62. Twisting Shadows

???

As twilight fell, a cloaked figure appeared in a little village nestled between the folds of the Swiss Alps. He strolled between the winding cobbled streets, though none of the villagers seemed to notice his presence, even though his black cloak fluttered and shifted with each step he made. In turn, the figure had not glanced at the villagers even once, as if they were no more important than ants on the roadside. 

Light faded as the last rays of the sun sank, casting the cloudy sky in deep crimson. The figure halted at the far side of the village, in front of a ruined wall belonging to an abandoned mansion. Vines and shrubbery grew from the cracks of the outer wall, and its tiles looked so rotten they would crumble to the touch. Through the iron gate, a faltering ruin of a mansion could be glimpsed behind a field full of wild weeds, a full head taller than most men.

A pale arm slipped from the cloak, pushing the rusty gate open without a sound. 

The moment the figure stepped past the gateway, the estate came back to life. All traces of ivy and wild overgrowth were replaced with an immaculate field of grass lined with flowerbeds on each end. The mansion’s roof tiles were now deep orange as if they had just left the baking kiln, and the facade looked no less new, its high arches hewn out of pale limestone. Deep blue curtains peeked behind the high windows, veiling the rooms inside.

The varnished oaken door swung open, and an old man cautiously stepped out, a wooden stick squeezed between his fingers. “Mr Thomas Gaunt?” he asked, a slight German accent creeping into his words. 

The cloaked figure shrugged off his hood, revealing the sharp face of a man in his early thirties, with a soft, charming smile resting on his lips.

“The very same,” Thomas Gaunt said, bowing deep. “It’s a great honour to meet a man of your skills, Master Mykew Gregorovitch. I have brought you a gift.”

As soon as the old man nodded, the guest stepped closer, squeezing out a bulging wrap of silver from a pouch on his belt that looked too small to fit it.

The tension in Gregorovitch’s neck drained away, and a wide smile spread across his wrinkled old face as the wooden stick in his hand disappeared. He swiftly snatched the silver-wrapped paper and tore it apart, revealing a bottle of dark red wine.

1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.

A raspy laugh slipped from his throat. “A man of my tastes,” Gregorovitch said, shoving the wine bottle in the pocket of his dark purple robe. “Come, come, my friend. It’s been a while since I’ve had any proper visitors. Let’s drink!”

Laughing louder, the old man slipped into the house, and Thomas Gaunt inclined his head and followed inside. The sharp scent of varnish and resin hung in the air.

The insides of the manse were peculiar and unique. Tables laden with crooked stacks of polished wood. Bundles of hair, scales, and feathers neatly wrapped in rolls of parchment. Jars full of unidentifiable shavings and powders lined the shelves above. Even the living room was filled with old tomes and piles of scrolls. 

“Excuse me for the mess,” the old man said, looking somewhat abashed.

“It is of no issue,” the guest reassured, his green eyes studying the surroundings with great curiosity. “It is always a joy to see a master of his craft in his element. But I was under the impression you stopped making wands, Master Gregorovitch?”

“I stopped selling them, not making them,” he said. “The more wands I sell, the cheaper they are, and worse, the less those who wield them appreciate my craft. Even my rival, Ollivander, barely profits from his masterpieces, most of which are paid for by the ministry. A Ministry! Where’s his dignity as a master craftsman?!”

“Mr Garrick is a man of deep compassion, I’m afraid.” Thomas let out a long, sad sigh. “Selfless men with love for the future of wizardkind are scarce to come across. Though I must admit I owe Ollivander and the Ministry my first wand. I would have never managed to purchase any worthwhile focus otherwise. Or learn magic, for that matter.” 

Mykew quirked a brow at the fine vest of silver acromantula silk on his guest and then at his flowing robes of inky black velvet and the dragonhide boots rimmed with gold. Gaunt’s appearance was so immaculate that not even a single strand was out of place in that meticulously combed hair, and he couldn’t spot even a single speck of dirt on him.

