Chapter 61: The Most Efficient magic
It wasn't a single "crack." It was a "crack... snap—" a two-stage sound of breaking. First, the muffled sound of tearing ligaments, then the crisp snap of the connection between the tibia and femur shattering.
The Troll's left leg snapped at the knee. Not bent—snapped. The lower leg below the knee twisted at an angle impossible for a human, forming a pronounced obtuse angle with the thigh.
The Troll's howl vibrated the remaining mirror fragments in the bathroom until they shattered from resonance.
It lost its balance. Its massive four-meter-tall frame collapsed toward the broken leg like a tower with its foundation blown out.
The entire first floor shook.
The accumulated water was kicked up by the massive impact, surging in all directions like a miniature tsunami. Draco was swept two meters away by the wave, but he gripped a broken pipe tightly, preventing himself from being slammed against the wall.
Hermione huddled in the corner, hands over her ears, curled into a ball.
The Troll lay on the ground, howling in pain as it tried to crawl up. Its arms thrashed in the water, its right hand still clutching that wooden club—
Cassius walked over and stepped on the Troll's wrist.
The club slid out of its hand.
Cassius bent down and grabbed one end of the club with one hand. It was long, thick, and extremely heavy. Any normal eleven-year-old boy might not even be able to lift it with both hands.
Cassius lifted it with one hand. Effortlessly. The magic in his palm fully permeated the surface of the club the moment he touched it, turning the rough wood into an extension of his arm.
He raised the club and aimed it at the Troll's head, which was struggling desperately to lift up.
"No—" Hermione cried out from the corner.
Cassius ignored her.
The club came down.
"Thud."
The Troll's head was smashed hard into the floor. A section of stone tiles shattered. Its body twitched.
Cassius stood there holding the club, looking down at the monster beneath him. The Troll's eyes were still rolling, and a faint groan escaped its mouth.
Not dead.
"Thud."
The second strike. Heavier. The club was stained with black fluids. The skin on the side of the Troll's face split open, revealing the grayish-white bone beneath.
Its struggling weakened.
"Thud."
The third strike.
The club snapped in two. The Troll's head was crushed into the stone floor. Rubble and black blood mixed together, smeared all over the ground.
It stopped moving.
Completely still.
The bathroom was so quiet that only the sound of water dripping from the pipes could be heard.
And Hermione's panting.
And Draco's panting.
Cassius threw the broken half of the club onto the ground. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped a drop of black blood that had splattered onto the back of his right hand. After wiping it, he folded the handkerchief and placed it on the Troll's face.
Then he turned around.
"Draco."
Draco sat in the water, looking up at him. His mouth was open, unable to say a word.
"Let's go," Cassius said. "The feast isn't over yet."
Draco's brain finally started working again. He scrambled to his feet, stepping over the broken bricks and water, and stumbled over to Cassius's side.
As he passed Hermione, their eyes met.
Hermione sat in the corner. The hem of her school robes was completely soaked. The cuts on her arm from the wood splinters were still bleeding, but she didn't care. Her eyes were fixed on Cassius.
There was no fear in those eyes.
It wasn't because she wasn't afraid. She was terrified. From the moment the Troll burst in, she had been scared.
But what occupied her full attention now wasn't the very dead Troll.
It was the way Cassius had killed the Troll.
No spells. No wand. None of the defensive measures recorded in any textbook.
He kicked the Troll's leg until it broke. He smashed the Troll's head with its own weapon.
Physical. Purely physical.
Hermione's hands were shaking. Not from the cold, not from her injuries. It was because she was witnessing something for the first time—
That power could be this simple.
So simple it required no explanation. No theoretical support. No need for her to spend all night deriving formulas in her notebook.
It just smashed down. And then the opponent was dead.
This was what Cassius Malfoy meant by "the most efficient magic."
Hurried footsteps came from the corridor.
Professor McGonagall was the first to arrive. Her hat was crooked, and the hem of her dress robes was stained with dust. Snape followed closely behind, his black robes billowing. Finally came Quirrell, leaning against the wall, gasping for breath every two steps.
The three of them rushed to the bathroom entrance—or rather, to the large hole that used to be the bathroom door.
And then they stopped.
Professor McGonagall saw the broken bricks, the water, the snapped club, and a Troll's corpse. The Troll's head was smashed into the floor, surrounded by rubble and black fluids.
Her face turned pale.
"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall's voice trembled, "what have you done?"
Cassius stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked up at McGonagall.
"Professor, this Troll wasn't watching where it was going," he said in an extremely flat tone. "The floor was wet, and it slipped. It hit its head on the ground. Hit it three times in a row. It knocked itself to death."
