, Section 618: Before Dawn 2

Chapter 609, Section 618: Before Dawn 2

The raven swooped down.

Its feathers are jet black, yet they gleam with a metallic sheen.

Its wings are broad and powerful, each flap creating a hurricane; its eyes are deep and unfathomable, gleaming with wisdom beyond the mundane. It swoops down from the sky with astonishing speed, like a black arrow.

It shot straight at the stitched-together monster!

The stitched-together monster's eyes widened simultaneously, their dark red light flickering. Bellatrix's voice emanated from the fused half-face, tinged with barely concealed fear: "Raven—"

The raven stopped abruptly less than three feet from the ground.

Its wings suddenly spread open, whipping up a gust of wind that scattered the pebbles and dust everywhere. The change in its body was not a transformation, not an illusion, but a more fundamental and natural one.

The fang's body stretched and expanded, its feathers became robes, its wings became arms, and its claws became feet.

A boy stands in the middle of the ruins.

He looked about twelve or thirteen years old, with black hair and delicate features. He was dressed in ordinary dark clothes, his hands in his pockets. His eyes were dark and deep, like a bottomless pool. He just stood there, looking no different from any other ordinary twelve-year-old child.

But everyone knows he isn't.

Flitwick's pupils contracted slightly. He didn't recognize the boy, but he recognized the raven. Those ancient legends, those accounts of the embodiment of destiny, those dusty tomes buried deep within the Hogwarts library—he had read them. He thought they were just legends, the imagination of ancient wizards, just mystical embellishments given to inexplicable phenomena.

But now, the raven stood before him, transformed into a boy.

Ian Prince turned and looked at the stitched-together monster. His expression was calm, his deep eyes devoid of any emotion. There was no anger, no fear, only a faint, almost serene understanding.

"Bellatrix," he said, his voice calm and composed, "you've become uglier again."

The stitched-together monster's body shuddered violently. Its eyes blinked simultaneously, flashing a dark red light wildly. On Bellatrix's half-face, the mouth opened, emitting a sharp, furious roar.

"Who...who are you?!"

Ian tilted his head, a hint of a smile flashing in his deep eyes.

"You don't know who I am?" His voice was calm and composed. "Your master has been searching for me for so long, and you still don't know who I am?"

The stitched-together monster trembled violently. Its eyes widened simultaneously, the dark red light growing ever brighter. It knew, of course. It knew the raven, the being that kept its master awake at night, the mysterious boy who stood on the reef in Azkaban, watching his master flee in disarray.

"Raven—" Bellatrix's voice was low and hoarse, filled with a morbid, almost manic hatred, "You are that raven—"

Ian nodded. "That's me."

He took a step forward. The stitched-up monster took a step back. Their eyes blinked simultaneously, their dark red light flickering.

"Where is your master?" Ian asked, his voice calm and composed. "Is he hiding in the back again, sending you all to your deaths?"

Bellatrix's lips twitched on the other half of her face. "Master—Master won't let you get away with this! Master has the power of deep space! Master is a legend! What are you?!"

Ian looked at her, his deep eyes devoid of any emotion.

"Who do I think I am?" His voice was calm and composed. "I'm here to collect debts."

He raised his hand, and the wand slid out of his sleeve and into his palm.

The stitched-together monster moved first.

It gave Ian no time to prepare—five arms rose simultaneously, their claws flashing through the air like five streaks of cold light, aiming straight for Ian's head, chest, and abdomen! The speed was astonishing, and the force was enough to tear steel apart!

Ian did not dodge.

With a gentle flick of his wand, a beam of silvery-white light shot from its tip, forming a rotating, shield-like barrier in front of him. The claws struck the barrier, producing a piercing, metallic clang, sparks flying, yet they could not penetrate. The stitched-together monster swung its claws frantically—once, twice, three times—each impact causing the barrier to tremble slightly, but it remained unmoved.

