Chapter 141: The Alien Throne and Crueler Tempering
The scorched earth smoldered with residual smoke.
Firenze and four other Centaurs lay prostrate on the ground. Their longbows lay scattered to one side, the fertility totems carved on the bow arms stained with black mud.
"I will say it once more: keep your clansmen in check."
Cassius's tone was devoid of emotion, each syllable hammering heavily against the charred tree stumps.
"This scorched earth, and the three-hundred-meter radius extending from it, is now my testing ground."
He did not look back, reaching out to brush away the wood chips clinging to his cuffs.
"Any living creature that sets foot in this area will be presumed hostile and will be thoroughly eliminated from the physical plane."
Firenze's body trembled violently, his front hooves scraping shallow pits into the ground.
He looked up at the night sky; the constellation representing his tribe was dim and lusterless.
He had originally intended to use the patrol to maintain the tribe's influence in this forest, but before the giant crater in front of him, the survival instinct of the dozens of people in the tribe completely overwhelmed their pride.
"As you command, great Excellency." Firenze's throat was dry, and his words were strained as his right hand subconsciously stroked the broken bowstring. "Your will shall be the new law of the Forbidden Forest."
Cassius made no response, striding toward HogwartsCastle.
The Centaurs' submission provided no data value.
In his mind, he rapidly reviewed the core data from the ten seconds of full-power output: his meridian temperature reached seventy-three degrees, magic circuit nodes suffered two percent wear, and three phalanges in his right hand had minor fractures but healed instantly under a healing spell.
At a maximum firing rate of fifteen rounds per second, the expensive core spider-silk inner armor's heat dissipation efficiency was barely acceptable.
Conclusion: Still insufficient.
A firepower net of this level was more than enough to deal with Trolls and Acromantula swarms.
Against top-tier Wizards who had mastered Apparition, the gaps in the firepower coverage net would be exploited.
He needed stronger penetration.
A single-point explosive technique capable of directly piercing through all defenses.
Only after Cassius's figure merged into the forest shadows did Firenze dare to look up.
He looked at the drastically altered landscape of the woods, then at the webbing between his thumb and index finger, which had split open and was oozing blood.
Another Centaur picked up a longbow, its wooden body covered in web-like cracks.
He nervously rubbed his mane, his voice trembling: "He didn't even look at us, Firenze. In his eyes, we are no different from those crushed Acromantulas."
Firenze remained silent.
"Pass down the order: this area is to be classified as a maximum-level restricted zone." Firenze stood up, stumbling slightly as his front hooves hit the ground. "From today on, this is the King's territory."
The Slytherin common room.
Draco was surrounded by a group of upperclassmen by the fireplace, holding a cup of warm pumpkin juice with his chin held high.
In the Dueling Class, he had forced Harry Potter into a corner with a high-pressure water blade.
This gave him his first taste of being praised for his own strength.
"Well done, Draco." The fifth-year Quidditch captain, Marcus Flint, bowed his thick waist and handed over a glass. This brute, who had once been forced to his knees by Cassius's vacuum field, was now full of flattery, secretly wiping cold sweat from his palms as he spoke. "You've made those stupid lions from Gryffindor shut their mouths for good."
"Exactly, I can still remember Potter's damn expression," another upperclassman chimed in.
Draco straightened his back, his right hand touching the House of Malfoy crest on his left cuff. Since childhood, his father had only ever praised his younger brother, and he dreamed of gaining his family's recognition. Today, he felt he finally lived up to the name, taking another step toward the power of his brother, Cassius.
He cleared his throat and was about to speak when the heavy stone door of the common room was pushed open with great force.
Cassius walked in, carrying the chill of the Forbidden Forest.
In the areas he passed, the flames in the fireplace shrank by half, and the sparks retreated entirely into the firewood.
Everyone stopped talking.
The upperclassmen all took half a step back, clearing a path toward the silver-serpent armchair; several people held their breath.
"Brother, you're back." Draco put down his cup of pumpkin juice and stood up, his right hand instinctively clutching the edge of his robes.
Cassius walked up to him, his gaze falling on his right hand.
"The power is too dispersed, and the accuracy is abysmal." Cassius spoke with clear pronunciation, each word precisely shattering the pride Draco had just built up.
"In that strike of yours, at least sixty percent of the magicwas wasted on maintaining the water line's form instead of being converted into pure kinetic energy."
The color drained from Draco's face, leaving him deathly pale.
"But I won; Harry couldn't even react," he argued in a low voice, his fingers gripping the hem of his clothes.
