Hogwarts: Starting with a Max-level Blackflame
Chapter 1: Starting out as the First Generation's Grandson
1991, London.
Raindrops hammered heavily against the ancient stained glass windows.
Water streaks wound their way down, dividing the gloomy streets outside the window.
Arthur stood before the full-length mirror.
He leisurely buttoned the final silver button of his pure black shirt.
The youth in the mirror possessed a head of dazzling blonde hair.
And a pair of heterochromatic pupils that people dared not meet directly.
His left eye was as pitch-black as an abyss, while his right eye was as pale as a storm.
He gently smoothed out the wrinkles on his cuffs.
Flowing within this body was the most taboo bloodline in the entire European magic world.
Arthur Grindelwald.
The biological grandson of the first Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald.
This surname represented war, iron and blood, and the fanaticism of subverting the world.
Even though that old man had been locked away in the tower of Nurmengard for decades.
The four characters of Grindelwald could still jolt countless pure-blood families awake in the dead of night.
A cold mechanical voice abruptly exploded in his mind.
[ Fear Plunder System has been activated. ]
Arthur's movements did not pause.
He did not even raise an eyebrow.
[ As long as you collect the shock and fear of others, you can exchange them for talents or plunder abilities. ]
[ Novice gift pack has been issued. ]
[ Obtained God-level ability: Max-level Fiendfyre. ]
As the voice fell.
The magic power within Arthur's body surged violently, like an ignited powder keg.
The immense magic power even overflowed from the surface of his body, scratching out a sizzling current sound in the air.
He raised his right hand, his index finger moving slightly.
A ball of pure black flame quietly bloomed at his fingertips.
There was no dazzling light.
There was no scorching high temperature.
This cluster of black fire resembled a miniature black hole.
It was silently devouring the surrounding light and oxygen.
The air in the room instantly distorted.
The surface of the hard solid wood desk began to turn gray and carbonize.
Fine ashes drifted down in rustles.
The full-length mirror made a teeth-gritting crisp sound.
Dense cracks spread like a spiderweb, reflecting tens of thousands of eyes burning with black fire.
This was Fiendfyre.
Uncontrollable cursed fire.
Even the second Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, would not dare to easily let Fiendfyre dance at his fingertips.
And in Arthur's hands.
This flame, enough to burn half of London to white ashes, was as docile as a cat.
He closed his five fingers.
The black fire annihilated.
The surrounding shadows still twisted restlessly in the corners of the wall, as if surrendering to a monarch.
Arthur walked towards the mahogany desk.
On the desk lay a silver triangular pendant.
That was the token symbolizing the Deathly Hallows.
He hung the token around his neck.
The cold metal pressed against his skin, carrying a trace of a heavy sense of destiny.
He draped over a tailored black pure-blood Wizard robe.
The dark silver patterns at the collar shimmered with a cold luster under the dim light.
He did not need a wand.
That heavy oak door automatically sprang open to both sides as he approached.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
The steam train's whistle was deafening.
The screeches of owls, the collisions of carts, and the exhortations of parents mingled together.
Incomparably noisy.
Arthur walked through that magical brick wall and stepped onto the platform.
The originally boiling crowd fell into a dead silence the moment he appeared.
Several Ministry of Magic officials who were talking loudly looked as if they had been choked by the neck.
They turned their gazes.
The moment they saw Arthur's blonde hair and heterochromatic eyes, their pupils suddenly constricted.
A senior Auror's briefcase slipped from his hand.
With a "snap", it smashed onto the bluestone slab, and parchment papers scattered all over the ground.
Yet he didn't even have the courage to bend down and pick them up.
The pure-blood family parents in the distance reacted even more violently.
A noblewoman holding a child turned pale.
She abruptly dragged the child behind her, her high heels stumbling backward on the flagstones.
The crowd was split open as if by an invisible giant axe.
On the crowded platform, a wide passageway was forcefully cleared out.
No one dared to look directly into those heterochromatic pupils.
The air was filled with a suffocating sense of oppression.
That was the natural bloodline suppression of a superior over their prey.
Arthur ignored these humble gazes.
Stepping in black leather boots, he walked straight towards that scarlet train.
The "tick-tock" sound of leather boots striking the ground became the only sound on the platform.
At the rear of the train, the most remote compartment.
Arthur sat alone on the soft velvet seat.
The rain grew heavier and heavier.
The moisture completely blurred the outline of Londonoutside the window.
Upper-class students ran past, playing and scuffling in the corridor.
But upon approaching this compartment, that laughter abruptly stopped.
Several Ravenclaw students rubbed the goosebumps on their arms.
Lowering their heads and staring fixedly at the tips of their toes, they hurried away from this area.
No one dared to come in and strike up a conversation.
A few hours later, the sky completely darkened.
The train sped through the wilderness of Scotland.
"Clang—"
The sharp screech of grinding steel stung everyone's eardrums.
The high-speed train abruptly slammed on the brakes.
The huge inertia caused the suitcases in the corridor to roll all over the ground.
The magic light bulb overhead flickered violently twice.
Accompanied by a "sizzle" of current, the light bulb went out completely.
Boundless darkness enveloped the entire train.
Arthur leaned against the back of the chair.
He crossed his fingers and placed them on his knees, his gaze not rippling with a trace of a wave.
The temperature plummeted.
The originally warm air had its temperature sucked dry by an invisible force.
On the glass windows of the compartment, a layer of frost spread at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Icicles, like sharp blades, crisscrossed and condensed on the glass surface.
The sound of teeth chattering came from the corridor.
"What... what happened..."
A student curled up in the corner of the wall, hands tightly clutching their shoulders.
The despair and fear deeply hidden in the bottom of their hearts were forcibly pulled out.
Suppressed sobs came from the corridor.
Moisture turned into white frost in the air.
A sense of despair capable of freezing the soul seeped into every compartment like a cold tide.
Arthur breathed out a puff of white air.
In the depths of his eyes, there was only the coldness of a predator.
It's finally here.
In the corridor outside the compartment, a tall dark shadow drifted over silently.
That shadow almost merged with the darkness.
Beneath the tattered cloak, a rotten stench emanated.
The sliding door made a harsh frictional sound.
The door was roughly pulled open a crack by an external force.
A withered palm covered in scabs, rotted and grayish, latched tightly onto the door frame.
Chapter 2: Max-Level Fiendfyre Burns Right Through the Train!
The sliding door emitted a harsh scraping sound.
A withered palm, covered in scabs and rotting to an ash-gray color, gripped the doorframe tightly.
Frost crept along that hand, filling the surrounding wooden panels.
A tall, dark figure draped in a tattered cloak forcefully squeezed into the compartment.
Beneath the hood, there was no face, only a pitch-black mouth that let out a prolonged wail resembling that of a dying person.
The aura of death turned into a tangible cold current, rushing backward frantically.
Outside the corridor.
Harry gripped the window frame tightly, his knuckles turning pale white.
He panted heavily, his lungs feeling as though they were filled with ice shards, and every breath carried a bloody taste.
Ron had long since slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
He clutched his head with both hands, his teeth chattering frantically, making a dense "chattering" sound.
Further down in the carriage, low sobs could be heard.
The emotion of despair spread across the entire train like a plague.
Inside the compartment.
The Dementor turned its tall body, aiming that pitch-black hood at the young man sitting in the shadows.
It smelled the scent of a fresh soul.
It wanted to feed.
Arthur still maintained his posture with his fingers crossed, sitting steadily on the velvet seat.
He raised his head, those abyss-like black eyes and pale pupils quietly sizing up the monster before him.
Without drawing his wand.
Without chanting any spell.
Arthur looked at it coldly.
"Dirty parasite."
He spat out a few words, his voice devoid of a single shred of warmth.
Arthur slowly raised his right hand, his index finger and thumb gently rubbing together.
"Snap."
A soft sound rippled through the silent compartment.
A purely black flame faintly bloomed at his fingertips.
The moment the flame appeared, the physical laws inside the compartment were forcibly subverted.
The frost frozen on the window vanished into nothingness without even going through a melting process.
A terrifying high temperature centered around Arthur and roared outward.
This was not an ordinary flame.
This cluster of Fiendfyre greedily devoured the surrounding light, making the already dim compartment pitch black.
Arthur flicked his fingertips slightly.
The Fiendfyre left his hand and surged wildly against the wind.
The blazing fire twisted and elongated wildly in mid-air, accompanied by a deafening roar.
A huge beast condensed entirely from black flames formed out of thin air.
It had a head similar to a Dragon, interlocking fangs, and exuded a brutal magic that destroyed everything.
The metal luggage rack overhead melted instantly, and molten iron dripped onto the ground, burning out a pungent green smoke.
The wooden partition of the compartment carbonized rapidly, and large patches of ash fell rustlingly down.
