— — — — — —
Northern Europe—
Over the course of a single night, several peaks of the Scandinavian mountain range simply vanished.
Grindelwald and Dumbledore, two exhausted old men, dragged their battered bodies back to Durmstrang.
Despite that, both of them were in excellent spirits.
Dumbledore could not remember the last time he had fought with such abandon. Ever since Grindelwald's defeat, he had kept himself on a tight leash. Their previous two clashes had both ended with restraint on both sides, nothing more than probing exchanges. Nothing like this night, where neither of them held anything back and both pushed themselves to the limit.
Cradling a mug of steaming honeyed water, Dumbledore's gaze drifted unconsciously to the ancient-looking wand resting on the table. There was a clear note of curiosity in his eyes.
"Want it?" Grindelwald's lips curved faintly as he picked up the wand and toyed with it, his tone teasing.
"If you really want it, it's simple," Grindelwald continued lightly. "Just trade it for the Elder Wand. Such an evil wand doesn't suit your temperament anyway. You might as well give it back to me, and everyone's happy."
Dumbledore immediately pulled his gaze away and took a slow sip of water. "If you want the Elder Wand that badly, then defeat me. Take it back fair and square."
"Tch."
Grindelwald snorted dismissively.
If he could actually take it back, would he still be trying to sweet-talk Dumbledore like this?
Last night's battle had ended close to a draw, though Dumbledore held a slight edge. At best, the odds were six to four in his favor.
After fusing with phoenix blood, Dumbledore's strength could only be described as skyrocketing.
Over a century of accumulated magic and knowledge, combined with the physical condition and focus of a man in his forties or fifties, topped off with the Elder Wand, meant that the current Dumbledore was far more formidable than he had been when the two of them dueled four or five years ago.
As for the wand in Grindelwald's hand, it was Tom's creation.
That was not to say Tom's wandmaking skill had reached some absurd level, but rather that he had infused it with the power of Hakuna Matata.
Grindelwald's wand carried an aura of its power, making the Elder Wand unnecessary. But after last night's battle, that power had likely been nearly exhausted. It would need to be recharged again.
Dumbledore had no idea about any of this. He simply assumed that Grindelwald had found a powerful wand, and he was quietly astonished at how much Grindelwald's strength had grown.
He had believed he could suppress his old rival with ease by now, yet they were still evenly matched. The only explanation he could find was the basilisk blood—and that new wand.
To be honest, even the idea of arresting Grindelwald no longer held much appeal for him. These days, the two of them were coexisting peacefully enough, and the unrest in the wizarding world did not have much to do with him personally.
Spar from time to time, steal a few desserts, and keep growing stronger together. Then, when Voldemort returned from the dead, they could give him one hell of a surprise.
That did not sound so bad, did it?
Feeling relaxed, Dumbledore habitually pulled out his codex to check his unread messages.
One glance was enough to wipe the smile off his face.
Across from him, Grindelwald also made a show of checking his own codex. On the way back, he had already taken a detour through the study space and gotten the news from Andros.
That brat was ruthless.
Using a grand event he himself had organized as bait, stepping on the lives of over a thousand wizards to announce his status to the entire world.
From this moment on, no one would look at Tom as merely a talented young wizard anymore. He would be seen as an existence, standing shoulder to shoulder with Grindelwald and Dumbledore themselves.
Back in the day, Grindelwald's infamous reputation had been built blow by blow, fight by fight. Tom, on the other hand, had been in a hurry. He had done it all in a single night.
And sitting opposite him, Dumbledore's hands were trembling slightly.
If even Grindelwald, one of their own, was stunned by Tom's sheer scale of action, then Dumbledore's reaction was hardly surprising.
The old man removed his glasses and wiped them carefully three times before putting them back on and reading the message again. Only then did his vision darken.
The good news was that he hadn't misread it. His eyesight was still working just fine.
The bad news was that it was real. More than a thousand people were dead.
Why? Hadn't they already agreed? The dirty work was supposed to be his burden to bear, while the boy was meant to grow safely, untouched by that darkness. So why was there killing again, and on such a scale?
At that moment, Dumbledore deeply regretted agreeing to the International Confederation of Wizards' request. If he had stayed at the tournament grounds instead of coming after Grindelwald, none of this would have happened—at the very least, the death toll wouldn't have been so high.
Damn it.
This was all Gellert's fault.
Unable to hold back, Dumbledore lifted his head and shot a sharp, accusing look at the man opposite him.
"What are you looking at me like that for?" Grindelwald felt the anger directed at him and was completely baffled. "What does this have to do with me?"
"My people went there out of goodwill to help maintain order," Grindelwald snapped, growing angrier by the second. "You don't thank me, and now you dare glare at me? Albus, what the hell is wrong with you?"
The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became. He raised his wand, clearly ready for another round.
"No. I just have a headache. I'm sorry, Gellert. I lost control of my emotions."
Dumbledore hurriedly found an excuse and backed down. Britain was already in complete chaos. If he provoked Grindelwald now, he might as well start digging his own grave.
