Grindelwald POV
Nurmengard had always been cold.
But tonight, something older than winter moved through its stones.
The fortress was empty now—no prisoners, no guards, no political tourists. Just the mountain, the wind, and the echo of history. It should have felt dead.
Instead, it felt aware.
Watching.
Waiting.
Grindelwald stood on the highest balcony, cloak snapping sharply in the wind, staring out across the endless snowfields below. The storm had parted directly above him—an open circle in the sky, like the heavens made space for him alone.
Behind him, the old stone carvings along the wall trembled softly, as if remembering his magic.
He lifted his hand.
Not dramatically.
Not ceremonially.
Just… with purpose.
The Deathly Hallows symbol—his mark, his flag, his revolution—glowed faintly on the skin of his forearm, just above the wrist. A reminder of who he once was and who he chose not to be.
He had not used this magic in fifty years.
He whispered, barely more than breath:
"Aufstehen."
Rise."
The sigil ignited.
A thin line of white-blue fire traced itself across the sky, climbing, widening, spiraling outward into a radiant triangle-circle-line. It hovered above Nurmengard like a second moon.
A beacon.
A call.
A command.
The storm stopped breathing.
And then—
the mountain answered.
They came.
Not in a trickle.
Not in hesitation.
But all at once.
Apparition cracks split like lightning across the snowfields. Dozens… then hundreds… figures emerged from the darkness—hoods, cloaks, foreign coats, fur-lined uniforms, cerulean robes, desert silks, Balkan overcoats, Tibetan capes.
Not masked.
Not ashamed.
Not afraid.
Loyal.
They climbed the mountain in disciplined columns, boots crunching in the snow, breath steaming in the cold. Some walked. Some floated. Some strode with wandlight hovering above their heads in old colors of the Alliance.
They filled the courtyard.
Then the lower battlements.
Then the terraces carved into the ice.
And when the balcony torches flared to life, three figures stepped forward from the front ranks.
Vinda Rosier — chin lifted, gaze bright with belief.
"Grindelwald."
No title.
No bow.
Just devotion.
Celeste Carrow — dark eyes wide, almost shining with fanatic joy.
"We knew you would call."
Roland Abernathy — calm, composed, voice low:
"You chose to return. Finally."
Behind them, the other commanders gathered like storms given shape:
Flavio Zabini, smiling with that dangerous diplomacy.
Michael Krafft, hands behind his back, posture iron-straight.
Reminus Nagel, muttering omens under his breath.
Jonathon MacDuff, runic scars glowing faintly under torchlight.
And newer faces too—
their children,
their recruits,
their successors.
Sixty in the front ranks.
Hundreds behind them.
Tens of Thousands in the world ready to move at a word.
Wind howled across the summit—
and cut off abruptly as Grindelwald stepped to the balcony rail.
He looked down at them all.
Not with arrogance.
Not with sentiment.
With recognition.
He raised one hand.
Silence.
Instant, absolute silence.
Not a voice.
Not a breath.
Not a heartbeat out of sync.
He spoke softly, but the entire mountain heard:
"A cycle has begun."
No murmurs.
Just a slight straightening of spines.
"Two forces have awakened—forces older than life, older than death, older than the universe that binds you."
A ripple of excitement shivered through them.
Vinda Rosier whispered, reverently:
"Primordials."
Grindelwald's eyes burned faintly in the torchlight.
"Creation and Destruction have taken form. Not spirits. Not gods. Children."
Shock.
A collective, trembling inhale.
Celeste Carrow stepped forward.
"Then the world will break."
Grindelwald's lips curved—not in amusement, not in prophecy, but in certainty.
"Unless we hold it together."
Dozens of wands tightened in hands.
Abernathy asked, "What do you require?"
Grindelwald lifted his hand again and light rippled across the air like ink dissolving into water.
Above him, Twenty sigils in silver-black shadow.
Many acolytes gasped.
Some dropped to their knees.
A few began weeping.
Nagel whispered, voice cracking:
"Those creatures… They're myths—ancient myths."
"No," Grindelwald said quietly.
"They are real. And we must find them."
He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the glowing list.
"Death, Darkness, Destruction require twenty essences."
