Chapter 53: Dementors? Just Right for a Snack
The frost on the train windowpane spread rapidly.
The transparent condensation turned into pale white frost flowers.
The icicles pressed against each other, emitting a faint crackling sound.
The carriage corridor was pitch black.
The magical lightbulbs overhead couldn't squeeze out even a trace of spark.
The train's iron exterior emitted a dull resonance in the wind and rain.
It was like a giant iron coffin buried in the frozen soil.
A foul odor crept in through the gap in the door.
It was the stench of rotting wood soaked in stagnant water year-round.
Mixed with the foul stench of decomposing and fermenting corpses.
A single sniff was enough to make someone vomit their stomach acid.
The wooden frame of the sliding door emitted an abrasive screech.
The door was pushed open from the corridor by an external force.
Three tall monsters floated in.
They were draped in tattered black cloaks.
Slimy droplets of water hung from the edges of the fabric.
The water droplets struck the carpet with a viscous, squelching sound.
They were the jailers of Azkaban.
Sent by the idiots at the Ministry of Magic to search for Sirius Black.
They had no vision.
They relied entirely on feeding on the happiness and fear of the living to navigate.
They had originally been searching for the intense scent of despair radiating from Harry Potter.
But when they reached this carriage, they stopped.
The three monsters caught a scent that was far more alluring to them.
It was a bottomless, intensely rich fluctuation of the soul that drove them wild.
A Dementor floated into the compartment.
Its shriveled, gray palms gripped the doorframe.
The backs of its hands were covered in crusted, festering sores.
Its nails were long and black, digging deep into the cracks of the wood and gouging out a splinter.
It lowered its head.
Its tattered hood pointed toward the person sitting in the shadows.
Its throat emitted an intake of breath like a broken bellows.
Wheeze. Wheeze.
It opened its lip-less, black-hole of a mouth and took a greedy, violent gulp of air.
It wanted to drain away every last emotion in this compartment.
Arthur sat on the deep red velvet seat.
He didn't even bother to dodge.
He let the chilling suction tug at the collar of his robes.
"Blind, filthy creatures."
Arthur's voice rang out in the darkness.
There was no anger.
Only the annoyance of having his sweet slumber disturbed.
In his first year, he had burned one to ashes with Fiendfyreon the train.
Back then, it was to harvest fear values.
Now,
he had a much more amusing pastime.
Arthur leaned back against his seat.
Slowly raising his right hand.
The Dementor sucked for a long while.
Its simple brain suddenly plunged into chaos.
It hadn't absorbed any happiness, nor had it absorbed any fear.
Instead, it had inhaled a black abyss capable of swallowing it whole.
The monster instinctively sensed danger.
It stopped inhaling.
Its hood jerked backward, its withered hands releasing the doorframe as it tried to retreat back into the corridor.
"Now that you're here, where do you think you're running?"
A layer of gray mist lit up in Arthur's right eye.
This mist pierced directly through the darkness of the compartment.
The domain of Soul Law expanded instantly, firmly shrouding the compartment and a short section of the corridor outside.
The air surrounding the Dementor turned into solid iron.
The monster, half-retreating, was forcefully stuck mid-air.
The hem of its cloak stiffened.
Not even a single drop of filthy water could fall from it.
Arthur slowly closed his fingers in mid-air.
"Hiss—"
The Dementor let out a soundless shriek.
This cry echoed solely on the level of the soul.
The monster inside the compartment was ripped apart down the middle by an invisible, immense force.
That foul, tattered cloak shattered like rotten paper into hundreds of strips of fabric.
Before the strips even hit the floor, they melted into a puddle of black, filthy water.
The core hidden beneath the cloak was exposed.
It was a turbid, silver-gray mass of soul energy—
the very source upon which the Dementor depended for survival.
Arthur curled his fingers back.
The silver-gray mass of energy was forcibly yanked across, landing in his palm.
The texture was quite strange,
feeling like a large piece of chilled jelly, soft and squishy,
while exuding a pure, piercing chill.
Arthur did not hesitate in the slightest.
With a circulation of magic,
the mass of soul energy directly melted against the surface of his skin, slipping through his pores and burrowing into his body.
A wonderful sense of satiation spread through his stomach.
All the chaotic emotions the Dementor had previously devoured were instantly filtered out by the Soul Law,
leaving behind only the purest nourishment for the soul,
which served to nourish Arthur's already ridiculously vast mental strength.
"A bit bland."
Arthur evaluated.
It sounded as though he were critiquing a dessert that wasn't quite to his taste.
The remaining two Dementors out in the corridor went completely mad.
The sight of their companion being ripped apart and eaten alive shattered their comprehension.
They were the very embodiment of fear,
but now, they experienced what it truly meant to be preyed upon.
They turned and bolted.
Their tattered, rag-like bodies writhed frantically in mid-air, desperately trying to smash through that invisible domain of the Soul Law.
"Bang."
One Dementor slammed into the edge of the domain and was violently bounced back, crashing against the carriage windowpane.
The glass emitted a dull thud.
Arthur rose from his seat, his leather boots producing a dull thud against the carpet.
He walked to the compartment door, gazing at the two panicking pieces of prey in the corridor.
He reached out his right hand once more.
Two strands of gray mist shot out like ropes, directly snaring the necks of the two monsters.
"Crack."
The cords of the domain tightened abruptly.
The bodies of the two Dementors burst apart simultaneously, cloaks shattering and filthy water splashing everywhere.
Two slightly larger masses of silver-gray soul energy were stripped out, struggling desperately in mid-air like a pair of dead fish tossed onto dry land.
Arthur opened his hand, and both masses of energy flew straight toward him, slamming into his palm to be brutally devoured.
The temperature in the compartment rose slightly,
but the oppressive aura of death in the air was even more intense than when the Dementors were present.
At the exact same time these three monsters were consumed,
a compartment door at the other end of the corridor was pushed open by a pale hand.
The door panel emitted a squeak, exceptionally loud in the dead silence.
Remus Lupin stood behind the doorway.
He was wearing an old, heavily patched Wizard's robe, the cuffs frayed and coming unstitched.
He was shockingly thin, his cheeks deeply hollowed out.
He had been dozing off in his compartment earlier, only to be jarred awake by the bitter cold brought by the Dementors.
A Werewolf's intuition made every hair on his body stand on end, and his old scars ached faintly.
He knew what was out there.
As a teacher at Hogwarts, he couldn't let these monsters harm the students.
Lupin fumbled about in his tattered pocket, pulling out a cheap piece of chocolate wrapped in tinfoil.
"This... might help a little..."
he muttered under his breath, trying to muster up some courage.
He drew an old wand with his right hand.
Having not had a proper, filling meal in a long time, he was suffering from severe hypoglycemia.
Combined with the bitter chill outside, the wrist holding his wand trembled incessantly.
A weak white light flickered at the tip of his wooden wand.
He took a deep breath of the musty air, yanked open his compartment door, and stepped out into the corridor.
"Expecto—"
He had barely uttered two syllables of the spell when they choked off entirely in his throat.
By the weak light of his wand tip, Lupin took in the scene unfolding a dozen meters away.
The three Dementors that even an adult Wizard like him found troublesome—
were gone.
Only a few puddles of stinking black water remained on the floor.
A blond teenager wearing pitch-black robes stood there, his back turned to the faint moonlight, toying with the final wisps of silver-gray soul residue in his hand before casually crushing the remnants to pieces.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, Arthur slowly turned his head.
His heterochromatic eyes swept across the dim corridor and landed on Lupin.
The gray mist in his right eye had not yet completely dissipated.
The brutal aura of one who had just devoured monsters and hadn't even wiped his mouth washed over him directly.
Lupin's body stiffened abruptly.
He was a Werewolf, harboring a bloodthirsty beast within him.
Yet, the moment his eyes locked onto those, the wolf inside him let out a wretched, miserable howl.
It was the deepest tremble in the bloodline of a beast facing an absolute predator.
His Werewolf instincts screamed at him to drop to the ground and expose his belly in plea for mercy.
Lupin's breathing stalled.
