Chapter 36: Harry's Performance Gone
He was too nervous.
Before his feet had even fully left the ground, the broomstick rose up erratically.
Neville gripped the broom handle tightly, screaming as he shot upward—five meters, ten meters, fifteen meters—
"Longbottom! Come down! Get down here!" Madam Hoochshouted from below.
Neville couldn't come down.
His hands were frozen, and he couldn't control the direction.
The broomstick spun in the air and shot toward the wall of the Castle.
"Goodness!" someone screamed.
Neville swerved when he was less than a meter away from the wall, and the broomstick grazed the stone wall of the Castle as it flew past.
But his robe caught on a protruding gargoyle.
"Rrrrip—" a tearing sound.
Neville fell from the broomstick.
A height of twenty meters.
Hermione let out a scream.
Madam Hooch drew her wand, but her reaction speed—
Was not fast enough.
Cassius moved the moment Neville fell.
He didn't fly up on a broomstick.
He moved directly from the ground.
He stomped his right foot hard on the grass.
Magic gushed out from the sole of his foot, and the turf on the ground was pressed flat against the soil by the shockwave.
His body launched into the air—not flying, but jumping.
A vertical jump amplified by magic.
A height of twenty meters.
Cassius extended his left hand in mid-air.
Neville's body was plummeting.
The speed was increasing.
Gravitational acceleration was 9.8 meters per second squared—
Cassius's hand grabbed the back of Neville's collar.
At the same time, he pressed his right hand downward into thin air.
An invisible buffer layer of magic appeared three meters beneath their feet.
It wasn't a physical platform.
It was a layer of highly compressed magic field—dense enough to support the weight and kinetic energy of two people.
The descent speed of the two slowed down abruptly upon contacting that magic field.
It changed from free fall to a slow descent.
It was like stepping on an invisible spring.
Landing.
The soles of Cassius's shoes touched the grass, making a very soft sound.
Neville was being held by the back of his collar, his two legs dangling in the air.
He was so frightened that he had forgotten to cry, left only to gasp for air heavily.
"Let me... let me down..." Neville's voice was trembling.
Cassius let go.
Neville landed on his bottom on the ground.
There was no sound from the whole crowd.
Madam Hooch's wand was still raised in mid-air.
Her Cushioning Charm had not yet been cast.
From Neville's fall to Cassius's landing, it was less than two seconds in total.
Draco was riding on his broomstick, about two meters off the ground.
He watched his brother's actions just now, his mouth open wide enough to fit an egg.
Harry was standing on the ground.
His reaction had also been quick—when Neville fell, he had instinctively wanted to ride his broomstick to catch him.
But before he could even take off, Cassius had already landed.
The reaction speed of the Savior was crushed by a first-year Slytherin.
Hermione ran over.
She crouched beside Neville, confirming he wasn't injured.
Neville's left wrist was red—scraped when he caught on the gargoyle—but there was no fracture.
After Hermione finished checking Neville, she looked up at Cassius.
Cassius had already turned and walked away.
He walked back to his position and picked up the broomstick that he had redefined.
"Class can continue now," he said to the stunned Madam Hooch.
Madam Hooch came back to her senses.
"Er... Longbottom, go to the Hospital Wing and let Madam Pomfrey look at your wrist.
The rest of you—continue."
Neville was helped up.
He glanced at Cassius's back.
That look was not fear.
It was something else.
Neville lowered his head, clutching his wrist, and walked slowly toward the Castle.
The Flying Class continued.
Draco flew over to Cassius, lowering his voice: "You just—you jumped twenty meters high? With your feet?"
"Using magic."
"Why did you save that Longbottom? He is Gryffindor.
And he's an idiot."
Cassius gripped the broomstick and mounted it.
The broomstick was as steady as an iron plate beneath him—his magic had completely permeated every wood fiber, and this broomstick now only followed his commands.
"He was in my way," Cassius said.
Then he took off.
Draco watched his brother's back disappear into mid-air, pondering the phrase "he was in my way."
He couldn't figure it out.
But he decided not to press the issue.
Whatever Cassius said was the law.
The students on the grass continued practicing flying.
Ron was drifting erratically at a height of three meters, not daring to rise any higher.
