#grindelwald first | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hestella · 8 months ago

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Tick, Tock (Gellert Grindlewald x reader)

Summary: You are an outcast. Not a squib, no, but not a wizard. you were something in the middle, so limited. And while despising the fact that you were closer to a no-maj, he’s interested in you, more like a tool and a pet.

A/N: why are there so little Gellert Grindlewald smut/stories?? ugh fine i’ll make it myself.

Warning: torture(kinda), killing magical animals, hurt, no use of Y/N, kind of a squib! reader, angst, manipulation, BISEXUAL reader, AFAB reader, long ass fic. That’s all I think. there will be a pt 2 i promise with smut. it’s just all so long.

A young woman stumbled through a dense forest far from Kweilin, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she ran. Every few moments, bursts of light flashed around her as Grindelwald’s acolytes fired spells her way, cracking branches and lighting up the foliage in bursts of green and red. The shadows seemed to close in tighter, the sounds of pursuit growing louder with every step.

She felt her foot snag on an exposed root, and with a gasp, she crashed to the ground, pain shooting through her leg. Desperately, she tried to rise, her fingers clawing at the earth as she dragged herself forward. But the acolytes were close now, and she could hear their low, mocking laughter.

A blinding spell struck just to her side, and her vision blurred. The world tilted, her strength slipping away as her consciousness faded. The last thing she saw was the dark silhouettes surrounding her, cold and remorseless, before the world went dark.

-=-

When she drifted back into consciousness, it was the soft rustle of curtains in the mountain breeze that drew her back, faint sunlight trickling through. She blinked, her vision swimming as she took in the simple wooden room around her. Her body ached, and when she tried to sit up, a dull clank stopped her cold.

A shackle was fastened around her ankle, its chain secured to the bed’s sturdy frame. Panic surged through her, and she struggled in vain to tug it free, the cold metal biting into her skin. Forcing herself to stay calm, she turned her gaze to the open window, taking in the view of snow-tipped mountain peaks stretching endlessly.

The beauty felt strangely hollow, tainted by the reality of her captivity. A soft, rhythmic tap of footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing closer. She felt her heart thunder in her chest, every instinct urging her to brace herself.

The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, filling the room with a presence as chilling as it was charismatic. There stood Gellert Grindelwald, dressed impeccably in a dark suit, a stark contrast to the rustic room. His eyes—one a cold, piercing blue, the other a dark, calculating brown—settled on her, and his lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only a quiet, knowing menace.

He looked entirely at ease, as if he were welcoming her to some fine estate rather than confronting a prisoner bound in chains.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth and almost cordial, but his tone carried an undercurrent of something dangerous, something predatory. “I trust you slept… adequately?”

She swallowed, her throat dry, every nerve in her body tensed as she held his gaze, frozen by the strange pull of those mismatched eyes.

There was no escape in them, only a sense of inevitability, as if she were a mouse caught under the gaze of a snake. He tilted his head, watching her with mild amusement.

“Fear is natural,” he continued, his tone almost gentle, “but don’t let it control you. After all, you’re here for a purpose.”

She found her voice, though it came out in a hoarse whisper. “Why am I here?”

Grindelwald’s smile deepened, a glint of satisfaction flashing in his gaze as he leaned ever so slightly forward, as if savoring her question. He moved with a feline grace, taking a single, measured step closer, his presence casting a chill over the room.

“You’re here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “because of what you are. You’re neither squib nor wizard… something else entirely.” His words were both a statement and an accusation, as if he had unearthed a secret hidden even from herself.

A flicker of confusion crossed her face. Only a handful of people knew about her unusual abilities—her family, and Albus Dumbledore. She had spent her entire life concealing her strange, limited magic, magic that wasn’t like the spells or charms wizards cast. Her power was subtle, woven with time itself. She could nudge it forward or back in moments, but every time she used it, she paid a price, a drain on her very being. It left her weak, fragile, as though the very fabric of her reality thinned with every use.

“How…?” she breathed, unable to contain her shock.

Grindelwald’s gaze remained fixed on her, his face impassive but for the slightest curve at the corners of his lips. “I know many things, my dear. More than Dumbledore might wish, more than even you could guess.” He moved to a chair near the bed, settling down with the ease of someone who felt entirely in control. “You, with your unique gift—you’re far too valuable to be left under Albus’s protection, squandered, untrained.”

