New York City – A Small Café.
"It seems that as you grow older, your eyes have indeed begun to fail, Albus."
Grindelwald's voice was laced with sarcasm as he gazed at the old man seated across from him.
The café was elegantly decorated, a refined establishment with soft lighting and gentle classical music playing in the background.
Under normal circumstances, a place like this should have been bustling with customers.
Yet—
It was empty.
Only two figures sat at a center table, locked in quiet conversation.
Dumbledore, dressed in a deep blue wizarding robe speckled with stars, looked as composed as ever.
His rosy complexion and sharp, piercing gaze showed no sign of age weakening him.
He ignored Grindelwald's taunts, merely lifting his coffee cup to his lips for a slow sip.
A slight grimace crossed his face—
Too bitter.
With a small gesture, a handful of white sugar cubes appeared in his palm. He gently scattered them into the dark liquid, watching as they dissolved.
Grindelwald said nothing, merely taking another sip of his own coffee, seemingly enjoying its bitterness.
It wasn't until the sugar had fully melted that Dumbledore picked up his cup again.
This time, as he took a sip, his frown eased.
"Gallert," he said softly, his voice thoughtful, "sometimes I wonder… how wonderful it would be if coffee could be sweet without adding sugar."
Grindelwald's lips curled slightly.
"I prefer my coffee bitter," he replied coldly.
"It reminds me of something important."
He set his cup down with a soft clink, then lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Dumbledore.
His voice grew heavier, his words deliberate.
"It reminds me—"
"Of reality."
"Of truth."
"Of the enemy."
Dumbledore's brows furrowed, the sweetness of his coffee no longer enough to soften his expression.
Then—
He sighed.
"I know about Lockhart."
His voice was calm, but his words struck like thunder.
Grindelwald's hand froze midair, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup.
However, his expression remained neutral.
Instead, he simply tilted his head, watching Dumbledore with intrigue.
"When did you realize it?" he asked, as if mildly curious.
Dumbledore pondered the question for a moment before speaking.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "from the moment Lockhart introduced meditation to Hogwarts."
"The slogans he shouted back then… they already held clues."
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow.
"Slogans?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes gleamed, reflecting the warm café light.
His voice was soft, tinged with nostalgia.
"Make wizards great again."
Silence.
For a long moment, Grindelwald simply stared at him.
Back then, he had heard the phrase, but he had thought nothing of it.
It was too grand, too empty, too hollow.
And later, Lockhart rarely repeated it, making it easy to dismiss.
But looking back now—
Lockhart had introduced meditation, founded Kamar Taj, and created Wizard Pay.
He was making that slogan a reality.
"Then," Dumbledore continued, his voice steady, "came the Gringotts incident—the theft of Tom Riddle's Hufflepuff Cup."
"I didn't know who was responsible at the time."
"But now, in hindsight, it had to be connected to Lockhart."
Grindelwald said nothing, merely listening.
"As for the meditation method he introduced…"
"I searched Hogwarts' Heritage Library, scoured its records, but found nothing similar in history."
"Something so revolutionary, yet it seemed to have no origins."
"I even asked Lockhart himself for an explanation."
"And?"
"He gave me none that was convincing."
Dumbledore smiled slightly, but there was no warmth in it.
"But I didn't press further," he admitted.
Grindelwald's fingers tapped lightly on the table.
"Why?"
"Why didn't you press further, Albus?"
It was a simple question, but its implications were heavy.
The answer was obvious.
Grindelwald's voice dropped slightly, his tone cold and knowing.
"Because Lockhart never interfered with your interests."
Dumbledore didn't flinch.
Instead, he nodded.
"Precisely."
"He never threatened Hogwarts."
"He never killed indiscriminately or spread fear like Tom."
"He didn't create chaos in the wizarding world—he maintained order."
"And everything he has done so far has only benefited wizards."
Dumbledore met Grindelwald's gaze, his blue eyes calm and resolute.
"Why, then, should I stop him?"
Grindelwald remained silent.
Dumbledore took another sip of his coffee, as if savoring its sweetened taste.
But the silence between them was no longer comfortable.
Finally, Grindelwald spoke.
"Then tell me, Albus—"
"Why did you leave Hogwarts? Why did you leave England and come to America?"
The question was direct.
Grindelwald had suspicions now.
Was Dumbledore working with Lockhart?
Had they secretly aligned to manipulate the chessboard?
Everything seemed too coincidental.
Two Voldemorts warring in Europe.
The Goblin King Turan holding power in America.
And now, Lockhart, alone in Britain, with no one opposing him.
Was this all planned?
Grindelwald's right hand, which rested on the table, tightened slightly.
If necessary, he was ready to act.
He wouldn't allow himself to be outmaneuvered.
But—
Dumbledore only chuckled.
Then, with deliberate ease, he took another long sip of his coffee.
"Relax, Gallert."
"I have not allied with Lockhart."
Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, watching closely.
Dumbledore slowly placed his cup back down and exhaled.
"My reason for leaving Hogwarts had nothing to do with goblins—"
He paused, his expression growing thoughtful.
"It was because of a man."
"No—" he corrected himself.
"Not a man—a portrait."
Grindelwald's brow furrowed.
"A… portrait?"
Dumbledore's voice lowered, almost reverent.
"A ghost, if you will."
"A man you should have heard of."
"One of the four founders of Hogwarts."
"Salazar Slytherin."
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