Chapter 31 You Don't Need to Cast Spells
The afternoon class was Charms.
Professor Flitwick. He was of part-Goblin descent, very short, and needed to stand on a stack of books to see the faces of the entire class.
But his level of magic ranked in the top three among the Hogwarts faculty.
The classroom was on the third floor. It was much brighter than the dungeons—the windows faced south, and sunlight streamed in, illuminating the neatly arranged desks.
This class was also shared with Gryffindor.
When Cassius entered the classroom, Flitwick was sitting behind a pile of books on the podium, looking through a list.
Only the top of his head was visible above the books.
"Ah! Mr. Malfoy!" Flitwick squeaked when he saw Cassius—not a scream of fear, but one of excitement.
Flitwick's reaction was completely different from Snape's.
The way Snape looked at Cassius was with evaluation and caution.
The way Flitwick looked at Cassius was—
Curiosity.
Pure, academic curiosity.
"I heard about what happened at the Sorting ceremony!" Flitwick leaned half his body out from behind the pile of books, "The Sorting Hat smoked! That was truly—truly a very rare phenomenon! I have studied magic resonance theory for thirty years, and I have never encountered a case where magic density was high enough to cause a thermal effect on a millennium-level magical artifact!"
When he said this, his eyes were as bright as two light bulbs.
Cassius found a seat and sat down.
Draco followed him.
Hermione was sitting in the first row on the Gryffindorside.
She looked up when Cassius entered, then lowered her head again.
Flitwick cleared his throat and officially began the class.
"Today, we are going to learn one of the most basic charms—the Levitation Charm. 'Wingardium Leviosa'. This spell can make objects levitate. Please note—it is 'Levio—sa', not 'Leviosa—'. The placement of the stress is very important."
He tapped a feather on the podium with his wand.
The white feather floated up lightly, spun in the air, and then landed steadily back in its original place.
"Now, you try. There is a feather in front of each of you."
There were indeed feathers on the desks.
White, very light, probably the plumage of some bird.
The students began to practice.
The classroom was filled with uneven chanting of "Wingardium Leviosa".
Ron swung his wand like a windmill, nearly poking Harryin the eye.
Hermione was correcting his pronunciation nearby—"It's Leviosa, not Leviosa"—Ron's face turned bright red.
Draco was also trying.
His pronunciation was more standard than Ron's, but the arc of his wand movement was not quite right.
The feather moved a little, but it didn't fly up.
It just flipped over on the desk.
"Leviosa! Leviosa!" Draco increased his effort, his wrist snapping with a cracking sound.
The feather didn't budge.
"Cassius, why aren't you trying?" Draco turned back.
Cassius sat there.
His wand—he didn't have a wand.
This had been determined before enrollment.
The past incident where he crushed all thirty of Ollivander's wands should have been written in some file.
He looked at the white feather on the table in front of him.
Flitwick noticed that Cassius wasn't moving.
He poked his head out from behind the pile of books.
"Mr. Malfoy? Do you need hel—"
He didn't finish his sentence.
Because Cassius moved.
He raised the index finger of his right hand.
No spell.
No wand.
He flicked his index finger upward gently in the air.
The feather on the table rose.
It didn't "float up lightly".
It "rose steadily and at a constant speed".
It was as if it were being precisely supported by an invisible hand, rising vertically at a speed of about ten centimeters per second.
It rose to the height of Cassius's line of sight.
Then it stopped.
Hovering in the air.
Not wobbling.
Not spinning.
Not falling.
The chanting in the classroom began to fade.
One person stopped.
Two people stopped.
Then three, four.
Because the way that feather rose was too "quiet".
There was no sound of a spell, no glowing effect from a wand, nothing flashy.
It just rose by itself—at least, that's what it looked like.
Flitwick's mouth opened into a circle.
"You—you didn't cast a spell." His voice was half an octave higher than usual.
"Not needed," Cassius said.
"And you didn't use a wand."
"Not needed."
Flitwick stood up completely from behind the pile of books—though he wasn't much taller standing up than he was sitting down.
"Wandless Magic! Non-verbal magic!" His voice was trembling, "This is—do you know that this is content that only starts being taught in the sixth year in the formal education system? And most adult Wizards cannot master it proficiently in their entire lives—"
While he was speaking, everyone in the classroom was staring at the floating feather.
