[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 451 - 455

Chapter 451

The concept of the dream world was a revelation for Dumbledore. The wizarding world, despite its vast magical knowledge, had always treated dreams as peripheral—a realm explored mainly through curses and occasional divinations. The structured, transformative system Lockhart had built within the dream world was unprecedented, a combination of innovation and ambition rarely seen in magical history.

At first, Dumbledore thought the dream world was akin to memory magic, much like the Pensieve. Both allowed one to explore vivid, detailed scenes, though one was immutable, while the other was malleable and interactive. With proper preparation, even memories could be altered to resemble something like this dream construct.

But the dream world surpassed anything Dumbledore had encountered. Lockhart had manipulated not only the environment within the dream but also fundamental constructs like space and time. The demonstration of time acceleration—while only affecting consciousness—was particularly striking.

For wizards, the spirit was often considered more important than the body. If a wizard could accelerate their mental processes and achieve years of knowledge or training in hours, the implications were staggering. To Dumbledore, it hinted at a potential new avenue of extending life—an opportunity to maximize one's mental legacy even as the body aged.

For Dumbledore personally, the allure of longevity was tempered by his family’s heritage. The phoenix blood that coursed through the Dumbledore line already provided him with an extended lifespan. But he saw the potential this offered to others, particularly elderly wizards or those nearing the limits of their natural life.

Yet, as Dumbledore immersed himself in the dream world, a troubling realization surfaced.

His heightened senses—sharpened by decades of mastery over magic—detected the flow of the energy sustaining the dream world. The spiritual power coursing through the construct felt messy, fractured, and vast. It bore the unmistakable signature of a sea of fragmented human thoughts and emotions—residual mental power from the Muggles of London.

No wonder, Dumbledore thought grimly. No wonder Kamar-Taj focused its operations in London. No wonder they deployed large-scale magic across the city.

He turned to Lockhart, his tone measured but firm. "Lockhart, is the source of this dream world the spiritual power of Muggles in London?"

Lockhart met Dumbledore's gaze without hesitation, his expression calm. "Of course," he replied. "To sustain the dream world over time, a reliable and abundant energy source is necessary. The residual mental power of Muggles, which wizards cannot use and which holds no value for Muggles themselves, is perfect for this purpose."

Lockhart’s tone suggested that the matter was straightforward, even logical.

"The mental power we collect," he added, "is nothing more than waste—energy that would otherwise dissipate. Using it violates no laws, nor does it harm Muggles. In fact, it is a practical solution to a resource problem."

Fudge, who had been listening, nodded in agreement. "Dumbledore, I don't see the issue here," he said dismissively. "This so-called mental power is garbage. If we weren’t using it, it would be left to rot in the air, wouldn’t it?"

He chuckled. "Honestly, if we didn’t have this system, the Ministry would probably have to create a department just to deal with all this mental trash. Lockhart’s done us all a favor by turning it into something useful."

Dumbledore’s expression darkened. He was not as flippant about the implications. While he understood the argument that the mental power was essentially waste, the notion of Muggles being viewed as a resource set a dangerous precedent.

He thought of historical parallels—the colonization of the Age of Sail, where natural resources, and later human lives, were exploited under the guise of progress. If Muggles became seen as a valuable "resource," would they not also become commodities?

Fudge’s enthusiasm only deepened Dumbledore’s concern. The Minister of Magic, seeing the potential for prestige, exclaimed, "Lockhart, this dream world is a masterpiece! The Ministry of Magic should create its own version. We'll cover all the costs, and we’ll ensure Kamar-Taj is generously compensated for the expertise."

Lockhart remained composed, though a faint smile curled his lips. "Minister, that is an intriguing proposal. But the dream world is a delicate construct, and its expansion requires careful planning. Let us continue the tour, and we can discuss this further afterward."

Fudge nodded eagerly, his mind racing with possibilities. He imagined his name going down in history as the Minister who brought the dream world to the wizarding public—a monumental achievement.

Meanwhile, McGonagall, who had been silently observing, was torn. The educational benefits of the dream world were undeniable, but she couldn’t shake the unease that Dumbledore’s question had sparked.

Lockhart continued his explanation, outlining the practical applications of the dream world.

"Within the dream world, we can simulate combat scenarios, teach potion-making without wasting rare ingredients, and even enhance meditation practices. These tools allow for safer, more efficient learning while minimizing the costs and risks associated with traditional methods."

