Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore stood in the courtyard of the French château, where drifting wisps of smoke curled around scattered rubble and shattered stone. Only moments earlier, curses had crackled in the air as Carrow's frantic struggle ended in defeat. Now, the echo of the duel lingered, clinging to the crumbling archways and scorched flagstones. French Aurors moved purposefully around him, guiding the captive Carrow away, and the courtyard fell strangely silent. It was as though the very atmosphere held its breath after the tumult of battle.

Dumbledore allowed himself a moment to acknowledge the fatigue creeping into his limbs. Streaks of ash clung to his robes, and he noticed his breath coming in shallow huffs. Not that he'd openly admit exhaustion—certainly not in front of the junior Aurors, who were eyeing him with mingled awe and curiosity. In truth, it had been a taxing confrontation: illusions conjured, wards dispelled, and a complex offensive to subdue Carrow. The weight of those spells pressed on him more than he cared to let on.

One of the French Aurors, a broad-shouldered woman in deep-blue robes, gave him a curt nod. "Merci, Professor," she said, inclining her head toward Carrow, who was still hissing dire threats. "We will secure this site and search for more of his cohorts."

Dumbledore replied with a congenial smile, the kind that relayed courtesy while politely ignoring Carrow's bitter ranting. He raised his voice just enough to be heard over the rasp of the wind swirling through the courtyard. "If you'll permit me, I'd like a quick look inside. Wouldn't want to miss anything before more of Grindelwald's followers flee."

"Of course," said the Auror, but one of her younger colleagues hopped forward eagerly. He looked like he was ready to trail Dumbledore's every step, presumably hoping to witness some legendary sleuthing technique.

Dumbledore turned and offered him a disarming pat on the arm. "I promise to be swift, my friend. Perhaps it's best if I venture alone. We don't want to jostle any ill-placed curses." There was just enough warning in his voice to ensure the junior Auror wouldn't press the point. Reluctantly, the young man nodded, stepping back.

With that, Dumbledore swept across the courtyard, pushing open the half-hinged side door that led into the estate. Almost at once, a sense of gloom exuded from the corridor within. The smell of charred wood hung thick in the air. Splintered beams, tarnished sconces, and tattered drapery covered in soot lined the walls. He decided the hallway must have been rather grand once—there were rows of gilded frames, now scorched beyond recognition, and scraps of paint that might have depicted opulent family portraits or scenic landscapes.

He paused at the threshold to run a hand lightly over the blackened wallpaper. Parts of it flaked away under his fingertips. Ahead, the corridor led into darkness, though the occasional flicker of flame from a sputtering torch revealed that some minimal wards remained in place, crackling in faint arcs of magical energy. Doubtless, Grindelwald's people had set quick, crude traps to deter prying eyes.

"Amateurish," Dumbledore murmured to himself, though he tempered the remark with a half-smile. Caution was always wise, especially when one was drained from a recent battle. He directed a small beam of light from the tip of his wand, letting the glow guide him deeper inside.

The corridor took a subtle curve, and as it did, he tested the wards in front of him with the gentlest flick of a counterspell. The plaster of the nearest wall promptly caved in, crumbling into a messy avalanche of dust and splinters. Beneath the rubble, a hidden nook revealed a narrow closet stuffed with battered trunk cases, old traveling cloaks, and various worthless trinkets.

Dumbledore coughed and waved away the sudden cloud. "So much for subtlety," he remarked under his breath. He stepped around the collapsed section of wall carefully, mindful of any more illusions that might have been placed. Already, the dust clung to his eyelashes, and he had to blink it away to keep his vision clear.

He advanced toward a set of broad double doors that, from their ornate carving, likely opened into a central chamber or library. A wave of sour, smoky air drifted out when he nudged the doors open. Inside, scattered shards of glass and stacks of half-burnt books blanketed the floor. The ceiling was blackened from fire, and an acrid stench lingered as though the flames had only recently died out.

"This must have been quite the library," Dumbledore mused, stepping over a ruined ladder that lay on its side among scorched floorboards. Torn illustrations fluttered underfoot. He recognized the edges of some wizarding genealogical records, but they were too singed for him to glean any legible details.

Toward the far end of the room, a heavy oak desk remained largely intact, albeit singed around its edges. A gilded trim reflected the faint light from Dumbledore's wand. Careful not to disturb any hidden wards, he inched closer until he could examine the papers that lay strewn across the surface. They were half-burnt scraps: an assortment of notes scrawled in both the English and French wizarding tongues, cryptic runic symbols, and a partially charred map.

