Hogwarts Raven

Chapter 426, Section 425: Who are you calling a little dwarf?
Someone is stirring up trouble.

Naturally, some people will join in the commotion.

Next to the second-generation witch was a witch accused of "manipulating the weather."

Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes gleamed with a mad light. When she saw the second-generation witch treating Ian, she suddenly laughed: "The nickname 'little dwarf' suits him perfectly!"

"He really does look like a dwarf!"

The witch's curses were even more vulgar.

If those two prisoners were to swear about something else...

Ian might just laugh it off.

But this guy called Ian a shorty.

That would really cross Ian's line.

There's a joke about Ke Jie being bad at Go, which he'll laugh off, but if someone insults him by saying he's good at playing Go, he'll get angry. In real life, Ian did indeed get angry when faced with something like that.

The other party did indeed hit the weakness that he had been suffering from for a long time.

once Upon a time.

Ian is indeed a short man, and he does care about it, which is why he now likes to take care of his health and promote growth. And now, this prisoner is using "short man" to humiliate him?
This seems unrelated to Ian's past shortcomings.

Yet it precisely awakened that repressed memory. Ian slowly turned around, his deep green pupils gleaming in the dim light, like the sharp edge of a blade in the cold night.

The witch was still laughing, thinking he wouldn't dare to do anything.

But the next second, the smile on her face froze.

Ian didn't speak, but simply raised his hand and gently hooked it.

The witch's golden robe suddenly trembled violently, and then the entire robe transformed into countless tiny golden threads that burrowed into her skin like living snakes.

"Ah—!" she screamed, but the sound lasted only a second before it stopped abruptly.

Her mouth was still moving, but no sound came out.

Even more terrifying, beneath her skin, golden threads spread like vines, eventually weaving a golden mask on her face—with three words clearly engraved on it.

"Shorty."

How ironic.

The witch was struck dumb, frantically scratching her face, but the mask had become one with her skin and could not be removed.

She finally understood—this was not a simple punishment, but a mark on the soul.

Ian looked at her coldly, his voice low: "I don't care if you call my penis short. But if you dare to mention 'shorty,' I'll make sure you can read 'To Live' as a thrilling novel for the rest of your life."

Perhaps people of this era were unfamiliar with the book *To Live*, but the meaning behind Ian's threats was crystal clear, chilling the surrounding prisoners to the bone. Someone muttered, "That witch is finished…she'll be forever marked as a blasphemer, even the ancestral spirits won't accept her soul…"

obviously.

This man also noticed that Ian had added some curses to the punishment of the witch. So, he was quite perceptive. After giving Ian a look of awe, he curled up back into the corner.

Criminals with his level of judgment are actually few and far between, especially the second-generation witch who initially provoked Ian, who didn't care at all about Ian's punishment of witches.

"You can only bully that woman because she has no background. If you dare to lay a finger on someone like me who has a background, you'll never forget the pain you'll suffer in your next life."

The second-generation prisoner of the witch doctor spoke with a disdainful look.

Ian didn't seem particularly stressed about it.

If you can't speak well, then speak less.

He gave a bland warning.

Upon hearing this, the prisoner not only didn't restrain himself, but seemed to be enraged, shaking the iron bars even more frantically, spitting as he roared, "Shut up! Who do you think you are! How dare you order me around? My mouth is on my face, I can say whatever I want! I'm not only going to curse you, I'm going to curse you! Curse you..."

This person speaks very rudely.

They were also very arrogant and domineering.

So Ian held back until this point, and after demonstrating his basic manners, he made his move. As soon as he did, the other party's cursing stopped abruptly.

Because Ian suddenly turned his head, a perfectly timed look of utter bewilderment on his face, and softly asked:
"What mouth?"

Upon hearing this, the prisoner instinctively wanted to yell, "Are you blind?!", but he opened his mouth wide and no sound came out. A cold, eerie sensation came from his face.

He touched his face in horror—the area below his nose, where his lips should have been, was completely smooth! There were no gaps, no bumps, as if his mouth had never existed!
He lost his mouth!

