After spending a few days in the cold mountain prison that is Nurmengard, fila could confidently say that this wasn't what she thought it would be.
Sure having any sort of expectations of what she would do could go in any direction since she didn't know her grandfather. She had during the few days studied harder than she ever did in school, and that was just a few days.
Everything from ethnics to politics and even manipulations.
Fila had a subtle clue to why she needed this. its no secret that she is growing up and drawing more and more attention to herself by just doing the things she does. And one day things like this will be needed if she wants to defend herself outside the duel circle.
After her very small talk about her father, she understood it even more.
From what Gellert had explained. Her father betrayed the dark lord in some way, its still very unclear as to what he did. But what he did seemed to have made the dark lord extremely angry, to the point of killing him.
Getting attacked by the death eater at school now made sense, they didn't want to kill her just for her name. they wanted revenge for something. Making sure that even a young girl who never even knew her father also felt that they still felt anger towards her father even after death.
The realization hit Fila with the force of a physical blow, heavy and suffocating in the quiet of the mountain fortress.
She wasn't just a girl with a famous last name anymore. She was the living legacy of two men who had defied the dark in entirely different ways. And to the survivors of Britain's dark war, that made her a prime target.
Gellert didn't answer right away. He looked at her over the rim of his mug, his mismatched eyes calculating.
"They are small, broken creatures, Ophelia," Gellert said smoothly, setting his mug down on the table with a dull clink. "Those who followed the Dark Lord in Britain did so out of fear or a desperate grab for power. When your father turned on him, he struck at the very foundation of their master's strength. They cannot reach the dead, so they reach for you."
He stood up, walking over to the window where the pitch black Austrian night pressed against the glass.
"But you must understand something about the nature of revenge. It is a weapon fueled by emotion, and emotion makes a wizard sloppy. Those Death Eaters attack you because they are living in the past. You, on the other hand, are training for the future."
And fila was all for it. becoming stronger so that she didn't need to hide her name, and could even protect her and the friends she loved more than anything.
She turned back into the book she had been reading right before her realization, a book about French history. And some notable figures. Gellert had always said that the French magical world was one of the most important, and that's the reason he wanted her to learn French. Many thought of Britain as the center of magic, but Gellert saw it differently.
To him the British were just holding on to what used to be, a old house with crumbling walls. They created Hogwarts and for that gave themselves a reputation higher than most, but anyone smart enough saw that the ones famous school was dragging behind.
Europe had plenty of better schools now, some even outshining Hogwarts.
Fila traced her finger over the gilded edges of the heavy volume on French magical history. The elegant script detailed the rise of the Ministère des Affaires Magiques and the intricate, artistic web of European magical society.
"They are insular," Gellert remarked from his spot by the window, his voice pulling her focus from the page. He didn't need to specify who; they both knew he was talking about the British. "They sit on their island, convinced that the wizarding world begins and ends at the White Cliffs of Dover. They point to Hogwarts as the pinnacle of education because its stones are ancient, ignoring the fact that the curriculum hasn't truly evolved in centuries."
He turned away from the glass, the faint orange glow of the hearth fire catching the side of his weathered face.
"Hogwarts produced great wizards, certainly. But greatness born out of tradition is not the same as greatness born out of innovation. Beauxbatons in France understands that magic is an art to be refined, a science to be mastered, not just a set of family hand-me-down spells. And Durmstrang... well, Durmstrang at least understands that one must not be afraid of the dark to truly appreciate the light."
Fila looked down at the map of magical Europe printed in the book. The borders were drawn in shimmering silver ink that shifted depending on the century you were looking at.
"Is that why you wanted me to learn French?" Fila asked, glancing up at him. "Because that is where the real power is shifting?"
"It is where the refinement is," Gellert corrected, walking over to stand by the table. He tapped a finger on a chapter detailing the French resistance to his own historical campaign. "To manipulate a British pure-blood, you appeal to their pride and their bloodline. To manipulate a French aristocrat, you must appeal to their intellect and their culture. They are playing a much more delicate game, Ophelia. And if you are to navigate the world outside of school, you must be able to speak their language. In every sense of the word."
