Chapter 6: Beyond Thresholds

[UNKNOWN LOCATION]
[10th August, 1988]

Harry was very cold. He was suspended in midair as he flew at an immeasurable speed in the blazing summer sun, but the howling winds shielded him. Grindelwald stood to his left- sometimes his right, his layered black robes that looked like leather hung motionless despite their near-supersonic flight.

Harry had learned that trying to predict the man was pointless. Grindelwald watched the clouds streak past, his face unreadable, as though hurtling through the sky at breakneck speed was routine.

"When will we arrive?" he asked, though the wind snatched his words away.

"Patience," Grindelwald said smoothly. "It will never fail you. You would do well to practice it."

And so he kept his mouth shut and waited. For almost two hours after leaving Privet Drive they soared amongst the clouds. Soon, the side of a mountain came into view, growing larger as they sped closer to it. Harry doubted the man would appreciate another question, and so, he kept his mouth shut and hoped that Grindelwald didn't want to kill him.

"WE'RE GOING TO CRASH!" Harry screamed, but the winds blew his words away.

Grindelwald looked at him. "Foolish child. No harm shall befall you," he stated. "While you stay under me. You are under my protection"

'This man is crazy.' Harry thought. 'Nobody survives slamming into a mountain at Mach-freaking-whatever. Nobody.'

The rocks now loomed barely meters away. Harry braced. Screamed again. No one heard him.

And then—

The air thickened. Bent. Cushioned him. His momentum vanished.

He landed gently atop the mountain.

Grindelwald, now beside him, dusted off his robes, though not a speck of snow had touched them. He looked Harry in the eye.

"I told you there was no reason to worry. I do not enjoy repeating myself."

Harry blinked. "Right. No screaming. Even when I'm seconds from death," he muttered dryly. "Not all of us are—"

He froze mid-sentence. Grindelwald's stare cut him off.

"That's what I thought." The man huffed.

"You have quite the tongue. Use it carefully. You'd be surprised how many wars are won without wands." He turned, gesturing to the peaks. "These ranges? They were raised by one of your ancestors. To seal off the valley below."

Harry stared. The mountains stretched for kilometers, enclosing a lush green plain like a crown of stone.

One of his ancestors had done that.

Questions blazed through him, faster than Grindelwald had flown.
How powerful was he? Could anyone match him? Where did Grindelwald rank?

But one question stood out above the rest. He turned to the man.

"Are you a relative of mine?"

Grindelwald didn't blink. "A relative? No. Not in any traceable way—at least, not in the last hundred and fifty generations."

"Then how do you know so much about them?"

"That is a story that does not concern you. Not for now."

"Well, then what's so great about the valleys?" He asked. If someone had made an entire halo of mountains around a seemingly boring patch of land, it certainly wasn't for no reason.

Grindelwald raised a brow, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

"What indeed," he murmured, his voice almost lost to the mountain winds.

He stepped forward, the soles of his boots softly drifting against soft snow, and extended a hand outward. The wind slowed, as if the world itself leaned in to listen.

"This valley," he said, "was once the heart of something far older than the Ministry, older than Hogwarts. A sanctuary. A crucible. Magic bled through the ground here, thick and wild and untamed. Your ancestor built the mountains not as walls, but as a lock."

Harry followed his gaze. The valley below looked peaceful. Serene. But now he saw the shadows—too still. The trees—too uniform. Like something had carved them into place and left them to be forgotten.

"A lock for what?" Harry asked, voice quiet now.

Grindelwald glanced at him. For a second, just a second, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—nostalgia, maybe. Or regret.

"That, too, is a story for later." He turned and walked toward the slope without waiting.

"But understand this, Harry," he called over his shoulder, "this place will either forge you—or undo you. One of the reasons for this lock was what an abundance of magic did to the mortal body. You would do well to remember the old saying, 'power corrupts'."

Harry stared after him, the wind curling around his neck like a warning.

He had a feeling that the true dangers hadn't even started yet.

"I'll see you at the center of the valley," Grindelwald's voice boomed in his ears.


The trek down the snowcapped peaks was brutal. Every gust of wind shoved at him like it wanted him dead, and each step on the ice-slick rock felt like a coin toss with life itself. Harry grit his teeth. If this was what Grindelwald expected of him, his training probably would kill him.

Had the rugged terrain been the only challenge, Harry might have been grateful. But something flew above—_not_ birds. Wings too wide. Shadows that lingered too long. And lower down, the snow bore claw marks that didn't match any animal he knew. So far, he'd been lucky enough not to draw attention. And he doubted Grindelwald would intervene if he did.

The descent blurred into a cold, aching rhythm—step, slip, curse, repeat.

Time didn't pass; it dragged.

By the time the slope leveled out, Harry's legs were half-frozen and his patience had long since thawed.

He had been watching for an hour. Not out of concern. Curiosity, perhaps. The boy was slower than expected—but cautious. Calculating. That was good. Better to descend alive than fall quickly and die with style.

Grindelwald stood at the edge of the valley, boots untouched by the snow, as though the mountain itself chose not to hinder him.

A gust of wind rippled his cloak. He didn't blink.

After all I've seen, all I've done, I'd rather die with style than spend the effort.

He tucked his hands into his cloak, eyes still fixed on the boy making his slow descent.

He reminds me of myself, once.

A flicker of memory: a younger man, climbing a different peak, fire in his heart and foolishness in his step. That one had rushed. This one _endured_.

"Perhaps there's hope for you after all," he murmured, watching the black speck of Harry's figure grow closer.

His hands burned. His face ached.

Grindelwald had said "descend." Harry had assumed that meant a quick jog. Not this.

At least the old man had marked the center of the valley with a beam of light, stabbing through the clouds. It'd take hours to reach, but Harry's legs had other plans.

He couldn't walk.


[Auror office, British Ministry of Magic]
[10th August, 1988]

Kingsley swiped at his eyes, trying to clear the haze of sleep—or whatever the hell this was. He had no idea where he was, but his head pounded, his mind still spinning from the aftermath of the attack. The room around him was draped in shadow, every corner swallowed by darkness. His fight with that man, that monster, played out like a slow-motion nightmare in his memory. He had been steamrolled. They, had been steamrolled

Adrenaline kicked in. He sat up too quickly. His vision blurred.

A pair of blue eyes, piercing, cold, stared straight through him.

Instinct kicked in. Kingsley reached for his wand.

It wasn't there.

"Looking for this, dear?" A soft, motherly voice cut through the haze. Light flooded the room, casting sharp shadows. And then, the face—Albus Dumbledore—came into focus, those eyes that very nearly gave him a heart attack.

Kingsley's breath caught. He had the sudden, sharp urge to bolt. But before he could even make a move, a mediwitch stepped forward, offering him his wand.

He took it from her, nodding in thanks. Its weight was strangely comforting.

"My boy," Dumbledore said, his voice surprisingly warm. "I was concerned. I received a call from Madame Bones about the incident. I trust you have no qualms with sharing the details of what happened?"

Kingsley coughed, attempting to clear the dry tightness in his throat. "Of course, Albus," he muttered, taking the glass of water from the nurse and drinking it down in one go.


[UNKNOWN LOCATION]
[11th August, 1988]

Harry rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He didn't remember falling asleep. Quickly, he got to his feet. At least, his legs seemed more compliant than yesterday. And the beam of light was still there. He could reach before noon, if he hurried.