Professor McGonagall spoke with her usual sternness. "We'll change it now. I have no desire to see anyone spitting in my presence."
Douglas Holmes's lips twitched, but he obediently pulled out his magical radar and severed the connection between the statue and the entrance.
Then, Professor McGonagall, Douglas, and Professor Dumbledore set to work, transfiguring the statue. They refined its features, coaxing stone to move with uncanny realism—right down to carving a stone wand into its hand.
Professor Flitwick layered the statue with a dazzling array of enchantments: magical power detection, self-repair, magical conduction, absorption spells, and more.
Professor Sprout produced a small pouch from her robes and drew out several Devil's Yams along with a handful of rich soil.
Douglas immediately understood her intent. He used magic to hollow out spaces within key parts of the statue, creating ideal little pockets for the Devil's Yams to grow.
Professor Sprout explained, "Even with the absorption charms Filius has cast, the ambient magic here is limited, and the statue's own reserves can only stretch so far. If several students challenge it in quick succession, it'd need time to recharge.
But with Devil's Yams inside, that won't be a problem. As the statue absorbs magic, the yams store it, and in turn, they amplify the absorption spell.
When the surrounding magic is weak, you won't notice much difference. But when students come to duel, the yams will stimulate the absorption spell to draw a little magic from the challengers themselves. It ensures the statue has enough power for battle—and the students feel a bit of pressure, training under real magical strain.
Later, I'll plant some Wandflower nearby for the yams to feed on, so they'll always be brimming with magic.
When the statue activates, the yams funnel power into it. No matter how many students come, the statue won't just run out of steam and waste their efforts."
Douglas added, "I've placed the Devil's Yams at key points—each one only powers its own area. If, say, the arm is hit by a spell, the yam will cut off magic to that limb, and the arm will go limp—just like a real injury.
And if anyone manages to strike the statue's heart, the whole thing shuts down. That's an instant defeat."
(Devil's Yam: A magical plant that absorbs power from living beings. Its roots are prized for wand-making and other magical crafts. Wandflower: One of the primary materials for crafting wands—the petals carry potent magic.)
Snape then imbued the statue with a selection of dark spells. Due to the limits of stone, the spells weren't especially powerful—most were defensive rather than truly dangerous.
After all, this wasn't a true alchemical golem. The statue wouldn't attack unprovoked; only when struck by magic would it respond, raising shields and firing a single blast of dark magic.
Douglas couldn't help but smile. He recognized Snape's handiwork—it was the same technique he used for curse-breaking trap courses. In truth, this was less a duel and more a test of spell-breaking skill.
Catching Douglas's faint smirk, Snape scowled. "So, are we expected to battle the statue ourselves before we can enter? If that's the case, I'll be heading back to bed."
Douglas waved his hands hastily. "Of course not! I've set a password charm. Just say 'Merope Gaunt' and the statue will open the door. But I'd like that password kept strictly among professors."
Seeing the puzzled looks, Dumbledore quietly explained, "That was the name of Tom Riddle's poor mother…"
Albania—to Muggles, a picturesque vacation spot. But for the upright wizards of the magical world, it was never a place to linger.
Known since ancient times as the Land of Solitude, Albania had long been a haven for fugitives. Dark magic once flourished here; some wizards even performed unspeakable experiments in its shadowed corners.
Today, Albania's sparse population means few native witches and wizards—too few to form their own Ministry of Magic. Instead, the International Confederation of Wizards oversees magical affairs here.
Though things have improved, the only real law is the International Statute of Secrecy. Wizards here are rarely held to account. Magical creatures are hunted at will, rare potion ingredients are smuggled out—poachers and black marketeers thrive.
Many wanted criminals from other countries' Ministries of Magic have made this wild land their refuge. They're not the law-abiding sort; attacks on Muggles are not uncommon.
The Confederation's reach is limited. As long as there's no mass panic, they tend to look the other way. Truth be told, they have little choice.
The Albanian Black Forest dominates the land—its trees reaching skyward, branches tangled thick as a sea of shadows.
Here, strange cries echo through the gloom, ghostly shapes drift between the trunks, and the air is heavy with darkness and solitude.
Deep within this haunted wood, a twisting cave lies hidden beneath the dense canopy—a relic from another world, shrouded in mystery and night.
At its mouth, serpents coil in tangled masses. Among them, a thirteen-foot python flicks its tongue, ever watchful.
Inside, the cave is dim, lit only by the flicker of firelight.
A hunched figure stirs a great cauldron, wand in hand—his eyes darting anxiously from the bubbling potion to the flames, terrified of a misstep.
In the fire's glow, his trembling face is unmistakable: Peter Pettigrew, long wanted by the British Ministry of Magic.
Not far behind him, a venomous snake coils, its scarlet eyes fixed on the cauldron, glinting with an unnatural intelligence. This is no ordinary serpent.
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