Chapter 4 - Arc 2 - Freedom

The last echoes of a weighted mass crashing onto stone reverberated around the sparse chamber. It spoke to his scattered mind, that he only realized the source moments later – pale fingers poking beyond the loose folds of his cloak. His eyes had yet to leave the piercing grey-blue ones that were laughing in his face.

"No… no… this is wrong."

This… this can't be what he was leading me too. Everything around him was dark, and growing darker still. It was as if the very light and hope of the world was being sucked out, leaving only an empty husk behind. He'd held on for so long, fighting, and grasping to the idea that all was not lost – that something great lay beyond. Dumbledore's last plan led me to him… The ground beneath his feet was shaking, the foundation of all that he'd built up was crumbling to pieces. "This can't be it! You can't be it! He can't have died only to send me here!" Harry was shouting, his mind lost in a void of despair and crushing defeat. There was an aching pain in his chest, forces beyond nature pulling him apart in a way that made him want to scream.

He still remembered the long hours spent in the fourth floor classroom that housed History of Magic. The low, monotonous, and whispering voice of the old ghost Cuthbert Binns could still be heard filtering through the dark depths of his memory. He'd ignored much, and forgotten even more of the curriculum. Goblin rebellions, troll uprisings, old ministry bills and treaties long broken, none of it mattered to him. He wasn't alone in this line of thinking either, with the class notoriously being used as a free study period or a time to catch up on sleep. However, even to this day, he could recall a single lecture where despite the tired hanging of his eyelids, he sat in rapt attention.

Every word, every description, and every detail of that lecture was imprinted on his memory. Like a pensieve it replayed in his mind. 'The Horrors of Grindelwald,' he'd called it, floating behind his desk in his usual position. That alone caught the attention of every student in the room – eye's blinking, back's straightening on chairs, and fingers pinching skin. From there he delved into the cruelty of his campaign, and the atrocities committed for his quest towards the 'Greater Good'. For once, the ghostly voice of Binns did not dull the senses, but instead enhanced the harrowing reality of the devestation that followed. They never reached the story of his downfall – only knowing that it involved Headmaster Dumbledore, and gave birth to his legend. Groans of protestation met the dismissal for lunch, and for once students were reluctant to leave as opposed to their usual hurried scramble to the exit.

Not a quill could be heard scratching against parchment at the beginning of the next lecture. Students had lined up near twenty minutes early, jittering with eagerness, not wanting to miss a second of what was to come next. You would hardly believe it was a History of Magic class when walking past. Binns floated in, perhaps a touch late – it certainly felt that way – and every breath in the room was held with such tight anticipation it threatened to burst. Only for it to deflate like a lame balloon when he introduced the war between Ragnok the Third and Galdboral the Mighty that nearly split the goblin nation. All talk of Grindelwald was forgotten, a leaf blown away in the wind.

To this day, he was unsure what spurred Binns that afternoon, but he would never forget what he heard. Now he found himself standing in front of the cause of it all. A man who brought an entire continent into a war that spilt enough blood to fill an ocean. And Dumbledore sent him here.

Through the madness that threatened to overtake him, Harry could see the humour vanish from the old and cracked face across the bars. "Albus is dead?" he asked.

"Yes." It was all Harry could force out.

Grindelwald sat unmoving. It was almost disconcerting seeing a man remain so still. Perhaps he's rotted here so long he can't move.

"Strange… to know that it was coming, but still I feel sadness." His voice hung in the dead air.

"You have no right feel anything about him!" Something snapped inside Harry. His outburst elicited no reaction, the old man remained a mask of stone. That only served to anger him more.

"No right?" A wrinkled hand rose to pass through tangled hair. "I'm afraid, Mr. Potter, that you are mistaken. I have more right than anyone… even that brother of his."

Harry's grip tightened around his wand.

"You wear your emotions like armour, Albus did warn me."

"Don't say his name!"

"And why is that?"

"He fought you. He defeated you. He locked you in here."

