Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

Deep within an ancient fortress nestled in the forested hills of Central Europe, Gellert Grindelwald stood by a tall, arched window, watching storm clouds gather over distant peaks. Weeks had passed since his liberation from Nurmengard, and his body was still reacclimating to freedom. Decades of confinement had left their mark—his once-imposing frame had withered, and he now relied on a cane for support. Yet his mind remained razor-sharp, dissecting the world around him with the same cunning that had once terrorized Europe.

What intrigued him most was the Dark Lord who had orchestrated his escape. Voldemort was nothing like Grindelwald had imagined based on whispers that had reached even Nurmengard's depths. Those stories had spoken of a madman—volatile, paranoid, and consumed by cruelty. Instead, Grindelwald found himself face-to-face with a calculating strategist, whose crimson eyes gleamed with unsettling clarity.

The soft sound of footsteps broke his reverie. Voldemort approached, his black robes sweeping silently over the cold stone floor.

"You seem troubled, Grindelwald," Voldemort observed, his voice smooth, carrying that peculiar blend of courtesy and threat that seemed intrinsic to him.

Grindelwald turned slightly, leaning on his cane. "Not troubled. Curious." His sharp eyes assessed Voldemort. "You're different from the tales I've heard. They spoke of instability, madness. Yet I see none of that in you."

Something akin to amusement flickered across Voldemort's serpentine face. "Since my resurrection, I have found myself... steadier. The reason is unclear, but I do not question it. Clarity serves my purpose better."

Grindelwald tilted his head. "And what purposes might those be? Why do you fight? What compels you to gather the dark forces under your banner?"

Voldemort turned his gaze to the stormy horizon outside. For a moment, he was silent, then he spoke, his voice cold with conviction. "The wizarding world has grown weak, cowering in shadows while Muggles spread across the earth like a plague. They believe themselves the rulers of the world, sowing destruction unchecked. I intend to end their rule and put them beneath us, as they should be. Wizards are the powerful ones. We should not hide like vermin in the dark." His crimson eyes burned with intensity. "Britain is only the beginning. Through it, we will reshape the world into what it should be."

Grindelwald nodded slowly, Voldemort's words echoing his own beliefs from decades past. "For the Greater Good of the wizarding world," he murmured, the old motto rolling off his tongue like a ghost of his former self.

Voldemort's lips twisted into a smirk. "Your old motto. Dumbledore seems fond of it now, or so I hear. You two share an intriguing history, it seems."

Grindelwald's expression darkened briefly. "We go far back," he said curtly. "But I have no interest in discussing Albus Dumbledore. Let us move on. What do you want from me, Voldemort?"

Voldemort inclined his head, accepting the change of topic. "Though our methods differ, our core belief remains the same: wizards should not hide their power. I want you to join me."

They stood in silence, the weight of Voldemort's words hanging between them as lightning illuminated the stormy sky. Finally, Grindelwald spoke, his voice soft but resolute. "You know I cannot kneel to you. My pride would not survive it, even if my body could."

The tension thickened for a moment before Voldemort's smooth reply broke it. "It was worth asking. I'd have thought less of you if you'd agreed so easily. But I do not need your subservience. Your influence and the loyalty of your followers are what I require. The new generation needs fresh leadership."

Grindelwald's lips curled into a wry smile. "Good. Age and imprisonment have taught me to recognize my limitations. I am not the man I once was—not yet. My recovery will take time." He straightened slightly, dignity evident despite his frailty. "But I will assist your cause. My followers will heed your call, and my experience is yours to draw upon."

They stood by the window, silent once more, as the storm raged outside, its lightning illuminating the shadows within.

---

The alliance solidified around this understanding. In the days that followed, the fortress hummed with activity. Magnus Blutreich of the Schwarzwald Zirkel, convinced by Grindelwald, coordinated efforts with Grindelwald's old supporters, integrating them into Voldemort's existing network with ruthless efficiency.

Vladimir Dracul XII, still nursing both physical wounds and his pride after his defeat by the Knight, worked tirelessly to rebuild his shattered vampire covenant. Confidence swelled within him, bolstered by the knowledge that their alliance now boasted two of the fiercest dark lords of the last century.

Their initial target was clear: Britain. Voldemort's influence there remained potent, with corrupt Ministry officials, compromised departments, and a population divided by fear and uncertainty. Most importantly, Dumbledore had been conspicuously absent from public life for weeks, suggesting that the aging headmaster might finally be weakening. He was, after all, just as old as Grindelwald.

As for the mysterious strong enemies who had emerged to oppose him, Voldemort dismissed them. They hid in the shadows, unwilling to reveal themselves. To him, they were cowards who posed no real threat. Once he controlled the Ministry, he would draw them out and eliminate them at his leisure.

The prophecy in the Department of Mysteries remained Voldemort's immediate priority. He wanted to rid himself of its looming presence, free his mind of the burden, and destroy Charles Potter.

Carefully reviewing intelligence reports, he avoided risks, determined not to repeat past mistakes. The presence of Order guards and the vigilance of The Auror forces under Sirius Black and Amelia Bones complicated matters, but Voldemort's patience would reveal the perfect moment to strike. With attacks coordinated from within and without, the Ministry would fall.

While Voldemort meticulously planned the Ministry infiltration, the Dark Alliance expanded its reach. The Carpathian vampires forged pacts with smaller undead covens, strengthening their numbers. The Schwarzwald Zirkel, emboldened by Grindelwald's return, reconnected with dark wizarding families across Europe. Greyback's werewolves established hidden dens along Britain's borders, awaiting their signal to strike. Each passing day brought new pledges of loyalty, resources, and opportunities.

Azkaban became the alliance's first goal. A mass breakout would swell their ranks with freed Death Eaters and other dark wizards while potentially turning the Dementors to their cause. The prison assault would serve as their declaration—a resounding announcement that the Dark Alliance was ready to seize power.

Grindelwald, meanwhile, spent his days in the fortress library, alternating between rest and research. Though no longer a commander of armies, his tactical insights proved invaluable. He observed how Voldemort had evolved, shedding the recklessness of earlier years in favor of patience and precision. Grindelwald felt a quiet satisfaction—this dark lord had the potential to succeed where he had failed. Yet, he could not deny a flicker of worry over Dumbledore's absence. The old man's continued silence unsettled him.

Elsewhere, the wizarding world remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the shadows. Few even knew of Grindelwald's escape, and those who did were too fearful of the backlash to make it public. Attempts to contact Dumbledore with the news went unanswered. Voldemort, preferring to work from the shadows, kept his movements discreet, ensuring the world dismissed the unusual activity across Europe as routine dark wizard mischief.

Even Harry was unaware of the brewing chaos. His network of informants, largely composed of Arcturus Black's people and Sirius's updates from the Order and Ministry, had turned up nothing. With no news of Voldemort's movements, Harry focused on enjoying his school life, unaware of the war drums beating softly in the distance.

The storm clouds gathered over Britain's unsuspecting shores. And soon—very soon—the first strike would fall.