[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 521 - 525

Chapter 521:

The Hog's Head Inn, England.

Boom! Boom!

As always, the pub was filled with noise.

Clinking glasses echoed across the room, voices overlapping in drunken laughter or heated debates.

At the counter, Aberforth Dumbledore stood as he always did, wiping a glass, his eyes flicking over the rowdy crowd.

Alcohol had a way of loosening tongues.

Some wizards exaggerated tales of grandeur, while others—whether by mistake or intent—let slip secrets unknown to most.

Aberforth, ever the quiet observer, would sometimes pause in his glass-wiping whenever he heard something particularly interesting.

But tonight—

His attention was divided.

Between swipes of his cloth, his eyes involuntarily drifted toward the rectangular jade-like object resting on the counter.

It was crystal clear, its entirety tinged with a light green hue.

Inside, a golden dragon swam lazily, weaving through an intricate and endless path.

If one were to trace its movements, they would find it spelling out two words:

"Wizard Pay."

At the top of the cuboid, a long, shimmering strip continuously cycled through colors—

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.

It changed in rhythm, shifting seamlessly like a flowing rainbow.

It was beautiful, almost like an exquisite piece of enchanted art.

But Aberforth knew better.

This wasn’t just an ornament—it was a tool.

One that had been freely distributed by Kamar Taj to various businesses, including his own Hog’s Head Inn.

And its purpose?

Transactions.

"Boss, check please!"

"That’ll be six Sickles, ten Knuts."

Aberforth barely glanced at the wizard’s table—three bottles of butterbeer, plus a few other things.

The wizard pulled out a black card and lightly swiped it across the rainbow-colored strip atop the jade cuboid.

Ding!

A soft chime sounded.

Instantly, the numbers 6 and 10 appeared on the surface, along with the symbols for Sickle and Knut.

The payment was complete.

This was "Wizard Pay."

It had revolutionized transactions in the wizarding world, eliminating the need for physical coins.

No more fumbling for change.

No more forgetting your money pouch.

With just a black wealth card, a wizard could transfer funds instantly.

It was simple, convenient, and—most concerning of all—beloved by nearly every wizard.

Even Aberforth couldn't deny that business had improved thanks to this device.

Not because of more customers, but because each customer spent more than they normally would.

It was almost unnatural.

And the mastermind behind this terrifying invention?

Gilderoy Lockhart.

Aberforth’s expression darkened.

He wasn't just a bar owner.

He was Dumbledore’s brother.

A former member of the Order of the Phoenix.

A duelist who had once fought Grindelwald himself—though ultimately defeated, he had earned his place among the strongest wizards of his time.

From his position, he could see the true danger of what Kamar Taj and Lockhart had created.

The once tangible wizarding currency—gold Galleons, silver Sickles, bronze Knuts—had now become a mere number on a screen.

Previously, at least, money had limitations—materials had to be minted, gold had to be weighed.

But now?

It was just data.

And the most terrifying part?

The entire wizarding world had accepted it without hesitation.

In less than a month—no, in just two weeks—this system had become a fundamental part of daily life.

It was unbelievable.

Even the most revolutionary spells or breakthroughs in magical theory took years for wizards to accept.

But this?

It was instantaneous.

It was as if the world had been changed overnight.

There was only one explanation.

Magic.

Not ordinary magic.

Something far deeper, something woven into reality itself.

Aberforth had tried to analyze it.

Tried to detect any traces of enchantments or compulsions.

But everything about Wizard Pay seemed natural.

Was he simply getting old?

Had his skills dulled over the years?

Or was this truly just a naturally adopted innovation?

His fingers unconsciously tightened around his own wealth card at his waist.

For the first time, he felt a strange, creeping unease.

Whoosh!

The sudden flutter of wings snapped Aberforth from his thoughts.

A gray owl landed before him, a letter tied to its leg.

It let out a soft hoot, tilting its head expectantly—waiting for its usual reward.

Aberforth glanced at the seal on the envelope.

His expression hardened.

But he kept his composure, reaching beneath the counter for a handful of owl treats, which he placed beside the bird.

The owl cooed in satisfaction and began pecking at its meal.

Meanwhile, Aberforth tore open the letter and quickly scanned its contents.

"The two Dark Lords have allied.
Durmstrang has fallen.
The Saints and Vice Headmaster Rozier have been captured."

"Grindelwald leads a counterattack."

"The alliance has fractured—Voldemort and Grindelwald are now at war."

Aberforth’s breath hitched.

Voldemort had left England and attacked Europe?

And he had seized Grindelwald’s stronghold?

Was he insane?!

Was he actively seeking death?!

What kind of fool provokes Grindelwald?!

This was madness.

Voldemort had always been reckless in his pursuit of power, but this?

This was suicidal.

Aberforth’s fingers clenched the parchment, but his eyes widened as he read the next part.

"Voldemort claims that Lockhart orchestrated Tom resurrection.
He accuses Lockhart of masterminding the Gringotts catastrophe.
Lockhart, he says, is the true hidden power in Britain—
Using Kamar Taj to experiment on young wizards and manipulate the entire wizarding world."

