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On the journey back.
Grindelwald fell utterly silent, not uttering a single word, and triggered the Portkey with a firm press on Ian’s shoulder— he’d seen many oddities in his long life, yet it seemed he still had much to learn.
It wasn’t even that deep a grudge!
How could someone simply go and disturb another’s ancestral resting place? As the Portkey hummed to life, the brooding Grindelwald, tangled in his own emotions, and the ever-animated Ian vanished into the stillness of the wild countryside.
It was that same sensation of hurtling along on an unseen broomstick, the pair tugged by some invisible enchantment, the scenery whipping past like glimpses through a Pensieve’s swirling memories.
As the strange journey slowly faded, they landed back in the cozy warmth of the office, far from the chill and dampness of the tangled forest, with only the faint aroma of Earl Grey lingering in the air.
“What exactly are you up to?” Grindelwald couldn’t resist asking once they were back at Hogwarts. He even noticed that Ian’s basket had been charmed with an Undetectable Extension Charm and a Feather-Light Charm to ease its burden.
Even so, Ian still grumbled that it felt heavy, a sign of just how many bones of the fallen innocents were stuffed inside.
“Of course, to stop Voldemort from getting his grubby hands on them someday.” Ian’s true aim wasn’t quite this, but he had indeed paid a visit to the nearby crumbling village.
The village had long been abandoned.
Yet the graveyard from centuries past still stood. Since old Tom’s tomb was proving tricky to locate, Ian showed his impartiality there, treating all graves alike with no favoritism.
There was a reason he’d kept Grindelwald waiting for nearly an hour.
After all, wielding magic to play the part of a tomb tamperer was frightfully efficient— enough to put even the most seasoned Knockturn Alley relic-hunters out of business in a heartbeat.
If it weren’t for some graves being barricaded with heaps of stones or sealed with heavy lids during the [Bone Reanimation], Ian wouldn’t have needed to bother with tools like spades and pickaxes to aid the task.
“The bone of the father, unwillingly taken, will revive your son, the flesh of the servant, freely offered, will restore your master, the blood of the foe, forcibly seized, will raise your enemy…” Grindelwald muttered under his breath, his gaze on Ian still tinged with an odd mix of suspicion and awe.
“It seems you’ve pored over that tome ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’. Even a ritual that finicky is one you’re set on thwarting. Our Dark Lord’s rotten luck to cross wands with you— his whole lineage is jinxed.” At that moment, Grindelwald privately vowed that after his death, he’d have others bury him deep.
Somewhere no one could find him.
Hmm.
Having a descendant tied by blood might indeed matter. He began to mull over whether he ought to be kinder to Aurora and ensure she never let slip the location of his and Dumbledore’s shared resting place to Ian— after all, this little mischief-maker’s heart was darker than a moonless night, and who knew if the quiet of the afterlife might be shattered by his meddling.
“Please, both of you, keep the enemy at bay for me.”
Just picturing such a scene— his and Dumbledore’s remains slowly clawing their way out of the earth— sent a shiver down Grindelwald’s spine and made his vision swim.
‘Why in Merlin’s name did I ever lend Secrets of the Darkest Art to this brat?’
The inner turmoil twisted Grindelwald’s face into a grimace.
“What’s the matter, Professor?” Ian eagerly voiced his concern, his curiosity piqued. “By all rights, you ought to care more about this than I do. You’ve even glimpsed the whereabouts of the Resurrection Stone ring with your own eyes. For things that might spell trouble down the line, shouldn’t you be able to foresee them well in advance?”
If there’s one subject Ian’s never truly tackled, it’s Divination. Though he once play-acted as a Seer for a laugh, since arriving at Hogwarts, he hasn’t earned so much as a nod from the examiners in that field.
“That’s because the Resurrection Stone ring ties to our Headmaster. Even the sharpest Seer can’t unravel the full tapestry of fate. The more you strain to peek, the more you’re tangled in destiny’s web.” Grindelwald shook his head and strode to the basin to wash up. He seemed to have a touch of fussiness about cleanliness.
