Chapter 11: The Deterrence of "Hard" Power
Dead silence.
Absolute dead silence.
Malfoy's face turned the color of liver, his lips trembling, but he couldn't refute a single word. He had never heard such a line of reasoning, but the undeniable confidence Moen exuded made him feel a trace of fear from the bottom of his heart.
Zabini, beside him, whistled: "Wow, sharp."
Just then, a silver ghost floated over.
He was covered in silver bloodstains, his expression dull and terrifying. The Bloody Baron, the ghost of Slytherin.
He stopped behind Moen, his hollow eyes staring at this new student. The other Slytherin students shrank their necks in fear.
Moen did not turn back, only saying faintly: "Mr. Baron, if you don't mind, the smell of blood on you is affecting my appetite. Or perhaps... are you interested in me too?"
[Scanning Target]: The Bloody Baron
[Danger Level]: Red (Wraith)
[Traits]: Extreme Remorse (which also makes him extremely insane), Soul Deterrence (Purple)
The stiff expression on the Baron's face seemed to twitch. He took a deep look at Moen, and surprisingly, instead of getting angry, he silently floated to the other end of the long table.
This scene caused the awe the little snakes around felt for Moen to rise another level.
Even that most terrifying ghost avoided him?
The dinner ended in a subtle atmosphere.
Finally, when all the teachers and students finished singing the school song under Dumbledore's direction—especially since the the Weasley twins sang it to the tune of the "Funeral March"—it was time for the true Slytherin time.
"First-year students! Follow me!"
Slytherin prefect Gemma Farley stood up; she was an arrogant-looking upperclassman.
Moen leaned on his Black Ironwood Cane, mingled in the crowd, and followed the main group out of the Great Hall.
They didn't climb the stairs like Gryffindor, but instead walked down the marble staircase toward the depths of the castle.
The surrounding air grew colder, and the humidity grew heavier. The walls turned into rough stone, and the torchlight flickered in the gloomy corridor.
"We live at the bottom of the lake." Malfoy, walking in front, seemed to be trying to regain some face, and said loudly, "Only Slytherin deserves such a unique environment."
"The bottom of the lake?" Moen sensed the rich water elements in the air, "A natural soundproofing layer, and... excellent concealment."
They stopped in front of a bare, cold, damp stone wall.
"Password." said Gemma Farley.
"Glory."
The stone wall slowly moved aside, revealing the true appearance of the Slytherin common room.
It was a long, low basement. The walls and ceiling were built of rough stone, and round, greenish lamps were hung from the ceiling by chains.
Most striking were the huge floor-to-ceiling windows; outside the windows was not the sky, but the murky, dark water of the Black Lake. From time to time, one could see a giant squid or other Merpeople swimming by.
The decoration here was extremely luxurious, with carved armchairs, soft carpets, and a crackling fireplace. But the overall tone was cold, giving people a feeling of oppression and mystery.
"Alright, listen up."
Gemma Farley stood in front of the fireplace, turning to face the group of newly enrolled first-year students. Other Slytherin upperclassmen also sat or stood around, examining these "fresh blood" with scrutinizing, teasing gazes.
This was Slytherin's tradition: the enrollment lecture, or rather, a show of force.
"First of all, congratulations on entering Slytherin." Gemma Farley lifted her chin, "This is the best house in Hogwarts. Our symbol is the snake—the smartest creature, the one that best understands how to judge the situation."
"Here, we are a family. No matter what grudges you have outside, in Hogwarts, Slytherin must be united against outsiders. If we fight among ourselves, we will only make those stupid Gryffindors laugh at us."
Speaking of this, her gaze lingered specifically on Malfoyand Moen.
"However," Gemma's tone changed, becoming stern, "Slytherin respects the strong. Here, only strength and bloodline can earn respect. Don't embarrass our house, otherwise..."
"Well said."
A crisp applause suddenly interrupted the prefect's lecture.
Everyone's eyes turned to the source of the applause.
Moen White walked out from behind the crowd. His Black Ironwood Cane tapped rhythmically on the floor, making a rhythmic sound.
Gemma Farley frowned: "Mr. White, it is not your turn to speak here—"
"That's a very good opening statement, Prefect Farley."
Moen ignored her warning and walked straight to an armchair beside the fireplace. A second-year student sitting on it was swept by Moen's cold gaze and subconsciously stood up to give up his seat.
Moen sat down with great composure, hands folded on the top of his wand, as comfortable as if he were in his own living room.
He scanned the dozens of hostile, curious, and surprised eyes around him.
"Unity, that's very good." Moen said faintly, "But I heard a word: bloodline."
"It seems many people are curious about my background, and even... dissatisfied?"
Malfoy snorted coldly in the crowd.
Moen smiled slightly and suddenly took out his Black Ironwood Wand from his robes.
He did not cast a spell.
He just slammed the heavy, iron-like wand onto the thick wooden coffee table beside him.
BOOM—!!!
A loud noise.
Not the sound of wood hitting wood, but as if a heavy hammer had smashed a rock.
That sturdy oak coffee table, under the eyes of everyone, instantly burst apart from the middle, wood chips flying everywhere!
The entire common room fell into dead silence instantly.
Several students standing close by jumped back in fear, looking in horror at the boy who was still sitting on the sofa, not having changed his posture at all.
Pure violence.
No flashy spells, just strength and the hardness of the wand itself.
"This is my bloodline."
Moen's voice echoed in the dead-silent common room, calm, yet chilling.
"In my hometown, we call this 'Hard Power'."
He stood up, pulled his wand from the broken wood chips, and his gaze slowly swept over everyone present—from the arrogant prefect to the Heirs of those pure-blood families.
No one dared to meet his eyes.
It made him look like a monster in human skin. The pressure of [Half-Giant Bloodline] [Soul Deterrence (inspired by The Bloody Baron)] was released to the extreme at this moment, combined with the oppression of his words.
"I don't care how many Wizards are in your family tree, and I don't care who your ancestors are."
Moen walked up to Malfoy, looking down at this "little young master" who was already trembling slightly.
"I came to Hogwarts for only three purposes."
Moen held up three fingers.
"First, to learn the knowledge that can make me stronger."
"Second, to find valuable allies worth my investment."
"Third..."
Moen hooked the corner of his mouth into a devilish smile, his eyes fanatical:
"To transform this old, decaying, inefficient magical world into the way I like."
"So, everyone in Slytherin."
Moen opened his arms, as if embracing his territory:
"If you want unity, then unite around interests. If you want to follow the strong..."
His gaze was as sharp as a blade:
"...Then you had better polish your eyes and see who is the one who can truly lead you to the peak."
After speaking, Moen put away his wand and nodded slightly to the stunned Gemma Farley:
"A wonderful speech, Prefect. I think I'm tired, where is the boys' dormitory?"
Gemma Farley pointed blankly at a door on the right.
"Thank you."
Moen straightened his collar and, under the gaze of dozens of awe-filled, fearful, and even slightly worshipful eyes, walked toward the dormitory with elegant steps.
That night, Slytherin welcomed a "King" they had never seen before.
Not relying on bloodline, nor on Dark Arts.
But relying on absolute violence, and even more absolute ambition.
Chapter 12: The Capitalist in Potions Class and Snape's "Affectionate" Gaze
September 2nd, early morning.
In the Slytherin dungeon dormitory, the light remained dim. The water of the Black Lake rippled outside the window, casting shimmering green shadows.
Moen White opened his eyes at exactly six o'clock.
He didn't need an alarm clock; his Mind Palace allowed him to perceive time with second-by-second precision.
He sat up and glanced at Draco Malfoy, who was still wrapped in his quilt on the opposite bed, pretending to be asleep. Ever since Moen had shattered the lounge's coffee table with his wand the previous night, this young master Malfoy had developed a sort of "Moen allergy." Whenever Moen was present, he became exceptionally quiet, not even daring to breathe loudly.
"A wise choice, Draco." Moen chuckled softly and threw off his quilt to get out of bed.
He didn't scramble around looking for socks like the other first-years; instead, he washed and dressed in an orderly fashion.
Every button was fastened perfectly. He held his heavy Black Ironwood Cane in his hand, spinning it gently, producing a whistling sound as it cut through the air.
When he walked out of the dormitory into the common room, the coffee table shattered the night before had been restored to its original state—evidently repaired overnight by senior students or a House-elf.
