All the things we did

The following morning, Dumbledore resumed exploring the room. He rose as soon as the first rays of sunlight filled the space, thanks to the large window across from his bed, which lacked curtains and bathed the room in inevitable illumination. He walked around, noticing bookshelves, a few dressers, and tall furniture (perhaps wardrobes). He opened the latter immediately: they contained nothing surprising—just suits, shoes, and clean undergarments.

The place didn’t disappoint in any way; everything was remarkably expensive.

He noticed a door on the other side of the room, which he assumed was the exit, and instinctively walked toward it, knowing it would most likely be locked. Standing before the door, he curled his fingers around the handle, only to feel an electrifying jolt from within. The handle turned, but the door refused to open—it was enchanted. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed, so he decided to continue inspecting every detail of the room.

He searched for a bathroom; a room like this surely had one. He found a door camouflaged with the wallpaper and opened it: inside was a bathroom with all the usual amenities, though it was ostentatious. There was no mirror, which he regretted; he genuinely wanted to see himself, even knowing he would look gaunt and sickly. There was also a bathtub, which he considered a weakness.

If he wanted, he could end his life, and no one would stop him.

Even so, he wasn’t desperate to do so; he needed to save others’ lives first. Ending his own was a luxury he was obligated to forgo for everyone’s sake. Though he wasn’t sure if he could escape the place, prioritizing others over himself would always be his guiding principle.

Outside of that, he was surprised by how calm he felt, as if he hadn’t had a stress-induced crisis of worry the day before.

Dumbledore left the bathroom, feeling a strong urge to bathe. However, without a towel, he decided to postpone it for now. Back in the room, he approached the bookshelves and examined the titles, all of which had a common theme: Muggle literature. He picked one about history; he had already read most of the romantic and fiction novels there. Even if he hadn’t, he wasn’t in the mood to process fictional dramas—he could barely process himself as an individual who had forgotten his own beginning.

He moved to the nearest sofa and began to read, turning pages rapidly, almost devouring the book. Although he already knew much about Muggle European history, rereading it refreshed his mind, as if reactivating knowledge that had been buried deep within.

He became so absorbed in the book that he didn’t hear the elf enter.

“Eru has brought breakfast for Mr. Dumbledore,” the elf announced upon noticing that the man hadn’t looked up from his book. “If Mr. Dumbledore needs anything, he can ask Eru.”

Dumbledore snapped out of his reading upon hearing his name for the second time. He set the book down and walked toward the elf, who had left breakfast on the nightstand.

“Could I have some towels?” Dumbledore asked.

The elf nodded repeatedly. “Eru forgot to bring personal care items for Mr. Dumbledore,” he explained timidly. “Eru is sorry,” he apologized, bowing his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dumbledore said dismissively. “Could you bring a mirror?”

“Eru cannot provide any object that is or could become sharp,” the elf replied before vanishing with a crack.

Dumbledore was left with those final words. Grindelwald wanted him to be extraordinarily healthy, and the meticulous state of his care only served to alarm him further. Why did Grindelwald care about his health if he was his enemy?

He set the matter aside for now and began eating his breakfast, which the elf had made lighter since they didn’t know if his stomach would tolerate food. To his surprise, he enjoyed it: he chewed slowly, savoring the meal without worrying if he would vomit, and finished it entirely. He picked up the glass of water on the tray and drank it so fluidly that he could feel the liquid flowing down his chest, spreading a refreshing sensation. Just as he was finishing the last sip, the elf returned.

“Eru has left towels and necessary items for Mr. Dumbledore in the bathroom. If Mr. Dumbledore needs anything else, he can call Eru at any time.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need anything else.” The elf nodded and disappeared as he had earlier.

After taking a bath, Dumbledore searched the wardrobe and selected a suit at random, not worrying much about its appearance. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a beige double-breasted suit with a white shirt, but no tie or bow tie. He also grabbed underwear and black shoes.

The suit was undeniably expensive; its double-breasted style signified privilege for the wearer. Dumbledore couldn’t help but wonder why Grindelwald had provided such clothing. He was supposed to be a prisoner, not a spouse to be lavished with such luxury. Even so, he couldn’t return it, so he put it on and used the window as a makeshift mirror. His silhouette remained impeccable, but his face looked tired and sickly, and both his beard and hair were unkempt.

He wandered around the room again, finding little else to do. Though he knew reading all day would eventually bore him, he couldn’t bear to sit idly for long. He picked up the book he had been reading earlier and continued, seated by the window.

Though he read, he couldn’t help but think about other ways to occupy his time in isolation. The loneliness would slowly kill him—that was inevitable—but boredom could be managed. If only he could draw, write, or even knit, he could better distribute his distractions.

Reading was good, but he longed to read The Daily Prophet—he hungered for outside information, but the elf refused to tell him anything. He wanted to know what was happening in the world so he could plan his next move if he managed to escape. He couldn’t think about fixing things without knowing what was broken.

Another thought crossed his mind: if Grindelwald kept him captive, it was highly likely that he had already taken over many countries. When Dumbledore returned to the game, there would be more pieces to recover.

He used the metaphor of chess to avoid overwhelming himself: Europe was the board, the countries were the pieces, and Grindelwald and he were racing against time. Yet time was on Grindelwald’s side, making victory even harder.

Dumbledore didn’t even know which pieces he could use—if his army was still out there, he could consider himself fortunate. But at this moment, luck was the last thing he trusted. All his past attempts to uncover Grindelwald’s strongholds had been in vain.