Ch: 135-144
Chapter 135: The Dual Faces of the Boggart
The old wardrobe banged violently against the wall, making a dull "thud-thud" sound as if something inside was trying to smash the wooden boards to pieces.
Morn stood in the middle-to-back section of the line, his right hand thrust into his robe pocket, firmly pressing down on the wand that kept twitching in his palm.
The Staff Room was filled with the smell of aged dust, mixed with that characteristic cold, damp cellar-like aura of a Boggart.
Every time a bang rang out, Morn felt the blood vessels in his temples throb in sync.
It wasn't just fear.
The thing inside him, that mass of residual will originating from Tom Riddle that he had swallowed last night,
was becoming restless.
It seemed to have caught the scent of its own kind, or rather, the Boggart's nature of reflecting the darkest corners of one's heart was pulling at it like a magnet.
"Calm down."
Morn ordered himself in his mind, using the passive Talent of [Dark Lord Candidate] to forcibly suppress the urge to vomit.
"Right then, has everyone seen clearly?" Professor Lupin's gentle voice cut through the noisy chatter. He looked a bit more haggard than usual, his tawny hair messy, but his eyes were startlingly bright. "When facing a Boggart, the most important thing is laughter. Neville, are you ready?"
Neville Longbottom stepped forward, trembling all over, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"R-ready."
As the wardrobe handle turned, an old Witch in green robes and a tall, pointed hat—the Professor Snape version—staggered out. The whole class roared with laughter, but Morn didn't laugh.
His gaze swept past Neville's trembling back, staring fixedly at the constantly shifting smoke.
The System Radar was sounding a frantic alarm:
[Warning: High concentration of Mental Interference Source detected.]
[Activity of 'Unknown Will' within the body has risen to 85%. Immediate distancing is advised.]
I can't leave. Leaving now would be telling everyone there's something wrong with me. Lupin is watching everyone.
Morn took a deep breath; the air, mixed with the smell of mildew and laughter, made his lungs ache slightly. He watched Ron turn a giant spider into a clown on roller skates, and Parvati turn a Mummyinto a blunderer tripped up by its own bandages.
The line was shortening rapidly.
"Next, Morn," Lupin called out with a smile, but in the moment he looked at Morn, an extremely subtle look of inquiry flashed through his eyes—as if he had caught a scent that shouldn't be present on a student.
Morn stepped forward.
With every step, he could feel the mass of green energy inside him frantically slamming against his ribs. It didn't just want to come out; it wanted to... seize control.
If the Boggart turns into Lord Voldemort, I'm finished. No, if it turns into what I desire most deep down—a monarch sitting atop a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood—that would be even worse.
He stopped five feet from the wardrobe.
*Crack.*
One second it was a bandaged Mummy, the next it exploded mid-air into a mass of gray smoke.
The smoke didn't condense into a shape as quickly as before; instead, it stalled eerily for half a second. The chilling cold intensified abruptly, and the temperature in the classroom seemed to drop to freezing point instantly. The students, who had been laughing, instinctively shut their mouths, rubbing the goosebumps on their arms.
The Boggart seemed confused.
It sensed two sources of fear within Morn: one was Moen White's fear of exposure, and the other... was a certain older, more malevolent will's fear of death.
The smoke began to churn violently, its color changing from gray to a nauseating dark green.
Then, it condensed into a figure.
It wasn't a noseless monster, nor was it a black-robed Dementor.
It was a handsome teenage boy wearing a Slytherin school uniform.
Jet-black hair, pale skin, and eyes slightly reddened from excessive excitement.
Most of the students in the class looked confused—they didn't recognize this person.
But one person did.
"Ah!"
A shrill cry of pain broke the dead silence.
Harry Potter suddenly clutched the scar on his forehead, his whole body staggering back two steps as if hit by a heavy hammer, knocking over a chair.
"It's him! The one from the diary—" Harry's voice cracked from the intense pain; it was a physical, soul-deep scream of terror.
And at this moment, the Boggart—that "Tom Riddle"—was wearing an elegant yet cruel smile, slowly raising its hand to choke an invisible neck in the void before it.
Its lips moved, and although it made no sound, Morn could clearly read the mouth shape:
"You can't escape."
In that instant, Morn felt as if his throat were truly being throttled by an icy hand. The will inside him was cheering, attempting to tear through his mental defenses and merge with the Boggart before him.
Killing intent.
A dangerous green light lit up at the tip of Morn's wand almost instinctively.
Within that 0.1 second, he made a judgment: pulverize it.
Using the Dark Arts to directly annihilate this Boggart, even if it meant being expelled, was better than being possessed.
"Riddikulus!"
A swifter flash of white light hit the black-haired boy before he could.
It was Lupin.
There was a sharp "crack" like a whip snapping in the air. The handsome yet evil boy instantly turned into a giant, deflated white balloon, zipped around in the air a few times, and was then forcibly stuffed back into the wardrobe by Lupin with a wave of his wand.
*Bang!*
The wardrobe door slammed shut, the sound of the key turning sounding exceptionally piercing in the silent classroom.
Lupin turned around, his chest heaving violently.
He didn't look at Harry, who had fallen to the floor, nor at the terrified students; those eyes, which were usually gentle, were now as sharp as a wolf protecting its cubs, fixed dead on Morn.
"Class dismissed."
Lupin's voice was dry, curt, and left no room for doubt. "Everyone, leave the classroom immediately. Mr. Potter, go to the Hospital Wing and have your scar checked. Mr. White..."
Morn slowly lowered his still-raised wand, his fingertips white from excessive force. He looked up, his face devoid of any color—it wasn't a pretense, but a state of near-exhaustion from the backlash within his body.
"...Stay behind." Lupin finished the latter half of his sentence.
Morn's gaze collided with Lupin's for a moment, then shifted extremely slowly toward Harry, who was still gasping and clutching his forehead.
Harry was looking at him with an expression he had never seen before—one filled with terror and suspicion.
Since it's already the worst-case scenario... Morn sighed inwardly and loosened his clenched left hand, which was covered in cold sweat.
Then let's turn it into a high-stakes gamble.
Chapter 136: Scars and Suspicion
The fire in the Gryffindor common room burned brightly, the crackling of the logs sounding exceptionally sharp in the silence of the late night.
Harry Potter suddenly crumpled the copy of The Daily Prophet in his hand into a ball and threw it fiercely at the heavily worn armchair.
His chest heaved violently, the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead still throbbing; the burning sensation was like a red-hot wire boring through his nerve endings and straight into his brain.
"I'm not crazy, Hermione." Harry turned around, his voice low but carrying a near-hysterical tremor, "I know what I saw in that Boggart. It was Tom Riddle. It was Lord Voldemort!"
The air was thick with the scent of burning pine and an atmosphere of restless anxiety.
Hermione sat on the rug with her knees hugged to her chest; her large ginger cat, Crookshanks, was watching Harry warily, its tail swishing back and forth irritably.
"But Harry, that was a Boggart." A hint of fear that she couldn't hide no matter what seeped through Hermione's voice as she tried to construct a line of defense with logic, "A Boggart turns into what you fear most. Maybe... maybe because you've been worried about Sirius Black lately, your subconscious mixed the two fears together..."
"That wasn't my Boggart!"
Harry interrupted her roughly, pacing back and forth in front of the fire, his shadow stretching and distorting on the wall. "That was White's Boggart! It was for him! Why would a good student, a Ravenclaw 'Prefect', have the young Lord Voldemort as the thing he fears most deep down?"
Ron huddled in the corner of the sofa, swallowing hard with a pale face. "Maybe... maybe White is actually a Death Eater? Or maybe his family was killed by You-Know-Who?"
"No." Harry stopped abruptly, an unsettling intuition flickering in his green eyes. "The moment the Boggart turned into Riddle that day... I saw White's expression. It wasn't fear."
Harry closed his eyes, and the moment flashed in his mind again: Moen White standing before the wardrobe, the dangerous green light glowing from the tip of his wand, and the fleeting murderous intent on his face—even more hideous than the Boggart.
"That was the expression of someone wanting to destroy evidence," Harry said softly, a chill running down his spine. "He's hiding something. Something even more dangerous than Black."
Second floor, Myrtle's Washroom.
Cold water gushed from the brass faucet, splashing heavily into the yellowed porcelain sink.
Moen White gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, his knuckles paper-white from the strain. He buried his head deep into the pool of bone-chilling water, trying to use the physical sensation of suffocation to cool the boiling magma in his brain.
