Chapter 417: Serpent-Faced Infant
“Professor Abigail resigned?”
Hearing the news, the three students were visibly stunned.
Harry frowned, unable to accept it. “Why would Professor suddenly quit? There was no warning at all before the holidays!”
Michael stroked his chin. “Wait… now that you mention it, Professor Abigail did seem a little… farewell-like at the last Feast.”
“Word is she had family matters back home—she’s returned to her country,” Ryan Troke explained quickly, eager not to alienate future students before even stepping into the role.
“Ah, I see,” Wade said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Best get used to it. We’ll never get a permanent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
Ryan shot Wade a sideways glance. Could this student have heard the rumors about the curse on the position?
But then he shrugged. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and he only planned to stay half a year—why worry about old legends?
“From what I’ve heard,” Ryan continued, “Professor Abigail’s class was excellent in Water magic. That’s why I came to the bookstore—to pick up the textbooks she recommended. I’d appreciate your help finding them. And while you’re at it, tell me how far along you are with your studies.”
“Of course! Leave it to us!” Harry said eagerly.
The professor had just saved him from trouble—Harry was more than happy to help.
Wade and Michael exchanged a glance and moved toward the bookshelves.
Textbooks varied by year, but Wade had read every single one. He found all the required books in no time.
Meanwhile, Michael stepped outside and approached a few random students from other years, gathering information for the new professor about the general level of magic in the school.
“Hmm… next term, will we be studying Vampires and Werewolves? And Boggarts?” Ryan said, his expression flickering with unease. “They’re dangerous creatures. We’ll need to learn their weaknesses and how to fight them—plus their cultural and historical backgrounds. For example… do you know who the first Vampire was? There’s an unpleasant story behind it…”
Ryan spoke with ease, his tone calm and scholarly. The students around him gradually fell silent, captivated by his words.
He was clearly a man of deep knowledge—erudite, poised, and courteous. It didn’t take long for him to win the students’ affection.
“Professor Abigail was great,” Michael whispered, “but this new one’s not bad either. At least he won’t beat anyone up.”
Harry pressed his lips together.
He was grateful to Professor Troke. He knew the man carried the air of a true professor—dignified, wise, and calm. But he wasn’t about to admit it aloud. To do so would feel like betrayal.
Wade tilted his head, watching the witch who had just stepped out of the bookstore, clutching two books.
She looked like an ordinary middle-aged woman—nothing special.
But beneath that facade…
Serah Abigail.
The name was identical to that of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who had just left.
And beside her, two familiar figures from the home.
Abigail emerged from the shop, and right away met Majer Byerd’s smirking expression.
“Put that face away,” she said coldly.
“Don’t take offense just because I’m honest,” Majer Byerd mocked. “You changed your Patronus just because of those students. But what does it matter? The moment the new professor arrives, they’ll adore him. They’ll forget you in an instant.”
Abigail matched his sneer. “Ever cared about anyone, Majer Byerd?”
Majer Byerd’s face darkened.
“If you had,” she continued, “you’d understand—even after parting, you still hope they’re happy. That’s what normal people think.”
She turned and walked away, triumphant.
Majer Byerd turned red with fury. He yanked Irrali—still clinging to the window, peering inside—away from the glass.
“Wait! Wait! Let me look one more time! I just want to say one thing to him—just one!” Irrali struggled, and in the tug-of-war, he accidentally bumped into a wizard carrying a child.
They locked eyes. The wizard glared, sharp and furious.
Irrali shivered—and went silent.
Majer Byerd sensed something was wrong. He glanced sharply at the cloaked wizard.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
“Something ancient… strange…” Irrali whispered, pale-faced. “The thing he’s holding… it’s not a human.”
Majer Byerd frowned. “Not a child in the cradle?”
“You didn’t see its face,” Irrali said slowly. “I’ve heard of this kind of magic before… that thing… it’s a Guman Child.”
“Guman Child?” Majer Byerd frowned.
He remembered the term—some obscure Southeast Asian spellcraft, sometimes called “raising a little ghost.” He’d heard of it, but never seen it.
Watching the cloaked wizard walk toward Knockturn Alley, Majer Byerd sneered. “This festival attracts every kind of oddity. Come on—none of this matters to us.”
“But… what if he’s after Wade Gray?” Irrali asked, anxious. “If he takes little Wade, and we don’t know how to stop it—those foreign spells are beyond us!”
Majer Byerd waved it off. “We didn’t get a chance. How could they, fresh from abroad, do better? You know how many Aurors are waiting on this street today?”
“I don’t—how many?” Irrali asked, genuinely curious.
Majer Byerd froze. “Never mind. Just move. We’re already being watched.”
…
Inside Knockturn Alley, the cloaked wizard paused against the wall, using the reflected light to check if any passing wizards seemed suspicious. Only when he was sure did he exhale in relief.
An old, hunched wizard—her face smeared with soot, her features indistinct—approached. She grinned, revealing jagged, blackened teeth.
“Looking for something?” she rasped. “Top-quality goods.”
She pulled back her cloak. Inside, hanging from a hook, were a dozen shriveled human heads. Some cursed under their breath. Others stared with slimy, evil eyes. One even tried to bite its neighbor.
The cloaked wizard didn’t hesitate. He drew his wand and slashed violently.
A deep crack split the filthy ground, slicing past the old witch’s toes.
She yelped, stumbled backward, and fell.