She tensed, forcing herself to sit still under his penetrating gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though her voice wavered. “I can’t do anything… special.”

His expression flickered with mock disappointment. “You shouldn’t lie, especially not to yourself. The way your magic bends time… it’s remarkable. Just a slight twist of the hourglass, here and there. Dumbledore has hidden you well. But the truth always has a way of surfacing.”

Her heart pounded, a mix of anger and fear surging through her. Dumbledore had warned her to stay hidden, to never rely on her powers if she could avoid it. She’d heeded his advice, knowing all too well the toll it took on her body each time she tampered with time, the exhaustion that left her almost unable to move. And yet, here was Grindelwald, seeing through every layer of her secrecy, her carefully hidden limitations.

“What do you want from me?” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Grindelwald’s eyes gleamed with a hunger that made her shiver. “All in due time,” he replied smoothly, his tone deceptively soft. “There are things I could teach you. Techniques that could amplify your gift, make you stronger… if you’re willing to listen.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And if I’m not?”

A low chuckle escaped his lips, one that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “I think you will be. There are things you fear even more than me.” He leaned forward, his mismatched gaze locking with hers, his voice barely a breath. “I can show you how to wield your gift without it consuming you. Or you can let it tear you apart, little by little, until there’s nothing left. The choice… is yours.”

He rose, leaving her with the hollow sound of his words echoing in the silent room. The door closed behind him, and she was alone once more, the mountains looming outside, beautiful and indifferent, a stark contrast to the dark future grinding toward her.

-=-

Hours turned into a haze of silent waiting and cold stares. Her captors came and went, bringing trays of food she barely touched, their glances dripping with disdain. It was a look she knew all too well—the one reserved for the “other,” for something that didn’t fit neatly into the wizarding world’s categories. She was neither squib nor wizard, and her family had never let her forget it. Growing up, her strange powers had always marked her as different, her peculiar grasp of magic enough to unsettle even her own blood.

Here, in Grindelwald's custody, that look returned with new intensity. She could see it in every narrowed eye and disdainful frown, in the way they barely spoke to her, treating her like an oddity—an impurity that didn’t belong.

Despite herself, a fierce anger simmered beneath her fear. It was one thing to be shunned by her own family, where it almost felt normal; this was something else, something harsher. Grindelwald’s followers saw her as little more than a pawn, a tool to be used for whatever scheme their master had in mind. She tugged at the shackle around her ankle out of habit, the cold metal pressing into her skin, a constant reminder of her helplessness.

But if Grindelwald thought he could sway her as easily as he had others, he would be mistaken. She didn’t want his promises of power, nor his twisted version of liberation. Her power—rare and risky though it was—was her own. She clung to that thought, letting it anchor her, remind her of who she was beyond this prison.

At some point, when the door opened again, her back stiffened, and she turned her gaze toward her visitor with steely defiance. But it wasn’t Grindelwald who entered. It was a younger acolyte, his face twisted in a mixture of curiosity and unease as he placed the next meal by her side. He paused, glancing down at her with a look that wasn’t quite as cold, as if he was trying to work out the strange girl in chains.

“Why does he keep you here?” he asked, almost as if the question slipped out by accident.

She met his gaze, her voice low but steady. “Ask him,” she replied. "Maybe he’s afraid of me.”

The young acolyte’s lips twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he took one last look at her, a hint of doubt flickering in his eyes, before he turned and left, locking the door behind him.

In that moment, she felt something stir in her chest—a faint, impossible hope. Grindelwald and his followers had their plans, but so did she. The power within her might be risky, dangerous, but it was hers, and it was her only chance at escape.

But after a few hours, the young man came again, but not for himself. He undid her shackle and asked her to follow. she obediently did, knowing it was the best to do in the situation.

The young man’s grip on her arm was firm but cautious as he led her deeper into the depths of Nurmengard. They descended floor after floor, each step taking them farther from any trace of natural light and deeper into the castle’s hidden heart. Cold, damp air filled the stairwell, and the stone walls pressed in close, echoing every footstep. She counted each turn and landing, but eventually lost track, the descent blurring into an endless downward spiral.

