Note: As of 10/22/23, the final scene of this chapter has been altered. This change IS significant to the storyline.
I've started a Discord. I intend for it to be a small, relaxed server - nothing too fancy or grand. If you have any questions about my writing, want to discuss my work, or simply want to hang out, you're more than welcome to join. The link is in my profile.
Read, review, and feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies.
The next chapter will be published the coming Saturday.
Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate
The Riddle's Plight
IX. Eyes of Scarlet, Eyes of Ice
It was not often that Harry was surprised. Despite having been properly introduced to the Wizarding World less than two years ago, Harry had done everything he could to understand as much about it as possible.
This, however, was unbelievable.
"A cat." repeated Harry faintly, staring at Hermione in disbelief, "You used hair from a cat?"
Hermione nodded slowly, her sobs growing louder. The fur that covered her features was now matted in tears - a look that really didn't suit the girl, despite all the admittedly rude comments Harry had heard about her bushy hair.
"It's fine, Hermione." assured Ron, wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulder as he watched Harry cautiously, "Pomfrey will sort you out -"
"Good luck explaining this." muttered Harry.
"She d-doesn't ask many questions." stuttered Neville nervously, "Madam Pomfrey, I mean."
Harry turned to face the pudgy boy. The youngest Longbottom looked rather odd in Slytherin robes (though he didn't look nearly as strange as Weasley did). His robes were slightly too large for him; they hung slightly on the sides, drooping lethargically.
"There's no way she won't ask anything." argued Harry quietly, "I mean, she's half a cat at this point - it's almost definitely a potion gone wrong, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out which potion it is."
"You know what potion we used?" asked Ron with narrowed eyes.
Harry nodded irritably.
Thanks to luck, not skill.
Harry was by no means a potion expert, even if he did manage to do well enough during their lessons. He was decent, it was true - but he wasn't better than Daphne, or, as much as he would loathe to admit it, Malfoy.
Not that it's surprising. I don't think I ever properly read the potions textbook the owner of Flourish and Blotts gave me last year.
Harry didn't think that was his fault, though. Out of all the books Harry had discovered with the aged owner of Flourish and Blotts, 'Advanced Potion-Making' had been the one Harry found least interesting. The fact that it was almost entirely covered in minuscule notes made it even more of a chore.
Besides, that was the day I found Emily's notebook. I couldn't possibly have been impressed by a potions textbook when something like that is lying around.
Either way, potions simply weren't what Harry found alluring. It was thanks to luck alone that he recognized the Polyjuice Potion. He had come across it in Emily's notebook nearly a year prior and had found it interesting enough to take a closer look.
"How'd you know we were here, then?" asked Ron suspiciously, removing his hand from around Hermione. Neville glanced at the redheaded boy nervously, not meeting Harry's eye.
"You're awfully loud." lied Harry, "A troll would probably be quieter. You're lucky most of the school's gone."
But Ron did not seem amused. He watched Harry carefully, barely moving. Harry could all but see the gears turning in the ginger's head.
"Did you know we were - well, us when we were talking to you earlier?" he asked at last, his eyes narrowed.
"I had a feeling." admitted Harry uncaringly, "Like I said, you're awfully loud. You think awfully loudly as well."
Scarlet eyes loomed in the darkness, glowing malevolently. An ethereal, detached voice rang in Harry's ears.
" . . . I haven't used it on you before now, if that is what you're wondering - which, of course, it is. You think awfully loudly . . ."
Harry stiffened, his palms balled into fists. The darkness curved, falling in on itself - a moment later, it had taken the form of a gorgeous woman - one with dark hair, high cheekbones, and blood-red eyes.
Her. The real her.
Harry's body shook, his teeth clenched rather painfully. His breathing grew laboured as he slowly calmed himself down. Still tense, Harry turned to the three Gryffindors. They were all watching him nervously, a touch of fear shining in their eyes.
"Sorry." Harry muttered blankly, "I'm not the Heir of Slytherin. I don't know who it is, either. I reckon you should go to Madam Pomfrey and get yourselves sorted out - the longer you wait, the harder it'll probably be to get you back to normal."
Not waiting for a response, Harry swung around, quickly making his way out of the bathroom. He shoved the swinging door out of the way, and when he heard it slam loudly behind him, he took off.
Harry ran for quite some time. He wasn't really sure where he was going, simply allowing his feet to lead him wherever his heart wished to go. After what felt like forever, he came to a stop in an empty hallway. Harry stared at the door before him, shivering.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom had never seemed so intimidating.
