The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 258 Shocking News

Chapter 258 Shocking News (5.8K) (2/2)

But Harry didn't care about that.

His mind is now completely occupied with learning the Patronus Charm and helping Hagrid understand the difference.

He didn't even have time to pay attention to Malfoy's daily provocations in the corridor, such as deliberately dragging out his words, "Potter, hasn't your giant friend been fired yet?"

That afternoon, the sky was overcast and a light drizzle was falling.

Harry carried a large bag and walked alone along the slippery gravel path toward Hagrid's hut.

The three of them had originally planned to travel together, but the plan changed at the last minute.

Hermione can't come because she has an Ancient Runes class.

Thinking about this, Harry couldn't help but complain in his heart—Hermie had somehow managed to select every elective course she could take this semester, including those with obvious time conflicts!

For example, Muggle Studies and Divination were at the same time, but Hermione always managed to be in every classroom on time, never missing a class. Even at the magical Hogwarts, Harry had to admit, it was truly amazing.

He asked Hermione how she did it, but she always gave vague answers, which made him and Ron very curious, but they were helpless.

As for Ron, he took his pet mouse, Scabbers, to "clear his head."

Banban has been in a bad state lately. He's been huddled in Ron's pocket all day, looking sickly. He's lost interest in food, and his already sparse fur is falling out even more.

Fred and George jokingly called it "ready to meet Merlin," but Ron firmly blamed it all on Hermione's new ginger, flat-faced cat, Crookshanks.

Ron was convinced that the ugly cat always stared at Scabbers with predatory eyes, and that its presence had terrified Scabbers, causing them to become depressed.

So he specifically found an empty classroom, wanting to take Banban to a place completely free of the Crook Mountain smell to "exercise" and breathe "fresh" air, hoping that this would improve his old friend's condition.

Therefore, the heavy responsibility of helping Hagrid understand the "vulnerability of young wizards" falls on Harry's shoulders alone today.

Hermione put in a lot of effort for this task. She spent several nights in the library and Muggle research area, searching through all the materials she could find, including Muggle anatomy and basic healing magic. She carefully made several tools and solemnly handed them to Harry, asking him to use these "teaching aids" to help Hagrid develop the correct understanding.

Harry pushed open the door of Hagrid's hut, and a warm, earthy, and scones-scented breeze rushed in.

Hagrid was sitting at his enormous table, facing a huge, half-knitted yarn—

I'm having trouble with this.

Upon seeing Harry and the conspicuous large bag on his shoulder, a smile immediately spread across his face, a mixture of welcome and curiosity.

"Harry! Come in quickly, it's cold outside, isn't it? What's that you're carrying? Is it a gift for me?" He hurriedly put down the huge ball of yarn he was holding and stared at the bag curiously.

Harry struggled to put the large bag on the table, making a dull thud.

"It's not a gift, Hagrid."

He took a breath and began pulling things out. "These are some teaching aids Hermione prepared. To help you understand, well, understand just how—fragile—the bodies of students like us really are."

The first thing he took out was a small wooden figure that looked somewhat rough and even had slightly crooked joints.

"This is a model Hermione made," Harry said, placing it in the center of the room. It stood upright, the wood grain clearly visible. "She roughly made it using magic, referring to illustrations in a book. The key point is," Harry tapped the wooden figure's arm, making a thud, "that the wood is about as strong as the bones of an average young wizard our age."

Hagrid leaned closer, his massive head almost touching the wooden figure. He carefully touched the model's arm with his thick fingers and commented, "It looks rather fragile."

Then, Harry pulled an old Quidditch bat out of the bag.

"This was a kind gift from Fred and George." He placed the bat on the table as well, then pointed to a small dial with hands that had been added to the bat. "Hermione modified it. You see, there are some markings here, like 'a light touch' and 'a runaway ball slam'."

Hagrid was clearly more familiar with the bat; he picked it up and swung it, feeling the familiar weight. "Oh! A bat! I know this one! But what's this dial for?"

“Hermione said,” Harry explained, pointing to the dial, “that turning the hands to different divisions and then hitting something with them produces different impacts. But the reaction force felt by the person swinging the stick, the feel, is almost the same. That way, you can experience for yourself what it’s like to hit us with different amounts of force.”

