Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore had not slept since his late-afternoon reflection at the castle window. Now, only hours after staring at the purple-and-gold swirls of the sky, he stood alone in a dimly lit corridor, the last traces of the sunset fading behind Hogwarts' windowpanes. The silver token pressed gently against his palm, lines of ancient runes carved into its surface. He turned it over, letting the candlelight dance along the engraved edges. Though his mind was alive with possibility, his breath remained steady. Expediency was everything, and he had already spent too much time imagining the next steps. He had to act.

He slid the token into an inner pocket of his robe and made his way toward his office. That same hush lay over the corridors as it had earlier, though a soft, low hum of evening noise drifted in from the Great Hall. House-elves bustled somewhere in the depths of the kitchens. A few late-working professors had locked themselves away in their offices, toiling over lesson plans or research. Dumbledore inhaled as he caught a faint whiff of burnt candle wax and distant cooking stew, the everyday aura of Hogwarts that somehow grounded him amid the encroaching dangers beyond its walls.

He paused at a bend in the corridor, remembering the warnings he had gathered from Aberforth. His brother's voice echoed: Don't go poking around old magic. Everything carried risk, but it was a risk he had to take. Grindelwald was moving quickly, piece by piece, infiltrating corners of wizarding society, sowing dissent. Credence's willingness to help remained tentative—he was a young man caught between fear and hope. Dumbledore gritted his teeth, acknowledging that every moment spent hesitating put Credence, Aberforth, and so many others in jeopardy. He straightened his shoulders and continued to his office door, stepping inside.

Once in his office, Dumbledore lit only a single lamp, not wanting to draw attention. Frantic piles of parchment, half-transcribed notes from Flamel, and volumes bragging about advanced wards covered every table. He rummaged through the scribbled diagrams that Nicolas Flamel had sent him—a small sheaf of instructions on possible "legacy wards" that dated back to Hogwarts' founding. Runes, complicated lines, and swirling patterns dominated each page. He also pulled out a tiny kit from a side drawer, which contained a few delicate runic chisels and vials of shimmering powder. As he did, he accidentally nudged a tall stack of parchment. The entire pile wobbled precariously, toppling onto a slender enchanted gear contraption he had been examining the night before. Startled, Dumbledore lunged forward to steady the contraption. One foot slipped on another scattered page, and he reprimanded himself through a hushed remark: "I can't even keep my office in order, and I'm about to meddle with wards older than the castle's ghosts. Brilliant, Albus." Letting out a quiet, amused sigh, he restored some semblance of organization.

With his materials in a small leather satchel, Dumbledore left the office and swept down the hallway, robes drifting behind him. He kept the hood of his cloak pulled low, for although Hogwarts was relatively quiet at night, one never knew when a stray caretaker or patrolling prefect might spot a staff member lurking in the off-limits dungeons. The path spiraled downward, torches throwing elongated shadows on stone walls. The deeper he descended, the thicker the air became, tinged with earth and ancient dust. He thought of how the entire building rested upon centuries of hidden corridors and silent secrets. Sliding one hand along the wall to keep his balance, he almost brushed against a particularly damp section of mossy stone. The faint drip-drip of unseen water told him the underground channels were flooding some corridor or another, saturating dormant passageways that rarely saw use.

A flickering torch sputtered as he stepped onto a landing. A colder undercurrent of air rushed past. He glanced at the half-burnt map from the Parisian château, pinned to the inside of his satchel flap, and at the silver token once more, verifying each curve of runic text. The castle's architecture, with its endless labyrinth of corridors, only grew more perplexing here in the dungeons, but he recognized the signs: the walls were slightly different in some places, a hidden archway or a subtle carved motif that matched the notes gleaned from Flamel's scribbles.

He advanced quietly, wand at the ready, until he noticed a slick patch of floor where water trickled from a small crack above. The door he needed to pass through gleamed in the torchlight, runes etched around the edges. But that puddled water and the moisture-laden air spelled trouble for typical unlocking or protective spells. If he cast a usual bridging charm, the wet stone and ancient wards might cause the magic to backfire or fizzle out. Dumbledore took a measured breath and tried something more inventive. He conjured a minimal walkway made of bright, ephemeral shards of light—like stepping stones that hovered an inch or two above the flooded floor. They shone faintly, reminiscent of silver fireflies in the gloom. One by one, he tested them, stepping carefully to avoid letting the icy water soak his boots. The walkway held, its shimmer reflecting in the puddle below. A tiny smile tugged at his lips. Hogwarts, with all its unpredictable little leaks, could be quite the mentor in spontaneous problem-solving.

