Chapter 599: Tales of the Veil
Severus Snape was dreaming.
Perhaps it was the relief of finally returning to Hogwarts, leaving behind that
territory where every shadow required a wary eye. Perhaps he had been "infected"
by the sight of a certain dark-haired boy sleeping so soundly. Or perhaps it was
simply the abundance of calming incense he had lit in the dungeons, which had
finally—after all these years—decided to take effect.
Regardless of the cause, Snape had succumbed to a deep, heavy slumber. It was a
mercy, in a way; in sleep, he didn't have to look at the loathsome faces of his
"colleagues" in the field.
"Severus, what are you doing?"
A repulsive, high-pitched voice rang out. Snape turned a cold, hooded gaze
toward the owner of that voice, his stomach turning at the sight of the man's
face.
"Rot," Snape replied flatly.
"You should show me some respect, Severus. A man like you... heh. Who truly
knows where your loyalties lie?"
The raspy dialogue was punctuated by the occasional sound of falling rubble. The
air was thick with the scent of pulverized stone, dust, and the metallic tang of
blood. A little girl's crying echoed through the silence of the ruins, a high,
thin sound like a needle pricking the soul.
Barty Crouch Jr. kicked a piece of broken masonry aside. His eyes lit up as they
landed on the child, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knelt
down, his voice adopting a tone that was a mockery of kindness.
"Shh... stop that now. Tell me, little one... where are your mummy and daddy?"
Snape stood three paces back, his black robes caked in grey dust. He felt a
sense of vertigo, as if he were trapped in a recurring nightmare.
"Crouch."
Snape's voice was soft, yet it was enough to make the younger man's hand freeze
mid-reach.
"What is it, Severus? Surely you aren't about to give me a lecture on
'innocents'?" Crouch turned his head, his smile full of undisguised derision.
"I have no interest in speaking with you at all," Snape said. "But of all the
tasks the Dark Lord assigned us tonight, 'playing with a child who cannot even
formulate a proper sentence' was not on the list."
Crouch stood up, brushing the dust from his knees. He began to stalk toward
Snape. He was half a head shorter than the Potions Master and had to tilt his
chin up to maintain eye contact, but his aura was no less predatory.
"I've always wondered," Crouch said, his tone light and almost cheerful. "Why
are you always in such a hurry to get back? Are you rushing to report our
'progress' to Dumbledore? Or are you simply eager to claim the credit for
yourself?" He tilted his head. "Or is it both?"
Snape didn't retreat. He didn't even blink. His black eyes were like two sealed
wells—cold, dark, and bottomless.
"Crouch," he said slowly, "when you incinerated that village, did it ever occur
to you what the Dark Lord values most? Is it your fanatical devotion... or is it
your brain?"
Crouch's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He understood the barb.
Voldemort had no use for a lunatic who couldn't control his impulses, especially
now, before the final pieces of their design were in place.
At the other end of the ruins, the girl's wailing subsided into rhythmic,
hiccuping sobs. Snape's gaze drifted past Crouch's shoulder to the child,
lingering for less than a second before he looked away.
"We're leaving," Snape commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Crouch stared at him for a long time before letting out a sharp, barking laugh
that made his shoulders shake. "Oh, you know what, Severus? One day, I'm going
to watch you slip. I'll be right there when the mask finally cracks. And when it
does—"
"I look forward to the attempt," Snape interrupted, casting a final, freezing
look at the man.
He turned and walked toward the edge of the rubble, his black robes billowing in
the wind before he vanished into the night. Crouch remained where he was,
looking down at his wand and then back at the shivering girl in the corner. The
smirk slowly left his face, replaced by a look of brooding calculation. He
didn't raise his wand again. He simply followed the path Snape had taken,
disappearing into the same darkness.
A broken streetlight nearby flickered. Suddenly, it flared with a steady,
brilliant light.
Half of Snape's face was caught in the glow. He felt muddled, as if the world
were beginning to pull him back to wakefulness. But he wasn't awake yet.
Instead, he heard voices—strange, echoing sounds that seemed to resonate from
the air itself.
"It's my... Professor. Professor Snape. He's having a nightmare."
The voice was hauntingly familiar.
