Ch: 21-30
Chapter 21: A Pact Made Dancing with the Devil
"S-sorry! Professor!" a voice, choked with sobs and panic, cut in.
Neville Longbottom's chubby face peeked out from around the corner, his complexion deathly pale, tears welling in his eyes.
"I, I can't find my toad Trevor! I heard, I heard someone saw it run this way."
Snape whirled around, his Black robes billowing like a disturbed bat.
His face was full of interrupted fury and extreme impatience as he barked sharply, "Longbottom! Get back to your Tower! Now!"
Neville jumped in fright, let out a loud wail, and turned to run.
Snape glared darkly in the direction Neville had vanished, then shot Quirrell a vicious look, knowing this was not the moment to continue the interrogation.
"We'll talk later, Quirinus." He tossed out this icy threat and strode off purposefully in the direction Neville had gone, his cloak stirring a sinister draft in his wake.
Quirrell watched Snape disappear, then slumped against the wall as if all strength had left him, sliding down to sit on the floor, gasping for breath, his fingers nervously plucking at his filthy turban.
He struggled to get up, wanting to leave this troublesome place as quickly as possible.
"It seems I missed an exciting match, but I've caught an interesting conversation instead."
A calm voice sounded from the shadows on the other side. Quirrell froze instantly as if hit by a Petrificus Totalus, turning his head in terror to look.
Caesar stepped out from behind a massive stone pillar, his face expressionless, as if he were merely stating an objective fact. He had clearly been listening there for a long time.
"Caesar! Professor Caesar!" Quirrell's voice was distorted, filled with utter terror, even greater than when facing Snape. He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, trying to get away from Caesar.
"You, when did you..."
Caesar did not answer his question. He simply looked down at Quirrell, who lay crumpled on the floor, his gaze seeming to pierce through the thick turban to the even more malevolent existence clinging behind it.
His eyes held none of Snape's overt suspicion and hostility, but rather a deeper, all-knowing indifference.
"Castles are always full of accidents, aren't they, Professor Quirrell?" Caesar's voice was soft, yet it stabbed into Quirrell's eardrums like an icicle,
"Like a lost toad. Like a Professor acting far too strangely."
Caesar's voice echoed in the empty corridor. Quirrell remained rigid, his eyes wide with fear beneath his turban.
Quirrell's voice trembled, tearful. "Professor Caesar, I, I don't know what you're talking about?"
Caesar walked closer, his footsteps tapping out a cold echo against the stone walls.
He stopped before Quirrell, but his gaze seemed to pass right through him, staring directly at the hidden soul at the back of his head. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he said:
"Let's skip the tedious pretense, Quirrell. Or perhaps you'd prefer I address you as Tom Riddle?"
Quirrell suddenly began to convulse violently, as if suffering an invisible electric shock. His eyes rolled back, and a gurgling, inhuman sound issued from his throat.
A cold, hoarse voice, like the hiss of a serpent, spoke clearly from beneath the turban wrapped around the back of his head, carrying offended anger and a trace of barely perceptible shock:
"You dare speak that name!"
The smile on Caesar's face did not fade; instead, it deepened slightly.
He even tilted his head with interest, as if appreciating the bizarre scene.
"It's just a name. Why so tense? Or is it that you're more concerned with the fact that I'see' you?"
His fingertips lightly tapped against his own wand.
That wand, made from a Biyi Bird's male feather and Dragon heartstring, was now emitting an extremely subtle magical fluctuation, like an undercurrent beneath calm water.
"I've always held an academic curiosity about pure forms of 'existence'. Especially one like yours, Tom, persisting in such an unconventional manner."
The hoarse voice fell silent for a moment. When it spoke again, it was thick with suppressed, towering rage and icy killing intent.
But it also held a trace of startled alarm at having been precisely struck where it hurt: "Do you know who you are speaking to, Caesar Habus? Do you know the price for provoking me?"
"Price?"
Caesar let out a light laugh, as if hearing a dull joke. "Of course I know. But I know even better the price you are currently facing. Dumbledore's eyes are everywhere.
Severus is like a hound that has caught the scent of blood. And you, trapped in a cowardly, trembling shell, can barely manage to obtain the Philosopher's Stone on your own.
You need a helper who is... less conspicuous."
"A helper?" Lord Voldemort's voice was full of mockery. "Do you crave power? Or do you fear death?"
"I crave revenge!" Caesar's gaze sharpened.
From the tip of his wand, a wisp of silvery thread, like moonlight, silently seeped out, pointing towards Quirrell's turban, pointing towards the existence behind it.
Simultaneously, a destructive magical fire was summoned, taking the form of a small Dragon that roared towards Quirrell with the promise of annihilating everything and devouring souls.
Then, Caesar took a minuscule step forward, his voice dropping even lower, carrying a demonic temptation and absolute calm: "Cooperate, Tom.
I will provide you with cover, clear away some unnecessary troubles for you, and even, at certain critical moments, supply the information and access you need."
"The Fiendfyre Curse!" Quirrell's body shook even more violently. Clearly, the two consciousnesses in his mind were locked in fierce conflict.
Finally, the cold, hoarse voice once again took control, carrying a calculated chill: "Revenge. An interesting proposal. But what grudge do you hold against Hogwarts?
Ah, I remember now. A remnant of Grindelwald's faction. You carry the scent of a pure-blood Wizard, which makes me believe it's that Black family..."
"Then we would both be exposed in Dumbledore's teacup, wouldn't we?"
Caesar interrupted him, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather. "This is a game where we both get what we need. You obtain the resurrection and power you desire. I satisfy my vengeance. Quite fair."
A long, suffocating silence spread through the corridor.
Only Quirrell's heavy, irregular gasps could be heard.
"Very well." Lord Voldemort's voice finally spoke again, carrying a dangerous assent like a coiling serpent,
"But remember, Caesar. If you betray me, you will taste a torment deeper than death, even if you flee to Nurmengard and hide behind Grindelwald."
Caesar gave an elegant nod, as if accepting an ordinary farewell wish. "I look forward to our shared... 'harvest'."
Then, he put away his wand, and the small Dragon vanished instantly.
"Tom, as a partner, I'll give you a piece of information. The Philosopher's Stone is hidden by Dumbledore in the Mirror of Erised. Only someone who desires the Stone not at all can retrieve it."
Having said this, without another glance at the nearly prostrate Quirrell, he turned. His Black robes cut a sharp arc as his footsteps gradually faded away, disappearing into the Castle's gloomy shadows.
Left behind was only Quirrell, slumped on the floor, a sigh of suppressed, boundless greed and killing intent, laced with satisfaction, emanating from the back of his head.
Unicorn blood sustained his life, but only the Philosopher's Stone could restore his flesh.
A pact made dancing with the devil was quietly forged in this unknown corner.
Chapter 22: Why Does Caesar Favor You So Much?
When Caesar returned to the Quidditch pitch, the sky was dyed crimson and gold by Gryffindor's sunset, and the commentator's hoarse shouts still echoed through the stadium:
"Caught it! Hermione Granger caught the Golden Snitch! Gryffindor wins! The championship belongs to Gryffindor!"
Deafening cheers swept through the stadium like a tsunami.
Hermione, still on her broom, hovered in mid-air, tightly clutching the struggling Golden Snitch in her hand, her chest heaving with excitement and lack of oxygen.
She did it!
Not only had she defeated the skilled Ravenclaw, but she had also crushed the arrogant Malfoy and his Slytherin team!
A torrent of euphoria washed away all fatigue; she only wanted to share this moment with one person.
Just then, her gaze, as if drawn by a magnet, suddenly darted towards the entrance of the teachers' stand.
That familiar figure, who had quietly returned at some point, stood there silently, as if he had never left.
His dark robes fluttered slightly in the boisterous wind, and across the vast distance, she seemed to see a rare, clear look of approval in his eyes.
Driven almost by instinct, Hermione even forgot to guide her broom to a steady landing.
Like a bird freed from all constraints, she cleanly flipped and leaped from several feet in the air.
The moment her feet landed firmly on the grass, she shot forward like an arrow from a bow, rushing desperately towards that figure.
