Chapter 10
The pub was dim, all shadowed corners and smoke-stained walls, tucked into the underbelly of Knockturn Alley where the more unsavoury sorts came to drink and forget. Blaise Zabini walked in like he owned the place—unhurried, untouched by the grime, dressed in his usual dark elegance. His eyes scanned the bar lazily, and they landed on exactly who he was looking for.
Theodore Nott sat slouched over a half-finished tumbler of something that reeked of firewhiskey and defeat, his normally neat hair a mess and his robes rumpled. His wand arm rested heavily on the bar, fingers twitching every so often like they were itching to cast something violent.
Blaise slid into the seat next to him with the kind of casual grace that could only be achieved through practice. “Uh-oh,” he said dryly, signaling the barkeep for something smooth. “Rough day? Let me guess—something went wrong on the mission and you couldn’t catch the little Malfoy?”
Theo grunted in response. Nothing more. But Blaise knew him too well to push immediately. He sipped the drink that arrived—something aged and expensive—and waited.
Sure enough, after a long moment and a tense silence, Theodore muttered, voice thick with bitterness, “Did you know Potter’s working for Dumbledore’s little Order now?”
Blaise froze for a heartbeat, his glass halfway to his mouth. Then he scoffed, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “That explains it.”
Of course it did. Theo had been one of the ones who took Harry’s defection the hardest. Blaise remembered—after Potter vanished, after that last mission gone wrong—the near frantic edge in Theo’s eyes when he thought no one was looking. The fury when no leads came up. The silence that followed. A silence that, now, was finally cracking.
“He’s with them,” Theo said, venom in every syllable. “Dueling for them.”
Blaise barked a laugh. “And let me guess—he handed your arse to you?”
Theo shot him a look that could have frozen fire, but didn’t deny it.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Blaise smirked and raised his glass in mock toast. “To being outmatched by an ex-ally.”
“I should hex you right now,” Theo muttered.
“You’d miss,” Blaise replied easily. Then, more seriously, “Have you told our Lord yet?”
Theo exhaled hard and gestured to his drink. “I’m working up to it.”
Blaise hummed. Fair. Facing Voldemort with news of Harry Potter reappearing and siding with the Order was no light matter. Especially not for Theo.
“You’re lucky,” Theo muttered darkly, glaring at his drink. “You don’t have to deal with any of this. No mark. No constant pressure. You can just…” He waved vaguely, frustrated.
Blaise leaned back, his expression the very picture of smug amusement. “You’re right. I am lucky.”
Theo scowled. “Arrogant prick.”
“Correct again,” Blaise said with a smirk.
Because the truth was, the young Nott heir wasn’t wrong. Blaise might’ve worked under Voldemort’s banner—for now—but he had never taken the mark. Not really one of them. And he didn’t need to be. He had other allegiances. Higher ones. Ones that came with a title and blood-legacy.
Countess Zabini hadn’t raised a fool. And Blaise had no intention of tying himself down to either of the so-called dark lords—at least not permanently. Not when the game was still unfolding.
“Shouldn’t you be running back to Italy by now?” Theo grumbled, as if echoing the thought.
Blaise chuckled. “That was the plan, once. Come to Britain, study at Hogwarts, learn from the best this little island had to offer… and then return home, like a good heir.”
“But?”
“But,” Blaise said smoothly, “plans change.”
He took another slow sip, letting the weight of his words linger. The moment he met Potter… the moment his mother expressed interest… well, things had shifted. Dramatically. Now, there were so many threads moving beneath the surface that if Theo knew even a fraction of them, his mind would short-circuit from the complexity.
Theo was brooding again.
“Wonder what Grindelwald would think of Harry joining Dumbledore’s side.” Blaise mused to himself.
Blaise’s eyes glittered at the confused look Theo sent his way. “Oh, you sweet summer child. You really think no one’s told him yet?”
Theo frowned. “Why would anyone bother—?”
