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[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 486 - 490
🕑 Added 2025-02-05 01:00:03 +0000 UTCChapter 486
A war between wizards, or peace with goblins
Dumbledore understood exactly what Grindelwald was asking him.
A war between wizards meant taking direct action against the goblins, ensuring that wizardkind remained dominant.
A peace with goblins, on the other hand, meant acknowledging the current power balance—accepting the fragile coexistence between the goblins and the Magical Congress of America.
But beneath the surface, Grindelwald’s words carried another meaning.
Dumbledore had to make a choice.
Would he fight to the death with Gellert Grindelwald?
Or would they stand together once more?
Dumbledore, still feeling the exhilaration of their battle, already knew his answer.
He looked into Grindelwald’s silver-white pupils and, with a calm and unhurried voice, said, "I choose—"
Washington, D.C.
The vast Wizarding Square in the heart of the Magical Congress was packed with people. A long procession of squib wizards stood in neat lines, holding banners high above their heads.
Golden letters shimmered across the fabric, spelling out:
Welcome to the British Ministry of Magic and the support of Hogwarts!
Above them, enchantments filled the sky with floating flowers, their petals carrying a subtle, enchanting fragrance that drifted through the air.
The entire square buzzed with excitement.
Wizards of all backgrounds talked in eager whispers, barely able to contain their anticipation.
They knew that Albus Dumbledore—the hero who had once defeated Grindelwald, the greatest white wizard of the age—was arriving in America.
He had come as an ally, as a force of hope against the darkness of Grindelwald and his Saints.
How could they not be excited?
With Dumbledore’s arrival, the battle to reclaim the Congress headquarters seemed within reach.
Peace, the peace they had all dreamed of, was finally at hand.
At the forefront of the welcoming delegation stood Chenos, Deputy Speaker of the Magic Congress, and Nass, Elder of the Goblins.
They waited at the very front of the crowd, eager to greet the legendary wizard as soon as he arrived.
Chenos turned slightly toward Nass, lowering his voice. "Nass, is everything settled on your end?"
His tone carried genuine concern.
He couldn’t afford not to be concerned.
If the goblins abandoned their alliance with the Magical Congress, it would be disastrous for him and his position.
If they still upheld the alliance but under new leadership, that too could be a problem.
Would the new goblin representative cooperate with him? Would they have to go through a long, frustrating adjustment period?
Worse still—what if the new leader was actively against him?
No, keeping Nass in power was the best scenario.
Chenos trusted Nass.
They had a mutual understanding.
They shared common interests—whether it was dealing with Grindelwald’s machinations, strengthening the alliance between wizards and goblins, or certain… other arrangements.
Not that there was any unspoken deal between the two.
No, no. Everything was above-board.
Absolutely no secret agreements regarding the influence of goblins in the Magical Congress.
Absolutely no backdoor negotiations regarding economic advantages for certain parties.
Absolutely no discussions about…
Well.
"Don’t worry," Nass replied with a small, knowing smile. "Everything has been handled. For now, we can relax."
He then glanced at Chenos, his voice dropping slightly. "But tell me, Chenos—are you certain Dumbledore can stop Grindelwald for us? What if he only stays for a short time, fights a few battles, and then leaves us to deal with the aftermath?"
Chenos chuckled softly, his expression unreadable. "Don't worry. Everything is in place."
Nass raised an eyebrow. He knew better than to ask for specifics.
Chenos always had plans within plans.
Nass simply nodded.
After all, he had seen Dumbledore and Grindelwald fighting each other with everything they had.
They had battled so fiercely that even if they weren’t mortal enemies, there was no chance they would suddenly unite against the Magical Congress.
Nass was sure of that.
Before he could continue that train of thought, a roar of excitement surged through the crowd.
"Welcome! Welcome! Warm welcome!"
A ripple of movement passed through the square as thousands of wizards turned their attention skyward.
High above, a procession of black carriages descended from the sky, drawn by Thestrals.
The unmistakable mark of Hogwarts.
It was how Hogwarts had always transported its students and visitors—by Thestral-drawn carriages, soaring elegantly through the air.