Inside her cloak, the heads erupted in delighted screams. Dozens of mouths lunged at her, biting and tearing.
She screamed as she rolled, ripping the heads off her body, then grabbed a bone stick and beat them one by one—each skull shrieking in agony.
The cloaked wizard looked down at her with cold indifference. He carefully shifted the cradle to his chest, wrapped his cloak tightly around it, and strode past her into Borgin & Burkes.
The screams stopped.
Several eyes went still.
“Darkness… darkness…” they whispered.
“Such evil darkness…”
…
Jingle-jingle.
The bell above the counter rang.
Borgin, the stooped shopkeeper, emerged swiftly from the back.
“Welcome, sir. How may I assist you?”
His oily voice dripped with false warmth. His eyes scanned the cloaked figure—lingering briefly on the bulge beneath the man’s chest.
Child? Or bodies?
For centuries, Borgin & Burkes had thrived in Knockturn Alley. The shop had seen every kind of dark wizard and forbidden artifact.
Borgin wasn’t interested in secrets. Only profit.
The cloaked wizard placed a heavy pouch on the counter. It landed with a thud. The opening burst open—golden Galleons spilled out in a glittering cascade.
Borgin’s eyes widened. His smile turned painfully sincere.
“What can I get for you, my esteemed guest?”
“I need many things,” the cloaked wizard said, voice low. He placed a scroll of parchment on the counter. “Can you get all these?”
Borgin adjusted his spectacles and scanned the list.
“Hemlock. Mandrake. Wolfsbane. Phoenix feather. Unicorn horn. Troll’s heart…” He smiled. “Everything here is available—except the Sphinx’s feather and the Wendigo’s claw. Those will take a few days.”
“Good,” the wizard said. He dumped a pile of Galleons onto the table. “I don’t have time. Prepare it quickly.”
“Of course! Right away!”
Borgin darted into the back room. The shop fell silent.
A few minutes later, the cloaked wizard emerged, carrying a box.
The old street vendor was gone. Distant figures lurked in the shadows—always present in Knockturn Alley, a permanent fixture.
The wizard ignored them.
Then, from his chest, a soft, sharp voice whispered:
“Serpent venom… buy it from Bag Will’s shop.”
“Yes, Master,” the wizard murmured, bowing slightly.
He glanced around. Far off, he spotted the sign of Bag Will’s shop.
He walked toward it.
As he moved, his cloak flapped slightly, revealing—just for a moment—a grotesque, ancient infant nestled within.
The child was red, as if skinless, hairless. His body shimmered with tiny, overlapping scales. His head was a twisted serpent’s face—eyes red, glowing like embers.
Peering through a crack in the cradle, the infant stared out at the cold, vast world. His gaze was cruel, violent. A soul of unspeakable darkness burned in that tiny body.
A gust of wind swept across the rooftops, scattering snow.
The wizard instinctively pulled his cloak tighter—protecting the infant from the cold, and concealing the monstrous face beneath.
…
Ping.
The elevator chimed.
The iron-grate door slid open with a metallic screech.
“Department of Mysteries.”
A cold, emotionless voice spoke.
“Follow me.”
A blank-faced wizard led the way, flanked by several imposing figures. At the front: Auror Director Rufus Scrimgeour, lion-like in bearing, followed by Kingsley Shakle.
They marched down a long, empty corridor until they reached a plain black door.
“Bode,” one of the Aurors asked, curious, “is this the Department of Mysteries?”
“Yes,” the blank-faced wizard replied.
He opened the door.
Inside was a vast circular chamber—black walls, black floor. Twelve identical black doors lined the walls, each with a blue flame flickering in a candle above it.
As they entered, the candles lit themselves. Yet the room remained dark—light seemed to vanish into the walls and floor.
Bode pointed to one of the doors. He opened it.
A beam of bright light spilled into the corridor.
Rufus Scrimgeour stepped forward, followed by the others. The younger Aurors craned their necks, eager to see.
The room was square. At its center stood a large glass tank filled with moss-green liquid. Floating within it were pale, shifting shapes—like a school of jellyfish.
“This is the Brain Chamber?” Scrimgeour asked.
“Yes.”
“Those… are human brains?” The young Auror blurted, horrified—then snapped his mouth shut under Scrimgeour’s icy stare.
“You said someone broke in,” Kingsley said. “Did they steal something? Or did they do something?”
Bode slowly looked up. “We don’t know.”
Kingsley blinked. “What?”
“The number of brains here is never fixed,” Bode said. “They fluctuate—sometimes increase, sometimes drop to just one or two. We don’t know how many there are. We don’t know if any were stolen.”
“And we don’t know what the intruder did,” he added. “The Brain Chamber is one of the most mysterious places in the Department. Because thoughts… are intangible. Formless. Ungraspable.”
“Enough talk,” Scrimgeour cut in. “Start searching for traces. But don’t get near the tank.”
“Yes, sir!”
The Aurors fanned out, each using their unique skills. Within moments, they found faint magical residue and a few footprints—recorded meticulously.
Kingsley used his wand to draw a thin thread of green mist into a crystal vial.
“Experienced,” he muttered. “They destroyed most of the evidence. Only one clue remains…”
They all turned to the tank.
The only clear traces were near the glass. The intruder hadn’t wanted to harm the brains—probably didn’t want to attract attention.
The marks led into the tank—but Scrimgeour forbade them from approaching. Bode stood silently by the side, watching.
As if he were the thief.
(End of Chapter)
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