Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore emerged from the darkness of the dungeon corridor with his heart pounding and a strange tingling in his fingertips. The sealed door behind him felt like a monument to secrets he was only just beginning to unravel, and the relic he had secured now lay tucked beneath his robes, radiating with a whisper of power he could still sense against his chest. He paused at the base of the final stairwell, letting the sensations wash over him: the strength of the artifact, the weight of its potential, and the moral implications of having taken it. The torches sputtered as if urging him onward, and he climbed with slow, measured steps.

Each footfall echoed, bouncing off the stone walls, and for a moment, Dumbledore recalled the burst of magic he had felt below. It had jolted him with dizzying heat, a swirl of ancient energies that brought to mind the family tragedies he had spent years trying to bury. The possibility that this relic, a hidden Founder's artifact, could rival Grindelwald's Elder Wand was too important to ignore. Yet the unease in his stomach reminded him that his path might be a slippery slope—a test of conviction rather than a straightforward venture.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. A faint echo drifted up from the depths as though someone else was roaming the same corridors. He sharpened his senses, letting the illusions he was capable of cloak his presence. He waited, spine rigid, muscles coiled in readiness for confrontation. But no one emerged. The only movement was the flicker of the torchlight, the only sound the faint hiss of a draft. Still, a knot coiled in his gut. The feeling of being watched—or followed—remained, yet he pressed on, gliding into the castle's main level without breaking stride.

Hogwarts at this hour had an entirely different character. The corridors lay mostly dark, illuminated only by guttering torches that cast dancing shadows on every surface. Nighttime hush cultivated hushed suspicion, and every shifting shape seemed prone to stirring some hidden fear. A caretaker's muffled footsteps echoed from a distant hallway. Dumbledore found himself carefully navigating to avoid any late-night patrols, partly for the sake of secrecy but also because his own lined face and swirling robes, shimmering faintly with leftover magic, would inevitably draw difficult questions.

He was nearly past a sleeping portrait of a drowsy wizard in a ruffled doublet when it half-woke, blinked, and let out a snorting grunt of recognition. "Albus?" it slurred. Dumbledore slowed, placing a calming hand on the painting's gilded frame. The wizard within blinked at him, sagging lower in his chair. "You're out late… dozing… strolling…" mumbled the portrait before its eyes fluttered shut again. It was a momentary reprieve from the tension, and Dumbledore almost chuckled to himself. The reminder that some corners of Hogwarts remained casual and human, even in tense times, was oddly comforting.

Still, he could not dismiss the truth: he was carrying something extraordinary beneath his robes. As he continued along the corridor, each footstep felt heavier. His mind raced, juggling the moral complexities of acquiring the relic and the confrontation that he anticipated upon meeting his brother. They had been at odds before—Grindelwald's name had a way of igniting old fury in Aberforth, especially whenever Ariana's memory surfaced. Yet Dumbledore couldn't allow that animosity to cloud what had to be done.

Soon, he stood outside Aberforth's quarters. The door was unremarkable, a simple oak panel tucked away at the far end of a narrow hallway seldom used by students. He toyed with the notion of waiting until morning, but the night was already thick with apprehension; secrecy would do them more harm if it festered. Lifting his hand, he knocked softly, part of him hoping Aberforth might already be asleep and spare them both a complicated confrontation. But within moments, the door opened. Aberforth, looking wide awake and wearing an expression of deep concern, stared at him with searching eyes.

"I was wondering," Aberforth said quietly, stepping back to let his brother enter, "when you'd show up like this again."

Dumbledore slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He took a moment to note the sparse furnishings: a worn armchair, a modest desk, and a single enchanted lamp giving off a warm glow. Usually, the space felt homey, but right then, the air was thick with tension. Aberforth's gaze flicked over Dumbledore's disheveled robes and the faint shimmer of magic that still clung to him like static.

"You've been out poking around the dungeons again, haven't you?" Aberforth asked, arms crossed.

Dumbledore let a tight smile form, though it didn't ease the knots in his chest. "I have. I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but there are things you need to know."

Aberforth's eyes narrowed. "You're right there are things I need to know." His voice was tight. "So, what foolhardy plan have you set in motion this time?"

Rather than answer verbally, Dumbledore drew the artifact from beneath his robes. It felt almost eager in his hand, as though it recognized the tension in the room. The amulet-like relic caught the lamplight, glimmering with a faint pulse. Aberforth's face fell instantly into shock mixed with anger. The hush that followed crackled with veiled accusations and memories that Dumbledore knew better than to dredge up lightly.

