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Chapter 361: A Student Dies Again After Fifty Years
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 14:07:59 +0000 UTCThe moment the Killing Curse was unleashed, Ino instinctively dove into the sanctuary.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Fawkes, but having just fought Voldemort, the sight of that green, death-laced light triggered a deeply ingrained reflex—an automatic reaction to evade.
And yet, just as he retreated, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure stepping in front of him.
It was already too late.
Less than a second had passed—perhaps even less than that.
By the time Ino reemerged, the deadly green beam had already struck Hermione.
Everything had changed in the blink of an eye.
It had happened too fast—so fast he didn't even have time to summon his phoenixes.
Those eyes—those warm, brown eyes that once sparkled like the stars—had now lost their luster, dulled by the fatal curse.
"Ice Arrow Barrage!"
Ino's voice rang out sharp and cold, followed by a storm of glimmering arrows.
Crabbe, eyes still filled with confusion, was pierced through before he could even react. His body slumped to the floor, riddled like a sieve. Yet even in death, his left hand remained clenched in his pocket.
Blood mixed with icy shards slowly spread across the corridor.
Ino didn't spare Crabbe another glance. As soon as the spell was cast, he rushed to Hermione's side.
"Heal—as—before… Heal—as—before…"
Magic surged from him in waves, and the healing spells poured out of his wand relentlessly, flooding the infirmary with blinding, holy light.
"Ahhh!" Madam Pomfrey screamed.
With Crabbe's death, the Imperius Curse that had gripped her was lifted.
The moment she came to and saw Hermione collapsed on the ground—alongside Crabbe's perforated corpse—she rushed forward to examine the injuries.
At that very moment, the entire castle seemed to fall under a heavy shroud of sorrow.
From the lower dungeons to the upper towers, from the first-floor hallways to the professors' offices, and even the tallest towers—an oppressive silence reigned.
Even the portraits, usually cheerful or chatty, had begun to weep quietly.
Transfiguration Office
Professor McGonagall shot to her feet, the calm in her eyes gone, replaced by a steely, commanding intensity.
Few understood the true weight of the castle's sorrow. But she did.
Fifty years ago, she had been a student on the verge of graduation when the castle had last grieved this deeply.
That day, everyone had learned of a student's death.
Myrtle Warren—later known as Moaning Myrtle—had died unexpectedly in the castle.
And now, it was happening again.
Hospital Wing, Second Floor
After a thorough examination, Madam Pomfrey slumped to the ground in despair.
Both students were dead.
Hogwarts hadn't seen a student death in over fifty years—and today, two had died. Not on some battlefield, not in the Forbidden Forest, but right outside the hospital wing.
As the castle's healer, guilt crushed her.
Though the mind control spell hadn't lasted long, the memories were slowly returning. And the more she recalled, the more deeply the blame cut.
If only I'd noticed sooner... If I'd been more cautious…
Leaning against the wall, Madam Pomfrey closed her eyes in anguish as the light of healing magic continued to pulse faintly in the room.
No one knew how long time passed.
Ino kept casting healing spells until a pale hand gently stopped him.
He looked up—and met a pair of empty, lifeless eyes.
"Stop," came Snape's calm voice, quieter than usual, devoid of any emotion.
Ino looked around in a daze.
Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout… so many professors had gathered. But why were they all here?
Why did everyone look so solemn?
"This will help you," Snape murmured, handing him a vial of potion.
Ino drank it without hesitation.
Its bitter, acrid taste spread through his mouth, and slowly, his mind began to clear.
Hermione had… stepped in front of the curse—to protect him.
Hogwarts—the ancient, steadfast castle—had always seemed timeless, unshakable.
Its motto: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus—Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
But the news of what had happened hit like a bolt of thunder in the dead of winter.
The sleeping dragon had stirred.
The peace had shattered.
For the first time in fifty years, Hogwarts had lost students.
Two of them.
Vincent Crabbe of Slytherin.
Hermione Granger of Gryffindor.
And only two days had passed since the events at Hogsmeade.
One of the victims was even the girlfriend of Swinburne, one of the key figures in that battle.
The castle, once vibrant with life, was now blanketed in mourning.
The news spread like wildfire—faster than any owl could fly.
Within hours, The Daily Prophet had issued a special evening edition.
A Rocky Island off the Northern Coast of England
Voldemort sat in silence, a freshly printed Daily Prophet crumpled in his hand.
He felt sick.
Barely a day and a half had passed since a fragile truce had been struck—only for someone to deliver this as a follow-up.
And Voldemort had a good idea who it was.
Especially when he saw Vincent Crabbe's name.
"Idiots! Damn fools—!"
His furious roar echoed through the ruins of the abandoned lighthouse.
He regretted it now—choosing caution, choosing to hide. He should've reached out to Barty Jr. immediately, even if it meant suffering backlash from Fiendfyre.
But regrets were meaningless now.
The damage was done. Swinburne would retaliate—and that was what Voldemort had wanted to avoid most.
Whoever orchestrated this had pulled the strings masterfully.
The battle at Hogsmeade may have seemed minor, but Voldemort knew: if it had dragged on, he would've lost.
Even the Killing Curse had proved ineffective.
It was clear—they'd held back. The black mist that had blanketed the skies never spread to all of Hogsmeade. That strange, vanishing spell hadn't been used either.
Especially the latter—it seemed to naturally counter the Killing Curse.
As for the Fiendfyre he unleashed? It hadn't been to win—only to buy time. A desperate gambit for a moment's pause, so he could speak.
He'd never thought Fiendfyre would turn the tide.
The enemy could teleport. The Killing Curse couldn't hit them. Why would Fiendfyre do any better?
No—something didn't add up.
Voldemort was certain someone else was involved—someone he hadn't accounted for.
Fudge… Dumbledore…
Two names came to mind.
But deep down, he knew.
It had to be Dumbledore.
No way could Barty and that foolish student pull this off alone.
Back at Hogwarts, the gloom hung heavy.
In the corridors, in the Great Hall—silence pervaded. Even the students' footsteps were quieter than usual.
The Gryffindor common room, once loud and lively, was solemn.
Ginny Weasley lay in Harry's arms, crying.
She couldn't believe it.
Just that morning, she'd been chatting with Hermione—and now, only a few hours later…
Gone.
So sudden.
So cruel.
Down in the Slytherin common room, silence had taken on an eerie stillness.
Draco Malfoy was pale, trembling, caught between panic and dread.
Crabbe had been his follower—always by his side.
Their families were closely connected.
This would not go unnoticed.
Unlike Draco, Daphne Greengrass wore a complicated expression.
There was fear, yes. But also uncertainty. Disbelief.
She cast a glance at Pansy Parkinson—then quickly looked away.
She wasn't sure if Pansy was involved. But her upbringing had taught her one thing: when something terrible happens, look at who stands to gain the most.
And Pansy?
She stood to gain quite a lot.