"That's because your opponent is a piece of trash who can't even hold a wand steady," Cassius interrupted him. "If you were facing an Auror with actual combat experience, they would have at least three ways to deflect it with Protegobefore the water blade hit. Your flashy attack has no practical combat value."
Draco lowered his head, staring at the tips of his shoes as a massive sense of defeat washed over him.
The surrounding upperclassmen didn't dare to breathe loudly; Flint retreated halfway into the shadow of a stone pillar.
"From today on, your training tasks are doubled." Cassiuspulled a Sickle from his pocket and tossed it onto the floor. The coin hit the stone slabs with a crisp metallic clink.
"Within three days, use Wandless Magic to compress one cubic meter of water into a stable water bullet the size of a coin, suspended in mid-air. If you can't do it, don't bother following me anymore."
Cassius turned and sat in the silver-serpent armchair, picking up a book on ancient runes to read.
Draco looked at the silver coin on the floor, his right hand trembling uncontrollably.
Compressing a cubic meter of water to the size of a coin—this was far beyond the scope of ordinary magic.
He gritted his teeth, leaned over, and picked up the Sicklebefore turning toward the bathroom. His steps were heavy, and the coin left a red mark in his palm.
The Gryffindor common room.
Harry sat slumped in an armchair, staring blankly at the burning logs.
The splash of water from the Dueling Class replayed over and over in his mind. The cold sensation on his scalp wouldn't dissipate; his hands gripped the armrests tightly, palms drenched in cold sweat.
"He's just a monster, Harry! Their whole family are monsters!" Ron paced irritably in front of the table, rubbing his hands vigorously on his Wizard robes. "How could he master that level of Wandless Magic in his second year? That's definitely Dark Arts!"
Ron kicked a stool. The inferiority of being from a pure-blood family yet being dirt poor transformed into an extreme rejection of pure-blood displays of power; he shouted to mask the fact that his legs were weak.
"Calm down, Ron. Cursing won't solve anything." Hermione sat at the other end of the table, parchment spread before her. She was rapidly writing down fluid dynamics formulas with a quill, occasionally biting the end of the quill, with ink staining her fingertips.
"I've estimated that the pressure generated by Draco's water blade reached three hundred pounds per square centimeter. This value exceeds the shear strength of most rocks, meaning his blade could theoretically cut through the Castle walls."
Hermione pushed up the glasses on the bridge of her nose, her quill leaving a heavy ink blot on the parchment. "His strength is beyond our current range of understanding."
Ron stopped pacing, his mouth agape, unable to utter a word for a long time.
Harry raised his hand and touched the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Lord Voldemort had killed his parents; he was supposed to be the Child of Destiny in the prophecy.
But now, Draco, who was merely Cassius's apprentice, could easily crush him.
How strong was Cassius himself? Even Lord Voldemorthadn't given him this kind of crushing pressure that left him utterly defenseless.
"I need power," Harry said, his voice dry and raspy.
"I need power that can stand against him."
He straightened his back, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug deep into the soft flesh of his palms, breaking the skin.
Justice and courage could not preserve a life in the face of such an absolute gap in strength.
"By any means necessary, I will become stronger." Harrystared at Hermione, his green eyes reflecting the firelight from the hearth.
Hermione put down her quill and stopped her calculations.
Ron stood frozen in place, his hands stalled at the pockets of his Wizard robes.
Chapter 142: The Ghost of the Restricted Section and the Top Student's Lie
"Get away... watch my Mucus Hex..." Ron rolled violently on the bed, the wooden bed frame letting out a piercing creak.
He curled into a ball, his hands tightly clutching that second-hand wand wrapped three times in old tape; even in his dreams, his subconscious remained tense, guarding against others mocking his dilapidated equipment.
Due to his excessive force, a withered strand of Unicornhair core was even exposed at the tip of the wand.
Harry pulled back the coarse wool blanket and stepped barefoot onto the cold wooden floor.
A protruding wood splinter scraped the sole of his foot, but he didn't even flinch.
He bent down near the floor and pulled the invisibility cloak from under the pillow.
The silky fabric slid down from the top of his head, covering his shoulders and completely swallowing his body, along with his heavy breathing, into the darkness.
He walked down the long spiral staircase and passed through the Common Room filled with old sofas.
The Fat Lady snored defenselessly in her frame, and the extinguished torches on the wall emitted the smell of unburnt pine resin.
Harry slowed his breathing rate, hugged the wall, and quickened his pace, heading straight for the library on the fourth floor.
The draft in the corridor whipped up dust from the floor, hitting the sterling silver armor in the hallway and making a dull metallic clanging sound.
