Chapter 71: Acromantula Lair
Cassius did not speak immediately.
His gaze lingered on Ophelia's face for two extra seconds. This girl's emotional intelligence was far above her peers. She knew that lying in front of Cassius was the stupidest choice. Therefore, she chose to be transparent—whatever you ask, I answer, without giving a single extra word.
But this sophistication added a layer of vigilance to Cassius.
People who are too smart are always the hardest to predict in terms of motivation.
He did not withdraw the overflowing magic pressure field within his body. That invisible weight radiated from where he sat, enveloping all space within three meters. Under this pressure, Ophelia's breathing rhythm quickened slightly, but she controlled her expression well.
"The Shafiq family has some channels in Knockturn Alley."
Ophelia continued. Her speaking speed was a little faster than before, but her articulation remained clear.
"Ordinary dragon hide is too heavy. If you want something lightweight and tough—"
She paused for a moment.
"Acromantula silk in the Forbidden Forest is the best choice."
Cassius leaned back against the chair.
Acromantula silk.
It coincided perfectly with his own judgment.
The Acromantula is one of the most dangerous species in the Forbidden Forest. Their silk—especially the core silk deep within their abdominal glands—possesses magic resistance and heat resistance far exceeding that of dragon hide. More importantly, the diameter of the core silk is only one-third that of ordinary silk, yet its flexibility is twenty times that of dragon hide.
It is the perfect material for making close-fitting inner armor.
He had this judgment based on the data in Chapter 9 of "Industrial Applications of Magical Creature Derivative Materials."
That Ophelia Shafiq could reach the same conclusion meant she wasn't just guessing. She had done her homework.
Cassius withdrew a portion of his released magic pressure field. Not because of trust. It was because the information she provided was indeed valuable. Under the premise that this information was clearly useful, maintaining high pressure was an unnecessary waste.
"What do you want?"
Cassius asked.
Socializing between pure-blood families is essentially an exchange of interests. No one hands over intelligence for free. Especially the Shafiq family—a family whose core asset is a gray intelligence network. Intelligence is their currency.
Ophelia looked at him.
First year. Eleven years old. He was a bit taller than his peers, but still had a child's physique. Sitting on that silver serpent chair, his legs couldn't even fully touch the ground.
But what he exuded had nothing to do with his age.
That cold, pragmatic sense.
That attitude of "I don't need you to like me, and I don't care if you fear me, but if you have something in your hand, say it straight."
Ophelia had been in Slytherin for three years. She had seen the stupid methods of Flint, who relied on fists and shouting to establish authority. She had also seen those clever people in the upper years who were skilled at calculation and maneuvering.
But she had never seen a person who could fuse "absolute violence" and "absolute rationality" into the same body without contradiction.
This person didn't need to form cliques. Didn't need to bestow favors. Didn't need anyone's following or loyalty.
But he would sooner or later reach that position.
Not because he wanted power.
Because all the strength of everyone else combined was not enough to withstand the magic output of one of his hands.
Ophelia made a decision.
She had thought about this decision for a long time. Ever since the day Flint was crushed in the common room for the first time, she had started thinking about it.
"The Shafiq family has always been attached to the House of Malfoy." She said.
This was a fact. In the era of Lord Voldemort's first rise, the Shafiq family was the periphery of the House of Malfoy in Knockturn Alley. Later, Lucius cleaned up his image and entered the core circle of the Ministry of Magic, while the Shafiq family continued to operate underground channels. The relationship between the two families was an unequal but mutually beneficial dependency.
"I just want to pledge my loyalty in advance to the future King of Slytherin."
Ophelia bowed slightly. Her posture was proper, her tone sincere.
Not acting.
Or rather, if this was acting, the acting skills had reached a level where it was almost impossible to distinguish truth from falsehood.
Cassius let out a scoff.
Short. Cold.
"Spare me this nonsense."
He stood up.
The cushion on the silver serpent chair sank slightly due to his movement of standing up, then slowly rebounded.
He was more than half a head shorter than Ophelia. But the moment he stood up, the magic field naturally overflowing from his body spread out like a tide. Ophelia felt the stone slabs under her feet trembling extremely faintly.
Not a threat.
Just a side effect brought about by his mere existence.
"I accept the intelligence."
Cassius walked around the low table towards the dormitory.
"Don't play these little tricks in front of me again."
His voice came from behind.
He did not look back.
The sound of leather shoes stepping on the stone slabs faded away step by step. Regular, steady, without unnecessary pauses.
A door slammed at the end of the corridor towards the dormitory.
