Chapter 6: The Wand is Too Fragile
The magic power generated by the [Soul Furnace] exceeded the design limits of a medium like a wand in both quality and quantity.
It was like using a household water pipe to connect to a high-pressure fire hydrant—the pipe's diameter, material, and wall thickness were all insufficient. The moment the tap opened, the pipe would simply burst.
Switching to a thicker pipe? It would still burst.
Switching to a steel pipe? It would still burst.
Because it wasn't that the pipe wasn't good enough; it was that the water pressure was simply not designed for pipes at all.
The twenty-ninth one.
This was a dark red wand with a faint blood-colored luster on the wood's surface. Mr. Ollivander's hands were trembling as he handed it over.
"Bloodwood. It only grows in the deepest primeval forests of Albania and takes a hundred years to mature. This wood was stock left over from my grandfather's generation."
The old man's voice was raspy, as if he were handing over a final inheritance.
"The core is a Chimera heart tendon. Extremely dangerous, extremely tough. Theoretically, it can withstand the simultaneous magic infusion of three adult Wizards."
Cassius took it.
The Bloodwood wand stayed in his hand for four seconds.
This was the longest record of the day.
At the end of the fourth second, that blood-colored luster suddenly dimmed, and the wood's color changed from dark red to grayish-white—its magic had been drained dry. Then, with a crisp 'crack,' it shattered into seven or eight pieces and fell to the floor.
Mr. Ollivander closed his eyes.
The last one.
The thirtieth one.
Cherry wood, dragon heartstring. Mr. Ollivander had stopped speaking; he simply opened the box and pushed it over.
Cassius picked it up and glanced at it—the Cherry woodgrain was beautiful, with warm tones, and it felt good in his hand.
He gave it a gentle squeeze.
The Cherry wood pulverized in his palm. It didn't explode or snap; it was crushed directly into fine powder. The dragon heartstring core fell through his fingers like a snapped red string.
Cassius let go and brushed the wood dust from his palm.
"That's enough, Mr. Ollivander."
The old man did not answer.
He stood behind the counter, looking at the mess all over the floor—the remains of thirty wands strewn about, some still smoking, others already cold—looking as if all the bones had been sucked out of him.
He slowly walked to the old chair beside the counter and sat down.
The chair gave a creak.
"None."
Mr. Ollivander's voice was very soft, carrying something Cassius hadn't expected—not anger, not disappointment, but confusion.
Pure, massive confusion.
"In my shop's current stock... not a single one can carry your magic."
He looked up at Cassius, the fanaticism in his pale eyes having faded, revealing the bewilderment beneath.
"What exactly are you?"
Cassius did not answer the question.
He looked down at his two hands. They were clean, with clear palm lines and ten long, well-proportioned fingers.
These hands had crushed thirty top-tier wands in the past hour, and now they didn't have even a single red mark.
The [Soul Furnace] inside him was operating steadily, neither hurried nor slow, like the core of a star. The bit of magic he had just released had already been replenished—to be precise, it had been filled back up by the time he crushed the fifteenth one.
Cassius thought of a metaphor.
A wand is to an ordinary Wizard what a gun barrel is. Magic starts from within the body, passes through the guidance and amplification of the wand, and turns into a precise spell to be fired. Without a barrel, magic is just buckshot—powerful, but uncontrollable.
That's why ordinary Wizards cannot live without wands.
But he was no ordinary Wizard.
His magic wasn't buckshot. His magic was a high-pressure water cannon. Even without a barrel to guide it, it could be fired with extreme density and speed, crushing everything with pure power.
The barrel had instead become a bottleneck.
If a plastic straw is connected to a fire hydrant, the only outcome is for the straw to burst.
"The wands are too fragile," Cassius concluded. His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the quiet shop heard him clearly. "It's not an amplifier; it's a flow-restricting valve. For me, using a wand only slows down my casting speed and lowers the output ceiling."
Draco swallowed hard.
"But... brother, without a wand, how will you go to classes at Hogwarts? Every class requires a wand, the Professors—"
"Who says casting a spell requires holding a stick?"
Cassius turned his head to look at Draco, the corner of his mouth curving slightly.
"I am my own wand."
Draco opened his mouth, then swallowed back the rest of his words.
Cassius turned to Mr. Ollivander. The old man was still sitting in his chair, his posture unchanged.
"Charge the cost of these thirty wands to Malfoy Family's account. My father will have someone send over the Galleons."
Mr. Ollivander neither nodded nor shook his head. He watched Cassius's back as he walked toward the door, his lips twitching a few times.
"Merlin's beard..."
The old man's voice was so small that only he could hear it.
