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Chapter 45- Magic and Grindelwald
AN: Beta'd by Basilisk, Shiva, and Kaladin1707.
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Hi, again. It's me. I've decided to live for another day and come back to you all with a new updates. Ch.47, 48 will be posted tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!
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Silence was Harry's sole companion on his way back. With the castle asleep and its corridors quiet, his soft footsteps provided the only distraction from the memories of the past hour. Under the dim light of Hogwarts' lamps, his lone shadow trudged on with slumped shoulders, carrying the agony of an old man.
His talks with Dumbledore had left him more hollowed and drained than enlightened. The memories were still fresh within his mind, stuck on an automated loop as he kept replaying them again and again, hoping to divine some random piece of wisdom…a sudden understanding, perhaps, of what exactly fate needed from him…
As was Harry's demand, Dumbledore had poured his heart out to him; from his heaviest regrets to his hopes for the future, the old man had kept nothing hidden.
But out of them all, there was only one piece of info that pecked at Harry like an incessant insect—resounding within his brain without stop.
"It is unfair, I know, after everything you've been through," Dumbledore had started, a morose sadness in his bowed head, eyes gentle and helpless. "but I believe the last piece of Voldemort's soul...is inside you, Harry."
The info hadn't taken the wind out of him or anything. He hadn't wasted any time in denial, hadn't shied away from the truth even though it hit harder than a raging troll.
He'd simply acknowledged the fact with a sigh, accepting the confirmation of his long thought suspicion.
And in that moment, it had all suddenly clicked in place, the answer staring back at his face—having waited a long time to be accepted. And then the evidence came pouring out from his own memories; the connection between Voldemort and him had always seemed too strong to be natural, the ability to use Parseltongue—when neither of his parents' families were known for such a skill—lent further damning evidence.
It made sense then why he'd never found that last Horcrux now…cause deep down within his heart, Harry himself hadn't wished to find it.
But there was no denying it, once it was practically thrown in his face.
The old man had gone on to describe the Prophecy in full, along with all the educated guesses he'd made from it.
'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...
and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…
and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
One thing Harry instantly picked on was the last bit of wording. 'For neither can live while the other survives…'
The one that he remembered—even more clearly now, thanks to this body's exceptional mind—stated: 'For neither can die while the other survives…'
Which meant that this was a different prophecy, one where Voldemort has no reason to preserve his life.
'Well, at least this way I won't have to be the last person standing if shit goes south again.'
Not everything was bad though. At least, according to Dumbledore. The memories washed over his mind once more, torturing his soul with questions.
"So... dying is my only way out of this?" Harry asked, trying hard to keep the bitterness at bay. Sadly, his hollow chuckle may have given him away.
"No, Harry." Dumbledore's eyes went alight with fire. "I'm certain there is another way!"
Harry shook his head. "I appreciate the attempt, but I don't need false hope, old man. You said so yourself, we need to destroy every one of his Horcruxes for this to work. And if I'm one of them..."
"But see, If my other self was anything like me then he would've most definitely thought so too!" Dumbledore crowed, working himself up. "but considering how horribly his plans failed in the end, I'm sure it is not the answer. Which means there was another way to do this all along."
"We don't know that." Harry denied the twinkle of hope in his heart. "I told you already, I didn't accept my death then. I let my friends talk me out of it. Perhaps, if I'd actually had the guts..."
"But my dear boy, don't you see? If you truly were on the right path, you wouldn't need to walk to your own death. My lesser self tried to manipulate the Prophecy, control your fate...and it didn't work out. Which means there was another way to end that. Another way than surrendering to your enemy. A way that must be found, and quickly."
Harry chuckled, slowly letting himself take comfort in the lifeline thrown at him. "And how would we go about finding it?"
Now Dumbledore grew uncertain. "I... honestly do not know anymore. The only thing I do know is that it is not 'We', but you. Only you can find the way, Harry. It has already been proven that my meddling ruined the world once before. Now, I'm afraid to say I find myself no longer trustworthy at making plans. I cannot let my interference cost this world, and I do not trust myself not to unknowingly bungle things up again. Which is why you must take the charge. So this is my vow...I shall take a step back and give you the reins. You plan, I follow."
Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. Sleep was likely to elude him tonight. With the upcoming task of training the Auror corps, the absolutely bonkers Quad-Wizard tournament, the offer to join the Order, and culling the Slytherin house, there was simply too much to do and too little time to waste.
His feet automatically set him on the path to the Gryffindor's common room, and he caught himself just before taking the stairs to the tower. Sighing again, he navigated his way back and forced his legs to make for the Dungeons.
'Merlin, this is going to suck.'
Not that he truly cared about the Houses any more. He just wanted a warm pillow to rest his head on and let go of the demons haunting his mind free.
