Michael had already left.
Wade turned his head and looked at the windowpane.
The figure reflected in the glass had a pair of grey eyes. They were neither as deep as black eyes nor as bright as blue ones, more like the tranquil surface of a lake in autumn and winter, devoid of any intense emotion.
Sometimes, those who met his gaze felt an unusual chill, making them unable to resist wondering whether his heart was just as cold and indifferent.
Through the reflection in the glass, he could see a group of students outside on the castle grounds, carrying Broomsticks as they trudged through the lawn in the rainy weather and returned to the castle. Their faces and bodies were covered in mud, as though they had rolled around in a mire; their features could not even be made out, yet the smallest figure among them remained particularly conspicuous.
Then, a man wrapped in a turban scurried through his field of vision, hunched over as if afraid of the cold.
Before long, another figure, like a black bat, strode into the castle. The sides of his robes were blown high by the wind, and even the rain seemed to fearfully avoid him. His face was darker than the overcast sky, and every student he encountered hurriedly moved out of his way in alarm.
Wade could not help but chuckle softly.
Harry Potter.
Voldemort.
Severus Snape.
The Savior, the Dark Lord, and a former Death Eater.
Several people whose identities were riddled with contradictions, even murderous intent toward one another, were living peacefully in the same castle as teachers and students, merely waiting for the moment when the dagger would finally be revealed.
Thinking of Michael's expression when he left, as though his soul had been cleansed, Wade's lips curved