Chapter 32: The Price of Double Magatama
Ugh—next time, I'd rather walk back...
Ron leaned against the cold stone pillar, his knuckles white from gripping it so hard. He pulled out the magic pouch pressed against his chest; the ribbon-tied gift box inside was the only source of warmth he could draw from at the moment.
Dumbledore watched Ron's weakened state with interest: "Ah, Mr. Uchiha, perhaps you should eat a bit more when you get back."
Ron gave him a deep look... Never mind, he couldn't beat him, so he'd just endure it. He then turned his thoughts to Hermione's possible reaction.
What expression would Hermione have when she saw Crookshanks' wide amber eyes? Would that chestnut-brown dress appear under the library lights? And... the gradually thinning bag of peppermints. These images briefly smoothed the furrow in his brow. That little face, always pouting yet hiding worry—he owed her a belated gift.
Suppressing the last trace of discomfort, Ron suddenly pushed off the ground! His figure shot forward like an arrow from a bow, speeding towards the shadowy outline of the castle. His boot heels shattered puddles, and in the reflection, there was only his solitary, speeding figure and the magic pouch containing "hope" swaying lightly at his waist.
Stepping into the Hogwarts entrance hall, a wave of noise mixed with the aroma of food washed over him. The Great Hall doors were open, brightly lit, and more than half the students were already seated at the long tables. Golden pumpkin lanterns floated beneath the vaulted ceiling, grinning with hollow, eerie laughs.
The excitement belonged to them. Ron's gaze, like a hawk's, swept over the Gryffindor table—among the red and gold robes, the familiar, bushy brown head always buried in a book was nowhere to be seen.
His heart suddenly sank. He moved against the flow of people heading into the Great Hall, making a beeline for the Library. Madam Pince was closing up. "Miss Granger? I haven't seen her today." Her voice carried its usual impatience.
The corridor outside the Charms class classroom was empty and cold, with only the torches on the walls crackling. Anxiety, like a vine, instantly tightened around his heart. He turned back, his steps quickening, almost colliding with Harry and Ron, who had just entered through the Great Hall's side door, accompanied by a bewildered Neville.
"Have you seen Hermione?" Ron's voice was like a taut steel wire, his gaze fixed on Ron's face like nails. A faint, almost imperceptible red flickered in his Sharingan in the shadows.
Ron flinched, intimidated by that look. Harry quickly spoke up, his tone worried: "She disappeared after Charms classthis afternoon! We couldn't find her..."
"After Charms class?" Ron abruptly stepped forward, staring into Ron's eyes. This kid was definitely hiding something. "Explain yourself! Why did she run off?"
Ron's face instantly flushed crimson, like a firework about to explode. His lips stammered: "I... I said... said she always bossed people around... chanting spells... that..." His voice grew softer and softer, the last few words mumbled in his throat, "...no friends..." He quickly glanced at Harry, then swiftly lowered his head, not daring to look at Ron.
The air solidified. Ron's gaze suddenly became terrifying. The lingering red glow almost seemed to burn through Ron's skin. He grabbed Ron's collar, practically lifting him off the ground! The fabric groaned under his fingers, unable to bear the strain. Ron was so scared he flailed his feet uselessly in the air, like a chicken with its neck wrung.
"What... did... you... say?" Each word was chiseled from an ice cellar. Hermione, who had been bullied since childhood, couldn't stand that phrase the most!
Just then, a shrill, distorted scream tore through the Great Hall's clamor and the entrance hall's stillness!
"T-T-Troll! In the Dungeons! In the Dungeons! I thought you were supposed to know—!"
Professor Quirrell, like a startled mole, stumbled and scrambled into the crowd, his face etched with panic and incoherence. The crowd instantly erupted, screams of terror and shoving breaking out.
Ron's gaze, like a poisoned kunai, scraped across Quirrell's tear-streaked face, finally pinning itself precisely on the back of his head—an extremely faint, distorted magicfluctuation, like a reflection on an oil slick, flashed in the Sharingan's vision and then disappeared, certainly not Quirrell's own chaotic magic. Voldemort's soul fragment!
"I'll settle with you after I find her!" Ron's voice cut through the chaos, cold as iron. He violently flung Ron back to the ground, who staggered and was caught by Harry. His hands were already clasped together like lightning in front of his chest!
"Shadow Clone Jutsu!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three figures identical to him appeared in a puff of smoke. The sudden draining of most of his Chakra made his vision go black, his face pale as paper. The clones' figures had an unstable transparency, clearly not meant to last long.
"Qian!" Ron's main body roared, his gaze piercing through the confusion towards the Slytherin table entrance. The black-haired girl instantly looked up, all playfulness vanished from her eyes, replaced only by cold efficiency.
"Help Fali evacuate everyone to the Dungeons," Ron's command was decisive, each word cutting through the clamor. "I'll be back soon." And your gifts.
"Yes!" Uchiha Qian's voice was crisp and clear. Wand in hand, she used it as a baton. She immediately turned and began loudly directing the confused students.
Without further delay, Ron's main body and the three clones shot off like four dark arrows, speeding in different directions across the castle!
Stairs whirled under his feet, corridors blurred into shadows beside him. Every turn was empty, with only his own heartbeat and increasingly rapid breathing thundering in his ears. Chakra let out a dry wail in his meridians, and the images of the clones popped one after another like soap bubbles beside him. Finally, only his own heavy footsteps echoed on the cold stone stairs leading to the second floor.
Just as he rushed onto the second-floor landing, his heart about to shatter his ribs—
"Help! Is anyone there?!"
That voice! It was Hermione! Hoarse, desperate, coming from the direction of the girls' lavatory at the end of the corridor! Closely followed by a deafening, terrifying explosion, like a huge stone smashing glass!
"Hermione!"
Ron's figure left a trail of afterimages as he rounded the corridor, his lungs burning. The intensely nauseating stench of decay almost materialized, suffocating his nose and mouth. At the end of his vision, the Troll's massive, ugly gray body, like a moving mountain of rotting flesh, almost completely blocked the lavatory entrance!
Sharingan instantly activated, his crimson vision like a cold searchlight, rapidly scanning the battlefield: the slippery, reflective tiled floor, old copper pipes hanging from the ceiling, high-hanging glass lamp shades suspended by thick iron chains... A tactical blueprint formed in his mind in a flash of lightning—use the slippery floor to create a water barrier, then conduct electricity with Lightning Release... "Bang—CRASH!!!"
A terrifying explosion, far louder than imagined, erupted!
The Troll's giant, filth-covered club, imbued with a furious force that could split mountains, smashed violently onto the marble sink at the lavatory entrance! The entire countertop shattered and disintegrated like thin ice struck by a giant hammer!
Countless sharp fragments of white porcelain, mixed with crumbling stone, shot out in all directions! The dense sound of shattering instantly drowned out Hermione's near-breakdown scream from inside the lavatory!
Time seemed frozen for a frame by that tremendous sound.
The next instant, Ron's vision was completely engulfed!
It wasn't the scorching heat of flames; it was a cold, viscous, rust-smelling crimson! This red didn't come from outside, but erupted from the deepest parts of his meridians, from within every single cell! The single tomoe that had been slowly rotating in his eyes, in this crimson sea of blood, seemed like glass unable to withstand the pressure.
"Ding!—" Two-Tomoe Sharingan activated!
"Look at me—!"
A roar saturated with Chakra, as if substantial, actually pierced through the Troll's wild bellow!
The Troll's immense head twisted sharply. Its huge, bloodshot, primitively violent eyes instantly focused on Ron's blood-red burning pupils!
Vision connected! Pupil power stabbed in like invisible steel needles!
[Demonic Illusion: False Surroundings Technique]
The Troll's second swing, held high and about to smash down on Hermione's hidden stall inside the lavatory, suddenly twisted at an incredibly bizarre angle in mid-air! Its thick arm muscles bulged and flexed; all its destructive power was forcibly redirected, in a terrifying, mountain-splitting posture, towards its own bald, wrinkled, massive crown—
It slammed down hard!
DONG!!!
A sickening thud, making one's scalp crawl and teeth ache, like a huge, broken drum being beaten. The Troll's massive body suddenly lurched violently, its eyeballs instantly rolled back, and drool mixed with dark red nosebleed gushed from its huge nostrils. Its enormous body swayed, falling into a brief state of dizzy paralysis.