His complexion turned several shades paler than it had been when facing the Dementors moments ago.
Cold sweat poured frantically down his sunken cheeks, dripping onto his shabby collar.
What had he just witnessed?
A student had ripped Dementors apart and eaten them like jelly.
Those were dark creatures universally acknowledged by the wizarding world as impossible to kill.
Lupin's stomach spasmed violently, and the muscles in his right arm completely lost all strength.
The old wand that had accompanied him for so many years slipped from between his fingers, dropping onto the carpeted wooden floor without making much of a sound.
He could no longer maintain his grip on the piece of chocolate held in his left hand either.
The tinfoil wrapper rustled softly in the air.
"Clatter."
The chocolate hit the floor, breaking off a corner.
Lupin froze in place, leaning back against his doorframe, his legs as weak as overcooked noodles.
He hung his cracked lips open, unable to utter even a single simple syllable, his mind filled entirely with those chilling, heterochromatic eyes.
He completely forgot that he was a teacher who had come to help.
A dead silence hung over the corridor, with only the howling wind and rain outside the train tirelessly lashing against the carriage windowpane.
Chapter 54: A Werewolf Can Only Act Like a Dog in Front of Me
Frost crawled rapidly across the train window glass.
The originally transparent water vapor formed pale white ice flowers.
The icicles squeezed against each other, making a faint cracking sound.
The carriage corridor was pitch black.
The magic lightbulbs overhead couldn't squeeze out even a trace of a spark.
The iron outer shell of the train emitted a dull resonance in the wind and rain.
It was like a huge iron coffin buried in the frozen soil.
The air in the corridor was so turbid that it made people nauseous.
The stagnant water left behind after the Dementor died seeped into the carpet.
Exuding a stench of sewer sludge.
Lupin's back pressed tightly against the wooden doorframe.
The wood grain's barbs tore his old robe.
Puncturing into his flesh, it hurt a bit.
But he didn't even have the strength to move his body slightly.
He looked at the blond teenager a few meters away.
There was a layer of gray mist in the teenager's right eye.
The mist was rotating slowly.
Lupin's chest heaved violently.
He opened his mouth, wanting to suck the air into his lungs.
But his throat felt as if it had been stuffed with a handful of hay.
Swallowing his saliva scraped painfully.
The wand that had fallen to the floor rolled to the base of the wall.
That piece of chocolate wrapped in tin foil broke into two halves.
Lupin didn't dare to look down at all.
Arthur stepped in black leather boots.
Took a step forward.
The sole crushed a piece of broken glass on the carpet.
Making a crisp cracking sound.
Lupin's shoulders trembled abruptly.
"I... I am..."
He bit the tip of his tongue, and the taste of blood spread in his mouth.
Wanting to regain a bit of sanity through the pain.
"I am the newly arrived... Professor..."
He stammered.
His voice was as hoarse as a broken bellows.
Completely lacking the decency of a role model.
Arthur stopped his steps.
The hem of his black trench coat hung down in the cold wind.
Without a single wrinkle.
He looked at Lupin, his heterochromatic pupils showing no emotion at all.
"Professor."
Arthur repeated these two words.
The voice was as bland as reading words on a piece of scrap paper.
"A stray dog carrying the moon's curse has the nerve to teach at Hogwarts."
Lupin's complexion instantly turned dead gray.
The muscles on his cheeks twitched twice.
The secret he had hidden for so many years.
In front of this teenager, it was like a transparent cellophane.
Seen through at a glance.
The Werewolf blood inside him completely rioted at this moment.
Not because of the anger of being exposed.
But pure biological instinctual fear.
The Dark Lord's coercion on Arthur's body was released without reservation.
The air pressure in the corridor suddenly doubled.
The glass train windows let out an unbearable moan.
The cold air drilled directly into his bone marrow along Lupin's pores.
That bloodthirsty beast lurking inside Lupin.
The Werewolf that usually even he couldn't control.
At this moment, issued a tragic wail in the depths of his soul.
Encountering the apex predator of the food chain.
The Werewolf's instinct forcibly took over this body.
Lupin's legs went soft.
His kneecaps made a fragile cracking sound.
His hand supporting the doorframe slid down.
Wood thorns pierced his palm, leaving a bloody trace.
He slid down the doorframe and sat on the ground.
This wasn't the end.
The Werewolf's instinct of submission broke his spine.
Lupin's hands supported himself on the carpet.
His waist and back bent downwards.
His head pressed tightly against the floor full of dust and dirty water.
The whole person prostrated on the ground, posing in a posture with all fours on the ground.
This was a standard canine submission action.
Exposing the most vulnerable back of his neck to the predator.
Lupin's tears swirled in his eye sockets.
He was a Wizard, he had human dignity.
But he couldn't control himself now.
"Wu..."
An extremely low whimpering leaked out of Lupin's throat.
This wasn't a sound made by a human.
It was the plaintive cry of a stray dog begging for its life.
Humiliation burned his face like fire.
He knocked his forehead on the floor, shaking like a withered leaf in the autumn wind.
Arthur looked down at him condescendingly.
His eyes showed undisguised disgust.
"Keep the beast inside you under control."
He took a stride.
Walked past Lupin.
The edge of his black trench coat brushed across the back of Lupin's trembling hand.
The cold wind brought a chill.
Until the footsteps completely disappeared at the end of the corridor.
The magic pressure weighing on Lupin's head slowly dissipated.
The train lurched forward abruptly.
The mechanical roaring sound sounded again.
The magic lightbulbs overhead flickered twice, lighting up with a dim yellow light.
The frost brought by the Dementor began to melt.
Water droplets flowed down the glass.
Lupin collapsed on the ground.
Cold sweat soaked his old robe completely.
He reached out with difficulty, touching that fallen wand.
His fingers were so stiff that it took several seconds before he gripped the wooden stick tightly.
He knew that in this lifetime he would never be able to stand straight in front of this teenager again.
The first few weeks of the school term.
Hogwarts was always shrouded in continuous autumn rain.
The weather was gloomy and cold.
A layer of dense white fog always drifted over the surface of the Black Lake.
Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts Class went terribly.
As long as he saw the green robes of Slytherin.
His hands would tremble.
He didn't dare to go to the Great Hall to eat, hiding in his office every day to gnaw on dry bread.
That fear carved into his bones tortured him every day.
The time arrived on the day of the full moon.
The dark clouds were thick, but the moon's gravitational pull was still strong.
Lupin was packing his things in the office.
He was going to the Shrieking Shack tonight.
He stuffed a few old books into a battered suitcase.
His mind was in a complete mess, full of images of prostrating on the ground and trembling on the train.
His heart fluttered violently.
The back of his hand knocked over a stack of parchment homework at the corner of the table.
The papers scattered all over the floor.
He bent down irritably to pick them up.
Hurriedly stuffing the papers into the suitcase, he fastened the clasp.
He glanced at the sky outside the window.
The time was almost here.
That familiar aching sensation had already begun to well up in the crevices of his bones.
He grabbed his coat and hurriedly ran out of the office.
When locking the door, the key dropped to the ground twice.
He left in too much of a rush.
Completely forgetting that in the innermost corner of the desk.
There was a goblet.
Inside was the Wolfsbane Potion that Snape had just brewed.
The blue potion was steaming faintly in the cup.
He didn't drink it.
Lupin ran forward along the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.
The dirt road was very slippery.
He fell, his knees knocking against a stone, getting mud all over himself.
He climbed up and continued running, stumbling into the Shrieking Shack.
He double-locked that broken wooden door full of scratch marks.
Leaning against the wall, he panted heavily.
The room was full of dust and splintered wood.
The clouds were blown away by the wind.
The pale moonlight shone in through the gaps in the wooden boards.
Striking right on Lupin's face.
The transformation began.
This time without the suppression of the Wolfsbane Potion.
The pain doubled.
Lupin let out a miserable scream, falling onto the dust-filled floor.
He clawed desperately at the wooden boards, three of his nails breaking on the spot.
Fresh blood flowed out.
His jawbone made a cracking breaking sound, suddenly protruding forward.