"Is that—" Aberforth began, but his voice trailed off. He moved closer, eyes glued to the object. The glow revealed his clenched jaw and the lines of worry that only deepened when Ariana was mentioned. "You risked yourself for that? You risked all of Hogwarts?"

"There is more at stake than just my safety," Dumbledore said, closing his fingers gently around the relic. A small current of energy ticked through his hand, reminding him of its potency. "With Grindelwald gaining strength and his hold on the Elder Wand, we need an artifact capable of challenging him. Or at least neutralizing part of his advantage."

Aberforth exhaled a shaky breath, raw anger in his eyes that only grew more bitter the longer he looked at his brother. "Ancient magic," he muttered. "We both know how tampering with old spells and relics ended last time. Ariana—" His voice cracked, and he turned away briefly, grappling with the wave of emotion. When he faced Dumbledore again, there was a fierce protectiveness there. "You chase power, Albus, and people get hurt. Don't you remember?"

He set his hand on the back of the armchair, gripping it so tightly his knuckles went white. Dumbledore wanted to place a hand on his brother's shoulder, but he knew better than to push that boundary too hastily. Instead, he listened. He remembered Ariana's tragedy well—he had never truly stopped blaming himself for it. Every inquiry into higher magic, every new venture, was haunted by that memory. It was a harsh lesson, a remorse that weighed heavily on him.

"You're right about Ariana," Dumbledore said softly, sincerity threading his tone. "She was lost because we misjudged the consequences of the forces we toyed with. But this—" he lifted the relic again, letting the dim lamplight slide across its surface, "—this isn't a reckless quest for personal power. It's a measured attempt at responsibility. Grindelwald wields something I cannot easily counter. If we do nothing, more lives will be lost."

Aberforth's face was a storm of conflicting emotions: old hurt, fear, a flickering semblance of trust. "How can you be sure this relic won't corrupt you just as the Elder Wand's power corrupted those who sought it?"

Dumbledore took a moment to steady his voice. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "But it's a chance we must take. I can't defeat Grindelwald with half-measures and moral platitudes alone. We need tangible ways to fight back."

His brother looked down, as though searching the floor for an argument that might trump necessity. Eventually, he shook his head and sank into the armchair. "I still don't like it."

A weighted silence fell, each breath tugging at their shared memory of failure and heartbreak. At length, Aberforth said, "Have you considered how this might affect Credence? The boy is sensitive to magical distortions, and we both know Grindelwald has a way of manipulating him."

"That concern has crossed my mind more than once," Dumbledore responded. He set the relic carefully on a side table, as though worried the wrong movement might set it off. "If Grindelwald senses such an artifact is in my possession, he'll exploit every vulnerability. Credence might undergo severe turmoil—visions, nightmares, or worse. But we cannot allow that fear to paralyze us."

Aberforth rubbed his forehead. "He's already in the infirmary, barely sleeping through the night. If that relic sets off another wave of nightmares or if Grindelwald deliberately provokes him…" He let the sentence linger, the potential horrors unspoken but understood.

Dumbledore's mouth tightened. He pictured Credence tossing in bed, eyes shut tight, mind afire with half-formed visions he could hardly control. The boy's Obscurial magic, chaotic and deeply linked to his emotions, was a tinderbox. The wrong nudge from Grindelwald, or the wrong introduction of raw power, might cause a conflagration. "That," he said finally, "is why we must be exceedingly careful. Our secrecy is paramount, yes. But so is ensuring Credence does not become unwittingly involved in a confrontation he cannot handle."

Aberforth looked at him for a long time. Although he appeared conflicted, at least he was no longer edging toward outright dismissal. "And if the Ministry finds out you're meddling with relics that rival the Elder Wand, do you truly think they'll just nod and pat you on the back for your bravery?"

A weak chuckle formed on Dumbledore's lips. "I suspect not. If anything, they'll fear the unpredictable results of such powerful magic. They might even blame me for escalating hostilities with Grindelwald. But the Ministry's caution often leads to inaction. We can't afford inaction, not now."

Aberforth rose from the chair and leaned heavily on the battered desk. More sincerity glowed in his eyes than before, but he was not yet free of tension. "I can't stand by if you're risking everything. I told you once, after Ariana—" He paused, swallowing. "I told you I wouldn't let you chase lofty ambitions at the cost of innocent lives. If you truly believe this is necessary, I'll help. But we do this carefully. One mistake, and you'll lose the trust of the people who look to you for guidance."

Dumbledore inhaled slowly, relief trembling in his chest. He nodded just once in acknowledgment. "We proceed cautiously. Thank you, Aberforth."