Opportunity!
The moment the Troll stiffened, Ron's figure, like a panther full of coiled power, shot up from the ground! The cracked tiles beneath his feet completely pulverized under the force of his push! His entire body stretched into a straight black line in the air, lunging towards the side of that huge, foul-smelling head!
A cold glint flashed!
The steel kunai, which never left his side, was plunged with all his remaining strength and the momentum of his lunge, precisely and viciously, into the Troll's massive ear canal, bristling with black ear hair!
"Die—!" Ron let out a low, beast-like growl, his wrist infused with all his remaining Chakra, and in the sticky, warm ear canal, he twisted fiercely! He wrenched!
Squish!
Accompanied by a sickening thud of some viscous substance being thoroughly pulverized.
The Troll's enormous body, like a giant skin sack from which all bones had been removed, collapsed with a crash! Foul, murky dark red blood mixed with grayish-white fragments of brain matter surged out of its shattered ear canal and mouth and nose like a bursting mudslide, instantly spreading across the cold, smooth tiled floor, quickly submerging the tips of Hermione's shoes, which were huddled in the corner of the stall, still trembling slightly.
The heavy corpse crashed to the ground, emitting a final dull thud that shook dust from the ceiling.
Ron fell heavily to one knee on the cold, filthy floor, the last ounce of strength completely drained from his body. His throat suddenly felt sweet, and a burning, rusty taste welled up in his mouth. His vision was rapidly consumed by spinning darkness, and a sharp ringing in his ears felt like countless needles pricking him. In the instant before his consciousness plunged completely into the abyss, his blurry vision caught—
Hermione was struggling to lift her small face, pale as paper and covered in dust and tear streaks, from the rubble accumulated after the sink's collapse. Her usually bright, sharp brown eyes were now filled with the terror of a recent shock, the disbelief of astonishment, and a hint of something extremely complex that he couldn't immediately decipher.
A small hand, stained with fresh blood, was futilely, tremblingly, reaching out from the cracks in the rubble towards the direction where he had fallen... Darkness completely swallowed him. The world fell silent, leaving only the strong smell of blood in his nostrils.
—
"Merlin's beard..." Harry gasped, his voice caught in his throat. He and Ron had practically scrambled to the scene, and the hellish sight before them instantly petrified them.
The Troll's mountain-like corpse lay in a pool of blood and brain matter, its stench overwhelming. Ron lay motionless in the filth, his face as pale as a ghost, with glaring bloodstains remaining at the corners of his mouth. Half of Hermione's body was still buried in the shattered sink's rubble, dust and blood smeared across her face and robes, and the only exposed hand, its fingertips pointing towards where Ron had fallen, twitched slightly.
A huge wave of fear and guilt struck Ron's heart like the Troll's club; his legs went weak, and he nearly knelt down. "H-Hermione..." he stammered, his voice trembling uncontrollably, "I... I take back what I said... I'm sorry! I'm really sorry!" He practically shouted, his blue eyes filled with lingering fear and genuine panic.
Hermione's gaze finally shifted from Ron's face for a moment, sweeping over Ron's face, which was etched with terror. A few seconds of deathly silence, only her heavy breaths were exceptionally clear in the bloody air.
"...Help me," her voice was hoarse like sandpaper rubbing, every word costing her all her strength, "take him to the Hospital Wing."
Ron and Harry awoke as if from a dream, fumbling to help Ron. Professor McGonagall and Snape arrived almost simultaneously like two black whirlwinds. Professor McGonagall gasped at the horrific sight before her, her lips instantly losing all color. Snape, however, strode quickly to Ron's side, his black robes billowing, and he crouched down, two pale fingers quickly resting on Ron's wrist, his brow instantly furrowing into a tight knot.
"Not magical exhaustion..." His low voice carried a rare hint of solemnity, as if he were discerning some extremely unfamiliar and dangerous aura, "some kind of... power, severely overdrawn—completely used up." His gaze sharply swept over Ron's closed eyes, "It was those eyes that caused it."
Madam Pomfrey directed a floating stretcher, carefully placing the unconscious Ron onto it. Hermione refused assistance, gritting her teeth, and shakily climbed out of the rubble herself, covered in dust and grime, blood still oozing from where her palm had been cut by broken porcelain. Her gaze never left the lifeless face on the stretcher.
—
The cold scent of disinfectant, unique to the Hospital Wing, permeated the air. Pale moonlight streamed diagonally from the high windows, casting a clear glow beside Ron's sleeping bed. Here, it was so quiet one could hear the faint sound of medicine dripping in the IV bottle.
Hermione stubbornly sat on the cold wooden chair, her back ramrod straight, refusing to rest. Madam Pomfreysighed, leaving a small lamp, and acquiesced to her persistence. In the lamplight, the bloodstains and dust on Ron's face looked like a grotesque map. Hermione picked up a clean piece of gauze, soaked in warm water, her movements as light as if touching a thin sheet of ice that could shatter at any moment. She carefully wiped the congealed blood from his temple, the skin beneath her fingertips cold.
"I shouldn't have doubted you."
Hermione felt for the first time like a princess rescued by a Prince Charming, only the tide of regret overwhelmed the princess's heart.
Just then, she noticed Ron's left hand, which was hanging outside the white bedsheet. Even in a deep coma, that hand was still clenched tightly at his waist, his knuckles turning bluish-white from excessive force. Something was clutched in his palm.
Hermione's heart suddenly tightened. She held her breath, extended her own hand with its small wounds, and gently yet firmly placed it over his hand. The touch was cold and stiff. She carefully, one by one, pried open his tightly clasped fingers. The cold and resistant force made her eyes inexplicably warm. She used great patience and strength, her fingertips trembling slightly.
Finally, his clenched palm was forcibly opened.
Under the lamplight, a warm yellow magic bag lay quietly in his palm.
Hermione looked at his warm blood staining her fingertips, then at the blood-stained magic bag in his palm, motionless.
"What's inside? He's protecting it so desperately; the candy bag I gave him isn't even this treasured." Hermione pouted, the suppressed feeling of grievance welling up again.
"Ron is the worst Slytherin."
In her utmost grievance, Hermione merely poked Ron's cheek with her fingertip.
"Meow—"
At the edge of the windowsill, a subtle sound broke the dead silence. A ginger-colored, fluffy, flat-faced tabby cat, Crookshanks, had silently crouched there at some unknown time. Its amber vertical pupils gleamed with a strange light in the darkness, staring intently, without blinking, at the unconscious boy on the bed and the girl beside him.
The door was silently pushed open a crack, and Dumbledore's tall figure quietly appeared. "Young love is indeed vibrant."
"He needs rest, Miss Granger," Dumbledore's voice was as gentle as a night breeze, yet carried an undeniable power, "and so do you." He stroked Hermione's head, his kind smile seeming to say, "He will be fine."
"Perhaps you could try opening that bag; there might be something he wanted to secretly give you. Oh, and that adorable little cat." Leaving only this meaningful remark, his silver-white long beard gently swayed in the moonlight, and his figure silently retreated, as if he had never appeared.
The Hospital Wing fell silent once more. Only the sound of the IV drip, and Crookshanks, with the characteristic steps of a small cat, jumped into Hermione's arms.
A long night it was; perhaps only Crookshanks could offer a touch of warmth.
(I wrote a bit more this time, so please don't scold me for adding extra words... Some darlings said my style is too AI-like, but AI can't capture the feeling I want, darling, what you see is basically every word typed out by me. I started writing this novel because the ones I read weren't satisfying enough, and I hope darlings can enjoy it even if they only read one chapter.)
Chapter 33: Healed? Or the beginning of something worse?
The smell of disinfectant in the Hospital Wing, mixed with the morning light, was chillingly sharp. Madam Pomfrey, with a stern face, placed a bottle of purple potion on the bedside table, the glass bottom clinking crisply.
"Five drops, morning and night, mixed with water." Her sharp gaze swept over Rong's pale face. "If I find you pushing yourself to cough up blood again, I'll tie you to the bed until the Christmas holiday! Bone-healing spells aren't omnipotent, you brat!"
The door closed behind her. Silence flowed back, leaving only the faint shimmer of the liquid in the bottle. Hermionesat on the hard wooden chair by the bed, her fingers repeatedly twisting the edge of her robe, the fabric forming deep creases. Ten days' worth of words clogged her throat, eager to burst out.