The Thestrals beat their powerful wings, gliding lower until they landed softly in the square.
Yet, strangely, not a single speck of dust rose from the ground.
The carriages had been magically cleaned beforehand, ensuring they arrived in pristine condition.
The squib wizards waved their flags even harder, some of them nearly in tears.
For them, life was already difficult.
And in times of war, it wasn’t just about hardship—it was about survival.
They longed for peace.
Any kind of peace.
It didn’t matter who brought it, as long as they could live.
For many of them, Dumbledore represented exactly that—a chance at stability, a chance at something better.
As the carriages came to a full stop, the doors swung open.
Tread. Tread. Tread.
A procession of figures stepped out.
At the front was an elderly man in a dark red wizard robe, his pointed hat adorned with the insignia of the Wizengamot.
He carried himself with an air of effortless grace, his kind smile familiar to all.
His long, white beard swayed slightly in the wind.
Albus Dumbledore.
Headmaster of Hogwarts.
President of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.
The greatest white wizard of the age.
Chenos stepped forward, a bright smile on his face.
He reached out, grasping Dumbledore’s hands warmly between his own.
"Welcome, Chief Dumbledore, to the Magical Congress," Chenos said enthusiastically. "I am Chenos Plimpton, Deputy Speaker of the Magical Congress."
His voice rang out clearly, ensuring that all gathered heard his words.
"Chief, your arrival brings light to the darkness that has fallen upon the American wizarding world."
Dumbledore looked down at their joined hands.
Felt the warmth of Chenos’s grip.
Saw the eager smile, the grandeur of the welcome, the carefully crafted ceremony.
And inwardly, he sighed.
Yes, this was Fudge’s work.
Not Cornelius Fudge, of course.
But a man very much like him.
Chenos was playing politics.
With practiced ease, Dumbledore returned the smile. "Your Excellency Speaker, light will indeed come, and the night will eventually fade—but it is through our combined efforts that this will happen."
Their hands parted.
Chenos nodded approvingly, then gestured toward Nass.
" Headmaster Dumbledore," Chenos continued smoothly, "this is Elder Nass of the goblins. He is our ally in the fight against the Saints."
Chenos subtly emphasized the word ally, as if to underline the goblins’ importance in this war.
A reminder to Dumbledore that goblins could not be ignored.
Dumbledore met Nass’s gaze and gave a respectful nod.
He said nothing more.
Chenos gestured toward the waiting path. The squib wizards parted, forming a clear passageway forward.
" Headmaster Dumbledore, please," Chenos said, his tone warm and inviting. "Lunch has been prepared in your honor. The Magical Congress is ready to welcome its friends."
Dumbledore’s eyes swept across the crowd.
He saw the squib wizards watching him with hope.
The young wizards who had nothing left but faith in him.
He felt the weight of their silent prayers.
For just a moment, a shadow passed over his expression.
Chenos, watching closely, caught it.
And he smiled.
Chapter 487
"Here comes Headmaster Dumbledore!"
"Headmaster Dumbledore is here! We're saved!"
"Damn those Saints! Damn Grindelwald!"
As Dumbledore walked along the grand avenue, lined with squib wizards holding colorful welcome flags, he felt an immense weight settle upon his shoulders.
The wizards in the crowd were waving, cheering, crying—pouring out all the fear, suffering, and desperation they had endured during this war.
Dumbledore could see it in their eyes.
He was not just a leader to them. He was their last hope.
If they lost that hope, they would collapse.
The burden of expectation pressed against his heart, but he did not falter. This was not a pressure born of magic—it was the will of the people, the faith of those who had nothing else left.
A dark wizard might have dismissed their emotions, but Dumbledore?
He could not.
He would not.
Even if the weight of their hopes crushed him, he had to carry it.
Before long, Chenos led Dumbledore, the supporting Aurors, and other wizards to the towering marble entrance of the Magic Congress Headquarters.
Standing in formation outside the grand doors were dozens of wizards.
Not just any wizards—Aurors.
The war heroes of the Magical Congress.
They bore their scars proudly.