Hermione was even lower, about one and a half meters, her hands gripping the broom handle tightly.
Harry's performance was the best.
He flew fast and steadily, his movements naturally carrying a sense of coordination.
Madam Hooch watched him from below, her eyes lighting up—she saw a natural flyer.
But while Harry was flying, his gaze was constantly tracking one person.
Cassius.
That Malfoy who had no wand, no incantations, and had jumped twenty meters into the air from the ground with one step.
Harry did not hate him.
He couldn't say he hated him either.
Hate requires a reason, and Cassius had not given him a reason "sufficient to hate" so far—the matter in Diagon Alley was a conflict between Malfoy Family and Hagrid, and the matter on the train was started by Ron.
But Harry was afraid of him.
This fear did not come from being threatened, but from an incomprehensible gap.
Everything he saw Cassius do reminded him: You and he are not in the same world.
This feeling was very uncomfortable.
The Flying Class ended.
Madam Hooch walked up to Cassius before the end of the class.
Her expression was conflicted—half gratitude (he saved Neville), half headache (he broke the school broomstick, and although he fixed it, the broomstick after being fixed was no longer the original one).
"Mr. Malfoy," she chose her words carefully, "thank you for catching Longbottom.
But in the future—if there is a similar situation, please let me handle it.
Your... your method is too—"
"Too what?"
"Too fast," Madam Hooch said, "I hadn't even finished casting my Cushioning Charm before you landed.
You make it very difficult for me."
Cassius glanced at her.
"Next time I will wait for you."
He walked away after saying that.
Madam Hooch stood there.
She was not sure if that sentence was serious or sarcastic.
Probably sarcastic.
—
Evening.
Slytherin common room.
Cassius was sitting on the silver serpent chair.
Draco was sitting beside him practicing Transfiguration—he had stolen a matchstick and was repeatedly casting spells at it.
The color of the matchstick had changed from brown to gray-silver, but the shape was still wrong.
It was too thick; a needle shouldn't be that thick.
"Don't think about 'making the matchstick thinner'," Cassius said, "Think 'this is a needle'."
"I am thinking that!"
"What you are thinking is 'how to turn the matchstick into a needle'.
It's not the same."
Draco frowned and continued to try.
The green fire in the fireplace flickered.
The stone wall at the entrance opened.
Farley walked in.
Her expression was a bit subtle—not angry, but the kind of expression that meant "there is troublesome business to deal with".
She walked over to Cassius.
"Malfoy."
Cassius looked up.
"Professor Dumbledore wants to see you," Farley said, "Tomorrow morning at eight.
The Principal's Office.
The password is 'Fizzing Whizbees'."
Draco's hand stopped.
The matchstick fell to the ground.
"Dumbledore?" Draco's voice rose, "Why does he want to see Cassius?"
Farley glanced at Draco and did not answer.
She turned and walked away.
Several older students in the common room exchanged glances with each other.
Dumbledore taking the initiative to meet with a first-year student—this had happened a few times in the history of Hogwarts, and the subsequent developments each time were not peaceful.
Draco looked at Cassius nervously: "What do you think he wants to do?
My father said Dumbledore—"
"I know what your father said."
Cassius leaned back against the chair.
He looked at the green fire in the fireplace.
Dumbledore.
The fourth day of school.
The old fox finally couldn't sit still anymore.
"What must come will come," Cassius said.
He closed his eyes.
The [Dual-Soul Furnace] was operating steadily in his chest cavity.
The low humming sound could only be heard by himself.
Tomorrow morning at eight.
The Principal's Office.
Chapter 37: Confrontation in the Principal's Office
7:55 AM.
Cassius stood at the end of the third-floor corridor. A huge, ugly gargoyle blocked the wall.
"Fizzing Whizzbees."
The gargoyle jumped aside, and the wall behind it split open, revealing a slowly ascending spiral staircase. Cassiusstepped onto it.
The staircase rotated and rose like an escalator, finally delivering him to an oak door with a griffin-shaped brass knocker. He didn't knock.
"Come in, Mr. Malfoy." Dumbledore's voice came from behind the door.
Cassius pushed the door open and entered.