At last, they reached a heavy iron door. The young man stopped, glancing at her with a fleeting look of sympathy—or perhaps it was simply apprehension—before he pushed the door open and ushered her inside. She hesitated, feeling an instinctive chill run through her, but took a deep breath and stepped forward, determined to keep her composure.

The room beyond was vast and dimly lit, an underground cavern carved into stone. At its center lay a large pool of water, its surface rippling faintly as though alive. Runes, ancient and forbidding, were scrawled across the stone walls surrounding the pool, their jagged lines catching the flickering candlelight. Several candelabras stood on the floor, their wax-dripped frames casting long shadows, while others dangled from iron chains above, their flames guttering in the draft. The air felt thick, charged with magic and a strange, unsettling energy that made her skin prickle.

And there, standing waist-deep in the dark, steaming water, was Grindelwald. The faint mist swirled around him like tendrils, twisting upward in unnatural spirals, as if drawn to his very presence. His dark attire was discarded, leaving only a loose, high-collared shirt open at the neck, his silver hair glinting in the candlelight.

He watched her with that same unnerving calm, his mismatched eyes gleaming with anticipation. She couldn’t tell if it was for what he intended to show her, or for how she might respond.

“Come closer,” he called, his voice echoing faintly in the cavern.

She hesitated, instinctively stepping back, but the young man behind her nudged her forward, a silent command. She took a few steps, her pulse racing as she approached the edge of the pool, her eyes fixed on Grindelwald’s unwavering gaze.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, his voice low, resonant. His tone was almost patient, as though he were a teacher instructing a reluctant student.

She clenched her hands, fighting the urge to look away. “You’ve made it clear I’m here for some purpose of yours,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “But if you’re expecting me to help you, you’re wasting your time.”

A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Such defiance… yet I see the fear, too. Don’t mistake this for a negotiation.” He extended a hand, gesturing to the water around him. “This is an ancient place, where truths are revealed and illusions stripped away. The runes on these walls—they bind the past and the future, making them one.”

She glanced around, taking in the intricacy of the symbols, the words she couldn’t quite understand but felt in her bones.

“You,” Grindelwald continued, his voice deepening, “have a gift for bending time, something that cannot be taught. It’s not a skill—it’s a birthright. But you’ve barely scratched its surface.” His gaze bored into her, relentless. “Imagine what you could do if you embraced it fully.”

She swallowed, the allure of his words hitting a nerve despite herself. She had spent years hiding from her power, treating it as something to be feared. The thought of mastering it, of using it freely… it was intoxicating. But she knew the cost, and she knew the price Grindelwald would demand if she let him guide her.

“I don’t need you to show me anything,” she replied, forcing her voice to sound stronger than she felt. “I’m not one of your followers.”

He laughed, a sound that echoed through the cavern like a ripple across the pool. “Oh, but you will be, if only you’d stop resisting the inevitable.” His tone dropped, quiet and insidious. “I don’t seek to control you—I seek to free you. With my help, you could be so much more than you are now.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and she felt the pull of them, the dark promise they held. The mist from the pool curled around her ankles, cold and unsettling, as if trying to drag her in. She took a half-step back, but Grindelwald’s gaze pinned her in place.

“Step into the water,” he commanded, his voice soft but unwavering. “Let me show you what you’re truly capable of.”

The young man behind her stiffened, his hand still on her arm. She could feel his tension, sense his own misgivings. She hesitated, every instinct telling her to run, but there was nowhere to go, no one to save her.

Taking a slow, shuddering breath, she lifted her chin and met Grindelwald’s gaze with a spark of defiance. “You don’t know me,” she whispered.

His smile returned, dark and assured. “I know enough.”

Grindelwald sighed, his patience thinning, and with a flick of his hand, she felt an invisible force grip her ankles, pulling her forward. Her feet slid toward the edge of the pool, her body dragged against her will. She stumbled, nearly losing her balance as she lurched forward, and would have plunged headfirst into the water had he not reached out to catch her.

She found herself mere inches from him, his hands firm on her shoulders, steadying her in the steaming pool. Her breath hitched as she tried to pull back, but his grip held her still, a silent reminder of her lack of control.