However, when the students sitting in the common room saw Moen appear, their chatter subconsciously dropped an octave.
This was the effect of the dual deterrence of violence and capital.
...
Hogwarts Great Hall.
At breakfast time, the army of owls arrived as scheduled. Hundreds of owls circled above the dining tables, dropping letters and packages.
"Look! That's Neville's Remembrall!"
"Did Harry receive a note?"
Amidst the noise, a massive eagle owl with an astonishing wingspan swooped down and landed steadily on the Slytherin long table, clutching a thick parcel wrapped in kraft paper in its talons.
It was Moen's owl, "NASDAQ."
"Good work." Moen cut off a piece of bacon to feed it, then unwrapped the package.
Inside were not candies or letters from home, but a stack of newspapers smelling of printer's ink: The Daily Prophet(Financial Edition), Wizard Weekly (Business Edition), and several encrypted letters from a Goblin broker at Gringotts.
Malfoy, sitting opposite, was unwrapping a package of sweets sent from home. Seeing Moen reading reports filled with data, he couldn't help but swallow hard and mutter in a low voice: "You can understand those? That's all just numbers."
"Numbers don't lie, Draco." Moen didn't even look up, sipping his black coffee while quickly browsing the exchange rate trends of Goblin currency. "When you're eating candy, I'm calculating how to monopolize the raw materials used to make it. That is why in the future, you will be working for me, not the other way around."
The candy in Malfoy's hand suddenly lost its appeal.
...
Nine in the morning, Potions Class.
The classroom was located deep underground, even colder and gloomier than the Slytherin common room. Glass jars containing various disgusting animal specimens lined the walls, appearing particularly eerie under the candlelight.
Harry and Ron arrived early, huddled in a corner, clearly filled with nervousness about this class.
Moen brought Malfoy—who was now forced to follow him like a lackey—into the classroom and went straight to the best seats in the first row.
"This place..." Moen looked around, inhaling the air filled with the scent of herbs and preservatives. "The ventilation system is too poor, and the humidity is too high, which is not conducive to the preservation of precise Potions. A typical workshop environment."
"Bang!"
The classroom door was slammed open.
Professor Snape rushed in like a giant black bat, rolling in with the cold wind.
He strode to the podium and turned around, his black robes billowing behind him. Those empty, cold black eyes scanned the room, causing the classroom to fall silent instantly.
"You are here to learn the precise science and exact craft of Potion making."
Snape's voice was low, like a whisper in one's ear, but everyone heard it clearly.
"Since there is no foolish wand-waving here, many of you will not believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly appreciate the beauty of a simmering cauldron with its white smoke and delicate fragrance..."
Moen sat in the first row, resting his chin on one hand, a glimmer of appreciation flashing in his eyes.
"A very good opening," he evaluated in his heart. "Emphasize professionalism, lower expectations, establish authority. If he went to Wall Street for a roadshow, he could definitely swindle quite a few investors."
Meanwhile, he silently activated the system.
[Scanning Target]: Severus Snape
[Danger Level]: Red (Extremely Dangerous)
[Traits Discovered]:
[Gold] Potion Master: He can improve ancient recipes and even create new spells. He is the emperor in this field.
[Gold] Occlumency Master: His brain is a maze and a fortress. Not even Voldemort can see through his lies.
[Red] Sectumsempra: A highly lethal cutting spell.
[Red] Extreme Remorse: This is the source of his power and also the root of his pain.
"A double gold yolk..." Moen's breathing quickened for a split second.
This Head of House was practically a walking treasure trove! He had to find a way to grind up his favorability, or at least catch his attention, to have a chance to touch him and extract traits.
At this moment, Snape began taking attendance.
"Harry Potter."
Snape paused, a mocking sneer curling at the corner of his mouth: "Oh, yes, Harry Potter. Our new—famous celebrity."
The next few minutes were the classic "humiliate Savior" segment from the original work.
Regarding powdered root of asphodel, bezoar, and the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane.
Harry was bewildered and at a loss, while Hermione's hand was raised as high as a flagpole.
"Pity, Potter." Snape said coldly, "It seems fame does not represent everything."
After humiliating Harry, Snape's mood seemed to improve slightly. He turned around, and those empty eyes suddenly fell on Moen, who was sitting in the first row, looking at him with the gaze of "evaluating a business partner."
Snape frowned slightly.
He did not like the look in this student's eyes.
Too... mature, and full of calculation.
Moreover, as a member of Slytherin, the faint sense of oppression (Half-Giant Bloodline) on Moen made him feel a bit uncomfortable.
"Moen White." Snape suddenly called his name.
"Present, Professor." Moen put down the quill in his hand, sitting elegantly.
"Since Mr. Potter does not know, perhaps our house's rising star can tell me..." Snape walked slowly toward Moen, his black robes billowing around him. "If I wanted to brew a Potion that would make someone fall into a 'Draught of Living Death' sleep, in this recipe, why would we use powdered root of asphodel instead of fresh asphodel root juice?"
The whole class was silent.
Chapter 13: [Alchemy Origin] Shines Brightly
Hermione's hand also lowered, her brow furrowed. This even went beyond the scope of the first chapter of *Magical Draughts and Potions*, involving the microscopic manipulation of medicinal properties.
Malfoy watched Moen nervously from the side, fearing that he wouldn't be able to answer either and would cause Slytherin to lose points.
Moen, however, smiled.
If it had been before yesterday, he might have only been able to rely on his [Photographic memory] to answer by reciting the book.
But now, he possessed [Alchemy Origin (Gold)].
In his eyes, this wasn't a botany question, but a chemical reaction problem.
"Because water dilutes the concentration of magic, Professor," Moen answered calmly, his voice clear and powerful.
"Asphodel root contains a neuroparalytic component called 'Asphodelin.' The active water molecules in fresh juice undergo a violent neutralization reaction with the Thujonein the infusion of wormwood, causing the effect to change from 'deep sleep' to 'permanent brain death.'"
Moen stood up, picked up a dried asphodel root from the table, and a faint, almost imperceptible magical glow flickered at his fingertips:
"Using powder is actually a process of 'dehydration and purification.' The basic principle of Alchemy: Spiritual Solidification. Only by removing the impurity of moisture can the sleep-inducing properties of the asphodel root be perfectly stimulated by the wormwood, thus achieving the balance of the 'Draught of Living Death.'"
"Am I correct? Professor."
The classroom was deathly silent.
Hermione's mouth hung open as she frantically took notes. Ron looked at Moen as if he were a monster.
On Snape's habitually expressionless face, a slight ripple appeared for the first time. He looked deeply at Moen, those black eyes seemingly trying to peer into Moen's soul.
"An alchemical perspective..." Snape murmured under his breath, "Spiritual Solidification... that was a theory from the era of Nicolas Flamel."
He was silent for a moment, then turned and walked back to the podium, his black robes billowing.
"Five points to Slytherin," Snape said coldly, "for a... precise and essential answer."
Malfoy let out a long breath, a triumphant look appearing on his face.
"Now," Snape flicked his wand, and the recipe appeared on the blackboard, "in pairs, prepare a Potion to cure boils. Begin."
Moen was, of course, paired with Malfoy.
But this was basically Moen's solo show. Malfoy could only manage tasks like slicing caterpillars or handing over the stirring rod.
Moen stood before the cauldron, his eyes focused.
The temptation of [Potions Grandmaster (Gold)] was right before him; he had to demonstrate enough value.
With the enhancement of [Alchemy Origin], this simple boil-curing Potion decomposed into countless jumping elemental symbols in his eyes.
"Stir clockwise four times, counter-clockwise half a turn... no, that's too inefficient."
Moen looked at the steps in the textbook and frowned.
"This old-fashioned stirring method is to prevent the crushed snake fangs from settling, but if I heat the snake fang powder to 80 degrees first and utilize thermal convection..."
Moen took the liberty of modifying the steps.
He did not follow the book's instruction to "remove the cauldron from the fire before adding porcupine quills." Instead, he tapped the edge of the cauldron three times with his wand, using the vibration frequency to instantly cool the liquid, and then tossed in the porcupine quills.
"What are you doing?!" Malfoy beside him was terrified. "The book says to take it off the fire first! It'll explode!"
"That's a safety guide for mediocrities," Moen said calmly. "Watch closely, Draco. This is efficiency."