Professor McGonagall's mouth twitched violently.
Snape stood behind her, his gaze moving from the Troll's corpse to the broken club, then to the spot where Cassius's handkerchief covered the Troll's face.
He didn't speak. But his right hand—the one in his robe pocket—clenched.
Quirrell leaned against the wall, his legs shaking so much he could barely stand. Beneath his turban, that weak remnant soul was desperately shrinking its presence.
It had seen the whole process.
Not through Quirrell's eyes—but through the remnant soul's own perception. It felt the density of magic attached to the sole of Cassius's foot when he kicked and shattered the Troll's knee.
It performed a calculation.
That density, if converted into the equivalent power of an offensive spell—was roughly equal to a Reducto cast with full force by an adult Auror.
A single kick.
An eleven-year-old boy.
The power of one kick was equal to an adult Auror's full-force Reducto.
Lord Voldemort's remnant soul once again confirmed its previous decision: until it regained its full power, it would absolutely not touch Cassius Malfoy.
Absolutely not.
"Let's go, Draco," Cassius patted the dust off his school robes, stepped over the doorframe he had kicked to pieces, and walked into the corridor.
Draco hurried to follow. He limped slightly as he walked—his knee had taken a hit when he fell earlier—but his back was held very straight.
He paused as he passed Hermione.
Hermione was still sitting on the floor.
Draco looked at her. He hesitated for a moment, then said something.
"You should go to the Hospital Wing and get that wound looked at."
Then he turned and followed Cassius's receding figure.
Hermione watched the direction they left in.
The torches in the corridor illuminated the two figures. The one in front had a steady pace, calm and unhurried, without a single wrinkle on his white shirt. The one behind was soaked and limping, yet his back was straight.
Hermione looked down at the wound on her arm that was still bleeding.
Her lips moved.
No sound came out.
But if someone were quiet enough, attentive enough, they might have read two words from the shape of her lips.
Thank you.
Chapter 62: Five Points from Slytherin
The corridor was silent for about ten seconds.
Professor McGonagall stood in front of the hole kicked through the wall, motionless.
She had taught for forty years. Transfiguration Class, Dueling Class, two wizarding wars—she had seen it all. But she had never seen the corpse of an adult Mountain Troll smashed into the floor inside the Hogwarts school buildings.
The Troll's head was no longer recognizable.
Black bodily fluids seeped from the cracks in the shattered flagstones, mixing with the water on the floor and flowing everywhere. A white handkerchief was draped over its face—folded neatly, it even smelled of soap.
McGonagall didn't know what to deal with first. The scene? The students? Or her own right hand, which was losing its grip on her wand?
"Minerva."
Snape's voice came from behind. Low and flat.
McGonagall turned around. Snape had already passed her, walking straight to the Troll's corpse. The hem of his black robes swept through the standing water; he didn't care.
Snape knelt down.
He didn't look at the Troll's crushed head. There was nothing of value to be seen there—except violence.
He used the tip of his wand to peel back the skin on the Troll's left knee.
After the rough, grey-green epidermis was pushed aside, the cross-section of the bone beneath was exposed.
McGonagall walked over to look, her breath hitching for a moment.
That wasn't a break.
A break means two pieces. The bone snaps at a certain point, splitting in two; the cross-section might be jagged, but at least the original shape of the bone is still recognizable.
This wasn't that.
The Troll's knee joint—including the upper end of the tibia, the lower end of the femur, and all the connecting ligaments—had been completely pulverized.
Smashed into dust.
What was seen at the cross-section wasn't the dense white structure bone should have, but loose bony debris like sand, mixed with dark red flesh and tissue. Within a range of seven centimeters above the knee and twelve centimeters below, the internal structure of the entire leg had been completely destroyed.
"One kick," Snape said.
He stood up and tucked his wand back into his sleeve.
McGonagall looked at him.
"This was caused by a single kick," Snape repeated. He didn't use a questioning tone because he didn't need to. There was a clear indentation on the skin of the outer knee—oblong, about as wide as the outer edge of an eleven-year-old boy's shoe sole.
McGonagall used her wand to light a source, shining it on the indentation.
There were no signs of burning or spell residue around the indentation. It wasn't Reducto, it wasn't a Blasting Curse, it wasn't any known offensive magic.
It was pure, physical impact.
A first-year student, with the power of a single kick, had shattered a Mountain Troll's kneecap.
A Mountain Troll. An adult. Average weight over a thousand kilograms. A creature with skin so thick and tough that spells below the second year could hardly cause effective damage.
Professor McGonagall gripped her wand tightly. Her knuckles made a slight clicking sound.
She remembered what Dumbledore had said in the Headmaster's office.
