Harry Potter: The Bard of Hogwarts

Dreams, it seemed, didn't hold sway over the turning of day and night.

But they could influence the rhythm of life.

That morning, Hogwarts was basking in an unusual warmth, a happiness that clung to the walls and drifted through the halls like sunlight through stained glass. Even the notoriously irritable caretaker, Argus Filch, seemed... oddly pleasant.

When he caught a student casting spells in the corridor, he didn't bark or scowl. Instead, he wandered over with surprising interest and actually joined the discussion. And when a first-year struggled to get a Levitation Charm off the ground, Filch—of all people—stepped in to offer help, complete with detailed theory and exaggerated wand movements.

The truly bizarre part? The spell worked. Right there and then, under Filch's uncharacteristically helpful guidance, the student managed to make their feather lift.

Filch smiled. Not the smirk of a man catching someone out, but a soft, genuine curve of the lips, as if he believed that yes, this was exactly how the world should be.

And it wasn't just him.

By the time classes began at nine, it was clear something peculiar was happening. Professors, too, had changed in subtle but striking ways.

Professor Snape, who had not once been sighted with clean hair in living memory, appeared with his dark strands washed and brushed. He had even donned a new set of robes. They were still black, naturally, but of such fine cut and rich material that even inattentive students noticed.

Professor McGonagall was her usual stern self, but there was a lift to her mouth that hinted at a smile she was trying very hard to hide. As though her lips, too, had caught the morning's strange enchantment.

Yes, everything felt charmed, touched by a kind of peace that Hogwarts rarely experienced outside of Christmas morning.

At half-past nine, Ino finally opened his eyes.

By sixth year, the workload at Hogwarts had eased considerably. Many subjects allowed students to drop out if they had no intention of sitting for the N.E.W.T.s, and even the strictest professors tolerated such choices. After all, what was the point in pushing a student to take a subject they'd never pass when that time could be better spent honing actual talent?

Even Professor McGonagall, ever the hawk, had quietly accepted this tradition.

And so, Ino had enjoyed the relative freedom that came with "happy education," as he privately called it.

He swung his legs off the bed and stretched, his gaze falling on a letter lying on the desk.

That was odd.

In Slytherin's windowless common room, post was rarely delivered directly. Letters and parcels typically arrived in the Great Hall over breakfast. For one to appear here in his dormitory, it could only mean two things.

Either Draco had left it behind, or someone had entered the Slytherin quarters unnoticed.

He doubted Draco. Only someone with enough skill to slip into the snake's den without rousing a soul could've delivered it—and at Hogwarts, that usually meant a phoenix.

Especially after last night.

He'd spoken briefly with Dumbledore, but their exchange had only scratched the surface. No doubt this letter was meant to continue the conversation.

After a quick wash, Ino opened it.

It was short.

A simple request to meet.

But that was enough. He didn't need to guess the reason. Dumbledore had been the only one in last night's dream who had stayed calm, collected. That wasn't apathy, Eno understood now, but foresight.

He smiled as he folded the parchment.

Yes, the old headmaster had always played the long game.

And now, as the weaver of dreams, Ino wasn't inclined to refuse an invitation from the one man who still thought several moves ahead.

After dressing, he made his way out of the dormitory.

At ten o'clock, the Slytherin common room was mostly empty, save for a few students lounging in armchairs, chatting softly or scribbling in notebooks. Even here, beneath the lake, the air was lighter. Laughter rippled through the gloom like beams of sunlight refracted by water.

The mood only deepened as Ino stepped into the castle corridors.

It was in the stonework. The paintings. The suits of armor.

He could feel it now—not just the happiness of the people within, but the castle itself, as if the ancient stones were humming with quiet joy.

He thought back to something Dumbledore once said in the original story: "Hogwarts has secrets no one will ever uncover completely."

At the time, it sounded like romantic exaggeration.

But it wasn't.

Hogwarts wasn't unknowable because of its size or magic alone. It was something deeper. Something alive. A place with feelings, with moods.

And a place with feelings could never be fully understood.

As the thought echoed through him, Ino stepped onto the moving staircases, the castle carrying him upward.

On the eighth floor, the headmaster's office basked in golden morning light. Sunbeams spilled through the windows, banishing the drowsiness that clung to the room and filling it instead with warmth and color.

"Professor," Ino said calmly, "I can't answer your question. Truthfully, I don't even understand half of it myself."

He wasn't stalling. Just honest.

Half an hour earlier, he'd arrived at Dumbledore's office and, predictably, the old man had made a request.

Could Ariana be brought back?

It was a heavy question, even framed gently.

A week ago, Ino would've laughed it off.

He wasn't Hans, after all. He didn't command a bottomless bag of miracles or stroll through worlds full of talking beasts and magical trees. His own valley, his story—was far more modest.

No golden apples. Just a red windmill that spun slowly in the breeze.

And yet, despite the refusal, Dumbledore hadn't looked particularly disappointed.

"I was being hasty," the headmaster said with a sigh. "After waiting a century, you'd think I'd have more patience. Still… there is something I can give you."

He stood, robes swishing softly, and crossed the room to a large, dark-wood cabinet.

Ino tilted his head, curious.

He'd always wondered what treasures Dumbledore kept in that thing. It was like the overgrown toy box of a very strange, very powerful child. Everything he cared about seemed to end up in there—sherbet lemons, enchanted devices, even parts of soul-eating artifacts.

The cabinet creaked open.

After a moment of rummaging, Dumbledore returned with a small, square tin box. The Duke's Honeydukes logo was printed on the top, beneath which, in fine script, were the words: Custom Edition – BlowPop Super Bubblegum.

Ino raised a brow. "You're giving me candy?"

Dumbledore smiled mysteriously and opened the box.

Eno leaned in, expecting sweets. Instead, his eyes widened in shock.

Nestled inside was a tiny, blood-red gemstone.

No larger than a pea, it shimmered like raw fire. Not perfectly cut or polished—its shape was rough, natural, like a seed. A crystal seed.

It was mesmerizing.

"That," said Dumbledore quietly, "is the Philosopher's Stone."

He pushed the box across the desk.

"Nicolas asked me to destroy it, and I was going to… but I was young then. A lover of alchemy. I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Eno barely heard him.

His gaze was fixed on the stone. Something about it tickled the back of his mind.

A seed.

It looked like a seed.

In Hans' world, miracles bloomed from stories. But in Ino's, things grew. Magic beans, enchanted stones, whispered secrets in the soil. Everything was sown. Everything sprouted.

He found himself wondering: what would happen if he planted it?

Not used it. Not studied it. Just… planted it.

That little ruby seemed to hum with the potential of something more. And sitting in a candy box or a vault, it was wasting its chance.

No, it belonged in the valley.

He didn't know why he felt that so strongly, only that it made perfect sense.

A gem like a seed. A miracle waiting to be buried.