Bloody Megalomaniacs
The cold night air bit at Harry’s face as he stepped outside, his dark coat billowing slightly in the wind. He had left a brief note on his desk in the Muggle Studies classroom—*“Out for a walk. Don’t burn anything down.”* It wasn’t like Hogwarts needed his constant supervision, and frankly, the staff was far too used to his odd habits by now.
But this wasn’t a walk. It was a meeting.
Grindelwald had been subtle in his approach, using his spy as a messenger and carefully orchestrating whispers that would inevitably reach Harry’s ears. The Dark Wizard was not a fool. He likely suspected Harry was no ordinary wizard, but Grindelwald’s knowledge of the Master of Death was limited to folklore and speculation. Harry intended to keep it that way.
The meeting place was a secluded clearing in the Forbidden Forest, chosen for its isolation and the lack of magical wards that could alert Dumbledore. Grindelwald, for all his faults, was thorough. Harry arrived early, leaning against a tree and watching the mist curl through the underbrush. His senses were sharp, his magic thrumming beneath his skin like a coiled spring.
A figure emerged from the fog, clad in a dark, tailored coat that seemed to absorb the moonlight. Gellert Grindelwald. His presence was magnetic, commanding attention without effort. Harry had to admit, the man carried himself with a charisma that explained how he had gathered so many followers.
Grindelwald stopped a few paces away, his sharp eyes studying Harry intently. For a moment, neither spoke.
“You came,” Grindelwald said finally, his tone almost conversational.
Harry tilted his head slightly. “I was curious.”
The corner of Grindelwald’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Mr. Evans.”
“So is sending spies into Hogwarts,” Harry replied smoothly, his expression neutral. “What do you want, Grindelwald?”
The Dark Wizard chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Straight to the point. I like that.” He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. “You’re an enigma, Mr. Evans. A man with no past, no connections, and yet... you walk through this world as though you own it. That intrigues me.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Grindelwald’s smile widened. “It’s not flattery. It’s truth. You’re different, and I suspect you’re far more than you let on. Tell me, have you ever heard the tale of the Deathly Hallows?”
Harry’s expression didn’t falter, but internally, he sighed. *Here we go.*
“I’ve heard the story,” he said evenly.
Grindelwald’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, then you know of the Master of Death. A figure of myth, perhaps, but myths often hold a kernel of truth, don’t they?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s a nice bedtime story. Three brothers, three gifts, and one man who supposedly conquered death. But surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”
Grindelwald’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—calculation, perhaps, or suspicion. “Nonsense? Perhaps. But consider this, Mr. Evans. What if the Hallows were real? What if someone were to unite them?”
“And what would you do with such power?” Harry asked, his tone almost bored.
“Power is not the goal,” Grindelwald said softly, stepping closer. “Control is. Imagine a world without chaos, without conflict. A world united under one vision, one purpose. That is my dream.”
Harry met Grindelwald’s gaze, his own eyes dark and unyielding. “Your dream sounds suspiciously like a dictatorship.”
Grindelwald laughed, the sound echoing through the clearing. “And yet, dictatorships have brought order where chaos once reigned. Don’t pretend you don’t see the appeal, Mr. Evans. You’re a man of vision—I can see it in your eyes. You understand the futility of the current system.”
Harry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “You assume a lot about me.”
“I assume only what I see,” Grindelwald replied, his tone almost gentle. “And what I see is a man who doesn’t belong here. A man who is searching for something, though he may not even know what it is.”
Harry remained silent, his mind racing. Grindelwald was perceptive, too perceptive. But he still didn’t know the truth, and Harry intended to keep it that way.
“You think I’m searching for something?” Harry said finally, his tone laced with mockery. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just enjoying the chaos you and Dumbledore are stirring up. It’s quite the show.”
Grindelwald’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of mild irritation. “You’re not as indifferent as you pretend to be, Mr. Evans. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
Harry stepped closer, his expression darkening. “You wanted to meet me, Grindelwald. You wanted to see the enigma up close. Well, here I am. But let me make one thing clear—I am not a piece on your chessboard. And if you try to use me, you’ll find out very quickly that you’re not the only one who knows how to play the game.”
Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. The tension between them was palpable, a silent battle of wills.
Finally, Grindelwald inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. “Very well, Mr. Evans. Consider this meeting... a prelude. I have no doubt we’ll cross paths again.”
Harry didn’t respond, watching as Grindelwald turned and disappeared into the mist. Only when he was certain the Dark Wizard was gone did he let out a quiet breath.
“Bloody megalomaniacs,” he muttered, shaking his head.
As he walked back toward the castle, his thoughts were already turning. Grindelwald didn’t know the full story—not yet. But the fact that he was interested at all meant Harry had to be careful. This game was becoming more complicated by the minute, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very, very bad one.