Ch: 141-150
Chapter 141: Snape and Rumbal—How are those two names even similar?
Fudge's pudgy hand, reaching for the jar of Floo powder, froze mid-air.
The ecstasy, smugness, and the look of a victor on his face instantly solidified, cracked, and then peeled away.
He turned his head inch by inch to look at Signas, his movements as stiff as a suit of rusted armor.
Those small eyes, which had been sparkling with the light of ambition just a moment ago, were now filled with nothing but blankness and disbelief.
Dolores... Rumbal?
That Office Director who followed him around all day, doing nothing but nodding and bowing, and who couldn't even manage a complete sentence properly?
Hadn't he sent him to offer an apology?
And now he and Quirrell had infiltrated the restricted area where the Philosopher's Stone was kept?
How... how was this possible?
Fudge felt as if his brain was being stung by ten thousand Billywigs at once, rendering him completely unable to think.
He opened his mouth, but only a series of strange "clucking" sounds came from his throat, as if something was stuck there.
"Who... who did you say?"
He practically squeezed those few words out from between his teeth.
"Dolores Rumbal," Signas repeated, his tone still as flat as if he were saying the most ordinary name in the world.
"Impossible!" A sliver of reason finally returned to Fudge, followed by a wave of towering rage. "You're lying! You damned Slytherin, you're playing me..."
He pointed at Signas's nose, his body trembling violently with anger.
If it were Snape, everything would have followed logically, and he would have gained a massive political victory.
But if it were Dolores Rumbal... wouldn't that mean his own confidant was involved in this earth-shattering theft?
In the end, this mud would only be slung back onto himself! This wasn't just trouble anymore; the sky was falling!
If word got out, he, the Minister for Magic, along with the entire Ministry of Magic, would become the biggest laughingstock of the century!
Therefore, this brat must be lying!
"Snape and Rumbal—how are those two names even similar? Tell me, where is the resemblance?!"
Signas looked at the aggressive Fudge without a hint of fear on his face.
Signas shrugged, looking completely innocent.
Then, he did something that neither Fudge nor Dumbledore expected.
Signas snatched a quill and a blank sheet of parchment from the nearby desk and scribbled two names onto it.
Then, Signas held the parchment up in front of Fudge, pointing at the letters on it, and explained seriously in a tone one might use to teach a slow child how to count:
"Mr. Minister, look."
"Snape, S-N-A-P-E, five letters."
"Rumbal, L-O-B-A-R, five letters."
"Though they sound different..."
Signas intentionally drew out his voice, his gaze sweeping over Fudge's face, which was turning from deep purple to an ashen grey.
"...the number of letters is the same, isn't it?"
"..."
Fudge's breathing stopped.
He stared fixedly at the parchment, then glared intensely at Signas's face, which was full of "sincerity."
He felt his blood pressure soaring rapidly; something was stuck in his chest, unable to go up or down.
He wanted to roar, to curse, to cast a Dark Curse on the little brat who was mocking him.
But he couldn't say a single word.
The color drained from Fudge's face, turning to a pale white, and finally into a sickly green mixed with fear and despair.
"No... impossible..."
His lips trembled, his voice was dry, and every word carried a quiver.
"Cornelius!"
Fudge shuddered all over.
He looked up and met Dumbledore's eyes.
There were flames burning within them.
There was no trace of his usual gentleness, only a storm.
Three first-year students, following two adult Wizards, had broken into the place where the Philosopher's Stone was kept.
Dumbledore could no longer sit still.
He didn't spare Fudge another glance; his robes billowed as he transformed into a shadow and rushed out of the office.
That surge of magic caused the portraits of past headmasters on the walls to shake; they peered out of their frames, watching in astonishment as he disappeared.
The office door was slammed shut by the wind with a loud bang, then bounced open slightly.
Fudge was left frozen in place.
Like a statue whose bones had been removed.
Cold sweat poured down his cheeks, soaking his collar.
To go?
Or not to go?
His reason told him he had to follow.
This was the last chance to save face and make amends.
But his legs felt like they were filled with lead, unable to move a single step.
What if... what if they really were doing this for You-Know-Who? Then they must be vicious Death Eaters, and there might be multiple accomplices waiting for them.
If he ran over there now, even with Dumbledore there, there was no guarantee he could be kept safe.
Fudge's mind was a mess. He looked at Signas, and his anger finally found an outlet.
His voice was hoarse, and the finger he pointed at Signas was trembling.
"You intentionally watched me make a fool of myself! You little Slytherin mongrel..."
Signas ignored Fudge's roar, simply walking to the desk, pouring himself a glass of water, and taking a slow sip.
"Mr. Minister, getting angry now is useless."
Signas set down the glass. His voice wasn't loud, but it caused Fudge's roar to get stuck in his throat.
"You should be thinking about why your Office Director went to steal the Philosopher's Stone..."
Signas took a step forward, closing in on Fudge.
"Was it on your orders?"
"Bullshit!" Fudge shrieked, his voice cracking. "How could I possibly..."
"Then it's interesting," Signas interrupted him.
"Your confidant, without your permission, participated in a conspiracy enough to overturn the entire Magical World."
Signas's voice was flat, without a hint of emotion.
"Tell me, what will the Wizarding World think? They will either think you are an accomplice, or they will think you, the Minister, are utterly incompetent, to the point where you can't even manage your own people... You have to choose one!"
Fudge's body swayed, and he took a step back, bumping into the bookshelf.
A few books fell from the shelf, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Accomplice? Incompetent?
Neither of those were good words.
Both meant he was finished; his political career was completely over.
"No... it wasn't me... I didn't know..."
Fudge was incoherent, his hands clutching at the air like a drowning man.
Sig curled his lip and teased, "Then how will you prove yourself? By waiting here? Waiting for Dumbledore to catch your Office Director? And then for him to give a testimony that's unfavorable to you?"
Unexpectedly, as soon as those words were spoken, Fudge's movements stopped.
Immediately after, his chaotic mind seemed to be forcibly pulled into a single line of thought by that sentence.
Right.
He couldn't wait.
He absolutely could not wait for Dumbledore to handle it.
He had to go.
He had to go personally.
The one to catch them must be the Ministry of Magic!
The one to arrest them must be him, Cornelius Fudge!
Only in this way could he twist the story into this: he, the wise Minister, had long since sensed a traitor within and had played along, setting a net to finally capture the criminals just as they were about to succeed!
That was the script he should have!
Light reignited in Fudge's eyes. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. He grabbed Sig's arm like a drowning man grabbing a piece of driftwood. "Right, we must act. I'm going to call for backup; I'm going to call every Auror..."
Chapter 142: Objective Hogwarts
Ministry of Magic, Auror Office.
By now the sun had set, and the streetlights of Whitehall in central London were already lit.
From within the Ministry of Magic's Auror Office came the scratching sound of a quill moving across parchment.
Rufus Scrimgeour leaned back in his high-backed chair, his thick, lion-like mane of tawny hair looking somewhat disheveled under the lamplight.
On the desk before him, his coffee cup was long empty, leaving only a ring of brown stain. He was absentmindedly poking at a case file concerning Norwegian Ridgeback egg smuggling with a blunt quill.
"Director..." A young Auror, stepping as lightly as a cat, approached carrying a freshly brewed cup of strong tea, his face etched with unconcealed worry. "Are we... are we really not allocating funds next month for the special task force investigating the 'Resurrection of the Dark Lord' case?"
Scrimgeour didn't even lift his eyelids, letting out a noncommittal "Mhm" from his nose.
The young Auror froze. He carefully placed the teacup on the corner of the desk and couldn't help but press further, "But... when you replied to Minister Fudge, didn't you say... that we would continue to investigate thoroughly?"
Scrimgeour finally set down his quill. He picked up the teacup and blew on the scalding steam but didn't drink. Behind the rising mist, those sharp eyes appeared somewhat inscrutable.
He looked at his still somewhat green subordinate, his lips curling into an almost mocking arc.
"Continue the investigation? Investigate what?" His raspy voice echoed in the quiet office. "Investigate whether Snape is illegally brewing Polyjuice Potion? Or investigate whether Malfoy has trained that white peacock of his into a messenger, specifically to send birthday cards to Death Eaters in Azkaban?"
The young Auror was momentarily at a loss for words.
"This whole thing is likely a prank... it won't yield any results..." Scrimgeour set the teacup down firmly on the desk, causing a few drops of brown tea to splash out.
