Chapter Text
Nurmengard
Mist floated around the base of the gray stone tower, lit by the nearly full moon blazing bright behind drifting clouds.
He walked down the stairs, outside for the first time in more than half a century, a smirk twisting his aged features as he looked at the semi-circle of nine black-robed figures waiting for him.
They had deemed him worthy of their rescue.
Or, so they had said as they declared their intentions while murdering everyone in the tower but him.
His cracked boots made no sound on the stone as he walked down to mee them.
He stopped most of the way down the stairs, just above the ghostly fog, and his eyes flashed with a hint of his power. He stood before them, his tattered robes hanging motionless around him.[Ma1]
He looked around at them with scorn - and rage.
He held up the wand he'd taken from the body of his closet friend — the man who guarded his door. The man who greeted him every morning for two decades. An auror who had done his duty, both imprisoning him and protecting his life, never once speaking of where he stood his watch. Never revealing the old man still lived, still yearned – still waited for a day he knew would never come.
He had failed, after all. He had failed because the world had not truly wanted what he thought it should want. He had failed because he reached too far, too fast – done too much in the name of the greater good.
A man who had become his friend, despite himself. A man who had not deserved to die for the ambitions and agendas of a war that should have ended when he had been sealed into the tower, so long ago.
"You killed them. All of them. I've known some of them for decades. They stood guard over me, treating me as a man despite what I've done. Honorable witches and wizards, all. How dare you strike them down?"
His guards had died screaming. They’d even killed the old house elf who cooked and cleaned for him.
“Why would you do that?” There was a note of confused grief in the old prisoner’s steady voice. “What purpose did their deaths serve? What cause did you waste their blood upon? What gain did their lives buy you?”
Was this new generation of zealots this foolish? This wasteful and callous about the lives they took?
Wizardkind had fallen far in fifty years if these were the best that could be sent. Gluttons for violence without purpose.
Barbarians. As bad as muggles ever were.
His supposed ‘rescuers’ had left the door to his cell torn asunder. Instead of escorting him from his prison or telling him how they planned to escape, they had simply opened the doors and retreated to the base of the tower to wait.
Cowards. All of them.
They had been artlessly cruel. Needlessly sadistic, reveling in pain and despair that yielded only to death.
The screams had echoed for what felt like forever, and all he could do was sit there and listen as the closest people he still had to friends or followers were brutally slaughtered.
They killed just because they could. It disgusted him. Enraged him. Saddened him.
He had walked through blood and bone to get to them. His saviors.
Would be ‘liberators’
There were nine of them waiting for him at the base of his tower. Arrayed in a semi-circle, resplendent in blood-stained black cloaks and hoods and masks. Anonymous dark magicians; killers of their fellow wizards. Pureblood crusaders who were too afraid to show their faces to those they thoughtlessly tortured.
They glanced at each other, as if making sure they’d all heard him correctly. A hint of fear crept into their defiant postures; they knew who he had once been. Why he had been exiled and shackled in a forgotten stronghold.
Black gloved hands tightened on drawn wands.
They were rightfully confused. Rightfully concerned. Even worried. He was not pleased. He was not greeting them with praise and gratitude for his freedom.
He was meeting them with a wand in his hand. The threat of magic beating against the air around him.
They had freed him from his prison, as they had been commanded. His captors were dead. Where did his rage at them come from?
The air was humid and heavy, fetid with the copper stink of blood and ringing with the cries of the dead.
One of those awaiting him raised his head and stepped forward, his bone-white mask shining in the moonlight.
His voice echoed from behind his mask. Instead of dramatic and fearful, it sounded muffled and distant, as if he were not truly present.
"We have been sent, old lord, to bring you back into the world. To return you to glory and power."
The old man laughed. "Sent?"
Another of them spoke. "Yes! Sent. The Dark Lord has defeated death and rises again. and this time he will bathe the world in terror and blood. All who stand against him will fall in death or kneel in defeat. Your vision of the world will be carved into it by the wands and will of the pure."
The old man laughed again, shaking his head. "I suppose you expect I will bow before the Dark Lord, lending my power and knowledge to his foolish crusade?"