All the surrounding sounds.
Cheers, applause, teammates' calls, all blurred into background noise in her ears.
Only that one target remained in her world.
Under countless gazes of astonishment, surprise, and understanding, and the almost fiery jealousy in Ravenclaw's eyes.
Hermione Granger, Hogwarts' newly crowned Quidditch champion, charged like a small cannonball directly through the gaps in the crowd.
Then, she squarely threw herself into Caesar's arms!
She bumped him, causing him to take half a step back, but he almost instinctively opened his arms, steadily catching the girl who exuded sweat, grass clippings, and the joy of victory.
Her fluffy curls brushed against his jaw, carrying the scent of sunshine and wind.
She could feel her fierce heartbeat transmitting through his robes to him.
"Caesar! I won! Did you see? I won against Ravenclaw, and I won against Slytherin, Hufflepuff!"
Hermione looked up, shouting incoherently, her face beaming with an unreserved, dazzling smile.
Those eyes, which always sparkled with wisdom, now held only pure desire for recognition and immense joy.
Caesar stiffened slightly; this overly intimate contact clearly exceeded the boundaries between teacher and student.
He could feel the various gazes from around them, teachers, students.
Especially the astonished and disapproving stares from the Slytherin and Ravenclaw sides.
He even glimpsed Professor McGonagall raising an eyebrow slightly, wondering who the Dean of Gryffindor truly was.
Caesar subtly tried to push her away a little, to maintain basic propriety.
But Hermione held on too tightly, as if wanting to embed this victory, along with herself, into his embrace.
Ultimately, he didn't forcefully push her away, but merely allowed her to lean on him briefly for a few seconds, feeling her body tremble with victory.
Caesar lowered his head and, in a voice only they could hear, said clearly and affirmingly, "Well done, Hermione. I am proud to have you as a student."
His tone was calm, yet carried an unmistakable sincerity.
This brief acknowledgment satisfied Hermione more than all the cheers and trophies.
She finally let go contentedly, her little face flushed as she stepped back half a pace, but the sparkle in her eyes remained undimmed.
She didn't care about the gossip, nor about Malfoy's livid face.
She only knew that the person she cared about most had witnessed and affirmed her moment of glory.
And she had no regrets about the hug; she and Caesar were the best family!
Caesar looked at her dazzlingly bright eyes, and the bi-winged bird necklace pendant on her chest, which had slipped out from her collar due to strenuous activity.
It faintly shimmered with iridescence in the setting sun, and a flicker of extremely complex light passed through the depths of his eyes.
He gently raised a hand, seemingly casually brushing away the broom grass clippings on her shoulder, his movements as natural as an elder.
"Go," he said, his voice returning to its usual steady tone, "Your teammates are waiting to celebrate with you."
Hermione nodded vigorously, flashing him one last big smile.
She turned and ran like the wind back to the embracing Gryffindor team, where she was tossed high by the cheering crowd.
Caesar stood rooted, watching her disappear into the red sea, feeling the fleeting warmth of victory and youth that lingered in his embrace.
And the faint, identical resonance emanating from the necklace beneath his robes.
This unplanned intimacy, like a stone cast into the center of a lake, stirred an imperceptible ripple in his calm mind.
The fervent afterglow of the awards ceremony had not yet faded, and people began to leave the stadium in twos and threes. Hermione was wiping the handle of her Nimbus 2000.
Caesar had bought it for her yesterday.
Her Gryffindor teammates were laughing and playing nearby.
A slender figure blocked the light in front of her.
She looked up to see Rojer Venus, the Ravenclaw Quidditch team captain, a fifth-year known for her calm tactics and pride.
At this moment, her usual polite smile was strained, and her blue eyes held obvious incomprehension and resentment.
"Congratulations, Granger. A brilliant performance."
Her opening was polite enough, but her next words were blunt, "However, as an opponent, especially one who just lost to you, and with Professor Caesar being our House tutor, I have a presumptuous question."
Hermione put down her cloth, straightened up, and looked at her calmly: "Please speak, Venus."
Rojer took a deep breath, as if trying to maintain Ravenclaw-style logic, but the sharpness in her tone still slipped out:
"Why? Why does Professor Caesar, a Ravenclaw Professor, show such obvious... special attention to you, a Gryffindor?
Even in plain sight, accepting that kind of... celebration that far exceeds teacher-student etiquette?"
Her question was direct and aggressive.
It also represented the collective confusion of some Ravenclaw students who had observed coldly.
This was unreasonable, unfair; such behavior broke the invisible barriers between Houses.
Upon hearing this, Hermione neither blushed nor panicked.
She even subtly raised her chin, and that sharp, intelligent expression she usually wore when debating in class instantly returned to her face.
"Special attention? Venus, I thought Ravenclaw valued wisdom and logic, not baseless gossip."
Then, Hermione's voice was clear, her speaking speed fast and steady:
"Professor Caesar recognizes 'ability' and 'results'.
Today, I tactically anticipated your three attempts at flanking sneak attacks.
I broke through your double Bludger interference formation targeting the Seeker.
Finally, I performed a high-precision maneuver of a vertical dive of seven hundred feet to catch the Snitch in three seconds.
Are these not discussed in detail in Chapter X of 'Advanced Quidditch Strategies' or on page Y of 'Adversarial Flight Psychology'? Do I need to quote them on the spot?"
Chapter 23: Second Most Desired Boyfriend
She took a small step forward, her eyes burning as she continued, "If you and your teammates could spend the time you use researching who the Professor 'favors'..."
"...on analyzing the flaws in your tactics manual that I just mentioned—flaws that are clearly documented yet ignored—then you might have been the one to catch the Snitch today."
"What Professor Caesar appreciates is my ability to transform book knowledge into victory."
"If you consider that 'favoritism,' then I suggest you first bring your own performance up to a standard worthy of being 'favored'."
Hermione's words were like a series of precise punches; not a single sentence directly answered "why."
Instead, she used cold, fact-based, and even academically superior counter-questions to throw the problem back, making it even heavier than before.
She wasn't defending herself; she was completely denying the other person's "right" to ask the question from a higher dimension.
Rojer Venus's face turned red and white in turns. Her prideful logic was momentarily rendered speechless by Hermione's "violent dismantling," which was grounded in facts and achievements.
She opened her mouth, but in the end, nothing came out.
She simply gave a stiff nod, turned, and walked away quickly, her retreating figure appearing somewhat hurried.
Ron, who had been pretending to organize his gear while eavesdropping with perked ears, now had his eyes wide open.
Watching Hermione like a small falcon that had just won a fight—feathers ruffled but head held high—he couldn't help but mutter under his breath:
"Merlin's beard! She's really got guts. That's the Ravenclaw Captain!"
Neville watched Hermione calmly go back to wiping her broom, as if she had just solved a textbook problem, and couldn't help but grin.
Hermione's logic could be overwhelming at times, but you couldn't deny that at certain moments, like right now, it was... incredibly satisfying.
"So what if she's the Ravenclaw Captain?"
Hermione watched Roger Davies's hurried departure with a light snort and continued to scrub the broom handle vigorously. "She has no right to interfere in my business."
"Whoa." Ron leaned in closer, his expression a mix of lingering excitement and burning curiosity.
He lowered his voice, as if discussing a secret more significant than winning the Quidditch Cup. "Seriously, Hermione, what exactly is your relationship with Professor Caesar?
The way he looks at you, and the way you lunged at him today—Merlin, I bet Professor McGonagall's eyes nearly popped out of her head!"
Hermione's hand paused while wiping the broom.
She looked up at Ron, then glanced at Neville, who also looked curious but was trying to stay calm.
The combativeness faded from her face, replaced by a more private, softer certainty, though her words were surprisingly simple.
"Family." She spoke the word clearly and went back to tinkering with her broom, as if it were the most natural explanation in the world.
"Family?" Ron squawked, clearly not expecting that answer. "What kind of family? A distant cousin? A godfather? No, that's not right, you're Muggle-born..."
"It's just a feeling of being family."
Hermione interrupted his wild guessing with a touch of impatience, but a warm light flickered deep in her eyes.
