At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

Chapter 80 Visitors from Abroad

The English Channel, Dover coastline.

At three in the morning, a cold mist clung to the cliff.

Aurorodrich Higgins tightened his collar, his right hand gripping his wand through a thick dragon-skin glove.

The faint warmth emanating from the tip of the wand was his only solace at that moment.

"Damn the moisture," he cursed inwardly, feeling the salty smell of the seawater seeping into his lungs through his nostrils, taking away the last bit of body heat.

He was one of the Aurors stationed on the southern border by the Ministry of Magic, specifically tasked with monitoring unauthorized apparitions across the border.

This task was described as extremely important in the Ministry of Magic's internal affairs pamphlet—"the first line of defense for Britain."

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But for Higgins, it was nothing more than a form of exile.

In the past six months, the only "crossover" he has seen here is a lost and grumpy French seagull.

He lifted his boots and stepped over the wet, slippery gravel, making a dull, repetitive crunching sound.

The sound was particularly jarring in the quiet night, as if reminding him that his life was being worn away second by second in this meaningless patrol.

He started playing a game in his mind that he had played countless times: counting steps.

From this protruding rock to the tree stump struck by lightning ahead, it's a total of one hundred and twenty-four steps.

If he's lucky, Bock should arrive by the fifth cycle. Then he can go back to his London apartment, have a shot of strong whiskey with double the honey, and fall asleep on the sofa.

"Was that the lighthouse's flash, or was it my imagination?" Higgins squinted, looking at the faint light that appeared and disappeared in the distance.

The fog was so thick that Dover's famous white cliffs looked like a row of jagged, giant teeth in the darkness, idly chewing on the waves.

Ten steps ahead, a figure suddenly flashed through the fog.

Higgins stopped, his long-standing professional instincts acting before his brain could process the situation.

He held his wand level, the tip glowing a warning red light, and sliced ​​a rift in the swirling white mist.

"Password," he whispered. There was a tension in his voice that he himself didn't realize—after half a year of dead silence, any movement was like a thunderclap.

no respond.

A dark figure strolled out from the fog.

The other person was wearing a cloak with the collar turned up, covering half of their face.

"Stop!" Higgins stepped forward, his voice hoarse from not speaking during patrol for so long.

A sense of irritation welled up within him:

It's probably some idiot smuggling illegal potions, or an illegal shapeshifter trying to sneak into Paris for a vacation.

"Put your hands up, did you hear me?"

If it were someone from the Ministry of Magic checking up on us, this joke wouldn't be funny at all.

The other person continued walking, his right hand emerging from his pocket.

Higgins seized the opportunity, his arm muscles tensing: "I'm fainting."

Before he could finish the incantation, Higgins felt an irresistible pressure gripping his throat.

He was lifted into the air, his toes off the ground, and his wand fell to the ground.

He opened his mouth wide, trying to breathe, but the oxygen in his lungs seemed to be sucked out instantly.

The shadowy figure walked up to him.

Higgins strained his eyes, but saw only a pair of lifeless eyes.

The other person extended a finger and tapped Higgins' forehead.

Higgins' consciousness instantly plunged into absolute darkness, and he collapsed, falling into the weeds at the edge of the cliff.

The dark figure withdrew its hand, not even glancing at the Auror on the ground, and disappeared as the air distorted.

London, Ministry of Magic.

Auror Command Center.

In the quiet office, the map of Britain hanging on the wall suddenly emitted a piercing alarm.

A green dot at the southern end of the map flickered violently twice before going out completely.

Auror Gavin Robards, who was on duty, sprang up from his armchair.

He rushed to the map and placed his right hand on the extinguished coordinate.

"Dover, Higgins is out of contact." Robaz's voice echoed in the room. "No distress signal has been sent back, and the magical fluctuations are lasting less than half a second."

"You mean he was instantly killed?" Another Auror on duty ran over, still half asleep.

"Or they'll be taken down without warning." Robaz's face was ashen. He strode to his desk, grabbed a stack of parchment, quickly signed his name, and shouted, "Gerwitt! Take three men and Apparate to the Dover coastline immediately! I want to see them alive or dead!"

