Grindelwald slipped away from the group unnoticed, his wandless spell still masking his absence from the others. As he wandered the city streets, he marveled at the sheer vibrancy of this place. The seamless blend of magic and technology fascinated and unnerved him. Vehicles hovered silently above the streets, glowing panels projected advertisements in midair, and dragons lounged atop skyscrapers like oversized cats. Yet, amidst the grandeur, he sought something more tangible—information. He kept his ears sharp, eavesdropping on the conversations of the citizens.
The city was alive with mundane chatter, and while most of it was uninteresting, he couldn't help but catch snippets of humor and humanity in their exchanges.
"I'm visiting the mall tomorrow, wanna tag along ?"
"I swear if that dragon poops on my house one more time, I'm putting up anti-dragon wards!"
Grindelwald sneered at their trivial concerns. It was a stark contrast to the fear and chaos he had sown in the wizarding world back home. But this world, he thought, seemed too peaceful, too perfect. He needed to find its flaws.
As he walked behind what appeared to be a restaurant, he heard the frustrated voice of a man muttering to himself. Curious, Grindelwald slowed his pace and stepped closer, staying hidden behind a stack of crates. The man, dressed in a chef's attire, was pacing back and forth, clearly distressed.
"Man, how am I going to make this month's rent?" the chef muttered. "Living in the capital is so damn expensive. A fallen noble with low ability... Tsk, I should've never come here."
Grindelwald's interest piqued. A fallen noble? Low ability? He immediately saw an opportunity to extract information from the man. If this world had its own power hierarchy, knowing more about its cracks could prove useful.
With predatory precision, Grindelwald stepped out from behind the crates, his sharp eyes locking onto the chef. Without his wand, he couldn't use any advanced spells, but Legilimency—invading the mind of the unsuspecting—was still within his grasp. He approached the chef, meeting his gaze directly, ready to pry into the man's thoughts.
However, as he attempted to breach the chef's mind, Grindelwald felt a sharp resistance. His spell was countered, leaving him momentarily stunned. The chef, noticing the strange intensity of Grindelwald's gaze, took a step back before his expression twisted into one of rage.
"Who the hell are you, you bastard?" the chef spat. "You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? Underestimating me because of my ability!"
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, trying to assess the situation, but before he could respond, the chef shouted, "I'll make you regret it! Toxic Toots!"
The moment the words left the chef's mouth, a horrifyingly foul stench erupted in a wave, engulfing Grindelwald. It was beyond anything he had ever encountered—an overwhelming, nauseating miasma that made his eyes water and his stomach churn.
"Oh my God!" Grindelwald staggered back, his hands flying up to cover his nose and mouth. The stench was so unbearable that he felt dizzy and disgusted, struggling to keep his composure. The chef smirked at the reaction, clearly satisfied with his handiwork.
Before Grindelwald could recover, two guards in futuristic uniforms appeared, flanked by two Changewing dragons. The dragons shimmered as they moved, their forms nearly blending into the background as if they were part of the air itself.
The chef pointed at Grindelwald, his tone indignant. "Thank God you're here, officers! This weird-looking old man just came at me out of nowhere!"
The guards exchanged a glance before one of them spoke calmly. "Don't worry, everything is under control. Please go on your way."
The chef nodded, still muttering under his breath as he walked off.
Turning their attention to Grindelwald, one of the guards stepped forward. "Mr. Guest, please follow us without trouble. Otherwise, we will have to disable you."
Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, calculating his options. But before he could make a move, the two Changewing dragons bared their teeth, their long, sinuous bodies coiling threateningly. The message was clear: resistance would not end well for him.
With no wand and no immediate escape, Grindelwald sighed and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Very well," he said coolly. "Lead the way."
The dragons wasted no time. Each one gripped Grindelwald gently but firmly in their claws and took to the sky. The city unfolded beneath him as they soared upward, the vibrant lights and bustling streets shrinking as they ascended.
Eventually, the dragons deposited him atop a towering skyscraper, its sleek, reflective surface gleaming under the sunlight. The dragons, meanwhile, perched at the edges, their piercing eyes fixed on Grindelwald like sentinels.