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Damien Picquery lay seated upon the high-back teak wood chair befitting his title of the High Prince, awaiting the arrival of his young guest.
It had been well over two hours of waiting by now, and he was honestly thinking about postponing the entire thing for tomorrow morning. What in the world could Potter possibly be doing—locked inside the Headmaster's office for two bloody hours—was an entirely different thing, and something his sleepy brain didn't quite care about right now.
All he cared about was to clear the air with the kid, remind everyone in the house—who'd begun doubting his power after Potter's blatant show of contempt—of who exactly was in charge of Slytherin, and throw himself on his comfy bed for the rest of the night.
Unfortunately, not everyone cared for his plans right now.
"How much longer?" His younger sister whined from beside him, uncaring of his authority. She was the only one allowed to get away with it…which was probably why she was the only one who did it again and again.
Casting a casual tempus, Damien sighed. "Fifteen minutes more, and then we'll leave."
His sister cheered with a very tired 'Yay', and an extra long yawn.
The rest of his inner circle exchanged amused looks, some snickering outright.
'She's the only one allowed.' Damien forcibly reminded himself. Plus, most of the people currently around him were more friends than rivals anyway. He didn't need to maintain the infallible and mighty image of the High Prince here.
Not like he could actually punish his sister seriously. Some sacrifices had to be made if he didn't want to spend his winter holidays getting his ears chewed off by his parents—who just loved doting on the stupid hellion—unconcerned of the title he'd earned with so much sweat and vigor.
Which was sort of understandable. Being from America—having not attended Hogwarts—neither knew just how special the Prince of Slytherin title truly was. And not just a prince of Slytherin, but the High prince of Slytherin; the leader of the seven Princes of Slytherin—or Princesses as the female members liked to remind him, though he felt Prince could be used interchangeably in this case—all of whom made up his inner circle.
They were the nobility of Slytherin, the highest amongst the highest. They maintained the House's image; from politics to Quidditch to Dueling. They had a solemn duty to protect the best interests of Slytherin, and only the Head of House could hope to contest their ruling.
But while his parents' ignorance can be excused, the same couldn't be said for the rest of the house. Not after everything he'd done to achieve his place in the grand scheme of things.
As an American, while he wasn't treated quite as poorly as a muggle-born upon arrival, he was still looked down on more than his station deserved. American or English, he was still a pureblood after all, and should've been treated like a Nobility.
Alas, reality was often disappointing.
It had taken seven grueling years of image-building, constant back-to-back wins in Hogwarts' yearly dueling tournament, and keeping his allies close and enemies closer, before he finally gained enough clout to declare himself High Prince.
And he was not about to be undone by a 14-year-old who somehow hoodwinked the entire world into thinking of him as some kind of Messiah. Even his own housemates, known for their cunning and ambition, were somehow swept into this drivel.
But Damien knew better. The sole reason his family had run away from America—forced to take shelter in England, under the protection of Dumbledore—was due to the sheer terror Grindelwald created at the start of his conquest. To hear a child—and an awkward, quiet, and somewhat cowardly child at that—had been able to fight Grindelwald equally was...
Absurd. More than absurd. The boy had been a decent enough dueler for his year—from what Damien occasionally observed—but unless he'd been possessed by the spirit of Merlin, there was simply no logical way for him to even survive a stray Lumos from Grindelwald.
Or, at least, he didn't believe so. It wasn't completely out of the question for him to have improved over the Summer of course, especially if the rumors of him staying with Bellatrix Black held any truth. And if his public performance in the European Championship was taken into account, Damien could almost believe that Potter had somehow found a rare motivation inside him and was blessed by magic for his efforts, becoming possibly one of the best Duelers in Hogwarts' over the course of a month.
But to beat Grindelwald!? No bloody way!
Damien had been willing to give him the benefit of doubt however, planning to keep quiet until the kid either gets proven as a fraud or blows everyone's socks and knickers off by genuinely being the second coming of Merlin.
That was until the Potter brat went and spat over his perfectly well-intended offer of joining the high table—he just wanted to use the boy's fame for his own purpose really—by being a thickheaded klutz.
'All the fame must've gotten to his pretty head.'
"What are you even planning to do?" His sister questioned again, standing up to pace the floor. "You realize he's the head of Aurors right? Not just our Housemate? Yeah, I know how weird that sounds but please tell me you aren't actually thinking of beating him into submission or something…"
The rest of the group perked up, glancing at him sideways, the same question in their eyes.
Damien grimaced. While he didn't actually believe Potter held any true power, and was likely more of a figurehead being used by the Ministry—just like Damien had originally planned—it was still a risk engaging a government official, especially someone of Potter's reputation, in a potentially volatile situation.
