Chapter 624: The Strike
"I knew it would come to this," Grandpa Marcus said, leaning against the side of
the carriage and rattling his newspaper. "The Ministry is in a blind panic...
criminals at large... security is a sieve... Dark Wizards roaming free...
bringing shame to the nation. Who wrote this rubbish? Ah... naturally. Rita
Skeeter."
Hermione and Justin both turned to look at Sean. They had known for a long time
that Rita was essentially on Sean's payroll, serving as his voice in the press.
Sean remained silent, his gaze fixed on the rolling hills passing outside the
window. He realized he had forgotten to give Rita her specific instructions for
the post-match coverage.
"I think I get the gist," Justin said with a small, knowing smile. His voice was
quickly swallowed by the rhythmic rustling of the vast wheat fields surrounding
the McGonagall estate.
The carriage jolted as it navigated the final stretch of the dirt road. Marcus
held the reins in one hand and passed the folded Daily Prophet to the three
children with the other. On the front page, a photo showed the festive fireworks
of the World Cup, but in the bottom corner was a jagged, glaring headline:
MINISTRY CONTINUES INVESTIGATION INTO DARK MARK DISCOVERED NEAR CAMPSITE.
"Look at that," Marcus said, his voice low but steady. "The Ministry can't bury
the lead anymore. Soon, every wizard in Britain will have to face the fact that
Voldemort is back."
He paused, his sharp eyes lingering on Sean. He straightened his back, his
expression turning grave. "During the World Cup, the Auror Office pulled every
available wand to the stadium. All eyes were on the match. If something was
going to happen, this is the hour. Remember: when the world is at its loudest,
you must keep your eyes open the widest."
Hermione took the paper, her brow furrowing as she scanned the report. Justin
opened his mouth to add something, but he stopped when Sean suddenly raised his
head, staring toward the horizon of the golden wheat.
The boy didn't speak, but his emerald eyes underwent a terrifying shift, the
pupils thinning into predator's slits.
Marcus followed the boy's gaze. He saw nothing but swaying grain, but his
instincts—honed by forty years in the field—suddenly flared. A cold chill, like
a needle of ice, pricked his spine.
He didn't hesitate. He drew his wand and positioned himself between the children
and the window. "Hold onto me. We're heading for the cellar. We take the Warp
Gate to the safe house. Now."
At that exact moment, a plume of dark, roiling mist erupted from the southeast
corner of the wheat field. It looked like ink bleeding into clear water, surging
forward with a silent, lethal speed toward the carriage.
Lord Voldemort stepped out of the black vapor. He was staggering, his left arm
hanging limp and useless. His black robes were saturated with blood, and his
body was a map of fresh, angry burn marks—scars left by Albus Dumbledore's fire.
Across his chest was a jagged, bone-deep gash that refused to close.
Less than fifteen minutes ago, Voldemort had used a decoy and the lives of
several Death Eaters to slip past Dumbledore's blue-eyed scrutiny. He had paid
for the escape with the wound that was currently threatening to split him in
two.
The wound flared with pain, but he ignored it. His blood-red eyes were locked
onto the carriage. Locked onto the farm.
Heh heh... intoxicating... I have finally found it.
Dumbledore thought he could raise a new Merlin? A boy with a heart as soft as
his own, yet gifted with the talent to become a Legend?
Heh... Voldemort intended to kill that hope here, in this field, before Albus
could arrive. He would slaughter the "Future's Greatest Wizard" while he was
still a child.
The Great Voldemort had won again. He had outplayed the Greatest White Wizard of
the Century.
He raised his wand.
Suddenly, a brilliant blue light flared from the heart of the wheat.
A tall, upright figure emerged from the golden stalks. Gellert Grindelwald was
wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal overcoat, his silver hair immaculate. He
wasn't even holding a wand—not until his eyes landed on Voldemort. Then, with a
casual movement, he drew his wand from his pocket, the tip pointed toward the
dirt as if he were an old gentleman out for a stroll with a walking stick.
But his eyes told a different story. They burned with a cold, predatory light—a
mixture of utter disdain and fierce anticipation. These were the eyes of the man
who had once brought all of Europe to its knees.
