"History is written by the victors. But the margins are usually written in the blood of the men who thought they were gods." — A nameless slave to Marcus Aurelius
January 18, 1970
History of Magic had changed. Under Professor Binns, the subject had been a dry recitation of goblin treaties.
But Professor Thorne did not teach treaties.
Thorne was a vampire. He was ancient, elegant, and moved with a predatory grace that made the hairs on the back of Vega's neck stand up. He kept the classroom in Room 4F in perpetual twilight, heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the winter sun. The air always smelled faintly of iron and old, expensive cologne.
"Put away your quills," Thorne said. His voice was soft, silken, and carried to the back of the room without effort. "I do not want you to write today. I want you to listen."
He paced the front of the room, his long fingers trailing over a map of Europe that appeared to be bleeding ink.
"The term 'Dark Lord' is thrown around with careless abandon by the Ministry," Thorne began. "It is a label they slap on any wizard who becomes inconveniently powerful and morally flexible. But true Dark Lords... they are rare.
He turned to the class. His eyes were red, not glowing, but deep and flat like dried blood.
Thorne tapped the blackboard. A name appeared in jagged white chalk.
Kaeros the Sun-Eater. Greece, 400 B.C.
"Kaeros believed that the sun was a parasitic entity stealing magic from the earth," Thorne murmured. "He created a ritual to extinguish it. He didn't want to rule the world; he wanted to darken it so that wizards would be the only source of light. He gathered thousands of followers—not with promises of gold, but with the promise of necessity."
Vega sat in the second row, his hands folded. He felt the Hum in his blood settle into a cold, attentive rhythm.
Necessity, Vega thought. Create a crisis, then sell the solution.
"He failed, of course," Thorne said dismissively. "He was torn apart by his own ritual. Hubris is the traditional executioner of the ambitious."
Thorne waved his hand. The name vanished. Another appeared.
Malagant the Flesh-Weaver. France, 1340.
"Malagant did not care for light. He cared for biology. He believed the human form was a limitation. He warped his followers into chimeras—beasts of war that could not feel pain."
Barty Crouch Jr. leaned forward, looking fascinated and slightly sick. Cyrus Greengrass looked green.
"Malagant fell because he forgot a simple truth," Thorne said, leaning against his desk. "Monsters have no loyalty. They only have hunger. Eventually, they ate him."
Thorne paused. The room was dead silent. Even the portraits on the walls were listening.
"And then," Thorne whispered, "we have the modern era. The man who nearly broke the Statute of Secrecy, who's desire it was to rip the Veiling asunder."
Thorne stopped in front of the chalkboard. He didn't pick up chalk. He scraped his long, pale fingernail down the slate.
SCREEEEE.
The sound set teeth on edge. Where his nail passed, the black slate bled red script.
GELLERT GRINDELWALD.
A murmur rippled through the class. This was recent history. Many of their grandparents had fought in that war, or funded it.
"You think you know him," Thorne murmured, pacing the aisle. "You see the pictures of the old man in Nurmengard. You see the prisoner."
He stopped next to Cyrus Greengrass's desk. Cyrus stopped breathing.
"But before he was a prisoner, he was a god."
Thorne waved a hand. The shadows in the corners of the room lengthened, twisting into shapes. A silhouette of a man with high hair and a coat that billowed like wings.
"Grindelwald was different," Thorne said. "He did not want to rule the world for the sake of gold, or pure personal greed.....That is the ambition of a thief. Grindelwald wanted to save it. Or so he told himself."
Thorne walked down the center aisle. He stopped next to Vega's desk.
"He was dangerous not because he was cruel, though he was. He was dangerous because he was persuasive. He looked at the Muggles waging their World Wars. He saw their capacity for destruction. And he asked a simple question: 'Why should we bow to sheep?'"
Vega sat in the second row, his hands folded on the desk. He felt the chill in the room.
"He was charismatic," Thorne continued. "He spoke, and thousands listened. He promised a world where wizards walked in the sun, where we did not hide like rats in the cellar."
"He didn't recruit sadists. He recruited idealists. He convinced good men that doing evil things was the only way to be righteous. He had a face. He had a flag. He had a manifesto."
The Greater Good, Vega thought. The most dangerous lie ever told.
Thorne looked around the room.
"But charisma," Thorne whispered, "was merely the invitation. His magic... his magic something other."
Thorne leaned against Vega's desk.
"You are learning to cast Shield Charms. You are learning to stun. Child's play."
Thorne's eyes seemed to glow in the gloom.
"Grindelwald cast the Protego Diabolica. A spell of his own creation that summoned a blue flame. But it was not a mere variation of Incendio; it was a judge. It encircled him, a ring of cold, hungry hell. If you were loyal, you could walk through it unscathed. If you were not..."
Thorne snapped his fingers.
"...you turned to ash before you could scream."
The class was dead silent. Even the portraits on the walls were listening.
