The prison cell was silent, the kind of silence that settled like dust—thick, stagnant, and forgotten by time. Deep beneath the fortress of Nurmengard, where no light dared to intrude and no sound ever echoed twice, sat a frail figure cloaked in shadow.
Gellert Grindelwald, once the most feared dark wizard in the world, now a relic of history, stared through mismatched eyes—one pale and cloudy, the other sharp with unnerving lucidity—into the stone wall before him.
He had not moved for hours.
And yet, within the fortress of his mind, something stirred.
Suddenly, violently, the silence was broken.
Grindelwald's head snapped back as if struck by an invisible blow. His breath caught in his throat, eyes wide. His body convulsed once, twice—then went still, frozen in place.
And then it began.
A voice.
No, not a voice—many, like whispers carved into the marrow of the world. They spoke in runes, in fate, in warnings not meant for mortal ears. Symbols spiraled across his vision, constellations rearranging themselves into stories. Names emerged. A shadow in crimson. A boy with ancient magic curled around his soul. A decision that would shatter the cycle.
And at the heart of it all: Elias Blake.
Grindelwald inhaled sharply. When he spoke, it was not with his usual careful precision, but with urgency.
"So it begins again."
He stood. Slowly, shakily, but with purpose. A skeletal hand reached out, trailing a long finger across the wall. His nail scratched against the stone, sparks flying faintly as ancient runes began to carve themselves into the surface. The language was lost to most—a pre-Atlantean script, abandoned by time and feared by those who understood its power.
One by one, the symbols formed. A summoning. A beacon. An invitation that only one man could receive.
Grindelwald stepped back. The wall pulsed faintly, glowing an eerie white-blue. He turned his gaze toward the stone bench, lips curling slightly.
"You won't ignore this one, Albus. Not this time."
Then he waited.
And somewhere—perhaps far, perhaps near—the runes lit like fireflies dancing through the veil. The world shifted slightly. A thread was pulled.
Hogwarts Headmaster's Office, Moments Later
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his grand oak desk, hands steepled beneath his chin, a cold cup of tea untouched beside him. Fawkes stirred uneasily on his perch, feathers rustling, eyes glowing faintly gold.
Dumbledore's own gaze turned distant, his breath catching.
"Impossible…"
A whisper drifted through the air. No voice spoke it, and yet it came all the same, like a name echoing from the tomb of time itself.
"Grindelwald calls."
Without hesitation, Dumbledore stood. His fingers gripped his wand with deliberate care, and he muttered a spell only known to two living men.
The world shifted.
And then, Albus Dumbledore vanished from his office in a swirl of light and shadow.
Nurmengard Prison, Midnight
The chains groaned on the doors as Dumbledore stepped into the cell, the rune-marked wall still glowing faintly in the dark. Grindelwald sat cross-legged once more, eyes closed, a small, almost amused smile playing on his lips.
"Albus," he said without opening his eyes. "You took your time."
Dumbledore said nothing, only approached slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Why now?" he asked softly.
Grindelwald opened his eyes, and for a moment, the old glint—arrogant, knowing, dangerous—returned to his mismatched gaze.
"Because your school is no longer just a school… and your pawn is not merely a boy."
He tapped a finger to his temple.
"Elias Blake. He's at the center of the weave now. And the Council is watching."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed.
"What do you know of the W.N.H.C?"
Grindelwald chuckled.
"More than you do, old friend. And far more than you're ready to hear."
Chapter 20 – Part II: The Council's Shadow
The room was cold. Not from the stone or the mountain air, but from the weight of memory. Two men—once allies, then enemies, and now something more complex—sat facing one another in the dead of night, beneath ancient runes still glowing softly on the prison wall.
Dumbledore leaned against the edge of the cell's table, arms crossed. His gaze was wary, but his voice was steady.
"Why Elias? Why now?"
Grindelwald didn't answer immediately. He let the silence linger like smoke, as if measuring the shape of the truth.
"He is a variable," Grindelwald finally said. "A ripple in the pattern. And the World Council is afraid of ripples."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed.
"The W.N.H.C.—World Nexus of High Convergence. You were one of its architects."
"And you were its idealist," Grindelwald murmured. "We built it to unite magic across borders, Albus. Not to enslave it."
The name echoed in Dumbledore's mind—W.N.H.C. A name known only to the oldest circles in the magical world. The World Council of Wizards, hidden beneath layers of misdirection and obscurity. Most believed the Ministry of Magic was the highest authority in Britain. They had no idea there were older powers, international coalitions formed after the collapse of the great magical empires.
"They've become watchers now," Grindelwald continued. "Curators of stability. And stability abhors unpredictability."
He paused.
"Elias Blake is unpredictable."
Dumbledore's voice dropped.
"Because of his power?"
Grindelwald shook his head slowly.
"No… because of his origin."
That made the old Headmaster still.
"You've seen something," Dumbledore said. It wasn't a question.
Grindelwald closed his eyes briefly, and when he spoke again, it was in the voice of a seer, distant and grim.
"He has no threads in the Loom. No roots in fate's garden. He walks through prophecy like a man ignoring his reflection. That is why the runes screamed."
The words hung in the air like frost.
"You're saying he's not meant to exist?" Dumbledore whispered.
"Oh, he exists. But not within the boundaries the world understands. And the Council is not pleased."
A pause.
"They will try to use him. If they can't… they will discard him."
Dumbledore's jaw tightened.
"That's not your decision. Or theirs."
"No, but it will become yours."
The old enemy's eyes pierced Dumbledore's.
"He is at the center of a storm, Albus. The bloodlines are stirring, the Noble Houses sharpening their knives, and Voldemort's shadow still lingers. That boy is a divergence. You must decide if he is a remedy—or a catalyst."
Dumbledore looked away, deep in thought.
"He's just a boy."
"No," Grindelwald said sharply. "He's never been just a boy."
Another silence. The torches flickered.
"Do not underestimate the Noble Houses. If they cannot control him, they will ruin him."
Dumbledore stood, adjusting his robes. His voice was firm now.
"Then I will ensure he has the strength to resist them."
"Even if it means shaping him into a weapon?" Grindelwald asked, curious.
Dumbledore turned, eyes gleaming.
"No. Into a shield."
And with that, he turned to leave.
"Albus."
He stopped.
"There is more. I cannot yet see the end of it, but I know this—Elias Blake is not alone. There are others. The pattern is fraying."
"Then we must hold it together."
"Until it tears," Grindelwald said softly. "And it will."
The runes on the wall dimmed. The prison grew still once more.
And Dumbledore vanished into light.