“I’ve always told you, Ian, Divination carries a toll. The more you glimpse, the steeper the price, and it’s not just a matter of willingly paying to lift the veil.” The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor offered Ian an earnest caution about the perils of peering into the future.
Ian mulled it over, brow furrowed.
“I recall Professor Sybill Trelawney spouts dozens of predictions daily. Most are bullshit, but every so often, she hits the mark spot-on.”
“In The Wizarding World’s Shadows: The Riddle of You-Know-Who, it even says she foretold the downfall of You-Know-Who. A prophecy like that surely shakes the wizarding world to its core, doesn’t it?”
“Yet I see Professor Trelawney still tucking into her treacle tart, not so much as a twisted ankle, and last week she nicked my cauldron cake from the house-elves kitchen.” Ian aired his bewilderment. Details on Seers were scarce in Hogwarts’ library.
Even the Restricted Section held little— mostly the ramblings of various authors, with books contradicting each other left and right.
They’re an enigmatic lot.
Second only to the shadowy Department of Mysteries in their secrecy.
“You’ve certainly dipped your quill in every inkpot.” Grindelwald shot Ian an approving glance, scrubbing his hands thrice with a cloth. He sidestepped Ian’s question, musing instead. “Our Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, has made Hogwarts a haven. It’s a kindness and nobility I could never muster. That’s why he’s a great man, and I’m cut from a different cloth.”
“Greatness isn’t just a polite nod— it’s a mantle of glory. It holds power. A great man’s shield can ward off calamity and spare others certain costs.”
“A half-giant with a shady past, a turncoat Death Eater, a jittery old Squib, and me, a puffed-up fraud.” Grindelwald swept his hands from head to toe, plainly branding himself the charlatan he’s posing as— Gilderoy Lockhart.
“That wandering Divination dabbler’s no different. They all shelter under Albus’s wing, their fates bent in some way by it.”
“Recall that question you posed earlier? That’s also why a Seer needs a great man’s hand to bring forth a prophecy that wasn’t there before.”
Grindelwald’s words sparked a flicker of understanding in Ian.
Still.
The wisdom from this towering figure pressed on. “Mind you, even with a great man’s shield, relentless Divination like Trelawney’s isn’t free. Her sight and mind have long been tethered to the brink, never stretching further. That’s fate’s reprimand for her meddling.”
“And she’ll never clock it herself.” Grindelwald’s words dripped with deep, reflective weight. He hadn’t been at Hogwarts long, yet he’d already sussed out his colleagues with keen insight.
“That mightn’t be so grim, though?”
In Grindelwald’s tone, Ian sensed more of Dumbledore’s quiet heft.
“Naturally— startling first-years and foretelling trifles hardly sway the grand scheme of things.” Grindelwald ambled back to his desk.
“As for that prophecy about Tom Riddle you brought up… I’ve got a different take on it, actually.” His words instantly hooked Ian’s attention.
“What take?”
Ian eased the basket off his shoulders and plonked down across from Grindelwald. He hesitated, eyeing the untouched cup of bitter tea before him.
Then.
He lifted the cup and took tentative sips— still bitter enough to twist your face, but wizards are odd like that sometimes. This brew has a knack for sneaking into your good graces.
“Just my own thinking, even if our Headmaster mightn’t see it the same way.” Grindelwald tossed out a quick caveat, then glanced toward the West Tower beyond the window and spoke in a hushed tone.
“We all know Sybill Trelawney’s kin trace back to Cassandra Trelawney, that famed seeress from old Greek tales.”
“Cassandra Trelawney crossed Apollo, dooming her and her line to speak true prophecies no one’d ever credit.”
Grindelwald recited the well-worn lore, and after Ian gave a nod, he pressed on. “Mind you, those old yarns are just that— yarns. Prophecies always ringing true isn’t a curse. No Seer’s got that kind of Divination clout.”
“Even if a god handed it over, mortals couldn’t shoulder it… Still, I reckon Trelawney’s cursed alright, but her family’s sight isn’t anything to write home about.”