"What exactly have I witnessed?"
The bell rang once.
Cassius pushed open the door and walked out of that dim shop.
The afternoon sun in Diagon Alley was pleasant.
Golden rays of light slanted across the cobblestone road, plating the shop signs on both sides with a warm hue. Pedestrians came and went—parents returning from shopping with bags and packages, groups of prospective new students laughing and playing, and street vendors pushing carts and calling out their caramelized nuts.
It was very lively. Very normal.
Cassius stood at the entrance of Ollivanders Wand Shop, squinting at this scene for a moment.
Draco followed out behind him, his own Hawthorn wandstill gripped tightly in his hand.
"So you've really decided not to have a wand?" Draco's voice held confusion, worry, and a tiny bit of excitement he hadn't even realized himself.
"What do you think?"
"But when we get to school—"
"Draco."
"Yeah?"
"When have you ever seen me need a wand?"
Draco thought about it. The finger snaps in the training room. The flying kicks in the back garden. The various experiments that had blown up the manor basement seven times over the past three years. Not once had a wand been used.
"...Never."
"Then that settles it."
Cassius walked forward a couple of steps. The main street of Diagon Alley stretched out before him, shops lined up on both sides. The density of pedestrians on the street wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either.
He stopped.
It wasn't because something was blocking his way. It was because he needed to confirm something.
In Mr. Ollivander's shop, his magic had been released through a wand—even though it had pulverized the wand every time, it had still gone through a layer of medium.
Now he had nothing in his hands.
He needed to test just how efficient his magic output was in the complete absence of a medium.
Cassius looked around.
There was a relatively empty stretch of road outside the wand shop, with walls on both sides, no shop entrances, and few pedestrians. The ground was paved with standard Diagon Alley bluestone—each piece about a foot square, neatly cut, and worn smooth by countless pairs of feet.
This would do.
"Get back," he said to Draco.
Draco's intuition was sharp. When he heard these words, he didn't ask why; he immediately backed up five steps, pressing himself against the base of the wall.
Three years of experience told him: when Cassius tells you to back up, no distance is too far.
Cassius faced that empty stretch of street and raised his right hand.
It was a very casual movement. It wasn't a standard caster's posture—no clenched fist, no hand seals, no drawing circles. He just raised his hand, index finger extended, pointing at the ground about ten meters ahead.
The rotation speed of the [Soul Furnace] inside him increased.
There was no sound. The hum of the furnace's operation was suppressed within his body, inaudible to the outside world. But the change in magic could not be hidden.
First, it was the air.
The air within a three-meter radius around Cassius began to feel wrong. It didn't get hot or cold—it became 'thick.' Air molecules were compressed within the high-density magic field, and their refractive index changed, causing light to warp visibly around his body.
It was like heat rising from an asphalt road, but the scope was larger and more obvious.
Passing pedestrians were the first to sense the anomaly.
A middle-aged Witch carrying a cauldron suddenly slowed her pace when she reached a point about five meters from Cassius. She couldn't say why she slowed down—no one stopped her, there were no obstacles, but her body sent out a strong signal: do not get any closer.
She instinctively looked toward the blonde boy by the roadside.
Then she saw the warped air around him.
The cauldron slipped from her hand, hitting the stone road with a loud clang.
More people noticed. Those walking stopped, those talking shut their mouths, and the street vendor selling caramelized nuts forgot to ring his copper bell.
The entire street fell silent within three seconds.
Chapter 7: Making Diagon Alley Remember You
Everyone was staring at the blonde boy standing in the middle of the road, his right index finger pointing at the ground.
Cassius ignored these gazes.
He was performing the final calibration.
The key to Wandless Magic was not the amount of magical power—his power had never been an issue. The key was 'precision'. Without the guidance of a wand, magic would diffuse during the process of being released from the body. It was like a water gun without a nozzle; the water column would scatter at the exit.
But his [Soul Furnace] provided another solution.
The fusion of two souls produced not just doubled magical power, but also doubled mental strength—the consciousness of his past life and his current life worked in synergy, equivalent to a dual-core processor. One core was responsible for driving the magic, while the other was responsible for shaping and directing it.
This reduced the loss of precision in his Wandless Magic to a minimum.
Calibration complete.
Cassius's index finger curved slightly.
Then—
He tapped his finger downward.
A beam of light shot out from his fingertip.
Deep blue. Roughly the thickness of an arm. Extremely fast—the interval between firing and hitting the ground was so short that the human eye could not distinguish it at all.
The beam of light slammed into the bluestone pavement ten meters away.
There was no sound of an explosion.
