A full night had passed, but the heat of the previous evening had not cooled by a single degree. Breakfast in the Great Hall was a continuous roar of overlapping conversation.
That said, everyone knew Dumbledore had driven Grindelwald away, so genuine panic was in short supply. What drew people's attention most was the wreckage visible beyond the school gates. The hillside facing the castle looked as though something enormous had taken bites out of it, which said more about the ferocity of last night's duel than any description could. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were holding court at every table, animatedly describing everything they had witnessed from their towers to the students whose common rooms were underground and had seen nothing.
Every few sentences, though, someone would glance instinctively toward the staff table, where Dumbledore sat.
That old man was the reason all of them were still here to talk about it.
He had been expected to visit the Ministry this morning to brief Fudge on the situation, but he understood well enough that the school's nerves needed settling, and that required a visible presence. So instead he had summoned Fudge to Hogwarts.
Dumbledore thought nothing of it. He had even taken the trouble to explain his reasoning clearly.
Whether Fudge would see it the same way was another matter entirely. What Fudge saw was Dumbledore presuming to summon the Minister for Magic as though he were an errand boy, and the resentment that had been accumulating for years gained another layer. But he could not refuse. He came.
"Albus, are you truly telling me you couldn't detain him?" Fudge stood at the window of the Headmaster's office once the students had gone to class, staring out toward the scarred hillside with an expression of poorly contained frustration. "A man like that roaming the wizarding world without restraint, it's unconscionable. The danger alone..."
"Cornelius, do you think I wanted it to go this way?" Dumbledore sighed. "I gave everything I had last night. The difficulty is that Grindelwald has somehow restored himself to his prime. He is stronger now than he was in his worst years, and considerably more difficult to contain."
He paused, and offered what amounted to good news. "That said, you can take some comfort in this. I know Grindelwald. He does not kill for pleasure, particularly not where wizards are concerned."
Fudge looked at him as though he had said something profoundly strange.
"The Picquery family. The delegate at the last conference. And now he's attacked Hogwarts directly, and you're defending him?"
"I am not defending him," Dumbledore said, unruffled. "I am being accurate. He has a personal history with me, Cornelius. He has no equivalent grievance with you."
Fudge considered this and found, reluctantly, that it was a reasonable point. The last International Confederation meeting had only seen two deaths, after all. Still, one worry remained. "Could he go after me out of spite? Simply because of my connection to you?"
Dumbledore's mouth tugged slightly at one corner. "I should think not. If he were to redirect his frustrations, his target would be Newt long before it would be you."
"Newt Scamander?" Fudge thought of the magizoologist who had recently filed paperwork to return and take up residence in Britain, and nodded, visibly relieved.
"Regardless," Fudge said, his voice hardening, "Grindelwald needs to be dealt with. I have an international meeting coming up. I intend to propose a joint operation, pooling Aurors from multiple countries, with you leading them. What are your thoughts?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I am sorry, Cornelius. Hogwarts needs me here. I have no intention of leaving the school during this period. And besides, Grindelwald is working alone. He has no organisation, no fixed base of operations. Surrounding and eliminating someone like that is nowhere near as simple as it sounds."
They did not reach an agreement. Fudge left with a poorly concealed expression of irritation, and Dumbledore did not particularly care. The moment the Minister was gone, he returned to his desk and his research, combing through records for any magical method that could account for Grindelwald's restored youth, and whatever vulnerabilities might come with it.
...
In Transfiguration class, Tom had propped his textbook upright at a strategic angle, using it as a screen to hide his messaging device. He was working through a backlog of replies at speed.
Nicolas and Newt had somehow heard about last night already. Both had messaged early that morning. Not with concern, precisely. More accurately, with reproach.
Both men, entirely independently of each other, had arrived at the same conclusion: Tom had been reckless, he should not have gone anywhere near a duel at that level, his job was to let Dumbledore handle it, and involving himself had been unnecessary and dangerous.
Tom did not argue back. He gave agreeable, apologetic responses and quietly resolved to change nothing about his approach going forward.
There was no point in fighting that kind of scolding from two old men who meant well. Save the pushback for people it actually mattered with.
[Tom: Master, Newt's already come back to England for some peace and quiet. Won't you come too? There's a big open field next to his place. You two could practically be neighbours.]
[Nicolas: Be neighbours with a man who bottles everything up and says nothing? That's no different from living alone in the middle of nowhere.]
[Newt: ...Nicolas, I'm not quite that bad, am I?]
[Nicolas: Close enough. Newt, no one has ever questioned your character. Your personality, on the other hand, is something you ought to come to terms with. Self-knowledge is important.]
[Tina: You old relic, even if it's the truth, you could at least leave the man some dignity.]
The chat descended into comfortable chaos. Tom stared at it for a moment and felt genuinely speechless.
He had invented this messaging platform, and in doing so had apparently given a collection of elderly wizards and witches the one hobby they had all been missing. The group chat hit nine hundred and ninety-nine plus unread messages on a regular basis. In terms of keeping the platform active, they were making an enormous contribution.
He looked up at the rest of his class. Every student around him was slumped with exhaustion from the night before.
Quite a contrast.
Nicolas ultimately declined to come to Britain. His estate was safe enough, he said, and even if something went wrong there was time for assistance to arrive. Tom accepted this with genuine disappointment.
If Nicolas had agreed to come, they would have had both raw material supplier and manufacturer in the same location. The efficiency alone would have been remarkable.
He briefly entertained the thought of having Grindelwald go and frighten Nicolas into reconsideration.
The idea was extinguished almost as quickly as it had appeared. Tom shook his head.