Chapter 123 Founders' Guidance
The Apparition returning to Hogwarts from Grimmauld Place was much calmer than the trip there.
There was no morning fog, no gloomy sky, and the Hogwarts castle gleamed with a familiar gray-gold in the afternoon sunlight.
When Amster brushed the London dust clinging to his robes in the entrance hall, Dumbledore was already waiting for him at the entrance of the moving staircase.
McGonagall had taken Sprout and Flitwick back to their respective offices first, and upon reaching the castle gates, Snape had silently turned toward the direction of the dungeons, his black robes dragging a very short shadow in the sunlight.
Sirius stayed behind at Grimmauld Place—saying he wanted to stay a little longer to pull the heavy drape back over with Kreacher.
No one asked him why.
The stone gargoyle of the Headmaster's Office sprang aside after Dumbledore gave the password.
The spiral staircase slowly rose, conveying them into the circular room.
High up on the walls, the portraits of the four founders were all awake—not startled awake, but waiting long beforehand.
The gold-red light of Godric Gryffindor flickered slightly within the frame, like unburned embers in a fireplace.
Salazar Slytherin sat upright as before, his dark eyes looking down from high up on the canvas at the two people who walked in, with no smile on his lips, yet that silence itself was a form of inquiry.
Rowena Ravenclaw's gaze was as calm as water, her hands crossed and resting on her knees, her fingertips gently tapping the unseen armrests within the frame.
Helga Hufflepuff leaned forward slightly, her round face bearing an undisguised expression of anticipation and worry.
Amster did not sit down.
He took out the sword of Gryffindor from the inside of his robes and laid it flat on Dumbledore's desk.
The runes on the blade no longer glowed, but the rubies still emitted a warm hue in the afternoon light.
Then he took out those two pieces from the other side—the remains of the Slytherin Locket, a metal shell split in two, empty inside, with only a few wisps of gray-white debris clinging to the inner walls, like the final trace of wax left at the bottom of a cup after a candle burned out.
He placed the remains next to the sword.
"The locket has been destroyed."
High up on the wall, the portrait of Salazar Slytherinmoved ever so slightly.
Not rising, not nodding—just in those dark eyes, something shifted from tension to relaxation.
He looked at Amster for a moment, then said, "You used the sword."
"And a bit of Ancient Magic," Amster said. "The thing inside the Horcrux tried to bewitch me. It used the voice of Tom Riddle when he was young."
Salazar's lips tightened slightly. "What did it say?"
"It said that the people I want to protect are all ropes binding me down."
Salazar fell silent for a moment.
Then, he did something Amster had never seen any portrait do—he leaned his body back against the chair, rested his hands on the armrests, and closed his eyes.
For just an instant.
Then he opened his eyes again, his voice deeper than before, yet lacking a bit of the chill.
"You need not take to heart what it said. A fragment of a Horcrux is not a complete soul; it will only find the most vulnerable place in your heart and twist it in the most malicious way. It is not a prophecy, just noise."
Amster did not reply, but Salazar did not seem to need an answer either.
Godric Gryffindor leaned forward out of the neighboring frame.
His red hair was as fluffy as a lion's mane, but right then, that face that always wore a smile held not a shred of ease.
"Two down. Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket."
He paused. "But you all know, this isn't over."
Dumbledore walked to Amster's side.
His blue eyes swept past the four portraits high up on the wall behind his half-moon spectacles, finally pausing between Rowena and Helga.
He did not speak.
He just stood there, waiting.
Rowena Ravenclaw spoke first.
Her voice was as cold and clear as ever, but Amsternoticed that her fingers had stopped tapping the armrest.
That was not hesitation—it was concentration, like listening to an extremely distant, extremely faint sound.
"My diadem," she said. "Ever since you set out, I have been sensing its location. It is not at the Black residence, not in Knockturn Alley, not in any place far from this castle."
She paused, a faint line appearing between her brows.
"It is on Hogwarts. The eighth floor. Very close to where you are now—yet not entirely in the same space. There is a place that everyone who uses the Room of Requirementpasses by, but almost no one truly enters."
Amster's gaze tightened slightly.
"The Room of Requirement."
"Yes," Rowena said. "But I cannot sense the specific entrance. The entrance to that space seems to open only under specific conditions—unlike the room you usually use, which can be summoned by walking back and forth. It is more concealed, deeper. Like a hidden place, a place specially used for hiding things."
Dumbledore said softly, "The room where things are hidden."
Rowena looked at him.
"You know that place?"
"I know it exists," Dumbledore said. "During my long teaching career, there was once—only once—when I needed to hide something, to hide it where no one could find it. The Room of Requirement opened a door for me. Inside, it was piled high with things hidden away by Hogwarts for a thousand years. Tens of thousands of them."
He paused.
"If I had known there was a Horcrux in there at the time, I wouldn't have just walked past."
"That is not your fault," the voice of Helga Hufflepuff rang out from the neighboring frame.
Her tone remained gentle, but compared to Rowena's calmness and Salazar's restraint, Helga's voice held an undisguised anxiety.
She waited until Rowena finished speaking before opening her mouth, clearly having held back for a long time.