He leaned over the table, his mismatched eyes locking onto hers with that familiar, intense focus.
"Fontaine at Ilvermorny tries to protect you by keeping you in a bubble of American modernism. But the world is old, child. And the old world has long memories and sharp knives. By learning the history, the politics, and the languages of these different ministries, you ensure that no matter where a Death Eater or a Ministry assassin finds you... you will always be three steps ahead of them."
Fila nodded, a newfound sense of determination settling in her chest. She closed the book on French history, feeling the weight of it. She wasn't just learning to cast spells anymore. She was learning how to be a force that the wizarding world could not simply ignore or crush.
"So," Fila said, a small, challenging smirk playing on her lips that mirrored the photograph of her father. "What is the next lesson, Grandpa? Are we doing French political manipulation, or are you finally going to show me how to cast that advanced shield you mentioned?"
He laughed. "You aren't ready for that yet." He said as he left the room.
Fila was growing impatient, she wanted to learn spells and blow things up. Instead she had been sitting her five hours everyday reading. She already did this in school before summer its enough.
Her mind snapped over to a flower that had plopped out of the stone over the fireplace. She smiled while looking at it.
The tiny, brilliant white petals of the flower seemed to glow against the dark, oppressive stone of the fireplace. It was a perfect contrast to the heavy, dusty book of French politics sitting on the table before her.
Fila leaned her chin in her hands, watching the little plant sway slightly in the heat of the fire.
She loved her grandfather, and she was genuinely fascinated by the mind games and the power structures of the old world. But her magic was feeling clawed and restless beneath her skin. Reading about dead French ministers was fine, but it didn't help burn off the massive river of power that was currently itching to be used.
The flower leaned toward her, stretching its stem as if it were a cat seeking attention.
She smiled, reaching out a finger to gently stroke a soft petal. "At least you aren't trying to teach me about wizarding trade laws," she whispered to the plant.
Early the next morning she found herself outside the fortress of Nuremgard.
Training her mind was one thing she could do all evening, but since coming her she decided to start training her body as well. Rowan had already trained her slightly, but if she was to hold out against wizards and witches in the long term, she needed to strengthen her body.
Saying that in her head before coming out had been easier. Feeling the biting wind of the Austrian alps really didn't help her wanting to do this.
She stood at the edge of the stone training yard, her boots crunching against a thin layer of hardened snow and frost. Looking out at the vast, gray expanse of the Austrian Alps, she questioned her own sanity.
Rowan makes this look so easy, she thought, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck.
When her mother's bodyguard trained her, it was usually in the much more forgiving climate of the United States. Here, the sheer altitude made her lungs burn after only a few minutes of just standing outside.
But Fila was nothing if not stubborn.
She shed her heavy outer cloak, leaving herself in a thick dragon hide dueling jacket and flexible dragon skin trousers. The moment the wind hit her arms, she shivered violently.
"Movement," she muttered to herself, her teeth chattering. "Rowan said movement creates heat."
She started with a slow jog around the perimeter of the courtyard, her boots slipping occasionally on the icy patches of stone. After two laps, the burning in her lungs shifted from the freezing air to the welcome strain of physical exertion. Her muscles began to warm, and that restless, clawed feeling of her magic started to settle into a steady, controlled hum.
She stopped in the center of the yard, panting slightly. She didn't draw her wand yet. Instead, she dropped into a low, balanced stance that Rowan had drilled into her memory.
"Wizards rely too much on their sticks, Little Leaf," Rowan's voice echoed in her mind. "If someone disarms you, or gets inside your guard, your body is your only weapon. If you are too slow to dodge, or too weak to strike, you are dead."
Fila began to practice her forms. She punched and kicked at the empty, freezing air, focusing on keeping her balance on the slippery ground. She imagined a Death Eater closing the distance, trying to grab her wand arm. She pivoted on her heel, driving an elbow back into her imaginary attacker.
