Vogel backed down.
The situation felt utterly absurd to him.
This might have been a comfortable suite—fine food, fine furniture—but at the end of the day, this was still a prison cell. A place of confinement.
And yet here she was—handing a wand to a prisoner?
How in Merlin's name had Vinda Rosier ever risen to be Grindelwald's second-in-command?
This woman was terrifyingly strong. In Vogel's lifetime, he had only ever seen one witch fiercer than her—Tina Goldstein. Or rather, as she was called now, Tina Scamander.
With Rosier's wand leveled at him, Vogel obediently spilled everything. He explained Tom's situation in painstaking detail.
By the time he finished, Vinda's frail-looking body trembled, her eyes shimmering faintly with unshed tears.
"The Dark Lord's disciple…" she whispered, voice quivering. "Yes… of course. That level of Fiendfyre shielding—who else could wield it but his chosen student? And if he asked only for the wand, not its use, then it means the Dark Lord has already taught him…"
Her head snapped up suddenly, eyes sharp as knives. "Riddle can communicate with the Dark Lord directly?"
"He claims so," Vogel admitted truthfully. "I don't fully understand how that magic works. But I believe him. Otherwise, how could he have gained such mastery? By learning from that hypocrite Dumbledore?"
He gave a derisive snort. "All Dark Arts have been locked in the Restricted Section. You can't even imagine the state of Hogwarts' curriculum today. If it had been like this back in the day, there would never have been a Scamander to ruin our plans."
Rosier's face was impassive. "And yet, wasn't Dumbledore the same thirty, forty years ago? Always prattling about how love could change the world."
She sighed, but her tone grew sharper. "That cursed island of Britain is peculiar. Every generation, it seems, throws up prodigies. Dumbledore. That McGonagall witch is competent enough. Scamander. Grindelwald's foe—Lord Voldemort. And now… Riddle."
Vogel nodded vigorously. The general quality of the British wizarding world might be laughable, but every so often, it produced one dazzling genius after another—enough to elevate the reputation of the entire country.
"So, Vinda," he asked cautiously, "do you want to leave this place now?"
"What of the Dark Lord?" she countered smoothly.
Vogel shook his head. "Riddle believes the Saints are no longer fit for use. Too many parasites have infested us. This is not the time to think of welcoming the Dark Lord back. It is the time to regroup."
"I see." Vinda nodded thoughtfully. "So he looks down on us failures."
Vogel bared his teeth in a grim smile. Her words stung—but they were the truth.
Of course they were. She was the Black Rose of France—her perception was razor sharp.
"In that case," she said suddenly, "the wand remains with me."
"What?" Vogel's eyes widened. "You refuse?"
"Do you want young Riddle to waste his strength cleaning up the Saints himself?" Vinda rose, pacing the chamber with fluid grace despite her age. "If his followers can't even handle this, then what use are we? What he needs is powerful allies who can support him—not burdens to drag him down. Therefore, I will take this task upon myself."
Her voice hardened, regal and commanding. "If the Dark Lord has chosen him as a disciple, then his talent must be unmatched. All the more reason not to let him be bogged down by petty squabbles. He must not be hindered."
Vogel found himself convinced. Her reasoning was flawless. The Saints, in their current state, were more hindrance than help.
"But… what about the young master's expectations?" he asked hesitantly.
"I shall write to him."
With a gesture, parchment and quill floated to her desk. Rosier bent over and began writing swiftly, her hand firm despite her age. Vogel stood quietly aside; there was no rush. He had half an hour before his absence would be noticed.
Before long, she had filled an entire sheet of parchment. She sealed it neatly in an envelope and handed it to him.
"Deliver this to young Riddle."
"I will," Vogel promised, tucking the letter away. Then he ventured, "And you—you truly won't leave?"
"Not for now," Rosier replied with a shake of her head. "Remaining in the shadows draws less attention. If I were to emerge openly, too many eyes would turn upon me. Here, in this cell, I can still pull the strings."
Vogel inclined his head. "I only hope the old comrades can stay true. I don't wish to raise my blade against our own. And yet, I cannot let the Saints grow too weak either. That would be disgraceful."
Rosier gave a low laugh. "Why cling to old comrades alone? Vogel, you still haven't learned the Dark Lord's breadth of vision."
Her eyes gleamed as she leaned back. "Can't you see? The wizarding world has changed. It's becoming more and more like the world before his rise."
Though imprisoned for decades, she had pieced together the shifting tides of history from family visitors and newspapers.
"The Muggle world's development is terrifying. Their footprints cover the globe. But worse—Muggle ideas seep into ours. Just last Christmas, a Muggle nation split in two—and the shock tore through our world as well. Overnight, a dozen new Ministries appeared. Wizards now divide themselves along Muggle political lines."
Her gaze sharpened with ruthless clarity. "Left and right. Progressives and conservatives. This tension can be used. Harness the conservatives—make them our new strength."
Vogel stared at her, stunned. He had been thinking only of patching up the Saints' little fiefdom. But Vinda's eyes were already fixed on an empire. That was the difference between them.
"Whatever you need," he said finally, defeated. "Use me as you see fit."
"Just deliver the letter." She waved him away with regal dismissal. "When I require more, I won't hesitate to summon you."
After he left, Vinda remained alone in her chamber, lost in thought.
Hope and purpose—those were the most dangerous forces in the world. They could transform a person overnight.
She had believed Grindelwald broken, resigned to die within Nurmengard. She had resigned herself too. But Tom Riddle's appearance had stirred something.
If she could restore the Saints' power, satisfy the boy, and let Grindelwald see it—perhaps one day, against all odds, master and student would stand together again, free.
For that faint hope, Vinda Rosier became once more the Black Rose of France.
And for that hope, she was willing to plunge Europe into storm and blood.
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