Reaching the iron-bound door at the end of the passage, he slowed. This was the same door he had investigated weeks ago, when he had first suspected something significant lurked behind it. Last time, he'd tried a handful of conventional spells—Alohomora variants, runic manipulations—but the jolting backlash had nearly singed his fingertips. He remembered the faint hum of ancient magic, a trembling echo that had warned him to stand back. Tonight, however, he was prepared with Flamel's notes and the token.

He stood there a moment, recalling the flicker of arcs that had repelled him. He inhaled and murmured, "No more half-measures." He slipped the token from his robe. The runes etched around the door glimmered in response, as if greeting the object. A greenish-blue spark of magic skimmed the token's surface, brightening its symbols. Dumbledore furrowed his brow in focus, only to freeze when he heard footsteps approaching from above. Quickly he drew his cloak tighter and extinguished his wandlight. The footsteps echoed faintly, growing louder, then receding again. With measured patience, Dumbledore waited until the caretaker—Filch's predecessor from decades prior—moved away. At last, the corridor settled into a hush.

He returned his attention to the door, pressing the token gently against one of the engraved runes. The synergy of magic sparked anew. Pulling Flamel's notes from his satchel, he began a meticulous weaving of spells. One by one, he layered illusions to dampen any potential recoil, ensuring that if the wards recoiled, they would strike his illusions rather than him. Thin streams of shimmering power trickled along the cracks of the doorway, weaving into runic channels. The entire dungeon corridor quivered, dust sifting from the arched ceiling. Dumbledore whispered incantations, half-forgotten words that belonged as much to Hogwarts' earliest days as to modern wizarding practice. Each step required unwavering concentration.

For an instant, Dumbledore recalled his brother's stern countenance. Aberforth believed that messing with ancient wards could so easily corrupt, or at least ensnare, a wizard's better judgment. But the image of Grindelwald, rising unstoppable in the West, drove him on. If an enemy like Grindelwald found this secret, the consequences would be far worse.

The door began to groan, metal bands shifting with an audible clank. Runes flared with sudden brilliance, nearly blinding him. Then came a final tremor, like a ripple through the stone. Cobwebs and old dust scattered into the stale air. In one burst of light, the wards gave way, and the door parted enough for a draft of musty air to sweep out. Dumbledore blinked away the afterglow of the runic sparks, heart thudding in his chest. The door was open.

He stepped forward, lifting his wand into the newly revealed space. Within, he found a vaulted chamber. Some primal hush pulsed inside, drawing him further. Magically lit braziers lined the walls, each casting a bluish flame that flickered without heat. Despite their age, they still burned steadily, hinting at wards that had been placed centuries ago—sophisticated, self-sustaining protections woven into the architecture itself. He moved closer, noticing the elongated silhouettes of serpents coiled in hidden corners carved into the walls—Slytherin's handiwork. Nearby, small crests were set into the stone in the shapes of a badger, a raven, and a lion. The entire design seemed a subtle tapestry of the Founders, forever woven into Hogwarts' foundations.

His footsteps echoed. A faint scuffling sound made him pause. On the edges of the brazier light, something flickered: phantom outlines of robed figures, drifting like echoes of ancient illusions. He recognized them as spectral guardians, their presence a test for anyone who trespassed. Easing his breathing, Dumbledore steadied his wand and let slip an illusion of his own, an overlay of swirling shapes that masked his presence from detecting wards. The silhouettes twitched, as if scanning for him, but his illusions made him appear as no more than a whisper of air. He took cautious steps forward, noticing the floor's pattern shift beneath him. Runes realigned themselves as he moved, rearranging the path in mosaic patterns that threatened to trip or entrap him. With careful glances at the diagrams in his head, Dumbledore removed a small pinch of shimmering runic powder from his kit. Sprinkling it in a controlled swirl over the floor, he watched how the runes adjusted, momentarily revealing a safe route for him to progress. Each new obstacle tested his presence of mind and agility. Triumph flickered through him whenever he unraveled these cunning puzzles, like a student acing an unexpected exam. Here, though, the stakes were far higher.

