Nathael felt the cold before the light.
One moment, he stood before the arch in the ancestral stadium, Celestia at his side. The next, the air turned damp and heavy—thick with the scent of wet stone, burnt wax, and something else: fear.
He opened his eyes.
He was in an underground crypt. Tall columns of black marble supported a vaulted ceiling, resembling an amphitheater. Around him, dozens of witches and wizards crowded together—some in elegant robes, others in simple garments—all eyes fixed on the figure standing at the center.
Grindelwald.
Tall, pale, dressed in flamboyant yet refined clothing, his wand seeming an extension of his will. His face was serene. His eyes—deep as wells that had glimpsed the future.
Nathael didn't remember crossing the threshold. But he was already here—and not as a spectator.
He looked at his hands. He wore a dark tunic bearing the insignia of a European Auror on his chest. Not his clothes—but the simulation had given them to him. Because in this story… he had a role.
Around him, he recognized faces from historical manuscripts:
Newt Scamander, his enchanted suitcase ever at his side.
Tina Goldstein, wand already raised.
Theseus Scamander, standing like a soldier.
Leta Lestrange, eyes filled with inner turmoil.
Queenie, trembling as if the world were crumbling around her.
Jacob Kowalski—the only No-Maj present—staring at Queenie with desperate love.
And Credence… or Aurelius… the boy with empty eyes.
And in the shadows, other Aurors—dark cloaks, hoods low—waiting for the command.
But before Nathael could move, Grindelwald began to speak.
His voice wasn't loud—but it reached every corner, every mind, as if it already lived within them.
"My brothers, my sisters, my friends… the great gift of your applause is not for me. No! It is for yourselves. You have come today driven by longing and conviction that old customs no longer serve us. You have come because you yearn for something new. Something different."
Nathael shivered—not from fear, but recognition. He'd heard this speech before—in fragments, in history manuscripts his father had shown him at age twelve.
"They say I hate non-magical people. Muggles. No-Majs. Those who know no spells. I do not hate them—no, for I do not fight from hate. I believe Muggles are not inferior, but different. Not useless, but of another value. Not disposable, but arranged differently."
"Magic only blooms in exceptional souls. It is granted to those who live for higher ideals. Oh, and what a world we could create for all humanity—we who live for truth, for freedom… and for love!"
At that, Vinda Rosier brought forth a skull, which Grindelwald began to manipulate. Smoke and light swirled in the air, forming moving images:
Tanks. Bombs. Cities in flames. Men in gray uniforms shooting without mercy. Planes falling from the sky. Children running through rubble.
A hushed gasp swept through the crypt.
"There!" Grindelwald said, pointing to the vision. "That is what we fight against. That is the enemy. Their arrogance. Their lust for power. Their barbarism. How long before they turn their weapons upon us?"
Nathael clenched his jaw. He knew these images showed the future—the Second World War. But in 1927, when this scene unfolded… no one else knew that yet. Only Grindelwald.
"We are not the violent ones," he continued. "We are those who seek to protect. But if we do not act—if we do not take control—we will be erased like dust in the wind."
Suddenly, Grindelwald turned his head. His gaze swept the crowd.
"There are Aurors among you."
Chaos erupted.
"Lies!" someone shouted.
"It's a trap!" cried another.
But before anyone could react, figures emerged from the shadows. An Auror raised his wand.
"Grindelwald!" he yelled. "You are under arrest for crimes against the magical community!"
A young witch aimed her wand at the Auror. He reacted swiftly—and struck her down.
The spell hit. She fell to the floor, motionless. Dead.
A sepulchral silence fell.
Grindelwald looked at her with sorrow.
"Take this young warrior back to her family," he said softly. "Disappear. Leave this place. Spread the message: we are not… the violent ones."
Then he raised his wand.
From the ground rose a circle of blue magical fire. It did not burn. It did not consume. But its presence was… oppressive.
"This fire is a test," he said. "It will separate true believers from those who only came to spy."
He explained that if you crossed the fire without believing in his cause, you would die. If you crossed with faith, the flames would turn gold and let you pass.