As she moved, she didn't notice a figure standing high up on the balcony of the fortress. Gellert Grindelwald stood in the shadows, his mismatched eyes locked onto the young girl below. He watched her push through the brutal cold, practicing the physical combat of a bodyguard rather than the pristine wand work of an aristocrat.
A slow, proud smile spread across Gellert's face. She was training herself to survive in ways he had never even considered when he was her age.
Fila finished her routine with a sharp, heavy strike, her breathing ragged but her body finally glowing with warmth despite the sub zero temperature. She stood tall in the center of the yard, the adrenaline of physical exertion mixing with the raw magic hum in her veins.
The wind died down to a low whistle, and she finally noticed the dark silhouette standing high on the stone balcony above.
Gellert didn't wave or call out. He simply watched her for a long moment before giving a single, respectful nod and turning back into the shadows of the fortress.
Fila smiled to herself, her heart swelling with a quiet sense of accomplishment. She reached down and scooped up her heavy wool cloak, throwing it over her shoulders as the biting chill began to seep back into her muscles. Her body was tired, and her lungs still stung slightly from the high altitude, but she felt more awake and alive than she had in days.
The walk back inside the fortress was much warmer, though the stone halls of Nurmengard always held a certain baseline chill. After a quick breakfast and a change into fresh, warm clothes, Fila spent the rest of the day in a blur of more physical forms and light spellwork.
But as the sun began to dip below the jagged Austrian peaks, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the mountains, Fila found herself drawn back to the library.
This time, she was alone. Gellert was nowhere to be seen, likely reviewing his own correspondence or resting his aged bones.
Fila pulled the heavy, leather-bound volume on French magical history toward her. She opened it to the chapter on the Ministère des Affaires Magiques and sighed. She really had slacked on her language studies, and her grandfather's relentless scolding, still stung her pride just a little bit.
With a determined nod to the empty, shadowed room, she pulled a blank piece of parchment and a quill toward her. She flipped to the back of the book where a helpful glossary of common magical and political terms was printed.
"Droit magique," she whispered, her accent a bit clunky and Americanized in the hollow silence. She frowned, trying to mimic the smooth, rolling cadence Gellert used. "Droit... magique." She wrote it down on the parchment: Magical Law.
She moved down the list, her eyes scanning the elegant, looping script.
She spent the next two hours in absolute concentration. The only sounds in the massive library were the soft scratching of her quill, the occasional pop and crackle of the dying fire, and her own quiet voice repeating the complex French vowels.
She practiced constructing sentences, imagining herself standing in a high-society ballroom in Paris, speaking to a powerful Ministry official.
"Je suis ravie de vous rencontrer," she murmured, practicing the polite greeting. I am delighted to meet you. Then, remembering her grandfather's lessons on manipulation, she tried a more pointed one. "Le pouvoir n'est rien sans le contrôle."Power is nothing without control.
She looked down at her messy parchment, filled with translated words and practiced phrases. Her hand was cramping slightly, and her eyes felt heavy from the long day of physical training and mental focus.
Fila stretched her arms over her head, feeling a deep, satisfying sense of exhaustion. She had pushed both her body and her mind to their limits today, and she had done it all on her own initiative.
"Le pouvoir n'est rien sans le contrôle," she muttered one last time, squinting at the page. Power is nothing without control. "And my brain is nothing without some sleep."
She stood up, gathering her inkwell and quill. But as she went to close the massive, heavy volume on French politics, a small, square piece of folded parchment slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
Fila blinked, her sleepiness evaporating. She bent down and picked it up.
It wasn't an ancient Ministry document or a dark spell. On the outside, in very familiar, elegant, and slightly spidery handwriting, was a single word:
Ophelia.
With her heart doing a weird little fluttery thing, she unfolded it.
Your accent in the hallway this afternoon sounded like a dying Diricawl trying to whistle. 'Souveraineté' does not rhyme with 'spaghetti.' > However, your dedication to the forms in the courtyard did not go unnoticed. You have the balance of a mountain cat and the stubbornness of a mule. A perfect combination for a Grindelwald.