Then it was quiet.
Ophelia stood in place.
She looked down at the cup of jasmine tea on the low table that had gone cold. She reached out and took the teacup back.
The movement was light.
She was not angry.
The corners of her mouth even curled up slightly. A tiny amplitude. If it weren't for being close enough, it would be impossible to notice.
She had anticipated this result.
Cassius Malfoy was not the kind of person who would be bought off by a cup of tea, a pledge of loyalty, and a piece of intelligence. If he were, then he wouldn't be worth her placing this bet.
The more decisively he refused, the higher his value.
Ophelia turned around with the teacup and walked towards the girls' dormitory.
When passing by the fireplace, she noticed a pair of eyes watching her in the corner.
Daphne Greengrass.
Second year. Eldest daughter of the Greengrass family. Golden-brown hair, oval face, with a coldness between her brows that didn't match her age. She was holding a book, but the pages hadn't been turned for at least five minutes.
Daphne's gaze collided with Ophelia's.
The two girls looked at each other for less than a second.
Then each looked away.
Ophelia walked into the depths of the corridor. The sound of footsteps disappeared into the echoes of the stone walls.
Daphne lowered her head and looked at the book in her hand again.
She turned a page.
But her attention was not on the words.
She was thinking about the extremely faint but impossible-to-ignore magical residue that filled the corridor when Cassius left just now. That power, even thirty seconds after he left, still covered the air in the common room like an invisible film.
Heavy.
Scorching.
Like standing next to a volcano that could erupt at any moment.
Daphne turned another page.
This time, she was really reading the book.
But the line of text she read, she didn't remember even after reading it three times.
—
Slytherin boys' dormitory.
Cassius closed the door.
The dormitory was dark. The green wall lamps cast a faint light on the stone walls. Draco sat on his bed with the feather on his knees.
He was practicing.
His finger pointed at the feather. The calloused scar under his right index finger was tightening.
Hearing the door sound, Draco lifted his head slightly.
"Where did you go?"
"The library."
Cassius walked to his bed and sat down. He pulled the folded parchment from under his pillow. He unfolded it and continued to look at the circuit diagram he had drawn in the morning.
"How long did you practice today?"
"Two hours." There was fatigue in Draco's voice, and also a bit of pride that he was embarrassed to admit. "Six centimeters. Two seconds."
One centimeter more, one second more than yesterday.
"Continue."
Cassius spread the paper on the table. He drew a new auxiliary line at the junction between the second quadrant and the fourth quadrant.
The core silk of the Acromantula.
Ophelia's intelligence was consistent with his judgment. This path was viable.
But he would not get the silk through the Shafiq family's channels.
Too slow. Too many intermediate links. Every extra link meant an extra risk of information leakage.
He would go himself.
Forbidden Forest.
Nighttime.
Cassius wrote a line of text in the blank space of the parchment.
"Within this week. Nighttime excursion. Target: Deep Forbidden Forest. Acromantula Lair. Obtain core silk."
He folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.
He looked up at the window.
There were no windows in the basement. But he could judge the weather outside by the changes in the brightness of the wall lamps. The light was dim, indicating clouds in the sky.
On cloudy nights, the moonlight would be blocked.
Suitable for travel.
Cassius closed his eyes.
The Dual-Soul Furnace in his body switched to low-consumption standby mode.
Hum—
An extremely low resonant frequency flowed slowly through his meridians.
He was waiting for dark.
Chapter 72 Quidditch First Match
The second Saturday of November.
The Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch was shivering in the wind.
The four towering house banners were blown into the shape of crucian carp tails, flapping loudly.
The stands were packed with students; red, green, blue, and yellow scarves divided into four color blocks.
The Gryffindor side was the loudest; the Weasley Twinshad somehow acquired an enlarged copper megaphone and were shouting cheers at the top of their lungs.
Cassius sat with Draco at the very top of the Slytherinstands.
This spot was not chosen by him.
It was vacated by others.
From the moment he stepped onto the stairs, students within a five-meter radius spontaneously moved to the sides.
No one needed a reminder, no one needed a hint.
This had become a conditioned reflex for the entire Slytherin house—keeping a distance from Cassius Malfoywas not out of politeness, but out of survival instinct.
Crabbe and Goyle crouched under the steps like two grey roadblocks.
They didn't even watch the match.
Their heads turned left and right, staring at everyone who tried to walk up to the top level.
The wind was very strong today.
The collar of Cassius' school robe was puffed up by the wind.
