Ch: 103-111
Chapter 103: The Broken Teacup and False Reality
A dusty old wooden chair was kicked flying by Harry Potter, sliding several meters across the empty abandoned classroom before crashing heavily into a corner with a sharp, loud "clatter."
The kicked-up dust danced wildly in the pale morning light streaming through the window, and the air was filled with the dry scent of old chalk dust and a cold, musty smell found only in basements.
"I told you guys! I saw it with my own eyes!"
Harry paced anxiously back and forth between two rows of desks, his eyes bloodshot from not sleeping all night, his voice hoarse and sharp, "Riddle caught him! Hagrid opened the box, and that giant spider escaped! That's the proof!"
"But... that's Hagrid, Harry."
Ron huddled by the podium, still clutching half an unfinished sandwich, his face pale and conflicted, "I know he likes keeping dangerous things, like a Norwegian Ridgeback or a Cerberus, but he... he wouldn't kill anyone. There must be some misunderstanding."
"There's no misunderstanding with memory!"
Harry stopped abruptly and stared intently at Ron, his chest heaving violently, "It was as real as watching a movie! Riddle was right there, Hagrid was right there! Would my own eyes lie to me?"
Clap, clap, clap. A slow, precisely rhythmic, and clearly mocking sound of applause abruptly drifted out from the shadows at the classroom door.
Harry and Ron snapped their heads around.
Hermione, who had been sitting on a desk with her knees hugged to her chest, also looked up in surprise.
Moen White leaned against the worm-eaten doorframe, carelessly twirling that dark brown wand in his hand.
He wore neat Ravenclaw robes, looking completely out of place in this messy classroom, like a noble who had wandered into a slum.
That signature, inscrutable smile hung on his face, but his eyes were as cold as a freshly unsheathed scalpel.
"'There's no misunderstanding with memory'? 'Eyes won't lie'?"
Morn gave a light chuckle and stepped into the classroom.
His steps were light, yet every pace seemed to tread upon Harry's frayed nerves.
"Mr. Potter, if stupidity were airborne, that sentence you just uttered would be enough to put all of Hogwarts under quarantine."
"You don't understand, White!"
Harry was already on the verge of a breakdown; provoked like this, he immediately bristled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, "You have no idea what I've been through! I entered that Diary! I saw the truth from fifty years ago! That's history!"
"History?"
Morn stopped just three steps away from Harry.
The surrounding air seemed to grow viscous with his approach; that bone-deep sense of pressure made Ron subconsciously stop chewing.
"Your so-called history is nothing more than a play someone else wanted you to see."
Morn leaned down slightly, those deep blue eyes locking onto Harry's pupils, his voice low and full of suggestion:
"Tell me, Harry. What do you think is real? Your current breath? The cold corner of the desk in your hand? Or... your good friend Ron?"
"What do you mean?" Harry instinctively took a step back, his waist hitting the desk behind him.
Morn didn't answer.
He only narrowed his eyes slightly; deep within those pupils, an extremely hard-to-detect, eerie ripple instantly spread.
Then, he raised his slender fingers and lightly snapped them in the air.
Snap.
The crisp sound of the snap was like some kind of switch.
[Talent Activation: Mental Interference · Reality Overwrite]
The world didn't collapse in Harry's eyes, but something... changed.
A nauseating stench of blood suddenly filled Harry's nose—a mixture of rust and rotting flesh that completely overwhelmed the scent of chalk dust.
Harry looked at Ron in horror.
Ron Weasley, who a second ago was munching on a sandwich with a simple-looking face, now had a terrifyingly distorted expression.
Ron's mouth split open to an exaggerated angle, revealing a mouthful of bone-white teeth; those eyes, usually filled with silliness, were now pitch black without any whites, containing only endless resentment and killing intent.
"Ron... Ron?" Harry called out tremblingly.
"Because you're the savior... so I have to be a supporting character?"
That "Ron" made a raspy, distorted sound, like two pieces of metal grinding violently together.
He threw away the sandwich in his hand, which turned into a dead rat the moment it hit the ground, and then he suddenly drew his wand.
The movement was so fast it didn't seem like Ron at all.
A ghastly green light instantly condensed at the tip of the wand, a light carrying the chill of death that made Harry's blood freeze in that moment.
"Die, Harry."
"Ron" grinned hideously, the wand pointing directly at the center of Harry's forehead.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Boom! The blinding green light instantly swallowed Harry's vision.
The fear of death was like a cold, giant hand clutching his heart tightly.
It was an absolutely real experience—the vibration of the air being torn apart, the stinging sensation on his skin as the curse approached, and the desperate judgment made by his brain in that instant: "I'm dead."
"Ah—!!!"
Harry let out a shrill scream, instinctively clutching his head as his body tumbled backward out of control, slamming heavily onto the floor, eyes squeezed shut as he waited for death to descend.
One second.
Two seconds.
The expected impact did not come.
The surroundings were terrifyingly quiet.
"...Harry? You... what's wrong with you?"
Ron's voice rang out, carrying obvious panic and confusion.
Harry snapped his eyes open, gasping for air in large gulps, his whole body already soaked with cold sweat as if he had just been fished out of water.
There was no green light. No dead rat.
Ron was standing two meters away from him, still clutching that half-eaten sandwich, looking at Harryrolling on the ground with a dumbfounded expression, the breadcrumbs at the corner of his mouth not even wiped away yet.
"This... this..."
Harry looked at Ron in horror, then looked around. The sunlight was still pale, and the dust was still dancing. That terrifying murder just now seemed like a hallucination produced by a short circuit in his brain.
A pale hand was extended in front of him.
Moen White looked down at him, the mocking smile on his face gone, replaced by a cold seriousness.
"Are you awake? the savior."
Harry didn't take the hand; instead, he struggled to climb up on his own, leaning against a desk, his legs still shaking uncontrollably.
"That just now... that was..."
"That was something I fabricated."
Morn withdrew his hand and carelessly straightened his cuffs, which weren't even messy, his tone as casual as if he were discussing today's weather.
"No incantations, no Potions. I merely interfered slightly with your optic nerves and the signal processing in your cerebral cortex. The entire process took less than a second."
He took a step forward, closing in on Harry, the pressure making Harry hold his breath again.
"Did it feel real? That Killing Curse? That suffocating feeling of death? If I hadn't woken you up, you might have even suffered a cardiac arrest because your brain determined you were 'dead'."
Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The fear of near-death just now was too profound; even though logic now told him it was fake, his body was still resisting getting close to Morn.
"I only used one second, Harry."
Morn held up a finger and waved it before his eyes, his voice becoming low and dangerous:
"And that Diary... that thing called Tom Riddle, it stayed in that book for a full fifty years. It had fifty years to script, to edit, and to render every detail of light and shadow."
"Tell me," Morn stared into Harry's wavering green eyes, enunciating every word, "why on earth do you think the things it showed you... are the so-called 'truth'?"
A deathly silence enveloped the classroom.
The sandwich in Ron's hand finally dropped to the floor. Hermione covered her mouth, her eyes filled with awe for Morn's terrifying ability.
Harry leaned against the desk, looking at Morn, and then instinctively touched the heavy Diary in his inner robe pocket.
That originally indestructible belief in "seeing is believing" completely collapsed at this moment, like shattered glass.
Morn looked at the doubt and fear emerging in Harry's eyes and nodded in satisfaction.
"Remember today's lesson, Potter."
He turned and walked toward the door, his black robes billowing in cold, sharp arcs.
"In this world full of magic, besides your current breathing and heartbeat... nothing is absolutely real. Especially those things that actively jump out wanting to please your eyes."
