Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

Chapter 963: The Hidden Truth

When Minerva McGonagall returned from the library, she suddenly noticed that most of the portraits—previously pretending to sleep—were now empty. The walls were lined with vacant frames.

She instinctively turned to Kyle, who hadn’t left.

“You’ve already spoken to the headmasters?”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” Kyle nodded. “They were happy to help. They’ve already gone out to find people.”

“That’s good,” Professor McGonagall said, not the least bit suspicious. After all, Kyle had told her earlier—when asking for the password—that he wanted to help.

“Let’s hope nothing goes wrong...” she sighed, glancing toward the largest portrait behind the desk. “Albus has left too, hasn’t he?”

But as soon as she asked, she shook her head at herself, realizing how silly the question was.

Of course he had. Dumbledore had more connections than any other headmaster. This was exactly the sort of matter that would require his involvement.

Professor McGonagall gave a wave of her hand.

“Secrets of the Darkest Art, Accio.”

Nothing happened. The silence in the headmaster’s office was almost awkward.

“Well, that confirms it—Professor Dumbledore clearly thought highly of that book. Not only did he take it from the library, he even cast a counter-Accio spell on it...”

Kyle turned his gaze away from McGonagall, pretending not to notice her tightening grip.

Still, casting a counter-charm on a book with the Horcrux pages already torn out—inside the safest room in Hogwarts, no less—seemed like Dumbledore was being just a bit too cautious.

Then again, he might have placed the charm on it casually on his way back.

Kyle stepped behind the desk to the bookshelf and began scanning it from top to bottom.

Dumbledore’s private collection was extensive, but there was no way he kept everything in the headmaster’s office. After a short search, Kyle pulled out a thick, faded book from the far-left shelf.

Secrets of the Darkest Art.

Its hard cover was coated with a thin layer of dust, but the title stood out clearly.

“Found it. Sometimes the old-fashioned way works better than magic.”

He placed the book on the desk.

Professor McGonagall opened it immediately. Her face grew steadily more serious as she flipped through the pages.

Just as Kyle had said, the sections on Horcruxes had been torn out—but even without them, the remaining contents were deeply disturbing.

It was practically an advanced guide for aspiring dark wizards. The three Unforgivable Curses took up barely half a page.

Put it this way: just glancing at the book might be enough to land someone in Azkaban for two months.

She had no idea which headmaster had allowed something like this into the school library. Even placing it in the Restricted Section seemed reckless.

Professor McGonagall slammed Secrets of the Darkest Art shut and instinctively glanced at Kyle.

“I haven’t read it,” Kyle said at once, without missing a beat. “Everything I know came from Professor Dumbledore.”

Of course, he was familiar with the book’s contents—he had read the full version years ago, at Sirius’s house.

But precisely because he knew what was in it, Kyle could predict McGonagall’s reaction—and shift all suspicion onto Dumbledore before she could press further.

As expected, hearing that Kyle hadn’t read the book eased McGonagall’s expression slightly.

Kyle didn’t linger. Once he’d located the book, he left the headmaster’s office of his own accord.

After the oak door closed behind him, Professor McGonagall hesitated for a moment, then locked the book away in a cabinet and raised her wand.

A golden, branch-like pattern spiraled around the keyhole, forming a distinct circular seal.

...

Outside, the sky had already begun to darken as Kyle stepped into the corridor.

After grabbing a quick dinner in the Great Hall, he returned straight to his wooden cabin.

“Kyle, you’re finally back!”

The moment he stepped through the door, Hagrid’s booming voice rang out from the direction of the garden.

Then the door swung open, and Hagrid hobbled out, limping heavily.

“Come take a look—Caberta’s definitely grown again! Just a few days ago it was only fifteen feet tall, and now it’s taller than the both of us put together!”

“What’s so surprising about that?” Kyle said. “Caberta’s an Ironbelly. It’d be strange if it didn’t keep growing.”

Caberta was the name Hagrid had given to the Ironbelly. Kyle had originally wanted to name it Rhaenyra, but during the war, Hagrid had nearly lost his life rescuing the dragon from the Death Eaters.

