nagpurpolice Chapter 271 Aftermath: Disguised Infiltration
Chapter 271 Aftermath: Disguised Infiltration
Chapter 271 Aftermath: Disguised Infiltration (5K) (1/2)
The morning light dappled through the stained-glass windows high up in the auditorium, casting dappled patterns on the gradually waking students.
It was an exceptionally tiring morning.
Many students rubbed their sleepy eyes, with obvious dark circles under their eyes, clearly having tossed and turned in their sleeping bags all night without a good night's sleep.
Everything that happened last night—the emergency assembly, the professors' solemn expressions, the terrible rumors about Blake's intrusion—lingered in everyone's mind like a cold fog, dispelling sleepiness.
The students yawned and dragged their weary steps as they made do with the nearby public restrooms in the corridor for a quick wash.
The cold water splashed on my face, slightly dispelling my weariness, but it couldn't wash away the unease that permeated the air.
When they returned to the auditorium one after another, they found that it had been restored to its former appearance.
The colorful sleeping bags had vanished without a trace, and the four long college tables were still firmly in place, as if the scene of hundreds of people sleeping on the floor last night was just a collective illusion.
The golden plates and goblets shimmered with a familiar light in the morning glow; breakfast was ready.
However, something has indeed changed.
The usual hustle and bustle of breakfast was replaced by a subdued murmur.
The students gathered together, exchanging worried glances and bits of information they had heard, their voices lowered consciously or unconsciously.
Even the aroma of food wafting in the air seemed unable to whet people's appetites as usual.
Peeves hovered maliciously in the air above, no longer singing loudly like last night, but occasionally letting out a few eerie chuckles, or making faces at a particularly nervous first-year student, continuing to sow seeds of unease.
Filch, holding his cat, stood at the entrance of the auditorium, his gloomy eyes scanning each student coming and going as if scrutinizing a potential troublemaker.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table.
Harry felt countless gazes sweeping over him, making him feel extremely uncomfortable.
He mechanically picked up the smoked meat from the plate, but he didn't have much of an appetite.
"They cleaned up really fast," Ron muttered, looking around the auditorium, now restored to its original state.
"Magic is so convenient, isn't it?" Hermione said, but she also seemed preoccupied, glancing worriedly at Harry every now and then and cautiously observing her surroundings. "But it feels—worse—"
This pervasive unease became even more apparent as students returned to their respective college common rooms.
After the Ministry of Magic officials completed their on-site investigation and left, several Headmasters—Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Sprout—joined forces to perform a large-scale "restoration" on the Gryffindor Tower entrance and the boys' dormitory.
However, the plump lady resolutely refused to return to her restored picture frame.
"Absolutely not!" she screamed, her voice coming from a landscape painting nearby, where she was trembling behind a pine tree. "Don't even think about letting me get back to that post until he's caught! That madman!"
He's holding a sword!
Ultimately, a portrait depicting a short, stout knight with a thick beard and an arrogant expression was temporarily used to replace him.
The knight, whom the students called Sir Cadogan, seemed to regard guarding the entrance as a glorious challenge, constantly brandishing his short sword and shouting that he wanted to meet "that villain."
Therefore, when the Gryffindor students, under Professor McGonagall's close escort, returned to the tower every few hours with the new password Sir Cadogan, they were greeted by this restless new "gatekeeper."
When Harry and Ron had mentally prepared themselves, they pushed open the dormitory door, only to find the dormitory exceptionally tidy.
Everything in the dormitory was as it had been, even tidier than usual. The beds were made perfectly, the curtains were intact, the items were in order, and the floor was spotless.
The traces of last night's rampage have been completely erased by magic.
"This—it's fixed already?" Ron murmured, looking somewhat bewildered at his old Chadli Artillery Corps pillow, which was perfectly intact but seemed to be placed too neatly.
Neville carefully touched his bedpost, as if worried it might suddenly fall apart.
Harry stood in front of his bed, looking at the perfectly smooth sheets without a single wrinkle.
He hadn't witnessed the destruction firsthand last night, but Peeves' malicious lullaby—"Tear the curtains to shreds—tear the mattress to shreds—"—and the professors' grim expressions had already painted a clear and terrifying picture in his mind.
At this moment, the visual perfection clashed strangely with the mess he had imagined, and this contradiction made him even more uneasy.
The destruction could be erased by magic, but the shadow left by the intruder, and the naked malice directed at him, were like an invisible stain, deeply permeating the space and impossible to remove with any spell.
Hermione waited anxiously in the common room, and as soon as the boys came out, she went up to them to ask what was going on.
When she learned that the dormitory had been perfectly repaired, her brow furrowed even more, and she whispered to Harry and Ron, "This is so strange. Blackfield went to all that trouble to cause destruction that could be so easily repaired? It doesn't make sense—"
The atmosphere inside the castle had completely changed.
In the corridor, the portraits whispered among themselves, passing on all sorts of exaggerated rumors.
