Key

July 25, 1993, 10:30 PM, Phoenix’ Roost, England

Gellert Grindelwald

The night found Gellert in his solar, its opulence a stark contrast to the chaos he’d unleashed on the wizarding world. The dark mahogany walls gleamed under the flickering firelight, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly, warding off any who dared pry.

Shelves sagged under the weight of forbidden tomes, their spines cracked from centuries of use, while artifacts— cursed daggers, glowing orbs, a blackened chalice— whispered of power stolen from forgotten eras, each with its own use in his plans. A heavy velvet curtain blocked the single window, sealing the room from the outside world.

He stood over his table, its surface dominated by a map of the world, parchment yellowed but meticulously detailed, continents sprawling in inked precision. His fingers, long and pale, traced the curve of Europe, lingering on Britain, where the League of Nine tournament had unraveled into glorious anarchy.

Longling Academy and Castelobruxo’s betrayal— schools he’d turned with promises of power— had amplified the discord, shattering the wizarding nations’ façade of unity. Yet, a flicker of irritation crossed his mind. Adam Clarke, his recruit prospect but also a thorn in his side of late, had rallied his own peers and even saved Hogsmeade with Lockhart and an army of Acromantulas, of all things. The boy was a variable Grindelwald had anticipated, to be sure, but Clarke had surprised him despite all that.

Matthias, his trusted lieutenant, stood opposite, his broad frame tense, dark eyes scanning the map. Clad in a tailored black robe, Matthias exuded discipline, his cropped hair gleaming under the candles’ glow.

Once a lowly guard in Nurmengard, he’d sworn loyalty to Grindelwald, drawn by a vision of a world reshaped. Yet now, his brow furrowed, lips tightening— a tell Grindelwald knew well. Matthias was restless, and Grindelwald relished the chance to steer that energy.

The air grew heavy, the wards’ hum a low drone, as Grindelwald’s thoughts churned. The Abyss, that realm between life and death, was his true prize. Opening its portal would grant him dominion over the material world, a power to rival gods. The relics he’d amassed— the Mirror of Erised, the Veil of Death, the Pebble of Blood— were keys, their magic potent but incomplete without the ley lines’ alignment. The tournament had been a distraction, a way to fracture his enemies while he gathered strength and more relics.

Time, however, pressed against him, the world’s pulse shifting, and Matthias’ impatience was a mirror of his own.

“Why haven’t we begun the ritual, Gellert?” Matthias’ voice cut through the silence, low but edged with frustration. He leaned forward, knuckles pressing into the table, his gaze flicking from the map to Grindelwald. “The relics are secure. Longling and Castelobruxo have sown chaos. The wizarding nations are scrambling. We have the momentum— why wait?”

Grindelwald’s lips curved, a smile both charming and predatory, his mismatched eyes glinting like ice under moonlight. He adjusted his stance. Matthias’ bluntness was refreshing, a contrast to the sycophants who’d flocked to his new order. But the question demanded a response, one that would both placate and command.

“Patience, Matthias.” Grindelwald said, his voice smooth, resonant, carrying the weight of a man who’d toppled empires. “The Abyss is not a door we force open with brute strength. It requires precision, alignment; a sort of harmony, if you will.”

He let the words hang, savoring Matthias’ flicker of doubt. “Our enemies are scattered, yes, but the Earth itself resists us. The ritual must wait until the world’s veins are ours to command.”

Matthias’ jaw tightened, his fingers tapping the map’s edge. “The relics are powerful enough, aren’t they? The Veil of Death alone— ”

“—Is but one piece.” Grindelwald interrupted, his tone sharpening, though his smile held. He stepped closer to the map, his robe whispering against the stone floor. “The Mirror moves desire to will, the Veil shows the way, the Bloodstone drinks life. Together, they are formidable, but without the remainder of the relics, as well as the ley lines’ power, they are a wand without a core— beautiful, but impotent.”

He let his words settle, watching Matthias’ expression shift from frustration to grudging acceptance. Grindelwald’s mind drifted to the tournament’s fallout. The wizarding nations’ unity had cracked, but not shattered.

Dumbledore, ever the shadow, was surely plotting, and so were all of the various Ministries of Magic over the world. Grindelwald’s fingers tightened around his wand, a spark of curiosity mingling with his resolve.

The study’s candles flickered as Grindelwald’s thoughts returned to the present. Matthias’ question wasn’t just impatience; it was a challenge, a test of Grindelwald’s vision. He welcomed it— doubt sharpened loyalty, and Matthias was no fool. The ley lines were the key, their ancient currents disrupted by forces Grindelwald hadn’t fully mapped.

The Native American wizards’ destruction of MACUSA had been a boon, weakening his enemies, but it had also scrambled the ley lines’ flow, a complication he’d eventually turn to his advantage.

Grindelwald raised his wand, its tip glowing faintly, a star in the dim room.

“Let me show you, Matthias.” He said, his voice softening, inviting, as if sharing a secret with an old friend. “The world is more than borders and nations. It is a tapestry of power, woven by forces older than Merlin himself. We will weave it anew, but first, you must see.”