Grindelwald, realizing he had no means of escape, let out a quiet sigh and sat down cross-legged near the center of the rooftop. From this vantage point, he could see the sprawling expanse of the city, its architectural marvels, and the organized chaos of its streets.
As he sat there, his sharp mind worked furiously. He observed the city below, noting its strengths and potential weaknesses, all while waiting for Cercy and her group to finish their leisurely trip to the cinema.
----
As Cercy, Lysandra, Dumbledore, and McGonagall exited the grand cinema hall, the conversation immediately turned to the film they had just watched: Black Panther. The bustling square outside seemed even livelier now, but the group was engrossed in their own discussion about the movie.
"That was quite the experience," Dumbledore said, his tone thoughtful, stroking his beard. "The story of Wakanda was... inspiring. A hidden kingdom with extraordinary advancements, its existence unknown to the world. It reminds me of this place, Cercy." He glanced at her with a knowing smile, though there was a trace of weariness in his gaze.
Cercy laughed, the sound light and melodic. "Oh, Albus, please. Wakanda is an isolated nation of secrecy and tradition. My kingdom, as you've seen, is far more open and advanced. Besides, my people don't wear silly panther suits to defend themselves. We have dragons, darling!" Her grin was wide, her tone as prideful as ever.
McGonagall adjusted her hat as she walked, her expression a mixture of amusement and bemusement. "I must admit," she said, "the idea of a society so dependent on one rare material—vibranium, wasn't it?—seems rather precarious. What happens if they run out of it?"
Lysandra, who had been silent for most of the film, finally spoke, her voice cool and measured. "What matters is the symbolism. Vibranium represents their unity, their identity. It's not about the material itself but how it binds their people together. That's a strength few kingdoms, magical or otherwise, can claim." Her eyes briefly flicked to Cercy, who gave her daughter a sly smile.
"And the combat!" Cercy added, her tone suddenly animated. "Did you see how T'Challa and Killmonger fought on the waterfall? That was magnificent! Though, I must say, if either of them had a dragon, that fight would've ended much quicker." She laughed at her own comment, clearly unbothered by the seriousness of the others.
Dumbledore chuckled softly, though his mind seemed elsewhere. "Killmonger was a fascinating character. Tragic, in many ways. His desire for power stemmed from his pain, from being abandoned. It's a story as old as time itself."
"Indeed," McGonagall agreed, her tone sharper. "But that doesn't excuse his actions. His methods were... barbaric, to say the least. It's a cautionary tale, really—what unchecked ambition can lead to."
Cercy waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, please, Minerva. Ambition is only a problem for those who don't know how to wield it properly. Killmonger was reckless, not ambitious. There's a difference."
Lysandra raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting between Cercy and McGonagall. "It's true that ambition isn't inherently a flaw. But ambition without foresight or restraint? That's a recipe for destruction." Her tone was calm, but there was an edge to her words that made Cercy smirk.
"I must admit," Dumbledore said, steering the conversation back to safer territory, "the visuals were quite... spectacular. The technology, the rituals, the landscapes—it was all rather mesmerizing. The idea of a hidden society thriving in secrecy has always fascinated me."
McGonagall frowned slightly. "I couldn't help but notice the glaring lack of logic in some parts. For instance, why would they reveal themselves to the world at the end? Surely that would only invite trouble."
Cercy laughed again, throwing an arm around McGonagall's shoulders playfully. "Oh, Minerva, always the pragmatist. Sometimes, it's not about logic. It's about making a statement. Wakanda made theirs loud and clear."
As they continued their conversation, walking through the vibrant square, Cercy suddenly clapped her hands together. "Enough of this analysis! I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and that's all that matters. Now, where's that pesky Grindelwald? Hasn't he had enough time to explore?"
The others fell silent for a moment, reminded of the wizard's disappearance. Lysandra's gaze turned sharp, and Dumbledore, his cheerful demeanor dimming, adjusted his robes and sighed deeply. The cheerful mood seemed to waver as they prepared to confront the inevitable drama awaiting them atop the skyscraper.
