Slytherin values strength and reveres the strong.
Therefore, few people echoed Rodolphus’s words, and he stopped making a fool of himself.
After beating up a bunch of guys who came to challenge her, finally no one dared to mock Isolde’s mixed-blood status in front of her.
Of course, they might gossip about her behind her back, but at least Isolde didn’t hear it.
After a short while, she experienced her Hogwarts life all over again.
Quidditch matches, Herbology research, potion brewing.
It was almost the same as her past life; the only difference was that her House had changed, her experience had changed, and the people around her had changed.
One habit of Isolde’s remained unchanged: she would go to the Library to sit for a while after finishing her classes on Tuesday.
She used to go with her Ravenclaw roommates, and she could still see them there now.
However, looking at the Slytherin-colored scarf wrapped around her neck,
Isolde did not step forward to strike up a conversation.
Later, she fought with Bellatrix once again.
Amidst the bombardment of spells,
Every time Isolde raised her hand, every spell, every magical block and counterattack, her moves, her casting rhythm, and even the subtle habits of her wand twitching turned out to be identical to Bellatrix’s.
Fierce attacking spells, tricky dodging footwork, precise magical counter-clashes, and a ruthless fighting style that used offense as defense…
Exactly the same, as if originating from the same source.
Bellatrix had never seen such a bizarre scene.
The fighting style of the person in front of her seemed to replicate another version of herself.
Isolde’s heart also skipped a beat.
The special ability “Talent Resonance” she had acquired earlier actually came in a bit handy at this moment.
After it ended, Bellatrix still didn’t win.
Isolde still didn’t hold back quite enough, and a spell of “Incendio” burned Bellatrix’s ankle.
With a “splat,” Bellatrix fell to the ground again.
Her pure white socks were scorched with a charred hole by the jumping sparks, and a glaring patch of red, swollen, and burning scalds appeared on her delicate skin.
A sharp, piercing pain surged continuously from her ankle up into her limbs, making her whole body tremble uncontrollably.
The excruciating pain drained all the color from her already fair face, making it as pale as paper.
Instead of curling up and enduring the pain like ordinary young witches, she stiffened her back tightly, propped herself up laboriously against the ground, forced her upper body straight, and held her neck high with pride.
Her hazy eyes stared fixedly at Isolde, who stood calmly and upright in front of her.
Her eyes were churning with towering fury and extreme unwillingness at this moment.
Not even those a grade higher than her.
Even the talented Pure-blood children could only barely rival her, and no one had ever been able to suppress her step by step.
Even less could anyone be like Isolde, whose every detail of spellcasting and every habit were identical to hers without the slightest difference.
This bizarre overlap drove her mad far more than the result of defeat.
It was simply like a clone!
Bellatrix’s fingertips unconsciously dug deeply into the ground beneath her, her knuckles turning pale and bluish from excessive force.
Biting her back teeth, her voice carrying a suppressed tremor, every word reeking of malice: “Merlin’s beard! What on earth did you do? Why is your spellcasting method so similar to mine?”
She couldn’t understand it, nor could she accept it.
The casting rhythm, the subtle arc of her wand rotation, the tricky dodging angles, the fierce fighting style, and even the fluctuation frequency when magic erupted.
The mixed-blood girl in front of her had perfectly replicated all her combat habits.
That was not a stiff, imitative similarity, but a congruence akin to sharing the same origin, as if Isolde had naturally shared the exact same thoughts as her.
Isolde stood quietly in place, radiating a relaxed composure.
The classic Slytherin-colored scarf around her neck was slightly loosened, and she looked down at Bellatrix on the ground, who was both angry and in pain yet stubbornly refusing to show weakness.
A faint smile flashed across the depths of Isolde’s eyes, her voice light and gentle.
“Maybe this is fate. You know, Bella, I am a genius. Getting to know a genius who understands you seems pretty good too.”
This breezy remark, like a fine needle, accurately pierced all of Bellatrix’s pride.
Instantly igniting her suppressed-to-the-extreme anger.
A genius?
A mixed-blood witch capable of completely replicating her moves and her combat instincts?
A deep flush instantly rushed up Bellatrix’s already pale cheeks—shame, annoyance, and above all, extreme unwillingness.
The raging fire burned her internal organs until they felt hot, and the pain in her ankle had long been overshadowed by the towering anger.
Her chest rose and fell violently, and her breathing carried a hurried malice.
“Winnier, I told you! I have no intention of exchanging first names with you!”
She growled these words through clenched teeth, speaking at an extremely fast pace.
Yet the person in front of her could always precisely poke at all her bottom lines and wantonly disrupt all her rhythms.
Looking at Bellatrix’s fur-raising, furious appearance, she looked like a Pure-blood Black cat that had been provoked yet was covered in injuries and powerless to fight back.
Obviously looking disheveled, she was fierce yet stubborn.
Isolde’s heart softened a bit, her tone remaining gentle, carrying a hint of stubborn seriousness as she softly replied:
“But it sounds really nice.”
Those simple seven words completely crushed Bellatrix’s last shred of sanity.
“No—!” Find the original chapter at g.com.
Is she toxic or what?
She beats me up and then praises me?
Bellatrix glared fixedly at Isolde, her eye sockets turning slightly red from extreme anger.
“You are simply unreasonable!”
Bellatrix rebuked through gritted teeth, struggling to stand up, wanting to rely on her own strength to stand straight and maintain her dignity.
But as soon as she exerted force, a piercing, agonizing pain shot from the scald on her ankle.
Her legs went soft, her figure swayed again, and she almost fell heavily once more.
She stumbled awkwardly.
In the end, she barely managed to stand.
The surrounding onlookers didn’t even dare to breathe heavily.
Everyone clearly saw that from start to finish in this duel, Bellatrix was faintly suppressed by Isolde.
This all-around, dead-angle-free predictive suppression was far more shocking than a simple victory or defeat.
Not far away, Rodolphus stood at the back of the crowd with an extremely ugly expression.
Relying on his Pure-blood status, he had secretly looked down upon and mocked Isolde’s mixed-blood origin, but as a Slytherin, he respected opponents with formidable strength.
In the center of the field, Isolde looked at Bellatrix and stepped forward gently.
“May I help you up?”
“Stay back!”
Bellatrix reprimanded sharply, her voice tight.
“Black doesn’t need your fake kindness! I’ll go to the Hospital Wing myself.”
She would never admit that her skills were inferior to others.
Hearing this, Isolde paused slightly, her eyes holding a shallow smile, neither refuting nor explaining.
“Oh, alright, Bella.”
She lowered her gaze to look at Bellatrix’s red, swollen, and burning ankle, her gaze softening a bit:
“I didn’t hold back my strength just now and injured you. I’m sorry.”
The high-and-mighty pity of a victor was a naked humiliation.
She was trembling all over with anger, her teeth clenched so tightly that her gums ached and throbbed.
Does she need an apology?
Being injured in a duel can only be considered one’s own problem.