Umbraex
Strix Prime
Wendigo Shade
Obsidian Basilisk
Cŵn Annwn
Nuckelavee Sovereign
Marbas
Black Phoenix
Jorōgumo Matriarch
Void-Spawn Leviathan
Tenebris Dracolich
Nocturne Griffon
Grave Kelpie Prime
Revenant Titan
Ash Seraph
Nightmare Behemoth
Crypt Hydra
Gore Wraith
Chimeric Devourer
Abyssal Rakshasa
Flavio Zabini's voice dropped to a reverent whisper:
"Grindelwald… this is cosmology. Not politics."
"Correct," Grindelwald said. "And the stakes are higher."
Michael Krafft stepped forward, frowning.
"Do you command us to begin the search?"
Grindelwald's eyes flickered—
and the entire Alliance leaned forward instinctively.
He smiled, faint but sharp.
"I do not command."
The wind went still.
"I ask."
His voice cut cleanly through the air:
"Will you stand with me once more?"
A single beat.
Then—
Vinda Rosier dropped to one knee.
Celeste Carrow followed, eyes shining.
Then Abernathy.
Krafft.
Nagel.
MacDuff.
Zabini.
Then—like a wave collapsing across the stones—
every acolyte bowed their heads.
The mountain shook with the force of their voices:
"For the Greater Good."
Grindelwald breathed in the moment—
not pride, not nostalgia—
but readiness.
He lifted his hand, and the Hallows sigil above the fortress pulsed once.
"Then rise."
They rose as one.
He turned away from the balcony.
"We begin immediately."
And behind him—
the storm broke open.
Not in violence—
but in obedience.
______
Buildings grew like crystallized light, their edges too sharp for mortal reality. Roads spun out in fractal patterns, vanishing into corridors of pale fog. Every surface gleamed with a purity that felt almost violent—white so white it devoured all color.
Her steps made no sound.
Frost curled behind her bare feet in delicate spirals.
She didn't know where she walked.
She didn't need to.
The city shifted around her, rearranging itself with the faint grind of marble on marble, each street aligning to her path like a loyal servant unsure how close it may stand.
Then she felt it.
A shiver.
A presence.
Not cold.Not warm.
Just… familiar.
Shya turned slightly, but the fog hid everything beyond a few meters. Only movement betrayed it—a lengthened shadow slipping between structures, a shape trailing her by several paces.
It never touched the ground.
It never caught up.
It followed.
Sometimes a shoulder.
Sometimes a silhouette.
Sometimes nothing more than a long, thin shadow stretching beside her on the white stone.
Her heart didn't react—her power did.
Her starlit frost rippled toward the shadow lazily, curling at the edges, circling in faint arcs. Testing. Recognizing. Almost welcoming.
A soft pull throbbed in her chest.
Not a command.
Not a memory.
A tether.
She kept walking.
And the shadow followed—quiet, instinctive, loyal to her steps.
The City of White made room for it without question
The sky moved in slow colors.
Pink.
Mint.
Pearl.
Every breath she took made something bloom.
A vine curled along a railing at her left.
A luminous lily opened at her right.
A patch of moss glowed brighter under her heel.
She stepped forward—
and the world inhaled with her.
Behind her, something flickered.
A glow.Soft, warm, uncertain—like candlelight behind a curtain.
Talora paused.
The glow paused.
She walked.
It followed.
Not close enough to touch.
Not clear enough to see.
Sometimes it was a warm pulse at her back.Sometimes a vague human outline, lit from within.Sometimes nothing but a trail of golden motes drifting in her wake, gathering into a shape that dissolved whenever she turned her head.
And yet—
Her magic recognized it the way a tree recognizes sunlight.
Like a truth older than language.
Something dear.
Something grounding.
Something hers.
Vines shifted toward the glow, brushing the air around it in curiosity.The floating rivers dipped slightly, as if bowing.The sky brightened, just for a moment.
Talora kept walking.
And the glow followed—a quiet promise trailing behind her steps.
In the real world, nothing moved.
Not the girls.
Not the boys.
Not the runes.
But something changed.
The faintest frost halo appeared on Cassian's lashes. A faint flicker of gold warmed Roman's fingertips.
Unseen by any wizard, two unconscious boys twitched—
Cassian's hand curling softly in Shya's direction,Roman's chest rising deeper near Talora's warmth.
The runes on the Chamber walls pulsed once—
white-gold on one side, silver-black on the other.
Perfectly balanced.
Perfectly mirrored.
Two goddesses walking their dream realms.Two human anchors trailing them like loyal stars.Four destinies tightening in tandem.
The dreams deepened.
The worlds watched.
And the anchors held.
The Hog's Head was closed.
Not "after-hours closed."Not "please come back tomorrow."
