All the things we did

This time, he did not wake on his own. Strength coursed through his veins via a vine—probably metallic—that he could not see but sensed coiled around his wrist. A surge of energy shot through his body, causing violent spasms due to its intensity. Someone grasped his wrist during the process, tightening the chains further to enhance the flow of that power. His body began to regain everything it had lost over the years.

It was as if his magic had reignited after being extinguished.

A sudden contraction of his heart jolted him awake and back to reality. This time, he no longer felt weak. Quickly, he checked his wrists; the chains were gone, leaving behind faint scars as traces.

This was a new medical method in the wizarding world. He had never heard of a healing procedure with such a process—let alone such results.

Medicine must have advanced rapidly in the past year.

Perhaps the war had spurred greater study and discoveries in medicine, though likely at the cost of experimentation on prisoners. This troubling realization sent a chill through him. If he had been trapped in this place for an extended period, Grindelwald could have subjected millions to his will.

Millions of lives affected by his temporary absence from the conflict.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it. Dwelling on such thoughts would only bring guilt and anxiety crashing down on him.

Before moving, he closed his eyes and performed breathing exercises to calm his heart rate. Gradually, faint sensations of peace settled over him.

He sat up and removed the blankets with ease; they no longer felt heavy. Rising from the bed, he noticed it was night outside. He reached for the lamp on his bedside table to illuminate his surroundings. As soon as he turned it on, all the lights in the room came to life.

This time, he explored the room not just with his eyes but also with his touch.

Though his legs were slightly cramped, the thrill of exploring beyond what his sight could reveal drove him to push through the discomfort.

With his fingertips, he traced the surfaces of the large stone statues. To his relief, they did not move. He wasn’t sure he could bear any more eyes watching him.

He walked over to the paintings hanging near the bookshelves. One of them caught his attention—it didn’t move. Moving closer for a better look, he realized it was a non-magical painting.

His mind felt refreshed as he recognized the piece: Dante and Virgil.

Grindelwald always despised non-magical people and never hesitated to express it openly. When they had to meet to resolve matters regarding the war, his opinion remained steadfast, like an unyielding pillar:

He loathed Muggles. To him, any plague was preferable to them.

Rarely had Grindelwald admitted anything favorable about the non-magical.

As he gazed at the painting, he pondered the reason for his stay in this room. While confined to the bed, he had paid little attention to the details of the paintings and statues due to the distance. Now, observing them closely, he couldn’t help but think that the entire decor was a manipulation.

It wouldn’t let him forget—not for a moment—that, despite the tranquil atmosphere, he was still at war.

All the paintings depicted violence, and if they didn’t, they explored themes like war, power, and homosexual eroticism. The sculptures along the walls were of gods and Greek men, carved with such lifelike precision that they appeared ready to move at any moment, even though they remained still.

Achilles was the most realistic of them all. Though carved from stone, his eyes and helmet featured a smoother, more pronounced relief. Especially the eyes—Dumbledore could swear the pupils and hair were gilded in gold, given the metallic, yellowish glow they emitted when struck by the light of the nearby chandelier.

To have doubted that Grindelwald was the elf’s master had been foolish; there was no need to overthink it. His surroundings alone revealed everything about the adversary's ideology—or perhaps his singular desire.

He wanted to make his presence known, even in his absence.

Beyond Grindelwald’s compulsive obsession with war, the place was too beautiful to be a prison. It could easily have been a prominent outpost on the outskirts of countries like Italy or Switzerland with military influence. The castle-like atmosphere only added to its extravagance.

There could be no rooms like this in a prison, and with that thought, his persistent fear of being inside Nurmengard dissipated.

The concern that lingered, however, was his memory. He couldn’t understand how he had forgotten so much.

He hadn’t been subjected to any kind of dark magic—he would feel it coursing through his sweat, or a dry, chilling cold emanating from within his body.

Another matter made him question things further.

When it came to recalling details unrelated to Grindelwald or himself on a personal level, with the right circumstances, he could remember them. Dates, places, people—even knowledge—were buried deep in his mind, waiting to be revived. Yet, they never surfaced.

He was lost in his own mind, stranded and disconnected from himself. A blank slate.

He felt depersonalized, as if significant memories of his life had been concealed—if not outright erased. That left him feeling utterly hollow.

He depended on the right situations or information provided by others to piece himself together.

Even if that information was false.

He hoped someone out there had known him well enough to reveal the truths of his life. Only then could he reclaim his essence and identity. It didn’t matter who it was—he would feel grateful to know that someone had taken the time to truly understand him.

But now, he was alone, and nothing would be resolved until Grindelwald came to see him.

He would have to tread carefully with whatever Grindelwald chose to reveal. He couldn’t trust everything the man said, but he would have to believe just enough to shed light on his current situation.

If he didn’t recover his memories, he would be lost along with them.