05 The Meaning of Magic

It was a dirty and narrow bar. If it wasn't for Hagrid's special indication, people passing by would probably ignore it, and might not even realize the existence of the Broken Cauldron Bar at all.

As a notorious place, it lived up to its name. It was dark and dirty, and in the corner sat a few old women, clad in black tattered cloaks, their faces full of wrinkles, their cloudy eyes glittering with a mysterious light, holding small cups, slowly drinking sherry.

One of them, with a long tobacco pouch in her mouth, swallowed the smoke leisurely.

At the bar, the barkeep, whose hair was thinning and nearly falling out, and whose face was as wrinkled as a dried-out pecan, was chatting animatedly with a small man in a big bowler hat, his voice low and muffled.

Hagrid walked into the bar ahead of him, and the noise that had been going on instantly came to a screeching halt.

Everyone here recognized Hagrid and smiled and waved at him. The bar owner familiarly picked up a large glass and naturally poured a drink for Helge.

Hagrid gently tapped the barkeep on the shoulder with such force that it nearly knocked him to the ground.

"Thank you so much, Tom. I've been running errands for Hogwarts today, and I've been busy since morning without stopping for a moment, and I really needed this drink to relax." Hagrid lifted the huge glass and took a large, boozy sip.

The barkeep then recognized Harry Potter with a sharp eye and immediately introduced him to all the customers with unbridled enthusiasm at the top of his voice.

The bar instantly boiled over and everyone rushed towards Harry, scrambling to introduce themselves to him.

The old woman with the long cigarette holder was so excited that she could barely hold it, scattering ash all over the floor, but still smoking.

Hagrid, on the other hand, stood at the bar, sipping his wine while looking at Harry, who was surrounded by the crowd, with a bright smile on his face.

A young man with a pale, paper-thin face approached Harry, looking almost twisted with nervousness and stuttering his words, and exchanged brief words with Harry. Hagrid introduced him to Harry as well as Michael as Chilo, the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

After the exchange, Professor Chilo was rudely shoved out of the way by the others; after all, no one wanted someone else taking up too much of their time with the great Harry Potter.

Professor Chilo then slunk back to the bar and sat down, but kept his eyes glued to Harry, who was surrounded by the crowd.

As Harry was overwhelmed by the crowd, his timid and evasive gaze began to dart around.

That pale and trembling gaze snapped to a small boy.

The boy had dark hair and deep black eyes that revealed stubbornness and spirituality.

Prof. Chilo's heartbeat involuntarily accelerated, his footsteps slightly staggered towards the little boy, his voice trembling and with deep fear and awe, "Child, what ... is your name?"

His eyes are full of complex emotions, fear like a flood, curiosity and through a few points of distortion, as if the little boy in front of him is not an ordinary child, but hides a mysterious existence that can subvert the secrets of the world.

The depths of the eyes, vaguely penetrating the extremely evil shadow of Voldemort, like a python waiting for an opportunity to move in the darkness, exuding a chilling eerie atmosphere.

The surrounding clamor seemed to have been cast a mute spell, only Professor Chilo's rapid and heavy breathing echoed in the air.

Michael took a small step backward slightly, a polite but distant smile on his face, and replied in a clear and calm voice, "Sir, my name is Michael Foster." His gaze was as calm as water, yet a hint of caution seemed to be hidden in its depths.

Hearing this name, Professor Chilo's body couldn't help but tremble slightly, his throat felt like it was choked by something, and it was only after a long time that he managed to squeeze out a few words with difficulty, "Oh, so it's Mr. Michael."

Michael nodded slightly and said no more, that detached attitude seemed to have built an impenetrable invisible barrier between him and Professor Chilo.

Professor Chilo remained undeterred, his eyes locked on Michael as if he had been under a fixation spell, and his body leaned forward as if driven by Voldemort's evil thoughts.