Hagrid's dark eyes lit up, as if he found this a novel game. "Sounds interesting!"

"Shall we give it a try?" Harry looked at Hagrid, his expression turning serious.

"Of course!" Hagrid said eagerly.

Harry first turned the dial hand to the mark marked "touch lightly".

"Hagrid, stretch out your arm and feel what it feels like to be lightly touched."

Hagrid obediently extended his thick, tree-trunk-like arm.

Harry picked up the bat and swung it lightly at his arm.

Hagrid didn't even flinch, chuckling, "Like a feather tickling an itch!"

"Okay, remember this feeling." Harry said, putting down the baseball bat and adjusting the wooden figure to its correct position.

"Now, I'll hit it with the same settings and the same force."

Harry picked up the bat again, still on the "touch lightly" setting, and swung it at the wooden figure's arm with almost the same motion and speed as before.

The wooden arm didn't break; the entire model just wobbled slightly.

"Looks like a light touch is fine." Harry said, turning the dial to the next tick—"forced shove." "Feel this again."

Hagrid stretched out his arm, and Harry swung the bat again.

This time, Hagrid merely twitched his eyebrows slightly: "Yeah, I felt it, like being hit by a crumpled piece of paper."

Harry turned to the wooden figure and struck its ribs with the same force.

A soft, unsettling cracking sound rang out.

A clear crack appeared on the wooden ribs.

Hagrid's smile faded slightly as he leaned closer to examine the crack. "It... cracked?"

"For many people, being pushed hard and hitting a hard object can result in a fracture," Harry explained, then continued turning the dial to the "Hit by a wild boar" mark—the mark Hermione could find for a common creature with a high danger level.

When Hagrid's arm was struck this time, he blinked: "Oh, this one's more obvious, like being hit by a pebble."

And when the same force fell on the wooden figure's arm—

"Snap!"

The wooden forearm snapped off and fell onto the table.

Hagrid gasped, his eyes widening in shock.

Harry continued demonstrating, turning the dial to the point where it would be "butted by a horned beast cub".

The blow made Hagrid grunt and rub his arm. "That was good. It felt like I hit a doorframe."

When the blow landed on the wooden figure's leg, the entire leg broke off at the joint.

Finally, Harry turned the dial to the "Hippogryph (wing edge)" setting.

"This is the highest level Hermione can estimate. Take a feel for it."

When the blow landed on Hagrid's arm, he visibly frowned and shook his arm. "Ouch—that really hurt! Like taking a solid fall from a not-so-high place!"

Harry didn't speak, but silently picked up the wooden model that had lost an arm and a leg, and for safety's sake, placed the remaining irregular wooden ball representing the head on the ground.

"The same force," Harry's voice was particularly clear in the quiet hut, "if it hits here."

He swung the bat with the same force that made Hagrid feel like he'd "fallen," and struck the wooden model's head precisely.

"Bang!"

A cracking sound, more muffled and heart-stopping than ever before, rang out.

The irregular wooden ball didn't break cleanly like an arm or leg; instead, it exploded violently into several pieces of varying sizes and many small wood chips, which scattered across the table, with one even hitting Hagrid's beard.

Hagrid froze, his massive body seemingly petrified, his eyes fixed on the shattered head remains on the table, even his breath caught in his throat for a moment.

He subconsciously raised his hand, stiffly picking up a small piece of wood from his beard, his fingertips trembling slightly.

"Head—head—" he managed to squeeze out a few words hoarsely, overwhelmed by immense fear.

He understood perfectly—for a student like Harry, if Buckbeak's claw landed on his head, it wouldn't just be a matter of going to the infirmary to see Madam Pomfrey.

Hagrid's face had turned deathly pale, and cold sweat completely soaked the messy hair on his forehead.

He looked at the wooden remains on the table, completely dismembered and with his head blown off, then looked down at his arm, which had only felt a little pain just moments before. Finally, his gaze fell on Harry's vulnerable neck and head, and a suffocating sense of regret and lingering fear gripped his heart.