"Tom," Grindelwald said. His tone was that of a grandfather addressing a
particularly disobedient child. "You've arrived early. I hadn't planned on
starting until after tea."
Voldemort's pupils contracted with a jolt of shock.
He had accounted for Dumbledore. He had accounted for the Aurors. He had even
accounted for the chaos of the Cup. but he had never, in his wildest
calculations, accounted for Gellert Grindelwald.
Why was the prisoner of Nurmengard standing in the middle of a mundane British
farm?
"Move aside, Grindelwald!" Voldemort rasped, his voice high and thin. His red
eyes darted around the field. "Did Albus send you?"
"You've misunderstood the situation," Grindelwald said, beginning a slow, steady
advance. With every step, the wheat parted silently before him. "I am not here
because anyone sent me. I am here because I choose to be here."
He stopped thirty feet from the Dark Lord. He tilted his head, a ghost of a
smile playing on his lips. "It's fascinating, Tom. The fundamental difference
between you and me... you still haven't figured it out."
"I have no interest in your lectures—AVADA KEDAVRA!"
The sickly green light of the Killing Curse tore through the air, aimed directly
at Grindelwald's face. It was so fast it was little more than a blur.
Grindelwald didn't dodge. He didn't even make a sweeping motion with his wand.
He simply gave the tip a tiny, upward flick. The earth beneath his feet surged,
forming a wall of solid dirt that absorbed the curse and then disintegrated into
a cloud of dust.
The power of the Killing Curse was dissipated, leaving only a few fading green
sparks to flicker out in the haze.
Before the dust could settle, Voldemort struck again.
Seven or eight bolts of black magic shot from his wand simultaneously—warped,
lethal hexes designed to shear a man in half.
Grindelwald moved. He became a streak of lightning across the field. His
movement went far beyond standard Apparition; it was as if the very space
beneath his feet was bending to his will. The black bolts passed through his
afterimage, decapitating a vast swath of wheat, but the man himself was already
behind Voldemort.
Grindelwald tapped his wand into the air.
A silent curse.
The ground beneath Voldemort turned into a churning pool of quicksand.
Simultaneously, the air above him ignited into a roaring fire-dragon that dove
toward the Dark Lord's head.
This was Grindelwald's style: he didn't seek the one-shot kill. He wove
Transfiguration and the Dark Arts into a singular web, forcing his enemy to
defend against multiple vectors at once, waiting for the inevitable crack in
their composure.
Voldemort let out a jagged, angry laugh. "A discarded relic thinks he can stop
the Lord Voldemort?!"
He dissolved into a cloud of black smoke as the earth swallowed his feet, taking
to the air and lashing out with a stream of Fiendfyre. The cursed flames took
the form of a massive serpent that lunged for Grindelwald with a hungry, burning
maw.
Wherever the fire touched, the wheat was reduced to ash and the earth was
scorched black. The air grew thick with the stench of ozone and rot.
Facing the inferno, Grindelwald finally allowed himself a real smile. He held
his wand horizontally with both hands, pressing down on the tip.
The Fiendfyre serpent stopped inches from him, as if it had struck an
unbreakable glass wall. Then, a pulse of invisible magic traveled up the length
of the fire. The roiling black and orange flames began to turn... blue.
In a heartbeat, Voldemort's own curse was subverted. The fire belonged to
Grindelwald now.
"Fiendfyre is a useful tool," Grindelwald noted, sounding like a professor
critiquing a student's essay. "But your technique is... unrefined."
The blue fire roared back toward its creator. Voldemort was forced into another
frantic, smoky evasion. But his injuries were taking their toll. The wound
Dumbledore had carved into his chest tore wider under the strain of the
movement, splattering blood across the charred dirt.
His movements were sluggish. The blue flames grazed his left shoulder, and he
let out a muffled, agonizing roar.
Voldemort spun around, the arrogance in his eyes replaced by a grim realization.
He had made a mistake. He should not have challenged a rested, prepared Gellert
Grindelwald while half-dead from a duel with Albus—especially not on a
battlefield of the other man's choosing.
But Lord Voldemort did not retreat.
