The fortress of Nurmengard stood like a monument to failed ambition.
Its black towers clawed at the October sky, surrounded by wards that had held for fifty years—the prison built by Grindelwald to house his opponents during his war, now serving as his own cage.
The irony wasn't lost on Voldemort.
"The wards are... formidable, my lord," Bellatrix wheezed, still bearing the marks of Azkaban's tender care. "Even weakened, they resist."
"Futile resistance," Voldemort replied, raising his wand.
The wards shattered like spun glass with a single spell from Voldemort.
His followers flinched at the casual display of power, but Voldemort paid them no mind.
He was here for a specific purpose—not to gain allegiance from another Dark Lord, but to acquire Grindelwald's followers. With Arthur's victory still fresh and the Ministry throwing roadblocks at every turn, deterring potential recruits, his forces remained weaker than he needed for comprehensive victory.
He had the dark creatures, yes, but lacked sufficient wizards of true power. This visit would remedy that deficiency.
The courtyard filled with shapes—wizards in traveling cloaks, their faces hard with anticipation. Grindelwald's faithful, who had bargained with Voldemort: their aid in his war for their master's freedom.
"He's in the topmost cell," their leader said, a scarred man with silver hair. "We've tried for years—"
"Spare me your failures," Voldemort cut him off. "Lead the way."
The tower's interior reeked of dark magic and despair. Each step upward seemed to press against them, as if the very stones remembered what they contained.
They found the former Dark Lord in a cell that mocked its occupant—spacious, furnished, almost comfortable. A gilded cage for a fallen eagle.
Gellert Grindelwald didn't turn when they entered. He sat by the window, watching clouds with the patience of a man who'd counted every stone in his prison many times.
"I expected Albus," he said in accented English, still not looking. "Fifty years, and you send me Tom Riddle instead."
"Dumbledore is dead," Voldemort said flatly. "Killed by my design."
Now Grindelwald turned, and Voldemort almost stepped back. Grindelwald looked nothing like he expected instead he looked like defeat given form. Thin to the point of frailty, hair gone white as bone. But his eyes... those mismatched eyes turned, focused, and Voldemort saw the ghost of what this man had been. What time and failure had ground to dust.
The sight reinforced his pursuit of immortality. If age could reduce Grindelwald to this, what might it have done to him?
"By your design," Grindelwald said softly. "Not by your hand."
"The method is irrelevant. He's gone."
"Nothing about Albus is irrelevant." Grindelwald rose slowly, joints protesting. "Fifty years I waited. Not for rescue. For him. For one last conversation. Tell me, did he mention me? At the end?"
"No. I heard he was busy trying to turn one of my followers by offering second chances."
Something flickered across the ancient face. Not surprise. Perhaps... acceptance.
"Of course he did. Always the next generation with Albus. Always looking forward, never back." Grindelwald's laugh sounded like autumn leaves being crushed. "Do you know what the cruelest thing about my imprisonment was, Tom?"
Voldemort remained silent.
"He never visited. Not once. Fifty years, and the man who put me here never came to gloat, to lecture, to even acknowledge what we'd been. I've had five decades to wonder if I meant so little that I wasn't worth a conversation, or so much that he couldn't bear to see what I'd become."
His followers shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't the reunion they'd imagined. This broken figure bore little resemblance to the lord they'd served.
"My lord," the silver-haired man stepped forward. "We've kept your vision alive. Waited for this moment—"
"Have you?" Those strange eyes fixed on him. "Tell me, Klaus, what was my vision?"
"The Greater Good. Wizard supremacy. Our rightful place—"
Grindelwald's laugh was dry as parchment. "Slogans. You kept slogans alive. The vision died in that final duel with Albus."
"But with your return—"
"Look at me." He spread arms that trembled with age. "What returns? An old man whose bones ache with winter. Whose greatest enemy is already beyond reach."
"I have no time for theatrics," Voldemort said, growing bored with the display. "I don't need another Dark Lord, merely your believers."
"Ah." Grindelwald's smile held bitter amusement. "You want my name, not my power. How practical. No competition."
"Will you give it to me?"
The old man moved to the window again, looking toward Britain. "What did Albus do with my wand?"
The question seemed random, but Voldemort sensed its importance. "Your wand?"
"A very special wand, unlike any other. Albus won it from me in our duel. Where is it now?"
"You speak of Dumbledore's wand from his later years?" Voldemort calculated quickly. "It would be in his tomb. But Hogwarts is heavily guarded. The Ministry—"
"Then your war serves two purposes." Grindelwald turned fully, and for a moment, Voldemort glimpsed the man who'd terrorized Europe. "Win your battle. Take your Britain. But bring me that wand."
"And your followers?"
"Will fight as they always have. For symbols and slogans and dreams of glory." His smile turned cruel. "Use them well, Tom. They make excellent pawns."
"We are not pawns!" Klaus protested.
"No?" Grindelwald's magic flickered—weak but precise. The man froze mid-word. "Fifty years you've had to free me, and you needed a different Dark Lord to manage it. What would you call yourselves if not failures waiting to become casualties?"