"Nightmares are a common ailment, child." This second voice was exceptionally
gentle, carrying a warmth that made one want to sink into a deep, dreamless
sleep. "A man should have nightmares; it proves he still has something left to
fear."
"Perhaps you're right, Madam Brock."
The Black Cat (Sean) trotted across the damp, cool earth. He felt as though he
were traveling toward a small town. It was a bizarre development; Sean didn't
remember a town existing in the World Behind the Veil, yet the concept was
firmly anchored in his mind.
A woman had appeared from behind a cluster of giant ferns with long, hanging
aerial roots. She had introduced herself as Madam Brock. She was dressed in
simple, pale robes, the hem stained with fresh earth and patches of moss. Her
face was round and kind, radiating a sense of infinite patience.
She hadn't looked at all surprised to see a black cat in the middle of the mist.
She simply leaned down and gently scratched the Cat behind the ears with her
knuckles.
"You're looking for him, aren't you?" Madam Brock's voice sounded like the
crackle of dry wood in a winter hearth—safe, warm, and steady. "Follow me. I'll
lead you through the gardens. The paths here are a bit willful; they enjoy
playing tricks on newcomers."
The Cat followed her instinctively, his eyes constantly scanning the shifting
landscape. They entered a valley choked with deep-green vines. As Madam Brock's
skirts brushed the ground, seeds that should have been dormant for centuries
woke up instantly. Sprouts turned into vines, which then erupted into tiny,
star-like white flowers, only to wither and die the moment the pair passed by,
completing an entire lifecycle in seconds.
"Don't be afraid," she said without looking back, sensing the Cat's hesitation.
"In this place, growth and decay are the same thing. They are parts of the
Eternal."
As they exited the valley, the horizon opened up, though it remained blurry and
indistinct. The air was as clear as spring water. Sean could see two silhouettes
in the distance, but they looked as if they were behind a rippling sheet of
glass. Their voices carried across the void with a hollow, echoing quality.
The sound of distant bells began to toll. Sean felt a jolt of recognition. He
had heard these bells before, in another dream.
They had reached the edge of the town, where orchards from the valley began to
blend into private gardens. Several figures were sitting in a small courtyard
filled with ripening fruit.
Sean immediately recognized two of them.
Rowena Ravenclaw, his mentor, sat in an armchair carved from solid elm. A
massive, heavy volume lay open across her lap. Her gaze frequently drifted from
the pages to watch Helena, who was currently forcing herself to read a book of
her own.
Occasionally, Rowena's lips would curve into a small, fond smile before she
turned back to the distant mountains.
"Is he coming, Rowena?"
A boisterous voice shattered the peace. Rowena's serene expression vanished
instantly, her sharp features tightening into a look of intellectual annoyance.
"I assumed you would be the one to know, given how closely you trail him."
"Naturally! As the only student capable of drawing my steel—"
Godric Gryffindor sat down heavily on a nearby chair, his boots accidentally
crushing a small patch of roses. Sean felt the magical pressure around Rowena
intensify. Godric, realizing his blunder, quickly pulled his feet back.
"Merlin's beard... they grow fast here, don't they?" he muttered awkwardly.
"To the unburdened mind... yes, they do," Rowena noted, casting a sideways
glance at him before looking toward the cottage where Helena had fled to avoid
the noise.
"Who are you calling unburdened? I'm a very busy man!" Godric huffed. "I have to
spend all day deciding which Dark Wizards deserve a proper thrashing."
"Hmph."
Ravenclaw offered a dismissive sound and stood up to leave the courtyard.
"Someone has to do it! It's the law of the land!" Gryffindor wasn't usually a
man of many words—his sword was his tongue—but around Rowena, he always felt the
need to explain himself. Perhaps it was because they had spent so many centuries
apart, or perhaps because his blunt honesty had wounded her in the past.
"Rowena!" he shouted after her.
She stopped in the doorway.
"I..." Godric's bravado deflated. "I shouldn't have mocked your intellect.
Perhaps there are times when wisdom is an anchor. I just... I hate seeing you
hide her away after what she did to you..."
Sean's tail flicked with interest. This was high-tier historical gossip.
"Perhaps it is a different kind of bravery," Rowena said softly, "to acknowledge
a flaw and remain steadfast regardless."