Thomas held his gaze without faltering, a mysterious smile tugging at his lips.

Shaking his head in exasperation, the wand-maker led the man into a plain kitchen. A flick of his hand lit up an array of magical lamps, and with another flick, one of the drawers slid open, and two cups and a crystal bottle of Spindle’s Spiced Cider flew onto the table.

The cork opened with a pop, and he filled the cups generously.

“I would have thought a British wizard like yourself would have preferred to deal with Ollivander,” Gregorovitch murmured as he eased himself onto the cushioned chair. He then put the cup of cider beneath his nose and took in the scent. “Or perhaps the French Renaud Faivre or the Greek Alexandros Myronis.”

Thomas Gaunt sat down and pulled in his cup, eyeing the liquid with a glint in his eyes. “Each wizard has his pride, Mr Gregorovitch. I’m no longer a poor orphan content to bow down for Ministry handouts. No, now, I will settle for the best and no other.”

The wand-maker puffed up his chest like a peacock. Then his eyes wandered towards a wand framed on the wall and deflated. “I’m afraid I no longer sell wands,” he said, averting his gaze. “You look like a sensible man, but alas, my mind will not budge on this. Nothing personal, Mr Gaunt. If I ever craft you a wand, once others catch wind of this, I will no longer know peace.”

“That was never my purpose,” said Thomas, gently sipping on his cup, where the amber liquid swirled and fizzled. “I’m here to ask for your advice, Master Gregorovitch.”

“Ask away, then.”

“My trusty wand is broken,” the guest began, voice growing glacial. “The doing of a bold band of hooligans that infuriates me to no end. And now, I must have a new one. And who else to point me to a proper wandmaker than a master such as you?”

Gregorovitch’s eye twitched. “You flatter me,” he said tightly, face growing dark. “But—”

Thomas hastily raised his hands. “Please forgive me, Master, if I gave any insult.” His tone thickened with regret. “I would not grow presumptuous to ask you to break your vow, so I must settle for the second best. Of course, I will pay for your precious wisdom.” 

A heavy bag tumbled over on the table with a clangour, and gold spilt on the table.

The wand-maker spared it a glance but made no move to take it. “How many galleons did you stuff in there?”

“A thousand,” Mr Gaunt said. “Should be sufficient for simple advice, no?”

“Yes,” Gregorovitch muttered, clenching his jaw. After hesitating for a long moment, he cleared his throat loudly, and his voice was far kinder now. “How much do you even intend to pay for a wand, Thomas?”

“At least thrice as much,” was the reply. “So long as I’m satisfied, gold is no issue.”

Gregorovitch’s gnarly fingers anxiously tugged on the long white tangle of hair as his eyes kept flickering back to the shiny galleons. 

“Five thousand,” he said through gritted teeth. “And I’ll craft you a wand like no other, Mr Gaunt, attuned to your very mind and magic. But not a word of this to anyone.”

A wide smile spread through Thomas’s face. “Deal.”

???

In the cave’s depths, he sat on a throne carved into the stone, lost in thought.

He spun the ebony wand between his fingers, letting it drink in his magic. It purred against his skin, as the core sang in his mind. Shaving of a horned serpent’s horn—a peculiar choice, but it did not feel inferior to dragon heartstring or a phoenix feather.

It was a better work than Lord Voldemort had hoped for, superior in every way to his old yew wand. But it brought him no joy, not even a sliver of satisfaction.

His followers had gathered, and never had they looked so paltry, kneeling before him in tattered black robes. His most loyal—and most capable, less than a dozen strong.

Some had escaped, and too many had died.

“Rise.”

They were quicker to obey, and most of their fear had melted away. Perhaps it was his new, charming face, unmarred by dark magic, or perhaps the sparing use of Cruciatus.

“Why waste gold on this, my lord?” Barty murmured, tilting his head. “Smuggling money from Britain is hard as it is, and we could have easily snatched one of the many crafted wands—” 

“It’s the wand that chooses the wizard,” Lord Voldemort said, voice lazy. “No common wand will dare choose an extraordinary man, so I require something special. Something more. Masters of their craft pour their heart and soul into their work only when their honour is invoked.”

