"Now you can see what's wrong with your soul. A fragment of Voldemort's memory body has been sleeping inside your soul all this time. When the thought strings stored in it drift into your consciousness body, you end up experiencing Voldemort's memories. You carry a part of Voldemort. You are his Horcrux, and also a part of him. But at the same time, you are Harry Potter."
"Horcrux?"
"A fairly mediocre piece of Dark magic. If you want to know how to make one, go check my notes on the back shelf, second row."
"Can you take Voldemort's memory body out of me?"
"I can, but I don't recommend it. For various reasons, that fragment of memory body has already started to break down. The thought strings in it have been released and are constantly merging into your own memory body. As long as your consciousness body doesn't get polluted, you can inherit Voldemort's magic and his memories."
Harry's heart gave a jolt. He jumped to his feet, hesitated for a while, then asked softly, "Mr. de Lin… how can I safely inherit that magic?"
The key word was "safely". Harry had no desire to suddenly turn into a Dark Lord one day.
"I can help you with that," Skyl said, finally showing some real interest, "but you'll have to help me with something as well. Lately I've run into a little trouble of my own. I need to observe a wizard's dreams—especially creative ones. I just happen to be short of volunteers. I did have someone else in mind, but he would absolutely never agree to let me into that mind full of scarred memories. You, on the other hand, Harry—you're a good option. With a shard of a great wizard's memory body in you, your potential already far surpasses your peers'. There's a gold mine buried in your soul."
Harry realised the muscles in his right calf were twitching. He forced himself to calm down. "I'm willing to be your volunteer."
"Don't look so miserable." Skyl's tone was gentle. "I take privacy very seriously. Even if I see all sorts of strange things in your dreams, I won't breathe a word to anyone."
Harry stayed silent. There was a peculiar light flickering in his eyes—a fierce longing.
What was he longing for?
It didn't matter.
Skyl was very satisfied with that look. Creating spells required precisely this kind of firm conviction. A wizard who was full of self-doubt could never force the world to bow to their will. They wouldn't just fail at creating new spells—casting even the simplest magic would be riddled with mistakes. Take that famously ridiculous Gilderoy Lockhart from the original story: his actual strength was mediocre. Only his Legilimency and Memory Charms were truly refined, and he made his name by stealing other people's lives. But because he was eaten alive by guilt and self-doubt, his spellcasting level was worse than that of a second-year student.
Confidence was good, but creating spells was no easy matter. Snape had managed to invent spells while still a student, but that had been the result of grueling effort and study. Harry had been in contact with magic for less than half a year; he still needed time to grow.
Teachers always liked students who were both diligent and bright. If Harry really proved promising, Skyl wouldn't mind investing more effort in training him.
"Up to now, how many spells can you cast nonverbally?" Skyl asked kindly, like a tutor checking homework—only with a faint, lingering air of menace.
The hunger in Harry's eyes went out in an instant. Embarrassed, he lowered his head and held up two fingers.
"Oh? So, twenty? Or just two?"
"T-two."
Skyl sighed. "More than two months, and you've only managed two spells nonverbally. And what about wandless magic? Any progress?"
Harry shook his head in shame.
"Ah." Skyl sighed again. "You see now why I didn't let you lot join my classroom. I'd rather not die young of high blood pressure."
Harry's cheeks flushed scarlet. He said nothing. If Ron had been here, he would've shouted that he'd make Skyl sit up and take notice. If Hermione had been here, she would've simply shown off a bit of her nonverbal casting. Harry and Neville, faced with this kind of setback, both tended to fall silent. The difference was that Neville's timidity would make him give up, whereas Harry was a wounded little lion who would never pass up a chance to hold his head high again.
"All right then. We'll take care of both matters at once." Skyl patted his own forehead lightly as a new idea occurred to him. He'd set up a simulation-management sandbox system back in Winterhold; there was no reason he couldn't do something similar at Hogwarts. Just before he'd crossed worlds, a fan game called Hogwarts Legacy had come out. Skyl hadn't actually played it, but he'd learned a bit about its systems from online media.
In Hogwarts Legacy, the tutorial section had been designed as a magic book called The Wizard's Field Guide, used to track the player's learning progress—a sort of menu panel rolled into one convenient volume.
Skyl planned to make Harry his own "Field Guide"—a copy of The Wizard's Field Guide. By means of Legilimency and other spells, he would link Harry Potter's memory body to the book. In a sense, it would be a weak form of Horcrux. The Field Guide would record Harry's spell-learning process, his thoughts, and his dreams, and at the same time help him resist the erosion from Voldemort's memories.
Making the Field Guide took some time—certainly longer than Skyl had first expected. He wanted it to be perfect, so he went through several design revisions. Other matters interrupted him halfway and forced him to put the project down for a while. Harry waited, anxious and uneasy, for the promised day to arrive.
Four days later, on 24 December, Skyl sent word for Harry to come to The Tower of Tomes. He explained the design philosophy of the Field Guide to Harry. Once the boy understood what this miraculous magical tool could do, his joy was obvious to the naked eye.
"All that's left now is the final step—linking your remembrance body to the book. Don't worry, the remembrance body can't really be hurt. It's like cutting off a lock of hair." He beckoned. "Come here."
Harry obediently stepped closer. When he saw Skyl lift his hand toward his forehead, his first instinct was to turn and run, but he forced himself to stand still.
de Lin's palm was sheathed in a layer of icy magical aura. It made Harry's forehead go numb with cold, while his lightning-shaped scar burned as if it were on fire.
Harry felt as if he were drunk. The world before his eyes blurred, and then it was as if he'd stepped into a dream. After that, he remembered nothing.
…
Harry woke from sleep without realising when the new day had begun. He lay in his soft four-poster bed for quite a while, his mind completely blank. He felt like his "thought strings" must be very sparse at the moment.
What time was it?
He turned his head toward the frog alarm clock on his nightstand. It was ten forty in the morning. If there'd been a first lesson today, he'd already have missed it.
The dormitory was empty. It looked like everyone else had gone to class.
"Merlin's beard!"
Harry shot out of bed in a panic. He was late!
He fumbled into his clothes, and as he rushed about his foggy mind gradually cleared. His thoughts started to move again.
Wait… no. Holiday had already started. The Christmas break—two whole weeks of it.
That was terrifying. Thank goodness it had only been a false alarm.
"'Bout time you woke up," came a greeting from the dormitory doorway. Ron stood there, his forehead beaded with sweat, cheeks flushed, panting hard, as if he'd just had a really good workout.
"Merry Christmas, Ron."
"Merry Christmas. You gonna open your presents? I haven't opened mine yet. I wanted to wait till you woke up so we could do it together."
Harry nodded. Ron's clothes were damp with sweat and he gave off a warm, sour stink, but boys didn't much care about that sort of thing.
The Christmas gifts had already been piled up beside Harry's bed. On top, a black oiled-paper parcel had a card tucked into it: From de Lin to Harry Potter. Merry Christmas.
When he unwrapped it, inside lay a thick, beautifully made copy of The Wizard's Field Guide. As Harry ran his fingers over the pages, he felt something strange—as if this book were an organ he'd once lost and just gotten back.
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