Gellert, Vinda and Fila sat together at one of the tables in the prison of Nurmengard Castle.
The atmosphere was wildly different than it had been just yesterday. The table, which had previously been covered in dusty historical maps and ink-stained parchment, now held a delicate porcelain teapot and a plate of actual French macarons that Vinda had somehow produced from the pockets of her impeccably tailored coat.
Gellert looked more alive than Fila had seen him since her arrival. His mismatched eyes were bright, and he was listening intently as Vinda spoke, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his teacup.
"The French Ministry is in absolute chaos," Vinda said, her voice smooth and carrying that thick, aristocratic Paris accent. She delicately broke a pink macaron in half. "They spend so much time looking over their shoulders for British sympathizers that they cannot see the unrest growing in their own backyards. They are terrified of the past, so they are blinding themselves to the present."
Fila watched the legendary witch in quiet fascination. Vinda Rosier didn't look like a war criminal or a fanatic. She looked like a woman who could dismantle a government with a polite smile and a sharp word over afternoon tea.
"And what of the British survivors?" Gellert asked, his voice a low rasp.
Vinda gave a tiny, elegant shrug of her shoulders. "They are disorganized, running on nothing but old grudges and pure emotion. Like those fools who attacked Ophelia at school. They are looking for easy targets to make themselves feel powerful again." She turned her sharp, dark eyes directly onto Fila. "They will be looking for you again, child."
Fila did not flinch. She set her own cup down and sat up a little straighter in her chair.
"Let them look," she said, though a tiny bit of chocolate ganache from a macaron was stubbornly stuck to the corner of her lip. "I have spent the last month learning how to deal with small, broken creatures."
A slow, genuinely amused smile spread across Vinda's face. She reached out and delicately tapped her own thumb against the corner of her mouth, silently gesturing for Fila to clean up the chocolate.
"I see what you mean, Gellert," Vinda said, her eyes twinkling with a dry, elegant humor. "She has the family look. Especially when she is trying to be fierce with dessert on her face."
Gellert chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that held a genuine note of pride. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his knee.
"She is not trying," Gellert countered softly, his voice full of a quiet warmth. "She is brave. She has spent the last month fighting the altitude, the cold, and my own relentless teaching. She is a work in progress, Vinda, but she is a Grindelwald through and through."
Fila felt a massive swell of pride at her grandfather's words. She quickly wiped her face with a napkin, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold mountain air. To have the approval of these two legendary figures was a feeling she could not quite put into words. It felt like standing directly in front of a roaring fireplace on a freezing night.
But, something about Vinda didn't really feel right. She had this look in her eyes whenever she would look towards Fila. Her eyes looked calm and happy. It could just be the moment but she definitely saw that she got this look whenever she looked at her.
"Ophelia." Gellert began. "Ive decided that you will go together with Vinda her a couple of weeks, she will show you France. And teach you some things aswell."
Fila's heart did a sudden, chaotic flip in her chest. She looked from Gellert's calm, resolute face to Vinda, who was now watching her with that same, strangely soft expression.
Go to France? With the Vinda Rosier?
The idea was both incredibly thrilling and absolutely terrifying. She was finally getting out of the cold, stone walls of Nurmengard, but she was trading her grandfather's library for the real, cutthroat world of European magical politics, guided by the woman who had helped build a revolution.
Vinda looked towards Gellert than to Ophelia. "I will show you some of the best places in France. We have even better shopping districts here than in America." She said proudly.
Fila gave a vary smile back.
Its no secret that Gellert trusts this woman. She had been his right hand during his prime and even now it still seemed like she pulled strings for him.
Fila's eyes flickered between the two of them. It was a strange dynamic to witness firsthand. Gellert Grindelwald, a man who once held the wizarding world in a grip of pure terror, sat here listening to Vinda talk about shopping as if she were detailing a military strategy.
And in a way, she was.
"I think I can manage a shopping trip or two," Fila said, her voice small but gaining confidence. "As long as you do not expect me to wear a corset or a giant feather hat."
Vinda let out a soft, musical laugh that echoed pleasantly off the grim stone walls. "I think we can find a happy medium between giant feathers and dragon hide, Ophelia. Let us aim for effortlessly lethal chic."
Gellert smiled, a real, crinkly look that reached his mismatched eyes. "Listen to her, child. There is no one in the world better at playing the long game than Vinda. You will learn much from her. Not just about where to buy the best robes, but how to read a room before you even step inside it."
He paused, his gaze growing distant for a brief second before locking back onto Fila with that intense, paternal warmth.
"I cannot leave these walls," Gellert said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet rumble. "But you can. And with Vinda by your side, you will not just survive the outside world. You will conquer it."
