Chapter 101: The Backfiring Quill and Fireworks
October, and the rain was incessant.
Dolores Umbridge had been in a very bad mood lately.
Although she had successfully disbanded all student organizations, the school seemed to be working against her.
Students whispered in the corridors, Peeves threw water balloons from the chandeliers, and that Slytherin named Morrin White, though cooperative on the surface, always made her spine chill with his cold eyes.
To establish authority, she issued Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five:
"Students are prohibited from conducting any form of commercial transaction within the school. Violators will have all illicit gains confiscated and be expelled."
This decree was practically holding a gun to Morrin White's forehead.
The Slytherin dungeon, Morrin's private office.
"Is she crazy?" Draco rushed in holding the notice. "This is tantamount to seizing our 'Disciplinary Committee' slush fund! Not to mention the Potions and amulets sold through me!"
Morrin sat behind the desk, holding an extremely delicate silver carving knife, engraving imperceptible runes onto a black quill.
"Calm down, Draco."
Morrin blew the shavings off the pen barrel, his eyes focused: "When an administrator starts trying to control people's wallets, it means her power has reached its end, and all that remains is madness."
"Then what do we do? Stop the business?"
"No."
Morrin put down the quill.
It was the very type of specialized Dark Arts quill that Umbridge used to punish Harry.
Morrin had used a "swapping" trick, having a House-elfsteal the original from her office, and it was now undergoing "improvements."
"Business continues as usual. Not only that, but we'll make it even bigger."
Morrin stood up and placed the improved quill into a velvet box.
"Since she wants to play the 'prohibition' game, we'll play the 'rebellion' game with her. But this time, we don't need to do it ourselves."
Hogwarts, third-floor corridor.
Fred and George were hiding behind a statue, looking troubled.
"That toad confiscated our Skiving Snackboxes that were ready for shipping." Fred gritted his teeth. "Those were for our subscribers!"
"And she threatened to use that damn quill on us." Georgeclenched his fists.
"It seems you've encountered a dual bottleneck in capital and technology."
A voice rang out above them.
Morrin White was standing on the stairs, looking down at them from above.
"White?" The twins looked at him warily.
Morrin walked down, pulled a heavy cloth bag from his coat pocket, and tossed it to Fred.
Opening it, they saw it was filled with crystals glowing with a dangerous red light.
"What is this?"
"Alchemical Dragon Powder (Dragonfire Powder)."
Morrin explained nonchalantly: "It's a byproduct from refining Dragon blood in my factory. Its properties are extremely unstable; it expands, burns, and makes a loud noise when it encounters magic. Most importantly, the standard 'Vanishing Spell' has no effect on it. Once ignited, no one can extinguish it until its energy is exhausted."
The twins' eyes instantly lit up like two suns.
"You mean…"
"I heard you're developing something called 'Filibuster Fireworks'?" Morrin's mouth curled into a wicked smile, "If you add a bit of this to them…"
"Then we could blow Umbridge to the sky!" Georgeinterrupted excitedly.
"I didn't say that." Morrin shrugged, "I'm just disposing of 'industrial waste.' As for how you use it, that's your business."
"Besides…"
Morrin pulled out the velvet box containing the improved quill.
"Do me a favor. I know you have ways to put things back into Umbridge's office without anyone noticing."
"What is this?" Fred asked.
"A… 'Law of Causality' quill."
A cold glint flashed in Morrin's eyes: "I added a 'Damage Reflection Circuit' to it. The original pen absorbed the blood of the person writing. But this one…"
"…when the person being punished feels pain, this pain will be reflected twofold back to the owner of the pen, which is Umbridge, who holds the magical contract."
"The more she tortures students, the more she herself will suffer. And it's that kind of soul-level agony that cannot be diagnosed."
The twins gasped.
"Mate, you're truly vicious." George exclaimed admiringly, "But, I like it."
"Pleasure doing business." Morrin turned and left, "Tonight, I look forward to a grand fireworks display."
That night, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's office.
Umbridge was sitting at her desk, in a pleasant mood.
Lee Jordan was sitting at the small table; he was tonight's punishment recipient.
"Begin, Mr. Jordan," Umbridge said cloyingly, "Write: 'I must not insult the High Inquisitor'."
Lee Jordan gritted his teeth and picked up the quill that had just been "swapped back." He didn't know the quill had been switched.
He wrote the first word on the parchment.
A sharp pain shot through the back of his hand, and blood seeped out.
"Ah!" Lee Jordan cried out in pain.
At the same time.
Umbridge, who was drinking tea behind her desk, suddenly turned pale, and the teacup in her hand shattered on the floor with a "crack."
"Ah!!!"
Umbridge let out a scream ten times louder than Lee Jordan's.
She clutched her right hand back fiercely.
There were no wounds there, but she felt as if someone were gouging her bones with a red-hot knife!
