Chapter 115: Trouble Comes Knocking
"Even if it sounds a bit wrong to say this," James muttered cautiously, sneaking a glance at Russell, "I honestly think Professor Quirrell's teaching is so bad that we'd be better off letting Professor Corvey continue instead."
Only after seeing that Russell didn't react angrily did James finally relax.
After all, Russell had nearly died at Corvey's hands last year.
What James hadn't expected was for Russell to nod in agreement.
"To be fair," Russell said calmly, "Corvey may have been rotten to the core, but when it came to teaching, Quirrell couldn't even measure up to a single strand of his hair."
They deliberately kept their voices low—perhaps out of consideration for Professor Quirrell.
While they were whispering, a tall, broad-shouldered wizard across the corridor subtly gave someone nearby an OK gesture.
He took a deep breath, suddenly plastered an anxious look onto his face, lowered his head, and hurried straight toward Russell.
Just as he was about to crash into him, the corner of his mouth curled into a smug, triumphant smile.
"Protego."
A calm voice sounded.
Bang.
His head slammed straight into the translucent barrier formed by the Shield Charm. A dull thud echoed as pain exploded across his skull, followed by waves of dizziness.
His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, groaning pitifully.
"Idiot," Russell said coolly.
He didn't spare the writhing figure another glance, simply stepping around him and preparing to leave—
—when a loud accusation rang out behind him.
"Attacking a fellow student for no reason—is this the arrogance of a Merlin Order recipient, Fythorne?"
Russell stopped, frowning.
This wasn't spontaneous. The timing was too perfect. Someone had been waiting for exactly this moment.
He turned around slowly, a mocking smile on his face.
"What's this? Are Slytherin students so poor now that they have to fake accidents in public to make a living?"
"Who's faking anything?!" the fallen student shouted, scrambling to his feet.
If he were branded a fraud, his reputation—and his family's honor—would be finished.
"I just remembered something important and walked a bit too fast. I didn't see anyone in front of me," he snapped stubbornly.
"Something important?" Russell repeated, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Oh? What—your mother pregnant again, about to give you a little brother?"
"My mother—"
He froze mid-sentence, realization crashing down on him. His face flushed red with rage as he rolled up his sleeves and lunged for Russell's collar.
"Enough, Octavius."
The voice stopped him cold.
To everyone's surprise, the furious Octavius froze in place.
"Don't dirty your hands," the speaker continued calmly.
A black-haired wizard stepped out from the crowd.
He had striking sapphire-blue eyes behind round spectacles, a tall and slender build, and a faint, courteous smile that radiated cultured composure.
"After all," he said lightly, as if making idle conversation, "no matter what you do, filthy Muggle blood still flows through your veins."
He paused, eyes glinting with unmistakable malice.
"You're nothing but a dirty Mudblood."
The words were spoken softly—almost gently—but the venom behind them was unmistakable.
It was between classes, and plenty of students had gathered to watch. Once the meaning of Mudblood spread through whispers, many Muggle-born students flushed with anger and instinctively stepped forward.
They were immediately pulled back by friends.
"Do you know who that is?" someone whispered urgently.
"Cyrian Rosier—House Rosier. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. And even if you went up there, could you beat him? He's a fourth-year."
"So we just stand here and watch?" someone demanded bitterly.
Fear crept in as soon as Rosier's identity became known.
"Relax," another student murmured. "Fythorne isn't someone you can bully easily. I've seen him spar with Diggory."
Russell smiled faintly at Rosier's insult, showing no anger. He casually twirled his wand between his fingers.
"I can tell you've never been beaten by a Muggle before."
"Fythorne," Malfoy cut in eagerly, sensing the tide turning, "if you apologize right now, I might convince Cyrian to let this go. Otherwise—"
Russell's smile widened slightly.
Rosier frowned slightly when Malfoy jumped out ahead of schedule instead of following the plan. Still, he said nothing. After all, compared to the Malfoy family, the Rosier name carried slightly less weight for the moment.
Letting Malfoy test Fythorne first wasn't a bad idea.
In Rosier's eyes, even though Russell had defeated the Dark wizard Corvey and even earned the Order of Merlin for it, he was still nothing more than a second-year student. Rosier, on the other hand, was already in his fourth year—and when it came to spellcasting, he was confident he wouldn't lose even to some fifth-years.
He firmly believed that Corvey's defeat had more to do with Corvey being weak than Russell being strong. If he had stepped in, the outcome would have been even easier.
Besides, Malfoy was always bragging about how powerful his magic was, how unmatched his dueling skills were—so much so that everyone was sick of hearing it. If not for his family name, no one would have bothered with him at all.
This was the perfect chance to see whether Malfoy truly lived up to his own boasting.
"Malfoy, Malfoy," Russell said calmly. "Looks like you've already forgotten the lesson you were taught last time."
"Shut up!" Malfoy snapped, his face flushing red. "That wasn't your doing—it was Addams—"
He cut himself off abruptly, realizing his slip, and instead glared viciously at Russell.
"Hmph."
Malfoy suddenly forced himself to calm down, recalling the words his father had drilled into him. Without even thinking, he repeated them aloud.
"No matter how sharp your tongue is, it won't change the fact that you're a filthy Mudblood."
"Only cats and dogs obsess over bloodlines," Russell replied coolly.
The moment he spoke, both Malfoy's and Cyrian's expressions changed.
