It's done. Your commands

Amosta once again turned her gaze to the old man on the edge of the bed.

Gellert Grindelwald, the ambitious revolutionary of yesteryear and one of the most powerful wizards in the history of modern magic, has become an inconspicuous old man after the storm of war that swept through most of the wizarding and Muggle worlds.

It's hard to convince him of the current Albus Dumbledore, who was once a wizard of the same level as Dumbledore.

The old man at the bedside had lost his strength, and Amosta felt that the magic flowing from his emaciated body was not even as abundant as Filch's.

No one tortured Gellert Grindelwald after the defeat, the power of magic came from the heart, his faith was destroyed, and his mana faded.

Amosta stared into Grindelwald's unwavering eyes, his world was only himself, and the newspaper in his hand.

The false Augusta Raman, the real Adam Vogel, knelt on one knee before Gellert Grindelwald, as if worshipping the Holy Spirit, and looked at Grindelwald with a gaze full of ferventness and hope, He did not look at Amosta Blaine, but he had great anticipation in his heart, expecting Bryan to do something.

Thundered!

The sound of avalanches crashing against the cliffs mingled with the rolling thunder of the low-hanging lead clouds, shaking the silence of Newmengard.

Nothing happened.

Amosta Blaine stood calmly behind the door, neither spilling his thunderous anger nor drawing his wand, while the old man at the bedside turned over a page of the newspaper and quietly looked at the gold medal current affairs correspondent of the Daily Prophet, Rita Skeeter's sharp comment on the fact that Barty Crouch Sr. had taken a long sick leave and had not stayed at St. Mungo.

I don't know how long it has been - pop!

The pair of square-framed gold-rimmed glasses that Adam Vogel had clenched in his hand fell to the floor, bounced a few times, and landed under the modest desk in the room.

As if someone had pulled off his backbone, Adam Vogel's fanatical appearance was gone, his face was gray, he looked at the old man reading the newspaper in a daze, the halo filter under his eyes was gone, it seemed that he had just seen clearly, and what was close to him was just an old man who was dying.

A mockery finally appeared on Amosta's lips.

"Let me guess,"

Amosta slowly walked to Adam Vogel, who was sitting on the ground, his eyes drooped, and he said calmly,

"Throughout, Hermione Granger's cursed attack was a cover, and this inverted little witch was only targeted by you because of her identity as a Triwizard Tournament warrior who somehow fell on her body, and you think that I am the mastermind behind this."

Adam Vogel didn't say a word, he lost his spirit and his gentlemanly demeanor anymore, and Amosta could feel the magic fading in him.

"--Your goal is always me or Dumbledore,"

Amosta's tone was cold,

"You don't care about Hermione Granger's life or death, but you know that after her accident, Dumbledore and I will definitely be furious about this incident, and we will definitely do our best to investigate the truth behind this incident and severely punish the mastermind behind the scenes. You order your adopted daughter to go to the goblin to get involved in the game, and to make a bet that is obviously unorthodox is actually trying to leave a clue.

You are well aware of Dumbledore's connections and my relationship with the elves, and if Dumbledore and I don't succeed in setting our sights on your Order, then this clue will succeed in directing our attention to you, eventually."

Amosta glanced at Grindelwald,

"We'll find Newmongard."

Adam Vogel's lips quirmed, but he didn't say anything.

"You want me and Dumbledore to walk into a cage that no one has stepped in for half a century, and you want us to think that Grindelwald was the one responsible for the attack on Hermione Granger

The Grindelwald you thought was arrogant, the Grindelwald you heard was arrogant, and he didn't bother to explain that there was going to be another 'War of the Century' here.

It doesn't matter if Grindelwald defends himself, he will eventually be 'inspired' by me or Dumbledore to get out of Nürmungard and lead you in a new 'holy war'. ”

"Failed"

Adam Vogel's voice was hoarse like a traveler in the desert, with no water to drink under the scorching sun.

Amosta looked down at Vogel, and to be honest, he had some admiration for this man in his heart.

Vogel should have known very well that once the investigation into Hermione's attack began, sooner or later, their organization, the wizards who were still obsessed with that arrogant, unattainable dream, would be exposed, and this was the 'wealth' that these people who had worked so hard to preserve in hiding for half a century.

And he was determined to give up all this in order to get the prisoners of Newmengard 'out of the mountain'.

His cleverness is equally commendable.

Jasina Rozier and Angus Aeschylus were apparently also selected for the mission after some deliberation.

But in the end, he failed.

It wasn't because of Amosta and Dumbledore's sanity, the ultimate reason for his defeat was that he mistakenly thought that Gellert Grindelwald was still alive.

"You betrayed yourself."

Adam Vogel ignored Amosta's protomy and looked at Gellert Grindelwald with a desperate gaze.

It was time to put an end to the matter, and Amosta was not confused or interested in what Adam Vogel had to say.

Shout!

Amosta hooked his fingers, and the square eye that landed at the bottom of the table flew into Amosta's palm, and he stared deeply into the eye, and in the middle of the night, a cluster of flames ignited the glasses, and in the roar of nothingness, the glasses were quickly melted, and finally there was not a trace of ash left.

"I'm not going to kill you--"

Amosta said lightly,

"Let's go to Azkaban."

Then a flash of red light flashed, and Adam Vogel fainted to the ground.

The sound of avalanches crashed against the cliffs, and fine snowflakes rushed from the base of the cliff all the way up to the cliff shore, and Newmengard was surrounded by a raging snow mist.

Amosta stood at his desk and looked out over the mountains, quietly admiring the scenery he had never seen before.

The thunderstorm in the sky became more and more gloomy, and the light of the thunderstorm dispelled the snow clouds and diluted the chill in the air.

After watching for a while, Amosta lost interest in the scenery outside the window, and was too lonely.

In contrast, he still liked the view from the window of his Hogwarts office, where he could see not only the coldness of the mountains, the depths of the Forbidden Forest, but also the young wizards having fun on the lawn of the school and the Quidditch pitch.

"I'm going back to Hogwarts--"

Amosta turned around, put his hand in his pocket, turned his face sideways and looked at Gellert Grindelwald who didn't notice what was happening in the room, but was just immersed in his own world, and his friendly tone seemed to say goodbye to an old friend for many years,

"Is there anything I need to bring to Dumbledore?"

The wrinkled hands holding the newspaper were still steady, but the wind that poured into the room made Grindelwald's gray hair and the newspaper in his hand shake.

But in the end, he did not lift his white eyes, and did not make any sound.

"So,"

Amosta smiled, he pulled something out of his pocket and gently rested it on the desk full of newspapers and with little space left,

"I wish you good health, Mr. Grindelwald."

With that, Amosta stopped lingering and strode out of the cell with Adam Vogel.

The old man in the cell quietly flipped through the newspaper, page after page, until the thunderclouds darkened the canopy above Newmengard as dark as night.

Unable to read the words clearly, he finally folded the newspaper, and slowly got up and went to his desk, staring blankly at the empty snowfield in front of the door of Newmondgard.

Silence, eternal silence.

The old man's cloudy gaze fell on the table, a gold pocket watch, something left by Amosta Blaine.

Click!

The old man did not touch the old but delicate gold pocket watch, but as if he sensed the gaze, the bracket of the pocket watch popped open, and another photo of the old man and the girl appeared in front of him.

familiar

The eyebrows and eyes of the two people in the photo were familiar, uncontrollably, and he reached out and picked up the pocket watch, resting it in front of his eyes and staring, and as time passed, his hand holding the pocket watch trembled.

Whoa!

It rained in Nungard, which was frozen all year round.

(End of chapter)