Under The Starry Sky

I sat at a quieter table in the Three Broomsticks, a modest book resting in my hands. By my standards, it was a small one—just two hundred pages—but the content gripped me. After arranging my trip to Germany, I'd picked up a couple of books to prepare. One detailed the so-called "Global Wizarding War," often referred to as the Grindelwald War or the Great Wizarding War. The other was an atlas of Europe. Familiarizing myself with Germany's geography before setting off seemed prudent.

The pub was lively as always, its warmth a comforting contrast to the winter chill outside. I glanced up as a waiter approached with my order: grilled fish with boiled potatoes and a goblet of pumpkin juice. Simple yet satisfying. Offering a small smile, I set my book aside and began eating.

The Three Broomsticks was crowded, its tables packed with witches and wizards in cheerful chatter. A few strangers had joined my table, their presence less than ideal but harmless.

"Oy, son! What're you doing all alone here?" a tipsy man called out, his tone as jolly as a charm gone haywire. He didn't seem to recognize me, likely thanks to the enchantment concealing my scar. Though the Horcrux was gone, the faint outline of the lightning bolt remained—magical wounds take their time.

"Just reading about a revolution," I replied with a grin, humoring him. He laughed loudly, assuming it was a joke.

"You're hilarious, lad!" he roared, slapping the table with mirth.

I tuned him out and focused on finishing my meal. The hum of the pub faded into the background, leaving me with my thoughts. After paying my bill, I made my way upstairs to the small room I'd rented for the night.

As I opened the door, a flurry of white feathers smacked me in the face.

"Hedwig!" I exclaimed, gently pulling my owl off me. She hooted indignantly, her amber eyes full of reproach.

"What now?" I asked, noticing her outstretched leg pointing at the open window.

"Hoot, hoot!" she insisted, puffing herself up dramatically.

I chuckled. "The window? It's open?" Turning to look, I realized she was right. A cold draft swept through the room. "You wanted it closed," I muttered, shutting it with a solid click.

Hedwig ruffled her feathers as if to emphasize her annoyance.

"There, happy now?" I teased, scratching her head. She hooted softly, satisfaction evident, before retreating to her perch.

I settled onto the bed, pulling out the books I'd bought earlier. Bathilda Bagshot's concise account of the Grindelwald War was my first focus. Despite knowing the key events, I was struck by the parallels to the Second Wizarding War I'd lived through.

As the clock struck eleven, I set the book aside and practiced Occlumency. Tomorrow was critical—any slip-up could be fatal. Clearing my mind, I banished every stray thought, replacing chaos with calm.

The next morning, I rose early. Hedwig gave me a sleepy glance as I explained my plans.

"I'll be gone for a while," I told her, stroking her feathers. She hooted dismissively before taking flight through the open window.

Dressed and under a disillusionment charm, I stepped out of the Three Broomsticks. A shimmer in the corridor caught my eye—another spy under an invisibility cloak, sent by Dumbledore no doubt. Suppressing a sigh, I slipped past them unnoticed and headed for Knockturn Alley.

The narrow, grimy streets stank of decay, the air thick with malice. Ignoring the unease clawing at me, I retraced my steps to the shop where my portkey awaited.

Inside, two men sat tensely. The older man muttered nervously, "Such an odd customer… Portkeys, of all things. To Germany, no less…"

"Shh!" the younger snapped. "He could show up any minute."

"Smart man," I said, dropping my charm. Both men flinched.

The broad-shouldered one reached for his wand, but I raised a hand. "Don't," I warned, my voice calm but firm. He froze, then relaxed reluctantly.

"Is my portkey ready?"

The older man retrieved a worn glove, placing it on the counter with trembling hands. "It'll take you to Dunkelgasse—Germany. Activates at six sharp and returns at six tomorrow evening."

Sliding on the glove, I nodded. The clock struck six, and a sharp tug at my navel yanked me forward.

I landed in Dunkelgasse, the German equivalent of Knockturn Alley. The scent of damp stone and decay filled the air. A man behind a counter raised his wand in alarm.

