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Naruto: Uchiha Shiroge Rebellion
The sky was as heavy and dark as asphalt.
Torrential rain poured down the Alps like a flood. When lightning tore through the clouds, the entire tower seemed to scream under the Cruciatus Curse, its wail rolling through the impenetrable darkness with the thunder.
Near the top of the tower—less than twenty feet from the lightning rod—an industrious rat squeezed out of a crack in the stone. Its tail was a dark-red, hairless rope of flesh. There was almost no muscle on its body, making it look lean and efficient.
It moved swiftly across the narrow stone ledge, nose twitching constantly, sniffing the air for any scent of food. Even in this remote, barren tower, it occasionally found rich scraps.
"Squeak squeak…" The rat was full of hope.
Every so often an owl post bird would land on the ledge. Bits of dried meat and nuts that fell from their packages were rare delicacies.
Just as the rat passed the window of a cell, its tail suddenly twitched, as if something had grabbed it.
The rat darted forward several steps to safety, then spun around, arching its back, whiskers and fur bristling in full alert.
But there was nothing behind it—only the faint, vine-like traces of runes carved into the granite. When lightning flashed, a weak phosphorescent glow flowed along the lines, giving them an oddly classical, painterly beauty.
"Squeak?" The rat looked confused.
There were almost no other creatures in this prison. No cats, snakes, owls, or hawks—natural predators. Even lizards, newts, and spiders were rare. Only two guards patrolled twice a day, and the gaunt old wizard huddled in the corner like a ghoul, never moving.
The guards didn't eat in the prison, and the prisoners' food tasted like mud, so the rat had no interest in them.
Just as the rat began to lower its guard, its tail jerked upright again. This time it had no chance to struggle or escape. An invisible force gripped its tail and lifted the entire rat into the air.
"Squeak! Squeak!" The rat flailed its limbs wildly.
It tried to look up and see its attacker, but its short, thick neck wouldn't allow it. It could only twist its head toward the window, hoping to catch a reflection.
The old, weathered glass was covered in scratches and showed nothing.
At that moment several small stones floated up, their edges sharpening into blades. They pressed against the skin of the rat's neck and slowly began to cut.
With a more piercing squeal, crimson beads of blood welled up, faster and faster, until they formed a thin stream that ran down the window and along the tower's outer wall—only to be instantly washed away by the pouring rain.
When the rat finally stopped moving, the window was pushed open. A hand as dry and rough as tree bark reached out. One hand seized the dangling rat corpse, while the other used the stone blade to begin processing it.
A small cut was made along the midline, then a sharp tug. A slightly damaged rat skin was peeled off.
The remaining bloody red meat was tied at the neck with a few strands of dry straw and hung from the window to dangle.
After that, the hand reached out again, washing the blood off in the rain. The old wizard coughed twice, shuffled back to the corner, and pulled the thin, filthy blanket over himself.
Several pale marks stained the floor of the spacious cell—worn smooth by years of pacing. Several windows were present, and from each hung similar rat corpses. Some had dried completely; others still showed traces of fresh blood.
Rats were rare, valuable material in Nurmengard. Their skins could be dried and used as parchment. Their meat could feed the owls and serve as postage. Occasionally they even attracted birds, whose meat made a decent meal.
The only drawback was the smell. Dead rats gave off a foul odor. But Grindelwald didn't mind. After so many years here, he had grown used to it.
"Hey, sir! Caught another one?"
A young guard's voice called from outside the cell. There was no malice in the tone—actually a hint of friendliness.
"Yes, indeed. Lady Luck smiled on me."
Grindelwald was happy to reply. In this remote tower, having someone to talk to was rather pleasant.
The first few years of his imprisonment had not been pleasant. The International Confederation of Wizards and the Austrian Ministry had kept him under strict watch. The guards had been veteran Aurors with decades of experience who liked to make trouble. They would burst into his cell every few days, looking for excuses to greet him with their fists.