"What's going on?!" Umbridge was sweating profusely from the pain.
"Professor?" Lee Jordan was startled.
"Keep writing! Don't stop!" Umbridge roared, thinking she had a cramp.
Lee Jordan had no choice but to continue writing.
With every stroke, Umbridge twitched in her chair.
By the end, Umbridge's face was twisted in pain, her makeup ruined, and she collapsed in her chair, gasping for air as if she had just had a severe illness.
This [Soul Pain Synchronization] could not be defended against.
And just then.
A huge explosion sounded outside the corridor.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Colorful lights illuminated the night sky of the Castle.
It was the Weasley Twins' masterpiece—[Dragonfire Fireworks].
Huge fire Dragons, spinning Catherine wheels, and screaming rockets rampaged through the corridor.
Umbridge, ignoring her hand pain, grabbed her wand and rushed out.
"Stupefy! Evanesco!" She cast spells at the fireworks.
But this was the trap.
The Dragon Powder provided by Morrin had "magic-absorbing" properties.
After Umbridge's Stupefy hit the fireworks, it didn't make them disappear; instead, it made them expand tenfold instantly!
The fire Dragons, originally the size of plates, instantly became the size of real Dragons, roaring as they charged at Umbridge, burning several large holes in her pink cardigan.
"Ah! Help!" Umbridge was chased everywhere by the fireworks.
Filch tried to put them out with a broom, but the broom caught fire.
The whole Castle was in chaos.
Students ran out of their dormitories, watching this scene, and erupted into deafening cheers.
Third floor, balcony.
Morrin White stood in the shadows, holding a glass of red wine, watching Umbridge below, who was fleeing in a panic from the fireworks, and her face twisted with pain and fear.
"Beautiful fireworks," Morrin commented.
"Young Master, will she find out it was us?" Alfred asked.
"And what if she does?"
Morrin took a sip of wine:
"The fireworks were set off by the Weasley Twins, and the quill was used by her. What does that have to do with me?"
"Besides…"
Morrin watched Umbridge's hand trembling; it was the aftereffect of the pain reflection.
"…she will soon realize that the more she tries to establish authority through corporal punishment, the weaker her body will become."
"When she's in so much pain that she can't even hold her wand…"
A cold glint flashed in Morrin's eyes: "…that will be the time we kick her out for good."
That night, no one at Hogwarts slept.
The Weasley Twins became heroes.
And Umbridge, under the dual torture of body and spirit, finally realized.
In this school, there were some people she absolutely could not afford to provoke.
Chapter 102: The Turning of Public Opinion, Blood-Stained Photos, and a Pink Breakdown
A cold morning.
Breakfast time had just begun in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
Dolores Umbridge sat in the center of the staff table. Dumbledore's seat was empty; although she was not yet the Principal, she already acted as if she were the hostess.
Her right hand was wrapped in thick bandages, the backlash from the modified quill, and her face looked sallow due to chronic nerve pain.
Yet she still tried to maintain her dignity, her eyes beneath those puffy lids scanning the students below vigilantly, searching for any signs of violation of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five.
"It is very quiet today, is it not?" Umbridge said to Professor McGonagall beside her, her tone laced with a hint of triumphant boasting. "It seems the children have finally learned the rules."
Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together, not even glancing at her, simply cutting into the sausage on her plate with force.
Just then, a massive sound of flapping wings, like a squadron of bombers, came from the high windows.
The owl post had arrived.
This was normally a daily routine, but today's scale was absurd.
Hundreds of owls poured into the Great Hall, their talons clutching not just subscribed newspapers, but countless Howlers.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Countless copies of The Daily Prophet fell onto the long tables like snowflakes, with quite a few landing directly in front of Umbridge.
Beside the Slytherin long table.
Morrin White picked up a copy of the newspaper, which still smelled of fresh ink, and unfolded it elegantly.
"The show is beginning," he said softly to Malfoy beside him.
Malfoy leaned over to look, his eyes widening instantly.
The headline was no longer attacking Harry or Dumbledore.
It was a huge, moving black-and-white photograph. The photo did not show a face, but just a hand. The back of a boy's hand, raw and bloody, with a line of clearly visible, deep red writing carved into it:
I must not tell lies.
And above the photo, in the sharpest and most sensationalist prose, Rita Skeeter had written a massive headline:
"Hogwarts' Dark Dungeon: Did a High-Ranking Ministry of Magic Official Really Use Medieval Torture on a Minor Wizard?"
The entire hall exploded instantly.
The previously quiet Great Hall was as if a bomb had been thrown into it. Students scrambled to pass the papers around, with gasps and angry murmurs rising one after another.
Umbridge grabbed the newspaper in front of her with trembling hands.
Her gaze fell on the subtitle:
"Is It Educational Reform, or Perverted Sadism? A Deep Dive into Ms. Dolores Umbridge's 'Bloody Classroom'."
