HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

"It seems we need to change our approach to this conversation."

He took out his wand and gently tapped it on Morgan's forehead.

An uncontrollable fear suddenly erupted in the old wizard's eyes. He frantically twisted his head, but could not avoid the seemingly slow but actually unavoidable touch.

As soon as the tip of the staff touched his skin, Sagres immediately activated Legilimency.

This is a violent invasion on a spiritual level.

Morgan's body trembled violently, his eyes rolled back, and a choking sound came from his throat.

Secret gatherings, bizarre rituals, research on the plague, a deep-seated hatred for the church, and knowledge of other members flooded into Sagrais's mind like a burst dam.

A moment later, Sagres withdrew his hand, and Morgan went limp as if he had lost all his bones. If he hadn't been tied up with branches, he probably would have collapsed to the ground, only able to groan unconsciously.

Sagles turned his gaze to Isabella, whose eyes were filled with despair.

The same process happened again; Sagles's staff tip touched her forehead, forcibly reading her memories.

"really……"

Sagles muttered to himself, confirming his suspicions.

These two were indeed members of the "Withering School," a loose but dangerous dark wizarding organization that was keen on researching death, plague, and forbidden magic.

In short, they are anti-human and anti-social elements.

What puzzled Sagres was that, to his knowledge, there was no record of the "Wither School" in the later magical history.

It seems to be just a minor episode that was active in a specific period and region, and eventually disappeared into the long river of history.

He learned from their memories that the "Withering School" was not a monolithic entity, and its members had different goals.

Among this group of dark wizards, some were driven by power, some by revenge, and some by pure destructive zeal. However, their numbers were greater than he had anticipated, and they were scattered throughout Europe.

And an unexpected discovery caught his attention.

He found the same name in both of their memories—Lochtis.

This member of the "School of Decay," who shares the same name as the raven Sagrais, is now cleverly exploiting the turmoil in Durmstrang to seize profits.

“Lochtis…”

Sagres repeated the name softly, a playful look on his face.

This time travel is getting more and more interesting.

After casually sipping two boxes of Magic Sweet Soup, Sagres ignored the two mentally broken dark wizards and silently chased after the direction the witch hunters had left in.

The two had lost their spellcasting abilities and were bound by the forest; their fate was sealed—either they would slowly die in weakness, or they would be discovered and eaten by passing wild beasts.

……

As the sun set, it dyed the horizon a blood-red hue.

The witch hunt team set up camp in a clearing in the woods beside a creek.

In the center of the camp, the tent belonging to the leading clergyman was quite conspicuous. It was made of thick canvas and silk, and was spacious. There was even a finely made carpet at the entrance.

The tent was dimly lit by warm light and a faint scent of incense, its comfort and luxury far exceeding any dwelling a villager could ever imagine in their lifetime.

In contrast, the knights' tents were much simpler, surrounding the main camp to form a protective barrier.

Further out, the prisoners, chained together like a bunch of withered fruit, were haphazardly tied to the roots of a large tree, their hunger and exhaustion ignored by everyone.

In one corner of the camp, a knight drew his gleaming greatsword and cleanly finished off the bull that had been brought from the village and was said to be "unbelievably strong."

With a dull thud, several accompanying servants immediately stepped forward and skillfully began to skin and cut the beef.

On the other side, wisps of smoke rose from a large pot, where a thick soup mixed with dried meat was simmering, its aroma filling the air and further stimulating the prisoners' empty stomachs.

These "wizards," chained together, sat lifelessly on the ground, their eyes vacant, as if their souls had long since left their bodies.

A high priest's lieutenant glanced at them with a look of disgust on his face, pointed casually, and whispered a few words to a knight beside him.

A cruel smile immediately appeared on the knight's face. He strode up to the prisoners, raised his iron-booted foot, and kicked the few closest to him hard.

"Who gave you permission to sit down? A bunch of filthy maggots! Stand up!" he roared, spittle flying everywhere.

The prisoners were kicked and staggered, groaning in pain as they struggled to get up, but the chains and their weakness made them move slowly.

The knight seemed to enjoy the thrill of controlling the life and death of others.

His gaze swept over the terrified prisoners, finally settling on a young man who looked the thinnest and whose eyes were particularly desperate.

He grabbed the young man by the hair and roughly dragged him out of the crowd, the chains rattling.

"What kind of look did you give me just now?" the knight grinned maliciously, slamming his gauntlet-clad fist into the young man's stomach.

"Ugh!" the young man screamed and collapsed to the ground.

But this is only the beginning.

The knight ground his boot soles into the young man's fingers, listening to the faint cracking of bones and the man's agonizing screams, as if he were appreciating beautiful music.

He would sometimes strike the young man's back with the scabbard, and sometimes lift him up and slap him hard across the face.

