"Of course. That's an extraordinary talent."
Grindelwald stood, shook the wrinkles from the bedsheet, and came over to Voldemort. Leaning down, he said, "You think you chose the Pure-bloods?"
Voldemort furrowed his brow slightly and leaned back, gazing at him without answering.
"No. It was your talent."
Grindelwald turned sharply and looked toward the skylight of the cell.
A beam of light happened to fall across his face, making his blond hair shimmer with color.
Standing in the light, he spoke in a voice like a murmur, almost as if to himself.
"Your talent let you see their poverty and predicament, the gulf between their incompetence and their desires, and you..."
Grindelwald turned back, his eyes fixed on Voldemort with burning intensity.
"You realized that you were the one capable of bridging that gulf, so you plunged in without hesitation, stirring their emotions, sowing discord among them, and profiting from it."
His eyes narrowed, and an insidious smile spread across his face.
"In that, we're exactly alike, Voldemort. We both know where people's hearts lie.
"See it, choose it, control it, and finally, possess it."
Voldemort swallowed, his furrowed brow relaxing as an unfriendly expression came over his face.
"What are you trying to say, Mr. Grindelwald?" he asked in a low voice.
"No, Voldemort. It's not what I want to say."
Grindelwald stepped out of the beam of light and returned to the bed. He flicked the bedsheet, then sat down cross-legged on it. "It's what you want, Voldemort. Isn't that why you brought Dumbledore here?"
Voldemort's brow twitched.
"Why not be frank, Voldemort? Neither of us is a good man. There's no need to play guessing games like ordinary fools," Grindelwald said.
"Then I'll be direct, Mr. Grindelwald. I want your political legacy," Voldemort said.
Grindelwald's expression showed