HP: Beyond Miracle Chapter 143: The Ritual: January Nineteenth

[Title: On the Relationship Between Spells and Counterspells]

[As is widely known, magical effects encompass a vast range. We can ignite flas, shatter objects, or make certain things float in midair.

We can also use minor jinxes to make an opponent's front teeth grow, force them to dance in place, or vomit slugs nonstop.

When we wish to end these magical effects, the spells used are known as counterspells.

Among them, Finite Incantatem and the multi-caster spell General Counterspell can end the effects of most magic.]

[However, it must be noted that they are not all-powerful.

Every year, St. Mungo's Spell Damage Ward receives several patients struck by curses for which no solution can be found.

Especially in cases of bodily deformation caused by failed Transfiguration—so far, no stable counterspell has been discovered.

In addition, there are the three Unforgivable Curses. Damage caused by them likewise has no counterspell that can undo it.]

[One more thing.

So independent spells can unexpectedly form opposing relationships with one another. For example, the Shrinking Charm and the Engorgent Charm.

One makes objects smaller, the other makes them larger.

Interestingly, when you cast one of these spells on an object already affected by the other, you don't need to think about proportions at all—the object will instantly return to its original state.]

January 19.

Murphy Avery woke early and bent over the desk built into his dormitory, hurriedly finishing the howork due for Charms class that day.

As the top student of sixth year, he normally would never leave his assignnts until right before class.

But after leaving Dumbledore's office early the previous morning, he had been in no mood to work, and only now forced himself to finish.

He signed his na at the bottom of the parchnt, stretched, picked up the textbooks he needed, and prepared to leave the dormitory.

Although he hadn't even touched his Herbology howork for the afternoon, there wasn't enough ti. He planned to co back and finish it after lunch.

Rustle.

As he stood up, his elbow accidentally knocked into a stack of books beside the desk. Several books slid down, along with a sealed letter.

Murphy froze for a mont, then bent down to pick everything up, finally brushing imaginary dust from the envelope.

It was the letter he had written yesterday to ask about his father's safety.

But after writing it, he'd realized that old Avery hadn't told him where he was going. There was no address for an owl to deliver it to.

Murphy's gaze darkened.

Although Dumbledore's words yesterday had persuaded him—and he also believed his father had no reason to go to the Skye Island Quidditch pitch, making it very likely that the man in the photo was an impostor—how could he truly not worry at all?

Murphy had a very close relationship with his father. Old Avery had him late in life and spoiled him endlessly, granting almost every request since childhood.

Even knowing Murphy wasn't good at Quidditch, he would still buy him the latest broom, just so he could show it off to others.

A sour feeling rose in Murphy's chest.

He even rembered that when he was five years old, his father would personally read him bedti stories.

"Father…"

Murphy sighed softly.

mories that ti had pushed into forgotten corners began surfacing one after another since yesterday.

He put the letter into his cabinet, straightened his emotions, and decided to go to the Great Hall while he still had ti to eat sothing.

"Morning, Avery."

A young wizard greeted him as he entered the hall.

After January 17 passed without incident, and with Murphy unhard and nothing happening in the castle.

Combined with the fact that news from Skye Island had not reached Hogwarts—the clever Slytherins who had previously kept their distance naturally gathered around him again.

The subtle isolation disappeared, replaced by mocking remarks about how Dawn Richter was nothing but empty talk.

Murphy nodded in response, walked to the Slytherin table, and placed a piece of steak on his plate.

As long as a certain blond boy didn't go looking for trouble with the Chosen One, the Slytherin dining atmosphere was usually quiet.

Murphy liked that calm. It allowed him to sink into his own thoughts.

Flap.

Flap.

Suddenly, the sound of wings beating ca from afar.

A large flock of owls flew noisily into the Great Hall, circling beneath the ceiling before diving down once they found their recipients.

Clatter!

Plates were knocked over, feathers filled the air, and chaos briefly reigned.

Murphy brushed a feather off his head just as an owl failed to stop in ti and rolled toward him. He quickly lifted the plate in front of him.

Bang!

The owl slamd face-first into a large bowl of chicken legs and stopped, dizzy.

Rubbing its head with a wing, it looked around, finally spotting its target. It hopped over to the edge of the table.

Murphy watched as the round owl ca up to him and tugged the letter tied to its leg free, holding it in its beak.

"For ?"

He was surprised.

Who would send him a letter at a ti like this?

The next instant, however, sothing occurred to him. He hurriedly took the envelope, broke the seal, and pulled out the parchnt.

Could it be from his father?

With cautious hope, Murphy unfolded it—but after only one glance, his heart sank.

[Castle, eighth floor. Opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

Think of a place where you will not be disturbed, and walk back and forth three tis.

I'll be waiting for you here.

If you want to save old Avery, co alone.]

Four lines of ink burned into his vision. Murphy clenched the parchnt in his hand.

Dawn Richter.

Even without a signature, Murphy knew instantly who had written it.

That man was already inside the castle.

Murphy's pupils contracted. Despite standing in a crowded hall, he felt a chill creep up his spine.

That was only natural.

Realizing that a wanted criminal who had publicly vowed to kill you was already nearby was enough to make anyone's limbs go numb.

Murphy suddenly felt thirsty. He instinctively grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice, then forgot to drink it.

Should he tell a professor?

His thoughts warred violently.

As a Slytherin, he knew perfectly well that knowingly walking into a trap was sheer stupidity.

Murphy rembered the story The Adventures of Tom Sawyer that his father had read to him as a child.

Others praised it as a thrilling tale of youthful bravery, but he had always thought it glorified foolish heroism.

The protagonist knowingly walking into danger struck him as idiotic—especially the deliberate tracking of the murderer, which he had utterly despised.

And yet now, facing the sa situation himself, Murphy realized he was just as foolish.

His father might still be alive. Even if the chance was tiny, he couldn't simply ignore it.

I'll go alone.

Murphy made his decision.

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