[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 511 - 515

Chapter 511: Seeds of the Dream World

Boom!

Like a nuclear explosion, a dark green mushroom cloud suddenly rose into the air.

The dazzling green light surged forward, causing a sharp, stinging pain in their eyes. Instinctively, they shut them tight, their faces frozen in pure horror.

For pure-blood wizards like Lucius Malfoy—who had witnessed betrayal firsthand—their fear ran deeper than simple dread.

With such overwhelming power on display, their involvement in the battle at Gringotts had tied them irreversibly to the Dark Lord.

Escape was no longer an option.

After all, they had played a part in the Gringotts heist. Even if most of the casualties were goblins, the financial devastation rippling across the wizarding world would be pinned on them.

They were in too deep now.

Bitter regret twisted within them, but intertwined with the fear was an undeniable glimmer of hope.

They had followed the Dark Lord out of necessity, but also because he represented a new possibility—an alternative to their dwindling future.

Boom!

The shockwave faded, and the brilliant green light gradually dimmed.

Before their eyes, the battlefield—once littered with the remnants of war—had completely vanished. As if vaporized, nothing remained except for smooth, yellow sand stretching endlessly in every direction.

It was impossibly uniform, silk-like in its smoothness. In a twisted way, it possessed an eerie beauty.

But to the surrounding Death Eaters, it was nothing short of terrifying.

Such frightening precision.

The fierce battle had ended so seamlessly—so effortlessly.

Yes, it was disturbingly smooth.

If he wanted to fight, he fought. If he wanted to retreat, he did so without hesitation.

This was the power of a true master.

They watched in silent envy.

Then—

"Restore!"

With a flick of his wand, Tom Riddle commanded the scene to rewind.

The grains of sand on the ground began to swirl and gather, reversing time itself. In mere moments, black bricks reassembled, gray stone pillars reformed, and brown wooden shelves emerged from the nothingness.

White books, yellow parchment, and all the scattered relics of destruction returned to their original places.

Above them, homes and studies materialized one by one, covering the two figures at the heart of the battlefield.

Watching this, the onlookers slowly withdrew, realizing it was best to step back.

Some, more perceptive than others, immediately turned and retreated to their quarters.

The battle between these two forces had escalated to a dangerous level.

To linger here would be courting death.

"Tom, tell me—when did you start dealing with them? And what exactly did you gain?"

Voldemort’s voice was as cold as ice, his tone sharp with accusation.

The battle had drained away his frustration, rage, and murderous intent—at least for now.

Or rather, the battle had shown him something else.

They had fought to a standstill. And, if he were being honest with himself, he had been vaguely at a disadvantage.

It forced him to reconsider.

After all, they both had a common enemy.

Fighting amongst themselves, splitting their forces, or—worst of all—pushing the other into their enemy’s arms would be the height of foolishness.

This was true for him.

And it was true for Tom as well.

A mutual understanding had ended the battle before either side suffered irreparable damage.

"I told you before," Tom replied evenly, "the current situation in Britain isn’t sustainable for us."

"And I have no interest in being Dumbledore and Lockhart’s eternal adversary."

"Naturally, some form of understanding was bound to be reached."

He spoke in a measured tone, as if explaining something obvious.

"If I want to establish myself in Europe and achieve my goals in a short time, I need resources—plentiful resources."

"And for me, this kind of trade is nothing but a gain. Why would I refuse?"

As he uttered the word refuse, Tom deliberately flicked his hand, as if to say, Wouldn’t you do the same?

Voldemort considered it.

And indeed, he would.

If the benefits were great enough, he would not hesitate.

"As for you," Tom continued, "I didn’t ask how much you profited from this operation, but I assume you’re more than satisfied."

Voldemort remained expressionless, unmoved.

But Tom didn’t need a response to continue.

"Besides, I believe the results of this mission have been… quite beneficial."

"We need people to move to Europe. We need fighters for the dark wizards. And with the pure-blood families’ treacherous nature and intricate networks, they are indispensable."

"After this operation, I believe those pure-bloods will reconsider their positions."

A knowing smirk crossed Tom’s face.

The pure-blood families—always outsiders.

Without pressure, they would never be truly loyal.

"Now, tell me—what exactly did you get from Kamar-Taj?" Voldemort pressed, his voice laced with suspicion.

