The prison fortress of Nurmengard stood sentinel atop its formidable mountain peak, a sheer ascent of black, ancient stone that seemed to claw its way into the Austrian sky. It was less a building and more an ominous giant carved into the earth itself.
The walls, forged from thick, light-absorbing basalt, seemed to actively suppress sound and warmth, radiating a profound, crushing sense of magical pressure.
There was no need for conventional guards here. The true protection lay in the colossal, heavy iron gate that blocked the main passage—a masterpiece of dark magic. The gate was not merely locked; it was a woven matrix of intricate, pulsating runes and protective, malevolent enchantments, capable of emitting a terrifying, bone-deep power.
Thick, slow-moving clouds and fog perpetually encircled the summit, clinging to the tower like a morbid shawl. The swirling vapor seemed semi-sentient, shrouding Nurmengard in an air of profound mystery and dread.
Sebastian, standing beside him, observed the architectural terror, but Albus Dumbledore was entirely lost in the sight above the entrance arch. Chiseled into the stone, still gleaming faintly despite the decades of weather, were the words that defined their shared tragedy:
FOR THE GREATER GOOD
Dumbledore had foolishly imagined he could maintain a calm, academic distance, perhaps recount the tragic history of the phrase to Sebastian. But now, all thought of the young man and his relentless ambition evaporated. Every lesson, every plan, every political maneuver was instantly secondary to the sheer, visceral weight of this place.
Forty-six years.
Forty-six years since he had last stood before the man who was once his dearest friend, his intellectual equal, his revolutionary partner, and his greatest sorrow. Is he well? Has the solitude broken him entirely?
Dumbledore took a staggering, deep breath, preparing to confront the wreckage of his youth. He walked forward, his footsteps echoing with unnatural clarity on the bare, cold rock of the mountaintop. Each step felt less like movement and more like a heavy dialogue with the past, the rhythmic thudding a count of all the years he had lived in lonely responsibility.
He reached out, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and touched the intricate, cold iron door. The metal's freezing touch instantly recalled the burning heat of those summer days in Godric's Hollow—the exhilaration of their impossible dreams, the shared pursuit of world-altering power, and the sudden, devastating implosion of their passion. The door, recognizing the touch of the one man who possessed the ultimate right to pass, slowly and reluctantly ground open.
Dumbledore stepped into the interior of Nurmengard. It was a realm of oppressive austerity. Long, lightless corridors stretched into an unknown, silent darkness, flanked by monolithic stone walls. The only illumination came from widely spaced, dim torches that cast dancing, flickering shadows.
Deep, geometric carvings—Grindelwald's own artistry—lined the walls, and under the guttering light, they seemed to whisper tales of ideological fanaticism, brutal loneliness, and unending struggle.
Dumbledore's pace slowed to an almost agonizing crawl. He was unsure if he wanted the reunion to happen faster or slower. The central staircase leading to the highest prison cell felt endless, each heavy, vertical step an incredibly difficult climb, the weight of guilt and time pressing down on his old legs.
Finally, he reached the highest level and found a small, plain room. The heavy door was slightly ajar, a faint, almost holy light spilling from within.
Dumbledore pushed the door open, his heart hammering against his ribs.
There, sitting silently on a narrow, hard bed covered only by a thin, threadbare blanket, was Gellert Grindelwald.
His appearance was shocking. His body was tragically thin, skeletal beneath his worn prison robes. But his gaze, that terrible, renowned cold-blue gaze, was profoundly calm and deep, the eyes of a man who had seen the raw heart of the world and was no longer surprised by its ugliness.
Grindelwald smiled faintly as the Headmaster entered, a complex tapestry of emotions—relief, regret, and something akin to quiet amusement—in his eyes.
"Albus," Grindelwald's voice was a low, dry rasp, yet perfectly audible. "I confess, I was uncertain. You received my letter, then? Very good. You came to see me."
Grindelwald looked around the cell, a slight, self-deprecating shake of his head. "I have waited a very, very long time. Forty-six years, to be precise."
Dumbledore's own eyes instantly flooded with unshed tears, blurring the sharp lines of the cell. The gaunt, frail figure before him shimmered, overlaying itself with the image of a handsome, vibrant youth whose presence could ignite revolution. The friend, the lover, the comrade, and the rival—all merged by the crucible of time.
Dumbledore took a single, slow step closer, his voice barely a breath. "Gellert. It has been far too long."
Grindelwald smiled again and patted the hard mattress beside him, a gesture of unexpected familiarity. "Please, sit. My accommodations are regrettably minimalist; no sheets, not even a cushion. I hope the spartan aesthetic doesn't offend your sensibilities."
He gestured with a thin hand towards the single, tall window, where the relentless, swirling mountain mist provided the only view.
"Though simple, the window offers a magnificent perspective, Albus. I often stand here, watching the sunrise, the sunset, the impossible dance of the clouds. Just the night before last, the sky was ablaze with stars—a sight of terrifying, silent beauty. I stared until my neck cramped, and then I simply slumped against the wall and slept."
Grindelwald's attention shifted, pointing his finger up towards a dusty corner of the ceiling where a fragile, glistening web was draped across the shadow.
