Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 624 622: Attack

"I knew this would happen."

Marcus leaned against the carriage, holding a newspaper, and said, "The Ministry of Magic is in a panic—the criminal hasn't been caught—relaxation—the dark wizard is at large—bringing shame to the country—who wrote this? Ah—it was her, of course—Rita Stear.

Hermione and Justin both turned their gazes toward Sheehan; they had known for a long time that Rita was Sheehan's woman.

Sheen silently turned his gaze to the scenery outside the carriage.

He forgot to remind Rita.

"I think I understand."

Justin chuckled softly, his voice immediately swallowed by the endless sound of the wheat fields surrounding the farm.

The carriage bumped along the last stretch of dirt road, and Marcus, holding the reins in one hand, handed a folded copy of the Daily Prophet to the three children with the other.

The front page of the newspaper featured fireworks displaying at the World Cup stadium, but in a corner there was a striking text message: "The Ministry of Magic is still investigating the Dark Mark found near the camp."

"Look at these," Marcus's voice wasn't loud, but it had a calming quality that made people quiet down. "Those guys at the Ministry of Magic can't keep this news hidden anymore. Now everyone knows Voldemort is back."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Sheehan's eyes, and then straightened his face, making himself appear much more serious. "During the World Cup, all the Aurors were deployed to the periphery of the stadium, and the whole world is focused on Quidditch."

This is when trouble is about to happen. Remember, the more exciting the situation, the more vigilant you need to be.

Hermione took the newspaper and began to read it carefully, her brows furrowing slightly.

Justin was about to say something when Sheehan suddenly looked up at the end of the wheat fields outside the car window.

He didn't speak, but his gaze suddenly changed.

Marcus followed the little wizard's gaze but saw nothing.

But his intuition, honed over forty years as an Auror, suddenly pierced his spine like a cold needle.

Without hesitation, he drew his wand and appeared before the three of them.

"Hold on tight. We need to go to the cellar now to get the key and get into the safe house. Right now."

Almost simultaneously, a swirling black mist rose from the wheat field in the southeast corner of the farm, like ink poured into clear water, silently and swiftly encroaching towards the carriage.

Voldemort emerged from the black mist, staggering, his left arm hanging limply, his black robes soaked in blood.

He bore the scorch marks of flames, and a deep, bone-revealing wound on his chest was still oozing blood—Dumbledore's mark.

Less than a quarter of an hour ago, he had used a decoy to fool those azure eyes under the cover of a group of Death Eaters, paying the price of this wound that almost split his chest open to get here.

The wound reopened, but he didn't care.

His scarlet vertical pupils were fixed on the carriage, on the farm.

Hehe—it's truly mesmerizing—he's finally found this place.

Did Dumbledore think he could cultivate a Merlin? A legendary wizard with a heart as weak as his own, yet with considerable talent, on whom everyone placed high hopes?

Heh heh—then he'd kill Dumbledore's hope, the weakling he believed would surpass all wizards in the wheat field, before Dumbledore arrived.

Ah—the great Voldemort has once again defeated the greatest of this century—the White Wizard.

He raised his wand.

However, a blue light shone from deep within the wheat fields.

An old but upright figure emerged from the wheat fields.

Grindelwald wore a well-tailored dark gray coat, his silver hair was neatly combed, and he didn't even hold a wand until he saw Voldemort. Only then did he casually pull an elder wand from his coat pocket with his right hand, the tip of the wand pointing towards the ground, like an old man taking a walk with a cane.

But his eyes betrayed him.

Those eyes burned with a cold light, a mixture of contempt and expectation—the eyes of Gellert Grindelwald, the eyes that once made the entire European wizarding world tremble.

"Tom,"

Grindelwald spoke, his tone as if addressing a disobedient junior, "You're early. I wasn't planning on making a move tonight."

Voldemort's pupils contracted violently.

He outmaneuvered Dumbledore, the Aurors' plans, and even the perfect cover of the World Cup, but he didn't foresee Grindelwald.

Why would an old man who has been imprisoned in Newmontard for decades end up next to an unassuming English farm?

"Get out of the way, Grindelwald!"