He understood the rest. He even agreed with it.

But they were the same person—two halves of the same mind.

And he knew himself well enough to be certain—there was no way he would help Kamar-Taj for free.

No, Tom must have received something substantial.

A dark green orb of light materialized in Tom’s hand.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, sensing the immense spiritual energy and ethereal aura emanating from it.

"This," Tom said, "is a Dream World Seed."

"Did Lockhart give this to you?"

The skepticism in Voldemort’s voice was thick.

He had heard of the Dream World. Though he wasn’t sure of its full potential, one thing was certain—

The entire wizarding wealth card system revolved around it.

That alone proved its immense value.

Something so critical… would they really hand it over so easily?

It defied logic.

"Don’t be too alarmed," Tom reassured him. "The Dream World Seeds aren’t as rare as you might think."

"What truly matters is what comes next—gathering enough high-quality spiritual energy to cultivate the Dream World properly."

As he spoke, Tom flicked his fingers, sending another jade-like seed floating toward Voldemort.

"This is a second Dream World Seed."

"If you’re interested, study it. Use it."

Tom’s voice was calm, almost indifferent.

Voldemort said nothing.

Silently, he reached out, taking the seed into his palm.

He pushed his mental energy into it, attempting to peer into its mysteries.

Instantly, he encountered resistance.

Voldemort was not surprised.

Instead, he increased his focus, injecting more spiritual power and magic into the seed.

At that moment—

Tom spoke again, his words like honey-coated poison.

"Lockhart and I have reached an agreement."

"The wizarding wealth card system will soon expand into Europe—under our control."

Chapter 512: The Gamble of Purebloods

"Dobby, pack this vase for me."

"Dobby, clean this set of furniture and keep it well. I don’t want it to gather dust."

"Yes, Master! Dobby will clean it thoroughly!"

"Dobby, bring that to me."

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the middle of the room, issuing one command after another. The house-elf, Dobby, scrambled to follow her orders, his small hands working quickly as he moved about.

From time to time, Narcissa waved her wand, carefully levitating precious magical tomes and enchanted artifacts into the open magical suitcase resting on the floor.

General belongings could be left for the house-elf to sort.

But valuables—those had to be handled personally.

There was no telling how clumsy house-elves might accidentally taint them.

Lucius Malfoy stood to the side, watching the scene with an impassive expression. He said nothing, but the loneliness and nostalgia in his eyes betrayed him.

It was time to leave.

A new continent, a new country, a new life.

In the days ahead, there would be no peace—only bloodshed and war.

Chaos would be the norm.

Death would be a daily occurrence.

Their once-stable existence had been shattered, and the road ahead would only become more turbulent.

And yet, he had no choice but to accept it.

His own manor had become the headquarters of the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had chosen to reside here, an honor—but also a curse.

As a pure-blood wizard marked with the Dark Mark, he had no right to refuse.

He had once hesitated to join the raid on Gringotts.

But had he refused, the Malfoy family’s own vault would have likely been emptied as punishment.

Faced with the choice between reaping vast rewards or watching their own wealth become spoils for others, participation had become inevitable.

And now that it was done, the price had to be paid.

They were bound to this path, with only one outcome.

There was no turning back.

After looting Gringotts, there was no longer a place for them in the British wizarding world.

Great rewards always came with great risk.

Leaving England and following their master—this was their only path to survival.

Of course, their obedience was also a declaration of loyalty.

The Dark Lord had given them a choice:

Betrayal or devotion.

And so, today…

"Lucius, what about Draco? Should he still stay at Hogwarts?" Narcissa asked, worry evident in her voice. "We’re leaving, and no one will be there to watch over him."

"I'm worried about him."

"This is the best option," Lucius interrupted, his tone firm. "The master has yet to tell us our final destination, but one thing is certain—our next environment will not be suitable for Draco’s growth."

"When the master leaves, Hogwarts will be the safest place for him."

"Besides, Hogwarts is the foundation of the Malfoy family. We cannot abandon it."

"We must go—but I will leave Dobby behind to look after Draco and protect the Malfoy name."

Lucius voiced his reasoning with unwavering certainty.

Narcissa hesitated, her fingers clutching the hem of her robe. She remained silent for a long moment before finally nodding.

