The Pub

Voldemort raised his hand in fury.

The White Frost surged upward, tearing through the ruined ceiling of the abandoned fortress, blasting outward, striking every structural point.

Boom—

Amidst the wind and snow—

This fortress, once built by Grindelwald to imprison his enemies, and eventually used to imprison himself, finally collapsed after over sixty years. Buried beneath snow and wind in a remote, desolate mountain.

He couldn't destroy Grindelwald, so he vented his anger on the fortress.

Where was the Elder Wand?

Voldemort hovered above, gazing down at the wreckage.

That cunning old man—perhaps he foresaw the fortress would be destroyed.

If so, what safer place to hide the wand than a ruin already reduced to rubble?

He flew back to the ship.

Ordered the Wild Hunt to search the debris.

On a nearby mountain, a group of Aurors disapparated.

Voldemort noticed and sneered, but did not stop them.

Go on! Run!

Let the world know he had returned. That he had crushed the former terror of Europe and America. That he had razed Nurmengard.

Now, only Potter and Dumbledore together posed a threat. He feared no one else.

Terror would be his greatest nourishment.

He sat at the prow, watching the riders, lost in thought.

Where would Grindelwald go?

Once, he too had followers, countless admirers.

But humans are pragmatic. Once someone falls, followers vanish.

Voldemort understood this best.

In just over a decade of his downfall, only Bellatrix, Snape, and his beloved son had remained.

And Grindelwald—defeated for over fifty years.

Would he still have loyal supporters?

Where could he run?

As Voldemort pondered, a Portkey twisted Grindelwald's body and dropped him.

Into thick snow.

Grindelwald looked up: a vast starlit sky, shuttered shops around him, and a distant castle peeking from behind dense woods.

Hogsmeade was blanketed in heavy snow.

He raised a hand.

Spoke lightly: "Expecto Patronum." A silver phoenix burst from his fingertips, flapping toward the castle.

In the Headmaster's Office—

They were still arguing.

Snape was furious, unleashing every insult he'd used—or not yet used—against Harry. Yennefer was clutching Ciri's hands, asking about her time away. Geralt quietly listened.

Dumbledore remained firm.

Then—a silver flash swept through the window.

It landed beside Fawkes, saying nothing.

Dumbledore stood immediately, waved his wand, and vanished with a pop.

Snape blinked.

"What now?" Geralt asked, brow furrowing as he watched the silver phoenix.

Harry shook his head. "Who else but Albus would have a phoenix as his Patronus?"

He stood, opened the window, and called out, "Hat."

Whoosh—

A motorcycle soared in, elegant and smooth, hovering at the sill. "Hey, Harry!"

"Take me to Hogsmeade," Harry said softly.

Hermione stood immediately, joining him.

Snape rose as well.

Geralt leaned over. "Not trouble, is it?"

Harry shook his head, mounting the bike. "Not at all. Just two old lovers meeting again."

"Stay with Ciri," he added.

Geralt relaxed.

Yennefer didn't even glance up—unless it concerned the Wild Hunt or Voldemort, she didn't much care.

Harry and Hermione took off.

Snape leapt from the window and flew after them. He knew how to fly—though not with Voldemort's ease.

In Hogsmeade, on its main street—

Dumbledore and Grindelwald stood facing each other.

Silent.

Just ten steps apart.

In their eyes, each saw the other as he was at twenty.

But now, both were over a hundred.

The motorcycle landed beside them.

The atmosphere was strange—not hostile, not joyful, not lovers reunited.

The Sorting Hat's light scanned them both, too intimidated to speak.

Hermione sat on the bike, staring at them.

Harry spoke calmly: "Mr. Grindelwald, I never thought you'd break out—and run straight to Albus's doorstep."

His voice broke the silence.

Grindelwald turned to him with a smile. "Harry, I didn't break out. With your intellect, surely you know why I'm here."

Harry smirked. "Voldemort beat you down? So you had to flee here?"

Grindelwald nodded, smiling wider. "Exactly, Harry. Voldemort is too strong now."

"I couldn't match him. I should've died eighty years ago. I've lived too long, with too many regrets. To die like that would be unjust."

"Luckily, I still know how to save myself."

"So here I am, pitifully seeking the protection of the only wizard who might stand against him—Albus Dumbledore."

Harry added, "And Mr. Potter."

Grindelwald laughed, delighted.

Hermione tapped the bike, tilting her head with quiet relief.

Dumbledore valued many things—but Grindelwald? He never cared about rules or consequences. If they wanted to reunite, no one could stop them.

But for decades, they hadn't met once.

It took something powerful—something undeniable—to bring them together.

This was it.

Dumbledore looked at Grindelwald, deeply conflicted.

He knew how stubborn the man before him was. One who dared defy fate even when prophecy warned him. A man unafraid of being misunderstood as a tyrant, if it meant confronting destiny.

Now that man stood before him—having discarded all pride.

"Gellert," Dumbledore whispered.

His lips moved as if to say more.

Harry clapped his hands. "It's cold. How about a pub?"

He looked up—The Three Broomsticks was open, golden light spilling out. Madam Rosmerta peeked out, curious.

"The Three Broomsticks isn't open," he lied effortlessly. "Looks like we'll have to head to the Hog's Head."

Dumbledore and Grindelwald said nothing.

----------

Powerstones?

For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates