Wade flicked his Wand, and a stream of clear water washed over the teacup.
Dumbledore had already left, but the faint scent of Lemon Sherbet seemed to linger in the room.
A soft rustling came from beneath the pillow. The Snail Automaton slowly poked its body out, then, reassured, crawled from its shell. Its compound eyes quietly turned toward Wade.
Wade set down the teacup, still wet with droplets, and held out his palm. The snail crawled onto it as if by mutual understanding.
It did not have the mucus secreted by real snails. Resting on his hand, it felt only cool and smooth.
Wade stroked its spiral shell and smiled. "You're afraid of Professor Dumbledore? But he seemed to like you."
The snail's antennae swayed as it whispered, "He was angry... very scary... Aren't you afraid, Master?"
Wade's stroking hand paused.
Yes... since when... had he stopped worrying that Dumbledore might object, or even get angry?
Just as Wade drifted into thought, there came another knock at the door.
Knock, knock, knock!
The knocks were still exceptionally measured, neither hurried nor slow, making Wade wonder whether Dumbledore had returned after leaving.
Wade got up and opened the door.
An elderly man with silver hair stood outside. Lean and sharp, with a habitual trace of mockery and weariness at the corners of his mouth, he regarded Wade with a complicated gaze—
Amid the scrutiny, appraisal, and even disdain, there was also a faint, almost imperceptible satisfaction.
Without exchanging pleasantries, he walked straight to the middle of the room. After looking around the shabby motel room, he changed what he had been about to say.
"You live in a place like this? The Acolytes have quite a few properties in the United States. Why didn't Antoine arrange somewhere better for you?"