With those words, Godric picked up his sword and marched away. Sean realized
this wasn't the right time for the "Deity" to make an entrance. He remained
perfectly still, perched atop a large, flowering bush. He watched as the fruit
from the surrounding trees dropped to the ground and began to hop and skip
across the white earth like living things.
"They seem like fire and water, don't they?" Madam Brock asked gently. She was
currently catching the hopping fruits in her apron. "But look closely, child.
Courage without wisdom is mere brutality. And wisdom without the courage to
defend it is just a dusty relic in an ivory tower."
Sean sat in thought.
"You caused quite a stir the last time you were here, didn't you, dear?" Madam
Brock's eyes twinkled.
Sean looked at her blankly. He had no idea what she was talking about. His only
clue about his last visit was the tiny fragment of memory he'd seen in
Dumbledore's mind.
"I... I don't remember."
"Oh, don't fret. Forgetting the dream is the natural order of things." Madam
Brock's presence was as comforting as a warm hearth.
"You know what happened?" the Cat asked.
"I do. That's why I'm here," she laughed softly. "I'm here to teach you the
rules of the Lands Between. In this, I disagree with your mentor Rowena. I
believe that hiding the truth only breeds more regret."
Sean listened with rapt attention. He suspected Madam Brock—whose name was a
localized play on the word for Badger—was exactly who he thought she was.
"The Void Rune... it is destined to crack. I suspect it can withstand seven
fractures before it is spent. This is neither a blessing nor a curse; it simply
signifies that the wizard's will is becoming one with this realm. It allows the
wizard to release the full potential of their magic."
Madam Brock's voice was steady and rhythmic. "Many wizards wander here, lost in
their own cycles. Regret is the primary thread of human life, child. Perhaps you
can assist them. Whether they wander on this side of the Veil, or the other."
"What do you mean?"
Sean felt a spark of realization. He remembered the scene in Dumbledore's
head—the cracks in the Rune. He realized that his jump in Soul Transfiguration
proficiency had likely happened then. By breaking the Rune, he had touched a
higher source of power.
"The wizard can release the full potential of their magic..."
That was the key to the Legendary tier. He had jumped from Proficient to Master
in a single trip. If he could harness that again... the Legend was within reach.
"Mmm. Look at them..."
Madam Brock raised a hand. Sean watched as the mists swirling around him were
pulled toward her. They were a milky, pearlescent shade, distinct from the
standard grey vapor of the realm.
"Forgiveness," she whispered. "In a place defined by judgment and eternity, it
is the rarest of commodities."
"Forgiveness?" Sean tasted the word.
"You have encountered them before, though not in this specific place," she said.
Sean was stunned. How did she know? Every time he had peered into Voldemort's
memories, those same mists had appeared. It was through those mists that he had
finally understood the Dark Lord's obsession with the number Seven.
"It is because your link to the Veil is hardening. Use them carefully, Sean.
They can allow you to see directly into a wizard's soul."
"You mean... I can see their secrets?"
"Is there anything else a soul is made of?" Madam Brock smiled. "Emotion,
intellect, memory... these things are fragile before eternity, yet they endure
for so long. In a soul, thought is the only constant. Using the mists to read a
mind is as natural as breathing here."
Sean felt a chill. If he could command those mists, Voldemort would have no
secrets left.
"It is as you imagine," she confirmed, giving him a demonstration of the mental
pull.
"Thank you, Madam Brock," Sean said sincerely.
"I love it when the young ones show gratitude. It reminds me of new sprouts in
the spring," she beamed. "I suspect you're itching to test your new sight. As it
happens, someone is currently trapped in a nightmare nearby. Perhaps you could
offer him a bit of assistance?"
She gestured toward an orb of dark, churning mist—Snape's dream-seed. It was
vibrating violently, leaking plumes of black vapor.
Sean hesitated. He wasn't sure if he should intrude on the Professor's private
hell.
"I have seen her, you know," Madam Brock added softly. "She was a beautiful,
brave, and loving child. No one who met her could help but love her. If she knew
that he had chosen to walk the same path she did... it would bring her great
joy."
Sean went still. He knew exactly who she was talking about. Lily Potter.
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