Chapter 46: Malfoy Family's Tricks
Draco took a step forward.
It wasn't a tentative step—not one where the toes land first, weight kept back, ready to retreat at any moment.
It was a solid, real step, putting his entire weight behind it.
The sole of his shoe made a sharp "tap" against the stone floor.
The smile froze on Ron's face.
He hadn't expected this kind of reaction.
In all the past conflicts between him and Draco—on the train, in the corridors, in class—Draco's methods of attack had always been limited to two things: verbal barbs and tattling.
He never actively shortened the physical distance between himself and his opponent.
But now, Draco was walking forward.
Ron's brain processed this for half a second.
Then he raised his wand.
"Exp—"
The first syllable of the spell popped out of his mouth.
"Rictu—"
The second syllable got stuck.
Because Draco was already in front of him.
A distance of a step and a half.
Draco's speed wasn't fast—his legs had been tortured by three hours of kneeling and weren't functioning well—but Ron's casting speed was even slower.
This wasn't Ron's fault.
He wasn't skilled with spells to begin with, and combined with the response delay of that old wand, there was at least a one-and-a-half-second lag between chanting and the magic taking form.
One and a half seconds. Enough for Draco to cover the remaining distance.
Draco's left hand went up.
He didn't touch Ron's wand. He didn't even look at that wand.
His left hand grabbed Ron's collar.
The red collar of the Gryffindor robe was clenched in Draco's fist.
Draco's knuckles were white—not because of overexertion, but because three hours in the dungeon meant the blood circulation in his fingers hadn't fully recovered.
He yanked downwards.
Ron was half a head taller than Draco.
But this yank from Draco was fierce and accurate—it wasn't just pulling at clothes, it was pulling at his center of gravity.
Ron's upper body was forcibly dragged down, his body lost its balance, and he stumbled.
His wand was held in mid-air, the tip pointing toward the ceiling, the second half of the spell still stuck in his mouth.
Then Draco's right fist arrived.
That right fist wrapped in a white handkerchief, with a cracked index fingernail, stained with dried blood.
Draco didn't know how to fight.
He had never hit anyone before.
The Malfoy Family education system didn't include "physical combat"—pure-blood aristocrats resolved conflicts with wands and lawyers, not fists.
So this punch of his had no technique whatsoever.
No hip rotation or waist turning, no shoulder twisting or arm thrusting.
He just swung his fist around, using the swing of his arm combined with the inertia of his upper body to smash it toward Ron's face.
The posture was ugly. The force was insufficient. The angle was off by at least twenty degrees.
But he hit.
The front of his fist—that is, the knuckles of his middle and ring fingers—crashed into Ron's bridge of the nose.
The fabric of the handkerchief provided a thin cushion between his knuckles and Ron's nasal bone, but this cushion also reduced the surface area of the impact—increasing the pressure.
"Thud."
A dull sound.
The cartilage in Ron's nasal cavity wasn't fractured, but the capillaries couldn't withstand this sudden blunt force.
A nosebleed sprayed out.
It didn't just flow—it sprayed.
Dark red blood surged from both of Ron's nostrils simultaneously, with a few drops splattering onto the front of Draco's robe.
Ron let out a miserable scream.
It was loud. The stone walls of the corridor amplified the sound several times over, the echoes carrying far in both directions.
His body tilted backward.
Draco's left hand, which had been grabbing his collar, let go—not voluntarily, but ripped away by the force of Ronfalling backward.
Ron's back hit the edge of the stair step with a dull collision, and then he slid down to sit on the ground.
The wand flew out of his hand, rolling into the corner with a "clatter."
Ron clutched his nose, blood streaming down from between his fingers, staining his chin and collar red.
His eyes welled up with tears from the pain—not crying, but a physiological reaction.
Taking a punch to the bridge of the nose automatically triggers the tear glands.
"Ron!"
Harry rushed forward.
His reaction speed wasn't slow.
He had already been moving when Ron was pulled down.
But he only took one step.
Cassius blocked his path.
He didn't stride over. He just took half a step forward—only half a step—but that half step perfectly blocked Harry's route to Ron.
Cassius was about five centimeters taller than Harry.
He looked down at Harry. Those grey-blue eyes were as calm as two polished stones under the light of the wall lamps.
"Personal grudge, Potter."
Four words. Spoken slowly.
"Best not to interfere."
Harry's feet were nailed to the floor.
