Hogwarts: Starting with full Unforgivable Curses

Chapter 275 Grindelwald: Your brother doesn't seem to like me.
"Longbotton!"

Professor McGonagall's voice echoed off the stone wall, making the ashes in the fireplace jump.

"Because of your negligence, the safety of the entire school has been threatened! From today onwards, you are forbidden from going to Hogsmeade, and will be confined to your quarters from 7 PM to 9 PM every night, and—"

Professor McGonagall paused, her eyebrows almost furrowing into a knot.

"No one is allowed to tell you the password to enter the tower again!"

Neville's face turned pale instantly, and his lips trembled as he tried to say something.

In the end, he managed to squeeze out a tiny, barely audible reply—"Yes, Professor."

He clutched the memory ball that Dylan had modified, the glass surface slightly warm in his palm.

The "canvas" of false memories inside is still blank.

Before he could even take notes, he was punished.

The days that followed became a torment for Neville.

Every morning, he had to stand in front of the portrait of the fat lady ten minutes early.

With a backpack on and the memory ball clutched tightly in her hand, she looked like a little bird waiting to be fed.

When the first student arrived in a hurry, with bread in his mouth and mumbling the commands, no one paid any attention to him.

Neville would then stare intently at the memory orb and, on that blank "canvas" in his mind, write down commands like "The lion is the strongest" or "Bomb the snakes into a string" stroke by stroke.

I was afraid that if I was even a little slow, I would forget.

Dylan's modified Memory Ball is indeed much more convenient.

There's no need to chant spells, and you don't need to be afraid of being seen by others.

—Only when Nave is staring at the ball will those words written in his mind appear in his mind.

It felt like a sticky note had been stuck in my head.

Moreover, even if the record is full, it's still very simple.

Find Dylan to recite a phrase to break the curse.

The "canvas" will then return to blank.

This was much more dignified than before, when I always had to trouble Dylan to help me record things.

Even so, those few minutes standing in front of the portrait felt like centuries.

"Hey, isn't this 'Password Master'?"

Three giant security guards swung over, their huge clubs dragging on the ground, making a screeching sound.

The leading troll poked Neville in the back with his short, stubby fingers, spitting on his school uniform.

"Have you forgotten how to speak again today? Do you want us to call 'open the door' for you?"

Some of the students passing by couldn't help but laugh out loud.

A girl hurried past, glanced at Neville, and curled her lip.

Several boys deliberately slowed their pace, winked at him, and muttered "idiot."

Neville lowered his head even further, the backpack strap digging painfully into his shoulders, the memory ball in his hand feeling his emotions, burning like a hot iron, but he dared not let go.

He was afraid that if he let go, he would lose even this pitiful "memorandum".

At this point, Sir Cadogan's portrait had been moved back to the deserted platform on the side of the tower.

In the painting, he is still wearing that rusty armor, sighing all day long at the empty corridor, occasionally drawing his sword and slashing at the air, as if venting his dissatisfaction with being dismissed.

Although the plump lady returned to her position, she became completely terrified.

The monstrous security guards, hired to protect her, stood in the corridor, their huge, bell-like eyes scanning the surroundings.

They always love to huddle together and compare whose stick is thicker, their voices so loud they can shatter glass.

Every day, as soon as they see Neville, they immediately stop talking and burst into laughter with snoring sounds.

The laughter would gradually fade away only after someone gave the command, and Neville would either rush in or leave with his head down.

Neville thought this was the worst it could be.

Until the morning of the third day.

He waited for a full fifteen minutes that day before a new student from a lower grade finally appeared.

The child timidly gave the password, and the plump lady had just opened the portrait.

Just as Neville was about to crawl inside, the leading giant suddenly stretched out its huge claw and grabbed him by the back of the collar.

"and many more!"

The troll's voice sounded like two stones rubbing together. It pulled Neville back and pointed its short, stubby fingers at the bulletin board next to the portrait.

"Look clearly!"

Neville looked up and saw a new parchment posted on the bulletin board, with Professor McGonagall's handwriting on it, the ink still slightly damp.

It says.

—Because Neville excessively endangered the safety of the school, in addition to the existing punishment, he is also prohibited from attending or watching all Quidditch practice sessions this semester.

Neville's face froze instantly.

It wasn't enough that he had to work as a doorman with the fat lady every day; now he couldn't even watch the Quidditch matches this semester?

Oh my God! ! !

Neville's fingers tightened slowly around the memory ball, the glass ball digging painfully into his palm.