Splash—
He jerked his head up, water droplets sliding down his pale cheeks and dripping into the pool with a crisp sound.
The person in the mirror was soaking wet and in a wretched state.
But as Morn stared into the eyes in the mirror, he didn't see himself.
Deep within those Black pupils, a faint glimmer of eerie green light seemed to be swimming like a living thing.
In that moment, the "Morn" in the mirror curled his lips slightly into an elegant yet cruel arc.
It was a smile that belonged to Tom Riddle.
[Warning: Sanity Level has dropped below the critical point.]
[Mental Pollution Level: 45% (Rising).]
[Auditory hallucinations intensifying. Immediate deep sleep or Mental Purification is recommended.]
"How pathetic... White."
The voice no longer came from the outside but vibrated directly against the inner walls of his skull with a nauseating, slimy quality. "Is this the consequence of your resistance? Look at you, hiding here like a drowned rat. Give your body to me... I will teach you how to deal with that Potter brat. One green light, just one..."
"Shut up."
Morn growled at the mirror, his voice as raspy as if his throat were filled with sand.
He threw a sudden punch; with a "bang," the mirror shattered instantly. Countless fine glass shards flew out, carving a thin bloody scratch on his cheek.
As the blood seeped out, the metallic sweetness actually cleared his chaotic mind for a moment.
Morn stared at his reflection, fractured into countless pieces in the broken mirror, his breathing ragged.
The current situation was a total mess.
Lupin hadn't caught him on the spot because there was no solid evidence, and also to maintain the overall situation.
But that look in his eyes said everything; he had already classified Morn as a "Level One Danger Target."
By now, rumors about "Senior White being possessed by Lord Voldemort" had likely spread like a plague among the portraits and ghosts.
If he waited in the dormitory for the night, he might wake up tomorrow morning to Snape's Veritaserumand Dumbledore's Legilimency array.
When that time came, the System would be discovered, the [Dark Lord Candidate] Talent would be seen as a threat, and he would be sent to Azkaban or simply "disappear."
Waiting was slow suicide.
Morn closed his eyes, rapidly simulating a way out in his mind.
He had to take the initiative. He had to transform this "suspicion" into a "plea for help."
If I were a criminal, I would run.
If I were a victim, I would seek help from the strongest person.
Even if that person was Dumbledore.
This was a massive gamble. The stake was his life, and the winning edge was Dumbledore's fatal weakness: "giving everyone a second chance."
Morn took a deep breath, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped away the blood and water from his face. He didn't repair the shattered mirror; it served as perfect evidence of his mental breakdown.
He straightened his robes, trying his best to look weak but still struggling to maintain his dignity.
"System," he commanded coldly in his mind, completely ignoring Riddle's still-babbling will, "deactivate all Mental Shielding. Take that source of pollution... even if it turns my brain to mush, push it to the very surface."
[Command confirmed. Deactivating the Mental Camouflage Layer of the [Dark Lord Candidate].]
[Warning: This will result in the host being directly exposed to extreme pain.]
"Execute."
The next second, an agonizing pain, as if someone had thrust a red-hot stirring rod into his brain, exploded instantly.
Morn let out a muffled groan, his body staggering, and he had to lean against the wall to stay upright. His face turned paper-white in an instant, cold sweat poured down his forehead, and his eyes became unfocused and terrified.
This wasn't acting. This was real pain, enough to drive a person insane.
But this was exactly the effect he wanted.
Leaning against the cold stone wall, he shuffled out of the Washroom step by step. The corridor was empty, and the moonlight stretched his shadow long, making him look like a pilgrim struggling against an invisible demon.
Target: Eighth floor, the Gargoyle.
With every step, he silently recited the script in his mind until the fictional story became a memory he himself believed in.
I am Moen White.
I am a victim.
I am seeking help.
I am Moen White.
I am a victim.
I am seeking help.
He stumbled around a corner, and in the distance, that ugly stone monster was already looming in the shadows.
Chapter 137: If You Gaze into the Abyss
Morn leaned against the cold base of the Gargoyle, every breath carrying the metallic tang of blood and froth.
His vision was already blurred; he could only see the hideous silhouette of the stone monster doubling and twisting in the candlelight, as if it would spring to life and tear his throat out the next second.
No password. He had no idea what tonight's password was—whether it was 'Sherbet Lemon' or 'Cockroach Clusters.'
He was gambling. Gambling that the omnipresent portraits in this Castle had already reported his movements to the person at the top of the tower.
"I need to see... Dumbledore."
Morn squeezed these words out with the last bit of air in his lungs, his voice so faint he could barely hear it himself.
But the Gargoyle moved.
With a heavy grinding of rock, the Gargoyle leapt aside, revealing the slowly rotating spiral staircase behind it.
The sound echoed through the silent midnight corridor like a sigh.
Morn didn't hesitate—or perhaps he simply no longer had the strength to hesitate.
He stumbled and threw himself onto the moving steps. As the stairs spiraled upward, a warm breeze mixed with the humming of silver instruments and the sweet scent of caramel brushed against his face, forming a pungent contrast with the cold, clammy smell of sweat on his body.
The true stage had arrived.
Deep in his mind, that remnant soul belonging to Tom Riddle was still screaming, like a rusty saw cutting through his frontal lobe.
Morn bit the tip of his tongue hard, using the pain to maintain a final sliver of clarity while frantically issuing commands to the system in his head:
[Command Confirmed: Maintain 'Collapse State' of surface thoughts. Shield all core data regarding'System,' 'Devouring,' and 'Transmigration.' All other memories... fully open.]
This was a complete exposure. One wrong move, and he would turn into an idiot.
The oak doors were slightly ajar.
The moment Morn pushed the doors open, three gazes pinned him down like physical weights.
Dumbledore sat behind his massive desk, hands folded beside a pile of silver instruments. The usual twinkle was gone from his blue eyes, replaced by a bottomless gravity.
To his left, Snape looked like a giant vampire bat, wrapped in a black traveling cloak. His sallow face bore an unmasked expression of malice and... excitement? Yes, it was the excitement of a hunter finally cornering a fox.
In the shadows to the right, Professor Lupin leaned against a bookshelf, looking pale and exhausted, his old wand gripped tightly in his hand.
"It seems our little star is finally willing to drop the act."
Snape's voice was silky and cold, like a snake's tongue. He didn't even wait for Morn to steady himself before striding over, the heavy bitterness of Potions instantly dispelling the candy scent in the air. "Was the slip-up in front of the Boggart not enough? Or are you here to show us how you've inherited the Dark Lord's—"
"Severus."
Dumbledore's voice wasn't loud, yet it easily cut through Snape's venom.
The old man stood up, his gaze passing through half-moon spectacles to land directly on Morn's paper-White face.
"Child, you look to be in great pain." Dumbledore walked around the desk. He didn't draw his wand, but instead reached out a hand toward Morn.
Morn looked at that wrinkled hand, which contained startling power, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
Can't let him touch me. If there's physical contact, he'll instantly gauge the details of my magic.
"Don't... don't come any closer!"
Morn jerked back a step, his back slamming hard against the doorframe with a dull thud. He clutched his head and slid down the frame, kneeling on the floor, low pants like a wild animal escaping his throat.
"It's... it's talking... right in my head..."
Morn looked up, his eyes unfocused, with occasional flashes of a red light that didn't belong to him deep in his pupils.
He reached out a trembling hand and pointed at his temple, as if a poisonous insect had burrowed inside.
"Who is talking?" Lupin stepped forward quickly and knelt before Morn, his tone urgent. "Morn, tell us, who is it?"
"That book... that black... Diary..."
Morn spat out the words fitfully, each one like a coughed-up blood clot. "I found it... by the Forbidden Forest. It said its name was... Tom. It taught me... it wanted me to..."
The air instantly froze.
"The Diary?" Dumbledore's pupils contracted sharply, his gentle aura turning razor-sharp in an instant. He turned to look at Snape, and their eyes silently exchanged a message of shock.
"Lies!"
Snape let out a roar as he lunged forward, the tip of his wand pressing directly against the center of Morn's brow. The wand was pressed so hard it sank deep into the skin.
"He's fabricating a story! He's trying to confuse us!" Snape's face was contorted, his black eyes staring intently into Morn's unfocused pupils. "Look at me! White!"
Here it comes.
Morn let out a cold sneer in his heart, even as his body trembled violently.
He forced his eyelids open to meet those bottomless black eyes.
"Legilimens!"
Boom—!