"That's it?" Ian looked at it, his voice calm and composed.

Bellatrix's lips twitched on the other half of her face. "You—!"

She abruptly retracted her claws, and her eyes simultaneously emitted a blinding, dark red light. The light emanated from her body, like countless tiny, blazing rays, shooting towards Ian from all directions! Each ray carried the chaotic qualities of deep space, enough to corrode any matter and scorch any soul!

Ian's wand spun rapidly in his hand, forming a swirling, whirlwind-like barrier of silvery light around him. The crimson rays struck the barrier, shattering and vanishing into nothingness. Not a single ray could penetrate it.

"Didn't your master tell you?" Ian's voice was calm and composed. "The power of deep space is useless against me."

The stitched-together monster's body trembled violently. Its eyes blinked wildly, their dark red light flickering erratically. On Bellatrix's half-face, the mouth opened, emitting a sharp, furious roar.

"Impossible! Master's power is limitless! You—you can't possibly do it!"

"Impossible what?" Ian interrupted her. "Impossible to block? Impossible to live? Impossible to stand here?"

He took a step forward. The stitched-up monster took a step back.

"Your master is very strong," Ian said, his voice calm and composed. "But his strength is borrowed. It was given to him by the deep space, bestowed upon him by those indescribable beings. It is not his own."

He paused, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips.

"And my strength is something I earned myself."

He raised his wand, its tip pointing at the stitched monster. A silvery-white beam of light shot from the tip, as thin as a hair, yet carrying an indescribable, irresistible power. The light struck the stitched monster's chest; there was no explosion, no impact, only a silent, utter annihilation. The flesh touched by the light instantly turned to nothingness, vanishing piece by piece like pencil drawings erased by an eraser.

The stitched-together monster let out a piercing roar, its eyes closing simultaneously, a dark red light flickering wildly beneath its eyelids. It retreated, trying to escape, but Ian's wand was pointed at it, the silvery-white light relentlessly pursuing it, catching up wherever it ran.

"You can't escape," Ian said calmly and composedly. "Your master abandoned you. He sent you here to die, while he hid behind and watched you perish."

On the other half of Bellatrix's face, her mouth opened, and a sharp, desperate scream escaped. "No—Master won't abandon me—Master loves me—"

"Love you?" Ian shook his head. "He doesn't even love himself, how could he love you?"

With a flick of the wand, the silvery-white light suddenly spread, enveloping the entire body of the stitched-together monster. Its eyes opened simultaneously, emitting a final, desperate, dark red glow. Tentacles emerged from its body, flailing wildly, trying to grasp something, trying to escape the light.

But all is in vain.

The silvery-white light grew brighter and more intense, gradually engulfing the stitched-together monster's body. Its claws turned to ash, its arms to ash, its eyes to ash. Its roar grew weaker and weaker, fading into the distance, finally becoming a faint, sobbing sigh as it vanished into the light.

When the light faded, the stitched-together monster was gone.

On the ground, only a pile of ashes and dark red traces still smoldering were left.

Ian put away his wand, looked at the pile of ashes, and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned around and looked at the Death Eaters.

The Death Eaters stood there, wands raised, but none dared to cast a spell. They stared at the boy, at the pile of ashes, at the still-smoldering traces, their minds blank.

A stitched monster—the one that baffled the Hogwarts professors, sent the Aurors into retreat, and instilled in their awe that they dared not approach—was reduced to ashes in minutes by a twelve-year-old boy.

Ian looked at them, his deep eyes devoid of any emotion.

"Get out," he said, his voice calm and composed.

The Death Eaters snapped out of their daze and turned to run. Some vanished into black smoke, some Apparated, and some tumbled and scrambled towards the sea, leaping into the ocean. No one looked back, no one dared to look back, and no one wanted to be next.

The prisoners scattered and fled. They didn't know who the boy was, why he possessed such power, or whether he would attack them. They only knew that if they didn't run, they might be the next to turn to ashes.

