area51novel Chapter 65 The Matter Ends
Chapter 65 The Matter Ends
Chapter 65 The Matter Ends
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was more crowded than usual in the afternoon; it was a large class with all students in the year in attendance. The events of the morning had also caused many upperclassmen to deliberately pass by the door; clearly, everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of this "legendary freshman" who had made the Selwyn family bow down.
Karen chose a seat by the window. He could feel countless eyes staring at him, some curious, some inquisitive, and a few cold gazes from the Slytherin auditors in the back row.
Just then, the classroom door opened, and Professor Castor walked in with his usual elegant steps. Today he was wearing a dark gray robe, his low golden ponytail swaying slightly behind his head, and when his gray eyes swept across the classroom, all the whispers immediately stopped.
"Today we will learn how to recognize and resist the Crucifixion Curse." His voice was deep and magnetic, and he tapped his wand lightly.
Lines of runes automatically appeared on the blackboard: "This is one of the three unforgivable curses. It doesn't kill instantly like the Killing Curse, nor does it control a person imperceptibly like the Imperius Curse, but it is the most cruel. Can anyone tell me why?"
The classroom fell silent as the content, so different from what they usually taught, was presented.
Salle Alonso of Hufflepuff raised his hand first: "Because the pain caused by the Cruciatus Curse cannot be relieved by any potion or spell, Professor. The victim will suffer permanent psychological trauma."
“Correct, Mr. Alonso, Hufflepuff adds two points.” Castor nodded slightly. “The horror of the Cruciatus Curse lies not only in the physical pain, but also in its erosion of the soul.” His gaze swept across the classroom, lingering on Karen for a moment. “A person who has experienced the Cruciatus Curse will have a permanent scar on their soul, even if their body is healed.”
The classroom was silent; even breathing could be heard clearly. Karen noticed several Slytherin students in the back row shifting uncomfortably, and some were staring at him, as if the topic made them uneasy.
"There are several key characteristics that identify traces of the Crucifixion." Castor raised his wand, tracing an eerie red line in the air. "First, there's the color of the curse's residue—an unnatural crimson. Second, there's the victim's reaction; any touch triggers intense memories of pain. Finally—"
He suddenly waved his wand, and a transparent spherical shield appeared on the podium, inside which emerged the image of a dummy struck by the Crucifixion Curse. The dummy's contorted and screaming appearance made several students gasp.
"Finally, there's this unique pattern of magical energy fluctuations," Castor's voice was calm to the point of being cold, "sharp as a saw, meandering as a venomous snake. Remember this characteristic, because—"
His aura suddenly sharpened, sweeping across the faces of each student: "In your lives, you may very well encounter victims of the Cruciatus Curse, or even casters of it. Being able to recognize it is the first step in protecting yourself."
The class proceeded in a tense atmosphere. Professor Castor demonstrated several methods for detecting remnants of the Crucifixion and had the students practice identifying spell features in pairs. When it was Karen and Sal's turn to pair up, Sal's hands were visibly trembling.
"Are you alright?" Karen asked softly.
Saller took a deep breath and forced a smile: "My uncle was a victim of the Cruciatus Curse. In the final days before the Fall of Mystic—he still suffers panic attacks when he hears sudden noises."
"I'm so sorry," Karen said softly, the tip of her wand glowing with a blue detection charm. "We'll definitely find a way to help him."
Salle gave him a grateful look. "Thank you. But the healers at St. Mungo's say that these kinds of wounds to the soul are hard to heal completely. And my uncle wasn't the only one who was hurt; quite a few wizards suffered from the Cruciatus Curse during that period. Compared to them, my uncle was very lucky."
Just then, Professor Castor approached them. "Focus, Mr. Alonso. Being overly consumed by hatred and grief will affect the accuracy of your spells." His voice was unusually gentle. "Remember, the best revenge is to become powerful enough to prevent it from happening again."
Saller straightened his back, his eyes hardening. "Yes, Professor."
As the bell rang, Castor called out to Karen, who was about to leave: "Mr. Hawthorne, please stay a moment. I have a few suggestions regarding last week's paper."
Other students cast envious or curious glances, but all wisely left the classroom quickly. After the last student closed the door, Castor's "professor mask" relaxed slightly, and a genuine smile appeared on his lips.
