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HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 266
🕑 Added 2025-11-13 20:12:34 +0000 UTCChapter 266: Morgana
"Because of one person?" Evans's expression finally showed a trace of surprise.
Merlin had already told him quite a bit, but he'd had his suspicions about most of it since learning Merlin's name.
The name Merlin represented many things in its own right.
As for Dark Magic, the spells the Dark Wizard King had cast certainly didn't look like anything wholesome, yet the black mist hadn't carried the evil aura that Dark Magic should possess.
But the dark era and the transformation of Dark Magic were caused by a single person, whom he hadn't expected.
That was the Dark Age. In the entire magical world, no records have been documented to preserve the history of that era. Those centuries had vanished as if they'd never existed, leaving only faint shadows reconstructed from scattered Muggle legends.
How could one person create an age like that?
"She was someone of extraordinary talent. Her fall was lamentable, but her cruelty was staggering. She turned Dark Magic into a synonym for evil. She created countless horrifying curses that echo through the ages. She was the embodiment of wickedness, the source of all sin, a blood-soaked queen—"
"My teacher did fall, but you don't need to pile on so many useless adjectives." The woman finally interrupted Merlin's speech. She looked beyond the frame at Evans and spoke quietly.
"I don't know how this concerns you, but every arrangement Merlin has made since the dark era began has been to defeat my teacher completely and erase the influence she spread during her corruption."
"On that point, I support him. But that doesn't mean I won't take my revenge."
"As for matters concerning my teacher—" The Dark Wizard King opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She looked frustrated. "I cannot speak of it. As long as my teacher lives, her deeds cannot be described."
"But I can tell you her name. You may find clues in ancient texts protected by special magic."
"She is called Morgan le Fay. Or you may use her other name."
"Morgana."
Evans asked the Merlin in the painting many more questions he'd accumulated over the years. Most trivial matters got answers, but whenever he touched on his origins or Merlin's plans, the portrait claimed ignorance.
Evans naturally didn't believe that act. Neither, quite obviously, did the Dark Wizard King.
She had promised to help Evans find information as long as he helped her locate Merlin. She wouldn't let the portrait slip away so easily.
So during questioning, they employed a few interrogation techniques, and in the end had to admit that this fragment of memory truly didn't know much.
"Is there—anything else?"
In the frame, the young man in the pointed hat now lay flat on the ground. His once-handsome face was mottled with bruises, his robes torn in several places. He looked thoroughly miserable.
Evans thought for a moment. "No, I think that's everything."
Though the Merlin in the painting claimed ignorance on many points, the smaller questions he'd answered had cleared up plenty of confusion.
Questions about nature magic, for instance, or details about his gift. Once he sorted through everything tonight, his abilities should rise to another level.
Seeing Evans had no more questions, the Dark Wizard King beside Merlin dusted off her hands, stepped forward, and walked out of the painting. She became a trail of black smoke and slipped into the crimson sphere on the table beside Evans.
"Call me out when you find more leads about Merlin."
Seeing her leave at last, the Merlin in the painting struggled upright. He shot Evans a resentful look, then produced a cloth from somewhere and began wiping the dust and grime from himself.
After two swipes, he gave up and switched to slapping at it. There was simply too much dirt to wipe away quickly.
"By the way." Evans, about to leave, suddenly remembered something. He turned back toward the Merlin cleaning himself in the frame. "I don't know if you're aware, but deep in the Forbidden Forest, there's a strange lake—"
The lake's circumstances were peculiar, and the business of transporting magical creatures felt suspicious. Since he was here anyway, he laid out all the intelligence about the lake to see if he could get a lead.
"Transporting various magical creatures, with strange curses around a lake?" Merlin chewed on the question Evans had thrown him. After a while, he slowly shook his head.
"My memory holds nothing related to a lake. It's probably not connected to his plan."
"But the transportation of magical creatures might be tied to him. After all, nature magic links to either animals or plants."
He rubbed his chin and looked at Evans. "My advice is to investigate, but if you run into danger, prioritize your own safety. I don't know what role you'll play in his plan, but he went to great lengths to train you, which means you're extremely important."
"All right." Seeing the Merlin in the painting couldn't provide more information, Evans shook his head. "I have no more questions. If I run into trouble later, I'll come back."
"Please try not to."
With a bitter smile, the Merlin in the painting glanced at Evans's pocket. Sensing he was finally done, he dusted off his robes and lifted his head slightly.
The storm clouds in the sky dispersed, restoring the clear blue. The withered grass on the ground slowly revived. The young wizard in the pointed hat took two steps forward, turned around, and resumed his original position, back to the frame, motionless once more.
The holes torn in his robes, however, transformed the mysterious air into something faintly comedic.
Evans didn't look at Merlin again. He glanced at the Slytherin common room's viewing window, then turned toward the door.
The light outside had grown extremely faint. Evening approached.
Time to visit Dumbledore's office and watch Fawkes's rebirth.
When he'd delivered Fawkes that afternoon, Dumbledore had mysteriously called him aside to mention that the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor would arrive in a few days. Evans didn't know why he'd been told.
Presumably, the new professor would start teaching before Christmas.
He only hoped it wasn't another Lockhart. Even Quirrell would do. Quirrell had taught only theory, but at least it had been correct theory.
When had his standards for Defence professors sunk this low?
Where had this cursed stereotype even come from?
A flicker of melancholy passed through him. Evans stopped dwelling on it. Silver-white arcs of light flared around him, and he vanished.