He wanted to push Cassius away.
He wanted to rush over to help Ron.
But his body sent a signal more honest than his brain—his legs wouldn't move.
It wasn't a Leg-Locker Curse. It was instinct.
When faced with a predator far superior to themselves, humans exhibit three reactions: fight, flight, or freeze.
Harry's body chose the third.
Cassius wasn't releasing any magic.
He hadn't even made any threatening gestures.
He was just standing there, watching Harry.
But the way he was "standing there" was in itself a form of suppression.
Harry knew clearly—what would happen if he forcibly pushed Cassius away.
It wasn't "might happen." It was "would definitely happen."
The twenty-meter vertical jump from Flying Class was still in his memory.
That wasn't something an eleven-year-old boy should be capable of doing.
Harry stopped.
He stood in place, fists clenched tight.
His palms were sweating.
In his green eyes behind the round-rimmed glasses, there was anger, there was unwillingness, but even more, there was a sense of—powerlessness—that he himself was unwilling to admit.
He couldn't help Ron.
It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was that he couldn't.
At the corner of the stairs, Draco straddled Ron.
This movement was likewise unskilled.
His right leg was over Ron's waist, his left knee was on the ground, and one hand pressed against Ron's shoulder to pin him down.
Ron struggled underneath, but he had been beaten silly, and with the back of his head having knocked against the stairs, he was dizzy, unable to muster the strength in his hands and feet.
Draco's left hand grabbed Ron's hair.
The red hair was clenched in Draco's fist.
He lifted Ron's head a few centimeters off the ground, forcing Ron to look at his face.
Ron's face was half-smeared with nosebleed.
His eyes were half-squinted from tears and pain.
He saw Draco's expression—that expression was completely different from the Draco he knew.
No mocking smile, no condescending overlook.
There was only one thing on Draco's face.
Ruthlessness.
The kind of—ruthlessness—that remains after being backed into a corner, after burning away all weakness and concession, leaving only the most primitive aggression.
"This is Malfoy Family's tricks."
Draco's voice was trembling.
Not from fear. From adrenaline.
His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was about to jump out of his throat, and his ears were filled with the sound of his own heartbeat.
"Did you see clearly? Pauper."
He let go of Ron's hair.
Ron's head hit the stone floor with a "thump."
It wasn't heavy. But it was enough to make the back of Ron's head ache again.
Chapter 47: Malfoy's Change
Draco stood up from Ron.
His legs were shaking.
The adrenaline rush faded quickly—once the explosive rage from a moment ago dissipated, the exhaustion accumulated from three hours of special training came flooding back like a tide.
His knees went weak, and he nearly lost his footing.
But he held his ground.
He shook out his right hand.
Blood on the handkerchief—he didn't know if it was his or Ron's—flew off in a few red droplets.
His index finger started hurting again.
The impact of that punch had jarred his split nail, and the wound was seeping fresh blood.
Draco didn't bother with it.
He looked down at Ron lying on the ground.
Ron was clutching his nose, curled up on the steps, letting out indistinct moans.
Blood from his nose had dripped to the corner of his mouth, mixing with saliva, making him look utterly pathetic.
Draco watched this scene.
There was a very strange feeling in his chest.
It wasn't pleasure—at least, not entirely.
The feeling was closer to some kind of release.
Like a string that had been pulled tight for eleven years had finally relaxed.
He had never hit anyone before.
He had never resolved a conflict purely with his own fists, without relying on his mouth, his wand, his father's name, or his brother's strength.
Today was the first time.
The effect was much better than he had imagined.
Cassius's voice came from behind.
"Not bad."
Draco turned around.
Cassius was still standing in the same spot, blocking Harry.
His hands had been in his pockets the whole time, never once taken out.
"Let's go. Time to eat."
Cassius stepped aside, opening the way to the Great Hall.
As he walked past Draco, he pulled his right hand from his pocket and patted Draco on the shoulder.
Once.
Not much force.
It landed on Draco's left shoulder.
This was the first time since Cassius arrived in this world that he had taken the initiative to make physical contact to affirm Draco.
Draco was stunned for a moment.
Then he followed Cassius's footsteps.
The two walked side by side toward the Great Hall.
Draco walked on the left, Cassius on the right.
This time, Draco didn't walk in front—not because he was deliberately yielding the position, but because he felt walking side by side was better.
Harry's voice came from behind: "Ron! Are you okay? Let me see—don't move—your nose is still there, not broken..."
