Harm and Opportunity

Chapter 381 Harm and Opportunity (4K) (1/2) (Happy New Year, please vote!)

Snapped!

A sharp, distorted explosion rang out in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office.

Dumbledore staggered, almost falling from mid-air, and crashed heavily onto a small table with thin legs on which a silver instrument was placed.

Crash! The exquisite instruments tumbled to the ground, making a piercing shattering sound.

He himself could no longer hold on and fell to one knee. The Elder Wand fell to the ground, and he gripped his right forearm, which had become black, dry, and charred, with his left hand.

The gold ring remained firmly on his finger, its black gemstone gleaming ominously in the warm office light. Before he could even see his surroundings, the intense pain and the curse's frantic draining of his life force swallowed his vision, his body slumped forward, and he fell into a deep coma.

"Albus!"

"Merlin!"

"He's injured! Look at his hand!"

The portraits of all the past principals on the office wall were instantly awakened, bursting into a frenzy from their drowsy state.

They screamed, and the figures in the picture frame moved frantically.

"Quiet! Quiet!" the portrait of Lady Delis-de-Went, a former healer of St. Mungo's, shouted sharply. She immediately saw the urgency of the situation. "The dark magic is spreading! His life force is draining away! Phineas! Go! Summon Minerva-McGroom! Now! Immediately!"

Phineas Nigellus, who was always fond of sarcasm, had no time to complain at this moment. His portrait instantly went blank, and he quickly rushed to the vice principal's office along the countless portrait corridors in the castle.

Just then, a fiery red figure swiftly flew down from the gilded perch.

Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, let out a mournful cry and landed beside the unconscious old man. Its eyes were filled with human-like pain and anxiety, and without hesitation, it lowered its head, pressing its beak close to Dumbledore's blackened, withered hand. Large, hot, pearl-like phoenix tears, like beads from a broken string, dripped incessantly onto the charred wrist and the skin around the ring.

Sizzle—

A piercing sound, like cold water dripping into boiling oil, suddenly rang out, accompanied by a large amount of acrid white smoke that rose up and smelled burnt.

The powerful healing magic contained in the phoenix tears clashed fiercely with the malevolent dark magic curse on the ring. The charring seemed to slow its spread slightly, but the white smoke from the evaporating tears also burned the surrounding healthy skin, creating a horrific and protracted situation.

The office door was flung open, and Professor McGonagall, dressed in her morning gown, her hair even a little disheveled, and her face deathly pale, rushed in.

When she saw Dumbledore lying on the ground, especially his gruesome hand and Fawkes standing anxiously beside him, she almost stopped breathing.

"Merlin—" She covered her mouth, but years of experience allowed her to quickly force herself to calm down. She strode forward, knelt beside Dumbledore, and held her wand in her hand.

She didn't rashly touch Dumbledore or the strange ring, but quickly cast several diagnostic spells. A flash of light, and her face grew even paler—her life force was steadily draining away, the root cause being the ring, an extremely ancient and malevolent dark magic curse she had never seen before.

"It must be removed!" Professor McGonagall made the decision immediately.

She took a deep breath, carefully aimed the tip of her wand at the ring, and whispered a variant of the levitation charm, attempting to "remove" it from Dumbledore's swollen, blackened finger.

This process must be extremely precise; any extra touch could worsen the curse.

Under the influence of magic, the ring slipped off the finger joint extremely slowly, bit by bit.

The moment it finally detaches completely from the skin

Dumbledore convulsed violently, coughed violently, and slowly opened his eyes. His deep blue eyes were now dull and lifeless, filled with extreme exhaustion and pain, but consciousness had finally returned.

"Albus!" Professor McGonagall's voice was choked with emotion and relief. She quickly placed the ring she had taken off aside with a piece of velvet cloth torn from the table.

Dumbledore's gaze lingered for a moment before he finally focused with difficulty on McGonagall's face. His voice was so hoarse it was almost indistinguishable, each word seeming to be squeezed out from a broken bellows: "Minerva—call—Severus—come—"

quick----"

"I'll go right away!" Professor McGonagall immediately got up.

