Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore Apparated into the quiet courtyard of Hogwarts just as pale sunlight cast lavender and gold hues across the towers. The chill morning air nipped at his face, reminding him that here, at least, the night's dangers had not reached the same fever pitch as in Paris. He exhaled, allowing a shiver of fatigue to settle across his shoulders. The courtyard's cobblestones glistened with dew, and the only sounds came from a few distant birds and the rustle of an early breeze. In spite of his exhaustion—and his mind's churn of new worries—he felt a calm relief at being home.

Still, the stress of his Parisian ordeal weighed on him. He allowed himself only a brief moment to adjust his robes before raising his wand. Blue sparks danced from his fingertips as he performed a simple fortifying spell. He could feel the tension in his limbs receding, replaced by just enough alertness to press on. The courtyard was empty of staff or students; most would be rising soon, but for now, Hogwarts slept in a hush of dawn. Dumbledore inhaled deeply and stepped inside.

He did not get far before encountering an unexpected congregation of students in the entrance hall. A seventh-year Prefect, trying very hard to look stern, stood near the doors leading to the Great Hall. Despite the Prefect's attempts at composure, his eyes went wide at the sight of Dumbledore. "Professor!" the boy exclaimed, voice cracking mid-word. Several younger students by his side exchanged glances and whispered excitedly.

Dumbledore offered a polite smile, keenly aware of the typical Hogwarts mix of curiosity and rumor. "I trust all is well?" he inquired, voice gentle.

"Yes—yes, sir! Everything's…just fine," replied the Prefect, though he was clearly too flustered to maintain dignity. Dumbledore's slight chuckle threatened to break free, but he masked it with a dip of his head. He caught bits of hushed conversation from a pair of students still in pajamas.

"They say Grindelwald has people in half the Ministries," muttered one girl, her eyes flicking in Dumbledore's direction. "Is that really true?"

Dumbledore's brow furrowed imperceptibly as he passed. While rumor often ran wild in these halls, the notion that Grindelwald's supporters were scattered across Europe's wizarding institutions was no mere gossip. He had confirmed it personally in Paris. He gave the students a reassuring nod before continuing on, leaving the Prefect hopelessly trying to regain authority.

His destination was the hospital wing, and every brisk footstep echoed in the corridors. A swirl of questions filled his mind: the token Scribe had given him, references to Tier-7-level powers, the infiltration that seemed to snake into every corner of wizarding governance—and how it might all connect to Hogwarts' own wards. For now, one priority took precedence: verifying Credence's condition. He had left the young man under his brother Aberforth's watch, uncertain how quickly Credence might recover from both physical injuries and mental torments.

Dumbledore pushed open the hospital wing doors quietly. Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic potions and laundered sheets. Morning light filtered through tall windows, revealing neatly made beds and the hush of magical healing at work. A matronly nurse greeted him with a worried expression. "He's resting better now," she said softly. "But he had a rough night—bad dreams again."

Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you. Might I see him?"

She gestured to one bed in a far corner, curtains partially drawn. He approached, noticing Aberforth stationed by Credence's side. His brother's arms were folded defensively, but his posture relaxed fractionally when he spotted Albus. A relief flickered in Aberforth's eyes, followed by that characteristic frustration of his—an unspoken complaint at being kept in the dark for too long.

"You're back," Aberforth said in a level tone, though something akin to concern edged his words. "Good to see you're still in one piece—no thanks to your cloak-and-dagger routine in France."

"I had to move quickly," Dumbledore replied. "I'm thankful you stayed with Credence."

Aberforth shrugged. "Somebody had to. Boy's been scared out of his wits. Still too many unknowns." His gaze hardened. "He feels he's being used."

Dumbledore leaned in, looking at Credence's sleeping form. The young man's breaths came more steadily now, as if the nightmares had eased their grip. "He'll know everything he needs to," Dumbledore promised quietly.

"He'd better," Aberforth said grimly. "We both need to know what you're up to next."

Dumbledore offered a faint nod, not yet ready to lay out all the details. With one last glance at Credence, he stepped away. Duties were piling up, and he couldn't linger too long. His mind buzzed with the memory of Scribe's cautionary words: relic ward keys connected to Hogwarts foundations—and the possibility that an ancient, sealed door lay hidden deep beneath the castle. The infiltration threat was sharpening by the day. If Grindelwald reached Tier-7-level magic before the wizarding world could respond, the results would be catastrophic.

In the corridor leading away from the hospital wing, Dumbledore slowed his pace. Alone with his thoughts, he revisited every snippet of conversation in Paris: coded phrases about "the silver token," warnings that ancient wards could be twisted toward destructive ends if placed in the wrong hands. His reflection was abruptly interrupted by a bold voice from a large portrait nearby.

"Ah, returned from an escapade, have we?" crowed a wizard in rich velvet robes, nose turned imperiously upward. "Chasing that old friend of yours again?" His tone was both mocking and curious, as though the occupant of the frame had speculated endlessly on Dumbledore's private affairs.

