Grindelwald is humming again. Low, tuneless, a whisper of menace in it.

The fire is almost out. Burned low in the grate, it’s more ash than flame now, but the coals still glow dull and red like dying eyes. The room stinks of wax and burnt parchment. Someone screamed here earlier. It might’ve been hours ago—it’s hard to tell. The air has gone heavy and syrup-slow. It presses against the skin like wet velvet.

Gellert lounges, half-draped across a chair too fine for how he uses it. The back’s carved from dark wood, the arms stained darker still. His boots are up on the table, spattered with soot and—possibly—blood. His wand spins lazily between his fingers. Every few seconds, it sparks, like it’s bored too.

He smiles, slow and crooked, like the smile is just for him. It isn’t.

You’re kneeling by the hearth. Not because you have to. You just always end up there. Closer to him. Closer to that thrumming, crackling, sickening brilliance he carries in him like a curse.

He watches you like a cat might watch a mouse. Or like a man watches the flame that won’t quite go out. Fascinated. Dangerous.

“Out of all of them,” he says finally, as if you’d been talking, “you’re the most interesting little monster.”

Your fingers pause on the old spellbook you’d been sorting. The compliment burns hotter than the fire.

He doesn’t blink. “They follow me because they’re frightened. Or hopeful. Or both. But you… you’re here because you like it. The blood, the fire, the ruin. Don’t you, liebling?”

The word shouldn’t sound soft. Not when it comes from his mouth.

You turn to look at him. There’s dirt on your face, a smear of something dark across your cheekbone, and your hands shake a little when you push your hair back. But your eyes—your eyes are fevered things. Bright, sharp, too alive.

He sees it. Of course he does. He feeds off it.

“Magizoologist,” he says, like it’s a joke, something obscene. “Maker of wands. Tamer of beasts. I wonder which of those you’ve truly become.”

You smirk. He loves that. Oh, he loves that.

“You’ve bled for me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Killed for me. You’d carve your heart out, if I asked.” His gaze slides over you, slow and almost fond. “You’re devoted. Twisted. Nearly more than I am.”

The wand stills in his fingers. His voice drops to a whisper.

“It’s thrilling, having that kind of hold over something like you.”

He stands. There’s a sweep of his coat, a clink of his rings as he steps forward, and then he’s crouching in front of you, the firelight casting shadows in the hollows of his face. His hand cups your chin, thumb dragging over your lip like he’s considering erasing your mouth entirely.

“You belong near me,” he says. It isn’t a question.

His other hand presses to your chest, over your heartbeat, like he’s measuring the rhythm of your loyalty.

“I like you close,” he breathes. “Where I can watch what you become next.”