Ch: 94-102
Chapter 94: Frozen Black Smoke and the Perfect Witness
A stale cold current, mixed with the scent of sulfur and rotting orchids, rushed toward him, causing Moen White's originally light steps to pause slightly.
This corridor on the second floor was unusually quiet; even the draft that usually howled through seemed frozen by some force at this moment.
The spiderwebs on the windows remained motionless, and only dust hung suspended in the dim light.
Morn did not move forward immediately but stood at the boundary between shadow and light. In those deep blue eyes, the light that originally belonged to a predator was replaced by a layer of gentle academic curiosity.
Directly in front of him, Justin Finch-Fletchley lay stiffly on the floor, his expression frozen in extreme terror, his limbs as straight as wooden boards.
But this did not pique Morn's interest much.
What truly amazed him was the thing floating above Justin.
It was Nearly Headless Nick.
But he was no longer that pearly-white, translucent ghost.
At this moment, Nick had turned into a pitch-black, solid sculpture resembling thick smoke.
He maintained a posture as if being scattered by the wind, yet was forcibly frozen in mid-air by some overbearing rule, looking like a mass of frozen black jelly, emitting a heart-palpitating aura of deathly silence.
"Breathtaking."
Morn walked slowly toward Nick, not rushing to devour this power as he usually did, but rather like a connoisseur admiring a rare treasure in a museum.
He reached out his right hand, clad in a leather glove, and his fingertips lightly touched the black smoke.
Sizzle... an extremely cold, viscous, and strongly repellent sensation came from his fingertips. It was like reaching into a pool of asphalt that had been dry for a thousand years.
[Talent Activation: Eye of Truth · Phenomenon Analysis]
In Morn's microscopic vision, Nick's spiritual structure was laid bare.
The ectoplasm, which was originally in an active quantum state, now had its frequency fundamentally locked by a gray Petrification Factor.
This power not only interfered with the material realm and Justin's physical body but even penetrated the barriers of dimensions, forcibly modifying the rules of the spirit's existence.
"So this is the gaze of the Basilisk..."
Morn withdrew his hand, rubbing the trace of lingering coldness between his fingertips, a pure smile without any malice curling at the corners of his mouth.
"For the living, it strips away biological activity; for the dead, it locks the spiritual frequency. This isn't a simple Petrificus Totalus; this is an 'Absolute Freezing of State.' If I could analyze this frequency..."
Hurried and panicked footsteps interrupted his academic musings.
The golden light in Morn's eyes instantly vanished. He quickly stepped back two paces into the edge of the shadow of a suit of armor along the corridor, adjusted the books in his arms, and resumed his "passing good student" persona.
Harry Potter rushed into the corridor, panting for breath.
When he saw Justin on the floor and the black Nick in the air, the savior came to a sudden halt as if he had been hit by a Body-Bind Curse, his already pale face instantly turning bloodless.
"No... no..." Harry retreated tremblingly, his eyes filled with despair.
"Caught you! It's happened!"
A sharp, piercing voice suddenly exploded from the ceiling.
Peeves was hanging upside down from a massive chandelier, looking at the scene below and letting out a scream intended to stir up trouble: "It's happened! No-nosed little Potter has committed murder! This time it's a ghost and that boy! Everyone, come and see!"
Clang!
Bang!
The screaming was like a detonated powder keg.
The doors of several surrounding classrooms were thrown open, and the sound of cluttered footsteps and students' gasps instantly flooded the deathly quiet corridor. Then, the rapid clicking of high heels on stone slabs approached—Professor McGonagall pushed through the crowd and rushed in.
"What's going on? Out of the way!"
Professor McGonagall waved her wand, producing a loud bang that quelled the chaotic students. When she saw Justin on the floor, the stern Witch gasped, and the wand in her hand trembled slightly.
"Potter..." Professor McGonagall turned around, looking with a complex expression at the boy standing by the body, unable to defend himself.
"Professor."
A gentle, calm, and polite voice rang out from the nearby shadows.
Professor McGonagall snapped her head around, her wand almost instinctively pointing that way. When she saw who it was, her tense shoulders relaxed slightly, but her brow remained furrowed: "Mr. White? Why are you here?"
All eyes instantly focused on Morn.
Harry looked at him as if grasping for a lifeline, hoping he could prove his innocence.
Morn stepped calmly out of the shadows. He was wearing neat robes, holding books in his arms, with an appropriate look of regret and sympathy on his face, as if deeply pained by the tragedy before him.
He bowed slightly to Professor McGonagall, his movements impeccably elegant.
"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall. Though it is not a pleasant afternoon."
Morn's voice was steady and sincere, without any hint of panic:
"I happened to run into Mr. Potter in the library earlier and remembered a book on Defense Against the Dark Arts that might be helpful for his current... situation, so I specifically followed him to lend it to him."
At this point, he paused, his gaze sweeping over Justin on the floor, and he let out a soft sigh.
"But I didn't expect that when I arrived, Mr. Potter was already standing here... and this heartbreaking scene."
These words were airtight.
On the surface, he was explaining why he was present.
In reality, as an "eyewitness," he used the most objective tone to lock in the most fatal fact—"When I arrived, Potter was already standing beside the body."
Harry's face instantly turned deathly pale. He opened his mouth but found he couldn't refute this "testimony" at all, because it was indeed the truth.
Professor McGonagall looked at Morn's face, which was written all over with "honesty," "decency," and "top student," and the suspicion in her eyes completely dissipated. She nodded, her tone softening slightly: "Thank you for your explanation, Mr. White. This... this is very unfortunate."
Then, she turned to Harry, her voice becoming stern and weary again: "Come with me, Potter. I believe we need to see Professor Dumbledore."
Just then, the Gargoyle at the end of the corridor slowly moved aside.
Albus Dumbledore, wearing his gray robes, appeared before everyone, his steps as light as a breeze.
Although he didn't speak, the overwhelming magical pressure he exuded instantly made the air in the corridor heavy and viscous.
The students automatically parted to make a path.
Dumbledore did not look at Justin on the floor. His sharp blue eyes, through his half-moon spectacles, bypassed Harry and landed straight on Morn, who was standing to the side.
It was a scrutiny.
A gaze that seemed capable of penetrating skin and muscle to directly read the base color of the soul.
If it were the old Morn, he might have instinctively looked away or countered with a cold stare.
But the current Morn did not.
He stood his ground, his posture upright. Facing the pressure of the greatest white wizard of the century, he simply raised his head calmly and met that gaze.
The perfect, gentle smile still hung on the corners of his mouth.
Those deep blue eyes were clear to the bottom; one could see no ambition, no cruelty, and no traces of the Dark Arts. All that could be seen was a model student who felt sympathy for his classmate's plight and respect for his Professor.
"What are you looking for, Principal?"
Morn whispered softly in his heart, enjoying the thrill of dancing in a mask right under the master's nose.
"That violent Ravenclaw is already 'dead.' What stands before you now... is a perfect piece of work that even you cannot find fault with."
Dumbledore remained silent for two seconds, a trace of indiscernible doubt flashing in the depths of his eyes.
Finally,
He nodded slightly and withdrew his gaze.
"The rest of you return to your respective houses," the old man's voice was calm and commanding, "except for Harry."
Morn bowed once more, then turned and blended into the stream of panicked students.
The moment he turned, the compassionate expression on his face did not vanish, but his fingers, hidden by his robes, gently stroked the handle of his wand, feeling the lingering cold sensation of the "Petrification of the Dead."
That was his greatest gain today.
Chapter 95: The Stiff Spider and the Ghost Outside the Dungeon
On Christmas night, the blizzard was like an enraged beast, frantically battering the high arched windows of Ravenclaw Tower with a shrill howl.
