Chapter 28: Plunder! Soul Law Fragment
Arthur withdrew his gaze.
The cold wind outside the window was still pouring relentlessly through the hole,
blowing the white ash on the floor, sending it swirling everywhere.
A faint blue system screen popped up directly in the air in front of him.
Unstable red electrical currents flickered along the edges of the panel.
This was the system's reaction to being pushed to its limit by some overloaded emotion.
A cold, mechanical voice roared in his mind.
[Detected target character Lord Voldemort experiencing a primal shudder.]
[Fear value has overflowed the system's current capacity limit.]
[Plunder rating has broken through conventional dimensions.]
The text on the panel dripped down like flowing blood,
finally condensing into a line of dark-gold font in the very center of the light screen.
[Congratulations to the host for obtaining the stripped product of the Supreme Divine Authority: Soul Law Fragment.]
Just as the voice fell,
an irregular black crystal appeared out of thin air in front of Arthur.
It was only the size of a fingernail,
suspended in the air, without emitting even a trace of magical fluctuations.
But the moment this thing appeared,
the dust flying around the classroom stopped dead in mid-air.
The wind stopped too.
The surrounding space seemed to have been paused.
This crystal did not reflect light.
It was like a miniature black hole, greedily swallowing the surrounding light.
Arthur reached out his right hand,
gently pressing the pad of his slender index finger against the black crystal.
There was no temperature.
Or rather, it directly erased Arthur's perception of "heat" at his fingertips.
The second the crystal touched his skin, it instantly disintegrated,
turning into a wisp of black mist thicker than ink that slipped into his body through his pores.
Arthur's brow furrowed slightly.
A dull, tearing sensation rushed all the way up the blood vessels of his arm.
Black veins bulged on the back of his hand and his neck, as if something alive were squirming beneath his skin.
But this feeling lasted for less than two seconds.
What followed was a stream of information massive enough to burst an ordinary person's skull.
Arthur closed his eyes.
He heard countless faint noises,
like tens of thousands of insects whispering deep inside his eardrums.
When he opened his eyes again,
his heterochromatic eyes had changed.
His left eye was still an abyssal pitch-black,
but in his pale right eye, there was now a slowly swirling layer of grey mist.
The way the world looked to him had changed.
The stone brick walls, the wooden desks, and even the Black Lake outside—
the surfaces of these physical objects lost their original colors,
turning into a monotonous, greyish-white negative.
And within this greyish-white landscape, clusters of dancing flames lit up.
Those were souls.
Arthur lowered his head, his gaze piercing directly through the thick stone floor.
He saw the lives beneath the Castle.
In the Gryffindor Tower, the first-years who were sleeping spread-eagled,
their souls like tiny red candles, their flames burning brightly.
In the neighboring Hufflepuff common room, the color of the souls leaned toward a gentle yellow.
He even saw The Bloody Baron hiding in a corner of the dungeons.
This resident ghost of Slytherin usually looked eerie and terrifying,
but in Arthur's right eye now,
the Baron was nothing more than a loosely structured, grey cold fire that could dissipate at any moment.
This was the Soul Law.
Arthur raised his right hand and made a grasping motion in the air.
The magic in his veins became heavy and viscous like quicksilver,
undergoing a complete qualitative change.
He didn't need to use a wand now.
He didn't need to chant the Killing Curse, nor did he even need to cast Fiendfyre.
As long as he wished,
from hundreds of meters away, he could rip a student's soul right out of their body with a single thought
and crush it to pieces.
The boundary between life and death became like a rickety wooden door that could be pushed open at will before his eyes.
He had become the true Grim Reaper of this school, holding the power of life and death.
The so-called protective barriers and ancient magic were, to him now, like sandcastles built by children on the beach,
easily flattened with a single stomp.
Arthur put his hand into his robe pocket.
The grey mist in his right eye gradually settled, and the world regained its original colors.
He found it quite boring.
Once power crossed a certain threshold, hunting the weak could no longer provide any pleasure.
He turned and walked out of the ash-covered classroom,
leaving the cold wind outside the broken window to continue blowing through the empty room.
Time moved quickly in the stone corridors of Hogwarts.
The cold winds of the Scottish Highlands turned into hail mixed with snowflakes.
The surface of the Black Lake froze, only to melt into a pool of muddy water a few months later.
The smell of sulfur in the air had long since vanished,
replaced by the damp, muggy vapor of June.
The end of the term had arrived.
During most of this past year, Arthur had barely appeared in the public eye.
He found those classes to be too much of a waste of time.
No Professor dared to go to the Slytherin dungeons to dock points from him.
Even during the final exams, no one dared to place an exam paper on his desk.
He simply stayed in his dormitory every day, or went to the Restricted Section to flip through a few dusty ancient books.
Hermione had become his most competent tool for researching information.
This former Gryffindor Know-It-All now looked at Arthurwith nothing but fanatical admiration.
Tonight was the end-of-term leaving feast.
The Great Hall was so noisy it gave one a headache.
Hundreds of students crowded around the four long tables, their forks and knives clattering against golden plates, making a din.
The scent of roast lamb chops, buttered potatoes, and overly sweet pudding drifted through the air.
The ceiling of the Great Hall was enchanted with magic.
Huge red and gold banners hung from it.
The Gryffindor lion crest was printed on every banner, fluttering gently in the magical breeze,
a glaringly bright red.
Burst after burst of cheering erupted from the Gryffindortable.
Ron was shouting at the top of his lungs, boasting about something to the person next to him.
Harry sat in the middle, a relaxed smile on his face that had been rare over the past few months.
They thought they had the House Cup in the bag.
The students of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were also joining in the clamor.
The atmosphere in the entire Great Hall was as lively as a bustling market.
Only the Slytherin table was dead silent and lifeless.
The atmospheric pressure here was so low it made people feel suffocated.
A large space was left empty right in the middle of the long table.
Arthur sat there.
His black robes with dark silver patterns were worn meticulously.
He held a sterling silver dinner knife in his hand,
slowly and methodically cutting a piece of steak on his plate.
The blade sliced through the gristle without making a single scraping sound against the plate.
Draco sat half a meter away from Arthur.
He was holding a heavy glass pitcher, wanting to pour some water into Arthur's cup.
The Great Hall was too noisy.
A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the Gryffindorside.
Draco's hand trembled slightly.
A single transparent drop of water dripped from the spout,
landing on the edge of the silver plate next to Arthur's hand,
making a very soft "pat" sound.
Draco's breathing stopped instantly.
His face turned deathly pale, and his movement to set down the pitcher froze mid-air.
A layer of cold sweat immediately broke out on his forehead.
He didn't dare to speak, only staring intently at the drop of water.
Arthur did not look up.
He placed the small cut piece of meat into his mouth,
completely ignoring Draco and not even sparing him a glance.
Yet Draco remained in that stiff posture until his thigh muscles began to ache and tremble.
The other Slytherin students all kept their heads down, eating.
No one dared to pay any attention to the glaring red and gold banners hanging overhead.
In front of Arthur, the so-called House honor was not worth a damn.
At the staff table,
Hagrid sat at the very end, wearing his heavily patched overcoat.
He glanced toward the Slytherin side and immediately shifted his gaze guiltily back to the tankard of beer in front of him.
Ever since he had seen the Fiendfyre roasting spiders in the Forbidden Forest that night,
this half-giant had never dared to look Arthur straight in the eye again.
Snape sat slightly to the left of the center.
The food in front of him was barely touched.
His empty black eyes stared at Harry at the Gryffindortable, lost in thought.
On the golden, high-backed chair in the very center,
Dumbledore set down the goblet in his hand.
The white-haired Principal looked quite a bit older than he had at the start of the term.
The wrinkles on his face seemed deeper.
He pressed both hands against the edge of the table.
The legs of his chair scraped against the stone tiles, making a harsh screech.
Dumbledore stood up.
The noise in the Great Hall instantly died down, as if cut clean by a knife.
Everyone's eyes focused on the staff table.
The red and gold banners fluttered silently in the air.
Dumbledore cleared his throat,
his voice a bit dry.
His blue eyes, hidden behind half-moon spectacles, swept over the four long tables below.
"Another year has gone by,"
he spoke, his voice echoing in the quiet Great Hall.
"Before we dig into this delicious feast, I must ask you to tolerate an old man's cliches."
The Gryffindor students sat up straighter.
They knew what was coming next,
their eyes filled with a hunger for victory.
Dumbledore turned his head and glanced at the giant hourglasses behind him,
preparing to begin his customary end-of-term speech for awarding points.