Grindelwald smiled. His grey lips gently creeped upwards in some secret satisfaction. "That he did… just as the whole world knows it to be. You know of our great duel, a battle of such magnitude that the ground was said to shake across the ocean and in the Americas. A fight between good and evil, and a tale that can be found on the back of candy cards. Truth lies beyond the lines of legend, and the best secrets are always buried. Mr. Potter, you claim to know much about Albus Dumbledore… but did you know that he loved me?"

The air was sucked out of the room, and Harry found himself struggling to breath, his lungs heaving and coming up empty. He was shaking. Beads of sweat could be felt building along his temples and along the length of his spine, and his stomach was rocking like a ship in a storm.

Three words. He loved me. Three words was all it took to flip his world on its head. Those grey-blue eyes danced in front of his own, taunting him with perverse pleasure over knowledge he did not have.

He loved me.

Months had gone by since he'd spent Christmas with Dumbledore, but he still remembered his words. 'I had loved once… I suppose I still do… We figured we were invincible, and soon our dreams got the better of us.'

"It was you," Harry said.

"Love is rarely ever simple," Grindelwald shook his head as he spoke. It was clear that his thoughts were elsewhere. "It is a complex thing. Beautiful, horrible, and unexpected. At least, that's what Albus would always say."

"He said it ended in tragedy." Harry looked around the drafty old cell, bare and devoid of any warmth.

"We both made our choices. Destiny is cruel, and our fates were unavoidable. Perhaps in another life it would have been different."

"He told me once that there is always hope," Harry spoke slowly.

From his position on the floor, Grindelwald shifted. His head lifted, wisps of hair falling across his visage, and his gaze returned to Harry's. Something passed between them in that moment – a feeling beyond mere words.

"He always was an optimist."

Before anything else could be said, the shifting of cloth and a low pained moan drew their attention to a seemingly empty spot on the ground. A ripple ran through the air, and an arm could be seen slowly growing out of space. Beneath his invisibility cloak, the guard was coming to.

Again, he was struck with indecision over what he should do, and lifting the cloak did not make it any easier. The red hair she'd previously pulled tightly into a bun, now had loose tendrils tumbling past her face and down her slender neck. The severe look she wore had vanished, replaced by a tranquil contentment.

"I can't kill her." Harry wasn't sure why he chose to speak aloud.

"No you cannot. Her absence would be noted, and the prison will be shut down."

His stomach constricted upon itself, forming a tight ball of contempt. He knew what that meant. Storing the cloak in his robes, Harry gently lifted the unconscious guard and bound her with a flick of his wand. From behind him, he could feel Grindelwald shift to attention.

"Rennervate."

Bleary eyes slowly blinked open, drifting across the room before suddenly sparking to attention. "You." She spat. Her accent was thick in her anger, and the severe look once again adorned her face. "How did you get here?" It spoke to her character, not backing down despite the situation she found herself in.

Does she want to know how I got in? It wasn't as if he'd come up with some sort of plan, other than to follow what Dumbledore left behind. "I just… sort of walked in," he replied and laughed, not being able to hold back the bubble of hysteria that burst from his throat. Or does she want to know how I got here? Because we might need the entire night to tell that story. It was as unbelievable as the rest of them, but this time he found himself in front of another Dark Lord.

She spat at his feet, her gaze filled with contempt. Clearly she did not believe him, and failed to see any sort of humour in the situation. Don't worry about it, love, he thought, you wouldn't laugh if I told you anyway.

"The cloak." Harry turned back to Grindelwald, who had spoken the word almost reverently. "You used the cloak didn't you?" His gaze was unnerving. It pierced like a hawk and was so intense he thought it might burn a hole through him. "Yes, you did…" he continued before Harry could answer, "Incredible."

"Do you even know where you are? Who this man is? What he has done?"

Harry didn't answer the French witch. Her voice was a branch scratching at the window, out of mind and ignored. Instead, his attention focused on what Grindelwald said about his cloak. "What is so incredible about it?"

The man grinned with his teeth. "Oh, there is much for you to learn."

"You are here for him? This… this… connasse! I will not let you free him! I will not!"