The Principal's office was a spacious, circular room. The walls were covered with portraits of past Principals; most of them were feigning sleep, but their gazes peered through the slits of their eyelids, scrutinizing him. The spindly-legged tables were covered with various silver instruments, which puffed out smoke and made faint clicking sounds.
Dumbledore sat behind that massive desk. He was wearing a purple robe printed with silver moons, and behind his half-moon spectacles, those bright blue eyes were sizing up Cassius.
"Would you like a lemon sherbet?" Dumbledore pointed to the candy jar on the desk, "Or a Cockroach Cluster? Although the name doesn't sound very appealing, they actually taste quite good."
"No, thank you, Professor." Cassius sat down opposite him.
He didn't look at those peculiar silver instruments. His gaze landed on a tall, gilded perch beside the desk. A sickly-looking bird stood there, its feathers sparse, resembling a plucked turkey.
That was Fawkes. A Phoenix.
The moment Cassius entered the room, Fawkes's previously drooping eyelids snapped open. Its black, pearl-like eyes stared fixedly at Cassius, and a low, wary cry issued from its throat.
"It seems Fawkes is very curious about you." Dumbledorecrossed his fingers and rested them on the desk, "It rarely has such a strong reaction to first-year students."
"Perhaps it's because I have a scent it dislikes." Cassiusreplied indifferently.
"There is no such thing as good or bad when it comes to the scent of magic, only the difference between powerful and weak." Dumbledore said softly, "Madam Hoochreported the incident in Flying Class to me. She said you saved Mr. Longbottom, using a… very rare method."
"That was the most efficient method."
"Yes, efficiency." Dumbledore repeated the word, "Your performance in Charms Class and Transfiguration Class is also filled with this quality of pursuing efficiency. No wand, no incantations. Cassius, in the nearly thousand-year history of Hogwarts, you are the first child to do so."
Cassius leaned back in his chair. He could feel Dumbledore's will spreading throughout the room. This was not Legilimency, but a more sophisticated form of perception. The old fox was trying to gauge the foundation of his magic.
"What are you trying to say, Professor?"
"I want to say that power is a double-edged sword." Dumbledore leaned forward, his tone becoming somewhat more serious, "When you possess power that far exceeds your peers, or even adult Wizards, your view of the world will shift. You will feel that rules are made for the weak, and that you can rise above them."
"Rules themselves are set by the strong." Cassiusinterrupted him, "You sit here, setting the rules for Hogwarts, because you are the greatest white Wizard of the age. If a Squib were sitting in your place, no one would listen to him."
The silver instruments in the Principal's office suddenly shook violently.
The [Dual-Soul Furnace] within Cassius began to hum at a low frequency. Since the other party wanted to see his foundation, he would show him.
An extremely condensed, tangible pressure of magicslowly spilled out from within Cassius. It didn't explode violently like it had in Diagon Alley, but rather, like a heavy lead curtain, it pressed against the air in the Principal's office inch by inch.
"Screech—!"
Fawkes flapped its wings violently, its remaining feathers standing on end, emitting a sharp, whistling cry.
In the goblet of pumpkin juice in front of Dumbledore, the surface rippled intensely. The portraits on the walls were no longer feigning sleep; they screamed and fled into neighboring frames.
"This feeling…" Dumbledore murmured softly. His gaze was no longer that of gentle probing, but revealed an extremely sharp light.
What did he feel in Cassius's magic?
There was no evil of Dark Arts, nor the warmth of white magic. It was pure, unreasonable, destructive, primitive kinetic energy.
"Professor, I came to Hogwarts to learn, not to listen to a lecture on theology." Cassius withdrew his magic.
The pressure in the room dissipated instantly. The silver instruments stopped shaking; only Fawkes continued to pace uneasily on its perch.
"If you feel that my existence disrupts some kind of balance, you can expel me." Cassius stood up, "But I guarantee that Malfoy Family will sue the entire Castle into bankruptcy."
Dumbledore was silent for a long time. He looked at this eleven-year-old boy as if looking at an unsolvable puzzle.
"No one is going to expel you, Cassius." Dumbledoreresumed that signature smile, though this time there was a hint of heaviness in it, "I only hope that when you pursue 'efficiency,' you do not forget that the essence of magic is miracles, not weapons."
