making tea for himself and when making it for her.

A difference of half a spoonful of sugar.

"Isn't your sense of taste a little too precise?"

"A knight's palate. On the battlefield, you need to judge from food whether it's been poisoned. Sensitivity is a basic skill."

"So when you drink tea I make, you're testing it for poison."

"I drink the tea you make because you made it."

Zhang Wen stopped in the doorway.

Artoria had already walked over to the kettle. Her back was straight. Her hand reached for the tea caddy, her movements smooth.

As though what she had just said was as ordinary as The weather is nice today.

But Zhang Wen's heart rate had already risen from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and forty.

"You make it," he said.

"Two and a half spoonfuls?"

"Two and a half."

Artoria's hand paused over the tea caddy for an instant.

Then she scooped out the tea leaves, boiled the water, and added the sugar—two and a half spoonfuls.

Zhang Wen sat down at the table.

The rune rubbings and notes from the day were still spread across it. He pushed them aside.

No work tonight.

He had said so.

Artoria came over carrying two cups of tea. She placed the cup with two and a half spoonfuls of sugar in front of him. Her own cup—

Zhang Wen glanced at it.

"How many spoonfuls did you put in yours?"

"Two and a half."

"You usually use two."

"Today, I wanted half a spoonful more."

"Why?"

Artoria sat down across from him.

"Because you said two and a half spoonfuls was just right. I wanted to try what the sweetness you think is just right tastes like."

Zhang Wen lifted his teacup.

The temperature was just right. The sweetness was just right.

She had made it.

Two and a half spoonfuls.

The same sweetness.

He thought this might be the best cup of tea he had ever had in his life.

It had nothing to do with the quality of the tea leaves, the water temperature, or the brand of sugar.

It had to do with that half spoonful of sugar.

She had added half a spoonful more so she could drink the same sweetness as him.

Zhang Wen lowered his head and drank his tea.

The fireplace was burning. Snow fell outside the window.

No work tonight.

Tonight, they would only drink tea.

Two cups of tea with the same sweetness.

That was enough.