Lord Voldemort's figure vanished; the great serpent reared up from the ground, poised to strike—
Above Gellert Grindelwald's head, the air twisted violently, accompanied by a muffled explosion. A lizard formed of viscous Fiendfyre materialized out of nowhere, its gaping maw lined with razor-sharp fangs, lunging downward.
At the same moment, Voldemort reappeared, standing atop the base in the center of what had been an empty fountain.
"Hmph!" Grindelwald let out a cold snort, his body shifting to one side as he waved his wand in a fluid, sweeping motion.
The serpent, its venomous fangs inches from piercing his body, was seized as if by an invisible giant hand. It was wrenched from the ground, powerless to resist, and hurled high into the air.
As it ascended, the snake's massive form contorted under pressure. Its body emitted a sickening crunch of dislocated bones before exploding with a resounding boom into a dense cloud of foul-smelling black smoke, which dissipated into nothingness.
The roaring Fiendfyre lizard, diving toward Grindelwald, froze mid-air just above him. Encased in a shimmering, crystalline layer of ice radiating bone-chilling cold, it transformed into a lifelike ice sculpture, suspended in the void.
With a subtle flick of Grindelwald's wand, the ice sculpture shattered explosively, scattering a cascade of glimmering, frost-laced shards that glittered as they fell.
But this was not the end. The fragmented ice crystals came alive as they descended, rapidly coalescing, swelling, and reshaping.
In the blink of an eye, silver-white lions leaped forth, silently roaring as they charged toward Voldemort on the fountain's base.
"Mongrel!" Voldemort let out a piercing screech, consumed by rage. Abandoning finesse, he unleashed a torrent of raw, savage power.
With each wave of his wand, a barrage of multicolored curses, each brimming with destructive force, swept through the Ministry of Magic's atrium.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The entire hall shuddered as if struck by a colossal hammer. Great slabs of dark wooden flooring and stone tiles were torn apart like paper, flung into the air to reveal the ugly brickwork beneath.
The lofty peacock-blue ceiling trembled violently, groaning under the strain. Magical chandeliers shattered, their golden runes plummeting like meteors, disintegrating in mid-air.
At the front of the hall, the towering portrait of Minister Harold Minchum, a symbol of the Ministry's authority, was shredded into countless fragments under the onslaught of destructive curses.
The painted Minister barely had time to cry out before his shocked expression was torn apart, vanishing into the roiling clouds of dust and smoke.
In the midst of the chaos—dust swirling, stones falling like rain—Grindelwald's robes swirled as he Apparated to a relatively intact corner of the hall.
Almost simultaneously, a massive stone slab crashed down where he had stood moments before, kicking up a storm of debris.
His wand twirled lightly in his hand, and a concentrated beam of deep blue light shot silently toward Voldemort.
Voldemort's red slit-pupils contracted sharply; the power in this spell carried an unprecedented threat.
Abandoning his offensive stance, he waved his wand rapidly before him. A gleaming silver half-dome shield materialized, barely intercepting the blue beam.
The curse struck the shield with a deep, resonant gong-like sound. Visible ripples spread across its surface, denting it inward, but the shield held.
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised that his opponent had blocked the attack.
"Voldemort," his voice cut through the dust-laden air, clear and resonant, "why so frantic? You're behaving like a beast with its tail trodden on, all snarls and no substance. Hardly the demeanor of the so-called Dark Lord."
"Who are you?" Voldemort hissed, his red eyes locked on Grindelwald from behind the silver shield, his voice sharp and hoarse with fury. "Why come here to die?"
"Who am I?" Grindelwald chuckled lightly, his voice steady despite the trembling hall. "Just a passing traveler, nothing more."
"I'd heard rumors," he continued, his gaze sweeping the devastated scene, "that a remarkable figure had risen in these quaint British Isles. A self-proclaimed 'Dark Lord,' stirring the entire wizarding world into fear and chaos, even bringing down Albus Dumbledore himself."
"Curiosity," Grindelwald said, casually conjuring several small metal shields to deflect a volley of dark curses from Voldemort's flank. "That's all. I came to see what kind of man you really are."
The scene fell into a brief, eerie calm, broken only by the faint rustle of falling debris and the hiss of a leaking pipe somewhere in the distance.
Grindelwald welcomed the momentary respite.
Beneath his composed exterior, the battle was taking its toll. His fingers, gripping the wand, had begun to pale. Voldemort's raw destructive power and primal combat instincts exceeded his pre-battle estimations.
The seemingly inexhaustible well of violent magic and the reckless, destruction-obsessed fighting style evoked a pressure Grindelwald hadn't felt since his duel over thirty years ago.
This younger wizard's sheer output and endurance likely surpassed his own. His body, worn by time and the years spent in Nurmengard, was struggling to maintain such intense magical output and precise control.
Prolonged combat would make the outcome uncertain.
Yet he wasn't ready to retreat. Out of pride, he hadn't arranged a signal with Snape and the others to confirm their success or safe withdrawal. Until he knew they had accomplished their goal, every second he could delay was vital.
"Your purpose…" Voldemort's grating voice broke the silence, clearly unconvinced by Grindelwald's words. "Why are you here? What do you want from this place?"
At that moment—
"Ugh…"
A faint groan of pain emerged from a pile of rubble near the security desk. Miraculously, in the midst of this magical maelstrom, Rookwood had survived, stirred awake and writhing in agony.