His words painted a picture of endless possibilities, yet Dumbledore’s unease only deepened.

Suddenly, Dumbledore’s voice broke through the conversation. "Lockhart, I suddenly thought of something very important," he said, his tone calm but insistent. "Do you have time to discuss it now?"

Chapter 452

The air grew tense as Dumbledore’s sudden interruption cut through the room.
Fudge's face turned dark, his mood souring visibly. No one liked being interrupted mid-conversation, least of all the Minister of Magic. It was an affront to his authority, and such a breach of decorum was rare. Ordinarily, not even the head of the Auror Office, Scrimgeour, would dare interrupt him unless the matter was of utmost urgency.

But this wasn’t just anyone.
It was Dumbledore.

Fudge fumed inwardly, suppressing his resentment. As much as he wanted to demand an explanation, he knew better. This was Albus Dumbledore, the man revered across the wizarding world as its moral compass and its most powerful defender. Resigned, Fudge stepped aside, his demeanor sour as he made room for the headmaster to engage with Lockhart.

Lockhart, for his part, maintained a façade of calm. Yet inwardly, he felt a flicker of unease. Dumbledore’s piercing gaze unsettled him, and his unexpected arrival felt ominous. Could Dumbledore have discovered his plans? The thought was absurd—wasn’t it? After all, his grand vision involved leveraging the dream world to recruit daring, capable wizards and to reshape magical society itself.

But just as Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, Lockhart preemptively raised his hand, a disarming smile on his face.
“Headmaster Dumbledore, please, one moment.”

He turned smoothly to Fudge, adopting a more formal tone. “Minister Fudge, on behalf of Kamar-Taj, I accept your request.”

With a graceful wave of his hand, a glowing green seed appeared, floating gently in the air before Fudge. Its luminescent light cast an eerie glow across the room.
“This,” Lockhart continued, “is the dream seed I’ve refined. With it, you’ll be able to cultivate your own dream world. For further details on its operation, you may consult Miss Carter.”

Carter, standing nearby, gave an understanding nod and approached Fudge.

Dumbledore, observing this exchange, glanced meaningfully at Professor McGonagall. Their shared look carried a silent understanding. Without hesitation, McGonagall followed Carter, stepping closer with a polite smile. “Ms. Carter,” she said lightly, “Hogwarts is also interested in exploring the potential of the dream world. I hope you don’t mind if I listen in.”

Carter hesitated, her gaze flickering briefly toward Lockhart. A slight nod from him reassured her, and she replied, “Of course, Professor McGonagall, I’d be happy to share.”

She raised her hand, summoning a blue, glowing dream seed, which she handed to McGonagall.
“This is a dream seed as well,” Carter explained. “When you’re ready, I’ll walk you through the cultivation process.”

While McGonagall busied herself with Carter, Lockhart refocused on Dumbledore. His expression turned lighthearted, as though they were merely old colleagues having a chat. “Headmaster, why don’t we step into my private dream space to continue this conversation?”

Dumbledore’s expression remained inscrutable as he nodded silently.

With a wave of his hand, Lockhart conjured an intense mental surge, and the room around them shimmered. Moments later, they found themselves in a cozy study. The space radiated warmth—a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere they had just left. A thick, polished wooden desk dominated the center, bookshelves lined the walls, and a crackling fireplace cast flickering light across the room.

The ambiance was serene, yet Dumbledore's sharp eyes noticed something peculiar. The study bore a striking resemblance to his own office at Hogwarts. The detail was unsettling, suggesting that Lockhart had thought deeply about stepping into his role someday.

Dumbledore shook the notion from his mind, focusing instead on the matter at hand.
“Lockhart,” he began, his voice heavy with gravitas, “there’s one thing I need clarity on. I won’t question the origins of the dream world, but I must know what your intentions are for its future.”

Lockhart feigned surprise, tilting his head quizzically.
“Why, Dumbledore, whatever do you mean?” he asked, his voice laced with innocence. “The dream world is a wondrous tool, immensely beneficial to wizards everywhere.”

But Dumbledore’s piercing gaze didn’t waver. It bore into Lockhart, as though trying to peel away his outer layers to uncover hidden truths.

Lockhart sighed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, you win. I’ll tell you my plans, but only if you share what’s troubling you so much.”