Chapter 29: Forcibly Adding Points to Slytherin
Dumbledore's gaze swept across the long table, looking at the scoring hourglasses by the door.
Slytherin's emeralds were filled to the brim.
Gryffindor's rubies were at the bottom.
"First place, Slytherin House."
Dumbledore stated this fact dryly.
But he quickly changed the subject.
"However... some things have happened recently..."
Harry straightened up.
He had waited all night just for this moment.
He knew the Principal would definitely add points for him and Ron; as long as those final tens of points were added, red and gold could be preserved.
Ron beside him was already rubbing his hands in excitement.
Dumbledore opened his mouth, about to announce adding points for Harry and the others.
"Clang."
A crisp sound of metal collision burst open in the Great Hall.
It abruptly cut off the second half of Dumbledore's sentence.
Arthur sat in the middle of the Slytherin long table.
He was holding a sterling silver dinner knife in his hand, the back of the blade gently tapping against the rim of a goblet.
The action was casual.
But with this soft sound, the air in the entire Great Hallinstantly froze.
The floating candles on the ceiling lowered their flames in unison.
The temperature dropped off a cliff.
The air, which had been noisy just a moment ago, became as viscous as glue.
The wind breathed into the lungs carried a strong smell of blood.
It felt like a lump of thick phlegm was stuck in Dumbledore's throat.
He gave a cough, but couldn't make a sound.
The Elder Wand trembled uneasily inside his sleeve.
His half-moon spectacles slid down to the tip of his nose, and he even forgot to push them up.
Arthur put down the dinner knife.
The silverware struck the wooden table with a muffled sound.
"You really love playing this kind of self-deceiving trick, Albus."
Arthur didn't even raise his head.
His gaze fell upon the bloody steak on his plate.
"Using a few fools to test out the lousy obstacles you set up."
"And then casually find a brave excuse to snatch away what belongs to others."
Arthur picked up a napkin and wiped his fingers.
"Hogwarts' rules turn out to be just mud you use to coax children."
Over at the Gryffindor long table.
Ron's face was flushed red with anger.
He was already lacking a few brain cells, and at this moment, his mouth was wide open as he wanted to retort a few words.
"You're spouting... We clearly..."
As soon as he popped out a few words, he felt an invisible hand tightly gripping his neck.
Ron's eyes rolled back.
His tongue stuck out, and saliva streamed down his chin.
Harry hurriedly went to pull him, but when his hand touched Ron's arm, he found it as cold as a dead person's.
Arthur raised his eyelids.
The grey mist in his right eye slowly swirled.
The massive soul pressure pressed directly down upon the entire Gryffindor long table.
The wooden table made an overburdened creaking sound, and the table legs scraped white marks on the stone floor.
Hundreds of students wearing red and yellow robes were all pressed flat against the table surface.
Their cheeks were pressed tightly against their plates.
Mashed potatoes and gravy smeared all over their faces.
No one could raise their head, and even breathing required every ounce of effort.
Hermione couldn't even move a single finger, and could only listen to her bones cracking under the pressure.
Dumbledore's expression was livid.
"Stop! Grindelwald!"
He raised the Elder Wand, attempting to disperse this magic power that imprisoned the entire audience.
A ball of white light lit up at the tip of the wand.
But as soon as the white light lit up, it was forcibly snuffed out by the surrounding viscous darkness.
Arthur stood up.
His black robes hung down without a single crease.
He turned his head and looked at the four scoring hourglasses by the door.
"Since the rules can be changed at will, then we'll go by my rules."
Arthur raised his right hand and clenched it into the air.
Accompanying his action,
The Gryffindor hourglass filled with rubies made a glass-shattering sound.
The stopper at the bottom directly blew open.
The rubies poured down like a waterfall.
Before they even hit the ground,
A stream of black magic wrapped around these stones and shredded them completely.
They turned into pink powder, blown away by the wind until nothing was left.
The hourglasses representing Hufflepuff and Ravenclawsuffered the same fate.
The hard crystal glass exploded into hundreds of fragments.
The yellow and blue sapphires were completely shattered.
Turning into ashes.
Of the four scoring hourglasses in the entire Great Hall, only one was left now.
Slytherin.
Not only did the emeralds not decrease, but they were crazily overflowing instead.
"Clang, clang."
The jewels struck the stone floor with a crisp sound.
The ground was full of dazzling green light.
The Sorting Hat placed in the corner of the Principal's office let out a shrill scream at this instant.
It was responsible for maintaining the magical connection of the House Cup.
Just then, its underlying logic was completely rewritten.
The tattered hat twitched on the wooden stand, emitting a wisp of scorched black smoke.
Arthur turned around and looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes.
"Now, the scores have been calculated clearly."
His voice echoed in the dead silent Great Hall.
"Change these disgusting colors overhead."
Dumbledore's chest heaved violently.
His hand holding the wand shook violently, with bulging veins all over the back of his hand.
He had lived for over a hundred years.
Never had his dignity been trampled upon publicly in such a brutal manner by anyone.
He didn't want to change it.
But he clearly perceived that the Dark Arts within Arthurhad locked onto his soul.
As long as he said a single word of no.
Today in this Great Hall, absolutely half of the students would be sucked into the magic storm and ground into minced meat.
He couldn't afford to gamble.
Cold sweat trickled down Dumbledore's nose tip onto his beard.
He gritted his teeth, the muscles on his cheeks twitching.
Eventually, he lowered his eyelids, avoiding that pair of heterochromatic pupils.
The Elder Wand waved in mid-air.
The movement was stiff and sluggish.
He even accidentally knocked over the golden goblet in front of him.
Pumpkin juice spilled onto his robes, leaving a large, ugly stain.
He didn't even have the mood to use a cleaning spell.
The red and gold banners on the ceiling began to change color.
The red faded away, turning into cold silver.
The gold twisted, transforming into Slytherin's deep green.
That baring and clawing lion turned into a venomous snake coiled in the shadows.
The whole place was filled with silver-green light.
Shining on everyone's faces, making them deathly pale.
No one cheered.
Slytherin's students lowered their heads, not even daring to breathe loudly.
Draco stared fixedly at his toes.
His thighs were still cramping, terrified that he would make the tiniest sound and anger that youth.
The banquet was completely ruined.
For the rest of the time, no one touched their knives and forks again.
Only heavy breathing and suppressed sobs could be heard in the Great Hall.
This dead silence lasted until the end of the banquet.
Professor McGonagall waved her hand to signal dismissal.
The students rushed out of the Great Hall like refugees fleeing disaster.
Crowding and running back to their respective dormitories to pack their luggage.
No one wanted to stay an extra second in this Castlealready ruled by the Dark Lord.
The corridors were filled with the messy footsteps of leather shoes stepping on stone bricks.
Early the next morning.
The sky was not yet fully bright, and the air carried a bone-chilling damp cold.
The whistle of the Hogwarts Express sounded.
The white steam shrouded the platform hazy and indistinctly.
The platform was crowded with first-year students carrying large leather trunks.
There was none of the laughter and joy from previous years' holidays.
Only the dull sound of luggage wheels dragging across the floor tiles.
Harry dragged his trunk, walking at the very back of the crowd.
He stepped on the footboard to get on the train, shoving his luggage into the corner of the compartment.
He clutched the train window glass, turning back to take a glance at the towering Castle in the distance.
The morning mist wrapped it inside, its spires faintly visible.
In his eyes, this was no longer a magic school.
This was a black monster that would devour people.
Inside lived a deity that could not be defeated by conventional logic.
The train started with a roar.
The carriage shook violently for a moment.
The wheels frictioned against the tracks with an unpleasant squeaking sound.
Taking this group of terrified students away from the Scottish Highlands.
The woods outside the train window retreated rapidly.
Chapter 30: The Collective Defection of Pure-Blood Families
The wheels of the Hogwarts Express rumbled over the iron tracks,
emitting a monotonous clatter.
Outside the window, the woods retreated rapidly, gradually giving way to vast stretches of dull grey brick houses.
The air inside the carriage was stifling,
mingled with the smell of leftover pumpkin pasties and a tinge of sour sweat.
No one dared to speak loudly.
A massive cloud of white, scalding steam spewed from the engine.
The brake pads clamped down hard against the rails,
producing a long, screeching wail.
The train lurched forward violently,
coming to a halt at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station.
The platform was already packed with people.
The smell of coal smoke mixed with the perfume on the adults, making one's nose itch.
Molly Weasley stood on tiptoe, peering toward the carriages.
She rubbed her hands against her faded apron.
She was just about to call out Ron's name when her mouth snapped shut.
