fantasy novels Chapter 304 A Full Moon
Chapter 304 A Full Moon
Chapter 304 A Full Moon (5.3K) (2/2)
Dead silence.
It was as if the deepest night had descended, or as if time itself had been frozen.
On the screen, every word Peter uttered—filled with resentment, self-justification, and ultimately, mad confession—exploded and echoed repeatedly in the confined space like a thunderclap.
Among the directors and officials, some accidentally knocked over their coffee cups, the dark brown liquid spreading across the carpet, but no one paid any attention; some instinctively clutched their collars, as if they couldn't breathe; and others silently opened and closed their lips, repeating the meaningless phrase "Merlin."
All eyes were fixed on the curtain, even though all that could be seen was swirling fog and the source of the indistinct sounds. Peter's sharp, insane, and venomous confession had etched the cruel truth into everyone's minds like the sharpest carving knife.
Rufus-Scrimgeour, the Auror chief of staff known for his toughness and composure, now had pure, undisguised disbelief written all over his face.
He stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over every shocked face in the room before finally settling on the curtain, letting out a low, almost groaning sigh.
"It's over—" he muttered almost inaudibly, already envisioning the impending upheaval within the Ministry of Magic.
A devastating storm capable of jeopardizing many careers—a crisis of trust, legal scandals, and the Auror Department's utter discrediting reputation—
Minister Fouché's chubby face turned deathly pale at first, then flushed with an unhealthy redness.
He seemed to be choked, his breathing rapid, and one hand unconsciously patted his full chest.
"Disaster—this is a public relations disaster—" His voice trembled, and he could almost see the terrifying scene of thousands upon thousands of roaring and accusatory letters flooding his office like a storm of owls.
But soon, a hidden sense of relief replaced the pure panic.
His gaze secretly drifted to Barty Crouch, whose body was stiff beside him.
Yes, the public needed to vent, the law enforcement department needed to take responsibility, and it was this director, known for his iron fist, who personally threw Blake into Azkaban, not Fudge.
The greatest firepower will not fall directly on him, the minister who "came in later."
He might be affected, but he will definitely not be the first to be hit.
Worry still weighed heavily on his heart like lead, but this realization helped him regain a little bit of his breathing rhythm.
Batty Crouch stood there like a weathered stone statue.
His face was expressionless, but that extreme coldness was more chilling than any roar.
He subconsciously reached out and grabbed the back of the chair in front of him, finding some support for himself. His knuckles were ashen white from the excessive force, and the wooden chair back even made a faint, strained creaking sound.
He knew it was over.
It's all over.
This is not the kind of "minor trouble" that can be closed off behind closed doors and covered up with power and deals.
The editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet is here, Dumbledore is here, and there's also the unfathomable "Hanger" Lynch who doesn't care about the Ministry of Magic at all!
None of them would heed the Ministry of Magic's "advice" to suppress the matter.
The truth is like a plague that has escaped Pandora's box; it can never be brought back.
He could almost see the front page of tomorrow's Daily Prophet, the gloating eyes of his old rivals in Wizengamot, and his once bright political career—which had even held onto the chance of becoming minister and was only barely maintained after decisively sending his son to Azkaban—suddenly shattered and plunged into the abyss.
This realization gnawed at his insides like a venomous snake.
He, Barty Crouch, will likely become the most conspicuous sacrifice the Ministry of Magic uses to quell public anger.
Dumbledore slowly, very slowly, removed his half-moon spectacles and vigorously rubbed the bridge of his nose with his long, slender fingers.
He looked unusually tired and old, and his usually bright blue eyes, which always shone with wisdom, were now tightly closed, as if he was unwilling to face the reality that was partly caused by his own mistakes.
A deep sense of guilt and self-reproach almost overwhelmed him.
He knew Sirius's recklessness and susceptibility to misunderstanding, and he had even had a slight doubt about the overly smooth verdict back then—but he didn't delve into it, nor did he investigate it as if he were dealing with someone who might have been wrongly accused.
He allowed the young man, his student, to suffer twelve years of unbearable torment in the hell of Azkaban.
This is an unforgivable dereliction of duty for a principal who prides himself on upholding fairness and benevolence, and for an elder.
The heavy burden of guilt almost suffocated him.
Snape sat in the shadows behind Dumbledore, like a black statue.
His usual cold mask remained intact, with no twitch of his muscles betraying the storm raging within him.
He hated Blake and Peter equally—one a bully who had long harassed him in school, and the other a despicable traitor.
But at this moment, as Peter confessed to himself how he knelt at the Dark Lord's feet and how he offered Lily's life in exchange for survival and "appreciation," a murderous intent far more intense and primal than hatred boiled in his chest.
He wished he could bite the short, fat coward's throat clean and hear the sound of his throat bones shattering.
However, in this public setting, he tightly sealed away all his emotions—anger, hatred, murderous intent, and the rekindled, relentless pain of Lily's death.
