Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

Chapter 962: A Thousand Horcrux Blueprints

“I say it’s real—so it is real…”

The once-boisterous headmaster’s office fell silent in an instant.

Every portrait turned to Kyle, eyes filled with disbelief.

They had all assumed Kyle had simply made a mistake. None of them expected he had written it that way on purpose.

And using the Cruciatus Curse and the Imperius Curse on oneself—was that even an idea a sane wizard could come up with?

“They’ll die,” one of the headmasters couldn’t help but mutter. “No one casts the Imperius Curse on themselves. It could spiral completely out of control…”

“Oh? Just could?” Kyle blinked and guided the Self-Writing Quill back to the parchment, scratching out a line and jotting down a few new ones.

When he held up the parchment again, the place where the Imperius Curse had been mentioned was now replaced with the Killing Curse.

There was no more ambiguity—he clearly intended to kill them.

Some of the headmasters turned their eyes to Dumbledore, who stood quietly off to the side.

“These are the students you taught?” Phineas smacked his lips. “I may be remembered as the most unpopular headmaster in history, but I’d say I was more competent than you.”

Phineas had always resented that particular label. He didn’t believe he had done anything wrong and firmly maintained that others had simply been out to get him.

But now, Phineas suddenly found himself coming to terms with the title.

So what if he’d been unpopular? At least his students had all been decent.

Not like Dumbledore—tangled up with Grindelwald in his youth, raised a dark arts-obsessed Tom Riddle in his middle years, and now, in his old age, had produced Kyle… a wizard who seemed even less human than the last.

And yet, Dumbledore carried the title of “Greatest Wizard” and was beloved by the world.

“Unbelievable…” Phineas muttered bitterly. “You really deserve it.”

Dumbledore chuckled awkwardly and looked away. Even he hadn’t expected Kyle’s plan to be quite so… outrageous.

“This way, it’s even more foolproof,” Kyle continued, oblivious to the headmasters’ reactions. “Actually, I’d wanted to write the Killing Curse from the start, but I figured they wouldn’t believe it, so I swapped it for the Imperius Curse instead.”

“Even the Imperius Curse wouldn’t be convincing,” Armando Dippet couldn’t hold back anymore. “Even we—just painted portraits incapable of thinking—can tell this is completely wrong. Let alone living wizards… Their brains aren’t made of pigment.”

“But what if they had to go through enormous effort just to get it?” Kyle smiled. “If we simply toss the parchment out there, of course no one will believe it. But what if it’s carved into stone, hidden deep beneath Nurmengard?”

“The secret that Grindelwald—who once swept across Europe—guarded so fiercely that he chose seventy years of imprisonment rather than reveal it… Doesn’t that sound a lot more convincing?”

A sharp intake of breath echoed around the room.

Say what you will about Grindelwald’s reputation, the things he did already carried a mythical weight. If this parchment was put through all the right steps, it would become real in the minds of those who found it.

Even if Grindelwald himself stood up and denied it, no one would believe him. They’d just assume he was trying to mislead them.

“But…” Headmistress Dilys Derwent frowned. “This false method of creating Horcruxes could kill people.”

In addition to being a former headmistress of Hogwarts, she was also a renowned Healer—so her mind naturally went to the consequences.

“So what?” Kyle said indifferently. “The actual method for making a Horcrux requires murder to split the soul. If someone is capable of casting the Cruciatus or Killing Curse on themselves, then they’re certainly capable of using it on others.”

“So, if you look at it from a different angle, we’re saving lives.”

Dilys Derwent frowned deeper.

She knew Kyle was twisting words, but she also couldn’t find fault in what he’d said.

Indeed, any wizard determined to create a Horcrux would be in direct violation of Wizarding Law.

Aside from the mandatory act of murder to split the soul, the process also required more than a dozen different forms of dark magic—each strictly forbidden.

So whether they succeeded or not, just attempting it would be enough to earn them a Dementor’s Kiss.

From that point of view, Kyle’s claim of saving people wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Then how do you plan to place it beneath Nurmengard? And who could even find it?” someone finally raised the key question.