"He must never be provoked."
Snape didn't elaborate. He stepped back two paces, his gaze sweeping over the entire bathroom—the wooden club broken in two, the shattered doorframe and half the wall, the deep pit smashed into the floor.
"Five points from Slytherin," Snape said. "Wandering the corridors before curfew."
McGonagall glanced at him.
Snape looked back expressionlessly: "Enough, Minerva. Deal with the corpse."
He turned and left. The hem of his black robes whipped around the corner. He passed Quirrell as he went.
Quirrell was still pressed against the corridor wall. He was huddled in the shadows of the corner, clutching his arms. The thing beneath his turban had been calculating frantically from the moment Cassius kicked the Troll's knee.
It was solving a very simple physics problem.
Given: The average compressive strength of a Mountain Troll's knee joint bone is approximately 800 MPa. Pulverization radius: 19 cm. Contact area: 15 square cm.
Find: The instantaneous impact force required to cause this level of destruction.
The answer came out.
Lord Voldemort's soul fragment stopped calculating.
It didn't want to see that number.
"Go," it commanded in Quirrell's head. The voice was softer and more urgent than usual, like an injured snake crawling through a gutter. "Leave now. Do not linger."
Quirrell's legs shook twice. He pushed off the wall to steady himself and, with his head down, disappeared around the corner of the corridor as fast as he could.
The corridor became quiet again.
The pipes were still dripping.
—
Footsteps approached from another direction.
Hurried, messy—the kind where two pairs of feet were stepping on each other.
Harry and Ron emerged from around the corner of the stairs.
They were panting heavily, faces covered in sweat. Ronwas running a bit slower than Harry—he had twisted his left ankle coming down the stairs just now—but both their expressions were the same: anxiety, tension, and the panic of not being able to find Hermione.
When Quirrell had burst into the Halloween feast shouting "Troll," the first thing they both thought of was Hermione.
She hadn't appeared in the Great Hall all afternoon. No one knew where she had gone.
"She definitely doesn't know about the Troll!" Harry pulled Ron and ran toward the first floor.
They didn't run into Filch. Nor did they encounter any patrolling Professors. Everyone's attention was elsewhere.
But they arrived too late.
Harry stopped first.
Standing in the middle of the corridor, he saw the massive hole.
The door was gone. The doorframe was gone. A large chunk of the wall was missing. Broken bricks were piled on the floor, and water was flowing out from inside.
Then he saw the Troll.
To be precise, he saw the Troll's legs.
The massive grey body lay on its side at the far end of the bathroom. One leg was bent at an angle that shouldn't appear on any living creature. The other leg was stiff, with the sole of the foot pointing toward the ceiling.
Harry couldn't see the head clearly.
It was covered by something.
But he saw the black liquid. It flowed out from where the head was covered, spreading everywhere. It was thick and had a smell that mixed rot and rust.
Harry's stomach did a somersault.
"Merlin's..." Ron walked up beside him and saw the same sight. A short sound came from his throat, like someone being strangled and then released.
He couldn't say anything else.
Professor McGonagall stepped out of the bathroom. Her hat was off, and her grey hair was a bit disheveled. Her expression changed when she saw the two students standing in the corridor.
"Potter, Weasley," McGonagall's voice was sharp. "Who told you to come here?"
"Professor—Hermione—" Harry started, his throat tight. "Is Hermione in there? Is she okay?"
McGonagall didn't answer immediately. She stepped aside.
Hermione walked out from behind her.
The hem of her school robes was completely wet. There was a scratch on her arm, which had already been simply bandaged with a strip of cloth. The color hadn't fully returned to her face.
But she was standing. Standing perfectly fine.
"Hermione!" Ron called out.
Hermione didn't speak as she passed them.
Her eyes didn't look at Harry, nor did they look at Ron. She was looking toward the end of the corridor.
It was very dark there. The torches didn't reach that far. There was no one in sight.
Cassius Malfoy had been gone for a long time.
Professor McGonagall steadied Hermione's shoulder and whispered a few words. Hermione nodded and was led by McGonagall toward the Hospital Wing.
Harry stood where he was.
He looked at Hermione's back, then turned to look at the scene inside the massive hole.
He didn't know what had happened. He only saw the result.
The Troll was dead.
Hermione was alive.
The missing part in the middle—who did it, what method they used—he didn't know.
But he had a guess in his heart. A guess that made him very uncomfortable.
"Harry." Ron tugged at his sleeve. Ron's face was very pale, and his lips were trembling. "Let's go. This is too... too wrong."
Harry took one last look at the Troll's corpse.
He noticed a detail.
The wooden club the Troll should have been holding was broken in two.
