Chapter 203: Sudden Attack
"Isn't it? Why—aren't these just Muggle fireworks?"
Fred looked utterly baffled.
"No… something's off. Completely off."
Russell's expression turned serious in an instant.
"You go find Sirius. I'll check it out."
Before anyone could react, he had already plunged into the crowd, heading straight toward where the fireworks were being launched.
The Trace on his wand had long since been removed, allowing him to cast spells freely outside. Of course, if anyone found out, the consequences would be far more severe.
The fireworks were being launched from near an abandoned printing factory—and they were still going.
Russell cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and slipped forward silently.
When he arrived, he discovered that the launch point was completely empty. Yet fireworks kept shooting into the sky from a strange, misshapen barrel.
He scanned the surroundings and quickly reached a conclusion.
This area had been placed under a Muggle-Repelling Charm. Otherwise, it would be impossible for it to be this deserted.
If no one was here… then where were they?
His gaze shifted toward the nearby abandoned factory.
There—several cloaked figures.
The building had been abandoned for years; no one should be there. And Muggles certainly wouldn't dress like that.
Then he saw what they were holding.
Wands.
Even so, Russell couldn't help but feel puzzled. Who were these people, and what were they planning?
After a moment's thought, he pulled a two-way mirror from his pocket.
Better to contact Albus Dumbledore first—play it safe.
But after several attempts, the mirror remained dark.
Just as his patience was about to run out, the surface suddenly flickered to life.
Unfortunately, the face that appeared wasn't Dumbledore's.
Instead, it was a black-haired young man—someone who looked oddly familiar.
"…Regulus Black?" Russell asked tentatively.
"How do you know my name? And Professor Dumbledore isn't here—what is it you need?"
Regulus looked startled.
He hadn't planned to answer. After all, it wasn't his mirror, and touching Dumbledore's belongings felt inappropriate. But it had been flashing insistently—surely it was urgent.
"I've run into something here," Russell said, glancing around and recognizing the background as Dumbledore's office.
"I'm near an abandoned printing factory close to the Black residence. A group of wizards has taken it over. I don't know what they're planning, but it definitely isn't anything good."
He quickly explained the situation.
"If Dumbledore returns, tell him to come immediately."
With that, Russell put the mirror away.
He decided to investigate on his own first.
Honestly—Dumbledore going out without even bringing the mirror. Unbelievable.
Muttering under his breath, Russell began searching for a more discreet path into the factory.
Before long, he found a narrow alley.
As Russell dashed into the alley, the sharp, familiar rhythm of boots struck the pavement behind him. Wednesday flicked her scarf onto a nearby clothesline and vaulted over the brick wall with effortless precision, like a black cat that had just spotted its prey.
"Why are you here?" Russell frowned, concern creeping into his voice.
Wednesday, however, looked almost eager. "I'm coming too."
Maybe it was because she'd spent too much time with him—but Russell couldn't help noticing she felt a little more… alive than before.
From the chimney of the abandoned printing factory, streams of colorful smoke drifted upward, blending seamlessly with the fireworks in the night sky.
Through the iron fence, Russell spotted three black-robed figures gathered around a bronze cauldron. The boiling liquid inside reflected a warped image of a Muggle man dressed in gaudy clothes—he looked like a street performer.
"What do you want with me, you lunatics?"
The performer's face had gone pale. He could tell now—this wasn't a trick. This was real magic.
In front of him, a wizard with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows embroidered on his collar raised his wand. Wild grass surged violently upward, binding the struggling performer and hoisting him into the air.
"They're brewing some kind of poison in that cauldron," Wednesday said calmly from behind.
Only then did Russell realize—her breathing hadn't changed at all.
Between her fingers, crumbs she'd brushed off Russell's coat floated in midair, rearranging themselves into words.
"Looks like they're planning to make him drink it."
"But why go through all this trouble?" Russell whispered close to her ear. "Wouldn't it be faster to just kill him with a spell?"
"And that symbol…" he added, narrowing his eyes. "It feels familiar. Like I've seen it somewhere before."
"You have," Wednesday replied evenly. "It belongs to the previous Dark Lord—Gellert Grindelwald."
As a descendant of the Addams family, she knew exactly what that symbol meant. Some members of her family had once followed Grindelwald—though not many, and most had abandoned him after his fall.
"Grindelwald… right. That's it," Russell murmured.
Before he could continue, a sharp metallic crack rang out from the factory's second floor.
They looked up.
A massive copper pipe extended from the rooftop chimney, and within it churned a blue flame—like Fiendfyre, yet strangely restrained, as if forcibly contained.
Then they saw her.
The elderly vendor who had earlier praised Wednesday's earrings.
Now, she stood inside the factory, lifting a Muggle's chin with the tip of her wand.
So she was a witch too.
The ancient printing presses groaned beneath the black-robed figures' feet. A lead letter "A" was jammed in a rusted gear, like a scream frozen in place.
The "old woman" tilted the Muggle's chin upward, but when she spoke, her voice carried the clarity of a young woman.
"How are the preparations on the Muggle side?"
A scar-faced wizard near the cauldron spat on the ground; the saliva hissed as it ate into the floor.
"You think combining Muggle gunpowder with Fiendfyre is easy? We've already reduced the delay error of this batch of fireworks to—"
"One second."
A blonde witch leaning against the copper pipe cut in smoothly. The silver ring on her gloved hand gleamed faintly.
"Enough to ensure all thirty-six anchor points detonate simultaneously when the Ministry arrives."
The old woman's wand flared with a cold blue light. In the performer's dilated pupils, the spinning symbol of the Deathly Hallows reflected like a nightmare.
"London. Paris. New York… every city will see fireworks like these."
Her withered fingers brushed the man's throat, and an ouroboros tattoo surfaced beneath his skin.
"When the Ministry's vermin are reduced to golden ash… our master will rise again—from the ruins of Nurmengard."
A metallic clatter suddenly echoed nearby.
Russell held his breath and pulled Wednesday deeper into the shadows.