Harry closed his eyes, gently pressing his hand against the door. He felt a sliver of magic escape him, and with a soft click, the door swung open. Harry stepped inside, his heart racing.
The classroom was almost identical to what it had been nearly a year prior. The oversized dragon skeleton still stood near the back, the window still allowed light to bleed through, and the same desk stood at the front of the classroom. Only now, several portraits lined the walls, all depicting the same arrogant wizard.
Harry absentmindedly withdrew his wand. It burnt beautifully in his hand, sending a rush of magic through his veins. Harry shivered again, his breathing laboured once more. He glanced at the many portraits, his eyes narrowed.
Get out.
Harry slashed his wand across his chest. For a moment, nothing happened - the next, the portraits vanished into thin air. Harry looked around, his eyes roaming the classroom that was now an exact copy of what it had once been.
Back when she was still here. Back when she used to teach me, back when we used to eat chocolate frogs together. Back when we used to lounge around here, just talking.
His wand was burning again - only this time it hurt.
Out. Get out, get out now.
A rush of vengeful, angry magic permeated through him, nearly causing his eyes to roll back into his head. He slashed his wand again - and with a loud crack, a burst of energy shot from the tip of his wand. All the furniture fell to the ground, spilt cleanly in two.
Harry looked over the broken chairs and desks with unseeing eyes. A part of him registered what he had just achieved - nonverbal magic, and at the age of twelve.
Emily will be pleased.
Another part of him registered what he had just done - destroyed the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. If Snape ever found out, Harry would likely find himself in detention for a month.
Not that Harry cared. He couldn't find it within him to give a shit.
She had been there for him. She had taught him, she had been the first to actually care -
But she didn't. Not when it mattered most.
Harry slumped to the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes were watering slightly, but he didn't dare allow a single tear to slip.
Scarlet eyes loomed from the darkness once more, watching his every move. They betrayed nothing - not a hint of sorrow or anger. Harry grit his teeth, roughly pushing himself off the ground and turning to face it.
"You should have finished me off all those years ago, Voldemort." he whispered harshly, a single tear streaking down his cheek, "It's my turn now. I'm going to destroy you. And it'll be your fault. You're the reason you'll fall . . ."
I'll just be the one to finish you off.
-(xXx)-
Harry stared down at the golden plate laid before him, watching as his roast turkey began to cut itself into small, bite-sized pieces
It was Christmas dinner now. The grounds, covered entirely in snow of pure white, glimmered beautifully. Harry and those who had remained at Hogwarts (with the exception of Hermione and Madam Pomfrey) found themselves seated along a single table in the center of the Great Hall.
The mood was festive, even if many of the students didn't seem all too interested in celebrating. On the left side sat Neville and Ron, both of whom were looking as though they had just been told the worst news they could possibly hear. Opposite them sat Malfoy, who kept glancing at Crabbe and Goyle, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. The two boys themselves happily ate their food, seemingly unaware they had done anything wrong at all.
At least that Ravenclaw girl seems happy.
Luna Lovegood - as she had told him in a strange, dreamy voice - sat directly to his left. She was prodding her pork with interest, whispering just about every curse word Harry had ever heard - and quite a few that he hadn't.
"They're useful, you see." she wisely explained to Harry, "Daddy says it helps the dead animals move on to the next life. Nobody likes being cursed at."
She's got a point, I suppose.
Aside from the seven of them, only the professors remained. There were far more of them than students, though Harry knew almost all of them. The few he didn't, Harry suspected, taught the electives like Ancient Runes or Arithmancy - classes he might take the following year.
Taking a bite from his turkey, Harry glanced around. He was almost pleased to note that no Hufflepuffs had remained for Christmas; they would almost definitely spend the entire time watching him, their wands held tightly in their palms and their eyes wide with alarm.
And all because Ernie Macmillan's a sissy.
"Something on your mind, Harry?"
Harry turned to his right. Sitting directly beside him was none other than Professor Dumbledore. Adorned in garish Christmas robes coloured a bright red, the man looked all too much like a magical Father Christmas. The long, silvery beard certainly didn't help, either.
"No, sir." muttered Harry quietly, gently prodding his turkey once more. Dumbledore nodded kindly, returning to his food. Harry watched as the man chuckled at something Professor Flitwick said, neatly placing another morsel of meat into his mouth.
