"Dear Headmaster Dumbledore, it is truly an honor for us to join forces with a great wizard such as yourself."
In the grand conference hall of the Magical Congress, a goblin elder named Nass spoke with measured enthusiasm, his sharp, beady eyes fixed on Dumbledore. His voice carried a polished elegance, but beneath it lay the unmistakable undertones of a shrewd negotiator.
"We, the goblin clan, possess a secret treasure—one capable of obscuring Grindelwald's fate from those who seek to peer into it," he continued, his long, clawed fingers pressing together thoughtfully.
"Among the Saints, there are wizards of considerable skill. Wayne, their Potions Master, is a formidable force in his own right. Tull, the Battle Mage, is another—a warrior who wields magic like a seasoned duelist on the battlefield."
He paused, then smiled faintly.
"But with your arrival, Principal, the tides are shifting. Your presence alone has brought us, and the Magical Congress, a great sense of security. Grindelwald has been a thorn in our side for too long. Every time he appears, it ends in our defeat."
Chenos, seated quietly at the side, listened to Nass's words with a carefully neutral expression.
He allowed the goblin elder to continue his speech, watching Dumbledore's reaction.
The old wizard nodded from time to time, a look of quiet contemplation on his face. His fingers rested against the polished wood of the conference table, his demeanor giving the impression that he understood the magnitude of the battle they faced.
After a brief moment of silence, Nass's expression turned grave.
"My esteemed Principal, I must apologize," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Our King has been grievously wounded. Grindelwald's latest attack placed a terrible curse upon him. Even now, he remains in recovery."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Nass continued, his voice thick with barely suppressed anger.
"But know this—once my King regains his strength, he will meet with you personally. He wishes to discuss our next course of action against that despicable assassin."
At the mention of Grindelwald as an assassin, Dumbledore's expression barely flickered. A subtle, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before disappearing.
"Very well," he said finally. "When your King is ready, I shall meet with him."
Nass's sharp ears twitched slightly, detecting Dumbledore's tone of approval. He nodded eagerly, almost too eagerly, and began speaking once more, reinforcing their mutual goal.
The conversation continued, but little of substance was exchanged beyond formalities.
Recognizing the natural lull in the discussion, Dumbledore took the opportunity to excuse himself.
He left the conference hall without much fanfare, stepping into the quiet corridors of the Magical Congress, his footsteps muffled by the luxurious red carpeting beneath him.
Soon, he arrived at his temporary quarters.
The lounge he had been given was vast—almost ostentatiously so.
Tall-backed chairs upholstered in velvet stood around a polished wooden table. A thick woolen carpet spread across the stone floor, its intricate patterns woven in deep blues and silvers. Sapphire gems adorned the armrests of the seats, catching the golden candlelight.
Everything about the room screamed opulence.
Dumbledore chuckled softly to himself.
It was said that this very room once belonged to Speaker Jack Riddle.
Chenos had been the one to arrange his stay here, though Dumbledore had no desire to question his motives. He had simply accepted the arrangement without hesitation.
Settling into one of the high-backed chairs, he gazed out the large window, his eyes trailing across the brilliant blue sky.
And then, almost lazily, he spoke.
"Can the assassin come out now?"
The moment his words left his lips, a faint shift occurred in the air.
A shadow lengthened across the floor.
And in the blink of an eye, a silver-gray figure appeared by the windowsill.
Leaning against it with an air of casual arrogance, Grindelwald crossed his arms over his chest, his silver-gray robes draping elegantly around him.
His sharp eyes, filled with both amusement and deep irritation, locked onto Dumbledore.
"You truly have a talent for summoning me, Albus," he said dryly.
Dumbledore merely smiled.
Grindelwald let out a sharp exhale, his irritation surfacing.
"That coward, Turan," he spat. "He dared not meet with you himself. Instead, he sends his pawn."
He scoffed.
"It is no wonder the goblins have remained stagnant for all these years. Their greatest achievement? Establishing an American Wizarding Banking Association." His tone dripped with contempt.
"They deserve their failures," he continued, his voice filled with disdain. "A race of cowards—spineless and scheming. They lack the courage to act decisively."
Dumbledore's smile deepened as he listened, his amusement barely concealed.
"Now, now, Gallert," he said in a soothing tone. "There's no need for such impatience."
He leaned back in his chair.
"This situation was entirely predictable."
Grindelwald studied him, then slowly nodded.
There was understanding in his expression.
He and Dumbledore had made a deal—an arrangement of mutual benefit.
And in all their long years, Dumbledore had never wavered from his fundamental beliefs.
Wizarding supremacy.
The only thing that had changed over time was how he pursued it.
His methods had softened—become more diplomatic, more refined—but beneath it all, the core of his ideals remained unshaken.
Grindelwald exhaled, running a hand through his silver hair.
"Tell me, Albus," he murmured. "What exactly is your plan?"
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with knowing amusement.
"The American wizarding world has shown signs of progress," he said, not answering directly. "They may have abandoned meditation, but they have begun self-innovation."
He paused.
"It started with the goblins," he admitted. "But now, their advancements are reaching human wizards as well."
A thoughtful silence settled between them.
Then, Grindelwald's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Ah," he mused. "So you're suggesting that if the Saints do not adapt—"
"They will be left behind," Dumbledore finished for him.
Grindelwald chuckled.
"How interesting," he murmured.
Then, his expression turned sly.
"I have plenty of time now, Albus," he said. "Why don't we work together?"
Dumbledore arched a brow.
Grindelwald's smirk widened.
"At least, let's research a weapon suitable for wizards," he suggested. "Something to modernize magic."
Dumbledore didn't hesitate.
"I would be delighted," he said smoothly.
Because after all—
This was a new age.
An age of great change.
And those who failed to evolve would perish.
Meanwhile, at Kamar-Taj, in the Office of the Vice Principal—
In a room decorated in sharp black and white contrasts, Peggy Carter sat behind a pristine white desk.
Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp as they studied the two young wizards standing before her.
Ian and Wanda.
Ian, tall and lean with dark hair, wore a light gray wizard's robe. His youthful face was strikingly handsome, his expression calm and unreadable.
Beside him, Wanda stood with her arms crossed, her long burgundy hair cascading past her waist. Her presence was radiant, her beauty impossible to ignore.
Peggy Carter nodded thoughtfully.
Lockhart's proposal echoed in her mind.
This arrangement would benefit everyone.
"Wanda," she said evenly, "What's the latest status?"
Wanda's lips curled into a mischievous smile.
"It's all set. The conflict among the Gringotts goblins is nearing its peak."
"Now," she added, her voice brimming with satisfaction, "we wait for the right moment to ignite the flames."
...
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