"Curse you, Gellert. Curse you."
Albus Dumbledore paced the length of his study in a remote cottage, the floorboards groaning under his restless steps as if they, too, felt the immense burden he carried. He had been here for a few days, abandoning Hogwarts to its own devices, a fact that, he knew, was slowly eating away at Minerva's sanity.
He imagined her thin lips pressed into a single, disapproving line, her frustration a palpable force even from a distance. But he couldn't return. Not when his focus was singular, obsessive, and all-consuming, the Hallows the only thing on his mind at the moment.
Shelves lined with books of forgotten lore and scraps of parchment, meticulously labeled and cross-referenced, bore witness to his growing desperation. He had come here for solitude, to think without the constant weight of Hogwarts pressing down on him, to hunt for any and all information.
At this point, he was looking for mere breadcrumbs, a single clue to a secret he had been chasing for a lifetime. But the headlines that morning had shattered any chance of peace.
GRINDELWALD ESCAPES NURMENGARD.
Dumbledore had known, always known that his old lover was capable of escape. The wards, the bindings were deterrents, not impossibilities. But Gellert had given up. The man had lost the will to fight the world, had let his ambition crumble into dust with the decay of his prison. He had seemed so resigned in their last meeting, so much a ghost of his former self. Or so Dumbledore had believed.
Yet here they were.
"Why now?" Albus muttered aloud, his blue eyes flashing as he turned toward the window. Was it because of their last conversation? Had his careless visit, his pretense of concern, rekindled an old ambition? He doubted it.
Gellert was not a man easily stirred without purpose, and his purpose had always been singular, to bring forth the magical age and rule, to make the magical stand above the muggles, and to conquer death. So he knew that this decision of his was not a whim.
His thoughts scattered as a sharp tapping broke the silence. An owl, a grey bird, waited at the window, a letter tied neatly to its leg. Dumbledore's frown deepened. He took the parchment, the paper cool beneath his fingertips, already guessing the sender. The bold, angular handwriting confirmed it.
Gellert Grindelwald.
The letter was bold and Blunt. An invitation to meet, with a promise, if Dumbledore brought the Hallows with him, Grindelwald would swear a binding oath to reveal all he knew of them.
Dumbledore scoffed aloud, a hollow, bitter sound, though his hand trembled slightly as he set the letter down on his desk. Did Gellert truly think him a fool? He knew the man's cunning, his silver tongue.
Yet the longer he read, the clearer the reality became. Gellert knew. He had guessed, or discovered, that Albus held all three Hallows. The subtle, casual mention of "all three," the quiet assurance that only he could understand their true nature, that knowledge was why he had escaped.
That was the purpose, he knew that all the hallows were with him and wanted them.
Normally, Albus would have ignored such arrogance, a desperate ploy from a desperate man. But as he flexed his cursed hand, a fresh lance of agony shooting up his arm, his expression twisted into a pained grimace.
The rot was spreading faster now, the darkness creeping up past his wrist, a cold, hungry corruption that ate away at him, and his magic could do nothing to halt it.
He had days, perhaps less than a week, before death claimed him.
He could not die yet. Not when Britain still needed him. Not when his work, the glorious, singular work of securing the country's future, remained unfinished. He couldn't afford to lose with Voldemort still alive, he had to be there to save Britain and guide them to a better future.
He had to live, and if that meant making a deal with the devil… then so be it.
Albus Dumbledore grimaced in cold, selfish need. The pain of the curse and the threat of Voldemort were his priorities, and he would do anything to make sure he survived to see the world freed from the man's shadow.
"I have no choice," he whispered, the words a confession to the empty room.
He dipped his quill, the scratching of ink sharp in the quiet room, and wrote his reply. He would meet Grindelwald. He would hear what he had to say. He would find a way to live. The owl took flight into the night, carrying with it both hope and doom.
Iceland Mage Association HQ
The long, polished council table was a silent stage, holding a dozen terrified men in expensive robes. The air in the grand chamber was thick with anticipation, the quiet hum of ambient magic punctuated by the nervous shifts and throat-clearing of the mages.
Sigurd sat stiffly, his hands clasped so tightly they were white at the knuckles, the weight of his duty a physical burden on his shoulders. He had expected this moment ever since a knight of the Copper-Black Cross appeared at their gates a week ago, sniffing around for secrets best left buried. And now it was confirmed.
The 6th Campione had come in person.
The heavy oak door to the grand chamber swung open with a slow, grinding creak. From the shadows stepped a man who seemed to defy the world's very laws.
Lord Salvatore is a young, handsome man in his mid-20s with a well-built body, spiky short blonde hair, and dark blue eyes. He's seen to wear an unbuttoned blue shirt, grey pants, and sunglasses. He also wears a necklace around his neck.
At his side, Andrea Rivera, his ever-faithful butler, adjusted his gloves with quiet composure. The air grew thick, humming with the casual, overwhelming power of a godslayer, a force that seemed to press down on every object and person in the room.
