Chapter 253: Wade Will Handle This
Ministry of Magic’s Minister, Cornelius Fudge, was short in stature and dressed in a way that struck Harry as utterly outdated—almost comically antique. He wore a purple-striped suit paired with green pointed shoes, resembling a clown performing on a stage for a pre-graduation ceremony.
Now, standing beside Dumbledore, Fudge felt the oppressive weight of the Giant. His eyes fell upon the towering Maze, and the eager, battle-hungry glances of the students surrounding it. Hogwarts had changed so drastically that it felt alien to him.
Just two and a half years ago, when he’d first taken office and visited the school, he’d marveled at how everything remained exactly as it had been during his own student days. But this time, he was beginning to doubt he’d even come to the right place.
The students were more active than ever—yet orderly. Over a third weren’t wearing their standard school robes. Instead, they wore practical, battle-ready clothing, ideal for quick movement. Their arms showed defined muscle, wands were strapped in positions for instant reach, and some young wizards even carried what looked like shields. They appeared sharper, more capable than the lean Ministry of Magic officials standing beside him.
But more unsettling than the students was Dumbledore.
The once gentle, accommodating headmaster—the man who’d repeatedly backed down, the elder who sometimes seemed nearly senile—now carried himself with a cold reserve. It wasn’t that he was openly hostile. He simply smiled less, spoke fewer words, and cut straight to the point. For Fudge, who had been quietly plotting to shake off Dumbledore’s influence, this shift sent a chill through his spine.
His original questions—sharp, probing, meant to assert authority—died in his throat. Instead, he stammered out inquiries about the event’s arrangements.
On a grassy patch by the edge of the Black Lake, house-elves had arranged rows of benches. Behind them, temporary tiers of stairs had been hastily stacked. Dumbledore sat at the front with the Ministry guests, followed by the school’s professors. The students not participating in the competition filled the upper levels.
Among them, a golden-haired girl stood out sharply. She wore a bizarre, flamboyant hat shaped like a fiery phoenix, her expression dazed. Her earth-toned robes made her look like a giant, forest guardian come to life. Her strange appearance made others avoid sitting near her, clustering together instead.
Before them rose the towering walls of the Maze.
Seated in his chair, Fudge asked, sincerely puzzled:
“What exactly are we supposed to see, aside from the leaves on those walls?”
“Oh,” Dumbledore replied lightly, “I suspect Wade will take care of that.”
“Ah… you do know Wade Gray, then?”
“Yes, yes… I’ve seen the boy before,” Fudge muttered distractedly, his gaze fixed on Wade, who was busy at work.
“I remember him being present when we took Peter Pettigrew from here…”
In truth, at the time, Fudge’s mind had been consumed by Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black, the decades-old injustice, and the question of who Voldemort’s true loyalists had been. He hadn’t spared a single thought for an “ordinary witness student.” Only later, after overhearing his subordinates gossiping, did he realize the boy in question was the inventor behind the latest wave of popular magical gadgets. The regret he felt was immense.
Now, Fudge’s eyes followed Wade’s movements, silently hoping the boy would notice them, turn around, and step forward to introduce himself—just like the older students who gazed at them with starry-eyed admiration.
That way, Fudge could smoothly offer a few compliments, finally displaying the warmth and generosity he’d been unable to show before.
To Fudge, the Malfoy family’s treasure vault was like an endless well—deep, full of water, but every bucket you lowered brought up only a few drops. To get anything meaningful, he had to smile, endure, and sacrifice things he’d never willingly give.
But Wade—this young, brilliant alchemist—was different. If properly mined, he could be a gold mine, instantly profitable and immensely valuable.
Yet Wade never turned around.
He moved like an ordinary repairman, indifferent to whether the person beside him was the Minister of Magic or the greatest wizard of the century. He remained focused, working alongside two others to fix three massive mirrors. A wand flick—already over ten feet tall, the mirror expanded rapidly, each panel now nearly wall-sized.
“What is that?” Fudge blurted, hearing the murmurs of his Ministry officials and Aurors behind him.
“Hmm…” Dumbledore studied the arrangement with quiet delight. “A Magic Television?”
Fudge: “…What?”
He knew what a television was. But he doubted Dumbledore had lost his mind.
Then, from nearby, a voice cut through the air:
“Allow me to introduce, Minister—this is Mr. Wade Gray, accompanied by his two friends, Mr. Fred Weasley and Mr. George Weasley—his latest innovation: a magical, streaming mirror!”
Fudge turned. Machionni stood with one hand pressing his hat to his chest, bowing politely.
Fudge froze. He recognized the name.
“…Weasley?”
He shot a sharp glance at the lanky, disheveled Ministry official beside him.
Arthur Weasley was equally stunned.
“Fred and George? My… my two sons? They’re only in fourth year!”
He wanted to ask if the man had made a mistake—but under the weight of his colleagues’ stares, he bit his tongue.
Machionni smiled. “Mr. Gray is only in his second year. And he invented the Book of Friends a full year ago.”
Arthur Weasley fell silent, sinking back onto his stool, still reeling. He knew his twins were brilliant—but he’d spent years fearing they’d one day be expelled, or worse, forced to repeat a year.
On the other side, Machionni continued, calm and confident:
“The Streaming Mirror is based on double-sided mirrors, capable of transmitting images and voices in real time. You’ll see the results soon—guaranteed to surprise you.”
“I nearly didn’t believe my own eyes the first time I saw it.”
“Mr. Gray and the two Mr. Weasleys have entrusted Aslan Magical Workshop with production and distribution. Soon, you’ll be able to have one in your own home.”
“Expensive? Well, sir, have you ever seen a Muggle television? If Muggles can enjoy such wonders, why should wizards be limited to radio? Don’t you want to watch Miss Sethina Woback’s concert from your living room?”
“Think of the joy it brings. The price is worth it. And since one mirror lasts forever, the daily cost is less than 0.1 Knut.”
Fudge recognized the pitch. The same words he’d heard from countless salesmen.
And just then, the busy Wade paused—finally glancing back.
He felt a flicker of something familiar in Machionni’s tone—the cold, calculating gleam of a capitalist.
The mirrors did last a lifetime.
But what good was a 9-inch black-and-white screen when technology advanced?
Yet the audience—enchanted by Machionni’s words—didn’t see it. Not even Fudge, who’d been watching Wade so intently moments before.
Then, without warning, the silver surface of the mirror flickered—
And a scene from inside the Maze appeared.
(End of Chapter)
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