Chapter 37

The cell was not as Harry had imagined it would be. He had expected a dark, nasty place: damp and smelly as well, with unpleasant insects crawling about. But the room would have been bright had the day not been so overcast, for the cell had large windows on three sides, giving a view of the sky and sea when the clouds permitted. The furniture was sparse: a bed, a small desk and chair along with a bookshelf was all the room contained.

A gaunt, aged man sat cross-legged in a far corner, leaning over a sheet of paper. The fingers of his right hand were black, and as Harry and Skeeter stared, the reason for this was made plain. Grindelwald reached out his hand, and dipped it in an over-sized inkwell, and with his hand wet and dripping ink, began to finger-paint on the sheet before him, humming idly to himself as he did so. He drew quickly, carelessly filling the sheet with large, nonsensical symbols. In very little time the page was full. Grindelwald moved the paper aside, and picked up another blank sheet to start again. Harry noticed a tall stack of papers nearby, and realized with sadness that the aged dark lord must have been working in this way for some hours.

The room was almost silent, only the faint crash of waves intruding from outside. Skeeter was conscious of the sound of her own breathing, and the cheerful humming of the prisoner, the sound completely incongruous with his circumstances. The almost-silence preyed upon her, but Skeeter somehow felt it was appropriate for Grindelwald to speak first. The old man filled up another sheet with his pointless scribbles, and then looked up, as if he had only just realized he had visitors.

"Jag Grindelwald. Välkommen till mitt hem."

Skeeter was horrified. It had never occurred to her that she would be unable to communicate with the man. Had her trip here been a waste of time? Her confusion showed, and Grindelwald spoke again.

"Snakker du Norweigan?"

The strange, harsh sounds washed over Skeeter and Harry, and they remained mute.

"Vielleicht haben Sie Deutsch sprechen," said Grindelwald.

"I only speak English," said Skeeter.

"How typical," replied Grindelwald, his accent that of a native speaker. "I suppose nothing has changed. If you meet a European and he speaks but one language, he's sure to be English."

"I'm sorry," said Skeeter, not sure why she was apologizing. "It looks like we were interrupting your artwork."

"It is not art," said Grindelwald. "It is a work I am writing modestly entitled (here Grindelwald spoke again in a harsh-sounding foreign language), and then added for his guests' benefit, "In your language, 'A History of Mankind'."

"The title sounds like German, but your writing doesn't look German," said Skeeter. "May I have a look?"

Grindelwald passed her one of the sheets that had dried. Skeeter peered closely at the sheet, and not being able make anything of it, showed it to Harry.

"I only speak English," said Harry. "And Parseltongue of course, but I can't read Parseltongue."

Grindelwald stood, surprisingly spy for someone his age. "It is not in Parseltongue," he said. "It's in Phoenician."

"But that's a dead language," said Skeeter. "There has been no speaker of Phoenician for thousands of years, ever since the Romans crushed the Carthaginians in the Third Punic War. All that remains of it is the alphabet and a few words."

"I am amused that you would contradict me," said Grindelwald. "Would you permit me to refute you? I would have to approach you to do so." Skeeter nodded, and the thin, old man stepped up to her, taking her hands in his. He stared into her eyes, and then, letting go of her hands, placed his fingertips on her temples. His touch was infinitely gentle, and Skeeter felt only the slightest pressure. The aged wizard then stepped back.

"Please examine the paper again," he instructed.

Skeeter lifted the sheet up and stared at it. The meaning lept out at her from the page, as easily as if it had been in her native language. She read aloud the contents in what she knew to be flawless Phoenician.

"You were wrong, Ms. Skeeter," said Grindelwald in the same language. "I knew there was one speaker, you said there was none, and now there are two."

"I was wrong," acknowledged Skeeter, feeling she must reply in Phoenician since she had been addressed in that language. "In your presence I will be careful about uttering declaratory sentences."

Grindelwald smiled, noticing that Skeeter had used the form of address appropriate when an inferior was speaking to a superior, the first time he had been so addressed in any language since 1945.

"Thank you," he said, switching to English for the benefit of the young parselmouth who could not have followed the earlier exchange, he not having yet been admitted to the very exclusive Phoenician speakers club. "I notice that you expressed no surprise that I know your name."

"I assumed you had learned it, and perhaps much more, when you placed your hands on my head," replied Skeeter. "Would it be out of place for me to ask a question?"

"Not at all," said Grindelwald. "After all, that is one reason why you came here." He bade his guests sit on the floor, and then, pulling up the room's only chair, sat near them.

"How many languages do you speak?" asked Skeeter.

