https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-424-Wade-Origins-Have-Nothing-to-Do-with-Me/13685438/
https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-426-Gellert-Grindelwald-Stay-Close-to-Me/13685440/
Chapter 425: Wade: He Should Be Repenting in Hell
After dropping Wade back to his own room, Dreian returned to the Study—only to find Gellert Grindelwald seated in the armchair, flipping through a stack of documents. He knew these were intelligence reports compiled by his subordinates on Wade Gray: academic records from Hogwarts, details of his collaboration with Aslan Magical Workshop, evaluations from professors and students alike, even school assignments from his time at a Muggle primary school—social research projects, essays, and more.
“Sir,” Dreian bowed slightly.
“He’s back?” Grindelwald asked.
“Yes,” Dreian replied. “Mr. Wovilet waited at the entrance the whole time. He’s deeply concerned about the boy.”
Grindelwald glanced at him. “Dreian, what are you worried about?”
Dreian hesitated. “Wade Gray is still Dumbledore’s man… If Wovilet spends too much time with him, could he really sway his loyalty? He’s deeply immersed in Alchemy. His thoughts are… pure.”
Grindelwald chuckled. “Wovilet’s over a hundred years old. He’s not easily swayed. To betray me would be to betray his entire life.”
He paused, then added, “But Wade Gray… Though young, he doesn’t blindly follow anyone. He thinks for himself. He judges right from wrong, and then chooses his own path.”
From the pile, he pulled out a single social research assignment and slid it forward. “Look. This was written when he was nine.”
Dreian stepped closer, took the paper with both hands, and scanned it quickly. His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
It was an investigation into a current social issue—Wade had chosen the topic: the abolition of capital punishment. A subject far too mature for a child, especially one from a family so powerless and a society so weak and petty.
In many European countries—Austria, Germany, and even Britain, which had long been debating the issue—the death penalty had already been abolished or was trending toward abolition. The wizarding world had opposed killing even earlier, rooted in their deep reverence for the soul. That’s why Grindelwald had survived multiple arrests—he’d never been executed, and had risen again after escaping prison.
But here, in this nine-year-old’s assignment, Wade had opposed the idea. In the conclusion, he wrote:
> The right to life is only protected when we respect the principle that no innocent life may be unjustly taken. If that principle is violated, then only the one who died should have the power to decide whether to forgive—and whether to grant the offender a chance to repent.
Dreian stared, stunned. “Does that mean… criminals should go to hell and beg forgiveness from their victims?”
Grindelwald burst into laughter. “Isn’t that fascinating? From such a powerless family, in such a weak, vulgar Muggle society—yet this child thinks so differently!”
He smiled at Dreian. “Now, do you still believe he’s purely Dumbledore’s man?”
Dreian paused, then slowly shook his head. He set the paper down gently, silent.
“Dumbledore failed to stop Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort. He didn’t crush that boy when he could. Now he’s raised another—far more dangerous. And still, he doesn’t see it.”
Grindelwald sneered. Then, suddenly, his expression darkened. After a moment, he murmured:
“Tell me… is it because this child is exceptionally good at pretending? Or is Dumbledore simply too blind to see?”
Dreian considered carefully, then said cautiously:
“Perhaps Dumbledore is waiting… waiting to guide this child slowly, to bind him with morality, to teach him… to teach him the true meaning of love.”
He swallowed hard, suppressing the goosebumps crawling up his arms.
Grindelwald snorted. “Don’t let his polished speeches fool you! Dumbledore doesn’t know what love is. He’s colder than anyone you’ve ever met!”
His voice rose, sharp with anger. He stared at a photo of Wade’s innocence on the file—then suddenly froze. His eyes widened.
“Maybe… he knows it himself,” he whispered. “He wants to change. But he can’t. He’s bound. So he places his hope in others. Once, it was me. Now, it’s this child.”
He fell silent, voice fading into the air—lost in memory.
Dreian, ever proactive, cut off the sound and quietly slipped out of the room.
Then he grabbed a passing subordinate. “Alter that cloak. Give it to Wade Gray tomorrow morning.”
The man blinked. “But earlier you said we should record footage, to use as leverage against him? We’ve already set up the streaming mirror.”
Dreian shook his head. “Anyone can use a Polyjuice Potion to impersonate him. That footage is useless unless the Ministry of Magic is truly determined to target him—or Dumbledore. And besides…”
He paused, then added:
“Even if they’re not planning simple control or use… our leader has something else in mind for the boy.”
He hesitated, then said firmly:
“Don’t ask questions. Just do as I say.”
…
After bidding farewell to the anxious Wovilet, Wade returned to his bedroom. He stood by the narrow window, staring at the waning moon above, then sat at the desk and poured himself a cup of black tea.
The house service was clearly handled by a house-elf—but Wade had never seen one. They never brought hot water, so when he wanted warmth at night, only black tea remained.
But… black tea was better.
He sipped slowly, letting the last dregs swirl in the cup. Then, he inverted the cup and watched the tea leaves flow down in winding trails, his fingers tapping the base to guide them.
After a moment, he turned the cup. The patterns formed on the inside of the saucer:
- Door: A turning point is coming.
- Box: A gift is on the way.
- Envelope: A long-awaited letter or package is coming.
- Rake: A crossroads in fate.
The scattered leaves—plain, unremarkable—shifted with each rotation, revealing different meanings in his eyes.
Most were positive. But one stood out.
A crossroads in fate?
Was he about to face a momentous choice? What if he chose wrong?
Wade frowned, then resealed the cup. He washed up and climbed into bed.