"This... this is slander!" Umbridge shrieked, her voice distorted by panic. "This is libel! I will ban this newspaper! I will..."
However, when she saw the content on the second page, her voice caught in her throat.
The second page featured "live photos provided by an anonymous student," taken by Harry with the miniature camera Morrin had given him. In the photo, Umbridge was sitting in her office piled with pink plates, wearing that bone-chilling smile of someone enjoying others' pain, watching a student bleed.
Although the photo was black and white, the malice was practically overflowing from the page.
The article read:
"According to informed sources, this Dark Arts quill was listed as a contraband item by the International Confederation of Wizards over a hundred years ago. Yet, our beloved Senior Undersecretary has used it on a fifteen-year-old child within the sacred campus of Hogwarts..."
"We cannot help but ask: Is Minister Cornelius Fudgeaware of this? Is this the official instruction of the Ministry of Magic, or is it the personal insanity of Ms. Umbridge?"
This was a killing blow.
This article not only nailed Umbridge to the wall but also cleverly shifted the blame onto her personally, leaving Fudge an exit strategy to cut ties.
To prevent the Ministry of Magic from collapsing completely, Morrin needed Fudge to remain in power for a while longer.
"Who did this?! Who took the photo?!"
Umbridge stood up, waving her uninjured left hand frantically, her wand pointing at the students below.
"Is it you? Potter?!"
Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor long table, looking at the newspaper, a sense of unprecedented relief surging in his heart.
He looked up, meeting Umbridge's gaze, and raised the back of his hand, which still bore faint traces even after applying medicine.
He did not speak, but the gesture said everything.
"I will expel you! I will..." Umbridge roared hysterically.
Just then, the first Howler exploded.
"Dolores Umbridge!"
An angry Witch's voice rang through the Great Hall; it was Neville's grandmother:
"You shameless woman! If you dare to touch a single finger on my grandson, I will go to the Ministry of Magic and blow up your office!"
Immediately following, a second, a third...
Hundreds of Howlers from angry parents exploded over the Great Hall.
They might not believe Lord Voldemort had returned, but they would never tolerate anyone abusing their children with Dark Arts.
Amidst the torrent of abuse, Umbridge covered her ears, looking completely wretched.
At the staff table.
Professor McGonagall put down the newspaper, the corners of her mouth curling into a rare, cold smirk.
Professor Snape looked toward the Slytherin long table with a gaze that was almost "appreciative."
He knew that only one person could pull off this kind of move.
Morrin White.
Morrin was drinking black tea quietly, as if the surrounding clamor had nothing to do with him.
"That's brutal, Morrin." Malfoy looked at the newspaper; although he hated Potter, he hated Umbridge's high-and-mighty attitude even more. "She's finished now. Even pure-blood families will be writing letters to protest. After all, nobody wants their own child to be carved up."
"This is the power of public opinion, Draco."
Morrin put down his teacup, his voice calm:
"Yesterday, she was a reformer representing the will of the Ministry of Magic."
"Today, she is an abuser of power and a sadist."
"And..."
Morrin pointed to the bottom of the newspaper: the stock market section.
"...Affected by this scandal, the stock prices of several alchemy material suppliers under the Ministry of Magichave plummeted. I have already had Alfred complete a low-price acquisition as soon as the market opened this morning."
"This is called short-selling."
Malfoy listened, dumbfounded. He only saw the satisfaction of revenge, while Morrin saw the flow of Galleons.
At this moment, Umbridge finally couldn't take it anymore.
She could not stay in the Great Hall any longer.
Those Howlers were still calling her a "pink toad."
She grabbed the newspaper and stumbled down from the staff table, wanting to flee back to her office.
As she passed the Slytherin long table, she saw Morrin.
The boy was looking at her with a smile, raising his teacup in a "cheers" gesture.
Umbridge stopped in her tracks.
Her swollen eyes were filled with resentment and fear.
She understood.
This was not done by Potter.
Potter didn't have the brains, nor the resources to control The Daily Prophet.
It was this devil.
"It was you..." Umbridge's voice was hoarse. "You are ruining me..."
"I am helping you become famous, Professor."
Morrin said softly, his voice audible only to the two of them:
"Don't you like to control everything? Now, the entire British wizarding world is talking about you. You should be happy."
"However, a piece of advice for you."
Morrin's eyes turned cold instantly:
"If you still want to keep that Senior Undersecretary position, you had better not try to seal my business again, and do not touch those students anymore."
"Otherwise, tomorrow's headline will be about your even more 'private' records of corruption and bribery."
Umbridge shivered. She looked at Morrin as if looking at Lord Voldemort himself.
She dared not say another word, covering her face and fleeing the Great Hall amidst the jeers of the entire school.
"Well done."