It was an oppressive force, like a force of nature that simply was, without care for the delicate things it crushed underfoot. The very atmosphere changed, growing heavier, charged with a vibrant, joyous energy.
"Lord Salvatore," Sigurd said carefully, bowing his head just enough to show respect without appearing subservient. "It is an honor to welcome you."
The Italian King smiled, bright and boyish, but the glint in his sharp, piercing blue eyes made the older mage's blood run cold.
Salvatore Doni was known across the world as reckless, whimsical, a man who treated life like a stage for his amusement. And when a Campione found something amusing, people died, whether by choice or accident.
"Enough pleasantries," Doni's voice was pleasant, almost singsong. "You know why I'm here."
Sigurd swallowed, the sound like sandpaper in his dry throat. Of course he did. The Tyrant King wanted the name of the Seventh Campione. Under ordinary circumstances, Sigurd would not have hesitated.
But the Seventh had made his wishes painfully clear. Do not speak my name. The boy-king had said it without threat, but with a power behind those words so absolute that none dared test it. Even Sigurd, hardened by years of duty, had bowed to that will. He had seen what happened to those who dared cross a campione.
"I… I'm afraid we cannot, my lord," he said at last, the words a betrayal of his own instincts. His voice cracked despite his efforts to keep it steady.
The world shifted.
Air pressed down like molten lead, a silent, crushing display of power. Sigurd gasped as his knees buckled, his vision tunneling, the world becoming a pinprick of light.
Around him, mages collapsed in heaps, choking as though the very atmosphere had been replaced by a viscous, suffocating gel.
The weight of a godslayer's displeasure was felt all around them, clear for all. It was real. Some tried to act, but spells fizzled on the tips of their tongues. They were being intimidated, crushed by the very will of one man. It felt like his soul itself was being crushed.
Salvatore's smile was gone. His eyes were sharp, cold.
"You would dare to refuse me?"
Sigurd clawed at the table, lungs screaming, the world around him a dizzying blur of pain.
"Stop… please!"
The voice came from Evelyn McAlister, stepping forward, his own face pale but determined.
"Oh?" Doni tilted his head, a flicker of amusement returning to his eyes, like a cat watching a mouse stand up to it. "And why should I?"
"Because I will tell you what you want to know," Evelyn said hoarsely, his body trembling with the effort of standing upright.
"Evelyn!" Sigurd choked. To side with one Campione over another was suicide, and Evelyn, a clever man, should already know this. Getting in between two godslayers was asking to be killed.
"Our king instructed me," Evelyn continued, forcing steadiness into his voice. "He cannot meet you now. He is… occupied. But he has heard your demand for a duel. And he accepts. Once his matters are resolved, he will fight you."
The silence stretched taut. The air thrummed with a new kind of tension. Then….
Then Doni laughed, loud and joyous, a sound of pure, unadulterated delight. The crushing weight vanished instantly, leaving the chamber gasping, some weeping, others simply slumped in relief.
"Busy, is he? Who does he think he is, to make me wait?" Doni grinned, all teeth.
"He is a Campione," Evelyn answered simply, his gaze steady.
Andrea Rivera's eyes flickered with faint surprise. He stepped forward, his expression still calm, but a hint of warning in his tone. "My lord, the Seventh's power is no small matter, as he had proven with his 3 kills of heretic gods. Is it not better to wait for him to finish his busy to better enjoy the fight without his distraction."
Andrea knew his king well, he knew how to get him to agree.
Doni only waved a hand dismissively. "Fine, it doesn't matter much anyway. I have fought with my youngest brother, Andrea, and he is a brute. But this Seventh intrigues me. I believe this duel will be a most entertaining affair."
He turned back to Evelyn and the remaining mages, his smile a perfect, radiant thing.
"Tell him this," Doni said, his voice now a low, dangerous purr. "No more than one week will I wait. After that, I will come myself."
He paused at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder.
"And his name?"
The chamber held its breath. Evelyn's jaw tightened, but he spoke.
"Harry. Harry Potter."
Andrea's eyes widened—recognition flashing across his face—before he schooled his features. "My lord, the Boy-Who-Lived? The one who defeated Voldemort as a child?"
Doni only laughed again, a sound of pure delight, and strode out without another word.
The moment the door closed, the entire Association slumped in relief. Some wept. Others simply collapsed, as though they had stared into death itself and lived. Sigurd dragged himself upright, turning to Evelyn with something between fury and gratitude. "What did you do?"
Evelyn raised a weary hand, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I spoke with the young king when we received word of Lord Salvatore's arrival. He permitted me to share his name... once I explained the stakes."
Sigurd exhaled shakily. Thank the gods. But even the relief felt hollow. The brutal, casual display of power had reminded them all why Campiones were feared.
He sighed and looked at the doorway, the Tyrant King would not wait long. And soon, two Godslayers would clash.
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