Matthias leaned closer, his skepticism tempered by curiosity, as Grindelwald prepared to reveal the ley lines. The map lay ready, a canvas for his will, and the study’s wards pulsed stronger, as if sensing the magic to come. Grindelwald’s heart quickened, not with fear, but with the thrill of creation.

A cascade of shimmering light erupted from the map, liquid starlight weaving intricate patterns across continents. Lines of gold, blue, and violet pulsed like veins, crisscrossing the parchment in a lattice of ancient energy. They glowed with a life of their own, some thick and steady, others thin and trembling, their flow mapping the Earth’s magical currents. Europe blazed brightest, its lines converging near Stonehenge and the Black Forest, while fainter threads snaked through the Americas, Asia, and beyond.

“This.” He said, his voice low, reverent. “Is how the world once sang.”

His eyes traced the lines, memories of his youth flooding back— nights spent poring over ancient texts, deciphering the ley lines’ secrets with a hunger that had never faded.

“These are the Earth’s veins, Matthias, channels of magic older than wands, older than Hogwarts. They powered Merlin’s spells, fueled the giants’ steps, bound the world in harmony.” He paused, his smile sharp. “And they will power our ritual to open the gate to the Abyss.”

Matthias leaned closer, his broad frame casting a shadow over the map, his skepticism softening into fascination. The ley lines’ glow reflected in his eyes, illuminating the scars on his hands— marks of battles fought in Grindelwald’s name.

He let the lines shimmer, their pulses syncing with his heartbeat, and continued.

“In ages past, wizards aligned their greatest works with these currents. Stonehenge, the Pyramids, the Dragon Temples of Longling— they were built where the lines converge, drawing strength from the Earth itself.” His voice grew softer, almost confiding. “The Abyss requires such power, Matthias. Not just relics, but the world’s own pulse, bent to our will.”

Matthias’ brow furrowed, his fingers hovering over the map’s glowing threads.

“But the lines aren’t stable.” He said, his voice sharp, cutting through Grindelwald’s reverie. “The Native American wizards— the Outsiders— they’ve disrupted the flow. Their rituals, their interference… it’s thrown the world’s magic into chaos.”

“You’re not wrong.” Grindelwald said, his tone light but laced with authority. He raised his wand again, its glow intensifying, and waved it in a slow arc. The ley lines shuddered, their colors flaring— gold to crimson, blue to lilac— before settling into a new configuration. The once-orderly lattice fractured, lines bending sharply, some snapping like overstretched cords, others pooling in chaotic knots. Europe’s convergence points shifted, Stonehenge dimming while new hubs glowed in the Pacific, near Japan’s volcanic islands. The Americas flickered erratically, their lines tangled, a scar of the tribes’ rebellion.

Grindelwald’s mind raced, calculating the implications. The new alignment was volatile, but it offered both opportunities and disadvantages. Japan’s lines burned brighter, their stability a threat to his plans, suggesting rituals that anchored the ley lines against his will. The tribes’ disruption had weakened the Americas, but Japan’s wizards— likely Mahoutokoro’s masters— were countering it, their magic a silent defiance. Perhaps he could contact them, but there were other, far easier avenues to explore before initiating contact with a most likely hostile foe.

“Look closely.” Grindelwald said, his voice commanding, drawing Matthias’ gaze to the map.

“The tribes broke the old order, yes, but they’ve given us a new one. These knots, these surges— they’re raw power, waiting to be harnessed.” He pointed to a crimson line pulsing near Tokyo. “Japan’s wizards are stabilizing the flow, thinking they can use this to their advantage.”

Matthias stared, his eyes narrowing as the map’s patterns sank in. His fingers traced the crimson line, then darted to a knot in the Pacific, his mind working through the strategic implications. Grindelwald watched, pleased, his lieutenant’s gears turning. The tournament’s chaos had distracted their enemies, but Japan’s quiet strength was a threat, one Matthias was beginning to see. The relics could channel the ley lines’ power, but only if the ritual aligned with these new currents, a task requiring precision and, perhaps, sacrifice.

“They’re anchoring the lines.” Matthias muttered, his voice low, almost to himself. “If we strike Japan, disrupt their rituals— ”

“Then we sever their hold.” Grindelwald finished, his smile now a blade. “And the ley lines bend to us, feeding the Abyss.”

His heart quickened, the vision of the portal opening— a tear in reality, spilling power— vivid in his mind. The study’s wards pulsed stronger, as if echoing his ambition, the artifacts on the shelves humming faintly. Matthias’ realization was a step toward victory, but the path was narrow, and Grindelwald knew the cost of failure. The world was a chessboard, and he’d play every piece, from relics to followers, to checkmate his foes.

The ley lines glowed, their chaotic beauty a mirror of his will, as Matthias’ gaze lingered on the map, his deduction solidifying.

Grindelwald lowered his wand, the lines stabilizing, their light dimming but never fading. The study felt smaller, the air charged with possibility, as he prepared to steer Matthias toward the next move.

“So, the answer must be…” Matthias’ fingers hovered over a crimson line pulsing near Tokyo, tracing its path to a knot in the Pacific. His voice, when it came, was sharp, cutting through the room’s charged silence. “A campaign to subvert Mahoutokoro and the Magical Empire of Japan.”