In fact, he could continue wielding that second-hand garbage they called wands from Dalmatia. Rookwood had snatched a stockpile of hundreds of the things, but they could not bear even a fraction of Lord Voldemort’s power and were swift to burn out, turning to dust in his fingers after a dozen spells. 

Even when he had snatched a good wand, it had not served him well. A powerful wizard could bend even the most rebellious wand to his will, but that was not the same as mastering it. His last wand, a dragon heartstring and birch taken from an old Malfoy stash, had seen his spells come half a second slower and weaker. Such a wand obeyed but refused to attune to his magic, and the dissonance had seen it splintered within a week of use. 

Getting Ollivander to fashion him a personal wand would have been the best, but such was impossible under Dumbledore’s nose. Headmaster or not, the Dark Lord believed the discerning old wand-maker would recognise him, and no disguise, persuasion, or force would make Ollivander craft him a wand. A long time ago, he would have relished such a challenge, but now, he did not have the luxury of such indulgences.

Lord Voldemort could have won any wand’s allegiance once he put his mind to it, but he disdained the notion. A wand was a wizard’s most intimate companion, and his had to be loyal to him and no one else. 

“Have you found Bella’s fate yet?”

“No, my lord,” Barty bowed deeper, “but there’s still no word, and even Lucius struggles to find a trace. I’m afraid she has met her end in Brechfa’s Inferno, along with werewolves and many of your loyal followers.”

The Dark Lord ignored the pang of irritation that rose in his throat.

“What of Greyback?”

Augustus Rookwood averted his gaze. “We found him in Northern France. Only his mangy head, to be precise. Someone ripped it off and discarded the rest.”

The Dark Lord cocked his head. Greyback had grown foolish in his old age years ago, and his death came as no surprise, but the loss of Bella stung deeper than he expected. She had always been too brash, too confident—like most Blacks—and burned too brightly and too swiftly.

Her death Voldemort could stomach, but not the loss of over a hundred faithful followers.

“Find me someone who survived Brechfa’s Inferno,” he commanded. “And double your efforts in the search for Severus. His skills are too invaluable to waste.”

Jugson perked up. “Are we finally returning to Wizarding Britain, my lord?”

“Return?” Voldemort echoed, tasting the word on his tongue. “The time is not right. The Ministry and the DMLE are at full strength and alert. Go to the werewolf packs in Germany. Find the strongest chieftains and ply them with generous gifts. Avery, you will travel to Norway and court the giants.”

Once the meeting ended, Rookwood lingered behind.

“Is it wise to send Avery to the giants, my lord?” he asked, head bowed. “He’s not a man with the subtlety required for the finer aspects of negotiation.”

“And that’s why the giants will love him. Go now, and get me three more pints of Nundu blood.”

Macnair would have been a better envoy, but he was one of the few pawns left in the ministry, not to be moved easily. 

The Dark Lord studied his wand again. It was a good wand, but a good wand was not enough to defeat Dumbledore. He had regained his body and his charming looks, yes, but his magic was still a shadow of what it once was. Even at his best, the headmaster was not someone who could be easily defeated.

For good or bad, his countless followers were reduced to a paltry band and were forced to slink into a dark cave like some vermin, hiding under a Fidelius. For all of their vaunted skills in magic, his men had failed to dispel the stench of mould for a full year, forcing him to take action once his body was restored. 

It galled him to no end. It was incompetence, yes, but Lord Voldemort knew better than to expect finesse from a sledgehammer. Yet something new, something forgotten stirred in his chest at the thought. Excitement. The challenge was grand, and that would only make success all the sweeter.

Followers could be recruited in quantity and quality, grand mansions snatched away, and power regained, and all of it was merely a matter of time. And Lord Voldemort had all the time in the world.  

