madnovel Chapter 172 Atmosphere
Chapter 172 Atmosphere
Chapter 172 Atmosphere
Dumbledore's warning in the Great Hall, like the pervasive chill of winter, quietly seeped into the thick stone walls of Hogwarts Castle, altering the atmosphere inside.
The rules were followed meticulously.
The usual chatter and laughter seemed to be enveloped in sound-absorbing fabric, settling into a subdued whisper. Footsteps were exceptionally clear in the stone corridor, each solitary figure drawing barely perceptible glances, followed by the rapid formation of impromptu small groups. They huddled together, as if relying on the warmth of their companions to dispel the sudden, oppressive atmosphere.
An unnamed chill.
The slightest sway of a picture frame can cause a momentary pause in the crowd, as they exchange a brief but knowing glance, and the wand handle peeks out from their sleeves or bags.
Peeves' pranks no longer elicit laughter or curses; instead, they make people warily scan every corner of their surroundings.
The professors occupied all the strategic locations in the castle—the intersections of corridors, the platforms where stairs led,
At the door of the empty classroom, they either patrolled incessantly or stood like silent watchtowers.
Their gaze swept over each student group, forming a silent surveillance network with the portraits on the wall—characters who, contrary to their usual behavior, neither snored nor visited each other, but simply followed the movement of the crowd with unusually clear eyes.
This omnipresent gaze brought comfort to the students, but like a persistent buzzing noise, it reminded everyone that the unspoken threat still hung in the air, lurking in the shadows cast by every ancient brick.
As time passed, this atmosphere did not fade; instead, it was like a potion being slowly simmered over a low flame, making the anxiety and suspicion grow stronger in the silence.
The professors remained silent about the causes of Mrs. Lorris's fate; Professor McGonagall's taut jawline every time she reiterated discipline; Snape's colder, more icy gaze in Potions class, seemingly capable of freezing the steam in the cauldron; and Professor Flitwick's barely concealed tremor in his voice—all these fragments pieced together a puzzle with no answer.
The students' young and vibrant minds could not endure this unresolved silence for long; they desperately needed an answer.
The mystery was quickly filled with various speculations, ancient rumors, and imagined terrifying details.
The rumors about the "locked room" weren't openly discussed in the corridors, but rather whispered cautiously in the deepest gaps between the library bookshelves, in the corners of armchairs unlit by the fireplace in the common room, and in the smoke drifting from the back of the Potions classroom.
"I feel like I've read about this in some old book before—" A fifth-year Slytherin student, during a break in his Conservation of Magical Creatures class, with his back to the breeze and the crowd, whispered almost to his two companions, "Salazar Slytherin—he had a timeless concern about the 'purity' of the school. It's said he left behind a—ultimate safeguard, a 'Purification' mechanism that only his true heir can activate." His gaze swept across the room, lingering meaningfully on a few Hufflepuff students.
"Purification?" A friend next to him asked nervously, his face pale, his eyes involuntarily glancing at the Muggle-born classmates, his voice carrying a hint of realization tinged with fear.
When the word "locked room" was finally uttered, the unforgivable word that followed—"Mudblood"—was like a cold curse, silently tearing open the air and leaving an unhealable crack in a tiny area. The form of fear thus shifted; it was no longer focused on a specific person or event, but spread into a fear of an invisible filter, a dread of an ancient bloodline curse.
Harry Potter, as the only eyewitness at the scene, was shrouded in this ominous cloud of doubt, and he himself seemed to become a tangible harbinger of that invisible disaster.
"This is the second time, isn't it?" At the back of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class line, two Hufflepuff students kept their eyes straight ahead and spoke with barely moving lips. "Last time it was Mysterious Man, and this time it's—some kind of monster. It's like he's a magnet that attracts the darkest things."
Draco Malfoy thrived in this fertile ground of growing fear and suspicion.
He no longer needed to make public accusations that would be easy to find fault with; he only needed to perfectly play the role of an insider and a harbinger of the future. A restrained, yet unsettling, smug smile often graced his pale face.
"Some people would be better off packing their bags and getting out of here."
Malfoy would choose a moment when the crowd happened to be passing by, and in that carefully controlled, languid tone that could be heard, he would say to his henchmen: "The ancient bloodline has its own way of doing things. Hogwarts Castle is correcting itself, weeding out the impurities that should not exist. The heir has his own rules."
He would pause, savoring the sudden stiffness in the backs and the quickened pace of those around him, before slowly adding, "Mrs. Lorris—that's just a starting point. A gentle reminder. Who's next?"
It's definitely something to look forward to.
This insidious, unnamed yet clearly targeted whisper is more pervasive than any open threat.
A new, invisible boundary began to quietly emerge among students. It was not a separation between colleges, but a more ancient, more rigid division based on background.
The Muggle-born students didn't run or cry, but they became more cautious in their movements. They were more inclined to form fixed and reliable alliances, and they would react more quickly and vigilantly to doors that suddenly closed behind them or to isolated footsteps coming from the depths of the corridor. Their laughter became less frequent and shorter.
Harry finds himself in a strange isolation.
Although he has temporarily escaped direct accusations of being the "murderer," he seems to be isolated at the very center of a silent storm.
As he walked down the corridor, he could clearly feel the gazes falling upon him—no longer those of curiosity or admiration, but rather a mixture of fear, suspicion, inquiry, and even a hint of disgust, as if he himself were a walking curse that brought misfortune.
The hostility surrounding him was no longer directed at him personally, but rather a broader and suffocating collective fear born from an unknown terror rooted in ancient legends, and he, unfortunately, became the most prominent focus and embodiment of this fear.
Ron and Hermione walked firmly beside him, but their tense lips and wary glances constantly reminded Harry that this trouble was far more serious than losing 150 points from the house last year.
In this atmosphere, Lynch, after obtaining Dumbledore's consent, sealed off the section of the corridor where the attack had occurred.