The water enveloping her felt strange—warm and almost unnaturally soft, as if the liquid itself were imbued with magic. It didn’t have the usual resistance of water but was light, buoyant, as though it were infused with air or an ethereal energy. Her limbs felt strangely weightless, as if the water were drawing the tension out of her, whispering an invitation to surrender. She tried to shake off the feeling, but the water seeped into her senses, calming her in a way that felt both soothing and deeply unsettling.

“Good,” Grindelwald murmured, his voice low and close. He released her shoulders, but she found she could no longer pull away—the water itself seemed to hold her, keeping her fixed within arm’s reach of him. “This pool is an ancient wellspring,” he explained, his tone almost reverent. “A place where the boundaries between time and space are… thinner.”

She swallowed, feeling the pulse of magic radiating from the depths of the pool, an ancient rhythm that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. The runes on the walls glowed faintly, the candle flames flickering in rhythm, casting the room in an eerie, shifting light.

Grindelwald’s voice softened, coaxing. “Do you feel it?” he asked, watching her intently. “The magic here resonates with yours. It’s responding to you, calling to be unlocked. Your power—your gift with time—is not a curse. Here, it can be freed.”

She clenched her fists, trying to resist the seductive pull of his words. “I don’t want it to be ‘freed.’ I know what happens when I use it. It drains me, takes something from me.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, with a hint of admiration. “You’ve paid a price each time. But that is only because you’re resisting. The strain you feel, the weakness—it’s the cost of denying your power, of fearing it.” His gaze held hers, unyielding. “If you embrace it, I can show you how to wield it without the pain.”

She shook her head, her voice a shaky whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

A smirk flickered across his face, one that sent a chill down her spine. “You will.”

He took a step back, releasing her to the pool’s warm hold. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Feel the flow of time around you—the currents that pull the past, present, and future together. Let go of your fear, and listen.”

Against her better judgment, she allowed her eyelids to flutter shut. In the quiet of the room, she began to sense it—the gentle, thrumming pulse of time itself. It brushed against her, coaxing, drawing her awareness deeper, as though the magic around her sought to reveal something hidden.

A single memory flickered behind her eyes—herself as a child, staring out at a storm from her bedroom window, watching the lightning flash across the sky. But it felt different, as though she were seeing it through a lens, the edges of the memory stretching and shifting like ripples on the water.

She gasped, snapping her eyes open. She was still in the pool, still staring into Grindelwald’s calm, calculating gaze. But her heart raced with a strange, new clarity.

“That,” he said softly, his voice triumphant, “is only the beginning.”

The more she focused, the more the world around her seemed to slow, as if she were no longer part of the usual, rushing current of time. Her breath came shallow and steady as the memory unfolded before her eyes—this time, not as a recollection, but as a living, breathing scene. She was there, back in that room, staring out at the storm as it unfurled across the sky. But it was different now. She wasn’t simply witnessing it��she was inside it.

The speed of light, the invisible pulse that usually went unnoticed, stretched before her like a slow-moving river, its current suddenly visible, tangible. The lightning, which had once been a blur, now arced through the dark clouds with deliberate slowness. Each jagged bolt seemed to freeze midair, the electric fingers of light delicately tracing their path through the sky, the subtle, chaotic dance of energy unraveling with grace.

She could see it now—the delicate tendrils of the lightning as it danced between clouds, the way it arced and coiled with elegance, as if teasing the atmosphere before striking the earth. The details were stunning, each fragment of light flashing with a purity and clarity she’d never noticed before. It was like time had become a stretched canvas, and she was an artist, painting the moment with every breath.

Her heart pounded with a mixture of awe and dread. This was what Grindelwald had been talking about. This was the power she could wield.

Time had slowed—not just the storm, but her own perception of the world around her. It was as though she had gained dominion over the very flow of existence, allowing her to reach into it, manipulate it, feel the edges of every moment. She could almost hear the pull of the future, a faint hum at the edges of her consciousness, but it was distant, faint, like a far-off melody just out of reach.

“You see?” Grindelwald’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it seemed to resonate in the silence of the room. “The lightning, the flow of time—you’re not just watching it anymore. You can bend it, shape it. Control it. You’ve been fighting this gift your whole life, but it’s yours. It always has been.”