Yet, he couldn't let this go unanswered. Damien hadn't achieved his position by being a knucklehead. He knew if he let this fester, Slytherin would soon be divided into two groups with the new one following this powerful rebel who'd dared to dismiss the High Prince so publicly.
"Not if I have to." He commented wisely after a moment of silence. "I would prefer to keep this quiet and civil, but it depends entirely on Potter. Worse comes to worst, I'll just scare him a little without magic, which shouldn't get us in any serious legal trouble if he does go complaining. Maybe give him a slap or two—"
Sarah snorted, loud and clear, too full of contempt for him to ignore. Damien flashed his sister a look of warning but like always, she continued heedless. "Have you actually seen him yet? Like, closely? 'Cause he looks strong enough to twist you like a twig. And yes, I mean without magic."
His eyes flashed but before he could rebuke her, another voice piped in with amusement, sighing almost dreamily. "Well, I wouldn't mind him twisting me a little, if you know what I mean."
Damien snapped to the girl, face scrunching up in disgust and incredulity, "Bella! He's three years younger than you!"
"I know, right?" His sister nodded at Isabella, making him blanch in horror, completely forgetting his earlier indignation as she turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "And just for the record, he looks quite a bit older than you. I don't know what they've been feeding him over the Summer, but it's clearly working wonders."
A few girls, and a few grudging boys, nodded in agreement.
Before he could properly realize the fact that his inner circle might not be so in tune with his intentions as he'd originally believed, the door to the common room opened with a dramatic thud, finally bringing an end to their wait as the figure of Potter came sauntering in.
Damien couldn't help but look the kid up and down, searching for the truth behind his sister's words. He had to admit, calling him a kid would be kind of unfair to himself now…unless he was willing to think of himself as someone even younger.
It wasn't just physically either…it was in the way he slowly drifted in—not even glancing at the group waiting at the high table—his shoulders slumped as if carrying some great, immovable weight.
Potter certainly looked the part of a great leader burdened by the weight of war.
'...And his physique probably contributes a lot too.' Damien reluctantly admitted.
Not only had he somehow managed to shoot up like a weed, but he'd also developed some very well-defined muscles that made Damien's heart roar with envy.
To Damien, it almost seemed as impossible as his magical growth really. As far as he knew, puberty was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to come with a whole lot of voice cracks, awkward limbs, and drastically enhanced self-consciousness. He could understand the height perhaps—he'd seen some extreme cases of people shooting up half a foot in a couple of months—but they usually looked like lanky branch sticks instead of this…this broad-shouldered teen.
Suppressing the sudden birth of doubt and hesitation, Damien ignored his group's urgent hisses and walked over to Potter with slow, confident strides. Normally he wouldn't be greeting another student personally, sending one of his Princes to present the subject in front of him as a show of power. But he was willing to eat his pride and treat the boy like an equal for this very rare occasion which had nothing to do with the tiny gulp he involuntarily took when the boy glanced at him.
"Lord Potter." He greeted, a little proud at his unshaken voice. "I would like to humbly extend my—"
"Fuck off, I'm tired." Potter sighed, smoothly slipping past around him. "I'll play your little games tomorrow."
Frowning, Damien tried to maneuver himself to block the boy's path but a simple palm shove threw him stumbling back his steps.
Damien seethed, annoyance and embarrassment erasing his caution.
"I'm afraid I can't let you leave, Potter." He drew his wand, aiming at the boy's back who kept walking unconcernedly. "I was hoping you'd understand, but it seems not." A silent 'Incarcerous' came to the tip of his wand. "Now, we can do this the hard way, where I don't have to—"
That was all he could get out before a sudden force slammed into his midriff, knocking the wind out of him.
There was no warning, no wand movement. He hadn't even seen Potter move save for vaguely waving his hand behind him without looking, and suddenly Damien found himself doubled over, a gasp leaving his lips, acutely aware of the yells of alarm from the Princes. He was glad that for all her newborn admiration, his sister was the loudest in warning Potter to back off.
Clenching his teeth, he strengthened up, only to stare directly at the emerald green eyes that looked so incredibly similar to Killing Curse Damien wouldn't be too surprised, should he die suddenly from just staring at him.
"You know, I was hoping to push this off for a couple more days," Potter muttered, slowly walking back towards them. "What with my recent stint with existential crises. But you just had to present me with a convenient target, didn't you?"
'That was…wandless magic.' Damien swallowed thickly, gripping his wand even tighter. Only when his inner circle came and took the Winged-Sphinx formation behind him did he remember that he wasn't alone. He was standing alongside the strongest Dueling team in Hogwarts, each one a solid level 4 Dueler. Together, they had the skill and power to take down even an experienced level 5 Auror.
And they were the masters of Sphinx formation.
'I have nothing to fear.' He assured himself, stilling his shaky hand. 'It was just a trick, meant to scare me. He probably has his wand hidden in the other hand.'
