The Return to Hogwarts

Fox affectionately pecked Amostella's cheek, feeling comforted by the warm magic emanating from Amostella's body.

After a loud cry, Fox disappeared from everyone's sight.

Before long, sparks reappeared in the air. Fawkes' tail feathers, burning and swaying, slowly fell. Amidst the increasingly heavy roar across the snowfield, Dumbledore's slightly hoarse voice rang in everyone's ears.

"I, Albus Percival Woolfrick Bryan Dumbledore, grant Amosta Blaine permission to enter Nurmengard."

Chapter 802 Your Orders

2024-03-13

Dumbledore's voice of permission echoed across the snowfield, causing many of the wizards who had come to stop Amostella to exchange bewildered glances. It also darkened the expression on the face of Whip Dregern, who pursed his lips and breathed heavily.

"I think Dumbledore has gone mad!"

"So be it."

As Fox's tail feathers burned to ashes against the sky, Amosta smiled.

"I think it might not take long. You can wait for me here. Of course, it would be wiser to go to a pub in a nearby town for a whiskey to warm up."

It's understandable that no one wanted to leave.

If they can't stop Amosta Blaine from entering Nurmengard, then at the very least, they can't miss a 'battle of the century'.

After glancing at the silent crowd one last time, Amosta turned around, preparing to head towards Nurmengard.

"and many more!"

Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted, and Amosta looked at Louise with a questioning gaze.

Attracting the attention of so many wizards, Louise immediately tensed up, her heart pounding wildly. She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath. Looking at Amosta on the hill, Louise took a deep breath.

"You, you need to be careful."

Amos raised an eyebrow in slight surprise, then Louise nodded.

"I heard from Kingsley about what that Dark Lord Grindelwald did."

After a pause, Louise gave a wistful smile.

"You have to come back safely. I—I've heard how you deal with Muggles who have witnessed magic, so… if—"

Snowflakes drifted down and landed on the hair of this ordinary yet extraordinary Muggle girl. She tilted her pale face upwards, and glistening droplets of moisture, condensed from her breath, clung to her eyelashes.

"If I am to lose my memory, then I want it to be done by you personally."

Amostah's lips twitched; he seemed to want to smile, but he couldn't manage it.

The reporters who came to witness everything were so excited they were almost shouting. They raised their cameras and snapped away at Amosta and Louise. To find the right angle, Louise's colleagues in the magical world pushed Whip, whose face had turned dark, aside.

"it is good."

Finally, Amosta nodded, then turned to the excited reporters, his joke laced with warning.

"Cut this part out and don't broadcast it."

While the reporters were still confused and trying to figure out what the "ha" meant, Amosta turned around and finally started walking again.

The wind and snow suddenly turned fierce, and on the vast snowfield, howling winds whipped up gusts of snow, blurring everyone's vision.

Amostra approached Nurmengard with slow, steady steps.

Rumble!

The sudden clap of thunder under the gloomy sky drew astonished stares from everyone. Sometime earlier, a layer of even darker, lower-hanging leaden clouds had appeared beneath the dark clouds, flashing with dazzling, heart-stopping lightning. A thunderstorm seemed to be brewing.

It's quite bizarre that a thunderstorm struck Nymungard, which is still mired in the cold of winter.

Looking up at the thunderclouds looming over them, seemingly following Amosta Blaine's footsteps as they approached Nurmengard, Whip Dregern felt a heavy weight in his heart. In a daze, he seemed to see the European magical world once again plunged into a turbulent era of war.

Squeak!

After an unknown amount of time, Amosta, covered in snow, finally stood before the dark iron gate. He brushed the snow off his body, looked up at the inscription "For the greater good" carved on the cold castle, and pushed open the prison gate.

As if under a spell that blocked out sound, stepping into this place banished by the world, the howling of the wind and snow immediately became faint and indistinct. The huge courtyard was devoid of any life, and the surroundings were deathly silent.

The main castle gates are open, and the luxurious decorations, along with past ambitions, are buried deep beneath the ice and snow.

Instead of rushing upstairs, Amosta stood in the freezing foyer, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The stench of decay that filled his nostrils seemed to transport him back half a century, to the wizards who had ravaged the world with war and were now just skeletons in graveyards.

Although that dream was arrogant, there was no doubt that they were the masters of that period of history, and they deserved the respect that arose in his heart.

Nurmengard has no guardian.

The owner of this castle, the only prisoner in this jail, voluntarily stayed here. It's unclear whether what destroyed him was the shattering of his dreams, or betrayal.

The spiral staircase leading to the top of the tower was also covered with a thick layer of solid ice. When Amosta stepped onto the spiral staircase, the ice beneath his feet melted into snow water, nourishing the seeds that had been dormant for many years in the cracks between the bricks.

Amosta walked slowly, stopping occasionally to gaze at the snow-capped mountains. There were no seasons, no time; solitude was the eternal theme of Nurmengard.