Snape's mental power was like a red-hot battering ram, brutally smashing through Morn's already shattered mental defenses.
No obstacles, no labyrinth.
What Snape saw was a wasteland.
In the corridors of memory Morn had intentionally left open, there were ruins everywhere from a psychic storm.
Snape saw 'Morn' curled in a corner, shivering, while a blurry shadow with a handsome face—Tom Riddle—floated in the air, lashing Morn's soul with the most malicious curses, forcing him to learn the Dark Arts, forcing him to hate, forcing him to kill.
The scene shifted.
It was that thunderstorm-filled night. Morn was at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, tremblingly picking up a black Diary. He opened the pages, and ink seeped out like blood, forming a line of words: 'Hello, Morn. I am Tom Riddle.'
This was fake, of course. It was a 'true memory' woven on the spot by Morn, using his [Dark Lord Candidate] Talent combined with movie scenes from his past life and the aura of that remnant soul.
But in Snape's eyes, this was the most conclusive evidence.
"Agh—!"
Morn let out a scream as a nosebleed erupted, staining his robes red.
Snape jerked his wand back and stumbled a step, his face looking even worse than Morn's.
He panted heavily, as if he had just witnessed the most foul sacrifice.
"What did you see, Severus?" Dumbledore asked in a low voice. He had already moved to Morn's side, waving his wand to stop the boy's nosebleed.
Snape stared intently at the limp Morn. The loathing in his eyes hadn't diminished, but his suspicion was forced to shift.
"It was... the Dark Lord." Snape's voice was hoarse, each word sounding like it was pulled from an ice cellar. "A younger version of him. A memory. A... living memory. It is gnawing at this boy's soul like a parasite."
Lupin gasped. "You mean... possession?"
"Worse than possession," Snape said coldly. "That thing is trying to turn him into a new vessel."
Dumbledore closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
When he opened them again, his blue eyes were filled with compassion and a chilling resolve.
"Morn."
Dumbledore knelt down to eye level with Morn. This time, the intimidating pressure had vanished, replaced by a mental soothing as vast as the deep sea.
"You have done very well." The old man's hand rested gently on Morn's shoulder. A surge of warm magic flowed through the contact point, temporarily suppressing the screaming remnant soul in Morn's head. "You resisted him. You did not yield. This required extraordinary courage."
Morn looked up weakly, a very real physiological tear escaping the corner of his eye.
"Professor... kill me." He grabbed Dumbledore's sleeve in despair, his knuckles White. "While I... am still me. Don't let me... become that monster."
This was the finishing blow.
For someone like Dumbledore, this was equivalent to passing the highest level of a test of character.
"No, child." Dumbledore stood up, his purple robes billowing without wind, and the legendary elder wand slid into his palm.
"Hogwarts will always help those who ask for it."
Dumbledore turned to Snape and Lupin, his tone becoming more serious than ever before.
"We need to perform a surgery. Now. Immediately."
Morn's lowered eyelids hid the flash of brilliance deep within his pupils.
Step one, complete. Next, it was time to let the greatest white wizard personally shred that most delicious 'food' and feed it to me.
Chapter 138: Soul Operating Table, February
The elder wand in Dumbledore's hand traced a complex arc in the air, and the high-backed armchair that had been standing in front of the desk let out a tooth-gritting sound of twisting.
The wood softened and stretched, the fabric reorganizing as if it were alive, and in the blink of an eye, it turned into a black medical chair with leather restraints—the kind only seen in the most intensive care wards of St. Mungo's.
The comforting scent of lemon drops in the air vanished instantly, replaced by a pungent, heavy smell of ozone, like the eve of a thunderstorm—the characteristic scent of high-intensity White Magic gathering.
"Lie down."
Dumbledore's voice was very soft, yet it carried an unquestionable sense of command.
Morn didn't move immediately. He could feel his knees trembling; it wasn't entirely an act, but more of a primal physical fear in the face of the impending unknown "surgery."
If I lie down, I completely lose the ability to resist physically. If I don't, all the groundwork I've laid will be for nothing.
He weighed the options for only half a second in his mind, then like a truly desperate victim, he stumbled and threw himself into the chair as if it were his only lifeline.
As soon as he touched the cold leather, Professor Lupin stepped forward immediately. Though his movements were as gentle as possible, his technique for buckling the leather wrist straps was extremely professional and firm.
"Endure it, Morn," Lupin said in a low voice, the scent of old clothes mixed with the unique body temperature of a Werewolf rushing into Morn's nose. "This is to prevent that thing from controlling your body and harming yourself."
"Click."
Wrists, ankles, chest. Five straps locked tight. Morn was fixed to the chair in an X-shape, like a lamb to be slaughtered.
"Albus, are you sure you want to do this?" Snape stood in the shadows with his arms crossed, his black eyes fixed on Morn's bulging carotid artery as if assessing where to make the fastest cut. "If that Dark Arts mark has already permeated his core personality, your forced extraction might turn him into an idiot. Or worse... release a maddened Lord Voldemort."
Snape's wording was extremely acerbic, but he had indeed raised the core risk in magical theory.
Morn's heart skipped a beat. He was waiting for Dumbledore's verdict. This was also the point he worried about most—if he was already beyond saving in Dumbledore's eyes, he would have to activate the backup plan for mutual destruction.
"No, Severus."
Dumbledore walked to the side of the chair and looked down at Morn. Through his half-moon glasses, those bright blue eyes seemed to become an X-ray machine, scanning the cracks on the surface of Morn's soul.
"If it were that, we would be helpless." There was a trace of imperceptible heaviness in the old man's voice; perhaps at this moment, he thought of a certain boy with a lightning scar on his forehead. "But now... the situation is different."
Dumbledore reached out his withered fingers and gently brushed aside the stray hairs on Morn's forehead that were soaked with cold sweat.
"This is a form of 'parasitism,' not 'Fusion'." He turned to Snape and Lupin, as if conducting a makeshift Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. "Like a leech gorged on blood, though it looks swollen and terrifying, it remains independent of the host's circulatory system. That black will tried to burrow in, but Morn has been resisting. This resistance... has bought us a precious window of time."
Morn let out a long breath of turbid air in his heart, his tensed muscles relaxing by a microscopic thousandth.
The gamble paid off. He really did see the difference. This fragment of a soul I devoured has no vessel (the Diary is not in my hands), so it can only be considered a tree without roots. This gave Dumbledorethe theoretical basis to "uproot" it.
"Listen, Morn."
Dumbledore's face drew closer, occupying Morn's entire field of vision. That legendary elder wand was suspended less than an inch from the center of Morn's brow. A heart-stopping point of pure white light flickered at the tip of the wand, both holy and full of destruction.
"The following process will be very painful. More painful than Crucio." Dumbledore's tone was as solemn as if he were reading a verdict. "That thing will resist; it will try to hide in the depths of your memory or gnaw at your nerves."
"I... I'm not afraid of pain," Morn answered tremulously, his teeth chattering.
"It's not just pain." Dumbledore shook his head. "To pull it out completely, I need you to do the most dangerous thing—completely abandon Occlumency. You need to open all the doors and windows, and lay your mind completely open to me."
The room fell into a dead silence.
Snape let out a sneer. "Asking a Slytherin or even a Ravenclaw to actively give up their mental defenses? Albus, you might as well just tell him to jump off a building."
Morn's pupils contracted violently.
This was the true line between life and death.
Abandoning defense meant all his secrets would be exposed: the existence of the system, his identity as a transmigrator, his knowledge of the original plot... if any of it leaked, what awaited him would be death or being sliced up for research.
What to do? There was only one second to decide. Hesitation would be seen as having a guilty conscience.
Morn closed his eyes, his thoughts cutting into the deep backend of the system in a flash.
"System, execute [Deep Hibernation Protocol]."
The pale blue interface in his mind dimmed instantly.
[Warning: After entering Deep Hibernation Mode, all active skills will be unavailable. The system core will disguise itself as a 'Subconscious Black Box' and sink to the bottom of the host's memory seabed.]
[Execute?]
"Execute. Leave only that damned 'Riddle soul fragment' on the surface. Use it as bait, push it to the very front!"
As the command was issued, Morn felt the coldest, most "machine-like" part of his brain suddenly vanish. In its place was a true, unshielded sense of nakedness. He felt like a snail that had been stripped of its shell, its soft flesh exposed directly to the scorching sun.
"I... I'm ready, Professor."
Morn reopened his eyes; there was not a trace of impurity in them now, only pure fear and desperate resolve.