"To me, only miracles that can solve problems are magic." Cassius walked toward the door.
Before he pushed the door open, Dumbledore asked one last question: "That broomstick, what did you do to it? Madam Hooch says it now flies faster than a Nimbus 2000, but it refuses to let anyone but you ride it."
"I just told it that it shouldn't be a pile of rotten wood."
Cassius pushed the door open and walked out.
Listening to the footsteps fading away on the spiral staircase, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, exhausted.
"Severus, you can come out now."
Snape walked out from the shadows behind, his expression even gloomier than usual.
"You saw it." Dumbledore looked at his own hands; his fingertips were trembling slightly from the resistance against the magic just moments ago.
"He is not another Tom Riddle." Snape snorted coldly, "Riddle pursued control and torture. This child… he pursues total annihilation. He doesn't care at all what others think of him; he only cares if the things standing in his way are hard enough."
"That is the most troublesome part." Dumbledore looked toward the Black Lake outside the window, "A thug with no ambition but possessing god-like power. Severus, keep an eye on him, but do not—under any circumstances—provoke him."
Snape did not speak. He recalled Cassius's calm eyes during Potion Class.
That kind of gaze, he had only seen it in the most apex predators.
On the way downstairs.
Cassius encountered Draco at a corner. Draco had been pacing there for at least twenty laps, his leather shoes polishing the stone floor until it shone.
"What did he do to you?" Draco rushed up, grabbing Cassius's shoulders and looking him up and down, "Did he use that Legilimency thing? My father says Dumbledore is best at digging into people's brains!"
"He offered me candy." Cassius brushed Draco's hands away.
"Candy? What candy? Did he drug it?"
"Draco."
"Huh?"
"Shut up. Go to the Great Hall. I'm hungry."
Cassius strode forward. Draco was stunned for a moment, then hurriedly followed.
"Wait for me! Cassius, you haven't told me what actually happened…"
Sunlight streamed through the corridor windows, casting light on Cassius's back. On his fourth day at Hogwarts, he had completed an unofficial standoff with the highest authority in the school.
From today on, except in class, no one would dare to control him.
Chapter 38: Undercurrents in the Common Room
Lunch was eaten in the Great Hall.
After Cassius came down from the Principal's office, he cut a piece of lamb chop at the Slytherin long table and drank half a glass of pumpkin juice.
Draco sat beside him, and his mouth hadn't stopped moving since he sat down.
"Did he really treat you to candy? What kind of candy? Lemon-flavored? My father says Dumbledore loves eating that sour Muggle candy, his taste is awful—"
Cassius ignored him.
Draco didn't need a response to keep talking. This was one of the talents of the eldest son of Malfoy Family.
After the meal, the two walked toward the Slytherincommon room.
The temperature in the underground corridor was several degrees lower than upstairs, and the torches on the walls cast swaying light and shadows.
The stone wall split open after the password was spoken.
The green fireplace fire in the common room was burning brightest at noon.
Light refracted through the surface of the Black Lake, casting rippling water patterns on the stone ceiling.
Cassius walked straight toward the silver serpent chair in front of the fireplace.
This chair had been his since the first day of school.
There was no sign, no announcement. He sat in it, so it was his.
Up until now, no one had ever sat in that chair when he wasn't there.
It wasn't because of rules. It was because his magic aura remained on that chair—any Wizard with basic perception of magic would feel a slightly uncomfortable pressure when approaching that chair.
It was like sitting on a sleeping dragon.
Cassius sat down and opened the book with the replaced cover, 'Ancient Runes and magic Circuits'.
Draco didn't sit down. He turned around to find Crabbeand Goyle, who were gnawing on chicken legs in the corner, and began to vividly recount what happened in the Principal's office this morning.
"Do you know what Dumbledore's office looks like? The walls are covered in portraits! When those portraits saw Cassius, they all ran away—yes, all of them! Even that Phoenix was so scared it kept screeching—"
Draco's voice was not quiet. He never knew what "lowering his voice" meant.
In Malfoy Family, speaking loudly was a privilege—it meant you had the qualification to let everyone hear your voice.
