Name

Many thanks to the reader "Crying Cat Head☆" for the grand patron certification!!! Ten bonus chapters! (3/10)

The first week of December.

Hogwarts saw its first snowfall of the year.

When Zhang Wen pushed open the window on Monday morning, everything outside the castle had turned white. The Black Lake had frozen over more thickly. The branches in the Forbidden Forest bent beneath the snow. Hagrid's hut wore a layer of snow like frosting on a cake.

Physical training continued as usual.

Running in the snow.

After three hundred meters, Ron Weasley face-planted directly into the snow.

"I give up—just let the snow bury me—at least then I won't have to run—"

"Get up." Artoria's voice came from ahead. "Running in the snow is excellent balance training. Your core strength needs improvement."

"My core strength is already dead—"

"Then finish running even if it's dead. Eight hundred meters left."

Ron let out a howl of despair, crawled out of the snow, and continued trudging forward.

Neville Longbottom passed him from beside him.

This would have been impossible three months ago.

As Neville passed Ron, they exchanged a glance. Ron's eyes said, "Since when could you run better than me?" Neville's eyes said, "I don't know either, but I'm too scared to stop."

Zhang Wen ran in the middle of the group. His pace remained steady at around eight minutes per mile. He was still in a completely different league from Artoria, but at least he could finish the whole course now.

Footprints stretched from the castle gates to the shore of the Black Lake before circling back. More than a dozen pairs of feet had stamped out a crooked trail.

Artoria ran at the very front. The way she ran through snow was exactly the same as how she ran on level ground—her strides were even, her footing precise, every step landing on the most stable spot. It was as though the snow did not exist for her.

Zhang Wen watched the footprints she left behind.

They were shallow. Shallower than anyone else's.

Because her footwork distributed force with extraordinary evenness—she neither sank deeply nor slipped.

Perfect gait.

Zhang Wen felt like he was admiring someone the way he analyzed running data, but he could not be bothered to correct himself anymore.

At ten in the morning, Filius Flitwick delivered his analysis report on the middle-layer runes.

Zhang Wen's fingers trembled slightly as he opened the report—not from excitement, but because they had not warmed up after running one and a half miles in the snow.

Artoria noticed.

She said nothing. She walked to the fireplace, used the tongs to stir the fire, and made the flames burn brighter. Then she placed Zhang Wen's teacup on the mantel to warm it.

After doing all that, she returned to the table, sat down, and picked up her own notes on ancient Celtic runes.

The entire sequence took roughly fifteen seconds. There was not a single unnecessary movement.

Zhang Wen's fingers gradually regained their warmth in the radiating heat from the fireplace.

He did not say thank you.

He had said it too many times already. These things had become an unspoken understanding between them—she noticed he was cold, she added fuel to the fire, and he continued working. It was as natural as breathing.

Flitwick's report was twelve pages long.

The Anglo-Saxon runes in the middle layer were more complicated than those of the outer layer. In the preface, Flitwick wrote: "The designer of this rune set was a true genius. Its complexity far exceeds that of any known work from the same era."

Core findings:

The function of the middle layer was "suppression"—unlike the outer layer's "isolation." The outer layer prevented magical power from leaking out, while the middle layer directly suppressed the consciousness of whatever was contained inside.

"Simply put," Flitwick wrote on the sixth page of the report, "the outer layer is a wall, and the middle layer is a chain. The wall prevents it from getting out, while the chain prevents it from waking up."

But the key discovery was on page nine.

"An independent information module is embedded within the middle layer's suppression runes." Flitwick's handwriting became messy in this section—he had probably been very excited when he wrote it. "This module is not part of the seal. Its function is—identification."

Identification.

"The content of the information module is a name. The name of the sealed being."

Zhang Wen turned to page ten.

Flitwick had translated the runes in the information module one by one.

The name consisted of seven Anglo-Saxon letters.

Beside them, Flitwick had marked the corresponding Latin transliteration:

M-O-R-D-R-E-D

Zhang Wen stared at those seven letters for five seconds.

