Hogwarts: Even Voldemort Can't Stop Me From Studying

In the suburbs of Washington, a tranquil Victorian manor is nestled among a grove of maples, with a simple wooden sign hanging on the wrought iron gate:

[Sacred Heart Children’s Welfare and Rescue Home].

In the yard, a dozen or so children are playing under the autumn afternoon sun.

Some are chasing a ball on the lawn, some are sitting quietly on a bench reading picture books, and a few older children are helping in the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Everything seems perfectly normal, even far more welcoming than an ordinary welfare home—sunshine, grass, children’s laughter, and the aroma of baking cookies wafts through the air.

However, all the children wear different colored plastic wristbands, the courtyard wall is much higher than a normal welfare home, and surveillance cameras operate incessantly atop the walls, which seems somewhat strange.

In the topmost room of the principal building of the home, marked with a ”Director’s Office” sign, heavy curtains are tightly drawn, and Imperturbable Charms and detecting spells overlap one after another.

The air is permeated with a faint smell of blood, the acrid odor of vomit, mixed with the herbal scent characteristic of a magic potion.

Phil Stonefield slumped over in a high-backed chair.

The gentleman famous in Washington as a ”philanthropist” and ”child protection pioneer” now has vacant eyes, his clothes disheveled, the hem stained with his own vomit, his eyes blankly focused on a wall sconce ahead.

Standing to his side is Victor, his face wearing an expression of mixed disgust and boredom, one hand tucked into his overalls pocket, and the other holding a crystal bottle with Veritaserum.

”Keep talking, Mr. Stonefield.”

Victor’s voice is coarse, and his demeanor appears somewhat ruthless:

”You mentioned ’special children’ earlier—exactly how ’special’?”

Phil, who has been battered, emits a gurgling sound from his throat, his will once strong and not entirely incapable of resisting Veritaserum.

But now, weakened and in pain, he can do nothing but mechanically answer under the influence of the potion:

”They’re of a special blood type...compatible with certain people...and those naturally gifted with magic, underage wizards...their blood, marrow, certain organs...are very useful...”

Victor clicked his tongue, turning to Riddle in the corner of the room, who is quickly jotting down notes:

”Write it down! These bastards.”

Riddle nods expressionlessly, the quill in his hand moving swiftly over parchment. Occasionally, he looks up, exchanging a glance with Vito standing in the shadow by the window.

Vito stands with arms crossed, exuding a chilling coldness.

”How were these young wizards discovered by you?” Victor continues questioning: ”By inquiring everywhere about which child’s abnormalities were reported?”

Phil shows some resistance, but quickly becomes submissive under the potion’s effect, speaking lightly as if in a dream:

”It’s...collaboration...we have cooperation with certain officials in the Magic World, and school professors....”

Victor’s eyebrows twitch slightly, glancing at his companions.

”What’s going on? Do these people really have collaborators?” he whispers: ”The Scourers that tricked the Carrel family weren’t totally lying?”

But those guys equated the state of American magic schools to Hogwarts itself?

Without waiting for him to ask further, Phil mutters: ”In the Magic World, there’s something called Rappaport’s Law. They believe both sides must be kept completely isolated.”

”So some people in magic schools...are very resistant to admitting children from ordinary families, believing they are...risks.”

”Wizards say Muggle children, even if they grow up in magic schools, might...harbor resentment towards the Magic World, leaking secrets to their family and friends...and even, upon learning magic, might turn their wands on wizards...”

”But they also can’t leave them alone, supposedly...if underage wizards aren’t guided, they’ll turn into monsters even the wizards fear...and they won’t be accountable internationally.”

”So they sold us the lists and let us ’monitor’...”

”Monitor?” Victor laughed, a laugh devoid of warmth: ”Those ’monitored’ young wizards, they’re not just the few downstairs, right? Where did they all end up?”

Phil’s eyes rolled aimlessly in their sockets:

”Some were used for studying the dominant expression of magic genes...others were provided to clients needing ’magic organ transplants’, some ancient families...they believe the organs of young wizards enhance their own magic power, increase their vitality, recovery, and lifespan...”

Vito sneered: ”As if they only acted as intermediaries. If it wasn’t for the Stonefield Family’s diligent promotion, how would the elite among ordinary people form such a ’consensus’?”

Riddle paused his note-taking for a moment. He looked up at Vito and said:

”It’s not surprising. Throughout history, humans have been more cruel to their own kind than to animals.”

”I know!” Vito said coldly: ”I just can’t help but want to kill when I think—if the Master had been born in the United States, he might have met the same fate!”

Riddle’s expression showed a slight change, and he said softly: ”I know...me too.”

Victor glanced at the two, continuing the interrogation: ”For these dealings, there must be a ledger, right? Client lists? Transaction records? Who at the Ministry of Magic coordinates with you?”

Phil’s eyebrows trembled a few times, speaking haltingly:

”The ledger...is in the safe in the basement...client lists are only at the residence, I don’t have access...”

”As for the Ministry of Magic contact, I only know he heads the ’Special Population Placement Office’ of the Magic Congress. But to my knowledge, the Magic Congress doesn’t have such an office, at least not officially...”

Vito silently left the bedroom, returning a few minutes later with several sealed lead boxes found in the basement.

Victor’s interrogation continued: ”And the children sent away by you over the years? Where are those records kept...”

...

The atmosphere in the living room, separated by just a wall from the bedroom, was completely different.

Here, the light was bright, the afternoon sun streaming through the bay window onto the Persian carpet. Vid sat at a large oak desk, spread with several large sheets of parchment.

He supported his chin, tapping with his fingertips, a nimble quill sketching swiftly on the parchment, marking out the Stonefield Clan’s influence and personal connections.

Lines radiate from the political heart of Washington, linking military-industrial enterprises, pharmaceutical groups, media networks, charity foundations...

Beside each node, names, positions, relationships with the Stonefields, and potential evidence levels were annotated.

The diagram, complex as a spider’s web, was yet clear and easily comprehensible at a glance.

Vera stood quietly by his side, adeptly organizing scattered documents, categorizing important evidence into different files.

Her movements were gentle yet efficient, occasionally reminding softly:

”Master, here’s a donation list found in Phil’s office; over the past three years, three congressmen’s donations have far exceeded normal limits.”

”And this...this Russian oligarch also has close ties with the Stonefield Family, willing to make unprofitable trades and transfer most benefits to the Stonefield Family...”

Vid nodded, making marks at the corresponding locations on the diagram.

His expression was focused and calm, his eyes reflecting the intertwined lines, symbolizing the continuous transfer of power and sin.

This task could, of course, be handled by a poppet, whose meticulousness could ensure no major mistakes, but Vid believed that only by sorting through it himself could he fully grasp the entire network.

At that moment—a small flow mirror placed on the edge of the desk, which had been broadcasting Magic World news, suddenly switched its display without warning!