Hermione's hand stopped in mid-air.
She had been performing the standard "swish and flick" wand movement, but now this movement was frozen.
Her eyes were fixed on the feather, her lips pressed tightly together.
Her feather had already flown up.
She was the first in the class to succeed—or rather, before Cassius, she thought she was the first.
But she had used a wand.
Used a spell.
Used the standard wand movement.
Used pronunciation precise to the syllable.
Used every rule in the textbook.
And Cassius had just lifted a finger.
The meaning of the two "successes" was completely different.
Hermione slowly lowered her hand.
She didn't look at the feather again.
She lowered her head, staring at the textbook in front of her.
Her left hand was clenched into a fist under the table.
Harry was also watching.
His reaction was much simpler than Hermione's—his mouth was open, his eyes round.
Ron next to him was even more exaggerated; his wand dropped from his hand, bounced twice on the desktop, and rolled onto the floor.
Flitwick jumped down from the pile of books quickly—he really jumped, because the pile of books was equivalent to a story's height for him—and trotted to Cassius's desk.
"Can you do it again?" His eyes were abnormally bright, "I want to observe your magic output path—if you don't mind—"
Cassius looked at Flitwick, who was so excited he was about to jump on the spot.
This person and Snape were two extremes.
Snape viewed Cassius's ability as a threat.
Flitwick viewed it as a research subject.
"Sure," Cassius said.
He withdrew his finger.
The feather fell from the air.
It didn't drift down—it suddenly lost all support and fell straight down.
When it landed on the desk, it made a light "pat" sound.
Chapter 32: The Classes Are Too Slow
That "pop" sounded very loud in the quiet classroom.
Flitwick was still standing in front of him with an expression of lingering excitement.
Cassius glanced at him.
Flitwick realized—he still had a whole classroom of students to teach. He cleared his throat and trotted back to the podium.
"Alright, alright, a very good demonstration—of course, other students do not need to use this method—you may continue practicing the standard incantation and wand movements—yes, Mr. Weasley, please pick up your wand—"
The classroom returned to the order of normal teaching.
But "normal" was only on the surface.
Every student, while practicing "Wingardium Leviosa," was thinking about the scene they had just witnessed. They waved their wands, chanted the incantation, and then watched the feathers in front of them remain motionless or barely float a little.
Compared to Cassius's "lifting a finger," this feeling was hard to describe.
It was like using all your strength to barely lift a stone, and then someone walks by, flicks it with their little finger, and the stone flies away on its own.
It wasn't a gap in talent. It was a gap in dimensions.
Draco finally succeeded in making his feather float—using the standard incantation and wand. His feather flew crookedly, spinning twice in the air before stabilizing. But at least it flew.
"I did it too!" Draco turned his head and said to Cassius.
Cassius looked at Draco's feather that was wobbling in the air.
"Not bad," he said.
Draco smiled.
This was the first positive thing Cassius had said to him today.
Class ended.
The students packed up their things and headed out. Flitwick was still on the podium tidying up his stack of books, muttering fragments like "one hundred percent conduction efficiency," "first year," and "no wand."
Hermione was the last one to walk out of the classroom.
She paused at the doorway. She turned back and glanced at Cassius's seat—it was already empty.
Her hand clutching her textbook loosened, then tightened again.
Then she lowered her head and walked away.
In the corridor, Ron caught up with Hermione.
"Did you see that?" Ron's voice was very low, but he couldn't suppress the urgency, "That Malfoy, he didn't even open his mouth—and the feather just flew up—Flitwicksaid one hundred percent—what does that mean?"
"It means he doesn't need a wand," Hermione's voice was very flat. Unnaturally flat.
"Doesn't need a wand? But—"
"He doesn't need to chant, either."
Ron swallowed hard.
"Then what does he need?"
Hermione didn't answer this question.
Because she already knew the answer.
He didn't need anything.
At the other end of the corridor.
Cassius and Draco were walking on their way back to Slytherin.
Draco was in a good mood. He had taken two classes on the first day, received praise in Potion Class, and succeeded in Charms Class. Although most of the credit belonged to his brother, he felt he deserved a share of the honor borne by the "Malfoy" surname.
"Cassius."
"Hmm."
"What do you think of Hogwarts?"