“Because, Theo,” Blaise said, amused and a little pitying, “you’re naive. I’d bet good Galleons one of Grindelwald’s little informants is slinking off to whisper in his ear right now. The minute Potter reappeared? That was a major shift. And Grindelwald doesn’t miss something like that.”
Theo looked at him warily, as if trying to decide how much of Blaise’s cryptic game was real and how much was smoke and mirrors.
Blaise groaned and rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not me, you idiot. Do you think I’d still be here if I betrayed you lot? I’m resourceful, not suicidal.”
Theo said nothing, but Blaise could feel the tension in his silence.
Because they both knew: Blaise’s loyalty would always be questioned. His mother was the Countessa—the woman overseeing Italy in Grindelwald’s name. Blaise himself walked that fine line between both worlds.
And Theo? He was already well on his way to becoming one of Voldemort’s trusted. The next Nott patriarch. Inner circle material. It was all laid out before him.
Still, Blaise couldn’t help the thought as he sipped his drink again, now watching Theo out of the corner of his eye.
If Potter had asked Theo to come with him that day—if he had looked at him, said the right words—would Theo have hesitated at all before following?
He doubted it.
But now? That door was closed. Locked. Sealed with betrayal and bruised pride.
Maybe that sting would be enough to keep Theo from running after him again.
Maybe.
And maybe not.
Blaise smirked to himself.
Either way, the game was just getting interesting.
---
Draco slept soundly through the night, a rare and welcome reprieve after the chaos of the previous day. For once, there were no nightmares to jolt him awake—just an exhausting, dreamless slumber that left his limbs heavy when he finally stirred.
When he rose the next morning, he dragged himself out of bed, wincing slightly as he stretched his sore muscles and took his time dressing, carefully adjusting every detail of his appearance. His hands moved with practiced precision as he straightened his collar and smoothed the last wrinkle from his robes. He paused in front of the mirror, his sharp grey eyes assessing the boy who stared back.
For the past few days, he had been modifying his hair color—a pathetic attempt to obscure his identity—but it seemed pointless now. Whoever was after him clearly knew who he was, no matter how he disguised himself. And I will not, Draco thought with a sneer, debase myself with ridiculous hair ever again. With a flick of his wand, he restored his pale blond hair to its usual platinum sheen.
Satisfied with his reflection he turned to look at the fresh set of robes that was laid out on the dresser as usual. Draco eyed the garments with faint irritation. Another of Regulus Black’s old outfits—sleek black with faint silver embroidery at the cuffs. The cut was elegant but undeniably outdated, and no matter how many times Kreacher left them out, the robes never quite fit him properly. They hung too loosely over his shoulders, the sleeves brushing past his wrists, just shy of swallowing his hands. He could have resized them himself—if the elf hadn’t practically bristled every time Draco so much as touched the fabric.
Draco wasn’t stupid. Kreacher clearly didn’t like him wearing his former master’s clothes, but the elf never adjusted them either. And Draco wasn’t about to ask. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone else—but the elf scared him.
There was something in Kreacher’s beady, knowing eyes that made Draco uneasy, like the elf saw too much and judged it all harshly. Draco had grown up with house-elves his entire life—bossing them around had been second nature. But Kreacher wasn’t like the elves at the Manor. There was something bitter and sharp-edged about him, and Draco would rather walk barefoot through the house than provoke him unnecessarily.
He dressed quickly, tugging the too-long sleeves up his wrists as best he could. A faint frown tugged at his lips as he studied his reflection in the cracked mirror. With his hair restored to its natural platinum and the ill-fitting robes clinging to his frame, he barely recognized himself. The proud Malfoy heir, reduced to wearing hand me downs.
His gaze drifted back to the robes. Who was Regulus Black, anyway? He knew he had been Sirius’s younger brother, but beyond that… nothing. Draco hadn’t been taught much about the Black family’s internal history—just the public-facing pride and legacy that came with their name. And for some reason, no one in the house ever mentioned him.
I should probably ask someone at some point, Draco thought idly as he straightened his collar. There was something unsettling about wearing the clothes of a man whose fate remained a mystery. But for now, he let the thought drift away as he made his way downstairs, already dreading the day ahead.