Lying there, he wrestled with the thought for a while—then finally decided to abandon it.
He couldn’t make a choice if he didn’t even know what he was choosing for. Worrying only added stress, not answers.
“So that’s why I hate divination…” he muttered under his breath, pulling the blanket up to his chin and closing his eyes.
Turns of fortune… gifts…
Still, the majority of signs were good, weren’t they?
…
Deep in the night, a house-elf appeared silently in the bedroom.
With a small spell, he silenced his voice completely, moving with quiet precision to tidy the room. He paused at the inverted cup on the table—then took it without a word.
One minute later, the saucer and cup sat before Dreian.
“Tea leaf divination?” Dreian’s companion exclaimed. “He actually does this? A little mystic, huh?”
“Wait—his academic performance in divination was excellent,” Dreian said, flipping through Wade’s file. He found Sybill Trelawney’s evaluation.
Unlike his peers, Wade hadn’t fabricated any dramatic death methods. Yet Trelawney had still marked him as “exceptionally talented.”
“So he’s good at this,” Dreian murmured. He lifted the cup, asking: “You didn’t disturb the leaves?”
“No,” the house-elf whispered, head bowed. “Bibich was careful. No shaking. No touching.”
“Hmm.” Dreian studied the pattern. “Rectangular…”
“Wait—let me check!” The companion flipped through a book of divination symbols. “Yes… a rectangle… symbolizes a rupture.”
“Not exactly our relationship,” Dreian mused. “So… a break with his past companions?”
That felt like a good omen.
The companion turned the cup again. “Now this looks like a thicker cross—sign of attack. We are preparing for action.” He paused. “And this… like a comb? Means improvement of exterior.”
He looked at Dreian. “You had a new cloak prepared for him, right?”
Dreian nodded.
“Then that fits!”
The man continued turning the cup. “This shape… like a fence—temporary restriction. He is confined now.”
The next three interpretations all matched their current situation. The first—rupture—now seemed far more plausible.
Break with Dumbledore?
If Grindelwald knew, he’d be delighted.
His companion stared at the leaves, amazed. “So… tea leaf reading is actually accurate? I never noticed this in school…”
“Stop playing,” Dreian said, taking the saucer back and handing it to the house-elf. “Two more interrogations tonight. Finish before midnight.”
“Got it!” the man replied lazily.
The house-elf—Bibich—shivered faintly, then vanished with the cup.
…
“Splash—”
Hot water poured into the cup, unfurling the curled leaves. Ryan Troke watched his nephew dutifully pour tea for the young girl, while the other guest—his friend with tears in his eyes—watered flowers by the window. It felt strange.
“Why aren’t you eating breakfast?” Ryan asked.
“I… I’m not hungry,” Garr replied, forcing a smile. “I’ll eat later.”
“Alright…” Ryan turned to the other man. “You’re not busy, Lockhart. Sit down and rest.”
“No, no!” Lockhart grimaced, waving his hands. “I’d rather stand. I prefer standing.”
Ryan found them both oddly off today—but he was used to their secretive ways. He didn’t press.
Children grow up. Let go when it’s time. If he asked too much, they might think he didn’t want them staying.
He turned to Mabel. “Did you contact your parents?”
Mabel set down her fork, her expression dim. “No.”
Ryan tried to comfort her. “Don’t worry. Maybe they’re just far away. The owls haven’t reached them yet. Until then, you’re welcome here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Troke,” she whispered.
She looked so shy, so fragile—Lockhart winced, teeth aching.
Last night, they’d tried to sneak in while she slept, hoping to capture this dangerous child. But it nearly ended in disaster.
When Mabel slept, her strange black aura didn’t sleep. It stayed awake—alert, ready.
Then Lockhart changed his mind and tried to flee. At the main entrance, he was seized by black fog—dragged backward, feet dragging, body twisted. He’d never forget that journey.
Even after drinking a healing potion, his tailbone still ached—couldn’t sit, couldn’t move.
He wept.
How can anyone be this unlucky?
Did all those fans I tricked curse me together?
…
After breakfast, Troke hurried back to the Study to prepare his lessons. Seven grade levels to organize—no small task. These past few days, he’d barely left the room.
As soon as he departed, the atmosphere in the living room changed instantly.
Mabel’s face darkened. Black fog curled from her skin like smoke. Lockhart and Garr nearly dropped to their knees.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mabel said, annoyed. “As long as you keep your promise, I won’t harm you.”
Garr stammered, “Yes, yes!”
But in his mind, he cursed.
She said nothing like that when the black rope dragged me off the roof!
Only his vampire resilience kept him alive—had he not been able to turn into bats, he’d be worse off than Lockhart.
Still, observing her expression, he realized she truly didn’t remember the incident. Relief washed over him.
The Silent One and the Silent Shadow… not the same.
But the Shadow was terrifying. The three of them together—no match for that thing from the house.
“Why haven’t I gotten a reply?” Mabel frowned. “Can owls even deliver parcels? Are you lying to me?”
“No, no!” Garr said quickly. “Maybe… maybe he got too many Christmas gifts? Or perhaps he’s traveling abroad for the holidays. The owl hasn’t found him yet!”
Mabel nodded slowly. “Probably abroad… Hope he comes back soon.”
She glanced out the window, hoping to see a weary owl, but instead saw a streak of sparks slicing across the sky.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Lockhart glanced. “Fireworks, probably.”
Pop.
A Firebird landed on the windowsill. Smoke curled from its feathers. Its delicate claws left blackened marks on the wood.
It tilted its head, gazing inside at the three of them.
(End of Chapter)
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