ebookslot Chapter 229 Nurmengard
Chapter 229 Nurmengard
Chapter 229 Nurmengard
It all started on that incredible morning a month ago.
When an owl carrying a Daily Prophet's express mail stumbled into the Weasley kitchen and precisely tossed it into Arthur Weasley's still-unstirred bowl of cereal, the Burrow nearly burst into cheers—Mr. Weasley had won the Daily Prophet's annual grand prize, the Galleon Prize—a full seven hundred Galleons!
Mr. Weasley had intended to use the money to replace the old fireplace and chimney in his house, which had been in disrepair for years and was letting in cold drafts every winter, and to repair the dripping pipe in the kitchen that was always on the verge of breaking down.
But Mrs. Weasley, hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the kitchen and made an unquestionable decision: "Arthur! Listen, I have a better idea! Our whole family—yes, everyone—will go to Egypt! We haven't seen Bill in ages, and I bet he misses his mother's pudding! Besides, it's time for the children, including you and me, to see the real pyramids, the Sphinx, and the Nile!"
Mr. Weasley immediately agreed to the idea.
And so, this dreamlike month came to be.
Led by Bill, they explored Cairo’s labyrinthine and colorful magic market, saw mummy coffins that opened and closed automatically to the beat of ancient drums and danced eerily, and Charlie even almost secretly adopted a very grumpy little Sphynx cat.
Bill even used his status as a Gringotts unraveler and his extensive experience to lead everyone to explore several ancient tomb passages that were not open to the public, ruthlessly fulfilling everyone's exotic fantasies.
Fred and George became very interested in an Egyptian prank product that could instantly turn all the hair on a person's body into a dazzling gold. They spent almost all their pocket money, stuffed a whole box full, and confidently declared that this would create a "golden storm" at Hogwarts.
At this moment, the scorching Egyptian sun, seemingly capable of melting everything, still stubbornly lingered on everyone's skin, leaving a healthy bronze hue. A month of exotic adventure and family reunion left every Weasley member with a radiant, lingering smile.
Before embarking on their return journey, they decided to capture this unforgettable and joyful moment in front of the magnificent, towering pyramids on the Giza Plateau, which have stood silently for thousands of years.
"Alright, alright, everyone move closer! Fred, George, stop pushing! Ginny, move closer to Mom! Percy, your badge is perfect now!" Mr. Weasley excitedly directed. His T-shirt, which read "I am a Muggle," had faded and turned white after a month of exposure to the elements and frequent washing, but he seemed unconcerned, his face beaming with a smile brighter than the Egyptian sun.
Mrs. Weasley wore a brand-new, brightly colored robe embroidered with intricate Egyptian hieroglyphs—a gift from Bill. A satisfied, slightly weary smile graced her face as she finished the final headcount, ensuring no child had been left behind in some pharaoh's deep tomb or "casually" taken away by some enthusiastic Egyptian sorcerer-merchant. She carefully smoothed Ron's unruly hair and brushed the dust off Fred's robe.
Bill—whose fiery red hair was tied back in a ponytail and who wore several cool fairy-made earrings—was casually talking to Charlie, who had a few more fresh scars on his arm, which he vaguely explained were "a little accident that happened while secretly studying the Egyptian native variant of the Fire Gray Serpent."
Percy meticulously arranged his prefectural badge, ensuring it was in the most prominent and clear position in the photograph.
Ginny stood beside her mother, clutching a doll Bill had bought for her, dressed in exquisite traditional Egyptian clothing, with a shy yet irrepressible smile on her face.
The twins Fred and George were unusually well-behaved while the photographer adjusted the camera. However, the truth was revealed when the family portrait that would later hang on the wall of the Burrow began to move: Fred and George themselves stood upright in the photo, but magically made Ron's hair, as if blown by a hot desert wind, remain in a furious, explosive style forever.
Ron was completely oblivious to this, engrossed and excitedly holding up a dirty little pyramid model he'd picked up at a market on the banks of the Nile from a shrewd old wizard with a goatee—supposedly "dug out of a corner of some pharaoh's tomb." He was utterly absorbed in the joy of possibly finding a great bargain.
In his open shirt pocket, Banban's gray, always listless mouse was curled up comfortably, half of its furry body showing. The warm, even scorching, Egyptian sun and the exhaustion of a month-long, tiring journey seemed to have made it sleep particularly deeply and sweetly.
