Durmstrang, solitary chamber.
"Hmph."
"Let me go! Release me immediately!"
"Damn Death Eaters! When the leader returns, none of you will escape!"
"I am a Saint, and I will not be broken!"
The solitary chamber, once used to punish rebellious young wizards, was now filled with Durmstrang's professors and staff. Ironically, the very place where students once faced discipline had become their own prison.
Bound and restrained, most of the captured Saints and wizards cursed and shouted in defiance. They hurled insults at the two guards standing outside the chamber, attacking their bloodline and ancestry with every vile word they could muster.
The two pure-blood wizards guarding the door frowned, clearly irritated, but remained silent. Their master had given strict orders, and they dared not disobey.
Still, if it were up to them, they would have taken great pleasure in teaching these prisoners the meaning of true suffering—peeling their bones apart, making them experience agony beyond imagination, and finally, granting them the "relief" of death.
Amidst the furious curses filling the chamber, one corner of the room remained eerily silent.
There, a lone woman sat, her presence distinct from the others. She appeared older, her face lined with wrinkles, her dark blue wizard's robe giving her an air of solemnity. Eyes closed, she exuded an aura of quiet indifference.
Despite the chaos around her, the other prisoners rarely spared her more than a fleeting glance—almost as if they feared her.
Yet, their voices grew louder, their curses harsher—not just to vent their anger, but also to make a statement. They wanted no association with the Death Eaters.
Though everyone in the chamber knew the harsh truth—Durmstrang had not fallen by sheer force alone. There had to be a traitor among them.
More disturbingly, even with their leader's prophetic abilities, the attack had gone unnoticed.
Had their leader miscalculated? Or was there something far more sinister at play?
The implications were terrifying.
"Rozier, what do we do now?" a middle-aged wizard, bound hand and foot, shuffled closer and whispered.
Vinda Rozier—one of Grindelwald's most trusted confidantes—opened her eyes briefly before shutting them again. Her tone was calm, unwavering.
"There is nothing to be done. Just wait."
Her words were simple, yet carried a certainty that made the wizard beside her fall silent.
They had faith in their leader. But this time, the enemy was unlike any they had faced before.
Voldemort.
A Dark Lord who once plunged the British wizarding world into chaos, who battled Dumbledore himself.
And worst of all, intelligence suggested that two other figures had joined Voldemort in this attack.
A growing sense of unease settled over them.
Rozier, too, was plagued by doubts.
She had already sent a message to Grindelwald through her wand. She had done all she could.
But could their leader return in time?
Right now, Grindelwald was engaged in battle in America, fighting both Dumbledore and the Goblin King.
Could he afford to abandon that war to retake Durmstrang?
Or was this all a trap?
The thought gnawed at her.
Could they have been used as bait?
After all, the last time someone managed to obscure fate itself, it was none other than the Goblin King, Turan. That deception had shaken the Saints to their core.
With war breaking out between the Goblins and the Saints, it wasn't impossible that the Goblin King had secretly allied with Voldemort.
Countless scenarios ran through Rozier's mind, but none gave her a definitive answer.
In the end, all she could do was sigh heavily.
She had fulfilled her duty. Now, the decision rested in Grindelwald's hands.
And if this was truly a trap… she would not allow herself to become a burden.
Eyes closed, deep in contemplation, Rozier continued to calculate possible outcomes—until suddenly…
The shouting stopped.
Silence filled the chamber.
A cold shiver crept up Rozier's spine.
Opening her eyes, she saw two figures standing before her.
She already knew who they were. Her expression remained impassive.
"Vinda Rozier, 93 years old. Educated at Durmstrang. At 19, you met Gellert Grindelwald and initially opposed him," a pale-faced Voldemort said softly, as if making casual conversation.
The wizards around her recoiled, their bodies trembling.
They were not fools. They could feel it—an aura of death more terrifying than anything they had ever encountered.
And there were two of them.
Rozier, however, remained unshaken. She closed her eyes again, refusing to acknowledge them.
Voldemort did not seem displeased. He continued.
"At 23, inspired by Grindelwald, you joined the Saints."
"You survived sixteen life-and-death encounters… and twelve times, you shielded Grindelwald from peril."
Then, Voldemort gave a cruel smile, his voice dripping with malice.
"So, Grindelwald must trust you completely."
"Tell me, if you were to turn on him… do you think he would got hurt?"
At those words, Rozier's eyes snapped open. Her glare burned with fury.
"Voldemort, your schemes will never succeed."
The moment she spoke, blood began to seep from her seven orifices. Red, vein-like lines crackled across her body.
The air vibrated with unstable magic.
A riot of power. A self-destructive spell.
She had always known this day might come. She had sworn not to become a burden.
And she would never allow herself to be used as bait.
Even if Voldemort had found a way to obscure fate… even if Polyjuice Potion could disguise an imposter…
She would not allow herself to be turned against Grindelwald.
She would die before that happened.
The surrounding wizards covered their ears in horror.
They understood.
If Voldemort's plan was real—if Rozier's betrayal was necessary—then she had to die first.
Otherwise, they would be the first to fall, ensuring the plan's secrecy.
"Enough."
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort conjured dark purple, spiked vines that slithered across the black floor.
In an instant, they coiled tightly around Rozier, leeching the surging magic from her body.
The crimson lines glowing along her skin were siphoned away, drawn into the vines like fire consuming a wick.
The violent, unstable energy within her began to subside.
Rozier's expression flickered with surprise, a rare hint of emotion breaking through her cold mask.
Of course, she didn't want to die.
But she was not afraid of death either.
More than anything, she refused to become a burden.
Yet now, her final act of defiance—her last resort—had been neutralized.
That meant only one thing.
"Keep Rozier alive," Tom Riddle—Voldemort—said coldly. "If you push her too far, we will all pay the price."
