Grindelwald lounged in a high-backed velvet chair, the deep, maroon fabric a stark contrast to the pale, skeletal form he had once been. He savored the rich, full-bodied taste of wine as it slid down his throat, a sensation so long forgotten it felt like a dream.
He sighed, eyes closing briefly in satisfaction as the warmth spread through his chest. How long had it been since he'd enjoyed this simple luxury? Since he'd felt the sun on his face without it being filtered through a grimy prison window? Since he had worn clothes that weren't rags?
Far too long.
No longer did he look like a hollow, broken relic of a man rotting away in a forgotten prison. No, he was once againGellert Grindelwald, Dark Lord of Europe, the man who had once made a continent tremble. The man who had been both the nightmare and hope of people.
Breaking out of Nurmengard had cost him dearly. He could feel the toll in his bones, a constant, low-grade ache that was a brutal reminder of the years shaved off his already dwindling lifespan.
The magical bindings Dumbledore had woven into the very stones of the fortress were meant to keep him there with no hope of escape, a cage to hold him like a wild beast, but even a perfect cage has a lock and therefore a key.
The ritual he had used, a forgotten, ancient bit of blood magic that devoured a piece of his soul to shatter his bonds, it had left him even weaker than he had been in decades.
His hair, once a shock of white, was now streaked with grey, and the sharp lines of his face were deeper, etched with the cost of his freedom. But the sacrifice was worth it. It would be worth it once his plans came to fruition.
He chuckled softly, swirling the deep crimson liquid in his glass, the sound a low, resonant hum in the silent room. Did those fools truly believe that locking him away for decades would keep him from finding a way out?
They underestimated him then, just as they had underestimated him before his fall. His followers had scattered after his defeat, the loyalists hunted down, and the cowards vanished into the shadows, but time and memory were patient allies.
Even now, decades later, there were still many who believed in his ideals, who whispered his name like a forgotten prayer in the dark corners of the world. Fewer in number, perhaps, but loyal, and enough for what he intended.
And Albus… oh, Albus was the one who had given him a reason to rise once more. Grindelwald had nearly allowed himself to wither into nothingness, resigned to die alone, surrounded by stone and silence.
But when Dumbledore came, speaking of the Hallows, everything changed. He had watched the old goat's careful lies, his pretense of ignorance, the man was there looking for information on the hallows, which, as far as he knew, he hadn't In years, and that was what had allowed him to understand, understand that he had them. He could always read the man better than he knew.
Albus had asked, and he didn't answer. The old bastard likely thought he had nothing and left, but Grindelwald knew. He knew something Albus did not, the truth about the Hallows.
Back when they were young, reckless, and hungry for glory, they had dared to dream of becoming Campiones. If they could slay a god, they reasoned, nothing would stand against them.
They could rewrite the world, enforce their will for the greater good. But the attempt had nearly ended them both. Oh, he remembered everything so well, every detail like it was yesterday.
The heretic god they summoned laughed, a sound like crumbling mountains, as their spells, the very peak of magical theory and power, crumbled against its form, as wards and curses slid off its skin like droplets of water on a polished stone.
Grindelwald still remembered the screams of his followers being torn apart like toys, the despair that hollowed his chest as he and Albus were swatted aside like insects. For the first time in his life, he had accepted death. He had seen the finality of it, the cold, empty void waiting for them, having achieved nothing.
Then HE appeared. Sasha Dejanstahl Voban. A Campione. A monster in human skin. For what else could he have been to stand and challenge that monster and force it to fight back.
He came, power surrounding him like nothing Grindelwald had ever seen, just his presence alone had made the god take him seriously and rage.
Dumbledore had fled, and later told him he was disgusted by the sheer, unbridled savagery of the godslayer, but Grindelwald had stayed, he could not look away.
Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could see it, the flash of Voban's claws, the terrible roar of the god as its divine form was rent asunder, the sheer, bone-shaking power.
The battle shook the world itself, it felt like the world was ending as everything was destroyed around them. It was Terrifying. It was Beautiful.
That day had changed both him and his old lover.
Dumbledore, after fleeing, later branded Campiones as abominations, devils who should never exist.
Hypocrite.
If Albus had succeeded that day, he would have worn the mantle of godslayer with pride. But because he failed, he declared the power itself tainted.
Grindelwald, though, did not give up. That day showed him not that godslaying was impossible, but that he was unprepared.
He spent years hunting scraps of lore, poring over ancient texts and dusty relics, piecing together truths about heretic gods and the beings who slew them. And then he discovered the secret of the Hallows.
The tale of the Peverells was true enough, but incomplete. The Hallows were no mere gifts of Death, they were vessels. Tools in which a god, a god of Death, had stored its authorities.