Human sanity was instantly wiped out by the violent animal nature.
Gray-black coarse and hard hair pierced through the skin and grew out.
His clothes were torn open by the expanding muscles, hanging on his body like cloth strips.
His spine twisted and deformed.
A few minutes later.
A huge Werewolf stood in the middle of the shack.
Bloodthirsty red light flickered in its eyes.
Viscous saliva dripped from its mouth, hitting the wooden floor.
It was hungry.
It wanted to tear and bite fresh flesh and blood.
The Werewolf let out a violent howl.
Its huge paws slapped against the wooden door.
That already flimsy door was directly smashed into pieces.
Wood splinters splashed everywhere.
On all fours, it sprinted out along the tunnel.
Rushing out of the range of the Whomping Willow.
The cold wind outside stimulated its ferocity.
The Werewolf raised its head, smelling the earthy scent in the air and the animal scent in the distance.
It rushed into the pitch-black Forbidden Forest without hesitation.
Its stout hind legs pushed against the muddy ground, stepping out deep pits one by one.
The Forbidden Forest was very dark.
Tree branches scraped against its hard fur.
It knocked over a patch of thorny bushes.
Hearing movement ahead, it excitedly accelerated its speed.
Leaping out abruptly from behind a thick oak tree.
The Werewolf landed in a forest clearing.
Opening its large mouth full of fangs, it prepared to pounce on the prey.
But it stopped.
Stopping abruptly in mid-air, its claws plowed four long trenches in the muddy ground.
In the clearing.
A blond teenager wearing a black trench coat was taking a walk.
Arthur turned his head.
His indifferent heterochromatic pupils looked at this beast that had suddenly broken in.
Chapter 55: Beating You Back into Human Form with Bare Hands!
The moonlight was pale and ghastly.
It shone upon the mud in the forest clearing.
The massive Werewolf abruptly stopped in its tracks.
Its claws gouged four deep trenches into the mud.
Mud rolled upward, carrying a stench of rotting leaves.
Its bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at the prey ahead.
There was no reason.
Only hunger and bloodthirsty instinct remained.
A low, rumbling growl issued from the Werewolf's throat.
Foul-smelling saliva dripped down its interleaved fangs.
It hit the withered leaves, dampening a small patch of the ground.
The muscles in its hind legs suddenly tensed.
Dirt splashed everywhere.
Its massive body rushed directly at the young man in the black windbreaker like a cannonball fired from a barrel.
It stirred up a foul wind mixed with the beast's body odor and the musty smell of rain.
Two forepaws covered in black fur extended outward.
Their nails, resembling curved steel blades, went straight for Arthur's throat.
The speed was too fast.
The air was torn apart, producing a short, sharp whistle.
Arthur stood in place.
He didn't even hold his wand.
He watched this beast pouncing mid-air.
There was not the slightest ripple in his heterochromatic pupils.
The foul wind hit his face.
The Werewolf's fangs were less than half a foot away from Arthur's face.
That stench was almost pressed against the tip of his nose.
Arthur moved.
He didn't retreat half a step.
His right hand suddenly reached upward.
The movement was so fast it produced a muffled sound of airflow explosion.
His five fingers accurately clamped onto the Werewolf's thick neck.
The fur was coarse and stiff, pricking his palm slightly.
Arthur's fingers were like five steel nails, firmly embedded into the Werewolf's flesh.
The massive impact crashed against Arthur's body.
The muddy ground under his feet sank by two inches.
But his body didn't shake even a bit.
It was as if what slammed into him wasn't a beast weighing several hundred pounds, but a weightless lump of rotten cotton.
The Werewolf hung suspended in mid-air.
Its trachea was tightly choked, emitting a muffled, hoarse wheeze.
Its forepaws were still instinctively flailing.
Attempting to tear open this prey's chest.
Arthur let out a cold snort.
The muscles in his right arm suddenly exerted force.
The undercurrent of the Dark Arts surged through his blood vessels into his arm, bringing pure physical destructive power.
Grasping the Werewolf's neck, he swung it directly downward.
"Boom!"
An extremely muffled impact sound exploded inside the Forbidden Forest.
The two-hundred-plus-pound Werewolf was fiercely smashed into the mud on the ground.
Muddy water mixed with gravel splashed up over a person high.
It smashed against the nearby tree trunk.
The ground was forcibly smashed into a large pit.
The Werewolf was smashed into a daze.
Several crisp snaps came from the spine on its back.
Mud poured into its mouth.
It opened its large mouth, subconsciously wanting to roar.
Arthur didn't give it any chance to make a sound at all.
His left leg pressed down on the Werewolf's chest.
His right fist smashed straight down.
There were no fancy magical lights and shadows.
It was just the most primitive and barbaric physical strength.
"Bang."
The fist solidly smashed onto the Werewolf's bridge of the nose.
The nasal bone collapsed on the spot.
Dark red blood mixed with muddy water gushed out from the Werewolf's nostrils.
The beast let out a distorted, miserable howl.
It wanted to struggle.
Its sharp claws scratched at Arthur's black windbreaker.
The nails rubbed against the fabric, making an unpleasant screeching sound.
But it only left a few shallow white marks, not even scratching through the defensive rune at the bottom layer of the fabric.
Arthur was expressionless.
Raising his hand, his second fist came down.
This punch landed on the eye socket.
The sound of the brow bone shattering was very clear.
The Werewolf's left eye rapidly swelled up, its eyelid broken and bloody.
"Bang."
"Bang."
Punch after punch.
The sound of fists slamming into flesh echoed in the quiet forest.
Every punch carried the all-destroying oppressive feeling of Fiendfyre.
Blood splattered.
A few warm drops of blood splattered onto Arthur's profile.
He didn't even bother to wipe them away.
His bottomless black pupils stared fixedly at the beast beneath him.
The Werewolf's proud magic resistance and recovery capabilities.
Completely failed under the direct devastation of the Dark Arts.
It was beaten until its teeth were loosened.
A blood-stained fang flew out, landing in the distant grass.
The berserk animal nature was beaten apart.
Pain finally triumphed over the mindless brain.
Replaced by piercing agony and instinctive fear.
It began to whimper.
The sound grew smaller and smaller.
It was like a beaten stray dog.
Its two forepaws haphazardly protected its head, trying to block the rain of fists falling down.
Its body curled up into a ball in the mud pit.
Arthur's fists didn't stop.
Beating such a lower-tier creature didn't require any regard for decency.
Smashing its bones inch by inch was the most effective method of domestication.
His left hand grabbed one of the Werewolf's forepaws.
With a sudden push downward and a snap outward.
Crack.
The thick forelimb presented a bizarre bending angle.
Bone fragments pierced through the grey-black fur, exposed to the air.
The Werewolf was in such pain that its entire body arched up.
The miserable screams echoed in the pitch-black Forbidden Forest.
Startling a few ravens on the distant treetops into flight.
The sound of flapping wings drifted away into the night sky.
Arthur's right fist carried the rule power of the Dark Arts.
Heavily smashing onto the Werewolf's sternum.
The sternum collapsed over a large area.
This overbearing magic rushed directly into the Werewolf's heart.
That was the source of the blood curse.
The full moon's magic began to collapse under Arthur's violent suppression.
Dense cracking sounds came from the bones within the Werewolf's body.
It was shrinking.
Its originally thick limbs rapidly shriveled up like a deflated ball.
The stiff grey-black fur fell off in large patches from its pores.
Revealing the pale human skin underneath.
The beast's head was undergoing deformation.
The protruding muzzle shrank back.
The bones were forcibly reorganized.
The jawbones rubbed against each other, producing a teeth-aching creaking sound.
This was not natural regression.
This was the transformation process being forcibly interrupted by violence.
The pain was ten times more intense than during a normal transformation.
The Werewolf's howl slowly turned into a hoarse human scream.
"Ah——"
A man's voice sounded in the mud pit.
Carrying a crying tone and despair.
The voice was hoarse beyond recognition.
Arthur stopped his hand.
He stood straight up.
Flicked his right hand.
The wolf blood stained on his knuckles dripped down his fingertips onto the ground.
