Chapter 507: Torrential Rain
The Quidditch World Cup had first been held long before the enactment of the Confidentiality Act. Though tensions between Wizards and Muggles had begun to rise, they hadn’t yet reached the point of open hostility. Occasionally, a Muggle would accidentally stumble into the Quidditch pitch and witness Wizards soaring at high altitudes, wildly chasing the Snitch on their broomsticks. When they returned home and recounted their experiences, they were usually dismissed as having dreamed it all.
But sometimes, their stories left behind strange legends in the Muggle world.
Now, after centuries of evolution, Quidditch had developed a complex system of rules and procedures. The actual tournament season began about a year prior. During the Qualifying Matches, no game could last more than four hours—even if the Golden Snitch wasn’t caught, victory was decided by score. Semi-finals, however, were far more flexible, like the Final, ending only when the Snitch was captured. There had even been matches that lasted three or five days, so a three-day gap was left between each game.
The next day after Wade arrived, Hermione and Padma, along with Padma’s sister, reached the venue. They stayed in the room next to Harry’s. In the evening, the group went down to a nearby stream to catch fish.
On the third day, Neville arrived with his grandmother. This time, they had come fully prepared for camping, bringing an old-fashioned, pine-scented magical tent. Wade and the others helped pitch it.
Then came the match between Bulgaria and Egypt.
The two teams were unlucky. It started raining heavily in the late afternoon, and by the time the game began at night, it had turned into a torrential downpour. Even the brightest magical lanterns couldn’t compensate for the near-zero visibility.
One of the rules of the Quidditch World Cup was that Weather Charms could not be used to alter the conditions during a match. The weather itself was considered part of the competition—unless a truly extreme situation arose, such as a volcanic eruption or a hurricane. Under such circumstances, players were expected to endure even the harshest conditions in pursuit of victory.
The spectators in the stands could at least shelter behind transparent magical barriers, but the two teams had no such luxury. They wore windproof goggles and fought through the wind-driven rain, their robes drenched in seconds. The rain was so intense that even their mouths were filled with water. Fortunately, the rules still allowed them to cast Waterproof and Moisture-Proof Charms on their glasses—but that offered little real help.
The curtain of rain was so thick that a shadow zipped past like a streak of lightning. A moment later, two figures seemed to collide in the distance, but it was impossible to tell which team they belonged to.
Harry strained to see, eyes wide with effort.
Wade, however, only watched for ten minutes before giving up. He sat down and opened a book.
His private collection now far surpassed the copies he’d taken from the school library. He had countless magical tomes from Black, Wovilet, Gellert Grindelwald, Nicolas Flamel, and others—vast in number and excellent in quality. He could open any one at random and lose himself in it completely.
Remus Lupin turned slightly and gently tapped Wade on the shoulder.
“Don’t feel like watching the game?” he murmured. “I can walk back with you to the tent. It’s quieter there.”
He’d long noticed that Wade had little interest in Quidditch. He preferred observing the crowd, the bustling, chaotic energy of the camp before the match—rather than the frantic action on the pitch.
Wade considered it. “I’ll go back on my own,” he said, closing his book. “You all can stay. I’m not a three-year-old. I know my way.”
“Alright,” Remus smiled, not pressing. “Just be careful on the way. Rest well when you get back.”
“Got it.”
Wade pushed open the door at the back of the compartment and stepped into the tunnel illuminated by lanterns. Footsteps and voices echoed from passing compartments—some excited, some complaining, others arguing.
Except for a few who had run out to use the restroom, the audience hadn’t left the stands. The tunnel was empty, save for Wade, making his way back.
After all, torrential rain like this didn’t usually last long. It would likely stop in an hour or two. The show would continue, and the crowd would still get to see something unforgettable.
At the very bottom of the tunnel, Wade raised his wand. The tip emitted a barrier shaped like an umbrella, shielding him from the downpour.
The campsite was a forest of tents—some towering like skyscrapers, others mound-like, some resembling upturned goblets. In the dark, they all looked like shadowy silhouettes, standing like silent beasts in the night.
Wade instinctively slowed his pace, moving quietly through the center of the tents.
Suddenly, something flickered in his peripheral vision—a thin, gaunt figure darting behind a tent, waving a hand.
Wade froze. His breath caught in his throat. Every hair on his neck stood on end. A cold wind seemed to brush his back, and a chilling sensation crawled up his spine, as if a serpent had slithered along his spine.
After several seconds, he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down. Then he began walking toward the spot.
He could have turned and run back to his dormitory immediately. But Wade knew—unless he figured out what that strange, small shadow was, he wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.
To the outside world, he merely paused for a moment, then resumed walking as if unaffected.
As he drew closer, his free hand flipped silently, casting a silent, wandless Luminous Charm. A glowing orb appeared in his palm, illuminating the space around him for several meters.
The shadow revealed itself—just a small sapling, a young beech tree, its leaves sparse and barely reaching Wade’s chest.
Wade exhaled deeply, then chuckled at himself. He was clearly becoming paranoid—seeing ghosts in the trees.
He stepped around the tent, its patchwork fabric stitched together from animal hides, a furry tail dangling from the door. Then he quickened his pace back toward his own tent.
Plip, plip, plip—his footsteps splashing through puddles grew fainter. The world returned to silence, broken only by the endless drumming of rain.
Suddenly, from the darkness, came a soft pop, like the cork of a large bottle being pulled.
The young beech tree suddenly uprooted itself from the soil. It shook violently, as if stretching after a long sleep. Then it pulled out its other root, shook its branches and leaves with a full-body flourish, as if welcoming the storm.
With surprising grace, it began walking—using its roots like legs, moving with a crab-like gait—toward the nearby forest. Its leaves trembled and rustled above, swaying like a child waving goodbye.
In the distance, beneath a tall spruce tree, a dark figure stood wrapped in a black raincoat, gazing upward at the towering pine.
(End of Chapter)
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