Water is Snow

Harry woke to pre-dawn darkness. The simple room held only a sleeping mat and low table, yet somehow the space felt complete.

The motes of possibility were different here - less dense, more scattered. They avoided the corners of the room as if the angles themselves rejected their presence.

"Did you dream?" Mohan's voice came from the doorway. He carried a tray with two clay cups, steam rising in gentle spirals.

"About snow," Harry said, accepting a cup. "And mirrors in still water."

"Mirrors show what we expect to see," Mohan settled onto a cushion. "The surface reflects our assumptions back to us."

Chrysa stretched and padded over to sit between them, her eyes moving between Harry and Mohan as if following an invisible conversation.

"The Oracle showed me things in mirrors," Harry said. His voice started to take on that strange melodic quality, but Chrysa bumped her head against his hand. The tone faded. "About my friends..."

"What is a reflection without someone to perceive it?" Mohan asked. "What remains when the observer dissolves?"

Harry frowned. "But someone has to be there to see. Otherwise..."

"Who sees the seeing?" Mohan smiled. "When you look for the self that sees, what do you find?"

"I..." Harry started, then stopped. The motes of possibility churned as he tried to grasp the concept. "But I know who I am. Like snow that refuses to melt..."

"Ah," Mohan's eyes crinkled. "But what is snow except water temporarily holding a shape? Does it have a true nature separate from the conditions that form it?"

"It's still snow though," Harry insisted. "Even if it changes form..."

"Is it?" Mohan took a sip of tea. "Or do we simply label different arrangements of water as 'snow' when they match our concept of what snow should be?"

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the Sanskrit characters he'd absorbed yesterday rose in his mind, offering a completely different framework for understanding existence. The motes of possibility scattered, as if avoiding this new perspective.

"Your friend sees clearly," Mohan nodded to Chrysa. "Lions have no need for concepts of permanent self. They simply are."

"But she's still Chrysa," Harry said, rubbing his familiar's golden fur gently. "Even if she doesn't think about being Chrysa."

"Names are convenient markers," Mohan agreed. "Like pointing at the moon. But the finger pointing is not the moon itself."

Harry sipped his tea, letting the warmth spread through him. "In the Oracle's chamber, she showed me visions of my friends. Of what they really thought about me."

"Interesting choice of words," Mohan noted. "'Really' thought. As if thoughts are solid things that can be captured and displayed like butterflies in glass cases."

"But she could see through time," Harry's voice gained that melodic undertone. "She showed me-"

Chrysa's tail brushed his arm. The strange tone vanished.

"Time," Mohan said, as if he hadn't noticed the shift in Harry's voice. "Another convenient marker. Like drawing lines on water and calling them permanent paths."

The morning light crept across the floor as they sat in silence. Harry found himself studying how the shadows moved - not like in the Oracle's chamber where they had seemed to hold secrets, but simply as absence of light.

"When water is disturbed," Mohan finally said, "the reflection fragments. Which piece shows the true image?"

Harry thought about the visions he'd seen. Charlotte's words in the hospital wing had felt so real, so painful. But now, in this simple room with its clean angles and empty spaces...

"I want to understand," Harry said carefully. "But everything I know says there must be something permanent. Something that stays true no matter what."

"Ah," Mohan smiled. "But who is it that wants to understand? Who is it that knows?"

The motes of possibility swirled violently at these questions. Harry felt something shift inside him, like ice cracking - not breaking, but showing the first signs of stress.

"Perhaps," Mohan stood smoothly, "you might enjoy walking in the garden. Sometimes watching flowers bloom offers more wisdom than all our words."

He left Harry with his thoughts and his tea. Chrysa remained by his side, rubbing her head against his thigh.

Through the paper screens, Harry could see the garden where simple stones created paths through carefully tended plants. Everything had its place, yet somehow nothing seemed fixed or permanent.

The Sanskrit characters he'd learned yesterday whispered at the edges of his mind, offering a completely different way of seeing. Not better or worse than the other ways of thought, just... empty of his assumptions.

