All the things we did

Order.

The word kept repeating in his mind as Dumbledore looked at him as though he were the worst human being on Earth. He didn’t feel offended; he was well aware of the harm he had caused during his reign. Nevertheless, nothing he did was in vain. For that reason, he ignored the fact that the presence of the aforementioned man thawed his emotions for a brief moment. He felt his throat dry up and his senses focus on his enemy, who seemed too confused to react in any other way than to analyze him with his gaze.

On the other hand, speaking to Dumbledore was an unexpected change of pace. The man was completely at his mercy and vulnerable to whatever he desired to do to him. Even if he ordered his torture at that moment, there was nothing and no one capable of stopping such an action. But Dumbledore remained firm; even knowing his situation, he was able to respond as if he were the one with the privilege of control.

And that displeased Grindelwald in his pride. There was nothing he enjoyed more than submission. Yet denying him that in his own domain was a sign of disrespect.

That prisoner wasn’t like the others. Whether he admitted it or not, this was Albus Dumbledore. His magic wasn’t the only remarkable thing about him; apart from the spirit of Godric Gryffindor running through his veins, he was incapable of being consumed or defeated.
But he could be changed.

In his youth, Grindelwald had managed to manipulate him and use that spirit to integrate his morality into young Dumbledore, who soon realized that he wasn’t committed enough to achieve what he desired.

Dumbledore became an enemy of the greater good.

That was what Grindelwald hated most about him: Dumbledore was never willing to achieve his own goals at any cost but was willing to put others before himself. And that only offended Grindelwald more because the former professor never put him above everyone else.

He lit the fireplace with a nonverbal spell and made his way to the shelf where he kept the alcohol. Taking the first sip of whiskey, his throat burned like that of a novice. The liquor he had taken in the hall while speaking to Dumbledore was nothing compared to the fiery firewhisky in his room, and a faint mocking laugh at himself escaped his lips. He never imagined missing something as banal as firewhisky because, of course, he had missed it. No firewhisky was better than that of his private reserve.

However, due to its superb quality, he took care not to get drunk. It was only a matter of time before someone knocked on his door to inform him that the Granian was ready.
He wasn’t really aware of what he was drowning with the whiskey. It couldn’t be sorrow since his emotional life was completely detached from him, as if Gellert and Grindelwald were two distinct people.

The war consumed him as much as he consumed everything in his path. Or perhaps he had already consumed himself before it all began.

When he diverted his gaze from the fireplace and looked at the window, he observed Dumbledore in the lower courtyard of the castle, wandering aimlessly. He didn’t recognize him, and it was clear that even Dumbledore didn’t recognize himself. Nothing about them was, nor would be, the same.

Analyzing the former professor’s gaze, he realized: the man didn’t even have any emotion that gave him away, except for his instincts and the remnants of what could be exaggerated anguish and fear trying to pass as moderate. The former professor, whether he remembered or knew something, still didn’t buy the memory story.

In any case, Grindelwald didn’t need Dumbledore to remember. After all, his memories were of no use to him since his army had been disbanded months ago, and there was nothing about Dumbledore that was indispensable to know.

He continued watching the redhead outside while taking short, slow sips of whiskey. Something inside him thought about killing Dumbledore quickly, abandoning the plan he had prepared just to extinguish any fire that might spread afterward.

The alcohol began to take effect slightly, and the idea of torturing the former professor became tempting. All to ensure that killing him wasn’t out of mercy but to eliminate one more problem from his list.

But he wouldn’t do it. His rational side still dominated any impulse that would break the control and stability he had demanded of himself for months. He would stick to the plan. He wouldn’t make changes. Nothing would alter what his ambition had shaped for months.

[...]

Hours later, Grindelwald returned to the castle after finishing his tour of the Alps. The Granian was exhausted from the distances they had covered under the rider’s demand for speed. Upon arriving at the stables, he ordered further training for the horses; if they couldn’t fly for extended periods, they wouldn’t be useful for pulling magical carriages.

He spent some time observing the animals. Everything about them was majestic, worthy of his attention. They were one of the few things he genuinely liked. Horseback riding was one of his least practiced but most appreciated activities.

The house-elves quickly took care of cleaning around him as if they feared infecting him with a highly dangerous disease, something he didn’t even bother to acknowledge. He simply entered the castle again through one of the many doors leading from the stables.

The atmosphere radically changed due to the warm temperature enchantment inside. The smell of animal waste disappeared and was replaced by a strong aroma of cinnamon and mint; they weren’t unpleasant but not his favorites either.

Before continuing his path, Rosier made her presence known with the distinctive sound of her heels. There were very few women in Nurmengard to confuse her with, besides which the others usually wore flat shoes for comfort. He directed his attention toward the sharp resonance of the footwear, coming face-to-face with the Frenchwoman, whom he assumed was there to deliver reports.

“Monsieur Vogel will arrive in less than an hour. He decided to take a Portkey from the city of Poland to the Austrian border, where he received the reserved carriage.”

