Ilvermorny School, Mount Greylock, USA.
Above the towering peaks of Mount Greylock, a thick veil of clouds and mist clung to the mountains, shrouding them in an ethereal mystery. At first glance, the landscape appeared barren and desolate, an unwelcoming expanse of rugged terrain.
But a closer look revealed an extraordinary sight—a sleek black carriage gliding effortlessly through the mist, drawn by three magnificent rune horses. These magical beasts, with their shimmering talisman-marked bodies and 5X classification, flapped their powerful wings with rhythmic precision.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Their hooves struck invisible paths in the sky, creating ripples of energy as they carried the carriage higher into the clouds. The mountain wind howled around them, but the rune horses pressed forward undeterred, their strength unmatched.
As they neared the summit, the carriage pierced through a hidden magical barrier. The harsh winds and cold mist vanished instantly, replaced by a scene of tranquil beauty. Warm sunlight bathed the lush greenery of Ilvermorny's grounds, and the school's sprawling castle emerged in full view.
At the main entrance stood two marble statues, their detailed craftsmanship almost lifelike. They depicted Aesop Searle and James Stewart, the founders of Ilvermorny, their gazes eternally fixed on the school they had created.
Whinny! Whinny! Whinny!
The rune horses let out proud, resonant calls as the carriage descended gracefully onto the cobblestone path. The door opened with a creak, and two middle-aged wizards in dark robes stepped out.
One of them strode confidently toward the statues, raised his wand, and pointed it at his throat. "Andres Black, Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Durmstrang, here to visit!" his voice boomed.
The grand doors of the castle clicked open, revealing several figures stepping forward to greet the visitors.
At the forefront was an older woman with a dignified air, her piercing eyes studying the newcomers. She focused on the wizard beside the carriage, his aristocratic bearing unmistakable, his every movement exuding the grace of his pure-blood lineage.
"Master Andres," said Ilvermorny's Vice-Principal, Silvina Livien, in a formal tone. "I received your letter. I didn't expect you to arrive so quickly."
Andres Black—none other than Grindelwald in disguise—stepped forward with a graceful bow. "I apologize for the haste, Vice-Principal Livien. I bring urgent matters for Principal Camus and had no time to delay."
Silvina's sharp gaze softened slightly, and she gave a curt nod. "In that case, follow me. The principal is expecting you. Your assistant can see to the rune horses and lead them to the school's breeding area."
Behind them, a younger wizard approached to take charge of the magical beasts. As Grindelwald exchanged brief instructions with his assistant, Silvina led him into the heart of Ilvermorny.
The entrance opened into a vast green lawn, where students were scattered in groups. Some engaged in spirited duels, their wands flicking with bursts of light. Others huddled together, poring over books or sharing quiet conversations.
The relaxed atmosphere was almost idyllic, but Grindelwald's sharp eyes betrayed no admiration.
Such complacency, he thought, his lips curving into a faint, detached smile. Without discipline and rigor, talent is wasted. Greatness requires fire, not comfort.
Silvina guided him through the grounds and into the grand rotunda of the castle. The circular space was dominated by four magnificent statues, each representing one of Ilvermorny's houses:
A Horned Serpent, its sinuous body coiled with elegance.
A Thunderbird, surrounded by crackling lightning.
A Wampus, poised with muscular grace.
A Pukwudgie, its expression cunning yet wise.
The statues radiated subtle but powerful magic, their presence commanding respect. Grindelwald's trained senses detected their dual purpose: not only did they serve as symbols of the houses, but they were also potent alchemical constructs, likely capable of formidable defense.
His lips twitched with approval. Impressive craftsmanship, he mused.
As they ascended the stairs toward the principal's office, their footsteps echoed against the polished stone. Silvina stopped at a heavy oak door, knocking softly before stepping aside to let Grindelwald enter.
Behind a stately desk sat Principal Camus Harder, an imposing figure despite his age. His sharp eyes glinted with intelligence as he rose to greet his guest.
"Andres," Camus said warmly, extending his hand. "Welcome to Ilvermorny. The Black family's reputation precedes you. And please, send my regards to Principal Karkaroff upon your return to Durmstrang."
Grindelwald, maintaining his guise as Andres Black, returned the handshake with measured courtesy. "Of course, Principal Camus. Karkaroff sends his regards as well."
Their words were polite, but the air between them carried an undercurrent of calculation. As Vice-Principal Silvina discreetly exited the office, Camus gestured to a chair opposite his desk.
"Please, have a seat," he said, his tone shifting to one of quiet authority. "I've read your letter. Now, tell me—what brings you to Ilvermorny in such haste?"
Grindelwald inclined his head, his aristocratic demeanor flawless. "Thank you, Principal Camus. Before we proceed, may I trouble you for a drink?"
With that said, Principal Camus led Grindelwald to a seat across the desk.
