Hogwarts: The Rise of a Dark Heir [R-18]

Jerry stood at the bottom of the steps, suitcase in hand, looking up at Isabella.

His gaze swept from the light blue ribbon bow on her head to the black Mary Janes on her feet.

He looked from her shoes back to the two braids hanging over her chest.

After a full circuit, the corner of his mouth quirked into a smirk.

"I have never seen..."

His tone was slow and unhurried, as if savoring something amusing.

"The famous Senior Isabella, actually dressing so fresh and cute one day."

Isabella’s face flushed red instantly.

It wasn’t the shy pink from before, but a deep, intense crimson bursting from the center of her cheeks.

It looked as if someone had knocked over a jar of rose-colored paint on each side of her face.

The tips of her ears turned a translucent cherry red.

One could see the capillaries inside her ears pulsating frantically beneath the skin.

Isabella’s mouth opened and closed; she wanted to say something, but her throat felt blocked by a wad of cotton.

She managed a muffled "You—" before cutting out.

Then Isabella rolled her eyes.

It was a heavy, forceful eye-roll, her eyeballs turning upward to reveal a large section of the whites.

Her brows scrunched, her nose wrinkled, and the corners of her mouth pulled down.

Her entire face was written with the words: "What kind of nonsense are you talking?"

"What?

Am I some kind of unpresentable figure in your heart?"

Isabella’s voice rose, carrying a trace of genuine annoyance.

But the sweetness hidden beneath that annoyance was like honey at the bottom of a cup—no matter how much you stirred, it wouldn’t dissipate.

Her braids whipped as she spoke.

The light blue ribbon bows at the ends drew an arc in the air.

"Since when do my usual clothes not look good?

Huh?

Tell me!"

She stomped her Mary Jane on the step with a sharp clack.

Her skirt swayed in a circle, and her calves, wrapped in white knee-high socks, were faintly visible as the fabric swished.

Jerry didn’t answer, the curve of his smile only deepening.

Seeing that smile, the flush on Isabella’s face grew a layer thicker.

Her fingers let go of her skirt and clenched into two small fists by her sides, her knuckles turning white.

She glanced left and right.

The iron gates of the manor were twenty meters behind them.

The two stone snakes on the pillars sat quietly, their emerald eyes staring into the distant yew forest.

The gravel path was empty.

The boxwood hedges swayed in the breeze, the snake-shaped leaves emitting a soft rustle.

No one.

There was no one around.

Isabella’s eyes changed.

The clear light carrying a maiden’s shyness was instantly replaced by something else.

It was something deeper, darker, like a spectral fire igniting from the depths of her pupils.

The downward curve of her mouth slowly curled upward into a smirk.

It was an exact replica of her mother’s似笑非笑 (half-smile).

She stepped down from the landing.

One step.

Mary Jane on the second step—clack.

Two steps.

Stepped on the first step—clack.

Three steps.

Stepped onto the gravel path, the stones crunching under her feet.

She stood directly in front of Jerry, close enough to smell the residual ink and parchment on his robes.

She was half a head taller than him.

Her gaze looked down at his face from above.

Her right hand lifted from her side.

Her fingers were long and fair, her nails trimmed neatly with no polish—clean and pure.

She was completely different from her mother’s hands painted with dark purple.

That hand didn’t move upward.

It went down.

Her fingers brushed the hem of Jerry’s school robes, pinching the fabric to lift it slightly.

She revealed the trousers beneath.

Then her palm flipped, facing down, with five fingers spreading.

She placed it directly over Jerry’s crotch.

Through the fabric of his trousers, her palm pressed against the bulge.

The heat of his body transferred through the fabric.

The thing beneath the cloth jumped the moment her palm touched it, like an awakened snake.

Isabella’s fingers closed.

Her fingers gripped the thick outline of his member through the fabric.

The moment she gripped it, her hand stiffened—it was too thick.

Her fingers couldn’t even meet; she could only barely wrap around half the shaft.

The other half bulged out between her thumb and pinky, stretching the trouser fabric taut.

She squeezed hard once.

The object in her palm deformed under her strength.

The skin of the shaft was squeezed by her fingers through the material.

She could feel the coiled veins beneath the skin rolling between her fingers—one by one, hard as iron, like vines wrapped around a tree trunk.