Half the common room heard it.
A few second-year girls in the sofa area stopped talking and peeked over this way.
Two third-year boys by the window exchanged a glance.
Beside the long table, several senior students who were doing their homework put down their quills.
Their gazes swept over the silver serpent chair in front of the fireplace—swept over the first-year boy sitting on it reading a book—and then pulled back. Their expressions were not very pleasant.
Slytherin had rules.
Not the kind of rules written on paper. It was the unwritten rules formed over hundreds of years, rooted in the bones of every generation of students.
After first-year students entered the common room, their range of activity was usually limited to the edge areas near the entrance—small sofas in the corners, low stools against the walls, and the desks with the dimmest light.
The core area in front of the fireplace was reserved for senior students.
Not to mention the silver serpent chair. That was the best spot in the Slytherin common room—facing the fireplace, back against the stone wall, with two entwined silver serpents carved on the armrests.
According to tradition, this chair belonged to a Prefect, or a member of a pure-blood core family above the fifth year.
A first-year student—even if his surname was Malfoy—openly occupying this position was, in the eyes of many senior students, stepping on their faces.
The Prefect, Farley, stood not far away. She was leaning against a stone pillar, holding a copy of 'Advanced Potion-Making', her gaze moving back and forth between Cassiusand those senior students.
She did not speak out to stop Cassius.
It wasn't because she approved of a first-year student sitting in that chair. It was because she had seen with her own eyes the scene of the Sorting Hat smoking during the Sorting Ceremony, and had also heard from Professor Flitwick about the "one hundred percent magic conduction efficiency".
Farley was a smart person. Smart people wouldn't kick something that looked like a stone but was actually a bomb.
But not all senior students were as smart as Farley.
Beside the long table, a burly fifth-year boy put down his quill. He pushed back his chair and stood up.
Marcus Flint.
This name had a certain deterrent power among the lower-year Slytherin students.
He was the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team—although his skills were average, he had the advantage of being physically strong, loud, and having a bad temper.
His face was wide and flat, his two front teeth were unusually large, and when he laughed, he looked like a Troll eating.
Flint was never someone good at using his brain. In the pure-blood seniority system of Slytherin, he relied on the old seniority of the Flint family and the connections he had accumulated in the team.
He was used to the feeling of being looked up to by lower-year students.
A first-year student was swaggering, sitting on the silver serpent chair, and his lackey was boasting nearby—this made Flint feel his authority had been offended.
He walked over.
Two fifth-year followers stood up and followed behind Flint. There were two others, one fourth-year and one fifth-year, who strolled over slowly from the sofa area.
It wasn't an organized action; it was more like vultures that had smelled the scent of conflict, gathering spontaneously.
Flint walked to the front of the silver serpent chair and stopped.
His shadow was cast on the page in Cassius's hand.
Draco's voice stopped. He turned his head and saw Flintstanding in front of Cassius, wearing that condescending expression of "I am your senior" on his face.
Draco swallowed. Crabbe and Goyle's chewing also stopped.
The conversation in the common room disappeared within ten seconds.
Flint looked down at Cassius. He was more than twice the size of Cassius—the size difference between a fifteen-year-old burly man and an eleven-year-old boy was very intuitive.
"Malfoy." Flint spoke. His voice was as rough as sandpaper scraping against sheet metal. "Do you think that just because the Principal treated you to a few candies, you can ignore the rules of Slytherin?"
The volume of this sentence was controlled within the range of "the entire common room could hear, but it didn't count as shouting". Flint had a lot of experience doing this kind of thing—he used this tone when he was training new team members in the team.
Cassius did not look up.
His finger stopped on the page. Chapter 17, "Resonance Threshold of magic Circuits". This section talked about how when two or more magic sources generated same-frequency resonance in a closed space, a "circuit superposition" phenomenon would occur, causing magicoutput to increase exponentially.
Very interesting theory. If it could be applied to the rapid-fire mode of Wandless Magic—
"Malfoy! I'm talking to you!"
Flint's voice raised. He was not used to being ignored. In Slytherin, when being called out by a fifth-year Quidditchcaptain, a normal first-year reaction should be to stand up immediately, lower their head, and say "Yes, senior".