Cassius paused at the corner of the staircase. His gaze passed through the window at the end of the corridor and looked out at the Black Lake.
The surface of the lake was very calm. There was no sign of the giant squid—it was probably still hiding at the bottom of the lake.
"The classes are too slow," he said.
Draco waited for him to say "but."
There was no "but."
Cassius continued walking forward.
The next morning. Transfiguration.
The classroom was at the end of the corridor on the east side of the first floor. The room was a circle larger than the Charms classroom, and several bronze candle holders hung from the ceiling. The window was on the south wall, and the light shining through hit Professor McGonagall's podium, casting two white spots on the lenses of her square glasses.
When Cassius arrived, Professor McGonagall was already there.
No.
There was no one on the podium. A gray tabby cat was crouching on the podium.
There were two circles of dark markings around the cat's eyes, the shape of which was exactly the same as Professor McGonagall's spectacle frames.
Cassius paused at the door for half a second.
He recognized it. Animagus. Professor McGonagall's registered transformed form. A feline. The body size was on the small side, but the muscle lines on the limbs were tight, and the bone protrusions at the joints were obvious—this was not a house cat kept on a windowsill to bask in the sun; this was a hunter that remained vigilant all year round.
What was more critical was the magic.
The magical characteristics on the cat were exactly the same as the Witch who had been standing at the door in the Great Hall last night. A compressed, highly concentrated magic field, precisely locked within a fist-sized feline body.
The control was extremely strong.
Cassius sat down in the second row against the wall. When he passed the podium, he locked eyes with the cat.
The cat's pupils narrowed slightly.
Just a little.
Draco sat down next to him. He didn't see the cat—he was talking to Crabbe behind him about yesterday's Potion Class, and his voice was not small.
Other students came in one after another. This class was joined with Ravenclaw. The students in blue school robes sat on the right, and the green ones sat on the left.
Harry and Ron were not there. Today's Transfiguration Class did not clash with Gryffindor. This made Draco a little regretful—he had one less target to mock.
Everyone sat down.
The cat jumped down from the podium.
The moment its four paws left the table, the cat's body began to change. The skeleton stretched, the fur receded, and the limbs elongated. The gray fur turned into emerald green robes, and the markings on the cat's face turned into the metal frames of square glasses.
The whole process took less than two seconds.
A cat turned into a person. Professor McGonagall stood in front of the podium, her expression as serious as if it were carved in stone.
Several Ravenclaw students let out soft gasps of amazement. Draco only then realized—he had just been gossiping in front of a cat for five minutes. His face flushed slightly, but he immediately resumed his usual reserved expression of a pure-blood aristocrat.
"Transfiguration," Professor McGonagall began. Her voice was clear, her speaking speed moderate, and every syllable was enunciated precisely, "is one of the most complex and dangerous types of magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Those who do not listen carefully in my class will be asked to leave, and will not be allowed to return."
Her gaze swept across the classroom.
When she swept over to Cassius, she paused for an extra second.
It was not the kind of "detecting an abnormality" scrutiny from last night. It was a more targeted observation—she was looking at Cassius's hands.
Both hands. Empty. There was no wand on the desk.
Professor McGonagall noted this in her mind, but did not bring it up on the spot.
She turned and waved her wand. The desktop on the podium turned into a pig, and then changed back from a pig into a desktop. The whole process was so smooth that no gap in the casting could be seen.
Someone from the Ravenclaw side applauded.
Professor McGonagall ignored the applause.
"What you are going to do today is much simpler than this." She took a handful of matches from the drawer of the podium, waved her wand, and the matches flew out, with one landing in front of each student's desk. "Turn the match into a needle."
A match. Into a needle.
From wood to metal. From organic matter to inorganic matter. From a rough surface to a smooth surface. This transformation involved the simultaneous change of four dimensions: material, density, shape, and texture.
For a first-year student, this was already a very high requirement.
The sound of chanting rang out in the classroom. The sound of waving wands. And the silence of the matches remaining motionless.
Draco tried three times. The first time, the match did not react. The second time, the match became slightly harder—he pinched it with his hand and felt that it seemed less soft. The third time, the color of the match changed from brown to gray, but the shape and size did not change at all.
"At least the color changed," Draco consoled himself.
Chapter 33 Professor McGonagall's Advice
Cassius looked at the match in front of him.
