Chapter 610: A Tiny Change
Beneath the starlit dome, blue magical fireworks burst into dazzling splendor. A formation of glowing paper airplanes soared past Qiu Zhang’s head; Michael, borrowing Wade’s MagicCamera, wandered around snapping photos; Luna twirled happily by the window in a shimmering cake-like dress, lost in her own private dance.
Magic Puppet Wade laughed along with the overexcited students, celebrating through the night, while Wade himself had quietly slipped back into the dormitory.
The night was deep and still. Wade sat by the window, hearing the distant cheers and singing of his classmates drifting through the air. If one were to fly beyond the glass, the windows of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers would surely glow with an especially radiant light.
Leaning against the window, the cold glass pressed against his forehead, offering a slight relief from the storm of thoughts churning within.
The first task of the Tournament had been insignificant in the grand scheme, but Antoine’s words had struck deep—ripples of unease spreading through his mind, growing stronger with every thought. He had countless impractical dreams, but even in Ravenclaw—where wisdom was revered—such ideas would likely find no understanding.
Wade blinked. In the Forbidden Forest, shadows of trees swayed beneath the moonlight, mirroring his restless heart—silent, yet raging.
The meadow at the edge of the forest, once trampled flat, now stood empty, save for hoofprints of varying depths.
…
Earlier that morning, on the way to the Tournament, Wade had seen the massive elephant draped in silk slowly plucking leaves from bushes, shrouded in morning mist. Gold ornaments hung from its body, gleaming conspicuously in the sunlight.
But Mando School’s three champions had been wiped out. Just now, in the Common Room, Wade overheard several Ravenclaws whispering that Sunil Professor—dark-skinned and stern—had already departed before dinner, dragging his students with him.
“Said he couldn’t stand the Scottish Highlands’ cursed weather!” Marietta, a fifth-year, said with a mixture of pride and mockery. “He didn’t even bother warming his own elephant!”
“Otherwise?” another girl giggled, leaning in. “What else could they say? ‘Too embarrassing—so we’re leaving?’”
They all burst into laughter, silver teaspoons clinking against their teacups.
It wasn’t just Mando. After dinner, the colorful MagicTrain from Castrobsche slowly pulled away, exhaling pale blue steam. By curfew, Akatim’s Flying Carpet skimmed across the surface of the Black Lake, startling squid from the depths. The giant eyes on its side stared blankly into the sky, looking utterly foolish.
Of all the schools, only Hogwarts remained with a champion still in the Tournament—everyone else had at least one participant advancing to the second task.
“Good thing you made the cut,” Michael whispered to Wade. “Otherwise, with only two or three schools left, Minister Fudge would’ve had a fit.”
“What’s the harm in that?” Wade lowered his voice.
Michael thought for a long moment before replying, “Well… I suppose there isn’t much. Maybe having a fool in charge of the Ministry would be better than the current lot.”
…
Wade turned his gaze from the window. Sleep was nowhere near. His eyes wandered between the ink screen and the feather quill, then finally took a deep breath. He laid a blank parchment flat on the desk and waved his hand—immediately, a deep-blue feather quill shot into his fingers.
The nib began to write:
To Dreian:
Gunter Dreian was Gellert Grindelwald’s right hand. Writing to him was nearly the same as writing to Grindelwald himself.
Of course, Wade was careful—no signature, no familiar handwriting. The quill was enchanted, its script a flawless, elegant print, devoid of any personal trace.
Though the methods of the Wizard Purity Party had once chilled the spine—though even now their disregard for life remained stark—Wade had to admit: in a magical world built on tradition and prejudice, only they still dared to challenge the decayed, stubborn foundations.
Perhaps only they would understand and act upon his thoughts.
To Dreian:
The first task of the Tournament has concluded. I assume you’ve witnessed it all through the Streaming Mirror—no need to repeat. But the disparity in performance among the other schools was truly staggering. The competition has lost much of its spirit.
Antoine’s proposal to compile the teaching methods of the Spell Study Society into a book—do you think this stems from Mr. Grindelwald’s approval? Could reforming the way we teach spells lead to a surge of exceptionally talented wizards? How much could the power of text truly change the world?
As far as I know, Hogwarts’ curriculum hasn’t changed in over a century. The entire magical world reeks of stagnation. Aside from the Hogwarts Express, everything else—clothing, food, transportation, housing—has changed little in centuries.
Compared to the ever-evolving Muggle society, everything here feels frozen in the Middle Ages.
That’s why I can understand your earlier remarks on the proposed revisions to the International Confidentiality Act. I know many in our world fear the Muggles. But brute force isn’t the answer. Abruptly altering the act would do no good—only harm—to the magical community.
Perhaps my thoughts seem too gentle in your eyes. But I believe real change doesn’t come from overturning a few laws or shifting the mindset of the powerful elite. It starts from the smallest, most subtle places.
For instance—why not address the universal pain points of Muggle society with practical, non-controversial solutions?
Many things we consider trivial are, in fact, colossal burdens to them.
Take this: they despise being overweight yet lack the willpower to diet—yet we have a Weight-Reduction Potion.
They crave beauty—so we offer Beauty Elixir and Soft-Light Badges.
They long for smooth, radiant skin and silky, thick hair—without constant washing. They need faster healing when injured…
All of this, we could solve with just one or two spells—or potions.
Of course, since we can’t yet reveal the existence of magic, spells must remain hidden. Potions, however, could be adapted—diluted by tens or even hundreds of times—so that to Muggles, they’d simply appear as effective medicines. No suspicion. No breach of the Confidentiality Act.
Dreian, if we could use a touch of magic to solve these everyday problems… when the time comes for the magical world to reveal itself, these tiny changes might foster friendly communication. Instead of fear and hatred—like the past—most Muggles might welcome wizards with admiration.
I know these thoughts aren’t mature. But I believe that even the smallest act of kindness—done right—could be more powerful than Cruciatus Curse, death, or violence.
What do you think?
Awaiting your reply.
(End of Chapter)
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