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Inside the shadowed heights of Nurmengard, time seemed to have stilled, turning this long-awaited reunion into something almost like a portrait. The dim light filtering through the narrow windows cast uneven patterns upon the stone walls, illuminating the faces of two former titans of magic— once allies, once adversaries.
Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald regarded one another, the weight of a century between them, half of it filled with unspoken words. The air thrummed with something both profound and impossible to articulate.
It was a meeting of reminiscence and quiet inevitability.
“Please, sit.”
Gellert Grindelwald was the first to break the silence. His prison, though bleak, was not without a certain dignity. The simple furnishings— a bed, a table, a chair— were sparse yet well-kept, their austerity lending the space a solemn air rather than one of neglect.
Time and captivity had left their imprint upon the man who had once sought to reshape the world, but he remained striking. His dark robes, though plain, were impeccably kept, his silvered hair still neatly groomed.
“Did you foresee my arrival?” Dumbledore settled opposite him, his deep-purple robes bearing no trace of the battles they had outlived.
“There was no need for any prophecy. I merely waited, knowing this day would come.” Grindelwald’s blue eyes gleamed like the depths of a fathomless sea.
The fire within them had not been extinguished. The enchanted manacles at his wrists and ankles served as a reminder of his captivity, yet they did little to restrain the fervor that still burned within him.
“The wizard you sent to watch over me is dead. Though perhaps you already knew that.” Dumbledore did not waste words on pleasantries.
It was unclear whether he was unsure how to begin or if he simply wished to avoid the painful specter of the past that lingered between them.
“Word of something like that had reached me.” Grindelwald inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. He did not ask how; he knew well that it was not Nurmengard’s wards that truly confined him.
“You’re not surprised?” Dumbledore did not inquire about the source of this information. It mattered little.
“Ronan Ehrlich was willing to die for the cause. Though, it seems there was an… unexpected element at play.” A flicker of something unreadable passed through Grindelwald’s gaze.
For the briefest moment, one of his pupils turned a ghostly shade of white before returning to its usual clarity.
“You intended for the girl, Aurora, to kill him at the precise moment, didn’t you?” Dumbledore had long suspected this before making the journey, though he had not confided it to anyone, not even Severus.
“On the contrary.” Grindelwald’s lips curved into something resembling a smile, though there was no warmth in it. His words sent a chill through the air, though Dumbledore’s expression remained impassive.
Perhaps this was the answer he had come to confirm.
“That child was the last hope of your bloodline— a gifted descendant, not unlike yourself. Yet you were willing to let her fall to the blades of your own followers.”
Dumbledore exhaled softly.
Grindelwald’s expression did not waver. “Aurora is bright, disciplined, promising. But promise alone is not enough.”
“You understand, don’t you? Aurora’s death would have meant something. That is what you once believed, Albus. What sacrifices must be made? For the greater good.”
Beyond the tower walls, the wind howled.
The wildness in Grindelwald had never truly waned.
If anything, Dumbledore thought, he had become all the more untamed.
“I will not allow it.” At last, Dumbledore met his old friend’s eyes. The quiet, resolute finality in them made something shift within Grindelwald, however imperceptibly.
“You know that what happened back then was… unintended. This is different.” There was an unfamiliar unease in Grindelwald’s voice, as if for once he feared being misunderstood.
“I know that well. Otherwise, you would not be speaking so freely now.” Dumbledore’s voice was unyielding, and yet something about its certainty seemed to ease Grindelwald, rather than provoke him.
“Fate remains an enigma even now,” Grindelwald murmured, almost to himself. “More than ever, I find myself revering its mysteries. But there is one thing I can tell you, with absolute certainty.”
“Albus, if my kin dies at precisely the right moment, a future beyond anything we ever envisioned will unfold before our world.”
There was something close to reverence in his expression. Devotion, even. And yet, it was tinged with something unmistakably fanatical.
He was trying to convince him.
But—
“That will never happen.”
Dumbledore’s reply was quiet, but its force was undeniable.
The glimmer of anticipation in Grindelwald’s gaze dimmed.
After a long moment, he waved a hand dismissively.
“Ah, well. You’ve already proven that I am not always right. And it hardly matters now— someone intervened before you even had to. I will not pursue it further.”
It was a promise.
“In truth, when I first saw you here, I half-expected you to lie. To weave some tale, as you once did, of how Ronan Ehrlich’s fate was merely the result of Hogwarts’ protections.”
Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed faintly, unreadable as moonlight on water.
Even Severus would not have believed such words from him.
Let alone Gellert Grindelwald.
But then—
Grindelwald only smiled and he did not mind.
“We’ve both tasted the bitter fruit of betrayal, haven’t we? So, of course, I wouldn’t lie to you about this.” Gellert Grindelwald smiled, his charm as effortless as ever.