"Merlin's fattest trousers—" he muttered, his voice broken and broken, his massive body slumping back into the chair with a creaking sound as if it were about to collapse under its weight. "I—I never—I never really thought—that the difference—was so huge—Buckbeak—I almost—almost killed—"

Harry watched silently as Hagrid, deeply shocked and on the verge of collapse, began to pick up all the broken wooden pieces on the table, including the shards of his head that were scattered everywhere, and carefully put them back into the large bag.

He knew that this most direct comparison, based on Hagrid's own feelings, especially the final blow that shattered his head, was far more impactful than any theoretical preaching.

Helping Hagrid realize the gap was not an easy process, but seeing Hagrid's completely overturned understanding and profound fear, Harry felt that they might have really blown open a gap in his stubborn cognitive barrier that could no longer be ignored.

After Harry carefully collected the broken pieces of wood into the large bag, tied it up, and placed it by the door...

Hagrid silently composed himself, his emotions churning. He vigorously wiped his face and eyes with his huge, filthy handkerchief, took a few deep breaths, and tried to calm himself down.

After a while, he stood up, walked to the fireplace, picked up the huge copper kettle, and began clumsily making tea for Harry.

Then he took a few pieces of rock bread from a separate, cleaner-looking jar, placed them on a plate, and presented them to Harry.

"Try this, Harry," Hagrid's voice was still a little hoarse, but he tried to sound cheerful. "This is—this is made the new way, with more water and baked a little less." He pointed to another basket next to him filled with larger, darker rock cakes. "Those are for myself, the usual."

Harry picked up a piece and tentatively took a bite.

Although it was still not exactly soft, it was no longer as hard as before, enough to break your teeth, and he managed to chew and swallow it.

"It's delicious, Hagrid, really," he said sincerely.

Hagrid watched Harry eat, and a genuine, relieved smile finally appeared on his face, his massive body seeming to relax a little. He poured himself a large cup of strong tea and then poured Harry a cup—a much smaller cup, but still like a bowl to Harry.

The two sat in the warm little house, drinking hot tea and eating "modified" rock-skin cakes, temporarily putting aside the heavy safety standards and the broken wooden models.

They started chatting, their conversation rambling on and on, just like always.

Hagrid mentioned that he had recently discovered a nest of exceptionally beautiful broombirds on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, but worried that their calls would attract unwanted attention; Harry complained that Snape had once again deducted ten points from Gryffindor in Potions class under some pretext, simply because of a tiny, barely noticeable scratch on the bottom of his cauldron; they then talked about Harry's Quidditch training, with Harry enthusiastically describing the excellent performance of his Windrush broom to Hagrid. Hagrid assured Harry that if he needed it, he had several tubs of his homemade special care cream, which supposedly could "make the broomstick tail shine like phoenix feathers"—although Hagrid thumped his chest loudly, Harry secretly resolved never to try it.

The atmosphere in the cabin gradually became relaxed and warm, the fire crackled in the fireplace, and Ya Ya was snoring at their feet.

At this most relaxed and unguarded moment, Hagrid held his enormous teacup, his gaze fixed on the leaping flames, his voice becoming low and wistful.

"Harry," he murmured, "Professor Lynch—he's a good man, isn't he?"

Harry looked up at Hagrid, somewhat bewildered.

Uncle Lynch is certainly a good man, but where did Hagrid's sudden sentiment come from?

Hagrid was lost in his emotions: "He pointed out this problem that I had been ignoring so that you could help me—he really—really wanted me to be a good professor and didn't want anything to happen to any of the children. I—I really misjudged him before."

Harry felt a surge of warmth in his heart as he looked at Hagrid's sincere and remorseful expression.

He nodded, about to agree, but then noticed that when Hagrid said this, there seemed to be a faint, complex emotion mixed with gratitude hidden deep in his eyes. It seemed to be—fear.

Seeing Harry's puzzled and slightly surprised expression, Hagrid lowered his head awkwardly, rubbing his knees nervously with his huge hands. His voice became even lower, almost as if he were muttering, "Actually—Harry, to tell you the truth—because of some things that happened in the past, I—I've always been quite afraid of Professor Lynch."

Harry's mind suddenly skipped a beat, and a possibility popped into his head.