Chapter 104: Shaken Pawns and the Stolen Diary
The fire in the fireplace crackled, occasionally spitting out sparks with the scent of pine resin, but this did nothing to dispel the chill in the corner of the Gryffindor common room.
Harry Potter sat in the heavily worn armchair. He wasn't holding the black Diary; instead, he was staring fixedly at it as it lay in the center of the table.
It was as if it weren't a book, but a venomous spider that could jump up and bite through his throat at any moment.
"Put it away, Harry."
Hermione Granger closed the copy of "A History of Magic" on her lap, her voice low and carrying a faint, imperceptible tremor.
She subconsciously touched her robe pocket—a clean white handkerchief was hidden there.
"As much as I hate to admit it... in terms of magical theory, White was right. A master of Legilimencycan fabricate any image they want you to see. If Riddle is truly as smart as you say, he wouldn't show you the 'truth' so easily. It's not logical."
"I know."
Harry ran his fingers through his messy black hair in frustration, his fingertips still feeling the phantom pain lingering from that previous vision. "I can still see Ron's distorted face when I close my eyes... Merlin's beard, it was too real. If that was just a second's work from Morn, then Riddle..."
He shuddered, not daring to think any further.
The sense of trust he had originally felt toward his "secret ally" had completely vanished, replaced by the fear of being toyed with by a sophisticated hunter.
"I don't think we should open it anymore," Ron mumbled, stuffing a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean into his mouth and spitting it out with a grimace—probably earwax flavor. "Lock it in a trunk, or just give it to Dumbledore."
Harry hesitated for a moment before finally reaching out. Carefully, as if disarming a bomb, he grabbed the icy Diary.
"I'll hide it at the very bottom of my trunk, under the invisibility cloak. Until we figure out exactly what's going on."
...Ravenclaw Tower, Observatory.
The night wind howled recklessly here, making Moen White's black robes flutter loudly.
He leaned against the cold stone railing. He wasn't holding a telescope; instead, his eyes were closed, as if he were listening to some kind of whisper in the wind that only he could understand.
[Talent Activation: Void Body · Malice Perception]
In his consciousness radar, the Castle's originally steady flow of magic suddenly experienced a sharp surge of irritable and anxious fluctuations.
That fluctuation originated from the black soul fragment he had marked.
"Oh? Getting anxious?"
Morn slowly opened his eyes, the lights of the distant Gryffindor Tower reflected in his deep bluepupils, a playful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"When you find that the 'host' you were so sure of suddenly cuts off the emotional supply and even starts developing antibodies of doubt... you can't sit still anymore, can you? Tom."
He could clearly perceive that the Horcrux was frantically radiating commands outward.
It was calling its puppet, trying to salvage a situation spiraling out of control. Since manipulation had failed, it could only resort to more aggressive means—physical recovery.
"Let's see who you choose to be your cleaner."
Morn turned around, his gaze piercing through layers of corridors and staircases to lock onto a small figure moving through the darkness... The second-floor corridor was deathly silent, with only the torches on the walls flickering in the drafts, stretching shadows into hideous shapes.
A small, thin figure was moving quickly through the corridor like a sleepwalker.
It was Ginny Weasley.
But at this moment, she looked hauntingly unfamiliar.
Her eyes were wide open, her pupils dilated and lifeless, possessing the dead quality of glass beads.
Her movements were stiff and mechanical, every step as precise as a puppet being pulled by strings.
Her face was as pale as paper, yet her lips were opening and closing, emitting a silent hissing sound, as if repeating an unyielding command.
"Get it back... must get it back... can't let him give it to Dumbledore..."
She didn't head toward the girls' dormitory; instead, she went straight through the portrait of the Fat Lady—because it was her brothers' dormitory, and she knew the password.
Morn stood in the shadows above, watching the completely manipulated, pitiful girl disappear into the Gryffindor entrance.
He did not stop her.
If he wanted to act now, he would only need a simple Stupefy to end this farce. But he didn't.
"Go on, dutiful puppet."
Morn's finger lightly tapped the stone surface of the railing, producing a crisp sound that instantly dissipated in the wind.
"Only when the conflict escalates to an irreconcilable point, only when fear materializes into blood and stone statues, will Dumbledore be forced to leave this Castle. And only when that old lion leaves... will the stage truly belong to me."
...Half an hour later.
When Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned from Hagrid's hut—they had gone to test Hagrid, but had come away with nothing—
As they entered the dormitory, an ominous atmosphere hit them.
"What happened?"
The moment Harry pushed open the dormitory door, he was stunned by the sight before him.
It was as if a small hurricane had just swept through the circular room.
Harry's trunk had been violently pried open, the latch twisted and deformed, hanging loosely from the wood.
The contents had been ransacked; robes were torn and thrown on the floor, pages from his Potion textbook were scattered everywhere, and the bottle of ink that had been hidden in the corner was overturned again, staining the pale yellow carpet a shocking dark red.
The sheets had been ripped off, feathers from the pillows were flying through the air, and the atmosphere was thick with the smell of dust and the pungent scent of ink.
"My trunk..."
Harry's face went pale. He stumbled forward and knelt on the floor, frantically rummaging through the pile of wreckage.
"It's gone... it's gone!"
"What's gone?" Ron, still holding half a rock cake, was so startled he nearly choked. "The invisibility cloak?"
"No!"
Harry snapped his head up, his green eyes filled with fear and a deep sense of despair.
"The Diary! Riddle's Diary! Someone stole it!"
Hermione covered her mouth, her eyes scanning the messy dormitory in terror. "But... only Gryffindors know the password... besides us, who would want that dangerous Diary?"
Outside the window, a flash of lightning split the night sky, followed immediately by rolling thunder.
Harry slumped on the floor, looking at the mess. He suddenly remembered what Morn had said in the classroom that day: "You never know when it will'spit' things back out."
"It's alive..." Harry murmured to himself, his voice trembling. "It knew we were suspicious of it... it escaped."
...Top of Ravenclaw Tower.
Morn watched the panicked figures silhouetted in the window of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, feeling the gradually subsiding anxious fluctuations of the Horcrux in the air—clearly, it had returned to the hands of its easily controlled puppet.
"Act one is over."
Morn turned to leave the Observatory, his black robes cutting an elegant arc behind him, like a critic who had just finished watching a tragic performance.
"Manipulation has turned into seizure; the undercurrent has become an open flame. Tom, since you've taken back your weapon, then..."
He stepped into the dark spiral staircase, the smile at the corner of his mouth appearing exceptionally cold in the darkness.
"The next feast of 'petrification' should be ready, shouldn't it? Don't keep me waiting too long."
Chapter 105: Heartbeat in the Walls and the Hunter's Patience
At two in the morning, Hogwarts Castle was immersed in a deathly silent darkness, with only the blizzard outside tirelessly battering the glass, making a sharp sound like nails scratching a blackboard.
In the perpetually flooded corridor on the second floor, the air was so damp and cold it seemed to seep into one's marrow, permeated by a fishy stench of aged moss mixed with fermenting sewer silt.
Moen White stood alone deep in the shadows, his wand unlit.
One of his palms rested gently against the cold, rough, and water-streaked stone wall, his long fingers pressing against an unremarkable piece of gray stone as slowly as if he were feeling for a pulse.
Thump. An extremely faint but real vibration conducted up through his fingertips.
It wasn't the structural vibration of the Castle itself, but a friction generated by the movement of something heavier, slimier, and radiating immense magical power.
[Talent Activation: Void Body · Vibration Perception]
Morn closed his eyes.
In his sensory vision, the thick stone wall instantly became as transparent as gossamer.
Across three feet of rock and complex piping, he "saw" the behemoth clearly.
A giant snake, a full twenty feet long, was winding its way through the narrow pipes.
