Voldemort's form vanished. The massive serpent reared up from the ground, poised to strike at Grindelwald overhead. The air twisted violently, and with a dull explosion, a lizard formed of viscous Fiendfyre materialized out of nowhere. Its gaping maw, bristling with fangs, snapped downward.
At the same moment, Voldemort reappeared, standing atop the pedestal in the center of the now-empty fountain.
"Hmph!" Grindelwald let out a cold snort, his body shifting to one side. With a fluid, sweeping motion, he brandished his wand.
The serpent, its venomous fangs inches from piercing his flesh, was seized by an invisible giant hand. It was yanked from the ground, powerless to resist, and hurled high into the air.
Its massive body contorted under the pressure as it ascended, emitting a sickening crunch of dislocated bones. With a boom, it exploded into a dense, foul-smelling cloud of black smoke, dissipating into nothing.
The roaring Fiendfyre lizard, diving toward Grindelwald, froze mid-air just above him, encased in a glistening, crystalline layer of ice radiating bitter cold. It became a lifelike ice sculpture, suspended in place.
With a subtle flick of Grindelwald's wand, the sculpture shattered, bursting into a cascade of shimmering ice fragments that rained down.
But the spell wasn't over. As the ice crystals fell, they sprang to life, rapidly merging, expanding, and reshaping.
In an instant, silver-white lions leaped forth, silently roaring as they charged toward Voldemort on the fountain's pedestal.
"Mudblood!" Voldemort let out a piercing screech, descending into pure rage. Gone was his precise control; now, he unleashed raw, violent power in an unbridled torrent.
With each wave of his wand, curses of varying colors—each laced with destructive force—swept through the Ministry of Magic's Atrium.
Boom, boom, boom! The entire hall shuddered as if struck by a colossal hammer. Great slabs of dark wooden flooring and stone tiles were torn apart, flipped, and flung like paper, exposing the raw brickwork beneath.
The lofty peacock-blue ceiling quaked, groaning under the strain. Magical chandeliers shattered, and golden runes plummeted like meteors, crumbling to dust.
At the far end of the hall, the towering portrait of Minister Harold Minchum, a symbol of Ministry authority, was shredded by the onslaught of curses. The canvas ripped into countless scraps.
The painted Minister's shocked expression didn't even have time to cry out before it was torn apart, vanishing in the roiling clouds of dust.
In the blink of an eye, amid the swirling dust and falling debris, Grindelwald's robe swirled as he Apparated to a relatively intact corner of the hall.
Almost instantly, a massive stone slab crashed down where he'd stood, kicking up a storm of dust.
His wand twirled lightly in his hand, and a concentrated beam of deep blue light shot silently toward Voldemort.
Voldemort's red, slitted pupils contracted sharply. The power in this spell sent a chill of unprecedented threat through him.
Abandoning his offensive stance, he whipped his wand in front of him, conjuring a gleaming silver half-dome shield just in time to block the blue beam.
The curse slammed into the shield, producing a deep, resonant gong-like tremor. Visible ripples spread across the shield's surface, which even dented inward, but it held firm.
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised that his opponent could withstand the blow.
"Voldemort," his voice cut through the dust-filled air, clear and steady, "why so frantic? You're acting like a beast with its tail stepped on, all snarls and no grace. Hardly the poise of a so-called 'Dark Lord.'"
"Who are you?" Voldemort, still braced behind his shield, locked his red eyes on Grindelwald, his voice sharp and hoarse with fury. "Why have you come here to die?"
"Who am I?" Grindelwald chuckled softly, his voice echoing calmly through the trembling hall. "Just a passing traveler, nothing more."
"I'd heard," he continued, his gaze sweeping the ravaged scene, "that a remarkable figure had risen in these little British Isles. Calling himself the 'Dark Lord,' was it? Stirring the wizarding world into a panic, silencing all dissent, even bringing down Albus Dumbledore himself?"
"Curiosity," Grindelwald said, flicking his wand to summon small metallic shields that deflected several dark curses Voldemort fired from the side. "That's all. I came to see what kind of man you really are."
A brief, eerie silence fell over the scene, broken only by the sound of sliding rubble and the faint hiss of a leaking pipe somewhere.
Grindelwald welcomed the momentary respite.
As the battle wore on, beneath his composed exterior, his fingers gripping the wand had begun to pale. Voldemort's raw destructive power and battle instincts had exceeded his pre-fight expectations.
The seemingly endless well of furious magic and the reckless, destruction-obsessed fighting style brought a pressure Grindelwald hadn't felt in decades—not since that duel over thirty years ago.
This younger wizard's sheer output and endurance likely surpassed his own. At the very least, Grindelwald's body—worn by age and years spent in Nurmengard—struggled to maintain such intense magical output and precise control.
If the fight dragged on, the outcome was uncertain.
Yet he wasn't ready to retreat. Out of pride, he hadn't arranged a signal with Snape and the others to confirm their success or safe withdrawal. Until he knew they'd accomplished their mission, every second he could stall was worth it.
"Your purpose…" Voldemort clearly didn't buy the explanation. His grating voice shattered the quiet. "Why are you here? What do you want from this place?"
At that moment—
"Ugh…"
A faint groan of pain came from a pile of rubble near the security desk. Miraculously, in the midst of this magical maelstrom, Lucius Malfoy had survived, only just stirring awake, writhing in agony.