She sensed that something was wrong with the atmosphere on the platform.
The heads of the pure-blood families, who usually held their noses high in the air, were all squeezed into the most prominent positions on the platform today.
Lucius Malfoy wore a pair of exquisite black Wizard robes,
clutching his snake-headed walking stick in his hand.
His knuckles were terrifyingly pale from gripping it too tightly,
with green veins bulging on the back of his hand.
Old Nott, standing beside him, was in an even worse state.
The gaunt old man kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
Sweat ran down his sunken eye sockets, soaking a large patch of his high collar.
The fathers of Crabbe and Goyle stood behind like two walls of flesh,
their fleshy faces twitching with anxiety.
Their heavy breathing could be heard several meters away.
Ordinary Wizard parents instinctively stepped back,
keeping far away from this group of Death Eater remnants.
Everyone thought these pure-blood lords had lost their minds today.
The carriage doors were pulled open by the conductor,
the sliding rails emitting a dry grating sound.
Students poured out of the carriages carrying leather trunks of all sizes.
The wheels at the bottom of the trunks dragged across the stone slabs, creating a chaotic din.
A few lower-year students bumped into each other in their hurry to find their parents.
Someone fell to the ground, gasping in pain.
But those pure-blood family heads didn't even cast a glance at their own children.
Their eyes were glued to the middle carriage of the train,
filled with a panic as though they were about to be sent to the guillotine.
The door of the middle carriage was pushed open.
A black leather boot stepped onto the metal footstep,
producing a dull thud.
The noise on the platform was instantly severed as if by a sharp knife.
The air stopped flowing.
The parents who had been noisy just a moment ago suddenly felt as if something was clogging their throats,
unable to even cough.
Arthur stepped down from the footstep.
His dark silver-patterned black robe swayed gently in the draft of the platform.
He carried no luggage,
his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
His heterochromatic eyes—a mix of pale and deep black—swept across the crowded platform.
Wherever his gaze passed,
the temperature dropped directly to the freezing point.
Even the surging white steam on the platform was forced down against the ground by an invisible magic,
unable to disperse.
Lucius felt as though his heart had been ruthlessly squeezed by someone.
He gasped heavily,
his mouth filled with the dry taste of rust.
Taking the lead, he stepped forward,
the sound of his leather shoes striking the stone slabs echoing abruptly in the dead silence of the platform.
Lucius bowed low.
It was not the superficial nod customary among nobles;
his waist bent at a ninety-degree angle.
His proud head remained bowed low, eyes fixed strictly on the tips of his own shoes,
his back held perfectly rigid.
He didn't even dare to breathe heavily, terrified that the sound might anger the boy before him.
Old Nott followed behind Lucius.
He moved too hurriedly, and his wooden cane slipped.
The tip skidded across the slick stone slab.
The old man's legs gave out, and his knees struck the ground heavily,
making a sharp crack of bone against stone.
The pain distorted the muscles on his face,
but he didn't dare rub his knees at all.
Taking advantage of the momentum, he simply knelt on the ground and buried his head deep into his chest,
his hands pressed tightly against the seams of his trousers, shaking like a leaf.
Crabbe's and Goyle's fathers followed suit, bending their thick waists.
These Death Eaters who had once followed Lord Voldemort on murderous rampages
were now like a flock of the meekest sheep,
lined up to show absolute submission to an eleven-year-old freshman.
Their action served as a signal.
Dozens of pure-blood family parents around them all moved.
Regardless of gender,
everyone stepped back to both sides in unison,
forcibly clearing a wide pathway on the crowded Platform Nine and Three-Quarters
that led straight to the Muggle station outside.
The pure-blood Wizards on both sides of the pathway stood with their backs bowed,
a sea of dark heads lowered.
Not a single person dared to speak out loud;
not a single person dared to look directly into Arthur's face.
In the distance, Molly Weasley was stunned speechless.
The old handkerchief in her hand dropped to the floor.
Ron, who had just run over, tugged at her sleeve,
his face pale as a ghost as he desperately hid behind her.
Arthur Weasley, who had just rushed over from the Ministry of Magic, failed to hold his briefcase steady upon seeing this scene.
It dropped straight onto his instep.
Arthur looked at this path paved with the backbones of pure-blood families,
his expression completely devoid of emotion.
It was only natural.
These opportunistic trash, besides offering a pitiful amount of loyalty and Galleons, were only fit for clearing a path.
He took long strides,
his boots striking the stone slabs.
*Tap.*
*Tap.*
His footsteps echoed between the two rows of bowed people.
He did not look at Lucius, nor at Old Nott kneeling on the ground.
He walked straight through the crowd.
Draco followed behind, dragging two heavy leather trunks.
The wheels of the trunks jammed slightly;
Draco was dripping with sweat from exhaustion, his breathing heavy.
As he passed his father, he didn't even dare to say hello,
keeping his head down and pulling the trunks forward with all his might,
completely lacking the dignity of a Malfoy young master.
Only when Arthur's back disappeared through the red brick wall,
completely leaving Platform Nine and Three-Quarters,
did the mountain weighing down on everyone's heads crash into pieces.
Lucius slowly straightened his back,
feeling a cold chill down his spine.
Cold sweat had completely soaked his inner shirt, clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
He let out a long breath of stale air,
the calves of his legs still trembling and weak.
Old Nott was pulled up by his son.
He grimaced in pain; a hole was torn in his trousers at the knee, with a few strands of blood seeping out.
Yet his face was filled with relief at having survived a calamity.
A few pure-blood family heads exchanged glances.
None spoke, but a tacit consensus was reached in their eyes.
The sky of the Wizarding World had changed.
The summer vacation had officially begun.
London's weather was stiflingly hot,
the Muggle streets filled with the smell of sun-baked car exhaust.
But deep within the recesses of Diagon Alley,
the temperature was cold enough to send shivers down one's spine.
Knockturn Alley.
Here, sunlight never reached all year round.
The narrow cobblestone street was perpetually damp, overgrown with slick green moss.
The air reeked of rotting dead rats, musty hay, and a heavy whiff of blood.
The shops on both sides were dilapidated,
their window glass covered in thick dust and spiderwebs.
There were few people on the street,
with only an occasional gaunt Dark Wizard scurrying along the foot of the walls
like light-shunning cockroaches.
A leather boot stepped onto the mossy cobblestone, emitting a squelching thud.
A tall figure walked into this dark alley.
He was clad in a voluminous black cloak,
its hood pulled low to conceal most of his face,
revealing only a cold, sharp jawline.
The hem of his cloak stirred up subtle splashes in a puddle,
muddy water splashing onto the edges of his black boots.
He paid it no mind at all.
The temperature in the alley dropped a few degrees more with his arrival.
In a corner, a stray cat gnawing on carrion suddenly bristled its fur,
let out a blood-curdling screech,
and scrambled frantically over a low wall before fleeing.
The figure halted his footsteps.
He raised his head.
Beneath the shadow of his hood, a bottomless black pupil and a pale eye swirling with grey mist
quietly observed the dilapidated shop before him.
The paint on the doorframe had completely peeled off,
the wood decayed beyond recognition.
Hanging above the doorway was a precariously dangling old sign,
its lettering somewhat blurred by years of relentless moisture:
Borgin and Burkes.
The largest Dark Arts antique shop in Knockturn Alley.
Chapter 31: Night Carnival in Knockturn Alley
Arthur raised his hand.
His pale fingers rested on the worn wooden door of Borgin and Burkes.
Pushing forward with a little force,
the door hinges creaked dryly and harshly.
The brass bell hanging above the doorframe swayed with it,
emitting a dull, muffled sound.
The light inside the shop was as dim as a sealed coffin.
A heavy stench of mildew filled the air,
mixed with the rusty smell of dried blood and the sour stench of rotting wood that had never seen sunlight.
Arthur stepped inside.
His leather boots trod on the dust-covered wooden floorboards.
Dust wafted into the air with the draft, making one's throat feel dry.
The shop was extremely cramped.
The glass counters on both sides were stuffed with all kinds of clutter:
a blind, dead man's head soaking in murky formalin;
a rusty iron mask stained with dark red blood spots;
and a shriveled human hand with curled fingers and long, black fingernails.
"Cough, cough..."
A few dry coughs came from the shadows behind the counter.
A hunchbacked old man pulled aside a greasy black cloth curtain and shuffled out slowly.
It was Old Borgin.
His hair was thin, plastered to his scalp with a greasy sheen.
His murky eyes sized Arthur up and down in the dim light.
His gaze swept over the impeccably tailored pure black cloak Arthur wore.
