The air in the abandoned classroom on the fourth floor crackled with an almost tangible energy on the evening of June 1st, 1937. Dust motes danced in the last slivers of twilight filtering through the grimy windowpanes, illuminated by the soft glow of a single, magically conjured orb hovering silently in the center of the room. The usual musty smell of disuse was momentarily overshadowed by the sharp tang of raw magic, potent and alive.
Marcus Starborn stood facing Albus Dumbledore, their wands held loosely, yet poised. This was their final duel of the academic year, a culmination of months of intense, secret training. The news from the outside world, particularly the grim reports of Grindelwald's ongoing consolidation of power in Magical Austria, had added a new, almost desperate urgency to their sessions. Marcus knew Dumbledore pushed him not just for skill, but for readiness.
Dumbledore, ever serene, regarded Marcus with eyes that held both deep wisdom and an unreadable depth. "A fitting end to our sessions for the year, Marcus," he said, his voice a quiet murmur that somehow filled the abandoned space. "Let us see how far your command has truly progressed. Remember, this is not about brute force, but about elegance, control, and the seamless application of will. No grand, flashy spells, but the profound efficacy of quiet mastery."
Marcus nodded, his own focus absolute. He felt the familiar hum of his Untethered Will thrumming beneath his skin, a latent power waiting for his command. His training with Salazar Slytherin's portrait, though a forbidden secret, had refined his understanding of magic's deepest currents, adding a ruthless precision to his innate abilities. He was ready.
"As you wish, Professor," Marcus replied, his voice calm, projecting a confidence born of hard-won progress.
Dumbledore made the first move. Without a single spoken word, his wand gave a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch. From the very air around Marcus, dozens of small, needle-sharp shards of ice materialized, suspended for a breath, then they shot towards him with chilling velocity. It was a simple Conjuration, but cast with such speed and precision that it was almost impossible to react conventionally.
Marcus didn't cast a Shield Charm. Instead, his left hand, almost on its own volition, rose slightly. His mind, clearer than crystal, willed the very air between him and the ice shards to become dense, viscous, like treacle. It was pure Untethered Will, shaping the physical properties of space without an incantation or even a distinct wand movement. The ice shards, moments from striking, slammed into the suddenly resistant air, their momentum arrested, causing them to shatter into harmless, glittering dust before they reached him. A Localized Air Density Charm, woven from pure intent.
Dumbledore's eyes, bright as sapphires, narrowed slightly in what could have been surprise or approval. He did not pause. With a smooth, flowing motion of his wand, he unleashed a silent torrent of water from the broken window. It surged towards Marcus, not as a simple gush, but as a writhing, coiling serpent of liquid, attempting to ensnare him.
Marcus countered by invoking the Draconic command Nahl (flow) subtly within his mind. He didn't try to block or banish the water. Instead, with a precise, almost imperceptible flick of his wand that seemed to guide rather than cast, he redirected the magical flow of the water. The serpent of liquid, instead of striking him, suddenly arced sharply, splitting into two streams that flowed around him, harmlessly splashing against the opposite wall. It was a subtle Flow Manipulation Charm, a testament to his understanding of the inherent currents of magic.
Dumbledore responded with speed that belied his calm demeanor. He cast a series of silent, intricate Binding Charms, not targeting Marcus directly, but causing the very shadows in the corners of the room to lengthen, twist, and solidify into grasping tendrils that snaked across the floor towards his feet. This was not merely summoning shadows; it was giving them a temporary, coercive magical form, a complex form of Transfiguration or Enchantment.
Marcus, however, had been training for such nuanced attacks. As the shadow-tendrils approached, he unleashed a silent, powerful counter. His Untethered Will flared, channeling pure magical intent, combined with a focused Draconic command of Fen (destroy/break). Instead of blasting them away, he unraveled their magical cohesion. The tendrils, moments from binding him, shimmered violently, their solid form dissolving back into formless shadow, retreating into the deeper gloom of the room. It was a precise Cohesion Dissolution Charm, breaking the very spell that gave them form.