"Woher?" he barked.

"Mind speaking English?" I asked, catching his wand with a flick of my hand.

His eyes widened. "Yes… I can," he stammered.

"Translator potions?"

"80 Galleons," he replied nervously.

I paid, ensuring the potion's authenticity before gulping it down. As the language flowed into my mind, I asked, "Know how to get to Nurmengard?"

"Flo powder?" He said, pointing at the chimney in his shop.

I picked a Galleon out of my pouch and slid it across the counter. The shopkeeper's eyebrows furrowed in suspicion, his sharp eyes darting between the coin and me.

"I don't have German Marks or Sickles," I said simply, my tone neutral. Without waiting for a response, I grabbed the small pouch of Floo Powder he had placed on the counter. His grumble was lost to the dingy atmosphere of the shop as I turned toward the nearest fireplace.

The hearth was dark and soot-streaked, with faint traces of green powder dusting its base. Stepping into the chimney, I tightened my cloak and muttered under my breath, "German Ministry of Magic." Tossing the powder at my feet, I was immediately engulfed by swirling, crackling-green flames.

The familiar sensation of the Floo Network took hold, a disorienting whirl of heatless fire and spinning motion. A moment later, I stumbled out into a large, ornate chimney in the lobby of the German Ministry of Magic.

The room before me was immense, its vaulted ceiling supported by towering marble columns inscribed with intricate runes. Unlike the warm, bustling atrium of the British Ministry, the German Ministry's lobby was cold and imposing, every detail designed to exude authority. Enchanted torches lined the walls, their flames casting sharp, flickering shadows across the polished black floor.

At the center of the lobby stood a massive bronze statue of an eagle perched on a wand, its wings spread wide as if poised to take flight. Beneath it, a circular fountain bubbled quietly, the water charmed to shimmer with iridescent hues. Around the room, wizards and witches in severe robes moved with purpose, their expressions as sharp as the architecture surrounding them.

I muttered a soft incantation under my breath, a wandless disillusionment charm weaving its way over me. The air shimmered faintly around me before settling into stillness. Invisible now, I moved quickly through the lobby, careful to avoid brushing against the streams of foot traffic.

Several uniformed witches stood at enchanted desks near the walls, each meticulously sorting through documents that floated in front of them in neat stacks. Magical pamphlets detailing "Anti-Imperius Training" and "European Magical Defense Initiatives" hovered in mid-air, glowing softly as passersby plucked them from the air.

A row of iron elevators, their doors carved with intricate depictions of magical creatures, hummed quietly at the far end of the room. Each carried Ministry workers deeper into the subterranean complex. I followed one of the elevators as a group of wizards filed in, murmuring in clipped German. When the doors shut behind them, I slipped into a nearby stairwell to avoid detection.

As I descended, the air grew colder, and the ornate marble of the upper floors gave way to rough stone walls. This lower level was quieter, save for the occasional echo of footsteps or distant murmur of voices. This was where the German equivalent of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE) was housed, and it was exactly where I needed to be.

I approached a heavy oak door, its surface engraved with the department's crest: the same eagle symbol, now clutching a pair of scales instead of a wand. Beyond the door, I could hear the muffled voices of wizards and the occasional clatter of parchment and quills.

Reaching out with my magic, I focused on the lock. Wandless spells required precision and intent, and I could feel the faint resistance of the wards protecting the door. With a soft click, the lock yielded to my efforts, and I slipped inside, the disillusionment charm keeping me hidden.

The room beyond was dimly lit, its walls lined with shelves crammed full of folders, scrolls, and magically sealed cabinets. At the center of the room, a massive table was piled high with reports, their corners secured with glowing anti-tampering spells. Wizards in dark robes sat hunched over their work, oblivious to my presence.

I moved silently, my eyes scanning the room for anything that might point me toward Nurmengard. A map of central Europe hung on one wall, pinned with glowing markers that pulsed faintly. Nearby, a cabinet labeled "High-Security Prisons" caught my attention.

