Chapter 148: Durmstrang
“Nurmengard Castle?” Jon couldn’t help but exclaim in surprise.
“Yes… Nurmengard Castle in Austria.” Albus Dumbledore’s voice was remarkably calm. “That castle holds but one prisoner—Gellert Grindelwald.”
“...” Jon felt momentarily speechless. He tentatively asked, “But… you called Grindelwald… your friend?”
“Indeed. Gellert and I shared a very close past. Though we parted ways soon after, there’s no point in hiding it.” Dumbledore explained as he poured the silvery-white wisps from the crystal vial into the Pensieve.
“I don’t believe I have many years left. Once I’m gone, it’s inevitable that some opportunist will dig up that past. So don’t be too surprised—you were bound to know eventually.”
His face seemed to grow more lined, older still.
The silver-white threads within the Pensieve slowly shifted, forming into the handsome face of a young man.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” Dumbledore urged. “We should go inside.”
As he spoke, he lowered his head, his body gradually vanishing until he was fully submerged in the Pensieve. Jon hesitated a moment, then followed, feeling a wave of icy cold wash over him before he too slipped into the memory.
...
Jon found himself beside Dumbledore in a frozen wasteland, facing a vast, seemingly bottomless lake.
A thick sheet of ice covered the lake, but near the shore a large hole had been cut through it. To the right of the opening, a crowd of people huddled together, speaking amongst themselves.
They were broad-shouldered, clad in heavy black fur cloaks and bearskin hats—the unmistakable garb of Durmstrang students.
“This is Durmstrang,” Dumbledore explained. “On the southern edge of the Scandinavian Peninsula, the northern shore of Lake Vänern, near Grums...”
As he spoke, Dumbledore gave Jon a mischievous wink. “Durmstrang prides itself on concealing its location. They even cast Memory Charms on every visitor. But such measures alone are far from enough.”
Bubbles suddenly gurgled up from the hole in the ice. The Durmstrang students rushed over, and Dumbledore turned his gaze that way as well.
A moment later, a lithe figure burst out of the water.
He wore nothing but a pair of trunks, his muscles flushed crimson from the freezing lake.
The surrounding Durmstrang students erupted into cheers.
Several boys threw a fur cloak over his shoulders, while a girl handed him a wand.
“The Bathing Ritual,” Dumbledore explained gently. “A thousand-year tradition at Durmstrang, held every year on December 13th, the Festival of Lucia. All participants must dive into the freezing waters of Lake Vänern, stripped of their wands and all clothing.
“They must endure the cold while fending off whatever unknown creatures lurk beneath the ice. The student who endures the longest is crowned ‘Freyr’ if male, or ‘Freya’ if female.’ Their status is equivalent to the Head Boy or Head Girl at Hogwarts.”
Jon finally understood why Krum and the other older Durmstrang boys all looked like hulking brutes.
He studied the youth who had just emerged from the water. He looked far more delicate than Krum and his lot—still young, maybe only a year or two older than Jon himself. At most a fourth- or fifth-year.
His face was familiar—the same one Jon had just seen in the Pensieve.
The Durmstrang students surrounding him began chanting a name.
Though the words were in Danish, the pronunciation was unmistakable.
The name was—
“Gellert Grindelwald!”
...
Jon watched as the young Grindelwald, surrounded by his peers, placed a wreath of green branches upon his head.
That must be the symbol of becoming Durmstrang’s student leader.
Together, they set off across the ice, heading for the center of the lake.
Grindelwald walked at the head of the procession, the wreath on his head.
The ice grew thinner beneath their steps, creaking under the weight of the students.
When the shore was little more than a blur behind them, Jon heard a deafening crack.
A massive fissure split across the ice. Yet the Durmstrang students pressed forward as if nothing were wrong.
The fracture widened until, with a resounding splash, the slab carrying them gave way and sank into the dark waters.
A breeze rippled across the surface, and the lake froze once more. The ice restored itself as though nothing had ever happened.
“So that means...” Jon blinked in astonishment.
“Durmstrang lies beneath Lake Vänern,” Dumbledore remarked with casual ease. “You should have guessed when you saw that oversized, rather ridiculous ship—it’s the perfect way to avoid Muggle eyes. Now, hold onto my arm, Jon.”
...
A dizzying rush swept over him. Ten seconds later, the scene sharpened again.
Before them stood a castle—an underwater castle.
It was encased in a vast bubble, with schools of fish swimming beyond its shimmering barrier.
Smaller than Hogwarts, certainly—but no less imposing.
The Durmstrang students, led by Gellert Grindelwald, still marched in formation.
They passed through an arched gate bearing the school’s crest: a double-headed eagle and a stag’s head, surrounded by runes spelling out “Durmstrang.”
They continued on until they halted before a great wall.
Upon it was a vast symbol: a triangle, a circle, and a vertical line combined into one.
“Halt, my brothers and sisters!” Grindelwald, crowned with his branch-wreath, turned and called out. His voice was youthful, yet carried a gravity beyond his years.
Author's Note
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