Instead, there was a deeper sound—a dull, heavy thud from underground that made one's chest tighten. It was as if something massive had rolled over deep within the earth's crust.
The paved road collapsed.
It didn't shatter—whole sections simply caved downward. With the point of impact as the center, all the bluestones within a five-meter radius detached from their foundation. Along with the underlying gravel and soil, they were compressed downward by the impact of this strike.
Then came the rebound.
Compressed air and rubble sprayed in all directions an instant after the collapse. Fragments of bluestone flew three or four meters high, while dirt and gravel pelted the surrounding walls with a pitter-patter sound.
Dust billowed up.
A large cloud of grayish-yellow dust surged from the pit, spreading out into the sunlight.
Draco pressed himself against the base of a wall. Dust covered his face, but he didn't dare move. He wasn't just frightened—he was dazed.
How was this magic?
This was a bombardment.
The dust slowly cleared.
A pit appeared on the road.
It wasn't a pit on the level of a 'dent'. It was a massive hole nearly ten meters in diameter, seemingly bottomless. The walls of the pit were smooth, scorched by the dual effects of high temperature and magic into a dark, glassy crystal that reflected a dim luster in the sunlight.
A sinkhole had been opened in the main street of Diagon Alley.
The entire street was deathly silent.
Dozens of Wizards stood frozen in place, maintaining the postures they were in when they were interrupted—some with hands raised, some with mouths agape, and some with one foot still suspended in the air.
Everyone's gaze was concentrated on two points: that sinkhole, and the blonde boy standing beside it.
Ollivander leaned halfway out of his shop. His dentures had come loose, and he leaned against the doorframe for a good while to steady himself before he could close his mouth.
Cassius looked down at his right index finger.
There was a faint blue halo on his fingertip, the residue of the released magic. He gave it a light blow, and the halo dispersed.
It was gone.
The entire process was clean and efficient; from raising his hand to finishing the job, it took no more than three seconds.
Cassius flexed his fingers and made an internal assessment.
The output efficiency of Wandless Magic—it was approximately 1.3 times that of using a wand.
Without the constraint of a wand acting as a 'flow-limiting valve', the conduction path between the body and the target was shortened, energy loss was reduced, and the actual power hitting the target was instead greater.
In terms of precision, it was better than expected. The deviation between the beam's point of impact and his aimed position did not exceed half a meter.
The casting speed went without saying. By eliminating the three steps of gripping the wand, waving it, and incanting, the entire casting process only required two steps: 'think' and 'release'.
If you can act, never waste words.
If you can cast instantly, never delay.
He was very satisfied with this result.
"Did you see that, Draco?"
Cassius turned his head. His brother was pressed against the wall, face covered in dust, with a fragment of bluestone stuck in his hair.
"This is real magic. You don't need that wooden stick, and the power can be increased by thirty percent."
Draco's lips moved a few times, but he couldn't speak.
He looked down at the Hawthorn Wand in his hand. Ten inches. Hawthorn. Unicorn hair. Just moments ago in the shop, he had felt quite impressive when he produced that silver light.
Now, looking at this pit his brother had blasted into the ground with just a flick of a finger.
A ten-inch toothpick.
It really was a ten-inch toothpick.
Hurried footsteps echoed from a distance. Three Wizards in dark uniforms rushed over—Aurors, the law enforcement of the Ministry of Magic. The leader was in his forties, with a face full of rough features, running fast while pressing a hand against the wand at his waist.
When he reached the edge of the pit, he saw the scale of the hole.
His pace slowed.
Then he saw Cassius standing by the pit. An eleven-year-old blonde boy with his hands in his pockets and a flat expression.
His pace slowed even further.
The vitrified crystals on the pit walls were still radiating residual heat. Lingering magical fluctuations surged up from the bottom of the pit, making it difficult for the three adult Aurors to breathe smoothly.
The lead Auror opened his mouth.
He wanted to ask 'what happened'. He wanted to say 'you cannot perform dangerous magic in a public place'. He wanted to exercise his authority as a law enforcement officer.
But his body was more honest than his brain.
The feeling of standing within three meters of this boy was the same as the feeling of standing at the edge of the pit.
Everything in his instinct was saying: don't get close.
Cassius glanced at them.
"Malfoy Family will pay for the street repairs."
The three Aurors looked at each other.
The leader nodded.
He didn't even realize he had nodded. By the time he reacted, the blonde boy had already left with his brother.
The three adult Aurors stood by the pit, silent for a long time.
"Whose child was that?" a younger Auror behind him asked.
"Malfoy," the leader wiped the sweat from his forehead, "Lucius's younger son."
"...How old?"
"Eleven."