The Dementor stopped.
This dark creature that fed on fear felt a higher-dimensional threat of death for the first time.
It let out a short, strange sound and turned to try and escape.
Too late.
The black Dragon opened its abyss-like Giant mouth and swallowed the Dementor into its belly in one gulp.
"Hiss—"
A scream so sharp it could tear eardrums pierced through the entire train.
The Dementor's tattered cloak was instantly ignited, and the Fiendfyre burned outward from within its body.
In a mere two seconds.
That suffocating monster, without even having room to resist, directly turned into a puddle of grayish-white powder.
The powder fell on the carpet, continuing to burn and burning out a deep pit.
The aftermath of the violent magic turned into a tangible wave of air, directly shattering the sliding door of the compartment.
Wood chips and broken glass splattered everywhere toward the corridor like bullets.
Ron lay flat on the ground, covering his ears tightly with both hands, a pool of water beneath him spreading down his trouser legs.
He couldn't even cry out, and his throat could only make a hissing sound like a broken bellows.
Harry was flipped over by the air wave, slamming heavily against the opposite carriage wall.
He raised his head, his vision crossing the broken doorframe and looking into that compartment.
The blond youth sat in the darkness, surviving black sparks still leaping at his fingertips.
Those heterochromatic pupils were coldly scanning the corridor.
The lightning scar on Harry's forehead did not hurt.
But his heart suddenly skipped a beat, and he even lost the instinct to breathe.
The Dark Arts recorded in books were like children's tricks in front of this youth.
This was the true abyss.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, looking at the two limp people in the corridor.
"Get lost."
The voice was not loud, but it carried an irresistible weight of a thousand jun.
Harry couldn't care about the severe pain all over his body, crawling on the ground hands and feet.
He dragged Ron, who had already lost consciousness, moving desperately toward the other end of the corridor, not even daring to look back once.
The entire carriage fell into a dead silence.
The rain outside was still falling, but inside the carriage it was stiflingly hot.
No one dared to speak up or ask, and no one dared to approach this compartment by half a step.
The mechanical roar sounded again, but it couldn't suppress the heavy awe and panic in the carriage.
The Hogwarts Express slowly drove into Hogsmeadestation amidst the dead silence.
Rainwater washed over the platform like a waterfall.
The first-year students lined up, lowering their heads and shuffling out of the carriage.
All the students involuntarily quickened their pace when passing that carriage.
They would rather stand in the rain than leave a blank zone of more than ten meters.
Arthur stepped off the train last.
The black pure-blood Wizard robes fluttered and rustled in the wind and rain.
When the rain approached within a foot of his body, it was automatically bounced away by invisible magic.
Hagrid held a huge kerosene lamp and stood at the end of the platform.
The half-Giant, who was originally full of vigor, felt as if a stone was stuck in his throat the moment he saw Arthur.
He stammered for a long time before shouting out, "First—first-year students, this way."
Hagrid's huge body involuntarily hunched over a bit.
The small black boats cut through the dark lake surface, advancing toward the towering Castle.
The fierce wind whipped up waves, dampening the new students' robes.
Only the boat Arthur rode on had calm ripples, and the huge squid at the bottom of the lake had long since dived into the deep water area.
The heavy oak doors of the Castle stood open.
Warm firelight filtered out from inside, but it could not dispel the chill in the new students' bones.
Professor Minerva McGonagall wore emerald green robes and stood at the top of the marble staircase.
With a stern expression, she was preparing to give her customary welcome speech.
But when her gaze swept across the crowd and landed on the blond youth with heterochromatic eyes at the very front.
Professor Minerva McGonagall's hand holding the parchment trembled imperceptibly.
The indifference in those eyes reminded her of some dusty, terrifying memories.
She took a deep breath and forcibly steadied her voice.
"Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Before you take your seats, you must first undergo the Sorting Ceremony."
Professor McGonagall turned around and pushed open the doors of the Great Hall.
Hundreds of candles suspended in mid-air illuminated the four long tables.
The upperclassmen's gazes were cast toward the doorway in unison.
Arthur walked at the very front, his pace steady, carrying an innate arrogance.
The surrounding whispers quickly subsided the moment he stepped into the Great Hall.
At the staff table.
Albus Dumbledore, with his silver-white long beard, locked his gaze onto Arthur through his half-moon spectacles.
Those blue eyes, which were always filled with wisdom and kindness, were filled with gravity at this moment.
Professor McGonagall walked to the front of the Great Hall.
She brought over a four-legged wooden stool and placed it in front of the new students.
Afterwards.
She picked up a patched, somewhat blackened pointy Wizard hat and gently placed it on the stool.
Chapter 3: The Sorting Hat Scared Itself Pissless On The Spot
Professor McGonagall gently placed that patched, dirt-blackened pointy Wizard's hat onto a four-legged wooden stool.
The whispers in the Great Hall abruptly ceased.
Hundreds of candles suspended mid-air dimmed in unison at this very moment.
The firelight flickered, stretching the mottled shadows on the walls.
Professor McGonagall unfolded the parchment in her hand.
Her gaze fell upon the first line of the list, and her throat moved with a difficult swallow.
"Arthur Grindelwald."
This surname echoed with the night wind across the expanse of the Great Hall.
"Clang."
At the Slytherin long table, a sterling silver goblet crashed onto the flagstones.
Bright red pumpkin juice trickled and wound along the cracks in the stones, glaringly dazzling like a pool of freshly spilled blood.
Beside the Gryffindor long table, several upper-year students abruptly stood up.
Their palms instinctively reached inside their Wizard robes, gripping tightly onto the handles of their wands.
At the staff table, Snape, who had been resting his eyes to recuperate, suddenly opened his eyes wide.
He clutched the dining knife before him so tightly that the veins on the back of his hand bulged, and his knuckles turned a horrifying, ghastly white.
Professor Quirrell, wearing a purple turban, abruptly hunched his shoulders, his entire body slipping uncontrollably underneath the table.
That disfigured face hidden beneath the turban was uncontrollably twisting and spasming.
Lord Voldemort's remnant soul was trembling.
That name was a forbidden history forged in blood and fire.
Arthur stepped out from the shadows of the first-year line.
His black leather boots stepped onto the marble floor, producing crisp "tick, tack" sounds.
His spine was held straight, and the dark silver hem of his robe carved a cold, rigid arc through the air.
There was not even a shred of a first-year's nervousness and unease.
He looked like a monarch inspecting his territory, coldly scrutinizing the trembling subjects on both sides.
The crowd involuntarily retreated, forcibly squeezing out a wide aisle.
Harry stood at the edge of the crowd, panting heavily.
He gripped the robes at his chest tightly, feeling as though the surrounding air had been sucked dry, his alveoli burning with pain.
In his mind, the all-consuming black Dragon from the train surfaced once again.
Ron bit through his lower lip, the taste of rust spreading in his mouth, his legs shaking uncontrollably.
Hermione Granger dug her fingernails tightly into her palms, her nails sinking into her flesh.
She had recited Hogwarts: A History back-to-back with absolute fluency and knew that this school possessed the most rigorous defense systems.
But when that blonde boy walked past her, she only felt as though Death had brushed past her.
Arthur walked to the four-legged wooden stool, gracefully turned around, and slowly sat down.
He slightly raised his chin, his heterochromatic pupils sweeping across the staff table before finally landing on Dumbledore.
There was no awe.
There was only unmasked scrutiny and arrogance.
Professor McGonagall took a deep breath, held the Sorting Hat in both hands, and walked to Arthur's side.
Her fingers trembled slightly at the edge of her robes.
The shabby pointy hat was slowly lowered onto Arthur's dazzling blonde hair.
An inch.
Half an inch.
At the very instant when the Sorting Hat was about to touch Arthur's hair,
a drastic change suddenly occurred.
The millennium-old magic circle inside the Sorting Hatwas pierced in an instant by a force that was tyrannical to the extreme.
It instinctively wanted to peer into the thoughts of the boy before it.
But what it saw was not the memories belonging to an eleven-year-old boy.
That was an absolute void where even light was completely devoured.
Monstrous black flames transformed into ancient fierce beasts, raging and roaring wildly at the bottom of the abyss.
Every single wisp of black fire exuded the pure laws of death and destruction.
The Sorting Hat's proud Legilimency was as fragile as thin ice in the dead of winter before this sea of black fire.
It felt its own magical circuits being forcibly fused and broken.
The millennium-old magical fibers weaving the brim shattered inch by inch under that tyrannical dark magic.
If it didn't run, it would be burned along with its millennium-old sentience into ashes of nothingness!
"Hiss, hiss—"
In the real world, pungent bluish smoke suddenly billowed from the brim of the Sorting Hat.