He turned back to Voldemort. "The wand. That's my price. Let an old man hold his youth once more before the end."
"Done." Voldemort had no intention of honoring the bargain, but lies cost nothing. "The battle comes soon. Enjoy your freedom while I plan the siege of Hogwarts."
They left, Grindelwald's followers buzzing with plans and Voldemort already calculating their use as cannon fodder.
Behind them, Gellert Grindelwald returned to his window, counting clouds and wondering if Albus had thought of him at all, even once, in all those years.
—
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"
Harry threw himself sideways as Moody's Killing Curse—and it was definitely a Killing Curse, the green light was unmistakable—carved a trench where he'd been standing.
"Moody!" Sirius shouted. "That's actual murder you're attempting!"
"And it's actual murder the Death Eaters will be attempting!" the scarred Auror roared back, his magical eye spinning wildly as he tracked Harry's desperate dodging. "You think they'll use Stunners? They'll use everything they've got, and if the boy can't handle it in training—"
Harry launched himself upward, the jumping charm Arthur had suggested proving its worth as the floor beneath him sprouted metallic spikes.
"Better!" Flitwick called from his perch atop a conjured platform. "Now counter-attack! A stationary target is a dead target!"
Harry tried, he really did, but casting while airborne while also trying not to die proved challenging. His Stunning Spell went wide, and Moody's follow-up caught him in the shoulder, spinning him into a crash landing that left him seeing stars.
"Dead," Moody announced flatly. "If that had been Bellatrix Lestrange, you'd be in pieces small enough to post."
"Encouraging as always," Harry groaned, accepting Sirius's hand up.
Arthur watched from his usual spot, noting Harry's improvement. The boy's enhanced speed served him well, but his thinking remained too linear. "Do not restrict yourself, Harry. You can even fight on a broom if that suits your style."
"Easy for you to say," Harry muttered, then louder: "Any chance you could demonstrate?"
"No."
"Worth asking."
Moody stumped over, his wooden leg clicking ominously. "Enough games. We need to talk."
They gathered around, Harry gratefully accepting water from Sirius while trying not to show how much his everything hurt.
"My sources in the Ministry—the ones that aren't dead or compromised—say You-Know-Who's moving. Last week of October, full assault on Hogwarts."
The training room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"How reliable?" Sirius asked, all humor gone.
"Reliable enough. He's gathered allies—giants, werewolves, those damned spiders from the Forest. Even convinced some of Grindelwald's old crowd to join."
"Grindelwald's people?" Arthur's interest sharpened. "Still clinging to their dreams after all these years?"
"Apparently." Moody's magical eye spun wildly. "Grindelwald's rotting in Nurmengard still, but his followers are joining up. Don't know what You-Know-Who promised them."
Harry had gone pale but determined. "A week. That's not much time."
"It's what we've got," Moody said grimly. "Ministry's mobilizing everything. Every Auror, every able wand. Even got the French sending support."
"Will it be enough?" Harry asked quietly.
Sirius glanced at Arthur. "If someone agreed to help, we'd be certain of victory."
"That someone holds no love for the wizarding world," Arthur replied evenly, "and the feeling is mutual."
"They'll change when they see you easily destroy You-Know-Who's forces while saving their lives," Moody pressed.
"Will they? Or will they simply declare me the next Dark Lord once Tom's gone?" Arthur's tone remained mild. "I've seen how they treat Harry. When needed, he's the hero. When not, he's an attention-seeking, delusional brat."
"We're changing," Sirius insisted. "After the war, we could change the wizarding world together."
"I'm not so optimistic. Better to focus on Harry. He is, after all, the Chosen One."
"Please don't remind me," Harry said nervously. "I've grown stronger these past months, but Voldemort's had decades to perfect his craft. I need an edge, something he won't expect."
Arthur studied Harry, who had grown quite different from what he might have been—more confident and capable, yet weighed down by fate's burden.
"Wait here," Arthur said, disappearing with a crack.
He reappeared moments later with a leather-bound book. Nothing fancy, just an ordinary-looking tome.
"What's this?" Harry accepted it carefully.
"An interesting find," Arthur said. "The Tongue of Serpents—Voice as Magic. Translated from the original Sanskrit. Turns out Parseltongue isn't just for chatting with snakes."
Harry's eyes widened as he flipped through pages. "This is... I can cast spells in Parseltongue?"
"More than that. Parseltongue is one of the oldest magical languages. Spells cast through it are raw, primal. Tom won't expect you to weaponize your shared gift."
"Where did you find this?" Sirius asked, peering over Harry's shoulder.
"Here and there," Arthur said vaguely. "What matters is that it's perfect for Harry. Well, him and Tom."
"But if Tom knows this skill—"
"He doesn't." Arthur's smile turned sharp. "That I can guarantee."
"How can you be certain—" Moody started.
"Because if Tom knew battle magic in Parseltongue, he would have conquered the wizarding world during the first war," Arthur said simply. "Even Dumbledore wouldn't have stood much chance against a Parseltongue-powered Tom."
Harry had already started hissing at the first incantation, and the training dummy in the corner burst into pieces.
"Wicked," Harry breathed.
