Everyone turned toward the voice.
Clarence Shafiq leaned against the wall, sneering. Clearly, the words had come from him.
Fudge looked over and confirmed it was indeed Shafiq. Regret surged through him. Why had he allied with such a fool? The Sirius matter was resolved—they had lost. True, Blake was the cause of their defeat. But why stir trouble now?
This was a formal investiture ceremony hosted by the Ministry of Magic, attended by numerous reporters. Shafiq's ill-timed outburst embarrassed everyone.
Fudge muttered a curse under his breath and turned his gaze to Blake on the stage. At this point, he wanted to see how the boy would respond.
But before Blake could speak, someone else did.
Dean Bohan stood, furious. "Shafiq! What's your meaning? Blake's limb regeneration spell gave countless war-injured wizards hope and healing. Isn't that worthy of the Merlin Medal?"
As Director of St. Mungo's Hospital, Bohan had seen firsthand how former victims of the Death Eaters came daily, desperate for a cure. Thanks to Blake, many found one. Not only had the spell restored limbs—it also diminished the long-standing terror of black magic. Many dark curses were now treatable.
Blake's spell was revolutionary. Yet here was Shafiq, throwing shade. And Bohan had nominated Blake himself. This wasn't just an insult to Blake—it was a slap to Bohan's face.
Shafiq replied smoothly, "Dean Bohan, calm down. I never said the contributions weren't worthy... if they were real."
He glanced at Blake. "You can't seriously believe a teenage boy invented all these groundbreaking discoveries—an age-defying potion and a limb regeneration spell?"
"These are things professionals spend lifetimes on. Blake's thirteen. He's only been in the wizarding world three years. How could he achieve what others never have?"
"And let's not forget—these are two different fields."
As he spoke, camera flashes went off. Murmurs filled the room.
Despite his rudeness, Shafiq's questions made some sense. How could a child do what masters hadn't?
Even Fudge looked surprised. He hadn't expected Shafiq to raise such a direct challenge.
His eyes flicked to Dumbledore, who now wore a rare expression of anger.
Because no matter how Blake explained, doubts had been planted. Even if others defended him, suspicion would follow. Blake's record was stained.
Shafiq hadn't thought this through. Someone had to be behind him.
Dumbledore scanned the crowd. Could it be the goblins? Someone had manipulated this.
But his concern shifted back to Blake. Was the boy shaken?
To his surprise—and relief—Blake looked calm. Still smiling. Still composed.
Dean Bohan snapped, "Nonsense! Blake taught me the regeneration spell himself. If it weren't his, how could he explain its mechanisms in such detail? Are you saying I, Director of St. Mungo's, lack magical expertise?"
Shafiq sneered. "Even if he taught you, that doesn't mean he invented it. Dumbledore has said Blake is his child. As the greatest wizard of our time, Dumbledore could've taught him and let the boy take credit."
A buzz rippled through the audience—especially the press. Shafiq had just declared, not implied, that Blake was Dumbledore's son. And that Dumbledore had gifted him a powerful spell to claim glory.
Until now, the public didn't know about Blake's parentage. Only the Wizengamot had been informed.
Now, in front of reporters, Shafiq had exposed it, fueling the idea that Dumbledore orchestrated this for fame—both for Blake and himself.
Some skeptics had wondered why Dumbledore would give such a powerful spell to Blake. Now, the "father-son" link made sense to them. He wasn't just elevating a student. He was elevating his heir.
Dumbledore stood abruptly. He now saw it clearly: this was a conspiracy. A trap set for both him and Blake.
No wonder Shafiq had supported Blake's nomination during the Wizengamot vote—he was laying groundwork for this moment.
"Clap! Clap! Clap!"
The sound of Blake's applause echoed across the hall. All eyes returned to him.
Before, people looked at him with admiration. Now, their stares were more complex—skepticism, curiosity, contempt, intrigue.
Blake still wore his calm smile.
Shafiq faltered for a moment. Shouldn't the boy be panicking? He was supposed to hide behind Dumbledore by now. But Blake was still smiling.
Shafiq reviewed his words again—everything seemed airtight. There was no mistake. He reassured himself. Today, Blake couldn't possibly explain everything away.
Blake stepped down slowly.
"I once heard of a bug that only lives during summer. It thinks the world is always hot because it's never seen winter."
"And recently, I dropped ten of my favorite books into a dry well. I climbed in and met a curious toad who told me the sky was only as big as the well's mouth."
The audience turned to look at Shafiq.
Blake's meaning was clear: Shafiq was like that bug—too limited in experience to believe in what he hadn't seen. A toad in a well.
Shafiq looked confused.
Blake sighed internally. Clearly, subtlety was lost on him.
Shafiq snapped, "Enough riddles! Admit you learned that spell from Dumbledore and stole the credit!"
"Confess?" Blake smiled. "Words are cheap. To respond to doubt, I'll demonstrate through action."
A flicker of panic crossed Shafiq's face. Blake noticed, and his eyes of reality opened. Sure enough, he saw a faint thread of magic connecting Shafiq to a nearby plain-looking wizard. The man had no expression—his features unnaturally stiff. A partial transformation, perhaps. This wasn't his true face.
While observing the man, Blake addressed Shafiq.
"To prove my abilities, I'll create a new spell—right here—and a potion formula as powerful as the life-extending potion."
Gasps spread across the room.
Dumbledore frowned with concern. Sirius jumped to his feet. "Blake… you—"
Blake had made a bold claim. If he failed, it would be an admission that he hadn't invented the originals.
Yes, if he gave only vague explanations, critics would still exist—but nothing as damaging as failing to deliver on this promise.
Shafiq looked thrilled. "You said it! But…"
Blake heard a faint whisper at the same time—more magical speech in Shafiq's ear.
"...to avoid you preparing something in advance, let others suggest the challenge."
Shafiq grinned. "Let the audience provide the tasks! Invent a new spell and potion on the spot!"
"Buzz!" More chatter erupted. Even reporters who doubted Blake thought this was pushing it.
Potions and spells require time, trial, and error. No wizard invents them in an hour.
Surely Blake would backpedal—ask for time.
Instead, he smiled. "Agreed. Today is 5.5. And to make this fair, Mr. Shafiq, how about you propose the challenges?"
"If I fail to produce spell and potion with the requested effects today, I'll admit I don't deserve the medal."
Shafiq's eyes lit up. "You said it! Don't back down!"
The boy was insane—trying to challenge him?
Shafiq added slyly, "We can't wait all day. How about ten items total, one hour per item?"
Even Fudge looked alarmed. An hour? If Blake could really do that, then the Order of Merlin wasn't worthy of him.
"Deal," Blake said with a smile.
Gasps filled the room again.
This wasn't confidence—it was madness.
"Then let's begin!" Shafiq said, already preparing his questions.
But Blake held up a hand. "One moment."
"What's wrong? Regretting already?" Shafiq said smugly.
"Hardly. I'm putting my reputation on the line. If I lose, it's over for me."
"But if I win—what do you lose?"
Blake's smile vanished.
"If I win," he said coldly, "you'll have to pay as well."