The originally filthy fabric turned charred yellow and carbonized at a speed visible to the naked eye, sparks rapidly darting among the fabric fibers.
The split resembling a mouth was violently torn open to its maximum extent.
"Ah—!!!"
An extremely miserable and piercing scream burst forth from the crack of the Sorting Hat.
This was by no means the drawn-out declarations of previous years.
This was clearly the death rattle of someone on the brink of dying.
The Sorting Hat twisted frantically in Professor McGonagall's hands, desperately tilting its pointed tip backward, wanting to stay far away from the blonde boy's head.
It didn't even undergo any thought.
It abandoned all principles and rules set down by the Four Founders.
"Slytherin! He is Slytherin!!"
"Take it off! Quickly take me off his head!!"
The Sorting Hat let out a heart-wrenching scream, its voice completely warped and cracking out of panic.
It broke free of Professor McGonagall's hand on its own, crashing onto the cold stone slabs with a "thwack" like a scalded living creature.
The scorched tip of the hat was still twitching violently on the ground.
Dead silence.
The entire Great Hall plunged into a scalp-numbing dead silence.
There were no cheers, no applause.
The students at the Slytherin long table sat stiffly in place, as though they had been hit with an advanced Petrificus Totalus.
Professor McGonagall held her hands up, staring blankly at the Sorting Hat on the ground, even her breathing stalled.
For over a thousand years since the school's founding, the Sorting Hat had never displayed such an unseemly posture.
It had been scared out of its wits alive by the soul of an eleven-year-old first-year.
"Bang!"
Right in the center of the staff table, a heavy high-backed golden chair was violently shoved away.
Albus Dumbledore stood up.
His motion of rising was so abrupt that the golden plate before him was knocked about with a clatter, juice splashing all over the table.
Those azure eyes, always hidden behind half-moon spectacles and filled with benevolence and wisdom, were at this moment fraught with solemnity and shock.
Beneath his wide sleeve robes, Dumbledore's right hand tightly clutched a wand covered in knot-like bumps.
The Elder Wand was humming slightly.
It felt the wariness churning at the bottom of its master's heart, as well as that homologous bloodline belonging to Grindelwald, which was even darker and more berserk.
Dumbledore's gaze was like a materialized sharp blade, nailed tightly onto Arthur.
The magic in the air began to riot.
An invisible majesty emanated from this greatest white Wizard of the contemporary era, dropping the temperature in the Great Hall to freezing point.
Arthur felt this hostility.
He slowly stood up.
The abyss-like black eyes collided crashingly with Dumbledore's gaze mid-air.
There was not a single bit of backing down.
The corners of Arthur's mouth pulled into a trace of icy derision.
He raised his hand, his slender fingers leisurely smoothing out non-existent wrinkles on his collar.
Afterwards, he turned around, not even glancing at the Sorting Hat on the ground again.
The black robe with dark silver patterns carved a sharp arc through the air.
Arthur strode out with long legs, walking straight toward the Slytherin long table.
As he drew closer, that originally crowded long table instantly erupted into commotion.
The upper-year Slytherin students scrambled frantically, squeezing away to both sides.
Plates were overturned, and knives and forks fell all over the floor.
No one dared to block the way in front of this first-year, and even the prefects of each year lowered their heads one after another.
A wide aisle was forcibly yielded right down the center of the long table.
At the end of the aisle, Draco Malfoy was sitting there in a swaggering posture.
He was surrounded by two burly henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle.
Draco slightly lifted his pale, sharp chin, his hands crossed over his chest.
He tried his utmost to maintain the arrogant posture of a young master of the House of Malfoy.
As the heir of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he absolutely would not allow a transfer student to steal the spotlight.
With unmasked provocation in his eyes, Draco stared intently at Arthur, who was walking closer and closer.
Chapter 4 Draco Drops to His Knees at Light Speed
Arthur walked up to the Slytherin long table.
Draco Malfoy straightened his body, raised his sharp chin, and blocked the vacant high-backed chair.
Crabbe and Goyle stood guard on his left and right like two walls of flesh.
Draco reached out to adjust the badge on his chest symbolizing the pure-blood family.
As the sole heir of the House of Malfoy, he would never allow a first-year to usurp his dominance in Slytherin.
Even if this first-year was surnamed Grindelwald.
"Grindelwald."
Draco drew out his tone, trying to make his voice sound as majestic and controlled as his father's.
"In Slytherin, there are some rules you need to understand in advance."
He extended his pale hand and stopped it mid-air.
"The House of Malfoy can offer you the position of an ally."
Arthur did not stop walking.
He didn't even lift an eyelid.
His abyss-like dark eyes looked straight ahead, as if standing before him was not a pure-blood noble, but a patch of air that could be crushed at will.
Arthur walked straight up to Draco.
The distance between the two shortened to less than half a meter.
The magic particles in the air began to grow restless, emitting faint crackling sounds.
Draco's hand extended in mid-air froze.
He clearly saw that in Arthur's pale right eye, there wasn't even a shred of human emotional fluctuation.
"Move aside."
Arthur spat out two words.
The voice was not loud, but it carried the unquestionable command of a superior.
Draco's face flushed red, and a sense of humiliation rushed straight to his head along with his blood.
He abruptly pulled back his hand, gritted his teeth, and gave a look to Crabbe and Goyle beside him.
The two bulky lackeys immediately stepped forward.
Their thick arms blocked the center of the aisle, attempting to use their size to oppress the blond youth.
Arthur stopped walking.
His right hand hanging by his side lifted slightly, his index finger and thumb gently rubbing together.
"Snap."
A trace of spark only the size of a fingernail overflowed from his fingertips.
As soon as this pitch-black spark appeared, the surrounding air instantly twisted and deformed.
The flames of the hundreds of magic candles suspended overhead lowered uniformly, tilting toward Arthur's direction.
All fires submitted.
The silver cutlery on the dining table emitted faint trembling sounds.
On the surface of the sturdy oak long table, centered around that speck of spark, a layer of dead-gray carbonized patterns rapidly emerged.
The high temperature did not spread outward, but crazily collapsed inward, forming a gravitational field that devoured everything.
The shadow of death enveloped the entire Slytherin long table in an instant.
Bearing the brunt were Crabbe and Goyle.
These two dull-witted hulks faced head-on that trace of ancient Demon Lord coercion leaked by the Fiendfyre.
A leak-like rattling sound came from Crabbe's throat.
His mung-bean-sized eyes suddenly rolled upwards, revealing large areas of muddy whites of the eyes.
Saliva mixed with white foam uncontrollably overflowed from the corners of his mouth.
"Thud!"
The heavy body of more than two hundred pounds slammed like a puddle of mud onto the hard flagstone floor.
Shaking the pumpkin juice on the table to splash high up.
Goyle's condition was even worse.
He tightly clutched his chest, his heart almost stopping beating under the oppression of the Dark Arts, and his entire body fell stiffly backward.
The back of his head heavily struck the edge of the bench, knocking him out cold on the spot.
The surrounding upper-year Slytherin students retreated backward like crazy.
Dinner plates shattered, and benches overturned.
Someone stepped on a companion's ankle and scrambled to hide in a corner ten meters away.
Beside the Gryffindor long table.
Harry had just picked up a piece of roast meat when his wrist shook, and the meat dropped back onto the plate.
He felt that the surrounding air had suddenly turned into a sticky quagmire.
Every breath required exerting all one's strength.
Ron hid behind Hermione, his hands tightly gripping her hem, not daring to look toward Slytherin even for a glance.
The fork in Hermione's hand scraped a harsh scratch across the ceramic dinner plate.
Her proud reason and logic shattered into a pile of powder at this moment.
Across the entire Slytherin long table, only Arthur and Draco were still standing.
Draco was isolated at the center of the storm.
He stared fixedly at the tiny speck of black fire at Arthur's fingertips.
His mind went blank.
Lucius Malfoy had once described to him the coercion when the Dark Lord was furious.
That was a despair that made one's breath sting.
But now, Draco found that his father was wrong.
The pure malice emanating from the blond youth before him was ten times more terrifying than Lord Voldemortdescribed by his father.
Hidden within that speck of black fire were mountains of skeletons and a boiling sea of blood.
Draco's legs began to shake violently.
The bones of his knees emitted an unbearable wail.
He wanted to escape, but his legs had completely lost sensation.
His proud pure-blood glory, the noble dignity instilled in him by his father since childhood.
In front of the shadow of death, they were as fragile as a water-soaked piece of parchment.
"Bang!"
A muffled, loud sound.
Draco's dual knees slammed heavily onto the marble floor tiles.
The hem of his expensive pure-blood robes was stained with pumpkin juice and dust.
He knelt at Arthur's feet.
Students from the whole school, including Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and even the Professors at the staff table, all witnessed this scene with their own eyes.