"Lucius Malfoy's study was searched by our people until it was cleaner than a gnome's pocket. Aside from a few trivial Dark Arts books and some dark artifacts of unknown origin, we didn't find even a scrap of paper with the words 'You-Know-Who' on it. As for Snape," Scrimgeour gave a cold laugh, "with Dumbledore watching over him, I really can't imagine what kind of idiot would be bold enough to pull something like this at Hogwarts..."
He paused, a thought left unspoken. When he saw Lucius off, Lucius had hinted that Dumbledore was behind the Felix Felicis... in that case, this matter was even more impossible!
The young Auror's eyes instantly widened like two Galleons.
"So, do you still think there's any point in continuing this investigation?"
Scrimgeour leaned back in his chair, his face returning to that indifferent expression of one who had seen it all. "Quirrell—a coward who stutters when he speaks, sensitive and timid, with a mediocre relationship with Snape and no familiarity with the elder Malfoy—where on earth would he get wind of these so-called 'earth-shattering secrets'?"
The young Auror had an epiphany, but then asked in confusion, "But why did you suggest the Ministercontinue the investigation?"
Scrimgeour averted his gaze from the young Auror's face, which was filled with a thirst for knowledge.
"Because..." he finally spoke, his voice sounding as if it had been cured in smoke, carrying a world-weary rasp, "our dear Minister needs a case. A case that can bolster his prestige. He needs to prove to everyone that he, Cornelius Fudge, is not just a decoration who only cuts ribbons and attends banquets."
The young Auror's mouth hung open slightly as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, not a word came out. The information contained in these words far exceeded everything he had learned from his textbooks.
Scrimgeour picked up the teacup and took a real sip this time. The scalding tea slid down his throat but failed to dispel the annoyance in his heart.
"So, as subordinates, we sometimes have to learn to read between the lines of our superiors' intentions."
He continued in an instructive yet self-deprecating tone, "Whether we actually catch any remnants of the Dark Lord's followers doesn't matter. We only need to make people feel that we are in the process of capturing them and are consistently achieving 'phased victories'."
"The Minister will be able to stand tall during Wizengamot inquiries and occasionally secure a prime spot on the front page of The Daily Prophet. As for whether the case itself is real or fake... who cares?"
This bit of workplace wisdom, which could be considered borderline heretical, made the young Aurorfeel like his worldview had suffered a violent shock. He stared blankly at his superior, unsure for a moment whether he should feel admiration or contempt.
Just then—
With a "whoosh," a burst of sickly green flames suddenly flared up in the office fireplace!
A panicked head poked out from the flames; it was Fudge's secretary, Percival. His red hair, usually meticulously groomed, was now as messy as a bird's nest, and his face was full of terror.
"Director Scrimgeour, something's wrong!" Percival's voice was as shrill as a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "The Minister... the Minister wants us to immediately summon all Aurors on standby! To Hogwarts! He said... he said the events in the whistleblowing letter have come to pass. Someone really is trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone..."
"Pfft—"
The mouthful of hot tea Scrimgeour had just taken was sprayed out entirely, splattering all over the Norwegian Ridgeback egg case file in front of him.
"Explain yourself! Who? How many of them are there?" Scrimgeour stood up abruptly, his chair sliding back a long way with a piercing screech.
Percival flinched at his reaction. He had only heard Fudge shouting incoherently on the other end and couldn't explain the specifics; his voice was trembling.
"I... I don't know! The Minister is in a great hurry... he only said... said it seems someone saw Quirrellthere as well..."
Scrimgeour's eyes widened.
Beside him, the young Auror's empty cup fell to the floor with a "clatter." He looked at his director, then at the fireplace, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit a Quaffle.
Just moments ago, the director had confidently asserted that Quirrell definitely had nothing to do with this.
Now... Scrimgeour's face felt burning hot, as if he had been slapped hard with a red-hot poker.
Quirrell, you... you're actually doing this for real?
"Everyone, attention!"
Scrimgeour's roar made the office windows rattle.
"Level One Alert!"
"Call back every Auror. I want everyone assembled at the Atrium fireplaces within five minutes... This is not a drill, this is not a drill..."
"Objective: Hogwarts!"
Chapter 143: The Strongman of the Ministry of Magic
Hogwarts Headmasters Office.
Signas looked at the Minister for Magic before him, feeling as if he had inadvertently cast some incredible spell that had instantly transformed a mediocre middle-aged politician into a powerful one.
What on earth was going on?
Actually, Sig hadn't thought that much. He simply knew Quirrell's true identity and couldn't help but have a bit of a "watch the show" mentality.
He had just made a few casual remarks, wanting to see this overbearing Ministry official get embarrassed. How did the man suddenly act as if he'd had a sudden epiphany and scripted a whole drama for himself?
Signas looked at Fudge's fat face, flushed with excessive excitement. His eyes couldn't stop twitching, and he felt a bit uneasy.
Albus Dumbledore had already rushed down, and now Fudge had summoned every Auror in the Ministry of Magic. Were they planning to have a full-scale battle inside Hogwarts Castle?
No matter how weakened Lord Voldemort was, he was still Lord Voldemort.
If he was truly pushed to the brink and started firing Killing Curses all over the Castle, things would get very ugly.
Would Hogwarts Castle be smashed to pieces then?
Would Hogwarts still be safe?
Just as Signas was considering where to take refuge, Fudge suddenly turned around and grabbed his hand.
Those small eyes sparkled with an unprecedented light, so enthusiastic that it gave Signasgoosebumps.
"Good boy! What's your name?"
"Cygnus Sharke." Signas calmly pulled his hand back.
"Shalk... Good! I'll remember you," Fudge patted Signas's shoulder hard, with a force that seemed like he wanted to drive Signas into the ground. "Don't worry, once we catch the remnants of the Death Eaters, I will personally recommend you for an award to Dumbledore. The Ministry of Magic will also grant you honors... Let everyone know that the Wizarding World still has plenty of young people like you, full of wisdom and a sense of responsibility!"
Hearing this, Sig was dumbfounded!
What was this all about? Recommending me for an award?
If Dumbledore found out that I was the one who tricked the Minister with a few words, leading to a hundred Aurors fighting Lord Voldemort in the school, he'd be lucky not to be expelled out of old friendship.
Many Death Eaters were still alive. If the Ministry of Magic gave him honors, wouldn't that draw a massive amount of hatred toward him?
Fudge, however, didn't notice the strange look on Signas's face at all. He was completely immersed in the sense of accomplishment from mentoring a young Wizard.
Then he let go of Signas and paced around the office with his hands behind his back. His steps were steady and forceful; the Minister's aura had returned.
"Yes... it's me, Cornelius Fudge, who long ago sensed the stirring remnants of the Death Eaters..."
"I played along with their scheme, deliberately sending Rumbal to approach the suspect, all for the sake of catching them all in one net today, just when they thought they had succeeded... Yes, everything is under my control!"
However, the former Principal on the wall, Phineas Nigellus Black, poked his head out of his frame, looked at Fudge with an expression as if he were looking at an idiot, then yawned lazily and retreated back into his frame to go back to sleep.
Signas looked at Fudge's delusional state and didn't feel at all like he was reliable enough to catch or destroy Lord Voldemort's soul fragment.
So he braced himself and asked, "So... Mr. Minister, what do you plan to do?"
This question was like a command, instantly opening Fudge's chatterbox.
He stopped abruptly, held his head high, and threw a clenched fist into the air.
"Strike first, of course! As soon as the Aurors arrive, a hundred wands will cast spells simultaneously. No matter how many of them there are or who they are, even if the Dark Lord himself is there, they'll all be blown to smithereens!" Fudge's spit flew everywhere, his face bearing a sickly flush. "I will use the swiftest methods to show everyone that I, Cornelius Fudge, do not need to rely on Dumbledore to protect all the Wizards in Britain..."
A hundred wands casting spells simultaneously?
Sig patted his chest. A half-dead Lord Voldemort probably wouldn't be able to withstand that. That sounded reliable!
But then he realized with a shock that this Minister really intended to have a massive battle in Hogwarts... He was really going to wreck the place, wasn't he?
Just as he finished speaking, there was a "boom" in the office fireplace, and a ghastly green flame, several times more violent than before, surged up.
Soon, the ball of fire seemed like it had an upset stomach and began to vomit wildly.
*Thud!*
"Ouch! Who stepped on my foot!"
"Don't push! My hat!"
Aurors in crimson robes emerged from the fireplace one after another, like dumplings being dropped into a pot.
One person fell face-first onto the carpet, getting a mouthful of dust; another was pushed out by the person behind them, their hat flying into the air.
Dumbledore's spacious and elegant office was instantly packed like a tin of sardines.
