ebookslot Chapter 260 Don't Blame Me
Chapter 260 Don't Blame Me
Chapter 260 Don't Blame Me (6.3K) (2/2)
Without any hesitation, Harry looked up, his emerald eyes fixed on Lynch, and asked the heavy question that had been weighing on his mind: "Uncle Lynch—did you—did you really study Dark Magic before?"
Lynch's expression remained unchanged, as if Harry had simply asked a question about the weather.
He made no attempt to evade the question, readily admitting, "Yes. I've studied it in depth."
This overly frank admission made Harry gasp for breath.
He leaned forward, his hands unconsciously gripping the cup tightly, his voice trembling with urgency: "Why? Why are you researching those—those dangerous things?"
Lynch didn't answer immediately. He paused for a moment, then calmly countered with a question that seemed to pierce through Harry and reach into the distant past: "Harry, do you know what the title 'The Mist Hanger' truly means?"
Before Harry could answer, he gave his own answer, his voice steady and clear: "It means I'm the one who hunts down those damned, harmful dark wizards, and then hangs them one by one."
He paused for a moment before continuing, speaking slowly and clearly: "And looking at the entire history of the magical world, no one has done this job better than me, or cleared away more dross."
He abruptly changed the subject, his gaze sharpening as he looked at Harry: "Do you know why?"
Harry was locked onto that gaze and instinctively shook his head.
"Because I never underestimate my enemies." Lynch's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable power. "I know them completely. I know what they're thinking, what vicious spells they'll use, how those spells will work, what effects they'll produce, and most importantly, I know how to counter them, to end the threat before they even point their wands at the innocent."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixed intently on Harry: "So, I need to understand Dark Magic. Not out of interest, nor out of identification, but to more effectively kill those who are immersed in it. To defeat the darkness, you must understand every corner, every pattern of darkness better than darkness itself. That's the price, and also the most effective method."
Harry pressed on excitedly, his voice tinged with confusion and a barely perceptible fear: "But—doesn't studying dark magic corrupt people? That's what the books say!"
Lynch looked at him and calmly replied, "If you only study magic itself, understand its principles and structure, but don't use it or let yourself become addicted to its power, then you won't be affected." His tone was like stating an objective fact, "Knowledge itself is neither good nor evil; the key lies in the person who uses the knowledge and the purpose for which they use it."
Harry immediately followed up with the most pointed question, almost without hesitation: "Then why? If there's nothing wrong with studying the Dark Arts, why did Headmaster Dumbledore lock you up here for ten years?"
The moment he asked that question, a crack appeared on Lin Qi's usually calm face.
He raised an eyebrow slightly, a genuine surprise flashing in his deep eyes, fleeting but clearly caught by Harry.
Lynch's gaze fell on Harry's face.
"I was locked up for ten years—" he repeated the phrase, his voice still steady, but with a hint of inquiry, "Where did you get this information, Harry?"
Harry immediately pursed his lips, instinctively avoiding Lynch's gaze, and lowered his head to stare at the hot drink in his hand, responding with silence.
He cannot betray Hagrid.
Lynch did not urge him or show any displeasure.
He simply narrowed his eyes slightly and began to think rapidly.
In an instant, a clear list of all those who knew this information and might have crossed paths with Harry flashed through his mind.
Almost immediately, a name came to mind—the only one who fit the criteria: Rubeus Hagrid.
The gamekeeper who was kind-hearted but couldn't keep a secret, and who had been in frequent contact with Harry because of recent events.
Only he knew this less-than-honorable past, and was also capable of revealing it to Harry without any reservations.
Lynch shifted his gaze from the fireplace back to Harry's face and calmly uttered a name: "Hagrid told you."
Harry's body jolted, as if pricked by an invisible needle. He abruptly raised his head, his emerald eyes filled with astonishment and a hint of panic at being seen through.
Seeing Harry's reaction, Lynch explained calmly, "There aren't many people who know about this. Within the Hogwarts area, Hagrid is the only person you can contact who is likely and willing to tell you this."
Harry's cheeks flushed slightly with shame. He lowered his head, his voice hoarse. "I—I lied to Hagrid. I said you only mentioned being imprisoned, but were vague about the reasons—he believed me, so—"
“You don’t need to feel guilty about it, Harry,” Lynch interrupted him, his voice still steady but carrying a reassuring strength. “Neither do you need to use any means to bring it back.” His deep gaze fell on Harry, with an unprecedented honesty and acceptance. “Ask away. All the questions you want to know, about the past, about the Dark Arts, about those ten years—anything you want to know, I will tell you today.”