Some had bronze and gold medals pinned to their uniforms, a testament to their valor. Others wore their injuries like badges—missing limbs, enchanted prosthetics of wood, metal, and jade replacing what had been lost in battle.
Their presence alone spoke volumes.
They were the ones who had fought.
They were the ones who had suffered.
And they were the ones who still stood, ready to lay down their lives for wizardkind.
Behind Dumbledore, Auror Alastor Moody took in the sight and felt a rare flicker of respect.
Like him, these wizards had fought at the front lines, facing horrors most would never understand.
They had given everything for peace.
For that, Moody could sympathize with them.
Chenos stepped forward, his voice ringing across the square.
"Fellow wizards of the Magical Congress! This is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore! With his arrival, the fall of Grindelwald and his Saints is within reach!"
He gestured toward the Aurors.
"Your bravery, your sacrifices—they will not be in vain."
Chenos then turned to Dumbledore.
" Headmaster, these are the heroes of our Congress. They have waited a long time to meet you."
"Would you care to say a few words?"
Dumbledore hesitated for only a moment.
He looked into the eyes of these wizards, these survivors.
He saw the resolve in their expressions—the hope, the expectation.
Then, he nodded.
But before he spoke, he did something else.
Dumbledore walked toward them.
One by one, he looked at their faces, their wounds, their missing limbs.
He saw them.
Then, he raised his wand.
A soft hum of magic filled the air.
A radiant, milky-white glow spread from the tip of his wand, swirling into an intricate pattern before cascading into the sky.
As the energy gathered, the air became heavy with warmth, like the presence of something sacred.
Those with a sharp magical sense immediately recognized it—the magic of the unicorn.
A spell of healing and purification.
The glowing light spun in place for a moment, then broke into countless droplets.
Milky-white rain began to fall, gently descending upon the Aurors.
The moment the droplets touched their skin, warmth spread through their bodies.
Wounds tingled as they knit together.
Old injuries eased as their pain faded.
For the first time in months—some of them could truly breathe.
It wasn't a miracle. It wouldn't restore what had been lost.
But it was something.
Something human.
As the last drops of the enchanted rain dissolved, a quiet sense of peace settled over the warriors.
For the first time in a long time, they could simply stand there, feeling whole, if only for a moment.
Dumbledore, breathing slightly heavier from the exertion, finally spoke.
"You are all fighter," he said softly.
"Every wound you bear, every scar, is a mark of your sacrifice for peace. It is a testament to your courage."
He took a slow breath.
"The horrors of war... I do not need to speak of them. You have seen them. You have lived them."
"But peace—true peace—is not won easily. It is forged in battle, in sacrifice, in resolve."
"Peace is now."
Silence.
Then, one by one, the Aurors raised their wands in salute.
A quiet acknowledgment. A sign of trust.
Dumbledore returned the gesture.
Chenos watched it all unfold, the corners of his lips curling upward.
Beside him, Nass, the goblin elder, gave Chenos a sly thumbs-up.
He understood what was happening.
Chenos had masterfully trapped Dumbledore in expectation.
First, the desperate pleas of the squib wizards.
Then, the unwavering faith of the Aurors.
Soon, the leaders of the Magical Congress would add their voices.
The entire American wizarding world was placing its hopes on Dumbledore.
And Dumbledore—the greatest white wizard—could not walk away.
He would stay.
He would fight.
And he would bear the weight of this war, whether he wanted to or not.
Nass chuckled inwardly.
Moral entrapment.
A brilliant move.
He wiped at his eyes dramatically, pretending to be moved by Dumbledore’s speech.
After all, if Chenos could act, then so could he.
Goblin Palace
In the dimly lit throne room, the Goblin King, Turan, sat motionless on his golden throne.
Before him, a curtain of light shimmered, displaying the unfolding events at the Magic Congress.
The screen had a faint yellow tint, a magical enhancement designed to filter out distortions.
Turan did not focus on Dumbledore.
He watched everything else.
He searched for them.
The Saints. Grindelwald.
Dumbledore’s arrival was too perfect.
A grand welcome. A ceremonial embrace.
And yet, Grindelwald had not appeared.
