The sun shone brightly over Nurmengard, and a cool breeze blew gently.
Who would have guessed that this place was once littered with corpses?
This was the prison that the dark wizard Grindelwald built to incarcerate those who opposed him. Now, the only prisoner left was himself. It wasn't that he lacked the power to leave, but he chose to imprison himself.
It was never the prison that held him captive—it was something called "love."
For nearly fifty years, he had lived in solitude, consumed by regret.
The cold winters of Nurmengard couldn't compare to the desolation within his heart.
But now, it was time to leave.
Grindelwald's ice-blue eyes glowed with light. It was as if he could see the future—or perhaps he was simply seeing something obvious right in front of him.
Either way, his mood seemed good, and a rare smile appeared on his wrinkled face.
Vinda had been waiting for him for some time.
The new headmistress of Durmstrang, like Grindelwald, was reunited with an old acquaintance. She stood still at the entrance of the dark prison, where two guards lay unconscious at her feet.
"You seem to be in good spirits," said Vinda Rosier, dressed in a long black military-style coat over a lady's formal dress, her head adorned with a black hat and veil, making her look like a mourner at a funeral.
Although her face had aged with time, as she stood there quietly, she didn't resemble a withered rose. Instead, she looked as if she had just bloomed.
"One can't live in pain every day," Grindelwald said softly, his gaze resting on the two guards lying beside Vinda. "You didn't kill them, did you?"
Vinda shook her head. Time hadn't made her kinder, but it had certainly changed the dark wizard standing before her.
They were no longer as radical as they had been half a century ago.
"That's good," Grindelwald paused. "Alter their memories—and then destroy this place. We no longer need a prison to hold our opposition. Time is a flood, and no one can stop it—"
"They will know that you've left," Vinda said hesitantly.
Her only concern was Albus Dumbledore.
Grindelwald's mind briefly flashed to the torn, disheveled bedsheets and the letters that had never come, and a flicker of emotion crossed his eyes.
He spoke slowly: "Tell them that Gellert Grindelwald is dead."
Vinda looked utterly astonished.
"Do you think he would believe it? Or mourn for me?" Grindelwald asked, a touch of sorrow in his voice.
But he didn't seem to expect an answer. Then, under Vinda's watchful gaze, he leaned against the wall, sighed, and walked out of the low prison cell, stepping into the cool sunlight.
In that moment, Grindelwald's figure blurred, and under the sunlight, he seemed even darker, like an old silhouette.
But today would mark a rebirth!
Vinda quickly followed.
Gradually, another shadow appeared beside her, and then a third, a fourth...
Eventually, dozens of aging wizards joined them, forming a decayed yet flowing river.
A massive black banner rose high in the wind, like a triumphant flag, blotting out the sky.
"We need new drops to strengthen our force," Grindelwald said softly. "Vinda, have you completed the task I gave you?"
"You should know I never disappoint you."
"Then let us set out again," Grindelwald murmured as he gazed in the direction of Britain.
"We will meet again soon, Albus."
At the same time, at Hogwarts.
In the blink of an eye, another semester was coming to an end.
This term, Harry had experienced more than in the past two years combined. He had been captured by Death Eaters twice, witnessed Voldemort's resurrection and then his death. After that battle, the wizarding world seemed to return to peace.
Voldemort vanished, and Mr. Cyrus also quietly disappeared after attending a single banquet at Hogwarts.
From March to June, a whole three months passed by peacefully, like a lazy summer afternoon, making Harry drowsy. It felt as though the events of a few months ago had happened long in the past, as if he had lived through several centuries, or as if he had wandered through a strange and vivid dream.
But he knew it wasn't a dream.
Because on his arm, there was a spiral mark, like a wisp of swirling smoke, or perhaps a towering structure.
Every time he saw this mark, Harry was transported back to that moment surrounded by blue flames.
That day, the Death Eaters had divided into two sides—those who chose to stand with Mr. Cyrus were left with the same mark.
The only difference was that most people felt pain from it, but Harry felt nothing.
He only discovered the mark after the banquet, when he was about to go to bed.
"That means you've become one of his followers," Ron confidently analyzed that night. "It's like the Dark Mark for Death Eaters, you know? Maybe one day, he'll summon you just like Voldemort summons his Death Eaters."
Ron even sounded a bit envious when he said this.
Think about it: an organization fighting against the terrifying Death Eaters, saving the world in the nick of time—just like the Order of the Phoenix did years ago. If you could be a part of that, it would be amazing!
Of course, Ron was only thinking about the glory that comes with such a great cause, ignoring the sacrifices behind it. In contrast, Neville, who overheard the conversation, seemed very uneasy and unhappy.
He normally wouldn't have joined in, but he gathered his courage to ask Harry.
"Harry, did you see any of the Lestranges that day among the Death Eaters?" His somewhat chubby face tightened, looking as stiff as a stone.
'The Lestranges?'
Harry, of course, remembered clearly.
He nodded and recounted the whereabouts of the three Lestranges.
"That woman, Bellatrix, followed Mr. Cyrus. The other two stayed with Voldemort. Voldemort ordered them to kill Bellatrix, but they failed—Sirius was there!"
Neville fell silent.
But Harry could see that there was a fire hidden in Neville's eyes.
"What's wrong, Neville?" Harry asked with concern.
He recalled that Neville had never mentioned much about his parents, and now, asking about the Lestranges made Harry think there might be a connection between the two.
"I…" Neville's round face turned bright red, tears welling up in his eyes, and the other boys in the dorm looked over, concerned.
He couldn't bring himself to speak, but everyone else, especially Harry and Ron, suspected that Neville's parents had been killed.
Harry had witnessed firsthand the cruelty of the Death Eaters.
Voldemort, that madman, or even Barty Crouch Jr. and Peter Pettigrew—they killed without hesitation, without a shred of guilt.
"It's okay, Neville. You don't have to say anything."
Ron patted Neville's back, while Harry found himself at a loss for words.
Three Lestranges—two had followed Voldemort, but the third—Bellatrix—had chosen to go with Cyrus. The thought that she might have been responsible for the death of Neville's parents made Harry feel like he couldn't breathe.
How could Mr. Cyrus allow someone like that to follow him?
And what about himself—
Harry looked down at the mark on his arm, wondering if this could be considered a betrayal. Cyrus was different, Harry knew that. He wasn't like Voldemort. But what about those who had defected from the Death Eaters?
How many people had died at their hands?
The next day, Harry confided his worries to Ginny and Hermione.
"You don't need to worry about it so much, Harry," Hermione said. "What's important is that you understand who the real enemy is."
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12 Advance Chapters—Patreon.com/HornyFBI