Smashing into a puddle, dissolving into a dark red mass.
Inside the mud pit.
The Werewolf was gone.
Remus Lupin lay naked in the pit filled with bloody water and mud.
He was covered in injuries all over.
His nasal bridge was collapsed, half his face was swollen high, and he was completely unrecognizable.
His left arm was folded at his side in a bizarre posture.
It hurt so much that even drawing a cold breath was strenuous for him.
His chest rose and fell violently, every breath accompanied by a wheezing sound of bloody bubbles.
The autumn wind blew through the Forbidden Forest.
Freezing him so that his whole body trembled.
But he didn't even have the strength to curl his body up.
Lupin laboriously opened his right eye that had not yet swollen blind.
His vision was blurry.
He looked at the blond-haired teenager standing before him.
The teenager's profile was stained with a few drops of blood.
His expression was indifferent to the extreme.
Even his breathing did not become disordered.
Lupin's lips twitched.
"You..."
He couldn't make a complete sound.
His mouth was full of silt and bloody foam.
His teeth collided together, slightly trembling.
There was only the most primitive fear left in his brain.
That arrogant, mindless wolf.
Had been beaten to death right inside his body by this person with mere fists.
He didn't even have the courage to glance at those leather boots right now.
This was a total shattering from flesh to soul.
He finally understood that the scene on the train was not an illusion.
In front of this teenager, he didn't even have the qualification to be a monster.
He could only be a dog with broken legs.
Arthur took out a handkerchief from his pocket.
Leisurely wiping away the blood stains on his hands.
Wiping very carefully.
Cleaning away the blood filaments in his nail crevices little by little.
Finished wiping.
He casually threw the handkerchief onto Lupin's face.
Covering that eye filled with despair.
Deep within his mind.
The system panel that had always been quiet suddenly erupted with dazzling red light.
The cold mechanical voice rang wildly like dense drumbeats.
This overwhelming violent suppression.
Completely shattered the Werewolf's psychological defense line.
An unprecedented bumper harvest was about to arrive.
Chapter 56 Plundering Defense Against the Dark Arts
A dark gray silk handkerchief covered Lupin's face.
Blood quickly soaked through the expensive fabric.
Blooming a patch of glaring dark red in the center of the handkerchief.
Lupin was lying in a mud-filled pit.
The rise and fall of his chest was so faint it was barely visible.
Every time he exhaled, it blew a few bloody mud bubbles.
Arthur stood at the edge of the pit.
The edges of his black leather boots were stained with a few specks of mud.
He didn't even have the thought of bending down to pick up that handkerchief.
His gaze swept past the half-dead body on the ground and fell on the empty space ahead.
A dim blue system light screen popped up.
The light illuminated this small area of the forest clearing.
The red light on the edge of the panel flickered violently.
A cold mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[Target Remus Lupin's defense line has collapsed.]
[Violent animal nature has been completely physically suppressed.]
[Fear value has overflowed massively.]
Arthur glanced at the settlement list on the light screen.
This man named Lupin was so poor he couldn't even afford a decent robe.
He probably couldn't even pull out a few Sickles from his pockets.
However, among the plundering options given by the system, a talent emitting a dark gold glow was lit up.
In the wizarding world, Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been an esoteric subject.
Hogwarts even changed a Professor every year.
But Lupin was different.
He was a Werewolf who had been bitten since childhood.
In order to survive under the pursuit of the Ministry of Magic and various Dark Wizards.
In order to fight the beast inside him that wanted to tear everything apart every full moon.
He had struggled on the edge of life and death for over a decade.
His understanding of defensive spells and his mastery of the weaknesses of dark creatures.
Had long been carved into the gaps of his bones.
Becoming the only valuable thing in his broken shell.
"Extract."
Arthur issued the command in his mind.
His voice was without any ripples.
[Fear value has been deducted.]
[Stripping target core talent...]
[Congratulations to the host for obtaining max-level Defense Against the Dark Arts.]
Lupin's body in the pit suddenly twitched.
With his eyes closed, his brows were twisted together in pain.
It was as if an invisible scalpel had cut open his skull.
And forcibly dug out the most precious part of his memories and instincts from inside.
A silver-white ball of light drifted out from between Lupin's eyebrows.
And scattered in mid-air.
Turning into countless tiny points of light that directly crashed into Arthur's brain.
Arthur closed his eyes.
Instead of excruciating pain, there was unprecedented clarity in his mind.
Vast magic theories poured in like a breached flood.
The magic nodes of Expelliarmus, the defensive blind spots of the Shield Charm, and the casting frequency of Impedimenta.
All defensive and counterattack mechanisms were forcibly disassembled in his mind.
Crushed to pieces.
And then reassembled in the form of a higher-dimensional law.
Previously, when Arthur crushed opponents, he relied on Lord Voldemort's brutal Soul Law.
And the max-level Fiendfyre inherent in Grindelwald's bloodline.
That was pure dimensional-reduction strikes.
Brute force breaks all laws.
But now, his vision had completely changed.
He opened his eyes again.
His black left pupil and his right eye suffused with gray fog looked around.
The faint magic elements drifting in the air turned into clearly visible thin threads.
If someone cast Reducto on him right now.
In his eyes.
That was no longer a fatal red light.
Instead, it was a broken cart with loose parts and flaws everywhere.
He didn't even need to use Fiendfyre to go head-to-head.
As long as he found the most vulnerable point in the magicstructure.
And gently poked it with the most basic magic.
The opponent's high-level spell would instantly collapse on the spot, or even suffer a severe magical backlash.
This was max-level Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Stripping offensive spells of all their secrets completely clean.
Any known magic had no secrets left in front of Arthur.
Arthur lowered his right hand.
magic flowed steadily in his blood vessels.
He felt that this trip to the Forbidden Forest was worth it.
A reckless stray dog had squeezed out the top-tier defensive theory.
He turned around.
His black trench coat rolled up a cold and hard arc in the night wind.
His leather boots stepped on the muddy fallen leaves, walking towards the direction of the Castle.
Lupin in the pit was still bleeding.
The early autumn night wind was very cold.
Arthur didn't care at all whether this person would freeze to death in the mud or die from excessive blood loss.
A waste whose value had been squeezed dry didn't even qualify for another glance.
The forest quieted down.
Only the rustling sound of the wind blowing through the treetops remained.
The footsteps gradually walked away.
A few days later.
The rainy weather finally stopped.
A bit of dry sunlight filtered into the stone corridors of Hogwarts.
The third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts Class was in the afternoon.
The classroom was on the third floor of the Castle.
There were no extra desks and chairs placed here.
A large space was left empty in the middle, and stepping on the wooden floor would produce a hollow echo.
Students gathered together in twos and threes.
Gryffindor and Slytherin had class together.
The atmosphere in the classroom was somewhat strange.
The people on both sides were distinct, with a wide aisle separating them in the middle.
Harry stood in the Gryffindor queue.
He lowered his head, unconsciously kneading the parchment in his hand.
Ron yawned next to him.
"Class has already started for ten minutes."
Ron muttered softly.
"Why hasn't that new Professor come yet? Could he have run away like Lockhart too?"
As he spoke, he cast a guilty glance towards the Slytherinside.
Arthur stood at the window-side position of the classroom.
The sunlight hit his golden hair.
He tilted his head slightly, looking at the Black Lakeoutside the window.
Within a three-meter radius around him, not a single student dared to approach.
Draco stood against the wall like a wooden man, looking submissive.
A very heavy and dragging sound of footsteps came from the corridor.
The soles of the shoes brushed against the stone slabs, making a rustling sound.
It sounded like the person walking was struggling greatly.
The heavy wooden door of the classroom was pushed open.
The door hinges made a dry creaking sound.
Lupin walked in.
All the students in the classroom gasped.
A few timid girls were frightened into taking half a step back.
His current appearance was too miserable.
The originally ragged Wizard robe now hung loosely on his body.
His entire face was tightly wrapped in thick white bandages.
Revealing only his right eye and a gap for breathing at his mouth.
Faint yellowish potion marks leaked through the bandages.