The giants burst into even louder laughter, making his ears ring.

As for that freshman, he had long since disappeared.

The plump lady urged impatiently, "Hurry up and go in, don't block the way!"

Neville gritted his teeth, turned around, and practically rushed out of the tower.

The giant monster ripped a wrinkle in the back of the clothes.

Like his heart, which is in turmoil right now.

He arrived at the auditorium earlier than usual, trying to avoid the teasing stares, but little did he know that the real storm was waiting for him at breakfast.

The magical starry sky on the dome of the auditorium glowed with a pale blue light.

On the long table, golden platters were piled high with grilled sausages and fried eggs.

The sizzling sound of oil couldn't drown out the students' low whispers.

Since the Blake intrusion incident.

The long table in Gryffindor seemed to be under a silence spell; even Fred and George stopped joking and dared not speak too loudly, lest they attract the attention of the tense professors.

The only sounds in the entire auditorium, besides whispers, were the continuous flapping of owls' wings, which seemed particularly jarring.

Just then, the shadow of a barn owl suddenly loomed over the plate in front of Neville.

Its outstretched wings nearly swept away Ron's pumpkin juice next to it.

An envelope, as red as a burning flame, with delicate patterns embossed along its edges, landed in front of him.

Neville's pupils contracted, and the toast in his hand fell onto the plate with a "thud".

He still vividly remembers that kind of envelope.

"Ah, it's a roaring letter!"

Ron's voice cracked.

"Run, Neville! My mom's letter almost ruptured my eardrums!"

Neville quickly stood up, but before he knew it, his knee hit the crossbar of the bench, making him wince in pain.

But he still instinctively grabbed the envelope.

The edges of the parchment were stiff, as if it had just been pulled out of the fireplace.

"There's no escaping it, Neville, it's too late."

Dylan placed his hand on his arm and then extended his wand.

A faint blue light flashed and gently touched between Neville and the envelope.

A soundproof spell, at least so others can't hear how Neville is being insulted.

Dylan pinched the ribbon of the Howling Letter between two fingers and gave it a gentle pull.

At this moment, Hermione's hand, holding the butter knife, froze in mid-air, her eyes wide with surprise. Several Slytherin students had also put down their knives and forks, resting their chins on their hands, ready to watch the show.

Malfoy, who was in charge, even took out a handkerchief and pretended to cover his ears.

"Sizzle—" The envelope exploded in front of Neville's eyes, turning into a large, wrinkled mouth, with the edges of the letter paper curled into sharp teeth.

It lunged forward, almost touching Neville's nose, its throat churning with furious red gas.

Each opening and closing brought an invisible impact, causing Neville's bangs to tremble.

Spittle droplets, like tiny pearls, flew from between their lips and landed in Neville's oatmeal porridge.

Neville instinctively raised his hand to cover his ears.

Judging from his expression, he had been severely reprimanded.

However, only Neville could sense that silent roar.

No one else could hear anything.

Ron, sitting right next to Neville, didn't hear a sound and opened his mouth in surprise.

“Dylan, when I received the roar letter…”

Ron's voice carried a hint of grievance as he looked pitifully at Dylan.

He still remembers the roar of that letter in the auditorium—"You've disgraced the Weasleys!"—and the laughter that filled the entire school.

"You just sat there watching me make a fool of myself? You didn't even try to help me."

Dylan tucked his wand back into his waistband and picked up a piece of bacon, taking a leisurely bite.

"I thought the Roaring Letter was some kind of black magic item that could explode, right? After all, it was the first time I'd ever seen one, so I couldn't just attack it rashly, could I?"

He caught a glimpse of the Slytherin table out of the corner of his eye.

Malfoy was impatiently tapping the table with his silver fork, and the students who had been waiting to see him make a fool of himself were also filled with disappointment.

"And this time is different."

Neville's shoulders were still trembling slightly, and his eyes were filled with a mixture of gratitude and lingering fear as he looked at Dylan.

His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he was interrupted by Roaring Letter's sudden lunge.

The letter's mouth was so wide open it could practically swallow his fist!

The edges of the letter trembled slightly with anger, until all the anger was vented, then it deflated like a punctured balloon, turning into a pile of crumpled red paper.

Nave paused, then touched the pieces of paper with his fingertips.

They immediately turned to ashes and drifted onto the plate.

Neville finally let out a long sigh of relief.

at this time.