As the porcupine quills were added, the cauldron did not emit the characteristic acrid green smoke; instead, a faint pink steam rose, and the liquid instantly turned a perfect sapphire blue.
There was no explosion.
This unusual steam caught the attention of the patrolling Snape.
He walked over quickly, glanced at the Potion in Moen's cauldron, and then at the cauldron still on the fire.
"You modified the steps," Snape's voice betrayed no emotion.
"Yes, Professor," Moen admitted frankly. "By using the Vibration Cooling Method, three minutes of waiting time can be saved. Moreover, the potency refined this way is increased by 15%."
As he spoke, Moen dipped a glass rod into a bit of the Potion and let it drop onto a piece of rotten meat on the table. The boils on that meat vanished instantly, leaving not even a scar.
"A perfect color."
Snape narrowed his eyes, looking at this student who was only eleven years old. He had never seen this level of confidence and skill in a first-year. This mastery over Potions reminded him of himself back then, or perhaps... even more arrogant than he had been.
"While the result is good, White," Snape said coldly, "in Potions, arrogance usually means death. If I see you modifying the textbook without permission again—"
"What if I could reduce the cost of this Potion by 30% and sell it to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries?" Moen suddenly interrupted him.
Snape was stunned: "What did you say?"
"I'm calculating, Professor." Moen pointed to the cauldron. "The raw material cost for this batch of Potion is 3 Sickles. If mass-produced according to my improved version, the cost per bottle can be reduced to 2 Sickles. Meanwhile, the price Madam Pomfrey pays for external procurement is 8 Sickles."
Moen looked up, a pure business light shining in those black eyes:
"If we cooperate, Professor. You provide technical support for recipe refinement, and I'll handle the production line and sales channels. The profit in this..."
"Shut up."
Snape's lip twitched, seemingly angered by this proposal filled with the stench of money, yet also seemingly shocked by such an unprecedented teacher-student dialogue.
"Another five points to Slytherin." Snape turned around, his robes sweeping out an angry arc, "for your disgusting... business mind."
"Furthermore, after class, White. Write me a detailed report on your 'Vibration Cooling Method.' If there is a single punctuation error, I will give you detention."
Moen smiled as he watched Snape's departing back.
He knew he had succeeded.
He had not only established a firm foothold in Slytherin but had also secured his first 'entry ticket' with the most difficult Professor at Hogwarts.
Just then, a loud bang came from the back of the classroom.
Neville Longbottom's cauldron had exploded, splashing green Potion everywhere.
"Idiot!" Snape roared as he rushed over. "Potter! Why didn't you tell him not to add the porcupine quills? Did you think his mistake would make you look good? One point from Gryffindor!"
Harry wanted to argue, feeling wronged.
Moen shook his head, and while bottling his own perfect Potion, he said to the Malfoy beside him:
"See, Draco. This is why we must master core technology. Otherwise, you not only pay for others' mistakes but also get points deducted for no reason."
Malfoy nodded as if half-understanding, looking at the sapphire blue Potion in Moen's hand, real admiration appearing in his eyes for the first time.
"Teach me," Malfoy suddenly whispered.
"What?"
"That Vibration Cooling Method," Malfoy bit his lip, "and... how to make money."
The smile on Moen's lips widened.
"Of course, my friend," Moen patted Malfoy on the shoulder. "But you know the rules. Knowledge is priceless, but lessons... have a fee."
Chapter 14: The Broken Remembrall and the Shadow in the Sky
September 12th.
If Potions Class was Slytherin's moment of glory, then Flying Lessons was the judgment day that every first-year student both anticipated and feared.
For children from wizarding families like Malfoy, this was a perfect opportunity to show off their superiority. He had spent the entire week bragging about his glorious feat of narrowly dodging a Muggle helicopter on a broomstick.
But for Muggle-borns like Hermione Granger, it was a nightmare. After all, the book Quidditch Through the Agesdidn't teach you how to overcome gravity.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, the sun was shining brightly.
Slytherin and Gryffindor students gathered on the lawn outside the castle. A breeze rustled through the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, making a soft rustling sound.
Twenty broomsticks were laid out neatly on the ground.
Moen was wearing Slytherin's athletic robes, still holding that Black Ironwood Cane in his hand. He looked down at the broomstick by his feet, his brow furrowing slightly.
This was an old Cleansweep Seven, its twigs splayed out in every direction, and there were even uncleaned stains on the handle.
[Item Scanned]: Hogwarts Training Broom
[Status]: Severely Aged
[Durability]: 15% (At risk of falling apart at any moment)
[Evaluation]: This isn't a means of transport; it's a suicide tool. Where did the Board of Governors' funding go?
"If this were in my company," Moen said coldly to Malfoybeside him, prodding the broom with his wand, "the manager responsible for procuring such equipment would have been thrown into the River Thames by now."
Malfoy shrank back, clearly remembering the terrifying strength Moen had displayed when he smashed the coffee table that night.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?"
Madam Hooch strode over. She had short, hawk-like hair and sharp, yellow eyes.
"Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up!"
"Stick your right hand over your broom," Madam Hoochcalled, "and say, 'Up!'"
"Up!"
Shouts rang out across the lawn.
Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once.
So did Malfoy's.
Moen was in no hurry to shout. He simply extended his right hand, clad in a black leather glove, and held it over the broom, his gaze calm as he watched the piece of junk wood.
The [Flying Talent (Purple)] and [Magic Affinity(Purple)] within him resonated.
No words were needed.
The previously lifeless old broom seemed to sense a call from a superior being; it snapped up suddenly, slamming firmly into Moen's palm with an obedient hum.
"Perfect." Moen gripped the broom, feeling the magic flowing within. "The hardware is poor, but it's like driving a scrapped Santana in a rally race—it tests the driver's skill."
On the other side, Hermione's broom simply rolled over on the ground, while Ron's broom jumped up and whacked him in the nose.
"Now, I want you to mount your brooms," Madam Hoochdemonstrated the movement. "When I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. One, two—"
"Ah!"
A terrified scream interrupted the command.
Neville Longbottom was so nervous that, before the whistle even blew, he kicked off hard and shot upward like a cork from a bottle.
He rose wobbly to twenty feet in the air, his face pale, and then—
*Crack!*
He slipped off the broom and fell heavily onto the grass with a sickening crack of bone.
"Broken wrist." Moen stood in the crowd, not even stepping forward to check; his Mind Palace had already made the judgment based on the sound and angle of the fall. "A typical operational error; poor psychological resilience."
Madam Hooch, her face pale, ran over to help Neville up. "All right, boy... it's okay. The rest of you, don't move! If anyone so much as touches a broom, they'll be out of Hogwarts!"
Madam Hooch led the sobbing Neville toward the Hospital Wing.
Only the students from the two houses remained on the lawn.
The commotion began.
"Did you see his stupid face?" Malfoy roared with laughter, his arrogance, suppressed for a week, finally finding an outlet. "That great fat face, what a loud thud!"
The other Slytherin students laughed along with him.
"Shut up, Malfoy," Parvati Patil said sharply.
"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" Pansy Parkinsonsneered. "I didn't think you'd like a fat little crybaby like that."
"Look!" Malfoy suddenly bent down and snatched a glass ball from the grass. "It's that big oaf's Remembrall."
The Remembrall glittered in the sunlight.
"Give it here, Malfoy," Harry said quietly, taking a step forward.
All eyes were fixed on the two of them.
Malfoy toyed with the Remembrall, a glint of cunning in his grey-blue eyes. He subconsciously glanced at Moen, who was standing not far away.
Moen was leaning against an oak tree, fiddling with his wand, seemingly uninterested in the farce.
This disregard stung Malfoy. He desperately wanted to prove something—to prove he wasn't just a follower, that he was a natural-born flyer.
"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about the top of that tree!" Malfoy mounted his broom and shot into the air.
"No!" Harry shouted, grabbing his broom and preparing to give chase.
"No!" Hermione shrieked. "Madam Hooch told us not to move—"
But Harry was already airborne.
It had to be said, Harry was a natural. On his first time riding a broom, he showed incredible talent, streaking toward Malfoy like a cannonball.
"Give it here!" Harry yelled in the air.
Malfoy performed a neat spiral in the air, clearly not expecting Harry to fly so well. He watched Harry charging at him, a flicker of panic crossing his face before turning into malice.
"Go and get it, then!"
With all his might, Malfoy hurled the Remembrall toward the distant castle walls.