He still possessed the magnetism of his youth and enjoyed his provocations. “In fact, if you were to ask for my help, your inept pupil’s curse would no longer trouble you.”
Faced with Grindelwald’s insinuation, Dumbledore shook his head firmly.
“The curse must remain. It allows him to believe he has the strength to challenge me, to expose the weaknesses he so carefully conceals.”
Dumbledore’s voice was steady and measured. He was not incapable of lifting Hogwarts’ ancient curse— he simply had need of it to serve a greater purpose.
Of all people, perhaps only Grindelwald was unsurprised by this.
“That’s so like you, Albus. I can see it— you’ve just taken lives, and not a few. That part of you, the one you try to bury, has surfaced again.”
“Ever the enigma… Can you tell me what changed you?” Grindelwald leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table between them.
“Can’t you see?” Dumbledore frowned.
“I cannot see everything. We are but mortals, remember?” Grindelwald’s smile remained, masking whatever weaknesses lay beneath.
“I have no intention of enlightening you then. No, it’s better this way. You may as well guess— it might offer you some diversion.”
Dumbledore’s answer made Grindelwald’s smile falter, if only for a moment.
A silence settled between them.
But Dumbledore feigned indifference and shifted the conversation. “You mentioned someone stopped you? I thought Ronnie Ehrlich died by the hand of that young wizard, the one under the Imperius Curse. There was no poison in his body, only alcohol— he had been drinking heavily before he died.”
It was more than a diversion; it was a lingering question in Dumbledore’s mind.
“My Acolytes do not require alcohol to steel their resolve. For them, sacrifice is an honor, a duty to the future.” Grindelwald dismissed Dumbledore’s words with the unwavering conviction of his followers.
“Besides, Ronnie Ehrlich never drank.”
His words were a deliberate reminder.
Dumbledore’s frown deepened. He could not immediately grasp the significance.
“It seems your comfortable life at Hogwarts has dulled your instincts, Albus,” Grindelwald smirked.
“Tell me the answer.” Dumbledore raised his gaze.
Grindelwald, with a slight pout, leaned back in his chair.
“Ronnie Ehrlich sent me a letter. If you find my reply in his office, you will understand why he celebrated.”
One of Grindelwald’s eyes flickered between blue and white with increasing frequency. Something about it unsettled Dumbledore.
“Why not tell me what the reply contained?” He realized Grindelwald was hinting at a prophecy— one that, it seemed, had not fully succeeded.
At least, not yet.
“My reply has not yet been sent, you see.” Grindelwald withdrew a folded parchment from beside the table— its seal still unbroken.
As Dumbledore took in the sight of it, his pupils contracted several times.
“There are no coincidences in this world, Albus. Someone used the Imperius Curse to halt Ronnie Ehrlich’s plans before they could take shape. And they even managed to interfere with my ability to complete a prophecy.”
Grindelwald’s expression did not betray fear or disquiet; if anything, there was a glint of intrigue, even excitement.
Hearing this, Dumbledore’s expression grew more grave. Since his youth, he had been entangled with prophecies, and over the years, he had come to grasp their nuances intimately.
“Someone foresaw the future you sought to shape— and moved to thwart it?” Dumbledore’s knowledge of prophecies made him keenly aware of how dangerous this was.
“Someone disrupted my vision and redirected fate toward their own design. This was not merely a murder, Albus. This was a battle between two seers.”
“And I was the one who lost. But at least now, I understand why.”
Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, his voice smooth, self-assured—deep and magnetic. Even in defeat, he remained composed, and refined.
“If a prophecy comes to pass, it is never a coincidence. If it does not— then that itself is the answer to the riddle.”
His words sent a ripple of unease through Dumbledore.
“Whose coincidence are you speaking of?”
Dumbledore suddenly looked up, his gaze sharp, piercing.
“That, I cannot see. As you have already deduced, this adversary is formidable. Whoever they are… you may find that you need my help.”
Grindelwald did not answer Dumbledore’s question outright— perhaps he did not know the answer himself. Instead, he spoke softly, extending his shackled hands across the table.
“Albus, this time, it is still for the future you long to see.”
In the cold stone walls and the dimly lit chamber.
Once more, Gellert Grindelwald extended an invitation to his oldest friend.
…
The next morning.
The chaos of the previous night seemed to have left no mark upon the dawn of a new day.
After all, even in the darkest days of Voldemort’s reign, Hogwarts had carried on, its lessons proceeding as if nothing had happened. How could a single Ashwinder’s misstep disrupt the rhythm of the school?
As breakfast concluded, the young witches and wizards gathered on the school’s vast lawn. Ravenclaw’s students would be sharing their lesson with the Slytherins— who were generally regarded with suspicion by the other three Houses.
