The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 543-552: The Prelude to Destruction 8

The person who came could not possibly be an Auror.

It couldn't possibly be the Ministry of Magic conducting a room check to see if Voldemort was skirting the law.

The Death Eaters simply had something to report.

"Um?"

Voldemort's movements suddenly stopped.

A flicker of annoyance at being disturbed flashed in his crimson eyes, but more so a cold, sharp intensity. He knew that his servants would never dare to bother him at this time unless it was something extremely important.

"Come in."

Voldemort hissed, his voice echoing through the chamber. The stone door slid open a crack, and Axley's face, pale with tension, peeked in.

He saw Voldemort standing beside the unfinished magic circle that was already emanating an ominous aura, and the surrounding "materials" that were unsettling just to look at.

The Death Eater's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly lowered his head, his voice trembling with awe and urgency.

"Master! I'm so sorry to bother you! But... I have urgent information!"

He concealed his fear.

"Speak," Voldemort said, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Our people... just spotted the target at a Muggle night market near the Black Monk Bridge! That young, dark-haired wizard is the one who saved Jorgins this afternoon!"

Yaxley spoke rapidly, "And...and he's not alone!"

He seemed to be trying to take credit.

Voldemort's pupils contracted slightly: "Oh? Who's he with?"

Yaxley took a deep breath, seemingly trying to calm himself, and appeared to find it hard to believe: "It's...it's Albus Dumbledore! And...there's an old man with silver hair, our people aren't entirely sure, but from the description, it looks a lot like...Gellert Grindelwald!" Not everyone in this era has forgotten Grindelwald.

silence.

Only the faint sound of the flickering flame of the eternal lamp and the murmur emanating from the unfinished magic circle remained in the secret chamber, along with its almost inaudible, low, hallucinatory hum.

"Um?"

Voldemort stood there, motionless. The muscles on the pale snake's face seemed to twitch slightly. A few seconds later, he slowly and extremely slowly turned around.

Yaxley is facing the entrance.

In those eerie, scarlet eyes, the displeasure of being disturbed and the cold focus while drawing the magic circle were instantly replaced by a more intense, more frenzied excitement, a mixture of extreme surprise, indescribable joy, and... a ecstatic elation as if fate had sent its greatest prey into the net! "Dumbledore... and Grindelwald?" Voldemort's voice rang out again, no longer a gentle hiss, but with an uncontrollable, twisted excitement. "So that's it, so that's it, those two... with that 'Raven'... together? At the Muggle Night Market?" It was unclear what Voldemort had figured out.

"Yes, yes, Master! Our men have confirmed it several times! They're sitting in front of a food stall, seemingly talking!" Yaxley quickly replied. He could sense that the aura emanating from his master was changing rapidly; it was a pure, dark pleasure that chilled him to the bone, even more so than anger.

"Haha...hahahaha!"

Voldemort suddenly threw his head back and burst into an even louder, sharper, and more piercing laugh! The laugh was filled with absolute smugness, an all-powerful confidence, and a cruel pleasure at the prospect of reaping everything!

"Good! Good! Good! Good!"

He exclaimed "Good!" four times in a row, his voice slightly distorted with excitement, "It's truly... destiny is on my side! They've taken them all! Saves me the trouble of searching for them one by one!"

An incredibly domineering declaration poured out of Voldemort's mouth.

Confidence is fierce.

Outside the secret chamber, the core Death Eaters, who had been uneasy because of their master's unusual "peacefulness," suddenly felt a faint sense of relief amidst their extreme fear upon hearing that familiar, signature laugh filled with dark pleasure and cruelty. Yes, that's it.

This is the master they know.

That dark lord, forever filled with ambition, cruelty, and an absolute desire for control.

Whatever his previous "abnormal" behavior, now, the dark overlord they both feared and relied on seemed to have returned. And with an even stronger confidence and... a chilling hunting desire.

Voldemort stopped his grotesque laughter, a cold flame burning in his crimson eyes. He no longer looked at the unfinished magic circle on the ground, nor did he pay any attention to the precious materials.

Compared to the upcoming once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that could solve Dumbledore, that troublesome "Raven," and possibly even Grindelwald, all at once.