The gravity of the moment settled over the table. Fila nodded, feeling the weight of her grandfather's trust and the exciting, terrifying reality of the journey ahead.
Just a couple of hours later. Fila found herself walking alongside Vinda.
The trip from Nurmengard had been simple, just use floo powder. Fila thought they would have to walk down that forsaken mountain on foot. She still had no clue why she had to go with this woman who had been harder to read than her self-writing book.
The air was warmer, smelling faintly of roasted coffee, rain, and expensive perfume. They had stepped out of a private floo connection into what appeared to be a lavishly decorated Parisian drawing room. Gilded mirrors lined the walls, and heavy velvet drapes blocked out the evening light.
Vinda stepped gracefully out of the hearth without a single speck of soot on her violet wool coat. She didn't look back to see if Fila had made it; she simply glided toward a pair of massive double doors, her heels clicking softly on the polished wooden floor.
"Welcome to Paris, Ophelia," Vinda said smoothly, her voice echoing slightly in the elegant space.
Fila quickly brushed some ash off her sleeve and hurried to catch up, her eyes darting around the luxurious room. She was still trying to process the sheer speed of the transition. One minute she was eating macarons in a dark prison, and the next she was in the heart of France with a woman she barely knew.
As they walked through the grand hallway, Fila couldn't shake that strange feeling from earlier. Vinda was impeccably polite, endlessly poised, and yet completely unreadable. Gellert trusted her with his life, which meant Fila should too, but it was hard to feel entirely comfortable around someone whose eyes held so many secrets.
"We will settle your things first," Vinda remarked, not breaking her steady stride. "And then, I believe we owe you that wardrobe upgrade we discussed. After all, we cannot have a Grindelwald exploring the City of Light in scuffed dragon hide boots."
Fila looked down at her trusty, mud stained boots and smiled faintly. She might not know exactly why she was here or what Vinda was really planning to teach her, but she was definitely ready for the adventure.
"Where are we?" Fila asked as she looked around.
Vinda stopped and turned to her. "Oh, I forgot. This is the Rosier family manor in Paris. Feel at home here Ophelia." She said with a warm smile.
That smile again, too warm to just be a normal smile she would give to someone. Maybe she really just liked Ophelia for being the granddaughter of Gellert, or is there more to this.
Fila offered a small, polite smile in return, though a flurry of questions was suddenly buzzing in her mind.
Vinda's warmth didn't feel fake or practiced like the politicians Gellert had warned her about. It felt genuine. But it was just so intense, especially coming from a woman with such a formidable reputation.
"Thank you, Madame Rosier," Fila said, her voice echoing slightly in the grand hallway. "It's beautiful."
"Please, call me Vinda," the older woman corrected gently, turning to continue down the corridor. Her heels clicked in a steady, confident rhythm against the polished marble floor.
Fila wanted to ask more about the Rosier family, she barley knew anything about them. Or she only knew about Vinda. There had to be more family than her left.
But for now, that would remain a question, she didn't want to risk ruining the mood.
The two of them stepped out into the streets of Paris. The city definitely had a unusual smell than the one she had been used too. She didn't mind it, the smell was hundreds of times better than fumes from passing cars in New York.
The evening air of magical Paris was a heady mix of fresh rain, blooming night flowers, and the rich, buttery scent of pastries drifting from nearby wizarding cafes. Streetlights powered by soft, flickering blue flames cast long, dancing shadows across the cobblestones, giving the entire street a dreamlike quality.
Fila pulled her jacket a little tighter around herself, her eyes wide as she took in the sights. People were bustling about in flowing, elegant robes of deep blues, rich plums, and shimmering silks.
"Vinda." Fila said she had a question that had been brewing since she saw these people. "Are no-mags… sorry muggles or whatever you call them here. are they pushed around like in Britain?"
Vinda slowed her pace, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering blue flame of a nearby streetlamp. She didn't look annoyed by the question; if anything, her expression turned thoughtful, the Parisian street casting a soft glow over her sharp features.
"Ah," Vinda murmured, her heels clicking to a complete stop against the cobblestones. She turned to face Fila, her posture as perfect as ever. "A very American question, Ophelia. And a very important one."
She gestured elegantly with her hand toward a group of wizarding aristocrats laughing as they exited a high end cafe across the street.
"In France, we do not have the same loud, aggressive obsession with blood purity that the British do," Vinda explained, her smooth voice carrying that unmistakable Parisian cadence. "The French magical world prides itself on culture, intellect, and refinement. To openly push around a Muggle in the street like a common thug? It is considered incredibly uncouth. Savage, even."