Those ink formulas Hermione had written on parchment during the day constantly hammered at his nerves.
Draco could level a hard stone with just one move; if he just followed the rules and waved his wand in class, he would only be left further and further behind by Cassius.
Only by touching the dangerous taboos at the bottom of Hogwarts could he bridge this massive gap in strength.
Touching forbidden items would definitely cause big trouble; if things went wrong, he might not even be able to stay in school.
Harry raised his left hand and pressed the lightning scar on his forehead.
The hatred of having his family taken by Lord Voldemortand Draco's high-and-mighty mockery—these two forces tugged back and forth at his sanity.
If he couldn't even keep his life, what use was there in maintaining the boundaries of a good student?
He quickened his pace, his soles almost scuffing against the floor tiles.
Inside the library, even the sound of dust falling was clearly audible; Madam Pince was not here tonight.
Harry Bypassing the regular lending area,Arriving at the forbidden area marked with a red rope.Harry bypassed the general circulation area and arrived before the forbidden area cordoned off with a red rope.
The smell of moldy old paper entered his nostrils, and thick hardcover books with metal locks were lined up in the darkness. He swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva and lifted his knee to step over the red rope.
Just as his soft leather soles stepped onto the cyan flagstones of the Restricted Section, a cold wooden rod pressed against the cartilage of his Adam's apple.
Cold sweat crawled all the way down Harry's spine, soaking his undershirt.
It was the tip of a wand, applied with great force, pressing hard against his skin and cutting off his airflow.
The person holding the wand applied pressure with their wrist, forcing Harry to stand slightly on tiptoe to alleviate the illusion that his throat was about to be pierced.
"The famous The Savior, still having to rely on thievery to maintain his dignity before his classmates." A low, oily voice, carrying the sour and bitter smell of Potion residue from years of brewing, exploded next to his ear.
Harry's heart jolted, and his legs went weak. Without needing to turn around to confirm, that habitual drawl and intensely mocking tone belonged only to Snape.
The oppressive, cold aura from behind pinned him to the spot.
The tip of Snape's wand remained steadily wedged against Harry's throat, not retreating half an inch.
Just uttering half a syllable would be enough to leave him dead on the spot.
Harry held his breath, not even daring to swallow; his heart hammered wildly against his ribs, and the hem of the invisibility cloak trembled uncontrollably.
"Mr. Potter never tires of night wandering, specifically picking corners that can't see the light of day."
Snape's left index finger habitually stroked an indelible dark red Potion stain on the cuff of his black robe, over and over again.
That mark had dried long ago, yet it had been rubbed shiny by him over the years.
"Come, follow me to see the Principal. Go show him that Gryffindor recklessness you're so proud of."
He reached out with his large-knuckled, pale right hand, which was constantly soaked in herbs, spread his fingers, and clamped down on Harry's left shoulder bone.
His finger bones dug deep into the flesh, preparing to flip this troublesome rag and the person under it onto the ground.
Caught red-handed sneaking into the forbidden area, losing house points was already a luxury; as soon as it was light, he would have to pack his bags and crawl back to that moldy cupboard under the stairs.
Before Snape's fingers could tighten on the fabric of the invisibility cloak, from behind the third row of walnut shelves to the side came the heavy thud of leather shoes hitting the stone floor.
"Professor, wait a moment."
Snape stopped his pulling motion and turned his head, his gaze crossing the long, dusty aisle.
Hermione, clutching a copy of Principles of Ancient Rune Transfiguration so thick it required both arms to hold, strode into the moonlit area.
Blue ink from biting her pen during the day remained under her fingernails; her back was ramrod straight, and her ten fingers dug forcefully into the thick parchment cover of the book.
"I asked Harry to help me retrieve some academic materials." Hermione lifted her chin, staring intently at Snape's dark, gloomy face.
A deep vertical furrow creased between Snape's brows: "Miss Granger. It is past curfew. This is a restricted area of Hogwarts."
"I am aware of the school rules." Hermione nodded, holding the open book high and forcing it in front of Snapeto block his view.
The pages were covered in intersecting geometric lines and fluidic calculation symbols, with the blank margins crowded with dense annotations in Ancient Runes.
Because she held it so tightly with both hands, she had actually torn a hole in the bottom right corner of the page.
"During the day, the pressure of the Water Blade Dracoreleased to cut the stone was as high as three hundred pounds per square inch. Tonight, I have been reverse-engineering the changes in water molecule morphology after this high-level spell leaves the body."