The break was very clean. It hadn't been cut by a spell—the grain of the wood splinters shattered in one direction, caused by a violent downward smash.
Someone had picked up the Troll's own weapon and used it to smash the Troll's head to pieces.
Harry's palms began to sweat.
Chapter 63: Three Strikes
Slytherin Basement.
On the way back to the common room, Draco walked very slowly.
His right knee had taken a bump when he fell earlier. His school robes were still wet, and as the cold wind blew against him, he couldn't help but shiver.
But he didn't complain.
He looked down at his right hand.
That hand had been shaking ever since he left the toilet. It wasn't fear—at least, not entirely fear. It was too many things rushing in at once; the nerves in his palm didn't know how to process it all.
Tension. Fear. Relief. And something indescribable that he had never experienced before.
He had pulled out his wand in front of the Troll.
He had cast a spell.
Tarantallegra. It had no effect on the Troll. It hadn't even left a red mark. From the perspective of magical lethality, what he did was exactly the same as doing nothing.
But he had pulled it out.
His hand was shaking, his voice was shaking, his legs were weak, and his mind was a blank—but he had done it.
Facing a four-meter-tall adult Mountain Troll, he had raised his wand.
Cassius had said two words.
"Well done."
Draco bit his lip. His teeth grazed the wound on the inside of his lower lip, and a faint taste of iron seeped out. He used this bit of pain to suppress the stinging sensation in his nose.
He didn't want to cry in the hallway.
He couldn't cry. Malfoys don't cry.
—
Back in the dormitory.
Cassius took off his coat. The grey school robes were covered in brick dust and trace residues of Troll bodily fluids. He turned the robes inside out and checked the stitching of the lining.
The cotton-linen fibers had already shown slight stretching and deformation at several key stress points.
This wasn't damage caused by being attacked in battle.
It was the moment he kicked and shattered the Troll's knee; a portion of the high-density magic attached to his sole had rebounded to his calf and knee joint, and the fabric of his trouser legs had borne the impact along with them. If his magic control hadn't been precise down to the micron level, these trousers would likely have shredded today.
Cassius folded the robes neatly and placed them on the nightstand.
He had come to a conclusion.
The standard Hogwarts school robes—including the ones specially made by his mother, Narcissa, with basic defense enchantments—were completely insufficient for his current combat intensity.
The magic-carrying capacity of cotton-linen fibers was too low. If he increased his output even slightly, his clothes would collapse before the enemy did.
He needed new materials.
Materials that could withstand high-frequency magicimpacts.
On the opposite bed, Draco had already changed into clean pajamas. He sat on the edge of the bed, not lying down.
He looked at his right hand. His fingers were still trembling slightly.
He pulled his wand from his sleeve and held it in his hand.
Then he reached under his pillow with his left hand and pulled out a feather.
It was the feather Cassius had given him on the first day of training. He had kept it all this time.
Draco took a deep breath and placed the feather on his knee.
He withdrew his right hand. He didn't use his wand.
He stared at the feather. He concentrated. He cleared all the messy thoughts from his mind—fear, excitement, the stinging sensation, the sense of grievance—and threw them all away.
He remembered what Cassius had said in the dungeon.
"magic is an extension of will."
Draco's right index finger pointed at the feather. The scabbed scar beneath his fingernail was prominent in the lamplight.
Ten seconds.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty seconds.
"Float," he said in his heart.
Forty seconds.
The forty-fifth second.
The feather moved.
It wasn't pushed away. It wasn't sliding across the surface.
It left his knee.
Wobbling and tilting, carrying an instability that felt like it could drop back at any moment—but it did indeed float up.
About three centimeters.
It maintained this for half a second.
Then it fell back.
Draco stared blankly at the feather on his knee.
The rims of his eyes turned red.
On the next bed, Cassius lay there with the back of his head resting on his arms. He didn't look at Draco.
But his mouth—in the shadows of the green wall lamp—twitched slightly.
It was quickly withdrawn.
—
At the same time. Gryffindor Tower.
In the boys' dormitory.
Harry sat on his four-poster bed; the curtains weren't drawn. His glasses had been taken off and placed beside his pillow.
Ron lay on the opposite bed. The curtains were half-drawn. Through the gap, Harry could see him tossing and turning.
"Ron."
"What?" Ron's voice was muffled.
"Did you see it? That Troll..."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Silence for a few seconds.
"It was smashed into the floor," Harry said, his voice very soft. "I saw the club broken into two pieces. Someone picked it up... and smashed it down, strike by strike."
Ron pulled the duvet up a bit further.
"Three strikes," Harry said.
"How do you know it was three?"