As he made his way downstairs, the faint scent of coffee and toast drifting through the air. Grimmauld Place always seemed dim, no matter the time of day, but this morning the flickering lanterns cast an unusual warmth over the dining room.
To his relief, when he entered the dining room, there was no sign of Harry.
Instead, only Remus and Sirius occupied the space. The room was warm, the scent of freshly brewed tea and buttered toast drifting in the air. Both men glanced up as Draco stepped in.
"Morning," Remus greeted gently, always calm and polite in a way that made Draco uncomfortable.
"You slept late," Sirius observed, leaning back in his chair with a faint smirk. "Figured yesterday wore you out."
Draco didn’t dignify that with a response and instead slid into the nearest empty chair. He was more relieved to learn that Harry was absent than he cared to admit.
"Where’s Potter?" he asked, trying to sound indifferent.
"Dragged out of bed by Percy Weasley," Sirius said with a snort, clearly amused by the memory. "He wasn’t pleased that Harry disappeared during his shift yesterday."
Draco grimaced. He knew perfectly well why Harry had vanished, but it seemed no one else had been informed. A flash of guilt twisted in his stomach, though he quickly pushed it aside. It wasn’t his fault Potter couldn’t follow protocol.
"Is he in trouble?" he asked, keeping his tone as casual as possible.
Sirius snorted. "Please. Harry can talk his way out of worse. Besides, watching Percy try to lecture him is always entertaining." He tilted his head and added slyly, "I suppose you don’t know anything about that, do you?"
Draco met his gaze with a blank expression. "Not a thing," he lied smoothly, cutting into his eggs.
Remus didn’t seem to notice the tension brewing across the table. He was already moving to refill Draco’s cup with tea, his attentiveness borderline maternal. Draco was beginning to understand that, despite the calm exterior, Remus Lupin was something of a mother hen.
As breakfast unfolded, Draco ate in silence while Remus and Sirius continued their easy banter. The two men had a strange dynamic—one he couldn’t quite figure out. Sirius was brash and loud, while Remus was thoughtful and measured, but there was an ease between them that suggested years of familiarity.
It was an oddly domestic scene, far removed from the threats simmering just beyond these walls. For a fleeting moment, Draco almost let himself relax.
Then, with a roar, the fireplace flared to life.
Two figures stepped through the emerald flames. The first was a tall, sandy-haired man with a calm, reassuring presence. The second was a young woman with alarmingly bright pink hair, which clashed violently with her black robes. She grinned widely as she dusted soot from her sleeves.
“Morning!” the girl announced cheerfully, flashing a wide grin.
Sirius, who had perked up at the sound of the Floo, immediately deflated. “Oh, it’s you.”
Tonks laughed, entirely unbothered by his tone. "Nice to see you too, cousin," she said brightly before turning to Draco with open curiosity. "So, you’re the new stray I have heard so much about, huh?"
Draco stiffened slightly at the title but nodded. "Draco," he corrected.
Ted Tonks stepped forward then, his demeanor warm and professional. "Healer Tonks," he introduced himself, extending a hand toward Draco. "But you can just call me Ted."
Draco shook his hand briefly, eyeing him with guarded curiosity. The man had the same warmth as Remus—like he was incapable of being anything but kind. Draco wasn’t sure if he liked that.
"And you can call me Tonks," the girl chimed in, bouncing forward with an almost alarming amount of energy. "Just Tonks. My given name is ridiculous—don’t ask."
Draco raised an eyebrow. He couldn't imagine it would be more ridiculous that her hair, but he kept that thought to himself.
“Remus asked me to come by and check you over—just to make sure there’s no lasting damage from yesterday’s excitement.” Ted said with a smile.
“I’m fine,” Draco said quickly, uncomfortable under the older man’s direct gaze. “No injuries.”
He hoped that would be the end of it, but Ted’s brow furrowed slightly. “Still, better safe than sorry. If you’d allow me a quick diagnostic charm—”
Draco bit back a sigh. This felt unnecessary, but arguing seemed more trouble than it was worth. He nodded reluctantly. “Fine.”