Dumbledore gave him a deep look, a hint of admiration showing in his eyes.
"Trust is the noblest magic."
The old man said softly.
Immediately, the tip of the elder wand gently touched Morn's temple.
The sensation was bone-chillingly cold, like an ice pick piercing through skin and skull without resistance, thrusting directly into the gray matter.
"Soul Expulsion."
Boom—!
All color in his vision vanished instantly.
Morn felt himself thrown into a pure white centrifuge.
That wasn't light; that was Dumbledore's vast, sea-like mental power.
It was like a white tsunami, roaring into Morn's brain along the connection point of the wand.
"AAAAAAAH—!"
Morn jerked his neck back, a shrill scream erupting from his throat.
That wasn't acting; that was the agonizing pain of his soul being violently churned.
The leather restraints creaked under the strain, the skin on his wrists was instantly rubbed raw, and blood seeped out.
In his defenseless mind, Dumbledore's mental power transformed into a giant white hand, ignoring the ordinary memories belonging to "Moen White" and reaching straight for the foul-smelling green ball of light entrenched in the center.
That was the soul fragment of Tom Riddle.
It was screaming; it was cursing.
It tried to drive its tentacles deep into Morn's memories, trying to use Morn's self-awareness as a hostage.
But that giant white hand was too powerful and too ruthless.
It precisely seized every black tentacle that tried to flee, even if it meant tearing through several of Morn's nerves in the process.
Pain.
It was too painful.
Morn's consciousness wavered on the brink of collapse. But in the deepest part of that chaotic white ocean, within a "black box" that even Dumbledore could not reach, the system's cold countdown was ticking silently:
[Bait locked.]
[Hunter has entered the field.]
[Preparing to execute Final Plunder Program...]
[Countdown: 3... 2... 1...]
Chapter 139: The Gluttonous Feast of White Flames and Black Shadows
"Fawkes!"
Dumbledore's low shout pierced through the roaring white noise in Morn's eardrums.
A gold and red afterimage dove down from the heights of the Principal's office. It was the Phoenix.
It spread its wings and let out a loud cry, one filled with the dual meanings of vitality and destruction.
A burst of golden flame erupted from its beak, not to burn, but to directly envelop Dumbledore's elder wand.
The originally pure white torrent of spirit was instantly dyed a holy gold, and the temperature soared.
"Ugh, aaaaaah—!"
Morn's back arched violently like a bow drawn to its absolute limit; the leather restraints bit deep into his flesh, nearly cutting off his circulation.
If a second ago he felt like he was being dissected in an ice cellar, now he felt like he was being reforged in lava.
The green remnant soul entrenched deep in his mind let out one final, most shrill shriek.
The sound no longer resembled human language, but rather the crackling and popping of wet wood thrown into a furnace, carrying endless resentment and unwillingness.
It was about to be burned to death.
From the blind spot of his consciousness—the only part that remained sober—Morn watched all of this coldly.
Dumbledore's power was too domineering; it was pure light that allowed no trace of filth.
The giant golden hand formed of magic power had already death-gripped the core of the green light cluster and was irresistibly peeling it away from Morn's soul foundation bit by bit.
Blood vessels throbbed frantically beneath his skin, appearing a sickly purplish-black before being washed transparent by the golden light.
A nauseating burnt smell filled the air—the sulfurous scent emitted when Dark Arts energy was forcibly vaporized.
"Hold on, White!" Lupin's voice was trembling as he pinned down Morn's twitching legs, his knuckles white from the exertion.
Snape stood on the other side, clutching a bottle of Potion with the stopper already removed. His black-hole-like eyes stared intently at Morn's dilated pupils, ready to pour down the sedative the moment that string of sanity snapped.
It wasn't time yet.
Morn roared at himself in his heart. The intense pain made him want to faint, to give up, to let the system take over his body and escape it all. But he couldn't.
He was waiting for that moment.
That thousandth of a second when Tom Riddle's will was shattered but the energy had not yet dissipated.
A moment too early, and he would be backlashed and possessed by that will; a moment too late, and that energy would be burned to ash by Dumbledore's Fiendfyre, becoming worthless waste gas.
"Get out!"
Dumbledore waved his wand again in an extremely complex flicking motion.
Puff!
Morn felt a soft sound from deep within his brain, like a decayed tooth finally being pulled out by the roots.
A mass of dark green smoke, thick as ink, was forcibly driven out of his seven orifices. It tumbled and twisted in mid-air, attempting to re-condense into that handsome young man's face, attempting to utter a curse.
But Fawkes's golden flames followed immediately, surrounding it in an instant.
At this very moment.
Now!
"System! Awaken!"
Morn's consciousness, which had been in a deep sleep, suddenly exploded like a crocodile lurking underwater waiting for prey to fall in, opening its bloody maw.
[Command Received: System Rebooting.]
[Talents Fully Active: Dark Lord Candidate + Life Drain (Evolution Omen).]
[Target Locked: High-purity soul energy currently dissipating.]
[Devouring Commencing.]
To the outside world, Moen White had simply let out a final, near-death gasp due to the extreme pain, his chest heaving violently as if he were trying to suck all the oxygen out of the room.
But on the energy level, a secret plunder was taking place.
That mass of black mist, whose'self-awareness' had been shattered by Dumbledore leaving only pure'soul nourishment,' should have dissipated in the golden fire. However, Morn's body, which had been leaking like a sieve just a moment ago, suddenly turned into a massive black hole.
Whoosh—
The black smoke that was originally spreading outward paused eerily for a fraction of a second, then followed Morn's violent inhalation and surged back in!
Dumbledore's eyes twitched slightly.
But in his perception, his purification magic had taken effect and the black mist was 'annihilating.' He did not see that the black mist didn't disappear into the air, but was instead 'eaten' back through Morn's nostrils and pores.
Only this time, what went in was no longer poison, but a supplement refined by the strongest white wizard.
An indescribable icy pleasure exploded along his spine.
Morn felt like a man dying of thirst in the desert who was suddenly thrown into a cool spring. That destructive energy that had been rampaging through his body, now devoid of Riddle's will, became the most docile fluid, obediently pouring into the energy storage pool constructed by the system.
[Ding! Successfully captured high-level soul fragment (unconscious).]
[Deep Fusion in progress... Fusion progress: 100%.]
[Talent Life Drain (Incomplete) has been completed.]
[Side effects eliminated.]
[New Trait Acquired: Horcrux Resistance.]
This series of notification sounds was more beautiful than the most wonderful symphony in the world.
In reality, the golden flames finally faded.
Morn's body suddenly went limp like a pile of rotten meat that had lost its skeletal support, sinking deep into the black treatment chair. His robes were soaked with cold sweat and clung tightly to his body, outlining his still-trembling ribs.
A deathly silence fell over the room. Only Fawkes still circled overhead, letting out soft, soothing cries.
"It is over."
Dumbledore lowered his wand, a trace of fatigue showing on his aged face. He took off his half-moon spectacles, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and let out a long breath.
"That thing... has dissipated."
Lupin released his grip on Morn and stumbled back a step, leaning against a bookshelf as if he were the one who had just undergone the exorcism ritual.
"Vital signs are stable." Snape stepped forward, roughly peeling back Morn's eyelids to take a look before slamming the Potion bottle onto the table. "His pulse is as strong as a Troll's. It seems his brain was saved; as for whether he's turned into an idiot, that is another question."
Morn slowly opened his eyes.
Those black eyes were now crystal clear, devoid of the previous red light and that unsettling gloom. There was only the weakness and confusion of someone newly recovered from a serious illness.
Of course, this was also an act.
Beneath that clear disguise was a beast that had just finished a full meal and was contentedly licking its claws.
"Professor..."
Morn's voice was weak and raspy, with a hint of a sob from surviving a disaster. He turned his eyes with difficulty toward Dumbledore. "That voice... it's gone."
"Yes, Morn. It is gone." Dumbledore put his glasses back on, his azure gaze watching him gently. "You were very brave. Braver than I imagined."
Morn lowered his head to hide the slight upward curve of his lips that he almost couldn't suppress.
Thank you for the praise, Principal. And thank you for the treat. This meal tasted wonderful.
"Untie him, Remus." Dumbledore waved a hand, and that terrifying treatment chair transformed back into a soft, comfortable high-backed chair. "I think our patient needs a cup of hot chocolate with a sedative now, rather than leather straps."
As the restraints were released, Morn moved his aching wrists. Although his body was still somewhat weak from the intense pain, he could clearly feel a new, more condensed magic power surging through his veins.
