However, amidst this row of formidable magic, Alister's eyes locked onto a single, thin volume wedged at the very end. To the naked eye, it was pathetic—a tattered, water-stained paperback with a lurid illustration of a goblin eating a human arm.
The title was embossed in peeling gold leaf: The Cannibal's Cookbook: Gory Tales for the Morbid Mind. It looked like cheap, sensationalist trash, the kind of useless gore stories sold to rebellious teenagers who wanted to feel edgy.
But to Alister's magically enhanced sight, the book was blinding.
It didn't have the murky, chaotic smoke of the rituals, nor the grey steel of the curses. It radiated a compressed, needle-sharp aura of pure black light, so dense it felt heavy just looking at it. It was a singularity of magical intent, hidden beneath a masterful layer of mundane obfuscation. Someone had gone to incredible lengths to make this masterpiece look like garbage.
Alister trusted his magic implicitly. He didn't hesitate. He reached down and snatched the book, his fingers tingling as they brushed the cover. He didn't flip through the pages; he didn't need to confirm what his instincts were screaming at him.
He turned on his heel and marched to the counter. The gloomy shopkeeper looked up, his lip curling in a sneer as he saw the trashy novel in the boy's hand, likely preparing a scathing remark about wasting his time.
Clink. Clink.
Two heavy gold Galleons hit the scarred wood of the counter. It was an exorbitant overpayment for what looked like a Knut-bin book as he didn't feel the need to waste more of his time here.
The shopkeeper's eyes widened, his sneer faltering as he stared at the gold. By the time he looked up to ask a question, the rusted bell above the door was already screeching. Alister was gone.
He moved swiftly through the shadows of the alley, keeping his mask on until he reached the safety of the main street. He slipped back into Honeydukes cellar, waiting for a moment to ensure he wasn't followed, and then climbed into the tunnel.
The return journey was long and silent, the damp earth passing in a blur as his Tier 1 physique powered him through the dark. Finally, he reached the end of the slide. He pushed open the hump of the One-Eyed Witch and climbed out onto the third-floor corridor of Hogwarts.
He tapped the statue to seal the passage, checked the corridor—empty—and cast his invisibility charm once more. Like a ghost, he slipped through the shifting staircases and down into the cool, damp safety of the dungeons, the mysterious book burning a cold weight against his chest.
Alister made his way quickly to the nearest lavatory to change, swapping his casual clothes for his immaculate Slytherin uniform. He carefully placed the unassuming, yet magically dense book into the magically expanded pocket of his robes.
He composed himself and walked toward the Great Hall. The timing was perfect; the smell of roast beef and pumpkin juice was just beginning to waft through the corridors, signaling the start of dinner.
As he stepped through the massive oak doors, he was immediately flanked by two identical grins.
"There he is," Fred announced, looping an arm through Alister's left.
"Our financial backer," George added, grabbing his right. "And fellow explorer."
Before Alister could protest—not that he intended to—the twins steered him away from the path to the Slytherin table. They marched him straight toward the center of the hall, toward the sea of red and gold.
"Gentlemen," Alister said calmly, allowing himself to be guided. "This is a breach of protocol."
"Protocol is for people who don't know the secret passages," Fred whispered. "You're with us tonight. Consider it a VIP experience."
They reached the middle of the Gryffindor table. The twins sat down and hauled Alister into the space between them. He adjusted his green and silver tie, sitting calmly amidst a sea of scarlet.
The effect was instantaneous.
The chatter in the Great Hall didn't just fade; it was severed. A profound, heavy silence slammed into the room. Forks stopped halfway to mouths. Goblets were lowered. Every eye in the hall fixed on the anomaly in the center of the room.
For centuries, the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor had been absolute. They were oil and water, snake and mongoose. A Slytherin sitting at the Gryffindor table wasn't just rare; it was historically unprecedented. It was a visual violation of the natural order.
At the Head Table, Albus Dumbledore paused with his fork hovering over a potato. He blinked, his blue eyes widening in genuine disbelief. He slowly reached up, removed his half-moon spectacles, wiped them on his velvet robes, and placed them back on his nose to ensure he wasn't hallucinating. The sight remained: Alister, calmly buttering a roll, flanked by the Weasley twins.
"So," Alister said to George, ignoring the several hundred people staring at him. "Pass the gravy."
_______________________________________________________
The dinner passed in a surreal bubble of tension. While the rest of the hall whispered and pointed, the Weasley twins acted as if nothing was wrong, loudly discussing the merits of their new fireworks. Alister ate fueling his body and ignoring the dagger-like glares coming from the Slytherin table.
When the meal ended, Alister bade the twins a calm goodnight and turned toward the dungeons. As he walked, he could feel the shift in the atmosphere. The curiosity of the Great Hall evaporated, replaced by a cold, predatory malice as he descended into the Slytherin territory.
He reached the stone wall entrance. "Power," he said flatly.
The wall slid open. The Slytherin common room was usually a place of quiet, individual study. Tonight, it was waiting for him.
As soon as the stone door ground shut behind him, five older students stepped out from the shadows of the high-backed chairs. They blocked the path to the dormitories. They were fourth and fifth years, their wands loosely held in their hands, their expressions a mix of arrogance and disgust.
"Potter," the leader sneered. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fifth-year with a prefect's badge gleaming on his chest. "We have standards in this house. Loyalty. Purity. Sitting with blood-traitors and Gryffindors... it's an embarrassment. You're making us look weak."
Alister stopped. He looked at the five of them and all he saw was...TRASH.
"Move," Alister said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chill that matched the damp dungeon air.