The air immediately filled with a very strong smell of Essence of Dittany and Skele-Gro.
Pungent enough to choke people.
His left arm was fixed with splints and hung around his neck with a cloth strip.
When walking, his right leg limped.
With every step he took, his chest would heave violently.
Making a breathing sound like a broken bellows.
"Sorry... I'm late."
Lupin's voice came from beneath the bandages.
Hoarse, weak, with a severe airy feeling.
He couldn't even straighten his body.
His back was hunched, and most of his center of gravity was pressed on his healthy right leg.
His right eye exposed outside stared fixedly at the wooden floor beneath his feet.
His gaze didn't dare to shift towards the window even by an inch.
He was afraid that as soon as he saw that blonde teenager, his legs would go soft on the spot and he would kneel on the ground.
That unilateral massacre in the Forbidden Forest that night.
Smashed his self-esteem and courage into pieces in the mud pit.
If Albus Dumbledore hadn't sent Rubeus Hagrid to search the edge of the Forbidden Forest overnight and carry him back to the hospital wing.
He would have long become a frozen corpse.
Lupin moved his feet.
Walking laboriously to the very front of the classroom.
He supported himself on a podium next to him with his healthy right hand.
And barely managed to stand steady with the support of the desk.
The students looked at each other in dismay.
No one dared to speak.
This miserable state didn't look like a minor accident at all; rather, it looked like he had been pinned to the ground by a Dragon and trampled a hundred times.
Lupin panted heavily a few times.
He raised his right hand and pointed to the exact center of the classroom.
An old wardrobe stood lonely there.
The wardrobe was very tall.
The paint on the wooden surface was peeling, and the brass handles were covered in green rust.
"Today... our practical class..."
Lupin swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva.
His Adam's apple rolled, pulling at the wound on his neck, causing him to frown in pain.
"Is to learn... how to deal with... a Boggart."
He had to pause and rest even when speaking.
Because there were still unhealed blood scabs in his windpipe.
The classroom was dead silent.
Only Lupin's heavy breathing sound remained.
Suddenly.
"Bang!"
A loud crash came from that old wardrobe.
The sound was very loud.
It was as if something heavy inside the wardrobe slammed fiercely against the wooden door panels.
The entire wardrobe shook violently on the wooden floor.
The four legs at the bottom knocked against the floor, making a harsh creaking sound.
"Bang, bang, bang!"
The crashing sound became dense.
The brass handles on the wardrobe door shook crazily.
As if a maddened monster was locked inside, eager to break through the cage.
Several students in the front row screamed in fright.
And retreated in a panic.
People crowded against each other, almost stepping on the feet of the students behind.
The atmosphere in the classroom instantly tightened to the extreme.
Chapter 57: The Boggart Was Literally Scared to the Point of Exploding
The old wardrobe shook violently on the wooden floor.
The brass handle rattled against the latch, making a harsh, metallic clashing sound.
The door panel bulged outward, struck by whatever unknown thing was inside.
A few tiny cracks spread along the dry wood grain.
Dust fell in patters from the top of the wardrobe.
It landed on Lupin's heavily bandaged shoulder.
He gripped the edge of the lectern tightly with his uninjured right hand, his chest wheezing like a broken bellows.
"Inside this... is a Boggart."
Lupin swallowed dryly, aggravating the wound on his cheek, causing the corner of his mouth to twitch in pain.
"It likes dark, enclosed spaces."
"When you face it... it will turn into whatever you fear most in your heart."
He laboriously raised his battered wand.
He pointed at Neville, who was standing right at the front.
"Mr. Longbottom... you go first."
Neville's chubby face instantly lost all color.
He shuffled forward two steps, his left foot catching on the hem of his robes.
He stumbled forward a large step, nearly crashing headfirst into the wardrobe door.
The wand in his hand slipped slightly, and he quickly gripped it tightly with both hands.
Lupin flicked his wand to release the latch.
The wardrobe door swung open with a loud click.
A musty, chilly draft swept out from inside, blowing back the robes of the students in the front row.
Snape strode out from within.
With a sullen face, his black robes billowed like bat wings.
Terrified, Neville backed away, his back bumping into another girl's shoulder.
"Ridd- Riddikulus!"
He stammered out the spell, his voice cracking.
There was a soft pop.
The fake Snape was suddenly dressed in a lace-trimmed women's outfit, with a hat stuffed with artificial flowers on his head.
A few scattered, dry chuckles erupted from the Gryffindorline.
Ron wiped the sweat from his nose, relaxing slightly.
The Boggart seemed to be angered by the laughter.
It spun on the spot, its form shifting into a blurry grey shadow.
It sought its next prey filled with fear.
Arthur leaned against the wall by the window.
He found this low-level playing-house game utterly boring.
He stood up straight.
His leather boots stepped onto the wooden floor, making steady footsteps.
Tap.
Tap.
He bypassed the huddled students and walked straight toward the center of the classroom.
The crowd parted to either side as if avoiding a plague.
A Ravenclaw boy backed away too quickly and stepped on his companion's foot.
The companion let out a muffled groan but covered his mouth tightly, not daring to make a sound.
Arthur stopped less than two meters away from the Boggart.
The grey shadow stopped moving.
Sensing the presence of a living person, its low-level mimicry magic began to operate.
It tried to worm its way into the blond boy's mind, searching for soft, tearful images of fear.
Arthur didn't close his eyes.
Nor did he use Occlumency to block it.
He even actively relaxed the boundaries of his consciousness, allowing the probing magical tendrils to reach in.
The grey mist in his right eye slowly swirled half a turn.
The moment the Boggart's probing tendrils touched that sea of consciousness—
Its entire body instantly stiffened.
It didn't see spiders, it didn't see corpses, and it didn't see any terrifying Dark Wizards.
It crashed into an absolute, dead silence.
It was an abyssal black hole that could crush even light.
In the deepest depths of the black hole, a sea of pure black fire surged, enough to burn through the fundamental laws of the world.
Hidden there were the screams of souls being torn away alive, and the despair of millions of living beings trampled underfoot.
This was not fear.
This was the source of fear.
The Boggart's grey shadow began to distort violently.
Like a bar of soap thrown into boiling water, it melted and stretched frantically.
Its pitiful, low-dimensional magic attempted to simulate the images it saw in Arthur's mind in reality.
A wisp of black flame emerged on the surface of the grey shadow.
Carrying a cheap smell of sulfur.
But the moment this flame appeared—
A tearing sound echoed from the Boggart's form.
It simply could not withstand the high-dimensional, terrifying attributes of Fiendfyre.
Even just simulating an empty shell, the laws involving soul destruction directly crushed its magical circuits.
A foul stench of burning flesh filled the air.
The Boggart's body began to swell.
Like an over-inflated, worn-out leather ball, several blisters oozing black liquid bulged on its surface.
It let out a sharp, miserable shriek like metal scraping on glass.
The sound was filled with absolute despair.
It was driven utterly mad with fear by what was in Arthur's mind.
"Bang!"
A deafening boom exploded in the center of the classroom.
A blast of air swept outward instantly.
Several students in the front row were blown off their feet, landing flat on their backsides.
The textbooks in their hands scattered all over the floor.
The Boggart exploded directly in mid-air.
There was no splatter of flesh and blood.
Only a thick cloud of black smoke mixed with ashes sprayed onto the surrounding wooden floor.
Leaving a floor covered in black stains.
Not even a single hair was left intact.
It had literally scared itself into self-destruction.
Arthur stood where he was.
The shockwave from the explosion blew back the hem of his robes.
But the black ash was blocked by an invisible magical barrier half a foot away from his body.
His clothes remained perfectly clean.
He lowered his eyelids, glancing at the puddle of black sludge on the floor.
"Cheap garbage."
Arthur's voice was flat.
Lacking even a hint of emotion.
The entire class was dead silent.
All the students stood with their mouths agape, staring blankly at the ash-covered floor.
No one spoke.
Only the occasional autumn wind blowing outside the window could be heard.
Ron bit the tip of his tongue, filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood, but he didn't even dare to swallow.
Lupin leaned against the lectern.
