Translated Chapter
184. The Second "Journey" with Dumbledore
At eight o’clock that evening, Wade arrived outside the Headmaster’s Office, where the grotesque stone Gargoyle tilted its head to stare at him.
"Cream Pastry," Wade said.
The Gargoyle stepped aside, and Wade ascended the Spiral Staircase. As the steps slowly rose, he saw the oak door adorned with a brass knocker. He knocked, and the door opened silently.
Inside, Dumbledore stood bent over something, facing a large table where the Sorting Hat rested beside him. Portraits of past headmasters lined the walls, and as Wade stepped through the doorway, a chorus of voices erupted in chatter.
But the moment the door opened, all sound ceased. Every portrait turned to face him in unison.
Had it not been for the bright, ever-burning candles casting a warm glow across the room, the scene would have felt truly eerie.
Dumbledore’s Phoenix, Fawks, perched atop a copper ring holding the candles. Compared to last year, it looked aged and weary—its feathers sparse, its eyes dim. It seemed close to death.
"Oh, Wade, you’re right on time," Dumbledore said, rising. "Come take a look—today I’ve acquired a rather fascinating little toy."
"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore. This is…" Wade approached, eyes widening as he took in the sight on the table: several magical pets.
A tiny Phoenix, a Fire Dragon, a Pegasus, and a Ryem Bull—all moving about, drinking, playing, resting. Each had its own delicate little nest.
A miniature wizard, wearing a pointed hat, lived among them, sharing a whimsical cottage made of mushrooms, its chimney gently puffing white smoke. It looked like a real village, alive and bustling.
The wizard was arguing with the Fire Dragon:
"Move forward a bit—I don’t have any room!" the dragon said.
"I came first—you go over there!" the wizard snapped.
"You don’t even need that much space! Just squeeze!"
"Fine, fine—take all the space, then!"
The tiny wizard stomped off, fuming. The Fire Dragon grinned sheepishly and sidled back, apologetic.
The Ryem Bull stepped in with a placating tone: "Alright, alright—stop arguing. The problem isn’t us. It’s that Master gave us too little space. If we had more room, we wouldn’t be squishing each other."
"If I had the money, I’d want a golden nest," the Phoenix sighed mournfully. "This wooden house feels like it’s about to burn down. I’m afraid to even move."
Pegasus let out a soft snore: "ZZZ…"
"Don’t make things hard on Master!" the Fire Dragon said earnestly. "It’s not his fault we’re poor. He’s done his best to give us a good home. Don’t be sad, Master—we still love you!"
It looked up at Dumbledore and, with surprising politeness, gave Wade a small nod. "Hello, Young Wizard."
Dumbledore couldn’t help but chuckle, stroking his elegant beard, now tied with a tiny butterfly knot.
"See how utterly adored these little ones are? They’ve brought me so much joy." He smiled. "I hear this was your invention?"
"Yes," Wade replied simply.
"Remarkable, Wade. Truly surprising. Fawks and the Sorting Hat are especially fond of them—they could chat all day." Dumbledore paused, his expression faintly troubled. "The only problem is, they’re always hinting I buy them things. Any idea how to stop that?"
Wade hesitated. "…Sorry, Professor. The personalities of these pets are set at creation. They can’t be changed without… well, killing the current version."
At that, the tiny creatures instantly retreated into their homes. The Ryem Bull left only its rear end exposed. The Fire Dragon and the wizard, who had been arguing moments before, now clung to each other in terror, trembling, eyes wide with panic and pleading.
"No… please…" the wizard whispered, voice quivering. "I don’t want to die…"
The Fire Dragon nodded frantically.
"Well then, let’s not do that," Dumbledore said gently. "Honestly, their greedy little personalities are kind of amusing."
The pets exhaled in relief. Within moments, they were playing again, unfazed.
"Ravenclaw suits you well, doesn’t it?" Dumbledore mused. "I still remember when you told me you wanted to go to Hufflepuff."
The Sorting Hat suddenly spoke: "But I knew exactly where you belonged, Wade Gray. You were born for Ravenclaw."
"Thank you," Wade replied dryly. "But I believe I could’ve done just as well in Hufflepuff. Knowledge doesn’t change based on a house."
The Hat fell silent. Its brim twitched slightly—almost as if it were thinking hard about a rebuttal.
Fawks let out a sudden, sharp cry—almost like a laugh—then a few feathers drifted from its tail. Wade caught them midair and placed them on the table.
"Keep them," Dumbledore said. "Phoenix feathers are invaluable—perfect for wand-making, potion brewing, alchemy. Don’t let Fawks’ appearance fool you. Even now, his tail still holds immense power."
"Thank you, Professor. And thank you, Fawks," Wade said honestly, tucking the feathers away. His mind raced with visions of rare potions, enchanted components, and powerful transmutations.
"You’re welcome," Dumbledore said. "I look forward to more surprises from you. I suspect Terence shares the same thoughts."
Terence was Professor Mor’s first name.
"What brings you here, Professor?" Wade asked.
He hadn’t consciously thought about his recent actions—but he’d already prepared for this moment.
After all, the burning remains of Little Hangleton Village had already made the newspapers. Dumbledore couldn’t have missed it.
The headmaster had only recently taken him on a visit to the site. Then, Gaunt Manor burned to the ground. Doubt, suspicion—those were natural reactions.
Or perhaps Remus Lupin had sensed something in both events—the Horcrux secret—and, loyal as ever to Dumbledore, had reported it.
Remus had once been a member of the Phoenix Society. Trusting Dumbledore over Wade was entirely understandable. Wade could respect that.
Wade rested his hand lightly on the edge of the table, standing relaxed, waiting for an answer.
Dumbledore smiled softly, gently. "I imagine you still remember our last visit with that old friend?"
"Of course," Wade nodded. "Voldemort’s rise was… unforgettable. The fact that a half-blood insisted so fiercely on Pureblood supremacy—it’s what struck me most."
"Because he despised the Muggle blood in his veins," Dumbledore explained. "At the same time, he used that ideology to attract followers, to build his power."
"Why didn’t you publish his origins in the newspapers?" Wade asked. "His followers preach Pureblood glory. If they knew their master was half-blood…" He trailed off, but the implication was clear.
Dumbledore chuckled, his deep eyes twinkling with a hint of affection—almost as if Wade were a naive child.
Wade frowned, realizing he’d asked a foolish question.
"Few people inside the wizarding world know Voldemort was once Tom Riddle," Dumbledore said. "But he never hid it either. His earliest followers, the core Death Eaters—they all knew about his shameful Muggle father, and that he killed him himself."
"Voldemort himself never shied away from mentioning those events. He conquered through sheer magical power. He believed he was born different—superior. He sees Muggles as inferior, not even of the same race."
"That truth never troubled his followers. They never speak of his mixed blood. In fact, they claim he’s a Pureblood descendant of Slytherin—because they don’t want their leader tainted by shame."
"Voldemort rules through the Pureblood doctrine. He refuses to recognize anyone born of Muggle parents. That’s his creed. And today, I’d like to take you to visit another old friend."
Dumbledore reached out, hand extended.
"Would you like to begin another journey, Wade?"
(End of Chapter)
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