Then he looked up at Artoria.

Artoria was looking down at her notes.

"Artoria."

"Hm?"

"Take a look at Flitwick's report. Page ten."

Artoria accepted the report and turned to page ten.

Her gaze fell upon those seven letters.

MORDRED.

Mordred.

Artoria's fingers stopped.

She did not speak. Her expression did not change. Her breathing did not change. Her posture did not shift.

But Zhang Wen noticed—her knuckles had turned white around the report.

She was gripping it so hard that the blood had drained from them.

"This name—" Zhang Wen began carefully.

"I know this name." Artoria's voice was extremely calm. Calm to an abnormal degree.

"Mordred. In the legends of King Arthur—"

"The knight who betrayed King Arthur in the Battle of Camlann." Artoria finished for him.

Her voice did not tremble. But that calmness—Zhang Wen knew her too well—that was how she acted when forcibly suppressing some intense emotion.

It was completely different from her composure when facing the Basilisk.

When facing the Basilisk, she had been truly calm.

Now, she was pretending.

"Put down the report," Zhang Wen said.

Artoria looked at him.

"Put it down."

She put down the report.

Zhang Wen stood and walked over to her.

"You need time to process this information."

"I don't need—"

"Your hand is turning white."

Artoria looked down at her hand.

She loosened her clenched fingers. Color slowly returned to them.

"This could just be someone with the same name," Zhang Wen said. "There may have been many people named 'Mordred' throughout Britain's history. It might not be—"

"No." Artoria's voice was brief and certain. "The ancient Celtic inner seal is Merlin's technique. There is only one 'Mordred' whom Merlin would personally seal away."

Zhang Wen fell silent.

Mordred was sealed inside the cabinet.

The rebellious knight from the legends of King Arthur. The instigator of the Battle of Camlann. The spark that led to Britain's fall.

Artoria's—

Zhang Wen looked at Artoria's expression.

There was no anger on her face. No fear.

Only something so complex it seemed bottomless.

"You and Mordred—in Camelot—"

"Our relationship was complicated." Artoria interrupted him. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Alright. We won't."

Zhang Wen returned to his seat.

The two of them remained silent for about a minute.

The fireplace crackled. Snow continued to fall outside the window.

"Zhang Wen."

"Hm?"

"If what is sealed inside the cabinet truly is Mordred—or a fragment of Mordred's soul—then this is completely different from Glenmore Lake."

"I know."

"Mordred's power—at her peak—was close to that of the King of Knights herself. Merlin needed three layers of seals to hold her down. If the seal fails completely—"

"We will be facing a legendary-level threat."

"And she has—history—with me." Artoria lowered her voice. "If she recognizes me—her reaction will be impossible to predict."

Zhang Wen thought for a while.

"First, we confirm it," he said. "Right now, we only have a name. We don't know whether the seal contains a complete soul, a soul fragment, or merely a remnant consciousness. Different circumstances require entirely different responses."

"How do we confirm it?"

"The inner seal. You said that ancient Celtic sealing systems recorded more detailed information—the sealed person's condition, power level, and sealing conditions. Can you interpret it?"

Artoria took a deep breath.

"I can. But it will take time. My memories of those runes are incomplete. I'll need to interpret them while trying to remember."

"How long?"

"One week."

"That's enough. The seal can hold for another four to five weeks at least. We have time."

Artoria nodded.

Then she made a gesture that surprised Zhang Wen slightly—she extended her right hand.

Palm down. Resting on the tabletop. Her fingertips pointed toward Zhang Wen.

Zhang Wen looked at that hand.

He understood.

He placed his left hand over it, his palm covering the back of hers.

Her hand was very cold.

He tightened his grip slightly.

Artoria did not look at him. She looked at the snow outside.

But her fingers curled slightly, clasping his hand.

The two sat like that for about three minutes.

Without speaking.

Some emotions did not need words to be dealt with.

Sometimes, one hand was enough.