"He's important. As important as family. Is that so hard to understand?"
Ron and Neville exchanged a look.
Ron scratched his flaming red hair, digesting the information. Then, a look of realization, mixed with a bit of mischievous understanding, slowly spread across his face.
"Oh—'family'." He elongated the word, nudging Neville with his elbow. "I think I'm starting to get it.
No wonder those Ravenclaws, especially that prefect who's always swarming around Professor Caesarto ask questions, and that Venus girl just now, look at you so strangely."
Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Ron smirked, his voice low but full of teasing,
"They probably don't see you as just a 'particularly talented student rival' so simply.
They likely see you as, well, a more 'intimate' threat. Serves Venus right for being snubbed; she probably thought you were... cough, a love rival."
"Love rival?!" Hermione's voice spiked, then she quickly lowered it, her face full of absurdity and disgust.
"Ron Weasley! Is there anything useful in your head besides Trolls and these boring fantasies?! This is ridiculous! Caesar is a teacher!"
"What's the big deal?"
Ron looked like he had discovered a new continent, his eyes round and bulging as he gave Hermione an exaggerated "how could you not know" look.
His voice was lowered due to the excitement of sharing a major secret, yet it was all the more piercing:
"Professor Caesar isn't just the youngest teacher at Hogwarts; he was also the runner-up in The Daily Prophet's 'Most Desired Boyfriend' poll last year."
"Then who was first?" Hermione asked. She instinctively felt that no one could be more gentle, powerful, considerate, handsome, reliable, or tolerant than Caesar.
Neville jumped in, sounding a bit regretful:
"First place was a wealthy man in the Wizarding World. I heard he spent a lot of money buying votes. It's a pity I didn't catch it back then, or I would've gone to collect a gift too."
Hermione pursed her lips. Can money really buy everything?
She was full of disdain for wealth.
Seeing Neville interrupt, Ron hurried to continue:
"So, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say Professor Caesar is actually the top choice for a boyfriend in the Wizarding World.
The students with crushes on him could line up from the fifth year to the seventh. It's only because there are no unmarried female teachers at Hogwarts, otherwise..."
"Why from fifth to seventh year? Why not the first years? Is there some kind of problem with that?"
This question didn't come from Hermione, but from Neville, who was hearing this for the first time.
Ron looked around to make sure no Ravenclaws were nearby, then whispered quietly, "Because I heard from the upperclassmen that last year, a fourth-year Ravenclaw girl confessed to Caesar,
and as a result, Caesar punished her by making her finish forty-nine assignments in one semester."
"Merlin's beard, that's forty-nine assignments!"
As he spoke, Ron traced a large circle in the air with both hands, as if feeling the terror himself. "No amount of love can survive the torture of forty-nine assignments."
Hearing this, Neville couldn't help but feel a shiver run through him.
That was indeed a number that would make anyone hesitate. If one day the girl he liked told him he had to finish forty-nine assignments before she'd date him...
Better forget it.
Whoever wants to like him can go ahead; we underachievers should just stay far away.
Chapter 24: A Love Letter
After school, Hermione, clutching several books borrowed from the Library, walked briskly toward Ravenclaw Tower, intending to wait for Caesar in his office first.
However, this time she was followed by two sidekicks, Ron and Neville, who had been completely won over by her.
Hermione had even planned to "casually" bring up the ridiculous Daily Prophet poll Ron mentioned, just to see how he would react.
However, when she passed the Door Knocker Riddle and entered the somewhat quiet Ravenclawcommon room, she found the door to Caesar's office tightly closed.
But this was no obstacle for Hermione; she had the authority to enter Caesar's office at will.
As she chanted the incantation, a question appeared on the door:
"Why should I let you in?"
"Professor Caesar told me to come and get that copy of 'Etymological Analysis' myself."
Hermione muttered to herself as she used the backup incantation Caesar had previously told her to unlock the door to the Ancient Runes Office.
She pushed it open just a crack, preparing to step inside.
"Whoa! So this is a Ravenclaw Professor's office?"
Two figures suddenly squeezed past her—it was a curious Ron and a terrified Neville, who was being half-dragged along by him.
"Ron! Neville! You can't—" Hermione's protest was drowned out by Ron's exclamations of wonder.
The office was filled with the scent of old parchment, special ink, and a certain crisp, woody fragrance. Unlike the ethereal feel of the Ravenclaw common room, this place felt more rigorous and private.
Ron's eyes swept like searchlights over the bookshelves, the peculiar magical items, and the desk covered in papers.
Neville, meanwhile, nervously hunched his shoulders, terrified of knocking something over.
"Merlin's beard, look at this!" Ron's exclamation carried the excitement of discovering a huge secret as he pointed to the center of the desk.
There, next to an open ancient manuscript, lay a pale blue envelope that looked completely out of place in the academic atmosphere.
It was excessively delicate, even featuring silver embroidery along the edges, and it emitted a cloying, expensive floral scent.
On it, elegant and almost affected cursive script clearly read:
To be opened personally by Professor Caesar Habus
Ron leaned in closer, his nose almost touching it, his voice cracking with excitement: "Who wrote this?"
Neville saw it too. His chubby face crumpled into a frown as he stammered, "Th-this scent smells like the one on Prefect Venus. We—we should go, Hermione. It's not good to just take things..."
An instinctive, sharp alertness instantly seized Hermione.
She recognized that perfume; it belonged to that fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect.
Rojer Venus, a girl famous for her looks and intelligence, who always tried to linger for a few extra moments after Caesar's Ancient Runes Class.
She was also the one who had come looking for her during the match earlier today.
Hermione stared at the letter, her chest feeling as if something were blocking it.
The joy of celebration froze instantly, replaced by an anger at her territory being encroached upon and a near-panicky impulse.
Without the slightest hesitation, she bent down and snatched up the letter. Without even opening it, she gripped it tightly in her hand and turned to stride out of Ravenclaw Tower.
Ron and Neville exchanged a glance.
"Let's go help Hermione!" Ron said with great loyalty, then dragged Neville along to catch up with her.
Neville, his face a mask of panic, stammered, "I don't... want to go. There's definitely going to be a bloodbath next!"
Hermione didn't go anywhere else; she walked straight to the bustling Entrance Hall, the place where the most students gathered before dinner.
Standing in the middle of the staircase, she took a deep breath and held up the pale blue envelope.
In the clearest, calmest voice she could muster—yet loud enough for everyone nearby to hear—she said, "Prefect Venus, your letter. It was dropped outside Professor Caesar's office door."
The Entrance Hall fell silent instantly.
Hermione's gaze accurately locked onto Rojer Venus, who had just entered from the courtyard with several other Ravenclaw girls.
"Perhaps you'd prefer to handle it yourself?
After all, leaving a private letter of admiration outside a Professor's office is neither proper nor unlikely to cause unnecessary misunderstandings."
All eyes focused on the delicate letter in Hermione's hand and then on Rojer Venus, whose face turned deathly pale before flushing a deep crimson.
Whispers began to buzz through the room.
Rojer Venus had never suffered such public humiliation, especially within her own "sphere of influence," being challenged like this by a younger student—and a Gryffindor at that.
Her mask of elegance shattered completely, and her eyes flashed with a fire born of both shame and rage.
"Granger!" she shrieked, whipping out her wand. "The dignity of Ravenclaw will not be trampled upon! I demand a duel with you! Now!"
"Suits me just fine." Hermione didn't back down, drawing her own wand almost at the same time.
A roaring flame was burning in her chest, one she hadn't even noticed herself.
It wasn't just to defend Caesar from being "disturbed"; it was more like defending a connection she viewed as her own exclusive domain.
The duel began hastily in the open space of the Entrance Hall, with a circle of excited and nervous students quickly forming around them.
One was an experienced Fifth-year Prefect with mature magical power, and the other was a gifted second-year star full of fighting spirit.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Protego!"
"Locomotor Mortis!"
"Finite Incantatem!"
Beams of magic collided violently in the air, erupting in bursts of sparks. Hermione's casting speed was incredibly fast, and her predictions were precise.
