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Chapter 536: They Say He Has an Heir
Clack… clack… clack…
The rhythmic tapping of the wooden leg echoed through the Dream like a hammer pounding against Wade’s skull—so loud it felt like someone inside his mind was driving nails into his brain. Wade jolted awake, heart racing. He glanced at the timepiece. Less than two hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep.
He was just beginning to wonder if he’d been haunted by another nightmare when—there it was again. A single, faint clack. So soft, so different from the deafening cacophony of the Dream.
Wade recognized it instantly. That distinctive, uneven rhythm—the sound of a wooden prosthetic leg striking the floor.
Moody had arrived.
After the chaos of the Quidditch World Cup Camp, it was only natural for the Gray family to consult with a trusted wizard and gather intelligence. Wade exhaled, relaxing back into bed. But before he could close his eyes again, he shot upright once more.
Almost forgot.
This year, Moody might not be who he seemed. No matter the circumstances, one had to remain cautious around him.
He pulled on his robe, climbed out of bed, and moved to the window. There, he watched as Moody limped into the courtyard, the Gray couple greeting him at the entrance.
Wade studied the neighboring house’s silhouette, double-checking that the man wasn’t an imposter. Only when he was certain it was truly Moody did he finally release his breath, return to bed—and lie awake, unable to sleep.
Perhaps his nerves were still too tightly wound.
Though retired, Moody had once been a legend among Aurors. He knew a generation of wizards, many of whom had saved each other’s lives in battle. Even if someone inside thought he was mad now, no one could deny he’d once been the best.
There were still many loyal admirers of Moody within the Ministry of Magic. Ron’s father, Arthur Weasley, held him in high regard. If Moody came asking questions, no one could afford to lie.
Wade snapped his fingers. A moment later, the door cracked open just enough for a tiny Magic Puppet to slip through, climbing up onto his pillow.
“Master, what do you need?” Ari looked up, voice small and eager.
Wade cradled the puppet in his palm. “Listen in on what Moody says to my parents. When you’re done, come back and tell me everything.”
“Of course.” Ari nodded, leapt from his hand, landed silently on the floor, and slipped through the gap in the door.
Wade rubbed his temples. Two uses of the Inferno God Spell in quick succession, without proper rest—his body still felt unsteady, as if he were swaying on his feet.
He grabbed a bottle of calming potion and drained it in one gulp. As soon as he lay back down, his mind sank into deep, restful sleep.
…
Ari quietly closed the door behind him, then slid down the banister rail all the way to the first floor. The Gray couple had just ushered Moody through the front door. The Magic Puppet leapt onto the table, busily pouring tea and offering water.
Dobby was bustling in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of beef pie.
“Look,” Ferdinand said, holding up the morning Daily Prophet, “the story’s already on the front page. Journalists move faster than a Golden Snitch.”
Fiona leaned in beside him, scanning the black-and-white photographs and the article’s stark text. Without thinking, she read aloud:
“Quidditch World Cup attacked by Dark Magic. The Wizard Purity Party unexpectedly intervened… The Ministry of Magic confirms this was a premeditated Dark Magic Curse… At least seventeen people dead, over two hundred injured… A horrific, senseless act of violence…”
“During the attack, the Ministry panicked, offering little to no response… As for the Forest Curse, the Ministry’s intelligence network received no warnings. No effective measures were taken when it occurred…”
“Ministry spokesperson Madam Umbridge stated the incident is still under investigation. The possibility of a Dark Wizard staging the event themselves cannot be ruled out. The criminal remains at large. The Dark Lord still walks free… The Ministry’s performance has been a national disgrace… A stain on our homeland.”
“The mascot cursed by the spell cannot be restored in the short term. Bulgaria and Ireland have filed claims for damages. Minister Fudge insists the Ministry cannot abandon responsibility. The two nations argued fiercely, nearly resorting to open conflict.”
Moody snorted. Ferdinand sighed, setting the paper down.
“What? I haven’t finished reading yet!” Fiona took the paper and moved to a nearby chair to continue.
Then she noticed—halfway through, the article shifted entirely. No more investigation. No details on next steps. No warnings to the public. Instead, the rest of the piece was a full-throated celebration of the Quidditch match itself.
She turned the page. There was Krum catching the Golden Snitch in an instant—then more Quidditch highlights, player profiles, and advertisements for Flying Broomsticks.
Dobby snapped his fingers, summoning breakfast onto the table, then returned to scrubbing the stove.
Moody and Ferdinand clearly knew what was coming. They didn’t even glance at the paper again.
“This situation is unusual,” Moody said, pulling out an old flask and taking a long sip. “But don’t expect the Ministry to do anything meaningful in the future.”
Ferdinand’s voice was low. “I only hope they don’t release the Dementors again.”
“Don’t worry,” Moody laughed bitterly. “Fudge has bigger things to deal with. He’d love for everyone to forget this ever happened.”
“But the journalists won’t let go,” he added. “These vultures won’t let the Ministry off the hook so easily.”
Ferdinand hesitated. “So… what do you think caused this? Was it really Grindelwald’s people orchestrating an attack to demonstrate power?”
Moody shook his head, a grim smile playing on his scarred face. “I hate those Homeboys, but the paper’s full of lies. If Grindelwald had done this himself, he wouldn’t have stopped at the stadium’s edge. He’d have let the forest flood into the stands—killing hundreds—before appearing as The Savior.”
“But…” Ferdinand frowned. “They received a warning. They didn’t report it to the Ministry. They just… went ahead and acted on their own. Grindelwald can’t possibly be some selfless saint.”
“Of course not,” Moody said, his voice sharp. “You saw that magic, Ferdinand. That spell—it wasn’t from Grindelwald. It came from the young man standing beside him.”
His expression darkened. He took another long drink, as if recalling the image from the Streaming Mirror.
“Truth is,” he said slowly, “I’ve heard a rumor before… A whisper… They say Grindelwald has found himself an heir.”
(End of Chapter)
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