Hermione spoke extremely fast with clear articulation, hurling a string of long terms directly at the Professor in one breath, carrying an unstoppable air of academic dominance. "Chapter Seven of Volume Three mentions that using specific rune combinations can delay the decay process of high-density energy after it leaves the caster. This theory overlaps with the equations I've written myself."
She pulled out her right thumb and pressed it heavily on a string of complex patterns composed of over a dozen nested shapes on the page, her fingernail digging into the paper as she pointed forcefully.
"To complete the final verification model, I'm missing a core text, Analysis of Magical Architecture Variables. The book is locked in a Protective Charm compartment in the bottom right of the seventh row. I couldn't get a signed slip from Madam Pince, so I had to have Harry run an errand with his invisibility cloak." Hermione held the book level, meeting Snape's scrutinizing face head-on.
As a good student who followed the rules, she was terrified of losing house points to her core, but at this moment, she forced down the trembling in her weak legs.
Snape was proficient in various Potion formulas and Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in just ten seconds, there was no way he could dismantle this vast web of loopholes woven from a cross-combination of Muggle Fluid Mechanics and Ancient Runes.
She was using this flawless "good student" persona to forcibly block the Dean's excuse to make trouble.
Chapter 143: The Shield of the Weakest and Purest Will
Snape's gaze lingered for a full five seconds on Hermione's parchment, which was covered in formulas.
Snape's left index finger repeatedly rubbed a dark red, unremovable Potion stain on the cuff of his black robe.
It was a mark left from brewing Polyjuice Potion many years ago, always reminding him of someone he desperately wanted to forget.
Those twisted runes and intricate calculations, even he couldn't find any flaws in them in a short time.
This was definitely an academic field far beyond second-year, and even most seventh-year students' reach.
He turned his head, his gaze moving past Hermione's arm to Harry's hand, which was peeking out from under the invisibility cloak.
It was an old, clearly borrowed wand. Snape stared at the worn patterns on the wand's tip, and those green eyes flashed uncontrollably in his mind.
"Miss Granger's thirst for knowledge is indeed impressive." Snape's lips tightened into a cruel line, finally letting out a cold snort, "Out after curfew, Gryffindor loses twenty points."
He withdrew the wand from Harry's throat, then stiffly tucked it back into his sleeve pocket.
"Additionally, to punish your foolish disregard for school rules, you will be responsible for cleaning all the discarded cauldrons in Potion Class next week. Remember, no magicallowed; you must scrape off that disgusting slime by hand."
With that, Snape turned around, his black robes cutting an arc in the air.
He walked along the flagstone path, the sound of his heels tapping on the ground growing fainter, as he merged into the shadows behind the bookshelves.
The library fell into complete silence, with only the rustling of leaves outside the window as the wind blew through them.
Harry lifted the invisibility cloak, revealing himself from the darkness.
He looked at Hermione, nervously rubbing the corner of his robes. The awkwardness of being caught red-handed, and the cruel exposure of his deep-seated desire for power, made his cheeks flush.
He desperately wanted to hold his head high in front of Draco, to prove that he was not just a Savior with an empty title.
"Thank you, Hermione." Harry lowered his head.
"I merely stated a possibility, Harry." Hermione closed the heavy 'Principles of Ancient Runes Transfiguration,' the pages pressing together with a dull thud.
She wiped the dust from the parchment cover with her cuff, not looking at the person opposite her. "I don't believe that a few ancient Dark Arts books will allow you to bridge such a large gap between you and the Malfoy brothers."
"This choice will only lead you down a more dangerous and foolish path. You should focus on basic exercises in Potion and Transfiguration, not those unorthodox methods." Hermione turned and walked towards the common room, her fingers gripping the book tightly, taut from the effort.
The blue ink stained on her fingernails from biting her pen during the day seemed particularly glaring at this moment.
Harry stood still, his fists clenching and unclenching. The atmosphere between them solidified.
The next afternoon, Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Lockhart was still drooling at the wall in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, so Snape was still substituting for this class.
No one spoke in the classroom. Snape stood behind the podium, his face cold as he scanned every face below.
"Today, we will be conducting group dueling practice." Snape drew out his words, his gaze sweeping over a few cowering students in the front row. "To allow you all to more deeply understand the desperate consequences that a difference in strength can bring in real combat."
"I will personally divide you into groups."
All the students immediately hunched their necks, not daring to breathe.
Snape slowly read out a few names, and those called out exhaled, relieved.
Finally, Snape turned to the furthest corner of the classroom.
A plump boy sat there, desperately burying his head in a textbook.
"Neville Longbottom."
Neville shivered all over.