Reaching the cabinet, I placed a hand on its surface and closed my eyes, focusing on the wards. They were intricate but not impenetrable, and after a few moments, the magic began to unravel under my touch. The door swung open with a faint creak, revealing rows of meticulously labeled files.

"Nurmengard," I muttered under my breath, scanning the labels. Finally, I found it—a slim folder marked with the prison's name and an insignia denoting maximum security. I pulled it out, holding it carefully to avoid triggering any enchantments.

Flipping through the pages, I found detailed schematics of the fortress-like prison, its location marked deep in the Austrian Alps. Notes about Grindelwald's confinement and the layers of enchantments protecting the site filled the rest of the file.

Satisfied, I slid the folder back into its place and closed the cabinet, carefully restoring the wards. As I turned to leave, my gaze fell on a nearby desk where a half-completed report lay open. The words "Rising Neo-Grindelwald Sentiment" caught my eye.

I paused briefly, taking in the implications. It seemed Grindelwald's influence still lingered, even decades after his defeat. His imprisonment in Nurmengard wasn't just a relic of history; it was a simmering threat that could still boil over.

Slipping back into the shadows, I retraced my steps and exited the department as silently as I had entered. The Ministry above was still bustling as I made my way toward the exit, my thoughts racing.

The Austrian Alps, Nurmengard… and Grindelwald. My next destination was clear.

But having a clear destination was still not enough. I needed a way to get there. Nurmengard wasn't a place you could just Apparate into—not unless you wanted to trigger wards powerful enough to make your atoms regret existing. Magical transport was the quickest option, but it came with its own set of challenges.

Firstly, I needed to get close to the German-Austrian border without drawing too much attention. Magical border patrols were known to scan for unauthorized magical movement, and a rogue wizard like me would stand out like a Flobberworm at a Hippogriff race. Crossing the border the Muggle way seemed safer, but it posed its own complications.

"Travelling is messy," I muttered under my breath as I slipped out of the German Ministry, the disillusionment charm still wrapped tightly around me. The bustling streets of magical Berlin greeted me as I emerged into a hidden alleyway. Cobblestones shimmered faintly under enchantments designed to keep the magical district invisible to non-magical eyes. Wizards and witches moved briskly around, their robes swishing in the crisp winter air.

A group of goblins argued loudly outside a small bank, their sharp voices carrying over the hum of street-side vendors selling enchanted trinkets and rare potions. Above, owls flitted between glowing lampposts, their wings outlined in the soft luminescence of the floating lights. The scene was alive, chaotic, and indifferent to my plight.

I ducked into a side street, my mind racing. The Alps were vast, and Nurmengard's exact location wasn't marked on any standard map—magical or otherwise. Even with the schematics I'd seen, getting close enough without tripping any alarms would be a delicate operation.

My first step was finding a way to the border. A magical train? No, too many eyes, also slow. A Portkey? Highly regulated and kind of impractical right now. Apparating partway and going on foot might work, but I needed a point of reference, something obscure enough to avoid notice.

I passed a small bookshop with dusty tomes stacked haphazardly in its window. Its sign creaked in the wind, the lettering faded but legible: Kroner's Arcane Atlas & Antiquities. An idea sparked.

If I could find an old map of the region, enchanted or otherwise, it might give me a clue about safe Apparition points or hidden paths. My disillusionment charm flickered as I stepped into the shop, the faint chime of a bell announcing my presence.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink. Shelves groaned under the weight of ancient books, scrolls, and artifacts. The shopkeeper, a hunched wizard with spectacles perched precariously on his long nose, barely glanced up from his desk.

I moved cautiously, scanning the titles. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for—a section labeled "Cartography & Magical Topography." Among the dusty volumes, one stood out: "Hidden Passages of the Alps: A Wizard's Guide to Avoiding Detection."