The common room was empty, with only the remaining embers in the fireplace occasionally popping with a spark of red light; the air was filled with the scorched fragrance of burning pine needles and a drowsy, dry warmth.
Moen White sat in a high-backed armchair by the window. He wasn't holding a book, but was instead cradling a long-legged spider he had caught from the windowsill.
The creature, only the size of a fingernail, was scurrying frantically in his palm, attempting to escape this "cage" filled with magical radiation.
"Don't be in such a hurry, little fellow. This is just a small... physical examination."
Morn whispered softly, a signature gentle smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as if he weren't holding a pest, but an injured fledgling.
He closed his eyes slightly, his consciousness sinking into the depths of his mind, retrieving the memory data from yesterday afternoon in the second-floor corridor.
[Talent Activation: Source of Calamity · Frequency Simulation]
[Data Loading: Sample A-02 (Petrified Nick)]
The sensation of that moment resurfaced: the extremely cold, grey waveband that could freeze the frequency of a soul when his fingertips touched that mass of black, smoke-like ghost.
Morn didn't just see it; he recorded every peak and trough of that vibration.
"Although I don't have a Basilisk's eyeball as hardware support to achieve an 'instant death' effect through direct sight..."
Morn opened his eyes. Deep within his deep blue pupils, a very faint grey halo—one he had just finished analyzing yesterday—slowly emerged.
"But if it's simply a matter of reorganizing this magic frequency and emitting it through a biological magnetic field..."
He didn't use a wand. Instead, he directly mobilized the abyss-like magic within his body, compressing it into an extremely fine beam that gently enveloped the spider in his palm.
Zzt. There was no sound of an electric current in the air, but the spider's movements instantly froze.
Its eight long legs, which had been dancing frantically, seemed to have their neural signals instantly severed, curling up stiffly. Its body hadn't turned to stone—it still retained the texture of its carapace—but its vital signs completely vanished in that second, like a mechanical toy with its pause button pressed.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
As the halo in Morn's eyes dissipated, the spider twitched violently, as if waking from a nightmare, and leaped down his wrist like mad, disappearing into the cracks of the carpet.
"As expected, merely simulating the 'frequency' can only cause short-term neural paralysis."
Morn wasn't disappointed. He took out a clean white handkerchief and unhurriedly wiped the palm where the spider had crawled, a faint tingling sensation from the previous magic output still lingering at his fingertips.
"Furthermore, the power is severely insufficient. The resilience of a human soul is thousands of times that of an insect. To achieve true 'petrification,' relying solely on the residual data collected from that ghost isn't enough... I need something closer to the'source.'"
He stood up, folded the handkerchief neatly back into his pocket, and turned toward the tower's exit.
Although the experiment wasn't a complete success, it verified his theory:
The essence of the Basilisk's power is a high-frequency waveband that can be analyzed.
With enough data, he could even use magic to replicate the authority of this mythical creature.
"That's enough for tonight's experiment. Next, it seems another good show is about to be staged."
...The Great Hall Entrance Hall.
The area was filled with the lingering sweet scent of roasted turkey and Christmas pudding.
Though the feast had ended, the festive restlessness still echoed between the stone walls of the Castle.
Morn activated the Disillusionment Charm, clinging to the shadows of the stairs leading to the basement like an invisible ghost.
In his sight, two sneaky figures—Harry and Ron—were painstakingly placing two floating chocolate cakes in a conspicuous spot in the corridor.
Not far away, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, those two Slytherins who were useless for anything other than eating and acting as muscle, were rooting their way over like two wild boars following the scent.
"Who dropped this?" Goyle mumbled indistinctly, picking up a cake and stuffing it into his mouth.
"Never mind that, I want this one!" Crabbe swallowed half of his in one gulp.
Three seconds later.
Thud! Thud! Two dull, heavy sounds.
The two hulking boys fell straight to the floor like felled trees without any buffer, the impact making the suits of armor in the corridor tremble.
"Too crude."
Hidden in the air, Morn shook his head slightly, a helpless smile at such a low-level trap appearing in his eyes.
"With this dosage of sleeping potion, if they aren't dragged away immediately, Filch only needs to glance down at those two pairs of large feet sticking out from behind the pillar to haul them off to detention like dead pigs."
Sure enough,
A shuffling set of footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.
Filch's red-eyed cat—Madam Norris—had been petrified, but he was on patrol and seemed to have scented something unusual.
Harry and Ron were frantically trying to drag the unconscious Crabbe and Goyle into a broom cupboard, but the weight of these two fat boys was clearly beyond their capacity.
Seeing the light from Filch's lantern about to turn the corner,
Morn sighed.
He extended a finger from his robe sleeve and gave a light tap toward the tangled mess of figures.
[Muffliato Charm: Confundus + Light and Shadow Refraction]
The air distorted slightly, as if a layer of mist had instantly shrouded that corner.
Filch walked over, lantern in hand.
The dim yellow light swept over the spot where Harry and the others were, but in Filch's eyes, there was only a pile of discarded old desks and shadows, not any students lying on the ground.
"Blast that Peeves... throwing things around again..."
Filch cursed, walking past just half a meter from Harry without noticing a thing.
Only when Filch's back disappeared did Harry and Ron slump to the floor, gasping for breath, completely unaware that they had just narrowly escaped disaster.
"Go on, little lions."
Morn withdrew his finger and placed his hands behind his back again, like a patient spectator waiting for the climax of the next act.
"Finish the play. I'm also curious to see what you can squeeze out of Malfoy's mouth."
...Half an hour later, outside the Slytherin dungeon.
This was the coldest and dampest part of the Castle. Water droplets clung to the walls year-round, and the air was thick with the smell of moldy moss and the characteristic salt-stench of the Black Lakebottom.
Morn didn't enter the Slytherin common room—even though cracking that password would be child's play with his abilities.
He simply leaned against the cold stone wall at the entrance and closed his eyes.
[Talent Activation: Void Body · Auditory Extension]
The hard, thick stone wall became like a layer of thin gauze in his perception.
The sounds from the room followed the grain of the rock, transmitting clearly into his eardrums.
He heard Draco Malfoy's characteristic, drawling, arrogant voice:
"...Those idiots think I'd know? I've already told you, I don't know who the heir is, and my father won't tell me the detailed plan, only that it was fifty years ago... Dammit, Goyle, why are you still eating? Hasn't your stomach burst from that cake yet?"
Harry, who had turned into Goyle, obviously didn't dare speak and could only make grunting sounds.
Morn opened his eyes, a flash of expected boredom in his blue eyes.
"As expected."
He lightly brushed a drop of cold water that had seeped from the ceiling off his shoulder, his tone as calm as if he were stating a long-known truth.
"That blonde young master's head is empty, aside from boasting about fragments of his father's words. This lead is dead; the saviors are destined to return disappointed tonight."
Just then, a hurried set of footsteps came from inside the stone wall.
"I have to go back... stomach ache..." Ron, turned into Crabbe, shouted in a panic.
The time for the Polyjuice Potion was up.
The stone door slid open slowly.
Harry and Ron rushed out in a disheveled state, their faces undergoing bizarre transformations—noses shortening, red hair sprouting; the two of them looked like they were performing a not-so-funny face-changing show.
They didn't notice Morn standing in the blind spot of the shadows, instead sprinting all the way toward the girls' bathroom on the second floor.
Morn watched their receding backs, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Only two people?"
He keenly noticed the discrepancy in numbers.
"Where is Miss Know-It-All? If she isn't acting with them, it usually means... a more serious complication has arisen in the plan."
