— — — — — —
"Don't attack. Robert saved my life."
Quahog slowly raised a hand, signaling clearly that he was not under anyone's control. Then, step by step, he walked toward the Aurors.
Seeing that Robert remained where he was, making no move and giving off no hostility, the Aurors eased slightly. A few quietly lowered their wands, though none of them truly relaxed.
"Sorry, Mr. Quahog. We'll need to conduct a full examination," said the current Head Auror, James Skatch, his eyes sharp with suspicion.
Quahog's sudden reappearance was far too strange. It was hard not to suspect something was off.
"Don't send Robert to prison. Just keep him under guard somewhere," Quahog added before leaving, making sure Robert was spared.
That only deepened Skatch's doubts. Still, until there was proof Quahog was compromised, he remained the President of MACUSA. Some courtesy had to be shown.
Before long, Robert was escorted to a secure holding room under heavy watch, while Quahog was taken to a hidden floor of the building—a level that never appeared on any elevator panel. Much like the Department of Mysteries in Britain, it housed all sorts of bizarre experimental artifacts.
The United States hadn't originally had much of that kind of magical heritage. Most of what they had was taken or stolen. But after the discovery of the Aztec ruins, their collection had grown considerably.
"..."
Quahog masked his inner panic with a weary expression. His fingers unconsciously rubbed at his sleeve.
This was the critical moment. If he could pass this inspection, his secret would remain buried in America for good.
"This way, Mr. President."
Skatch stood before a heavy iron door, unlocking it with a brass key before pushing it open.
Quahog gave a slight nod, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
The room was vast and empty. In the center lay a square pit about five meters across, filled with cold, clear water. Drops fell steadily from the ceiling, echoing in a dull, rhythmic tap… tap… tap.
After only a few seconds of looking at it, Quahog felt his consciousness grow hazy. Then everything went dark.
In the adjacent room, Skatch and several high-ranking MACUSA officials stood around a basin, watching Quahog's memories unfold across its surface.
Since they had allowed him to return, Tom had already prepared for this. Memory magic was Ravenclaw's specialty, and Tom had mastered most of it.
Quahog's memories were now layered.
The outer layer was a fabricated narrative, constructed through dreams. Beneath it lay his true experiences.
Anyone attempting to reach the inner layer would first have to completely destroy the outer one.
And that was no easy task.
In the false memory:
After Dumbledore broke into the building, Quahog panicked. Despite knowing there were anti-Apparition wards in place, he forced an escape attempt anyway.
By sheer luck, he succeeded—but something went wrong. His body was badly injured during transit. And just when things seemed hopeless, Robert appeared and saved him. After several twists and turns, he finally made his way back to New York.
"Does it look believable?" Skatch asked, staring at the water's surface, his voice thick with doubt.
Everything seemed logical. And yet, the very fact that Quahog had made it back alive was the biggest red flag of all.
A middle-aged woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses studied the memory scene coldly.
"Interrogate Robert Graves again. Compare both sets of memories. If we find even a single inconsistency, we'll have grounds to lock them up for life."
It was obvious from their tone—both Skatch and the woman were part of the faction that did not want Quahog back.
MACUSA had already begun the process of electing a new president, and their candidate had a strong chance of winning. But Quahog's return changed everything.
Of course, not everyone wanted him gone.
As long as Quahog could still serve certain interest groups and keep profits flowing, they didn't care whether something was wrong with him or not.
Even if he had to be replaced, it would only happen once a suitable new figurehead was ready.
...
Thanks to the new Lume-Lens, the news quickly reached Fontaine.
In a lakeside villa by the Black Lake, Fontaine—being a headmaster—had his own office and private quarters.
"Alright. I understand."
He ended the call. The Lume-Lens dimmed, reflecting the conflicted look on his face.
Quahog… wasn't taken by Dumbledore?
His thoughts were a mess. The situation had become impossible to read.
Robert had been missing for over a year. Fontaine had practically forgotten about him. And now, out of nowhere, he resurfaced—alongside others who had vanished just as mysteriously.
There was no solid evidence, but instinctively, Fontaine pinned the blame on Dumbledore. Somehow, it always seemed like that old man was lurking behind everything.
And yet, he couldn't grasp the starting thread. There was no decisive clue, no proof to act on.
All he could do was stay alert.
Sunlight streamed through the window, drawing a sharp line across the room—splitting Fontaine into light and shadow.
He sat there for a long time before finally standing and heading into the bedroom.
...
Inside the castle, Dumbledore received the news much later—only after nightfall.
His first reaction was anger.
"Gellert… just how much have you been doing behind my back?"
He had personally witnessed the deal between Tom and Grindelwald involving Quahog.
But he hadn't known that Graves was also in Grindelwald's hands.
What angered him wasn't the scheme itself.
