The morning of December 25th, 1936, dawned within Hogwarts with a deceptive cheerfulness. The Great Hall was a riot of festive colours. Garlands of holly and mistletoe draped from the enchanted ceiling, which shimmered with a gentle, perpetual snowfall, each flake melting an inch above the students' heads. Towering, snow-laden Christmas trees, adorned with golden owls and shimmering faeries, stood proudly at each corner, radiating the scent of pine and magic. The long tables, though less crowded than usual, were laden with a magnificent breakfast spread: roasted turkeys, platters of sizzling sausages, mountains of fluffy pancakes, and stacks of festive gingerbread. A palpable sense of relaxed camaraderie filled the air, a welcome reprieve from the academic rigours and the increasingly grim headlines from the outside world.
Marcus Starborn sat with his fellow Ravenclaws, exchanging polite greetings and small, magically wrapped gifts that had appeared overnight at their places. Eleanor Crombwell, radiant in a festive emerald green jumper, was meticulously buttering a scone, a slight smile on her lips. Edgar Selwyn, usually absorbed in a book, was, for once, engaging in light conversation with a seventh-year, discussing the merits of different types of charmed wrapping paper. Elara Croft, her eyes sparkling, was unwrapping a small, intricately carved wooden bird that, when gently pressed, trilled a perfectly mimicked series of birdsongs.
"Happy Christmas, Marcus!" Eleanor said, passing him a plate of particularly fluffy waffles. "Did you manage to get any sleep with all the First Years running around last night, convinced they heard Father Christmas coming down the common room chimney?"
Marcus chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. "I did, Eleanor. Though the persistent humming of the festive charms was almost enough to keep me awake." He opened a small package from Elara, revealing a beautifully bound, slim volume of obscure ancient runes. "Thank you, Elara. This is quite thoughtful."
"You're welcome, Marcus," Elara replied, admiring her wooden bird. "I thought you'd appreciate it. It's a lesser-known dialect of runic script, very old."
"A fine choice, Elara," Edgar chimed in, picking up the book. "The Hagaz family of runes, if I'm not mistaken. Quite rare. I'm still hoping for a first edition of Bridget Wenlock's The Symphony of Numbers for Christmas, but I suspect it's a pipe dream." He gave a rare, wistful sigh.
Just then, a flurry of movement swept through the Hall. Not from the students, but from the delivery owls. It was the time for the morning papers, a daily ritual that had become increasingly fraught with anxiety. However, on Christmas morning, the Daily Prophet usually offered a lighter tone, filled with wizarding holiday cheer, festive spells, and perhaps a profile of a famous Quidditch player's Christmas traditions.
But this morning, something was different.
Instead of the usual scattering of single owls, a veritable flock descended simultaneously, a dark cloud of feathers and rustling parchment. Every table, every place setting, suddenly had a crisp, new edition of the Daily Prophet appearing with a soft thwack. More ominous still, several other newspapers, usually only seen in the hands of professors or foreign exchange students, materialized with the same chilling precision: the elegant French Le Cri de la Gazelle, the stark German Der Magische Bote, and the Cyrillic script of the Russian Вестник Колдовства.
The initial reaction was one of mild surprise, then curiosity. Students reached for their papers, expecting jolly headlines. The first gasps were small, isolated, quickly swallowed by the general din of breakfast chatter. Then, a collective wave of horror spread.
The cheerful chatter died. Not slowly, not gradually, but in a horrifying, dreadful hush that descended upon the Great Hall with the speed and finality of a drawn curtain. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind a vacuum of shock and fear. The clatter of cutlery ceased. The laughter died on lips. Half-eaten plates of food lay forgotten.
All eyes, drawn by an invisible magnetic force, seemed to fix on the stark, terrifying headlines emblazoned across the front pages of every newspaper. They screamed the same grim message, in different languages, but with identical, devastating clarity.
THE DAILY PROPHET:
AUSTRIA FALLS! GRINDELWALD CONQUERS VIENNA!
Magical Capital Under Dark Lord's Iron Heel - Ministry Defeated
LE CRI DE LA GAZELLE:
L'AUTRICHE EST TOMBÉE! VIENNE MAGIQUE SOUS LE JOINT DE GRINDELWALD!
(Austria Has Fallen! Magical Vienna Under Grindelwald's Grip!)
DER MAGISCHE BOTE:
ÖSTERREICH EROBERT! GRINDELWALDS TRIUMPH IN WIEN!
(Austria Conquered! Grindelwald's Triumph in Vienna!)
The words hung in the air, cold and stark, obliterating every last vestige of Christmas cheer. The festive decorations seemed to mock the scene, the enchanted snow now falling like silent, mournful tears.
Marcus felt a cold, familiar knot tighten in his stomach. Not shock, not exactly. It was a grim confirmation. A prophecy fulfilled. He had seen this coming, had been preparing for it, but the visceral reality of it, delivered with such brutal clarity on Christmas morning, was still a punch to the gut. Austria. Geographically central, a cultural and magical crossroads. Its fall was not merely another conquered territory; it was a strategic dagger aimed at the heart of Europe. Grindelwald was no longer just expanding; he was consolidating, building an empire.