Ted raised his wand and murmured a quiet spell. Pale blue light glowed softly over Draco’s form before fading away. “Well, you’re lucky,” Ted said after a moment. “No broken bones, no internal injuries. Though your magical core is a little strained—been pushing yourself?”
Draco winced. “Maybe.”
He didn’t mention that his Animagus form had probably has something to do with that. As much as it was tempting to try and get some answers, he wasn’t keen to share that little fact with strangers—especially not with these people.
Satisfied, Ted tucked his wand away. "You're clear, but if you feel any pain or unusual fatigue, let someone know."
“Thanks,” Draco said, keeping his voice coolly polite.
Ted seemed inclined to push further but instead gave a mild nod before looking over at his daughter. “I don’t know if anyone’s mentioned this yet, but you and my daughter here? You’re cousins.”
Draco blinked, the words catching him off guard. "Cousins?"
“Oh, yes,” Ted confirmed. “Her mother’s Andromeda Black—your mother’s sister.”
For a moment, Draco was too stunned to respond. Of course, he knew the name—Andromeda, the blood traitor who had been blasted off the family tapestry. It wasn’t exactly a closely guarded secret, but to realize that the pink-haired menace before him was actually related to him?
Tonks, still grinning, leaned forward. “What, didn’t they teach you that on the family tree? Or was I erased before you got a look?”
“I—” Draco started, then scowled. “I never cared much about the ones who were disowned.”
She laughed, delighted rather than offended. “Touché. Hope your mum's not the crazy one I've heard about.”
Draco froze, his fork clinking against his plate. He didn’t need to ask who she meant. There was only one woman in the family notorious enough to be called the crazy one. His aunt Bellatrix. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, though he kept his expression cool and detached.
Ted let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dora,” he said sharply. “That’s incredibly rude.”
“What?” Tonks blinked innocently, then waved her hand dismissively. “I’m just asking. I've heard so much about the crazy Black sister and knowing mom that actually is saying something —” She trailed off as her father shot her a warning look.
Draco grimaced. “You’re talking about Aunt Bellatrix,” he said, forcing his voice to stay light and even. “And no—my mother is Narcissa.” His smile was thin and brittle. “She’s - was perfectly sane, thanks for your concern.”
He didn’t add that Bellatrix had been unhinged for as long as he could remember—or that his mother’s relationship with her older sister had crumbled years ago. Aunt Bella had cut ties when Narcissa refused to pledge loyalty to the Dark Lord, a decision that had caused more strain on their family than anyone wanted to admit. But Draco had no intention of airing his family’s dirty laundry in front of a strange girl with bubblegum-pink hair.
Before Tonks could respond, Sirius, to Draco’s genuine surprise, came to his defense. “Honestly, Nymphadora,” he said, his voice sharp with irritation. “Have a little tact. The boy’s mother just died, for Merlin’s sake.”
Tonks flinched at the use of her first name and looked genuinely horrified, as if only now realizing her mistake. “Oh… oh, hell. I forgot—” She shifted her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, her usual confidence dimming under the weight of guilt. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sorry, all right?”
Remus, ever the peacemaker, leaned back in his chair and spoke in a gentler tone. “I’m sure Draco knows you didn’t mean to be insensitive,” he said calmly. “But maybe—next time—you could think before you speak?”
Ted shook his head, exasperated but not unkind. “I swear, Dora, you have all the subtlety of a Bludger.”
“I said I’m sorry,” she muttered, though the usual playfulness in her voice had faded into genuine remorse. She turned to Draco, her bright hair shifting as she moved. “Really—I wasn’t trying to be a cow about it. You’re probably still adjusting to everything, and I just—” She made a vague, helpless gesture. “Didn’t think.”
Draco hesitated, caught off guard by her apology. He had expected teasing or more jabs—not an actual attempt to smooth things over. With effort, he smothered the urge to snap back at her. Whatever else she might be, Tonks wasn’t malicious. And there was no point in making more enemies when he already had enough to deal with.