“What sets them apart from most Seer clans is that priestess in their blood. Their sacred lineage outshines their knack for peering into the mists by a long shot.”
Grindelwald’s words left Ian gobsmacked.
“You’re saying…”
His eyes widened, his face all disbelief, clearly piecing together Grindelwald’s drift. The professor flashed a roguish grin.
“Spot on. The one who spun that prophecy wasn’t our Professor Trelawney, but her forebear. That’s why she’s still kicking about, not flattened by the prophecy’s recoil.” Grindelwald dropped his wild take with a flourish, laying it bare for Ian.
In the same breath.
He leaned in, whispering gravely to Ian.
“Some visions can’t be voiced aloud. Every Seer worth their salt knows it.”
It felt like a weighty nudge— or maybe a shadow of his own past. Ian was still reeling from Grindelwald’s half-mad claims.
“Spirit-calling? That’s meddling with the veil between life and death, isn’t it?”
Ian didn’t reckon crossing that line was his alone to claim, but he hadn’t pegged Trelawney’s lot as having such a rare gift.
Though come to think of it, it tracked. Whenever Professor Trelawney delivered a hefty prophecy, she turned into someone else entirely and forgot it all after.
Her wild, preacher-like antics fit the mould of a medium to a tee.
“The souls of priestesses aren’t like ours, and where they wander after death’s different too. It’s a boon for their kin.” Grindelwald’s lore ran deep as a Gringotts vault.
He likely wasn’t off the mark on one count: decades holed up in quiet, poring over tomes and pondering, he’d surely amassed more wisdom than Dumbledore in some corners.
“The descendants reap the rewards, but the ancestors bear the brunt.” Ian could picture it: Sybill Trelawney constantly rousing her old kin. Cassandra must have the patience of a saint not to hex her descendant silly.
“Ha ha ha, you have a knack for seeing the funny side!” Grindelwald roared with laughter, but then snapped back to his old self, quick as a Snitch, showing his fickle streak.
“I’m knackered. Fancy kipping here tonight?” It was plain he was shooing Ian off, tossing aside their matey chat like yesterday’s Daily Prophet.
“…”
Ian reckoned even old codgers could get tetchy. He hoisted his basket back on, the bones clattering inside with a hollow rattle as he did.
Grindelwald’s eyelids flickered at the din.
“Planning to bunk with those ghastly things tonight? Not worried you’ll give your dorm mates stomach ache?” He ushered Ian to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom door.
“It’s Halloween, Professor.”
Ian winked, flicked a hand in a see-you-later, and bolted for the spiral stairs. When he glanced back, the classroom door had already thudded shut.
The lights inside still glowed.
Plain as day, Grindelwald’s talk of sleep was just a dodge to get him out.
“At least I’ve won back my freedom, and I’ve scored a right haul! I’ll be up all night in the Room of Requirement!” Ian bounded up the stairs, lugging the hefty bones with glee— bones from Slytherin’s own descendants!
If the lore scribbled in ‘Bloodlines and Beginnings’ isn’t too wide of the mark, he might just unlock the riddle of Parseltongue, mastering that slippery tongue to chat with the dear old basilisk.
Merlin’s beard, the hours Ian squandered in the library chasing Parseltongue! That gift, buried deep in bloodlines, clearly needed some proper wizarding trickery to tease out.
“I want you to hiss at me, heirs of the four founders!” Ian, buzzing with thrill, raced toward the eighth floor where the Room of Requirement hid.
But then.
On the fourth floor, he barrelled straight into a gaggle of ghosts zipping through the air like Bludgers— at this hour, they’d every right to roam the castle, though today’s lot were a cut above the usual spooks Ian knew; all decked out in posh robes and grinning like Cheshire Kneazles.
“It’s little Ian, the night owl who’ll never sprout an inch!” A portly ghost barred his way, wobbling as if he’d downed too much mulled mead, and nabbed him.
“He’s the lad who can grab us! He’s fit to join our feast! Aye, that’s the ticket!” The chubby spectre crowed to the others drifting nearby.