Why? Who could say? Gods were fickle, whimsical things, their motives as inscrutable as the stars. But what mattered was that divine power slept within those artifacts.
He had felt it himself when he wielded the Elder Wand. Power, unlike anything else, a taste of what it meant to be truly supreme.
He had been ready to summon another god then, ready to seize his destiny and finally prove his worth to the world, until Albus had stripped it from him in their final duel, taking the wand and, unknownly, taking the vessels of authority with him.
But now, all three Hallows had resurfaced if he was right about Albus gathering all three, and if not, well, he still had the wand anyway. Grindelwald smiled, a cold, predatory curve of his lips as he raised his glass in a mock toast to the empty room.
Now was his time.
'My destiny calls, and this time, nothing will stand in my way.'
Meanwhile, in Hogwarts.
Harry Potter stared at the front page of the Daily Prophet.
GRINDELWALD ESCAPES NURMENGARD.
The bold headline glared at him. His jaw clenched. He didn't know how, he didn't know why, but he knew this was Dumbledore's fault.
Somehow, the old goat had caused this, and no one could convince him otherwise.
Around him, the Great Hall buzzed with whispers. Students were curious, unsettled, but not truly panicked. Harry realized why most of them were too young to have ever felt Grindelwald's shadow.
Voldemort was the name that haunted their childhoods, a threat they had grown up with, stories about the dark lord that terrorized Britain, while Grindelwald was a history lesson, just a black and white picture in a book.
But the teachers… oh, they remembered. Harry's eyes flicked to the staff table. Their faces were pale. There was fear and terror in their eyes. Yes, there was the reaction he expected.
Harry dropped the paper onto the table. He had planned to play the long game with Dumbledore, to savor the man's downfall slowly, to use Voldemort as the stage on which Harry Potter, "the Boy Who Lived," would finally end the war and cement his own power.
He wanted to watch Dumbledore scramble and suffer, to watch his carefully constructed world crumble around him piece by piece.
But this? This changed everything. If he left things, it would start getting worse, and he was not going to waste his time with a war or whatever would come if Grindelwald was not ended quickly.
He rose from the table. Hermione called after him, asking where he was going, but he only muttered something about needing air and left the hall, his mind churning like a millstone.
He wanted to confront Dumbledore now, to tear the Elder Wand straight from his cold, grasping hands, but the man was nowhere to be found. Worse, Harry couldn't even use his Authority of the Hunt. He had never marked the old man, a careless oversight he now bitterly regretted.
"Damn it," Harry muttered under his breath, "That's what I get for playing around, for thinking nothing will go off mark."
He had allowed himself to be distracted by the simple, gratifying pleasures of his life—his women, his friends. But the world didn't stop just because Harry Potter was enjoying himself, didn't follow a script like a movie, things change.
Still, it didn't matter. He already had two of the Hallows. The Headmaster would come back eventually. And when he did, Harry would take what was his, and he would end this game for good.
Elsewhere, in a room dripping with wealth and shadow, two men in tailored suits stood before a heavy oak door. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and expensive tobacco, the only light coming from a roaring fireplace that cast dancing shadows across the priceless paintings on the walls. From within came a voice, laced with a strange amusement.
"Well? Did you find out?"
One man, with a face like a carved statue, bowed slightly, his movements practiced and deferential. "We regret to inform you that no, my lord. The name of the Seventh Campione remains hidden. The Mage Association of Iceland has remained silent."
A long, tense pause followed, filled only by the crackle of the fire. Then, sharper, the voice from behind the door cut through the silence like a razor. "Why?"
The second man, his brow slick with sweat despite the cool air, swallowed before answering. "The Icelandic Mage Association refuses to speak it. The Seventh has forbidden them from revealing his name, and they are caught between obeying him… or obeying you."
'It was a truly unfortunate predicament,' he thought, for the association to be in the middle of two Campiones' demands like this, a situation that could only end in disaster for them.
Silence. The men stood perfectly still, waiting. Then a laugh rumbled from the room, a sound of delight.
"How… interesting. The Icelanders are wise to fear him, but they should know better than to reject a campione's demand."
"I have already crossed blades with my youngest brother, the Eighth Campione. He is powerful, but he is predictable. But this Seventh… he intrigues me. Honestly, I think all of us want to know more about him. He has slain three heretic gods, yet somehow his name has been kept from the world. Is he just that lucky" he laughed.
"It's decided, I will go to Iceland myself. I want to know more about this brother of mine."
The door opened and out came Salvatore Doni, the sixth campione. The ever present carefree smile on his face.
He was a battle maniac, he had already fought with Godou, the 8th, and had found that he quite liked his youngest brother. He had wanted to find the 7th, he didn't know where he was, but now he was going to get that answer and meet him.
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