"We're almost there. Stay sharp—don't make a sound."
In the dim, silent forest, a group of eight wizards moved quickly along a path strewn with fallen leaves, their cloaks whipping in the wind behind them.
Every so often, the wizard leading the group would slow down to carefully scan their surroundings, only continuing once he was sure it was safe.
His caution, however, drew sneers from the others.
"Andrew, aren't you being a bit too paranoid? There's eight of us, you know."
After the fifth time he slowed down, a short, hooded wizard finally couldn't hold back and stepped forward, questioning him.
"You're not trying to ditch us and keep the treasure for yourself, are you?"
"I'm not you. That kind of thought wouldn't even cross my mind."
Andrew frowned, clearly not fond of the man in front of him, but he held his temper and replied, "Still, we're dealing with a wizard of legend. Better to be careful than fall into a trap."
"A legend… pfft." The man scoffed dismissively.
"What legend? He just lived a long time, that's all. Dumbledore was a so-called legendary wizard too, and he still got killed, didn't he?"
"They say he was the most terrifying wizard of seventy years ago—what a joke. If you ask me, he and Dumbledore cooked up all those titles together, just to trick the Order of Merlin into giving them First Class honors…"
His voice cut off abruptly.
Before the others could even react, the hooded wizard suddenly shriveled up like a deflated balloon. Within seconds, all that remained was a skeleton, which collapsed to the ground, hood and all.
"Aah!"
Someone in the group screamed.
But before anyone could move, they all froze in place, standing there in a trance, eyes vacant.
And in the clearing to their right, two figures had appeared—an elderly man and woman, both seasoned wizards.
"Sir, they're just trash. Why bother handling it yourself?" Vinda Rosier glanced at the man beside her. Even though she was well over a hundred years old, she still felt a thrill of excitement.
"Just killing time," Grindelwald said, idly twirling his wand. He spoke lightly, almost carelessly. "Albus hasn't come back in three days. I need a little something to amuse myself."
"It's an honor for them," Rosier replied without hesitation.
She, of course, was referring to the eight intruders—now down to seven.
They had been her prey, and she'd already written out the script, complete with carefully chosen endings for each one.
Grindelwald's sudden intervention had thrown her entire plan into chaos.
But Rosier didn't mind in the slightest. If Grindelwald wanted to kill them all, so be it.
"That witch," Grindelwald said, flicking his wand again, "the one spewing nonsense in the papers—where is she?"
The moment he spoke, the wizards who'd been under the Imperius Curse abruptly came to their senses.
But they noticed nothing strange—no missing companion, no foreign presence. Without pause, they continued running ahead, as if nothing had happened.
"If you mean Rita Skeeter…" Rosier turned to glance in another direction. "She's perched in a tree, three miles out."
"Bold of her," Grindelwald said, narrowing his eyes. "I hear she's written plenty about Albus—called him an old fool, among other things…"
This time, Rosier remained silent.
She rarely read The Daily Prophet, and certainly didn't bother with back issues. Naturally, she had no idea what Rita Skeeter had been writing.
"Do you want me to bring her in?" Rosier asked.
Grindelwald hesitated.
Rita Skeeter was nothing—crushing her would be easier than squashing a bug.
But she was under Kyle's protection.
Grindelwald instinctively touched the photo album inside his robes.
For the sake of a few precious photos, he had to consider how Kyle might react.
The thought made his mood sour.
This was the first time he'd ever been so thoroughly restrained by someone. In the past, if he wanted something, he'd just take it—no hesitation, no negotiation. But now? A few photographs, and he actually had to trade for them...
And the worst part was—this time, he really couldn't just take them.
It wasn't even about strength. Sure, Kyle was now second only to Dumbledore, but so what? As long as he was still weaker than Albus, Grindelwald could pin him down and beat him senseless.
But the real problem was that Dumbledore had made it very clear—more than once—that if he ever dared lay a hand on Kyle, he could forget about ever seeing him again. Not even in portrait form.
Grindelwald ground his teeth in frustration.
He couldn't understand why Dumbledore placed so much importance on a student as sly, conniving, and devious as Kyle.
In his opinion, Kyle wasn't even as tolerable as that Scamander boy... At least Scamander hadn't made you want to punch him every time he opened his mouth.
"Oh!"
"It's Nurmengard!"
"We've found it, we found it!"
Shrill cries rang out from nearby, snapping Grindelwald from his thoughts.
"Looks like the actors are in position," he murmured.