Fila listened intently, watching a witch in shimmering plum robes delicately wave her wand to fix a loose button on her coat.
"The simple answer to your question is no." she said plainly as she looked around. "We don't have the same obsession as the British do to their pure blood. But there exists a certain barrier between them. You can tell who is a member of a Noble family and who isn't."
Much to Fila's relief the answer had been simple. So France didn't think of the Families as these gods, not openly anyway. Vinda went on to explain that the noble houses in the wizard world very often sent money to the ministry to gain favorable positions or outcomes. In short, Bribes. Bribes hidden in a cover of pink velvet, but inside laid a rotten tomato.
Fila let out a soft snort of laughter at the vivid image. Leave it to Vinda Rosier to describe high society corruption with a perfect, elegant metaphor involving pink velvet and rotten vegetables.
"So, they are just more polite about being corrupt," Fila summarized, her hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets.
"Politeness is the ultimate weapon in France, Ophelia," Vinda said, her eyes glinting with a sharp, dry amusement. "A blunt blade makes a mess. A sharp, polished one cuts without the victim even realizing they are bleeding until it is far too late."
Vinda turned and continued her steady glide down the cobblestone street, her silver headed walking stick clicking softly against the ground. Fila kept pace beside her, her mind buzzing with everything she was learning.
As they walked, the crowds started to thin out, giving way to grander storefronts with massive glass windows displaying moving mannequins in breathtaking robes. Vinda stopped abruptly in front of a particularly beautiful, arched storefront. The sign above the door read 'Madame Aura: Robes de Haute Couture' in glowing gold script.
"We have arrived," Vinda announced, turning to face Fila. She looked Fila up and down one last time, her expression softening into that warm, proud look that still made Fila's head spin. "Now, let us find you a look that matches that sharp mind of yours. We need something that says you are a Grindelwald, but with a touch of modern, untouchable elegance."
Fila stared at the extravagant display window, feeling a thrill of genuine excitement mix with her nerves. She was standing in the heart of magical Paris with a living legend, about to get a complete wardrobe makeover.
Fila took a deep breath, looked at the glowing gold sign of the boutique, and gave a small nod. "Alright, Vinda. Show me what you've got. I'm putting my look entirely in your hands."
A slow, delighted smile spread across Vinda's face. It wasn't just the polite, composed smile she had been giving most of the evening; this was the smile of an artist being handed a blank canvas.
"An excellent decision, child," Vinda purred, her eyes shining with sudden, bright enthusiasm. "Trust me, you will not regret it."
With a flick of her walking stick, the heavy glass doors of the boutique swung open silently.
The interior of Madame Aura was breathtaking. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and expensive silk. Instead of standard clothes racks, enchanted mannequins slowly twirled in the center of the room, modeling robes that seemed to shift colors under the soft, floating candlelight.
An elegant witch with sharp features and hair styled in a perfect, gravity-defying updo rushed forward.
"Madame Rosier!" the shop owner gasped, her eyes widening in immediate recognition and a touch of genuine awe. "An absolute honor. I did not realize you were back in Paris."
"Only for a short while, Aura," Vinda replied smoothly, gracefully stepping further into the room. She gestured toward Fila. "I have a special project for you tonight. This is Ophelia. We need a complete wardrobe for her time here in France."
Madame Aura turned her sharp gaze onto Fila, looking her up and down with clinical precision. Her eyes lingered on Fila's worn dragon hide boots, and for a second, the designer looked physically pained.
"A complete wardrobe indeed," Aura murmured, though she quickly masked her shock with a professional smile. "A beautiful canvas, though. High cheekbones, striking eyes. What direction are we aiming for, Madame?"
Vinda rested her hands on the silver head of her walking stick, looking at Fila with that intense, prideful gaze.
"Effortlessly lethal chic," Vinda stated calmly. "I want clean lines, dark, commanding colors, and fabrics that move like water. Nothing restrictive. She is a duelist at heart, Aura. She must be able to move."
"Say no more," Aura said, her eyes flashing with inspiration.
Within seconds, measuring tapes were flying through the air of their own accord, wrapping around Fila's arms, waist, and shoulders.
An hour later, after what felt like hundreds of fabric swatches and silent, intense deliberation from Vinda, Fila stepped out of the dressing room and looked into a massive, floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror.
She barely recognized herself.
The dragon hide was gone. In its place, she wore a pair of perfectly tailored, midnight-black trousers made of a material so light it felt like air. Over it was a sharp, sleeveless tunic of deep Blue, matching her eyes. A pair of high leather boots where the trousers had been tucked in.
cinched at the waist with a silver-buckled belt. To top it off, Vinda had selected a breathtaking, ankle-length sweeping coat in rich gray velvet, lined with smooth, dark silk.
