The summer of 1940 was a time of grim new realities. My life, once defined by quiet solitude and arcane research, was now a constant cycle of strategic meetings and clandestine planning. The war, which had once been a distant rumble, was now a tangible, all-consuming force. The presence of Tom in my home—a silent, watchful figure who devoured books on magical theory with an unsettling voracity—was a constant, living reminder of the dual nature of my war. I was fighting Grindelwald's tyranny abroad, and in my own home, I was fighting to save the boy who would one day become a tyrant himself.
The wizarding world, shaken from its fear-induced stupor by Minister Spencer-Moon's courageous leadership, had finally found its footing. A steady stream of British magical volunteers, their courage reignited by a cause greater than themselves, had been flowing across the Channel, a silent, invisible reinforcement for the beleaguered French magical community. The war, which had been a swift, brutal blitzkrieg on Grindelwald's part, had finally settled into a grinding, terrifying stalemate. The war front, a magical line of defense drawn in the heart of Europe, had solidified on the French-Italian border. The fighting was fierce, relentless, a daily, brutal exchange of spells, curses, and counter-charms.
My magical resonance sensing felt the constant, low-level thrum of the war, a dark, pulsing energy that radiated from the war front. It was a constant, living reminder of the price of our inaction. We had been too slow to act, and now, we were paying the price in blood and magic.
The summons for the next Wizengamot session arrived on a grim, overcast morning. The agenda, a single, terse line, spoke volumes: "Discussion of War Logistics and Strategic Deployment." I knew what this meant. The war had settled into a brutal, terrifying stalemate, and the Wizengamot, now under Spencer-Moon's leadership, was finally acting with a grim, purposeful resolve.
I chose my attire with a cold, grim precision: my dark, understated Wizengamot robes, a simple statement of purpose. I did not use the Floo. I Apparated to a secluded, pre-designated alleyway near the Ministry, my Draconic stealth charms at full power. My senses were on full alert, every shadow and corner meticulously scanned. The atmosphere in the Ministry Atrium was a stark contrast to the previous sessions. The fear had been replaced by a quiet, grim determination. The magical world was at war, and it had finally accepted that fact.
The Wizengamot Chamber was a hub of hushed, tense conversations. The members were not bickering this time; they were a collective of grim, determined individuals, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a cold, hard resolve. Minister Spencer-Moon, his face gaunt but his gaze steady, sat on the high podium, his shoulders straight, his presence a quiet, unwavering pillar of strength.
"Order! Order!" Madam Marchbanks' gavel slammed down with a resounding finality, the sound echoing through the tense silence. "We are here today to discuss the logistics of our war against Grindelwald's forces. The war front, as you are all aware, has settled on the French-Italian border. Our magical volunteers have been fighting bravely, but the casualties have been high. The fighting is relentless, and we are in need of a new strategy."
The debate began, and it was a whirlwind of strategic planning and military logistics. Lord Black, his face a mask of cold, strategic calculation, rose to speak. "Esteemed members. The war front has settled, but it is a tenuous peace. Grindelwald's forces are using their Muggle allies as a shield, and they are using their magical forces to sow chaos and fear. We cannot win this war with a frontal assault. We must find a way to disrupt their operations, to break their alliance, to turn their own forces against them."
His words were met with a wave of grim murmurs. The Wizengamot, which had once been paralyzed by fear, was now a council of war.
"I agree with Lord Black," I said, my voice clear and steady. "We cannot win this war with a frontal assault. We must fight with cunning, not with force. We must create a new kind of magical warfare, one that is subtle, precise, and utterly deniable. We must fight from the shadows, and we must strike at the heart of their alliance."
My words were met with a wave of nods. The Wizengamot, which had once been paralyzed by fear, was now a council of war. The fear had been replaced by a grim, unwavering determination.
The debate raged for hours, a brutal, relentless exchange of strategies and ideas. We discussed everything from the creation of a new, highly specialized magical force, to the establishment of a network of spies and saboteurs, to the use of highly precise magical countermeasures that could disrupt Grindelwald's operations without causing a massive, catastrophic breach of the Statute of Secrecy.
