Gringotts was quieter than usual. It was deep winter, and Diagon Alley slept under a mantle of frost and silence, its shops shuttered early and its cobblestones glazed with ice. Yet the bank was never empty. The goblins worked tirelessly, their lanterns casting long shadows across marble floors polished so smooth that they reflected the vaulted ceilings above.
Albus Dumbledore entered without ceremony. He wore no flamboyant robes today, only a cloak of deep gray and a hood pulled low. His eyes, though hidden from most, still gleamed with their usual light—except tonight, it was a dim, uncertain glow, not the twinkle of a man amused by life's mysteries.
The goblin teller stiffened when the tall wizard approached. "We were not expecting the Headmaster of Hogwarts." His voice was clipped, suspicious, as goblins' voices always were when humans asked for something unusual.
"I come not as Headmaster," Dumbledore replied, sliding a small glass vial across the counter. Inside it was a single hair, silvery black, coiled like a question mark. "But as guardian, under wizarding law, of those Muggle-born children who attend our school. This boy is in my care, and I request an inheritance test on his behalf."
The goblin's narrow eyes flicked to the vial, then back to Dumbledore's face. "Unusual."
"Necessary," Dumbledore said gently.
After a long pause, the goblin gestured for him to follow. They descended into the deeper vault levels, not to the treasure chambers, but to a smaller hall used for matters of blood and lineage. The chamber was circular, its walls carved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly when the door closed.
Another goblin appeared, older, his skin the shade of tarnished bronze. He carried a shallow basin carved from obsidian, its rim etched with silver runes. "Place the offering," he commanded.
Dumbledore handed over the vial. The hair was tipped into the basin, where it lay curled. The goblin sprinkled crushed moonstone, dragon-bone ash, and powdered silver, each substance releasing a faint hiss as it touched the hair. Then, with a guttural word, he struck the basin with his claw.
The hair dissolved in a flare of pale blue light. Smoke rose and curled into words, which slowly imprinted themselves onto parchment that had appeared above the basin, as though conjured from the stone itself.
Dumbledore stood utterly still as the tree began to write itself.
At the very top: Oliver D. Night.
Then the branches spread, curling downward, drawing from the hair the truth of his blood.
Mother: Ariana Dumbledore.
Albus's breath caught in his chest. His hands tightened on his staff until his knuckles whitened. Ariana's name burned golden on the parchment, undeniable. His sister, gone since youth—her name, her existence, reaching forward into this child.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the ink kept burning. Another branch seared itself into being.
Father: Gellert Grindelwald.
The world tilted. His chest constricted as though an iron band had been cinched around his ribs. For a moment, he thought he might faint. The parchment glowed, then dimmed, leaving behind the family tree with its damning truth, sealed into the record of magic itself.
Albus staggered back a step. His lips parted soundlessly. Then, without a word, he turned and stumbled into the adjoining alcove. The goblins, accustomed to human shock in these chambers, made no move to follow.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, bracing himself with one hand. His stomach heaved violently. He bent forward and retched, his breath tearing ragged through his throat. The taste of bile burned his mouth, but it was nothing compared to the burn inside his chest, his mind, his soul.
His sister. His only sister. Ariana—his burden, his tragedy, the one he had failed to protect. Gone too soon, her life broken by the violence of their childhood. And yet—this proof. She had borne a child. His child.
And the father…
"Gellert," Albus whispered, voice cracked. Then louder, trembling with grief and fury: "What have you done, Gellert?"
The words echoed against the walls. They did not answer him. They never could.
He sank onto the bench, trembling, his head in his hands. Memories flooded back unbidden: his youth with Grindelwald, the fire of their dreams, the terrible summer that ended in Ariana's death. The duel, the loss, the betrayal. He had spent decades keeping Grindelwald contained in Nurmengard, believing the past locked away. And yet here was its living consequence: a boy.
Oliver.
The boy who had bonded with a phoenix unlike any seen before. The boy who played music that bent magic itself. The boy he had sworn to protect, though he had never known why he felt such urgency. Now he knew. Bloodlines explained nothing and everything.
