All the things we did

The suffocating stares had returned once again, but this time, with the drawback of being real. The guards did not avert their gaze as they escorted him to the room where he would meet Grindelwald. The further they went, the darker the atmosphere became. A blink was enough to dissociate and take his mind years back, where he found himself recalling the British Ministry of Magic.

Hundreds of camera flashes chased him, capturing his every movement. Among them, faces of disappointment could be seen—a humiliation for an action he believed he didn’t deserve, or at least that’s what he thought. Beside him was a man with green eyes and brown hair, offering him a supportive look. He returned the gesture before looking down and continuing to walk.

What could he have done to feel so humiliated?

He returned to the present without forgetting the past—an ironic twist since, in truth, he remembered very little.

The stairs and long hallways disappeared, leaving only a vast, dark-toned vestibule. The massive paintings on the high walls all centered on the same theme: war.

Nothing in this place strayed from that subject. Even he, in a way, evoked it more than anything else. He didn’t have much time to focus on his surroundings because, in the blink of an eye, they entered a smaller room (compared to the others). A wave of imminent danger overwhelmed his senses. Even though nothing had happened yet, he felt as though he might die at any moment.

The guards forced him to sit on the sofa. As he did, the chain between his handcuffs vanished, leaving only two silver bracelets around his wrists. He didn’t understand their purpose, as escaping was impossible even without them. Perhaps they were placed out of habit—it was common years ago to see prisoners wear them to suppress their magic. However, Dumbledore’s magic seemed non-existent now.

A spontaneous shiver ran through his body, followed by several light spasms in his hands and legs, forcing him to move slightly to release them. He was nervous, though he refused to admit it.

Someone incapable of controlling their mind and body would be drowning in anxiety by now, but he managed to maintain a semblance of composure, releasing small, controlled impulses as he took deep breaths. Yet, he was drowning in anxiety, which only grew stronger the more he denied it.

However, when the room’s doors opened and Grindelwald entered, escorted by a woman with aristocratic features, his mental barrier faltered for an instant. He then looked up to meet his eyes.

They locked eyes, and to Dumbledore’s surprise, the gaze wasn’t intimidating in the slightest.

Moreover, there was something peculiar about the eye contact and what it conveyed. If he allowed himself to trust his instinct, he might even dare to say that Grindelwald wanted it this way. Just by watching him walk, Dumbledore realized that his adversary controlled his body language flawlessly.

And if Grindelwald didn’t want to intimidate, it was because he had decided so—not because he couldn’t.

"You look even more haggard than the day you arrived," Grindelwald began without any formal greeting. He sat elegantly on the armchair across from Dumbledore, crossing his legs. "Everyone, leave," he commanded firmly, casting a quick glance at the woman beside him. She promptly ushered all the guards and herself out of the room.

"Tell me, what’s so important that you wanted to see me?"

"Where is my wand?" Dumbledore asked without much thought, feeling his heart race with anxiety.

Grindelwald sighed heavily, as if regretting granting him an audience. Then he said:
"Broken. And I don’t know where the remains are," he replied bluntly as he rose from his seat in annoyance. Dumbledore remained frozen. "If that’s all you wanted to know, we can consider this meeting over."

An abyss of silence fell over the room. Dumbledore was incapable of continuing the conversation. He felt helpless, on the verge of tears. There was no greater pain for a wizard than knowing their wand had been destroyed.

"However, for your benefit, I don’t plan to leave so soon. I would have wasted too much time coming here just to answer a foolish question. So, if you won’t speak, I will." Grindelwald approached a cabinet with several decanters, poured himself a drink, and returned to his seat.

Shortly after, an elf appeared in the room with a tray holding a teapot and cups. The teapot floated and poured its contents into the cups. Another elf then appeared with a plate of cookies, which he placed on the tray before vanishing along with the first elf.

One of the cups floated closer to Grindelwald, but he ignored it, focusing instead on his liquor.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, reached for the sugar and added two cubes to his cup. He didn’t even want tea, but his anxiety compelled him to do something other than drown in misery. He stirred it counterclockwise with a small spoon, hoping that the faint magic within him would grant him some protection.

Fortunately, Grindelwald didn’t seem to notice. Dumbledore performed the act so naturally that it aroused no suspicion.

"You asked to see me, and I doubt the question you posed was the only reason," Grindelwald said without warning. Dumbledore barely reacted. "I know what you’ve done and what they’ve told you. But I also know you. I recommend you rid your mind of futile plans. Your gaze says it all—I know you as well as I know the back of my hand." He took another sip, unbothered. "And for that reason, I bring you back to reality by assuring you that you will not escape Nurmengard. Even with help."

Dumbledore held firm. These were not truths he hadn’t already known. However, the cynical way in which Grindelwald spoke left no doubt—he truly understood the strength of his prison.

