Chapter 70: Crucio

After returning to his dorm, Allen fell asleep quickly, not giving much thought to the day’s events—he merely believed he’d put on a show for Professor Quirrell.

Although what he said were insights from recent historical readings, he didn’t think the wizarding world’s decline could be easily reversed; he mentioned it to Quirrell only to build rapport.

What truly occupied his thoughts was Quirrell’s suggestion about writing a book—mainly pondering how to spend the money once it arrived, even dreaming about it.

Summer arrived silently, and the surroundings of Hogwarts grew vibrant.

Allen remained as busy as ever; the shadowy force lurking within Hogwarts had not stirred, leaving him with a faint unease.

But Harry had stopped thinking about it—he’d finished his Quidditch season, training had decreased, and lately he’d been immersed in wizard chess with Ron.

There had been no new developments regarding the Philosopher’s Stone, but they were certain it remained safe, for whenever they passed the fourth floor, they could hear the three-headed dog’s snores, which greatly reassured them.

The project of writing the book with Professor Quirrell was progressing steadily; Quirrell showed great interest in political correctness, discussing it repeatedly during tutoring sessions for weeks.

Many magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest had become pregnant in spring; to monitor their condition, Hagrid and Allen expanded their patrol routes.

It was Friday again, and Allen and Hagrid were patrolling the Forbidden Forest.

From afar, Allen spotted several long, pure white hairs—they glowed so brilliantly they stood out sharply against the forest’s shadows.

He felt they were extraordinary; when he picked them up, they radiated warmth.

At that moment, Hagrid caught up, and Allen showed him the long hairs in his hand.

After examining them, Hagrid slapped Allen’s shoulder and said, “You’re lucky, lad—these are unicorn hairs. Looks like unicorns have been active nearby.”

Allen stared at the hairs in astonishment: “Unicorn hairs? I remember Ron’s wand contains unicorn hair!”

“Exactly—the kind used for wands! Put them away quick!” Hagrid winked at Allen.

Allen said sheepishly, “We found these together—we should split them.”

Hagrid looked at Allen’s stubborn expression, ruffled his hair with a giant hand, and chuckled, “I’ve got a whole bunch at my cabin!”

Allen: “...”

“You found several unicorn hairs east of the Black Lake in the Forbidden Forest?” Professor Quirrell suddenly interrupted Allen’s account.

It was Saturday night again; as usual, Allen was recounting his Forbidden Forest observations to Quirrell.

“Yes, Professor! Are you interested in this?” Allen wasn’t annoyed by the interruption—he sensed Quirrell’s interest.

“Who doesn’t adore such beautiful creatures as unicorns?” Quirrell replied with a light laugh, then seamlessly shifted topics: “Today we’ll learn a new spell!”

Allen’s attention snapped away from the unicorn hairs, forgetting them entirely.

Still, a doubt lingered in his mind—he hadn’t mastered the Fiendfyre spell well—but learning something new was still a good thing, and he felt eager.

“This spell differs from any you’ve learned so far,” Quirrell said in a low voice. “Your previous spells rely on imagination for their fourth component—but today’s requires emotional power.”

Allen silently chewed over the phrase “emotional power”; he knew some spells demanded it.

Those were all high-level spells, extremely difficult to master.

“Is it the Patronus Charm?” Allen asked. “I read about it in a book—it said it requires the power of happiness.”

“Hehehe—” Quirrell let out a cold laugh. “We’re learning Dark Magic—offensive magic, not the passive, defensive nonsense of the Patronus Charm!”

“This spell we’re learning today is immensely powerful. It exerts strong control, and its mechanism differs from all other magic.”

“Some wizards have high resistance to spells; control spells like Petrificus Totalus may only immobilize them for an instant. But this spell—no one has ever been reported to resist it.”

“It was also a common spell among ancient wizards. You must study it well,” Quirrell instructed.

“Yes! Yes!” Allen’s interest was piqued—he needed powerful magic now.

Watching Allen’s excitement, Quirrell slipped into a sly smile and began explaining the spell.

He pulled out a bottle containing a spider the size of a fist, opened the cap, and tipped it onto the table. The spider remained still, not moving—an act that eased Allen’s tension.

“This is today’s teaching aid,” Quirrell said calmly.

Allen couldn’t shake the chill he felt in Quirrell’s words.

Quirrell drew his wand. “I’ll demonstrate first—so you can see the spell’s effect.”

Allen nodded, fixing his gaze tightly on the spider.

Quirrell pointed his wand at the quiet spider and uttered: “Crucio!”

Instantly, the spider’s legs curled inward, pressed against its body. It flipped over, writhing violently, shaking side to side. It made no sound—if it had vocal organs, it would have screamed in agony. Quirrell kept his wand raised; the spider began trembling uncontrollably, convulsing more fiercely.

Allen immediately understood the spell’s effect. Watching the spider’s agony, he quickly looked away, unable to bear it.

“What? Soft-hearted?” Quirrell’s tone carried its familiar mockery.

“I just think this spell is meaningless...” Allen whispered.

“Then what meaning do you want?” Quirrell fixed him with a piercing stare, raising his voice.

Allen dared not meet his eyes, staring at his toes: “I can’t find any reason to learn this spell...”

“Foolish kindness!” Quirrell sneered. Allen remained silent.

“Mercy toward enemies is cruelty toward yourself. You’ll regret it too late when someone’s foot is on your neck.”

But Allen’s mind still replayed the spider’s convulsions—he stayed silent.

Seeing Allen’s reaction, Quirrell decided to change tactics—he’d come to understand Allen well over time.

“Allen, do you know why I’m teaching you this spell?” Quirrell suddenly asked, shifting tone.

Allen looked puzzled. “Why?”

But Quirrell didn’t answer directly; he asked instead: “How many times did you practice the Dragon’s Breath spell before mastering it?”

“Thousands!”

“And Fiendfyre?”

“Hundreds of times—and I still can’t control it properly! Fiendfyre’s too hard!”

Quirrell nodded approvingly. “These powerful spells are always hard to master! But today’s spell is an exception.”

Allen grew intrigued.

“Mastering this spell is incredibly simple—if you have the aptitude, just twenty to thirty practice sessions will do! And its power is immense—ordinary wizards struck by it lose combat capability instantly! Don’t you want to learn it?”

Allen was completely won over. The prospect Quirrell painted captivated him. He thought back to Dragon’s Breath and Fiendfyre—didn’t being bitten by the summoned snake hurt? Didn’t being burned by Fiendfyre hurt? Why, then, did he resist this spell so strongly when all of them inflicted pain?

Perhaps it was just the teaching aid. In essence, all these spells were the same. Allen thought to himself.

Finally, he made his decision and nodded to Quirrell.