Harry pressed on, "Then why did Headmaster Dumbledore still lock you up? Even if you were researching the Killing Curse to fight Voldemort?"
Lynch shook his head slightly, his gaze becoming distant: "To answer this question, Harry, we must move the timeline back a little further."
He paused for a moment, as if sorting through distant memories.
"A little over a month before Dumbledore imprisoned me, I fell into Voldemort's carefully laid trap and had a direct confrontation with him." Lynch's voice remained steady, but Harry could hear a subtle tension in it. "I'm ashamed to admit that I was no match for him. In that battle, I fought with all my might and barely managed to stay alive."
He leaned forward slightly, his expression grave: "But Voldemort is a master of mind manipulation. During the battle, without my noticing, he somehow disrupted my thoughts and judgment."
"After that life-or-death battle," Lynch's voice turned somber, "I became...obsessed. Obsessed with studying the Avada Kedavra curse. I wanted to break the sharpest blade in Voldemort's hand, to find a way to fight this unforgivable curse."
He paused, a complex look flashing in his eyes. "But Dumbledore knew nothing of this at the time. He had just learned of my identity as 'The Hangman,' and was already suspicious of me. When he found my secret base in the Forbidden Forest and burst in, he saw me covered in wounds, frantically studying the magical constructs of the Killing Curse."
Lynch's tone was eerily calm: "In his eyes, a former executioner, just exposed and with blood on his hands, is currently immersed in the most evil Unforgivable Curse. He doesn't see someone trying to find Voldemort's weakness; he probably sees a new Dark Lord about to be born."
"And so," Lynch's voice held a barely perceptible bitterness, "he struck in a rage, subduing me without a word. No questions asked, no investigation conducted; in that moment, he believed what he saw. Then, he made that decision. He locked me up here for ten whole years."
Harry listened intently, unaware that the cup in his hand had tilted unnoticed, and the warm liquid almost spilled.
Uncle Lynch's calm narration was like a dull knife, cutting into his heart again and again.
He was fighting the trauma left by Voldemort—studying the Killing Curse to find a way to break it—yet he was imprisoned for ten years without explanation by the very person who should have trusted him most, when he needed help and understanding the most, based solely on fragments of information and preconceived suspicion.
A sharp pang of heartache gripped Harry's heart, more real and heavier than the chill brought by the Dementors.
He recalled how the stone house, though clean, always exuded a sense of isolation and coldness, and how Hagrid spoke of his duty as a "guardian" with such self-assurance—all these details now took on a melancholic hue.
He looked at Uncle Lin Qi's still calm profile, his deep eyes reflecting the firelight, yet it seemed as if there was an invisible layer of ice between them.
"Uncle Lynch—" Harry's voice choked with emotion. He put down his cup, his hands clenched tightly together, his knuckles white. "You—you're fighting him, you're injured, you're trying to find a way to defeat him—they—how could they—" He couldn't finish his sentence, overwhelmed by a profound sense of injustice and grievance for Lynch.
He imagined Uncle Lynch, covered in wounds and mentally scarred, struggling alone in the secret base, not thinking of revenge, but how to break the most dangerous spell to protect others, only to be imprisoned instead of receiving help.
At that moment, Harry's last shred of understanding of Dumbledore's decision and his attempt to find its rationale completely vanished.
Instead, he felt a surge of heartache, almost suffocating, for the elder in front of him who was always calm and composed, yet carried such a heavy past all by himself.
Uncle Lynch is not a potential threat; he is a lonely fighter who has been battling the deepest darkness, yet has been misunderstood and abandoned by the light.
Watching Harry express his true feelings for the injustice he had suffered, the tears glistening in his emerald eyes and his undisguised heartache shone like a strong light into a rarely touched corner of Lynch's heart.
He could clearly feel the boy's unreserved trust and deep dependence on him; this pure emotion was so intense that it almost burned his mind, which was used to precise calculations.
But in that instant, in Lynch's mind, Harry's tearful face flashed across his face, and another vague but established plan overlapped with it—a plan to use Sirius Black to stir up a storm at Hogwarts and the entire wizarding world.
