Miss Cordelia, It's Time

When Gavin opened his eyes, Dumbledore was sitting opposite him.

The old headmaster's posture remained unchanged—hands clasped together, body leaning forward, blue eyes looking over from above his Half-moon Spectacles.

Over the past three weeks, he had learned to judge the outcome from Gavin's expressions: a furrowed brow meant failure, and a blank expression meant he was still thinking. But this time, he saw neither of those.

Gavin looked relaxed, with a hint of excitement, as if he had suddenly been relieved of a heavy burden.

"Looks like it was a success?" Dumbledore asked, leaning back in his chair to relax.

"Um."

Dumbledore's lips curled into a slight smile. "So, Mr. Gu, how do you intend to compensate a centenarian you've tormented for three weeks straight?"

"Compensation?" Gavin looked up at him. "Do you know what I just discovered?"

Dumbledore adopted an expression that suggested he was all ears.

"Your consciousness is the problem," Gavin said. "It's like I just left the beginner's village and bumped into a top-tier demon king, who then volunteered to use me as experimental material."

"I tried for a whole week, trying every method I could think of, and finally discovered that the problem was with the material itself."

Dumbledore blinked.

"So," he said slowly, "It was I who delayed the experiment's progress?"

"Objectively speaking, yes."

A brief silence followed.

Dumbledore reached for the now-cold honey tea on the coffee table, took a sip, and his gaze drifted to a corner of the ceiling.

"I was planning to help," he said, with an unusual hint of embarrassment in his voice.

Gavin looked at him, the greatest white wizard of the age, who was holding a glass of cold tea and trying to make his expression look less like that of someone reflecting on his actions.

"Your intentions are good." Gavin stood up, patting the wrinkles in his robe. "But next time, if you're going to be used as experimental material, please state your material grade in advance."

Dumbledore didn't respond to the game term. He put down his teacup and looked at Gavin: "Remember to bring the toad tomorrow too. I'll find some other materials."

Gavin nodded, turned and walked towards the door, but stopped halfway there, turned back and said, "You should go to sleep early, and don't drink that herbal tea."

Dumbledore waved to him, signaling him to hurry up.

The door to the Headmaster's Office closed softly behind Gavin. Dumbledore didn't immediately get up to go to sleep; he sat in his chair, his gaze fixed on the Philosopher's Stone lying quietly before him. The surface of the red gem occasionally shimmered with a faint light, like a mother-of-pearl slowly breathing in the deep sea.

As Gavin left, the slight embarrassment on Dumbledore's face gradually faded.

He began to review everything that had happened that day, and Gavin's theory actually proved to be feasible.

Before tonight, he was mostly thinking about doing what he could to avoid regrets, but Gavin just told him that he had actually succeeded and that his theory was correct, which shocked him.

He watched as the child, starting from scratch, manipulated the Magic of the Philosopher's Stone to a level of precision sufficient to penetrate into the Consciousness Space of others within three weeks, and then tonight, achieved tangible results—all of which he found incredible.

Dumbledore finished his cooled tea and put down the cup.

"Just left the beginner village and ran into the Great Demon King?" He repeated to the empty Headmaster's Office, then chuckled.

Gavin was woken up by the noise the next morning.

"Gavin! Gavin!" Justin's voice came through the blanket, like a persistent woodpecker tapping on a tree trunk, "Someone wants to see you! Wake up!"

Gavin pulled the blanket up over his head. He hadn't slept so comfortably in a long time. Three weeks of irregular sleep patterns, coupled with the pressure he finally relieved last night, made his body feel like a switch had been flipped, resulting in a deep and restful sleep without even a dream.

"Gavin!"

The blanket was yanked off, and sunlight pierced his eyes. Gavin squinted and saw Justin's large face hovering directly above him.

"What have you been doing lately?" Justin said. "You look like you haven't slept in three days."

"Three weeks," Gavin said in a hoarse voice.

"What?"

"It's nothing." He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and asked, "Who wants to see me?"

"A House-elf." Justin took a step back, his expression as if he had just experienced some kind of adventure. "It says its name is Dibby, and it's crying in the Common Room right now, Ernie is comforting it."