"Free me? Now isn't that an idea, ma belle." He whispered, mimicking her immaculate Parisian accent. Everything about the man changed in an instant. There had always been hints of power and danger about him, even dressed in rags in the corner of a cell, but now he was simply predatory. Years peeled away from his aged form, unveiling the fruit of the terrifying young revolutionary hidden beneath. "I've come to forget the feeling of grass beneath my toes and the touch of wind and rain. There is something to be said about the freedom of nature and how it makes us feel human. Am I even human anymore? I do often wonder. Men called me monster once, for a dream born out of youthful fancy, and a future I believed in. Perhaps they were right. The years have been long, and afforded me time to think of the past and what could have been. The weak rise, the mighty fall, power corrupts, and freedom reigns – but not for all. With age comes sight, and it could be I deserved my fate, but freedom is something a man never forgets. A monster I may be, but I will be human again."

Even a shell of the man he once was, wasted away after decades in this tower, his authority still reigned supreme. He spoke with a smoothness that made you want to listen, each word carefully placed after the next. It was natural, the way he played with the tempo of dialogue, stringing you along its captivating rhythm. The tongue of the devil. It was easy to see how he garnered so much power.

"You won't be able to escape." Her expression was defiant, and she was staring at Harry now.

"I'm sure I'll be able to think of something," he said, while is thumb gently rubbed over the silky surface of his cloak.

"Whatever tricks you used won't be enough to get you out."

"Then I will have to find out what will." It was Grindelwald who spoke. The girl paled, the first flashes of fear appearing in her eyes. "Her wand, Mr. Potter."

Harry walked over, and his movement spurred a frantic struggle from the witch, who thrashed wildly against her bindings as he drew near. Reaching deep into her pocket, he could feel the hatred leaking off of her as he took the wand. It felt wrong in his hand. Nothing could ever compare to the wand he currently owned. Would I even want to use my old one anymore?

He stopped, considering what he was about to do, and changed his mind. He cast a second glance at the outstretched hand sticking out beyond the metal cage. I can't trust him, he realized.

Reading Grindelwald was difficult. His body was tense, and his face was dark, but like a cloud crossing over the sun, a passing shadow of amusement washed over him as he lowered his arm. "I suppose trust must be earned." He inclined his head. "It can be done without; I only need her defenseless."

The girl – Annabelle, he remembered suddenly – was shaking across from him. Short puffs of breath were a white mist from her mouth. She was mumbling in French, but he couldn't understand anything being said. It sounds like she's saying a prayer. Her eyes were closed.

"She must look at me, Mr. Potter. I need her full gaze if I am to surpass her Occlumency. They are all well trained."

This is wrong. It was the first thing to cross his mind. But what other choice do I have? She was desperate and trembling as he used his magic to force her into position, and suddenly she was still.

Not a sound could be heard in the heart stopping seconds where Grindelwald broke into her mind.

It wasn't fair. She was helpless and defenceless and at the mercy of a man reviled around the world. It reminded him of his lessons with Snape. Alone in the dungeons, repeatedly having has mind violated and deepest memory's exposed. The Mind Arts were cruel and if wielded deftly could be more dangerous than any spell.

A great gasp of air, like a drowned man finally drawing breath, broke the silence. Sweat slicked the brow of the shuddering witch who was as pale as a ghost.

"The protections surrounding Nuremgard are formidable. I designed the fortress to be nigh impenetrable, but it has been fortified beyond the magic I originally used upon its creation. To get in is one matter, but leaving presents an entirely new set of problems. The blue stones pinned to their collars function as a key that allows them to apparate within and beyond the borders. It is an ingenious, yet foolishly flawed system." Grindelwald seemed to almost glow with renewed life, his skin filled with color that had long been sucked out by the cold dark walls.

Harry felt a scrap of cloth in his pocket, the one with the blue stone he'd cut free from Annabelle's shoulder.

"She's seen my face," Harry said, looking out the too small window and into the curtain of darkness beyond. "I can't leave with her knowing that I've been here."

"There are ways to clear such knowledge," Grindelwald said from his position on the cell floor.

"I don't know how."

"Then learn." There was mocking that danced along the edge of his voice.