From the drape of the fabric and its subtle patterns, Old Borgin could tell at a glance that it was worth a fortune.
This was definitely a young master from a pure-blood family.
And he was alone.
The dry, shriveled skin on Old Borgin's face twitched.
He squeezed out a sickening fake smile,
revealing a mouth full of yellow, rotting teeth.
"Lost, young master?"
He rubbed his hands on his apron, his voice sounding like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.
"This isn't Diagon Alley. Those Dark Wizards outside love fair-skinned, tender young sheep like you best."
Arthur stood before the counter.
He did not answer.
He didn't even pull down his hood.
Heterochromatic eyes—one pale, one pitch-black—watched the old man quietly from the shadows.
Old Borgin thought the kid was frightened.
He grew bolder.
Wealthy young masters who strayed into Knockturn Alleyneeded only to be frightened with a few cursed Dark Artstrinkets,
and one could easily squeeze a pile of Galleons out of them.
He was all too familiar with this kind of business.
"Lucky for you, you walked into my shop."
Old Borgin leaned closer to the counter and tapped on the glass.
His fingernails clicked crisply against the glass.
"As long as you can afford the price, Borgin and Burkes has all kinds of protective treasures."
He pulled out a black wooden box from under the counter.
The moment he opened the lid,
a draft of chilly wind gusted straight out of the box.
Inside lay a rough Opal Necklace.
The surface of the stones was covered in dark red cracks.
"Look at this... cursed by a 19th-century Dark Witch."
Old Borgin lowered his voice, his tone dripping with clear threat.
"Put it on, and within three seconds, your organs will rot into a puddle of water. Even if you accidentally... just touch it once."
He intentionally thrust the box forward a bit,
wanting to see this aristocratic young master jump back in panic,
and relish the fear on his prey's face.
Arthur didn't budge.
He lowered his eyelids and glanced at the necklace.
The cursed magic on it was as crude as a child's scribble.
The energy was chaotic, bearing the resentment of the caster before death—it practically reeked.
"A piece of junk."
Arthur spoke.
His voice was cold, carrying an aloof contempt through the cramped antique shop.
Old Borgin froze for a moment.
The fake smile on his face stiffened, and the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched.
This brat was even more arrogant than he thought.
Reckless to the point of suicidal arrogance.
"Junk?"
Old Borgin's voice sank.
A murderous glint flashed in his murky eyes.
In this alley, no one had ever dared belittle his collection to his face like this.
"It seems your family never taught you to learn reverence in Knockturn Alley."
Old Borgin reached his hand under the counter.
Secretly, he pressed a hidden brass switch.
The temperature inside the shop instantly plunged by more than ten degrees.
Eerie green ghostly flames suddenly flickered in the eye sockets of several skulls sitting on the shelves.
Their lower jaws clacked together,
making a strange sound like teeth grinding.
Phantom white human faces floated in midair, circling back and forth above Arthur's head,
accompanied by shrill wails.
This was Old Borgin's signature trick,
specifically used to terrify ignorant rookies.
Usually, once this trick came out, those kids would wet their pants in fright and obediently empty their pockets to beg for mercy.
The sickly green firelight cast flickering shadows across half of Arthur's face.
He looked up.
His hood slid back slightly.
Old Borgin saw those heterochromatic eyes clearly,
and his heart skipped a beat for no apparent reason.
There was no panic whatsoever in those eyes—
only an annoyance, as if looking at a dead thing.
"Reverence?"
Arthur savored the word.
He reached his right hand out from his robe pocket.
His slender fingers casually snapped in the murky air before him.
*Snap.*
The sound was very faint.
But the instant the snap sounded,
the laws of physics inside the shop were forcibly shattered.
A storm of pure black magic erupted directly with Arthur at its center.
There was no physical flame,
only the purest law of destruction and soul-crushing pressure of Fiendfyre.
The storm swept across the entire shop.
Instead of rising, the temperature brought an absolute silence that penetrated deep into the bone.
The magic in the air was instantly drained dry.
Even the dust froze in midair.
The shrill phantom specters circling in midair were grabbed by the neck,
unable to utter even half a scream,
crumbling directly into a shower of light specks before dissolving into nothingness.
The Opal Necklace on the counter, which Old Borgin had boasted could kill,
had its cursed magic swallowed whole by the aura of Fiendfyre.
The dark red cracks turned dead gray in an instant.
*Crack.*
The stones shattered into pieces of ordinary rock debris void of any magic.
The green flames in the skulls on the shelves went out on the spot.
The bones weathered at a speed visible to the naked eye,
turning into a pile of pale ash that flowed down the wooden shelves.
The blind dead head floating in formalin melted directly into a puddle of foul-smelling sludge inside its glass jar.
The hand of glory shriveled up, turning into a piece of ordinary wild beast jerky smelling of preservatives.
The Vampire fangs hanging on the wall crumbled straight into powder.
In less than two seconds,
this antique Dark Arts shop, claimed to be the most deeply rooted in Knockturn Alley,
had all hundreds of dangerous cursed items within it
stripped forcibly of their core magic,
turning into a complete pile of scrap metal and junk.
The entire process was so fast that one couldn't even react.
Dead silence returned to the shop.
The green light was gone.
The wind had ceased.
Only a sliver of light coming through the door crack remained.
Old Borgin stood behind the counter,
his hand still frozen in the motion of reaching for the switch.
His murky old eyes stared blankly at his treasures, now turned to rock debris and white ash.
A wheezing sound like a bellows came from his throat.
This was the fortune he had accumulated over more than half a lifetime of groveling in this sewer—
tricking countless people and killing several competitors to gather piece by piece.
In just these two seconds,
it was all ruined.
Inch by inch, he raised his head and looked at the blonde youth outside the counter.
It felt as though his heart had been dropped into an ice hole.
He finally felt the lingering, brutal aura of a Dark Lord in the air.
It was an abyss tens of thousands of times more terrifying than the junk Dark Arts in his shop.
It was pure death.
Old Borgin's teeth began to chatter wildly,
clicking loudly.
Cold sweat instantly soaked through his greasy old shirt, sticking uncomfortably to his back.
He wanted to speak, to beg for mercy, to scream aloud,
but his tongue was frozen in his mouth, refusing to obey.
The bones in his legs seemed to have been suddenly pulled out,
robbing him of all strength to support his body.
His knees buckled.
*Thud.*
Old Borgin fell heavily to his knees on the dust-covered wooden floorboards.
Chapter 32: The Borgin Shopkeeper Kneels in Terror
Old Borgin's knees hit the dusty wooden floorboards.
It produced a dull thud.
Dust choked his nasal passages, but he did not even dare to cough.
His murky old eyes were filled with undiluted despair.
Looking at the bones and stone fragments turned to white ash all over the ground, his heart felt as if it were being tightly gripped by a freezing cold hand.
Breathing became extremely difficult, as though his lungs were stuffed with a handful of waterlogged, tattered cotton.
Arthur stepped forward.
His leather boots stepped on the debris that had just rolled out from the glass jar.
The withered hand of glory, which once brought light to thieves, was now like a piece of brittle, dead wood.
The sole of Arthur's boot stepped down without mercy.
"Crack."
The shriveled flesh and bone were instantly crushed into a pile of powder.
The pungent, sour smell of preserving potion on the hand of glory dissipated instantly.
Old Borgin shuddered all over.
That sharp crack felt as though it had stepped directly on his spine.
He smelled an odor of death in the air thicker than even the deepest reaches of Knockturn Alley.
It was the pure, high-and-mighty pressure of a Dark Lord.
Lord Voldemort had come to this shop before.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had worked here as a shop assistant back then, and had also visited after becoming a Dark Lord.
But Lord Voldemort carried a gloomy coldness and viper-like scheming, still retaining human greed.
The blond youth before him was completely different.
What he radiated was pure destruction.
Treating human life and magic as weeds by the roadside, ready to burn them clean at any moment.
Old Borgin even felt that even if he presented all the Galleons in the store right now,
the other party would still kick them aside like trash.
"This shop is an empty shell now."
Arthur's voice echoed in the quiet shop.
He lowered his head, his gaze falling on Old Borgin's trembling shoulders.
"Relying on selling these rags turned to ash won't maintain your position in Knockturn Alley."
A gurgling swallowing sound came from Old Borgin's throat.
He wanted to raise his head, but his neck couldn't muster any strength, his cervical vertebrae feeling frozen solid.
"Yo... Young Master..."
When he spoke, his voice was as raspy as a broken bellow, laden with heavy weeping tones.