The heir of the House of Malfoy slid to his knees at light speed in front of a spark.
Draco lowered his noble head, his pale forehead almost touching the cold flagstone.
"A-Arthur... Young Master."
He stammered out these four words, his voice carrying a heavy crying tone.
Tears and cold sweat mixed together, dripping from his sharp chin onto the floor tiles.
He completely collapsed.
He didn't even have the courage to look up and glance at the tips of Arthur's shoes.
Submit.
He could only submit.
Arthur looked down condescendingly at Draco.
There was not a shred of pity in those heterochromatic pupils.
He curved his fingers and extinguished that speck of Fiendfyre.
The suffocating oppressive feeling in the air receded like a tide.
Arthur stepped over Draco's trembling body, walked up to the vacant high-backed chair, and sat down gracefully.
Throughout the entire welcome banquet, no one dared to speak a loud word again.
Albus Dumbledore sat in the principal seat, the food on the plate before him completely untouched.
Professor McGonagall's hand holding the knife and fork was still somewhat stiff.
Snape pursed his lips tightly, his gaze sweeping back and forth between Arthur and Draco kneeling on the ground.
The rules of Slytherin were completely rewritten by a first-year on the very first day of school.
The banquet ended hastily in oppressive silence.
The prefects lowered their heads, not even daring to step forward to guide Arthur.
Arthur walked alone along the dark, damp underground corridor toward the Slytherin common room.
On the walls of the dungeon corridor hung portraits of past Slytherin celebrities.
The figures in the paintings, who usually loved to point fingers at passing students, had all vanished to the edges of the frames at this moment.
They hid in the dead corners of the canvases, intentionally suppressing even the sound of their breathing.
The coercion belonging to the Demon Lord caused even the incorporeal remnant souls within the paintings to retreat.
The Bloody Baron floated at the corner, the silver bloodstains on his body flickering uncertainly.
The most terrifying ghost in Slytherin slowly removed his top hat the moment he saw Arthur, bowing deeply.
When Arthur approached, the emerald torches on the wall automatically lowered their flames.
The stone wall abruptly shifted to both sides.
A single luxury dormitory specially reserved by past Deans for the heirs of major pure-blood families had opened its doors wide for him early on.
The room was paved with a thick dark green velvet carpet.
Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the water of the Black Lake rippled darkly under the moonlight.
Arthur took off his robes patterned with dark silver lines and casually draped them over the leather sofa.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the deep lake bottom.
Just at that moment.
Deep within his quiet mind, a series of dense mechanical roars suddenly came.
[Ding——]
[Massive emotional fluctuations detected flowing in!]
[All Slytherin students produce instinctive fear, fear value spikes drastically!]
[Draco Malfoy's faith collapses, fear value breaks through the threshold!]
[Albus Dumbledore produces apprehension, high-dimensional shock value collection completed!]
Dense prompt sounds hammered down like a rainstorm, and the numbers on the system panel began to jump frantically.
Chapter 5 Awakening the Fear Plunder System!
Dense notification sounds hammered down like a torrential rainstorm, and the numbers on the system panel began to jump frantically.
A dim blue light screen floated in mid-air.
The light illuminated this luxurious dormitory located at the bottom of the Black Lake, and also reflected Arthur's bottomless heterochromatic pupils.
Arthur leaned against the backrest of the leather sofa.
His slender fingers were crossed, quietly watching the rapidly expanding string of numbers on the panel.
This was the true face of the Fear Plunder System.
It did not need lengthy and cumbersome cultivation, nor did it need to follow those foolish rules of the Wizarding world.
As long as despair was sown.
As long as the prey felt trembling, panic, awe, or even the collapse of their faith.
These emotions would be converted into pure energy currency.
The panel was divided into two parts.
The left side was the system mall, which displayed countless lost ancient magic, bloodline stripping techniques, and even the laws of deities controlling space and time.
The right side was the plunder interface.
As long as the target's fear value broke through the critical point, Arthur could ignore any physical and magic defenses and directly forcibly strip away the opponent's most core exclusive ability.
Arthur glanced at today's settlement list.
On the train, the dying wail of that Dementor contributed the first substantial sum of basic values.
In the corridor, the worldview collapse of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley brought a small peak to the values.
But none of these counted as the bulk.
The real profits came from the commotion during the Sorting ceremony.
The Sorting Hat's spiritual intelligence was almost frightened to pieces by the Fiendfyre, and the fear value it contributed caused the progress bar on the panel to break through a large chunk directly.
Draco Malfoy slid to his knees in front of all the students in the house, and the pride of the pure-blood family was completely crushed.
This submission originating from the depths of the soul provided a huge income once again.
At the very top of the panel, a line of dazzling dark gold fonts flickered.
[ Albus Dumbledore produced apprehension. ]
This greatest white Wizard of this century, his cold sweat and defense hidden behind crescent glasses, turned into high-dimensional advanced shock fragments.
Arthur's gaze wandered over the mall panel.
He did not waste points on those fancy low-level spells.
"Exchange for top-level Potions talent."
"Exchange for non-verbal and wandless casting techniques."
Arthur gave the command in his mind.
The cold mechanical voice responded immediately.
[ Corresponding fear value deducted. ]
[ Talent infusion in progress—— ]
As soon as the words fell, the air around Arthur instantly stagnated.
This was not simply stuffing knowledge into the brain, but a brutal rewriting of the underlying magic logic of this body.
The temperature inside the dormitory soared sharply, and then plummeted like a cliff.
The Black Lake water outside the French window rolled violently, and a huge tentacle happened to press against the glass, but suddenly shrank back into the deep water area like an electric shock.
The giant squid felt a terrifying aura capable of evaporating the entire lake dry.
Arthur slowly closed his eyes.
Countless principles of mutual reinforcement and restraint of Potions, molecular deconstruction of medicinal materials, and absolute control of heat were deeply branded into his neurons.
He did not need to look at recipes now.
With just a glance, he could see the flaws and limits of any Potion materials.
Following that was the reshaping of the magic power output channel.
Arthur opened his eyes, raised his right hand, and swept it casually across mid-air.
There was no assistance from a wand, nor did he chant even a single syllable.
"Crack."
The sterling silver candlestick not far away was forcibly twisted into a twist shape by an invisible force.
Immediately afterwards, the candlestick turned into a pool of scalding silver water, floating in mid-air.
Arthur flicked his fingers slightly.
The silver water instantly elongated, turning into hundreds of slender silver needles, fiercely nailing into the solid wood of the door frame, their tails still trembling violently.
Smooth, domineering, without any sluggishness.
His will was the law.
For him, a wand had been reduced to a broken wooden stick used to deceive people's eyes.
The sky outside the window gradually brightened.
The gloomy morning light penetrated through the lake water, casting mottled light and shadow in the Slytherincommon room.
The atmosphere inside the common room was as dead as a graveyard.
Those noble students who always talked eloquently about pure-blood glory in the past were all curled up in the corner sofas at this moment.
No one dared to speak loudly, and even the action of turning book pages was made gentle.
At the corner of the corridor leading to the boys' dormitory.
Draco Malfoy stood rigidly.
There were heavy dark circles under his eyes, and his face was as pale as a damp piece of parchment.
That kneel last night completely drained the bit of ridiculous pride in his bones.
As soon as he closed his eyes, that cluster of black flames capable of devouring everything was in his mind.
Fear wrapped around his heart like a poisonous snake, choking him so that he couldn't breathe all night.
Crabbe and Goyle were even more like two frightened quails, cowering behind Draco, their hands tightly intertwined.
A steady sound of leather boots came from deep in the corridor.
"Da... Da..."
This sound was not loud, but it felt like stepping on everyone's nerves.
The people in the common room held their breath simultaneously.
Arthur, wearing neat black robes, walked out of the shadows.
His gaze didn't even linger on Draco for half a second.
"Follow."
Arthur only spat out two words, his pace unstopped.
Draco trembled violently all over, like a puppet whose spring had been wound, and hurriedly followed.
He even subconsciously bent his waist, maintaining a humble posture lagging half a body length behind Arthur.
The once overbearing Young Master Malfoy had completely been reduced to a bag-carrying servant.
Walking out of the Slytherin dungeon, the air pressure in the corridor was similarly frighteningly low.
The Gryffindor first-years were originally looking for classrooms in groups of twos and threes.
When seeing that blond, heterochromatic-eyed boy appear, everyone acted as if they had been hit by a Silence Charm.
The crowd split apart from the middle with a rustle, neatly pressing against the walls on both sides.
Harry Potter hid behind a thick stone pillar.
He bit his lip hard, his hands pressing firmly against his chest.
The lightning scar did not hurt, but he felt his heartbeat was about to burst through his chest cavity.
