The train crossed the England countryside under persistent rain.
The sky was covered with clouds, and the sound of water hitting the windows accompanied the slow rattling of the carriage.
Newt Scamander remained silent, his gaze lost on the horizon. At his side, his inseparable suitcase rested next to the seat, and on his shoulder, Pickett slept, oblivious to the weight that weighed on his companion.
He hadn't closed his eyes since leaving Italy. The memory of the ruins of Volterra continued to haunt him. The blue fire, the chants, the symbol of the Hallows burning, and the voice of Vinda Rosier proclaiming the return of the "Greater Good." But above all, the look in Percival Graves' eyes.
He clenched his jaw.
He had fought dark wizards, savage creatures, and men blinded by power, but it had never been so personal. Graves was not just any enemy. He was a colleague... someone who had represented the best of society.
"And now he's convinced he's doing the right thing," he said in a whisper.
The thought made him shudder.
The idea of an Alliance spread across the globe, uniting wizards who still believed in supremacy and control, was something that went beyond a simple underground organization.
Newt closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Graves' words still echoed in his mind:
"Run, Scamander. Run and warn them. Tell them that the new dawn has already begun."
The train shook slightly as it rounded a curve.
Outside, green fields stretched out under the mist, dotted with small villages with magical houses hidden from Muggle eyes. It was the same landscape as always, and yet something in the air felt different.
When the train stopped at King's Cross station, Newt grabbed his suitcase and stepped off with a firm stride. The hustle and bustle of the place failed to distract him. Hurried witches, children in robes, merchants, travelers. Everything was the same, but he knew that somewhere in the world, order was about to be disrupted.
He adjusted his coat and walked to a secluded corner, where a rusty iron post marked the safe point of appearance. A slight twist of his wand was enough.
In an instant, the station disappeared.
Newt appeared in front of an old house in Godric's Hollow, hidden among green hills and fields of wildflowers. The house was covered in vines, but the protective spells surrounding it were still active, glowing faintly at his presence.
The magizoologist walked up to the door, which opened with a soft click. The scent of wood and tea greeted him.
"Welcome, Newt," said a warm voice from the living room.
Albus Dumbledore was waiting for him, standing by the fire. His blue eyes reflected both fatigue and serenity. Next to him, sitting with a cup of tea, was Nicolas Flamel, watching him silently.
Newt sighed when he saw them.
"I suppose you already know why I'm here."
"We received your letter," replied Dumbledore, offering him a seat. "But I want to hear it from you."
Newt sat down, leaving his suitcase at his feet. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and gather his thoughts. Then he spoke.
"Grindelwald has begun to move," he said at last, his voice grave. "His shadow lives on... and his followers are building something greater than we imagined. The Alliance is no longer operating in Europe alone. Its roots are already spreading south."
Flamel looked up, the gleam in his eyes more intense.
"The south...?"
"South America," Newt nodded. "...Percival Graves is with them. Vinda Rosier... she is leading them in the name of her master."
Dumbledore exchanged a glance with Flamel. The silence that followed was heavy. The fire crackled softly, reflecting the gravity of what they had just heard.
Finally, the old wizard spoke.
"So, the fire of the past is reignited."
Newt lowered his gaze.
"And I fear that this time... there are not enough wizards, creatures, or borders to contain it."
Flamel rose slowly, placing a hand on Newt's shoulder. His voice, calm and deep, broke the silence.
"Every age has its shadow, boy. But it also has its light, and as long as there is a wizard willing to act... the balance has not been lost."
Dumbledore nodded, though his expression remained serious.
"Balance..." he repeated quietly. "Let's hope he thinks so too."
Newt looked up, intrigued.
"Anayan? Do you think he already knows?"
Flamel laughed.
"Of course. He always knows."
The fire crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with an orange glow that danced across the old portraits and display cases filled with magical artifacts.
Rain pounded against the windows, as if the sky itself were accompanying the weight of the conversation.
Newt remained silent, staring at the tea Dumbledore had served him. His fingers trembled slightly as he remembered everything he had seen.
Flamel watched the young magizoologist with the serenity of a sage who had lived too long to be surprised. Then he turned to Albus, who stood by the fire with a distant look on his face.
"The boy has seen the beginning of something that has been brewing for a long time," Flamel said in a grave voice. "You know as well as I do that history is quick to repeat itself when men do not face their own ghosts."
Dumbledore sighed, resting a hand on the mantelpiece.
"I know, master... but the fire that Gellert lit was not an easy one to extinguish... there are wounds that neither time nor magic can completely heal."
Flamel narrowed his eyes.
"I wasn't talking about Gellert. I'm talking about Marianne."
Newt looked up, surprised by the name.
Dumbledore was silent for a moment before replying.
"I know what you're trying to tell me," he admitted. "But Marianne and I... we went our separate ways after that tragedy. Our last conversation wasn't exactly friendly."