Those delicate silver instruments, usually used for astronomical observations and constantly spinning, were knocked about with a clatter. Several flew directly off the shelves and smashed onto the floor into a pile of scrap metal.
Signas's eyes twitched as he watched this scene. He silently took two steps back. These people didn't look like elites at all!
The portraits of past Principals on the walls poked their heads out of their frames one after another, pointing and whispering at this crowd of uniformed ruffians.
"Merlin's beard! Is the entire Auror Office moving house?"
"Look at that fat man, he sat on my astrolabe and flattened it!"
"When Albus comes back and sees this scene, his expression will be quite something."
Rufus Scrimgeour was the first to squeeze out. His lion-like mane was as messy as a bird's nest, and his face was covered in a layer of black soot from the fireplace.
He first looked around, and upon seeing Fudge, he immediately strode over, knocking down several more innocent silver instruments along the way.
"Minister! Everyone is here. Where is the suspect?!" Scrimgeour's voice was hoarse and urgent. He had already drawn his wand, the tip glowing with a dangerous red light, looking ready to charge into battle at any moment.
Looking at the room full of disheveled but high-spirited elite Aurors, Fudge not only felt completely secure, but a wave of unprecedented heroic ambition surged from his portly chest.
This was power!
Charming power!
The absolute power to control everything!
He felt like Alexander the Great, like Caesar... No wonder that old fellow Barty Crouch would even send his own son to Azkaban just to become Minister... This feeling was truly spine-tingling and intoxicating!
Fudge took a deep breath, puffed out his round chest, his fat face gleaming with excited oiliness.
He surveyed his "army," waving his thick, short arms:
"Rufus, you've arrived just in time..."
Scrimgeour was about to ask who the enemy was, but Fudge cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"The enemy has appeared, but they never dreamed that all of this is under my control!" Fudge's voice boomed, echoing through the office and making the silver instruments that hadn't been broken hum.
Scrimgeour's brow furrowed into a knot. Looking at Fudge's abnormally excited state, he felt suspicious.
Under control? A few minutes ago, you were howling in the fireplace like a cat whose tail had been stepped on—you call that under control?
But the young Aurors around them didn't know that!
They only saw their Minister remaining calm in the face of danger, seemingly having laid a dragnet while laughing and talking.
Fudge was becoming a bit addicted to the feeling of being looked up to and admired. His eyes shone brightly. "After tonight, the entire Wizarding World will see how powerful and forceful the Ministry's iron fist is. They will see a strongman Minister..."
"Move out!"
Fudge waved his hand like a true general and was the first to rush toward the door.
However, while the ideal was grand, reality was harsh.
The office door wasn't wide to begin with, and now it was completely blocked by a hundred burly, fully equipped Aurors.
Fudge's obese body was now like a wild boar stuck in a fence. He arched forward desperately but only moved less than half a step before being pushed back by someone.
"Uh... Make way! Everyone make way!"
Chapter 144: Fitting the Stereotype of a Dark Wizard
When the last Auror left the Headmaster's Office, Signas was finally left alone in the room.
He looked around; Dumbledore's silver instruments were now scattered in disarray, several having fallen apart into pieces.
On the walls, the portraits of past headmasters were whispering among themselves, pointing at the mess with various colorful expressions.
At this moment, Sig's mood was a bit complicated.
He was mainly worried that if Lord Voldemort's remnant soul wasn't caught this time, that so-called Ministry of Magic honor would become a death warrant, which would be bad.
After all, Voldemort and his followers were not known for being broad-minded; they were very vengeful.
Secondly, Quirrell's recent state had clearly been very good, which to some extent reflected that Voldemort's remnant soul was also in good condition; even if Dumbledore and the Ministry Aurors could suppress them, a fierce battle would be unavoidable.
Heaven knows how wide an area would be affected?
Signas held his breath, heightening his senses to the limit, listening carefully for any movement deep within the Castle.
He didn't wait long—only about fifteen minutes, around nine o'clock in the evening—when a dull vibration suddenly pulsed through the entire Hogwarts Castle, as if some massive creature had turned over underground.
Immediately after, bursts of suppressed exclamations came from the corridor outside the office; it seemed the entire Castle had been startled by this sudden turn of events.
After waiting a while and feeling the commotion outside had lessened, Sig cautiously pulled the door open.
He saw figures flickering in the corridor—all Hogwarts staff. Leading them was the terrified administrator Argus Filch, who was urging the young Wizards to return to their dormitories as quickly as possible.
However, not a single Professor was in sight; it seemed they had either gone to capture Quirrell or to the student dormitories to protect the students.
Filch's face, usually filled with bitterness and malice, now held only panic; he carried a lantern, stumbling as he walked.
Seeing this, Signas hurried forward to meet him: "Mr. Filch, what happened? What's going on?"
"Why are you still here? Didn't you hear the prefect's orders?" Filch shrieked like he'd seen a ghost upon seeing him, then lowered his voice and said in terror, "More than just something happened! A Dark Wizard has invaded the Castle. The Principal and Professors wanted to capture him alive, but who knew that guy would go crazy, completely disregarding his own life? Now the entire Fourth Floor is about to be torn apart... Say no more, move, move! Consider yourself lucky you ran into me..."
Sig was quite surprised to hear Filch's words; even if Quirrell was on an adrenaline rush, his strength was definitely below Snape's. How could he cause such a huge commotion?
And why was he fighting so desperately? Wasn't Voldemort right there on him?
While speaking, Filch grabbed Signas's arm and pulled him toward the stairs, looking as if he wanted to stuff him into some safe place.
"Are we going to the Great Hall?" Signas asked while running.
"Of course not!" Filch roared without looking back. "I'm taking you to the nearest Common Room! Hogwarts dormitories are protected by powerful magic; without the password, don't even think about forcing your way in... Uh, at least no one in history has ever done it..."
Signas thought to himself that the Headmaster's Office was on the Eighth Floor, and the closest should be the Hufflepuff Common Room on the First Floor.
Filch's chosen route was indeed heading downstairs.
But just as they reached the Fifth Floor, a dozen spell lights of various colors suddenly exploded from a corner of the corridor, flying around like stray bullets. One of them grazed Filch's hair, singeing his few pathetic strands into curls.
"Ah!" Filch let out a strange cry of fright and dragged Signas as they scrambled to hide in a nearby empty Armor Display Room.
Signas's heart pounded wildly. He pressed against the crack in the door, quietly peeking outside.
With just one look, his eyes nearly popped out.
In the corridor, Quirinus Quirrell was holding Hermione Granger, fighting while retreating. His iconic purple turban was long gone, and his bald head, illuminated by the magical light, didn't show that ghost face but instead looked like a hundred-watt light bulb—bright and terrifying.
Because Hermione was being held hostage, Dumbledore and the Aurors were all hesitant, their spellcasting timid, which allowed him to escape all the way from the Fourth Floor to the Fifth Floor.
"Don't come any closer!" Quirrell's screams echoed through the Fifth Floor corridor, sharp as nails scraping a blackboard.
He had one hand tightly around Hermione's neck, while the wand in his other hand waved wildly, the red light at the tip like a venomous snake flicking its tongue.
While warding off spells with his wand, Quirrell shouted in a voice so excited it broke: "...I am my Master's greatest, most loyal, and only servant! I have obtained the Philosopher's Stone for my Master! Hahahaha... You fools just wait, my great Master is about to descend..."
Dumbledore and the Aurors all looked solemn, partly because it was hard to tell the truth of Quirrell's words, and partly because they were troubled by the madman's desperate fighting style and the hostage in his hands.
However, at this moment, inside Quirrell's mind, Voldemort was also about to go crazy.
Relying on the Philosopher's Stone, he had recovered quite a bit of power, but he discovered in horror that he seemed to be welded shut inside Quirrell's body!
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape this damned parasitic state, let alone fully control this broken body.
Now, at most, he could help Quirrell throw a few high-powered Forbidden Curses at critical moments; the great vibration just now was caused by such powerful magic.
As for Quirrell himself, he was also panicking internally.
This was completely different from the script he had imagined.
If he hadn't reacted quickly and grabbed Hermione, who was closest to him, as a hostage the moment Dumbledore appeared, he wouldn't have lasted until now.
The sudden appearance of a hundred Aurors had scared Quirrell so much he nearly died on the spot.
He once thought he had walked into Dumbledore's ambush; otherwise, how could so many people appear in such a short time when the Ministry of Magic headquarters was thousands of miles away?