"All of them," said Grindelwald. "All languages, ancient, modern and extinct. The languages not only of human beings but also of all sentient magical creatures. I understand the meaning betrayed by one's unconscious facial expressions and hand movements. If you write something for me, I will understand not only the literal meaning of the words, but the additional message apparent in the way you formed your letters. Body language is to me not a mere expression. I understand it perfectly."

"And what have you read from my facial expression? The tone of my voice? The way I am sitting?" asked Skeeter.

"When you entered the room, you concluded almost immediately that I was a senile idiot, although your sense of manners made you struggle to hide it. Your initial opinion was quickly replaced by another. I can see that you are fully conscious of the great gulf between us." Skeeter nodded. It was the same sense she had whenever she was with Dumbledore. In the headmaster's presence, she was very conscious of his superiority, but not in a way that embarrassed or shamed her. Instead, she always felt honoured to be near him. It had not occurred to her that there was any other wizard on earth who could engender these same feelings in her.

Grindelwald switched back to Phoenician. "Now tell me the main purpose of your visit, for in my brief contact with you I could sense it only imperfectly." Skeeter replied in the same tongue.

"The boy was told he is here as my escort, when in fact I am merely an excuse to get him into your presence," she explained. "Harry is a living Horcrux, the unwilling depository of a fraction of Voldemort's soul. The Dark Lord may be aware that he has a direct connection to Harry's mind, and because of this, Dumbledore and his allies cannot confide in Harry. The boy is to battle the Dark Lord in less than six months, and is unready. Dumbledore prefers not to work directly with Harry to prepare him, and so he entrusts him to you, in the hope that you can assist him."

The aged wizard leaned forward with interest during Skeeter's explanation.

"Even I did not create a Horcrux," mused Grindelwald. "Yes, I commanded great forces. I sent in motion terrible events, and launched the worst, the widest war the world has yet seen. Yet I know that it never entered my head to split my soul, to deliberately commit a spirit-fracturing sin in an effort to achieve immortality. How foolish of Voldemort to make a Horcrux of a fragile, living creature, and still more foolish when that creature is a man! For if he had the courage, Harry could destroy himself, and in doing so, half of Voldemort's soul."

"Harry is but one Horcrux, and we believe an accidental one at that. Voldemort made at least six others."

"Voldemort made more?" said Grindelwald, rising from his chair in shock. He began to pace about the room as he spoke. "The man must be mad. No one has ever done such a thing. What would be left of a man after such self-destruction?" Skeeter sat in respectful silence as the ancient wizard walked about his cell, muttering to himself in a language she did not understand.

"What's going on?" asked Harry, growing impatient.

"Sorry, Harry," said Skeeter. "I didn't expect that the interview would be conducted in a language other than English. I know it must be a bit boring for you. I'll fill you in when we're done. Grindlewald is thinking about something," she added quietly. "Let's leave him be for a bit."

The old man continued to pace about the room, and it was some time before he spoke, Harry and Skeeter waiting in respectful silence during the interval. Finally Grindlewald addressed Harry.

"Surely Dumbledore wanted you to learn Occlumency." This question came out of nowhere for Harry, he having understood nothing of the earlier discussion.

"Yeah, he did," said Harry. "He asked one of the Hogwarts professors to teach me."

"And with what result?"

"I've begun to learn Legilemency, but I haven't started Occlumency yet."

"Occlumency is a most difficult art to acquire," said Grindelwald. "It might be a long time before you learn the rudiments, and true mastery comes to but few. You must be exceptionally talented for Dumbledore even to have thought of instructing you at such a young age. If you had more time, doubtless Dumbledore would not have sent you to me. But I understand you have but little time before you are to battle Voldemort, and there are certain things you need to be taught, and which can only be taught here."

"How do you know about me fighting Voldemort?" said Harry, dismayed that the secret was out. "And what makes you think you can teach me better than Professor Dumbledore can, or the other professors at Hogwarts?" Unlike Skeeter, Harry was unimpressed with the old man. As far as Harry was concerned, the elderly polyglot was merely an older version of Voldemort, defeated long ago and imprisoned for life for his crimes.

"I know about your appointment with Voldemort because Ms. Skeeter explained it to me only a few minutes ago. And she knows because your preparations over the Christmas holidays and at school are well-known to certain Hogwarts staff. You are even more fortunate if those plans are not also known to your enemies." Grindlewald struggled not to smile at the boy's obvious confusion. Nothing had changed since the elderly wizard's youth: the young still believed that oldsters knew next to nothing, and were amazed to learn the contrary. Having addressed Harry's first question, Grindelwald moved on to the second.