Ron's nasal, heavy complaint: "He's crazy! That ferret is crazy! He actually hit me with his hand! With his hand!"
Draco didn't look back.
The corners of his mouth quirked up.
Not mockery.
It was a very subtle, unconscious sense of satisfaction with himself.
The two walked into the Great Hall.
The ceiling reflected the twilight sky outside.
Dinner was already laid out on the four long tables—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, stew, pudding.
Goblets were filled with pumpkin juice.
Cassius sat down at the Slytherin table.
Draco sat down next to him.
Draco grabbed a plate.
He piled three pieces of roast chicken, a large spoonful of mashed potatoes, and two bread rolls onto it, then downed half a cup of pumpkin juice in one go.
He ate ravenously.
Not in the elegant way of Malfoy Family—cutting a small piece, spearing it, putting it in his mouth, chewing fifteen times before swallowing.
He tore at the chicken leg directly with his hands.
Grease ran down his fingers, and the bloodstains on his handkerchief mixed with the chicken fat.
Cassius glanced at him, saying nothing.
Zabini was sitting opposite.
His gaze swept over Draco's handkerchief, his dust-covered school robes, and his grease-stained mouth.
"What happened?" Zabini asked.
"Training." Cassius poured himself a cup of pumpkin juice.
Zabini didn't press.
He was one of the few smart people in Slytherin who knew when to keep his mouth shut.
At the Gryffindor table on the other side of the hall, Harryhelped Ron walk in.
Ron's nose was swollen.
He used his robe cuff to plug his nostrils to stop the bleeding, stumbling as he walked.
Hermione jumped up from her seat when she saw them: "Good heavens! Ron, what happened to you?"
"Don't ask," Ron said dully.
Harry pushed Ron into his seat and handed him a cup of pumpkin juice.
He looked back toward the Slytherin table—he saw Dracognawing on a chicken leg and Cassius quietly drinking juice.
Harry looked away.
He had learned one thing today.
There were two people in Malfoy Family to watch out for.
Not one.
Before, he only guarded against Cassius.
Because Cassius's power was obvious, overwhelming, and terrifying without needing any explanation.
But today, Draco told him with his fists—people from Malfoy Family, whether they have a wand or not, are not to be trifled with.
News spread quickly at the Slytherin table.
By the time dinner ended, half of Slytherin knew that Draco had punched Weasley with his bare hands in the first-floor corridor.
There were several versions—some said Draco punched Ron and sent him flying three meters, some said he used Wandless Magic to freeze Ron before hitting him, and others said Cassius stood by and used magic to pin Harryto the wall while watching his brother fight.
The versions became increasingly outrageous.
But the core message was consistent: it's not just the younger brother of the Malfoy family who can fight.
The older brother can fight too.
It's just that the older brother uses his fists.
Back to the common room after dinner.
Cassius sat back in the silver serpent chair.
Draco sat on the sofa nearby, finally having time to go to the Hospital Wing to treat the wound on his finger—but he didn't go.
He took out his wand from his pocket.
Ten inches, hawthorn wood, Unicorn hair core.
He placed the wand on the armrest of the sofa.
Then he picked up a quill from the table nearby.
He plucked off the nib, leaving a bare feather.
He placed the feather on the coffee table in front of him.
He extended his right hand.
The right hand wrapped in a handkerchief.
His index finger was still seeping blood.
He stared at the feather.
No incantation.
No touching the wand.
Fifteen minutes passed.
The feather didn't move.
Draco didn't give up.
He withdrew his hand, shook his sore wrist, and then extended it again.
Cassius turned a page of his book nearby.
He saw what Draco was doing.
He didn't say anything.
Some things don't need to be said.
Draco was already on the path.
The rest was just a matter of time.
The green fire in the fireplace flickered quietly.
The light of the Black Lake shone through the cracks in the stone wall, casting rippling patterns on the ceiling.
The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual.
No one glanced twice when passing the silver serpent chair.
No one lingered in the sofa area by the coffee table.
The older students consciously cleared a five-meter area in front of the fireplace.
This area now had two masters.
One sat in the silver serpent chair reading.
One sat on the sofa, desperately pushing himself to the limit against a feather.
Chapter 48: Resonance in the Restricted Section
Weekend.
