Late Night, Malfoy Manor
Lucius Malfoy sat alone in his study, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the cold, ornate furnishings. A stack of industrial documents lay before him, but his silver-gray eyes were dull, unfocused.
The Malfoy family, once a cornerstone of pure-blood supremacy, had suffered significant losses. Lucius himself bore the brunt of these failures, stemming from his ill-fated attempt to target Gilderoy Lockhart.
Lockhart's retaliation had been swift and decisive. The Malfoys, along with their allies, had paid dearly—not just in resources, but in lives. The family's elite combat wizards, painstakingly trained and trusted, were gone. Replacing them would require time, wealth, and loyalty that Lucius no longer had in abundance.
Still, Lockhart had not crushed them entirely. The Malfoy family's industries remained intact, though likely to ensure their usefulness as pawns in his greater schemes. To further cement his control, Lockhart had dangled the allure of his meditation techniques—an irresistible temptation for those seeking to regain their power.
Lucius sighed deeply, his thoughts spiraling into despair. Who could oppose Lockhart now? Dumbledore refuses to act, and no one else has the strength or influence to stand against him.
His hand absently brushed against his sleeve when—
Buzz!
A sharp pain erupted in his forearm, breaking his reverie. Lucius froze, dread seeping into his veins. Slowly, he rolled up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark etched into his skin.
The black tattoo was shifting, the snake slithering through the skull as though alive. Lucius felt his blood run cold.
"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Not him... not now."
Panic clawed at his composure. Voldemort—the Dark Lord—was summoning his followers. The man Lucius had betrayed, the master whose Horcrux he had lost to Lockhart, was calling him once more.
The pain in his arm intensified, sharp and unrelenting. It was a summons he could not ignore.
With no time to waste, Lucius grabbed his wand. With a flick, he Disapparated, vanishing into the night.
The Debra Valley, England
Lucius reappeared in a remote, desolate valley. The landscape was shrouded in darkness, its uneven terrain covered in wild overgrowth and a thick, eerie mist.
A gust of wind tore through the valley, carrying with it a sinister chill.
Suddenly, green flames erupted, incinerating the weeds and leaving behind a smooth, circular clearing. Massive stone pillars emerged from the ground, each carved with the image of a coiled serpent, its fangs bared and emerald eyes glowing with malice.
At the center of the clearing stood a figure cloaked in a dark green robe adorned with snake-like patterns.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
One by one, wizards in dark cloaks Apparated into the clearing. They knelt immediately, their heads bowed in reverence—or fear.
"Master!"
"Lord, you've returned to us!"
"We never doubted your power, my Lord!"
The cries of devotion rose like a cacophony, their desperation palpable.
Lucius knelt as well, though his head hung lower than the rest. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts of impending doom.
The cloaked figure finally turned, revealing a face that Lucius knew all too well.
Tom Riddle—Voldemort—stood before them. His features were youthful yet unnervingly serpentine, his emerald eyes burning with malice and madness.
"There are quite a few familiar faces here," Voldemort said coldly, his voice smooth but laced with danger. "But some of you... do not seem pleased to see me."
His footsteps echoed ominously as he moved through the crowd, his presence suffocating. Some wizards raised their heads, eyes shining with fanatical devotion. Others, like Lucius, kept their gaze firmly on the ground, trembling.
"Crucio!"
The emerald light of the Cruciatus Curse shot from Voldemort's wand, striking Lucius squarely.
"AAAAHHH!"
Lucius screamed as he collapsed, writhing in agony. His body convulsed, his cries of pain reverberating through the valley.
Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Did you think I wouldn't notice your betrayal, Lucius?"
He stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "You lost my Horcrux to that insufferable Lockhart. Because of your incompetence, I suffered... and now, you dare kneel before me?"
Lucius gasped for breath as Voldemort finally lifted the curse. Covered in dirt and shaking uncontrollably, he looked up, his face pale with terror.