Transfiguration is different from the Levitation Charm. The essence of the Levitation Charm is "applying a force"—making an object overcome gravity to float. This process was not difficult for Cassius at all, because his magicoutput was large enough and his control precise enough; he could accomplish it with a flick of his finger.
But Transfiguration is not "applying a force."
The essence of Transfiguration is "rewriting information."
Every object has its own "way of existing"—wood knows it is wood, metal knows it is metal. What Transfigurationneeds to do is: use magic to tell the wood "You are not wood, you are metal," and then make it believe it.
This is not a problem that can be solved by violence. You cannot blast a match with a cannon and expect it to turn into a needle.
Cassius understood this.
He picked up the match. The film of magic on his fingers covered it again—the same technique as in Potion Class. But this time, it was not to perceive temperature, but to perceive "structure."
The interior of the match was loose plant fibers. A disordered, fragile, low-moisture arrangement of organic matter.
What should a needle be? Steel. An iron-carbon alloy. A density of 7.8 grams per cubic centimeter. The molecular arrangement is neat and orderly, the surface smooth, one end sharp, and the other end with an eye.
What Cassius needed to do was, without using a wand, use pure intent and magic to issue a "rearrange" command to every molecule of the match.
Troublesome.
Not impossible. Just troublesome.
It was like writing on a beach with your finger—you have enough strength, but the sand is too fine and too plentiful; every grain needs to be precisely moved to a designated position.
Cassius closed his eyes.
The power of the [Dual-Soul Furnace] increased from the lowest setting to three percent. It was not to increase magic output—Transfiguration does not require high output. It was to increase "computing power." A hidden advantage of the Dual-Soul Furnace was that the overlapping consciousness of two souls provided a parallel processing capability far exceeding that of an ordinary person.
One soul was responsible for "perception." Reading the current molecular arrangement of the match.
The other soul was responsible for "rewriting." Layer by layer, surface by surface, replacing the arrangement of organic fibers with a metal crystal lattice structure.
Cassius's fingers tightened slightly.
The match changed.
It didn't change in an instant. Starting from the end his fingers touched, like ink spreading on paper, the brown wooden surface was gradually replaced by a silver metallic luster.
The speed was not fast. It advanced about one centimeter per second.
But the process was extremely uniform.
There was no shaking, no gaps, no stuttering of "changing halfway and getting stuck." The front of the metallization was like a boundary line precise to the millimeter, smoothly pushing from one end of the match to the other.
Draco's mouth opened.
He watched helplessly as the match in his brother's hand turned silver, section by section, from end to end.
Three seconds.
Cassius loosened his fingers.
A needle landed on the desktop. The sound of metal striking echoed once in the quiet classroom.
It was not "something like a needle."
It was a needle. A standard steel needle. One end was sharp enough to pierce fabric, the other end had a perfect circular eye. The surface was smooth, with no burrs. It was about five centimeters long—a bit shorter than the original match, because the density of metal is greater than wood, so the volume shrinks given the same mass.
Same mass.
In the process of Transfiguration, Cassius had even accounted for the conservation of mass.
Draco's mouth was still open.
Nott, next to him, turned his head to glance at the needle on Cassius's desk, then silently pushed his own unchanged match under his textbook.
Professor McGonagall walked over.
Her footsteps were slower than Snape's. Snape walked as if he were "gliding," fast and silent. Professor McGonagallwalked with firm steps, her heels tapping a clear rhythm on the stone floor.
She stopped in front of Cassius's desk.
She looked down at the needle.
Then she did something Snape had not done—she reached out and picked up the needle. She placed it in her palm, turned it, looked at the tip, and then looked at the eye of the needle.
She tapped the surface of the needle with her wand. A small string of golden data jumped out from the tip of the wand, floated in the air for two seconds, and then disappeared.
That was the Transfiguration quality inspection spell. The data contained three indicators: material purity, structural stability, and duration of the transformation.
Professor McGonagall finished reading the data.
She put the needle back on the desk.
"Mr. Malfoy."
"Yes."
"You didn't use a wand."
"I did not."
"You didn't chant a spell either."
"I did not."
Professor McGonagall's lips pressed into that thin white line again. The exact same expression as when she saw Cassius at the gate last night.
She was silent for about five seconds.