No one bothered asking Ian’s say-so— this was Edmund Grubb, snuffed it after scoffing dodgy plums right by the Great Hall’s doors.
A right chatterbox of a ghost, always pestering students at supper, either green-eyed over their grub or fretting they’d tuck into something lethal as he did.
“He must’ve been gearing up for our bash! Look! He’s brought a rattling bone brigade!” Another ghost, even broader than Edmund, latched onto Ian’s basket from behind.
This was the Fat Friar, Hufflepuff’s own, topped for supposedly curing a farmer’s boils with a wand flick and turning a goblet into a hare for laughs.
“No, I haven’t!” Ian protested quickly, but the giddy ghosts didn’t care a whit, hoisting him up and soaring toward the dungeons.
To spare Ian a bruising through walls and stone, they took the direct route— thoughtful, sure, but this wasn’t the kind of “spectral lift” he’d signed up for.
Being chummy with ghosts had its downsides, no doubt.
“The feast rolls on! We welcome the living little wizard!” The ghosts plonked Ian down in the dungeon classroom, aglow with flickering candlelight. Tiny black tapers burned with an eerie blue flame, casting a dour sheen even on Ian’s young mug.
It felt like he’d tumbled into the edge of the Veil, the air thick with a racket like a horde of ghouls clawing at a chalkboard— teeth-grinding and spine-chilling, he half-expected to yell “Praise Salazar!” any second.
The din was downright dreadful!
“Welcome, welcome!” Nearly Headless Nick swooped over, swathed in a black velvet cloak, looking properly dapper.
“Thrilled to have a young wizard among us.” He doffed his plumed hat and dipped low to Ian, oozing respect that left him squirming.
The overdone courtesy made it tricky for Ian to blurt out he’d rather scarper; he could finally grasp how folk felt when he laid on the “Hogwarts hustle” charm.
“Happy Halloween, gents and ladies.” Ian gritted his teeth and swallowed the situation. He scanned the dungeon, where over a hundred ghosts revelled in the holiday.
A cluster of merry nuns swayed on the dance floor, while tattered souls in chains slumped gloomily, sighing. Ghosts with arrows jutting from their brows nattered with the Fat Friar, and Slytherin’s gaunt Bloody Baron looked just as glum.
Ian couldn’t spy the wee Ravenclaw lass, so his hopes of talking his way out fizzled. The vibe in this chilly dungeon was oddly buzzing.
Tables gleamed with golden plates, heaped with rotting meats and spoiled fruits and veg. Lucky the dungeon was frosty, else it’d reek something fierce—though it still ponged, with maggoty beef slabs and moldy green cheese lumped together.
Charred bread and meat pies oozing rank juices left Ian stumped for anything fit to eat. He even clocked a hulking grey cake shaped like a gravestone.
This was likely the only thing that looked half-decent, its icing scrawled thickly with: Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. Died: October 31, 1492.
The cake was clearly Nearly Headless Nick’s, as today was not just Halloween but the anniversary of his beheading.
“Happy death day, Sir.”
Ian’s well-wish felt a tad peculiar, but the ghosts didn’t bat an ectoplasmic eye. Nearly Headless Nick dipped into another gracious bow.
“It’s a rare treat to have a young wizard at our feast—we’re neither fully alive nor properly dead. Your being here’s the brightest spot of my night.”
He was a proper gentlemanly ghost, all courtesy and warmth, which made it dashed tricky for Ian to blurt out he’d rather leg it.
He was itching to crack the mysteries of Gaunt Manor!
It was maddening!
He could’ve wept!
“Hope you enjoy yourself here.” Nearly Headless Nick offered his hand, and Ian forced a grin, clasping the icy grip.
“Blimey, you’re a rare one— making me feel touch again…” Nick looked a bit woozy, hastily mumbling an apology and letting go after a beat.
With fresh ghosts drifting in, he scooted off to play host. Just then, Helena Ravenclaw glided through, her sharp eyes catching Ian’s vivid figure amid the pallid throng.
