— — — — — —
Grindelwald's return began in Germany.
There are three master wandmaking traditions in Europe, or more accurately, three wandmaking families.
Britain has Ollivander. France has the Leclair family. Germany has the Gregorovitch.
Each family supplies one major magic school and, in effect, each holds a share of Europe's largest magical arms trade.
Fleur's wand, for instance, was custom-made by the current Leclair, its core a single hair from her grandmother. He had been so pleased with his own craftsmanship that he didn't even take payment. Tom joked that this was simply family favoritism taking shape.
Old Gregorovitch, however, was always the most ambitious of the three. Supplying one school was not enough for him. He wanted more. He wanted to challenge the others.
So, years ago, he spread a rumor: He had acquired the legendary Elder Wand itself, and he intended to apply its secrets to his own wandcraft.
Not long after, on a rainy night, the Elder Wand vanished from his workshop. A young blond thief stole it right out from under his nose. Gregorovitch never saw the boy's face clearly. But when that same blond wizard later appeared in newspapers, reshaping the world, Gregorovitch recognized the wand at once.
The Elder Wand's appearance was unmistakable.
From then on, Gregorovitch buried that night deep in his heart. When asked about it, he would simply laugh and dodge the question. "No such thing ever happened", he'd say.
Now, today, he finished polishing a set of unsold wands and was just heading toward the staircase to retire upstairs when the shop door creaked open.
"Sorry, we're closed. If you need something…"
His words cut off.The brush in his hand dropped to the floor.
White, wild hair. A face shaped by arrogance and certainty. Heterochromatic eyes.
"Gr… Gr…"
"Grindelwald," the visitor said gently. He dipped his head with polite grace. "I see the world has not forgotten me. It has been decades, Mr. Gregorovitch. You have aged."
"Grindelwald… sir." Gregorovitch swallowed hard. "Congratulations on… regaining your freedom. Your presence is as commanding as ever."
"Thank you."
Grindelwald walked to the counter. Gregorovitch did not dare move as the former warlord opened a wand box and turned the wand inside between his fingers.
"Hawthorn. Tail-hair of a Graphorn. Suited for someone who wavers, one who does not yet know themselves. Would you agree?"
"You possess immeasurable knowledge," Gregorovitch said, carefully placing every word like he was disarming a curse.
Grindelwald shook his head. "When you have seen enough, you naturally understand more. But knowledge is not mastery. I only know of wands. You, Mr Gregorovitch, create them."
He raised his eyes."Therefore, I must trouble you to make one for me."
The tone was polite, but there was no room for refusal.
Gregorovitch hurried toward the shelf, hands shaking, ready to offer a selection. But Grindelwald stopped him.
"No. I said make a wand. Not choose one."
Gregorovitch nodded rapidly. "I understand. I understand."
"Good." Grindelwald's gaze sharpened, steady and meaningful. "Then remember my only requirement."
"I need a wand that performs well when facing the Elder Wand."
His words fell like a stone in deep water.
"After all," Grindelwald continued softly, "you once held it. You know it better than any living craftsman."
Cold sweat ran down Gregorovitch's brow. Grindelwald had laid their shared secret bare with no hesitation.
"You know as well as I do that such a thing is almost impossible," Gregorovitch said quietly. "The Elder Wand is not merely strong. Its nature is…"
"Do your best," Grindelwald said simply. He lifted his head to the dark windowpanes. "You have until sunrise. When the sun rises, I will leave with my wand."
Gregorovitch heard the unspoken alternative: Either Grindelwald left with the wand, or Gregorovitch left as a corpse.
He turned stiffly toward his workbench and began to gather materials with trembling fingers.
Grindelwald had spoken the truth. Gregorovitch did understand the Elder Wand better than anyone. And he had once imagined crafting a wand that could counter it.
But without understanding the Elder Wand's true nature, defeating it outright was impossible. At best, he could create a wand that resisted it to some degree, using instinct, experience, and his knowledge of magical materials.
To make such a wand in a single night bordered on madness.
But if he wished to live longer, he had no choice but to try.
...
Meanwhile, as Gregorovitch worked feverishly, Grindelwald moved through the shop, testing one wand after another.
Tom's methods had given him an idea. If one ordinary wand could not withstand repeated battles, then he would simply prepare several. Even slight compatibility would make them useful as backups.
The shop was quiet except for the sound of wand boxes opening and closing, wood tools scraping, and two men breathing.
An uneasy equilibrium, each man working under a different weight.
Gregorovitch was profoundly grateful that it was late autumn sliding into winter. If this had been summer, dawn would have come far earlier, and he never would have finished even one wand in time.
Just as the sky began to lighten, he finally placed the newly crafted wand into Grindelwald's hand.
