My body has been torn apart.
I feel it.
Every fragment of flesh, every strand of nerve, every trace of magic—ripped from existence.
The pain is… immense.
Unbearable.
So I discard it.
I sever sensation.
I detach.
Mind from body.
Soul from suffering.
Better.
There is no scream.
No panic.
Only thought.
Only control.
My body is gone.
Completely disintegrated.
Reduced to nothing.
…How inconvenient.
I drift.
Not through air.
Not through space.
But through something deeper.
A current.
A boundary between worlds.
My soul flickers.
Weakening.
Fading.
That is unacceptable.
I seize control.
Not instinctively.
Not desperately.
But deliberately.
As I always have.
I extend my awareness.
Searching.
Scanning.
Analyzing.
A new world.
Primitive… in some ways.
Refined… in others.
A structured magical system.
Contained.
Restricted.
Small.
I search for vessels.
Newborns.
Fresh bodies.
Something I can inhabit.
Nothing.
No suitable births.
No compatible vessels.
No bodies capable of holding even a fraction of my power.
Annoying.
My soul dims further.
Time is running out.
Then—
I feel it.
Power.
Two sources.
Two anomalies in this otherwise limited world.
The first…
Ancient.
Radiant.
Burning.
A bloodline tied to something magnificent.
A creature of fire.
Rebirth.
A firebird.
Interesting.
The second…
Darker.
Sharper.
Refined through conflict and ambition.
A mind of terrifying potential.
Even now—aged, restrained—still dangerous.
Yes.
These will suffice.
I act.
No hesitation.
No morality.
No restraint.
I tear into the first.
Magic resists me.
Of course it does.
This world is not entirely defenseless.
But resistance is meaningless.
I am Elaine.
I rip a fragment of that radiant bloodline free.
Not enough to kill.
Not enough to destroy.
But enough.
Then—
The second.
This one fights back.
Instinctively.
Even without awareness.
Good.
I carve through his magic anyway.
Clean.
Precise.
Efficient.
Two sources.
Two fragments.
I weave.
Magic—what little I have left—burns through my soul as I shape it.
Flesh.
Bone.
Blood.
A body.
Not borrowed.
Not stolen.
Created.
Perfect.
My vision stabilizes.
Form returns.
Weight.
Breath.
I open my eyes.
And I am no longer alone.
Gellert Grindelwald
Nurmengard was… quiet.
Too quiet.
It had been for years.
Gellert Grindelwald sat alone in his cell, a small piece of wood in his hand as he slowly carved it into shape.
A meaningless task.
But time demanded something.
He had long since lost track of how many years had passed.
Since that duel.
Since him.
Albus Dumbledore.
A name that still lingered in his thoughts far more often than he cared to admit.
He exhaled slowly, setting the carving aside.
His hands were older now.
Weaker.
Time had taken much from him.
But not everything.
His mind remained sharp.
His magic—
He froze.
Something was wrong.
A sudden, violent distortion tore through his core.
Not external.
Internal.
His magic.
Something had ripped through it.
His head snapped up, eyes blazing with sudden intensity.
Even without a wand, even imprisoned—
He was still one of the most powerful wizards to ever live.
"Who dares—"
The air in front of him warped.
A point of light formed.
White.
Pure.
Then it expanded.
A sphere.
A concentration of magic so dense it made the very walls tremble.
Grindelwald stood.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Every instinct screaming.
Then—
It took shape.
Not a spell.
Not an attack.
A child.
A baby girl.
She appeared mid-air before gently lowering onto the cold stone floor.
Silence filled the cell.
Grindelwald stared.
White hair.
Soft.
Silken.
His breath caught.
Familiar.
Then her eyes opened.
And time… seemed to stop.
Heterochromia.
One eye—
A piercing, unmistakable silver.
His own.
The other—
A brilliant, haunting blue.
He knew that color.
He would never forget it.
"…Albus…" he whispered.
The child radiated power.
Not wild.
Not unstable.
Controlled.
Contained.
But vast.
And as he reached out with his senses—
He felt it.
His magic.
And another's.
Intertwined.
His heart—something he had long believed to be dead—moved.
Impossible.
And yet…
Obvious.
"This child…" he murmured.
There was only one conclusion.
"…is ours."
He laughed.
Softly at first.
Then louder.
Not madness.
Not entirely.
But something close to it.
For the first time in decades—
Gellert Grindelwald felt something dangerous.
Hope.
His mind moved quickly.
Faster than it had in years.
Dumbledore.
He should tell him.
He almost did.
For a brief moment… he truly considered it.
But then—
He imagined it.
Albus raising the child.
Teaching her restraint.
Kindness.
Love.
Limiting her.
No.
His expression hardened.
"No…" he said quietly.
This child—
This miracle—
Would not be wasted.
He straightened, something of his old presence returning.
That same charisma.
That same ambition.
That same fire.
"I will raise you," he said softly, looking down at her.
"For eleven years."
A plan formed.
Clean.
Precise.
Then—
Hogwarts.
Hogwarts.
He would give her to Albus then.
Let him see.
Let him understand.
What they had created.
What the world would face.
Grindelwald turned toward the walls of Nurmengard.
For the first time in decades—
They felt small.
"I suppose…" he murmured.
"…a promise can be… adjusted."
And with that—
The most dangerous wizard in history smiled.
And the child—
Watched.
Silent.
Observing.
Learning.