It was covered in emerald-green scales as hard as iron; every slither produced a hair-raising "hissing" sound, and its massive heart, filled with a petrifying curse, beat slowly and powerfully, pumping every drop of blood laden with lethal poison.
It was right there. Only a wall away.
Morn's right hand slid down slightly, his fingertips brushing against the elder wand in his sleeve.
In that moment, his breathing rate didn't change in the slightest, but the surrounding air temperature suddenly dropped several degrees.
[Tactical Simulation · Start]
In his mind, he calmly deduced the next three seconds:
0.5 seconds: Activate [Space · Phase Penetration], ignoring the wall's obstruction to directly lock onto the Basilisk's weakest reverse scale at the seven-inch mark.
1.2 seconds: Release highly compressed [Sectumsempra] or [Spatial Rupture] to sever its spinal nerves. No eye contact needed, not even a need to open his eyes. His spatial perception was more precise than sight.
2.5 seconds: Before it could spray venom in a death throe, use [Material Recombination] to liquefy the surrounding rock, sealing it completely within the pipes to suffocate like an insect in amber.
Win Rate: 99.8%.
This thousand-year-old Basilisk, of which Salazar Slytherin was so proud, was nothing more than a slightly larger, brainless reptile before Morn, who possessed modern magical concepts and an ancient bloodline Talent.
"Too easy."
Morn's fingers had already gripped the handle of his wand, and that destructive magic had even condensed into a physical shimmer at his fingertips.
But just a moment before the spell was about to fire, Morn stopped.
Those pale fingers released the wand and pressed back against the damp, cold wall.
"Killing you would only take three seconds."
He whispered in his heart, the cold smirk of a hunter on his lips gradually transforming into the deep calculation of a chess player.
"But if I kill you now, the game is over. The attacks will stop, the panic will dissipate. Everyone will praise Hogwarts' defense mechanisms, and Dumbledore... that old fox will still sit comfortably in his high-backed chair in the Principal's office, continuing to monitor this Castle with his suffocating 'love'."
It's not worth it.
Morn didn't need a snake's corpse; although its materials were precious, there would be plenty of opportunities to get them later. What he needed was chaos.
He needed this monster to continue wandering the pipes, to continue causing petrification, and to continue spreading the fear known as the "unknown."
Only when fear accumulated to a critical point, and only when the safety of the students was substantially threatened, would the Board of Governors—especially Lucius Malfoy—have enough reason to challenge Dumbledore and force the greatest white wizard of the age to leave his center of power.
"Go, Salazar's pet."
Morn gently patted the wall, as if soothing a fighting dog about to enter the arena.
"Your task isn't finished. Go find your prey, stir the waters even more. Until... you force that white kingoff the board."
As if hearing the whisper from outside the wall, the vibrations in the pipes gradually receded.
The Basilisk climbed toward the upper floors along the vertical water pipes, the ear-piercing sound of scales scraping the pipe walls slowly fading into the silence of the late night.
Morn withdrew his hand, pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, and leisurely wiped the wall dust and mold from his fingertips.
He opened his eyes, his deep blue pupils appearing exceptionally clear in the darkness.
"Next, it's just a matter of waiting for that 'perfect victim'."
He tossed the handkerchief into the puddle in the corner and turned toward the stairs, his black robes billowing behind him like a mass of thick, inseparable ink... Ten minutes later, Ravenclaw Common Room.
Under the starry dome at midnight, the common room, which should have been empty, was not quiet.
The air was thick with a suffocating, strange burnt smell of garlic, exorcism incense, and some cheap amulets.
A few younger students were huddled on the rug by the fireplace, having not returned to their dormitories.
Wrapped in thick blankets, they clutched "Powerful Exorcism Crystals" bought from the black market—actually just ordinary colored glass. Even the sound of branches scratching the window made them twitch like startled rabbits.
"Did you hear that?" a first-year asked in a small, tearful voice. "There seemed to be a hissing sound in the walls just now..."
"Shut up! Don't scare yourself!" Terry Boot said irritably, flipping through his "Guide to Self-Defense Against the Dark Arts" with a rustle. "We're safe as long as we stay in the tower. That Slytherinmonster can't climb this high."
Creak—the common room door was slowly pushed open.
Everyone's breath hitched at that moment, and several wands pointed tremblingly at the door.
Moen White walked in.
He looked as usual, carrying the chill characteristic of late-night corridors, with that neatly folded white handkerchief in his hand.
Facing the room full of terrified gazes, he merely raised an eyebrow, a hint of well-timed confusion appearing in his blue eyes.
"What? Is there a stargazing party tonight?"
He asked in a relaxed tone, closing the door behind him to shut out the cold wind.
In the corner, the female Prefect, Penelope Clearwater, was leaning against the wall, carefully holding a small round mirror toward the blind spot of the window.
She clearly didn't dare lean her face over to check the movement outside, only able to confirm through the reflection that nothing was clinging to the windowsill.
Seeing Morn enter, she jerked the mirror back like a startled cat, let out a sigh of relief, and lowered her wand.
Her face looked haggard, with deep dark circles under her eyes; she obviously hadn't had a good night's sleep in a long time.
"White, where have you been so late?" Penelope asked sternly, though her voice betrayed an irrepressible weakness. "It's dangerous outside right now. If something happened to you, I wouldn't know how to explain it to Professor Flitwick."
"I just went to the library to look up some information and lost track of time."
Morn told a perfect lie with a smile, his gaze sweeping over the fingerprint-covered mirror in Penelope's hand, a flash of profound meaning in his eyes.
"Don't be too nervous, Prefect Clearwater. Sometimes, danger isn't outside, but in our hearts."
He walked through the shivering students with a composed and elegant stride, as if he had just attended a pleasant dinner party rather than having just stared at a thousand-year-old Basilisk through a wall.
"Get some rest, everyone."
When he reached the stairs to the boys' dormitory, Morn stopped, his back to the crowd, and said softly:
"After all... tomorrow might be another long day."
Watching Morn's back disappear up the stairs, Penelope felt an inexplicable chill crawl up her spine for some reason.
She instinctively gripped the mirror in her hand; it was her only source of security now.
In the darkness of the dormitory, Morn lay on his soft four-poster bed, listening to the hurried breathing from the neighboring bed caused by fear, and closed his eyes peacefully.
"Sleep, little sheep. The wolf is still sharpening its teeth."
Chapter 106: A Frightened Bird and Stolen Memories
Clack.
A marble-carved chess Queen was slammed hard onto the board, letting out a crisp cracking sound.
Harry Potter sprang up from the armchair, his movement so violent that he knocked over the footstool behind him.
His chest heaved violently, and his green eyes were bloodshot with terror as he stared fixedly at Ron, who was sitting opposite him.
"What's wrong, Harry?"
Ron Weasley, still holding the piece that had just captured Harry's Knight, looked up blankly.
The firelight from the fireplace reflected on his freckled face, making his expression flicker between light and shadow.
On Harry's retina, this familiar face instantly overlapped with the hideous, twisted face from his hallucination, shouting the Killing Curse.
The memory of that second was so profound that Harry could even smell the non-existent, ozone-like scent unique to the Avada Kedavra curse, as well as the smell of rotten rats emanating from Ron.
"Don't... don't look at me like that."
Harry's voice was hoarse. He subconsciously reached into his robe pocket and gripped the handle of his wand.
The cold, wooden feel on his fingertips did not bring him much security; instead, it reminded him of Morn's cold warning that day: 'Nothing is absolutely real except your current breath.'
"Mate, I just won a game of chess against you." Ron frowned, put down the piece, and tried to reach out to pat Harry's shoulder. "You've been too stressed lately. You need to go to Madam Pomfrey for some calming draughts, or..."