He could probably help. He must know what it's like, being who he is.
"Actually, sir," began Harry quietly, "I - I - well, there is something on my mind."
Dumbledore swallowed his turkey, gently waving his hand as he lowered it back to his plate. Harry suddenly felt a kind, comforting feeling overcome him. The air around them shimmered for a moment before returning to normal.
A ward of some sort. Probably stops people from overhearing. I'll have to learn that one.
Dumbledore turned, his entire body facing Harry. A kind, gentle smile was etched upon his features, his head bowed ever-so-slightly.
"I've been having these nightmares." Harry explained quietly, "Only they aren't during the night - not often, anyway. They aren't . . . real. But they happen whenever I remember something about - about -"
"Voldemort." said Dumbledore softly.
Harry nodded, not allowing himself to meet Dumbledore's gaze.
"She was there for me." he whispered quietly, his head lowered in shame.
She was my friend. At least, I thought she was.
Dumbledore watched him carefully for a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly to himself.
"Do you recall our conversation at the end of your previous school year?" he asked at last.
"About love?" questioned Harry.
Dumbledore nodded.
"Emotions, Harry, are, in my humble opinion, a magic of unparalleled strength -"
"I don't love her -" began Harry incredulously, his palms balled and his eyes narrowed.
"I did not suggest anything of the sort." said Dumbledore patiently, "Even I, who many might describe as overly optimistic and forgiving, would not expect anything of the sort from you."
Harry nodded, sinking back into his seat. Dumbledore waited for the boy's laboured breathing to return to normal before continuing to speak.
"I do, however, expect you to feel." said Dumbledore, "What you feel, I do not know; perhaps that feeling is benevolent, perhaps it is . . . less so. But you do feel something - if you did not, you would not be so troubled."
"But I don't want to feel anything." whispered Harry, "I don't want anything to do with her. She - she . . . I want her gone. Is that - is that bad?"
Dumbledore sat silently in his seat, his sorrowful eyes glancing off at nothing in particular. The table around them continued on as though nothing were happening. Only Snape, who sat opposite Harry, seemed to notice anything at all, though he said nothing. For the first time, Harry silently thanked the Potions Professor.
"No, Harry, it is not." said Dumbledore quietly, "It is only natural. I, in my youth, once found myself where you now stand. I felt exactly the same."
"You did?" asked Harry curiously.
Dumbledore nodded.
"He was a dear friend of mine. We were foolish in our youth - we chased what could not be chased, hoping to master what could not be mastered. Eventually, we clashed. My sister, Ariana, died in the conflict that ensued."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"As am I, Harry, as am I." said Dumbledore softly, "To this day, I do not know who cast the spell that took her from us. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps it was my younger brother, Aberforth. A part of me fears that it was me.
"After that, he and I were no longer friends." said Dumbledore, "We met again, many years later, and fought once more. I eventually prevailed."
"And what happened to him?
"He was imprisoned." explained Dumbledore, his eyes lacking the trademark twinkle they so often possessed, "I have not seen him since."
"Why not?"
"Because he means something." said Dumbledore simply, "That sort of magic lingers, Harry, for far longer than even the effects of the most powerful spells he ever cast.
"You must come to terms with what you feel, Harry." said Dumbledore at last, "Whether those thoughts are cruel or kind - truly coming to terms with them is essential. I myself have not yet managed such a feat - I do not wish such a fate upon you."
"I think I have." muttered Harry, "Come to terms with it, I mean. I feel . . . determined. I know what I want to do now."
And I'll win. She won't take from me anymore. Not now, not ever again.
Dumbledore smiled softly, a slight twinkle returning to his blue eyes.
"That is good to hear, Harry." he said, "It is well worth having to repair the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, I think."
Harry lowered his head, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. The headmaster chuckled, lowering his half-moon spectacles ever-so-slightly.
"I am pleased to hear how you are handling the events of last year." said Dumbledore finally, "The steps you are now beginning to take are ones I myself never took. I have no doubt you will be all the better for it."
With that, Dumbledore waved his hand gently before him. The air shimmered once more, and Harry felt the wards fade into nothingness.
The remainder of Christmas dinner went by rather smoothly. A rather strange woman with spectacles that magnified her eyes (Professor Trelaweney, if Harry remembered correctly) had predicted his death no less than seven times, but Harry had gotten used to it by now. Each prediction, Harry noted, was more bizarre than the last.