His only exposed right eye was bloodshot.
Looking at this absurd scene, the corner of his mouth twitched into a bitter smile that looked worse than crying.
The battered wand in his hand slipped out.
It dropped to his feet with a clatter.
He didn't even have the strength to pick it up.
He could only lean against the corner, sliding down dejectedly onto the tiled floor.
...
Time flew by.
The autumn wind of the Scottish Highlands gradually began to carry biting ice crystals.
The second half of the term began.
The temperature outside Hogwarts Castle grew colder and colder.
Although Fudge had been scared out of his wits and didn't dare to let the Dementors guard the gates...
...the reckless bureaucrats of the Ministry of Magic still dispatched large numbers of Dementors to the wilderness surrounding Hogwarts and the vicinity of Hogsmeade.
Every day, cold air and feelings of despair drifted over from the Black Lake.
Even staying in the common room with its fireplace, the students still felt a chill in their bones.
Rumors from the outside world that Sirius might break into the school at any moment grew more and more rampant.
Panic spread among the students.
Once night fell, even the most mischievous Gryffindors didn't dare to wander the corridors.
To cope with this situation,
Dumbledore issued an order.
He requested that the Defense Against the Dark Arts Class teach upper-year students the magic to counter Dementors ahead of schedule.
In the empty classroom,
cold wind poured in through the cracks in the windows.
Lupin stood on the platform, most of the bandages on his body having been removed.
But his face was still sallow, showing a weakness from a long, unhealed illness.
Every breath he took carried a slight wheezing whistle.
Standing below were students from Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Everyone's hands were trembling inside their robes.
"This is a very advanced defensive magic."
Lupin held a new wand in his hand, his voice trembling slightly.
"Only the purest, happiest memories can be transformed into a power to drive away the darkness."
"Its name is..."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the students below.
In the end, he carefully avoided the black figure standing in the corner.
"Expecto Patronum."
He swallowed dryly and wrote the name on the blackboard with chalk.
Because of his trembling hand, the chalk screeched harshly against the blackboard.
The bell for the end of class had not yet rung.
The atmosphere in the classroom was as stifling as a giant cauldron.
No one knew what kind of monster this incantation, meant to summon light, would become in the time to follow.
Chapter 58: My Patronus is the Grim Reaper!
"Expecto Patronum!"
Harry gritted his teeth, large beads of sweat seeping from his forehead.
A wisp of thin silver mist spewed from the tip of his wand.
The mist struggled in mid-air, barely maintaining a blurry halo of an indistinct shape.
Harry panted heavily, gripping his wand for dear life.
This was already the best result after his seventh try.
His mind was filled with the shadows of being locked in the cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive.
It was hard to muster even a sliver of genuine happiness.
The air pressure in the classroom was very low.
The other students were also chanting the spell.
But most people couldn't even produce a single spark from the tips of their wands.
Lupin leaned against the blackboard.
He had just recovered slightly from serious injuries, and his physical strength was very poor.
His legs were still trembling.
He looked at the crumbling silver mist at the tip of Harry's wand and forced a pale smile.
"Very good... Harry, hold onto that feeling."
Lupin swallowed his dry saliva.
He averted his gaze, sweeping his eyes across the classroom.
Involuntarily, his gaze stopped on the black figure in the corner.
Arthur leaned against the wall.
He hadn't drawn his wand.
He looked at these idiots in the classroom who were straining so hard their faces and necks were red.
And found it utterly comical.
Relying on the fake happiness of reminiscing about a few candies and a few words of praise...
To banish dark creatures representing despair?
It was simply a lamb showing off how white its wool was in front of a pack of wolves.
Weak and ridiculous.
Lupin's Adam's apple bobbed.
He didn't dare to call out Arthur's name at all.
But as a Professor, the gazes of the whole class were now following his line of sight toward that corner.
The faint silver light in the classroom reflected on Arthur's emotionless face.
Draco stood nearby.
With his head lowered, even his breathing was kept very light.
Arthur straightened his body.
The hem of his robes left the wall, making a subtle fabric friction sound.
He didn't even lift a finger.
Much less chant the spell used to gather courage.
Happiness?
In the Dark Lord's dictionary, there was only the absolute deprivation of life and looking down from above.
The trace of gray mist in Arthur's right eye slowly swirled.
A thick, impenetrable black mist spewed directly out from the shadow beneath his feet.
There was no silver light.
This was fundamentally not the magic trajectory of Expecto Patronum.
The black mist instantly submerged the floor of nearly half the classroom.
Those wooden planks made cracking sounds as they froze.
The black mist rapidly climbed into mid-air.
Constantly rolling and condensing.
The temperature in the air plummeted straight past freezing point.
A thick layer of deathly gray frost condensed on the glass of the windows.
Even the sunlight outside the window was blocked outside by this chill.
A massive phantom formed within the black mist.
It was well over a dozen feet tall, its head reaching the wooden beams of the ceiling.
It draped a tattered black cloak over its body.
The cloth strips at the edges moved without wind, as if underwater.
There was no face beneath the hood.
Only an area of absolute nothingness.
A withered skeletal palm reached out from the cloak.
Holding a huge black scythe in its hand.
The Grim Reaper.
This was not a Patronus used to banish darkness at all.
This was the ultimate despair surpassing Dementors.
It was a killing machine after Soul Law was materialized.
The Grim Reaper phantom had just formed.
The nothingness beneath its hood faced the students in the classroom.
A bone-chilling stench of corpses mixed with the fishy smell of soil.
Slammed directly onto everyone's faces.
The silver mist at the tip of Harry's wand that had finally formed with such difficulty...
Couldn't even last half a second.
Like a popped bubble, it shattered completely with a snap.
Not just Harry.
The tiny bit of happy memories that everyone in the class had managed to accumulate with difficulty...
Were forcibly obliterated in front of the Grim Reaper's scythe.
Only the most primitive fear of death remained in their minds.
Ron sat down hard on the ground.
He opened his mouth to scream.
But found that his windpipe was frozen, unable to inhale a shred of air.
Several girls in the front row were scared unconscious directly.
Collapsing limply onto the wooden floor.
Their wands snapped and they didn't even react.
Hermione bit her fingers fiercely, shrinking her whole body under the desk and shivering.
She looked at that phantom, her eyes filled with an interweaving of fanaticism and trembling.
Lupin leaned against the blackboard, shaking all over like a sieve.
His freshly scabbed wounds split open again due to muscle tension.
Fresh blood soaked through his shirt.
He looked at that huge scythe suspended in mid-air.
The Werewolf instinct inside him didn't even dare to whimper, shrinking tightly into the deepest recesses of his soul.
He had never seen a monster that defied the common sense of magic like this in his entire life.
Arthur indifferently looked at the students collapsed on the ground.
This was his understanding of defense.
No need for banishment.
As long as one becomes an abyss more terrifying than fear itself, all dangers will automatically kneel.
His fingertips moved slightly.
That massive Grim Reaper phantom let out a silent sigh.
Transforming into black powder all over the sky.
Blending back into the shadow beneath his feet.
The frost in the classroom began to melt slowly.
Drip, drop, falling onto the floor.
Arthur ignored the group of good-for-nothings on the ground who were scared out of their wits.
He turned around.
Pushed open the classroom's wooden door and walked out.
The sound of leather boots stepping on stone bricks gradually faded away in the corridor.
Time passed.
The first snow of winter fell on the Scottish Highlands.
The temperature plummeted sharply.
The weekend was the open day for third-year students to go to Hogsmeade village for the first time.
The wind was strong.
Mixed with hard snow granules, it stung painfully when hitting the face.
The main street in the village was crowded with students wearing thick cloaks.
The shop windows of Honeydukes Sweetshop and Zonko's Joke Shop glowed with warm yellow light.
Inside was packed with people.
The boisterous laughter could be heard through the glass.
Candy wrappers of various colors flew around in the snow.
Arthur walked on the stone road full of mud and snow.
His black trench coat blocked the wind and snow.
He disdainfully avoided a lower-year brat running around on the street.
Toward those colorful candies and childish prank toys.
He didn't even have the interest to take a glance.
