Haven't written in a fair bit of time so if you spot any mistakes or so, do tell! Also, constructive criticism is welcome.
Warnings: Unhinged!Grindewald, Powerful!Grindelwald, [Lovesick!Grindelwald?]
On this story:
I am working on the presumption that Voldemort did not, in fact, kill Grindelwald. In fact, when reading, assume Voldemort never approached Grindelwald at all.
Grindelwald, in a fit of rage (over whose death, might you imagine?), overcame his prison of Nurmengard and at this point in time, is mentally unstable.
Enjoy!
Suitably Warm (hisoneandonly?)
A breeze. Frigid. Unforgiving. Teeth-chatteringly cold. He tightened his grip on the tattered scarf wrapped around his form. The sun was out but it was cold; it was cold. It was the particular kind of chill that seeped into your bones even when every other part of you was cozily warm.
He craned his neck to peer up at the sky between his fingers. Blue the shade of his eyes dabbled with clouds the white of his beard. He cracked a wry grin and spared a moment to appreciate the comparison.
Around him stood the crumbling remains of what was once his cage… Nurmengard. He laughed! O' Mother Earth had granted him his longed for freedom.
Nurmengard was destroyed.
His cage in which he suffered in, staring out of narrow gaps between steel bars and malodorous threadbare sheets and icy glares and prodding and guards and humiliation and and and – he fumed, years! Years of wasted life that could've been spent hunting after clues and accumulating knowledge; years of wasted life that could have put him ever closer to the trail of death; years of wasted life that could've been… could have… he closed his eyes. Exhaled. Regret still had its iron grip around him after all this time. They could have been basking in glory. They could have been happy. They just – they could have been.
A pause.
Weak, he growled, weak! He was weak! His years spent wasting away had left him weak and pitiable! Never again! The old fool Dumbledore was dead and would remain dead and that was that.
(He dutifully ignored the clenching of his heart at the mention of his name –at the thought of Albus (hisonehisonly) because never again (disappointment in blue eyes that did not twinkle and hurt and sorrow and and – never again) will he betrayed)
Gellert was old, and with age came acceptance. He accepted a part of his dream would be gone (gone were the days of two likeminded young men laughing, sunlight glinting, brief touches, innocencegonegonegone) but that was… fine. Yes it was fine.
He laid a hand on the small of his back and swore a silent oath.
Stepping over the ruined remains of Nurmengard, he smiled. He recalled the days of his youth, chasing after his dreams with Dumbledore. They were both so young, so determined nonetheless. Ah, he sounded wistful, didn't he? (Another breeze drew by; he could feel the temperatures dropping with the setting sun. But that was fine. He felt suitably warm.)
(privately he allowed himself a moment to wallow in sorrow at the lost of what was once a great companion (hisonehisonly))
(then the sun had set and the moon was out and if the moment had lasted longer than the term construed that was acceptable because no one would know and Gellert would rather cut off his own tongue than admit it to anyone (anyone but hisoneandonlyhishishis))
He dusted debris off of his pants – when had he sat down? – and as he prepared to move, he thoughts turned to his last goal; his only purpose; his lone reason for living.
Harry Potter, he tasted the name on his tongue and grinned (dark and malicious; he saw Albus diediedie), I'm coming for you (he has them; he gathered all threethreethree)
And as he left in a flutter of robes and sheen of glinting teeth, the last rays of light illuminated a mark on his skin.
A triangle. A rod. A circle.
The cloak. The wand. The stone.
The Deathly Hallows, tattooed into the small of his back.
(foryou,forus,myonemyonly)