"Pl... Please show mercy, my old bones... I still have gold coins..."
"Shut up."
Arthur cut off his begging directly.
There was no superfluous emotional fluctuation in his voice.
"I want a list of all the underground forces in Knockturn Alley."
Old Borgin's body froze suddenly.
The underground network of Knockturn Alley was the lifeblood he had operated for decades.
All kinds of shifty black market deals, Ministry of Magicsmuggling routes, and lists of fugitives on the run.
These things were his capital for survival.
Surrendering these meant he would no longer be the feared Mr. Borgin, but a stinkbug that could be crushed to death at any moment.
"Th-This is impossible..."
Old Borgin stammered, still trying to keep his final trump card.
His fingers scraped desperately on the dusty floorboards, black dirt jammed under his fingernails.
"Those people... they're all ruthless desperadoes... If I give it up, they'll skin me alive..."
Before he could finish his sentence,
Arthur's right eye lit up with a layer of slowly swirling gray mist.
The pressure of Soul Law bore down directly on top of Old Borgin's head.
Without any physical contact,
Old Borgin felt his soul being pierced through simultaneously by tens of thousands of freezing steel needles.
Not only did those steel needles pierce through, but they also slowly stirred deep within his consciousness.
"Ah!"
He screamed in agony, tightly clutching his balding head with both hands.
He rolled about in agony on the floor covered in dust and glass shards.
Broken glass cut through his cheeks and the back of his hands, dark red blood flowing out.
Yet he couldn't feel the physical pain at all; the tearing sensation deep within his soul had consumed all his nerves.
Snot and tears mixed with dust covered his entire face, looking as pathetic as could be.
Arthur stood where he was, quietly watching him twitch on the ground like a maggot.
"I don't like repeating myself."
The aura of black Fiendfyre followed the soul pressure, forcibly squeezing into Old Borgin's consciousness.
It was merely a faint spark.
Old Borgin felt as if his brain was about to boil.
"I'll give it! I'll give it all!"
Old Borgin shrieked, his voice breaking completely like a stray cat with a broken leg.
He scrambled and crawled toward the counter.
Because his legs were weak, he fell down midway.
His chin crashed heavily onto the edge of the wood, gouging out a bloody cut deep enough to reveal bone.
Blood dripped onto the wooden floor.
Paying no heed to wipe the blood, his trembling hands groped around in the hidden compartment at the very bottom of the counter.
His fingers felt a rusty copper key.
He inserted the key into the gap of a loose floorboard beneath the counter and turned it hard.
The musty smell in the air instantly grew heavier, mixed with the stench of rotting paper.
From the hidden compartment, Old Borgin retrieved a thick ledger wrapped in black oilcloth.
He turned around, fell onto both knees, and held the ledger high above his head with both hands.
Holding it all the way up in front of Arthur.
His wrists trembled so violently that the edges of the ledger shuddered constantly in the air.
"It's all here..."
Old Borgin panted heavily, his chest heaving violently like an old bellow.
"The secret codes for the Werewolf packs... the seven hidden entrances to the underground black market... and the real names and blood pacts of those fugitive Dark Wizards."
His teeth chattered loudly as he completely resigned to his fate.
"Take it... From today on, Knockturn Alley... is yours to command."
Arthur lowered his eyelids.
He looked at the black oilcloth bundle emanating a sour stench, making no move to take it.
To him, a thing soaked in the sweat and greed of low-level Dark Wizards was far too filthy.
"Drop it on the desk."
Old Borgin hurriedly placed the ledger on the counter.
He even used his sleeve to vigorously wipe away the dust on the oilcloth, terrified of offending Arthur's eyes.
Now he only wished to survive.
Even if he were asked to lick the mud off the bottom of this blond youth's boots right now, he wouldn't hesitate.
The system's cold mechanical voice spammed frantically in Arthur's mind.
"[Target individual Borgin detected to have submitted completely in soul.]"
"[Control over Knockturn Alley's underground network acquired.]"
"[Underlying rule deterrence successful. Fear points continuously accumulating.]"
Arthur found it utterly boring.
These bugs barely surviving in the dark had psychological defenses even more fragile than the students in Hogwarts.
They were far too afraid of death.
Having witnessed too many cruel deaths, when faced with absolute brutality from a higher dimension, they fell to their knees faster than anyone else.
"Notify everyone on the list."
Arthur turned around, his black cloak stirring a gust of cold wind in the murky air.
"Tomorrow at midnight, I want to see all the bosses of Knockturn Alley right here."
He tilted his face slightly, his heterochromatic eyes casting a glance at Old Borgin.
"Anyone who fails to arrive will never need to appear in London again."
Old Borgin lay flat on the floor covered in glass shards, kowtowing frantically.
His forehead slammed onto the hard floorboards, making dull thudding sounds and bruising darkly.
"Yes... I'll handle it right away, I'd never dare mess this up..."
He no longer even had the courage to look up at the hem of that black robe.
Arthur took long strides, preparing to leave this dilapidated shop with its foul odor.
His objective for coming out today had been achieved.
This was merely the first step in taking over the dark forces of the British wizarding world.
Though Knockturn Alley was a cesspool, as a source of intelligence and underground funding, it was barely useful enough.
His leather boots stepped on the wooden floor, producing a steady tapping sound.
Just as he walked to the front door, his slender fingers barely touching that decayed wooden door,
a sudden flurry of hurried footsteps echoed from outside.
Soles stepped on wet, mossy flagstones, running in extreme haste.
Even stumbling slightly out of control, splashing loudly in the puddles on the ground.
The footsteps charged straight toward the door of Borgin and Burkes.
"Bang."
The wooden door was shoved open violently from the outside.
The rusty brass bell on the doorframe emitted an out-of-tune screech.
The sultry air outside squeezed forcibly through the gap in the door, striking Arthur's black cloak.
Lucius Malfoy stood at the door, panting heavily.
His signature platinum blond long hair was somewhat disheveled, several strands stuck to his pale forehead with sweat.
The hem of his custom robe, usually tailored meticulously without a single wrinkle, was splattered with several drops of black muddy water.
He gasped heavily for air, his chest heaving violently, looking as if he had just experienced a frantic sprint.
His left hand gripped tightly onto the walking stick inlaid with a silver snake head.
His knuckles turned white, as if without leaning on it, his legs would give way from sheer exhaustion.
And his right hand was carefully cradling a heavy black wooden box.
Chapter 33 Change of Ownership of the Malfoy Vault
Lucius stepped across the threshold.
The dampness and stifling heat from outside rushed into the shop along with him.
It was instantly shattered by the bone-chilling cold in the air.
He gasped for breath.
His chest heaved violently.
With his gaze piercing through the dim light, he saw the full view of the shop.
The glass counters were completely shattered.
The floor was covered in pale ashes and charred stone debris.
The acidic smell of preservatives floated in the air, along with the burnt stench left after magic was forcibly burned dry.
Old Borgin lay prone behind the counter in a pool of blood like a dead dog.
His entire body twitched incessantly.
Lucius's hand holding the serpent-headed cane trembled violently.
The tip of the cane struck the wooden floor with a crisp sound.
He felt as if a handful of hay had been stuffed into his throat.
Even swallowing saliva scraped painfully.
Those terrifying words in the letter turned into actual ruins laid out before him.
Standing right in the center of the ruins was the blonde youth wearing a black cloak.
Arthur slowly turned his head.
The cold light in his heterochromatic pupils swept across Lucius's face.
Just this single glance.
Lucius's pride in his pure-blood dignity completely collapsed.
He took a step forward.
His leather shoe stepped on a piece of broken glass, causing the sole of his foot to slip slightly.
He didn't try to stabilize his center of gravity at all.
Taking the momentum, both his knees hit the ground, heavily kneeling on the floor full of dust and debris.
The expensive suit fabric was pierced by the glass.
Warm blood seeped from his knees, yet he didn't even dare to knit his brows.
"Master... Master..."
Lucius's voice was terribly hoarse.
His tongue was tied in his mouth, and his pronunciation was somewhat muffled.
With both hands, he lifted the heavy black wooden box, raising it high above his head.
His wrists shook very noticeably.
"The House of Malfoy... offers you its purest loyalty."
He didn't even dare to breathe too loudly.
Beads of sweat on his forehead rolled down the bridge of his nose.
"This is... this is the key to an anonymous vault at the very bottom of Gringotts... Inside are the Dark Arts resources and Galleons accumulated by the family for hundreds of years..."
He swallowed.
Desperately trying to make his voice sound humble.
"From today onwards... all the wealth of the Malfoy family belongs to your command."
