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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.
(To Be Continued…)