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On the journey back.
Grindelwald fell utterly silent, not uttering a single word, and triggered the Portkey with a firm press on Ian's shoulder— he'd seen many oddities in his long life, yet it seed he still had much to learn.
It wasn't even that deep a grudge!
How could soone simply go and disturb another's ancestral resting place? As the Portkey humd to life, the brooding Grindelwald, tangled in his own emotions, and the ever-animated Ian vanished into the stillness of the wild countryside.
It was that sa sensation of hurtling along on an unseen broomstick, the pair tugged by so invisible enchantnt, the scenery whipping past like glimpses through a Pensieve's swirling mories.
As the strange journey slowly faded, they landed back in the cozy warmth of the office, far from the chill and dampness of the tangled forest, with only the faint aroma of Earl Grey lingering in the air.
"What exactly are you up to?" Grindelwald couldn't resist asking once they were back at Hogwarts. He even noticed that Ian's basket had been chard with an Undetectable Extension Charm and a Feather-Light Charm to ease its burden.
Even so, Ian still grumbled that it felt heavy, a sign of just how many bones of the fallen innocents were stuffed inside.
"Of course, to stop Voldemort from getting his grubby hands on them soday." Ian's true aim wasn't quite this, but he had indeed paid a visit to the nearby crumbling village.
The village had long been abandoned.
Yet the graveyard from centuries past still stood. Since old Tom's tomb was proving tricky to locate, Ian showed his impartiality there, treating all graves alike with no favoritism.
There was a reason he'd kept Grindelwald waiting for nearly an hour.
After all, wielding magic to play the part of a tomb tamperer was frightfully efficient— enough to put even the most seasoned Knockturn Alley relic-hunters out of business in a heartbeat.
If it weren't for so graves being barricaded with heaps of stones or sealed with heavy lids during the [Bone Reanimation], Ian wouldn't have needed to bother with tools like spades and pickaxes to aid the task.
"The bone of the father, unwillingly taken, will revive your son, the flesh of the servant, freely offered, will restore your master, the blood of the foe, forcibly seized, will raise your enemy…" Grindelwald muttered under his breath, his gaze on Ian still tinged with an odd mix of suspicion and awe.
"It seems you've pored over that to 'Secrets of the Darkest Art'. Even a ritual that finicky is one you're set on thwarting. Our Dark Lord's rotten luck to cross wands with you— his whole lineage is jinxed." At that mont, Grindelwald privately vowed that after his death, he'd have others bury him deep.
Sowhere no one could find him.
Hmm.
Having a descendant tied by blood might indeed matter. He began to mull over whether he ought to be kinder to Aurora and ensure she never let slip the location of his and Dumbledore's shared resting place to Ian— after all, this little mischief-maker's heart was darker than a moonless night, and who knew if the quiet of the afterlife might be shattered by his ddling.
"Please, both of you, keep the enemy at bay for ."
Just picturing such a scene— his and Dumbledore's remains slowly clawing their way out of the earth— sent a shiver down Grindelwald's spine and made his vision swim.
'Why in rlin's na did I ever lend Secrets of the Darkest Art to this brat?'
The inner turmoil twisted Grindelwald's face into a grimace.
"What's the matter, Professor?" Ian eagerly voiced his concern, his curiosity piqued. "By all rights, you ought to care more about this than I do. You've even glimpsed the whereabouts of the Resurrection Stone ring with your own eyes. For things that might spell trouble down the line, shouldn't you be able to foresee them well in advance?"
If there's one subject Ian's never truly tackled, it's Divination. Though he once play-acted as a Seer for a laugh, since arriving at Hogwarts, he hasn't earned so much as a nod from the examiners in that field.
"That's because the Resurrection Stone ring ties to our Headmaster. Even the sharpest Seer can't unravel the full tapestry of fate. The more you strain to peek, the more you're tangled in destiny's web." Grindelwald shook his head and strode to the basin to wash up. He seed to have a touch of fussiness about cleanliness.
"I've always told you, Ian, Divination carries a toll. The more you glimpse, the steeper the price, and it's not just a matter of willingly paying to lift the veil." The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor offered Ian an earnest caution about the perils of peering into the future.
Ian mulled it over, brow furrowed.
"I recall Professor Sybill Trelawney spouts dozens of predictions daily. Most are bullshit, but every so often, she hits the mark spot-on."
"In The Wizarding World's Shadows: The Riddle of You-Know-Who, it even says she foretold the downfall of You-Know-Who. A prophecy like that surely shakes the wizarding world to its core, doesn't it?"
"Yet I see Professor Trelawney still tucking into her treacle tart, not so much as a twisted ankle, and last week she nicked my cauldron cake from the house-elves kitchen." Ian aired his bewildernt. Details on Seers were scarce in Hogwarts' library.
Even the Restricted Section held little— mostly the ramblings of various authors, with books contradicting each other left and right.
They're an enigmatic lot.
Second only to the shadowy Departnt of Mysteries in their secrecy.
"You've certainly dipped your quill in every inkpot." Grindelwald shot Ian an approving glance, scrubbing his hands thrice with a cloth. He sidestepped Ian's question, musing instead. "Our Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, has made Hogwarts a haven. It's a kindness and nobility I could never muster. That's why he's a great man, and I'm cut from a different cloth."
"Greatness isn't just a polite nod— it's a mantle of glory. It holds power. A great man's shield can ward off calamity and spare others certain costs."
"A half-giant with a shady past, a turncoat Death Eater, a jittery old Squib, and , a puffed-up fraud." Grindelwald swept his hands from head to toe, plainly branding himself the charlatan he's posing as— Gilderoy Lockhart.
"That wandering Divination dabbler's no different. They all shelter under Albus's wing, their fates bent in so way by it."
"Recall that question you posed earlier? That's also why a Seer needs a great man's hand to bring forth a prophecy that wasn't there before."
Grindelwald's words sparked a flicker of understanding in Ian.
Still.
The wisdom from this towering figure pressed on. "Mind you, even with a great man's shield, relentless Divination like Trelawney's isn't free. Her sight and mind have long been tethered to the brink, never stretching further. That's fate's reprimand for her ddling."
"And she'll never clock it herself." Grindelwald's words dripped with deep, reflective weight. He hadn't been at Hogwarts long, yet he'd already sussed out his colleagues with keen insight.
"That mightn't be so grim, though?"
In Grindelwald's tone, Ian sensed more of Dumbledore's quiet heft.
(To Be Continued…)
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