Voldemort's figure vanished; the great serpent sprang from the ground, raising its head high and striking upward...
Above Grindelwald's head, the air twisted violently. With a dull explosion, a lizard made entirely of viscous Fiendfyre appeared out of thin air, opening its massive fanged jaws and diving straight down to devour him.
At that same instant, Voldemort reappeared, standing atop the pedestal at the center of the once-empty fountain.
"Hmph!" Grindelwald gave a cold snort, his body shifting to one side. With a sweeping, fluid motion, he swung his wand in a broad arc.
The serpent, fangs poised to pierce his body, suddenly froze. It was as if an invisible giant hand had seized it in an iron grip, wrenching it from the ground and hurling it helplessly into the air.
As it rose, its enormous body twisted and contorted under the pressure. A sickening series of bone-snapping cracks echoed through the hall before the serpent burst apart with a thunderous boom, dissolving into a cloud of thick, acrid black smoke that quickly dissipated.
Meanwhile, the roaring Fiendfyre lizard that had been diving down from above suddenly went rigid in midair. A layer of crystalline, transparent ice, radiating a deadly chill, encased its blazing body. In an instant, it became an ice sculpture so lifelike it seemed frozen in time.
A moment later, with a faint flick of Grindelwald's wand, the sculpture shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Countless ice crystals sparkled as they scattered through the air like a storm of diamond dust.
But this was not the end. As the shards fell, they came to life. The fragments gathered and fused rapidly, swelling and reshaping themselves.
In the blink of an eye, silver-white lions leapt forth one after another, roaring silently as they charged toward Voldemort, who stood atop the fountain pedestal.
"Filthy mongrel!" Voldemort shrieked, losing all restraint to fury. He abandoned precision and control entirely, unleashing the raw, unbridled flood of his power like a storm bursting its banks.
His wand slashed wildly through the air, sending waves of curses of every color imaginable, each saturated with pure destruction, crashing through the Ministry Atrium.
RUMBLE!
The entire hall quaked as though struck by a massive hammer. Chunks of dark wood and slabs of stone were torn apart and flung upward like scraps of paper, exposing the ugly structure beneath.
The peacock-blue ceiling trembled violently, groaning under the strain. The suspended magical chandeliers shattered, their golden runes raining down like falling stars before collapsing into dust.
At the far end of the hall, the giant portrait of Minister Harold Minchum, symbol of the Ministry's authority, was torn to pieces under the force of Voldemort's spells.
The Minister in the painting didn't even have time to scream before his stunned expression was ripped apart and vanished into the rising storm of smoke and debris.
Amid the chaos of flashing light and falling stone, Grindelwald's cloak whirled sharply. In the next instant, his figure appeared in a relatively intact section of the hall.
Almost at once, a tremendous slab of stone crashed down on the spot where he had stood moments before, throwing up a dense cloud of dust.
His wand turned smoothly in his hand. A concentrated beam of deep blue light shot silently toward Voldemort.
Voldemort's red slit pupils contracted sharply. The power packed within that spell struck him with an unfamiliar sense of real danger.
He instantly abandoned his offensive stance and swept his wand rapidly before him. A shining silver half-shield materialized out of thin air just in time to intercept the blue beam.
The spell struck the shield with a resonant, gong-like hum. Visible ripples spread across the surface, denting inward with a deep curve before finally holding firm without shattering.
Grindelwald arched an eyebrow, faintly surprised that his opponent had managed to withstand the blow.
"Voldemort," his voice cut through the haze and the rumble, clear and steady, "why are you so agitated, like a beast whose tail has been stepped on, hissing and thrashing? That is hardly the composure one would expect from a so-called Dark Lord."
"Who are you?" Voldemort hissed, glaring over the top of his silver shield. His voice grew even sharper, rasping with rage. "Why have you come here to die?"
"Who am I?" Grindelwald let out a soft laugh, his tone perfectly calm as it echoed through the trembling hall. "Merely a traveler passing by."