The young Auror looked down at the ten-meter wide, bottomless sinkhole, then back at the wand in his own hand.
He didn't speak again.
—
Cassius led Draco into a nearby alley, where they happened to run into Lucius coming from the direction of Knockturn Alley.
Lucius was walking quickly, his snake-head cane clicking against the bluestone road. He had clearly heard the loud noise—all of Diagon Alley had heard it.
He saw Cassius and Draco, then looked toward the direction of the large pit where a crowd had gathered behind them.
"You did this?"
"Just a test," Cassius's tone was as casual as saying he had 'bought a lollipop'.
Lucius was silent for two seconds.
"And the wand?"
"Didn't buy one."
"Why?"
"I snapped thirty of them. Not a single one could hold up."
Lucius fell silent again. This time for longer.
He looked at his younger son—eleven years old, half a head taller than his peers, blonde hair perfectly neat, and not a speck of dust on his school robes (the dust was all on Draco).
His expression was calm, his posture relaxed, with his hands in his pockets.
Thirty wands.
All shattered.
Lucius took a slow breath.
Then he straightened his back even more.
"Very good," Lucius said. There was a pride in his voice that even he couldn't suppress. "As expected of the Malfoybloodline. Mundane tools are indeed unworthy of you."
Draco nodded vigorously beside them, using his sleeve to wipe the dust off his face as he did so.
Narcissa also rushed over, carrying an owl cage. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Cassius was unharmed.
"What was that noise just now? Half the street is running."
"It's nothing," Lucius said, putting an arm around his wife's shoulder. "Cassius was buying a wand."
"...Why would buying a wand cause such a commotion?"
"Because he didn't buy one."
Narcissa didn't press further. After being married into Malfoy Family for so many years, she had learned a skill—not to delve into the details of her younger son's actions. Knowing the result was enough.
"Let's get something to eat," Narcissa suggested. "Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour is just ahead."
The family of four walked toward the ice cream shop.
Cassius walked at the very back, hands in his pockets, his pace steady and unhurried.
He was in a good mood.
He had confirmed three things today.
First, wands were useless to him.
Second, the efficiency of Wandless Magic was higher than using a wand.
Third, his firepower reserves were still far from their limit.
For that strike just now, he had only used about three percent of the [Soul Furnace]'s output.
Three percent was enough to open a ten-meter sinkhole on the main street of Diagon Alley.
What would happen if he went all out?
Cassius didn't want to answer that question for now.
Not because he didn't dare.
But because he hadn't found a sturdy enough place to test it yet.
He wondered if the training grounds at Hogwarts could withstand it.
Chapter 8: The Half-giant's Loud Voice
Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was located in the middle of Diagon Alley. Its windows displayed over a dozen colors of magical ice cream; some swirled on their own in cups, while others changed flavors every few seconds.
Narcissa ordered four servings at the counter. Dracowanted a double chocolate with cream, while Cassiusasked for a simple original flavor.
The family sat down at a window seat. Lucius leaned his snake-headed cane against the table, picked up a silver spoon, and took a bite of raspberry ice cream, his manner of eating extremely refined.
Draco had already wiped the dust off his face, but there were still some small bits of rubble in his hair that hadn't been removed. As he dug into his ice cream, he rambled incessantly about what had just happened. His volume wasn't well-controlled, and people at neighboring tables frequently glanced over.
"—You should have seen it! That pit was at least three stories deep. Three Aurors showed up and stood there, not daring to say a word—"
"Eat your ice cream, Draco," Cassius said, tapping the tabletop with his spoon.
Draco shut his mouth. He swallowed the rest of his sentence along with a large mouthful of chocolate ice cream.
The atmosphere in the shop was quiet. It wasn't because ice cream parlors were naturally quiet—it was because after the Malfoy family sat down, the customers at the surrounding three tables all moved simultaneously. No one said anything, and no one made an obvious move to avoid them; they simply carried their plates and naturally moved further away.
Cassius didn't care about such things. He shoveled a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth; it tasted good, with a very pure milky flavor.
He was mentally calculating his next moves.
The wand issue had been resolved—or more accurately, completely abandoned. The next thing he needed to do in the month before school started was to take all the magical principles he had extracted from the original work and the library and transform them into combat spells that could be cast instantly without a wand.
He didn't need anything fancy. He didn't need anything complex.
What he wanted was speed, lethality, and a wide area of effect.
Thump— Thump— Thump—
Heavy footsteps sounded from outside the shop.
The sound was jarring amidst the noise of Diagon Alley. It wasn't the sound of an ordinary person walking. Every step that landed carried a distinct sense of weight, as if someone were pounding the ground with a wooden pile.
Cassius's spoon paused for a moment.