She knew it was the right decision.

They were walking into danger, but Draco would remain in safety.

Her only concern was that he would be left without them.

"Lucius… the Malfoy family name must survive," she whispered.

Lucius looked at her with understanding.

If they perished in the coming battles, Draco would be the last of their lineage.

At the very least, someone would remember them.

The Malfoy family would not fade into oblivion.

The Call of the Dark Mark

Buzz!

A faint burning sensation spread through Lucius Malfoy's arm.

His expression stiffened.

Lowering his head, he saw the Dark Mark pulsing ominously, its deep green glow swirling like a message being conveyed.

Lucius inhaled deeply before turning to Narcissa.

"Narcissa… As much as I want you to stay with Draco," he said slowly, "reality is what it is. The pure-blood families can no longer defy the master’s will. I only hope that one day, you won’t blame me for this."

"Now, hurry. Finish packing. We leave soon."

The Irish Sea—The Fourth Horcrux’s Location

Atop a rugged seaside cliff, a colossal black gate loomed, its surface pulsating with raw, ancient power.

Tom Riddle and Voldemort stood side by side, their backs to the towering structure.

Before them, a vast gathering of dark wizards, pure-blood families, and rogue sorcerers stood in uneasy silence.

Each carried space-enhanced luggage—some holding suitcases, others with multiple enchanted pouches strapped to their belts.

Their expressions varied.

Some were filled with cautious hope.

Others shifted nervously, fingers twitching over their wands, excitement coursing through their veins.

And then there were the pure-bloods, who kept glancing anxiously at their packed belongings.

Within their suitcases were more than just personal effects.

Inside were their families. Their children. Their house-elves. Even goblins.

They had uprooted their entire legacies, carrying them into the unknown.

It was, by all accounts, a massive gamble.

But with two powerful leaders at the helm, their odds of success seemed favorable.

And so, many of the pure-bloods had wagered everything, bringing their heritage along for the ride.

Do not be mistaken—pure-bloods knew how to gamble.

After all, they had once bet everything on the Dark Lord.

Others, however, played it safe.

They left some behind—hedging their bets, ensuring that even if disaster struck, their family’s legacy would not be completely wiped out.

Voldemort despised such cowardice.

If not for Tom’s intervention, those hesitant traitors would have been punished on the spot.

After all, after everything that had happened, they still dared to hedge their bets?

Did they think the Dark Lord’s wrath was something to be trifled with?

As for the potential backlash—the resentment, the whispers of betrayal?

Voldemort didn’t care.

Did they think his wand wasn’t sharp enough?

His power wasn’t absolute?

No.

He had climbed to this position not by politicking, but through sheer force.

He did not compromise.

Tom, however, saw value in patience.

"We still need their cooperation," Tom had reasoned. "Push too hard, and we’ll lose resources."

But in truth…

It was that damned Lockhart.

The fool insisted that the pure-bloods’ legacies should not be completely erased.

That they should be given some leeway.

Lockhart’s true goal?

To ensure that, one day, all those precious pure-blood treasures and secrets would fall into the hands of Kamar-Taj.

Tom scowled inwardly.

He wasn’t worried about breaking their magical contract—he had long since figured out ways to circumvent it.

But when he recalled Lockhart’s burning skull appearing before him…

A chill ran down his spine.

"Enough talk," Tom announced, voice ringing across the gathering.

"Our destination today is—"

"Durmstrang."

Chapter 513: The Dark Lord’s Arrival at Durmstrang

Northern Norway, Durmstrang.

As the northernmost magical institution in Europe, Durmstrang remained engulfed in freezing temperatures throughout the year.

Even during summer, young wizards were forced to wear full-length robes to shield themselves from the cold.

Of course, the more skilled senior students relied on warming charms to stave off the chill.

And lower-ranking pure-bloods? They resorted to enchanted robes embedded with protective spells to resist the biting winds.

Years ago, several pure-blood families had proposed installing large-scale warming enchantments around Durmstrang, aiming to turn the school into a haven of perpetual spring.

But their proposal was flatly rejected by the headmistress at the time

Her reasoning was simple:

"Suffering creates glory!"

To her, the relentless cold was merely one of many trials students had to endure.