He picked up a piece of parchment clinging to the larger map. There, he saw jagged circles drawn around various points in Europe—Britain, Germany, several enclaves across Eastern Europe, and even remote corners of France itself. Some circles overlapped with marks indicating wizarding ministries or known strongholds. Dumbledore's eyes were drawn to the margin, where runic notations read, "Arcane synergy," "Dark wards," and references to potential infiltration strategies.

He set the fragments gently on the desk and dipped his head closer, straining to see what might still be decipherable. The runes were half-burnt, but one short phrase emerged: "Relics required to complete…" The rest was missing. A sense of unease tugged at him. Grindelwald's network was more intricately arranged than even rumor suggested. He had always dreaded that the man's influence spanned governments and that infiltration was only the first step. Seeing it spelled out so clearly was unnerving.

Just then, a dormant curse flared. Chunks of burnt parchment in the desk drawer ignited, sending red sparks bursting upward. Dumbledore startled and ducked sideways, conjuring a quick shield that diffused the flare into harmless motes. When the sparks had dimmed, he peered wryly at the drawer, half-smiling. "One last flourish?" he said. "Rather flashy for a leftover booby trap."

In truth, it worried him how casually Grindelwald's followers seemed to plant these enchantments. If they had so little care about leaving behind malicious wards, they might have had the confidence to set them anywhere. That casual cruelty was typical of Carrow, but seldom had Dumbledore seen it so widely distributed.

He carefully rolled up the map fragments, wrapping them in a protective spell. The runes might be important—perhaps crucial—if he could piece them together with other leads. He recalled some warnings Aberforth had shared, overheard rumors that Grindelwald's agents were establishing secret contraband routes. Credence, in his unsettling visions, had spoken of shadowy gatherings in multiple countries. Even so, seeing these plans with his own eyes—the circles, the notations—made the threat more real.

Setting the papers aside a moment, Dumbledore let his mind drift to how far he had gone to keep up with Grindelwald's cunning. He'd studied spells that skirted the edge of normal wizarding practice, illusions that demanded more from him each time he cast them. There were nights he'd wondered what lines he might cross if forced. He reminded himself that Hogwarts was home, that knowledge, used wisely, saved more lives than it endangered. Yet the question nagged: If Grindelwald's infiltration extended across Europe, how long before the next wave of attacks?

A faint noise jolted him from his thoughts. A soft scrape of a foot against ash-laden flooring brought him spinning around, wand at the ready. Half-hidden behind a toppled bookshelf stood a figure whose hood cast a deep shadow over their features. Dumbledore could just make out scuffed boots and a trembling hand clutching a wand.

He raised a cautionary palm. "I'd advise against further explosions," he said quietly. "I've had quite enough drama for one evening."

The figure's response was to hurl a curse, but it whistled wide, striking the library's stone wall in a burst of sparks. Dumbledore flicked his wand, conjuring a disorienting illusion: the air shimmered with dancing specters, each dashing forward, drawing the figure's attention away from the real threat. He used the moment's distraction to disarm them with a skillful twist of his wrist.

A shallow clang rang out as their wand flew across the room. The figure let out a startled yelp, attempting to dive for cover behind a splintered table. Before they could scramble away, Dumbledore pinned them with a quick jinx, paralyzing their limbs just enough to keep them from fighting back.

"Steady," he murmured, stepping toward them. "Are you with Grindelwald, or just caught in the rubble? You've one chance to speak the truth."

The hooded individual, trembling, managed to croak out, "You—you're not supposed to be—" They gasped, squirming in the partial body bind. "Carrow took the best documents… That's all I know."

Something about their jittery tone told Dumbledore they were more lackey than mastermind. He relaxed his wand slightly. "Carrow, yes. He's off to a cozy cell," he said with the faintest hint of amusement. "So the best documents were indeed here? Where have they been sent?"

The figure gulped, eyes darting around as if expecting reinforcements. When no help arrived, they stammered, "Gone to the others… The infiltration's bigger than you think... far bigger."

Dumbledore exhaled, thoughts colliding. So Carrow had seized more crucial intel than expected. This meant Grindelwald's infiltration was not a mere handful of scattered loyalists. The reach might spread into every corner of wizarding Europe. He gave a succinct nod, then stunned the figure into unconsciousness. They slumped harmlessly onto the floor, no longer a threat.

He retrieved their wand, tucking it away for the Aurors to collect later. As he did, he noticed a small token partly hidden in the individual's cloak: a medallion engraved with a peculiar emblem—two serpents coiled around each other in a figure-eight pattern. He pocketed it, suspecting it might be a badge of loyalty or membership in Grindelwald's circle.

He double-checked his protective wrap around the half-burnt documents, then turned to leave. Instinct prodded him to collect anything else of possible importance. With a glance at the scattered papers on the desk, he discovered a single slip bearing more runic scrawls. He quickly snatched it up, scanning the archaic symbols: "Coordinate wards… synergy… crowning relic." Another ominous puzzle piece.