"My cup—"
She took a deep breath.
"It is not in Britain."
Amster turned toward her portrait.
"I can sense it," Helga said. "In the same way Salazar sensed the locket—through the resonance between bloodline and relics. But it is very far from me. Very far from this castle. It is buried deep, deep underground, not in soil, but in stone. Man-made stone, wrapped in countless layers of ancient spells, some of which do not even belong to wizards."
Her brows furrowed, her round face full of incomprehension and worry.
"And something is guarding it. Not a human. Not a wizard. It is some very ancient creature related to the depths of the earth and to wealth. I can feel its greed—not malice, but greed. A nearly instinctive possessiveness toward metals and gems."
Amster and Dumbledore exchanged a glance.
"Gringotts," Amster said.
Dumbledore slowly nodded.
"Dragons. The deepest vaults of Gringotts are guarded by dragons. Their ability to identify metals and gems is more sensitive than any spell, and their aggressiveness toward intruders is more direct than any guard."
"If it is a high-security vault in the deepest parts of Gringotts," Professor McGonagall's voice came from the doorway, "then we will need more information. Whose vault, the vault number, and—how to get in alive and come back out alive."
She had quietly pushed open the door midway through the meeting and had been standing quietly by the door listening.
At this moment, she walked toward Dumbledore's desk with crisp and decisive steps, like walking to the podium in class.
"Lestrange," Snape's voice sounded from another corner.
He had returned to the Headmaster's Office at some unknown point, his black robes still hanging at his sides, his face half-hidden in shadow.
"Bellatrix Lestrange is Voldemort's most trusted follower. If Voldemort were to entrust a relic crucial to the Slytherinbloodline to someone, it would certainly be her. And the Lestrange family possesses a high-security vault in Gringotts."
He paused, his black eyes flashing slightly in the shadow.
"This is merely a conjecture. But it is the most reasonable conjecture."
Dumbledore crossed his hands in front of him.
"So now we have two targets. One is in the hidden space of the Room of Requirement, and the other is in the Lestrange family vault at Gringotts. The diadem can be sought by Amster—the Room of Requirement accepts his summons, opening for him more frequently than for anyone else. As for the cup—"
He turned to Amster.
"It requires careful deliberation. The vaults of Gringotts are not places that can be broken into by sheer force."
Amster nodded.
His gaze swept over the locket remains on the desk, then looked up at the portraits of the four founders high up on the wall.
"Before setting out to find the cup," he said, "I have another matter to deal with."
Godric raised an eyebrow.
"What matter could be more urgent than a Horcrux?"
"The bloodline curse of the Greengrass Family. The potion to lift it for a single person is complete. But the hereditary part—the root that would continue to pass the curse on to the next generation—has not yet been eradicated," Amstersaid. "I need a complete alchemical magic circle diagram. And I know the only person who can help me break through this step in Alchemy."
Dumbledore's lips curved up slightly.
He already knew where Amster was going.
"Give my regards to Nicolas," the old man said.
Chapter 124 Return to Dorset
The key was an old teapot.
The teapot sent by Nicolas Flamel was covered in fine cracks, a small piece of the spout was missing, and the lid was engraved with blurred French inscriptions.
When Amster bent down to touch it in the corridor outside the Headmaster's Office, Dumbledore stood three steps away, his hands clasped in front of him, looking as calm as if he were sending a child off to the Hogwarts Express.
He did not say "Be careful".
He only said: "Bring back a few almond biscuits made by Nicolas when you return.
Half of the batch he sent last time was stolen and eaten by Fawkes, and I never told him."
Amster opened his mouth to say something.
Then the Portkey activated.
A sharp tug behind the navel, and the whole world was compressed into a blurred tube of light.
The Headmaster's Office, Dumbledore's smile, the stone walls in the corridor, the dozing portraits on the walls—everything was sucked away in an instant, replaced by rapidly spinning colors and deafening wind.
Amster gritted his teeth, his fingers gripping tightly onto the handle of the old teapot, until his soles slammed hard against a hard piece of ground.
He stumbled a step and steadied himself.
Sea breeze.
The air in Dorset was completely different from Hogwarts, carrying a salty taste and the moisture of the exposed beach after the distant ebb tide.
The wind blew from the south, sweeping across the low limestone hills and the hawthorn trees blown crooked by the sea breeze at the edge of the meadow.
At the foot of the hills, at the end of the meadow, a narrow sandbank and a bay of deep blue seawater could be vaguely seen.
Two small cottages stood side by side at the junction of the meadow and the hills.
At the door of the thatched-roof farmhouse on the left, a few Nifflers were squatting on the threshold; one of them was chewing on an old watch chain, while another had dug out a copper button from somewhere and was contentedly carrying it to the secret stash under the porch.
The wind chimes hanging on the old oak tree in the corner of the yard were still tinkling—strung together by Newtusing recycled potion vials and broken wand cores, blown by the wind for two months, the sound hadn't changed at all.
The grey slate-roofed cottage on the right remained simple and quiet, the solutions in several rows of sealed glass jars on the windowsill slowly changing color in the sunlight, from gold to purple and then to transparent.
