Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore stepped out of the French Aurors' makeshift barricade, the lingering scent of scorched stone and lingering wards trailing after him like a faint echo. His robes were still tinged with soot from the duel that had raged inside the château. Despite managing to contain Carrow's wrath and navigate Grindelwald's cunning traps, he felt every ache in his body as he made his way down a narrow pathway leading out of the château's grounds. Even the faint morning sun, which should have brought a sense of renewal, did little to ease his fatigue.

Safely outside the main perimeter, he paused to re-examine the objects tucked within his robes: the half-burnt map and a handful of brittle parchment scraps etched with runic symbols. The documents indicated infiltration points across Europe, cunningly arranged to slip past the awareness of multiple Ministries of Magic. Each burnt edge and arcane glyph told him that Grindelwald's network ran deeper than even he had imagined. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the next step. Wand in hand, he Disapparated with a faint crack, reappearing moments later on a cobbled side street miles away.

He passed two slumberous bakeries and a row of shuttered shops, searching for a small café that had been described to him in a cryptic owl the day before. It was neither famous nor particularly inviting from the outside—the sign above the door bore a half-faded name in French script that only the keenest observer would notice. Once inside, he would meet a contact who claimed to have knowledge of relics.

He found the establishment soon enough—a modest little spot with half-drawn curtains and plain wooden tables. Its quiet hum contrasted starkly with the chaos he had just left behind. Dumbledore took a breath, pushing open the door. The café was mostly empty, save for a few robed figures nursing coffee cups, all looking worn from early morning errands. An old gramophone in the corner hummed softly, its volume low so as not to disturb conversation. But the moment he stepped inside, he could sense the tension that lived just beneath the mundanity. He slid onto a chair near the back, choosing a spot away from the windows, careful to keep his back angled so he could watch the door.

A waiter bustled over, beaming with an enthusiasm that felt out of step with the café's hush. "Bonjour, monsieur! May I bring you our finest morning tea?"

"A simple Earl Grey would be splendid," Dumbledore replied quietly, offering a polite smile.

"Right away, monsieur," the waiter said, then hesitated, as if wanting to recommend pastries too. Dumbledore nodded once, dismissing the notion as kindly as he could. He felt only a twinge of guilt at the man's disappointed look as he returned behind the counter.

Resting his elbows on the table, Dumbledore scanned the room again. He was not expecting anyone who would announce themselves with fanfare. The letter he'd received the night before mentioned only that it was urgent and involved possible relic-level magic from the era of the Founders or even Merlin's time. Given what he had just discovered in the château, and his suspicion that Grindelwald was no longer content with mere political infiltration, Dumbledore had decided to make time for this meeting. It could be a trap, but ignoring the lead would be far more hazardous.

When the waiter returned with a delicate teacup, set on a small saucer festooned with chipped floral patterns, Dumbledore offered a curt nod of thanks. The man lingered again, eyes lighting up in anticipation. "Sugar, monsieur? Or perhaps some extra hot water?"

"The tea is perfect," said Dumbledore, lifting the cup to his lips. "Merci."

The waiter departed, and Dumbledore permitted himself a small sip, scanning the café in tiny increments. A wizard in the far corner hunched over a newspaper. A middle-aged witch near the front window occasionally glanced out into the street as if awaiting someone. And an older couple sat quietly, finishing croissants. None of them seemed remotely interested in him.

He was about to check the map in his pocket, ensuring its security under a mild protective enchantment, when the door opened behind him. A hooded figure slipped inside. Dumbledore froze without seeming to move; he noted the figure's posture, the careful glance around the café—even the subtle tension in their frame. They advanced toward him directly, not stopping to order a drink or greet the waiter. Their sudden approach gave Dumbledore the distinct impression that they were as anxious as he was to keep this meeting discreet.

Lowering the hood with a swift motion, the stranger revealed a face lined with worry. In the softly lit interior, their features were neither delicate nor intimidating; rather, they held a singular intensity. The figure was a witch—perhaps in her late thirties—hair neatly tied back, eyes darting between the occupant of the next table and the door before settling on Dumbledore.

"You received my owl," she said in a whisper, pulling out the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation.