"Practice carefully," Arthur warned. "This magic responds to emotion more than intent. Anger makes it vicious. Fear makes it wild."
"Joy makes it creative?" Harry asked hopefully.
"No idea. I don't speak snake."
The rest of the session devoted itself to Harry experimenting with his newfound ability. By the end, he'd managed a stunning spell that could breach even Moody's shields.
"One week," Moody reminded them as they prepared to leave. "Be ready."
"We will be," Sirius said firmly.
Arthur said nothing. He would be ready—with popcorn to witness a war for the ages.
—
October 30th arrived with the kind of warm evening that made you forget winter was coming. Arthur was enjoying a particularly good scotch and a genuinely terrible book when his wards announced a visitor.
Sirius Black stood at his door, looking haggard and smelling distinctly of firewhiskey.
"Drinking before battle?" Arthur asked, pouring his own glass. "Poor form."
"Liquid courage," Sirius corrected, dropping into a chair. "Though I could use the real kind too."
"The Ministry's forces insufficient?"
"We've got numbers. They've got monsters." Sirius stared into his glass. "Giants don't care about Stunning Charms. Dementors don't care about anything."
"You'll manage."
"Will we?" Sirius looked up sharply. "That's actually why I'm here."
Arthur waited.
"Can you really not fight?" Sirius said quietly. "It would help lift the gloom that's settled over everything."
"I told you before—"
"I know what you told me." Sirius leaned forward. "But I've only recently gained this new life—something to live for. Harry, Amelia... I've spent so long running or rotting in Azkaban that I'd forgotten what having a future felt like. And now, right when I remember, it's probably going to end."
"Have confidence in Harry. He's fated to vanquish Tom."
"But what if everyone else dies first?" Sirius's voice cracked with desperation. "What if tomorrow we all fall, and Harry defeats him standing alone among corpses?"
Arthur studied his friend—and somewhere along the way, Sirius had become exactly that. How inconvenient.
"Arthur, please. I know you have your reasons, but if you fought—"
"No."
"You could end it in minutes!"
"Yes."
"Then why—"
"Because pain is the only teacher that leaves scars deep enough to remember." Arthur's voice was calm, almost gentle. "If I solve this for you, what happens next time? And there will be a next time, Sirius. There always is. Another Dark Lord, another threat, another excuse for the wizarding world to hide behind someone else's power instead of finding their own spine."
"People will die!"
"People always die. It's rather what they're best at." Arthur sipped his scotch. "The question is whether their deaths teach anything."
"That's cold, even for you."
"Is it? Tell me, Sirius, how many wizards are there in Britain? Twenty thousand? Thirty? And how many Death Eaters? A few hundred at most? Every witch and wizard has a wand. If they united, if they fought together instead of waiting for a kid to save them, Tom would be dead within the hour."
"It's not that simple—"
"It's exactly that simple. But they won't, because they've been trained to be sheep. They bleat for a shepherd when the wolf comes, never realizing they outnumber the wolf a hundred to one."
Sirius was quiet for a long moment. "You really won't help."
"I'll ensure the war ends tomorrow. If Harry can't defeat Tom, I will. I'll keep Amelia and Susan safe. But the rest?" Arthur shrugged. "The rest need to learn that citizenship in the magical world comes with a price."
"You're talking about hundreds of deaths."
"I'm talking about a lesson. The muggle world is advancing, Sirius. In twenty years, maybe less, the Statute of Secrecy will be a worthless piece of paper. When that happens, wizards will face threats that make Tom Riddle look like a playground bully. If they can't handle one megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, how will they handle missiles that fly faster than spells and bombs that can level cities?"
Sirius went very pale. "Muggles can't—"
"Muggles can and do. Daily. They just usually point them at each other." Arthur conjured an image—a mushroom cloud rising over a desert. "This is from 1945. They've gotten much better at it since."
"Merlin's beard."
"Merlin would weep. The world's moving forward, and wizards are still fighting the same wars with the same spells for the same stupid reasons. Tomorrow's battle needs to hurt enough that they finally, finally learn."
"And if I die tomorrow?"
"Then I'll raise a glass to your memory and make sure Harry doesn't do anything too stupid at your funeral."
Despite everything, Sirius snorted. "Your eulogy skills need work."
"I'll practice."
They drank in silence for a while, watching the fire.
"Any advice?" Sirius finally asked. "Since you won't be saving our asses?"
"You were a prankster once. The Marauders, wasn't it? Death Eaters expect Auror tactics—formal dueling, defensive positions, strategic withdrawals. They don't expect dungbombs filled with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, or any of the hundred creative ways you used to torment Slytherins."
A slow smile spread across Sirius's face. "Chaos."
"Chaos is just another word for opportunity. Use it."
As Sirius stood to leave, he paused at the door. "If I don't make it tomorrow—"
"You will. You're too stubborn to die before you've properly embarrassed Harry in front of his kids."
"I already have plans for that."
"Then you definitely can't die."
After Sirius left, Arthur returned to his firewhiskey and his thoughts. Tomorrow, the wizarding war would likely end, one way or another.
The calm before the storm. Perfect.