The faded simplified symbol of the Philosopher's Stone above the lintel was still firmly carved into the stone.
The ginger Kneazle Millie squatted under the porch of the right cottage, its fluffy tail resting on the steps, its yellow eyes half-closed basking in the sun.
Hearing the landing sound of Apparition, its ears twitched, recognizing Amster, and closed its eyes again.
The door of the left cottage opened first.
Newt Scamander walked out, holding an enamel basin containing half-full feed for some unknown animal.
He was still wearing that old grey-brown waistcoat, with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and a new scratch on his forearm—lighter than the last one, probably healing for a few days.
Seeing Amster, he showed no surprise, just smiled slightly, familiar fine lines piling up at the corners of his eyes.
"You are three days later than what Nicolas said."
He set the enamel basin on the porch steps and wiped his hands on his apron.
"Nagini glances toward the intersection every morning.
She doesn't say it, but I think she is waiting for you to come back."
Amster was about to speak when the back door leading to the vegetable garden of the right cottage was pushed open, and a figure skirted around the side of the house.
Nagini was wearing a light grey house robe with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, holding a bamboo basket filled with rosemary and sage in her hand.
She was a bit plumper than when she left—her cheekbones were no longer so prominent, and the joints on her wrists no longer pressed sharply against her skin like before.
Her long black hair was braided into a loose plait hanging over her shoulder, the ends of her hair stained with a few broken leaves of rosemary.
Seeing Amster standing on the path, she paused for a moment, then put down the bamboo basket, walked over quickly and stopped in front of him, looking earnestly at his face.
She raised her hand, using the pad of her finger to gently touch a very faint, almost invisible old scratch above Amster's left eyebrow bone, left by being scratched by a cursed fragment when destroying Gaunt's ring, which had almost healed.
"It's almost healed."
Nagini said, lowering her hand, stepping back to stand beside Newt.
Her English was much more fluent than when she had just regained human form during the summer vacation, though it still carried a slight hissing sound left by snake pronunciation habits.
"That old alchemist muttered at the array diagram every day when you were away."
Nagini added, "Yesterday he overturned the array diagram three times.
This morning he overturned it twice more."
Newt cleared his throat nearby and added: "Nicolas is in a good mood today, only overturned it twice, and was even humming."
Amster fished out the last lemon drop from his robe pocket and placed it on the steps where Millie was lying.
The ginger Kneazle finally opened its eyes, lowered its head to sniff the candy, and gently flicked the tip of its tail.
On the workbench in the right cottage, parchment and array papers spread from the table to the floor, leaving almost no gap to set foot on.
Nicolas Flamel stood in front of the stone-surfaced workbench in the center of the room, with his back to the door, holding a silver pen, adding a set of extremely small characters to the edge of an arc.
Hearing the door open, he did not turn back.
"You are three days late."
Nicolas's voice was old yet clear and sharp, "I finished drawing the symmetrical structure of that bloodline backtracking three days ago. Having waited for you too long, I, an old man, added three possibilities to it—each could be valid, and each could fail.
As a result, waking up this morning to check, two of the three were useless."
He finally turned around, his faded grey-blue eyes looking at Amster from beneath thin, parchment-like eyelids, his gaze sharp, but the corners of his mouth suppressed a trace of reluctance to admit the smile of an elder watching a junior finally come home.
"One is left.
Come and take a look."
Amster stepped over the parchment rolls on the floor and walked to the edge of the workbench.
The core of the Alchemy array diagram in front of him was a symmetrical structure similar to the human bloodline distribution map, with lines extending outward from the core gradually branching, and finally converging into a main path at the end.
The other two abandoned extension lines had been crossed out with silver deletion marks—that was Nicolas's unique practice, not crossing out with a pen, but gracefully drawing a wavy line with a glowing fade-resistant ink, labeled in French with "Invalid" and "Overthinking"
The remaining main path branched into countless tiny branches at the end, next to each of which were marked different adaptation parameters—age, gender, magic strength, bloodline purity, curse activity—each variable corresponding to a fine-tuning scheme.
"When you were away, I cross-referenced the test reports you left me."
Nicolas pointed at the densely packed adaptation schemes at the edge of the array diagram with the tail end of the silver pen, "Daphne's is more stable, Astoria's activates when emotional, and their mother's is no longer active but the core structure is still there.
Your train of thought is right—using a variable structure to adapt to everyone's bloodline differences, using a single array diagram to lock the curse expression of every generation in the entire bloodline chain."
Amster squatted down and stared at the main path for a long time.
Then he reached out his hand.
Nicolas slapped the silver pen into his palm.
The action was light and crisp.
"Finish drawing it."
Nicolas said.
Chapter 125: Curse Solution
The touch of the silver pen falling on the parchment was completely different from that of a wand.
A wand held in the palm always carried warmth, like grasping a piece of firewood with the lingering warmth of a hearth; magic flowed naturally along the wand core, requiring no deliberate guidance or control.
The silver pen, however, was icy cold, its barrel slender and smooth. After holding it for a long time, a numb, dull sensation would arise at the fingertips.
Nicolas had once said that this was the inherent repulsion of Alchemy symbols; they were never meant to be easily written upon mundane parchment.