He'd learnt more complicated pieces of magic in the past, it was certainly possible. Basic memory charms were standard procedure for all members of the Department of Law Enforcement – with Obliviators serving as specialists – if they could do it, so he could he. In reality there wasn't much of a choice. It was either death or a memory charm, and he was no murderer.

"Tell me," he said, his voice hard.

"I shall… but it will have to wait for our French friend to regain consciousness." He gestured to Annabelle who lay broken and sprawled before him. "Memory charms require an active mind, and I was rather… forceful in my earlier intrusion."

Disgust coiled in his gut. I stood by and let him do that to her… What does that make me? The tower was much darker all of a sudden, and he wasn't sure if he could stomach another moment in Grindelwald's presence. This place was purgatory, and it made him want to scream at the silent stony walls that stared at him in judgement. A small alcove was hidden just beyond the worm-like corridor that burrowed deep into the darkness of the cell, and it proved to be his sanctuary. Sliding to the floor, sweat glistened stones wiped their wetness down his spine and through his threadbare head was in his hands, pounding like a drum to the beat of his rushing heart, the pressure of his blood rising and rising.

Can I let him out of here? Dumbledore had led him this far, but was this right?

His fingers danced across the surface of a familiar object. It was beautiful to behold, with its deep coppery color and surface as smooth as glass or polished marble. Phoenix's soared upon outstretched wings along its soft curved edges, and small gleaming crystals dripped from their sad immortal eyes. He never had the chance to tell me why he gave this to me. The oaken box sat in the cradle of his hands, teasing him. It slid open without a sound, revealing its gold velvet lined interior, stitched with scarlet string, and fluffed so it appeared that its contents were floating on a golden cloud. Inside, he could see a set of crystal vials and a white glass mirror rimmed with hand etched runes, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a small golden ball. Tracing its gilded edges and patterned ridges with the ball of his thumb, a smile crept across Harry's face, like the sun peeking above the horizon. Though just as quickly the shadow of a frown passed over. It didn't open, he thought in confusion. No flickering wings unfolded before him. The snitch sat there, still as some painted stone.

Even beyond the grave, he still has a sense of humour, Harry laughed. The taste was bitter and metallic as he pressed the golden snitch against his lips and tongue – the first flesh to touch it… or swallow it. The snitch from his first match buzzed to life against his mouth, activated by its touch memory. Thin, shimmering wings beat quicker than the eye could follow, and floated its body in the air. And like the dropping of a bird, something hard and black fell from within tapped to the stone below. He thought it to be a pebble. No, it's cut too finely to be so ordinary, he realized when picking it up. It was magical without a doubt, the cut-stone practically breathed life. He'd never heard of anything like it, and puzzled, Harry returned it to the box.

He moved the mirror, something he did recognize, having used it once before. Touching its milky glass and slipping it from where it was snugly fit along the velvet bottom, a slip of parchment tumbled out from where it was hidden underneath. It was curled and crinkled, and marked with long loopy writing that spelt a short strip of text.

A stone of life, a wand of death, a cloak of truth.

Look to the story. The answer lies in destruction.

Harry put the parchment down, and closed the lid of the box with a sharp snap that echoed endlessly through the black hallways. A stone, a wand, and a cloak. He ran the words over and over and over again in his mind. It has to be the stone from the snitch… but the wand and the cloak? I have an invisibility cloak. Could that be what he's talking about? And the wand I have use to belong to Dumbledore. But what does the rest of it mean? Nothing made sense, no matter how hard he thought on it. He was sooner going to burst a blood vessel than find an answer.

Anger stirred within Harry, one that was deep and dark and ugly, and born from his mounting frustrations. I thought he trusted me… Heat burned from the scars on his face, and a sharper stab cut right above his brow.

Harry stopped.

It stabbed again, harder and deeper.

His hands fumbled up to his forehead, afraid.

The pain faded.

A certain madness took hold of him then, and he found himself back in front of the cell. "Did you know?" It was a demand.

The grey clothed figure within stirred, though remained silent. He tilted his head, and grey-blue eyes blinked tiredly through falling hair. "Did I know what, Mr. Potter?"

Flushed with rage he snapped. "Did you know!"

