(Azkaban is the prison owned by the ministry of magic to hold their prisoners which is guarded by dementors.

Nurmengard is the prison that Gellert Grindelwald built to hold his captives but served as his own imprisonment after his defeat in 1945)

....

Nurmengard

Hundreds of Saints gathered in the square, and more were arriving. Despite the large crowd, it was mostly quiet, with only a few whispers here and there. Everyone was waiting for the young man who would decide the future of the Saints.

"The Saints are almost all here, and some Aurors have arrived as well. Are you sure you don't want to meet your father first, Dyroth?" asked an old man behind him.

Dyroth smiled. "Uncle Abernethy, the test began the moment I stepped into Nurmengard."

"Let's go, it's time to meet your old friends!"

With a wave of his wand, the castle gates slowly opened.

Vinda said nothing and silently followed Dyroth, while Abernethy, still worried, hesitated before following too.

When Dyroth appeared, the crowd was silent. Unlike the excitement that surrounded Grindelwald in the past, the Saints' expressions were cold, and some even looked impatient.

"Director, should we arrest him now?" a young Auror asked a middle-aged man.

"Not yet. Let's see what happens first. Don't forget, we're in Nurmengard! No one wants trouble with the man in the tower."

"It's just a kid, though," a blond Auror scoffed. "He's only eleven. What can he possibly do? Grindelwald must be out of his mind, letting a child take over."

The middle-aged Auror kept his serious gaze on Dyroth. "Let's hope it's that simple."

Dyroth walked to the center of the square, brushed his wand over his chest, and gave a slight bow.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today."

He scanned the crowd—the once-mighty Saints now reduced to a few hundred, many old or frail. But Dyroth didn't feel discouraged. After a brief pause, he continued:

"I know why you're here. You still believe in your dreams, your beliefs, and your goals. Many claim we've harmed the wizarding world."

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He paused dramatically before declaring, "Nonsense! They're just ignorant fools."

The crowd murmured in agreement, some cursing in frustration.

Dyroth raised his hand, quieting the crowd. "Grindelwald gave the world a warning and was imprisoned for it. Some think I should harbor resentment towards those who locked him away."

"But the truth is, I don't hate them. I don't hate anyone."

Surprised murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"I want peace between us and them, but we won't compromise on our beliefs. We're not driven by hate; they just see things differently from us. That's all."

Many in the crowd were older members who had fought alongside Grindelwald. Seeing Dyroth, they were reminded of the man they once followed without question.

An elderly man, tears blurring his vision, called out, "Grindelwald…"

Dyroth noticed him, but before anything could happen, the man was pulled back by a friend.

Turning to Vinda Rosier, Dyroth nodded. She handed him a skull-shaped pouch.

"I don't possess the same prophetic powers as my father, Gellert Grindelwald, but I can still show you something."

Dyroth took a deep breath from the pipe inside the pouch and exhaled, filling the square with smoke.

In the swirling mist, images of tanks, planes, and missiles appeared, followed by the horrifying explosion of a nuclear bomb. The Saints gasped, realizing the might of Muggle technology.

"Could magic stand up to this?" some murmured, fear in their voices.

The smoke shifted to show space shuttles, satellites, and other advanced Muggle technologies. The image zoomed out to reveal the entire planet, eventually showing a bird's-eye view of the Saints in the square.

As the smoke cleared, Dyroth spoke again. "As you can see, Muggle power is no longer something we can ignore. My father was right all along."

"The truth is understood by only a few," Dyroth continued, his voice resolute. "We are not wrong—the world is!"

The crowd erupted in applause. Many older Saints wept, feeling that their years of struggle and hardship had not been in vain.

Dyroth smiled confidently at the crowd. "Muggle weapons will soon be aimed at us! I ask you all—are you willing to hide like the Ministry of Magic?"

"I'm not!" came a few scattered replies.

"Are you willing to live under the fear of Muggles?"

"I'm not!" More voices joined in, louder.

"Are you willing to let your friends and family become slaves to Muggles?"

"I'm not! I'm not!" The crowd roared in unison.

Even a young Auror in the back accidentally joined in, only to lower his head in shame when his superior glared at him.

But it was too late. The entire square had erupted into passionate chants of "I'm not!"

Many older Saints were crying openly now, their spirits rekindled by Dyroth's words.

The new leader of the Saints had arrived.

Dyroth raised his hand, and the square fell silent once more. "After today, many will die. But if you see my body fall, don't mourn me. Keep fighting! We are the ones who will save the wizarding world. Everything we do is for the Greater Good!"

"For the Greater Good!" the crowd chanted back, their passion rising.

Even some of the older Saints, men and women in their seventies and eighties, looked as energized as they had in their youth.

In the distance, one of the Aurors looked conflicted. "Rocas, are we… are we really wrong?"

Before Rocas could answer, the Auror lowered his wand.

"Wake up!" Rocas grabbed his colleague's shoulders and shook him. "What are you doing?"

"He's right, Rocas. He's right…" the Auror mumbled, dazed, and started walking toward the stage where Dyroth stood.

"How could this be?" Rocas whispered in disbelief.

With a pained expression, Rocas raised his wand and pointed it at the Auror. "You've left me no choice."

"Avada Kedavra!"