— — — — — —
Tom did the math. It had been almost three months since he completed the Tenth Trial.
For the first month, his mind hadn't fully recovered. After that, he'd been buried in other matters. He hadn't paid much attention to whatever new torment the system had in store.
The Tenth Trial had nearly killed him mentally. It was easily the most dangerous one so far. If that was number ten, then eleven…
Well. He wasn't eager to find out.
And sure enough, up to now, he hadn't even seen the contents of the Eleventh Trial.
The Tenth had demanded mental strength honed to perfection just to shove the door open. The Eleventh? The preliminary test was magic itself.
He had to pour magic into the door continuously. The flow had to be fast. The slightest hesitation, and the magic vanished like a stone dropped into the sea, leaving no ripple behind.
It wasn't really testing his reserves.
It was testing output speed... And the quality of his magic.
In the next fifteen minutes, Tom had drained himself dry. The light on the door grew only a fraction brighter.
Still, repeatedly emptying himself at that kind of output rate had its perks. He noticed his recovery speed improving. As for total capacity, it was so massive already that any increase was impossible to detect.
He shot the door one last glance, then dismissed it and closed his eyes.
Sleep came easily to him.
But it did not come easily to someone else.
Earlier that day, Albus Dumbledore had finally shed his self-imposed restraints and decided, quite boldly, to live a little more freely.
He was immediately rewarded with two blows to the soul.
First, his bird had been spirited away by Tom AGAIN.
Second... Tom had lent that bird to his brother.
And his dear brother, Aberforth, planned to join the Acolytes. The borrowed bird was part of a mission to capture another one as a gift for their sister. A task personally assigned by Grindelwald.
So after all this… he was the outsider?
Aberforth wanting to join the Acolytes was shocking enough. But Grindelwald agreeing to it?
The world had officially turned into something he no longer recognized.
Then again… for Ariana, Aberforth would do anything.
A dangerous thought surfaced in Dumbledore's mind.
What if I joined the Acolytes too?
If Ariana was meant to lead them one day, then he could pave the way for her first. Straighten out the troublemakers. Smooth the sharp edges. By the time she took command, the road would already be clear.
Maybe he could even bring the entire Order of the Phoenix over with him and build something better than the Acolytes. A truly agreeable force.
Yes. Turn everyone into allies. Create a peaceful world where his sister could grow up safe and happy.
Dumbledore didn't hesitate long. He pulled out his codex and contacted Grindelwald.
No response.
...
Meanwhile, in Snape's office—
Grindelwald was there, making himself comfortable.
Tom had used some bizarre curse on him. On the surface, he seemed fine. In reality, various muscles still throbbed with dull pain.
Severus Snape lived up to his reputation as a Potions Master. After a thorough examination, he set up a cauldron and brewed something on the spot. Grindelwald drank it, and the ache receded almost immediately.
"No wonder Voldemort valued you back then," Grindelwald said approvingly. "In terms of potion-making, among the Acolytes, I doubt anyone could rival you."
"This may be the only thing I'm truly good at," Snape replied evenly as he cleaned up his materials. No false modesty. No arrogance.
"Unfortunately…" Grindelwald's tone shifted, "the field of potions has one iron rule. There is no potion in this world that can bring the dead back to life."
Snape's hand tightened suddenly. The leftover dregs in the cauldron spilled onto the floor. The stone hissed as it corroded.
Grindelwald continued softly, "I can give you a clear answer. Ariana's resurrection was a miracle. Whether such a miracle will happen again, and whether it would happen for you… I'm afraid that isn't for me to decide."
"I understand," Snape said hoarsely. "Thank you for not lying to me."
He sounded calm. But Grindelwald could see the faint tremor in his body.
Grindelwald felt nothing.
He had witnessed too many tragedies. Caused many of them himself. Devotion did not rewrite reality. Compassion only clouded judgment.
Grindelwald stood up, "Look forward, Snape. You can't undo the mistakes of the past. But you can deal with the enemies who caused your suffering."
"Let me guess. The little thug who calls himself Voldemort?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "What a coincidence. Dumbledore and I have discussed him at length. Including the methods he uses to cling to life."
"We share a common enemy. Why not cooperate?"
His words slithered into Snape's ears like a devil's whisper.
They spoke late into the night. When Grindelwald finally left the office, he layered himself carefully in a Disillusionment Charm and anti-detection spells. No need to alert the hyena lurking somewhere in the castle.