"I did." Dumbledore gestured lightly with one hand. "And you are…?"

She glanced around once more before muttering, "For safety, you may call me Scribe. I represent an old circle, watchers of certain runic lines."

"You have my attention, Scribe," he murmured, offering a small nod. "Thank you for agreeing to meet here."

Her lips twitched with something like a half-smile, but the tension in her posture remained. "You should know that we handle ancient wards and relic histories, some we trace back to the time of Merlin. We've kept quiet for centuries, but your name arises more frequently these days. You seek a means to counter an Elder Wand synergy, or so we hear."

"I suppose news travels quickly," Dumbledore remarked, carefully sipping his tea. "Though I would note, rumor has a habit of embellishment."

Before she could respond, the café's waiter materialized at the edge of the table. He offered a beaming smile that seemed painfully bright. "How are we this morning? Can I get anything for your friend, monsieur? Madame, would you like coffee or tea?"

Scribe lowered her gaze to avoid drawing attention. "Just water," she muttered.

"Coming right up!" The waiter vanished in a whirl of cheerful efficiency.

Only when his footsteps receded did she lean in again, voice still low. "We believe Grindelwald is attempting to forge or restore a relic that rivals the Elder Wand—some kind of 'crowning relic,' if you will. My sources say he needs multiple infiltration points to gather knowledge or materials from multiple Ministries. That means—"

"Materials for advanced magic," Dumbledore finished. "And infiltration to secure authoritative coverage, so that no region's protections can hinder him."

She nodded. "Precisely. Your map is but one piece. And if Grindelwald completes the puzzle, he may achieve Tier-7 feats well beyond normal comprehension. No wizard within living memory has safely wielded power on that scale."

He felt a chill run along his spine. Tier-7 references were not thrown around lightly. "You believe there are relic-level wards or artifacts that can stand up to such power?"

Scribe's eyes flickered with guarded caution. "Yes, but only a handful are rumored to exist. One or two from the Hogwarts Founders' era may still be locked away. Others from Merlin's time, even older." She exhaled, tension never leaving her shoulders. "If you're truly fighting to stop Grindelwald, you'll need more than wandwork. You'll need something that can match his synergy, or at least disrupt it."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. He recalled the half-burnt runes on his scraps. The same shapes were said to appear in the fabled 'Merlinic Vaults,' though that had always been more legend than fact. The possibility that they were real changed everything.

The moment thickened with the return of the café's waiter, carrying a single glass of water as if it were a precious chalice. He placed it carefully in front of Scribe, then turned to Dumbledore with exaggerated politeness. "More tea for you, monsieur? I see your cup is only half full."

It was indeed half full, a status that disappointed the waiter immeasurably. Dumbledore gave a faint, apologetic smile. "I'm quite all right—thank you."

Scribe, clearly eager to continue, waited for the man to withdraw a second time. Only when confident he was out of earshot did she press her point. "You have a map that indicates infiltration points, yes?"

Dumbledore tensed. "And if I do?"

She leaned closer. "I'd like to see it. If I'm to help you, I need to confirm that it matches what my circle has uncovered. Some infiltration points may line up with our own data, specifically about the wards that guard the relic sites."

He considered her request in silence. The map, charred as it was, contained secrets that could cause immeasurable harm in the wrong hands. He didn't know this Scribe beyond her claims. Yet if she was genuine, refusing to share anything would close off the best lead he had found so far. The risk of betrayal weighed heavily on him, but the risk of ignorance was far worse.

Taking a measured breath, Dumbledore reached into his robes, retrieving a carefully folded fragment—one that didn't reveal every location. Laying it flat on the table, he kept his wand hand hovering beneath the table, ready to cast illusions or defensive curses if needed.

Scribe's eyes flickered with a mixture of relief and hunger. She traced a hand over the charred edges, pausing as if she recognized certain runic scrawls near the lower portion. "These glyphs," she whispered, "they match an older dialect from the Founder era—some say Salazar Slytherin used them in hidden wards."

Dumbledore's brow crinkled. "How certain are you?"

She looked up to meet his gaze. "Confident enough. My circle has records of a runic pattern believed to unlock a repository—though it must be combined with knowledge of other wards. This piece aligns with those references. Grindelwald's infiltration points likely target places where the finishing touches to these wards can be found."

