Chapter 156: Nurmengard
Summer sunlight blazed over the European continent.
One fortress on a barren mountain peak rejected that light.
It stood like a tombstone, and even the wind there seemed to fall silent and turn cold.
Without a sound, a tall old man appeared before it, sea wind tugging at his silver hair and beard.
Dumbledore looked up at the ancient castle: Nurmengard.
One of the wizarding world's most famous prisons. Unlike overcrowded Azkaban, it held only a single inmate.
Gellert Grindelwald.
The Dark wizard who had once shaken all of Europe.
No—by his own claim, Grindelwald was not a Dark wizard at all. He styled himself an idealist, fighting for his people's rights.
His followers, the so‑called "Saints", had always believed they were walking a glorious path at his side.
Dumbledore ignored the wards around the grounds and simply stepped through the invisible barrier.
He walked toward the fortress, bright blue eyes hidden behind his half‑moon glasses.
At the rotting doors, he raised his head and gazed at the inscription above.
Years of wind and rain had worn the carved letters to a blur.
He did not need to read them to say the words.
"For the Greater Good."
"Sigh…"
Dumbledore let out a breath and stepped inside.
The elderly Squib on guard at the entrance did not seem to sense him. He went on with his slow patrol.
Unlike Azkaban, where Dementors glided between the cells, Nurmengard had only a few ageing Squibs for wardens.
Why not wizards?
Because when Grindelwald had been held in an American prison, he had turned an Auror with words alone.
Despite frequent rotation, just a few days of conversation had been enough for that Auror to willingly die for him.
In truth, it probably did not matter whether the guards were Squibs or wizards.
If the prisoner in Nurmengard truly wished to leave, dozens of elite Aurors would have been of no use.
Grindelwald knew, though, that even if he escaped, he would still have to face Dumbledore in the end.
It was not the law or the wards that kept him there.
Dumbledore climbed the stairs. The air smelled of crumbling stone and the faintest trace of dust, like the remnants of old dreams.
At the tower's summit, the single cell door stood open.
An old man stood at the narrow window with his back to Dumbledore, his thin frame like a broken sword, straight but with its edge hidden.
His once‑brilliant blond hair had gone dry and white. The voice that had once stirred a whole continent was hoarse when he spoke.
"Since Christmas, you have not written," he said. "I thought you had run out of parchment as well."
Dumbledore stopped in the middle of the cell, not moving closer.
"I have been busy," he said. "Now that the summer holidays have begun, things are a little easier."
Grindelwald did not turn. "Because of the Boy Who Lived," he said quietly.
"Yes. The child has to grow. He has to face Voldemort…"
Dumbledore spoke softly, almost as if it did not matter whether Grindelwald wanted to hear it.
Grindelwald did not interrupt. He simply listened.
"The Ravenclaw first‑year I told you about," Dumbledore went on. "His talent is remarkable. Perhaps too remarkable. The most gifted student Hogwarts has ever seen.
"He has a very unusual companion. A Qilin…"
Grindelwald finally turned.
Deep lines scored his face in the shadows, but his mismatched eyes were still sharp.
One was bright blue. The other was duller, darker.
Those strange eyes could see shards of the future. The visions were never complete, but they had still made him a born seer.
"A Qilin?" he said.
He knew that creature very well. Too well.
Once, he had tried to use a Qilin to claim leadership over the wizarding world.
A kindly Hufflepuff had ruined that plan.
Seeing his interest, Dumbledore moved to the rickety little table and sat.
He picked up a damp Cockroach Cluster and popped it into his mouth without a qualm.
"You have not changed," Grindelwald said. "Still fond of those cheap sweets."
"They remind us there is still a simple sweetness in life," Dumbledore replied.
He waved a hand. Fresh tea and several plates of sweets appeared on the table.
"I brought these from Honeydukes," he said. "Try one."
Grindelwald had already lifted his teacup, but at that, he reached for a Lemon Sherbet and carefully unwrapped it.
They fell into a companionable silence, the picture of an ordinary afternoon tea.
"Master of a Qilin," Grindelwald murmured at last. "Is the wizarding world about to greet a new leader? A true one?"
He sipped his tea and smiled to himself.
Dumbledore shook his head. Then he nodded.
Grindelwald, who knew him better than anyone, was genuinely surprised. It meant Dumbledore himself was unsure.
Was this Leonardo Grafton boy really so unusual?
He could not help feeling intrigued.
"Leonardo's Qilin is very different from any we have known," Dumbledore said.
He described Aurelius' strange powers in broad strokes, but left out the details of Qilin saliva and blood and the staggering vitality they contained.
"Newt… certain experts in magical creatures call it a mutation," Dumbledore added. "Something extremely rare and powerful."
Grindelwald's mouth twitched behind his teacup. A "magical creature expert"?
Who else could Dumbledore possibly mean?
"And the boy himself became an Animagus in his first year," Dumbledore said. "You cannot judge his Transfiguration by ordinary standards.
"He has gone further. He has achieved magical‑creature Transfiguration. I did not see the entire process with my own eyes, but my senses are not wrong. That was a complete Transfiguration, recreating a magical pathway. Not an illusion. A real dragon."
Grindelwald's hand froze halfway to his lips.
He trusted Dumbledore. Trusted his power. Trusted his judgement. The man would not be mistaken.
"Animagus at eleven is impressive," Grindelwald said slowly. "But magical‑creature Transfiguration…"
He knew what true genius looked like. He was one. Dumbledore was another.
But this boy called Leonardo… could you still call that "genius"?
He looked down into his tea, watching the surface ripple. A glint of light passed through his heterochromatic eyes.