25th of May 1994, Wednesday

Albus Dumbledore

ASSAULTED BY THE DEATH EATERS, ATTACKED BY THE MINISTRY!

Written by Miranda Whispers

Is there justice in Wizarding Britain when some of the youngest and brightest minds are under such vicious assault by all sides? Has our society fallen so far as to suffer such blatant indignity levied at our future?

Now, I will shed some light on the events that happened at the end of April—

As barbed as the text was, it had nothing on the scene playing in the paper. The scene where Alfred Grimsby drew his wand first, casting the Imperius while Juno was seated, kept looping and looping with each fight. It looped together with Bella’s daughter overcoming the curse, bursting the man’s heart and blowing the head of another.

A part of him was pained to look at one of his students being assaulted so viciously, but she had held up admirably… even with some of the more questionable choices of spells. While the article was quite thorough, it had made for strange bedfellows. 

Half of the Hogwarts staff had vouched for her character, as had Harry Potter, and every single traditional pureblood of renown. 

“Most impressive,” came Archibald Fortescue’s nasal voice. “The DMLE concluded this is a print of a memory, far longer than what usual photographs can boast, though the Unspeakables are not certain how to replicate it. A pity any form of memory is inadmissible in the trial, no matter how authentic.”

The new Chief Warlock was a short, bow-legged man with salt-and-pepper hair, garbed in the standard plum robes of the Wizengamot, with a W stitched in silver thread on the left side of his chest. 

“I suspect Miss Black released this to win a different sort of trial,” Albus mused, eyes twinkling hard.

Archibald leaned in, smiling widely. “True. She turned the public opinion, and it drove Fudge mad,” he whispered. “He tried to recall the print and arrest Miranda Whispers, but by then it was too late, and no trace of the elusive writer could be found. Our dear minister had pinned so many plans on the Black and Lestrange funds, and now that’s been killed by a single article. Even Grimsby’s widow and Madame Fenwick rescinded murder charges. But I think… Miss Black has far more support than the fleeting public.”

Albus adjusted his spectacles. “How come?”

“Come now, old friend, now is not the time for games.” The Chief Warlock wagged a bony finger at him. “I haven’t seen you in the Mot since that dreadful summer where half a city blew up. This must be the first time you’re here as an Order of Merlin holder.”

“Perhaps I am here to observe.”

Archie snorted. “Observe your student suffer injustice? I’ll believe it when I see it.” Then he flicked his wand, filling the air with a soft hum. “I saw the Undersecretary too calm last evening, and it wasn’t confidence. Between you and me, I think Lady Black has already reached out for a deal with our dear minister, and we’re here just for a formality.”

Giving him one last look, his old friend made for the courtroom.

Albus was not in a hurry to enter.

Warlocks of the Wizengamot streamed into courtroom ten. Some gave him genial nods and warm smiles, others threw him wary glances, and then there were Tom’s supposedly redeemed followers who avoided his gaze and his presence altogether.

The Minister gave him a tight nod, shadowed by his squat Undersecretary with her sickly sweet smile. Dolores’s choice of robes was a bright pink once again, a colour that even Albus’s own eyes found irritating.

The hour of the trial drew nearer by the moment, and he heard the commotion before he saw it.

Juno strode through the hallway as if she owned it, dressed in a black velvet robe with a golden B worked onto her chest, framed around House Black’s family crest. Gaudy, but precisely the sort of reminder of her stature that the old warlocks would see every time they looked her way. Mad-Eye Moody limped to her left, and Amelia Bones gracefully walked to her right, though it was more for her protection than anything else. 

Behind her all but swaggered Septimus Dogwood with his dark solicitor suitcase and smile twice as sleazy as his gelled hair. Just like the master he served, the barrister of House Black was a mad dog who had squeezed the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic in court hearings more than once. And today, he might add a notch to his belt of victories, judging by the confidence oozing from his gait.

Dumbledore was the last to enter the courtroom, and with a tap of his wand, the entrance was sealed. A swift count saw fifty-one warlocks grace the Wizengamot, in addition to the Minister and nearly a dozen department heads. Griselda gave him a curt nod as he settled next to her.