Damien straightened. "You're a fool if you think we're the targets here, Potter."
He readied himself, glancing at each side to nod at his team. "I don't like bullying a kid, but you should've learned by now…Slytherins don't play by the rules."
Perhaps Potter genuinely thought himself the second coming of Merlin, for he made no attempts at escape or hiding, simply arming himself with his wand, face scrunching up in an irritated frown.
Damien didn't waste any more time, jabbing his wand forward with a smirk. 'Let's see what you're truly made of.'
His thin gray rope snapped at the boy like lightning, followed by two streams of stunners and knockbacks, courtesy of his Princes.
For the Winged-Sphinx formation to work, you needed exactly seven members in the group; one head, two wings, and four limbs. The two wings' job was to defend the attacking head, while the front two limbs defended everyone else. The head—him—and the back limbs, were supposed to be exclusively in full offensive mode. With three attackers and four defenders, Winged-Sphinx was practically crafted to fight against a more powerful opponent.
No matter how skilled an opponent, there were four defending, and three free to match the spellcasting pace of one. It should've been easy work.
The next few seconds cracked that theory apart.
Potter didn't move. But his wand did.
It was like watching someone operating on an entirely different time spectrum; the way his wand zipped through the air like a blur, launching multiple spells almost at the same time. Before their spells could hope to connect, a large flock of birds materialized in front of him—hiding him from their sight entirely. Damien's rope strangled one bird, while the rest successfully blocked the stunners and knockbacks from his Princes.
But it didn't end there.
Upon impact, the birds burst into a large pile of colorful feathers, coalescing together to form a strangely beautiful bar of solid crystal that came hurtling towards them like a rainbow.
Damien simply stared, eyes widening with awe.
Even from a distance, he could feel the enormous power contained within the colorful crystalline bar, the type of power he himself could never hope to wield. He wasn't being humble or anything, knowing exactly how strong he truly was—with most of his professors, including Snape, Lupin, and Flitwick, constantly reassuring him of his potential to become a level 6 Dueler—and yet, even he knew there was no chance of him ever wielding the incredible amount of raw power currently heading their way.
'He's the real deal.'
Something his colleagues seemed to agree with, if their very heartfelt curses were anything to go by.
There was no need for commands, no need for a new plan. At once, all of them scrambled together to form a combined shield. With the might of seven level 4s, no matter how powerful, they had a good chance of blocking the magical beam…
Of course, things just had to go from bad to worse then.
A distractingly loud snap of sound entered their ears, and Damien quickly glanced back for a second, only to blanch in alarm.
All the cushiony chairs behind them had somehow come free from the ground and were now rapidly traversing through the air to greet their unprotected backs.
Their defense crumbled. And so did Damien's will.
While they reacted quickly enough—with the two hind Limbs disengaging from the front shield to blast the chairs down—the crystalline bar managed to reach them at the exact same time, and their shield—now missing two important power sources—was quickly pressed to the extreme, the blue flaring brightly on the moment of impact, and growing increasingly bright the longer it blocked the crystalline bar.
There was nothing they could do but huddle underneath the shield, cursing their luck as small cracks very quickly grew into larger ones until they heard a very distinct crack!
Damien faced a brief second of genuine panic and fear for his life, but the moment their shield popped, the solid bar disappeared as well, and sadly, so did their wands—wrenched free from their hands and into the awaiting palm of their enemy, who hadn't slowed his lazy saunter.
It all ended just as quickly as it had begun, and for a moment, only silence remained, each knowing how badly outmatched they were against the natural calamity that came to a stop in front of them.
He gazed at them with such disgust and contempt that had Damien not been taking deep gulps of air—reassuring himself of his survival, feeling beyond relieved—he would've been scrambling for a rock to hide under.
"We're on the verge of having our world torn away from our hands." Potter met each of their eyes, a tired frown fixed on his face. "And you're more worried about school politics."
Damien was a grown man now, of age and completely confident in his action. Yet, the brief moment of hot shame that throbbed in his heart was something he would never forget.
"You disgust me." His words carried a silent disappointment, in complete contradiction to the avalanche of noise created by the incredible typhoon of power that came to dominate their worlds, resting a heavy weight upon their shoulders as if delivering the judgment of God.
With pained grunts and gasps, each of them were quickly pushed down to their knees, ropes springing through the air to bind their wrists tightly.
And as he looked into the emerald eyes of the being towering over them, awe-inspiring power swirling around him, Damien found himself infinitely lucky for being so quickly disarmed, without being given a chance to escalate the situation even further. He could only imagine what fate would've awaited them had they used anything truly dark.
The power around Potter flared even more, and true fear clawed his heart still once again. He could only wonder how the rest of his team were coping when confronted by this force of nature without becoming a whimpering mess begging for their Lord's divine forgiveness.