He habitually reached for the torn piece of his grandmother's Howler in his pocket; only by feeling its rough edge could he find his only sense of security.
"Your opponent..." Snape's gaze swept around the Gryffindor section, finally landing on the front of the Slytherin long table, "Draco Malfoy."
A sudden uproar erupted in the classroom.
Everyone looked at the boy who couldn't even properly cast a Levitation Charm.
Pairing Neville, widely recognized as the weakest in the school, with Draco, who had just almost split Harry Potter's head open with a Water Blade, was nothing short of a public execution.
"Come up, Longbottom." Snape raised his hand, pointing to the dueling platform.
Neville's face was pale, and he scrambled out of his chair, stumbling over a chair leg in the process. He shuffled to the front of the platform, each step extremely difficult.
Draco moved swiftly; without waiting for Snape to announce the start, he immediately drew his Hawthornwand, toying with the silver embellishment on the handle.
"Ready to cry your way back, Longbottom?" Draco raised his chin, pointing his wand at his still-trembling opponent.
He was eager to display his overwhelming superiority in front of the whole class, to wash away the shame of the previous practical exercise and prove to everyone that the House of Malfoy's bloodline was not to be defiled.
Neville looked into Draco's gray eyes, his calves twitching violently.
Fear clutched at his throat, making it hard for him to breathe.
His arm, holding the wand, was weak and powerless; he didn't even have the courage to raise its tip.
Just as he was about to close his eyes and endure the humiliation, a sentence suddenly echoed in his mind.
Words Cassius Malfoy had said to him on the Hogwarts Express at the start of the school year.
"Fear will cause your magic to contract inward, forming a shield."
This sentence cut through his fear-shrouded mind.
Contract inward.
Form a shield.
Neville stopped recalling spells from his textbook and abandoned the idea of counterattacking.
He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating all his mental power and will entirely on defense.
In his mind, he visualized a wall, a wall built of bluestone slabs, forcefully blocking in front of him.
It was the garden wall at his old home, where he used to hide from his uncle's scolding.
"Expelliarmus."
Draco scoffed, seeing Neville's foolish appearance of giving up resistance. He mercilessly waved his wand, and a red light shot out from its tip.
Just one second before the red light was about to hit Neville's chest.
A golden spherical shield formed in front of Neville.
The shield's light was dim, yet it firmly withstood Draco's Expelliarmus, which was powerful enough to knock back an adult Wizard.
Bang.
The red spell exploded on the surface of the golden shield, sending out large ripples.
The golden shield shook violently, holding for a full two seconds before shattering into countless points of light with a crisp cracking sound.
Neville was shaken two steps back by the spell's aftershock, falling to the ground. He touched his chest.
No injuries.
He blocked it. He blocked Draco's full-power attack in a way no one understood.
The classroom was silent.
Everyone stared dumbfounded at the chubby boy sitting on the ground, panting.
Draco's expression completely froze. He stared intently at his still-trembling wand, then at the unharmed Neville, his face ashen.
He felt utterly humiliated. A useless person who couldn't even hold a wand steady had blocked his attack.
Snape stared at Neville, who was sitting on the ground. His black eyes flickered. He neither added nor deducted points, simply waved his hand, signaling Draco to get off the platform.
In the back row of the classroom, Cassius watched the scene, his fingers lightly tapping the desk.
He leaned his head towards Blaise Zabini beside him, lowering his voice.
"Did you see that, Blaise?"
"The purest will to survive is sometimes more effective than a hundred complex spells."
"That little Fat's potential is far more than just taking a beating."
Chapter 144: The Savior's Breakdown and the Forbidden Whisper
The disastrous defeat in the Dueling Class was like a chunk of rotten meat stuck in Harry's esophagus.
He couldn't swallow his anger, nor could he spit out the sour bile in his chest.
Every breath he took, his windpipe ached.
Back in the Gryffindor Common Room, Ron plopped down onto the old sofa with broken springs.
Dust flew up.
He threw his wand, wrapped in five or six layers of yellowed transparent tape, onto the coffee table.
The wooden stick hit the tabletop with a dull thud.
"Crazy, everyone's gone crazy," Ron tugged at his messy red hair, his cheeks flushed purple. "Draco, that bastard, he wasn't casting spells, he was throwing hidden weapons!"
Ron lowered his head, his fingernails picking at the raised edge of the tape on his wand's handle. He rubbed the back of his hand, which was red from a tea scald, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"And Neville," Ron lowered his voice, which trembled. "He didn't even open his mouth! He just closed his eyes and bounced that Expelliarmus back. Merlin's beard, what was that?"
