Chapter 97: The "Victim" Appears
4:10 PM, outside the Hogwarts conservatory.
After Hermione's brief lecture, Ron finally regained his composure. He grumbled and began ranting to Harry about the Malfoy family's shady history and their so-called "great achievements."
"Hyvide? Hungry again?" Harry asked, pulling out a few pieces of toast from his pocket.
So far, Hedwig hadn't delivered anything new to Harry. Her usual routine was to fly to him occasionally, peck at his ear, beg for a small bite of toast, and then return to the Owlery to nap with the other owls. It had made her notably plumper.
However, today was different. Hedwig didn't reject the food. Instead, she clutched it in her beak, perched on Harry's left shoulder, and stretched out her right leg.
Attached was a piece of parchment, scribbled in messy handwriting:
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Dear Harry,
I know you don't have classes on Friday afternoons. I didn't expect you to befriend someone from Ravenclaw! If you're free, would you mind coming over for tea around three o'clock this afternoon?
I'd love to hear how your first week has been. Please let Hedwig bring your reply.
—Hagrid
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Harry quickly scribbled a response on the back of the note:
"Okay. I'd love to. See you soon."
He tied the note back to Hedwig's leg and let her fly off.
He still looked forward to having tea with Hagrid. The remaining hour dragged on for what felt like an eternity.
Not far away, Malfoy—after receiving a cold rejection from Harry—resorted to whispering veiled insults at him whenever he passed. After class ended, Harry was about to confront him with Ron, who was already fuming, but Malfoy had quietly disappeared into the crowd.
"Malfoy is such a coward. Why does he always vanish after class?" Ron muttered.
"Maybe he was scared by your spellwork in Defense Against the Dark Arts," Ron added absentmindedly.
But his words made Harry feel guilty again—he was still haunted by the time he'd accidentally injured Professor Quirrell.
Alexander Smith watched the entire exchange with a thoughtful expression. He was quietly observing the remnants of the love protection charm that still fluctuated with Harry's emotions. The only downside was that none of Lily Evans' relatives were wizards.
Now that Harry no longer lived with his mother's blood relatives, the magic lay dormant again. For Alexander, who often "cooked" up magical interference, this was a nuisance.
Wait a minute—wasn't Dudley Dursley Harry's cousin?
True, Muggles couldn't be turned into wizards, but that didn't mean Alexander was out of options. Knockturn Alley was full of raw materials…
That promising thought stirred something in him. In an instant, his phoenix avatar shimmered and vanished, reappearing moments later in Diagon Alley. No one noticed.
Back at Hogwarts, Alexander's physical body, linked through the Lord God, returned to his dormitory, as usual, blending in like an ordinary student after class.
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Meanwhile, in Knockturn Alley…
Jason Custer was a dark wizard with a twisted admiration for the notorious Mr. Borgin. Ever since Mr. Borgin gained wealth and infamy by somehow licensing Doraemon, he'd started drifting away from his seedy roots and had become a frequent visitor to his own shop in Knockturn Alley.
Jason, though, was far from an elite. He wasn't exceptionally powerful or influential, but he had a clean record and a cunning mind. His preferred pastimes were… disturbing.
He targeted good-looking Muggle men—usually hikers and loners—whom he could manipulate, murder, and use as raw materials for cursed artifacts. The body parts he left behind were often dumped in regions frequented by wild dragons. In those places, such remains weren't uncommon.
But recently, several of Jason's fellow dark artists had disappeared. He didn't think much of it. They were infamous criminals—of course they'd made enemies.
Jason wasn't worried.
He absentmindedly stroked the wand hidden in his sleeve as he walked through Knockturn Alley, always keeping it close.
But suddenly, something shifted. He felt like he'd passed through an invisible membrane.
Jason froze.
This wasn't Knockturn Alley.
"Hooo-hooooo!!!" A dragon's roar echoed from a distance—the deep, resonant call of a Welsh Green Dragon.
Jason's eyes widened. "No… this can't be… What forest is this?"
Regardless, he needed to get out. An adult Welsh Green could reach 18 feet, and he hadn't brought any anti-dragon gear.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he tried to orient himself using the sun's position and began backing away cautiously.
"Crack!"
Jason flinched and turned—he'd stepped on a bone.
And not just any bone—a Muggle's.
His favorite kind.
It even bore marks from his own… 'customizations.'
Jason's breath caught in his throat.
"No… this… this one was mine! I had plans for it! If only the femur hadn't broken—"
The moment his eyes met the bone again, everything changed.
Jason screamed. He collapsed, twitching violently, his eyes locked on the bone as he begged for mercy.
"Please! I'm Borgin's man! Don't kill me!"
But it was already too late.
Ten minutes passed, and Jason died—paralyzed by invisible fear, completely broken by the suffering he himself had inflicted on others.
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From the shadows, a figure emerged—Alexander Smith.
"You never realized," he said quietly, "that the pain you felt was the same as what your victims endured."
"You didn't repent. Not even once. Not even when faced with their memory."
He let out a sigh. "You're number 51. If I hadn't had this sudden inspiration, you'd have made your next move next month. Or maybe tomorrow."
He glanced down at Jason's lifeless body and shook his head.
Then Alexander faded again, vanishing into the void like a ghost.
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