Finally, the man in the center gathered himself and raised his wand. "Yes, old man. You will come with us, and you will pledge your fealty and magic to him, or you will end your long life here, at the bottom of the tower you have wasted away in."
The old man raised his borrowed wand. Cold wind brushed the humid air, eldritch light playing around him — an omen of what could come.
"Do you truly believe I could not have walked from this tower anytime I wished? What fools you be, to think I was a prisoner of anything but my own volition. You think to ‘return’ to me things I did not ask for! Glory? Power? If I still truly wanted these things, I would have them! Do you think your paltry, pitiful might could match my power?”
He scoffed, gesturing negligently with a dead man’s wand. “Your mislead master and his callow schemes hardly concern me. There is only one wizard who can stand against me, only one who was ever my equal, and your upstart half-blood 'lord' is hardly him."
He took another step down the stairs. His footfall echoed.
“I sough a Renaissance of magic. A golden age of knowledge and power ruled by those blessed with the gifts to manipulate reality itself. Was our magic not proof we were to be the shepherds and guardians of humanity?”
Another step down, and his wand was held loosely at his side. “A golden age can only truly be golden when all of the lights you wish to shine want to shine. When those meant to rule want to rule. Too many wanted to hide. To remain, crawling in the shadows, catering to muggles who ruin the world with foulness and despair and reasonless war. Yet…were we any better? It Is why I remained imprisoned. How many of my fellow magicians did I kill, simply to build my great world?”
The man in the center of the black robed figures sneered. The old man could feel it even through the mask. “We are Death Eaters. We are what muggle nightmares are about. We are the mudbloods’ bane, and we serve a dark lord who has brought the Ministry to its knees! Even now, the mere rumor of his death is enough to send them scurrying and pleading to make it a lie! Serve him, and you will see your dream made real!”
"Death Eaters. Such arrogance, to think death can be commanded. Defeated by magic — light or dark." He flicked his wrist, and green lightning flickered, dancing through the fog, crackling from cloud to cloud. "Death comes for all, eventually. We can but delay her. We can but beg and bribe - but death comes for us all."
Another step, and the scent of ozone burned away the scent of blood, fey light haloing the old wizard.
"Those who followed me — I named them Knights. They were warriors, all. They stood against the lies of the world at my side. They swore oaths to a cause, not a lost creature who demanded power. They walked in dark places, and they did fell deeds in the name of a future we all hoped for. A crumbled dream of fools, but at least my Knights were not such blind puppets."
He sighed. “We failed. You will fail, too. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually – the sheep will become wolves and tire of you. They will hunt you down and kill you in your sleep, and all your feeble dreams of power and glory and domination will amount to naught but unmarked graves.”
The Death Eater spoke again, angry and spiteful. "You are a weak, tired old man. Do you dare stand there, mock us and challenge us? We are Death Eaters, and there are reasons we are feared!"
The old man sneered. "Not good ones. Young fools. You have invited me back into the world. You have opened the door I closed, to keep myself from repeating my own failures. You should never have killed those I claimed as mine."
Gellert Grindelwald raised his borrowed wand and — for the first time in decades — smiled as magic again crackled through his old bones. “I shall start with you, as a warning to your master. I am not to be commanded."
Hogwarts
"Albus."
The raspy voice cut through the gloom of the Headmaster's office less than a heartbeat after he entered. Albus Dumbledore curled his fingers around his wand.
Morning was hours away.
His wards had woken him, warning him someone was in his office. He'd known who — even after all these years, there was magic between them. Blood and anger and bitterness. Sadness and loss and grief.
Memories of the all too brief time they had been more.
But always magic.
That, and he had gotten word from the Aurors who had responded to the alarms at Nurmengard.
He had expected this meeting, but he thought he would have had until morning.
"Gellert."
Albus Dumbledore strode to his desk, a flick of his hand lighting lamps with pale blue fire, leaving the room dappled in shadow.
Grindelwald sat in a plush armchair near Dumbledore's desk, legs crossed and fingers steepled. The dead man’s wand lay in his lap.
"I would say you've gotten old, Albus, but you have never been young at heart. Just bitter and wise by turns. A pillar of the world and a beacon for hope. A fitting fate for a man who turned his back on power, I should think."