"How does it feel?" He walked to the window, the sunlight gilding him. "Seeing my trophy featured in..."
The front page of the Daily Prophet.
Karen took a deep breath, her fingers unconsciously tracing the lines on her wand. "To be honest, teacher, I'm still a little uncomfortable. People have been staring at me all day, even more so than the past two days, as if I've suddenly turned into some kind of rare magical creature."
Castor chuckled softly, a deep, pleasant laugh that echoed in the empty classroom: "That's the power of fame."
"Karen. It will open some doors for you, and close others." He turned and retrieved an exquisite oak box from under the podium. "The important thing is to learn to use it, not to be used by it. For example, this Selwyn family's Ancient Runic Codex has arrived."
Karen carefully took the box, feeling a faint magical fluctuation as her fingers touched its surface. The box was engraved with intricate patterns, and in the center was a Selwyn family crest that had been crossed out. Clearly, the other party had made a final "ritualistic" protest when handing over this heirloom.
"I've done a quick check; there are no curses or traps," Castor said with a hint of sarcasm. "Only a few—"
A little trick to maintain family pride. A few protective and tracking spells, and it's easily dispelled.
Karen opened the box, revealing twelve ancient parchment scrolls neatly arranged inside, each bound with silver thread and sealed with a broken Selwyn family crest wax. He carefully took out one scroll, and as he unfolded it, he smelled a mixture of ancient parchment and potion, a heavy aura of history.
The runes on the scroll shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Karen squinted; his Eye of Truth allowed him to see the flow of magic imperceptible to ordinary people. The runes were slowly changing, wriggling slightly like living things, somewhat like the runes on the parchment scroll that Nico had left him.
"These words—" Karen looked up in surprise, "are they changing?"
Castor nodded approvingly, his gray eyes gleaming with excitement. "A keen observation. This is active rune, a secret technique of ancient Norse wizards. Ordinary runes are static, but these..." His fingers lightly traced the scroll, his movements unusually gentle. "Nico knows this. The one he left you is similar. The Selwyn family certainly has some good stuff."
Karen seemed to sense the hatred emanating from afar. This was not only a precious set of magic books, but also a priceless historical artifact. The Selwyn family had been forced to hand it over, a humiliation that would likely fuel their resentment for centuries. His fingers gently traced the words on the parchment, feeling the powerful magic contained within pulsating at his fingertips.
"What? Do you think this thing is too valuable?" Castor asked Karen suddenly.
Then his expression suddenly turned serious, his gray eyes as cold as steel: "Never be soft on your enemies, Karen." His voice was low and dangerous. "The Selwyn family was one of the most active followers during Voldemort's reign; they have far more blood on their hands than you can imagine." He closed the box, his voice softening slightly. "And this isn't just punishment for them, it's also protection for you."
"Protect?" Karen looked up in confusion, sunlight casting dappled light into his grey-blue eyes.
“That’s right.” Castor walked to the window, his gaze lingering on the distant Forbidden Forest. “Now the entire wizarding world knows you are protected by me and the forces that may be behind me. Those pure-blood supremacists will think twice before they act against you.” He turned to face Karen, the sunlight creating a dazzling halo behind him. “If Selwyn hadn’t attacked you…”
"That's fine then, but since we've already started, we must make them fear you right away, otherwise the retaliation will be endless."
Karen suddenly understood Castor's deeper meaning. This wasn't simple revenge, but a much larger scheme. By ostentatiously displaying his power, he had created a relatively safe environment for Karen, deterring the pure-blood families from making any rash moves. A warm feeling welled up inside him; Professor Castor wasn't just teaching him magic, but also how to survive in this complex magical world.
"As for the other compensation," Castor continued, his long fingers tapping lightly on the oak box, "I've completed the handover of the German alchemy workshop. The cash compensation is already with me; you can take it later, or deposit it into a gold vault at Gringotts. As for the thirty books, when you have time, we can go to Selwyn Manor together to select them. I'm sure their library has quite a few good things."
Karen nodded. "Teacher, please keep that cash with you for now. I don't need the money right now. I'll deposit it when we go to Gringotts later!"
The sounds of students heading to their next class drifted in from outside the window. Castor glanced at the clock on the wall. "Alright, you should go to your Charms class now. Remember, come to my office Thursday evening; we can discuss this cryptic text."