“Didn’t reckon little Ian’d turn up at the ghosts’ bash.” She drifted over, intrigued, sniffing the air near the table before him.
“Can you actually taste the grub like that?” Ian, relieved to see a familiar spectre, couldn’t resist asking what’d been niggling him.
“Barely a whiff, but it beats not smelling it at all.” Helena kept her prim poise, unlike the Fat Friar nearby, who’d plunged his whole head into a heap of rancid meat.
“Ghosts haven’t much in the way of fun— or the senses we had alive. Still, we’ve got memories, which for plenty of us is more a curse for lingering than a comfort.” She gazed at the stage, where a ghostly crooner was belting out their heart.
The dungeon rang with a shriek like a banshee’s wail straight out of a Knockturn Alley tale.
“There’s always a path, if you’re bold enough to seek it.” Ian still held to his vow to the Grey Lady. He clapped hands over his ears and leaned nearer.
“I mean well, I know, but look at this lot. Their ranks only swell with time. What you reckon mightn’t be a road we can tread.” Helena had parried Ian’s coaxing before, and he’d wrestled aplenty to find the right moment to lure her for a proper chat.
“Free tomorrow night?” Ian glanced at his watch; it was past midnight. After a quick tally, he piped up, voice a bit stilted.
“Hmm?” Helena shot him an odd look, clearly misreading. “Ian, fancy a date with a ghost centuries old?”
“Your mind’s not exactly saintly.” With a giggle, she patted his head and floated off to mingle with her usual spectral mates.
“…”
Ian hadn’t expected to flop so fast. Should’ve been plainer, maybe? But ghosts are rotten at keeping mum, and he didn’t fancy the whole school twigging he could hop between worlds.
“She’s not keen, but I am… you can touch ghosts. Merlin’s hat, what a cracking gift.” The singer’s ghost, fresh off the stage, wafted over.
She was an out-of-towner, specially summoned, not a Hogwarts regular. Having heard of Ian, she drifted close and brushed his arm.
Ghosts really can’t hold their tongues.
“They call me the Wailing Widow. Fancy a natter? Don’t be shy— I’m dead keen on that ghost-touching trick of yours.”
The garish ghost chased Ian around the dungeon.
He scarpered.
She pursued.
He half-wished for wings to sprout and soar off.
“You’d be better off chasing a ghost more of your sort!” Ian whipped out his wand and sent the Widow sailing, only for the dungeon to erupt in cheers.
“It’s magic! Magic whacked a ghost! He’s Ian! The lad who fetched the skeleton troupe!” Edmund Grubb, who’d dragged Ian here, kicked up a fuss again.
“They’re not a troupe!” Ian eyed the ghosts crowding around and shielded his basket, but his protests fell on deaf ears.
“Not a skeleton troupe? One, two, three, four, five… too many to tally!”
“Got to be! I saw Dumbledore’s band yesterday— white, fleshless, bones sharp as you like. If they’re not a troupe, what are they?”
“Quick! Rattle ’em awake! Make ’em play!”
“Little Ian’s fishing for a reward, that’s why he won’t own up to bringing the skeleton troupe. Hurry, get the Bloody Baron to nab Peeves and fetch Ian a Butterbeer!”
…
The ghosts buzzed and chattered around Ian like a swarm of overexcited pixies.
He’d meant to clarify that these were just his study specimens, but after hearing the Fat Friar’s jolly words, he bit back his explanation for the third time that day.
“You can get Butterbeer?” It was the one treat Ian couldn’t wheedle from the Hogwarts kitchens— the elves had never bent the rules for him on that front.
Third-year’s the cutoff.
And the non-alcoholic stuff… could you even call that proper beer?
“Course, the real stuff, with a kick!”
The Fat Friar dropped his voice, leaning in with a cheeky grin. For ghosts caught up in the revelry, some rules seemed more like suggestions.
“It’s not gone off, is it?” Ian gulped, eyeing the ghost warily as he asked. He’d already clocked the state of their banquet spread.