She squeezed again.

Harder this time, her nails digging into the shaft through the fabric.

The material caved into five little pits under her nails.

Under her second grip, the member began to expand, going from half-hard to seventy-percent erect.

The heat scorched her palm through the trousers, making her fingertips tingle.

Isabella kept that half-smile, but her ear tips were red enough to bleed.

Even her small silver earring reflected the pink flush.

Her breathing grew heavy, and her chest heaved beneath the light blue dress.

But her hand was steady—as steady as her mother holding a wine glass.

Isabella leaned in, her lips close to Jerry’s ear.

Her hot breath hit his auricle, making the fine hairs stand on end.

"I look good in anything."

Her voice was a low whisper, audible only to the two of them.

The breathy sound squeezed from between her teeth, every word carrying a damp heat.

"But!"

Her fingers gave another squeeze at his crotch.

This time her thumb found the outline of the head.

She ground her thumb over it through the fabric; it felt as massive as a goose egg.

Her thumb ground from one side of the ridge to the other, a long distance to travel.

"Even if I didn’t look good, you are not allowed to look down on me."

Isabella’s fingers finally let go.

The moment her palm left his crotch, it left five wrinkles in the fabric.

In the center of those wrinkles, the outline was clearly visible—the shaft extended from the base to the waistband.

The tip nearly touched the belt buckle, propping the fabric into an exaggerated tent.

Isabella withdrew her hand, rubbing her fingers against her dress as if wiping away the residual heat.

She took a step back, her shoes crunching on the gravel.

Her expression switched back to "Innocent Senior" mode in an instant.

Eyes curving, smile sweet, braids hanging obediently, ribbons fluttering.

"Let’s go! I’ll show you your room!"

Her voice regained its clear, bright maidenly tone, as if nothing had happened.

She turned, her braids swinging, her skirt swirling like a blue flower around her calves.

Her white-clad legs flashed as she ascended the steps—clack, clack, clack.

Her pace was light, like a silent waltz.

She pushed open the ajar front door; the hinges gave a soft creak.

Sunlight flooded the corridor, paving a golden carpet on the stone floor.

Isabella stood inside, leaning against the frame.

Her right hand—the one that just gripped him—beckoned him.

"Hurry up, you’re dawdling."

Her smile was curved, her silver eyes sparkling like gold dust.

The dark fire deep in her pupils hadn’t quite died out.

In the sun, she looked like a piece of charcoal wrapped in light blue candy paper—sweet on the outside, scalding at the core.

She tapped the doorframe twice—clack, clack.

The rhythm was identical to her mother’s, slow and composed.

Jerry stepped up with his suitcase, the metal latches clanking.

As he passed her, their shoulders nearly brushed.

The hem of her sleeve touched his robe, a tiny rustle between them.

Isabella’s nose twitched.

The corridor had dark, polished oak floors.

Isabella’s Mary Janes clicked sharply, echoing in the narrow space.

Ancestral portraits lined the walls—wizards from various eras.

Some dozed, some whispered; a few watched Jerry with scrutinizing eyes.

"Second floor, turn left, second door."

Isabella’s voice came from ahead. She didn’t look back.

Her braids swayed; the bows jumped between her shoulder blades like tethered butterflies.

Her right hand hung by her side, fingers curling unconsciously.

Her palm still held the memory of that heat and texture—that engorged, iron-like hardness.

The sensation of it through the trousers had made her palm numb.

She curled her fingers again.

Her pad rubbed against her palm, as if savoring the feeling.

The stairs were spiral, with oak railings carved with snake patterns.

The snake wound upward, its head rising at the landing, flicking a forked tongue.

Isabella’s hand rested on the snake, her fingers sliding over the carved scales.

As she climbed, her skirt fluttered, revealing the pinkish skin of her inner knees through her white stockings.

The second-floor corridor was narrower, the oils replaced by landscapes.

Highlands, coasts, and a watercolor of a yew forest where the leaves actually rustled.

She turned at the end, stopping at the second door.

It was a dark oak door with a brass handle polished to a mirror shine.

She pressed the handle—click—and the door opened.

"This is your room."

She stepped aside, bracing the frame with her left hand.

Her right hand—still curling—hung low.

The room was small but pristine.

A single bed sat by the window with white sheets and a neatly folded dark blue blanket on the pillow.

