Chapter 605: Oh, It's Gray
When the cheers nearly tore the stadium apart, Wade and Harry had already slipped away from the high platform unnoticed.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick stood a short distance away, their faces alight with unrestrained joy—though McGonagall’s was tinged with a lingering pallor, as if still haunted by concern for the students.
They signaled the two to come over. As they approached, McGonagall stepped forward instantly, pressing both hands firmly onto Harry’s shoulders.
“Brilliant, Potter!” Her voice trembled slightly. “Absolutely superb—your dive past the Fire Dragon, and then that decisive strike against the Durmstrang champion… Oh, you really should see Madam Pomfrey right away. And you, Gray. Filius, take Gray to the Medical Tent immediately.”
Professor Flitwick, already bouncing with excitement, tugged at Wade’s arm. Hearing the instruction, he quickly urged Wade toward the side.
“Right, right—go see Madam Pomfrey straight away!”
“I’m not injured, Professor,” Wade said.
“Oh, my dear child, not all wounds are visible,” Flitwick smiled warmly. “Madam Pomfrey knows exactly what to do.”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Wade murmured. “I didn’t follow your advice.”
“Nonsense, my dear Wade,” Flitwick chuckled, eyes twinkling. “I did suggest you stay low-key during the Tournament—but look at you now! This is far better. No, it’s perfect.”
There was no hint of reprimand in his tone, only radiant delight. “Seeing you up there—it brought back memories of my own youth. Full of fire, fearless, proving to everyone inside that Ravenclaw could rise when it mattered. Not just hiding in the shadows like cowards!”
“Who dares call you a coward, Professor?” Wade laughed. “You’re the Dueling Champion yourself. No matter who the opponent, I know you’ve always had the courage to face them.”
“Hah! Ancient history,” Flitwick chuckled, barely suppressing a grin. “I never thought you’d remember. Maybe, when you graduate, you’ll even enter the Dueling Tournament. With your talent, you could bring home another Champion title.”
They walked toward the Medical Tent, chatting and laughing, until they reached the heavy canvas curtain. Pulling it aside, they stepped inside—and were stunned by the sheer size of the space. Dozens of hospital beds lined up in two rows, half of them occupied by injured students.
One student’s robes were scorched, his skin blistered from burns. Another lay face-down under a thick layer of green salve, groaning in pain. A third sat slumped on a bed, arm or leg dangling, face dark with frustration.
Many others lay unconscious, still breathing, their bodies radiating the faint scent of potions.
With so many casualties, Madam Pomfrey was clearly overwhelmed. The Ministry of Magic had summoned several healers from St. Mungo’s, who darted between beds like busy bees.
“Last time I saw such a scene was during the Quidditch World Cup riots,” a bald-headed healer grumbled, slathering ointment onto a student’s arm. “What in Merlin’s name were they thinking? Sending children to fight a Fire Dragon? Even adults wouldn’t dare!”
“I told them this Tournament shouldn’t be held!” snapped a stern-eyed female healer, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses. “Hundreds of years of lessons still not enough? Some fools only care about creating a scandal—never mind the lives lost!”
“Come here, my dear,” said a kind-faced healer, gently guiding Harry to a bed. She stared at the wound on his leg, then gasped.
“My word… you walked here like this? Poor child, how much pain must you’ve been in?”
She waved her wand, lifting Harry onto the bed, then carefully uncorked a potion vial, dripping the liquid onto the wound.
Madam Pomfrey hurried over, scanning Wade with a sharp eye. “Gray? You’re not injured?”
Wade smiled. “I got lucky.”
Before he’d even finished speaking, the moans in the tent abruptly died.
Every conscious warrior turned toward him—eyes sharp as blades, fixed on his every movement.
Amina sat bolt upright, her face ashen. Olga’s expression darkened, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Seraphina sneered, rolling over to face the wall.
Even Krum, who hadn’t been directly involved with Wade, stared at him intently, brow furrowed, lost in thought.
Of course, a few remained calm—some even managed a faint nod in his direction, like Wagadoo’s Babuaya. But such people were few and far between.
Earlier, the St. Mungo’s healers had heard from the students about Wade’s feats. Now, their movements slowed. They exchanged stunned glances, stealing furtive looks at the entrance where Wade stood.
Madam Pomfrey remained unmoved by the tension, raising her wand and casting a quick diagnostic spell.
“No magical harm detected,” she muttered, then reached for a bottle glowing with a soft blue hue. She shoved it into Wade’s hands without hesitation.
“I don’t need this, Madam Pomfrey,” Wade protested. “I’m fine.”
“No, you do,” she said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of authority. “Do you think casting spells continuously doesn’t tax the mind? Drink it. This sedative will calm your nerves.”
Wade turned to Professor Flitwick for help—but the man who’d just called him a treasure was now three meters away, pretending to study the intricate patterns on the tent’s fabric as if they held deep magical secrets.
“Fine,” he sighed, popped the cork, and drained the potion in one go.
The familiar, notoriously bitter taste made him grimace—his face twisted in a grimace of disgust.
A wave of coolness washed down his throat, spreading through his body. His heartbeat slowed. His mind felt rinsed clean, clear and sharp—like a stream after a storm. The emotions of the Tournament slipped away, leaving him detached, as if observing the whole ordeal from outside.
Only then did Madam Pomfrey nod in satisfaction. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to an empty bed. “Rest quietly. Someone will call you when the Tournament concludes.”
She strode off toward another unconscious student—just as the tent’s curtain was yanked open again.
A charred, blood-stained figure was carried in.
Wade glanced over. It was Itō Tai from the Magic Institute.
The healer rushing to the bed let out a sharp cry. The Auror carrying the student lowered his voice, apologetic.
“Hungarian Horntail… The beast was already enraged after the previous champion. This boy tried to copy Potter’s flight—but in dodging, he got caught by the Fire Dragon’s claw.”
Harry, who had nearly forgotten the crushing terror of the Fire Dragon, felt a cold sweat trickle down his spine as he stared at the broken boy.
(End of Chapter)
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