Voldemort's voice was hoarse and shrill, and his scarlet eyes darted around. "Dumbledore sent you?"

You've got one thing wrong.

Grindelwald walked slowly forward, each step firm and steady, the wheat stalks bowing silently to either side as he passed. "I'm not here because anyone made me. I'm here because I chose to stand here."

He stopped thirty feet in front of Voldemort, tilted his head slightly, and a barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips: "It's funny, Tom. The most fundamental difference between you and me is something you still haven't figured out."

"I have no interest in listening to you—Avada—"

The ghastly green death curse tore through the air and headed straight for Grindelwald's face, moving so fast that from a distance it could only be seen as a blurry green streak.

Grindelwald did not dodge, nor did he even swing his wand dramatically.

He simply flicked the tip of his staff upwards, and a wall of earth suddenly rose from the ground beneath his feet, which then turned into a cloud of dust the instant the Death Curse struck the earthen wall.

The power of the Death Curse was dispersed and dissolved by the soil, leaving only a few wisps of green light flickering unwillingly in the dust.

Before the smoke and dust had cleared, Voldemort's second attack had already begun.

Seven or eight black beams shot out simultaneously from different angles; they were twisted black magic, each powerful enough to slice the wizard in two.

Grindelwald moved, his figure transforming into a bolt of lightning above the wheat field. His movement was completely beyond the scope of ordinary apparition; it was as if the space beneath his feet itself was responding to him.

The black light pierced through the afterimage he left behind, cleanly slicing through a large field of wheat behind him, while he himself appeared to Voldemort's side and rear, pointing his wand.

A silent spell.

The ground beneath Voldemort's feet instantly turned into quicksand, while at the same time, the flames above condensed into a scorching fire dragon that pressed down from above.

This is Grindelwald's fighting style. He doesn't pursue deadly curses that kill in one blow. He prefers to weave polymorphism and dark magic into a unified whole, forcing the enemy to deal with crises coming from all directions at the same time, revealing their weaknesses under endless pressure.

But Voldemort was so enraged he laughed: "A worthless, abandoned piece of trash, dares to try and stop the great Lord Voldemort?!"

The moment his body sank, he transformed into black smoke and soared into the air. With a backhand motion, a raging fire transformed into the form of a giant python, opening its burning maw to swallow Grindelwald.

Wherever the fiery python passed, wheat fields turned to scorched earth, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of burning.

Grindelwald finally revealed a genuine smile as he faced the oncoming fiery behemoth.

He gripped his wand with both hands, holding it horizontally in front of him, the tip pressing down—the Fiery Serpent stopped abruptly just before it was about to devour him, as if it had crashed into an invisible wall.

Immediately, an invisible spell spread upwards along the outline of the Fiendfyre, and the flames burning with dark magic were transformed into blue flames, turning from Voldemort's incantation into Grindelwald's weapon.

"Fiercefire is a very useful thing."

Grindelwald seemed to be commenting on a younger colleague, "But your technique is too crude."

The blue flames surged back, forcing Voldemort to once again transform into black smoke to dodge.

But his injuries held him back—the wound Dumbledore had inflicted had widened further with the exertion, and blood splattered onto the scorched wheat field.

His movements were a beat too slow, and his left shoulder was grazed by the blue flames. The burning pain made him let out a suppressed roar.

Voldemort turned around abruptly, a look of seriousness appearing in his crimson eyes for the first time.

He realized he had made a mistake.

He shouldn't have challenged Grindelwald, who had been recuperating for who knows how long, while he was still recovering from serious injuries, especially not on the battlefield that the opponent had chosen.

But the great Voldemort never backs down.

He raised his wand with one hand, the tip of which glowed green, and the Killing Curse was fired at Grindelwald in quick succession.

Grindelwald used Polymorph to continuously thwart Voldemort's attacks, while also using Fiendfyre to burn the snakes Voldemort had conjured.

Dodge or counter the opponent's magic, then attack.

This is how wizards fight. It sounds simple, but when this kind of confrontation can happen dozens of times in a second, it becomes difficult to even see the movements of the fighters.

"Is this all you've got?! Grindelwald?!"