A greywood owl flapped its wings and landed in front of Harry, carrying a brown paper envelope tied with hemp rope in its beak.

The envelope had some dirt stuck to the corner and a blurry claw mark on it, indicating that it had flown from the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

"Is it a letter from Hagrid?"

Harry immediately recognized the crooked handwriting on the envelope; each letter looked as if it had been battling giants.

He tore open the envelope, and the parchment unfurled with a rustling sound; Hagrid's bold handwriting almost burst through the pages.

“Harry, I’d like to invite you over for tea this afternoon. I’ve baked some rock crust pastries. It’s okay if you can’t leave the school. Just wait for me in the foyer at three o’clock, and I’ll come pick you up.”

—Hagrid

"He must have heard about Blake."

Ron leaned over to read the letter, then nudged Harry with his elbow.

"Maybe he knows some inside information that the Ministry of Magic hasn't made public, like how Black actually broke into the tower."

Harry held up his shield, and the image of that night, with the silver knife hanging above Ron's bedside, flashed through his mind again.

He gripped the letter tightly: "Yes, maybe we can find out something about my parents."

"Dylan, do you want to come with us?"

He looked up at Dylan, who was spreading jam on bread, and invited him.

"Hagrid's rock crust is a bit hard, but it's actually not bad with hot cocoa."

Dylan had just put the bread in his mouth when he heard this and shook his head.

"No, the weather forecast this morning said there would be sleet on the edge of the forbidden forest."

He pointed out the window, where a layer of white mist still clung to the castle's glass.

"I don't want to go to afternoon tea in mud; the feeling of sand in my boots is awful."

Neville silently cleaned up the ashes from the plate.

That afternoon.

Gryffindor common room.

The flames in the fireplace were slowly licking the pine firewood, making a soft crackling sound.

The warm light made the tapestries on the stone wall look exceptionally bright.

The embroidered knights and princesses seemed to be edged with gold.

Dylan was tucked into the deepest armchair in the corner, looking like a cat sprawled out, his long legs casually draped over the low stool next to him.

There was a pair of sheepskin boots, slightly muddy, lying at his feet.

— Clearly, he was too lazy to put the shoes away on the rack.

The book he held, "Advanced Theory of Advanced Spells," was so thick it could be used as a pillow.

The pages lay open on my lap, their edges worn and frayed, yet I hadn't turned a single page for a full half hour.

Dylan's eyes were half-closed, seemingly focused on the dense incantation annotations, but his pupils reflected light and shadows invisible to others.

The heat from the fireplace made his eyelids feel heavy.

It was just the right time to let my thoughts sink into that scene woven from the perspective of divination.

What unfolds before his eyes now is summer in the Godric Valley.

Seventeen-year-old Dumbledore was sitting under a hawthorn tree, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing faint scars on his forearms from experiments.

Across from him, Grindelwald was smiling with his chin raised, his blond hair shining in the sunlight, twirling a hawthorn branch in his hand, the red berries on the branches swaying gently with his movements.

That was the scene when they first argued about "for the greater good".

The conversation, which should have been tense and confrontational, was abruptly halted when Dumbledore suddenly reached out and brushed the grass clippings off Grindelwald's shoulder.

Their gazes met briefly in mid-air, sparking a fleeting moment before quickly shifting away, leaving only the rustling of hawthorn leaves in the wind.

"Tsk, so there were already signs of it at this time."

Dylan muttered to himself, shifting to a more comfortable position and pressing the book against his stomach.

The scene shifts to the kitchen in Godric's Valley.

Dumbledore was using magic to make the cauldron stir by itself, and a delicious aroma wafted from it.

Grindelwald leaned against the doorframe, toying with Dumbledore's wand in his hand.

The magic wand spun rapidly between his fingers, as if it had come to life.

"Your brother doesn't seem to like me very much."

Grindelwald suddenly spoke, his tone carrying a hint of nonchalant provocation.

Dumbledore didn't turn around, but simply turned down the flames in the stew pot.

“Aberforth is just… worried about me.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than Grindelwald suddenly stepped forward and gently grasped his caneless hand from behind.

Their shadows overlapped on the wall, and the soup in the pot bubbled and steamed, making the ambiguous silence tremble slightly.

"Tsk tsk tsk, I wonder if Old Deng will fly into a rage and set me on fire if he sees me looking at his past love affairs."

Dylan's lips unconsciously curled upwards.

"Wow—brilliant! This kind of scandalous gossip is so entertaining."

(End of this chapter)