38: Chapter 38 The Night of Expansion and the Limits of the Body

At night, the Slytherin Common Room quieted down.

Draco was still muttering about Quirrell and the Third Floor before sleep, only to be shut up by Allen saying, "Keep talking and I'll let Goyle teach you History of Magic."

Goyle turned over: "I can't."

Crabbe mumbled in response: "I can't either."

Draco pulled the quilt up to his chin: "Good, nobody can."

Allen leaned against the headboard, waiting for the breathing of the three to steady before lowering the bed curtains.

He didn't light a lamp.

The blackthorn wand slid out from the narrow gap in front of his palm; the cracked pocket watch was still locked in the ebony box, with blue light leaking through the cracks. Void hovered over the stone slab, its silver vertical pupils staring at the edge of the space.

He couldn't delay any longer tonight.

Quirrell was becoming more active, the Harry trio had found out about Nicolas Flamel, and Nott had started sending messages. The chessboard was moving forward; Allen's trump cards couldn't remain stagnant.

He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the Portable Space.

The 125-square-meter space spread out, with bookshelves, medicinal boxes, cauldrons, and parchment files arranged in sections. It didn't look big, but it was far more decent than that dilapidated bedroom at the orphanage.

Allen waved his wand.

Ten knuts floated up, arranged in two rows.

Step one, positioning.

Step two, folding.

Step three, dislocation and restoration.

The knuts swapped positions silently in the space; one landed on top of the bookshelf, one stuck next to the ebony box, and the remaining few were pressed into the newly opened thin layer of space. Each fold required a temporary anchor point at the boundary.

This thing was much more troublesome than the Levitation Charm in Charms Class.

If a Levitation Charm failed, the feather just fell to the ground.

If Spatial Folding failed, things might fall into a pocket dimension where they couldn't be found.

Last time he almost folded half a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans under the floor; Crabbe searched for an entire afternoon, thinking it was haunted.

Allen didn't stop.

The knuts were replaced by feathers, the feathers by empty ink bottles. The tip of his wand pressed against the spatial line, like folding a piece of paper repeatedly to create fine seams. The boundary began to push outward.

One hundred twenty-six.

One hundred twenty-seven.

Void raised its head, its tail sweeping across the stone slab.

Allen's wrist went numb, his temples hot. He suppressed these reactions and continued to push.

The space was not a warehouse.

It was more like an undeveloped plot of land; it was easy to expand, but hard to stabilize. For every extra square meter, he had to fill in anchor points, reinforce the structure, and suppress the rebound. Otherwise, the moment he opened the space entrance during the day, his textbooks might fall into his pumpkin juice.

Draco would probably go crazy if that happened.

One hundred twenty-eight.

One hundred twenty-nine.

The cracked pocket watch in the ebony box glowed blue for a moment.

Allen paused for half a second.

He couldn't touch time.

He hadn't even recovered his health; touching that cracked pocket watch now would just mean he was complaining about not sleeping long enough.

But the spatial boundary had already been pried open a bit, and retreating would be too much of a loss.

Allen lowered his wand, forcibly keeping the blue light contained within the box.

"Only practice space," he told himself.

Void flicked its tongue, didn't approach the cracked pocket watch, but instead crawled to the newly expanded boundary, the tip of its tail pointing at the blank space.

Allen dropped an anchor point where it pointed.

The boundary pushed outward.

One hundred thirty.

As the space stabilized, problems arose with his physical body in reality.

Allen's forehead on the bed was covered in sweat, his pajamas stuck to his back, and his breathing became very shallow. The passive Spatial Displacement began to jump erratically, the bed curtains were squeezed into tiny creases, and the old leather suitcase by the pillow slid out half an inch.

Inside the Portable Space, Allen also felt that something was wrong.

His legs were weak.

His wrists felt heavy.

The sleepiness wasn't the usual pressure urging him to sleep, but rather a direct draining of the support beneath his body.

He gritted his teeth and dropped the final anchor point.

It couldn't collapse.

Once the newly opened space rolled back, the items inside would be jumbled. Those files, rubbings, and copied pages were his lifelines that he had saved up over this period.

The tip of his wand emitted a low vibration.

One hundred thirty-one.

The boundary stopped.

Allen didn't get greedy, immediately cutting off the practice and withdrawing all the knuts to their original positions. Void swam to his feet, its silver vertical pupils staring at him.

"What are you looking at?"

Allen steadied himself against the bookshelf, his throat dry.

Void didn't move.

"I'm not dead."

The black snake patted the ground with its tail.

Allen couldn't be bothered to argue with a snake, so he withdrew his consciousness from the space.

The next moment, he opened his eyes on the bed.

Hot.

His throat was extremely dry, and there was a low buzzing in his ears. The air inside the bed curtains was stifling from his body heat; he reached out to touch his forehead, and his palm felt scalding.

Trouble.

He turned over to sit up, but his body was half a beat slower.

This loss of control felt terrible.