He nudged the fragment toward her. "You mentioned a possible relic or vault. Is it a location you can point me toward?"

"There's a rumor," she said, voice dropping even lower, "that one such repository could be hidden within the old catacombs beneath certain wizarding strongholds. Or deep in the sub-levels of Hogwarts, if your Founders neglected to mention a chamber or two. I can't give you a precise address, but I can provide a clue that may let you locate the entrance—if you know what runes to look for."

The conversation took on a razor's edge. Dumbledore felt his heart beat faster, aware of the significance. A repository that might hold the key to neutralizing Grindelwald's power? The mere notion was staggering. Still, the possibility that this was an elaborate snare danced at the edges of his thoughts.

Scribe reached into an inner pocket of her cloak, retrieving something wrapped in waxed cloth. She unfurled it to reveal a small silver token etched with runic designs that bore an uncanny resemblance to the scraps in Dumbledore's possession. As soon as she set it on the table, a faint hum permeated the air. The runes on the token glowed in soft pulses, resonating with the half-burnt symbols Dumbledore had carried.

"There," she said, tapping the surface. "The resonance confirms that these are complementary pieces. If you focus the right detection spell on this token—and overlay it with your runic scraps—an encoded location should appear. Where it leads, I can't guarantee. But it's the best lead we've found that points to a possible Founder's Repository."

Silence fell over them, weighted with the swirl of hidden powers they were discussing. Dumbledore studied the token, feeling magic ripple across his fingertips. Before he could thank her, she carefully clasped her hand around it again, eyes narrowing.

"I need your guarantee that you'll keep it out of the wrong hands. If Grindelwald obtains it, or if any of his adherents do, the consequences will be dire."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I vow to guard this with my life."

A tired sigh escaped her lips. She replaced the token on the table. "Take it. Use it wisely."

Just then, the chatty waiter reappeared, apparently determined to be the friendliest person in the city. He beamed at them, a damp cloth draped over one arm, clearly intending to wipe the already clean neighboring table. Dumbledore and Scribe both froze, letting the conversation lapse into silence. The waiter hovered uncertainly, as though an invisible force told him there was more to glean from them. Eventually, he cleared his throat. "I do hope everything is to your liking, monsieur, madame?"

"Yes, very much," said Dumbledore, politely. "Thank you."

When the waiter finally hustled away to greet another customer, Scribe exhaled with relief. "I really must go now. But before I do, a final warning: Tier-6, Tier-7 feats—these are not plays of mere skill. They touch on powers that can unravel a wizard if misused. Grindelwald's infiltration aims to compile enough knowledge or relic essence to bypass normal magical limits. The scale of devastation if he succeeds—" She shook her head. "It's bigger than you know."

Dumbledore carefully folded the token in cloth, placing it into the same pocket where he kept the runic scraps. "I'm aware of the danger," he replied, voice steady. "But that only strengthens my resolve to prevent him from succeeding."

She stood, scanning the café with the same wary vigilance. "You'll need more than resolve, Dumbledore. Be prepared to cross thresholds you once thought unmovable."

He offered a subdued nod. "I appreciate the warning. And the help. Thank you."

With that, Scribe dipped her head once and turned away, slipping past a pair of chatting patrons. The café door opened, letting in a brief gust of fresh morning air, then closed again behind her. An uneasy stillness settled over the place as Dumbledore sat alone, half-finished tea cooling on the table.

He leaned back slightly, gathering his thoughts. The revelations from the night's raid on the château and the morning's conversation began to fuse into a single, pressing reality: Grindelwald's infiltration was vast and methodical, not merely a short-term power grab. He was hoarding knowledge, or collecting relics, that might push the boundaries of magical possibility. And somewhere in the tangle of half-burnt maps and cryptic runes lay a key to shutting him down.

A quiet beep of the gramophone made him realize how tense he'd become. He took a few long breaths, letting the café's mundane ambiance steady him. Then, noticing the approaching figure of the waiter once more, he grabbed his teacup and took another sip, if only to ward off further conversation.

