Chapter 475: Newspaper
The weather in June was already sweltering, yet Professor Trelawney had kept the fireplace blazing and drawn the curtains tightly. The tower room was stifling, thick with smoke. She sat before the giant crystal ball, her face still bearing that perpetually dazed, half-awake expression.
"Oh, Wade, my dear love, I’ve never worried about your exam," she said with a smile, gesturing toward the orb. "Look inside—what do you see?"
As Wade stared into the crystal ball, Professor Trelawney rose, poured herself a glass of gin, took a sip, and sighed in delight, squinting with a dreamy look.
"Truly, imported fine liquor—it’s intoxicating. Those house-elves certainly know how to shop. Though, of course, it’s terribly expensive…"
She blinked, her eyes glassy with drink. "Wade, what did you see?"
After a moment, Wade lifted his head. "I saw a large oval-shaped arena… incredibly vast, filled with people. It looked like a grand tournament was underway."
"A tournament?" Professor Trelawney set down her glass and scribbled on a parchment. "And then? What else did you see? Did you glimpse the outcome?"
"I saw people in red robes raising their fists—yet I also saw those in green robes cheering," Wade replied.
"Raising fists? That must mean they caught the Golden Snitch. But cheering…?" She tilted her head, deep in thought. "Did you see the final scene? Who won?"
"The green-robed ones," Wade said firmly.
"Green robes…" She murmured, her eyes flickering with sudden recognition. "Hmm. Well then, my dear, your exam is concluded. You may go."
"Thank you, Professor. Goodbye." Wade rose and started to depart. But before he even reached the hatch, he caught sight of her frantically rummaging through a cabinet, then pulling out her savings jar with a clatter. Coins spilled onto the table as she joyfully counted them.
Wade could almost hear the mental click of her mental abacus. He chuckled softly—there was something almost touching in her simple, unguarded happiness.
As he descended the stairs, the real vision from the crystal ball came back to him.
A serpent-faced infant, curled in a fetal position.
A grown wizard cradling the child, his eyes cold and lifeless.
A towering Dementor gripping a man, leaning down as if to kiss him.
And finally, a long, endless corridor—walls lined with locked doors, stretching into darkness.
His gaze swept through the corridor, pausing at a single door sealed with a symbol resembling a seashell.
The swirling mist within the crystal ball had briefly shown him these images—except the last one, which remained utterly incomprehensible. The others, however, seemed to depict scenes from a future war.
Wade took a deep breath, stunned at how long he’d ignored Voldemort’s return. With Wormtail dead, he’d subconsciously assumed the threat was neutralized—until now.
Especially the man holding the infant…
He frowned. His mind replayed memories retrieved from the Pensieve—fragments of his previous life.
Movies offered little real reference; the faces in this world differed too much from the actors. But by comparing age, demeanor, and physical features, Wade gradually narrowed it down to one man.
He hurried to the library, tossed his backpack onto a chair, and plunged straight into the newspaper section.
Madam Pince was arranging books. She glanced up at Wade’s frantic pace and muttered, "Closing time’s near, Gray!"
"I know! I just need one piece of information!" Wade’s voice echoed through the shelves. Madam Pince raised an eyebrow at his volume, then sighed, remembering there were no other students. She didn’t shoo him away.
Wade waved his wand. Several old newspapers floated down from the shelves, unfolding neatly before him. He flipped through them until he found the image he sought.
A boy, barely seventeen or eighteen, dragged by a Dementor. His face was twisted in silent terror, mouth open in a scream, eyes wide with fear.
Two smaller photos accompanied it: one showing other prisoners on trial, the other a man with a cynical, hateful expression—Barty Crouch, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Wade’s gaze shifted upward.
That pale, ashen-faced boy was Little Barty Crouch—his features strikingly like his father’s, but younger, thinner, more fragile.
If he were taller, his face more mature, and that look of panic replaced with the cold, calculating expression of his father… he would be the very man from the crystal ball.
How had he forgotten this man’s danger?
Of course, in Wade’s original plan, Little Barty had been meant to remain far down the list—kept under his father’s Imperius Curse, harmless as a hamster.
Only after Wormtail escaped and the Death Eaters caused chaos at the Quidditch World Cup did Little Barty finally break free from his father’s control and reveal his true nature.
And as head of Magical Communications, Barty Crouch held a powerful position. His reputation for resisting the Death Eaters in the past had earned him widespread respect—far beyond what an ordinary student could achieve. No one would suspect him, let alone “defame” him.
Wade’s original plan had been to expose the fake Peter Pettigrew before the World Cup, revealing that Little Barty was still alive. Then, both “Pettigrews” would be taken away—by Crouch or a Dementor—making the fake’s death believable.
That way, Little Barty—the Voldemort fanatic—would vanish completely. The Dark Lord’s resurrection might be delayed by years. Ideally, until after Wade graduated—when his knowledge, magic, and training would be at peak level, and he could act freely, with far greater flexibility and adaptability.
But now… due to his oversight, things were drifting back toward the original timeline.
Wade sighed, frustration gnawing at him. He copied the newspaper with a Replication Charm, folded the duplicate, and slipped it into his pocket. He nodded to Madam Pince and left the library, heading toward the Headmaster’s Office.
Dumbledore needed to know what Wade had seen in the crystal ball. If lucky, Little Barty was still under his father’s control. Then, with Dumbledore, they could storm the Crouch home and capture him.