He sat in silence until his heart slowed. Slowly, he drew his wand, and with trembling hands he sealed the parchment. Silver runes crawled across its edges, locking the truth away from any who might pry. He tucked it into his robes. Heavy. Damning.
Albus Dumbledore rose. His expression was calm once more, the mask of serenity firmly in place. But his eyes—behind the glass half-moon spectacles—were haunted.
He knew he could not tell Oliver. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. A child should not bear the weight of Grindelwald's sins or Ariana's suffering.
But he needed answers.
Only one man could give them.
The walk from Gringotts to the Leaky Cauldron felt longer than it ever had. Each step seemed weighted, as if the cobblestones themselves were trying to drag him back, begging him not to move forward with what he now knew. The parchment in his robes felt like a leaden stone pressed against his chest, its truth searing through the fabric.
Dumbledore kept his hood up as he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, its hearth still burning low in the night. Tom the barman nodded politely but wisely said nothing. A glass of firewhisky was slid across the counter without a word, but Dumbledore only shook his head, moving toward the Floo instead.
"Berlin," he murmured as he tossed a pinch of powder into the flames. Emerald light swallowed him whole, and when he emerged, the chill of continental Europe struck him like a blade. He continued by Apparition after that, leaping across frozen valleys and mountains, moving faster than most wizards dared attempt. His mind burned with too much thought for rest, and each crack of displaced air was another attempt to outrun the truth written in goblin ink.
Hours later, a shadow began to take form in the distance: Nurmengard.
The prison rose like a wound upon the landscape, its black stone towers piercing the clouds, its jagged walls glistening with frost. There were no banners, no signs of life—only the faint glow of wards that shimmered faintly, marking its perimeter like chains of light.
Dumbledore slowed as he approached, the wind howling around him. His memories returned unbidden: the duel that had shattered the summer of his youth, the spells that had scorched the very earth, the man who had once been closer than any brother. He had built Nurmengard for the world's safety—but perhaps, he thought bitterly, it had been built for his own guilt as well.
At the gates, armed guards in heavy cloaks watched with suspicion as he approached. Their spears gleamed with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light.
"Halt. State your purpose," one barked in German.
"I am here to see your prisoner," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but carrying authority. He drew back his hood, revealing the long silver beard, the piercing eyes. "Gellert Grindelwald."
The guards stiffened. Some exchanged nervous glances; others whispered. Finally, the captain nodded stiffly. "We were told you might come, someday. Follow."
Inside, the air grew colder still. The stone walls absorbed what little warmth remained, and silence pressed against Dumbledore's ears, broken only by the occasional distant clang of chains or the muttered groan of wards. The corridors twisted downward, into the very bones of the mountain.
Torchlight flickered weakly, barely clinging to life.
At last, the guards stopped before a tall iron door engraved with runes so dense they glowed faintly, their power still palpable even after decades.
The captain unlocked it with a key of bone and iron. "We'll wait outside," he said curtly. "If he tries anything, we are not responsible."
"I doubt he will," Dumbledore murmured.
The door groaned open.
The chamber beyond was simple: stone walls, a narrow slit of a window showing nothing but sky, and a wooden chair bolted to the floor. And upon that chair sat Gellert Grindelwald.
He was older now, thinner, his once-golden hair bleached white and cut short. His back was slightly hunched, his hands folded loosely in his lap. But though time and confinement had taken their toll, there was no mistaking the aura about him—the quiet, simmering presence of a man who had once set the world aflame.
For a moment, he did not move.
Dumbledore stepped forward, the door closing behind him with a metallic clang. His footsteps echoed in the hollow chamber.
Only then did Grindelwald stir. Slowly, almost lazily, he raised his head. His pale eyes, still sharp beneath hooded lids, fixed on Dumbledore. A smile, faint and knowing, curled the corners of his lips.
Their gazes locked, and the years between them fell away—summer fields, whispered plans, fire and death.
Albus Dumbledore stood very still, his hand twitching once against his robes where the parchment lay hidden. Grindelwald tilted his head, eyes glinting with recognition, and the smile deepened into something both mocking and intimate.
Neither spoke.
The silence was louder than any words.
And in that silence, the weight of everything—love, betrayal, blood, and truth—hung between them.