It was sealed.
Every window shutter locked itself.Every chair slid under its table.Dust churned in a slow, tight spiral, as if sensing the tension in the air.
Aberforth stood behind the bar, arms crossed, scowling before Albus even stepped through the door.
"You look like hell," Aberforth muttered.
Albus slipped inside silently and shut the door with a soft click—and then laid his wand against the wood.
Wards snapped into place.
Thick, layered, ancient.
Some Aberforth recognized.Many he didn't.A few made the wood groan under their weight.
"…What happened?" Aberforth asked. The scowl didn't leave his face, but something underneath it shifted. Concern. Old hurt. The kind he didn't show often.
Dumbledore didn't sit.
He paced once, slow, like he was choosing words that could bruise if mishandled.
"The girls," Albus said quietly."Talora and Shya."
Aberforth snorted. "Aye, I heard they were in the hospital wing. Kids get hurt. Hogwarts is a bloody disaster of a—"
"It isn't that," Albus whispered.
Aberforth stopped.Actually stopped.
Dumbledore lifted his head.
And for a moment—just a moment—he wasn't the greatest wizard alive.
He was an old man with too much guilt and too many ghosts.
"They are not simply witches," Albus murmured. "Not anymore. They've… awakened something. Something older than magic as we understand it."
Aberforth's brows drew together. "Older than magic?"
Albus nodded.
"When Gellert and I contained them in the Chamber, we found runes. Not runes from this world. Runes from… before."
Before what? Aberforth wanted to ask. Before Hogwarts? Before the Statute? Before civilization?
Albus answered anyway.
"Before time."
The bar went dead silent.
Aberforth stared. "You're telling me these two girls—two children—are tied to forces older than the bloody stars?"
Albus swallowed.
"Creation. And Destruction."
Aberforth breathed out a quiet, broken, "Merlin's sagging—"then stopped again.
Because the look on Albus's face had shifted again.Something heavier.Something with teeth.
"Say it," Aberforth said. "Whatever it is that's bending your spine."
Albus didn't hesitate this time.
"The Chamber's runes called for balance. For containment the world has not seen since the first breath of magic. They require… creatures. Ancient ones. Twenty aligned to Life and Light. Twenty to Death and Darkness."
Aberforth stared like someone who'd been punched.
"Forty creatures?"His voice was too soft.
"Forty essences," Dumbledore corrected gently. "Forty offerings. Forty beings capable of stabilizing two primordial forces wearing the faces of children."
Aberforth closed his eyes.
Albus watched him, waited.
Then, very quietly, as if someone else inside him forced the words out:
"I won't watch more little girls die," Albus whispered."Not when I can help."
Aberforth flinched so hard he touched the bar behind him, steadying himself.
A long, carved-open silence settled.
Aberforth didn't speak. Didn't snarl. Didn't lash out.
He just breathed once—sharp—and nodded.
"Tell me," he said roughy,"what I need to do."
Something in Albus's shoulders loosened.Just barely.
Together, wordlessly, the brothers raised their wands.
Layers of wards crisscrossed through the air like weaving light:
Anti-eavesdroppingAnti-scryingBlood-ward reinforcementUnbreakable privacy seals
The room thrummed with pressure, heavy enough to bend dust motes.
As the Last ward snapped into place with a deep metallic hum that vibrated the glass bottles behind the bar.
Aberforth exhaled.
"Any more spells and this place'll grow legs and walk off on its own."
Albus didn't smile.
The Hog's Head felt too small now—too dim, too mortal—for what was coming. Every lamp flickered under the strain of the wards, shadows trembling along the floorboards like small animals trying to hide.
And then—
A knock.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Just there.
The first arrival.
Newt Scamander slipped inside.
Quiet.
Gentle.
Carrying that strange, subtle gravity only Newt had — the kind that made magical creatures trust him more than men.
His beast satchel rustled, sensing the tension.
"Albus," Newt greeted softly, "you said it was urgent."
"It is," Dumbledore replied.
"I'll explain when the others arrive."
Newt didn't question it.
He simply nodded and moved aside.
That was when the inn door exploded open with a bang of anger and fear.
Sirius Black barreled in like a storm wearing a coat.
Hair wild.
Breathing sharp.
A man who had sprinted here the second the summons reached him.
His eyes locked onto Dumbledore.
"What happened?"
Albus held up a hand.
"I will explain once everyone is present."
Sirius's jaw tightened.