Harry finished his tea and stood. Perhaps the garden would help him understand. Or perhaps understanding itself was just another reflection in disturbed water...

oo0ooOoo0oo

The garden was smaller than it had appeared through the screens, yet somehow contained more than seemed possible. Stone paths wound between carefully placed rocks and simple plants, creating spaces that felt both intimate and large.

Harry walked slowly, Chrysa padding silently beside him. A small stream trickled over rocks, its surface catching light in ways that reminded him of the motes of possibility. But unlike the motes, which seemed to actively avoid certain areas of the humble temple, the water simply flowed where it would.

"The snow in my dream," Harry said quietly to Chrysa, "it wanted to experience summer. But it knew touching warmth meant losing itself." He paused by a flowering bush. "Is that what Mohan means? That holding onto anything too tightly means missing everything else?"

Chrysa's only response was to watch a butterfly land on a nearby flower. The insect's wings opened and closed slowly, each movement causing subtle shifts in the air currents. The motes of possibility tried to gather around it, but they seemed to pass right through.

"Young guest," a temple attendant approached with a simple wooden bucket and cloth. "If you wish, the morning ritual of washing the stones begins soon."

Harry accepted the bucket. The task was straightforward - clean each stone in the path until it showed its true color. As he worked, he found himself thinking about the Oracle's chamber, about how everything there had seemed to hold hidden meaning.

Here, the stones were just stones. Wet or dry, clean or dirty, they remained exactly what they were. Even the act of cleaning them didn't change their nature - it just revealed what was already there.

A memory surfaced - Charlotte in the hospital wing, supposedly confiding in Penny. But now, washing simple stones in morning light, something felt... off about that vision. Like a reflection that didn't quite match its source.

"Your companion has keen eyes," the attendant commented, nodding toward Chrysa who was watching Harry work. "Lions see things as they are, without adding or taking away."

Harry looked at his familiar. Her golden eyes met his, and for a moment he Saw something - not a vision of past or future, but a simple truth. Like the stones beneath his hands, Chrysa was exactly what she appeared to be. No hidden meanings, no secret purposes.

The motes of possibility churned uncomfortably at this observation.

"Thank you," Harry told the attendant. "For sharing this task."

The old man smiled and continued his own work without further comment. They cleaned stones together in comfortable silence as the sun climbed higher, each stone simply being what it was.

By midday, Harry's hands were pruned from the water, but his mind felt clearer. The motes of possibility had thinned considerably while he worked, though they still clung to his peripheral vision.

A gong sounded from within the temple. The attendant gathered their cleaning supplies.

"Lunch will be simple rice and vegetables," the old man said. "Though your companion's needs have been considered." He nodded toward a bowl of fresh meat that had appeared near the temple entrance.

Harry watched Chrysa eat, noting how she approached her meal with the same direct simplicity she showed everything else. Like before, there were no hidden meanings, no subtle purposes - just a hungry cub eating what was before her.

His own lunch was indeed simple - a bowl of rice, some pickled vegetables, and clear soup. But as he ate in the temple's main room, he found himself noticing things he'd missed before. Like how the room's proportions created a sense of space that felt both intimate and infinite. Or how the shadows never quite reached the corners, as if the angles themselves rejected darkness.

"The Oracle's chamber was different," Harry said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "Everything there felt heavy with meaning. Like every shadow held secrets."

"Interesting observation," Mohan said from where he sat nearby. "What makes a shadow heavy or light?"

"I..." Harry started to answer with that melodic tone, but Chrysa pressed against his leg. He continued in his normal voice: "I thought it was showing me truth. About myself, about my friends..."

"Truth," Mohan repeated thoughtfully. "Another heavy word. Like trying to catch a cloud and keep it in a box."

A butterfly drifted in through the open door, its wings catching sunlight. The motes of possibility tried to swirl around it but passed through just as they had in the garden.

"When you clean a stone," Mohan said, watching the butterfly, "do you add something to make it shine? Or do you simply remove what obscures its natural state?"