“On the right track, but not the direction I envisioned.” Grindelwald said, his voice smooth, resonant, carrying the weight of a man who’d bent nations to his will. He stepped closer to the map, his robe whispering against the stone floor. “Japan’s wizards think they can hold the world’s pulse, keep it from us. But they underestimate the power we wield— and the relics we command. There will be little need for overt actions against them.”

Matthias’ jaw tightened, his fingers tapping the map’s edge.

“I’m not sure I wholly agree, Gellert. A precise attack on Mahoutokoro, their ritual sites— cut their anchors before they solidify the lines.” His voice carried a soldier’s urgency, tempered by the strategist’s precision Grindelwald had cultivated in him. “The tournament’s chaos has their allies distracted. Hogwarts is licking its wounds, and the Ministry’s in disarray. We won’t get a better chance.”

Grindelwald’s lips curved, a smile both charismatic and predatory. Matthias was right on that particular note— the League of Nine tournament had been a masterstroke, fracturing the wizarding nations’ unity. Japan’s wizards were an immediate threat, but not one he could immediately address.

He nodded, letting Matthias see his approval.

“A strike on Japan is inevitable, but it must be surgical. Mahoutokoro’s defenses are formidable— wards tied to the volcanoes, spells woven into the sea itself.” His voice lowered, confiding, drawing Matthias deeper into his vision. “We’ll use the relics to amplify our assault, channel the ley lines’ chaos against them and sunder their foundation.”

Matthias leaned forward, his eyes locked on the map, tracing the crimson line from Tokyo to the Pacific knot.

“If we hit their ritual sites simultaneously, we could destabilize the lines in hours. Longling’s forces could lead the assault— they’re hungry for blood after the tournament.” His voice grew harder, a soldier’s edge. “But we’ll need Vanessa’s team, too. Her battle magic is unmatched, and she’s itching for a real fight.”

Grindelwald’s thoughts flickered to Vanessa Zhenya, her cold precision a weapon he’d wielded in the Catskills. Her reports of slaughtering the tribes’ weaklings had amused him, but her hunger for a worthy foe mirrored his own. She’d be crucial in Japan, her magic a blizzard against Mahoutokoro’s fire. He opened his mouth to respond, to outline the next steps, when a sharp knock echoed through the study, cutting through the wards’ hum like a blade.

Matthias’ head snapped toward the door, his irritation flaring.

“Not now.” He barked, his hand twitching toward his wand, as if ready to hex the intruder. His loyalty was fierce, his focus on their plan absolute, and interruptions were a personal affront.

Grindelwald raised a hand, his smile calm, unruffled.

“Let them in, Matthias.” He said, his voice a velvet command. “No moment is wasted if it serves our purpose.”

His curiosity stirred, a faint prickle at the base of his skull. The wards hadn’t flared, meaning the intruder was trusted, likely one of his administrators. Whatever news they brought could shift the board, and Grindelwald thrived on such pivots.

Matthias exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiff, but he nodded, stepping back. Grindelwald’s gaze flicked to the door, the ley lines still glowing on the map, their chaotic beauty a reminder of the stakes. The knock came again, softer, almost hesitant, and Grindelwald’s smile widened. He sensed a disruption, a new piece in the game, and he was ready to play it.

The door creaked open, revealing a wiry administrator in a grey robe, his face pale, eyes darting nervously between Grindelwald and Matthias. The man’s hands twitched, clutching a scroll, and Grindelwald noted the sweat beading on his brow. Fear, yes, but also excitement— a combination that promised something significant.

“Sir.” The administrator said, his voice trembling but clear. “Miss Zhenya has returned.”

Grindelwald’s interest sharpened, his mind snapping to Vanessa. She was early, her mission in the Catskills expected to take longer. The administrator’s tone suggested more than a routine report, and Grindelwald’s pulse quickened, not with fear but anticipation. Vanessa was a storm, and storms brought change.

Matthias turned, his irritation giving way to curiosity.

“Vanessa? What’s she— ” He began, his question sharp, but the door swung wider, cutting him off.

Vanessa strode in, her presence a cold front sweeping through the room. Her black cloak, streaked with blood and pine resin, hung heavy, the hem brushing the stone floor. Her wand rested loosely in her hand, its chill palpable even from a distance, and her dark hair, pulled taut, framed a face carved with cold triumph. Her eyes, sharp as glaciers, met Grindelwald’s, a predator’s glint mirroring his own.

Behind her, dragged by enchanted cords, stumbled a Native American boy, no older than fifteen, his wrists bound, his body bruised but unbowed. His wild hair framed a face etched with defiance, though exhaustion dulled his dark eyes. The cords pulsed faintly, their magic ensuring compliance, yet the boy’s posture screamed resistance.

Vanessa stopped before the map, her boots leaving faint smears of mud on the floor. With a flick of her wrist, she released the boy, letting him collapse onto the floor. Grindelwald’s brow twitched, confusion flickering— why bring this boy here, into the heart of his operations?

Yet her smirk, sharp and knowing, promised answers, and Grindelwald’s curiosity surged, tempering his irritation.

“Vanessa.” He said, his voice smooth, a velvet blade. “You return sooner than expected. And with… a guest.”