"You…" She had just opened her mouth when her voice caught. Her gaze fixed on Rong's bandaged wrist, where a faint dark red seeped through. "…Does it hurt?"
Rong shook his head, his eyes scanning the dark circles under her eyes. "How long have you been watching?"
"Not long." Hermione quickly turned her face away, staring at the scuffed toe of her shoe. "Madam Pomfrey tried to make me leave, but I… I said I was the person you saved, so I should at least stay and look after you." Her voice grew softer and softer, her ear tips turning red.
Silence spread again, but it was no longer tense.
"Ron Weasley," Hermione suddenly began, with a near-accusatory grievance, "in Charms class, I merely corrected him that the accent for 'Wingardium Leviosa' is on '-o-sa'! And he just…" She took a deep breath, mimicking Ron's flushed-face tone at the time, "'Oh, for goodness sake, Miss Know-It-All! Can't you shut up for a minute?'" Her fingers unconsciously scratched at her knee. "Later… later in the corridor, he actually told Harry… he said, 'No wonder she hasn't got any friends.'" The last few words were as light as a sigh, carrying the lingering tremor of being stung.
Rong's knuckles tightened slightly under the covers, the wound under the bandage throbbing faintly.
"And then you ran to the second-floor girls' bathroom to cry?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
Hermione suddenly looked up, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on: "Who cried! I… I just got dust in my eye!" She jutted out her neck, but her eyes quickly reddened. "And… and you were nowhere to be seen for ten days!
You were the fastest to run to eat, you didn't go to the library, and after Charms class, you left like your tail was on fire! I thought… I thought…"
She bit her lower lip, swallowing back the words "I thought you hated me" and replacing them with a more surging grievance,
"I thought Dumbledore sent you on some terribly dangerous secret mission, and you couldn't even leave a note!"
Rong looked at her, bristling and holding back tears, and the hostility in his chest, stirred by Ron, strangely dissipated. He remembered her trembling hand reaching out to him before the Troll's club smashed down.
"You're so silly. If I hated you, I wouldn't have beaten Nedand the others to a pulp."
Hermione's eyes showed a cute blankness, and Rong smiled gently, pointing to his eyes: "These eyes can see through people's hearts."
Hermione snorted and turned her head away, her flushed cheeks revealing her good mood.
"No secret mission," he said in a low voice, his gaze falling on a corner of light green fabric peeking out from her robe pocket. "Professor Snape played a trick on me.
He used the timing of the school leave passes to make me free labor."
He paused, then added, "I spent over a week there, and in the end, Dumbledore had to take me out to buy things."
"Oh, by the way, have you seen that bag? It has the birthday present I got for you to make up for it!" Rong sat up, took the bag, and pulled out the custom-made long dress. "Does it look good? Happy Birthday, Hermione—though it's a bit late."
Hermione's anger deflated like a pricked balloon. She stared at him blankly, ten days of suspicion, grievance, and fear crumbling with this simple explanation.
So… it was just to buy a present? For… her?
"Then… then you still shouldn't have…" She tried to continue her accusation, but her voice softened, with a hint of a sniffle she didn't even notice,
"…not even a note. I thought… I thought your heart had been taken by something…" Her voice grew softer and softer, eventually becoming almost a mumble.
"Hmm? What did you say?" Rong didn't hear clearly.
"No, nothing! Oh, look at this little cat! It was waiting for me on the windowsill last night! I'm going to call it Crookshanks!" Hermione used the cat to cover her face, and the cat, serving as a fig leaf, tilted its head, meowed, and gave up struggling.
"Um… you didn't have a pet, did you… so…" Speaking to the cat, Rong also became a bit shy.
Hermione's eyes welled up again: "Thank you… Rong."
"Cough…" Rong's throat tickled again, and a muffled cough burst out. He quickly turned his head, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. When he opened it, there was a startling spot of bright red in his palm.
Hermione gasped, all her minor emotions instantly submerged by panic. "Madam Pomfrey!" She jumped up, about to rush out.
"Come back!" Rong's voice held an undeniable force, though it was hoarse. "…It's nothing. Just a minor issue." He looked at the blood in his palm, his brow slightly furrowed. Am I that weak? No, a man can't say he's weak… Hermionefroze by the bed, staring at the red, her heart feeling squeezed. She slowly sat back in the chair and carefully poured out two crystalline mints from the light green cloth bag—an old candy bag she had pilfered from Rong's pocket—placing them on a clean piece of gauze and pushing them towards Rong.
"Suck on these," her voice was dry, with an almost imperceptible tremor, "your throat will feel better… Next time I go to the kitchens, I'll ask the house-elves to make new ones. They… they quite like me now."
She remembered the sparkling, wide eyes in the kitchen, so excited by a simple "Please help."
Rong looked at the two cool green candies on the gauze, then at Hermione's face, which tried to be calm but couldn't hide her worry.
He picked one up and put it in his mouth.
The familiar cool, slightly bitter taste instantly spread across his tongue, suppressing the metallic sweetness and burning in his throat.
"Harry," he suddenly spoke, breaking the silence, "Professor McGonagall gave him a broom?"
At the mention of this, Hermione's spirits lifted a little, but her brow remained furrowed: "A Nimbus 2000! Right after that Flying Lessons—Neville broke his wrist, Malfoysnatched his Remembrall and threw it, Harry went after it, and then you guys beat up Malfoy… He flew… it was as if he'd never touched a broom before! Professor McGonagall's face went white when she rushed in, we all thought Harry was going to be expelled… but she just took him away!"
Hermione's tone was filled with incredulity, "When Harrycame back, he was holding that broom and said he was Gryffindor's Seeker! Wood, the Quidditch Captain, was so happy he almost throttled him!"
She paused, her small face etched with disapproval: "It's too risky! He's only a first-year! And Quidditch is so dangerous, and Professor Snape still…" She abruptly stopped, casting a wary glance at the door, lowering her voice,
"…Professor Snape's gaze on Harry, every practice, it's like he wants to stare a hole through his broom! Ron says he definitely has ill intentions."
Rong said nothing, just slowly sucked on the candy. The icy mint flavor spread in his mouth, while outside the door in the corridor, the faint rustle of robes sweeping against stone could be heard, fading from near to far.
Just then, the door was gently pushed open. "Hermione? Is Rong feeling better? Um… Ron wants to apologize to you." As Harry's voice drifted in, Hermione's smile couldn't help but fall.
"Forget it, let him in. I'd love to hear what 'no wonder she hasn't got any friends' means!"
Outside the door, a drop of cold sweat trickled down Ron's forehead, and he frantically shook his red hair. Who would want to confront the furious Uchiha Rong, the Obscurus, the Prefect, the one who fought the Prefect to a draw, face-to-face?!
Unfortunately, he was still dragged in by Harry.
"Hermione… I, I apologize to you, I shouldn't have spoken so carelessly… I understand you were kindly correcting my pronunciation, and we'll always be friends!" The little redhead finally stumbled through his apology.
Enveloped by Harry's helplessness and Rong's anger, the little redhead was dripping with cold sweat. Hermione let out a sigh: "Forget it, it's not the first time you've spoken without thinking.
But, Mr. Weasley, if you talk nonsense again," Hermionewaved her small fist, "I'll have Rong hang you in Malfoy's dormitory!"
Rong rubbed his forehead helplessly. The little witchcouldn't even threaten properly. What would she do in the future…
The Great Hall was filled with the golden light of the luncheon and the aroma of food. Dumbledore's light tap of his silver fork against his goblet had a magical quality, instantly silencing all the clamor.
"In between enjoying your delicious food," his clear blue eyes swept across the hall, finally landing on the near end of the Slytherin table, "please allow me to applaud a student for his extraordinary courage."
He smiled at Rong. "In last night's unfortunate incident, Uchiha Rong displayed calmness and strength beyond his years, protecting his classmates. For this, Slytherin—"
At the bottom of the emerald hourglass, the green gems surged upwards as if lifted by an unseen hand, steadily increasing by thirty.
"—thirty points!"
Applause and whistles instantly erupted, especially loud from the Gryffindor side, where Hermione clapped until her palms were red. The Slytherin table offered polite, restrained applause, Malfoy's lips twitched, and his clapping was as perfunctory as dusting.