That was his trophy.
A complete whitewashing, plus a massive explosion in strength.
The perfect crime.
Chapter 140: The Survivor's Reward
Morn held the large stoneware mug, patterned with swirling stars, in both hands, feeling the scalding heat through the porcelain—the only thing capable of suppressing the thrill of excitement deep within him.
The thick, sweet aroma of hot chocolate, mixed with the characteristic herbal bitterness of a sedative, slid down his throat, stirring a warm ripple in his stomach.
"Drink slowly." Dumbledore sat opposite him, his long fingers lightly stroking that charred elder wand, which still seemed to emit a faint warmth. "Poppy's (Madam Pomfrey's) recipe is always effective. It can mend the fractures in your nerves."
Morn lowered his head, using the motion of blowing away the steam to hide the fleeting stream of data in his eyes.
In the top-left corner of his retina, the system interface had completed a silent iteration:
[Talent Advancement Complete.]
[Original Talent: Life Drain (Fragmented · Curse Type) → Current Talent: Life Drain (Perfect · Predator Type).]
[Status Update: Side effect 'Bloodlust Impulse' removed. Sanity value locked.]
[New Trait: Soul Filter. You can now control the drain switch as naturally as breathing. What you inhale is no longer 'flesh and blood' tainted with emotional toxins, but filtered, pure 'energy'.]
[magic Capacity Increase: +150 points (Current Rating: Third-year Elite → Fifth-year Honors).]
A total win.
Morn chuckled inwardly, but his face squeezed out a perfectly timed paleness of lingering fear. He looked up, his eyes moist like a startled fawn's.
"Professor, that... that thing, is it really gone?" His voice was still shaking. "I can still feel... like something is missing."
"That is a normal traumatic response," Dumbledore said gently, his blue eyes full of reassurance. "It's like pulling a crooked wisdom tooth; the tongue always subconsciously licks the gap. But believe me, the tumor has been removed."
Snape, standing in the shadows, let out a cold snort, his robes rustling.
"Removing a tumor doesn't mean the patient is innocent." Snape glided to the table like a giant bat, his empty black eyes staring intently at Morn. "Albus, the... compliance this boy showed when contacting Dark Arts items is nauseating. If there hadn't been a crack deep in his heart, that memory would never have gotten in."
Morn's hand tightened around the mug, his knuckles turning white.
He couldn't argue now. He had to play weak to the end.
He lowered his head, his shoulders hunching like a child who had done something wrong. "Professor Snape is right... I was too greedy. That book... it promised to teach me how to become stronger, how to stop being ignored..."
It was a perfect reason. A half-blood orphan (or an outsider persona), craving power, being tempted. It was so classic that Snape couldn't find any fault with it—it might even remind him of some unpleasant past events.
Sure enough, the corner of Snape's mouth twitched, and his aggressive aura weakened slightly.
"Craving power is not a sin, Morn," Dumbledore interrupted Snape, his tone serious. "But the price paid for it is often more than we can bear. You learned the most important lesson tonight—to refuse. You chose to call for help at the last moment, chose to reject that voice. That is enough."
Dumbledore stood up—a signal for the guest to leave, and a final verdict.
"I will speak with Mr. Potter." The old man's gaze turned toward the dark night sky outside the window. "Since that Boggart mutated due to the influence of the Dark Arts remnants in your body, now that the hidden danger is gone, he should know the truth—you are a victim, not a perpetrator."
Morn set down his mug and stood up with difficulty, supporting himself on the armrests, his legs shaking "weakly."
"Thank you, Principal."
He bowed deeply. Half of it was for the performance, and half was genuine gratitude—gratitude to this great white wizard for completing the final refining process for him.
"Severus, take Mr. White to the Hospital Wing." Dumbledore sat back down, picking up a roll of parchment. "Let him spend the night there. I believe Poppy will give him the best care."
The expression on Snape's face looked as if he had just swallowed a fly, but he did not disobey.
"Let's go," Snape said coldly, turning and striding toward the door, his black robes billowing. "Don't expect me to help you, White."
The moment they stepped out of the Principal's office, the cold wind in the spiral staircase hit them.
Morn followed Snape, watching that gloomy back. The string that had been pulled tight for six whole hours finally relaxed completely.
The crisis was averted.
His identity was cleared.
The power was his.
The corridor was empty, moonlight spilling through the high windows onto the stone floor, stretching their shadows.
"I don't trust you, White."
Snape, walking ahead, suddenly spoke, his voice echoing in the empty corridor with the characteristic chill of the dungeons. "Dumbledore may believe it was 'temptation,' but I saw what was in your memory... that look. You were enjoying it, not fearing it."
Morn's footsteps paused for a moment.
Is he bluffing? Or is it genuine intuition? It doesn't matter. Sometimes, admitting a bit of ambition is more believable than pretending to be completely innocent. People like Snape hate hypocrites even more.
"I was very afraid, Professor," Morn replied softly, his tone eerily calm. "But I didn't want to die. To survive, I made many deals with that voice in my head. Perhaps at times... I did enjoy the illusion of having power."
Snape stopped abruptly and turned around. His black eyes swept over Morn's face like a knife.
Silence lasted for three full seconds.
"Then remember that fear." Snape turned and continued his stride, his tone a little less biting and a little more warning. "If I ever see you tainted with even a hint of the Dark Arts again... I'll turn you into Potioningredients, regardless of what Dumbledore says."
"I will remember, Professor."
The Hospital Wing, late at night.
Madam Pomfrey grumbled about "Defense Against the Dark Arts again" as she poured a large bottle of purple Soothing Potion down Morn's throat.
When the white screen was finally pulled shut, isolating him from the outside world, Morn let out a long, slow breath.
He lay on the white pillow, moonlight casting a pale band of light across his face through the gap in the curtains.
The hospital was quiet, save for the occasional sleep-talking from the next bed.
Morn raised his right hand, examining his palm by the moonlight.
The once hideous mark, like a corpse spot, had vanished. His skin was as smooth as before, even more delicate and pale than before.
With a thought.
[Talent Activated: Life Drain.]
There was no magical fluctuation, nor any discomfort. His palm grew slightly warm, and a faint red swirling pattern emerged very discreetly beneath the skin, like a natural vascular texture—elegant, precise, and deadly.
He casually picked up a withered rose stem from the bedside table, which had been used for flowers.
He brushed it lightly with his finger.
In an instant, the dried, blackened stem turned to dust before his eyes. The last of its fibrous structure was completely decomposed, transforming into imperceptible energy particles that entered his fingertips.
"It's not 'eating,' but 'decomposition' and 'recomposition'..."
Morn watched the powder fall from his fingertips, the corners of his mouth slowly curling into an arc.
It was no longer a gentle, fake smile, nor the evil sneer influenced by Riddle.
It was the calm smile of a hunter after confirming the trap was set and the shotgun was loaded.
"This is what a cheat should look like."
He withdrew his hand, blew the pile of powder into the air, and then pulled up the covers, rolling over comfortably.
Tomorrow, the rumors would die down. Harry Potter would visit him with guilt. Dumbledore would treat him as someone in need of special protection.
And the things truly hidden in this school... that Horcrux, and those so-called secrets... now, he finally had the qualifications to enjoy them slowly.
Moen White closed his eyes and, in this world full of magic and danger, slept soundly for the first time.
Chapter 141: The Non-Existent Echo
The first rays of morning sunlight pierced through the heavy linen curtains of the Hospital Wing, illuminating countless tiny specks of dust with absolute clarity.
They tumbled and collided haphazardly within the beam of light, like microorganisms engaged in some microscopic warfare under a microscope.
Moen White lay quietly on the hospital bed, in no hurry to get up. He slowly raised his right hand, his fingers making a phantom grasping motion within the beam of light.
There was no sound.
Not the silence of the environment, but the silence deep within his mind.
Over the past few months, ever since he began devouring his first unstable Dark Arts Talent, a faint electrical hum, akin to the background noise of an old radio, had always accompanied the depths of his cerebral cortex.
It was the noise generated by the friction between external power and self-awareness. And last night, the shrieks, whispers, and temptations originating from Tom Riddle's remnant soul had reached a crescendo of clamor.
But now, everything had returned to a deathly stillness.
This silence was not emptiness, but a profound, full tranquility, much like a black hole.
Morn took a deep breath. The air was thick with Madam Pomfrey's characteristic scent of disinfectant, mixed with the crisp fragrance wafting from the bouquet of lilies in a nearby vase.