"Convenient," I murmured, pulling the book free. I flipped through its pages, noting marked trails and obscure landmarks. The book was old, but its content seemed reliable. A specific trail near the German-Austrian border caught my attention—an abandoned smuggler's route used during Grindelwald's rise to power. Perfect.

But the shopkeeper's gaze was sharper now, his eyes tracking my movements as if sensing the disillusionment charm's faint shimmer. I couldn't risk paying or engaging with him directly, so I did what any rogue wizard would: I turned, walked into the shadow of a shelf, and let the book vanish into my cloak with a subtle wandless summoning spell.

Stepping out of the shop and back into the cold air, I allowed myself a brief moment of relief. With the map in hand, I had a clear first step.

"Get to the border," I muttered to myself. "Cross it the Muggle way. And then… then the Alps."

The enormity of the task loomed, but there was no turning back now. The clock was ticking, and Nurmengard wasn't going to wait.

I tucked the stolen map deeper into my cloak and blended into the crowd. The charm concealing me wasn't foolproof—it shimmered faintly when I moved too quickly or passed through strong magical fields—but for now, it held.

Berlin's magical district stretched out like a maze of crooked streets and narrow alleys, the air buzzing with ambient magic. Street vendors barked out offers for enchanted trinkets, self-stirring cauldrons, and bottles of suspiciously glowing potions. I weaved through them, keeping my head low. The last thing I needed was someone sensing the faint hum of illicit magic around me.

I needed to plan my next move. A direct route to the border wasn't viable—too many magical checkpoints and patrols. But I'd read enough to know that the magical and Muggle worlds in Germany often intersected in peculiar ways. Somewhere nearby, there had to be a connection point: a hidden train station, a disguised magical taxi, or perhaps even a smuggler's portkey network.

I passed a worn sign in German etched with the faint glow of enchantment, marking the entrance to a magical cabstand. A queue of witches and wizards lined up as enchanted carriages, sleek and shimmering, appeared out of thin air, whisking passengers away. Tempting, but no. Too public, too traceable.

Then I spotted it. Near the edge of the district, tucked between two sagging buildings, was a darkened archway with a faint pulsing light—red, green, then blue. A Mündungsportal. I'd read about these: unofficial magical travel nodes, set up by shady operators for wizards wanting to move quietly.

I ducked into the archway, the charm on me flickering as I stepped through a faint magical barrier. Inside, the air was damp, the stone walls glowing faintly with runes. A grizzled wizard leaned against a crooked desk, his eyes sharp beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He barely glanced at me but raised a single finger in warning.

"I don't deal with troublemakers," he said, his voice gravelly. "Pay the fare, take the portal, no questions asked."

I reached into my pouch, pulling out a couple of galleons. He snatched them, waved his wand, and a glowing portal materialized against the wall. It shimmered with a deep blue hue, almost liquid.

"Where does this lead?" I asked, letting my charm flicker off. No use pretending here.

"To the edge of Dresden," he replied gruffly. "Near the border. Far as I'll take you."

It would have to do. Without another word, I stepped into the portal. The sensation was immediate and disorienting—like being pulled through a narrow tube of icy water. When I stumbled out, the bitter cold of the night hit me like a wall.

I found myself in an abandoned alleyway, the cobblestones slick with frost. The distant hum of Muggle cars was a stark contrast to the silence of the magical district I'd just left. Above, the sky was clear, stars spread out in a cold brilliance.

From here, I was on my own. The smuggler's route marked in the stolen map was only a few kilometers away. The border patrols would be thick, but if I stuck to the old trails and avoided open spaces, I had a chance.

I pulled the map out, tracing the route with my finger. The path would take me through dense woods, over a river, and into the Austrian side of the Alps. From there, it would be a climb—literal and metaphorical.

"Nurmengard," I murmured, folding the map back. My breath misted in the frigid air. I could almost feel its shadow looming over me, even from here.

The prison of Grindelwald. His legacy. His secrets. Whatever answers lay within those walls, I was going to find them. Even if it meant tearing down the mountain stone by stone. Grindelwald, no matter how dangerous, will answer me. And what's the worst that can happen?