He kept his hands in his pockets, squinting slightly.
Not because of the wind and sand, but because he was adjusting his visual mode.
The Dual-Soul Furnace inside his body switched to perception mode.
Extremely low power, consuming almost no magic.
But it was enough to cause a qualitative change in his vision.
The entire pitch was no longer just ordinary grass and stands in his eyes.
Every living organism turned into a colored light source.
The students were dull, warm tones, and the figures on the Professor's bench were brighter clusters of light—Professor McGonagall was a steady deep gold, Flitwickwas a flickering light blue, and Hagrid was a large mass of murky earth-yellow.
Dumbledore did not come.
The Principal's seat was empty.
Cassius noticed this, but didn't care.
It was normal for Dumbledore not to watch Quidditch.
The old man spent his energy on more important things.
"How fast do you think Potter can fly?"
Draco's voice came from the right.
He gripped the railing with both hands, leaning forward, his neck stretched long.
His eyes were fixed on the Gryffindor team flying around the field.
The red uniforms were very conspicuous under the grey, gloomy sky.
Harry Potter was riding that nimbus 2000, gliding at low speed around the edge of the pitch.
His posture was very low, his chest almost touching the broom handle, like a red swallow floating in the air.
"That depends on his broom, not him," Cassius replied.
His gaze did not linger on Harry.
He was watching the teachers' stand.
Quirrell was sitting in the last row.
Wrapped in that purple turban, huddled between Hagridand Professor Sprout.
His sitting posture was stiff, both hands resting on his knees, fingers interlaced.
From a distance, he looked like a devout believer at worship.
But what Cassius saw was not this.
He saw the black aura inside Quirrell.
It was a bit thicker than the last time he saw it.
Not much, about a 5% to 8% recovery amount.
After the Troll incident, the remnant soul of Lord Voldemort was scared by the power released by Cassiusand shrunk into a black dot that almost disappeared.
But this thing was ultimately a soul fragment of the Dark Lord.
As long as the host was alive, and as long as there was Unicorn blood to extend its life, it would slowly recover.
Now it had recovered to just over 60%.
Not high.
But enough to perform some remote, secret operations.
For example—messing with a flying broom.
Cassius withdrew his perception.
He knew very well what would happen today.
And he also knew very well that he would not interfere.
"The match is about to start," Draco tugged at Cassius' sleeve.
On the lawn below the stands, Madam Hooch walked to the center of the pitch.
She held the crate containing the Quaffle in her arms.
The silver whistle dangled in the wind.
The two teams were already in position in their respective halves.
On the Gryffindor side, Wood guarded in front of the three hoops, his expression tense.
Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet flanked him.
The Weasley Twins each held a Beater's bat, baring their teeth and making faces toward the Slytherin side.
Harry flew at the highest point, circling alone.
On the Slytherin side, Flint was riding a bulky cleansweep seven, leading his team in a wedge formation.
His buck teeth—to be precise, the fake buck teeth that were smashed by Cassius with a pumpkin juice bottle on the train and reattached with magic—were bared in the cold wind, looking even uglier than before.
The whistle blew.
Fifteen brooms shot up from the ground.
The moment the Quaffle was thrown into the air, the Gryffindor stands erupted in deafening cheers.
Lee Jordan's commentary spread across the entire pitch from the magical megaphone.
"—Johnson has the red Quaffle! She's rushing towards the goal! Watch out—Flint is blocking her—that's a foul! He elbowed her in the face! Referee!"
Madam Hooch's whistle blew sharply.
Penalty shot.
Gryffindor scored first.
Flint was cursing in the air.
Cassius watched Flint's rough flying posture.
His upper body was completely uncoordinated, his left shoulder an inch higher than his right, all his center of gravity pressed onto the front third of the broom.
Every turn looked like he was wrestling with the broom.
"An idiot who only knows how to use brute force," Cassiuscommented.
Draco was watching intently.
Hearing this, he turned his head.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"But... you also rely entirely on strength when you fight," he muttered softly.
The voice was very low.
Low enough that it was clearly intended not to be heard clearly by his brother.
But Cassius heard it clearly.
He glanced at Draco coldly.
Draco's neck shrank instinctively.
"That is a high-efficiency killing technique combining physical kinetic energy with magic compression," Cassius' tone was flat.
"What he's doing is throwing a tantrum like a wild boar."
"...Oh."
Draco obediently shut his mouth.
The match continued.
Flint had clearly made preparations before the match.
The core of Slytherin's tactics was just one word—bump.
