Chapter 190: Prophecy and the Path

Mihal circled the surface of Black Lake again and again, occasionally spitting fire downward or diving into the water before bursting back up. But after several repetitions, the lake only rippled faintly—then quickly settled into stillness.

“It looks like the Undead Corpses have all been eradicated… or their stiffened minds finally learned to avoid danger,” Remus Lupin said, glancing back. Only Regulus remained of Voldemort’s undead guard, still struggling weakly and uselessly.

“Sirius Black… Regulus… he…”

“Burn him.” Sirius Black lowered his arm, not approaching his young brother, his voice dripping with cynicism. “I’ll bring his ashes to my mad mother.”

Remus Lupin stared at him, struck by the unnatural pallor of his face—so pale it mirrored the undead. He sighed helplessly.

“Sirius Black, don’t be so childish.”

“The war was over a decade ago. Regulus clearly realized his mistake—though he never had the chance to turn back.”

“If we dispose of his body so carelessly now, you’ll regret it someday.”

“It’s not shameful to grieve for your younger brother’s death, Sirius Black.”

Sirius Black’s lips twitched. He glanced briefly at the struggling corpse on the ground—then recoiled as if burned.

Though Sirius had been cast out by his family as a traitor and a disgrace, and though he despised every member of the Black bloodline, he couldn’t deny that once, they had been close. Before Sirius entered Gryffindor, Regulus had adored him—clinging like a shadow, so attached that Sirius had often felt suffocated.

“Dumbledore—”

Sirius’s cynicism cracked. His head drooped. His fingers clenched involuntarily. “I remember a spell… one that could purge the Soul Binding Magic from an Undead Corpse, granting the dead peace…”

It was an advanced, obscure form of white magic—powerful, requiring immense magical strength. Only Dumbledore knew how to perform it.

In past wars, they had only learned how to destroy or expel these dangerous creatures. They never regarded them as kin, never wasted their own power to grant the dead a proper farewell.

That was because Voldemort’s undead were mostly created from Muggles—so few had imagined that one of their own relatives might end up among them.

Now, it had happened to Regulus.

To see his once-quiet, obedient younger brother, dead yet still enslaved by the enemy—though they had barely spoken in years—was agony beyond words.

Facing Sirius like this, Dumbledore could not refuse.

“When this is over,” Dumbledore said gently, “I will free him from the soul binding.”

“Sirius Black, accepting the death of a relative is a long and painful journey. You may be weak. You may weep. There is no shame in that. We are here to support you.”

“But I believe Regulus is now in a better place—free from pain, free from worry. When you meet again in the next world, I believe he’ll greet you with a smile.”

…

Wade walked slowly along the narrow path beside the lake. In normal sight, there was nothing. But he saw green magic drifting through the air like a line of orderly little serpents.

Then Remus Lupin watched as Wade seized something invisible in the air, yanking it forcefully. A sharp, metallic clatter echoed through the stillness.

Suddenly, a thick green copper chain erupted from the water like a venomous serpent, lunging at Wade.

Remus raised his wand—another invisible barrier snapped into place before Wade.

Clang! The chain struck the shield, but didn’t break. It recoiled slightly, then surged forward again.

Clang! A spell struck the chain from the side. Instantly, it went limp, collapsing to the ground, coiling like a dead serpent. The chain pulled a small boat from the lake’s depths.

The boat glowed with a faint green light, drifting silently toward the shore like a ghost beneath the night sky.

“Professor Dumbledore!” Remus called.

Dumbledore gave a nod. “I’ve quieted him a little… Sirius is with him.”

Wade turned.

Sirius wasn’t using a Luminescence Charm. All Wade could see was a dark silhouette—kneeling, crouching, or perhaps just sitting like a large, still black dog.

Remus had once mentioned that since returning from Azkaban, Sirius had developed a fear of darkness. Though he always pretended to be unaffected, a werewolf’s instincts could never be fooled.

Wade turned back.

Though he couldn’t see the man’s face, he felt the weight of loss—of having lost everything, again and again.

Thud. The boat slammed into the bank.

It was narrow—pointed at both ends—too small for more than one or two people.

“Wade,” Remus said to the student beside him, “you’ll have to wait here.”

“I just realized this place doesn’t allow Apparition. We’ll have to cross by boat to reach the center of the lake.”

“Dumbledore and I will go first. You should stay with Sirius.”

Before Wade could speak, Dumbledore spoke first.

“No, Remus. I think you should stay behind.”

“Professor,” Remus frowned, “I admit Wade is exceptional, but he’s still only twelve. I believe I’m better suited to face the unknown dangers…”

“It’s not about who’s more qualified, Remus. Nor is it about ability.” Dumbledore spoke calmly, cutting off the argument before it could form.

“Voldemort cares only about how much magical power crosses this lake. I believe the boat is enchanted—only one wizard can ride it at a time.”

“But Wade—”

“He doesn’t count. After all,” Dumbledore added, as if mindful of how such words might wound a proud youth, “he’s only twelve. Compared to my magic, his power is negligible.”

“Of course,” he continued, “Voldemort never expected someone inside to surpass even his younger self—another foolish miscalculation.”

“Professor, you flatter me,” Wade said, not offended. His magic was still far beneath Dumbledore’s. He had no shame in admitting it.