Finally, the illusions of faceless guardians and shifting floors seemed to retreat, allowing him into the chamber's heart. The braziers glowed a bit brighter, perhaps recognizing a worthy intruder. There, in the center, stood a dais of carved stone. Its surface was engraved in steady spirals of runes that led the eye to an ornate, time-worn chest resting at the center. It was small enough to be carried under one arm, but the swirling aura around it was anything but modest. Dumbledore approached slowly, heart thudding in his ears, half in awe of the Founders' brilliance.

He peered at the chest. Each corner was reinforced with tarnished silver filigree that bore the crest of a different Founder entwined seamlessly. A faint glow pulsed through the lid. Before he even touched it, he sensed the potency of the ward sealing it. Flamel's notes had mentioned that the Founders sometimes secured small artifacts of great power in these chests, each one layered with a protective enchantment that required a rare incidence of combined runes and incantations. Gathering his resolve, he placed one hand gently on the chest. It shivered under his touch, resisting. A slight shimmer of intangible force pressed back against his palm.

He freed the token from his pocket, holding it over the chest's central lock. As he did, he recalled a snippet of runic text from one of Flamel's pages—an incantation that merged the token's power with archaic words from the Founders' own spells. Mustering his memory, Dumbledore began the chant, wand humming at his side. The silver token glowed with renewed intensity, and runes along its surface came alive in swirling script. A web of greenish light laced itself around the edges of the chest, merging with the dais's inscribed spiral. The braziers' flames jumped in response. Dumbledore's wand handle vibrated, arcs of magic dancing around his wrist.

As each carefully pronounced syllable resonated, the chest's lock clicked in incremental movements until a final bright spark erupted. The lid creaked open. A wave of aged, stagnant air swept up. Instantly, a flash of brilliance flared, and he felt a powerful surge in his chest, as if the room had momentarily stolen his breath. He stumbled backward. The braziers roared in height, flames snapping with static. With a controlled gasp, he steadied himself and stepped closer to see what lay within.

Nestled on a violet velvet lining was a small amulet, shaped like a compact crest but woven together with each Founder's emblem—serpent, raven, badger, lion. Tiny jewels winked on the edges, though they were dim, as if needing energy to shine fully. He could feel the relic's pulse, almost like a heartbeat in the quiet chamber. Carefully, he reached out, his fingertips brushing the surface. Immediately, his arm tingled, a sign the relic's power was linking itself with his magical core. It felt at once enticing and slightly unsettling.

Without warning, a final jolt of released magic coursed through him, triggering the braziers to flare even brighter. He yelped in surprise, nearly stumbling off the dais. Some stones around the chamber quaked, rattling the floor. "Subtle indeed," he muttered under his breath, blinking away the golden spots that danced at the corners of his vision. He steadied his hand on the dais and exhaled, half amused, half startled. There was no mistaking the relic's raw potency.

He clasped the amulet in his palm, letting its current settle. Within moments, the braziers calmed, returning to their silent blue flames. The relic's swirling runes transformed into faint glimmers that seemed to hover around it. Holding it up for a better look, Dumbledore felt his own resolve tighten. He could all but sense how this hidden treasure might grant him enough added strength to stand face to face with Grindelwald's Elder Wand, at least for a decisive encounter. The knowledge that such power lay in his hand made his heart pound with conflicting emotion. Power was a tool, yes—but too often, it was also a seduction, something that chipped away at the user's moral framework. He had meddled with wards that skirted dark magic before, draining wards around Grindelwald's lair. Could this relic require an even greater sacrifice?

He thought of Aberforth again, the aloof set of his eyes, the silent judgments. He knew his brother would call this recklessness. Then he thought of Credence—still raw, still searching for something or someone to trust. If Grindelwald got to the boy, it might be the end of them all. He held the relic and murmured, "Power is a tool. But I must remain its master." He let the words settle, though a sliver of uncertainty pulsed beneath his certainty.