Chapter 39 Six against one
Cassius turned a page. "You're blocking my light," he said, his voice flat. He didn't look at Flint. "Move."
The common room was quiet enough to hear the wood crackling in the fireplace.
Draco's expression shifted three times in a single second—first tension, then worry, and finally a complex look mixed with pride and fear. Pride, because his brother's presence was truly formidable. Fear, because five upperclassmen stood behind Flint.
Crabbe took half a step back. Goyle retreated half a step with him. While their danger-sensing instincts were crude, they were still useful in critical moments.
Flint's face flushed red. Starting from the sides of his nose, the redness spread like ink, until his entire face turned a dark, purplish red. He jerked his wand out. The tip pointed at Cassius's face, less than twenty centimeters away.
"Don't you know anything about respect for your elders?" Flint squeezed the words through his teeth. "Stand up!"
Farley frowned from behind a pillar. She closed her book and took a step toward them—but she didn't get the chance to speak.
Because Cassius had closed the book in his hands. "Snap." The sound of the book closing echoed through the quiet common room. It wasn't loud, but everyone heard it. The sound felt like a switch being flipped.
Farley's steps faltered. She watched the way Cassiusclosed the book—he didn't just slam it shut; he precisely gripped the spine with his thumb and forefinger, aligned the pages, and closed it flat. The movement was slow. Composed.
This composure made Farley abandon her thought of intervening. Because she realized that the one who needed protection was not the first-year sitting in the chair.
"Respect for elders?" Cassius finally lifted his head. His grey-blue eyes looked at Flint. There was no anger, no provocation, not even impatience. The gaze was more akin to someone looking down at ants moving—not contempt, just simply not being on the same frequency.
"In the rules of Malfoy Family," Cassius placed his book on the armrest, "whoever has the stronger wand, makes the rules." He glanced at the wand in Flint's hand pointing at his face. "Are you sure you want to draw your wand here?"
Flint's Adam's apple bobbed. But five people stood behind him—three were in his year, and two were die-hard fourth-year followers. Six against one. Fifth-year against first-year. In the Slytherin cognitive system, this power dynamic required no hesitation.
The three fifth-year followers behind Flint drew their wands simultaneously. Three wand tips pointed at Cassiusfrom different angles—front left, front right, and directly behind. Adding the one in front of Flint, four wands formed a perimeter. The other two fourth-years hesitated slightly, but also placed their hands on their robe pockets.
Six people. Four drawn wands. One first-year. The younger students in the common room had already huddled into the corners. A few second-year girls covered their mouths, not daring to make a sound. Zabini sat on a sofa in the distance, holding a chess piece, watching the scene with a calm gaze. Nott hid behind a bookshelf, only exposing half of his head.
Draco's face went pale. He wanted to step forward and stand by his brother's side, but his legs wouldn't obey—not because he feared Flint, but because he feared what was about to happen. He had seen Cassius in Diagon Alley. He knew his brother didn't need protection. He feared for Flint. He feared Flint would die.
"You're a first-year," Flint gripped his wand tightly, his large teeth grinding together with a creak. "We have an obligation to teach you the traditions of Slytherin." He waved his wand. "Expelliarmus!"
A red beam of light shot from the tip of Flint's wand. The distance was less than two meters. A standard Expelliarmus—a spell of this level was already mastered by fifth-years; it was fast and accurate.
Cassius did not get up. He sat in the silver serpent chair, merely raising his left hand. His five fingers spread open. Palm facing forward. No incantation. No wand. Not even any visible magical fluctuation.
The red light struck a spot about three inches in front of Cassius's open palm. Then it vanished. It wasn't deflected. It wasn't parried. It was absorbed. When the red light touched that invisible area, it was like a drop of water falling into a desert—silently dissipating into a pale red patch of light, flickering once in the air before extinguishing.
Flint's wand arm froze in mid-air. His brain took about a second to process what had just happened. Expelliarmuswas—eaten? Eaten by the palm of a first-year?
Flint refused to believe it. He gritted his teeth and waved his wand twice in succession—"Impedimenta!" A blue beam of light. "Tarantallegra!" An orange arc of light.