Dumbledore remained silent, his face a mask of calm.

Taking this as acquiescence, Lockhart began. “My plan for the dream world is still in its infancy. For now, its primary purpose is to help cultivate students’ potential.” He paused, as if weighing his next words.
“However, given its unique properties, I aim to expand its reach. My vision is to create a comprehensive platform that can include other wizards, fostering collaboration and innovation.”

He shrugged, a tinge of regret crossing his face. “Of course, this is merely an ideal. The dream seed’s inherent limitations make it nearly impossible to establish a global network. Even covering an area as small as Britain would be a monumental challenge.”

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. “So your solution is to scatter dream seeds widely and encourage others to cultivate their own dream worlds?”

Lockhart nodded, undeterred by the sharpness in Dumbledore’s tone. “Exactly. The dream world is a gift, Dumbledore. If shared across the wizarding community, it could yield untold benefits.”

Dumbledore fell silent, his mind racing. His vast experience as a wizard allowed him to analyze situations from angles others often missed, and this was no exception. One after another, Lockhart’s innovations flashed through his thoughts—secret spaces, meditation techniques, advanced runes, combined casting methods, and now the dream world.

Each was groundbreaking, yet together they painted a picture that was both awe-inspiring and deeply concerning.

After a moment, Dumbledore spoke, his voice grave. “Lockhart, I won’t speculate about ulterior motives. But the dream world’s energy source—the mental power of Muggles—is deeply troubling.”

Lockhart’s confident demeanor faltered ever so slightly.

“This connection,” Dumbledore continued, “creates a direct dependency between wizards and Muggles—a relationship that has never existed before. Historically, Muggles and wizards lived separate lives, with only a handful of magical awakenings bridging the gap. But the dream world changes that dynamic completely.”

Dumbledore’s tone hardened, his words cutting through the air like a blade. “By tying the dream world’s existence to Muggle consciousness, you’ve introduced a dangerous imbalance. It risks evolving into a system of exploitation, with Muggles becoming unwitting slaves to wizarding ambition.”

The weight of Dumbledore’s words hung heavy in the room. Lockhart, for all his wit, couldn’t deny the truth behind them. Inwardly, he acknowledged his oversight. He had been so focused on squeezing every ounce of potential from the wizarding world that he had barely spared a thought for the implications for Muggles.

Still, he dismissed the concern with a mental shrug. This wasn’t the Marvel Universe, where he might have had to consider the moral complexities of Muggle-wizard relations. Here, he was a wizard first and foremost, and Muggles simply weren’t his priority.

After all, power belonged to those who wielded it.

Chapter 453

"Wizard Apprentice Daniel Fox, your trial in magical combat is complete. This time, your score is 32 points."
A calm, mechanical voice resonated through the dream world.

"Suggestion: Leverage your strengths. Melee combat is fighting, spellwork is fighting, and even potions can be a means of fighting. It’s not your fault if you lack magical knowledge, but it’s sheer foolishness to let yourself be deceived!"

As the fiery red orb of light burst into fragments, Daniel Fox materialized back into the dream world’s staging area. Bella’s dispassionate commentary still echoed in his ears.

A faint blush crept onto Fox’s face. He replayed his earlier failure in his mind, an embarrassing spectacle that felt like a scene from a slapstick fairy tale. Those azure-blue elves had seemed so innocent at first, almost like characters from bedtime stories. Cute and friendly, or so he had thought.

His plan had been simple: approach them politely, introduce himself, and gather information. Initially, they’d responded warmly, their demeanor welcoming and amicable. But before he could get far, their behavior had taken a sudden and violent turn.

They’d yanked him by his ears, lifted him high into the sky, and then unceremoniously hurled him to his doom.

Fox winced at the memory and instinctively touched his ear. The phantom pain lingered, a reminder of the humiliating ordeal. For the first time, he had experienced the mortifying sensation of being grabbed by the ears and tossed around like a rag doll. It wasn’t just painful—it was outright humiliating.

"Excuse me," he ventured hesitantly, snapping out of his reverie. "Can you tell me my current ranking? Am I at least in the top 2,000?"

Bella, the dream world’s overseer, responded with her trademark calmness, her delicate face betraying no emotion. "Apologies, Daniel Fox, but the rankings are highly dynamic due to the number of participants. A precise ranking cannot be provided until the assessment is complete. However, I recommend attempting other trials to improve your overall score."

