Homecoming from Hogwarts

"Yes, yes, that's for sure. Since it's a sanatorium set up by the ministry, it can't just serve the rich. We have to take into account those who have made special contributions."

Slughorn perked up. He smiled and said,

"So, how does it charge?"

"Oh, that depends, Horace—"

Amosta rested his elbows on the armrest of the sofa, supporting his face, and his eyes seemed less bright.
"People who own property in wealthy areas are automatically eligible to live there and pay fees on time every year. But if they are meritorious people, the ministry believes that they should be taken care of for free—"

"Oh, it's free!"

Horace's little eyes sparkled, and his breathing became heavier.

"That's great. I've worked hard all my life, and it's just right for me to recuperate there. But it's not easy to get the Order of Merlin, First Class. If you say it's a contribution..."

Horace rubbed his hands, smiling.
"My dear Amosta, do you think I am qualified to do this?"

"Oh, Horace, you're planning that, too?"

Amosta, pretending to be drowsy, opened his eyes. He looked at Horace and hesitated for two seconds.
"I can't say for sure, Horace. Of course, I know that you hold a high position in the academic world of potions, and that you have trained many outstanding young wizards, but... please don't mind if I speak the truth--"

"Where am I lacking?"

Horace asked urgently.

"The Ministry can't invite every retired professor from Hogwarts, or any top scholar in a particular magical discipline, in. What the Ministry is planning is a world-class nursing home, not a refugee camp--"

Amosta said in embarrassment,

"Even in the current Hogwarts, I'm afraid only Dumbledore is qualified to do so, and maybe I should be included as well."

Horace opened his mouth, then closed it again, repeating this several times before he asked cautiously,

"So in your opinion, Amosta, I should, I mean, is there any way?"

"If you can improve the wolf poison potion and completely restore those unlucky guys who are unwilling to become werewolves to normal, I think Amelia might give you a manor."

Amosta laughed twice, and glanced at the clock in the corner.

"Oh, my God, it's two o'clock already, time flies by so fast—"

Amosta supported himself with the handrail and stood up. He exhaled heavily several times before looking at Horace who was caught off guard.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Horace. It has been a real pleasure chatting with you."

"Oh, you're leaving, Amosta?"

Horace was a little surprised and at a loss, pinching the corner of his blue striped pajamas.

"Yes, it's too late. I have to rush back to Hogwarts tonight. I have some work to arrange--"

Amosta picked up the suitcase and held out a hand to Horace.

"Although I would like to have a candlelight chat with you, Horace, I think this would be a severe test of the energy of a retired old man. So, goodbye--"

"My energy is not so bad, Amosta——"

Horace grabbed Amosta's hand and shook it, his eyes hesitant.

"Well, bye--"

"Look forward to our next meeting, Horace—"

Amosta smiled slightly, turned and walked out of the living room.

Horace stood in the living room, his light of struggle flickering in his light gray-green eyes. He watched Amosta, who came to visit him late at night, staggering out of the living room, and listened to the footsteps that were getting farther and farther away, until the sound of the door being opened!

"Hey, wait!"

In an instant, his consciousness, which had been blinded by alcohol for several hours, regained clarity. Horace nimbly jumped over the wine bottles and empty candied fruit boxes on the velvet carpet, rushed out of the living room to the narrow corridor, and called out to Amosta who was about to step out.

Under the cold moonlight, the young man's purple eyes were not drunk at all, and he smiled politely.
"Why, Horace, is there anything else? I'm leaving now--"

Somehow, Horace suddenly felt like he was being teased. He glared at Amosta angrily.

"You're leaving. Oh, okay, no problem, but you're here to lobby for Dumbledore!"

"Oh, that's true--" Amosta nodded with a smile, and he bowed to Horace in the house.
"But at the beginning of our conversation, you told me that you knew nothing about the problem. Dumbledore was completely off track, wasn't he?"

"Oh, of course!"

