Hogwarts: Third Dark Lord

Hearing Rosier's words, Wentworth was momentarily stunned. It took him a while to grasp the meaning of "Squib."

So I've traveled to this world for nothing?

Unlike that legendary figure who was the nemesis of Scotland's "round-faced fat chicken," Wentworth had no intention of rejecting the magical world with a conflicted expression.

As a devoted Harry Potter fan, being in this world meant embracing its wonders. How could he not explore the incredible magic that surrounded him?

At the very least, he had to visit Hogwarts! As the only official magical school in Britain, Hogwarts provided seamless education from ages 11 to 18—no stressful entrance exams, no school selection worries.

The thought struck him suddenly, and Wentworth quickly asked, "Grandma Rosier, I'm 11 this year. By all accounts, I should have received my Hogwarts acceptance letter by now. If I didn't get a letter, that would prove I'm a Squib!"

"But it's only July, and Hogwarts doesn't start until September 1st. Maybe my owl is just delayed, right?"

Rosier's face showed a hint of regret as she shook her head and replied, "Wentworth, you clearly know much about the wizarding world, and what you said is true. But sadly, we've already confirmed that three days ago, the last owl delivering acceptance letters completed its task and returned."

At this revelation, Wentworth's hope shattered completely. The Hogwarts Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance had never been wrong. The absence of a Hogwarts letter could only mean he truly lacked magical ability.

For some reason, Wentworth suddenly thought of Argus Filch.

Seeing the boy's despair, Rosier's face softened with a trace of sorrow. She tried to console him:

"Now, Wentworth, don't look so disheartened. Being a Squib isn't so bad. The magical world isn't as wonderful as you think. What happened tonight is far from unusual in our world."

"In fact, we've engaged in such activities ourselves in the past. Staying away from this chaotic magical society might actually ensure the survival of the Grindelwald bloodline."

Although Rosier's words were meant to comfort him, Wentworth's mind had already begun forming plans. If he couldn't use magic, he'd focus on making money. Buy a stake in the Quidditch World Cup, invest in companies like Amazon, Apple, and Google, and achieve financial independence by thirty.

But such a life of easy profit wasn't what Wentworth wanted.

Still, faced with the reality of his situation, Wentworth could only swallow his frustration and say, "Thank you, Grandma Rosier. And thanks to everyone else for saving me tonight. I'm truly grateful!"

Rosier waved dismissively, her tone casual. "No need to thank us, Wentworth. Actually, part of this is our fault. For years, I stayed close by to ensure your safety."

"But when we learned you were a Squib—sorry, I mean when we found out you lacked magical talent—it broke my heart. That's why I left for a few days to talk things over with these old friends of mine."

"The pain... We've experienced it before with your father. When your grandfather's brother—our master—was imprisoned, we needed someone to step up, and that person could only be a Grindelwald!"

"But to our dismay, your father was found to have no magical talent. Still, we weren't too old at the time, so we thought there'd be another chance. Yet now, even you..."

For the first time that night, Rosier's composed and dignified demeanor faltered as she choked up. Behind her, the others sighed and shook their heads in lament.

Seeing this, Wentworth hurriedly spoke to comfort the elders before him.

"Grandma Rosier, everyone, it's really okay. Truly. The Muggle world is advancing rapidly. Who knows? In the near future, the wonders of the Muggle world might surpass those of the magical world!"

To his surprise, Rosier and the others immediately stopped crying and stared at him with wide eyes.

"What's… what's wrong?"

Wentworth's heart skipped a beat. Had he said something to give himself away?

Rosier murmured, her hand gently brushing his cheek, her eyes filled with nostalgia. "So similar... So very similar. Those were the exact words our master said to us in Paris all those years ago, weren't they?"

Hearing this, Wentworth exhaled in relief.

But just then, a sharp "tap" came from the window behind him. He turned to look.

"Is that… an owl?"

"Quick! Let it in!"

"Break the glass!"

"Owl incoming!"

The room erupted in chaos.

Let's rewind time a bit. At Hogwarts, in a tower no student had ever set foot in, a faded quill, once resting in a silver inkpot, began to float.

The quill drifted slowly to an ancient black dragonhide book and, with deliberate precision, inscribed a name:

Wentworth Grindelwald.

Moments later, Professor McGonagall appeared outside the headmaster's office.

"Fizzing Whizbee!"

At her words, the door swung open, revealing Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. He stood there in his nightclothes.

"Oh, Professor McGonagall. What brings you here so late? Is there trouble at school? No rush—take your time. Would you like a glass of iced lemonade first?"

As he spoke, Dumbledore waved a hand, and a glass of lemonade floated to her.

But McGonagall, her expression unusually severe, didn't take the drink. Instead, she looked directly at him and said, "Dumbledore, the lemonade can wait. There's something you must know immediately. It concerns the new students. It's urgent!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his calm demeanor unchanged. "A problem with the incoming students, perhaps? Professor McGonagall, I've always had the utmost faith in you. Surely the problem isn't with Hogwarts itself. So, it must be the students? Don't tell me a new student has eaten their acceptance owl!"

Chuckling, he took a sip of his lemonade.

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