The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 288 "Overturning Old Theories"

Chapter 288 "Overturning Old Theories" (5.1K) (2/2)

Lynch turned his gaze away from Ron's restless pocket and looked back at Harry, his deep eyes filled with complex emotions.

Then he raised his head slightly and looked up at the sky.

"You ask me how I came to that conclusion, Harry," he began, his voice steady, "it's less a conclusion and more a series of undeniable doubts, like scattered puzzle pieces, that prevent me from accepting the official, complete yet potentially flawed picture."

Lin Qi lowered his head, his gaze sweeping over the three focused and young faces in front of him. He paused for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts or carefully choosing his words.

"To understand my concerns, you first need to know the official account of the scene at the time of the incident—I'm assuming you're not aware of all the details?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all shook their heads, with Harry leaning forward eagerly.

"Well," Lynch's voice lowered, becoming heavy with the weight of recounting the past, "according to the Daily Prophet's report and the Ministry of Magic's records: on the day Peter Pettigrew was murdered," witnesses saw Sirius Black blocking him on a Muggle street. The two argued—the details are unknown. Then, Black used a powerful explosive spell, missing Peter but striking the street behind him, affecting innocent Muggles. With a deafening roar, a huge crater was blasted into the street, causing heavy Muggle casualties. And when the smoke cleared—"

He deliberately slowed down his speech to ensure that every word was clearly imprinted on the ears of the audience.

"They found only Black standing in a pool of blood; he appeared to be laughing hysterically. Peter Pettigrew—vanished. Only fragments of his wizard's robes and, according to the report, one of his fingers were left at the scene."

"One finger?" Hermione gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Just—only one finger?"

Ron's face also turned pale, and he subconsciously touched his unharmed hands.

Harry felt a churning in his stomach, and as he imagined the scene, a chilling nausea crept up his spine.

“Yes, Miss Granger, only one finger,” Lynch confirmed, his gaze sharpening. “This is the only material evidence officially recognized as evidence that Peter was blown to pieces. Black is therefore accused not only of betraying the Potters but also of brutally murdering Peter, who was hunting him, and incidentally killing twelve Muggles.”

He paused for a few seconds, giving the three children time to process this cruel reality, before continuing.

"Now, back to your question, Harry. Besides that repeated phrase I told you about Sirius, there are three other things that have my doubts." Lynch held up a finger. "First, there's the motive. The official explanation is that Sirius Black's motive for betraying your parents stemmed from his obsession with the Dark Arts as the heir to the Black family, and the lure of power Voldemort could offer. But based on the limited information I've gathered about his student days and early post-graduation period, it seems his break with his Dark Arts-worshipping family was exceptionally thorough. Would someone who so vehemently hated his family's beliefs, even to the point of turning against all his blood relatives, suddenly turn around and embrace what he despised most? The transition lacks a convincing bridge."

Harry held his breath and listened intently, as did Ron and Hermione.

"Secondly, there's the logic of his actions." Lynch raised his second finger. "When Black was arrested, reports said he was holding a wand, laughing maniacally, and did not fiercely resist the Aurors who came to arrest him. This was interpreted as the madness of a cold-blooded traitor. But would a wizard who meticulously planned the betrayal, caused Voldemort's downfall, and then successfully escaped so easily, almost surrendering himself to arrest the day after the event? This doesn't fit the logic of a cunning traitor."

"Motives and logic?" Harry murmured repeatedly, his brow furrowed.

Lynch leaned forward slightly and raised his third finger: "Finally, and this is the point that concerns me the most—the death of Peter Pettigrew."

"Why would a meticulous traitor, capable of plotting to betray his best friend, choose to do it in broad daylight, on a Muggle street, in such a conspicuous and almost insane way? This doesn't seem like an execution; it's more like—a performance."

"The explosion supposedly resulted in Peter Pettigrew being reduced to dust," but at the scene, a perfectly intact, identifiable finger was left behind? In a magical explosion, this is an extremely—coincidental, even bizarre—remaining remnant. Too deliberate, and it seems unreal."

Hermione's eyes lit up; she had clearly caught the logical flaw in Lynch's words: "You mean, that finger might not have been an accidental remnant, but rather—deliberately left behind?"

“That’s a possibility, Miss Granger,” Lynch said approvingly, “a speculation based on unusual details. A skilled wizard might be able to fake his own death using an explosion and a few small relics.”

Ron's mouth dropped open, and after a long pause, he managed to stammer, "But—this is too—"

"Too far-fetched?" Lynch replied, sighing softly. "Yes, I think so too. It's merely an over-interpretation based on my own thinking. Because I can't find a reasonable explanation for Blake's erratic and contradictory behavior, and the evidence for Peter's death is so thin and full of doubts."