Before the applause died down, Professor McGonagall had risen abruptly, her black robes swirling. "Courage is commendable," her voice, like the cold wind of the Scottish Highlands, swept through every corner, "but life is no game!"
Her gaze, sharp as a sword behind her spectacles, pierced Rong. "Any student encountering a dangerous creature similar to last night's, the only correct choice is to immediately withdraw and report to the nearest Professorat once!
Any act of heroism is an extreme irresponsibility to one's own life and the lives of others! Is that clear?"
"Clear, Professor." Sparse responses rang out.
"Hmph." A clear scoff came from the teachers' table. Professor Snape methodically cut his steak, his gleaming silver knife precisely avoiding a piece of dark red, rather peculiar-looking meat.
He didn't lift his head, his voice not loud but audible to several nearby tables: "It seems some people consider the Hospital Wing a stage for personal heroism, and they never tire of it."
He forked a piece of meat but did not bring it to his mouth, merely staring at the dark red cut surface, his eyes obscure.
Rong lowered his head and took a sip of pumpkin juice, the familiar tickle in his throat surging up again. He forcefully suppressed it, his knuckles turning slightly white from the effort.
Xian was the first to notice Rong's discomfort: "Are you alright, Rong?"
Rong waved his hand, signaling he was fine.
At the other end of the teachers' table, Professor Quirrellstammered in agreement with Dumbledore's words, but under the shadow of his large turban, his gaze, like a cold snake, silently glided over Dumbledore and Harry, then quickly disappeared.
Chapter 34: The First Signs of Blood Disease
In the Slytherin Dungeons common room, the flickering flames in the fireplace cast distorted shadows on the obsidian walls, yet they brought Rong no warmth.
The boisterous feast had long since ended, and only scattered whispers and the rustling of parchment remained in the common room.
Rong leaned back in a high-backed, dark green velvet armchair, his brows tightly furrowed.
On the low table in front of him sat a glass of clear water, into which Madam Pomfrey's pungent purple Potion had just been dripped. The Potion dissolved instantly, staining the entire glass of water an ominous deep violet.
"Drinking it really won't kill me, right?"
He picked up the glass and gulped it down. The Potion slid down his throat, bringing a strong burning sensation, followed by a brief and false relief, as if a layer of ice had temporarily sealed away the restless itch.
However, this calm did not last long.
A hot, bloody gush surged up from deep within his chest without warning, more violently than ever before. Rong clutched his mouth, and a violent cough erupted uncontrollably, his entire body convulsing with it. He could feel his fingers quickly becoming warm and sticky.
"It's not actually poisonous, is it?" Jokes aside, Madam Pomfrey would never give poison to a young Wizard. Then it could only be… "Prefect?" Xian, who was sitting not far away, reading a thick book, looked up almost instantly, a solemn expression flashing across her face. She put down her book and hurried over.
Rong waved his hand, signaling her not to make a sound, but the violent coughing prevented him from speaking.
The dark red between his fingers had already seeped out, and under the eerie green light of the fireplace, the blood appeared exceptionally deep, almost black.
Xian's eyes were sharp. Without hesitation, she immediately took out a slender silver needle.
"Bear with it. This will make you feel better." She knelt down, moving so fast it almost left afterimages, and the silver needle accurately pierced a certain acupoint on Rong's neck, while her other hand gently pressed on the Veins (meridian) of his wrist.
"Don't resist." Xian's voice was extremely low, carrying an undeniable sense of command. She closed her eyes and concentrated, her fingertips' Chakra carefully probing into Rong's body through his skin.
Rong endured the coughing and the stinging sensation of his meridians being probed by an external force, cooperating by relaxing his body.
He could feel Xian's Chakra, like the most precise probe, moving along his Chakra meridians, which had not fully recovered after depletion, focusing on the visceral areas.
After a few breaths, Xian suddenly opened her eyes, and for the first time, a turbulent storm raged in her usually calm eyes.
"Cough… cough, cough…" Rong finally managed to suppress this bout of coughing and opened his tightly clenched hand.
His palm was a striking dark red, and in the center of the sticky bloodstain, there were a few extremely tiny, almost imperceptible flocculent substances, like… dissolved tissue fragments.
"Xian…?" Rong's voice was hoarse, and looking at the bloodstains in his palm and Xian's ominous gaze, his heart sank suddenly.
He was not completely unaware of his own abnormality; it was just that his previous energy had been spent on the Troll incident and comforting Hermione. Now, Xian's reaction confirmed his worst fears.
"Bloodline Disease." Xian's voice carried an indescribable sadness. She quickly put away the silver needle and firmly pressed a clean white cloth against Rong's bleeding palm, with such force that her knuckles turned white.
"How could… this happen to you… I see, Chakra depletion is the trigger, but the root cause… is talent."
Just then, the heavy stone door of the common room was gently pushed open.
A Slytherin first-year—Bulstrode, the boy whom Rong had helped in Charms class and who had since been exceptionally respectful to Rong—stood at the doorway, pale-faced, followed by Professor Snape, clad in black robes, his aura as oppressive as the eye of a storm.
Bulstrode was clearly terrified, her voice trembling: "Rong… Prefect Rong just coughed very badly, and… and coughed up blood! So I… I went to call the Head of House…" She finished and shrank to one side, not daring to look again.
"…Thank you." Rong accepted this kindness speechlessly; he was clearly not ready to disclose everything.
Snape strode in, his black robes stirring a chill wind.
His hawk-like gaze instantly locked onto the dark red in Rong's palm and the blood-stained white cloth, then swept over Xian's face, which had not yet fully shed its solemn expression, finally settling on Rong's face, which was as pale as paper and covered in cold sweat.
"It seems our 'hero's' curtain call is even more spectacular than anticipated."
Snape's voice was low and cold, carrying his usual sarcasm, but upon closer listening, there was a subtle tension.
He stepped forward, grabbing Rong's wrist without a word. His movement seemed rough, but his fingers were exceptionally precise when they touched the pulse.
The cold fingertips touched his skin, and Rong subconsciously tried to pull his hand back, but it was held firmly by the other's iron-like grip.
Snape's brow furrowed deeper. His Potion Master's intuition told him that this was no simple lung injury or magic backlash.
The pulse was abnormally chaotic, at times sluggish like a clogged muddy pond, at other times rapid like a bowstring about to snap, and a sense of decay, seemingly deep in the bone marrow, subtly emanated.
"Come to my office." Snape released his hand, his tone leaving no room for argument, "Immediately." He turned and walked away, his black robes billowing, leaving the echo of his command in the cold air… The Potion laboratory was filled with the scent of medicinal herbs, each one valuable. Cauldrons quietly bubbled on magic flames, and shelves were filled with liquids of strange colors and shriveled magical plant specimens.
Snape, like a precise machine, swiftly retrieved materials from various storage cabinets.
Moonstone powder, fine down from a Phoenix feather, Unicorn blood crystals… a series of precious and even dangerous materials were placed on the experimental bench.
"How much would this cost…" Snape glared fiercely at Rong.
He first took a pinch of moonstone powder, shimmering with a cool, moonlit glow, and put it into a glass of pure water, then carefully dripped a drop of the blood sample taken from Rong's cough into it.
"Hiss—"
A soft sound, like cold water dripping into hot oil.
The moment the dark red blood touched the moonstone solution, it did not diffuse as usual; instead, it violently contracted and condensed like a living thing, instantly turning into a small clump of lifeless, dull gray precipitate that sank to the bottom of the glass.
The clear liquid in the glass instantly became turbid.
Snape's pupils suddenly constricted. This wasn't rejection, it was… consumption? Or rather… annihilation?
His face was as still as water, and he immediately moved on to the next experiment.
A fine Phoenix feather down was dropped into a cauldron, and special stabilizers were added and boiled.
When a golden-red mist, carrying the aura of nirvana, rose from the cauldron, Snape again dripped a drop of Rong's blood.
This time, the scene was even more bizarre.
The dark red blood dripped into the golden-red mist, like oil into water, distinctly separate. The blood churned and struggled in the mist, and a layer of withered hard shell quickly condensed on its surface, while the golden-red mist was forcibly repelled, unable to touch it in the slightest, forming a clear isolation zone.