After saying these words, he buried his head deeply between his arms.
Arthur lowered his eyelids.
His gaze fell on the black wooden box.
Intricate defensive magic runes were carved on the surface of the wood.
Now these magic runes were dim and completely ineffective under the pressure of his aura.
He didn't reach out to take it immediately.
Leather boots stepped on the wooden floor, taking a step forward.
Stopping in front of Lucius.
The hem of the black cloak almost brushed Lucius's nose tip.
Lucius held his breath.
Cold sweat soaked his shirt completely at the back, sticking uncomfortably to his skin.
He even felt that in the next second, he too would be burned to ashes like the bones in the shop.
The time waiting for judgment was infinitely prolonged.
"You are smart."
Arthur's voice sounded above his head.
Carrying a temperatureless metallic texture.
Slender fingers stretched out and flicked open the brass clasp of the box.
"Click."
The lid of the box sprang open.
Inside was lined with dark red velvet.
Quietly lying inside was an ancient bronze key and several parchment title deeds.
Arthur picked up the key casually.
The touch was ice-cold.
In the deepest vaults of Gringotts, the Goblins had set up extremely strict bloodline defense lines.
But with this key, coupled with the current voluntary submission of the head of the House of Malfoy, those defense lines became mere decorations.
Arthur tucked the key into his robe pocket.
The foundation of the House of Malfoy completely changed ownership from this moment on.
It became his private money bag used to run his underground power.
This was much less troublesome than going to Gringottshimself to set fires and rob.
"You can get lost."
Arthur didn't even look at those title deeds.
His tone was like shooing away an eyesore of a fly.
Falling into Lucius's ears, these words were practically celestial music.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
The breath pent up in his lungs was finally exhaled.
"Yes... I'll get lost right away..."
He didn't dare to stand up.
Supporting himself with both hands on the floor full of glass shards, he retreated two steps.
His palms were cut, leaving a trail of bloodstains.
Only then did Lucius scramble to his feet in a flurry.
Grabbing the serpent cane that had fallen on the ground.
Backing up, he bumped open the broken wooden door.
Rushing into the mossy alley outside as if running for his life.
The footsteps quickly disappeared into the hot and humid air, showing how panicked his run was.
The shop quieted down again.
Old Borgin still lay prone in the corner playing dead.
Even his breathing was deliberately suppressed to the lightest.
Fearing that making the slightest movement would bring a fatal disaster.
Arthur ignored this useless person.
He turned and walked toward the door.
Today's business was done.
The money bag was secured, and the intelligence network of Knockturn Alley was also acquired.
Next, he only needed to wait until midnight tomorrow.
To let that group of underground gangster bosses come here and kneel to kowtow.
The dark side of the magic world would soon be entirely trampled under his boots.
Arthur walked out of Borgin and Burkes magic shop.
The sky outside was still gloomy and dark.
There were a few dirty puddles accumulated on the bluestone slab road of Knockturn Alley.
Exuding the sour stench of fermented rotten vegetable leaves.
He walked along the alley toward the direction of Diagon Alley.
Leather boots stepped on the stone slabs.
Making steady footsteps.
Behind the surrounding broken door panels, a few pairs of eyes hidden in the dark were peeking.
But upon coming into contact with the trace of coldness emanating from Arthur's body,
Those eyes quickly shrank back.
The door cracks were tightly shut.
Even the sound of running mice disappeared.
Walking to the middle section of the alley.
The light ahead became slightly brighter.
The car honking sounds from the Muggle street faintly drifted over.
The putrid smell in the air had faded a lot.
Right at this moment.
A slight popping sound suddenly came from the quiet air.
"Pop."
It sounded like a shriveled pod being squeezed and popped.
A dusty gray shadow appeared out of thin air less than two meters ahead.
Just blocking the way.
This was a House-elf with bat-like large ears.
Wearing a filthy old pillowcase on its body.
Revealing limbs as skinny as withered firewood.
That pair of tennis ball-sized green eyes was staring at Arthur full of terror.
Chapter 34 Crushing a House-elf with Bare Hands
Grey mud bubbles popped in the puddle.
Dobby's frail body trembled uncontrollably in the dark alleyway.
He was wearing a filthy, old pillowcase.
The fabric was covered in grease stains and stubborn mud.
His tennis-ball-sized green eyes stared intently at Arthur.
Bulging from extreme terror, his eyeballs were covered in bloodshot veins.
He recognized the blonde boy.
Just now at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he had hidden behind a pillar and seen everything.
He had seen his lofty master bow and step aside for this youth like a dog.
Dobby had snuck out in secret.
He had originally intended to warn Harry Potter.
He wanted to tell the Savior that Hogwarts was in great danger and that he must under no circumstances return to school.
But he was too flustered.
The House-elf's magic malfunctioned, landing him right in Knockturn Alley.
Right in front of Arthur.
"Y-You..."
Dobby took a step back.
His scrawny foot slipped slightly on the mossy cobblestones.
His hands tightly clutched his long, bat-like ears.
"H-Harry Potter... Dobby must warn..."
He mumbled incoherently, his voice sharp and wavering.
Arthur paused in his tracks.
He looked at this ugly House-elf.
His gaze turned completely cold.
In his pale right eye, a thread of grey mist slowly surfaced.
The temperature in the air plunged to freezing in an instant.
Dobby felt a murderous intent so cold it seemed to freeze his soul.
He couldn't care less about his master's punishment now.
The instinct to survive overrode everything else.
He raised a finger that resembled a withered twig.
Intending to snap his fingers.
A House-elf's spatial magic required no incantations; they could come and go freely through most Wizarding wards.
With a soft snap.
Dobby's body began to distort, turning into a blurred grey shadow.
He was slipping into the void.
Arthur didn't draw his wand.
He didn't even blink.
He simply raised his right hand slowly.
Spreading his five slender fingers in the damp, cold air, he abruptly clenched his fist at the grey shadow mid-air.
"Bang!"
A dull explosion echoed through the narrow alley.
The surrounding laws of space were forcibly compressed by an utterly tyrannical force.
Like a water-soaked sponge being squeezed relentlessly by a pair of iron hands.
The air let out a piercing screech.
Dobby's spatial jump was violently interrupted.
The grey shadow was forcefully squeezed out of the void.
His frail body hung two feet off the ground in mid-air.
His limbs were splayed unnaturally.
Crushed tightly by an invisible, massive force.
"Aaargh!"
Dobby let out a blood-curdling shriek.
The sound pierced the dead silence of Knockturn Alley.
A few stray cats in the distance scrambled onto the rooftops in terror.
Invisible pressure contracted toward the center from all directions.
Dobby's eyeballs were nearly squeezed out of their sockets.
His mouth gaped wide open, yet he couldn't draw in a breath of air.
His chest was crushed flat.
*Crack.*
The snap of a breaking rib sounded crystal clear in the narrow alley.
Immediately after.
A series of sharp snaps echoed in quick succession.
His arms and leg bones shattered inch by inch under this brute force.
Dobby spat out a huge mouthful of crushed internal organs laced with green blood.
Splattering all over his dirty pillowcase.
The iron tang of blood instantly overpowered the sour stench of the alley.
He didn't even have the strength left to struggle.
The immense pain far exceeded the limit of what his small body could bear.
Arthur looked at him impassively.
"Spatial magic?"
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
"Exploiting a few loopholes in the laws of reality... Did you really think you could escape from me?"
He opened his right hand.
The mid-air restraint instantly vanished.
Dobby dropped straight down like a piece of ruined meat.
*Thud.*
He crashed into a trash pile in the corner.
Squashing a few foul-smelling rotten cabbages and dead rats.
Dirty water splashed all over him.
Dobby completely passed out from the excruciating pain.
His limbs were twisted at bizarre angles, with only the faint rise and fall of his chest proving he was still alive.
Arthur didn't spare this pile of trash another glance.
He turned around.
His leather boots produced steady footsteps against the cobblestones.
He walked straight out of Knockturn Alley.
Time passed quickly.
London's rainy season had come to an end.
The muggy heat of midsummer swept across all of Britain.
The cicadas buzzed irritably in the trees.
In the blink of an eye, it was the eve of the second school year.
Wiltshire.
Malfoy Manor.
The wrought-iron gates outside the manor stood wide open.
A few white peacocks strolled on the lawn, hiding under the shade of trees, unwilling to move in the heat.
Yet the temperature inside the manor was frighteningly low.
Powerful Cooling Charms were running on overload in every room.
The air was cold enough to feel frozen.
In the most spacious study on the second floor.
