HP: The Dropout Who Saved the World

Gellert Grindelwald had been confined in Nurmengard for fifty years.

Rather than being imprisoned, it was more accurate to say he had chosen to imprison himself.

The conditions here were harsher than any prison:

A tiny cell containing only a stone bed with a thin blanket; the window was a narrow slit, far too small for anyone to squeeze through. The place was perpetually shrouded in an eerie, oppressive darkness, even when the sun blazed brightly outside.

His body was nothing but skin stretched over a skeletal frame. Without a mirror, he had no way of seeing himself, but he could feel his twig-like arms and legs, his sunken eye sockets and cheeks, and his toothless gums. He likely looked no different from a corpse.

Sometimes, in the pitch-black void, he would wonder whether he was still alive or had already passed on.

But he no longer cared about life or death, nor did it matter to him whether he was in a palace or a prison.

He had spent half his life fighting for what he believed to be truth and justice. Everything had once seemed within his grasp, only to turn to ashes in the end.

The vision of overthrowing the old order through war and establishing a new one where wizards ruled over Muggles had completely shattered.

It wasn't until the final battle that he realized—

What he believed to be truth was not truth, and what he thought was justice was not justice.

All he could do was slowly mend his tainted soul amidst the agony of his shattered ideals and the remorse for the lives lost.

The pain had almost destroyed his body.

Fifty years felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye—

He would reflect on and savor the pitiful fragments of his memories bit by bit...

The camaraderie of shared ideals, the terror and rage he couldn't face, the soaring joy and the crushing despair...

A dull, numbing pain wrapped around his slowly beating heart.

It wasn't that he hadn't thought about looking forward. His body still retained some prophetic ability, but it only brought more torment.

Occasionally, fleeting images of the future would flash before his eyes, tormenting him like poison—

The spires of Hogwarts Castle... the clinking of glasses in the Great Hall... an aged figure seated among the staff...

In those visions, he was smiling and raising his glass, but in reality, he curled up painfully under his thin blanket.

He had even foreseen his own death.

A man—most likely Voldemort—would break the long silence of Nurmengard.

He guessed Voldemort would demand the whereabouts of the Deathly Hallows, just like the other ignorant fools who had sought secrets from him.

But he knew Voldemort couldn't win. He was nothing more than a clown, an ant defying the tide of history.

As for himself—he never feared death. He welcomed it, for it would be the release he had awaited for fifty years.

And that day finally came.

Beneath the thin blanket on the stone bed, he revealed a sneer.

He knew what kind of torment awaited him—but he would never reveal a single secret. Perhaps that was... his final redemption.

He closed his eyes peacefully as the sound of bricks crumbling echoed in his ears. The entire tower shook violently, the cold of the Alps replaced by searing heat, as if a dragon were breathing fire, accompanied by its furious roars...

Wait, a dragon breathing fire?

A dragon's roar?

Was that how the prophecy went?

This was his last thought as he was violently struck by a dragon, barely managing to cast a Shield Charm before losing consciousness.

—Prophecies are such frauds!

—Why didn't anyone tell me it would be a dragon breaking into Nurmengard?

...

In his unconscious state, Grindelwald couldn't help but feel pain. He guessed he had been physically broken by the dragon, as his body had little muscle or fat left, only brittle bones.

He kept his eyes shut, his world engulfed in darkness.

But within that darkness, strange sounds began to emerge—something bubbling and boiling.

A pair of hands was piecing his bones back together. They seemed to be aligning his shinbone—adjusting, pulling apart, and realigning—then moving on to his fingers, painstakingly correcting them. He felt so anxious that he almost wanted to get up and ask if they were assembling a puzzle.

Then came a sharp "sizzle" as a potion was poured onto his wounds. His fractured bones began to grow and knit together—it hurt so much he wanted to curse aloud.

This dark wizard's potion—how cruel—!

A strange smell wafted into his nostrils, and his mouth was forcibly pried open by a spoon. A liquid that tasted like chewing on dirty socks flowed into his mouth, assaulting his taste buds and making him gag uncontrollably.

A long-buried anger surged within him.

This taste... ugh... why not just kill him already! Ugh!

Who could it be? Who could brew such a potion with a taste that defied heaven and earth?

He clenched his teeth tightly, determined not to let another drop of potion enter his mouth.

But unfortunately, he was without a wand and only half-conscious. His tightly clenched jaw gave way as his strength faltered, and a giant Chocolate Frog was shoved into his mouth, hopping around as if dancing, making his facial muscles twitch involuntarily.

Who on earth... raised such a dark wizard?

Someone who understood the concept of a stick followed by a carrot?

This must be an enemy's sugar-coated bullet!

What an insult!

He, the leader of the Grindelwald Revolution, a revolutionary, would never—unlike Albus Dumbledore—be swayed by such sweets!

Yet, as he angrily sucked on the chocolate in his mouth, Grindelwald found himself involuntarily swallowing the sweetness.

It seemed his malnourished body was far more honest than his mind and ideals.

But then he grew even angrier, as a furry creature climbed onto his face.

He could feel the weight on his cheek and chest, and a long, duck-like snout nudging his face, while four little paws scratched at him incessantly.

With his experience, he instantly knew what it was—a damned little thief—a Niffler!

A dragon... and a Niffler... He finally understood who was behind all this!

It wasn't a dark wizard—it was a magical zoologist who had disrupted his peace multiple times!

An old man, with creaking joints, still using magical creatures to disturb his solitude. How infuriating!

He would rather face Voldemort head-on, showering him with taunts and disdain, than deal with this person!

A surge of unpleasant memories of stolen rare items fermented in his mind, and his anger gave him the strength to open his eyes and let out a furious roar:

"Scamander!"

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