"It is not a painting," Godric said, his eyes crinkling in a chuckle. "there is a device called a camera which — I cannot explain how it works, I only know that it does. Somehow it takes what it sees before it, exactly as it is, and produces a tangible copy of it. To this day I find it difficult to believe that this thing is not made by magic."
While Godric could admire Helga's dedication, he shook his head. "Allow me to explain, my friend: You now come from a time when we have met, the year 988. When you were here last, you had not yet met me or Salazar. You spent much time here in the village, knowing many people and becoming friends with them all." He hesitated to tell her about Ernie; it was not his place. "But do you remember any of it? Any of your time here? You were gone maybe a week, a few days more or less, but do you recall any of it? Does it not seem as though the time which passed between your twentieth year and your present has been seamless?"