"There were three pits in the ground."
Ron stopped talking.
Harry stared at the canopy of the bed. The red velvet was very dark in the firelight.
One thing had been on his mind.
In the hallway, when Hermione passed them, that look in her eyes.
Hermione hadn't looked at him.
Nor had she looked at Ron.
She was looking toward the end of the hallway.
No one was there. But Harry knew that ten minutes ago, Cassius Malfoy had been standing there.
He was the one who did it.
Harry had no evidence. But he knew.
In all of Hogwarts, there was only one first-year student who could shatter a Troll's head with his bare hands.
Harry reached under his pillow and felt his wand. Holly. Eleven inches. Phoenix tail feather.
He gave it a squeeze.
His palm was very dry. The wand didn't give him any special feeling in his palm. It was just a wooden stick.
On the train, Cassius hadn't even used a wand; a single pulse had sent Ron flying. In Boggart class, he had slapped the Boggart into dust with one hand. In Flying Class, he had jumped twenty meters from level ground to catch Neville.
And now, he had kicked and broken the Troll's leg, then killed the Troll using its own weapon.
No spells. No wand.
Harry put the wand back under his pillow.
He suddenly felt it was all quite meaningless.
It wasn't jealousy. Nor was it fear. It was something deeper and quieter.
He couldn't even bring himself to ask the question, "How exactly did Cassius do it?"
Because the gap was too large.
So large that there was no point in analyzing it. So large that the thought of catching up couldn't even be born.
He had felt this way when he first met Cassius in Diagon Alley. That blonde boy standing at the entrance of Ollivander's shop, clutching the thirtieth broken wand in his hand, expressionless.
At the time, Harry just thought it was strange.
Now he knew.
It wasn't strange. It was a completely different species standing before him.
"Ron."
"Shut up, Harry, I'm trying to sleep."
"Do you think... what if we had arrived first?"
Ron rolled over. The duvet was kicked into a mess by him.
"What do you mean?"
"The Troll upstairs. If Malfoy hadn't arrived first, but we had? Hermione was inside... what would we have done?"
Ron was silent for a long time.
"I don't know," his voice was much softer than before, "I haven't even learned the Levitation Charm properly yet."
"Me neither."
Neither of them spoke again.
The wind outside howled. In the Highlands of Scotland in November, the temperature dropped rapidly after nightfall.
"Harry."
"Yeah?"
"Starting tomorrow..." Ron's voice came muffled from under the duvet, "could you teach me the Expelliarmus? Just... let's get this one down properly first."
Harry was taken aback for a moment.
"I don't know Expelliarmus either."
"...Then we'll learn it together."
"Okay."
The firelight flickered twice. The boys' dormitory gradually fell silent.
Chapter 64: Pure Magic
Early the next morning.
News of the Troll spread throughout Hogwarts.
The speed of propagation was inversely proportional to its accuracy. By breakfast time, there were at least six versions of the story: Cassius Malfoy had blown the Troll to pieces with a single spell; Cassius Malfoy had straddled the Troll's neck and strangled it; Cassius Malfoy had fought the Troll hand-to-hand for ten minutes before snapping its neck; and the most outrageous version came from a Hufflepuff first-year, who claimed Cassius Malfoy had merely looked at the Troll, and it died of fright.
The Great Hall was very noisy.
But the Slytherin long table was very quiet.
Cassius sat in his usual spot, his plate containing fried eggs, grilled mushrooms, and two slices of toast. He used his knife and fork to cut the food on his plate at his usual pace.
Draco sat on his right side.
Draco didn't speak a word this morning. No boasting, no mocking, no complaining.
He kept his head down and ate.
He ate quickly and a lot. A whole stack of bacon with three thick slices of toast and a cup and a half of pumpkin juice. The physical energy consumed last night needed to be replenished.
No one at the Slytherin table took the initiative to speak to Cassius.
It wasn't because of the previous sense of distance—the 'don't mess with him, so stay away' kind. That distance was fear.
This current silence was something deeper.
The object of fear is a person.
You can evaluate how powerful a great Wizard is—what spells he knows, who he's fought, how many times he's won. These are things that can be discussed and analyzed.
But you can't discuss an eleven-year-old boy using physical strength to smash an adult Mountain Troll to death.
Because it's outside the scope of discussion.
It belongs to the category of natural disasters.
Zabini sat across from Draco. He hadn't brought his usual leisure book today. He ate his oatmeal quietly, occasionally glancing up at Cassius's profile.
Cassius finished his last bite of toast and wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. The movement was extremely natural. He didn't look at anyone beside him throughout the entire process.
—
Meanwhile. The Principal's office.
Dumbledore stood before the Pensieve.