Gavin paused for a moment.

"Dibby?"

"Yes. It keeps saying 'Why aren't you replying?' -- Hey, Gavin, where are you? --"

Gavin had already jumped out of bed, put on his shoes, and walked outside.

In the Common Room, a tiny House-elf stood on the stone floor in front of the Fireplace, wrapped in a faded old scarf, its long ears drooping, and its large eyes brimming with tears. Ernie squatted beside it, holding a cookie, watching it with a completely bewildered expression.

Dibby saw Gavin, his whole body sprang to the ground.

"Mr. Gu!" It pounced, grabbing Gavin's robe with both hands, its voice shrill and hoarse, "Mr. Gu, why didn't you reply to my letter? Dibby had no choice but to come to Hogwarts to find you, why didn't you reply—"

"What letter?" Gavin squatted down.

"A letter! A letter from a week ago!" Dibby's voice rose. "Delivered by Owl! Written by the young lady!"

Gavin looked up at Ernie.

Ernie paused for a moment, then his expression turned grim as if he had suddenly remembered something.

"A week ago..." he said, "A week ago there was a letter. You weren't home that night, so I left it on your desk, thinking you'd see it when you got back."

Gavin immediately stood up, turned around, and ran back to his dormitory.

His desk.

He hasn't really looked at his desk for over two weeks.

Every day when he returned to his dormitory, he would collapse onto his bed, sometimes without even taking off his robe.

The desk was piled with textbooks, notes, a few used matches, and some scraps left over from dissecting shrimp chips last time.

A letter lay in the far corner.

The envelope was beige, and a thin layer of dust had settled on it.

Gavin tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter.

The handwriting is beautiful; it was Cordelia who wrote it.

Gavin,

Could you come to St. Mungo's? I want to see you.

I haven't been feeling well lately.

There's no need to rush. But if possible, please do it as soon as possible, okay?

--CD"

The date is ten days ago.

Gavin gripped the letter, pressing the edge of the paper deeper into his fingertips.

"Dibby." He turned around, his voice lower than before, "What happened? Did something happen to Cordelia?"

Tears streamed down Dibby's face, one by one, rolling from her bulging round eyes and landing on her faded old scarf, spreading into a small dark patch.

"Miss forbids Dibby telling," the House-elf's voice was soft and fragmented. "Miss said we can't tell Mr. Gu."

"Miss said that Mr. Gu has already tried his best, and we can't trouble Mr. Gu any further."

"Dibby shouldn't have come; Dibby snuck out—"

"Dibby," Gavin emphasized, hoping Dibby would get to the point quickly.

Dibby looked up at Gavin's face, and then, as if finally breaking down, her voice shattered into fragments.

"Miss won't make it through the month. She's going to donate herself to the Department of Mysteries today."

The Common Room fell silent.

Ernie dropped the biscuit in his hand. Justin stood in the doorway, his mouth half-open, unable to utter a single word.

Gavin stood there, clutching the letter in his hand.

The edges of the letter were crumpled, and his knuckles were white.

St. Mungo's.

Cordelia walked slowly down the corridor. It had been almost a month since she last saw Gavin, and his last reply had been three weeks ago.

Three weeks of silence.

Perhaps he has finally come to terms with reality; some things cannot be changed by effort alone.

Some things can't be solved just by having ideas or determination. He's so smart, he probably figured this out before anyone else.

Healer and patients came and went along both sides of the corridor, and no one noticed a thin little girl in Hospital Gown stop by the window and look out.

The sun is shining exceptionally well today.

London has been without sunshine for a long time; layers of gray, damp overcast skies pile up, making everyone in this hospital almost forget what sunlight looks like.

But today, the light slanted down from the high windows, shining on the stone floor of the corridor, on the white sheets drying next to the radiator, and on the back of her hands.

"That's nice," Cordelia said softly.

She never dared to ask too much of fate.

But even though fate was cruel, she still saw the long-lost sun in her final days.

That's enough; it's already far more than she could have hoped for.

She could feel the Obscurus stronger within her.