"Yes." Rosier nodded. "And that Rita Skeeter—"
"Leave her be," Grindelwald cut in. "The stage needs her for the final curtain."
"But there is one thing—I do hope that next time she writes, she chooses her words more carefully."
"Indeed. Basic courtesy," Rosier said with a smile. "I'm sure Madam Skeeter would agree."
"I hope so." Grindelwald nodded. "Now, it's your cue."
"Oh, and Nurmengard isn't open to just anyone. Don't let them get any farther."
"Understood." Rosier nodded.
She took a step forward—and vanished instantly.
...
At that moment, in a clearing ahead, the wizarding team had already split up. One of them clutched a stone slab, while the others pointed their wands at him. Tension was thick in the air.
A faint ripple passed through the atmosphere—and one wizard's eyes suddenly changed.
"Hand over the Horcrux!"
A flash of green light burst from his wand, and chaos erupted.
"That's mine!"
"Damn it, give it here!"
Thrown together on short notice, the group had no trust between them. At the first sign of a Killing Curse, everyone turned their wands on someone else.
Whether they wanted to or not didn't matter—because everyone else was doing the same.
In mere seconds, the once-quiet forest exploded into turmoil.
...
Just beyond the battlefield—
"This wasn't part of the deal." A beetle flew down from a tree and transformed into a middle-aged witch.
"This is so fake. Who would leave blueprints for a Horcrux just lying around in plain sight near the entrance?"
"And come on—it took me less than a second to guess the first guy to cast Avada Kedavra was under your Imperius Curse."
"When I arrived, someone told me your plan was flawless."
"It was," Rosier said calmly. "But the situation changed. The key area has now been sealed off, so the plan had to change, too."
She turned to look at Rita Skeeter. "I trust you'll handle the closing act perfectly, won't you?"
Rosier was smiling—but Rita felt a cold chill run through her and nodded reflexively, almost out of instinct.
"Yes. I can do that."
It was only then that she remembered—the witch standing in front of her hadn't even raised a wand, yet half of a fifteen-person team had already been eliminated.
And all of it had unfolded so naturally, so seamlessly, that not a single one of them had realized they were being hunted.
"Good." Rosier gave an approving nod.
Truth be told, she rather admired the woman before her.
Smart. Sensible. And most importantly—dedicated.
She could see that Rita Skeeter was terrified of her—absolutely petrified—but even so, she hadn't once considered abandoning her assignment. From beginning to end, she'd kept up, snapping photos or scribbling away with her Quick-Quotes Quill.
Rosier had a certain appreciation for people who took their work seriously.
Of course, admiration aside, some things still had to be said... like, for instance, the importance of using civilized language in the press.
...
As they spoke, the battle had already reached its end. Of the seven who had started, only one was still standing.
He staggered over to a fallen figure, yanked the stone slab from beneath the body, then limped away, dragging a badly bleeding leg as he made his way back in the direction they had come.
He didn't notice that, at some point, a beetle had crept beneath the hem of his robe.
...
Rosier found Grindelwald again.
As expected, he was still flipping through that same photo album—who knew how many times he'd looked through it by now.
"Is it done?" Grindelwald closed the album.
"For the most part," Rosier replied honestly. "I've modified some of his memories. As long as he makes it safely out of the forest and is discovered by others, the Horcrux's origin will be considered complete. At that point, no one will suspect it's a fake."
"Mm." Grindelwald gave a noncommittal grunt, showing little interest.
And indeed, he truly didn't care.
It was just a Horcrux—not invincible, not immortal. He'd only agreed to the whole affair to trade for a few photographs from Kyle. That was all it was to him.
But just then, Grindelwald suddenly furrowed his brow.
Because the moment he thought of Kyle, an unfamiliar image flashed across his mind.
It was a wedding scene—Kyle's wedding, to a witch.
Some wizards were born with unique abilities: like Tonks, a Metamorphmagus, or Kyle, who could communicate with magical creatures...
Grindelwald had his own gift too. He could see glimpses of the future—a natural Seer. Or perhaps it would be more fitting to call him a Prophecy Magus.
What he had just seen wasn't triggered by Kyle, but by someone else.
A surge of urgency had pulled him into a glimpse of that person's future actions.
Dumbledore. The wedding...
He didn't know why, but suddenly Grindelwald's thoughts became hazy, as if a voice had begun whispering softly in his ear.
Then, under Vinda Rosier's puzzled gaze, Grindelwald suddenly turned and Disapparated from the forest.