Chapter 340: The Dark Lord of Vienna
So that was how Der Spiegel came to be.
Alexander Smith couldn't help but find Ron an interesting person.
Ron always seemed to possess strange bits of knowledge that appeared out of nowhere—facts that sounded absurd at first, yet somehow turned out to be accurate. If Ron hadn't casually explained it just now, Alexander would probably have had to rely on thinking to piece it together himself.
Ron wasn't stupid.
He only seemed stupid, mostly because he rarely used his intelligence in the right places.
In Alexander's eyes, Der Spiegel was nothing more than a newspaper that had seized upon an opportunity. While other publications still feared touching the tiger's tail, it had made analyzing Grindelwald its signature topic.
By sheer luck, it had managed to catch a dead mouse.
Later, however, the story veered wildly off course—dragging Tom Riddle into the narrative and handing Cornelius Fudge and Dolores Umbridge a bizarre "heroic" identity.
As for Grindelwald himself—
He really was in a good mood.
Because of Albus Dumbledore.
Grindelwald could sense it clearly: Dumbledore was no longer trapped in that pathological rejection of power. Recent decrees from the British wizarding world bore unmistakable traces of an invisible hand guiding events from behind the scenes.
And the owner of that hand was the only person Grindelwald had ever loved.
That realization sparked a sudden, interesting thought in Alexander's mind.
With a light flick of his fingers, a single thought crossed vast distances and descended upon a blond old man imprisoned in a cold, dark, remote tower deep within Austria.
Nurmengard.
A towering, oppressive structure—gloomy stone walls rising like a monument to isolation and obsession.
In midair, a silver diamond no larger than a grain of dust appeared.
It slipped effortlessly through thick walls and layers of magical protection, passing through the fortress as though nothing existed to block it. It drifted upward, toward the highest chamber.
The narrow crack in the black stone wall might as well not have existed. The silver speck passed directly through solid stone, floating gently toward a frail figure curled on a hardwood board, wrapped in a thin, worn blanket.
Slowly, imperceptibly, it sank into the man's chest.
The next instant—
Sunken eyes snapped open.
A face like a living skull emerged from the shadows.
After a moment of hesitation, the blond old man extended his dusty fingers and tapped the wooden board beneath him in a steady rhythm.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Figures appeared one after another, materializing with sharp sounds as if the castle's anti-apparition magic simply did not exist.
Each of them looked ancient. Some appeared so frail they seemed on the verge of dying at any second.
Yet without exception, they lowered their heads and bent deeply toward the man on the bed.
"My lord!"
Voices filled with excitement and restrained reverence echoed through the dark cell.
"You wish to—" an elderly wizard standing at the center asked cautiously.
"I need a school," the blond old man said with a faint smile as he turned sideways on the hardwood bed.
"A school where my will can be implemented."
The rough board, the torn quilt, and his shabby clothing did nothing to diminish his presence.
At that moment, he resembled an emperor seated upon a throne, his aura overwhelming and unquestionable.
"Your wand," said an elderly woman trembling slightly as she stepped forward, presenting a shabby box.
"It has never been used," added a burly white-haired man standing at the far left. "Ollivander's work. Aspen wood, thestral tail hair core. Fourteen inches. One of the seven combinations he once deemed impossible."
"Very good," the blond old man said softly as he rose. "It's been almost fifty years."
He took the wand into his hand.
"What should we do first?" he murmured to himself.
Cold, stern magic surged outward, intertwining with the wand as invisible hurricanes rose around him.
"Let's conquer Austria first," he said casually, as if discussing dinner.
"We'll need a place to stay."
"For the greater good," the old wizards replied in unison.
Ten minutes later—
In a lavish chamber several hundred meters beneath the Vienna Opera House, a blond old man—now dressed in luxurious black robes and utterly transformed in bearing—idly turned his wand between his fingers.
Around him, wizards were bound by invisible chains, their faces frozen in horror and disbelief.
They could not comprehend how the entire Austrian Ministry of Magic had fallen to a single wizard.
The equally old servants at his side hadn't even raised their wands.
"Your name is Emeric, correct?" the blond old man asked lazily. "Who is the current headmaster of Durmstrang?"
"I–Igor Karkarov," the short, stout man replied, drenched in sweat. "Do you… have a grievance with him? Is there anything we can do to help?"
"I need you to write a letter," the blond old man said calmly. "Invite him to the Austrian Ministry of Magic—in your name."
He paused, then added lightly,
"And I also need you."
Emeric's eyes widened.
He knew exactly who stood before him.
The Dark Lord who had imprisoned himself in Nurmengard.
But how had he—
Before the thought could finish, figures vanished one after another, leaving Nurmengard filled with new occupants.
Late at night, the blond old man stood beside a device shaped like an organ pipe, tapping softly in rhythm with the singing drifting down from the Vienna Opera House.
As the sorrowful music filled the air, he began to reflect on his life.
My name is Gellert Grindelwald.
A student of Durmstrang.
Expelled for conducting dangerous experiments.
Yet that expulsion allowed me to meet the most important person in my life—Albus Dumbledore.
It had been a summer in Godric's Hollow.
After being expelled, he had stayed with his great-aunt, Bathilda Bagshot.
A soul he believed destined for eternal loneliness had been drawn to another—equally lonely, equally brilliant.
How joyful it had been.
They had sworn blood oaths, dreamed of the Deathly Hallows, of becoming Masters of Death.
Together, they planned to overturn the Statute of Secrecy and build a new global order—one guided by wise and powerful witches and wizards.
But Albus was different.
He had a foolish brother.
For the sake of "family," Albus was asked to give everything up.
Did he not understand?
Had the world been changed, had wizards no longer been forced into hiding, Albus's fragile sister would never have needed to hide at all.
Then came the argument.
No one knew who cast the spell.
But Ariana, who burst into the conflict, died.
...
He fled.
More than ten years later, they met again.
By then, he wielded the Elder Wand and commanded countless followers.
Yet he still lost.
Lost—to Albus.
So he imprisoned himself, within a prison of his own design.
Some time ago, he sensed that Albus had finally overcome his weakness.
That realization had stirred his appetite, allowing him—at last—to eat properly again.
He believed he would simply remain like this.
Until a dream came.
A premonition.
A dream that promised salvation.
A dream that could save everything.
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