bookandnovel Chapter 259 Swift Travel Under the Rain
Chapter 259 Swift Travel Under the Rain
Chapter 259 Swift Travel Under the Rain (5K) (1/2)
So, while Hagrid was still caught up in a mix of gratitude, shame, and memories, and hadn't fully recovered, Harry struggled to suppress the turmoil within him. He cautiously leaned forward, feigning nonchalance, and asked in a tone tinged with confusion and curiosity, "Hagrid—Uncle Lynch—he did mention those ten years to me, in the stone house. But—" Harry frowned precisely, as if trying to recall, "he was a little—vague—about why—why he was locked up there. You know what happened? I've never quite understood it."
Hagrid was pressing his nose hard with his large handkerchief when he heard Harry's question. He raised his red and swollen eyes and asked almost without hesitation.
In his simple mind, since Harry already knew about the "hanger" and the thousand-year imprisonment, and had said that Lynch had told him everything, it was acceptable for him to give a little more detail.
Moreover, he was deeply moved by Lynch's "magnanimity" at that moment, and his urge to confide in him was particularly strong.
"Well, speaking of which—" Hagrid hesitated for a moment, then finally sighed heavily, shifting his massive frame in the chair, making it creak. "Back then—the situation was complicated. It was Professor Dumbledore—he told me about it later, he was very worried, you know?"
Hagrid lowered his voice, with the caution of relaying an important secret: "The headmaster said that Professor Lynch—he used to be a hangman—executed too many people, and was tainted with too much—well—the aura of death. Moreover, he studied—those dangerous, fringe black magics, very deeply."
He paused, a hint of unease from the memory crossing his massive face: "Professor Dumbledore worried that if things continued like this, immersed in that power and—that darkness—Professor Lynch's mind might be corrupted. He was afraid—afraid that Professor Lynch would eventually lose his way, that he would become—become another—"
He seemed to have exhausted all his strength before uttering that terrifying word: "—another Dark Lord."
Harry felt as if his heart was being squeezed by an icy hand.
Executing too many people — Researching dark magic — Another dark lord?
Is this really the same Uncle Lynch he knew, the one who patiently taught him, rushed to his aid when he was in danger, and prepared all sorts of gifts for him?
Hagrid, oblivious to Harry's sudden stiffness and contraction of his pupils, continued to remark to himself, "That's why Headmaster Dumbledore made that decision back then—to keep him at Hogwarts, in the Forbidden Forest, as both a form of—well—protection and a form of constraint. Ah, who wasn't worried back then? His reputation as the 'Hanger' wasn't for nothing, especially considering his dedication to the Dark Arts—"
Harry could no longer hear what Hagrid said next.
"Too many people have been executed," "Researching Dark Magic," "Dumbledore's worries," "Another Dark Lord"—these words crashed into his mind like cold boulders, stirring up a storm of emotions.
He suddenly stood up, his movement so fast that even Hagrid was momentarily stunned.
"Hagrid, I—I just remembered I still have a history of magic paper to finish, I have to go back now!" Harry's voice was a little hurried, and even had a slight tremor.
He practically grabbed the large bag containing the broken model from the doorway, ignoring Haig's confused shouts behind him, "Hey? You're leaving already? We haven't even finished our tea yet—" He hurriedly opened the door to the cabin and plunged into the increasingly dense rain outside.
The rain was heavier than when it came, and the cold raindrops pelted his head, face, and body, instantly soaking his robe.
But he was completely oblivious, and just kept walking briskly toward the castle, his mind a complete mess.
Execution — Black Magic — The Black King —
These words, like the aftershocks of an explosive curse, reverberated repeatedly in his mind.
The phrase "studying black magic" sent a chill down his spine and made him instinctively wary.
He thought of Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head, and Gilderoy Lockhart, who was bewitched by the diary and ultimately lost his life. Dark magic was always closely associated with evil, depravity, and harm.
Uncle Lynch—did he really delve into those dangerous areas?
Those hands that once held my shoulders, have they also perused the books that recorded the most vicious curses?
This association sent chills down his spine.
However, another, stronger emotion quickly overwhelmed this vigilance—the injustice and heartache felt for Uncle Lynch, and the deep bewilderment at Dumbledore's decision.
Just because someone "might" turn bad, just because they've studied dark knowledge, they're to be deprived of their freedom for thousands of years?
This was completely at odds with the image of Dumbledore he knew—a tolerant, wise man who believed that "choice is more important than ability"!
When Uncle Lynch needed guidance and trust the most, Hogwarts, the place he considered safe, instead offered him imprisonment and surveillance.
How similar this is to the pure-blood theory that he opposes, which persecutes Muggle-born wizards indiscriminately under the guise of "preventing danger"?
The logic of "preventative punishment" was like a cold lightning bolt, tearing apart the image of Dumbledore in his heart that was always just, wise, and deeply trusted by his students.
Harry's steps grew heavy in the mud.