These two distinct scents were precisely separated and analyzed within his olfactory system; he could even discern that the concentration of asphodel root powder in the potion was slightly high.
Sensory precision increased by 30%. Magic circulation speed... increased by 50%.
He gently clenched his fist under the covers. The magic within him was no longer a trickling stream that required careful guidance, but a docile yet bottomless dark river, pulsing slowly with his heartbeat, ready to burst through the dam at any moment.
"Awake?"
Madam Pomfrey walked over carrying a tray, her eyes, which usually held a critical look, were unusually soft for once. The glass on the tray was filled with a steaming brown liquid that emitted a nauseatingly bitter smell.
"Drink this. A Blood-Replenishing Potion with some Mandrake root added." She thrust the cup into Morn's hand; though her tone was firm, her movements were gentle. "Headmaster Dumbledore said you went through a 'high-intensity mental marathon.' Merlin's beard, can't you children just stay out of trouble for once?"
Morn obediently took the cup, a weak and apologetic smile appearing on his face.
He had to display the vulnerability of a'survivor.' This would minimize the wariness of those around him to the greatest extent.
"I'm sorry, Madam. I just... wanted to learn a bit more," he whispered, then tilted his head back and drained the bitter potion in one gulp.
Just then, the ward door gave a soft creak.
Three heads poked through the crack in the door, peering inside.
Messy black hair, a freckled red-haired face, and a head of bushy brown hair.
Morn's hand holding the empty cup paused slightly.
They were here. The Savior Trio.
This was to be expected. After such a commotion in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class last night, it wouldn't be Gryffindor if Harry Potter didn't come to investigate.
"Madam Pomfrey, could we... I mean, we'll just take one look," Harry's voice sounded cautious, even carrying a hint of pleading.
"Five minutes!" Madam Pomfrey held up one finger and glared at them sternly before turning to walk into the inner dispensary, leaving the youngsters with some so-called "private space."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffled slowly toward the hospital bed.
This scene was quite interesting.
Morn leaned against his pillow, observing them with a calm gaze. Ron awkwardly clutched a box of chocolate frogs that had been squeezed slightly out of shape, while Hermione held a thick stack of notes, her eyes filled with a desire to investigate "unknown Dark Arts damage."
And Harry... Harry's face was as pale as a ghost. There were deep dark circles under his green eyes, clearly showing he hadn't slept all night. He looked at Morn with an extremely complex expression: guilt, fear, suspicion, and a touch of urgency from shared suffering.
"White... Senior," Harry spoke with difficulty, his voice dry. "Are you... okay?"
"Still alive." Morn placed the cup on the bedside table with a soft 'clink.' This sharp sound made Harry's shoulders visibly flinch.
"I'm sorry."
Harry suddenly blurted out, stepping forward and gripping the railing at the foot of the bed tightly, his knuckles turning white. "It's my fault. Yesterday in class... if I hadn't shouted, if I hadn't provoked that Boggart... you wouldn't have been affected and fallen ill."
Ron nodded vigorously beside him, like a groundhog pounding garlic. "Yeah, Harry was muttering about this all night. He said the Boggart turned into... er, what that person looked like when he was young, because it sensed something in your head."
Hermione elbowed Ron hard, and he immediately shut up with a cry of pain.
Morn's gaze fell upon the famous lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead.
Now was the perfect time to establish a 'Victims' Alliance.'
"No, Potter. You don't need to apologize." Morn shook his head gently, a bitter smile appearing on his face. His expression was like that of someone who had just woken from a nightmare, recounting the previous night's horrors to a companion in the morning light. "In fact, you saved me. If your shout hadn't alerted Professor Lupin, perhaps that thing... really would have crawled out using the Boggart's body."
Harry was stunned. He had expected to face accusations or a cold dismissal, but he never imagined he would receive thanks.
"But... Headmaster Dumbledore said you were affected because you came into contact with some Dark Arts item..." Harry asked tentatively, his green eyes fixed on Morn.
"A black Diary."
Morn softly dropped this keyword.
This sentence was like a Silencing Charm, instantly freezing the air around the hospital bed.
Harry gasped sharply, his eyes widening. The chocolate frog in Ron's hand fell to the floor, and Hermione covered her mouth.
"I knew it!" Harry's voice trembled with excitement. "In second year! I saw it too! It was that Tom Riddleas well, right? He tried to control Ginny too!"
"Yes." Morn lowered his eyelids, concealing the calculating glint deep within his pupils. "He... is very good at bewitching people's hearts. He promised me power, promised that I would no longer be mediocre. But I didn't expect him to leave a... shadow in my mind."
"A shadow," Harry murmured to himself. He instinctively reached out and pressed his hand against his scar. "I can hear it too... sometimes, I also feel like there are voices in my head."
At this moment, the barrier between the two was completely shattered.
In Harry's eyes, Morn was no longer that mysterious, even somewhat eerie Ravenclaw Prefect, but a "fellow survivor" who had been tormented by Lord Voldemort's shadow, just like him.
"I'm so sorry, Morn," Harry said again, this time dropping the distant title of "Senior." He reached out his right hand, wanting to express this empathy through some form of physical contact. "I'm glad... Dumbledore cured you."
Morn looked at the outstretched hand.
The crucial test.
Harry was a vessel for Lord Voldemort's Horcrux. The soul fragment within him would sense its own kind. Previously, Morn had Riddle's remnant soul inside him, which was why the Boggart went wild and Harry's scar hurt.
Now, Morn had completely "digested" that fragment, and through the system's evolution, it had become a part of [Life Drain (Perfect)].
So, what happens when a Horcrux encounters its predator?
Chapter 142: Time to Leave the Hospital
Morn reached out a pale, slender hand and took Harry's.
The moment their hands touched.
There was no lightning-like sting.
There was no splitting headache like Harry had expected.
Harry's expression froze.
He subconsciously thought his scar would hurt—even a tiny prickle. Because whenever he faced anything related to Lord Voldemort, his scar was always the first radar to sound the alarm.
But he felt nothing.
No, to be precise, he felt a strange 'absence'.
When his skin touched Morn's, he felt as if he had reached his hand into a bottomless pool of dead water without any echo. At 그 moment, he even felt that something inside him that had always been restless—that soul fragment—actually recoiled the moment it touched Morn.
It was the instinctive dead silence of a prey encountering its natural predator.
"What's wrong, Potter?"
Morn's voice was impeccably gentle, but his hand held firm, giving Harry no chance to pull away.
In Morn's vision, the system was frantically scrolling through messages:
[High-purity homologous soul wave detected.]
[Source: Harry Potter (Forehead scar).]
[Warning: [Life Drain] has generated a feeding desire. Talent trait [Horcrux Resistance] has automatically suppressed the devouring impulse.]
Harry yanked his hand back, the movement so violent he nearly knocked over the bedside table. He touched his forehead in terror and then looked at Morn, his eyes filled with confusion and an indescribable fear.
"No... it's nothing," Harry stammered, cold sweat breaking out instantly. "Just... static electricity. Yes, static."
That was a lie. Harry knew it was a lie.
It was something more terrifying than pain—emptiness.
In that second just now, he felt that if he hadn't let go, something inside him would have been sucked out alive by Morn's cold hand.
Ron and Hermione didn't notice this momentary undercurrent. Ron simply bent down to pick up the chocolate frog and placed it casually on the bedside. "Anyway, get well soon, mate. If you need to copy notes, Hermione will definitely be willing to help."
"Of course." Hermione placed the notes at the foot of the bed. "The key points from the Ancient Runesclasses over the last few days are all here. Professor Lupin said you could return to class next week."
"Thank you all." Morn nodded with a smile, though his gaze still drifted seemingly unintentionally across Harry's shaken face. "I really appreciate it."
Harry avoided Morn's gaze. He nodded haphazardly. "Then... then we'll head out first. Madam Pomfreysaid only five minutes."
The trio's footsteps seemed a bit hurried as they left, especially Harry's, who looked as if he were fleeing a crime scene.
Watching the ward door close again, the gentle smile on Morn's face faded slowly like a layer of melting frost.
He raised his right hand, the one that had just held Harry's, and brought it to the tip of his nose to sniff lightly.
There was no particular scent. But on the soul level, there was a lingering aura of extremely enticing, top-tier prey on that hand.
"As expected..."
Morn leaned back against the pillow, his eyes becoming deep and dark.
"To the current me, a Horcrux is no longer a threat, but a supplement. Harry Potter felt fear because his subconscious knows... I am the one who eats 'it'."