"Don't touch me!"
Harry recoiled as if he were a cat whose tail had been stepped on, hitting the stone pillar behind him.
Several Gryffindor students doing homework nearby looked up in surprise, staring at their savior with the eyes reserved for a madman.
"Sorry... I..."
Harry looked at Ron's hand frozen mid-air, and his sanity finally returned slightly.
He wiped a layer of fine cold sweat from his forehead, the sticky sensation making him feel sick. "I just... feel a bit dizzy. I'm going back to the dormitory."
Without waiting for Ron and Hermione to speak, he fled toward the spiral staircase.
The air was filled with the dusty scent of old tapestries and the smoky smell of burning wood—aromas that usually comforted him, but now felt like a thick fog, blurring the boundary between reality and illusion... The moment he pushed open the oak door of the dormitory, a more chaotic and pungent odor rushed out.
It was the rusty smell of ink, the poultry stench of torn feather pillow stuffing, and an unsettling body odor of a stranger—a smell only encountered at the scene of a theft.
Harry froze in the doorway.
The previously warm and tidy circular dormitory now looked as if it had just survived a small tornado.
The four four-poster beds were tossed into disarray, and the deep red velvet hangings were half-ripped down, dangling limply on the floor.
Pillows had been slashed open, and white goose feathers flew wildly in the cold wind leaking through the window cracks, resembling a sudden snowfall.
Harry's bed was the worst hit.
His old trunk had been violently pried open, the clasp twisted and deformed, hanging forlornly on the flipped-up lid.
The contents had been dumped out: pages from his Potion Class textbook were scattered everywhere, his Transfiguration Class robes were covered in footprints, and the spare bottle of red ink he had hidden in a sock was smashed, the dark red liquid bleeding across the carpet in a large, shocking stain that looked like dried blood.
"No..."
Harry's pupils contracted violently, and his heart felt as if it were being fiercely squeezed by a cold hand.
He stumbled forward, kneeling heavily in the wreckage. Ignoring the sting of broken glass cutting his skin, he frantically searched through the mess.
The invisibility cloak was still there.
The Nimbus 2000 maintenance kit was still there.
Even the packet of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans was still there.
Only one thing was missing.
The black, moldy Diary that had once shown him the "truth" but was dismissed by Morn as "edited footage."
"What happened? Harry, you ran too fast—Merlin's beard!"
Ron and Hermione caught up, panting, and gasped the moment they saw the scene inside.
"It's gone."
Harry slumped onto the floor covered in feathers and ink, tightly clutching a half-torn sock, his voice trembling violently. "Someone stole it... Riddle's Diary."
"Only Gryffindors know the password." Hermione walked in, pale-faced, carefully avoiding the ink on the floor. "This must be... Wait, Harry, we have to tell Professor McGonagall immediately!"
"No!"
Harry abruptly looked up, his green eyes filled with terror and a nearly pathological paranoia.
"Why?" Hermione looked at him, confused. "This is a serious theft! And that Diary is dangerous—"
"What do you want me to say, Hermione?"
Harry cut her off, stood up, and paced nervously back and forth across the room, the broken glass crunching under his feet.
"Tell Professor McGonagall that I have a talking Diary? Tell her that the Diary showed me a murder scene from fifty years ago? Or tell her..."
Harry's voice suddenly dropped, carrying a deep sense of helplessness:
"Or tell her that Moen White showed me that memories can be fabricated? If we tell them, they won't catch the thief; they'll send us to the Psychiatric Ward at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!"
Morn's illusion that day was like a thorn, deeply embedded in Harry's logic.
If seeing isn't necessarily believing, and if memories can be tampered with, then who would trust the ravings of a second-year student? 'No one will believe it.' This thought coiled in his mind like a venomous snake.
"But..." Hermione started to say.
"Stop talking."
Harry knelt back down in front of the trunk and mechanically began cleaning up the mess on the floor. The ink stained his fingers red, making him look fierce and pathetic.
"It's alive, Ron was right. It knew we suspected it, so it ran away. Or maybe someone took it... Either way, we can't tell anyone."
Outside the window, a flash of lightning tore through the pitch-black night sky, momentarily illuminating the dormitory in a stark white light.
Harry lowered his head, looking at the ink-soaked fragment in his hand, feeling like the helpless person awaiting death in Morn's illusion.
In this Castle full of magic and lies, he felt utterly isolated for the first time.
Chapter 107: The Shattered Mirror and the Frozen Prefect
The sharp tip of the quill scratched frantically against the rough parchment, producing a tooth-gritting "rustle" that almost tore the fragile paper.
The Hogwarts library was as empty as a vast mausoleum at this moment, with only the faint cheers from the distant Quidditch Pitch seeping dully through the thick stone walls, making the deathly silence here feel even more oppressive.
Hermione Granger slammed shut the heavy "Illustrated Guide to Ancient Divine Beasts," sending clouds of aged dust dancing wildly in the pale shafts of light streaming from the high windows, making her cough twice.
But she couldn't care about that; her heart was pounding violently in her chest, as if it were about to jump out and scream the terrifying truth she had just pieced together.
"The spiders are fleeing... the voice Harry heard moving within the walls... a language only he can understand..."
Hermione's fingers trembled on the page she had just torn out, her fingertips turning white from the force of her grip.
"This isn't just a monster; it's a nightmare from myth."
She grabbed the page with the illustration of the Basilisk and scribbled a single word on the back: "Pipes."
Every letter was crooked, the ink trailing off into long tails at the ends—the brushstrokes of extreme terror.
"I must tell Harry... this isn't something he can handle..."
Hermione clenched the note tightly in her palm, grabbed her bag, and rushed out of the library.
The characteristic vanilla scent of old books in the air now turned into a sort of rotting sulfur smell in her nose—her imagination of the Basilisk's scent... the corner of the second-floor corridor.
Because she was running too fast, Hermione's soles made a sharp screeching sound against the waxed floor.
Just as she was about to dash around the corner, a tall, slender black figure suddenly stepped out from the shadows, blocking her path.
Hermione braked hurriedly, nearly colliding with the person's robes.
A cold, crisp scent of faint mint and winter air washed over her, instantly dispelling the feverish panic surrounding her.
"In such a hurry, Miss Granger?"
Moen White leaned against the windowsill, holding a black-covered book—it was "Secrets of the Darkest Art," but he had changed the cover, his posture as relaxed as if he were strolling in his own back garden.
He lowered his head slightly, his deep blue eyes scanning Hermione's sweat-beaded forehead and the note she held tightly in her hand.
"White!" Hermione cried out breathlessly, as if grabbing onto a lifeline. "Move! I've made an important discovery! I have to go to the pitch and tell Harry and Ron!"
"An important discovery?"
Morn didn't move; instead, he turned slightly, looking at her with a scrutinizing gaze. His eyes were terrifyingly calm, like a basin of ice water poured over Hermione's heated nerves.
"If it's about the 'thing in the Chamber of Secrets,' Miss Granger, I'd like to remind you that running blindly through these empty corridors during such a dangerous time... is tantamount to suicide."
Hermione froze for a moment, her footsteps coming to an involuntary halt.
"But..."
"There are some things that, the moment you see them with your naked eyes, you are already dead."
Morn closed the book in his hand with a soft click.
He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his robe pocket and gently offered it to Hermione—the same one he had given her in that Washroom before.
Hermione instinctively reached for the handkerchief, but Morn didn't let go.
He leaned down, his voice lowered like a riddle only a clever person could understand: "Learn to use the refraction of light, Hermione. In this Castle full of blind spots, sometimes a mirror is more trustworthy than eyes."
