On Halloween night, the students hurried through the dark to the new campus, a recently built cluster of school buildings north of the old grounds, surrounding that White Tower.
Because the new dormitories still weren't finished, everyone could only crowd into a vast, empty structure for the night. Sleeping in a building that hadn't even been renovated yet put a damper on everyone's mood. The lively Halloween atmosphere cooled down in an instant. And in the north of Britain in November, the nights were already bitterly cold.
One after another, the students lit magical flames. Clumps of blue fire bloomed across the floor like fallen, glowing meteors. Six or seven students gathered in each circle—girls on the inner side of the hall, boys on the outer side—and tonight, the professors would be staying as well.
A lot of young witches and wizards clustered around Ms. Moonshadow, like chicks huddling beneath a mother's wings. No one made them feel safer.
House-elves came by in a steady stream, delivering bedding and mattresses, along with many sound-dampening curtains. They partitioned the huge hall into countless temporary "rooms." Students ran back and forth, constantly slipping through layers of soft drapes like they were weaving between tents at a circus. They darted to their classmates' bedding to crack jokes, or pulled out food from the feast to share.
After some cleaning and decorating, the venue—destined to become a greenhouse in the future—turned warm and pleasant. The ceiling was a broad glass dome with no steel framework at all. It was entirely transparent, as if it didn't exist. Tonight, starlight poured through the dome and brightened the children's cheeks, and the glittering river of the Milky Way looked so enchanting it made you want to stare forever.
Before long, the Hogwarts students fell in love with this temporary dorm. How fun was it to spend the night all together? They felt like they could talk themselves hoarse, like they wished the night had twenty-four hours. Some older students even wore distinctly suspicious smiles. Percy, for instance—his gaze was practically glued to Ravenclaw's girl prefect. No need to guess: some little couples were absolutely hoping to use this chance to sneak off together.
What a dizzying, imagination-fueling night.
Professor McGonagall's words crushed their wicked hopes at once.
"Once the headcount is complete, lights out and straight to bed. No wandering around. Girls and boys are not to cross the centerline. I trust you understand what I mean."
A chorus of groans rose up.
"Well, now I'm completely disappointed," a Hufflepuff boy muttered, already getting ready to roast marshmallows by the fire. If the professors had waited any longer to restore order, this pack of troublemakers would've turned it into a full-blown bonfire party.
The prefects from each House began counting heads.
"Ginny Weasley, Romilda Vane… Parvati Patil, Hermione Granger… all Gryffindor girls accounted for."
"…Ravenclaw girls accounted for."
"…Slytherin boys accounted for."
One by one, the prefects reported in.
Percy held the roster, murmuring as he checked names. "…Skyl—oh, you're here. George, Fred, Jordan, Andrew… Ron, where's Harry? Where did Harry go?"
Ron looked tense. "H-He went to the bathroom."
"Are you lying? Where did he really go?"
"He really went to the bathroom. He'll be back in a minute."
Percy stared at his little brother for a moment. The sweat on Ron's face looked extremely suspicious, so he turned and went straight to McGonagall. "Professor, Harry isn't here."
Ron stomped his foot in frustration and traded a look with Hermione.
McGonagall called the two unlucky kids over. "Do you know where Harry has gone?"
Hermione fidgeted with her fingers, anxious. Ron kept playing dumb.
The professors gathered together with the posture of a threefold inquisition. Snape's voice was cool and sharp. "It seems our Miss Know-It-All has decided that a tiny scrap of loyalty is worth abandoning her friend's life. Potter is in the castle right now, isn't he?"
Ron nodded while Hermione shook her head. They froze. Then Ron shook his head while Hermione nodded.
McGonagall actually laughed, angry. "I had no idea you possessed the nerve to lie to professors. Gryffindor will lose fifty points—fifty points each for the two of you. As for Mr. Potter…"
Snape drawled smoothly, "A hundred points would hardly be excessive—assuming Mr. Potter is still alive when we find him."
Hermione looked miserable, nearly on the verge of tears—not because she feared for Harry's safety, but because she ached for her House points.
"Ms. Moonshadow will just bring him back anyway," Ron muttered.
Snape heard him. He flared like he'd been pricked by a needle, leaning in close to Ron and hissing, "Mr. Weasley, do not fool yourself into thinking resurrecting someone comes without a price. Ms. Moonshadow can't resurrect scraps of remains. If you don't want to see your friend turned into a puddle of lifeless meat, then abandon that ridiculous wishful thinking immediately. That's a basilisk—one of the most dangerous monsters known. It can swallow Mr. Potter the way a snake swallows a mouse. Do you understand?"
Ron nodded, subdued.
The Heads of House hurried back to the main castle to search for the missing Harry.