Snape's face completely darkened. Rejection? And such a strong, fundamental rejection?
He was silent for a moment, a hint of determination flashing in his eyes.
He took out a small, translucent Unicorn blood crystal, like a ruby, and placed it in a specially made glass dish engraved with protective runes. Then, he very carefully dripped the last drop of Rong's blood onto the crystal.
"Buzz…"
A low hum, as if from ancient times, sounded. The Unicornblood crystal instantly erupted with a pure, sacred white light, a light imbued with strong purification and life energy.
However, when this light touched that drop of dark red blood—
"Crack!"
With a crisp sound, a clear crack rippled across the glass dish without warning!
The Unicorn blood crystal in the dish vibrated violently, and the pure white light was like ink poured into it, instantly stained with a foul, dark gray, then emitted a grating "sizzle" sound,
A foul-smelling black smoke rose from its surface, quickly dimming, disintegrating, and turning into a small clump of ominous gray-black filth!
"Bang!" Snape slammed his fist hard on the experimental bench, startling Rong, who was dozing off nearby, instantly awake. He stared intently at the filth in the dish, his chest heaving violently, his eyes filled with shock, anger, and a solemn gravity in the face of an unknown threat.
His Potions, on which he relied and took pride in, were so powerless before this strange blood!
Consumption, rejection, disintegration… The existing magical Potion system seemed to be helpless against this bizarre bloodline-originated illness!
The laboratory fell into a dead silence, with only the faint gurgling of the Potion boiling in the cauldron. The oppressive atmosphere was almost solidified.
Snape slowly turned around, his deep black eyes like daggers tempered in ice, fixed firmly on Rong and Xian, his voice terribly low:
"Explain. Or would you prefer that I prepare a coffin directly for this 'hero'?"
His venomous tongue, accompanied by that icy pressure, descended like a mountain.
Rong felt the sweet, metallic taste in his throat surge again. He forcefully suppressed it, meeting Snape's eyes, which seemed to penetrate everything. Xian stood beside him, her body slightly tensed, but her gaze was exceptionally firm.
Rong took a deep breath, his voice tinged with helplessness and a strange calm: "Professor… this isn't a curse, nor is it an ordinary illness. This is deep within our bloodline… innate.
magic… or rather, the power system as you understand it, seems to be fundamentally incompatible with it." He struggled to choose his words, trying to avoid any trace of being a "transmigrator."
Xian spoke immediately after, her voice clear and cold, supplementing the partial knowledge from her clan's secret scrolls: "The clan records call it 'Bloodline Disease.'
Once it erupts, it will accelerate its erosion with the use of power, especially through overexertion.
In the early stages… it's just blurred vision, burning internal organs, and coughing up blood with flocculent matter. In the middle stages… meridians bulge, bones become brittle. Finally…"
She paused, seemingly recalling some forbidden descriptions, her voice even lower, "…the bloodline fire burns out, and the body… from the inside out… disintegrates into dust."
Describing the desperate end of a genius, sadness showed in Xian's eyes.
"I'm not dead yet!" Rong, on the other hand, was quite relaxed, even having the presence of mind to give Xian a playful tap on the head.
Snape's pupils, upon hearing "disintegrates into dust," contracted imperceptibly.
He remained silent, his gaze moving between Rong's pale, bloodless face, the jade piece in Xian's hand that was filled with gray-black threads, and the three failed Potions on the experimental bench, symbolizing "consumption," "rejection," and "disintegration."
The cold air in the Potion laboratory seemed to solidify, with only the occasional crackle of the fireplace and the suppressed breathing of the three of them.
After what felt like an eternity, Snape slowly spoke, his voice still cold, but with less of its usual biting edge and more of a searching solemnity: "…A bloodline curse?"
His long fingers unconsciously tapped on the edge of the experimental bench, the rhythm like someone analyzing an extremely complex Potion formula.
Finally, he let out a cold snort, and with a flick of his robe, a small, unlabeled vial containing a viscous purple-black liquid was accurately tossed into Rong's lap.
"Once a week. Take before bed." Snape turned his back, walking towards his private storage cabinet, his voice resuming its usual sarcasm, "Don't expect it to cure your damned illness, genius.
Its only purpose is to make what you cough up temporarily look like human blood, and not sewage. To save Madam Pomfrey from overreacting, and to save… me from having to collect your corpse prematurely."
He paused, without turning around, his voice a few shades lower, "If you don't want to die faster, control that foolish heart of yours that always wants to be a hero."
Rong held the purple-black Potion, which was cold to the touch and emitted a strange grassy, bloody smell with a faint bitterness, looking at Snape's straight yet strangely solitary back.
He knew that this Potion, primarily made from snake venom wood (evening primrose?), was by no means as simple and useless as the Professor claimed.
This was perhaps the Potion Master's compromise and attempt at the unknown "Bloodline Disease" within the existing magical system.
The cost, perhaps, was the intensified burning pain in his meridians.
"Thank you, Professor." Rong said softly, his voice quiet but clearly echoing in the silent laboratory.
He was never someone who couldn't distinguish right from wrong, and Snape's concern was enough to be etched into his decades of memories.
Snape did not respond. He opened a heavy oak cabinet engraved with protective magic runes, his figure disappearing into the cabinet. Rong and Xian quietly exited the office.
"Rong, what are you going to do?"
Rong smiled slightly, his gaze directed towards Gryffindor Tower. "Snape won't watch me die. He appreciates me and acknowledges me as his student.
At least… I'll pretend for another semester. I can't let Hermione worry…"
Rong withdrew his gaze and closed his eyes wearily.
At the edge of his right eye's vision, that persistent gray haze seemed to have expanded in the darkness, like a spreading shadow of death.
"'The fate of a genius'… It's quite tricky…"
Chapter 35 Turning Point
The Slytherin Dungeons's morning was as cold and damp as water soaked from the Black Lake.
The fire in the fireplace had long since died out, flickering dimly. He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the serpentine carvings on the distant archway.
The edge of his right eye seemed to be covered by frosted glass; the details of the snake's scales were blurry, and its outline was somewhat distorted.
He squeezed his left eye shut, then opened it again. That hazy film stubbornly clung to the corner of his vision, refusing to disappear.
"Tsk, this is annoying," Ron muttered lowly, sitting up. "Why does Chakra exhaustion have to mess with my eyes?"
A burning sensation lingered deep in his chest from the purple-black Potion Professor Snape had given him last night, like hot sand caught in his meridians. Every breath brought a faint, dull ache.
He picked up the plus-version purple Potion from Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape on his bedside table, shaking it against the morning light. "Drinking this should be fine…"
He mumbled self-deprecatingly, but still tilted his head back and gulped it down. The familiar burning sensation slid down his throat, bringing a moment of false calm, temporarily suppressing the restless itch.
In the corner of the common room, the heavy curtains were half-drawn. Qian, Cheng, Lan, and Lin sat around Ron, the atmosphere so heavy you could wring water from it.
Ron didn't waste words, directly spreading the gauze wrapped around the fibrous material he had coughed up last night onto the low table.
"Bloodline illness," Ron's voice was flat, devoid of much emotion, only the unconscious rubbing of his fingertips against the cold Potion bottle betraying a hint of tension.
"The more Chakra you use, the faster you burn through your life.
Don't look at me like that; if the root is in my bloodline, what can I do?"
Qian interjected, her clear, cool voice carrying the heaviness of a healer: "Scattered records within the clan point to the same conclusion: incurable. Once it erupts, it's a countdown.
Power is fuel, and it is also the root of the illness."
Cheng slammed his fist on the armrest of the sofa, the leather letting out a dull thud. "Damn it!" he roared, his eyes red as he lunged at Ron, tears and snot flowing.
"Ron, you can't die! What will we do if you die?!"
Lan's folding fan snapped shut with a 'pa,' his fingertips gripping the fan's ribs until they turned white, a crack appearing on his usually elegant face: "So… Chief, all those reckless fighting styles you used before…" The rest of his words caught in his throat.
Lin said nothing, only looking at the jasmine on the windowsill.
Qian shook her head, her gaze locked on Ron: "The most urgent task is to 'conserve.' Chakra, avoid using it if possible. The Sharingan… must be sealed. Every activation is like adding fuel to a fire."
Ron took a deep breath, suppressing the churning metallic taste in his throat: "There's only one life. Strategic adjustments."