Harry thought about the morning's task. About how the stones had revealed their true colors once the dirt was washed away. About visions that felt like dirt covering what was really there...

The butterfly landed on Chrysa's nose. She went cross-eyed trying to look at it, and Harry found himself smiling at her simple reaction. No hidden meanings there - just a curious cub encountering something interesting.

"I think," Harry said carefully, "I need to wash some stones in my mind."

Mohan's eyes crinkled slightly, but he said nothing. The butterfly took flight again, drifting out the way it had come.

oo0ooOoo0oo

After lunch, Harry found himself back in the garden. The afternoon sun cast different shadows now, but they remained simple absences of light rather than keepers of secrets.

He sat by the stream, letting his thoughts flow like the water. Chrysa sprawled nearby, batting lazily at falling leaves. Each time she caught one, she seemed perfectly content with just that moment - not wondering about the next leaf or remembering the last.

"The Oracle showed me Charlotte talking to Penny," Harry said quietly, more to himself than to Chrysa. "But... Charlotte would never say something like that after what we had just experienced together in the Vault of Fear." The memory of the vision wavered slightly, like a reflection in disturbed water.

The motes of possibility thickened around him as he questioned the vision, but Chrysa's tail brushed his arm. They scattered again, revealing something he hadn't considered before.

"And Chiara..." he frowned. "She transforms into a werewolf every month. Why would she think I'm cold when she knows I spend those nights with her with no ulterior motive?" The words felt strange in his mouth, as if something was trying to stop him from speaking them.

A temple bell rang in the distance. The sound was pure and simple, yet it seemed to make the motes of possibility vibrate uncomfortably. Harry watched them swirl around him, trying to show him something about eternal sight and ancient wisdom...

But the bell rang again, and he found himself thinking about the stone path he'd cleaned that morning. How removing the dirt had revealed what was actually there, not what he expected to see.

"Your friend seems troubled," the old attendant appeared with fresh tea. "Though perhaps not as troubled as the shadows that follow her."

Harry accepted the tea, noting how the motes avoided the steam rising from the cup. "I thought I understood what I saw in the Oracle's chamber. But now..."

"Ah," the attendant smiled. "Understanding often begins when we admit we do not understand."

He left Harry with the tea and his thoughts. Chrysa had caught another leaf and was watching it drift back to earth with simple fascination.

The motes of possibility tried to gather again, bringing with them memories of wisdom and sight. But Harry found himself focusing on the leaf falling instead - just a leaf being a leaf, no hidden meanings required.

oo0ooOoo0oo

Evening approached, painting the garden in soft colors. Harry had stayed by the stream all afternoon, watching leaves fall and stones simply be stones.

"When water is still," Mohan's voice came from behind him, "it reflects perfectly. But stillness itself is an illusion, isn't it? Even the calmest pond has currents beneath."

Harry turned to find the Buddhist wizard sitting nearby, though he hadn't heard him approach. "The Oracle's tears showed me visions in still water. But..." he paused as that melodic quality tried to enter his voice. Chrysa pressed her warm side against him, and his normal tone returned. "But maybe the water wasn't as still as I thought."

"Interesting," Mohan said, watching a dragonfly skim the stream's surface. "When we expect water to be still, we might miss the currents that move it. When we expect friends to speak poorly of us, we might miss..." he let the thought hang unfinished.

"The Grey Lady," Harry said suddenly. "In the vision, she compared me to Salazar Slytherin. But she told me herself that she betrayed her mother's trust. Why would I believe her judgment about..." he trailed off as something shifted inside him, like ice cracking further.

"Ah," Mohan smiled. "When we clean stones, we do not argue with the dirt. We simply let water wash it away."

The sun touched the horizon, painting the sky in colors that reminded Harry of his quintessence flame. How that silver-white sphere had formed when he understood multiple truths simultaneously...

"I keep trying to hold onto what I think is true," Harry said slowly. "Like snow refusing to melt in summer. But maybe..."

