The Return to Hogwarts

Amosta frowned in frustration. To be honest, he was a little unsure how to deal with the old butler. After taking a deep breath, Amosta looked at Harry, who was staring wide-eyed and also in a state of inexplicable excitement, patted him on the shoulder, and said to Lawrence...

"I think you should remember this child. His name is Harry Potter. He visited here last week with the Dursleys. In the drawing room, he unexpectedly discovered a photograph of the manor owner when he was young that looked remarkably like me, so he wrote to tell me. Oh, and by the way, I'm this child's teacher, and I taught him a little self-defense."

Harry rolled his eyes discreetly and remained silent.

"Out of curiosity, I came with him to take a look. Of course, if this presumptuous behavior bothers you, we can leave now."

"Leave? Oh, absolutely not!"

Lawrence suddenly regained his agility, grabbed Amosta and Harry's arms, and said to Harry in a trembling voice,

“You are Vernon’s nephew, aren’t you? Oh, child, I am so grateful to you!”

“Oh, um,” Harry said somewhat shyly, “You’re welcome, sir. I didn’t really do anything.”

Against the azure sky, a large patch of thick clouds was driven towards the sun by a damp wind, and the magnificent and elegant manor, bathed in golden sunlight, gradually disappeared into the shadows.

As Lawrence dragged and pulled him toward the house, Amosta looked at a hospital room on the top floor, his calm expression gradually becoming complicated.

Chapter 135 Father and Son

Lawrence gently closed the door. In the cold room, where only the ticking of the Muggle machine could be heard, only Amosta and the man lying unconscious on the hospital bed remained.

When the withered body of the man whose life was nearing its end came into view, Amosta's body trembled uncontrollably. His originally indifferent expression turned into an indescribable complexity, and his heart felt as heavy as if a stone were pressing down on it.

He walked slowly to the window, drew back the curtains, and opened the tightly closed window, letting the cool breeze carry away the unpleasant smell of medicine and decay in the room. Then, leaning against the windowsill, Amosta took out a cigarette, sniffed it, and his calm gaze fell on the man on the hospital bed, whose face had become thin and triangular.

"sad--"

After a long silence, Amosta once again uttered a cryptic sigh.

Perhaps it was the cold wind that entered the ward that made the man on the bed uncomfortable. Amidst a series of indistinct murmurs and groans, the man struggled to open his eyes.

He stared blankly at the stark white ceiling, and after about five minutes, a hint of clarity finally appeared in his murky eyes.

Soon, the dying man realized there was someone in the room. He looked towards the window, but the glaring light blurred his vision. He was puzzled as to why anyone would dare to open the window, so he blinked desperately, trying to see who was standing there.

The cool breeze made his stiff consciousness smoother and smoother, and the blurry light and shadow gradually faded away. As the person's appearance gradually became clearer, the man lying on the hospital bed opened his mouth wider and wider, and his cloudy eyeballs swelled up as if they were about to jump out of their sockets.

The silence continued. He was looking at him, and he was looking at him. There was no introduction, but both of them knew exactly who the other was.

"Could I have a cigar? Ever since I was diagnosed, Lawrence hasn't allowed me to smoke one, haha, but I guess it doesn't really matter now—"

Amosta tossed his cigarette over and said casually,

"No cigars, this will have to do—"

The man picked up the slightly crumpled cigarette, pursed his lips in displeasure, but ultimately didn't insist on his request. He shakily put the cigarette in his mouth and mumbled something.

"fire--"

pat!

After a crisp snap of the fingers, the cigarette butt flickered with light and emitted wisps of smoke.

The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, a look of enjoyment on his face. With the help of nicotine, his grayish-brown eyes brightened, and even his withered body regained some strength. He even had the strength to lean up slightly, shifting into a more comfortable position against the headboard.

"What was that just now? Was it a magic trick?"

“Just consider it a magic trick,” Amosta said lazily.

For someone who might breathe their last at any moment, there's nothing new in this world. The man nodded and didn't press further.

So you see—

The acrid smoke put pressure on the man's already collapsing internal organs. He coughed heavily twice, then casually wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. After a few breaths, he said with difficulty,

"Lawrence found you, didn't he? I know he's been looking for you behind my back, especially in the two or three years since I was diagnosed. He's put a lot of effort into it."

Amosta pulled out another cigarette, a sudden urge to light it welling up inside him, but ultimately he resisted, merely toying with it in his hand.

"If I were you—"

Amosta looked dejected. "I won't waste my remaining life on such trivial matters."

The man nodded in agreement, then fell silent. The cigarette in his hand burned rapidly, and the ashes fell, scorching ugly black spots onto the snow-white bedding.

What kind of life are you living now?

This time, it was Amosta who remained silent. He rubbed his temples, his usually unwavering gaze now darting around the room.

“How should I answer your question?” Amosta sighed. “A free and easy life, a hopeful life, it’s not bad overall.”

"Is that so?" the man said softly. "That's good—"

Neither of them seemed to have the will to speak. The man on the hospital bed cherished the last cigarette of his life, staring blankly at the slow but resolute flame devouring the smoke. Memories flashed through his mind, finally settling on a blurred face. He tried to see through the mist on that face, but no matter how hard he tried, the mist wouldn't dissipate. So, he could only laugh self-deprecatingly.