He remembered the elusive loneliness that would occasionally creep into Uncle Lynch's eyes when he gazed at the fire; he remembered the deep sorrow that would flash in his eyes when he mentioned Lily; he remembered his almost harsh protection of him, yet the unquestionable support he received in crucial moments.
Is such a complex person, who never inflicted malice on him but instead repeatedly gave him warmth and strength, truly destined to slide into darkness because of his study of black magic?
"What we choose to become speaks volumes more about us than what we are capable of." Harry vaguely remembered Dumbledore saying something similar when he told him about Lockhart's ordeal.
But now, Headmaster Dumbledore himself ignored Uncle Lynch's choice and, simply because of Uncle Lynch's "ability" and "research," preemptively condemned him as "potentially corrupt" and imposed a "preventive punishment" lasting ten years.
This contradiction left Harry feeling a sense of betrayal, anger, and confusion.
His trust in Dumbledore, that once unbreakable beacon, began to shake violently under the onslaught of the truth, cracking open with clear fissures.
The rain blurred his vision, and the castle lights flickered in the distance, just like his current judgment of right and wrong, a complete blur.
Harry practically ran back to the castle, his feet treading on the slippery cobblestones.
The cold rain trickled down his hair and into his collar, but he was oblivious, his mind filled with only one increasingly clear thought:
He had to go find Uncle Lynch and get to the bottom of this!
He needed to hear Uncle Lynch's side of the story; he couldn't bear the uncertainty and the wavering of his trust.
In the foyer, he nearly bumped into several of his fellow Gryffindor classmates who were on their way to the Great Hall.
"Harry? You look terrible!" one of them exclaimed, looking at his soaking wet appearance.
"It's nothing!" Harry said hastily, shoving the heavy bag on his shoulder into the other person's hands. "Do me a favor and take this back to the dormitory. I have an urgent matter to attend to!" Without even waiting for a reply, he turned and ran towards the corridor on the second floor of the castle, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints and several classmates looking at each other in bewilderment.
He ran all the way to the familiar wooden door of Professor Lynch's office, not even bothering to tidy up his disheveled appearance, and knocked on the door urgently.
"Uncle Lynch! It's me, Harry!"
There was no response from inside the door.
He knocked several more times, but there was still no response.
Clearly, Uncle Lynch was not in his office.
A wave of disappointment mixed with an even stronger urgency washed over him. Harry barely hesitated before turning and rushing back into the hallway, plunging once more into the torrential rain.
This time, his target was clear: the Forbidden Forest and that white stone house.
The rain intensified, the dense raindrops pounding against the tall canopy of the Forbidden Forest with a deafening roar, then transforming into finer curtains of water that cascaded down. The light in the forest became extremely dim, and his soaked robe clung tightly to his body, cold and heavy, hindering his movements.
The cold rain made him shiver, but the flame in his chest that wanted to find answers burned even more fiercely.
However, he was unaware that, for some reason, Lynch possessed a strange attraction to Dementors. This attraction was so strong that some Dementors would defy the Ministry of Magic's orders and linger around Lynch's stone house.
So, just as Harry caught a glimpse of the stone house silhouetted against the rain, a sudden, bone-chilling cold swept over him without warning!
This feeling was all too familiar to him—his experience on the Hogwarts Express was a terrifying ordeal he would never forget!
He stopped abruptly, his heart feeling as if it were being gripped by an icy hand.
The sounds of wind and rain seemed to vanish instantly, replaced by a deathly hum.
He struggled to turn his stiff neck and look in the direction from which the chill was coming.
In the hazy rain and dim forest light, two tall figures, draped in tattered black robes and exuding an aura of decay, slowly and silently emerged from behind a huge oak tree.
Their "faces," completely hidden under the hoods, seemed to be aimed directly at him, and a cold, desperate, suffocating feeling, as if all his happiness was about to be sucked away, instantly gripped his throat!
Dementors!
How did they get here?!
It's daytime now, shouldn't they be patrolling the border?
Harry's mind went blank, and fear gripped his limbs like vines.
He instinctively stepped back, slipped, and almost fell on the stone path.
He wanted to run away, but his legs seemed to be nailed to the spot.
He tried to call for help, but the sound was stuck in his throat, and he could only make a hoarse, breathy sound.
The woman's screams began to echo faintly in his ears, and a chilling sense of despair washed over him like a tidal wave.
Do not!
Harry bit his tongue hard, the stinging pain briefly bringing him back to his senses.
He remembered Professor Lupin's teachings and the spell he had to master!
He raised his wand with trembling hands and shouted with all his might, "Put Your God on the line—Protect Your Spirit!"
But this time, he couldn't even summon the shapeless silver mist that he had seen in front of Professor Lupin before.
The tip of the staff emitted only a thin, flickering silver halo, swaying like a candle in the wind, barely dispelling the densest darkness and chill within a few feet of him.
