The Gazes of the Big Shots

New York was especially lively today—extraordinarily lively.

Anton tore his gaze away from the Dark Wizard riding the Flying Broomstick and looked up.

On a distant rooftop, Grindelwald stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the wind. His old face, lined with crow's feet, was full of irritation as he sneered at the wizard on the Flying Broomstick.

On the rooftop of a building across from his, Dumbledore gave him a complicated look, then turned his gaze to the wizard.

Anton understood at once.

Well, well~

The one directing the Squib Mercenaries and causing trouble behind the scenes had to be that guy on the Flying Broomstick!

From the expressions of the two old men, he could even guess that something had happened between them. Perhaps Dumbledore thought Grindelwald had ordered someone to kill Lupin and him, so he'd been searching all over the world for Old Gellert to challenge him.

Then the aggrieved Grindelwald had followed the course of Fate and made a beeline for this place.

Yeah, probably.

Although Anton couldn't sense any emotions from either of them, he could still feel a little confident in his baseless speculation, judging from their microexpressions and what he knew about them.

Of course, just these two alone didn't make for an especially lively scene.

Anton tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. In the reflection of the 'Lake of the Mind,' a tremendous and razor-sharp Magical Power churned faintly somewhere above.

Compared to the clusters of Magical Power produced by the environment and Nature, the Magical Power coursing through a wizard was far more concentrated and active, brimming with the extreme emotions of the Ego.

This person...

That had to be his dear Professor Voldemort.

Tom Riddle.

Voldemort was every bit as worthy of his name.