If they couldn’t withstand such minor discomfort, how could they ever hope to achieve greatness?

Upon hearing her stern declaration, the pure-blood parents fell silent.

After all, their goal was to shape their children into strong, capable wizards—not to raise them as weaklings.

And besides, Headmistress Harfang’s reputation had been formidable, on par with Dumbledore’s.

The dueling and martial magic courses she had established were still taught at Durmstrang to this day, cementing its reputation as a school infamous for its focus on the Dark Arts.

At that moment, Igor Karkaroff, the current headmaster of Durmstrang, was dozing off in his study.

As nothing more than a figurehead, he had long understood that the best way to maintain his position was to do absolutely nothing.

Especially since Lord Grindelwald had personally assured him that as long as he remained quiet and unproblematic, his tenure would be undisturbed.

More importantly, Grindelwald had promised him protection and the eventual removal of his Dark Mark.

And so, Karkaroff chose to play his role wisely.

After becoming acquainted with Grindelwald and his Saints, Karkaroff had abandoned all ambitions of making grand changes in Europe.

Instead, he embraced a different philosophy—one of silent replacement rather than open revolution.

Thus, he spent his days indulging in an idle, almost swine-like existence.

Sleeping. Eating. Reading.

Repeat.

He rarely left his office.

He had no interest in appointing professors—he merely signed off on any recommendations without question.

To him, he was nothing more than a symbol, a stabilizing force to appease the Ministries of Magic across Europe.

Because if those governments realized that Grindelwald had completely overthrown Durmstrang’s leadership?

It would trigger global outrage, forcing the Ministries to unite against them.

And that, in turn, would bring trouble to Grindelwald himself.

So Karkaroff continued his slothful existence, resting comfortably in the illusion of safety.

Even after hearing rumors of his former master’s return, he did not panic.

Why should he?

After all, Voldemort would never wage war against Grindelwald simply to punish a single defector, right?

It would be like burning down one’s own home just to kill a cockroach.

Impossible.

Unrealistic.

And with that comforting thought, Karkaroff drifted into a peaceful slumber.

The Dark Lord Arrives

Buzz!

A faint burning sensation spread across Karkaroff’s arm.

The skull and serpent mark began to writhe, glowing with a sickly green light.

A message.

A command.

And then—

Ripple!

The space in Karkaroff’s study quivered like disturbed water, distorting and bending.

Through the shifting veil, the ocean, blue sky, and towering cliffs appeared—alongside a vast army of dark wizards standing in formation.

And then—

A pale, skeletal hand pierced through the swirling rift, stepping into Durmstrang’s principal’s office.

A second later—

Voldemort emerged.

Clad in flowing black robes, his ghostly complexion gleamed in the dim candlelight.

Whoosh!

A wave of bitter cold swept through the room, sinking deep into the air itself.

Even in his sleep, Karkaroff shuddered.

Then—

Thud!

Something hard struck his face.

Groggily, Karkaroff stirred. The sensation was uncomfortable—annoying, even.

He tried to ignore it.

But then—

A chilling presence pressed against him, suffocating, inescapable.

Slowly, he forced his heavy eyelids open—

And found himself staring into scarlet eyes.

His body froze.

That pale, sharp, inhuman face—

The sheer terror that gripped his soul.

It could only be one person.

"M-Master..."

Karkaroff’s voice trembled violently.

His mind swirled in disbelief, unable to process reality.

This was impossible.

He had fled England for a reason.

He had betrayed them all—he had sold out every last Death Eater to save himself.

Even Barty Crouch Jr., Voldemort’s most loyal and trusted follower—Karkaroff had exposed him without hesitation.

He had angered too many people.

That was why he had fled to Europe.

To escape.

To avoid this very moment.

And yet, here he was.

A Traitor’s Fate

"Karkaroff," Voldemort’s voice was smooth, ice-cold, dripping with contempt.

"It seems you’ve been… quite comfortable these past few years."

Karkaroff flinched.

His trembling fingers instinctively reached for his wand—but before he could grip it, it slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the floor.

"Master… M-Master, I—"

He wanted to plead, to explain, but his throat seized up.

His words failed him.

All he could do was stare in horror, silently begging for Grindelwald to appear and save him.

But no salvation came.

And then—

Thud! Thud! Thud!