Aberforth’s gaze instinctively shifted back to the jade cuboid on his counter.

The glowing golden words—Wizard Pay—felt almost blinding now.

News that should have been laughable, even absurd...

Instead, it felt eerily plausible.

"Boss, check please."

The casual request snapped Aberforth back to reality.

He glanced at the wizard waiting to pay, then at the bottles of mead on the counter.

"Thirteen Sickles."

The wizard reached for his black wealth card.

Aberforth hesitated.

"Could you pay in Sickles instead?"

The wizard frowned, confused.

"I don’t carry cash anymore."

He gestured at the card reader.

"Who even does these days?"

Aberforth felt a cold sweat forming on his back.

Instinctively, his fingers drifted to his own wealth card.

When had he stopped carrying cash?

He forced a smile, nodding as he pushed the card reader forward.

The wizard swiped his card, paid, and walked away without a second thought.

Aberforth, however, took a step back—as if staring at something dangerous.

With a flick of his wand, a quill and parchment flew into the air.

He began writing furiously.

Within moments, the sealed letter was stuffed into the owl’s pouch.

"Go. Quickly."

The owl hooted but obeyed, soaring into the night sky—heading straight for Albus Dumbledore.

Aberforth had no doubt now.

The third Dark Lord had arrived.

And his name was—

Gilderoy Lockhart.

Chapter 522: Secrets Beneath the Surface

New York City – A Small Café.

"It seems that as you grow older, your eyes have indeed begun to fail, Albus."

Grindelwald’s voice was laced with sarcasm as he gazed at the old man seated across from him.

The café was elegantly decorated, a refined establishment with soft lighting and gentle classical music playing in the background.

Under normal circumstances, a place like this should have been bustling with customers.

Yet—

It was empty.

Only two figures sat at a center table, locked in quiet conversation.

Dumbledore, dressed in a deep blue wizarding robe speckled with stars, looked as composed as ever.

His rosy complexion and sharp, piercing gaze showed no sign of age weakening him.

He ignored Grindelwald’s taunts, merely lifting his coffee cup to his lips for a slow sip.

A slight grimace crossed his face—

Too bitter.

With a small gesture, a handful of white sugar cubes appeared in his palm. He gently scattered them into the dark liquid, watching as they dissolved.

Grindelwald said nothing, merely taking another sip of his own coffee, seemingly enjoying its bitterness.

It wasn’t until the sugar had fully melted that Dumbledore picked up his cup again.

This time, as he took a sip, his frown eased.

"Gallert," he said softly, his voice thoughtful, "sometimes I wonder… how wonderful it would be if coffee could be sweet without adding sugar."

Grindelwald’s lips curled slightly.

"I prefer my coffee bitter," he replied coldly.

"It reminds me of something important."

He set his cup down with a soft clink, then lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Dumbledore.

His voice grew heavier, his words deliberate.

"It reminds me—"

"Of reality."

"Of truth."

"Of the enemy."

Dumbledore’s brows furrowed, the sweetness of his coffee no longer enough to soften his expression.

Then—

He sighed.

"I know about Lockhart."

His voice was calm, but his words struck like thunder.

Grindelwald’s hand froze midair, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup.

However, his expression remained neutral.

Instead, he simply tilted his head, watching Dumbledore with intrigue.

"When did you realize it?" he asked, as if mildly curious.

Dumbledore pondered the question for a moment before speaking.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "from the moment Lockhart introduced meditation to Hogwarts."

"The slogans he shouted back then… they already held clues."

Grindelwald raised an eyebrow.

"Slogans?"

Dumbledore’s blue eyes gleamed, reflecting the warm café light.

His voice was soft, tinged with nostalgia.

"Make wizards great again."

Silence.

For a long moment, Grindelwald simply stared at him.

Back then, he had heard the phrase, but he had thought nothing of it.

It was too grand, too empty, too hollow.

And later, Lockhart rarely repeated it, making it easy to dismiss.

But looking back now—

Lockhart had introduced meditation, founded Kamar Taj, and created Wizard Pay.

He was making that slogan a reality.

"Then," Dumbledore continued, his voice steady, "came the Gringotts incident—the theft of Tom Riddle’s Hufflepuff Cup."

"I didn’t know who was responsible at the time."

"But now, in hindsight, it had to be connected to Lockhart."

Grindelwald said nothing, merely listening.

"As for the meditation method he introduced…"

"I searched Hogwarts’ Heritage Library, scoured its records, but found nothing similar in history."

"Something so revolutionary, yet it seemed to have no origins."

"I even asked Lockhart himself for an explanation."

"And?"

"He gave me none that was convincing."

Dumbledore smiled slightly, but there was no warmth in it.

"But I didn’t press further," he admitted.

Grindelwald’s fingers tapped lightly on the table.

"Why?"

"Why didn’t you press further, Albus?"

It was a simple question, but its implications were heavy.

The answer was obvious.

Grindelwald’s voice dropped slightly, his tone cold and knowing.

"Because Lockhart never interfered with your interests."

Dumbledore didn’t flinch.

Instead, he nodded.

"Precisely."

