The Whisper
Gellert Grindelwald sat alone in the dim light of his study, the heavy curtains drawn, casting everything in an oppressive twilight. The room was cluttered with maps, books, and magical relics, each of them more dangerous than the last. The air hummed with the faintest echo of forgotten spells. Yet, despite the aura of power surrounding him, his thoughts were elsewhere.
Harry Evans.
Grindelwald’s fingers hovered above the edge of a goblet, the dark wine untouched. His mind was consumed by the memory of their first encounter. The young professor at Hogwarts had caught him by surprise—an enigma wrapped in shadow. Evans, or Harry, as he insisted on being called, had dismissed Grindelwald’s approach with the same cold detachment that he exuded in every other aspect of his life.
There had been no dramatic confrontation, no challenge issued, no sparks flying in the air. No—Harry had simply deflected him, as if Grindelwald was a mere inconvenience in his path. There had been no definitive answer, no firm stance. Just that lingering, unsettling silence.
"Your ambition is commendable, but it’s not mine to share," Harry had said, his voice distant, his eyes too still to be human. The words, spoken with a strange air of finality, had left Grindelwald intrigued and unnerved all at once. Harry had not engaged in the way others would. Instead, he had stood as an immovable force, as if to remind Grindelwald that there were powers—unseen, unknowable—that he could not touch.
Yet, Grindelwald couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry was not just another obstacle. He was something more—something that lurked just beyond the reach of his plans. The Master of Death, perhaps? The whispers he’d heard in the darkest corners of his mind, and from his agents within Hogwarts, spoke of a man who was both present and absent, who walked between the edges of life and death itself.
Grindelwald had met him, faced him. But the answer to what he truly was had remained just out of reach. Harry had never confirmed nor denied the rumors surrounding his identity.
The Master of Death, if such a thing even existed, was a force that could neither be ignored nor bargained with. And Grindelwald, for all his calculating genius, knew that the true source of power lay not in the material world, but in what existed beyond it.
He leaned back, staring at the fire flickering in the hearth. “Some pieces are best left untouched,” he murmured to himself, his thoughts swirling like the embers. Harry Evans, whether he was the Master of Death or not, was not a piece to be moved carelessly. He was a force unto himself. A force that could not be fully understood, not yet.
But Grindelwald was patient. Time was his ally.
Harry would reveal himself when he was ready. In the meantime, Grindelwald would watch, wait, and plan. There was no rush.
He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching. Harry Evans was playing a game—one that Grindelwald would, in due time, come to understand.
And when the moment arrived, when Harry had no choice but to show his hand, Grindelwald would be there.
The game is already spinning.
And the world would burn.