The melodic quality tried to assert itself again, but this time Harry noticed something. The tone wasn't coming from him at all - it was like another voice trying to speak through him. The motes of possibility swirled frantically as this realization struck.

"Your lion sees clearly," Mohan commented, watching Chrysa track the agitated motes with her golden eyes. "No concepts of past or future cloud her vision. Only what is, as it is."

Harry looked at his familiar - really looked at her. Not just her golden fur or her unusual size, but the simple directness in her gaze. She saw things exactly as they were, without adding meanings or searching for hidden truths.

Something else cracked inside him, like ice breaking up in spring thaw.

"Sometimes," Harry said carefully, watching the last light fade from the sky, "when I think about the Oracle's chamber, my voice changes. But it's not my voice, is it?"

Mohan hummed softly. "When we hear an echo in a cave, do we mistake it for the original sound?"

The motes of possibility writhed at these words, trying to show Harry visions of ancient wisdom. But they seemed weaker now, less convincing. Like seeing stage props in daylight rather than during a performance.

"The tears," Harry started, but that other voice tried to surface again. Chrysa bumped her head against his hand, and he continued in his normal tone: "They weren't just tears, were they?"

"What is a tear?" Mohan asked, watching the first stars appear. "Water carrying salt, carrying memory, carrying..." he paused, letting Harry complete the thought himself.

The motes grew frantic, clustering so thickly Harry could barely see the garden. But Chrysa's warm presence beside him felt more real than any of their shifting patterns.

"She said she was showing me truth," Harry said quietly. "About my friends, about power, about..." he stopped as another crack formed in whatever had been building inside him. "But she wasn't really teaching me, was she?"

Mohan stood smoothly. "The moon's reflection in water is not the moon. Yet we often mistake the reflection for what it reflects." He started walking back toward the temple, then paused. "Though perhaps the more interesting question is: why would someone want us to mistake reflections for reality?"

The motes of possibility became almost violent in their movement, but Harry found himself focusing on Chrysa instead. On how she watched them with those golden eyes that saw only what was really there.

"I think," Harry said slowly, "I need to meditate tonight. To look at some reflections more carefully."

Mohan nodded once and continued toward the temple. As darkness settled fully over the garden, Harry sat with his familiar under the stars, watching the motes of possibility churn while something inside him continued to crack.

oo0ooOoo0oo

Night deepened around them. Harry sat cross-legged in the garden, Chrysa's warmth steady against his side. The motes of possibility whirled like a storm now, desperately trying to show him the… truth.

But Harry found himself thinking once more about the stone path he'd cleaned that morning. About how simply washing away dirt had revealed what was actually there. No magic needed, no hidden meanings required.

"I remember being afraid," he said softly to Chrysa. "When she showed me those visions of my friends. It hurt so much, thinking they saw me that way." The words came easier now, though that other voice still tried to surface occasionally.

Chrysa's tail brushed his arm, and Harry noticed something interesting. Every time she touched him, the motes of possibility seemed to lose some of their substance. Like shadows fading in strong light.

"The Oracle said she was helping me understand," Harry continued, watching the motes try to regain their density. "Teaching me about power and protection. But..."

He paused as a memory surfaced - not a vision this time, but something real. Charlotte facing the Boggart-Voldemort despite her terror. Not for power or fame, but because she couldn't leave her brother lost and alone.

The motes surged violently, trying to overlay that memory with the vision of Charlotte speaking badly about him in the hospital wing. But the real memory felt solid, while the vision seemed... thin somehow. Like a painting trying to cover a sculpture.

Something else cracked inside him, and this time Harry felt it distinctly. Not ice breaking, but something foreign starting to lose its grip.

The night air grew cooler, but Harry barely noticed. He was too focused on examining memories - real ones, not the visions she'd shown him. Each true memory seemed to make the motes of possibility more agitated.

Penny brewing healing potions late into the night, sharing her fears about the cursed ice even as she worked to help others. The vision had shown her doubting his motives, but the real Penny had trusted him enough to admit her own weaknesses.