Victims' families would sometimes come to the prison, screaming hysterically things like "You killed my husband!" or "You killed my son!"—or other relatives whose names he didn't even remember.
A few more years passed. The beatings and the families gradually decreased. The Confederation wizards withdrew. The Austrian Ministry wizards remained wary and would occasionally storm in to inspect the arithmancy notes he scratched on the walls with charcoal.
Decades went by. Even that behavior slowly faded.
Not everyone had abundant magic or a long lifespan. The wizards who had lived through that era grew old and disappeared. They retired and left this place of old wounds behind, replaced by fresh-faced young wizards.
These young wizards had freckles, thick hair with no sign of balding, and voices full of energetic confidence. They radiated youthful vitality at all times.
To Grindelwald, these unpolished young wizards were easy to read. Stirring their emotions and desires came as naturally to him as it had decades earlier. If he wished, he could gather a new group of followers and leave Nurmengard at any time.
But he remembered his promise to Albus and had behaved himself for decades.
His old followers, however, were not so patient. They had already quietly approached the young wizards. Miss Vida was still as capable as ever. Without anyone noticing, she had drawn some of the young guards into the Saints. They brought him newspapers and food, passed on news from the outside world, and urged him to leave the tower.
"By the way, sir, Aunt Vida asked me to ask you again about that matter."
"Tell her to give it up, Bruno."
"Oh…"
The guard's footsteps faded. Grindelwald remained unmoved.
The prison fell silent again, as if the earlier screams and conversation had never happened. Looking out the window, there was only jagged cliff and vast plain.
The view was beautiful, but he had grown tired of it in the first year.
Besides the endless silence, there was nothing here to pass the time. He could only find comfort in memories of the past. That was what Albus wanted him to do. But the stingy man wouldn't even provide a Pensieve.
Grindelwald could only rummage through his own mind for recollections. For a hundred-year-old wizard, this was difficult work. The images of the past did not line up neatly according to his wishes.
The ones that surfaced first were usually from before he started at Durmstrang—buying school supplies with excitement, choosing his wand at the wand shop, the one he had found before going to Gregorovitch in Germany.
Then came the toad he kept as a child, the cover (but not the contents) of a dark magic book, a wooden artwork on the wall of a Muggle house he had raided years ago, and the innocent eyes of a two-year-old child facing his Killing Curse.
Often he had to search for a long time before his memory would precisely return to the summer he was seventeen—after being expelled from Durmstrang, he had gone to stay with Aunt Bathilda to clear his mind and met a kind neighboring family.
Some memories played over and over in his mind until they wore thin and lost their color. People always said that frequent recollection strengthened memories, but Grindelwald knew that was a lie. Recollection only caused them to fade.
With a secret hope, he wrote to Albus, hoping the letters would help preserve some of the memories that were slipping away.
"Hoot…"
An owl fluttered down to the windowsill, feathers soaked and plastered to its body. It shivered but kept the letter dry. Grindelwald felt a touch of genuine emotion. It wasn't easy for a bird to reach Nurmengard in such a downpour.
He moved to the window a little faster than usual, took the envelope, and gently stroked the owl's wing. A warm current of magic enveloped it, driving away the moisture.
The owl rubbed against his palm, gave two happy hoots, and hopped off to enjoy the skinned rat meat.
Grindelwald weighed the envelope in his hand and looked at the front. A flicker of unease replaced his earlier anticipation. This was the same letter he had sent months ago.
He quickly flipped it over. A note was attached to the back:
Letter Returned:
Recipient: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore — Deceased.
With Condolences
Owl Post Office
Ministry of Magic
Lightning split the sky. Grindelwald's face turned deathly pale. His eyes went blank. The faded, distorted memories in his mind surged forward all at once, nearly causing him to drop the letter.
A moment later he took a deep breath of the damp air and raised his voice:
"Bruno! Bruno!"
...
Hogwarts, evening.
Four long oak tables stood in the center of the Great Hall. Students who had been apart all summer sat around them, faces bright with smiles.