His gaze flicked to the boy, taking in the bloodied tunic, the sinewy frame, the faint hum of magic that clung to him like a second skin. This was no ordinary captive; even bound, he radiated power, raw and untamed.

Curious…

Matthias stepped forward, his broad frame tense, his dark eyes narrowing.

“What is this, Vanessa? We’re in the middle of—”

Vanessa’s lips curved, a smile cold as frost.

“Matthias. It is good to see you, too.” She said, her voice laced with amusement. “This boy is worth your time. Worth all our time.” She nudged the boy with her boot, eliciting a low groan, and her eyes flicked to Grindelwald, seeking his approval.

“I found him in the Catskills, leading a pathetic band of tribal fighters. They were nothing— chaff, slaughtered in minutes. But him…” She paused, her grin widening. “He’s something else.”

Grindelwald’s interest sharpened, his mind racing. The Catskills mission had been a purge, meant to crush the tribes disrupting his plans. Vanessa’s reports had detailed her ice magic carving through weaklings, but this boy, this anomaly, was unexpected. He leaned closer, his wand tapping lightly against his palm, its rhythm a metronome to his thoughts.

The boy stirred, lifting his head, and their eyes met— his gaze burned with hatred, a spark that intrigued Grindelwald. Defiance in chains was rare, a quality he respected, even coveted.

“Explain.” Grindelwald said, his tone calm but commanding, inviting Vanessa to unravel her prize.

Vanessa straightened, her voice crisp, relishing the moment.

“He fought in a manner different to anything I’ve seen, Gellert. No spells, no incantations— just raw power channeled into his own being. He moved like a beast, faster, stronger, shrugging off my ice like it was rain.” Her eyes gleamed, recounting the battle’s thrill. “He tore an oak from the ground, hurled it at me with magic I’ve never seen. This was something older, primal. A true challenge to overcome, despite his absolute lack of experience.”

Matthias’ irritation flared, his voice sharp.

“You’re saying he’s what— some kind of savage prodigy?” He glanced at the boy, his hand twitching toward his wand, as if itching to test the claim. “I fail to see why that would merit bringing him here. A soldier of the enemy is not particularly remarkable, no matter how talented.”

“I’m of a mind with Matthias.” Grindelwald said, his eyes roving over the bound prisoner, taking in his soul thread, which was writhing in barely contained rage. “A curiosity, he may be, but… Hm.”

Vanessa’s smile was crystalline as she nodded towards Grindelwald. “You’re beginning to see it. He’s not like the others we’ve crushed. He’s… unique.”

Grindelwald’s mind churned, connecting threads. The boy’s magic echoed legends of ancient shamans, wizards who drew power directly from the Earth’s veins— the ley lines. The tribes’ disruption of MACUSA had scrambled those lines, and this boy, with his primal strength, could be a key, a living conduit to the Abyss.

The relics needed such power to unlock the portal, and this boy’s anomaly might be the spark. His thoughts flickered to Adam Clarke, another anomaly, his visions tied to the ley lines. Two variables, two threats— or tools.

Whether they know it or not.

He crouched beside the boy, the map’s glow illuminating the boy’s blood-streaked face. “What is your name?”

Grindelwald asked, his voice soft, almost kind, but laced with a predator’s edge. The boy’s eyes narrowed, lips tightening, offering no answer. Grindelwald’s smile grew; silence was its own defiance, a challenge he’d break.

He raised the wand, its tip glowing faintly, and focused, his consciousness reaching like a silver thread toward the boy’s mind.

“Let us see what you hide.” Grindelwald murmured, his voice a velvet command, laced with anticipation. The study’s wards pulsed stronger, the artifacts humming as his magic surged, a tide crashing against the boy’s defenses. He expected resistance— most minds fought, however feebly— but nothing prepared him for what came.

His probe struck a barrier, not a wall but a pulsing, primal force, like a storm woven of earth and fire. It flared, a mental shield unlike any Grindelwald had encountered, its energy raw, alien, crackling with the same untamed power Vanessa had described. The shield repelled him, a violent shove that sent a jolt through his mind, sharp and electric.

Grindelwald’s breath caught, his vision blurring for a heartbeat, the study’s shadows twisting as if the room itself recoiled. Shock flooded him, then exhilaration— this was no mere boy, but a fortress, a mind guarded by magic older than wands, perhaps tied to the ley lines themselves.

The boy smirked, a fleeting, defiant curl of his lips, his eyes glinting with triumph. Grindelwald’s own smile bloomed, wide and predatory, excitement coursing through him like wildfire.

“Remarkable.” He said, his voice low, almost reverent, as he straightened, the wand tapping his palm. A challenge this potent was rare, a puzzle worthy of his intellect.

Vanessa’s eyes gleamed, her cold approval a silent nod.

“Told you he was different.” She said, her voice a crystalline edge, her gaze flicking between Grindelwald and the boy. “That shield— he used something like it in the Catskills, shrugging off my hexes like they were nothing.”

Matthias’ unease was palpable, his broad frame shifting.

“A mental shield that strong, without training?” He muttered, his skepticism laced with wariness.