Dumbledore raised his wand, and a single, brilliant white orb of light burst forth, expanding rapidly to fill the room, attempting to momentarily blind Marcus. It was not merely a Lumos Maxima; it was a powerful Disorienting Light Charm, designed to overwhelm the senses.
Marcus did not close his eyes. Instead, his mind focused, his will asserting itself. He willed his own perception to shift, his innate magical senses to filter the overwhelming light. For a fraction of a second, the light seemed to dim, to recede, becoming a manageable glow rather than a blinding flash. He simultaneously sent a subtle wave of mental disruption towards Dumbledore, a direct, non-verbal assault on his concentration, drawn from his Draconic theories on influencing the Zii (spirit/mind). It wasn't a curse, but a profound, albeit momentary, jarring of focus.
Dumbledore, for the first time, showed a tangible reaction. His eyes, though still bright, flickered, and a barely perceptible frown creased his brow. The mental ripple had registered. He countered by radiating an immense, calming aura of pure magical presence, effortlessly dissolving Marcus's subtle mental attack.
The duel escalated, growing in intensity, though still lacking the flashy explosions of conventional spell-casting. Dumbledore conjured complex illusions, making the room seem to twist and distort, its very structure shifting, testing Marcus's ability to discern reality from deception. Marcus, in turn, used his Untethered Will to anchor his perception, to instinctively identify the true physical form of the room, moving through the optical trickery with effortless grace. He launched silent, almost invisible curses that subtly manipulated the friction on the floor beneath Dumbledore's feet, or caused tiny, illusory objects to appear at the periphery of his vision, designed to momentarily distract.
Dumbledore responded with Transfigurations that were breathtaking in their speed and complexity. A broken desk transformed into a soaring griffin that swooped silently towards Marcus; a shattered pane of glass solidified into a sharp, crystalline barrier. Marcus met these with equally rapid counter-transfigurations, dissolving the griffin into dust mid-flight, or transforming the crystal barrier into harmless smoke. His Draconic Verth (create/shape) and Fen (destroy) commands allowed him to directly manipulate the substance of these transfigurations, twisting them at their very core.
Finally, Dumbledore's wand gave a final, precise flick. Not a spell, but a subtle manipulation of the room's ambient magic. The air around Marcus suddenly grew heavy, oppressive, as if the very space itself was pressing in on him, draining his magical reserves. It was a highly advanced Environmental Coercion Charm, designed to exhaust and overwhelm.
Marcus's response was instantaneous, desperate, and powerful. He didn't fight the oppressive magic directly. Instead, he reached deep within himself, channeling the raw, untamed magic of his Untethered Will. He uttered a single, guttural sound – a fragmented Draconic command for Unfettered Release – his wand glowing faintly. A wave of pure, potent magical energy burst forth from him, not as a directed spell, but as an expansive wave of defiant will, pushing against the environmental coercion. The oppressive pressure dissipated, fractured by the raw, unfettered power emanating from Marcus, leaving the air clear and vibrating with lingering energy.
Dumbledore dropped his wand arm, a look of profound, almost reverent awe on his face. The single conjured orb of light flared brightly, then gently dimmed. The duel was over.
"Remarkable, Marcus," Dumbledore finally said, his voice tinged with a solemn wonder. "Truly remarkable. Your progress this year has been… astonishing. That final burst of pure will… a manifestation of raw power I have rarely witnessed in one so young. Your control over perception, your unraveling of cohesion, your redirection of magical flow – these are skills bordering on mastery. You are learning to speak to magic itself, Marcus, not merely to ask of it."
He walked slowly towards Marcus, his gaze piercing. "Your understanding of the underlying principles of magic is profound. You are moving beyond the spellbook, beyond the incantation, to the very essence of magical creation and unmaking. You are becoming… uniquely formidable. The silence of your casting, the seamless chaining of your spells, the sheer intent behind your every action – it speaks of a future of immense power."
