Squeak——
Creak, bang!
The wind, descending upon the world along with the curtain of rain, slammed the rickety iron door open. Thick dust, stirred by the impact, settled to the ground, as insects, startled by the noise, scurried over the crumbled bricks and disappeared into the shadows of the wall corners in an instant.
"Thunk——"
The chisel, its tip worn down, strayed from its intended path, leaving a deep groove on the dark gray stone block.
"..."
Looking at the stone carving, just a step away from completion yet ruined in the end, the elderly man's face was devoid of any expression of frustration. After a moment of silence, he tossed the flawed piece aside, leaned over, and searched through the pile of stones in the corner with his calloused hands.
"Cough, cough..."
Raindrops passed through the window frame, which lacked any glass, tapping on the wooden board beneath the elderly man… if that slab of stone could indeed be called a bed.
The man's hands paused in their movements. As he turned his head, there, at the wide-open doorway, stood a figure drenched to the bone — he realized it hadn't been him who had coughed just then.
"Master——"
From behind the figure, an aged and decrepit House-Elf peeked out, looking at the elderly man reclining on the stone bed with a fearful gaze, occasionally glancing at Dumbledore standing by the door, its expression one of hesitation and discomfort.
The elderly man didn't speak; he simply waved his hand. The House-Elf, as if receiving a pardon, retreated rapidly with a face full of relief, leaving only the two of them in the space.
"...Thunk, thunk."
A silence, nearly deathly, lingered on for an indeterminate period. Finally, the elderly man picked up the stone lying by the bed and resumed his carving with the chisel.
"Clack."
The lid of a silver "lighter" snapped open, and in the next moment, the room's ceiling light, seemingly beyond repair, miraculously came to life, illuminating the dim room even more brightly than when it was undamaged.
"Looks quite alright."
After standing at the doorway for a long time, Dumbledore finally made a move. He put away the Deluminator in his hand, stepped into the room with slow strides, and after a brief survey, he picked up a roughly hewn stone carving from the windowsill—he furrowed his eyebrows, scrutinizing it for a prolonged period.
Hmm, hard to tell… perhaps a Swooping Evil?
Hearing this, the elderly man merely curled his lips and shook his head. "So, this is the opening line you pondered for three minutes?"
"You knew I would come——"
"Just didn't think it would take this long—actually, I once truly believed we'd never meet again in this lifetime."
"So did I."
"I know."
The elderly man blew lightly, and the stone dust chiseled off was scattered to the ground.
Once more, the scene sank into a state of awkward silence. Dumbledore, furrowing his brow, stood wordlessly in the middle of the room. He had envisioned their "reunion" many times; yet, this was merely an illusion, and as the moment arrived, all his preconceptions and preparations seemed utterly futile—
"Gellert…" The elderly man's voice was hoarse.
Thus, Gellert Grindelwald lifted his head, meeting Dumbledore's eye with an intent to speak but no words forthcoming. He did not intend to respond, simply gazing at him quietly, his deep blue eyes appearing somewhat cloudy, with sunken eye sockets, a skeletal frame, and a withered visage—all of which seemed to indicate an utterly abysmal quality of life.
"...Sorry, I didn't know."
Dumbledore's voice and gaze held a note of apology, his eyes swept across the surrounding environment, brows furrowing involuntarily.
"No, you knew very well. The news that Nimangard was abandoned should have been on your desk five years ago."
Grindelwald shook his head, easily and mercilessly poking a hole in Dumbledore's "lie". He lowered his head again, focusing on the stone block he was carving. "You just didn't want to let yourself know, you're very clear about this fact, Albus."
"..."
"Besides, it's nothing, I'm a criminal, and this should be the treatment a criminal receives."
Noticing Dumbledore's silence, Grindelwald chuckled; his overly emaciated cheekbones almost prevented him from making this expression.
"...No, a normal prison should have guards."