But he said nothing — only shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing like an animal in a too-small cage.
Seconds later, another soft knock.
Arthur and Molly Weasley entered quietly. Bill and Charlie, home for the holidays, trailing after them, Concern written deep on their faces.
Bodies stiff with tension.
"Albus," Arthur said, voice strained. "We came as soon as we got your owl."
"What's going on?" Molly asked, clutching her shawl. "Is it He—?"
"No," Dumbledore cut in, gentle but firm.
"This is not Voldemort."
He didn't elaborate.
Molly swallowed, nodding.
Arthur squeezed her arm.
The wards pulsed again — colder this time.
Remus Lupin slipped in.
Silent.
Sharp-eyed.
Worn but steady.
"Albus," he murmured. "How bad is it?"
Dumbledore met his gaze for three seconds too long.
Remus's breath faltered.
"…Tell me when you can," he whispered.
"I will," Albus promised.
Remus moved to Sirius quietly — and Sirius didn't speak, only leaned slightly toward him, shoulders easing by a hair.
And then—
The wards flared golden.
Someone else approached.
Then another.
Then another.
One by one, they came.
The next arrivals came like the slow march of dawn.
Amelia Bones
stern, controlled, wand already in hand.
The Macmillan elders
ancient pure-blood dignity, old loyalty.
Xenophilius
hair wild, eyes brighter than sanity.
He entered quietly —
Albus only closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
Then more arrived.
A Japanese envoy
robes silver-white, the Kirin sigil embroidered at the hem.
A Thunderbird wrangler from Canada
coat feathered, eyes storm-dark.
A Sámi shaman of the Northern Lights
antlers carved into her staff.
An Egyptian wardmaker
gold rings glowing faintly with living magic.
A South American beast-lore elder
tattoos shimmering with solar ink.
One by one, they entered —
and one by one, Albus greeted them quietly, urging each to wait.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Breath held.
The world's good people — gathered in a dim, cramped pub like soldiers preparing for an unwinnable war.
The room was full now — full of breath held tight, of boots scraping against old wood, of magic twitching beneath wand holsters.
Bill Weasley stood near the back, tall and alert, eyes flicking between every stranger and every shadow. Charlie leaned beside him, muscular arms crossed, still smelling faintly of dragonfire.
Moody arrived last, limping in with his staff thudding once—just once—and the entire room went still.
Only then —
only when the last ward settled —
only when the final chair scraped across the floor —
Dumbledore stepped forward.
Sirius tensed.
Molly clutched Arthur's arm.
Newt straightened.
Remus exhaled slowly.
Everyone watched.
"Able to talk yet, Albus," Moody growled, "or are we still waitin' on the Minister to stroll in with biscuits?"
"Sit," Aberforth snapped.
Moody sat.
The chair creaked under his weight.
The floorboards vibrated from the slam of his staff.
And with that simple motion — rough, imperfect, final —
the room locked into a silence so heavy it felt like gravity itself shifted.
Dumbledore stepped forward.
He didn't raise his wand.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
The wards hummed against the walls like distant thunder, reacting to the pressure inside him — despair, fear, too many memories and too much knowledge for one man to carry.
His gaze swept the room slowly.
Newt, tense but gentle, clutching his case.
Tina, coiled with restrained worry.
Sirius and Remus — shadows under their eyes, fury in their bones.
Arthur and Molly, hands clasped tight.
Bill and Charlie braced like they expected a dragon to burst through the floor.
Amelia Bones, shoulders squared.
The Macmillan elders bowing their heads.
Foreign envoys holding ancient magic like armor.
Xenophilius vibrating with quiet, knowing dread.
And Aberforth behind the bar, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitched.
Dumbledore inhaled.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
No one moved.
He walked to the center of the room — and the lanterns bent toward him, flames leaning in like they were listening.
"We stand here tonight," he began, "not for Hogwarts, nor Britain, nor politics. We stand here… because the world is shifting beneath our feet."
The words rippled through the air.
Someone — maybe Charlie — drew in a sharp breath.
Sirius's voice cracked the silence like flint against steel.
"This is about the girls, isn't it?"
Everyone stiffened.
Dumbledore closed his eyes — just for a moment.
"Yes."
Sirius surged forward—Remus caught his sleeve.
"What happened to them?" Sirius demanded. "I saw them two weeks ago, Albus. They were—"
He couldn't finish.
His voice broke.
Dumbledore didn't flinch.
Didn't retreat.
