Dawn's eyes snapped wide open.
He suddenly realized that the outermost layer of his custom pattern had never been protected by black lines. It had always been exposed, constantly soaked in natural magic.
And now, this room was filled with natural magic drawn in by the ritual of consuming Resurrection Stone powder.
Which meant—
Whatever that natural magic intended to do to the wizard lying on the floor, it would flow through Dawn's own body as well, altering the unprotected outer layer of his pattern in exactly the same way.
Fuck. Miscalculation.
He had never anticipated that completing magical creature transformation would leave behind such a flaw.
Dawn immediately tried to leave, focusing his will in an attempt to halt the alteration of those patterns—but his resistance was insignificant before the roaring tide of collective consciousness.
Very quickly—
His vision darkened.
A crushing wave of drowsiness overwhelmed him. He struggled several times, but in the end collapsed onto the ground, sinking into deep sleep.
The room fell silent.
Creak.
Creak.
The pendulum clock on the wall swayed from side to side, its joints grinding with a decayed friction that echoed faintly in the stillness.
The irritating sound slowly pulled Dawn back to awareness. His scattered vision gathered itself together.
Where am I?
The thought had barely formed when the memory of what had just happened surged back with clarity, jolting him fully awake.
He looked around.
He was sitting in a moderately sized room, likely a study based on the furnishings.
A cushioned chair supported him. On the desk before him lay a chaotic spread of documents and photographs.
A calendar rested in the corner.
March 1st, 1940.
Dawn instinctively rubbed his head. Short, stiff hair scraped against his palm. The sensation felt entirely real.
So this was the lifelike dream described in The Study of the Resurrection Stone?
He frowned, piecing together his situation.
He had been caught in the natural magic drawn in by the ritual of consuming Resurrection Stone powder.
In other words, he had effectively consumed the powder as well.
If his earlier hypothesis was correct, then he had now connected to the thoughts of a deceased individual.
Dawn pinched his fingertip hard. The sharp pain felt convincingly real.
He raised a brow and cast several spells he knew well. The magic flowed smoothly, without obstruction.
Fascinating.
When he was a child, he had not known magic, so he had never attempted to cast spells inside a dream.
After experimenting briefly, he turned his attention back to the desk, curious about the identity he had assumed.
He was not overly worried. If the account in The Study of the Resurrection Stone was accurate, he would awaken eventually.
He picked up a photograph.
It showed a man with his abdomen torn open, eyes wide and lifeless. Police cordons surrounded the scene. Clearly a crime scene photo.
Dawn formed a rough guess about the owner of this consciousness.
He set the photograph down and pulled another file toward him. As expected, it contained case reports.
A faint smile touched his lips.
He reached for a drawer, but as he stretched, he accidentally knocked over a cane resting nearby.
He bent to retrieve it.
As his palm wrapped around the handle, he paused. He flipped it over and twisted the wooden grip.
Click.
The cane split into two sections, revealing a hollow interior.
A wand was concealed inside.
Dawn raised a brow.
Hiding a wand within another object did not prevent its use. Hagrid had concealed his wand inside an umbrella.
This confirmed that his current identity was also a wizard—one living among Muggles and concealing his true nature.
Then he recalled his earlier spellcasting attempt.
If he had connected to the thoughts of a Muggle, would he still have been able to cast magic?
He considered the question, found no answer, and set it aside for now.
Opening the drawer, he found a black leather diary.
Flipping through it, he saw only blank pages.
But Dawn was not disappointed.
He transfigured a photograph into a hammer and struck the diary hard.
He had recognized immediately that this was the type of invisible ink sold easily in Diagon Alley. Writing produced by it required impact to become visible.
The pages darkened with words.
[January 13th, 1931]
[It has been nearly two years since I left Hogwarts.
After shamelessly attaching myself to several cases, I have finally built a modest reputation in this area. At last, clients come to me of their own accord.
The first commission I received was brought by a police chief named Groot. He sought my consultation on a troublesome murder case.
The victim was a headless woman. Because her head had been taken, her identity could not be determined, and thus no suspect could be confirmed.
I borrowed the crime scene photographs from the station and endured the discomfort, forcing myself to stare at the mutilated corpse at all times.
After three days of self-inflicted torment, in a moment of hazy clarity, I finally saw the woman's true face through prophecy.
What a relief.
I had been worried that this cursed Divination would fail me this time, causing my first real step forward to collapse before it began.]
Dawn skimmed the diary and quickly formed a solid understanding of his present identity.
In short—
He seemed to have become a second-rate detective drifting through the Muggle world, solving cases through a Divination ability that worked only intermittently.
The identity felt oddly mismatched with the world of Harry Potter, like pineapple on pizza.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed.
It was 1940.
Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes series had already cemented Britain's love for detective fiction.
Agatha Christie was rising steadily.
The country was brimming with mystery enthusiasts.
So—
If a wizard obsessed with detective stories graduated from Hogwarts and chose to return to Muggle society, concealing his identity and secretly using magic to solve crimes, it did not seem implausible.
Dawn accepted the premise. A certain thrill even crept into his chest.
He rose from the chair and stood before a full-length mirror.
He now appeared to be a man in his early thirties. Blue eyes. Medium-length hair. A decent build. Heavy dark circles beneath his eyes made him look worn and sleepless.
Bang.
Bang bang.
As he was evaluating his appearance, sharp knocking pounded against the door.
Dawn frowned, initially inclined to ignore it.
But remembering that he was inhabiting another person's thoughts, he hesitated, then left the study, crossed the living room, and opened the front door.
Outside stood a bearded man in a police uniform.
___________
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