The Citroën DS climbed along the winding mountain roads of the Swiss Alps.
As the altitude rose, the surrounding vegetation changed from lush coniferous forests to greyish-white rocks and eternal snow.
Harry pressed his face against the window, gazing at the breathtakingly magnificent scenery outside.
Suddenly, he noticed several spires made of crystal and white marble faintly floating atop a peak so steep that not even eagles could fly up there.
They didn’t look like they were built on the mountain, but rather anchored directly into the clouds, refracting a sacred glow under the sunlight.
“What is that?” Harry pointed at the buildings.
“Some kind of wizarding resort?
It looks much more expensive than Malfoy Manor.” Fleur glanced in the direction of his finger, her expression turning somewhat solemn, even tinged with a hint of awe.
“That is the Bernese Institute of Higher Magic, or more commonly known as ‘The Spire,'” Fleur said softly.
“It is the highest institution of learning in the wizarding world.
A real university.” “University?” Harry turned around, looking utterly blank.
“There are universities in the wizarding world?
I thought Hogwarts graduation was the end of the road.
I mean, Hermione never mentioned this.
If there was still more studying to do, she would have memorized the application forms long ago.” “It’s normal for Hermione Granger not to know, because this place isn’t in any ordinary career plan.” Fleur sighed, shifting gears to let the car climb a steep slope.
“Harry, do you think a wizard of Dumbledore’s caliber is produced simply by studying at Hogwarts for seven years?” Harry was stunned.
“Is it not?” “Of course not.” Fleur scoffed.
“Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang—they teach the basics.
It’s like teaching you how to read and write, how to do arithmetic.
If you want to be an ordinary clerk, a shopkeeper, or an average Auror, that’s enough.
But if you want to explore the essence of magic, create spells, become a grandmaster…
you need to go to a place like this.” She pointed at the crystal spire in the clouds.
“It’s a club for geniuses.
Its admission threshold is ridiculously high—preferring to go without than to take anything mediocre.
They don’t look at your family background; they only care about your talent and your magic’s upper limit.” “How high?” Harry asked.
“To give you an idea,” Fleur pondered for a moment.
“Your Transfiguration professor, McGonagall, right?
She was a student there.
The standard for graduating successfully from here is roughly the level of your current Head of House, Professor McGonagall, in her youth, or your current Potions Master, Severus Snape.
And as for the ‘outstanding graduates’…” Fleur paused, glancing at Harry through the rearview mirror.
“That would have to be a monster of Dumbledore’s level.” Harry sucked in a breath.
Snape?
That greasy old bat?
“Snape…
graduated from there too?” Harry felt his worldview crumbling slightly.
“No, he didn’t go.” Fleur shook her head, her tone carrying a complex note of regret.
“That’s the most brutal part of this school.
It charges tuition, and it is extremely expensive.
Snape received that golden acceptance letter back then—the highest honorary invitation besides a full scholarship—but he couldn’t afford to go.
Because aside from tuition, the high cost of living and research materials there were not something a poor half-blood boy could afford.” “He declined the invitation, which was big news in the academic world at the time.” Harry fell silent.
“There was another British person who declined the invitation, and not long after Snape.” Fleur’s voice softened, and she turned her head to look at Harry.
“Lily Evans.
Your mother.” Harry’s heart clenched.
“My mother?” “Yes.
She was called the most talented witch of her generation, a double genius in Charms and Potions.” Fleur said.
“‘The Spire’ gave her the evaluation: ‘A brilliance seen only once in a century.’ She could have become the next Dumbledore, or some kind of pioneering spell master.” “Then why didn’t she go?” Harry asked urgently, though he had a vague guess in his heart.
“Because of the war, and because of you.” Fleur’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“That was when Voldemort’s forces were at their most rampant.
She chose to stay in Britain, joined the Order of the Phoenix, and then…
she became pregnant.
Her letter declining the invitation caused a massive stir in the European wizarding world—two consecutive geniuses from Britain turning down the highest institution of learning, one for money, one for love.” Harry turned his head to stare intensely at the spire in the clouds.
His mother should have been there.
Perhaps she would have been wearing white scholar’s robes, researching esoteric magic, instead of facing a Killing Curse in Godric’s Hollow.
“Who else went there?” Harry asked, his voice raspy.
“Dumbledore?” “Of course.
Dumbledore is a legend there.
He spent three years there, researching the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and alchemy.” Fleur nodded.
“And Horace Slughorn, though he was more interested in building his network of connections there than doing actual research.” “Who?” Harry frowned.
“Slughorn?” “An old-school Potions master, formerly a professor at Hogwarts as well,” Fleur explained.
“You might meet him in the future.
He loves collecting ‘celebrities’ most of all.” The car reached the lookout point closest to the spire.
Fleur parked on the roadside and killed the engine.
The surroundings were dead quiet, save for the sound of the wind.
The magnificent academy was as silent as a ghost town, with no owls flying in or out, and no students practicing flying.
“It looks…
quite deserted,” Harry said.
“Because it’s empty right now.” Fleur looked at the spire, a hint of sadness in her eyes.
“There hasn’t been a new student enrolled in years.” “Why?
Does no one apply?” “Plenty of people apply; it’s a symbol of power and strength.” Fleur sneered.
“But the instructors at ‘The Spire’ are a bunch of lunatics.
They say the current generation of young wizards gets worse with each passing year.
Even the current Head of the Auror Office is, in their eyes, merely a ‘monkey who barely knows how to wave a stick.’ They would rather let the school stand empty and the library gather dust than lower their standards to admit mediocrities.” “It is a form of arrogance, and a tragedy.” Harry looked at the lonely, high-and-mighty academy.
It was like a ghost of a bygone era, looking down on this mediocre world.
“So, we can’t go in for a tour?” Harry asked, patting the few pathetic coins in his pocket.
“Even if you had money, you couldn’t get in.
The stone gargoyles guarding the entrance will pose three riddles.
Miss even one, and you’ll be thrown off the cliff.” Harry looked back at the city in the clouds.
It had buried Snape’s ambition, and it had buried the other path Lily Evans’s life might have taken.
“I just want to take a look.” Harry rested his hand on the door of the Citroën, looking up at the seemingly endless white marble staircase leading to the academy in the clouds.
“Since my mother was invited, I want to see what kind of path she would have walked if she had accepted back then.” “That’s a dead end, Harry.” Fleur leaned against the car’s hood, peeling a hazelnut she had swiped from that bearded Hans.
“And literally a dead end.
Those two gargoyles at the gate have tempers worse than Hungarian Horntails.” “I have a Firebolt, and a cushion cast with an Undetectable Extension Charm.” Harry patted his traceless wand, the blind confidence from having just saved a dragon egg still pumping through his veins.
“And I was literally chatting and laughing with a dragon just now.
How hard could two stone guards be to handle?” Fleur rolled her eyes and gestured “be my guest.” “Fine then, Mr.
Evans.
If you get smashed into a meat pie, I’ll take responsibility for transporting your remains back to Britain, and maybe ask Dumbledore to reimburse the travel expenses while I’m at it.”