The Black Bloodline of Hogwarts

In the dead of night at Hogwarts, the silhouette of the castle under the moonlight resembles a sleeping dragon.

The raven's form flickered for a moment, vaguely revealing the silhouette of a slender woman in an ancient robe—a ghost—Pyxis Black, the Black ghost who co-founded Hogwarts with the four great masters—the source of the "Guardians."

Pixis remained silent for a long time. As the first "Guardian," she knew the truth about the Stargate better than anyone else.

It could be a passage, it could be a treasure, but it is also a mirror—reflecting the deepest desires and fears of the one who opens it.

And this determines where it leads.

“That notebook,” she finally said, “is more than just a Horcrux. When Tom created it, he inadvertently copied some of the properties of the Stargate. It can preserve souls, devour memories, and…”

All the headmasters on the canvases were looking at her, even Dumbledore's phoenix tilted its head, waiting for an answer.

"It can even communicate with other worlds."

"Communicating with another world?" A series of chattering sounds suddenly filled the room.

"Of course, it can't replace a key. But it can..." Pixis didn't continue, but changed the subject.

"So I stopped him, and he seemed to have figured out who I was from some kind of information. So I not only stopped him from continuing to kill, but also extracted that part of Tom Riddle's memory at that time."

"I'm just a ghost, even in Animagus form I'm still a raven ghost, I can't kill him."

"But that memory... may still have some remnants in the fragments of his soul."

"Then what are you waiting for, Dumbledore? Why not just destroy it?" the obese, red-nosed headmaster Dexter Fordschuu (who was very likely an ancestor of Florian Fordschuu, the owner of the Diagon Alley ice cream parlor) shouted at Dumbledore.

"Yes, Fortescue. This is the first time I agree with you." Phineas nodded in the portrait beside him.

"Of course, of course. Don't worry, I'll take care of the laptops at the appropriate time."

"The problem is that now Mr. Shym Julien Black has also discovered the notebook's secret." Dumbledore's voice was as soft as a sigh.

"He could have handed it over to the professor, he could have never looked at it again. But he chose... dialogue."

"A conversation? Oh, no." Phineas's voice was filled with disbelief. "With Tom Riddle?"

At this moment, a female principal with long curly hair, Delis de Winter, spoke up in the canvas: "Since Black's bloodline is the key to opening the stargate, why make Black the guardian? Wouldn't it be safest if Black's bloodline were severed? Phineas, I'm sorry."

“There are no guardians at all,” Pixis seemed to sigh softly. “Blake’s bloodline was chosen by the Stargate back then, and the reason is unknown. But whether Blake becomes a guardian is his own choice.”

"Yes, I also thought that Black's bloodline had ended." Dumbledore sighed as well. "Who would have thought that the magical fluctuations of this non-pure-blooded Black, Silver, would be so perfectly in sync with the fluctuations of the 'Stargate'."

"This is the most harmonious collaboration in a millennium," Pixis added. "If anyone can truly open the stargate, it's him."

-----------------、

"Julien, you look like a pumpkin pie that's been trampled by a troll." Kayson Moretti tossed the Golden Snitch model into the air and barely caught it. "Why are you so listless?"

"The Potions test is coming up soon, and we're all counting on you," Edgar said, handing over a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, bro. Didn't sleep well last night." Julien forced a smile, his eyes glancing unconsciously at the notebook on the desk.

"Let's go, stop dawdling, we can't be late for Snape's class." With that, Kayson grabbed Julien and ran out.

On the desk, Voldemort's Horcrux lay quietly, like a sleeping block of black ice.

As the three passed the lounge, they saw several upperclassmen reading. "Good morning, Penelope," Kayson greeted them, and the group hurried past.

They didn't notice that Penelope Crivat, who was in the corner of the lounge, didn't greet them as usual.

This Ravenclaw prefect was usually known for her calm and rationality, but at this moment, her eyes were unfocused, and there was an unnatural glow deep in her pupils—as if someone had lit a black lamp in her eyes.

Penelope's fingers unconsciously traced the signed copy of "My Feud with the Ghost of Wanlun" that Professor Lockhart had lent her.

Her handwriting was elegant, carrying an irresistible sense of familiarity, as if it were the voice of her own inner self.

---

Julien and his roommates were eating pizza at noon, complaining about the potions test they had taken that day.

"I said, today's Potions test was harder than usual," Kayson stammered. "Many questions were beyond the scope of the syllabus."

"Indeed," Julien said as he ate; he hadn't had breakfast and was starving.

"That document, 'A detailed comparative analysis of the differences in ingredients and flame control during the brewing process between the Hellfire Elixir and the Water of Life and Death, and an explanation of why confusing the two would lead to disastrous consequences,' was written on the fifth inch of parchment, and my hand was almost cramping."

"What?! Five inches!" Edgar was so surprised that he dropped the apple in his hand. "I only wrote two inches! I'm doomed, I'm going to fail!"

At that moment, Terry Boot walked over and sat down, carrying a plate of almost untouched food, looking dazed: "Written tests... at least you can write something. But the practical tests... are a disaster."

"By the way, Terry, how's your potion-making going? I was so nervous I didn't notice anyone else," Kayson asked.

"I don't remember the result. I only remember that I turned the flame under the crucible up too high, and then my remedy... it turned bright pink, like an angry pufferfish exploding," Terry said listlessly. "Snape said my stimulant was suitable for shaving trolls."

"At least it's still useful, isn't it?" Julien's words of comfort didn't seem to make Terry feel much better.

"Oh no!" Padma Petit came running in from outside the cafeteria, panting. "Senior Penelope, something's happened to Senior Penelope!"

"What's wrong?" everyone asked in unison.

"Penelope is petrified!"

……

Half an hour ago, in the women's restroom on the second floor.

Penelope Crivate is standing on the damp floor tiles.

The sound of dripping water from the faucet echoed in the empty room, and Tao Jinniang's sobs came from one of the cubicles. The crying seemed to be suppressed by some force, becoming distant and indistinct.

"Throw it in." The voice whispered in her mind, no longer the words on the paper, but a murmur that vibrated directly in her nerve endings, "Throw away the notebook."

Penelope held up the notebook, her hands trembling.

Sunlight streamed in through a small window high up, illuminating the sleepwalking, dazed look on her face. She saw writing on the first page of the notebook—Professor Lockhart's handwriting—which read: "Dear Penelope, destroy this for me. It contains a false scandal that will ruin my career..."

"Thud!" The notebook was thrown again, passing right through the head of the weeping Myrtle.

"Oh! Anyway, Myrtle can't feel any pain, so we can just throw anything at her!" Myrtle's crying grew louder.

A "zzzz..." sound came from behind, like scales rubbing against tiles, making a teeth-grinding noise.

Penelope slowly raised her head.

In the reflection of the broken mirror in the bathroom, she saw two points of yellow light shining through the crack in the stall door behind her. Those weren't lights, but vertical pupils—huge, cold, and filled with the murderous intent of snakes.

"No..." Penelope's scream caught in her throat.

"Harry, Ron, hurry up!" Hermione urged, turning her head. "See? I told you there was no one here except Myrtle. This is a good place for us to brew Polyjuice Potion."

At that moment, Myrtle burst out of the toilet, letting out a piercing scream: "Murder! It's happening again! It was the same fifty years ago!"

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