HP North Star's Radiance

Harry was expelled from the underground classroom, and Prairie gave him a task: to get some more basilisk venom—"For Bill Weasley, go now!"

Harry Potter left, and Praris glanced down at the suitcase he brought back, a knowing smile on his face.

Potter was grateful he hadn't been completely blinded by hatred. Even after witnessing Professor Snape kill Dumbledore, he still retained a sliver of reason and carried out Prader's demands.

Otherwise, it would have been Harry himself who killed Dumbledore.

Praris put Bill's medicine aside, picked through the box, took out a clean crucible, and began to boil it.

The rest of my days at Hogwarts were harder to endure than potions.

Just as when Dumbledore disappeared, people always believed Harry knew where Dumbledore had gone. Now the Ministry of Magic believes that Prader might know where Professor Snape is, after all, she is Snape's most valued student.

This severely disrupted Prasley's experimental plans, and she said fiercely to Ron and Harry, "If anyone interrupts my work for no reason again, Bill Weasley can just fend for himself!"

Ron and Harry had to stand guard in the foyer, trying to delay the Ministry of Magic personnel whenever they spotted them, until Praris stopped what he was doing.

“We’re actually letting Snape’s students make the arrangements!” Ron’s tone was full of disbelief.

Harry, engrossed in the poetry collection, said in a hollow voice, "No, we're helping our companions and Bill."

Ron pursed his lips: "I know, but belief and hate can coexist."

Yes, hatred and trust can coexist.

Harry hated Snape's actions, and even extended that hatred to Prader, but in the end he still chose to believe Prader.

How contradictory, yet how real.

About the day before Dumbledore's funeral, Prasris produced a vial of potion, the color of a deep green woodland anemone leaf.

The surgeon was Mrs. Pomfrey, a true healer. It was admirable that such a great woman possessed both compassion and gentleness, as well as professional decisiveness.

Under this treatment, Bill's condition was more complicated than Dumbledore's: his hands could be chopped off, but the flesh on his face could only be removed little by little.

Madam Pomfrey performed the bloody task of butchering flesh, while Prarese handed her a knife and wiped her sweat. The face was too close to the brain; even with magic, it wasn't easy.

Mrs. Pomfrey was sweating profusely, while the Weasleys outside the door were filled with endless tension and unease.

They paced back and forth like ants on a hot plate, with Mrs. Weasley even clasping her hands together in prayer to various mythological gods, even though the wizard did not believe in gods.

Ron sat on the floor of the hallway, muttering to himself, "If Bill recovers, I will never hate her for any reason. I thank her, I owe her for the rest of my life..."

“But the surgery isn’t guaranteed to be successful. If it fails, will you still hate her?” Hermione couldn’t help but whisper. “I’m not cursing Bill.”

Ron slumped down, burying his head in his knees. "I don't know, I didn't want it to be like this... I think I won't hate her anymore. Actually, it wasn't her fault—she did nothing wrong, I shouldn't be like this, but I couldn't help it..."

Whether you understand something in your heart and how you actually do it are two different things. Some people know perfectly well that final exams are coming up and they should study hard, but in the end they just play around in a tense atmosphere.

The dark green potion dripped onto Bill's face, causing his flesh to writhe wildly, and new growth shoots to sprout and grow rapidly like spring buds.

Lady Pomfrey watched in awe, exclaiming from the bottom of her heart, "This is absolutely amazing! Your name will be written in the history of Potions, your research will be included in Potions textbooks, you are changing the world... St. Mungo's Department of Charms Damage needs it!"

Just think about it! If an Auror suffers a fatal wound, all they need to do is cut away the infected part before the curse and toxins spread, and new flesh will regenerate!

This is simply a miracle!

“But it can’t be widely adopted for the time being because of a problem with one of the materials,” Praris said rationally. “If I have the time, perhaps I can replace its core material.”

After a pause, she added, "Or perhaps its core material is irreplaceable, and it will only remain a magical legend."