Grindelwald, maintaining his courteous demeanor, sat gracefully and said, "A glass of honey tea, please. It was a favorite drink of an old friend of mine, and I'd like to indulge in it today."
Camus chuckled, retrieving his wand. "Honey tea, is it? I recall Dumbledore having quite the fondness for it as well."
With a flick of his wand, a cup before Grindelwald filled with a golden, fragrant liquid, a delicate wisp of steam curling upward. The sweetness filled the air, carrying a hint of nostalgia.
Grindelwald raised the cup, swirling the honey as he replied meaningfully, "Indeed, my old friend and Dumbledore do share certain… peculiarities. Their affinity for sweets is just one of them."
Camus nodded, his lips twitching in a faint smile. He, too, was familiar with Dumbledore's penchant for sugary delights. On more than one occasion, the Hogwarts headmaster had sent him gifts from Honeydukes.
Taking a sip, Grindelwald felt the intense sweetness coat his tongue, a cloying sensation that briefly masked his intentions. Swallowing, he set the cup down, his expression composed.
"Andres," Camus began, shifting the conversation, "you mentioned in your letter that you wished to discuss a sensitive matter—something not suitable to put into writing. What is it that brought you here from Durmstrang with such urgency?"
Grindelwald leaned back slightly, his fingers tracing the edge of the cup. "Indeed, Principal Camus. The matter I bring is of great importance, both to me and, perhaps, to the wizarding world as a whole."
He paused for effect before continuing. "I am seeking traces of a wizarding organization. From what I've gathered, it seems to be rooted in the United States. However, even the Magical Congress holds no records of its existence. I was hoping that someone of your wisdom and stature might have encountered some clue."
Camus's brow furrowed as he listened. "A wizarding organization, you say? Which one are you referring to?"
With a wave of his wand, Grindelwald conjured glowing words in mid-air: New York Temple, Kamar Taj.
The names floated like ethereal smoke, shimmering with a faint light.
Camus stared at the words, his face clouded with confusion. "New York Temple…" he murmured. "It sounds like it might be in New York, but the largest organization there is the Magical Congress. I've never heard of this 'Temple.' And 'Kamar Taj'? Even less so."
Grindelwald's face betrayed no disappointment, though inwardly, he felt a pang of frustration. So, even Camus is unaware, he thought, his sharp mind recalculating his approach.
"I'm sorry, Andres," Camus said, shaking his head. "I truly wish I could help, but I've no knowledge of these names."
Grindelwald's expression softened, his voice remaining calm. "There is no need to apologize, Principal. It was always a possibility that these names might elude even someone as knowledgeable as yourself."
Camus offered a faint smile, but Grindelwald's next words made it fade almost instantly.
"There is, however, one more matter where your assistance is indispensable."
Grindelwald rose from his seat, his movements measured as he walked toward the window. He gazed out at the verdant lawns, the fountain bubbling serenely, and the castle's grand architecture.
"I need Ilvermorny," Grindelwald said, his tone soft yet brimming with undeniable authority.
Camus froze, his mind struggling to process the words. "What… what do you mean?"
Grindelwald turned slowly to face him, his features shifting. His disguise as Andrés Black melted away, revealing his true self: white hair, piercing dark eyes, and a commanding presence that exuded raw power.
"Grindelwald… it's you!" Camus gasped, his voice trembling. His hand instinctively gripped his wand beneath the desk, his body tensing for a fight.
But then—
Buzz!
A strange stiffness overtook him. His limbs refused to move, and the words he tried to utter caught in his throat. He felt as though he had been struck by a petrification spell, though no incantation had been spoken.
Grindelwald's calm voice broke the silence. "Many know that mandrakes can counteract petrification. Few realize that they are also a key ingredient in creating a petrifying potion."
Camus's eyes widened in realization. His mind raced, piecing together the events of the evening.
"The honey tea…" he rasped, his voice barely audible.
Grindelwald approached the desk, his gaze unwavering. "Yes, the honey tea. You should count yourself fortunate that I prefer to take Ilvermorny peacefully. Otherwise…"
He let the words hang in the air, their unspoken menace chilling.
Camus's face betrayed a flicker of weakness, his years of experience rendered moot in the face of Grindelwald's overwhelming cunning.
"What do you plan to do?" he managed to whisper.
Grindelwald smiled faintly, his tone almost conversational. "I will teach the students of Ilvermorny as I once did at Durmstrang. They will practice dark magic and perfect their meditation techniques."
Camus's breath quickened. He knew Grindelwald's methods and the allure of power that came with them.
Grindelwald's thoughts drifted briefly to his past. Durmstrang was easy to control, especially with a coward like Karkaroff at its helm. But Ilvermorny offers a greater opportunity—a foundation to expand my influence.
He turned his attention back to Camus, his voice steady. "The age of meditation is upon us. Whoever masters its secrets will shape the future of the wizarding world."
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