The corridors of Hogwarts were much quieter than usual. On days without classes, most students would either hole up in their common rooms to catch up on homework or head out together to lounge on the lawn by the lake in the direction of Hogsmeade. Only a handful of Ravenclaw"bookworms" would appear at the library entrance promptly on weekend mornings, waiting for Madam Pinceto open the doors as if checking in for attendance.
Cassius was there too.
He arrived ten minutes after the library had opened. Pushing the door open, the air was filled with the aged scent of old parchment mixed with wooden bookshelves—a dry, slightly acidic smell that was as heavy as the history of the Castle itself.
Madam Pince was sitting behind the counter. The moment she looked up and saw the first-year boy with platinum-blonde hair, her expression changed immediately.
It wasn't annoyance. It was vigilance.
The kind of vigilance specific to a librarian spotting a "high-risk reader," a mix of professional instinct and self-preservation. The name Cassius Malfoy had already spread among the staff. The incident in Charms Class where he sent an entire row of tables flying, the twenty-meter vertical jump in Flying Class, the time he forced the portraits in the Principal's office to flee in a panic—these details were repeatedly mentioned in the private conversations of the Professors.
A first-year student capable of making Dumbledore's fingers tremble, walking into a room made entirely of paper and wood.
Madam Pince had reason to be nervous.
Cassius ignored her gaze. He walked straight toward the Charms Class theory shelves in the general section. He wasn't looking for the standard book of spells—those things were no different from literacy primers to him. He was looking for high-level magic theory.
What is the essence of magic? The traditional Wizarding World understood magic as a kind of "innate energy"—however much you were born with is what you have; your wand helps you guide it, your spells help you shape it, and then it produces effects according to a preset path.
But Cassius didn't see it that way.
His [Dual-Soul Furnace] gave him an intuitive grasp of magic that far exceeded the understanding of this world—magic was not a static energy; it was closer to a "programmable force field." Spells and wand-waving motions were essentially an inefficient programming language. It was like doing quantum computing with an abacus—it could calculate, but it was agonizingly slow.
He needed to find a more fundamental theoretical framework.
On the shelves in the general section, he flipped through three books. "Theoretical Foundations of Modern Charms"—too shallow; the entire book was about wand-waving angles and spell pronunciation, not even touching on the concept of magic circuits. "magic and Will: A Research Report"—better, it at least mentioned the possibility of "thought-driven magic," but the conclusion section had been edited out, with a note saying, "This content has been removed by the Ministry of Magic Review Committee due to involvement in dangerous experiments." "magic Consumption Models for Advanced Transfiguration"—somewhat useful; the mathematical models within could be referenced, but it was limited to the field of Transfiguration and lacked general applicability.
Cassius closed the third book and put it back on the shelf.
His gaze turned toward the depths of the library—between the general section and the Restricted Section stood a red isolation rope. The rope was hung between two brass pillars, at about chest height. A small wooden sign hung from the rope, with gold-stamped lettering that read: "Restricted Section—Entry requires a signed permission slip from a Professor."
The bookshelves in the Restricted Section were different from those in the general section. The shelves in the general section were light-colored oak, neat and spaced widely. The shelves in the Restricted Section were dark black walnut, arranged more tightly, with aisles between the shelves narrow enough that only one person could pass through sideways.
The books on the shelves were also different. Some had iron chains wrapped around their spines—those were aggressive books that would bite if not tied down. Some book covers glowed faintly—those were ancient texts with magical seals that required specific unlocking spells to open. There were also a few books trembling gently, as if something living was locked inside.
Cassius walked toward the Restricted Section.
His footsteps were very clear in the quiet library. One step. Two steps. Three steps.
"Mr. Malfoy!"
Madam Pince's voice was like a startled owl—sharp, hurried, and carrying that sense of helplessness that said, "I knew you would do this."
She rushed out from behind the counter, moving with a speed that didn't quite match her age.
"Without a Professor's signature, you cannot enter the Restricted Section! This is school policy! A rule that has existed since the time of Merlin!"
Cassius stopped in front of the isolation rope. He did not step over it.
"I'm just looking at the spines, not borrowing anything."
"Not even the spines! Those books have sensory capabilities; some will scream if they are stared at for more than three seconds—last time a fifth-year student just took an extra look, and that copy of 'The Grand Grimoire of Darkest Curses' screamed for a full hour. It took me half a bottle of Silencing Potion to make it shut up—"
Madam Pince continued to speak. Cassius was no longer listening.
He didn't need to go in.
