Beneath the oak tree, the boy sat quietly—calm, unhurried, betraying no impatience. Still, Qin Yu chose not to reveal himself just yet.
Part of it was to let Draco Malfoy stew a little longer, to let the "lesson" sink in. But truthfully, he also hadn't quite figured out how to teach the boy next.
After all, that night's "leaf communication" had been a spur-of-the-moment idea—a way to lift a sullen troublemaker's spirits, nudged on by Dumbledore's earlier "suggestion." He'd acted on impulse, cloaking himself in secrecy for a bit of magical theatrics.
But as for what came next? Qin Yu hadn't really thought it through. These past few days, whenever he found a free moment, he'd been mulling over possible methods and approaches.
Of course, Dumbledore had taken Qin Yu's hesitation as the mark of patience and wisdom—seeing deep strategy where, in truth, there was just a bit of uncertainty.
Still, thanks to a spark of inspiration from Hermione, Qin Yu had finally landed on a promising starting point. Once he'd made a few more preparations, he'd be ready.
In the grand scheme of things, "training" Draco Malfoy was just a small side quest in his Hogwarts journey. Whether it worked out or not, he couldn't say. But it was surely better than letting the boy look back years from now—regretting wasted youth, ashamed of a life spent drifting.
No, Draco Malfoy—this "comrade"—should learn some real skills, and one day make his own mark on the magical world!
Smiling at his own wandering thoughts, Qin Yu retraced his steps to Gryffindor Tower and slipped quietly back into his dormitory.
…
What Qin Yu didn't know was that, not long after he'd left the greenhouse corridor, a certain white-bearded wizard—dressed in silver-gray silk pajamas and a tasseled nightcap—materialized near the bushes by the lawn.
When Qin Yu had muttered his "so much potential, wasted"—Dumbledore had overheard, momentarily distracted and, in his surprise, stepped squarely on a dry branch.
It was ironic: Qin had stood Draco up for days, yet now he was the one lamenting the boy's lack of progress. Dumbledore hadn't seen that coming. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if a herd of wild dragons was stampeding through his mind—he lost focus and forgot to watch his step.
Of course, he hadn't been especially cautious to begin with; this was his own school, and he was only observing a student he favored. Why tiptoe?
Fortunately, after the twig snapped, Dumbledore's years of experience kicked in. He concealed himself even more thoroughly, so Qin Yu never realized there was a third party present.
Not that it mattered—Qin hadn't lingered even a full minute before turning and heading back to the castle. He moved so quickly that even Dumbledore was caught off guard.
As for the Chinese phrase, "Jade that isn't carved cannot become a vessel," Dumbledore, with his vast knowledge, understood it perfectly—and wholeheartedly agreed.
Clearly, Qin had his own plans.
"Well, since you're gone, this old man should catch up on his sleep too," Dumbledore murmured, waving in the direction of the oak tree. Softly, he added, "Good night, Draco."
And with that, he too turned and walked back to the castle, never looking back.
Under the oak, only one boy and one squirrel remained—each waiting, for their own reasons, for something that might never come.
…
…
Shortly after midnight fell over the ancient Scottish highlands and Hogwarts slipped into slumber, the sun was still high above the horizon on the other side of the world—in a city called Salem, eight time zones away.
Salem—a coastal city in Massachusetts, New England, just 24 kilometers from Boston and not far from New York—was a place steeped in history. Once, it had been one of the oldest ports founded by European settlers in the New World.
But what truly made Salem infamous was the "Salem Witch Trials."
Four centuries ago, on a day lost to time, twenty people—accused of being evil witches—were executed in this very town. Not all of them were wizards, of course.
The shockwaves from that event rippled through the entire magical world. European wizarding families pulled back from exploring the "New World," and North American wizards and No-Majs remained at odds for centuries. The Salem Trials weren't the only tragedy—conflict and heartbreak continued, again and again. (Note: "No-Maj" is what North American wizards call ordinary people.)
For the North American magical community, Salem was a place that could never be ignored.
Even the headquarters of the Magical Congress of the United States of America—the highest authority in North American wizardry—stood beside a towering monument, honoring those killed in the Salem Witch Trials.
The true instigators of the Trials were the wizards' mortal enemies: the Puritans and the Scourers. The Puritans' hostility was born of religious fanaticism, but the Scourers were worse—they sought to purge wizards entirely, even at the cost of innocent lives.
Of course, these days, the magical community in North America was strong enough that the Scourers had long since faded into history.