Grindelwald circled the boy, his robe whispering against the stone floor, studying him like a sculptor eyeing marble. The boy’s smirk faded, his eyes tracking Grindelwald, hatred simmering but tempered by exhaustion. The enchanted cords sparked faintly, holding him fast, yet his presence filled the room, a storm contained but unbowed.

“You intrigue me.” Grindelwald said, his tone soft, almost intimate, as he stopped before the boy. “Your mind is a vault, locked with a key I’ve not yet found. But I will.”

His smile sharpened, a promise of unraveling. The boy’s jaw tightened, his silence a defiance Grindelwald savored. Breaking such a spirit would be a delight, a victory sweeter than any battlefield.

Vanessa tilted her head, her smirk widening. “He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that. Took quite the beating before he was brought down.”

Grindelwald turned back to Vanessa, his voice smooth, commanding.

“Secure the boy. He’s to be studied— his magic, his shield, every facet. No harm comes to him until I say.” His smile was a blade, sharp with intent. “You’ve done well, Vanessa. This prize may tip the scales.”

Vanessa’s eyes gleamed, her nod crisp. “He’ll be ready, Gellert. I’ll see to it.”

She gestured to the boy, the enchanted cords sparking as she left with him in tow.

Matthias’ unease broke through as soon as the door closed, his voice low but firm. “And Japan? The ley lines won’t wait. Mahoutokoro’s rituals are locking them down. We need to strike before they’re untouchable.”

His dark eyes flicked to the map, the crimson line near Tokyo pulsing like a warning.

Grindelwald nodded, his mind already mapping the assault. “Prepare Longling’s forces, Matthias. They’ll lead the strike— their hunger for blood will serve us well. Coordinate with Vanessa’s team; her ice will carve through Mahoutokoro’s defenses.” He stepped closer to the map, his robe whispering against the stone floor. “Target their ritual sites— volcanic shrines, coastal wards. Disrupt the anchors, and the ley lines will bend to us.”

Matthias straightened, his soldier’s discipline snapping into place. “I’ll have plans drawn by dawn. Longling’s ready, and Vanessa’s team is lethal. We’ll need to account for their sea-based wards— fast strikes, no prolonged engagements.”

His voice carried a strategist’s precision, a blade Grindelwald had sharpened over the course of his tenure here. Grindelwald’s thoughts drifted to the broader war. Just a few more pieces needed to slot into place, and he would finally attain his goal.

He spoke again, his voice resonant. “We are the architects of a new age, and none— not Dumbledore, not any of the Ministries, and certainly not the natives— will stop us.”

“Yes.” Matthias said, eyes shining with fervor. “I will summon the troops for a briefing.”

“Of course. Be safe, my friend.”

“And you.”

ooooo

July 26, 1993, 11:30 AM

Gilderoy Lockhart

Gilderoy Lockhart stood resplendent in a training hall within a fortified wizarding outpost, a beacon of brilliance amidst the drab stone walls and scarred practice dummies. The hall, utilitarian to a fault, was a poor stage for a man of his caliber— charmed lanterns flickered weakly, casting light that barely did justice to his golden curls, and the air smelled faintly of singed wood from past spells.

Yet, Lockhart’s tailored robes, lilac with silver trim, shimmered as if kissed by starlight, and his smile, dazzling as ever, commanded the room. He was here to mold a ragtag band of Hogwarts graduates, fresh from their Seventh Year under his tutelage, into warriors for the war against Grindelwald’s forces. And who better than Gilderoy Lockhart, hero of Hogsmeade, confidant of Adam Clarke, Fifteen-times Winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, to forge these whelps into legends?

The recruits— twenty young wizards and witches, faces a mix of awe and nerves— stood in neat rows, wands at the ready. Lockhart knew them well, having dazzled them last year as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. There was Clara Clinch, her shield charms impeccable but her footwork sluggish; Tobias Reed, a deft hand with hexes but prone to overconfidence; and poor Mildred Potts, whose wandwork was sloppier than a troll’s table manners.

At least, by my standards. The Ministry was all too happy to scoop her up.

Still, they were clay, and he, the master sculptor, would shape them into masterpieces— or at least passable fighters. After all, they’d learned from the best, hadn’t they? His books were practically required reading, and his exploits were the stuff of legend. Who else could have been so bold as to engage in the rallying of Acromantulas with young Clarke to save Hogsmeade?

Lockhart clapped his hands, the sound sharp, his smile blinding.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the real world!” His voice boomed, rich and theatrical, every syllable a performance. “This isn’t Hogwarts, where a poorly aimed Disarming Charm earns you a tut-tut from Professor Flitwick. We’re at war— Grindelwald’s minions, those traitors from Longling and Castelobruxo, are clawing at our throats. Only the best survive, and lucky for you, you’re under the tutelage of Gilderoy Lockhart, the finest duelist this side of Merlin!”

The recruits exchanged glances, some stifling grins, others nodding earnestly. Lockhart preened, his chest puffing slightly. Of course they were impressed— who wouldn’t be? He strode down the line, his robes swishing dramatically, and stopped before Clara.

“Miss Clinch, your Shield Charms are the envy of Hogwarts, but you plant your feet like a constipated hippogriff. Move!” He flicked his wand, a nonverbal Stupefy flashing toward her. Clara’s Protego snapped up, deflecting it, but she stumbled, proving his point. Lockhart’s laugh was warm, encouraging. “Better, but not perfect. Keep those knees loose, or Grindelwald’s goons will have you for breakfast!”