Not far away, Harry watched this scene; although he couldn't hear what Morrin said, he saw Umbridge's fear.
He turned to Ron and said, "Regardless of what Morrinwants, at least when it comes to dealing with this woman, he is our ally."
Morrin watched Umbridge's disappearing back and picked up his knife and fork again.
"Alright, most of the obstacles have been cleared."
He cut off a piece of bacon.
"Now, this toad is a toothless tiger. She won't dare to arbitrarily punish students again, nor will she dare to audit my accounts."
"Next..."
Morrin looked out the window.
"...It is time to go to the Room of Requirement and deliver my 'final exam questions' to the members of the D.A."
"Let it be chaotic, the more chaotic, the better," Morrinwhispered to himself. "Only upon the ruins of chaos can one build what truly belongs to me—the White Empire."
Chapter 103: The Vision of Glory and the savior's Addiction
Christmas Eve.
Inside the Gryffindor Tower boys' dormitory, a cold wind battered the windows.
Harry Potter was dreaming.
But he felt as if he weren't dreaming.
He felt his body had changed; he had no hands or feet, only smooth scales rubbing against the floor.
He was slithering down a dark corridor, his perspective low but filled with power.
He was hungry.
He craved blood.
A figure appeared ahead.
That red-haired man was sitting outside the door of the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic, dozing off.
Arthur Weasley.
An uncontrollable desire to kill surged into his heart.
"Bite him... tear him apart..."
Harry—or rather, Nagini—lunged forward, fangs sinking deep into the man's shoulder.
Blood sprayed out, hot and tasting of iron.
The man was screaming and struggling, but this only made the killing more exciting.
"Ah—!!"
Harry sat up abruptly in bed, letting out a sharp, piercing scream. He was drenched in cold sweat, the scar on his forehead throbbing as if it were about to burst, yet his mouth still savored the lingering taste of blood from just moments ago.
"Harry! What's wrong with you?" Neville was startled awake.
"Dad! Ron's dad! He's been bitten!" Harry gasped for air, a mixture of nausea and some strange, eerie satisfaction intertwined within him. "There's blood everywhere! I need to see Dumbledore!"
...
Principal's office.
It was two in the morning.
Dumbledore, wearing his nightgown, listened to Harry's account with a grave expression.
The portraits on the walls had been awakened and were rushing about.
"You mean to say you witnessed the attack?" Dumbledoredidn't look at Harry but instead stood with his back to him, staring at Fawkes's cage.
"I didn't just witness it! I was there!" Harry corrected him loudly, his emotions unusually agitated, even aggressive. "I was that snake! I bit him! I could feel the fangs sinking into the flesh!"
"Phineas," Dumbledore said to a portrait on the wall. "Go to Grimmauld Place and notify Sirius. Everyone else, go to St. Mungo's Hospital."
Just then, the green flames in the fireplace suddenly flared up.
A figure wearing a black velvet robe and holding a cane stepped elegantly out of the green flames.
Morrin White.
"Good evening, Principal." Morrin brushed the ash off himself. "A late-night visit, because my'security monitoring' showed a high-energy magical reaction in that entrance area of the Ministry of Magic."
Morrin turned his head, looking at the sweating, fanatical-eyed Harry.
"And it seems our Mr. Savior has had another 'nightmare'?"
"That wasn't a nightmare!" Harry roared at Morrin. "That was reality! Mr. Weasley is dying! I found him! If it weren't for me, no one would know!"
"Calm down, Harry," Morrin said indifferently.
A few minutes later, the portrait returned with news.
"Arthur Weasley has been found. He is severely injured but was sent to St. Mungo's before bleeding to death. He has been saved."
Dumbledore breathed a sigh of relief.
"Did you hear that?" Harry turned abruptly, looking at Dumbledore and then at Morrin, a twisted, victorious smile appearing on his face.
"I saved him! Because I can see what Lord Voldemort is thinking!"
Harry pointed to his scar, his tone arrogant to the extreme:
"Hermione has always been trying to make me learn Occlumency, and you have always been avoiding me, Professor! You all think this is a bad thing! But this proves I'm right! This kind of power... this connection is useful!"
Dumbledore finally turned around.
But he still did not look into Harry's eyes.
"Harry, this connection is dangerous. If Lord Voldemortknew that you could see..."
"Let him know!" Harry interrupted Dumbledore. "I can monitor him! I can save people! I'm faster than all of you!"
A sense of power he had never felt before flooded Harry's entire body.
He felt he was no longer a child being protected; he was a warrior with special abilities.
"What a... brilliant display of self-indulgence."
Morrin suddenly clapped his hands.
It was slow.
"What do you mean, White?" Harry glared at him angrily.
Morrin leaned on his cane and walked step by step toward Harry.
[Gate of Truth] activated.