She even used an obscure variation of the Shield Charm she'd found in an ancient book recommended by Caesar, successfully blocking a tricky Stupefy from Rojer.
Rojer, however, had the advantage of deeper magical reserves and more powerful spells, and her combat rhythm was steady and methodical.
For a time, the two were evenly matched, drawing constant gasps from the onlookers.
Ron and Neville squeezed to the front of the crowd, their fists clenched in tension.
However, just as Hermione was preparing to cast a Binding Curse that required delicate magical control to turn the tide, something went wrong!
Her wand!
The wand made from the female feather of a Biyi Bird suddenly vibrated with violent instability. Instead of firing, the orb of magic condensing at the tip suddenly collapsed inward!
At the same time, the necklace around her neck felt as if it were being yanked by an invisible force, sending a sharp, searing pain that instantly drained all the strength from her body.
"Ugh!" Hermione let out a short cry of pain as her vision went black. Her wand flew from her hand, and she fell backward, limp as a puppet with its strings cut.
"Hermione!" Neville and Ron screamed.
Just as the back of her head was about to slam against the cold stone floor...
A figure appeared behind her like a ghost, gently yet steadily catching her sliding body.
It was Caesar.
Chapter 25: Against the World, Neither Can Be Missing
He appeared in the entrance hall at some unknown moment, his expression more somber than ever. One hand caught the unconscious Hermione, while the other reached out into the air.
The wand that had flown out landed submissively in his palm.
He didn't even spare the wand a glance; his gaze, sharp as an icy blade, swept over the wand-wielding and equally stunned Rojer Venus, and the silent crowd of students.
"Professor! She started it—" Rojer tried to explain in a panic.
"Enough." Caesar's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a bone-chilling coldness that cut her off.
He looked down to check on Hermione, his fingers quickly brushing against her forehead and the side of her neck, his brow furrowed deeply.
Confirming she had only fainted from a brief magical disturbance, he took off his cloak, carefully wrapped it around Hermione, and lifted her into his arms.
Then, carrying Hermione, he walked up to the pale-faced Rojer, his gaze calm yet heavy with authority.
"Miss Venus, regarding that letter, I have never read it, nor will I ever.
It was a misunderstanding, nothing more." His words rang clearly through the entrance hall. "As for your personal feelings, that is your own business.
But by instigating a public duel and causing injury to a younger student, you have gravely failed in your duties as a prefect. Fifty points from Ravenclaw. Now, go to Professor McGonagall's office."
He didn't raise his voice, yet every word felt like a final verdict.
Rojer Venus trembled all over, tears finally bursting from her eyes. Under the varied gazes of the crowd, she covered her face and ran away.
Ignoring everything else, Caesar carried Hermione and walked quickly toward the Hospital Wing.
He left behind a hall full of dumbfounded students.
It was unclear who let out a low snicker first, but soon, the buzzing of whispers filled the air.
Most carried a sense of satisfaction: "Hermione Granger finally lost," "Serves her right for being so arrogant."
Ravenclaw House had long been incensed by Hermione's recent actions. Neville and Ron tried to argue back, but they were drowned out by the noise.
Under Madam Pomfrey's care in the Hospital Wing, Hermione soon woke up. Her body was fine, though her magic felt a bit weak.
But the first thing she heard upon waking were the intentionally loud remarks of passing students: "She lost," "Saved by Professor Caesar, how embarrassing," "She's usually so cocky, but in the end, she had to rely on the Professor."
She pulled the duvet over her head. As soon as Madam Pomfrey left, she jumped out of bed and rushed out.
She didn't return to Gryffindor Tower; instead, she hid in the abandoned girls' bathroom on the second floor—Myrtle's domain.
In the dark, damp bathroom, there was only the dripping of leaky pipes and Myrtle's occasional passing sobs.
Hermione curled up in the corner of the innermost stall, her chin resting on her knees. Tear tracks crisscrossed her face, and her dusty robes were stained with dirt and water.
The humiliation of losing the duel, the confusion of her wand losing control, the sting of the crowd's mockery, and the shame of fainting pathetically in front of Caesar... all these emotions twisted into a scalding torrent, repeatedly searing her pride, which had never truly known defeat.
"Ugh..." She bit the back of her hand, trying not to make a sound, but sobs still leaked through her teeth.
The proud Hermione Granger had, for the first time, met defeat on her "battlefield."
Whether it was in knowledge or in this struggle to maintain a certain special "sovereignty," she had failed utterly, losing so completely and so unsightly.
Just then, there was a soft knock on the stall door, not in Myrtle's ethereal manner.
"Hermione." Caesar's voice came from outside, calm as usual, yet it penetrated the door more clearly than ever.
Hermione froze, burying her face deeper into her knees, her voice raspy:
"...Go away."
There was a moment of silence outside, followed by the soft click of the lock turning.
Caesar walked in, his tall figure making the small stall feel even more cramped.
Ignoring any potential grime on the floor, he knelt before her, his eyes level with hers.
"There is no shame in losing to a fifth-year student who has had more training," he said, offering no empty comforts.
"I didn't lose to her!" Hermione looked up sharply, her bloodshot eyes glaring at him as tears welled up again.
"I lost to... I lost to myself! My wand! Why wouldn't it listen to me? And this!"
She roughly pulled out the bi-winged bird necklace she had been hiding under her clothes; the wooden pendant was now dull and lifeless.
"They both failed at the same time! At the most critical moment! It makes no sense!"
She was incoherent, a mix of grievance, anger, and deep confusion.
Caesar's gaze fell on the necklace in her hand, then slowly moved to her tear-stained face.
He didn't immediately explain the issue with the wand and necklace, but instead asked a seemingly unrelated question:
"Hermione, do you know why the Biyi Bird is classified as 'Symbiotic Taboo Class' in the classification of magical creatures?"
Hermione sniffled, answering subconsciously from memory: "Because they cannot survive alone. One wing, one eye—they must move in pairs, sharing their life force and magic circuits. Forcing them apart causes both to rapidly wither and die..."
Her voice trailed off as she seemed to realize something.
"Exactly,'sharing life force and magic circuits'." Caesar repeated her words, his fingertip lightly tapping the pendant in her hand.
Miraculously, the feather embedded inside the pendant glowed with a faint iridescent light. Simultaneously, a similar weak glow shone from beneath Caesar's own collar.
"This isn't just a romantic legend, Hermione. It's a deep, almost irreversible magical contract.
The materials used to make these two items came from a pair of Biyi Birds that truly lived and died together. Their powers echo each other, but they also constrain each other."
He gazed into her eyes, his tone becoming incredibly serious, even carrying a hint of a near-cold honesty that Hermione had never heard before:
"When one party harbors intense negative emotions directed at the other holder.
For instance, when your hostility toward Rojer Venus today was mixed with fear and anger that I might be 'taken away,' this contract instinctively produces resistance.
It's not meant to hurt you, but to prevent the contract itself from being 'polluted'.
Because the core of the Biyi Bird's contract is absolute trust and coexistence, not possession, and certainly not destruction."
Caesar held out his hand, palm up, and his own wand, made from a male bird's feather, quietly appeared.
"Through these creations, we are indirectly linked in the same contract. In this world full of various eyes, schemes, and dangers,"
He paused, his voice dropping low, yet every word was distinct: "In a sense, we are like those Biyi Birds.
Alone, one might be able to fly, but it is destined to be difficult, lonely, and fragile. Only by confirming our direction with each other can we truly soar, and even stand against the storms that are not so friendly."
Hermione forgot to cry, staring at him blankly, looking at the wand in his hand resonating with her necklace, and into the deep, honest sea of stars in his eyes.
Caesar's words stripped away the cruel yet real core of the romantic legend, and suddenly placed the feelings she had been blindly relying on into a grander, more fateful framework.
Against the world, neither can be missing.
These words were so heavy they made her heart race, yet they strangely soothed the dread she had felt after her crushing defeat while fighting alone.
Chapter 26: A Sixteen-Year-Old Girl
"Do you trust me, Hermione?" Caesar asked, his gaze intense, "Not just trusting your family, but trusting me, the person bound to you on the other end of this ancient contract.
