Chapter 23. Blind.
Edward seized this opening, his eyes suddenly sharp. He didn't give Bolo a chance to breathe. As his wrist turned, the flame flowed along the wand, and golden light, wrapped in orange-red fire, shot out as fast as a meteor: "Expelliarmus!"
Bolo only felt his wrist go numb, and his yew wand flew out of his hand, tracing an arc in the air and falling heavily at the edge of the barrier.
He looked at his empty palm in horror, and before he could react, Edward's second spell followed: "Stupefy!"
The red light hit Bolo's chest precisely. His whole body trembled, his eyes rolled back, and he fell straight backward.
A gasp erupted from the audience. Everyone thought Bolo would fall and break his head, but they saw Edward's third spell ring out almost at the same time: "Petrificus Totalus!"
The yellow light lit up again, landing on Bolo, who was about to hit the ground. His body instantly stiffened, maintaining the backward-leaning posture, and he landed steadily on the grass without making a single sound of impact.
The entire dueling grounds were deathly silent, with only the soft sound of the evening breeze blowing over the grass.
Edward slowly lowered his wand, the flame on his fingertip gradually receding. He walked slowly to the side of Bolo's stiff body, looking down at his pale face. His voice was crisp and cold, carrying just the right amount of irony, and it spread throughout the audience: "Everyone, don't worry, I'm doing this for Senior Selwyn's own good."
He bent down and lightly patted Bolo's petrified shoulder, the mockery in his tone hard to miss: "After all, falling to the ground after being Stupefied, it's inevitable to get bruised or bumped. It's different if he's petrified - stones don't get hurt, isn't that very thoughtful?"
These words were like a loud slap, fiercely striking the faces of all the pureblood nobles.
They revered pureblood honor, yet were crushed by the absolute power of a boy "raised by Muggles"; they mocked Edward's background, forgetting that power is the eternal criterion of the wizarding world.
Edward stood up straight, his gaze sweeping over the audience. There was no arrogant clamor, only a cold statement: "The honor of purebloods is never a label engraved on a surname, but the power held in one's hands. You may look down on my background, but don't forget - in the face of power, all arrogance is a joke."
His gaze fell on those pureblood elders who were keeping their heads down, the corners of his mouth curling into a cold arc: "I can let him remain unharmed, or I can make him pay a much more painful price. The only difference is whether you want to give me that reason."
The whole place was deathly silent, and even the sound of the wind blowing was clearly audible. Those pureblood nobles who had mocked him earlier were now keeping their heads down, not daring to meet his eyes. Draco watched the cold, aloof figure in the center of the field, his competitive spirit long replaced by admiration - he understood for the first time that power could truly transcend all surnames and honor.
Lucius stood outside the crowd and said to Narcissa beside him in a low voice: "This child has more edge than Regulus."
A very faint, gratified smile curled the corners of Narcissa's mouth. She looked at the thorn emblem on Edward's chest, her eyes full of pride - the House of Black had finally produced a true powerhouse.
Kreacher hid in the crowd, tears streaming down his face with excitement, muttering incessantly: "Master Regulus, do you see? The honor of the House of Black has returned! It has truly returned!"
Under the moonlight, the orange-red flame danced quietly on Edward's fingertip, like an unquenchable spark, illuminating the hypocritical pureblood feast and also lighting up his own legendary path forged by power.
Deep in the night, 12 Grimmauld Place was so quiet that only the sound of the wind remained. The black and silver carriage rolled over the bluestone road, the sound of the wheels pressing against the crevices of the paving stones exceptionally clear in the silent alley. Edward pushed open the carriage door. The silver-threaded thorn emblem on his black velvet formal wear was stained with the night dew of Malfoy Manor, shimmering with a cold light under the moonlight. His hair still carried the chill of the evening breeze, yet his fingertips retained the warm, intertwined sensation of fire and magic.
Kreacher carried his cloak, trotting along behind him with small steps, his withered fingers clutching the edge of the cloak. He was still chattering away, reminiscing about the grandeur of the banquet, his murky eyes shining amazingly bright: "Master Edward, you were so imposing! Those pure-blood aristocrats were all stunned! The boy from the Selwyn family was Petrificus Totalus-ed by you on the ground, and even his father didn't dare to say a word! Mrs. Parkinson's face turned pale, and that big lug from the Goyle family was so scared he didn't even dare to lift his head!"
Edward didn't speak, just slowly stepped onto the stone stairs of the old house and pushed open the heavy carved wooden door. The Gubraithian fire in the foyer was still burning quietly, its orange-red glow illuminating the portraits of the House of Black hanging on the wall. Those ancestor portraits that once showed disdain for him now slightly nodded, their eyes revealing a trace of irrepressible awe.
He went straight back to his bedroom on the second floor, took off the formal wear stained with night dew, and threw it casually onto the bench at the end of the bed. Lying on the large bed covered with velvet sheets, moonlight shone in obliquely through the stained-glass window, casting mottled crow patterns on the floor. The scenes from the Malfoy Manor dueling arena flashed through his mind like a movie - Bolo Selwyn's arrogant aura, the contemptuous whispers of the pure-blood aristocrats, the dead silence when the fire barrier rose, and the vivid change in those people's eyes from arrogance to fear at the end.
Edward opened his palm, and a cluster of orange-red flames rose silently, dancing in the darkness like a small, warm sun. He looked at the docile flame, the corners of his mouth slowly curling into a cold smile.
Sure enough.
Whether it is a pure-blood surname or an ancient heritage, in the face of absolute power, they are nothing more than superficial embellishments.
Power is the only pass that allows one to move unimpeded in the wizarding world.
The morning after returning from Malfoy Manor, the tranquility of 12 Grimmauld Place was completely broken.
When the first knock on the door sounded, Edward was still in the courtyard practicing wandless Incendio. Kreacher hurried over to report, his tone full of surprise: "Master Edward! Mrs. Parkinson has brought Miss Pansy to visit! And she brought gifts!"
Edward frowned, and the flame at his fingertips suddenly retracted. He tidied his robe, suppressed the annoyance in his heart, wore a perfectly polite smile on his face, and walked into the living room.
Mrs. Parkinson had completely changed from the sharp and mean demeanor at the banquet, her face piled with a fawning smile, pulling Pansy to stand by her side, holding an exquisite gift box in her hand: "Lord Edward, I was blind before and didn't recognize your greatness. I was very offensive in my words, and I hope you are magnanimous and will not take it to heart. This is Firewhisky I specially prepared for you. It is the top vintage in the wizarding world, and I hope you will like it."
Pansy stood behind her mother, head lowered, no longer possessing her previous arrogance, and did not even dare to look up into Edward's eyes.
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