Cough! Cough! Cough!
Wisps of dark green mist curled through the air, twisting and slithering like spectral serpents. The chamber was vast, its high stone walls barely visible through the haze, the eerie green glow casting unnatural shadows that flickered and danced like living things. The atmosphere felt thick—dense with magic, pulsing with an ominous energy that clung to the skin like damp fog.
At the very center of the secret chamber, an old man sat cross-legged, motionless. He wore flowing purple wizard robes, their fabric slightly tattered from years of wear. His face was lined with deep creases, betraying the weight of decades of wisdom, struggle, and power. Though his eyes were closed, his body betrayed the subtle signs of life—his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
Every few moments, a rasping cough would break the silence, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
The mist coiled around him, drifting lower and lower, seeping into his skin as if being absorbed by his very essence.
The floor beneath him was covered in intricate, glowing lines of magic—dark red, deep blue, and pale green interwoven in dizzying patterns. The sheer complexity of the runes would have overwhelmed a lesser wizard, their shapes pulsating with a power that bent the very fabric of space.
For those skilled enough to sense it, faint traces of time itself lingered here, woven into the runic array.
This man, this weathered figure engulfed in mystery and power, was Jack Riddle—Speaker of the Magical Congress of the United States of America for decades.
Through the rise and fall of political tides, through shifting allegiances and betrayals, he had remained.
Deputy Speakers had come and gone, each attempting to claw their way to the top, but none had succeeded in unseating him.
Not until now.
Now, fate had turned its gaze upon him.
Jack Riddle inhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus. He needed to recover.
Decades ago, when Grindelwald's shadow loomed over America, he had barely held his ground. And yet, against all expectations, Grindelwald had returned, stronger than ever.
The years of imprisonment should have weakened the Dark Lord, stripped him of his power.
But they hadn't.
Instead, Grindelwald had grown, his strength surging to levels Jack had never anticipated. The man had evolved beyond his previous limits, transcending into something even more dangerous.
Meditation.
Jack gritted his teeth. It was the key, the secret behind Grindelwald's newfound might.
And he had ignored it.
For years, he had dismissed the whispers of its potential, deeming it little more than a philosophical exercise.
But then came Lockhart.
A mere writer—an insignificant name among wizards—who had risen with unnatural speed, climbing to a position of influence in just a handful of years.
It defied all logic.
It shattered his understanding of power.
Now, forced into a position of weakness, he had turned his attention to meditation, finally acknowledging the art he had once scorned.
And the results were undeniable.
His body, once on the brink of collapse, was healing at an unprecedented rate. The life-threatening injuries that should have left him crippled were slowly fading.
So he continued.
Not to defeat Grindelwald—that was no longer his goal.
But to survive.
Because he knew, beyond any doubt, that another threat loomed.
Turan, the Goblin King.
The thought of him sent a pulse of irritation through Jack's weary mind.
And then there was Chenos, the current Deputy Speaker.
A sharp, calculating young wizard—intelligent, resourceful, and, in Jack's eyes, wasted potential.
For all his brilliance, Chenos had made a grave mistake.
He had chosen to align himself with goblins.
Jack exhaled slowly, shaking his head. The boy was still young, still naive. He had seen the future of the wizarding world, and instead of seizing it with his own hands, he had thrown his lot in with creatures whose sole purpose was to manipulate wizards for their own gain.
A sigh escaped his lips.
If Chenos had chosen pure-blood alliances, he might have had a chance.
But goblins?
His fate was already sealed.
Not by assassination. Not by war.
But by the inevitability of history itself.
The goblins, under Turan's rule, had been steadily usurping the Magical Congress's power. The Wizard's Banking Association—an institution forged from Jack's bitter struggles against Turan—was evidence enough of that.
And Chenos was helping them.
Jack Riddle could not help but scoff at the absurdity of it all.
Foolish boy.
He thinks he can control them.
But if not for Grindelwald, if not for Jack himself, the goblins would have already devoured the Magical Congress whole.
Meanwhile, above ground, in the grand chambers of the Magical Congress—
"Speaker Jack Riddle is still recovering from his injuries," Chenos said, his voice carefully measured.
He stood before Dumbledore, his expression unreadable, though a hint of worry laced his words.
"The Dark Lord was too powerful," he continued. "The Speaker used every ounce of his strength to defeat him but suffered serious wounds in the process."
"But he lives."
Chenos's gaze flickered, gauging Dumbledore's reaction.
"He's healing as we speak."
Dumbledore listened intently, his sharp blue eyes studying Chenos with an unreadable expression.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, with deliberate slowness, Chenos spoke again, this time his tone shifting—taking on an almost pleading quality.
" Headmaster, you've seen the state of things yourself," he began. "Our entire wizarding community has unified against the Saints. Our Aurors fight to the death. Our alliances grow stronger."
He inhaled.
"And yet, even with all of this—" his voice dropped slightly, his fingers clenching at his robes, "—even with all our sacrifices, even as our limbs break and our blood spills—"
"—we still cannot stop Grindelwald alone."
His next action was drastic.
Chenos bowed.
Right there, in front of Dumbledore, before the assembled Aurors, he bent at the waist—a rare, calculated display of submission.
But the moment he did, an invisible force locked his body in place.
His breath hitched.
He could not move.
A silent spell had been cast—he was frozen, stiff as a statue.
Dumbledore's voice followed, calm yet firm.
"Do not worry," the old wizard said, his tone final. "I was invited here by Minister Fudge and the Wizengamot to assist."
His piercing gaze settled on Chenos.
"I will ensure the Magical Congress finds true peace."
The spell lifted.
Chenos exhaled sharply, his body relaxing.
But instead of feeling insulted, he felt a rush of triumph.
He had won.
Dumbledore was now in the game.
The thought of Grindelwald's smug arrogance shattered beneath Chenos's exhilaration.
Finally—finally—someone could match the Dark Lord's power.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Chenos said, his voice shifting from formal to something more familiar.
Now, it was time to seal the deal.
"I will have all recent intelligence on Grindelwald compiled for you," he assured. "You'll have everything you need."
Dumbledore gave a slow nod.
"Good," he said. "And while you're at it, I also require a full report on the Magical Congress's military strength."
Chenos didn't hesitate. "Of course."
But what Dumbledore said next froze him.
"And," Dumbledore added, "a detailed report on the goblins."
Chenos stiffened.
"I need to assess their true position in this conflict," Dumbledore continued, his tone deceptively mild.
"And arrange a meeting with Turan, the Goblin King."
At that moment, across the Goblin Kingdom—
Turan's face darkened.
"Dumbledore wants to meet me?" he murmured, his fingers tightening around his goblet.
For a fleeting second, fear flickered in his eyes.
Was this an opportunity?
Or a trap?
The Goblin King exhaled, then made his decision.
"Nass," he commanded, his voice like steel.
"Go in my place. Make it clear—the goblins need Dumbledore now."
...
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