That was not possible.
Turan’s fingers tightened around his scepter.
Something was wrong.
The Goblin King did not trust coincidences.
Then—
In the pale yellow vision of the light curtain—
A figure shrouded in black light appeared.
The room chilled instantly.
Turan’s eyes narrowed.
Grindelwald.
Chapter 488
Interesting.
Grindelwald, blending seamlessly into the crowd of wizards, let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a faint smirk. His sharp eyes flickered with intrigue as he absorbed the grand welcome ceremony unfolding before him. Yet, beneath the spectacle, a nagging sensation clawed at the edges of his consciousness.
Someone was watching him.
Ordinarily, being spied upon was nothing worth mentioning. It was expected, even trivial. But what caught Grindelwald off guard was the fact that, despite his immense power, he couldn't pinpoint the observer’s location. That was unusual.
His gaze darkened slightly as thoughts flashed through his mind. Then, with barely a twitch of his fingers, the pupil of his right eye began to glow with a faint silver light.
His wizard talent activated.
The power of fate silently expanded, spreading like an invisible tide, searching—feeling—for traces, frequencies, connections.
Seconds passed, stretching into moments, and Grindelwald’s intrigue slowly gave way to a solemn realization.
The King of Goblins.
Though he still couldn’t locate the exact source of the spying, the deeper he probed, the more evident it became—only one entity in the world could monitor him like this, someone hidden in the depths. It wasn’t Lockhart; if Lockhart wanted to spy on him, he would have done so openly, face to face. No, there was only one possibility.
The King of Goblins.
Slippery little creature.
Grindelwald mused inwardly, his expression unreadable.
He had heard murmurs of this elusive figure even while confined in Nurmengard. Reports from his devoted Saints spoke of a goblin, an unparalleled master of alchemy and magic, rising to prominence in the shadows. But what piqued his curiosity the most was the goblin’s ability to unite scattered goblin factions across Germany, France, and beyond.
The Saints had prepared to strike.
Yet, the moment their preparations reached a critical stage, the goblin vanished. No traces, no ripples, no clues.
The Saints did not pursue further, and neither had Grindelwald. Fate did not pull him towards the matter, and in the grand scheme of things, the goblin’s existence had little impact—until now.
Who would have thought the goblin had set foot in the United States, carving out an even greater empire?
The American Wizards Bank Association.
Grindelwald had to admit—it was a brilliant move. The goblin had embedded himself so deeply into the infrastructure of the American wizarding world that his influence had reached terrifying levels. He was no mere goblin.
He was a king.
Grindelwald did not regret letting the goblin slip away back then, but he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer audacity and cunning of his unseen rival. It was almost amusing.
Even goblins are producing such extraordinary figures these days.
On the wizarding side, Lockhart had emerged, along with his gifted students. Wanda, especially, had already unlocked her talent, proving to be a force in her own right. The wizarding world was no longer stagnant. New powers were rising, forces shifting, pieces moving on the board.
A golden age was approaching.
The only downside was that he was growing old. But time was still on his side. He could live for many more years. He had more magic to study, more knowledge to uncover.
For now, however, he had more immediate concerns.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he acknowledged the truth—he couldn’t locate the spy. That fact alone made his chest tighten in silent frustration. After another brief search, he finally let out a soft exhale and waved his sleeve dismissively.
Whoosh.
In an instant, his figure vanished.
No point in playing a spectacle for a goblin.
The squib wizard standing beside him blinked in confusion, as though momentarily aware of a presence vanishing beside him. Yet, as if a subtle spell had brushed against his mind, the thought faded, and he returned to waving his red flag, caught up in the excitement of welcoming Dumbledore.
Ilvermorny, Charms Laboratory.
The vast chamber was filled with an eerie quiet.
In the center of the research room, ten wizards stood in a solemn formation, each clad in gray wizard robes. Emblazoned on their chests was a pale golden emblem—an intricate symbol composed of a triangle, a sphere, and a wooden stick.
The mark of the Saints.
At the forefront, a wizard named Finos took a step forward. His sharp gaze swept across the gathered followers before he spoke in a steady, commanding tone.