As the group approached the towering skyscraper where Grindelwald had been unceremoniously deposited, the changewings lounging on the rooftop came into view, their camouflaging abilities flickering as they lazily shifted hues to blend with the twilight sky. One of the dragons stretched its wings lazily, revealing Grindelwald sitting nearby, looking thoroughly disheveled and utterly defeated.
The old dark wizard had flopped down onto the cool rooftop tiles, leaning back against the smooth scales of one of the changewings. His once-pristine robes were rumpled, and his hair, usually slicked back with precision, was now sticking out in odd angles, giving him the air of a man who had been through a battle—though in truth, he had merely been defeated by an overwhelming stench and two unyielding guards. His eyes stared out at the cityscape, a mix of awe and grudging admiration flickering across his face as he watched the flying vehicles and the neon panels lighting up the dusk.
When he heard footsteps approaching, Grindelwald's head turned lazily, his expression flickering between irritation and resignation. "Ah, the cavalry arrives," he drawled, his voice tinged with sarcasm but lacking his usual edge. "And here I thought you'd all leave me to rot with these lizards."
Lysandra, leading the group with her usual imperious confidence, raised a delicate eyebrow as she stepped closer. "You seem... comfortable, Mr. Secretary," she said, her tone dripping with mockery. "Was your little escapade worth it?"
Grindelwald sighed dramatically, waving a hand at the view. "I simply wanted to see the city for myself. To... understand it. And yet, your delightful hospitality ensured I couldn't get far. These dragons are surprisingly efficient jailers."
One of the changewings growled lowly, its tail swishing in what could only be described as smug satisfaction. Grindelwald shot it a glare, muttering under his breath, "Yes, yes, you've made your point."
Dumbledore stepped forward, his expression a mix of relief and exasperation. "Gellert, must you always create such... complications? You could have just stayed with us."
Grindelwald tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "And miss the chance to witness this kingdom's... unique flavor? I think not." He gestured vaguely at the city below. "It's fascinating, Albus. A world where magic and science coexist seamlessly.Perhaps i could live in here in my final days ."
McGonagall snorted softly, crossing her arms. "A lesson in restraint, perhaps? You seem to lack that particular virtue, Grindelwald."
Cercy laughed, the sound sharp and amused. "Oh, leave the poor man be, Minerva. He's just sulking because he got bested by a chef with a nose for revenge." Lysandra turned to the changewings, her expression softening as she stroked the snout of one of the dragons. "Thank you, my dears. You've done well."
The dragons rumbled in response, their scales shimmering with pride as they shifted to make room for the group. Cercy waved a hand dismissively. "Well, let's get down now. We've wasted enough time chasing after this rogue."
Lysandra, who had been silent during the exchange, finally spoke, her tone icy. "Next time, Grindelwald, I suggest you think twice before wandering off. My patience is not infinite."
Grindelwald gave her a long, measured look before nodding slightly. "Duly noted, Lady Targaryen."
With that, the group began their descent, leaving the rooftop behind. Grindelwald trudged behind them, casting one last glance at the breathtaking cityscape before following in silence. The changewings, now satisfied with their work, took off into the sky, their shimmering forms vanishing into the twilight as if they had never been there.
------
The room was quiet except for the soft clinking of tea cups as Cercy, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Grindelwald sat in a chamber illuminated by the golden light streaming through a massive, intricately designed window. The opulence of the room was understated yet impressive, with plush chairs and delicate carvings adorning the walls. Outside, the city bustled, but within these walls, the weight of an imminent revelation hung thick in the air. Lysandra had excused herself earlier, leaving Cercy to lead the conversation.
Cercy leaned back in her chair, her usual lighthearted demeanor replaced with an air of gravity. "Now, let's talk," she said, her tone firm yet measured.
Dumbledore nodded slightly, setting down his teacup with care. "Yes, please. We are all ears."
Cercy's gaze swept over the trio, her eyes sharp and focused. "Months ago, I used my ability to see the future."
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore murmured, nodding in acknowledgment. "Miss Targaryen mentioned this to us."
"Well, if it were only about this realm, I wouldn't have bothered to tell you," Cercy continued, her fingers delicately tracing the rim of her cup. "But given the circumstances, I believe it's my responsibility to warn you." Her voice carried the weight of knowledge—a burden she seemed willing to share, though reluctantly.