Harry felt a wave of dizziness, as if the ground beneath his feet was collapsing.

For the first time, such a clear and horrifying crack has appeared in the official narrative about the tragic deaths of his parents, which he has always firmly believed in.

Uncle Lynch's analysis was like a cold scalpel, peeling away layer by layer the thick outer shell of "truth" to reveal the suspicious, writhing core inside.

"Performance—" Harry repeated the word under his breath, his stomach churning even more violently.

He imagined the street, the explosion, Sirius Black's maniacal laughter, and the lone finger that was identified as Peter's death certificate.

If all of this was to cover up another truth—Peter's escape—

"That doesn't make sense!" Ron blurted out, his voice sharp with shock. "If Peter isn't dead, why would he do this? He's a First Class of the Order of Merlin! Why would he give it all up and hide like a rat?" In his pocket, the rat named Scabbers wriggled uneasily.

"Unless—" Hermione's voice trembled slightly, but her thoughts were as sharp as a blade, "unless he had to hide. Unless the real traitor wasn't Sirius Black at all, but Peter Pettigrew himself!"

Lin Qi clapped his hands lightly, the crisp applause sounding particularly clear on the grass.

He looked at Hermione approvingly: "Brilliant reasoning, Miss Granger. Clear logic, straight to the point. I must admit, when I first pieced these pieces together, I arrived at the exact same conclusion as you."

Hermione's face flushed slightly at the direct praise.

Harry's heart pounded, as if he were witnessing some shocking truth right before his eyes.

Ron, on the other hand, looked like he was overwhelmed, his mouth slightly open, his gaze shifting back and forth between Lynch and Hermione.

"However," Lin Qi changed the subject, his voice tinged with regret and heaviness, "unfortunately, this seemingly logical and almost perfect reasoning is very likely to be wrong."

"Wrong?!" Harry blurted out, his voice hoarse with urgency. "Why? This explains everything! If Peter was the traitor, then faking his death and going into hiding makes perfect sense!"

"Yeah!" Ron snapped out of his daze and joined the argument. "This makes a lot more sense than the official, flawed explanation!" He didn't notice that his previously restless pockets had suddenly quieted down.

Hermione didn't speak, but she pursed her lips, her eyes filled with incomprehension and a hint of resentment, clearly believing that her reasoning was flawless.

Lin Qi looked at the three young and excited faces and nodded understandingly.

"I understand how you feel. When I first came to this conclusion, I also thought I had touched the truth. The reasoning was so compelling that it perfectly explained all the contradictions and doubts. However, mere logical consistency is not the same as fact."

He paused, letting the disappointment linger in the air for a moment, before continuing, "Just recently, I had the opportunity to meet Minister Cornelius Fudge of the Ministry of Magic. I frankly expressed my concerns to him."

The three people's attention was immediately drawn to this sentence.

"You—you told Minister Fudge?" Hermione asked in surprise.

“Yes. I believe that if there are such significant legal doubts, the highest authorities should be informed.” Lynch’s tone was calm. “However, Minister Fudge’s reaction—was very firm. He told me unequivocally that the murderer was undoubtedly Sirius Black. He claimed that the Ministry of Magic possessed conclusive evidence, irrefutable proof that Black was the culprit.”

"Conclusive evidence?" Harry pressed, his newly ignited hope dashed. "What is it?"

Lin Qi shook his head, a hint of helplessness on his face.

"Minister Fouché did not show me what it was. He seemed to think it was unnecessary, or that the evidence was highly confidential. He just repeatedly emphasized that it was irrefutable evidence."

"Ron couldn't help but interject, "Could he be trying to fool you? After all, the Ministry of Magic has been trying to close the case as soon as possible—"

"That's a possibility, Mr. Weasley. Bureaucracies can be like that sometimes," Lynch agreed. "So, I haven't given up. I've formally requested to see that so-called decisive evidence from Secretary Fudge."

Currently, this application is going through those lengthy procedures at the Ministry of Magic. Theoretically, once the procedures are complete, I can personally confirm who the murderer is.

His gaze swept over the three of them, finally settling on Harry's face, which was filled with anxiety and anticipation.

"However," Lynch's voice lowered, carrying a sense of seriousness, "I must tell you frankly, judging from Minister Fudge's unquestionable attitude and tone at the time, he had absolute confidence in the evidence he spoke of."

That evidence is likely more convincing than any of our current speculations. The probability of Sirius Black's guilt, in my opinion, is probably as high as ninety percent.

Harry felt a chilling sense of loss wash over him.

The possibility of another truth that had just been constructed appeared so fragile in the face of the "irrefutable evidence" from the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione frowned and fell into deep thought, clearly weighing the weight of "logical reasoning" against "official irrefutable evidence."