Beyond the library's threshold, distant voices echoed. The Aurors were likely finishing their sweep, or perhaps new ones had arrived. Dumbledore didn't relish the thought of being cornered with endless questions while the fortress remained unstable with leftover wards. Arial illusions, forcibly half-dismantled wards, magical pitfalls—he had seen enough cursed manor houses to know that any number of them could spontaneously trigger. 

Stepping back into the corridor, he navigated the gloom carefully. To his mild annoyance, the last ward near the entrance had not yet fully disintegrated. As he passed the final archway, it flared to life, unleashing a squealing, glowing swarm of conjured bees. They buzzed around Dumbledore in a delirious spiral. Though they were illusions, the stings would have felt unpleasant if he ignored them too long.

"Really, now," he muttered, raising his wand. With a dramatic swish, he cast a dispersal charm that banished the swarm into motes of harmless light. "Nothing like a little beekeeping to finish the night." A wry smile touched his mouth as the last glowing insect flickered out.

He reached the courtyard again, stepping over fallen stone. The French Aurors had mostly relocated, leaving a pair behind to keep watch. One of them perked up at his appearance, but Dumbledore gave a single nod, indicating he was unharmed. He gripped the protective wrap in his left hand, mindful of the half-burnt map inside. His chest still felt tight from the lingering tension, but more than that, his thoughts swirled with the realization that Grindelwald's infiltration was sweeping across the wizarding world with startling sophistication.

He found himself wondering whether he should return directly to Hogwarts or stop first at the French Ministry. A small part of him wanted to show the partial map to the Aurors here, in hopes they could coordinate an immediate action. Yet his instincts urged caution. Better to let Credence examine the runes, to see what additional significance might be hiding in those scorched marks. And perhaps Aberforth, with his direct knowledge of certain coded references, could piece together more clues. They would want every shred of evidence in the next steps against Grindelwald.

As his mind turned to Hogwarts, images of the drafty corridors and the newly fortified wards around the castle came to him, along with the faces of students who had no idea how precarious the wizarding situation might be. Their innocence was something worth safeguarding. If Grindelwald extended his ambitions to Hogwarts, it would mean an unspeakable threat to them all.

Dumbledore nodded to the Aurors, raising his wand. With a gentle, swirling movement, he vanished from the courtyard in a rush of air. In that instant, the shattered remnants of the château's courtyard faded from view, replaced by a grassy hillside overlooking the region. He took a brief pause to reorient himself, then Apparated again, each jump landing him closer to a secure location where he could properly regroup.

Flecks of ash still clung to his robes, a reminder of what he had just uncovered. The runic references to "Arcane synergy" and "Dark wards" rattled in his head. Grindelwald's circle was busy weaving a plan that spanned multiple ministries and strongholds. That medallion with the coiled serpents, the half-burnt map with circled enclaves—these were not random tokens but carefully organized pieces of a broader plot. It dawned on him that the next confrontation might escalate beyond duels in a single château. Already, alliances were being manipulated in shadowy corners of Europe.

He braced against a slight breeze and took a measured breath. Hogwarts would be waiting, and so would Credence with his haunting visions. Perhaps the runes on these scraps would trigger a new prophetic image or guide them to intercept key conspirators. They couldn't wait for Carrow's interrogation or rely solely on Aurors from one ministry. Grindelwald wasn't limiting himself to a single place. His infiltration was large-scale, a puzzle with pieces scattered across borders, each piece carefully hidden behind illusions, wards, and loyal henchmen.

Dumbledore shut his eyes, wand still in hand. He sensed the hum of energy in the partly burned map, as if the runic script itself carried a faint, lingering power. That might explain why Grindelwald's followers went to such lengths to conceal it. Radiant lines in the runes, if fully deciphered, might outline the next location they'd strike. Or perhaps it pointed to a missing relic required for some advanced form of magic. Either possibility was dangerous, and time loomed short.

He allowed himself one last moment of stillness, the wind rustling the tall grass around him. The night sky overhead was finally free of the acrid smoke that had choked the courtyard. Then, with resolve, he pictured the edges of Hogwarts' wards, the protective enchantments that would rise to greet him upon arrival. He felt the tug of those wards like an old friend calling him home.

A final swift turn on his heel, and he vanished once more. The half-burnt map tucked securely beneath his robes, he carried with him not only bits of parchment but an urgent call to action: the knowledge that Grindelwald's reach extended farther than ever suspected, and that every clue he had just unearthed might be the difference between safeguarding the wizarding world—or watching it plunge further into darkness.