The cold bite of the night made me shiver, but I had no time to lose. The smuggler's route was marked as treacherous, with terrain too rugged for ordinary travel. That's where my Firebolt would come in.

I stepped further into the shadows of the alley, ensuring I was hidden from any prying eyes, magical or Muggle. Pulling the map out again, I confirmed the nearest marker—the dense woods just past Dresden. That was my starting point.

With a deep breath, I reached for the ring on my finger. I twirled the ring, feeling a faint vibration as the spell activated. A gust of wind swirled around me, and with a soft whoosh, the familiar sleek form of my broomstick materialized before me. The Firebolt's polished handle gleamed faintly in the evening glow, its bristles aligned and ready.

I gripped the broom, feeling a surge of confidence. This was freedom, speed, and escape all rolled into one.

Mounting the broom, I cast one last glance at the alleyway. The map's markings flashed in my mind, and I plotted the route carefully. Flying too high would make me visible to both Muggle and magical patrols. Staying low and weaving through the natural cover of the land was the only option.

I kicked off the ground, and the Firebolt responded instantly, gliding silently upward. The cold wind cut against my face, but I didn't care. Below, the city of Dresden stretched out in a patchwork of darkened streets and faintly glowing magical wards.

The woods weren't far, but as I approached, I noticed movement—wandlight bobbing through the trees like fireflies. German magical border patrols.

"Brilliant," I muttered under my breath, angling the broom lower. I dipped into the canopy, weaving through the dense branches. The Firebolt's agility was unparalleled, allowing me to maneuver with precision, but the risk was still high. One wrong move, and I'd crash.

The patrols were methodical, their wands casting sweeping detection charms. I slowed, almost to a hover, and twirled my ring again. The Firebolt vanished in a flash, leaving me suspended in the air for a heartbeat before I cast a wandless Levioso to steady myself.

I drifted to the ground silently, landing behind a thick tree trunk. From here, I could see the patrols clearly—a team of three wizards, their uniforms crisp and their eyes sharp.

I pressed my back against the tree, reaching out with my magic. Wandless spells required focus, and I'd been practicing ever since the war ended. Closing my eyes, I whispered, Muffliato. The faint hum of magic enveloped me, dampening any sound I made.

The patrol passed by, their murmured conversation in German fading as they moved deeper into the woods. I waited a few moments longer, then twirled the ring again. The Firebolt reappeared, and I mounted it in one swift motion.

This time, I kept even lower, skimming just above the forest floor. The river was up ahead, a natural barrier marking the edge of the patrol zone. Crossing it would be risky, but once I was past, I'd be in the clear until the Austrian side.

The sound of rushing water grew louder, and I spotted the wide, glimmering expanse of the river. It was fast-moving, the surface reflecting the moonlight like shards of glass.

I hovered for a moment, scanning the banks for any signs of patrols. The map had mentioned an old bridge long since abandoned by both Muggles and wizards. It was my best bet.

I found it—a rickety structure of wood and rope, barely clinging together. It swayed ominously in the wind, but it was better than swimming in the freezing current.

Hovering above the bridge, I used the Firebolt's speed to zip across in seconds, landing softly on the opposite bank.

I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The dense woods on this side were eerily quiet, the air heavy with the weight of isolation.

Mounting the Firebolt again, I ascended slowly, the Alps looming in the distance like silent sentinels. Somewhere within those peaks was Nurmengard.

And somewhere within Nurmengard lay the truth I was chasing. Grindelwald stood there, living and breathing.

The journey into the heart of the Alps wasn't just a test of my endurance; it was a battle against nature itself. The night grew colder as I climbed higher, and the thin air bit at my lungs. The Firebolt hummed beneath me, a steady companion as the forested valleys gave way to rocky slopes.

I glanced at the map again. Nurmengard wasn't marked explicitly, of course, but I had pieced together its approximate location from the stolen records at the German Ministry. The fortress was said to be perched on an isolated crag, hidden by powerful wards and surrounded by treacherous terrain.