"I'll tell this to you once, and I hope for your sake, that you and your little council of serpents hear very, very carefully. Things are about to change in the castle. From tomorrow, a full contingent of Aurors will roam the Castle premises, handpicked by yours truly. If I find a stray mark-bearer amongst our dear housemates, I shall hold you responsible when they're hauled off to a Ministry cell. And if your own group has a skulled bastard hiding in the midst…? Pray. Pray that you survive what's coming for you."
He dropped their wands on the floor and turned away without another word.
They stayed kneeling until Potter completely left their sight, and Damien felt a little better to see his weren't the only pair of hands still shaking.
"That was…" Damien breathed out slowly, unable to look into the eyes of his Princes, feeling inexplicably ashamed.
The worst part was, he didn't know if the embarrassment was from the beating they just received or the foolish thought of even daring to challenge their savior, or realizing that he might be just as shallow of an existence as Lord Potter believed.
"Hot!" His sister exclaimed, "Merlin, he's hot!"
He swerved to Sarah instantly, eyes burning a hole in her head as he hissed. "That's what you get from all this?"
"What!?" She snapped defensively, quickly turning up her sleeves. "It's not like we're guilty of anything! We're safe from his search, aren't we?" Then she cocked her head, a lecherous little smirk spreading on her face. "Not that I would actually mind him searching me if he does it the muggle way."
But looking at the discomforted and troubled looks on the rest of his Princes, he wasn't quite certain. While Sarah and he never had the chance to be intimately associated with the darker part of Slytherin, he knew they existed, lurking in the shadows for their Lord's return. Many old families still had connections to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and his own clean slate was one of the reasons he was initially shown such contempt upon joining Slytherin.
And his rise meant that the political system of the House was definitely going to change, with or without Potter's interference.
"Fuck." Damien breathed out.
The illusion that things were still normal and under control was finally snapped out from his mind. He didn't know why he'd been so adamant about ignoring the Dark Lord's presence. Of course, it would have effects on Hogwarts, especially on Slytherin.
Things were about to change very drastically, he could only count himself lucky that his previous subject of contempt was now probably going to help his innocence.
Damien glanced where Potter had disappeared, a slow smile curving up his face.
'Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all.'
Soon, a power readjustment would erupt in Slytherin, and all would be scrambling to own the biggest piece of the pie.
And Damien knew exactly what he must do to remain at the top.
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With heaving chest and raspy breath, Jacob Noname laid face down on the Dueling mattress, too tired and exhausted to even stand.
The leg that came to lightly kick him in the side did nothing to change that.
"Get up." Even the harsh voice of his teacher no longer sounded harsh to his ears. "You didn't even last a minute this time."
Then again, it was just how his new life was now, one he'd personally cursed himself with.
It was about time he got used to it.
"You think you can hope to match your brother like this?" The voice may not sound as harsh anymore, but the words were just as painful. "You think you can ever hope to be something more than a fake? A poser?"
They were meant to hurt, after all.
It was just him that had toughened up in the last couple of weeks, letting them brush over himself like useless dust.
Or well, he liked to think so. Liked to think he wasn't affected. Liked to think he wasn't the same stupid whiny brat who thought the world revolved around him any more…
"God, you're pathetic." His teacher muttered, finally giving a sigh and closing the distance to help him up. "I wish you were your brother instead, at least he would've been more fun to play with."
…But he feared he was. Even with getting his teeth kicked in daily by dozens of people, he feared he still hadn't changed much where it truly mattered.
But he was trying.
The moment her hand touched his shoulder, he burst into action. Twisting his mentor's arm, he maneuvered his wand backwards, finally bringing forth the rage her words induced within him every day.
"Reducto!" He bellowed.
The red flash missed her completely. Like silk in the wind, his teacher whirled sideways, and in one smooth moment—something he could barely see, let alone defend against—disarmed him with a flourishing twirl of her wand.
Before he could comprehend what was happening, a blunt force hammered his head forward, and for a second all he saw was darkness.
"Quite a looker as well, isn't he?" Madam Blackrock continued, completely unfazed. "I can think of some other fun things to do with him instead. Maybe you'd like to see us go at it? I know you jerk yourself to sleep with my face in your dreams."
Jacob clenched his eyes, refusing to let the tears drop as his consciousness stabilized and the ringing voice—which he hadn't even noticed—stopped vibrating in his brain.
"He must be quite experienced too. I hear he's very chummy with your Aunt. And those Veelas. A photo caught him kissing the Delacour girl, did you know? Wide open in public too."
He breathed out slowly, trying to regain control again, trying to shut out the feelings her words induced within him again. Even as horrible images slipped past his grip, torturing his jealous heart more and more, he refused to bow down and surrender.
"They all live together with him, don't they? In the Potter Manor...the Manor you were supposed to inherit."
