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Aside from Sargeras, Harry, Hermione, and Ron were also secretly investigating the truth about the Chamber of Secrets.

"Are we really not going to tell the professor?" Hermione bit her lip, her fingers absently rubbing the spine of Hogwarts: A History. "Harry can hear things no one else can… that's really dangerous."

"It won't help if I tell them. They'll just think I'm making things up again," Harry said with a frustrated groan, raking a hand through his hair. "And what if they actually believe me? What if they really think I'm the one behind it all? They'd throw me out of Hogwarts for sure."

"But… I still think we should at least try talking to Professor Greengrass," Hermione said softly, her voice uncertain and her expression still troubled. "Maybe he knows something about what's really going on…"

"I already asked him once," Harry replied, shaking his head. "I tried to be subtle about it, but he said it was probably a ghost or Peeves playing tricks."

"How exactly did you ask?" Hermione asked, a little curious now.

"I told him I had a friend who sometimes hears strange voices around the castle…"

"And…?"

"That's it. That's all I said."

Hermione let out a small sigh, clearly unimpressed.

"Well, in any case, there's no way Harry's the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets," Ron mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate, his words slightly garbled. "And Malfoy's definitely up to something! He's been way too quiet lately — it's just not normal."

He had a point. Draco Malfoy had indeed toned himself down a great deal.

Ever since that day on the Quidditch pitch, when Sargeras took points from Slytherin and gave him detention, he hadn't said the word "Mudblood" even once. He still strutted around with his chin lifted high in that same arrogant way, and whenever he passed Harry and his friends, he would glance at them from the corner of his eye with a look that made it seem like something disgusting had just walked into the room.

But the sneering insults and constant provocations had stopped. That alone was a huge departure from the Malfoy they used to know, and all three of them had the same uneasy suspicion he was secretly plotting something.

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With the new Quidditch season fast approaching, the mood within the castle finally began to stir to life again.

The corridors echoed with students' excited chatter, a constant background hum of speculation and energy. The Gryffindor team, in particular, were gearing up with fierce determination. Even though Slytherin's entire lineup had been outfitted with brand-new Nimbus 2001s, making them seem almost untouchable, the advantage didn't crush Gryffindor's fighting spirit.

"This year's first match, Slytherin versus Gryffindor!" Oliver Wood stood before them before the season opener, trying his best to fire up the team. "We're going to show them what we're made of! Let them see that a shiny broomstick doesn't win a match!"

However, not everyone was caught up in the excitement of the upcoming game.

Professor McGonagall stood silently in the hallway, her lips pressed into a thin, tense line.

Although she was still deeply unsettled by Sargeras's suspicion of Harry during the Hallowe'en incident, as Deputy Headmistress, she had nevertheless extended a formal invitation to him to attend the match.

Sargeras, however, declined.

Because Snowy Owl had just delivered word: all the necessary materials had finally been gathered.

He had decided to use the next couple of days — his only window of uninterrupted time — to complete the construction of the Alchemical Array for "Magic Siphon," a forbidden spell capable of absorbing another's magic, and to seize full control over it.

With every ingredient carefully stored in his enchanted satchel, Sargeras set off alone toward the depths of the Forbidden Forest, heading straight for the hidden safehouse.

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Under the pale sunlight, the odd-shaped structure gleamed with a dull, bone-white sheen, its silhouette resembling the bleached skull of some long-forgotten giant beast. As Sargeras stepped across the moss-covered threshold, he raised his wand with a practiced flick and cast three spells in quick succession.

The Anti-Apparition Charm flared to life around the building, its light weaving across the walls like a web of shimmering threads. The Spatial Anchor sealed the room in place, thickening the air until it felt almost like jelly. And the Enhanced Repelling Charm radiated outward, creating an instinctive field of aversion that would drive away any curious creature — magical or mundane — that wandered too close.

This place was now completely sealed off—a self-contained magical stronghold, hidden from sight and utterly impenetrable.

Etching the alchemical array would be a long and punishing ordeal. Even with all his skill and precision, Sargeras estimated it would take a full day and night of relentless work, uninterrupted and without rest.

But before that, he needed to prepare the materials with care.

Venom drawn from the fangs of an Acromantula, powdered moonstone ground to a fine, silvery dust, sap harvested from Vampiric vegetation, shimmering scales shed by Merpeople, whiskers carefully plucked from a Matagot, claws of a Murtlap filed smooth and even, dried tartar scraped from the fangs of a North American Tyrannosaurus rex…

One by one, Sargeras followed the instructions inscribed on the old parchment manuscript, carefully combining the ingredients in precise order and measured proportions.