“Not a chance! A professor slipped us some last night. We were letting it mellow for taste, but you’re not exactly a goody-two-shoes, are you, heh heh!” Another ghost drifted over, easing Ian’s nerves. He glanced at the door.
“Can you fetch Peeves? Or should I nip out myself?” Ian’s eagerness spiked. He’d been mad for Butterbeer since he first stepped into this world, yet it’d always eluded him.
“Course! It’s a holiday! Guzzle as much as you fancy! Feasts are for going all out!” A ghost’s cheer hit Ian right in the chest.
Sure enough.
Soon enough.
A grumpy Peeves floated in, lugging heaps of Butterbeer. Spotting Ian, he puffed up with a dramatic show of effort, dumped the lot, and scarpered—likely terrified Ian might set him ablaze for the ghosts’ amusement.
“Brilliant! Proper Butterbeer!” Ian poured a glass, sniffing it first to check it wasn’t rancid, then taking a cautious sip.
It was smashing.
He half-fancied some fried chicken to go with it.
Maybe expecting the skeleton band, a ghost zipped off to the elves, and soon Ian had a piping-hot midnight snack.
Though the room still reeked of festering food, he waved it away with a charm and savored his treat, even cooling the Butterbeer with a flick of his wand.
“Proper tasty, this!”
Truth be told, Butterbeer’s not heavy on the booze, but some folk spike it extra. Ian’s batch clearly had a wallop.
After a few glasses.
His cheeks were glowing.
Back in his old life as a swot, he’d never touched a drop.
This life was giving him a taste.
“Any good?”
A ghost, green with envy, floated over, curious. He’d probably copped it before Butterbeer was brewed, clueless about modern nosh.
“Loads better than the tame stuff. Makes you burp bubbles. Watch me!” Ian chugged a big glass right in front of him.
This was one of the ghosts who’d hauled him to the feast. “It’s ace, dead satisfying, and chills your belly.”
After another swig.
Ian munched a chicken leg with gusto. A sly little wizard’s trick, it left the ghosts positively jealous, their eyes nearly popping.
“Being alive’s the bee’s knees.”
A greedy ghost sighed.
“No worries, I’ll scoff and sip extra for you, like it’s your go.” Ian eyed the wistful ghost, downed another glass, and tore into the chicken.
This one had helped cart him here too.
Face down, no less.
Aye.
Ian had been lugged face-down to this shindig.
“He’s just a lad… don’t lead him astray.” Helena Ravenclaw glided over, eyeing Ian as he tinkered with the skeletons.
“Well, they demanded a band, so here’s one.”
Red-faced, Ian yanked out what might’ve been Voldemort’s granddad, gran, or maybe a cousin, and with a wand flourish, he whipped up a Gaunt band on the fly.
“Bone Revival!”
Ian’s spell worked a treat, and soon Tom Riddle’s kin lurched upright, stitched together, and started prancing at the ghosts’ bash.
“Let’s go mad! This is what music and dance are for!” Ian might’ve roused Voldemort’s aunts and uncles too, as the skeletons mimicked a wild jig under his sway.
“…”
Helena Ravenclaw observed the reanimated skeletons with a furrowed brow. She realized she had been overly concerned. This wasn’t about spirits leading a young wizard astray; she should have been more worried about the young wizard leading the spirits astray! Who learns the ”Necromancer’s Charm” to this extent in their first year?
Dozens of skeletons!
Is he planning to raise an army of the undead after graduation?
…
The moon was shrouded by dark clouds.
Hogwarts was hosting a rather peculiar song and dance event.
Meanwhile…
The crumbling Gaunt house once again welcomed two visitors. A bearded wizard and a long-haired witch made their way along the overgrown path toward the house Ian and Grindelwald had vacated. Along the way, several Muggles, restored to their original state, had awakened but were wailing like infants in the biting wind.
A few green sparks shot forth, and the Muggles who had harbored ill will toward wizards collapsed, briefly returning to a state of infancy before slipping into a quiet, eternal slumber.