It faced the yew forest; afternoon sun filtered through, casting a golden band on the bed.

A nightstand held an oil lamp and a glass vase with fresh lavender.

The purple flowers swayed in the draft, emitting a faint aroma.

Isabella tapped the doorframe.

"My room is opposite."

She nodded toward the door across the hall.

It had a hand-drawn constellation map—Cassiopeia—shimmering in silver ink.

"Mother’s room is next to yours."

She glanced at the wall to Jerry’s right.

Beyond that oak and plaster was Cassiopeia’s room.

A faint scent of tuberose and ambergris drifted through.

Isabella’s nose wrinkled.

She withdrew her hand, clasping them both behind her back, her fingers interlacing tightly.

Her face wore that obedient smile, but her silver eyes were churning like an undercurrent.

"If you need anything!"

She tipped forward, her nose nearly touching his forehead.

Her breath smelled of peppermint—the same as her mother’s.

"Knock on my door anytime."

"And, it would be best if you only knock on mine!"

The Transfiguration classroom door was kicked open halfway through the third period.

Not pushed—blasted.

The wood hit the wall, hinges screaming.

Decades of dust fell from the frame, swirling in the light.

Third-year Gryffindors looked up, wands frozen.

Half-finished teacup-turtles with cup-handle heads sat on desks, looking like cursed ceramic reptiles.

Two men burst in.

Specifically, one carrying another.

The carrier was Kingsley Shacklebolt, Senior Auror.

His six-foot-plus frame had to duck to enter.

His robes were caked in mud and dark red fluid—mostly dried into a hard crust that cracked as he moved.

The man he carried couldn’t stand.

One leg was twisted at an impossible angle below the knee.

The broken tibia propped the trouser leg like a sharp tent, piercing the fabric.

Blood soaked the hole, dripping onto the flagstones—tap, tap, tap.

A trail of dark red dots followed Kingsley.

The man’s face was ashen, lips purple, eyes sunken and unfocused.

Bloody foam bubbled at his lips with every breath, popping on his chin.

Professor McGonagall’s quill froze in mid-air.

She was writing notes on the board: "Note the carapace patterns—"

The chalk tip screeched as she turned.

"Minerva!"

Kingsley’s voice exploded, rough as sandpaper on iron.

He stumbled through the aisles; students scrambled away, chairs screeching.

"We need your Transfiguration!"

McGonagall put the chalk back slowly, as if in ritual.

White dust coated her fingerprints.

She turned, eyes sharp behind square glasses.

She scanned Kingsley, the dying man, the blood trail, and the third person at the door—

Mundungus Fletcher.

He was short and stout in a filthy brown coat.

He looked anxious and guilty, peeking in like a rat in a cat’s den.

"It’s Dawson."

Kingsley laid him on the floor by the podium.

Dawson leaned against the wood, his leg at a ninety-degree angle.

The break was swollen as a fist, the skin turning bruised green and yellow like rotting fruit.

"Shattered fracture, internal bleeding, possible ruptured spleen."

"St. Mungo’s won’t make it—too many Apparition hops. He won’t survive the second."

Kingsley gripped Dawson’s shoulder, knuckles white, sweat dripping onto the dying man’s face.

"Turn him into a cat, or a rat—anything."

"Shrink his volume to slow the bleeding and bone stress. We just need a drop of Dittany to stabilize him, then..."

"Kingsley."

McGonagall’s voice cut him off.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp as a fresh blade.

She stepped out, her emerald robes dragging slightly.

Her glasses slid down her nose; she didn’t fix them, looking over the rims at Kingsley.

She looked at Dawson for three seconds.

From his face to his leg, to the spreading pool of blood, to Kingsley’s hands.

Then she looked away.

"No."

Kingsley’s grip tightened.

"Minerva!"

"I said no."

Her voice didn’t rise or fall—it was a flat, emotionless horizon.

She walked back, picked up the chalk, and faced the board.

She continued the sentence: "—should maintain consistency with the original glaze of the teacup."

The chalk scratched the silence.

White powder fell into the tray.

"Is this a joke?!"

Kingsley stood, nearly hitting the chandelier.

"Dawson is dying! He’s Order! He’s one of us! You just need to—"

"He is an Order member."

