HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

"In the last two lessons, I explained all the basic uses of healing spells. If you're willing to use your brains, you'll find today's practical lesson isn't difficult at all." He waved his wand in the air, and a wound appeared on every Flobber Caterpillar. The pain made them wriggle their bodies slowly.

He added, "Of course, to verify your true level, I won't apply mechanical thinking in this lesson; that's standard practice!"

Hermione Granger gripped her wand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

She stared at the dying Froebeest caterpillar on the table, its fluorescent green skin bearing a shocking wound from which pale blue fluid oozed.

“Let’s begin, everyone.” Sagres’ voice echoed in the classroom. “If you can’t save your patient within half an hour… you’ll have to participate in the Trauma Roulette.”

Hermione's forehead was beaded with sweat. She took a deep breath, recalling the instruction from the last lesson: "Your wrist should rotate like you're drawing a spiral..."

The tip of her wand trembled and glowed faintly.

The classroom was filled with the sounds of incantations, interspersed with various situations:

"Healed completely! -- No, how did its legs grow onto its back?!"

"We need to stop the bleeding first! Wait... why is the wound glowing?"

Oliver Wood's caterpillar simply rolled over, looking like it was saying, "Let me die already."

Half an hour later, with a tap on the lectern, all the caterpillars floated onto the lectern.

Sargeras used his wand to split them into two piles: one pile was healthy and wriggling, while the other pile was stiff like withered branches.

“A regrettable casualty rate.” He poked the pile of “fallen” caterpillars, which immediately turned to ashes. “It seems some of you are better suited to be executioners than healers.”

Then he picked out a few deformed ones from the pile of "survivors": one had grown six pairs of abdominal feet, another's wounds had healed, but its entire body was twisted into the shape of a bow...

“As for these few…” Sagres used a levitation charm to make the bow-tie caterpillar fly into the air, where it was drooping its head listlessly. “If they could talk, they would be begging for the Avada Kedavra curse right now.”

Hermione lowered her head in shame—her caterpillar was the "bow."

Sagrass's wand flashed through the air, and the classroom walls began to writhe and deform as if they were alive.

The stone brick floor slowly sank, and a circular grandstand rose up around it, instantly transforming the place into a miniature magical arena.

"All those whose treatments failed, please come forward and form a circle," Sagres commanded, waving his wand once more.

A sudden gust of air whipped everyone's hair up, and ten flashing red lights appeared in the center of the arena—those were floating curse marks.

“The rules are simple,” Sagres’s voice echoed through the arena. He tapped his long, slender fingers, and the names of ten evil curses appeared in the air as they burned:

[Front teeth like a big stick]

[Hot and spicy]

【Localized Hair Growth Curse】

……

“Those struck by the spell—” he waved his wand, and a red light began to wander randomly across the arena, “The person to their left has twenty seconds to cast a healing spell. Success, they become spectators; failure…”

He gave a meaningful smile. "The spell will continue until someone can break it."

The students formed a circle, some of them with trembling knees, desperately trying to recall the knowledge from the previous two lessons.

Suddenly, a red light shot out like a venomous snake and struck Terence Higgins’ nose instantly—his face immediately sprouted a dense cluster of boils at a visible speed.

"Merlin's beard!" he cried out incoherently.

Marcus Flint, to his left, gasped, nearly dropping his wand. He only had twenty seconds—and his mind was still filled with those Flobber caterpillars.

Twenty seconds passed quickly, and the chaos in the arena was escalating—the fire curse on Terence Higgins' face had just transferred to Marcus Flint's face when the Slytherin Quidditch captain let out a howl that was not human.

To his left, Angelina Johnson was already holding her wand, ready to unleash her magic.

"Healed completely!"

Her wand emitted a green light, but the swollen boils only subsided briefly before rebounding with even greater ferocity, bulging on Marcus's face like a volcano, and even beginning to erupt tiny red sparks.

Twenty seconds later, the spell continued to be transmitted to Angelina Johnson, while Oliver Wood on her left nervously held his wand.

"Heal quickly!"

The Gryffindor goalkeeper's wand trembled like a broom handle. When the spell struck its target, the boils not only did not subside, but instead swelled to the size of a baby's fist, with sulfurous smoke rising from their tips, like small volcanoes.

A deafening roar of laughter erupted from the stands, even the usually very serious Percy Weasley burst into laughter, because a second spell had been cast on the field.

Marcus, who had just escaped death, frantically pulled at his wildly growing nose hairs again, and Angelina, whose face was still covered in lava-like features, had to cast a healing spell on him once more.

Of course, there are one or two who are "promoted" to audience members due to successful treatment, but most people in this circle are very poor at practical skills. They inherit the spells again and again, then frantically cast the spells again and again, and finally fail again and again without any doubt.

But it was under the baptism of one evil curse after another that their spellcasting techniques gradually became more proficient, and the spell light became more stable.

Some even successfully used other spells, such as cooling and soothing spells to relieve pain, and hair removal spells to combat rampant hair growth...

"That's more like it."