Dumbledore's expression then softened, though his eyes remained serious. "However, there are still areas for growth. That final burst of power, while effective, was… untamed. It lacked the precise articulation that would truly refine it into a perfectly controlled weapon. The raw power is there, Marcus, a terrifying wellspring. But true mastery lies in controlling the faucet, not merely opening the floodgates. You still rely, at times, on instinct, where a more refined, deliberate control could achieve the same, or even greater, effect with less expenditure of effort."
He rested a hand on Marcus's shoulder, his touch warm and heavy with meaning. "You are becoming what I hoped, and perhaps what I feared. Your abilities will be crucial in the trials to come. But you must remember, Marcus, that power without absolute control can be as dangerous to the wielder as to the foe. Your path is leading you into realms of magic that few wizards alive can comprehend, let alone wield. Continue to refine that control. Seek always the elegant solution, the precise application, even for the most devastating of effects. For the world, Marcus, will soon demand everything you have learned, and everything you are yet to become."
Marcus nodded, absorbing Dumbledore's words. The praise was exhilarating, the criticism a sharp reminder of the immense journey still ahead. He understood the need for that final, crucial refinement. It was the difference between raw might and true artistry, between destruction and deliberate shaping. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that he had to achieve it.
The morning of June 2nd, 1937, broke over Hogwarts, bringing with it a deceptive calm. The sky was clear, the air fresh, almost as if the world outside had not just received another crushing blow. Students gathered for breakfast in the Great Hall, a subdued murmur replacing the usual lively chatter. The atmosphere was one of weary anticipation, a stark contrast to the previous day's intense magical exchange.
As always, the arrival of the morning papers shattered any lingering illusions of peace. A dense flock of owls descended, delivering the Daily Prophet and other European magical newspapers to every table. The headlines, stark and unforgiving, confirmed the worst fears that had been whispered since the fall of Austria.
THE DAILY PROPHET:
GRINDELWALD CROWNS PUPPET ARCHDUKE IN VIENNA!
Former Austrian Ministry Official Installed as Figurehead Leader - 'New Order' Fully Declared
LE CRI DE LA GAZELLE:
GRINDELWALD PROCLAME L'ARCHIDUC MARIONNETTE EN AUTRICHE!
(Grindelwald Proclaims Puppet Archduke in Austria!)
DER MAGISCHE BOTE:
GRINDELWALD KRÖNT PUPPEN-ERZHERZOG IN WIEN!
(Grindelwald Crowns Puppet Archduke in Vienna!)
A palpable wave of dread washed over the Great Hall. This wasn't just consolidation; this was legitimization. Grindelwald was not merely occupying; he was installing a new, false government, clothing his conquest in the trappings of political structure. The news was met not with gasps of surprise, but with a deep, collective sigh of despair.
Discussions, initially hushed, swelled into a cacophony of worried whispers and frustrated exclamations. Students and professors alike grappled with the implications.
At the Ravenclaw table, Eleanor's face was etched with horror. "A puppet… Archduke? So he's not just a conqueror, he's… a kingmaker?"
Edgar's spectacles gleamed as he reread the article, his analytical mind working furiously. "This is a masterstroke of political manipulation. By installing a figurehead, he gives the illusion of local governance, potentially placating some of the populace, while maintaining absolute control. It's a dangerous precedent. It legitimizes his rule, however false that legitimacy may be."
Elara, her voice trembling, added, "And it makes it harder for other nations to intervene directly, doesn't it? They can't just 'liberate' a nation that technically has its own government, even if it's controlled by Grindelwald."
From the Gryffindor table, Leo Lionsguard looked furious, slamming his fist down. "This is outrageous! We need to do something! Why isn't the Ministry sending Aurors? Why aren't we fighting back?"
Henry Potter, looking utterly distraught, buried his face in his hands. "He's changing everything. This isn't how it's supposed to be. What if he does this everywhere?"
Elizabeth Blackwood, joining them from the Hufflepuff table, her eyes hard and cold, summarized their collective dread. "This isn't just a war, it's a systematic takeover. He's showing the world that he doesn't just conquer; he replaces. He's not going to stop. This is just the beginning of his 'New Order'."