Every ancient Alchemy symbol possessed its own unique will; alchemists could never command them by force, but could only calm their minds and slowly harmonize and negotiate with them.
Amster knelt before the stone workbench, the entire unfinished array map slowly unfurling before his eyes, resembling a river frozen on paper.
The symmetrical framework at the core of the array map had long been completed, crafted by Flamel's hand. Every arc was polished to the utmost precision, the character spacing was uniform and regular, and the line turns were neat and decisive, showing not a shred of hesitation.
Only the dense branches extending from the main path still left large areas blank.
Each branch corresponded to a key variable: age, gender, magic strength, bloodline purity, and the activity level of the curse.
With different variables, the matching combinations of Alchemy symbols varied drastically. All marked content had to be strictly matched one by one against the bloodline test reports of the Greengrass sisters.
He spread the report out by the side of his knees, his gaze slowly sweeping across the data on the paper.
Daphne's magic stably fell into the seventh zone, requiring a seven-ring locking rune to bind her layer by layer, with each ring tightly interlocked, and every attenuation coefficient meticulously calibrated.
Astoria's magic value wandered between the fourth and fifth zones, fluctuating uncertainly. The root cause was not her own unstable magic, but rather that the curse within her body would continuously activate along with her emotional fluctuations.
This required the matching symbols to incorporate a dynamic adjustment structure capable of autonomously correcting in response to emotional changes.
Mrs. Greengrass's curse had long since fallen dormant, locked firmly in the second zone, having lost its aggressiveness while retaining a complete core structure.
Without the need for cumbersome locking runes, only a set of inert anchor points was required to permanently mark the residual curse and block the possibility of a resurgence.
Three completely different matching logics ultimately had to be integrated into the same Alchemy array map, allowing the magic array to autonomously recognize, autonomously adjust, and autonomously complete the sealing when contacting different bloodlines.
He lowered his gaze, dropping the first symbol at the end of the first branch.
The instant the silver pen's ink touched the parchment, a wisp of pale blue light quietly lit up.
The symbol was not simply written into shape, but rather seemed branded into the fibers by the scorching of magic.
As the ink seeped into the paper surface, the fine silver lines slowly lit up along the grain, resembling a fuse burning in the dark.
Until the faint light completely stabilized did he lower his pen to outline the second symbol.
The two symbols were nested and crossed vertically rather than arranged side by side, condensing into a tiny light knot at the intersection—that was the key to the meshing of the locking rune rings.
As long as the angle showed the slightest deviation, the entire set of locking runes would directly collapse the instant it was activated.
He did not rely on measuring tools, relying purely on magic perception to discern balance.
Ancient Magic endowed him with a special vision, capable of capturing the invisible force-line arrangement between symbols. Dropping the pen along the natural trajectory allowed the symbols to mesh securely; forcibly piecing them together against the current would inevitably cause the magic array to produce repulsion and collapse.
Between the fourth and fifth rings, he intentionally chose a reverse-meshing structure to neutralize the impact brought by Daphne's magic peak, transforming the unstable fluctuations into extra strength to reinforce the magic array.
The third, the fourth—the symbols took shape one by one.
With each added section of grain, the light patterns of all preceding symbols would rearrange themselves, like scattered musical movements slowly piecing together into a complete melody.
Nicolas Flamel stood quietly behind him, silent throughout the entire process.
Amster could clearly perceive that gaze falling just above his shoulder; what the old man focused on was not the hand movements, but the overall logic of the symbol arrangement.
The old man's breathing was light and faint, but whenever a set of nested symbols was completed, his breathing would pause briefly before slowly calming again.
A six-hundred-year Alchemy career had allowed Flamel to see countless apprentices and geniuses; juniors who could secretly move him had always been few and far between.
When drawing to the third set of branches, the light of the entire array map suddenly dimmed slightly.
It was not extinguishing, but rather fluctuations produced by the connection of magic.
The core grains outlined by Flamel were ancient and heavy, precipitating the magic imprints of long years, while the symbols under his own pen were young and sharp, carrying the penetrative nature of Ancient Magic.
The grains of the two styles and two magic textures docked with each other, probing each other like two streams of water with different temperature differences converging, forming fragmented whirlpools and stagnation.
Flamel handed over a silk handkerchief, his tone peaceful, carrying the composure accumulated from years of immersion in Alchemy experiments.
"Do not use brute force to suppress the magic. Let nature take its course, and allow the two grains to find their own balance. Your symbols are far too aggressive; it is the subtle influence of the Ancient Magic within your body. The core of Alchemy has never been conquest, but rather harmonization and symbiosis."
Amster took the handkerchief and gently wiped his numb fingertips, without touching the array map in the slightest.
Quietly gazing at the fluctuations at the connection point for a moment, he gripped the silver pen tightly again, supplementing and drawing a few tiny buffer symbols on the outer periphery of the two sections of grain.
With three simple strokes, one anchor point stabilized the frequencies of both sides, a layer of transition grain softened the magic drop, and a finishing line smoothly channeled the flow of magic.
In a flash, the silver light stabilized once more, and the tremor at the connection point completely dissipated.