Everyone wore the standard black robes with their House animal crest on the chest. The hems and sleeves still carried dried water stains.
The Hogwarts Express had just pulled into the dark Hogsmeade station under a heavy downpour. As usual, the first-years followed Hagrid across the lake by boat, while second-years and above rode the Thestrals in carriages through the rain.
Students sat below. Professors and the Headmaster sat at the high table. The magical ceiling showed the same stormy sky as outside—lightning flashing, thunder rolling—but the bright torches and candles softened the glare of the lightning, and the thunder was drowned out by the cheerful noise.
A few students, however, weren't focused on catching up with friends. Harry, for example, sat near the back of the Gryffindor table, looking up at the professors on the high table.
Short Professor Flitwick sat on a pile of cushions. Professor Sprout was whispering with Professor Sinistra. Snape still wore his usual cold, expressionless face…
"Why isn't there a new face? Where's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Hermione was also scanning the high table.
There was no sign of Professor Lupin. He really had resigned and wasn't coming back.
There was no sign of Sirius either. So this year's Defense professor clearly wasn't him.
Harry looked disappointed as his gaze settled on the center of the high table, where Headmaster Dumbledore sat.
His flowing silver hair and beard gleamed in the candlelight. His magnificent deep-green robes were embroidered with stars and moons. He looked up slightly at the magical ceiling, his clear blue eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles.
He looked every inch the legendary wizard.
But the image shattered quickly. Dumbledore seemed to hear something funny from Professor Levent and let out a loud, undignified laugh. Then he picked up a full mug of beer, drained it in one go, and gave a satisfied sigh, completely ignoring the foam clinging to his beard.
Even the lecherous old wizards at the Three Broomsticks bar wouldn't drink so shamelessly.
"…"
Many students fell silent. After just one summer, it felt like something about Dumbledore had changed in ways they didn't understand.
Harry was thinking the same thing. Should he tell Dumbledore about that strange dream from before term started? It didn't feel very reliable.
This year's Welcoming Feast felt a little strange. The seat for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor remained empty throughout the Sorting Ceremony.
Before the feast began there was usually a short speech from the Headmaster. Dumbledore behaved exactly as he always did—he kept it brief and simply told everyone to eat first.
After the feast came the most important part: the Headmaster's announcements.
The clock struck on time. Dessert plates were cleared in an instant, the last crumbs vanishing until the plates sparkled again. Professor McGonagall tapped her goblet with a spoon. The buzzing conversations in the hall stopped at once.
But the person who stood up wasn't Dumbledore. It was Professor Levent beside him!
"Ahem…"
Melvin cleared his throat. The Headmaster already had enough cracks in his disguise. They could still pass it off as Dumbledore being eccentric. If he stood up and said something truly strange, the entire undercover plan might collapse.
"Welcome back to Hogwarts! Now that we've all eaten and drunk our fill, following tradition, I will read out a few notices for the new school year and inform the first-years of some basic rules."
"No student is allowed near the Forbidden Forest at the edge of the grounds. Students below third year are not permitted to visit Hogsmeade village…"
"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has added new items to the list of prohibited objects, including Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and multi-strike boomerangs—437 new joke-shop products in total. The complete list is in Mr. Filch's office. Anyone interested may check it there."
The first announcements were met with normal reactions. When the prohibited items list was mentioned, George and Fred suddenly clapped and cheered. The number of new banned items was smaller than they had predicted.
That meant Filch had missed some. The twins would be bringing a few items not on the list to school this year.
Mr. Filch's face darkened.
Professor McGonagall's mouth twitched. Melvin continued reading the notices: "Additionally, there will be no Quidditch House Cup this year. I believe some of you have already heard the news. With the help of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, we will be restarting the Triwizard Tournament in October."
Some students who hadn't heard the rumor opened their eyes wide, ready to ask questions. But the next piece of news left them speechless.
"At that time, students from Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang will come to Hogwarts to compete alongside us and determine the champion of the Quadwizard Tournament!"