The weight of his words pressed down on her, making the air in the room feel thicker. She felt the tension in her chest, the conflicting desires—one part of her wanting to push back, to reject the power he was offering, and another part, a darker part, that wanted to embrace it, to make this feeling of mastery last forever.

She closed her eyes again, focusing on the lightning in the storm. This time, she didn’t just observe—it was as though she reached into the very moment, grasped the flow of time, and gently nudged it. The lightning slowed further, almost to a halt, each bolt hanging in the air like frozen tendrils of raw energy. She felt a rush of exhilaration, as if the power were singing in her veins, urging her to push further, to take control of more than just this small moment.

But then, the exhaustion hit. Her limbs felt heavier, her thoughts sluggish, as though the effort to control time itself was siphoning away the strength from her body. She gasped, the world around her spinning as the weight of her power threatened to crush her.

"Stop," she murmured, not sure if it was a command to herself or a plea to the universe. "It’s too much."

Grindelwald’s face softened slightly, but there was no kindness in his gaze—only the cold calculation of a man who understood the true cost of power.

"You don’t have to fight it," he said, his voice a low murmur in the haze of her growing weariness. "It’s natural. Let it come. The more you struggle against it, the harder it will be."

But she wasn’t sure she wanted to let go—not yet, not until she understood what this power meant, what it could cost. The weight of it—the gift that could bend time and space, change the very fabric of reality—was both an intoxicating temptation and a deadly curse.

Her breath came faster, and she collapsed, her knees buckling beneath her, but Grindelwald’s hand was there, steadying her, guiding her back to the water’s edge. The pool’s warmth soothed her skin, but she could still feel the drain on her body, the toll the magic had taken.

“Don’t worry,” Grindelwald said, his voice low and almost comforting. “You’ll learn to control it. In time.”

-=-

As the large, iron doors to the cavernous room swung shut behind her, the weight of the moment crashed down on her. She had barely stepped away from the pool when it hit—the feeling of being pulled, stretched, as though something deep inside her was being torn and twisted.

Her legs faltered, the ground beneath her swaying like a ship on a turbulent sea. She gasped for breath, but it felt like her lungs were filled with lead, her body slow to respond to her frantic calls.

The storm inside her mind began to churn—chaotic, violent, and all-encompassing. Time seemed to warp around her, the past, present, and future intertwining in a disorienting blur. She could feel the stretch of it, the inexorable pull of it all—the way her very existence seemed to be fraying at the edges, as if something was reaching out from the past and future to claim her. It was unbearable.

A sharp, biting pain shot through her head, and she stumbled forward, her knees hitting the cold stone floor. She gasped, clutching her forehead, but the pain didn’t relent—it twisted deeper, throbbing with a ferocity that made her vision blur. Her senses distorted, as though she were being stretched thin across dimensions she didn’t understand.

Then, she felt it—the unmistakable, coppery taste of blood, coating the back of her throat. She swiped her hand up to her nose, only to find it slick and warm with blood. The taste was sharp, metallic, and it lingered on her tongue as the world around her tilted again. She could feel the slow drip, drip, drip as it ran down her chin, but she couldn’t summon the energy to care.

A panic rose in her chest, a familiar, suffocating feeling, but there was no time to dwell on it. The power she had summoned was pulling at her—no, tearing at her. The same magic that had seduced her moments ago now felt like a cruel, invisible predator, feeding off her strength, her very essence.

She wanted to fight it. Wanted to stand, to scream at the unseen force that had intervened. But she couldn’t. The exhaustion was too deep, and the world outside her thoughts felt so distant. All she could do was surrender to it, let the stillness wash over her, and drift back into the fragile safety of unconsciousness.

The air was thick with an unsettling silence as she entered the dungeon once more, the sound of her footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. The Qilin, nestled in her arms, seemed to sense the heaviness of the atmosphere, its golden eyes alert and focused on the darkness that stretched before them. She tried to steady her breathing, though the last time she had been here had left a deep mark on her—one she couldn’t easily shake. Her heart pounded in her chest, her body stiff with anticipation, unsure of what Grindelwald would do this time.