True, in the original story, Little Barty had served as Professor of Defensive Magic Against the Dark Arts for a year. But who knew what he’d do this time?
In terms of ability, he was far stronger than most Death Eaters—possibly even more dangerous than Voldemort in certain ways.
Among all the Death Eaters, few possessed such a rare blend of intelligence, patience, acting skill, and unwavering loyalty.
Most were either broken in Azkaban or cleverly evaded punishment, living comfortably, indifferent to their master’s return.
But now that Wade had seen the vision—Little Barty holding the infant Voldemort—there was little hope of stopping it.
Lost in thought, Wade nearly passed the entrance to the Headmaster’s Office. Only when he began climbing the stairs toward Ravenclaw Tower did he realize his mistake.
He turned back, knocked on the stone beast guarding the door, and said, "Peppermint humbugs."
The creature lazily stepped aside. Wade stepped onto the spinning staircase, and soon stood before the office door. He knocked.
"Come in," Dumbledore’s voice called.
Wade entered. Dumbledore sat by the window, reading a letter. He smiled upon seeing him. "I was just about to find you, Wade. Newt has returned. Mabel is ready for preparation—we’ll begin the treatment next week."
"Mr. Scamander?" Wade blinked, surprised. "He’s already found a solution?"
"Indeed. Though we haven’t met in person, he’s been working on it constantly," Dumbledore said, pulling a page from his letter and signaling for Wade to read.
The parchment, slightly yellowed, bore Scamander’s precise handwriting—detailed notes on the treatment of the Silent Shadow. It was clear he’d spent a great deal of time on it.
Yet at the end, Scamander added a caution: this was only a hypothesis. Success was not guaranteed.
"Having a plan is already good enough," Wade said, relaxing. "I have some gold powder from the Organization. Even if it fails, it should slow the deterioration."
"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled. "We must always hold onto hope. Someday, a solution will be found."
He paused. "Now, Wade—what brings you here?"
"I… well…" Wade paused, suddenly forgetting his purpose. He stammered, then slowly his thoughts surfaced. "Broderick Bode from the Department of Mysteries asked me to craft a Human-Form Magic Puppet. He said it’s for dangerous experimental magic."
"I’ve completed the core structure," Wade continued. "But I wanted to check with you—do you think it’s wise?"
"Broderick Bode?" Dumbledore chuckled. "A dedicated and sincere man. He was in Ravenclaw, and magic is his only passion. You needn’t worry—he won’t misuse such a creation."
"Then I’m relieved," Wade said, smiling. He rose to leave.
His mind was filled with joy for Mabel’s chance at healing—until, absentmindedly, he reached into his pocket and felt the crumpled newspaper.
He pulled it out. There was the pale face of Little Barty Crouch.
Wade slapped his forehead. —This man has some kind of “Existence -10” buff, doesn’t he? Why do I keep forgetting?
He scolded himself internally, but not seriously. He’d simply been distracted by Scamander’s breakthrough.
Like when he’d become so absorbed in magic that he forgot to eat, or when an alchemy idea struck mid-essay, and he’d abandon his writing to chase it.
Holding the newspaper, he turned back toward the Headmaster’s Office.
"Peppermint humbugs," he said.
The stone beast lazily moved aside. The staircase carried him up.
Dumbledore looked up, surprised. "More business, Wade?"
"Ah… I forgot to mention," Wade said, glancing at the portraits of past headmasters on the wall, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Nicolas Flamel invited me to visit his manor in July. But I don’t know the address or exact time. Should I send another letter?"
"Nick’s address is a secret—few in the world know it. He won’t forget," Dumbledore assured him. "You needn’t worry. He’ll send you a letter soon."
Wade knew this already, but hearing Dumbledore say it eased his mind.
Then he realized how trivial the matter was—bothering the Headmaster over such a thing. He mumbled a quick goodbye and hurried away.
The spiral staircase deposited him at the ground floor. He paused, watching the main gate close behind him. He stared for a moment, then absentmindedly patted the stone beast’s head.
"Compared to the lion, the gargoyle really is ugly," he muttered, tapping the parchment against his palm.
He assumed it was part of his assignment, didn’t think much of it, and slipped it into his pocket before returning to the Ravenclaw Common Room.
The room was nearly empty. With exams finally over, and Hogsmeade waiting tomorrow, most students had retreated to their dormitories to rest after days of cramming. Only one thin figure remained, curled in a sofa, reading.
"Luna?" Wade approached, concerned. "Why aren’t you in bed?"
Had she been bullied again by her housemates?
Luna removed her strange, antique glasses. "The dormitory is full of disturbing flies. They won’t let me read. And at night—quiet—Night Shadow Sprites are easier to spot."
"…What kind of sprites?" Wade asked, instinctively.
"Night Shadow Sprites," Luna repeated seriously. "They flutter beneath oak trees at night. Sometimes they slip into people’s dreams."
"Oh… I see," Wade replied slowly. Another of Luna’s private realities—something only she can see.
He was about to say goodnight and head to bed when she added, "Your newspaper is about to fall out of your pocket. You know that, right?"
"Newspaper?" Wade blinked, then slowly pulled it out.
His eyes locked onto the photo.
His face went pale.
He stared.
Like he’d just seen a ghost.
(End of Chapter)
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