There is a plate of warm apple strudel charm-sealed by the hearth in your room. Eat it before the house elves realize I stole it from their pantry.
— G.
Fila stared at the note, a massive, genuine smile spreading across her face. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, echoing softly in the empty library. The great and terrible Gellert Grindelwald, master of strategy and former terror of the wizarding world, was actively making fun of her French and smuggling pastries like a rebellious teenager.
The "rock in her throat" feeling from yesterday came back, but this time she knew exactly what it was. It was warmth. It was the feeling of actually having a family who paid attention.
Fila practically floated up the winding stone stairs to the north tower. The moment she opened the heavy oak door to her bedroom, the rich, buttery scent of baked apples, cinnamon, and flaky pastry hit her like a sensory charm.
Sure enough, sitting on a small table by the roaring fire was a plate with a massive slice of strudel, surrounded by a faint, shimmering golden bubble to keep it piping hot.
She kicked off her heavy boots, dove into her bed with the plate, and took a massive bite. It was absolute heaven.
As she chewed, she looked at the wand resting on her nightstand. Her magic was still feeling playful and warm from the food and the note.
"Okay," she whispered around a mouthful of strudel. "Let's see if French makes a difference."
She picked up her wand and pointed it at the empty air at the foot of her bed. Remembering her father's haughty smirk from the photograph and her grandfather's lessons on projecting pure intent, she decided to combine everything.
Instead of a snake, she wanted something much more fitting for the night.
"Papillon," she whispered, pouring a gentle, happy stream of magic through her wand. Butterfly.
A tiny, glowing emerald green butterfly materialized in the air. It wasn't just a glowing light; Fila had focused so hard on the details that you could see the delicate, dark veins in its wings. It flitted lazily around the bedpost, landed on her knee for a second, and then dissolved into a small shower of sparkling green sparks.
Fila grinned, feeling a surge of pure, unadulterated pride. No cracks. No lag. It had felt perfectly, beautifully alive.
"Take that, Grandpa," she mumbled happily, leaning back against her pillows and reaching for another forkful of strudel. "My French is magnifique."
The next few weeks at Nurmengard passed in a blur of biting mountain air, ink-stained fingers, and the rich scent of warming apple strudel. Fila quickly fell into a comfortable, albeit exhausting, daily routine that felt less like a prison sentence and more like a highly exclusive, slightly chaotic summer camp.
Week 1: The Art of Moving and Bruising
Fila spent her mornings in the courtyard with Gellert, trading the rigid wand stances of Ilvermorny for fluid, practical physical combat. She learned how to drop low when a spell was fired overhead, how to use an attacker's own momentum to send them face-first into the snow, and exactly how many layers of dragon hide it took to not feel a training jinx. By Friday, her muscles were constantly aching, but she was dodging Rowan's practice sweeps with a grin on her face.
Week 2: The French Invasion
Determined to prove her grandfather wrong about her accent, Fila began narrating her entire day in broken, enthusiastic French. She would walk into the library and confidently declare, "Je voudrais le sandwich au fromage, s'il vous plaît," to an amused Gellert. He would just sigh, correct her nasal vowels with a flick of his quill, and go back to his reading. She even started talking to the fireplace flowers in French, convinced it made them grow faster.
Week 3: Master of the Tiny Lies
Her illusion training took a turn for the hilarious. Instead of terrifying venomous snakes, Fila practiced creating tiny, harmless illusions to mess with her grandfather. She spent three days trying to make a fake, non-existent teacup appear right next to his real one, laughing up her sleeve when he reached for the wrong one. Gellert countered by making her book pages appear completely blank until she asked politely in French to read them. It was a silent, magical prank war, and Fila was definitely winning on points.
Week 4: Finding the Rhythm
By the end of the month, the massive mountain fortress didn't feel so cold anymore. Fila found herself sitting on the floor of the library by the roaring fire, resting her head against the side of Gellert's armchair while she read about European history. They didn't need to have long, heavy conversations about dark lords or pure-blood registries every night. Sometimes, they just sat in a comfortable, warm silence, listening to the howling wind outside and the soft scratching of her quill.