The two spells shot from the wand tip one after another, less than half a second apart. Flint's casting speed was considered fast among fifth-years—he had taken many hexes on the Quidditch pitch, which forced him to develop some practical combat reflexes.
The two spells flew toward Cassius. They hit the same wall. The space three inches in front of Cassius seemed to have an invisible barrier. It wasn't a traditional Shield Charm—Shield Charms produced visible light membranes and shockwaves when deflecting spells. There was nothing to see in front of Cassius. But when the two spells hit it, it was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, not even a splash was raised.
The blue light vanished. The orange light vanished. Not a single hair on Cassius had moved. The common room went completely silent. Even the flames in the fireplace seemed to quiet down a bit.
Flint's hand was shaking. Not from fear. It was a trembling mixed with humiliation and confusion. He was a fifth-year. He was the Quidditch captain. He had used three different spells. He hadn't even touched the hem of a first-year's robe.
Cassius stood up. The movement was slow. He placed the book on the seat, braced his hands on the armrests, and straightened his body unhurriedly. The armrests of the silver serpent chair gave a faint creak under his palms—the wooden structure deformed slightly under the pressure of his magical power.
He stood straight. Flint was nearly thirty centimeters taller than Cassius. In terms of physique, it looked like an adult facing a child. But everyone in the common room felt the exact opposite.
After Cassius stood up, Flint seemed shorter instead. Not physically shorter. It was in terms of presence. Cassius's eyes were level with Flint's chest, yet Flint felt as if he were being looked down upon. That feeling spread from the base of his spine, as if someone had poured a cup of ice water on the back of his head.
"You seem to know nothing about power." Cassius's voice was not loud. But every syllable seemed to strike directly against the eardrums of everyone present. The Dual-Soul Furnace in his chest ramped up its speed. Not combat mode. Teaching mode.
Chapter 40: I Set the Rules
He did not draw a wand—he had no wand.
He did not cast a spell.
He did not even lift a hand.
He simply projected his will outward.
With Cassius as the center, a radius of ten meters.
The change began in the most subtle of ways.
Flint first felt his ears go a little stuffy—like the change in air pressure when on an airplane.
Then, he noticed his breathing becoming heavier.
It required a little more effort than usual to inhale.
This was no ordinary spell.
No light. No sound. No trace of any spellcasting.
What Cassius did was simpler than any spell, and yet more brutal than any spell—he used his magic to directly interfere with the physical distribution of the air.
Within a ten-meter radius around him, the air was being pushed outward by an invisible force.
It wasn't an instantaneous vacuum; it was a slow, continuous, bit-by-bit depletion.
Flint opened his mouth to curse.
"You—"
The first word came out. The second word stuck in his throat.
His lungs were contracting.
Not because he was contracting them himself—it was the air inside his lungs being dragged out.
An invisible force bypassed his mouth, nasal cavity, and trachea, acting directly on the remaining oxygen molecules in his alveoli, squeezing them out one by one.
Within three seconds, Flint's complexion turned from purple-red to a sickly iron-blue.
The three fifth-year followers behind him all encountered the same problem simultaneously.
The one who reacted first tried to raise his wand to cast a Bubble-Head Charm—but the moment his fingers touched the wand, his throat felt as if it had been gripped by an invisible hand.
Not a real hand. A vacuum.
When the air density in an area drops below forty percent of its normal value, a person's vocal cords cannot vibrate.
No spells could be chanted. No sound could be made.
Three wands fell one after another from fingers that had lost their strength.
"Clang." "Clang." "Clang."
Three dull thuds, and the wands rolled across the stone floor.
After losing their wands, the three fifth-year boys instinctively grabbed their own throats with both hands.
They were choking themselves.
They hadn't gone mad.
It was a suffocation reflex.
When the brain senses a sharp drop in oxygen supply, it sends an incorrect command to the body: "The throat is blocked; use your hands to clear the obstruction."
That is why they were clutching their necks.
But there was nothing in their throats.
What blocked their breathing was not any physical entity, but rather the fact that "the air itself no longer existed."
The veins on Flint's face bulged out.
The blue veins on both sides of his temples throbbed beneath his skin.