But Quirrell still had something to rely on—his Master, who was rapidly recovering power within his body. As long as his Master was willing to act, taking him away from here would be incredibly simple.
But Voldemort did not show himself, temporarily letting Quirrell hold out on his own.
Facing Dumbledore and a group of predatory Aurors, coupled with the influence of the Honesty Bean's magic, Quirrell, in his nervousness, kept talking to stall for time.
He began to recount his journey, starting from the forests of Albania and leading up to tonight's theft of the Philosopher's Stone.
His voice was loud, his logic clear, and he even casually mocked Dumbledore and the Ministry of Magicbefore shifting the topic: "But I didn't expect that such a great plan of mine would almost be ruined by a first-year brat!"
"That Slytherin named Cygnus Sharke discovered some of my secrets and used them to blackmail me, even extorting half a year's salary from me!"
Quirrell gnashed his teeth: "I haven't bought a single piece of new clothing in the past six months, let alone carry out specific operations. This directly caused my plan to be delayed for a full six months!"
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, though his brow furrowed deeper.
Meanwhile, Fudge and the hundred or so Aurors hiding at the back of the group were completely dumbfounded.
"Signas?"
"Is that some newly emerged Dark Wizard...?"
"No, he said it's a first-year Slytherin student?"
"Are you kidding? A first-year brat could blackmail a dangerous person like him?"
"He's crazy, absolutely insane... He's started talking nonsense!"
"Yes, a complete and utter madman!"
The experienced Scrimgeour was not surprised by this.
Most Wizards who dealt with the Dark Arts daily were mentally unstable.
If they weren't madmen, they were on the way to becoming one.
No matter how respectable they looked on the outside, their minds were more or less troubled.
Quirrell's current state, though a bit outrageous, fit their stereotype of a Dark Wizard perfectly.
Chapter 145: Lord Voldemort, Are You Even Capable?
"I warn you... the great Master is within me! Come any closer, and you will face true terror..."
Facing the approaching crowd, Quirrell's shouts had changed pitch, desperately trying to control his expression.
Quirrell, looking like a mad dog, was quite intimidating, so the Aurors didn't rush forward rashly, merely sealing him off in the corridor.
"Don't listen to his bluster!"
A booming roar erupted from behind the human wall formed by the Aurors.
Cornelius Fudge squeezed half his head out from between two tall Aurors, his green top hat askew, his chubby face filled with a triumphant expression of having seen through everything.
"He's just a lunatic! He's been shouting since that broken Chamber of Secrets on the Fourth Floor, and he's still shouting now. Has anyone seen You-Know-Who? He's just stalling for time..."
Fudge's voice echoed through the corridor, providing a sense of reassurance to the somewhat unnerved Aurors.
That's right, the Minister is correct!
If Quirrell really had the Dark Lord possessing him, would he need to grab a first-year girl as a human shield? He would have started killing everyone long ago!
Scrimgeour's lion-like eyes were fixed on Quirrell, his wand already aimed at Quirrell's wand-holding wrist, just waiting for the perfect opportunity.
"Stop everyone!"
A steady voice, like a giant rock falling into water, instantly drowned out all the noise.
Albus Dumbledore stopped the advancing crowd, and his blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles showed an unprecedented fury.
"Everyone, step back! Something is unusual..."
Dumbledore didn't even look at Fudge, directly ordering Scrimgeour: "This is not something you can handle. You are to seal off this floor now... I will deal with the person behind him!"
Scrimgeour's movements halted.
The pressure from Dumbledore was not a suggestion, but an order.
However, Fudge's anger went straight to his head.
How dare you, Dumbledore!
Just as he, Cornelius Fudge, was about to claim this immense credit, you jump out again to spoil things?
"Albus! What do you mean by this? The case is already very clear; this delusional madman planned everything..."
Fudge pushed his way out of the human wall, his finger almost poking Dumbledore's nose.
"Are you trying to obstruct the Ministry of Magic's investigation?"
He felt his authority being trampled upon in front of hundreds of his subordinates.
He absolutely could not swallow this insult!
"I'm telling you, Dumbledore!"
Fudge's spit sprayed all over Dumbledore's face: "Let alone that he's a crazy person pretending to be a god, even if You-Know-Who stood here today, we wouldn't need your help; we could still capture him..."
He waved his hand, letting out a lion-like roar at the Aurors behind him, who no longer knew whose orders to follow.
"All of you, go! I don't care if he lives or dies! I'll take responsibility for everything..."
At Fudge's command, dozens of beams of light instantly illuminated the entire corridor as if it were daylight!
"Stupefy!"
"Expelliarmus!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Colorful spells intertwined to form an impenetrable net, sweeping over Quirrell!
Quirrell was so scared he almost lost control of his bladder on the spot. He never imagined these people would attack so decisively, and with such an indiscriminate, hostage-be-damned assault!
"Master! Are you even capable? Come out now!"
He screamed frantically in his mind.
The magic of the Honesty Bean surged again, and he couldn't even care about his fear of Lord Voldemort, directly cursing him in his head.
"Didn't you say you were powerful?"
"Why are you acting like a coward now!? If you don't come out, both of us will be finished here... and you won't be able to resurrect..."
"Shut up! I'll be ready soon, just a little more..."
Lord Voldemort was also going crazy; it had been years since he had been cursed so thoroughly.
But he was still just a little short of breaking through that strange magic to take over Quirrell's body... Seeing the other side preparing for another round of spells, Quirrell completely despaired.
He pushed the screaming Hermione forward, while also shouting at the top of his lungs, making a final struggle.
"The Master is about to descend! You will all die, all die..."
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Countless spells hit the walls and ceiling, sending stone fragments flying everywhere, and choking dust made it impossible to open one's eyes.
The Aurors, after all, were concerned for Hermione's safety, so most of the spells went astray.
But the immense impact also made Quirrell unstable, forcing him to retreat step by step.
One step, two steps... this devilish pace... "Thud!"
His back hit the wall.
There was no retreat.
Dozens of Aurors surrounded him, their dark wand tips flickering with various lights, blocking all possible escape routes.
The corridor was eerily quiet.
Quirrell panted heavily, cold sweat dripping down his bald head.
He could feel the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket burning like a hot iron, and he could also feel the "Master's" soul roaring.
But... nothing happened.
There was no world-destroying Dark Arts, no aura of supreme dominance.
His Master seemed to have gone offline.
Quirrell held Hermione, disregarding the girl's screams, and pressed his wand firmly against her neck, shielding himself with her.
Seeing this, the Aurors slowed their pace.
Just then, Quirrell's gaze swept to an empty Armor Display Room nearby... The door was ajar, revealing the floor-to-ceiling window inside and the night sky outside the Castle. A surge of joy filled his heart, and an idea formed.
In the Armor Display Room.
Signas, too, watched everything outside through the crack in the door. At this point, he understood that Quirrell had stolen the Honesty Bean Soup.
Without the system by his side, he hadn't noticed Lord Voldemort infiltrating his dormitory, and Sig's forehead was covered in cold sweat.
When Quirrell's gaze swept over, Sig immediately recoiled, hiding in the shadows.
Filch, behind Signas, also noticed the commotion outside. He was even worse, huddled in a ball, his trembling body stirring up dust on the floor.
He muttered meaninglessly, "Merlin's Beard... Merlin's Trousers..."
The standoff outside continued.
Dumbledore took a few steps forward, his voice carrying a power that suppressed the tense air in the corridor.
"Quirinus, release Miss Granger. I know what you are facing; do not offer futile resistance..."
Fudge also poked his head out from behind the Aurors and shouted, "Exactly! Quirrell! You have nowhere to run... Surrender immediately, and the Ministry of Magic may show you leniency!"
Quirrell's chest heaved violently, his eyes darting between Dumbledore, Fudge, and the group of Aurors. Finally, they fixed on the door that was left ajar.
He suddenly let out a sharp, distorted sound.
"Nowhere to run? Hahaha... Who said that?"
His voice still echoed in the corridor as he abruptly flicked his wand, uttering a never-before-heard spell.
"Cadaver Tongue!"
A beam of blood-red magic shot out, not at the crowd, but at a standing suit of full plate armor nearby.
"Boom!"
The plate armor instantly exploded.
Metal fragments and some kind of white powder mixed together, forming a storm that swept through the entire corridor.
Chapter 146: A Grand Performance
"Ah!!!"
The Aurors let out a chorus of cries, the light of spells illuminating the space before them as they formed hasty barriers.
"Impedimenta!"
"Protego!"
Now was the time!
Quirrell's body shot forward like an arrow released from a bow, holding Hermione hostage as he charged toward the door of the Armor Display Room.