Hermione hugged the thick textbooks, her knuckles turning an abnormal pale due to excessive force.
The book knowledge she was so proud of was like a joke in front of the pressure casually emitted by that boy.
Arthur ignored these humble gazes.
He walked step by step along the gloomy tunnel toward the Potions classroom.
In the air of the underground classroom, the smell of antiseptic solution and formalin permeated.
The heavy wooden door was ajar.
Arthur did not reach out his hand.
He just glanced at it with those heterochromatic pupils.
"Bang!"
The two solid wood doors were hit as if by a battering ram, bursting open inwards and slamming fiercely against the stone wall.
Wood chips splashed, and wall plaster peeled off rustlingly.
Inside the classroom.
Severus Snape was standing in front of the podium, holding a glass bottle filled with Diricawl blood in his hand.
The loud crash of the door caused his gloomy expression to freeze instantly.
Snape raised his head, and those hollow and dead eyes like black holes locked directly onto the blond boy outside the door.
A cold, slimy mental tentacle, following the intersection of their gazes, attempted to forcefully drill into Arthur's brain.
This was Snape's proudest Legilimency.
But he picked the wrong opponent.
Hogwarts: Starting with a Max-level Blackflame
Chapter 6: Snape Crushes the Potion Bottle
Cold, slimy mental tentacles forced their way into Arthur's mind along the intersection of their gazes.
This was Legilimency, the art Snape was most proud of.
He attempted to search for even a shred of cowardice or weakness in this arrogant freshman's mind, using it to establish his absolute authority as Dean.
But he crashed into an absolute abyss that could swallow even light.
Arthur stood before the shattered wooden door without even blinking.
Deep within those heterochromatic eyes, a ball of pure black fire ignited.
The brutal magic of max-level Fiendfyre counterattacked savagely along this mental connection with overwhelming force.
Deep inside Snape's mind, a sharp pain of his soul being torn apart raw erupted.
He seemed to see an ancient beast condensed from black fire, opening its abyssal maw and biting his mental barrier to pieces in one gulp.
"Ugh..."
A muffled groan of pain escaped Snape's throat.
His tall frame swayed backward uncontrollably, his back slamming heavily against the blackboard behind him.
The impact caused the wooden blackboard to creak under the strain, and chalk dust fell in flurries.
A drop of cold sweat slid down his pale cheek, splashing onto the hem of his pitch-black robes.
Snape clenched his teeth tightly, a strong metallic taste of rust spreading in his mouth.
With just a single probing glance, Hogwarts' youngest Potions Master was nearly burned into an idiot.
Arthur took a step forward, his leather boots stepping on the wood splinters scattered across the floor, making a chilling cracking sound.
He walked into the gloomy dungeon classroom.
Draco Malfoy followed close behind like a dutiful servant.
Just as they reached the first row, Draco proactively pulled out the middle chair, wiped the dust off the seat with his sleeve, and bowed his head respectfully.
Arthur sat down gracefully.
The entire classroom was dead silent.
The smell of formalin lingering in the air was completely dispelled by an invisible pressure of a superior.
The young Gryffindor Wizards wished they could stuff their heads under their desks.
Everyone kept their heads down, even suppressing their breathing to a minimum.
Snape gasped for breath a few times, forcing down the churning vertigo in his mind.
When those hollow black eyes looked at Arthur again, they already held deep wariness.
But he could not back down.
This was his dungeon classroom, and he was the SlytherinDean.
"Grindelwald."
Snape drew out his raspy tone, his voice sounding like two rough stones rubbing together.
"It seems your prominent surname has made you forget the rules of Hogwarts."
He strode to the edge of the podium, his pitch-black robes billowing like bat wings as he tried to regain that condescending sense of oppression.
"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Snape coldly threw out the first question.
Hermione Granger raised her hand subconsciously.
But when she felt the suffocating, freezing magic in the air, her arm froze in mid-air and retracted under the desk as if shocked.
She didn't even dare to turn her head in Arthur's direction.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced on the desk.
"The Draught of Living Death."
He didn't look up, his tone as calm as if announcing a trivial matter.
"A powerful sleeping Potion."
The corner of Snape's eye twitched, and his left hand holding the glass Potion bottle tightened involuntarily.
He immediately threw out the second and third questions, his speaking pace quickening, carrying an aggressive sharpness.
"If I asked you to find me a Bezoar, where would you look?"
"What is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"
Snape stared intently at Arthur, attempting to spot a trace of panic on his face.
"A Bezoar is found in the stomach of a cow, and it can save you from most poisons. As for Monkshood and Wolfsbane, they are the same plant, collectively known as aconite."
Arthur's response flowed naturally, without the slightest hesitation.
But for him, this was far from enough.
Arthur slowly raised his eyes, his heterochromatic pupils revealing unconcealed sarcasm.
"Dead knowledge in textbooks is merely a threshold used to filter out the mediocre."
He looked at Snape on the podium, his voice cold.
"The essence of Potions is the plundering and reshaping of the laws of the world, not a memorized recipe."
No sooner had he spoken.
Arthur raised his right hand and snapped his fingers lightly in mid-air.
"Snap."
The crisp sound echoed in the dead silent classroom.
In the corner, a heavy brass cauldron flew up out of thin air, tracing an arc through the air before landing steadily on Arthur's desk.
No firewood was lit.
A spark of pure black fire seeped from Arthur's fingertip, flicked directly onto the bottom of the cauldron.
The moment the Fiendfyre touched the brass bottom, it spread out eerily, forming a ring of black fire.
It did not emit the slightest scorching heat, yet it caused the space inside the cauldron to warp visibly to the naked eye.
The storage cabinet on Snape's podium popped open automatically.
powdered root of asphodel, wormwood, sopophorous beans, and valerian roots.
These precious Potion ingredients, as if controlled by an invisible hand, flew toward Arthur's desk in an order.
A sterling silver knife hovered in mid-air.
The knife fell, silver light flashing.
The sopophorous beans were not sliced, but crushed with the flat of the silver blade at the most perfect angle.
The glistening juice floated up without a single drop lost, falling precisely into the cauldron.
The dried asphodel root was instantly ground into the finest powder by a massive surge of magic, merging into the boiling liquid like mist.
The stirring rod spun rapidly in mid-air.
Seven turns clockwise, one turn counterclockwise.
The timing, the heat, and the order of ingredients were absolutely flawless.
The color of the liquid in the cauldron began to change wildly.
From a murky deep purple, it instantly turned into a clear pale purple.
The entire process took less than ten seconds.
The liquid's color shed all impurities, becoming as transparent as mountain spring water.
A sweet, sleep-inducing aroma quickly spread throughout the dungeon classroom.
A perfect-quality Draught of Living Death.
Even an advanced Potion with the most tedious steps was as simple as drinking water in this freshman's hands.
Hermione covered her mouth with both hands, her quill rolling onto the floor.
Her brown eyes widened to their absolute limit, filled with a shattered and rebuilt confusion.
She had read Magical Drafts and Potions and knew clearly that brewing the Draught of Living Death required hours of slow simmering.
Ten seconds.
Wandless magic.
Non-verbal magic.
Using violent Dark Arts fire to precisely control the Potion's temperature.
This miraculous level of micro-control completely crushed the cognitive systems of science and magic she had built over eleven years.
Draco stood by the desk, looking at the cauldron of clear water, trembling like a leaf.
He finally understood now that the standards of genius his father had repeatedly warned him about were not even a joke in front of Arthur.
On the podium.
Snape stared intently at the brass cauldron, his chest heaving violently.
His breathing became heavy and erratic, as if someone were squeezing his windpipe.
That was the field he had studied for over a decade, his deepest pride as the Half-Blood Prince.
But now, this pride was trampled directly into the mud by an eleven-year-old freshman in the most brutal yet elegant manner.
Arthur's effortless posture was like a high-and-mighty deity mocking the ant-like efforts of mortals.
This defied all laws of magic.
Snape's sanity wobbled crazily on the brink of collapse.
Frustration, powerlessness, and a tremor rising from the depths of his soul intertwined into a beast tearing at his heart.
He completely forgot that his left hand was still clutching the glass bottle containing Fwooper blood.
His fingers suddenly tightened as he lost control of his emotions.
"Crack—"
The harsh sound of shattering glass suddenly rang out in the dead silent dungeon classroom.
Sharp glass shards instantly pierced through Snape's palm.
Dark red blood mixed with purple preservative Potiondripped down his pale fingers onto the stone floor.
Making a "drip, drip" sound.
Snape did not let go, nor did he even furrow his brow.
His gaze was still locked onto Arthur, his hollow eyes filled with the dead silence of a destroyed belief.
A few rows away.
Harry Potter sat stiffly on his bench, his eyes staring straight at Snape's bleeding hand.