The glass ball traced a high arc, about to shatter against the hard stone wall.
Harry leaned low, preparing to dive.
But in that instant, a streak of black lightning was faster.
*Boom!*
The sound of air exploding.
Ron and Hermione on the ground felt a blur before their eyes as a gust of wind swept past, forcing them to squint.
It was Moen.
He was riding that old Cleansweep Seven, yet he flew with the momentum of a Nimbus 2000.
At this moment, Moen's [Flying Talent (Purple)] was fully active.
In his vision, the wind had shape, and gravity could be cheated. The falling Remembrall looked like it was in slow motion.
He jerked the broom down, his body nearly parallel to the ground, initiating an extremely dangerous "Wronski Feint" before instantly pulling up.
His black robes snapped in the wind.
Just as the Remembrall was less than a foot from the stone wall, and Harry was still ten feet away, reaching out desperately...
A hand clad in a black leather glove caught the glass ball steadily and elegantly in mid-air.
No impact, no loss of control.
Moen came to a sudden halt in the air, the tail of his broom swinging in a perfect arc as he hovered.
The entire field was dead silent.
Whether it was the students on the ground or Malfoy and Harry in the air, everyone stared blankly at the scene.
It was too fast.
So fast that his movements were a blur.
Moen gripped the broom handle with one hand and tossed the Remembrall with the other, looking down at the pale Malfoy.
"Draco."
Moen's voice carried clearly through the wind, tinged with a hint of disappointment.
"If you want to show off your flying skills, you should challenge a stronger opponent, not bully a weakling who can't even hold a broom steady. It's beneath you."
Malfoy bit his lip and lowered his head, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his broom.
Moen turned his head toward Harry, who was still in shock, and casually tossed the Remembrall to him.
"Catch, Potter. Nice dive."
Harry scrambled to catch the Remembrall, looking at Moenwith utter disbelief. "How... how did you fly so fast?"
"Calculation, Potter," Moen said nonchalantly. "Wind speed, drag, angles. Flying is also a science."}],
Chapter 15: Professor McGonagall's Blunder
Just then, a scream came from the castle window.
"Harry Potter! Moen White!"
Professor McGonagall rushed out of the castle, her glasses even askew from running too fast.
"How dare you—you could have broken your necks—"
She pointed at the two who had just landed, her lips trembling.
"Follow me."
Professor McGonagall said sternly.
Malfoy watched with glee as the two were led away. Ronand Hermione looked worried.
...
Inside the castle, Professor McGonagall walked quickly, and the two had to trot to keep up.
Harry was already in despair; he felt sure he was going to be expelled.
But Moen was calm, even observing the armor in the corridor.
He knew the plot. This wasn't expulsion; this was an opportunity.
Professor McGonagall stopped at the door of a classroom and called out Professor Flitwick, who was teaching: "Sorry, Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"
Oliver Wood came out. He was a tall, sturdy fifth-year student with a confused look on his face.
"These two." Professor McGonagall pointed at Harry and Moen, the anger in her eyes now replaced by excitement, "I have found you—the best Seeker and the best Chaser."
Wood's eyes lit up instantly: "Really? Professor?"
"To perform that kind of dive and sudden stop on that broken broom..." Professor McGonagall looked at Moen as if looking at a rare treasure, "Mr. White, have you ever ridden a broom before?"
"No, Professor. It's my first time." Moen lied without blushing, "Though I do have some knowledge of aerodynamics."
"A natural genius!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed, then turned to Harry, "Potter as well, that dive... even Charlie Weasley wasn't that daring."
"Wood, I want you to recruit them into the team." Professor McGonagall said decisively.
Wood excitedly circled the two, squeezed Harry's arm, and then looked with awe at Moen's cold aura.
"Potter is very suitable as a Seeker; he is agile and fast." Wood analyzed, "As for White... Good heavens, that interception just now, if you were to be a Chaser, those Slytherin people wouldn't be able to get the Quaffle at all!"
Wait.
Wood's smile suddenly stiffened.
Professor McGonagall's expression also stiffened.
They suddenly realized a serious problem.
Harry Potter is in Gryffindor.
But Moen White... that boy wearing robes with green trim...
He is in Slytherin.
The air suddenly became very quiet.
Moen leaned on his Black Ironwood Cane, a playful smile curling the corner of his mouth, watching the two Gryffindor teachers and students in front of him, whose expressions were as if they had swallowed flies.
"It seems we have a small problem, Professor McGonagall."
Moen said softly, breaking the awkwardness.
"Although I appreciate your appreciation, I think SlytherinCaptain Flint probably wouldn't be very happy to see me scoring goals for Gryffindor."
Professor McGonagall covered her forehead and let out a painful groan.
She had been too excited just now and completely forgot about this. She had personally discovered a genius, only to find out this genius was from the rival house.
"Alright..." Professor McGonagall waved her hand powerlessly, "Potter, go with Wood to learn about the team. As for Mr. White..."
She looked at Moen with a complicated expression.
"...your Head of House, Professor Snape, will be very happy to hear this news. However, I must remind you that first-year students are usually not allowed to bring brooms. But I will suggest that Professor Snape make an exception for you."
"That would be my honor." Moen bowed slightly.
After walking out of the classroom, Harry was still too excited to come back to his senses: "We're joining the team? I'm a Seeker? This is so cool! Moen, we're going to play together... oh, wait, we're going to be opponents."
Harry's expression was a bit conflicted.
Moen patted Harry on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, Potter."
Moen looked at the blue sky outside the window, a hint of a merchant's shrewdness flashing in his eyes:
"Rather than knocking you off your broom on the pitch, I am more interested in—how to turn the sport of Quidditch into a profitable business."
"When the time comes, remember to sign my sponsorship contract."
Harry looked blank: "Huh?"
Moen didn't explain, just smiled, turned around, and walked toward the dungeons.
He was now going to see his Head of House, Professor Snape, to talk about the business plan of "first-years joining the team" and "sponsoring the entire Slytherin team with Nimbus 2000s."
September 12th, evening.
The dungeon corridor was cold and damp, and the torches hanging on the walls burned with ghostly green flames, casting Moen's elongated shadow onto the rough stone bricks.
Having just finished the farce of the Flying Lessons, Moendid not go directly back to the common room to enjoy the cheers of the Slytherin students, but went straight to the door of his Head of House's office.
He raised his wrist and checked his Patek Philippe.
"Five o'clock sharp."
Moen stopped, not rushing to knock, but habitually waking up the system in his mind.
"System, perform today's check-in."
This was a habit he had formed over the past half-month that he never missed. The once-daily check-in opportunity not only provided small random rewards, but more importantly—it was the only stable source for obtaining "draw attempts."
[Ding!]
[Check-in location detected: In front of Professor Snape's office (Core area of Potion)]
[Check-in successful!]
[Rewards obtained]:
Draw attempts + 1
Boomslang skin x 1 (Rare Potion material)
Fragment of Professor Snape's private notebook (notes on Bezoars)
Moen glanced at the bottom right corner of the system panel.
[Remaining draw attempts]: 20 times
"The stock is still quite sufficient." Moen nodded with satisfaction.
Since enrolling, from September 1st to today, adding the initial 12 times, deducting the 2 times used on Malfoy(Flying Talent) and Philosopher's Stone (Alchemy Origin), as well as the few times wasted experimenting on Filch's cat or some senior students, he still had exactly 20 opportunities in his hand.
"If I can save up to 50 times, I wonder if the system will open a 'guaranteed gold' pity pool." Moen calculated in his mind, "But for now, these 20 times are enough to deal with emergencies."
Collecting his thoughts, Moen straightened his collar and raised his hand to knock on the heavy oak door.
"Knock, knock."
"Come in."
Snape's signature, flat, indifferent voice came from behind the door.
Moen pushed the door open and entered.
The office was dimly lit, and the shelves along the walls were full of glass jars, inside which floated various stomach-churning animal specimens—toad entrails, giant eyeballs, and some kind of hairy mollusk. The air was filled with a pungent smell of formalin mixed with herbs.
Severus Snape was sitting behind the desk grading parchment, the quill scratching on the paper, sounding as if it were cutting into the students' flesh.
He didn't look up, only said coldly: "If you are here to plead for that exploded cauldron, you can go back, White. Longbottom must serve detention."
"No, Professor." Moen walked to the desk, standing his Black Ironwood Cane by his side, with an elegant posture, "I am here for the honor of Slytherin."