Horace's breath was choked, his cheeks flushed slightly,
"But. But, are you planning to go back and report to Dumbledore?"

"I never like to embarrass anyone, Horace—"

Amosta chuckled.

"I will tell Dumbledore that I have fully communicated with you about Riddle's Horcrux. I believe you know nothing about it. In addition, I will try my best to help you convince Dumbledore not to bother you again in the future."

Amosta looked up and took a few glances at this house, which was a respectable one among all the buildings in the small village in the wilderness.
"I'm sorry to bother you with your 'comfortable' retirement. But seriously, Horace -"

There is a strong confidence in Amosta's calm voice.
"Going back to Hogwarts to teach is not a bad choice. At least as long as I am here, Riddle and his Death Eaters will never be able to break into Hogwarts to harass you. This is much better than hiding in this remote place and living in fear, isn't it?"

Horace, shrouded in shadow, remained silent.

"By the way, since Hogwarts broke away from the Board of Directors and began to operate independently, the professors' salaries have increased significantly—"

Amosta said with a smile, turned around, and was about to walk into the void.

“Just raising wages is not enough!”

Horace rushed out on the creaking floorboards, shouting after Amosta.
"There has to be a place for me in that nursing home. I know you have the final say on this matter!"

Amosta smiled softly and disappeared under the deep starry sky.

The owl carrying the letter headed north, bathed in the morning light and moonlight, soared over mountains and rivers, and finally arrived at the eternal desolate land.

It seemed that the snow from last winter had just melted away, the black earth had just emerged to breathe a few breaths of fresh air, and the gloomy sky was beginning to fall with silver specks.

The biting cold wind sounded like the mournful howls of countless undead after their tragic deaths, lingering around this cursed black tower all day long.

The owl circled the tower several times, and finally, it swooped into the window at the highest point of the tower and fell on the desk in front of the window, gasping for breath exhaustedly.

The old man with messy gray hair and a layer of white film around his eyes sitting on the edge of the bed was reading a newspaper.

He noticed an owl flying into the room, but he didn't look up, he just looked at the newspaper seriously.

"Amosta Blaine blows the horn of change!"

The article on the newspaper headline seemed particularly obscure and difficult to understand. It took the old man almost half an hour to finish reading the article and turn to the second page.

The picture on the second page of the newspaper was still the same one, of a young man calmly facing many brightly dressed wizards in a square made of rammed earth.

A great victory!

Then the third version:

Destruction or rebirth?

The accompanying picture is a photo of Amosta Blaine signing his name on the agreement.

Fourth Edition:
"Ministry of Magic!" Ministry of Magic! 》

article:

'After centuries of inaction, the Ministry of Magic has finally realised that it should do something real for the British wizarding community.'

The above passage is quoted from our well-known current affairs reporter Rita Skeeter in an interview, when the author asked her what she thought about the Ministry of Magic's implementation of the 'minimum living security' policy.

It is reported that many well-known figures in the magic world have publicly expressed positive views on this policy.
Fifth Edition:
The Epic Wizarding Life of Amos Tower Blaine

As usual, the examples of Amosita in recent years were brought out and publicized again, with the accompanying picture being a photo of the sun that Amosita incarnated into soaring into the sky during the Battle of Diagon Alley.
I quickly flipped through a few pages and found that every page of the newspaper was filled with photos of that young man with deep features and calm eyes.

The wrinkles on the old man's face, which were carved by wind and frost, became even deeper.

As if he had lost interest, he folded the newspaper neatly, stood up with difficulty, staggered to the opposite wall, and placed the newspaper on the top of a pile of "newspaper mountains".

uh~
The owl, which had traveled through mountains and rivers, finally regained some strength. It flapped its wings a few times and stood up. Its brown pupils reflected the old man who was staring at the wall in a daze.

The old man slowly turned around and looked at the owl, then at the letter tied to the owl's foot, and remained silent for a long time.
(End of this chapter)