The Prophet of Nurmengard

In the highest tower of Nurmengard, time seemed to have frozen. The stone walls exuded a chill like a Nordic winter, and even the occasional flicker in the fireplace appeared listless, suppressed by the very despair of the prison itself. Gellert Grindelwald sat on the only hard wooden chair, his fingers unconsciously stroking the metal pendant on his chest—the remnants of the Blood Pact.

The pendant was no longer the exquisite, ornate artifact it once was; its edges were covered in fine cracks, as if it would crumble to dust at the slightest pinch. Yet, somewhere on its inner surface, a faint, lingering warmth remained, forming a strange contrast to the pervasive cold of the tower. All these years, that warmth had never truly faded.

Footsteps sounded on the stone steps, heavy and dragging. It was that increasingly aged follower, a former believer now reduced to numb obedience. A crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet was placed on the dusty wooden table, its front-page headline glaring even in the dim light: "The Battle of Hogwarts Concludes—Dumbledore’s Legacy and the Dark Lord’s Victory."

Grindelwald did not look immediately. He closed his eyes, his fingers continuing to roam over the pendant’s surface as if reading braille. He could imagine the article’s contents—those shallow lamentations, hypocritical tributes, and the vulgar exploitation of that name. Albus Dumbledore. The feeling this name stirred within him was peculiar—not sorrow, not anger, but a kind of… icy, utterly defiled revulsion.

"What else do they say?" His voice was hoarse, like gears long unused grinding back into motion.

The follower lowered his head. "Tom Riddle—he calls himself Voldemort now—controls the Ministry. Has begun large-scale roundups of Muggle-born wizards, interrogations, torture… No trials. He and his people, they are enjoying the process."

Grindelwald opened his eyes. Those eyes, which once blazed with blue fire, now held only an ashen dullness, but deep within the ashes, something was gathering once more.

"Enjoying," he repeated the word, his tone light as a sigh, yet it caused the room's temperature to plummet. "How… vulgar a motive."

He waved the follower away and finally picked up the newspaper. The photo showed the ruins of Hogwarts Castle, smoke rising from shattered towers. His gaze skimmed the text, catching keywords: "massacre," "pure-blood purge," "public use of the Cruciatus Curse"... Each word was like a cold needle piercing his long-numbed nerves.

This was not the new order of his dreams. Even at his most fanatical, even when he preached wizard supremacy and spoke of the "greater good," there was at least a logic behind it, an aesthetic concerning responsibility, guidance, the establishment of some kind of—however harsh—order. But this world before him, Voldemort’s world, was nothing but naked brutality, idiotic blood obsession, and a primal delight in suffering.

"Wrong," he whispered, his voice echoing in the empty tower. "All wrong…"

His fingers tightened; the metal edge of the pendant bit into his palm, bringing a faint sting. In his mind, images began to surge uncontrollably: Dumbledore’s weary, aged face before the Mirror of Erised; the flicker of pain—almost imperceptible—in the other’s eyes during their 1945 duel; and further back, in Godric’s Hollow, the image of young Albus with summer sunlight reflected in his eyes—a light so brilliant it seemed the whole world could find its answers there.

Two pictures overlapped, shattered, and overlapped again. Young Albus and old Dumbledore, the midsummer of the valley and the ruins of Hogwarts, the future they once dreamed of together and the blood-soaked wasteland before him.

"This river," Grindelwald murmured to himself, his gaze vacant as he stared at the stone wall as if he could see the trajectory of time through it, "flowed toward the wrong ocean from its very source. We corrected one mistake, only to create a greater one…"

He did not finish. A wave of exhaustion suddenly washed over him—not physical fatigue, but the utter depletion of something deep within his soul. A century of scheming, a century of obsession, a century of waiting—waiting for what? He himself did not know. Perhaps waiting for some proof that their path was at least better than this present one; perhaps waiting for some kind of… conclusion.

His consciousness began to waver. The hand clutching the pendant gradually relaxed; the metal fell onto the wooden table with a crisp sound. At this very moment, on the edge of wakefulness and oblivion, as past and reality violently collided in the crucible of obsession—

The pendant suddenly became scalding hot.

Not the heat of flame, but a living warmth, like a heart asleep for a century suddenly beginning to beat. Golden light seeped from the cracks, not radiating outward, but coiling inward like tendrils, enveloping and devouring him.

Grindelwald did not struggle. He wasn’t even surprised. In his last shred of conscious thought, what he felt was a near-liberating certainty—this was the conclusion, this was the answer, this was the only chance to correct the course of that wrong river.

The light swallowed everything. The cold of Nurmengard, the stone walls of the tower, the despair of the century’s end—all dissolved into this warm gold. Time twisted, reversed, and reassembled, like film violently rewound.

Then, he felt wind.

Summer wind, carrying the scent of grass, wildflowers, and sun-baked earth. He opened his eyes to find himself standing on a familiar path. In the distance was the outline of Godric’s Hollow; further still, Bathilda Bagshot’s house was clearly visible.

He looked down at his hands. The skin was smooth and firm, unmarked by time. He touched his chest—the pendant was still there, whole and smooth, without cracks.

A boy approached from the other end of the path, carrying a stack of books, his auburn hair like burning flame in the sunlight. It was Albus. Seventeen-year-old Albus.

Grindelwald—no, he was Gellert now, sixteen-year-old Gellert—stood still, watching the figure draw nearer. A century of memories churned and settled in his mind, finally crystallizing into one cold, clear objective:

This time, the river must flow toward the right sea.

No matter the cost.