https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-97-Vanishing-Cabinet-Revised-Version-/13684822/
Translated Chapter
Newborn creatures are almost universally endearing, and even the bald Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon is no exception—its tiny wings flared wide, claws scrabbling at the table, it looks less like a fearsome fire dragon and more like a playful puppy begging for attention. But the moment it opens its mouth, revealing long, needle-like fangs, the mood shifts instantly. Love dissolves into alarm, and threat creeps in.
To Hagrid, however, this little dragon—no bigger than his hand—is utterly adorable. He immediately claims it as his own, affectionately stroking its head and brushing his fingers over its wings, only to be met with a sudden burst of angry fire.
"Look! It can breathe fire!" Hagrid exclaims, patting the sparks off his beard with pride.
"Hagrid," Hermione says, her voice laced with worry, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgeback Dragons grow?"
"Oh, not too fast," Hagrid replies gently. "But they don’t reach full size until they’re fifty feet long."
"Fifty feet!" Hermione gasps.
"Yep—right now, it’s just a tiny little thing, isn’t it?" Hagrid beams, completely missing her concern. He pulls out a barrel of brandy and a jar of pre-prepared chicken blood. "Who wants to try feeding it?"
Harry and Ron raise their hands in unison. Hermione, on the other hand, leans back dramatically, her refusal clear as day.
Wade had been curious too—but seeing the two boys’ eagerness, he quietly lowers his hand. "Be careful," he warns. "Its teeth are venomous."
Hagrid demonstrates first, then hands the task over to the Gryffindor duo. Wade watches for a while, his curiosity satisfied, and quietly announces his departure. The truth is, Hagrid has heated the hut to unbearable levels trying to incubate the dragon, and just minutes inside leave Wade drenched in sweat.
Not long after, Hermione emerges. Wade waits for her. "I thought you were heading back to Gryffindor Common Room with Harry?"
"I was," she says. "But I figured… well… they probably need some space. To talk."
…
Inside the hut, Harry and Ron avoid each other’s eyes, silently taking turns feeding the fire dragon with precise, quiet coordination. Hagrid drones on about how much he adores the little creature, scratching his head as he tries to think of a name.
"Maybe I should check some books," he mutters. "They always have answers." He rummages through a cluttered cabinet piled high with bottles, tin mugs, and dusty tomes, finally pulling out an old, leather-bound volume. With thick fingers, he flips through the pages, searching for the perfect name.
Harry, distracted, feeds too slowly. The dragon doesn’t hesitate—it snaps its jaws shut on his hand.
"Careful!" Ron yanks Harry’s hand away, sending a splash of brandy across the table.
The little fire dragon snarls at its keeper, flames gathering in its throat—just as Harry swiftly pushes the rest of the blood-brandy mixture toward it. The dragon plunges headfirst into the drink, flailing in panic before realizing the entire bowl is full of food. It settles in, hungrily gulping down the mixture.
Both boys exhale in relief. The awkward tension eases naturally, and even their feigned cynicism feels genuine.
Harry hesitates. Then, after days of holding it in, the words finally spill out:
"Ron… I’ve wanted to say this for a while. I did want to ask you something that day… but the Society’s rule is—no one can be introduced unless everyone agrees. I figured… I’d ask others first, then bring it up properly…"
Of course, the first person he asked shot down his attempt. But Harry doesn’t feel the need to mention that now.
Ron lets out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing. "You know what I thought? I thought you’d made some cool new friends… and started pulling away from us."
In truth, Ron’s been hurting too. Malfoy had mocked him: “Well, Potter finally realized some people aren’t good enough for the spotlight, and ditched them. I’ll admit, he’s an idiot—but at least he made the right choice.”
Furious, Ron had fought Malfoy again. His ribs still ache. But the pain in his body was nothing compared to the ache in his heart—knowing his friendship with Harry was slipping away.
"No! Of course not! Never!" Harry says, startled. "You’re the first friend I ever made!"
Ron breaks into a smile. Then, curiosity overcoming him, he asks: "So… what do you actually do in that Society?"
The question finally out in the open, he feels a weight lift from his chest.
Harry explains: "It’s just a study group. Mostly we write essays together. But after dinner, Wade teaches us spells the school hasn’t covered yet—mostly Defense Against Dark Magic. I’ve learned the Disarming Charm and Shield Charm. It’s tough—had to get hurt a few times before I got it right. Want to learn? I can teach you."
"Really?" Ron hesitates. "Wouldn’t that break the Society’s rules?"
"No," Harry says. "Wade said we can teach others. It’s just… I might not be as good at teaching as he is."
…
For Wade, the shifting dynamics of student friendships are far from his concern. Right now, he has something far more important on his mind.
Early Saturday morning, Wade walks back and forth in front of the Room of Requirement three times, his mind fixed on one thing:
I need a room with a Pensieve… I need a room with a Pensieve… I need a room with a Pensieve…
A narrow, weathered walnut door appears in the wall. Wade pulls it open.
Inside, the room resembles a hermit’s dwelling—bare wooden bed, low stool, and a stone pillar standing nearly head-high. On top of it rests a shallow stone basin, its edges carved with intricate, ancient runes. Around it, a ring of small gemstones glimmers, their brilliance starkly out of place against the room’s humble simplicity.
This is the Pensieve—a magical artifact capable of storing memories, thoughts, and even allowing one to step into the past, reliving moments as if they were real. Its magic is powerful, complex, and beyond even Professor Mor’s ability to replicate.
Wade raises his wand to his temple, whispering a spell. He focuses on memories long faded by time—faint, half-remembered moments from a life he thought he’d buried.
A moment later, he pulls the wand away. A thin silver thread emerges from his temple, stretching like a spider’s silk. He rotates the wand gently, coaxing the thread into a spiral, as if winding thread on a spindle. After a few turns, the thread snaps.
It floats at the tip of the wand, one end drifting toward the Pensieve. Wade touches the basin, and the thread slips in—spinning slowly, like mist, glowing faintly.
This… is the memory of his previous life.
Wade takes a deep breath—and plunges into the silver stream.
(End of Chapter)
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