The drawing of the magic circle can be postponed for now.

"Gather the men." Voldemort's voice returned to its soft hiss, but the killing intent and excitement within it were palpable. "All those near London who can arrive immediately. Not too many, but elite. Prepare a grand 'welcome ceremony' for our old friend."

He walked towards the door.

His steps quickened slightly with excitement, and the hem of his black robe swept across the eerie silver-gray lines on the ground, creating a faint, ominous ripple of energy.

"Lead the way," he said to Yaxley, a cold, sinister smile spreading across his face. "Let's go...to meet our 'guests'."

A quiet standoff in a corner of the night market.

It is about to be shattered by the deepest and most fervent darkness.

And the protagonists.

Perhaps we don't know for sure yet.

Southeast London, the Death Eaters' underground lair.

A repressive yet frenzied restlessness filled the air. The confusion and unease that had arisen from Voldemort's "abnormal" calm had now been replaced by a more familiar, more chilling dark passion.

The master's signature cruel and gleeful laugh was like cold water poured into boiling oil, instantly igniting the most primal desire for power and conquest in the hearts of all the Death Eaters present.

Of course, there is also that deep-seated, bone-deep fear of obeying the master's will.

"Swish swish~"

Outside the Stone Throne Hall, in the dimly lit corridors and side passages, figures moved about. Soft pops of apparitions rose and fell, like Death Eaters receiving an urgent summons from all over London and even neighboring counties.

Most of them wore uniform black cloaks and silver or bone masks that concealed their faces, revealing only pairs of eyes that gleamed with excitement, ferocity, or numbness.

The low murmur of conversation, the clatter of wands being examined, and the scraping of metal or leather blended together to create a buzzing background sound, like a pack of wolves sharpening their claws in the darkness before pouncing on their prey.

Yaxley, like a highly efficient commander, moved through the gathered crowd, his voice low and stern: "The master has ordered that the target is the Muggle Night Market near the Blackfriars Bridge. Three people! Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and a young wizard of unknown identity—extremely dangerous!" "Everyone, check your equipment. Illusion Charm, Anti-Tracking Charm, and Silent Barrier—get them ready! This isn't an attack, it's a hunt! Move fast, accurately, and ruthlessly! Don't let any of them escape, especially that young one!" Yaxley's voice was unwavering and resolute. "Grindelwald? How come he's with Dumbledore?" a Death Eater couldn't help but exclaim in a low voice.

"Shut up! The master's will is everything! All you need to know is that tonight we're going to take care of these three biggest problems all at once!" Yaxley shouted sharply, his eyes flashing with ferocity beneath his mask. "Remember, that young man may possess unimaginable power. Don't underestimate him! The master will personally deal with the most troublesome one. Our mission is to block, restrain, and prevent escape, and... eliminate any Muggles that might get in the way!" "For the master's glory!" someone growled.

"For the future of purebloods!" More people responded, their voices suppressed yet filled with a bloodthirsty stench. Bellatrix Lestrange stood at the front of the crowd, her curly black hair slightly disheveled, her eyes burning with a morbid excitement. She licked her lips, her wand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from extreme euphoria.

"Dumbledore... finally... finally I can tear that eternally gentle facade off his face with my own hands!" she murmured, her voice hoarse. Lucius Malfoy stood a little further away, his face appearing even paler in the dim light. He quickly examined his cane, which was inlaid with a snake's head.

He straightened his collar, his movements as elegant as ever, but his tightly pursed lips and slightly constricted pupils betrayed his extreme tension. A direct confrontation with Dumbledore and Grindelwald? And that unknown "Raven"? This was far more dangerous than he had anticipated. But he had no other choice.

"That's how it should be!"

Barty Crouch Jr. appeared unusually calm, even somewhat boredly wiping his wand, though deep in his eyes gleamed anticipation for the impending "chaos" and the "opportunity to serve his master."

As the shadowy figure appeared, more and more Death Eaters gathered, and the dark power continued to accumulate and ferment in this underground space, like a volcano about to erupt.

just now.

The Death Eaters were poised to strike.