The silvery-white liquid in the basin swayed gently. It was a thread of memory Snape had drawn from his temple with his wand—it had just been delivered an hour ago.
Dumbledore touched the surface of the liquid with the tip of his wand.
The image floated up.
The Troll's knee. The grayish-green skin had been split open. The cross-section of the bone beneath was shattered into sand-like white powder. A close-up. Extremely clear.
He gently tapped the rim of the basin with his knuckle, and the scene switched.
A panoramic view of the bathroom. The door frame and half the wall were gone. Water flooded the floor. The wooden club was broken into two pieces. Three deep pits were on the floor, each deeper than the last.
The Troll's head was embedded in the third pit.
Dumbledore finished watching the entire memory. He straightened up.
The fire in the office fireplace crackled twice. The portraits on the walls were exceptionally quiet today. The previous Principal, Armando Dippet, sat in his frame, his green feathered hat tilted over his ear, looking like he'd just lost his parents.
On the perch beside the fireplace, Fawkes let out a low cry. The tone descended, carrying a certain heavy probing.
Dumbledore raised his right hand, slowly clasping his ten fingers together.
He was in no hurry to speak.
The door was pushed open. Snape walked in. His face was as pale as it had been last night. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened by another layer.
"You've seen it," Snape said. It wasn't a question.
Dumbledore nodded.
"Your assessment," Dumbledore spoke, "there were no casting traces of any known spells at the scene?"
"Not a single one," Snape's voice was dry. "I checked three times. On the floor, on the walls, on the Troll's corpse. Zero residue. No energy decay ripples of a spell, no directional guiding marks from a wand, nothing."
Dumbledore raised his eyelids to look at him.
"The only thing that can be detected," Snape continued, "is magic. Pure magic. Extremely high concentration. Attached to the shattered surface of the Troll's knee joint, the cross-section of the club, and the broken bricks of the door frame."
He paused.
"The result of the type identification is—physical strike. After the magic was compressed, it was attached to the surface of the caster's limbs, acting as a means of amplification. It didn't undergo any formatting through a spell. It was just raw, crude, high-density magic smashed directly onto it."
Dumbledore placed both hands on the desk.
"He kicked through the Troll's knee," Dumbledore said. His speech was slower than usual.
"And then used the Troll's club to strike it three times," Snape added. "The third strike broke the club."
The two looked at each other for a few seconds.
"Severus," Dumbledore's tone was flat. Flat to an abnormal degree. "Estimate for me. When he delivered that kick, how much magic did he use?"
Snape's throat moved.
"Based on the radius of the bone pulverization and the hardness coefficient of the Troll's skin, back-calculating..."
He stopped for two seconds.
"At least the equivalent output of an adult Auror casting a Reducto at full power."
The Phoenix on the perch flapped its wings once.
Dumbledore lowered his eyes.
"He is eleven years old this year," he said.
"Yes."
"He didn't use a wand."
"Yes."
"A casual kick from him is an Auror-level Reducto."
"Yes."
Dumbledore was silent for a long time.
A piece of firewood in the fireplace collapsed. Sparks flew out, landing on the carpet and burning a black spot.
"Continue monitoring," Dumbledore said, "but maintain your distance. Absolute distance."
Snape didn't say much more. He turned and left the Principal's office.
Dumbledore sat alone behind the desk. He maintained his position with his fingers interlaced.
His gaze passed through the window and landed on the distant Black Lake. The lake's surface in November was gray and murky, its bottom invisible.
He thought of a name.
Grindelwald.
Then he shook his head.
Different.
Grindelwald had ambition. Lord Voldemort had a purpose.
Cassius Malfoy had neither.
That was what was most troublesome.
An existence with supreme power but no clear direction—you couldn't predict him, couldn't guide him, couldn't negotiate with him.
Because he wanted nothing.
He only cared about one thing.
His older brother.
Dumbledore sighed.
—
The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's office.
The door was tightly shut. The curtains were drawn tight. The room was filled with a strong smell of garlic.
Quirrell lay slumped on the desk. His two arms were spread out, his face pressed against the tabletop, his turban tilted to one side.
His face was a grayish-white. His lips were chapped. From last night until now, he hadn't drunk a single drop of water.
The thing on the back of his head was speaking in a low voice.
The voice was weaker and raspier than usual. Like a lute string about to snap.
"Three days," Lord Voldemort's remnant soul said. "Give me three days to recover. Within these three days—"
It paused.
—"You are not allowed to step a single foot out of this office. You are not allowed to appear in any corridor, any classroom, any public area where he can see you. Do you hear me?"
"Yes... yes, Master." Quirrell's throat was so hoarse he could barely speak.