Still, there was a bitter irony: the city once infamous for hunting witches had become a hub for wizards—some of whom, in secret, formed fanatical groups. To them, Salem was a place of shame, a rallying point for hatred of No-Majs, and a symbol of unending conflict.
This was a constant headache for the Aurors of the Magical Congress. Incidents of wizard lawbreaking—or even attacks on No-Majs—were all too frequent in Salem.
Just recently, a wizard had driven a No-Maj woman mad with a terror curse, causing a scandal so severe that three Aurors had been dispatched. Over a hundred No-Majs required memory modification. (Note: Aurors are the magical world's law enforcement officers.)
The offending wizard had been thrown into the Magical Congress's prison and now awaited a severe sentence.
"The Aurors of the Magical Congress are nothing but cowardly lapdogs! They and the Congress abuse the power we wizards have given them!"
In a shabby wooden house, a gaunt, bearded man shook his fist angrily.
"Exactly! It hasn't even been that long, and they've already forgotten the harm No-Majs did to wizards—forgotten the hatred of our ancestors!" snapped a freckled witch, her voice sharp with outrage.
"That's right! They've forgotten!"
"Yes, those lapdogs!"
"The Magical Congress is a bunch of traitors!"
"A pack of ingrates!"
"…"
Everyone shouted over each other, venting their fury and frustration.
The wizard who'd been arrested had once been one of their own. They believed his punishment would far outweigh his crime.
After all, the No-Maj woman who'd been cursed had been vicious—mocking and jeering at their friend, even saying, "Someone as ugly and suspicious-looking as you would've been burned as a witch four hundred years ago."
What a cruel human—she fit every negative stereotype they held about No-Majs.
But for the "crime" of giving such a No-Maj a taste of fear, their comrade had been dragged away by the Aurors.
"This is ridiculous! It's a farce! An intolerable humiliation!" the gaunt, bearded wizard roared again.
A chorus of angry agreement followed.
They argued about how to denounce the Magical Congress's "misconduct" and rescue their unfortunate friend.
But, in truth, they got nowhere. Their group numbered less than thirty; only a dozen or so had gathered tonight. The Magical Congress, on the other hand, was a force to be reckoned with.
The mood in the room turned grim—anger and humiliation hung heavy in the air.
Just then—creak—the wooden door swung open.
The room fell instantly silent.
A dozen witches and wizards, young and old, turned their eyes to the doorway.
They all knew the house was protected by powerful enchantments, especially the door. During their meetings, not even a wizard should have been able to open it so easily—let alone a No-Maj.
And yet, in the middle of their heated debate, the door had been pushed open with barely a sound.
Who could it be?
A tall, handsome man in his thirties stood in the doorway, dressed in a black suit and wide-brimmed hat. A faint, enigmatic smile played on his lips.
"Who are you?" the gaunt, bearded man demanded, brow furrowing. He drew his wand from his coat, every muscle tense with suspicion.
"Oh, let me introduce myself. My name is Ian Stanley—but you can just call me Ian." The newcomer removed his hat, smiling with infuriating calm.
"What do you want here? Our meetings don't accept walk-ins. If you want to join, you need to make arrangements with me first. I'll vet your qualifications," the bearded man said, voice tight with nerves.
"What am I here for?" Ian echoed, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "Let me think..."
He strolled casually into the room, hanging his hat on the coat rack by the door, moving with the easy confidence of someone who owned the place.
Does he not even know why he's here? Is he an idiot?
Or a madman?
Those thoughts flashed through everyone's minds.
Just as they were starting to get nervous, Ian suddenly slapped his forehead and let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"Ah, that's right. I remember now—I'm here to deal with you lot of useless trash!"
His smile widened, gleaming teeth bared—a chilling, predatory grin.
His left hand was already wrapped around a pitch-black wand.
Bang! Bang!
Chairs scraped and tables clattered as everyone scrambled to their feet, wands drawn in panic.
Instinct told them this madman—idiot or not—was extremely dangerous. Letting their guard down was not an option.
"Oh my, what a grand welcome. I'm positively trembling," Ian cooed, though his eyes sparkled with excitement. He looked more like a man about to dance at a gala than someone facing down a dozen angry wizards.
—Dimensional Wall—
A quick note: this book hasn't been renamed. The platform has simply added five new titles and covers for testing. The original title is still there. Supposedly, old readers shouldn't see the new ones, but apparently some of you are even seeing new covers. The author isn't sure why—maybe it's a bug.
Also, "No-Maj" is the North American term for non-magical people, same as "Muggle." Just like how a potato can be called a spud or a tater.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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