He didn't need to open those books.
He didn't even need to see the titles.
[Dual-Soul Furnace] switched to high-frequency perception mode. Cassius closed his eyes. His magic, like an extremely thin, invisible veil, diffused outward from his body, crossed the isolation rope, and permeated between the shelves of the Restricted Section.
This was not some profound magic. The principle was simple—most books in the Restricted Section carried powerful magical imprints. These imprints were the "fingerprints" of the book's content—a book recording Dark Arts would have a magical imprint with the specific frequency unique to Dark Arts; a book recording ancient offensive spells would have an imprint frequency that overlapped with the resonance band of offensive magic.
After Cassius's magical veil made contact with these imprints, it would produce an effect similar to "resonant reading"—he couldn't read the content of the books word for word, but he could perceive the core information contained within those magical imprints.
It was like a frequency-modulated radio scanning for channels. Most of the channels were just noise—low-level curses, sacrificial rituals of blood magic, the historical evolution of Unforgivable Curses—these things were of no use to him.
He was looking for a specific frequency band.
Regarding the deconstruction of magic. Regarding how to break a complete spell down into its smallest magical units, and then recombine them into different forms.
Thirty seconds passed.
Forty seconds.
Fifty seconds.
Cassius's perception swept across the bottom layer of the third shelf in the Restricted Section. There, the imprint of one book was different from the others—it was not the chilly frequency of Dark Arts, nor the sharp frequency of curses. Its frequency was stable, structured, and carried a strong sense of mathematical logic.
"Advanced magic Deconstruction and Destructive Reconstruction."
Cassius didn't need to see the title. The frequency of the imprint had already told him the core content of this book—it studied how to dismantle the structure of conventional magic, and then reassemble it in a more violent, more efficient way.
This was exactly what he was looking for.
His mind locked onto the magical imprint of that book and began to extract information from it at high speed. It wasn't a full-text copy—that was impossible; at such a distance, he could only extract the most core theoretical framework within the imprint, which had been intentionally reinforced by the author.
Information poured into his mind like a stream of water.
Fragmented. Incoherent. But it was enough.
Chapter 49: You are peeking at the Restricted Section
"...The pre-casting incantation for traditional spells accounts for more than sixty percent of the total casting time, because the spell itself bears the dual functions of 'direction' and'shaping'. If these two functions could be stripped from the linguistic level and transferred to the pure mental control level..."
"...Theory of Fragmented magic Output: Split the release of a complete spell into multiple small-equivalent magicpulses. Each pulse carries ten to twenty percent of the energy of the original spell, but the release frequency is increased to five to eight times per second. The total output remains unchanged, but the suppression effect is increased exponentially..."
"...Warning: Fragmented output places extremely high demands on the caster's magic circuits. Attempting this method without wand guidance may lead to magic circuit overload, meridian damage, or even permanent loss of casting ability. The author of this book suffered a ruptured magic circuit in his left arm during the seventeenth experiment, which has yet to recover..."
Cassius pieced these fragments together in his mind.
He automatically filtered out the warning section. His magic circuits were not the single-line structure of an ordinary Wizard—the [Dual-Soul Furnace] granted him a dual-core parallel circuit system, with a load-bearing capacity dozens of times that of a normal Wizard. If an ordinary person played with fragmented output, they would blow their meridians; he would not.
It was like connecting a household wire to an industrial-grade substation; a normal person's wires would burn out, but his cables were aerospace-grade.
He began to build a model in his mind.
A "Magic Gatling" output model.
Core logic: Break the complete release of Reducto into continuous, small-equivalent magic pulses. Each pulse is independently formed, independently released, and independently hits. Cancel spell incantations, cancel wand guidance, pure mental drive.
Frequency target: More than ten shots per second.
Equivalent target: The destructive power of each pulse is equivalent to thirty percent of a Reducto cast at full power by an ordinary Wizard.
Ten shots stacked—three hundred percent of the Reductoequivalent. Per second.
Cassius ran a simulation in his mind. Theoretically feasible. But it required actual testing.
Just as he was concentrating on deducing the folding path of the magic circuits, a sound came from the direction of the Restricted Section.
Very light.
The sound of a book falling.
"Thud."
It wasn't that a book inside the Restricted Section had fallen on its own—those books were chained; they couldn't fall. The sound came from the boundary between the Restricted Section and the regular area. On the other side of the isolation rope.
Cassius opened his eyes.