Even if he stayed here with Grindelwald, Riddle would run wild back home with no one to keep him in check.
What a nightmare.
It was rare to see Dumbledore soften like that. Grindelwald's irritation faded. He clicked his tongue and said, "That boy really is something. Strikes like thunder. If he'd been born in our era, things would've been far more interesting."
He shot Dumbledore a sidelong look. "Albus, you can't handle a talent like that. Send him to me."
Dumbledore couldn't be bothered to entertain the provocation. He had been about to message Tom himself, to have a brief talk and tell him to stay calm from here on out.
Instead, Tom's message popped up first.
『Tom Riddle』: Headmaster, have you ever considered retiring early?
Dumbledore: ???
What did that mean? The boy hadn't even graduated yet and he was already staging a coup to force him out and take the headmaster's chair?
Or had the killing gone too far? Had it started to damage his soul?
The thought made Dumbledore's chest tighten. He couldn't sit still any longer. He stood at once, ready to return to Britain.
Then he saw Grindelwald rising as well and paused.
"Why are you getting up?"
"To work, obviously," Grindelwald replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Didn't you get the message? Riddle asked my people to head to Spain and maintain order. I've got a lot of mouths to feed. Managing that many subordinates is stressful."
He gave Dumbledore's shoulder a firm pat and stepped into the Floo, vanishing in a burst of green flame.
---
Back in Britain, Tom frowned slightly when no reply came.
Was the old man still asleep?
Whatever. The Death Eaters had already folded.
Before last night, some of them might have tried to act tough, convincing themselves that Tom was bluffing. Now? No one doubted that when he said he would kill, he meant it.
Not a single backbone among them. They dropped to their knees faster than anyone.
Tom dealt with them only to stabilize his home base. He had no real interest in what they could offer. They had no real ability to speak of, and as for money, he wasn't short on that. The only thing they had left was their old connections and their status as local power brokers. That was enough to help his will move more smoothly across this land.
He didn't even assign them tasks. He simply told them to behave themselves for a while and dismissed them.
Not long after Malfoy and the others left, Fudge came calling.
On one hand, he was hiding from the bombardment of outrage from foreign Ministries, dumping all responsibility onto Crouch to handle.
On the other, he was here to cling to a thicker thigh.
Tom had publicly declared that the Astra Abyssum Guild would take full responsibility for the incident, but public anger was still aimed squarely at the Ministry of Magic. If Fudge didn't want to be torn apart by public opinion, he needed Tom's help.
Of course, Fudge knew better than to come empty-handed. He brought two gifts.
The first was a First Class Order of Merlin. Tom already had three of them, but he didn't mind collecting more. They translated into achievement points.
The second was an invitation to join the Wizengamot.
The Wizengamot was the highest wizarding court in Britain, and it also functioned as a kind of parliament. Its members were essentially legislators. Dumbledore was the Chief Warlock, the presiding head.
In the original storyline, that identity had barely mattered. Fudge had stripped him of it whenever he pleased. Watching it had once given Tom the odd impression that Fudge was a coward in earlier years, yet by the fifth year he acted like a king. No one could stop him. Honorary President of the International Confederation, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump. He dismissed whoever he liked.
It had been absurd.
Tom had no interest in being just another member of parliament. If he was going to sit in that chamber, he would sit at the top. Becoming Chief Warlock would make it far easier to amend the Statute of Secrecy later—not that he had immediate plans, but he might. And he hadn't forgotten the pact he'd made with the old man.
The problem was, the current Chief Warlock was Dumbledore.
Hence that earlier message.
"Minister Fudge, I'll think about it," Tom said, pushing the invitation back across the table. "Don't worry. Since I've said the Guild will handle this incident, it won't affect your position."
The blunt reassurance made Fudge lower his head awkwardly, but he visibly relaxed.
"However…" Tom's tone shifted.
Fudge stiffened.
"I'll need some assistance from the Ministry. The Guild doesn't have unlimited manpower."
"No problem," Fudge replied immediately. "Once this group leaves England, every employee in the Ministry will be at your disposal."
Tom shook his head. "No. Keep your employees. What I want are the Dementors."
"The… Dementors?"
"We need somewhere to hold prisoners, don't we?"
Fudge blinked. "Why not just lock them up in Azkaban? Are you planning to build a new prison? That would be far too much trouble."
Tom idly flexed his fingers, and the casual gesture somehow made Fudge feel an immense pressure.
"The Guild's prison can't be mixed up with the Ministry's," Tom said calmly. "In the future, all kinds of people will be held there. Minister, you don't object, do you?"
Cold sweat broke out across Fudge's forehead. "N-No, of course not. I have no objections."
Only then did Tom rise, satisfied.
He wanted the Dementors for more than just prison guards.
There would be many more events held at this stadium in the future. It wouldn't do to have chaos erupt every time.
Dementors were perfect.
When visitors poured out of the venue, high on excitement with nowhere to vent it, the Dementors could enjoy a feast and enforce a little compulsory calm.
Let's see who still felt like causing trouble after that.
.
.
.