McGonagall’s chalk paused on the last stroke.

"He is not mine."

The room was silent enough to hear Dawson’s shallow, wet wheezing—like a crushed bellows.

Every breath was a wet gurgle of blood in the lungs.

Kingsley’s knuckles cracked.

"Minerva, listen to yourself..."

"I hear myself clearly."

She put down the chalk and turned, pushing her glasses up.

Her eyes were like polished gray stones.

"Kingsley, I am no longer a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

"You know it, Fletcher knows it, every member knows it."

She tapped the lectern—clack.

"What is the Order, Kingsley?

It’s not the Ministry. It’s not under law. It doesn’t answer to the Wizengamot."

"It is a private organization, driven by Dumbledore’s personal will, existing outside the law."

Her voice was steady, but a steel needle hid under the velvet.

"To a certain extent, the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters are the same concept."

Kingsley’s face went pale.

It wasn’t anger, but the shock of a punch to an unshielded spot.

"You—how can you say that..."

"I speak the truth."

Professor McGonagall withdrew her fingers from the edge of the lectern.

She crossed her hands in front of her, interlacing her ten fingers.

The chalk dust clinging to her knuckles fell in a fine powder with every movement.

"The Death Eaters do not follow the law, and neither does the Order of the Phoenix."

"The Death Eaters act according to Voldemort’s personal will; the Order acts according to Dumbledore’s."

"Members of the Death Eaters sell their lives for Voldemort, and members of the Order sell theirs for Dumbledore."

"What is the only difference? Is it a difference in purpose? Or a difference in methods?"

Her gaze fell on the pool of blood on the floor.

The edges had already begun to coagulate, turning from liquid crimson to semi-solid dark red, like cooling lava.

"How was Dawson injured?"

Kingsley did not answer.

Mundungus shifted his feet at the door, his filthy boots scraping against the flagstones with a sharp creak.

"It was Azkaban," McGonagall’s voice remained flat and without inflection.

"In the early hours of yesterday morning, Azkaban was blown open."

"Death Eaters escaped. The Order sent a team to intercept them. Dawson was a member of that team."

Her eyes moved from the blood to Kingsley’s face.

"The Order’s interception was not authorized by the Ministry, not approved by the Auror Office, and they didn’t even notify the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Dumbledore made the decision alone, and the members of the Order followed without a word."

Kingsley’s Adam’s apple rolled, as if he were swallowing something bitter.

"Dawson was injured. Instead of going to St. Mungo’s or a Ministry medical station, you ran to Hogwarts to find me."

"Why? Because going to St. Mungo’s requires explaining how the injury happened."

"It requires explaining why the Order acted without authorization. It means facing a Ministry investigation."

The corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitched downward, an arc as cold as a December wind.

"So you came to me. Because I am a Hogwarts professor."

"Because my Transfiguration can temporarily stabilize a wound."

"Because what happens inside Hogwarts does not need to be reported to the Ministry."

She let her hands fall to her sides, her emerald green robes rustling like silk as she turned away.

"I refuse."

Dawson let out a weak groan from the floor.

The sound seemed to come from very far away, so faint it was nearly swallowed by the air in the classroom.

His fingers clawed at the stone floor, his nails scraping the surface with a faint hiss.

Dried blood scabs were packed under his fingernails.

The third-year students shrank behind their desks.

Several girls had red-rimmed eyes, and one boy’s hand was shaking so much that sparks flew from his wand.

The sparks landed on his desk, burning a small hole into his parchment.

Kingsley took a deep breath, his chest expanding to its limit.

The fabric of his Auror robes pulled taut over his chest, cracking the dried blood crust into new fissures.

"Minerva, no matter what you think of the Order, Dawson is a human being. He is bleeding. He is dying."

"You are a professor. You have the power to save him..."

"I have the power," McGonagall said with her back to him, picking up the chalk again.

She wrote the next line on the board: Special attention must be paid to the correlation of spinal vertebrae during transfiguration.

"But I have no obligation."

The scratch-scratch of the chalk filled the silence of the classroom.

It filled the gap between Dawson’s fading breaths and Kingsley’s heavy panting.

McGonagall put the chalk back and turned around, her emerald robes sweeping across the floor.

She pushed her square glasses back to the bridge of her nose.