He spun to Tobias, whose smirk screamed overconfidence. “Mr. Reed, your hexes could singe a dragon’s hide, but arrogance is a death sentence. Let’s test that focus.”

Lockhart’s wand slashed, a silent spell aimed at Tobias’s chest. The boy deflected it and countered with a blazing Reductor, the spells going straight towards Lockhart. Gilderoy sidestepped it with a nod, his smile indulgent even as the spell crashed into the wall with a hefty bang. “Not bad, lad, but I saw that coming from a mile away. Vary your attacks, or you’ll be seen as easy, predictable prey!”

Mildred flinched as he approached, her wand trembling. Lockhart’s sigh was theatrical, his heart noble.

“Miss Potts, your grip’s looser than a flobberworm’s handshake. Tighten it, or you’ll be disarmed faster than you can say ‘Lockhart’s Luscious Locks.’” He demonstrated, his own wand held with elegant precision, and cast a gentle Lumos, the light illuminating his flawless features. “Watch and learn, my dear. Precision is power, and I’m the most precise wizard you’ll ever meet!”

The class drilled on, Lockhart’s commands sharp, his critiques brutal but laced with encouragement. He parried their spells with effortless grace, his wand a blur, his counters textbook-perfect. “Faster, Clara! Tobias, less swagger, more substance! Mildred, for Merlin’s sake, point, don’t flail!”

His vanity swelled with each deflected curse, his mind replaying his own heroics. These recruits were lucky to bask in his brilliance, and he’d ensure they survived to sing his praises.

The war loomed large in his thoughts— it was chaos, but Lockhart thrived in it. These recruits, if they heeded his wisdom, might just live to tell tales of their own, tales that would, undoubtedly, mention their mentor’s unparalleled skill.

As the session neared its end, Lockhart paired them for duels, watching with a critical eye. Clara’s shields held firm, Tobias’s hexes grew sharper, and even Mildred landed a solid set of spells. Progress, thanks to him. He clapped again, his smile radiant.

“Well done, my students! You’re not quite Lockhart-level yet— few are, of course— but stick to my teachings, and you’ll soon dance through Grindelwald’s goons like I danced with that banshee in Bantry!” He winked, ignoring their groans. “Class dismissed. Go, make me proud!”

The recruits gathered their cloaks, murmuring thanks, their faces flushed with exertion and hope. Lockhart adjusted his robes, ensuring every fold was pristine, his reflection in a nearby shield charm confirming his perfection. They’d do well, he mused, because they’d learned from the master. The hall echoed with their retreating footsteps, the dummies smoldering faintly, a testament to his rigorous training. He was their beacon, their savior, and they’d carry his lessons into battle.

With a final flourish, Lockhart tucked his wand into his sleeve, its holly wood as flawless as its owner. The war awaited, but so did his adoring public— or at least his mirror at home. He strode toward the outpost’s Floo network, his gait confident, his mind already scripting the next chapter of The Legend of Lockhart.

The training hall’s lanterns dimmed behind him, but his brilliance, as always, lit the way. Grindelwald’s forces would tremble, for Gilderoy Lockhart was on the case, and no one outshone him.

He strutted toward the hall’s exit, his boots clicking on the stone floor, his wand tucked elegantly in his sleeve. The outpost buzzed beyond the walls, a hive of war preparations— administrators barking orders, healers rushing to and fro with potions, whispers of Grindelwald’s latest moves. Lockhart’s chest puffed; he was their beacon, a hero among grunts, his name on every tongue. His books and various guides were surely being thumbed through in bunkers, his face a comfort to the fearful. He’d earned a rest, a glass of Ogden’s Finest by his fireplace, his mirror doubtlessly reflecting his flawless features.

The corridor outside was a stark contrast to the hall— narrow, torchlit, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and urgency. Wizards hurried past, cloaks flapping, their faces etched with worry. Lockhart’s smile never wavered; their stress only highlighted his composure.

He nodded to a passing wizard, who muttered a greeting, clearly awed. Who wouldn’t be? He was Lockhart, the man whose charm could disarm a dragon. His mind drifted to the Floo network at the outpost’s heart, a quick hop to his plush London flat.

Yet, as he turned into a dimly lit corridor, a prickle of unease danced across his neck. The torches flickered, and the bustle faded, leaving an eerie quiet. Lockhart’s stride slowed, his hand brushing his wand, his senses sharp despite his theatrical air. He was no fool— war bred spies, and he’d danced this dance before. His vanity didn’t blind him; it honed him, a peacock with a predator’s instincts. The corridor stretched ahead, its end swallowed by darkness, and he felt eyes on him, a weight that set his nerves alight.

He forced his face blank, his smile vanishing, his features smooth as polished marble. Years of charm had taught him masks, and this one was ironclad. His heart quickened, but his posture remained regal, his robes swishing as he took another step.

His mind raced, cataloging threats: Grindelwald’s agents, Longling’s assassins, or perhaps a rogue Auror sniffing for the secrets behind his meteoric rise. It didn’t matter who it was, for he was Gilderoy Lockhart, bane of dark wizards, savior of the—

A voice slithered from a dark corner, low and commanding. “Report, Lockhart.”

