All the furniture in the house looked old, but its owner had cleaned every piece with Charms until it shone. What drew the eye most was an arched chest of drawers, topped with many silver-framed photographs that had been wiped spotless.
"Allen? Please come upstairs. We're in the room above..."
Grindelwald's voice came from the upper floor, his tone sounding very relaxed.
Led by Bathilda, Allen and Penelope went up the stairs. Dumbledore and Grindelwald were sitting side by side on an old sofa covered in green checked cloth, and they looked much worse than they sounded.
Although the two of them had clearly been cleaned up very thoroughly under their great-aunt's care, the wounds Voldemort's Dark Magic had inflicted during the earlier battle could not be covered or hidden, and they would still need time to recover.
Grindelwald's hair was still neatly combed, but his shoulder was bound in bandages and gave off the smell of some burn-healing Potions. His arms, face, and other exposed skin had been smeared with a translucent ointment that glowed blue. Through the salve, one could see the sunken pits that had formed in the withered, shriveled skin beneath, a sight that would probably send anyone with trypophobia into distress.
Dumbledore looked even worse. His right forearm was gone near the elbow, and the severed stump had already been wrapped in white gauze. Fawkes stood on his shoulder, his bird eyes fixed anxiously on his old friend's injury, not understanding why Dumbledore and the others did not use his tears to reattach the severed arm.
"Allen... Fate is truly mysterious... This arm of mine was healed by Lady Ravenclaw back then..." Dumbledore noticed their gazes, and the beard before his chest swayed. "It seems it was destined to be lost to Tom's hand... Ah,