In his previous life, Dumbledore had eaten more salt than Wade had eaten rice. He was a genius—studied magic his whole life. If Wade, a student who’d only touched magic for less than two years, could outshine him, it would be a mockery of the man’s legacy.

One by one, they stepped onto the boat.

It floated steadily, untouched by imbalance—though the space was so cramped no one could sit. Wade stood like Dumbledore.

A warm hand rested on his shoulder.

Dumbledore, perhaps worried he’d fall, offered support. Wade shifted his neck slightly—uncomfortable, but he didn’t pull away.

“Be careful,” Remus instructed. “I’ll stay here. If anything changes, I’ll act immediately.”

“Yes,” Wade said. “But riding the boat isn’t dangerous. Voldemort needs safe passage too.”

“Alright…” Remus took a deep breath. “If the danger feels uncertain, come back. We’ll figure it out together. No need to solve everything today.”

Wade nodded. “Understood.”

Dumbledore smiled faintly.

Remus’s words were meant for Wade—but Dumbledore knew they were really a quiet protest, a challenge to his own authority.

For the first time, someone inside doubted he could protect those around him.

He saw it clearly: Remus wasn’t distrustful. He simply saw Wade as someone he felt responsible for.

Even though Dumbledore was far stronger, the moment Wade followed him—leaving Remus’s watchful gaze behind—he felt the same anxious worry.

Like a parent guarding their beloved child. Like a miser cradling a priceless jewel—tender, cautious, and utterly precious.

…

The boat slid forward on its own.

It didn’t need a rudder, cutting straight toward the glowing green light at the lake’s center, leaving behind a widening fan of ripples.

The black water was bottomless. Only the faint glow of Dumbledore’s wand—reflected like starlight on the surface—broke the darkness.

Mihal landed at the prow, scanning the lake, occasionally flaring his wings and breathing fire into the water, hoping some stray Undead Corpse might emerge.

Wade imagined a bear child spitting everywhere.

Dumbledore watched Mihal, his eyes reflecting the golden light of the phoenix.

“Such a unique life,” he asked casually. “Where did you find it?”

“In the old Gaunt house,” Wade replied. “I didn’t find it—I created it.”

Dumbledore fell silent for a moment. “…Created?”

“Life Alchemy. Forbidden magic. But also… an unexpected consequence.”

Wade saw no point hiding it from Dumbledore. And lying would only make things worse.

He briefly recounted his encounter with Remus—focusing on the shadowy figure struggling in the inferno flame, but omitting the part where Mihal retrieved the Resurrection Stone.

He didn’t know whether Dumbledore could resist the stone’s temptation. But the fate of the Peverell brother who’d possessed it was a warning he couldn’t ignore.

Dumbledore’s interest was immediate. He pressed for details—then fell into silence.

The boat glided through the water, a soft ripple behind it.

They were far from the shore now. Yet Remus still held his wand aloft, the bright light making his silhouette stand tall like a pine tree.

Magic is tied to the soul. Perhaps that’s why those Wade had helped always found ways to repay him—each in their own way.

But it wasn’t cold exchange. It wasn’t transaction.

As the figure of Remus grew smaller, Wade suddenly spoke.

“Professor…”

“Yes?” Dumbledore looked down.

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“Ask what?”

“How I knew all this… why I’m doing it.”

Silence. So deep it seemed to carry the sound of breath.

Dumbledore didn’t react with surprise. Nor did he wear that smug “everything is under control” expression. Instead, he sighed softly.

“You know, among wizards, some are born with the gift of seeing the future. Our Divination professor—Sybill Trelawney—her great-grandmother was the legendary seer Cassandra Pull Trelawney.”

“Sybill inherited a fragment of that gift… though she struggles to use it properly.”

“Today, the strongest seer I know is Gellert Grindelwald. He sees fragments of the future.”

“Prophecy helped him rise. But it also destroyed him—because he focused only on what he saw, and forgot what truly mattered.”

“Before you, I believed Sybill was merely a talented but erratic seer. And Grindelwald was the only true prophet of our time.”

Wade stared at him.

Dumbledore’s gaze was gentle—but beneath it, a quiet sorrow.

“Wade, I don’t know how much you’ve seen. But I must warn you: don’t overestimate prophecy. Don’t fall into fatalism. Prophecy offers guidance, but you must choose your own path.”

…

The boat gently touched the shore.

Before them stood a small, smooth rock island—no larger than a room—centered by a stone pillar, atop which rested a stone basin glowing with green light.

Dumbledore stepped off first.

His robes, stitched with stars and moons, shimmered as he stood on the black rock. He studied the island for a moment, then turned.

“Wade?”

Wade snapped back from his thoughts. He stepped down, still dazed.

Looking at the old headmaster, he felt a strange mix of surprise—and yet, not really surprise at all.

How could Dumbledore have never questioned him?

Because he already knew.

Prophecy…

But then—what he knew wasn’t prophecy.

Prophecy shifts with the observer’s actions. But his knowledge—his memory of the story—was fixed. A tale with a single, unchanging ending.

And he’d already twisted it enough. He’d already changed so much.

Still, he planned to change more.

People come into this world wanting to leave something behind.

This world gave him a second life.

So peace… was the greatest gift he could return.

As he walked toward the stone basin, Wade thought.

…

And then—just as he stepped onto the island—the badge on his chest flared—a sudden, bright pulse.

His eyes widened.

That was the moment.

The moment he’d been waiting for.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end