For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Brumation

The chill of the winter dawn brought a brumation upon the creatures that inhabited the hills and holes of the Scottish Highlands. A layer of icy snow crunched underfoot as Gwendolyn Gawmdrey apparated to the scene. Amongst the trees in the Forbidden Forest, icicles hung. The chill of night had yet to be thwarted. Through the gnarled boughs, snow fell, building its doughy mantle and covering the ground and wood in a womb of white that helped shelter the creatures and silence any sound.

Gwen moved forward with her wand of white at her side. All around her, magic caressed her wintry cream skin, parading her forward toward the silvery sun as spirits quickened and the darkness both rejoiced and recoiled.

Bright red holly berries clung to pointed leaves of jade. The crooked oaks twisted toward the sky, thriving through the frosted grey wrath. The noir petals of the silky midnight flowers peeked their blossoms out from under the snow. It was the collar of life edging upon death.

The ancient castle rose from the frozen ground out in the distance, dappled with a dusting of frost. At the sight of it, Gwen let out a breath that swirled and perfumed in the air—the exhale of acceptance.

It was Winter Solstice, the first day of Yule, and the ancient, spiritual energy did not go unnoticed by the witch. It hung in the air like the whisper of soft greetings, the wintry evergreen flake, the welcoming of time as it spins. As she approached the castle, her fate, she recognized the resemblance to her own essence—Yule, the year's turning point when darkness begins to wane, and the light begins to return. The shortest day and the longest night.

She navigated through the hills like thunder in a flurry of white vengeance, staking her claim on the barren lands. Magic owned this part of the world, the old soils where the first magical folk of Europe planted their seeds. Scotland and its neighbor Ireland held secrets to magic still not yet fully understood, and as Gwen dashed through the wood, the very ancient cosmic part of her could feel the thin fingers of magic so old and magnetic pull at her ankles, at her hair, at her wand.

Perhaps they were kindred spirits of the land, or perhaps they were worried ghosts, warning her of her fate if she continued forward.

By now, she figured that Grindelwald knew of her escape. She had less certainty about the question of whether Nagini was still alive, but she held hope. Her faith was ignorant, but it gave her some bliss in the dismal hours. After all, she was operating on borrowed time.

It was a fact that at any moment, Grindelwald could launch his official attack on muggles and magical folk alike, breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Only a fool couldn't see the strategy in his army's positioning—Norway, Denmark, Austria. Paris and London. Dublin. Madrid and Lisbon. Rome and Vienna and Budapest. While the takeovers were not yet in full, the pockets of his followers would allow the victory to topple into Grindelwald's lap like a stack of dominos. He was strategic, manipulative, and willing to do anything to achieve a means to an end. The zealous nature of his acolytes in partner with the power of his intended plans for the Inferi—how would the Darkness not win?

Unless there is another way to defeat him.

Thick as thieves, the last of leaves in the winter sun, Gwen opted to step right over the line that divided most of her life from its current state. Her life had evolved from its elementary stage of fearing death to the fate that embraced it. The end was near, she could feel it, but she was not afraid.

She had tried her hardest—she had willingly rehomed the Cloak of Invisibility and had not divulged the location of the Resurrection Stone. Grindelwald couldn't be the Master of Death with only the Elder Wand.

But he could still wreak havoc.

Now, Gwen relied on the last of her strength and savvy.

And on Albus Dumbledore... A murderer. A liar.