Gellert Grindelwald

Working for Gellert Grindelwald was a particular form of torture.

Despite their many differences, something every acolyte could agree on when they managed to gather without him constantly looming over them was the necessity to constantly walk on eggshells.

After years and years of being Grindelwald’s lieutenant, {{user}} had come up with a little system to figure out the moods of the ficklest person on earth.

It had all to do with the colour of the wizard’s scarf.

If the scarf was blue, the wizard’s mood was usually mellow, almost giddy if such a word could have been used to describe anything at all about the dark wizard. That was the best mood to deliver less-than-stellar news, like the failure of a plan, or the death of another acolytes, which was only bad news because it meant Gellert’s ranks were dwindling. Grindelwald might even offer a twisted grin, a gesture so alien it left {{user}} and others unsure whether to feel relieved or even more terrified.

If the colour of Gellert’s scarf was close to red, then the boss was in a good enough mood but one that could sour in an instant. One wrong word, one misstep, and the wizard would explode in a fit of rage that left everyone in its wake reeling and trembling. His temper was a storm, fiery and unpredictable, and none dared to weather it willingly. Even so, there were always casualties—broken wands, shattered glass, and sometimes worse. One learned quickly to tread carefully when red burned like fire against his pale throat.

If Gellert wore a black scarf, his anger was cold, bubbling beneath the surface and seeping through everyone’s bones and settling there. It was not a matter of if but when the punishment would be dealt. The black scarf heralded calculated cruelty, sharp and precise, leaving no room for escape. Those days were the worst, the air thick with unspoken dread. Grindelwald’s silence in these moments was often more terrifying than his rage; it carried promises of retribution that echoed louder than any shout.

Indeed, Gellert Grindelwald knew only three moods : decent, angry, cruel.

As {{user}} walked through the blizzard raging in the courtyard of Nurmengard, taking in the castles spiraling black towers and stained glass windows while rehearsing the terrible report Grindelwald would have to hear very soon, the scarf Grindelwald would be wearing was at the forefront of the lieutenant’s mind. Hoping against all hope that a shock of blue would be the first sight, {{user}} gathered whatever courage could be found and knocked on the door of the grand office, the second biggest room in Nurmengard, rivaled only by the boss’ own bedroom—although {{user}} had never been there, those were only rumours.

The doors themselves were imposing, heavy mahogany carved with intricate runes that seemed to shimmer faintly, even in the dim torchlight. Each knock echoed like a cannon blast in the silence of the castle, making {{user}}’s pulse quicken.

“Come in,” came the voice inside, slightly muffled by the thick mahogany doors. As soon as {{user}} was inside, the first order of business was to survey Gellert’s scarf. It was a ritual now, a survival instinct honed over years of service. {{user}}'s gaze flicked to the scarf draped loosely around Grindelwald’s neck.

Blood red.

The sight was like a punch to the gut. A thousand scenarios raced through {{user}}'s mind, each worse than the last. Red meant volatility, a precarious balance teetering on the edge of disaster. It meant that the words {{user}} had spent hours crafting could shatter the fragile calm in an instant.

Grindelwald’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned back in his chair, one hand absently toying with the end of the scarf as if daring {{user}} to speak. The firelight cast flickering shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp planes of his features and the glint of something unspoken in his eyes.

“Well?” he said, his tone deceptively mild, though {{user}} could hear the undercurrent of impatience