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'Clap~ Clap~ Clap~ Clap~'
A slow, drawn-out applause echoed through the chamber. Following the sound, Harry turned to see Grindelwald standing on a high stone platform behind him, his form partially shadowed.
"Ah, rivers of blood," Grindelwald drawled lazily. "Better than I expected, Harry. Impressive."
"Yeah? Funny, I didn't hear a single 'congratulations' in there."
Harry rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. This guy had probably been watching from the start, which meant if Grindelwald had shown up earlier, Harry wouldn't have had to chew up the Philosopher's Stone like some reckless fool. Things had turned out decently enough—he hadn't bled himself dry. But Harry had hoped to unlock Animagus forms, maybe even a dragon or thunderbird. Both forms he'd wanted badly.
But now?
Harry's heart sank as he clenched his hand against the stone wall beside him, squeezing a protruding rock the size of a human head. With a slight effort, it crumbled to pieces like a dry soda cracker, an oddly satisfying sensation.
"Remember, Harry, you're a wizard, not some gym rat pumping iron in a sweat-soaked tank top to get high on dopamine and endorphins," Grindelwald continued, his voice practically purring with condescension. "Sure, muscles look cool and all, but—"
"Ugh!"
Frustrated, Harry slammed his fist into the stone wall. The force of the punch embedded his arm into the wall, cracks spidering outward. The pain brought him back to his senses. As he pulled his arm free, the fractures in his bones already mending, he noticed that his toughened skin bore only a bit of dust—no injuries at all.
After grinding down the Philosopher's Stone, the potions he'd ingested still lingered beyond their usual effect time. That should've been good news, but it wasn't exactly perfect. The Stone extended the potions' effects, but not indefinitely. The efficacy of potions came from the blend of ingredients, which wore off over time. It was a physical depletion rather than a magical transformation like Animagus transfiguration, which relied on magic itself.
The Philosopher's Stone could grant magical attributes an "eternal" quality, but it couldn't negate material decay. It could stretch a potion's effects, but it couldn't make them last forever. Nicolas Flamel's Elixir of Life required regular doses to stave off bodily decay. Without it, only his soul's strength kept him going.
The four potions coursing through Harry's veins had indeed empowered him, but their effects would eventually wear off. Maybe in a month or two, maybe longer, the bit of magic left in the Stone wasn't enough for even a single dose of Elixir of Life. After purifying Harry's magic, little remained to extend the potions' duration.
Trading a permanent Animagus "plus" mode, complete with healing and a power-replenishing "super magic battery," for a minor magic purification and temporary potion extension—by any measure, it was a lousy deal.
The former would have been versatile, practical, and impressive. The latter... not even worth mentioning.
So sure, it had helped Harry through this little dungeon-crawling adventure, but for what? If Grindelwald had shown up sooner and dispatched Voldemort with a few spells, Harry wouldn't have had to resort to all this.
With that thought, Harry's gaze at Grindelwald turned even darker.
"You really screwed me over, Professor."
Harry fixed Grindelwald with a glare brimming with resentment, but the old master of manipulation didn't seem fazed in the slightest.
"Ah, fate's retribution, Harry. I gave you months to prepare! Can't blame me if you waited until the last minute to face it."
He spread his hands in a carefree gesture, showing absolutely no intention of taking responsibility.
"Besides, at that time, I hadn't yet witnessed the prophecy's rivers of blood. That was your stage, Harry. I couldn't appear until the curtain call."
"Right, if you say so."
Harry's expression darkened as he rolled his eyes. With Grindelwald putting it that way, there was no way he could shift the blame onto him.
"How about I offer you a bit of compensation?" Grindelwald suggested with a slight smirk, as if holding back laughter at Harry's defeated look. "I'll give Hufflepuff an extra hundred points for taking down one-seventh of Voldemort's soul."
"Let's see… ten points per Decurion, fifty points per Centurion. So, that's an additional four hundred sixty points for Hufflepuff, in recognition of your minor contribution against the Abyss."
"Wow, thank you so much," Harry replied, too exhausted to even be sarcastic.
The House Cup had practically belonged to Hufflepuff for weeks now. Even after the ultimate points deduction from Halloween had left every other house in the negatives, Hufflepuff had managed to rebound by the end of term, thanks to their Quidditch Cup win and Snape's generous points. Snape's 'gifts' had been particularly frequent—no lesson passed without Harry receiving at least ten points, adding up to well over three hundred.
"But you're still short by a hundred," Harry pointed to his head. "I took down two-sevenths of his soul."
"Oh, did you now?"
Grindelwald's interest piqued at this news, his sleepy demeanor giving way to genuine curiosity.
"You really managed it? Destroyed the fragment of Voldemort's soul inside you?"
"Now that's unexpected."
"An extra two hundred points to Hufflepuff, then. But tell me, how did you do it? I'm quite intrigued."
With a flick of his wand, Grindelwald summoned a small table and three chairs, filling the table with dishes that filled the air with a delicious aroma. With a gentle gesture, he took Harry's hand, guiding him to sit across from him, suddenly exuding the warmth of a kindly grandfather—a stark contrast to his previous attitude.
"Albus, don't just stand there—come, come! Let's hear how our brilliant young Harry managed to deal with the soul fragment inside him."
The third chair wasn't just for show. Dumbledore's appearance was no surprise, even though he was supposed to be at Durmstrang. As the companion of a phoenix, Dumbledore could go anywhere he pleased; Fawkes' fire-based teleportation was unhindered by any magic barrier, even Hogwarts'. Fawkes could come and go as he wished.
As Grindelwald called him out, a white figure stepped out of thin air. Compared to Grindelwald's pure amusement, Dumbledore's expression held a hint of unease. He knew Harry had every right to be angry, as he was the mastermind behind this entire ordeal. Facing this unexpected outcome left him somewhat awkward.
"Harry," Dumbledore began, quickly regaining his usual warm expression. His voice was gentle, carrying just the right amount of friendly warmth. With his white beard and hair, he exuded the comforting image of a grandfather far more convincingly than Grindelwald ever could. This soothing demeanor softened Harry's frustration.
"Well, I'm absolutely starving."
Harry shrugged, then began to dig in with less formality, trying to organize his thoughts. Facing these two foxes, one dark and one light, he would need all the preparation he could muster.
After all, his combined lifetimes didn't even amount to half their ages; he could never outplay these "Black and White Fiends." Haggling was pointless. Instead, he'd focus on extracting as much pocket money as he could.
And so, the merry midnight feast began. The bright moonlight seemed ready to shed light on a secret long buried in time.
(End of Chapter)