Another crack formed in whatever had been building inside him.

Chiara, fierce and frightening in werewolf form, yet gentle enough to let an eagle sleep between her ears. The vision had shown her calling him cold, but the real Chiara had trusted him with her darkest secret.

The motes swirled frantically now, trying to draw his attention to power that transcended time itself...

But Harry found himself thinking about the butterfly in the garden. How it had simply been what it was, no hidden meanings needed. How Chrysa had watched it with pure, uncomplicated interest.

"You see things as they are," he told his familiar quietly. "Is that why she couldn't..." he trailed off as that melodic voice tried to surface again. But this time he noticed something else - how it felt like fingers trying to grip something that was slowly slipping away.

The night deepened around them. Stars wheeled overhead while Harry sat in the garden, letting real memories wash away false reflections like water cleaning stones.

A cool breeze stirred the garden, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Harry watched the motes of possibility grow thinner, more transparent, as each real memory settled into place.

McGonagall's fierce protectiveness when Rookwood attacked, not because Harry was powerful, but because he was family. The vision had twisted that, tried to make him see only the power dynamics, but...

Another crack. Deeper this time.

Dumbledore spending hours teaching him Occlumency, patient even when Harry struggled. The vision had painted it as control, as fear of his growing power. But Harry remembered the genuine warmth in his grandfather's eyes, the careful way he'd explained each step.

The motes became almost frantic in their movements, but they seemed less substantial now. Like smoke trying to maintain a shape in wind.

"She said power alone wasn't the answer," Harry whispered to Chrysa. "That true strength comes from protecting others. But she was just..." he stopped as that other voice tried to emerge. This time though, he felt the external nature of it clearly - like puppet strings going slack.

Something that had been building pressure inside him for days began to dissolve, not all at once, but slowly, like ice melting in natural time.

The motes swirled desperately around him, but Harry found himself focusing on the simple truth of this moment: stars overhead, cool grass beneath, Chrysa's warmth beside him. No hidden meanings. No ancient wisdom. Just what was.

More memories surfaced - his real motivation for entering the Oracle's chamber. Not fame for its own sake, but because he thought he needed more faith to heal Charlotte's scars. The vision had twisted that too, tried to make him doubt even his genuine desire to help.

Harry scratched behind Chrysa's ears, remembering how naturally he'd healed her leg. No thoughts of power or faith then - just wanting to help a hurt creature. Like all the times before: helping Chiara through her transformations, fighting the cursed ice and boggart with Charlotte, using his divine healing...

The motes flickered weakly now, as if losing substance. They tried to show him something about wisdom again, but the images seemed faded, unconvincing.

"I was already on the right path," Harry said softly, understanding finally settling in. "She didn't teach me about using power to protect others - I was already doing that. She just made me doubt..." he paused as that foreign voice tried to surface once more. But now it felt distant, like an echo fading in deep caves.

Something shifted inside Harry, not cracking this time, but settling. Like finding solid ground after walking on ice.

"The night air grows cool," Mohan's voice came softly from the temple doorway. "Though sometimes clarity comes best when we are slightly uncomfortable."

Harry nodded, still processing how the Oracle had used his own good intentions against him. She hadn't needed to teach him about protecting others - she'd needed him to doubt himself enough to...

The motes swirled weakly, trying to interrupt that line of thought. But Harry remembered Nicolas teaching him about quintessence, and how he had discovered that understanding multiple truths simultaneously could lead to deeper insight.

"When you pour clean water into muddy water," Mohan said, as if commenting on the weather, "which water changes the other?" He set a fresh cup of tea near Harry and turned to leave. "Though perhaps the more interesting question is: why would someone trouble themselves to muddy clear water in the first place?"

Harry sipped the tea, letting its warmth spread through him as he considered Mohan's words. The motes of possibility were barely visible now, like dying embers rather than the storm they'd been earlier.