He clearly saw that the area of Harry's soul in his mind, which originally belonged to him, had been eroded by more than half by a mass of black mist.
"You think you're a hero, Harry?"
Morrin lowered his head, those black eyes like an abyss:
"But in my eyes, you look just like an addict who has taken drugs and thinks he has gained divine power."
"You just said 'I was that snake'." Morrin's voice was cold. "Did you enjoy the feeling of crushing bones? Did you enjoy the heat of the spraying blood?"
Harry's expression froze.
Yes.
In the dream, in that instant, he had indeed felt a kind of... pleasure.
"That was Lord Voldemort's emotion," Morrin ruthlessly exposed him. "You aren't monitoring him; you are becoming him."
"You saved Arthur this time because Lord Voldemortwasn't prepared. But what about next time?"
Morrin's cane tapped lightly on Harry's chest:
"What if he intentionally lets you see something? For example... Sirius has been captured? What would you do? Like today, thinking you are an omniscient god, and then rushing over regardless?"
"I..." Harry wanted to retort, but Morrin's words pierced his heart like needles.
"That's enough, Morrin," Dumbledore said wearily. "Harrydid save a life tonight. But he does need to learn Occlumency. Professor Snape will teach you."
"I don't need Professor Snape to teach me!" Harry shouted. "And Morrin is talking nonsense! I can tell what's real!"
Harry turned and rushed out of the Principal's office.
He refused to admit that Morrin was right.
He had saved Ron's dad; that was a fact! He was a hero! This proved his scar was a gift, not a curse!
Watching Harry's retreating figure, Morrin shook his head.
"He's beyond saving," Morrin said to Dumbledore. "He has already fallen in love with this feeling of 'peeking'. It's addictive, just like being a voyeur."
"He's still a child, Morrin," Dumbledore sighed.
"Lord Voldemort doesn't care if someone is a child when he kills."
Morrin straightened his robe.
"Since he is so confident, let him go hit a wall."
"Professor, I'm going to St. Mungo's."
A glimmer of shrewdness flashed in Morrin's eyes:
"Arthur Weasley has been struck by a rare magical snake venom. The wound won't heal. I think... the new [Blood-Replenishing Potion: Snake Venom Special Edition] developed by White Pharmaceuticals just happens to need a clinical trial subject."
"Besides, this is also a good opportunity to win over the Weasley family."
Dumbledore looked at Morrin, his expression complex.
On one side was the arrogant savior about to fall into a trap, and on the other was the Slytherin who calculated everything down to the last detail.
"Go," Dumbledore waved his hand.
Morrin stepped into the fireplace, and the green flames swallowed him up.
"Harry Potter..."
Morrin whispered in the flames:
"Continue your arrogance. When you charge into the Department of Mysteries with your D.A. army, you will find..."
"...that what awaits you behind that door is not glory, but hell."
[Current Draw Count: 25]
[Target: The Veil (Death Research)]
"Soon. Just by the end of the term."
Chapter 104: Christmas at the Asylum, Forgotten Autographs, and Wrackspurts under the Mistletoe.
St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Although it was Christmas, there wasn't much festive cheer in the hospital.
The crystal bubbles and ribbons hanging from the ceiling looked somewhat bleak under the pale magical lights.
The corridors were filled with strange groans, the bitter smell of Potion, and the stifled weeping of families.
The fifth floor, the Spell Damage Ward.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were gathered around Arthur Weasley's bed.
Arthur still looked weak, but his spirits were good. Thick bandages were wrapped around his shoulders, and a strange, pale blue luster shone from beneath them.
"It's truly a miracle." Molly Weasley said gratefully, peeling an apple. "The Healer said that if it weren't for that new type of 'White snake venom serum,' this wound might have bled until next year. Although the price was frighteningly high... fortunately, Morrin waived the cost."
Harry stood at the foot of the bed, feeling a tightness in his chest.
He heard that name again.
Morrin.
It was clearly he, Harry, who had seen the attack through the connection and reported it in time to save someone.
But now, everyone was singing the praises of Morrin, who had provided the medicine.
"It was me who saw it." Harry couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "If I hadn't said anything, the medicine wouldn't have mattered."
"Of course, dear, you are the great hero."
Just then, the ward door opened.
There was no knocking, only that signature, steady, and elegant sound of footsteps.
Morrin walked in. He was wearing a dark...
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Weasley."
Morrin walked to the bed, not looking at Harry, but directly at Arthur's wound.
[True Sight] activated.
The wound was healing, and the snake venom was being neutralized and devoured by those blue alchemical factors.
"The clinical data is perfect." Morrin nodded with satisfaction, as if admiring a work of art, "It seems this antidote for 'Nagini toxin' can be mass-produced."
"Thank you, Morrin." Arthur was a little awkward, "This medicine must be very expensive, right? I will find a way to pay you back."