Her face, in its early thirties, was perfectly maintained—pale skin, sharp eyes, and firm lips.

"There is one more thing, Kingsley, that you seem to have forgotten."

She tapped her finger on the edge of the lectern.

"My current identity is the Director of the Department for the Security and Protection of Underage Wizards."

"I am not just a Hogwarts professor, and I certainly hold no office within the Order of the Phoenix."

"I must strictly follow Ministry regulations and laws. Not a single line can be crossed."

"Your operation had no authorization, no record with the Aurors, not even a formal application."

Her gaze moved from Kingsley to Dawson, lingering on the twisted, broken leg for two seconds.

"If I were to act here, I would be assisting in the cleanup of an illegal operation."

"That is not something I can do, nor is it something I am willing to do."

Kingsley’s lips moved, but he said nothing.

"So I advise you to go find someone who can actually save him instead of wasting time with me."

Her voice remained steady, like she was reading a pre-written statement.

Kingsley looked down at Dawson, whose eyelids flickered.

A small bubble of bloody froth formed at the corner of the man’s mouth, burst, and trickled down his chin.

Kingsley grunted as he hoisted Dawson back up.

The broken leg emitted a faint, nearly inaudible moan as it was dragged.

Mundungus stepped aside at the door, his pockets clinking.

He looked at McGonagall for a second before following Kingsley out with his head hung low.

The three of them left.

The door closed behind them with a heavy click.

The footsteps in the corridor grew fainter and finally vanished at the stairs.

McGonagall walked over to the pool of blood on the floor.

She drew her wand from her inner pocket and gave it a sharp flick.

"Scourgify."

The blood vanished. The floor was as clean as if it had never existed.

She put her wand away, walked back to the podium, and finished her notes on the board.

No one in the classroom spoke.

The third-year students sat in a daze; some stared at the clean floor, others forgot to continue their spells.

McGonagall turned back to the class.

"Continue. Finish your teacups. The carapace pattern must match the original glaze."

The sound of waving wands resumed, though many incantations were shaky.

One girl’s teacup turned into a shell-less turtle that huddled on her desk.

McGonagall paced the room, stopping at one desk to knock on the wood, signaling a student to restart.

She returned to the podium and looked at every face still vibrating with shock.

"Children," her voice changed, becoming deeper and slower.

"Once you have made a choice, you must walk that path without hesitation."

Her fingers gripped the edge of the lectern, her knuckles white.

"Otherwise, it is best not to make a choice at all."

A magical photograph slid across the walnut desk, stopping in front of Jerry’s fingertips.

The witch in the photo sat in an intricate silver high-backed chair, wearing a midnight-blue cloak.

Her posture was elegant, her chin raised with innate arrogance.

Most striking were her eyes—not brown or blue, but a thick, dark red like fresh blood.

In the loop of the photo, she lifted a crystal glass and smirked coldly at whoever was looking.

"Who is this?" Jerry asked, feeling the faint magical pulse from the paper.

In the wizarding world, anyone with pupils that color was at the top of the bloodline hierarchy.

That look was the result of centuries of pure-blood families looking down on "Mudbloods" and "commoners."

Cassiopeia was reclining on a soft sofa behind the desk.

One long leg wrapped in black silk was draped over the armrest, her high heel dangling.

She propped up her head, pinching a half-peeled purple grape.

The juice ran down her slender fingers, leaving a glistening trail on her pale skin.

"My arch-rival," Cassiopeia said lazily, her voice like silk soaked in alcohol.

"You can call her the ’Red-Eyed Viper’."

"If you want to make enough money to fill three Gringotts vaults at the Quidditch World Cup, you have to help me deal with her."

She popped the grape into her mouth and chewed slowly, her eyes flashing with calculation.

Jerry sneered.

He pushed the photo back and leaned against the chair.

Even as a "young wizard," Jerry exuded a sense of heavy oppression in the large chair.

"You have so many people, especially those manic Death Eaters."

"Since you blew up Azkaban, those lunatics are desperate for a place to vent their rage."

"Why do you need my help to deal with one witch?"

Cassiopeia rolled her eyes with immense charm.

She propped herself up, her silk loungewear slipping down to reveal a large expanse of white cleavage squeezed by black lace.

Her full orbs trembled slightly with her breath.

