139: Murder and Talent

139: Murder and Talent

The Great Hall.

John held a piece of bread in one hand and put it into his mouth.

It was dry and tasteless. Other than the slightly stiff texture, there was nothing to it.

Malfoy had gone home, and Daphne had also been called back by Mr. Greengrass.

With fewer Slytherins around, the place felt a lot more empty.

Heinrich spread some jam on a piece of bread and placed it next to John's left hand.

"Aren't you going to ask?" John glanced at Heinrich, surprised that he didn't even seem curious about what had happened to his hand.

"At Durmstrang, it's not uncommon for wizards to accidentally disable themselves without realizing it."

Heinrich's golden eyes, peeking out from under his black, tousled hair, remained calm. His pale, handsome face looked sickly.

He seemed used to this sort of thing, and after sitting down, he instinctively began tending to John.

John frowned and said, "We're friends, Heinrich."

Heinrich paused, and his eyes, hidden beneath his messy hair, darkened. Shaking his head, he replied, "To me, you are the brilliant light that Edgar spent his life pursuing."

He said it with such sincerity that John was silent for a moment.

John had thought Heinrich's loyalty was just about joining the Constellation Society, but now, it seemed there was more to it than that.

"Then I'll leave my back in your hands."

John lifted his head, his face serious.

A smile appeared on Heinrich's sickly face. Placing his right hand over his chest, he spoke as if making an oath, "Behind you, there will always be a shadow named Heinrich Edgar."

A shadow named after the pursuit of light.

John chuckled lightly, "Even so, it doesn't stop us from being friends, does it?"

Heinrich was momentarily stunned, feeling a warmth in his heart.

...

Touching the forbidden always comes with a price.

An eye, an arm, a leg, or even... life.

In comparison, John's loss of taste didn't seem so severe.

At least his handsome face and nose were still intact. Right, Voldemort?

Professor Lupin was going to enjoy a well-deserved vacation this holiday, which gave John some relief.

Because Lupin's sharp eyes and intuition told John that the professor had noticed something.

After a breakfast that tasted like chewing wax, John made his way to Snape's office.

Since Snape believed John had identified the werewolf, it wouldn't sit right if he didn't give him some sort of explanation.

At the same time, John was quite curious why Professor Snape harbored such deep hatred toward Lupin.

Even without knowing their history, anyone could feel the intense animosity.

It was almost as if Lupin had stolen his wife.

Stopping in front of Professor Snape's office, John knocked on the door.

Soon, the door was yanked open.

Professor Snape stepped out, his face dark and gloomy. Upon seeing John, he let out a cold sneer.

This left John completely puzzled.

Smart people don't need excessive words. Snape stepped aside, giving John space to enter.

John walked in, and the door was slammed shut behind him.

With a stiff face, Snape strode across the room and spat out a single word, "Sit."

John's head of house seemed to be in a foul mood. After thinking for a moment, John figured he hadn't lost any house points recently...

Sitting obediently, John watched as Professor Snape, looking like a walking bat, opened a drawer and laid out a bag.

Inside were various potion tools, but the most attention-grabbing item was a bottle of Veritaserum.

John's body tensed as he gave a sheepish grin, "Professor, isn't this a bit much?"

Soul surgery.

Dementors.

Death.

And now, murder.

"And my fucking hand and delicious food!"

John hadn't had a moment of rest this entire year.

He made his way to the Room of Requirement and entered the Gryffindor chamber.

His right hand still needed treatment. Although Gryffindor's collection had few books on souls, there were plenty on healing magic.

He brewed a potion using a unicorn horn.

The milky liquid swirled in the silver goblet, and John drank it without hesitation.

With his sense of taste gone, potions, or even Veritaserum—well, no, he wouldn't go that far.

After drinking the special potion, John's right hand finally stopped shaking as much.

However, the unicorn horn was nearly used up. He had been using it to brew potions for Nagini too, and now there was barely a finger-length piece left.

"I need to get more."

Unicorns were rare, and even in Knockturn Alley's black market, they were hard to come by.

Fortunately, John had a friend who was a reliable supplier—Hagrid.

With the Forbidden Forest as his backyard, Hagrid's chances of acquiring unicorn horns depended mostly on luck.

John was ready to try his luck. If Hagrid happened to have some unicorn horn, he wouldn't have to wait for Johnny Silverhand's shop to acquire it from the black market.

...

The sky was overcast with dark clouds, hinting that it might drizzle soon.

As John approached Hagrid's hut, he saw a cat and a dog walking toward him.

It was Tom and Crookshanks.

"So they're just here to play with Fang."

Knowing that these two often roamed around, John wasn't surprised.

But before he even entered the door, he heard the sound of sobbing coming from inside.

A deep, resonant voice—no doubt it was Hagrid's.

John was puzzled. "What's Hagrid crying about this time?"

"Wait, why did I say 'this time'?"

"Come to think of it, it seems like Hagrid cries a few times every year."

First year, it was for the dragon Norbert. Second year, for the Acromantula Aragog. Who's he crying for this year?

Curious, John moved closer and knocked on the wooden door.

Heavy footsteps quickly approached, and the door creaked open.

Hagrid stood there, holding a pink handkerchief that was covered with snot and tears.

A tough guy's face, but a soft heart.

"John, have you heard?"

As soon as Hagrid saw John, he became even more upset and gave him a bear hug.

John felt like his ribs were protesting loudly.

"Hagrid... let... me... go."

Three years. It had been three whole years!

John had a look of despair on his face. He had trained hard for years, yet when faced with Hagrid, his body was still so fragile.

Could it be that hard work was truly worthless in the face of sheer talent?

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