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Chapter 441: Power Lies in Restraint
“Gellert Grindelwald.” Dumbledore’s voice was icy. “After all this time, the first thing you do upon leaving Nurmengard is attack a child. I must say, I’m truly surprised.”
Gellert Grindelwald laughed—a deep, echoing cackle that reverberated through the ruins.
“Dumbledore… Albus! What kind of moral expectations do you have of me? You know, if it’s necessary… even an infant…”
His voice cut off abruptly.
Dumbledore had taken a single step forward, the Elder Wand now leveled precisely at Gellert’s heart. The tip glowed faintly with a golden light—subtle, restrained, yet suffused with power so intense it felt like a blade drawn across the soul, even before it struck.
Gellert tilted his head back, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Why shy away, Albus? You know what I’ve done. Why don’t you confront me for the Muggles I’ve killed? Why don’t you accuse me of destroying the balance—and peace—between the magical and Muggle worlds?”
He leaned in, eyes blazing.
“You always stand with the weak, the foolish, the helpless. You’ve spent your life protecting them, all while opposing me. So why not speak now?”
His smile widened.
“Because you agree with me, don’t you? Deep down, you think they deserve to die. The world is decaying. Muggles are building their own apocalypse. My way—my approach—is salvation.”
He spat the words like venom.
“And you, Albus, have been exalted as a saint—your so-called mercy a mask for weakness. But we both know… you were once just like me.”
The mention of the past struck Dumbledore like a physical blow. For a split second, his composure cracked. His half-moon spectacles flickered with pain as his face twisted—shock, sorrow, and something deeper, older, flared in his eyes.
Gellert clamped down on his words, his chest heaving. Magic surged through him, and a fresh wave of agony tore through his body. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dark and deep.
Silence fell.
The cold wind of winter swept across the shattered remains of the land, carrying fine ice crystals like ghostly dust. It swirled over broken stone and rubble, a breath from a dead world.
After a long pause, Dumbledore spoke, voice low and measured.
“Where is Wade?”
Gellert stepped forward, pressing the tip of the Elder Wand against Dumbledore’s chest—deep into clothing, into flesh.
“Kill me, and you can take the child back.”
Dumbledore’s arm remained still. Gellert reached out, gripping the other end of the wand. His eyes burned with a feverish frenzy, a hunger for death.
“Kill me, Albus. Do it. You’ve wanted to for years. Don’t worry about your image—this is justice. I killed Ariana. I deserve it.”
Dumbledore’s eyes snapped wide. His pupils dilated. A flicker of agony crossed his face—shock, grief, and then, strangely, a sudden sense of release.
Centuries of guilt, buried beneath layers of duty and denial, seemed to lift in that moment. A mountain he’d carried for a hundred years was gone. He nearly gasped. For an instant, he felt the overwhelming urge to weep.
But then—reason returned.
Gellert knew his deepest fear.
Had he said it on purpose? Was this the truth? The real reason behind Ariana’s death?
They stared at each other—two men with the same piercing blue eyes, shadows of time etched into their faces. In their gaze, there was only ruin, memory, and silence.
Time itself seemed to freeze.
“Professor.”
A quiet voice broke the stillness.
Wade stepped forward from the edge of the ruins, having moved out of harm’s way earlier. He stood just behind Dumbledore, voice calm.
“You’re all right, Professor?”
“I’m fine,” Wade replied. He paused, then added, “You want to ask me something?”
The words were identical to those he’d spoken after Dumbledore showed him the memory of Gellert Grindelwald.
It was more than a statement—it was a declaration.
He was Wade Gray. Not a Polyjuice imposter. Not a disguise. He was himself—his thoughts, his trust, his loyalty to Dumbledore—unchanged.
A faint, hidden smile touched Dumbledore’s lips.
“When we return,” he said softly, “I’d like to hear the part you’re willing to tell me.”
“Alright,” Wade nodded. A silent breath of relief escaped him.
Only now did he realize—though he’d been treated well, his mind had carried a weight he hadn’t acknowledged. The pressure had been constant, quiet, relentless.
But as he glanced at Gellert, he saw the man’s eyes locked onto him—deep, cold, and furious. His mouth was downturned, a clear expression of disdain.
Wade looked away, his mind racing with unspoken complaints.
Dumbledore raised his left arm. “Take my arm,” he said.
Wade obeyed.
Slowly, the Elder Wand lowered.
“I cannot kill you, Gellert Grindelwald,” Dumbledore said, his voice calm but unwavering. “Violence never solves anything. Death has never been my choice—never even for you.”
He looked out over the wreckage, his gaze distant. Images of suffering flashed in his mind—scenes he’d seen, felt, carried.
“But if you believe you are right,” he continued, “then go ahead. Perhaps the world truly needs men like you.”
His tone softened, edged with sorrow.
“But I hope… I hope you’ll understand…”
Dumbledore met Gellert’s eyes.
“True power lies in restraint. In choosing not to harm. In choosing to protect, even when you have the power to destroy. That is the responsibility of those who wield power.”
Gellert laughed coldly. “Don’t you dare preach your pathetic morality to me! My ideals—my vision—have never changed!”
“Maybe it’s genuine. Maybe it’s a lie. But right now, you’re doing something good. Not just killing. You’re doing something that helps others.”
Dumbledore’s voice was steady.
“I’ve never thought your ideals were entirely wrong. Only your methods.”
He paused, the weight of years in his tone.
“After all this time, you must know—violence only brings ruin. Power is needed to change the world, but wisdom and compassion are even more essential.”
His gaze held a quiet regret.
“Even for the greater good… patience, compromise, mercy—these are necessary.”
He stepped closer, voice low.