When she reached the edge of the pool, the familiar sight of Grindelwald standing there, waist-deep in the water, met her eyes. There was no warmth in his presence, just the cold, calculating figure of a man who knew the power he held. His mismatched eyes tracked her movements as she carefully set the Qilin down beside the pool, making sure it was comfortable, its golden fur gleaming in the low light.

The Qilin nuzzled her leg, sensing her anxiety, but it trusted her—of that, she was certain, she could feel it.

Grindelwald’s voice broke the silence, smooth as silk but carrying the weight of authority, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving the creature. “Let’s see if it will bow to me.”

Her stomach twisted, dread creeping in. She had seen the Qilin’s response to his command before—this creature was not one to bend its will easily. But something inside her told her that Grindelwald had no interest in simply observing the creature’s obedience. This was a test of something far darker.

The Qilin, in its quiet grace, remained still beside her, eyes meeting Grindelwald’s with a gentle yet resolute gaze. It didn’t bow, not even in the face of his persistent command.

Grindelwald’s lips curled into a smile, a smile that sent a chill down her spine. He stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate. She felt the first pangs of panic rising within her chest, but she couldn’t move—she was rooted to the spot, watching in helpless horror.

With a flick of his hand, Grindelwald effortlessly lifted the Qilin from the ground, cradling it with an eerie tenderness. She could feel the air crackling, thick with his dark magic, as he moved it closer to the edge of the pool.

The Qilin’s eyes were wide, but there was no fear in them—just an unspoken understanding. It was no longer a creature to him; it had become a pawn, a test of power and control.

“No...” she whispered, but the words were barely a sound, lost in the cavernous space.

Grindelwald’s grip tightened, his other hand drawing a sharp, dark blade from his side. Her breath hitched, her mind unable to process the scene unfolding before her.

In one fluid motion, he slashed the blade across the Qilin’s throat. Blood—dark and thick—spilled into the water, staining it with the tragic finality of the act. The creature’s body jerked, its golden fur slicked with crimson, its once gentle eyes now dimming in the flickering light.

She couldn’t breathe. The scream tore itself from her chest, raw and anguished, as the horror of the act gripped her in a vice of terror and disbelief.

“No!” she cried, her voice breaking, her legs giving way beneath her as she collapsed to the cold stone floor. The world spun around her, and the only sound she could hear was the deafening rush of her pulse, drowning out everything else.

Grindelwald stood there, watching her with cold indifference, his expression unreadable. The pool rippled with the creature’s blood, the steam rising in soft tendrils as if mocking her pain.

She couldn’t stop shaking. Her hands reached out in desperation, as though she could reverse what had happened, as if she could undo the horror in front of her. But there was no undoing it. The creature—the one being that had trusted her, the one she had cared for—was gone, its life snuffed out in an instant, just as Grindelwald had always intended.

“I warned you,” Grindelwald’s voice was a whisper, a cruel murmur. “You’ve shown me what I needed to see. It was never about the creature’s obedience. It was always about your reaction.”

Grindelwald’s gaze flickered, just for a moment, but he said nothing as she crawled to the lifeless Qilin, her hands trembling with the weight of her grief. The sight of the blood-streaked creature in her arms was enough to break something deep within her. The softness of its golden scales now dulled, the warmth that had once radiated from its body gone, leaving only the chilling finality of death.

She cradled it tightly against her chest, her hands trembling violently as she pressed the still form of the Qilin to her, not caring that its blood smeared her clothes, not caring that the water swirled with crimson. Her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t allow them to fall just yet. She was choking on the words, on the unbearable truth.

"You... You know I can't make a Qilin bow to you," she muttered, her voice barely more than a strained whisper. The weight of those words hung between them, heavy and bitter. “It only bows to the purest souls.”

Grindelwald remained silent, his expression unreadable as he watched her. He had already won. He knew she was right. The Qilin didn’t bow to anyone who wasn’t worthy—its very nature was to serve only those it deemed pure. And it had chosen her, not him.

The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow. The creature, in all its majesty, had trusted her. It had come to her for care, for protection, and in return, she had failed it. She had failed them both.

Her heart clenched as she felt the last remnants of warmth fade from the Qilin’s body. She could almost hear the thrum of its heartbeat, as though it were still alive, still trusting her. But it wasn’t. It was gone.