Trusting that even if you fail, are disgraced, or lose control, I will still be the one to catch you, and I will need you to catch me in return."
This was not comfort, but an invitation to reveal one's vulnerabilities, pulling her from the position of a 'favored student' into the realm of an equal'symbiotic ally.'
Hermione's heart hammered violently in her chest, faster than when she caught the Golden Snitch.
All her grievances and shame melted away strangely under his words and candid gaze, transforming into a more turbulent, more unfamiliar heat.
She looked at his face so close to hers, at the clear reflection of herself in his eyes, and realized for the first time with such clarity:
Her feelings for him had long surpassed a student's admiration for a mentor, even transcending familial-like dependence.
It was a desire to stand side-by-side, to possess him exclusively, a longing to have their gazes intertwine whether in glory or disgrace.
In the picture he painted—of the two of them faintly opposing the world—she felt not fear, but an unprecedented sense of security and... palpitation.
"I trust you," she heard her own voice say, hoarse yet firm. She reached out her hand, not to take the wand.
But instead gently grasped his still-outstretched, warm palm, her fingertips touching the thin calluses left by practicing magic on his palm. "Just as they trust each other."
The moment her fingertips touched his palm, the necklace in her hand and the light from his wandsimultaneously bloomed with a soft radiance.
Filling the dim compartment with a warm, rainbow-like glow, enveloping them both.
Myrtle let out an envious sob from inside the nearby pipe, but no one could hear it now.
Hermione knew that something, from this moment on, had fundamentally changed.
She was still upset about the failure, but no longer because of the humiliation; it was because she longed to become strong faster, to truly be worthy of the name 'Wingmate.'
And that first clear stirring of affection, like the magic of the awakened contract, was deeply imprinted on her soul, inseparable from the warmth of the necklace.
[This failure not only allowed Hermione to break through her own character flaws but also deepened the bond between you. Through Hermione's introduction, you also met Ron and Neville.]
[Time flew by. The first semester ended. When leaving the school, Hermione privately challenged Rojer Venus. This time, she knew no one could take you away. This time, Hermione won easily.]
[Combined with your teaching, into which you poured almost all your resources, and Hermione's learning ability far surpassing her peers, by merely her first year, Hermione could defeat a fifth-year prefect.]
[You were pleased that your investment had paid off. Hermione's future potential had already surpassed that of the four House Deans and could aim to follow in Dumbledore's footsteps.]
[With the layout at Hogwarts settled for now, you turned your time and energy to the unexpected discovery from this simulation: the Shenshan People. Under the pretext of academic research, you began frequently leaving the school. Sometimes, with permission, your classes were temporarily taken over by Hermione.]
[During your absences, many things happened at Hogwarts. First, Tom's coveting of the Philosopher's Stone had reached a point difficult to conceal. The vigilance of Hogwarts' teachers and students was heightened through a series of incidents.]
[Secondly, while Hermione's outstanding performance shone dazzlingly at Hogwarts, it also attracted the attention of Gryffindor's Dean, Professor McGonagall, and Headmaster Dumbledore.]
[For the most talented genius in the last half-century aside from Tom Riddle, Professor McGonagallvery much hoped to cultivate her into an excellent and upright Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw. Dumbledore, however, only hoped Hermione would walk a righteous path.]
[As time passed, Hermione's relationship with Professor McGonagall gradually grew closer. During one conversation, McGonagall learned your recent behavior had become increasingly strange. After reporting to Dumbledore, they decided to question you in detail about your research findings over the years upon your next return.]
[Of course, they would not know what immensely powerful force you had discovered with the Shenshan People. It was an extremely ancient and terrifying curse, its origin even pointing directly to the source of magic itself. Ambition drove you to touch this taboo.]
[You believed that after years of research you could master its power. Unfortunately, your talents did not include the protagonist's halo. While attempting to use the ancient magic, the difficult-to-control spell nearly destroyed your body, almost killing you on the spot!]
[When you returned to Hogwarts a year later, you received two requests for a meeting: one from Tom Riddle, the other from deputy headmistress McGonagall. Simultaneously, a plan began to form in your mind.]
The corridors of Hogwarts were still bustling.
But when the familiar name—'Professor Caesar Habus concludes long-term academic survey, returns to the Castle today'—spread like a silent charm,
Hermione Granger, who was studying 'Advanced Magical Law Statutes' in the Library, still let her quill make a sudden, abrupt ink mark on the parchment.
Her heart gave a violent thump, almost leaping out of her chest.
A month.
It had been a full month since he hurriedly left to conduct a 'dangerous investigation of an ancient magical ruin.'
Now, Hermione was the most outstanding fifth-year student at Hogwarts, a top candidate for Outstanding O.W.L.s.
Even privately, Professor Flitwick admitted her practical magic level had surpassed many teachers, including himself.
She did not, as she might have before, drop everything and rush over heedlessly.
Instead, she took a deep breath, carefully placed the quill down, and closed the heavy tome.
Then, using the reflection in the windowpane, she quickly smoothed a few stubborn curls by her ear and pressed her lips together.
The sixteen-year-old girl in the mirror stood tall and straight, her gaze sharp and intelligent, having long shed the roundness of childhood.
Her jawline was clear, carrying an unconscious, steady brilliance born of vast knowledge and formidable strength.
Graceful and poised, captivating.
These were the words used in a recent 'Outstanding Witches of Hogwarts' report in the youth section of The Daily Prophet, which had made Ron and Neville laugh for a whole week.
She walked towards his office with steps slightly faster than usual but still maintaining composure.
On the way, a few younger students greeted her with awe.
"Senior!"
She merely gave a reserved nod. Her heartbeat, however, grew louder and louder.
Chapter 27: I'm Going to Resign
The office door was left ajar.
Hermione raised her hand, paused for a moment, and then knocked softly.
"Come in."
It was his voice. Deep and steady, it seemed no different from a month ago.
Hermione pushed open the door.
Caesar stood by the window with his back to the door, looking out at the scenery of the Black Lake. He was still wearing well-tailored dark robes, his posture upright and tall.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, he turned around.
Time seemed to have left very faint marks on his face, but his eyes appeared even more profound than in her deepest memories.
A throb came from Hermione's chest; the bi-winged bird necklace that never left her person was heating up beneath her robes, emitting a joyful yet urgently questioning pulse that only she could sense.
It had been a month, and this resonance had never been so strong.
She stood at the doorway, her fingers instinctively brushing against her collarbone, feeling the warmth from the jade pendant through the fabric of her clothes.
Five years had taught her restraint; she no longer threw herself into his arms like she did at eleven, nor did she cry before him as she had after losing a duel in her first year.
She simply stood there, her brown eyes tracing his features in detail—from his still-jet-black sideburns to his sharply defined jawline—finally meeting his bottomless gaze.
"Caesar," she heard herself say, her voice steadier than expected. "Welcome back."
Caesar's gaze lingered on her face for a moment; that scrutinizing look made Hermione almost want to step back. It wasn't the gaze she remembered.
In her memory, his gaze always held warmth; even during the strictest moments of teaching, there was a hidden, unique indulgence for her in the depths of his eyes.
But now, Caesar's eyes were like ancient silverware soaked in a cold pool; though the surface remained smooth, they exuded a bone-chilling coldness.
"Hermione," Caesar called her name, his voice devoid of emotion. "You've grown taller."
A most ordinary greeting, yet it made Hermione's heart sink slightly.
She would have preferred him to ruffle her hair as he used to, or ask her in that teasing tone how many classmates she had "crushed" recently.
Instead of this—treating her like any other ordinary student, speaking in the most polite of formalities.
Hermione suppressed the strange feeling in her heart and tried to make her tone sound light, even adding a touch of the small boastfulness typical of her age:
"A lot has happened this month. I've founded the 'Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare,' S.P.E.W.for short, although there aren't many members yet..."
She spoke faster, sharing what she considered her most important "achievements" of the year, her eyes shining as she looked at him, longing to see that encouraging and knowing expression from her memory.
"A very meaningful endeavor."
Caesar walked behind the desk and sat down, gesturing for her to do the same.
