Harry Potter: Returning from Hogwarts Legacy-Chapter 148: Miss Malfoy Wants Me to Confess {2}

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"Seamus and Neville have finished practicing and are waiting for you to continue teaching," Cedric said from the sidelines.

Harry stood up, glancing at Seamus, whose face was brimming with anticipation. He cleared his throat and said, "Well done, everyone—you've all been learning brilliantly. What particularly pleases me is that Ron can even break free from the Imperius Curse through sheer willpower, despite it being cast by a second-year witch."

Ron flashed a smug grin, while Hermione let out a small huff.

"So, Professor, when are you going to teach us the other two spells?" Seamus asked, always one to stir the pot with glee.

Harry shot Seamus a look. Truly living up to his innate talent for chaos—this idea was downright reckless.

"The remaining two spells? I have no intention of teaching them to you—at least not for now," Harry replied.

"Why not?" Seamus asked, puzzled. "Are they evil or something? We've already learned one Unforgivable Curse—what's two more?"

"I need to remind you," Harry said with a sigh, addressing Seamus directly, "that the last two spells are pure, unadulterated Dark Magic. For you all, as you are now, it's still too soon—"

"In Charms class, you've learned that many spells require emotion to fuel their casting," Harry continued, his words now directed at everyone present. "But what I need you to understand is that the Cruciatus Curse and the Killing Curse demand absolute, untainted malice. If you don't genuinely crave to torment someone or yearn to take a life, the spell won't work—it might just give someone a nosebleed at best."

"But why, Harry?" Cedric asked, genuinely confused. "If you want to hurt someone or kill them, spells like Diffindo or Reducto could do the job just as well. Why aren't those considered Unforgivable?"

"Because Married Life author Mary Lou Silverberg once said, "Because those two spells have counter-curses," Harry explained to Cedric. "Besides, the intent behind casting them isn't necessarily to torture or kill."

"That's why I don't recommend learning these two spells just yet. Take the Killing Curse, for instance—it requires an overwhelmingly intense desire to kill in order to work," Harry said, scanning the room. "The evil of the Killing Curse isn't just about how wicked the caster is—it's about the absolute intent to kill in the moment you cast it."

"Think about it: a life built on the hopes of parents, the love of family, the guidance of professors, and the trust of classmates—a vibrant, living soul—snuffed out because of a single thought, a single spell," Harry said, his voice soft. "In that moment, there's no escaping it. You can't justify it to the law, and you can't convince your own heart otherwise. You've killed someone, and you have to face that bloody, irreversible truth head-on."

"And the consequence, more often than not, is that you become a dark wizard who utterly disregards human life—like Voldemort," Harry concluded.

At the mention of Voldemort's name, a collective shiver ran through the group.

No one wanted to become like Voldemort—especially not these kids, who had been cherished by their families since birth.

"Then I'm out," Ron said with a shudder. "I don't want to turn into something that terrifying. What's the point of living like that?"

"No kidding," Seamus chimed in, waving his hands dismissively. "I'm done—not learning them!"

Joking aside, after Harry's breakdown, no one felt they could handle that kind of inner torment.

So... best to skip those spells altogether.

Harry shook his head with a smile and said, "In a few days, we can head into the Forbidden Forest for some practical training. I'll test your progress then—how does that sound?"

"Great!" The gloomy mood lifted, replaced by excitement. "What's practical training like? Can you tell us more?"

"It's exactly what it sounds like—real combat practice in the Forbidden Forest," Harry replied. "No restrictions on the spells you use, as long as you make it out safely. I'll set up some challenges suited to your skill level—don't worry, there won't be any real danger."

"That's a relief," Neville said, exhaling deeply.

But Cedric wasn't so sure it'd be that simple. He eyed Harry suspiciously, then glanced at the others.

In the end, he decided to trust Harry. Oh well...

Back in the dormitory, Harry lay on his bed, still mulling over the Basilisk problem.

It had been a full week since the last attack, with no new victims. What was going on?

The more he thought about it, the stranger it felt. Something was off. Slipping on his shoes, he tiptoed out of the dorm, heading for the Room of Requirement to check the Marauder's Map and consult the portraits—reconnecting with his "external brain."

He slipped through the portrait of the Fat Lady with ease and looked up—only to lock eyes with Professor Snape, who was blocking the doorway.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Harry held his breath, certain Snape had seen through his Disillusionment Charm and was about to drag him out. But then, to his surprise, Snape spun on his heel and strode away from the scene without a word.

What was that about? That old professor...

Since Snape had let him off so easily, Harry decided to return the favor, swallowing the "old bat" comment he'd nearly muttered.

He followed his usual route, descending into the castle's depths until he reached the Room of Requirement, now transformed into the map chamber.

"Harry!" Veratia beamed at him, her portrait radiating delight.

"Veratia," Harry said, stepping down to stand before her frame.

Professor Rackham cleared his throat, drawling, "Well, Potter, I suppose we'll leave the map chamber to you two youngsters—"

"No, no, wait!" Harry interrupted hastily. "Professor Rackham, I'm here because I need your advice."

