“Dark Mark.
Death Eater!?” Gawain took one look and his face went white.
The mark on the dark wizard’s inner forearm was a faded, pale red.
The shape was still unmistakable.
When Voldemort was supposedly “alive,” the mark had been dark and bold.
After Harry Potter “killed” him, every surviving mark had faded to this washed-out pink.
Gawain knew that better than anyone.
It meant the bastard who’d attacked a first-year wasn’t just some random dark wizard.
He was one of Voldemort’s leftover Death Eaters—the ones who’d slipped the net.
It also meant Isaac had soloed a fucking Death Eater.
“Professor Dumbledore, this is urgent!
We need to get him back to the Auror Office right now.
Isaac—” Dumbledore nodded without hesitation.
“Leave Isaac to me.
I’ll keep him safe.” Gawain didn’t argue for a second.
He and his two men grabbed the unconscious Death Eater and Disapparated on the spot.
The Ministry might tiptoe around Voldemort’s name, but Death Eaters?
That was open season.
The group was the biggest loose cannon left in British wizarding society.
Rich pure-bloods who’d played both sides could buy their way out with “Imperius” excuses.
The broke ones with no connections?
They became the Ministry’s favorite punching bags—public executions to keep the old families paying protection money.
This unlucky bastard was about to become the Auror Office’s star case of the year.
One and a half Unforgivable Curses in a single night?
They’d be working overtime on him.
Gawain left with his big win.
Isaac turned to Dumbledore.
“So… you’re moving in here, Professor?” Isaac figured it made sense.
This villa had basically been Grindelwald’s love nest for the old man anyway.
If he could actually talk Dumbledore into staying, Grindelwald might just sign the whole inheritance over to him.
Dumbledore didn’t take the bait.
“Isaac, pack your things.
You’re starting at Hogwarts early.” Isaac shrugged.
“Works for me.” He wasn’t opposed to getting to school ahead of schedule—especially since he’d been dying to raid the Hogwarts library.
Knowledge in the wizarding world was stupidly expensive, and while Flourish and Blotts would happily bill Dumbledore, Isaac didn’t want to push his luck.
If the school library had what he needed, why waste the money?
“Right—Anthony.
What about him?” If one Death Eater had found this house, more could show up later.
Isaac could bail, but Anthony had taken care of him for months.
The old butler handled everything—food, clothes, the whole setup.
Leaving him behind with possible Death Eater visits felt wrong.
Those bastards were basically magical terrorists who got off on torturing Muggles.
“Relax.
Before we leave I’ll layer protective wards on the property.
If anyone unwanted shows up, I’ll know immediately.” Dumbledore looked quietly pleased.
Isaac actually gave a damn about the people who looked after him—something Grindelwald and Dumbledore himself had both been terrible at when they were young.
“For the greater good” had been Dumbledore’s own slogan once upon a time.
“Good enough.” After saying goodbye to Anthony, Isaac met Dumbledore outside.
The headmaster took two of the bags, then held out his hand.
“Grab on, Isaac.” Same crushing Side-Along Apparition.
One heartbeat later they stood on the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts.
“Kreacher~” At Dumbledore’s soft call, a wrinkled, elderly house-elf popped into existence.
“At your service, Professor Dumbledore.” Kreacher bowed deeply, then waited for orders.
“Mr.
Isaac Waldore needs to return to school early for safety reasons.
Please arrange a temporary room for him until the other students arrive.” “Yes, Professor Dumbledore.” Kreacher bowed again, flicked his fingers, and all of Isaac’s luggage floated up by itself.
“This way, Mr.
Waldore.” “Go on, Isaac.
Get some rest.
We can talk more tomorrow.” Isaac nodded and followed the house-elf into the castle.
A few minutes later they stopped in front of an unmarked door on the seventh floor of the Professor’s Tower.
Kreacher pushed it open.
It was a full suite.
“Mr.
Waldore, this is Professor Tower, floor seven—reserved for Hogwarts staff.
You may stay here until term starts.
If you need anything, just call for me.” Kreacher led the way inside.
Isaac’s bags unpacked themselves in seconds—clothes hung in the wardrobe, books lined up on the shelves.
“We clean the professor suites daily and change the linens every morning.
I’ll bring dinner to the door shortly.
Any dietary restrictions, Mr.
Waldore?” “No celery or cilantro.” “Very good.
Sweet dreams tonight.” Kreacher bowed once more and Disapparated.
Isaac kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the big couch, and finally let himself breathe.
The suite was about ninety square meters—two bedrooms, a living room, and a bathroom.
For the first time all day he was completely alone.
And he had time to think.
Running into the Grangers in Diagon Alley was fine.
They were genuinely good people.
The Death Eater who’d tried to kidnap him on the way home?
That was the part Isaac couldn’t wrap his head around.
Voldemort was supposed to be a shadow of himself right now—weak, hiding, barely holding his followers together.
So why the hell was one of his goons bold enough to come after Isaac in broad daylight?
And why him?
His last name was Waldore, not Potter.
The Aurors were probably already waterboarding that Death Eater with Legilimency and Veritaserum.
By tomorrow morning Isaac would have the full story straight from Dumbledore.
Still didn’t mean he was letting Tom Riddle off the hook.
Isaac made a mental note.
Tom, I gave you face.
This is how you repay me?