Hogwarts: Even Voldemort Can't Stop Me From Studying

Chapter 1213: Chapter 35: Elegy

Soon, the professors at the teachers’ table also heard the news. At first, there was a burst of disbelief, but after confirmation from Dumbledore, they all became silent.

Professor Sprout raised her hand to wipe the corner of her eye and said sorrowfully, ”It’s such a shame... she was so young...”

At the house tables, students who initially thought it was a rumor finally had to accept it. Gryffindor’s Lee Jordan rubbed his nose and said in a muffled voice:

”Actually, she was my favorite professor... At times like this, I think we need a dirge.”

He expected a response in unison, but upon turning his head, he did not see the familiar red hair of the twins.

It was then Lee Jordan recalled that something had happened to the Weasley Family; the twins, Ron, and Ginny were not here.

A double sense of loss gripped him, making him feel even more sad.

At that moment, Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, Angelina Johnson, suddenly picked up the silver dining knife beside her and lightly tapped the glass in front of her.

”Ding!”

After the crisp sound, Angelina lowered her eyes to watch the juice in the glass ripple slightly and began to sing softly:

”The castle’s stone walls remember your light footsteps,

The spinning staircases remember your echoing laughter,

The corridor portraits whispered last night,

Saying that a figure would never pass by the window again...”

This was the dirge written for a beloved headmaster in the history of Hogwarts—Dilys Derwent—when she passed away.

At first, the hall only resonated with Angelina’s voice.

But soon, Ailia Spinnet beside her followed, then Katie Bell a few seats away.

The voices gathered like streams, flowing from the Gryffindor table to Hufflepuff, with Ravenclaw students gradually joining in, some even from Slytherin.

Except for a few—like Blaise Zabini with disdain at the corner of his mouth, and Pansy Parkinson looking slightly uninterested—others lowered their heads, quietly listening.

The younger students did not know Professor Abigail, but their emotions were more intense, with eyes quickly reddening amid the song.

”Candles, please lower your heads,

Starlight, please anchor.

Let the raven carry away the unfinished long letters,

Let the lake keep the songs we sing for you.

Sleep, sleep, under the moonlight of the tower,

Sleep, sleep, in the corner of the greenhouse...”

The song was not loud, but it filled the entire hall, drowning out the final sounds of cutlery and whispers.

Slytherin’s Crabbe and Goyle insisted on stuffing a piece of cake into their mouths but eventually gave in to the atmosphere, hesitantly setting down their forks.

At the teachers’ table, Professor McGonagall quickly took out a square handkerchief, pressing her eyes firmly, her chin held tight. Professor Sprout kept sobbing, her plump shoulders shaking slightly. Professor Flitwick, with red eyes, swayed as he sang softly.

Professor Snape stared expressionlessly at his breakfast, as if trying to discern a flower from it, with no one knowing what he was thinking.

The song continued to spread, carried by the castle’s winds outside. In the castle corridors and the Headmaster’s Office, countless portrait paintings opened their eyes, seemingly listening silently.

But ordinarily, the sound from the hall wouldn’t reach these places.

”The wind sweeping past the stands idles between seats,

The library’s quill waits for ink to dry.

The common room’s hearth suddenly dims,

Saying the armchair lacks a warm weight.

Candles, please lower your heads,

Starlight, please anchor.

Let memories condense into the growth of stalactites,

Let the name be etched into the river of Magic History.

The wind will remember, the rain will remember,

The oak door recalls who once leaned back...”

The dirge was sung over and over until the song gradually ceased, only echoes lingering in the silence.

The breakfast that day left more food than usual; everyone, immersed in grief, had little appetite to eat.

After the meal, students gradually stood up, leaving the long tables, quietly heading to the heavy doors of the castle.

Their luggage had been packed and sent to the Hogwarts Express by the diligent House-Elves.

Outside the castle, the sky had just begun to lighten, and the cold air hit their faces. Hagrid had already harnessed the carriages, quietly waiting in the twilight.

Vid walked up to an empty carriage and stopped.

He looked at the Thestral’s skeletal head and bat-like wings, and those pale eyes that seemed to gaze at death.

He reached out his hand, gently stroking the Thestral’s bony back. The Pegasus obediently lowered its head, exhaling a breath of cold air.

In a daze, Vid felt as if he could still hear that low and distant dirge echoing faintly in the cold air:

”Drift across the mists hovering over the Black Lake!

Tread upon the frost that hasn’t yet melted on the bridge!

When snowflakes fall upon the castle spires,

We will say—

You were invited by the glittering Unicorn,

To wander a never-ending starry river...”

Vid turned back, taking a deep look at the castle standing in the morning light. The warm lights through the tower windows resembled steadfast watchers in the night.

He turned, boarded the waiting carriage, and a feeling of unprecedented clarity and icy determination began to solidify and take shape in his heart.

Sacrifice.

Professor Abigail sacrificed herself to reveal the hidden enemies behind the scenes; Mr. Weasley’s attack was a cruel cost borne of complacency and goodwill, also a pawn under Voldemort’s ambition.

Dumbledore’s repeated reminders, his heavy-eyed gaze, all seemed to say—if necessary, he would also choose to sacrifice himself to buy the future for others.

Vid doesn’t like sacrifice.

No matter the ultimate triumph achieved, the loss of companions is the irreversible ultimate decay, the cruel cost that no bargaining chip can balance.

The carriage quickly filled with people, the Thestral lifted its hooves and began to move forward. The carriage swayed, the light on the frame flickering along.

Vid looked ahead, his gray eyes reflecting the trees flashing past the window. Deep in his pupils, a fiercely unwavering light burned.

Within his ability, he will strive with all his might to prevent such things from happening again.

He won’t let friends wither away silently like Abigail, won’t watch as his loved ones fall due to negligence, nor let someone like Dumbledore bear everything alone until utterly exhausted, nor let countless children lose their future before they’ve grown up.

Perhaps he can’t foresee all crises, nor stop every conspiracy, but he can do better, be more proactive, more thorough!

He will use his mind, his Poppet, his perspective connecting two worlds, all the resources he possesses, to build a sturdier defense, lay a keener warning, devise more precise countermeasures.

He wants protection to become proactive and effective, so sacrifice is no longer the only or last resort.

A dirge is sung for the deceased.

But he will pave the way for the living!