"It is said he mastered the Deathly Hallows," Thorne said, and the name of a childhood story sent a ripple through the purebloods in the room. "In Paris, he nearly burned the entire city to the ground with a single spell. It took the combined effort of every Auror in Paris and the alchemist Nicolas Flamel just to contain the fallout."
Thorne looked up at the ceiling, as if remembering.
"He raised the dead. He forced the Qilin to choose him as leader. It was rumoured that he was. Seer of clear vision.."
Thorne's voice dropped an octave.
"He was terrifying not because he was cruel, though he was. He was terrifying because he was magnificent."
"And yet," Thorne said, looking back at the red name on the board. "He fell."
He walked over to Vega's desk.
"Mr. Black. Why did he fall?"
"Because he met his equal," Vega said quietly.
Thorne smiled. It was a thin, bloodless expression.
"Partially. He fell because of Hubris. He believed he was the inevitable future. He believed the world served him."
Thorne turned away, his cape swirling.
"In 1945, Dumbledore met him. It was not a duel. It was a geological event. They say the sky turned purple. They say the magic they unleashed was so dense it warped the ley lines for a hundred miles."
Thorne tapped the board. The red name vanished, replaced by a drawing of a tower.
"Now, he sits in Nurmengard. The castle he built to imprison his enemies, now his own cell. The motto carved over the door: For the Greater Good."
Thorne stood in the center of the room, the blue candlelight making him look like a corpse.
"Remember this," Thorne hissed, and the menace in his voice made the hair on Vega's arms stand up. "Grindelwald was a Titan. He commanded the elements. He bent the world. And he still lost."
Vega stared at the chalkboard.
A manifesto.
He thought of Bellatrix.
She wasn't an idealist. Not really. She was a creature of passion and violence looking for a outlet. But the way she spoke of this new Lord... it wasn't political. Grindelwald had wanted to build a new world order. This new man...
Vega thought of the silver skull pin. The way she had touched it.
Grindelwald offered freedom, Vega thought. Freedom from hiding. But this? This feels different.
Bellatrix hadn't spoken about laws. She hadn't spoken about the Greater Good. She had spoken about Him. As if He were the destination, not the vehicle.
It worried him. A political movement had goals you could negotiate with. A religious movement only had converts and heretics.
"Mr. Black," Thorne's voice cut through his thoughts.
Vega looked up. The vampire was looming over him.
"You are thinking loud enough to disturb the dust," Thorne noted. "Tell me. What is the fatal flaw of the Ideologue?"
Vega sat up straighter. The class watched him.
"Rigidity, sir," Vega said smoothly. "If your power comes from a belief that you are right, you cannot adapt when you are wrong. Grindelwald believed he was the savior. When Dumbledore defeated him; it broke his narrative. His followers scattered because the story ended."
Thorne smiled. It was a menacing expression that showed just a hint of fang.
"Precisely. A movement built on a man dies with the man."
Thorne turned back to the front, his cape swirling.
"But there is another kind of Dark Lord," Thorne said softly, almost to himself. "The kind who does not rely on politics or ideals. The kind who offers nothing but the permission to be terrible."
He erased the board with a wave of his hand.
"We do not have a name for the next one yet," Thorne murmured. "History is slow to name its nightmares. But remember this: The scariest monster is not the one who shouts. It is the one who makes you want to whisper."
The bell rang, a deep, tolling sound that seemed to come from underground.
"Class dismissed," Thorne said, retreating into the shadows of his desk. "Read chapter four on the downfall of Herpo the Foul. And try not to summon anything you cannot put down."
The students filed out, blinking as they stepped from the twilight of the classroom into the torchlit corridor.
"He's creepy," Cyrus whispered, shivering. "Why does Dumbledore let a vampire teach? He probably drinks the detention students."
"He teaches because he remembers," Vega said, adjusting his bag. "He lived through Grindelwald. He probably lived through Malagant."
"He was looking at you," Barty noted, his eyes wide. "When he talked about the next one. He was looking right at you."
"He knows I'm a Black," Vega shrugged, though his heart was beating a little faster. "We have a reputation for producing... colorful characters."
They walked toward the Great Hall for lunch.
Vega touched the Ring on his finger.
The scariest monster is the one who makes you want to whisper.
Thorne knew something. Or suspected it. Grindelwald had been a fire that burned the world. But this Voldemort... he felt more like a cold snap. A frost that crept in under the door and froze you before you realized the temperature had dropped.
Vega didn't know what the endgame was. He didn't know what "Voldemort" actually wanted beyond power. But he knew that whatever it was, it had been enough to make Bellatrix leave her family.
And that was enough to keep him awake at night.
"I'm starving," Cyrus announced. "I hope it's shepherd's pie."
"It's always shepherd's pie on Tuesdays," Vega said, forcing a smile.
But as they walked, he couldn't shake the image of the map in Thorne's classroom. The ink hadn't just been spreading. It had been staining. Deep and permanent.
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