Rackham raised an eyebrow. "Advice from us?" he said, sounding faintly amused. He coughed once and added, "Alright, I never thought I'd see the day you'd come to us with questions. Go on, then. The professors—and your little girlfriend—will do our best to help."

At the words "little girlfriend," Harry's face flushed.

Even though Rackham teased him about it often, he still wasn't used to it.

He stole a glance at Veratia, only to see her turn her face away.

"Just say it already," Professor Rackham prompted.

"Right," Harry said, gathering his thoughts. "Ever since Professor Dumbledore announced the new school rules last week—putting Hogwarts on lockdown and requiring everyone to move in groups by dormitory—the attacks have stopped. I haven't heard the Basilisk slithering or speaking Parseltongue since."

"It's been nagging at me. I feel like I'm onto something, but I can't quite pin it down," Harry continued, looking up. "So I thought I'd come ask smarter people for help."

When it came to emotional intelligence, Harry knew how to play his cards.

The portraits fell into thoughtful silence.

Clearly, this was unusual.

"So you're saying you haven't heard any Parseltongue since then, correct?" Veratia asked, frowning.

"Yes," Harry nodded. "Every night this week, I've gone out to the spot where I first heard it, waiting. But there's been nothing—like it just vanished."

"Could Dumbledore's lockdown have scared them off?" Rackham suggested. "The attacker's only bold enough to strike from the shadows, after all."

"No," Professor Rackham shook his head. "If they dared to attack under Dumbledore's nose, they're not afraid of him—not enough, at least."

"Then why?" Headmistress Fitzgerald asked. "If they don't fear Dumbledore, a lockdown shouldn't stop them."

"What if..." Veratia began hesitantly, "the attacker's hiding among the students? It'd make sense—they'd only be able to move with their dormmates to classes or back to their rooms, with no chance to slip away alone."

"That doesn't add up either," Harry said, scratching his head. "Take Hufflepuffs, for instance—they can sneak out solo. Cedric was with us tonight training for duels."

"Oh, Merlin's beard," Veratia said, rolling her eyes. "You don't seriously think a Gaunt descendant would be in Hufflepuff, do you? I'd say focus on Slytherin. The Gaunt family wouldn't touch any house but Slytherin!"

"Fair point," Harry nodded, chuckling at his own lapse. The idea of a Hufflepuff Gaunt was absurd—their ancestors would've hit them with fifty minutes of Avada Kedavra for that. Slytherins would weep in the Chamber of Secrets over such a disgrace!

After all, Salazar Slytherin's pure-blood elitism clashed hard with Helga Hufflepuff's "teach everyone" philosophy. A Slytherin heir in Hufflepuff? Unthinkable.

With his analysis in hand, Harry left the map chamber.

He knew Gryffindor's entrance was a joke—practically undefended. Sure, they moved in clumps, but neither McGonagall nor Prefect Percy seemed to think a Gryffindor could control the Basilisk.

And why would they? What kind of Gryffindor speaks Parseltongue?

As for Hufflepuff, Cedric's sneaky outing was proof enough. If the attacker were from either house, they'd have found a chance to unleash the Basilisk by now.

So who could it be?

Harry had a strong hunch it was a Slytherin.

After all...

He eyed the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons. Miss Farley stood guard, and not far off was Snape's desk—the old professor had apparently set up shop right in front of the common room to keep anyone from slipping out.

On his desk sat something like a compass, its needle twitching toward Harry, emitting a faint hissing alarm.

Harry bolted. He knew that gadget—it was an anti-Disillusionment Charm detector.

He made a beeline for the Headmaster's office, stopping before the gargoyle. He reached out, patting its head.

He still didn't know the password.

"Password," the gargoyle demanded.

Harry stayed silent.

"The guardian bows to no one," it said. "Password."

Harry wiped his fingers and conjured a flicker of black Fiendfyre.

"The password is Licorice Wand," the gargoyle said. "But the guardian bows to no one."

"I know, you bow to no one," Harry replied. "Licorice Wand."

The gargoyle leapt aside.

The Headmaster's office was as it always was. Harry climbed the stairs, and the first thing he saw was the Sorting Hat perched on its cabinet.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking utterly at ease.

"Professor," Harry said, stepping forward to greet him.

Before he could say more, he heard the hat slap the desk, clearly miffed.

"Hey, Harry, you forgot to say hello to your old hat!" it grumbled.

"Good evening, old hat," Harry said, turning to wave.

Satisfied, the hat settled back down.

Harry sat across from Dumbledore and looked up at the old Headmaster.

Before he could speak, a glass of lemonade appeared before him.

He didn't rush to talk. Instead, he picked up the glass and took a sip.

Perfect—just a touch of sugar, as he liked it.

Harry looked up again.

"Professor Dumbledore, do you have any leads? I mean—about Voldemort."

It was a bit of a loaded question, and he knew it.

"Yes," Dumbledore said simply. "Our suspicions were correct. Voldemort's mother was indeed a Gaunt—"

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