The years since my first confrontation with Grindelwald had passed in a blur of relentless, purposeful activity. My days were a constant cycle of strategic meetings with our clandestine council, clandestine missions to disrupt Grindelwald's operations, and rigorous, daily training with Dumbledore. The memory of Charlus Potter's ambush, of the terrifying, sudden eruption of war in our own backyard, was a constant, haunting presence in my mind. It was a brutal reminder that the war was not just a distant conflict on the European continent; it was a living, breathing monster that could strike at any moment, at any place.
The war itself had settled into a grim, grinding stalemate. The magical war front, once a fluid, chaotic battlefield, had solidified on the French-Italian border. Our magical volunteers, brave men and women who had answered the call to arms, were holding the line. They were fighting a brutal, relentless war of attrition, a daily, bloody exchange of spells, curses, and counter-charms. My own involvement had become more direct, more frequent. I had faced Grindelwald on the battlefield numerous times, our encounters brief, violent flashes of power and will. Each time, I walked away with a new wound, a new lesson learned, a new, chilling understanding of the sheer, terrifying power of the man I was fighting.
The date was July 19th, 1943. It was a sweltering summer day, the kind of day that promised a long, brutal heat. I was in my study at Castle Starborn, a sanctuary of quiet reflection in a world that was on the brink of utter chaos. The silence of the castle was a comforting balm to my weary soul, a shield against the constant, low-level hum of the war that was a constant presence in my magical resonance sensing. I was remeniscing about all that had happened in the past few months, the attack on Charlus Potter, the frequent face offs against Grindelwald directly at the war front and all other stuff.
My mind was a whirl of memories of the war. The raw, brutal energy of Grindelwald's magic, the sheer, terrifying power of the man himself, was a constant, haunting presence in my mind. I had faced him. I had survived. But I had also seen the full extent of his power, a power that was far beyond anything I had ever imagined. I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a diamond, that I needed to become stronger. I needed to become better. I needed to become more.
My path was clear. I had to continue my training, to hone my skills, to prepare for the inevitable. The war was not over. It was a ticking time bomb, and I was the only one who could defuse it.
My quiet reflection was shattered by the arrival of the morning post. A Ministry owl, its aura a familiar, bland signature of bureaucratic efficiency, arrived with the daily edition of the Daily Prophet. I took it, untying the paper and unrolling it. My eyes, which had been scanning the headlines with a grim, practiced detachment, suddenly widened in a moment of utter, profound shock.
The banner, stretched across the entire front page, was in bold, angry red font: GRINDELWALD INVADES FRANCE: WAR FRONT COLLAPSES.
The photo below the headline was a horrifying tableau of utter, devastating chaos. A large, sprawling magical city was in flames, the ancient stone buildings reduced to smoldering rubble. In the center of the photo, a single, dark figure, cloaked in black, stood on a pile of rubble, his wand raised, his face a mask of cold, malevolent joy. It was Gellert Grindelwald. My magical resonance sensing flared, a cold, hard diamond in my chest. The very air seemed to crackle with an oppressive, suffocating power. It was him. And he was not alone. He was surrounded by a sea of acolytes, their faces a grim, fanatical mask of devotion.
I read the article, my hands gripping the paper so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The report was an uncharacteristic blend of ministerial panic and journalistic horror. It detailed an unprecedented, coordinated attack on multiple locations in France, a swift, brutal blitzkrieg that had been led by Grindelwald himself. The attack, which had taken place in the middle of the night, had been a masterpiece of magical warfare, a brutal, relentless assault that had caught the French and British magical forces completely off guard. The war front, which had been a grim, grinding stalemate for years, had collapsed. The magical line of defense, which had been drawn on the French-Italian border, had been breached. The war front had shifted from the French-Italian border to the very heart of France, to the French Ministry of Magic.
The article went into gruesome detail. It spoke of a powerful, large-scale confusion charm that had disoriented the magical forces, a charm that had been unleashed by Grindelwald himself. It spoke of a magical silencing spell that had muffled the sounds of the attack, allowing the acolytes to move in the shadows, to strike with a silent, terrifying precision. It spoke of a magical blood-curse that had been unleashed by Grindelwald, a terrifying, brutal curse that had caused a devastating number of casualties. It spoke of a magical warding charm that had been placed around the French Ministry, a charm that had sealed it off from the outside world, trapping the Minister and his staff inside.
I felt a cold dread settle in my gut, a feeling more profound and unsettling than any ambush. This was it. This was the moment I had been dreading. This was the moment I had been preparing for. Grindelwald was no longer just a distant threat. He was here. He was in the heart of Europe. He was in our world. He had won the battle for France. And now, he was coming for us.
For a moment, I was shocked, stunned into silence by the sheer audacity of the attack. But then, after a moment of grim reflection, I realized that it was not that much of a surprise. It was a logical, strategic move. The war had been a grinding stalemate for years. Grindelwald was not a man who was satisfied with a stalemate. He was a man who was always seeking a new advantage, a new way to win. He had used the cover of night, the weariness of the soldiers, the complacency of the Ministry, to launch a swift, brutal assault that had shattered the war front and brought the war to the very heart of France. He was a master of manipulation, and he had, in a single, brutal moment, shown the world that he was a force of utter, devastating destruction.
I did not hesitate. I did not wait. I did not waste another second. I knew what I had to do. I had to contact our clandestine council. I had to contact the men who had stood with me on that battlefield. I had to contact the men who had stared into the abyss, and had, in a single, terrifying moment, survived. I had to contact my friends, my brothers in arms, and I had to tell them that the war was no longer a distant conflict. The war was here.
I grabbed my wand, my mind a whirl of frantic, terrifying thoughts. I had to act. I had to act now. I had to show Grindelwald that he was not a man who could win. I had to show him that we were a force of courage, of honor, of strength. I had to show him that we were not afraid.
With a flick of my wand, I summoned a Patronus, a majestic, silvery dragon that was a silent, powerful promise of my intent. The Patronus, a silent, powerful messenger, flew out of my window, a single, coded message on its breath: The war has come home. We must meet. Now.
I watched it go, my heart a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.