"When did you acquire the ability to brew Potions of this caliber?"
Snape scrutinized the nearly empty glass vial in his hand as he questioned Sagres, not lifting his head.
"As far as I know, while you're not entirely without talent in Potion-making, you've never been willing to waste time on cauldrons and stirring rods..."
"Bought it."
Sagres answered casually. In truth, Nightingale had given it to him, but he hadn't used it until now.
"Bought it?"
Snape suddenly looked up, his black eyes fixed on Sagres, unwilling to miss even the slightest change in expression. "Where did you buy it from?"
Sagres met his gaze, his gray eyes calm and unruffled.
His silence clearly indicated his refusal to answer.
"Hmph!"
Snape let out a short, cold snort, saying nothing further.
He set the empty vial down heavily on a nearby table, then turned and left, his black robes billowing behind him like a whirlwind.
Snape's attitude toward Sagres had grown increasingly complex, difficult to define—a dark emotion caught between extreme repulsion and reluctant acknowledgment.
There was also a trace of apprehension that even he refused to admit.
Because Sagres had, through a method he could not comprehend at all, effortlessly accomplished what countless outstanding wizards had devoted centuries to without success.
He had ruthlessly and effectively rewritten the rules.
This was no longer merely profound magic; it was almost a blasphemous act of creation.
Snape himself had created magic, so he understood even more clearly what this meant.
Dumbledore watched Lupin, who seemed reborn, his eyes shining with an unprecedented light.
Then he looked at Sagres, who was quietly putting away his wand, as if he had just finished a simple classroom demonstration.
Deep in the old Headmaster's eyes, worry and an uncontrollable sense of awe churned.
As a master of Transfiguration, he understood better than anyone the potential and danger contained within Sagres's almost "creator-like" ability.
He and Snape both tacitly chose not to ask further questions, and it was fortunate they didn't, otherwise Sagres could only have said: it was all hard work and sweat, along with the selfless contributions of a few Dark Wizards.
For Lupin, this was undoubtedly a complete rebirth.
His new body freed him from more than thirty years of shackles.
He had even gained certain "solidified" enhancements through this ordeal:
His night vision had become extremely sharp, allowing him to see in near-total darkness;
His physical strength and endurance far surpassed those of ordinary wizards, so abundant that even he was surprised by it;
His instinct for danger had also grown sharper than ever before.
This peculiar enhancement would reach its peak on the night of the full moon, and even on ordinary days, his reaction speed had increased by more than twenty percent.
This meant his wand movements were faster, and his body had become more agile and flexible.
However, the sudden gain of immense power also brought some minor inconveniences. He occasionally felt light-footed when walking due to his lack of control over his strength, and he had to be extra careful when handling delicate objects to avoid accidentally damaging them.
Clearly, he would need a considerable amount of time to readjust and master this body, which was both familiar and strange.
This news caused a stir only within Sagres's trusted inner circle.
Lyle Lupin, Remus Lupin's father, was moved to tears upon learning that his son's decades-long curse had been broken in such a way.
With trembling hands, he picked up his quill and wrote Sagres a long, somewhat incoherent letter of gratitude, the words blurred by emotion.
Every line carried the choked sobs and overwhelming joy of a father finally freed from a lifelong burden.
...
Meanwhile, in the depths of Hogwarts Castle, an unusual silence filled Snape's private storeroom.
He was no longer simply organizing ingredients, but instead tapped his fingertips unconsciously against the table, staring at a blank notebook.
The notebook contained his observations and deductions about everything he had witnessed that night, but in the end, it was filled mostly with messy ink blots and heavily crossed-out conjectures.
He found that his lifelong knowledge seemed pale and powerless in the face of Sagres's unreasonable magic.
It made him angry, yet at the same time, he could not resist the urge to unravel its mysteries.
...
After returning to the Headmaster's Office, Dumbledore did not immediately indulge in his sweets.
He stood beside Fawkes on his perch, his gaze seeming to pierce through the thick stone walls, looking toward the distant future.
If even Gamp's Law of Transfiguration could be broken, then what of the boundary between life and death?
If he could not find the legendary Resurrection Stone, could another method be used instead?
…
This silent earthquake within Hogwarts Castle had no effect on the students.
For them, the top priority was to earn more points before the end of the school year in exchange for the items they wanted.
In front of the Duelling Monument on the floating arena, the atmosphere was more lively than ever. Students formed various teams, racing against time to earn enough points in the final two months.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were stopped in the corridor by two unexpected people, Draco Malfoy and the taciturn Goyle.
Malfoy stood with his arms crossed, his slightly pale, pointed chin raised, his arrogant gaze tinged with a hint of scrutiny.
"Potter," he drawled, "and Weasley… Granger."
He spoke as if he had only just noticed Hermione. "Perfect, you're all here. Saves me the trouble of looking for you."
"What strange things are you going to say now, Malfoy?" Ron asked warily. "Or are you looking for another duel with Harry?"
"Neither," Malfoy said lazily. "I'm here to offer you an opportunity..."
"Offer us an opportunity?"
Hermione frowned, completely puzzled by what he meant.
"We need a few teammates," Malfoy said succinctly. "Goyle and I need some points to exchange for items, and you three… are barely acceptable choices."
Hermione immediately looked at him suspiciously. "Why us? You could easily find other Slytherins."
"Because they're all not very smart!"
Malfoy spoke impatiently, his voice rising slightly before he quickly lowered it again. "They're even more unpredictable than those traitorous mirror images, and they've already wasted a lot of our time."
He glanced at Hermione. "We need… some brains now. And," he took a deep breath, as if making up his mind, his eyes fixed on Harry, "don't forget, Potter. On the Quidditch pitch. If I hadn't 'meddled' back then, you might still be groaning in the Hospital Wing. I'm giving you a chance now to repay that favor."
He brought up the old incident again, trying to frame his intervention as a debt to be repaid.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged quick glances.
They didn't entirely distrust Malfoy.
After everything that had happened this school year, his pure malice seemed to have diminished.
What they felt instead was that this collaboration was strangely awkward. Still, in a way, Harry did feel he owed him something.
"…Alright." After a brief discussion, Harry, Ron, and Hermione finally nodded. "But let's be clear, Malfoy. If the two of you perform too poorly and keep holding us back, we can quit at any time."
"Likewise, Potter." Malfoy forced a smile. "Then it's settled. After lunch, at the arena. Don't be late."
With that, he turned and left with Goyle, his robes swishing loudly behind him.
Ron watched their retreating figures and couldn't help but grumble, "I still think this is a bad idea."
Harry looked at him. "But weren't you the one who persuaded me to agree just now?"
"Yes," Ron said matter-of-factly, "but that's because he did help out on the Quidditch pitch, which is a fact. Although I still think that even if he hadn't intervened, you might not have been in trouble, but he did intervene."
"Well, you have a point," Harry said helplessly.
"That may be the logic, but I still want to express my personal opinion." Ron changed the subject, nodding toward Malfoy's back. "I don't like him. Especially when I think about that word he used to call Hermione… He never apologized for it."
"Uh, honestly, I don't care about that anymore," Hermione said, her tone unexpectedly calm, even carrying a hint of indifference. "It can't hurt me now."
She remembered what Professor Greengrass had told her in private, and she found it quite reasonable:
Words carry a peculiar kind of magic, but their power depends on whether the listener chooses to accept them. When you stop caring, any malicious word loses its sting and becomes powerless.
Mudblood? Know-it-all?
Those labels could no longer affect her in the slightest.
In other words, she no longer cared.
________
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