Its little head was tilted to the edge of the pocket, and its pair of pink little paws rested softly on the outside of the pocket, rising and falling slightly with its steady breathing. It was completely unaware of everything around it—the twins' pranks, Ron's excitement, the moment that was about to be frozen in time—and was immersed in its own mouse dream.
"Is everyone ready? Look here! Smile!" the photographer called out.
"Three, two, one!"
"Snap!"
With a brief, dazzling white flash, the magic camera perfectly captured the moment:
The Weasleys huddled together in front of the pyramid, their faces beaming with radiant, energetic smiles, their bronze skin gleaming in the sunlight. Meanwhile, in Ron's pocket, Scabbers, sound asleep, completely unguarded, even with a hint of contentment on his lips, was forever and clearly captured in a corner of this magical photograph.
This Egyptian family portrait, featuring the Weasleys' radiant smiles and exotic backdrop, eventually made it to the front page of The Daily Prophet with a striking headline: "A lucky light shines on the model wizarding family—the Weasleys' fantastical journey to Egypt."
The report details, with a touch of exaggeration, how Mr. Weasley, as a devoted reader of the Daily Prophet, won a major award for his "unwavering support for the news in the wizarding world and his exemplary practice of family values," and vividly describes their "heartwarming and educational" journey in Egypt.
This series of reports, along with the photograph brimming with exotic charm and family warmth, became part of The Daily Prophet's coverage.
This highly successful self-promotion made many loyal readers and some new readers feel the newspaper's "high regard" for its users and its "generous rewards," and it is said that the newspaper's subscriptions increased significantly that month.
Harry also received this carefully cut-out newspaper headline along with the thick letter Ron sent.
The photo swayed slightly in his hand. Looking at his friends' family's bronzed smiles and the magnificent pyramids in the background, Harry felt genuinely happy for them, and a smile unconsciously crept onto his face.
A hint of envy mingled with genuine joy.
Mr. Weasley won the lottery, and his family can now enjoy a carefree summer vacation together on a trip to a faraway country. This is wonderful!
But this brief joy brought by the happiness of friends quickly vanished without a trace, like smoke blown away by the wind.
His gaze shifted from the photograph to the blank "Hogsmeade Weekend Visit Application Form" on the desk.
His own real-world problems surged back into his mind like a dark tide.
The space at the bottom of the form where the guardian's signature is required remains conspicuously blank.
That blank space was like a cold, silent mockery, reminding him that a cold and solid barrier called "Dextre" still stood between him and that magical, warm world.
Harry flipped through the form, his mind agitated. He had read the text on the back countless times, but now it still seemed to hold a magical allure for him:
Hogsmeade Village – Britain’s only all-wizard village!
That one line alone was enough to make Harry's heart race.
He imagined walking with Ron and Hermione along those cobblestone paths, surrounded by wizards like himself—not one of the Dursleys would stare at him with strange looks.
His thoughts drifted to the Three Broomsticks pub, which Ron had described countless times with such enthusiasm—he could almost smell the sweet aroma of butterbeer wafting through the warm air, and imagine himself sitting by the fireplace on a cold weekend, holding that legendary bubbly mug in his hands.
Then comes Honey Duke!
Oh, just thinking about that name makes Harry's mouth water with the sweet taste of all sorts of candies. Ron said there's something that makes you float away—a sizzling honey candy—and something that fills the whole classroom with blue bubbles—a super bubble gum.
He never told his friends that he had secretly fantasized many times about buying all the candies in Honeydukes, sharing them with his friends, and eating and strolling around Hogsmodry together.
There was also Zolko's Joke Shop, where Fred and George always returned from Hogsmeade with their pockets stuffed full of new gadgets they'd bought. Harry could almost picture himself and his friends there, laughing out loud and playing with those biting teacups or hair-changing pranks.
He was even curious about the rather frightening-sounding Screaming Shack—supposedly the most haunted house in Britain. Perhaps he could go on an adventure with Ron and Hermione?
Every thought was like a tiny hook, tugging at his heart.
Going to Hogsmeade is more than just an outing; it will signify his true integration into the wizarding world and the first time he can enjoy freedom like an ordinary little wizard since escaping the Dursleys' shadow.
He must go to Hogsmeade.
anyway!