I'm not going to get mauled by a dragon, and I'm not stupid enough to be anywhere near one dementor, let alone a hundred.
Luna, however, seemed to find them fascinating. She hung on to Professor Trelawney's every word, occasionally adding strange comments of her own.
At long last, the food disappeared. The students and staff all stood from the table, making their way back to their respective rooms, all thoroughly filled. Harry turned to Dumbledore.
"Professor, could I ask you something?"
"You already have." said Dumbledore sagely, "I shall, however, answer another question of your choosing, unless I should have a good reason not to."
"Er - right. If it isn't too personal, sir - who was the man you were talking about?"
Dumbledore turned to him, a sad, sorrowful smile etched upon his features once more.
"Grindelwald, Harry. Gellert Grindelwald."
Harry froze, his eyes wide with shock.
-(xXx)-
"Is everything alright? You seem upset."
Harry stared at the diary, slowly rolling across his bed to pick it up.
Tonight was New Year's Eve, a day that, until a year ago, held little to no importance to him. He had never been allowed to celebrate the day, after all - the Dursleys always believed that he and fireworks would lead to disastrous results.
They probably thought I'd burn the house down.
That was alright with Harry. It didn't really seem that big of a deal - just one day turning to the next. It had been happening for far, far longer than he had lived, and would continue to happen for a long, long time after he was gone.
But tonight was more than just New Year's Eve. Tonight was a night that would haunt Harry for a long, long time. Tonight was a night that, until half a dozen months ago, he might treasure.
Tonight, Lady Voldemort is born.
Harry scowled, picking up the diary and hopping off his bed. He sat firmly upon the floor, his back pressed against his bunk as he looked out his window. The eerie green light of the Great Lake highlighted his features as he absentmindedly held out a hand. A thin feather quill zoomed into it, and he began to write.
"Tonight's the night." he wrote softly, his quill just barely touching the page, "Voldemort was born tonight."
Harry closed his eyes, sinking against his four-poster. He felt the quill fall out from his hands, felt the diary drop into his lap. A long, sorrowful, breath escaped his mouth, and he opened his eyes once more.
Dumbledore was right. She did mean something.
She had been his only friend, his mentor - the one whom he would turn to when things went wrong. But she meant something else now - she represented something else.
But I won't make the same mistake Dumbledore made. I'll kill her. She'll be gone, and I'll be free.
Harry straightened up, returning his gaze to the diary that sat upon his lap. He picked it up, silently summoning the battered quill back into his hand.
"You've never spoken much about her." Emily had written, "You're more than free to do so, if you'd like."
"She was my friend." Harry wrote firmly, "My first. Our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher as well. She used to teach me outside of class. She meant a lot to me. She still does."
Harry watched as his words sunk into the diary. For a moment, the yellowed pages were blank; the next -
"Even now?" asked Emily, her words written slightly stiffer than usual, "She isn't still your friend, is she?"
"No." Harry scrawled back, "No, she isn't."
"Your enemy, then?"
"She's more than that." wrote Harry, "I wouldn't admit it at first, but she is. What exactly she is, I'm not sure - but she represents everything I've got to overcome.
"And I will." promised Harry, "I'm going to fight her, I'm going to kill her. I won't make the same mistake Dumbledore made. I won't let her haunt me for the rest of my life."
Harry paused, breathing heavily as he waited for Emily to respond. After a long, silent moment, she did.
"Are you sure, Harry?" she asked, her words soft, "I doubt anyone has more faith in you than I do, but this is something else entirely. This isn't a school duel, nor a corridor fight - this is something far beyond anything you could comprehend."
"I know." Harry wrote, "I know. But I'll get stronger, more powerful. I'm going to fight her, as equals - and I'll surpass her. I'm going to win, because losing isn't an option."
Harry paused once more, watching as his words vanished into the diary. He waited for Emily to scold him, to warn him of his foolishness, or perhaps to reprimand his lack of thinking. At long last, a short line of neatly-written text appeared.
"I have faith in you, Harry. If anyone can do it, I know it is you."
Harry smiled.
"Thanks, Emily." he quickly jotted down, standing up, "I'd better get going now. We're staying in the Great Hall late tonight, to countdown the New Year."
Dumbledore's idea, definitely. He probably got it from those muggle tv shows.
Harry closed the diary, tossing it onto his bed as he changed into a new set of robes. Harry pocketed his wand, turning to examine his reflection in the mirror. An emerald-eyed bespectacled boy stared back at him.