For the first time in her life, Fila felt like she truly understood where she came from. She was a Grindelwald, she was a Black, and she was becoming a force to be reckoned with. Alright not yet so much but a work in progress.
"alright Grandpa, you ready to duel me?" Fila stood at the fireplace, he arms on her hips and chin held high. She had confidence, Gellert couldn't say anything about her not being motivated either.
He shook his head. "I told you, I'm not dueling." He had told her multiple times during her stay. Many times with not explanation as to why either. But you didn't need to be the smartest person in the world to know why either.
Fila, already expecting the rejection sat down in her designated armchair.
Fila crossed her arms over her chest and let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh that would have made the most dramatic pure-blood aristocrat in France proud. She slumped into the soft cushions of her armchair, letting her head fall back against the leather.
"You are no fun, Grandpa," she grumbled, though there was no real heat in her voice. "What is the point of being the most feared dark wizard in history if you won't even show your granddaughter how to properly block a stupefy?"
Gellert didn't look up from the thick tome he was reading, but a faint, amused twitch of his lips gave him away. He reached out and took a slow, deliberate sip from his mug of tea.
"The point, Ophelia," Gellert said smoothly, his voice a low rasp over the crackling fire, "is that I have spent the last month teaching you how to make sure your enemy never even gets the chance to cast that stupefy. Brute force is a young wizard's game. True mastery is making your opponent defeat themselves before a single wand is even drawn."
He finally closed his book with a soft, heavy thud and looked over at her, his mismatched eyes reflecting the warm orange glow of the hearth.
"Besides," he added, his voice dropping an octave, "a duel between the two of us would either end with me accidentally turning you into a potted plant, or you blowing up the rest of my fortress doors. I am quite fond of these doors now that they actually stay on their hinges."
She understood him, but she would never admit it.
"Alright lets change topic." Fila said as she picked up the British family tree book. "Are all my Aunts and uncles in prison?" she pointed at the black family tree. Specifically, Sirius, Narcissa and Bellatrix.
Gellert shook his head. "No, Narcissa is actually married to a Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy. And she isn't in prison. But the other two are." He took a sip of his honey tea. "one is a death eater to heart and the other is most likely innocent."
Fila stared down at the ancient, ink stained branches of the Black family tree, her fingers tracing over the name Narcissa.
"Married to a Malfoy," Fila repeated, testing the weight of the name on her tongue. It sounded sharp and cold, very much like the rest of the names on this page. "And she's just... out there? Walking around free in Britain?"
"The Malfoys are an exceptionally wealthy and slippery family, Ophelia," Gellert said, setting his mug down on the table with a dull clink. "When the Dark Lord fell, Lucius Malfoy claimed he had been acting under the Imperius Curse. A classic, expensive lie that the British Ministry was all too happy to believe in exchange for a heavy influx of gold to repair their war torn society."
He gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand toward the hearth.
"Narcissa was never branded with their Dark Mark. She plays the part of the perfect, aristocratic pure blood wife. If you ever find yourself in the upper echelons of British magical society, you will undoubtedly cross paths with her. She is a woman of quiet, dangerous composure."
Fila's gaze drifted over to the other two names on the branch. Sirius and Bellatrix. Both were marked with small, dark annotations that indicated incarceration.
"And the other two?" Fila asked softly, looking up at him. "Sirius and Bellatrix. You said one is a Death Eater to their core and the other is likely innocent. Which is which?"
"Bellatrix Black, or Lestrange as she is known now, is the fanatic," Gellert said, his expression darkening slightly. "She did not follow the Dark Lord out of fear or a grab for power like the small, broken creatures I mentioned before. She followed him with a religious fervor. When he disappeared, she did not run or hide. She tortured a pair of respected Aurors to the point of insanity trying to find her master. She sits in Azkaban now, and she will likely die there, completely consumed by her own madness."
He paused, letting the weight of Bellatrix's cruelty settle in the quiet room before shifting his gaze to the name Sirius.