“It’s… fine,” he said stiffly, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “Just—maybe lay off the family jokes.”
Tonks gave a sheepish smile. “Got it. No more crazy aunt jokes.” She tapped the side of her head. “Mental note made.”
Ted sighed in relief and shot Draco an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about her,” he said with a weary smile. “You’d think I raised her better.”
“It’s all right,” Draco said again, though he wasn’t quite sure if he meant it. He stabbed a piece of toast with his fork, focusing on that rather than the strange warmth spreading in his chest at the unexpected defense from Sirius Black. Maybe—not that he would admit it—it was nice to have someone stand up for him. Even if it was his supposed traitorous cousin.
“I really have to get going now,” Ted said before turning a stern gaze towards his daughter. “Behave.”
“Sure,” Tonks said looking chastised as Ted disappeared back into the Floo.
The moment he was gone, the atmosphere shifted. Tonks flopped into the seat across from Draco with the ease of someone entirely too comfortable in their own skin. She propped her elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands, eyes bright with mischief.
"So," she said, dragging out the word. "I’m supposed to keep an eye on you today while Harry and Percy are off doing whatever secret nonsense the Order’s got cooking."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Babysitting me, are you?"
She grinned. "More like keeping you from sneaking off and getting hexed again."
Sirius, who had been suspiciously quiet, suddenly spoke up. "Why you?" His voice was sharper than usual, and he was watching her with narrowed eyes. "Isn’t there someone else available?"
Tonks smirked at him. "Jealous, dear cousin? Don’t worry—I’m not here to steal your favorite stray."
Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. If this was the level of conversation, he was in for a long day.
Remus, apparently immune to the tension, began clearing the dishes. "Thank you for coming, Tonks," he said warmly. "With Harry occupied, it’s a relief knowing Draco won’t be left alone."
"Anytime," she chirped, flashing Remus an adoring smile that didn’t escape Draco’s notice. It also didn’t escape Sirius, who muttered something under his breath and glared into his coffee.
Draco leaned back in his chair, feeling a headache creeping in already. He was drained already and the day has just begun. The day promised to be nothing short of exhausting and he was dreading seeing it through to the end.
---
Corban Yaxley stepped into the grand chamber with the caution of a man who knew his words could shape nations—or end his life. The castle was cold, ancient, and utterly foreign compared to the murky depths of Voldemort’s usual haunts. Grindelwald’s seat of power in the Italian Alps was carved from stone and silence, its vaulted halls echoing with secrets that didn’t care to be whispered.
He dropped to one knee before the throne, where Gellert Grindelwald sat in regal repose, wrapped in a cloak of smoky silver, his pale eyes sharp with amusement and intelligence.
“My lord,” Yaxley intoned, bowing his head deeply.
Grindelwald waved a hand lazily, allowing him to rise. “You bring news from across the sea. Speak, and let it be worth the frost in my hall.”
Yaxley swallowed. “Harry Potter… has reappeared.”
That earned him a flicker of real interest. “Alive?” Grindelwald asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Yes, my lord. He has… joined Albus Dumbledore’s Order. He dueled with Theodore Nott—defended Draco Malfoy.”
For a moment, silence reigned.
Grindelwald leaned back, his gaze distant as he considered the implications. “So… Dumbledore gets lucky again,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The man has always had an unnatural talent for drawing in those who matter. And now he has the boy.”
His voice sharpened. “Tell me. How did young Nott fare in this duel?”
Yaxley hesitated. “He lost. Potter beat him soundly.”
Grindelwald gave a short, dry laugh. “Of course he did.”
He tapped one long finger on the armrest of his throne, thoughtful. “But Potter protecting Draco Malfoy… that complicates things. It suggests that Dumbledore’s Order isn’t just sheltering the heir—it means they are choosing sides. Actively. Visibly. Perhaps I have turned a blind eye for too long.”
He fell quiet, eyes narrowing.
