https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-440-The-Battle-of-Black-and-White/13685492/
Chapter 439: Expectation – Your Future
Wade stared at Gellert Grindelwald, his pupils contracting instantly. He finally understood what it meant to live with a monster—even one who seemed to smile.
Even if he was 99% certain the man wouldn’t harm him, betting on that one percent chance of sudden, unpredictable fury still made his heart race.
After a long silence, Wade swallowed hard and gave a single, decisive nod.
"Yeah."
Gellert Grindelwald didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—warm, almost affectionate—and said, “Excellent. I like a child who can confess.”
His hand remained on Wade’s shoulder, his gaze locked onto the boy’s eyes, voice slow and sincere.
“Wade, you possess extraordinary talent—rare even among wizards.”
“I know you don’t follow tradition blindly. You’re not chained by your bloodline or upbringing. You crave change. You seek things few dare to question—truth, justice.”
He leaned slightly forward, whispering as if the words were meant only for Wade’s ears.
“I’m glad to see someone like you—Muggle or wizard, it makes no difference. You judge by right and wrong, good and evil—but not with blind idealism. You look beyond the surface.”
A flicker of curiosity passed through his eyes.
“I wonder… if ten years from now, you were to guide the next generation of wizards… what future would you lead them toward?”
Wade couldn’t help but wonder in return.
Did Gellert Grindelwald truly not see his future? Or was this all part of a careful manipulation—using prophecy as bait?
Then he remembered: Gellert’s foresight wasn’t a full picture. It showed fragmented visions, not certainty. He’d foreseen the Kirin during his campaign, yet never saw his own downfall.
Prophets were always deceived by fate—especially those who tried to change it.
Wade silently warned himself. But he couldn’t help but wonder—had Gellert abandoned that old ability entirely?
In a flash, he didn’t have time to think further. He simply stared, stunned, for a few seconds. Then, a flicker passed through his expression—something like ambition, sparked by the recognition, the expectation.
Gellert didn’t expect an answer now. He pulled his hand away, then leaned back, casually like a professor checking homework.
“Those books on your shelf—are rare treasures. How many have you read?”
“Three,” Wade admitted.
Gellert glanced at him, as if seeing through his quiet demeanor straight into the hunger beneath. “You didn’t take the rest? Didn’t stuff them in your pocket?”
Wade’s fingers twitched. He felt the faintest ripple of magic—Gellert had sensed the Invisible Expansion Charm on his pocket.
“No,” he said. “I used a Replication Charm. Thanks for providing so much parchment.”
A smile curled at the corner of Gellert’s lips. “Clever… and cunning. No wonder you’re a Ravenclaw.”
At that moment, a green flash streaked from the corner of the line of sight—DiedHorn’s beam—flying straight at Gellert.
With a flick of his wand, he casually lifted a stone, which shattered mid-air, intercepting the Killing Curse.
Then, with a sharp twitch, he sent a second curse. The impostor—a disguised ordinary wizard—froze mid-motion and collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Gellert paid no mind to the interruption.
“Once, a British wizard told me Ravenclaw students are brilliant, but arrogant and too eager to play it safe.”
“I’m glad you have their strengths, but none of their flaws. You love reading, you thirst for knowledge—excellent habits. But don’t limit yourself. Dark Magic, white magic—both hold value.”
“Take the Fire Shield Defense. It can kill. It can protect. The outcome depends on your thoughts, not some label others give it.”
“Even Dumbledore—whom you admire—was no stranger to dark magic.”
“Now that you’ve brought the books home, treat them with care. Read them deeply. And if you have questions… come to me, just as you did today.”
He tapped his ear, then placed a tiny, smooth Communication Pea into Wade’s palm.
Wade recognized it—the same one he’d been wearing the day he went to the supermarket. He’d thought it lost or destroyed.
The young wizard hesitated, then slipped it back into his ear.
“…I thought you’d stop me,” he said quietly. “At least not let me go so easily.”
He knew the weight of his value. Even without considering anything else, the entire technology behind the Wizard Purity Party’s Streaming Mirror Signal hijacking came from him.
Letting him return meant he could upgrade the equipment, patch the vulnerabilities, and neutralize the effectiveness of the “Zero-Day Squirrel.”
“You’re too young,” Gellert said. “Forcing a thirteen-year-old child into our ranks? Even Voldemort would laugh at such a move.”
“My expectations are long-term. And even if I let you go, I doubt you’d hand the public narrative entirely to Britain’s Ministry of Magic. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Wade nodded. “I understand.”
He’d felt a subtle unease when Gellert mentioned Voldemort. Something nagged at him—something he’d forgotten.
But Voldemort wouldn’t return for another year and a half. No need to panic now. And without Peter Pettigrew, resurrection was unlikely.
The thought faded as quickly as a dream upon waking.
Gellert glanced away, as if dismissing the matter. “Dumbledore will arrive soon. You’ll have your chance to leave.”
His words were calm, but his eyes held a depth of meaning Wade couldn’t decipher.
Wade nodded again, stepping back two paces—just enough to create distance between himself and the man whose mind could turn on a whim.
…
Donovan wiped blood from his face, crouched behind crumbling ruins, watching the battlefield with wide, horrified eyes.
Nearby, a collapsed mud column buried another werewolf—Crus—his arm blown off, body charred, gasping in agony. He wouldn’t last long.