His magic perception hadn't fully retracted while he was deducing with his eyes closed—it was still scattered within the range of the Restricted Section. So, the moment he heard the sound, he had already locked onto its source.
The other side of the bookshelf. The last row of the regular area.
Someone was standing there.
Cassius cast his gaze toward the gap in the bookshelf—there was an interval of about three centimeters between the two books—from this angle, he saw a small slice of the scene opposite.
A fluffy brown head.
A pair of wide, amber eyes.
Hermione Granger.
Hermione was standing behind the bookshelf, holding a copy of "Hogwarts: A History".
She had already read this book at least three times. The first time was during the summer holiday before school started—her mother had bought it for her at Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley; she spent two and a half days finishing it, then spent another three days making twenty pages of reading notes. The second time was on the Hogwarts Express—she had remarked the key chapters of the entire book. The third time was now—she had originally come to look up the chapter on the architectural structure of Hogwarts Castle, because she suspected that something was hidden in that restricted area in the corridor on the right side of the third floor.
But she stopped halfway through her search.
Because she saw Cassius Malfoy.
She had noticed him ten minutes ago. She was sitting at a small table next to the last row of bookshelves in the regular area—this was her fixed spot in the library, quiet, secluded, and furthest from Madam Pince, making it hard to be disturbed.
She first heard Madam Pince's shriek. Then she peeked over and saw that Slytherin boy with platinum-blonde hair standing in front of the isolation rope of the Restricted Section.
Then a strange thing happened.
Cassius closed his eyes.
Hermione initially thought he was daydreaming. But after a few seconds, she noticed a detail—a few books in the Restricted Section began to glow.
Not all the books. Just a few specific ones.
The most obvious one was a thick book on the lower shelf of the third row on the left—a dark brown leather cover, not tied with iron chains—its spine began to emit a faint, pale red fluorescence. That kind of light didn't come from the book itself—Hermione had been in the library for so many days and had never seen that book glow.
That book was responding to Cassius.
Hermione's heart beat faster. She stood up involuntarily and walked around to the row of bookshelves closer to the Restricted Section. She stood on tiptoe, observing Cassiusthrough the gap in the bookshelf.
She saw more details.
There was a layer of something almost invisible around Cassius—not light, not mist—it was more like the air itself was causing a slight refraction around his body. Just like heat waves on asphalt in summer, making the lines of the background slightly distorted.
That was magic.
Hermione had read a description of this in Chapter 4 of "Introduction to magic Theory": "When the magic released by a Wizard exceeds the carrying threshold of the ambient air, the magic will produce a refractive effect on light, causing visible air distortion. This phenomenon is extremely rare in ordinary Wizards and usually only appears during large-scale magic rituals or the full-power casting process of top-tier Wizards."
A first-year student standing in the library, eyes closed, could make the air produce visible magic refraction.
Hermione's hand trembled.
"Hogwarts: A History" slipped from her hand.
"Thud."
The book hit the floor. The sound was particularly harsh in the quiet library.
As Hermione crouched down to pick up the book, a voice came from the opposite side—
"Granger."
Hermione's back stiffened. She slowly stood up, clutching the book, and walked around the end of the bookshelf.
Cassius had already turned to face her. His eyes were open, and no emotion could be seen in his gray-blue pupils. It wasn't indifference—it was the calmness of "I've known you were there for a long time, but I don't care."
There was a distance of about four meters and a red isolation rope between the two of them.
Hermione's brain was running at high speed. What she had just seen was enough for her to draw a few conclusions.
First, Cassius had read the contents of the Restricted Section using some unknown method of magic perception without touching the books in the Restricted Section.
Second, the books in the Restricted Section had a resonant reaction to him—this meant his magic frequency and the seal frequency of those high-level magic books were in the same range.
Third, either of these two things, if known by Madam Pinceor any Professor, would be enough to get him called to the Principal's office for investigation.
Hermione was a rule-follower. In her cognitive system, school rules must be obeyed, the isolation rope of the Restricted Section must not be crossed, and a first-year student had no reason to touch those books.
But she was also a knowledge-seeker.
And the thirst for knowledge was stronger than the instinct to follow rules at this moment.
"You are peeking at the Restricted Section." Hermionespoke up. Her voice was kept very low—she didn't want Madam Pince to hear. But her tone was serious, carrying a sense of "I caught you" tension.