A village stuffed with little kids like this was giving him a headache from the noise.
He needed some special materials and intelligence.
The books at Hogwarts could no longer satisfy him.
Only a truly unspeakable black market could provide them.
Arthur turned down a secluded alley along the main street.
The snow here was hardly cleaned up.
It creaked when stepped on.
The wind blew the dilapidated wooden signs on both sides of the alley swaying.
Ahead was a dilapidated pub.
It didn't even have a decent facade.
A dirty wooden sign hung on the door frame.
Painted on it was a severed boar's head.
The bloodstains on the boar's head were dark red and blackish, looking quite old.
The Hog's Head.
Arthur walked up the snow-covered stone steps.
No students would come here.
Too dirty and too messy.
He reached out his hand.
Pressing it against that greasy, broken wooden door.
The wood planks were stained with grime that had accumulated for who knows how many years.
The wood splinters on the edges were somewhat prickly.
He pushed the door open forcefully.
The door hinges made a sharp, screeching creak.
The dim light inside the room leaked out.
A strong smell of mutton mixed with the sourness of cheap alcohol.
Hit him straight in the face.
Chapter 59: The Dark Lord in Aberforth's Eyes
The door of the Hog's Head Inn was pushed open.
The wind and snow outside, mixed with ice shards, swept directly into the room.
Striking the dust-covered wooden tables and chairs.
A heavy smell of mutton mixed with the sour stench of fermented cheap butterbeer rushed straight at them.
Arthur stepped across the threshold.
His leather boots stepped on the sticky wooden floor.
Making an unpleasant squelching sound underfoot.
The environment here was even dirtier and messier than Knockturn Alley.
Behind the bar.
An old man with graying hair and a stubbly beard was wiping a glass.
The rag in his hand was so Black its original color was indistinguishable.
It exuded a rancid, greasy smell.
Hearing the door open, the old man raised his head.
Aberforth Dumbledore.
His cloudy blue eyes, the instant they clearly saw Arthur's face.
Froze in place.
The motion in his hand suddenly stiffened.
The half-wiped glass slipped from between his fingers.
Smashing onto the greasy wooden bar.
Making a muffled thud.
The glass didn't break, rolling twice along the counter before stopping against the edge of a barrel.
Aberforth stopped breathing for half a second.
He had seen the outline of this face before.
That golden hair, that condescending posture that treated living people like blades of grass.
More than fifty years ago, the man named Gellert Grindelwald had destroyed his family with a face just like this.
But he found out he was wrong.
Although Grindelwald was crazy, his eyes still carried a fervent ideal.
The youth before him was completely different.
There was nothing in those heterochromatic pupils.
Only a pool of stagnant water.
Pure darkness without a shred of humanity.
This was even more terrifying than a madman.
This creature didn't care at all about the future of Wizards; he was simply the abyss itself.
Aberforth's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
He swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva, tugging at his stubble-covered chin.
"We don't serve… school-uniform-wearing brats here."
He intentionally made his voice sound very crude.
He took half a step back with his foot.
His hand groped under the bar for his shabby wand.
"Get out… go back to your Castle and drink milk."
He stuttered for a moment, his rough voice lacking much confidence in the empty bar.
Arthur walked up to the bar.
He looked down at the dirty rag.
His eyes revealed undisguised disgust.
He wasn't even willing to rest his hand on this greasy wooden table.
"Albus has a younger brother hiding in a sewer."
Arthur's voice was calm.
Not a trace of anger at being offended could be heard.
He raised his right hand.
His slender index finger tapped lightly in mid-air half an inch away from the tabletop.
"Clack."
A tapping sound simulated by magic.
The sound was very light.
But with this movement, the thick glass wine glass in front of Aberforth suddenly emitted a series of fine cracking sounds.
It did not shatter into shards of glass all over the floor.
Under the crushing pressure of tyrannical soul magic.
The entire cup directly turned into a puddle of fine white powder.
The powder spread across the bar, unable to even find a larger particle.
Aberforth's back was instantly soaked in cold sweat.
His rough burlap clothes clung to his skin, icy and piercing.
The hand he reached out toward his wand stiffened rigidly in mid-air.
His fingertips were less than an inch away from the wand, but he didn't dare touch it at all.
He had lived to such an age, and had seen more Dark Artsthan many people had eaten bread.
But this kind of magic that directly obliterates matter from a conceptual level.
He had never even heard of it.
This was simply impossible to resist.
Despair poured through his internal organs like ice water.
Aberforth slowly lowered his head.
He suddenly understood that his usually arrogant brother had provoked a monster this time that could never be won against.
Hogwarts was finished.
The wizarding world was finished too.
Arthur withdrew his hand.
He had originally come to buy some unspeakable Blackmarket materials.
But the environment here was simply too dirty for him to bear.
Staying another second felt like his lungs were full of sheep dung smell.
He didn't want to waste time in this pigsty.
Arthur turned around.
His Black windbreaker drew a cold and rigid line in the dim pub.
He pushed open the door and walked directly into the wind and snow outside.
The old wooden door swung back and forth in the cold wind.
Slamming against the door frame with banging sounds.
Cold snow blew in, hitting Aberforth's wrinkled face.
The old man slumped on the barstool, staring fixedly at the puddle of glass powder, panting heavily.
Like a fish about to drown.
Late at night.
Hogwarts Castle.
Slytherin underground dormitory.
The eerie green flames in the fireplace danced quietly.
Dispelling the chill in the dungeon.
Arthur sat in front of the desk, flipping through an ancient leather book brought out from the Chamber of Secrets.
The edges of the pages were brittle, rustling as they were turned.
A knock on the door sounded.
Very light.
"Come in."
Arthur didn't even raise his head.
Hermione pushed the door open and walked in.
She carried a very strong bitter smell of brewed Potion.
That was the mixed and fermented scent of hundreds of poisonous herbs.
Her hair was as messy as a bird's nest, and a patch of Black soot was smeared on her left cheek.
She walked with a slight limp.
Evidently she had stood in the abandoned Potionlaboratory for too long, and her calf muscles had cramped.
But she couldn't care about resting at all.
She stopped two meters in front of the desk.
Handing over a parchment full of words with both hands.
"Master. This is today's observation record from Gryffindor's side."
Her throat was a bit hoarse, and she coughed twice before finishing her words.
Arthur didn't reach out to take it.
He leaned back in his chair.
"Speak."
Hermione hurriedly hugged the parchment to her chest.
She swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva.
"Harry and Ron have been in a very poor mental state lately. They are very afraid of you, and often scream from nightmares at night."
She reported very earnestly.
"Speak some useful nonsense."
Arthur's voice turned a degree colder.
Prey like this mud didn't even qualify for him to hear their names.
Hermione's shoulders shivered slightly.
She flurriedly turned to the back of the parchment.
Her fingers trembled slightly from tension, and the parchment rustled loudly.
"Th… There is one more thing."
Her speech speed quickened, fearing she would anger Arthur.
"The pet rat raised by Ron has been very abnormal recently."
"That's the rat missing a toe, named Scabbers."
The gray fog in Arthur's right eye slowly rotated half a circle.
His gaze fell on Hermione's face.
Signaling her to continue.
Hermione felt very oppressed by this gaze.
She lowered her head.
"It ran around like crazy in the common room tonight."
"It bit Ron's finger and desperately tried to burrow into the cracks in the stones at the bottom of the fireplace. Roncouldn't catch it, and it seemed… it seemed like it was running for its life."
She recounted everything she saw tonight detail by detail.
A rat missing a toe.
A pet that had lived for twelve years.
At this timing of Sirius Black breaking out of prison, it suddenly went crazy and fled for its life.
There were no such coincidences in this world.
A clear intelligence thread emerged in Arthur's mind.
Peter Pettigrew.
That traitor who betrayed the Potter family to Lord Voldemort.
That coward who hid in a rat's skin and dragged out an ignoble existence for more than a decade.
This stinky rat that hid in the sewer and ate leftovers for more than a decade.
Finally smelled the scent of death.
The first thing Black would do after escaping Azkaban was definitely to come find this true betrayer.