A cold-blooded assessment was completed in an instant: Harry Potter, the child who now trusted him wholeheartedly, could be perfectly inserted into his deepest plan as an essential part of it, becoming the most important pawn.
A subtle, almost imperceptible ripple swept through Lin Qi's mind, like an undercurrent beneath ice suddenly accelerating.
He looked at Harry, something deep within his eyes settling and solidifying.
In his eyes, warmth and calculation completed a brief struggle, and ultimately, a colder kind of rationality prevailed.
He made a decision.
Let's proceed according to the plan in my mind right now.
Use this trust, use this child, to complete the necessary steps.
This thought, like a cold contract, was silently signed and settled in his heart.
He didn't let anything show on his face, but maintained that calming composure, even reaching out to pat Harry's shoulder more gently.
"Don't feel sorry for me, Harry. In fact, those ten years of imprisonment, from another perspective, were perhaps a blessing in disguise."
Harry looked up at him, his eyes still blurry with tears, and asked, puzzled.
Lynch's gaze returned to the fire, as if it could pierce through time and reach that forbidden era.
"If I hadn't been forced to stay here, isolated from the outside world, and had so much quiet time that it was almost frozen, I probably wouldn't have had the chance to truly calm down, examine my own heart, and sort out my chaotic thoughts that had been disturbed by Voldemort."
His tone carried a calm acceptance of the past: "It was in this long, undisturbed silence that I gradually discovered the subtle, twisted threads Voldemort had planted deep within my consciousness. I realized how much of my so-called research on the Killing Curse was driven by rational resistance, and how much was a hidden, amplified obsession and destructive urge, subtly guided and amplified beneath the surface of reason."
He turned back to Harry, his eyes clear and honest: "If it weren't for Dumbledore's decisiveness—even if his initial intention was misunderstanding and wariness—I might have really gone down that increasingly extreme path, eventually sliding into an abyss I never expected. So, in the end, I don't blame him."
These completely unexpected words left Harry stunned.
He had expected to hear words of grievance, anger, or even hatred, but he never expected to hear Uncle Lynch's words of understanding Professor Dumbledore.
Looking at Uncle Lynch's calm profile, he suddenly understood how powerful that calmness contained, a force capable of transforming the cruelest experiences into self-reflection and redemption.
This realization heightened his admiration for Uncle Lin Qi to the extreme, but also triggered an even stronger surge of heartache.
Lynch looked at the boy, whose emotions had become even more sorrowful, and softened his tone, with a reassuring quality: "Alright, Harry, look, I'm sitting here perfectly fine now, aren't I? Those ten years are over." He spread his hands slightly, showing off his current freedom.
"And," he continued calmly, "the misunderstanding between me and Dumbledore has now been resolved. We are now on the same side, facing the greater threat of Voldemort together. So, there's no need to be sad or angry about the past anymore; let's focus on the present, okay?"
Harry looked at Uncle Lynch's calm face and listened to his comforting words, nodded reluctantly, and whispered, "Yes—I understand, Uncle Lynch."
However, in the depths of Harry's heart, unseen by Lynch, his emotions were far from calm.
Although he rationally understood that Uncle Lynch's words made sense—that the imprisonment had inadvertently prevented Uncle Lynch from sliding into the abyss, and that the two had now reconciled and were working together—an unspeakable grudge, like tiny ice spikes, had deeply pierced his view of Dumbledore.
He knew that Dumbledore was great, that he was doing it for a greater good, and that he was fighting against Voldemort.
But—ten years. Without questioning, without investigation, based solely on what was before their eyes and preconceived suspicions, a person was robbed of ten years of freedom.
The way this decision was made, the unquestionable "for your own good" toughness, sent a chill down Harry's spine.
A familiar, suffocating sense of powerlessness quietly spread.
He recalled the Dursleys' neglect and imprisonment of him, and he deeply empathized with the pain of being deprived of freedom and misunderstood.
And what Dumbledore did to Uncle Lynch, wasn't it essentially a more sophisticated and "legitimate" version?
It was just disguised under the guise of "preventing greater harm".
This realization, like a tiny but irreparable crack, remained in Harry's heart.
He still respected Dumbledore and still believed in the headmaster's absolute justice in the fight against Voldemort, but he could no longer trust that "wisdom" and "benevolence" as completely and unreservedly as before.
That glorious image was now shrouded in a shadow called "inhumanity".
