Grindelwald nodded, conceding Erwin's point. "I know the method, but it's impossible to imbue so many people with magic using modern spells or potions."
Erwin frowned. "Please explain, sir."
"It's simple," Grindelwald replied. "The only way is through Ancient Magic."
Erwin blinked in surprise. Ancient Magic? He possessed a talent for it himself. He'd once asked the magical voice about it: Ancient Magic involved forging pacts with ancient deities. Such deals required innate talent, as in Merlin's era, when wizards drew power directly from the gods. Even Morgana le Fay, the Dark Witch, had bargained for might rivaling Merlin's. But for reasons lost to time, the gods had faded from the world, leaving only Death as a lingering presence. Ancient Magic had all but vanished, surviving only in fragmented records among the eight ancient pure-blood families. Yet even those scraps paled beside the wonders of Merlin's day.
Grindelwald pressed on. "Ancient Magic has been lost for centuries. Only bloodlines from families like yours can tap even a flicker of it, thanks to your heritage. In today's wizarding world, no one knows how to commune with the gods—or if they even exist anymore."
Erwin's brow furrowed deeper. "Then how did you manage it?"
Grindelwald's eyes distant, he answered, "When I was young, I got lost at sea. The waves carried me to a remote island."
"The Isle of Avalon?" Erwin ventured.
Grindelwald shot him a sharp glance. "Your family's lore runs deep, doesn't it? Yes, the Isle of Avalon."
Erwin said nothing. His knowledge came not from any family secret, but from tales he'd read in wizarding folklore. The Isle of Avalon was the most enigmatic place in the legend of Merlin—a misty sanctuary said to house a high priestess versed in Ancient Magic. She could whisper to the gods and channel their nascent power. In one famous story, she'd brewed a potion for Merlin that saved King Arthur's life—at the cost of Merlin's own mother.
Grindelwald continued, "On the island, we discovered a stone altar beside a crystal goblet filled with a shimmering liquid. My instincts—urged by some ancient pull—told me that pouring it onto the altar would summon a god for a pact."
"You?" Erwin prompted.
Grindelwald nodded curtly. He offered no further details, but Erwin could guess. It must have happened during one of their youthful escapades with Dumbledore—and perhaps his wife.
"So you chose to gift your friend this power?" Erwin asked.
"Yes," Grindelwald confirmed.
"But I've read that Ancient Magic demands balance," Erwin said. "You gain something, but lose equally. What was the price?"
"Originally, my life."
Erwin fell silent, letting the man speak.
"But we found a loophole," Grindelwald said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. He recounted the tale slowly, his voice laced with the weight of decades.
Erwin listened, stunned. These two are brilliant—and utterly mad.
It wasn't a complicated scheme, but it was bold. Grindelwald and Dumbledore had employed a spell Erwin knew all too well: the creation of a Horcrux.
After their first visit to the Isle of Avalon, the duo learned they could return anytime before sealing the pact, guided by implanted memories. So they did, crafting Horcruxes to execute their plan: to dupe the gods themselves.
They split their souls using the dark ritual, but a mere fragment wouldn't suffice to mimic a full soul. Desperate, they carved out larger portions—enough to weaken them both in the years that followed. By merging the two shards into a single vessel, they forged something that pulsed with the rhythm of a complete soul.
With this counterfeit essence, they returned to the island. And it worked. The gods were deceived by the Horcrux born of their combined will.
"You two actually tricked a god?" Erwin said, incredulous. "Seems a bit... underwhelming for a deity."
Grindelwald chuckled dryly. "Gods? They're just more powerful beings, wielding divine essence. I never grasped what that essence truly is, or how to harness it properly. If I had, I might have ascended to their ranks myself."
Erwin stifled a grin. Classic Grindelwald—arrogance that borders on genius.
"If that's the case," Erwin mused, "this pact sounds like an endless cycle. Wouldn't the gods catch on eventually?"
"No," Grindelwald replied firmly. "First, our fused Horcrux mimicked a true soul's aura perfectly—pure luck, and impossible to replicate. Second, you must know the risks of over-splitting your soul."
"It clouds the mind," Erwin said.
"Exactly. But there's worse." Grindelwald's tone darkened. "The Horcrux steals your innate talents."
Erwin's eyes widened. "Talents?"
Grindelwald nodded gravely. "I realized it later. After the split, my grasp of new spells slowed, and my magical reserves stagnated. Dumbledore suffered the same. Otherwise, we'd have rivaled the four founders in power, not lagged so far behind."
Erwin frowned, processing this. Just then, Rowena Ravenclaw's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent.
...
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