Dumbledore paused, eyeing the portrait with mild amusement. "Now, now," he said kindly. "I can't reveal all my secrets at once." The painted wizard gave a theatrical harrumph, but the humor in Dumbledore's eyes lingered as he continued down the hallway.

He soon arrived at the small, rarely used faculty meeting room, where the Headmistress had summoned him for an early briefing. Tall windows admitted gentle sunlight over a polished wooden table, around which several staff members were seated. The Headmistress, regal and solemn, beckoned him to join them. Dumbledore noticed Theseus Scamander—if indeed that's who stood by the far wall—regarding him with quiet trepidation. A Ministry representative, no doubt, had also come to glean what intelligence Dumbledore had gathered in Paris.

Once seated, Dumbledore pressed his palms lightly on the table. The Headmistress wasted no time. "We've heard troubling whispers that Grindelwald's supporters are growing bolder," she began, eyes sharp. "What did you learn in France?"

Dumbledore spoke measuredly, offering just enough detail to underline the seriousness. "It appears infiltration attempts are being made at multiple levels of wizarding governance. The rumors we've heard are not baseless. What's more, Grindelwald's interest in powerful relics has intensified. We must bolster defenses—not just conventional wards, but advanced protective measures."

A younger professor across the table, wearing a skeptical frown, piped up. "Are we sure this isn't an overreaction to half-substantiated stories? We don't want to undermine Hogwarts' standing by chasing every rumor."

Dumbledore inclined his head, acknowledging the concern. "I understand, but in this case, the risk is too great to dismiss. We have credible indications—witness accounts and now direct confirmations. We cannot rely on the notion that Hogwarts is immune to infiltration. We need heightened vigilance."

A low murmur spread around the table. The Headmistress spoke again, her expression grave. "Professor Dumbledore, I trust your insight. But I must insist that you coordinate with official channels. The Ministry is scrutinizing our actions more than ever, worried that any personal mission could spark scandal or miscommunication."

He met her gaze calmly, understanding the diplomatic tightrope they walked. Theseus said nothing, but his watchful eyes noted every subtlety. Dumbledore gave a slight bow. "Of course. I will maintain closer communication." Even as he spoke, he was aware that certain details—especially regarding the token and Tier-7 wards—would remain hidden. At least for now.

When the meeting adjourned, Dumbledore retreated to his office. The gargoyle at the entrance stood aside, and once inside, Dumbledore wasted no time placing multiple wards on the door. Swirls of faintly shimmering magic enclosed the space, ensuring privacy. His office was a clutter of arcane instruments, shelves of old tomes, and stacks of parchment half-filled with references to Hogwarts' architecture and founder inscriptions.

From within his robes, he retrieved the silver token Scribe had given him. Its surface reflected the candlelight with an almost living glow. Carefully, he unwrapped the half-burned map from the château and placed the token beside it. When he focused, faint runic lines shimmered on the token's surface—patterns reminiscent of Salazar Slytherin's archaic script.

He muttered a detection incantation, wand tip dancing in small arcs above the token. The instant the spell took hold, a low hum reverberated through the office, making his shelves rattle. The runes on the token flared with a pale greenish light, and one of his quills—perched precariously on the edge of the desk—went flying in a sudden gust of energy.

Dumbledore clasped the token in both hands, forcing the resonance down to a manageable pulse. Finally, the magic quieted, leaving him slightly dizzy. He caught his breath, heart pounding, and chuckled softly at the sight of the upended quill and scattered parchment. Though the comedic chaos amused him, it affirmed that the token held formidable synergy with Hogwarts' wards. The cryptic lines from the map were a tantalizing clue that something deep under the castle was keyed to Slytherin's old magic.

A knock at his door roused him from his thoughts, and he dispelled the warding to admit Eulalie Hicks, a trusted colleague and internationally celebrated Charms practitioner. She entered briskly, noticing at once the swirl of residual magic. "Another top-secret experiment?" she quipped, raising an eyebrow at the disarray on his desk. "Or are you planning to unveil yet another hidden chamber?"

A corner of Dumbledore's mouth curled in a wry smile. "Merely verifying a lead," he replied. "It's…more complicated than I'd like."

Eulalie stepped carefully around a toppled inkwell, retrieving a parchment from the floor. "Word around Hogwarts is that you've stirred the Ministry's attention. You sure you want to keep pushing? We already have too much to worry about with Grindelwald creeping in from every corner." Her voice carried a note of concern that mirrored his own inner anxieties.

He studied the token in his hand, then lifted his gaze to her. "If we don't act, Grindelwald could use these same wards for far darker ends. This castle holds layers of old magic—I fear he's closer to exploiting them than anyone realizes."

Eulalie shook her head sympathetically, placing the parchment on his desk. "Just be careful. If the Ministry thinks you're tampering with ancient wards, they'll come down on you hard." After a moment's hesitation, she offered, "If you need a second opinion on the enchantments, let me know."

