Harry Potter: Dragonborn comes

Winter Redemption

"It's good that we can finally spend Christmas together… the way it should be," Sirius said, a warm smile directed at Harry. His eyes shone with a glimmer that was hard to describe, as if, in that moment, an avalanche of memories had been set free in his mind. Some were dark, laden with despair and loneliness—twelve long years in that wretched place that seemed to devour his soul. But others… others were precious. Christmases at the Potters' house, filled with laughter and embraces, with James acting the clown while Lily prepared hot chocolate. For a moment, it all seemed to return, just within reach.

"Yeah… and now you won't have to be on the run," Harry replied, returning the smile, feeling a sense of relief settling in his chest like a balm. It was the first time he thought that maybe everything was starting to fit, to heal. He no longer had to go back to the Dursleys or stay at Hogwarts pretending it didn't bother him to spend the holidays alone. This time, he truly was part of a family.

"It's strange to see you so sentimental," Lupin commented softly, eyeing his old friend with an amused expression. Beside him, Tonks appeared, leaning in toward Sirius, her eyes gleaming mischievously and a barely contained smile on her lips.

"Are you going to cry?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she pulled a camera out of some impossible pocket. She held it up, ready to capture the moment.

"Of course not!" Sirius protested in exasperation. Unable to hide his embarrassment, he stepped over to Tonks and ruffled her hair vigorously.

"Get off, you idiot!" she squealed, shoving him away with both hands as she tried unsuccessfully to fix her hair.

In another corner of the room, Hermione was quietly sipping juice, her fingers playing with the rim of her glass while her gaze drifted among the softly twinkling lights.

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked as she sat down beside her, her voice curious but tinged with concern.

"Nothing… I was just thinking about why the professor couldn't come, even though we're protected by the Fidelius," Hermione murmured with a sigh, trying not to show how much it really affected her.

"Well, I suppose he's doing something important. A lot of the Order are still working, even on Christmas," Ginny said in a tone meant to be reassuring.

"I know… I just… needed to complain a little," Hermione confessed, slowly turning her glass and watching how the liquid caught the glints of candlelight.

"You really like him, don't you?" Ginny asked, leaning in with a knowing smile.

Hermione sat up straight at once, her face flushing with nervousness.

"You're very easy to read. Anyone with eyes could see it," Ginny said with a stifled laugh. "The problem is, you've got competition… Fleur Delacour," she added in a conspiratorial tone. "She's not very good at hiding it either."

"Hmph… Even so, I'm not going to give up," Hermione declared with determination, as her pride and competitive spirit flared back to life.

"Then I'll be cheering you on," Ginny said, giving her a little nudge before laughing.

Neither of them noticed Ron a few steps away, standing rigid with a tense expression and clenched fists. Without saying a word, he turned and slipped away down the hall, disappearing in silence.

…

After that wonderful Christmas Eve, a couple of days passed filled with laughter and conversation until the time came to return to the station. The group moved together, the Order discreetly watching the surroundings. Sirius kept walking beside Harry, speaking with the enthusiasm of someone who finally had a chance to reclaim the years that had been stolen.

"Do you still have the crystal sphere Einar gave you?" Sirius asked, throwing him a curious glance.

"Yeah… I forgot to give it back last time," Harry admitted, taking it carefully out of his pocket.

"Perfect. That way you can contact me whenever you need to," Sirius said with a touch of gallantry, producing his own sphere and spinning it between his fingers with practiced elegance.

"Why is yours cracked?" Harry asked, frowning at the fracture running through it.

"Because this idiot was practicing that spell over and over and ended up throwing it," Tonks interjected, suddenly appearing behind him with a mischievous grin. Before Sirius could protest, she slipped away quickly to avoid having her hair ruffled again.

"Ahem… It only fell once," Sirius muttered, scratching his cheek with feigned indifference. "And… how's the mask coming along?" he added quickly, eager to change the subject.

"I think I've finished it, but it feels like something's missing. And Professor Einar isn't around to tell us what," Harry explained, shaking his head, frustration creeping in.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out yourselves. Don't worry so much," Sirius said, giving him a confident pat on the shoulder.

"I hope so," Harry murmured, tucking the sphere safely away.

Finally, when they reached the platform in front of the Express, everyone said their farewells with long hugs and words that were hard to let go of. Even Ron, who had been distant, hugged each of the adults with a strange look on his face, as if needing to make sure everything was still in place. But the moment he climbed into the train, he vanished again, leaving behind a silence no one knew quite how to interpret.

…

"Is… it that bad?" asked a low, muted voice that resonated softly among the cold stone walls. From behind the bars, two pale, ancient eyes focused attentively on the hunched figure of his old friend—the one who, decades ago, had defeated him and locked him away in that place. But in his gaze, there was no hatred. Only a weary resignation. Grindelwald leaned against the bars of his cell, waiting for an answer he perhaps feared to hear.