"They were," he agreed softly. "But magic… awakened in them."
Newt's head snapped up.
Tina sucked in a quiet breath.
"Awakened how?" Amelia Bones asked, voice steady, almost too steady.
Dumbledore looked around the room.
It wasn't a dramatic pause.
It was a man trying to decide how much truth humans could survive hearing.
Finally:
"Talora Livanthos and Shya Gill are becoming forces older than the universe."
Silence detonated.
Charlie went pale.
Bill cursed under his breath.
Molly swayed; Arthur grabbed her elbow.
Newt didn't blink — didn't breathe — didn't even blink.
He whispered, "No… no, Albus… you can't mean—"
"Creation and Destruction," Dumbledore said.
No louder than before, but the words hit the room like stone.
"Life and Light through Talora.
Death and Darkness through Shya."
Every lantern flickered violently.
Moody slammed his staff.
"Impossible."
Dumbledore met his gaze.
"So I once believed."
The Japanese envoy murmured a prayer under her breath.
The Thunderbird wrangler whispered, "Qamíla preserve us…"
The Egyptian wardmaker stiffened so sharply her gold rings rang like bells.
Aberforth muttered, "Bloody hellfire…"
Dumbledore continued, voice softer now.
"Two children — carrying powers that were never meant to inhabit mortal form."
"And you're sure?" Amelia Bones pressed. "Absolutely sure?"
"We contained them in the Chamber of Secrets," Dumbledore said. "Gellert and I found runes there far older than the school. Older than civilization. Older… than time."
Even the walls seemed to recoil.
Sirius dragged a hand through his hair.
"And Cassian? Roman? They were with the girls—"
"They are unharmed," Dumbledore said gently. "Asleep. Their presence… stabilizes the girls. Anchors them."
Sirius pressed both palms to his eyes.
Remus set a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Xenophilius nodded, tears quietly streaming down his face.
He faced the room again.
"In the Chamber, the runes revealed what must be done."
Newt's eyes sharpened like a blade.
"Creatures," he whispered. "You need creatures."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Forty."
He let the number hang.
Like a guillotine.
"Forty ancient beings.
Twenty aligned to Life, Light, Creation.
Twenty aligned to Death, Darkness, Destruction."
Murmurs. Gasps.
The South American elder bowed his head in recognition.
The Sámi shaman closed her eyes, whispering in a language older than the castle.
Amelia Bones asked quietly:
"And if we fail?"
Dumbledore looked at her.
"Reality will not survive their awakening."
No one breathed.
Sirius stepped forward slowly — like a man walking toward a noose.
"Tell us what to do," he rasped.
His voice was breaking, but steady beneath the fractures.
"Just tell us, Albus. Whatever it is. We'll do it."
Dumbledore's expression softened — the weight of a century in his eyes.
"We find these creatures.
We ask for their help.
We stabilize the girls.
And we do it before they wake."
Remus asked, "How long?"
"I do not know," Dumbledore admitted.
"Their magic grows faster each hour."
Bill looked around the room.
"So this is everyone?"
"No," Dumbledore said.
A quiet grave bell of a word.
He stepped back from the lanternlight — shadows gathering along the lines of his face.
"This is only the beginning."
The lanternlight trembled.
For one suspended heartbeat, no one moved.
Newt clutched his case tighter.
Molly pressed a shaking hand to her chest.
Sirius stared at Dumbledore with something raw and unguarded — fear sharpened into devotion.
Remus watched everything, breath shallow but steady.
Aberforth braced both hands on the counter as if the world might tilt.
Dumbledore stepped fully into the center of the room.
His presence shifted the air — not magically, but with the gravity of a man forced to confront the apocalypse through the bodies of children he had promised to protect.
He spoke softly.
"Talora and Shya are stable for now. But stability… is not safety. Gellert and I learned this the moment we placed them in the Chamber. Their magic resisted containment. It required… balance."
Sirius flinched at the name Gellert, but Newt did not — his jaw tightened in silent understanding.
Dumbledore continued:
"The runes — the ones older than human language — showed us the truth. The girls must be anchored. Not by spells. Not by humans. But by the oldest beings this world ever birthed."
He raised his wand.
This time the sigils didn't burst into the air — they simmered, low and heavy, like molten symbols burned into existence.
Twenty gold-white.
