The Black Bloodline of Hogwarts

"Try again, Harry," Lupin's voice came from the shadows, gentle yet firm. "Remember what I said—not words, but thoughts; not gestures, but desires."

Harry closed his eyes.

He tried to grasp at those joys—the ecstasy of riding a broomstick for the first time, the glory of winning Quidditch, the warmth of sitting by the fire with Ron and Hermione… but whenever he touched those memories, a chilling coldness would creep over him like a bone-deep sore, turning the golden images gray.

Even if he was facing a fake Dementor disguised as a Boggart.

"Call upon God... Call upon God for protection..."

Silvery-white smoke billowed from the tip of the staff, thicker and longer than before, even vaguely revealing the outline of some four-limbed animal—but then dissipated like a punctured balloon.

"Very good, you've improved." Lupin stood up from his armchair and walked over to Harry. "Your gestures and tone are impeccable, Harry. I can feel the precision of your magical output; the structure of your spells is like a fine instrument in your hands."

"This is all what Julien taught me," Harry opened his eyes, looking at the tip of the staff in frustration, "but why isn't it working?"

Lupin paused for a moment, a deep, almost compassionate understanding in his grey-brown eyes: "Because you haven't found that real memory, Harry. That moment that can make you laugh from the bottom of your heart even in the darkest of times."

"I have!" Harry exclaimed eagerly, "I have so many happy memories..."

"Happy memories and happy sources are two different things," Lupin corrected softly, placing his hand gently on Harry's shoulder.

"The Guardian Charm is not about recalling beautiful memories of the past, but about summoning the anchor point of your soul—the moment that assures you that you are loved, needed, and protected."

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

He remembered the green light, his mother's screams, the darkness of the Dursleys' cupboard... In contrast, Julien was calm when facing the real Dementors on the train.

"How did Julien manage that?" Harry suddenly asked. "On the train, he was clearly only my age..."

Lupin's eyes flickered. He walked to the window and looked at the deepening night outside.

"Mr. Black... is an exception. I don't know the specifics, but I feel he has some kind of innate talent, or rather, some kind of innate preparedness."

He turned around, his gaze sharpening. "But you don't need to compare yourself to him, Harry. You need to find your own path."

"Try again," Lupin raised his wand, its tip glowing softly. "This time, don't think about Quidditch, don't think about the trophy. Think about a moment that makes you feel... absolutely safe."

Harry took a deep breath and raised his wand again.

This time, what surfaced in his mind was not glory or victory, but a scene he rarely recalled, or rather, an image from his imagination: himself as an infant, held tightly in a pair of warm arms, with a gentle female voice humming in his ear...

"Protect the Gods!"

Silver prices surged.

---

Dumbledore's rage was like a belated blizzard; after it swept through, Hogwarts fell into an eerie silence.

The Dementors huddled in the thick fog surrounding the castle, no longer daring to cross the line—at least no longer daring to openly drift into the Quidditch pitch.

Their presence becomes a faint chill in the distance, like the North Star—you know it's there, but it won't burn your skin for the time being.

Seasons shift quietly in the gaps of power struggles. The autumn winds of the Scottish Highlands finally exhausted their last bit of stubbornness, and the early winter frost began to dominate the morning meadows.

The "Hit-Man Willow"—that old tree with a violent temper—completely shed its disguise during a cold snap at the end of October. Its bare branches stretched out under the leaden sky, like a shaved beast, quietly waiting for something.

It no longer whips the air wildly, but occasionally trembles in the cold wind, letting its last few stubborn withered leaves fall and shatter on the path leading to Hagrid's hut.

An unusual tension filled the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

The young wizards had grown accustomed to Professor Lupin's gentle yet practical teaching style. The hands-on lessons with Red Hat, Kaba, and Grindelwald were far more fascinating than Lockhart's storybooks.

Professor Lupin's presence also gave the young wizards a great sense of security. So far, there haven't been any unexpected incidents in this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

But today, when they pushed open the classroom door, what stood behind the podium was not that slightly worn gray-brown robe, but a black robe that exuded a chilling aura.

Severus Snape.

"Mr. Longbottom, close that damned door." Snape didn't even look up, his quill making a screeching sound as it scratched across the register. Neville was so startled he froze on the spot.

A rustling sound of people sitting down filled the classroom.

Unlike the other young Ravenclaw wizards, Julien sat in the back row as usual, but he still noticed that Snape's face was paler than usual, with a faint bluish-black tinge under his eyes, as if he had just stayed up all night brewing some kind of complicated potion.

"Professor Lupin is not feeling well," Snape finally raised his head, his dark eyes sweeping across the classroom, pausing for half a second on Harry, a mocking smile twisting at the corners of his mouth.

"Clearly, his 'intimate communication' with the dark creature has come at a price. Therefore, I will be taking over this class."

He waved his wand, and the original writing on the blackboard receded like a tide, replaced by a cold title: "Werewolves: Forms, Habits, and Utter Extinction."

"Open your textbook," Snape's voice was as smooth as a snake's molt, "to page 394."

A confused rustling of pages filled the classroom.

Julien quickly flipped to that page, raising an eyebrow when he saw the title—"Werewolves: The Ministry of Magic's Classification and Danger Level Assessment." This clearly went beyond the original teaching content.

"Werewolves," Snape began his lecture, without any pleasantries or questions. "Muggles or wizards who transform during a full moon are classified by the Ministry of Magic as 'creatures of the dark,' not as humans."

"Professor." Hermione Granger's hand sprang up like a spring, her brown eyes flashing with a challenging light above her scarf.

The other students in the classroom all looked at her. However, Snape ignored her and continued, "Their saliva is highly venomous, and a bite can cause irreversible infection. According to Rule 1637 of the Werewolf Code of Conduct—"

"Professor, we just learned about Red Hats last week," Hermione said, interrupting Snape without waiting for a prompt. "Professor Lupin said we'll be learning about Hinkypunk next. Werewolves are a topic for the second semester, and—"

“Nothing much, Miss Granger!” Snape turned, his black robes tracing a sharp arc, “or rather,” he paused deliberately, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper, “you question the professionalism of my substitute teaching?”

Hermione's face flushed red: "That's not what I meant, sir."

"Oh? And who are you questioning?" Snape's eyebrows arched dangerously. "The compilers of the textbooks? Or the Ministry of Magic's classification committee?"

"Gryffindor deducts 5 points for your disrespect towards the professor."

The young Slytherin wizards burst into laughter upon hearing this. Malfoy even imitated a wolf's howl.

"Continue," Snape turned to face the blackboard, waved his wand, and an anatomical diagram of a werewolf's transformation process appeared.

"The werewolves' current form is not an Animagus transformation. Their transformation during the full moon is forced, accompanied by the breaking and rebuilding of bones, the tearing and regeneration of muscles. It is said that this pain..." A strange, almost cruel smile appeared on his lips, "can completely destroy a person's sanity."

Hermione's expression changed. It was no longer a simple protest, but a thoughtful, wary gaze. Her eyes darted back and forth between Snape's black robes and the anatomical diagrams on the blackboard.

She was thinking of something.