"You wouldn’t escape even if I wanted to get rid of you," Grindelwald murmured, fixing his gaze on the former professor’s eyes, searching for any trace of vulnerability in Dumbledore.

Moments later, he looked away and clenched his jaw. He craved others’ fear to feed his ego, like a predator. But when no fear came, a hint of dissatisfaction clouded Grindelwald. His ego was both strong and fragile; a single blow could shatter it—but not just any blow. The strike that broke his ego would also have to break his spirit. Otherwise, he would only grow stronger.

But how do you break a spirit that was born to be indestructible?

"Remember, you swore to support the greater good," the cynical glint in his eyes dimmed for a moment, and he even spoke the words with a faint hint of reproach.

"I remember no such thing," Dumbledore replied bluntly, embedding his piercing blue eyes into Grindelwald’s.

Grindelwald seemed amused by the response, thinking it was a lie Dumbledore had fabricated to protect himself.

"You don’t need to," he said after a few moments, his expression stoic. "It’s only a matter of time before I win this war and am declared victorious. Stop bothering to interfere in a war that doesn’t concern you—especially not on the side that will lose, Dumbledore."

The sound of his name on Grindelwald’s lips felt different, and he couldn’t stop a jolt of electricity from coursing through him—a reaction that left him confused.

"Letting you win without putting up any resistance to this barbarity would go against my personal philosophy."

"It’s impulsive to cling to an abstract morality you consider part of your soul. And you shouldn’t resist something you yourself created."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, wanting to understand what Grindelwald was referring to. In all logic, Grindelwald embodied immorality. But hypothetically, if he had created the concept of the greater good, then in some equation, the result would suggest an affinity of ideals between them. Yet now, they found themselves defending opposing philosophies and personal moralities.

"That sounds like an accusation," Dumbledore said as he sipped his tea to focus his senses on something other than his thoughts, even if only for a moment.

"It always sounded like that to you."

There were no further comments on the matter. Grindelwald’s heterochromatic eyes remained fixed on him, though his mind seemed to be wandering without losing its direction. He was analyzing every part of Dumbledore to draw a conclusion—one that, as he said earlier, would end the same way.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore allowed himself to study his adversary further.

Grindelwald’s attire was militaristic, distinctly German in style. The suit was entirely black, accented with blue and white. On the upper left pocket of his coat were various insignias that Dumbledore interpreted as military rank distinctions. He also wore a navy blue armband on his left bicep, bearing the symbol of the Deathly Hallows engraved in silver—a symbol he had modified and adopted as his own for his cause. Military boots extended up to his calves.

It was an outfit that expressed dictatorship at its finest.

Grindelwald studied him as well. It was evident in his fixed gaze, mentally cataloging details to easily access them later, like a sketch. His stare was as cold as the weather outside—a demeanor that not even the fiercest fire could warm.

Dumbledore forced himself to return to the moment. He needed to set aside his internal musings and speak with Grindelwald about his current situation. He wouldn’t find answers in what he already knew.

"Why am I here? What’s the point of treating me with care as if I were gold? In any case, why don’t you just kill me to declare yourself victorious?" he asked boldly.

"Perhaps even I don’t know the answer to all your questions," his adversary replied, his tone calm yet unpredictable. "Giving you so much care and privilege in a prison... it’s just another addition to my list of contradictions. Still, there are things left to extract from you…"

The door to the room suddenly opened just as Grindelwald was about to reveal his true answer. Dumbledore’s frustration was evident.

"Monsieur Grindelwald, Healer Carrow has completed the clinical analysis of the patient," Rosier announced with neutrality, placing her hands elegantly in front of her, one over the other.

"Contact her and inform her that I need the analysis to remain incomplete for now. Also, I require Dumbledore’s mind to be examined," Grindelwald replied. In mere seconds, the tea in the teapot was warm again, ready for a second round.

A mental analysis was too much; they would uncover his thoughts and evaluate his memories, leaving exposed the scant information he had managed to gather.

"Understood, Monsieur. Do you need anything else?" she inquired politely. Her eyes bore a weariness akin to a writer’s frustration after a long wait for inspiration that never came.

"Notify the elves to prepare a Granian and clear the castle entrance. I don’t want any guards outside, except for those stationed at the castle exterior and the forest," Grindelwald ordered. He tensed his jaw momentarily, pondering whether to add more requests without sounding excessive. "And get a coat and boots. We’ll be going out for quite some time."

"Are the coat and boots for you?"

"No, they’re for Dumbledore. If he gets hypothermia, I’ll have to invest more time than I can spare," he clarified before leaving the room without a farewell or an explicit dismissal. However, by the look on Rosier’s face, it was clear this was a frequent occurrence.

When the room was empty, the guards entered to escort him back to his quarters—a place that, unwillingly, had become the safest space he could have in Nurmengard.