However... the Dursleys would never sign that name.
They still stubbornly believe that Hogwarts is a boarding school that breeds freaks, let alone agreeing to let him spend the weekend in a village full of wizards.
His fingers tapped the table unconsciously, his gaze wandering around the room before finally settling on the faint outline of Hogwarts Castle in the distance outside the window.
A thought, like a faint spark in the darkness, suddenly flashed into view.
Uncle Lynch —
Could this gentle, always-smiling professor of magic studies be considered an elder?
Although they weren't related by blood, he was one of the few adults Harry felt genuinely cared for in the wizarding world. And, after all, he was a Hogwarts professor; in a sense, during the term, he also bore some of the responsibilities of a guardian, didn't he?
Perhaps—perhaps we could make an exception?
The thought made Harry's heart race slightly, and a faint glimmer of hope rose from the depths of his heart.
He picked up the heavy application form, staring at the line that required his signature, as if he could see Uncle Lynch's face through the paper.
Should he go and ask him?
This opportunity is worth the risk for him to seize.
Harry's thoughts shifted, and the nascent flame of hope was quickly extinguished as if doused with cold water, causing his mood to plummet. It had been a very, very long time since he had seen Uncle Lynch.
At the end of the last school year, the chaotic memories, like shattered glass, were still stuck in his mind—he had been ambushed by that despicable Lockhart, and then plunged into darkness, losing all his memories.
When he woke up again, all he saw was the familiar ceiling of the school infirmary. According to Madam Pomfrey, it was Headmaster Dumbledore himself who broke the complex spell of forgetfulness in his mind.
He then heard two completely different versions of the story in the principal's office.
One is the "truth" that most of the teachers and students at Hogwarts, and even the entire wizarding world, now firmly believe:
Gilderoy Lockhart was brave and fearless, sacrificing himself to save himself and Professor Flitwick from dangerous dark magical artifacts, and briefly becoming a saint sung by many.
The other, and the cold, cruel truth Dumbledore revealed to him privately, was that Lockhart had been bewitched by a powerful Dark Magic artifact, attacking Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, and himself. Ultimately, it was Uncle Lynch who tracked him down to the Chamber of Secrets and rescued him, while Lockhart succumbed to the terrible backlash of the Dark Magic.
This cognitive disconnect left Harry feeling incredibly confused.
He doesn't understand the intricacies and compromises of the adult world.
All he knew was that Lockhart was a bad guy who attacked him, yet this bad guy was now being adored by the whole world.
He sang praises. This distorted reality made his chest feel tight, filled with an unvented sense of grievance and confusion.
How he longed to talk to Uncle Lynch immediately—Uncle Lynch would always listen patiently and then, in his steady and reliable tone, dispel his confusion and answer his questions.
He believed that Uncle Lynch would be able to help him understand all of this and make him no longer feel so wronged and isolated.
However, he couldn't find Uncle Lynch.
Immediately after the incident, Uncle Lynch vanished from Hogwarts as if he had evaporated into thin air.
Even the magic research course he was in charge of was temporarily taken over by Professor McGonagall.
Harry asked everyone who might know the news—Professor McGonagall just shook her head with her lips pursed, and Professor Flitwick was even later than him—but he didn't get any useful information.
In the end, he could only get a vague and heavy answer from Dumbledore: "Professor Lynch—"
I'm going to do some very important work.
That's all the explanation he could get.
Fearing that his letters would disturb Uncle Lynch, who was focused on his mission, Harry didn't even dare to send a single letter of greeting.
He could only carefully keep all his questions to himself.
And so, he lost contact with Uncle Lynch.
Only now, when he desperately needed the help of an elder, when he needed someone to sign that damned form, did he suddenly realize how little he knew about this uncle who had given him so much care, guidance, and warmth—so little that once the uncle left Hogwarts, their shared castle, he would lose almost all avenues and possibilities of finding him. He didn't know where Uncle Lynch lived, what friends he had, or where else he might be besides Hogwarts.
This sense of powerlessness deepened his loneliness.
Harry briefly considered whether he could risk going to Diagon Alley to find the head of the Stone Tower Company and ask about Uncle Lynch.
Uncle Lynch is a director of the Stone Tower Chamber of Commerce; people there might know where he is.