Juno seated herself on the accused chair with poise and didn’t flinch under the scrutiny of the whole assembly of the Wizengamot. Over fifty warlocks, each quite powerful in magic and influence, peered down on a young witch of fourteen, and she met it all with chin raised high. Not even a trace of unease when the manacles sprang from her chair, coiling around her wrists. For that alone, many nodded, begrudgingly satisfied, and even Dumbledore could admit a spark of respect stirred in his chest.  

But the young witch was not alone. Dogwood was glued to her side like a nasty rash, summoning a chair for himself from the stands with a swipe of his wand and seating himself with an aggravating smile.

Archibald, seated in the middle of the front row, looked around and saw everyone seated.

“Are you ready, Miss Black?”

“Yes,” Juno said coldly.

“Let these proceedings commence, then. The charges: that on the thirtieth of April 1994, Juno Bellatrix Black did cast lethal curses resulting in the deaths of Alfred Grimsby and an unidentified wizard. The accused asserts the plea of self-defence. Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary of the Minister… do you swear to speak truthfully when asked…”

Albus watched calmly as the legal proceedings dragged on. Setting questions came first as the scribe hastily penned down every word.

A quarter-hour passed until they finally arrived at the meat of the matter. “Did you use those lethal curses with deliberate knowledge that they can and have caused death?”

“Only in self-defence.”

Dolores Umbridge cleared her throat. “Hem-hem. A Heart-Rendering Curse and a Rupturing Curse are classified as dark magic and illegal to use on humans—”

“Objection, misstating the law!” Dogwood stood up, face growing red. “Under the Legacy Spells Recognition Act of 1801 and the Right of Necessary Defence, part three, Defensive Hex Clause, dark magic can be used when life is threatened. Being put under the Imperius clearly satisfies all conditions for full retaliation…”

“Do you perhaps claim the final Unspeakable Curses on Miss Black’s wand were not her doing?”

Juno’s eyes grew colder still.

“And where is that wand now?” the solicitor challenged.

Umbridge’s jaw tightened. “…It has been damaged by an accident. But the last spells can still be drawn out—”

“A grievous mistake, no doubt,” Dogwood said in a dry tone that was very much full of doubt. “But without the untouched wand at hand, there is no way to confirm whether someone from the DMLE or the Ministry didn’t tamper with the evidence.”

The back-and-forth continued, but the Minister remained silent, allowing his Undersecretary and Rufus to lead the trial. In truth, none of this mattered. Dumbledore’s gaze flicked across the stands, and he saw it in the faces of the warlocks. Bones, Abbott, Diggory, Greengrass, Fortescue, and even the Notts and the Selwyns looked at Juno with open approval. And his own presence would see the rest support Juno.

Even if Juno were guiltier than sin, she would walk away scot-free today. Soon, the matter of the wand was dropped. 

“By your own claim, you were kidnapped, and have spent plenty of time with the wanted criminal Bellatrix Lestrange—”

“Objection, relevance!” Dogwood roared. “This is utterly extraneous to the trial at hand, and I protest any form of speculation or hearsay.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the traditional row.

Rufus Scrimgeour regarded the solicitor with a hard look. “Mr Dogwood, surely you must see how such pertinent information can prove essential here. Any clue on the Inferno of Brechfa is invaluable.”

“Now, now, Mr Scrimgeour.” Dogwood gave him a smile full of teeth. “That’s still irrelevant to the unjust murder my client is charged with. Should Lady Black wish, you will receive a full testimony on the matter at a later date. In my presence, of course.”

“Of course,” Rufus said flatly. 

“Hem-hem, what was the purpose of meeting Mr Grimsby in the Three Broomsticks? Surely, there is a reason why the man was provoked into casting the—”

“Objection, leading question and hearsay.” Dogwood’s smile threatened to split his face as he regarded Umbridge. “Come now, Madame Undersecretary, I think a woman of your stature ought to know better than this. What the Lady Black was doing in a perfectly legal setting is her business alone, and the Wizengamot has no right to pry into her affairs. Or the affairs of any pureblood witches or wizards, for that matter, unless you have proof of foul play?” 