In these five seconds, the classroom was so quiet that one could hear the wind outside the window. All the students stopped what they were doing, watching this scene in front of the podium.
"Transfiguration is different from Charms," Professor McGonagall finally spoke. Her tone had an extra layer compared to when the class started—not anger, not shock, but closer to a sense of restraint when forced to face an unexpected situation.
"Professor Flitwick might have been very enthusiastic about your performance yesterday. But in my class, I need to see more than just 'the correct result.' I need to see that you understand the process."
She held up the needle so the students in the rows nearby could see it too.
"The quality of this needle is at a seventh-year level. Material purity is ninety-seven points, structural stability is full marks, and duration is infinite—this means this needle will not turn back into a match in a few hours; it will remain in the state of a needle forever."
She put down the needle.
"However."
She looked into Cassius's eyes.
"Your method is to use brute force to rewrite the molecular structure one by one. This is feasible in low-level Transfiguration because a match is only a few centimeters long. But what if the target is a chair? A house? A mountain?"
"Do you intend to rewrite it one molecule at a time with your fingers?"
Someone in the classroom gasped softly.
Cassius looked at Professor McGonagall.
He did not refute her.
Because what she said was correct.
What he had just done was indeed "brute-force enumeration"—utilizing the computing power advantage of the Dual-Soul Furnace to rewrite every molecule one by one. This method was highly efficient when dealing with small targets, but when facing large targets, the demand for computing power would grow exponentially.
This was not a scalable solution.
"The core of Transfiguration is not 'telling every molecule what to do'," Professor McGonagall's voice returned to the rhythm of teaching, "but 'telling the whole object what it is.' There is a fundamental difference between the two. The former is a craftsman; the latter is magic."
She pointed her wand at the needle on the desk.
The needle turned back into a match.
The process was completed instantly. There was no gradual change "from one end to the other." The entire needle returned to its wooden state at the same moment, from every point simultaneously.
"Did you see that?" Professor McGonagall said, "Simultaneously. Not one by one. Simultaneously."
Cassius looked at the match.
He admitted that Professor McGonagall's reverse Transfiguration was at least one level higher in methodology than his forward Transfiguration.
"I understand," Cassius said.
Professor McGonagall stared at him for two seconds.
She was judging whether this sentence was perfunctory or if he truly understood.
"Then try again," she pushed the match in front of Cassius. "Use the correct method."
The classroom became even quieter.
Cassius looked at the match.
The correct method.
Not rewriting molecules one by one. It is applying a command at the "conceptual level" to the entire object—"You are a needle."
This does not require greater magic output, but a completely different way of thinking. It is not "manipulation"; it is "definition."
Chapter 34: First Encounter with Lord Voldemort
Cassius closed his eyes.
The operational mode of the [Dual-Soul Furnace] changed. The two souls no longer performed their respective duties of splitting the tasks of "perception" and "rewriting." They began to synchronize—a single thought, a single command, issued simultaneously from both souls.
Superposition.
Resonance.
Cassius tapped the matchstick with his index finger.
The matchstick changed.
This time, it wasn't "from one end to the other."
It was the entire matchstick, in a single instant, transforming from wood into steel.
No transition. No gradient. No dividing line. One frame it was a matchstick, the next frame it was a needle.
"Clack." The needle landed on the tabletop.
Unlike the first time, what Cassius felt this time was not "I have rewritten a matchstick," but "I have told a matchstick what it is."
The difference was subtle.
But it was definitely different.
Professor McGonagall picked up the second needle. She scanned it with a detection spell.
Data popped up.
She looked at the data.
Then she looked at Cassius.
Her expression changed. Not better or worse, but those lips, pressed into a thin white line, relaxed slightly.
"Material purity: ninety-nine percent," she said.
Two percent higher than the first time.
"The process is correct."
She placed the needle back on the table.
Then she turned and walked back to the podium.
After taking three steps, she paused. She did not turn back.
"Five points to Slytherin."
The voice was not loud, but everyone in the classroom heard it.
Professor McGonagall had awarded five points to Slytherin.
The rarity of this event was about the same as the Sorting Hat smoking.
Draco's expression was as if he had won the lottery. His mouth stretched to his ears, but he remembered to maintain the dignity of a noble, so halfway through, he forcibly reined it in, turning it into a twisted, reserved smile.