After that, Kyle had insisted Hagrid give it a new name himself.

Thinking of that, Kyle’s eyes instinctively dropped to Hagrid’s leg—still wrapped in a tangle of scorched and half-melted bandages.

They were only still there because the burned fabric had fused with his skin.

“I’d suggest you worry less about how much the dragon’s grown and more about finding a fresh roll of bandages.”

He pointed at Hagrid’s leg.

“Think Madam Pomfrey would be kind enough to wrap you in bandages and hang you from the tower when she sees that mess?”

Hagrid looked down—and for a moment, real fear flashed across his rugged face.

Just the thought of the school nurse’s temper—and her preferred methods of treating dark magic injuries—made his knees go weak. Cold sweat broke out down his back.

It had been the first time he’d ever seen his own leg bones. Also, the first time he’d discovered just how foul Skele-Gro really tasted.

“Help me, Kyle. There’s gotta be something you can do, right?” Hagrid pleaded.

“I can give it a try.” Kyle drew his wand.

“Reparo!”

The damaged bandages knitted themselves together at once—but the charred and melted portions didn’t change at all.

Not that it was unexpected. The Mending Charm wasn’t a cure-all, especially not when it came to dragonfire.

“What about a Transfiguration spell?” Hagrid suggested. “Doesn’t need to be perfect. Just enough to fool Poppy.”

“If you really want to end up strung from the tower, I don’t mind giving you a hand,” Kyle said, casting him a sideways look and lowering his wand. “Forget it. You’d better go straight to Madam Pomfrey. Don’t forget—your leg hasn’t fully healed yet.”

If it hadn’t been for the dragon, the Death Eaters never would’ve had a proper chance to target Hagrid all at once.

Kyle truly didn’t have the heart to see him swinging in the breeze from the highest tower.

“Well... all right,” Hagrid sighed and trudged heavily out of the room.

...

The next day was the weekend.

But unlike the last one, the students didn’t seem particularly excited this time.

Probably because exam week was looming. With O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s on the horizon, no one was feeling relaxed.

Even Hermione, who consistently earned top marks, was lugging around a massive, weighty bag full of books wherever she went. Even during meals, her hands and eyes never stopped moving.

When Kyle first spotted her, he genuinely thought he’d walked into the library by mistake.

Everyone else had bread, fried eggs, and roasted potatoes on their plates.

Hers held Advanced Transfiguration, The Theory and Practice of Charms, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Advanced Potion-Making, and A Comprehensive Guide to Ancient Runes...

It’s just breakfast. Can she really get through all that?

Kyle eyed the fortress of books on the table, muttering silently to himself. But he also knew one thing for sure—Hermione would never pile books up just for show.

After breakfast, instead of leaving the castle like he usually did, Kyle headed down the stairs to the dungeons.

He remembered that when Snape had left the hearing room yesterday, he’d told Kyle to come find him.

Kyle wasn’t particularly concerned whether Snape had lied during the testimony. But since the man had asked, he figured he should go. Worst case, he’d exchange a few words and leave.

The dungeon corridor was as dim as ever, no sunlight reaching its depths.

But Kyle was no stranger to this place. He’d taken every Potions class here from his first year through graduation. Of course he knew it well.

It wasn’t until this past Christmas that Slughorn had decided to move the Potions classroom elsewhere.

Kyle arrived at the door of the old classroom. Since it hadn’t been used in some time, several cobwebs had accumulated on it.

If Ron ever saw it like this, he’d probably be even more terrified of attending Potions.

Kyle didn’t stop. He walked past the classroom, past what used to be Snape’s office, until he reached the Potions storeroom.

He stopped and knocked on the door.

Creak—the door swung open.

“I thought you’d go to my office to find me,” Snape said, looking up from behind a desk.

He looked pale, with deep shadows under his eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t slept at all last night.

“You’re not a professor anymore,” Kyle said as he walked in, “so what office do you even have?”

“Hah, true enough,” Snape said darkly. “I’m not a professor anymore.”

At that moment, a gust of wind blew through the room.

Bang!

The door to the storeroom slammed shut with a loud crack.