Karen carefully picked up the oak box, bowed to the teacher, and left the classroom. The students in the hallway, seeing the box in his hand, erupted in another round of whispers. Karen straightened his back and walked forward without looking to the side.
That evening, in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, silverware spun gently on its shelves, wisps of silver smoke rising from them. Dumbledore sat behind his large desk, his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles watching the visitor opposite him. Fawkes stirred slightly on his perch, letting out a barely audible chirp.
"Lemon Olaf?" The old headmaster pushed a plate of candy over, his voice as gentle as ever. "A new flavor, supposedly with a little bit of stimulant added."
Castor shook his head, his long, slender fingers crossed on his knees. "No, thank you. This kind of thing would affect the accuracy of alchemical experiments."
The air between the two was heavy and quiet, with only the portraits of past principals on the wall pretending to be asleep but actually eavesdropping.
The portrait of Principal Delilah DeWent even had its frame tilted forward a few degrees.
"Today's Daily Prophet is quite interesting," Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice devoid of any reproach, but the light in his blue eyes sharpened. "I never expected your methods to be so ruthless!"
Castor's grey eyes met the old headmaster's gaze without flinching: "The Selwyn family needs to learn respect, Albus. And sometimes, respect must be built through fear."
"Ah, fear." Dumbledore sighed softly, his long fingers tracing the surface of an exquisite silver instrument on the table. It was an instrument Cullen had never seen before, its surface engraved with runes. "A powerful but dangerous tool. It can indeed bring outward obedience, but it can also sow the seeds of hatred."
"Hatred?" Castor sneered, his expression instantly making him look like a completely different person. His low, golden ponytail gleamed dangerously in the candlelight. "The Selwyn family has long hated all non-pure-blood wizards. My actions are merely teaching them to conceal this hatred. And haven't you already tacitly approved of my methods?"
Dumbledore didn't immediately refute him, but instead observed the young man before him thoughtfully. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on Castor, but his grey eyes remained as cold and hard as steel.
"You remind me of him, Castor," the old headmaster said softly, his voice carrying a distant nostalgia. "The same methods, the same—efficiency."
Castor's body tensed slightly, his fingers unconsciously tracing his left arm. "I am not him, Albus. I have no interest in those so-called prophecies. My goal has always been the same: to explore the essence of magic." His voice carried a suppressed passion. "And Karen—he has the potential to go even further, provided he is not hindered by the prejudices of those pure-blood fools."
Dumbledore nodded, his gaze deepening. "I believe your intentions are good, Castor. But remember, we teach our students not only magical knowledge, but also how to use it." He gently adjusted his half-moon spectacles. "Means shape results, just as spells can backfire on their casters."
A moment of silence followed. The magical instrument in the corner of the office emitted a soft ticking sound, as if calculating some unseen balance.
Dumbledore suddenly asked, taking a box of chocolate frogs from a drawer and pushing it across the table, "So, how have you been lately? The last checkup—"
"It's alright," Castor replied briefly, his fingers tracing his left arm again. "At least I can hold out until Karen is strong enough."
A flicker of worry crossed Dumbledore's eyes, but he quickly masked it: "If you need any help—"
"Thank you, but no need." Castor stood up, his robe billowing as he spoke. "I have my own methods."
Just as he turned to leave, Dumbledore suddenly said, "He wrote to me last week. He knows what you've done. You should use your connections with him."
Castor's back visibly stiffened, his fingers tightening slightly, but he didn't turn around: "What did he say?"
"He asked about you," Dumbledore's voice was unusually gentle, as if he were speaking of an old friend rather than a prisoner. "He said—'Tell Castor not to repeat my mistake. Power is a means, not an end.'"
Castor's shoulders trembled slightly, as if suppressing some intense emotion. After a moment of silence, his deep voice echoed in the office: "Tell him—I'm walking my own path."
Having said that, he strode towards the spiral staircase, his footsteps fading into the distance. Dumbledore watched him go, sighed deeply, and took an old photograph from a drawer—the photograph showed two young wizards, the blond one handsome and flamboyant, the red-haired one gentle and refined, standing side by side.
"An echo of history," the old headmaster murmured to himself, putting the photograph back in the drawer and turning to look out the window at the deepening twilight.