"No need, Arthur." Morrin smiled, "You are my 'first clinical volunteer.' Your recovery data is the best reward."
Harry watched Morrin's business-like demeanor, that calmness of "everything is under control," which made him feel an inexplicable irritability.
He felt like a child who hadn't grown up yet, while Morrinwas already an adult manipulating the situation.
"Let's go for a walk." Hermione noticed the awkward atmosphere and dragged Harry and Ron out of the ward.
...
The fourth floor, the Long-term Care Ward.
The atmosphere here was even more oppressive.
Those who lived here were people permanently damaged by spells and unable to be cured.
Harry and the others ran into Neville Longbottom there, along with his insane parents.
Those were the Auror couple who had been tortured into madness by Death Eaters.
The scene of Neville stuffing that candy wrapper into his pocket made Harry's heart ache.
When they were about to leave, a familiar yet strange voice called out to them.
"Hi! Are you here to ask for my autograph too?"
At the end of the corridor, a man in a hospital gown with curly hair but hollow eyes was grinning at them.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
"He... he's still here?" Ron opened his mouth in surprise.
"I can't remember who I am." Lockhart said happily, scribbling on the wall with a peacock quill, "But I must be a celebrity because everyone writes to me. Do you want an autograph? Just one Sickle."
Harry looked at this once arrogant Professor, who was now drooling like a child.
He suddenly remembered that night in the Chamber of Secrets two years ago, when it was Morrin who used Lockhart's own wand to erase his memory.
"This is... the price of going against Morrin." Harry felt a chill.
"It is indeed a tragedy, isn't it?"
Morrin's voice rang out again.
He had appeared in the corridor at some point, standing behind Lockhart, holding a medical record.
"Morrin?" Hermione looked at him with some fear, "Are you... here to see him?"
"I am a board member of the hospital." Morrin closed the medical record and said indifferently, "Although Professor Lockhart has lost his memory, he is not only not in pain, but actually very happy. I have fully funded his treatment costs."
"You turned him into an idiot, and then you're keeping him?" Harry asked in disbelief.
"This is called 'humanitarian care'." Morrin looked at the grinning Lockhart, his eyes cold, "Besides, keeping him as a living specimen is very helpful for my [Memory magic] research."
Harry took a step back.
He felt that Morrin was even more terrifying than Lord Voldemort.
Lord Voldemort only killed people; Morrin would turn them into specimens.
"Don't look at me like that, Potter."
Morrin turned around, ignoring the fool.
"Instead of pitying a liar here, you'd better go look over there. Someone is waiting for you."
Morrin pointed to the lounge at the other end of the corridor.
There was a huge floor-to-ceiling window there, and heavy snow was falling outside.
A girl with long, pale blonde hair was standing in front of the window with her back to them, drawing on the fog on the glass.
Luna Lovegood.
She was wearing a dark blue long dress dotted with silver sequins, and on her head was a hat that looked like a living lion's head; it was the one she had worn during the Quidditch match, and although it was inappropriate now, it looked harmonious on her.
"Luna?" Harry paused, "Why is she here?"
"She is waiting for me." Morrin said.
Morrin walked straight over.
The originally cold lines on his face miraculously softened as he approached the girl.
"Kept you waiting, Luna."
Luna turned around.
Her dazed, silver-grey eyes lit up.
"Hello, Morrin." Luna's voice was airy, like a feather landing on snow, "Are you here to see the Wrackspurts living on the ceiling too?"
"I can't see Wrackspurts." Morrin walked to her side and naturally helped her adjust the crooked lion-head hat, "I only saw a young lady who lost her way."
"I didn't lose my way." Luna said seriously, "Daddy went to the second floor to interview a Wizard bitten by a Werewolf. He said he wanted to write an article about 'whether Werewolves are contagious to baldness.' I am waiting for you here."
"Waiting for me?"
"Hmm." Luna took out a crumpled little box wrapped in colored paper from her pocket.
"Merry Christmas, Morrin."
Morrin was stunned for a moment.
He had received countless expensive gifts: swords crafted by Goblins, rare Dragon hide, and even shares in Gringotts.
But the box in front of him, wrapped in waste magazine paper, made his heart, which was wrapped in interests, beat slightly.
He took the box and opened it.
Inside was a... amulet? woven from cork, radish roots, and some unknown hay.
"What is this?" Morrin asked, his tone rarely gentle.
"This is..." Luna pointed to the ugly anti-Wrackspurt necklace.
Ron on the side couldn't help but laugh: "That's a pile of trash, right?"
Morrin ignored Ron.
He looked at the rough necklace and activated the perception of the [Gate of Truth].
There was no powerful magical fluctuation.
But... between the hay and the cork, a stream of extremely pure, golden spiritual energy was intertwined.
That was a kind of pure, unrequited kindness and blessing unconsciously injected by Luna's [Seer (Gold)] talent.