The quill in Snape's hand paused. He slowly raised his head, those hollow, deep black eyes staring at Moen, as if evaluating the weight of his words.
"Professor McGonagall just came to see me." Snape put down his pen, hands crossed under his chin, "She told me that you openly violated discipline during Flying Lessons, performing dangerous high-altitude maneuvers without a Professor present."
Chapter 16 Snape's Consent, Secret Weapon
"That was to prevent Mr. Potter from getting hurt, Professor." Moen said without changing his expression, "And, I believe Professor McGonagall should have mentioned—my skill."
"Humph." Snape let out a nasal sound, the corner of his mouth curling into a sarcastic arc, "She said you were a genius. Even said she wanted to poach you for Gryffindor. But I must remind you, Mr. White, even if you fly like a winged Dragon, first-year students are not allowed to own broomsticks, let alone join the house team. It's the school rules."
"Rules are dead, people are alive, Professor."
Moen took a step forward, pulled a parchment from his robe, and placed it gently on Snape's desk piled with homework.
"What is this?" Snape frowned.
"A business sponsorship proposal." Moen said with a smile.
Snape picked up the parchment suspiciously, scanned it, and then his perpetually gloomy face showed a look of astonishment.
"Nimbus 2000... seven? The whole team gets new gear?" Snape's voice rose slightly.
"Yes, Professor." Moen explained calmly, "As far as I've observed, the Slytherin team's current equipment is still the 'Cleansweep Five' from three years ago. And it's said that Gryffindor is likely to equip that Savior Potter with the latest Nimbus 2000 this year."
"This isn't just a technical issue, it's an arms race."
Moen leaned forward with his hands on the edge of the desk, the pressure from his [Half-Giant Bloodline] faintly emanating:
"If we don't want to see Potter riding the best broom, catching the Golden Snitch over Slytherin's heads, then we must crush them in terms of hardware."
"These seven Nimbus 2000s are my personal donation to the house. No strings attached—except for one."
Snape narrowed his eyes, re-evaluating the boy in front of him.
He had seen arrogant students, talented students, and wealthy students, like Malfoy.
But he had never seen a first-year like Moen, who could perfectly combine these three and negotiate with a naked exchange of interests.
"You want to join the team." Snape said with certainty.
"Chaser." Moen nodded, "You must have heard from Professor McGonagall about my flying skills. With these seven Nimbus 2000s, this year's Quidditch Cup will definitely stay in the Slytherin dungeons."
Snape fell silent.
He was weighing his options.
As the Head of House, he extremely craved glory, especially defeating Gryffindor. Harry Potter joining the Gryffindor team was almost a certainty; if Slytherin didn't make changes, this year's match was indeed uncertain.
And... seven Nimbus 2000s.
That was a huge sum of money. Even the Malfoy family wouldn't be so generous as to donate seven at once.
"Professor McGonagall said if I agree, she'll help me apply for special permission from Dumbledore." Snape said slowly, his fingers tapping the desk, "The reason being... special talent recruitment."
"But there's one problem, White."
Snape suddenly stood up, his black robes billowing like bat wings. He walked up to Moen, looking down at him:
"While I appreciate your... generosity. If your performance on the field doesn't live up to that Nimbus 2000, I will personally kick you off the team and have you responsible for cleaning a thousand specimen jars in the entire dungeon."
Moen smiled.
He knew the deal was done.
"Deal, Professor." Moen extended his hand, "Also, regarding my paper 'Commercial Application of Vibration Cooling Method in Potion Improvement'..."
"Leave it here." Snape waved his hand dismissively, "Now, get out."
"As you wish."
Moen bowed slightly and turned to leave.
At the door, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Snape, who was buried in parchment again.
[Scanning Target]: Severus Snape
[Held Traits]: Extreme Regret (Red), Sectumsempra(Red), Potions Master (Gold)... Moen's fingers rubbed the doorknob.
Drawing it now was too risky.
Snape's [Occlumency (Gold)] made his mind extremely sensitive. Once a draw failed or caused alertness, the "alliance of interests" just established would instantly collapse.
"Hold back." Moen told himself, "Wait until I've saved enough Sure-Hit Cards or until the favorability is a bit higher."
He gently closed the door and walked out of the dungeon... the Slytherin common room.
When Moen pushed the door open, the common room was still lively. Draco was vividly bragging to Pansy and Goyleabout his performance in Flying Lessons,
Of course, omitting the part where he threw the Remembrall and was taught a lesson by Moen.
Seeing Moen return, Draco's voice stopped abruptly.
"How'd it go?" Draco couldn't help but ask, "What did Professor Snape say? Did he give you a good scolding? I knew it, how dare you fly so fast in front of Professor McGonagall..."
Moen ignored him and walked to the notice board by the fireplace.
There was an old notice for Quidditch team tryouts posted there.
Moen pulled a quill from his robe, added a line of text, and then turned around to look at everyone in the common room.
"Pass the word."
Moen's voice wasn't loud, but it made everyone prick up their ears.
"Slytherin Quidditch Team, next Monday at 7 PM, full equipment replacement."
"Equipment replacement?" Quidditch Captain Marcus Flint—a senior student who looked like a Troll—squeezed out of the crowd with a fierce look, "Who authorized this? I'm the captain!"
"I did." Moen looked at him and said flatly.
"Who do you think you are?" Flint roared, reaching out to grab Moen's collar, "A little first-year brat—"
*Thwack.*
Moen's cane precisely pressed against Flint's chest. The power of the [Half-Giant Bloodline] erupted, and the big man, who was two heads taller than Moen, was actually pushed back several steps and landed on his butt.
"I am your new Chaser, and—"
Moen pulled a Gringotts collection slip from his pocket and let it float onto Flint's face.
"—the only sponsor of this team."
"Seven Nimbus 2000s, Captain Flint." Moen looked down at him, "If you don't want to ride one, I can give it to a reserve player."
Flint grabbed the slip, his eyes widened, and his hands trembled.
It was the latest Nimbus 2000! The dream artifact!
The angry expression instantly vanished, replaced by a fawning and distorted smile.
"Oh... Mr. White." Flint scrambled up, even helping Moenpat off non-existent dust from his shoulder, "Welcome to the team! I think the Chaser position was practically made for you!"
The surrounding Slytherin students watched this scene, their awe deepening.
This was Moen White.
He not only had violent methods but also the "money power" that no one could refuse.
Moen turned his head and looked at the dumbfounded Draco.
"Draco." Moen He waved.
"Wh... what?" Draco asked stutteringly.
"Help me write a letter home tomorrow." Moen sat back in his exclusive sofa and closed his eyes to rest, "Ask my father to send my personal broomstick over."
"Your... personal broom?" Draco asked curiously, "Is it also a Nimbus 2000?"
"No."
Moen opened his eyes, a mysterious smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
"It's the first-generation prototype from my Alchemy lab."
"I call it—the 'Black Swan'."
Chapter 17: Black Swan Takes Flight and the "Acquired" Slytherin Team
September 14th, Saturday.
In the Great Hall of Hogwarts, the noise of breakfast time was louder than usual.
Harry Potter sat at the Gryffindor long table, a long, tightly wrapped package placed before him.
The Nimbus 2000, specially approved by Professor McGonagall.
"Look, Potter received a broom!" Malfoy shouted loudly from the Slytherin long table, his face full of jealousy. "First-year students aren't allowed to bring these. I'm going to tell Professor Flitwick!"
"Save it, Draco."
Moen sat opposite him, cutting a fried egg without looking up. "If I were you, I'd shut up now. Because that would make you look like a snitching primary schooler, and it would make you miss a much more exciting show."
Just as he finished speaking, a dull sound of wings flapping came from above the Great Hall.
Eight large Barn Owls, flying in formation, gripped seven long packages and one heavy, pitch-black long box, slowly landing at the Slytherin long table.
"Good heavens, is that... munitions?"
The entire hall watched with rapt attention.
Captain Marcus Flint excitedly tore open a package: "Nimbus 2000! Seven of them! Brand new!"
The Great Hall erupted. Wood's face turned green, and Ron yelled about cheating.
"This is sponsorship, Weasley."
Moen leisurely wiped his mouth and walked to the pile of packages. Flint and the others respectfully moved aside.