Jacob was starting to wonder if he'll become a master Occlumens by the time his teacher was done with him. The amount of time he'd spent shutting her words out could easily match the time he'd spent dueling.
"Oh my, and how can I forget your mother! Lily Potter, right? The beautiful, buxom mother of the Messiah. Your brother must've been spending some quality time comforting her. You know, many say they wouldn't mind if their lord and savior goes a little overboard in his comforting...know what I mean?" She snickered.
Bile rose up in the back of his throat, acidic and hot. He knew she was just saying it to cause him pain, knew her words would never come true in a million years...
And yet, his vivid imagination couldn't help but picture it anyway.
It made him recoil in disgust, his blood beginning to boil.
Slowly, he began crawling to his wand.
"I personally think it's really hot. Plus, he will need all the help he could get if he is to face our Lord again. And who says he couldn't get that help from beneath a pair of big, warm tits?" Madam Blackrock giggled. "And you know what? I think he gets that too. I think he's using this opportunity quite...hmm, thoroughly. After all, it's only logical, wouldn't you say? Living in a grand Manor full of beautiful women as the only male..."
Jacob growled, clenching his fist, failing to keep up his calm mask. No matter how above such things he tried to think himself as, he would eventually break down and face the horrible monster clawing in his heart.
With a scream, he jumped for his wand and started tearing at the woman again, hurling spells after spells at her with barely a whisper.
"That's better," She hummed, dancing away from the blizzard of spells to his growing frustration. He felt so incredibly incompetent when the woman finally had had enough and a rope suddenly slithered at him through the air, bounding his wrists and blasting his wand away. "But so utterly uncontrolled it might not even be you. Have you seen your brother fight? Beg Lord Grindelwald and he might let you take a glimpse. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from your betters."
"Why!?" Jacob bellowed, finally unable to keep it in. The frustration, the anger, the humiliation, the jealousy, everything came pouring out as he fell on his knees, defeated. "Why do you always have to bring him in the middle!? When will you bloody stop!?"
For a moment, he could've sworn he saw a flicker of pity on her cold, beautiful face—the face that, as she so eloquently put, had been the heroine of his numerous nightly sessions. But the mocking glint in her eyes that appeared hurt too much to think of it as anything other than his imagination.
"When will I stop?" She sneered, striding towards him. "When you stop viewing him as a measuring stick. When you grow up from this pathetic child and become a man in your own right. When the name 'Harry Potter' doesn't make your face twist like you'd just watched your wife getting filled up with another man's cock."
The tears were hot in his eyes now, and he knew it wasn't his imagination this time when her face softened.
"It doesn't matter how skilled with a wand you become, Jacob." She said gently, sighing as she picked up his wand. "What matters is what you do with it. You'll never amount to anything if your goal is just to become stronger than your brother and show off in the public. You'll always be a shallow existence, incapable of ever achieving your true potential. But if you genuinely want to be better than who 'Jacob Potter' was, if you truly wish to be different, then you better grow up fast, and start acting like it."
Accepting his wand without looking at her, Jacob wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robes and stood back up.
He took a deep breath, calming his heart and mind, giving his teacher a brief nod that he hoped looked determined.
Taking three steps back, he met her eyes, issuing a quiet challenge. "Let's go again."
Snorting, Madam Blackrock raised her wand.
Before they could continue, however, the door to their training room banged open, revealing the huffing figure of a junior Acolyte.
"Madam Blackrock," The man beckoned urgently. "You've been summoned. By the Lord."
Frowning, his teacher glanced at him before placing her wand back in the holster. "We will continue this later."
"Em, pardon, Madam." The Acolyte called out. "The...boy is needed as well."
Her eyebrows shot up her forehead, but she mastered her surprise far faster than Jacob could, his mouth still hanging open, uncertainty stark in his heart.
"Did he say why?" His teacher asked, but received only a shrug in response. "Very well, lead away then."
Jacob tried catching her eyes, wanting to find some comfort within her usual confidence, but she seemed unwilling to even look at him, simply waving him over.
"Let's get this over with."
Grindelwald's new seat of power was based in Brasilia, Brazil; a large, open mansion with grand halls, rumored to be constructed in half a day by the Dark Lord himself.
Jacob was one of the few who knew it to be true, having witnessed it personally.
It was oddly strange, walking through the structure you'd seen forming under your very own eyes. The feat had looked impressive enough from the outside, but the detailed inside was what put into perspective how grand the act truly was.
"Stop gawking, you're embarrassing me." Madam Blackrock cuffed him on the head.
Rubbing the smacked spot, he stared straight ahead silently, ignoring the Acolytes that roamed the Manor, their contempt clear in their gazes.
It seemed an entire lifetime away when he'd first been subjected to it. He'd thought it was just some initiation ceremony that would disappear once things settled down.