He didn't answer, and Harry felt the sudden need to break through the bars and throttle the man. In the shadowed torchlight he could see Grindelwald shift his position, the rags he wore fluttered loosely around his skeletal frame. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to rise. His legs uncrossed and the muscles of his arms tensed beneath tightly drawn skin, and Harry half-expected to hear a series of cracks and crunches from old unused joints. Grindelwald was tall. Even in his decrepit state he looked down on Harry mere inches away.

"Yes, I knew Albus was dying. He visited me often enough, and secrets were rarely kept between us. But I knew before. He stank of death and that glove of his hid nothing from me." His smile was arrogant and proud. "Or is it that you're wondering if I knew you would come? Albus always was a cunning boy, but one who hid it well behind a mask of eccentricity, and later that great white beard of his. He had plans upon plans, like sand, always shifting and always changing… but yes I was one of them. I admit, I was interested by you Mr. Potter, but Albus would hear nothing about my offers. Then one day he arrived with that cursed hand of his, telling me he was dying. I laughed, and he smiled. All men fall in the end. He spoke more and more of you and your war, and though he never said it… I knew. I knew what he wanted of me and what was to come."

"Why didn't he tell me?" Harry heard himself ask.

"Because for all his brilliance, he was ashamed." Grindelwald replied, his gaze never breaking. "Shame makes a man do a great many things, and Albus wore it like a second skin. Shame of his sister, and brother, and family. Shame of me. Shame of that boy called Voldemort. And most of all, shame of not protecting you. I hope he found some peace in death."

"He did," Harry said, remembering his final moments.

Grindelwald nodded. "Now let me find my own peace. Wake her, it has been long enough."

Again, he bound the witch and woke her. However, this time there was no trace of her previous defiance, only tears. "Please… please…" Her voice was a harsh and desperate gasp that stole the air right out of Harry's throat. What am I doing? All pride was gone, and her once finely pressed robes were now cut and crinkled and covered in the black stone's grime.

"You know the incantation?" Harry nodded. "You will be taken into the mind, and you must be clear on what it is you wish to erase. Stray in your thoughts and you will be lost, and so will they."

"Is it like legilimency?" There was a crack in his voice, and when he drew his wand it shook slightly in his hand.

Grindelwald eyed him keenly. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

A sudden flash through the high-slit window lit the tower cell in brilliant white light. Dark glistening pools reflected like black glass beneath him, and he stared back at himself for half a moment. I have to do this, there is no choice. They would know it was him if he left her here, and he couldn't let that happen. A violent crash shook the walls. Soft sounds went tap, tap, tap, and silver drops trickled, filling puddles around them.

His heart was crashing against his chest. Or is that the thunder? A wetness was blurring his vision.

"Obliviate."

Their minds joined. Fear filled his mouth as he was propelled down the connection, foreign and fresh, and enough for him to drown on. Like a worm he tunnelled deeper into the soil that was her mind, loose and scattered in its broken state. Black and white mixed, unveiling a spectrum of colors that warped slowly into a scene of blue and green and gold. He was a girl now in a pale blue skirt, short and scared, and approaching a palace that took his breath away. "Es-tu prêt ma petit?" The voice shook him, and though he didn't know the words he understood the meaning. The sky was a clear cloudless blue, and met with the sharp green of the palace's gardens. The was crisp and fresh, and above him his mother shone like the golden sun.

"Oui maman, c'est magnifique!" His voice was a small girlish squeak, nervous, although a gentle squeeze washed it all away. "Tu me rendras visite?" The palace grew larger and larger as he approached, growing out of the ground like a mountain, and now he stood in the shadow of a giant.

"Vous devrez demander Madame Maxime," his mother said, and the nerves returned. Golden doors parted and he almost fainted in fright at the sight of the tallest woman he'd ever seen.

"There eez not much else I can tell about Annabelle, she eez per'aps ze most accomplished student ze school 'as ever seen." The same woman stood before him now, wearing purple-dusted robes that could fit two men and a stern face that could humble a goblin. Though he was no longer afraid of her, instead feeling a surge of warmth and affection. Dressed in stiff dark robes that he spent hours the night before choosing for their professional and tastefully stylish nature, he stood in front of a panel of frowning old men hidden behind a stack of papers in a bare square room.