The quiet that followed might have slipped into something oppressive if Aberforth hadn't suddenly cleared his throat and attempted a half-grin. "You realize, of course, if you blow yourself up with that relic, I get all of your goats."

It was such an absurd remark—one that barely made sense, given that Dumbledore did not, in fact, keep goats—that the older brother let out a faint laugh. The tension in the room lessened marginally. "Well, you'll be disappointed," Dumbledore teased back, "since I've never kept goats. But perhaps I'll leave you my library."

Aberforth snorted. "Oh, how grand. A library. Because that's what an innkeeper really needs." Yet the corners of his mouth quirked upward despite the biting sarcasm.

Just then, the door burst open, and a house-elf scrambled into the room, wearing what looked like an oversized tea cozy. Its huge eyes flicked from Aberforth to Dumbledore and then fixated on the glowing relic that lay on the table. The little creature let out a small squeak of shock.

"Oh! Begging your pardon, sirs," the elf blurted, voice high-pitched with panic and embarrassment. "I was only bringing some late-night biscuits and tea—didn't know Master Aberforth had company—" It began setting down a tray with trembling hands, nearly spilling steaming tea across the table. Dumbledore deftly caught one teacup before it tumbled onto the relic.

Aberforth gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's fine, Tibbins. We appreciate the tea. That'll be all."

Tibbins bowed repeatedly, eyes still drifting warily to the faintly shimmering artifact. Without another word, the elf hurried out, leaving behind a moment of echoing footsteps in the hallway. Once the door shut again, there was a beat of stunned silence. Dumbledore and Aberforth exchanged a look, the tension broken by an unexpected wave of humor.

"I think Tibbins might be traumatized," Dumbledore said with a slight twinkle in his eye. "The poor elf probably saw that relic and thought it was something explosive."

Aberforth shrugged, taking a cup of tea for himself. "I'll reassure him eventually. Right now, I'm more worried about what else might get suspicious if they saw that glow." He leaned over and, with surprising gentleness, slid the artifact closer to Dumbledore. "We should hide it before the Ministry or half the staff here sniffs something amiss."

They sipped tea for a moment, letting the steam and warmth create a bubble of normalcy in an otherwise tense conversation. The dryness in Dumbledore's throat began to recede, replaced by a clarity of purpose. He needed to articulate a plan thoroughly enough to address Grindelwald and protect both Credence and Hogwarts.

"I'll keep it concealed," Dumbledore said at last. "More illusions and wards. It must be tested, but in a controlled way. If the Ministry or even certain faculty members become aware, we risk panic or worse. For now, the best path is secrecy."

Aberforth nodded, though concern lingered in his eyes. "Just remember, Albus: this path can't be walked foolishly. One slip—one rumor—and you'll be painted as no better than Grindelwald. The press will have a field day. The students here deserve a peaceful environment, and the staff have enough to worry about."

"I understand," said Dumbledore, solemn. "And I promise to inform you of every major development. I won't keep you in the dark. We've lost too much already; I won't let that happen again."

Aberforth set his teacup down, the movement precise, as if performing a practiced habit. His gaze drifted to his brother's face, then to the relic. "All right," he said at length. "Let's figure out a short-term plan at least. Keep it hidden, see if you can figure out how to harness it safely. And keep Credence out of it if you can."

"Agreed," Dumbledore said, voice quiet. They both knew that "if you can" might prove impossible. Grindelwald's manipulations were cunning, and Credence was an easy target for illusions and false promises. The vow hovered unspoken: they would protect the boy, no matter the cost.

Falling into a thinner hush, both men stared at the relic for a few moments. The faint glow had faded almost to nothing, as though it sensed the cessation of immediate debate. Dumbledore felt the heaviness in his limbs—part fatigue, part acceptance of the burden he had taken on. The steadfast presence of Aberforth at his side, at least for this moment, gave him a measure of relief.

Then Aberforth spoke, voice calm but laced with foreboding. "If Grindelwald truly can sense the presence of something that dares to challenge the Elder Wand's supremacy, then we have little time to prepare. You must be ready for him to strike."

Dumbledore nodded. "I suspect we'll face him sooner rather than later. In that event, I may need to consult Nicolas Flamel," he murmured, half to himself. "He possesses knowledge of advanced wards that could amplify or harmonize with this relic's aura. But that's for another day. For now, we must keep everything under wraps."

"If you involve Flamel," Aberforth said, leaning forward, "do it carefully. The more people know about this relic, the more likely the Ministry catches wind. And trust me, they'll want to lock you up if they even imagine you're dabbling in dark relic lore." There was minimal hyperbole in his warning; the Ministry of Magic had never taken kindly to unexplained or unregulated magical experiments.

