— — — — — —

"Lockhart, are you sure this information is reliable?"

He wanted to go and see it for himself—he really, really did. But Voldemort had grown far more cautious these days.

It wasn’t that he suspected this was a trap laid specifically to lure him out by some ancient Greek wizard who had just been revived. That kind of guess was simply impossible.

Voldemort was simply afraid that stepping out might expose his location and draw both Tom and Dumbledore to him.

One of them, he could deal with—at least he could run. Two? Forget it. That was no longer a risk; it was outright gambling with his life.

So he had no choice but to be careful.

"My Lord... here’s what happened..."

With something this important, Lockhart didn’t dare make the call for him. He recounted everything he’d learned, plainly and in full, leaving the judgment to Voldemort.

... 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

The Temple of Cybele. Hippomenes. Atalanta. Golden Apples.

Voldemort paced the room, the hem of his black robes brushing the floor with a soft rasp. He repeated the names under his breath again and again, idly tapping his wand against his fingers. Little by little, he began to accept that the ruins were real. The connection between those four... it wasn’t the kind of thing someone could just make up.

Hippomenes was a hero from Greek mythology, said to be a descendant of Poseidon. His most famous tale was the race against the huntress Atalanta.

Whether by prophecy or by her own will, Atalanta refused to marry. She set a condition: any suitor must race her. Win, and he could marry her. Lose... and he would be executed.

Hippomenes fell for her beauty and courage, but knew he couldn’t beat her in speed. So he prayed to Aphrodite for help.

Moved by his plea, the goddess gave him three golden apples.

During the race, whenever Atalanta began to pull ahead, Hippomenes would drop one of the apples, distracting her. One, then two, then three—until he finally won, and claimed both victory and the bride.

But after his triumph, he forgot to offer thanks.

Offended, Aphrodite plotted her revenge. She lured the two into a moment of passion inside the temple of Cybele, the Great Mother of the Gods, defiling sacred ground.

As punishment, Cybele transformed them into lions, condemning them to pull her chariot for eternity.

That was the known myth.

So golden apples appearing in Cybele’s temple made perfect sense.

From the legacy of Herpo the Foul, Voldemort had inherited a vast store of knowledge, including a deep understanding of ancient Greece. More than most wizards, he believed the figures spoken of in these myths had once truly existed—and so, the story of the golden apples struck him as entirely plausible.

"Bella." Voldemort tilted his chin slightly. "Go with Lockhart. I want more information."

"Yes, my Lord."

Bellatrix immediately took Lockhart with her. Her methods of gathering information were far more... direct. Veritaserum, the Imperius Curse—nothing was off the table.

Then Lockhart would clean up afterward with a Memory Charm, neatly tying up loose ends.

Together, it formed a perfect loop.

Only after questioning more than a dozen wizards did Bellatrix finally return to report.

"My Lord, the information about the ruins is all true. As for whether the golden apples are really there, we still don’t know. So far, they’ve only broken into the first temple. It’s protected by powerful anti-intrusion magic, and there are signs of curses. Quite a few people have already been hit. Even Gringotts has slowed its progress."

"..."

"My Lord, let me go," Bellatrix said at once. "I’ll bring the golden apples back and present them to you."

Voldemort stared at her, eyes blazing with fervor, and almost snapped at her for being so recklessly overconfident.

In his view, Bellatrix was strong. Better than most Aurors at the Ministry, certainly. But still... just strong.

What gave her the nerve to think she could snatch the golden apples from under the noses of goblins and hundreds of wizards all watching that place?

A single round of Disarming Charms from a crowd would be enough to turn her into paste.

In the end, Voldemort decided to go himself. He couldn’t let this opportunity slip by. If the golden apples were real, then they would be his.

...

..

"Gellert, you’re really not coming to help me?"

Inside the study space, Andros looked at the rarely seen old wizard with a faint, teasing smile.

As Grindelwald began showing up in the study space again, Andros made no move to attack.

After all, fighting here wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it would be in the real world. He had already made preparations to give Grindelwald a proper welcome when they met—one he would never forget.

"..."

Faced with the clear unkind invitation, Grindelwald remained perfectly calm, sipping his black tea. "I’ll pass. Unlike you, my every move draws attention from the wizarding world. If I show up, Dumbledore will follow. Do you think Voldemort would still dare to appear then?"

"Then just beat my brother up," Ariana chimed in, clearly enjoying the chaos as she folded her arms and leaned in. "Voldemort can be dealt with anytime. But my brother’s getting old. If you miss this chance, who knows when you’ll get another one?"

Both men’s expressions twitched slightly, neither quite sure how to respond.

Grindelwald was the first to change the subject, his tone helpless but faintly indulgent. "Ariana, the tournament is about to start. How’s your preparation? Don’t take it lightly."

"What’s there to prepare?" she scoffed. "It’s just an underwater challenge. Learn a couple of spells and that’s enough."

"You can’t be careless." Grindelwald shook his head. "Tom has probably taught Greengrass all kinds of strange and unusual magic. It won’t be easy for you to beat her."

"After all, you represent me... and Durmstrang. If you lose too badly, Dumbledore might use that as an excuse to keep you at Hogwarts. And I won’t have a good reason to refuse."

After a mix of coaxing and subtle manipulation, Ariana finally felt a hint of urgency.

There was no way she wanted to stay here listening to her two brothers nag all day. She’d much rather go back to Durmstrang, where she could do as she pleased. In fact, within the territories controlled by the Acolytes, her words were law.

"I’ll go ask Sister Morgan for help. She must know some kind of dark spell that’ll let me win easily," Ariana said brightly, already turning and running off toward Morgan’s villa.

Once she had skipped away, full of energy, both Grindelwald and Andros let out a quiet sigh of relief, their shoulders loosening in unison.

They exchanged a glance. Grindelwald was the first to speak, a hint of provocation in his voice. "Andros, you’d better recover more of your strength while you can. Don’t trip over something trivial and end up needing me to clean up your mess."

Andros gave a thin, humorless smile. "You should worry about yourself. Lady Morgan is still waiting for that manor you promised to build—and the materials you were supposed to gather. If you don’t finish... that’ll be worse than me losing to Voldemort. No one’s saving you from that."

Grindelwald choked on his words.

Come to think of it... his situation was actually a lot worse than Andros’s.

.

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