I, Hogwarts Second Time Around.

Chapter 153 Rise of Darkness

I know.

I knew it from the beginning.

That boy was a demon in human skin.

Everyone was deceived by his masterful disguise. No one believed me, no one!

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

1980 October.

I remember it clearly; it was midnight.

The dogs outside the Sphinx orphanage barked all night long that night.

I often wake up startled from my sleep.

But he only muttered a few curses under his breath before falling back asleep.

I'm so tired. Managing the orphanage has taken a toll on my energy. Those energetic children are like little devils in the precinct of hell, their incessant chatter and laughter relentlessly haunting me.

Yes, I hate children—

But for the sake of my future, for the sake of advancing half a step in my career, I, nearing sixty, had no choice but to take over this orphanage funded by the municipal government.

Haha—I often think that if I just endure a little longer, I'll be retiring soon. The pension of an orphanage director is much higher than that of an unknown old clerk in the municipal government.

Yes, that's how I got through it.

This idea is the best medicine that helps me fall asleep.

early morning.

The noise outside woke me up again.

Vice Dean John knocked on my door.

Feeling somewhat angry and uneasy, I reluctantly got dressed and opened the door.

He was a young man, about thirty-five or thirty-six years old. You could tell from the Windsor knot he wore that he came from a wealthy family and was well-mannered.

No wonder he climbed to the top at such a young age, a position that took me half my life to reach.

"There's a child!"

"Outside the orphanage, someone abandoned a child."

My first reaction upon hearing this news was displeasure.

Is it really worth waking him up for such a trivial thing as finding a child in front of an orphanage?

Since a certain unorthodox culture was introduced to France, children of all skin colors can be found on the grass outside the yard every month, or even every day.

Their orphanage is practically a refuge for all nations!

"No, Dean, it's not just—you should go and see!"

A disdainful sneer rose in my heart. After all, he was just a young man with too little social experience.

The only reason a child could terrify him to this extent is that the child's appearance might be a little strange.

Conjoined twins? Atavistic? Missing limbs? Or already dead?

Hmph, that's all there is to it.

I followed John through the gates etched with history.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew by.

A strong, inescapable smell of blood filled my nostrils.

Suddenly, an ominous premonition rose in my heart.

A large crowd had gathered in front of the church.

I never knew there were so many staff members at the orphanage!

Haha—we can't even get this many people together for a meal normally.

However, these people looked very strange.

Their expressions were blank, their bodies trembling slightly, as if they had seen something shocking.

"Get out of the way!" I said.

I must assert my authority as the dean to suppress these soulless walking corpses.

young!

I was filled with sneer. The city government sending him to serve as the dean was probably the best thing those old men had ever done.

Look at this generation of young people born after the war.

It's a disgrace to France.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

I squeezed through the apathetic crowd, wanting to see what had happened.

next second.

When that hellish scene shone through the light into my pupils.

I wish I were blind at that moment.

Below the church steps lay blood and bits of flesh. The nauseating organs and gore were tossed on the ground like garbage.

There were at least three or four corpses of men and women.

Their heads, wide open in death, were shattered.

Every wound was covered in teeth marks, sharp and penetrating the skin.

Those are definitely not human teeth.

It is more like a canine.

Suddenly I remembered the barking of the dogs last night—

Could it be?

"No!"

I instinctively let out a gasp.

They wanted to back away.

Because I discovered that in the flowerbed not far from the orphanage, under the shade of a tree, pairs of dark green eyes were staring intently at me. From the blood covering their bodies and the bits of flesh between their teeth and mouths, it was clear that they were the murderers who killed—no—bitten those three unfortunate boys to death.

"Close the door quickly, then call the police!" Although I was severely frightened, the willpower I had forged in the military as a former glorious freedom fighter calmed me down.

Just as I was about to lead my terrified subordinates away, a pair of hands, many hands, suddenly pressed against my lower back.

"John, what are you doing!"

"Director," the young man, his eyes somewhat numb, looked up as if speaking to thin air, "the orphanage should not abandon any innocent child."

"What did you say!" I was startled by his expression.

But he's right. Although I don't like children, I can't watch a young life perish in a dog's belly.

I hurriedly went down the steps and picked up the swaddled baby from the various odds and ends scattered around him: a sharp knife, several needles covered in mud, several packets of unknown medicine, and flesh and blood that made me want to vomit.

When I opened the swaddling clothes, I was immediately drawn to the child's appearance.