The basilisk is dead, and its venom is dwindling with each use. If Praris doesn't find a substitute before the venom runs out, the "limb regeneration potion" will still go down in history, but it will forever remain just that—history.

The surgery lasted a long time, and then it got dark.

It was lunchtime, but none of Weasley and their friends left the hallway outside the school infirmary.

With a creak, the door opened.

The Weasleys were a large family, and they had a lot of friends. They crowded around the doorway, all asking Bill how he was doing.

"Quiet down!" Mrs. Weasley roared!

With tears welling in her eyes, she looked at Mrs. Pomfrey and Prarese, and said in a trembling voice, "Bill, my son... is he alright?"

Mrs. Pomfrey pulled Prarese to the front and said, "Molly, this is the attending physician."

As soon as he finished speaking, Praris was immediately stared at by a dozen pairs of eyes.

“Can you accept—” Praris paused, and everyone instantly looked on with apprehension, “that your son looks different from before?”

The surgery disrupted the original muscle structure, but the bones remained unchanged. Bill Weasley will have a face that still resembles his family members, but not necessarily himself.

“I don’t care what Bill looks like,” Molly said, her eyes red. “I just hope he’s healthy and safe.”

Hibiscus nodded emphatically behind her: "Me too! I love Bill, not his face!"

Praris nodded calmly: "That's all right. He'll wake up in half an hour. Once he's awake, immediately call for me and Mrs. Pomfrey. Don't give him water, no matter how thirsty he is, and don't feed him anything unless we both give our permission..."

"what!"

Molly and Fleur hugged each other excitedly, and the others cheered. They shook hands with Praris one by one, just like the Queen of England receiving her subjects.

With great difficulty, Praris managed to walk out of the frenzied crowd carrying his cork bag, only to be stopped by Ron just as he was about to leave.

Ron's eyes flickered, and he stammered, "Praris, I...I'm sorry."

"Are you apologizing for your words and actions because I saved Bill?" Praris asked mercilessly.

“Yes,” Ron said with shame, “but even if you didn’t heal Bill, I will still apologize to you. You were clearly helping us, but I hated you because of Bill’s injury…”

“That’s quite remarkable,” Praris said politely. “I hope you’ll remember what I said today.”

Ron was so embarrassed by her polite mockery that he lowered his head and made way for her.

The next day was Dumbledore's funeral.

Since the "murderer" was their own headmaster, the Slytherin leadership shifted to the former headmaster, Slughorn.

Slughorn changed into an extremely ornate, bright green robe with silver embellishments, looking remarkably like a Slytherin Christmas tree from previous years. The Slytherins followed behind him toward the funeral site.

This feeling was wonderful for Praris.

This was unlike any funeral she had ever attended before; it was the funeral of a living person, but she was the only one present who knew the truth.

A person's merits and demerits in life are determined at the moment of their death. Perhaps Dumbledore was the first to know all this while still alive, but perhaps he didn't care.

Most people were crying; some shed genuine tears, while others feigned tears by wiping away nonexistent ones with handkerchiefs. Even the Slytherins around them bowed their heads in silent mourning.

But Praris didn't weep for someone she knew perfectly well wouldn't die—which was rather strange. She simply watched calmly, waiting to hear the completion of her task.

At the very end of the eulogy, Dumbledore's body burst into flames of a magical white fire, forming a pure white coffin that enveloped his body and the table on which he lay.

Everyone cried even louder, but Praris just thought: This seems a bit troublesome; she should ask for more compensation…

"Professor McGonagall!"

After the funeral, Prarese chased after the middle-aged witch who had lost half of her mentor, looked into her eyes and asked, "Where will Dumbledore be buried?"

Professor McGonagall stopped in her tracks. She looked intently at Prareas and asked seriously, "Prareas, I'm sorry to ask you this, but—why are you asking? And for whom are you asking this?"

“For myself, Professor,” Prarese said softly. “I heard that Dumbledore defended my mother and asked Professor Snape to take care of me…”

Professor McGonagall froze, her eyes welling up with tears again. She covered her face sadly. "I've misunderstood, Praris. Yes, Dumbledore is that kind of person. When I had nowhere else to go, he invited me to Hogwarts..."

