Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Albus Dumbledore, Grendelwald, or any other magical concept described in this story.

The sounds of defeat pounded through the roughly hewn ceiling of the underground bunker, and the wreck of what had been one of the most powerful wizards in history lay shivering on a narrow cot. The four closest to him despised him. They huddled in the corner, casting him glares pregnant with hate, willing him to die. Squibs they were, yet their collective magical force was enough to fill the tiny room. He felt energy drain from him, and welcomed his impending doom.

Had he known that it would come to this? Grendle Adolph Schickelgruber was never destined for greatness, and a change in name had done nothing to help that. Whatever power he had procured, whomever he had managed to seduce, it meant nothing now. Born accidentally and unadvisedly to a pair of filthy muggles, he had worked all his life to overcome the indignity. The Durmstrang letter, his portal of freedom, arrived in his thirteenth year, and it took the "accidental" death of his mother to convince his father that a life as a wallpaper hanger was not what he wanted. As a twenty-year-old man, his mind steeped in the Dark Arts, he fought to forget the second-class treatment imposed on him because of his ridiculous muggle name and status. He wished to destroy all who had caused him pain, yet his respect for the art of magic prevented him from turning his wand on a single pureblood witch or wizard. Instead, he chose to take out his rage on the race that his parents had called family: the muggles.

It was easy enough to pick his target. As a boy, contempt of the Jews had been instilled into him by the preachers at the church his parents had dragged him to every Sunday. That, combined with his detestation of muggles, was enough to convince him that each and every one of them and their supporters should die. His plan was simple: to convince muggles to kill muggles. The name he created for his muggle persona seemed generic, yet there was ferocity behind the sharp syllables. Adolph Hitler…he felt the consonants embed in the roof of his mouth, like the shrapnel lodging in the earth above them. A light countrywide Imperius curse was difficult, but effective: he still couldn't believe how quickly he had been able to enlace his fingers around the whole pathetic country.

So quickly to rise; so quickly to fall. And now, with the whole world banded against him and his closest supporters hating him with every breath, there was only one thing that could possibly crush his spirit worse than it was already crushed. And that one thing was impossible. He had taken preventative measures to ensure that that person—that abhorrent specimen of a muggle supporter—could never enter, not in a million years…

"Grendle."

Moaning, he searched his person for his wand before remembering that his "loyal companions" had snapped it in two earlier, grumbling something about how he was to "face death with the same weapons his victims had". He didn't care. He supposed being extinguished by Albus Dumbledore was considerably more dignified than having lead shot through his body, or simply succumbing to this wretched weakness. Turning his head, he surveyed the tall, imposing wizard standing next to him. He looked exactly as Grendelwald had remembered him from their meeting at that Triwizard Tournament, though the face was lined and the auburn was heavily streaked with steal grey. Predictably, he spoke perfect German with nary an accent.

"It's Grendelwald, you old fool. Haven't you been reading the papers?"

"You were introduced to me as Grendle, and to me you shall remain Grendle." Dumbledore's voice was wickedly smooth, almost conversational, yet his eyes were glowing with suppressed rage.

Grendelwald rolled his eyes. "Well? Will you finish the task you came here to do? Because, old man, your time is running out. I can't know how you got in here…" Pausing, Grendelwald remembered the measures he had taken against this. "How did you get in here? My barriers…"

"…were useless the minute your magic ran out," said Dumbledore.

Grendelwald gaped. "My magic?"

"You must have realized that there is absolutely no magical energy left in your body," remarked Dumbledore. "You are less than a squib. You have become Muggle." Dumbledore allowed himself a smile. "The very thing you detest."

Grendelwald had believed that nothing could surprise him anymore, but now he was flabbergasted. The shock was so great that he almost didn't feel the accompanying horror. "It can't…It can't possibly…NOT ME!" Grendelwald forced himself to a sitting position, but flopped backwards immediately. "How…WHY? No…" He glared at Dumbledore. "I don't believe you."