This was more precious than any amulet against the Dark Arts. Because it existed to "guard the soul."
"Thank you."
Morrin solemnly hung the "trash" necklace around his neck, tucked it into his priceless silk shirt, and pressed it against his chest.
"I like it very much."
Luna revealed a brilliant smile.
"By the way, Luna." Morrin took a document from Alfred, "This is a gift for Mr. Lovegood. Regarding the exclusive sponsorship contract for the next quarter of The Quibbler."
"And..."
Morrin looked at Harry, who was hiding behind:
"...I want to arrange an exclusive interview for The Quibbler. The interviewee is this savior, Harry Potter."
Harry was stunned: "Interview me?"
"That's right."
Morrin turned around, looking at Harry, the tenderness in his eyes instantly switching to a businessman's shrewdness:
"Since The Daily Prophet is unwilling to report the truth, why don't you change to another platform to speak out?"
"Tell the details of Lord Voldemort's resurrection in The Quibbler. Tell those names. Tell everything that happened in that graveyard."
"But..." Hermione frowned, "No one believes The Quibbler; it's for lunatics."
"In this crazy era, only lunatics dare to tell the truth."
Morrin walked to Luna's side and held her hand.
"Besides, this will make Fudge even more furious. When he discovers that the sales of even this 'trash magazine' exceed The Daily Prophet..."
A trace of playfulness flashed in Morrin's eyes:
"...He will understand that some voices cannot be blocked."
Harry looked at Morrin, then at the innocent-looking Lunabeside him.
He suddenly felt it was very ironic.
Morrin was attacking him in the mainstream media while providing him with a microphone in the alternative media.
How much further did this Slytherin intend to muddy the waters?
"I accept." Harry gritted his teeth and said, "As long as people can know the truth."
"Very good."
Morrin snapped his fingers.
"Then, this is a perfect Christmas gift."
At this moment, under the mistletoe above the corridor, Luna suddenly looked up.
"Look, Morrin." Luna pointed to the mistletoe, "There is a Wrackspurt there. It wants to steal your thoughts."
Morrin looked up at the plant that symbolized "kissing" in the Wizarding world.
He lowered his head and looked into Luna's clear eyes.
Without hesitation, and without regarding the gazes of Harry and the others.
Morrin leaned down and gently planted a kiss above those silver-grey eyes, on Luna's smooth forehead.
It was not a kiss full of desire.
It was a solemn touch, like a seal.
"Now it can't steal them."
Morrin straightened up and helped Luna adjust her lion-head hat.
"Let's go, I'll take you to eat pudding. The food at St Mungo's isn't very good."
The two left side by side, their silhouettes stretched long under the corridor lights.
Harry stood where he was, touching the scar on his forehead.
Watching Morrin and Luna, he suddenly felt that compared to himself, the so-called savior, that Slytherin who walked between black and white with a mad girl by his side seemed more like a living person.
"Let's go too." Hermione said softly, "It's... too cold here."
Chapter 105: The Quibbler's Counterattack, the Truth Behind the Silence, and the Mouthpiece of Capital
February 14th, Valentine's Day.
Although Hogsmeade was covered in snow, it didn't dampen the enthusiasm of the Hogwarts students for their dates.
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop was packed with affectionate couples, the air thick with sweet, cloying steam.
But in a dark corner of the Three Broomsticks, the atmosphere was entirely different.
A secret meeting was taking place here that would determine the direction of public opinion regarding the Ministry of Magic.
Harry Potter sat at the table, looking nervous.
Hermione Granger sat opposite him, clutching her handbag tightly.
Luna Lovegood was fiddling with a butterbeer cork, her gaze drifting aimlessly.
And at the other end of the table sat the once-arrogant, now-dejected star reporter, Rita Skeeter.
"I don't want to write this," Rita said, looking at Harry with a face full of disdain. "No one wants to read such a tragic, preachy story. Readers want scandals, romance! Like 'The Secret Date of Potter and Miss Granger'?"
"If you dare write a single word out of line, Rita..."
A cold voice came from behind Rita.
Morrin White walked over.
He wore a deep black trench coat, and his leather-gloved fingers lightly tapped the back of Rita's chair.
"...I'll turn you back into a beetle and pluck off those antennae you're so proud of."
Rita shuddered and immediately sat up straight, her face breaking into a smile that looked more painful than crying. "Boss! What are you doing here? I was just... lightening the mood."
Harry and Hermione watched this scene in shock.
The threat Hermione had prepared—revealing that Ritawas an Animagus—hadn't been needed at all.
In front of Morrin, Rita was as submissive as a venomous snake with its fangs pulled.
"Begin."
Morrin pulled out a chair and sat next to Luna, reaching out to brush a strand of hair that had fallen into her cup back behind her ear.
"Harry, tell us everything."
