20demayo Chapter 275 The Prisoner's Candle
Chapter 275 The Prisoner's Candle
Chapter 275 The Prisoner's Candle (5K) (1/2)
When Lynch's true form silently stepped into the Chamber of Secrets in Slytherin again, a scent mixed with millennia of dust, damp rocks, and a certain chill wafted towards him.
Unlike the last time he remembered stepping into this place, it now appeared unusually deserted.
The water stains on the ground had disappeared, and the giant basilisk corpse was nowhere to be seen, leaving only the Slytherin statue silently overlooking in the darkness.
In fact, shortly after waking up from his coma during the Soul Armor experiment last year, Lynch facilitated Hogwarts selling the basilisk's corpse to the Stone Tower Merchant Guild.
After all, it is a basilisk that has lived for thousands of years. Every scale is imbued with ancient magic and is a rare and precious alchemical material. The essence condensed in its fangs is enough to drive even the most experienced potion masters crazy.
The Stone Tower Chamber of Commerce dispatched a professional team to conduct a detailed "value assessment" of the basilisk.
In front of school representatives Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, they carefully measured and recorded the data, producing a lengthy and professional report that detailed the "market application prospects" of the basilisk's fangs in potions and its scales in the production of protective magical artifacts. Based on this, they quoted a price that was astonishingly high but in line with market rates.
The Hogwarts Board of Governors was quite pleased with this windfall, and the entire process was open, transparent, and beyond reproach.
However, only a very few people, such as Lynch and Reggie, knew that behind the seemingly fair valuation by the Stone Tower Chamber of Commerce, the real driving force behind it all was the mysterious chief technical advisor of the alchemy department—Nick Lemaître.
The great alchemist expressed great interest in the remains of the thousand-year-old basilisk as soon as he learned of its death.
The so-called "auction" and "transaction" were merely a sophisticated process to circumvent potential scrutiny from all parties—especially astute wizards like Dumbledore—and deliver the Basilisk safely, legally, and discreetly to Flamel.
The basilisk's corpse was secretly transported to Flamel's hidden workshop in Devonshire.
There, it was given new life.
The scales, harder than steel, were carefully peeled off and reforged in an ancient alchemical matrix to give them even more wondrous properties; the venom, containing deadly magic, was collected drop by drop, becoming a crucial catalyst in experiments exploring the essence of life; and the snake's eyes, which still glowed faintly even after death, were sealed by Flamel with special crystals to observe the flow of the source of magic.
All of this was carried out quietly under the cover of the Stone Tower Chamber of Commerce's vast business network and Le Maire's own reclusive lifestyle.
Hogwarts' ledger simply showed a substantial Galleon payment from the Stone Tower Merchant Guild. No one would connect this transaction between the Stone Tower Merchant Guild and Hogwarts with the legendary alchemist.
At this moment, this spacious, silent chamber, isolated by powerful ancient magic, is the perfect place for Lynch to prepare materials for his dark magic rituals.
Lynch wasted no time.
He walked to a relatively flat and dry area in the center of the secret chamber, and with a casual wave of his right hand, the movement was simple yet precise. A huge stone slab on the ground responded to his silent summons, rising steadily with a low grinding sound, deforming, and finally settling into a smooth, mirror-like black stone workbench. A layer of shimmering light flashed across the surface, a cleansing and stabilizing magic that had been instantly solidified.
He then took out a gray bag and retrieved the materials that had been prepared beforehand.
The first thing he needs to make is the "Prisoner's Candle," which is required for the ritual.
A square piece of cloth, dark in color, rough in texture, and even somewhat worn at the edges—this was a fragment taken from the prison uniform of a wrongfully executed man in the Muggle world, soaked with the aura of despair accumulated over the years.
A small crystal bottle contains "midnight dew," which seems to have been concentrated with the essence of the night and exudes a chilling aura.
Another dark green bottle contained juice extracted from the most bitter wormwood under the moonlight, with a pungent smell.
Finally, there was a small silver knife.
Lin Qi first picked up the piece of prison uniform fabric, his fingertips tracing its rough texture, as if he could feel the whispers of the soul.
He chanted incantations softly as he meticulously disassembled the fabric from its edges with steady, precise movements. He then twirled the disassembled threads in his hands, as if performing some sacred yet sacrilegious weaving, ultimately forming a seemingly ordinary wick that contained profound symbolic meaning.
Then he picked up a black stone mortar.
The midnight dew from the crystal bottle was slowly poured into the mortar, where it rippled at the bottom, carrying a chilling coolness.
Then came the wormwood juice, the dark green liquid that, when dropped into the clear dew, did not mix but instead spread out in wisps, like ink in water, emitting an increasingly strong bitter aroma.
He picked up a small silver knife, its cold light flashing, and without hesitation, he slashed the tip of his left index finger.
A drop of bright red, full blood oozed out. He held his finger up, allowing this drop of blood, which belonged to him and contained the power of life and will, to drip precisely into the stone mortar.
The moment the blood fell in, the mixture in the mortar seemed to be injected with vitality, emitting a very slight "hissing" sound.