"Oh, right," Grindelwald glanced at the fallen Death Eater, a mocking smile curling his lips. "You've got a useless lackey here. Weak as a goblin, but he made a fine bell to ring you in."
Before the words had fully left his mouth, a blinding green light shot from behind Voldemort's shield.
Grindelwald instinctively dodged, only to realize the curse wasn't aimed at him. It sliced through the dust, striking Rookwood, who had just raised his head in confusion.
"Urk…" Rookwood's body stiffened, the last spark of life fading from his eyes as his chest stilled.
"Tch, tch," Grindelwald said, a flicker of disgust in his gaze as he looked at Rookwood's corpse. "Killing your own followers? Voldemort, you're a madman through and through."
Voldemort ignored the remark, discarding the dented silver shield and raising his wand again, a fresh wave of ferocious attacks brewing.
Grindelwald's instincts screamed in warning.
He dodged Voldemort's probing curses, weaving through the hall's remaining pillars and ruins, maintaining a delicate distance while locking eyes with his foe.
Voldemort ceased his aimless attacks, staring back, red eyes meeting gray.
"What exactly," Voldemort hissed, "did you learn from Rookwood?"
Grindelwald's heart stirred, but his face maintained a calm, knowing smile, as if to say, I know everything, but I won't tell.
"Oh?" he replied lightly. "And what, pray tell, should I have learned from him, great Dark Lord?"
"So tonight," Voldemort sneered, his eyes narrowing as if seeing through something, "you came just for me?"
"Pfft," Grindelwald scoffed, his expression dripping with disdain. "Don't flatter yourself. I've no interest in you whatsoever."
Before he finished speaking, another Killing Curse erupted from Voldemort's wand. Grindelwald dodged instinctively.
Voldemort's attacks resumed, a relentless storm, but Grindelwald had lost interest in prolonging the fight.
Time's up, he thought. Any longer, and this madman will wear me down to nothing.
If he escaped too battered and bruised, how could he ever mock that old man languishing in a hospital bed?
"Voldemort!" Grindelwald's voice rang out, clear and commanding. "Coming here tonight was your greatest mistake. Soon enough, you'll understand why I came."
Voldemort's attacks grew even fiercer, but Grindelwald stopped dodging. A spinning shield of light formed before him.
The curses struck, making the shield tremble and flicker, but it held firm against the onslaught.
Seizing the moment, Grindelwald stepped back into the nearest gilded fireplace. He cast one last glance at the ravaged battlefield and Voldemort's grim, dripping scowl before emerald-green flames engulfed him.
A few seconds of spinning later, accompanied by an undignified flushing sound, Grindelwald was ejected from a toilet, landing unceremoniously on wet tiles.
"You've got to be kidding me!" he swore, thoroughly disgusted. Fortunately, his shoes, feet, and robes remained dry and pristine.
His face dark with irritation, Grindelwald shoved open the creaking wooden door of the stall, not bothering to inspect his surroundings before Disapparating, leaving only a gently swaying toilet lid behind.
Dusk had settled, and unlike the ruined Ministry atrium, the Founders' Ark was filled with the rich, inviting aroma of roasted pumpkin, mingled with the sweetness of candy and the warmth of hot apple cider.
The Halloween Eve feast had just begun. The dining hall was meticulously decorated. Though it lacked the towering jack-o'-lanterns and swarms of live bats found in Hogwarts' Great Hall, small, delicate pumpkin lanterns dotted the space, casting a warm glow.
Colorful magical ribbons and giggling skeleton ornaments floated above the tables. The scale was modest compared to years past, but after a day of carefree play on the shore, the students now sat together, savoring the rare festive atmosphere. Their faces glowed with genuine smiles, and the air buzzed with lively chatter.
Myrtle Warren's translucent form glided between tables, pausing above one group of students before darting to another, eagerly chatting with anyone who would listen.
When she recounted how she used her death to exact revenge on Olive Hornby, several enthralled students regarded her with awe, offering her an empty seat.
Myrtle gleefully "sat" (though she passed through the chair), her glasses fogging with excitement as she prattled on about her "glorious deeds" in life and her decades of ghostly observations.
At the slightly elevated staff table, the mood was less festive.
Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, and Filius Flitwick maintained a veneer of calm, but their eyes flicked repeatedly toward the dining hall's entrance, clearly awaiting news or someone's return.
As they picked at their food, barely tasting the house-elves' creations, the hall's doors burst open.
Mundungus Fletcher stumbled in, panting, his face alight with relief. "Minerva! Professor McGonagall!" he bellowed. "He's back! Mr. Grindelwald's back! So, uh, I don't have to stand guard on the deck in that blasted wind anymore, right? That miserable job…"
Without waiting for a reply, he plopped into an empty seat at a student table, grabbed a roasted chicken leg, and took a massive bite.
Seconds later, the doors opened again.
Gellert Grindelwald appeared, his dark traveling robes pristine, silver hair neatly combed, but his heavy presence nearly drowned out the hall's clamor.
Ignoring the sudden hush and the mix of curious and awed stares, he strode to the staff table and sat confidently in Dumbledore's usual seat.
McGonagall and Flitwick exhaled in relief, their tense shoulders easing.
"Another hot cider, please!" Flitwick called to a nearby house-elf carrying a tray.
As Grindelwald elegantly wiped his already-spotless hands with a napkin, Snape leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Mr. Grindelwald, is Voldemort dead?"
"And," he added, "does this mean we can return to Hogwarts tomorrow?"
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