The Black Bloodline of Hogwarts

The fat lady didn't leave to visit someone—the portrait is still there, but it's completely unrecognizable.

The golden frame was twisted and deformed, as if torn apart by some immense force. The canvas was ripped in the middle, the tear irregularly jagged, like a screaming mouth.

A corner of the fat lady's iconic pink silk robe remained on the edge of the canvas fragment, fluttering gently in the draft.

The most terrifying things were the marks. Not cuts, not burns, but claw marks—huge, beast-like claw marks, stretching from the center of the canvas to the edge of the frame. Each crack exuded a kind of frenzied, almost desperate violence.

"Where—where did she go?" A first-year girl's voice trembled.

Percy's face turned pale, but he forced himself to remain calm: "Everyone, back off! Don't come any closer! I'm going to find Professor McGonagall—"

"Keep the change, please."

Professor McGonagall's voice came from below the stairs, accompanied by hurried footsteps. Behind her were Professors Flitwick and Sprout, all three holding wands, their tips gleaming warily.

"When was it discovered?" Professor McGonagall strode forward, her gaze sweeping over the mess.

"Just, just now, Professor," Percy stammered, "we just came up—"

"Where's the Fat Lady?" Professor Flitwick asked sharply, having to stand on tiptoe to see the height of the picture frame. "Could she—could she be in one of the nearby portraits?"

At this moment, Dumbledore also arrived at the scene. His expression was as calm as ever, but his expression was solemn.

"Sir Cadogan, please inform the other portraits to go and find the Fat Lady, and see what has happened," Dumbledore said to a nearby knight portrait.

"Yes, I'll check right away." With that, Sir Cadogan jumped from one portrait to another and quickly disappeared into the distance.

"Headmaster! Headmaster! I see her, she's right here!" At that moment, the caretaker, old Filch, carrying a lantern, led Mrs. Lorris to a painting at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, his tone tinged with fear.

"I'm here!" came the fat lady's voice from the painting.

The crowd rushed over and saw an oil painting depicting a group of drunken monks reveling in a medieval tavern.

In the painting, the plump lady is hiding between two monks holding beer mugs. Her pink robes are tattered, her hair is disheveled, and there is a faint scratch on her face. Her expression is somewhere between fear and anger.

"What's going on, Madam Fat?" Professor McGonagall asked first.

"It was him! He tore my canvas!" the fat woman screamed, her voice so shrill it could pierce eardrums. "My beautiful face! I've spent three centuries maintaining it!"

"Calm down, madam," Dumbledore said, strode towards the painting, "tell us what happened. Who did it?"

"That's the murderer!" The fat woman's chest heaved violently, knocking over the beer mug in the painting. "Sirius Black!"

"He—he appeared in the hallway! Disheveled hair, sunken eyes, just like the wanted poster."

"Does he want to go into the Gryffindor common room?" Professor Flitwick pressed.

"Yes, of course I wouldn't!" The plump woman puffed out her chest, then shrank back. "But he—he didn't need a password! He just tore my canvas apart!"

---

The Great Hall at Hogwarts had never been so crowded. Almost all the students were gathered there.

Dumbledore ordered the temporary closure of all entrances and exits to Hogwarts Castle. The students would gather in the Great Hall to sleep that night.

He and each faculty member, along with several seventh-grade students, searched the school to ensure safety.

The tables and chairs in the auditorium had been moved somewhere, and in their place were densely packed sleeping bags—scarlet, blue, yellow, and green colors intertwined, like a tapestry forcibly pieced together.

The candles suspended in the air were dimmed to their lowest brightness, enveloping everything in a dim, almost morbidly ambiguous light.

The students left in the Great Hall were also unable to sleep, and they all lay in their sleeping bags whispering among themselves. But anyone who dared to raise their head and speak had a chance of being physically attacked by Professor Snape's wand.

Snape didn't participate in the search; he stayed behind to protect the students. But Ron muttered that he seemed more like someone investigating spies.

He stood on the steps ahead, his black robes motionless like the frozen night. His gaze swept across the slumbering ocean, lingering on the faces of every young wizard, occasionally pausing for a moment on a turning figure before indifferently looking away, as if trying to discover some clue.

Julien lay in the Ravenclaw area, his eyes half-closed, his right hand unconsciously stroking the inside of his right wrist. The hawk-headed hound totem felt slightly warm beneath his skin, like a sleeping heart suddenly beginning to beat.

He could feel it. That resonance of blood was wandering through the castle, getting closer and closer, yet further and further away—like a trapped beast searching for an exit in a labyrinth.

"Mr. Black," Snape's voice suddenly came close, "I noticed your sleeping posture is unusual... Are you waiting for someone?"

Julien opened his eyes and saw that thin lips beneath that aquiline nose pressed into a cold, straight line. Snape crouched down, his black robe trailing on the ground like the belly of some reptile.

The students around him who were still awake froze. Kayson quietly buried his head in his sleeping bag, pretending to be unconscious.

"It's just getting used to the environment, Professor," Julien said calmly. "After all, there aren't that many... companions in Ravenclaw's lounge."

Snape stared at him for a long time, long enough that Julien could smell the bitter scent of potions on him—valerian root, wormwood, and maybe even wolfsbane and aconite—yes, the smell of wolfsbane potion.

Then Snape noticed that Julien's left hand was covering his right wrist, so he gently grasped Julien's left wrist and moved it off his right wrist, but he couldn't see anything.

"Professor, you haven't washed your hands after preparing the potion, have you?"

"Your composure is impressive," Snape said after a moment's thought, his voice so low that only the two of them could hear. "Composure can be courage, but it can also be complicity."

Julien felt the totem still burning, but remained outwardly calm: "I don't understand what you mean, Professor."

Snape released his grip, stood up, and walked away, then turned back: "By the way, I did just brew a potion. A keen sense of smell is also a talent for brewing potions. You can guess what potion I brewed."

He turned and left, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone floor.

---

Ron Weasley was awakened at midnight.

It wasn't a nightmare, but a feeling of emptiness and loss—like suddenly missing a tooth, and your tongue always involuntarily licking the gap.

His right hand reached towards the corner of the sleeping bag, that familiar spot—where Banban always curled up, emitting soft, reassuring snores.

However, it is empty now.

"Scarlett?" Ron's voice was sleepy and confused. "Scarlett?"

He sat up, his red hair disheveled like a bird's nest ravaged by a storm.

He rummaged through his sleeping bag, which smelled of a mixture of stale cheese and old socks, but the spots were gone.

In fact, after something like this happens, in this particular environment, almost no young wizards will actually sleep very soundly.

Many students around were looking in that direction.