Dumbledore paused briefly in silence, before sweeping his gaze around once more and shaking his head—just as Grindelwald had said, Nimangard had been completely abandoned in 1987, and the meeting to abandon it was presided over by none other than Dumbledore. Although only one prisoner was held here, that prisoner's identity…
The Ministries of Magic from various countries had once gathered to discuss whether or not to transfer this Dark Lord, who had once caused a major upheaval in the magic world, but in the end, under Dumbledore's insistence, the result was merely the withdrawal of the long-term stationed Wizards nearby, and the castle renovation became once every three years instead of three times a year.
'He won't leave.'
And just like Dumbledore had assured, Grindelwald had no intention of leaving the cell, even though it had never been locked.
"The Minister of Magic mentioned to me a few times, recently the Dementors at Azkaban have been multiplying..." Dumbledore said slowly.
"?"
Grindelwald's expression twitched unusually, and he looked up in bewilderment, observing Dumbledore's earnest expression. The old man opened his mouth in slight confusion.
"...Just a joke."
Dumbledore subconsciously rubbed his beard. Someone had been bantering in front of him every day lately, causing his thoughts to be quite distracted, often straying off the original topic when speaking to others...
"...So, Albus, what do you want to do?"
Grindelwald sighed, furrowing his brows, placing the stone and chisel he held to the side.
"I need a prophecy—"
Dumbledore didn't continue with riddles and instead spoke directly—he knew of Grindelwald's talent in prophecies. Although he wasn't an expert, he was much better than that half-baked one at Hogwarts, at least Grindelwald could control his skills.
"...I thought you never believed in these."
Grindelwald hesitated, a flash of white light flickering in his cloudy blue eyes, staring at Dumbledore for a long time, unable to resist frowning.
"I didn't before, but people change, just like you and I—"
Dumbledore let out a sigh, moving to the windowsill. The howling storm outside was kept at bay, a low stone stool appeared beneath the old man, and he picked up a white teacup from mid-air, while another appeared by Grindelwald's side.
"Perhaps so."
Grindelwald shrugged, picking up the teacup by his side and taking a sip. The warmth of the tea made him squint his eyes in satisfaction, letting out a comfortable sigh, "But that has nothing to do with you wanting to hear a 'prophecy'—Albus, you're not a fool who believes in such nonsense, unless... you encountered something?"
"...Another prophecy, and a variable."
Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, not elaborating further.
"Does it have to do with that lunatic who was wreaking havoc in Great Britain ten years ago?"
Grindelwald furrowed his brows, a figure appearing in his mind. Although he had never witnessed it firsthand, how could he lack means to connect with the outside world? That House-Elf, who wasn't really restricted in personal freedom, could bring him quite a bit of news while ensuring his normal provisions.
Honestly, he didn't think highly of this so-called peer of the new generation Dark Lord—a butcher wielding power, with no reverence for life, and no restraint whatsoever. He never believed that one who calls himself Voldemort could amount to much, and the development of events went just as he expected—
Voldemort's downfall was swift, even swifter than his own rise to power, and the war came to an abrupt halt.
When Grindelwald heard that it was even an infant in swaddling that ended this war, defeated Voldemort, he felt a pang of shame.
Honestly, was his performance really so lackluster previously, to be compared to those journalists and that lunatic?
After all, he lost to the most powerful White Wizard in all of the United Kingdom, didn't he?
"Yes, you know about Soul Artifacts, right."
Dumbledore nodded, not intending to hide anything.
"I see."
A hint of understanding appeared on Grindelwald's face. It seemed he had realized the reason behind Voldemort's bloodthirstiness—Soul Artifacts, a way to obtain immortality by tearing apart one's complete soul. He had certainly heard of it, but never intended to do so himself.
"So, you want me to help you find that man's Soul Artifacts... no, what do you mean by the variable you mentioned?"
Grindelwald nodded knowingly first, but then, as if recalling something, he furrowed his brow again.
But this time, Dumbledore didn't answer. He just sat there silently, looking at the frail old man lying in bed, eventually letting out a sigh, "Actually, I plan to release you."
"?"
Shock.
Grindelwald's eyes were filled with shock, this sentence hit him harder than the shock Dumbledore's unexpected appearance at the door had caused earlier. He opened his mouth, not knowing what to say, looking at Dumbledore's serious expression, he suddenly seemed to calm down—
"Are you serious?"