This Potions Professor, who had seemed cold, ruthless, and aloof at the start-of-term feast.
This powerful Wizard whose single glance could make his scar sting.
Right now, in front of Arthur, he didn't even notice that his own palm had been sliced open.
A bottomless despair climbed all the way up Harry's spine, rushing straight to his head.
Harry lowered his head.
He realized that his hands, which had been resting flat on his thighs, were trembling uncontrollably.
Chapter 7: The Savior's Worldview Collapses
Harry looked down to find his hands, resting flat on his thighs, trembling uncontrollably and wildly.
It was a shudder born from the instinctual biological drive to seek safety and avoid danger.
The dripping glass fragment fell onto the stone floor.
Letting out a crisp clatter.
Snape did not dismiss the class.
The Potion master, who usually valued classroom discipline above all else, now even breathed erratically.
He simply waved his wand, roughly clearing away the debris covering the floor.
Then, Snape turned around and hid himself in the deep shadows behind the podium, as if evading some invisible gaze.
The entire dungeon classroom fell into a long, dead silence.
Until the blonde boy from Slytherin stood up.
Draco Malfoy immediately picked up Arthur's books with both hands like a servant.
Arthur took long strides and walked out of the dungeon classroom.
Only then did the invisible mountain pressing down on everyone's heads shatter with a crash.
Chaotic footsteps echoed through the corridor.
The young Gryffindor Wizards scrambled out of the classroom, gasping for the fresh air of the Castle.
Some even collapsed directly onto the corridor stone floor due to weak knees.
Ron yanked on Harry's sleeve, his palms slick with cold sweat.
"Harry, let's go, get far away from that monster..."
Ron's voice quavered, his teeth chattering softly.
Harry didn't move.
His gaze bypassed the crowd, staring fixedly at the black silhouette walking ahead in the dark corridor.
Hagrid had said that all Wizards who turned bad came from Slytherin.
History of Magic stated that love and justice could overcome the most evil Dark Arts.
But at that moment, the fairytale world Harry had built since childhood was forcibly torn open with a massive rift.
That cauldron of Draught of Living Death brewed in ten seconds was like a resounding slap in the face.
Harry broke free from Ron's grip.
Not knowing where he found the courage, he stumbled and ran forward.
The underground corridor was cold and damp.
The torches on the wall flickered, casting Arthur's shadow long and thin.
"Grindelwald!"
Harry shouted out that name.
The voice echoed down the empty stone corridor, carrying an uncontrollable tremor.
Arthur stopped in his tracks.
He didn't turn around, only slightly tilting his head.
His heterochromatic eyes—one pale, one pitch-black—quietly landed on Harry through the dim light.
With just that single glance.
The temperature in the corridor plummeted off a cliff.
Water droplets seeping from the cracks in the wall instantly froze into pale frost.
The ice spread wildly along the seams of the stone bricks, producing a grating creak.
Harry felt as though an icy hand was tightly squeezing his throat.
He gasped for breath, yet could not draw in a single breath of air.
Draco turned around, looking at Harry as if looking at a dead man.
"Potter, do you want to die?"
Draco's voice was kept very low, laced with undeniable panic, terrified of angering the master beside him.
Arthur raised his hand, casually dismissing Draco.
He turned around, the hem of his black robes cutting a sharp arc in midair.
His leather boots stepped on the frost-covered stone floor, echoing heavily.
Step by step, Arthur walked toward Harry.
The powerful pressure of magic turned into a tangible gale, blowing the fringe on Harry's forehead into disarray.
That lightning-shaped scar began to burn hot.
Not because of Lord Voldemort's remnant soul, but because his body felt a threat of death from a higher dimension.
Fine beads of blood seeped from the skin around the scar.
"The Savior."
Arthur stopped half a meter away from Harry, looking down on him from above.
His tone had no emotional fluctuation whatsoever, as if scrutinizing a slightly stronger ant.
"Dumbledore has protected you too well."
"Making you think that simply waving a wand and shouting a few foolish slogans can save the world."
Harry grit his teeth tightly, forcing himself not to retreat.
"magic isn't meant for killing and intimidation!"
He squeezed out these pale, feeble words using nearly all his strength.
Arthur let out a soft laugh.
It was not mockery, but pure contempt from a higher-dimensional lifeform toward a lower-dimensional reptile.
He raised his right hand, extending his long fingers into the shadow in midair.
No spell, no wand.
A thick mass of shadow in the corner of the corridor suddenly came alive.
The darkness transformed into a thick venomous serpent, slithering down along the stone wall.
The moss on the surface of the stone wall instantly withered and turned to dust.
Opening its bloody maw, the venomous snake instantly coiled around Harry's neck.
Cold, slick, and carrying a suffocating constriction.
Harry's eyes rolled back; his hands desperately clawed at the shadow around his neck, but grabbed nothing.
His fingers passed straight through the dark shadow, scratching at his own neck and leaving bloody streaks.
"The essence of magic is the plunder of the world's laws."
Arthur's voice penetrated Harry's roaring eardrums, carrying a cold metallic quality that slammed directly into his soul.
"You can breathe peacefully under the sun because someone in the dark blocked the blades for you."
"And I am the master of those blades."
Arthur's fingers tightened slightly.
The shadow serpent opened its fanged mouth, aiming straight for Harry's eyes.
A foul-smelling, icy wind of death blew against his face.
Harry's knees slammed heavily onto the stone floor with a dull thud.
He collapsed completely onto his knees before Arthur.
The so-called pride of the Savior, the courage of Gryffindor—
Before absolute power, it couldn't hold up for even a second, shattering into dust.
"The He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named written in books..."
Arthur bent down, his pale right eye looking directly into the depths of Harry's soul.
"He is merely a lunatic hiding in the gutter, clinging to life with a fragmented soul."
"He uses slaughter devoid of aesthetic value to mask the cowardice in his bones."
"Whereas I..."
Arthur uncurled his fingers.
The shadow serpent instantly dissolved into black powder on the ground, merging into the air.
"I am the abyss."
Harry lay sprawled on the ice-cold floor, retching violently.
Stomach acid burned his esophagus, tears and snot mixing together in utter wretchedness.
His mind went blank, his past eleven years of life completely torn to shreds by these few sentences.
All along, he had thought Lord Voldemort was the most evil existence in this world.
As long as that cruel murderer was defeated, the wizarding world would welcome the light.
But now he understood.
What was Lord Voldemort compared to this?
The blonde boy before him was no mere lunatic who killed for entertainment.
He was a deity high above, looking down on all living beings as if they were ants.
That bone-deep malice and cruelty were wrapped beneath a cloak of flawless elegance.
If he so desired, he could burn the entirety of Hogwarts to ashes at any moment.
And Dumbledore could not stop him at all.
The fairytale shattered.
The lie of White Magic defeating the Dark Arts was ruthlessly trampled underfoot.
Scrambling on all fours like a startled beast, Harryscrambled backward.
He bumped into the wall, paying no heed to the blood scraped onto his forehead, and turned around to stumble toward the staircase.
Ron hid around a distant corner, so terrified that his hands tightly covered his mouth.
With tears smearing his face and another wave of damp heat spreading through his trousers, he fled in panic alongside Harry.
In the corridor, only heavy breathing echoed between the stone walls.
Arthur stood where he was; even the hem of his robe hadn't gathered a speck of dust.
He took out a handkerchief and unhurriedly wiped his right hand.
Then, he casually tossed the expensive silk handkerchief beside Harry's vomit.
A cold, mechanical voice boomed deep within his mind.
[Ding!]
[Detected target 'Harry Potter''s worldview completely collapsing.]
[Detected target 'Ron Weasley' producing physiological shuddering.]
[Fear points surging significantly.]
[Congratulations to the host for obtaining massive amounts of higher-dimensional emotion fragments.]
Arthur glanced at the massive data flashing on his retina, a flicker of dullness flashing in his eyes.
The collapse of the Savior's faith indeed brought rich rewards.
But this kind of suspense-less crushing failed to spark much interest in him.
Draco scurried over with small steps, handing over a sheet of parchment with both hands.
He kept his head bowed the entire time, his eyes locked onto the tips of his shoes, lacking even the courage to cast a glance at Arthur.
Arthur took the timetable, his eyes scanning the ink upon it.
In his abyss-like black eyes, not a single ripple rose.
"Let's go."
He tossed the timetable back to Draco and stepped toward the marble stairs leading upstairs.
His black robes in the dim light looked like flowing night.
"Next up, Transfiguration Class."
"Let me see what kind of surprise the Head of Gryffindorcan bring."
Chapter 8 Non-verbal and wandless? McGonagall was dumbfounded.
Arthur took steady steps, crossing the marble threshold.
His black, dark-silver-patterned robes stirred up a slightly chilly breeze at the doorway.
