[74] A Meeting of Minds

The old man slowly rose, movements as slow as if underwater. He reached out, steps faltering, leaning against the wall, and laboriously made his way to the bed. He sat down.

Every movement was tinged with weakness. Even these few steps made his breathing heavy and laboured, as if his body had reached its limit.

The lamplight gradually illuminated his face.

What kind of face was it? Hall struggled to find the right words.

A face as pale as paper, devoid of colour, like decaying wood eroded by time. Loose skin clung to visible bones, covered in deep and shallow wrinkles — each one recording years of hardship.

Even more terrifying were his eyes. Empty and lifeless, as if devoid of any spark of life.

Honestly, even Regulus lying in the Black house looked more alive than this man.

The only thing that contrasted sharply with his lifeless face was the subtle, almost imperceptible scrutiny when his gaze fell upon Hall. That scrutiny seemed to appraise him, yet carried little emotion — merely an indifferent look.

"Mr Grindelwald," Hall stopped playing dumb. "I'm just a student who likes to make money. I really don't know why you're looking for me. If you're going to beat around the bush, I'm afraid I can't stay."

Hall stood up and dusted off his clothes. The floor was clean, but his clothes, having been carried up the mountain, were torn in several places. He was a little angry. Going back like this, Mum would surely nag him, thinking he'd encountered danger.

"Boy, what do you think of the way wizards and Muggles interact these days?" Grindelwald asked.

Hall frowned, looking at his robes. The back was passable — just a little dirty. But the side was a mess, torn by branches, leaving a hole big enough to fit a fist.

"Kid?" Grindelwald frowned, not hearing a reply.

Hall lifted the hem — damn, it was torn too! He'd have to make those people pay. Ten times compensation. This robe was handmade by Mum, brand new! Not secondhand, not hand-me-downs from his brothers. That meant something.

"Did you hear me? I'm talking to you!" A raging fire seemed to erupt behind Grindelwald.

He had never been so ignored in his entire life. Even now — just an old man trapped and dying in Nurmengard — that damned brat dared to disregard him like this.

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Hall finally put down his robes, crossed his arms, and looked at Grindelwald. "Mr Grindelwald, you're much better than before." He scanned him from head to toe. "That's more like being alive. How vibrant."

Grindelwald raised an eyebrow and snorted coldly. He understood — this kid was deliberately provoking him.

"You ask what I think of Muggle-wizard relations? Look with your eyes."

"You!" Grindelwald was so angry he nearly grabbed the oil lamp and smashed it at the brat — then remembered it was the only light in the room.

Hall walked to the three-legged chair and sat down. "I mean it, sir. I've heard about your past dreams. Let me ask — do you still think that way now?"

Grindelwald snorted coldly and said nothing.

Hall understood. Even after all this time imprisoned, the man hadn't changed his mind.

"You've been locked up for so long. Perhaps you should see the Muggle world now. If we're exposed to them, what do you think they'd do to us?"

Hall retrieved memories from his mind — wizarding experiment reports he'd seen at Malfoy Manor. He gathered the memories in his palm like a dusty grey cloud. "Have a look."

He pushed it toward Grindelwald.

Grindelwald was shocked, though his face showed nothing. This child was only twelve, yet he possessed such advanced memory magic and could perform precise extraction. Wizards with high magical power or proficiency in memory magic could do it — but this child was only twelve. Neither described him. Yet he could do it.

Grindelwald's vigilance deepened.

He stared at Hall for a few seconds, then reached out, took the cloud-like object, and placed it into his mind.

The reports appeared vividly before him. Opened bodies. Dismembered limbs. Entrails in jars. Children preserved in formalin.

Even as static photographs, they shocked Grindelwald.

"How dare they!" His eyes reddened. Fingers clenched. He glared at Hall.

"This is what happens when we're passively exposed to them," Hall said calmly.

"Passively?" Grindelwald noticed the word. "What do you mean?"

His gaze was piercing, fixed on Hall, trying to see through his soul. The slight breeze from the small window high on the wall seemed to freeze. The aura he exuded was extremely oppressive.

Hall raised an eyebrow. Yes — this was more like the man's true nature. The old, frail demeanor was an act.

"We can enter the Muggle world from every angle. Surround their lives. Occupy their minds. Brainwash them. Seize the initiative, and at the right time, proactively expose ourselves."

"Oh?" Grindelwald's ashen face showed a flicker of interest.

Hall explained his business plan. He had his eye on the Saints. Based on the letters he'd found and the wizard who'd kidnapped him, even after all these years, many remained loyal to Grindelwald — and many were nobles. Nobles with wealth and connections. The Black family aside, there was only Sirius left, who'd spent years in prison.

"Also, we can make a series of films. The first one could be called — 'Walking with Seven Voldemorts'."

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