The three Chasers took turns making rough physical collisions with Gryffindor's offensive line, completely disregarding fouls.
As soon as the Quaffle was in the opponent's hands, Flintwould rush over like an out-of-control bull, using his own weight and the broom's speed to forcefully knock people away.
Dirty.
But effective.
Gryffindor's three Chasers were all on the thin side.
Being bumped round after round by Flint, their offensive momentum clearly slowed down.
The score was 60 to 30, Slytherin had overtaken them.
"This kind of playstyle from Flint really can take advantage in low-level matches," Cassius muttered to himself.
His attention was not really on the match.
He was observing the teachers' stand.
Snape was sitting in the second row.
His black robes were wrapped tightly, his arms crossed over his chest.
His lips didn't move, but his eyes—from beginning to end—kept staring at Harry Potter.
Not appreciation.
Not anticipation.
It was surveillance.
Snape was guarding against something.
Cassius looked in the direction of Snape's gaze.
Harry was circling at the highest point of the pitch.
He hadn't found the Golden Snitch yet.
Several minutes passed.
The score became 70 to 50.
Slytherin's advantage was expanding.
But this was not important.
As long as Harry caught the Snitch, the 150-point reward could instantly turn the tide.
Then—
Cassius felt it.
Not seen.
Felt.
The Dual-Soul Furnace in his body was extremely sensitive to that kind of decaying, dark magical fluctuation.
Just like a shark smelling blood in the water.
A thread of extremely thin, cold black magic shot out from the direction of the last row of the teachers' stand.
Invisible to the naked eye.
Everyone present—including McGonagall and Flitwick—did not notice.
But Cassius saw it.
That thread of magic was like an invisible spider silk, traversing the distance of half the pitch, precisely winding around Harry's nimbus 2000.
Quirrell.
Cassius cast his gaze toward the last row.
Quirrell's posture hadn't changed.
Still that same look of a hunched neck, hands crossed.
But his lips—mostly hidden by the shadow of the turban—were opening and closing with extremely minute movements.
A hex.
A continuous casting type of long-range hex.
It required the caster to maintain eye contact and uninterrupted spell maintenance.
Half a second later, a gasp came from above the pitch.
Harry's broom began to twitch violently.
Chapter 73: Broomstick Turmoil
The nimbus 2000 seemed to have its tail gripped by an invisible hand.
It shuddered violently in the air, then began to sway irregularly from side to side. The amplitude grew larger and larger. Harry clung tightly to the broomstick handle, his legs clamped shut, his knuckles white from the effort.
His body was flung back and forth. Every time the broom lurched to the left, the right side of his body hung suspended in mid-air, losing support. Every time the broom swerved sharply to the right, his foot slipped more than halfway off the footrest.
The cheering in the stands vanished.
It was replaced by screams.
In the Gryffindor stands, Angelina covered her mouth with both hands. Lee Jordan's commentary voice changed pitch: "Potter's broom is having trouble! His nimbus 2000—it's—it's moving on its own!"
Hagrid stood up from his seat. His massive size blocked the view of the three rows of people behind him. He raised his binoculars to his eyes, the lenses creaking under the pressure of his thick fingers.
"That broom isn't right." Hagrid lowered his voice to the lowest volume he could manage, but it still sounded like thunder. "A nimbus 2000 shouldn't be like this—unless—unless someone is messing with it!"
Draco also stood up.
His hands rested on the railing, his body leaning forward, staring at the precarious red figure in mid-air.
"Is his broom malfunctioning?" Draco asked.
Cassius did not answer.
He did not need binoculars.
His eyes had already pierced the distance across the entire pitch, locking onto two people in the teachers' stands.
The first was Quirrell.
Quirrell sat bolt upright. This was completely different from his usual timid posture. His gaze was nailed to the struggling Harry in mid-air, his lips moving rapidly. That invisible thread of black magic extended continuously from his direction, like the tentacle of a parasite, tightly adhering to the handle of the nimbus 2000.
The second was Snape.
Snape was also staring at Harry.
His lips were moving too.
But he was not casting Dark Arts. Cassius saw that the magic shooting from Snape's direction was of a different frequency—the color was a dark grey, the fluctuations stable, as if attempting to counteract some external interference.
A counter-curse.
Snape was casting a counter-curse.
Two distinct types of magic were tearing and wrestling over the nimbus 2000. This was the reason the broom was convulsing so violently—it was simultaneously bearing spells from two directions.
"Someone is hexing him." Cassius spoke up.
Draco turned his head sharply. "Who? Who would dare do such a thing right under the noses of so many teachers?"