“And Voldemort?” Grindelwald asked, suddenly, with a sharpness that made Yaxley stiffen. “How has he reacted to this development?”
Yaxley’s lips parted, then closed again. He searched for the safest truth. “He hasn’t… said much, my lord. He hasn’t sent out any new search parties. He hasn’t retaliated. It's like he does not care.”
There was a pause. A thick one.
Grindelwald’s laugh, when it came, was cold and amused. “Doesn’t care?” he echoed, mocking the very idea. “You think your lord Voldemort doesn’t care about the boy?”
Yaxley’s expression twitched, but he didn’t speak.
“No. That’s not it. I would have expected him to tear half a continent apart chasing a whisper of the boys whereabouts.,” Grindelwald said softly, more to himself than to Yaxley now. “He cares. He simply won't act. Or… can't.”
He rose from his throne in a fluid motion, steps echoing on the stone floor as he paced toward one of the high windows. Snow drifted lazily outside, swirling in pale sheets. “There is something I am missing. A reason for his silence. The boy was too important to him. Too valuable. He wouldn’t have let him go easily.”
Yaxley watched, unnerved by the strange softness in Grindelwald’s tone.
“And now Dumbledore has him. He really does have the best of luck, doesn’t he?,” the old dark wizard murmured, his voice bitter with memory. “I shaped Harry Potter into what he is. And now, Albus is reaping the rewards of my finest work. That cannot be allowed to happen.”
Grindelwald turned back sharply. “Find out why Voldemort hasn’t acted. If he is hiding something, I want to know. And if he refuses to act, then I will not sit idle and let Dumbledore win.”
“Yes, my lord.” Yaxley bowed deeply, and left with the cold chill of that amused voice still lingering in his bones.
How foolish the man was to even suggest that Tom doesn't care about Harry Potter. His thoughts drifted back—back to the day he had first introduced them. The day everything changed.
---
Years Ago – Nurmengard
The private study was quiet, save for the distant hum of magic in the air. Grindelwald stood by the hearth, the warm firelight flickering against the gleaming surface of his wand. Behind him, the heavy door opened with a soft click.
"Tom," Grindelwald greeted, his voice smooth and welcoming.
"My Lord," came the reply—a touch too deferential. Tom was always careful around him. He thought it was subtle. It wasn’t.
Grindelwald turned to face him, taking in the familiar sight. Tom Riddle—immaculate, young as ever, with that controlled arrogance in his dark eyes. He looked precisely as he had when Grindelwald first plucked him from the ruins of the British wizarding world.
He had long suspected how Tom preserved himself, but he never asked. Let the boy keep his secrets. It made him predictable.
"Britain?" Grindelwald prompted, tilting his head.
Tom smiled thinly, the picture of cold charm. "Our hold on the Wizengamot is firm. We’re pushing Cornelius Fudge toward the Minister’s seat—he will be useful."
Grindelwald hummed with approval. "A puppet."
"A willing one," Tom confirmed.
Grindelwald studied him for a long moment, noting the subtle twitch in Tom’s jaw. The faintest spark of irritation—likely because he refused to call him Voldemort. It was a game they played. Grindelwald would never acknowledge that title. It amused him to watch Tom swallow his pride.
But tonight was not about politics.
"I have a task for you," Grindelwald said, turning back to the fire. "A child with… potential."
Tom’s disdain was immediate. "You have people to handle that sort of thing. I’m not a tutor."
Grindelwald laughed under his breath. "Ordinarily, I’d agree. But this one—you’ll want to meet."
Tom didn’t argue, but the faint narrowing of his eyes betrayed his irritation. Grindelwald allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction. Tom thought he was above this. He would learn otherwise.
"Enter," Grindelwald commanded.
The door creaked open again. A small figure stepped inside.
The boy was thin—too thin—his ragged clothes hanging from his slight frame. Black hair fell in unruly waves across his forehead, but it was the eyes that drew attention.
Vivid, unnatural green. Bright enough to gleam even in the dim room.