Just as he had guessed.

“Is Dumbledore still outside?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then find out,” he ordered with neutrality, though the slight expressions of the woman indicated that his words hadn’t been the most tactful. Not that it mattered to him. “When you find him, tell the guards to take him to one of the rooms in the same wing as my bedroom, but unconscious, so he doesn’t know the way.”

He was aware of the pressure he exerted on Rosier. It was even likely that the woman harbored more stress than he himself possessed. However, stopping to think about her while taking action would only cause the Frenchwoman’s stress to end up annoying him; cruel but for the right cause.

“You can rest afterward,” he conceded, noticing the weariness in her gaze. She immediately looked confused, even appearing surprised.
“Are you sure? Monsieur Vogel will have new things to report, and—”
“I will handle that. Just ensure Dumbledore is where I ordered.”

Although not entirely convinced, she nodded and obeyed, turning around to search for the former professor’s whereabouts. Her steps were elegantly calm, yet they radiated a carefully concealed indignation. There was something about that woman that had always intrigued him. On one hand, Rosier was an educated lady, with elevated intelligence and a strong character cloaked in subtlety.

The Frenchwoman’s physical allure caused many of his soldiers to be captivated by her without her even trying. Something very useful. However, he had noticed one detail: throughout the time he had known her, he had never seen her show interest in any man.

Perhaps it’s just my imagination, he told himself every time the thought crossed his mind.

Ending his musings about the Frenchwoman, he made his way to the main hall, where he would already be if he hadn’t been interrupted on the way. Upon arrival, the harmony of the room seeped into his system, making it hard to believe that he, too, might achieve such a sensation in his own mind.

And indeed, he did. To distract himself in the short time before Vogel arrived at the castle, he grabbed a book from the tall shelves nearby. Philosophy wasn’t the most ideal genre for distraction, but it would keep him occupied and alert.

Certainly, he enjoyed reading. He enjoyed Machiavelli.

[...]

In an undefined lapse of time, he made his way to the castle entrance to greet Vogel. Taking a shortcut through a less-traveled corridor of the prison, he quickly reached the doors of the empty vestibule. He walked past Dumbledore, close enough for the latter to notice his presence but not close enough to seem intentional. Then, he approached Lieutenant Nagel; together, they welcomed Vogel, with Grindelwald placing his hands behind his back, avoiding physical contact—a gesture Vogel noticed and acknowledged with a simple nod.

He turned to see Nagel holding the doors open for them to enter. They did so, and once inside, Nagel followed at a distance of just over a meter, escorting them.

Before they reached the office where they would discuss the latest problems, Vogel couldn’t stop looking around as if he had never been there before.

"I’ve repeated this many times, yet I find myself needing to say it once again," Vogel said, breaking the silence as he gazed at the ceilings and marble pillars. "The entire structure and decoration are an abstract combination of a curiously ordered canvas."

Grindelwald accepted the compliment, deciding to respond to maintain a brief conversation.

"Many of the styles within the castle are a blend of my own tastes and those of my parents," Grindelwald explained, trying to sound appreciative of the praise. "My mother was a fan of Greek mythology, my father a lover of the Renaissance. As for me, I appreciate marble designs, cool colors, and dragons. My intention was to merge all three styles as a reminder of my pride in my roots."

"My parents were both German; they also appreciated art, even though they couldn’t replicate it in our home. I face the same issue now," Vogel replied.

"A home that evokes beauty merely by being contemplated is worthy of appreciation. I would even dare to call it art—the blend of environment and the emotions stored within such a structure."

Vogel nodded, moved by the words, and Grindelwald barely resisted laughing at what was likely the most pretentious comment he had ever made in his life.

It wasn’t long before they reached the office. Lieutenant Nagel stayed outside while Grindelwald and Vogel entered. Both took seats on the dark armchairs in the Prussian blue room—a decidedly cold contrast. Meanwhile, Vogel seemed eager to release all the information he had gathered.

"I imagine your days in Great Britain were lengthy," Grindelwald began, conjuring a bottle of red wine from storage. He also conjured two glasses and cast non-verbal spells to serve them on their own. "I’ve postponed this meeting due to the disturbances in Berlin. The city, in general, is submissive, but there are still traces of Muggle plagues on its outskirts."

"One could say Great Britain is similar, though they’re growing weary."

"In what sense?"

"The vast majority believe in the greater good, but a sense of ambition grows within them. They’re no longer willing to wait for the definitive change. MACUSA knows this; they plan to liberate Great Britain from its dominion and use it as a bridge to enter Europe. Canada is with them."

Grindelwald took his wine glass, swirling the liquid gently in his hand, his magic focused on it.

"The Canadian minister isn’t part of the conflict. He’ll merely allow himself to be used as a bridge, giving MACUSA and the ICW a chance to end the war," the heterochromatic wizard said, observing scattered shapes in the wine. With any luck, a brief vision would appear. "We have the strength to end this once and for all; it’s the numbers that limit us."