Heavy, dark-green velvet curtains were drawn tightly.
Not a single ray of sunlight peeked through.
An eerie green cold fire burned in the fireplace.
Lucius Malfoy stood stooped beside a massive mahogany desk.
He held a cup of freshly brewed black tea in his hand.
The teacup clinked softly against its bone china saucer.
He carefully placed the teacup on the corner of the desk.
Not a single drop of tea was spilled.
Draco stood in the corner of the study.
Keeping his head down, staring at the patterns on the carpet.
He didn't even dare to breathe heavily, acting entirely like a dutiful wooden mannequin.
Arthur sat on the black leather high-backed chair that originally belonged to the head of the House of Malfoy.
He wore a dark grey shirt.
The collar was casually left unbuttoned.
Over these past few months, this luxurious manor had become his temporary lodging outside the Muggle world.
The desk was cluttered with a chaotic assortment of items.
There were silver daggers stained with dried blood.
Necklaces of human bone soaked in preservative potion.
And several sheets of parchment filled with malicious curses.
To curry favor with his new master, Lucius had hauled out all the Dark Arts items hidden in the House of Malfoy's secret chamber.
He wanted to prove his loyalty and usefulness.
"Master... these are rare treasures collected by the family over generations."
Lucius rubbed his hands together, speaking in a hushed tone.
"If you find them an eyesore, I will have them thrown away immediately."
Arthur leaned back against the chair.
His gaze swept casually over the pile of junk.
They were all useless junk.
The magic fluctuations were so weak they weren't even enough to scratch an itch for him.
Just as he was about to tell Lucius to clear this garbage out.
His eyes suddenly halted at the very edge of the pile.
It was a very inconspicuous corner.
Arthur reached out his right hand.
His slender fingers reached past the rusty dagger.
And picked up a book from the edge of the desk.
It was very thin.
It was a diary.
The black leather cover was badly worn.
All four corners were flaking.
There was no writing on the cover, nor any embossed gold name.
It smelled of musty old paper and cellar dust.
Arthur held the diary in his hand.
The pad of his thumb rubbed against the rough leather surface.
Deep within his right eye, that trace of grey mist slowly spun once again.
He felt a faint heartbeat.
Not a real heartbeat.
But rather a weak yet malicious soul fluctuation hidden deep within the pages.
Following his fingers, this soul was tentatively radiating chilling magic outward.
Arthur's gaze settled on the blank cover.
Chapter 35: Tom, Are You Ready to Tremble?
Arthur sat in the black leather sofa.
His slender fingers played with the diary that belonged to Tom Riddle.
The leather cover was rough and stiff.
All four corners were worn into unsightly frayed edges.
This was a Horcrux left behind by Lord Voldemort when he was sixteen.
He flipped open the diary.
The pages were yellowed, exuding the musty smell of a damp cellar and dust.
The air conditioning in the study was turned up very high.
Lucius stood beside the mahogany desk, not daring to breathe loudly.
He kept his head bowed, staring intently at the pattern on the carpet.
Arthur laid the diary open flat on his lap.
On the originally blank page, a single drop of black ink suddenly seeped out.
The ink crawled across the parchment as if alive,
Quickly outlining a line of copperplate English script.
[Hello, I am Tom Riddle. Who are you? How did you find this diary?]
The handwriting carried a calculated gentleness and curiosity.
The residual soul inside the diary was using these words to release a subtle, alluring magical charm,
Trying to entice the reader to open their heart to it.
Arthur found it absurd.
This trick of feeding on others' emotions to complete oneself—
Was as pathetic as bugs begging for scraps in a gutter.
He didn't even have the interest to pick up a quill to reply.
Arthur leaned back against the sofa.
His gaze fell upon the ink that was still slowly flowing.
"Tom."
His voice rang out in the quiet study,
Carrying a cold, metallic hardness devoid of warmth.
"Are you ready to tremble?"
The moment the words left his mouth,
Arthur raised his right index finger.
A spark of pure black suddenly burst from the pad of his finger.
The moment the spark appeared, the air in the study felt drained dry.
The eerie green cold fire in the fireplace instantly extinguished.
The temperature surged to a twisted degree.
Lucius shuddered.
He took half a step back, his back slamming hard against the bookshelf,
Making a dull thud.
Arthur unhurriedly pressed his fingertip, carrying the Fiendfyre, onto the cover of the diary.
"Sizzle—"
A sharp, ear-grating burning sound erupted.
The moment the black fire touched the leather,
A charred, hollow dent was burned directly into the cover.
This was not burning in a physical sense;
This was the law of the Dark Arts directly biting into the soul fragment attached to the book.
The diary twitched violently on Arthur's lap like a living person.
The pages fluttered and rustled frantically.
A massive amount of black ink gushed from within.
The ink spurted wildly like blood from a severed artery,
Dripping along the edge of Arthur's robes onto the wool carpet,
Emitting a pungent stench of dead blood and the foul odor of a scorched soul.
The sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle screamed.
The voice couldn't penetrate the paper,
But the painful shockwaves of a soul being rawly torn apart turned into a physical psychic shriek,
Rampaging through the air of the study.
Lucius clutched his ears in agony.
His eardrums throbbed with pain, and his head buzzed loudly.
The bone china cup filled with hot tea at the corner of the desk shattered instantly.
Porcelain shards scattered across the floor.
Scalding tea splashed onto the back of Lucius's hand,
Burning a terrifying red welt.
Gritting his teeth hard, he didn't dare make a single cry of pain.
The writing on the diary turned wildly distorted.
[Stop! What kind of... monster are you! Stop!]
The ink blurred into a messy clump,
Revealing complete terror and despair.
All the feigned gentleness had vanished,
Leaving only the instinctive wails for survival.
The system's cold notification chimed frantically in Arthur's mind.
[Extreme trembling detected from the target Horcrux.]
[Fear value significantly overflowing!]
The gray mist in Arthur's right eye swirled slowly.
He looked at the remnant soul deep inside the diary that was on the verge of collapse.
That was about enough.
He withdrew his finger.
The black fire at his fingertip instantly vanished.
The top right corner of the diary had been burned to charcoal,
With thin wisps of green smoke still rising from the edges.
The ink on the paper stopped gushing and dried into ugly stains.
The remnant soul inside was weak to the extreme, behaving submissively like a dead dog,
Not daring to leak even a trace of magic ever again.
Arthur stood up.
He casually stuffed the diary with the scorched corner into his robe pocket.
Keeping this thing as an ATM
Was far more valuable than burning it outright.
...
September 1st. London.
The sky was overcast and gray.
Raindrops slammed against the glass roof of King's Cross Station, making dull echoes.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters remained crowded and noisy.
The Hogwarts Express spewed a cloud of white steam,
Its train whistle piercing through the curtain of rain.
Arthur boarded the train.
His leather boots stepped onto the red carpet in the corridor of the carriage.
It was still raining outside.
The carriage jolted violently as the train slowly started moving.
The corridor was completely empty.
No one dared to wander outside.
The students had hidden in their compartments early on and locked the doors tight, terrified of bumping into this Demon King of Slytherin.
There was a smell of old train rust and coal smoke in the air.
The platform scenery outside the window began to recede.
Arthur walked forward along the narrow aisle.
The compartment door ahead was tightly closed.
Right at that moment,
The air ahead suddenly underwent an eerie distortion,
As if a piece of transparent glass were being forcibly twisted by an external force.
"Bang!"
A dull explosion detonated in the corridor.
Two dark figures tumbled out from a rift in midair,
Crashing directly onto the wooden floorboards.
"Ouch!"
Ron let out a painful cry.
His chin slammed hard against the floor, and his teeth accidentally bit his tongue,
Causing a salty, metallic taste of blood to spread in his mouth.
Harry was pinned beneath Ron.
His round-framed glasses were knocked askew,
The lenses covered in dust.
Both boys were covered in coal dust and mud, their robes wrinkled like a heap of rags.
They had missed the time to enter the platform;
The passage had been sealed shut by magic.
It was a Portkey left behind by Dumbledore that forcibly teleported them onto the train that had already departed.
The weightlessness of spatial teleportation made Harry's stomach churn violently.
Clutching his stomach, he dry-heaved twice,
Vomiting nothing up except a mouthful of bitter acid.
"R... Ron... hurry up and get off my legs."
Harry panted heavily, pushing hard against the boy on top of him.
Ron tried to scramble up on all fours,
But his right foot stepped on his untied shoelace.
He pitched forward again, his head nearly crashing into the wooden wall of the compartment.
The two knelt pathetically on the carpet,
Dizzy and disoriented, not yet understanding their current situation.
