(Gilderoy Lockhart)
I stood up.
Enough reflection.
There is only so much self-awareness a man of my caliber can reasonably be expected to endure in one sitting before it begins to interfere with more important pursuits; namely, maintaining excellence.
And as it so happened, I had an appointment, the same one I have every Sunday.
Training with one of the most infamous dark wizards in modern history.
As one does.
A quick Apparition later, one of the many perks of being exceptionally talented, and I found myself standing at the edge of a winding path carved into jagged stone, the air colder here, sharper, tinged with something ancient and faintly electric.
Ahead of me stood the manor.
Even now, after all this time, it remained… impressive.
"Subtle," I murmured.
Which, of course, it was not.
The structure rose from the rocky ground like something that had grown there rather than been built. Tall, narrow windows stretched upward in elegant arches, their dark glass reflecting the overcast sky in fractured patterns. The stone itself was nearly black, veined with faint streaks that caught the light just enough to give the illusion of movement.
Gothic, certainly.
But not the crumbling, neglected sort one associates with lesser dark wizards who lack both taste and maintenance skills.
No, this was refined.
The old man had surely made himself busy, the previously neglected building had been completely restored.
Every edge sharp. Every surface deliberate.
Spired rooftops cut into the sky, adorned with ironwork that twisted into intricate, almost hypnotic designs. Subtle enchantments hummed through the structure, woven so seamlessly into the stone that one might miss them entirely, if one were not me, of course.
Which, regrettably, most people are not.
The front doors stood tall and imposing, carved with symbols that shifted ever so slightly when one looked at them for too long. Wards layered upon wards wrapped around the manor like a second skin; powerful, ancient, and deeply personal.
"Comfortable," I added, stepping forward.
The doors opened before I reached them.
Naturally.
I entered without knocking, also naturally, and the doors closed behind me with a soft, decisive click.
The interior was no less striking.
High ceilings stretched above me, supported by dark wooden beams that had clearly been restored with meticulous care. The air carried the faint scent of old magic and polished wood, with just a hint of something sharper.
Portraits lined the walls, though none moved.
Which was… unsettling for someone who was used to Hogwarts' movement.
Candles floated lazily along the corridors, their flames steady despite the lack of any visible support. The floors were polished stone, reflecting the dim light in a way that made every step feel just slightly more dramatic than necessary.
Not that I object to drama.
I made my way through the halls without hesitation, my footsteps echoing faintly.
I had long since memorized the layout.
The training room lay at the far end of the east wing; a wide, open space designed for destruction and recovery in equal measure. Reinforced walls, layered protections, and just enough aesthetic restraint to keep things from feeling… cluttered.
I pushed the door open, and he was already there.
Of course he was.
Standing at the center of the room, back to me, hands clasped neatly behind him, posture perfectly straight.
Waiting.
"You're late," he said.
I rolled my eyes.
An entirely justified reaction, if I do say so.
"I am precisely on time," I replied, stepping inside.
The door shut behind me and Grindelwald snorted.
"And that," he said, "is late."
I sighed.
"What have I told you?"
"Yes, yes," I said, waving a hand dismissively as I moved further into the room. "If one cannot be bothered to arrive early, one will inevitably begin arriving late, and from there it is a swift descent into mediocrity and moral decay."
A pause.
"I may be paraphrasing slightly."
"You are not," he said dryly.
I turned to face him fully, offering a small, diplomatic smile.
"I apologise for my tardiness," I said. "Are we satisfied now?"
At last, he turned.
His mismatched eyes settled on me, one brown, sharp and piercing, the other pale blue, almost white, carrying that strange, faded quality that made it no less unsettling.
"It is good," he said, "that you recognize your mistakes, boy."
My right eye twitched.
I chose, in a stunning display of restraint, to say nothing.
For now.
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded once, as though concluding an internal assessment.
"Now," he said, glancing upward briefly as if consulting his own thoughts, "where were we?"
I wanted to roll my eyes again, but expertly restrained myself.
Then:
"Yes. Your Protego Diabolica."
I blinked in disbelief.
"Again?"
I spread my hands slightly.
"I am nearly as proficient with it as you are," I pointed out. "And you created the spell."
Grindelwald's lip curled. "Nearly," he repeated.
Then his gaze sharpened. "Is not enough."
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate.
"You do not imitate greatness, boy," he continued. "You surpass it."
A flick of his fingers sent a faint ripple of magic through the air.
"You must make the spell yours."
Another step.
"Shape it."
"Refine it."
"Improve it."
His voice lowered slightly, intensity threading through it.
"I will not have you besmirching my legacy with adequacy."
I exhaled.
"Of course not," I said. "That would be embarrassing for both of us."
A pause.
Then, unable to help myself…
"Also, can we stop with the 'boy' thing?"
I gestured vaguely.
"I am thirty already."
Grindelwald raised a brow.
"And I," he said, "am a hundred and twelve."
He paused for a beat for dramatic effect.
"I will call you whatever I like."
My shoulders sagged.
"Unfortunate."
But if I were being entirely honest…
There was a hint of amusement in his expression.
Subtle.
But definitely present.
And, I will admit, I found myself suppressing a smile of my own.
The truth was…
I had long since learned everything he could teach me.
Technically speaking.
The spells, the theory, the philosophy of magic as an extension of will, I had absorbed it all with the efficiency one would expect from someone of my considerable intellect.
But that was not why I kept coming back.
Not entirely.
There was something… else.
Something quieter.
He did not say it, of course he didn't.
But it was there.
In the way he lingered a moment longer before ending a session.
In the way he repeated lessons he knew I had already mastered.
In the way the manor, restored to its former glory, still felt… empty.
He was lonely.
I understood that feeling more than I cared to admit.
So I stayed.
And if that meant enduring the occasional "boy," then so be it.
It was, after all, a small price to pay for continued excellence.
"Yes, yes," I said, rolling my shoulders as I drew my wand. "Let us refine perfection."
Grindelwald's expression shifted into something sharper now, more focused.
"Show me."
I stepped forward, raising my staff.
Magic stirred at my command, heat building at the tip as I focused, shaping it carefully and deliberately.
Not just power.
Control.
Identity.
"Protego Diabolica."
The words left my lips smoothly.
Flames erupted outward.
Not wild or uncontrolled.
A ring of dark blue fire spiraled into existence around me, rising and twisting in elegant arcs, its edges flickering with unnatural intensity. The heat was immense, but it did not touch me, bending instead to my will, circling, guarding, alive with purpose.
I held it there.
Perfect.
Or very nearly so.
Grindelwald watched in silence.
Then…
"Again."
I sighed.
Of course.
And so, as the flames collapsed and gathered once more at the tip of my wand, I prepared to demonstrate brilliance…
Repeatedly.
For educational purposes.
…