"Jerry, darling, this is the difference between me and that brainless Tom."

She stood up, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet as she walked around the desk.

With every step, her hips swayed in an exaggerated arc.

"Different people require different methods. To deal with the Order, you use Death Eaters, filling their appetites with blood."

"But for a pure-blood witch from a family of hundreds of years, they don’t fear violence. They revere it."

She walked behind Jerry and placed her hands on his shoulders.

Her long fingertips sank into his thick muscles, kneading them firmly.

"They value reputation and that hypocritical family honor more."

"So, it’s better to use... softer methods."

"Like what?" Jerry asked.

He could feel Cassiopeia bending over, her heavy chest pressing against his back.

Even through layers of fabric, he felt the intense heat of those two soft mounds on his shoulder blades.

She leaned close to his ear, her cool nose brushing his cheek, smelling of mint and dangerous magic.

"Like this," she whispered with a mischievous smile.

"Kissing her like this in public."

Before he could react, Cassiopeia grabbed Jerry’s chin and swung her body around from the back of the chair into his lap.

She straddled his knees, her wide silk skirt failing to hide anything as her black-silk thighs pressed against his trousers.

Cassiopeia kissed him violently.

It was an aggressive, predatory kiss.

Her forked tongue-tip forced his teeth open instantly, invading his mouth like a bandit.

"Mmh..."

Jerry’s breathing turned heavy in a second.

Cassiopeia gripped the back of his head, her nails sinking into his hair.

Her lips were wet and soft, tasting of dark purple lipstick and sweet grape juice.

The sound of their tongues churning and saliva overflowing echoed in the quiet study.

Cassiopeia closed her eyes, her eyelashes trembling.

She began to writhe in Jerry’s arms, her crotch grinding rhythmically against the root of his thighs.

As the kiss deepened, Jerry’s primal instincts were set ablaze.

His cock, which far exceeded the size of any peer or even most adults, rapidly expanded and hardened under his school pants.

It was an incredibly thick, vein-covered pillar, now acting like a red-hot iron thrusting against Cassiopeia’s crotch.

"Hah... Jerry..."

Cassiopeia pulled back slightly, drawing a long, transparent string of silver between their lips.

It quivered before snapping and landing on Jerry’s collar.

She felt it.

Through two layers of fabric, the massive head of his dick was pressing hard against her slit.

The terrifying hardness and straight contour made her pupils contract, flashing with a green glow.

"That look..." she panted, her neck arching back in a perfect curve.

"When you look at her like you want to eat her alive, then shove your tongue into her mouth in front of the aristocrats..."

"And thrust that scary thing under her skirt..."

Cassiopeia’s hand slid down, covering Jerry’s crotch directly.

She spread her fingers, trying to wrap them around him.

Even with her long, slender hands, she could only grip about two-thirds of the shaft.

The feeling of her palm being stretched full made her breathing lose all rhythm.

"She will go crazy," Cassiopeia giggled, her nail scraping lightly against a throbbing vein through his pants.

"And then she will become my puppet."

"And you, you will get everything you want. The World Cup pools, the basilisk potion shares, even... me."

She lowered her head again, sealing Jerry’s mouth once more.

This time, the wet sounds were louder.

Their tongues fought in a narrow space, saliva churning.

Cassiopeia’s thighs began to tremble spasmodically, her black silk hooking around Jerry’s waist as she pulled him into her.

She was like a lazy, greedy snake coiled around a massive "mouse," tasting the dessert of power.

"Remember this feeling, Jerry," she murmured against his lips.

"This is the spell to conquer them."

She twisted her slender waist, her crotch grinding in frantic circles over his massive cock.

The friction of the fabric produced a constant, lewd rustle.

The tension of a "small horse pulling a massive carriage" was pushed to the limit.

She felt Jerry’s cock continuing to swell, the scorching heat almost burning her through the cloth.

She knew she was playing with fire, but the pleasure of walking the line between destruction and control was her nature.

"How is it... my dear son-in-law?" she sighed with delight.

Cassiopeia covered his lips again, this time using her teeth to nibble on his corners, sending waves of numbing pain through him.

"Keep going... don’t stop," she ordered into his ear.

Jerry responded with a tighter embrace.

The terrifying cock throbbed again, sensing its master’s battle intent and straining his school pants to their absolute limit.