Chapter 665: The Afterimage of Night Wind
The lake at night lay like a mirror of pitch black, its surface reflecting nothing but the starless sky. Along the shore, a shadowy figure drifted—transparent as a ghost, or perhaps merely moonlight playing tricks on the observer’s sight.
A hesitation, fleeting as a breath, and Wade snatched the broomstick leaning against the window. In one swift motion, he vaulted through the open window and leapt into the dark.
The night wind rushed into his robes instantly. The broomstick shot downward, plummeting for two seconds—then the descent abruptly slowed. He carved a smooth arc through the air, landing lightly on the soft soil by the lake’s edge.
The thin mist parted. But when Wade’s feet touched the ground, the figure was gone—vanished without a trace. Only slender reeds swayed gently in the breeze, as if the air itself had whispered a secret.
It must have been a trick of the eyes. A hallucination.
Wade narrowed his eyes, then pushed off the ground with a light kick. He turned the broomstick and began circling the lake slowly, scanning the darkness.
Hogwarts didn’t allow Apparition—except for Dumbledore. No matter how fast that person had been, they couldn’t have vanished entirely from the lakeside in the blink of an eye.
“Looking for something, Wade?”
A gentle voice spoke from behind.
Wade spun around—just in time to see the silver-white beard shimmering under the moonlight, the deep blue eyes studying him with quiet understanding.
Dumbledore had appeared from behind a patch of grass, as if stepping out of the night itself.
Wade instinctively glanced upward, then lowered his gaze. “Couldn’t sleep… I thought I saw someone walking by the lake. Just wanted to check it out.”
Dumbledore regarded him, his eyes soft but knowing. “Still worrying about that skeleton?”
He placed a hand on Wade’s shoulder. “You don’t have to carry this burden yet. Rest well. The rest is our responsibility—adults’ work.”
“Professor…” Wade hesitated. “Do you think… this could have anything to do with a professor at school?”
“Oh?” Dumbledore smiled. “So being neighbors with Alastor has changed your way of thinking, has it?”
Wade asked, “Does Professor Moody have anyone he doubts?”
“He doubts someone… inside. Even me.”
There was a hint of amusement in Dumbledore’s tone.
“Professor…” Wade sighed, “I don’t think Moody ever said it quite like that.”
“Actually,” Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully, “that’s roughly what he said. And I told him—of every professor in this school, I have absolute trust.”
Wade knew that was also meant for him.
“I understand,” Wade said quietly. “I guess I overthought it. I’ll go back to bed. Good night, Professor.”
Dumbledore smiled. “Dream well, child.”
The broomstick hovered just above the ground, ready to accelerate—then Wade pressed it down again.
He paused, then turned back.
“Professor Dumbledore… were you walking by the lake just now too?”
“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “I felt a bit feverish in my mind tonight. A cool breeze helps clear my thoughts.”
Wade nodded. He turned and walked away, but as he did, a single thought struck him—unbidden, sharp:
The most carefully crafted truth is the most perfect lie.
Even if he couldn’t see the figure clearly from the tower, could he really mistake Dumbledore?
Even without seeing the face—just the silhouette—Wade couldn’t confuse him with anyone else.
And besides… the figure’s hair and beard weren’t as long as Dumbledore’s. That much he was certain of.
…
A chill wind swept across the lake, stirring the water reeds and branches. The trees whispered without sound.
Dumbledore stood motionless, watching Wade’s silhouette disappear into the castle window. Then he turned, walking slowly in the other direction.
The wind tugged at his silver hair and long beard, as if he were shivering. He pulled the hood of his robe higher, shielding himself from the night.
After a moment, he whispered, so softly it might have been the wind itself:
“Every great change begins with a child.”
The wind howled suddenly. Leaves rustled, and tufts of grass and petals spun in spirals around his legs.
A voice—faint, layered with memory—drifted on the air:
> I once thought you were the one who would break the chains, Albus. You had wisdom, power… yet you bound yourself.
“I failed…” Dumbledore continued, his face expressionless, his lips barely moving. “I’m sorry.”
Though he said sorry, there was only weariness in his voice—calm, resigned.
> I’m not blaming you.
“I know,” Dumbledore whispered. “But I’m old. I’ve been old for a long time. I no longer have the strength to keep fighting…”
He turned his gaze toward the castle.
Lights flickered here and there—scattered like stars in the sky.
“I can only place my hope in the next generation… whether they run, or hide, or stand… time will prove everything.”
> This child… he’s different from you. There’s a deep connection between him and the darkness.
“What’s so different?” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “I was just as drawn to darkness in my youth.”
The whisper faded into silence.
The wind stilled.
And for a moment, Dumbledore laughed—a quiet, childlike chuckle, like a player who had just won a long game.
> And if this time… it fails too?
“Then it fails,” Dumbledore said calmly. “What’s so strange about one man failing to heal a thousand years of illness in the wizarding world?”
Silence settled across the lake. Only the gentle lap of water against the shore broke the stillness.
The moon’s reflection on the water fractured and reformed again and again.
Near the edge, Dumbledore stood alone—his silhouette clear in the dark. But beside it, in the water’s mirror, another figure appeared—faint, translucent.
Tall and straight, nearly matching Dumbledore’s height. Silver hair fell over his shoulders. The dark robes shimmered faintly with threads of deep gold.
The wind stirred the surface. Ripples spread.
When the water stilled, the ghostly image was gone.
Dumbledore gazed into the endless night. Time seemed to have frozen beside him.
…
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the corridor, casting beams that illuminated the dust dancing in the air—like countless tiny, drifting insects.
Wade arrived at the Alchemy Classroom half an hour earlier than usual. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, Professor Mor’s low, steady voice echoed through the room.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Wade let his eyes drift across the dense forest of light beams. Then, through the window, he watched the scene inside:
Several students sat around stone tables, fully focused on today’s assignment—crafting a Magic Book.
(End of Chapter)
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