A light, faint hum came from behind. Amster was already familiar with the habits of this old alchemist; this bit of noise meant that the solution was reasonable and coincided perfectly with his own conception.
Branch after branch was successively wrapped up.
Daphne's seven-ring locking rune was completely nested, with various precise parameters labeled one by one on the side of the rings.
Targeting Astoria's emotional shortcomings, he embedded a fault-tolerant structure in the left-wing branch, delineated a safety threshold, and additionally supplemented a prediction grain. Before the emotions erupted and the curse activated, buffer magic was released in advance.
The inert anchor points required by Mrs. Greengrass were placed in the stable region at the very bottom of the array map, far away from all active grains, to be triggered separately only during bloodline scans.
With the final branch drawn, Amster put down the silver pen.
The entire array map quietly spread across the stone platform, a soft silver light slowly flowing, all grains operating stably without a shred of turbulence.
The symbols engraved upon it seemed to have a faint breath, quietly proclaiming the complete formation of the magic array.
Flamel leaned slightly forward, closing in on the paper surface, slowly reviewing from the first symbol to the very last.
The time of silence was infinitely prolonged, so long that Amster could not help secretly pondering whether a lapse had occurred in some detail.
"The prediction grain you supplemented for Astoria." Flamel finally spoke, his fingertips suspended above the grain without ever touching the parchment. "I had never thought of this train of thought. A simple buffer treats the symptoms rather than the root cause; advance prediction is the solution that cures the root cause."
He straightened up, his grayish-blue eyes looking at him through slackened eyelids. "Your mentor—did they teach you Alchemy?"
Amster looked at that slender yet crucial predictive arc.
The techniques practiced in his youth had never had anything to do with Alchemy.
However, predicting movements in advance, seizing the initiative, and neutralizing hidden dangers were habits engraved deep in his bones.
It was just that he had cleverly transplanted the logic of combat gaming into the construction of the magic array.
The predictive symbol did not belong to the traditional Alchemy system, but it perfectly matched the operational laws of the entire array map, being completely accepted by the magic.
"Not Alchemy." He replied in a low voice. "Another form of cultivation."
Flamel gave a faint glance, not asking any further.
A wise man who had lived through long years had seen too many gifted young people who could always master concepts across different domains and borrow strength across boundaries.
He lowered his head once more, picked up the silver pen, and wrote a line of small Latin words beside that set of predictive symbols, the handwriting neat and restrained.
"A wondrous interpretation."
"In this way, it is completely secure."
Chapter 126: The Final Experiment
The experimental subjects were three magical long-tailed gibbons rescued by Newt from illegal magic traffickers.
They belonged to native magical beasts of the wizarding world, not ordinary Muggle primates.
The surface of their grayish-brown fur was covered with a faint layer of magical shimmer, their cheeks blushed with a tender pink, and their slender tails far exceeded the length of their bodies, curling up inside the magical creature enclosure exclusive to Newt's backyard.
The physiological structure and magical veins of this type of gibbon were highly close to wizards, making them the optimal choice for bloodline curse experiments.
Newt spent three days using soothing potions to condition and stabilize their physical and magical states.
Meanwhile, Amster worked through the night in Nicolas's workshop to replicate three copies of the array diagrams, with each sheet marked with independent experimental variables to facilitate subsequent comparative recording.
The three magical gibbons had different temperaments, and Newt casually named them Little Gray, Little Pink, and Tail.
The last one got its name simply because its exceptionally slender tail was too eye-catching, and no matter where it hid, it would subconsciously expose its whereabouts.
Little Gray was the boldest.
Whenever Amster approached the enclosure, it would always proactively approach the fence, paying attention to the parchment in the newcomer's hand while vigilantly observing the surrounding movements—vigilant yet not cowardly.
Little Pink was naturally shy, and after being rescued, it often hid behind the wooden frame, revealing only a tiny tip of its nose to cautiously examine the outside world.
Tail was the most peaceful, neither curious nor fearful, quietly squatting on the tree branch, curling around twig branches, silently observing everything around it.
Newt stood on the outside of the enclosure, holding a recording board engraved with magical runes, densely recording the residual curse fluctuations within the three gibbons' bodies.
"They were imprisoned by illegal traffickers and contaminated with three types of curse residues, two of which I have already purified. The remaining one belongs to a genetic curse, which is highly similar in core structure to the bloodline curse of the Greengrass Family."
He opened the page containing the sealed data, pointing his fingertip at the fluctuating magical curve. The undulations of the patterns were regular, highly overlapping with Daphne's bloodline test records.
"Although there are differences in the way magic operates, the logic of curse attachment, activation, and latency is completely identical. It couldn't be more suitable to use them for preliminary experiments."
Amster squatted down and laid the Alchemy array diagram flat on the ground.
The magic array touched the soil contaminated with magical aura, instantly emitting a soft shimmer.
Nicolas had once explained that Alchemy arrays were naturally close to all magical organic life forms, and producing a slight resonance was a normal phenomenon.
Little Gray subconsciously took half a step back, tilting its head to examine the glowing parchment, its eyes filled with confusion.