A pair of spotless black leather boots
Came to a stop right in front of their field of vision.
The edges of the boots were fitted with dark silver metal buckles,
Without even a single drop of rain on them.
Harry froze,
The hand clutching his stomach stopping in midair.
He slowly looked up along the pair of boots,
Past the crisp, pure black robes,
And finally met that pair of heterochromatic eyes weaving pale gray with pitch black.
Chapter 36: The Savior Withdraws Into Himself Again
Rain was trickling down the gargoyles on the outer walls of Hogwarts Castle.
Splashing onto the pitted flagstones.
Harry and Ron stood before the two heavy oak doors of the Great Hall.
Their old robes were soaked through with rain, dripping yellow mud water.
Those few hours spent slumped on the floor in the train corridor...
...Harry felt as though an entire century had passed.
He hadn't even dared to raise his head back then.
Muddle-headed all the way until he got off the train, he then rode the Thestral carriage to the Castle.
As the cold wind in the corridor blew past, Harry recovered a little bit of his sanity.
This summer at Number Four, Privet Drive.
Every night he had locked himself in the stiflingly hot, tiny cupboard.
Facing that broken mirror covered in cracks.
Practicing the motion of drawing his wand over and over again.
He desperately told himself that this was Hogwarts, that Dumbledore was here.
As long as he was fast enough, he could resist.
He had even rehearsed in his mind hundreds of times...
...how to look straight into those heterochromatic eyes, how to loudly chant Expelliarmus.
It was just too sudden on the train earlier.
Harry took a deep breath of the cold air smelling of rain and raw air.
His fingers fumbled in his wet robe pocket, touching the handle of that holly wand.
The rough texture on the wood surface gave him a little false sense of confidence.
Right at that moment.
A steady sound of footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.
Leather boots stepped on the waterlogged stone tiles, making a muffled sound.
Harry's entire body tensed up instantly.
He whipped his head around.
Arthur walked out from the shadows at the corner of the corridor.
Under the halo of the torches, his pure black robes gleamed with a layer of cold, dark light.
He was completely dry.
Not a single drop of rain had touched him.
That innate oppression of a superior pushed over like an invisible stone wall as he approached.
Sensing the magic power, the flames of the torches in the corridor immediately lowered.
The light dimmed.
Ron let out a leaky, high-pitched gasp from his throat.
He instinctively backed away.
His back slammed heavily against the thick oak door of the Great Hall.
Producing a muffled thud.
Ron's legs began to tremble violently, his mind filled with the smell of urine left in the corridor during their first year.
Harry bit his teeth together tightly.
He bit through the inner lining of his mouth, the rusty taste stimulating his taste buds.
He forced himself not to back down.
His right hand gripped the wand tightly inside his pocket, the blue veins on the back of his hand bulging.
Draw it out.
Point it at him.
Harry screamed madly in his heart.
Arthur reached the entrance of the Great Hall.
He stopped in his tracks.
Less than two meters away from Harry.
Arthur slowly turned his head.
Without drawing his wand, nor making any gesture to cast a spell.
He merely glanced at Harry casually.
There was no mockery in those eyes.
Nor was there any anger.
Only a cold indifference like looking at a piece of gravel on the roadside.
Within his pale right eye, a trace of gray mist slowly swirled.
Just with this single glance.
The psychological defense line Harry had worked so hard to build over the summer break...
...was like a piece of low-quality glass struck by a hammer.
Shattering with a crash.
That gray mist pierced directly through Harry's retina.
Crashing heavily into the deep depths of his soul.
Those were not eyes a human should possess.
These were the eyes of a god who had seen through life and death, capable of extracting and crushing a living person's soul at any moment.
The scene before Harry's eyes distorted.
The stone tiles of the corridor vanished, and the doors of the Great Hall vanished as well.
He smelled a pungent scent of sulfur.
Mixed with the stench of charred flesh and giant bones turning to ash.
The sight of a twelve-foot-tall mountain Troll unable to even scream in the Fiendfyre...
...was forcibly crammed into his brain.
A chill rushed all the way from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
Harry felt as though his heart had skipped two beats.
The blood froze in his veins.
The holly wand in his pocket suddenly felt like a heavy block of lead weighing hundreds of pounds.
His fingers were as stiff as rusty nails.
Unclasping one by one.
The wand slipped from between his fingers, falling into the deepest part of his pocket.
He didn't even have the strength left to pull his hand out of the fabric.
He couldn't draw it out.
He couldn't draw it out at all.
In the face of this pure oppression of a Dark Lord, even moving a finger had become a pipe dream.
All his courage and practice had turned into a ridiculous, terrible joke.
Arthur withdrew his gaze.
He didn't bother to say a single word to this savior.
Stepping in his black leather boots...
...he brushed past Harry's shoulder, pushed open the doors of the Great Hall, and walked straight inside.
The edge of his robes brought a gust of chilly wind.
Scraping across Harry's cheek.
Stinging painfully like a razor blade.
Once Arthur's back completely vanished behind the doors...
...the terrifying aura weighing down on the corridor gradually dissipated.
Harry's legs went soft.
Sliding down along the cold stone wall.
He fell onto the muddy floor.
Mouth wide open, he desperately sucked air into his lungs.
His chest heaved violently, like a fish on the verge of dying of thirst.
Cold sweat mixed with rain from his hair ran into his eyes, stinging intensely.
"Ha... Harry..."
Ron slid down the door onto the ground, his voice carrying a heavy sob.
"He's even scarier... far scarier than last year..."
Covering his face with both hands, Ron curled into a ball, trembling all over.
Harry didn't answer.
He lowered his head, staring blankly at the tips of his mud-splattered shoes.
Despair completely submerged him like a dark tide.
Two months of desperate self-hypnosis...
...couldn't even withstand a single glance from the other person.
He realized that in his entire life, he might never be able to raise his wand against that man.
That invisible soul shackle completely locked away his thoughts of resistance.
Harry fell into a deep state of self-isolation.
Time trickled past.
The sound of cutlery clinking against golden plates echoed from inside the Great Hall.
Harry and Ron sat slumped in the corridor for a long time before barely recovering a little strength.
Like lost souls, the two pushed open the oak doors...
...and snuck in to sit at the end of the Gryffindor table.
On the banquet of the first night of the new term...
...the atmosphere lacked the usual bustling excitement of the school opening in previous years.
Sitting on the benches, the new students didn't even dare to speak loudly.
Because over at the Slytherin table, it was as quiet as a dead realm.
The magical ceiling above was filled with heavy dark clouds.
There were no stars.
Arthur sat right in the center of the Slytherin table.
He leisurely sliced the food on his plate.
A large empty ring was left around him.
Draco was still like a trembling manservant, standing behind him to the side holding a sterling silver pitcher.
Let alone talking, even his breathing was cautious.
Dumbledore sat in the center of the staff table.
His expression was very unpleasant.
After a summer, he seemed to have aged a few years more.
His eyes intentionally or unintentionally avoided the Slytherin side.
Snape sat beside him.
His face was dark enough to drip water.
The meal was eaten under immense oppression.
The sound of cutlery hitting plates sounded like tapping on wooden boards in the echoing Great Hall.
As the feast neared its end...
...the food scraps on the golden plates vanished instantly.
Turning into desserts, which were subsequently cleared away entirely.
Dumbledore stood up.
Even the slight whispers in the Great Hall came to a stop.
Hundreds of eyes looked toward the staff table.
"Welcome to the new school year."
Dumbledore's voice echoed through the dead silent Great Hall.
Carrying a hint of forced composure.
"Before everyone goes back to the dormitories to sleep, I must introduce a new Professor to you."
He reached out his hand.
Pointing to an empty seat at the far right of the staff table.
No one was originally sitting there.
As Dumbledore's words fell...
...the curtain behind the stage was roughly yanked open by a hand.
A man dressed in flamboyantly flashy magenta velvet robes strode out.
His blonde hair was permed into perfect large waves.
Shining brightly under the dim candlelight of the ceiling.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
In his hand, he held a wand encrusted with an exaggerated ruby on top.
He walked with his head held high and full of arrogance.
The hem of his magenta robe swayed dramatically with his strides.
He walked to the very center of the podium.
Completely unaware of the extraordinarily oppressive, strange atmosphere in the Great Hall.
Facing the students below, Lockhart...
...revealed a fake smile.
His teeth were blindingly white.
"Thank you for the Principal's introduction."
Lockhart cleared his throat and tossed his flowing blonde hair.
Preparing to begin his long-rehearsed inaugural speech.