"Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels, but old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young." Albus Dumbledore.
Nurmengard Fortress, Austria, Europe.
A man sat thoughtfully pondering in the most awkward chair in which no one near nor equal to his power had ever sat. It had been transfigured from the black dust of the Underworld decades ago, in times of light and darkness.
It was a useless, pointless exercise: I knew what had happened without having to go over it again. But at that moment there was a strange chord echoing in his unconscious.
It was bitter, though strident, and even glorious. The silent cry of a man who did not dare to let go of what he had once been.
Despite his old age, his vanquished state that he was supposed to never perform the spells of yesteryear again, he had never felt so alive. There was a kind of unity he felt with everything around him. I knew why it was, the evening bell had rung. The solstice was near.
A sigh escaped from the scratchy lips, of the man who sat now in that strange space of loss.
There were principles, old and new, those that fed the minds of the older generations before the Duel. Principles, which were crushed, adapted, or preserved for the sake of many.
It all began as a high schooler's dream: the search for the Relics. The Greater Good, as they had called it. Revive magical society to its ancient times. They were young, they were crazy, they were sick. And even then he was still sick with the old ideal.
The voice of the man who wielded order, who guarded the fire, struck his mind once more. And cold sweat ran down his forehead as life flashed before his very eyes again just remembering. Then he let himself be carried away by memories, he felt carried away for the thousandth time by his daydreams.
He could almost feel the calls of the Phoenix, the singing and graceful movement of the flaming wings, time standing still.
The Feathered Serpent hissed around his Magnum opus, the twilight rays dyeing the sky in various hues. He sensed the call of the drums, the touch of finality before the real change began.
He remembered the figures of those truly strong, truly real in the schemes of the old world. And Albus was at the time one of them.
In the face of the various dangers that the world always faced and the new powers that arose throughout the ages, he remained immovable. When the storm clouds formed on the horizon, he was the one who functioned as a pillar who always pushed the hurricane back.
Power slowed and stopped, detonating across the world, but it failed to penetrate the wall of pure Humanity that Albus raised with only his outstretched hand, it never could (He was Albus Dumbledore, the star of the century) and there was a moment of silence.
A duel from decades past came to the memory of the former Dark Lord. He inhaled, feeling the smoke sting in his throat for a second and feeling his skin shiver with each flashing spell.
Shouts and chants like those exuded by his followers and those of the ICW, the count between each heartbeat that meant a new death. He remembered, the hands of time speeding up to reach that golden moment.
The Elder Wand shrieked, being snatched from its master's hand, and the flames pushed it back. He remembered the pain in the back of his neck and the muffled scream of the crowd. Something broke at that moment, like glass in front of the flame, like a house before the arrival of the hurricane.
The footsteps echoed.
Dumbledore's words were concise, and firm. Worthy of one of the noblest beings in the world.
"The halls of your greatest fortress will be your most powerful prison, your enchantments, and barriers in every brick will keep you bound. It is here that you will be paying for your crimes until the day you die, stripped of any greater form of magic until the next great adventure knocks on your door… All I can hope for is that time will make you see the error in your despicable ways".
His teeth sank into his lower lip, and he allowed himself, forced, to awaken once more from the long dream. A drop of red blood with a dark touch, the Old Blood, slipped down his chin. It was strangely bitter.
His body shuddered against the ground as he surveyed the terrain in front of the fortress. They were once the magical and technological pride of the moment. Then all that space in Austria was returned to the Stone Age.
He allowed himself to let go for a moment in the earthly space and the pristine cold of what was left in a glass of wine. He inhaled, and exhaled. The smell of alcohol flooded his nostrils for a brief moment with all the force that an Argentine Malbec could encompass, followed by the sting of alcohol in his lower lip. Harvest of 1888, it was worth it.
He realized with a frown that he had already lost the thread of nights and days long ago. He lived in the past, he was the Past.
His time had passed. The Twilight called him, whispering, imploring. The Old Blood was old, it was old, but it served the purposes of the new century. The legacy of Hallstein Lod and Edmund Arkenstone had been lost with him as the last of all his powerful descendants.
There was a flash of guilt on the face weathered by the emotion of a thousand and one combats. For what he could, and yet he did not. For what he had struggled to find in himself.
Grindelwald sighed dispassionately at the very moment that his dinner was brought by one of his jailers to his luxury cell. Even in spite of his extreme seclusion, more than seven men entered at once at the same time, heavily armed, in case he tried to make a stratagem or pull a ruse to escape.
But in the eyes of the world he was already unnecessary, despite the stories of yesteryear, he was a man already defeated. His life was not over, but his story already was. It would only be a means to an end, freedom no longer existed.
He wanted to change that. He wanted the old bronze to stand up like a spear, to clean the flags of the old ideals. The blood started to flow with renewed vigor.
The eyes flashed lightly before the doors opened, the familiar faces of the guards peeking out without concern. The old man got up from his seat with the elegant pose he had once wielded in his younger years.
The air stirred. His neck warmed with the heat that had lost years ago. The thin line of tight lips distanced itself, opening to send a sound full of significance to the world. Four words crowned the beginning of the story.
- For the Greater Good -
Author Notes: I always ask for suggestions, either for this story or so that I can put together another one. And this is not the exception. Any contribution is appreciated in advance. Same if you want to donate, though I never write for the money, I would thank anyone who does.
This is originally a story written for someone that uses spanish more than any other language, but that also loves reading in english and decided to give it a try as well. I hope any criticism can be constructive, but please do not refrain on pointing mistakes.
Always yours, Valen-Tino85K~