Grindelwald, always skeptical and sharp, leaned forward slightly. "Is that so?"
Cercy nodded, exhaling softly. "For you to understand what's at stake, I'll need to give you a history lesson about your world—which, as you know, was once ours as well."
The three wizards exchanged glances, intrigued yet cautious. McGonagall furrowed her brow, leaning in ever so slightly as Cercy continued.
"Long, long ago, when the Celestial Dominion kingdom still resided on Earth, there were other advanced civilizations—kingdoms as developed as ours, though perhaps not quite as sophisticated. You likely know of them: Atlantis, ancient Egypt, and, of course, us."
McGonagall's eyes widened. "Wait—what?"
Cercy waved her hand dismissively, as though McGonagall's surprise were a mere distraction. "Let me finish, child. These civilizations weren't just legends or myths—they were real, thriving societies with technologies and magic that rivaled what you see here today. Now, among these kingdoms, the people of Atlantis posed a very dangerous and, frankly, irresponsible question."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "And that question was?"
"'Are we alone in this universe?'" Cercy said, her tone dry and laden with irony. "A question noble in theory, but catastrophic in execution."
Grindelwald frowned, his sharp mind already piecing together the implications. "I assume they sought an answer?"
"Oh, they did more than that," Cercy replied, her voice tinged with disdain. "Using their magic, they devised a way to send a message—a magical frequency powerful enough to reach billions of years into the void of space."
The room fell silent as her words sank in. McGonagall gasped softly, her hand instinctively clutching her chest. "But… surely they considered the risks of such an action?"
"They didn't," Cercy said bluntly. "And the magic they sent out reached the wrong audience. Hundreds of years later, the answer came—but not in the form they expected. Hundreds of alien ships descended upon Earth, and with them came the grim realization: we were not alone, and we were not prepared."
"Impossible," McGonagall whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
Cercy ignored her disbelief, pressing on. "The aliens viewed us as nothing more than primitive creatures to be experimented on. Their technology was centuries, if not millennia, ahead of ours. The three advanced kingdoms—Atlantis, Egypt, and ours—were their primary targets. What followed was nothing short of a massacre."
Dumbledore sat back, his face lined with concern. "And your kingdom… survived?"
"Yes," Cercy said, her tone softening slightly. "The head of the Targaryen family, who possessed a spatial ability, created a pocket dimension—a sanctuary for our people. We erased our tracks, leaving no trace of our existence on Earth. As for the other kingdoms…" Her gaze darkened. "Atlantis and Egypt allied to fight back, but they were ultimately defeated. Their knowledge, their people, their very existence—taken by those beings."
The room was heavy with silence until Grindelwald, his voice unusually low, broke it. "And now… they're coming back."
Cercy's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes. I saw them coming in my vision. But this time, they're not returning for your world. They're coming for ours. Somehow, they've discovered our location."
McGonagall's face paled as she tried to process the weight of this revelation. "Then why tell us?"
Cercy met her gaze, her expression unreadable. "Because if we fall, it's only a matter of time before they set their sights on Earth once more. This isn't just our problem—it's yours too."
The gravity in the room thickened as Cercy spoke, her voice resonating with authority. "W-What do you mean?" McGonagall stammered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
Cercy raised an eyebrow, sipping her tea with calm composure before answering. "Well, between the two realms lies a spatial barrier. Surely, you wouldn't think something as flimsy as that could stop them, honey." Her tone was almost teasing, but the weight of her words struck deeply. "Even so, perhaps we have a better chance of survival than you people."
Grindelwald frowned, his sharp gaze narrowing. "Why do you think that?"
"Because," Cercy continued, fixing her piercing eyes on him, "we've advanced far beyond where you stand. We've developed the means to at least hold them off, if not repel them. But you?" She paused, leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping to a chilling calm. "They'd beam you out of existence in a second."