Of course, compared to Gryffindors, Slytherins were slightly more amicable toward Ravenclaws— but only slightly. This often depended on the number of Muggle-borns in Ravenclaw that year.
This being their first Flying lesson, excitement rippled through the students as they clustered together, whispering in anticipation. Some Slytherin students boasted loudly that their families had pre-ordered the yet-to-be-released Nimbus 2000, courtesy of certain connections in the Broom Regulatory Control Office.
“They say it flies faster than a Snidget!”
The Slytherins’ boasts rang across the lawn.
A few Ravenclaws shot them envious looks. Ian, deep in thought, considered that alongside tutoring the House’s bronze eagle on advanced arithmancy, he ought to introduce some fundamental magical physics as well. A well-rounded wizard should be versed in both the arcane and the logical!
“I’m not jealous,” William, Ian’s roommate, declared. “My family’s broom can turn invisible— both itself and the rider. Ian, if you’re interested, I’ll bring it next year and let you see and touch it.”
Coming from an old wizarding family, William possessed no shortage of rare and peculiar artifacts. Who knew what else he had tucked away?
“You are not giving it to me outright?” Ian wasn’t truly interested in the invisible broom. His mind merely wandered back to a similar conversation with Lady Ravenclaw in the Twilight Realm. Perhaps if he had asked not just to see but to keep something, she might have entrusted him with her diadem.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t, Ian. You must believe me! If I gave you my family’s broom, how would I use it to carry out all the menial tasks you and young Grindelwald keep throwing at me?”
It was a remarkably reasonable answer.
Watching William’s earnest, almost righteous expression, Ian realized that flattery was not his strong suit. Some people, it seemed, were simply born to curry favor.
“I always said he’s destined for the Ministry of Magic,” Michael remarked beside them.
“Minister for Magic, more like!”
Ian cast a glance across the field but failed to spot Aurora among the Slytherins. Instead, his eyes caught sight of a bat-like figure striding purposefully toward them.
The Slytherins greeted their Head of House, but Severus Snape barely acknowledged them with a curt nod, striding straight past until he reached Ian and, without preamble, seized him by the collar.
“Professor Snape! Put me down! I can walk on my own!” Ian protested as he was dragged toward the castle, acutely aware of the loss of dignity he was suffering before his classmates.
“What exactly did you give Dumbledore?” Snape demanded once they reached a secluded corridor. His voice, usually smooth and measured, held an uncharacteristic edge of unease.
Ian blinked. “What’s wrong?”
“He instructed me to deliver this to you,” Snape said, tone filled with obvious reluctance. “He hasn’t returned today, yet he sent Fawkes to keep an eye on me all night.”
His already thinning hair appeared even more disheveled than usual— an easy conclusion to draw as to why.
With a resigned sigh, Snape pulled a piece of parchment from his robes and practically flung it at Ian’s chest. The parchment had a faint, smoky scent.
“If I catch you studying the Unforgivable Curses in the library,” Snape warned, his voice low, “Even Dumbledore won’t be able to save you. You’ll drink the vilest potion I can concoct, and I assure you— you will remember its taste for the rest of your life.”
“Ah?”
Ian glanced down at the parchment. Upon reading it, he immediately understood Snape’s concern.
It was an unrestricted permission slip for the Restricted Section of the library.
No conditions. No limitations.
“I knew Dumbledore was a visionary! A true master of wisdom! Indeed, only the truly great understand that magic itself is neither good nor evil— only the hands that wield it!” Ian practically beamed.
“??????”
Snape was left reeling, filled with questions he didn’t even know how to articulate.
‘Did he have to accept that he was the narrow-minded one?’
“Remember my warning,” Snape muttered darkly. There was something about Ian and Dumbledore’s exchanges that made Snape feel distinctly like an outsider— even as one who shared blood ties with the Headmaster.
Blood ties?
At that moment, something in Snape’s mind clicked.
“Oi! What are you doing?!”
Before Ian could react, Snape abruptly turned back and yanked several strands of hair from Ian’s head.
Clutching his prize, Snape spun on his heel and strode away, making a beeline for the castle. The urgency in his movements was unmistakable.
Ian’s eyes widened as realization dawned.
“That greasy bat! He’s trying to make Polyjuice Potion! He’s going to impersonate me and sneak into the girls’ bathroom to do something unspeakable!”
Ian started to give chase.
But Madam Hooch’s sharp whistle blew across the field, signaling the start of their Flying lesson.
William and Michael, already waiting near their brooms, called out to him.
With one last glare at Snape’s retreating figure, Ian let out a frustrated sigh and turned back toward the lesson.
(End of this chapter)
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