"I heard," he continued after a short pause, his eyes sweeping over the devastation, "that in this tiny corner of the British Isles, a remarkable figure has arisen. One who calls himself the 'Dark Lord', ha!, and has the entire wizarding world cowering in fear, even Albus Dumbledore defeated at his hands?"
"Curiosity," Grindelwald said lightly, flicking his wand to conjure several small metallic shields that intercepted a few black curses coming from the side of Voldemort's main defense. "That's all. I merely wanted to see for myself what kind of man you really are."
The hall fell into an uneasy silence. Only the soft patter of falling debris and the faint hiss of air escaping from broken pipes could be heard.
Grindelwald welcomed the lull, it gave him a moment to breathe.
Despite his effortless demeanor, his knuckles had turned faintly white around the wand. Voldemort's sheer destructive power and raw instinct for combat far exceeded his initial expectations.
That seemingly inexhaustible magical force, combined with the reckless, frenzied abandon of one completely consumed by destruction, pressed upon him with an intensity he had not felt in decades, perhaps even greater than during that fateful duel thirty years ago.
In pure offensive output and endurance, this upstart surpassed him. His own body, worn by age and eroded by long years in Nurmengard, was beginning to strain under the sustained output such combat demanded.
If they continued to fight, the outcome was uncertain.
Still, Grindelwald had no desire to withdraw just yet. Out of pride, he had made no prior arrangement with Snape's group for post-mission contact. Until he was sure they had succeeded and escaped safely, he intended to stall for as long as possible.
"Your purpose..." Voldemort's harsh voice broke the silence again, dripping suspicion. "Why have you come here? What is it you want?"
At that moment,
"Ugh..."
A weak, pained groan came from the pile of rubble near the security desk. Against all odds, Augustus Rookwood had survived the devastation, merely stunned, and was now stirring painfully.
"Oh, that's right," Grindelwald said with a glance toward the Death Eater, a faint, mocking smile curving his lips. "You've still got one useless lackey lying about. Pathetic, he's weaker than a goblin, but as a little bell to summon you, he served his purpose well enough."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a flash of green light burst from behind Voldemort's silver shield.
Grindelwald instinctively moved aside, only to realize that the Killing Curse wasn't aimed at him. It shot straight through the dust-filled air and struck Rookwood squarely as he lifted his head in dazed confusion.
"Ah..." Rookwood's body went rigid. The last flicker of life drained from his eyes, and his chest fell still forever.
"Tsk, tsk..." Grindelwald clicked his tongue in disgust as he looked at the corpse. "You even kill your own dogs? Voldemort, you truly are a raving lunatic."
Voldemort ignored the remark completely. With a flick of his wrist, the battered silver shield vanished. Raising his wand again, he began gathering energy for an even more violent barrage.
Grindelwald's instincts screamed danger.
He darted between the shattered columns and debris, weaving evasively while maintaining a wary distance. His eyes never left Voldemort's.
Voldemort too ceased his aimless attacks. Their gazes locked, red against gray.
"What did you learn from Rookwood?" Voldemort hissed.
Grindelwald's eyes flickered with amusement, though his face remained serene, carrying that infuriating expression of I know everything, but I won't tell you.
"Oh?" he drawled with mock curiosity. "Then tell me, O great Dark Lord, what exactly should I have learned from him?"
"So you came tonight..." Voldemort narrowed his eyes, a twisted grin spreading across his face, as though he had just uncovered a secret. "Only to find me?"
"Pfft." Grindelwald snorted, openly disgusted, as if the very suggestion offended him. "Don't make it sound so revolting. I have absolutely no interest in you."
Before the words had fully left his mouth, another Killing Curse blazed from Voldemort's wand. Grindelwald sidestepped swiftly, feeling the heat of the spell as it streaked past.
Once again, Voldemort's assault came like an unending storm of fury. But Grindelwald had already lost interest in prolonging the exchange.