More footsteps echoed through the office.

Voldemort had not come alone.

Tom Riddle entered next, his dark green robes flowing behind him.

Then—

Barty Crouch Jr.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

And more.

One by one, the Death Eaters entered the room, filling the space with their dark, oppressive presence.

Suddenly—

The spacious principal’s office felt claustrophobic.

"Master," Barty Crouch Jr. took a step forward, his voice dripping with anticipation.

"Allow me to teach this fat pig a lesson."

His eyes gleamed with malice, locking onto Karkaroff with pure hatred.

If it weren’t for this traitor—he would have never been caught.

Voldemort smirked, sensing the raging resentment within Barty’s heart.

He gave a slight nod, stepping back.

The message was clear.

Do as you please.

And so—

"Cruciatus!"

"AARGHHHH!"

The scarlet curse struck Karkaroff’s body.

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air.

He convulsed violently, collapsing to the floor.

Sweat poured from his pale face as he writhed like a worm, agony consuming him.

Barty Crouch Jr. watched, his lips curling in twisted joy.

Tom Riddle, meanwhile, silently cast a muffling spell, ensuring the screams remained contained.

Then, he turned away.

This was merely a distraction.

His true focus was on something else—

Durmstrang itself.

This was the first step to claiming Europe.

Durmstrang must fall.

Chapter 514: The Fall of Durmstrang

Durmstrang – Office of the Vice-Principal

Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!

Vinda Rozier, the Vice- Principal and the true power behind Durmstrang, sat at her desk, quill in hand, tapping absently against the table.

Her sharp eyes scanned the parchment before her, frowning deeply.

Why was the expedition to the United States so costly?

The discrepancy between the estimated budget and actual expenditures was staggering.

As the logistical backbone of the American campaign, they had prepared extensively. Anticipating unforeseen complications, she had even increased their budget by 30%.

By all calculations, everything should have gone according to plan.

In fact, 99% of the mission had been completed. The Magical Congress of the United States (MACUSA) had all but fallen.

Victory was within reach.

And then—

A Goblin King appeared out of nowhere.

This mysterious figure propped up MACUSA, and—more critically—provided them with weapons that compensated for their lack of combat power.

Even worse—

The enemy now possessed a countermeasure against the Leader’s Will.

Now, instead of an easy conquest, they were entrenched in conflict.

Had the Leader miscalculated?

The thought barely surfaced before Rozier crushed it immediately.

Grindelwald could not be wrong.

No—this was a failure of execution, not strategy.

Rozier clenched her jaw.

Why had no one reported such crucial intelligence about the Goblin clans?

Holm, the pure-blood wizard in charge of intelligence, had completely failed.

He had known nothing before the crisis erupted.

And now, after the damage was done, he was scrambling to investigate—useless.

A vulture feasting on the corpses of the fallen, rather than a tactician who foresaw disaster.

The thought filled Rozier with venomous frustration.

Holm deserved to die for the losses he had caused them.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to refocus.

The Goblins had interfered.

Now, she had to ensure their annihilation.

Once the Saints’ intelligence network had detected Goblin activity in the United States, they had begun an exhaustive search—digging through a century of records.

And they had uncovered one name.

Turan.

The Goblin King.

His real name was unknown, but he had once gone by Glass, a renowned alchemist who had gained widespread respect in Europe.

He had built relationships with powerful wizards and even entire Ministries of Magic.

There were whispers that Turan possessed immense magical prowess, unaided by alchemy.

But no one had believed such claims.

At best, wizards had assumed that Turan relied on his magical inventions to hold his own in battle.

That was normal.

A master alchemist could be deadly—if given time to prepare.

Still, something had never quite added up.

Though Turan was clearly a Goblin, his ties to the Goblin race were weak, even contradictory.

Many had assumed this estrangement was why so many wizarding governments had been willing to work with him.

But now—

Everything made sense.

It had all been a lie.

The Goblin King had been planning in secret, gathering his kindred, and when the time was right, he had vanished.

For decades, he had erased his tracks, misleading the Saints into believing he was dead.

But instead—

He had relocated to the United States, founded the American Wizards Bank, and aligned himself with MACUSA.

Rozier exhaled sharply.

This enemy was dangerous.