The moment they left, the students inside the venue came alive again. The remaining professors clearly couldn't rein in this crowd of mischief-makers, and Ms. Moonshadow—if anything—looked indulgent, letting the young witches and wizards play. Before long, the scent of roasted marshmallows and grilled meat drifted through the air.
They stacked blankets into little tent-shapes, gathered around the magical flames—reliable things that wouldn't ignite clutter and could even burn underwater—and told ghost stories, cooked snacks, played Gobstones, and battled at wizard chess. Their whispers rippled like a pond full of frogs on a summer night.
Skyl's bedding was tucked into a corner by the wall, near the centerline. Not far away came the giggling of the girls at play, crisp and bright like birds' footsteps.
"What are you looking at, Skyl?" A Ravenclaw first-year edged over. She sat down by the wall too, leaning just slightly past the centerline.
Skyl turned to look at her. "Just a history book."
"Can I see?"
He handed her the Book of Mora. The first-year flipped it open casually. The first quarter of the pages were stuck together, impossible to turn. She stared at the sheet music on the page and began to hum, soft and clear, the tune airy and bright.
"I like it," she said. "This melody reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
"Myself." The little girl laughed cheerfully and handed the book back.
But Skyl's gaze on her had changed. "You're talented. What's your name?"
"Luna. Luna Lovegood. People call me Loony sometimes—call me whatever you like."
"Sometimes being a bit mad is a good thing. It means you aren't bound by common sense." Skyl paused. "Why does that melody remind you of yourself?"
"Oh—when I hum it, I see myself walking through grass in my head. The moonlight comes down, and it's beautiful." She frowned slightly. "And I saw someone else too, but it was blurry."
"It's Ms. Moonshadow, isn't it? You can go talk to her—she likes you."
"Thank you!" Luna's eyes lit up, and she hurried off to find Ms. Moonshadow. She was barefoot, her arches and ankles red with cold—apparently someone had stolen her shoes.
Skyl opened the Book of Mora again. The ink on the page gathered into the Earth and the Moon, moving along their ancient paths.
When others looked at that book, they could only see a small fragment of music—each person's own fate-motif, hinting at their luck for the near future. What Skyl saw was the destiny of the world.
This summer, Eru Ilúvatar had taught him how to compose a Great Song.
A Great Song was a structure of the world more primordial than space-time itself. It was history in its purest form, the very soul of the universe. If the universe was born from the Big Bang, then the Great Song existed even earlier.
Its function resembled law, but it had more warmth. It allowed every soul to become a creator—and it even allowed living beings to step outside the score. Law was merciless; music could have mercy.
Skyl still hadn't kindled divine fire, and so he couldn't compose a Great Song.
Luckily, he'd found another way around it. If he couldn't write one from scratch, then he could translate the existing soul of the universe into a Great Song.
He used the Book of Mora as the vessel for the universe's soul, converting the universe's thought-strings into melody and recording them into the book—turning it into a counterfeit Chronicle of the Ages. Its coverage spanned the entire Earth–Moon system. After all, it was his first experiment—just a small test run.
The Great Song within the Book of Mora and true history were two systems that were connected yet independent. You could even call them two different timelines, simply overlapped within the same space.
Through the Book of Mora, Skyl could alter the score, erase melodies, or create new music—nearly omnipotent.
But changing the score could only influence the universe's soul indirectly.
The melodies Skyl erased did not die in real history. They would still live as normal. It was just that their actions would no longer affect the Great Song.
The Great Song wouldn't run forever, because the Book of Mora's capacity was limited.
In theory, the book's pages were infinite. But the information generated by a Great Song was also infinite.
The finer the record, the greater the volume of information produced. Recording what someone did in a day, versus recording the daily activity of every single cell in their body—those weren't even close to the same order of magnitude. The Book of Mora did not record physical information. It recorded thought-strings.
The Book of Mora's record began on August 13. As time passed, the staggering amount of information generated by the Great Song had already filled a quarter of its pages. At this rate, the book would be completely filled by next June.
When that happened, the Book of Mora would undergo an upgrade—something Hermaeus Mora was very pleased about. And he cast his master, Skyl, a satisfied, delighted look.
After all, he was a knowledge demon-god. Knowledge was what he loved most.
Skyl didn't particularly crave the Book of Mora's upgrade. He valued the process more—he enjoyed the experience of weaving fate. To him, it was an invaluable practice of truth. To this world, it was a party where no one had to worry about consequences.
Tonight, something interesting was going to happen at Hogwarts.
Maybe I should've explained earlier. But that sort of narration is painfully boring, and I never dared to use it. I just hope it won't affect how this part of the plot ultimately turns out.
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