Grindelwald caught the way Tom stilled the moment their gazes met. Ah. Interesting.
"This," Grindelwald said softly, "is Harry Potter."
The boy said nothing—merely stood there, unafraid, returning Tom’s scrutiny with an unsettling calm.
Tom tilted his head, curiosity breaking through his initial disdain. "He’s young."
"Seven," Grindelwald confirmed. "But power isn’t measured in years. You’ll see."
A silence stretched between them. Grindelwald recognized the moment it happened—that shift. Tom, ever calculating, had seen something he wanted. And when Tom wanted something, he never let go.
"You’re certain?" Tom finally asked, but his voice lacked the usual dismissiveness.
Grindelwald smiled. "When have I ever been wrong?"
Tom didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lingered on Harry, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet but resolute.
"I’ll take him."
Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, content. He had expected resistance. Instead, he had given Tom Riddle something priceless—and in doing so, had bound them together in ways neither could yet foresee.
And someday, he knew, they would both pay the price.
---
Present Day
The chamber was empty now, save for the ever-burning torches casting long, flickering shadows along the carved stone walls. Corban Yaxley had taken his leave, his heavy boots echoing away into the distance, but Grindelwald remained standing before the high window, the hem of his cloak fluttering faintly with the mountain wind that seeped through the cracks in the ancient fortress.
“Tom Riddle,” he murmured, voice curling in the air like smoke.
In the privacy of his own mind, he would never call him anything else—not Lord Gaunt, with its pretentious claim to Salazar’s line, and certainly not Lord Voldemort, that theatrical fabrication the man had adopted in some pathetic attempt at transcendence. No, Grindelwald had known him before the robes, the followers, the snake-like facade. He had seen the gleam of ambition in young Tom’s eyes—cold, perfect, and terribly familiar.
That boy would never have let Harry Potter go so easily.
The mere suggestion—that Riddle didn’t care—had been laughable. Absurd. It gnawed at Grindelwald like a misplaced pawn on a chessboard. No, if Riddle hadn’t acted, it was not because he didn’t care. It was because he couldn’t. Or worse—because he was playing a game so deep, so convoluted, that even he could not yet see all the pieces.
Grindelwald’s jaw tightened.
And that was dangerous.
He turned from the window with sharp grace, his cloak flaring like shadow behind him. His steps were silent, practiced. Controlled. But within, the slow burn of long-planned strategy had begun to blaze into something else—urgency.
Harry Potter was in Britain. Not just alive but fighting—for Dumbledore. Guarding the Malfoy heir. The boy was not hiding anymore.
And Dumbledore—old, meddlesome Albus—had him now.
“Unacceptable,” Grindelwald muttered under his breath.
He had not groomed that boy—trained him, tested him, marked him—just to see him become another pawn on Dumbledore’s sanctimonious little board. Grindelwald knew what few others did. He had long suspected, and then confirmed: Harry Potter was not just a symbol. He was the key. The last living link to the Peverell line, the last drop of a lineage soaked in power older than the Dark itself.
The heir of Peverell.
And Riddle knew it too. He thinks he is cleaver enough to pretend otherwise but Grindelwald has always through his games.
Which made his silence not merely suspicious, but alarming.
“Why aren’t you moving, Tom?” Grindelwald whispered, gaze distant as he walked along the edge of the war map spread across the long table in his private study. “What are you waiting for?”
He studied the worn parchments, runes and sigils carved into them like scars. The shifting lines of influence across Europe… and the black-marked void that was Britain.
It was time to act.
No matter what schemes Riddle was spinning, Grindelwald would not let the boy slip from his grasp—not into Dumbledore’s protection, not into Tom's plans, not into the chaos of fate. If Tom Riddle wouldn't make the decisive move…
He would.
The old fire lit behind his pale eyes once more.
He would return to Britain. Not in the shadows this time—not as a whisper passed between spies, but as a storm.
Let the world brace for the tremor.
Because the boy mattered more than they understood. And Grindelwald had never once allowed himself to lose something he deemed his.
And he wasn't about to start now.