"He never threatened Hogwarts."

"He never killed indiscriminately or spread fear like Tom."

"He didn’t create chaos in the wizarding world—he maintained order."

"And everything he has done so far has only benefited wizards."

Dumbledore met Grindelwald’s gaze, his blue eyes calm and resolute.

"Why, then, should I stop him?"

Grindelwald remained silent.

Dumbledore took another sip of his coffee, as if savoring its sweetened taste.

But the silence between them was no longer comfortable.

Finally, Grindelwald spoke.

"Then tell me, Albus—"

"Why did you leave Hogwarts? Why did you leave England and come to America?"

The question was direct.

Grindelwald had suspicions now.

Was Dumbledore working with Lockhart?

Had they secretly aligned to manipulate the chessboard?

Everything seemed too coincidental.

Two Voldemorts warring in Europe.

The Goblin King Turan holding power in America.

And now, Lockhart, alone in Britain, with no one opposing him.

Was this all planned?

Grindelwald’s right hand, which rested on the table, tightened slightly.

If necessary, he was ready to act.

He wouldn’t allow himself to be outmaneuvered.

But—

Dumbledore only chuckled.

Then, with deliberate ease, he took another long sip of his coffee.

"Relax, Gallert."

"I have not allied with Lockhart."

Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, watching closely.

Dumbledore slowly placed his cup back down and exhaled.

"My reason for leaving Hogwarts had nothing to do with goblins—"

He paused, his expression growing thoughtful.

"It was because of a man."

"No—" he corrected himself.

"Not a man—a portrait."

Grindelwald’s brow furrowed.

"A… portrait?"

Dumbledore’s voice lowered, almost reverent.

"A ghost, if you will."

"A man you should have heard of."

"One of the four founders of Hogwarts."

"Salazar Slytherin."

Chapter 523: A Proposition from the Past

Three Months Ago – Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office.

At that time, Lockhart had just left Hogwarts, and Kamar Taj had not yet been established.

The young wizards had already returned to their families for the holidays.

Apart from a few house-elves, only two people remained at Hogwarts: Dumbledore and Hagrid.

The other professors, including Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, had taken advantage of the break to return home or travel abroad.

For Dumbledore, however, Hogwarts had long become his home.

Year after year, he spent every holiday here.

He had not returned to his real home in a very, very long time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—but every time he did, he was reminded of painful memories.

Hagrid, too, had no real home left.

His cottage by the Forbidden Forest was his sanctuary, where he cared for his beloved magical creatures.

And so, during the holidays, Hogwarts became eerily silent.

Dumbledore, as was his habit, remained in his headmaster’s office, surrounded by books and papers.

The daily upkeep of the castle was left to the house-elves.

Occasionally, McGonagall or another professor would linger at the school for a few extra days before leaving.

At this moment, inside the headmaster’s office, Dumbledore sat at his desk, a dark blue leather-bound book open before him.

He was studying it carefully.

This was a research document on meditation, given to him by Gilderoy Lockhart.

As someone deeply invested in the future of the wizarding world, Dumbledore naturally had to examine it thoroughly.

As he read—

The portraits of past headmasters lining the office walls began to move.

Silently.

One by one, they stepped out of their frames—

And left the office.

No sounds.

No protests.

They simply vanished, slipping away as if summoned by an unseen force.

The entire process was unnaturally quiet.

Even Phineas Nigellus Black, who never missed an opportunity to curse Dumbledore, had fallen silent.

Within moments, every headmaster had departed, leaving behind only blank paintings or simple landscapes.

Yet, Dumbledore noticed nothing.

His attention remained fixed on the meditation notes in front of him.

Then—

A new figure emerged from the largest empty portrait.

He was tall and thin.

His expression was stern, almost gloomy.

A brown wooden wand rested at his waist.

His dark green robes were embroidered with black serpents, their forms twisting and curling in elaborate patterns.

On his chest, gleaming in the dim light, was a medallion—

The sigil of Slytherin House.

There was no doubt about his identity.

He was—

Salazar Slytherin.

Using the ancient authority he had left within Hogwarts, he had commanded the portraits to leave, ensuring that this conversation would remain private.

After all, those portraits were merely fragments of their former selves—shadows of the past, bound by magic.

They obeyed his will.

A calm voice broke the silence.

"Albus Dumbledore."

Dumbledore’s posture stiffened slightly.

Then, he relaxed.

Slowly, he closed the book before him and turned around.

His blue eyes met those of the legendary wizard before him.

"Salazar Slytherin?"

His voice carried a trace of hesitation.

As Hogwarts’ headmaster, he was well acquainted with the founders’ portraits.

But this was different.

This was not just a portrait.

"Yes, it is me," Salazar confirmed, his tone steady.

"This time, I have come to speak to you directly."

There was no small talk, no greetings—

Instead, Slytherin posed a question immediately.

"I have always been curious," he said.

"You are often praised as the greatest white wizard of this era."

"So tell me, Dumbledore—"

"What is your criteria for distinguishing white magic from black magic?"

Dumbledore didn’t ask why Slytherin had appeared.

Nor did he ask about the missing portraits.

