Chapter Text
Dear Gellert Grindelwald,
I do hope this letter finds you as I imagine, hunched over in some lavish armchair, forehead wrinkled in concentration. You were certainly not expecting the correspondence, and neither did I expect to find myself initiating it, though a certain necessity underlies the letter you now hold in your hands. Provided you haven’t given it to the flames, but perhaps the inconspicuous owl has deterred the very idea until now. I will waste no words and get straight to the heart of the matter.
Your rally at Père Lachaise has been the cause of much worry in my circles. I was given many recounts of your speech in Paris by my acquaintances in the crowd, one more startling than the next. I wish to address some of the events of the night. The boy in your company, Credence Barebone, who I believe, after thorough research, might be a descendant of a very powerful family. The spell you used, which, by the way, would have burned down half of Paris had a few brave souls, Nicolas amongst them, not contained it. ‘Paris has always been a cauldron of corruption, machinery and darkness seeped deep into the ground’, I can hear you say, but did you really have to endanger it so? Most importantly, I wish to speak to you personally about the vision you shared with the spectators. I am deeply troubled by the images you saw, and feel the need to consult you at once about their validity and nature. Therefore, I propose a meeting in the near future, for you to specify the details of what you indisputably saw.
I dread asking you for this, we both know it. We both know that neither of us has ever had the heart or desire to send the letter, though no doubt we have both picked up the quill a few times, yet failing at which words to commit to the page. I loathe the very idea of contacting you, but this matter is of greater import than my frail heart. Perhaps suggesting a personal meeting is quite presumptuous and overhasty of me, but I have no doubt you will find me somewhat amenable, or at least more amenable than usually. I do admit, I have always longed to see the beauty you claimed Austria held, and perhaps you could be convinced into showing me some of it whilst we discuss this urgent matter. Of course, this would happen incognito – the consequences of us even staying in the same country these days would rile up malcontent on both sides, and neither one of us would stand to benefit from it.
Awaiting your reply but fully relying on your dismissal instead,
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Gellert Grindelwald could do nothing other than incredulously stare at the crumpled piece of parchment in front of him.
It had arrived with an unspectacular owl earlier that morning, when Vinda Rosier had, as usually, brought him the post of the day. Mostly, this was comprised of letters that either threatened or revered him – both of which mostly formulated anonymously. In the beginning, the attention, the oftentimes dozens of letters per day, had quite startled the man that had so quickly shot to stardom – when Gellert had considered world domination, answering fan mail had certainly not been amongst the things he had expected. He had, over the years, picked up the habit of throwing near all of them into the nearest fireplace unread after having one of his subordinates spare them a quick glance, only picking out a few a week, which he answered himself. Ever since he had picked up the habit, his popularity had only multiplied. A lucky few had received a personalised note thanking them for their opinion and support written in great haste of course, as he had much more important things to do. Gellert liked to think that his sloppily written replies had gone up in old frames on the walls of pureblood houses all across Europe, Gaunts, Yaxleys, Weasleys, it quite honestly didn’t matter to him. The thought that his written word had become an artefact of great value delighted him. It certainly boosted the troupe morale, to have him approachable to some degree. After all, any letter of support could trigger a response from their great leader.
On the contrary, those letters that loathed him, mostly howlers transfigured to spite the vilest of curses at him in all available languages, he could only chuckle at. Gellert didn’t fear being hated – just as he didn’t hate being feared. He took great joy from disabling the howlers and cursing them rather inventively before sending them back to the sender. Never enough for permanent injury of the recipient, they were sent to witches and wizards after all, and magical blood was only to be spilled when the circumstances offered no other choice. Amongst his greatest ideas were those that infinitely spewed ink unless incinerated, a multiplication charm cast on paper enchanted to take the shape of the original sender’s greatest desire, or substances that would cause all sorts of states in the recipients, from blunt fear to uncontrollable excitement.
He had considered briefly to let Meron Slughorn have a go at it – he was quite the trickster, and whilst at times over-enthusiastic, a valuable asset to the cause. He would have had a field day enchanting the disabled howlers to become absolutely dreaded across the whole world, and to cease their steady inflow to only the bravest of witches and wizards. Then again, Gellert bathed in the hatred of his enemies as he dined on the adoration of his supporters. It quite honestly didn’t matter to him whether he was hated or loved, feared or worshipped – as long as he was in the public eye. For every person he scorned, he gained a new follower to the cause. Power came not only from magical ability – though he had been blessed beyond even the imagination of the ministries – but from knowledge, and, most importantly, numbers. No cause was won by an individual alone, and no war ever fought right without all fighting on the winning side believing absolutely in the cause they were fighting for. He had never been this powerful– who would have thought that becoming imprisoned by the backwards Americans would have led to a near storm-surge of new followers outraged by their treatment, and elated by his escape? The old cemetery in Paris had to be enlarged seven times by his loyal friends to fit the crowds! Nearly a hundred witches and wizards had officially and publically pledged themselves to the cause since the rally last Friday, and the welcoming ceremonies and ensuing feasts had occupied so much of Gellert’s time that he had barely had a good night’s sleep since.