The Buddhist perspective he'd absorbed from the Sanskrit steps whispered about the illusion of self - how everything was empty of inherent existence, constantly changing like water taking different forms. Yet his own experience told him about snow that refused to melt, about something permanent that remained unchanged no matter what.

Two opposing truths. Like his quintessence flame experiments, where understanding contradictions simultaneously had led to something new...

"Maybe," Harry said quietly to Chrysa, "they're both true in different ways." The motes tried to stir at his words, but they seemed too weak now to properly form. "Like... water is always changing, flowing, becoming different things. But being water is its permanent nature."

Chrysa's golden eyes met his, reflecting starlight. She was both a cub that would grow and change, and fundamentally herself in every moment.

"The Oracle tried to change who I was," Harry continued, feeling something settle deeper inside him. "But she couldn't, because changing is part of who I am. Like water flowing, but always being water."

The foreign presence that had been building inside him seemed to lose more of its grip, unable to find purchase on something that was both permanent and changing.

"Snow melts," Harry said, eyes clearing up in understanding. "But being able to melt and flow and change - that's its permanent nature. Just like my permanent nature includes growing and learning and changing."

From the temple doorway, Mohan's soft hum of appreciation drifted through the night air. But he said nothing, letting Harry find his own path through these intertwining truths.

"The water in a stream," Harry said slowly, working it out as he spoke, "is never the same water from moment to moment. But the nature of being a stream stays constant." The motes of possibility trembled at these words, growing even fainter. "Just like I'm not the same person I was yesterday, or even a moment ago. But my nature - wanting to help others, to learn, to grow stronger for both selfless and selfish reasons - that stays."

Chrysa's tail brushed his arm, and Harry noticed how the remaining motes seemed to pass right through her. As if her simple, direct way of being rejected anything artificial trying to take root.

From somewhere in the temple came the soft sound of a bell, its pure note carrying through the night air. Each ring seemed to make the foreign presence lose more of its grip, unable to maintain resonance with something that accepted both change and permanence.

"The Oracle showed me visions in still water," Harry continued, the insights flowing naturally now. "But real water is never truly still. It's always moving, changing, flowing - that's its permanent nature." He smiled slightly. "Just like my permanent nature includes growing and changing. She tried to make me fight against that, to hold onto a fixed idea of myself..."

A soft breeze carried the scent of incense from the temple. Harry caught a glimpse of Mohan lighting prayer candles, each flame steady yet different - permanent in its impermanence.

"The silver tears," Harry whispered. "They weren't just for seeing. They were..." he paused as the melodic voice tried to surface. But now he could feel exactly what it was - an attempt at resonance, trying to synchronize with a moment of manufactured weakness.

Chrysa's golden eyes met his, and Harry remembered how directly she saw things. The Oracle had shown him twisted reflections of his friends to create doubt, to make him vulnerable. But more than that - she'd tried to make him doubt his own nature, his own reasons for seeking strength.

The memories from Snowdragon Mountain stirred, no longer hazy but sharp and clear. He saw himself as a child there, eating Diremonster meat, watching mighty elders demonstrate overwhelming power. But what struck him now wasn't their strength - it was how naturally they wielded it. No conflict about seeking power, no doubt about their path.

"Seeking power isn't wrong," Harry said softly, feeling the foreign resonance start to fade. "The elders knew that. But they also knew power was just... power. Like water is just water and stones are just stones. It's how it flows that matters."

The motes of possibility were almost gone now, unable to maintain their form as Harry's understanding grew stronger. The Oracle had tried to create internal conflict where none needed to exist - between seeking power and helping others, between changing and staying true to himself.

"She needed that conflict," Harry realized. "Needed me to doubt everything I was, everything I wanted to be. Because only then could she..." he trailed off as the final piece clicked into place. The silver tears weren't just for granting the Inner Eye. They were for creating resonance across time itself, using that manufactured moment of weakness to...

The foreign presence made one more attempt to take hold, but it slipped away like water through open fingers. There was nothing for it to grip anymore - no conflict, no doubt, no artificial division between power and purpose.