Ignoring them, Russell continued evenly:
"According to Muggle research, inbreeding leads to all sorts of problems—birth defects, mental deficiencies, far more than in ordinary families. I never really felt that before… but after meeting you lot, I suddenly realized they were absolutely right."
"Incendio!"
Malfoy had completely lost his head. Without thinking, he hurled the most powerful curse he currently knew.
Russell didn't even raise his wand.
The Shield Charm he had cast earlier was still active.
The red curse slammed into the barrier—and rebounded straight back.
When Russell had first mastered Protego, he'd discovered a trick: since the shield's size and thickness were limited, shaping it into a slightly curved surface dramatically increased its effectiveness—sometimes even reflecting spells.
Magic was wonderful like that.
Malfoy never expected this outcome. He had no time to dodge.
The curse struck him squarely.
Red, blistering boils erupted across his body. He screamed in agony, his wand slipping from his grip.
His two cronies rushed to help him to the infirmary—but in their panic, they pressed directly onto the boils.
With soft popping sounds, pus oozed out, and Malfoy's screams grew even more shrill.
"You idiots! You absolute idiots!"
As Malfoy's cries faded into the distance, everyone's attention shifted back.
"Well?" Russell turned to Rosier. "Care to try as well?"
Rosier was no longer relaxed. He drew his wand, posture tense and guarded.
"Fythorne," Rosier said coldly, "I'll admit—casting Protego in your second year is impressive. But you're not the only one who knows that spell."
"Protego."
A shimmering barrier appeared in front of Rosier as well.
"Not bad," Russell said, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. Mastering Protego in fourth year was no small feat.
"But—"
Russell raised his wand high.
"Try this instead. Vulnus Ferrum."
He had learned the spell only yesterday from Morgan.
As far as Russell knew, a sufficiently strong Shield Charm could block nearly any spell—aside from the Killing Curse, Fiendfyre, and a handful of others.
But against another wizard who also knew Protego, things became tricky. Until now, Russell hadn't possessed a reliable way to break through it. Even defeating Corvey had required clever tricks and alchemical explosives.
Looking back, Corvey's Shield Charm had actually been extremely advanced—beyond what Russell could currently replicate, let alone overpower.
The Vulnus Ferrum dated back to Morgan's era. In those days, knights wore alchemically reinforced armor etched with ancient runes and carried enchanted shields designed specifically to counter wizard battalions.
They could charge through spellfire unscathed—until the Vulnus Ferrum Charm was developed.
It mimicked the crushing force of a warhammer, specifically designed to break enchanted defenses.
Russell had never tested it against Protego before.
Today was the perfect opportunity.
Blue light exploded outward.
Rosier's shield shattered instantly.
Russell clearly saw the tension on Rosier's face turn into pure terror.
As the blue glow surged closer, Rosier squeezed his eyes shut.
This is it. I'm finished.
Just as the spell was about to strike his face, a low, cold voice rang out—hoarse, yet heavenly to Rosier's ears.
"Finite Incantatem."
Snape swept forward, cloak billowing as his wand snapped through the air. The blue light resisted for two seconds—then dispersed.
"Fythorne," Snape snarled, eyes blazing, "do you think earning the Order of Merlin gives you the right to run wild at Hogwarts?"
He had only just encountered Malfoy being rushed to the hospital wing—and learned what had happened. A disturbance of this scale, and not a single student had thought to alert a professor.
"Professor, this really isn't my fault," Russell said calmly, lowering his wand and putting on an innocent expression.
"That senior Slytherin just called me a Mudblood—said my blood was filthy. Professor… do you know what Mudblood means?"
The fury drained from Snape's face instantly.
In its place flickered a pain so deep it was almost unbearable—then vanished just as quickly. Snape's expression returned to cold neutrality, as though nothing had happened.
Once, that single word had cost him everything.
Rosier panicked when Snape remained silent.
"Professor, it was because he—"
"Silence," Snape barked.
"Then what about Malfoy? He claims you cursed him."
"Honestly, Professor," Russell shrugged, "everyone here can testify that Malfoy attacked first."
"He's right."
"That's exactly what happened."
"Yeah, we all saw it."
The onlookers quickly spoke up. They already disliked Slytherin—and Rosier's earlier slur had pushed them firmly onto Russell's side.
"So," Snape said coldly, staring at Russell, "your claim is that Malfoy pointed his wand at himself and cast a curse?"
"Exactly, Professor," Russell replied steadily, meeting Snape's gaze.
"If you doubt it, you're welcome to review my spellcasting."
"…Very well," Snape said at last.
"Fighting in public corridors: Ravenclaw loses ten points. Slytherin loses ten points. And for that word just spoken—Slytherin loses another twenty."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Slytherin students looked horrified—Professor Snape had just docked them thirty points.
"Fythorne," Snape continued, "for your actions, you will serve detention in my office every Thursday for the next month."
He then turned on the spectators.
"What are you all staring at? Get to class. Move."
___
"Severus, isn't that a bit unfair?" Professor Flitwick said anxiously, having just returned and overheard the ruling.
"Thank you, Professor Flitwick," Russell said quickly, stopping him with a shake of his head.
He understood now—Snape had deliberately arranged this detention. There were things he wanted to say.
"Oh, Professor," Russell added lightly, changing the subject, "how was the dueling tournament?"
Flitwick's face immediately lit up.
"Marvelous! My opponent was a bit weak—I knocked him straight off the platform with a single Petrificus Totalus. Still, plenty of splendid matches!"
"If only I could've watched," Russell said wistfully. "Sounds far more exciting than Quidditch."