HP: Fragments Of A Legacy

Nurmengard Castle, 1979

A shadowy figure moved under the cover of the dark night, their steps slow yet deliberate as they advanced toward the fortress of Nurmengard. The monumental structure, once the epicenter of power for the wizard once known as the most feared dark lord in the magical world, now stood as a mere remnant of its former glory.

Now desolate and devoid of life, the castle was an empty shell. Silence reigned within its walls, so profound that it seemed to swallow even the whispers of the wind.

The creak of a heavy door being opened reverberated through the lifeless halls, breaking the stillness. Inside the fortress, within the depths of its most guarded cell, lay its sole inhabitant.

"So, you've finally come," Grindelwald said, his voice calm, his posture unchanging as he remained seated. "It must have been a long journey, Tom."

"That name," the other figure hissed, his tone sharp and venomous. "How is it you know it?"

Grindelwald tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. His gaze, piercing and calculating, settled on his visitor. The old wizard seemed almost amused by the effect of uttering "Tom" aloud.

"Though I remain confined to this fortress, my eyes and ears are sharper now than ever," Grindelwald replied with unnerving clarity.

Voldemort's silence in response was loaded, his crimson eyes gleaming with a cold, lethal intensity. He scrutinized the older man, seeking even the faintest glimmer of fear in his expression. But Grindelwald, implacable, returned his stare with serene indifference, as if Voldemort's presence was no more consequential than a passing breeze.

"You've lost your grip on reality, Grindelwald," Voldemort finally said, his voice low and menacing. "Perhaps you fail to understand the gravity of your situation. You should be afraid."

"Afraid?" Grindelwald repeated, his tone devoid of mockery yet equally devoid of submission. "I've already seen all that fear has to offer. Frankly, I find it rather... tiresome."

The Dark Lord took a deliberate step forward, exuding menace with every movement. Grindelwald's gaze followed the younger wizard's approach, his head inclining slightly, as if appraising his poise and bearing.

"I could end your life here and now if I so desired," Voldemort whispered, his voice as cold as ice. "Your words and your life are of no value."

"And yet you haven't," Grindelwald observed, his calm demeanor unshaken. "I fear your journey has been in vain. What you seek is not here, nor was it ever in my possession."

Voldemort leaned closer, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. His wand crackled faintly in his hand, pointed unwaveringly at Grindelwald.

"You dare lie to me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but each word carried the weight of a curse. "Do you really believe I will tolerate such insolence?"

Grindelwald raised an eyebrow at the threat, his face betraying no concern. His voice remained steady, unhurried, and irritatingly composed.

"No, I do not believe you will," he said simply. "But your tantrums will not change reality. The rumors you cling to, the legends you chase… they are nothing but stories."

"Do you truly believe the Deathly Hallows are real?" Grindelwald continued, his voice laced with faint derision. A flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes, though his expression remained still. "They are but a fable, crafted to explain that which cannot be understood. There is no power in those myths, only the vain hopes of those who fear what they cannot control."

"Do not play games with me, Grindelwald!" Voldemort roared, his voice as chilling as it was filled with rage. His wand hovered closer to the elder wizard's throat, a sliver away from delivering his wrath. "Tell me where it is. Now."

"Your desperation is pathetic, Tom," Grindelwald said softly, his words dripping with disdain. "You fear death so deeply…" He paused, as if genuinely contemplating his own statement. His eyes sparkled with a peculiar understanding of human nature. Without waiting for a response, he continued, answering his own question. "Of course you do. Who else would defile themselves with such dark magic?"

"You sought to cheat death by cowardly means," Grindelwald went on, undeterred by the dark fire burning in Voldemort's eyes. "You believe immortality will make you invincible, but all you have done is delay the inevitable. Death is not an enemy to be defeated by cheap tricks or stolen relics."

Voldemort's lips thinned, his rage evident in every line of his face. He was not accustomed to such blatant disdain for his achievements, especially not in his presence. The wand in his hand vibrated faintly, as if mirroring the tension in the air.

"You dare lecture me on cowardice, old man?" Voldemort sneered, his voice razor-sharp. "You sought the Hallows yourself and failed."

Grindelwald's smile turned bitter.

"Perhaps I failed," he admitted, his voice heavy with meaning. "But I learned something you never will, Tom." He deliberately emphasized the name, relishing the insult it carried. "The true master of death does not run away from it; he accepts it, knowing it must come. You, however, are a slave to your own fear."

The words stung like venom. Voldemort's face twisted with fury, and, without hesitation, he raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A blinding green light filled the cell, and Gellert Grindelwald's body crumpled lifelessly to the floor. His expression, however, remained serene, even triumphant, as if death itself had not claimed victory over him.

Voldemort turned on his heel and left, but the echo of Grindelwald's words lingered in his mind like a slow-acting poison. That calm acceptance of death, that unshakable dignity—it unsettled him in a way he refused to acknowledge.

...

The news of Gellert Grindelwald's death spread like wildfire across the wizarding world, leaving behind shock, fear, and awe. For decades, Grindelwald's name had been synonymous with nightmares, a symbol of near-indomitable dark power. Though he had been imprisoned for years, his shadow loomed large in the collective memory.

Now, the idea that someone had penetrated Nurmengard—the fortress Grindelwald had built as both his stronghold and his prison—to end his life felt like a dark paradox.

Rumors abounded. Some claimed Grindelwald had allowed himself to be killed, weary of his solitary existence. Others believed he had fought to his last breath, defending his stronghold with the ferocity of his youth. But the most pressing question was: Who had managed to kill the man who had once brought Europe to its knees?

It didn't take long for the answer to emerge. The whispered name: The Dark Lord.

In Britain, that name was already feared. But for those elsewhere, Voldemort was a distant rumor, a shadowy figure whispered about in secret. The revelation that this rising dark wizard had vanquished Grindelwald changed everything.

In Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore received the news in silence. His expression, impossible to decipher, betrayed no emotion. Yet his colleagues noticed his gaze lingered on the horizon, as though contemplating the storm yet to come. He knew better than anyone the implications of Grindelwald's death.

At the Ministry of Magic, panic rippled through the halls. Officials who had downplayed Voldemort's threat could no longer deny the growing storm. Reports of suspicious activity, of alliances forming in the shadows, began pouring in. It was as if the death of Grindelwald had sounded a clarion call, heralding a new, darker era.

The end of Grindelwald's era had given way to the rise of another.