Dragons roared as they streaked across the sky, unseen by the frantic masses who ran aimlessly through the city streets.
In this absurd and chaotic city, people wept, broke down, and confronted their inner loneliness. They were consumed by pain and incapable of expressing their emotions. Some descended into madness in silence, while others met their end amidst wild revelry.
A week later.
On a hillside in a nameless coastal village, Hoffa woke from a nightmare. His face was pale, and the worn, splintered wooden bed beneath him made his back ache.
For a long while, his golden eyes struggled to regain focus.
It had been about a week since the madness at Hogwarts. Over these days, Hoffa had been haunted by nightmares and hallucinations caused by the link between his soul and the ethereal dragon that flew across the world.
He could see the dragon's location in his dreams, sense its thoughts, and witness its actions—much like Harry's recurring visions of Voldemort, but far more frequent and intense.
He sat up on the creaky bed, hearing faint voices outside the cabin, coming from the slope nearby.
"Will he be okay?"
"He's as healthy as an ox."
Hoffa rose, barefoot, and walked slowly toward the door.
In the morning light, he saw Fatir and Aglea talking by a campfire. Two skewered fish sizzled over the flames.
"I'm not asking about his body," Aglea said softly, pointing to her temple. "I mean his mind."
"Very few people die more than twice," Fatir replied indifferently as he stoked the fire. "Unless they've completely lost hope."
"I see..."
Noticing Hoffa standing at the wooden door, Aglea fell silent.
Fatir, too, looked up and gave Hoffa a slight nod.
"Well, you're awake," he said.
"I'll get some tea," Aglea murmured. She glanced at Hoffa and walked around to the back of the house.
Once she was gone, Hoffa stepped onto the snow-covered ground and slowly approached the campfire on the hillside.
"Hi," he said hesitantly.
"Did you sleep well?" Fatir asked without looking up.
"Yeah," Hoffa replied, nodding. He sat down on a stone by the fire, extending his hands toward the warmth.
He watched the man before him, one he'd only encountered a handful of times since the school year began. Unspoken guilt and unease weighed on him. Just a week ago, Hoffa had nearly gotten Fatir's daughter killed.
But Fatir seemed uninterested in revisiting the past. Instead, he reached behind him, pulled out a newspaper, and handed it to Hoffa.
Taking it, Hoffa glanced at the front page. The contents were shocking.
The black-and-white magical photo showed mobs swarming through the city. Their faces were painted like savages as they rioted, both Muggles and wizards alike. They hurled burning debris at skyscrapers and cars, their actions akin to a tsunami of chaos.
One figure in the photo pressed their face against the camera lens, screaming madly, "God is dead!"
As the crowd erupted into laughter, the reporter holding the camera was shoved to the ground.
Hoffa's fingers tightened around the paper. He set it down, his face grim.
"This country is on the verge of collapse," Fatir said quietly. "Every day, countless people die—either by their own hand or by someone else's.
"No one cares about rules anymore. Hogwarts is closed. Gringotts is bankrupt.
"Grindelwald is systematically dismantling the very foundations of British society. His goals are being realized step by step."
Fatir paused before continuing, "I've stayed here too long. Grindelwald's next targets will undoubtedly be other key infrastructures—perhaps Azkaban, or maybe St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
"Aglea and I are leaving today. We're going to stop him and settle this once and for all."
At that moment, Aglea appeared from behind, holding a small cup. She overheard Fatir's words and exclaimed, "Father!"
Fatir, however, paid her no attention. His gaze remained fixed on Hoffa.
"That ethereal dragon," he said gravely, "must also be stopped. It spreads chaos and emptiness in the Muggle world. It's the source of everything. As long as it exists, despair and suffering will continue to shroud the world."
Aglea sighed and walked over to Hoffa, handing him a steaming cup of pine-needle tea.
Hoffa accepted it gratefully, took a sip, and felt its slight bitterness and scorching warmth.
"You want me to defeat that dragon?" he asked quietly.
Fatir didn't answer, only stared at him.
"I don't know how," Hoffa admitted, setting the newspaper aside. "I'm not sure I can defeat it."