"Wait—" Dumbledore used his intact left hand, which was now trembling slightly, to suddenly and forcefully grab the hem of Professor McGonagall's dressing gown. This action exhausted the little strength he had just gathered, leaving him panting heavily again.

Professor McGonagall stopped immediately and bent down to listen.

Dumbledore stared into her eyes and, in an extremely weak yet remarkably clear and resolute voice, added his final, crucial instruction: "—This——do——do not—let Lynch——know——keep it from him—"

After saying that, he seemed to have used up his last bit of willpower. His hand loosened weakly, his eyes closed slowly again, and he fell into a weak but relatively peaceful sleep.

Only his charred and withered right hand still spoke of the horror he had just experienced.

Professor McGonagall stared at him in shock, then at the evil ring covered by velvet, her eyes filled with confusion and worry, but even more so with unconditional obedience to the headmaster's orders.

She had no time to hesitate.

She swiftly and carefully used a levitation charm to gently lift Dumbledore from the cold floor and place him in the large, thickly cushioned armchair by the fireplace, where he often sat. The old man's body sank softly into the armchair, his charred and withered right hand hanging limply on the armrest—a heartbreaking sight.

"Fox," she turned to Phoenix, her voice urgent with tension, "continue, stabilize the injury as much as possible. Keep an eye on the headmaster." Fox let out a low, whimpering cry, obediently leaping onto the back of the armchair, continuing to drip precious tears onto the horrific wound, the white smoke still hissing.

McGonagall looked up again at the circle of anxious portraits on the wall, her gaze particularly falling on Ms. Dalis de Winter, a former healer. "Gentlemen, please look after the Headmaster and watch for any changes." Her tone returned to its usual sternness, as if assigning a classroom task, but her white fingers gripping her wand betrayed her nervousness. "Watch that ring; don't let anyone come near or touch it. I'll go fetch Professor Snape immediately and will be back soon."

"Go quickly, Minerva!" the portrait of Delis urged. "We'll be watching."

Professor McGonagall took one last, deep look at the unconscious Dumbledore and the isolated evil ring, then abruptly turned, the hem of her morning robe fluttering behind her. She practically ran out of the Headmaster's office, the heavy wooden door closing behind her, temporarily sealing off the somber and eerie atmosphere inside.

She didn't choose to use the Patronus—Dumbledore's situation required an in-person, immediate explanation and involved top secret. Snape's office was underground, where there were no portrait corridors for quick communication. She had to go in person.

The corridor was deserted, save for the echoing of her hurried footsteps against the stone walls. Her mind was a jumbled mess: Where had the headmaster gone? What was that ring? Why did it possess such terrifying dark magic? Why—why couldn't she tell Professor Lynch? Countless questions churned within her, but she forced them all to be suppressed. The most important thing now was to find Snape—he was the most knowledgeable in dark magic and potions at Hogwarts, perhaps the only one who could help at this moment.

She raced down the spiral staircase, her heart pounding in her chest. Inside the headmaster's office, only the phoenix's mournful cry, the hushed whispers of the portraits, and the silent struggle of the greatest white wizard in his unconscious state against the hellish burns on his hands.

The underground classroom corridor was silent, with only the occasional sound of water dripping from the damp stone walls.

Snape was preparing to begin a round of nighttime potion-making, the thin steam rising from the cauldron illuminating his expressionless face.

Just then, bang! bang! bang!

A sudden, urgent, heavy, even frantic knocking sounded, mingling with the faint clatter of the strange decorations on his office door—highly unusual. Snape's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. This knocking—

It's definitely not the pace of a student, nor is it the pace of most faculty members.

He put down the silver knife in his hand, his black robe silently sliding across the floor as he opened the door.

Outside the door stood Professor McGonagall, her dressing gown disheveled, her face pale, and a few strands of gray hair loosened from her usually meticulously styled hair. Her breathing was rapid, and her eyes held a panic that Snape rarely showed, a panic that was almost impossible to conceal.