The prisoner was struck dumb, frozen in place, his eyes wide with utter terror and horror. He wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but only managed a meaningless, desperate "hoarse" sound from deep within his throat. He staggered backward, collapsing onto the filthy ground.

"!!!!!!!" The guy was incredulous. He raised his hand, his fingers trembling as he pointed at Ian, then frantically scratched his now smooth face.

His eyes were filled with boundless horror.

“If your family wants revenge, they’re welcome. I wouldn’t mind destroying another family, another city.” Ian had already looked away, as if he had just asked a trivial question. He continued walking, following the silent Dementor down the tunnel.

He didn't even glance at the prisoner again.

In the surrounding cells, the prisoners who had been itching to join in the commotion or make threats were now completely silent, like chickens with their necks being choked.

They stared in horror at their companion, who had lost his mouth and was writhing in agony on the ground, then looked at Ian's indifferent departing figure, a chill running from the soles of their feet to the top of their heads.

They were all wizards.

Ian's actions, however, exceeded their expectations.

What kind of method is this? Silently and without even using a wand or a finger, it caused someone to lose an organ? This is no longer a matter of power!
Is a word the law?
This is simply...bizarre! Terrifying!
No one dared to make a sound at Ian anymore; even their breathing unconsciously became much softer. The entire deep prison area fell into a deathly silence.

The only sound was the faint rustling of wind created by Ian and the Dementors as they moved.

As Ian walked, he observed his surroundings and the prisoners. He noticed that the number of cells seemed to decrease as he went down, but the cells themselves were noticeably more heavily fortified, and the aura emanating from the prisoners grew increasingly dangerous and somber. Clearly, the African Ministry of Magic employed a system of tiered imprisonment based on the severity of the crime or the level of danger.

“Locking Newt in a place like this…” Ian’s brow furrowed again. “It seems the charges against him this time are more than just ‘disturbing public order’ or ‘illegally carrying a dangerous creature.’ What kind of serious criminal are they planning to treat him like? Is it really worth going to such lengths?”

His doubts grew stronger. While Newt Scamander had gotten into trouble with magical creatures, his danger rating shouldn't be high in any rational Ministry of Magic file. The Ministry of Magic's extensive intervention in Africa must have a deeper reason behind it.

"We need to find Newt to find out what happened." Ian thought and thought but couldn't figure it out, so he decided to conserve his brain cells, since his physical abilities were getting plenty of exercise.

Anyone who frequently climbs mountains knows that going uphill is easy, but going downhill is difficult, and Ian is currently on the downhill side. This deep, spiraling prison structure seems to have no end. He has followed this group of silent guides for quite a distance, and the surrounding air is becoming increasingly cold and biting. The magical lights on the walls are becoming sparser and dimmer, and the light is as dim as if he were underwater.

however.

We still haven't reached our destination.

The number of prisoners they saw along the way was decreasing, but the atmosphere emanating from each cell was becoming more dangerous and more sinister, some of which even made Ian glance at them sideways.

He stopped and couldn't help but ask the lead Dementor floating ahead of him the same question again—this was the umpteenth time he had asked the same question.

"How much longer do we have to go?"

There was no answer. But a vague mental wave, carrying a cold and submissive connotation, passed through him, as if it were resounding directly in Ian's mind, and its meaning was still the same simple three words.

[In a little while...]

Ian's eye twitched slightly. He sensed a chasm-like difference between his understanding of the unit of time "a while" and that of these Dementors.

Every time I asked, I got the same answer, as if their concept of time was frozen, or that "a while" in their dictionary meant "until we reach our destination".

There was nothing Ian could do; he couldn't reason with such a stupid thing. It was pointless to argue. He missed the intelligent Dementor he had kept at Hogwarts.

"Hey."

Ian sighed helplessly.

He patiently followed for a long time, passing through several areas that were clearly checkpoints with stronger magical restrictions. The cells here were more sturdy, some even carved from single pieces of anti-magic obsidian. Since the Dementors were leading the way, Ian didn't need to crack any permissions.

As a prison guard.

