Chapter 652: Cruciatus Curse
Draco held his breath, oblivious to the grim surroundings, his eyes locked onto the crack. Below, the scene unfolded with chilling precision.
The leader of the cloaked figures wore a serpent-shaped pin on his chest. In Draco’s mind, he was already dubbed "Viper."
With a flick of his wand, the man opened a box resting inside a RoomHorn—a box that had been sealed away. The lid snapped open with a sharp crack, and a scurrying swarm of gray mice spilled out, squealing in panic.
"I assume you haven’t forgotten why we’re here today," Viper said, his voice like cold iron.
He lifted one mouse into the air, letting it float above the center of the circle. Then, slowly, he scanned the crowd.
"Behold. This is the Cruciatus Curse—the Cruciatus Curse!"
He hissed the incantation, and the mouse froze mid-scream. Its body locked rigid, then convulsed violently. A shrill, unearthly wail tore from its tiny mouth, a sound so agonized it seemed to pierce the soul. Its limbs twitched uncontrollably, its black, bean-sized eyes bulged wide, filled with a pain too deep for any human mind to comprehend.
Draco clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned bone-white.
Seconds passed. The spell ended.
The mouse collapsed onto the floor, trembling, gasping for breath in ragged, shuddering bursts. The other mice in the box didn’t understand what had happened to their kin—but they sensed the agony. They shrieked in terror, scrambling against the walls, desperate to escape their prison.
Then, the box lifted into the air with a sudden boom, landing squarely in the middle of the circle.
"Each of you take one," Viper said, his tone patient despite the fear flickering in their eyes. "Practice it. Remember—infuse it with raw, burning desire. You must want them to feel pain. Need them to suffer."
After a brief hesitation, the group each took a mouse. Wade, using the alias "Bellby," and Antoine were no exception.
"See that?" Antoine murmured, barely audible. "That bloke over there—it’s like he’s copying your classroom style."
"What’s so fascinating about this?" Wade asked, dragging a mouse from the box with his wand, his voice laced with contempt. "A bunch of fools treating dark magic like a game. Do they really think Unforgivable Curses are banned just because the Ministry of Magic loves life?"
Cruciatus Curse. Imperius Curse. Killing Curse. These three spells were known as the Unforgivable Curses. Use any of them on a human, and Azkaban awaited—life imprisonment, no appeal.
But when it came to raw destructive power, Gellert Grindelwald’s Fire Shield Defense far surpassed the Killing Curse, which could only kill one person at a time.
Yet the fire shield was branded Dark Magic—only because of its strength. It never earned the title of "Unforgivable."
Similarly, Confusion Charm could strip a person of free will, even manipulate magical artifacts. But it was just an ordinary spell.
For a wizard, even a simple Hovering Charm could cause pain—or death—if wielded with intent.
So why were only these three spells considered unforgivable?
Not because of their cruelty.
But because they could change a person—irrevocably.
Both the caster and the victim risked their souls being twisted, their wills poisoned. Especially the caster. To wield such power, one had to trade a piece of their humanity.
The true power of an Unforgivable Curse wasn’t in the wand movement or the pronunciation. It came from the wizard’s soul—the raw, unfiltered malice, the desire to harm, to control, to end another’s life.
Without that darkness in the heart, even the Killing Curse would fail. Without the will to destroy, it would only draw a nosebleed.
Antoine chuckled at Wade’s words.
"You’re right—complete fools. But Wade, you know what’s funny? These clowns you mock? They’ve quietly built something substantial."
Wade raised an eyebrow. "Substantial?"
"Even the most gullible Muggle can be tricked by a flimsy cult. And a foolish wizard? Just a few catchy slogans, and they’ll leap off a cliff without a second thought."
Antoine waved his wand casually, knocking the mouse unconscious. He smirked.
"Wizards may master magic better, but their brains aren’t much smarter than Muggle ones. And their rhetoric? It’s dangerously persuasive to the right kind of people, isn’t it?"
"What’s your purpose here, then?" Wade asked, flicking his wand. The mouse squeaked in fear. He calmed it, then asked, "Investigation? Guidance?"
"No," Antoine leaned in. "Mr. Grindelwald sees them as perfect observation samples. And in time, they’ll make excellent chess pieces."
Wade frowned. "I hate having uncontrollable forces around me. Especially ones that are this stupid. You never know what nonsense a bunch of fools will create when they’re left to their own devices."
They each had guns—some even had decent aim. And with that kind of power in the hands of the reckless? The destruction could be massive.
"For now, just endure," Antoine said. "They won’t last much longer. They think they’re hiding well, but if my observation is correct… they’ve already been watched."
Before he could finish, a sudden, piercing scream tore through the air—so sharp it felt like a needle driven into the eardrums.
Both men turned.
One of the mice had twisted its body into an impossible, horn-like curve, shrieking in agony. The sound was unbearable.
Wade’s mouse, which had been lying still, bolted upright in terror and shot out like a bullet. Wade didn’t try to stop it.
He stared toward the source of the scream.
Unlike the others, who were still struggling with the spell, most students were still practicing—straining, sweating, failing. But now, finally, someone had succeeded.
The student who cast the spell looked just as startled as the mouse. His wand hand trembled. He took an instinctive step back.
Draco, still crouched behind the pipe, froze.
He recognized that voice.
It was Pansy.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, my friends!" Viper strode forward, snatching the mouse from the air. "Look! She did it!"
He walked among them, voice booming. "Remember what I said—this isn’t about brute strength. The harder you wave your wand, the more useless it is!"
He pointed at a hulking boy. "Crabbe! Stop swinging that wand like an axe! It’s not a weapon!"
"Proper technique requires focus. Think of the person you hate most. Make them feel the pain of dying while still alive!"
"Theo Nott—stop worrying about pronunciation. It’s about practice. Keep going. Everyone must succeed before we’re done!"
"But… but…" Theo Nott stammered, his voice trembling.
"What’s wrong?" Viper growled, eyes narrowing.
"N-nothing…" Theo bowed his head, shrinking into himself.
A nearby student sneered at his weakness, flicked a strand of hair from his forehead, and turned back to his practice—already feeling the rhythm, the flow. He raised his wand, ready to cast.
Then—something felt off.
The faint afterglow from the crack in the pipe… had it caught something?
He turned.
And through the narrow gap, he saw eyes—reflecting light, unblinking, watching.
(End of Chapter)
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