Fudge was frantic, shouting at the top of his lungs over the noise to command his stumbling subordinates to hurry and intercept them.
Inside the Armor Display Room, Signas's mind raced: "Mr. Filch... the door bolt, pull it!"
Signas hissed at the caretaker, who had already slumped to the floor.
But Filch was huddled in a corner, his body shaking like an autumn leaf, his mouth only capable of meaningless murmurs as if he had been scared witless.
Signas had no time for nonsense. He ran over himself, gripping the cold, rough iron bolt with all his might, trying to slide it into the groove of the door frame.
The bolt didn't budge.
Having gone unused for years, it had rusted solid.
"Damn it!"
Signas growled under his breath.
Filch, huddled in the corner, jumped at the sound and finally came to his senses.
He scrambled over and, together with Signas, threw his entire body weight against the bolt.
Clack!
Under their combined effort, the massive iron bolt finally slid perfectly into the groove.
Quirrell had already shaken off the Aurors, who were a step too slow. To escape the vines Dumbledorehad conjured, he took a large leap and slammed into the door.
A look of joy flashed across his face as his body collided solidly with the door, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze.
The heavy oak door let out a dull, thunderous boom. The entire frame vibrated, and dust rained down from the ceiling.
The massive impact sent him staggering backward, and Hermione, whom he had been holding, slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.
Hermione was swept up by a vine and escaped Quirrell's control.
"He has no hostage... seize him!"
Scrimgeour was the quickest to react. At his command, the nearest Aurors immediately lunged forward.
Quirrell had just recovered from the dizziness of hitting the door when he saw several spells already flying toward him.
He was finished.
Just as that thought flashed through his mind—
An indescribable aura erupted from Quirrell's body.
It was as if some forbidden curse had been used.
Something older and more primitive emerged. The aura was like a deluge, washing over the entire space and suppressing the Aurors' impulse to pounce.
Then, the candlelight in the corridor began to flicker like a lightbulb with a bad connection.
The temperature of the air began to drop.
The look in Quirrell's eyes changed.
The panic and madness faded, replaced by a hollow void.
His pupils dilated, blackness swallowing the original color until only two bottomless black holes remained.
His originally somewhat ruddy cheeks gradually turned deathly pale.
Lord Voldemort!
He had finally broken through the barrier of the Honesty Bean's strange magic and gained control over most of this body!
"Foolish mortals..."
A raspy, overlapping voice spoke from Quirrell's mouth, filled with arrogance.
The voice wasn't loud, yet it made the Aurors in front of him stop in their tracks involuntarily!
They judged that Quirrell had just used some kind of forbidden art to acquire power he shouldn't possess.
This also meant the Quirrell before them had become much harder to deal with!
Scrimgeour exchanged looks with his subordinates, their eyes filled with gravity.
"What... what kind of Dark Arts is this?" a young Auror's voice trembled, and he could barely hold his wand steady.
The smugness and arrogance on Fudge's face vanished without a trace, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit a Quaffle.
He wasn't as magically profound as Dumbledore, nor as experienced as the Aurors under him, but he wasn't blind.
Just by seeing the Aurors' reaction—as if they were facing a formidable enemy—he knew something was wrong, very wrong.
The small amount of pride that had just swelled in his heart was instantly extinguished, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him from head to toe.
Dumbledore's expression was more serious than ever before.
He could feel the cold, decaying aura of death radiating from Quirrell, almost tangible.
Yet within this swamp of death, there was a cluster of vibrant vitality; two diametrically opposed forces were weirdly entangled, forming an unfamiliar, hybrid aura.
It made it difficult for him to judge who exactly the person before him was!
Dumbledore raised the Elder Wand, pointing it straight at Quirrell, his voice as calm as deep well water.
"Who are you?"
"Albus, what nonsense are you talking about? He's Quirrell, of course!" Fudge was now anxious and afraid, his voice cracking.
He hid behind a tall Auror, peeking out with only half his head, urging urgently, "Don't worry about that, you... you must act... he must have used some wicked forbidden curse!"
Lord Voldemort did not answer Dumbledore's question, only staring at him with eyes that belonged to Quirrell but were now as black as an abyss.
Hiding behind the door, Signas heard this and felt a chill crawl up his spine to his brain.
It's over, looks like the real deal has come out.
He glanced back at Filch, who was slumped on the floor like a puddle of melted candle wax. Only one thought remained in his mind: Principal, Aurors, you must work harder, hold your ground! Don't let this guy in!
Just then, Lord Voldemort suddenly raised Quirrell's wand.
He needed a grand performance to announce his return.
"I will show you what true power is..."
Before his voice had even faded, a crimson light, so dense it seemed solid, suddenly flared from the tip of his wand!
"Crucio!"
The Cruciatus Curse!
A beam of bloody light, like a venomous snake seeking prey, tore through the air with a piercing whistle, flying toward the youngest Auror closest to him.
It was too fast, so fast that everyone present, including Dumbledore, only had time to widen their eyes!
The young Auror didn't even have time to react, the terrified expression on his face instantly freezing.
"Jie jie jie!"
Lord Voldemort let out a dry, raspy cold laugh. The sound was like two pieces of rusty iron rubbing together, making one's eardrums ache. He was ready to enjoy a feast of fear and the subsequent wails of agony.
The bloody light hit its mark.
Everyone's gasps were caught in their throats.
The young Auror's body went limp like a puppet with its strings cut, falling straight backward.
Then... "AAAAAAHHHHH—!"
A shriek so shrill it didn't sound human suddenly erupted from the Auror's throat, shattering the frozen silence.
He lay on the ground, his body twitching violently, his hands clawing frantically at his chest as if countless Fire Crabs were devouring his heart. A strange red glow even pulsed on his skin.
Before long, the young Auror went still.
A deathly silence filled the corridor.
Chapter 147: A Powerful Cruciatus Curse?
The nearly hundred battle-hardened Aurors were now as if collectively hit by a Petrificus Totalus, frozen in place, their faces filled with incomprehensible shock and fear.
They were Aurors, the elite law enforcement of the Magical World; the Unforgivable Curses were the first lesson of their induction training.
Accustomed to Dark Curses and casualties, they had rarely seen a Cruciatus Curse of this level—one that could cause rapid death through pure agony alone.
This wasn't a battle.
This was complete suppression.
Fudge's body began to tremble uncontrollably; the color drained completely from his fat face. His lips quivered, and his teeth chattered, but he couldn't utter a single word.
What had he been blustering about just now? That even if You-Know-Who were standing here, he would still be hauled back for trial?
Those bold words still echoed in his ears, but now they felt like a resounding, invisible slap across the face, stinging with heat.
Now, he only wanted to hide.
"It's the Cruciatus Curse... Everyone, defensive formation!"
Scrimgeour's roar finally broke the dead silence. As the Auror Office Director, he suppressed the shock in his heart and issued orders hoarsely.
The Aurors snapped out of it, instinctively raising their wands, yet their bodies involuntarily shrank back.
"Defense?"
Lord Voldemort's voice was thick with mockery; Quirrell's frail body radiated a suffocating pressure.
He took a step forward, walking beside the body lying on the ground, looking down as if admiring an interesting piece of art.
Then, those eyes, black as the abyss, swept across the room. Every Auror who met his gaze instinctively looked away.
Their hands holding the wands were shaking, and their feet were unconsciously shuffling backward, wishing they could all retreat behind Dumbledore.
Their synchronized movements were much like a group of startled Flobberworms—comical and ridiculous.
Lord Voldemort smiled, or rather, Quirrell's face was pulled into a twisted grin.
"Your welcoming ceremony for me is still not grand enough..." he said slowly in a playful, cat-and-mouse tone, every word carrying the cold breath of death.
However, the moment Voldemort spoke, the young Auror who should have been dead and was lying on the ground suddenly twitched a finger... and then, he abruptly sat up!
This action seemed to press the pause button for the entire corridor.
The smile on Lord Voldemort's face froze.
Scrimgeour and the crowd of Aurors stared wide-eyed, their mouths hanging open wide enough to fit a Bludger.
Fudge, hiding at the very back of the human wall of Aurors, flinched so hard he nearly fell on his backside.
He's... back from the dead?
Having survived the ordeal, Bob stared wide-eyed, looking blankly at where he had been hit by the Killing Curse, and then thumped his chest hard.
His heart was still beating.
He thumped it twice more; it felt solid and didn't hurt.
Then, his face was filled with ecstasy, along with a confusion he couldn't even understand himself.