Ron's gaze swept over his companions, "Chakra is poison; magic is the currency here. Use your brains, use your skills, use the environment.
Let's apply those… ahem, tactical thinking methods we learned in the shinobi world to studying magic." He deliberately used a less-than-honorable word to lighten the mood.
"Qian, gather every clue about the bloodline illness, even a casual remark from an elder telling an old tale. Tell us and Professor… If you can't remember, then forget it."
"Lin, plan the routes. If I suddenly cough blood, faint, or… worse, how can you get me away fastest, avoid crowds, and get me to a safe spot or call for help?"
He paused, "A safe spot… that abandoned broom closet near the Dungeons entrance might work."
"Lan, pay attention both inside and outside the school. Those mysterious rumors from pureblood families, black market gossip from Knockturn Alley, any hint that might lead to research on 'strange illnesses.'"
"Don't reveal anything if others ask. If absolutely necessary, blame it on a relapse of old injuries from the Troll attack." Ron looked at Cheng, "Especially you, keep your mouth shut. Don't let Hermione… don't let unrelated people make wild guesses.
I'm a Prefect; I have my pride, okay?"
Cheng stiffened his neck, giving a muffled "Mhm."
Only by living is there a future.
Charms class classroom.
Professor Flitwick's high-pitched voice explained advanced applications of the Levitation Charm.
Ron forced himself to empty his body of any Chakra flow, feeling as if his limbs were bound by invisible ropes, incredibly awkward.
The hazy film in his vision made Professor Flitwick's small figure appear somewhat double-imaged.
He concentrated, pointing his wand at two quill pens, imagining the manipulation of that ethereal "magic."
However, his body felt empty, and the tiny remnants of Chakra instinctively repelled external magic energy.
Only a few pathetic, weak sparks emerged from the tip of his wand; the quills remained motionless.
"Mr. Uchiha?" Professor Flitwick stood on his tiptoes, looking over in confusion, "Concentrate! Keep your wrist steady, and your magic output smooth and continuous!"
Tiny beads of sweat seeped from Ron's forehead. It was from anxiety, and also the backlash from forcibly suppressing his Chakra's instincts, his meridians throbbing faintly. He pressed his lips together, trying again, forcefully flicking his wand!
One of the quills was suddenly yanked by an invisible hand. Instead of floating up, it bounced with a "thwack," violently knocking over an ink bottle on the neighboring desk.
Thick black ink instantly splattered half a robe of a girl in the front row, causing a gasp.
"Oh! How careless!" Professor Flitwick waved his wand: "Scourgify!"
Hermione effortlessly controlled two quills, making them draw elegant arcs in the air, but her brows were tightly furrowed.
She watched Ron's discomfiture, his cold sweat, and his slightly pale fingers. Her unease grew like a rampant vine.
This mistake was too basic, too unlike him. She gripped her wand tightly; he was definitely hiding something from her!
...Potions underground classroom.
The air was filled with the strange smells of various medicinal ingredients. Ron and Cheng were working on a batch of calming Potion, with Ron responsible for the precise cutting of sopophorous beans.
The dimness of his vision blurred the patterns on the beans, and the uncontrollable tremor in his wrist due to the burning sensation lingering from last night's Potion meant that when he cut, the edge of what should have been a perfect diamond-shaped slice was slightly rough.
"Damn it." Ron knew what was coming.
A shadow fell over him. Professor Snape appeared silently behind Ron.
"It seems," a low, silky voice, laced with venomous coldness, like a snake's tongue licking an ear, "the Troll's club not only shattered your precision but also damaged what little reverence you had for Potion ingredients? Zero points!"
With a flick of his robe, the valuable, nearly complete Potion in front of Ron instantly vanished without a trace, not even a wisp of steam left. "Ingredient wastage will be deducted from your allowance. Also, come to my office at noon."
...Ron watched, wide-eyed, as a new Potion, darker, almost inky black, and emitting a more pungent, strange smell of herbs mixed with bitterness, was pushed in front of him.
"This… this isn't…"
"Drink it," Professor Snape's authority was unquestionable.
Ron looked at the ominous liquid, his Adam's apple bobbing. He grabbed the bottle, pulled out the stopper, and a stronger, stranger smell assaulted his nostrils. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and gulped it down!
"Ugh—!" The moment the liquid slid down his throat, Ron felt as if he had swallowed a bottle of sulfuric acid.
From his esophagus to his stomach, an intense burning pain suddenly erupted, stronger than before!
Ron groaned, his body trembling violently. He bent over sharply, his hands gripping the cold tabletop tightly to keep from kneeling. Cold sweat instantly soaked his temples and back, his face as pale as paper, and his vision swam with black spots.
Professor Snape stood by like a statue, his hawk-like eyes recording Ron's every painful reaction:
The amplitude of his body's tremors, the density of his cold sweat, the degree of his pupils' contraction, the frequency of his rapid breathing… His gaunt fingers moved swiftly across the parchment. Yet, the words he spoke remained acerbic:
"It seems this improved version of 'Gutter Cleaner' is remarkably effective? At least it proves that your peculiar, all-repelling bloodline hasn't 'disintegrated' the Potionitself into trash, which is an… interesting discovery, hmm?"
Ron was hunched over, gasping for breath, the burning sensation still raging within him. He managed to lift his head, forcing a truly ugly, pain-distorted smile, his voice hoarse:
"…Thank… thank you, Professor… for… the powerful cleaner." Every word carried a gritted-teeth "gratitude."
Professor Snape let out a cold huff from his nose, and with a flick of his robe, a small bottle of ordinary, faintly mint-scented soothing agent was tossed onto the table.
"Get out. Same time next week. Be late," he leaned in, his voice low, with a cold, almost cursed meaning, "and I'll have Miss Granger go to the Hospital Wing to collect… the half-dissolved fragments of your robes for you."
"Do I really have to kick the bucket this quickly…?" Fortunately, the mumbling didn't reach Professor Snape's ears.
Ron grabbed the bottle of antidote like a lifeline, stumbling out of the suffocating office.
The cold air of the corridor filled his lungs, finally alleviating some of the discomfort in his body.
—Library Corner—
Beneath the tall bookshelves, Ron slumped in a hard wooden chair, his back pressed against his sweat-soaked clothes, feeling icy cold.
He twisted open the antidote Professor Snape had given him and cautiously took a sip.
"This stuff tastes awful," Ron muttered, popping a mint into his mouth. "Seriously, it's still terrible even with candy."
Painful expression.jpg
The coolness of the mint temporarily suppressed the burning sensation in his throat, but the lingering burning pain aftershocks in his meridians were still subtly at play, making his fingers tremble uncontrollably.
Fatigue washed over him like a tide.
Soft footsteps approached. Hermione, carrying a stack of thick books, quietly sat in the empty seat next to him. She didn't speak immediately, simply placing her books gently on the table.
Silence spread between them, broken only by the occasional rustle of turning pages. Ron wanted to speak too, but the uncontrollable itch in his throat had to be suppressed.
Finally, Hermione took a deep breath, as if she had made up her mind. She opened her thick, worn-edged Transfiguration notebook, turned to a fresh page, and pushed it in front of Ron.
Ron's pupils constricted slightly.
On that page, there were no notes. Only lines of clear, elegant handwriting, calmly recording:
> *Charms class (11.6): Levitation Charm out of control, quill pen sent ink bottle flying. Professor Flitwick puzzled.*
> *Transfiguration Class (11.6): Button turned into a brooch, pattern blurry and edges dark, Professor McGonagall severely criticized and deducted points.*
> *Quidditch pitch (11.7): When Harry dived uncontrollably, Ron instantly clutched his chest and froze, his face pale, his eyes filled with terror (towards Harry? towards himself?).*
> *After Potion Class (11.8): Steps unsteady when returning to the Dungeons, leaning against the wall, looking extremely unwell.*
Below the records, Hermione wrote a line in slightly larger, forceful script:
"Stop saying you're fine. I can see it."
Oh no, Miss Know-It-All knows everything.
Her fingertip tapped on the line of text, then lifted, pointing to her own eyes, and then slowly, firmly, pointed at Ron.
Her lips were pressed into a stubborn straight line, and her brown eyes, always full of intelligent light, were now filled with suppressed trembling, deep worry, and a hint of… almost hidden by stubbornness, a cautious plea.