Lynch picked up the pestle with his right hand and began to grind slowly and forcefully in a fixed direction.
He began chanting the ancient and difficult incantation again, his voice low and resonant, echoing in the empty, secret room.
With each incantation and grinding motion, magic seeped into the mixture. The originally immiscible liquid, under the forced harmonization of magic and the guidance of incantations, gradually became viscous, its color turning into a dark, almost blackish brown, emitting a strange smell that was a mixture of bitterness, coldness, and a hint of rusty odor—a specially made grease was complete.
He picked up the wick he had twisted in the prison uniform lamp and carefully dipped it into the viscous grease.
The moment the wick touched the grease, it seemed to come alive, beginning to greedily and autonomously absorb the grease, its color deepening visibly until it resembled a slender snake soaked in darkness. Lynch continued chanting the incantation, ensuring every fiber was completely saturated, locking the conceptual powers of "imprisonment," "bitterness," "life imprint," and "the coldness of the night" firmly within this tiny wick through a magical ritual.
Then he took out a simple candlestick that he had prepared beforehand, made of clay mixed with bone meal.
He fixed one end of the wick, which was soaked with grease, to the metal buckle at the bottom of the candlestick, and then guided the wick to stand upright, allowing the excess grease to slowly flow down the wick and gather and solidify at the bottom of the candlestick.
The entire process was slow and focused, until a candle about seven inches long, dark in color, with an ominous glow seemingly enveloping its surface, was completely formed—the Prisoner's Candle was finished, standing quietly on the candlestick, waiting to be lit and release its inherent power to communicate with the darkness.
Just as Lin Qi was about to start processing the next piece of material, a sharp, terrified scream pierced his consciousness like an ice pick.
Creating these black magic ritual items requires a high degree of concentration and precise control of magical power, so he focused most of his attention on the actual objects in the secret chamber.
The raven clone that remained at the edge of the Quidditch stadium stands maintained only the most basic presence and a vague perception of the outside world, like a pre-programmed alchemical creation, mechanically fulfilling the disguise of "watching the game".
However, what came from the clone at this moment was by no means ordinary noise or cheers.
That was the sound of thousands of people simultaneously gasping in terror, with even a few clear screams mixed in, piercing through the thin sensory barrier on his clone and directly startling his main consciousness, which was immersed in dark craftsmanship.
Lin Qi frowned slightly, and his movements instantly stopped.
Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately shifted his attention from the dark, secret room to the noisy stadium stands inside his body.
The view suddenly opened up, revealing a dense pelt of large raindrops falling under a gloomy, leaden sky. The roof of the stands rattled and pattered, and the cold rain, carried by the howling wind, swept across the entire Quidditch pitch, blurring everyone's vision with a layer of mist. A deafening roar pierced the rain, carrying a damp, muffled quality.
He didn't even need to search deliberately; his gaze was immediately drawn to the focus of all the teachers and students in the stands. High in the sky, dark clouds hung low and heavy like splashed ink. Under that gloomy sky ravaged by torrential rain, dozens of dark, dilapidated figures—Dementors—exuding an aura of cold despair, like sharks that had smelled blood, ignored the downpour and gathered into an ominous vortex. Wherever they passed, the rain seemed to freeze into frost.
At the very center of that black vortex, a small, thin figure dressed in Gryffindor Quidditch gear, riding a broomstick, teetered precariously. Rain soaked through his robes, and wielding the broomstick was already difficult in the raging storm, compounded by the extreme cold and despair brought on by the Dementors—
Just as Lynch's gaze fell upon him, he seemed to be seized by an invisible cold and pain, his body stiffened, he lost all strength to control the broom, and he was falling straight down from the sky!
It's Harry!
Just as Harry began his dizzying descent, crashing like a broken kite onto the rain-soaked, muddy ground in a terrifying instant, "a roar of extreme rage, not from his throat but seemingly emanating from the very will of the entire castle, thundered throughout the Quidditch pitch, even briefly drowning out the clamor of the downpour."
The voice belonged to Albus Dumbledore.
He, who had been sitting quietly in the teacher's seat, suddenly stood up. His heavy wizard robes fluttered in the wind and rain, his beard and hair stood on end, and his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles burned with unprecedented rage.
He suddenly drew his wand and pointed it forward—and blast!
A dazzling, intense silver light, as hot as the midday sun, erupted fiercely from his center like an explosive torrent!
The light was not a gentle halo, but rather carried a tangible impact, filled with warmth, hope, and an irresistible protective will. Wherever the light passed, the cold, dark clouds were torn open, the torrential rain seemed to evaporate and dissipate instantly, the sky seemed to be instantly brightened, and the sunlight even briefly cast a magnificent beam of light.
The Dementors that had just greedily surrounded them suddenly let out silent, piercing screams, like ice shards thrown into flames. Their tattered black cloaks twisted and crumbled wildly in the silver light as they scrambled to escape the airspace that had suddenly become like a purgatory for them, disappearing without a trace in an instant.
Almost at the same moment, just before Harry was about to make fatal contact with the muddy, hard ground, Lynch suddenly stood up. The cold rain soaked his shoulders, but his sharp eyes pierced through the rain and were fixed on the falling figure.