"I'm... okay?"
This soul-searching murmur was like a pebble dropped into a pool of stagnant water, sending ripples through the silent corridor.
The frozen atmosphere shattered.
"Bob, how... how do you feel?" an experienced old Auror stammered, his wand-hand shaking as if he had Parkinson's.
"I'm... I'm fine, boss."
Bob scrambled to his feet, hopped twice on the spot, and stretched his limbs.
He checked himself carefully; aside from a bit of soreness in his backside from the fall, he hadn't even scraped his skin.
"It just felt... like I was hit by something warm and cozy. It was actually quite comfortable." He scratched his head, looking simple and honest.
Comfortable?
Every Wizard present, including Dumbledore, felt their brains were failing them.
The Cruciatus Curse directly touches the soul; after being hit by this magical attack, the soul is damaged to some extent, causing extreme pain.
The result is often issues on the spiritual, mental, and psychological levels—take the famous Longbottoms, for example.
But now, someone was saying the Cruciatus Curse felt comfortable?
"Merlin's beard! He took a Cruciatus Curse head-on?"
"I'm not seeing things, am I? That red light... it was the Cruciatus Curse, right? A few years ago, an old guy in our squad was tortured to death by that right before he retired!"
"Heh heh, Lucky Bob..."
An irrepressible murmur broke out among the crowd. It wasn't loud, but the sense of shock and absurdity was more intense than any scream.
The terrifying aura Lord Voldemort had built up upon his arrival was significantly diluted by this absurd scene.
The expression on Lord Voldemort's face had also completely frozen.
In those pitch-black eyes, a flicker of pure bewilderment flashed, quickly replaced by a wave of towering rage.
What was going on?
He was all too familiar with the Cruciatus Curse; he could cast it with his eyes closed. It had practically become an instinct engraved in his soul.
Even if he hadn't fully recovered and the power of that Cruciatus Curse was diminished, crushing a wet-behind-the-ears young Auror should still have been easier than squashing an ant.
But now, not only was that ant unharmed, he had jumped up and was looking at him as if he were an idiot.
Could it be because of this trash body of Quirrell's?
Before Voldemort could investigate further, a more pressing problem arose.
Dumbledore and that group of reckless Aurors were closing in again.
"Ahem!"
Cornelius Fudge coughed loudly, successfully drawing everyone's attention to himself.
He squeezed out from behind two tall Aurors once more.
Puffing out his chest, he straightened his crooked bowler hat and announced loudly in a tone of all-knowing wisdom:
"I told you so! He's nothing but a lunatic putting on a show..."
From a distance of over ten meters, Fudge's finger pointed accurately at Quirrell, his voice full of disdain and mockery.
"You all saw it! That wasn't a Cruciatus Curse at all!" He emphasized, as if stating a universal truth. "That was just a prank spell that looks like the Cruciatus Curse! He's just trying to scare us and stall for time..."
The Aurors looked at each other.
The lingering fear on their faces was gradually replaced by a realization of "so that's how it is."
Right, if it were a real Cruciatus Curse, how could Bob still be standing here?
It defied the basic laws of magic.
The Minister is brilliant!
Scrimgeour generally agreed with Fudge's assessment; he just wasn't sure if Quirrell had any more tricks up his sleeve, but at least the immediate threat level had dropped significantly.
Meanwhile, a strange light flickered in Dumbledore's blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles.
He naturally recognized the Cruciatus Curse. He sensed that the power of that spell was very weak, but he couldn't explain why!
In the Magical World, as long as one possessed magic power, setting aside the complexity of the spell, a Wizard could theoretically use any spell. Only the power would vary depending on the strength of the magic.
In his perception, the malice contained in that Cruciatus Curse just now was definitely that of a heinous Dark Wizard, yet the magical intensity was extremely faint—no stronger than that of a second or third-year student.
That was why Bob hadn't been killed and had only fainted for a moment.
What on earth was going on?
Chapter 148: Killing Curse? No, it's a Massage Curse!
Inside the Armor Display Room.
Signas leaned against the cold wooden door, listening to Fudge's "analysis" outside, his head filled with question marks.
That Auror named Bob outside—he was hit by the Crucio and nothing happened?
Was the half-dead version of Lord Voldemort really that weak now?
No... Signas suddenly thought of that bottle of Honesty Bean soup that Quirrell had stolen and drunk.
Vitality... Crucio... A flash of inspiration struck him, and an absurd guess emerged—could that bean soup... have neutralized the Crucio?
So the magic failed and turned into a full-body heat compress effect?
While Signas was lost in thought, the oak door he was leaning against suddenly gave a slight vibration.
Click... clack... A grating sound of metal friction came from the lock. The cylinder above the door bolt was slowly turning on its own. In the deathly silent display room, the sound was amplified countless times.
"It's... it's Alohomora!"
Beside him, Filch could no longer suppress his inner fear; he opened his mouth wide and let out a silent scream.
Then, as if his spine had been pulled out, he bounced up from the floor and scrambled backward on all fours, wishing he could stuff himself into the gaps of the armor in the corner.
As the school caretaker, Filch was naturally no stranger to this spell; he was even quite familiar with it, because the rooms he locked were always being opened by the Weasley twins using Alohomora.
But the one opening the door this time wasn't some mischievous student.
The one outside was a mad Dark Wizard who had just used the Killing Curse... It was over.
Just as this thought surfaced in Signas's mind, the lock gave one final, crisp "click."
The lock was open.
"Bang!"
The heavy oak door was slammed open from the outside by a massive force, hitting the wall hard and shaking the entire display room.
Quirinus Quirrell's figure immediately appeared at the doorway.
His purple velvet robes were now in tatters, covered in dust and stone chips; his bald head reflected a strange luster under the light.
He was panting heavily, his chest heaving violently, and his originally pale face showed a sickly flush due to the surge of adrenaline.
As his gaze swept across the display room, past Filch curled up in the corner, and finally fixed on Signas, time seemed to freeze.
He recognized him as the Slytherin brat who had extorted half a year's salary from Quirrell!
Lord Voldemort's pupils contracted into two dangerous pinpoints in an instant.
Those eyes were quickly filled with a look of pure rage.
"It's you!"
A raspy, overlapping voice, as if coming from the depths of hell, spat out from Quirrell's mouth, carrying overwhelming fury.
He realized that the bean soup likely had everything to do with Sig.
Outside the door, a moment of commotion occurred due to this sudden turn of events.
"He's trying to run..."
"Could there be students inside?"
"Merlin's beard..."
The Aurors let out cries of surprise. They never expected that this Dark Wizard, whom they had surrounded, would actually crash into a locked display room—and that there was someone inside!
"How can there be students in a place like this?! Dumbledore, this is a failure of school management!" Fudge's scream followed immediately. His fat face turned the color of pig liver from excitement and anger, and he instinctively started shifting the blame.
Dumbledore saw Signas and also saw Filch hiding in the corner; his expression instantly darkened.
He took a step forward, his tall figure blocking everyone else, his blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles locking onto Quirrell at the door.
However, at this moment, Lord Voldemort's killing intent became almost physical as he thought of his old and new grudges with Sig.
"I'm going to make you... taste the flavor of death!"
Lord Voldemort's voice was distorted and venomous. He suddenly raised Quirrell's wand with lightning speed, giving no one time to react.
A ghastly green light, like a snake's tongue, spat out from the tip of the wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light was too fast—so fast that Signas only had time to see the blinding flash, so fast that Dumbledore had only just raised his wand, so fast that the surrounding Aurors only had time to let out a cry of alarm.
Signas's body was completely enveloped by that ghastly green light.
"It's over..." was the only thought in Scrimgeour's mind.
Fudge's eyes bulged, and his mouth hung open wide enough to fit a fist.
Filch, who was trying to squeeze into the armor, saw the green light; his body jerked violently, then his eyes rolled back, and he promptly fainted inside that tin can.
Everyone anticipated what would happen next.
A shrill scream, a momentary convulsion, a cold corpse.
That was the Killing Curse, one of the Three Unforgivable Curses, a terrifying magic that could kill a person instantly.
However... the expected scream did not sound.
The ghastly green light, upon contacting Sig's body, was sucked in like it had hit a giant sponge. Without causing a single ripple, it silently... disappeared.
Signas stood where he was, motionless, not even a single eyebrow twitching.
He only felt as if a giant static ball had been smashed into his face.
A strong surge of malice, like countless red-hot steel needles, frantically tried to drill into his body, tear his nerves, and shred his soul.