"You both blamed each other," Flamel replied softly. "You for what happened to Ariana, and she for not being there to prevent it. But Marianne is still an Archmage and one of the most brilliant witches of this century. If the Alliance is active in South America and Anayan is preparing to intervene... then the only person capable of maintaining that balance is you, Albus."
Dumbledore looked up at his teacher.
His eyes reflected the depth and weight of someone who had seen too many wars and lost too much in them.
"I don't know if she would listen to me," he murmured.
Flamel smiled faintly.
"You won't know until you try."
A long silence filled the room.
Finally, Dumbledore turned to Newt.
"Your report will be delivered directly to the Wizengamot and the Confederation. But I doubt they will understand the magnitude of the problem. We need to prepare a response... and more than that, we need help."
"Do you think Archmage Marianne will agree to help?" asked Newt, still respectfully.
Flamel answered for him.
"Marianne always acts when the balance is at risk, and now it is more than ever. Gellert was also her friend, Albus. She appreciated him in her own way, she understood him, and that is precisely why she will help us."
Dumbledore looked down, thoughtful. His voice was barely a whisper.
"She was... the light that kept our darkness at bay."
Flamel nodded gravely.
"Then seek that light once more. Because soon, neither Nurmengard nor anyone else will be enough to contain what is coming."
Silence returned, heavy and reflective.
Newt looked up, observing both men. Before him stood the pillars of the world. If they faltered, the entire wizarding world would falter with them.
Dumbledore ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable, and looked at both men with an expression he rarely showed.
"I suppose..." he said with some hesitation, "I should go see her in person... only I have no idea how to do that."
Newt looked at him, blinking, then let out a laugh so spontaneous that it broke the solemnity of the room. Flamel, for his part, raised an eyebrow before smiling with his usual calm.
"Albus Dumbledore, the most brilliant wizard, asking for advice?" Flamel joked in a mischievous voice.
"That doesn't happen every day," Newt added with a laugh.
Albus sighed resignedly, though an amused smile touched his lips.
"Please, spare me the drama. I'm not looking for lessons in love, just... a civilized way to introduce myself to an Archmage who probably still wants to curse me as soon as she sees me. The last time we met face to face was during the International Dueling Tournament... the one Aurelian participated in."
Newt raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"She was there?"
"Oh, yes," replied Dumbledore, smiling bitterly. "When I saw Marianne, she was talking to Aurelian, and I can assure you, Newt, she was not exactly happy to see me."
Flamel laughed softly, with that voice that sounded like centuries of patience.
"Did she give you any dirty looks?"
Albus sighed, bringing a hand to his face.
"Several. If looks could kill... Every word she said to the rest of us was polite, courteous... but when our eyes met, I could feel her reminding me of all the things I didn't say decades ago."
Newt smiled, unable to contain a small chuckle.
"Well, I think she still has a little affection for you."
"Affection?" Albus repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Newt, affection is not the word I would use to describe someone who threatened to attack me if I approached the evaluation podium."
Flamel laughed so hard he almost spilled his tea on the table.
"Yes, exactly her," he said between laughs. "She was always so direct."
Newt tried to regain his composure, but his smile lingered.
"So... how do you plan to approach her?"
Albus pondered this for a moment, staring into the flames. His expression softened, as if memories were coming back to him one by one.
"I don't know, Newt. Maybe I'll start with what I should have told her many years ago, that I'm sorry I lost her."
The comment made the atmosphere more intimate.
Flamel set the cup down on the table and looked at him with a mixture of pride and melancholy.
"That would be the best way," he said calmly. "Marianne is not someone who tolerates lies, but she appreciates your vulnerability. She always believed that power without empathy was just another form of weakness."
"And she was right," admitted Dumbledore with a weary gesture. "The problem is that... when you're young, you confuse things..."
Newt looked at him with genuine affection.
"We all do, Albus. The difference is that we learn from it."
Flamel, smiling warmly, added.
"And others need centuries to do so."
Both men laughed, and for a moment the tension dissolved.
"I suppose I'll visit her soon," Dumbledore finally said, looking out the fogged window. "But if Marianne decides to turn me into a frog by surprise, I'll hold you two responsible."
Flamel leaned back in his seat, amused.
"If she turns you into a frog, Albus, it will only be to make sure you finally sit still and listen to her."
Newt burst out laughing.
"And considering how much you talk, that would be a miracle."
Even Dumbledore couldn't help but laugh.
For a moment, three generations of wisdom came together under one roof: the immortal teacher, the magizoologist who understood the harmony of life better than anyone else, and a wizard who, despite everything, still believed in redemption.
When the laughter died down, Flamel raised his cup and said in a calm voice.
"So be it. Go, Albus. Talk to her. What's the worst that can happen?"
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