A few minutes later, only the Hogwarts professors, Aurors, and the black-haired boy standing in the center of the ruins remained in the ruins.

Flitwick looked at Ian, his large eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions: shock, awe, and a hint of barely concealed confusion. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found himself unable to utter a sound.

Sprout, supporting the injured professor, looked at Ian, equally speechless. Her apron was stained with blood, and her face was covered in dust and tear stains, but her eyes shone with an indescribable light.

Slughorn leaned against the wall, panting heavily, sweat still dripping from his forehead. He looked at Ian, at the pile of ashes, at the still-smoldering traces, and a complex, indescribable emotion welled up inside him. He knew who the boy was—at least, he knew who the raven was. Those ancient legends, those accounts of incarnations of destiny, those dusty books sealed away in the deepest recesses of the Hogwarts library—he had read them. He had thought they were just legends.

But now, the raven was standing right in front of him.

Shackled emerged from the tower, followed by several Aurors who were still able to stand. He looked at Ian, at the pile of ashes, at the Death Eaters and prisoners who had already fled. His face was expressionless, but his eyes churned with complex emotions.

He walked over to Flitwick and asked in a low voice, "Who is that?"

Fritilla shook his head. "I don't know," his voice was hoarse and calm, "but I've seen him."

Shakel glanced at him but didn't press the matter. He simply looked at the boy, at his calm, somewhat childish face, and at his deep, seemingly all-seeing eyes.

Ian turned around and looked at the professors and the Aurors. His expression was calm, and his deep eyes held no emotion. He looked for a few seconds, then nodded.

"You've worked hard," he said, his voice calm and composed.

Then he turned around and walked out of the ruins.

No one stopped him, no one dared to stop him. They just stood there, watching the boy's back as he walked further and further away in the morning light, watching his figure disappear into the end of the ruins.

Shakel remained silent for a long time before finally speaking: "Who exactly is he?"

No one could answer him.

Flitwick stared in the direction Ian had disappeared, a complex light flickering in his large eyes. He knew who that boy was.

At least, he knew who that raven was. He had read those ancient legends, those accounts of the embodiment of destiny, those dusty books buried deep within the Hogwarts library. He thought they were just legends, just the imagination of ancient wizards, just the mystique artificially bestowed upon inexplicable phenomena.

But now, the raven stood before him, transformed into a boy.

"He's Dumbledore's henchman," Flitwick finally said, his voice hoarse and calm. "Anything else—I don't know."

Shakel nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

He knew that some things were not for him to ask. Some powers were not for him to understand. Some existences were not for him to touch.

"Everyone, it's alright now."

Ian walked slowly and calmly out of the ruins. Morning light filtered through the gaps in the clouds, casting a faint golden hue on his black hair. His robes fluttered gently in the sea breeze, and the blasted rubble and dust scattered at his feet, as if making way for him.

Shaker watched his retreating figure, hesitated for a moment, and then chased after him.

"Wait a minute." His voice was hoarse and tired, but carried an undeniable firmness.

Ian stopped and turned to look at him. His deep eyes held no emotion, only a calm, indifferent gaze.

"Is there anything else?"

Shakel opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found himself at a loss for words. He wanted to say "thank you," but the words felt too weak. Thank you—three words, how could they be enough? If it hadn't been for this boy, they might all have died under the claws of that stitched-together monster.

Those professors, those Aurors, those wounded still bleeding in the tower—they all owe him a life.

"I am Kingsley Shackle, Deputy Director of the Auror Office," he finally said, his voice much calmer. "The Ministry of Magic will keep a record of today's events. We will not forget your help."

Ian looked at him, a faint smile flashing in his deep eyes.

"No need to remember. No need for thanks." His voice was calm and composed. "I'm not here to help you. I'm here to solve my own problem."

Upon hearing this...

Shakel's brow furrowed slightly.