The words were a gut punch, and McGonagall visibly paled, clutching her tea as though it could ground her. "Is there… nothing we can do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Don't worry too much," Cercy said, waving her hand dismissively, though her tone didn't exactly soothe. "They have to cross billions of years' worth of space to get here. I estimate we have fifty, perhaps sixty years, before their arrival."
McGonagall blinked, unsure whether to feel relieved or horrified. "You estimate?"
Cercy smirked faintly. "We've already begun preparing, of course. We simply haven't disclosed it to the public yet. No need for a panic when it's unnecessary." Her gaze then shifted to Dumbledore, and her tone grew softer yet sharper, like a knife wrapped in silk. "Albus, I want you to understand something crucial. In this universe, you either eat or get eaten. There's no middle ground."
Dumbledore's brows furrowed as her words landed heavily on him. "And you believe this applies to us all?"
"More than you'd like to admit," Cercy said, her tone almost pitying. "I know you've sought to stabilize the wizarding world, limiting the development of magic in fear of chaos. But now you see that the world was never meant to be peaceful or loving. It's cruel. It always has been."
Dumbledore lowered his head, his expression contemplative. Her words cut deeply, challenging everything he'd worked toward for decades. Could it be true? Had his efforts to create stability blinded him to a greater danger? He couldn't deny the unsettling truth in her words.
Cercy took another sip of her tea before breaking the heavy silence. "Ahem. Anyway, there are two other prophecies I've seen. One offers a solution for your world—if it's discovered, of course. The other concerns a friend of yours."
Dumbledore lifted his head, his curiosity tinged with hesitation. "A… friend?"
"Yes," Cercy said simply, her tone unreadable. "But let's focus. Which would you like to hear first?"
Dumbledore exchanged a glance with McGonagall, who still looked pale but resolute. "The solution, please," he said finally, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
"Hmm. Fine, fine," Cercy said, reclining in her chair as if preparing herself. "You know I can't deliver the future directly. It's not so simple. The act of seeing and sharing it has consequences for me, and to mitigate those, I must formulate it into a riddle."
The wizards grew still, the air tense with anticipation. Cercy's gaze flickered toward Dumbledore, her expression softening for just a moment. She could sense his guilt, his silent gratitude.
"I appreciate you doing this for us," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice tinged with sincerity. "Thank you."
Cercy smiled faintly, reaching out to brush her hand against his cheek. Her touch was warm, almost maternal, though the strength in her eyes remained unshaken. "Don't worry, child," she said with a warmth that contrasted her earlier sharpness. "Now listen carefully."
Her tone shifted, becoming melodic and deliberate, as she recited the riddle:
"Seek the Hallows, three as one,
To find the master 'neath the sun.
For they who win the lonely's love,
Shall save the world from doom above."
The words hung in the air, each line settling into the minds of her listeners like an intricate puzzle waiting to be solved. Dumbledore's brow furrowed deeply as he replayed the riddle in his mind, dissecting its meaning. Grindelwald, who had been silent thus far, leaned back in his chair, his expression inscrutable but his sharp eyes betraying the wheels turning in his mind.
McGonagall, still shaken, whispered, "The Hallows… surely, she means the Deathly Hallows?"
Cercy remained silent, merely sipping her tea, allowing them to process the riddle. Dumbledore felt the weight of the moment—this wasn't just a cryptic warning. It was a lifeline, and he couldn't afford to misinterpret it.
"Thank you," he said again, his voice quieter this time.
Cercy nodded. "The rest is up to you now, Albus. Make of it what you will."
"Why didn't you say that they were coming in a riddle like you did this time?" Grindelwald remarked, his tone carrying a sharp edge, as though he were calling her out for an inconsistency in her methods. His piercing eyes locked onto Cercy, waiting for her explanation.
Cercy raised an eyebrow at him, her expression a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation, as though she were dealing with a particularly slow student. Setting her teacup down gently, she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands gracefully in her lap. "Well," she began, her voice carrying the deliberate cadence of someone explaining something obvious, "why did you think I had to give you a history lesson in the first place? And why did I weave the story so slowly, leaving enough gaps for you to piece it together yourselves?"
Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, his sharp mind beginning to catch on, but he said nothing, allowing her to continue.
