HP:BSG - Chapter 708: The Dark Lord and The Dark Lord

“Mr. Weasley.” Fudge’s voice sounded as if someone were squeezing his throat. He grabbed Percy’s sleeve and said in a hurried whisper:

“Draft the paperwork the moment we get back—use the most formal format—propose that Dumbledore take over as Minister… Quickly… I’m calling an emergency meeting tonight…”

Percy’s glasses slid down to the tip of his nose with a click. His wide eyes looked like those of an owl stretching its neck. His mouth opened and closed, but all that came out were a few short, breathy sounds of “Uh… ah…”

Fudge shot an impatient look at his slow-reacting subordinate and urged, “Get moving, Weasley! Go write the first draft right now—don’t delay Dumbledore’s appointment as Minister!”

While everyone assumed that the suffocating pressure in the air came from the slandered Dumbledore, the headmaster himself showed no intention of explaining anything.

His eyes passed over the crowd and fell on an inconspicuous corner—on the “middle-aged wizard” whose hair stirred even without wind. Dumbledore’s brows tightened ever so slightly and his mouth pressed into a straight line.

At that moment, the “middle-aged wizard” suddenly turned his head, and their gazes met for a brief instant.

Crack!

Centered around that spot in the stands, the surrounding seats split with radiating fractures. The vines hanging on the armrests appeared to be sliced by invisible blades and drifted down like falling snowflakes.

The crowd grew even quieter. Those who had mocked Dumbledore’s strength or ridiculed him as a crazy old man all lowered their heads, suddenly meeker than quail.

On the screen, the perspective lurched—

Voldemort tossed the badge to a Death Eater. The man fumbled to catch it, nearly exposing his face to the camera, and even after steadying himself, he was still visibly panicked.

Of course, since they were masked, the people around him didn’t see his expression—only heard his suddenly rapid breathing.

Voldemort sneered:

“Dumbledore, you went so far as to intervene personally, just to make everyone—myself included—believe that this little boy was born to defeat me.”

“But now, here and now, I will kill him in front of everyone! Then you will all see how laughable the idea of him defeating me really is!”

“Of course, I’ll give him a chance. I’ll let him duel me fairly. That way none of you will doubt who is truly stronger.”

Upon hearing that Voldemort intended to kill Harry Potter, the audience’s terror, worry, and fury reached their peak. Only Grindelwald’s anger dissipated—he even found it absurd.

“So this is… the ‘Dark Lord,’ huh…”

He tilted his head slightly. The curve at his lips was not a smile, but a lofty pity—and a very obvious disgust.

“Facing the entire wizarding world, forcing a fourteen-year-old boy into a ‘fair duel’?” Delaine said with a frown of revulsion. “How does someone like that… deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as you?”

Ever since Voldemort called himself the “Dark Lord,” many people claimed that Grindelwald was actually the first Dark Lord, and Voldemort the second generation.

Having a younger man who came after him “bestow” a new title upon him—that was the first humiliation.

But being compared side-by-side with someone so foolish and childish—that was an even deeper humiliation.

Yet this time, Grindelwald was not angry. He only gave a cold laugh and said, “I’ve met plenty of idiots, but one stupid in such… creative ways? That’s a first.”

Antoine laughed. “I seriously suspect he must’ve lost his mind somewhere in those countless resurrections. Otherwise, how else could he do something so stupid?”

After pausing for a moment, he glanced at the boy in the corner of the screen and added, “But… little Wade isn’t going to be terrified, is he? He’s such a tiny little thing right now.”

He gestured a height of less than half a meter.

“Don’t worry,” Delaine said. “No one would dare harm an outstanding alchemist—much less a genius who can create magic dolls out of nothing. Even someone as brainless as Voldemort wouldn’t be foolish enough to do that.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Antoine muttered. “Just look at what he’s done so far—can you truly guarantee he won’t suddenly do something stupid?”

Delaine: “…”

He really did not dare claim he could predict Voldemort’s actions—just like a few minutes earlier, he would never have imagined Voldemort would challenge Harry Potter to a public duel.

When the Boy Who Lived fell into Voldemort’s hands, Delaine thought the Death Eaters would cruelly torture him on camera, then execute him publicly to utterly intimidate ordinary people and crush any will to resist.

Or worse, Voldemort might humiliate the boy to indirectly humiliate Dumbledore—force Harry Potter to kneel and beg for mercy, swear loyalty, and thereby shatter the hopes people placed on him. Delaine despised such a tactic, but at least he could understand it.

But in the end… a duel?

Setting aside the consequences of losing—even if he won… what good would it do?

The boy was only fourteen; he had a vast future ahead of him.

Even if Voldemort killed him right after the duel, the courage, resilience, and determination the child would show in combat would deeply inspire every single viewer who witnessed it.

He would become a banner, a symbol that would never fall, driving all who felt discontent to rise up in waves.

A hint of disdain appeared in Delaine's eyes. He couldn’t comprehend the stupidity of this so-called “Dark Lord” on the screen. Clearly, such considerations should have been…

His thoughts paused.

Would the me from over a year ago have considered any of this obvious?

No.

He could think this way now only because he had read Muggle books, and because of the endless letters exchanged with Wade Grey.

Two years ago, he could see only two possible futures:

One was the task right in front of him, the one he had to complete step by step.

The other was the ideal world he believed the Alliance would build—Grindelwald’s world.

As for the blank space between those two points—how it was supposed to be filled—he had never thought about it. He simply believed that once Mr. Grindelwald walked out of Nurmengard, everything else would naturally fall into place.

Back then, was he really any smarter than Voldemort was now?

Delaine’s gaze rested on the little boy in the camera, and he couldn’t speak for a long time.

Just as Delaine fell silent, Grindelwald suddenly spoke.

“Do not worry, Antoine.”

The corners of his lips lifted slightly, a playful glint flashing in his eyes.

“Being able to re-experience magic from the very beginning—that is quite a rare opportunity for him.”

“Besides, although his body has returned to a youthful state, the essence of his soul hasn’t changed. The magic he learned, the spells he mastered—they still lie dormant in that small body.”

“When he finally makes his move, he’ll definitely astonish everyone!”

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