"Professor Snape," her voice was low but laced with a razor-sharp urgency, "the Headmaster is injured, badly, in my office—no, in his office. You need to go there immediately."

Snape's dark eyes contracted slightly the moment he heard "the headmaster is injured."

But like a pebble thrown into the deepest well, the ripples vanish in an instant, leaving the surface a cold, empty void. His mind, however, was racing—the timing, the injuries, McGonagall's level of panic—all the clues connected in a flash.

Lynch's deep voice echoed clearly in his ears: "The opportunity to obtain the key has arrived. Be prepared for the next period of time."

It turned out to be the case.

This is the "opportunity".

Dumbledore was seriously injured, and with injuries involving dark magic that were difficult to treat—this was almost inevitable, otherwise McGonagall wouldn't have come to him in such a panic.

As the professor at Hogwarts with the most expertise in Dark Magic damage and high-level potions, Dumbledore would undoubtedly summon himself if he suffered such a severe injury. This is the best, and perhaps only, chance to obtain a blood sample from Dumbledore when he is weakened, unable to attend to other matters, or powerless to resist.

However, a chilling doubt, like a venomous snake, crept into Snape's mind: How did Lynch manage that? Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of his time, vigilant, wise, and experienced, was almost impossible to easily ambush or fall into an uncontrollable dangerous situation. What kind of trap or opponent could have injured him so severely that he needed emergency medical intervention? What role did Lynch play in all of this? Was it an accident during a joint operation, or—a more complex scheme?

Snape couldn't understand it, nor could he delve into it at this moment, but this unknown cast a deeper, more unsettling shadow over the "opportunity" before him.

However, not a trace of emotion was visible on his sallow face.

His voice was calm, indifferent, and even carried a hint of his usual impatience: "What kind of injury is it? What caused it?" He needed more information, not only for treatment but also to assess what kind of situation Lynch's "opportunity" actually referred to.

"Dark magic," Professor McGonagall said succinctly, her lips pressed into a pale line, "extremely powerful. His hand—"

In short, you need to see it for yourself. I can't describe it accurately.

Black magic is extremely powerful.

This further confirmed Snape's suspicions. He didn't press for details, as that would arouse unnecessary suspicion. He simply nodded very slightly, as if accepting a reluctant but necessary overtime assignment.

"I need to get something." He turned and went back into the dimly lit office, his movements swift and precise.

He took several crystal bottles from a locked cabinet, containing strangely colored, shimmering potions, potent antidotes, sedatives, life-sustaining tonics, and two or three types specifically for combating and stabilizing curses.

High-level magical potions. He packed them into a specially made padded case and quickly checked the few commonly used magical potions he carried with him.

The whole process took less than a minute.

When he reappeared at the door, he was fully armed and ready to deal with a difficult medical situation.

"Let's go." He uttered this word without any extra expression, gesturing for Professor McGonagall to lead the way.

The two walked silently, one after the other, up the corridors and stairs leading to the upper levels of the castle. Professor McGonagall was anxious and her steps were hurried. Snape followed half a step behind her, his black robes billowing, his face ashen.

When they re-entered the principal's office, the somber atmosphere inside was almost suffocating.

Fawkes's low moans, the hushed whispers of the portraits, and the faint, acrid smell of burning flesh and the chilling lingering scent of dark magic in the air combined to create an ominous scene. Snape's gaze instantly locked onto the unconscious figure in the armchair and the drooping, charred, withered right hand. His pupils contracted almost imperceptibly again; the severity of the injury and the malevolence of the curse far exceeded his initial assessment.

"Professor Snape, quick!" Professor McGonagall pointed urgently at Dumbledore, then glanced warily at the ring covered by a velvet cloth and placed on the ground some distance away.

Snape didn't respond, but strode forward, placed the suitcase on the low table beside him, and opened it. He first waved his wand, casting several quick and precise diagnostic spells.