An extremely faint, strange smell—a mixture of lacewings and some kind of animal fur—wafted through the air.
The smile at the corners of Morn's mouth deepened; it was the pleasure of discovering a new bit of fun.
"It seems tonight's grand finale isn't in the dungeon, but in that place filled with crying."
He set off with his long legs, following them silently.
Chapter 96: The Wrong Face and the Snowy White Handkerchief
After Harry and Ron's frantic footsteps vanished at the end of the corridor, the air fell back into silence.
Only a faint wisp of a scent—a mixture of the burnt smell of boiled lacewings and a certain... wet animal fur odor—drifted from the opposite direction of where the two boys had run, like an invisible thread.
Moen White stopped in his tracks, his nostrils flaring slightly.
Even without using his Talent, this highly recognizable scent from Potion Class was enough to explain everything.
Yet he was in no hurry to pursue. Instead, he unhurriedly smoothed out the wrinkles on his robe's cuffs caused by leaning against the wall, his expression shifting from amusement to a perfectly measured look of "confusion."
"The second-floor girls' bathroom..."
Looking at the half-ajar, peeling wooden door and listening to the faint sound of crying coming from within, he whispered to himself, "It seems this is the real scene of the accident tonight."
Pushing open the heavy door, a gust of damp, chilly mist brushed against his face.
Every tile here was tinged with the green of moss, and a broken faucet dripped incessantly, making a distracting "drip-drop" sound.
"How pathetic! How hilarious! Everyone, come look at this monster!"
Moaning Myrtle was floating by the ceiling, pointing at the last closed stall and letting out a sharp, shrill laugh. "She's hiding in there crying! I heard her! Oh, that face... tsk tsk tsk!"
"Go away! Myrtle! Please!"
A stifled scream came from the stall, heavy with nasal congestion and a desperate tremble.
Morn ignored the ghost in the air. His boots clicked against the waterlogged floor, producing clear and steady footsteps.
One step, two steps.
The crying inside the stall stopped abruptly.
The person seemed to hold their breath, pressing firmly against the door, terrified that their secret might be discovered.
"Who is it?" The voice carried obvious panic. "Don't come over! This place... it's broken!"
"I heard some disturbing sounds, Miss Granger."
Morn stopped three paces away from the stall door.
His voice was gentle and steady, like a warm light piercing through the fog in this empty, cold bathroom. "If Peeves or some other ghost is harassing you, I believe I have an obligation to help the Prefect maintain order."
"No! It's not a ghost! Don't come over!" Hermione screamed from inside, her voice thick with tears. "Please, White! Don't look at me! Just go!"
The expected sound of departing footsteps did not come.
Instead, the figure outside the door seemed to turn around.
"The rejection reaction of Polyjuice Potion to non-human genes."
Morn's voice rang out again. This time, it lacked the polite inquiry and instead carried the calm and professionalism of an academic discussion.
"This is an extremely rare high-level error in Potions. It usually occurs because hair from a cat, dog, or some other mammal was mixed into the sample. The warning in the textbook about this is only a small line of text, but that doesn't mean your procedure was wrong—it was simply... an unfortunate choice of materials."
A dead silence lasted for several seconds inside the stall.
Clearly, Hermione's mind, which had been on the verge of exploding from shame, was soothed by this sudden "academic assessment."
Morn didn't mock her for becoming ugly; instead, he affirmed her Potion-making skill from a theoretical standpoint, attributing it to bad luck.
"You... you know?" Hermione's voice trembled, sounding slightly calmer.
"Even through the door, the distinct scent of mutated Fluxweed and Bicorn horn powder cannot be hidden."
Morn stood with his back to the stall door, hands behind his back, his posture as elegant as if he were waiting for a dance partner to enter.
"There's no need to feel ashamed. While this mutation may look quite... furry, in Madam Pomfrey's Potion inventory, this is a completely reversible pathological phenomenon."
Creak—
The sound of a lock turning.
The stall door was cautiously pushed open a crack.
A hand covered in long black hair gripped the doorframe tightly, its nails as sharp as animal claws.
Then,
A gruesome face was revealed. Those once intelligent brown eyes had turned into yellow vertical pupils, her face was covered in black fuzz, and a pair of pointed cat ears even stood atop her head.
Hermione Granger looked like a cursed cat-girl at this moment.
She looked desperately at Morn's back, tears carving two clear tracks through the fur on her face.
Morn did not look back.
As if he had eyes in the back of his head, he pulled a silk handkerchief as white as snow from an inner pocket of his robes.
His movements were slow as he reached back, precisely handing the handkerchief to the hand covered in black hair.
"Wipe away your tears."
Morn continued to stare at the tiled wall ahead, his tone soft. "Tears will cause the Potion components in the wounds to oxidize again, which will slow down the recovery."
Hermione was stunned.
She looked at the upright figure who remained turned away to show respect, and then at the handkerchief that seemed blindingly white in the dim light.
An unprecedented surge of warmth, a mixture of gratitude and trust, instantly breached the defenses of her heart.
In her most pathetic, monster-like moment, this usually fearsome Ravenclaw "Tyrant" had given her the most dignified protection.
She reached out with her trembling claw and took the handkerchief.
"Th—thank you," she choked out.
"Madam Pomfrey may be strict, but she is very thorough about protecting her patients' privacy."
Morn withdrew his hand and adjusted his collar, which wasn't even messy.
He turned his head slightly. Although he still didn't look directly at Hermione, the originally cold and hard lines of his profile appeared exceptionally soft now, his lips curling into a reassuring smile.
"As for what happened here tonight..."
Morn paused, a hint of a meaningful smile entering his voice:
"I am just a Prefect who passed by to inspect the aging pipes. I saw nothing, and I certainly didn't see a... lost little kitten."
With that, he didn't linger any longer.
His black robes cut an elegant arc across the waterlogged floor as Morn strode toward the exit, his back appearing calm and resolute.
Not until the heavy wooden door closed again did Hermione loosen her grip on the handkerchief, which carried a faint scent of mint. Her yellow cat-eyes were filled with a complex shimmer of tears.
In the corridor.
The smile on Morn's face didn't fade, but the warmth in his eyes vanished without a trace the moment the door closed, replaced by the cold, deep gaze of a hunter watching his prey fall into a trap.
"Winning the gratitude of a clever person is more valuable than winning the awe of a fool."
Morn's fingers lightly tapped the handle of his wand as his footsteps echoed through the empty corridor.
Chapter 97: The Cork Necklace and the Silent Flock of Eagles
The January wind, carrying fine ice crystals, tirelessly battered the floor-to-ceiling windows high up in Ravenclaw Tower, making a dull sound like the snapping of a double bass string.
The fireplace in the common room burned brightly, warm orange firelight dancing on the deep bluecarpet, while the air was filled with the steam of black tea and the distinct vanilla scent of old book pages.
Moen White sat in his exclusive high-backed chair by the window, his slender fingers lightly turning a page of "Analysis of Ancient Runes."
The rustling of the pages wasn't loud, but in this common room holding dozens of people, the sound was like an invisible decree.
Within a three-meter radius around him, an absolute vacuum zone had formed.
The upperclassmen, who usually enjoyed gathering to discuss spells, now consciously lowered their voices, and even their breathing became cautious.
A few first-years rushing their Transfiguration Class essays didn't even dare to let the sound of their quills scratching across parchment get too loud, for fear of disturbing the "shadow prefect" who was reading.
"Order."
Morn didn't look up, but his keen hearing captured this silence constructed from awe.
The gentle curve at the corner of his mouth deepened slightly, as if he were savoring a glass of excellent vintage wine.