If it had been forty or fifty years ago, the Saints might have uncovered his schemes in time.

But Turan had been meticulously cautious, slowly smuggling elite Goblins out of Europe and into America.

And now, despite knowing what he had done, they still had no concrete leads.

The most critical Goblins had long since vanished.

What remained were low-level Goblins, still serving local Ministries.

And attacking them would be a tactical disaster.

If the Saints declared war on all Goblins, they risked alienating the other magical races in Europe.

And for what?

Killing ordinary Goblins wouldn’t uncover Turan’s secrets.

It wouldn’t lead to their missing treasures.

It wouldn’t bring them the King.

Turan had played them brilliantly.

Rozier gritted her teeth.

A Sudden Silence

Sighing, she returned to her calculations.

She dipped her quill into ink and began writing on the parchment.

"Mobilize 10,000 Galleons and 3,000 bottles of healing potions—"

The soft scratching of quill against parchment filled the office.

Her list grew longer.

Her writing slowed.

Then—

The quill froze mid-stroke.

The scratching ceased.

Silence.

A silence too complete.

Even the cold wind that had been whistling moments ago—gone.

The muffled sounds of students playing outside—vanished.

Rozier’s instincts screamed.

She gripped her quill—no, her wand.

At some point, it had shifted in her hand, its polished wood pressing against her palm.

She did not move.

Not yet.

She could feel it.

Malice.

Thick, suffocating.

Death was near.

One wrong move, and she would be slaughtered.

But Rozier had followed Grindelwald for too long to be paralyzed by fear.

Her ferocity rose.

If she was going to die, she would make them bleed first.

Boom!

Her desk and chair exploded, shards flying in every direction.

Fierce blue flames erupted, consuming the space around her in an instant.

At the same time—

A black shimmer flickered.

A single object disappeared.

But it wasn’t Rozier.

It was—

Her wand.

"Damn it."

A voice cold as ice.

Voldemort.

"The news has leaked," he muttered darkly.

From the air, long, thin black ropes materialized, coiling around Rozier’s limbs, torso, and throat.

She couldn’t move.

"It doesn’t matter," a second voice responded—smooth, elegant, yet dripping with darkness.

Tom Riddle.

Rozier stared at the two figures before her.

To her left—

A pale specter with scarlet eyes, radiating pure malice.

To her right—

A young, handsome man, draped in deep green robes, his dark aura unsettlingly calm.

Her heart pounded.

The two Voldemorts of Britain.

She had suspected their ambitions.

But for them to arrive in Europe—at Durmstrang itself—

Rozier’s mind raced.

Then—

A realization.

She had managed to send a message.

And if they had captured her…

It meant—

Durmstrang had fallen.

Chapter 515: The Gathering Storm

Inside the principal's office at Ilvermorny, USA, a piece of aged parchment lay spread across the desk.

Grindelwald sat behind it, quill in hand, meticulously revising his notes. His expression alternated between deep contemplation and sudden realization as he swiftly recorded his thoughts. Line after line of elegant script flowed onto the parchment, yet no matter how much he wrote, the page remained endless—always preserving a third of its space blank.

This was no ordinary parchment. It was a magical artifact of his own creation, specifically designed to record research findings. Among the many enhancements he had bestowed upon it, one of his favorites was its ability to automatically adjust text, shifting previous notes upward to ensure space was never exhausted.

More importantly, it possessed an advanced deduction function. It could process magical calculations, provide highly reliable results, and even simulate theoretical ideas to assess their probability of success. This was possible because his work touched upon the very essence of fate.

Such a tool had saved him countless hours, and now, he was using it to document his latest research on meditation and joint spellcasting.

Through rigorous experimentation and real-world application, he had confirmed that these techniques could reshape the future of magical warfare. However, they carried a significant drawback—the suppression of innate spirituality.

For ordinary wizards, this posed no major issue. In fact, the transformation of mental energy often enhanced their connection to magic. But for those who stood at the pinnacle of wizardry, every individual’s spiritual essence was unique—whether it was his affinity with fate, Dumbledore’s rebirth, or Voldemort’s mastery of death.

When a soul undergoes transformation, it develops along its own inherent path. But meditation forcibly redirects that spirituality, conforming it to predefined attributes. Though the effects could be reversed through further transformation, the cost was steep.