Moen's gaze fell on the last pitch-black long box. The lid was inlaid with a sterling silver alchemy badge and a line of gold-leafed text:
[Black Forest Workshop · Custom Edition · Prototype 001]
"This is mine." Moen reached out and pressed his hand on the box.
"Black Forest Workshop?" Malfoy leaned in. "That German broom factory? I heard they were about to go bankrupt."
"That was last month, Draco." Moen opened the lock, and a chill emanated from within. "In August, I bought it."
"Because the brooms on the market are too light to withstand my... constitution. So I had the craftsmen there work overtime to produce this one according to my blueprints."
Moen picked up the broom, which was finished in matte black and had a rugged design like a heavy motorcycle, with one hand.
[Scanning Item]: Custom Broom "Black Swan"
[Source]: Black Forest Workshop (Acquired)
[Designer]: Moen White (Core Alchemy Matrix provided)
[Features]: Heavy Tank, Supersonic Raid.
"Bought... a factory?" Malfoy swallowed hard, feeling his pocket money had been insulted.
"To drink milk, I usually buy the entire ranch," Moen said indifferently, shouldering the heavy broom. "Are you full? If you're full, go to the pitch. I don't want these seven Nimbus 2000s to be just for show."
...Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.
Moen sat on the "Black Swan," but he didn't take off.
"Listen, White," Flint flew over, trying to regain some face. "You're a Chaser. Remember to pass the ball to me when you get it."
"Pass?" Moen sneered. "Flint, what's your scoring rate? 30%?"
"What do you mean?"
"It means—" Moen abruptly pressed a rune switch on the broom handle.
BOOM!
The alchemy nozzle at the tail spewed a visible blue tail flame.
This was a Magic Pressure Device designed by German craftsmen based on Moen's theories.
Without any run-up, Moen shot into the sky like a black cannonball, instantly tearing through the air with a piercing sonic boom!
That kind of speed wasn't achieved by a light Levitation Charm, but by pure magic propulsion and gravitational potential energy.
"Catch!" Keeper Bletchley threw the Quaffle.
Moen made a sudden stop in the air, the heavy body of the broom carrying massive inertia.
"Block him!" Flint brought Warrington along to flank him.
Two light and nimble Nimbus 2000s tried to intercept this heavy tank.
"A collision?" A flash of madness appeared in Moen's eyes. "Suits me perfectly."
He didn't dodge; instead, he lowered his center of gravity and rammed straight into them!
"THUD!"
Two dull sounds rang out.
Flint and Warrington felt as if they had hit a flying iron plate. The massive counterforce nearly sent them flying, while Moen's "Black Swan" didn't even wobble.
This was the power of a [Half-Giant Bloodline] combined with [Industrial Customization].
SWISH!
The Quaffle flew accurately into the hoop.
Moen hovered in the air, looking at the disheveled Flintwhile twirling his Cane in his hand.
"Captain Flint," Moen said condescendingly, "with that shot just now, if you hadn't dodged, that fragile Nimbus 2000would likely have snapped in two. That's the difference between mass-produced goods and a custom version."
"From today on, give me the ball. No matter who stands in front of me, I will crush them, broom and all."
"This is the Slytherin style—whether it's capital or Quidditch, we will be the sledgehammer that crushes everything."
Flint clutched his shoulder and looked at the youth, who resembled a black knight, completely cowed.
"Understood..."
On the distant stands, Wood lowered his binoculars in despair.
"It's over... Harry," Wood said tremblingly. "They don't just have Nimbus 2000s; that White is riding a... is that even a broom? It's practically a rocket with a handle!"
Harry clenched his fists, staring at Moen in the air.
"That's his style," Harry recalled what Moen had said in Diagon Alley. "As long as he can win, he doesn't mind buying a path with money."
"We're doomed," Wood held his head in despair. "They have seven Nimbus 2000s and a Chaser who drives a tank... We're going to be turned into a sieve in this year's Quidditch Cup."
"No, there's still a chance." Harry stared at Moen's figure, a fighting spirit igniting in his green eyes. "As long as I can catch the Golden Snitch before he crashes our entire team."
Above the pitch.
Moen felt the whistle of the wind as the [Half-Giant Bloodline] within him boiled.
This feeling of unscrupulously releasing power was truly wonderful.
"System, how many draw chances are left?"
[Remaining: 21 times.]
"Very good." Moen looked down at Hogwarts castle from the air. "After winning the first match, I'll treat myself to a Ten-pull to celebrate."
"Now... let's first train this group of barbarians into a regular army."
Chapter 18: The Midnight Duel
September 19th.
Days at Hogwarts flew by amidst a busy schedule of classes.
For Moen, it had also been a fulfilling week.
He had not only solidified his status in Potions Class as "Snape's favorite and second-most hated student," but he had also left Professor McGonagall in awe during Transfiguration.
In the Transfiguration classroom that morning, sunlight spilled through the high windows and onto the desks.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said sternly. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back."
Today's task was to turn a match into a needle.
For most first-years, this was as difficult as reaching the heavens. Ron waved his wand, poking his match until it nearly caught fire, yet it remained a piece of wood. Hermione Granger, however, succeeded; her match turned into a needle, though the tip was still a bit blunt.
"Very good, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor." Professor McGonagall offered a rare smile.
But when she walked to the first row of Slytherin, her smile froze into astonishment.
On Moen White's desk, there was no ordinary needle.
Instead, there lay an extremely exquisite silver needle, its surface carved with intricate patterns, and the end was even shaped into a coiled miniature snake.
"This..." Professor McGonagall picked up the silver needle and examined it closely. "Not just a change in form, but you even changed the material's density and surface structure? How did you do this, Mr. White?"
"Microscopic reorganization through Alchemy, Professor," Moen replied calmly, setting down his Black Ironwood Wand. "If we view a match as an arrangement of carbon atoms, then turning it into metal only requires breaking the carbon chains and introducing free metal elements for restructuring. It's logically sound."
Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses and gave Moen a deep look. "While I don't understand what you mean by 'carbon chains,' this is undoubtedly perfect Transfiguration. Ten points to Slytherin."
Beside him, Malfoy looked at Moen with envy; the match in his hand had only become slightly pointed.
"Don't stare, Draco," Moen said softly. "If you want to learn this, you'll need to memorize 'Basic Principles of Matter' first. I wouldn't mind tutoring you for 5 Galleons an hour."
...If the morning was a victory for academics, then noon was the eruption of conflict.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin students were having lunch in the Great Hall.
An owl delivered a Howler from Neville Longbottom's grandmother, who was still in the hospital.
Even though Neville wasn't there, the letter still bellowed its message.
Malfoy was doubled over laughing at the Slytherin table. He was just about to go mock the Gryffindors when Harryand Ron blocked his path.
"I challenge you to a duel!" Ron's face was flushed red with anger on Harry's behalf. "A Wizard's duel! Midnight tonight, the Trophy Room! What, are you scared?"
"Who says I'm scared?" Malfoy sneered, a glint of cunning flashing in his grey-blue eyes. "I am a Malfoy; I never fear a challenge. Crabbe will be my second."
"I'm Harry's second!" Ron puffed out his chest.
Moen, who was elegantly sipping black tea nearby, set down his cup upon hearing this.
In the original story, this was just a trick by Malfoy. He never intended to go; instead, he was going to Snitch to Filch to try and get Harry expelled.
"A very childish trick," Moen evaluated internally.
But then he had a second thought. The Trophy Room at midnight... it was very close to that forbidden third-floor corridor. Fluffy, the Three-headed dog, was guarding the trapdoor right there.
This was an excellent opportunity.
"Draco," Moen suddenly spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it made Malfoy stiffen.
"W-what is it, Moen?"
"I just heard you accept a duel invitation." Moen turned his head, his deep black eyes staring at Malfoy. "I assume that, as a Slytherin aristocrat, you wouldn't engage in such cowardly behavior as—agreeing on the surface, but secretly snitching to Filch?"
Malfoy's face turned pale instantly. That was exactly what he had planned.
"I... I certainly won't!" Malfoy stammered in rebuttal. "I'm going to beat Potter to a pulp!"
"Very well." Moen nodded with satisfaction, a meaningful curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. "To ensure the honor of Slytherin isn't tarnished, tonight, I shall accompany you as the 'witness'."
"You... you're going too?" Malfoy was completely dumbfounded. With Moen there, he wouldn't dare run away, let alone Snitch.