He should've known better.
When Jacob had first arrived with the Dark Lord, he'd been forced to live in his own tent, one of many built upon the ruined Brazilian city. Grindelwald had been in the middle of shifting his base all the way from Argentina, getting straight to work after the World Cup incident.
It had been a little shocking to realize the entire nightmarish event of the World Cup was a mere side adventure for the Dark Lord. An amusing break from his conquest, a last-moment decision even, that he'd taken at Voldemort's calling.
The Dark Lord had shared the info with him casually. Jacob would've been tempted to call him a liar had he not seen him raising an entire mini-castle from the bottom up mere minutes after leaving the English ground.
The next day, Grindelwald had assigned rooms to a chosen few in his new base of power, personally calling Jacob's name amongst the massive crowd awaiting beneath his mansion.
Jacob hadn't thought overly much of it back then. The hollow emptiness from abandoning his family, betraying his country, forcing an early death upon his father, had still been too strong then, and he'd simply accepted it with a grateful nod.
He hadn't even stopped to wonder if there might be a secondary motive to the Dark Lord's decision.
That 'motive' was revealed when Grindelwald commanded him to prepare for the challenges ahead; to gain a place in the Dark Lord's army, he must first prove himself.
And the challenges began coming from the next day. Literally.
Apparently, there was a proper way for the Alliance to recruit new members. A methodical series of tests to determine a soldier's worth, something Jacob had skipped entirely when he joined. He had once thought the only thing you needed to do was pledge your loyalty to the Dark Lord and boom! You're a member of the Alliance. And to a certain degree, it was true...for the bottom of the barrel in the Dark Lord's army.
The lowest of the lowest in Grindelwald's Alliance was made up of grunts. They weren't officially part of the proper army, and simply received a mundane white triangular mark to signify their position once they declared their loyalty to the Dark Lord.
This was where simply 'declaring your loyalty' ended.
To become a proper member of the Alliance, one needed to pass a series of loyalty and dueling tests, with the lowest position being that of an Outer Acolyte. Once one gains that title, they would receive a magical mark—glinting blue in color—etched on any visible body part, though most opt for the center of the foreheads or the back of their hands. The mark was eerily similar to the symbol of Deathly Hallows, birthing an army of curiosities within his heart, though none that Jacob ever voiced.
After them came the Inner Acolytes, a red Deathly Hallows symbol acting as their mark of identity. There were less than a hundred of them, and each commanded great honor within the Alliance, leading their own teams of Outer Acolytes.
And finally, above all the rest, came the Senior Acolytes. With their black symbols almost always visible, they cut a fearsome sight, each being a capable level 6 dueler, the highest below the Dark Lord. They were called the enforcers of the Dark Lord, and it was they who carried his will across a conquered nation.
The only ones above them were the 7 core members of the Alliance, sporting a golden symbol on their foreheads. Jacob had only ever seen a single Core member in the last two weeks, most of them usually being too busy in controlling the conquered countries in Grindelwald's name.
It was rumored that each core member was an accomplished Elemental, powerful enough to take on the leaders of any country.
Jacob himself hadn't received any mark yet, and that was where his new challenges came to being. The Dark Lord's public acknowledgment placed a massive target on his shoulders, for only the Senior Acolytes had been worthy of such honor before. And when the Outer Acolytes found he wasn't even a proper member of the army, they called him out to prove his worth...by challenging him to the dueling mat.
And he lost. He lost to all of them, and badly. Embarrassingly badly. The outer Acolytes of the Alliance were made up of level 4 Duelers, and Jacob was nothing but soft prey for almost all of them. Even the weaker ones sought him out to boost their own standings within the Alliance.
Grindelwald did nothing to control them, simply assigning him a tutor and leaving Jacob to fend for himself. He hadn't seen the man since, and that was almost two weeks ago.
Two weeks that could easily qualify as the most humiliating experience of his life; First from the beatings he suffered under the Outer Acolytes, then the daily verbal assaults he suffered from his teacher. But hey, at least she didn't brag about it to her friends.
…Or, well, he hoped so.
The tiny bit of pride still beating within his chest had long since been shredded to pieces, leaving just a mess of tired muscles and exhausted mind. Jacob genuinely believed very little could hope to shame him now, and unfortunately, that little mostly consisted of Harry Potter.
Something Madam Blackrock had the fortune of knowing.
"Look sharp, boy." His teacher elbowed him. "We don't want him to see you look so defeated. Or are you starting to doubt your place here now?"
Jacob straightened up, shaking his head.
"Good. 'Cause that would've been a massive waste of my time."
Jacob sighed, ignoring the woman. They traversed the halls of the manor—quickly crossing the 4-doors room—and approached the open hall where Grindelwald conducted his meetings. Two Inner Acolytes guarded the entrance, straightening to salute Madam Blackrock.
