Hogwarts: Harry Potter's Return from the Witcher World-Chapter 449: Cruciatus

The Sorting Hat’s headlight flickered, casting its beam far down the street.

Madam Rosmerta was caught in the light and hurriedly ducked back into her tavern in a fluster.

"Oh, I think the Three Broomsticks is still—" the hat mumbled, correcting Harry’s earlier fib.

It didn’t get to finish.

Hermione tapped her wand against the dashboard with a cough full of threat.

The Sorting Hat paused, then awkwardly twisted the handle. "Oh dear, my headlights must be faulty! Just got those xenon bulbs replaced—damn those shady vendors!"

"Let’s get to the pub quickly. I could use a warm cup of motor oil."

Grindelwald nodded. "Very well. It has been a long time since I’ve visited a pub. Let’s go."

"I’m not familiar with the area. Professor Dumbledore, would you be so kind as to lead the way?"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Of course."

He stepped forward, Grindelwald following close by.

The Sorting Hat very much wanted to fly away—it felt a hat shouldn’t be involved in such matters—but with Hermione still riding, it had no way to leave.

It trailed behind them in the snow, leaving a long thin trail.

Harry said nothing more.

The three of them walked in silence to the Hog’s Head.

With the sudden events in Hogsmeade and the goblin uprising at Gringotts, the wizarding world was in turmoil. Though the Hog’s Head still kept its doors open, there were no customers—only Aberforth Dumbledore leaning on the bar, dozing.

"Visitors," Harry said as he flicked his wand, levitating a pebble to tap the door.

Aberforth raised his head, frowning. "Harry, shouldn’t you be worrying about Hogwarts instead of—"

His eyes landed on the two men behind Harry and fell silent.

"Grindelwald!" he bellowed, slamming the table, eyes blazing with hatred.

He was old.

It had been decades since they last met.

But that face—burned deep into his bones, tangled with a lifetime of loss and pain.

Grindelwald looked him squarely in the eyes, unflinching.

Dumbledore shifted slightly, half-hiding behind Harry.

"Don’t be so agitated, Mr. Aberforth," Harry said softly.

Aberforth turned his furious glare on Harry. "Don’t meddle, Mr. Potter. It’s insulting."

"We’re closed. Hog’s Head isn’t open to—"

Harry cut him off. "No, it’s not what you think."

"Grindelwald is a homeless stray dog now."

Even such biting words didn’t stir Aberforth’s anger.

To him, such insults were almost flattering when applied to Grindelwald.

Grindelwald stepped forward, speaking plainly: "Harry’s right. I’m a stray dog."

"Voldemort came for me—he wants the Elder Wand."

"I couldn’t stop him. Fortunately, my Seer’s Eye warned me, gave me time to prepare, and I barely escaped."

"Now, Hogwarts is the only place left that can protect me. So I had no choice but to come here."

He paused.

"Mr. Potter and Headmaster Dumbledore still don’t fully trust me, so they aren’t ready to let me into the castle. We just wanted a pub to sit down and talk."

"The Three Broomsticks is closed."

The Sorting Hat awkwardly twisted the handlebars, the engine muttering in agreement.

Aberforth raised his wand and aimed it at Grindelwald. "You’d be better off in the Shrieking Shack."

"You know this."

"I too know the Unforgivable Curses."

Grindelwald stood still, saying nothing, doing nothing, locking eyes with Aberforth.

Aberforth’s reddish-brown eyes searched the piercing blue of his enemy’s.

Looking for something.

But—

He found no guilt.

Grindelwald felt remorse—but only toward Albus Dumbledore, not this Dumbledore. He did not regret his life’s choices—only the pain he caused his lover.

Blue—a color that calms.

But as Aberforth stared, his rage only grew.

No guilt.

Not in front of the man whose sister he’d killed—whose wife and child had died because of it.

"Avada Kedavra!"

He roared the curse. A flash of green light—

Grindelwald stood still. The slow casting speed gave him plenty of time to react—but he didn’t move.

Dumbledore instinctively raised his wand.

Harry, quicker, pushed it down.

Hermione flinched.

Boom—The curse hit the doorframe above Grindelwald. Splinters exploded, and the old, ugly sign of the Hog’s Head collapsed, thudding into the snow.

Aberforth glared at him, hating him, bewildered.

Why hadn’t he dodged?

Dodge! Just a little!

Even a twitch—like his brother would have.

One twitch, and he could tell himself this wasn’t an apology, not reconciliation, just manipulation. Just a ploy to exploit the moment and force him to forgive.

Just one twitch, and he could convince himself to kill him.

But he hadn’t.

Why not?

Grindelwald looked at Aberforth, calm. He accepted whatever fate awaited him—even if it meant dying here.

"Crucio!" Aberforth cast again.

Still, Grindelwald didn’t resist. The Cruciatus Curse surged through him. He didn’t defend himself. His body reacted, though—twisting, writhing in pain as he fell.

Dumbledore turned away, unable to watch.

Harry entered the tavern, cleaning dust from an old table with a flick of his wand, clearing the grime.

He turned to Hermione. "Drink?"

"Butterbeer," she said.

Harry looked at Dumbledore. "Albus, honeywater as usual?"

Dumbledore sighed. How could anyone think of drinking at a time like this?

Even if Aberforth killed Grindelwald—it would be justified.

Fate had never favored his brother.

And the one who ruined it all—who tore apart his innocent brother’s life—was Grindelwald.

Harry flicked his wand. A levitation spell floated Dumbledore gently into a seat.

Two glasses of whiskey and a butterbeer drifted from the counter.

Dumbledore lifted his drink. He hadn’t tasted alcohol in years. The fiery bitterness burned his throat, seared his gut—stinging tears to his eyes.

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Powerstones?

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