https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-691-The-Application-of-the-Explosion-Spell/13685914/
Chapter 692: A Conversation Before the Triwizard Cup
Back at the stands, Antoine still carried the distinct, potion-laden scent unique to the Treatment Tent.
Dreian glanced at him with disdain. “Was it really necessary? You’re about to resign from Salem. Why waste time charming a little girl?”
“How can it be wasted?” Antoine grinned. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think about turning her into a companion when you saw her shove her arm into a lizard’s mouth.”
Dreian didn’t argue. He merely spoke calmly. “The stronger the will, the harder it is to change. Bring her in, and you’ll risk turning her into a time bomb meant to detonate us.”
“Haha.” Antoine laughed. “Salem Academy folks don’t have such clear-cut notions of good and evil. To them, family, friends, emotions—those are what matter most.”
He squinted slightly. “Besides, Salem isn’t just home to one hope. The students there are all a little mad—perfectly in tune with us.”
“Whatever.” Dreian shrugged. “But if you bring danger in, don’t be surprised if I’m not kind to you as your sponsor.”
“Relax,” Antoine said carelessly. “I’m not about to give myself trouble.” He paused. “So, how’s the Tournament going?”
“The Potter boy’s about to reach Wade…”
Beside them, the middle-aged wizard Gellert Grindelwald remained silently attentive to the Tournament’s progress, offering no comment on their exchange—as if he didn’t care, or as if he’d already entrusted the decision to them.
…
Harry pushed forward through the narrow thorn tunnel, where time had become indistinct.
Ten minutes? An hour? The still darkness stretched every second into agony.
Though he had the Lumos charm to light his way, his face and body were still being scratched by thorns. But compared to earlier dangers, the pain was negligible.
Then, a sliver of light appeared ahead.
Harry instinctively squinted.
The tunnel opened into a circular clearing surrounded by ancient trees. The Triwizard Cup sat quietly on a moss-covered stone pedestal, bathed in moonlight—serene, mysterious, and utterly still.
A surprised smile tugged at Harry’s lips. He started to run—then stopped abruptly.
Only a step from the trophy, Wade stood with his back turned, as if he’d never faced any danger. His clothes were perfectly smooth, untouched by dirt or creases.
Not like Harry, who’d rolled through soil, crawled through grass patches, and now looked a mess—his robes torn in several places, stained with Scabbers’ blood.
His heart sank. Yet strangely, he felt no shock, no surprise. It felt… inevitable.
Harry noticed that Wade hadn’t been there long—yet he hadn’t touched the trophy, nor cast any protective charm. He simply studied the cup’s engravings, as if waiting for something.
Moonlight stretched his shadow long across the ground. His wand wasn’t in his hand. It rested casually in his side pocket.
Harry’s breath grew sharp. He raised his wand—then lowered it again, hesitating.
Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. His mood, for some reason, felt strangely light.
He dragged himself forward, voice hoarse. “Just take it, Wade. You’ve made it. What are you waiting for?”
Wade didn’t move. He turned.
Harry froze.
In those gray eyes, there was no triumph. No joy. Only a deep, complex emotion—something close to pity.
His nerves snapped taut. A dread, vast and overwhelming, surged through him.
Wade adjusted the badge on his chest. His voice was unnervingly calm.
“If we both take the trophy… and become champions together… what do you think?”
Harry frowned. His forehead throbbed. Frustration flared.
“Why give way?” he snapped. “You arrived first. You’re far stronger than me! The champion should be you!”
Wade’s lips curved into an old, strange smile.
“But what if I told you… this trophy doesn’t lead to victory? What if it leads to danger?”
He locked eyes with Harry.
“Do you still have the courage to touch it?”
When Wade had first reached the cup’s location, he’d expected an ambush—some trap, some attack.
According to Little Barty Crouch, Voldemort still followed the original plot, intent on using Harry’s blood to resurrect himself. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to claim the trophy first.
But Wade had faced no resistance.
He’d assumed it was due to taking a shortcut. He waited, watched—no red flash, no sudden apparition. The situation had changed.
Perhaps there were too many strong competitors this time. Voldemort’s agents had abandoned the old tactic of secretly helping Harry eliminate rivals, sending the chosen boy to the predetermined grave.
Then Wade tested the cup—and realized the truth.
This wasn’t an ordinary Portkey that moved with its owner.
It was like the ring Gellert Grindelwald used in Gray Castle—constantly teleporting anyone who touched it.
So there was no need for a Needle of Adventure to guide all champions.
Only Harry needed to reach the end. When he saw the cup, he’d take it without suspicion—no matter what happened.
Even if someone vanished in front of him, he’d assume it was just a way to remove contestants from the Forbidden Forest. He’d never suspect the trap.
Wade couldn’t help but admire Voldemort’s design. It was far safer than Little Barty Crouch’s clumsy, hand-holding approach.
Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”
Wade waved his wand, and the nearby blue birds closed their eyes. Harry watched, didn’t stop him—his expression darkening.
But on an ancient pine tree not far away, one blue bird had been there all along.
Its presence was meant to record every champion’s approach to the cup.
Now, it offered the only view of the trophy’s vicinity to someone inside the stands.
Wade pretended ignorance. He even feigned caution, scanning the area thoroughly before speaking.
His voice, low and clear, echoed across the moonlit clearing:
“I eliminated the others not because I didn’t want them a chance… but because this Tournament’s end isn’t glory. It’s not victory.”
He paused, looking at the cup.
“It’s a trap. The winner… becomes a sacrifice.”
Harry’s pupils contracted. His scar flared with sudden, sharp pain—as if someone had heard Wade’s words and felt a surge of fury.
He gasped, clutching his head. Rage boiled within him. His green eyes flickered with red light.
Wade’s gaze remained fixed on him.
“I believe the Needle targeted either you… or me. So I waited for you.”
His eyes passed beyond Harry, as if piercing through the thick forest, seeing the distant Hogwarts Castle.
“Harry… we live in sunlight because people like Dumbledore carry the weight. But when the storm can no longer be stopped… someone has to step forward and intervene.”
Harry suddenly understood.
“You mean… Voldemort?”
The name hung in the air. The silence was absolute.
It was as if a silent charm had been cast across the stands—cutting off the crowd’s chatter in mid-sentence.
Then, the stands erupted.
“Dumbledore!” Fudge shouted, unable to contain himself. “What are they saying? Are those two just making it up? Is this Wade Gray’s trick?”
He screamed words even he didn’t believe.
On the headmaster’s face, shock was plain.
In the quiet forest, Wade gave a slow nod.
“Likely.”
A memory flashed in his mind—the conversation before the Tournament, in Dumbledore’s office:
“Wade, what I’m about to say may be beyond your understanding. But this time… I hope you can help stop Voldemort’s resurrection.”
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
