Vogel stared at Rosier in disbelief.
"You can't be serious. Grimmson? He barely tolerates us. Why would he listen to you?"
Who was Grimmson?
Even among the older Saints, few could have answered that question. But if you asked Newt Scamander, he would leap to his feet, wand drawn, clutching his case as if his life depended on it.
Gunnar Grimmson. A French wizard, educated at Durmstrang. But his schooling, his nationality—none of that mattered. What mattered was the blood feud he carried with Newt.
Grimmson was no mere dark wizard. He was a hunter. A hunter of magical beasts.
Where Newt saw creatures to protect, to study, to love, Grimmson saw only threats—wild, untamed beasts that endangered wizardkind and risked exposing their world. To him, every uncontrollable beast was an enemy. And the Ministry, at the time, valued his brutal efficiency more than Newt's compassion. They paid him handsomely for "pest control."
But he hadn't been a Saint then. No, Grimmson joined Grindelwald later—after the New York disaster. When the British Ministry sent him to hunt Credence Barebone, Grindelwald whispered in his ear, and the hunter switched sides. From predator to protector. From mercenary to zealot.
How strong was he? Strong enough that even a fully unleashed Obscurial could not touch him. (The memory of a single shield charm effortlessly absorbing everything Credence had hurled still haunted Newt.)
In the Saints, Grimmson never held political sway, never ranked among the leaders. But in sheer combat prowess, in sheer danger, he was top three—without question.
When Aberforth later joined the fight against Grindelwald over Credence's death, it was Grimmson who stood across from him. And even afterward, when the Saints fell, when names were dragged through courts, Grimmson somehow walked free. He had the dirt, the secrets, the cunning. No evidence could stick. Declared innocent, he disappeared into the frozen wilds of Norway, an exile by choice.
Even Rosier spoke carefully: invite Grimmson. Never command.
"If this were our private matter," Rosier said coolly, "he might ignore us. But this touches Lord Riddle. Grimmson may only bend to Grindelwald himself—but if the master's own protégé is attacked, and he turns his back? When Grindelwald walks free again, Grimmson will have no face left to show him."
Vogel exhaled slowly, conceding the point. "Fine. I'll go tonight. You handle the interrogations."
"Don't worry," Rosier said with a smile that was all knives. "I'll take… very good care of them."
…
At Nicolas Flamel's estate.
Tom returned as if nothing had happened. He washed, changed, and lay down, slipping into his study space.
Recently, all his focus had been on mastering Fiendfyre's Bane—the legendary spell Dumbledore had crafted.
Yes, magic was born of will. In theory, thought was enough. But that was the ideal. Reality was less forgiving.
For basic charms, Tom already had it—wandless transfiguration, silent casting, magic that bent to his thought as easily as breathing. But this? This was no mere charm. This was a compound spell, a symphony of Transfiguration and elemental enchantments. Complex. Demanding. A spell not of instinct, but of discipline.
So he studied. He deconstructed its theory. He walked before he ran.
And this time, he was alone.
Andros had no knowledge of it. Grindelwald had no mastery of it. But Grindelwald could still serve as sparring partner.
"Fiendfyre!"
Glacial-blue firestorm roared from Grindelwald's wand, snarling like a beast as it clawed across the battlefield.
Tom lifted his own wand, sweeping it in wide arcs, gathering heat, gathering pressure until the air itself trembled. Then he slashed down.
"Fiendfyre's Bane!"
Scarlet fire erupted like a tidal wave. It rose into walls of living flame, crashing against Grindelwald's icy inferno. Red and blue lashed together, coiling, writhing like serpents of fire. The ground hissed beneath the heat. Sparks leapt higher, higher—until the red began to devour the blue.
The Bane fed. It drank the Fiendfyre like wine, swelling larger, brighter, hungrier.
"…Disperse."
With a word, Tom called on his dominion over the study-space. The sea of fire winked out, leaving only scorched earth.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Andros emerged, grinning. "That, I think, is the most powerful flame-spell I have ever witnessed. It almost makes me itch to duel you myself."
Grindelwald scowled, folding his arms. "Don't flatter him too much. That spell exists for one purpose only—to counter my Fiendfyre. Without me, Dumbledore would never have reached so high. His triumphs are stolen from my shadow."
Andros arched a brow, amused. "Well, well. I never thought I'd see you stoop to sophistry, old friend."