"If anyone can defeat that creature, it's you," Fatir said firmly. "It was born from you—it's a monster tied to your soul. Only you can understand its motives, its weaknesses. Isn't that so?"
Hoffa picked up a stick and stirred the campfire, falling silent for a long time. Finally, he turned his head and spoke:
"Its body."
"What?"
"It may share a part of my soul, but its body isn't mine. I want to know who created its physical form."
"If we're talking about the physical aspect, it's undoubtedly Norbert Haig's work. He used alchemy to extract life from other dragons and fused them into one monstrous being."
"Norbert Haig?" Hoffa's expression froze as he recalled his bizarre summer adventure. The bearded fugitive he'd encountered came to mind.
"Norbert Haig created another version of my body?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I crossed paths with him once," Fatir said, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket and handing it to Hoffa. "If you want to find him, this map will guide you. I left a magical beacon on him the last time we met, but I haven't had the time to track him down."
Hoffa looked at the note, memories of the summer resurfacing—Norbert abandoning him and walking away alone. Could that man have truly created another version of himself?
At that moment, Fatir finished his tea and stood up. "Life is hard, Hoffa. I think you'll have to face him sooner or later."
Hoffa folded the note and said, "I understand."
"Good." Fatir nodded with satisfaction.
He turned to Aglea, patting her shoulder. "If you've got anything to say, say it now. We're leaving soon."
With that, he walked down the slope, disappearing into the shadowy thickets, leaving Hoffa and Aglea by the winter campfire, facing each other.
Aglea gazed at Hoffa, as if she had much to say. But a brief exchange of looks conveyed everything they needed to understand. Neither could retreat now.
In the end, she didn't deliver a stirring speech. She simply said, "Take care of yourself, and don't do anything foolish."
Hoffa nodded. "I will."
After a simple breakfast, Fatir and Aglea left Hoffa. They mounted a dragon and disappeared into the sky.
Hoffa sat alone by the fire, staring out at the distant ocean. He opened the note Fatir had given him—a navigational map.
On it, an arrow pointed toward the Hebrides.
After confirming the location, Hoffa turned and set off on an uncertain journey. This was his second mission involving Norbert, but this time it wasn't about adventure or excitement—it was about redemption.
North Sea Island, Azkaban Prison.
Blood pooled on the ground, winding between shattered stones and broken batons. The bodies of countless prison guards lay scattered, some with twisted limbs, others with their skulls caved in. A few had been gruesomely torn in half.
A silver dragon Patronus coiled atop the high dungeon. Its icy gaze swept over the scene, unaffected by the carnage below. The Dementors of Azkaban, cowed by the Patronus's radiant glow, drifted and cowered in the shadows.
A throng of prisoners, clad in blue-and-white striped uniforms, gathered beneath the dragon Patronus. Their heads were raised, their bodies smeared with still-warm blood.
Unexpectedly, they remained utterly silent.
In the vast prison, the only sound was the faint clink of bone against iron bars—the rhythmic tapping of a pale-haired man.
With long, slender fingers, he trailed them across the cold iron bars, producing a hollow metallic echo.
In his right hand, he dragged a bruised and battered man in a black cloak—Azkaban's warden.
Thud!
The warden tumbled down the stairs, landing heavily on the ground, surrounded by countless prisoners who had been oppressed for years.
As he looked up, he saw the mingling expressions of anger and reverence in the prisoners' eyes. Yet, that fervor twisted into a beastly savagery, a sight so overwhelming that it nearly made him faint.
Grindelwald stood above them, scanning the scene with a cold gaze.
"Prisons," he began, his voice calm and commanding, "are the hallmark of human civilization, machines designed to strip away time and hope. You were locked here for reasons—murder, looting, treason, violence. Morally speaking, you are irredeemable criminals, brutes."
He paused, letting his words sink in, then continued:
"But in my eyes, morality is just a construct. All rules are lies. In this world, there is only one true rule—survival of the fittest."
The prisoners stirred restlessly, their murmurs swelling.
Grindelwald's voice cut through the noise:
"I have a natural affinity for those who dare to defy the rules. We are human, and original sin exists in every one of us. Sometimes, humans don't even have the right to make choices, do they?"