"Master, please," Lucius begged, his voice hoarse. "I was deceived... manipulated. I never meant to fail you."
Voldemort regarded him with cold disdain. Then, after a tense pause, he spoke.
"I will not dwell on past failures. What's done is done."
Lucius sagged in relief, as did many others in the circle.
"But," Voldemort continued, his voice sharp, "from this moment on, I demand one thing from all of you: loyalty. Absolute, unwavering loyalty."
He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing.
"Together, we will reclaim the glory of pure-blood wizards. Together, we will rise again."
With a dramatic flourish, Voldemort raised his wand. A ring of dark green fire erupted around the gathering, and the mark of the Death Eaters—skulls entwined with serpents—blazed in the night sky.
"Tell me, my followers," Voldemort hissed, his voice intoxicatingly seductive, "do you wish to reclaim the glory of pure-blood wizardry?"
"Yes, Master!" the crowd roared in unison.
"What will you do?"
"Follow the great Master! Reclaim the glory of pure blood!"
Ilvermorny, Headmaster's Office, Morning
Across the Atlantic, the rising sun bathed the halls of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the headmaster's office, Gellert Grindelwald sat at an ornate desk, reviewing documents detailing every aspect of the school—staff, students, magical creatures, and resources.
Though he had long been familiar with Durmstrang, his former domain, Ilvermorny was a different matter entirely. This school, nestled in the heart of the United States, represented both a challenge and an opportunity.
Grindelwald's steely gaze lingered on the parchment before him. His mind wandered briefly to his last battle with Dumbledore, one that had nearly destroyed New York City.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Enter," Grindelwald said, his voice calm but commanding.
The door opened to reveal Miranda, once his trusted saint and now Ilvermorny's vice-principal. She stepped inside, her expression serious.
"Sir," she said, holding out a letter, "we've just received news from England."
"The pure-blood family saints we placed in Britain have sent word," Miranda reported, her tone grave as she stood before Grindelwald. "The so-called second-generation Dark Lord, Voldemort, has reappeared."
At this, Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, the faintest flicker of interest crossing his sharp features.
"And," Miranda continued, her voice lower now, "he's... different this time. According to our informants, he is not as erratic as before. Instead, he is far more rational."
She hesitated, swallowing hard before adding, "Perhaps even more dangerous."
Grindelwald chuckled softly, the sound carrying a strange mix of amusement and disdain. "Oh, he's emerged from the shadows, has he? How quaint." He waved a hand dismissively. "Voldemort is Britain's problem, not ours. Between Dumbledore and Lockhart, the Dark Lord won't manage anything catastrophic—at least not yet."
Miranda's cautious expression faltered for a moment, replaced by curiosity. "So, you're not concerned about him, sir?"
Grindelwald's eyes gleamed as he leaned back in his chair. "Concerned? No. But it's always prudent to stay informed. In fact," he added, his tone shifting to one of command, "you'll do well to investigate further. Focus on the wizarding forces in the United States. See if Voldemort's reappearance has stirred any sympathizers here."
"Understood, sir."
"Also," Grindelwald continued, his voice softening as if he were mulling over a deeper thought, "look into Lockhart's history in America. Where he's been, who he's dealt with—everything."
Miranda nodded. She turned to leave, but Grindelwald's next words stopped her mid-step.
"And one more thing."
With a flick of his wand, a swirl of black mist coalesced before them, taking the form of a younger Grindelwald—or, more accurately, Kaecilius, a figure from another world entirely.
"Investigate this man," Grindelwald instructed, his voice suddenly sharper. "Find any trace of him, any connection to me. Notify me the moment you uncover anything."
Miranda's eyes lingered on the misty visage, her brow furrowed in contemplation. "Understood, sir," she said, her tone firm. She turned and left the office, leaving Grindelwald alone with his thoughts.