Marcus listened, his mind detached yet intensely focused. He had anticipated this. Slytherin's words from Christmas night echoed in his mind: "He seeks not merely power, but dominion… He would tear it all down to rebuild, in his own image." This puppet government was the first brick in Grindelwald's new, dark empire. It was a clear signal that he intended to rewrite the political map of the magical world, not just subjugate it temporarily.
His thoughts turned to the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW). They will view this as an internal Austrian matter, manipulated by a 'rogue' wizard, but still technically a sovereign government. They will argue over semantics, over legal definitions, over what constitutes 'intervention' versus 'invasion' of a 'legitimate' state. They will call for more talks, more committees, more resolutions.
But while they talk, Grindelwald will be building. He will solidify his control over Austria's magical resources, recruit its magical population into his ranks, and use Vienna as a new administrative and strategic hub. He will gather intelligence, refine his methods of control, and prepare his next moves with chilling precision, all under the guise of 'internal governance'.
He pictured the bureaucratic halls of the ICW, filled with wizards in stuffy robes, debating endlessly while Grindelwald's forces moved swiftly, decisively. The contrast between the ponderous, reactive nature of the established magical governments and Grindelwald's relentless, proactive ambition was stark and terrifying. This was a war not just of spells, but of ideologies, of political will versus rigid adherence to outdated norms.
Throughout the day, as classes resumed (a stark, almost surreal normalcy after the news), Marcus's mind was a whirlwind of strategic analysis. In Transfiguration, while his classmates struggled with complex transformations, he found himself thinking about how Grindelwald might be using advanced Transfiguration for strategic advantage – perhaps turning natural landscapes into defensible fortresses, or transforming mundane objects into highly effective, hidden weapons. In Potions, the meticulous precision of brewing made him ponder the subtle, long-term effects of Grindelwald's use of psychological potions, or the possibility of new brews designed for allegiance or control.
During his private study periods, usually dedicated to his Draconic theories, Marcus found his thoughts constantly circling back to the political implications of Grindelwald's puppet regime. He spent hours in the library, not on his N.E.W.T. texts, but on historical tomes about magical governance, magical law, and the formation of international magical bodies. He sought out obscure accounts of magical rebellions and their suppression, of charismatic leaders who had manipulated magical masses, and their eventual downfalls. He was looking for patterns, for weaknesses, for leverage.
He began to theorize about spells that could directly counter political subjugation. Not brute force, but subtle, insidious magic. What if he could create a Draconic command (Zii - spirit/mind, Tiid - time, Fen - destroy) that subtly eroded the loyalty of a coerced populace over time, slowly turning their minds against Grindelwald's imposed regime? Or a spell that could create doubt, confusion, and infighting among Grindelwald's own lieutenants, without ever revealing its source? These were the kinds of unconventional tactics Slytherin had hinted at, the 'scalpels' to counter Grindelwald's 'hammers.'
The thought of the upcoming summer, and the ICW peace talks that were sure to follow, filled him with a cold dread. He knew they would fail. He knew that while the ICW talked, Grindelwald would act. And that meant the burden would fall on individuals, on those willing to transcend the conventional, to fight not just with wands, but with wit, strategy, and power unlike anything seen in centuries.
As night descended, and the castle lights twinkled against the darkening sky, the fear in Hogwarts remained palpable. Marcus had dinner with his friends, their conversation still circling the grim news, their faces reflecting the day's anxiety. He offered calm, reasoned insights, subtly guiding their analysis, even as his own mind worked furiously on deeper, darker implications.
Later, in the quiet solitude of his room, Marcus prepared for bed. He stood by the window, gazing out at the impenetrable darkness of the Forbidden Forest, a silent sentinel against the world. The puppet government in Austria was not just a headline; it was a clear signpost on the road to total war. The next two years, his remaining time at Hogwarts, would be more than just N.E.W.T. preparation. They would be a race against time, a desperate effort to hone his extraordinary abilities to a razor's edge, to become the precise, unseen force that could truly counter Grindelwald's terrifying vision.
He extinguished the light, plunging the room into darkness. The castle slept, but Marcus's mind remained alert, calculating, strategizing, prepared to move when no one expected it.