"Fear, after settling over time, transforms into habit. Now, they are less like a noisy flock of ravens and more like a group of House-elves who know how to read the situation. This is the elegance Ravenclawshould have."
Just then, this tense harmony was broken.
There was a slight thud of bare feet on the carpet, accompanied by a strange, intermittent humming.
"Wigby... flown away... no one can see..."
Luna Lovegood, the always-dazed first-year, was wandering aimlessly through the common room.
Her long blonde hair was a bit messy, a necklace made of Butterbeer corks hung around her neck, and she wore her iconic radish earrings.
Most notably, she wasn't wearing shoes.
Her pair of small, pale feet stepped directly onto the deep blue carpet, her toes curling slightly from the cold.
A few third-year girls sitting in the corner exchanged glances.
In the past, they would have covered their mouths and giggled, or quietly cast a "Hiding Charm" on her schoolbag.
But today, when one of the girls habitually raised her wand to play a prank, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of the figure reading by the window slightly moving a finger.
The girl jerked back as if burned, instantly stuffing her wand back into her sleeve and pretending to tidy her hair, cold sweat trickling down her temples.
No one dared to move.
Everyone in the common room pretended not to see Luna, letting her weave through the crowd as she searched for "The Quibbler" she had lost somewhere.
Luna didn't seem to notice the eerie atmosphere around her.
She hummed, her large silvery-grey eyes drifting through the air before finally settling on the window.
She stopped, tilted her head, and looked at Morn.
The breathing of everyone present seemed to halt at that moment.
Everyone was stealing glances, wondering how Morn would handle Ravenclaw's "loony girl." Would he ignore her with cold indifference like he did others, or would he drive her away?
Morn closed the book in his hand with a soft thud.
He slowly raised his head, his clear blue eyes meeting Luna's silver ones, which always seemed to be looking at another world.
"Good evening, Miss Lovegood."
Morn's voice was gentle and calm, without a trace of annoyance at being disturbed, but rather with a gentlemanly patience. "If you are looking for your shoes, I believe I just saw Peeves hanging them on the suit of armor on the fifth floor. Would you like me to summon them back for you?"
"Oh, no thank you, the Nargles did it."
Luna's voice was airy, like a sleep-talker's. "I think as long as I don't bother them, they'll come back eventually."
She took two steps closer to Morn, completely undeterred by his aura.
She reached out and waved her hand over Morn's head, as if shooing away some invisible flying insect.
The surrounding students gasped.
What was she doing? Was she provoking Morn?
"What is it?" Morn didn't dodge; he even sat up slightly straighter to accommodate her actions, his eyes showing a touch of appropriate curiosity.
"Very clean."
Luna withdrew her hand, a dazed smile appearing on her face. "Before, there were many Wrackspurtsaround your head, buzzing and full of stings. But now they're all gone... or hidden. That's good."
Morn's pupils contracted slightly.
Although "Wrackspurts" are fictional creatures, this girl with the Talent for spiritual sight seemed to keenly perceive the shift in his mindset—from violent aggression to restrained desire for control.
"That is indeed good news." Morn nodded with a smile. "Clarity of thought is the pursuit of every Wizard."
Luna fumbled in her robe pocket, her movements clumsy yet sincere.
Finally,
She pulled out a somewhat worn necklace made of corks strung together with twine.
It was made from old Butterbeer corks, still carrying a faint scent of malt fermentation.
"For you."
Luna held the crude necklace out to Morn. "Daddy says corks keep away Gulping Plimpies and keep the mind clear. Though I think you're already very clear-headed, keeping it might prevent the Wrackspurtsfrom coming back."
The common room was deathly silent.
Someone sneered inwardly: Giving a piece of trash to the 'King' of Ravenclaw? Morn would surely throw it into the fireplace and tell the loony girl to get lost.
However, Morn stood up.
He reached out those slender, pale hands—usually used only for holding a wand or perusing forbidden books—and solemnly accepted the cork necklace.
His fingertips touched the rough texture of the cork; there was no magical fluctuation, only a warmth called "pure kindness."
"A unique design."
Morn looked down at the gift in his hands, his tone lacking any superficiality; instead, he spoke with the earnestness of an academic appraisal.
"Cork has excellent buoyancy and sealing properties; in Alchemical metaphors, it symbolizes 'not sinking into the mundane' and'self-protection.' This is indeed a gift full of wisdom."
He looked up and gave Luna an impeccably sincere smile, then, in front of everyone, carefully placed the somewhat ridiculous-looking necklace into the inner pocket of his robe—the place where he usually kept his wand or precious potions.
"Thank you, Miss Lovegood. I will treasure it."
Luna blinked, seemingly happy that her gift was accepted.
"That's good. I'm going to have some pudding now."
She turned around, humming that strange tune, and walked toward the common room door barefoot.
Until her figure disappeared, the students in the common room remained in a petrified state. They watched Morn sit back down to read, the awe in their eyes becoming even more complex.
Morn gently stroked the hard corks in his chest pocket, his gaze returning to the pages, but his thoughts drifted far away.
"How ironic."
He whispered in his heart as his fingertips turned a page.
"In this house full of clever people, only this loony girl sees the essence. While this group of self-proclaimed elites..."
He glanced out of the corner of his eye at those students who still relied on bullying the weak to find a sense of existence, a trace of cold pity flashing in his eyes.
"They can't even distinguish what true 'value' is."
Chapter 98: The Pale Canary and the Black Hole of the Soul
The silver dinner knife glided gently through the medium-rare veal steak, precisely slicing through the pink, juicy meat along its grain with a faint, pleasant friction sound.
The Great Hall was bustling with noise; thousands of candles floated in mid-air, emitting a warm glow and the scent of melting beeswax.
Moen White elegantly forked a piece of beef and placed it in his mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately, as if he were savoring not a dinner, but a precisely calculated work of art.
His gaze swept past the students chatting happily at the Hufflepuff table, cut through the clamor of Gryffindor, and finally pinned itself like a surgical scalpel onto the cowering figure at the end of the long table.
Ginny Weasley sat with her head bowed, mechanically stirring the pumpkin soup in her bowl with a spoon, yet she hadn't taken a single sip.
Without a closer look, she seemed like a beautiful doll whose soul had been drained away.
Her complexion was a sickly pale, her eyes were sunken, and her once vibrant red hair now appeared dry and frizzy, like withered leaves in late autumn.
[Talent Activation: Eye of Truth · Life Observation]
In Morn's vision, the originally warm scene of the Great Hall was instantly stripped of its color.
Every student burned with a flame representing their vitality—Gryffindor was a restless red, Hufflepuffa warm yellow.
Except for Ginny.
She was entwined with a thick, pitch-black deathly aura, like bitumen.
That black mist was like a greedy giant python, tightly throttling her slender neck, sinking its teeth deep into the depths of her soul, and frantically sucking away her vitality, emotions, and magic.
"What a vicious parasite."
Morn swallowed the beef and picked up his napkin to gently wipe the corner of his mouth, a hint of regret flashing in his eyes, like a connoisseur seeing a defective item.
"The ghost in that diary... is about to eat this poor canary clean. If it's a few days later, I'm afraid all that's left will be an empty shell named 'Ginny'."
He stood up, smoothed the wrinkles in his robes, and his fingers inadvertently touched the hard Cork Necklace in his chest pocket.
That warm, rough, but complete kindness formed an exquisite control experiment in his heart against the powerful, refined, yet fragmented malice before him.
"Let me go meet you, Tom."
Morn strode out with his long legs toward the Entrance Hall, his face wearing that impeccable gentlemanly smile... The second floor, the corridor near the abandoned girls' bathroom.