Wordlessly, Dumbledore extended his wand handle side forward. Grendelwald hesitated before snatching it. Taking a deep breath, he willed with every fiber of his being to light the tip. He would not use an incantation in front of Dumbledore. The bunker remained dark. Through clenched teeth, he hissed the spell. "Belichten." Still, nothing happened.

Dumbledore deftly retrieved the wand before it clattered to the ground. "Is more proof in order?" Before waiting for a response, he forged ahead. "Now then, to business."

With his remaining strength, Grendelwald tore his shirt open to expose his chest. "Do it. Do it now. I can't stand any longer as this."

Dumbledore smirked. "You misunderstand me, Grendle. I have no intention of killing you. I believe that nature has beat me to it."

"They will write about you, you know," gasped Grendelwald. "They will say that you slew me. You will go down in history for it."

"I hope I am remembered for more than that," mused Dumbledore as he examined his wand. "To be renowned as a dying man's killer? Truly, Grendle, that might be your idea of an accomplishment…you have put it into practice thousands of millions of times in the past few years alone." Satisfied with his tool's condition, he locked eyes with Grendelwald. "I have already said that I do not intend to kill you. That would be far to easy for you."

For the first time, fear began to creep up Grendelwald's spine. Casting a glance through the bunker, he was horrified to find it deserted. "My men! Where are my men?"

"They ceased to be your men long ago, Grendle. Those poor boys…" Dumbledore sighed. "So humiliating it is for non-magical persons like them, but to think that society would treat them so harshly that they would turn to someone like you for guidance and protection. I sent them away, far away, to a place you should have known well. They call it Azkaban. You might think of it as a sort of wizard Auschwitz. On that note, I really would like to know how you managed to hold that many dementors in such a muggle-populated environment, but I suppose I shall just have to guess."

Finally, Dumbledore placed his wand tip against Grendelwald's head and muttered a long, dark incantation. Images blasted into Grendelwald's mind eye—a girl and her father being forcefully pulled apart; three naked woman being whipped; long, golden curls being crudely hacked off the head of a teenaged girl; a young child squirming and being forcefully held in place as a hideous, numbered tattoo mars her otherwise perfect skin; a man vomiting and expelling diarrhea constantly; an old man, his bones broken, suffocating to death in a gas chamber; a savage fight to the death over a crust of bread; a girl clutching her sister as she dies in her arms; a man being shot to death as his son watches, screaming; hundreds of men, woman and children lined up on the rim of a pit and being shot in the back, one by one, as their kin are forced to arrange their bodies in neat rows; an infant drowning as a black-gloved hand holds her head under a stream of water; a woman poisoning her family's meals so that they might die as a family and not at the hands of the followers of Grendelwald; hundreds of people, shackled, moving through a concentration camp yard like ghosts as dementors swoop among them; and so many more. Grendelwald clawed at his skin, his eyes, his ears, anything to make the images stop, but they were inside of him.

"KILL ME!" he shrieked, tossing dignity aside. "KILL ME!" A burning house, doors and windows barred, with flames licking the sky and children's anguished screams fading. A mother and four sisters screaming as three Moroccan soldiers stab their father with kitchen knives in their living room.

Dumbledore's calm voice cut smoothly through the chaos inside Grendelwald's head. "You have not listened to a word I said. I have no intention of killing you; quite the opposite, in fact. You should have died at this second; I am lengthening your life by seven hours."

Seven more hours of this torture, this anguish? No! "DUMBLEDORE! PLEASE!" Grendelwald was pleading now, anything to end it. "I REGRET IT ALL! I'LL DO ANYTHING!" An Asian boy dying of thirst, flesh burning, drinking the only moisture on his body: the pus leaking from his fingernails. A woman incinerated in a second as her house explodes into flames, her family watching from the bomb shelter, helpless.

"Everything has already been done," whispered Dumbledore. And with that, Grendle Schickelgruber was alone.

Something I had floating around in my head since reading that Dumbledore had defeated the dark wizard Grendelwald in 1945. Hope you enjoyed how it came out. Enough to review?