He raised his wand with a trembling hand, the tip glowing green as he rained
Killing Curses down on his predecessor. Grindelwald countered with a flurry of
Transfigurations, using the remains of the stone wall to block the green light
while his own blue fire consumed Voldemort's conjured vipers.
The exchange was a blur. To an observer, it was a strobe-light show of lethal
power—curses being launched, parried, and subverted ten times a second.
"IS THIS THE BEST YOU CAN DO, GRINDELWALD?!" Voldemort shrieked.
A dark hex caught Grindelwald across the cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
"You are just a stray animal with no home, Tom. Be off with you, unless you wish
to die in this dirt."
Grindelwald wiped the blood from his face, looking down at Voldemort with a
flicker of genuine pity. The Dark Lord was now on one knee, using his wand as a
crutch to keep himself from collapsing, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.
Grindelwald stood over him, his wand lowering.
"Albus was right to choose that boy," Grindelwald said softly. His voice held no
triumph, only a cold, clinical evaluation. "He saw something greater—something
you will never comprehend, because you lost the capacity for it the moment you
tore your soul apart."
"And you protect him... like a dog..." Voldemort looked up, his face a mask of
blood and hatred. "You are nothing but Dumbledore's pet."
Grindelwald was silent for a long moment. Then, he smiled. It was a look that
Voldemort couldn't begin to understand.
"You're wrong, Tom. I'm not doing this for Albus."
Grindelwald raised his wand, the tip glowing with a brilliant blue light. "I owe
this world a debt. And a man who is too afraid to face death will never
understand the weight of a promise."
At that exact moment, a sharp CRACK echoed through the field.
A figure appeared in the center of the carnage. He held a wand aloft, his face a
landscape of horrors. It looked as though someone had tried to carve a man's
face out of a rotting piece of wood and had given up halfway through. Scars
crisscrossed every inch of his skin, and his nose was a mangled stump.
But the most terrifying feature was the eyes. One was small and dark; the other
was a large, electric-blue orb that spun wildly in its socket, independent of
the other.
"I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU!"
Mad-Eye Moody roared. A jet of green light erupted from his wand.
Grindelwald paused, his own wand-tip tilting slightly. A flash of blue light
followed—Voldemort's body was thrown backward by an invisible force, slamming
into the wheat fields dozens of yards away.
When Justin and Hermione managed to peer through the gaps of the
carriage—despite Marcus's heavy arms pinning them to the floor—only the
silver-haired wizard remained in the field.
He stood with his hands behind his back amidst the scorched earth and drifting
ash. He was staring in the direction of the new Apparition, his back looking as
lonely and as solid as a mountain peak.
Voldemort was gone. Moody was in pursuit.
Whether Voldemort had truly escaped or if Grindelwald had simply grown bored of
the "lesson" remained a mystery.
From the night sky above, a new silhouette emerged.
Albus Dumbledore had arrived.
"He's gone," Dumbledore noted, landing beside his old friend.
"It's difficult to catch a cornered rat when one has been sitting in a cell for
fifty years," Grindelwald replied, looking up at the moon.
Dumbledore watched him, his blue eyes shimmering with a complex light.
"Is that what you believe?" the Headmaster asked softly.
"What? Speak up, Albus, I can't hear you over the wind. I have to go; the boy
has returned, and I still have a lesson to plan. Being a teacher is far more
exhausting than being a Headmaster, believe me."
Without another word, Grindelwald vanished. Dumbledore remained in the field,
staring into the darkness of the horizon, lost in thought.
"What was that?!" Hermione gasped, pulling herself up from under Marcus's grip.
"A strike," Marcus said, his hand still white-knuckled around his wand. He
looked as though he had just seen a ghost. "That duel... it was something from
the old days."
He let out a heavy sigh. "Prepare yourselves, children. If I'm not mistaken,
this is only the beginning. History is a cycle, and it seems the wheel is
turning again."
"What do you mean, sir?" Hermione asked.
"Mr. Marcus means that they have chosen to expose themselves," Justin said. He
looked toward the carriage, where Sean was sitting perfectly still, his eyes
closed.
"The Dark Lord is back. And he knows exactly where we are."