Three minutes later, Artoria withdrew her hand.

Her expression had returned to normal—truly normal, not the strained calm from before.

"Continue working," she said.

"Alright."

"Did Flitwick's report contain any other discoveries?"

Zhang Wen flipped through the last two pages of the report.

"There was one supplementary finding. The designer of the middle-layer runes was not the same person as the designer of the outer layer. The outer Norse runes were finely made but stylistically conservative—Flitwick believes they may have been the work of a Nordic sealer from around the tenth century. The middle Anglo-Saxon runes were far bolder and more innovative—Flitwick used the word 'genius.'"

"Three layers of seals, at least three different creators, spanning more than a thousand years."

"Starting with Merlin—around the sixth century AD—the innermost layer. Then, at some point, the middle layer was added—around the tenth century. The outermost layer—the time is uncertain, but it was at least from the late Middle Ages."

"Every few centuries, the seal stopped being enough and needed to be reinforced with new techniques."

"Because Mordred kept growing stronger," Zhang Wen said. "Even inside the seal—she was slowly accumulating power. Each layer could only suppress her for a period of time."

"One thousand five hundred years." There was a trace of emotion in Artoria's voice, one she might not even have noticed herself. "She has been imprisoned for one thousand five hundred years."

Zhang Wen looked at her.

"You pity her?"

Artoria was silent for two seconds.

"I'm stating a fact. One thousand five hundred years of imprisonment—it is a very long time for anyone."

"Even if that person betrayed you?"

Artoria did not answer.

Zhang Wen did not press her.

That afternoon, regular classes continued.

Zhang Wen taught a third-year lesson. The topic was "Identifying Cursed Objects."

Considering what he had been working on recently, the subject might as well have been tailor-made for him.

"Cursed objects usually share several common traits." Zhang Wen wrote a list on the blackboard. "First—abnormal temperature. The surface temperature of a cursed object is usually inconsistent with the surrounding environment. Second—magical fluctuations. A Detection Charm can sense unnatural magic attached to the object. Third—psychological influence. When approaching a cursed object, you may feel unease, fear, or an inexplicable attraction."

"Professor Zhang," Hermione raised her hand, "if an object possesses all three characteristics at once—"

"Then you should immediately back away three meters and notify the nearest qualified wizard," Zhang Wen said. "Do not try to handle it yourself, no matter how clever you think you are."

Hermione's face flushed slightly. She had probably remembered how she, Harry, and Ron Weasley had gone to deal with a troll by themselves in their first year.

"Professor Zhang," Draco suddenly raised his hand—he rarely spoke up voluntarily in class. "What's the difference between a cursed object and a sealed object?"

Zhang Wen glanced at him.

This question—Draco was thinking about the cabinet in his family's basement.

"Good question," Zhang Wen said. "A cursed object is an ordinary item that has had harmful magic maliciously attached to it. A sealed object, on the other hand, is a container—something is imprisoned inside it, whether an entity or a power."

"The difference is that the threat of a cursed object comes from the object itself. The threat of a sealed object comes from whatever is inside. The methods for dealing with them are completely different."

"What if the seal fails?" Draco pressed.

"Then you need to find out what is inside before the seal fails completely and prepare a response."

Draco nodded. There was a serious light in his gray eyes.

After class, Draco walked over to Zhang Wen's desk.

"Professor Zhang. Have you found anything about the cabinet?"

"There's progress, but the details are confidential for now."

"Is it something very dangerous?"

"Possibly."

Draco fell silent for a moment.

"There's something very dangerous in my family's basement. It's been there for decades." His voice was very quiet. "I played down there when I was little. If it had suddenly—"

"It didn't. You're safe. We'll handle it."

Draco nodded. Then he did something that mildly surprised Zhang Wen—he looked back toward the classroom door.

Theodore Nott was standing there, waiting for him.

"Nott, let's go," Draco said.

The two of them left together.

Zhang Wen watched their backs.

One had a father who had been arrested for conducting Dark magic experiments. The other had a sealed object from a thousand years ago hidden in his family's basement.