"We receive applications from exceptional students each year. Books and papers are all well and good, but we want to know what you offer the ICW." His voice was croaky like a frog, and his bushy white eyebrows bounced with each word, but despite his comic appearance he found himself swallowing nervously before answering.

Focus… a voice whispered in his mind

A crack of lightning sent his head spinning, and when the world stilled it was lit by an orange gloom. Flames flicked and shadows were thrown down empty dark halls, the low light filling with dread.

Focus, it whispered again.

The air was hot, uncomfortably so, and despite the dank chill that whistled through grates and bars, he felt sweat build along his back. "You know there are nights I dream about the two of us." An overwhelmingly sweet scent assaulted his nose, an artificial one that did not mix well with stale smell of the prison. "We spend so much time alone, it makes me want to get to know you better." Revulsion bubbled at the back of his throat. The man – Andres – had his hand resting on her hip.

"I think we know each other just fine, besides our rounds are almost finished," he found himself saying. Panic was seeping into his body, but he fought to keep it out of his voice.

"Not fine enough, why don't we stop here?" He kept moving, but an iron grip clamped painfully around his thin wrist and stopped him.

A protest was stuck deep in his throat, silenced by the violent thrust of a tongue into his mouth. There was pain around his breast, as Andres groped him roughly, not caring for the bruises he might leave. He felt small and weak and terrified. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. He couldn't let anyone know, it could ruin his career.

Focus!

He screamed and pushed away, slapping the bastard in the face, his long nails cutting into flesh and drawing blood. But when he turned, he faced another attacker. One slim and tall, with piercing green eyes behind round-rims. He stopped and stared. He was young, so young, but confident and powerful. Burns stretched up his neck and jaw, and beneath a mess of dark hair sat a scar anyone would recognize around the world.

It was him. Harry Potter. He was looking at himself.

But who am I?

That was when he knew it had all gone wrong. Memories were overflowing, spilling beyond his control, and flashing too quick to catch. My face. I need to hide my face. He was pushing through a storm, emotions and feelings, faces and places, all blasting him like screaming winds. He saw it, for half a heartbeat, green eyes and a lightning scar, and grasped blindly into her mind and tore it out.

Cold slick stone shocked him to reality, and heavy breathing filled the tower. His hands were in puddles, the rain now slapping against the fortress walls. Feet from him, Annabelle lay still.

"I strayed…" It was a dagger to the heart, but instead of blood only rain soaked his shirt, growing darker and darker as it spread.

"So you did. There is not much else we can do." He could hear Grindelwald behind him. "Let us be on our way."

"I strayed."

She sat there half a corpse, pale, soaked, and cold, staring unblinkingly into the ceiling above. I'm sorry. The world flashed white with a crash, and water dripped unto her face. I'm so sorry… "It's time." An arm touched his shoulder. Harry's eyes never left hers as he gripped the blue stone in his pocket and apparated.

A wet slap in the face greeted his sudden appearance, the storm picking up its intensity. He stood in the clearing Nico had left him in, soaked to the bone, frozen, and numb.

He could hear laughter – a deep rumbling laugh, that he almost mistook for distant thunder. Grindelwald stood in front of him in hysterics, bare feet sinking into the mud, stringy hair plastered to his face, and eyes alight and alive. He was in rapture – a young man again. Looking up above the free man, his blurred gaze trailed up a spire and to the dark cell they'd left behind. Harry was glad for the rain running like rivers down his face, it meant he wasn't alone, because the world wept with him.

AN:

Another quick update. I know many of you are more accustomed to the longer chapters I released previously, and perhaps prefer them, but for the time being I will be sticking to the shorter lengths between 5-8K words. The chapter lengths will be more or less novel length this way, and quicker to come out than the hulking beasts I used to put out.

I will be portraying Grindelwald in the way I envision him to be. I haven't watched the second Fantastic Beasts movie, so whatever version of Grindelwald found within, and whatever backstory/motivations they gave him, will not be used (unless they coincidentally cross over with my own).

Do let me know your thoughts and leave reviews. They help a lot, and I like reading what everyone has to say.