"Oh, right," Grindelwald glanced at the fallen Death Eater, a mocking smile curling his lips. "You've still got a useless lackey here. Weak as a goblin, but he made a decent bell to summon you, didn't he?"
No sooner had he spoken than a blinding green flash shot from behind Voldemort's shield.
Grindelwald dodged instinctively, only to realize the curse wasn't aimed at him. It sliced through the dust, striking Lucius, who had just raised his head in confusion.
Thud. Lucius' body went rigid, the last spark of life draining from his eyes. His faintly heaving chest stilled.
"Tch," Grindelwald sneered at the corpse, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. "Killing your own followers? You're a thorough madman, Voldemort."
Voldemort ignored the jab. He tossed aside the dented shield, raising his wand again, a more ferocious attack brewing.
Grindelwald's instincts screamed danger.
He dodged Voldemort's probing curses, weaving through the hall's remaining pillars and ruins, maintaining a delicate distance while locking eyes with him.
Voldemort halted his aimless attacks, staring back, red pupils meeting gray.
"What exactly," Voldemort hissed, "did you learn from Lucius?"
Grindelwald's heart stirred, but his face held a calm, knowing smile—the kind that said, I know everything, but I won't tell.
"Oh?" he countered lightly. "And what, pray tell, should I have learned from him, great Dark Lord?"
"So tonight," Voldemort's eyes narrowed, a mocking sneer twisting his face as if he'd seen through something, "you came just to find me?"
"Pfft," Grindelwald scoffed, not hiding his disdain. "Don't flatter yourself. I've got no interest in you."
Before his words faded, another Killing Curse shot from Voldemort's wand. Grindelwald sidestepped it instinctively.
Voldemort's attacks resumed like an unrelenting storm, but Grindelwald had lost interest in prolonging the fight.
Time's up. Can't drag this out anymore, he thought. Keep going, and this lunatic might actually wear me down.
If he escaped too battered and bruised, how could he ever mock that old man lying in a hospital bed?
"Voldemort!" Grindelwald's voice rang out, clear and commanding. "Rushing here tonight was your biggest mistake. Soon enough, you'll know why I came."
Voldemort's attacks grew wilder. Grindelwald stopped dodging, conjuring a spinning shield of light before him.
Curses struck it, making the shield quake and flicker, but it held against the frenzied barrage.
Seizing the moment, Grindelwald stepped back, retreating into the nearest gilded fireplace.
He spared one last glance at the battle-scarred hall and Voldemort, standing amid the ruins with a face dark enough to drip venom. Then, emerald flames swallowed him.
After a few seconds of spinning, accompanied by an undignified flushing sound, Grindelwald shot out of a toilet, landing ungracefully on wet tiles.
"You bloody—!" he cursed, thoroughly disgusted. But he quickly noticed his shoes, feet, and robes were dry and clean.
With a face like thunder, he shoved open the creaking cubicle door, not bothering to check his surroundings, and Disapparated, leaving only a gently swaying toilet lid behind.
Dusk was settling in. Unlike the wrecked Ministry Atrium, the Ship of the Founders was filled with the rich, inviting aroma of roasted pumpkin, mingling with the sugary sweetness of candy and the warm scent of hot apple cider.
The Halloween Eve feast had just begun. The dining hall was tastefully decorated. Though it lacked the towering pumpkin lanterns and swarms of live bats found in Hogwarts' Great Hall, smaller jack-o'-lanterns dotted the space, glowing warmly.
Colorful magical ribbons and giggling skeleton ornaments floated above the tables. The setup was modest compared to past years, but after a day of carefree play on the beach, sitting together to enjoy food and soak in the hard-won festive atmosphere brought genuine, long-absent smiles to the students' faces. The hall buzzed with chatter.
Myrtle Warren's translucent form flitted between tables, pausing above one group before darting to another, eagerly chatting with anyone who'd listen.
When she recounted how she'd used her death to get revenge on her bully, Olive Hornby, a few engrossed students nodded respectfully and offered her an empty seat.
Myrtle "sat" happily (though she passed through the chair), her glasses fogging with excitement as she prattled on about her "glorious" life and decades of ghostly observations.
At the slightly raised staff table, the mood was less festive.
Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick maintained a calm facade, but their eyes kept flicking to the dining hall's entrance. Clearly, they were waiting for news—or someone's return.
As they picked at the house-elves' cooking without much appetite, the hall's doors burst open.
Mundungus Fletcher stumbled in, panting, his face lit with relief. He shouted, "Minerva! Professor McGonagall! He's back—Mr. Grind's back! So, uh, I don't have to stand on the deck freezing my arse off anymore, right? That blasted job—"
Without waiting for a reply, he plopped into an empty seat at a student table, grabbed a roast chicken leg, and tore into it.
Seconds later, the doors opened again.
Gellert Grindelwald appeared. His dark travel cloak was still pristine, his silver hair neatly combed, but his heavy aura nearly silenced the hall's clamor.
Ignoring the hushed atmosphere and the mix of curious and awed stares, he strode to the staff table and sat confidently in Dumbledore's usual spot.
McGonagall and Flitwick let out long breaths, their tense shoulders relaxing.
"Another hot cider, please!" Flitwick called to a nearby house-elf with a tray.
Watching Grindelwald elegantly wipe his already-clean hands with a napkin, Snape leaned closer, voice low. "Mr. Grind, is Voldemort dead?"
"And," he added, "does that mean we can return to Hogwarts tomorrow?"