"Should we report this to Scrimgeour?"

"It's already been reported." Robaz stared at the disappearing dot on the map. "Recently, Knockturn Alley and those pureblood families have been acting strangely. The border is now a powder keg."

If someone were to sneak in silently at this moment—

He didn't say anything more, but the gloom in his eyes deepened.

In the shadows of Flip-Over Alley, the stench of decay reached the ground before the heavy rain.

August Travers stopped in front of a shop selling shrunken human heads.

He reached out, brushed aside a string of withered fingers hanging from the door frame, and pushed the door open to go inside.

The fairy behind the counter muttered for a while, but August ignored her. He threw down a bag of Galleons, grabbed a bottle of dark green potion, and stuffed it into his pocket.

As he left the shop, he habitually turned his head to the left.

A blurry figure was reflected in the window of the repair shop diagonally opposite.

The man, wearing a large cloak with his face hidden in the deep shadow of the hood, was standing in front of a tilted stall, fiddling with something.

August withdrew his gaze and quickened his pace.

He walked through the narrow alley, his leather boots splashing dark mud into the puddles.

He turned left onto Evans Trail and then slipped into the entrance to an abandoned basement.

Three seconds later, the gray figure appeared at the alley entrance.

August leaned against the brick wall, his right hand already gripping his wand. He listened to the footsteps outside.

"Do you want my life, or my money?" August muttered to himself, his voice cruel and excited.

He didn't launch an attack directly; he waited for the other party to enter a blind spot. However, the footsteps stopped at the alley entrance and then began to retreat.

August frowned. The other party had noticed.

He stopped hiding and rushed out of the basement.

The alley was deserted, except for a tattered piece of parchment fluttering in the wind.

He raised his wand and growled at the air, "Aparecium!"

Nothing happens.

August snorted and walked toward the exit of Overturned Alley.

He walked quickly on purpose, his leather boots making a clattering sound on the stone pavement.

He walked through the Muggle crowd at Charing Cross Road, pushed open the back door of the Leaky Cauldron, and without stopping, rushed straight into the narrow restroom.

With a soft "pop," he vanished into thin air.

Surrey County, a dry and barren swamp.

August slammed into the hardened mud crust.

The view here is expansive, with only low shrubs and tree stumps for miles around.

He turned around, gripped his wand horizontally, and stared at the air a dozen yards ahead.

Then, space itself began to warp.

The gray-cloaked figure reappeared. The figure landed smoothly, without even stirring up any dust.

"Quickly." August stared at the other man, the tip of his wand gleaming. "Whose man are you? Did Lucius send you to spy on me? Or are you one of the department's most cunning hounds?"

The other party did not reply.

His face remained hidden in the darkness beneath the hood, his hands hung at his sides, and a black tip of a cane peeked out from his sleeve.

"If you don't answer, I can cut off your fingers first, then let you beg for mercy slowly." August took a step closer, his voice turning sinister. "Speak."

The wind rustled through the withered grass. The man in the gray cloak remained motionless.

"Not going to speak? Then take your tongue to hell."

August waved his wand without any warning.

"Crucio!"

A beam of red light shot straight at the opponent's chest.

The gray-cloaked figure shifted slightly to the side, the red light grazing his shoulder before striking a withered tree behind him. The trunk instantly shattered, sending splinters flying.

August's pupils contracted.

"Epulso!"

He followed up with another strike. A violent contraction occurred in the air, and the soil on the ground was overturned.

The man in the gray cloak raised one hand to block, and a barrier appeared in the air.

The incantation struck the barrier, emitting a dark golden hue before dissipating.

August felt his heart race.

This was no ordinary Ironclad Charm. The opponent didn't chant any spells, nor did they wave their wands wildly.

"Interesting." August grinned maliciously, and with a sudden flick of his left hand, several chains emerged from the soil, coiling around the other man's ankles like venomous snakes.

The gray-cloaked figure rose from the ground, deftly waving his wand in mid-air, the beam pointing directly at August.

August quickly retreated; where he had just stood, a tree stump was completely rotten.

Who exactly are you?