It was elegant, incredibly commanding, and yet, as Fila took an experimental step and mimicked a wand flourish, she realized she had total, unrestricted freedom of movement. It was exactly what Vinda had promised: armor disguised as high fashion.
Vinda stood by the door, watching her. That strangely soft, happy look was back in her eyes, stronger than ever.
"You look magnificent, Ophelia," Vinda said quietly. "A true force to be reckoned with. Make some more of these outfits, she likes the darker colors. And have them sent to my manor." Vinda continued.
Madame Aura clapped her hands together, a delighted, sharp sound that echoed in the lavender scented air. "A masterful choice, Madame Rosier. The velvet captures the light perfectly, and that shade of blue is... divine. We will begin crafting the additional pieces immediately. The shipment will arrive at the Rosier Manor before sunrise."
Vinda inclined her head slightly. "Excellent. We require a few sets for training and several less formal options for navigating the city. But all must maintain this standard of... discreet authority."
She turned, gesturing for Fila to follow her out of the dressing area. As they walked back through the main room of the boutique, Fila noticed the other witches and wizards browsing actually stopping to watch her. Something that she never liked, but as learnt by her grandfather. She should let them judge and pry, but never let your face down to look like they are winning. You always have to win in the room, even during defeat.
After some final touches to her new outfit they stepped out with over twenty outfits ordered, and the outfit she tried on first she still wore.
"You really remind me of your mo… Grandfather." Vinda said, the correction didn't go unnoticed by Fila. But she didn't chase it further for now.
Fila's boots clicked in a steady, confident rhythm against the Parisian cobblestones, a stark contrast to the chaotic flip her stomach just did. Vinda had almost said "mother."
The slip was gone in a flash, smoothed over by Vinda's practiced, aristocratic grace, but it hung in the air between them like a lingering spell. Fila knew her mother had been a point of massive tension and secrecy in the family, but to hear it almost roll off Vinda's tongue so naturally made her wonder just how deep the connections went.
"I will take that as a compliment," Fila replied, deciding to keep her voice light and playful to match the mood. "Though I doubt my grandfather ever caused this much of a stir in a dress shop."
Vinda let out a soft, genuine laugh that seemed to chase away the heavy silence of the slip. "Oh, you would be surprised, Little Leaf. Gellert always understood the power of a perfect entrance. He just preferred his tailoring with a bit more... intimidation factor."
She gestured with her walking stick toward the end of the street where the blue streetlamps began to fade into a warmer, more golden glow.
"Now," Vinda said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Since we have successfully navigated the cutthroat world of Parisian fashion without a single casualty, I think we have earned a reward. And we need to give those new boots of yours a proper test run."
The street opened up into a wider plaza, where the sound of upbeat magical music and soft laughter floated through the evening air.
As they walked through the streets. Fila couldn't help but watching the store fronts of every shop. Wands, pets, brooms and potions. All looking like they were made for movies, and not to be sold.
A café open during the late evening attracted Fila as she saw pastries being served. And Vinda didn't miss the look that Fila had given her, so soon enough the two of them found themselves seated. But they didn't have a normal seat. Instead they had been seated on a balcony above the streets.
"Is this some sort of hidden seat for people like you?" Fila asked as she looked at the different pastries on the table in front of her.
Vinda let out of soft sort laugh. "Yes, that would be the case in different store, but in this no. I own it."
Fila's hand, which had been reaching for a small, glossy chocolate tart, froze mid air. She looked up at Vinda, her eyes wide with surprise.
"You own it?" Fila repeated, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Of course you do. Why am I even surprised at this point?"
Vinda shrugged elegantly, her dark eyes glittering with a mix of amusement and a touch of pride. "The Rosier family has been established in Paris for centuries, Ophelia. We have a hand in many of the city's finest establishments. It helps to have a place where one can enjoy a quiet conversation without prying ears."
She leaned back in her chair, the rich gray velvet of her coat catching the warm glow of the floating candles on the table. "And besides, the pastry chef here makes the best chocolate éclairs in France. I couldn't simply let anyone else have them."
Fila laughed, the tension from earlier melting away. She picked up a small fork and took a bite of the tart. The rich, dark chocolate was perfectly balanced by a hint of raspberry, and it was so good she couldn't help but let out a soft sound of appreciation.
"See?" Vinda said, a soft, genuinely happy look returning to her eyes. "Much better than a simple macaron."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the music and the view of the bustling plaza below. From their elevated vantage point, the people looked like small, colorful figures moving through a dream. Fila felt a strange sense of peace, a feeling that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
"So, can you finally tell me why I'm going with you like this?" Fila asked.