"Reflection... mirror..."
Hermione's ever-racing brain instantly caught onto the keyword.
The Basilisk's lethal condition was "direct gaze." If it was a reflection... then it would be petrification!
She snapped her head up, looking at Morn in shock.
But Morn had already straightened up, resuming his nonchalant, gentlemanly smile.
"Go on. Good luck."
Hermione didn't ask another question.
With trembling hands, she fished a small round mirror from her bag, gripped it tightly, gave Morn a hurried nod, and then held up the mirror, peering cautiously around the corner ahead like a scout.
Watching Hermione's retreating back as she ran off with the mirror held high, the smile on Morn's face gradually faded, replaced by a cold expectation.
"As long as you don't look it directly in the eye, you won't die. Go to sleep, Miss Know-It-All. The coming stage is too bloody for an audience with an excessive sense of morality like yours."
...Five minutes later, in another long corridor near the library.
Hermione was observing the movements behind her through the mirror when she suddenly saw another figure also holding a mirror.
"Who's there?" Hermione called out nervously, her voice echoing in the empty corridor.
"Granger?"
A tall girl stepped out from behind a pillar on the other side, holding a vanity mirror, her face pale and alert.
It was the Ravenclaw Prefect, Penelope Clearwater.
"What are you doing? White was right, something isn't right around here..."
"Don't put down the mirror!" Hermione rushed over and grabbed Penelope's robe sleeve, her voice as rapid as a machine gun. "Listen! It's a Basilisk! The monster is a Basilisk! It moves through the pipes! If you hear any strange noises, don't look directly!"
"A Basilisk?" Penelope gasped, her hand holding the mirror trembling violently. "Then we have to get out of—"
Hiss—hiss—a bone-chilling sound interrupted her.
It wasn't the wind, but the sound of slimy scales rubbing against the inside of the stone walls, accompanied by a low, malicious hiss.
The sound grew closer, as if it were right in the ceiling above them, or perhaps just around the next corner.
The temperature in the air plummeted, and a thick, putrid stench of rotting fish spread out.
"It's here..." Hermione's pupils constricted violently in the mirror's reflection. "Don't look back! Use the mirror to see the way! Run!"
The two stood back-to-back, holding their mirrors like startled birds, trying to move toward the staircase.
Just as they turned a corner.
In Penelope's vanity mirror, a blinding, hellish sulfur-yellow light was suddenly reflected.
At the edge of the mirror's view, a pair of massive yellow eyes that only appeared in nightmares were staring fixedly at the mirror's surface.
That was not the gaze of a living creature.
It was the pure gaze of death.
There was no scream.
There wasn't even the sound of a body hitting the ground.
In that instant, Hermione felt her blood stop flowing. Every muscle and nerve was hardening and freezing at a terrifying speed.
Her thoughts were locked in this second of terror, and her body lost all sensation.
Clang.
The small round mirror that had saved her life slipped from her stiff fingers and fell onto the stone floor. It didn't shatter but rolled a couple of times before lying still.
On the mirror's surface, Hermione's wide-open brown eyes, filled with fear but already out of focus, were still reflected.
In the shadows at the end of the corridor.
Moen White stepped out silently.
He looked at the two "human statues" on the ground, frozen in poses of running and warning, and the massive snake tail slowly retreating into the shadows of the pipes.
"The perfect victims."
Morn walked over to Hermione's stiff body, leaned down, and picked up the note that had slipped from between her fingers.
Looking at the scribbled word "Pipes" on it, he gently blew away the dust and tucked it back into Hermione's hand, which had already turned to stone.
"This is the truth you wanted."
Morn stood up and cast his gaze toward the sky outside, dyed blood-red by the setting sun—the color of the Gryffindor Quidditch team's robes, and the color of the coming purge.
"Two perfect statues. The seeds of panic have sprouted. Dumbledore... facing this undefendable unknown, the Board of Governors' letter is probably already on its way, isn't it?"
Chapter 108: The Silent Pitch and the white king's Departure
Professor McGonagall's voice, coming through the massive purple megaphone, was like an invisible thunderclap, instantly shattering the frantic cheers that had been hanging over the Quidditch Pitch.
"The match is cancelled! All students, return to your respective house common rooms immediately!"
Harry Potter jerked back on the handle of his Nimbus 2000, the momentum nearly throwing him from his broom high in the air.
The biting wind whistled down his collar, but he didn't feel the cold; he only felt a sinking sensation of weightlessness in his stomach—not just from flying, but a physiological reaction to a terrible premonition coming true.
"Her hand holding that megaphone is shaking."
Harry hovered in mid-air, staring at the tiny green figure on the lawn. Aside from the whistling wind, he could only hear his own heart beating violently, pounding against his eardrums like a war drum.
"If someone hadn't died... Professor McGonagall would never have interrupted the match in a tone that was almost a scream."
There were no complaints, no boos.
The thousands of students in the stands began to evacuate in a deathly silence. That oppressive silence was more suffocating than the previous clamor, like a heavy shroud slowly enveloping the entire Castle... The air in the hospital wing was thick with the pungent, nauseating smell of Skele-Gro, mixed with bleach and stale lavender.
The setting sun slanted through the tall arched windows, staining the ward an ominous blood-red.
Harry and Ron stood stiffly before the innermost bed like two soul-less puppets.
Hermione Granger lay on the bed.
Her eyes were wide open, the pupils frozen in a final second of extreme terror.
Her body still held the posture of running and warning, but her skin had turned a marble-like, cold, hard greyish-white.
Beside her hand, on the bedside table, lay a small round mirror that had long since lost its luster.
And in her fist, which had already turned to stone, she still clutched a crumpled slip of paper.
"She was found near the library."
Professor McGonagall's voice was hoarse and weary. She pressed a handkerchief to the corner of her eye, not daring to look at the two boys' faces. "Beside her was the Ravenclaw Prefect, Penelope Clearwater. Also Petrified... also holding a mirror."
Harry reached out, his fingertips trembling as he touched the back of Hermione's hand. Cold. That bone-chilling cold instantly spread through his body from his fingertips, like a frigid venomous snake slithering into his veins.
"She knew..." Harry murmured, his throat feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton. "It was the mirror... Morn said mirrors can save lives... She understood, but still..."
"This wasn't an accident."
Ron stared fixedly at Hermione's frozen face, tears welling in his eyes, his fists clenching until they cracked. "This is hunting. That monster... it's specifically picking the smartest people."
Dumbledore stood quietly outside the ward door.
This white-haired old man, who always seemed omnipotent, looked exceptionally aged at this moment.
He watched the two grieving children and the two silent statues through the half-open door. For the first time, his deep blue eyes lost that light of total control, replaced by a profound sorrow and helplessness... Night fell upon the Castle entrance hall.
The massive oak doors stood open, and the freezing wind, carrying a blizzard, howled inside, making the torches in the hall flicker wildly, casting shadows on the walls that danced like a gathering of demons.
Lucius Malfoy wore an extremely exquisite black fur cloak, holding his signature Snake-head cane, with a reserved and arrogant smirk on his face.
Behind him, the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was anxiously twirling his dark green bowler hat, looking like an ant on a hot griddle.
"This is truly a regrettable decision, Dumbledore."
Lucius slowly unrolled a scroll of parchment, the movement as elegant as if he were presenting a fine menu rather than a Dismissal Order.
"However, the Board of Governors feels... things have spiraled out of control. First the cat, then the ghost, and now two excellent students—one of them a Prefect. If action isn't taken, I'm afraid Hogwartswill have to close."
"These are the signatures of all twelve Governors." Lucius handed the parchment to Dumbledore, his Snake-head cane tapping lightly on the floor with an aggressive sound. "It's an expression of... democracy, is it not?"