Caesar's movements were still elegant and composed, but as the hem of his robe brushed the edge of the desk, Hermione keenly noticed a very faint, silver-gray mark on the back of his right hand.
It looked like a scar left by some kind of magical burn, its shape so eerie it reminded her of an ancient curse symbol she had seen in a tome from the Restricted Section.
"And what about you? What have you been doing this month?"
Hermione pressed, sitting in the opposite chair with her back ramrod straight. "You didn't even come back for Christmas. Professor McGonagall said the ruins you went to don't even have complete records in the Ministry of Magic."
Caesar did not answer immediately.
He reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a slender leather case, and pushed it toward Hermione. "This is for you. Cascading Bath is helping you less and less now; this is the last of it."
Hermione didn't touch the case; her gaze remained locked onto Caesar's eyes. "You still haven't answered my question."
Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. Outside the window, a tentacle from the Giant Squid skimmed the surface of the Black Lake, casting swaying shadows.
Just as Hermione thought Caesar wouldn't answer, he suddenly spoke, his voice so soft it was as if he were talking to himself. "Hermione, if I really went to steal butterbeer, would you catch me?"
"What?"
For a moment, Hermione didn't react, thinking she had misheard.
"It's nothing."
A smile appeared on Caesar's face as he said calmly, "I just wanted to say that my research in the Easthas yielded many results.
It's unlikely I can continue my teaching responsibilities here at Hogwarts, so I plan to resign tomorrow and leave Hogwarts."
"Leave Hogwarts?" Hermione's voice caught in her throat, carrying a tremor she hadn't even noticed herself.
She had imagined countless scenarios, but they certainly didn't include this one.
If you leave, what will I do?
Just then, Professor McGonagall's voice sounded outside the door. "Professor Caesar, I hope I'm not intruding... Oh, Miss Granger is here as well."
Professor McGonagall walked in, nodded to Hermione, and then looked at Caesar, her tone carrying the familiarity shared between Professors and a hint of subtle concern:
"Was your journey smooth? You look..."
"A bit tired; long journeys are inevitably exhausting." Caesar picked up the thread naturally, his smile impeccable.
Professor McGonagall exchanged a few more pleasantries. Before leaving, her gaze seemed to sweep over Hermione inadvertently, pausing for a split second on her fingers, which had instinctively gripped the necklace on her chest.
In the corridor, Professor McGonagall stopped Hermione, who had excused herself and come out shortly after.
"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall's voice was very low, her gaze behind her spectacles sharp and complex. "Do you... feel anything different about Professor Caesar since his return?"
Hermione's heart sank heavily.
Even Professor McGonagall had noticed?
She looked up and met Professor McGonagall's searching gaze, which held both concern and deep worry.
Hermione remembered the abnormal throbbing from the necklace, the lingering sense of coldness, and the increasingly bottomless darkness in Caesar's eyes.
She was an extremely intelligent person, clever enough to piece together countless clues into a disturbing picture.
Long-term investigation of dangerous ancient magic, the change in his aura upon return, and perhaps some undercurrents she was unaware of.
"Caesar..." Hermione chose her words carefully, her throat feeling a bit dry. "He seems more focused on his research. Perhaps he's just too tired."
Hermione gave a conservative answer.
But her slightly whitening knuckles and the flash of fear and speculation in her eyes—which she herself was unwilling to delve into—did not escape Professor McGonagall's notice.
Professor McGonagall gave her a long look and finally just patted her shoulder. "Stay vigilant, child. And... take care of yourself."
Hermione walked alone on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, her fingers tightly clutching the necklace on her chest.
Warmth still resonated from there, echoing Caesar, yet it seemed to be fighting against another kind of chill rising from the depths of her heart.
She was still ecstatic over his return; that deep-seated throb from years past hadn't diminished in the slightest.
But at the same time, a cold question, like an undercurrent in the deepest part of the Black Lake, began to swirl in her heart:
All these years, where exactly does he go every time he leaves the school?
And what has he brought back?
Chapter 28: You're More Like a Ghost Than I Am
Late at night, atop the North Tower of Hogwarts, in the shadows of the Astronomy Class observatory.
Professor Quirrell slumped against the stone railing like a rag doll, a corner of his purple turban lifted by the night wind, revealing the writhing, hideous facial features protruding beneath the deathly pale skin on the back of his neck.
His eyes rolled back, but the sound rolling from his throat was a snake-like hiss: "You... are late... Caesar..."
Caesar stepped out from the shadows of the spiral staircase, his pace half a beat slower than usual.
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation as his left foot hit the ground; at that exact moment, moonlight pierced through a gap in the clouds, illuminating half of his face.
Now, beneath his skin, faint silver-grey undercurrents moved like living things, sliding from his cheekbone to the side of his neck before disappearing into the collar of his black robes.
Voldemort sniffed through Quirrell's senses, his hiss suddenly turning sharp: "Your body is resisting magic? No, magic is eroding you!"
Caesar stopped ten feet away from Quirrell, a distance that allowed for conversation while remaining out of range for any sudden spell attacks.
He didn't deny it, merely lifting his left hand slowly to undo his cufflink.
The skin from his wrist to his forearm was covered in a web-like pattern of eerie blue cracks.
It looked like shattered porcelain crudely held together with cheap glue, with a mineral-like cold light—not belonging to flesh and blood—shining from deep within the fissures.
Even though it was in a simulation, the pain was undeniably real.
He had been careless.
However, he couldn't let Voldemort notice anything unusual right now; if his own body was abnormal...
Then this bald-headed egg was mentally unstable.
The cooperation between the two could turn into a backstab at any moment, affecting the final outcome.
"A price," Caesar's voice was steady, but each word sounded as if it were being arduously carved out from beneath a layer of ice. "Researching certain forbidden ancient contract magic always requires giving something up."
He lowered his sleeve, concealing those shocking cracks. "The Philosopher's Stone can stabilize it. At least it can let me live a few more years."
Quirrell's head snapped back at a bizarre angle, the face on the back of his head fully emerging, with two pitch-black holes where the nostrils should be:
"A cure? Hah, would a Wizard like you be so pathetic just for the sake of'staying alive'?"
"Only by staying alive can I continue my research." Caesar's right hand unconsciously pressed against his chest, where the jade pendant was burning hot through his clothes—so hot his very bone marrow ached.
"And the Philosopher's Stone happens to be my most effective research subject and medicinal catalyst at the moment."
The air fell silent for a few seconds, save for the wailing of the wind through the stone crevices of the tower.
Voldemort was weighing his options.
A heavily injured, dying, yet knowledgeable collaborator was easier to control than one in his prime, yet also more unpredictable.
"Tomorrow night..." the hiss rose again, carrying the probing nature of a coiling venomous snake.
"After moonset, the final rotation guarding the Philosopher's Stone will be Snape. I have a way to make him 'happen' to leave his post for fifteen minutes."
"Sufficient." Caesar took a tanned Thestral-hide map from the inner pocket of his black robes and shook it open in the air.
Marked on the map in Goblin-blood ink were seven different paths leading to the restricted area on the fourth floor of the Castle, with guard weaknesses and evasion methods noted beside each path.
Then, with a light tap of his finger, several lines of pulsing runes appeared on the map:
"Hagrid's Cerberus needs continuous hypnosis; I've prepared a powerful sedative mixed with dragon nerve powder.
What Sprout's Devils Snare fears isn't light, but specific sound frequencies. As for the mirror of erised..."
"Dumbledore's trickery," Voldemort's hiss carried suppressed fury. "Only someone who doesn't want to use the Stone can get it out! Absurd!"
"So we need to make it 'think' we don't want to use it." Caesar put away the map, the eerie light in his eyes deeper than the night. "I have a way to temporarily deceive that mirror, to make the mirror 'proactively hand over' the Stone."
Quirrell's body convulsed violently; clearly, Voldemort's emotions were stirred: "What way?"
"Tomorrow at midnight, all will be revealed before the mirror."
Caesar turned, his black robes billowing in the biting wind. "You only need to ensure two things: First, arrange all the forces you can mobilize near Hogwarts; as soon as we get the Philosopher's Stone, strike Hogwarts directly. Second..."