Vinda sems to have something she wanted to say. But for whatever reason she didn't. While Fila waited she noticed the planted roses hanging from the balcony railing. They were well maintained and very happy, they grew towards Fila's hand as she patted the flowers. She hadn't used her magic since coming to Nurmengard. It felt good finally seeing some flowers again.
"Just like your mother. She always planted new flowers in the backyard whenever she could." Vinda said, her heart seamed heavy. "There is something I have to tell you, but I don't know how." Vinda said as she looked at the flower moving on their own in Ophelias hand.
Fila froze, her fingers pausing against the velvety red petals of the rose. The flower nuzzled affectionately against her thumb before holding still, its gentle movement mirroring the sudden, heavy silence that had fallen over the balcony.
"My mother," Fila whispered, the word feeling heavy in her throat. She slowly looked up from the plants to meet Vinda's dark eyes. "You keep almost bringing her up. And grandfather said I have the family look, but you look at me like..." She swallowed hard, putting the pieces together but feeling too overwhelmed to voice them. "Like you know exactly who I am."
Vinda sat perfectly still. For the first time since Fila had met her, the legendary witch did not look poised or untouchable. She looked deeply, painfully human. The flickering candlelight caught the sudden sheen of moisture in her dark eyes.
She reached out across the small table, her hand hovering in the air for a brief, hesitant second before she gently placed it over Fila's.
"There are many things your grandfather keeps hidden in that castle to protect them, Ophelia. And there are things I have kept hidden from the world to survive," Vinda began, her smooth voice carrying a rare, raw tremor.
She took a slow breath, looking down at where their hands met.
"I did not just know your mother, my child. I raised her. I loved her," Vinda said softly, looking back up to meet Fila's wide, shocked eyes. "I am not just Gellert's loyal follower, or his former right hand. I was his partner in every sense of the word. And I am your grandmother."
The bustling sounds of the Parisian night plaza below seemed to fade into a dull, distant hum. Fila stared at the woman across from her. It explained the intense, soft looks. It explained the strange familiarity and the fierce, protective pride.
"My grandmother," Fila repeated, her voice barely audible.
Vinda gave a small, tearful nod and squeezed Fila's hand tightly. "I wanted to tell you the moment I saw you in that Hallway. You have my eyes, and your mother's gentle spirit with plants. I see both of us in you, Ophelia. And I am so, so sorry it took me this long to say it out loud."
Fila stared at Vinda, her hand still frozen beneath the older woman's grip. The sounds of the bustling Parisian streets below seemed to mute entirely, swallowed by the sheer weight of what had just been said.
Grandmother.
The word echoed in Fila's mind, clashing wildly with everything she had been taught about her life, her mother, and the lonely, dangerous world she had been trying to navigate. All this time, she thought she was a solitary piece on a brutal chessboard, connected only to a grandfather locked in a high tower. But here sat a woman who had pulled her coat tight against the mountain cold, fed her pastries, and looked at her with a warmth that finally made sense.
A sudden, overwhelming rush of emotion hit Fila like a physical wave. Her throat tightened, and before she could even process the impulse, she felt her eyes welling up with hot, stinging tears.
"Grandmother," Fila whispered again. This time, the word didn't feel heavy; it felt like a lifeline.
Without another word, Fila leaned across the small table. She didn't care about the remaining chocolate tart, her expensive new gray velvet coat, or maintaining the untouchable, fierce Grindelwald composure her grandfather had preached about. She threw her arms around Vinda's neck, pulling the older woman into a tight, desperate embrace.
Vinda let out a soft, choked gasp of surprise, her breath catching in her throat. But a fraction of a second later, all her rigid, aristocratic posture crumbled away. She wrapped her arms securely around Fila, holding her close and burying her face against the girl's shoulder.
Fila could feel Vinda shaking slightly, a silent, heavy sob racking the older woman's frame. A few quiet tears escaped Fila's own eyes, soaking into the fine, dark fabric of Vinda's collar.
For a long, suspended minute, they just held each other on that high balcony, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world below. It was a release of years of secrecy, grief for the daughter they both lost, and the sudden, beautiful shock of finding a piece of home in one another.
Slowly, Vinda pulled back just enough to frame Fila's face with her hands, her thumbs gently wiping away Fila's tears. Her dark eyes were red and wet, but they held a look of pure, unconditional love.
"I have missed so much of your life, Ophelia," Vinda whispered, her voice cracking with raw emotion. "But I promise you, from this moment on, you will never have to face this world alone. Never."