Sagres watched the spell light gradually stabilize in the arena and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Chapter 71 The Unscrupulous Merchant

Sagres took advantage of his free time to visit Diagon Alley, walking through the damp archway of the Leaky Cauldron and into the bustling crowd.

The sign of the Magical Creatures Shop creaked in the breeze. He squinted and glanced at the window, where several motra rats were listlessly munching on leaves.

"Would you like one? Or are you looking to buy some materials?" The shopkeeper peeked out from behind the counter, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. "A complete rat pelt can be made into excellent anti-curse gloves..."

Sagres pinched a stinger between two fingers and examined it closely in the sunlight: "Is something else mixed in?"

"What are you saying!" The shopkeeper quickly took the items from his hands. "These are top-quality materials. I guarantee you won't find anything better in all of England..."

Sagres raised an eyebrow, casually rummaged through the shelves, and finally picked out half a dried-out Motra mouse.

This contains what he needs, and it hasn't been dyed with any weird fluorescent powder; it's just normal merchandise.

How much is this?

"Ah, sir, you have an excellent eye. This is the torso of a Motra Rat King. Hunting it took a lot of effort, and we even lost two wizards in the process. Moreover, this half of the torso has undergone the most rigorous processing by the fairies, even its skin..."

"Just tell me how much it costs!" Sagres didn't want to listen to any more nonsense. This was just a regular Motra mouse, worth no more than a few Galleons.

"Well, this price is quite reasonable, only 3000 Galleons!"

Which direction is Gringotts in?

"In this direction, sir, do you not have enough money?" The shopkeeper's eyes shone with enthusiasm.

"What I mean is, why don't you just go and rob Gringotts?"

Sagres rolled his eyes, a rare occurrence for him, and turned to leave.

They really think he's a sucker. Does his face have "idiot" written all over it besides his handsome looks?

"Hey, sir, wait a minute..." The shopkeeper quickly grabbed his robe. "The price is negotiable. How about 300 Galleons? Consider it a friendly price to make friends!"

Sagres didn't stop walking and continued out.

“Oh dear…” The shopkeeper tugged at his wizard’s robe again. “You got a good deal. I’m going back to Germany to retire soon, and I’m not planning to keep this shop open. How about 30 Galleons? I really can’t go any lower, or I’ll lose money!”

Sagres still didn't turn around, and the shopkeeper's forehead was covered in fine beads of sweat.

"Alright, alright, you win. 3 Galleons, I'll only charge you 3 Galleons. I swear this is the cost price."

Sagres finally stopped and slowly turned around. "1 Galleon!"

He added decisively, "Otherwise, you can just let it mold in your shop!"

"Merlin's beard? You're too stingy! One Galleon isn't even enough to cover the shipping cost!"

Sagles turned around again. "Then you can keep it as your store's prized possession!"

"Fine, fine, one gallon it is." The shop owner finally gave in.

but--

"It's too late. I'm only willing to give you 5 sisco now!"

The shopkeeper stared at Sagrais in disbelief, his lips and fingers trembling, unable to utter a word for a long time.

Sagres stared at him expressionlessly. Finally, the shopkeeper looked up at the sky and sighed heavily.

"Okay, 5 sachets it is, pay up!"

Sagras smiled and took out five silver shicos from his pocket, handing them to the other person.

As he turned and walked toward the alley, he could still faintly hear the shop owner's curses and the laughter of the onlookers.

The moment you step into Flip-Flop Alley, the putrid air envelops you like a viscous liquid.

The shop windows on both sides of the alley displayed a variety of disturbing items: eyeballs soaked in yellow water, withered hands that seemed to scream, and rows of glass jars filled with suspicious liquids.

Sagles's boots crunched uncomfortably on the sewage-strewn pavement.

He looked closely at the shops, and then suddenly saw a wooden sign that said what he wanted.

Sagres pushed open the creaking wooden door of "Midnight Animals," ignoring the dying groans of the doorbell.

The shop was filled with a pungent smell of putridity mixed with herbs. A hunchbacked old witch raised her head from behind the counter, her greasy hair matted together.

"Are you selling materials related to Madagascar cats here?"

Sagres went straight to the point, his eyes scanning the dusty wooden frames on both sides.

"What? Oh, right..."

The old witch's cloudy eyes suddenly lit up: "I'm the only one in all of Britain who has the real thing!"

She grinned, revealing a few blackened teeth.

Sagres thought to himself that the previous person had said the same thing, but he still subtly verified it, "Are there any alive? Take them out and let me see..."

The old witch mysteriously pulled a glass jar covered with a black cloth from under the counter.

She first stuck her head into the black cloth, and after a while, she nervously lifted the cloth—inside the jar was a completely black cat with unusually long limbs and large ears.

It doesn't seem to be a problem.

Just as Sagrais bent down to examine it, the old witch suddenly covered it with the black cloth again: "Too dangerous! Last time, one of our guests almost had his eyes gouged out by it!"

“I want some beard,” he said calmly, looking up.

"Hold on……"