Zabini was sitting in the front row. He did not turn around. But his left hand was under the table, giving a thumbs up.
To whom it was directed, it was hard to say.
The bell rang.
The students began to pack up. Most of the matchsticks lay on the tabletops untouched—the time of one class was simply not enough for a first-year student to complete a transformation. Only three or four Ravenclaw students had caused their matchsticks to undergo minor changes—becoming harder or sharper—but they were still a long way from "becoming a needle."
Cassius stood up and walked out.
As he passed the podium, Professor McGonagall called him.
"Mr. Malfoy."
Cassius stopped.
Professor McGonagall stood behind the podium. Her hands rested on the edge of the table, her fingers not gripping it tightly.
"You learned something just now."
"Yes."
"Not all problems can be solved with power. Some problems require you to think in a different way."
Cassius looked at her.
Professor McGonagall's eyes behind her square lenses were very calm. Not the "fathomless" calm of Dumbledore, but the calm unique to someone who had been a teacher for decades, settled after seeing too many geniuses and too many idiots.
"I will remember that," Cassius said.
He was not just brushing her off.
Professor McGonagall was the first person today who made him feel that he had "learned something." In Snape's Potion Class, he relied entirely on himself—his knowledge from his previous life, combined with the assistance of the magic membrane; Snape hadn't taught him anything new. Needless to say, Flitwick's Charms Class—the Levitation Charm was kindergarten-level operation for him.
But Professor McGonagall, using a matchstick, had pointed out a blind spot in his way of thinking.
The difference between "rewriting piece by piece" and "defining as a whole."
The value of this concept far exceeded that of a single needle.
If he could apply this "defining as a whole" approach to his Wandless Magic system—
Cassius walked out of the classroom.
Draco followed behind.
"Cassius!"
"Hmm."
"McGonagall gave Slytherin five points! Five points! Do you know how rare it is for her to give points to a house other than Gryffindor? Pansy said she only gave points to Slytherin once all of last semester—"
"I know."
"You're really amazing."
Draco said this sincerely. It wasn't his usual praise laced with superiority— "You're really amazing, worthy of being from my Malfoy Family." It was simply the recognition of an older brother for his younger brother.
Cassius glanced at him.
Draco's expression was proud. But that pride was not entirely for himself; part of it was pride on behalf of Cassius.
"Your matchstick didn't turn into a needle," Cassius said.
"...I changed the color."
"Grey is not silver. Your control is insufficient; you only changed the surface pigment, and there was no change to the internal structure."
Draco's face fell a little.
"Practice after you go back," Cassius said.
Draco's face lit up again. His younger brother being willing to guide him made him happier than the five points.
The two walked back along the corridor. It was almost lunchtime.
When they reached the stairs, the smell of garlic drifted over.
Very strong.
Cassius's footsteps paused.
Above the stairs, a man wearing a purple turban was coming down from the third floor. He walked with a timid, shrinking posture, one hand supporting himself against the wall, the other holding a stack of books. The books were piled high, obscuring half his face.
Quirrell.
The smell of garlic was emanating from him. According to him, it was to ward off the Vampire he had encountered in Albania.
But what Cassius smelled was not just garlic.
Underneath the pungent smell of garlic, there was another scent. Rotting. Dark. Like a piece of meat left out for too long, slowly decomposing in a damp basement.
That was the smell of Lord Voldemort's remnant soul.
The [Dual-Soul Furnace] vibrated in Cassius's chest. It wasn't actively activated—it was an instinctive reaction. The two souls felt a physiological repulsion toward that corrupt aura.
Quirrell felt it too.
He had been walking with his head down, but when he was five meters away from Cassius, his body stopped abruptly. The books in his hands wobbled and almost fell.
He looked up.
Quirrell's face was very pale. Not the pale of someone with naturally fair skin, but a sickly, bloodless pallor. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were chapped.
He saw Cassius.
His pupils trembled violently at that moment.
"Ma... Malfoy," Quirrell squeezed out a smile. The muscle movement of that smile was unnatural—the corners of his mouth were pulling up, but the muscles around his eyes were stiff, not cooperating. "H... hello."
"Professor Quirrell," Cassius's voice was flat.
He did not stop. He continued walking.
In the second when they brushed past each other, Cassius's [Dual-Soul Furnace] increased to five percent power.