“While I have no doubt in our abilities, I must emphasize the importance of our task.”
His voice turned sharper as he continued, “The leader has summoned us for a singular purpose—to uncover the traces of those who hide in the shadows. To break through the veils that obscure our vision.”
“To remove obstacles that stand in the way of our great cause—the unification of the wizarding world.”
The moment those words fell, an electrified silence spread across the room. Then, with renewed determination, the assembled Saints met each other’s gazes, silently vowing to fulfill their mission at all costs.
They had been chosen.
Their loyalty to the Saints, to the leader, was absolute.
For the greater good.
A soft rustle of fabric broke the silence.
Without warning, Grindelwald appeared before them, draped in a pristine white wizard robe. His presence alone commanded immediate reverence.
“I require your assistance,” he stated smoothly. “There is a spell I wish to complete—one that will demand all of our efforts.”
At his words, the Saints, who only moments ago had been brimming with a cold, unwavering resolve, transformed into eager devotees, nodding fervently, their voices overlapping in reassurances.
“Leader, just tell us what you need!”
“We will spare no effort!”
“You can count on us!”
Finos, watching this sudden outburst, inwardly cursed. Show-offs.
But he quickly straightened himself, adding his voice to the chorus of devotion. It was best not to be seen as hesitant in moments like these. Even the slightest misstep could lead to isolation, or worse—exclusion.
Grindelwald, of course, saw through their thoughts. But he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his hand, casting a silent spell.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Blue flames erupted from the ground, flickering like liquid fire. The flames spiraled upward, forming a perfect circle around the gathered wizards. Then, with a mere press of his foot, Grindelwald sent the flames weaving outward in strange, intricate patterns.
The Saints tensed.
They recognized this magic. Fiendfyre.
Ordinarily, Fiendfyre was an uncontrollable force, a deadly manifestation of raw, malevolent energy. But this—this was different. This fire moved with precise intent, bending to Grindelwald’s will.
Then, the final piece.
A deep violet wand appeared in Grindelwald’s grip, sweeping through the air as he etched complex runes into existence. His right eye gleamed with silver-white light as he channeled the accumulated power of fate into the spell.
The blue flames flickered—then changed.
From blue to silver-white.
Unlike ordinary fire, this new flame carried no heat. Instead, it emanated an unsettling chill, an eerie stillness that sent a ripple of unease through the assembled wizards.
Grindelwald spoke at last.
“Now, listen.”
His voice rang clear as he called forth the name.
“Turan, King of Goblins.”
At that moment, the flames surged. Within the swirling silver fire, a visage emerged—a goblin, crowned in black and gold, clad in dark wizard robes, gripping a gleaming metal scepter.
Chapter 489
Goblin Palace.
Turan, the King of Goblins, sat upon his throne, his sharp golden eyes fixed on the swirling cascade of images before him. The magical display flickered, shifting seamlessly between various scenes. Dumbledore and Chenos observing the Magic Congress.
Goblin alchemists hammering away at an enchanted weapon. The chaos of battle as goblins and wizards united in ambushes against the Saints. And, most crucially, wizards within the Saints whispering about matters of grave importance.
Every time the vision changed, the red circular mark between Turan's eyebrows pulsed with a faint golden glow. However, whenever he attempted to spy on the Saints' gatherings, the light flared violently, blinking at an increasingly rapid pace.
It was a sign.
The deeper he probed, the more power it consumed.
Much like how Grindelwald could wield destiny to glimpse into hidden corners of the world, Turan had mastered the power of the Disk of Fate, a relic that granted him unparalleled foresight.
As long as Grindelwald didn’t take great pains to shroud his actions, Turan could always peer through the veil, supplementing his observations with the goblins' formidable intelligence network.
In the silent war between the two camps, knowledge was the greatest weapon.
As Turan observed the Magic Congress, attempting to trace Dumbledore’s exact whereabouts, the red mark between his brows began to burn. A warning.
Then—
Pain.
