"Another year... has come to an end."
The Tri-School Tournament had concluded with Harry's victory, and the year was drawing to a close.
As was tradition, the final end-of-term feast was held, and the students gathered in the Great Hall.
But Dumbledore's tone as he addressed them was heavy and somber, completely lacking its usual cheerfulness.
It was as if he had to speak of things he did not wish to, as if he himself feared acknowledging the reality by putting it into words.
He spoke carefully, weighing each and every word.
"There is much I wish to discuss with you all tonight."
Dumbledore scanned the Great Hall, looking at the face of every student.
What he was about to say was a painful truth. A future he had wished would never come to pass, yet one he had foreseen would one day arrive.
The entire teaching staff standing behind him watched with grim expressions, awaiting the Headmaster's words.
Dumbledore took a deep breath and then, slowly, spoke the reality that had occurred.
"—Lord Voldemort has returned."
At first, silence dominated the Great Hall.
No one could immediately comprehend Dumbledore's words, replaying them in their minds.
Next, they looked around, wondering if they had misheard.
And finally, as the meaning of the words sank in, they let out dazed noises of fear and confusion, turning to their neighbors to confirm they had heard the same thing.
Dumbledore waited for the murmuring to subside.
Only when the hall fell silent once more, the students looking to him for his next words, did he resume.
"The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. Some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so—either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you, so young as you are.1
It is my belief, however, that truth is generally preferable to lies."
He could lie. He could hide it, and they could continue living as they always had.
It would be easy to say that there was nothing to worry about, that this year had ended peacefully like any other, and that the years to come would be the same.
But what lay beyond those lies, that concealment, that deception? Was it wise to postpone the threat and take no countermeasures?
No. That was merely escaping from reality. That was what Dumbledore believed.
And so, he spoke. He spoke of the terrible event that occurred at the end of the tournament.
Of Harry Potter's courage in escaping it.
And of the importance, now more than ever, of coming together, of standing united.
He pleaded that they would not choose the wrong path, even in the dark and difficult times ahead. That they were not alone, that they had friends by their side. The old man spoke with force, as if trying to impress this upon them.
"You-Know-Who... has returned... H-How can that be...?"
"There's no need to be surprised. The time has simply come... that is all," Mirabelle said in her usual calm voice, responding to Edith who was pale and trembling.
She toyed with the wine glass in her hand before lifting it to her lips and draining the red liquid.
"We already knew he was alive back in our first year. Everyone should have been able to predict that he would eventually return."
"But..."
"'But' you didn't want to think about it. You wished it wouldn't happen. That complacency clouded your judgment and brought us to this day.
And even now, the eyes of the wizarding world's leadership remain clouded."
Placing the glass on the table, Mirabelle clicked her tongue in annoyance.
What had happened could not be changed.
But the many problems that were yet to come were another matter entirely.
She felt nothing but disappointment for a wizarding world that averted its gaze and made no attempt to take any countermeasures.
"What's going to happen now...?"
"Nothing will happen. The Ministry is closing its eyes to this matter.
The 'peace' will continue from tomorrow as if nothing happened, and a time of 'apparent' tranquility will persist.
All while they take no action against the dark forces preparing in the shadows."
Mirabelle spoke with a mocking smile.
Nothing would change. Even though now was the time for change, nothing would change.
They had to act, yet they wouldn't. The current Ministry of Magic, composed of a flock of fools, could do nothing but stand by and watch.
"And then one day, it will all come crashing down. They'll be blindsided by the dark faction, fully prepared.
Only then will they wake up, realize it's too late... and die shortly after. Waking up moments before checkmate only leaves you with a game over."
The current Ministry was a pack of infants. A gathering of middle-aged men, old men, mature women, and old crones, all with the minds of babies, lining up with their thumbs and pacifiers in their mouths.
They believed that if they just stayed quiet, someone would bring them a baby bottle called 'hope.'
They believed that if they just curled up in their prams, the storm would pass.
How utterly foolish.
"Leinagly, from now on, do not rely on the Ministry. They can protect nothing, and they will protect nothing.
If you wish to survive, you must protect yourself with your own power."
"...I wonder if I can...?"
"If you cannot, then I will teach you. Not the uncertain thing Dumbledore preaches as 'unity,' but a reliable, definite power that you can believe in—your own. And how to use it."
Mirabelle offered a small smile to Edith.
"I don't care what happens to the incompetent fools or the Ministry.
But Leinagly... you alone, I might just be willing to protect."
Edith's eyes widened slightly in surprise as she looked at Mirabelle.
It wasn't the first time she had seen her smile. In fact, Mirabelle almost always wore an insolent grin.
But a 'smile' like this, one with no hidden meaning... how many times had she seen it in these four years?
She was sure she could count them on one hand.
"Hey... can I ask you something weird?"
"Hm?"
"You... you really are Mirabelle, right?"
At Edith's words, Mirabelle scowled, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.
She made a circle with her fingers and flicked Edith squarely on the forehead.
"You fool. Are those eyes of yours just for decoration? Or are they prosthetic, like Mad-Eye's?
Shall I remove one for you right here?"
