Chapter 643: Gray Eyes
“Brilliant work!” Michael slammed an arm around Wade’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “When those three Home boys surrounded you, I thought you were done for!”
“Come on, come on! Back to the Castle! We’re throwing a grand Celebrating Banquet!” Anthony shouted with uncontainable excitement.
“Congratulations, Wade!”
“Absolutely fantastic! I knew those Home lads couldn’t touch you!”
Friends and classmates swarmed around him—some hugging, others shaking his hand. Someone in the crowd stretched out an arm, desperately trying to pat his shoulder, while another kept shoving forward as if this were their first meeting.
Professor Flitwick’s high-pitched voice rang out from nearby: “I am so proud of you, Child!”
Cedric and Harry were similarly mobbed by their respective House members. Amid the roaring cheers, the air by the lake seemed to shimmer with excitement, thick and hot as fire.
Other schools’ students looked grim. But who cared? Hogwarts students were lost in euphoria, utterly indifferent.
Fudge puffed out his belly, grinning from ear to ear, his smug satisfaction impossible to hide. He shook hands with the heads of other magical schools and with foreign wizards attending the Tournament, each smile as polished as a freshly polished goblet.
In front of the Long Table, a young journalist darted around like a hyperactive sprite, scrambling to capture every angle of the Minister. He crouched low, then scrambled up onto a high platform, determined to get every possible shot of Fudge’s wide, beaming face—completely oblivious to the glares he was receiving.
Wade’s gaze, cutting through the crowd, met Dumbledore’s.
Those eyes—deep, endless blue like a still spring—held a quiet, knowing warmth. The corners of the Headmaster’s mouth softened, his wrinkles relaxing into a gentle smile. His eyes, calm and kind, brimmed with quiet pleasure.
Wade nodded back, his lips curving involuntarily. His eyes crinkled at the corners. A thrill danced in his chest.
For a moment, the world blurred. Faces and voices faded into the distance, dissolving into a stream of light—then warped, transformed, into a dark, damp cave, its walls lined with gray, wet soil.
There, in the mud, a toad stirred from hibernation.
Its limbs twitched. Its swollen eyelids lifted slowly, revealing a pair of narrow, gray horizontal pupils.
Gloop.
A deep, muffled croak rumbled from its throat.
It lay still, as if lost in melancholy—or still half-asleep. After an uncertain time, it began to move, clumsily dragging itself from its muddy nest.
Around it, the swamp was dim and misty. Cold, damp fog hovered over the sludge. Wade could almost smell the rotting reeds and waterweed.
The toad crawled across the damp earth, leaving a winding trail behind. Eventually, it halted beside a moss-covered, decaying log, letting out a low, mournful gurgle.
For no reason he could explain, Wade sensed sorrow and despair in its croak—something raw and profound.
It hadn’t even finished its call when it froze.
From the other side of the log came a rustling—soft, deliberate. Something was stepping through the brittle grass, approaching.
Mucus seeped from the toad’s back.
It retracted its neck, searching for a place to hide—then, suddenly, a shadow fell over its head.
Slowly, painfully, the toad lifted its head.
Above it, a young wolf peered down, its nose wet and gleaming, amber eyes alight with pure curiosity. It tilted its head, then extended a claw—reaching, as if to seize the prematurely awakened creature.
Panic surged through the toad. It leapt up in a desperate bid to escape, its bulging eyes locking onto Wade’s line of sight—
Snap.
The dream shattered.
Wade jolted awake, fingers instinctively clutching the edge of the desk, nearly springing to his feet.
Michael, startled by the sudden movement, blinked groggily. “What’s wrong?” he mumbled, then, before Wade could answer, slumped back onto the table, already drifting off again.
The classroom was thick with afternoon drowsiness. Professor Binns droned on from the front, his voice as monotonous as ever:
“The root cause of the rebellion… ah… as stated in the third paragraph of the textbook, stems from goblins’ demands for wand ownership. However, according to the Management Act…”
From the back, steady snores echoed. Most students were asleep. Binns, of course, pretended not to notice.
Wade’s breathing gradually steadied. His back felt cold and damp—his clothes soaked through with sweat.
“Everything alright?” Padma, the only one still awake, turned to him quietly. “You actually came to History of Magic? And you’re sleeping through it? Wade, you really shouldn’t pick this class for a nap.”
“I had a nightmare,” Wade muttered, vague and tired.
He stared at his open textbook. For a split second, the image returned—the toad’s eyes, wide and gray, full of something far too complex to belong to an animal.
That sharp, raw pain. The disgust. The hollow emptiness. The terror, so intense it burned in the gaze. The desperate, animal will to survive.
Those eyes… they weren’t just those of a creature. They felt like a soul—human, trapped in a grotesque, muddy shell.
And the eyes… gray.
Wade lifted a hand, pressing his fingers gently to his eyelids. Warm, smooth—no vertical pupils, no visible bulge. Just normal, human eyes.
A quiet sigh of relief escaped him.
Please, not precognition.
He couldn’t imagine being turned into a toad and stuck like that—trapped, unable to change back.
… If Sirius Black ever got transformed into a toad, Wade vowed, he’d find him before that wolf could do anything—and he’d fix it, no matter what.
…
“A nightmare?” Theo asked over dinner, fork in hand, concern in his voice. “What kind?”
“Don’t talk about it,” Wade sighed, exhausted. The dream still lingered in his mind like smoke. He picked up a fried egg. “What were you saying about Slytherin students lately?”
Theo glanced around, then leaned in, lowering his voice. “Malfoy’s apparently split from everyone else.”
“Really?” Michael rested his chin on his hand, poking listlessly at a piece of pie. “Is that news? They’ve been at odds forever.”
“This time it’s different. Pansy Parkinson isn’t even walking with him anymore.” Liam whispered, eyes darting. “We saw him in the restroom the other day… crying.”
Michael froze, his fork hovering mid-air. “I heard Daphne mention… his father’s still missing.”
“Six months already,” Theo said, genuinely puzzled. “Where is he?”
Before he could finish, Liam jabbed Theo sharply in the arm and gave Wade and the others a quick, urgent look. They all shut up immediately.
Wade looked up.
Draco Malfoy was walking down the center aisle, eyes cold and sharp with disdain, as if no one in the room was worth a second glance.
Wade watched him, eyes following until Malfoy reached the end of the Slytherin table, slumped into an empty seat, then whipped around—his eyes narrowing, lips pressed into a thin, hard line. His expression was icy, fierce, a silent warning: What are you staring at?
Wade looked away, heart thudding.
Of course. How could he have forgotten?
Draco Malfoy—gray eyes.
And his father, too.
(End of Chapter)
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