The mark flared uncontrollably, and without warning, wisps of gray mist erupted from its center. The cursed fog coiled around Turan’s face like creeping vines, seeping into his skin with unnatural speed. A suffocating, dark energy spread across his features, corrupting the very essence of his being.
Caught off guard, Turan barely had time to react. His vision blurred as gray and black blemishes spread from his face to his chest and limbs, sinking deeper with every second. His breathing grew ragged.
But he was no ordinary goblin.
Summoning every ounce of his strength, he forced his consciousness into the Disk of Fate. The red mark upon his forehead trembled violently before bursting forth, sending a circular, rune-covered artifact spinning into the air.
A disk of pure destiny, bathed in a crimson and gold glow.
Golden light pulsed across its surface, cascading like liquid fire, thick and overwhelming. Merely gazing upon it would make an ordinary wizard feel disoriented, as if drowning in an endless flood of knowledge too vast to comprehend.
Then, just as suddenly as the curse had spread, the gray mist began to recede.
The disk, floating above Turan’s head, rained down threads of golden light, each droplet embedding itself into his form, gradually purging the foreign affliction. With a sharp gasp, Turan felt the tight grip of the curse loosen. The pain dulled, the spreading corruption halted. But the damage was done.
He raised a hand, touching his face. His fingertips brushed against remnants of the gray-black markings still etched into his skin.
Rage flickered in his golden eyes.
Grindelwald.
The power of fate was unmistakable. The curse had his mark all over it.
The audacity of that man! To strike so boldly against him, to attempt such an insidious attack—
Fine.
If Grindelwald wished to play this game, Turan would answer in kind.
Without hesitation, he tightened his grip around his Black-Gold Scepter, channeling the vast reserves of accumulated destiny stored within the Goblin Palace. A surge of golden energy rippled outward, condensing into physical form.
Blades. Hammers. Crowns. Jewels.
They were not mere trinkets, but legendary goblin-forged artifacts, each possessing immense power. Artifacts that had once shaped the course of history.
Now, they would serve a new purpose.
As Turan swung the scepter, these golden relics morphed, melting and reshaping into something far deadlier. Arrowheads. Dozens. Hundreds.
The Disk of Fate, sensing its master’s intent, pulsed once more. Gray-black raindrops, symbols of misfortune, seeped from the disk and soaked into the newly-formed arrows. The pristine gold tarnished into obsidian-streaked black-gold.
The arrows trembled, eager for their targets.
Through the ever-watching Disk of Fate, images of the Saints flickered before Turan’s eyes—his enemies, Grindelwald’s devoted followers. They had no idea what was coming.
His lips curled.
“Fire.”
Turan’s roar echoed through the chamber as he hurled his scepter forward.
The air trembled.
The black-gold arrows, imbued with both destiny and misfortune, vanished in a blur. One by one, they shot forth, cutting through space itself, each guided by an unseen force towards its designated prey.
They would strike without mercy.
As the last of the arrows disappeared into the void, the Disk of Fate once again descended upon Turan, wrapping him in golden light.
Grindelwald was trying to kill him.
The curse that had invaded his body was no simple spell—it was a calculated assassination attempt, one that continued to linger, gnawing away at his very existence. Even now, he could feel it, an invisible dagger buried in his soul.
But he was not without defenses.
For now, the Disk of Fate would sustain him. Its power would continue to repel the curse, ensuring he survived.
But survival alone was not enough.
Turan clenched his fists. He wanted blood.
Yet, he knew he could not afford outright war. Not yet.
Grindelwald had the Saints, but Turan had the goblins. If he mobilized his forces now, he could drown the Saints in an unrelenting tide of steel and magic. However, that would only serve to strengthen Dumbledore’s position. If goblin forces became too aggressive, Dumbledore might see no choice but to align himself with Grindelwald, an outcome Turan could not allow.
He needed to strike hard, but not too deep. Inflict wounds, but not war.
He had to make Grindelwald pause.
The game had changed, and Turan would make sure his opponent understood that this was no longer a one-sided hunt.
Ilvermorny.
Within the castle’s hallowed halls, the daily rhythm of academia continued. Saints, disguised as esteemed professors, instructed young wizards in the arts of magic.