Wow.

The ice on the spiral staircase melted under Amosta's heat, and the melted snow turned into streams that washed over the stone steps, which had regained their original deep color. The rushing sound inexplicably gave Nurmengard a sense of life.

Da da da--

Stepping onto the wet stone steps, Amosta quickened his pace and soon reached the rooftop.

A short, narrow platform led to a room at the end, hidden behind a wooden door. After a brief pause, Amosta pulled his hand out of his coat pocket and walked towards the room.

The rusty door hinges spun slowly, emitting a sharp, piercing noise. The strained, obscure force caused the thin door panel to tremble. The moment the door was pushed open, a gust of air blew through Amosta's gray hair.

The stone room in front of them wasn't exactly cramped, about half the size of Amostella's office at Hogwarts. However, the walls, the rough desk, and the newspapers piled up under the wooden bed took up so much space that the room seemed quite narrow.

There was more than one person in the room.

An old man was sitting on the edge of the bed, intently reading a newspaper. His hair was gray, and beneath his faded, starched morning clothes was a hunched, frail body that looked so thin that one worried he might collapse at any moment.

The old man stared at the newspaper through his eyes, which were covered by a white film, seemingly unaware that Amosta had pushed open his door, nor that another person was standing bowing in front of him.

Amosta turned his gaze to another person in the room.

This person was also quite old, but compared to the thinly dressed old man, he looked much more presentable.

He wore a dark gray woolen overcoat, his gray-white hair and the two wisps of mustache under his nose were neatly groomed, and his square-framed glasses with gold trim showed his elegance and gentlemanliness, but could not hide the hint of madness deep in his brown eyes.

Click——

Amostella entered the room. He didn't look at the old man sitting on the edge of the bed reading the newspaper, but instead looked at the wizard standing bowing before him. His expression was calm, but his voice was light and cheerful.

"Mr. Augusta Raman, is that right?"

Adam Vogel, with his many faces and identities, didn't look at Amosta. However, under Amosta's gaze, he removed his glasses, slowly knelt on one knee before Gellert Grindelwald, his expression one of utmost piety and his voice one of fervent devotion, like a believer worshipping God.

"Adam has done what you asked."

He said.

Chapter 803 Please Enter the Game

2024-03-13

Completed. Your instructions are fulfilled.

Amosta turned his gaze once again to the frail old man by the bedside.

Gellert Grindelwald, once an ambitious revolutionary, one of the most powerful wizards in modern magical history, the Dark Lord who unleashed a storm of war that swept across most of the wizarding and Muggle worlds and made Albus Dumbledore a legend, has now become an inconspicuous old man.

It would be hard to believe to put him alongside Albus Dumbledore, who was once a wizard of the same caliber as Dumbledore.

The old man by the bedside had lost his strength, and Amosta felt that the magic flowing through his withered body was not even as abundant as that of Filch.

No one tormented Gellert Grindelwald after his defeat. The power of magic comes from the mind; his beliefs were destroyed, and his magic faded away.

Amosta stared into Grindelwald's unwavering eyes; his world consisted only of himself and the newspaper in his hand.

The fake Augusta Raman, the real Adam Vogel, knelt on one knee before Gellert Grindelwald as if worshipping the Holy Spirit, gazing at Grindelwald with eyes filled with fervor and hope. He didn't look at Amosta Blaine, but he held great expectations in his heart, hoping Blaine would do something.

Rumble!

The sound of avalanches crashing against the cliffs mingled with the rumbling thunder in the low-hanging leaden clouds, shaking the silence of Nurmengard.

Nothing happened.

Amosta Blaine stood calmly behind the door, neither unleashing a furious rage nor drawing her wand. The old man by the bed turned a page of the newspaper, quietly reading the Daily Prophet's star current affairs reporter, Rita Skeeter's sharp commentary on Barty Crouch Sr.'s extended sick leave and failure to check into St. Mungo's.

I don't know how much time passed—*thud!*

Adam Vogel's square-framed, gold-rimmed glasses, which he was holding, fell to the ground, bounced a few times, and landed under the simple desk in the room.

As if his spine had been ripped out, Adam Vogel's fanatical demeanor vanished. His face was ashen, and he stared blankly at the old man reading the newspaper. The halo filter in his eyes was gone, as if he had only just realized that the person standing right next to him was just a dying old man.

A mocking smile finally appeared on Amosta's lips.

"Let me guess,"

Amosta walked slowly to Adam Vogel, who was slumped on the ground, his gaze lowered, and said calmly,

"From beginning to end, the cursed attack on Hermione Granger was just a cover. This unfortunate little witch was targeted by you simply because of her Triwizard Tournament champion status that inexplicably fell upon her. You believe that I am the one behind this."

Adam Vogel remained silent, his spirit broken, his gentlemanly and refined demeanor gone. Amosta could sense the magic fading from his body.

"--Your target has always been me or Dumbledore,"