Caesar looked back, his final gaze landing on the face on the back of Quirrell's head, his eyes as cold as if he were inspecting a piece of experimental equipment about to be scrapped.
"Control your curiosity, Tom. There are ancient and powerful magics in this world that, once seen, cannot be escaped!"
With that, he disappeared around the corner of the stairs, his footsteps still carrying that strange hesitation.
Quirrell slumped to the ground, the face on the back of his head twisting as the hiss turned into a bout of manic low laughter: "Can't escape, haha. Caesar Black... you're more like a ghost than I am..."
Meanwhile, below the tower.
Hermione hid behind the giant shield held high by the statue of Sir William II, holding her breath.
She had used three layers of magic:
The Disillusionment Charm blended her silhouette into the stone wall, while the silver thread of an Eavesdropping Charm wound from the tip of her wand to a crack in the rooftop stone.
Most crucial was a strand of hair wrapped around her left wrist—a few silver-black hairs she had "accidentally" hidden away when Caesar was tutoring her in Ancient Runes last year.
Right now, they were burning slightly with a variation of a Bloodline Tracking Spell, pointing toward the top of the tower.
She saw it.
She saw the less-than-half-second stiffness in Caesar's left leg as he walked onto the rooftop.
She saw the fleeting eerie blue cracks beneath his skin when the moonlight hit his profile, like the flash of a glacier splintering in the dark night.
She saw those terrifying marks, spanning from his wrist to his forearm, looking as though they had been repeatedly slashed by an invisible blade and then crudely mended when he undid his cufflink.
Hermione's nails dug deep into her palms, the bi-winged bird necklace burning hot against her chest.
This was no longer the warmth of resonance, but a sharp alarm; the other end of the contract was disintegrating.
She heard it.
She heard the raspy, inhuman voice rolling from Quirrell's throat: "Your body is resisting magic?"
She heard Caesar admit the cost in a tone so calm it was cruel: "A price always requires giving something up."
She heard "The Philosopher's Stone can stabilize it" and "Tomorrow night after moonset."
When Caesar said, "I have a way to temporarily deceive that mirror," Hermione almost rushed out.
The protection on the mirror of erised was the final line of defense set by Dumbledore himself; how could he... but she bit her lip hard.
The sixteen-year-old Hermione Granger had long since learned to keep secrets in her heart.
So.
She watched the unnatural bulge at Caesar's left shoulder blade, visible beneath his black robes as he turned, as if some foreign object were embedded in his flesh.
She listened to his departing footsteps, each step carrying the sluggishness of magic being obstructed, like rusted gears being forced to turn.
She retreated slowly, inch by inch.
She withdrew the Eavesdropping Charm, released the Disillusionment Charm, and finally cut the tracking on the hair around her wrist.
The strand of hair turned to ash at her fingertips, ending the one-way connection.
She ran through the empty corridors, the burning heat of the pendant on her chest growing stronger and stronger; red bloodlines had already soaked through her undergarments, spreading a small damp patch on her robes.
She burst into her bedroom.
And locked the door.
Chapter 29: Love is the Most Dangerous Spell
She clutched the burning pendant at her chest tightly; the Biyi Bird jade pendant was seeping iridescent blood streaks in the darkness.
It wasn't light, but actual warm blood carrying the magic of a contract, dripping through her fingers and onto her school robes.
What came from the other end of the pendant was no longer the warmth of resonance, but a sort of forcibly torn, dying wail.
"Backlash," Hermione murmured, her mind frantically piecing together clues. "Contract magic... when one side is on the verge of collapse, the other side bears part of the..."
She suddenly remembered the shape of those cracks on Caesar's wrist.
Those weren't marks of an injury at all.
Those were the backlash patterns of an ancient Symbiotic Contract, briefly recorded in the appendix of "Most Toxic Magic":
When one party of the contract attempts to violate a core oath, such as "not harming the innocent," or when their own existence is being eroded by high-level Dark Arts, the contract visualizes the pain.
"The Philosopher's Stone to treat an illness... no, perhaps the real point lies elsewhere..."
She wiped the blood off the jade pendant, tucked it back into her collar, pulled out a piece of blank parchment she carried with her, and wrote rapidly with the tip of her wand:
1. Caesar's physical state: Precursor to Magic Disintegration? Dark Arts parasitism? Ancient contract backlash?
2. Deal with Lord Voldemort: Real cooperation? Fake exploitation? True goal?
3. Tomorrow night after moonset: Snape's shift vacancy (needs verification), Forbidden Forest defense loopholes (needs investigation), the "deception method" for the mirror of erised (the biggest doubt).
4. My action options: ① Report to Dumbledore immediately (insufficient evidence, and might alert the enemy) ② Sabotage the Philosopher's Stone transfer route in advance (needs localization) ③... Confront Caesar directly and force him to tell the truth (most dangerous, but the contract might protect me).
When she reached the last line, Hermione stopped her pen and froze for a moment.
The rational thinking that had been constantly operating in her mind suddenly cut off.
Why did I write 'most dangerous' for Caesar?
This wasn't a clear judgment.
Absolutely not!
Hermione felt a chill in her heart.
The next second, she forcefully crossed out the last line.
As Caesar had said before, love is the most dangerous spell; it can make people lose their reason and cloud clear judgment.
No one is an exception.
The parchment suddenly rolled up automatically, and Caesar's handwriting surfaced on it. It was the Two-way Encrypted Messaging Charm he had taught her many years ago, which she thought had long since become invalid:
"Hermione, don't get involved. This is the only distance that can protect you."
The handwriting burned away three seconds after appearing, leaving not even ashes behind.
Hermione stared at the last sparks in the air and suddenly laughed.
There was no warmth in that smile, only a Gryffindor-style, burning stubbornness.
"Protect me?"
She whispered to the empty compartment, her fingers stroking the depleted pendant. "From the day you gave me this feather... we were destined to fall together, Caesar."
That night, Hermione curled up in the corner of her four-poster bed, isolating the whole world with the heavy curtains. Three open books were spread out on the nightstand:
"Backlash Phenomena of Symbiotic Contracts"
"Omens and Disguises of Magic Disintegration"
"mirror of erised: Seventeen Loopholes of Desire Mapping"
The Biyi Bird pendant on her chest had stopped seeping blood.
But the iridescent feather had completely dimmed to a grayish-white, feeling cold and brittle to the touch, like the last dead leaf of late autumn.
But when Hermione closed her eyes, she could clearly "feel" the existence at the other end.
It wasn't a concrete image, but a constant sensation of falling, as if Caesar were standing on the edge of an abyss, and she was tied to his wrist by an invisible rope.
"I need the Philosopher's Stone to treat my illness."
Caesar's voice replayed repeatedly in her mind; that imperceptible tremor beneath the calm was now infinitely magnified by memory.
Those cracks under the skin, the stagnant footsteps, the bulge of the shoulder blades—a fatal magical disease.
She felt so much heartache for Caesar.
But what pained her even more was the deduction that followed:
If all of this were true, Caesar was dying and needed the stone to survive, and for that, he wouldn't hesitate to cooperate with Lord Voldemort.
Then should she stop him? Was she supposed to just watch him die!
If all of this were false, Caesar had another purpose and might even betray Hogwarts.
Then should she expose him? To personally push him toward Azkaban!
"Ah..." Hermione buried her face in her knees, letting out a suppressed sob. Logic had failed at this moment.
Every deduced fork in the road led to deeper thickets of thorns.
She remembered when she was ten, Caesar holding her hand and taking her home: "I promise, I will definitely see you home after we leave the station. Please trust me, little Hermione."
She remembered when she was eleven, Caesar bringing her to Hogwarts: "If one day I go to steal butterbeer, will you catch me?"
She remembered after the duel failure in first year, he held her trembling hand in the lavatory cubicle: "Against the world, neither can be missing..."
She remembered countless nights when she woke up from nightmares, the necklace would always transmit a steady, warm pulse—his silent response from the other side of the Castle.
