“You’re always so cold to me, Albus. Yet toward that suitcase-carrying zoo keeper, your attitude was far gentler.”

Grindelwald sneered, though he still did not withdraw the stack of torn cloth from his outstretched hand.

Dumbledore sighed. “Don’t say that, Gellert. Scamander is a very good man.”

“Oh, a very good man?” Grindelwald let out a dry laugh. “Well, that’s exactly why I dislike him.”

“A man who’s always hopping around, reckless and foolish—I truly don’t understand what you see in him.”

Weariness filled Dumbledore’s eyes. “Gellert, I don’t want to talk about this.”

He looked at the familiar man before him, and memories—prodded like frogs jolted awake—leapt out one after another.

Joyful moments. Peaceful moments. Moments that had once moved him.

Even after so many years, those memories remained vivid in color, but they lasted only an instant before being drowned out by another image carved deep into his bones.

That humid afternoon so many years ago, when in the middle of a three-way duel, his sister—Ariana—fell to a spell cast by no one knew whom.

That was where the two of them had first diverged.

Dumbledore forced down the surge of emotion. He reached toward the cloth pages after a brief hesitation, but Grindelwald deftly pulled them aside.

“Enough.”

Grindelwald spoke softly. “Truly enough, Albus. I don’t need you to take them out of pity. Your expression just now already told me your answer.”

He set the memory-covered scraps back on the table and looked straight at Dumbledore, his eyes soaked with emotion.

Dumbledore avoided his gaze once more—just as he had avoided Nurmengard for all these years.

Yes. Dumbledore knew perfectly well—he was afraid of seeing Grindelwald. His avoidance proved he had never truly let go.

He shifted the topic. “Gellert, help me. I need to know—”

“Enough, Albus.”

Grindelwald interrupted calmly. “I know exactly why you came. You don’t need to say it aloud. I know the answer you seek. But why should I tell you?”

“Please, Gellert,” Dumbledore murmured. “It’s important to me.”

“Yes, important to you. Everything is important to you—Albus. Newt is important to you. Your students are important to you. Everything matters—except me. Isn’t that right?”

“Gellert—”

Dumbledore said the name again from the depths of his chest, voice rough and heavy. “You know that’s not what I ever meant.”

Grindelwald went silent for a moment.

“Forget what I just said,” he murmured at last. “I’ll help you, Albus.”

He spoke quietly. “Iceland. Garðabær. A three-story house with a red roof. You will find the person you seek there.”

In the depth of Grindelwald’s mismatched eyes, a pale reflection flickered.

“But Albus—perhaps you should think carefully about whether finding him will lead to the more correct outcome.”

“The more correct outcome?”

Dumbledore frowned slightly. “Did you see something?”

“No. I saw nothing.”

Grindelwald smiled faintly.

“Prophets aren’t omnipotent. It is only after being imprisoned in this tiny place that I realized—sometimes our reactions to prophecy are the real gears of fate.”

Like all seers, his words were vague—half a sigh, half a truth containing the weight of the world.

Dumbledore fell into thought.

Grindelwald waved a hand. “Enough, Albus. Go. Your heart is not in Nurmengard.”

His fiery gaze softened, turning to ash like a flame that had burned out. He pulled a volume of Goethe’s poems from the bookshelf.

“That’s all, Albus. Brief as it was, I must say—today truly is a bright afternoon.”

Grindelwald sat at the table, turning his back to Dumbledore.

“But I hope that someday you will come here simply because you want to see me—not because circumstances force you to.”

Dumbledore stood there silently until Grindelwald opened the book and began to read. Only then did he rasp out a quiet farewell and turn to descend the tower.

…..

Iceland.

A large island in the North Atlantic, near the Arctic Circle, belonging to the subarctic oceanic climate zone. Europe’s second-largest island.

Despite its icy name, Amir quickly found that it wasn’t as cold as he had expected.

It was December now, and though a finger-thick layer of snow blanketed the ground, temperatures of minus three or four degrees were still tolerable.

“Cheer up, William. This is much more interesting than Egypt’s desert.”

Amir was thrilled. From time to time he grabbed a handful of snow from the ground, shaking his freezing fingers before packing it tight and hurling it far away.

Perhaps any person born in Africa would feel this kind of excitement upon seeing a world covered in white for the first time.

Beside him, though, the chubby boy looked far less enthusiastic.

William hadn’t wanted to leave Egypt. Nor the Harris house.

Before they set out this morning, he had hidden behind an empty bookshelf in the basement, hoping to resist the move. Aside from earning a scolding from Amir, he had achieved nothing.

“Here.”

Dawn stopped walking, gazing at the three-story house before him, its roof painted bright red.

Iceland had a population of about 330,000. Sixty percent lived in Reykjavík, and eighty percent of the land was uninhabited.

Dawn had once heard a rumor—he wasn’t sure if it was accurate—that outside Reykjavík, Iceland averaged one household per square kilometer.

Perhaps this loneliness contributed to Iceland’s famously high suicide rate. But for Dawn, right now, it was extremely convenient.

Because this house was empty.

“Boss… this doesn’t seem right,” Amir said nervously as Dawn unlocked the door with practiced ease. “If the owner suddenly comes back, won’t we be arrested as thieves?”

“Judging from the signs inside, no one has lived here for at least three months. The chance of someone suddenly returning is very small.”

Dawn didn’t bother correcting Amir’s misconception that wizards could be arrested by Muggles—he didn’t have the energy.

“We’ll stay here. Arrange the things we brought. I still need to go out.”

Dawn stepped inside.

He had to find Iceland’s magical community.

___________

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