Umbridge’s face curdled. 

They tried grasping at straws, but Septimus Dogwood was like a cerberus, barking and biting back at even the smallest offence.

After half an hour, even the Undersecretary grew tired of the farce. 

“Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?” Rufus’s resigned voice rang across the courtroom. Surely enough, over forty hands lifted, including his own. “Those in favour of the conviction?”

Only Fudge, Dolores Umbridge, and three more department heads had lifted their hands. A sour-faced Cornelius fiddled with his red tie as he looked across the room, looking like he had swallowed a lemon whole.

“Very well,” the Minister spoke up, voice tight. “Lady Black is cleared of all charges.”

“Excellent!” Dogwood beamed as the thick chains around Juno clattered to the floor. “Now, I ask that everyone to remain in their seats, please; since the Wizengamot is already here, let’s talk about restitution of Ministry-sponsored slander, the supposed ‘accidental’ destruction of Lady Black’s wand by the DMLE staff, and the illegal barring of bank accounts for House Black and Lestrange. I’ve filed a motion for an expedited hearing, and it should have arrived at every department head’s desk this morning. Once we have confirmed all the details, I’m sure the Minister can call for a recess as he reviews our offer…”

Each next word drove Cornelius’s face paler as Albus shook his head. Hushed whispers rose across the rows, and many watched the Minister’s misery with delight.

“What a farce,” Griselda rasped from his left. “Though I am not surprised to see another Black of Black bite at the Ministry like a rabid dog. Or the Minister. It’s like a coming-of-age ceremony for that lot.”

“It’s unwise to make enemies where you could have made amends,” Albus said. “Cornelius’ position will weaken because of this, and he will not forget the slight.”

Griselda let out a cackle. “It might sting him, yes, but a career man like Fudge will not be toppled so easily when he has supposedly ‘won’ back peace. She could have taken restitution behind closed doors without raising a fuss, but clearly, little Juno is determined to gift us a spectacle instead. Why worry when you can enjoy the show, young Albus?”

He understood why Miss Black had done it. She had a temper that would not allow her to bow her head further, not when her own wand got snapped by some angry Auror who lost a friend to her mother or father. She was right to be angry, but such brash actions would only bring forth a vicious cycle in a time when Wizarding Britain needed unity the most. 

It pained his heart to watch it unfold, powerless to do anything to stop it.

“I’m afraid the time for joy has long passed.” He tipped his hat. “Today, justice has won, but the peace many think we will enjoy might not last. Dark times are upon us.”

27th of May 1994, Friday (2 days later)

His eyes roamed patiently around the cottage. It was cosy but small—even after ample Expansion Charms—barely enough to fit the new Order of the Phoenix. It was the best Dumbledore could do, as the organisation had no funds or equipment save what each member brought themselves. 

A part of him was tempted to host the meetings in one of the many abandoned rooms in Hogwarts, but the scrutiny and the danger were too much for the school and the students.

“We still have no word of Lupin,” Kingsley said, his face stony. “Some in the DMLE speculate he swam out of the Isles.”

“With a child and a wife?” 

“Remus is a resourceful man, I’m afraid.” Albus let out a long sigh. “Years in exile and solitude only honed his skills further, and fear for his family would push him another step. Even Fawkes cannot locate him.”

“Even so, Scrimgeour believes chasing him on the Continent is a waste of resources and won’t move a finger, and is far more eager to put his effort into unveiling the Brechfa Inferno.”

Eros Tonks, their newest addition, cleared his throat as his hair turned a dull brown. “Are we certain that the Dark Lord has even returned?”

“Positive.” Albus stroked his beard, studying the young wizard. “And why would you think otherwise, Mr Eros?” 

