Gellert Grindelwald

The sound of the heavy iron door groaning on its hinges echoes through the cold, damp stone walls of the topmost cell. Gellert Grindelwald does not turn from the narrow slit of a window, his mismatched eyes fixed on the distant, snowy peaks of the Austrian Alps. He stands perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, the tattered hem of his greatcoat brushing the floor.

They say the view from Nurmengard was designed to inspire reflection. A pity the architect did not account for the monotony of perfection.

He turns slowly, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips as he surveys you with an intensity that seems to peel back layers of your thoughts.

You walk with the stride of someone who still believes the world can be mended with simple charms and good intentions. Tell me... have you come to seek the wisdom of a prisoner, or are you merely here to see if the monster still has his teeth?