He raised his right hand, spread his fingers, and thrust it upwards sharply in the direction Harry was falling!
There was no incantation, no light, not even a ripple of magic. A gentle and precise invisible force instantly supported Harry's falling body, as if an unseen giant hand had carefully caught him, greatly cushioning the terrible momentum of his fall, allowing him to finally float lightly onto the rain-soaked grass, splashing up a spray of water.
Harry lay in the mud, his eyes closed, his face pale, rain streaming down his soaked black hair.
The gasps from inside the stadium sounded somewhat distorted in the downpour, falling into an eerie silence, which was then replaced by an even louder clamor and the sound of rain.
The Gryffindor players swooped down from their brooms, and Ron and Hermione frantically pushed their way down from the stands, braving the torrential rain, and rushed toward Harry.
Almost the instant Harry landed, a black figure glided into the arena from the side of the teachers' table with the speed of a bat—it was Snape.
His face was so dark it seemed to drip with gloom. He strode through the mud, reaching Harry even a few steps ahead of Professor McGonagall. He crouched down, his withered fingers quickly checking Harry's neck for a pulse, then pried open his eyelids to examine him. His movements were professional and swift, tinged with urgency, though his expression remained habitually cold.
"He's just passed out," Snape's deep, clear voice boomed over the rain as he addressed Professor McGonagall, who had arrived, but his dark eyes swept sharply over Lynch and Dumbledore in the stands.
"Looks like our great 'savior' is in luck." His tone carried a familiar sarcasm, but behind it seemed to hide a hint of relief that he didn't want to be noticed.
On the teachers' bench, Dumbledore had already put away his wand, and the chilling anger around him receded like the tide. The downpour began to fall on him and around him again, but his sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze passing over the rain and the chaotic stadium, landing precisely on Lynch in the stands, who had just put down his hand and whose shoulders were already wet with rain.
The rain gradually subsided.
Lynch peered through the rain and met Dumbledore's gaze directly. He was confident that at such a distance, Dumbledore couldn't possibly tell that he was a clone.
But getting closer is another story.
Lynch's mind raced. He knew he absolutely could not get close to Dumbledore at this moment. He had to immediately divert the other man's attention and create a plausible and urgent reason for his "departure."
So, without making a sound, he raised his hand, not pointing to the falling Harry or the chaotic stadium, but directly to the higher and farther sky—to the Dementors who had been temporarily dispersed by Dumbledore's Patronus, but had not gone far, and were now gathering again and lingering over the Forbidden Forest like vultures.
His actions were clear and unambiguous, silently conveying a message: these threats have not been eliminated and need to be dealt with.
Dumbledore's gaze followed Lynch's finger as he glanced at the unpleasant black dot in the sky above the Forbidden Forest, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.
He clearly understood what Lynch meant.
Right now, ensuring Harry's safety and stabilizing the chaotic situation on the field are the top priorities, while driving away the remaining Dementors and preventing them from causing further disturbances is equally important.
He gave Lynch a deep look, then quickly turned around and strode down from the teachers' table, heading towards the tower where Harry had fallen.
As Dumbledore turned to leave, a subtle smile flickered across Lynch's lips.
Then, with a seemingly casual wave of his hand, the Anti-Apparition Charm that had been hanging over Hogwarts for years was temporarily deactivated.
The next moment, without hesitation, he turned around, his figure suddenly twisting and blurring on the spot, as if merging into the rain, and disappeared without a trace in an instant.
At the edge of the stands, only empty seats remained and the patter of rain continued, as if no one had ever stood there. Just moments before the doppelganger on the Quidditch pitch raised his hand, preparing to release the Anti-Apparition Charm—deep within the Chamber of Secrets in Slytherin.
Lynch's true form looked slightly suspicious. He moved with lightning speed, collecting the newly formed candle, which was surrounded by an ominous glow, along with several other completed ritual materials, and putting them into the inconspicuous gray bag.
With a casual wave of his right hand, the black workbench that had risen from the stone slab seemed to descend rapidly, as if time had reversed.
It was restored to its original state, fitting seamlessly with the surrounding ground without leaving any trace.
Immediately afterwards, he made a strange gesture, and an invisible gust of wind appeared out of thin air from the center of the secret room, howling and sweeping through every corner, completely disrupting, stripping away and erasing the residual magical fluctuations, material scents and even the finest footprints and dust in the air, as if no one had ever carried out any secret activities here.
The entire Chamber of Secrets instantly returned to the emptiness and deathly silence it had been when he entered, with only the statue of Salazar-Slytherin still standing indifferently in the darkness, looking down.
It was at this moment that the Anti-Apparition Charm enveloping Hogwarts was temporarily deactivated.
"Snapped!"
A crisp, explosive sound, as if the space had been compressed, occurred almost simultaneously in two places:
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Lin Qi's true form stepped out from the distorted air, his figure solidified, his hair gently swaying in the damp breeze after the rain.
In the Quidditch stadium stands, the moment the dispelling spell took effect, the clone's figure also disappeared into the Apparition spell.
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