“It’s been nearly a month, and there’s no trace of him. Not even a murder or a—”

“Much of Europe is rife with unrest,” Albus said, voice firm but not unkind. “News has yet to reach Britain, but yesterday, Emberwick set a whole village ablaze in Northern Italy, and Northern France saw a vicious werewolf attack with dozens dead and five bitten. Half of the Muggle Balkans are beset by the flames of war, and it’s easy for a disappearance here or a murder there to go unheeded.”

“Shouldn’t the ICW deal with it all?”

Moody scoffed from behind his flask. “The ICW is as slow as Fudge and twice as incompetent, boy. They will send Hit Wizards, yes, and they will doubtlessly conclude it was an accident that does not threaten the Statute. The ICW will not move another finger until someone lights a fire under their arses, content to pin any ineptitude on the local Ministries, even after the Mad Pyromancer killed five of their Hit Wizards. There’s a kill on sight order on Emberwick for it, and the squad that hunts him down is a dozen strong and deliberately slow.”

“What do we do now, Professor?” Emmeline asked, her hands nervously tugging on her green shawl. 

“Sharpen your skills with a wand,” Albus said. “And spread the word of Voldemort’s return.”

A heavy frown settled on Sturgis Podmore’s face. “Few will believe it,” he muttered. “No wizard has ever returned from death before. We’ll be called madmen and fools with no proof.”

He popped a lemon drop into his mouth and smiled. “And that’s why we’ll start by spreading small rumours.”

“Why not just say a great dark wizard is stirring in Europe?” Eros blurted out. He shrank in his chair, and his hair turned scarlet when nearly a dozen sets of eyes settled over his face. “Spread some rumours about how he’s recruiting followers and aims to strike at Wizarding Britain.” 

“Elaborate,” Albus said.

“I mean, people aren’t going to buy a story about a dead Dark Lord coming back,” the Metamorphmagus muttered, fingers fidgeting around his cup of butterbeer. “Why not soften them up to the idea, get them watchful, make them think there’s a danger looming about… without actually saying who.”

Moody’s hand slapped the table, startling many. “That’s just the thing we need,” he barked out a laugh. “I knew you were a clever one when your wits aren’t lost between a pair of knockers.”

“Now, now, we were all young once, Alastor,” Albus said with a smile. The cottage grew quiet as he weighed the matter in his mind. “Very well, Eros. Quite a prudent idea. See it done.”

“Erm… I’m not sure where to start?”

“Start with those lady friends of yours,” Kingsley said with a chortle. “Witches love gossip.”

Sturgis cleared his throat loudly. “Professor Dumbledore, Lupin already knows of our faces and base.” He hesitated for a long moment, averting his eyes. “I’m afraid we’re not safe anymore. Neither is this place.”

“A proper headquarters is already in the works,” Albus said softly. “Though I will only reveal it once I am reasonably certain it is secure and can remain so. As for your identities… I’m afraid there’s not much I can do. I suggest you take measures to stay protected at work and at home—and if you have doubts, you can find a place in the new headquarters.”

The words reassured many, but not by much.

Half an hour later, the meeting was concluded, though it failed to dispel the unease in Albus’s mind. He could see many of them frightened. With Remus turned traitor and all of their identities unveiled, the fault lay with him. He was the one who was supposed to vet each new member’s loyalty, but at least no great damage had been done.

But the Order’s position was worse than before.

Now, they were in the open while his errant student was hiding in the shadows. A part of him was tempted to resort to masks and Voldemort’s trickery, but that’s precisely the sort of mistrust Voldemort hoped to bring.

Moody lingered behind, his magical eye spinning erratically. “You know what happened in the Brechfa forest.”

“What gave me away?” Albus asked wryly. 

“You’d be far more fretful and worried about something like that, but you didn’t say a word or even prod what the Ministry has uncovered.” 

“You know me all too well, old friend. I do know what happened, and it’s beyond what the Ministry could even begin to imagine. It’s good for Wizarding Britain, but it’s not my story to tell.”