"You see, child," Cercy said with a faint smirk, the term "child" carrying a subtle condescension that made Grindelwald's jaw tighten, "I didn't directly say that aliens would come, did I? I gave you fragments, nudged you toward the right conclusions, and let you fill in the blanks yourself. No spoon-feeding required."
McGonagall's brow furrowed as she spoke hesitantly, "So… that was intentional? You wanted us to guess?"
Cercy nodded, her expression growing slightly more serious. "Exactly. If I had outright said, 'Aliens are coming to destroy your world,' I would have faced far greater aftereffects from seeing and revealing that piece of the future. The burden of foretelling is no simple thing—it extracts a price, one way or another. The more direct and explicit I am, the heavier that price becomes."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice tinged with concern. "And by allowing us to infer the truth, you lessened that burden upon yourself?"
"Precisely," Cercy confirmed, giving him an approving look. "There are ways to dance around the rules of foresight, Albus. A skilled seer learns to use stories, riddles, and even misleading paths to guide others without fully bearing the brunt of what they've seen. That's what I did when I told you about the history of your world and ours."
"Now then, the last one," Cercy said, her voice steady but carrying a foreboding weight, as though the prophecy itself were clawing its way out of her. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply before she continued.
With a tone that seemed to resonate with an otherworldly authority, she began:
"He who lived beyond his years,
With wisdom earned through trials and tears,
The stone's creator, death delayed,
Shall meet the end he once betrayed."
As the final word left her lips, Cercy staggered slightly in her chair, and a sharp cough escaped her. A slight amount of discomfort appeared as her face paled, and she seemed momentarily unsteady.
"Cercy!" Dumbledore exclaimed, rising from his seat, alarm flashing across his face. McGonagall gasped, clutching her hands to her mouth in concern, while Grindelwald leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher whether this was a performance or something more sinister.
The attendants nearby immediately rushed forward, their movements swift and precise as they surrounded their queen, murmuring softly in concern. One knelt beside Cercy, attempting to help her settle, while another gently placed a hand on her back to steady her.
But Cercy, with a dismissive wave of her hand, brushed them off. "Enough," she said firmly, her voice hoarse but resolute. "I'm fine." Her eyes, though visibly tired, carried the same commanding presence as before. She straightened in her seat with visible effort, gripping the armrests tightly as if anchoring herself.
"You're not fine," McGonagall said shakily, her face pale with concern. "That prophecy—did it cost you—?"
Cercy cut her off with a wry smile, though it lacked its usual sharpness. "A small price," she said, her tone attempting to dismiss the severity of her condition. " three
Prophecies involving individuals tied so closely to death always come with a greater toll. It's… the nature of the craft."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed, his expression dark with worry. "You shouldn't push yourself this far, Cercy. Whatever truths you carry, they are not worth—"
"Spare me the lectures, Albus," Cercy interrupted, her voice regaining a sliver of its former sharpness. "If I didn't deem this necessary, I wouldn't have done it. What I saw… it's important." Her gaze met his, and for a moment, the playful, almost mocking woman from earlier seemed to vanish, replaced by a ruler bearing the weight of a thousand secrets. "You needed to hear this."
Grindelwald, who had remained silent, finally spoke, his voice laced with curiosity and suspicion. "This prophecy… it speaks of Nicolas Flamel, doesn't it?" His tone was measured, as though he were piecing together the puzzle as he spoke. "The stone's creator, death delayed—there is no one else it could mean."
Cercy didn't respond immediately, her fingers lightly tapping the armrest of her chair.
McGonagall looked between them, still visibly shaken. "But what does it mean? What is this 'end he once betrayed'? Is he in danger?"
Cercy smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "That is for you to discover, dear. I've told you what I can. The rest is up to you."
Dumbledore leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "And the toll, Cercy? What cost has this taken on you?"
She waved him off again, this time more forcefully. "Do not concern yourself with me, Albus. I've endured worse in the name of my people." Her tone softened slightly as she added, "Focus on what matters—your world and the choices you must make."
The room fell into a heavy silence, each of them grappling with the weight of her words. The prophecy lingered in the air like a shadow, its meaning unclear but undeniably ominous.