Instead—

He considered the question carefully.

He seemed neither surprised nor suspicious—as if he was certain this was truly Salazar Slytherin.

After a long pause, he spoke.

"When magic stirs evil within a person, it is black magic," he said.

"But when magic inspires kindness, or at the very least, prevents evil, it can be called white magic."

Slytherin did not agree.

Nor did he disagree.

He merely listened.

Magic was a complex force.

Everyone had their own views on what was good and what was evil.

Perhaps, he had only asked the question to understand Dumbledore’s values.

"Dumbledore…" Slytherin finally murmured.

"Helga Hufflepuff would have liked your answer."

Dumbledore’s lips curved slightly.

"And I am honored to have Ms. Hufflepuff’s approval."

Then—

His expression hardened.

"Mr. Slytherin," he said, "may I ask where the portraits of the past headmasters have gone?"

"And—"

"What do you want from me?"

Slytherin made a slight motion with his hand.

In an instant—

His form shifted, transforming into something less solid—

A phantom.

He drifted toward Dumbledore, his presence ghostly yet tangible.

Dumbledore’s brows furrowed slightly.

For centuries, the difference between portraits and ghosts had been clear-cut.

But this—

This was something else.

Something beyond what he had known.

Still, Dumbledore’s curiosity was greater than his shock.

For now, he remained silent, waiting.

Salazar finally spoke again.

"I have learned much about you, Albus Dumbledore."

"You have been a good headmaster."

"But—"

"There is something I must make clear."

He lifted a hand, gesturing to the very walls around them.

"This castle… Hogwarts…"

"It was my gift to Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw."

Dumbledore gave a small nod, acknowledging the truth.

Slytherin continued.

"But that no longer matters."

"What matters is—"

"You now hold full authority over Hogwarts."

"You have even gained access to the Heritage Library."

"You have done well."

Dumbledore listened.

And waited.

Then—

Slytherin’s gaze darkened.

"Dumbledore."

"A wizard has asked me to offer you a deal."

"It will not violate your morals."

"It will cause no harm."

"All you must do… is act at the right moment."

"And in return—"

"The other party offers you something precious."

Slytherin’s next words were soft, yet they carried the weight of centuries.

"A chance to resurrect your sister, Ariana."

Silence.

Dumbledore’s breath caught.

His fingers tightened against the desk.

His expression, which had remained so calm, so composed—

Finally changed.

Chapter 524: The Ever-Shifting Dreamscape

Does the world dream?
Perhaps it does, or perhaps it does not.

However, in the eyes of Lockhart, the master of the dream dimension, the world’s dreams are real—tangible, visible, and within reach.

The world dreams the dreams of all living beings—ordinary people, wizards, magical creatures, and even the faintly conscious plants. As long as something possesses even the slightest awareness, its desires, thoughts, and emotions contribute to shaping the world's dream.

Rather than calling it the world’s dream, it would be more accurate to describe it as the subconscious ocean of all life.

Within it, benevolent thoughts and dark impulses, desires and obsessions, all intertwine, forming an ever-changing realm that feeds and shapes the world itself. Just as the world influences dreams, dreams, in turn, shape the course of the world.

At this moment, a massive dark-purple vessel sails smoothly across this vast and shifting dream ocean.

The dreamscape around it is a chaotic fusion of colors, each brimming with raw emotion and energy—fiery crimson for passion, pale green for sorrow, regal gold and violet for nobility, and abyssal black for despair. Though mingled together, one hue stands out at the moment: a deep, oppressive red.

It is difficult to describe this place with mere words.

At times, it resembles an ocean, with winged fish gliding through the air and colossal sea beasts emerging briefly before vanishing into the depths. At other times, it transforms into a vast land where towering plants reach for the sky. Strange creatures roam this terrain—tigers with wings, lions with nine heads—predators stalking prey among the giant flora.

Everything here is in flux.

Time itself behaves strangely, passing both sluggishly and in an instant. What appears to be solid ground may dissolve into liquid waves without warning. A tiny sprout can suddenly explode into an enormous tree, its countless branches lashing out like tentacles, ensnaring and devouring unsuspecting creatures.

Predators may become prey in the blink of an eye—massive beasts shrinking into insignificant insects, frantically fleeing into the distance.

The only constant in this realm is change itself.

Amidst this ever-shifting landscape, the dark-purple vessel adapts.

Sometimes it takes the shape of a traditional ship, then morphs into a flying fortress or a drifting spaceship. At times, it even assumes the form of a gigantic balloon, floating along with the currents of the dream. Occasionally, it transforms into a towering giant, striding across the surreal terrain.

It appears to move aimlessly—drifting eastward, then westward, ascending into the sky, then descending onto solid ground. Yet, beneath this apparent randomness lies an intent: to fully adapt, to completely integrate into the dreamscape.

Despite its efforts, the vessel remains conspicuous, standing out starkly against the chaos of the dream world.

Even so, it does not give up.

Slowly, the ship's deep-purple hue shifts, darkening into the dominant crimson of the dreamscape. The process is sluggish, requiring immense effort and an intricate balance of energy. But little by little, it happens.