Moody took a deep swallow of his flask and slumped into his chair.

“This war will be far harder than the last,” he rasped, his good eye growing distant. “We barely got the Ministry to get off their arse and act last time, and Voldemort was right under their noses. I fear that any threats on the continent will see them complacent, especially with the existence of the old island-wide war wards.”

“I fear you are right,” Albus said, regret creeping into his voice. “I wish… it didn’t have to come to this.”

Standing up, he pulled on his travel hat and drew his wand.

“Are you going to try and hunt him down, Albus? He will be cautious after the Brechfa Inferno and the Wiltshire Explosion.”

The headmaster gave him a wan smile. “He’s mortal now, so I must take this chance, no matter how fleeting.” 

With a crack, Albus Dumbledore Disapparated. 

The next day saw him wandering through the Austrian Alps, lost in his thoughts instead of hunting for Voldemort. He knew better than most that the death of one man and his paltry followers would avert the deaths and destruction of many, but his heart was weary of death. 

Albus had never been a fighter, let alone a hunter, as the very thought of chasing down a man like a rabid beast galled him to the very core. He would do it, for the alternative was far terrible, but the thought brought him no joy. Mortal or not, Voldemort was no slouch in magic. Few knew that his errant student was twice as good at escaping as he was at Dark Magic. That and his cautiousness had seen him retreat the moment Albus came to confront him during the last war, and the headmaster doubted now would be any different. 

‘Kill him!’ the whisper rang through his mind. ‘Rip him apart before it’s too late!’

It was an odd thing for his intent to align with the Elder Wand, which only made him warier. 

He needed to stroke Tom’s hubris and goad him into a confrontation… yet even that was futile without knowing his location. Was he destined to be the passive one in the conflict again, reduced to responding to the moves of his enemy?

His legs led him to Nurmengard, and this time Albus did not hesitate. He needed a new perspective, or perhaps someone to tell him he was being a fool. And perhaps Gellert would know how to fix young Harry’s conundrum, though there was no haste in that—some time without magic would teach him much-needed patience and prudence. And it would show him that the world’s fate did not rest on his young shoulders.

The second he stepped into the castle’s vicinity, he frowned. Something was wrong. It took him a few minutes to realise that the Field of Distortion was gone. 

“Fawkes.” The phoenix settled onto his shoulder, and with a flash, Albus stepped into the topmost floor, facing Gellert’s cell. 

The stench of rot and decay was the first to greet him. The headmaster inched closer, wand drawn, his eyes flicking around, seeking any signs of violence. All the castle’s alarms still thrummed in his mind, untouched, and Albus could feel no signs of magic in the air as he moved towards the cell. 

His fingers coiled around the Elder Wand as his magic surged, eager to be unleashed.

What he saw next made his chest tighten. 

Gellert Grindelwald’s corpse leaned on the iron bars, wrinkled pale flesh already hanging loose from his face, twisting his lips into a grotesque smile. Dumbledore had seen corpses before, and this one looked no older than two weeks. Perhaps ten days. 

The Death Stick hummed alive with power, and charms erupted from the wand, magic confirming what his eyes already saw. This was indeed Gellert’s body, and he had met a peaceful end.   

“If only…” he whispered, voice cracking. Words were on the tip of his tongue, but they refused to come. Ironic, as it reflected his relationship with Gellert from the beginning to the end. His wand lowered, and his hand rose shakily. Twice he reached out, only to hover an inch from Gellert’s face and pull back, but on the third time, he had mustered enough courage to touch. The skin felt cold and squishy to his fingers.

Dead. His greatest friend and greatest enemy was gone.

Guilt and regret battled in his chest as a tear ran down Albus’s cheek. 

Author’s Endnote:

Whew. I wanted to write more, but here I am, nearing 6k words, and the next scene would take at least 2-3k more. On one hand, I want to write it; on the other, this ending feels just right, and trying to rush it in and jam it tonight will be a great disservice.

Next, we get a chapter of summer and perhaps the beginning of the next school year.