Voldemort roared.

Dark magic slashed Grindelwald's cheek, leaving a warm liquid.

"You're just a homeless beast, Tom. You should get out of here unless you want to die—heh heh."

Grindelwald wiped the blood from his cheek and looked at Voldemort with a hint of pity.

He was already kneeling on one knee, using his wand to support himself on the ground, panting heavily.

Grindelwald stood still, his wand hanging down to the ground again.

"Albus made a good choice in selecting that boy."

Grindelwald slowly approached, looking down at Voldemort kneeling on the ground. His voice held no victor's arrogance, only a calm judgment: "He saw something greater, something you can never understand, because you lost it the moment you tore your own soul apart."

"And you protected him—Grindelwald—"

Voldemort raised his head, blood and foam at the corner of his mouth, his smile twisted in a grimace. "You're nothing but Dumbledore's dog."

Grindelwald remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he laughed, a laugh that contained an emotion Voldemort couldn't understand.

"You're wrong, Tom. I didn't do this for Albus."

Grindelwald said, "I owe the world something. As for what that is, someone who can't even face death will never understand."

He raised his wand, and the tip of the wand glowed blue.

At that very moment, a crisp explosion came from afar—the sound of Apparition tearing through space.

At the same time, a person appeared in the center of the battlefield.

He held up a magic wand, his face terrifying.

His face looked as if it had been carved from a piece of rotten wood, and the sculptor only had a vague idea of ​​what a human face should look like, and was not very skilled at using the carving knife.

Every inch of skin on his face seemed to be scarred, his mouth looked like a crooked gaping mouth, and the part of his nose that should have been prominent was missing.

What's most terrifying about this man is his eyes.

One of his eyes was small, black, and sparkling; the other eye was large, round like a coin, and a bright, vivid blue.

The blue eye kept moving without blinking, turning up, down, left, and right, completely unrelated to the normal eye. Then, the blue eyeball rolled over and went into the person's head, leaving only a large white eyeball visible.

"I've been looking for you for so long!"

Moody said that the tip of the wand suddenly emitted a green light.

Grindelwald paused, the tip of his raised staff tilted slightly, and a flash of blue light disappeared—Voldemort's body was violently thrown away by an invisible force, crashing into the depths of a wheat field dozens of meters away.

When Justin and Hermione finally managed to peek out from under Marcus's arms and through the gaps in the carriage, the silver-haired wizard was all that remained in the wheat field.

He stood with his hands behind his back amidst the scorched earth and ashes, looking up at the direction where someone had once again appeared in a phantom form. His silver hair was blown by the night wind, and his back view was as lonely as a mountain peak.

Voldemort disappeared.

Moody went after him.

It's unclear whether Voldemort escaped or was deliberately let go by Grindelwald.

At the edge of the night sky, in the direction Grindelwald was looking, a figure appeared.

Dumbledore has arrived.

He's gone.

Dumbledore said.

"It will be difficult to catch him; I've been in prison for so long."

Grindelwald looked up and said.

Dumbledore looked at him, his light blue eyes flashing with a complex light.

"Is that what you think?"

He asked softly.

"What? What are you saying? I can't hear you, Albus. I have to go. That child is back, and I still have to teach him. Being a teacher isn't easy. Unlike you, I haven't been a principal for so long."

Grindelwald disappeared from the spot, muttering something to himself, expressionless.

Dumbledore was left behind, gazing thoughtfully into the distance.

"What just happened?"

Hermione carefully removed her head from Marcus's grasp and spoke cautiously.

"An attack by a dark wizard was just a regular occurrence in the past."

Marcus held his wand casually, but he was actually sweating profusely.

The fight between those two just now was no simple matter.

"Get ready, kids."

Marcus seemed to be sighing, "If I'm not mistaken, this kind of thing will only happen more and more often, and perhaps you will be in the same situation as we were back then. History is cyclical."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione asked cautiously.

"Mr. Marcus means they chose to expose themselves. So what was their purpose? Just for an attack? Voldemort once had many Death Eaters, and those Death Eaters now know—"

Justin looked at Sheehan, the young wizard sitting quietly in the carriage. "He's back."