"They can clearly perceive changes in magic," Newt said softly, his tone carrying the gentleness of long-term interaction with magical creatures, "Magical creatures' perception of Alchemy is far sharper than that of ordinary wizards. They can tell the array has no malicious intent, but their instincts just need a little time to let down their guard."
Amster did not urge them, quietly squatting in place, holding down the corners of the array diagram to prevent shifting.
He drew his wand, tapped the tip gently against the core of the array, and a gentle magical power slowly poured in.
The entire piece of parchment gently left the ground, suspended at a height of one finger, and the silver light film peeled off from the paper surface, turning into a translucent, thin light screen.
The intricate patterns, branches, and buffer symbols all clearly emerged, resembling a dense spiderweb woven with silver thread, quietly suspended in the air.
The sudden magical fluctuation caused the three gibbons to emit a short, low cry simultaneously.
Little Gray bristled its tail fur and retreated in a panic.
Little Pink instantly shrank into the cover, completely concealing its figure.
Only Tail was exceptionally calm, leaping down from the tree branch, its four limbs firmly supporting the ground, its back slightly tense, and its tail swaying slowly, quietly evaluating the unfamiliar magical creation before it in a way unique to beasts.
Amster slightly tilted his wand, slowly controlling the array to pass through the gap in the enclosure, steadily landing in the center of the field, moving no further to leave them sufficient adaptation time.
Time slowly passed.
Newt's magic recording board continuously and automatically refreshed data, recording multiple details such as distance changes, pupil reactions, limb movements, and magical fluctuations.
Little Pink quietly poked out the tip of its nose, tentatively observing the movement outside.
Tail relaxed its tense back and jumped back onto the branch, though its swaying tail still maintained vigilance.
Little Gray slowly lowered its guard, walking slowly around the periphery of the array. When it reached the buffer symbol area in the lower left corner, its ears twitched gently.
That pattern concealed a hint of gentle soothing magic, which was ineffective against wizards but could soothe the emotions of magical creatures, emitting an imperceptible warm light.
Little Gray hesitated for a moment, extended its front paw, and gently touched the edge of the light screen.
The array lit up instantly, and a soft silver light spread along its fingertips, slowly traveling along its fur, muscles, and bloodline, precisely locking onto the curse core hidden within its body.
The entire sealing process was smooth and gentle, without the slightest pain or backlash.
After a mere four seconds, the light slowly faded away.
Little Gray looked down at its claws, walked slowly to the edge of the enclosure, and gently touched Amster's knees, as if expressing closeness and peace of mind.
"The curse core has been successfully locked." Newt's tone was calm and restrained; only those familiar with him knew this was his heartfelt gratification. "There is no loss in overall magic, all physiological indicators are stable, and the curse activity has dropped to an extremely low threshold—completely safe."
Seeing this, Little Pink slowly walked out of its hiding place, circled the enclosure once, and after confirming there was no danger, took the initiative to step forward and touch the array.
Following closely behind was Tail. It was exceptionally cautious, first repeatedly probing the light screen with the tip of its tail, and only after confirming it was harmless did it integrate its entire tail into the light.
This gibbon's curse core leaned towards the tail nerves, and the array immediately autonomously recognized the difference, corrected the locking path, and adapted to the special bloodline position.
The preset fault-tolerant mechanism worked perfectly, completing the targeted sealing. It took slightly longer, but the whole process was smooth and without abnormalities.
Newt picked up his pen to record the last set of real-time data, opened a brand new blank page, and neatly wrote the experimental title: Greengrass Family Bloodline Curse — Magical Gibbon Experiment Conclusion.
The handwriting on the paper was clear, and the final conclusion was concise and powerful: The array is stable with no side effects, all experiments are qualified, and it can be put into human use.
Chapter 127: The Reborn Maiden
The morning at Greengrass Manor was always lingering with the fresh fragrance of pruned laurels.
On both sides of the gravel driveway, laurels were symmetrically arranged, extending all the way to the white porch of the main house. The leaves, stained with morning dew, shimmered with a delicate, soft light under the morning sun.
The main house was a George era building, its light gray limestone exterior walls covered in meticulously pruned ivy. Every window was polished to a crystal-clear shine, reflecting the sprawling lawn opposite and the winding narrow stream in the distance.
It lacked the ostentation of Malfoy Manor and the gloom of the Black residence. Just like its owner, it was quiet, restrained, and exuded dignity everywhere.
Mrs. Greengrass stood beneath the porch.
Her complexion was much better than when Amster last saw her.
At the very beginning of the summer vacation, he brought the first edition of the curse slowing potion to Greengrass Manor. At that time, Mrs. Greengrass was leaning against the sofa in the living room, with three pillows propped behind her waist, her complexion as pale as a white rose on the windowsill that hadn't seen the light for a long time.
Even so, she still insisted on pouring tea herself. The spout of the pot trembled slightly in her hands, yet her wrists stubbornly held steady until the teacup was filled to seven parts.
At first, he thought this was merely the ingrained dignity of a pure-blood family matriarch—even when unwell, she would never lose composure in front of guests.
