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The rest of the day, Dumbledore moved from book to book, trying to keep his mind occupied. There was nothing else he could do, nothing that could stave off his obsession with analyzing and understanding his reality. When his eyes grew tired of reading, he turned his gaze to the landscape beyond the window: the mountains were blanketed in snow, the pines standing out with their green tones and occasional hints of brown, adding some contrast. He longed to step outside, breathe fresh air, and even feel the cold—it would seem comforting.
He sighed, forming a circle of condensation on the glass, and began to draw on it—people, animals, and symbols, detailing them as much as his fingers allowed. Among his drawings, he traced one rune in particular: Algiz, the rune of protection. If he couldn’t protect the people out there, at least he could send them his support through the glass. He thought of those he would fight for, and a flicker of hope ignited within him.
When he grew bored, he walked over to the bookshelf, stopping just inches from it. Taking a deep breath, he tried to make one of the books float. The object trembled for a few seconds but didn’t move. Dumbledore clenched his jaw in frustration at the failed attempt. His magic was incredibly weak, nearly extinguished. Nevertheless, he tried again: the book shifted slightly from its place, but that was all.
He made one final attempt, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, focusing his magic through his breath, hoping this time the object would remain airborne. The sound of impact made him open his eyes: the book lay on the floor, and no matter how hard he tried to lift it with magic, he couldn’t even make it tremble.
The door opened suddenly, and Dumbledore instinctively turned to look at the entrance. It was the healer who had attended to him when he regained consciousness.
“You tried to perform magic,” she stated, observing him. “The room records every magical disturbance originating from you, Mr. Dumbledore,” she informed him indifferently as she stepped further into the room.
“Did you use a barrier to suppress my magic?” Dumbledore asked instinctively, picking up the book from the floor.
“I’m afraid not. For now, we can’t place too much strain on your abilities. We don’t yet know if you’re in the expected condition.” She walked to the nightstand and attempted to stroke the dragon on the clock, but it immediately recoiled.
Dumbledore swallowed hard and held his breath at her words. What did she mean by "expected condition"?
“If I’m not yet in the expected condition, why enchant the door? I imagine that, for now, I pose no threat in this place.”
The healer tensed and locked eyes with him as she approached.
"I should have guessed you’d find patterns prematurely."
Dumbledore didn’t miss the condescending tone in those words.
"Then why can’t I perform basic magic?" he challenged boldly. The healer was determined to make him feel powerless, and Dumbledore intended to disarm her with that question.
"Because your body is so weak it’s using your magic to stay afloat; using it would be fatal for you at this moment." A mocking smirk began to form on her face. "If I were your army and saw how little or nothing is left of you, I’d surrender immediately. Luckily, they’ll never be able to enter Nurmengard to find out."
Dumbledore immediately clenched his jaw, a torrent of conflicting emotions nearly suffocating him. The healer paid him no mind, believing her words had struck home.
"It doesn’t matter; they’re just like you—optimists. Anyway, your request will be granted tomorrow, Dumbledore," he mentioned abruptly. "I will stop speaking to you as if you deserve courteous treatment. After all, in this place, a house-elf is worth more than you."
Dumbledore hadn’t expected them to reveal where he was or whether his army was still alive, yet she had let it slip in her arrogance. When the healer left the room, he couldn’t help but feel breathless: his army was alive. That realization filled him with overwhelming euphoria.
However, he was in Nurmengard, a place from which no prisoner could escape—not even Grindelwald himself, if he were ever imprisoned.
Though he had suspected he might be in the castle, he had dismissed the idea. Knowing now that they had managed to deceive him, even briefly, left him feeling inadequate. He needed to stay a step ahead, but one step was far too little, and ten might not even make a difference in circumventing the castle’s defenses.
He hoped his army wouldn’t consider rescuing him; it would be as dangerous as stepping into a dragon’s mouth, and this dragon would not be as merciful to them as it had been to him.
A small revelation took hold of his mind: if his army were captured in Nurmengard, they would be tortured to death, while he was being treated with extraordinary care. You only discard something when it no longer serves a purpose, and he realized there was still something Grindelwald wanted from him.
Even with his magic dormant, Grindelwald desired something from Dumbledore. It wasn’t about keeping him as a war trophy; Dumbledore suspected it was far more complex. If he couldn’t figure out what it was, he wouldn’t be able to stop it.
That night, Dumbledore sat deep in thought, his gaze fixed on Achilles—the most lifelike sculpture he had ever seen, or at least remembered seeing. His eyes were beautiful, luminous, and Dumbledore swore his soul shone just as brightly. Or perhaps only half of his soul. He understood. They understood each other.
Dumbledore believed he had lost half of his soul over the course of the war; the coldness it left behind had seeped so deeply into him that he began to exude it. At one point in his life, he had found it impossible to stop thinking about the war. If it wasn’t Grindelwald, another wizard would have to be stopped. If he couldn’t remember what mattered most in his life, that part of his soul would surely vanish forever.
Achilles and Dumbledore remained motionless, wrapped in a shared sense of melancholy that permeated the room, bound to the only thing that claimed them: sorrow. And what did they claim in return? Nothing. The answer came easily. What could belong to a dead man? Achilles had the fortune of being physically dead, but Dumbledore did not. It was his soul that was dead, and when a man loses his soul, nothing and no one can replace it.
He approached the window and saw his reflection in the glass. His thoughts turned to what would happen tomorrow—he had no idea what he would say to Grindelwald. It was clear he had many questions, and he wanted to ask them, but he dreaded the answers. He knew that, little by little, the fear would diminish until it left him entirely. And when that happened, his mind would turn dark, and he would lose it. He would lose the fear.
The reflection in the glass shifted into a sequence: Grindelwald and himself, locked in a duel, their hatred-filled gazes driving them to commit unforgivable acts. The image vanished with a blink, and he realized it might be a new memory. He replayed it in his mind, piecing together the fragments he had glimpsed.
Dumbledore sighed. He couldn’t even explain where that hatred came from or how they had ended up fighting.
Before sleep claimed him, one question filled his mind: would Grindelwald look at him with the same hatred as in that memory?