"I didn't even reach my hand over the isolation rope." Cassius glanced at her and turned to leave.
"But this is against the rules!" Hermione took a step forward. Her voice was a little louder than before—curiosity was overcoming caution. "And what kind of magicdid you just use? Those books were responding to you! That book on the lower shelf of the third row—it glowed! I saw it with my own eyes!"
Cassius stopped in his tracks.
He looked back at Hermione.
Hermione Granger. Muggle-born. First in the first year—at least in terms of exam scores. Her reserve of magic theory knowledge was roughly equivalent to that of an average third-year student, and her precision in practical operation was unmatched among first-years.
But she had a fatal flaw.
She believed in books too much.
"Rules are made for those who need to be protected." Cassius said.
Hermione frowned. She didn't agree with the logic of this sentence, but she didn't have time to argue—because she had a more important question to ask.
"What did you say?"
"The isolation rope of the Restricted Section is to protect ordinary students from being harmed by those books. Some books bite, some books release curses, and some books affect the mind. These protective measures are not to restrict anyone—it's because most people really will get hurt if they touch those books."
Cassius paused.
"But I won't."
Chapter 50: The Wilderness Without a Map
Hermione opened her mouth. She wanted to say "That won't do," "Rules are rules," or "You should follow them regardless of whether you'll get hurt." But these words swirled on her lips, only to be pushed aside by another question.
"How exactly did you do that?" Hermione stared into Cassius's eyes. "Three bookshelves away, without casting a spell, without touching the books—how could you read their contents? Professor Flitwick said that the maximum effective range for magical perception is no more than five meters, and it can only detect the presence and intensity of magic, not specific information—"
"Flitwick was talking about the limits of an ordinary Wizard." Cassius interrupted her.
Hermione's words caught in her throat.
"Granger, you've read so many books, haven't you noticed a problem?"
"What problem?"
"The incantation wind-up for modern spells is too long."
Hermione was stunned.
Wind-up.
This term wasn't part of the Wizarding world's terminology, but Hermione understood what it meant—the time required to prepare a spell. The interval between a Wizard raising their wand, starting the incantation, and the magic forming and being released.
She had indeed noticed this problem. In Professor Flitwick's Charms Class, casting a complete Levitation Charm—"Wingardium Leviosa"—took about two seconds. During these two seconds, the Wizard had to complete three actions: waving the wand (shaping), chanting the incantation (directing), and focusing their mind (injecting magic).
Two seconds.
In daily practice, two seconds was nothing. But in actual combat—Hermione had read many books about Wizardduels—a two-second wind-up was enough for an opponent to cast three or four spells. It was a matter of efficiency.
Hermione's brain was ignited. Her eyes lit up—the kind of light unique to a top student encountering a brand-new theoretical framework, a mixture of excitement and a desire to verify it.
"But that's to ensure casting stability!" The words blurted out of Hermione. This was the standard answer in the textbooks. She could quote the original text without needing to think: "the standard book of spells, Chapter 2, Section 4: 'The phonetic vibration of the incantation and the physical movement of the wand together constitute a dual-insurance mechanism for the release of magic. Any attempt to skip one of these steps will lead to instability in magical output; at best, the spell will fail, and at worst, the magicwill spiral out of control and explode.'"
She recited the passage in one breath. Then she added, "If you don't chant the incantation according to the standard syllables, the magic will lose control. This is basic common sense. Every first-year student is told this in their first class."
Cassius looked at her.
The way he looked at Hermione was different from how he looked at Flint or Ron. When looking at Flint, his eyes held "ants." When looking at Ron, his eyes held "indifference." When looking at Hermione, there was a trace—very faint, almost imperceptible—of seriousness in his eyes. Not admiration. Not respect. It was the seriousness of "you are worth a few extra words."
"Explosions are exactly the point."
Hermione's expression froze.
"What?"
"You said that not chanting according to the standard leads to magic losing control and exploding." Cassius took a step forward. He was about the same height as Hermione, and they looked at each other eye-to-eye. "Then let me ask you—what if a Wizard could control the direction of the explosion?"
Hermione's mouth opened slightly.
"Compressing uncontrolled explosions into targeted firepower coverage." Cassius's voice was not loud. Madam Pince was flipping through the borrowing logbook behind the counter and did not notice the conversation here. "Cancel the wind-up. Cancel the wand waving. Cancel the incantation. Keep only the most core element—the burst and direction of magic."
"This is the most efficient form of magic."