Grindelwald noted his thoughts on the parchment, his mind racing through potential solutions. A complex but viable approach surfaced in his mind. He began writing again, detailing a possible method to overcome this limitation.

Then—

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A sharp tapping came from the window.

His pet eagle, Nubi, was pecking at the glass with its curved beak, knocking rhythmically.

Grindelwald's quill halted mid-air, his expression darkening.

His irritation was not directed at the eagle but at the object clutched in its talons—a brown wooden wand.

The wand of his confidant, Vinda Rozier.

With a flick of his wrist, the window opened silently. Nubi swooped inside, landed on the desk, and carefully placed the wand before him. Without hesitation, the eagle flew to a nearby shelf, tilting its head as it observed the scene.

Nubi was intelligent. He had seen this wand many times, always carried by that old woman. But this time, she was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, the wand had arrived alone, laden with an aura of anger and desperation.

Grindelwald reached out, his fingers brushing the smooth wood. A silver gleam flickered through his left eye as a vision took shape before him.

His expression turned grim.

The air in the room chilled by several degrees, reflecting the icy fury in his heart.

The wand in his grasp pulsed faintly, as if resonating with its master's emotions.

At that moment—

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," Grindelwald said coldly.

The door opened, and a middle-aged wizard, Holm, stepped inside. Sensing the heavy atmosphere, he hesitated momentarily before bowing slightly and speaking in a solemn tone.

"Leader, I bring an update on matters you personally requested to be monitored."

"Speak."

The sharp, curt response sent a chill down Holm’s spine.

Steadying himself, he proceeded. "We have new developments regarding Dumbledore, Lockhart, and the Dark Lord Voldemort."

"Dumbledore was recently spotted meeting with Turan, the King of Goblins, apparently discussing future cooperation."

"Meanwhile, Gringotts, the financial backbone of the British wizarding world, has been plundered. The scale of destruction was unprecedented."

"According to our intelligence, the perpetrators were none other than two versions of the Dark Lord Voldemort."

"Following the robbery, the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts, and Kamar Taj swiftly moved to suppress the crisis, taking the opportunity to promote a new wizarding wealth card system."

As he spoke, Holm produced two sleek black wizard wealth cards, stepping forward to place them on the desk before retreating to his position.

Grindelwald picked up the cards, his face unreadable as he examined them.

He said nothing.

But his gaze lingered on Holm, the man responsible for overseeing intelligence operations.

Disappointment flickered in his eyes.

Though he understood the complexities of the situation—after all, the most powerful figures in the wizarding world were involved—his subordinates had failed to trace even the slightest lead.

Holm, sensing the scrutiny, hastily continued.

"Our analysis suggests that the rapid response from the Ministry, Kamar Taj, and Hogwarts was... unusual."

"The Death Eaters had barely completed their objectives, and yet, the authorities had already neutralized the aftermath with remarkable efficiency. Their promotion of the wealth card system also proceeded suspiciously smoothly."

"There are two possibilities: either they are cooperating with the Dark Lord, or they have successfully planted undercover agents within his ranks."

At this, Holm hesitated before adding, "Given Lockhart’s research capabilities, it is highly probable that he has developed a method to block the Dark Mark’s influence—enabling infiltrators to operate freely."

"In other words... a scenario much like our own."

Grindelwald twirled the black cards between his fingers, seemingly engrossed in their design.

Holm stole a glance at his leader, noticing the telltale flicker of silver in his right eye.

He knew what that meant.

The leader was glimpsing the future.

Moments passed in silence.

Then—

"Anything else?" Grindelwald asked.

Holm hesitated. The key points had already been covered. There was little else of significance.

But he couldn’t ignore the question.

Scrambling for additional information, he recalled an unverified rumor.

"Leader, there is one more report—though it remains unconfirmed."

"It is said that after the Gringotts robbery, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters vanished entirely. No trace of them has been found since."

"Our analysts speculate they may be lying low to digest their spoils."

"Alternatively, they could be avoiding detection from the Ministry and Kamar Taj, given the magnitude of their actions."

A moment of silence followed.

Then, a chilling voice cut through the air.

"I know where they are."

Holm barely had time to process those words before the next order came.

"Gather all available elite Saints."

"We move now."