Alicanto – Gold-eating luminant bird
Caladrius – Pure white healing bird of absolution
Kirin – Celestial qilin of peace & divine judgment
Thunderbird – Storm-bringer of sacred skies
Roc – Mountain-shadowing giant bird
Chalkydri – Sun-serpents with radiant copper wings
Elder Dryads – Ancient tree-spirits of creation
Zilant – Benevolent eastern drake of harmony
Ammit of Growth – Botanical guardian of rebirth
Phoenix Patriarch – Oldest phoenix alive, father of all flamebirds
Lux Gryphon – White-and-gold griffon of royal light
Sun-Leviathan – Serpent of solar oceans
Aurora Stag – Antlers woven from northern lights
Empyrean Manticore – Light-forged, wisdom-bearing manticore
Valkyrian Pegacorn – Winged unicorn of ascension
Gold Seraph-Hounds – Celestial wolf-beasts of protection
Flora Titans – Colossal plant golems of creation
Celestial Hippalectryon – Radiant winged horse-rooster hybrid
Glory Sylphs – Humanoid wind spirits of breath & vitality
Dawn Chimera – Three-headed, benevolent light titan
Eyes widened.
Breaths hitched.
Hands curled around wand holsters.
"Twenty for Talora. Twenty for Shya. We are tasked for the creatures required for talora", Dumbledore said, voice like a falling stone.
There was no gasp, no outcry.
Just a slow, stunned silence thick enough to drown in.
Then Amelia Bones stepped forward.
"You gathered us because every one of us has ties. Knowledge. Resources."
Her voice didn't shake — but her hands did.
Dumbledore nodded.
"Yes."
Newt cleared his throat — quieter than anyone else could have managed, yet it carried.
"I've seen traces of three," he murmured. "Just traces — but traces matter."
Everyone turned to him.
"The Alicanto," he said. "Gold-hunting birds. They live near dormant volcanoes — the ones with veins of still-hot ore."
He gently tapped the gold sigil glowing above.
"The Caladrius… very rare. They respond to purity, not power."
His gaze slid instinctively to Luna.
"And the Thunderbird…"
He exhaled slowly.
"Storm-callers. Sacred to the First Nations in America. They don't come unless the sky itself summons them."
Charlie stepped forward. "If it flies or breathes fire, I can help."
His voice was steady. Older. A dragon-tamer's voice.
Bill nodded beside him. "I know ancient wards from curse-breaking work. I can handle sites where the barrier between worlds thins."
The Egyptian wardmaker raised her hand.
"I can reinforce those barriers. Old magics answer old magics."
Arthur Weasley stepped closer to the table.
"If it's about coordinating international channels—transportation, diplomatic clearance, emergency portkeys—I can do the paperwork quietly."
Molly squeezed his arm, chin raised.
"And I can gather volunteers. Families who still remember why we fight."
"Yes," Amelia Bones said. "The Bones, the Macmillans, the Abbots. We're all here."
Even Xenophilius — half-mad, whole-hearted — leaned forward.
"I know where Elder Dryads old enough to remember universes might be hiding."
Remus's voice was softer, but carried more weight than most.
"And Sirius and I will go wherever you need eyes and wands."
Sirius nodded once, fierce.
"For my son."
A beat.
"For both those girls. They saved me."
Silence rippled through the room.
A different kind of silence.
Not fear.
Commitment.
Trust.
Dumbledore breathed in, eyes moving to each of them — the allies he trusted most, the ones he never hoped he'd need.
Then he lowered his wand, and the sigils began to rotate — slow, deliberate, orbiting like twin solar systems.
"This must be cooperative," he said. "Newt has the knowledge of their behaviors. Our shamans have access to old paths. Our wardmakers can keep the gateways stable. Our curse-breakers can navigate ruins. Our ambassadors can negotiate entry."
He gestured slowly around the room.
"We are not a single force. We are an alliance of all that remains good."
He looked toward the silver-black sigils — the ones meant for Grindelwald.
"Gellert will handle the darker creatures. He has already summoned his Alliance. Those… suited to those paths."
Murmurs.
Nervous ones.
Fear crawling under the floorboards.
Dumbledore's voice softened.
"I trust him to do what must be done."
Sirius muttered something sharp under his breath, but didn't argue.
Finally — finally — Dumbledore raised his wand a second time.
"We divide into four teams."
Everyone straightened.
"Team One — Northern Lights. Aurora Stag, Glory Sylphs, Elder Dryads."
The Sámi shaman bowed her head.
Charlie, Bill, Xenophilius formed a loose cluster around her.