It was cold, edged with menace, and Lockhart’s blood stilled, though his expression didn’t flicker. The speaker was hidden, cloaked in shadow, but the tone screamed authority, someone used to obedience. Lockhart’s mind spun— he recognized this voice; the same person who’d cursed him in the Ministry.

He’d failed, of course, but Lockhart had allowed him the illusion of control out of curiosity.

Of course, he was annoyed, now. How dare this upstart interrupt his thoughts?

His wand remained in his sleeve, his hands relaxed, but his senses were a blade, sharp and ready. The corridor’s shadows seemed to pulse, the torches dimming as if cowed. “Report? My dear friend, I’ve been teaching recruits to save the world. Hardly news worth whispering in corners.”

The voice didn’t laugh, its tone hardening. “Don’t play coy. The recruits, their progress— details, now.”

The demand grated, and Lockhart’s irritation boiled, his patience fraying. He was no pawn, and this shadowy game was beneath him. His mind flicked to his heroics, his skill, his right to shine, not cower. The Floo beckoned, but so did defiance, and Lockhart chose the latter, his heart pounding with the thrill of taking control.

The shadows waited, the voice poised to press further, but Lockhart was done. He was Gilderoy Lockhart, near-wizarding royalty, and he’d turn this ambush into another tale for his memoirs. His blank mask held, but beneath it, a grin formed, sharp and eager. Let this spy try to cage him— he’d dazzle them into submission, as he always did. The corridor’s chill was no match for his fire, and he stood ready, a star about to burn brighter than ever.

His face was a blank mask, eyes glassy, movements slightly stiff— a flawless imitation of the Imperius Curse’s thrall. He’d let the skulker in the dark alcove believe their spell had regained its hold, a ruse that amused him immensely. Who wouldn’t want to control Gilderoy Lockhart, hero of Hogsmeade, star of Witch Weekly and a dozen other prestigious publications?

His wand rested in his sleeve, untouched but ready, as he played the puppet, curious to unravel Voldemort’s latest schemes— Grindelwald’s ally in this twisted war. Yet, the voice’s inane questions were testing his patience, and Lockhart’s vanity, a force brighter than any Lumos, simmered beneath his act.

“Report, Lockhart. The recruits— what are they learning?”

“Yes, sir.” Lockhart droned, his voice flat, his eyes unfocused, mimicking the Imperius’ monotone. “Recruits… training. Defensive spells. Dueling.”

He kept it vague, naming no specifics.

This seemed to irritate his questioner.

“What spells, Lockhart? What kind of training are you giving them? How many can cast a decent Stunner?” The questions were painfully mundane, as if the speaker were reading from a Ministry checklist. Lockhart’s amusement soured, his patience fraying. Did this idiot think his leader cared about Stupefy of all spells? He’d expected grand schemes— attacks on the Ministry, relic hunts, not this drivel. His blank stare held, but inside, he scoffed. He was a star, not a clerk, and this interrogation was beneath him.

“Spells… the Shield Charm, yes. The Stunner, some.” He intoned, his voice a dull hum, his head tilting slightly as if struggling under the curse. “Hexes… improving.”

He offered scraps, his mind racing. Was this spy low-ranking, or was Voldemort’s network this inept? He’d hoped for juicy tidbits, but these questions were as thrilling as a Flobberworm’s diary. His vanity bristled; he was wasting his brilliance on this dolt.

The voice grew smug, sensing no resistance.

“Good. Any standouts? Names, Lockhart. Who’s the strongest?” A faint rustle of fabric betrayed movement, a wand tip glinting in the shadows, its glow a faint threat. Lockhart’s pulse quickened, not with fear but exasperation. Names? Did this fool think he’d betray his recruits, his legacy? He’d traveled the world, dealt with all manner of situations, written books that sold millions, and gained power beyond this peon’s comprehension.

This charade was losing its charm, and the spy’s banality was an insult to his genius.

“Standouts… some show promise.” He murmured, his voice hollow, his eyes drifting as if lost in the curse’s fog. “No one of real note, though. Not yet.”

The voice, emboldened, droned on. “What about their morale? Are they loyal? Any weak links?”

Another series of banal questions, but Lockhart didn’t even get the chance to answer, this time, as the voice launched into orders, its tone grating.

“New instructions, Lockhart. Watch the recruits, note their schedules, report every Friday. Any sign of disloyalty, you—” The words were a spark to Lockhart’s fuse. Report? Schedule? He was Gilderoy Lockhart, not a glorified secretary.

His vanity surged, his amusement now fully gone, replaced by the thrill of reclaiming the stage. The Imperius act had served its purpose, and now he’d dazzle this fool into submission.

In a heartbeat, Lockhart moved, his wand slipping from his sleeve, a nonverbal spell flashing silver, striking the alcove with lethal precision. A grunt echoed, the spy flying into the wall behind him with a loud crack. A moment later, his wand clattered to the stone, its glow snuffed out. Lockhart lunged, his robes billowing, and seized the figure’s cloak, yanking him into the torchlight with strength belying his polished frame.