But the power wasn't great. The moment it touched his skin, the excruciating pain didn't arrive; instead, it was replaced by a tingling sensation that rose from the marrow of his bones.
That feeling was like... like... like hundreds of acupoints all over his body were being pressed simultaneously by a skilled masseur using a high-frequency vibration technique.
Streams of warm current scurried through his meridians, sweeping away the fatigue and tension of recent days.
"Hmph, mm..."
A slightly pleasant nasal sound softly escaped Signas's throat.
In the deathly silent corridor, this sound was as clear as a thunderclap.
Everyone was dumbfounded.
Dumbledore's raised Elder Wand froze in mid-air, the gathered powerful magic gradually dissipating. His blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles were full of unprecedented bewilderment and confusion.
Scrimgeour and the other Aurors looked as if they had been hit by a Full Body-Bind Curse, each maintaining a horrified posture, their mouths wide enough to fit a Quaffle.
Bob, the Auror who had just survived a close call, instinctively touched his chest and then looked at Signas, his eyes filled with a bizarre sense of "so you're the same" recognition.
Signas blinked and smacked his lips, savoring the feeling.
He looked down at his hands, then up at Quirrell, whose expression was frozen in extreme shock.
Sig was fine.
Not only was he fine, but he felt refreshed and invigorated all over!
"Was that... the Killing Curse?"
Sig's tone was as if he were truly a customer who had just experienced a new service.
"It couldn't be some kind of Massage Curse, could it?"
"..."
The entire fifth-floor corridor was so quiet you could hear dust hitting the floor.
Chapter 149: The Flying Bald Naked Man and the Philosopher's Stone
Massage?
The expressions on the faces of the nearly one hundred Aurors standing ready were so brilliant it looked as if they had collectively been hit with 'Riddikulus'.
Their wands were still pointed forward, but the murderous intent in their eyes had turned into pure blankness.
Bob taking a 'Crucio' head-on and only feeling warm was already enough of a challenge to their understanding.
Now, this Slytherin kid had taken a Killing Curse head-on and actually found it comfortable, turning it into a massage?
What on earth has happened to this world?
Crucio for heat therapy, the Killing Curse for massage?
Have Dark Wizards stopped studying the Dark Arts and switched careers to research wellness magicinstead?
And the person who felt this most strongly was none other than Lord Voldemort himself.
In those eyes, as pitch-black as an abyss, an unmaskable bewilderment appeared.
How is this possible?
The Killing Curse!
That was the spell he was best at, one could almost say it was the pinnacle of his path in the Dark Arts!
He had used this move to eliminate countless enemies.
But now, just as in the old days, he had condensed the purest malice and cast the Killing Curse, only for it to hit this brat in front of him and... have no effect at all!
If that discounted Crucio from earlier was just an accident caused by his newly recovered power, then this full-strength Killing Curse undoubtedly indicated... that something was catastrophically wrong with his magic.
Voldemort's will frantically scrutinized Quirrell's body, and finally, he sensed the source of that wrongness.
Inside Quirrell's body, there was an extremely strange yet outrageously majestic and vigorous life magic, running wild like a stray dog off its leash.
This power was like a layer of sticky syrup, dissolving most of the magic he channeled when casting spells.
It's that Bean Soup!
What the hell is this damned Bean Soup?!
"What on earth did you eat?!" Voldemort roared frantically inside Quirrell's mind, the mental shock nearly shattering Quirrell's already fragile soul.
He was now like an archer whose bowstring had been removed, unable to exert his strength.
The Killing Curse and Crucio from just now were like pulling back a ten-thousand-pound greatbow with all one's might, only for the resulting shot to be a soggy cotton swab that flopped limply against the opponent's face.
In other words, Voldemort, locked within Quirrell's body, was nearly magic-blocked!
Voldemort felt his very soul trembling with an unprecedented fury.
"Impossible... This is impossible!" He looked at Quirrell's hands and cried out, his voice becoming sharp and piercing due to the violent fluctuations of emotion, even taking on some of Quirrell's original stutter.
He, Lord Voldemort, who had dominated the Magical World for decades, the Dark Lord who made all of Europe tremble with fear, the most dangerous Dark Wizard in history... Today, his Dark Arts were neutralized by a little Wizard using some unknown method?
What method was that?
A spell?
A Potion?
A curse?
This unknown, bizarre power was completely beyond the scope of his understanding of power.
Voldemort was afraid!
Signas looked at the other's expression, which was as if he'd seen a ghost. He said nothing, merely shifting two steps to the side without drawing attention, putting some safe distance between himself and this mentally unstable Dark Lord.
He was also wondering to himself; this Honesty Bean didn't just make people tell the truth, it seemed to objectively carry some magic-blocking and vitality effects... "What are you all standing around for... seize him!"
Scrimgeour's roar finally broke the silence.
He didn't care why Quirrell's Dark Arts were failing; he only knew that now was the best opportunity!
"Oh right! Seize him!" Fudge also woke as if from a dream, squeezing out from behind a tall Auror again. The fear on his face had vanished, replaced by an excitement of being in control of the situation.
He pointed at Quirrell, his voice booming, "I said he was just a madman playing tricks! Take down this dangerous element... quickly!"
The Aurors snapped out of it and raised their wands again, assuming a posture to completely deal with the opponent.
This time, there was no longer fear in their eyes.
Good grief, after all that fuss, he was just a paper tiger who had used prank magic to play over a hundred of them for fools?
"Expelliarmus!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Stupefy!"
Dozens of spell lights of various colors instantly wove into an airtight net, encompassing the entire entrance of the Armor Display Room.
Voldemort watched helplessly as that net of death lunged toward him. He wanted to cast a 'Protego', only to find that the magic he channeled was scattered to pieces by that damned life force inside him the moment it surfaced.
"Boom—!"
Dozens of spells hit Quirrell squarely. That fragile 'Protego' shattered into pieces in an instant.
His whole body was thrown backward like a tattered sack by a massive force, slamming heavily against the wall next to the large floor-to-ceiling window of the display room with a dull thud.
At the same time, amidst the brilliant multicolored lights and flying dust, something flew out of his ragged robe pocket.
It was a stone about the size of a hen's egg, entirely a deep blood-red color, its surface rough as if it had witnessed long ages.
It traced a parabola in the air and, with a crisp 'clatter-clack' sound, rolled across the floor, stopping right by Signas's foot without tilting an inch.
The Philosopher's Stone!
Signas's eyelid twitched violently as he instinctively looked down.
That legendary stone that could turn lead into gold and produce the Elixir of Life was now lying quietly by his foot, emitting a warm luster as if it possessed life.
Signas felt like his heart was about to jump out of his throat. He forced himself to look away, glancing at the others out of the corner of his eye.
Seeing that no one was looking, he took a deep breath and pretended to stumble backward. His foot seemed to be tripped by something, and he let his body lurch forward, falling toward the ground.
In that lightning-fast moment, Signas's hand as he fell to the ground precisely—like a Magic trick—scooped the warm stone into his robe pocket.
The entire process was as smooth as flowing water, so fast that no one noticed.
Just as everyone thought Quirrell had been completely subdued, that figure who should have been unconscious suddenly scrambled back up!
Voldemort propped himself up against the wall. Though his movements were staggering, the madness in his eyes had not diminished. He glanced at Sig, then quickly at the bottomless night sky outside the window. Without a moment's hesitation, he turned and lunged toward that large floor-to-ceiling window!
"He's going to jump out the window!" Scrimgeour cried out.
That window was at least twenty meters above the ground, with hard courtyard flagstones below. Jumping down like that, even a Wizard would be smashed into a pulp.
But Voldemort couldn't care less anymore!
"Bang!"
He used all his strength, like an out-of-control bull, and slammed through the carved floor-to-ceiling window. Glass shards flew everywhere, and the cold night wind instantly rushed into the corridor.
However, a dramatic scene occurred.
Because he charged too hard and his movements were too frantic, his already tattered velvet robe's upper half was caught firmly by sharp wooden splinters and glass shards on the window frame.
Only a loud "Rrip—" was heard, like a large piece of thick canvas being torn apart.
Voldemort used the momentum of his charge to leap out from the fifth floor.
But his clothes, including that tattered velvet robe and his undergarments, remained entirely on the window, fluttering helplessly in the night wind like a flag of surrender.
Dumbledore, Scrimgeour, and the crowd of Aurors who rushed to the window all saw a scene they would never forget for the rest of their lives.
Under the night sky, in the air outside Hogwarts Castle, a naked and bald man was struggling to maintain flight in an extremely indecent posture.