"Ron," her voice was very low, as if afraid of shattering something, choked, "tell me."
Hmm… should I tell her I'm going to kick the bucket soon? That there's nothing I can do? Or should I tell her a clumsy lie like "I'm transferring schools"?
No. Absolutely not. At least… not now, not this way.
He remembered Itachi's relief before his death in Naruto. Should I try to replicate Mr. Uchiha's actions? Forget it, at least I can't let Hermione hate me like his brother did.
Ron closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, the ripple in his eyes had been forcibly suppressed.
He tried hard to pull the corners of his mouth upwards, attempting to mimic his usual mischievous smirk, but it only formed a tired yet intimate faint smile.
"Full marks for observation, Hermione." He reached out a finger and gently tapped the recorded page, his fingertip cold. "Too bad, I'm not telling you. Maybe when you're older, I'll tell you the truth."
I'll keep it from her for now; a little girl's bewilderment is always better than an adult witch's sorrow. He propped himself up on the table, his body swaying from weakness and the forced exertion.
"Just Professor Snape's 'new Potion recipe experience'," he said, deliberately in a light tone, as if discussing a terrible-tasting pumpkin juice, "It won't kill anyone. Don't worry."
He turned, his back straight, yet exuding an indescribable sense of desolate solitude.
Hermione
"Fine." A single syllable squeezed out from between her clenched teeth. "If you won't tell me, I'll ask your friends! One of them is bound to crack under my questions!"
She snatched her backpack, her movements so forceful she almost knocked over the chair, and without even looking in the direction Ron had disappeared, she straightened her back and rushed out with quick, hurried steps.
Ron listened to the rapidly fading footsteps, his body finally unable to stop trembling slightly. The familiar sweet, metallic taste surged up in his throat, accompanied by a burning sensation.
He bit down hard on the soft flesh inside his mouth; a bloody taste spread, and with all his might, he swallowed back the surging blood and the explosive emotions in his chest.
"Damn it, I will live!"
Hatred and love merged in his eyes, like a declaration of war against fate.
At the edge of his right eye's vision, the gray haze seemed to have thickened and expanded by another circle.
The constantly spreading shadow of death pressed down heavily… Late night.
Only the crackling of flames remained in the Slytherincommon room. Ron, Xian, Cheng, Lan, and Lin sat in a circle, the atmosphere even more somber than during the morning meeting.
"You mean, you told them everything?" Ron looked at Cheng, feeling that this person's presence somehow worsened his condition.
Cheng looked innocent: "Did I say I didn't hear your letter yesterday?"
The four of them: … "Forget it, she'll find out sooner or later." Ron's feelings were mixed; what a mess… The strategy for "saving" was set, but where was the path to "living"? The Bloodline Illness was like a sharp blade hanging over Ron's head, threatening to take his life at any moment.
In the oppressive silence, only the licking sound of the fireplace flames could be heard.
Suddenly, a faint rustling sound broke the quiet. Night Feather had silently landed on Ron's chair back at some unknown time, its dark feathers gleaming with a mysterious metallic luster under the eerie green firelight.
It tilted its head, its blood-red eyes quietly observing the people gathered, then lightly hopped onto the low table in front of Ron.
"Night Feather?" Ron reached out a hand wearily, his fingertips stroking its smooth, cool wings. The raven affectionately rubbed against his fingers, bringing some strange comfort.
Hmm, it seems petting a bird (no ambiguity) really does have a calming effect on a patient.
Night Feather opened its dark beak and gently set something down.
It was a wand. Completely black, with only extremely subtle silver patterns on the handle, like a flowing river of stars in the night sky—nightshade.
Ron had almost forgotten its existence, this wand that had unexpectedly resonated in Ollivander's shop but had been put aside due to Chakra conflict.
"Hmm?" Ron picked up nightshade in confusion; a familiar touch and a faint tremor came from his palm. "You mean… this?" He looked at Night Feather. "Practicing magic… will it help?"
Well, this is very unscientific. magic is a different system; can it resist the erosion deep within the bloodline?
"Caw!" Night Feather let out a short cry, its blood-red eyes fixed on Ron, and it nodded its small head! The movement was perfectly clear.
Everyone in the room was stunned; even the calmest Xian's eyes widened slightly.
"…This is unscientific." Cheng's exaggerated expression made Ron uncomfortable, even though he knew it was deliberate to tease him. "Ron, can you communicate with animals like a princess in some fairy tale?"
Ron looked at Night Feather, then at the silent nightshadein his hand. A ridiculous hope, like a candle flame in the wind, ignited a tiny spark, with extreme difficulty, in his heart, which was shrouded in gray haze and despair.
"Alright…" Ron caressed the wand, his voice hoarse, but with a near-desperate resolve. "I'll try." He would gamble.
magic, nightshade, perhaps it really was the only light he could grasp at the edge of the gray haze… even if it was so faint it could extinguish at any moment.
Chapter 36: Star Frost Path
"Learning magic…" Rong Uchiha mused, his fingertips tracing the subtle silver patterns on nightshade.
Night Feather's guidance was like a key to a door, but the consecutive losses of control in class were like slaps that made his vision blur.
If he relied on his own exploration on this unfamiliar path of magic, he feared he would "exhaust" himself before finding the way. The pride of the Uchiha clan was as light as a feather in the face of life and death.
He needed a guide. Someone who truly understood the essence of power and could potentially tolerate his "different" identity.
Without warning, Dumbledore's figure in his star-spangled robes appeared before him. "It seems he's the only one worth trusting. Hmm, Snape might accidentally kill me."
The sky above Hogwarts was gray and overcast, with leaden clouds hanging low. Rong Uchiha pulled his school robes tighter, but still felt the chill seep into his bones. He walked through the empty corridor, his footsteps echoing clearly against the stone walls.
The gray film over his right eye made the spiral staircase's curve seem distorted, forcing him to slow down and hold onto the cold handrail.
Rong Uchiha gently knocked on the Headmaster's office door.
"Come in."
The stone gargoyle silently jumped aside, revealing the spiraling staircase.
The office was warm and bright, filled with the soft hum of various strange silver instruments and the sweet scent of pastries.
Fawkes preened his brilliant tail feathers on a gilded perch, emitting a melodious chirp.
Dumbledore sat behind a large desk, his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles looking at Rong Uchiha with gentle inquiry.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Uchiha. Lemon sherbet?" He pushed a plate of colorful candies towards him.
"Thank you, Headmaster." Rong Uchiha did not touch the candies. He took a deep breath, dispelling the tickle in his throat, and went straight to the point, "I've encountered… some difficulties. Regarding magic."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his gaze behind his spectacles wise and accommodating: "Difficulties are stepping stones to learning, my dear boy. Tell me about it?"
Rong Uchiha chose his words carefully, avoiding revealing the core of "transmigration" and "Chakra," but he had to highlight the key point: "The… power system within me seems to have an inherent repulsion with magic. It's like… oil and water."
He recalled Snape's three failed experiments, "I tried to learn spells, but the result was often loss of control, repulsion, and even… backlash." He subconsciously rubbed his faintly aching wrist.
"Repulsion…" Dumbledore mused, his deep blue gaze seeming to penetrate appearances, "The forms of power vary greatly, Mr. Uchiha.
Whether it is magic, or what you call 'another kind of power,' their origins perhaps point to the same place—"
He tapped his temple, covered by his silver-white hair, "—will, belief, and… the heart's desire."
Rong Uchiha paused slightly: "The heart's desire?" What is this Old Bumblebee talking about?
"Yes." Dumbledore smiled gently, "magic, especially advanced magic, has never been merely a stacking of incantations and gestures.
It is an understanding of the world's essence, a concretization of strong will. That unique power within you might just be another manifestation of your will.
The key is whether you truly 'believe' that magic can be used by you, whether you can find the… resonance point between that power and magic? Rather than forcibly viewing them as opposites."
Belief determines power? Rong Uchiha's brows furrowed. So next time, should he try shouting about bonds or something… *cough*, this ethereal "belief" was harder to grasp than precise hand seals.
Just then, the office door was flung open. Snape, in his black robes, drifted in like a dark cloud, bringing with him the chill of the Dungeons.
He saw Rong Uchiha, his footsteps imperceptibly pausing, a sharp glint flashing in his narrow eyes, which was immediately covered by his usual sneer.