Kyle didn’t even flinch.

He lived in a castle full of ghosts—if he were scared by cheap theatrics like that, he might as well toss his N.E.W.T. certificate into the fireplace.

“No need to get worked up, Professor,” Kyle said. “Truth is, I fell asleep during the hearing—I didn’t catch a single word of what you said.”

“Don’t tell anyone that Potter is a Horcrux,” Snape said, as if he hadn’t heard him. “Keep that secret buried. Not a word.”

“Oh…” Kyle drawled, nodding slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching up before falling flat again. “Got it. Her son’s always been the Chosen One. Nothing to do with Voldemort at all.”

Crack...

Something snapped. Looking at Kyle’s smug expression, Snape’s temple throbbed with tension, and the quill in his hand splintered in two.

But a moment later, he reined himself in, voice low and sharp.

“You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Oh? I thought you were worried someone might use this against Harry,” Kyle replied.

He’d been meaning to provoke Snape like this ever since that memory had been revealed—just like when he’d shown him that old Potions book signed by the Half-Blood Prince.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Snape sneered. “That arrogant, brainless fool was never any sort of savior. I’d love nothing more than for the world to see what he really is.”

“Really? But he’s Lily’s son—”

“Shut up!” Snape roared, cutting Kyle off.

Snap...

There was a faint sound in the corner of the room—something shifting or breaking—but Snape’s shouting drowned it out, and he didn’t notice.

If one looked closely, they might have seen that Snape’s pallid face had turned slightly red, though whether from anger or something else was unclear.

“Listen to me!” he growled, drawing his wand. “Never—ever—mention that name in front of me again!”

“Right. No problem!” Kyle raised both hands in mock surrender and nodded quickly.

“So... is that all? If there’s nothing else, I’ll—”

“Don’t tell anyone Potter is a Horcrux!” Snape repeated. “And don’t tell anyone that all of the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes have already been destroyed.”

“Why not…” Kyle’s smile faded, and he frowned.

“Wouldn’t it be better to let everyone know Voldemort’s been completely defeated? Then people wouldn’t have to live in constant fear.”

“You really don’t get it?” Snape stepped closer, staring into Kyle’s eyes.

“I don’t understand what you’re implying,” Kyle said, taking a step back.

“You don’t?” Snape let out a cold laugh.

“Then why haven’t you told everyone the truth?

“You’re the one who killed the Dark Lord—not with some ancient protection spell, but with real magic. That would bring you immense glory.”

“You’ve got a friend at The Daily Prophet, don’t you… Rita Skeeter,” he continued. “Don’t deny it. That lawless hag has never written a single negative word about you. Isn’t that obvious enough?”

“I’m not denying it. We’re business partners,” Kyle said calmly.

“Then why haven’t you told her?” Snape narrowed his eyes. “Let her publish it in the paper. Let Dumbledore’s ghost come out and confirm it.”

“I guarantee you’d become the most celebrated name in the wizarding world. The real Chosen One.”

“You wouldn’t even have to wait until morning. The Order of Merlin, First Class would be sent straight to your door. And with just one sentence from you, those fanatics would drive Amelia Bones out of office and crown you Minister for Magic.”

“That’s the kind of honor even Dumbledore never achieved. Why would you turn it down?”

“Because I don’t want that kind of honor,” Kyle said, his voice steady. “And I have no interest in being Minister for Magic.”

“I think being a quiet Ancient Runes professor at Hogwarts suits me just fine.”

“Is it that you don’t want it—or that you don’t want to say it?”

Snape studied him for a long moment. Something about Kyle’s silence seemed to improve his mood. His tone lifted slightly.

“Let’s put it another way.”

“I remembered something... rather interesting.”

He went on, mostly to himself.

“Albus Dumbledore. Revered. The greatest wizard of our age. Chief Warlock of the International Confederation of Wizards.”

“But somewhere along the way, people stopped respecting him.”

“Rita Skeeter painted him as a fool. A senile lunatic. The Confederation expelled him. Even Fudge—Fudge—had the gall to mock him publicly.”

Snape paused.

“Guess when that all started to change.”