"I can't even remember what that woman looked like anymore."

“It’s not hard to understand,” Amosta said calmly. “After all, many years have passed, and I don’t remember very clearly either—”

His words revealed a crucial piece of information, which the man on the hospital bed, upon noticing, paused, then asked, "So, she... I mean, your mother, is already..."

“You guessed right,” Amosta nodded, “He’s been gone for many years—”

Perhaps it was a long-standing habit of spontaneously activating his brain shut-off technique when his emotions were turbulent, but Amosta's tone remained incomprehensibly calm. This calmness struck the man as somewhat jarring and made him feel angry, but after careful consideration, he knew he had no right to say anything.

"So--"

Seeing that the man seemed to have nothing more to say, Amosta straightened up from his reclining position and nodded to him.

"Get some rest, Mr. Blaine. I'll be leaving now."

The words "Mr. Blaine" uttered by Amosta burned like fire against the man's pride. His breathing quickened, and a strange strength suddenly surged through his body, which had been as fragile as a candle in the wind.

"do you hate me?"

Amusta stopped at the head of the hospital bed, turned his head and stared into the man's eyes for a long time before speaking slowly and deliberately.

“There’s nothing to resent, Mr. Blaine. After all, you’re just an innocent victim.”

The man slumped back onto the bed, his expression becoming dejected. The power that had surged within him was quickly stripped away, and he seemed to hear the footsteps of death becoming clearer.

"Could you please call Lawrence for me?" the man called to Amosta, who was walking to the door. "I have something I'd like to tell you."

P.S.: I'll be updating in the evenings from now on.

I'll first add an extra chapter for the first patron of this book (Unseen Moonlight Dyes the Sky), and I'll finish the rest as soon as possible.

Chapter 136 Those Stories (Part 1)

A deafening rumble of thunder echoed across the land, and a torrential downpour plunged Blaine Manor into a somber, oppressive atmosphere.

When Amosta returned to the private drawing room, he found Harry lost in thought, with none of the delicate pastries on the coffee table in front of him touched.

"Professor Blaine—"

Harry snapped out of his daze when he saw Amosta enter the room. He seemed curious about many things, but Professor Blaine's somber expression made him realize that perhaps he shouldn't pry too much into his secrets.

Should we leave now?

Feeling pressured by Amos Tower's presence, Harry suppressed his urge to ask about the meeting and looked somewhat uneasy.

Walking to the window, Amosta gazed at the dense rain outside and pondered for a moment before saying, "Old Butler Lawrence has invited us to lunch. Hmm—in this terrible weather, I think having lunch here wouldn't be a problem. At least we won't have to brave the downpour to find a car—"

It was a lie—Harry saw through it immediately.

Professor Blaine is a powerful wizard, and if he wanted to, he has plenty of ways to keep himself dry... Of course, Harry wasn't stupid; he didn't expose the lie, but just nodded silently.

Amosta closed the window, brushed the raindrops off her clothes, turned and sat down next to Harry, carefully examining the interior decoration of the house—crystal chandeliers, velvet carpets, cedar coffee tables, and even the teacups were precious porcelain from China.

"Tsk tsk, the extravagant rich people—"

Amosta glanced admiringly at the room's furnishings, murmuring his praise. He expected Potter beside him to say something in agreement, but Potter didn't. Potter didn't say a word, only stealing glances at him with a secretive, reserved look.

Amosta thought for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and asked with a soft chuckle.

"I bet you're curious about my relationship with the owner of this manor?"

“I don’t quite understand, Professor,” Harry nodded hesitantly. “You said you grew up in an orphanage, but you seem to have known all along that, well, you have a connection to this manor?”

This is because--

Amosta picked up a pastry from the coffee table, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it noisily, muttering something under his breath.

"How can I explain this to you? Well, although I'm not like you, who defeated Voldemort, the Dark Lord who struck fear into the wizarding world, not long after I was born, Potter, I also have my own unique abilities."

"Unique skills?"

Harry didn't have time to take Professor Blaine's teasing words to heart, and blinked curiously.

“Yes—” Amostella nodded and said, “My memory is exceptional, of course. You’ll probably wonder what’s so special about having an exceptional memory. There are plenty of people with amazing memories among Muggles, but none of them are like me. From the first time I opened my eyes in this world, I remember everything that happened to me—”

It took Harry several seconds to understand what Professor Blaine meant, then he stared in shock, his eyes wide with a comical disbelief.

"You mean you remember everything that happened after you were born? I've never heard of anyone having that ability!"

“Ah, yes, that situation is indeed uncommon, but there are always those in similar circumstances,” Amostella said vaguely, spreading his hands at Harry. “So, it’s not hard to understand why, even though I’m an orphan, I know about the blood relation between the owner of this manor and me—”

It took Harry a while to process the shocking news. Of all his friends, Hermione was undoubtedly the smartest. She could memorize a textbook that would make anyone feel hopeless just by looking at it in the shortest amount of time, and she could still recite the contents of that book backwards long afterward. But Harry believed that Hermione would definitely not be able to remember what she looked like when she was born!