Departing from 1945

"Did what you went through before still not teach you that arrogant evil only brings destruction?"

Grindelwald raised his arm, and an invisible Wind Blade shot toward Herpo the Foul like lightning, cleaving down over his head and face. At the same time, his body was bound tight at just the right moment by the grappling hooks Dumbledore had created with Transfiguration. The two worked together seamlessly, without even needing to exchange a glance, as though covering each other had long since become instinct in the green years when they had fought side by side.

Aberforth had no way to join this ingenious surprise attack. He felt very redundant, and something strange stirred in his heart, but he still lifted the picture frame in his hand. Every tiny corner where the three men were fighting appeared within it one after another, and even though the one behind him was the Grindelwald he loathed, he blocked every curse that Herpo the Foul unleashed.

Herpo the Foul smiled. He tilted his head, as though trying to provide a better angle for Grindelwald's Wind Blade, exposing his proud neck as much as he could.

Whoosh!

Grindelwald held his breath. He had a premonition that this spell would strike its target as he wished. His numb left hand remained raised high, but he could no longer feel the existence of his arm. All he sensed was waves of tingling and pain like a phantom limb. Under the tearing force of the powerful wind pressure, the sleeve of his left arm disintegrated into ash, revealing the arm hidden beneath it—

A thin linen undershirt was worn beneath his robe. Its white sleeve was yellowing and turning brittle at a speed visible to the naked eye. In the breeze left hanging in place, it snapped crisply