Donovan knew—he’d been lucky. If fate hadn’t favored him today, he’d be the one lying there, dying.
He’d been in the first wave of cannon fodder. But he never wanted to die for this organization.
Taking advantage of the fact that ordinary soldiers didn’t dare restrict a werewolf, he’d faked being in the restroom, using a small window to spy on the battlefield, planning to warn Dumbledore afterward.
That’s how he’d survived the paper airplane barrage—only a few scrapes.
Farther out, explosions erupted in bursts of flame. Injured wizards were carried away by allies. The dead remained—only Donovan’s so-called comrades.
The radio crackled with cold, emotionless orders:
“C and F squads, push forward! No hesitation. Remember—your mission is to draw them into the estate. Everything is under control. Victory is ours.”
Crus exhaled his last breath, mouth open, finally still after a long, agonizing death.
A pang of sorrow gripped Donovan—the fox dies, the rabbit mourns. He tore off the radio, threw it down, and stomped it into the dirt. He spat blood, then turned and fled the shelter.
They were the ones who’d killed. But it was those hiding underground—those cold-blooded bastards—who’d turned them into werewolves and forced them to walk to their deaths.
His hatred was clear.
He sent a message to Dumbledore, then slipped through a hidden tunnel beneath the ruins.
Once, this underground complex had been a playground for the elite—larger than the estate above. Corridors branched in every direction, pipes crisscrossing the ceiling.
Donovan removed his shoes, climbed onto the pipes with silent agility, moving like a cat.
Once, it had hosted wealthy socialites. Now, only soldiers remained—though the place was eerily empty, save for the occasional patrol.
Some of the organization’s wizards specialized in memory deletion and alteration. Soldiers under their magic became obedient puppets, carrying out suicide missions without hesitation.
Yet Donovan was grateful—he never forgot who he was.
He crawled for a while, then suddenly heard voices below.
“What’s going on?” a voice screamed. “The wizards haven’t even stepped onto the grounds! Did someone inside leak the message?”
“No,” another countered. “Only a few people know about the Strong Magnetic Field Generator. Not even Abigail knows. Who would betray us?”
A third voice cut in: “Gellert Grindelwald can foresee. He must have seen danger. That’s why he hesitates. But once he thinks everyone’s dead, he’ll come. That’s what they want—John Adler.”
“That coward already escaped!”
“His decoy’s still here! Until the Polyjuice Potion wears off, even Grindelwald can’t tell the difference!”
“Then why not use it from the start?” someone complained. “You know how much I hated pretending to be that arrogant Muggle!”
“I said he has foresight!” the voice snapped. “If they knew the goal was already gone, they wouldn’t walk into a trap!”
“Too bad the magnetic field decayed too fast… Time Powder didn’t work either…”
“It was fake—mixed with a little real stuff. Wind blew it apart. Of course it failed. The real power’s still inside.”
“…So when will they finally come in?”
Donovan stopped listening. He crawled away silently.
He knew about the generators. Trucks had arrived in the middle of the night, carrying needles specially designed to disrupt magic doors. No wizard could survive it.
Such intelligence was beyond his rank. But he had friends—ones who knew things. One of them was a vampire with superhuman hearing, who liked flying as a bat at night.
He remembered the vampire had just escaped—then, for no reason, turned around and flew straight into the explosion.
Donovan clenched his teeth and kept moving.
The vampire had seen the generators being unloaded, then carried to their final destination. After a few compliments, he’d told Donovan everything.
Magic could erase memories. But it couldn’t erase a craving for gossip.
As Donovan remembered the layout and the intel, he crawled through corridors, finally spotting the massive, gray-white machine.
It looked like the lower half of a rocket—wrapped in protective layers, with thick and thin pipes snaking from its base and sides.
Donovan stood before it, silent.
He didn’t understand its structure. He didn’t know what the pipes or valves were for. But he didn’t need to.
He only needed to destroy it.
Simple.
He drew his knife, slashed through every wire he could see. Then moved to the next.
After cutting the third, he suddenly heard a tiny voice.
“Good morning, sir!”
The werewolf jumped, his fur standing on end. He leapt onto the machine’s upper frame, heart pounding.
A small, perfectly dressed figure stood on the ground, looking up at him in surprise.
A house-elf? No such creature was in the organization’s records.
Donovan gripped his knife, hesitating—should he strike?
Then he saw another house-elf, standing inside the generator’s horn, staring blankly at him.
Donovan’s blood ran cold.
“Don’t fear, sir,” the first one said politely. “Dobby means no harm.”
“We’re here to help,” the second added. “But first—why are you destroying your own home?”
This one wore only a tea towel with a crest—an “H” in the center.
Donovan’s mind raced. His mouth moved before he thought.
“I… I’m Dumbledore’s man… Who are you?”
“Ah,” Makki said, not answering. He stared up at the machine. “We heard them. This is the kind of machine that’s deadly to wizards.”
“Dobby,” he said, pointing. “Before we find anyone, we must destroy these.”
With a flick of his long finger, a thick pipe snapped clean in half.
At that same moment, outside, Gellert Grindelwald suddenly lifted his head, eyes narrowing. His wand tip flared with searing flame.
Before him, the air twisted violently.
A figure appeared—white-haired, white-bearded, robes rippling in the wind. His expression was icy.
Albus Dumbledore had arrived.
(End of Chapter)
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