Deciding that lingering longer put him at risk of being discovered, he placed the relic in a padded compartment within his own robe, ensuring it was secure. The silver token he reattached to a chain around his neck, hoping it might remain connected to the wards if needed. He could not leave this chamber unguarded, but nor could he replicate the labyrinth of illusions behind him exactly as it had been—he was no Founder. He used a partial reweaving of illusions, layering them around the door and corridor to conceal evidence of his entry. Any casual wanderer would see nothing but an impenetrable wall. He hoped that would be enough to buy him time.

He headed back toward the doorway, only to freeze when he heard something—a distant echo of footsteps, lighter this time than the caretaker's heavy tread. Heart pounding, he doused his wandlight and stood utterly still in the darkness. The footsteps, or perhaps it was just a shift of stones, drifted away, but some sense of being watched lingered. With utmost care, Dumbledore summoned a soft illusion of swirling fog to cloak his retreat. If someone had glimpsed him, he wanted to at least obscure his path. Though uneasy, he pushed aside the possibility of a tail—for now, at least, he needed to get out where he could breathe and think.

He emerged into the deepest dungeon corridor, the door behind him sealing with a muted thrum. One more rung of illusions replaced themselves behind him, and as the glow faded, he drew up his hood and began the cautious trek back up the twisting staircases. Adrenaline throbbed in his veins. Each corner he rounded, he listened for any sign of pursuers. The castle's hush gave no further answer, though his sharpened nerves kept him on high alert. Ascending the final stretch of spiral stairs, he exhaled deeply, feeling the cool stone rail under his fingers.

When he finally stepped onto a more familiar dungeon level, he paused. He clutched at his robes, feeling the relic's telltale warmth against his chest. The amulet's power hadn't subsided; it still throbbed, as if in rhythm with his heartbeat. He pressed a hand over it, swallowing a swirl of anxiety. He envisioned how it might change everything—giving him a chance against Grindelwald's unstoppable presence, but also tying him to an older brand of magic that demanded caution and humility. The final puzzle, he realized, would be whether he could harness this magic without letting it unmake him or overshadow his moral boundaries. It was a question only time would answer.

For now, he had to inform Aberforth. The conversation would be prickly, no doubt. Aberforth would scowl, raise eyebrows, question why Albus was so bent on rummaging through the ancient secrets of Hogwarts at such a dangerous hour. But not telling him was out of the question; secrecy would only elicit more mistrust between them. And Credence… Dumbledore suspected the young wizard might soon sense this new artifact. Credence's visions, or however his Obscurial powers manifested, connected him on a primal level to strong surges of magical energy. The relic was no small trinket like a student's lost amulet. If Credence felt it, he might be drawn to it, for better or for worse.

Tightening his robes, Dumbledore followed a discrete, winding corridor to avoid the main thoroughfares that prefects might be patrolling. The lamp brackets flickered overhead, revealing sporadic tapestries sagging on the walls. Each tapestry depicted some old Hogwarts tale: a comedic image of Hufflepuff coaxing magical beasts, or Ravenclaw unraveling a puzzle. The gentle glow soothed his racing thoughts, but only slightly. Danger overshadowed the achievements of the Founders, for the threat of Grindelwald and his infiltration was real, and now Dumbledore held a powerful piece of Hogwarts' past that could tip the scales.

When he emerged at the final stairwell that would lead him toward the upper floors, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The dungeons lay behind him, silent and uninviting, but also brimming with secrets yet to be discovered. Nothing stirred except the faint flicker of torches. Still, unsettled, he pressed his wand to the palm of his hand and cast one last illusion—gentle as a breeze—to mask the slow footsteps he made while ascending. Even in his heightened state, no pursuer revealed themselves.

At the top of the stairs, Dumbledore paused. His heart still pounded. He could almost imagine the relic's weight shivering beneath his robe, urging him onward. He reflected on the hours just passed: from the stolen moment of quiet at the window to the secretive journey into the underbelly of Hogwarts, to the surge of impossible magic within that hidden chamber. This single evening might well shape the course of the war.

Pulling the cloak's hood down, he stepped into a deserted side hallway. He still needed a moment to breathe, to let the swirling tension recede from his limbs. He exhaled, letting his pulse calm. In the back of his mind, the knowledge that he must speak to Aberforth hovered, as did the knowledge that Credence's growing powers felt inextricably linked to the relic's aura. Despite the sleepless night ahead, he was resolute. If the Founders' creation could match the Elder Wand, then perhaps there was enough hope to bring an end to Grindelwald's aggression. But the path forward was anything but certain, and Dumbledore knew he was not free of the moral consequences that might lay in store.