Not to attack. It was to "push."
An extremely restrained, outwardly radiating magic field spread from Cassius's body surface. The range was small, no more than two meters in radius. But the density was extremely high.
The moment Quirrell was swept by this magic field, his left knee buckled.
Not a kneel. It was that he couldn't support himself.
He gripped the wall tightly with his free hand, his knuckles digging into the stone crevices. A layer of sweat erupted on his forehead. Beneath the purple turban, that hidden face was silently twisting.
Cassius did not look back.
He walked away.
Quirrell stood in the middle of the stairs, maintaining a half-crouched position, and only straightened up after a full fifteen seconds. His breathing was rapid, and a suppressed wheeze came from his throat.
His lips were moving. No sound.
But if anyone could read lips, they would see that Quirrellwas not saying his own words.
It was another voice conveying through his mouth.
"Do not... provoke him."
"Not now."
"It is... not yet time."
Quirrell closed his mouth.
He clutched the books, head down, and quickly disappeared around the corner of the stairs.
The smell of garlic lingered in the corridor for a long time before dissipating.
Chapter 35: The "Old Trope" in Flying Class
Thursday.
No classes in the morning. Cassius spent the whole morning in the common room.
He sat in the silver-serpent armchair in front of the fireplace—a spot that no one else had occupied since the first day of school. It wasn't because there was a sign, nor because there were rules. It was because everyone automatically steered clear of it.
He was reading.
Not a textbook. It was a copy of "Ancient Runes and magicCircuits" brought from Malfoy Manor, with its cover replaced. According to the Hogwarts curriculum, this book wouldn't be introduced until the third year. But Cassiusneeded the content inside regarding magic conduction paths.
The "Holistic Definition" Professor McGonagall mentioned yesterday gave him inspiration.
If he could find a way for Wandless Magic to not be "shot from the fingertips towards the target," but instead "condensed directly at the target location"—that would be equivalent to skipping the conduction phase. There would be no need to shoot it out, and thus no need to worry about conduction loss.
Although Flitwick said his conduction efficiency was already at one hundred percent, one hundred percent conduction efficiency did not equal one hundred percent casting efficiency. The conduction process itself took time—no matter how fast, there was always a physical distance from the fingertips to the target.
If he could achieve "generating the magic effect directly at the target location," then even that amount of time would be saved.
True instant casting.
Cassius turned a page.
Draco was not there. He had gone to the Owlry to write a letter home. The content of the letter was likely "what earth-shattering thing Cassius did again" plus "Professor Snape gave me a good review."
There were only a few upperclassmen quietly doing their homework in the common room. No one spoke to Cassius. Nor did anyone look at him.
They had already learned when they should look and when they should not.
He ate lunch in the Great Hall.
At 3:30 PM, Flying Class.
This class was outdoors. On a flat patch of grass behind the Castle. The weather was not great—the clouds were low, the wind was light, and there was a dampness in the air that suggested rain.
Flying Class was a joint class for all first-years. The new students from all four houses were present.
Twenty or so brooms were neatly lined up on the grass. Old, shedding school brooms. The model was "cleansweep seven"—at least a ten-year-old style.
Cassius stood in the Slytherin line. He glanced at the brooms on the ground.
There were scratches on the wooden handles, the twigs at the tail were uneven, and a few had already stuck up. The residual Levitation Charm was very weak—these brooms clearly hadn't received magical maintenance in a long time.
Madam Hooch walked over.
She was the Flying Class teacher. Short hair, yellow eyes, and a walking gait that looked slightly bow-legged from years of riding broomsticks.
"All right, everyone stand next to a broomstick," her voice was crisp and decisive, "One for each person. Don't dawdle."
The students each stood next to a broomstick.
Harry and Ron stood together. The nervousness on Ron's face couldn't be hidden—he had ridden broomsticks at home, but they were all worn-out models discarded by his older brothers that couldn't fly high. Harry had never ridden one, but his expression was not nervous; it was curious.
Hermione pressed her lips tightly together. She didn't like flying—it was one of the few things that couldn't be solved by reading books.
Neville was even worse off. His face was green. His grandmother never let him ride a broomstick.
Draco was in a good mood. He had grown up riding brooms at the manor, and flying was one of the few areas where he could stand on the same level as Cassius—at least that was what he thought.