But for the same reasons as above—fear of disturbing his uncle's important work—and—a more realistic and colder obstacle: the Dursleys would never let him out, especially during the summer holidays. They would rather lock him in the cupboard—now his bedroom—until the first day of school, then pack him up and throw him onto the Hogwarts Express, let alone allow him to go to Diagon Alley in London, full of "freaks"! That was simply a pipe dream.
So he could only stay listlessly and helplessly in his small, exquisitely cage-like room, listening to the loud noise Dudley making while watching TV downstairs, feeling Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps passing through the hallway, unable to do anything but passively wait, wait for school to start, wait for the day he could return to freedom, while watching helplessly as his dream of Hogsmeade seemed about to vanish because of a single autograph.
Thinking of this, Harry glanced at the alarm clock. It was already two in the morning. Outside the window, it was pitch black, and Privet Drive was immersed in a deathly silence of sleep.
He tossed the Hogsmeade application form onto the table, deciding to worry about it tomorrow.
Meanwhile, somewhere far away and desolate.
Lynch sat in a hard, cold, high-backed chair.
His fingertips tapped unconsciously and rhythmically on the smooth, cold wooden armrest, producing a soft tapping sound that was particularly clear in the empty, simple stone room that contained only the necessary furniture.
In his mind, the harrowing scene from over a month ago, in the deep, damp Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts, filled with the stench of ancient basilisks, replayed uncontrollably, before he lost consciousness.
He clearly remembered seeing a mysterious figure dressed in a black suit and holding a silver cane through the distorted crystal wall just before his consciousness was swallowed by darkness.
The figure was elegant yet abrupt, carrying an unsettling calm as it examined its sealed-off self.
However, when he regained consciousness and struggled to get up from the cold, rough stone floor, he found the secret room empty and deserted, with no trace of anyone who had been there.
There were no dark crystal walls, nor any mysterious figures dressed in black suits.
The enormous basilisk corpse was suspended between stone pillars by chains of ice, long since devoid of any life.
The rooster in the cage was still alive, but it had become extremely weak due to not eating for a long time.
Therefore, it can be inferred that a considerable amount of time must have passed since he fell into a coma.
But the vivid vision before he lost consciousness, which was accompanied by a strong sense of being watched, was definitely not a hallucination caused by lack of oxygen or magical impact!
He was convinced of it.
He immediately suppressed his dizziness and weakness and checked the magical camera that had been carefully placed in the corner of the secret room.
The recorded footage shows a dark crystalline wall surrounding him, completely freezing him within it, like an insect in amber. The scene becomes almost still, with only the occasional faint light flickering on the surface of the crystalline wall indicating that time is still passing. Then, in a moment when no warning is visible on the screen, the crystalline wall, like ice and snow exposed to sunlight, silently and rapidly dissipates and disintegrates. There is no explosion, no light, no sign of any external force, and his body falls softly to the ground. What follows is a long, still frame of only his unconscious body and the corpse of the basilisk in the distance, until he finally awakens, struggles to his feet, and appears before the camera.
The mysterious figure never appeared in a single frame of the footage captured by the camera, not even a trace of clothing or shadow.
It was as if he were merely a ghost wandering on the edge of Lynch's personal consciousness.
Lynch carefully examined the camera itself, every rune, every connection, finding no trace of tampered or interfered magic. The equipment was functioning normally, and the recording was continuous and complete.
But—he was certain that his memory was correct.
This contradiction between memory and reality was like a fine thorn, embedded deep within his mind.
Just then, the door to the room was silently pushed open, and Reggie appeared in the doorway, his gray robe still damp with dew and a hint of chill from the outside world.
"It's time," Reggie's voice was as hoarse and steady as ever. "We only have a five-minute window to get in."
The chaotic thoughts about the locked room and the mysterious figure were temporarily and forcibly interrupted.
Lin Qi took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing all his confusion and locking it deep in his heart.
He stood up, straightened his suit, and his face regained its usual calm.
He followed Reggie out of the stone house that had been serving as their temporary lodging.
The crisp, thin air instantly enveloped him.
Lynch raised his head and looked ahead.
A solitary, imposing, towering dark tower, like the skeleton of some giant beast, stands silently amidst the vast mountains, casting a huge shadow. Its mere existence seems to proclaim some insurmountable boundary and eternal imprisonment.
It is Nurmengard.