Morrin looked at Harry, his gaze sharp.
"Every detail of Lord Voldemort's resurrection. The names of the Death Eaters. How Cedric died. Even how scared and helpless you felt at the time."
"But..." Harry hesitated. "That will make me look very weak."
"The truth is often weak, but it is also the most powerful thing," Morrin said calmly. "We aren't selling a 'hero story'; we're selling the 'brutal truth'."
"As long as this brutality can sting the readers' nerves, Fudge's whitewashed lies will crumble on their own."
The interview began.
Under Morrin's supervision, Rita didn't dare use her Quick-Quotes Quill to fabricate nonsense; she could only honestly record Harry's every word.
When Harry spoke of Lord Voldemort's resurrection and the Death Eaters kissing his robes, Rita's hands trembled slightly.
This was indeed a massive scoop.
"Very good."
After the interview ended, Morrin picked up the roll of parchment and checked it over.
"Luna, this is for you."
"Okay, Morrin," Luna said, taking the manuscript. "Daddy will be very happy."
"As for the payment..."
Morrin pulled a Gringotts check from his breast pocket and placed it on the table.
"This is the 'exclusive licensing fee' for The Quibbler. It's enough for your father to upgrade the printing press so he never has to use that fading ink again."
...One week later.
The new issue of The Quibbler was released.
It wasn't just a few 'lunatics' reading it as usual.
Because owls had delivered a copy to every single student at Hogwarts, sponsored by Morrin's own pocket.
During breakfast, the Great Hall was in an uproar.
Everyone was buried in the article titled 'Harry PotterFinally Speaks: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Has Returned'.
The article detailed the list of Death Eaters in the graveyard that night: Malfoy, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle... the students corresponding to those names were sitting at the Slytherin table, faces pale, looking as if they were sitting on needles.
"This is slander!" Malfoy jumped up, wanting to tear the newspaper, but Morrin's hand pinned his down.
"Sit down, Draco."
Morrin sipped his coffee while reading the words in the paper.
"But my father's name is in there!"
"So what?" Morrin said coldly. "As long as Fudge doesn't admit it, this is just the babbling of a 'lunatic magazine'. And besides..."
Morrin looked toward the High Table.
Umbridge was shaking with rage, her pink face turning a deep purple.
"...it seems our High Inquisitor is going to help us with 'promotion'."
Sure enough.
By lunchtime, a massive notice was posted on every wall of the school:
[Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six]
[Any student found in possession of, reading, or distributing the magazine The Quibbler will be expelled.]
"She banned it!" Hermione said in horror at the Gryffindortable. "Now no one will dare to read it!"
"No, Hermione."
Harry looked around.
The students who had been skeptical of the report were now, as if driven mad, secretly passing the magazine around under tables, in bags, and even in the toilets.
"A ban is the best advertisement."
Ron said excitedly, "Fred and George both say that if something is banned by Umbridge, it must be true!"
...The Slytherin Dungeons.
"Sales have decupled."
Alfred reported to Morrin. "Mr. Lovegood's printing press is practically smoking. Moreover, it's not just the school; the entire wizarding world is scrambling for this magazine."
"Very good."
Morrin stood before the large Slytherin tapestry, fiddling with the Ravenclaw Diadem—the purified version—he had brought back from the Room of Requirement.
"The tide of public opinion has turned."
"Now, everyone is starting to doubt Fudge and the Ministry. That 'false peace' has been torn open."
Morrin placed the diadem back into the safe.
"This is only the first step."
Morrin's gaze turned to the calendar on the wall.
March 1996.
Only a few months left until the O.W.L.s.
And the battle at the Department of Mysteries... was drawing closer as well.
"Harry's nightmares have been getting more frequent lately, haven't they?" Morrin asked.
"Yes, Young Master," Alfred replied. "According to the informants we've bought in Gryffindor, Mr. Potter often wakes up in the middle of the night screaming about a 'door' and a 'corridor'."
"Voldemort is getting anxious."
Morrin let out a cold laugh.
"He wants that Prophecy Orb. He thinks that if he gets the prophecy, he'll find a way to kill Harry."
"But he doesn't know..."
Morrin's fingers grasped at the air, as if clutching the throat of fate.
"...that Prophecy Orb is also something I want."
"Prepare everything, Alfred."
Morrin turned, his eyes flashing with the light of a hunter.
"Contact our 'inside man' among the Unspeakables at the Ministry."
"I want a layout of the Department of Mysteries. Especially... the detailed security rotation schedule for the Hall of Time and the Death Chamber."
"Since we're going there to'stock up', we should pick a good time when no one will disturb us."
Morrin glanced out the window.
Spring had arrived, but the true harsh winter was only just beginning.
[Current Gacha Count: 35]
"Harry, keep dreaming," Morrin whispered in his heart. "Only you can keep everyone from noticing me."