Just as the transformation is nearly complete—

The dream shifts again.

The ocean of dreams abruptly solidifies, silent and seamless, as though the waves had never existed. Then, mountains rise without a sound, emerging from nowhere and stretching endlessly into the distance.

The sudden transformation is absolute.

In an instant, the landscape has become a mountainous dream world, its colors now dominated by lush shades of green. Strange plants take root among the peaks, while bizarre creatures scurry and prowl across the jagged terrain.

And now, the once-dark-red ship stands out more than ever.

But this time, it is prepared.

Without hesitation, the vessel undergoes another transformation, reshaping itself into a colossal humanoid figure. A towering giant, easily the height of a hundred-story skyscraper. Yet, even at such an immense size, it is dwarfed by the massive peaks surrounding it.

The giant’s deep-red skin begins to shift once more, darkening to a shade of green to match its new surroundings.

This time, the change is quicker.

Perhaps the dream is more stable, or perhaps the entity has encountered such shifts before and learned how to adapt. Regardless, the transformation proceeds smoothly, and before long, the dark-green giant blends almost seamlessly into the mountainous dreamscape.

For the first time, it does not stand out.

And the dream does not resist.

The giant remains motionless for a moment, as if confirming its success. Then, satisfied, it begins to move.

Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, it reaches out with massive hands, plucking dream-plants from the mountains and seizing the creatures that roam the slopes.

It does not touch the mountains themselves—perhaps knowing that disturbing the very foundation of the dreamscape would invite disaster. Instead, it carefully strips away the flora and fauna, its colossal fingers grasping handfuls of dream-matter.

With each handful, the giant’s palms close, and when they reopen, everything within them has vanished. As though a hidden maw had devoured the stolen dream essence.

And still, the world does not react.

Encouraged, the giant quickens its pace, arms sweeping through the landscape, harvesting more and more dream-forms.

Then—

A shift.

A ripple in the dream.

The mountainous landscape flickers, its colors distorting. The once-solid peaks shimmer like illusions before fading away, vanishing like mirages in the desert.

The ground dissolves into nothingness.

And suddenly—

The dreamscape transforms once more.

The towering mountains are gone, replaced by an expanse of drifting, multicolored clouds. Some of these clouds sprout strange vegetation, others serve as floating islands upon which fantastic beasts roam.

Birds, great and small, flutter through the sky. Winged beasts prowl the clouds, leaping between the floating masses. The entire scene is ethereal, tranquil—almost like a child’s whimsical dream.

The color dominating this dream is now pure white.

For a moment, all is peaceful.

Then, the giant is revealed.

Its dark-green form is a glaring blemish upon the pristine whiteness of the dream. A wound upon the face of an otherwise delicate and serene vision.

A single, unnatural blotch of green in an endless sea of white.

And in that moment—

The dream notices.

It awakens.

Like a slumbering guardian roused from its rest, the dream world turns its attention toward the intruder.

And it is angry.

As though catching a thief in the act of plundering its domain, the dream world trembles with fury.

Change is its nature. But theft—violation—this, it will not allow.

A storm brews within the sky of dreams.

In the vast sky, a swarm of ferocious beasts suddenly appeared, their massive wings flapping as they rapidly closed in on the dark-green giant.

Even the once serene, multicolored clouds—so peaceful and dreamlike—began to change. Spikes protruded from their soft forms, transforming them into lethal projectiles.

Without sound, the beasts surged forward, claws bared, jaws agape, as they lunged at the giant. The spiked clouds exploded as they neared, aiming to obliterate the intruder with sheer force.

Seeing this, the giant immediately broke into a sprint, maneuvering through the chaos to evade the relentless assault.

When met with an attacking beast, he simply waved an arm or kicked away any obstruction in his path. He made no effort to retaliate—resistance was futile in the dream world. Even if he were to eliminate hundreds, thousands more would take their place in the next instant.

This battle had no meaning.

Instead, his form began to flicker, growing more and more transparent.

Sensing the intruder’s impending escape, the dream world grew even more furious.

The once vibrant sky darkened, shifting to ominous shades of black and gray. From above, dark-red raindrops—each carrying an aura of death—began to pour down in torrents.

For the first time, the silent dream world produced sound.

Drip.

The rain pattered against the giant’s body, sizzling as it burned through his form.

Yet he did not stop.

He merely shielded himself from the worst of the downpour and continued his frantic escape, disregarding the injuries he sustained.

He had plundered the world’s dream.

And now, having been caught in the act, he fled like a thief whose crime had been exposed.

The giant’s transparency deepened, his form flickering between existence and nothingness. The dream world roared in defiance, its fury manifesting in the form of crackling black lightning.

The sky shattered with streaks of dark energy, bolts of destruction raining down toward the fleeing giant.

But it was too late.

Something had shifted—he had reached the threshold.

His body had become as intangible as a phantom.

The lightning, the rain, the beasts—all now passed through him harmlessly, their wrath rendered meaningless.

Then—

Puff!

With a faint pop, the giant vanished completely.

The dream world stilled.