Later, Daphne said that after he left that day, her mother sat in the tearoom for an entire afternoon, not taking a single sip of the tea in her cup.
At this moment, she stood beneath the porch with her spine held straight, dressed in a dark green morning robe, her hair coiled into a neat bun, with only a few strands of silver at her temples hiding the traces of time.
Her eye sockets were slightly red, yet the corners of her mouth curved into a smile—a release after suppressing herself for too long and finally having her wish granted.
"Amster." She did not call him by his surname, nor did she add any honorifics, simply calling out his name directly, with a tone as if treating him like family.
During that half-month stay at the manor over the summer vacation, she had long since discarded those polite honorifics.
A young man who was willing to work through the night in the laboratory for her daughters and would quietly reach out to support the bottom of the teapot when she poured tea had no need for cold social pleasantries to create distance.
Daphne walked out from behind her mother, wearing a light blue summer dress. Her usually tied-up long hair was loose over her shoulders, with a natural slight curl at the ends.
Her eyes were also reddish, not from crying, but from the relaxation of finally welcoming an outcome after a long wait.
Their feelings for each other had long been certain. There were no public announcements, nor formal ceremonies; it was simply that one evening, beneath the old laurel tree in the manor's back garden, she told him that regardless of whether the curse could be lifted, she had never regretted meeting him.
He didn't say much, simply holding her hand quietly until the tree's shadow moved from their feet to their knees, and slowly shifted up to their shoulders.
At this moment, standing beside her mother, she didn't eagerly rush forward or shed tears, but instead watched him walk along the gravel driveway with a calm and solemn gaze, as if keeping a pact that belonged solely to the two of them.
Astoria poked her head out from the second-floor window, her fluffy blonde hair resting against the collar of her bathrobe, looking precisely like she had just woken up.
Catching a glimpse of Amster on the driveway, she blinked and instantly pulled her head back inside.
Barely ten seconds later, the front door was violently pushed open from within.
Astoria ran across the flagstones of the porch barefoot, losing her footing on the last step and stumbling slightly—she had been this reckless since childhood, chasing her sister all over the manor and falling countless times yet never learning to slow down, hurling her entire body straight into Amster's arms.
He reached out and caught her steadily, the girl's forehead bumping against his collarbone with a dull thud.
"We waited for you the entire summer vacation." She buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled, "You wrote in your letter that you would come soon, but this'soon' dragged on for more than ten days."
Amster didn't reply immediately, lowering his head to look at her messy blonde hair—she hadn't even had time to comb it.
This girl had carried the family's hereditary bloodline curse since birth. For over a decade, the curse had hidden within her veins, reminding her on every birthday, every Christmas, and every afternoon when she should have been running wild that she was different from other girls.
Her mother spent half her life getting used to this curse, and her sister spent her entire childhood learning to coexist with it. Yet Astoria, even knowing the curse might accompany her for life, still chased wildly after her sister; even when her knees gained new scars from falling, she would still lean against the window every morning, longing for the sun to rise.
And now, he held in his hands the hope that could completely free her from all of this.
"The array diagram had to be tested on primates first before it could be applied to humans," Amster explained softly.
Astoria suddenly raised her head, her round eyes wide open: "You used monkeys for experiments?"
"They are magical long-tailed gibbons, three in total, and they are all very healthy now. All experimental data met the standards, their magic power was not damaged, their physical state is stable, and the curse activity has dropped below the safety threshold." He paused, softening his tone, "They are still living in Mr. Newt's backyard, and one of them named Little Gray will even actively come over to ask me for food."
Astoria stared at him for a long time. Confirming he was not joking, she buried her face back into his chest and rubbed against it hard.
Amster could feel her shoulders trembling slightly, knowing she didn't want him to see her looking like she was crying.
Daphne walked up the steps and stood beside her sister, her voice calm, though her fingertips unconsciously clutched her skirt hem: "She hasn't slept all night, saying that once the curse is completely cured, she will forgive everyone who used to bully her one by one. I told her it might be better to first forgive herself for eating so many pastries this morning."
Amster took hold of her hand hanging by her side. Daphne's fingertips were still trembling—that was not fear, but the excitement of a long-awaited wish being close at hand, expressed by her body ahead of her consciousness.
Mrs. Greengrass stood beneath the porch, her gaze falling upon their clasped hands, then shifting to Amster's face, as the shallow smile at the corners of her mouth slowly transformed into a deep gentleness.
The layout of the living room was identical to the summer vacation: cream-colored walls, dark walnut furniture, and the old clock on the mantelpiece swinging leisurely. This was powered by house-elves casting magic on a regular schedule every day, never requiring any winding.
The white roses on the windowsill were blooming perfectly, their petals full and their edges tinged with pale pink, no longer looking withered and decadent like last time.
He had once asked Daphne about the origin of this potted rose, learning that it was transplanted from the old estate the year Mrs. Greengrass got married.
It was the only plant in the entire manor unaffected by the bloodline curse, blooming on schedule year after year, as if silently telling the mother and her two daughters that there was always beauty that would not be swallowed by hardship.
Mrs. Greengrass personally brought over the tea set, bone china cups paired with silver spoons, and the fragrance of bergamot drifted from the spout of the teapot.
