Durmstrang – Office of the Vice-Principal
Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!
Vinda Rozier, the Vice- Principal and the true power behind Durmstrang, sat at her desk, quill in hand, tapping absently against the table.
Her sharp eyes scanned the parchment before her, frowning deeply.
Why was the expedition to the United States so costly?
The discrepancy between the estimated budget and actual expenditures was staggering.
As the logistical backbone of the American campaign, they had prepared extensively. Anticipating unforeseen complications, she had even increased their budget by 30%.
By all calculations, everything should have gone according to plan.
In fact, 99% of the mission had been completed. The Magical Congress of the United States (MACUSA) had all but fallen.
Victory was within reach.
And then—
A Goblin King appeared out of nowhere.
This mysterious figure propped up MACUSA, and—more critically—provided them with weapons that compensated for their lack of combat power.
Even worse—
The enemy now possessed a countermeasure against the Leader's Will.
Now, instead of an easy conquest, they were entrenched in conflict.
Had the Leader miscalculated?
The thought barely surfaced before Rozier crushed it immediately.
Grindelwald could not be wrong.
No—this was a failure of execution, not strategy.
Rozier clenched her jaw.
Why had no one reported such crucial intelligence about the Goblin clans?
Holm, the pure-blood wizard in charge of intelligence, had completely failed.
He had known nothing before the crisis erupted.
And now, after the damage was done, he was scrambling to investigate—useless.
A vulture feasting on the corpses of the fallen, rather than a tactician who foresaw disaster.
The thought filled Rozier with venomous frustration.
Holm deserved to die for the losses he had caused them.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to refocus.
The Goblins had interfered.
Now, she had to ensure their annihilation.
Once the Saints' intelligence network had detected Goblin activity in the United States, they had begun an exhaustive search—digging through a century of records.
And they had uncovered one name.
Turan.
The Goblin King.
His real name was unknown, but he had once gone by Glass, a renowned alchemist who had gained widespread respect in Europe.
He had built relationships with powerful wizards and even entire Ministries of Magic.
There were whispers that Turan possessed immense magical prowess, unaided by alchemy.
But no one had believed such claims.
At best, wizards had assumed that Turan relied on his magical inventions to hold his own in battle.
That was normal.
A master alchemist could be deadly—if given time to prepare.
Still, something had never quite added up.
Though Turan was clearly a Goblin, his ties to the Goblin race were weak, even contradictory.
Many had assumed this estrangement was why so many wizarding governments had been willing to work with him.
But now—
Everything made sense.
It had all been a lie.
The Goblin King had been planning in secret, gathering his kindred, and when the time was right, he had vanished.
For decades, he had erased his tracks, misleading the Saints into believing he was dead.
But instead—
He had relocated to the United States, founded the American Wizards Bank, and aligned himself with MACUSA.
Rozier exhaled sharply.
This enemy was dangerous.
If it had been forty or fifty years ago, the Saints might have uncovered his schemes in time.
But Turan had been meticulously cautious, slowly smuggling elite Goblins out of Europe and into America.
And now, despite knowing what he had done, they still had no concrete leads.
The most critical Goblins had long since vanished.
What remained were low-level Goblins, still serving local Ministries.
And attacking them would be a tactical disaster.
If the Saints declared war on all Goblins, they risked alienating the other magical races in Europe.
And for what?
Killing ordinary Goblins wouldn't uncover Turan's secrets.
It wouldn't lead to their missing treasures.
It wouldn't bring them the King.
Turan had played them brilliantly.
Rozier gritted her teeth.
A Sudden Silence
Sighing, she returned to her calculations.
She dipped her quill into ink and began writing on the parchment.
"Mobilize 10,000 Galleons and 3,000 bottles of healing potions—"
The soft scratching of quill against parchment filled the office.
Her list grew longer.
Her writing slowed.
Then—
The quill froze mid-stroke.
The scratching ceased.
Silence.
A silence too complete.
Even the cold wind that had been whistling moments ago—gone.
The muffled sounds of students playing outside—vanished.
Rozier's instincts screamed.
She gripped her quill—no, her wand.
At some point, it had shifted in her hand, its polished wood pressing against her palm.
She did not move.
Not yet.
She could feel it.
Malice.
Thick, suffocating.
Death was near.
One wrong move, and she would be slaughtered.
But Rozier had followed Grindelwald for too long to be paralyzed by fear.
Her ferocity rose.
If she was going to die, she would make them bleed first.
Boom!
Her desk and chair exploded, shards flying in every direction.
Fierce blue flames erupted, consuming the space around her in an instant.
At the same time—
A black shimmer flickered.
A single object disappeared.
But it wasn't Rozier.
It was—
Her wand.
"Damn it."
A voice cold as ice.
Voldemort.
"The news has leaked," he muttered darkly.
From the air, long, thin black ropes materialized, coiling around Rozier's limbs, torso, and throat.
She couldn't move.
"It doesn't matter," a second voice responded—smooth, elegant, yet dripping with darkness.
Tom Riddle.
Rozier stared at the two figures before her.
To her left—
A pale specter with scarlet eyes, radiating pure malice.
To her right—
A young, handsome man, draped in deep green robes, his dark aura unsettlingly calm.
Her heart pounded.
The two Voldemorts of Britain.
She had suspected their ambitions.
But for them to arrive in Europe—at Durmstrang itself—
Rozier's mind raced.
Then—
A realization.
She had managed to send a message.
And if they had captured her…
It meant—
Durmstrang had fallen.
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