Tom agreed, then requested use of Grindelwald's pocket dimension.
"Don't rush. First let me check your Transfiguration for weak points."
Two hours of that later, they left.
Bulgaria didn't share a border with Germany. Austria and Hungary sat between them. Austria had already received a demonstration of Grindelwald's displeasure once and absorbed significant losses. As for Hungary, the magical community there had been quiet enough that it barely registered as a presence on most maps.
Grindelwald walked through the front entrance of the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic with his entourage in tow and a room full of complicated, reverent expressions tracking his every step. Oblansk met them at the door and escorted them personally to the Minister's office, deferential and visibly relieved.
Grindelwald had never been stingy with people who came to him willingly. He agreed to everything Oblansk asked for without negotiation. The man's requests were all reasonable, practical, the kind of thing a competent minister would prioritize, and Oblansk was clearly more capable than Fudge on his best day. His only real flaw was a taste for high-stakes gambling. But small countries operated under a particular kind of pressure, and safe bets had a way of staying safe and going nowhere.
"Mr. Grindelwald, we've arranged a formal announcement ceremony. Something to let the country know they now answer to you."
Oblansk had the energy of a man whose gamble had just paid out. Grindelwald looked at him with something close to sympathy. This man had been sold out by his own people and had no idea. The competence question was real.
But loyalty was the thing that mattered, and Oblansk wasn't being asked to conquer anything. The world's direction was already set. How it unfolded depended entirely on what Tom decided to do with it.
"Go ahead and make the preparations. I'm tired from the journey. I'll appear in an hour."
"Of course, sir."
Oblansk left. Tom and Grindelwald made the switch. The ten Saints looked at each other in quiet bewilderment, trying to work out what they'd just witnessed.
Was this the legendary strategy of feinting one way and striking another? Was Lord Grindelwald planning to hide while a decoy drew Dumbledore out, then ambush him?
Fitting, they thought. Completely in character. Brilliantly underhanded.
Tom checked himself in the mirror, adjusted his hair into something more aggressively disheveled, and addressed the Saints. "All of you stay here. If you hear anything, leave immediately. Straight back to Berlin."
The Saints rushed to reassure him of their loyalty. "Young Master, we can fight too."
"If it actually comes to a fight, none of you will be a factor." Tom waved the offer away. His voice had taken on Grindelwald's characteristic low register. "Stay here and don't give me and the Teacher more to deal with."
They looked at each other, then nodded.
At the same moment, Rosier and Grimmson were leading their team toward Durmstrang. The day's objective was leverage. Enough of it to compel Dumbledore to accept Grindelwald's terms.
Durmstrang and Hogwarts were both counted among the world's most distinguished wizarding schools, but Durmstrang's recent trajectory had been, to put it generously, downward. That a Death Eater in flight from the law had managed to become its headmaster said something unflattering about the current standard of the faculty.
This was a significant part of why Grindelwald had chosen his own former school as a target. The embarrassment was personal. It reflected badly on everyone who had ever been educated there, including him.
Voldemort as headmaster would have irritated him less. A Death Eater was simply an insult to the institution.
Better he take the position himself and conduct a proper rivalry with Dumbledore at the level the two of them actually occupied. Though that calculation would need Tom removed from the equation first, as an uncontrolled variable.
One hour later.
Tom, wearing Grindelwald's face, walked out of the office. Oblansk had been waiting and led him to an estate on the city's outskirts.
The grounds had filled. Ministry officials, pureblood heads of family, journalists. A raised platform had been set up at the center of the lawn.
Tom walked onto it without hesitation and looked around. The noise in the crowd faded under that gaze as though someone had turned down the volume.
"I am glad to welcome Bulgaria's wizarding community back into our ranks."
"What I am not glad about," he continued, "is the fact that certain individuals have seen fit to use this occasion to conduct business they'd prefer kept in the dark."
A number of faces in the crowd went carefully expressionless. Heads dropped. Eyes widened.
He knows.
Tom raised his wand and pointed it at the Director of the Bulgarian Auror Office. A single precise spell. The man's arms dropped at his sides in a way that made clear they would not be lifting again, and his scream cut through the sudden silence.
Tom smiled at the sound.
"Well then. No point in pretending anymore. Shall we begin the next part of the evening?"
The ICW wizards made their decision in the same instant and reached for their wands. A signal flare climbed into the sky.
"Grindelwald! Your time ends here! This ground will be your grave!"
The next second, more than half the wizards on the estate aimed simultaneously at Tom and let loose. More Apparated in around the edges, adding their spells to the storm already in motion.
Oblansk stood in the middle of it, watching the avalanche of curses converge on "Grindelwald," his mind producing nothing useful at all.
What in the name of everything was happening?