As the door closed behind her, Grindelwald's gaze darkened. His ability to perceive destiny was unique, yet even he required a medium to grasp the threads of fate clearly. His previous glimpses of Lockhart had been fragmented, teasing hints of events tied to him—events of immense importance.
He knew he was running out of time to piece it all together.
Over the Greylock Mountains
Above the cloud-shrouded peaks, two figures emerged, their forms gliding through the mist like specters.
One was an older man with emerald-green eyes that shone with wisdom and warmth. His demeanor radiated serenity, though his thoughts were heavy with the task ahead. The other was younger, his sharp eyes brimming with determination, his presence laced with a barely contained ferocity.
"Lockhart," Dumbledore said gently, glancing toward his companion. "I know you and Gellert have... unresolved tensions. But let me speak with him first."
Lockhart's lips curled into a faint smile. "Of course, Headmaster. I'll defer to your judgment. But," he added, his tone hardening slightly, "Grindelwald has claimed Ilvermorny for himself. In my experience, tigers rarely relinquish their prey willingly."
Dumbledore sighed but said nothing, continuing his flight toward the school perched atop the mountain. An anti-Apparition barrier forced them to travel this way, but the inconvenience was the least of their concerns.
As they neared the summit, the mist grew thicker, swirling ominously around the grand structure of Ilvermorny.
Tread.
The two wizards landed on the stone platform before the school gates, where carvings of four magical creatures—representing Ilvermorny's houses—loomed in the fog.
Suddenly, the mist seemed to move of its own accord, drawn toward the school as though commanded by an unseen force. It flowed rapidly, enveloping Dumbledore and Lockhart in an impenetrable shroud.
Dumbledore sighed softly, his eyes narrowing as he raised his wand. "Gellert," he called out, his tone steady. "There's no need for theatrics. Come out."
With a graceful motion, he swirled his wand in a circular pattern, the mist retreating as though pushed by an invisible wind. The area around them cleared, but the mist remained thick beyond the immediate space.
Then, a voice echoed, smooth and mocking.
"Albus, what a surprise. I didn't expect you to visit me here—especially now, with Voldemort stirring trouble in your own backyard."
Figures began materializing in the mist, surrounding the two wizards. Grindelwald's visage appeared in multiple places, each one smirking as if amused by the intrusion.
Lockhart, however, seemed unfazed. He twirled his wand idly, his posture relaxed. This was Dumbledore's stage; he was merely a supporting act for now.
"Gellert," Dumbledore said firmly, ignoring the taunts. "What are your intentions for Ilvermorny?"
The real Grindelwald stepped forward, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Intentions? Oh, Albus, always so direct." He clasped his hands behind his back, his tone turning colder. "Don't worry. Your precious Camus is safe. I need him alive, at least for now."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "The students are innocent, Gellert. Whatever your plans, leave them out of this."
Grindelwald tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Innocent? Perhaps. But students are also the future. And what kind of leader would I be if I didn't prepare them for what's to come?"
Lockhart took a deliberate step forward, his wand now firmly in hand. His expression darkened, and the air around him seemed to grow heavier.
Grindelwald chuckled. "Relax, Lockhart. You're here to play bodyguard, I assume?" He waved a dismissive hand. "You're welcome to stay and chat after Albus leaves."
Before either could respond, a silver-white bird soared through the mist, a letter clutched in its beak. Grindelwald raised an eyebrow but allowed it to pass.
Dumbledore caught the bird, retrieving the letter as it vanished. His eyes scanned the message quickly, his expression shifting to one of concern.
Lockhart glanced at the parchment, catching a glimpse of the words:
Azkaban. Death Eaters. Prison Break. Voldemort.
Grindelwald smiled knowingly. "Ah, Albus. It seems you have more pressing matters to attend to."
Dumbledore folded the letter, his expression calm once more. "You're right. We'll continue this discussion another time."
Grindelwald inclined his head. "Of course. But if you're worried, feel free to leave Lockhart. I'd enjoy the company."
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