He wasn't using any magical items; he was just flying through thin air like a giant bat with injured wings, or like a drunkard trying to imitate Superman.
Only his face, distorted by anger and shame, looked exceptionally hideous under the moonlight.
Soon, the bald naked man disappeared into the distant night...
Chapter 150: The Philosopher's Stone and the Dirty Hearts of Those Who Play Games!
A strange stone gargoyle squatted at the entrance of the Headmasters Office.
Dumbledore said "lemon sherbet" casually, and the gargoyle jumped aside, revealing the spiral staircase behind it.
The entire office was in chaos at the moment, but Dumbledore simply waved his wand, and everything returned to its original place.
Dumbledore settled comfortably behind the desk and produced a box of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans as if by magic: "How about... some sweets?"
When he realized it was that box of never-ending bogey-flavored Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, Dumbledore's lips tightened. He quickly waved his wand to vanish the thing and brought out a platter of assorted candies instead.
This wasn't because he didn't acknowledge Sig; rather, it was because his estimation of Sig had significantly increased.
Although Sig was a Slytherin and didn't have the best personality, the fact that he could blackmail Quirrell, who had sided with Lord Voldemort, and firmly stand on the other side clearly proved he hadn't gone down a dark path!
Sig accepted the kindness and took a lemon sherbet, putting it in his mouth. The candy exploded on his tongue; a flavor that was extremely sour yet sickeningly sweet instantly took over his taste buds, giving him a mental boost.
"Harry is still unconscious in the Hospital Wing," Dumbledore said as he comfortably tossed a few "Cockroach Clusters" into his mouth, making a faint crunching sound as he chewed. "Tell me about Quirrell first... well, especially the things I don't know..."
Sig's eyebrows twitched imperceptibly.
This rhetoric... it was quite sophisticated.
Was this an interrogation?
Waiting for Harry to wake up to cross-check?
As expected of the Magical World's number one PUA master, the methods of the Chief Wizard were indeed brilliant.
This was an invisible yet gentle warning.
This White Demon King, who had a strong desire for control, was likely feeling a bit uncomfortable because he didn't know about Sig's private blackmailing of Quirrell.
Sig didn't panic; he had already prepared his story. He had previously reported the suspicious situation on the back of Quirrell's head, so now he was just filling in the details.
As for "looting" some of Quirrell's magical items, magic books, and notes, and blackmailing him for nearly half a year's salary, there was nothing to hide... He could even frame it as his own wit and bravery, a battle of wits with a Dark Wizard, and a heroic deed of weakening the enemy's strength in advance.
Finally, he proactively mentioned his latest research in magical cooking and that Felix Felicis... but he intended to keep the Philosopher's Stone for himself.
Anyway, no one saw it... In the original story, Lord Voldemort himself stood right next to it and didn't sense the surging magic of the Philosopher's Stone.
Sig boldly speculated that Dumbledore also couldn't sense the stone in his pocket right now.
Walking all the way from the fifth floor to the Headmasters Office without being noticed by the accompanying Dumbledore seemed to prove this point.
Even if Dumbledore found out later, that would be years away.
This stone, even if it couldn't help the system upgrade, was extremely useful right now.
Without Felix Felicis or a Calming Draught, having the Philosopher's Stone on hand was equivalent to having infinite endurance and powerful combat capability.
Furthermore, the Philosopher's Stone itself was a priceless treasure. After the system upgraded, this thing would definitely count as a Legend PLUS-tier item.
Dumbledore just listened with a smile, occasionally picking up a Cockroach Cluster and tossing it into his mouth. His blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles always carried a gentle smile.
It wasn't until Sig mentioned "Felix Felicis" that a subtle change appeared in the old Principal's expression.
Dumbledore's mouth twitched slightly, showing a mix of realization, oddity, and a hint of being between laughter and tears, as if an unexpected puzzle piece had been put in place.
He looked deeply at Signas, his azure eyes carrying a complex emotion that said, "So it was you, kid."
After a while, the old Principal suppressed that sense of absurdity and regained his profound and mysterious demeanor.
Seeing this expression, Signas felt half the weight lift from his heart, but he wanted to confirm further.
He cleared his throat, a perfectly timed trace of worry appearing on his face as he spoke, "Principal, aren't you... aren't you worried that Quirrell might take the Philosopher's Stone and actually use it to resurrect You-Know-Who?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, Signas felt the air freeze.
Damn, he'd said too much.
Dumbledore suddenly looked up, those blue eyes that were always filled with smiles now sharp as a hawk's.
Like two searchlights, they shot straight into the depths of Signas's eyes, illuminating him from the inside out.
"It seems you are very interested in the Philosopher's Stone..." Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice not loud but possessing a strange penetrating power, as if it could drill into the depths of one's mind and drag all hidden thoughts out for display.
A flash of awkwardness passed over Signas's face, and he decided to play dumb, putting on an innocent expression of "I'm just a good student concerned about the school."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on Sig's feigned calm face for a moment. A light Sig couldn't understand flickered in his blue eyes, looking like wisdom yet also like cunning.
"But there's nothing to worry about. If it's taken, it's taken!" the old Principal said calmly.
"???"
While Signas was confused, he heard the old Principal say slowly, "Who said... that the thing in the Fourth Floor restricted area must be the Philosopher's Stone?"
Boom—!
Signas felt as if his brain had been struck by a bolt of lightning, instantly going blank.
The sounds of the spinning silver instruments in the office seemed to be infinitely magnified at this moment, turning into piercing, mocking noises that drilled into his ears.
What?!
Signas's pupils constricted instantly, and his blood seemed to freeze at this moment!
Fake?!
The one on the Fourth Floor... was fake?!
He subconsciously touched the pocket of his robes. Through the thick fabric, his fingertips clearly felt the outline and warm texture of the stone.
That surging, warm magic fluctuation, which seemed to contain an entire world of life, was so real and so powerful... how could it be fake?!
If this was fake, then Lord Voldemort must have had his head caught in a door to take such a huge risk for such a thing, only to end up fleeing empty-handed?
This made no logical sense!
Dumbledore looked at the nearly dazed expression on Signas's face, and a satisfied smile appeared.
To be able to make this little troll, who was always as slippery as an eel and had eight hundred hidden agendas, show such a face was a rare pleasure for him.
He appreciated it with interest for a good while before slowly revealing the answer.
"The Philosopher's Stone isn't necessarily a stone," the old Principal said indistinctly as he tossed a lemon sherbet into his mouth. "Nicolas Flamel is a great Alchemist, but he is also an old prankster who likes to joke. What he tells the world is only the part he wants the world to know..."
"In fact, the Philosopher's Stone is a rift that tears through the barriers of space and time, connecting to a pure source of magic... That is why it can continuously pour out magic..."
Sig mentally slapped his thigh!
Of course!
Who said the Philosopher's Stone had to be a stone?
Just like how there's no wife in a Wife Cake!?
Sig immediately followed up: "Then what did Quirrell steal?"
"Although the Philosopher's Stone is an invisible door, it needs an anchor in the material world," Dumbledore explained slowly. "That'stone' is the coordinate for the magic projection..."
"In other words... the magic supply to that'stone' can be cut off at any time?" Sig reacted quickly.
"Exactly." Dumbledore nodded slightly. "I sent a message to Nicolas Flamel long ago. By now, he should have already closed the magic channel."
As if to confirm Dumbledore's words, the "stone" in Sig's pocket, pressed against his thigh, instantly lost that surging sense of magic. The warmth vanished, and it became somewhat cold, like an ordinary... pebble.
The muscles on Signas's face twitched violently.
He felt his heart bleeding.
A Legend-tier item!
He hadn't even had it for long before this old guy, with just a few words, remotely shut it down!
What was the difference between moving an entire mountain of gold home and waking up the next day to find it had all turned to stone?
No, it was worse than that!
It was watching the gold mountain turn into stone right in front of your eyes!
Signas took a deep breath, trying to maintain his calm, but his heart was already starting to use every language he knew to "affectionately greet" everything about Dumbledore.
Old fox!
Old fraud!
The hearts of those who play games are truly dirty!
Just as Sig was preparing another wave of even more vicious curses, the heavy wooden door of the office was suddenly slammed open from the outside.
"Bang!"
Cornelius Fudge's voice arrived before he did.
"We just searched Quirrell's office—it's empty! There's nothing of value... it's as clean as if it were licked by a House-elf's Cleaning Charm!"
Fudge's arms waved in the air, spit flying with his movements.
"...Clearly, Quirrell was prepared... As the Principal, you were actually completely unaware?!"
Shifting the responsibility completely.