"But I derive more contentment from my neighbor. The spider. Look at her, Albus. She sits there, quietly spinning, meticulously building her beautiful, terrible snare. Always busy, always dedicated."
"It's humorous, isn't it? We were once so consumed with the vastness of our goal—a global utopia, For The Greater Good—that we ignored the quiet miracle of the everyday. Now, in the profound silence of this existence, I find true, enduring fascination in the simplest things. The patience of the spider, the slow crawl of the cloud."
He turned back, his head tilted as he examined Dumbledore's aged face. "I wrote you so many letters, sharing these small wonders, but I never received a reply." Grindelwald smiled wryly. "Time has treated us differently, Albus. You have grown so much older, your beard longer and heavier. I remember when you used to talk endlessly. Now you sit in silence."
Dumbledore felt the profound ache of truth in those words. His own mind, usually a fortress of logic and strategic planning, finally began to settle, grounded by Grindelwald's philosophical resignation. He managed a smile—a genuine, relieved smile that acknowledged the shared path and the complexity of their bond.
"Yes…" Dumbledore agreed softly, the single word carrying the weight of all their lost years.
Sebastian stood rigidly in the shadows just outside the slightly opened door, maintaining absolute silence. He knew this moment belonged entirely to the two aging titans of the wizarding world. He listened, absorbing the emotional energy, the unspoken history, and the profound, aching sincerity in Grindelwald's voice.
This silent observation was an invaluable masterclass. Sebastian used the opportunity to conduct an unobtrusive magical assessment.
He carefully focused his inner sight, feeling the presence of Grindelwald's magic. Despite the decay of his physical shell—the skeletal frame, the deep-set eyes, the gray, thinning hair—Grindelwald's magical core was shockingly intact. It pulsed with a dense, luminous power, dazzling and pure, like a perfectly preserved, high-grade reactor. The physical man was fading, but the magical wizard was still one of the most powerful beings Sebastian had ever encountered.
He may be physically frail, but the mind that conceived the impossible is still fully operational, Sebastian realized, lost in his contemplation of the historical figure.
He mentally reviewed the man's legend: Gellert Grindelwald—a revolutionary who was not merely mad, but a person of radical, uncompromising idealism. He possessed an intellect easily classified as genius-level, coupled with an utterly ruthless and dedicated personality.
He meticulously crafted his plans, capable of outmaneuvering entire ministries, and was utterly unconcerned with the cost of lives in pursuit of his singular, shining goal. This is a man who single-handedly brought the US Ministry of Magic to its knees, Sebastian reminded himself.
He also remembered the terrifying power of his charisma. Even today, decades into his incarceration, the international political party he founded (UMNO) still held sway, and many of its members spoke of him with profound reverence, awaiting a signal for his new command. This man wasn't just a Dark Lord; he was a charismatic ideologue.
Sebastian carefully observed the thin, drawn face, contrasting it with the noble, almost impossibly handsome descriptions of the young revolutionary. The physical destruction was nearly complete, but the light in the eyes—the terrible, intelligent light—was undimmed. Sebastian was incapable of underestimating him.
Suddenly, the voice from inside the room cut through Sebastian's analytical trance. Grindelwald's tone was alert, breaking the spell of the past.
"Albus, I must confess, I find myself distracted. The young man has been standing outside for some time now. He is trying very hard not to breathe, which is rather tedious. Would you not introduce him to me?"
Sebastian took a breath, stepped into the meager light of the cell, and executed a shallow, formal bow.
"Hello, Mr. Grindelwald. It is a genuine privilege to meet you." Sebastian introduced himself with professional courtesy. "I am Sebastian Swann, Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts School."
Grindelwald's cold-blue eyes fixed instantly on Sebastian, conducting a surgical, immediate appraisal that seemed to strip away the robes and the smile. The silence that followed stretched interminably, heavy with unspoken judgment.
Finally, Grindelwald smiled, a thin, almost skeletal curve of the lips.
"A very impressive young man, Albus. His magical signature is quite bright, and his charm, though aggressively managed, is dazzling. He possesses the undeniable style of my youth—the ambition, the self-belief, the certainty of a better way."
He nodded slowly, acknowledging the power that flowed through Sebastian.
"I already know precisely why you have come here, Professor Swann. Your purpose is not merely to learn, but to acquire the final, necessary tool for the coming conflict—a tool of such destructive finality that the only man who knows its proper application resides here."
Grindelwald's lips curved into a wider, sharper smile, as if he had just delivered a devastating, private joke.
"You seek the knowledge of Fire Shield, the method of directing the boundless, consuming entity we call Fiendfyre. A fascinating pursuit."
He leaned back against the hard stone wall of his cell, the smile hardening into a mask of total refusal.
"I am afraid, young professor, that we will be unable to reach your desired destination."
"Because I…" Grindelwald paused, then delivered the final, crushing sentence, directed not at Sebastian's greed for power, but at the sheer audacity of the transaction. He looked past Sebastian, meeting Dumbledore's pained gaze with a subtle hint of old, familiar rivalry.
"...Do not give my life's work away to children who can simply afford it."