Chapter 423

Second Grade Classroom, Ilvermorny, USA

Faint sunlight filtered through the large glass windows, casting soft golden rays onto the desks of eager young wizards. The classroom buzzed with quiet conversations, the kind of free-spirited atmosphere that spoke of excitement and discovery.

Grindelwald, disguised as Principal Camus, stood at the front of the room. His expression was kind and approachable, but beneath the surface, his calculating mind was at work. His piercing gaze swept over the students, assessing their potential.

With a slight cough, he commanded their attention. "Cough! Cough! It's class time."

The students fell silent almost instantly. There was something inherently commanding about the presence of a teacher—more so when that teacher was the principal.

Grindelwald's lips curled into a faint smile as he surveyed the obedient young wizards. "This class marks our third exploration of meditation," he began. "I trust you've been practicing what I taught you in the previous two sessions?"

Several hands shot up, their owners eager to prove their dedication. Grindelwald's eyes landed on a boy in a dark green robe, his delicate features alight with excitement.

"Sedar," Grindelwald called, nodding for the boy to speak.

The young wizard stood and spoke loudly, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "Principal, in the first class, you told us that meditation is the key to a new era for wizards. You said that only those who master it will rise to the top of our world."

Sedar continued, summarizing the lessons with surprising precision. "You also taught us how to eliminate distractions, how to sense the magic in the air, and how to focus our minds. But, Principal, the biggest challenge we've faced is overcoming our own distracting thoughts."

Grindelwald's nod was almost imperceptible, but there was approval in his eyes. Sedar's potential in meditation was undeniable—perhaps even invaluable in the future.

"Well said, Sedar. Ten points to Horned Serpent!" Grindelwald declared, his tone warm and encouraging.

A few more students contributed their thoughts, earning praise and points for their respective houses. The atmosphere grew increasingly lively, the students feeding off their principal's energy.

"Excellent," Grindelwald said finally. "You've done well so far. Today, we take the next step. I will teach you the meditation method itself."

Drawing his wand, Grindelwald began to trace patterns in the air. Intricate runes appeared, glowing with different hues: fiery red, icy blue, and vibrant green. The students gasped in awe, their eyes wide as they took in the magical spectacle.

"Now, as I've mentioned before," Grindelwald began, his tone measured, "the meditation method we'll explore is based on the pioneering work of Gilderoy Lockhart."

A flicker of admiration crossed his face as he continued, "Lockhart's creativity has opened a new door for us, one that could redefine wizardry itself. But," his voice grew slightly heavier, "his work remains in its infancy. There's much more to uncover—work that will require the efforts of many bright minds, including yours."

The students sat up straighter, a ripple of excitement passing through them.

"Through my own research, I've refined and expanded upon Lockhart's initial methods," Grindelwald said, gesturing to the runes hovering above. "I've discovered that meditation methods can be categorized based on their elemental properties. Each of you will have a natural affinity that aligns with one of these methods."

He pointed to the fiery rune. "This is the Red Flame Meditation. Those who practice it will find fire-based spells easier to master. Your magic will grow more explosive and dynamic."

He then gestured to the icy rune. "The Frost Meditation enhances control over cold-based spells, imbuing your magic with precision and endurance."

"And here," he continued, indicating the green rune, "is the Life Meditation. This method is attuned to healing and nurturing magic, fostering balance and vitality in its practitioners."

The room buzzed with whispers of wonder as the students leaned forward, captivated.

Malfoy Manor at Night

The grand hall of Malfoy Manor exuded wealth and lineage. Its marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers, while priceless artifacts adorned the walls and corners—a testament to the Malfoy family's pure-blood heritage.

But tonight, the manor's usual air of refinement was replaced by an oppressive tension. Dark wizards and Death Eaters filled the hall, their varied robes and auras forming a tapestry of menace.

At the head of the assembly stood Tom Riddle—Lord Voldemort. His once-handsome face now bore the snake-like deformities of his dark transformation. His eyes glinted with cold malice as he regarded the gathered crowd.

"I am back," Voldemort announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade.

A heavy silence followed, the weight of his words pressing down on everyone in the room.

"Yet I return… disappointed," he said, his tone sharp and disdainful.

The gathered wizards exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion evident.

Voldemort raised his wand, his movements deliberate and commanding. "Who are we?" he asked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

When no one dared respond, he answered his own question. "We are wizards. We are the noble inheritors of magic, once revered as gods among Muggles. We created life, shaped the rules of existence, and sought immortality itself."

His words conjured a mixture of emotions. Some wizards lowered their heads, their expressions tinged with fear. Others gazed at him with adoration, as though worshipping a deity.

What Voldemort spoke of reverberated deeply with his audience, conjuring images of ancient wizards from history—figures of immense power who once commanded respect and fear.

"Although the Statute of Secrecy forced us into the shadows," Voldemort continued, his voice cold and unwavering, "we remain wizards, wielders of the most powerful magic in existence. Our rightful place is one of glory, dominance, and the status that accompanies true strength."

His red, serpentine eyes scanned the gathered crowd. "What do you think?"