"It is." Dumbledore exhaled slowly, as though every word cost him a fragment of his soul. He was seated on a rough wooden bench, his back slightly bowed under an invisible weight. His silver hair—more disheveled than he would ever have allowed in public—fell over his face. And his expression… was that of a man who had spent far too long restraining a storm of thoughts with an ironclad Occlumency.

"Perhaps… I have less time left than Einar warned me," he added in a hoarse voice. His hands trembled faintly in his lap.

"I fear that the next time we meet… if it ever comes… I won't be myself anymore."

A nearly reverent silence stretched between them. Grindelwald lowered his gaze, as if searching for something among the shadows on the stone floor.

"Was it worth it, Albus?" he asked with unusual solemnity, slowly raising his eyes. "All your sacrifices? Every plan you made… everything you did?"

Dumbledore's shoulders seemed to sink even further. For an instant, his mask of serenity cracked, revealing a flicker of something that looked very much like panic. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded broken.

"No. It wasn't worth it."

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears before he managed to recover that glacial stoicism that allowed him to remain standing. His gaze drifted for a moment to the Elder Wand, which he held as if it were burning his palm.

"Do you remember the past, Gellert? When we were young… when we believed we could forge our own destiny, change the world with our hands, protect all witches and wizards from ignorance and fear…" he murmured bitterly.

"Very noble thoughts… for two arrogant fools," Grindelwald replied, letting out a smile so faint it barely creased his withered face.

Dumbledore swallowed hard. His lips pressed into a thin, harsh line.

"I… I didn't just interfere in a child's life. Perhaps… it was all pointless. All this time, all these years… this entire struggle… for ideals that, in the end, were just another form of ego."

At last, he raised his eyes, and his voice cracked again.

"I am no better than Tom."

Grindelwald fell silent. There was nothing he could say to absolve him, no words that could ease the weight of that guilt. And he knew it. That was why he didn't attempt to console him or contradict him. He only spoke with the tiredness of someone who had seen too many winters.

"You regret something. You only get like this… when that happens."

"Two things." Dumbledore drew in a slow breath, as though the air itself resisted entering his lungs. "The first, you already know… And the second… was not letting that boy grow up the way he wanted."

He stood up with deliberate slowness, every movement heavy with solemnity. He took a few steps toward the cell door, but before he vanished into the shadows, Grindelwald's voice crossed the silence once more.

"Albus."

He stopped without turning around. The dark cloak rippled faintly with the rhythm of his breathing.

"I'm sorry… for that time," Gellert said with a sincerity so calm that, for a moment, it was impossible to remember that this man had once brought all of Europe to its knees.

Dumbledore didn't answer. He couldn't. He simply kept walking, moving away with slow steps until he was swallowed by the darkness.

Outside the fortress, beneath the salt-laden mist swirling over the sea, he turned back one last time. His eyes seemed to ignite with a melancholy light.

"I will do everything I can… as one final apology to my students," he whispered before vanishing in a dry crackle of Apparition.

…

Einar was sitting with absolute composure upon an improvised throne, carved from the black stones of the prison once known as the most secure and feared place in the entire wizarding world. His figure, framed by a strange glow, looked almost like a myth given flesh. He rested his elbow on the arm of the throne, his chin upon his hand, while his green eyes followed every detail of the spectacle before him.

All around, the scene was a perfect contrast of chaos and order. Hundreds of creatures moved with relentless discipline. Seekers—those shapeless beings with glistening skin and tentacles slithering silently—gathered fallen stones and broken bars as though they weighed nothing. Farther away, dozens of black-boned skeletons lifted beams with impossible strength, carrying entire structures to other corridors. And among them all, a Drago Priest in grey robes chanted arcane spells, twisting the walls and molding new cells with a solemn precision that bordered on the sacred.

Only a Dragonborn could command that legion of horrors and wonders with such effortless calm. His eyes glowed with the certainty of someone who knew that no force in that place could ever challenge him.

Einar had no intention of staying in Azkaban forever. But if he was to occupy this space for a while, he would rather transform it into something worthy of a king than allow it to remain the pit of rot where Dementors sprouted like mushrooms. When he left, he would return the place to its original function… though reinforced with protections the Ministry could hardly dream of. No innocent would ever be thrown there again by whim. No prisoner would ever escape without paying an impossible price.

But that… that was a matter for later.

His eyes narrowed suddenly. A green glint flickered across his gaze as a tingle ran down his spine. His senses—sharpened beyond the limits of any human—told him that something was approaching. Something whose nature he could not yet discern. Perhaps an enemy. Perhaps an ally.

But certainly… something that even he would find surprising.