The waiter stopped in front of him, wearing a glum expression. "Your friend left so quickly. Is everything all right, monsieur?"

"Quite all right," Dumbledore replied softly.

Nodding, the waiter ventured, "Perhaps a complimentary pastry? A croissant, or an éclair, to go with your tea?"

Dumbledore managed the ghost of a smile. "I appreciate the offer, truly, but that won't be necessary." He set down his teacup and glanced at the exit, mind swirling with the weight of new discoveries. "However, I must be on my way shortly."

"Very well," the waiter said, though he looked a bit crestfallen. "Do let me know if you change your mind."

When he left, Dumbledore gathered his cloak around him. He felt that faint thread of guilt for declining the kind gesture, but the truth was that his mind had no room for pastries or small talk. After carefully slipping a few coins onto the table for the tea, he sat a moment longer, eyes unfocused as he recalled the lines of runic text on the half-burnt scraps. Some part of him wondered if this repository—if it existed—would hold an artifact potent enough to stand alongside or counter the Elder Wand. If so, could it be used safely? The contact's warning echoed in his mind: Tier-7 feats might destroy a wizard unprepared to bear them.

That thought turned his attention to Hogwarts. He had, of course, scoured its libraries as a professor and researcher, but had he truly uncovered all the secrets the Founders left behind? Hogwarts was ancient enough that entire wings and sub-levels might remain unknown, sealed by wards beyond typical spells. If the token's runes directed him to Hogwarts or some extension thereof, he needed to proceed carefully. Nicholas Flamel might also hold insights, given his deep alchemical lore. If the infiltration spanned multiple Ministries, contacting the right people to stymie Grindelwald's next move was critical. But time was short. The infiltration was advanced enough that no single Ministry might handle it on their own—Grindelwald had too many channels, too many supporters, each working discreetly.

His mind drifted to Credence. The boy's strange visions, his ties to darker magical threads—could he, unknowingly, harbor pieces of prophecy that would illuminate exactly how Grindelwald intended to harness this relic-tier power? Dumbledore tried to think strategically, sorting out the next steps. He would return to Hogwarts, cross-reference the contact's clues, and see if the newly gained token would react to something in the older sections of the school. He'd consult with trusted allies at once. Perhaps Aberforth, though reluctant to play a central role, could assist behind the scenes. With a swirl of thoughts and a heavy sense of urgency, Dumbledore willed himself to move.

Standing, he angled himself toward a side exit rather than the front door. The hush of the café pressed in around him, as though the walls themselves acknowledged the gravity of his departure. Pausing at the threshold, he adjusted his robes, ensuring the hidden documents lay secure. Outside, the day had brightened further; sunlight painted the narrow street in pale gold. The memory of the battered, fire-scorched château felt distant now, but the shadow of Grindelwald's expanding plans refused to fade.

Walking a short distance to a quieter intersection, he glanced up at an old clock tower whose hands had just struck an early hour. He cast a swift set of protective wards around the newly acquired intelligence, layering illusions, detection spells, and physical wards in neat synergy. The humming power thrummed around him, invisible to passing Muggles and any wizards who might be skulking about. Satisfied, he slipped into an alley that smelled of fresh bread and damp stone.

Without further delay, Dumbledore gripped his wand, narrowed his eyes on a single point before him, and Apparated away. The dull pop echoed briefly against the walls, then silence resumed its hold on the street. A swirl of robes and the wizard was gone, leaving behind a slight ripple in the air where he had stood.

Though the sun continued to rise on an ordinary morning for most of France, Dumbledore felt as though each passing moment drove him further into extraordinary circumstances. He clung to resolve, trusting that the next step—back to Hogwarts, with knowledge of this new repository—would guide him to whatever relic or counsel might help him triumph. Yet no matter how determined he was, the weight of what he had learned pressed down on him. Grindelwald's networks were entwined in countless corners of the wizarding world, and only the most daring, shrewd, and morally certain wizard stood a chance of unraveling them.

He did not fool himself into thinking the road ahead would be simple. But it was a road he would walk—no, run—without hesitation. The bright French sky blurred around him as he vanished into the folds of Apparition, the café far behind but its revelations still swirling in his mind.