Needless to say he loved every second of it.
Nearly every second of it, he thought scornfully as he clenched his hand around the arm of his indeed red velvety armchair he had positioned as a throne of sorts, pressed tight against his old marble table.
Of course, the peace couldn’t last. Of course somebody had to interfere. That much he had known, expected, anticipated, even. Gellert had expected a few scattered and scared-looking Aurors to turn up at the doorstep of his castle, shaking in their boots holding up some piece of parchment that was to justify their appearance, likely hastily signed by their superior or perhaps even their minister. Not the Austrian minister – her, he had successfully persuaded to only keep up appearances until he took over officially. The German minister was but a pawn that thought itself particularly clever – soon, he would fall too. Gellert had found his homelands easiest to persuade, curiously with the remote province that Finland was these days. After the rally in Paris, he had expected Aurors from the French ministry to knock at his castle gates as early as Monday morning with the sunrise, but none had come. A raid had been expectable, perhaps one of the safehouses he had established that were still lacking in security. A few of his followers arrested on ridiculous pretences, stirring rebellion, inciting hatred, whatever else the ridiculous could come up with as they were drowning, desperately clinging to their last strands of authority. Many of the ministries were undermined and infiltrated already, and his strategists had discussed approaches to dismantle near every single government in Europe with him lengthily. Not that Gellert wouldn’t have managed by himself, but taking over an entire continent required more time than he had at his disposal. His calculating brain had imagined all possible scenarios and how to either diffuse or stir tensions.
Everything other than this. Then again, even though he held the evidence in his hands, he still thought its presence impossible in nature.
“Is everything in order, Monsieur?” Vinda asked in a calculating tone. Gellert greatly appreciated her poise and comportment – as a pureblood Rosier, she had certainly been taught etiquette and aristocratic subtleties from her youth onwards, much more so than he himself with his broken family – but it was her eye that he valued her for most. She was a natural second-in-command, not a leader, but not a follower either. She wasn’t loud, wasn’t too quiet, was everywhere and nowhere, noticeable and unseen at once. Witches of her quality had become rare.
“Oui, Vinda,” Gellert replied smoothly. French, as well as other Romance languages were still foreign to his tongue, so he made sure to practice. The French were a flittering, arrogant folk with a long history, the wizards even more so than the Muggles, and proper behaviour was in order. A sentence here, a word properly pronounced there could go a long way in solidifying his claim. “Merci pour les traductions. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Perhaps you would ‘ave promoted Amélie. She’s ready for more.”
“Give her a few more months. She needs to learn her place to understand it fully.”
“Of course, Monsieur,” she answered dutifully before regarding the letter in his hands. She must have thought it strange, how he had sent her out earlier in the morning with nothing but some bellowed yet suffocated few words. He rarely lost his composure in that manner. Then again, the first words alone had felt like an Incarcerous cast around his throat, and he had found it difficult to even press out a word, let alone one that made sense. Nearly thirty years had passed since he had seen his name scribbled onto parchment in that manner, but he would have recognised it anywhere.
“Do not mistake my rejection of hers as criticism, Vinda. I know she has thrived under your tutelage, I merely think she needs more of your wisdom to persist in this environment.”
“You ‘onour me, Monsieur.”
“I speak only plainly, you know that. I wish not to lie or deceive, not you nor anybody else.”
“What of the Legilimens?”
“She will realise in due time that her affections are misplaced. Her gift could be a valuable asset to us, either for intimidation or determining traitors, of which there will be plenty. I pride myself with near mastery of Legilimency, but I am no natural Legilimens like her. Alright, perhaps I do deceive on occasion, but never out of amusement or a mere whim.”
“For the greater good,” Vinda nodded and for the first time since he had received the wretched letter, a small smirk sprang onto his cheeks.
“For the Greater Good, yes,” Gellert answered – he only wished he hadn’t stolen it from somebody else sometimes, that he had coined the phrase and not somebody who stood opposed to him. Natural enemies, the Prophet had recently claimed proudly. If only they knew where we had come from. As if she could read his thoughts, Vinda finally pointed at the letter. It was her only flaw – she was not direct enough sometimes, preferred spy craft over bluntness.
“Is the letter of importance? Only, I could not read it.”
“You could not?”
“A spell was cast on it so only you could read it. I thought you ‘ad noticed. It is powerful magic.”