Cassius gestured with his chin toward the direction of the teachers' stands.
"This is the tragedy of the weak." His voice was faint.
"To entrust one's life to others, and then rely on unreliable external objects like a broomstick to hang in mid-air. Every lifeline is exposed. Anyone with even a little ability can snap it with a reach of their hand."
Draco's mouth opened slightly.
He watched Harry, who was desperately clinging to the broomstick in mid-air, then looked back at Cassius.
He remembered those days in the dungeon struggling with wandless magic. The pain of cracked fingernails. The despair of the feather refusing to float. And that cold, tear-inducing sentence from Cassius— "What do you have left after taking away the wand?"
Now he understood. Potter was riding the best student-level broom in all of Britain, his technique impeccable. But his life was being toyed with in the palm of someone else's hand. Just because his entire capability was built upon a wooden stick that could be manipulated by external forces.
"You made me practice wandless magic… just to avoid this situation." Draco's voice lowered.
Cassius did not respond.
Such things did not need an answer. Draco figuring it out for himself was more useful than him saying it a hundred times.
The situation on the pitch was worsening.
Harry's broom began to roll. Not just swaying left and right, but the entire broom was doing a 360-degree barrel roll. One of Harry's hands had already slipped off. He only had one hand left gripping the broomstick, his whole body dangling in the air like a flag torn by the wind.
It was about sixty feet from the ground.
Falling from this height, one would either die or be crippled.
Madam Hooch below was blowing her whistle in a panic several times. But she was a referee, not a lifeguard. Her flying skills were average, and she had no way to safely catch a falling student in such chaos.
The Gryffindor stands were in complete chaos.
The Weasley Twins had already mounted their brooms and flown beneath Harry, attempting to catch him when he fell. But the amplitude of Harry's broom's convulsions was too great, rising and falling, making it impossible to predict from which direction he would fall.
Wood was red in the face with anxiety in front of the goalposts.
Lee Jordan's commentary had turned into hysterical screaming: "Someone do something! Someone help him!"
Cassius leaned against the railing.
His expression was calm.
Not indifferent. It was a composure that came from having already calculated everything and knowing the outcome with certainty.
He did not intend to intervene today.
The reason was simple.
Although Quirrell's hex was malicious, it was not lethal enough. The biggest weakness of this kind of long-range, continuous disruption curse was that it required the caster to maintain eye contact throughout the process. As long as someone interrupted Quirrell's attention—even if it was just making him blink, trip, or sneeze—the spell would be interrupted immediately.
And Snape was already casting a counter-curse. Although Dumbledore was not on the pitch, given the degree of importance he placed on Harry, it was impossible that he didn't have any contingencies.
Moreover—
Cassius's gaze swept across the opposite Gryffindorstands.
Behind the crowd. On the side of the steps.
A brown head was moving against the flow of the crowd.
Hermione Granger.
She was hunched over, her two hands shielding the wand in front of her chest, desperately squeezing between the crowded stands seats. Her direction was not toward the pitch, but toward the bottom of the stands—the narrow path leading to the teachers' seats.
She was still clutching Hagrid's binoculars in her hand.
It seemed she had borrowed the binoculars to observe the teachers' seats and discovered Snape's abnormality. Of course, with Hermione's current level of understanding, she likely mistook Snape for the caster. This judgment was wrong.
But the direction of her action was correct—to interrupt the person she believed to be casting the malicious curse. Given Hermione's character, she wouldn't just stand there and watch. She would act. Even if the target was wrong, at least she had the courage to do it.
Among those in Gryffindor who only knew how to scream and stare blankly, she was the first—and the only one—who chose to act.
And not Harry's good friend Ron Weasley.
Cassius thought of this.
It was ironic. After the Troll incident, the relationship between Hermione and Harry and Ron did not become the golden trio as it would have in the normal trajectory. It was not them who saved her. It was Draco Malfoy who stood in front of her at the entrance of the girls' bathroom. It was Cassius Malfoy who beat the Troll into a pulp.
Hermione had a sense of belonging to Gryffindor, but she had not built that kind of life-and-death trust with those two boys.
Chapter 74: The Trio Gone Astray
She was in a rather delicate state right now—in the Gryffindor dormitory, her relationship with the other girls was polite but distant; she had had a few brief conversations with Harry, but they couldn't be called close; as for Ron... after Ron said she was a "Know-it-all monster," the rift between the two was even deeper than before.
Yet, at this moment, the girl was risking being trampled, desperately squeezing through the crowd to offer help.