Back inside, Snape felt calmer.
Just exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that seeped into both mind and body.
He was Head of Slytherin. Dumbledore's spy. Tom's potion researcher, forced to turn half-formed ideas into working brews.
And now he had accepted work from Grindelwald too.
At least Grindelwald hadn't asked him to spy on Dumbledore. He only needed potion support.
If that line had been crossed, Snape suspected he truly might have lost his mind.
That said, the returns were considerable.
The three most powerful wizards alive had all promised to oppose Voldemort.
A so-called Dark Lord facing that lineup… what chance did he have to turn things around?
For the first time in years, Snape found himself wishing Voldemort would hurry up and resurrect through his Horcruxes, return to his old flamboyant habits, and make a public spectacle of himself.
He was curious to see how long the man would last before being crushed.
---
The next morning, Tom and Astoria spent some time playing with the pandas before stepping back through the dense mist and returning to the castle.
"Why didn't you call me yesterday?"
The moment the two of them appeared, Daphne's lips puckered in protest.
"You went out to have fun and left me sleeping alone in the dormitory. Astoria, you're not my good little sister anymore."
Then she turned to Tom.
"And you… you're not a good Tom either. You're… you're worse than Jerry! No wonder he always defeats you."
Her sharp tongue always seemed to short-circuit around people she cared about. What should have sounded like scolding came out so adorably indignant that it was impossible not to smile.
Tom gave a brief explanation. The moment Daphne heard it involved a blood curse, her annoyance evaporated.
"Then how long do you have to stay there?" she asked, concern replacing complaint.
"About a month, probably," Tom said, a little uncertain. "It's only been a day. Hard to tell if it's working."
"No rush. Safety comes first," Daphne said quickly.
Just then, a flock of owls swooped into the Great Hall, dropping parcels and letters everywhere and causing a brief uproar.
Hogwarts students were relatively restrained. Most of their packages were daily necessities or stationery.
The visiting students were another story. Many had come with a tourist mindset, thoroughly prepared in advance. They bought everything from specialty goods to novelty trinkets, not just for themselves but on behalf of others back home.
Tom spotted several parcels bearing stickers from Elaina Workshop. A little perk he'd arranged for locals.
After tossing a dazed owl back out of the Hall, Tom picked up the morning paper.
A casual glance made his eyes widen.
He looked at the headline. Then toward the head table. Then at Dumbledore, who was already the center of countless stares.
{International Confederation of Wizards Supreme Mugwump Pierce: 'Dumbledore Has Been Blinded by Family!'}
The Great Hall fell into near silence as everyone eagerly devoured both breakfast and gossip.
Several high-ranking officials, speaking anonymously, had leaked details of yesterday's clash with Dumbledore. Journalism, in all its glory.
According to their version of events, Dumbledore had been the aggressive one, demanding special privileges for Ariana. They, meanwhile, were portrayed as principled defenders, arguing passionately to save a young girl teetering on the brink of darkness. The meeting had ended in discord.
The article's final paragraph subtly suggested that perhaps the problem wasn't the "innocent" Ariana at all.
Perhaps it was the white-bearded headmaster lurking behind the scenes.
Perhaps he intended to use this opportunity to infiltrate the Acolytes, collaborate with Grindelwald, and divide the world between them.
Tom glanced at the byline.
Of course.
Rita Skeeter.
A faint chuckle echoed from the head table.
Grindelwald folded his paper and smiled faintly. "Dumbledore, listen to what Pierce said. 'Any high-ranking acolyte is a potential enemy. It doesn't matter whose sister she is or how young she might be.'"
He tilted his head slightly. "Do you think he's provoking me? Or you?"
"That isn't important," Dumbledore replied.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Those who knew him well felt an inexplicable unease. And McGonagall certainly did.
"Albus…"
"Minerva, I'll leave the school's affairs to you for the moment. Please ensure our guests are not neglected."
He slowly folded the newspaper into a square small enough to fit in his palm. A gentle flick of his fingers, and it burst into flames, turning to ash.
He inclined his head politely toward the other headmasters.
"Where are you going?" McGonagall asked, a very bad feeling settling in her chest.
Dumbledore rose.
Under the watchful eyes of the entire hall, he walked toward the doors.
"To deal with my sister's enemies."
.
.
.