This place was far from the bustle of the Great Hall; the air was thick with the damp, musty smell of sewage backing up, and the torchlight on the walls was dim, twisting elongated shadows into grotesque shapes.
A series of hurried, frantic, and stumbling footsteps broke the dead silence.
Ginny Weasley clutched an old black diary tightly in her hand, like a startled fawn, racing toward the place where she thought she could end the nightmare—the toilet.
Her mind was on the verge of collapse, the gentle yet suffocating whispers of that 'friend' echoing constantly in her ears.
"Throw it away... throwing it away will end it..."
Bang! At the corner, because she was running too fast, she slammed into a hard 'human wall'.
"Ah!"
Ginny let out a short scream, her body losing balance as she fell backward.
The diary she held as dear as her life flew out of her hand, tracing a black arc in the air before landing with a thud and sliding to the person's feet.
The expected pain of hitting the floor didn't come.
A strong hand firmly caught her arm, helping her regain her balance.
"If you always look at the ground while walking, you'll miss a lot of scenery, Miss Weasley."
A gentle, mellow voice sounded above her head.
Ginny looked up in terror.
Moen White was standing before her, his clear blue eyes holding a concerned smile, showing no sign of anger at being bumped into.
"You look quite unwell. I think Madam Pomfrey's Pepperup Potion might help you?"
"I... I'm fine! Sorry!"
Ginny apologized incoherently, her gaze fixed intently on the black diary at Morn's feet. Her heart pounded violently, as if it were about to burst through her chest.
He can't see it! He can't know!
But it was already too late.
Morn released her arm, leaned down gracefully, and reached for the black diary.
"No—" A silent scream erupted from Ginny's throat.
[Moment of Contact]
When Morn's slender fingertips touched the cold black cover.
Boom! A cold, greasy mental shock, filled with tyranny and seduction, surged through the nerve endings of his fingers and instantly bored into his cerebral cortex like a venomous snake.
The world around him seemed to vanish in an instant.
Morn felt as if he were standing in a pool of pitch-black ink, and a handsome, pale, charismatic teenage voice spoke deep within his mind, with a tenderness that could make the lonely surrender instantly: "Hello... I am very lonely... Open me... Tell me your secrets..."
This was more than just a voice; it was a forced soul resonance. It sought to find the cracks in Morn's soul—greed, fear, ambition—and use them as a breakthrough for parasitism.
However.
[Talent Activation: Void Body · Soul Severance]
The smile on Morn's face didn't waver in the slightest; even his eyes didn't flicker.
In the depths of his mental world, the invading black consciousness slammed into a wall of sighs constructed of absolute logic—smooth, cold, and impregnable.
"Crude."
Morn evaluated coldly in his mind, with the arrogance of a higher-dimensional being looking down on a lower-dimensional one.
"To pursue so-called immortality, you tore your complete soul into fragments and stored them in such dead objects. Tom Riddle... you've cut yourself up like a piece of broken, moldy cheese. And this fragmented thing, full of cracks, thinks it can devour me?"
The contest in that instant was silent and lethal.
The diary also seemed to sense that the person touching it possessed a soul quality far more profound than its own. The invading consciousness jerked back as if struck by lightning, and a shiver that only Morn could feel rippled across the surface of the cover.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: T.M. Riddle's Diary / Horcrux
Manifested Talents:
[Soul Parasitism (Black)]: Forcefully devours the holder's vitality and magic through emotional resonance.
[Memory Corridor (Gray)]: Forcefully pulls the target's consciousness into specific past memory fragments.
In the real world, only a single second had passed.
Morn picked up the diary as if nothing had happened, his fingers lightly brushing over the gold-stamped 'T.M. Riddle' on the cover, as if dusting it off.
"Is this yours?"
Morn straightened up and, without opening it, held the diary between two fingers and handed it to Ginny with a smile.
Chapter 99: The Secret in the Toilet and the savior's Gift
Ginny's eyes widened, her pupils contracting violently.
She stared at Morn's flawless smiling face, trying to find even a hint of 'being controlled' or 'having discovered a secret'.
But there was none.
Morn looked just like a kind-hearted senior who had picked up his junior's textbook.
"It's... it's mine..." Ginny's voice trembled like a withered leaf in the wind.
"You should take good care of it."
Morn didn't let go immediately. Instead, he leaned forward slightly—a posture full of intimidation—even though his tone remained as gentle as if he were reciting poetry:
"At this age, everyone has their own secret Diary. But..."
His blue eyes gazed deeply at Ginny, a meaningful glint flashing in their depths:
"Randomly discarding things imbued with memories and soul can sometimes attract unnecessary trouble. Especially... when it doesn't belong to you."
These words struck Ginny like a bolt of lightning.
She felt as if she were standing naked in a frozen wasteland, all her secrets laid bare under those blueeyes.
"Thank you!"
Ginny could no longer bear this gentle terror.
She snatched the Diary from Morn's hand, her movements as rough as if it were a red-hot branding iron.
Not daring to look at Morn again, she clutched the Diary, turned, and dashed into the shadows deep in the Corridor, heading for the Washroom with the weeping Ghost.
Morn stood in place, maintaining the posture of handing something over, watching the figure flee in panic.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand, took a Handkerchief from his pocket, and meticulously wiped the fingers that had just touched the Diary, as if they were contaminated with some invisible bacteria.
"Go on, poor child."
Morn tossed the Handkerchief into a nearby Trash Bin, the smile at the corner of his mouth deepening.
"Throw your heavy burden into the Toilet. Then... let the real savior pick it up. The stage is set, the actors... must take their places."
A few minutes later.
In the shadows at the end of the second-floor Corridor, Moen White leaned against the damp, cold wall like a breathless stone statue.
His [Void Body] reduced his presence to a minimum; even if Filch passed by with a lamp, he'd likely mistake him for a stain on the wall.
Splash!
A dull, echoing sound of something hitting water clearly came from behind the half-open wooden door of the Washroom.
It was followed by the violent roar of a Toilet flushing and Ginny Weasley's muffled, relieved yet terrified sobs.
"A smart decision, yet a futile struggle."
Morn lowered his eyelids, his fingers gently rubbing the rough Cork Necklace in his Robe pocket, feeling its uneven texture.
"Some things, once tainted with the scent of a soul, can't be solved by flushing. What you threw away wasn't a Diary, but your own leverage."
Soon, Ginny's stumbling footsteps faded away at the Stairwell.
The Corridor fell into dead silence again. Only the cold wind sneaking in through cracks in the broken windows made a sound like the weeping of Ghosts.
Morn didn't move. He waited.
Waiting for the next point of engagement in the gears of fate.
Not long after, a set of hurried, chaotic footsteps came from the other direction.
"Was that Myrtle's scream just now?" Harry Potter's voice echoed in the empty Corridor. "Sounded like someone threw something at her."
"Probably Peeves," Ron muttered. "Or someone got tired of her crying."
The figures of the two boys appeared around the corner.
They stepped through puddles of water on the floor—created by Myrtle in a fit of rage—and cautiously approached the Washroom.
Standing deep in the shadows, Morn watched through the dim torchlight like an audience member in the best seats, observing Harry Potter come to a stop.
"Look at that, Harry," Ron pointed at the floor beneath one of the Stalls.
In a murky puddle of water, the small, unremarkable black Diary lay quietly, soaked, looking like a drowned black bird.
Harry stepped forward and bent down.
Despite Ron's warning that it might be dangerous, Harry reached out his hand.
The moment Harry's fingers touched the Diary, Morn's pupils contracted slightly.