Two Slytherin children, both carrying their families' secrets and the price those secrets demanded.

But at least they had each other.

That night.

Zhang Wen wrote Dumbledore an urgent report.

"The identity of the cabinet's contents has been tentatively confirmed—Mordred, the knight said to have betrayed King Arthur. Sealed personally by Merlin. Three layers of seals have endured for fifteen hundred years. Further verification is ongoing."

He hesitated, then added another paragraph:

"Given the extremely high potential threat level of the contents—a legendary being—I recommend preparing an emergency response plan in advance. If the seal accidentally fails during the investigation, sufficient force will be needed for an immediate response."

After sending the letter, Zhang Wen leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Mordred.

If the cabinet truly contained Mordred's soul—or a fragment of it—then this was far beyond a private problem at Malfoy Manor.

The soul of a legendary knight had slept beneath the soil of Britain for fifteen hundred years. During that time, someone had continually reinforced the seals—which meant someone had always known of her existence.

Abraxas Malfoy had fed her with thirty-five years of blood—which meant he knew what was inside and believed she had value to exploit.

Knowledge. Power. Immortality.

The three possibilities Artoria had mentioned.

What did Mordred possess? Camelot's secrets? Ancient magical knowledge? Some source of undying power?

"You're still thinking about it," Artoria's voice came from beside him.

She had somehow appeared in the armchair beside him, holding two cups of tea.

"One is for you. And—"

She pulled out a Chocolate Frog from her pocket.

"I got it from the kitchen. A sugar boost. You barely ate anything all day."

Zhang Wen accepted the tea and the Chocolate Frog.

"You're keeping track of how much I eat?"

"You keep track of how quickly I eat shepherd's pie. I keep track of how much you eat in a day. It's only fair."

Zhang Wen smiled.

He unwrapped the Chocolate Frog. The frog jumped once, and he pinned it down—his reflexes were much better than they had been three months ago.

"Do you want to talk about Mordred?" He took a bite of chocolate.

Artoria was silent for several seconds.

"Mordred—at Camelot—was a complicated person." Her voice was low. "She had ability, ambition, and... a desire to be acknowledged. She did many terrible things. But the reasons that led her down that path were also complicated."

"You're talking about your relationship with her."

Artoria lowered her head and looked at the surface of the tea in her cup.

"I refused to acknowledge who she was. She wanted my recognition—as a knight, and as..." She paused. "As something more personal. I refused her. I refused all of it."

"So she rebelled."

"She had many reasons for rebelling. My rejection was only one of them. But—" Artoria's voice dropped even lower. "If I had made a different choice back then, the Battle of Camlann might never have happened."

Zhang Wen said nothing.

He reached out his hand.

This time, he did not place it over the back of hers. He took her hand directly.

Palm to palm. Fingers intertwined.

Artoria's hand was still cool. But this time, she had not reached for him first.

Zhang Wen had.

"No matter what happened in the past—" Zhang Wen's voice was steady. "You aren't facing her alone now."

Artoria's fingers tightened.

"You don't understand Mordred."

"I understand you. That's enough."

Artoria turned to look at him.

The firelight danced in her emerald-green eyes. There was too much in those eyes—regret from fifteen hundred years ago, the shock of learning the truth only moments before, and a kind of reliance she would never speak aloud.

"Zhang Wen."

"Hmm?"

"Your hand is warm."

"Your hand is cold. So it works out perfectly."

The corner of Artoria's mouth lifted slightly.

Not much. But enough.

The two of them sat before the fireplace like that, holding hands. Steam rose from the tea, while the snow outside the window fell harder and harder.

December at Hogwarts.

A soul that had slept in a basement for fifteen hundred years.

Three failing layers of seals.

A storm about to arrive.

But at this moment—

The fireplace. Tea. Snow. And her hand.

Zhang Wen thought this was enough.

The storm could wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, he would hold her hand first.

Just for a little while.

Just a little while was enough.