Around him, his Ravenclaw housemates were pale, their faces drained of colour.
"No…" Eleanor whispered, her hand trembling as she held the Prophet, her scone forgotten. "Austria… but how? The Ministry assured us their defenses were impenetrable…" Her voice trailed off, a note of despair creeping in.
Edgar, usually so composed, had dropped his Arithmancy book onto the table with a loud thump, scattering his toast. His eyes, wide and horrified, stared at the headline. "The… the strategic implications…" he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically faltering. "Vienna controls key magical ley lines, ancient pathways. This gives him unparalleled access to central Europe."
Elara, her wooden bird clutched tightly in her hand, tears welling in her eyes, didn't speak. She merely looked at the front page, her face a mask of profound sorrow, the festive glow of her earlier joy completely extinguished.
The silence in the Great Hall stretched, thick and suffocating. No one dared to speak above a whisper. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fireplace and the barely audible sniffles from some of the younger students.
Marcus's mind raced, his internal monologue a torrent of grim analysis. This is it. The true expansion begins. Austria is merely the first domino. He's not just about ideology anymore; he's about territory, power, control of resources, magical and mundane. The Ministry's reassurances were hollow, built on outdated paradigms of defense. They don't understand the depth of his ambition, the nature of his power.
He thought of his Untethered Will, the Draconic commands he had been painstakingly crafting. This was why he was doing it. Not for academic accolades, not for personal glory, but for this very moment. For the inevitable confrontation. The knowledge that he had been preparing, that he had foreseen this, gave him a chilling sense of purpose, but also a crushing weight of isolation. How could he explain to his friends, to anyone, the true nature of the threat, when they were only just grasping the surface?
His gaze swept over the High Table. The professors sat stiffly, their faces grim. Professor McGonagall had her lips pressed into a thin, white line, her gaze fixed on her newspaper. Professor Flitwick looked utterly heartbroken, his small frame seeming to shrink under the weight of the news. Professor Slughorn, usually jovial, looked utterly deflated, his usual ruddy complexion pale.
But it was Professor Dumbledore who commanded his attention. Dumbledore sat motionless, his long, elegant fingers resting on the front page of Der Magische Bote. His eyes, usually twinkling with an almost mischievous light, were now devoid of all mirth, reflecting a profound, ancient sorrow. His aura, usually a comforting warmth, seemed to pulse with a raw, contained power, a tempest barely held in check. He was not surprised, Marcus realized. Dumbledore had known, too. He had felt the creeping shadow long before it manifested on the front page of a newspaper. Dumbledore slowly, almost imperceptibly, raised his gaze, sweeping it across the terrified faces of the students, and then, for a fleeting moment, his eyes met Marcus's. There was a shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the new, terrifying reality that had just descended upon them all.
A sudden commotion broke the silence. Henry Potter, his face a mask of shock and tears, burst away from the Gryffindor table, clutching a crumpled Prophet. Leo Lionsguard was right behind him, his usual bravado gone, replaced by a grim, furious expression. Elizabeth Blackwood followed, her sharp features pale, but her eyes burning with a cold, almost dangerous fury.
"Marcus! Did you see?!" Henry choked out, his voice hoarse, tears streaming down his face. "Austria… it's gone! What does this mean? Are we next?"
Leo slammed his fist onto the Ravenclaw table, making the cutlery jump. "Bloody hell! How could this happen?! The Ministry! They said they had it handled! They said Grindelwald wouldn't get this far!" His voice was low, laced with a raw, impotent rage.
Elizabeth's eyes darted between Marcus and the grim headlines. "This changes everything," she stated, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "This isn't just about obscure European politics anymore. This is a direct threat. He's getting too close." Her gaze settled on Marcus, her usual witty remarks replaced by a stark, desperate plea for understanding. "What now, Marcus? What do we do?"
Marcus looked at his friends, their faces etched with fear and fury, their easy Christmas cheer utterly shattered. He wanted to offer reassurance, to tell them that he was preparing, that he would fight. But the words felt hollow in the face of such overwhelming dread. He knew, with terrifying clarity, that the world they had grown up in, the magical world they had believed to be secure, was now irrevocably changed. The lines had been drawn. The war was no longer a distant rumbling; it had arrived on their doorstep, heralded by the shattering silence of a Christmas morning.
The once festive atmosphere of the Great Hall now felt like a mausoleum. The magnificent feast lay untouched, its abundance mocking the sudden void of appetite. Students slowly pushed away from tables, many simply staring blankly at their plates, the Prophet headlines still clutched in their hands. The professors at the High Table remained solemn, occasionally exchanging hushed, worried whispers.
Marcus looked at the half-eaten gingerbread on his plate, its festive sweetness now a bitter irony. He pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood echoing loudly in the dreadful hush. The sanctuary of Hogwarts, while physically secure for now, had been breached, its peaceful illusion shattered by the chilling reality of Grindelwald's relentless march.
His determination hardened, a cold, focused fire in his gut. The urgency for his studies, for the raw, untamed power of Untethered Will and Draconic magic, became an undeniable imperative. He needed to push further, to delve deeper, to become more. He needed to be ready. The Christmas morning had brought not joy, but a grim, terrifying clarity.