As his deliberate words faded, the prison erupted in thunderous applause, like lightning splitting the sky. The prisoners' eyes shone with even greater fervor and hope, gazing at him as though he were their savior.
When the applause subsided, an enraged voice echoed from the ground:
"Madman! Monster! Devil!"
It was the warden, now shouting furiously. Struggling to his feet, he pointed at Grindelwald and roared, "You just wait! Someone will put an end to you!"
Grindelwald interrupted him slowly yet decisively, "I will prove to you that even a warden, in certain circumstances, can become just like the rest of you."
He snapped his fingers.
"Schmidt," he called.
From the shadows, a tall man emerged, heavy shackles clanking with each step. Tears of reverence streamed down his face as he looked at Grindelwald.
"It's time to make your sacrifice," Grindelwald said softly.
"Yes," Schmidt replied without hesitation. He stepped forward and knelt before the warden, placing a sharpened metal shard in the warden's trembling hands.
The warden stared in shock at the shard in his hand.
Grindelwald spoke again, his tone icy and deliberate:
"Vincent, esteemed warden, you have two choices. The first: kill Schmidt, and you may join us, continuing to survive in this absurd world. The second: be killed by my friend."
"You're insane! Go to hell! Do you think I'll follow your orders?" the warden spat, his voice shaking with rage.
"You have five seconds," Grindelwald said, ignoring the outburst. "Lutrov here will give you that much time to kill him."
"You're a sociopath! A lunatic!" the warden panted, sweat dripping from his brow. "You'll be forever nailed to the pillar of shame among wizards!"
Grindelwald remained unmoved, extending one hand. "Five," he began.
The countdown had started.
The warden trembled, locking eyes with Grindelwald.
Schmidt Lutrov knelt on one knee, gazing at Grindelwald with unwavering devotion.
"Four," Grindelwald continued, lowering a finger.
"You madman! Lunatic!" the warden shouted, his breathing quick and shallow.
"Three," Grindelwald's voice carried the weight of inevitability.
By now, every prisoner was holding their breath, their wide eyes fixed on the two men in the center. They clenched their fists, their voices joining the countdown, echoing through the prison:
"Three!"
The warden looked down at the shard in his hand, his entire body shaking.
"You're a psychopath!" he muttered, sweat pouring from every inch of his body.
"Two," Grindelwald continued, his tone cold and mechanical.
Raising an eyebrow, Grindelwald smiled faintly. Then he folded his last finger.
"One."
In that instant, the invisible weight crushed the warden's will like the final straw breaking a camel's back.
He staggered to his feet and plunged the sharp shard into Schmidt Lutrov's neck. Blood sprayed forth, staining the ground a vivid red.
Pulling the shard free, the warden stared at the bloodied blade in his hands, then at Lutrov's motionless body. Overwhelmed, he collapsed to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably under the immense pressure.
Grindelwald bent down, gently touching Lutrov's face. "You are the finest angel," he murmured.
Schmidt Lutrov smiled faintly before falling lifelessly to the ground.
Straightening up, Grindelwald ignored the warden's breakdown and Lutrov's dying form. His gaze pierced the void, defiant and proud.
At that moment, a tsunami of cheers erupted throughout the prison, a sound of liberation tinged with chaos, as though heralding the apocalypse. No one wanted to remain in this bleak cage any longer.
The uproar lasted less than a second before silence fell.
Raising a single finger, Grindelwald spoke calmly:
"I've decided to take some of you with me to accomplish greater things. But there are conditions for leaving with me."
With a wave of his hand, the prison bars exploded outward, scattering across the ground with a deafening crash.
Grindelwald surveyed the prisoners, stepping over Schmidt's body. The crowd parted into two lines before him.
"Only half of you will walk out of here," he said coldly. "I only want the strongest. Your passage to freedom is simple: find your opponent and kill them."
With that, he strode through the prisoners, his gaze unwavering, leaving behind a sea of bewildered faces.
Moments later, someone lunged for one of the scattered shards of iron. That single act ignited the prison like a lit fuse, plunging it into total chaos and madness.
(End of Chapter)
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