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Chapter 163: Old Friends
“Grand Hall,” a woman’s voice echoed coldly inside the elevator. The golden gates slid open, and Dumbledore stepped out alongside Wade.
They hadn’t walked far when they came upon a vast hall, its center dominated by a grand fountain. At its heart stood a group of statues forged entirely from gold— a handsome wizard raising his wand high, a beautiful witch gazing at him with love in her eyes. Around them, centaurs, goblins, and house-elves looked up with reverent admiration.
At the fountain’s base, countless coins gleamed under the light. A small plaque beside it read:
All proceeds from the Brotherhood Fountain are donated to St. Mungo’s Magical Injury Hospital.
Both men paused beside the fountain, gazing up at the statue.
“Beautiful artwork, isn’t it?” Dumbledore tossed a coin into the fountain with a smile. “Though I suspect only wizards and house-elves would truly appreciate this piece. Centaurs and goblins might find it rather… unappealing.”
“Goblins would like the gold,” Wade countered.
Dumbledore chuckled. “True enough.”
“Are the coins really used for the patients?” Wade asked. “Muggle wishing wells are usually just money traps.”
“You can rest assured,” Dumbledore said. “Magic tends to make wizards a little more honorable.”
With that, Wade reached into his pocket and tossed in a handful of coins. The golden Galleons stood out sharply among the silver Sickles and copper Knuts, shimmering brightly as they sank into the water.
A stream of water burst forth from the ear of the house-elf statue, cascading down with a loud splash, the droplets catching the light and glowing like molten gold.
After a moment of silence, Dumbledore sighed.
“Wizards, centaurs, goblins, house-elves— our minds and magic are fundamentally equal. Just as wizards and Muggle-borns, Muggles, are all human.”
“All races make up this world,” he continued. “Each is an essential part of society. Yet wizard prejudice and arrogance have always brought suffering to others— and wizards, in turn, have often reaped the bitter consequences.”
“Even among wizards, it’s the same,” Wade said. “Pure-bloods look down on half-bloods and Muggle-borns, nobles scorn commoners, the rich despise the poor, the clever mock the foolish. Even without race, hierarchies still exist.”
“But some divisions drive progress,” Dumbledore replied. “Others— those based purely on bloodline— only bring pain.”
Wade remained silent.
Dumbledore might have been speaking of house-elves. Or perhaps Muggle-borns. Or even Muggles themselves.
He was discussing matters too deep for a child to grasp. And Wade had no desire to lay bare his own thoughts to another.
The silence lingered for a moment before Dumbledore said, in a lighter tone: “Shall we go?”
“Professor, where are we going?” Wade asked, falling into step beside him.
“You don’t know where we’re headed, yet you follow me?” Dumbledore teased.
“You’re Dumbledore,” Wade said simply.
Dumbledore smiled— this time, a warmer, more genuine smile. The crescent-shaped glasses framed his blue eyes, which crinkled at the corners, and the fine lines around them softened.
“I’d like to take you to meet someone,” he said. “A long-lost old friend.”
…
Stepping out of the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore asked, “Have you ever tried Apparition, Wade?”
“No, Professor,” Wade shook his head.
“Then I can show you. Hold tightly onto my arm,” Dumbledore extended his arm. “It’s not a pleasant sensation, but don’t worry—I’ll ensure your safety.”
Wade gripped Dumbledore’s arm. The wizard was tall, making Wade feel smaller, almost like a child.
“Good. Let’s go,” Dumbledore said.
The moment he spoke, Wade felt an overwhelming pressure— as if every direction of air were pressing in on him, squeezing his body as if it were about to be crushed into a tiny ball.
Pop.
Wade felt as though he’d been forced through a narrow tube. His body snapped back into shape, limbs feeling as though they’d been re-grown.
He steadied himself, then looked up. Dumbledore was patiently waiting.
“Are you alright?” Dumbledore asked with concern. “It takes time to get used to it.”
“I’m fine,” Wade exhaled. “I heard that during wartime, underage wizards had to learn Apparition.”
“Yes, they did,” Dumbledore said.
Wade glanced around. They stood in an unfamiliar valley, a dark, winding path leading into a dense forest. Nearby, on a slope, stood an old house— refined in design, yet clearly in ruins. Not far off, a patch of overgrown grass marked a scattered graveyard.
There was no sign of life nearby.
Wade sensed something, though he didn’t speak. He followed Dumbledore silently down the crooked path.
Dumbledore didn’t make him guess. With a wave of his wand, mist rolled in. Then, ahead, two faint silhouettes emerged.
He couldn’t make out their features, only that they were a man and a woman. The man sat tall on horseback, dressed in fine, elegant clothes. The woman, bent and frail, wore tattered rags.
They were a mismatched pair— yet the man lifted her onto the horse, and they galloped off down the narrow path.
“Many years ago,” Dumbledore said, “there was a young couple— a Muggle family’s handsome son, Tom Riddle, and a witch from the Gaunt family, Merope Gaunt. They ran away together— a scandal that shocked the village.”
“In the eyes of the people, Riddle was a respectable gentleman. The Gaunts were a family of mad wanderers. They were utterly mismatched. So when Tom Riddle returned alone months later, no one was surprised.”
The mist swirled, and a man staggered back— disheveled, alone, his bride gone.
Dumbledore extended his arm. “Come. I’ll show you what happened to Merope.”
Wade took hold of his arm once more.
Crack.
They appeared in a narrow alleyway.
Dumbledore cast a Disillusionment Charm. As they stepped out, Wade recognized the street— a quiet neighborhood in London.
Muggles passed by, utterly unaware of them.
The mist returned. A woman, heavily pregnant, struggled through the snow-laden streets. White flakes drifted onto her shoulders.
Wade followed her silently as Dumbledore spoke.
“After losing her husband, Merope carried her child in poverty. On a snowy night, she gave birth in front of an orphanage.”
The woman collapsed. From the courtyard, people rushed out through the iron gates, shouting, then lifted her inside.
The scene shifted— a newborn infant, crying.
A woman in a apron cradled the baby, bringing him to the mother’s side. The woman stirred, whispered something barely audible, then went still. Her arms fell limp.
“After giving birth, Merope died,” Dumbledore said softly. “On her last breath, she named the child after his father— Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
(End of Chapter)
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