Dumbledore did not take the parchment.
He simply gazed calmly into Lucius's calculating grey eyes, his gaze so sharp it seemed to pierce through the aristocrat's hypocritical skin.
"If you must see my absence as a solution, Lucius, then of course I shall step aside."
Dumbledore's voice was soft, but it was clearly audible in the empty entrance hall.
"But you should know, I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me anymore. You will find that at Hogwarts, those who ask for help will always receive it."
Lucius's lip twitched slightly, appearing momentarily unsettled by these words, but he quickly masked it.
"A touching speech. But until then... after you, Principal."
In the shadowed corridor leading from Ravenclaw Tower to the marble staircase.
Moen White was like a ghost merged with the darkness, leaning quietly behind a stone pillar, looking down from his high vantage point at the transfer of power taking place in the first-floor entrance hall.
[Talent Activation: Void Body · Breath Concealment]
No one could discover him.
He watched Dumbledore, carrying his long-prepared old suitcase, stop at the massive oak doors.
At that moment, the white-haired old man seemed to sense something.
Dumbledore didn't look back at Lucius, nor at Fudge; instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze crossing dozens of feet and layers of shadows to land precisely on the blind spot where Morn was.
There was no probe of Legilimency, nor any pressure of magic.
It was just a look.
Calm, deep, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible sigh. As if saying: "Is this the result you wanted, child?"
Morn's breathing didn't falter in the slightest.
He bowed slightly in the shadows, giving the departing old man a silent, standard aristocratic farewell.
It was not respect; it was the final courtesy of a victor to the defeated.
Boom! The heavy oak doors slowly closed behind Dumbledore, making a loud thud like the locking of a coffin lid.
That tall figure vanished into the swirling snow.
In the entrance hall, Lucius Malfoy let out a triumphant chuckle—the sound of long-suppressed ambition finally being released.
High up in the darkness, Morn straightened up, his fingers lightly stroking the smooth surface of his wand, a genuine, no-longer-hidden feverish smile finally curling his lips.
"Goodbye, white king."
His voice was as soft as a falling snowflake, yet it carried a shivering chill.
"Now... the Castle's final defense mechanism has reached zero. The board has been cleared, and the rules will be rewritten."
He turned and walked deep into the tower, his black robes billowing behind him like a part of the night itself.
"The hunt... officially begins."
Chapter 109: The Boisterous Breakfast and the Silent Decree
A silver spoon scraped the edge of a porcelain bowl, making a monotonous and ear-piercing "skree" sound.
That sound was particularly jarring in the lifeless air of the Great Hall, like a rusty saw blade sawing back and forth on everyone's nerves.
Harry Potter mechanically shoveled a spoonful of cold oatmeal into his mouth, but he couldn't taste anything; his tongue only felt a bitterness similar to swallowing wet newspaper.
His gaze drifted uncontrollably toward the center of the High Table—the high-backed gold-painted armchair that originally belonged to Albus Dumbledore.
It was empty.
That empty feeling was like a giant black hole, constantly devouring the little sense of security remaining in the Great Hall.
Professor McGonagall sat next to it, her eyes red and swollen, the knuckles of her hand gripping the goblet turning white, as if that cup was her only support right now.
"He's gone," Harry muttered to himself, the paranoia implanted by Moen White coiling around his stomach like a cold snake. "There's no protector left. The Castle's defensive shield is broken. Who's next? Me? Or Ron?"
Just then, a burst of unrestrained, shrill laughter pierced through the oppressive silence like a sharp blade.
"I told you so!"
Draco Malfoy was actually standing on the bench of the Slytherin table, waving a half-eaten green apple in his hand, his face wearing a look of near-maniacal triumph.
"My father said long ago that Dumbledore was the worst Principal in the history of Hogwarts! Now he's finally gone! This school is finally going to be clean!"
A burst of laughter erupted from the Slytherin table, with Crabbe and Goyle pounding the table so hard it sounded like thunder.
Malfoy became even more excited, his grey eyes sweeping maliciously across the Gryffindor table before settling on Harry and the pale-faced Hufflepuff students:
"Next is the real cleansing! Those filthy mudbloods, and that big oaf Hagrid who hides monsters... none of them will escape! I should probably suggest to the new Principal that their dormitories be turned into dungeons—"
"Shut up, Malfoy!" Ron stood up abruptly, his face turning bright red, reaching for his broken wand.
Harry also instinctively clenched his fist, but the moment his nails stung his palm, Morn's cold blue eyes and the phrase "Everything but breathing is fake" flashed through his mind.
His movements froze. If he rushed forward, would it be another illusion? What if this was just Morntesting him?
This pathological hesitation caused him to miss the best opportunity for a counterattack.
"Ding."
An extremely faint, yet incredibly crisp impact sound echoed through the Great Hall.
No one used an Amplifying Charm, but this soft sound was like a depth charge dropped into calm water.
The magic particles in the air underwent a violent oscillation at this moment, and an invisible, suffocatingly heavy pressure radiated outward from the Ravenclaw table in ripples.
Malfoy's arrogant laughter was cut off in his throat as if by an invisible giant hand.
His mouth hung open, his face instantly turning the color of pig liver, and he clutched his throat in terror, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, but he couldn't make a single sound—even his breathing was blocked.
The previously boisterous Slytherin table went deathly silent in an instant. All the plates, knives, and forks were trembling, as if the entire table was in fear.
Every eye in the hall turned in terror toward the source of the sound.
Moen White was still sitting there, not even looking up at Malfoy.
One of his hands was turning a page of Advanced Rune Analysis, while the other held a silver dinner fork, which had just lightly tapped the crystal goblet filled with pumpkin juice.
"Too noisy."
Morn's voice wasn't loud, nor did it carry any anger; it was as flat as stating "the weather is bad today." But in this deathly silence, those words clearly entered everyone's ears, carrying an unquestionable, absolute dominance.
He slowly lifted his eyelids, those deep blue eyes glancing indifferently at the struggling Malfoystanding on the bench from a dozen feet away.
[Talent Activation: Mental Pressure · Wide-Area Silence]
Malfoy felt as if he were being stared at by a giant dragon. The shuddering sensation rising from the depths of his soul made his legs go weak instantly.
"Thud."
He fell off the bench, collapsing miserably onto the floor, gasping for air and greedily inhaling the oxygen rushing back into his lungs, cold sweat instantly soaking his back.
"Maintaining silence while eating is basic manners."
Morn withdrew his gaze and elegantly speared a piece of fried egg with his fork, his movements as composed as if nothing had happened.
"The air here is already murky enough; there's no need to add extra noise. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Malfoy?"
Malfoy sat slumped on the ground, shivering, not even having the courage to look at Morn. The Slytherin students around him kept their heads down, not even daring to breathe loudly.
The Great Hall remained quiet, but this time, the nature of the silence had changed.
The previous silence was due to the fear and confusion caused by losing Dumbledore.
The current silence was because of awe.
Harry looked at the figure sitting at the Ravenclaw table, leisurely eating breakfast, and felt a chill crawl up his spine.
He suddenly realized that although Dumbledore was gone, it didn't mean Hogwarts had become an unmanaged wasteland.
On the contrary, another even more terrifying "monster" still resided in this Castle.
An "Uncrowned King" who didn't need to roar loudly, but only needed to tap a glass to shut all the snakes up.
At the High Table.
Professor Minerva McGonagall's fingers gripping the goblet were so stiff they could hardly bend.
She looked at the Ravenclaw boy below who had resumed eating his meal quietly, her already thin lips now pressed into a pale line.