The thunderous clouds began to dissipate, their furious storms gradually fading. The rampaging beasts and frenzied flora stilled, returning to their usual forms.

As though realizing the intruder had been repelled, the dream world exhaled.

Tranquility returned.

The landscape shifted once more—an endless, deep-blue ocean emerged, rolling waves stretching as far as the eye could see. A vast, lush earth took shape, rich with vibrant greenery. Above it, a boundless starry sky shimmered, twinkling with celestial light.

The cycle resumed.

Predators and prey intertwined, shifting back and forth—forever changing, embodying all the justice and evil, beauty and ugliness of the world.

Kamar Taj: The Hidden Sanctuary

Above the clouds, on a floating landmass formed of condensed white mist, a magnificent palace stood, towering and resplendent.

At its grand entrance, a golden plaque gleamed in the ethereal light.

At the heart of the palace lay the Dream Palace. Though its grand doors remained firmly shut, brilliant streams of multicolored light seeped through the cracks, a testament to the power contained within.

Inside, seated cross-legged in the very center of the hall, was Gilderoy Lockhart.

His sapphire-blue eyes flickered open, and for a fleeting moment, they shimmered with dreamlight—phantom hues swirling like remnants of another world. Then, just as quickly, the glow faded, returning to their usual clarity.

A sigh escaped his lips.

“What happened in the Muggle world this time?"

A trace of exasperation colored his otherwise calm tone.

The dream world was inextricably tied to the thoughts and emotions of all living beings. Every flicker of consciousness, every shift in collective emotion, contributed to its ebb and flow.

Thus, when a major event shook the world of the living, the dream world inevitably reacted—often in unpredictable ways.

According to Lockhart’s research, Muggles were the most unstable force in this equation. Unlike the wizarding world, where magic dictated stability, Muggle societies were ever-changing, their collective emotions volatile and reactive.

Wars, propaganda, mass hysteria—these were the catalysts that sent the dream world spiraling into chaos.

More often than not, Lockhart found himself forcefully expelled from the dreamscape due to their influence.

The most ridiculous instance?

A debate in Britain regarding gender identity politics.

‘Man is not man, woman is not woman—if you believe it, then it is.’

Such a trivial matter, yet the dream world had reacted so violently that it had forcibly rejected him.

Lockhart had never been so tempted to cast a mass Obliviate and Confundus Charm on an entire nation.

Though he found the situation utterly absurd, he also understood that world peace was his ultimate priority.

He, Gilderoy Lockhart, guardian of world order, had a duty to maintain stability.

For only through stability could he continue harvesting the origin of the dream world, expanding his dominion over the dream dimension.

That was why, after Kamar Taj’s grand opening ceremony, he had deliberately withdrawn from public affairs, minimizing his influence on world events.

He had even dispatched Kamar Taj’s wizards to subtly manipulate the minds of key Muggle leaders—gently nudging them away from war, unrest, and radical policies.

All in the name of peace.

All in the name of stability.

If there was anyone deserving of a Nobel Peace Prize, it was him.

Because only through this delicate balance could he steal the world’s dream essence in peace.

Lockhart’s musings were interrupted by a soft, melodic voice.

A ripple in space, and a spectral figure materialized before him.

Dream Spirit Lilith.

With a respectful bow, the ethereal being spoke:

"Great Creator of Dreams, after thorough examination, the recent disturbances in the dream world do not appear to be linked to the Muggle world."

"Although ideological shifts have been observed across Muggle nations, none were significant enough to incite such drastic fluctuations."

"Instead, attention must be directed toward the wizarding world. This dream world disturbance is likely a reflection of the current chaos unfolding within it."

Lockhart’s gaze sharpened.

“Go on.”

"Through analysis, it has been determined that your frequent and escalating plundering of the world’s dream essence has drawn the attention of the world’s consciousness."

"It is highly probable that the world itself has begun to perceive you as a threat—and is now actively attempting to erase your existence."

"In the real world, this translates into the following events:

• Lord Voldemort has deviated from his original plans and now harbors strong hostility toward you.

• Grindelwald appears to be seeking an alliance with Dumbledore against Kamar Taj.

• The British Ministry of Magic is undergoing secretive internal changes, likely targeting you as well.

Hearing Lilith’s report, Lockhart closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

As expected.

Good things always took time.

One could not hope to steal from the world itself without inviting retaliation.

If he had chosen this path, he should have long been prepared for the consequences.

A wry smirk formed on his lips.

Chapter 525: The Siege of Beauxbatons

"Avada Kedavra!"
"Kill!"
"Lay down your wand, surrender, and the great Dark Lord will spare your life!"
"Hold the castle! The Ministry of Magic will soon send reinforcements!"
"Beauxbatons will never fall!"
"Avada Kedavra!"

The once grand and pristine Beauxbatons Academy of Magic was now a battlefield of ruin and despair.

The towering Magic Castle, once filled with elegance and grace, had been reduced to rubble. Walls lay in ruins, corridors were littered with debris, and the once-majestic halls now echoed with the cacophony of war—shouts of defiance, cries of agony, and the eerie silence of the fallen.