Ron scratched his cheek and muttered, "Looks like the Ministry of Magic wasn't lying this time—"

Lynch took in their reactions and added, "I still have my initial doubts until I see that evidence with my own eyes. But we must also be prepared to accept the most likely, and perhaps the most brutal, official answer."

"It was probably just my overthinking before, Harry," Lynch said apologetically, looking at Harry. "I'm sorry I bothered you with these unverified and potentially wrong guesses. But don't worry, I'll tell you as soon as I know the truth."

After saying that, he picked up the book from his lap, stood up, and gently brushed the straw off his suit.

"For you right now, focus on the present and protect yourself. That's the most important thing." Lynch nodded to Harry and the others, then turned and walked away with steady steps.

Under the tree, Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other in bewilderment.

“See?” Ron said. “Even Professor Lynch said so. The Ministry of Magic has irrefutable evidence, and Professor Lupin hates him to the core. There’s no doubt about it; it’s Black.”

Hermione bit her lip, her brow furrowed. "Ironclad evidence? What could it be? — And even if there is ironclad evidence, Professor Lynch hasn't seen it with his own eyes yet —"

Harry didn't say anything.

A heavy, sticky emotion pressed against his chest; it wasn't disappointment, but rather a strange sense of emptiness.

Just now, as Lynch described that suspicious scene, a completely different, vague yet exciting possibility unfolded before him—the truth might be more complex than he knew, and the story of hatred he had carried for twelve years might conceal a huge injustice.

This possibility, like a window suddenly opened in the darkness, allowed him to see a different vision than simple revenge: perhaps there would be vindication, or perhaps there would be misunderstood loyalty—this imagination itself, though painful, carried a soul-stirring power, almost temporarily freeing him from the singular, cruel conclusion that "Blake is the devil."

However, Lynch's subsequent words, especially the authoritative phrases "Minister Fudge" and "decisive evidence," acted like an invisible hand, slamming the window shut and pushing him back into the familiar yet more suffocating reality: Blake was the murderer, and the evidence was irrefutable.

He wasn't disappointed by the conclusion that "Blake was the murderer"—he had long accepted and hated that fact. What disappointed him was the sudden extinguishing of the glimmer of hope for "another possibility." What he resisted was having to return completely to that simple narrative filled with betrayal, death, and an unchangeable tragedy.

It feels like—like you've always thought you're walking a straight but painful road, and suddenly someone tells you there might be a fork in the road, a more winding road, but with different scenery and extraordinary meaning. But before you can even see it clearly, you're told that road is fake, and you must continue on the original path.

"Harry?" Hermione looked at his pale face with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." His voice was a little hoarse. He forced himself to accept Ron's words. "Ron is right. There's nothing to doubt."

A burning, angry impulse began to surge in his chest, replacing the previous confusion and the brief sense of disappointment about another possibility.

He suddenly raised his head, his gray-green eyes burning with an uncontrollable flame, his voice trembling with excitement: "I just want him to appear in front of me! Blake! Right in front of me! That way I can—I can—" He choked up, the rest of the words were unnecessary, the intense desire for revenge almost materializing as it burst forth.

"Harry!" Hermione gasped in alarm, grabbing his arm as if he were really going to rush out to find Black immediately. "Don't talk nonsense! If he really appears in front of you, the first thing you should do is run! Run as fast as you can, and then signal for help! You're just a third-year student, but he's—he's a ruthless dark wizard!"

"Hermione's right, buddy!" Ron quickly chimed in, his face showing genuine worry. "Think about what he did! Killed Peter! Blown up a whole street! You absolutely can't think about going head-to-head with him! That's too dangerous!"

Harry forcefully shook off Hermione's hand, his chest heaving violently, feeling annoyed by his friends' attempts to dissuade him.

"Then what should I do? Pretend I don't know anything? Wait for someone else to protect me? He's my enemy!" His voice sounded somewhat sharp on the open grass.

"I'm not telling you to pretend you don't know," Hermione said urgently, trying to calm him down. "I'm telling you to be rational! We need to tell the professor, tell Dumbledore—"

"And then what? Keep waiting?" Harry interrupted her, his eyes stubborn and pained. Deep down he knew his friends were right, but the urge to do something himself, the helplessness tormented by the deep-seated hatred, made it impossible for him to accept it calmly.

As the three argued, with Harry's resentment clashing fiercely with his friends' worries, no one noticed that the mouse named Scabbers, hidden in the pocket of Ron's old wizard's robe, was not trembling with fear or trying to hide as usual during the argument.

It was curled up quietly, but beneath its sparse gray fur, a pair of small, bright black eyes were frantically turning at an astonishing frequency through the gaps in the fabric fibers.