One of his fanatical followers, a Death Eater with wild eyes and a trembling voice, stepped forward. "Master, you are right! We are superior beings, and it is only natural that we should reclaim the world that belongs to us."

A chorus of agreement rose from the Death Eaters and many dark wizards in attendance. "Long live the Dark Lord! Wizards should rule over everything!"

While the sentiment resonated with most, others hesitated. Among them were the pure-blood families—Malfoys, Rosiers, and others—whose expressions betrayed a blend of contemplation and cautious silence. They were not as quick to declare allegiance, knowing the cost of misplaced loyalties.

Voldemort observed this hesitation with a faint, calculating smile. He understood the delicate balance of fear and ambition that ruled these families. For now, their cooperation sufficed.

"In the current wizarding world," Voldemort continued, his voice rising slightly, "only a handful could oppose me. Dumbledore is old, Grindelwald is isolated in the United States, and the so-called hidden 'masters' are cowards, unwilling to risk their lives. As for the Ministry of Magic and its Aurors?" He let out a derisive laugh. "They are nothing but ants beneath my heel."

His words washed over the room, drawing excited expressions from his loyalists.

"Master, what is our next move?" one of the Death Eaters asked, barely containing his eagerness.

Voldemort raised his hand, silencing the room. "The first step is simple," he said, his tone turning icy. "The wizarding world must know that I have returned. We will make our presence felt, and we will not hide."

Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office

In the stillness of the night, Albus Dumbledore stood by the window of his circular office, gazing at the crescent moon. The silvery light bathed the room in an ethereal glow, casting shadows over the many magical devices that whirred and ticked softly on their shelves.

Dumbledore sighed deeply. Trouble was brewing, and he could feel the weight of it pressing heavily upon his shoulders.

Grindelwald was overseeing Ilvermorny in America, no doubt teaching meditation and cultivating his own influence. Voldemort had returned, and though he had yet to strike openly, the storm was inevitable.

And then there was Lockhart—leaving Hogwarts to establish a new magical school.

"So much out of my control," Dumbledore murmured, his voice tinged with weariness. He rubbed his temple and turned back toward his desk, resolving to focus on the tasks at hand.

Just then, the stone gargoyle outside shifted with a low rumble, signaling a visitor. Moments later, Severus Snape stepped into the office, his dark robes billowing as he climbed the spiral staircase.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore greeted warmly. With a flick of his wand, he conjured two steaming cups of tea, their delicate fragrance filling the room.

Snape, however, made no move toward the offered tea. Instead, he stood silently, his dark eyes fixed on Dumbledore, waiting for him to speak.

Breaking the silence, Dumbledore asked, "Severus, how fares the mark on your arm? Has he summoned you recently?"

Snape's expression remained impassive. "The Dark Lord has called upon me," he admitted. "But I provided an excuse to delay meeting him."

"What excuse?" Dumbledore inquired, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "And are you certain he believed you?"

Snape inclined his head. "I told him that I have been studying meditation under your guidance. The Dark Lord is intrigued by the concept and requested that I bring him any meaningful results."

At this, Dumbledore fell into a pensive silence. Meditation. The word had become almost ubiquitous in recent months. Grindelwald was spreading its practice across Ilvermorny. Voldemort, too, had taken an interest. And, of course, it all began with Lockhart's groundbreaking work.

Finally, Dumbledore reached into his robes and withdrew a slim, light-blue book. He handed it to Snape. "This contains portions of the meditation techniques Lockhart and I have refined together. Present it to the Dark Lord. Gain his trust, and learn what he plans next."

Snape's dark gaze lingered on the book for a moment before he nodded. "As you wish."

Malfoy Manor, Study

In the private study of Malfoy Manor, Tom Riddle—now fully transformed into Voldemort—sat at an ornate desk, his long, pale fingers turning the pages of a heavy tome. Stacks of ancient magic books surrounded him, each bearing the crest of the Malfoy family.

His expression was grim, his movements agitated. He had spent hours searching for something specific, a secret buried in the annals of magical theory: how to sever a soul fragment without alerting the other pieces.

Time was running out. Lockhart's growing influence unnerved him. If the charlatan-turned-researcher discovered Voldemort's lingering vulnerability, it would be disastrous.

A knock at the door broke his concentration.

"Enter, Bellatrix," Voldemort called, already sensing the presence of his most fanatical follower.

Bellatrix Lestrange stepped into the room, her dark eyes gleaming with devotion. "Master," she said, bowing low. "Snape has arrived. He claims to have completed the task you gave him."

Voldemort's lip curled slightly. "Send him in," he said.

Moments later, Snape entered the study. His black robes swept across the floor, his face an unreadable mask. The tension between master and servant was palpable.

"Leave us," Voldemort commanded Bellatrix. She obeyed reluctantly, casting one last look at her master before closing the door behind her.

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort cast a silencing charm over the room. The air seemed to hum with latent magic as he fixed his gaze on Snape.

"What have you brought me?" Voldemort asked coldly.

Snape reached into his robes and produced the light-blue book Dumbledore had given him. "This," he said, his voice steady, "is a compilation of meditation techniques that Dumbledore and Lockhart have been refining. He instructed me to pass it along and to earn your trust."

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