A second spell followed, ropes of light coiling around the man, forcing him to his knees in an instant. The corridor’s shadows parted, revealing a masked Death Eater.

“Hiding, are we?”

A quick spell, and the mask was gone in a puff of smoke, revealing Walden Macnair, his grizzled face unmasked, cruel eyes wide with shock.

Lockhart’s smile blazed, his vanity triumphant.

“Macnair, you tedious oaf! Did you really think you’d ensnared Gilderoy Lockhart?” He twirled his wand, his voice rich with mockery. “Your Imperius attempt was weaker than a first-year’s Lumos. And those questions— Merlin’s beard, I’ve had more intrigue from a Bowtruckle!”

He laughed, the sound echoing, his competence undeniable, his control absolute.

Macnair glared, struggling against the ropes. “You’ll regret this, Lockhart. You’re playing with fire.”

His voice was rough, defiant, but ultimately powerless.

“Regret?” Lockhart’s laugh was a crescendo. “My only regret is wasting my brilliance on you. I’m a legend, Macnair— books, battles, beauty. You’re just a footnote.”

He leaned closer, his smile sharp. “Now, let’s ensure you don’t bore anyone else.”

“They were valid questions.”

Lockhart raised his eyebrow. “A textbook case of sending the wrong man for the job. You’ve a certain… rugged charm, I’ll grant you that. A spy, however, you are not.”

His smile was dazzling, a backhanded compliment delivered with venomous glee. He twirled his wand, the gesture flamboyant, his robes swishing as he circled his captive. Macnair’s weathered face, scarred from battles and cruelty, was unmistakable— Voldemort’s enforcer, a brute who thought he could outwit Gilderoy Lockhart, hero of Hogsmeade.

The audacity was almost laughable.

Almost.

Macnair snarled, straining against the ropes, his voice rough. “You’re a dead man, Lockhart. Playing games with us? You’ll beg for mercy when we’re done.”

Lockhart’s laugh echoed, a crescendo of disdain.

“Beg? My dear Macnair, I’m the one who makes others beg— for autographs, naturally.” He leaned closer, his smile sharp as a blade. “You thought your little Imperius trick had me, all that time ago? Please. I’ve dodged curses from banshees, outsmarted yetis, and saved Hogsmeade with a smile. You’re out of your league.”

He raised his wand, its tip glowing faintly, and fixed Macnair with a stare, his voice dropping to a smooth, commanding purr. “You’ve been a dreadful bore, Macnair, but I’m feeling generous. Let’s ensure you’re more… cooperative. And, I’ll even allow you the honor of seeing it coming— that way you’ll have the best chance to resist it.”

The Imperius Curse was a delicate art, one Lockhart wielded with precision, his skill honed by years of bending minds— mostly for publicity, but who was counting?

He cast the spell, a silver thread of magic weaving from his wand, his voice velvet. “Imperio.”

Macnair’s eyes widened, then dulled, a glassy sheen overtaking them as the curse took hold. His struggles ceased, his body relaxing, the ropes no longer needed. Lockhart’s smile widened, his heart thrumming with triumph. The spell was perfect, his control absolute, a masterpiece of magic only he could craft.

A weakling… How disappointing.

“There we are.” He said, his tone indulgent. “Much better. Now, Macnair, you’ll forget this little chat, won’t you? No running to your masters with tales of my brilliance.”

Macnair nodded, his movements puppet-like, his voice a monotone.

“Yes… forget.” The sight was almost pitiful, but Lockhart’s vanity reveled in it. He’d turned a Death Eater into a pawn, all without mussing his robes. His mind raced, scripting orders to keep Macnair silent and useful.

“You’ll return to your post.” Lockhart continued, his voice firm. “And report nothing of me or the recruits. If asked, say the outpost is quiet, the recruits wholly unremarkable. Understood?”

“Understood.” Macnair droned, his eyes vacant. Lockhart flicked his wand, the ropes vanishing, leaving Macnair kneeling, a broken tool in his hands. The corridor’s torches flared, as if applauding, and Lockhart’s chest puffed, his legend growing. He’d outwitted a spy, secured the outpost, and done it with flair. He was already thinking of a title for a potential new sequel— Skirmishes with Spies, perhaps?

Yet, a flicker of unease stirred. Macnair’s presence meant Voldemort’s network was closer than he’d thought, their spies bold enough to lurk in the outpost’s heart. That fool’s alliance with Grindelwald was a shadow over the war, and Lockhart’s recruits— Clara, Tobias, Mildred— were targets. He couldn’t allow them to tarnish his objects like that.

“Off you go, Macnair.” Lockhart said, waving dismissively. “Try to be less tedious next time.”

Macnair rose, his movements stiff, and shuffled into the shadows, the Imperius guiding him like a marionette. Lockhart watched him go, his smile unwavering, though his mind churned. The Floo network awaited, his London flat calling.

He adjusted his robes, ensuring every fold was pristine, and strode toward the Floo, his boots clicking, his head high. The corridor’s gloom couldn’t dim his radiance, nor could Macnair’s threat tarnish his triumph. He was Gilderoy Lockhart, and this encounter was just another tale for his memoirs.

He would conquer them all with a smile.