Just waiting for their master's command, this torrent of fanaticism, cruelty, and fear will burst forth from the ground and rush towards the seemingly peaceful Muggle night market.

But at this moment, the atmosphere in the night market is completely different.

At a food stall in a secluded corner, the dim light bulb swayed slightly in the night breeze, casting flickering shadows on three faces. The distant hustle and bustle of the night market seemed to be separated by an invisible membrane, leaving only the sizzling sound of pancakes on the griddle and the occasional, indistinct voices of ordinary people. The conversation continued at the plastic table.

After a brief self-introduction, Ian Prince turned his attention directly to Grindelwald. His gaze calmly fell on the silver-haired, heterochromatic-eyed old man opposite him, his tone carrying a clear inquisitiveness: "So, Mr. Grindelwald, you've gone to such lengths to come all this way, even using…some special methods, to find me. It couldn't be just to discuss parole terms or family lineage with me in this night market, could it?" He paused, and before Grindelwald could answer, he posed a second, perhaps more crucial, question:

"Also, the mysterious man in black robes that Jorkins encountered—the one who left clues in his mind, guiding him to a specific location during times of crisis. Do you... know who he is? Or do you have any leads?" This question made Dumbledore, who had been listening attentively with a gentle demeanor, instantly sharpen his azure eyes.

He kept a close eye on Grindelwald.

The existence of the man in black robes is also part of the mystery. His purpose and identity may be subtly related to the appearance of the "Raven" and even to Grindelwald's prophecy.

Faced with Ian's direct and sharp questioning, and Dumbledore's scrutinizing gaze, Grindelwald's strange smile didn't disappear; instead, it deepened. He didn't immediately answer the question about the man in black, but leaned back slightly, maintaining an elegant posture despite the simple plastic stool having no backrest.

Magic is such a wondrous and convenient thing. Grindelwald didn't answer immediately; his heterochromatic pupils seemed to shimmer with an even deeper luster in the dim light.

He glanced at Dumbledore, as if to say, "See, he hit the nail on the head," before refocusing his gaze on Ian. "A very direct question, Ian... Mr. Prince," Grindelwald began slowly, his voice hoarse and magnetic. "About that man in black... I know perhaps no more than you do from Jorgins' memories. A vague shadow, a prophetic warning, a subtle and long-lasting hint. The method was sophisticated, the purpose... seemingly to protect, or rather, 'guide' Jorgins to a place that might change his destiny."

Nobody knows if this is true.

"You don't know either?"

Ian was suspicious.

Grindelwald nodded.

He paused, then abruptly changed the subject, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto Ian's, his tone carrying a peculiar, almost mentor-testing-student quality:

"However, before we discuss why I don't know, Mr. Ian, may I ask you a question? A question about... the 'prophecy' itself."

This question was somewhat unexpected. Dumbledore frowned slightly, not understanding why Grindelwald had suddenly steered the conversation toward prophecy. Ian, however, remained expressionless, simply looking calmly at Grindelwald, gesturing for him to continue.

"You know."

Grindelwald lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret, "The principle of prophecy? What are those so-called 'prophet's' 'seeings' of the future based on? Is it a fixed, unchangeable trajectory of fate? Or merely... one of the more probable possibilities among countless others?"

"Or perhaps... the observer's own consciousness resonates with some higher-dimensional 'sea of ​​information,' capturing fragmented and distorted images?"

His question was profound and obscure, touching upon the most fundamental debates surrounding the philosophy of magic and the nature of fate. Even with Dumbledore's vast knowledge, he would have given this question considerable thought. However, Ian—this mysterious young man—showed no confusion or pensiveness upon hearing it.

He remained silent for a moment, as if recalling something or organizing his thoughts.

Then, in a calm yet clear tone, he slowly said, "Fate, if it exists, is not a single, straight track." Ian's voice was not loud, but it had a strange penetrating power, as if he were stating an objective fact, "It is more like a... a dynamically changing 'field' or network' woven from countless possibilities, causal relationships, individual choices, and random variables."

Ian spoke fluently and confidently.

He picked up a slightly cold French fry, but didn't eat it. Instead, he gently swished it across the greasy tabletop, as if sketching some abstract pattern.