The glass door of the ice cream parlor was pushed open. The movement was so forceful that the door frame let out a groan from the excessive pressure on the wood.
A massive figure squeezed inside.
"Squeezed" was the accurate term. The person's shoulders were significantly wider than the door frame, and he had to turn sideways to barely pass through. He was nearly three meters tall, and his head almost touched the chandelier on the ceiling. He was draped in a large brown overcoat, looking like a moving mountain of flesh.
Rubeus Hagrid.
Hogwarts Keeper of Keys and Grounds. Half-giantbloodline.
Cassius recognized him. A recurring supporting character from the original story, Dumbledore's loyal dog. He was strong and simple-minded, and his courage depended on the situation—his voice was particularly loud when facing the powerful, yet he was more cowardly than anyone when facing truly dangerous things.
Someone else was following behind Hagrid.
A thin, dark-haired boy.
He was half a head shorter than Draco, wearing an obviously ill-fitting old T-shirt with a loose neckline that revealed his collarbones. The cuffs of his jeans were rolled up twice, and the rubber soles of his sneakers were worn flat.
Round-framed glasses.
On his forehead—mostly hidden by his bangs, but revealed for a moment when he brushed his hair back—was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.
Harry Potter.
Draco saw him too.
His eyes lit up instantly. He jabbed his spoon into his ice cream cup, nearly knocking it over.
"Father! That's—"
"I see him," Lucius said, setting down his silver spoon, his gaze sweeping over Hagrid and Harry. He recognized Hagrid, and he recognized the boy.
No one in the wizarding world didn't recognize that scar.
The corners of Lucius's mouth twitched downward slightly. He had no affection for Hagrid. An expelled Half-giantwho had been hanging around Hogwarts for decades under Dumbledore's protection, doing the lowest level of menial work, yet always liked to loudly proclaim his "special relationship" with the Principal in public.
Vulgar.
As for Harry Potter—Lucius's attitude toward this name was more complex. The Boy Who Lived, the savior of the wizarding world, the legend who destroyed the Dark Lord. But legends aside, standing before him was just a scrawny child in ragged clothes, wandering the streets with a Half-giant.
In Lucius's eyes, such a person wasn't even worthy of stepping onto the stairs of Malfoy Family.
Hagrid led Harry to the counter and ordered two ice creams—an extra-large raspberry and a chocolate. He fumbled in his pockets for a long time when paying, and the copper coins he pulled out were stained with unidentified substances.
The clerk behind the counter barely maintained a professional smile.
Hagrid turned around with the two ice creams, looking for a seat.
As he turned, he saw Lucius at the window table.
More accurately, he first saw that snake-headed cane. The cane was too recognizable—entirely pitch black, with a silver snake head and two emeralds for eyes. In the wizarding world, there weren't many who wouldn't recognize that cane.
Hagrid's expression changed.
It wasn't fear. It was disgust.
That disgust was instinctive, a reflex. Hagrid's view of Malfoy Family was stuck in a very simple logic: this family were Death Eaters, Dark Wizards, and the definition of everything evil. Dumbledore said they were untrustworthy, so they were untrustworthy.
Lucius also noticed Hagrid's gaze.
The two locked eyes for a second.
Lucius spoke first. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his silver spoon, his tone leisurely.
"Look who it is. The Hogwarts watchdog actually has spare change to come out for ice cream?"
Hagrid's neck thickened.
That rugged, beard-covered face turned the color of pig's liver. Hagrid had many virtues, but a "good temper" was not among them. Especially when facing a Malfoy—he had packed all his hatred for Death Eaters into that surname.
"Malfoy!" Hagrid's voice exploded in the ice cream parlor, so loud that the cups on the counter trembled. "You'd better watch your mouth! I was personally—by Albus Dumbledore—"
"Personally what? Personally raised?" Lucius held his ice cream cup, not even changing his posture.
Draco let out a fairly audible laugh beside him. He immediately seized this opportunity to perform, standing up and looking at Hagrid with the most arrogant posture he could muster.
"I heard you live in a drafty wooden hut, squeezed in with those filthy magical creatures," Draco said, his chin held high. "No wonder you always smell like this."
This sentence was far more damaging than Lucius's.
Not because it was more venomous, but because the one saying it was an eleven-year-old child.
An eleven-year-old child, looking down on a nearly three-meter-tall Half-giant with the gaze one would use for a maggot. This contrast was an insult in itself.
Hagrid's face twisted in rage.
He slammed the two ice creams in his hands onto the nearest table—the tabletop cracked—then leaned down, thrusting his face, which was wider than Draco's head, right in front of Draco.