Amster noticed that this time, the teapot in her hands was remarkably steady, without the slightest tremor whatsoever.
He sat in the middle of the sofa, spreading the parchment out on the long coffee table in front of him—it was precisely the alchemical array diagram that cured the bloodline curse.
The core symmetrical structure, branch parameters, buffering and fault-tolerance symbols had all been redrawn stroke by stroke by him last night in his studio in Dorset.
Complaining that staying up late would harm his health, Nicolas scolded him three times and told him to rest, yet stood behind him the whole time to keep him company.
At the edge of the array diagram, the brilliant Latin interpretation written by Nicolas remained intact.
Amster lightly tapped the core of the array diagram with his fingertips and began to explain: "This array diagram will take effect independently within each of your bloodlines, without changing your magical attributes, affecting your talents, or causing any obvious attenuation to anyone's magic power."
It does only one thing: lock down the core of the hereditary curse within the bloodline.
Curses that have already gone dormant will be permanently frozen and will never activate again; curses that are still active will slowly downgrade until they are completely locked down.
From now on, the Greengrass bloodline curse will no longer be passed down to the next generation."
Mrs. Greengrass's hand holding the teacup trembled slightly—not out of fear, but from the trance-like feeling of finally welcoming the dawn after years of bitter waiting when all hope seemed nearly lost.
Daphne sat beside him, her hands folded over her knees. When she heard "will not be passed down to any generation anymore," her fingertips suddenly tightened.
She would also have children of her own in the future, and her children would no longer have to carry this shackles from birth.
Astoria sat cross-legged on the carpet, leaning against Amster's feet, tilting her head up and staring unblinkingly at the silver-glowing array diagram on the coffee table.
"Who goes first?" Amster asked.
Daphne stood up, loosened her clenched hands, and then gently clenched them again: "I am the eldest daughter, I will go first."
Amster raised his wand, the tip lightly tapping the center of the array diagram. The parchment slowly rose into the air, and the silver light peeled away from the paper surface, transforming into a translucent light film. The main path and all branches unfolded in the air, and Daphne's seven-ring locking rune shone brilliantly on the left side.
He manipulated the array diagram to slowly move in front of Daphne. She stood in the center of the living room, closing her eyes with her hands naturally hanging by her sides.
The moment the silver light touched her skin, she took a light breath and then held it.
The light seeped in from her fingertips, burrowing into the capillaries along the edges of her nails, flowing through her palms, wrists, and forearms, pausing briefly at the elbow joints as the array diagram precisely scanned her bloodline pathways and locked onto every node attached by the curse.
Immediately after, seven silver rings lit up one by one, interlocking and reinforcing layer by layer to completely lock down that innate curse core.
Daphne's brows knitted slightly—not out of pain, but due to her body's instinctive resistance to foreign magic piercing her bloodline. She quickly relaxed, and the silver light slowly faded away.
Daphne opened her eyes, looking down at her hands. Her fingertips trembled slightly as she repeatedly clenched and loosened them, as if truly feeling her own unchained body for the very first time.
She looked up at Amster, her eye sockets red, yet she stubbornly held back her tears: "When I was little, I asked Mom what I should do after the curse was cured. She told me I didn't need to do anything, just live well."
Astoria stood up and walked over to the array diagram, not closing her eyes as she let the silver light wrap around herself, watching wide-eyed as the silver threads crawled up her arms, seeped into her skin, and melted into her bloodline.
Her emotional fluctuations were stronger than Daphne's, and the array diagram automatically made minor adjustments several times. Each time caused her to take a slight breath, yet she never backed away.
The pre-set predictive lines released buffering magic before her emotions became agitated or her blood pressure rose, defusing the hidden dangers that might trigger curse activation in the bud ahead of time.
The silver light lingered on her body for over a dozen seconds, longer than Daphne's, before slowly dissipating.
"It tickles a bit." Astoria rubbed her arm, her eyes red, yet she managed to force out a smile, "It feels like there are many little butterflies flapping their wings inside my veins."
Finally came Mrs. Greengrass.
Amster manipulated the array diagram to move in front of her. The curse had been dormant in her body for many years and had long lost most of its activity, leaving only the core structure. Without expending much effort, the array diagram steadily dropped the inert anchor onto the curse core, completely locking down all remaining activity. The entire process took no more than three seconds.
Mrs. Greengrass kept looking at Amster, the silver light reflecting in the depths of her eyes, dyeing the tears spinning in her eye sockets into a gentle silver.
The array diagram slowly fell back onto the parchment, the silver light receded, and all symbols vanished into the paper surface.
Amster rolled up the parchment, tied it neatly with a ribbon, and placed it on the coffee table.
Mrs. Greengrass walked around the coffee table, came up to him, gently pulled his hand out from Astoria's embrace, and grasped it tightly in her own palms, with a force carrying a trace of unperceived gratitude.
The white roses on the windowsill blossomed quietly in the morning light.
A breeze swept across the laurels of Greengrass Manor, their leaves rustling as if the entire Greengrass Manor had finally shed the heaviness accumulated over many years at this moment, letting out a long sigh of relief.
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