Chapter 694: Harry's Determination
“I remember now!” Harry suddenly exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. “A few days ago, I heard someone say Filch had been giving you trouble. I thought it was strange—he’s never been that harsh toward you before… That’s when you realized his identity?”
Wade silently admired Harry’s accidental insight. His gaze settled on the Triwizard Cup and he said, “Yes. But before we escaped, he did reveal something: Voldemort wanted the one champion who would participate in the third task. I tested it—the trophy is definitely a Portkey. But someone inside erased the original destination and changed the final one.”
“Where will it take us…” He turned to Harry, “You must have an idea.”
Harry’s heartbeat spiked. He stared intently into Wade’s eyes, searching for any hint of deception or manipulation. But there was none. In those gray irises, only the familiar certainty and sincerity he knew so well.
“So what’s the plan?” Harry whispered. “We just jump into a trap? Not tell Dumbledore?”
“Then what?” Wade countered. “Even if the headmaster believed us and tested the cup, he’d still need time to trace its destination. By the time he arrived, would Voldemort really just stand there waiting?”
“Of course not,” Harry murmured, his fingers unconsciously brushing the scar on his forehead, wincing at the dull ache. “He’d lie in wait like a venomous serpent, hide somewhere else, try again and again—until he reaches his goal!”
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. A cold wave of dread washed over him.
“Voldemort will stop at nothing to achieve his purpose. The World Cup was one thing… and now, if not for your Magic Puppet eliminating the other competitors, every champion could have been in danger!”
He glanced toward the school, through the dense shadows of the trees. He could almost see Sirius Black grinning, Remus gently urging him to keep pushing. And Hermione, Ron, Neville, Michael, Liam… all of them.
“That man doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. If this happens again… everyone around me will be in danger!”
He spoke with fierce conviction, his scar burning like fire. Though his vision blurred with pain, when he lifted his head again, his eyes burned with unwavering resolve.
“Rather than live in constant fear of Voldemort and the Death Eaters appearing out of nowhere, harming innocent people with their ambitions… let’s follow his plan. Let’s see what his true goal really is.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Wade nodded slightly. “But you know—once you grasp the trophy, there’s no turning back.”
Harry took a deep breath. “I didn’t have many choices to begin with. But at least… this time, I know what I’m facing.”
Wade smiled. “Then… shall we?”
“But Wade…” Harry stopped him. “I don’t want to come off as some arrogant fool. I know you’re strong. But… I think—”
He inhaled deeply, forcing his expression to remain steady, unshaken. He had to get the words out before doubt took root.
“I think… Voldemort wants me. So you don’t need to come with me. I hope you’ll go back to the stadium right away, tell Dumbledore everything, and then—”
“Then wait for me to come back with your corpse?” Wade cut in sharply.
Harry froze. His expression was a mix of raw courage barely held together—like a fragile shield cracking under pressure.
“Listen, Harry,” Wade said, his voice firm now. “I’m not some reckless Gryffindor charging into danger on a whim. I’m here because I’ve prepared. You might be going in with the courage of a man who’s ready to die. But I’m not. I’m going to come back alive. And I won’t stand by while you die in front of me.”
Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. His clenched fist trembled. After a long silence, he finally said, “Then promise me— if things go wrong, you’ll prioritize your own safety and get out first.”
Wade paused, then smiled—genuine, warm, almost tender.
“Of course. You think I’m some kind of Gryffindor fool?”
He turned toward the Triwizard Cup, his voice barely a whisper.
“Ready? One… two… three…”
They reached out at the same time, gripping the trophy’s handle.
In an instant, a strange surge of magic erupted from the cup—like invisible hooks tearing through their bodies, yanking them forward with brutal force.
“Hold on!” Harry thought he shouted, but his voice was torn apart by the roaring wind.
The world twisted and spun. He was thrown into a whirlwind of kaleidoscopic light, everything stretched into shimmering streaks. Wade remained beside him, steady, unwavering.
Boom!
They crashed onto hard ground. Harry groaned, struggling to rise, his glasses crooked on his nose. Wade, on the other hand, landed with perfect balance and dropped into a half-kneel in an instant.
He looked down at his palm, then scanned the surroundings.
Sure enough—the Triwizard Cup had vanished. It hadn’t come with them.
…
After the initial shock, Dumbledore pressed his fingers to his temple, his face pale with dread. He said nothing for a long moment, as chaos erupted around him.
“Quirrell? That stuttering professor?” a fourth-year student whispered to a friend, wide-eyed. “Did you hear that? They just said Professor Quirrell was… taken by the Dark Lord? Did I imagine that?”
Fudge spilled his drink in shock. “This is utter nonsense! Little Barty Crouch died in Azkaban years ago! Dumbledore, what kind of teaching is this?”
The Bulgarian delegation turned ashen. “I knew it! That bride of the Bulgarian team’s behavior wasn’t some random incident!”
In Ireland, several wizards suddenly covered their faces, sobbing violently, shoulders shaking. They had once treated Boggarts like family. But after that night, most of the enraged creatures had been executed by wizards.
In the stands, more people who had lived through that terrifying night began to weep silently.
“Cut the broadcast! Stop showing this!” Fudge roared at the FMC. “How much longer are you going to let these boys play fools in front of the entire world?”
“Keep broadcasting,” a voice crackled through the earpiece of the commentator. “Good heavens—everyone on Earth will remember today’s show!”
The crowd ignored the furious Minister of Magic.
But when both boys reached for the Triwizard Cup at the same time, the stands erupted in a single, unified, desperate cry:
“Stop!!”
“No—no no! Don’t do it, Harry, Wade!”
Sirius Black screamed, his voice raw with agony. “Stop them, Dumbledore!”
He leapt from the stands and sprinted toward the Forbidden Forest.
The next instant, the giant mirror’s painting went dark. All sound vanished.
The broadcasting Blue Bird hesitated for a split second—then, as if triggered by an unseen command, darted forward and vanished mid-air, disappearing from the empty field.
(End of Chapter)
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