[151] An Unmarked Grave

"This is a clone doll I made. Not a particularly advanced technique." Hall pointed at his biggest headache. The underlying principles were entirely in his hands. He had always held control of the clone doll's core. No one else — not even George and Fred, who had initially developed it — understood it as well as he did.

"Voldemort somehow learned about clone dolls. He got his hands on one that was not under my control and modified it."

Hall was certain the doll Karkaroff carried was not the same as his original. The internals were completely different.

The principle was simple: a magical link between the wizard and the doll. The doll absorbed harm suffered by the wizard. Voldemort had reversed it — using the link to transfer his soul fragment into the doll, giving the illusion that the soul had possessed it.

The wizard's soul remained unharmed, a complete whole. The doll simply provided another perspective. Through internal mechanisms, the pain that should have been absorbed was returned, creating the illusion of possession.

But an illusion was just an illusion.

However, the soul fragment had indeed transferred into the clone doll, using it as a body.

"Interesting." Grindelwald easily found the clone doll's core from the pile of junk. He stretched out his withered fingers and flicked it twice. Then his look of disgust returned.

The core was burned to a crisp. Whatever Voldemort had imprinted on it was now unrecognisable.

"A completely unaesthetic destruction." Grindelwald glanced at Hall.

Hall lowered his head and touched his nose. But was it not satisfying? One Fiendfyre, and it did not matter which Voldemort fragment it was. Gone.

"Not bad, though," Grindelwald said.

Hall's head shot up. "Teacher... did I mix up your medicine today?" Otherwise, why was the old man being so agreeable?

Grindelwald curled his lips into a slow, sinister smile.

Hall was not frightened at all. "Haha! Teacher, I was joking! Please do not be angry! I also think I did a fantastic job!"

"If he had been resurrected..." Grindelwald's eyes grew grave. Voldemort. The Death Eaters. He could disregard those. But he could not disregard Dumbledore.

A resurrected Voldemort would not choose quiet dormancy. He would sweep back with his followers and unleash war on the wizarding world. And Dumbledore would face the fate Grindelwald had foreseen.

Grindelwald looked intently at Hall. "You have reached the age. It seems necessary to teach you more advanced magic."

Hall's eyes went flat.

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"You should be learning at your age is the complete encyclopedia of black magic," Grindelwald said.

"Teacher, do you dare say that to the headmaster's face?" Hall asked calmly.

Grindelwald coughed, his expression a mix of guilt and self-righteousness. "Do you not want to learn more? You are already a second-year student! Durmstrang students are way ahead of you at this stage. If you do not work harder, you will fall behind."

Grindelwald glared at him like any ordinary parent worried about their child's progress. Study! Work hard! Catch up!

Hall said nothing. Not that he was not tempted. Fiendfyre was really effective. You only knew once you used it.

Dark magic was dangerous. While spells themselves were not inherently black or white — it depended on the wizard — there was a reason the three Unforgivable Curses existed. The key criterion for black magic lay in whether it affected the user's mind. Some evil magic influenced the wizard subtly during casting, leading them towards evil and irrationality.

But for Hall — the most immediate feeling after using Fiendfyre was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

The thought of that noseless Dark Lord's failed plot, his furious and exasperated reaction, filled Hall with gleeful anticipation. He wished he could relive it.

Hall and Grindelwald exchanged a glance. That was enough. They understood.

Back in his dormitory, lying on his bed, Hall was still thinking about the clone dolls.

"I must be more vigilant about Voldemort using those dolls."

He lay on his back, arms crossed over his chest, the soft duvet covering him, staring at the top of the bedpost in the darkness. Voldemort had become increasingly insane over the years, but Hall had to admit — he was a genius in magic. Young Tom Riddle, full of youthful vigour, dominating Slytherin. Handsome, capable, eloquent, able to master and improve magic effortlessly.

So many years had passed. Voldemort's mind had gone mad in part, but the part that understood, learned, and improved magic had not suffered much damage. In fact, it had become even more refined over time.

"The best way to keep Voldemort in this area..."

Bring out his core competency. Use Fiendfyre. Use alchemy. Add all the advantages Hall possessed that Voldemort did not, and could not learn in the short term.

Hall grew increasingly excited just thinking about it. He even wanted to go to the Room of Requirement right then to do some serious research. But he had already taken a nighttime stroll through the Forbidden Forest. It was time to rest.

He sighed deeply and forced himself to close his eyes. No classes tomorrow, but he still had to see the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students off. Still a lot to do.

"Hall! Do not worry! No one will believe this nonsense!"

Hermione strode aggressively towards Hall, slammed her hand on the table, and stared intently at him. After speaking, she seemed determined to avenge him. Her fiery gaze swept over everyone at the Slytherin table, even Draco sitting next to Hall.

Not far away, Ron stood up, waving his own newspaper. "Nonsense! Hall is not like that!"

"That is right!" Harry echoed. "Hall did not use me! He has been helping me all along!"

Although it was very likely because of the Galleons Hall had given him... but that was not the point. They could not let anyone be prejudiced against Hall.

Hermione nodded in satisfaction, tossed her hair, and stormed back to the Gryffindor table.

"The Gryffindor lioness! What is she doing here?!" Pansy stared dumbfounded at Hermione's departing figure.

Incomprehensible. Slytherin actually needed Gryffindor to protect them?

"What a joke!" Pansy scoffed. "While I do not think Hall is the kind of person described in the newspapers, so what if he is? Others with talent should learn from him! I would admire anyone who could achieve even a tenth of Hall's level!"

Hall's expression turned helpless. He glanced at Draco, who turned his head, pretending not to see or hear anything. Hall could only look at Pansy again. "Thank you. I know you are speaking up for me. But perhaps there is no need to do it this way?"

Anyone who did not know better would think Pansy was being sarcastic.

Pansy gave Hall an embarrassed smile, but her eyes were fixed on Draco's expression. Draco seemed very satisfied with what she had said. Then there was no problem.

Hall sighed. No saving someone who was lovesick.