This whole plan hinged on Nurmengard—a place even more secretive than Azkaban, and completely inaccessible to ordinary wizards.

“That’s where we’ll need your help, Professor,” Kyle said, turning to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looked back at him and blinked. He neither agreed nor refused.

“Of course, this is just a rough draft,” Kyle went on. “If we’re going to make it happen, we’ll need a lot more detailed planning.”

“For example, how to identify those wizards truly obsessed with creating Horcruxes… How to guide them, through whispers from fugitive Death Eaters, to accidentally stumble upon legends of Nurmengard… And how many lives would need to be lost before they finally uncover the supposed blueprint for Horcrux creation. All of that will need careful discussion.”

“Haven’t you already said it all?” Armando Dippet muttered darkly. “Just fill in the rest and you’ve got a complete plan.”

“Not quite,” Kyle said, shaking his head modestly. “We’ll still need to refine it—just to make absolutely sure it works flawlessly…”

The headmaster’s office fell silent once more.

“I like this kid,” a bearded headmaster suddenly said, breaking the silence. “If youʼd been born a hundred and fifty years earlier, I wouldn’t have had to hand the headmaster’s post to that idiot Phineas.”

“Hey, you old fossil, I heard that!” Phineas leapt up, lunging to claw at the other’s face.

Armando was quicker—he stuck out his leg just in time.

With a loud thud, Phineas went face-first into the floor and slid forward a considerable distance.

“Definitely an idiot,” the bearded wizard muttered with a sneer. “...A very lucky idiot. The rest were just even dumber back then.”

“You’re not exactly a prize yourself!” Phineas pushed himself off the ground, wiping the mud and gravel from his face.

Portraits had their perks—no real injuries to worry about. Even if your head fell off, you could just slap it back on with your hand.

Sometimes, if the mood struck, you could even try on someone else’s head.

Phineas had long wanted to borrow Armando’s head and sneak over to the second floor of the castle to spend the night chatting with the witch in the portrait who carried a flail. Unfortunately, he’d never found the chance.

“And look at how many rules you added. Hogwarts had fifty school rules that lasted for eight hundred years—then you came along and doubled them overnight…”

“Hah! If it weren’t for me, you’d have been the ‘Most Unpopular Headmaster!’”

As he spoke, Phineas took his chance—he spun suddenly and landed a solid punch to Armando’s face.

“That’s payback!”

Without waiting for a response, he bolted and vanished from the headmaster’s office in the blink of an eye.

“That idiot,” Armando Dippet muttered.

“You’re not going after him?” Kyle asked, curious. The two of them were usually inseparable when it came to these games—why was Armando letting it slide today?

Even after taking a punch to the face, he didn’t seem angry.

“It’s fine. He’s not getting far. His connections across the Hogwarts portraits are far worse than mine.” Armando waved a hand dismissively. “Right now, I’m more interested in your plan. You didn’t come here just to ask Albus for help, did you? You deliberately avoided Minerva.”

“Oh... I thought portraits couldn’t think?” Kyle asked, feigning surprise.

“Chocolate Frog portraits can’t,” Armando replied, giving him a wink. “Ours are a little more advanced.”

“Not by much,” he added, “but you haven’t exactly hidden your purpose, have you? After all, you didn’t go to the real Albus.”

“That’s true,” Kyle nodded. “I want the headmasters to lend a hand in this.”

“What exactly do you want us to do?” Armando asked.

“This.” Kyle held up the parchment again. “I want you to pass it on to a wizard who knows how to make Horcruxes—and is still alive.”

The headmasters from three centuries ago turned away without a word.

Everyone they’d known was either long gone or a portrait by now. The few who remained weren’t exactly close.

“We can talk about that part later,” Armando said, stroking his chin. “First, explain your idea. And keep in mind—we don’t know any legendary types like Grindelwald. You’ll have to come up with plenty of stories.”

“This time it won’t be that complicated,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “They don’t need to do anything deliberately. All I want is for them to let it slip—accidentally—if someone comes looking.”

“They can use this one of mine, or come up with their own Horcrux diagram. The only condition is that it has to be fake. The faker, the better.”