In hot pursuit, he asked, "Where did you come from?" At this point, his voice trembled like a falling leaf in a cold wind, as if he was being pressed so tightly by Voldemort's will that he was almost losing himself.

Michael frowned slightly and raised his head to look directly into Professor Chilo's fear-occupied eyes, and calmly replied, "Professor Dumbledore was the one who asked Hagrid to bring me here to purchase admission paraphernalia, Professor Chilo."

Upon hearing this, Professor Chilo smoothed the corners of his coat in an involuntary panic and said noncommittally, "Oh, Muggle-borns." He then clasped his hands shakily to his chest and followed up with, "What has magic brought you? Mr. Michael."

His eyes became even more eerie, as if he were a puppet being manipulated by Voldemort in a vain attempt to dig up information that would benefit them.

Michael lowered his head, his hand unconsciously fidgeting with the corner of his coat, and after careful thought answered, "Magic brings misfortune and change."

"Very good, having your own perception. So young wizard, what do you think a magic spell is?" Professor Chilo spoke while tapping the desktop gently with his fingers stiffly and mechanically, the movement was like a puppet manipulated by strings.

"A magic spell is a means to an end, a means that can bring hope to others, create goodness, and preserve one's own ideas."

Michael slowly raised his head, and with a firm gaze, he stated his own conclusions about the whole night's thinking and summarizing after knowing only last night that he was a sorcerer, and then bit his lip and added, "Magic is dangerous, because out-of-control magic will only bring more misfortunes to oneself and those around one, even to the point of bringing about a disaster."

After saying that, Michael couldn't help but close his eyes and take a deep breath as his mind drifted back to Nancy's mother's busyness in dealing with all the strange things she had brought about in the past three years, as well as all the painstaking efforts she had put in to make sure that the people in the children's home could accept their differences.

Professor Chilo froze violently as if petrified after hearing what Michael had to say, as if Voldemort had cast the most diabolical spell of immobilization.

A creepy, evil and crazy voice suddenly exploded in his mind, "Magic is the absolute power, the supreme nobility, the heavenly rift that distinguishes muggles from wizards, the root of might, the origin of nobility. It is the scepter that makes those lowly Muggles tremble and submit at their feet forever!"

Each word seemed to be squeezed out with great difficulty from the lowest layer of the dark abyss, filled with deep malice and evil designs, as if it wanted to devour all the beauty in the world.

This voice was like an irreversible magic spell, which instantly made Prof. Chilo lose his will to resist, his lips trembled more than once, just like the leaves drifting in the wind, and his voice coldly and mechanically repeated: "Magic is the absolute power, the supreme nobility, the moat separating the Muggles from the wizards, the foundation of strength, the origin of nobleness. "

This subtle voice was like a sharp blade that could pierce through the soul, carrying endless thrills and heavy oppression.

At that exact moment, Voldemort actually drove Chilo to cast a soul-shocking spell on Michael, and that sinister power rushed straight into the depths of Michael's soul.

It was far more horrific than any of the insults Michael had ever experienced, any of the rough treatment he had received, and any of the fear he had felt when others had vented their frustrations at his own weirdness.

It was as if it was the unquestionable, irrefutable, absolute truth.

As Michael sank deeper into the vortex of fear constructed by the evil words, Professor Chilo's pale, trembling eyes locked onto Michael's, as if he were trying to extract some unknown secret from the depths of those eyes, in order to claim credit from Voldemort.

At that moment, an athletic figure rushed in through the door like the wind.

The roar of the door breaking caused all the people surrounding Harry to turn their attention to the person who had come in.

It was a young girl with long silver hair, her emerald green eyes clear and bright, with a spirit and boldness.

A thin scar on the left side of her face added a touch of toughness to it.

Dressed in a lightweight combat suit, the young girl moved as fast as the wind. As quickly as lightning, she passed through the crowd, crossed the bar from Professor Chilo's side, and sped towards the small patio at the back door with a crisp, pleasant voice, "Sorry, coming through!" In an instant, she disappeared at the small patio.