The challenge wasn't just finding it—it was approaching without being detected.

As I flew deeper into the mountains, I noticed the air around me growing heavier, charged with latent magic. The wards were close. Even without specialized detection spells, I could feel their oppressive presence, like invisible walls pressing against my senses.

I slowed, descending into a narrow ravine to avoid drawing attention. The broom's bristles brushed against the snow-dusted ground as I landed. I pulled the ring off and twirled it once more, vanishing the Firebolt into its magical storage.

I wrapped myself in an invisibility spell, focusing intently as the magic shimmered over my skin. Hidden from view, I began to climb. The path was narrow and uneven, and the snow made every step treacherous. The air was eerily still, broken only by the distant howl of the wind.

The fortress revealed itself slowly, emerging from the darkness like a jagged scar on the mountainside. Nurmengard was a monolithic structure, its black stone walls rising imposingly against the backdrop of the peaks. The architecture was harsh, almost brutal, devoid of ornamentation. Towers jutted out at irregular angles, their windows narrow slits that seemed more suited for archers than for letting in light.

A massive gate, reinforced with dark iron, stood at the base of the fortress. Wards shimmered faintly in the air around it, the magic so dense it was almost visible. This was a prison meant to repel even the most determined intruders.

I crouched behind a boulder, taking in the scene. The records hadn't mentioned much about current security, but I could see movement—shadowy figures patrolling the walls, their outlines illuminated briefly by the faint glow of magical sconces.

This wasn't just a forgotten relic. Nurmengard was active.

I scanned the area, noting the pattern of the patrols. They moved with precision, clearly trained and disciplined. This wasn't going to be easy.

But then again, nothing ever was.

Closing my eyes, I reached out with my magic, letting it flow outward in a gentle pulse. It was a risky move, but necessary. The wards would have gaps—no enchantment was perfect—and I needed to find them.

The response was immediate. The wards pushed back against my probe, their magic bristling like a defensive animal. But within the intricate weave of protections, I sensed subtle inconsistencies—places where the magic was weaker, stretched thin by the sheer size of the area it covered.

One such gap was near the base of the wall, obscured by a cluster of jagged rocks. It wasn't a large opening, but it was enough for someone small and determined.

I moved quickly, keeping my invisibility spell intact. The snow crunched softly beneath my boots, but the sound was muffled by the wards' ambient hum. As I approached the gap, I extended a hand, feeling the magic thrumming in the air.

The wards were intricate, layered with detection and repulsion charms. Breaking through them wasn't an option—it would set off every alarm in the fortress. Instead, I focused on slipping through, letting my own magic blend with the wards. It was like threading a needle, a delicate process that demanded absolute concentration.

After what felt like an eternity, I was through. The air inside the wards was noticeably different, heavy with enchantments and the weight of centuries-old magic.

The base of the wall loomed before me, its rough stone surface cold and unyielding. A faint glow emanated from a barred window high above, but there were no visible entrances at ground level.

I pressed my hand against the wall, letting my magic seep into the stone. The fortress resisted, its defenses instinctively rejecting my intrusion, but I persisted. Wandless spells were about intent, and mine was clear.

A faint vibration ran through the wall, and a section of stone shifted, revealing a narrow crevice barely wide enough for me to squeeze through. I slipped inside, the stone sealing itself behind me with a low grind.

The interior was as cold and unwelcoming as the exterior. Narrow corridors stretched out in both directions, their walls lined with faintly glowing runes. The air was damp, filled with the scent of old stone and lingering magic.

I was here, in Nurmengard, a nightmare, a reality.

Author's Note: Hey guys, I am back... Sorry for the late update, I was kinda feeling lazy and procrastinated a bit too much... But hey, I will be giving another chapter tomorrow too. Also tell me if this chapter seemed not as good as previous ones, I did some writing changes in this... So I just want to know if this is viable or i should stick to what I usually do.