“Gellert Grindelwald, if you’re only pretending now—only playing at being a savior—yet still choose violence to rule and oppress… then no matter how many times you try, you will fail.”
He looked into the man’s eyes.
“I hope you understand that.”
Gellert’s brow twitched. “So that’s why you taught that child? If you’d told me that before, I—”
“Crack!”
Dumbledore didn’t answer. He turned, took Wade’s arm, and vanished in a flash of Apparition.
The sound was like a slap across Gellert’s face. His expression twisted. The wind whipped around him, swirling dust and ice in a mocking spiral.
Gellert Grindelwald: “….”
The members of the Wizard Purity Party erupted in joy. Their leader was alive. The battle was over. They rushed to his side—cheering, shouting.
Then Gellert raised his wand, pointed it at the ruins of the manor, and barked, “Destroy it!”
“Saints endure forever!” they roared, charging forward. They plunged into the cracks in the ground, disappearing into the tunnels beneath.
The Organization soldiers, still stunned by the sheer force of the battle, had no will to fight. The Purity Party swept through them like a storm, unstoppable, advancing with terrifying speed.
Dreian hurried to Gellert’s side, offering a potion. “Sir… how do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” Gellert said, swallowing the potion in one gulp. He gritted his teeth. “I’m better than fine.”
Dreian watched anxiously. But as the potion took effect, something strange happened. Gellert’s thin frame seemed to surge with unseen power—perhaps not from the potion, but from the fury within. Pain vanished. His eyes flared with renewed fire.
This isn’t the potion’s effect, Dreian thought. That’s not possible.
He remembered the crushing despair he’d felt just moments ago. He sighed silently. There was no way to explain it.
…
A few remaining cameras, battered but still functional, turned slowly, recording the scene.
The Organization leader watched the screen, tears welling in his eyes. His team erupted in cheers. One man slammed the table, shouting, “Great!”
A calmer voice cut in. “Wait… wait until most of them are inside.”
“Of course,” the leader said, wiping sweat from his palms. He placed his hand on the button. His eyes burned with anticipation.
Beside him, another man dialed a phone, voice trembling with excitement.
“The plan is proceeding as scheduled. We can begin now.”
At last, when nearly every wizard had entered the manor, the leader pressed the button.
…
“Hummm…”
The silent machine before them suddenly hummed to life. Lights blinked on. Dobby flinched, then swiftly cut the cable.
But the lights didn’t go out.
Makki pointed. “Boom!” The machine split open with a massive explosion, cracks spreading across its surface.
“That was… terrifying,” Dobby whispered, still shaken. “What was it about to say?”
“It couldn’t speak,” Donovan explained. “That was just the startup sound. Lucky you stopped it.”
Dobby smiled shyly.
Makki frowned. “Are you sure this is the last one?”
“Absolutely. These things are expensive. They only brought what they had.”
Donovan nodded, then sent a message to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore replied instantly:
[Wait.]
Makki squinted at the Book of Friends in his hand. Doubt flickered.
“Who is he contacting? Is he lying to us?”
“No, no!” Donovan, still awed by the two house-elves’ power, quickly waved his hands. “It’s Dumbledore! I told you—I’m one of his people.”
“Dumbledore?!” Makki screamed. His fingers twitched. He was about to Apparate—until the parchment in Donovan’s hand flared with light, and a loud crack echoed through the room.
Dumbledore appeared.
Makki froze. His eyes darted, unable to meet the headmaster’s gaze. His hands twisted in his robes, fingers fidgeting.
Dobby stared in awe, swallowing hard, his large eyes wide and glistening.
“Professor,” Donovan said, stepping forward.
“Thank you, Donovan,” Dumbledore said, looking at the werewolf’s wounds. “I’ll take you away first. This place will be overrun soon.”
“Of course,” Donovan said, taking the Portkey. He vanished instantly.
Dumbledore turned to the two house-elves.
“Good morning, Dumbledore, sir,” Dobby said, bowing so deeply his nose nearly touched the floor.
Makki followed suit, heart pounding. Please, don’t recognize me. There are so many house-elves at Hogwarts. Wizards never tell us apart, do they?
“Good morning, Dobby, Makki,” Dumbledore said gently. “I must thank you both. You’ve shown great courage and loyalty.”
Dobby’s eyes lit up. His cheeks flushed. “Dobby, Dobby is so happy to help!”
Makki bit his lip, peering up at the headmaster from under his lashes. “I… I mean… actually… I was… I was just… trying to buy wine for Professor Trelawney…”
Dumbledore smiled. “I know. And did you get it?”
Makki shook his head.
“Then go get it,” Dumbledore said, voice warm. “When you’re done, come back. Wade is already safe at school. You won’t have to run a thousand kilometers to find whiskey this time.”
Makki stared, stunned.
…That’s it? No punishment?
He couldn’t believe it. Even as Dumbledore reminded them to stay safe and Apparated away, he felt like he was still dreaming.
“Amazing!” Dobby cheered, punching the air. “Makki wasn’t punished! And Mr. Gray is saved!”
Makki finally smiled, shaking off his daze.
He remembered passing a room earlier, its sign reading Cellar. He’d vanished with a pop, reappeared moments later, arms full of whiskey—almost too heavy to carry.
“Makki should return to school now,” he said. “Will you come with me, Dobby? Dumbledore might welcome another house-elf.”
Dobby opened his mouth to agree—then hesitated.
Dumbledore was kind, gentle… a great wizard. But…
He looked down, then back up, his expression softening, then hardening with quiet resolve.
“But Mr. Gray has no house-elf at all… I want to ask him first. If he’s willing… I’d like to serve him. I’d like to be his house-elf.”
(End of Chapter)
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