"Team Two — High Sky. Thunderbird, Roc, Dawn Chimera, Lux Gryphon."
The Thunderbird wrangler, Newt, Tina, Remus and Sirius stepped forward.
"Team Three — Sacred Plains and Deep Sanctuaries. Alicanto, Caladrius, Kirin, Phoenix Patriarch."
Arthur, the Japanese envoy, the Egyptian wardmaker, and Amelia Bones joined.
"And—"
Dumbledore's gaze lowered to the remaining group of healers, diplomats, curse-breakers, potion masters.
"Team Four — Support. You maintain comms, wards, and reinforcements. Your job is to stabilize the network of magic as we retrieve creatures."
Molly, Aberforth, the Macmillans, various ministry members and foreign mages nodded.
Newt stepped forward, hesitant.
"We'll need… weeks. Maybe months."
Dumbledore shook his head.
"No."
The lanterns flickered.
Something cold brushed the floorboards.
"We have days."
The room inhaled sharply.
"But we will not fail," Dumbledore said, voice suddenly steady.
"We cannot."
He looked across the silent room — at all the good people gathered in a dusty pub for a battle bigger than any war.
And softly:
"For the girls.
For the world.
For everything."
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
They simply nodded — every single one of them — as the sigils circled above like twin galaxies.
The assignments had begun.
Nurmengard's highest tower was no longer a prison.
Tonight, under the deadened winter sky, it felt like a throne room reclaimed.
Grindelwald led his acolytes through the iron doors, cloak sweeping over frost-polished stone. The chamber was circular, vast, and carved with runes older than any magical government — runes his people had studied, debated, rewritten theories upon for half a century.
They had waited fifty years for this.
Now they entered as if returning to the center of the world.
Vinda Rosier and Celeste Carrow moved first, taking positions flanking the table.
Abernathy, Krafft, MacDuff, Zabini, Nagel — the commanders — followed in disciplined arcs.
Younger acolytes lined the walls, silent, alert, awed.
The torches lit themselves the moment Grindelwald stepped inside.
Not golden flame.
Silver-black.
Shadowlight.
A shiver passed through the Assembly.
He approached the long obsidian table at the chamber's center. With a flick of his fingers, shadows peeled off the stone like ink caught in reverse gravity — rising, forming a vast hovering map above them.
A projection not of nations, but of ley-lines, dead-zones, ruins, and primordial territories.
This was not a political map.
This was a map of places the Ministries of the world, pretended didn't exist.
Grindelwald lifted his hand.
Twenty sigils ignited in the air — obsidian, void-blue, ash-grey.
The Dark Twenty.
A silence heavier than fear settled over the room.
Grindelwald's voice lowered to tactical calm:
"These creatures are not soldiers.
Not tools.
Not beasts to be tamed."
He turned, gaze sweeping the room.
"They are concepts that learned to walk."
A ripple of unease — even among the veterans.
Vinda stepped forward. "Then we will treat them accordingly."
Grindelwald inclined his head in acknowledgement — a gesture he rarely granted.
He raised his hand again.
One by one, the sigils expanded into shadowy silhouettes above the war table:
1. Umbraex — living shadow panther
Abernathy murmured, "Sighting last confirmed in the Carpathian fissures."
Grindelwald nodded. "Good. We will send a silent retrieval team — no magic near its territory. Lightless tactics only."
2. Strix Prime — soul-devouring owl
Krafft stepped forward. "I have a contact among the Romanian Keepers. He claims one nested inside a cursed monastery."
"You will lead that mission," Grindelwald said.
Krafft bowed his head.
3. Wendigo Shade
Celeste Carrow's eyes darkened. "Northern Canada. Deep territory. You'll need a coldborn mage."
"Take two," Grindelwald replied. "We require its essence, not a massacre."
4. Obsidian Basilisk
Zabini exhaled sharply. "Those… those are nightmares."
Grindelwald's voice softened into something almost reverent.
"They are extinction given shape. But yes. We will require one."
He gestured lightly.
"Carrow, Rosier — with me."
Both women straightened like drawn blades.
5. Cŵn Annwn — Hounds of the After-Realm
Nagel murmured, "They only answer those marked by death."
A slow smile curved Grindelwald's mouth.
"I will call them myself."
Even the torches flickered at that.
6. Nuckelavee Sovereign — plague demon king
MacDuff whispered, "The last sovereign was bound in Icelandic runes."
"Then Iceland is where you will go," Grindelwald told him. "Take five curse-breakers."
