Chapter 67 – A Wound That Betrayal Never Heals
Hearing Corvey's voice so suddenly, Russell's taut nerves reflexively loosened. He was just about to turn around—
when a bolt of lightning seemed to tear through his mind.
Something was wrong.
Completely wrong.
Corvey's tone didn't carry even the slightest trace of relief or warmth. It was cold—icy, detached, the exact opposite of what his words implied.
This is bad. Very bad.
Alarm bells screamed in Russell's head. His fingers tightened around his wand, but before he could react, a tremendous force slammed into his body.
His wand flew from his grasp.
Russell tumbled across the floor, smashing through a rotting table that shattered into fragments before he finally came to a halt.
"Fythorne… I knew you were capable," Corvey said calmly,
"but I never imagined you'd be capable to this extent."
He raised his left hand and neatly caught Russell's wand midair, clicking his tongue in admiration.
"To beat our so-called legendary Dark Wizard… the Dark Lord's most loyal hound… the pure-blood noble Morrel Yaxley—into this sorry state."
Corvey glanced at Yaxley with ill-disguised disdain.
"Look at you," he scoffed. "Defeated by a first-year Muggle-born student."
With a casual flick of his wand, a green glow settled over Yaxley.
"Major Healing."
The light lingered for a few seconds before fading. Yaxley felt noticeably better—his body still screamed with pain, but at least he could move again.
He dug into his robes and pulled out a palm-sized vial. What had once been a full bottle now held barely half its contents.
Seeing the cracks along the glass, his face twisted with pain. He licked the remaining traces of blue liquid off the bottle's surface, then uncorked it and drank the rest in one gulp.
His most precious potion.
It had even been warded with a Shield Charm—foolproof, he'd thought.
Clearly not.
As the potion took effect, his wounds rapidly stabilized. The bleeding stopped, scabs formed, and a cold numbness smothered the pain. With effort, he pushed himself upright.
Yaxley knew it was temporary—this potion merely delayed his injuries from worsening. Proper recovery would still require a hospital.
He searched for his wand.
All he found were shattered remnants.
"Damn it," he snarled.
"My wand—and I wasted a life-saving potion on top of that."
He stomped toward Russell, lifting his foot for a finishing kick—
Only for Corvey to calmly stop him.
"Professor Corvey…" Russell rasped.
"This will be the last time I call you that."
He laughed bitterly.
"I never imagined the two of you were working together."
Russell knew—now—that his only real mistake was trusting too easily.
Corvey had taught him sincerely. Trained him in real combat. Shared roasted Acromantula meat with him.
Piece by piece, moment by moment, Russell had lowered his guard completely.
"No, no, Fythorne," Corvey said pleasantly, waving a hand.
"It's not just the two of us."
His gaze shifted to Yaxley.
"Where is Selwyn? By now he should've arrived with what we agreed on."
"How would I know?" Yaxley snapped, still stinging from defeat.
"Maybe he took the goods and ran."
Corvey's eyes turned icy.
Sensing the shift, Yaxley quickly adjusted his tone.
"…Or," he added after a pause, "maybe something happened to him."
"Dumbledore caught him?" Yaxley suggested.
"Dragged him off for interrogation?"
"Oh, please, Yaxley." Corvey pinched the bridge of his nose.
"If that were the case, we'd already be surrounded by professors."
He sighed.
"Try using your brain."
Russell steadied his breathing, suppressing the storm raging inside his chest. Slowly, he propped himself against the desk, deliberately keeping both hands visible—adopting a posture of submission.
"The third person you keep talking about," he said quietly,
"who is it?"
He didn't stand up—he was afraid that even a single sudden movement would earn him another crushing blow.
"You're awfully curious, kid," Yaxley sneered, hatred practically dripping from his voice.
"Don't you know people who ask too many questions die the fastest?"
If Corvey hadn't been standing right there, he would've already started torturing Russell.
"Well," Russell replied calmly, almost casually,
"since Mr. Corvey isn't planning to let me walk out of here alive anyway, what's wrong with satisfying my curiosity?"
He smiled faintly.
"Who knows? I might even give you a useful clue."
His composure caught Yaxley off guard.
"Fine," Corvey said after a short pause. His gaze held a trace of genuine admiration.
"Consider it a courtesy—one last kindness between teacher and student."
"But don't misunderstand," he added lightly.
"No matter how impressive you are, you still have to die here today."
"You know too much."
"The third person," Corvey continued,
"is someone you've already met—Eron Ackerly."
He paused.
"Though his real name is Mimiron Selwyn."
So it was him.
If Corvey was telling the truth, then Ackerly—just like 'Fawley'—had been replaced.
It couldn't have happened before he entered school. The Sorting Hat would never have missed that.
So when had the real Ackerly been swapped out—silently, perfectly?
Russell's mind raced.
The Halloween feast.
Ackerly had drunk the Troll Transformation Potion and been sent to the hospital wing—escorted by Corvey.
That had to be when it happened.
And the potion itself?
Most likely stolen by Yaxley while disguised as Fawley—and then secretly fed to Ackerly.
As Russell followed the thread further, another connection clicked into place.
Fawley's replacement had likely followed the same pattern.
Early in the term—during flying lessons—an "accident."
A fall into the Forbidden Forest.
And once again, Corvey had been the one to "find" him.
"Yes," Corvey said with a satisfied smile, watching Russell's expression shift.
"I can see you've figured out quite a lot."
He clearly had no intention of extracting information from Russell. With Russell's wand already in his possession, he felt no threat whatsoever.
Corvey turned, about to resume his discussion with Yaxley.
That was when Russell spoke again.
"At the feast tonight," he said quietly,
"Slytherin won the House Cup."
"I know," Corvey replied, lifting an eyebrow.
"And?"
"When they were celebrating," Russell continued,
"he left the Great Hall alone."
"I saw him through the window. At the time, I thought he was sulking—maybe heading to the Black Lake to cool off after Slytherin's victory."
Russell gave a low, humorless chuckle.
"But now…"
"He probably just ran away, didn't he?"