Nurmengard.
On the top floor, in the bare prison cell, two old men sat across from each other at a rickety little table.
The meal on it looked completely out of place in the grim surroundings—plates of roasted pork knuckles, sausages, and potato dumplings still steaming, filling the air with rich, savory meat smells. Classic German comfort food.
In front of Dumbledore, Grindelwald didn't bother with elegant table manners. He tore through the food like a man who hadn't eaten properly in years.
Grease glistened on his lips and fingers. He didn't care.
The usual prison fare here was just enough to keep him alive—stale bread and watery soup that tasted like regret.
Only when Dumbledore came did Grindelwald get a real meal.
Though he could have done without the sickeningly sweet candies.
After finishing, Grindelwald jabbed his fork toward the dish of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans that served as dessert and nodded at Dumbledore to pick first.
It wasn't politeness. It was strategy. Dumbledore always pulled the worst flavors. Every single time.
Ever since they were young, Grindelwald had loved making his old friend screen out the nastiest ones.
Dumbledore popped one in his mouth without hesitation and chewed, face completely neutral.
Grindelwald watched him for a second, then grabbed one for himself and tossed it in.
"Not bad. Chocolate," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in satisfaction.
Grindelwald leaned back. "That little wizard named Lucien… I'm getting more and more interested in him."
Dumbledore lifted his teacup and stayed quiet.
"Compared to that so-called Boy Who Lived," Grindelwald went on, "you've come to see me more often because of Lucien. Not that it's been many times—three? Two?"
He counted on his fingers with mock thoughtfulness, as if Dumbledore's visits were some rare treat.
Dumbledore still didn't reply.
Grindelwald didn't mind. He set down his fork, leaned forward, and fixed those mismatched eyes on Dumbledore's blue ones.
"Let me guess, Albus," he said, voice dropping. "Is it because the Boy Who Lived still hasn't shown any magic talent that stands out? At least nothing close to our level?"
"Or is it because that boy is still firmly under your control? Still growing exactly according to your plan?"
"While Lucien… you can't control him?"
Dumbledore set his teacup down and shook his head.
"With Lucien, I only want to guide him," he said calmly. "Strict supervision and restraint would only push a boy like that in the opposite direction."
His mind drifted to the new magical fountain at Hogwarts, to the Valentine's night fireworks blooming across the sky while the entire lawn rang with laughter, to that vast surge of Patronus mist…
A wizard who chose to use magic to bring joy and happiness to others. A wizard who could cast a Patronus.
Dumbledore saw no sign that Lucien was headed down any dark path.
He reached into his robes, pulled out a slim booklet, and slid it across the table.
"This is an alchemical device Lucien invented. It's called SwiftSpeak," Dumbledore said. "I think you'll find it interesting."
Grindelwald glanced down. The cover was plain, almost ordinary.
He ran his fingers over it—smooth, pleasant to the touch—and flipped it open. The pages inside were completely blank.
He started to ask what the point was—
Ding~
A clear, pleasant chime rang from the booklet.
At the same time, words shimmered into existence on the empty page:
[Albus Dumbledore requests to add you as a friend]