Hermione stood where she was.
Her mouth was open. The gears in her brain were spinning wildly—but not in the way of "I understand," but in the way of "my entire theoretical framework is being forcibly dismantled."
She had been studying magic for over a month. From "the standard book of spells" to "Introduction to Transfiguration," from "Introduction to Magical Theory" to "History of Magic"—she had worn out every textbook, memorized every knowledge point, and held every rule as sacred.
With three sentences, Cassius had erected a sign in front of her that read: Everything you believe in might just be inefficient nonsense.
"That's impossible." Hermione shook her head. Her voice was a bit urgent—not the urgency of anger, but the urgency of her theoretical framework instinctively trying to repair itself after being impacted. "If one can cast spells without incantations and wands, then why does Hogwartsteach us to chant? Why does every Wizard use a wand? Why—"
"Because most Wizards can't do it." Cassius said bluntly. "Chanting and waving a wand are auxiliary tools for Wizards who lack sufficient magical power or precise control. Just like glasses are for people with nearsightedness—if your eyes are fine, why would you wear glasses?"
Hermione closed her mouth.
She wanted to refute him. Her logical training told her there was a problem with this analogy—wands and glasses were not the same thing; the amplification effect of wands on magic had been rigorously verified by experiments, not simply "auxiliary."
But at the same time, she remembered something.
Charms Class.
The day Professor Flitwick had the whole class practice the Levitation Charm. All the students were waving wands and chanting, the feathers flying crookedly—she had been the first in the class to succeed, which had made her very proud.
But what did Cassius do in that class?
He lifted his index finger.
No wand. No incantation. The feather shot straight to the ceiling. Clean and neat. Without any unnecessary movement.
Professor Flitwick fell off his stack of books on the spot.
Hermione remembered that scene. She remembered how she felt at the time—not jealousy, not fear. It was confusion. A deep, profound confusion that touched the very foundation of her cognition.
If a person could release magic perfectly without a wand or incantation—then what was the point of the standard pronunciation, the standard wand movements, and the standard casting procedures she had spent countless hours practicing?
Hermione stopped speaking.
Cassius didn't say anything more either. He had already said what needed to be said. He turned and walked toward the library exit.
His leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the wooden floor.
Hermione watched his back. His platinum-blonde hair had a cold sheen in the light streaming through the window. The green Slytherin school robe sat neatly and smoothly on him. Seen from behind, he was no different from any other first-year boy.
But Hermione knew that wasn't the case.
She stood where she was until Cassius's figure disappeared outside the library door.
Then she ran back to her seat, almost sprinting.
She opened the copy of "the standard book of spells" that was already filled with notes, and turned to Chapter 2, Section 4—the passage she had just recited to Cassius.
She read that passage again.
"The phonetic vibration of the incantation and the physical movement of the wand together constitute a dual-insurance mechanism for the release of magic. Any attempt to skip one of these steps will lead to instability in magical output; at best, the spell will fail, and at worst, the magicwill spiral out of control and explode."
Hermione stared at the six characters "magic spiral out of control and explode." Then, Cassius's voice echoed in her mind—"Explosions are exactly the point."
Hermione slowly put the book down.
She took a blank notebook and a quill out of her bag. She wrote a line on the first page of the new notebook.
The handwriting wasn't very neat—because her hand was trembling. Not from fear. From excitement. The kind of pure, uncontrollable excitement that only a top student feels when discovering a completely unknown continent outside the realm of known knowledge.
What she wrote was:
"Question: If magic spiraling out of control and exploding can be directionally compressed, then is the existence of incantations and wands merely an inefficient compromise? Needs verification."
She drew two lines under the words "Needs verification." The library returned to silence. Madam Pince yawned behind the counter. The sunlight outside the window moved from the east to the south, casting longer shadows on the floor.
Hermione opened a new reference book—"Advanced Magical Theory and Controversies"—and began to search frantically.
She was looking for something.
Evidence that could refute Cassius's theory.
Or—evidence that could prove he was right.
In Hermione Granger's eleven years of life, this was the first time she had hoped she was wrong.
Because if Cassius was right—if magic could truly be freed from the shackles of incantations and wands—then what would unfold before her would not be a safe, railed path marked out in textbooks.
It would be a wilderness without a map.
Hermione Granger hated wildernesses without maps.
But she hated something even more, far more than she hated the wilderness: not knowing what was in that wilderness.