This was good.
Fear creates distance, but it also creates awe. As long as Dumbledore's trust remains, Harry's 'instinctive fear' will instead become Morn's best camouflage—who would believe that someone who makes the savior feel afraid is actually protecting the world?
Morn pulled back the covers and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor.
His body felt incredibly light.
He walked to the window, watching the students playing on the lawn below. His fingers beneath his robes moved rhythmically, as if playing a silent piano piece.
"It's time to leave the hospital."
He whispered to himself.
In this Castle full of secrets, there was still a mad girl with silver eyes who might be waiting to see through his hidden cards.
That would be the next, more interesting game.
The bronze knocker's eagle-like eyes flickered with a cold light, appearing exceptionally solemn in the cold wind at the top of Ravenclaw Tower.
Moen White stood before the door, the hem of his robes fluttering in the high tower's characteristic draft. He didn't immediately answer the question posed by the eagle knocker, but instead reached out his recently 'healed' right hand, his fingertips lightly tracing the rough grain of the oak door.
The world of his senses had changed.
If the previous world was an old photograph, the present was a 4K high-definition dynamic image. He could clearly perceive the frequency of dozens of breaths behind the door—some hurried, some steady, some holding their breath due to tension. There was even a faint scent of ink and the charred aroma of burned parchment floating in the air.
"What is the substance of a shadow?" The eagle knocker let out its unique, philosophically charged chant.
Morn withdrew his hand, the corner of his mouth curling into an imperceptible arc. This question was too fitting for the occasion.
"The place where light is blocked," he answered softly. "Or rather, it is the reality that light cannot reach."
"Reasonable."
The bronze eagle knocker gave a satisfied click, and the door slid slowly inward.
The usual clamor didn't rush out to meet him; instead, it was replaced by a suffocating silence.
In the Ravenclaw common room, students who had been gathered in small groups discussing star charts or spells were suddenly silenced as if hit by a mass Silencing Charm the moment they saw the figure at the door. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned in unison.
It was no longer the indifference toward his 'good student' status from before, nor the fear of'suspecting he's a Dark Wizard' from a few days ago.
It was an extremely complex—even slightly fanatical—awe.
Headmaster Dumbledore's 'endorsement' had already spread throughout the Castle. In the eyes of these wisdom-revering little eagles, Moen White was no longer just a Prefect, but a mentally strong individual who had 'faced the will of the Dark Lord and survived through his own strength of will'.
This was exactly the stage effect Morn wanted.
He ignored those gazes and, as usual, walked with steady steps toward the spiral staircase of the boys' dormitory. His back was held straight, and his face wore a paleness and indifference following a major illness, as if he were not passing through a crowd but across a deserted wasteland.
"Morn..."
Terry Boot stood up from the sofa, nearly dropping his copy of Intermediate Transfiguration. He looked somewhat awkward, not even daring to look Morn in the eye. "You... you're back. Madam Pomfrey said you needed rest. I helped you organize those books on rune; they're by your bed."
Morn stopped in his tracks.
Should he ignore him to maintain a cold distance, or give a response to consolidate his persona? Being cold creates distance, but appropriate gentleness can create an impulse to 'follow'. What I need now are loyalists, not just simple fear.
He turned around, his black eyes appearing deep and gentle in the reflection of the fireplace.
"Thank you, Terry." Morn's voice wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible in the quiet common room. "Those books are very important to me. To remember to help me organize them at a time like this... you are a trustworthy friend."
"A trustworthy friend."
This label was like a medal, instantly making Terry's face flush red. The originally tense atmosphere in the room also thawed with these words, and many students looked relieved, their gazes toward Mornbecoming even more fervent.
Morn nodded slightly and turned to walk up the stairs.
The moment his back disappeared around the corner, the gentle smile on his face vanished like a torn-off mask, leaving no trace.
Good. The battlefield of public opinion has been won. Next, I will use this 'trust' to access those restricted areas I couldn't reach before.
Chapter 143: Cold Front Crossing
November at Hogwarts, the sky looked as if it had been painted with a thick layer of lead powder, gloomily oppressive.
The arrival of the Quidditch season did not dissipate this oppression; instead, due to consecutive days of heavy rain and gale-force winds, the entire Castle fell into a cold, damp, and restless atmosphere.
Moen White sat at the highest point of the stands, his blue Ravenclaw scarf snapping loudly in the wind.
His right hand wore a black leather glove, his fingertips gently tapping the cold wooden railing.
Since the "Soul Surgery," he had found that his perception of temperature had become exceptionally sharp—or rather, he had begun to be able to "see" the flow of temperature.
In the vision of his [Eye of Truth · Calamity Form], the fanatically cheering students around him were like clusters of jumping orange flames, while outside the storm-shrouded pitch, a group of shadows as thick as ink was slowly approaching.
Dementors.
"They look very hungry, don't they?"
An ethereal voice, devoid of any worldly trace, sounded in Morn's ear.
Morn did not look back. This unique gait and magical fluctuation belonged to only one person in the entire Castle.
Luna Lovegood, holding a stack of the quibbler and wearing her bright yellow raincoat, sat down silently beside Morn. Her silver, seemingly distant eyes did not look at Harry, who was chasing the Golden Snitch, but instead gazed into the deepest part of the clouds.
"What do you mean, Miss Lovegood?" Morn asked calmly.
"Those forgotten sighs wandering in the atmosphere," Luna turned her head, staring at Morn's profile. "They are afraid of you, Senior White. I see the Nargles around you have all frozen into ice crystals."
Morn's finger paused for a moment. Luna's leapfrog logic often struck directly at the essence of magic.
"Because I was just thinking about some cold questions." Morn turned his head, his deep blue pupils meeting Luna's silver eyes. "For example... whether these sighs can be bottled as fuel."
Luna gave a dreamlike smile: "Father says only those who dare to shake hands with Nargles can see the far side of the moon."
Just then, the temperature above the pitch plummeted.
The originally raging rain froze instantly into ice, pitter-pattering against the roof of the stands. Hundreds of tall figures draped in tattered black cloaks slowly descended from the mist.
There were hundreds of Dementors.
They had defied Dumbledore's prohibition, drawn by the intense emotions erupting from the thousands of people on the pitch—the top-tier food known as "passion"—and had collectively crossed the defensive line.
Terrified screams instantly drowned out the Quidditch whistles.
"Ah—!"
Students began to flee frantically. That coldness and despair originating from the depths of the soul swept through every corner like an indiscriminate mental storm.
Morn stood up.
In his system interface, those Dementors were no longer symbols of terror.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Dementor
Manifestation State:
[Void Spirit Body (blue · Special)]: A non-existent life form built from decaying emotions, immune to conventional physical and magical damage.
[Despair Aura (blue)]: Compulsory extraction of happy emotions from surrounding individuals.
[Soul's Kiss (blue · Ultimate)]: An execution technique that directly devours the soul core.
[Predation Mark]: High-purity 'Negative Energy Source Essence' detected. Collection recommended.
'Finally here.'
Morn took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the icy air.
In his eyes, these hundreds of Dementors were not a threat, but a grand, delivered-to-his-door buffet. The recently evolved [Life Drain (Perfect)] was pulsing frantically in his palm.
It was the hunger of a hunter facing a herd of elephants.
Micro-decision chain: 1. Target: Straggling Dementors. 2. Action: Activate [Void Body] in the chaos to hide tracks and perform precision kills. 3. Purpose: Test the conversion rate of [Life Drain] on non-physical spirits.
"Where are you going?" Luna remained seated, unmoving despite the jostling crowd, simply looking at Morn with curiosity.
"To handle some... atmospheric trash."
Morn dropped those words and leaned directly backward, falling into the shadows beneath the stands.
During the fall, [Void Body] activated instantly.
Morn's body became semi-transparent in mid-air, as if he no longer belonged to this dimension. The gale blew through his body without taking away a single bit of heat.
Meanwhile, in the center of the pitch.
Harry Potter was falling from hundreds of feet in the air. He was surrounded by dozens of Dementors; under the frantic plundering of these monsters, his happy memories were like a piece of burned paper, leaving only the ashes of despair.
Dumbledore roared as he stood up from the staff table, a massive silver light erupting from the tip of the elder wand.
But Morn's target was not there.
He moved through the shadows of the support beams at the bottom of the stands, his gaze locked onto a Dementor that had fallen behind out of greed and was trying to slip into the changing rooms to find a "snack."
"Found you."