It was not for friendship.
It was because she believed it was the right thing to do.
"Quite bold," Cassius said softly.
Draco did not hear clearly. "What?"
"Nothing."
Cassius pulled his right hand out of his pocket.
He flicked his index finger casually in the direction of the staff stand.
The movement was minimal. To an outsider, it looked just like flicking away a speck of dust.
An invisible, extremely thin line of magic slid out along the ground. It passed through the grass, through the wooden structure of the stands, and was precisely laid on the aisle of the last row of the staff stand.
Height: ankle.
Form: tripwire.
This was not an aggressive line of magic. It was too thin, so thin that even Snape might not notice it immediately. It had only one function—to trip someone when they passed by.
Cassius did not intend to help Harry.
He also did not intend to expose Quirrell.
He only needed to ensure that Hermione's action could succeed. Hermione would go to interrupt Snape. Once interrupted, Snape would pause the counter-curse. The chaos in the staff stand would affect Quirrell. If Quirrellhappened to be bumped by someone in the chaos... combined with that inconspicuous tripwire under his feet...
The connection of the jinx would break.
Harry would regain his balance on his own.
And then everything would continue as usual.
No one would know who the real caster was. No one would know who set the tripwire. Hermione would think she had successfully stopped Snape. Harry would think it was just good luck. Snape would continue to suspect Quirrell but would not be able to get evidence.
This was the correct way to do things.
In an information war, the person who knows the most and takes the least action has the greatest chance of winning.
Cassius put his hand back into his pocket.
Below the opposite stand, Hermione finally squeezed past the last row of seats. She crouched under the wooden boards of the staff stand and found Snape's position through a gap.
She drew her wand.
A small cluster of blue flames shot out from the tip of her wand, silently climbing onto the hem of Snape's black robe.
Three seconds later, Snape felt a searing heat on the outside of his thigh.
He looked down—his robe was on fire.
Snape jumped up.
He was not the kind of person to be frightened by a small flame. But as a spy, maintaining a calm appearance in public was the top priority. He could not flap about putting out the fire in front of hundreds of students; that would be too unbecoming. He had to stand up and pat the hem of his robe with the most restrained movements.
But as he stood up, he bumped directly into Professor Sprout in the adjacent seat.
The stout Professor Sprout staggered, her elbow hitting Professor Flitwick next to her. Flitwick was small in stature to begin with; this bump caused him to slide right off his seat, stepping on and overturning the cushion at his feet.
A chain reaction.
The staff stand was in chaos.
Quirrell was also affected.
He was sitting in the seat at the very edge. When Flitwickin the front row fell, he knocked over half a row of seats, and the corner of a wooden bench hit Quirrell's calf.
Quirrell felt the pain and instinctively shrank back a step.
His right foot stepped on that invisible magic tripwire.
His ankle was firmly caught.
What was caught on his ankle was not a rope, nor a vine, but a line of pure magic solidified into a physical entity. Quirrell's upper body had already tilted backward, but his ankle was locked in place, unmoving.
The feeling of losing balance came fast and fierce.
Quirrell's arms flailed futilely in the air. His purple turban went askew. He fell forward, tumbling down the steps of the stand.
"Ah—!"
A scream.
Several Professors hurriedly turned back to help him. The scene was in complete disarray.
The connection of the jinx was broken.
At the exact same moment as the chaos in the staff stand, high above the pitch—
Harry's nimbus 2000 suddenly quieted down.
It was as if someone had turned off a switch. The broom stopped twitching, stopped rolling. It hovered steadily in mid-air, motionless.
Harry gasped for air.
He hugged the handle of the broom tightly with his only remaining hand, his muscles trembling all over. Cold sweat had matted his black hair into strands.
But he did not fall off.
He took about five seconds to recover. Then, he steadied himself on the broom again. Both hands gripped the handle. Both feet stepped back onto the pedals.
His eyes scanned the pitch.
Just at that moment—a golden glimmer flashed thirty meters below him to his right.
The Golden Snitch.
Harry did not hesitate.
He pressed the head of the nimbus 2000 to its lowest point, pressed his whole body against the broom, and dove down like an arrow released from a bowstring.
The Slytherin Seeker, Terence Higgs, had not yet realized what had happened. His gaze was still fixed on the chaos in the staff stand. By the time he came to his senses and saw Harry's diving line, it was already too late.
Harry's hand shot out less than two feet from the ground.
His fingers closed.
The wings of the Golden Snitch fluttered desperately in his palm twice, then went quiet.