Dumbledore finished his tea and placed the cup aside, turning the relic over in his hand one last time before gently tucking it back beneath his robes. He suppressed a shiver as its power slid like an electric whisper across his chest. "You have my word, Aberforth. I'll keep appearances as they are and only reveal what's absolutely necessary. I've no desire to fight the Ministry as well as Grindelwald."

The tension in Aberforth's stance softened, replaced by a weary acceptance. "Just promise me," he said, a faint crack in his voice, "promise you won't become what you're trying to stop."

The question sank into Dumbledore's heart. One misstep had haunted them for years; the fear of repeating that mistake was as potent as any curse. "I promise," he said in a low, resolute tone. "I have no intention of letting this consume me."

A silence, gentler but still fraught with unspoken memories, settled between the brothers. After a few more moments, they stood. Dumbledore gave a nod, and Aberforth responded in kind, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Though their alliance was uneasy, bittersweet, it was real. The unavoidable love of family had its own gravity, pulling them together in times of crisis.

With the relic hidden, Dumbledore stepped back toward the door. "If you notice anything odd around the castle—footsteps in the halls at strange hours, talk among the students, or any sign that Grindelwald's spies have infiltrated—alert me immediately."

"I can handle a bit of eavesdropping," Aberforth returned, though there was no jest in his tone. "And you—try to get some rest. Even you can't fix the world half-dead on your feet."

A small smile ghosted across Dumbledore's lips. "I'll do my best." He reached for the door handle, feeling the cool metal under his fingers. Another wave of fatigue threatened to overtake him. Perhaps the emotional weight of the conversation had finally settled in.

He slipped into the corridor, closing the door behind him with quiet finality. The hallway was still and shadowed, though the torches along the walls flickered more brightly here, as if the castle itself were watching over them. Dumbledore took a few steps, mind full of swirling questions about potential wards and ways to safeguard Credence. Time was scarce, and he suspected Grindelwald's next move lurked just beyond the horizon.

Then there was a faint noise—like a muted thud or soft scrape—somewhere around the corner. He turned sharply, robes sweeping the cold stone floor. The corridor was empty, or so it seemed. Casting a silent revealing spell, he let his magic probe the surroundings. Nothing manifested, and the corridor remained still. Yet the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The sense of being watched returned more sharply than before. He narrowed his eyes, scanning for any sign of intrusion or invisible figure.

After a few moments, he found no one. It could have been a shifting painting, a rattling suit of armor, or the building settling in the night's chill. But he knew better than to dismiss it outright. Hogwarts had many corners and hidden paths. Any one of them might conceal someone with a keen interest in Dumbledore's activities.

Steeling himself, he moved on, illusions coiling around him once more to mask his presence. His footsteps made hardly a sound as he headed toward his private quarters. Tomorrow, he would begin his quiet experiments with the relic. Tomorrow, he might consult the ancient texts he had collected. Tomorrow, he would still wrestle with the same moral burden. 

For now, though, he needed the refuge of his own room, a place to lock the artifact away—somewhere it would neither lure the curious nor reveal itself to unwanted eyes. The day's trials had worn him down, yet he carried an unspoken resolve that felt as solid as the castle walls around him. Aberforth's caution rang in his ears, and Ariana's tragedy lingered in his heart. He pressed a hand against his concealed pocket, feeling the relic's subtle hum, as if reminding him of its potential as well as its dangers.

Tired but resolute, Dumbledore slipped into his chambers. He set about enchanting an ornate chest with layered wards—secrecy, protection, and illusions that shimmered with faint runes before dissolving into invisibility. He placed the relic inside gently, like one might cradle something alive. He secured the chest with a final wave of his wand, feeling the wards lock into place.

Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the lone candle in the corner. The quiet seemed deeper here, as though the ancient stones bore witness to every solemn vow, every hush of conspiratorial talk. Dumbledore looked around the room, gazing at the worn but comforting surroundings. So many thoughts tugged at his mind—Credence's safety, the need to learn the relic's secrets, the suspicion that prying eyes never truly left him alone. 

Now was not the time for comfort or rest, yet indeed, a short respite might be all he could afford before the next wave of challenges arrived. Grinding tensions within the wizarding world and the threat of Grindelwald's might pressed on him like a weight upon his shoulders. He would face them with unwavering determination. But one truth had never been clearer: the line between using power to protect and letting that power consume him was as thin as a razor's edge. 

With a final glance toward the locked chest, Dumbledore extinguished the candle and let the darkness settle in.