Chapter 647: Pride Falls into Dust
Wade: "..."
Hagrid: "..."
They stared at each other, stunned.
Hagrid saw in Wade’s eyes the shift—from astonishment to sudden understanding. Wade, in turn, saw in Hagrid’s gaze the dawning regret, too late to undo.
Before Wade could speak, Hagrid slapped his own mouth hard, darting his eyes left and right. Then, bending low, he lowered his voice to a tense whisper:
"Listen, Wade. You didn’t hear anything, okay?"
"...Okay."
"Truth is, the Third Tournament Project never needed strict secrecy. In two months, you’d find out anyway."
"You’re right."
"But still… don’t mention it to anyone. Not even Harry. Damn it, I shouldn’t have said a word."
"Relax," Wade said, offering a reassuring smile. "I get it."
"Great," Hagrid beamed, slapping Wade’s back with a hand like a sledgehammer—nearly knocking him off his feet. "I knew you were reliable."
"Come on," Hagrid said, turning toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "Time to leave. This isn’t exactly the place for deep thinking."
The two moved out—large and small—Hagrid’s footsteps thundering like a tank’s. Even with care, he snapped branches, flattened bushes, and sent trees swaying as he pushed through.
But with him beside him, the tiny, nerve-wracking sounds that had made Wade tense—faint rustling from nowhere, distant growls, strange shrieks, the hum of insect swarms, the ghostly whisper of breath—had all vanished.
Wade quickened his pace beside Hagrid. Suddenly, he noticed: Hagrid’s appearance had grown even more disheveled than before. No longer the picture of a stag in heat trying to impress with his wild charm.
He hesitated, then asked, "You and Madam Maxime… how are things going lately?"
Instantly, Hagrid’s back slumped.
"Ah… we’ve had a bit of trouble lately…"
He refused to elaborate, marching forward in silence until they’d cleared the forest’s edge.
The toad in the cage stayed eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Hagrid never noticed Wade still holding the little trinket as they parted.
Then, the toad watched the world pass by—familiar stone archways came into view, and students streamed past Wade, greeting him with cheerful enthusiasm.
As a toad, he had no idea what the Magic School League was. He was surprised by how popular Wade was at school—but he didn’t dwell on it.
Suddenly, Wade paused mid-step, turning his head toward the corridor’s far end. The toad followed instinctively, eyes flicking toward the movement.
A group of Slytherins stood by the window, laughing. Then one of them winked at the others—Draco Malfoy was approaching, striding quickly toward the Great Hall.
The laughter died instantly. A tall, broad-shouldered boy wobbled forward, deliberately blocking Draco’s path.
The way ahead now bore an obstacle impossible to ignore. Draco looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Move, Crabbe," he said, voice ice-cold.
Crabbe didn’t budge. Instead, he stepped forward, fists clenched, mimicking Draco’s old arrogance with slow, mocking precision:
"If I don’t, what’s your preparation gonna be? Want me to rip your stomach out?"
Draco froze. A flicker of fluster crossed his face—his usual cynicism cracked.
He glanced around. Not a single Slytherin stood with him. Their faces wore barely concealed amusement.
No one thought Crabbe’s challenge was out of line.
After Lucius Malfoy vanished, word spread fast: Draco had once used the Entrail-Expelling Curse on Crabbe. In the school’s eyes, this was justice—long overdue.
Even if Draco knew Crabbe couldn’t even properly cast Lumos, let alone a real spell, he couldn’t afford to fight here—surrounded by watching eyes.
So he swallowed his pride and stepped around Crabbe.
A sneer twisted Crabbe’s face, as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul.
As they passed each other, Crabbe lurched sideways—shoving Draco hard. The boy staggered, nearly falling.
"Watch where you’re walking, Draco!" Crabbe grinned. "No daddy here to catch you every time."
Draco’s face turned ashen—like cold water had been poured over his head. But in his eyes, fire burned.
His lips pressed into a tight line, suppressing rage. He spun away, walking fast.
Behind him, whispers slithered through the air:
"Chicken."
"Same as his father..."
"Did you hear? The Ministry’s been raiding Malfoy Manor again..."
"...found illegal items. Fined a fortune..."
"Deserved it. Malfoys always were trouble..."
Draco whirled around—but caught no one. Only a dozen pairs of arrogant eyes, and faint, mocking smiles on every lip.
One person looked at him with mild surprise, as if not understanding why he was so furious. Another’s eyes sparkled with anticipation—wanting him to lose control.
Draco realized: screaming, cursing, drawing his wand—it would only make him look worse.
So he forced his spine straight and kept walking.
The laughter behind him buzzed like a swarm of wasps—persistent, stinging. Or worse, sticky spider silk, clinging to his skin, impossible to shake off.
Wade glanced down.
The toad in the cage no longer hid his emotions. He trembled with rage, eyes flashing with venom, fixed on the laughing Slytherins—ready to transform into a venomous serpent and rip open someone’s throat.
The boy’s lips curled slightly. He didn’t react. Just lifted the cage and walked toward the Headmaster’s Tower.
The gargoyles at the entrance remained faithful to duty. Wade ran a hand over the stone wings and murmured,
"Buzzing Bee Candies? Chocolate Frog? Cockroach Cluster… no… Pepper Imp? Mint Candy?"
The gargoyle leapt aside.
The spiral staircase rose on its own. Wade reached the door to the Headmaster’s Office, hand raised to knock—when Dumbledore’s voice cut through the silence.
It was sharp. Unusually stern.
"This isn’t a coincidence, Cornelius Fudge! You must send the Reverse Incident Response Team and the Elite Aurors immediately to investigate. And notify the International Confederation of Wizards!"
"Dumbledore, Dumbledore," Fudge replied, slick and dismissive, "you always exaggerate. You know how many incidents I deal with every day. Most are just drunk wizards causing trouble."
"But this time is different!" Dumbledore insisted. "Muggles suddenly aging and catching fire—this has happened three times now. It’s a clear sign of danger. Something far worse is coming—worse than even Voldemort ever was."
"Ah, don’t bring up the dead!" Fudge snapped, flinching despite the fact Voldemort was long gone. He still couldn’t bear to speak the name.
Under Dumbledore’s piercing gaze, the Minister stammered, "All right, all right—I’ve sent someone. I care about the Wizarding World just as much as you do, Dumbledore."
"Sent two recent graduates?" Dumbledore’s voice turned icy. "Then I can only pray they find nothing. If they do encounter Dark Magic practitioners… surviving would be a miracle."
Fudge’s voice sharpened. "Dumbledore, the Tournament is at its peak! Stop spreading these wild rumors—what good does panic do you?"
A sweet, mocking voice joined in:
"Maybe because some people just love to make themselves look important?"
Silence fell—thick, heavy, dead.
After a long moment, Wade heard Dumbledore’s voice, quiet with disappointment:
"If you can look at such clear facts and still choose to pretend you don’t see them… I can’t wake you. But Cornelius Fudge… I thought… I believed you might not be brave, but at least you’d carry your responsibility. I was wrong."
(End of Chapter)
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