The disappointment was evident on Fox’s face. He sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he began scanning the available trials, deliberating over his next choice.

Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he turned back to Bella with an inquisitive expression. "Hey, I just realized—I don’t even know your name. What should I call you? And are you a wizard from Kamar-Taj as well?"

Bella’s lips curled into a polite smile, though her expression remained unnervingly composed. "Of course, I am Kamar-Taj’s most prized asset," she replied smoothly. "You may call me Bella. The dream world is my domain, and I am its spirit."

Her words gave Fox pause. The implications sank in, and his expression shifted into one of vague understanding mixed with mild disappointment.
Wait, did she just say she isn’t human?

Somehow, this realization left him feeling a strange sense of regret. Bella was undeniably beautiful, with a serene elegance that had captivated him. But now, knowing she wasn’t human, his interest faltered.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bella’s polite smile grew colder, a flicker of disdain flashing briefly in her eyes.
Another hopeless case, she thought to herself. Pathetic.

"Mr. Daniel Fox," she interjected, her tone brisk, "may I ask which dream trial you wish to attempt next?"

Fox jolted back to attention, her sharp tone cutting through his wandering thoughts. He quickly pointed to a glowing green orb hovering nearby. "I’ll try the magical creatures trial next. Yes, magical creatures."

Bella nodded wordlessly and waved her hand. In an instant, Fox disappeared from the staging area, leaving Bella alone.

As the dream spirit stood there, her serene façade faded. Her expression grew dull, almost lifeless, as she simultaneously processed the data of thousands of other participants—ordinary Muggles dabbling in the dream world’s wonders. Despite her immense mental capacity, courtesy of the dream world’s power, Bella despised inefficiency. To her, wasted effort was a shameful flaw. Maximizing productivity was an instinct woven into her very being.

Meanwhile, at the Ministry of Magic, inside the ornate and spacious office of the Minister, Cornelius Fudge sat at his desk, his expression as commanding as he could muster. Opposite him stood Dolores Umbridge, her ever-present pink coat and saccharine smile masking her cunning nature.

"Umbridge," Fudge began, his tone heavy with importance, "I have a task for you."

Umbridge’s eyes widened in eager anticipation. "Of course, Minister. How can I assist you?"

"I need you to identify a Muggle-populated area covering at least 100 square kilometers with a minimum population of one million," Fudge said, his voice deliberate and firm. "The more people, the better. The higher the population density, the better."

Fudge leaned forward slightly, fixing Umbridge with a penetrating gaze. "Find such a place, and you’ll be handsomely rewarded."

Umbridge blinked in surprise, but her ingrained Ministry instincts kicked in. One of the unwritten rules of climbing the Ministry’s ranks was absolute compliance, no matter how outlandish the request. And Umbridge had long mastered the art of obedience.

"Rest assured, Minister," she replied with a sugary smile, "I will scour all of Britain to locate the most suitable location for your needs. It will meet every requirement you’ve outlined."

Her obsequious grin deepened, and Fudge nodded, clearly pleased. For all the talent among the Ministry’s ranks, few matched Umbridge’s unflinching loyalty. While others might boast skill or ambition, Umbridge’s unwavering servility made her invaluable.

Before she could leave, Fudge added one more instruction. "Oh, and Umbridge, avoid London."

Though puzzled by the peculiar restriction, she didn’t question it. With a quick nod and an emphatic assurance, she departed, visions of promotions and accolades dancing in her mind.

Once alone, Fudge retrieved his wand and waved it in the air. A shimmering blue dream seed materialized before him, its ethereal glow casting a surreal light across his office.

Fudge stared at the seed, his eyes alight with obsession and a glimmer of fanaticism.

Ms. Carter’s words echoed in his mind: dream seeds required significant mental power to cultivate, but once nurtured, they grew into fully realized dream worlds. Beyond their practical uses for practice and combat, a dream world’s existence amplified the power of its master. Even the smallest dream world could double a wizard’s combat abilities.

To Fudge, this meant one thing: potential liberation from the precariousness of his political position. The wizarding world revered strength above all else, and for all his authority as Minister, Fudge knew his magical prowess left much to be desired.

The mere thought of the Dark Lord had once filled him with dread. He feared the day his title would no longer shield him, leaving him vulnerable to obscurity, threats, or even a quiet, ignoble death.