The distance was less than a foot.
Hagrid's breath blew onto Draco's face, hot and carrying the scent of the raspberry he had just eaten.
Draco's body visibly tensed. With a height difference of nearly three meters pressing down on him, no matter how much he tried to act tough, he couldn't control his physiological fear. His eyelids twitched, and his back pressed against the chair.
"You spoiled little brat—" Hagrid's voice rumbled from deep within his chest like muffled thunder, "The whole Malfoy family is a bunch of opportunistic Death Eaters! A nest of Dark Wizards! When your father was kneeling at the Dark Lord's feet, he didn't put on such grand airs!"
Chapter 9: Do You Think Dumbledore Can Protect You?
The ice cream parlor fell silent for a moment.
Harry stood behind Hagrid, arms crossed as he watched everything. He had been in the wizarding world for less than a day and only half-understood the grievances and entanglements within it, but Hagrid had told him on the way: Malfoy Family were not good people, stay away from them.
So Harry's first impression of Draco and Lucius was just two words—bad people.
Seeing Hagrid teaching them a lesson now, Harry felt quite gratified.
Draco's face turned pale.
He was stubborn. His mouth was always bigger than his courage. But when a Half-giant nearly three meters tall and weighing over four hundred pounds thrusts his face in front of yours and roars, being stubborn wasn't quite enough.
Draco's lips trembled a couple of times; he wanted to say something but couldn't get it out. His gaze unconsciously drifted to the right.
Lucius was already reaching out. His fingers touched the Snake-head cane—his wand was hidden inside the snake's mouth, and it could be drawn with a twist.
But his hand was stopped.
A hand pressed down on his wrist.
Cassius stood up.
His movement in putting down the spoon was very light; more than half of the ice cream in the cup still remained. He stood up from his chair, rounded the corner of the table, and walked between Draco and Hagrid.
To be precise—he squeezed in.
He used his shoulder to nudge Draco behind him, facing Hagrid's face, which seemed even larger because he was leaning over.
The height difference was very intuitive. Hagrid was leaning over, yet his head was still more than half a meter above Cassius's head. Cassius had to look up to see his chin.
Everyone in the shop watched this scene.
An eleven-year-old boy standing before a Half-giant; the contrast in their figures was absurd to the point of being comical.
But not a single person could laugh.
Because Cassius spoke.
"Calling my brother a brat?"
His voice wasn't particularly loud.
But everyone in the ice cream parlor heard him clearly.
That clarity wasn't because of the volume, but because as he spoke, the temperature in the shop was dropping.
It wasn't a figure of speech. It was a physical drop in temperature.
The Soul Furnace inside Cassius didn't do anything extra. It simply increased its operating speed by one notch automatically when its master experienced emotional fluctuations. With just this one notch, the overflowing magic was enough to slow down the air molecules within a three-meter radius.
The cup of Raspberry ice cream on the counter that no one had claimed yet began to solidify. A thin layer of white frost formed on the sides of the cup.
"Big guy." Cassius looked up at Hagrid; there was no fury in his grey-blue eyes, no tension, nothing extra at all.
"Do you think Dumbledore can protect you?"
Hagrid straightened his back.
He looked down at this blonde boy who only reached his waist; his first reaction was to laugh.
Not out of contempt—there wasn't much contempt in Hagrid's personality—but as an instinctive reaction an adult has when facing a child's bluster. He had seen too many young masters from pure-blood families, each more stubborn and fragile than the last.
"What?" Hagrid patted his chest; that palm as large as a cattail leaf fan slapped against his Moleskin coat, making a dull thud. "Little Malfoy wants to have a go with me too?"
Harry poked his head out from behind Hagrid and glanced at Cassius.
He recognized this person.
The incident in Diagon Alley happened less than an hour ago. When Hagrid led him past, the large crater was still smoking, surrounded by a circle of onlookers. Hagrid had said, "Don't know which madman did that," and then pulled him along to take a detour.
Now, that "madman" stood before him.
Harry didn't speak, but he instinctively shrank back behind Hagrid. He didn't remember the details—he had been further away then—but he remembered that crater. The size and depth of that crater didn't look like something magic should be able to create at all.
Cassius didn't look at Harry.
All of his attention was on Hagrid.
Hagrid was huge. This was a basic fact. His Half-giantheritage gave him a size and strength far beyond ordinary people. His bone density was three times that of a normal human, and his muscle fiber strength was ridiculously high. A common Stupefy hitting him was like a tickle—Giantblood was naturally resistant to magic.
A difficult opponent?
No.
Just a fool who needed to be taught a lesson.
