Hogwarts: Even Voldemort Can't Stop Me From Studying

Chapter 858: Chapter 229: Dark Wizard and Dark Wizard

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

”Go back and draft the document at once—use the most formal format, propose that Dumbledore assume the post of Minister... be quick... I’m convening an emergency session tonight...”

Percy’s glasses slipped down to the bridge of his nose with a snap, his wide eyes like an owl craning its neck. His mouth opened and closed, but all that came out were a few short, breathy ”uh... ah...” sounds.

Fudge shot his slow‑witted subordinate a dissatisfied look and urged, ”Get moving, Weatherby! Go write up the first draft right now, don’t delay Minister Dumbledore’s taking office!”

When everyone thought that suffocating sense of oppression came from the wronged Dumbledore, the Headmaster showed no intention of explaining.

His gaze passed over the crowd and landed in an inconspicuous corner, on a ”middle‑aged Wizard” whose hair stirred without wind. His brows knit almost imperceptibly, and his lips pressed into a straight line.

Just then, the ”middle‑aged Wizard” suddenly turned his head. Their eyes met for a brief instant.

”Crack!”

Up on the stands, centered on a certain section, a corona of radiating cracks appeared in the surrounding seats. The vines hanging from the armrests were severed as if by invisible blades and fluttered down like snowflakes.

The crowd grew even quieter. Some who had once belittled Dumbledore’s strength, mocking him as a senile madman, all bowed their heads, looking more docile than quail.

The viewpoint in the screen suddenly spun head over heels—

Voldemort tossed the badge to a Death Eater. The man fumbled to catch it, almost letting the camera catch his face, and he still looked panic‑stricken when he found his footing.

Of course, with his face covered, those around him couldn’t see his expression. They only heard his breathing suddenly turn sharp and fast.

Voldemort sneered:

”Dumbledore, you personally step onto the stage, all so that everyone—including me—will believe this little boy was born to defeat me.”

”But now, here and now, I am going to kill him in front of everyone! Then you’ll all see just how laughable the idea that he’ll defeat me really is!”

”Naturally, I’ll give him a chance, let him fight me fairly, so that none of you will doubt who is truly stronger.”

At Voldemort’s declaration that he would kill Harry Potter, the audience’s terror, anxiety, and rage almost peaked—only Grindelwald’s anger evaporated, and he even found the whole thing absurd.

”So this is... the ’Dark Lord’, hm...”

He tilted his head slightly. The curl at the corner of his mouth was not a smile but a lofty pity, along with a very obvious disgust.

”Forcing a fourteen‑year‑old boy into a ’fair duel’ in front of the Wizards of the entire world?” Delaine said with a frown of revulsion. ”A man like this... how does he deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as you?”

Ever since Voldemort had styled himself ”Dark Lord,” many had said that Grindelwald was in fact the first Dark Lord, and Voldemort should be considered the second generation.

To be ”granted” a new title by someone younger and later than oneself—that was the first layer of humiliation;

and to be bracketed together with someone this foolish and childish—that was an even sharper insult.

But this time Grindelwald was not enraged. He only let out a cold laugh. ”I’ve seen my share of idiots, but someone who can be this... creatively stupid, that’s a first.”

Antoine chuckled. ”I honestly suspect he lost his brain somewhere in the course of all those resurrections, otherwise how could he do something this moronic?”

He paused, then looked at the boy in the corner of the screen. ”Although... do you think Little Vid might be scared out of his wits? He is, after all, just a tiny little kid right now.”

He raised his hand to indicate a height of less than half a meter.

”Relax,” Delaine said. ”No one is willing to hurt an outstanding Alchemist, let alone a genius who can create Poppets out of nothing. No matter how brainless Voldemort is, even he wouldn’t do something that stupid.”

”I wouldn’t be so sure.” Antoine muttered. ”Looking at what he’s done so far, can you really be certain he won’t suddenly do something idiotic?”

Delaine: ”...”

He truly didn’t dare claim he could predict Voldemort’s choices—just as, a few minutes ago, he had never imagined Voldemort would publicly challenge Harry Potter to a duel.

When that Boy Who Lived fell into Voldemort’s hands, Delaine had thought he would be brutally tortured in front of the camera and finally executed publicly, to utterly cow ordinary people and strip them of any will to resist.

Or, taking a more despicable tack, Voldemort might humiliate the boy and thereby humiliate the Dumbledore behind him: force Harry Potter to kneel and beg, to kowtow and swear allegiance, thus shattering the hopes people had pinned on that child. Delaine might despise the method, but he could have understood it.

But in the end... a duel?

Leaving aside what would happen if he lost—even if he won... so what?

The boy was only fourteen; his future held enormous room for growth.

Even if Voldemort killed him right after the duel, the courage, tenacity, and will to resist that the boy displayed in battle would inevitably inspire every viewer who witnessed the process.

He would become a banner, a standard that would never fall, driving all those who nursed dissatisfaction to throw themselves into the struggle one after another.

A trace of contempt flickered at the corner of Delaine’s eyes. He genuinely could not understand the stupidity of that so‑called ”Dark Lord” on the screen. Obviously this kind of calculation ought to be...

His train of thought stuttered for a moment when he reached that point.

A year ago, would he have thought this line of reasoning ”obvious”?

No.

The only reason he could now think this way was because he had read a great many Muggle books, and because of those letters that had gone back and forth between him and Vid Gray.

Two years earlier, he had only been able to envision two kinds of future:

One was the task right in front of him, which had to be completed step by step;

The other was the ideal world he believed in, which would be built by the Witch Pure Party.

As for how the blank space in between should be filled, he had never thought about it. He merely assumed that once Mr. Grindelwald walked out of Nimongard, everything would naturally fall into place.

Back then, was he really any cleverer than Voldemort is at this moment?

Delaine’s gaze fell upon the little boy in the camera and he found himself unable to speak for a long time.

While Delaine was silent, Grindelwald suddenly spoke.

”No need to worry, Antoine.”

The corners of his lips lifted slightly, and a glint of amusement flashed through his eyes:

”To be able to experience the effects of Magic anew from the ground up is a rare opportunity for him.”

”What’s more, though his shell has returned to childhood, the essence of his soul has not changed. The Magic he’s learned, the Spells he’s mastered, are still lying dormant in that small body.”

”When he truly makes his move, he’s bound to give everyone a tremendous surprise!”