[Eye of Truth · Energy Observation] In his field of vision, the black, dormant aura of death hidden within the Diary, upon contact with Harry, instantly became active, like a shark smelling blood.
But instead of attacking and devouring as it had with Ginny, it became extremely docile and stealthy, silently coiling around the 'Boy Who Lived' along Harry's fingers.
"That's it."
Watching Harry tuck the wet Diary into his Robes, Morn's perfect gentlemanly smile in the darkness seemed especially meaningful.
"With the protagonist having received the script, the stage can continue to be set. Harry, go have a good chat with that Prefect from fifty years ago. You'll find... you're so alike."
Only after Harry and Ron had left did Morn slowly emerge from the shadows.
He didn't head towards the Washroom, but instead turned and walked in the direction of Ravenclaw Tower.
Outside the Corridor window, the moonlight was as pale as bone.
Morn took out the Cork Necklace Luna had given him from his pocket, held it up before his eyes, and examined it in the moonlight.
It was just a few discarded Bottle Corks strung together on a cheap, thin string. It held no magical aura, even looking somewhat comical.
"One is a tattered thing woven with genuine feeling—warm, rough, but complete."
Morn murmured to himself, then reached into another pocket—the hand that had just touched the Diary. His fingertips seemed to still retain that cold, slimy sensation.
"The other is an Artifact torn apart by the pinnacle of Dark Arts—powerful, exquisite, but incomplete."
He thought of Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord who, in pursuit of so-called immortality, had not hesitated to slice his own soul into fragments.
"Tom Riddle... do you think this is evolution?"
Morn shook his head, a flash of undisguised academic disdain in his eyes.
"This is merely a reduction in dimension. You've turned yourself into a pile of mad puzzle pieces, yet you dream of ruling the entire gallery."
He placed the Cork Necklace back into the pocket closest to his heart, his steps becoming light and firm.
"I'll show you, Tom."
Morn's figure disappeared into the darkness at the end of the stairs, leaving behind only a whisper as soft as a sigh:
"...what true soul integrity really is."
Chapter 100: The Pink Plague and the Crystal Rose
The heavy oak doors slowly swung open before Moen White, and a thick, suffocating scent of cheap rose perfume, mixed with the sickly sweet aroma of melting low-grade chocolate, hit him like an invisible wall.
Morn subconsciously held his breath, his brow furrowing for a microsecond before quickly smoothing out, replaced by his standard, gentle, and polite mask of a smile.
But only he knew that beneath that hypocritical exterior, his reason was frantically sounding an alarm.
The Great Hall was no longer the solemn and dignified dining area it once was.
The walls were covered in massive, gaudy pink flowers that made one's head spin, and a steady stream of heart-shaped confetti was drifting down from the ceiling.
These slips of paper were like a sticky pink blizzard, falling indiscriminately onto the students' heads, their robes, and into those unfortunate open bowls of pumpkin porridge.
"Everyone! Happy Valentine's Day!"
Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing an incredibly flashy lilac robe paired with a matching pink hat, was shouting from the staff table.
His pearly white teeth flashed under the magical lights as he waved his arms, introducing a group of grim-faced dwarves with golden wings who looked ready to pull out maces and beat someone at any moment.
"I want to thank those forty-six people who sent me cards! To show my gratitude, I've specially invited these friendly messengers of Cupid! They'll be responsible for delivering your love throughout the school today!"
"Friendly messengers?"
Morn walked to the Ravenclaw table and sat down, extending a hand to gracefully and swiftly cast a silent [Repulsion Barrier] over his coffee cup, precisely deflecting a piece of pink confetti that tried to fall inside.
Watching the group of burly, rough-looking dwarves rudely pushing students around, Morn took a sip of his coffee to hide the sneer at the corner of his mouth.
"This is practically an organized visual assault. Lockhart isn't just insulting the aesthetics of Hogwarts; he's turning the private emotion of 'love' into a farcical public execution."
"Um... Senior White?"
A timid voice sounded beside him.
Morn set down his cup and turned his head.
A girl who looked like a first-year Ravenclaw was standing next to him, her hands nervously wringing together as she clutched a pink card covered in hearts and sprayed with far too much perfume.
Her face was as red as a ripe apple, and her eyes were filled with anticipation and unease.
The surrounding noise seemed to dim for a moment, and many eyes stole glances in their direction.
Everyone wanted to know how this newly-dubbed "Ravenclaw Gentleman" would handle such an awkward situation.
Morn didn't show the slightest hint of impatience.
He stood up, gently straightening the cuffs of his robes. Instead of taking the card, he gazed at the girl with his clear blue eyes, his look gentle and focused, as if she were the only thing he cared about at that moment.
"This is a very beautiful kind of courage, miss."
Morn's voice wasn't loud, but its rich, cello-like quality was enough to make the girl's heart skip a beat.
He bowed slightly, politely maintaining an absolutely safe social distance:
"But I am currently conducting high-level magical research that requires absolute calm and rationality. Until this work is complete, any extra emotional fluctuations... would be a dangerous distraction for me."
The girl was stunned.
This was a rejection, but it sounded like a noble sacrifice that had to be made.
"So," Morn smiled, a hint of apology in his eyes, "to ensure this sentiment isn't wasted, please allow me to let you keep it. That is the safest place for it."
"Oh... okay, yes! Sorry to bother you!"
Although she had been rejected, the girl didn't look ashamed or angry. Instead, she looked moved, as if thinking 'he really is a perfect god focused on his studies,' and ran off with a blushing face.
Morn sat back down, his perfect smile fading by three degrees instantly.
"Resolved. Maintained the persona and avoided receiving trash."
He cut into the sausage on his plate, feeling as if the perfume scent had grown even stronger... Ten o'clock in the morning, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
The situation here was even worse than in the Great Hall.
Lockhart seemed to have turned this place into his personal stage, even replacing the cages originally used to display Dark Arts creatures with baskets full of fresh flowers.
"Since it's Valentine's Day, we won't be discussing those dry defense theories!"
Lockhart stood on the podium, winking at the group of students with their varied expressions. "We're going to learn how to use magic to express—charm! That's right, an excellent Wizard must know how to create romance!"
He scanned the classroom, his gaze finally landing on Morn, who was sitting in the back row quietly taking notes.
Lockhart's eyes lit up.
Clearly, he felt that this school-famous top student was the best prop for interaction—one who could both cooperate with him and serve as a foil for his "guidance."
"Mr. White! Yes, you!" Lockhart waved enthusiastically. "Come up and demonstrate for everyone. If you wanted to give a flower to a lady you fancy, what spell would you use? Don't be shy; I imagine this shouldn't be difficult for a Ravenclaw genius!"
The entire class turned to look at Morn.
Morn closed his notebook and sighed inwardly.
Being called upon by a clown to assist in a performance was a form of torture in itself.
But he couldn't refuse; it wouldn't fit his "good student" mask.
He stood up and walked to the podium with a composed gait.
The air was thick with the pungent scent of Lockhart's cologne, forcing Morn to hold his breath slightly.
"Actually, it doesn't require a complex spell, Professor."
Morn drew his elder wand—the disguised one—from his sleeve. He didn't wave it in the air but instead lightly tapped the empty vase on the podium that held a few dry twigs.
His eyes instantly became deep, as if he were looking through the vase at some more fundamental rules.
[Talent Operation: Matter Recombination · Extreme Cold Shaping]
He didn't chant an incantation.
The temperature in the classroom dropped sharply in that second. Many students couldn't help but shiver, feeling as if a wintry draft had blown through.
Crack... crack... the sound of fine ice crystals condensing rang out.
Under everyone's shocked gaze, no delicate flower grew in the empty vase.