The sound of Grindelwald’s boots on the stone floor was almost too much for her to bear, his presence still looming over her like a shadow, suffocating and unyielding. She didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t. She was too lost in her grief, in the ache of the moment, the horror of what had just transpired.

Grindelwald stepped closer, his voice cutting through the silence. "Your bond with it was never meant to be permanent," he said, the words dripping with a cold, calculated detachment. "You were meant to be tested. To see if you would break."

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stop shaking. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break completely, not when she still had some measure of strength left—some thread of defiance that refused to be snapped. She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself, but her hands, still clutching the Qilin’s lifeless form, betrayed her.

"I did not break," she said, her voice cracking, though she did her best to make it sound firm, defiant. "But you—you broke it. You broke everything."

The words hung in the air, charged with the weight of her sorrow and anger. The Qilin was dead, and there was no bringing it back, but in this moment, she refused to let him erase the bond they had shared. She wouldn’t let him twist it into something he could control.

Grindelwald’s eyes flickered, a momentary flash of something—amusement?—crossing his face. But it was fleeting, quickly replaced by that same, unyielding coldness.

"You still don’t understand, do you?" he asked, his voice smooth but tinged with an edge of condescension. "The Qilin’s purity means nothing. It’s only power, in the end. And you will never see it for what it truly is—just another tool, just another piece to play with."

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with both grief and rage, but she didn’t reply. There was nothing more to say to him, nothing that would make him see beyond his own twisted vision. He had always been this way, ever since the first time she had met him—manipulative, calculating, and utterly indifferent to anything that didn’t serve his purpose.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, instinctively trying to grasp onto something—anything—to undo the damage that had been done. Her heart pounded in her chest, desperation fueling her every movement. The faint flicker of magic surged through her, drawing on the little she had left, the magic of time that she had hidden and rarely used.

With a quiet breath, she focused, her mind locked on the Qilin’s still body. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew she could bring it back. She had to.

She drew a deep breath, pushing the limits of her magic, feeling the familiar weight of time pull at her. The green glow surrounded her hands, swirling around her fingertips, coalescing into a shimmering ring that encircled the Qilin’s neck. She could feel the strain, the way time fought against her, as if it knew she wasn’t supposed to be tampering with it. But she had to—she had to try.

Her voice barely a whisper, she muttered the incantation, the words feeling like they were made of sheer willpower alone. “Revertus Temporis…”

The magic pulsed with energy, a soft, crackling ring of green light flickering around the Qilin’s body. Her heart leaped for a second as she thought she felt something shift. The warm glow of the Qilin’s fur seemed to flicker in the dim light, as if it might just come back to life. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the ring sputtered, fading into nothing.

Time didn’t bend to her will. The green glow faded to nothingness, leaving her only with the weight of her failure.

Grindelwald watched her, his expression unreadable, but there was a certain awareness in his eyes. He knew what she had tried to do. He knew what she had attempted—and he knew it had failed.

“Time isn’t something you can control,” he said, his voice cold and almost pitying. “Especially not for something as insignificant as this.”

She buried her face in the Qilin’s body, her shoulders shaking with muffled cries, a sound that carried the weight of every ounce of pain she had felt since the moment she had been taken. The blood that stained her clothes, the blood that stained the creature in her arms—it didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. She was powerless. The magic, the one thing that had always been a part of her, was slipping through her fingers, just like everything else in her life.

The sorrow that gripped her chest was suffocating, and the weight of her failure—her inability to bring back the creature she had loved and cared for—seemed too much to bear. The tears flowed freely, mixing with the blood on her hands, and she didn’t even try to stop them. She had no fight left in her, no strength to pull herself from the despair that enveloped her.

Grindelwald’s gaze remained fixed on her, sharp and calculating, his cold eyes never leaving her. His voice was soft, almost an afterthought as he spoke again, “You failed. And yet, there is something... compelling about you. A hidden strength that, even now, you refuse to acknowledge.”

She didn’t look up at him. The last thing she wanted was to hear his voice, to feel his presence any longer. His words were hollow, cruel, and they only deepened the wound she had been left with.

Instead, she remained cradling the Qilin, the weight of its lifeless form in her arms as she let her sobs echo in the cavernous space, the silence of the dungeon pressing in from all sides.

She had failed, and nothing in this broken world could fix it.

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