Potions, spellcraft, alchemy, magical creatures—each subject was taught with a careful hand, molding the next generation of witches and wizards. After all, these students were more than just pupils. They were future Saints.
One such professor, Wayne, stood before his class, his sharp gaze sweeping over the young witches and wizards before him. The lesson for today—
The Elixir of Joy.
“There is one core principle to refining the Elixir of Joy,” Wayne declared, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Take out your notebooks and write it down.”
The students obeyed instantly, quills scratching against parchment.
“If you forget this, you will be standing in class for the next week,” Wayne added smoothly.
A collective shudder ran through the room. They had seen it happen before. Some unfortunate students had been sentenced to weeks of standing, forced to endure aching legs while absorbing every word of Wayne’s lessons.
Wayne’s expression remained impassive as he continued, demonstrating each precise movement in brewing the potion.
Then—
Boom!
Chapter 490
Boom!
"Protego!"
The instant the potion bottle containing the Joy Potion shattered, Wayne instinctively cast the Protego to shield himself.
However—
Buzz!
A strange sensation surged through his body as his magic momentarily faltered. It wasn’t much, just a fleeting obstruction, but it was enough to disrupt the flow of his spell.
Wayne barely had time to process what was happening before he felt the sharp sting of glass fragments slicing across his face. A few shards even flew dangerously close to his eyes. He instinctively shut them tight, his modified vision preventing him from being temporarily blinded. If not for the enhancements he had made to his eyes, the damage could have been severe.
Enemy attack!
That was Wayne's first thought. But the idea barely took root before he dismissed it.
Why would the heart of Ilvermorny—Grindelwald’s stronghold—be so easily infiltrated? And even if it was an attack, it was far too weak to be effective. Something didn’t add up.
Then another possibility struck him like a bolt of lightning.
A curse.
His mind rapidly pieced it together. Had the Magical Congress cursed him? It wasn’t entirely out of the question—after all, he had crossed paths with numerous Aurors and had made more than a few enemies.
Wasting no time, Wayne ignored the astonished expressions of the young wizards around him. Muttering under his breath, he cast several diagnostic spells upon himself.
The little wizards, who had been watching the scene unfold, stared wide-eyed at their renowned Potions Professor.
Had Professor Wayne just... blown up a potion bottle?
Their jaws hung open in disbelief. It was rare for a professor to make such a mistake—especially one as formidable as Wayne.
Their minds raced. If any of them had caused an explosion like this, they would have been writing essays until their hands cramped, or worse, forced to stand in detention for a week straight.
And yet, here was Wayne, their strict, all-knowing professor, hurriedly casting spells on himself like a nervous student.
Just as some of them stifled their laughter, a sudden explosion rocked the air.
Boom!
A deafening roar echoed from outside the classroom.
The little wizards let out shrieks of terror, their previous amusement vanishing in an instant.
Wayne's eyes snapped toward the source of the sound, his instincts now screaming at him. This time, there was no mistaking it—this was an attack.
A real one.
"Hide! Get down, now!" he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
With a flick of his wand, a powerful Iron Armor Charm enveloped the students, forming an invisible barrier around them. Then, with another wave, he cast a complex Transfiguration spell, causing the young wizards to vanish from sight.
Relief settled over him—at least the students were temporarily safe.
His attention shifted to the window. Without hesitation, he pointed his wand, casting a shattering spell. The glass shattered into glistening fragments, and Wayne leaped out.
Whoever the enemy was, he needed to find them—and fast.
More importantly, he needed to capture someone. Interrogation would be the fastest way to get answers.
But the moment his left foot hit the ground—
Puff!
Wayne's foot sank into the earth as though it were quicksand.
His body lurched forward, but he reacted instantly, casting a levitation spell. He barely managed to steady himself before he could have face-planted into the dirt like a fool.
Another anomaly. Another calculated interference.
Wayne’s heart pounded. This wasn’t just an attack—someone was deliberately targeting him.
But before he could dwell on it, the sound of multiple explosions rang out from different parts of the castle.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Wayne’s head snapped up. From various classrooms, other professors burst onto the scene.