Harry stood with his back to Ron, staring at the surging waves of the Black Lake outside the window. The dark green lake water slapped against the glass, its color stinging his stomach into spasms, and sour bile rose to his throat.
Neville.
The Neville who usually tripped and fell two meters even on flat ground.
Cassius merely whispered a few words, and a soft persimmon, easily squashed, grew a shell and stubbornly withstood the full force of Malfoy Family's attack.
Harry picked at the loose threads on the edge of his oversized cuff. They were Dudley's hand-me-down clothes, too big, always covering the backs of his hands.
He wore the skin of 'The Boy Who Lived,' bearing a reputation bought by his parents' tragic deaths, yet on the dueling platform, he couldn't even clearly see where his opponent's wand tip was pointing.
A chill crept from the soles of his feet all the way up his spine, freezing his internal organs.
Ron pulled himself out of the sofa cushions, his fist pounding on the rough bed frame post beside him. The wood let out an unpleasant creak.
"That fat guy definitely got lucky!" Ron gasped. "He just got a lucky shot! Now those Slytherin snakes have even more reason to mock us."
Ron stopped, staring at Harry's back, and cleared his throat. "Harry, don't take it to heart. Those two Malfoys are just monsters. We're not like them, just accept it."
"Not like them."
Harry turned around, biting down on the pronunciation of those two words. His cheek muscles tensed, pulling his lower lip open.
He stared intensely at Ron, all the moisture in his throat evaporated, his voice hoarse and grating.
"Yes, not like them."
He lowered his voice, stepping closer.
"They walk on clouds, playing advanced tricks with incomprehensible words, and can kick us into the mud with a casual flick of their foot." Harry stopped half a step from Ron, his eyes wide, staring at the freckled face. "And us? We can only cower here, clutching those broken textbooks, practicing rusty Expelliarmus, hoping to use that to block magic that can cut a person in half!"
"Cassius Malfoy didn't even draw his wand! He treats us like insects, and we don't even have teeth to bite back!"
Ron shrank his neck, his back against the wooden bed frame, stammering in protest: "But... what can we do? Are you going to go and die?"
What to do.
A cold voice snaked through the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, drilling into his skull. It glided along his cerebral cortex, licking every neural crevice.
"They rule by ancient bloodline rules, but you possess an older wealth, Harry."
Harry clamped his mouth shut, saying nothing. He turned, climbing the spiral staircase to the dormitory, his leather shoes thudding on the stone steps.
Only one thought was in his mind: get power. Fill the chasm that had crushed his dignity into mud.
All that so-called pride shattered into shards of glass before this cruel disparity in strength.
"Nobody cares how many times you got beaten, they only see who's standing and who's kneeling in the end." The sticky voice echoed deep within his eardrum, exposing the dark side of his heart.
"Dumbledore only sees you as ballast. He's using those high-sounding words to shackle your hands and feet."
"You abide by their rules, so you deserve to be trampled for fun by that twelve-year-old Malfoy boy."
Harry clenched his back teeth, his fingernails digging into the calluses on his palms.
Late at night.
Only sparks from the fireplace remained in Gryffindor Tower.
Harry threw off the coarse blanket and grabbed the invisibility cloak. He didn't touch the wand on his bedside table.
"Where are you going in the middle of the night? Filch is out there." In the darkness, Ron turned over on his bunk, his voice tight.
Harry pulled the invisibility cloak over his head.
"I'm going to find something that will let us stand tall."
He vanished into thin air, leaving Ron alone on the creaking bunk, picking at the tape on his wand.
The draft in the corridor brushed against his neck. Iron suits of armor stood in the shadows on both sides of the wall.
Harry walked slowly. His soles clung to the cold stone flagstones, avoiding every joint.
The instructions in his mind were crystal clear.
Go to the Restricted Section.
Not to look for advanced Herbology books, nor to find a few slightly more powerful curses.
He remembered the spot. Wrapped in chains, with three brass locks. A strange smell of mold and dried blood always lingered there.
"True power is never on the classroom blackboard."
"It's locked away in a moldy corner, waiting for the one worthy of it."
The library was unlit. There were no patrolling cats, no Squibs making rounds.
Harry stepped over the red barrier rope and headed straight for the deepest part.
"Seventh bookshelf. Third shelf. Farthest right corner." The instruction was precisely given.
Harry stopped. Deep within the peeling wooden shelf, several rolls of broken, cobweb-covered paper were stacked.
A parchment remnant lay in the dust. Its cover was smeared with blackish-brown dried liquid. There was no title, only a distorted serpentine pattern branded onto it.