The students gathered in small groups, whispering among themselves, and their conversations invariably revolved around "Blake" and "invasion."
Filch was busier and more vigilant than usual, patrolling the corridors with his cat, Mrs. Lorris, occasionally giving each student a suspicious look while muttering about "discipline" and "safety."
Peeves would occasionally and persistently sing his ballads about "Black the Murderer" in the castle, until Professor McGonagall brought in Barrow, the ghost of Slytherin, who then fearfully hid in the chandelier.
The teachers looked much more serious than before.
Professor McGonagall's jaw was clenched tightly.
The most unsettling change occurred during Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Because Professor Lupin is "extremely unwell and needs to rest," Professor Snape will temporarily teach the course.
When Snape, dragging his iconic black robes, glided into the classroom like a bat, the air seemed to instantly freeze.
Instead of continuing Professor Lupin's lecture schedule, he announced in his characteristically malicious, smooth voice that, given "recent signs of activity by certain creatures inside and outside the castle," they would be starting the chapter on werewolves ahead of schedule.
"Turn to page 394 of your 'Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Defense,'" he said coldly, his black eyes sweeping across the class before settling on Harry's face like a sticky grease. "Today, we're going to discuss how to identify—and deal with werewolves."
The entire class was filled with a gloomy atmosphere.
Snape not only explained in detail the dangerous characteristics and deadly habits of werewolves, but also added many extremely bloody details not found in the textbooks—about the curses carried on the werewolves' claws and teeth, about the slow and painful transformation process of those bitten, and about the safety rules that must be followed on the night of the full moon.
His voice remained low and steady, yet it sent chills down the spines of every student.
What's even more unsettling is that he would often pace around the classroom while lecturing, and his route always seemed to intentionally or unintentionally circle around Harry's seat.
"—You must remember," Snape stopped right beside Harry as the lesson drew to a close. He leaned down slightly, his icy voice almost touching Harry's ear, carrying a scent mixed with herbs and some indescribable, stale aroma, "Werewolves are extremely cunning and cruel creatures. They are adept at disguise, blending into crowds, waiting for their chance. Any carelessness, any—unnecessary sympathy or gullibility—could cost you dearly."
He paused, making sure Harry understood the weight of every syllable in his words, before slowly straightening up and looking down at Harry with his unfathomable black eyes, emphasizing each word clearly: "Believe me, Potter—if you don't remember this, you will die—very—very—"
Tragic.
The undisguised malice and curse-like tone sent chills down Harry's spine and plunged the entire classroom into a deathly silence.
On the same day, the Daily Prophet's owl brought panic to the entire British magical community.
The huge, bold headline on the front page was alarming: "Black Breaks Through the Final Defense! Hogwarts in Crisis?!"
"Dumbledore's oath has been shattered, and Potter's life hangs in the balance!"
"With the Ministry of Magic's security practically nonexistent, who can we trust?"
Rita Skeeter's inflammatory writing portrays the events as if they were the end of the world.
The article describes in detail, with added embellishments, how Black infiltrated the "tightly protected" Gryffindor Tower "as if it were his own backyard," how he "brutally" destroyed the dormitory, and his "unambiguous" intentions toward Harry Potter.
The newspaper, once published, immediately triggered a tsunami-like reaction.
Panic spread like wildfire through the magical society.
In Diagon Alley, customers at Madam Malkin's Robes Shop nervously whispered as they tried on clothes; at Flourish and Blotts, the book on the Black family and the First Wizarding War in "A History of Modern Magic" was sold out; even in the dimly lit corner of the Leaky Cauldron, old Tom heard more patrons discussing whether they should cast stronger protective spells on their homes.
This widespread concern quickly translated into real pressure on the Ministry of Magic.
At the Public Comments Desk in the Ministry of Magic's main hall, letters delivered by owls piled up so high they nearly submerged the enormous bronze cauldron. A deluge of angry, worried, and questioning letters flooded the Division of Magical Law Enforcement and the Minister's office.
"My three children are all at Hogwarts!" a wizard from Kent wrote in a letter. "If even Dumbledore's castle is no longer safe, what can we expect? The Ministry of Magic must take stronger action!"
“I pay so much tax every year,” another witch said vehemently, “not so I can see Azkaban prisoners loitering around the campus! Minister Fudge must be held accountable!”
Hogwarts also felt the direct pressure from parents.
One morning, an exceptionally magnificent owl flew straight to the faculty dining table and dropped a letter bearing the Longbottom family crest in front of Dumbledore.
The letter was strongly worded and came from Mrs. Augusta-Lombardon.
The letter not only expressed serious doubts about the school's security measures, but also stated bluntly that "if even basic student safety cannot be guaranteed, the Longbottom family will have to reconsider its funding and support for Hogwarts."
The strong-willed old lady wrote at the end of her letter: "We believe you will take all necessary measures to ensure that such an incident does not happen again. The reputation of the Longbottom family cannot be tarnished, and the safety of our children cannot be compromised."