"S-Sorry! You're definitely Mirabelle!"
"What an obvious thing to say... perhaps you should check yourself into St Mungo's."
Mirabelle snorted unhappily and set down her empty glass.
Watching her, Edith thought that for Mirabelle to be this irritated, the times must truly be dire.
Mirabelle was tyrannical, a girl who could only be described as morally flawed.
But whatever she said, one way or another, always struck at the truth.
For her to say this much... Edith believed more strongly than anything that Voldemort's return was probably real.
"Hey... when do you think... he will make his move?"
"...I predict this false peace will continue for a year.
And the fools at the Ministry will lose even the bare minimum of caution."
"And after that, will the wizarding world become his?"
"It will, without a doubt... unless someone does something about it."
Mirabelle said 'someone,' but at present, the number of people who would move against the dark faction was limited.
With the Ministry being unreliable, the Aurors would likely be mostly ineffective.
In such a situation, if there was anyone who would raise the flag of rebellion against the dark forces, it would have to be Dumbledore.
"I wonder what Professor Dumbledore plans to do?"
"...Who knows. But he too must have already given up on the Ministry.
If so, he should be moving in the shadows, to a degree that the Ministry won't notice."
The Ministry was no longer reliable, nor was it a threat.
Dumbledore and Voldemort should both have a common understanding on that point.
The question then was who could move more quickly behind the scenes.
"The battle beneath the surface has already begun... Be prepared, Leinagly. Next year will be turbulent."
The words were spoken with an unprecedented seriousness.
Feeling their weight, Edith swallowed hard, her face tensing.
The train ride home was filled with a somber atmosphere.
Some tried to act cheerful, while others couldn't speak a word.
One thing occupied all their minds: Voldemort.
They couldn't believe Dumbledore was lying.
But for once, they wished he was.
That thought cast a dark, stagnant gloom over the train.
"Just as I thought, not a single word about 'You-Know-Who' in the Daily Prophet."
With a sigh, Edith shoved the newspaper into her bag.
The distinct crinkling sound of crumpled paper echoed as the newspaper was swallowed by the bag's opening.
"I thought Rita Skeeter might have covered it as a scoop."
"Don't bother. It's pointless to expect anything from that woman."
It seemed Mirabelle did not think highly of Rita.
Well, a reporter who peddled fabrications was probably far from Mirabelle's taste.
Accepting that, Edith leaned back in her seat.
She heard something like Malfoy's scream and an explosion in the distance, but inside the train, it was peaceful.
If she could, Edith wished that this peace would last forever.
Gryffindor and Slytherin bickering, the whole school going wild over Quidditch.
Her arrogant and overly-strong-willed friend by her side, getting into trouble with Hermione and Harry. Those days might be gone starting next year.
The thought filled her with a sense of helplessness.
"Hey, Mirabelle."
"What is it?"
"...We'll still be friends next year and beyond, right?"
"Who knows. If you side with the dark faction or the Ministry, I might not think of you as a friend."
Mirabelle responded jokingly to Edith's rather serious question.
But did that mean, conversely, that as long as she didn't meet those conditions, she would be considered a friend?
Mirabelle's true feelings were hard to grasp.
But, somehow.
This time, it felt as though she wasn't lying or being evasive.
***
At the same time—in the prison, Nurmengard.
It was a place once built by the dark wizard Grindelwald to imprison his enemies.
However, after his defeat in a duel with Dumbledore in 1945, it had been used as a prison under the Ministry's management.
A shadow walked through its lowest level, its deepest part.
Its features were indiscernible.
The figure was completely covered in a crimson cloak, the color of blood.
Its head was hidden by a hood, with only a few strands of golden hair peeking out.
Its height was rather short, perhaps around 150 centimeters.
Click, clack. With every step the cloaked figure took, the dry sound of footsteps echoed through the prison.
Where were the guards and sentries who should have been there? Why was no one accompanying him, or her?
The answer lay in the numerous corpses scattered on the floor.
They were the guards who were supposed to be protecting this prison.
Without exception, their necks had been "twisted off" with an unnatural force, as if they had been grabbed by a giant.
The small figure, presumably responsible for the deed, stopped before a single cell and spoke.
"You are Gellert Grindelwald, I presume?"
"...Who are you?"
A raspy voice responded to the unexpectedly high-pitched one.
His voice, likely weakened by his long imprisonment, lacked the formidable power that had once made the entire wizarding world tremble.
But in the darkness, his eyes alone darted about eerily, shining as they tried to discern the visitor's identity.
"A name is irrelevant... but I suppose it is inconvenient without one.
Then you may call me 'Nosferatu'."
"The King of the Undead, you say? A rather grand title."
"Heehee, are you displeased to be addressed by one who bears the name of the undying? You, who once sought to transcend death yourself."
Grindelwald shot a harsh glare at the hooded figure—Nosferatu—who spoke in a mocking tone.
After a few seconds of silence, it was Nosferatu who spoke first.
It curled its lips and declared defiantly.
"I have come for you, Gellert Grindelwald.
Care to let your thunderous name echo through the wizarding world once more?"
***
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