His skin turned from iron-blue to purple-black.
His eyeballs began to bulge outward due to increased intracranial pressure.
His knees buckled.
"Thud."
Flint was the first to fall to his knees on the stone floor.
His body was beyond his control.
His leg muscles spasmed in the oxygen-deprived state, unable to support his 160-pound frame.
After he knelt, his upper body still struggled—his hands moved from his neck to brace against the floor, attempting to crawl out of this "vacuum zone."
But he couldn't crawl.
The strength in his limbs was draining away.
His oxygen-starved brain had already begun shutting down non-essential functions—first motor functions in the limbs, then fine motor skills, and finally consciousness.
Flint's arms held him up for two seconds, then went limp.
He collapsed entirely onto the stone floor.
His mouth hung wide open, like a fish thrown onto a pier.
There was no sound.
Because he couldn't make any.
The other two fifth-years fell even faster than he did.
One fell flat on his back onto the carpet, his body arched like a shrimp, his legs kicking wildly in the air.
The other curled up on his side beneath the leg of a long table, his fingernails clawing several bloody gashes into his own neck—the capillaries beneath the skin had swollen due to the lack of oxygen, and even a light scratch would break them.
Blood seeped from under his fingernails.
Those two fourth-years—who had been standing a little further behind Flint—turned and ran the very first second they felt difficulty breathing.
One tripped over a sofa, scrambling and crawling to escape the ten-meter range.
The other knocked over a chair and fell, but still scrambled up and ran.
Other students in the common room had long since retreated to the walls.
A few younger girls were crying silently—they were far enough away and hadn't entered the vacuum zone, but witnessing three older students struggling on the ground like drowning people was too much for eleven or twelve-year-old children.
Draco was huddled behind a sofa.
Both his hands were gripping the back of the sofa so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
His lips were moving, but no sound came out.
It wasn't because of the vacuum—he was at the edge of the ten-meter range—but because he was too terrified to speak.
He watched the way Flint lay on the ground.
That 1.8-meter tall, 160-pound Quidditch captain was now lying at his brother's feet like a puddle of sludge that had lost its skeleton.
Cassius looked down at them.
His expression did not change in the slightest.
It was not a deliberately controlled indifference—it was that he truly felt no emotional fluctuation regarding a conflict of this level.
Just as a person would not feel any emotion toward the resistance of an ant.
"I set the rules."
Cassius's voice should not have been able to travel within the vacuum zone.
But his voice was not transmitted through the air—it was transmitted through magic.
Every word sounded as if it were ringing directly inside Flint's brain.
"If you understand, blink once."
Flint's consciousness was already on the verge of fading.
Black spots appeared in his field of vision—his cerebral cortex was beginning to hallucinate due to oxygen deprivation.
But he heard those words.
He gathered his last bit of strength and blinked his eyes frantically.
He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five times.
He didn't dare to blink just once.
He was afraid Cassius wouldn't see it.
He mobilized every eye muscle he could use.
Tears were squeezed from his eye sockets.
Snot flowed out as well.
Flint's face was covered in tears and mucus, white foam from oxygen deprivation hanging from the corners of his mouth.
The Slytherin Quidditch team captain.
A mid-level backbone of the pure-blood hierarchy.
A fifth-year student.
Kneeling at the feet of a first-year student, crying like a baby.
Cassius withdrew his magic.
The change happened instantaneously.
Air rushed back into the vacuum zone—with a "hiss," like opening a can that had been sealed for a long time.
Airflow filled the space again, carrying the characteristic dampness of the dungeon and the smoky scent of the fireplace.
Flint let out an incredibly ugly gasp.
It was the sound a cat about to drown might make when pulled out of the water—a hoarse, ragged, phlegm-filled, desperate intake of air.
He lay on the floor, breathing in great gulps.
His complexion slowly recovered from purple-black to pale.
The other two fifth-years were also gasping on the floor.
One choked and coughed violently, coughing up a glob of blood-streaked phlegm.
The other rolled over, facing the ceiling, tears streaming down his face, his body twitching irregularly on the carpet.
They were like three fish slapped onto the shore, their mouths moving painfully on the stone and carpet.