The moisture in the air was forcibly stripped, compressed, and recombined. A rose made entirely of transparent ice "grew" out of the vase's mouth at a visible speed.
It was crystal clear, every petal as sharp as a blade, its edges refracting the sunlight from the window and emitting a cold, ultimate beauty. It had no scent and would not wither, but it also lacked any trace of the warmth of life.
"Eternal, and pure."
Morn withdrew his wand and looked at the ice rose emitting a cold mist, then turned to Lockhart with a humble smile:
"I think that compared to perishable plants, something that doesn't spoil... can better represent a certain steadfast promise. Don't you think, Professor?"
The classroom was dead silent.
This wasn't just silent casting; it was a combination of high-difficulty Transfiguration and elemental control.
The smile on Lockhart's face stiffened for a moment.
He had originally just wanted Morn to conjure a common little flower so he could offer a few pointers. But this ice rose... it was too perfect, so perfect that it made his own meager skills look utterly ridiculous.
"Ah... wonderful! A very... unique creative idea!"
Lockhart clapped his hands with a dry laugh, trying to regain his footing. "Though it's a bit... cold? But I must say, it's very much in the Slytherin style! Haha! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"
Morn bowed slightly and turned to walk back to his seat.
As he passed Hermione Granger, he saw the Miss Know-It-All staring blankly at the ice rose on the podium, her eyes filled with both admiration for the advanced magic and a hint of confusion at this "cold beauty."
Morn sat back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop.
"Enjoy this final farce, Lockhart."
He whispered coldly in his heart.
"When you face real dark creatures... I hope your fans still remember your smile."
Chapter 101: The Gluttonous Paper and The Embarrassing Ballad
The Valentine's Day event site.
Heavy footsteps, as if wearing iron-soled boots, exploded in the crowded corridor, accompanied by complaints from those rudely pushed aside and the dull thud of falling books.
"Hey! You! Harry Potter!"
Moen White had just rounded the staircase corner and hadn't had time to avoid the chaotic torrent when he saw a dwarf with a bulldog face and a pair of comical Golden Wings stuck to his back, charging like a pink battering ram. The dwarf recklessly pushed aside several Hufflepuff first-years and rushed straight toward Harry, who was trying to slip away into the crowd.
"No, stop—not here!" Harry desperately tried to break free, but the dwarf was astonishingly strong. To complete the "Cupid Task" assigned by Lockhart, he lunged directly and grabbed Harry's knees.
Sssst—a grating sound of fabric tearing.
Harry was tripped onto the floor, and the strap of his book bag, which held heavy textbooks, snapped completely.
The contents spilled everywhere like a miniature landslide: Transfiguration textbooks, a broken quill, parchment rolls, and... a bottle of bright red ink.
Crack.
The glass bottle shattered on the flagstone floor.
The pungent red ink, smelling of rust and chemical solvents, instantly splattered, quickly staining everything around it like a pool of shocking blood.
Morn stopped, standing at the edge of the crowd.
He did not step forward to help. Instead, he slightly narrowed his deep blue eyes, his gaze piercing the chaotic crowd to precisely locate the center of the "disaster."
[Eye of Truth · Detail Capture]
In that instant, the surrounding noise seemed to be muted.
Morn clearly saw that the spilled red ink not only stained Harry's robes and textbooks but also splashed onto an inconspicuous, old Diary with a black cover.
However, a strange scene unfolded.
The Diary, which should have been stained scarlet, acted like a sponge dried for a thousand years thrown into water the moment it touched the ink.
Gulp... Although there was no sound, Morn could almost hear the greedy swallowing.
The bright red liquid did not spread when it touched the yellowed paper; instead, it vanished instantly.
It was "eaten" by the paper, leaving not a single trace of red. The cover remained black as night, and the pages were still pristine white.
"A perfect absorption medium."
Morn's pupils constricted slightly, and a flash of cold fanaticism, visible only when observing a rare experimental sample, crossed his eyes.
"It seems the link is completely stable. Harry isn't just writing; he is feeding that hungry soul with his own 'heart's blood.' And that soul... is learning how to digest the host's emotions in reverse."
"What's going on here?"
A drawling voice, full of schadenfreude, broke Morn's observation.
Draco Malfoy swaggered over with his two bodyguard-like cronies—Crabbe and Goyle.
"What's wrong, Potter? Did someone write you a love letter? Are you so excited you spilled the ink?"
Malfoy looked at Harry, who was sprawled on the ground, a malicious sneer on his lips. His gaze swept over the mess on the floor, and suddenly his eyes lit up. He reached out and grabbed the Diary, which looked conspicuously "clean" amidst the red ink.
"Let me see... what's written in here? Maybe it's Potter's mushy confession to his mudblood friend?"
"Give it back to me!" Harry roared, ignoring the ink on his body, and lunged to snatch the Diary back.
"No—don't touch it!" Ginny Weasley, who had just arrived nearby, saw the scene, and the color instantly drained from her face as she let out a horrified scream.
Seeing that Harry and Malfoy were about to wrestle in the corridor, Ron furiously pulled out his wand, which was wrapped in tape, and pointed it at Malfoy. The tip of the wand was even emitting dangerous sparks.
The situation was about to spiral out of control.
"Expelliarmus."
A beam of red light, incredibly precise yet astonishingly gentle, instantly cut into the fray like a flexible whip.
It did not knock anyone down, but cleverly struck Malfoy's wrist, which was gripping the Diary.
"Ouch!"
Malfoy felt a prickling numbness in his wrist, and his fingers involuntarily loosened their grip.
The black Diary slipped from his hand, and in that instant, a long, pale hand caught it steadily in mid-air.
All movement ceased.
Everyone turned and saw Moen White standing there. He held his wand in one hand and the contentious Diary in the other, wearing that flawless, standard Prefect-style smile.
"Wrestling in public like Muggle street thugs hardly seems to align with the style Slytherin prides itself on, Mr. Malfoy."
Morn's voice was neither loud nor fast, but every word was like an ice brick, causing Malfoy's pale face to flush red then white.
"I... I was just..." Malfoy wanted to retort, but looking into Morn's unsettlingly calm blue eyes, he recalled the previous "Gravity Reversal" incident and swallowed the harsh words that were on the tip of his tongue.
"Furthermore," Morn gently brushed non-existent dust from the Diary, his tone becoming serious, "taking someone else's private property without permission is defined as theft under Magical Law, not a prank. I believe Uncle Lucius must have taught you what 'manners' are?"
This statement was the final blow.
Malfoy's face instantly turned extremely ugly. He glared fiercely at Harry, then looked warily at Morn, and finally could only let out a cold snort before turning and pushing his way out of the crowd, Crabbeand Goyle following behind, muttering curses.
"And you, Mr. Weasley."
Morn turned his head, glanced at Ron, who was still holding his broken wand, and gave a light flick of his own wand.
[Scourgify] A whirlwind swept over Harry's robes, and the unsightly red ink stains vanished instantly—except, of course, from the Diary that had already "eaten" the ink.
"Put away that dangerous stick. Unless you want to blow this corridor sky-high."
Harry climbed up from the floor, his face flushed scarlet, whether from shame and indignation or gratitude, it was hard to tell.
"Th-thank you."
"You're welcome."
Morn stepped forward and handed the Diary back to Harry.
At the moment of transfer, his finger lingered on the black cover for a second, sensing the faint dissatisfaction emanating from the soul inside, annoyed at having its meal interrupted.
"It seems very good at 'absorbing water'."
Morn looked at Harry, a meaningful curve forming at the corner of his mouth—a double entendre only intelligent people would grasp:
"This trait... is sometimes very useful, it can help you hide secrets; but sometimes it's also very dangerous, because you never know when it might 'spit' them out."