"What do you propose?" Vogel asked, taking a sip of his wine but still thirsty for information.

"Let them enter Europe," Grindelwald declared, watching as the wine began to form a face leading a large number of people.

Vogel was taken aback, unsure of the plan’s implications and ultimate purpose. Grindelwald remained calm, focused on the wine, avoiding distractions in that crucial moment. He swirled the wine once more, and in it appeared a face that transformed into an unfamiliar man. Resentment burned in the man’s eyes, pain etched into his weary expressions.

The vision vanished after revealing the face, leaving no further connection than that of a man paying the price of war.

"If they believe they have hope to win and fight, they’ll bring their best soldiers to Europe. Their disadvantage is their numbers, which means we’ll have three to four times the soldiers ready to annihilate them as soon as they set foot on land. They’ll want to take England first. In the United States, they’ll leave the less skilled or the leaders, for obvious reasons. Killing the few combatant wizards will leave them increasingly vulnerable."

"And if they manage to take more cities? It could become a domino effect if not controlled with caution," Vogel said, unconvinced of the plan, largely because he wasn’t willing to take such a risk.

"They won’t. It’ll be like letting them take a pawn in a game of chess. After all, they’re not the ones who have all the pieces on the board," Grindelwald said, smiling maliciously as he raised his wine glass to his lips.

"Will you discuss this with the board?" the German cautiously inquired.

"Not me. You will. I’m afraid I have matters to attend to in the castle. That’s why I must ask you to go to Berlin and present the strategy to the board within the next two weeks while I remain here."

"Are you certain about this?" The question echoed in Grindelwald’s mind like a challenge, as if Vogel doubted his ability and decisions.

"I’m not certain whether the resistance will set foot on land before they’re obliterated."

The office fell into a deathly silence after that final remark. Something within both men assured them of victory, even though doubts lingered, which they chose to suppress to avoid regret over what was to come.

The two continued talking late into the night, touching on topics beyond the war. Though Grindelwald wouldn’t admit it, Vogel seemed to be attempting to make their relationship more personal, delving into intimate subjects. Grindelwald deftly avoided these by feigning interest in Vogel’s life, ensuring the German disclosed more personal details about himself instead.

It was the wine that eventually lulled Vogel to drowsiness, an opportunity the heterochromatic wizard seized to order the house-elves to escort the German to a vacant bedroom. Although the man initially resisted, he soon felt tired enough to comply.

Grindelwald, too, made his way to his bedroom, as weary of people as ever. At times, he found his behavior ironic, given that his work revolved around convincing people to alter a political order and create a new one. Occasionally, he forgot that people weren’t mere manipulable objects, though they could well qualify as such.

Upon reaching the hallway near his room, he noticed a sliver of whitish light spilling from one of the doors, standing out starkly against the darkness. He approached the door cautiously, ensuring he wasn’t heard from inside. Wrapping his hand delicately around the knob, he turned it; no sound emerged except the belated creak of the door.

When it fully opened, he was met with Dumbledore’s brilliant blue eyes—eyes that, upon seeing him, shifted into the same look of prey caught between the decision to defend itself or succumb.

Grindelwald remained silent for a few seconds before fully entering the room and asking:
"If you don’t remember me... why do you fear me?" He let the question hang abruptly. Deep down, he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from the other man’s lips. Something about Dumbledore conveyed the feeling of a replacement, as if the former professor was no longer the same person Grindelwald had known.

"I do not fear you," Dumbledore began, "but I find it incomprehensible to see you attempt to instill fear in me for entertainment rather than strategic purposes," he replied calmly, though just by looking into his eyes, Grindelwald knew the calm was false.

You can’t hide anything from me if you let me look into your eyes, dummer Rotschopf. He thought as he analyzed Dumbledore’s cautious gaze.

"I’ll be direct because I won’t waste time: do you truly not remember me?" Grindelwald inquired. He didn’t realize it at the moment, but the wine had loosened his tongue.

He saw Dumbledore straighten, visibly uncomfortable yet open to answering the question. He nodded, although it was uncertain whether the gesture confirmed his lack of memory or merely his compliance in responding.

"I do not remember you. Since you arrived, you’ve spoken to me as if we were close. You disregarded formalities and seemed outraged that I had not fulfilled an oath I don’t recall ever being part of. As far as I understand, I know we are enemies, opposing sides in a war. The rest I infer or simply know without any memory of it. It makes me question: Is it I who does not remember, or is it you who remembers differently?"

At that, Grindelwald lost his composure, indignant at the response. He stood firm, refusing to believe it, especially when Dumbledore dared to sow doubts within him. On the other hand, despite paying close attention to any detail that might indicate deceit, Dumbledore appeared entirely transparent in his reply.

Nothing gave him away.

And Dumbledore would never be capable of deceiving him; Grindelwald knew him as well as he knew himself. However, in case any doubts remained, he decided to confirm the truth for himself.

"Legeremens."