"Of course. It's a good chance for us to see the castle at night." Moen stood up and straightened his robes. "Don't be late, Draco. I don't like waiting for people."
...Midnight.
The castle was pitch black. Moen, wearing a black trench coat suitable for movement and holding a walking stick, appeared punctually at the fourth-floor Trophy Room with a reluctant Malfoy and his two lackeys.
A few minutes later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione Granger—who was in her pajamas and had been trying to talk them out of it—arrived, along with Neville, who had just been discharged from the hospital and had forgotten the password to get back into the dorm.
"You actually came?" Ron looked at Malfoy in surprise, then his expression changed as he saw Moen standing in the shadows. "White? You're here to duel too?"
"No, I'm here to watch the show," Moen said faintly, leaning against a trophy cabinet labeled 'Special Awards for Services to the School'.
Hermione hissed in exasperation, "You're all mad! If we're caught by Filch, Gryffindor and Slytherin will lose all their points! I'm going to tell—"
"Shh."
Moen suddenly raised a finger. The acute hearing granted by his [Half-Giant Bloodline] allowed him to catch the sound of distant footsteps.
"Mrs. Norris is coming."
Sure enough, a scrawny, dust-colored cat slunk out of the darkness. Her lamp-like eyes stared at the group as she let out a hiss.
"Run!" Harry shouted.
The group of first-year Wizards instantly fell into chaos; even Malfoy was so scared he bolted.
"This way!" Harry led the charge toward a door behind a tapestry.
Moen followed unhurriedly at the rear, even finding the leisure to tap Mrs. Norris on the head with his walking stick, scaring the cat—who had been about to screech—back into the shadows.
[Target Scanned]: Mrs. Norris
[Traits]: Malice Perception (Blue), Snitch (White)
"Worthless," Moen shook his head.
The group sprinted all the way, through corridors and up stairs, only to be blocked by a locked wooden door.
"We're done for!" Ron pushed at the door in despair. "It's locked! Filch is right behind us!"
The footsteps grew closer, and Filch's wheezing voice rang out from downstairs: "Right here, my sweet... I can smell them..."
Chapter 19: Good Boy, Three-headed dog
Hermione pushed Ron aside, pulled out her wand, and tapped the lock: "Alohomora!"
Click. The lock popped open.
Everyone rushed in, quickly closed the door, and leaned against the doorframe, panting heavily.
"We're saved..." Neville said with a sob in his voice.
"I don't think so."
Moen's voice came from behind them, overly calm.
"You'd better turn around and see where we are now."
Harry and the others turned around.
By the moonlight outside the window, they clearly saw the scene before them.
This was a room at the end of a dark corridor.
Filch was not in the room.
But there was a monster.
A Giant dog with three heads, so huge it touched the ceiling, was filling the entire space.
Its six crazy eyes, as big as dinner plates, were staring at the uninvited guests. Three noses twitched, and glue-like saliva dripped from three mouths, revealing sharp yellow teeth.
This was the third-floor forbidden area.
"Ah—"
Ron opened his mouth wide, about to scream.
"Shut up."
Moen took a step forward, standing directly in front of everyone. His not-so-tall back seemed incredibly reliable at this moment.
"Don't scream, don't run," Moen commanded in a low voice. "Turning your back and running from a predator will trigger its hunting instinct. Unless you want to become dog food."
The Three-headed dog, Fluffy, let out a low growl that sounded like thunder rolling in the room. It slowly lifted a massive paw, preparing to pounce on these fresh little snacks.
Behind him, Harry and Malfoy were already weak in the knees from fear, and Hermione covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.
But Moen did not back down.
Not only did he not retreat, he took another step forward.
[Half-Giant Bloodline (Red)] — Activated!
[Magical Creature Affinity (Purple)] — Full Power Output!
An invisible aura belonging to an apex predator erupted from Moen. It was a mixture of the wildness of Giant blood and a Druid-like natural affinity.
Fluffy, who was about to pounce, paused in its tracks.
Its three heads simultaneously showed expressions of confusion.
In its perception, the little thing in front of it was no longer food, but... a peer? Or a more powerful existence?
"Good boy."
Moen reached out and took off his expensive leather glove, revealing a fair palm.
He slowly approached the middle head.
"White! Are you crazy?!" Malfoy hissed in terror from behind.
Moen ignored him. He walked up to Fluffy; that massive dog head could bite off half his body just by opening its mouth.
But Fluffy didn't bite.
It sniffed Moen's hand; it carried the scent Hagrid often had, because Moen had been in contact with Hagrid.
Even more so, it was the scent of its own kind.
The middle head even let out a soft whimper, stuck out its wet tongue, and licked Moen's palm.
Now!
[Ding! Contact successful!]
[Detected high-tier magical creature: Cerberus]
[Parsing...]
Moen's eyes grew fervent. This was the guardian beast from Greek mythology!
[Determining...]
[Extraction successful!]
[Congratulations on obtaining trait]: Multiple Mind Core(Purple - Peak)
[Description]: The Three-headed dog possesses three independent thinking brains, granting them the talent for multitasking. Your brain can now run three independent logic threads simultaneously without interference. Combined with the [Mind Palace], your computing power will increase by 300%.
[Side Effect]: Overthinking may lead to headaches, or sleeping with one eye open.
[Congratulations on obtaining trait]: Beast Instinct(Blue)
[Description]: Perception of danger is significantly enhanced.
"Multi-threaded thinking... this is practically a CPU upgrade package tailored for me."
Moen suppressed the impact of the information flow that instantly exploded in his mind, feeling the wonderful sensation of his thoughts suddenly becoming clear and layered.
While thinking about how to soothe Fluffy, he could also distract himself to calculate how long it would take for Filch to arrive, and even think about how to write tomorrow's Potions Class essay.
This feeling was fantastic.
"Alright, everyone."
Moen withdrew his hand, patted Fluffy's coarse fur, and then turned around to look at the group of petrified young Wizards.
Fluffy obediently lay down behind him and even let out a yawn.
"I think we've finished visiting Hogwarts' 'local specialty'," Moen pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the saliva off his hand, his tone relaxed. "Though this dog is quite cute, its breath is really too strong. If you don't mind, should we head back?"
Harry: "..."
Hermione: "..."
Malfoy: "..."
Cute?
You call this cute?
"How did you do it?" Hermione finally found her voice, asking tremulously, "It... why didn't it bite you?"
"Because I am a Slytherin," Moen adjusted his collar, a disguise of elegance maintained even in extreme fear. "Parselmouths can talk to snakes; as an excellent negotiator, communicating with dogs is also a basic skill."
"Let's go, before Filch realizes this door isn't locked."
Moen pushed the door open and walked out first.
That night, rumors that "Moen White tamed a monster in the castle" spread like wildfire among the freshmen of the four houses.
Some said it was a hound from hell, others said it was a pet he kept at home.
For Moen, this was just another successful "asset restructuring."
He not only got the multi-threaded thinking he wanted, but also planted a seed named "Invincible" in the hearts of Savior and young Master Malfoy.
October 31st, Halloween Eve.
Autumn at Hogwarts had ended, and cold moisture began to seep through the thick walls of the castle.
A layer of frost had formed in the pumpkin patch outside the window, and Hagrid was busy defrosting those Giantpumpkins.
In a corner of the library's Restricted Section.
Moen White was sitting behind a mountain-like pile of ancient books. He wasn't reading, but had his eyes closed, his fingers rhythmically tapping the handle of his Black Ironwood Cane, conducting a serious "business negotiation" with the system in his mind.
"System, call up the Probability Correction Module."
[Recalling...]
[Supplementary Agreement regarding 'Forced Extraction of High-Tier Items']:
Base Probability: For Gold (Legendary) items, the success rate for a single extraction is constant at 0.01%.
Stacking Mechanism (Newly Unlocked): When the host invests extraction attempts consecutively on the same target, each failure will increase the success rate of the next attempt.
Invest 10 times: Success rate increases to 1%
Invest 50 times: Success rate increases to 20%
Invest 100 times: Triggers "Guaranteed Drop Mechanism," success rate locked at 100%.
Moen opened his eyes, a cold light unique to an actuary flashing in his deep black pupils.
"One hundred times..."
He glanced at the balance in the bottom right corner of the system panel.