But with the dream world, everything could change.

Gripping the dream seed tightly, Fudge entertained a wild, almost audacious idea. If he could cultivate a dream world of his own, harness its power, and rise above his limitations, perhaps his position could remain unchallenged. Perhaps he could rule indefinitely—or ensure his successors would always be under his control.

Chapter 454

Boom!
Boom!

"Damn Grindelwald lackeys, go to hell!"
"Kill them!"
"Avada Kedavra!"

Magic lit up the battlefield in a flurry of bright, deadly streaks. The saints or better known as Grindelwald Alliance and their enemies exchanged spells with murderous intent blazing in their eyes. Corpses littered the ground, bodies torn asunder, and severed limbs scattered amidst pools of blood. The acrid stench of death hung heavy in the air.

Yet, neither side flinched. Their faces betrayed no hint of fear or revulsion—only fanaticism and an insatiable thirst for violence.

This was America—or, more specifically, the hidden war raging within the American Wizarding World.

Grindelwald had set his sights on the Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) after successfully seizing Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To him, there was no point in half-measures. With Ilvermorny under his control, allowing MACUSA to remain standing would be nothing short of negligence.

Moreover, Grindelwald harbored a personal grudge against this land. It was here that he had first tasted defeat—thanks to the meddling of Newt Scamander and the intervention of MACUSA. The sting of that failure had never left him, and the time for retribution had finally arrived.

With MACUSA at its weakest, Grindelwald seized the opportunity. Through meticulous planning and ruthless execution, he had brought the American wizarding world to its knees. Victory was within reach.

The only obstacle now was the elusive resistance. These American wizards, like cunning rats, hid in the shadows, striking out with guerrilla tactics and ambushes. Even now, a skirmish raged in the streets, spells flying and bodies falling.

But Grindelwald was not on the battlefield.

He stood before a massive gray stone structure—the headquarters of the Wizards Bank Association of America. The imposing edifice bore intricate carvings of magical creatures and wizards, its heavy doors a testament to both craftsmanship and secrecy.

Grindelwald’s sharp eyes scanned the ornate entrance, a contemplative look on his face. He had been briefed on the peculiar decline of the American wizarding world after his self-imposed imprisonment. To his astonishment, the cause of this decline wasn’t infighting or external threats.

No, the culprits were goblins.

These diminutive creatures, long regarded as little more than servants, had gained an outsized influence over the American wizarding economy. Without casting a single spell, they had manipulated commerce and capital to such an extent that they wielded undeniable control.

The absurdity of it all made Grindelwald’s lips curl in disdain.

"Sir, shall we proceed?"

The question came from an elderly saint standing at his side, his expression one of simmering rage. His gaze burned with hatred as he stared at the bank’s entrance, as if willing it to crumble under his glare.

American wizards were an embarrassment, but the goblins? They were worse.

"No matter how fierce the battles between wizards, it remains a matter for wizards to resolve," the saint muttered. "But these creatures—these former slaves—have no place meddling in our affairs."

Grindelwald raised his wand, his expression impassive. With a swift, decisive motion, he unleashed a wave of fierce blue flames. The magical fire roared to life, encircling the bank's headquarters and cutting off any escape routes.

The saints watched the rising flames with barely contained excitement. For many, this display brought back memories of the day Grindelwald had first summoned them, promising a glorious future. Now, the same flames symbolized the dawn of a new era.

Grindelwald’s voice cut through the crackling fire. "Kill every last one of them. Spare no goblin."

The saints cheered in unison, their faces alight with zeal. "Spare no goblin!"

With a flick of his wand, Grindelwald sent the blue fire hurtling toward the bank’s entrance. The flames collided with a shimmering, pale golden shield that sprang into existence, blocking the attack.

Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed. The goblins had prepared defenses.

He raised his wand again, conjuring a storm of razor-sharp cyan blades that hovered in the air. At his command, the blades rained down upon the golden barrier, each strike sending ripples across its surface.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The relentless assault took its toll. Cracks spidered across the shield, growing wider with each passing second until, with a resounding crash, the barrier shattered into golden shards.

The saints surged forward, their chants echoing in unison: "Spare no goblin!"

The massive stone doors creaked open, revealing the darkened interior of the Wizards Bank Association. The saints charged in, their wands raised and ready to strike.

