Wade unconsciously leaned back in his chair, and the legs of his chair tipped up off the floor.
Antoine's passion for publishing a book was like a raging fire, but to Wade, his words felt a bit too exaggerated—painting the significance of the book far too optimistically.
Back when he was in university, Wade had sat in on a few pedagogy courses to help a friend with attendance. He knew very well that compared to the stagnant wizarding world, the Muggle world's educational methods had already blossomed into countless approaches.
Yet the educators who had proposed all sorts of methods and theories usually ended up as nothing more than a surname attached to some "method of teaching."
It was like the Feynman Technique—despite its ability to achieve knowledge retention rates of over ninety percent, because it was time-consuming and troublesome, people, even when they knew of it, were simply too lazy to practice it.
But Wade didn't voice these thoughts. He merely said: "Thank you, Antoine… if we're publishing a book, what do you need me to do?"
Antoine's eyes lit up, but he clicked his tongue and said: "You mustn't be too proactive in this, Wade. Otherwise, a bunch of old fogeys will think you're being arrogant."
"I'll write in the preface that this is a project organized spontaneously by students you've helped. Of course, you'll need to review and polish the final manuscript."
As he spoke, he pulled out a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled a few notes.
Sitting on the desk, Antoine held the notebook in one hand. Through his fingers, Wade glimpsed the page: [Third Spell Study Group Session Notes… can be summarized as… issues appearing during practice were…]
The handwriting was a bit messy, clearly written in spare moments.
"Is that really okay?" Wade sighed.
"A professor from Salem helping Hogwarts students publish a book—and not even putting his name on it?"
Antoine waved it off. "Right now I'm not Professor Antoine of Salem. I'm just Student A of the Spell Study Group…"
He winked and grinned.
"Thanks to the Book of Friends, I don't need to meet anyone face-to-face or show my real name to strike agreements with those kids."
Wade: "…And how exactly did you even get their contact details?"
"The Spell Study Group's chatgroup! What, you're not in it? We talk in there every single day!"
Antoine looked more surprised than Wade himself. Seeing Wade's slightly stiff expression, he burst out laughing:
"Hahahahaha… I guess they didn't want to bother you, so they never gave you a book of friends' page. After all, you already teach them twice a week for free. It wouldn't be very polite to chase after you for advice even during your downtime."
Wade sulked for a moment, then chuckled along with him.
Indeed, even if he had joined such a chatgroup, he would probably have thought of it as a time sink. Like most chatgroups, he'd leave it idle most of the time, only glancing through it occasionally, and almost never speaking up.
"In any case, just leave this matter to me. Once the first draft is finished, I'll show it to you."
Antoine spoke enthusiastically, then added: "Oh, by the way—when the second task comes around, you'd better not knock Hope out of the running too!"
"Salem's only got her left now. If she gets eliminated early, I'm afraid Madam Owens will take the whole Salem delegation onto a plane back home that very night—and then I won't have any excuse to stay here openly."
"The second task is tricky. I wasn't planning on cutting down opponents any further anyway," Wade said. "But if she can't get through it herself?"
"Then let it be." Antoine answered briskly. "You can't very well be her babysitter."
"That's fine, then."
Wade's gaze drifted to the window, where the last ray of sunset stretched the shadows of several figures across the lawn, long and towering.
From above, it looked as though a few black giants had suddenly appeared on the school grounds.
"Speaking of which—" After a moment of silence, Wade asked softly,
"What does Mr. Grindelwald think… of this tournament?"
"Hmm?" Antoine, who had been mulling over the notes in his small notebook, froze for a second. Then, as if recalling something, he smiled mysteriously.
"He said you're like a young Thunderbird—"
Antoine drew out the words, and grinned as Wade turned to look at him. "With your very first beat of the wings, you stirred up a storm."
Wade felt something stir faintly in his chest. He pressed his lips together but didn't reply at once.
Antoine leaned closer, patting him on the shoulder.
"Mr. Grindelwald also asked me to tell you this: walk your own path, and don't look back at the shadows behind you."
When Wade remained silent, Antoine chuckled and added, "Of course… if it bothers you, you know you can contact him directly, don't you?"
Without waiting for an answer, he hopped off the desk and casually nudged Wade's chair back into place.
"All right, off you go—back to your House. Your classmates are surely waiting to celebrate with you!" Antoine said brightly.
"As for me, I'll go see if dear Angelina wants to be listed as the second author. We've been getting along quite well lately."
…
Wade walked alone up the spiral staircase. As he passed, the portraits lining the walls turned to look, whispering among themselves. Some waved and smiled.
It seemed word of the first task had already spread among the paintings. Griffith even trailed after him for a while, chattering endlessly about Wade's performance and boasting of his own dragon-hunting feats in his youth.
"Back in Romania, I once froze a black dragon solid—but then its mate showed up and burned my favorite robe to ashes!"
"Did I ever tell you about the time I trapped a whole group of Ukrainian Ironbellies? I was out collecting Gurdyroots, and five fire-breathing beasts surrounded me all at once…"
Suddenly, a loud voice boomed from another portrait: "I heard someone mention dragon-hunting?"
Griffith stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh… Shit!!"
A short, armored knight on a fat little pony clattered noisily into the painting Griffiths was currently in.
The original owner of the portrait was shoved into a corner, fuming and puffing out his mustache, but nobody paid him the slightest attention.
The knight bellowed: "Ha! And what's so grand about dealing with tame, household-bred dragons? I, Sir Cadogan, rode this trusty steed into battle and risked my life to defeat the Wyvern of Wye!"
"That beast wanted to devour us whole—but with a broken wand, I, Sir Cadogan, pierced its tongue! Do you know how I set it ablaze afterward? A feat never to be equaled…"
While Griffith was caught up with Sir Cadogan's boasting, Wade quickened his pace, slipped past the spiral staircase, and stepped into the Ravenclaw common room.
The bronze door knocker's gentle voice asked: "Born of battle, crowned with joy; gain me and you exult, lose me and you despair—what am I?"
Wade smiled and answered, "Victory."
"Correct."
The door swung open.
At once, dazzling blue light spilled out. Brilliant fireworks burst from wand tips, the long tables overflowed with food, and countless joyful faces turned toward Wade. Steam rose from the feast, blurring his vision.
"Raise your glasses—!"
Penelope stood on a stool, her cheeks flushed with excitement, cup held high. "To today's triumph—cheers to Wade Grey!"
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