The faint glow of the guardian deity caused the two Dementors to pause for a moment, but they were clearly not frightened away.
The faint silver light was like a small pebble thrown into the darkness, creating ripples but unable to stop the tide.
They continued to drift forward, reaching the stone path, carrying an even more greedy aura, as if enjoying his futile struggle and the despair that was growing within him.
The suffocating, chilling sensation intensified, and the woman's screams grew clearer, as if they were right behind his head—
Just as Harry felt his consciousness was about to freeze and the silver light at the tip of his wand was about to go out completely—
A solid, dazzling silver light, like a sharp sword, pierced through the rain and shot towards the stone house!
It was a raven made entirely of pure silver light! It was graceful and agile, and when it spread its wings, it cast a large expanse of soft yet powerful silver light. Wherever it passed, the cold and despair melted away as quickly as ice and snow under the sun!
The silver raven let out a silent, clear cry—but Harry seemed to "hear" it in his soul—and swiftly circled the two Dementors.
The Dementors howled silently as if burned, their tattered black robes billowing violently. Their greedy sucking was interrupted, and with resentment and a hint of fear, they retreated rapidly, quickly merging into the deep darkness and rain of the Forbidden Forest and disappearing from sight.
The chilling sensation that had almost frozen Harry's soul vanished instantly, and the woman's screams stopped abruptly.
His legs went weak, and he used his wand to support himself, panting heavily. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, and he was soaked through, whether from rain or cold sweat, he couldn't tell.
He looked up in the direction from which the silver raven had flown.
Lin Qi's figure had appeared on the stone path not far away at some point.
He had clearly come out in a hurry, wearing only a shirt and a silver-gray vest, without an overcoat.
Strangely, just as the torrential rain was about to hit his head and shoulders, it seemed to hit an invisible barrier that conformed to the contours of his body, and slid off naturally and smoothly to the sides without wetting him at all.
He stood there quietly in the rain, his posture upright, a stark contrast to Harry's disheveled state.
His gaze fell calmly on Harry, his deep eyes appearing exceptionally profound in the dim light, revealing no emotion.
"Uncle Lynch!" Harry blurted out, his voice trembling with lingering fear and a subtle, complex dependence.
Lin Qi strode forward, and the invisible barrier moved with him, keeping the rain out.
He walked up to Harry, looked down at the boy's disheveled and pale appearance, raised an eyebrow slightly, and spoke in a tone that carried little reproach but rather a faint, almost mocking undertone: "I originally had quite a bit of confidence in Professor Lupin's teaching abilities, but now it seems I may have to reassess them."
This little joke did not put Harry at ease; he managed to twitch the corners of his mouth but could not manage a smile.
His mind was filled with Hagrid's words, the Dementors' coldness, and the ten years the person in front of him had been imprisoned; his emotions were as complicated as a tangled mess.
Lynch clearly noticed Harry's unusual stiffness and the undisguised turmoil in his emerald eyes.
He didn't say anything more, but simply reached out and gently supported Harry's still slightly trembling arm, his tone becoming firm and unwavering: "Come in, you're soaking wet."
Led by Lynch, Harry walked somewhat mechanically into the stone house.
The door closed silently behind me, instantly shutting out the raging storm outside, leaving only the comforting warmth and dryness of the room, and that familiar air carrying the scent of old books and faint herbs.
Lin Qi released his hand and casually waved his fingers.
A gentle, warm breeze instantly enveloped Harry, drying his soaked robes, his black hair clinging to his forehead, and the moisture on his cold skin almost instantly, leaving him warm and dry.
Only that chill that originated from within seemed to linger.
"Sit down." Lin Qi pointed to the comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace.
Harry sat down as instructed, his gaze involuntarily drifting once more to the area above the fireplace. The half-broken bird-beak mask still hung there silently, casting a distorted and eerie shadow in the flickering firelight.
Lynch stood in front of Harry, looking at his still somewhat pale face and the lingering shock, and said with just the right amount of apology in his tone: "After encountering a Dementor, it's best to eat some chocolate—but I'm sorry, I don't have any of that prepared here, so you'll have to make do with something else for now."
After saying that, he turned and walked to the stove, poured a cup of steaming, dark amber liquid with a faint sweet and citrus aroma, and handed it to Harry.
"Take this, warm yourself up, it should make you feel better."
Harry held the warm cup in both hands, but the warmth from his fingertips seemed unable to penetrate his cold heart.
He kept his head down, staring at the swirling liquid in the glass, not daring to look Lin Qi in the eye.
Lynch sat down in the chair opposite him, leaning slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingertips lightly touching.
He stared at Harry for a moment, his deep eyes seeming to see through all pretense.
A brief silence fell over the stone house, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Finally, Lynch spoke, his voice deep and steady, cutting straight to the point: "So, Harry, can you tell me now?"
He paused, then asked clearly, "What made you come to me so urgently, even risking danger, in such terrible weather?"
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