"Is there some kind of misunderstanding?" August was still completely confused, while the other party remained silent.

He landed and took a step forward.

The moment he took that step, August felt the air around him tighten suddenly, as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat.

August felt fear. He had only ever seen this kind of control over magic in the Dark Lord.

"Sectumsempra!"

August, in a frenzy, hurled several sharp blades.

The man in the gray cloak parried with his staff.

Clang, clang, clang. The sharp blades were all deflected.

The opponent retaliated with an extremely ordinary Depulso spell.

But in August's eyes, the spell was incredibly fast.

He activated his armored spell, but the impact was incredibly powerful.

He felt as if he had been struck in the chest by a speeding bus, and his body flew backward several yards before crashing heavily into the mud.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, and the gray-cloaked man was slowly walking towards him.

With each step he took, the surrounding withered grass withered and turned to ash.

August knew he was no match for them.

Without hesitation, he pressed his right hand to the ground, enduring the excruciating pain in his chest.

"Snapped!"

He activated Apparition again.

This time, he landed in the North Yorkshire moors.

He didn't even have time to catch his breath before spinning again.

"Snapped!"

The roof of St. Pancras Station in London.

"Snapped!"

Beside a waterfall in the Scottish Highlands.

August leaned against the rock, staring intently at the churning water vapor ahead.

The gray shadow arrived as expected, even landing in roughly the same spot.

The opponent did not attack immediately, and this composed attitude was more devastating to August than any spell.

who is it?

He quickly filtered the list through his mind.

The Aurors from the ministry? Impossible. Those guys in red robes always come in groups, shouting tedious warnings, their spellcasting as rigid as a textbook.

The person in front of him cast the spell silently, and his methods were unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Lucius's mole? August gritted his teeth.

Malfoy did employ some people to handle the dirty work, but those people had no reason to take his life.

The aura emanating from this pursuer was both sacred and somewhat sinister.

Could it be the Ashford family?

He recalled the look of Lucius’s alarmed expression when he mentioned the Mayflower at the manor.

Those Puritan madmen who crossed the Western Ocean could transform themselves into inhuman monsters.

August performed four consecutive short-distance, high-difficulty consecutive shifts.

His internal organs felt churning from the confinement of the space, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Damn it—what kind of monster is this—!"

August let out a desperate roar.

He waved his wand, attempting to summon a blazing fire in front of him.

But before he could finish his incantation, the tip of the opponent's staff lit up with a white light.

A disarming spell.

August rolled to his side, the tip of his wand struck him, the violent shock causing his hand to split open.

He didn't bother to retrieve his wand; instead, he lunged towards the edge of the cliff and activated Apparition once more.

This time, he had no sense of direction. He had only one thought: the farther away from here, the better.

Hogwarts, on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

An ugly rift was torn open in the air, and August crashed heavily into the pile of fallen leaves.

During his final teleportation, his left arm suffered a severe "follower reveal" accident, with a large chunk of flesh shaved off below the elbow, and blood staining the soil.

He trembled as he rolled over and leaned against the trunk of a huge oak tree. From there, he could see the twinkling lights of the castle in the distance.

"Help me—" he cried out in a hoarse voice.

He wasn't sure why he was running to Hogwarts; maybe it was because Dumbledore was there.

Faced with an absolute threat of death, one's stance becomes worthless.

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silence.

The canopy of the Forbidden Forest blocked out the moonlight. In the darkness, a rhythmic sound of footsteps arose once more.

The sound of crunching dry branches.

a bit.

Two times.

August stared ahead in despair.

A figure in a grey cloak emerged from the shadows and stood outside the Forbidden Forest, his silhouette outlined in the castle's dim light.

He stopped, neither entering the forbidden forest nor launching any further attacks.

He simply stood there, gazing at the dying August with a deathly silence.

August clutched his bleeding left arm tightly. He wanted to beg for mercy, but the other man's inhuman demeanor made him unable to speak.

August closed his eyes, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness from blood loss. Only Lucius's words from the manor remained in his mind: "—Those madmen will return for that 'miracle.'"

No.

August thought.

The miracle is already here.