That aura that suppressed the entire hall in an instant... that wide-area mental pressure that could be triggered without waving a wand... in that moment, she had a terrifying illusion: as if the person sitting there wasn't a second-year student, but the white-haired old man who had just left.
No,
That aura was colder than Dumbledore's, more like a piece of thousand-year-old ice without any warmth.
"This isn't right..."
Professor McGonagall whispered uneasily in her mind, her heart skipping a beat from some unknown fear.
And at the other end of the long table.
Severus Snape's hollow, deep black eyes were staring intently at Moen White.
He didn't bother with Malfoy, his own house's student, who had just scrambled up from the ground and was still retching.
His attention was entirely focused on Morn's hand holding the silver fork.
Muffliato Charm. Wandless Magic. Materialization of Spiritual Power.
As a contemporary Potion Master and former Death Eater, Snape knew better than anyone what that move just now meant.
"He didn't even touch his wand..."
A faint, almost imperceptible sneer, mixed with wariness and inquiry, curled at the corner of Snape's mouth, his fingers instinctively rubbing the handle of his wand inside his robe sleeve.
"It seems this Little Raven's wings have grown so strong that even a cage can't hold him. That fool Lucius thought he could control the school by driving away Dumbledore? Humph... he has no idea what kind of beast he has unleashed."
Under the ceiling of the Great Hall, dark clouds gathered.
The Professors exchanged worried glances, while Morn, the center of attention, merely elegantly cut a small piece of fried egg, as if the complex gazes around him were nothing more than decorations on the side of his plate.
Chapter 110: The Net for Hunting Giants and Broken Trust
The damp, soft soil made a faint sucking sound beneath the invisibility cloak; with every step, cold mud splashed onto Harry's trouser legs, bringing a disagreeable, sticky sensation.
Harry Potter gripped the silver fabric that flowed like water, his breath hitching as it condensed into clouds of white mist in the air.
From time to time, he jerked his head back, nervously scanning the edge of the pitch-black Forbidden Forest behind him.
"Harry, don't stop," Ron urged in a whisper, his voice trembling noticeably. "Filch is still wandering around the front doors."
"Shh!" Harry suddenly pressed down on Ron's shoulder, his pupils contracting sharply in the darkness. "Over there... is someone behind that tree?"
He stared fixedly at the cluster of shadows cast by the trees swaying in the wind, his heart pounding wildly.
In that instant, the twisted shadow seemed to transform into a tall, thin figure wearing Ravenclawrobes, giving him that meaningful smile. "Nothing is real except breathing." Moen White's voice was like a cold needle pricking his mind.
"Those are trees, Harry! Those are the branches of the Whomping Willow!" Ron almost cried out, pulling him hard.
Harry blinked, and the figure vanished. It was just tree shadows.
"...Sorry." He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, feeling as though his nerves were as fragile as a string about to snap. "I just... I keep feeling like someone is watching us."
...Hagrid's hut was filled with the strong smell of over-brewed black tea and the peculiar musky scent of a large, unwashed dog coming from Fang.
But this warmth, which should have been comforting, could not dispel the chill in the air at all now.
"Don't worry, Hagrid." Harry pulled off the invisibility cloak, looking at the massive half-Giant.
Hagrid was trying to pour them tea, but his hands, as large as dustbin lids, were shaking so violently that the boiling water splashed onto the tabletop, making the wood sizzle.
"I'm fine... I'm fine..." Hagrid muttered incoherently, his eyes wandering. "As long as Dumbledore can come back... as long as..."
Knock, knock, knock. The heavy pounding on the door rang out in the small wooden hut without warning, like a midnight death knell.
It wasn't a friendly visit; it was the knock of authority.
The teapot in Hagrid's hand fell to the floor with a clang, shattering into pieces. Scalding tea spilled everywhere, steaming.
"Quick! Hide!" Hagrid hissed. In that moment of panic, he no longer looked like a Giant, but like a helpless child.
Harry and Ron scrambled into the corner, pulling the invisibility cloak over their heads.
Just as the fabric covered the tips of their shoes, the door was shoved open roughly.
Cornelius Fudge walked in.
He was wearing that ridiculous pinstriped suit, clutching his dark green bowler hat, with a look of feigned anxiety on his face.
And behind him, the figure that made the air temperature drop instantly followed—Lucius Malfoy, wrapped in a heavy black fur cloak, his eyes looking as if he were staring at a pile of filthy trash.
"Bad business, Hagrid." Fudge avoided the tea on the floor, his tone carrying the dismissive air of a typical bureaucrat. "Very bad. Had to come. Another attack has happened... a Prefect this time. The Ministry must take action."
"I didn't do it!" Hagrid's voice shook, but his massive frame stood in front of the corner where Harry and Ron were hidden. "You know I didn't, Fudge!"
"The record is against you, Hagrid." Fudge didn't dare look Hagrid in the eye, instead staring at the hat in his hands. "I have no choice. I have to take you. If we catch the real person, we'll apologize..."
"Where are you taking me?" Hagrid asked, his voice rasping with despair.
"Azkaban," Fudge replied curtly.
Under the invisibility cloak, Harry bit down hard on his knuckles until he tasted blood. Through a gap in the fabric, he saw the smug, cold smile on Lucius's face.
That was the arrogance of power. No evidence, no trial needed. As long as you were the scapegoat, you were guilty.
"Right, let's go." Lucius tapped the doorframe with his snake-headed cane; it was an ultimatum.
Hagrid took one last look around the small hut filled with the traces of his life. In that moment, his gaze became unusually determined—it was a desperate gamble in a hopeless situation.
He didn't look at Fudge or Lucius, but instead shouted toward the empty corner where Harry was hiding, his voice nearly a roar:
"If anyone's looking for some... for some information... they just have to follow the spiders! That's right! Follow the spiders! They'll lead you right!"
Lucius frowned, clearly dismissing this as the ramblings of a madman.
"I don't think I want to deal with any spiders. Let's go, big man."
The door was slammed shut.
The footsteps gradually faded, finally vanishing into the howling wind and snow.
Silence returned to the hut.
Only Fang lay in his basket, letting out a mournful whimper.
Harry threw off the invisibility cloak as if trying to break free from a suffocating shroud. He gasped for air, his face as pale as a dead man's.
The shards of the teapot were still steaming on the floor, but the big man who always gave them rock cakes and clumsily comforted them was gone.
"Gone... it's all gone."
Harry slumped into a chair, his hands gripping the rough wooden table, his nails digging deep into the grain.
"Dumbledore is gone. Hagrid's been taken. There's no one left to protect us. No one!"
Ron stood nearby, pale-faced, his voice trembling: "Harry... Hagrid said just now... follow the spiders?"
Harry snapped his head up, a heart-stopping fire burning in his green eyes.
It was the madness that erupted after fear had been compressed to its limit, a paranoia that no longer trusted any adult.
"That's right. Spiders."
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the pitch-black Forbidden Forest.
On the ground out there, rows of tiny black shadows were streaming toward the depths of the forest like refugees.
"If the Ministry is blind... if even Dumbledore has lost..."
Harry's voice was low and raspy, carrying a coldness unbefitting his age:
"Then it's up to us. I'm going there. I'm going to ask those spiders exactly what it is that turned this place into hell."
Cold moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows high in the Entrance Hall, casting it onto the flagstone floor and cutting the mirror-smooth surface into countless pale shards.
Harry Potter held his breath, gripping Ron's arm tightly; the two of them huddled under the invisibility cloak, staring fixedly at the 'living carpet' writhing frantically in the moonlight at their feet.
It was a black torrent about four inches wide.
Thousands of black spiders, each only the size of a coin, were packed tightly together like a stream of thick oil, surging along the base of the wall toward the doors.
