Chapter 72: A Few Things About Corvey
He took a seat beside the Weasley twins. They were nothing like their usual lively selves—sitting quietly, subdued to the point that Russell almost wondered if they'd been put under the Imperius Curse.
"What's going on?" Russell asked, patting George on the shoulder. "Why's the Great Hall decorated in black?"
"Don't you know?" George replied listlessly. "Ravenclaw's most outstanding first-year—Russell Fythorne—died in an accident last night. We're preparing a memorial service for him today."
Though they hadn't been especially close, they had known Russell well enough. The news still weighed heavily on them.
"My… funeral?" Russell blinked. "Attending my own funeral—now that's a first."
Fred stood up, about to go help Professor McGonagall, when he happened to glance at Russell. His eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"Merlin's pink polka-dot underpants—Russell's come back from the dead!"
His voice echoed through the Great Hall, loud enough for everyone to hear.
All eyes turned their way. In an instant, the hall fell into stunned silence—then erupted into deafening chatter.
"Merlin—Russell, you're alive!" Cedric was the first to react. He rushed over and thumped Russell on the back hard.
"Very much alive," Russell said wryly. "Though attending my own funeral is… an interesting experience."
"Fythorne," Snape said coldly as he approached, casting a dark shadow over Russell, "do you find it amusing to toy with us like this?"
Cedric immediately withdrew his hand and stepped aside.
Honestly, spineless, Russell thought—but he couldn't deny Snape's sheer intimidation factor. In another age, he'd have been the sort of man whose name alone could stop a child from crying.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Russell said calmly. "When I woke up, it was already morning. I got lost and accidentally wandered into the Hog's Head. The innkeeper can vouch for that—and these clothes were lent to me by him."
"Whether that's true or not will be decided later," Snape snapped. "Come with me."
He turned sharply, his billowing robes nearly slapping Russell in the face.
Couldn't he break that habit? Russell grumbled inwardly—but wisely kept it to himself.
"Russell," Dumbledore said gently, his eyes seeming to peer straight through him, "I think we should have a proper talk."
He rested a hand on Russell's shoulder, indicating they would go together to the Headmaster's office.
"Minerva," Dumbledore added, "have the students remove the black decorations. Replace them with something more cheerful."
Footsteps echoed down the corridor as they walked on—Dumbledore in front, Snape behind—Russell firmly sandwiched between the two.
Seeing the mood grow a little heavy, Russell cleared his throat and tried to lighten things up.
"Professor Dumbledore… I guess that makes me a Boy-Who-Lived too now, doesn't it?"
"There's nothing to argue about, Fythorne," Snape snapped before Dumbledore could respond.
"What savior? Just a child protected by a mother's—"
"Severus," Dumbledore cut in gently but firmly.
Snape froze, realizing he shouldn't be saying such things in front of Russell. He closed his mouth and fell silent.
Magic born of love, huh…
Russell nodded thoughtfully. Not bad.
In this world, the most powerful magic seemed to be fueled by emotion—killing intent giving birth to the Killing Curse, happiness sustaining the Patronus. Emotion, not technique, lay at the core of true magic.
This was Russell's second visit to the Headmaster's office, and the feeling was much the same as before—he'd caused a major incident again.
"Professor, I'll be honest—Corvey tricked me into going there," Russell said, spilling everything that had happened the previous night before Dumbledore could even ask.
"I already know," Dumbledore said calmly, lifting his gaze. "And I must say—you did remarkably well. At your age, I was nowhere near as capable."
"I didn't call you here to question you," he continued. "I wanted to tell you a little more about Corvey."
"Sit down."
Russell obeyed, taking the chair opposite Dumbledore. Snape stood behind him like a silent guard.
"You already know Corvey once worked as a curse-breaker for Gringotts," Dumbledore said.
Russell nodded.
"Behind the scenes, he was also a professional treasure thief. Under the pretense of curse removal, he siphoned off Gringotts artifacts for himself. When he was discovered, he was dismissed—but for reasons unknown, Gringotts chose not to prosecute."
"So he became an unemployed wizard," Dumbledore went on, "yet his curse-breaking skills earned him a place among tomb-raiding crews. Curiously, those groups often vanished shortly afterward—leaving Corvey alone, walking away with the treasure."
A classic double-cross, Russell thought grimly.
"One day, two wizards approached him—Mimiron Selwyn and Morrell Yaxley. They invited him to rob Gringotts itself."
"You already know the rest," Dumbledore said, handing Russell a small brown notebook. "Take a look."
Russell opened it—and froze.
The pages were packed with meticulous notes: the Shield Charm, advanced defensive theory, reinforcement techniques, failure cases—everything.
"This is…"
"Yes. Corvey's," Dumbledore said softly. "At some point, I believe he truly did regard you as his student."
Russell felt conflicted. Setting aside what had happened, Corvey had been an exceptional teacher—far better than someone like Quirrell, who taught nothing and plotted to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
"He's still alive?" Russell asked suddenly, recalling Dumbledore's wording earlier.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "But don't worry. He'll spend the rest of his life in Azkaban."
"But Professor—Hufflepuff's Cup was taken. Aren't you going to retrieve it?"
"That," Dumbledore said with a faint smile, "I'll leave to fate."
A classic riddler, Russell sighed inwardly.
"Oh—nearly forgot," Dumbledore added, tapping his temple. He handed Russell a battered grey pouch and a wand.
"This is wonderful—thank you, Professor!" Russell said, taking them eagerly.
Yet something felt off.
His wand had been caught in the blast—so why did it look completely unharmed?
Russell frowned but said nothing. He decided to investigate it later, in private.
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