The Transfiguration Class classroom had originally been filled with the noisy commotion of Gryffindor first-years.
But the moment those heterochromatic pupils swept across the room, all sound was neatly cut off as if by a sharp blade.
Harry and Ron sat in the very corner of the classroom.
Seeing the blond boy walk in, Harry's body instinctively shrank back, his back pressing tightly against the cold brick wall.
Ron bit down hard on his lower lip, his hands twisting the hem of his robes into a messy ball.
At the front of the classroom, Draco Malfoy had arrived a step ahead.
He pulled out the chair dead center in the front row, lowering his head in a nearly flattering posture, waiting for his master to take a seat.
Arthur walked up to the desk and sat down gracefully.
There was no Professor on the podium.
There was only a tabby cat, sitting stiffly on the edge of the desk.
The moment Arthur stepped into the classroom, the fur on the tabby cat's back bristled uncontrollably, strand by strand.
That was a fatal perception of danger belonging to animal instinct.
Even as an Animagus, it was impossible to completely suppress this physical shell's trembling before a top-tier predator.
The tabby cat leaped forward abruptly.
Mid-air, the cat's body rapidly lengthened and expanded, the outline of robes rolling in the air.
Professor Minerva McGonagall landed steadily behind the podium.
Her complexion carried an unnatural paleness, her jaw clenched tightly, and the gaze behind those square glasses revealed profound dread.
She glanced at Arthur and immediately shifted her gaze elsewhere.
"Transfiguration is the most complex and most dangerous magic you can learn at Hogwarts."
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, her voice echoing in the spacious classroom.
"Anyone who acts up in my class will be asked to leave and never allowed back in."
This was a standard opening speech for all first-years.
But the young Gryffindor Wizards all cast intentional or unintentional glances at the blond back in the front row.
"Acting up?"
No.
That elegantly seated boy had, just moments ago in the underground corridor, turned darkness into ropes on a gallows.
Professor McGonagall waved her wand.
A box of matches scattered in the air, landing precisely on the desk of every first-year.
"Today's task is to turn this match into a needle."
"Pay attention to your wand-tip pronunciation and the mental conception of metallic texture in your minds."
A chorus of suppressed spell-chanting resounded in the classroom.
Harry waved his wand with a stiff wrist, and the match on the table remained completely motionless.
Hermione stared fixedly at the match in front of her, muttering under her breath as a faint sliver of silver light burst from the tip of her wand.
One end of that match barely took on a metallic hue.
This would normally have been an excellent performance worthy of awarding points to Gryffindor.
But Hermione felt not a shred of joy.
Out of the corner of her eye, she was uncontrollably drawn to the Slytherin area beside her.
Arthur leaned against the back of his chair.
He made no move to touch the wand inside his robes, not even lifting a single finger.
His abyss-like black eyes simply gazed quietly at the crude wooden match on the desk.
magic originated from a Wizard's forcible intervention in the world's laws.
Words and gestures were merely clumsy levers used by mediocrities to pry open the laws.
Arthur's will was the law that could not be disobeyed.
The pure black phantom of Fiendfyre deep within his eyes flickered slightly.
The match on the desk suddenly emitted a harsh, mournful cry resembling the screams of a living creature.
Under some violent force, the wooden fibers were forcibly torn apart and reorganized.
There was no flash of magic.
There was no transitional phase in the transformation process.
It was merely the blink of an eye.
That match disappeared.
Replacing it was a black-gold poisonous needle exuding an aura of death.
The surface of the poisonous needle was covered with dark red patterns crisscrossing like thorns.
These patterns were not carved on; rather, they throbbed slightly like a heart.
A drop of eerie green, viscous venom quietly oozed from the tip of the needle.
"Ssh—"
The drop of venom fell onto the sturdy solid wood desktop.
The thick anti-corrosive wooden board was instantly corroded into a charred deep hole, and pungent blue smoke drifted upward.
This was by no means a morphological transformation of an inanimate object.
This was the forcible infusion of the brutal vitality of the Dark Arts into an inanimate object.
It shattered the underlying logic of Transfiguration.
Hermione's wand dropped to the floor with a "clatter".
Her brown eyes widened round, her pupils trembling violently, and in that instant, those laws in her brain regarding Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfigurationcollapsed with a roar.
No chanting.
No wand-waving.
Not even a movement.
Merely a glance.
Professor McGonagall's patrolling footsteps stopped beside Arthur's desk.
She lowered her head, her gaze falling upon the deep hole still emitting blue smoke and the black-gold poisonous needle throbbing with the breath of life.
This master, who had studied the field of Transfigurationfor decades, felt as though her heart was being gripped tightly by an invisible hand.
McGonagall's fingers trembled slightly at the edge of her robes.
She instinctively wanted to reach out and check the structure of that poisonous needle.
But when her fingertips approached within three inches above the poisonous needle, a bone-chilling coldness traveled straight from her fingertips to her heart.
That was the curse feedback unique to advanced Dark Arts.
If she dared touch it, the venom would follow her magiccircuit and corrode her entire arm to nothing.
Professor McGonagall abruptly pulled her hand back.
She took two large steps back consecutively, her back colliding with the corner of a neighboring seat's desk.
Heavy books were knocked down, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.
All spell-chanting sounds in the classroom vanished instantly.
The first-years looked in terror at this usually exceptionally stern Deputy Headmistress, who was currently staring fixedly at the blond newcomer's desktop with a ghost-seeing expression.
"Non-verbal… wandless casting…"
Professor McGonagall's lips parted and closed a few times, her voice hoarse beyond recognition.
"No… this is not simple transformation…"
Looking at Arthur's flawless yet utterly cold face, she felt her soul trembling.
Converting a non-living entity into a Dark Arts creation possessing highly toxic living characteristics.
This was a forbidden realm that only a Transfigurationmaster above the N.E.W.T. level could barely accomplish with the aid of a top-tier wand and lengthy incantations.
Yet this eleven-year-old boy before her eyes—
had not even lifted a hand.
Arthur withdrew his gaze.
The black-gold poisonous needle on the desk seemed to lose the law sustaining its existence.
It rapidly disintegrated in the air, turning into a small pinch of fine black ash that was blown away without a trace by a draft.
Leaving behind only the shocking corrosive deep pit on the desktop.
The class-ending bell chimed atop the Castle's tower.
Until the bell stopped, Professor McGonagall remained standing stiffly in place, failing to call out class dismissed.
Arthur stood up and straightened the collar of his robes.
He strode with long legs, passed through the dead-silent aisle, and walked out of the classroom.
Draco hunched over like a startled servant, walking briskly to follow behind.
The corridor's air remained chilly.
In Arthur's mind, the system's cold mechanical voice merged together once again.
[ "Ding!" ]
[ "Detected Minerva McGonagall experiencing a cognitive collapse in her professional field." ]
[ "Detected Hermione Granger's defense line of sanity completely shattering." ]
[ "All Gryffindor first-years have fallen into instinctive panic." ]
[ "A large amount of Fear Points credited!" ]
Arthur walked on the spiraling staircase, listening to the constantly rising numerical reports in his mind.
There was not a shred of joy in his eyes, only the indifference of a superior overlooking ants.
These so-called Professors, these so-called Hogwartselites.
Their psychological endurance was even more fragile than he had imagined.
Night soon descended upon this millennium-old Castle.
Heavy dark clouds obscured the moonlight over the Scottish Highlands.
Slytherin's common room located at the bottom of the lake fell into dead-silent darkness.
Arthur sat on the genuine leather sofa, swirling the crimson wine in his goblet.
The light from the system panel illuminated his eyes, intertwined with paleness and deep black.
The harvest of the day had already been tallied.
But he felt somewhat bored.
This step-by-step rhythm of attending classes and harvesting fear was far too slow for a plunderer with the blood of a Dark Lord flowing in his bones.
He put down the goblet, the crystal base tapping against the glass coffee table with a crisp sound.
Arthur stood up, his black robes cutting a stern arc in the air.
Under his will, the oak door slid silently open to both sides.
Out in the common room, a few night-watching upperclassmen prefects immediately bounced up from the sofa.
They lowered their heads, staring fixedly at the tips of their toes, not even daring to breathe a word.
Arthur ignored them and walked straight out of the stone-wall passageway.
Hogwarts at night was a restricted zone for school rule violators.
On the walls of the corridor, only a few sporadic torches flickered with faint light.
Arthur strolled leisurely along the empty flagstone path.
The sound of leather boots striking the ground carried far in the dead-silent Castle.
He did not cast the Disillusionment Charm.
Nor did he deliberately lighten his footsteps.
A hunter patrolling his territory never needed to hide his whereabouts from anyone.
Walking past the second-floor corridor covered in portraits.