Four others hid within the reflection, though they were only visible within Harry's head. A man whom he looked quite like stood off to one side, a beautiful woman with crimson hair standing to his right. Their features were blurred; it had been a year since Harry had last seen them - it was becoming harder to remember now.
The woman with the curly black hair was fading too. She stood off to the other side, giggling madly as she smiled at Harry. There was a sort of insane mirth shining in her eyes, one that perfectly matched her voice.
The girl that stood by his side, however, was perfectly clear. Harry wasn't surprised; she seemed impossible to forget - Harry would likely remember her until the day he died. She looked far too perfect to be real, in his opinion. Her skin, though pale, was soft and fair. Dark, straight hair framed her angelic face. Her hazel eyes watched him still with a fondness that seemed reserved just for him.
All at once, a sharp pain shot through Harry's scar. Harry jumped, a hand racing to his forehead as he turned around. His eyes landed on the diary at once. Opening it once more, his eyes fell upon Emily's familiar neat writing.
"Harry, what's the date?"
"December thirty-first." wrote Harry slowly, confused, "Why does it matter?"
But the girl did not respond. Harry stood in silence, his eyes glued to the diary. The sudden flare of his scar was gone now, replaced by a constant, weak burn that seemed hesitant to fade. After what felt like forever, inky black words appeared upon yellowing pages.
"I'm also born on December thirty-first." wrote Emily hesitantly, "New Year's Eve."
Harry froze. An unpleasant, uncomfortable feeling grew in his chest.
It's not her fault.
Harry took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He gently pulled off his robes, tossing them aside and locking the door of his dorm. Sitting before his window once more, Harry summoned the quill back into his hands.
"Then happy birthday, Emily."
The persistent burning of his scar faded at once.
-(xXx)-
Splotch.
Rivulets of water trickled down mossy stone, tapping against a pane of glass both long and thin. He listened as the window buckled beneath the raging winds of the Austrian Alps, waiting for it to crack in two. It never did.
Splotch.
Splotch.
Splo -
"Be silent." the man warned.
The noises faded. Wrinkled lips slid into a comfortable smile. His eyelids slowly rose as one, and he stood up, edging towards the sheet of glass. He peered into the darkness, examining his reflection.
Old. I am old now.
The man frowned.
"How time flies . . ."
He met his own eyes. One was a shade of blue as icy as the water that slipped along the outsides of his cell. The other, grey and blurred, seemed out of focus. Grindelwald studied it carefully, though he couldn't see it quite as clearly as he would've liked.
A hand curved up towards it. Gellert ignored the specks of dirt that lined his nails, tracing the vague outline of his right eye.
"Die Mitternachtsrose." he murmured, "Such a cruel price to pay . . . but what must be done -"
He trailed off. Mismatched eyes slid across the reflection of his skin, past his neck and down towards his emancipated body.
Not bad for more than a century, I suppose.
"Es ist Zeit für das Abendessen." a voice called behind him, "The chef has prepared Sauerbraten for you today."
Gellert turned lazily. A row of witches and wizards stood along the edge of his cell, each covered from head to toe in armored robes. The two in the center carried a small platter hidden beneath a silver cloche.
"Sie haben auch einen Besucher -"
"Pick a language, my dear." Grindelwald snapped. His eyes slowly slid shut, "I'm not as young as I used to be. You're giving me a headache."
"I - yes." the centermost woman paused, nodding at the others, "You have a visitor, Mr. Grindelwald."
A silver eye poked through the darkness.
"Did she bring them, as I asked?"
The woman frowned.
"Mrs. Rosier was informed beforehand that food items would not be permitted within Nurmengard. Any and all foods on her person have already been tested and consumed."
"By her, I assume?"
"Yes, Mr. Grindelwald."
"How rude."
He slowly rose to his feet, letting out a long, deep breath. He watched as the guards quickly shuffled the cloche through the small gap in the cell bars, his nose wrinkling as the smell of overcooked pork wafted through the room.
"Very well," Grindelwald murmured, kicking the cloche aside, "Bring her to me."
The witch turned, nodding to one of the guards near the end of the hallway. The guard disappeared into an adjacent room for only a moment, returning at once. A woman followed in tow. Gellert watched as they approached, barely listening to the words that slipped from the Auror Captain.
