Chapter 509: Murder Forest
Rain pattered heavily on the leaves, trickling down slender branches as the small trees swayed, as if dancing in rhythm. The man gently stroked the treetop, his lips curling into a satisfied yet icy smile. Cloaked entirely in a black raincoat, only half his face was visible—his features obscured by shadow. Around him stood countless towering trees, standing like silent giant sentinels or forming an impenetrable cage.
He seemed to speak, but his words were lost to the storm. Only the movement of his lips could be seen, while the only sound was the relentless drumming of raindrops on the wet ground, splashing into ripples that spread outward.
Suddenly, a root as thick as a serpent slammed into the earth with a loud thud. Water exploded into the air, startling everyone into instinctively stepping back.
That step—sudden and unbalanced—felt like falling into nothingness. A jolt of vertigo seized Wade’s body, and he snapped awake.
He lay on his bed, heart still racing from the sensation of freefall. A few seconds passed before he realized: the sound of rain wasn’t just in his dream. It was real—pounding outside his window.
An entire night had passed… and the rain still hadn’t stopped.
He reached forward, and a string of golden characters shimmered into existence in the air, displaying the current time.
【07:05】
Seven in the morning. Kreacher should have already prepared breakfast. He wondered if the match had ended yet, and if Remus Lupin and the others had returned.
As he thought, Wade sat up and began dressing. His mind drifted back to the strange dream he’d just woken from—rain-soaked nights, ancient trees, cloaked wizards.
Probably just what I’ve been thinking about lately, he mused.
He glanced lazily at the desk. His bedtime reading—The History of the Quidditch World Cup—still lay open, its page showing a simple black-and-white illustration exactly like the one from his dream. A single line of text, written in bold black letters, stood below:
【Murder Forest’s Attack】
“Master Wade has risen! Kreacher has prepared breakfast!”
The house-elf appeared instantly, bowing with exaggerated eagerness. As Wade approached the long table, Kreacher even pulled out his chair with a flourish.
Wade surveyed the empty table. “They haven’t come back?”
“No, Master, Young Master Harry, and Mr. Lupin have not returned. The match is still ongoing,” Kreacher replied. “Breakfast has already been delivered to the stadium. Please, Master Wade, eat your meal.”
Wade nodded silently and said nothing more.
After finishing breakfast, he stepped out of the tent. The camp remained quiet. Only a few Ministry officials were patrolling, and some parents were preparing breakfast for their young children.
Most children couldn’t stay up all night for the match. Their parents had likely brought them back to the tents early, exhausted from the night’s events. Still, camping wasn’t so bad. It had its charm.
The sky remained overcast, a thick layer of gray clouds pressing low. Fine rain fell like countless needles, scattering into shimmering droplets that sparkled like pearls. The children, wrapped in raincoats, giggled and leapt through puddles, splashing like a herd of squealing piglets.
Wade stood outside for a moment, then turned away from the tent. He wasn’t in the mood to read. Instead, he headed toward the stadium.
Not out of curiosity about the match’s outcome—he already knew the Bulgarians would win.
No, he wanted to know:
After enduring a full night of relentless rain, what state were the players in? Were they still capable of continuing? And could the audience still maintain their earlier enthusiasm?
He passed row after row of tents, then suddenly paused at one made of stitched-together animal pelts.
A memory struck him—last night’s irrational fear, the moment he’d mistaken a small tree for something sinister. He almost laughed at himself.
Without thinking, he walked over, half-expecting to see the same tree that had startled him.
But the tent’s front was empty.
Wade frowned. He looked at the coarse, brown-gray animal tail hanging from the door, then at the unique, hand-stitched pattern. It was definitely the same place.
He crouched down, scanning the ground. There, near the tent’s edge, was a small mud hole now filled with rainwater, rippling gently in concentric circles—almost identical to the scene in his dream.
But who would be so foolish as to pull up a tree in the middle of a camp?
He glanced around. Thin trails of smoke curled upward from the tents, drifting through the rain. He sighed.
Maybe someone inside was cooking early, too lazy to go into the forest for firewood—so they just… used one of the trees?
It was absurd. Trees like this couldn’t burn. But magic had a way of bending reality.
Wade glanced at the distant, ashen-gray forest, then turned and walked toward the stadium.
At the entrance, the ticket inspector stood half-asleep, leaning against the wall. He barely glanced up before waving Wade through.
Wade climbed the stairs, pushed open the compartment door—and found two adults slumped in exhaustion, their eyes dull. Only Harry remained wide-eyed and animated.
“You’re just in time, Wade,” Harry said excitedly. “The view’s much clearer now. I think they’ll catch the Golden Snitch any second—game’s almost over!”
Really? Wade thought. They look like they’re about to keel over.
He studied the players’ pale, drawn faces. “You’ve been watching the whole night? Not a single nap?”
“What? Of course not!” Harry replied without hesitation, adjusting his telescope to focus on the two Seekers—especially Krum, the eighteen-year-old Bulgarian player.
The young athlete displayed astonishing flying skill and an almost terrifying will to endure. Though he hadn’t yet caught the Snitch, he’d already become Harry’s idol.
“What about you, Wade?” Sirius Black yawned. “Sleep well last night?”
“Fine,” Wade said casually. “I slept straight through. And this morning, I had a weird dream—about Murder Forest.”
“Murder Forest?” Harry paused mid-motion, tilting his ear toward Wade. “What’s that?”
Sirius Black, surprisingly, perked up. “Ah, yes. Two hundred years ago, I think it was between Romania and New Spain. A foul-tempered Romanian player, after clashing with teammates, referees, and opponents, saw his team was losing. So he teamed up with a Dark Wizard and cursed the entire forest.”
Remus Lupin nodded, adding: “They say the trees suddenly came alive. They surged toward the stadium, trampling people, killing and injuring countless. Even the Dark Wizard who cast the curse didn’t survive—he was killed by a particularly vicious spruce.”
Harry stared blankly, his imagination conjuring the horror: entire forests of trees charging through crowds, tearing through lives.
He whispered, “…You call that ‘bad temper’?”
Wade frowned. “What spell did he use? How could it have such power?”
“Who knows?” Sirius shrugged. “A spell that dangerous would’ve been banned instantly. The Ministry of Magic would’ve sealed every record—no one allowed to learn it. They’d never risk another madman copying it.”
Exactly, Wade thought. They wouldn’t destroy it. They’d just hide it.
In the 19th century, large-scale witch hunts had ended. Only isolated pockets of persecution remained in remote areas. But the Ministry would keep the spell on file—just in case.
In the event of a war, if wizards were hopelessly outnumbered, the entire world’s forests could become magical soldiers.
The only problem?
They wouldn’t know friend from foe.
And in a moment of chaos, they might just kill the wizards they were meant to protect.
(End of Chapter)
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