Those portrait occupants who usually loved to whisper in the middle of the night all hid deep within the corners of their frames.
In a huge oil painting depicting an ancient knight duel, two knights knelt on the ground with their horses, burying their heads deep into the grass.
With Arthur's movement, the magic factors in the air became oppressive and manic.
Right at this moment.
Ahead at the corner of the corridor, a dim yellow light lit up.
Accompanying the light was a dragging sound of footsteps and a violent fit of coughing.
"Who is over there?"
A rough, unpleasant voice rang out at the end of the corridor.
"Rats violating the night-wandering rules… Let me catch you, and I'll surely hang you from the chains in the dungeon…"
Filch carried a kerosene lantern, his back hunched as he limped out from the shadows.
That scrawny Madam Norris followed closely at his heels, a pair of yellow eyes flashing with an eerie gleam in the dark.
Chapter 9 Filch Fainted from Fear in the Corridor
Moonlight streamed through the narrow, high Gothic windows, carving pale squares onto the floor.
Arthur walked forward along the corridor, his leather boots stepping on the hard stone slabs.
Tap.
Tap.
The footsteps were very steady. He did not lighten his movements.
This was Hogwarts, but he walked as if he were inspecting his own backyard.
The suits of armor on the walls stood silently in the dark.
Usually when students passed by, these metal clunkers would always make a creaking metal friction sound.
And would even intentionally stick out their feet to trip people.
But tonight, these magic creations attached with basic sentience were as quiet as scrap metal.
They sensed the brutal aura in the air that was enough to melt them into molten iron.
The sound coming from around the corner interrupted this silence.
Filch was carrying a kerosene lamp, hunched over as he shuffled out.
He clutched a barbed leather whip in his hand, his knuckles turning white.
As the only Squib in this magic school who could not use magic, Filch hated these students who could cast spells to the bone.
Catching these brats in the middle of the night and watching them weep bitterly was the only joy left in his withered body.
He treated this resentment as the motivation for his survival.
"It's right ahead... I heard footsteps." Filch rattled in his throat.
He quickened his pace, his limp dragging an unpleasant scraping sound across the ground.
Madam Norris walked at the very front, hugging the base of the wall.
This emaciated cat usually swaggered around, specializing in tracking the scent of students for Filch.
She erected her tail and let out a purr in her throat, preparing to pounce forward as usual to block the prey's path.
Until she crossed the shadow of the corridor corner.
Madam Norris's front paws had just poked out of the shadow line when her movements suddenly froze.
She smelled a scent.
It was neither the sweet candy scent on the students nor the ink smell of parchment.
It was ash.
The odor emitted after bones were burned to charcoal, mixed with a heavy smell of sulfur.
Arthur stopped his footsteps.
He looked at this cat blocking the middle of the road, without mobilizing even a shred of magic.
He merely leaked a trace of the Fiendfyre aura that had always been contained within his body.
Even if it was just a wisp as fine as a hair's breadth.
The temperature in the corridor abruptly dropped below freezing point within that second.
The air stopped flowing.
The moisture on the surface of the stone bricks instantly formed an invisible layer of frost.
Madam Norris opened her mouth wide, and the intimidation she originally wanted to make was firmly stuck in her throat.
The fur all over her body stood on end like needles, and her size abruptly expanded by a circle.
A cat's intuition was much sharper than a human's.
She felt that what stood ahead was not a human at all.
But a black active volcano that could swallow her skin and bones at any moment.
That kind of coercion directly penetrated the animal's weak consciousness.
"Meow-owl—!"
A shrill scream exploded in the corridor, the sound even cracking.
Madam Norris retreated backwards like she was electrocuted.
Her hind legs tripped over her front legs, and her entire body fell onto the stone slabs.
She couldn't care about standing up at all, scratching frantically on the ground with all four legs, not stopping even when her nails split.
A few faint bloodstains were left on the stone slabs.
A stench of urine directly spread throughout the corridor.
She had been scared peeing herself alive.
That puddle of pale yellow liquid flowed along the gaps in the stone slabs.
This cat, usually tyrannical, now tucked her tail and frantically crashed open the wooden door of the utility room beside her.
Drilled inside and there was no more movement, leaving only the wooden planks trembling.
Filch stood frozen in place.
He raised the kerosene lamp, looked at the empty corner, and then looked ahead.
"Who's there?" His voice was a bit hollow, and the hand holding the whip broke out in a layer of sweat.
The firelight extended forward, illuminating the pair of black leather boots stopped a few steps away.
Following the leather boots upward was a Wizard robe with dark silver patterns.
Not those common cheap ones, the fabric had an extremely good drape.
Filch raised the lamp higher.
He saw that face clearly.
Blonde hair, odd-colored eyes.
Arthur stood less than three meters away from him.
That black eye was like a vortex, while the white right eye exuded a coldness as if looking at a dead object.
The insults and threats Filch had originally prepared were all trapped in his lungs.
Normally when he scared students, he relied on school rules and the fear of punishment.
But this young man before him had absolutely no such awe of the rules on his body.
"You... which house..." Filch stuttered.
He tried hard to put on the posture of a patroller and straightened his waist.
But the calves of his legs began to tremble uncontrollably.
Arthur didn't speak.
He just stood there quietly, looking down at Filch.
The sense of oppression squeezed the air dry little by little.
Filch felt the handle of the kerosene lamp in his hand turn as freezing as a branding iron.
The oxygen in the corridor seemed to have been sucked dry by those eyes.
He was a Squib, he could not use magic.
But he had stayed in this school for too long; he had seen Dumbledore get angry and seen Snape wear a cold face.
No matter how terrifying those people were, they still carried the temperature of living people on their bodies.
Even that legendary dark lord whose name could not be spoken, when he went to school here in his early years, would pretend to understand politeness.
Yet Arthur did not.
He couldn't even be bothered to pretend.
Filch saw Arthur's fingers move slightly.
Just this tiny action completely shattered Filch's psychological defense line.
He felt that finger was not made of flesh and blood, but a guillotine about to crush his neck.
Pure killing intent poured into Filch's brain like a tide.
That was a look that would truly kill.
Treating his life as grass, squashing him to death was no different from stepping on an insect.
His heart beat wildly at that moment, and then twitched fiercely.
Breathing stagnated.
Filch's hand loosened.
"Clang."
The kerosene lamp smashed onto the stone ground, the glass cover shattering all over the floor.
Lamp oil splashed out, and the flame surged half a meter high.
The leaping firelight reflected on Arthur's face, and that face still carried no emotion.
A "clucking" sound came from Filch's throat.
He wanted to run, but his body simply wouldn't listen to commands.
He took a step back, his left foot stepping on the hem of his robe.
His body lost balance.
To prevent this shell from being scared to death alive by extreme fear, the brain activated the final protective mechanism.
Filch rolled his eyes upwards, revealing large areas of bloodshot whites of his eyes.
Without even letting out a gasp, he fell straight backward.
"Thud."
The back of his head heavily knocked against the floor tiles, making a dull sound of flesh collision.
He rolled his eyes, his limbs twitched a couple of times, and he passed out directly.
The corridor returned to deadly silence.
Only the lamp oil on the ground was still making a sizzling burning sound.
The firelight illuminated Filch's distorted face intermittently.
The air was permeated with the urine stench left by that cat, as well as the smell of burning lamp oil.
Two mechanical sounds rang out in his mind.
[Detected physiological collapse of an ordinary creature.]
[Detected rupture of the Squib's mental endurance limit, Fear value +500.]
Listening to the system's broadcast, Arthur's face didn't have the slightest ripple.
This kind of bottom-tier ant didn't even have the qualification to be prey.
It was only worthy of providing the cheapest emotional scraps.
He took a step forward.
When walking to Filch's side, Arthur didn't even spare him another glance.
He disgustedly detoured half a step to the side.
The black robe hem avoided the stain on the ground, stepping over this sprawling body.
Like stepping over a smelly rotten log.
The sound of leather boots landing sounded again.
Tap.
Tap.
Arthur continued to stroll forward along the corridor.
The shadows shrouded him once again.
The stairs in the Castle would change directions on their own at night.
Arthur did not deliberately memorize the route.
He walked according to this body's intuition regarding magic fluctuations.
Unawares, the damp smell in the air faded.
He stopped his footsteps.
Raising his head, his gaze swept across the walls on both sides.
This was a dead-silent corridor.
Quieter than anywhere downstairs, even the flow of wind had stagnated.
At the end of the right side, there was a heavy oak door.
There was no padlock on the door.
But a dangerous beastly stench leaked from the crack of the door, mixed with the putrid smell of saliva.
This was the fourth-floor right corridor.
The absolute forbidden zone that Dumbledore heavily emphasized at the start-of-term feast, prohibiting any students from approaching.