7. Marbas — lion-headed demon of knowledge
Abernathy's jaw tightened. "No one approaches him without… consequences."
Grindelwald smiled faintly. "Knowledge has always had a price. We will pay it."
8. Black Phoenix
A tense silence.
"They may not exist," Vinda said quietly.
"If they do," Grindelwald replied, "they will find us."
And somehow — that seemed true.
9. Jorōgumo Matriarch
Celeste's eyes lit with dark fascination. "Japan. Under Kyoto. Rumors say she guards a well of broken stars."
"She guards ego," Grindelwald corrected. "She will not tolerate arrogance. Choose your envoy carefully."
10. Void-Spawn Leviathan
The air chilled.
No one spoke.
Even Grindelwald paused — out of respect.
"Not yet," he said. "This one is last."
11-20
Tenebris Dracolich
Nocturne Griffon
Grave Kelpie Prime
Revenant Titan
Ash Seraph
Nightmare Behemoth
Crypt Hydra
Gore Wraith
Chimeric Devourer
Abyssal Rakshasa
Each sigil flared.
Each silhouette seemed to breathe.
Each name turned the temperature in the room slightly colder.
Grindelwald clasped his hands behind his back, posture calm, voice precise:
"We cannot approach these beings as hunters.
Nor conquerors.
Nor manipulators."
Vinda Rosier spoke softly, "Then how?"
"As equals."
The room stilled.
"As scholars of magic older than wizards," Grindelwald continued.
"As those who understand that power is not a ladder to climb — but a force to balance."
He moved around the table, every step controlled, every gesture deliberate.
"Dumbledore will gather the twenty aligned to Light, Life, Creation."
The room reacted — discomfort, rivalry, curiosity.
Grindelwald ignored all of it.
"Our focus is the deep forces. The dangerous ones. The forgotten ones."
He flicked his fingers.
The Dark Twenty sigils rotated slowly above the table like black stars.
"These are the creatures who will understand the girls best."
Abernathy asked quietly, "And if they refuse?"
"Then," Grindelwald said, "we offer truth."
No threats.
No coercion.
No war.
Just truth.
Vinda Rosier stepped closer, voice lowered.
"And if truth is not enough?"
Grindelwald turned to her — really turned — and something softened in his expression.
"Then," he murmured, "we find better words."
It was the closest thing to tenderness his acolytes had seen in years.
Celeste Carrow exhaled. "So this is why you called us."
"Yes."
"To negotiate with nightmares?"
"To save the world from the consequences of its own ignorance."
A long silence.
Then Flavio Zabini said what they were all thinking:
"Tell us what you need, Grindelwald."
He lifted his hand.
The Dark Twenty dipped lower, shadows brushing the commanders' faces.
"I need your precision," he said.
"Your clarity."
"Your willingness to walk where sane men hesitate."
"And above all—"
The temperature dropped.
"Your belief."
Not in him.
In what magic truly is.
Vinda's voice was steady.
"You have it."
The inner circle bowed their heads — not kneeling, not worshipping.
Acknowledging.
Accepting.
A pact, not submission.
He smiled — slow, sharp, dangerous.
"Then we begin."
His wand rose.
The Dark Twenty sigils scattered like ravens, shooting into maps, dossiers, notebooks.
The Alliance straightened as one.
Abernathy: "We'll retrieve the Wendigo and Strix."
Carrow: "Japan and Iceland are ours."
Krafft: "Romania and the cursed monastery."
Zabini: "I can negotiate with the Devourer."
Nagel: "I'll prepare the runes."
MacDuff: "The Kelpie and Leviathan routes."
Grindelwald listened.
Approved.
Corrected.
Redirected.
Every instruction was elegant.
Every word tactical.
Every dark creature invoked with mythic weight.
And when the final sigil faded into paperwork and marching orders, Grindelwald ended the meeting with one simple sentence:
"The children will wake soon."
No fear.
No hesitation.
Only fact.
Then:
"Go."
The Alliance dispersed like stormwinds.
Grindelwald remained alone, looking at the last sigil still glowing faintly above the table.
The Void-Spawn Leviathan.
His voice was barely more than breath.
"You," he murmured, "will be a conversation."
He extinguished the sigil with a flick of his fingers — shadow collapsing into nothing.
Then he walked toward the balcony.
The world outside stirred like a sleeping giant.
And Grindelwald — calm, charismatic, terrifying in purpose — smiled at the storm.
"We begin."