"Christopher Patrick?" Professor Alastor Moody turned his head, his bright blue coin-sized magical eye locking intently on the boy before him.
"Yes, Professor Moody!"
"Albus seems to have mentioned you," Mad-Eye muttered, then plunged his hand into his traveling cloak, pulling out a curved flask and taking a large swig. "Come with me—to my office!"
As he spoke, his magical eye spun several times, scanning the surroundings. The cloak dragging along the ground lifted a few inches, revealing a wooden prosthetic leg and a claw-like foot beneath. Limping, Mad-Eye Moody made his way toward a small hut at the edge of the Quidditch Pitch.
Jon glanced warily around, confirming there were no portraits nearby and that Umbridge's little cats wouldn't discover them. Only then did he follow in Moody's footsteps.
"Good alertness!" came Moody's raspy voice from ahead, tinged with a hint of praise. "You've got what it takes to be an Auror!"
...
This space was less an office and more a small tent.
Originally, Moody had been assigned the Care of Magical Creatures classroom, but after a few weeks he'd grown tired of the smell of beasts and the constant noise from the paddocks near Hagrid's hut.
Grumbling about "needing a bit of peace to think straight," he'd packed up and relocated to the small hut by the Quidditch Pitch instead—where the air was fresher and the ground open enough for sudden dueling practice.
Since early September, Mad-Eye Moody had moved his "office" here. He claimed the open ground let him react faster if a Dark wizard struck.
But to Jon, a year of imprisonment had likely left deep psychological scars on poor Professor Moody—so much so that he no longer dared live inside the castle.
The furnishings were sparse. Aside from a bed and a desk, the only other objects were the same cluster of Dark Detectors Jon had once seen in Moody's fake office. On the desk sat something like a cracked glass top, creaking from time to time. Mad-Eye Moody leaned on his prosthetic leg and sat down.
"You may sit too," Moody said.
In the corner, Jon spotted a small, dust-covered chair. He quickly pulled it to the desk and sat down.
"Can you tell me, Professor Moody?" Jon asked earnestly.
"The Blood Curse..." Moody's expression turned grim. "Dark magic—a dreadful, cruel curse..."
"The first to wield it was a notorious Dark wizard from ancient Greece... Helbo—Herpo the Foul, that's the name!" Professor Alastor Moody spoke while absentmindedly adjusting his magical eye.
"According to records, Helbo was a Dark wizard skilled in manipulating souls. He collected countless monster souls. Being a Parseltongue, snakes were the most numerous among them."
Moody paused, coughing violently for several seconds before continuing.
"Helbo had a twisted fascination. He wouldn't simply kill his prey or the wizards who betrayed him. Instead, he would use a dreadful curse—binding the soul of a serpent to his unfortunate victim."
"The curse didn't activate on the victim themselves but instead merged with the soul of an unborn child within the mother's womb. Usually, the soul of a male infant wizard would be quickly devoured by the serpent's spirit."
A look of disgust crept across Moody's scarred face.
"Thus, the child would be born as a serpent... biting his parents to death, waiting for Helbo to come and claim both souls."
"What if it's a girl?" Jon pressed, his lips tightening.
"Female witches have stronger innate souls," Moody replied. "They aren't easily consumed by the serpent's spirit. The two souls coexist in a delicate balance. Usually, while the witch is young, the serpent's soul remains suppressed. But as the years pass, it grows stronger. Eventually, it devours the witch's soul and takes control of her body."
"Which means becoming a serpent—a servant of Helbo—is that witch's destiny. That is the Blood Curse."
...
"How many years can a witch under the Blood Curse usually last?" Jon asked urgently.
"Generally no more than twenty," Moody said. "Some skilled wizards can use spells to slightly delay its onset. It takes powerful magic—beyond my ability—and even then, it wouldn't last more than thirty years." He thought for a moment before adding, "Also, intense negative emotions can feed the serpent's spirit, causing the Blood Curse to awaken even sooner."
"What happens when the Blood Curse activates?" Jon asked, his expression tense.
"Before activation, she's no different from a normal witch—aside from being a bit frailer," Moody explained. "At first, the transformation only happens at night. Each time she falls asleep, she becomes a monster. But as time goes on, she'll lose the ability to turn back. In the end, she becomes trapped forever within that monstrous form."
"Is there any way to remove it completely?" Jon asked, gesturing. "What if you made a vessel to draw out the monster's soul and seal it inside?"
"Good thinking, but it's nearly impossible." Moody shook his head. "The two souls have coexisted for decades. Even the most skilled witch couldn't separate them without harm."
Jon looked disheartened.
"No matter how kind or pure she was before the curse takes hold, once it does, she's no longer human. Calling them Blood Maledictus is more accurate," Moody continued. "Though they can remain rational during the day, once they fall asleep, they become extremely dangerous. Possessed by the monster's soul, they'll attack any living being in sight—including those once closest to them."
"That's why one of the duties of the Dangerous Creatures Disposal Committee under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is to execute all Blood Maledictus before the curse manifests. It may be cruel, but it's the only way to prevent greater harm."
"I understand, Professor," Jon said quietly, his face pale.
...
He stood and began walking toward the door.
Then, suddenly remembering something, Jon reached into his pocket, pulled out the parchment Malfoy had given him, and placed it on Moody's desk.
"What's this?" Mad-Eye Moody frowned.
Jon lowered his voice and whispered, "The Dark Lord sends his regards, Mr. Crouch."