The Dementors held the highest authority in this place. Ian's footsteps echoed on the ninth-level stone steps, the sound swallowed by the thick rock walls, as if stepping into an endless tunnel leading to the earth's core. The Dementors continued to guide him silently, their black robes swaying gently in the faint, eerie light.

Like a ferry on the River Styx.

The further down you go.

Indeed, it's the more high-profile the criminal.

Some of the prisoners held here are like sleeping beasts, their breath carrying a chilling magical ripple; others stare at Ian and the Dementors with crazed and venomous eyes, muttering incantations as if brewing a vicious curse; and one cell is even completely empty.

There was only a twisting, churning shadow, emanating an ominous aura.

Whether it was some kind of special being imprisoned, or a wizard who transformed himself into a special being—in any case, he at least escaped the treatment of his third sister-in-law.

To know.

In places like prisons.

The problem of people picking up soap is still quite serious.

This has nothing to do with the significant differences between Africa and India. Ian encountered all sorts of criminals, yet even so, he still hadn't reached Newt's cell.

The Dementor remained silent, simply continuing to drift forward.

Ian finally couldn't hold back any longer. He pulled out the Marauder's Map he had created, which displayed the real-time structure of the Ministry of Magic. His gaze fell on the dot representing Newt, and he compared it to his current location. The dot was indeed nearby, almost overlapping with it.

Are we almost there?
No.

"Wait a minute..." Ian suddenly realized the problem. He slapped his forehead, a helpless yet amused expression on his face. "I miscalculated! When I was making the map, I only focused on the planar layout and defensive nodes, but I ignored this damn height difference!"

Maps are two-dimensional top-down views, which can show different floors, but they are not very intuitive for vertical structures that spiral downwards and have an astonishing depth.

He was indeed standing on the same "area" marked on the map as Newt's cell, but heaven knows how many vertical layers separated them! Had these African wizards hollowed out the entire foundation of the Ministry of Magic? The depth was comparable to some of Gringotts' deepest vaults!

“How deep did these Africans dig? Are they planning to build a prison right into the mantle? This isn’t a prison, it’s an elevator to hell! Wouldn’t it be better for you to go farm?” Ian sighed helplessly, feeling like a fool wandering in circles in a maze.

None of the surrounding criminals responded.

He put away the map and turned his gaze back to the Dementor that had led the way, asking the question with a last glimmer of hope, or rather, with a lingering sense of desperation.

How far are we from Newt?

Ian asked the question in a different way this time.

He thought he was incredibly smart.

however.

[In a little while...]

The cold, emotionless mental response arrived as expected. Good heavens, a Dementor's "a moment" isn't just a unit of time, it's a unit of distance too!
Hey.

I should have known!

After all, even ordinary wizards know that Dementors' languages ​​are complex.

The use of a single word in multiple ways is certainly common!
Ian: "..."

He gave up. He had lost to these magical creatures whose thoughts and beliefs were so different from ordinary "humans." Just as he rubbed his temples, resigned to continuing this seemingly endless "Abyss Trek," a voice suddenly came from a nearby cell.

This voice was completely different from all the roars, curses, mad babblings, or numb groans of the prisoners I had heard before. It was calm, serene, and even carried a sense of detachment, as if it were not coming from a gloomy and terrifying prison, but from a casual conversation in a quiet courtyard.

Most importantly, the voice contained clear emotions and reason, and was by no means that of a walking corpse whose happiness had been sucked away by the Dementors.

"If I were you, I wouldn't continue."

The words were spoken slowly, but their content stirred something within Ian. He stopped and turned to look at the source of the voice.

It was a cell near the inside of the passageway, also constructed of anti-magic obsidian, but it looked "cleaner" than the others; at least there was no obvious dirt piled up at the entrance.

In the cell, a middle-aged man dressed in a worn but still recognizable gray robe sat cross-legged on the floor. He had a gaunt face and a neatly trimmed short beard, but what was most striking about him were his eyes—there were no eyeballs, only two empty sockets.

Yet, this blind man's face was precisely turned toward Ian's location, his empty eye sockets seemingly able to pierce through the darkness and clearly "see" Ian.

Fantastic.

It's also very mysterious.

(End of this chapter)