Albus resisted the urge to laugh as Fawkes swept down, landing on the windowsill, fire red and polished gold feathers glittering like embers.
"I admit I am surprised. What would cause you to escape now? What has summoned Gellert Grindelwald from prison and exile?" Albus shook his head, smiling ruefully. "My apologies. My manners desert me. I suppose I am not used to hosting dark lords in my office. Tea, perhaps?"
A sniff of disdain. "Still disarming and charming. Still refusing to see what is obvious and apparent, just because it is distasteful. Still using that foul appellation, for lack of a better word for what I was. What I am again."
Albus flicked his wand, letting water pour into a kettle. He watched Grindelwald's eyes follow the wand, a faint, almost forgotten hunger in his eyes.
"It is a fitting title, Gellert. It always has been. You employed dark arts to achieve your means. Manipulations and lies. Necromancy and mind control are not the kindest or gentlest magical arts. Mass murder, indiscriminate torture. Shall I go on, or shall we simply postulate to the title fitting, even if we wish it did not?"
Gellert sighed. "Such a limited term, Albus. Even for your limited view. Call me what I was, not what you decided I had to be. A violent revolutionary, perhaps? A pragmatic visionary? Even if you no longer believe what we once knew was true, can you deny that I attempted to revolt against and revolutionize what I saw as a mad world gone terribly wrong? I used the tools I needed, not merely the tools I wanted. Magic may not always be pretty and fascinating. Like this world, it can be bloody and terrible."
Dumbledore sighed as the kettle whistled softly. More flicks of his wand, which Gellert could not tear his eyes from, and tea flowed through the air, pouring itself into cups conjured into each man's hands.
"Mere semantics. I thought you above such sophistry . You commanded armies which wielded dark magic without thought or care for consequence. If this does not earn one the title of dark lord, I do not know what does."
Gellert Grindelwald took a long, slow sip, breathing out in contentment. "Thank you, Albus. Perfection, as always. Titles are of no matter, really. Now, I am nothing but a horror story of generations past. A cautionary tale you might should have told young Voldemort. He might have chosen a different career path — or at least not set me free."
Albus Dumbledore sipped his own tea. "Ah. Alas. That does pose a conundrum or three, doesn't it?"
Gellert gestured vaguely. "I need my wand, Albus. The bad news is I am here to take it from you. The good news is that I have no desire for you to die, and I plan to take care of your current dark lord problem."
This time, Albus Dumbledore did laugh. "It won't obey you, Gellert. Not ever again. And even you, for all your power and might, will not be able to strike down Tom. Not even with this wand."
Gellert quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, of course it won't. I mean the wand I left with you so very long ago. The one I can feel in this office. It is still a good match, and more than enough to educate the upstart."
Albus raised an eyebrow back. "What would I gain by allowing you to fight Tom? When I could defeat you here and now, and keep you from taking his followers into your flock, and claiming his cause as your own? ”
Albus ignored the voice in the back of his head, tempting him to allow – and enable - Gellert to battle Tom. No matter the outcome, it would buy them precious time.
If he were successful, could I once again strike him down?
No. Not even Gellert could - there was only one path. But even that path was not direct…If Gellert could just delay Tom, even force him to use another of his cursed anchors…
Albus shook his head. Even after all these years, you can make me think things I should not.
Gellert laughed this time, setting aside his tea. "Because I am not a fool. Nor am I that stupid. What mighty friends do you have now, Albus? What stalwart witches and wizards still live from our last clash? Scamander and his wife still live. Minerva McGonagall is in this very castle! Filius Flitwick. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who came to inspect my accommodations. How many more, Albus, that I do not know? You learned, my love, from our first wars. Which leaves me to wonder — why does Tom Riddle still breathe, afraid of only a child?"
Albus sipped his tea.
"Because he thinks he has become immortal. And you are not wrong, Gellert. When you rose to power, the world had been quiet for a time, and many had never wielded their power in battle. But now? Now, we have veterans of your war. Veterans of Voldemort's first war. Four generations of witches and wizards of skill and daring would rise up against you."
"More's the pity." Gellert picked up his tea, smiling as cucumber sandwiches appeared on a golden platter on the table next to him. He ate the first in two bites, before reaching for more.