"The power that boy kicked into the Troll..." The remnant soul's voice was trembling. This trembling wasn't anger; it was something more primal. "If that kick had landed on my soul's vessel—on your head—"
It didn't finish.
Quirrell closed his eyes.
He knew the answer.
Shattered.
Not even a fragment would remain.
"Request leave on the grounds of being unwell," the remnant soul issued its final command. "Three days. Give me three days."
Under the gap in the door, footsteps in the corridor came and went.
Quirrell didn't move.
Chapter 65: Ron's Nightmare
Noon.
The news had shifted from mere rumors to semi-public facts.
At the Gryffindor table, the Weasley Twins were vividly describing the scene of "Malfoy's younger brother crushing the Troll to death" to a crowd of onlookers. Their source of information was Professor McGonagall, whom they had intercepted in the corridor before lunch to ask directly—of course, Professor McGonagall hadn't answered anything, but her silence and the look on her face had said it all.
"I'm telling you," Fred said, waving a chicken leg like a club, "Bang! Bang! Bang! Three hits!"
"Three hits and it was over!" George took over. "The Trolldidn't even have a chance to resist!"
Their voices carried across half of the Great Hall.
Ron sat in a corner of the long table. An entire beef pie sat on the plate in front of him, completely untouched.
His appetite had completely vanished.
He had a dream last night. It couldn't quite be called a nightmare—nightmares at least had a plot. He only dreamed of a single image: a Troll's head being smashed into the stone floor, with a boy in a white shirt standing beside it.
The boy turned his head to look at him.
Gray-blue eyes. Expressionless.
It was just a single glance.
Then Ron woke up. He was covered in a layer of cold sweat upon waking. His T-shirt clung to his back. He lay in the dark for ten minutes before his breathing evened out.
That wasn't a dream.
That was his brain using the Troll's death to replace a hypothesis—what if, that day on the train, Cassius Malfoyhadn't just "pushed" him out, but had kicked him in earnest?
Ron picked up a piece of pie crust and then put it back down.
"Ron?" Harry, sitting next to him, nudged his arm. "Are you feeling unwell?"
"No."
Ron forced a smile, but it was crooked and looked more painful than crying.
"What you said," Ron lowered his head, his voice very low, almost squeezed through his teeth. "About learning Expelliarmus. You were serious, right?"
Harry glanced at him.
"I'm serious."
"Then let's start this afternoon," Ron said. He pushed his plate aside. "Let's go to the library now to borrow books. I don't want... I don't want to be unable to use even a decent defensive spell anymore."
His voice became almost inaudible on the last few words.
Harry didn't press him for a reason. He knew.
They all knew.
In this Castle, there was a boy their age who could kick a Troll's bones to pieces.
While they couldn't even get the Levitation Charm to work consistently.
This kind of gap couldn't be filled by courage alone.
Cassius had said something on the train. Harry had always remembered it.
"Before you act on impulse, at least learn a useful spell."
It had sounded like sarcasm at the time.
Now it sounded like advice.
"Let's go." Harry stood up.
The two of them left the Great Hall.
As they passed the Slytherin table, Harry subconsciously glanced in that direction.
Cassius was drinking pumpkin juice.
He wasn't looking at anyone.
Draco sat beside him, putting a fourth piece of toast onto his plate.
Harry walked past quickly.
Once out of the Great Hall doors, Ron let out a long breath.
"Harry."
"Yeah."
"Do you think... Hermione knows who saved her?"
Harry thought for a moment.
"She knows."
"How can you be sure?"
"When she walked past us yesterday," Harry pushed open the corridor door leading to the library, "she didn't look at us. She was looking at the end of the corridor."
Ron didn't say a word.
The sound of their footsteps echoed a few times in the empty corridor.
"Ron."
"What?"
"Don't you think... that day in the bathroom, Hermione was in there alone, and if someone hadn't arrived first—"
"Stop it." Ron interrupted him. His tone was stiff. "I know what you're trying to say. 'If I hadn't said those things that day, Hermione wouldn't have been in the bathroom alone.' Right?"
Harry didn't answer.
Ron rubbed his face hard.
"I know," he said, his voice going hoarse. "I know."
They turned into the library entrance.
—
Slytherin Dungeon. Afternoon.
Cassius returned to the dormitory alone.
He pulled out the old school robes customized in Diagon Alley from the bottom of his trunk—the spare set. He spread it across the tabletop, pinching the fabric at the cuff with his fingers to carefully feel the texture of the fibers.
Sixty percent cotton. Thirty percent linen. A small amount of wool blend.
He released a sliver of magic, less than one-ten-thousandth of his output, injecting it into the gaps between the cotton and linen fibers.