"Stretch your right hand over the broomstick," Madam Hooch shouted, "and then say 'Up'!"
"Up!" more than twenty students shouted in unison.
The results were uneven.
Harry's broom was the first to spring up, jumping straight into his palm. Crisp and clean, as if it had been waiting for him for a long time.
Draco's was the second. The broom hesitated for a moment, then flew up.
Hermione's broom rolled around on the ground.
Neville's broom didn't move an inch.
Cassius stood next to his broomstick.
He did not shout "Up."
He looked down at the cleansweep seven on the ground.
The broom began to shake under his gaze.
Not because of the wind. It was because the magic field naturally overflowing from Cassius resonated with the Levitation Charm inherent in the broom. The faint magical residue inside the broom was activated within the radiation range of the [ Dual-Soul Furnace ]—not so much "awakened" as it was "ignited."
The broom sprang up from the ground.
It sprang up too violently.
With a "whoosh," the broom shot straight up into the sky like an arrow released from a bowstring. Cassius reached out to grab it—his hand touched the broom handle.
The moment his fingers touched the wooden handle, the handle made a crisp "crack" sound.
It cracked.
The magic density on his fingers was too high. The wooden handle of the cleansweep seven couldn't withstand this level of magic infusion—just like the thirty wands at Ollivander's shop back then.
Cassius let go.
The broom hovered for a moment at a height of two meters above his head, then fell back to the ground crookedly. A crack appeared along the handle from top to bottom.
Madam Hooch saw this scene.
She opened her mouth.
She had heard of this student. "The Diagon AlleyTyrannosaurus." The one who crushed thirty wands. She originally thought those rumors had exaggerated components—now it seemed they weren't exaggerated at all.
"Mr. Malfoy," Madam Hooch walked over, looking at the cracked broom on the ground, "You... you broke the broom."
"It was too brittle," Cassius said.
He had said this sentence once at Ollivander's shop. Once in Diagon Alley. Now it was the third time.
Madam Hooch didn't know what to say. Since she started teaching Flying Class, she had never encountered a situation where "a student crushed a broomstick by gripping it."
"You could... not grip it so tightly," she suggested tentatively.
Cassius looked at his own hand.
"It's not a question of gripping it tightly," he said, "It's a question of magic conduction. Any object I touch that has a magical coating will suffer an overload."
Madam Hooch was stunned.
She was a Flying teacher, not an expert in magical theory. The concept of "magic overload" was beyond her professional scope.
"Then you... you can't ride a broomstick?"
Cassius didn't answer.
He stared at the cracked broom on the ground for two seconds.
Then he did something no one expected.
He squatted down. His left hand pressed onto the handle of the broom.
magic seeped from his palm into the wood. But this time, he wasn't letting the magic infuse freely—he was controlling it.
Professor McGonagall taught him a concept yesterday: "Holistic Definition."
Cassius applied this concept to the broom.
He didn't try to "fix the crack." Repairing was rewriting one by one—connecting the broken wood fibers one by one. Too slow, too stupid.
He issued a holistic command to the broom.
"You are complete."
Not "become complete again." It was "you are already complete."
This was definition, not repair.
The crack on the broom handle disappeared.
Not closed up. It disappeared directly—as if that crack had never existed. The grain of the wood regained its continuity, and the surface became smooth again.
But the changes didn't stop there.
Under the infusion of Cassius's magic, this old cleansweep seven underwent a deeper change. The color of the wooden handle changed from a dull grayish-brown to a deeper, lustrous dark brown. The twigs at the tail went from uneven to uniform. Even the overall lines of the broom became more fluid—as if someone had polished it all over again.
It was no longer a cleansweep seven.
It had become a—model-less, "redefined" by Cassius's magic—broomstick.
Madam Hooch's mouth hadn't closed from just now until now.
Cassius stood up. He picked up the broom.
This time it didn't crack.
Because the inside of the handle was already filled with his magic. The broom was no longer an "external magical item"—it had been saturated with Cassius's magic, becoming an extension of his body.
Just like his fingers.
"Can we continue?" Cassius asked Madam Hooch.
Madam Hooch's brain hadn't caught up yet. She nodded mechanically.
"G-good. Everyone, mount your brooms."
The students mounted them.
Neville had a problem.