The two wizards didn’t spare a glance at the Muggle bodies, heading straight for the Gaunt house. Upon discovering that all the protective enchantments had failed, their expressions shifted dramatically.
“The master’s treasure! Did the treasure the master sent us to check truly get stolen?” The witch rushed inside, her voice laced with anger and fear.
“Is it still here?”
The bearded wizard stood guard at the entrance.
He called out to his two companions within, his voice tinged with unease.
“It’s gone!”
The witch scoured the room, kicking over a table in frustration. She searched again but found nothing in the small, dilapidated house.
“We’re looking for a ring! It must be small!” The bearded wizard couldn’t help but step inside. He surveyed the decaying furniture and began a frantic search.
“You fool from the Ministry! Of course, I know what we’re looking for! Can’t you see? It’s vanished! The master will surely blame us!”
The witch’s voice was filled with fear and fury. “Who would dare! How dare they steal the Dark Lord’s possessions! I’ll catch that thief and make them pay!”
Compared to the woman, who was in a frenzy of fear, the bearded man, though equally frightened, managed to maintain his composure.
“Don’t panic. The master sent us to retrieve his belongings because he must have foreseen something. Not finding it isn’t our fault.”
The bearded wizard attempted to reason with her.
However, the witch scoffed. “Do you think the master cares if we made a mistake? Don’t forget who he is! He is the immensely powerful Dark Lord! If we disappoint him, we will face his wrath! Have you forgotten the high standards he has set for us over the years?”
At this, the bearded wizard fell silent.
The tense atmosphere was only broken by the distant chirping of insects outside.
“It must be Dumbledore! Or one of Dumbledore’s lackeys!” The witch cursed under her breath, clearly filled with animosity for the name she uttered.
“We can’t confront Dumbledore. Even if the item is with him, we can’t retrieve it.” The bearded wizard sighed, and his female companion clearly understood this point as well.
“The master needs his belongings; we must help him find them.” The witch couldn’t devise a solution but spoke firmly to the man.
“I know that… I think the master knows it too.” The bearded wizard seemed to have an epiphany as he pulled out a special parchment.
“Today, something was lost at Gringotts. It’s said to be connected to the incident when that group of Acolytes broke in. Dumbledore recently reported to the Ministry that the person who lost the item was him.”
The bearded wizard appeared to be piecing together the situation.
“What do you mean?”
The witch looked puzzled.
“Dumbledore has enemies; he’s not without those who can oppose him. His arch-nemesis, Grindelwald, has made a move, clearly unwilling to remain imprisoned.”
“What Dumbledore lost might be some kind of contract he used to bind Grindelwald. If the Acolytes found this contract for their master…” The bearded wizard gazed out the window; visibility was low under the cloudy night, but he wasn’t searching for anything outside.
“Truly impressive, the master has already grasped all the information.” The bearded wizard’s admiration puzzled the witch. Under her scrutinizing gaze, he produced a Portkey.
“This is the second Quest the master assigned to me.”
The bearded wizard looked down at the gloomy metal statue in his hand.
“What Quest?”
The woman frowned.
“If you don’t know, it means the master doesn’t trust you enough. Heh… stay here and wait for me.” With that, the bearded man activated the Portkey.
His figure vanished from the Gaunt house.
Austria.
Nurmengard.
The bearded man donned a black cloak, carefully navigating through layer upon layer of protective magic, astonished at how simple these protections were.
He arrived in front of a cell that was inhabited.
“Interesting.”
The person inside was reading, looking somewhat pretentious. He raised his head to look at the bearded man at the door, his eyes revealing a hint of displeasure.
“Do you not know this is the secluded place of Gellert Grindelwald? How dare you disturb my peace? It seems this era has forgotten how terrifying the reputation of the first Dark Lord truly is!”
The imposing aura was indeed fierce.
The bearded man was somewhat intimidated.
However.
He still glanced around before stuffing something into the room.
“My master sends his regards.”
It was a brand-new wand.
(End of chapter)
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