"You have my gratitude," Dumbledore said sincerely, meeting her eyes. Eulalie gave a grave nod and departed.

Regaining his composure, he left his office to attend to a few daily responsibilities. On the way, he nearly collided with the Head Girl, an earnest-looking young witch who clutched a stack of rolled parchments. She straightened them quickly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment before she managed a bright smile. "Professor Dumbledore! I was hoping to catch you. Some of us—well, the older students at least—wanted to say we're…we stand with you, sir. We know you're doing everything you can to keep Hogwarts safe."

Dumbledore's surprise turned to heartfelt appreciation. "That means a great deal. Thank you," he said softly.

The Head Girl nodded, as if wanting to say more but unsure how. She hurried on, leaving Dumbledore with a sense of encouragement he hadn't banked on. Between infiltration threats, compromised Ministries, and hidden war-fueled magic, it was easy to forget that Hogwarts was more than wards and hallways; it was a home for young witches and wizards who believed in him, who believed in the future. A younger student paused nearby, glancing at him with wide eyes, and then mustered the courage to squeak, "Will you still be grading our essays on Patronus theory soon, Professor?" The question was so matter-of-fact that a small laugh escaped him.

"Yes, my dear. You have my word," he replied. "By the end of the week."

Though parted from them, the students' faith lingered in his mind as he headed once more to the hospital wing. Credence was awake this time, propped against pillows, his hair disheveled but his eyes alert. Aberforth stood by with the same folded-arm stance, though his gaze flicked between Credence and Albus with something less confrontational than earlier.

Credence managed a faint nod in greeting. Dumbledore stepped closer. "I've just returned from a meeting," he began, his tone calm and explanatory. "What we suspected in France is true: Grindelwald's infiltration is spreading faster than we anticipated. Do you recall any specifics from your visions that might connect to wards or runic patterns? Anything at all, no matter how trivial."

Credence's brow furrowed. "I…sometimes see swirling shapes. They look like lines of glowing script—or runes. They feel cold, yet…powerful. I can't make sense of them." His eyes flicked briefly to Aberforth, then back to Dumbledore. "They remind me of what I saw in that token Scribe gave you."

"At least that's something," Aberforth remarked. His gaze flicked to Albus. "So the boy's visions match your secret relic. Now you want to rope him in further, is that it?"

Dumbledore set a hand on Credence's bed frame gently, mindful of the tension. "I won't force you into anything," he said, addressing them both. "But yes, your visions may help us navigate wards hidden inside Hogwarts. If Grindelwald finds them first—"

"Don't drag the boy into this any deeper unless it's absolutely necessary," Aberforth cut in. "He's barely begun to recover."

Credence closed his eyes as if weighing the risks. Finally, he spoke, voice careful. "I don't want to be used. But I also don't want Grindelwald to get stronger at my expense. If my visions help…then I'll do what I can." He opened his eyes, determined.

An understanding passed between them. Aberforth grumbled but nodded, conceding that neither of them wanted to see Credence exploited, and that inaction could invite greater dangers. Dumbledore exhaled in relief—at least they were aligned on the principle. With the arrangement set, he excused himself, leaving Aberforth to watch over Credence once more.

After midday classes ended, Dumbledore found himself standing by a tall, arched window in one of Hogwarts' quieter corridors. The late afternoon sun cast long beams through the glass, illuminating specks of dust that floated gently in the warm air. Across the courtyard, the castle's spires rose in pointed silhouettes. There, behind centuries-old stones, lay hidden passages, sealed compartments, and wards established by the Founders—some rumored to be untouched for centuries.

He turned the silver token over in his hand, remembering Scribe's grave warnings. Tier-7 magic was more than theoretical power—it was near-legendary, a threshold separating even the most gifted witches and wizards from something far more dangerous. If Grindelwald reached that level, the wizarding world would face a cataclysm that no conventional defense could overcome.

Time felt oppressively short. events were coming to a head at a pace no one seemed fully prepared to confront. Dumbledore's reflection resolved into determination. He would need to explore Hogwarts' dungeons again tonight, armed with the token and the half-burned map to guide him. If Scribe's clues were accurate, the pathway to the Founder's Repository awaited. Perhaps, in that sealed labyrinth, he would find some advantage—some knowledge or power—that could avert Grindelwald's triumph.

His eyes lingered on the evening sky, which bled from pale gold to a soft amber. The castle exuded a timeless solidity, yet behind its stones, tension simmered. Rumors of infiltration. Ministries compromised. A growing war overshadowing everything. He clenched the token firmly, breathed in the lingering warmth of day's end, and stepped away from the window, robes fluttering in his wake.

Soon, he would descend into the depths, prepared for whatever lay beyond the old doorways. Hogwarts' secrets called to him, and with each passing moment, the danger of Grindelwald's ascendance loomed larger. But Dumbledore was resolved—he would not falter. Whatever was hidden in these ancient wards, he would find it first.