The other knights and clergy watched from the sidelines, some indifferent, some even chuckling softly, treating this cruel torture as a form of entertainment for the camp that night.

The young man who received special care quickly developed bruises and swelling, with blood coming from his mouth and nose, and curled up on the ground, convulsing uncontrollably.

Chapter 396 High Priest: There's an assassin!

While the knight was abusing the young man, the sorcerer named Omar kept his head down and remained indifferent throughout.

He listened to the young man's screams and felt the malice emanating from the knights around him, his heart as calm as a stagnant pool, even carrying a hint of barely perceptible contempt.

"A bunch of hyenas who only know how to torment Muggles for fun and make money everywhere..."

Omar coldly assessed the knights and clergy in his mind, "...the other group are cowards who are afraid of death, their hearts filled with fear and greed."

His gaze swept over his numb and terrified fellow prisoners, without a trace of sympathy.

The knight's atrocities are escalating.

He seemed to feel that punching and kicking were not enough, so he pulled a half-burnt wooden stick from the campfire and grinned as he walked toward the young man who was already on the verge of death.

"Let the sacred fire purify the evil within you, kid!" he laughed wildly, branding the young man's thigh hard with the red-hot wooden stick.

"Sizzle—!"

The sound of flesh burning was sickening, accompanied by the young man's heart-wrenching screams, which sounded particularly shrill due to his weak breath. A smell mixed with the stench of burning and blood filled the air.

The knights around him burst into laughter, as if they were witnessing the most hilarious farce.

Even the deputy clergyman smiled slightly, seemingly quite approving of this method of "purification".

The abusive knight seemed to sense Omar's unusual gaze, which made him very uncomfortable.

He threw aside the burning stick, strode toward Omar, grabbed his hair, and forced him to lift his head.

"What are you looking at, you old man!"

The knight glared fiercely at Omar's seemingly emotionless eyes. "You also want to taste the Holy Flame?"

Omar didn't speak, but calmly stared back at him with his cold eyes, a mocking smile even appearing on his lips.

This expression completely enraged the knight.

"You damned wizard!" the knight roared, raising his fist to strike.

Just then—

"enough."

A slightly lazy yet very authoritative voice came from the entrance of the main tent.

The high priest leading the group came out at some point, wearing a velvet robe and holding a quill pen, seemingly disturbed by the noise outside.

He glanced at the young man on the ground who was almost tortured to death, then looked at Omar being held by the knight, and frowned.

“You can do whatever you want with the others, but this old man must be brought back intact to report. If he's ruined, it won't look good on the honor roll.”

The priest spoke in a flat tone, as if he were discussing the condition of a few items.

The knight reluctantly released Omar and spat, "Consider yourself lucky, old man."

After the high priest reprimanded the overly excited knight and maintained a semblance of dignity and order, he told everyone, "Save your energy for tomorrow's journey." Then he turned and lifted the tent flap, returning to his luxurious and warm tent.

The sweet, cloying scent of incense wafted over, dispelling the faint smells of burning and blood emanating from outside.

He had just breathed a sigh of relief and was about to continue enjoying the rare peace when his gaze suddenly froze.

Right in front of his table, which was covered with soft velvet and had silver candlesticks on it, a young man dressed in a simple black robe was standing with his back to him, casually flipping through the thick-covered magic book that he had just placed on the table.

The young man moved with natural ease, as if he were the master of the place.

Who are you?!

The priest's alarm bells rang in his mind, and he shouted sternly, his hand instinctively reaching into his robes where he usually kept his holy emblem and ring.

He couldn't understand how this person had broken through the outer knight guards and entered his tent, which he had set up with security magic, so silently.

Sagres seemed not to hear his question, continuing to turn the pages of the book at a leisurely pace, his eyes quickly scanning the contents, occasionally shaking his head slightly and letting out a barely audible sigh, as if he was quite disappointed with the contents of the book.

This complete disregard angered the high priest, but also made him feel uneasy.

Without further hesitation, he quickly chanted a short incantation, and a sliver of scorching white light condensed at his fingertips—it was the Holy Flame spell he was most proficient in.

However, just as his spell was about to take shape, the soft, expensive wool carpet beneath his feet seemed to suddenly come to life!

The tough wool fibers, like countless tiny tentacles, suddenly coiled upwards at an astonishing speed, instantly wrapping around his feet and calves, and rapidly spreading upwards, tightening around his waist, chest, and arms.

He felt as if he were being strangled by a giant python; the powerful binding force made it impossible for him to move, and even breathing became difficult. The holy light that he had just gathered also dissipated instantly.

"Well!"

The high priest struggled in terror, only to find that all his strength was futile against the strange carpet binding him.

His unease quickly turned into fear, and he opened his mouth, trying to call for help from the guards outside the tent:

"Guards! Protectors! There are spikes—!"

Do you think they can hear you?