A pungent, fishy smell assaulted his nostrils.
Harry reached out his right hand. His fingers brushed the cover. It felt warm, with a pulsation like a heartbeat.
The moment his fingertip touched the edge of the remnant.
A tiny blood-fissure cracked open on his lightning-bolt scar.
Dark red blood beads pushed through the skin, slid down his brow bone and across his cheek, then dripped onto the rough parchment cover with a plop.
Buzz.
The blood seeped into the pulp. The book trembled violently, emitting a low hum.
A wave of tyrannical, ecstatic, and resentful emotions surged through the skin of his fingers into his bloodstream, rushing deep into his brain marrow.
Harry didn't cry out in pain. He felt his muscles bulge, blood flushing through his veins with an echo. All the magic light motes floating in the air gathered towards him.
The fragmented soul piece lurking deep within his soul, sensing the presence of its kind, awakened and let out a silent shriek.
After soaking up the blood, the blackish-brown viscous substance on the cover began to writhe, twisting into a line of glaring bloody characters—
"The Origins and Sacrifice of Pureblood."
Harry clutched the remnant tightly. The rough paper edges chafed the flesh of his palm. His eyes were wide open, a ghastly green glow rising from the depths of his pupils.
The pages turned by themselves.
The dark yellow paper had no words. In the center, a hexagram made of countless severed limbs was drawn with dried, dark red pigment.
His gaze was fixed on the ancient rune representing "soul" at the center of the array.
Chapter 145: The Rift and the Genius's Dangerous Fantasies
In the common room fireplace, the last piece of charcoal peeled off its dark red shell and sank into the ashes.
Ron huddled in the peeling red velvet sofa, his head drooping.
His right thumb was desperately picking at the old tape curling up on his wand's handle, slowly wearing away its already weak adhesive.
The youngest Weasley, always wearing his brothers' hand-me-downs, always using a second-hand wand, he was fed up with his pathetic inability to even retort properly when Draco Malfoy mocked him during the day.
The portrait frame pushed open half an inch. The cold wind from the corridor seeped into the room.
A dark shadow stepped over the threshold.
"Where have you been!" Ron's legs straightened, and he sprang from the sofa. The old piece of tape in his hand snapped completely.
He panted anxiously, his questioning voice laden with long-suppressed resentment, "You've been sneaking out every night for three weeks! You've found something good to deal with Slytherin, haven't you?"
Harry stopped.
His left hand lifted the invisibility cloak.
His left foot firmly planted on the faded carpet.
His right hand's five fingers tightly clutched a square, inert object wrapped in black cloth.
Ron strode over, staring intently at the black cloth package: "We agreed to shove Malfoy into a toilet together, and now you're treating me like an outsider?" The cuff of his old, too-short pajamas dangled in mid-air.
Harry stood still, holding the black cloth package. His head slowly lifted.
His face was hidden in shadow. Deep within his green eyes, a dark red glow surged.
"You think I found something good?" Harry spoke.
His voice hit the stone floor, carrying a condescending chill.
It was the same tone those pureblood officials in the Ministry of Magic used when reprimanding Squibs.
"Isn't it?" Ron's neck recoiled, a cold sweat breaking out on his back, but he still stiffened his neck and retorted.
"Put away your petty calculations, Weasley." Harry spat out the three words, using his full name.
Ron's feet were nailed to the spot, his freckled face pale.
"You even copy Hermione's parchment for Snape's assignments. What makes you think you're qualified to meddle in this level of game?" Harry's eyelids drooped, scanning the flushed face opposite him.
Harry took a step forward, the oppressive feeling crashing into Ron: "With that leaky old stick in your hand? Or your brain full of greedy schemes? Do you think those will make Malfoy take you seriously?"
Every word turned into a poisoned blade, precisely stripping away Ron's tattered self-esteem.
Ron opened his mouth, his dry lips trembling.
His throat was filled with dry ice, unable to utter a single syllable.
In his patched pocket, there was still half a cauldron cake he had planned to share with Harry. He thought they were comrades in the same trench.
"Know your place." Harry brushed past Ron's shoulder, his leather boots stepping onto the spiral staircase. "Don't point fingers at a power you'll never touch in your life."
Ron stood in the draft, his ankles trembling. The cold wind from the corridor pierced through his thin pajamas.
...
The next morning. Morning light pierced through the stained-glass window.
Ron woke with a start, gripping the coarse blanket tightly.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. In his hand was a brand new silk handkerchief, wiping an unfamiliar wand. The stick was entirely black, its shaft covered in delicate snake scales. The end of the handle was inlaid with a dark red crystal, reflecting crimson patches.