And then, the conversation took a turn that sent a chill down my spine. A junior Ministry official rose to speak, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and awe.
"Minister Spencer-Moon. I have received a report from our intelligence network on the war front. There is a rumor, a whisper that is spreading through the ranks of Grindelwald's forces. A rumor that Grindelwald himself is preparing to come to the war front. He is, according to our sources, tired of the stalemate. He is, according to our sources, preparing to come to the war front to personally push back our magical forces, to break the stalemate, and to win the war."
The room fell silent, a palpable, suffocating silence that was more terrifying than any battle cry. The rumor, the whisper, was a name. Grindelwald. The very name was a curse, a promise of utter, devastating destruction. The Wizengamot, which had been a council of war, was now a council of fear.
"A rumor," a lord, his voice trembling with fear, said. "It is just a rumor. We must not give it any weight. We must not allow ourselves to be consumed by fear."
"It is not a rumor," I said, my voice a cold, hard diamond in the tense silence. "It is a promise. Grindelwald is not a man to be appeased. He is not a man to be negotiated with. He is a predator. And he is a predator who is now tired of the stalemate. He is coming to the war front. He is coming to win the war."
The room fell silent, the members of the Wizengamot staring at me, their faces a mixture of confusion and awe. I had said what they were all thinking, but were too afraid to say. I had given a voice to their fears, and a name to their enemy. And I had reminded them that the time for debate was over. The time for action was now.
"The war front has settled on the French-Italian border," I continued, my gaze sweeping over the room, my magical resonance sensing amplifying my presence, projecting an aura not of aggression, but of cold, unwavering conviction. "He will come. And he will come to win. We must not allow the war front to be pushed back. We must not allow the French to fall. We must not allow the stalemate to be broken. We must not allow him to win. We must confront him. We must meet him on the battlefield. We must show him that we are not afraid."
My words were met with a fresh wave of murmurs, a quiet, tense discussion. The fear was still there, but my words had given a voice to a different sentiment, a sentiment of courage and honor.
I rose to my feet, my hand raised, my voice clear and steady. "I have a proposal, Minister Spencer-Moon. A new strategy. A new way to fight this war. I propose that we, the members of this council, the ones who understand the stakes, the ones who have been planning for this, go to the war front. We will not be a part of the official magical force. We will not be a part of the Ministry's army. We will be an unseen force. A silent weapon. We will confront Grindelwald. We will meet him on the battlefield. We will not allow the war front to be pushed back. We will not allow the French to fall. We will not allow the stalemate to be broken. We will not allow him to win."
The room fell silent, a shocked, stunned silence. I had just proposed the unthinkable. I had just proposed a confrontation with the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world. I had just proposed a mission that was, in all likelihood, a suicide mission.
"Lord Starborn," Minister Spencer-Moon said, his voice a quiet, somber whisper. "You are proposing a direct confrontation with Grindelwald himself. This is an act of utter, unadulterated madness. You are proposing a suicide mission."
"I am proposing a mission of hope, Minister," I countered, my voice a solemn promise. "I am proposing a mission that will show Grindelwald that we are not afraid. I am proposing a mission that will show the world that we will not surrender. I am proposing a mission that will show him that we will not allow him to win. We must not be afraid. We must be brave. We must be honorable. We must fight for a world where both magical and Muggle people can live in peace. And we must do it now. We must do it before it is too late."
The Wizengamot, which had been a council of war, was now a council of fear. I had given them a choice. A choice between a quick, quiet death, or a long, arduous, and difficult struggle. A choice between a life of fear, or a life of honor. I had given them a choice, and now, they had to choose.
The room was silent, a tense, expectant silence that stretched on for an eternity. The fate of the magical world, and the fate of the Muggle world, hung in the balance. The war, which had been a silent, unseen conflict, was now about to become a battle of wills, a confrontation between two forces that were destined to collide. I had made my proposal. The unseen hand, having found its ultimate target, was now ready to move from the shadows into the light. The fight for the world was about to begin. And I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a diamond, that I was ready.