"I've said it once," Cassius's voice was flat. "You can insult me, you can insult my father, I wouldn't even bother with you. But what did you just call my brother?"
Hagrid's smile was still on his face.
"A spoiled brat," Hagrid repeated, his voice still just as loud. "Your whole Malfoy Family—"
He didn't finish.
Because the air changed.
Not a vague description like "changed." It was a specific, physical change that every person present felt deep in their bones.
The floor was vibrating.
Not the large-scale shaking of an earthquake. It was a high-frequency, low-amplitude tremor spreading outward from beneath Cassius's feet, traveling through the ice cream parlor's wooden floor and into everyone's soles.
The cups on the tables were jumping. The spoons were rattling.
Then came the magic.
Cassius released the limiter on the Soul Furnace.
Not entirely. If he released it all, this ice cream parlor would vanish from the map of Diagon Alley. He merely adjusted the output power from "standby" to "warning."
About five percent.
A faint blue light seeped out from beneath his skin. Not in an exaggerated way like erupting from the body's surface—it was more restrained, more suppressed. A layer of faint blue light glowed from under his skin, as if what flowed through his veins wasn't blood, but liquid magic.
But what truly made one's legs go weak wasn't the visual effect.
It was the gravity.
With Cassius as the center, within a ten-meter radius, the gravity doubled.
This wasn't some profound spell. The principle was simple—using a high-density magic field to apply continuous downward pressure on the space. Ordinary Wizards couldn't do it because the amount of magic required to maintain a large-scale magic field was astronomical.
But he had a furnace that never went out.
The effect was immediate.
Hagrid was the first to feel it. His body was the largest, and his surface area the widest.
That smiling face of his froze within a second.
His shoulders were sinking. His knees were bending. His massive body seemed to suddenly double in weight, pressing down on his skeleton, causing his spine to let out an imperceptible dull thud.
Hagrid's expression changed from mockery to confusion, and from confusion to alarm.
He tried to stand up straight. His muscles were straining—the muscles of a Half-giant, capable of bending iron bars with bare hands.
It was useless.
That downward force didn't act on his muscles. It acted on every single cell in his body. Uniform, indiscriminate, and irresistible.
The soles of Hagrid's boots made a piercing scraping sound on the wooden floor.
He was sliding backward.
He wasn't being pushed—he was being "pressed back." The magic field released from Cassius carried a clear directionality, applying continuous thrust from the front to the back.
The first step. Hagrid's right foot retreated half a step, the sole of his boot plowing a white mark into the floor.
The second step. His left foot followed, his center of gravity unstable; his hand instinctively grabbed to the side, clutching the edge of a table. The table was dragged along by his strength, its legs carving four parallel scratches into the floor.
The third step. The table was crushed by his grip. It wasn't intentional; he just couldn't control his strength. Wood fragments fell from between his fingers as Hagrid's back slammed into the wall behind him.
Plaster fell from the wall in a shower of dust.
The entire process took less than three seconds.
A Half-giant nearly three meters tall and over four hundred pounds was forced back three steps by the pure magic of an eleven-year-old boy standing perfectly still.
Chapter 10: Know Your Place
No one in the ice cream shop moved.
The clerk crouched behind the counter, only showing half a head. Two customers who were about to pay held their money bags, frozen in the act of reaching for their gold. A Witch's ice cream melted, dripping down her fingers, yet she didn't wipe it.
Draco was shielded behind Cassius, his view limited to his brother's back. But he could see Hagrid.
He could see that behemoth who, just a moment ago, had been...
...shouting at him, now backed into a corner by his brother.
Draco's breathing quickened. It wasn't fear. It was that feeling when a roller coaster reaches its highest point at an amusement park.
Hagrid pressed against the wall, gasping for breath.
His forehead was covered in sweat. It wasn't from the heat—this weather wasn't enough to make a Half-giant sweat. It was a stress response produced when the body endured pressure beyond its capacity.
Hagrid was a brave man. He had raised dragons, entered the Forbidden Forest, and faced Cerberus. But those things were at least something he could understand—a beast rushes at you, and you either run, fight, or soothe it with food.
This was different.
Standing before him was a child. An eleven-year-old who hadn't even taken out a wand. This child had done nothing—no waving of hands, no chanting of spells—he just stood there, yet Hagrid's body couldn't move.
This wasn't strength.
This was something completely foreign, beyond his framework of cognition.
This is how fear is born. Not because of pain, not because of suffering. It is because of a lack of understanding.
Cassius took a step forward.
As he walked, the floorboards beneath his feet cracked with every step. He didn't stomp them. It was the magiccontinuously overflowing from the soles of his feet, pressing down on the wood until it could no longer bear the weight. Each footprint left a crack, spreading outward from beneath his feet.