It was no longer slowly, piecemeal, eroding her, but like an enemy that had seized all the advantageous terrain, beginning its final encirclement. It spread outward from her chest, pressing in along her bones, along her blood vessels, along the edge of her consciousness.

Gavin appeared too late; if it had come earlier—even just a few months earlier—perhaps she could have controlled it for a little longer.

But that's no one's fault; time waits for no one.

Perhaps leaving without saying goodbye is also a form of farewell.

She didn't want Gavin to see her in her final, pathetic state. She didn't want him to push open the door to the ward and see not the person who could argue with him, scold him, and stubbornly refuse treatment, but someone who couldn't even open their eyes, someone Obscurus drained to the last inch of their body.

She preferred that he remember the person who sat by the window in the St. Mungo's's corridor and could banter with him.

"Cordelia."

A gentle voice brought her back to reality.

Healer Vittel stood in front of her, with nurse Claire beside her.

Claire was holding a heavy suit of clothing in her arms—a dark gray, special fabric with several tightening belts and buckles, making it look more like a restraint device than a coat.

"Mr. Vittel, Miss Claire," Cordelia nodded to them.

"I'm sorry, Miss Cordelia," Dr. Vittel's voice was softer than usual, as if afraid of disturbing something, "You must wear this. Today is... today is your time to go back."

Cordelia glanced at the outfit, then at Vittel, and noticed something in the eyes of this usually calm and capable old Healer that she had rarely seen before.

"Okay," she said. "I understand, thank you."

Healer Vittel opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

Miss Claire knelt down and helped her fasten the belts. The nurse's hands were trembling, and it took her several tries to fasten the second buckle.

For some reason, the nurse didn't use magic, but instead used her hands to help Cordelia put on the "coat."

Cordelia looked down at the top of Claire's graying hair and said softly, "Miss Claire, that button is on backwards."

Claire stopped. She didn't look up, but simply unbuttoned the buttons again, turned them over, and buttoned them back up, her movements slow, as if she were stalling for time.

"Are you really going to donate yourself?" Claire's voice was a little hoarse.

"Hmm," Cordelia said, "I've made up my mind. I'll donate it to the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic for Obscurus research, as my final contribution."

Claire bit her lower lip.

Healer Vittel turned around, pretending to tidy up the medicine bottles on the cart.

Heavy clothes wrapped around Cordelia's body, layer upon layer, from her shoulders to her ankles. The belts were tightened one by one, and the sound of each metal buckle snapping shut was like the final lock closing on a door. In the end, only her legs could still move, allowing her to walk on her own.

"It seems they've arrived," Dr. Vittel said.

In the courtyard of St. Mungo's's, two people had appeared at some point. A man and a woman, dressed in black Robes and wearing black top hats, stood under the shade of a tree in the center of the courtyard. Their faces were pale, their expressions indifferent, and they looked like two neatly cut paper figures.

"Cordelia Rowle?"

Cordelia looked up. "It's me."

"Let's go," the woman said, her voice cold and devoid of any emotion.

The heavy straitjacket tightened around Cordelia, pulling her to take her first step.

Sunlight fell on the gravel path in the courtyard, and a small patch of Scabbers swayed down, dappling the hem of the robes of the two Unspeakable.

Cordelia took three steps, then stopped. She wanted to look back at St. Mungo's's one last time. It wasn't that she was reluctant to leave the hospital, but she had lived there for so long that the spot by the window in the corridor had taken on the shape of her body.

She hasn't turned around yet.

A figure suddenly burst in from the courtyard entrance.

"She's not going anywhere!"

Cordelia turned her head.

The two Unspeakable simultaneously picked up their Wand.

The moment Cordelia saw the person clearly, she smiled.

Confined within the heavy shackles, as the Obscurus relentlessly eroded the last vestiges of her being, she smiled so broadly in the sun-drenched courtyard that her eyes narrowed.

The early summer sun shone on the person at the entrance of the courtyard.

Sweat streamed down his face, soaking a small patch of his robe in a dark color. He was still breathing heavily, one hand supporting himself on his knee, the other clutching a crumpled letter.