Professor McGonagall didn't ask Prareas where she knew this. She didn't want to hear the answer; it would break her heart.

“His hometown,” Professor McGonagall said, her voice choked with emotion, “Godrick Valley, in the southwest.”

This is good news, as Prarese had guessed; she no longer needs to make up lies to fool others.

"Are you planning to come to the Order of the Phoenix?" Professor McGonagall asked softly. "Winnie and Prim..."

“No,” Praris said calmly. “You’re rearranging that place, aren’t you?”

With Dumbledore, the Secret Agent, "dead," his arrangements at Twelve Grimmauld Place have been rendered useless. The Order of the Phoenix members need to start all over again, choosing a new Secret Agent—a process best kept secret from everyone.

“And—” Prareus said without a trace of sarcasm, “the other members won’t agree, will they? They’ll be afraid I’ll reveal the details of the Order of the Phoenix to Professor Snape.”

Chapter 193 Grave Digging Under the Moon

“We apologize for the delay to the 17:50 service from London Paddington to Totnes. This train is currently running approximately 20 minutes late due to technical difficulties.”

(We sincerely apologize for the delay of the 17:50 train from London Paddington to Tottenham. Due to technical issues, the train is currently delayed by approximately 20 minutes.)

“The next train at Platform3.”

(The next train will stop at platform 3.)

The thick, bronze sunlight shone on the glass roof of Paddington Station, casting a similar hue on the platform.

The gentleman to my left was wearing a striped suit, his curly beard was neatly groomed, and he had a cigarette between his fingers. He checked his watch every two or three minutes—he was probably an unlucky office worker.

The woman to my right, wearing a white shirt and jeans, is chatting casually with her companion, who is wearing a polka-dot dress—they are on vacation.

To my right was a down-on-his-luck fellow, dressed in overalls, his leather shoes coming unglued, his sleeves rolled up in a tangled mess, grumbling and complaining about the train delay—it's often this kind of guy who causes delays during strikes.

The last one is the girl next to him, dressed in a black dress, wearing a black women's hat, carrying a briefcase in one hand, standing straight against the wall, lost in thought—she must be there for a funeral!

John observed carefully and concluded that the wealthiest people there were probably the ladies on vacation and the young girls attending funerals. However, the ladies on vacation had companions, making it easy for them to discover any wrongdoing.

A young girl attending a funeral would be a good choice. The girl wore a gold ring and a small, round gold pendant around her neck, her breast pocket was shaped like a pocket watch (which might also be gold), and the chain on her wrist was silver and inlaid with emeralds.

Perhaps due to a sudden change in her family situation, the girl's eyes were unfocused, as if she was lost in thought and completely oblivious to the people coming and going around her.

Logically speaking, this young girl would be the perfect target, but the thought that she might have just lost an important family member gave him the opportunity...

Ugh!

John told himself that his ninety-year-old grandmother had said that men who bully women are the most unscrupulous!

—The main problem is that this rich guy might just wake up those Scotland Yard pigs. If they take it to heart and try to teach John a lesson, that would be a real problem!

So John walked around the girl in black and "accidentally" bumped into a commuter anxiously checking the time.

"Don't you have eyes?!" the office worker roared.

John retorted without hesitation, "Are you blind? Those two glass beads on your face must be cheap stuff you bought from the dockside grocery store! Hurry up and wipe your eyes clean with your spittle! When your grandpa killed someone while delivering goods, your dad hadn't even touched a woman's hand yet!"

"Hey! Get out of here!"

The office worker was already anxious, and when John berated him mercilessly, he became even angrier and angrier. However, he couldn't out-argue John, a penniless man from the bottom of society, so he could only let him swagger away.

Not long after, the office worker suddenly shouted, "My wallet! Damn it! It's a thief!"

Praris, the "funeral girl," witnessed everything, a faint smile appearing beneath the black veil of her hat. She had long noticed the thief observing her, but unfortunately, he was lucky enough to give Praris no opportunity to act.