Ron swallowed dryly, the humiliation from last night making his chest feel tight: "Harry, where did you get this wand?"
Harry's thumb slid along the scales to the bottom: "Someone gave it to me."
Ron threw off the blanket and got out of bed, taking two steps forward, his toes stopping three steps away.
Harry turned his head. A red glow flashed in his emerald eyes. It was the indifference of looking at a paramecium under a microscope.
Biological instinct tugged at Ron's nerves. He retreated, his back hitting the hard bedpost.
"What... what's wrong with you?" Ron's vocal cords felt dry.
Harry put away the handkerchief and slid the black wand into his robe sleeve: "I've figured some things out." He stood up straight and pulled open the wooden door. "Ron, stop bothering me with your self-pitying rhetoric. Weakness is the original sin."
The wooden door closed. The sound of footsteps in the corridor faded away.
The most secluded corner of the library.
Hermione grabbed the three stacks of parchment on the table, crumpled them into balls, and threw them at the stone floor.
"Wrong! All wrong!"
She ran her fingers through her messy hair, pulling hard.
Blue ink seeped into her fingernails, staining a patch of her scalp.
She had to prove that Muggle-born Wizards could master the highest-level laws. This was her only motivation for desperately staying up all night to deduce.
She had been deducing for twelve hours straight.
Dozens of charts were filled with nodes of magic flow. Draco's water blade element decomposition, Cassius's fifteen spells per second barrage.
All data models ultimately converged into a dead end.
According to the Hogwarts teaching system, once magic is released, high-density structures inevitably collapse within a thousandth of a second.
To achieve Cassius's firing rate, the caster must build an energy circuit independent of conventional laws within their body.
This kind of pure talent cannot be copied or learned.
Hermione leaned on the table with both hands. Her fingernails scraped with a harsh sound.
Her logical brain, which she had been proud of for eleven years, was crushed into fragments by this pure violence.
"Miss Granger, if the parchment here piles up past your knees, Gryffindor's hourglass will run out today." Madam Pince's scolding floated from behind the left bookshelf.
Hermione bent down. Her hands quickly grabbed the dusty paper balls, her knuckles tight.
In the afternoon. The Potion Class classroom was filled with the stench of toad guts mixed with dried nettles.
Severus Snape, wrapped in his voluminous black robes, strode between the long desks.
"Mr. Finnigan," Snape stood before Seamus's cauldron, exhaling coldly through his nose, "Is your skull filled with Troll excrement? Bicorn horn powder must be added when the third bubble appears!"
Seamus's shoulders hunched. He was determined to brew the perfect potion to prove himself, but his left hand trembled uncontrollably. The entire packet of horn powder spilled into the boiling water, bubbling green.
The green bubbles turned a dazzling deep red.
Bang!
A deafening roar pierced eardrums. The black iron cauldron shot skyward, shattering a ceiling slab and leaving a charred ring.
Scalding potion liquid, mixed with iron shards, sprayed in all directions.
Seamus quickly raised his hands to cover his eyebrows, which were frequently singed off.
Snape flicked his wand upward. An invisible barrier expanded, blocking the fatal metal fragments.
Thick green slime bypassed the barrier, splashing onto the surrounding new robes.
The Slytherin table erupted in roof-raising laughter.
Ron frantically wiped the snot-like slime from his face.
Harry sat upright, cutting daisy roots with a pure silver knife, completely oblivious to the outside commotion.
Hermione stood still. A drop of green slime hung on her reddened nose tip, dripping down and hitting her instep.
She didn't wipe it. Her brown pupils stared fixedly at the explosion pit in the ceiling and the web-like cracks spreading around it.
"Uncontrollable... absolutely uncontrollable explosion yield." She mumbled, her mouth agape.
The dead wall in her mind, blasted open a passage.
All established formulas were overturned.
Trying to mimic Cassius's absolute control was a dead end.
What if she didn't try to control it?
Treat the rampaging magic as a weapon. Force all uncontrollable, violent factors into a sealed container. Completely smash the balance coefficient.
Every failed cauldron explosion was a precisely calculated pinpoint bombardment!
Hermione turned around.
Staring at Seamus, who was trembling like a sieve.
Blue ink dripped down her index finger.
Her facial muscles twitched, and she bared her white teeth in a grin.
A wild dog, starved for three days, had spotted a bloody bone.
She found it.
A different path.
This Seamus Finnigan, who blew up cauldrons every day.
He was the most brilliant experimental partner for her inverse explosion law.