He looked at Uncle Lynch and secretly vowed that he would never judge a person so easily, especially someone he cared about, as Dumbledore had done with Uncle Lynch.
A brief silence fell over the room.
Harry looked down at the slightly cooled drink in his hand. His emotions were no longer as agitated as before, but his mood remained complicated and heavy.
After a while, he looked up, seemingly wanting to change the subject, or perhaps still harboring some curiosity, and asked softly, "Uncle Lynch, are you still researching—um, black magic?"
Lin Qi shook his head slightly, his tone calm: "I'm not going to study it anymore. I already know what I need to know." A very faint smile seemed to appear at the corner of his mouth.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then asked, his voice soft and tinged with instinctive fear: "The spell you just mentioned—Avada Kedavra—the Killing Curse? What—what is it like?"
As a third-grade student, he had never seen this word in his textbook, but the name alone sent a chill down his spine.
Lynch glanced at Harry, not avoiding the question, but his tone became exceptionally serious and grave: "That's the deadliest of the three dark spells known as the Unforgivable Curse. The other two are the Crucifixion Curse, which inflicts extreme pain; and the Imperius Curse, which completely controls another's will. And the Killing Curse—"
He paused. "Its function is very simple, and very absolute: to end life. A beam of green light, and whoever is struck dies instantly, with almost no exceptions. It requires powerful magic as a foundation, but more importantly, it requires a genuine, heartfelt desire to take the life of the target to be successfully released. For this reason, it is listed as the highest taboo in the magical world; if used on another person, it means life imprisonment in Azkaban."
Harry gasped, his face turning slightly pale.
A green light—he remembered the attack he had in the Forbidden Forest when he was a first-year student, and... the green light that appeared in his mind along with a woman's scream when he was attacked by a Dementor.
"So—so what you were trying to crack back then was this—"
"Yes," Lynch readily admitted. "This is Voldemort's most frequently used and representative killing tool. In that state of confusion at the time, I believe that deciphering it was the key to defeating him."
Harry nodded mechanically, his mind still replaying the green light.
Next, he asked a few more questions, some about magic itself and some that were rather rambling, and Lynch patiently answered them all.
The fire continued to radiate warmth, and time quietly passed in the peaceful exchange of questions and answers.
Harry's emotions were noticeably more stable than before. Although the shock of the past truth still lingered in his eyes, he was no longer overwhelmed by intense emotions.
Seeing the slight weariness on Harry's face, Lynch said gently, "Alright, Harry, we've talked enough for today. This information needs time to process, and you need rest."
Before Harry could object, he called out softly, "Thorts!"
With a soft pop, the house-elf Tots appeared in the room, its large eyes looking respectfully at Lynch.
"Torts, safely escort Harry Potter back to Hogwarts Castle, to his dormitory door," Lynch instructed.
"Thortz as you command, sir!" the elf shrieked, extending its long, thin fingers toward Harry. "Please take Thortz's hand, Mr. Harry Potter."
Harry glanced at Lynch, who nodded slightly at him.
Harry did as he was told, grabbing Thorts's finger. There was another soft pop, and the two of them disappeared into the stone house.
When Lin Qi was the only one left in the room, the gentleness and calmness on his face vanished instantly, as if a mask had slipped off.
He stood up, his back to the leaping flames, his tall figure casting a long, swaying shadow on the wall.
Lin Qi raised his hand, looking down at his long, slender, and well-defined fingers—the same hands that had just gently patted the child's shoulder, soothing him. A strong, almost physiological sense of disgust surged up his throat, making him feel nauseous.
He took advantage of a child's pure emotions, the trust of a child who saw him as a support and a family member.
Just now, that child was genuinely crying and heartbroken over the injustices he had suffered.
Meanwhile, he was calculating how to incorporate this sincere emotion into his cold plan.
"The bottom line is getting lower and lower," he muttered to himself, a hint of disgust in his voice.
In pursuit of his goals, he seems to be gradually trampling on certain boundaries that he once adhered to.
However, this wavering and self-loathing did not last long.
A flicker of struggle crossed his deep eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a more resolute expression.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, all the hesitation and vulnerability inside had vanished, replaced by a bottomless calm, even colder and harder than before.
He turned to face the fireplace, the flickering flames shimmering in his dark pupils, yet offering no warmth whatsoever.
"Don't blame me, Harry," he said calmly to the empty room, as if convincing himself or declaring to some unseen being.
"After all, I need absolute freedom."