Voldemort—the original—merely shrugged in response, a look of disdain on his face.
If she died, so be it.
Ever since the Gringotts incident, especially after arriving in Europe, he had sensed something was off.
It was as if he had walked into an invisible web.
His every move was met with resistance, his every action contained.
He needed to break free of this entanglement, no matter what the cost.
And for that—Grindelwald was a good place to start.
"Come," Voldemort sneered. "Your master is here."
"We should show him what his most loyal confidante has done for him, don't you think?"
Tom Riddle didn't respond, but Voldemort chuckled mockingly.
With a flick of his wand, Rozier—her body battered and bloodied—was lifted from the ground and floated out of the solitary chamber.
A long, dark trail of blood followed her.
The corridor outside the chamber was already packed with Death Eaters.
Some were brimming with excitement.
Others were nervous.
A few held thinly veiled fear in their eyes.
Because Grindelwald had arrived.
He stood just beyond Durmstrang's entrance, a legion of elite Saints at his back.
The Death Eaters had known of the prisoners in the chamber for some time now.
But none of them dared act without direct orders from their master.
Now, as Voldemort stepped forward, Rozier floating lifelessly behind him, the Death Eaters instinctively moved aside, pressing themselves against the walls.
They opened a path.
Step. Step. Step.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Boots clicked against the stone floor. Blood dripped steadily, forming a crimson trail in the snow-covered ground.
The Death Eaters looked on in silent shock.
None of them knew that Tom Riddle had merely halted Rozier's self-destruction.
To them, this was simply another display of their master's cruelty.
Another prisoner tortured, another body broken.
Whooosh! Whooosh! Whooosh!
Outside, the wind howled through the icy landscape, slamming against the grand stone fortress of Durmstrang.
Grindelwald stood at its entrance, clad in a flowing black robe.
Behind him, rows of Saints stood at attention.
Their ranks were unnervingly orderly, exuding a silent but unmistakable power.
And yet, within Grindelwald, a storm raged.
He burned with fury, barely restraining the urge to storm into Durmstrang and tear the mastermind behind this attack into shreds.
But beneath that anger, a rare chill settled in his chest.
The sense of fate had failed again.
Could it be? Had they anticipated his every move?
Every action he had taken in recent days had been met with disruption.
The Magical Congress had been within his grasp—until the Goblin King emerged.
Durmstrang, his once unshakable stronghold, had been taken.
Dumbledore had suddenly traveled to America.
Lockhart had collaborated with the Ministry of Magic to release those cursed Wizarding Fortune Cards.
The world was shifting in unpredictable ways, and for the first time in a long time, Grindelwald did not feel in control.
Could it be that this world was beginning to reject people like him?
Was he becoming obsolete?
Durmstrang's fall was a stark warning.
The power he had wielded for so long was not as solid as it seemed.
He needed to reinforce his foundation—rebuild his strategy.
And he had a vague idea of how to do that.
Just then—
Creak. Creak. Creak.
The massive iron gates of Durmstrang swung open.
Voldemort and Tom Riddle emerged with their followers, stepping onto the snow-covered ground.
And for the first time, two generations of Dark Lords faced each other.
The tension was suffocating.
And then—
Grindelwald's sharp gaze landed on Rozier, battered and bleeding.
The sheer killing intent that exploded from him was like a hurricane.
His left eye, black as the abyss, suddenly turned silver-white.
The power of fate surged around him, crackling like a coming storm.
A provocation.
A blatant challenge.
Voldemort smirked. With a flick of his wand, Rozier's limp form swayed midair, more blood spilling onto the pristine snow.
Like red plum blossoms blooming on white canvas.
A taunt.
Tom Riddle smiled, staring at Grindelwald from across the distance.
No one spoke.
Yet the magic in the air roared with unspoken words.
A beat passed—then, with a casual flick, Tom waved his yew wand.
Rozier's frail body floated forward, toward Grindelwald.
Voldemort smirked but did not stop him.
"Grindelwald, your followers are quite courageous," Tom remarked in a mocking tone.
"Willing to die rather than be used."
"I admire that."
"But I am a gentleman—I wouldn't take from another man what he loves so dearly."
A smirk curled on his lips.
"I'll return her to you."
Rozier continued to drift toward Grindelwald, an unspoken truce hanging in the air.
Neither side truly wanted an all-out war yet.
Not when other forces—Dumbledore, the Goblin King—were watching.
Not when other pieces were still in play.
Grindelwald's sharp eyes scanned Rozier, carefully sensing her condition.
He let out a quiet sigh of relief.
No fatal injuries.
The magic within her had been forcefully suppressed, but she had lost too much blood.
She was weakened—but alive.
His hand rested gently on Rozier's shoulder—a silent reassurance.
She was safe now.
At that moment, Rozier mustered every ounce of strength she had left.
Her eyes cracked open, lips barely moving.
Her voice was faint, barely above a whisper.
"Be careful… I'm the bait."
The words had barely left her lips when—
Zzzzzzzzt!
Dark purple smoke exploded from her body.
It spread like wildfire, engulfing Grindelwald and the Saints in an instant.
The Saints barely had time to react before the cursed magic touched their skin.
"AHHHHHH!"
Screams tore through the air.
The wails of agony echoed, filling the battlefield with despair.
The potency of the magic was undeniable.
Even Tom Riddle froze.
His head snapped toward Voldemort, eyes wide in disbelief.
Voldemort stood with his wand raised, a sinister smile creeping across his face.
It was him.
He had planned this all along.
Tom's stomach dropped.
He had miscalculated.
Grindelwald's murderous gaze burned through the thick purple fog.
In that moment, Tom knew—
The plan had spiraled out of control.
Everything had gone wrong.
And now, there was no turning back.
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