He hesitated for a moment, then tentatively asked in an almost whispered voice, "Is it because—Uncle Lynch is the Mist Hangman?"

"Clang!" Hagrid's massive body trembled violently as his elbow slammed into the table, rattling the teacups.

His face turned even paler than when he saw the wooden model shatter, and his huge eyes stared at Harry in horror, as if he had heard the most terrible taboo.

"You—how did you know this?!" His voice was hoarse, filled with disbelief and panic. "This—not many people should know this!"

Seeing Hagrid's violent reaction, Harry calmed down instead.

He took a deep breath and calmly replied, "Uncle Lynch told me himself. He said—I have the right to know. I know almost everything about his past."

Hagrid opened his mouth wide and stared blankly for a while before he seemed to suddenly realize something. He scratched his messy black hair and muttered as if he had just realized something, "Oh—right, right! I was so confused! I forgot that he and your mother—had such a good relationship—" His tone was relieved, but also mixed with a deeper sense of emotion.

He settled back into his seat, his gaze returning to the fire, as if lost in distant memories. His voice grew low and unsteady: "Yes—the Hangman—back then, I was basically his—well—guard for those ten years in the Forbidden Forest." He paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, avoiding the harsh word "imprisonment." "You know, as the Keeper of the Hunt, it's my duty to ensure that everything in the Forbidden Forest—uh—the inhabitants—doesn't overstep its bounds. Especially since Headmaster Dumbledore personally instructed me to keep a close watch on them—"

Hagrid shook his head, his face showing a mixture of shame and disbelief. "But he—he was locked up for ten whole years, in that stone house, and after he came out—not only did he not hold a grudge against me—I thought he would hate me to death—he helped me so much—he helped me keep my job, and even let you teach me these things—" As he spoke, his voice began to choke again, and he wiped his eyes with his huge hand, actually managing to pull out two tears of emotion that slid down his hairy cheeks. "He's really—he's really a rare and wonderful person—"

Harry, sitting opposite him, was completely stunned by this sudden information.

ten years!

Detain him!

In the forbidden forest!

Right there in that stone house!

These words, strung together, exploded in his mind like a thunderclap.

Uncle Lynch—the one who guided him when he was lost, sheltered him when he was in danger, and always calmly analyzed the situation when he needed him, a combination of a strict father and a kind teacher—had a past where he was imprisoned for a full ten years.

Is it in that stone house where he now lives peacefully and where he once invited me to visit?

This completely overturned Harry's understanding.

In his mind, Uncle Lynch was powerful, wise, and composed, as if he always controlled everything. He couldn't imagine that such a person had once lost his freedom and been imprisoned in a certain place for ten years.

A mix of heartache, anger, and immense confusion swept over Harry like a tsunami.

The information revealed in Hagrid's words was like a key, suddenly unlocking a door to something he had never known before.

The Dark Door to Uncle Lynch's Past.

He looked at Hagrid, who was moved to tears by Lynch's "repaying evil with good," and his heart was filled with turmoil.

What was it like for Uncle Lynch during his ten years of imprisonment?

Who imprisoned him?

Did Headmaster Dumbledore know and give it permission?

Most importantly—why? What did Uncle Lynch do, or what happened to him, that led to such a severe punishment?

What untold stories lie behind the legendary title "The Mist Executioner"?

At this moment, Harry was filled with an urgent desire to find the truth.

He wanted to understand the complete past of the elder he respected and relied on, and to know what shaped him into who he is today.

Uncle Lynch never mentioned those long years of imprisonment, which made Harry even more convinced that beneath the pristine white stone house and its owner's calm exterior lay an extremely heavy, perhaps even scarred, secret.

Harry sat there, still holding the half-eaten rock cake in his hand, but he had no heart to savor it anymore.

The warmth of Hagrid's cabin seemed to be shut out, his entire mind gripped by the mystery of his "ten years of imprisonment".

Harry's thoughts drifted back to the pristine white stone house, recalling the place he had seen some time ago.

The object hanging above the fireplace—a half-broken metal mask with a long bird's beak.

He realized that his understanding of Uncle Lynch was perhaps only the tip of the iceberg.

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