The last trace of foreign presence finally faded, and Harry noticed something changing in his Inner Eye. The motes of possibility disappeared completely, but in their place...

He could See differently now. Not more powerfully, not further into time, but with a strange clarity. Like looking at a reflection in water and seeing both the reflection and the water itself simultaneously. The future wasn't clearer, but his perception of how present moments flowed into future ones was.

"Oh," Harry said softly. This was what real Inner Sight felt like - not the Oracle's eternal vision trying to control time, but a simple awareness of how moments naturally flowed into each other.

From the temple doorway came the soft sound of Mohan's prayer beads. Harry didn't need to look to know the Buddhist wizard was seeing exactly what Harry was seeing through simple clarity of perception.

The first hints of dawn touched the eastern sky. Harry watched the stars fade, seeing how each moment flowed naturally into the next. Not through powerful visions, but through understanding how change itself was the only constant.

Chrysa stretched beside him. He noticed how naturally each muscle flowed into its next position, no hesitation or hidden purpose in her actions. The realization struck him then - not through his Inner Eye but through simple observation - that her straightforward way of being had served as an anchor against the Oracle's influence through their equal familiar bond. She was exactly what she appeared to be, regardless of her origins or the Oracle's intentions.

"The tears were meant to transform," Harry said quietly, understanding more clearly now. "But they became part of me instead, like water absorbed by soil. Different than intended, but following natural patterns."

From the temple came the morning bell's first ring. Harry could See how its sound rippled through the air, not just physically but in the way it marked transition from night to day. Simple truth, no hidden meanings needed.

The memories from Snowdragon Mountain settled more comfortably now. They were part of him too - not conflicts to be resolved, but tributaries feeding the same river. Seeking power, helping others, growing stronger, staying true to himself... all flowing together like streams joining a larger whole.

The sun rose fully, washing the garden in clear morning light. Harry's new way of Seeing showed him how each plant turned subtly toward the warmth, not through conscious choice but through natural response. Like how his own instincts had always gravitated toward seeking power and helping others, even before he understood why.

"Young guest," the temple attendant approached with breakfast - simple rice porridge and tea. "The morning cleaning ritual begins soon."

Harry nodded, watching how the steam rose from his bowl. His Inner Eye showed him the simple truth of how heat and moisture interacted, how temporary forms shifted and changed while their essential nature remained.

"The Oracle sought eternal existence," Harry said quietly to Chrysa as they ate. "But she couldn't see that trying to remain unchanged was what made her..." he paused, finding the right words. "Like trying to hold a river still. The more she grasped at permanence, the less real she became."

Mohan joined Harry after breakfast, settling on a stone by the stream. "Now that you have cleaned the stones in your mind, perhaps we might discuss what you See?"

Harry watched a leaf fall, understanding how wind currents and its own shape determined its path. Not seeing its future, but understanding its natural flow from moment to moment. "The Inner Eye doesn't show me visions anymore. It shows me... how things move from now into next."

"Ah," Mohan smiled. "Like watching water flow downstream, understanding its path by seeing the rocks and curves that guide it."

"Yes," Harry nodded, then hesitated. "The Oracle... she didn't just want to teach. She wanted to..." He thought about how the silver tears had tried to create resonance, to use his manufactured moment of weakness.

"When one attempts to grasp permanence," Mohan said carefully, "they often seek to impose their pattern on others. Like a wave trying to maintain its shape by forcing other water to match its form."

Harry watched Chrysa track a butterfly, seeing how her movements flowed naturally from attention to action. "She used her tears to create connections through time. To..." he paused, understanding deeper. "To make others resonate with her pattern..."

"Many seek to deny impermanence," Mohan agreed. "Some through simple attachment, others through..." he gestured to where the last traces of foreign presence had faded. "More indirect means."

"But it didn't work properly with me," Harry said, watching sunlight play on water. "Because I understand now - being able to change is part of what makes me permanently me."

