The young beech tree came to stand beside the man in black, dug into the wet soil, and rooted itself once again. Then, as if letting out a long sigh, its entire body—branches and leaves—gave a little shake before settling down into stillness.
The man in black raincoat pointed his wand at the spruce tree ahead and muttered a long, drawn-out incantation. His voice was drowned out by the pattering rain; even if someone stood next to him, they probably wouldn't hear clearly.
Yet the tall spruce tree ahead seemed to understand his words. Its branches began to tremble unnaturally, and soon its once-straight trunk bent, as though stretching after a long nap.
The ground nearby began to tremble, shift, and crack open, as though some enormous beast was about to emerge from beneath the earth. The surrounding shrubs and weeds toppled, and insects scurried out in panic, fleeing in all directions.
But before the surface fully split apart, the man in black patted the spruce's trunk—and everything returned to silence.
It was only then that another shadowy figure crept out from deep within the forest. The figure timidly approached the spruce tree and began to draw a circle of magical runes on its trunk with a brush.
The man in black watched silently. Once the symbols were completed, he pointed his wand again. The black magical runes shimmered faintly with a dark green light before vanishing into the bark.
"Continue," he said coldly. "Before the rain stops, you need to mark every tree thicker than three people's arms wrapped around."
The other man nodded submissively, looking miserable, and carried his brush and bucket off to find another large tree. Rainwater streamed down his face, and he didn't even have the means to shield himself—he looked utterly pitiful.
Golden hair spilled from beneath his hood, wet and plastered to his face. The man shivered from the cold, his hands and feet were numb, but he didn't dare utter a single complaint.
A flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the dark forest—and the face beneath the hood.
It was Lockhart, much thinner than before, with a few terrifying scars around his neck. Hunched over and visibly weakened, he trudged toward a massive oak.
Watching him from behind was none other thanBarty Crouch Jr., cloaked in black.
His cold, disdainful gaze made Lockhart tremble uncontrollably. He desperately wanted to escape—but the mere thought of Voldemort's methods filled him with so much fear he couldn't even muster the courage to imagine defying him.
What's more, he couldn't run away.
Voldemort had placed a vicious curse on him—if Lockhart ever tried to flee, betray Voldemort, or reveal any information, the curse would instantly kill him.
—Looking back, it might've been better to just stay in Azkaban!
Lockhart couldn't help but think.
But then he remembered the terror of the Dementors—the despair, loneliness, and hollowness of prison life—and shivered again.
Weighing one against the other, Lockhart truly couldn't decide which was worse: the Dementors, or Voldemort.
Either way, both had tormented him beyond imagination.
Now, when he thought back to his days as a bestselling author, idolized by countless fans—or when he was surrounded by many teenage girls at Hogwarts—those memories felt so beautiful they seemed like a dream.
As he tearfully painted runes on the tree, Lockhart's vision blurred with tears, and he accidentally drew a few symbols incorrectly.
His heart leapt into his throat. He was so frightened he forgot to cry, and quickly sneaked a glance behind him. Luckily, Barty Crouch Jr. was busy casting a spell on another tree and hadn't noticed.
Lockhart let out a breath of relief.
He couldn't let Barty find out he'd made a mistake—most of the ingredients used in that bucket of magical ink were contraband, gathered from all over by Gale with great difficulty.
If that cold-blooded devil found out he'd made a mistake, at the very least it would be a Cruciatus Curse—he might even be fed to Nagini…
Damn Death Eaters—no compassion, not even for their own!
While cursing Barty Crouch Jr. to die a horrible death, Lockhart carefully covered the mistaken part of the rune with his hand, straining to summon his magical power. His face turned red with the effort, but at last, the symbols began to fade and disappear.
Driven by sheer terror, he had actually managed to cast a wandless spell!
Lockhart didn't have time to celebrate. Afraid that Barty Crouch Jr. would notice how long he'd lingered by this tree, he hurried to finish the rest and rushed off to find the next tree.
Another yew tree stirred, then gradually stilled.
Barty caught a glimpse of Lockhart skulking through the forest like a thief and clicked his tongue "tsk" in disdain.
Just as he started to walk away, the corner of his robe was tugged.
Frowning, Barty looked down and saw that it was the young beech tree. One of its sideways-growing branches had hooked onto his robe.
This was their first test subject.
Perhaps because it was still young, it acted like a child after being awakened. Or maybe its trunk was too thin, and the runes hadn't been properly completed. In any case, it couldn't camouflage itself like the other trees.
The little beech tree liked to wander around and was always trailing after Barty like a chick following its mother—impossible to shake off.
Barty yanked his robe free, sidestepped the tree, and walked toward another large tree. But he hadn't gone far when he heard rustling behind him.
He whipped around—and saw the beech tree tiptoeing after him like a cat, carefully placing each root. The moment it noticed him turning, it froze and pretended to be just an ordinary tree.
Barty frowned and kept walking. Sure enough, after a moment, the beech tree crept after him again.
Maybe it was the eerie quiet of the nighttime forest, awakening hidden fears and loneliness, but he actually found the little beech tree's company somewhat comforting. He even felt a strange urge to talk.
"You understand what I'm doing, don't you? Of course not—you're just a brainless tree."
The beech tree wiggled its branches, clearly delighted that Barty was allowing it to tag along—and even speaking to it.
As for what Barty said, it didn't understand at all, nor could it tell anyone else.
Which made Barty feel even safer to confide in it—people with too many secrets always need a "tree hollow" to pour them into, and Barty was no exception.
"Potion ingredients, father's bones, a servant's flesh—those things are all ready. Only one thing remains: the blood of an enemy. Only… Harry Potter."
Barty lowered his voice:
"But that boy is too well-protected. I need an opportunity… We need to create an extremely chaotic scene to get him out of the protection circle. And before the Master is fully resurrected, we must not let Dumbledore track us."
"This tournament is the perfect chance… In a few days, over 100,000 wizards will gather in the arena. Harry Potter will be among them—you saw him too, didn't you?"
Barty turned to gaze at the oval-shaped stadium and muttered, "The traitors, the dissenters, and all those clueless fools being protected… they'll all pay a terrible price!"
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⭐Harry Potter: Becoming a Study God (HP:BSG)- 200+ Chapters
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