The whistle blew.
There was half a second of silence in the stadium.
Then the Gryffindor stand erupted in earth-shattering cheers. Red scarves were thrown into the sky. The Weasley Twins did somersaults in mid-air. Lee Jordan's voice was already completely hoarse: "Gryffindor wins! One hundred seventy to sixty! Potter has caught the Golden Snitch!"
The Slytherin stand was dead silent.
Flint stayed in the air for three seconds, then slammed his broom tail hard onto the grass.
"Let's go." Cassius turned around.
Draco was still leaning on the railing. "Is that it?" There was a hint of boredom in his tone.
Cassius brushed the dust off his robe.
"Or were you expecting Potter to fall to his death?"
Draco muttered something. Probably something like "Gryffindor winning again is so annoying."
Cassius ignored him.
As he walked down from the stands, he was organizing the data he had just collected in his mind.
Quirrell's spellcasting frequency band—compared to before the Troll incident, it had recovered to about sixty percent of its power. The type of jinx was a continuous long-range interference. The method of casting was visual contact plus lip-syncing spells; both conditions had to be met simultaneously to maintain it. Breaking either condition would dispel it.
A new weakness had been discovered.
This method of spellcasting indicated that the remnant soul was currently unable to cast magic independently from the host. Quirrell's body was its cage. As long as Quirrell's physical actions were controlled—sealing his mouth, covering his eyes—the remnant soul was just a snake with its fangs pulled.
Useful information.
Cassius walked down the last step and stepped onto the grass by the pitch.
The tripwire under his feet had been retracted by him ten seconds ago. Leaving no trace.
He needed to take a trip to the Forbidden Forest tonight.
It was time to pick up the materials for his new battle robe.
Chapter 75: Unwelcome Guest at the Edge of the Forbidden Forest
On the evening after the Quidditch match, a new notice appeared on the bulletin boards of each Hogwarts house.
The parchment was fresh, the ink not yet fully dry.
The notice was signed by Deputy Principal Minerva McGonagall.
The content was brief and severe—Patricia Stanhope, a fourth-year Ravenclaw student, had attempted a high-level Transfiguration spell beyond the curriculum requirements in her dormitory, causing the five fingers of her left hand to fuse into a single bony plate. She was currently undergoing prolonged treatment with Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing.
Professor McGonagall had drawn three heavy underlines at the end of the notice.
"Any extracurricular magical experiments conducted without the permission of the teaching professor will result in a fifty-point deduction from the student's house and no less than two weeks of detention upon discovery."
Cassius glanced at the notice on his way to the dining hall.
He looked at it for a couple of seconds longer.
Not out of fear.
Because he calculated in his mind—Patricia Stanhope's failure was due to insufficient magical density, unable to maintain the integrity of the Transfiguration process, causing it to collapse midway.
In other words, her control couldn't support her ambition.
This was the exact opposite of his situation.
His control had always been trying to catch up with his magical reserves.
Cassius withdrew his gaze and entered the Great Hall.
The dinner atmosphere was sharply divided by the afternoon's match results.
The Gryffindor table was still buzzing with the afterglow of celebration.
The Weasley Twins were still vividly recounting Harry's incredibly risky dive to catch the Snitch.
The Slytherin side was much quieter.
Flint had smashed two vases after returning to the Common Room in the afternoon and had been called to Snape's office for a half-hour talk.
Draco sat beside Cassius, sullenly poking at the shepherd's pie on his plate.
"I wish our team could win next time," Draco said.
"You don't even play Quidditch," Cassius replied.
"...I could play."
"Your broom basics are lacking. You'd need at least another six months of practice to even get on the field."
Draco stabbed his fork into the mashed potatoes and fell silent.
Cassius finished his dinner.
He returned to his dormitory in the dungeons and changed out of his school robes.
From the bottom of his trunk, he pulled out a black long-sleeved bodysuit. This was the athletic wear he used for training at the manor. The fabric was Muggle elastic fiber—offering defense equivalent to toilet paper in the wizarding world, but it was lightweight, form-fitting, and wouldn't hinder movement.
He fastened the hidden buttons sewn with House-elfmagic by Dobby, then tucked a deerskin pouch enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm into his belt.
Draco was already asleep.
Crabbe and Goyle were snoring thunderously.
Cassius opened the dormitory door.
The sconces in the corridor had been dimmed to their lowest.
Green light reflected off the stone walls like the shadows of seaweed.
He passed through the Common Room.
Only a pile of dark red embers remained in the fireplace.