Dark green and deep crimson spells streaked through the air, the Killing Curse and Cruciatus Curse raining down mercilessly.

Blood pooled across the castle grounds, its crimson sheen mixing with shattered bones and scorched stone. The dead and dying lay where they had fallen, their expressions frozen in terror, as if bearing witness to the end of the world itself.

Above, the defensive golden-purple shield protecting the academy was crumbling—cracks spread across its shimmering surface like fractures in glass.

The sky was thick with black death fog, its corrosive miasma slowly eating away at the protective enchantments.

From time to time, inky-black droplets fell from the mist, sizzling upon impact. The moment they touched the ground, plants withered, the earth cracked, and animals collapsed as their bodies shriveled into lifeless husks. The poison spread relentlessly, seeping into the land, leaving only eerie wisps of black mist in its wake.

It was the creeping shadow of death itself.

This was Beauxbatons Academy, France’s most prestigious institution of magic, a place once hailed as the safest sanctuary outside the French Ministry of Magic.

But now—

Now, it was on the verge of collapse.

Beyond the castle walls, the once-lush green fields had been stained yellow and crimson, a grotesque blend of decay and blood.

Dark wizards and Death Eaters roamed freely, their black robes billowing as they moved with ruthless efficiency.

Some sprinted toward the castle, eager to join the fray, their wands crackling with Dark Magic. Others strolled leisurely, eyes gleaming with malice as they took in the devastation around them.

Bodies of fallen students and professors littered the ground, their lifeless forms discarded like broken dolls. Yet, their deaths evoked no remorse—only cruel amusement.

A few Death Eaters even paused to admire their handiwork, the twisted expressions of terror on the faces of their victims serving as entertainment.

Beauxbatons, the untouchable beacon of magic, was now a crumbling relic.

The once-revered professors, figures of authority and wisdom, now lay at their feet, broken and pleading for mercy.

But mercy was not in the vocabulary of the Dark Lord’s followers.

Instead, the air was thick with ecstasy and bloodlust.

The thrill of destruction.
The pleasure of domination.
The sheer euphoria of murder.

The massacre fueled them, driving them forward, deeper into the heart of the castle.

There was only one last barrier to break.

The final line of defense.

And when it fell, Beauxbatons would truly be theirs.

Boom!
Crack!

A khaki-colored barrier shimmered before the main castle, its protective glow holding firm against an onslaught of spells.

Beyond it lay the final sanctuary—the last stronghold of Beauxbatons’ surviving professors and students.

Outside the barrier, scores of dark wizards and Death Eaters stood gathered, their wands raised as they unleashed spell after spell, hurling their most destructive magic against the enchanted walls.

Flashes of light illuminated the battlefield, as streaks of crimson, violet, and green slammed against the barrier, sending ripples across its surface.

And then—

Crack.

A visible fracture split across the shield.

It mended itself quickly, but not before igniting a frenzy among the attackers.

A chorus of cheers erupted, voices rising in triumph.

The end was near.

They redoubled their efforts, hurling curses with renewed vigor, each spell widening the cracks, stretching the defenses to their limit.

Beauxbatons' last battlefield.

Its last breath.

Once the barrier fell, the same fate would await the castle’s remaining inhabitants—

Death. Slaughter. Ruin.

From above, the scene of carnage unfolded like a grotesque painting.

The earth pulsed with deep, twisting veins of dark red, snaking across the landscape like living tendrils.

If one looked closely—
If one magnified their vision tenfold, a hundredfold, even a thousandfold—

They would see the truth behind the eerie mist that now cloaked Beauxbatons.

It was not mere fog.

It was alive.

The haze was composed of countless microscopic purple insects, so tiny they were imperceptible to the naked eye.

A plague in motion.

And high above, a lone shadow watched in silence.

A figure clad in midnight robes, his deathly pale face eerily illuminated by the battlefield below.

Lord Voldemort.

His crimson eyes gleamed, flickering with unrestrained excitement as he observed the unfolding sacrificial ritual.

Licking his lips, he let a bloodthirsty grin curl across his face.

The castle still resisted.

But not for long.

His yew wand moved with deliberate precision, tracing invisible patterns in the air.

And at that command—

The purple mist surged.

Like a wave of death, it rushed toward Beauxbatons, flooding through the academy’s courtyards and corridors like a living entity.

Wherever it touched—

Nothing remained.

Blades of grass withered into dust.
Corpses were erased, leaving behind only fragments of bone—if that.
Even the dying cries of the fallen were silenced, swallowed by the swarm.

The only thing untouched—

Beauxbatons’ castle itself.

Under Voldemort’s command, the buildings would remain standing.

Only the people would perish.

It was an exhibition of power.

A declaration of absolute dominance.

The Death Eaters, in the midst of their attack, suddenly sensed something ominous behind them.

Turning, they saw the tide of purple mist creeping toward them.

And for the first time since the battle began—

They felt fear.

The Death Eaters did not immediately realize the origin of the purple mist creeping through the battlefield.

To them, it was an unknown force—one that moved with unnatural purpose.

But Lord Voldemort had no intention of explaining his methods to his subordinates.