One by one, his followers crossed. The fire accepted them.
Queenie looked at Jacob. She wept. And crossed.
Jacob cried her name—but did not stop her.
Then… something changed.
Grindelwald's gaze swept the crowd—and stopped.
Not on Newt. Not on Theseus.
On Nathael.
His eyes narrowed. A subtle, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"You," he said, pointing. "You are not of this time."
Nathael tensed. How did he know?
"A treasure hunter… from a family that prefers shadows to titles. The Grauheims."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Nathael said—but his voice trembled slightly.
Grindelwald laughed—a soft, dangerous sound.
"You lie. But it doesn't matter. Because even though you don't belong to this moment… your presence here is a sign. The world is changing. And you… you will be part of the war to come."
He raised his wand.
"Prove you're not a spy."
And he attacked.
Not with a common spell—but with pure magic. A wave of blue energy surged toward Nathael, dragging stone fragments and immense pressure in its wake.
Nathael dodged, rolled, and cast a silent Protego. The shield shattered instantly.
"Merlin's beard," he murmured. "He's stronger than the manuscripts say."
He went on the offensive: Stupefy. Confringo. Expelliarmus. Nothing worked. The spells bounced off like raindrops on hot iron.
Grindelwald didn't move. He only watched.
"You use modern magic," he said. "Like a child with a wooden sword. Where is the magic of your ancestors, Nathael Grauheim?"
Nathael froze—not from fear, but understanding.
"How do you know my name?"
"Because I have seen what is to come," Grindelwald said. "I have seen the castle in ruins. I have seen the boy who lives. And I have seen a young man with a white cat… seeking answers in a world that no longer understands itself."
Before Nathael could respond, everything shifted.
The blue fire expanded—becoming a colossal wave threatening to consume all of Paris.
"Nagini!" Newt shouted. "With me!"
The Aurors—Theseus, Tina, Yusuf Kama—all ran toward the exit.
But Nathael didn't follow.
Because in the chaos, he saw something.
Three objects.
Hidden in the crypt:
—An obsidian dagger, plunged into a broken statue.
—A black-silver chalice, filled with liquid that shimmered like stars.
—A chained book, its runes writhing like serpents.
They were sealed—protected by charms even the Aurors hadn't noticed.
And in that moment, he felt a gentle tug in his chest.
Celestia.
He couldn't see her—but he felt her. As always.
And in that instant, he knew: she'd seen something too.
Not inside the crypt. Outside.
Three more objects:
—A phoenix feather on a forgotten grave.
—A mandrake-root ring on the ground.
—A shattered mirror buried beneath the earth.
Six objects. Three inside. Three outside.
And together, they formed a key.
Nathael didn't think. He didn't need to. He and Celestia were already synchronized beyond words.
He sprinted to the dagger and yanked it free.
At the same moment, outside, Celestia unearthed the mirror.
Nathael touched the chalice and lifted it.
Celestia seized the feather.
Nathael shattered the book's chains with an ancient spell.
Celestia slipped the ring onto her paw.
The six objects glowed in unison.
A white light enveloped them.
Nathael Apparated.
He appeared beside Celestia at the edge of the cemetery—just as Newt, Tina, Theseus, and the others formed a circle with Nicolas Flamel.
"We need help!" Newt cried upon seeing him.
Nathael didn't answer. He only looked at Celestia.
And together, they began to chant.
An ancestral song.
In Celtic. In Druidic tongue. In forgotten runes.
The magic that flowed from them wasn't red, blue, or gold. It was silver—like winter moonlight.
It joined the circle.
Grindelwald's blue fire halted.
All the energy focused into a single point… and exploded in silence.
The fire died.
The cemetery fell still.
Grindelwald looked at them—at Nathael. At Celestia.
"We will meet again," he said. "In your time. Or in mine."
Then he vanished in a cloud of black smoke.
Nathael collapsed to his knees, exhausted.
Celestia approached and pressed her forehead to his.
"We made it out," she said.
"Yes," Nathael replied. "But I'm not sure we won."
At that moment, the world faded.
And they returned to the stadium.