Only beneath the cover of his wide black robe, his clenched fists revealed sharp nails that had already dug deep into his palms, causing sharp, stabbing pain. Only this self-mutilating agony could barely maintain his terrifying outward calm.
Lynch's gaze swept calmly across the entire room, taking in everyone's reactions, like a composed director scrutinizing the actors' final performance on stage.
His face was expressionless, but in this moment when no one was paying attention, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to the Stone Tower Merchant Guild member beside him.
Following Lynch's instructions, the member lowered his head and quietly turned a button next to the curtain.
In Hogsmeade, on the top floor of a rather prominent and towering building, a lamp quietly lit up, its light shining through the window, only to be temporarily obscured by the thick fog.
On the other side, behind the low wall.
Harry leaned against the cold, rough wall, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.
He bit his lower lip hard until he tasted the salty, bitter taste of blood, which stopped him from making a sound.
His mind went blank, then was nearly blown apart by a torrent of chaotic fragments of information.
Scabbard — Peter — Father's "friend" — Sir Merlin's "hero" — The real traitor who killed his parents — A premeditated betrayal —
The target of his hatred, Sirius Black, whom he had always believed in and whom he wished to kill, turned out to be innocent.
And that rat who slept next to Ron's pillow for years, the one he once felt a little sorry for and a little disgusted by, was actually the real, despicable murderer with his parents' blood on his hands?!
A chilling coldness shot from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head, making him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cave.
What followed was an overwhelming anger at being fooled by a colossal lie for twelve years, and an indescribable, complex emotion directed at Sirius Black.
Guilt?
pity?
He couldn't tell what was wrong; he only felt as if his heart was being tightly gripped by an invisible hand, the pain making it hard to breathe.
Tears welled up uncontrollably in his eyes, mingling with rain and mist, and streamed coldly down his cheeks.
Lupin's hand remained firmly on Harry's shoulder, the force almost crushing Harry's bones.
His gray eyes peered over the low wall, fixed on a spot in the mist, as if he could pierce through the fog that obscured his vision and see that vile soul on the other side.
His face was expressionless, like a taut, dried-out mask.
But Harry could feel that Professor Lupin's hand on his shoulder was trembling slightly.
It wasn't just anger, but also a deep pain that resonated with a close friend, and the complex shock of relief and immense sorrow when the truth finally came to light.
He heard it: one of his best friends confessed to the betrayal, while the other was tortured in Azkaban for twelve years on this fabricated charge.
Lupin took a slow, extremely slow breath, the sound of which was exceptionally clear behind the deathly silent low wall.
He didn't look at Harry, but said in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, yet with an iron-like resolve, as if making a vow: "It's all over."
Lupin, behind the low wall, gently tugged at Harry's arm.
He and Harry, pressed close to the rough, cold stone wall, like two shadows blending into the thick fog, began to move silently sideways.
Their footsteps fell on the damp mud, making almost no sound.
Harry had no idea what Professor Lupin was up to now, so he could only wipe away his tears and mechanically follow him.
They took a small, roundabout route, the thick fog and walls perfectly concealing their movements.
In just a few seconds, they had transformed from listeners into hunters lurking behind Peter.
At that moment, Peter had his back to them and was less than ten feet away.
His obese body trembled slightly with excitement, and his wand was pointed intently at Sirius, who was lying on the ground, seemingly having given up all resistance.
Peter's emotions had completely collapsed, and his rationality was about to snap. He knew he couldn't turn back, and there was no turning back. He had to get Blake's blood on his hands to carry out this betrayal to the end and ensure his own "safety."
His face was a mixture of madness, fear, and a desperate, reckless ruthlessness; a dangerous, murderous magical light began to gather at the tip of his wand—
At this critical moment!
"Disarm you!"
A calm, clear, and unquestionable incantation, like an icicle piercing through thick fog, suddenly rang out from behind Peter—a dazzling red light accurately struck Peter's right hand, which was tightly gripping the wand.
"Ah!" Peter only had time to let out a short cry of surprise before a tremendous force snatched the wand from his hand.
The wooden stick that belonged to him, which had just been about to take his life, drew a high arc in the air and flew far away, landing in an outstretched hand.
Peter stood frozen in place, his right hand still gripping the cane, the madness and ferocity on his face instantly replaced by extreme terror and bewilderment.
He turned his head slowly and stiffly, like a rusty machine.
Then, he saw it.
Remus Lupin stood there, wand held out, pointing at him, his grey eyes filled with a chilling coldness that seemed to freeze the soul.
Beside Lupin stood Harry, pale-faced, his grey-green eyes burning with rage and utter realization.
Peter's heart nearly stopped—they heard it! They all heard it!
"Reams—Reams—Harry—" Peter's voice was as dry as sandpaper. The muscles in his face twitched as he tried to force an ingratiating or defensive expression, but under Lupin's cold gaze and Harry's nakedly hateful stare, any pretense seemed pale and ridiculous.
He instinctively took a step back, but tripped over a protruding stone, stumbling and almost falling, looking as pathetic as a real rat stripped of all its disguise and exposed to the light of day.