[Remaining Extractions: 45]
Over the past month and a half, he had lived like an ascetic. He gave up the fun of casually extracting traits from passers-by, going every day without fail to sign in at various high-magic nodes: the Great Hall, the Astronomy Tower, and the Dungeons. He even held back from touching an interesting spirit like Peeves.
Everything was for that ultimate goal—the Philosopher's Stone.
That was the pinnacle of Alchemy, a golden legend capable of breaking the boundary between life and death. The last time at Gringotts was just a hurried touch, and the [Alchemy Origin (Fragmented)] he obtained had already benefited him immensely. If he could fully parse that stone... "55 more times." Moen closed his book and stood up. "At a rate of one sign-in per day, plus occasional quest rewards, it will take about two months. Just in time to gather enough before that end-of-term gauntlet game."
This was the primitive accumulation of capital. Dull, tedious, but for the final massive profit, all the waiting was worth it.
Chapter 20: Beating Up a "Little" Troll
Evening, Great Hall.
Thousands of live bats fluttered against the walls and ceiling, and hundreds of pumpkins cast a ghostly candlelight from within. The golden plates were piled high with Halloween delicacies.
Moen sat at the Slytherin long table, nonchalantly cutting into a piece of bloody steak.
Malfoy, sitting opposite him, was vividly mocking Ron of Gryffindor: "Hear that? Weasley made Granger cry in Charms class today. That buck-toothed girl has been hiding in the girls' bathroom all afternoon and hasn't come out."
"Hermione Granger?" The knife and fork in Moen's hand paused for a moment.
The Mind Palace quickly retrieved the plot nodes.
Halloween, girls' bathroom, Troll.
"Although she can be noisy sometimes, she is an excellent 'rule-maintainer' and a future 'technical backbone'." Moenevaluated in his mind, "Letting such a high-quality asset be destroyed by a brainless Troll does not serve my interests."
Just then, Professor Quirrell rushed into the Great Hall. His large turban was askew on his head, and his face was full of terror.
"Troll! In the dungeon! Thought you ought to know!"
After saying this, he collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.
The Great Hall fell into instant chaos.
"Silence!" Dumbledore stood up, and several purple fireworks exploded from the tip of his wand, "Prefects, lead the students of each house back to their dormitories immediately! Teachers, follow me to the dungeon."
Everyone began to move in a panic.
Taking advantage of the chaotic crowd, Harry and Ron did not follow the group, but instead hunched over and slipped toward the corridor on the other side. Moen looked at their backs and shook his head helplessly.
"Truly worrisome partners."
Moen picked up his Black Ironwood Cane, not following the Slytherin group back to the dungeons, as that would lead directly into the Troll.
He turned and walked toward the direction of the second-floor girls' bathroom.
...
Second floor, girls' bathroom.
The air was filled with a nauseating stench, a mixture of old socks and a public restroom that had never been cleaned.
A twelve-foot-tall Troll was dragging a huge wooden club, clumsily squeezing through the bathroom door. Its skin was as gray as granite, and its pitifully small head sat on its massive body like a coconut.
A sharp scream came from the bathroom, belonging to Hermione.
By the time Moen arrived, the situation was already out of control.
The Troll was waving its club, smashing the sinks to pieces; pipes burst, and water sprayed everywhere. Hermione was huddled in the corner, trembling, having even forgotten to draw her wand.
Harry and Ron were trying to throw pieces of wood at it.
"Hey! You big idiot!" Ron shouted, throwing a pipe at the Troll.
The Troll turned, its murky little eyes filled with brutality. It raised its club, about to smash down on Harry's unprotected head.
"Tsk."
A slight clicking sound echoed at the doorway.
"Although I don't mind changing partners, the title of 'Savior' is still quite valuable."
Harry and Ron turned around subconsciously.
Moen White was standing at the shattered doorway. He was wearing an exquisite black robe, leaning on that pitch-black Black Ironwood Cane, the expression on his face less like fear and more like... disgust.
Disgust that the Troll was too smelly.
"Moen! Run!" Harry shouted, "This monster is too strong!"
"Strength?" Moen chuckled, stepping into the water-logged bathroom, "Talking about strength in front of a Half-Giant is as ridiculous as talking about greed in front of Gringotts."
The Troll noticed this new little person. It roared, gave up on Harry, and instead swung the club, which was thicker than Moen's entire body, sweeping it horizontally with a whistling wind!
If this hit landed, an ordinary Wizard would be beaten into a pulp.
Harry and Hermione closed their eyes in despair.
However, the expected sound of flesh and bone shattering did not ring out.
Thud!
A dull, heart-stopping crash.
Harry opened his eyes, his eyeballs nearly popping out.
Moen did not use magic with his wand, nor did he dodge.
He simply raised the Black Ironwood Cane with one hand, using the shaft to forcefully block the Troll's club!
The wand, which did not look thick, remained motionless under the Troll's full-force blow.
Yet the tiles under Moen's feet, bearing the immense pressure, instantly shattered into a spiderweb pattern and sank three inches.
"Is that your full strength?"
Moen raised his head, looking at the Troll at close range, a flash of red light in his eyes — that was the sign of the [Half-Giant Bloodline] being triggered.
[System Prompt]: High-level magical creature "Mountain Troll" detected.
[Consume a draw attempt?]
"No." Moen coldly refused in his heart, "This kind of trash trait is not worth wasting my savings."
The next second, Moen moved.
He flicked his wrist, activating the [Heavy Pressure] trait on the Black Ironwood Cane.
A huge repulsive force sent the Troll's club flying.
Immediately after, Moen stepped to the left, using his height disadvantage — or perhaps advantage? — to dive into the Troll's embrace.
The Black Ironwood Cane, like a black sword, stabbed viciously into the Troll's soft abdomen.
"Aoo—!"
The Troll let out a painful wail, its massive body actually bent into a shrimp shape by this strike.
But that wasn't all.
Moen leaped up using the momentum, spinning in the air, and used the centrifugal force to whip the wand fiercely against the side of the Troll's knee.
Crack.
A crisp sound of bone breaking.
The twelve-foot-tall Troll collapsed with a crash, splashing water everywhere. It rolled on the ground holding its knee, not even having time to understand what had happened.
"Is this... over?" The wand in Ron's hand fell to the ground.
"No, not yet. Finishing moves are basic business etiquette."
Moen landed and elegantly straightened his tie, which wasn't even messy.
He walked to the side of the Troll's head, raised his wand, aimed at that coconut-sized head, and tapped it lightly.
Thud.
Physical stun.
The Troll rolled its eyes and became completely motionless.
Moen took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wiped the Troll's skin grease off the wand, and then casually tossed the handkerchief onto the massive body.
He turned around, looking at the trio in the corner who were stunned silly.
"Miss Granger." Moen looked at Hermione, who was huddled in the corner, his tone flat, "Although tears are a woman's weapon, when facing asset liquidation — I mean, when facing a life-threatening situation — a wand is much more useful than tears. Besides, the Levitation Charm is not used like that."
Hermione stared at him blankly, tear stains still on her face, unable to say a word.
Just then, rapid footsteps and violent banging on the door came from the corridor.
Professor McGonagall rushed in, followed by Snape and Quirrell.
Professor McGonagall looked at the scene before her, her lips turning white.
The knocked-out Troll, water all over the floor, three shaken Gryffindors, and a Slytherin standing next to the Troll's head, adjusting his cufflinks.
"What on earth do you think you are playing at!" Professor McGonagall's voice carried cold anger.
Snape bent down to examine the Troll.
His gaze lingered for a few seconds on the Troll's obviously broken knee and the bruises on its abdomen, then he suddenly looked up at Moen.
That kind of wound... was not caused by a spell.
It was pure blunt force impact.
"Explain yourself, White." Snape stood up, complex light flickering in his black eyes, "Why is a Slytherin here? And... you beat a Troll with your wand?"
"I got lost on my way to the library, Professor." Moen lied without changing his expression, "I heard cries for help inside. As a member of Hogwarts, I could not sit by and watch my classmates suffer. As for this Troll..."
Moen shrugged, raising the heavy Black Ironwood Cane:
"It seemed a bit calcium deficient, and it fainted after tripping. I think the school floor might be too slippery."
The corner of Snape's mouth twitched.
Tripping can shatter a kneecap?
But Professor McGonagall clearly did not want to pursue the matter deeply.
She deducted points from Harry and Ron for not following instructions.
She added points to Hermione because she lied and said she came to look for the Troll herself, and finally looked at Moen.