Arthur closed the ancient book in his hand.
The pages made a muffled closing sound.
Stirring up a small, invisible bit of dust.
The rat going crazy.
Meant that the ferocious dog named Black was already very close to Hogwarts.
And might have even sneaked into the Castle.
Arthur stood up.
Casually straightening the collar of his windbreaker.
The Castle was very quiet tonight.
He happened to feel a bit bored.
Since the rat had jumped out, catching a rat to pass the time wasn't bad either.
Chapter 60: Capture That Rat Named Wormtail
Outside the outer wall of Hogwarts Castle late at night.
The wind was fierce.
Mixed with the remaining moisture from the daytime rain, it blew through the stone crevices, making a howling, eerie sound.
An unusually plump grey rat was laboriously climbing down the ivy on the outer wall of the tower.
The stones on the wall were very rough.
The surface also grew a layer of slippery moss.
The rat's belly brushed against the stones, scraping off a small tuft of grey fur.
It let out a tiny squeak in pain.
It was Scabbers.
And also Peter Pettigrew, who had been in hiding for twelve years.
It was climbing with great difficulty.
A toe was missing from its front right paw.
This made it very hard for it to exert force when gripping those slippery vines.
Every time it moved downward, a dull, piercing pain would come from the incision of the severed toe.
But it didn't dare stop to rest at all.
Even though its chubby body was already trembling with fatigue.
Tonight, by the windowsill of the Gryffindor common room, it smelled a dangerous scent.
That was the scent of the big black dog.
Sirius Black.
That madman who had escaped from Azkaban had already sneaked into the Castle.
Peter's heart beat wildly in its small chest cavity.
Beating so hard that its ribs ached.
That madman was here to claim its life.
Remaining in that red-haired fool's pocket any longer would definitely result in it being torn to pieces.
It had to escape.
Escape from Hogwarts, running as far away as possible.
A gust of cold wind blew over.
The vines swayed violently in the wind.
Peter didn't get a firm grip, and its front right paw slipped.
Its chubby body fell straight down from the wall, which was still a dozen feet off the ground.
It kicked its four short legs wildly in mid-air.
And smashed heavily into the bushes at the base of the wall.
The branches scratched its ears.
Mud splattered all over its face.
It was thoroughly battered and dazed from the fall.
Lying in the mire, it gasped for breath several times.
The post-rain soil carried a pungent earth-scent, flooding into its nasal cavity.
Peter shook the mud splatters off its head.
And crawled out from under the bushes.
Ahead was the lawn on the periphery of the Castle.
Crossing this lawn, as long as it ran into the tree hollow at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, it would be safe.
On all fours, it ran desperately through the damp grass.
The dew on the blades of grass wet its fur.
Making its body cold and heavy.
It ran breathlessly, even tasting a hint of blood in its throat.
The surroundings were very quiet.
Only the rustling sound of itself brushing through the grass.
Just as it ran dozens of meters and was about to approach a carved stone gargoyle.
The air suddenly changed.
The wind stopped.
The damp, fishy stench on the grass vanished completely.
Replaced by an extreme, oppressive chill.
As if instantly stepping into an ice cellar storing aged corpses.
Peter's rat whiskers suddenly froze.
An animal's survival instinct made all the hair on its body stand on end.
This was not the scent of Sirius.
The scent of the big black dog was manic and angry.
But this scent now was pure death.
Scared out of its wits, it slammed on the brakes.
Its paws plowed a few small trenches in the muddy ground.
It wanted to turn around and run back.
A hand reached out from the darkness beside it.
That hand was slender, with pale skin.
The movement looked unhurried.
But the speed was completely unreasonably fast.
Before Peter could even finish turning its head,
Those two cold fingers had already precisely pinched a thick fold of skin on the back of its neck.
The force on the fingers was not great.
But it exuded an absolute control that could not be shaken off.
It was lifted straight into mid-air.
Its feet left the ground.
The skin on the back of its neck was pulled tight, choking it a bit.
It instinctively kicked its four short legs wildly in mid-air.
"Running pretty fast."
A bland voice sounded overhead.
Without any emotional fluctuation.
The voice wasn't loud, yet it struck Peter's brain like a hammer.
Peter turned its head with great effort.
And saw the person who caught it clearly.
A pure black windbreaker with an open collar.
Golden hair shimmered with a cold light under the faint moonlight.
And those heterochromatic pupils—one black, one grey.
Peter's mind went buzz.
It recognized this youth.
Usually hiding in Ron's pocket, it had seen how this person hung the Professor on the wall in the Great Hall.
The true Demon King in this school.
An abyss even more terrifying than Lord Voldemort.
Ultimate panic overwhelmed Peter's reason.
It didn't want to be a rat anymore.
It had to turn back into a human, draw its wand, even if it meant kneeling on the ground and kowtowing for mercy.
It desperately mobilized the magic inside its body.
Wanting to trigger the Animagus transformation mechanism.
magic was just surging in its blood vessels,
When an overbearing dark energy poured straight in along those two fingers pinching the back of its neck.
Like a large bucket of ice water poured onto a weak flame.
"Squeak——!"
Peter let out a terrified scream.
The transforming magic within its body was forcibly frozen by that Dark Arts energy.
Just like rusted gears stuck in place.
It was locked tightly inside this fat rat shell.
Arthur held it up in mid-air.
Looking indifferently at this shivering grey rat in his hand.
The grey mist in his right eye slowly swirled.
He saw through the filthy soul beneath this shell.
Cowardly, greedy, filled with the stench of betrayal.
"Hiding in the gutter eating garbage for twelve years."
Arthur's voice dissipated in the night wind.
"Do you really think you are a beast now?"
Peter shook its head desperately.
Tears squeezed out of its beady green-bean eyes.
It wanted to speak, wanted to beg for mercy.
But locked in the rat's body, it could only make meaningless "squeak" sounds.
It even wanted to use its toe-missing paws to hug Arthur's fingers.
Arthur's gaze turned cold.
Disgustedly avoiding those mud-stained dirty paws.
The fingers pinching the skin of the back of the neck exerted a slight bit of force.
This was not simple physical squeezing.
This was a violent crushing accompanied by the Soul Law.
Directly acting on Peter's locked magic core.
"Ah——!"
An extremely shrill scream burst from the rat's mouth.
The sound no longer belonged to a rodent at all.
That was the wail of a middle-aged man's throat being torn apart.
The bones inside Peter's body made a teeth-aching cracking sound.
The forcibly locked Animagus magic,
Under this violent kneading, completely shattered from the inside.
The transformation process was reverse-detonated.
Arthur released his fingers.
Throwing this violently twitching thing onto the lawn like throwing away garbage.
The rat's body began to expand rapidly in mid-air.
The grey fur faded away in large patches.
Revealing the bloodless skin underneath.
The short limbs were forcibly elongated.
The sounds of bones breaking and reorganizing rang densely.
Accompanied by continuous hoarse screams.
Muscles tore, then quickly healed under the effect of magic.
"Bang."
A heavy physical body smashed onto the damp lawn.
Crushing a large patch of wild grass.
Mud splattered onto the stone steps beside it.
Peter Pettigrew recovered his human form.
He was a very short middle-aged man.
With an obese figure, the fat on his belly piled together.
Sparse hair stuck to his scalp stained with muddy water.
Bearing a rat-like, sharp and wretched face.
He lay naked in the muddy ground.
Covered all over with mud and dead grass.
Because of the immense pain of the forced reverse transformation, his limbs were still twitching violently out of control.
White foam constantly spewed from his mouth.
He turned over with difficulty.
Lying flat on his back on the lawn.
Gasping heavily for breath, his chest heaving like a leaking old bellows.
Peter opened his eyes slightly.
His vision was blurry.
He looked at the tall black figure standing before him.
Those heterochromatic pupils were looking down at him condescendingly.
Only the most primitive fear remained in his mind.
Cold sweat mixed with rainwater streamed down from his forehead, stinging his eyes painfully.
The system's mechanical voice rang frantically in Arthur's mind; a bumper harvest was about to arrive.