The large golden door behind them swung open on its own, a deep thud vibrating within his chest.
Their guide waved them in but made no moves to follow, forcing Jacob to trod after his teacher, into the Dark Lord's conference room.
The lighting in the room felt comfortable to the eyes, blood red curtains hugging around the giant pillars, taking away the sun's glare to create an almost spiritual mood.
His heart sped up the moment his eyes fell upon the Dark Lord. Occupying his silver Throne, Grindelwald sat at an elevated position to the rest of his audience. The throne itself wasn't strange—befitting the position of a monarch—it was the wooden desk in front of the throne that looked out of place. Along with a small stack of files, the ornate table was covered with all kinds of fruits and sweets, and the Dark Lord took euphoric satisfaction in tossing each new piece of candy in his mouth.
The only audience except them was a senior Acolyte who knelt beneath the throne, a small slip of a paper clutched in his hand.
His teacher dragged him to stand at the side, close enough to eavesdrop but far enough to not let their presence be a nuisance.
"...We've also managed to subjugate the local magical creatures, My Lord." The Senior Acolyte continued, unheeding of the door that closed behind them with another deeply felt thud. "A total of seven cities containing hidden troll colonies were found, along with three dozen Bicorn steeds. Eight Peruvian Vipertooths are currently undergoing Imperial training, while a small pack of Werewolves was captured just this morning. We did fall into a tiny predicament…the Giants in the mountain range are adamant about only talking to you. We've held off from simply eliminating them, and with your permission could begin administering the Imperius Curse. No signs of Vampires or Veela colonies yet, except for some wild rumors that my squad is still chasing. And no Obscurus either, my lord. We'd made them our biggest priority like you said, but if there are any present in this continent, they've remained elusive as ever."
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was of Grindelwald sucking his candy.
Then finally, the Dark Lord hummed. "I shall deal with the giants." His eyes flickering towards them briefly before shifting back to the kneeling Acolyte. "And the new recruits?"
The Senior Acolyte chuckled. "The Brazilians are surprisingly cooperative. We've added over a hundred new members to the Outer Acolytes and five to the Inners in just two weeks."
"Five Inner Acolytes, you say?" The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. "All Aurors, I take it?"
"And two Mercenaries. All five are skilled, but no elementalist."
"Unfortunate." Grindelwald leaned back, propping his legs upon his desk. "But expected. If we'd found even a single Elementalist in every country we conquered, we would've been ruling the world by now. Go, see to your duties. Let none enter after you."
"My Lord." With one last bow, the Acolyte stood, giving a nod to his teacher, before walking out.
Madam Blackheart prodded him forward, ignoring the re-thudding of the door behind them.
"Lord Grindelwald." She bowed low, slapping the back of his head as if she knew he'd forget to do the same.
He bowed almost angstily. 'Why does she always take me for a retard?'
Grindelwald chuckled, giving them permission to straighten. "How is his progress, Ariana?"
She gave him a glance before turning back to the Dark Lord. "He will never be his brother, but he might become skilled enough to match an inner Acolyte… someday. Preferably before the war ends but I won't count on it."
Jacob tried not to bristle but it was a losing cause. 'Why!? Why always him!? Why is his shadow long enough to follow me on a different continent altogether!?'
Grindelwald sighed. "Shame. I was hoping for more. Then again, he might just surprise you. Potters are known for that."
"I'm not a Potter!" He burst out before he could stop himself.
Jacob flinched, awaiting a stinging blow from his teacher, but surprisingly she didn't even glance at him, let alone move.
"Then what are you?" The Dark Lord cocked his head. "Hmm? A level 3 Dueler? A Hogwarts' dropout? Homeless, powerless…useless?"
Jacob didn't rise to the bait this time, keeping his lips locked. His eyes however, couldn't help but glare at the man.
Grindelwald didn't seem bothered, a knowing smirk lighting his face up. "What do you want then, Jacob? Why are you here? I shall admit, I'm impressed that you haven't run away after all that happened to you since your arrival. But there must be a reason for your resilience. So tell me."
A thousand different answers went through his head. From 'Revenge' to 'I don't have anywhere to go' to 'A new identity'...but all of them could be summed up for Jacob in a single word.
"Chance." He answered finally. "I want a chance to be better than who I was."
Still smirking, Grindelwald nodded. "And you shall get it. I have just the assignment for you."
Shockingly, his teacher stepped forward in protest. "He isn't ready, My Lord. He has barely even—"
"And you will be going with him."
That brought her short. "My…Lord?"
"Tell me, Jacob." The Dark Lord leaned forward, and at that moment, Jacob could've sworn he'd never seen something look so sinister. "Have you ever heard of the Tri-Wizard tournament?"