“Why? Wouldn’t using yours be better?” the bearded wizard asked, puzzled. “It’d add credibility.”

“We don’t need more credibility,” Kyle replied. “Borrowing Grindelwald’s name is just to deal with the current situation. What I’m talking about now is for the future.”

“Oh?” The headmasters leaned in, clearly intrigued.

“Let’s hear it,” one of them said.

“If your reasoning holds up, we’ll help you out,” another added.

“I do know a few old folks,” one portrait muttered. “Can’t say if they’ve made Horcruxes, though.”

“That’s fine. They don’t need to. Even a fake will do.”

“If there’s only one Horcrux blueprint, people will catch on that something’s off pretty quickly. But what if there were a hundred? Or a thousand?”

Kyle paused for a moment, then began outlining his plan.

“You all know people who are well-known in the wizarding world, don’t you?”

The headmasters silently nodded.

After all, as headmasters of the only wizarding school in Britain, not just anyone could count themselves among their acquaintances.

“Then would you say their words carry weight?”

“Of course,” Kyle said with a chuckle. “Their credibility alone is enough to convince others.”

“Wait a moment,” said Dilys Derwent. “If that’s the case, I doubt many would be willing to put their reputations on the line just to help you spread a lie. Some of the older wizards take their names very seriously.”

“How is this lying?”

Kyle looked perfectly serious. “The Horcrux-making method was something they found in ancient magical texts… or uncovered while exploring magical ruins… or passed down through their family for generations. In other words—it’s all real.”

“What if they die?”

“Even better. That way, no one will be around to question it,” Kyle said matter-of-factly. “Just like a shop that sells mandrake earplugs—there’s never a bad review.”

Dilys Derwent blinked. For a moment, as a portrait, she found herself struggling to follow Kyle’s logic.

“But… what if there are two of them?”

“Headmistress Derwent, isn’t that a bit of a stretch?” Kyle spread his hands. “Horcruxes have been around for over a thousand years. They’re not suddenly going to become a trend because of this. There’s hardly going to be a rush of people hunting them down.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Armando quickly cut in. “Dilys isn’t trying to make things difficult for you. She’s just trying to think ahead—how to persuade those old wizards.”

“You know how it is. If you want their help, especially with something that might tarnish their name, you need to be thoroughly prepared.”

“…Alright.” Kyle sighed. “Let me put it this way: the blueprints are real—the method, or at least the steps, might be flawed. Or maybe the Horcrux just has a high failure rate. But it’s definitely not a fake.”

“If someone doesn’t believe it, let them try it themselves. Maybe they’ll get it right the next time.”

“That’s a solid excuse,” Armando nodded. Dilys said no more.

“If we keep this going—if there end up being a thousand different Horcrux blueprints, from old wizards, ancient books, magical ruins… then even if someone gets lucky and finds a real one, they won’t believe it.”

“And when that happens, Horcruxes might just vanish altogether, in a different form.”

The more Armando listened, the brighter his eyes became.

“Fascinating. I’m going to find those old fellows right now.” With that, he darted out of the portrait.

Some of the other headmasters still hesitated.

“This is still, in a way, spreading Horcrux knowledge.”

“A lot of people will die…”

“Some of them might not have even been thinking about making Horcruxes to begin with.”

“I understand what you’re getting at,” Kyle said loudly. “But do you all remember what I said at the start?

‘If no one asks—say nothing.’”

“So I’m not promoting Horcruxes. I’m just making sure that if anyone does go looking for a method, what they find will be something they changed on their own.”

“Just like Professor Slughorn…” Kyle looked over at Dumbledore, who was still standing quietly.

“Professor Slughorn knew how to make Horcruxes. Did he influence the students at Hogwarts?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head.

“That’s exactly my point,” Kyle shrugged. “And besides, if he had given Tom Riddle false information back then, maybe there never would’ve been a Voldemort.”

...

“Alright, you’ve convinced me,” said Dilys Derwent, speaking up first. “I’ll pass your message along—but I can’t guarantee how many will actually help.”

“Thank you.”

“No need.” She, too, disappeared from the headmaster’s office.

At the same time, Dumbledore vanished from his frame as well.