He walked up to Hagrid.
Looking up.
The height difference was still vast. Even backed into a corner, Hagrid was still more than twice as tall as Cassius. From a bystander's perspective, the scene was absurd—a cat standing before a bear, and the bear was trembling.
"Remember your place."
Cassius said.
"A gatekeeper who doesn't even deserve to own a wand."
Those words were heavy.
Hagrid's wand had been snapped in his third year.
This was the greatest shame and deepest pain of his life. Dumbledore had hidden the fragments in that pink umbrella, allowing him to secretly use some simple magic, but the fact of the "snapped wand" itself was a scar that would never heal.
Now, that scar was being torn open in public by an eleven-year-old child.
Hagrid's lips were trembling. It was anger, and something else. He wanted to argue, to shout back, but his throat felt as if it were blocked by something.
It wasn't magic. No one had cast a Choking Curse or a Silencing Charm on him.
It was his body refusing to let him speak.
Because speaking meant confrontation. And every cell in his body was telling him: do not confront this thing.
"If you ever dare to shout at my brother again—"
Cassius spoke slowly, word by word.
"I guarantee Dumbledore won't even be able to piece your ashes back together."
After saying this, Cassius moved his gaze away from Hagrid's face.
He looked at Harry Potter behind Hagrid.
Harry had fallen to the ground.
He wasn't knocked down. It was the aftershocks of the magic field that made him unsteady. When Hagrid was forced back just now, Harry was right behind him. Hagrid's body blocked most of the impact, but the small amount that leaked through was enough to make the legs of a boy who had never been exposed to magic go weak.
He sat on the ground, his round glasses crooked, one temple resting above his ear.
Cassius looked down at him.
Harry looked up at Cassius.
Their eyes met.
Cassius's expression was calm, without hostility, without malice, without even much attention. It was the kind of expression you have when walking down the street and looking down at an ant on the ground.
A single glance.
Then he walked away.
It was this casual, weightless glance that pierced deeper into Harry's heart than any verbal insult could.
He didn't know this blonde boy. But he remembered that look.
He would remember it for a long time to come.
Cassius withdrew his magic.
The process of withdrawing was faster than the release. The eerie blue light vanished in an instant, the floor stopped vibrating, and the air returned to its normal density. The temperature in the ice cream shop rose a few degrees.
The suffocating feeling pressing down on everyone was suddenly gone. Several people let out a sigh of relief at the same time, and one Witch's knees buckled, nearly causing her to kneel.
Cassius turned around.
Draco's eyes were unnaturally bright. The expression with which he looked at his brother held admiration, excitement, and a hint of pleasure he was too embarrassed to admit even to himself.
"Brilliant," Draco's voice was a bit airy. "Did you see his face? He was so scared he couldn't even speak—"
"Let's go." Cassius didn't respond to him.
Lucius had already stood up. His expression was well-controlled—no smile, no exaggerated expression—but he puffed out his chest slightly as he stood. It was a subtle, subconscious movement.
Pride.
Narcissa held her husband's arm, her other hand steadily carrying the owl cage, her expression still that of a standard pure-blood lady's indifferent elegance. As if nothing had happened.
The family of four walked toward the door.
As they passed Hagrid, not one of them gave him a second glance.
Hagrid pressed against the wall, watching their backs as they walked out of the ice cream shop. His hands were shaking. It wasn't because his strength was spent—a Half-giant's stamina recovers quickly, and that bit of magical suppression wouldn't cause any substantial damage.
He was shaking because of something else.
Because he remembered someone.
Many years ago, when he was still in his third year at Hogwarts, there was a dark-haired, handsome boy who had looked at him with that same condescending manner.
That boy later became Lord Voldemort.
Hagrid shuddered and shook the thought away.
Harry scrambled up from the ground and straightened his glasses. He walked to Hagrid's side and tugged at the hem of Hagrid's overcoat.
"Hagrid? Are you okay?"
Hagrid looked down at Harry, and it took two or three seconds before he found his voice.
"I'm fine, Harry." His voice was raspy, not from a sore throat, but because he had been holding his breath for that period of time. "Let's go, we still have things to buy."
He led Harry in the other direction.
After walking a dozen steps, Hagrid turned back once.
The Malfoys were no longer visible at the entrance of the ice cream shop.
"Hagrid," Harry looked up. "That blonde boy... who is he?"
Hagrid was silent for a long moment.
"He's a Malfoy," he said. "Don't get involved with him, Harry. That whole family—"
He paused, not saying "Death Eater" or "Dark Wizard" again.
"That whole family isn't normal.""}],