"What?" Harry froze, not understanding.
"Nothing. Happy Valentine's Day, Harry."
Morn released his hand and stepped back, yielding the center of the stage.
Because the dwarf, who had been ignored for half the day, finally found his chance.
He plopped down onto Harry's ankle, cleared his throat which sounded like it held gravel, and began to loudly bellow in an excruciatingly off-key baritone:
"His eyes are green like a pickled toad, his hair is black and dashing like a blackboard eraser, I wish he were mine, he's truly handsome, he is the hero who conquered the Dark Lord, peerless in the world!"
A burst of laughter erupted in the corridor.
Harry's face was now redder than the bottle of red ink had been; he wished he could sink into the floor.
Morn stood in the shadows of the crowd, watching this absurd scene and listening to the ballad, which was practically an insult to the very concept of "poetry." He did not laugh, but his eyes held a trace of detached pity.
"Sing, sing to your heart's content."
He straightened his robes, which weren't messy, and turned to walk against the flow of people. His retreating figure appeared particularly solitary and sober amidst the noise.
"This is the last joy before the storm. The next time you hear news about the 'Dark Lord'... I'm afraid it won't be so funny."
Chapter 102: The Ink's Reply and the Edited Truth
Late at night, Gryffindor Tower was as silent as a tomb, with only Ron's habitual snoring, like a broken bellows, echoing monotonously in the circular dormitory.
Harry Potter huddled within the thick red curtains of his four-poster bed, his hand tightly clutching a quill already soaked with sweat.
The flame of a candelabra on his bedside table flickered, casting his restless shadow onto the old wallpaper like a ghost struggling like a trapped beast in a cage.
He couldn't sleep.
The black Diary titled "T. M. Riddle" lay open on his lap, emitting a musty smell found only in ancient paper and an extremely faint preservative scent similar to mothballs.
"This is the last attempt," Harry said to himself.
He took a deep breath, dipped his quill into the ink bottle, soaked it with a drop of bright red ink, and then, with a trembling hand, wrote a line on the yellowed first page of the Diary.
"My name is Harry Potter."
Sizzle... The expected sight of ink bleeding into the paper did not happen.
Harry's eyes widened as he watched the line of red handwriting flash the moment it touched the paper, then get completely sucked dry by the greedy page, like rain falling onto parched sand.
No trace was left. The page was as white as before, as if mocking his futility.
Just as Harry was about to close the Diary in disappointment, a drop of ink suddenly seeped from the page.
No, not a drop; the line of words from just now was being rearranged.
A line of elegant and flowing copperplate script, never seen before, slowly emerged as if growing from the deep fibers of the paper:
"Hello, Harry Potter. I am Tom Riddle. How did you find my Diary?"
Harry felt his heart slam against his ribs.
This dialogue across time and space gave him an indescribable excitement, like connecting a phone call from another world in the middle of the night.
He eagerly dipped his pen in ink, the tip cutting through the silence: "Does this Diary record anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"
This time, the Diary's response was even swifter. The handwriting vanished faster, as if the soul within was impatient to speak. "Yes, I recorded it. That was fifty years ago. I can tell you, but I would rather... show you."
...At the same moment, the top floor of Ravenclaw Tower.
The wind here was much more piercing than over at Gryffindor. The cold wind howled through the arched window frames, letting out sharp whistles.
Moen White was not in bed.
He was in thin pajamas, standing barefoot on the carpet by the window, fiddling with that crude Cork Necklace, his gaze not on the moon outside but focused on a point in the void.
[Talent Activation: Void Body · Soul Resonance Monitoring]
In his sensory vision, the Hogwarts magic network, which had been as calm as a pool of stagnant water, suddenly developed a violent black vortex in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.
It wasn't an explosion or a spell attack, but a very high-frequency transmission of a mental data stream with extremely strong suction.
"The connection is established."
The pale moonlight outside was reflected in Morn's pupils, a coldness of having already seen through everything flashing in his eyes.
"No verbal descriptions or images were used; instead, a closed Memory Dimension was constructed directly. Tom, your Legilimency techniques are indeed peak. You are... forcibly pulling Potter's consciousness."
He closed his eyes, the tentacles of [Void Body] cautiously extending along that magical fluctuation, stopping at the edge of the black vortex like an invisible camera hanging from a cinema ceiling.
"Let's see which 'carefully edited' piece of history you're going to play for the savior."
...The pages of the Diary suddenly began to flip frantically, the rustling sound like a rapid drumbeat in the silent dormitory.
Before Harry could react, he felt the book turn into a window leading to an abyss.
A huge, irresistible suction grabbed his head, and the surrounding dormitory, beds, and Ron's snoring collapsed and distorted in an instant.
After a nauseating whirl.
Harry found his feet on the ground.
The world around him had lost its color, turning into black-and-white images of an old movie.
He was standing in an office with tall floor-to-ceiling windows. There was no sound, only light and shadow flickering.
A thin, pale, overly handsome dark-haired boy was standing there—it was Tom Riddle from fifty years ago.
The images began to flow, and voices gradually became clear as if coming from underwater.
Like a transparent ghost, Harry involuntarily followed Riddle through the corridors to the dark and damp dungeons.
There, he saw that big fellow—Rubeus Hagrid. A young Hagrid was trying to stuff a furry, eight-eyed monster into a box.
"Aragog! You have to go!" Hagrid's voice carried a sob.
"Good evening, Rubeus," Riddle stepped out, his voice cold and full of a sense of justice. "I don't think you can hide it this time. That monster killed a girl."
"No! Aragog didn't kill anyone!" Hagrid roared.
The following scene was a chaotic chase. The light of spells was particularly piercing in the black-and-white world. The giant spider fled into the Forbidden Forest, while Hagrid was pointed at by Riddle's wand, arguing desperately.
Harry felt as if his breathing had stopped.
He had seen it with his own eyes.
He had seen with his own eyes that Hagrid had raised a murderous monster. He had seen with his own eyes that Riddle had stopped it all like a hero... "Phew—!"
Harry sat up abruptly from the bed, gasping for breath like he had just surfaced from deep water.
Cold sweat soaked his pajamas, and the candle on the bedside table was almost burnt out. The Diarylay quietly on his lap, returning to its dead state.
"It was Hagrid..."
Harry closed the Diary with trembling hands, his eyes full of shock and pain, and a certainty after having glimpsed the truth.
"The person who opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago was Hagrid... Riddle caught him. I saw it with my own eyes."
...Ravenclaw Tower.
Morn slowly opened his eyes, the mental fatigue from the remote monitoring making him rub his temples slightly.
"Excellent editing."
He turned around and poured himself a glass of ice-cold water, a sarcastic arc hooking the corner of his mouth.
"Using Potter's blind trust in'seeing is believing,' using Hagrid's actual history of illegal breeding, and then through clever guidance of perspective, swapping the concepts of 'breeding dangerous creatures' and 'murder' together."
Morn looked at the ripples in the cup, as if seeing Riddle's smug smile.
"The most perfect lie is never created out of thin air, but uses 99% of the facts to wrap that 1% of key misdirection."
He tilted his head back and drank the ice water, the cold liquid sliding down his throat, suppressing the slight agitation in his body caused by contact with Dark Arts fluctuations.
"Unfortunately, Potter is a Gryffindor who only sees the world with his eyes. He probably considers you a hero he admires now, doesn't he, Tom?"
Morn put down the cup and looked out the window at the darkest sky before dawn.
"Since you've made your move, it's time for me to add some flavor to this lesson. After all... teaching the savior to 'use his brain' is also one of my duties."