No one was there.
The stone door closed silently behind him.
Cassius walked up the dungeon steps.
He had already memorized Hogwarts' architectural layout.
There was a fixed blind spot in Filch's patrol route—the side corridor leading from the dungeons to the first-floor hall. There was a gap between 11:40 PM and midnight every night.
Filch would go to the fourth floor during that time to check the corridor where Peeves frequently appeared.
Madam Norris—that cat whose eyes glowed red in the dark—usually followed her master.
Cassius' footsteps were almost non-existent.
Not due to a Disillusionment Charm.
It was by finely adjusting the way his magic interacted with the ground beneath his feet.
With each step, his soles would form an extremely thin cushion of magic at the last millimeter before contact.
Similar to the effect of a cat's paw pads.
He passed through the first-floor side corridor and pushed open a side door leading to the Castle's outer courtyard.
The door hinge needed oiling, emitting a low creak.
Cassius frowned slightly.
He flicked a finger towards the hinge.
A thread of warm magic seeped into the metal gap, softening the rusted iron.
The door opened silently on the second push.
Night wind rushed in.
In the Scottish Highlands in late November, the nighttime temperature was already approaching freezing.
He stepped out of the Castle.
A thin layer of white frost coated the grass.
The Black Lake lay to his right.
The lake surface was unrippled.
Reflecting a half-moon and a few lonely stars.
The Forbidden Forest in the distance was a black wall.
No sounds, no lights, only the rustling of treetops in the night wind.
Cassius walked about two hundred meters in that direction.
Then he stopped.
Not out of hesitation.
Because he sensed a faint source of magical light.
Behind a cluster of low shrubs at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
About forty meters from him.
Not a patrolling professor.
A professor's magical signature would be much stronger than this.
Not a ghost either.
Ghosts have no body temperature.
This light source had body heat.
Around thirty-seven degrees Celsius.
Human.
And quite young.
Cassius didn't change his pace.
He continued walking as usual.
When he was within thirty meters, he could see clearly.
A girl was sitting on a flat rock at the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest.
A wand was stuck in the ground in front of her, tip pointing upwards, emitting a soft white light.
An illumination circle about the size of a rabbit.
A thick leather-bound sketchbook lay open on her knees, a charcoal pencil in her right hand.
She was drawing something.
On an old oak tree trunk about three meters opposite her, a Bowtruckle was perched.
The little creature was emerald green all over, like a twig with eyes.
It sat motionless in a crack in the bark, its two large eyes narrowed into slits.
As if posing for the light.
Cassius walked to a position about ten meters from her.
He wasn't deliberately hiding his presence.
But even so, his footsteps were almost soundless.
The first to notice him was the Bowtruckle.
Its body stiffened abruptly, its two large eyes widening.
Then it let out a shriek—a tiny, sharp sound similar to a snapping twig—leaped from the trunk, and dove into a pile of fallen leaves on the ground, disappearing.
The girl's charcoal pencil stopped.
She looked up.
A Ravenclaw tie.
A bronze-blue school crest pinned to her chest.
Very light hair.
Almost silvery-white under the moonlight.
Tied into a low ponytail draped over her left shoulder.
A narrow face.
Extremely pale skin.
A small patch of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She looked at Cassius.
No scream.
No jumping up.
No reaching for her wand.
She simply looked at him quietly for two seconds.
Then looked down at her drawing.
The Bowtruckle had fled. The half-finished sketch was ruined.
"You scared it away," she said.
Her voice was flat.
Carrying a faint, indistinct Nordic accent.
Not a tone of complaint.
Merely stating a fact.
Cassius sized her up.
Second year.
Judging by the wear on her school robe cuffs and the faded color at the knees, the robe had been worn for at least a year.
No fear in her expression.
No attempt to please either.
And none of the eager curiosity Hermione often displayed.
Just... very calm.
As if accustomed to darkness and solitude.
"Your name," Cassius asked.
"Nora Holt," she replied.
"Ravenclaw."
"You can see that."
Her gaze fell on Cassius's attire.
All black.
Not school robes.
A slight bulge at his waist—something hidden.
"You're going into the Forbidden Forest," she said.
Again, not a question.
Cassius didn't answer.
He had no obligation to explain himself to a stranger.
But he didn't walk away immediately.
He was assessing this girl.
She could sit on a rock at the edge of the Forbidden Forestsketching a Bowtruckle.
Late at night.
Alone.
Unafraid.
This indicated her experience with magical creatures far exceeded that of an average student.
It also meant she had been here more than once.