Delivering the admission letter to Harry Potter and accompanying him to Diagon Alley had been nothing more than a fleeting episode in the summer.
Afterward, life for Qin Yu and Hermione returned to its familiar rhythm—though, thanks to that day, something subtle had undeniably changed between them.
Ever the studious one, Hermione threw herself into her magical studies, determined to finish every book before term began and have Qin Yu explain all the trickier bits.
Of course, there was more to their days than just studying. Sometimes, they'd lounge together on the living room sofa, watching television. Hermione would stretch out along one end, her feet propped comfortably on Qin Yu's lap—a position she'd deemed the most relaxing. Qin Yu would, from time to time, massage her toes, claiming it was a form of Eastern acupressure.
And, to her surprise, Hermione found this mysterious Eastern massage technique truly delightful. Each time, she could feel that "meridian flow" Qin Yu described, a sense of soothing ease spreading through her body.
…
Other times, she'd grab a novel or magazine and switch things up—her head pillowed on his firm thighs, her feet resting on the soft armrest at the opposite end of the sofa.
"Qin, listen to this part—it's hilarious…" Whenever she came across a particularly funny passage, she'd read it aloud, earning herself a grape or a neatly sliced piece of apple from Qin Yu.
Inevitably, sometimes she'd drift off to sleep mid-sentence.
Whenever that happened, Qin Yu would gently cover her with a jacket or a thin blanket.
Once, she awoke to find herself tucked into her own bed. When she asked Qin Yu about it, he explained that she'd slept so long in the living room he'd had to carry her to her bedroom.
After that, she'd occasionally feign sleep, even "accidentally" pulling off whatever he'd covered her with—forcing Qin Yu to scoop her up and carry her to bed.
Each time, being held in his arms felt like floating in a gentle little boat. She'd get nervous, her body instinctively tensing, but she'd do her best to stay limp, to look convincingly asleep.
Once she was laid on the bed, she'd feel his arms slip out from beneath her back and knees.
Lying there, she always hoped he'd kiss her forehead—a goodnight kiss, perhaps. But after waiting several times and never receiving one, she finally took matters into her own hands.
One evening, after being placed on the bed, she couldn't help but peek open her eyes, loop her arms around his neck, and plant a quick kiss on his cheek.
Under Qin Yu's startled gaze, she hurriedly shut her eyes again and mumbled, "I'm asleep. That was just a dream."
That time, she finally got her wish—a gentle goodnight kiss on her forehead, and even a playful brush against her nose.
In that moment, she desperately wanted to open her eyes. But since she'd just insisted she was dreaming, she couldn't very well reveal she'd been fibbing. So she kept her eyes closed, steadfast.
When Hermione Granger said she was dreaming, then dreaming she was.
Her cheek was given a gentle pinch, followed by the familiar sound of footsteps leaving the room.
And soon enough, she really did drift off to sleep.
…
…
But let's not get ahead of ourselves—every story has more than one thread.
While the young man and woman at the Granger residence were diligently studying and finding their own summer amusements, far away at the northern tip of Africa—within the borders of Egypt—a swordsman clad in a black cloak stood atop a boat on the Nile, gazing out at the ancient ruins scattered across the desert.
The swordsman shook his head, muttering, "Ian, I don't mind your fondness for Eastern storytelling, but please, stop calling a cloak a 'great cloak.' I really can't get used to it."
Then, his voice shifted—sinister, mocking. "Heh heh heh, Stephen, why are you still so damn stiff…"
"I just hope I can keep my wits about me, if only for a while. That way, I might forget—just briefly—that I'm a madman…" The swordsman's tone reverted, weary and resigned.
"Oho, so you do remember you're a madman?" the sinister voice sneered.
"Of course I remember."
"And yet you still dream of going back? Still sending letters to that bat-dressed freak?"
"That's my business… If I can find the legendary power, I think we might be able to separate."
"Heh, let's hope so. I'm tired of sharing a body with you."
The swordsman looked up, sunlight glinting off his unshaven face. Clearly, he hadn't bothered with his appearance in quite some time.
If Qin Yu were here, he'd recognize the man from his eyes and facial features—though the years and the shifting expressions, now bright, now brooding, had changed him.
To Qin Yu, he was Stephen Swinton—Professor Swinton, or, after a few drinks, "Second Brother."
But he had another name: Ian Stanley.
Yes, he was a madman.
Back at Hogwarts, Stephen Swinton had managed to keep himself relatively stable. That other persona, Ian Stanley, would only surface occasionally—like that time in the centaur colony. Dumbledore was away, the whole school distracted by a Quidditch match, and in the search for a certain clue, the hot-tempered Ian had seized control. It worked—they'd found what they needed.
But ever since leaving Hogwarts and setting out on the long-planned quest, Stephen had found it harder and harder to keep Ian contained.
After all, when they were very young, it was Ian who had helped "them" survive. Now, out on this unknown path, Ian's presence had grown stronger and stronger.
Stephen didn't blame Ian for anything. He just thought that being a madman made him rather pitiful.
"Heh, useless, weak emotions," Ian sneered coldly.
"You're wrong. It's because I have hope for the future that I feel this way," Stephen retorted.
"…Enough. Your sentimentality does nothing for me," Ian replied, impatience dripping from his words.
And so, the "two" fell into silence.
Soon, the boat docked at a small city upstream. The crew shouted in broken English, introducing the local culture, food, and sights.
But Swinton—or rather, Stanley—paid them no mind. Cloak billowing and sword at his hip, he strode down the gangplank.
His real destination wasn't this city at all, but deep in the desert, over a hundred kilometers away. He had no interest in the local attractions.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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