It was only when the purple mist slithered past them without harm that realization struck.

This was their master's doing.

And then—

The mist reached the castle’s defenses.

A deep, unsettling chittering sound filled the air, like thousands of insects gnawing at flesh.

Within seconds—

A hole appeared in the earthy-yellow barrier, its edges corroded away by the swarming mist.

Before the magical defenses could repair themselves, the mist poured inside, flooding through the gap like a living tide.

The wizards and professors stationed at the castle gate reacted instantly.

"Protego Maxima!"
"Repello Inimicum!"

Golden shields flashed as layers of protective charms sprang to life.

For a moment, it seemed they had successfully blocked the invasion.

But then—

The mist twisted and surged, swirling around the enchantments like a viper.

Crack!

The barriers shattered, the golden glow extinguished in an instant.

A chorus of screams erupted.

The purple mist engulfed them, and their spells—so desperately cast—were useless against its overwhelming force.

Cries of agony, despair, and frantic pleading filled the air.

And then—

Silence.

When the mist dissipated, all that remained were bones.

Not even a scrap of flesh.

The Death Eaters, watching from a distance, felt an instinctual chill crawl up their spines.

These wizards had resisted them for so long—

And yet, in mere seconds, they had been erased.

A fear they did not yet understand settled deep in their subconscious.

And that—

That was exactly what Voldemort wanted.

He ruled through fear and power.

And what greater demonstration of power than instant, merciless death?

The purple mist continued its work, infiltrating every hallway and chamber of Beauxbatons.

It hunted down the remaining survivors, devouring those who dared resist, consuming them in an instantaneous, excruciating death.

And when it was done—

When no more life remained to be taken—

It returned to its master.

A gust of cold wind swept across the battlefield.

High above the castle, Voldemort stood motionless, eyes closed, basking in the symphony of death.

The sacrificial magic circle below surged to life.

The once purple mist began to shift—dyed crimson by the essence of those it had consumed.

The change was immediate and violent.

The once-misty fog boiled and churned, twisting into thick, blood-red waves.

Then, with a single flick of his wand—

The blood-red mist surged upward, rushing toward him.

Voldemort breathed in deeply.

He inhaled the very essence of the fallen, the accumulated life force and magic of those who had perished.

He was a black hole, devouring everything.

His body trembled—not from weakness, but from power.

Below, the Death Eaters and dark wizards watched in awe and terror.

Their master—already a force of destruction—was growing stronger before their very eyes.

Minute by minute, breath by breath, he absorbed every last particle of the blood mist.

And as he did—

His form began to change.

His deathly pale skin darkened into a deep crimson hue, as if his body were being reborn in blood.

Then—

The color softened.

His skin lightened, shifting from blood red to a healthy, natural tone.

His face changed.

The serpentine features that had defined him—the flat nose, the sunken cheeks—began to reshape.

His nose reappeared, his facial structure refined.

Where once stood a gaunt, monstrous figure, now stood a handsome, middle-aged man.

Powerful.

Commanding.

Radiating an unshakable aura of dominance.

But one thing had not changed—

His eyes.

Scarlet. Piercing. Unforgiving.

No matter how human his exterior had become, the essence of Voldemort remained unchanged.

Cruel. Calculating. Unstoppable.

His transformation was complete.

He had not merely restored his strength—

He had ascended beyond it.

A final gust of wind swept through the ruined battlefield.

Voldemort descended from the sky, his black robes billowing as he landed before his army.

The Death Eaters and dark wizards—seeing the new form of their master—were struck silent.

Then—

In one synchronized motion, they dropped to one knee, wands raised above their heads.

"Congratulations, Master! Congratulations, Master! The French wizarding world is now your domain!"

"Hail, the Dark Lord!"

"Hail, the ruler of France!"

"Hail, the master of magic!"

Their voices rose in unison, growing louder and louder, filled with devotion and awe.

They had witnessed history.

A wizarding nation had fallen.

A living empire had been conquered.

And at its helm stood Voldemort, undisputed, unchallenged.

The French Ministry of Magic had fallen first.

Now, Beauxbatons—the final symbol of resistance—had crumbled.

The entire French wizarding world was now in the grasp of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort’s smile was faint—but his ambition burned fiercely.

This victory—this conquest—meant nothing.

It was merely the beginning.

A trivial exercise compared to the real war ahead.

France was weak.

Dumbledore. Tom Riddle. Gilderoy Lockhart.

They were the true obstacles in his path.

They had humiliated him.
Trapped him. Toyed with him.

Now, it was his turn.

Voldemort’s expression darkened.

"I will have my revenge."

Kamar Taj: The Training Grounds

Far away from the battlefield, in a realm untouched by Voldemort’s war, a massive snow-white dragon rested on an endless green lawn.

Its golden eyes were locked onto the figures battling nearby.

A woman, flames dancing in her hands.

A man, moving with precision, wielding a wand as he manipulated the very earth beneath him.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Blades of fire met shields of steel, the air between them crackling with raw magical energy.

Wanda Maximoff.

Her opponent—Ian—moved with unnatural speed, conjuring objects from the ground in rapid succession