Trembling, Hermione pulled a small mirror from under her pillow. In the faint glow of Lumos, she saw her own pale face, with heavy shadows under her eyes.
But in those brown eyes, besides fear and confusion, there was a stubbornness that wouldn't be extinguished, which even startled herself.
She finally understood her deepest fear:
It wasn't the fear that Caesar would betray her, but the fear that even if she knew he was betraying her, she would still choose to stand by his side.
This realization made her stomach churn.
She was Hermione Granger, the Hermione Granger who always put "correctness" first.
But when "correctness" meant destroying the person who had left the deepest mark on her life... the moon outside the window began to sink in the west.
Less than twenty hours remained until "tomorrow night after moonset."
Hermione slowly stood up and pulled open the door.
The last trace of hesitation in her eyes was completely burned away. The torches on the corridor walls were reflected in her eyes like two clusters of unquenchable blue Fiendfyre... Ravenclaw Tower, Caesar's office, at twilight.
Caesar sat at the oak desk, the tip of his quill suspended over the parchment, a drop of silver-blue ink about to fall.
The setting sun outside the window dyed the Black Lake the color of blood amber, and light passed through the gaps in the bookshelves, falling on his left hand.
Those ghostly blue cracks were now flickering with his heartbeat, like dying fluorite in a subterranean mineral vein.
He changed pens.
It wasn't his usual Unicorn hair quill, but an old pen with a cracked barrel inlaid with scales.
That was a birthday gift Hermione had given him in their third year, messily stuck together using her fallen hair and Bowtruckle molts; at the time, she had grumbled:
"Anyway, you don't lack for anything."
The pen tip wasn't dipped in ink, but in silver-blue blood droplets oozing from his fingertips, which, when mixed with Mithril powder, would change color on the paper according to the reader's emotional temperature.
The pen tip touched down:
Hermione,
When you read this letter, I should no longer be in this world. Do not be sad; this is the outcome I deserve.
Chapter 30: May Your Path Be Bright, and This Life Without Regret
If you are standing beneath the Astronomy Tower at this moment, or anywhere you can see the Forbidden Forest on the west side of the Castle, please look up at the sky.
My end should be related to a sufficiently spectacular magic explosion; I hope they can describe it afterward as an 'unfortunate experimental accident.'
That would be for the best.
A Professor obsessed with dangerous research getting what he deserves is better than having the name 'Caesar Habus' linked to deeper conspiracies and lasting suspicion, which would in turn implicate you.
I guess, with your intelligence, you have probably pieced together most of the truth: my deal with Tom Riddle, my designs on the Philosopher's Stone, and this crumbling body.
Yes, I need it, so desperately that I would walk on the edge of a blade. But 'curing an illness' is just an easy-to-understand excuse—or rather, the most insignificant layer of my purpose.
What truly drives me is the temptation of a discovery from deep within the ruins of the Shenshan People—an ancient power that touches the very origin of magic.
I conceitedly thought I could harness it, transforming it into a cornerstone to reshape certain rules.
Perhaps... I could even eliminate once and for all the darkness that breeds from a fragmented soul, like Tom's.
I failed.
The backlash of that power far exceeded my estimations; it isn't just destroying my body, it's more like 'erasing' the foundation of my existence as a Wizard on a conceptual level.
The Philosopher's Stone is theoretically the only thing that can temporarily 'anchor' me.
So you see, reaching this point was less driven by Tom's schemes and more by my own ambition and arrogance leading me to a dead end.
I sacrificed myself to an overly dangerous thirst for knowledge; it is a classic example of a Ravenclawtragedy.
I must confess to you the deepest, and heaviest, deception:
My feelings for you.
I once thought that the care, indulgence, and companionship that fell outside of my plans could simply be categorized as 'appreciation for a brilliant student' or 'familial responsibility.'
I even used this reason to convince myself for a time, attempting to define the increasingly clear differences between us as your delusion or a momentary dependency.
I was wrong.
I don't know when it began—perhaps the first time you gazed at me with that look, a mixture of admiration and stubbornness.
Perhaps it was when you won a Quidditch match and secretly placed a model of the Golden Snitchrepresenting victory on my desk.
Or perhaps it was just during those countless ordinary days, seeing the light flickering in your eyes as you shared those seemingly trivial thoughts.
You were no longer just a part of my plan, or a sister who needed looking after.
You became the only variable in my cold calculations, the only warm color in a gray landscape, the only reason on a long road that made me want to turn back and stay.
Because of this, I grew even more afraid.
Afraid that these feelings would cloud your judgment and drag you into my abyss.
Afraid that after knowing the full truth, you would make irrational choices in the name of 'love' and fall into ruin alongside me.
So I pushed you away—with coldness, with distance, and with the lie that I was about to leave.
I would rather you misunderstand me or hate me than have you take risks for me. But in the end, I underestimated you, Hermione.
You are not a fledgling that needs to be protected under a wing; you are an eagle destined to soar. You sensed the anomaly and chose to face it head-on.
At this moment, I can imagine the determination with which you are walking toward unknown danger.
Please forgive me for being unable to stop you in person, and for being unable to guard your side any longer.
That Biyi Bird pendant is the last thing I can leave behind.
Its contract power will crumble with my passing; the fading of the rainbow light is not because of you.
But the item itself remains an ancient protective artifact.
Keep it or destroy it—the decision is yours. It is no longer a shackle, merely a token of a memory.
Do not be held hostage by 'love' or 'responsibility.' You do not need to prove your feelings for me, nor do you need to bear anything for my end. I am responsible for my own choices.
Your path lies ahead—a bright, broad path filled with infinite possibilities.
Go and become whoever you want to be—the most outstanding Minister for Magic, a groundbreaking scholar, a steadfast reformer, or simply a happy, free Hermione Granger.
Use your wisdom and courage to build, to protect, and to love those worthy of love.
If one day in the future you meet a partner to whom you can calmly give your trust and walk side-by-side, please do not hesitate for a moment.
In the eternal silence, I will offer you my most sincere blessings.
I once thought my story would end in hatred or obsession.
Thank you, Hermione, for letting me find a warmer final chapter at the last moment.
Farewell.
May your path ahead be bright, and may you never have regrets in this life.
Forever yours,
Caesar
...Late at night, inside the cold stone chamber, the air seemed to have frozen.
The mirror of erised stood quietly in the center; its surface was deep, reflecting no clear image, only a blur of surging light and mist.
The ancient runes carved on the frame cast twisted, flickering shadows under the dancing light of the wall torches.
Quirrell—or rather, the will represented by the face on the back of Quirrell's head—was staring irritably at the mirror.
They had bypassed Fluffy the snoring Cerberus, passed through the withered and shrinking Devils Snare, solved the flying keys, the life-and-death chessboard, and the logic puzzle, finally standing before this last and most daunting line of defense.
"Quick... quickly get it!"
Quirrell's voice was hoarse with tension, his fingers nervously scratching at his purple turban.
His eyes, however, uncontrollably flicked to the back of his head frequently, as if seeking instructions, or perhaps as if fearing something.
Caesar stood half a step to the side of the mirror, his posture seemingly relaxed.
But upon closer inspection, one could see the fingers of his left hand hanging by his side spasming slightly. The faint blue cracks beneath his skin seemed clearer than when they arrived, like undercurrents beneath a layer of ice accelerating their flow.
His gaze fell upon the mirror's surface; lacking Quirrell's greed and urgency, he instead seemed to be examining an old object, carrying a trace of imperceptible... realization and weariness.
"Only those who do not wish to use the Philosopher's Stone can take it from the mirror."
Caesar spoke, his voice sounding exceptionally clear in the silent stone chamber, even possessing a sudden calmness. "Dumbledore likes these little tricks that carry moral lessons."
"Then... then what do we do?" Quirrell asked urgently, unable to stop himself from touching the back of his head again. "The Master... the Master needs it!"
"We need to make it 'believe' that we do not want to use it." Caesar took a step forward, closer to the mirror.
His shadow was stretched long, cast upon the cold stone floor, its edges slightly blurred as if peeling away from reality.
"Or rather, let the mirror'see' that the act of taking the stone itself fits the definition of 'not using it.'"