— — — — — —
Thirty seconds later, everyone except Tom was lying peacefully on the floor, fast asleep.
The shadow magic he used was laced with poison. If Tom had wanted, they'd all be corpses by now.
But dead people were useless. The living made far better test subjects—and not just for Grindelwald. Tom himself had spent thousands of credits trying to master fleshcrafting magic faster.
And what he needed now was practice. Real experience.
A thick violet mist poured from his wand, seeping through the castle walls. Before long, screams echoed from within.
Tom strolled through the toxic haze, plucking out stragglers one by one. Twelve in total. According to Vinda's intel, the Lombardi family had fifteen members. But Tom didn't bother waiting for the remaining three—he simply turned and moved on to the next family.
Sometimes being alive hurt more than dying.
...
Within two days, Tom had crossed several countries, wiping out every family involved in that old bounty—except for the mysterious figure who'd connected them all. That one was still missing.
When it was done, Tom slipped quietly back into Britain, leaving a trail of chaos behind.
In the wizarding world, where population was thin, even the death of one or two wizards made headlines. Now entire families—old, influential pure-blood lineages—had vanished overnight. The magical world of continental Europe was in shock.
The survivors went mad trying to find answers. A few families had genealogies enchanted to track their members' life and death; they could confirm their relatives weren't dead, but they couldn't locate them either.
Curse-breakers attempted to reconstruct what had happened, but every effort failed. The French Ministry even sent wizards back in time with Time-Turners, yet the devices malfunctioned anywhere near the crime scenes. Even approaching from a distance caused strange resistance, and anyone who pushed further risked being lost in time completely.
After days of investigation, they still had nothing—no idea who was responsible, how many were involved, or even whether it was the work of one group or several.
Tom had covered his tracks perfectly. Disrupting Time-Turners wasn't that hard; a few interference charms before leaving were enough.
Now the only person likely to suspect him was that same intermediary who'd convinced the families to put a bounty on him in the first place. Tom was counting on that—he wanted to see if the man would crawl out of hiding.
Then something happened that made both Tom and Andros laugh for half a day.
Since no one could find the culprit, several Ministries decided to blame Grindelwald. They even sent people to Nurmengard Castle to interrogate him. Grindelwald had been furious—he gave the intruders a thorough beating before erasing their memories and throwing them out.
"You little brat," Grindelwald fumed. "Your mess, and I'm the one taking the fall!"
In the study space, Grindelwald was half laughing, half exasperated. The Ministries were idiots, of course—but still, he and Tom did have a connection. The problem was, this time he was actually innocent. Those families had brought their fates upon themselves when they chose to cross the boy.
"Come on, old man," Tom chuckled, curled up against Ariana, who was grinning too. "You're the one who terrified them for decades. Who else would they suspect?"
Ariana giggled and chimed in, "Exactly! A big case like this, and people think it's your work—how's that wrong? Sounds perfectly reasonable to me."
"If you acted more like Tom and less like, well, you," she teased, "maybe no one would think you're the villain."
Grindelwald's eyes went wide.
Was there no justice left in the world?
This boy was the definition of evil, and yet somehow he was the good one now?
Grindelwald grumbled inwardly but didn't dare say it out loud. If he did, both Andros and Tom would gang up on him for sure. He would be cooked.
So he vented his anger elsewhere. "I remember every last Ministry fool who came here yesterday. Once I'm free, they'll regret ever setting foot in my Castle."
Once the laughter died down, Tom's expression grew thoughtful. "We should warn Vinda. The old Acolytes are probably being watched more closely than ever."
Grindelwald nodded. "Yeah. That's likely."
Tom was just about to leave when Grindelwald's face suddenly changed. He straightened, eyes narrowing.
"What is it?" Tom asked.
"Albus... is here."
---
At the top floor of Nurmengard Castle, in the small cell reserved for the once-great Dark Wizard, the two most powerful wizards of the century sat facing each other at a table barely big enough for two cups of tea.
Neither spoke.
Grindelwald now looked frail and aged, his appearance carefully disguised. Even Dumbledore couldn't tell anything was off.
"Remarkable," Grindelwald finally drawled, breaking the silence. "I never thought I'd see you here again, Albus. Not since the day you locked me up. Don't tell me this visit's about those missing families?"
Dumbledore hesitated, then gave a small nod. "I meant to visit you some time ago, but other matters delayed me. This case provided... an excuse, I suppose. I also needed to be sure you had nothing to do with it."
Ever since hearing from Hagrid that Tom could control the blue Fiendfyre, Dumbledore had wanted to speak with Grindelwald, but school duties, visiting delegations, and a certain Snape-related disaster had kept him too busy. If not for the International Confederation asking him to check personally, he might not have come at all.
"Heh."
Grindelwald gave a mocking laugh. He glanced at the bare tabletop and snorted—Dumbledore hadn't even brought food.
Not even as thoughtful as that brat Tom.
Ever since their strange arrangement to meet every couple of weeks, Tom always arrived with food, drink, and random comforts from the outside world. The visits had only stopped during the school holidays.
"Albus, do you really not know me by now?" Grindelwald rose with deliberate slowness and stretched out on the old straw pile that served as his bed. "If I were behind those disappearances, there wouldn't be anyone left to tell the tale."