He—no, it—it was quite beautiful, with black hair, gray eyes, thin lips, and a high nose; it was as delicate as a doll.

If that's all, then forget it.

But the moment my gaze swept across the child's eyes...

My back broke out in a cold sweat!

It was a reproachful look in my eyes. My God, a baby only a few months old was looking at me like that.

It seems to be saying: Why did it take you so long to come?

At that moment, it was like a bolt from the blue, because an absurd, terrifying, and dark thought popped into my mind.

Were those man-eating dogs controlled by this child?

Was last night's barking just an attempt to wake him up?

No—no, he's just a child, not a demon.

No—it won't happen.

Will not!

"Phew~~~"

In the Hogwarts faculty office, Wenda suddenly opened her eyes.

She was startled awake once again.

We share the same dream!

Or rather, it's a memory, a memory that has become graffiti on a wall for Muggles.

Outside the window, torrential rain howled and washed over the castle. "Crack!" A clap of thunder flashed by.

The dappled light filtering through the window cast shadows on the floor, illuminating a refined, comfortable, and luxurious armchair.

"You don't look too good."

This temporary office, located on the other side of the second-floor stairwell, was cleaned spotlessly.

It was covered with a thick carpet, embroidered with intricate gold patterns.

The walls are also decorated with various elegant patterns.

A huge crystal chandelier hung in mid-air, but no candles were lit.

At this moment, a witch, hidden in the darkness, sat gracefully on an armchair made of the leather of some kind of magical animal.

His serious expression conveyed a subtle sense of authority.

Behind the square glasses, his deep eyes were filled with a warning look.

"Hmph." Wenda glanced at her, threw off the silk blanket draped over her, tied her hair back, and slowly got up.

A porcelain teapot from the 18th-century Far East floats up, pouring a strong cup of coffee for Wenda, who sits opposite the witch.

"What are you doing here?" she asked lazily, as if the dream she had just experienced had never happened.

Before me, on a round marble table, lay various kinds of cups and glasses.

Besides the first item, there was also a newspaper on the table.

The Daily Prophet

In the most prominent position, on the front page, was a photo of a tall, thin man with medium-length black hair and tattered clothes.

His hair was greasy, and his face was dirty; it was hard to tell how many days it had been since he'd taken care of himself. His deep-set eyes and pale skin made him look more like a vampire.

"I'm warning you." Professor McGonagall stood up, her dark green robes completely obscuring the firelight streaming in from outside the room.

"Even if Albus allows you to stay at Hogwarts, that's just his promise!"

"Hogwarts has never accepted a criminal as an approved professor!"

"Really?" Wenda leaned back in the armchair, raising her long legs and crossing them over the other.

Then, holding the teacup with both hands, he smiled slightly.

She still looks so beautiful, as if time has never taken anything away from her, unless you look at the wrinkles around her eyes and her half-gray hair.

"If my memory serves me right, Lockhart from last semester was a 'criminal,' wasn't he?"

"At least we didn't know his true nature back then, and you—" Professor McGonagall didn't intend to argue with Vanda about Dumbledore's misjudgment of someone.

She doesn't care about anything, even if Vanda killed many people with Grindelwald, or how she survived the United States' pursuit until now, etc.

Professor McGonagall wasn't interested.

The only thing she cared about was the young wizards at Hogwarts!

"I'll be keeping a close eye on you, Rozier. If you harm even one of your junior wizards, I'll immediately report you to the Federation, even if Albus chooses to protect you!"

Professor McGonagall stared at her with a cold gaze.

"This is Hogwarts, and I hope you remember that!" With that, the professor turned and walked away without a trace of emotion.

The moment she left, the exquisite crystal chandelier automatically lit up with flames.

The entire room was relit in brown light.

"Hmph~" Wenda waved her hand sharply, and the door to her room slammed shut with a bang.

Then she put down her teacup.

She went to the window, and through the darkness that seemed like midnight, amidst the torrential rain, she seemed to see something familiar.

A slender black veil, ignoring the thunder and rain, rose against the wind, fluttering like a banner above Hogwarts.

Light and fluid.

That—that was the call of darkness.

It is a great symbol of Grindelwald's rise.

However, before that...

Wenda stared coldly at the rain outside the window; she had to get rid of that scourge.

But she cannot be the one to do it.

Darkness rises, and from this moment on, the demon king or evil spirit will gradually tear away its disguise.

(End of this chapter)