But their momentum was short-lived.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Gunfire erupted from the shadows, and the saints recoiled as a hail of bullets struck them. Cries of pain and alarm filled the air.

Grindelwald stepped forward, his face a mask of cold fury. His sharp eyes quickly identified the source of the attack—goblins wielding modified weapons. Magic guns.

The sight was both enraging and insulting. Goblins, creatures who should have been subservient, now stood defiantly with weapons designed to pierce even the strongest of magical shields.

Grindelwald’s anger burned hot, but he forced himself to remain composed. "Avada Kedavra!" he roared, his wand emitting deadly green light.

The spell found its mark, striking down one goblin after another. The saints, emboldened by his example, followed suit. The room filled with the sounds of curses and screams as the goblins fell under the relentless assault.

When the last goblin collapsed, silence descended. The saints looked to Grindelwald with reverence, their awe for their leader renewed.

Grindelwald, however, was not satisfied. His sharp senses told him something was amiss.

He stepped deeper into the building, his wand raised. The silence was oppressive, the stillness unnatural. No signs of life stirred in the vast halls.

His frown deepened as realization dawned.

The goblins had fled.

Chapter 455

Boom!

Grindelwald stepped out of the shattered remains of the Wizarding Bank of America, his expression cold and impassive. Behind him, the massive building crumbled into dust, disintegrating under the force of his unleashed magic. The once-imposing structure was now nothing but a pile of rubble, the air thick with dust and the acrid stench of destruction.

The saints, standing nearby, lowered their heads in a mixture of fear and reverence. None dared meet Grindelwald’s icy gaze. Their expressions were grim, seething with anger and resentment.

"Damn goblins!" one muttered under his breath, his tone venomous.

"Not just the goblins," another hissed. "Those spineless wizards who allowed themselves to be controlled by them—they’re the true disgrace!"

The saints were staunch believers in wizard supremacy. To them, wizards were the pinnacle of existence, standing above all other beings—Muggles, magical creatures, and even the very laws of nature. Wizards were gods, and anything threatening that divine status was an abomination to be eradicated.

For the saints, the idea of wizards submitting to goblins was the ultimate betrayal. To use goblins as cannon fodder in battles against other wizards? That was sacrilege, a stain on the honor of wizardkind.

Grindelwald’s face remained stoic, but his mind raced. The events of the day had given him much to consider. The goblins’ rebellion was unexpected and troubling. He had long anticipated that the wizarding world would face challenges from within, but he had underestimated the goblins’ capacity for subversion.

Their use of magic-enhanced firearms—deadly weapons combining goblin ingenuity with Muggle technology—was proof of their alliance with Muggles. This alliance posed a new and unique threat, one Grindelwald hadn’t foreseen.

For years, Grindelwald had prided himself on his ability to glimpse the future, to predict and manipulate the course of events. But today’s encounter had shaken that confidence. The goblins had somehow obscured themselves from his visions, their growing influence hidden from his sight.

This was no coincidence.

Grindelwald’s sharp mind worked through the implications. The goblins had developed a means to shield themselves from prophetic insights, a power strong enough to evade even his far-reaching abilities. That alone made them a formidable threat.

Still, Grindelwald found himself oddly exhilarated. The wizarding world was becoming more unpredictable, more challenging. In the past, only Dumbledore had managed to block Grindelwald’s glimpses of the future, using Hogwarts’ protective enchantments. Now, others were emerging—Rohart, the goblins, and perhaps more to come.

“The world is growing more interesting,” Grindelwald murmured to himself, his lips curling into a faint, almost predatory smile.

At a temporary base of the Wizards Bank Association of America, chaos reigned. Goblins hurried back and forth, their movements frantic.

“Chenos, Chenos!” Nass, a short goblin in an impeccable suit, waved his ornate staff as he called out to the vice president of MACUSA. “Grindelwald has attacked! Do you understand what this means? Look at what you’ve caused!”

Chenos, a lean wizard with a sharp jawline and piercing eyes, sighed and raised a hand to calm the agitated goblin. “Nass, please. Who could have predicted Grindelwald would come here? And as for Ilvermorny, you know how isolated that school is. Even your kind hasn’t been able to infiltrate it effectively.”