His power was growing, but his body couldn't keep up. The laws of magic were unreasonable, and the bones and flesh of an eleven-year-old were even more unreasonable. One wanted to expand, the other just wanted to sleep, and caught in the middle was this body of his that hadn't finished developing yet.

Allen leaned against the bedpost, closing his eyes to adjust the Spatial Displacement.

He couldn't let this reach the Hospital Wing.

If Madam Pomfrey checked, Snape would know. If Snape knew, Dumbledore would know sooner or later.

By then, the "sleepy Potter branch" would become "a Potter branch with abnormal health, abnormal magic, and abnormal night activities."

That would be a loss.

He raised his hand and opened a very narrow spatial opening inside the bed curtains; cold air was drawn in, then compressed by the displacement into a gentle flow, cooling his forehead and the back of his neck.

It worked, but it was slow.

Allen leaned against the bedpost and endured until dawn, sleeping three times during the process, and waking up hot each time.

In the early morning, Draco was the first to pull back the bed curtains.

"Potter, you'd better not be — again today."

He didn't finish his sentence.

Draco saw Allen sitting by the bed, his hair soaked with sweat, his complexion far worse than usual.

He frowned: "Are you sick?"

Allen lifted his eyes: "No."

Draco reached out to touch his forehead.

Before his hand could touch him, the air shifted aside.

Draco's hand stopped in mid-air, his expression even uglier: "You're burning up like this, and you're still blocking people?"

"Habit."

"You need to go to the Hospital Wing."

"Not going."

"Madam Pomfrey won't eat you."

"She will examine me."

Draco lowered his voice: "Are you afraid of an examination?"

Allen picked up his shirt, his movements a bit slow: "I hate trouble."

Crabbe was woken up, poking his head out from his bed: "Who's sick?"

Goyle also sat up: "Can we skip class if we're sick?"

Draco looked back: "Both of you shut up."

Crabbe thought about it seriously: "Should we call the Dean?"

Allen looked at him.

Crabbe pulled his head back: "Not calling."

Goyle lay back down: "I'm not awake either."

Draco stood by the bed, not moving away: "You're burning up quite badly."

"Did you measure?"

"You look like you're about to collapse."

"That's because your observation skills are poor."

Draco was choked up, but his anger didn't flare up. He stared at Allen putting on his robes and suddenly said: "Did you practice again last night?"

Allen fastened his cuffs: "Sleepwalking."

"Can sleepwalking burn you like this?"

"Do you have deep research on sleepwalking?"

Draco gritted his teeth: "Do you have to twist every sentence to stab someone?"

"Saves effort."

Allen held the bedpost and stood up.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, his knees almost buckled.

Draco reached out to help.

Spatial Displacement pushed his hand away again.

Draco endured for two seconds: "If you push me again, I'm really going to call Madam Pomfrey."

Allen stopped.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

Allen removed the displacement.

Draco supported his arm, but still wanted to regain some ground with his words: "Don't misunderstand, I'm just afraid you'll collapse in the Common Room and embarrass Slytherin."

"Good reason."

"You'd better remember it."

"Are you keeping a tab?"

"The fact that you still have the energy to be sarcastic means it's not your time to die yet."

Crabbe got out of bed: "Then are we still going for breakfast?"

Goyle had already started putting on his shoes: "Sick people eat less, can we take more?"

Draco closed his eyes: "You two will be recruited by the kitchen sooner or later."

Allen sat back on the edge of the bed, raising a hand to press his brow.

The Spatial Displacement swirled around the outer layer of his skin, conducting the heat bit by bit into the cold air inside the bed curtains. His forehead wasn't as hot anymore, but the exhaustion in his bones remained, as if someone had drained half a month of sleep from him.

He wrote two lines on the parchment.

Space expanded to 131 square meters.

Training halved, continuous folding prohibited.

After writing, he put the paper into the Portable Space.

Void guarded the newly expanded boundary, its tail pressing on that piece of paper, not moving.

Draco looked at him: "What are you writing again?"

"Medical advice."

"Who prescribed it?"

"Me."

Draco was silent for a moment: "You're a difficult patient to take care of."

Allen stood up and picked up his textbook.

Draco blocked the door: "Really going to class?"

"Not going is more troublesome."

"You'll fall asleep in class."

"I usually sleep anyway."

"Today is different."

Allen looked at him: "Help me block it."

Draco was stunned.

This was the first time Allen had said something like this.

Not a command, not sarcasm, and not treating someone like an errand boy.

Just five words.

Draco swung his schoolbag onto his shoulder: "If you collapse in Potion Class, I'll say you were infected by Weasley's poverty."

Crabbe nodded: "Is that a good reason?"

Goyle thought about it: "Contagious diseases need to be quarantined."

Allen walked to the door: "Then stay away from me."

Crabbe immediately took a half step back.

Goyle also took a half step back.

Draco laughed in anger: "You guys really stepped back?"

"He said contagious." Goyle answered very honestly.

Allen pushed the door and went out.

The coldness of the Dungeon pressed against him, and his feverish skin finally felt a bit better. But he knew very well that this wasn't recovery; it was just suppression.

Power was growing too fast, and the body would collapse first.

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