Gellert absent-mindedly stroked over the parchment – now that she had mentioned it, he could indeed feel the rich magic radiating from the simple sheet in his hands. A small itch spread in his chest, though he couldn’t quite determine its true nature, whether it was positive or negative. Just that the magic, as usually, touched a part of him. It had changed in its direction, its strength – it was effortlessly one of the strongest spells to ever be cast on such a small and unimportant object – and its intention, but not in its origin. Gellert had long studied the origins of magic and its boundlessness, had spent many hours pondering, meditating to attain magic many would have thought impossible but a few years ago. He prided himself on pushing the boundaries of what was possible, and expanding them. Etching himself into the wizarding world meant not only leaving a legacy or a better future, but also broadening the very magic that ran through him, expanding it beyond what anybody would ever have thought possible. An arrogant pursuit, no doubt, but hadn’t they promised to each other they would redefine the very definition of what it meant to be a wizard?
“Monsieur?”
“Yes,” Gellert placed the sheet on the table, now no longer somewhat concerned the contents could be revealed to his inferior. If in the hands of the wrong person, it could destroy his entire campaign – how foolish an act to send it simply via owl, even though it was heavily enchanted. Then again, there was a reason he had become a simple teacher, not the leader he had been destined to be. “Please, proceed with lunch in the grand hall without me today. Expect me for dinner, and a small speech as well. After all, the new recruits are to be treated to the hospitality and mentality of the great stronghold of Nurmengrad, n’est-ce pas ?”
“Of course. Should I cancel the meeting with Wilma Gregorovic?”
Gellert needed to physically restrain himself from cursing loudly. Yes, of course, that was today. As if he didn’t have enough to think of already.
Originally, he had planned to turn his back on his office and apparate straight into the mountains, some precarious ridge where he would no doubt be alone, or where he could simply curse the Muggles coming his way into turning the other way, forgetting they had ever seen him. He really could have done with seeing some snowflakes dance past him, encased in a bubble warming charm whilst the cold wind ripped at his clothing, perhaps nearly threatening to topple him off the ridge itself. Nothing cleared the mind like the wind of the mountains.
He could not afford to offend another Gregorovic though. Though he had changed himself to better fit the image people would have of him regardless, there was always the possibility of the bitter sod putting two and two together and outing him as the owner of the Elder Wand. Even though only the delusional had believed him back then, if Gellert had been able to follow the trail, undoubtedly others would be capable of the pursuit as well. Half the wizarding world would soon be so afraid of his plans that they would turn to desperate measures, and the last thing he needed was to be hit in the back with an unexpected simple Expelliarmus and lose the most powerful item in the history of magic. Not that he specifically needed the Elder Wand to achieve his goal, his magic was near unrivalled even without it, but he still preferred to have it on his side, for the sake of simplicity.
Luckily, Mykew Gregorovic had the people memory of a fruit fly, like all wandmakers. Could recount what wand he had made which day for whom, but couldn’t for the life of him connect a face to the name. It was so startling a trait in wandmakers in general that Gellert had actually launched an inquiry into the matter for the sake of it. The last thing he wanted was for Gregorovic to one day connect the dots, and he luckily hadn’t been old enough to sell wands when Gellert had gotten his. He was rather glad he had stayed in the shadows into the 1910s. He really hated having to rely on anybody in the family – he wasn’t paranoid, but carelessness had caused many ambitions to evaporate like water on hot stone.
Many of his followers had lost their wands in the combat against the various ministries recently, and what kind of host and leader would he be if he couldn’t provide best-quality wands for his loyal subjects? The Ollivanders had declared against him publically last decade already, one of the first people of import to make a statement – a huge set-back to his campaign at the time, losing the support of one of the oldest and most influential pure-blood wizarding families across the world. The Gregorovics were the superior wandmakers in any case, and despite his obvious reluctance to meet members of the family that could recognise him as the thief that had come in the night, he had virtually no other choice. Luckily, he had been able to charm Wilma Gregorovic over a bottle of vintage red, and it was wildly known that the only thing she shared with her brother was their mutual hatred of each other.
“No,” he sighed at Vinda. “No, I believe this meeting is one I cannot cancel, even though I quite honestly wish I could.”
“I am sure she would understand. You are a busy man after all.”
“We need her help more than she needs the association. If at all, it is precarious for her to associate herself with our cause at this point in time. She already made a daring venture by opening her own wand shop in Munich, she cannot afford to lose customers because of a political alignment.”
“Yes, of course. Are any special preparations necessary?”
“We will eat in my private dining room. Have the house elves prepare something of German origin, but meatless. I hear she abstains due to a condition. Go to the wine cellar, and pick a red that accompanies whatever the house elves prepare. They have no taste for these things, lowly creatures that they are, sadly.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur, but did you not recently tell me you ‘ated red wine?”
“We must all make our sacrifices,” he sighed knowingly. Vinda had perfected the art of reading the room, and had closed the door behind her with a nod before he could even have thanked her, not that he would have. If Gellert hated anything about his position, it was the rotten diplomacy. The constant politicking of it. Now, he was good at both of the above, but that didn’t mean he didn’t absolutely dread the interactions. Back as an idealistic teenager with near unlimited power at their disposal, they had thought conquering the world so easy, not that it would take decades of scheming, plotting and planning to even be remotely close to beginning the conquest they had thought would long have been over by now, never mind that it would tear them apart.