Strangely enough, ever since Tom began visiting, Grindelwald had not slept on straw once. Now, lying upon it again felt unbearably uncomfortable. He shifted awkwardly, unable to find a proper position.
Dumbledore frowned.
"Gellert, I had thought that after so many years you might have changed. Yet you remain as extreme as ever. Is there truly not a trace of remorse within you?"
"Remorse? Of course I have regrets!"
Grindelwald suddenly sat upright. The murkiness vanished from his mismatched eyes. They gleamed like those of an aging tiger baring its final ferocity.
"My greatest regret is that I was too hesitant back then. I should have killed Scamander and prevented him from stealing the Blood Pact!"
"If not for your interference, far fewer wizards would have died in that war. They would have joined me in abolishing the Statute of Secrecy. We would have succeeded!"
"Gellert…"
Dumbledore opened his mouth, but the words dissolved into a weary sigh.
"You have not changed."
"Why should I?" Grindelwald snorted coldly. "Everything I did was for wizardkind. My failure was a matter of inferior skill and flawed execution, not flawed ideology."
"There is little point in debating that now."
By this point, Dumbledore was certain the recent disappearances had nothing to do with Grindelwald. As Grindelwald himself had said, he never left loose ends. If he were responsible, there would be no surviving relatives to search for answers.
"Whatever your convictions, this tower will remain your home, Gellert. Perhaps when I retire, I will return and keep you company."
A gentle emotional note preceded his true purpose.
"I have encountered a difficulty. I require your insight."
"A difficulty?"
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow. Dumbledore's movements were hardly hidden from him. What trouble could he possibly be facing?
"How much do you know about Horcruxes?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
He did not waste time asking whether Grindelwald had heard of them. For any Dark wizard of stature, that was a meaningless question.
"Oh?" A knowing smirk curved Grindelwald's lips. "Planning to make one yourself?"
"Perhaps you should. Otherwise, you may die of old age before I do, and then who would remain to oppose me?"
"Would you like some advice? I can share a technique or two. It ensures the severed soul fragments do not erode one's sanity."
Dumbledore's expression remained unchanged.
"So you have experience… Tell me, then. In your opinion, how many Horcruxes can one person create?"
"That is a difficult question."
Grindelwald began pacing the cramped cell, brow furrowed as though pondering deeply. In truth, he had discussed this very matter with Tom already.
"A Horcrux requires severing the soul and anchoring a fragment to an object. That fragment becomes a tether to the world, granting a form of immortality."
"But anchors are not something one desires in abundance. Imagine being pulled in all directions at once. Could you still move freely?"
"Too many Horcruxes would inevitably damage the soul. Few would attempt such recklessness."
"I once read a Dark Arts journal describing a fifteenth century wizard who crafted three Horcruxes. He soon descended into madness, destroyed his own body, and only after all three were destroyed did his soul finally dissipate."
Dumbledore's brow tightened.
Three?
Voldemort's genius defied conventional limits.
Dumbledore knew he must prepare for the worst. He could not afford optimism.
"If one disregards those consequences, how many might be possible?"
"Three and seven are numbers steeped in magic," Grindelwald replied thoughtfully. "Nine is intriguing as well."
He stepped closer, resting a hand lightly upon Dumbledore's shoulder.
"Why not experiment? Select a few criminals who are hardly innocent. Use their wicked souls to advance your noble cause. You would resolve your uncertainty and transform refuse into something meaningful. A tidy solution."
"Every life holds value," Dumbledore said calmly, brushing aside the temptation. "I do not possess the authority to decide their fate."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you, Gellert. I shall visit again."
Grindelwald waved dismissively.
"Next time, bring food. Consider it repayment."
Dumbledore lowered his crooked nose awkwardly.
"My apologies. I was pressed for time. This Christmas, I shall bring a proper feast."
Often, the first step is the hardest.
When he imprisoned Grindelwald, Dumbledore had intended for them never to meet again. Now that he had crossed that boundary once more, crossing it again seemed less daunting.
Leaving the tower, Dumbledore withdrew a diary.
Most of its secrets had already been uncovered. At this stage, Voldemort likely had not yet conceived the idea of creating multiple Horcruxes. Conjecture was all that remained, but Dumbledore found himself inclined toward Grindelwald's reasoning.
Voldemort valued ritual. Symbolism. Structure.
"Tom, farewell," Dumbledore wrote with a touch of magic.
Sensing danger, the reply came swiftly.
"Dum–"
A flash of blinding green light burst from Dumbledore's hand gripping the diary. The stench of scorching parchment filled the air. A towering black silhouette erupted above the pages, roaring soundlessly in fury.
Dumbledore met its gaze without flinching.
Within seconds, the shadow dissolved into smoke.
Ink bled across the pages, merging into an indistinct blot.
With a flick of his wrist, Dumbledore cast the diary aside. It ignited midair and crumbled to ash.
High above, at the narrow window of his cell, Grindelwald watched as Dumbledore's figure receded into the distance.
"Christmas?" he murmured softly.
"Too far away, Albus. I do not intend to wait that long."