But in the face of extreme fear, his survival instinct brought out an astonishing quick wit. Instead of immediately kneeling down to beg for mercy, he took a half step back, his face quickly filled with a mixture of shock, grievance, and a perfectly measured anger.
"Remus! Harry! You—how did you get here?!" His voice trembled with disbelief, as if he were the one betrayed and framed. He glanced quickly at Sirius, who lay slumped on the ground, then glared at Lupin, speaking rapidly to gain the upper hand: "It's a trap! Remus, this is a trap for us!" He pointed at Sirius, his voice shrill with agitation, "He just used a spell on me! Was it a Confusion Charm, or some stronger mind control? I don't know! He forced me to say those—those completely untrue lies! He wanted to drive us apart! He wanted you to kill me with your own hands, or watch me be killed by him, to live forever in pain and doubt! That's his real revenge!"
He tried to make his eyes appear sincere and frightened, attempting to grasp at the last straw—Lupin's inherent distrust of Black and the lingering affection he held for his "old friend."
"You know him, Remus! He hates me! He hates all of us! Because he thinks we abandoned him! He was in Azkaban for twelve years, he's gone insane! How can you believe him?! Look at him now, he's a madman! A madman who takes revenge on society in the most vicious way!"
He made a last-ditch effort, using sweet talk to confuse the issue, hoping that Lupin hadn't heard everything or still harbored a sliver of blind trust in their "friendship."
Lu watched Peter's dramatic and quick-witted performance with a calm, unwavering expression, neither provoked nor swayed. Only when Peter's hurried words faded into the thick fog did he speak slowly, his voice low but sharp like a cold scalpel, precisely dissecting all pretense: "Peter, your voice carries far in the silent fog." His grey eyes seemed to pierce the mist, staring directly into Peter's flickering gaze. "We stood behind the low wall and heard you confess how you knelt before Voldemort, how you betrayed James and Lily, how you blew up those Muggles and cut off your fingers—every word was crystal clear."
He paused slightly, letting the undeniable truth weigh heavily on Peter's mind.
"So, stop with the tricks. Confusion Charm? Mind Control?" Lupin shook his head very slightly, his tone carrying an almost imperceptible sorrow for the complete annihilation of their past friendship. "Black is in such a state that he can barely maintain his shapeshifting, let alone cast advanced magic that requires such precise control. Your lies are laughably pale in the face of the truth."
His wand remained firmly pointed at Peter, without trembling at all.
"Stop insulting our past friendship, and stop insulting our intelligence, Peter. It's all over."
These words were like a final death knell, shattering all of Peter's remaining hope.
His facade crumbled instantly, replaced by an extreme, predatory fear, like that of a wild beast caught in a trap.
His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees on the cold, muddy ground with a thud. He clasped his hands together, tears streaming down his face, and pleaded with Lupin, his voice shrill and distorted with fear: "No! Remus! Please! For the sake of our past friendship! For the sake of us both being raiders! I'm Peter! Little Bug! I was just confused for a moment! I was forced! Spare me! Please!"
"Kill it! Remus! Kill this scum right now!" Sirius, who was lying on the ground, roared with all his might. His gray-blue eyes burned with all the pain and hatred that had accumulated over the past twelve years. He struggled to get up, but because of his injuries, he fell back down. He could only stare at Peter with his own eyes, wishing he could tear him to pieces with his own light.
Lupin's gaze swept over Sirius's agitated yet pained face, a complex mix of emotions flashing in his eyes, but he firmly shook his head.
"No, Sirius." His voice remained calm and rational. "We can't do that. Don't forget, although he confessed, Wizengamor and the Ministry of Magic need a formal trial, his testimony to completely clear your name, and the truth to be revealed to everyone. Revenge cannot replace procedural justice."
His words were addressed not only to Sirius Black, but also seemed to be a lament about the wolfish nature roaring within him.
He must remain calm for the sake of ultimate justice.
Lupin then turned his gaze to Harry, who was still in a state of great shock and emotional turmoil. His tone softened somewhat, but still carried a commanding tone: "Harry, go help Sirius."
Harry seemed to be jolted awake from his chaotic thoughts by those words.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remove his hateful and icy gaze from the pathetic traitor kneeling and begging for mercy. He looked at Sirius Black, who was leaning weakly against the wall, and prepared to walk around Peter, who was prostrate on the ground.
But just as he took one step, another change occurred!
The thick, seemingly eternal milky-white mist that enveloped the surroundings began to dissipate and recede at a visible speed, as if it had been suddenly pulled away by an invisible giant hand!
Suddenly, the view became clear, and the Hogsmeade village houses and streets, which had been swallowed by the fog, were exposed without any cover in the deep night!
A cold, full silver disc had appeared high in the sky, and the clear, bright moonlight poured down like mercury, falling unimpeded onto Harry.
Harry looked up, his heart skipped a beat, and saw the ominous full moon hanging in the sky.