When the final substance had been added, he stared down at the cup now holding a pulsing, writhing mass of glowing blue liquid. It squirmed like something alive. For a brief moment, hesitation flickered across his expression.

But only for a moment.

Without a word, he cast Mechanical Mind upon himself; a spell designed to suppress emotion, sharpen focus, and transform human thought into something colder and more precise.

Then, he uncorked a small vial and let two drops of Felix Felicis fall onto his tongue.

Though Sargeras had always believed that the effects of Liquid Luck were mostly psychological, a trick of confidence masquerading as magic, but at critical moments like this, he wasn't the type to leave anything to chance. Even the faintest edge was worth pursuing.

Shrugging off his outer robes, he bared his pale, corpse-white skin to the chill of the forest air. It clung to him like frost, but he didn't flinch.

According to his calculations, the ideal location for the alchemical array's activation point was his chest… specifically, the array's structure needed to begin from the dominant hand and extend inward toward the heart. Only by letting the entire runic system weave through nerve and muscle, blood and bone, could his magic fuse completely with the array's forbidden power.

As the tip of his wand touched bare skin, a shiver ran through him… not from fear, but anticipation.

With precise, deliberate motion, his wrist began to move. The wand traced a line across his skin, leaving behind a narrow, glistening bloody trail. His hand never wavered. Each line followed the shape of his body with uncanny precision.

The point of contact began at the pad of his right index finger, where five fine lines branched out along the contours of his bones like a river's delta. When those reached the wrist, the paths coiled tightly together, forming a thorn-crowned locking ring. From there, the etched line wound its way upward along his biceps in a spiral, curling like a creeping vine until it reached his left breast, directly above his heart.

Wherever the wand passed, his skin peeled slightly back, revealing the pearlescent fibers of muscle beneath. Strangely, there was no blood.

The grooves didn't look like open wounds, but rather like the result of some arcane burning. The markings shimmered with a glassy sheen, reflecting the faint light in hues of pale blue and silver.

When the final loop of the central circuit met and connected just beneath his sternum, the entire array suddenly seemed to draw breath on its own. It expanded, then contracted again, imitating the slow rise and fall of living lungs.

Without the slightest hesitation, Sargeras plunged his right hand into the alchemical solution.

And the deep blue liquid instantly came to life.

A wet, sticky noise rose from the cup, something between a baby's muffled cry and the squelch of something slithering into flesh. The fluid surged wildly into the carved grooves, and wherever it flowed, a burst of intense blue light flared up beneath his skin, illuminating his bones until they shone like transparent crystal.

Then the excruciating pain hit.

It wasn't like the soul-splitting agony of the Cruciatus Curse — it was something far more primal, a torment of pure physical sensation. It felt as though someone had taken a red-hot iron comb and was dragging it again and again across the fragile ends of every nerve in his body.

And yet Sargeras didn't even blink. Not a single eyelash quivered.

Several hours crawled by in silence, each one soaked in pain and concentration, until at last the array began to take form.

Ghostly blue lines snaked beneath his skin like living veins, their glow rippling with an eerie, otherworldly shimmer. The foundation was complete.

Now came the next step: inscribing the alchemical runes.

It would be another long ordeal.

The parchment manuscript floated into the mid-air beside him, suspended by magic, and began flipping its own pages. Dense, ancient runes filled every inch of the yellowed surface. Each symbol seemed to squirm ever so slightly, like something alive, muttering in a forgotten tongue as if whispering secrets only it could understand.

And for each rune he carved into his flesh, another glowing mark emerged, seeping up from beneath his skin in the same brilliant blue.

Over two thousand runes means…

Two thousand separate cuts. Two thousand flare-ups of searing pain and regeneration. He didn't know who had created this array, who had written this infernal manuscript… but by now, he'd cursed their name in his mind more times than he could count.

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Morning light spilled over the ancient stone towers of Hogwarts, casting the castle in a warm, golden glow.

Students crossed the lawn in groups of twos and threes, laughter ringing through the crisp morning air like birdsong carried on the wind.

Even the typically aloof and solitary Ravenclaw first-years had joined the flow of bodies heading toward the Quidditch pitch. Among them were two familiar figures: Luna Lovegood, with her ever-curious eyes peeking out behind her signature pair of strange glasses, and the quiet, introverted Astoria Greengrass, walking close beside her.

Luna's gaze sparkled with fascination as she took in the sights around her, while Astoria clung gently to her friend's sleeve, glancing around nervously as though afraid she might get swept away in the eager crowd.

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