He shifted, frowning in discomfort. Ever since Tom's visits, he'd gotten used to sleeping on proper bedding. The straw felt awful now.
Dumbledore frowned. "Gellert, I thought after all these years you might have changed. Must you still speak with such cruelty? Haven't you learned even a shred of remorse?"
"Remorse? Oh, I have plenty of that."
Grindelwald suddenly sat up. His once-clouded mismatched eyes gleamed with a fierce light, like an old tiger waking from slumber. "My greatest regret was being too soft—too indecisive. I should've killed Scamander when I had the chance, instead of letting him steal the Blood Pact!"
"If you hadn't stopped me back then, countless wizards wouldn't have died in that war. They'd have stood with me, fought to end the Statute of Secrecy, and we'd have won!"
"You…" Dumbledore began, but the words died on his tongue. All that came out was a weary sigh. "You haven't changed at all."
"Why should I?" Grindelwald scoffed. "Everything I did was for our kind. If I failed, it wasn't because my ideals were wrong—it was because my execution was."
"There's no point in arguing this anymore."
By now, Dumbledore was certain the disappearances had nothing to do with Grindelwald. As the man himself said, his style had always been absolute. He wouldn't have left survivors.
"No matter what you believe, this Castle will be your home, Gellert," Dumbledore said quietly. "Maybe, when I retire, I'll come keep you company."
He offered a faint, sad smile—and then shifted to the real reason he'd come. "I'm facing a problem, and I need your help."
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow. "A problem? What sort of problem could you possibly have?"
He knew Dumbledore too well. The man practically operated under his nose; if he was here asking for help, it had to be serious.
Dumbledore's voice lowered. "How much do you know about Horcruxes?"
He didn't bother asking whether Grindelwald had heard of them. Asking the greatest Dark Wizard of the century that question would've been an insult.
Grindelwald's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Oh? Planning to make one, are you? About time, honestly. You're getting old, Albus. If you die before me, who'll be left to stand in my way?"
He chuckled softly. "Want me to share a few tricks? I promise, I can teach you how to split your soul without losing your mind."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. "You seem quite knowledgeable. Tell me—how many Horcruxes can a person create?"
"That," Grindelwald said slowly, beginning to pace, "is not an easy question."
He furrowed his brow, pretending to ponder, though in truth he'd already discussed this with Tom long ago.
"To make a Horcrux, one must split the soul and fuse that fragment with an object. It becomes an anchor, tethering the wizard to this world. That's how immortality works."
He paused and gave Dumbledore a pointed look. "But anchors aren't something you can multiply freely. Imagine your body being pulled from every direction at once—how long could you stand before it tears apart?"
"Too many Horcruxes and the soul begins to unravel. Most wizards don't dare make more than one."
He paused again, feigning thought. "I once read of a fifteenth-century dark wizard who made three. He went completely mad, destroyed his own body, and only vanished for good after all three Horcruxes were destroyed."
Dumbledore's frown deepened. That was news to him. Three?
But Voldemort's talent defied common logic.
Still, he had to assume the worst. "If we ignore the dangers," Dumbledore pressed, "what's the theoretical maximum?"
Grindelwald smiled faintly. "Three, maybe seven—both are powerful magical numbers. Nine as well, though that one's special to Eastern wizards."
He leaned in slightly. "Albus, Why not test it yourself? Find a few guilty souls—murderers, tyrants. Use their wickedness to fuel your noble cause. You'd answer your question and turn scum into something useful. Two birds, one stone."
"Every life deserves respect," Dumbledore said evenly. "I have no right to decide who lives or dies."
He rose, inclining his head slightly. "Thank you for your insight, Gellert. I'll visit again."
Grindelwald waved a hand lazily. "Next time, bring food. Consider it payment for my wisdom."
Dumbledore's crooked nose twitched as he ducked his head, a bit embarrassed. "Sorry. I came in a hurry this time. I'll bring a proper Christmas dinner next visit."
The first time is always the hardest.
When he'd imprisoned Grindelwald, Dumbledore had sworn they'd never meet again. But now that he'd come once, returning didn't seem so impossible.
...
Outside the Castle, Dumbledore pulled out a small black diary.
He had learned almost all he could from it.
Tom Marvolo Riddle valued ritual, symbolism, structure. Everything he did followed its own dark logic.
"Goodbye, Tom," Dumbledore murmured, writing the words with a flick of his wand.
The ink shimmered. Then, a line of writing appeared almost instantly in reply: "Dumble—"
Before it could finish, Dumbledore's hand burst with green light. The diary smoked and hissed as a foul stench filled the air.
A massive shadow erupted from the pages—a dark, writhing silhouette that screamed soundlessly, hatred burning in its eyes.
Dumbledore didn't flinch. He met its gaze, calm and steady. After a few seconds, the shadow disintegrated into black mist.
The diary was now a ruined mess of ink. Dumbledore flicked his wrist, and it flew into the air, catching fire and burning to ash before it hit the ground.
...
Back in the Castle, Grindelwald stood at his narrow window, watching the white figure grow smaller in the distance.
"Christmas, huh?" he murmured, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. "That's too far away, Albus. I don't plan on being in Nurmengard by then."
.
.
.