Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Moody's hand, which had been taking the flask, froze in mid-air. He stared at Kane, and for the first time, genuine surprise appeared in his true eyes—not feigned, not a test, but a real shock.

"How could you...?"

"It has a faint licorice root aftertaste, which is a common stabilizer used in Veritaserum," Kane said. "And the magical fluctuations are quite peculiar—Veritaserum's magic is 'sticky,' adhering to the surface of consciousness, while your modified version is more 'lightweight,' as if it wants to penetrate but doesn't dare to go too deep. I guess it's to avoid being detected by professional anti-curse spells?"

Moody put away the flask, his movements somewhat stiff. "You can even tell that."

"I've studied eighteen modified formulas of truth serum," Kane said. "Seven of them are illegal, including the one you used—the Auror codename 'Rain,' used during initial interrogations to soften a suspect's defenses, but it wouldn't be accepted as evidence by Wizengamor."

The rain has completely stopped.

A crack appeared in the dark clouds, and the golden-red rays of the setting sun slanted down, casting long shadows across the wasteland.

Moody stood there, his cane legs sinking deep into the mud. He looked at Kane for a long, long time. Finally, he nodded—a slow, solemn gesture.

"Dumbledore said you were qualified to be a Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching assistant in your second year, and I didn't believe it at first." Moody's voice regained its previous roughness, but with something else in it. "Now I believe it. You really are... different."

"So, can we continue?" Kane asked.

“One last step,” Moody said, but this time his tone lacked hostility and sounded more like a…test. “Let me see your combat skills. Dumbledore said you ‘demonstrated exceptional tactical acumen’ when dealing with the Basilisk, but I want to see it for myself.”

He didn't wait for Kane's agreement. The moment he finished speaking, Moody's wand was already in his hand again—not pulled from his sleeve, but appearing out of thin air, so fast that the movement was invisible.

A beam of red light shot towards Kane's left shoulder; it wasn't a fatal curse, but it was enough to incapacitate someone.

Kane did not dodge.

He didn't even move. He just stood there, watching the red light fly towards him.

Just as the spell was about to strike, Igor spread his wings.

The phoenix's movements didn't seem fast, but its dark golden wings traced a wondrous path through the air, perfectly blocking the red light's trajectory.

The spell struck the feather, but instead of exploding or bouncing, it was absorbed like a drop of water falling into the desert.

Ig let out a satisfied chirp, the luster on its feathers flashed for a moment, and then returned to normal.

Moody's prosthetic eye stopped rotating.

"The phoenix can absorb low to mid-level spells," Kane explained, "and convert them into its own energy. But there's a daily limit, and the effect on dark magic is reduced."

"A clever defense," Moody nodded, but didn't lower his wand. "But you can't rely on pets forever. Let's try again."

This time, three spells were fired simultaneously—left, right, and up—sealing off any space to dodge. The spells were faster and at more tricky angles, clearly techniques honed through countless battles.

Kane moved.

His movements were so concise they bordered on stingy.

He took a half step back with his left foot, turned his body slightly to the side, and drew his wand with his right hand, drawing a semicircle in the air as he did so.

It wasn't a defensive spell, but some kind of traction magic—the three spells were pulled by an invisible force just before they hit, their trajectories deflected, grazing his clothes and striking the heather bushes behind him.

The heather bushes burst open, scattering dirt and leaf fragments everywhere, but Kane didn't even blink.

"A variant of the Deflection Spell," Moody commented, "but the technique is too flashy and prone to errors in actual combat. You should just use armor for protection—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

Because Kane retaliated.

It wasn't a spell, it wasn't magic, but a gesture—he took a step forward, and at the same time, he pulled something from a small pouch at his waist with his left hand and threw it in front of Moody's feet.

It was a silver seed that grew wildly the moment it landed. Vines burst forth from the soil, not ordinary plants, but magical vines shimmering with metallic luster and covered in thorns, coiling around Moody's wooden legs like living creatures.

Moody cursed and pointed his wand downwards: "Burning Flames!"

The flames engulfed the vines. But in the instant the flames rose, Kane had already silently moved to Moody's side and rear under the cover of firelight and smoke—not Apparition, not Illusion Charm, just a simple, precisely calculated movement.

His wand pressed against Moody's lower back.

"If I had used the Killing Curse," Kane said calmly, "you would be dead now."

Moody froze.

The flames gradually died down, and the vines turned to ashes. Only the sound of the wind and the frozen air between the two remained on the wasteland.

After a long while, Moody slowly turned around. His wand was lowered, and his true eyes held a complex emotion—shock, wariness, and a hint of…admiration.

"What kind of vine seeds did you use just now?" he asked.

"An alchemical artifact, made by myself." Kane put away his wand. "A mixture of silver fern spores and shapeshifting lizard scales. Upon impact, it rapidly grows and entangles the nearest moving target. Primarily used for delaying and creating chaos."

"And you use it to obscure your vision while moving." Moody nodded. "A very practical tactic. It's not something from textbooks; it's something you learn from real combat."

"I learned it casually," Kane said. "Maybe it's because I'm smart!"

Moody stared at him for the last few seconds, then finally—completely relaxed. He pulled out the flask again, this time taking a big gulp, then wiped his mouth.

"Alright, kid," he said, "I acknowledge you. You're really strong!"

This is already a very high evaluation in Moody's mind!

He put away the wine jug, turned around and continued walking north, his wooden leg striking the ground again.

"Now, we can get down to business. About Morag, about the werewolves, and... about Dumbledore's real plans."

Kane followed.

Igor gently nuzzled his cheek against his shoulder, as if in praise.

The rain intensified, pattering softly against the photinia bushes.

Kane followed behind Moody, keeping a distance of three steps—a distance that was neither too close to be offensive nor too far to be unable to hear him.

Igor stood quietly on his shoulder, his silver eyes half-closed, but Kane could sense that the phoenix's attention was completely focused on Moody.

Old Auror walked slowly, but with exceptional steadiness.

His wooden leg landed precisely on solid ground each time, avoiding slippery rocks and soft mud.

This is not just walking; it is an instinct formed after countless wilderness tracking missions—every step is a preparation for possible battle.

After walking for about ten minutes, Moody suddenly stopped. He didn't turn around, but simply raised one hand.