The time should be about right, he thought. Any longer, and this madman will wear me down completely.
Even if he managed to escape, it would hardly do his dignity any favors if he emerged battered, scorched, and disheveled, how would he ever mock that bedridden old fool again?
"Voldemort!" Grindelwald suddenly shouted, his voice clear and commanding. "Rushing here tonight was your greatest folly. Soon enough, you'll understand why I came."
Voldemort's attacks intensified further. Grindelwald no longer dodged. A rotating barrier of light formed before him, shimmering under the relentless impact of spellfire.
The shield trembled violently under the barrage, its glow flickering but holding firm.
Using the opening, Grindelwald stepped backward and vanished into the nearest gilded fireplace.
He cast one final glance at the ruined battlefield, and at Voldemort, whose face was so dark with fury it seemed to drip venom, before the brilliant green flames engulfed him.
A few seconds of spinning later, accompanied by an ungraceful flushing sound, Grindelwald shot out of a toilet and landed heavily on the damp tiled floor.
"Bloody hell!" he cursed with raw disgust. Fortunately, he soon noticed that his shoes, robes, and feet remained perfectly dry.
Scowling, Grindelwald shoved open the squeaking stall door. Without bothering to survey his surroundings, he Disapparated on the spot, leaving only the softly rocking toilet lid behind.
...
By now, dusk had fallen. Unlike the shattered Ministry hall, the Founders' Ark was filled with the warm, inviting aroma of roasted pumpkin, mingled with the sweetness of candies and the fragrance of hot apple cider.
The Halloween Eve feast had just begun. The dining hall was beautifully decorated. Though it lacked Hogwarts' usual towering pumpkin lanterns and flocks of fluttering bats, small, delicate jack-o'-lanterns glowed warmly throughout the room.
Colorful enchanted ribbons and cackling skull ornaments floated above the tables. Though the event was smaller than in previous years, after a full day of relaxation and play on the beach, the students now sat together, cheerful and content. Laughter and chatter filled the hall.
The ghost of Moaning Myrtle flitted merrily between the tables, pausing now and then to chat animatedly with groups of students.
When she recounted how she had avenged herself in death on Olive Hornby, the girl who mocked her, a few students listened in awe and even offered her an empty seat in respect.
Delighted, Myrtle "sat" down, though she naturally passed through the chair, and her glasses gleamed white with excitement as she launched into another long tale of her "glorious deeds" in life and her "adventures" since death.
At the slightly elevated staff table, the atmosphere was far more tense.
Snape, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick all maintained calm façades, but their eyes kept drifting toward the hall doors. They were clearly waiting, for news, or for someone's return.
Just as they picked listlessly at their plates, the doors burst open with a loud bang.
Mundungus Fletcher stumbled in, panting, his face alight with relief. "Minerva! Professor McGonagall! He's back, Mr. Grindelwald's back! So I don't have to freeze my arse off on deck anymore, right? Bloody awful job, that was-"
Before anyone could respond, he plopped into an empty seat at a student table, snatched up a roast chicken leg, and took a huge bite.
Moments later, the doors opened again.
Gellert Grindelwald stepped into the hall. His dark traveling cloak was immaculate, his silver hair perfectly combed, but the heavy aura around him seemed to weigh upon the entire room.
The chatter fell silent. Dozens of curious and reverent gazes turned his way as he strode forward unhurriedly.
Ignoring the hush and the stares, Grindelwald walked straight to the staff table and took the seat that once belonged to Albus Dumbledore, sitting with complete composure.
McGonagall and Flitwick both exhaled deeply, the tension melting from their shoulders.
"Another mug of hot cider!" Flitwick called to a nearby house-elf carrying a tray.
Watching Grindelwald calmly wipe his already spotless hands with a napkin, Snape leaned slightly closer and asked in a low voice, "Mr. Grindelwald, did you kill Voldemort?"
"Then tomorrow, can we return to Hogwarts?"