As Hermione helped her away, Cassandra's eyes glimmered with an unreadable expression.
She had watched Hermione closely—the way she skillfully cast the rarely used Flame-Freezing Charm, how quickly she understood Wentworth's intent and cooperated with him to draw Quirrell's attention, and how, without hesitation, she followed Wentworth's instructions to support Cassandra as they made their escape.
Cassandra understood. This was a girl of immense knowledge, keen intellect, and a strong sense of self-awareness.
Although she wasn't sure whether they would manage to escape tonight, Cassandra had already made up her mind—if they returned safely to Hogwarts, she would ensure Hermione joined the Secret Order.
Behind them, Quirrell was closing in on Harry and Wentworth.
Though Cedric, having regained his composure, raised his wand once more, Quirrell paid him no heed. His intent was clear: eliminate either Harry or Wentworth first.
Facing Quirrell's unwavering pursuit, Wentworth suddenly turned to Harry and said,
"Harry, do you remember what I told you before we came?"
Still tense, Harry nodded quickly and blurted out, "I do! You told me to trust you—unconditionally!"
Wentworth smiled faintly. Without another word, he grabbed Harry's shoulders and pushed him directly into the path of the advancing Quirrell, positioning himself behind Harry.
Quirrell's expression twisted into manic delight as he shrieked, "You're afraid! Wentworth Grindelwald, you're afraid! Ha! The leader of the Alliance is afraid!"
On the other side, Cedric looked at Wentworth in disbelief. Wentworth's actions had completely taken him by surprise—he hadn't expected Wentworth to use Harry as a human shield. Was this truly the same Wentworth he knew?
Hearing Quirrell's shrill cry, Hermione and Cassandra instinctively halted and turned back. Their reactions to the scene before them, however, could not have been more different.
Hermione's eyes widened in horror, her face stricken with despair.
Cassandra, on the other hand, smiled in satisfaction, as though she not only expected this but even admired it.
But Wentworth and Harry had no time to consider others' reactions. Leaning in close, Wentworth whispered into Harry's ear,
"I made you a promise, didn't I? Tonight, we start reclaiming what was taken from your parents. Now, extend your hands—get ready to take back what's yours."
Harry's heartbeat thundered in his chest. There was no time to think. Trusting Wentworth's command, he lifted both hands, though they trembled uncontrollably.
"Wentworth," he stammered, "what do I do?"
Quirrell had crossed the barrier of flames, his wand now aimed directly at Harry.
Wentworth, however, took a confident step back and declared, "You don't have to do anything, Harry. I'll handle the rest."
Despite Wentworth's reassurances, Harry felt no relief. Quirrell was close—so close that his wand was nearly touching Harry's forehead!
Panic surged through Harry, and his instincts took over. He shut his eyes.
Then, suddenly—
Harry felt an enormous force propel him forward.
Cedric, Hermione, and Cassandra all gaped in shock as they witnessed Wentworth kick Harry—hard—right into Quirrell's path.
The impact sent Harry hurtling forward. His hands, already raised, instinctively grabbed at something.
And then, a piercing scream rang through the air.
Harry's eyes snapped open. He looked down in bewilderment—his hands were clutching Quirrell's face!
But what startled Harry even more was Quirrell's reaction. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was screaming in agony, white smoke rising from his skin where Harry touched him.
The sight was terrifying—so abrupt, so surreal—that Harry stumbled backward, releasing Quirrell's face.
Yet Quirrell remained in unbearable pain. His expression contorted in torment as he reached instinctively toward Harry, hands outstretched.
From behind, Wentworth's voice came cool and deliberate:
"Harry, I gave you this chance—to claim what's rightfully yours. Are you going to waste it?"
Harry's gaze darted between Wentworth and the writhing Quirrell. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward and, with renewed determination, pressed both hands firmly against Quirrell's face.
Quirrell's screams intensified. His skin, where Harry's hands touched, began to blacken and decay.
Finally, with a sickening thud, Quirrell collapsed to the ground—motionless.
Harry hesitated, then took a step forward to check on him.
But before he could, Wentworth yanked him back.
At that exact moment, a shadow—a twisted, nightmarish figure—erupted from Quirrell's lifeless body, lunging straight for Harry.
But Wentworth was prepared. Without hesitation, he aimed his wand at the spectral form and roared,
"Bombarda Maxima!"
The shadow recoiled, wailing in agony, before vanishing into the depths of the Forbidden Forest.
For a moment, silence fell over the clearing. The Forbidden Forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then, Cedric's voice rang out:
"Kirk!"
Without wasting a second, Cedric sprinted toward where Kirk had fallen.
With Quirrell's demise, the curse holding Cassandra was lifted. She and Hermione immediately rushed to Wentworth and Harry's sides.
Harry, meanwhile, stared numbly at his hands, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.
"What… what just happened?" he murmured, still dazed.
Hermione ran up to him, throwing her arms around him in relief before pulling back to ask urgently, "Harry, how did you do that? What kind of magic was that?"
Though the question was directed at Harry, Hermione's gaze subtly flickered toward Wentworth, betraying her true curiosity.
Harry, too, turned instinctively to Wentworth for an answer.
But Wentworth wasn't paying them any attention.
Instead, he and Cassandra stood a short distance away, eyes locked, gazes lingering with unspoken understanding.
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