"Hmm, Albus, it seems I've interrupted a… an enlightenment lesson on 'belief'?"
Snape's voice was low and smooth, laced with sarcasm. He walked directly to the desk and placed a roll of parchment before Dumbledore, "Regarding the preliminary analysis report of… Uchiha Rong's previous commission.
The conclusion is frustrating: the conventional Potionsystem is almost ineffective. Existing magic theories cannot explain its bloodline erosion mechanism." As he spoke, his peripheral vision swept over Rong Uchiha, but with an indescribable pity and regret.
"…Professor, I'm not dead yet."
Dumbledore took the parchment, his gaze shifting between Snape and Rong Uchiha, but he did not unroll it, merely saying gently: "Severus, you've come at a good time.
We were discussing Mr. Uchiha's… repulsion problem in learning magic."
Snape's lips curled into a scathing arc: "Repulsion? I thought that was just a euphemism for a lack of talent.
Or, is it the inevitable result of certain individuals indulging in exotic and ingenious tricks, leading to the complete abandonment of their magical foundation?" He jabbed at Rong Uchiha without mercy.
Rong Uchiha suppressed his anger and, meeting Snape's icy gaze, pulled out nightshade: "Perhaps it's not a talent issue, Professor. It's a conflict of tools and methods."
He paused, deciding to play the Night Feather card, "And… guidance." He briefly recounted how Night Feather had guided him to learn magic last night, and Night Feather's special reaction to nightshade.
"A… raven that chooses wands?" Snape's brows knitted into a knot, his tone full of suspicion, "Albus, are you sure this child didn't have his brain fried by Potion side effects when he was young?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes, however, lit up, filled with intense interest. He carefully examined nightshade, then looked at Rong Uchiha: "Night Feather… is very special.
It has an extraordinarily keen intuition for magical objects, something I've long sensed. Its guidance might just be the key to finding your resonance point."
He put down the parchment, his gaze deep as he looked at Rong Uchiha, "Child, try to understand Night Feather's choice, understand this wand. It chose you, there must be a reason. Try to 'believe' in it, just as you once believed in your bloodline.
The path of magic, is where the heart leads. As for yours…" He glanced at the parchment Snape had brought, his tone carrying a heavy comfort, "It is indeed a huge challenge, but not a dead end.
At least, you have far more opportunities and time to try than those unfortunate Obscurus hosts. Don't give up on finding any possible light." A hint of sadness showed in his eyes, but he quickly suppressed it.
Snape snorted: "Light? I only see him casting an acceleration charm on himself on the way to the coffin."
But beneath his venomous tongue, he did not deny Dumbledore's words, merely casting another complex glance at Rong Uchiha's pale face and the dark wand.
Leaving the warm glow of the Headmaster's office, the chill of the corridor hit him. As Rong Uchiha descended the spiral staircase, a figure rushed out from the shadows of a nearby armor and blocked his path.
Hermione Granger.
Her brown curly hair was a bit messy, her cheeks flushed from running and excitement, her chest rising and falling slightly.
Those eyes, always sparkling with intelligence, now burned with anger, mixed with an unshakeable worry. She clutched her worn Transfiguration notebook tightly, her knuckles white from the grip.
"Rong Uchiha!" Her voice, elevated by excitement, echoed clearly in the empty corridor, "How long are you going to keep this from me?!"
Rong Uchiha stopped, looking at her almost fiery eyes, speechless for a moment.
"Going to Professor Dumbledore? Because of your baseless magic repulsion? Chang already told me, and you're still keeping it from me?"
Hermione pressed closer, raising her notebook, almost hitting his chest, "Look at this! Since the Troll incident, your condition has been plummeting!
Your face is as pale as a ghost, you walk as if on cotton, your spells are out of control, Transfiguration is a mess! You almost collapsed on the Quidditch pitch! Yesterday in the library you coughed… your face was as white as paper!"
She remembered Rong Uchiha swallowing something at that time, her voice choked, and her eyes instantly reddened, "Are you still going to fob me off with 'Snape's Potion' and 'old injuries'? Do you think I'm a three-year-old who knows nothing?!"
Her voice was accusatory, yet filled with deep sorrow. All her worries, anxieties, and the grievance of being kept in the dark, surged out like a broken dam at this moment. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall.
"Are you still going to lie to me?"
Rong Uchiha looked at her red-rimmed eyes and trembling shoulders, listening to her rapid-fire, tearful accusations, his heart felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing it tightly, both sore and swollen.
All his rhetoric was fragile and vulnerable before her surging concern and direct questioning. He wanted to say something, but his throat felt blocked, only a burning pain reminding him of the cruel reality.
Hermione looked at his silent, complex expression, and the anger in her seemed to be largely extinguished by tears, leaving only a bottomless fear and sadness.
She lowered her head, her shoulders slightly shaking, her muffled breathing exceptionally clear in the silent corridor.
"Alas…"
With a sigh, Rong Uchiha raised his hand and, hesitantly, with a comforting gesture, gently placed it on Hermione's soft, fluffy brown curls, ruffling them.
This made Hermione's sobbing suddenly stop. She looked up in surprise, her eyes misty with tears, still clinging to her long eyelashes.
"I'm sorry…" Rong Uchiha's voice was very soft, hoarse and tired, "I made you worry."
Hermione's tears flowed even more fiercely, but this time they were no longer tears of anger, but of grievance and worry finding an outlet.
She sniffled, wiping her face haphazardly with the back of her hand, but her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on Rong Uchiha: "Tell me! Rong Uchiha! What exactly is it? Is it…" Her voice trembled, the word almost escaping her lips.
Rong Uchiha's heart sank. He looked at the fear and confirmation mixed in her eyes, remembering Dumbledore's words, Night Feather's guidance, and that faint hint of frost. The desperate truth might crush her, but what about a direction with hope?
He took a deep breath, interrupting Hermione: "It's not the kind of… terminal illness you're thinking of."
He avoided "bloodline disease," "It's a… very troublesome, um… debilitating physical problem. Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore are both trying to find a solution. And I…"
He held up nightshade, its black shaft gleaming in the dim light, "I've found a possible path.
Learning magic, truly mastering it, might… alleviate, or even lead to a turning point. Night Feather… it guided me." He briefly mentioned Night Feather's special reaction to the wand.
Hermione's tears stopped. She widened her eyes, looking at the wand, then at Rong Uchiha, seemingly digesting the information. The worry had not completely dissipated, but the words "alleviate," "turning point," and "Night Feather's guidance" were like fireflies in the dark, faint but truly lighting up a glimmer of hope.
"magic…" Hermione murmured, her gaze gradually shifting from sadness to the sharp light of Miss Know-It-All. She straightened her back, her face still streaked with tears, but already filled with undeniable determination: "Good! Then learn! I'll teach you!"
"Huh?" Rong Uchiha didn't react for a moment.
"I said, I'll teach you spells!" Hermione's voice was decisive, with an unchallengeable momentum, her puffed-up little face utterly adorable, "Starting from the basics! Levitation Charm! Freezing Charm! Lumos Charm! I know all the basic spells! I refuse to believe that I, Hermione Granger, can't teach you! After class, in the library… you choose the place! But,"
She took a step forward, her gaze burning into Rong Uchiha, as if declaring a sacred oath, "Rong Uchiha, you listen to me! Until you learn, until you find a turning point, you are not allowed to collapse!
You are not allowed to keep things from me again! And…" She bit her lower lip, her voice softer, but even more resolute, "I will definitely find a way to completely cure you! I swear!"
Rong Uchiha looked at her. Her tear stains were still there, her nose slightly red, but in her brown eyes burned a blazing fire, an undeniable promise.
That light, more directly than the Headmaster's office fireplace, more than Night Feather's guidance, and even more than that faint tremor on nightshade, pierced through the gray film and gloom in his heart.
A warm current, mixed with a bittersweet emotion, surged through his heart. He tightened his grip on nightshade, meeting Hermione's determined gaze, and a genuine and moved smile finally curved his lips.
"Okay." He heard his own voice, hoarse, yet exceptionally firm, "It's a deal. Teacher Hermione."
Rong Uchiha would not have thought that the Uchiha, who valued emotions the most, could occasionally be touched by the sincerity of others.