I am five years old.
Physically.
Mentally… I am something far older.
Nurmengard is no longer a prison.
It is a kingdom.
The transformation was… breathtaking.
What was once a cold, lifeless fortress has become something alive—filled with movement, whispers, purpose. Magic hums through the walls now, not as a restraint… but as a foundation.
And at the center of it all—
My father.
Gellert Grindelwald
I watched him do it.
Every step.
Every word.
Every subtle manipulation.
He didn't conquer Nurmengard with force.
He claimed it.
At first, it was small things.
A suggestion here.
A conversation there.
A guard who lingered too long after a discussion.
A warden who began to question his purpose.
Then came the speeches.
I remember the first time I truly listened.
Not as a child.
But as a strategist.
"You were not meant to be jailers," Father said, walking slowly before them, his voice calm—measured. "You were meant to be guardians of something greater."
No shouting.
No theatrics.
Just certainty.
"They told you I was dangerous," he continued. "That I needed to be contained."
A pause.
Perfectly timed.
"And yet… look around you."
Silence filled the room.
Not empty silence.
Thinking silence.
"Who, exactly, is imprisoned here?"
It was brilliant.
By the end of that week—
They weren't his captors anymore.
They were his followers.
I want to learn that.
Not just magic.
But that.
The ability to move people with nothing but words.
To reshape reality… without casting a single spell.
Father has noticed.
Of course he has.
"You watch everything," he said to me one evening.
We were alone in one of the upper chambers—once barren, now transformed into a study filled with books, artifacts, and magical instruments.
"I learn," I replied simply.
He smiled faintly.
"Good answer."
He has changed.
Gone is the hollow man who once sat in silence.
In his place stands something far more dangerous—
A visionary.
And now—
He teaches me.
"Again," he said, gesturing toward the small object resting on the table.
A feather.
Simple.
Light.
I stared at it.
Not with childish wonder.
But with focus.
Precision.
"Magic in this world is structured," Father continued, circling slowly. "It responds to intent—but it is shaped by form. Words. Motion. Discipline."
"I know," I said.
His eyebrow lifted slightly.
Amusement.
"Do you?"
I didn't answer.
Instead, I raised my hand.
And focused.
Not on the feather.
But on the magic around it.
I could feel it.
Threads.
Subtle.
Responsive.
Different from my old world—
But not inferior.
Just… organized.
"Wingardium Leviosa," I said clearly.
The feather trembled.
Then—
It rose.
Not violently.
Not erratically.
Perfectly.
Controlled.
Father stopped moving.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
I lowered the feather gently.
"I adjusted the flow," I said. "The spell structure is inefficient. It wastes motion in the final phase."
Silence.
Then—
A quiet laugh.
"Of course it does," he said.
I tilted my head slightly.
"You already knew that."
"Perhaps," he replied.
He stepped closer, studying me—not as a father looking at a child…
But as a master observing something rare.
"You didn't just perform the spell," he said slowly. "You understood it."
"Is that not the point?"
Another pause.
Then he smiled.
Wider this time.
"It is," he said. "But very few ever reach that point."
Good.
That means I am ahead.
The Library
It has become my sanctuary.
Shelves upon shelves of knowledge.
Ancient texts.
Modern theory.
Spellcraft.
History.
I devour it.
Hours pass like moments.
Days blur together.
This world's magic is limited.
Yes.
But within those limits—
There is depth.
And depth…
Can be exploited.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, a book open before me, absorbing every detail.
Wand movements.
Incantations.
Magical laws.
Restrictions.
I smile slightly.
Restrictions are simply…
Challenges.
Conversation
"You're reading again."
I glance up.
Father stands at the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
"Yes."
"That's the third book today."
"I've already memorized the others."
He studies me for a moment.
"…Of course you have."
He walks in, picking up one of the books I've already finished.
"You enjoy this."
It's not a question.
"Yes," I say.
A pause.
Then—
Something rare.
Honesty.
"I love it."
The words come easily.
Naturally.
Magic.
It is everything.
It always has been.
And now—
I have a chance to learn it again.
Refine it.
Perfect it.
Father watches me carefully.
"Good," he says quietly.
And for a moment—
There is something almost… warm in his voice.
Conclusion
I am no longer helpless.
I can move.
Learn.
Act.
Grow.
My power is small.
For now.
But my knowledge?
Endless.
And this world—
With all its rules…
All its limitations…
Will be rewritten.
By me.