Morn emerged from the shadows, his gloved right hand reaching out silently, piercing through that layer of decayed, damp black cloak, directly grabbing the Dementor's cold, slimy throat—if it could even be called a throat.
[Talent Activation: Life Drain!]
Sizzle—!
That was not the sound of blood being absorbed, but the roar of some solid darkness being forcibly vaporized and extracted.
The Dementor had originally opened its scabbed mouth, prepared to suck in fear. But the moment Morngrabbed it, its eyeless face showed an extremely rare expression called "horror."
It couldn't feel fear, but it felt itself vanishing.
That power known as "Nothingness" had encountered a true "Abyss."
Morn felt a surge of energy so cold it nearly froze his heart, pouring frantically through his palm. It wasn't the heat of a living being, but a heavy, viscous negative energy with the smell of rust.
[Soul Filter: Operating.]
[Eliminating despair impurities...]
[Converting to pure magic source...]
In just three seconds.
The originally massive Dementor was like a balloon pricked by a needle, rapidly collapsing and thinning, until finally, along with its black cloak, it turned into a wisp of insignificant gray smoke in Morn's hand, completely dissipating.
Morn exhaled a long breath of white mist.
In his eyes, that glimmer of deep blue light became even more profound, even gaining a faint border of dark gold.
[Stamina restored: 10%. magic cap permanently increased: 0.5 points.]
[Evaluation: Although it's a man-made product of tragedy, the taste... is surprisingly refreshing.]
"Much more filling than rats."
Morn straightened his tie, his body sinking back into the void.
In the sky, Dumbledore's silver Patronus was dispersing the dark shadows. But in the dark corners where the silver light could not reach, a youth in Ravenclaw robes was beginning his—gluttonous feast—amidst the storm.
Tonight, these jailers from Azkaban would discover that the most terrifying thing in Hogwarts was not the fugitive Sirius Black, but this "good student" sitting in the stands, smiling as he observed the world.
Chapter 144: Data Stream on the Sickbed
Early morning in the Hospital Wing always carried a unique, reassuring sense of cleanliness.
The heavy linen curtains were drawn halfway, and thin winter sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows, casting slanted pillars of light onto the polished wooden floor.
The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant, dried mugwort, and that slightly bitter aroma mixed with Potion steam that could only be found in a magical hospital.
Moen White lay quietly on the hospital bed, covered with a thick wool blanket.
His face still maintained a sickly pallor, not like the kind created by foundation, but a genuine physiological reaction to vasoconstriction and hypothermia.
"Body temperature is still low... bradycardia."
Madam Pomfrey held a pocket watch in one hand and pressed her other hand to Morn's wrist, her brow furrowed. Her wand traced a complex detection rune in the air, which glowed a worrying pale blue.
"Mr. White, are you certain that besides the 'cold,' you haven't felt anything else... like auditory hallucinations or memory confusion?" Madam Pomfrey's tone was stern yet tinged with concern.
Morn shook his head extremely slowly, his movements as sluggish as a rusted clockwork doll.
"No, Madam." His voice was raspy and weak, as if his throat were filled with crushed ice. "Just... my body feels very heavy. Like it's frozen."
"That's the residual effect of the Dementor." Madam Pomfrey sighed, picking up a bottle of Potionemitting purple steam from a tray. "Although Dumbledore said you were just startled, I've never seen a student have such a severe magic freezing reaction without being directly 'kissed.' Drink this; it will warm your soul circuit."
Morn obediently took the Potion, his hands trembling slightly—this was not just acting, but also to hide the extremely faint, high-frequency devouring magic fluctuations in his palm.
He tilted his head back and drank the Potion.
A spicy heat flowed down his esophagus, but he didn't feel warm. Instead, as soon as the heat entered his stomach, it was instantly swallowed by an invisible black hole deep within his body.
"Rest well. If you feel that coldness spreading to your heart, ring the bell immediately."
Madam Pomfrey tucked him in and checked the magical monitor at the head of the bed again before turning to the adjacent bed—where the yet-to-wake Harry Potter lay.
As the screen was drawn, Morn slowly closed his eyes.
Beneath that calm face, seemingly in deep sleep, his Mind Palace was operating at full power.
[System Command: Pin background processes.]
[Task: Analysis of Essence Sample 001 (Dementor Residue).]
[Current Progress: Establishing energy level topology map...]
Morn's consciousness sank into a pitch-black void. Here, there was no sunlight from the Hospital Wing, only countless flowing data waterfalls. At the center of the data floated the "spoils" he had intercepted in the chaos last night.
It was a mass of matter that seemed out of place even in the system's vision. It wasn't gaseous or liquid, but more like an absolute black body. It emitted no radiation; instead, it was frantically absorbing all surrounding light and heat.
"Ordinary Wizards call this 'despair,' the 'grave of happiness.'"
Morn's consciousness stood in the void, coldly examining the mass of matter.
"But on a physical level, emotions are just bioelectric signals. What could instantly extinguish bioelectricity, freeze chemical reactions, and even bring a high-dimensional energy body like a soul to a standstill?"
He extended a conscious tentacle, carefully peeling away a small piece of the black body's surface.
Zzt—
The data stream fluctuated violently.
[Warning: Extremely low entropy reaction detected.]
[Molecular motion of this substance has nearly ceased. The Third Law of Thermodynamics exhibits macroscopic characteristics here.]
Morn's "eyes" lit up.
"As I thought."
He quickly constructed a model in his mind.
"Dementors aren't creating 'cold'; they are creating 'order.' Despair is an extremely stable emotional state—when you are in despair, you don't want to move, think, or even breathe. In physics, this is entropy reduction."
"This thing is essentially a highly concentrated mass of 'Negative Entropy.'"
Ordinary living organisms are entropy-increasing, maintaining disordered vitality (happiness, anger, restlessness) by consuming energy. Dementors, however, are entropy-decreasing; they are essentially giant endothermic reactors, maintaining their own "dead silence (Negative Entropy)" by plundering external "vitality (entropy)."
"No wonder my [Life Drain] works on them, yet I can't directly convert it like blood-sucking."
Morn looked at the black Negative Entropy essence, a surge of ecstasy rising in his heart.
One of his core Talents—[Void Body]—was currently stuck at the bottleneck of the blue limit.
The principle of [Void Body] is to allow the body to phase-switch between reality and sub-space. However, at the moment of switching, due to the "thermal noise" interference of the real world, unstable flickering always occurs at the edges of his body. This is why high-level Wizards (like Dumbledore) can detect his invisibility.
To eliminate this flickering, a stabilizer is needed that can instantly "cool" real-world thermal noise.
What better coolant could there be than "absolute Negative Entropy"?
"System, begin Fusion testing."
Morn issued the command.
"Dilute the Dementor Essence and inject it into the [Void Body] phase-conversion interface at a concentration of 0.01%."
[Command confirmed.]
[Injecting...]
In reality, Morn, lying on the hospital bed, underwent an extremely eerie change.
If someone were staring at him now, they would find his presence had suddenly become extremely low. It wasn't that he had disappeared, but rather that when light hit him, it seemed to lose the will to reflect; when dust fell on his face, it seemed to be stilled by some force.
He became like a stone, or even... like a dead man.
That cold Negative Entropy flowed along his magic circuits, and the originally manic magic particles instantly became docile and orderly.
Morn felt he had never been so "quiet."
That silence wasn't auditory, but on a soulful level. All stray thoughts and bodily instinctual noises were frozen.
[Test Result: Perfect compatibility.]
[[Void Body] Stability Correction: +15%.]
[Stealth Level Up: Now capable of evading detection from standard 'Homenum Revelio' spells.]
Morn slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air. The moment it left his lips, it actually condensed into tiny ice crystals, falling onto the pillow with an extremely faint rustling sound.
He had succeeded.
Not only had he digested this poisonous dinner, but he had also turned the poison into an alloy for strengthening his armor.
"This is only the beginning."
Morn looked at the remaining 99% of the Dementor Essence on his retina.
"If I could capture a live one... or several hundred..."
At that moment, a movement came from the adjacent bed.
"No... stay away! No!"
Harry Potter jerked awake from a nightmare, gasping heavily; he had heard his mother's dying screams in his dream once again.
Morn turned his head, looking at the sweating, shaken savior.
In his vision, Harry was emitting intense, chaotic energy fluctuations. It was an entropy increase triggered by fear.
"What a waste."
Morn commented softly in his heart, then closed his eyes and continued weaving that cold web named "Truth" within his body.
"Sleep, Potter. Your fear... is also excellent data."