Chapter 70 — I'm Also Someone Who Goes a Little Mad Sometimes
"Such a pity," Corvey drawled, his voice thick with disdain. "My Shield Charm isn't something Yaxley's cheap imitation can compare to. A Muggle bomb won't even scratch it."
He spoke with utter confidence—even as he continued to back away, wand raised toward Russell. Clearly, he wasn't quite confident enough to stand still.
"Confringo!"
Perhaps because of his dulled senses, Corvey's blasting curse went wide. It missed Russell and instead struck Yaxley's corpse, blowing his head apart like a rotten melon.
Russell didn't flinch. He kept walking forward—slow, steady, relentless.
The second spell wasn't as merciful. Russell ducked, but not fast enough.
The curse blasted into his shoulder, tearing open half his torso, leaving a gaping fist-sized cavity of mangled flesh.
Any normal person would have collapsed.
Corvey expected him to.
Instead—Russell swayed, pushed himself up, and stood again.
And the wound… was knitting together.
Flesh wriggled and crawled, reforming. The hole shrank to half its size within seconds.
Good, Russell thought, relief washing through him. The potion's working even better than expected.
For the first time tonight, Corvey truly panicked.
Watching Russell advance like an undead war god rattled him to his core.
"Damn it—fall! FALL!"
One dark curse after another slammed into Russell, knocking him down again and again, only for him to rise—again and again.
Each time, the spells seemed to lose a little more bite. Each time, Russell came back a little faster.
His steps grew heavier, quicker.
Corvey tried to retreat—only to feel cold wood press against his back.
A wall.
He had nowhere left to go.
Russell's face was soaked in blood, but his expression… was smiling.
A calm, razor-edged, slightly unhinged smile.
"Corvey," he said softly. "If a Muggle bomb can't break your Shield Charm… then try a wizard's bomb."
A flicker of madness gleamed in his eyes.
He reached into his dragonhide pouch and pulled out the massive chain bomb—Fester's farewell gift.
Clutching it to his chest, he sprinted forward.
Spells shredded his back, tore through muscle, splattered blood—he didn't stop.
"I'm also someone who goes a little mad sometimes," Russell murmured with a crooked grin.
He twisted his body, slapped the activation rune, and pressed the bomb directly against the shimmering Shield Charm.
Then he planted both feet on the barrier, kicked off hard, and hurled himself backward—leaving the bomb stuck to the glowing surface.
Whatever happened next… he left to fate.
In that split second, he also whipped his dragonhide pouch through a shattered gap in the wall—one last act of stubborn hope.
As for his wand?
May it rest in peace.
A blinding white flash erupted.
Corvey's eyes widened in horror.
BOOOOOOM!!!
A deafening explosion tore the night apart.
Flames roared outward like a furious fire dragon, devouring everything in their path.
Burning debris and shards of wood erupted in all directions as thick smoke boiled into the sky.
The shockwave rippled across the ground, rattling windows, shaking the very air.
The sharp scent of charred wood and acrid smoke spread everywhere.
And just like that—
the Shrieking Shack ceased to exist.
The blast's thunderous echo jolted awake the residents of Hogsmeade; doors flew open as villagers rushed outside in panic.
Even far-off Hogwarts felt it.
Even Dumbledore, in his office, lifted his head.
Dumbledore's heart tightened with a sudden sense of dread. He softly called for his phoenix, and in a flash of flame, wizard and bird vanished from the Headmaster's office.
"What was that noise? Must be another one of those Gryffindors causing trouble," Headmaster Black muttered as he jerked awake, relying entirely on what he considered "experience." "They're always fooling around with dangerous things."
Naturally, his outrageous remark earned him another round of collective beating from the other portrait headmasters.
"Professor Dumbledore, you're here!" The Hogsmeade villagers greeted him at once.
Only one elderly wizard—hair and beard entirely white—turned away with an icy expression and left without a word.
Dumbledore noticed him, his eyes flickering briefly, but he didn't pursue. Instead, he looked toward the heart of the explosion—the spot where the Shrieking Shack once stood.
"All right, everyone, I'm terribly sorry for disturbing your rest," Dumbledore said with his usual warm smile.
"It seems our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor encountered a bit of… an accident. I'll take care of things here. Please, go home and rest."
At the mention of the cursed position, everyone immediately understood.
"Ah, that makes sense. End of term again. Every year it's the same—this curse really is something. No wonder—"
The speaker, a pot-bellied middle-aged wizard, didn't get to finish. The people around him clamped a hand over his mouth with lightning reflexes.
"Don't say that name! Hurry home—don't let the curse latch onto you!"
"Yes, yes, quite right!"
The crowd dispersed quickly with no intention of lingering.
A gust of wind swept by as the heads of Hogwarts' four houses descended on broomsticks, landing around Dumbledore.
"Three first-year students are missing," Professor McGonagall said, voice trembling so badly she almost burst into tears.
"Gryffindor's alllllllan, Ravenclaw's Phineas Fawley, and… Russell Fythorne."
Snape's face grew even darker. He flicked his hair back and surveyed the ruins.
"Ivan Corvey is missing as well. I told you he was unfit for the post—"
"Severus, now is not the time," Flitwick snapped, more rattled than usual. Two missing students were Ravenclaws, and one of them was the brightest talent he'd seen in years.
"Enough. We must first determine exactly what happened," said Professor Sprout, the calmest among them—or at least outwardly so. In her heart she was panicking. She treated Russell like a nephew. If something happened to him… how could she face Morticia?
"Oh heavens… it's Ivan."
McGonagall had found Corvey lying at the edge of the wreckage.
Most of his lower body was gone. Only half an arm remained attached to what was left of his torso. Whatever potion he'd taken at the last moment must have been powerful—astonishingly, he still clung to life.
McGonagall raised her wand, trying to administer aid, but her hands trembled. She didn't know where to begin. After several false starts, she managed only to conjure a soft mattress beneath him so he wouldn't lie on the rubble.