The sound they made wasn't the sound of crawling, but a scalp-tingling, clicking noise, like countless dry leaves being crushed at once.
"Merlin's pants..." Ron's voice shook, with a hint of a sob as if he wanted to vomit. "They're running for their lives. Just like we saw in Herbology Class... they're fleeing the Castle."
"Follow them."
Harry gritted his teeth, forcing down the wave of nausea in his stomach.
Hagrid's final roar echoed in his mind.
If even these brainless bugs knew where the danger was, then the opposite direction of their flight—the place they were going—must hold the answer.
However, as the two of them crept cautiously toward the massive oak front doors, Harry's heart sank to the bottom.
The way out was blocked.
Chapter 111: Shadows at the Edge of the Forbidden Forest and the Night Watchman
Severus Snape stood in the center of the Entrance Hall, looking like a Giant bat hanging upside down, his black cloak almost blending into the surrounding shadows.
Beside him, Filch held a dim kerosene lamp, the pungent smell of sulfur from the burning oil clear in the cold air.
"Strengthen the patrols, Filch."
Snape's voice was low and silky, with an uncomfortable metallic edge. "Dumbledore's absence does not mean those ignorant little Trolls can roam the night as they please. Especially Potter... if I catch him wandering at a time like this..."
He paused, his hollow black eyes suddenly sweeping toward the corner where Harry and Ron were hiding.
In that instant,
Harry felt as if he were being stared down by a venomous snake, cold sweat instantly soaking the invisibility cloak in his hands.
Although logic told him Snape couldn't see them, he instinctively held his breath, his lungs beginning to ache from the lack of oxygen.
"What do we do?" Ron asked in a barely audible whisper. "The door is too heavy; pushing it open will definitely make a sound. We can't get through."
Harry looked at the closed door in despair.
So close, yet so far.
The truth was just outside the door, but the gatekeeper was like a wall of despair... At that moment, in the shadows of the marble corridor on the third floor above the Entrance Hall.
Moen White leaned behind a one-eyed witch statue, looking down at the stalemate.
His right hand rested casually on the cold stone railing, his fingertips tapping rhythmically without making a sound.
Within the [Eye of Truth · Dynamic Vision], in that seemingly empty corner, two faint humanoid heat signatures were shivering.
The powerful magic fluctuations emanating from Snape were like a tight radar net, blocking all exits.
"A cornered beast still fights."
A faint curve formed at the corner of Morn's mouth, his eyes glinting with calculating light.
"If I don't give you a hand, this 'Brave the Forbidden Forest' act will end before it even begins. That would be too boring, wouldn't it?"
He slowly raised his left hand, without drawing his wand.
For such simple physical interference, wandless casting was enough.
His gaze passed over Snape's head, precisely locking onto a heavy suit of armor at the other end of the corridor, about a hundred feet away.
[silent casting: Powerful Repulsion]
There was no flash of a spell.
Only an extremely hidden magic shockwave, compressed to the extreme, like an invisible air cannonball, instantly crossed the distance.
Boom—!!!
A deafening metallic crash exploded deep in the corridor on the east side of the Castle.
It sounded as if a Giant had kicked over an entire row of metal cabinets, followed by the chaotic echoes of helmets, breastplates, and greaves rolling wildly across the stone floor.
Snape's body stiffened, his gaze instantly becoming as sharp as a blade.
"Who's there?!"
He drew his wand almost instinctively, his black robes billowing as he charged toward the staircase like a black whirlwind. "Filch! Come with me! It might be Peeves, or those damned Weasley twins!"
"Catch them! Hang them from the ceiling!" Filch roared excitedly, limping after him with his lamp.
The once air-tight blockade instantly had a massive gap.
"Now's our chance!"
Though Harry didn't know what had happened, he knew this was a unique opportunity.
He and Ron lunged for the door, together pushing open a corner of the heavy oak door.
Creak—the heavy hinges made a tooth-gritting grinding sound.
But under the cover of the continuous clatter of the falling armor in the distance, this small sound didn't make Snape turn back.
A bitter wind mixed with snowflakes rushed in, making Harry's invisibility cloak flutter.
They squeezed through the crack and rushed into the boundless dark blizzard outside the Castle... As the door closed again, silence returned to the Entrance Hall.
Only the row of spiders fleeing outward continued to make tireless "click, click" sounds.
In the shadows of the high corridor, Moen White withdrew his hand and lightly brushed non-existent dust from his sleeve.
He walked to the window and, through the frost-covered glass, watched the two small black dots trudging through the snow, gradually disappearing into the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
"Go on, little explorers."
Morn's voice was low and soft, as if narrating the prologue to an upcoming tragedy.
"Go see that old spider. Let it tell you what true despair is, and... what kind of nightmare lurks beneath that abyss."
He turned toward Ravenclaw Tower, his black silhouette merging into the night.
"And I will be here, preparing the next'surprise' for you."
Morn had just turned out of the shadow corridor, preparing to return to Ravenclaw Tower, when a series of hurried and slightly heavy footsteps came from the corner of the stairs.
"Mr. White?"
Morn stopped, the cold calculation on his face vanishing instantly, replaced by a perfect blend of surprise and gentleness.
"Professor McGonagall? It's so late, have you not rested yet?"
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood under the flickering torches.
She was wearing her dark green tartan dressing gown, and though her hair was still combed meticulously, her face, usually stern and tight, was now etched with unmistakable exhaustion.
The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seemed much deeper than yesterday, and her usually sharp eyes were bloodshot.
"I can't sleep."
Professor McGonagall sighed, not questioning why Morn was still out wandering.
She looked at the steady, elegant student before her, who had maintained absolute rationality throughout this storm, a trace of complex reliance showing in her eyes.
"I think... I need to thank you, Mr. White."
Professor McGonagall's voice was a bit raspy, and she instinctively gripped her wand tighter, as if it were her only remaining scepter. "In the Great Hall this morning... if you hadn't stepped in to stop Mr. Malfoy, the situation could have become very ugly."
"I only did what I thought was right, Professor."
Morn bowed slightly, his tone humble and appropriate. "Hogwarts needs order now, not needless panic and bickering. I think if Professor Dumbledore were here, he would also want to see us remain calm."
At the mention of Dumbledore's name, Professor McGonagall's body trembled slightly.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress her inner turmoil.
"Albus... he always thought highly of you. He once told me you were the most talented and restrained student he had ever seen."
Professor McGonagall opened her eyes, looking at Morn with an expectation that was almost a plea:
"Now that he has been forced to leave, and Hagrid has been taken away... I may not be able to provide as much security as Albus did. So, Mr. White, I hope you can help me... help me look after Ravenclaw, and even the students of other houses. Keep them from wandering and from being afraid."
What an ironic scene.
Morn looked into Professor McGonagall's trusting eyes, the delightful malice deep within him almost overflowing.
But his expression remained sincere and reliable, the very image of a perfect model student of Hogwarts.
"Please rest assured, Professor."
Morn took a step forward, his voice soft and firm, like a potent sedative:
"I will do everything in my power to assist you in maintaining the... 'order' of this Castle. As long as I am here, Hogwarts will not fall into chaos."
"Thank you, child. With you here, I feel a little more at ease."
Professor McGonagall forced a faint, relieved smile—it was the first expression she had shown tonight. "Go back and rest. It's not safe outside."
"Goodnight, Professor."
Morn watched Professor McGonagall's slightly hunched back disappear at the end of the corridor, his mask of gentleness peeling away bit by bit to reveal a chillingly real smile.
"Order will be maintained, of course."
He whispered softly in the empty corridor, his fingers lightly stroking his wand.
"After all, I'm the one orchestrating it."