"But Sirius... Sirius is a different matter entirely. He was the family rebel before your father took up the mantle. He turned his back on the House of Black's dark traditions when he was still a boy at school. He was best friends with the Potter boy, who was the Dark Lord's primary target."
Gellert leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together.
"The British Ministry claims that Sirius Black betrayed the Potters' location to the Dark Lord and then blew up a street full of Muggles. They threw him into Azkaban without so much as a trial. But I know the nature of a Black's loyalty, Ophelia. And from everything your father told me of his brother... Sirius would have died before betraying those he loved. He is a victim of a Ministry that needed a scapegoat to prove they were still in control."
Fila looked back down at the tree, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was looking at the names of her blood relatives—her living aunts and an uncle. One was a free socialite, one was a raving lunatic, and the other was a framed man rotting in a fortress of despair.
"My family is a disaster," Fila whispered, a dry, slightly humorless laugh escaping her lips.
Gellert smiled, a genuine, fond look that crinkled the corners of his mismatched eyes. "I believe that is the first rule of being a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, child. But remember, you are a living legacy of the ones who broke the mold."
The next morning.
Fila sat in one of the rooms where she always sat. she had pretty much one room for each book she had now, no one was going to use these rooms anyway.
But suddenly a noticeable creak came from the big doors of the prison.
The sudden, heavy groan of iron on stone echoed through the chillingly quiet halls of Nurmengard. Fila froze, her quill hovering just above a fresh piece of parchment.
Nobody ever visited Nurmengard. Aside from the occasional supply drop arranged by Gellert. Or his highly secretive correspondence channels, the fortress was a ghost town.
Fila slowly set her quill down and slid her wand into her hand. Her heart was suddenly thumping against her ribs, but it wasn't the suffocating panic she had felt back at Ilvermorny during the attack.
During these days she had been trained enough to actually not be scared by this. but mostly she weren't afraid since she had one of the scariest dark lords of all time in the same building.
She stood up quietly, slipping into a low, balanced stance, and moved toward the edge of the doorframe to peer out into the massive, vaulted hallway.
The steps sounded like a women, soft and steady. Not the heavy of a male wizard. But than the footsteps disappeared.
The silence was absolute. The soft, clicking footsteps had just stopped. Whoever this woman was, she knew exactly how to move without making a sound when she wanted to.
Fila risked a glance around the heavy oak doorframe.
Standing at the end of the long, vaulted corridor was a woman who looked like she had just stepped straight out of a photograph from the 1920s. She was tall and slender, wearing an impeccably tailored, dark violet wool coat with sharp lapels and a matching cloche hat that covered most of her silver-grey hair. Her posture was perfectly erect, radiating an effortless, terrifying sort of elegance.
The woman slowly turned her head. Her eyes were dark, sharp, and intensely calculating.
"You can come out of the shadows, child," the woman said. Her voice was smooth, low, and carried a thick, unmistakable French accent. "Your stance is admirable, but your breathing is far too loud for a proper ambush."
Fila blinked, realizing she had been caught. Remembering Gellert's lessons on confidence, she stood up straight, stepped out into the hallway, and lowered her wand slightly—but she didn't holster it.
"Who are you?" Fila asked, her voice echoing in the empty hall. "And how did you get past the wards?"
The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze drift over Fila, inspecting her from her messy hair down to her dragon hide dueling boots. A tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of the woman's lips suggested she was mildly impressed.
"I am Vinda Rosier," she answered simply, as if her name alone should explain everything. "And as for the wards... I helped Gellert design half of them. They do not keep out those who are invited."
Fila's eyes widened. Vinda Rosier. She had read that name in the history books just last week. She was Gellert Grindelwald's most loyal lieutenant, his right hand during the global wizarding war.
"You're..." Fila started, trailing off.
"Still alive?" Vinda finished the sentence for her, a dry, elegant humor in her voice. "Yes. We Rosiers are quite resilient." She began walking forward again, her heels making soft, deliberate clicks on the stone. "You must be Ophelia. Gellert's letters mentioned you had your father's eyes and your mother's stubbornness. I see he was right."