Nass’s face flushed with anger, his chest heaving as he struggled to suppress his fury. Goblins had suffered heavy losses in the attack, and their headquarters had been reduced to rubble. Yet, Nass knew better than to let his rage sever ties with Chenos. The wizard, for all his flaws, was a crucial ally.

“Fine,” Nass muttered begrudgingly. “But don’t forget, Chenos, it was our resources that put you in power. Without us, you wouldn’t have climbed so high in MACUSA.”

Chenos gave a tight-lipped smile, his tone conciliatory. “And I haven’t forgotten, Nass. Grindelwald’s rampage is a temporary setback. Once this is over, I’ll ensure the Magical Congress grants your banks exclusive privileges across America. Tax exemptions, legal protections—you name it, it’s yours.”

Nass’s eyes gleamed at the mention of profits. Despite his earlier anger, the goblin couldn’t resist the allure of Galleons.

“Very well,” Nass said, his tone cooling. “But remember, we expect results.”

Chenos nodded, his mind already racing with plans to consolidate his power. As the son of a Muggle politician, he understood the delicate dance between influence and ambition. Grindelwald’s attack, though devastating, presented an opportunity.

With the current president of MACUSA gravely injured, Chenos was poised to ascend to the top. All he needed was the continued support of the goblins and a few strategic alliances.

“Don’t worry, Nass,” Chenos said smoothly. “Grindelwald won’t go unchecked for long. Dumbledore is still alive, and he won’t allow Grindelwald to wreak havoc in America. Once Dumbledore steps in, Grindelwald’s days will be numbered. And when I become president…”

Chenos’s voice grew impassioned, his words carrying the weight of a promise. “America will dominate both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Together, we’ll build a nation that surpasses even Britain in magical supremacy.”

Nass nodded, satisfied for the moment. But behind his sharp eyes, the goblin’s mind continued to calculate. Chenos was useful now, but if the tides turned, Nass wouldn’t hesitate to betray him for the right price.

On the battlefield, chaos erupted as MACUSA’s forces clashed with Grindelwald’s saints. Spells filled the air—blinding flashes of light and explosions of sound as curses and counter-curses met in a deadly dance.

“Expelliarmus!”
“Avada Kedavra!”

The saints, bolstered by their combat experience and dark magic, initially held the upper hand. Their coordinated attacks cut through MACUSA’s ranks with brutal efficiency.

But then, a new force entered the fray.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Gunfire echoed across the battlefield. Goblins armed with magic guns emerged from the shadows, their weapons spitting enchanted bullets that tore through wizards’ defenses.

Bodies began to fall, blood pooling on the ground as the battlefield descended into chaos. The saints, caught off guard by the goblins’ ambush, were quickly overwhelmed. What had been a decisive victory turned into a devastating loss.

The surviving wizards from MACUSA stared in shock at the goblins. For centuries, goblins had been seen as little more than servile creatures, restricted from using wands and largely dismissed as non-threatening. But now, armed with powerful weapons, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Falzan, a muscular goblin clad in crimson robes, stepped forward, his voice booming. “By order of Vice President Chenos, we are here to aid in resisting Grindelwald’s dark forces!”

The MACUSA wizards exchanged uncertain glances. Chenos’s name was well-known, and his reputation lent credibility to the goblins’ claim. Still, the sight of goblins wielding such power was deeply unsettling.

One wizard stepped forward cautiously. “What’s the situation at MACUSA? How are the president and vice president holding up? And how far has Grindelwald progressed?”

Falzan’s expression darkened, and his voice turned sharp. “I don’t have all the answers, wizard. If you want details, come with us to the temporary base and speak with Vice President Chenos directly.”

The wizard hesitated but ultimately nodded. Together, the group used Apparition to leave the battlefield, heading toward the base.

At Ilvermorny, Grindelwald sat in the headmaster’s chair, his gaze cold and piercing. Across from him stood Philo, a loyal saint, his posture stiff with anxiety.

“Philo,” Grindelwald said, his tone deceptively calm. “Why have so many saints fallen in just three days?”

Philo swallowed hard, his voice hurried. “Sir, we’ve investigated. The resistance from MACUSA is part of it, but the real problem is the goblins. They’ve allied with Muggles, using weapons called gun—enhanced with magic, no less.”

Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Philo pressed on, his voice trembling. “Don’t worry, sir. Given time, we’ll hunt down every last one of those goblins and deal with them.”