Some of them looked even worse than him, their faces marred with blood, their robes singed from magical backfire.
His mind raced. If this was an attack, then where were the attackers?
Not a single enemy had shown themselves.
Before he could question it further, a deep chime resonated through the air.
Boom!
A strange sensation washed over Wayne, like a cool breeze sweeping through his body. A sudden euphoria followed, as though he had just taken a sip of the most potent elixir. His limbs felt lighter, his mind oddly at ease.
The other professors, too, seemed momentarily dazed by the mysterious effect.
Then, as if answering an unspoken command, a powerful presence manifested before them.
A figure cloaked in black, exuding an aura so overwhelming that the very air seemed to thrum with power.
Grindelwald.
"Leader!"
The gathered wizards immediately bowed their heads in reverence, their voices echoing in unison.
But Wayne barely heard them. His attention was solely fixed on the man before him.
Grindelwald’s expression was grim, his face set in stone.
And in his eyes—those piercing, calculating eyes—Wayne glimpsed something he rarely saw.
Distress.
For Grindelwald, a man who thrived on control, to show such emotion, the situation had to be worse than Wayne had anticipated.
Wayne clenched his fists.
Grindelwald’s gaze swept over Ilvermorny, his vision no longer confined to mere sight. He was looking into the very fabric of destiny itself.
Golden threads wove through the air, flickering and twisting—signs of the trajectory of fate shifting chaotically.
Ilvermorny was in turmoil.
If Grindelwald had not been here to stabilize the sea of destiny, the repercussions would have been devastating.
His wand, a lavender masterpiece pulsating with ancient magic, twitched in his grasp. With a series of precise movements, he traced luminous golden runes in the air. Each rune drifted down like falling embers, merging with the erratic sea of fate, gradually calming its tumultuous waves.
After what felt like an eternity, the invisible chaos subsided.
Grindelwald let out a slow breath, his gaze lingering on the now-settling energies. Then, without a word, he vanished into thin air.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Wayne exchanged glances with the other professors, the tension still thick in the air.
No one spoke.
Then, as if coming to a silent agreement, they each turned and hurried back to their classrooms. There was no time to waste—they had to check on the students.
No matter how powerful Grindelwald was, they couldn’t ignore the possibility that the young wizards had been affected.
After all, even raising a cat for years could create attachment—let alone nurturing young wizards.
Meanwhile, in the Magical Congress.
Auror Comfort Room.
A secluded wing of the Congress, one that most outsiders never set foot in.
This was the resting place for Aurors who had been severely wounded in battle.
It was more than just a hospital ward—it was a sanctuary for those who had sacrificed everything.
Some had lost limbs. Others had suffered irreversible magical injuries.
Each and every one of them bore scars—both physical and unseen.
At this moment, Chenos guided Dumbledore through the chamber, introducing the fallen warriors with a solemn expression.
"Headmaster, this is Jaime," Chenos said, gesturing toward an Auror lying on the bed, his leg amputated below the knee.
"He was hit by a dark curse while fighting the Saints. If we hadn’t severed his leg in time, he would have been completely crippled."
Chenos clenched his fists, his voice thick with barely restrained fury.
The hatred toward the Saints and Grindelwald was palpable in the air.
Dumbledore, ever the observer, took it all in with quiet contemplation.
The depth of this hatred—it was too uniform. Too precise. It felt less like natural resentment and more like... something cultivated.
Something designed.
A trace of goblin magic lingered in the air.
The American wizarding world had progressed more than he expected.
Chenos continued his introductions, subtly reinforcing the image of the Saints as heartless monsters.
Then, without missing a beat, he led Dumbledore toward their next destination.
"The young wizards," Chenos murmured.
Dumbledore’s interest piqued.
The youth held the future. If Chenos intended to show him the next generation, it meant he sought influence.
Chenos wanted him tied to their cause.
With Dumbledore on their side, they would have an advantage not just against Grindelwald, but against the goblins, the Saints, and whatever threats lay ahead.
But just as they neared the next chamber, Dumbledore's voice rang out.
"Chenos, how is your Speaker Jack doing now?"