It was the secrecy.
They were no longer enemies. Not really.
And yet, Grindelwald was still keeping things from him.
What happened to trust between them?
In a fit of anger, Dumbledore sent message after message, each one sharper than the last. None of them got a reply.
They vanished into silence.
Because at that moment, Grindelwald was busy delivering a report. He didn't even see the messages until the next day.
"Lady Morgan, of the five ruins you mentioned, I couldn't find four of them. I did locate one, but it had already been excavated. All that's left are some written records."
Inside the study space, Grindelwald—fresh off a long stint playing treasure hunter—had finally returned.
Tom was off in Paris, accompanying two girls on a shopping spree, so only Morgan sat across from him.
She didn't look surprised at all by his lackluster results.
"That's to be expected. Too much time has passed. Tectonic shifts alone could have altered entire regions. The locations wouldn't match what they once were."
"And after I fell into slumber, those ruins may have already been discovered, stripped of value, and destroyed."
Grindelwald still frowned. "Tom's pushing hard for results. And that Quetzalcoatl is still a threat."
"The Quetzalcoatl…" Morgan leaned back slightly. "That being predates even me. Are you certain it escaped using some kind of time-based ability?"
Crossing entire eras at will… even a Quetzalcoatl at full strength shouldn't be able to do that, let alone one that was badly injured.
Grindelwald shrugged. "You'll have to ask Usaki. That's what she told Tom. I'm not about to question her."
Usaki might act cute and playful around Tom, just like Daphne—almost airheaded at times—but with everyone else, she was a completely different story.
Grindelwald had dealt with her a few times while helping deliver items. Every encounter came with a heavy, suffocating pressure. And she never seemed particularly pleased.
(Usaki: Try getting dragged out of your sleep to run deliveries and see how cheerful you feel. I can't get mad at my master, so I can't even give you a look?)
Morgan's expression turned a little stiff.
The master… and even his pet… both carried bloodlines on the level of gods.
Meanwhile, she—
It was infuriating.
How did Tom end up with everything?
The conversation stalled there. Morgan eventually told Grindelwald to stop searching for more ruins for now. She had already confirmed certain things.
Grindelwald was more than happy to take the break. The competition was starting again next weekend, and he planned to attend in person to cheer for Ariana.
...
..
A new week rolled around.
On Monday morning, Tom finally returned to the castle with Daphne and Fleur.
Thankfully, the expected stench was nowhere to be found.
The three students' punishment had only lasted a few days. If it had gone on any longer, the ones suffering wouldn't have been them—it would've been everyone in the castle.
Then the house-elves had worked through the night, scrubbing every inch clean. They'd even used air fresheners. Hogwarts had narrowly avoided turning into a reeking disaster.
As for the three troublemakers, they were gone. Fontaine had sent them back that very morning.
Officially, it was just a routine transfer.
In reality, he had gone to see Quahog.
The source of the chaos was gone, but the tension between Ilvermorny and Hogwarts students hadn't faded.
Even though the Star Chamber was closed off for the time being, clashes broke out everywhere—classrooms, corridors, even the open grounds. The hostility between the two schools only grew sharper.
And yet, none of the professors stepped in.
There was an unspoken agreement. They'd warned their own students not to gang up on others or bully the younger ones, but beyond that, they let things play out.
A bit of rivalry—even conflict—wasn't necessarily bad.
As long as it stayed within limits, it was just kids being kids. It might even push them to work harder.
Both sides understood that.
So although tensions ran high, nothing escalated to the scale of the first major clash again.
At worst, someone might get ambushed and wake up hours later in the infirmary.
---
"Antidotes!"
During Friday's Potions class, Snape wrote a list of poisons across the blackboard. Then he turned to face the students, voice cold as ever.
"Pick any one of these and brew its antidote. I will randomly select a few lucky students to ingest the poison… and then attempt to cure themselves with their own potion."
Neville went deathly pale, as if he could already see his ancestors waiting for him.
In truth, he was overthinking it.
Snape had no intention of picking him.
Even a Potions Master couldn't guarantee he could identify whatever bizarre substance Neville ended up brewing.
Just then, there was a knock at the dungeon door. It creaked open, and a third-year Slytherin girl poked her head inside.
"What is it?" Snape snapped, clearly annoyed.
"Sorry, sir. The champions have started wand inspection. Professor McGonagall asked me to bring Miss Greengrass and Mr Riddle to the classroom next to her office on the third floor."
Snape waved a dismissive hand.
Tom was already on his feet, Daphne rising with him as they headed for the door.
Snape didn't spare them a single glance. His eyes were fixed on Harry instead, who was sweating under the pressure.
A faint, mocking smile curled at the corner of Snape's lips.
At this moment, Harry was absolutely certain Snape wanted to poison him.
.
.
.