" . . . standard procedure. Five minutes, with no extensions permitted -"
The woman drew nearer. Grindelwald studied her noble features, his eyes slipping across high cheekbones, dull blue eyes, and darker yet than even the night sky.
"- she fail to leave the premises -"
"Get out." Grindelwald whispered, "All of you. Now."
The Auror Captain's lips fell, and she nodded slowly. Gellert watched as they all filed out of the room, one by one. None of them looked back. Gellert smiled faintly as the final door slid shut.
"I suppose you find it funny?"
Grindelwald turned to the woman, his tongue poking out from between his teeth,
"So twisted in their fear." he said, bemused, "You'd have thought they'd have gotten over it by now."
"You would think that." the woman sniffed, drawing up a wooden chair from the corner of the room, "But fear is natural. Theirs is not unwarranted; certainly not from their point of view."
"They think of me a monster." Grindelwald paused, reaching for the platter by his feet, "Something mindless, animalistic and cruel. They fail to understand that good things can be done for bad reasons, or that the converse is also true."
His fingers, long and thin, pressed tight against the surface of the silver cloche. Gellert watched as the metal crumbled to ash, the food within it burning to nothingness.
"Not hungry?" the woman asked, "As horrid as it smells, I'm quite sure it tastes far better than the final vestiges of dignity you hold onto."
"I wouldn't know. I've never tried the food before."
Gellert frowned to himself.
Perhaps it tastes better than it smells.
"So you've taken to breaking the laws of magic on a daily, I presume."
"Magic has no laws." Grindelwald muttered, "Every limitation of her use is self-induced."
"Not everyone is as capable as you."
Gellert paused.
"Not everyone, no."
His arms curved towards the cell wall, his palm facing upwards.
"What is it?" the woman murmured, looking disinterested, "I've brought nothing for you, just as you warned."
"Not even the muffin in your pocket?"
The woman twitched. Grindelwald smiled as her fingers dipped into the pocket of her robes, removing a slightly squashed fruit cake. He took it from her tenderly, quickly raising it to his lips.
"To risk everything for nothing more than sweets -"
"I risk nothing, my dearest Aveline." Gellert whispered, "I'd have thought you'd understand that by now -"
"Forgive me for not placing as much trust in your visions as you do yourself -"
"But you do. You wouldn't have brought it for me if you didn't."
Aveline stared at him, watching him with disapproval as he gulped down what remained of the fruit cake.
"Delicious." Grindelwald murmured, "The food I conjure never quite tastes so . . vivid."
"I'll inform mother." said Aveline, "She'll be pleased, I'm sure."
Gellert paused. The thin smile that covered his lips slowly slid from his face.
"How is she?"
"Restless." Aveline muttered, "She's desperate to progress. She wishes to begin as soon as possible -"
"She mustn't -"
"She knows." her eyebrows scrunched together as she frowned, "She will not act without your approval. But she wishes to see him. And you, too."
Grindelwald sighed.
"The time for both rapidly approaches." he whispered tiredly, "But it is not yet here. Soon, but not now."
Aveline paused conspicuously, leaning closer in her chair.
"They are watching?" she asked.
"Dumbledore certainly is." said Grindelwald, "He possesses not the gift of sight, but he is far from blind, my dear . . ."
Aveline nodded slowly.
"She has waited for decades." she decided at last, "I'm sure a few years will be a small price to pay -"
"You will ensure she does not forget her purpose." Grindelwald warned, "Do not allow her to get caught up in the thrill of the action."
Aveline glared at him. Gellert watched, bemused, as she leaned towards the bars of his cell.
"I'd prefer you didn't speak to me like that." she whispered hotly, "She is your servant - not I."
Grindelwald frowned, edging closer. He watched as Aveline's gaze lowered by the slightest of margins.
"You are just as much a servant as she, and she as much as me. That is the nature of us, those who exchange our lives for the slightest chance that our grandest desires might be realised. Do not delude yourself into believing otherwise."
Aveline stared at him. He watched as she slowly rose from the splintered wooden chair, her fingers curling tight around the hem of her robes.
"And the stone?" she whispered, her voice still, "How must he find it?"
"He will not. It will find him. You will make sure of this."
Aveline nodded. They listened as the door along the end of the hall creaked open, watching as the barrage of Aurors slowly re-entered the room.
"Do what you must, Aveline." Gellert whispered, "For a puppet without strings is little more than a rotting corpse . . ."
The Aurors parted, and the noblewoman walked down the aisle and out of sight.
