Newly born animals almost all possess a natural cuteness, and even the bald Norwegian Ridgeback was no exception. When the little fellow spread its wings and flailed its limbs on the table, it had none of the intimidating presence of an adult dragon; instead, it seemed to be acting spoiled.
But when it opened its mouth and revealed its slender, sharp fangs, the cuteness quickly vanished, and a threat quietly emerged.
However, in Hagrid's eyes, this little dragon, no bigger than his palm, was simply adorable. He quickly embraced the role of dragon mother, stroking its head with affection, touching its wings, and then getting sprayed with an angry fireball by the young dragon.
"Look, it can even breathe fire!" Hagrid exclaimed proudly, batting sparks from his beard.
"Hagrid," Hermione said worriedly, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?"
"Oh, it doesn't grow very fast," Hagrid said tenderly. "But it can reach fifty feet when it's fully grown."
"Fifty feet!" Hermione gasped.
"Yeah—it's truly pitifully small now, isn't it?"
Hagrid completely missed Hermione's concern. He retrieved a barrel of brandy and some pre-prepared chicken blood from a corner, then asked, "Who wants to try feeding it?"
Harry and Ron both raised their hands in unison, while Hermione leaned back, her refusal perfectly clear.
Wade had initially been interested, but seeing the two's excited expressions, he lowered his hand and reminded them, "Be careful—its teeth are poisonous."
Hagrid first demonstrated how to feed it himself, then handed the glorious task over to the Gryffindor duo.
Wade observed for a while, satisfying his curiosity, then excused himself—primarily because Hagrid had made the hut too hot for hatching the dragon, and Wade had broken into a sweat within minutes of being inside.
A short while later, Hermione also emerged. Wade waited for her and said, "I thought you were planning to go back to the Gryffindor common room with Harry?"
Hermione said, "I was, actually. But I think... well... they should have some space to talk things through."
Inside the hut, Harry and Ron avoided looking at each other, taking turns to feed the little dragon, cooperating tacitly without interfering. Hagrid babbled on about his love for the little creature, pondering what name to give it.
"Maybe I should check a book—there's always an answer in books," Hagrid muttered, finding an old book from his cabinet piled with bottles, jars, and tin pots, and flipping through the pages with his thick fingers to find a suitable name.
Harry fed the dragon absentmindedly, not noticing he had slowed down a bit, and the little creature unhesitatingly lunged to bite!
"Watch out!"
Ron forcefully slapped Harry's hand away, spilling a spoonful of brandy onto the table.
The little dragon angrily hissed at its feeders, on the verge of spitting a fireball. Harry, quick as a flash, pushed the remaining chicken blood and brandy toward it, letting it drink on its own.
The completely black little dragon tumbled into the liquid, flailing frantically, then quickly discovered it was surrounded by delicious food and buried its head, drinking intently. Both boys sighed in relief simultaneously, and the deliberately cold atmosphere naturally eased.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then finally blurted out the words that had been churning in his chest for days: "Ron, I've been meaning to say... I actually wanted to ask that day, but the club's rule is—unless everyone agrees, you can't introduce others to join. I thought... it would be better if I privately asked for everyone else's opinion first before bringing it up..."
Of course, the first person he asked had rebuffed his attempt, which Harry felt didn't need to be mentioned now.
Ron exhaled, his tense shoulders relaxing: "Do you know what I was thinking? I thought you'd made some cool friends and were starting to distance yourself from us..."
In fact, Ron had been having a tough time lately. Malfoy had even taunted him: "What, Harry Potter finally realized some people just aren't up to par and dumped him? I have to say, even though he's an idiot, he finally made a correct decision."
Ron had been so enraged that he fought Malfoy again, and his ribs were still aching. But compared to physical pain, a friend drifting away felt much worse.
"No! Of course not! How could I?" Harry was startled, hastily denying it, and added, "You're the first friend I ever made!"
Ron immediately smiled and asked curiously, "What do you usually do in that club?"
After asking, he also felt a sense of relief—finally being able to ask that question openly.
Harry explained to him: "The SSC is a study group. We usually just write essays together. But after dinner, Wade teaches us some spells that haven't been taught in school yet, mainly Defensive Dark Arts spells. I recently learned the Disarming Charm and the Shield Charm; they're really difficult, and I got hurt many times before I learned them. Do you want to learn? I can teach you."
"Can you?" Ron was a bit apprehensive. "Won't that violate the club's rules?"
"No, Wade said we can teach others... it's just that my teaching might not be as good..."
For Wade, the shifting friendships of elementary schoolers weren't much on his mind; he had more important things to do now.
Early on a Saturday morning, Wade went outside the Room of Requirement, walking back and forth three times, concentrating intensely in his mind: I need a room with a Pensieve... I need a room with a Pensieve... I need a room with a Pensieve...
An ancient, small peach-wood door appeared on the wall. Wade pulled it open and stepped inside.
It looked like the home of an ascetic monk. The room contained only a simple wooden bed and a low stool, with a half-human-height stone pillar beside them. A shallow, empty stone basin rested on top of the pillar, its rim carved with intricate ancient runes, surrounded by a ring of thumb-sized gemstones that clashed with the simplicity of the room.
This was a Pensieve, a magical item capable of preserving memories and thoughts, even allowing one to enter memories and relive past scenes. It contained powerful and complex magic. Even Professor Moray frankly admitted that he could not create a Pensieve.
Wade aimed his wand at his temple, softly chanting a spell, concentrating on recalling memories that had long been faded by time.
A moment later, he moved his wand, and a thin silver thread, pulled from his temple, stretched longer and longer. Wade gently spun his wand, winding it up as if collecting yarn. After a few turns, the silver thread finally broke.
It floated gently on the wand tip like a spider's web, one end moving toward the Pensieve. Wade lightly tapped his wand on the Pensieve, and the silver thread fell in, slowly swirling like mist, emitting a faint glow.
This was... his almost forgotten... memory from his past life.
Wade took a deep breath and plunged headfirst into the silver memory.