Mohan's eyes crinkled. "Like a river that remains a river precisely because it never contains the same water twice."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the garden wake to morning sun. Harry's Inner Eye showed him only the simplest of flows - how a dewdrop would slide down a leaf in the next moment, how a blade of grass would bend under its weight. Not prophecy or grand understanding, just the natural progression from one instant to the next for things directly before him.

"I used to think Seeing meant knowing the future," Harry said, watching a small stream navigate around stones. He could See how each water droplet would move in the next split second, but nothing beyond that immediate flow. "But now it's more like... seeing clearly what's already here."

Mohan nodded. "When we truly see this moment, we need not see the future. The leaf does not know where it will land, yet it falls perfectly."

Harry thought about Charlotte's cursed scars. His Inner Eye wouldn't show him how to heal them or what would happen - it could only show him the immediate flow of energy when he tried healing, nothing more. But somehow, that felt more real than all the Oracle's grand visions combined.

"There is a story," Mohan said, watching the morning light play across the garden, "of the first Oracle of Delphi. Not the tale known to most, but one whispered among those who study deeper truths."

Harry watched a spider rebuild its web, seeing how each strand would connect to the next in the immediate moment. Simple, clear sight.

"She sought permanence in a unique way," Mohan continued. "Not through the illusory self, philosopher's stone or dark rituals, but through... resonance. Each new Oracle was not truly new."

The morning breeze stirred the grass. Harry could See how each blade would bend in the next instant, nothing more. "The silver tears. They weren't just for passing on power."

"No," Mohan agreed softly. "They carried her pattern, her... self. Each successor drinking them would slowly resonate with that pattern until..." he let the thought hang unfinished.

Harry remembered how the foreign presence had tried to take hold. "Until they became her."

"Many paths to immortality exist," Mohan said, his eyes distant. "Some through understanding, some through power, some through transformation. But to impose that pattern on others..." he shook his head slightly. "It was considered... inappropriate."

"She was stopped?"

"Sealed away, the stories say. Though that is a gentle way of saying she was ended." Mohan traced a pattern in the dirt. "But she had prepared. Left behind means for her pattern to survive, waiting for the right vessel..."

"Your journal," Mohan said carefully, "it guides you to new paths, yes? But perhaps it also tests you through them."

Harry watched a bee move from flower to flower, Seeing only how it would approach its next landing, nothing more. "It led me to her chamber. Or..." he paused, understanding deeper. "It led me to a choice."

"Ah," Mohan smiled slightly. "And what does that tell you about your journal's nature?"

"That it doesn't just give adventures," Harry said slowly. "It presents risks worth taking. Or..." he thought about how the journal had pointed him toward both danger and growth. "Worth choosing whether to take."

"And the Oracle," Mohan added softly, "what choice did she have? An echo cannot echo forever."

Harry remembered how desperate the motes of possibility had become near the end. Not just manipulative, but... "She was fading. She had to risk everything on someone who might..." he trailed off, seeing everything more clearly now.

"When a pattern cannot maintain itself," Mohan said, watching leaves drift in the morning breeze, "it must either transform or fade entirely. She chose to risk transformation through you, rather than accept fading."

"But she didn't understand," Harry said quietly. "That transformation was exactly what she feared most."

Mohan hummed in agreement. "Those who grasp most tightly at permanence often cannot see how their grasping prevents what they seek."

The morning grew warmer. Harry could See how the dew would evaporate in the next moment, returning to air - not gone, just changed form. Like how the Oracle's attempt to maintain her pattern unchanged had ultimately led to its dissolution.

"Your journal will present more choices," Mohan said, rising smoothly. "More risks worth considering. But now, perhaps, you See more clearly how to weigh them."

Harry nodded, scratching behind Chrysa's ears. His familiar's thunderous purr reminded him of simple truths - how being exactly what you are means accepting both change and permanence.

"It's time to return to your path," Mohan said, looking toward the temple where Nicolas and Perenelle would be waiting. "Though perhaps you walk it differently now."