Although this letter lacks the force of a shouting letter, its weight should not be underestimated.
Dumbledore calmly read the letter, carefully put it away, and his expression became more serious than usual.
Minister Connelly-Fudge is in an unprecedented predicament.
His office is flooded with reports and petitions every day.
He privately complained to Senior Undersecretary Umbridge, "What do they want me to do? Surround the whole of Hogwarts with iron barrels? Dumbledore is tough enough as it is!" But outwardly he had to remain calm and try to appease the crowd.
He approved Scrimgeour's request for more manpower, reluctantly agreed to allow the Dementors to patrol the outskirts of Hogsmeade more intensively—further straining his relationship with Dumbledore—and announced that he would personally oversee the hunt for Black.
However, these measures do not seem to have completely quelled public concerns.
Subsequent reports in The Daily Prophet began to question the effectiveness of these measures, and rumors circulated within the Ministry of Magic that Fudge, under immense pressure, had lashed out at his senior deputy minister in his office and even accidentally broke a Chinese porcelain teapot that he greatly admired.
In an instant, the name "Sirius Black" not only represented the fugitive himself, but also became a symbol of the Ministry of Magic's incompetence, Hogwarts' fragility, and the breaches in the entire social safety net. This topic became a constant source of conversation among wizards, and everyone harbored a sense of unease that was quietly eroding the seemingly stable daily life of the magical world.
One day in November 1993, past midnight, the Ministry of Magic building was silent, with only the eternally burning magical torches casting swaying shadows on the walls.
The ninth floor, where the Department of Mysterious Affairs is located, is shrouded in a mysterious tranquility. But the real core secrets are often hidden in more inconspicuous places—such as the top-secret archives branch under the Department of Legal Enforcement, which requires special privileges to enter.
A slightly overweight figure wearing a pinstripe cloak appeared before the bronze gate at the entrance of the branch office, accompanied by somewhat hurried footsteps.
The man who arrived was none other than Minister Connelly-Fudge, at least outwardly: a top hat, a slightly protruding belly, and his usual slightly anxious expression.
"—Lawless, utterly lawless! What do they think Azkaban is? Their own backyard?" he muttered, his voice indistinct, but the agitation was perfectly captured. "Every day it's the Minister, and we still haven't found Black. Minister, the Dementors seem to be losing their effectiveness—Merlin's beard! Do I have to do everything myself? Even checking a file takes me until the middle of the night—"
The two Aurors on duty immediately straightened up from the shadows by the door.
"Minister!" one of them exclaimed in surprise, "What are you doing here—?"
"Fudge" seemed to have just noticed them, raising his hand and waving it impatiently, as if shooing away an invisible fly. "Nothing, nothing! I couldn't sleep because of that Blake mess, and I remembered some old files that I need to check right away." He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it, his tone even more irritated. "Don't just stand there, hurry up, I have to deal with those reporters who're like sniffles everywhere tomorrow morning!"
"Of course, Minister." The Auror stepped aside, but the procedure still had to be followed. Another Auror raised his wand.
"Routine check, sir, please understand."
"Of course, of course," "Fudge" obediently opened his arms, but his tone revealed a hint of impatience, as if to say, "This is a complete waste of time."
A faint blue light shot from the tip of the wand, sweeping across Fudge's entire body. This was standard procedure for the Anti-Disguise Charm, specifically designed to detect magical fluctuations from Polyjuice Potion and Transfiguration.
The blue light is stable, without flickering or alarms.
Auror nodded.
Tonks was certain that it was her, relying on her innate talent for disguise as Magus, rather than using potions or Transfiguration—she breathed a sigh of relief.
Her ability is a complete transformation at the level of flesh and bones, a transformation of "becoming" rather than merely "resembling," which allowed her to successfully deceive the first magical detection.
Next comes the second obstacle: the famous waterfall that keeps out thieves.
It is not a real waterfall, but a magical curtain of water shimmering with silver light cascading down from the lintel.
Anyone who passes through it with the effects of a powerful confusion spell, bewitching spell, or compound potion will be washed back to their original form.
Minister "Fudge" showed obvious displeasure on his face.
"Here we go again! I always end up all wet from this thing, like a drowned Niffler! By Merlin, I am the Minister of Magic! Did the person who designed this program not consider any semblance of decorum?" he complained, his voice echoing through the empty corridor.
The archives official in charge of the operation—a balding old wizard named Perkins—wrung his hands nervously.
"Minister, this is the regulation, for safety reasons—"
"Safe! Of course I know it's safe!" "Fudge" muttered, seemingly very reluctantly...
I quickly walked through the icy, bone-chilling curtain of water.
The magical water soaked through his hat and cloak, making him look rather disheveled.
He came out, vigorously shook the water droplets off his body, and his face looked even worse.
"See! Soaked to the bone! Are you satisfied now, Perkins? I hope this damn record states how I ended up so undignified by my own security measures while working late into the night!"
This trick is very effective.
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