He began walking again, his footfalls soft on the worn stones. Only the slightest glimmer of the soon-to-be setting moon filtered through the high windows overhead. The corridors, now mostly vacant, led him deeper into the heart of the castle. The relic remained tucked away against his chest, quiet for the moment, neither scorching nor shaking, but undeniably present. Its newfound power brushed up against his magical senses, ready to amplify illusions and wards beyond anything he had previously conjured. It also sent a tingle of trepidation through him, a constant reminder that harnessing such force demanded unwavering caution.

As he neared an intersection, he thought he heard footsteps again behind him. Quickly, he ducked into a small alcove, letting the shadows cover him. A hush followed. Perhaps it was only the old castle settling upon its ancient foundations, or perhaps it was something else. When the sound did not repeat, he pressed on. Everything tonight crackled with unresolved tension, and he had to remain watchful. Clutching his satchel tightly, he climbed another short flight of steps.

At last, he reached the upper-level corridor that would curve back toward his own quarters. Another wave of exhaustion brushed over him, but he swallowed it down. He needed to prepare, to plan what he would say to Credence and how he would approach Aberforth first. He was certain his brother would be furious about him sneaking off without confiding his intentions. But better to face that wrath than to attempt to use the relic alone. If Grindelwald were, by any chance, nestling spies within the walls of Hogwarts, they would soon sense a disturbance in the old wards. Dumbledore had to be ready to defend both the relic and the boy who might be its next target.

He reached his door, hesitated, and looked once more down the silent hallway. A faint shifting of shadows at the far end caught his attention, sending a spike of alarm through his veins. Then it disappeared around the corner. He let go of the doorknob, heart still pounding, and cast a subtle illusion behind him to cloak the corridor, just in case someone emerged. Slowly, he pushed the door open and slipped inside.

His quarters, though dark, offered a semblance of safety. He drew out his wand, whispered a set of moderate wards over the doorway, then removed the relic from his robe. In the glow of his single lamp, he studied the craftsmanship again, each Founder's emblem merging seamlessly into the central design. Then, carefully, he placed it inside a wooden chest of his own—one layered with simpler protective spells that might mask it from prying eyes for now.

Despite the swirl of questions in his mind, a note of resolve settled over him. He would talk to Aberforth, discreetly and soon. He would check on Credence, gauge the young man's progress, and see if the relic's presence awakened something in those strange visions of his. The relic felt like a living force that had begun whispering to the castle's wards, creating ripples that might be felt throughout Hogwarts and beyond.

Dumbledore stood by the chest, back straight, forcing a cool steadiness into his veins. Though he could almost sense the relic pulsing within that wooden container, he was committed to ensuring it did not control him. After a moment, he turned away, doused the lamp, and quietly slipped back out, determined to keep up the façade of normalcy. Sleep would have to wait. He had to locate Aberforth—he owed his brother an explanation before morning dawned, before any other force could tear a hole in Hogwarts' secrets.

Down the corridor, his footsteps echoed in the hush, merging with the gentle hum of magic lingering in the stones. He felt the relic's weight in his mind, as though it was calling him back into a hidden epoch when the Four Founders protected the school with their unmatched synergy. Even now, that synergy was turned to more pressing matters: the Great Wizarding War was forging its next, perilous chapter, and Dumbledore carried a piece of that ancient synergy in his robes.

He slipped around a corner, heading deeper into the castle once more, no trace of fatigue visible on his resolute face. If anyone peered from a hidden nook or behind a tapestry, they would have witnessed the faint swirl of illusions at his heels, half-trailing behind him like protective ghosts. The dungeon's memory loomed fresh in his mind, and the distant spark of the relic still burned in his consciousness. As he disappeared into the corridor's shadows, he resolved that he would not become the next wizard consumed by forbidden power. He would stand firm, for Credence, for Aberforth, and for everyone else who deserved to see a brighter dawn at Hogwarts. And so he walked, each step a promise he made to himself, determined to face what came next.