"I don't think I will," the prefect said, stepping forward and raising his wand. "I think you need a lesson in House pride. Maybe a few jinxes will—"
He never finished the sentence.
Alister didn't draw his wand. He didn't need to. He moved with the explosive speed of a warrior in a world of slow-moving scholars. He closed the distance in a blur.
Before the prefect could utter a syllable, Alister's left hand batted the wand arm aside with crushing force, snapping the boy's wrist back. In the same motion, Alister drove his right fist into the boy's solar plexus.
The air left the prefect's lungs with a wet whoosh, and he crumpled to the floor, retching and gasping, his wand clattering uselessly away.
Alister didn't stop. He spun, sweeping the leg of the second boy, sending him crashing into a coffee table. He grabbed the third—a girl raising her wand—by the wrist, applying a pressure point lock that forced her to drop her weapon with a cry of pain.
The remaining two stumbled back, terror replacing their arrogance. They raised their wands, but Alister simply stared at them, his green eyes burning with a cold, Tier 3 pressure that made the air in the room heavy and hard to breathe.
"If you want to fight," Alister stated, straightening his cuffs, "learn to be faster. If you want to lecture me on power, be strong enough to enforce it."
He stepped over the groaning prefect, not even sparing him a downward glance. The common room was dead silent. Every student who had been watching from the corners stared with wide, fearful eyes.
Alister walked calmly to his dormitory door after he cleaned up the trash.
Alister stood in the center of his dormitory, the adrenaline of the brief skirmish already fading into cold indifference. With a casual wave of his hand, his Slytherin robes rippled and transfigured into comfortable, dark practice clothes.
He simply climbed into bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep instantly.
Precisely at midnight, his eyes snapped open.
He moved with the silent efficiency of a shadow, slipping out of the dormitory and through the common room. The "Power" password opened the wall, and he cast his invisibility charm, vanishing from sight as he navigated the shifting staircases to the upper floors.
He arrived at his base—the abandoned classroom he had claimed. From the hallway, it looked just as derelict as ever, the door hanging off one hinge and dust coating the floor. But as Alister stepped across the threshold, the air shimmered.
Inside, the environment shifted instantly. The Fehu and Algiz rune arrays he had carved into the wooden blocks hidden around the room hummed to life. The damp chill of the castle was replaced by a dry, regulated warmth. The dust was repelled to the corners, leaving a clean workspace. The sound of the wind outside was silenced, creating a perfect vacuum of quiet.
Alister sat cross-legged in the center of the room. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the prize from Hogsmeade: The Cannibal's Cookbook: Gory Tales for the Morbid Mind.
The tacky illustration of the goblin sneered up at him. Alister set it on the floor and began his analysis. He spent the next thirty minutes probing the book with every detection spell and unsealing charm he had memorized from the library.
He tried tapping complex rhythmic patterns on the cover. He tried whispering passwords in Parseltongue which he learned, just in case. He tried analyzing the magical weave for a keyhole.
Nothing happened. The book remained a piece of trashy fiction.
Frustration began to gnaw at him. He didn't want to spend days brute-forcing a puzzle when he had a supercomputer in his head. He swallowed his pride.
System, he projected, analyze the sealing mechanism. How do I open this?
The System's reply was immediate and humiliatingly simple.
[Analysis complete. The object is sealed with a Saturation Lock. To disengage the obfuscation layer, simply infuse raw magical energy until the capacity is met.]
Alister stared at the book, his eye twitching slightly. He had been looking for a complex intellectual key, a riddle worthy of a master wizard. The answer was just... pour magic into it. It was the magical equivalent of pushing a door that said "Pull." He felt a rare flush of embarrassment heat his neck.
"Fine," Alister muttered aloud. "Brute force it is."
He placed both hands on the cover. He closed his eyes and opened the floodgates of his core.
He pushed his magic into the book. At first, it felt like pouring water into a cup. Then, it felt like pouring water into a bucket. Then, a well.
Minutes ticked by. Alister's brow furrowed. He was pouring a steady stream of Tier 3 magic—the kind of power that could fuel high-level transfigurations or destructive curses—and the book was drinking it greedily, showing no sign of filling.
Ten minutes passed. Sweat beaded on Alister's forehead. His breathing grew heavy. The book was a bottomless pit, a parasite latching onto his magical core.
More, he thought, gritting his teeth. You want power? Take it.
He pushed harder, drawing on the deepest reserves of his energy. This wasn't just a lock; it was a barrier designed to ensure that only a wizard of sufficient power could ever access the contents.
Just as he felt his core scraping bottom—the point where a normal wizard would pass out from magical exhaustion—he heard it.
Creak.
It was the sound of something ancient breaking under immense pressure. A blinding white light erupted from beneath his hands, filling the room with a pressure that rattled the windows. The grey, tacky cover of the paperback hissed and began to disintegrate. It didn't burn with fire; it simply dissolved into ash, peeling away like dead skin.
Alister gasped, pulling his hands back as the last of his energy left him. He slumped forward, bracing himself on the floor, his chest heaving. He had poured the entire magical capacity of a Tier 3 wizard—the absolute peak of the current world—into a single object.
When the light faded and his vision cleared, the book remained.
It was no longer a paperback. It was a heavy, imposing tome bound in black, faded leather that looked like cured skin. It smelled of sulfur and ancient dust. There were no pictures, no gaudy colors. Just silver lettering stamped into the dark cover, radiating a cold, malevolent aura that chilled the room despite the warming runes.
Secrets of the Darkest Art
And below it, the name of the author who had penned the most dangerous manual in existence:
Herpo the Foul
(END OF CHAPTER)
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Bonus chapter when power stones reach 500
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