The fabric stiffened under his fingers for less than half a second—then emitted a faint "hiss" and began to blacken from the point of contact, carbonizing as fast as a lit fuse.
Cassius let go.
A small patch of black ash fell onto the tabletop.
He swept the ash into the wastebasket.
His judgment aligned with his expectations. Ordinary fibers could not withstand his magic output for more than 0.5 seconds. In actual combat, if he were to output at full power for more than three seconds, the clothes on his body would fail before his enemies did.
He needed higher-strength materials.
Cassius pulled open the bedside drawer and took out a copy of the Encyclopedia of Magical Creature Attributesborrowed from the library.
He turned to page two hundred and forty-seven.
"Acromantula. Classification: XXXXX. Primary habitat: Southeast Asian Tropical Rainforests (wild), Forbidden Forest in the Scottish Highlands (largest known introduced population)."
His gaze skipped the paragraphs on behavioral habits and breeding cycles, locking directly onto the third section.
"Silk Properties: The silk gland secretions of the Acromantula are listed as a Level 4 rare alchemical ingredient in the wizarding world. Its fibrous structure possesses extremely high magical ductility and can withstand continuous, high-density magical infusion without deformation. Simultaneously, the tensile strength of adult silk is approximately fifteen times that of steel wire of the same diameter."
Cassius closed the book.
Acromantula. Forbidden Forest.
He glanced out the window.
The Slytherin dormitory was underground and had no real windows. The green-tinged glass on the wall was merely decorative. But Cassius didn't need a window to judge the time. The Dual-Soul Furnace within him could perceive the changes in magic density in the sunlight above ground—it was now around three in the afternoon.
Eight hours until curfew. About a twenty-minute walk to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
He put the book back in the drawer.
There was no rush tonight.
He still needed some preparation. A sufficiently detailed map of the Forbidden Forest, and a safe passage that avoided Hagrid's hut and the Centaur patrol routes.
Cassius leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The low-frequency operation of the Dual-Soul Furnaceemitted a steady hum deep within his chest.
—
Gryffindor Tower. Library.
Harry and Ron sat across from each other at a table. Spread out on the table was a copy of the standard book of spells, turned to the page for "Expelliarmus."
Large blocks of theoretical explanation. Diagrams of spell movements. Points for attention. Common mistakes.
Ron began to feel drowsy after five minutes of reading.
"This is too long," he complained in a whisper. "Can't it just say 'point at the opponent and shout Expelliarmus' and be done with it?"
"The book says the rotation angle of the wrist is very important." Harry pointed at the diagram. "Too large and it'll miss; too small and there won't be enough power."
"Who cares about the angle? As long as it can be fired out—"
"Shh!"
Madam Pince's head peeked out from behind a bookshelf, her eyes more terrifying than the spiders in the Forbidden Forest.
Both of them shut their mouths simultaneously.
Ron buried his head in the book.
He complained verbally, but his page-turning speed was three times faster than usual.
—
Same floor.
In another corner of the library, Hermione Granger sat behind a stack of books that was nearly as tall as she was.
What was spread out in front of her wasn't a textbook.
It was a blank piece of parchment, filled with her own notes.
The handwriting was messier than usual. Some parts were crossed out and rewritten, while others had arrows and circles drawn around them.
The top line contained a question, with two horizontal lines drawn beneath it:
"Purely physical—how does magic bypass spells to act directly on limbs?"
She had listed three sub-items under this question.
"First, the equivalence relationship between magic's energy density and mass. Reference: Advanced Transfiguration Principles, Chapter Nine."
"Second, the conduction path of Wandless Magic. Known shortest path: Core → Meridians → Skin → Target. Cassius Malfoy seems to have skipped the buffering stages of the Meridians and skin, outputting directly from the core to the contact surface. What kind of tolerance threshold does this require?"
"Third..."
She had written and crossed out the third item three times.
What ultimately remained was a single sentence:
"He doesn't need magic at all."
Hermione stared at this sentence for a long time.
The bandage wrapped around her arm still throbbed with a dull pain. That wound, sliced by a wooden splinter—Madam Pomfrey said it would heal in two days.
Two days.
The sound of the moment the Troll was smashed into the floor was something she estimated she wouldn't forget for two years.
Hermione flipped her notebook back to the first page. There was another line of words she had written down last month.
"What is the essence of magic?"
She added a tiny annotation next to this line.
In very, very small handwriting.
"Maybe I should ask him."
After writing it, she drew a large 'X' next to it.
Then she stuffed the entire notebook into the very bottom of her schoolbag.
Hermione leaned on the table, burying her face in her arms.