"Sadly, the world has moved on from me. It is no longer primed for what I foresaw a half century ago. Muggles have come so far. Too far, perhaps, to be ruled. Never again will they be cowed by the likes of us. Nor will your precious mudbloods quietly know their place in a grand order — they are brasher, louder, more puissant by far than the meek, stupid creatures I once would have conquered."
He shook his head. "No, Albus. You won. I failed. My time is over. But I cannot allow Voldemort to do what he has done to those I claimed as mine. Or allow him to send his curs to command me and demand of me. If you want me to let him be, Albus, then you will have to kill me where I sit."
Albus Dumbledore shivered at the sound of Grindelwald's voice. It promised dark things; reminiscent of the terrifying deeds and awful powers he had once unleashed on an entire world. He spoke matter of fact, as if he were discussing the tea instead of facing the darkest wizard of a generation.
Gellert ate another sandwich.
Albus drank more tea to ward off the chill from what he saw in Grindelwald's eyes. "What would you do after, Gellert?"
"Well, my love, I would retire. To someplace sunnier than Nurmengard. Someplace with a library, I should think. Good food, good conversation, and a good view. Have I not paid my debt by now? And would I not be doing your precious, progressive world a favor by ridding it of Voldemort?"
The chill Albus felt came from deep inside him, as he realized the dark decision he was learning towards. That he was having to talk himself out of letting Gellert try to do as he wished.
"He has gone far down the path to immortality, Gellert. You will not be able to kill him. Not in any way that matters."
Gellert finished the last sandwich. "So you keep saying. What manner of immortality, Albus? Surely, even he was not so foolish as to —"
Albus Dumbledore nodded slowly, and Fawkes sang a low, soft dirge, the note twisting through the air, giving both men goosebumps.
"Have you truly gone mad? If he has done such, then gather your wits and four forces and strike him down, Albus! Find his anchor and burn it with Fiendfyre or — such things cannot be allowed to exist! A wizard willing to cut parts of his own soul and commit himself to a cursed immortality would have no scruples, not even as few as my own!"
The headmaster set his cup down.
"Do you think I have not tried? I have a weapon that can kill them. I have a prophecy that may or may not mean something, and I have an obsessed sociopath trying to take over the world and kill all who do not kneel to him — all in the name of the same pureblood idiocy you used to prattle on about, even after you bloody well knew better! At least one of his anchors has been destroyed, and another used — yet still, he walks the world without care for death!"
For a moment, their eyes met. For a heartbeat, they were again as they had been. Fascinated and horrified by the magics they had found, delving deep into arcane mysteries, side by side — whispering to each other of hidden desires and fantasies and naked want to be more than the world wanted them to be.
For a breath, they were united again, working together for a goal.
"How many, Albus?" Now Gellert's voice rasped with shock at what Voldemort had tried to become.
He had wanted to remake the world. To make it better. The abomination Albus spoke of was anathema [Ma4] even to him, because he sought power only for himself. And he would burn the world rather than let it be free.
"I don't know, but I suspect he wanted seven. We know of six for sure, including—" He took a deep breath. "Nagini."
Gellert's eyes narrowed. "Another life I owe him for."
Neither man said it aloud, but there was only one fate for the doomed maledictus. Both men were saddened by it; they had known the woman when she was still capable of being human.
Now, Voldemort had sacrificed her.
Gellert looked up. Set his tea down. "Albus, the boy he fears. The one who defeated him as a baby. Is he?"
"And many times since. Yes. I believe he is." Dumbledore sounded old. Weary. The weight of the world on his shoulders pressing down harder than his wisdom or power could lift him up.
Gellert Grindelwald said words he hadn't said — or meant — often: "I'm sorry, Albus. Truly, I am. But knowing these things, things I doubt you have told anyone else, why aren't you handing me my wand and sending me on my way?"
Albus Dumbledore swallowed the last of his tea. He set his cup down. The chill was in his bones now, as he realized what he was going to do.
The great sin of forgiveness he was about to commit.
The darkest measure of trust he would ever give.
He raised the elder wand. "Vow it, Gellert. Vow it to me, and I will do as you ask."
Gellert Grindelwald smiled. And lifted his hand towards Albus. "Of course, my love."
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