Chapter 558: Cry
Every time the Spell Study Society met, Wade was always the last to leave.
Some would save all their questions until the very end, unleashing them in a flood; others, having done their homework in advance, would engage him in thoughtful discussions about spell applications; and then there were those who stayed purely to build connections—filling the air with idle chatter and meaningless small talk.
Over time, the meetings inevitably stretched on by more than half an hour.
On the walk back to the common room, Wade felt utterly drained.
Yet these sessions were not merely acts of help and sacrifice for him.
In teaching others, Wade found himself reconstructing his own understanding of magic, as if reassembling knowledge into a clearer, more coherent whole. His grasp of spells deepened, and his thinking sharpened.
Moreover, even though others’ magical proficiency fell short of his, their unique perspectives and ways of thinking often sparked unexpected insights in him. Through analysis and comparison, ideas that had once seemed complex now appeared strikingly simple.
As he walked, Wade mentally reviewed what he’d learned that day.
The castle was unusually quiet. Only his own footsteps echoed through the empty corridors.
“Once proud and tall, now cowering in the corner, trembling—no venomous fang left, no one fears the little serpent… la la la la la la… no one fears… no one fears…”
From somewhere above, Peeves’s off-key singing drifted down through the floors—gruff, jarring, like a grotesque soundtrack to the silence.
Suddenly, a chill brushed against Wade’s side.
A ghost with vacant eyes and a robe stained with silvery blood materialized from the wall beside him. He glanced at Wade, said nothing, then sank downward, vanishing through the floor.
Moments later, Peeves let out a shrill scream—his voice fading into the distance.
The singing stopped.
When the silence returned, a faint, trembling voice became clear.
At first, Wade thought it was the pipes groaning or Moaning Myrtle weeping over some hidden toilet. But after listening closely, he realized it was a stifled sob—raw, desperate, barely contained.
A boy’s voice. Familiar.
Wade stood still in the corridor.
Perhaps the quietness made the boy feel safe enough to let go.
He broke down completely—wailing, gasping, blowing his nose, his sobs heavy and ragged.
“Should’ve died… should’ve died… should’ve died…”
A faucet turned on. Water rushed out in a torrent. Malfoy rinsed his face with cold water, then choked violently as the stream hit his throat.
Wade didn’t linger to witness another’s pain.
He eased his steps, changed direction, and slipped away without a sound.
…
Before long, it was October 30th—morning had arrived, and the entire castle had been transformed. Even the portraits tucked into dusty corners had been polished clean.
As Wade passed the Great Hall, he heard Griffiths grumbling loudly:
“My clothes are covered in antique dust! You lot, with your trinkets, show me some respect!”
But the cleaning crabs paid no mind.
They scuttled across Griffiths’s face with a steady click-click, their tails bubbling with transparent foam.
Once they’d passed, the portrait was spotless.
Griffiths, however, was furious.
For once, he didn’t start lecturing students in the hall. Instead, he turned his back, presenting only a sullen silhouette.
Then the crabs crawled back, scuttling over his shoulders, scrubbing his back with mechanical precision.
“Rudely unpolished youngling—wipe your dirty shoes!”
Filch’s roar echoed through the hall.
Two first-years bolted in panic.
The upcoming event had the caretaker on edge.
His dull yellow eyes scanned every student passing by, like searchlights hunting for flaws.
He bellowed without pause:
“Clean your clothes! Every student must be immaculate!”
“Filthy wretch—look at these footprints! Your parents should be ashamed!”
“No eating in the corridors! No crumbs on the floor!”
“This home is a disaster!”
Michael, who’d gotten a speck of dust on his sleeve, had just been reprimanded.
He sat beside Wade, still dazed, as if still feeling the sting of the scolding.
“If someone throws a dung bomb in the corridor right now, I have no doubt Filch will pick up a statue and smash that fool to death.”
“His methods are extreme,” a gentle voice said from behind, “but he’s doing it to preserve the school’s honor.”
“Oh, so now you’re talking like Hermione,” Michael muttered, his lips twitching.
He turned, forcing a cheerful smile, and squeaked out:
“Good morning, Professor Flitwick.”
“Good morning!”
Professor Flitwick, barely taller than Michael when seated, beamed with uncharacteristic cheer.
“I hope your dormitory isn’t actually hiding a dung bomb, Michael.”
“Of course not! I mean—absolutely not!”
Michael looked down, earnest.
“I was just joking. You know me, Professor—I’d never do something so foolish.”
Two passing Gryffindors shot Michael a withering look.
“Excellent,” said Flitwick. “But you’ve got dirt on your elbow. You aware of that?”
He pointed.
As Michael bent to look, Flitwick gave Wade a quick nod and strode toward the staff table.
Wade cast a quick Scourgify spell.
He stared at Michael, bemused.
“Early morning, and you’re covered in dirt? Where did you even get that?”
Their robes were tossed into the dirty laundry basket every night.
House-elves cleaned them, and by morning, fresh, crisp, and ironed sets always waited on their beds.
Of course, some boys tossed their clothes haphazardly or shoved stinky socks under the bed or into their trunks—situations even the little sprites couldn’t touch.
But Wade knew Michael wasn’t the messy type.
Michael blinked, then smirked.
“Not everyone sleeps in like you, Wade. But the Black Lake in the morning? It’s breathtaking.”
Wade understood.
“You’ve found a new girl?”
Michael’s lips curled lazily, a smug satisfaction in his eyes.
“Hmm… how should I put it?”
Suddenly, he was shoved from behind—nearly toppling into a cake.
He spun around, furious, only to see Padma and a group of girls laughing and walking away, not even glancing back.
A flicker of guilt crossed his face.
He wiped the cream from his nose, then slumped back into his seat.
“Come on,” Wade said, shouldering his backpack. “Time for class.”
Michael pushed the cake aside and followed him out the door.
Not long after, Filch’s rasping shout echoed through the entrance again:
“You! Yes, you—what’s on your face? Cream! All over! Clean it up—now! Or I’ll make you scrub the armor with a toothbrush. I mean it!”
(End of Chapter)
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