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Chapter 500: Wizard Camp
Wade strode out of the fireplace with a decisive step—only to freeze mid-motion. Before him stood a man whose face bore a striking resemblance to a monkey, busily tinkering with bones, eyeballs, and crustacean shells. On the table before him sat two wine glasses and a bottle of rum.
The pub was tiny—just four or five tables at most. The walls were adorned with the grotesque, three-headed dog’s skull, a creature from some forgotten legend, while the ceiling teemed with countless living bats, fluttering in the dim light.
A voice cut through the silence. The man looked up, his eyes flicking over Wade before settling on Remus Lupin.
"Long time no see, Remus," he said, smiling warmly. "Heard you’ve been doing well lately. Anything you need?"
"Thanks, Acosta," Remus Lupin nodded politely. "I’m not here to buy anything today. Just passing through—using your fireplace as a shortcut."
"Fine." The smile vanished instantly. The man’s half-raised body sank back into the chair with a sigh. "Alright, but next time—no bringing kids into my place."
Remus chuckled, unfazed. He gripped Wade’s arm tightly. "Ready? Let’s Apparate!"
Pop.
A sharp crack echoed through the room. The two figures vanished as if they’d never been there.
Acosta slumped back over the table, returning to his work. The squishy eyeball in his hand—taken from a Fire Dragon, the size of a human fist—glistened under his tweezers as he slowly peeled away a layer of sticky membrane.
Then—bang!
The main door burst open, flooding the room with daylight. Acosta flinched, instinctively shielding his eyes.
"Seriously? One after another, no respect at all," he grumbled. "We don’t open during the day, mate."
"Sorry," came a low, muffled voice from beneath a hooded cloak. "I need something… absolutely essential."
The figure stepped inside, lifting their face. Pale, almost ghostly, the man’s features were sharp beneath the shadow of the hood.
Acosta’s expression shifted instantly. His eyes lit up.
"Oh, you—of course, you’re welcome. But as a trade, I want the full story: how did you escape Azkaban?"
Garr twitched his lips into a grimace—half smile, half grimace.
---
Remus Lupin and Wade reappeared in a dense forest, surrounded by towering trees, their leaves thick and green. In the distance, the murmur of voices rose and fell like a distant tide.
"What’s that guy—Acosta—really?" Wade asked, curiosity in his tone. "He looks like a..."
"...a Dark Wizard?" Remus chuckled. "Actually, he’s a Vampire. His pub doesn’t serve ordinary people, and most wizards don’t even know it exists. Only those like us—werewolves, vampires, or outcasts from the Dark Arts—can get what we need from him. Things you can’t buy anywhere else."
Wade nodded slowly, thoughtful. "So he’s a friend of yours?"
"Not exactly," Remus said, leading him deeper into the trees. "We’ve helped each other out a few times. I’ve done jobs for him. He’s done favors for me."
"Like a mercenary?"
"Something like that. But I never help with killing or curses. Just… removing hexes, unlocking magical traps, that sort of thing."
He spoke lightly, but there was a quiet weight beneath it.
There had been moments—years ago—when he’d almost given in, when the line between survival and morality blurred. He’d known, deep down, that if he’d just lowered his standards a little, life would’ve been easier.
But he hadn’t.
Now, speaking of those days, Remus could almost laugh. The pain, the struggle—they were distant now, almost amusing.
They emerged from the trees, and Wade’s breath caught.
Before them lay a wizarding camp—tents of all sizes arranged in a loose, orderly pattern. Wizards came and went. One man struggled with a tent pole, sweat on his brow, while another child—barely older than a toddler—wobbled on a toy broomstick, laughing as he skimmed just above the ground.
"Come on, Wade. Our tent’s over there," Remus said, guiding him forward.
"This place is technically Muggle land," he added. "There’s a Muggle family living right on the edge. Honestly, I don’t understand why the Ministry of Magic doesn’t just cast a simple spell—send them on a vacation, or a trip to visit relatives. But anyway—no magic allowed, Wade."
He hadn’t finished speaking when Wade saw it:
A wizard, frustrated beyond reason, glanced around furtively, then pulled out his wand. With a flick of his cloak to hide the motion, he waved it subtly.
The tent sprang to life. The poles snapped into place. The screws shot into the ground with a series of rapid clinks. A hammer zipped through the air, hammering in the last few fasteners in seconds.
The wizard exhaled in relief, nodded approvingly, then pulled out a massive serpent-skin pouch. He reached in, yanked out a fistful of three-leaf clovers, and piled them on top of the tent.
Then, the child on the broomstick laughed again, zooming past.
A red-haired woman chased after him, grabbing him mid-flight.
"Kevin! I told you—stay in the tent! No flying!"
The boy burst into tears.
"Samuel! SAMUEL! Come help your son!" she yelled, her voice sharp with frustration.
A Ministry of Magic official, just about to step in, paused. He’d been about to intervene—until he heard the mother’s shout. Now, he hesitated, craning his neck, watching warily.
Wade turned to Remus. "So magic’s not allowed?"
Remus smiled. "Well, not openly. But once more people arrive—soon, the Ministry won’t be able to stop it."
Wade’s voice was flat. "Then they should’ve evacuated the Muggles. A Muggle-Repelling Charm isn’t hard to cast."
The quiet disdain in his tone didn’t go unnoticed. Remus sighed, shaking his head.
The Quidditch World Cup raged on, and the final might draw wizards from every corner of the globe. Yet the Ministry still had Robert—the Muggle camp attendant—standing at the entrance, collecting entrance fees.
Poor Robert had to witness the impossible every day: floating tents, enchanted broomsticks, glowing potions, and sudden apparitions. Each time, he’d be hit with a Confusion Charm, then a Forgetting Charm—his memories rewritten, his mind reset.
Many wizards resented it. But the Ministry’s reasoning was simple: Robert, as a Muggle in a uniform, kept the place normal. If the camp looked ordinary, no one else would suspect.
Whether it made sense or not didn’t matter. The Ministry—especially Fudge and his inner circle—didn’t care what others thought.
Finally, after weaving through rows of tents, they reached their destination.
A large tent, spacious enough for two rooms, stood tall and proud. It looked conspicuous, yet perfectly ordinary—no obvious magic signs, no glowing runes.
Atop the tent, a fierce lion statue stood guard, its golden mane catching the sunlight. Draped around the sides were flowing golden and red silks—bold, unmistakably Gryffindor.
The lion was lifelike—so real, it seemed seconds from roaring.
No doubt about it: this was Sirius Black’s handiwork.
And Harry’s.
(End of Chapter)
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