Grindelwald tested a few spells. He gave a slight nod of satisfaction, then gathered the dozen or so spare wands he had chosen and headed out of the shop.
"Sorry, Mr. Gregorovitch. I left in a hurry this time, didn't bring the gold. Next time, I'll repay you. Truly."
I'd rather give you ten thousand Galleons than ever see you walk through my door again.
Gregorovitch thought weakly as he watched Grindelwald leave. Once he was sure the man was gone, he immediately contacted the German Ministry of Magic. Aurors swarmed his shop within minutes.
---
Study Space
Tom had barely woken up when Grindelwald dragged him into the training space for a live-combat test to try out the new wand.
"Poplar wood, unicorn tail hair. That honestly doesn't suit you at all." Tom turned the wand over in his fingers, unimpressed. "A guy like you using a unicorn core? Clearly Gregorovitch isn't as skilled as they say."
"It's true the feel isn't ideal," Grindelwald replied without offense. He knew himself well enough. "This is only a temporary measure to counter the Elder Wand. Taming a wand is not difficult for me."
Tom nodded. From that angle, Gregorovitch's choice made sense.
Poplar wood favored those with firm will and a love for dueling, unafraid of authority, able to resist the Elder Wand's suppression of lesser wands. Unicorn tail hair held holy, bright energy, the polar opposite of thestral magic. The forces would clash.
Tom continued, "After news of your escape reached him, Dumbledore disappeared. Vinda got the intel soon after. I told her to stay calm and not act rashly. Better if you contact her yourself."
Grindelwald paused, then agreed.
He didn't want to interfere with Tom's leadership of the Acolytes too early, but considering the situation, it was more appropriate for him to handle this.
Tom waved a hand. "Go ahead. Play as you like. Make a little noise. I enjoy an uproar."
With that, Tom vanished from the study space. Grindelwald stayed and chatted briefly with Andros before leaving.
...
At breakfast, Dumbledore still hadn't appeared. Professor McGonagall's expression was dangerously grim. And since the papers didn't report the capture of two escaped criminals, everyone realized their assumptions might have been wrong.
Or rather… Dumbledore failed?
But though many within the Ministries already knew what had happened, it would take time before the news reached students and the general public.
Nearly every European Minister of Magic had been jolted awake the previous night, forced to accept the reality of Grindelwald's escape. Some dismissed it, but most understood the gravity. Following Babajide's recommendation, several key individuals were quietly placed under watch.
But they didn't dare take more direct action. Arrest everyone?
If Grindelwald heard about it, that would only draw his attention. He may not be able to take on the whole world, but killing a few people would be easy.
---
Meanwhile, Dumbledore arrived that morning at Gregorovitch's shop in Berlin.
Gregorovitch had already told the Aurors most of what happened, except for the existence of the Elder Wand and Grindelwald's request. He didn't dare spread that news; otherwise every ambitious wizard alive would eventually come knocking.
But Dumbledore was the current master of the Elder Wand. Gregorovitch gave him a meaningful glance. Dumbledore understood, and once the Aurors were gone, he quietly returned inside.
"Gregorovitch," Dumbledore asked, "what do you want to tell me?"
"Dumbledore, Grindelwald had me craft a special wand."
Gregorovitch looked exhausted. He had worked through the night, then endured hours of questioning. His voice was thin and unsteady. "He wanted a wand that could oppose the Elder Wand."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but his eyes deepened. "And did you succeed?"
"I'm sorry." Gregorovitch let out a strained laugh. "I didn't dare refuse him, and I didn't dare cut corners. I did my best. It should be effective to some extent."
"So you must be careful. His goal is clear. He means to come for you."
"Thank you for the warning." Dumbledore nodded. He offered a steadying reassurance. "This is not your fault. And do not worry. I defeated him once. I can do so again, even without that wand that brings nothing but misfortune."
Relief washed through Gregorovitch, the shadow Grindelwald left behind finally lifting.
This was Dumbledore's strength. He had been winning for a hundred years, and nearly everyone believed he would continue to win. Perhaps only time itself could defeat him.
As Dumbledore stepped outside, the sunlight was bright, but his heart felt dim.
Grindelwald had a clear plan. The fact that he went for a wand first meant this escape was no impulsive act. If Grindelwald was serious, Dumbledore would need strength to match him.
The Order of the Phoenix…
Dumbledore's steps quickened. He needed to contact his old allies before the world shifted further and he found himself fighting alone.
North America was too far. Paris was closer.
A phoenix appeared on his shoulder. A flash of fire. A heartbeat later, at the gates of Nicolas Flamel's estate, a visitor arrived.
.
.
.