Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

The air around Albus Dumbledore and Aberforth crackled as the swirling mists of the Bhutanese summit vanished, replaced by the cool hush of altogether different surroundings. One moment, the mountaintop wind had roared in their ears; the next, it withdrew into a faint whisper. Disorientation settled like a weight upon them, nausea lurking behind the eyes. Not a second earlier, they had stood amid the chaos of Aurors, the wails of wounded witches and wizards, and the stark reality of Grindelwald's escape. Now, they found themselves in a remote rocky clearing, far from the prying eyes of the wizarding world.

Dumbledore took a shallow breath, willing his heart rate to slow. The swirling air of high altitude had been replaced by stillness, but the tension remained. Guilt gnawed at him for leaving a scene that, by rights, demanded explanation and accountability. Yet, every fiber of his being knew staying behind meant risking Credence's fragile life. "How is he?" Dumbledore asked, voice low.

Aberforth, still gripping Credence beneath the arms, sank to one knee. "Don't think we've splinched him," Aberforth said in a grit-edged tone. "But you nearly made us reappear in the middle of a boulder." A faint tremor in his voice betrayed more concern than scorn.

Dumbledore knelt as well, reflexively patting the pockets of his singed robes for a wand or a flask of potion that might help. The acrid smell of burnt fabric reminded him of the curses and sparks that had flown in Bhutan—an encounter that felt simultaneously hours and seconds old. He glanced around the clearing, noticing for the first time an old fence line not far off and a farmer's shed in the distance. A shape scudded across the sky—perhaps an early-morning wizard on a broom. Dumbledore caught the watcher's startled expression. The figure slowed, peered, then accelerated away, muttering something about troublemaking wizards. A wince flickered on Dumbledore's face as he realized they had no time for curious onlookers.

Aberforth grunted, lifting one arm to wipe sweat from his brow. Holding Credence had caused his own breathing to come in short bursts. "You might've chosen a more civilized spot. Somewhere with fewer rocks."

Dumbledore managed a hint of wryness. "I thought this would be… quieter." Then his gaze dropped to Credence, who lay half-slumped. For all the swirling tension, the young man's expression looked heartbreakingly peaceful, as though lost in a tortured sleep. Another surge of guilt washed over Dumbledore: he had hurried them away from the Bhutanese fiasco, leaving behind any hope of clarifying their story to the Aurors or offering assistance to the wounded. In many ways, it was the only choice. In others, it felt like a betrayal of all those who relied on him.

"Stay with us," Dumbledore murmured, lightly touching Credence's shoulder. A faint moan escaped Credence's lips, brittle and pained. His skin felt ice-cold. Shadows flickered around his fingertips, an ominous sign that the Obscurial's energy remained dangerously close to the surface.

Aberforth exhaled, coming down from his initial alarm. "We can't wait here. He's…" He trailed off, then scowled at Albus. "He'll not last if we dawdle."

Dumbledore nodded, ignoring the knot in his gut. Everything felt precarious—like balancing on a narrow edge. Yet, Credence's life took precedence over everything else. "Hogwarts," he said. "We'll Apparate once more, just a short distance off the grounds. Madame Pomfrey and the Healers can do far more for him than we can in this clearing."

Aberforth's eyes narrowed. "You sure about two Apparitions in a row? You look as pale as a ghost. Suppose you vanish your own arm in the process?"

A quick flicker of humor touched Dumbledore's lips, even under such dire circumstances. "I'll endeavor to keep all limbs attached. If we linger, someone else might wander by. We've little time."

Closing his eyes, Dumbledore steadied himself, wand clenched in his hand. The swirl of magic gathered around him, pulling him into its invisible current. Aberforth supported Credence securely. The crushing sensation built in Dumbledore's chest, his ears popped and his lungs seized, then the rocky terrain folded in on itself and spat them out somewhere else with a dizzying lurch.

They landed on ground much softer than gravel, but it did little to soothe the powerful wave of nausea that almost overwhelmed them. Aberforth stumbled on a patch of damp grass, cursing under his breath. He readjusted his grip on Credence. A final cough shook Credence's body, and he looked on the verge of losing consciousness entirely.

Now they stood at the edge of a scenic spot outside Hogwarts' main protective wards. The sun had barely started to claim the horizon, revealing the lofty spires of the castle in the distance. Though the sky was a soft shade of purple, lined with wisps of early dawn clouds, the imposing silhouette of Hogwarts felt steady, grounded… and so near. It was a sight Dumbledore usually found comforting. Under these circumstances, it struck him like an oasis glimpsed far off in a desert.

He bent over, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Relief spiked, though exhaustion nipped at him. With each second, the edges of his vision threatened to darken from magical strain. "We're close," he managed. "One final push inside."

Aberforth didn't bother with commentary. He slipped an arm beneath Credence's knees, hoisting him to carry. "Lead on before he breaks. We can't risk another Apparition. Let's walk."

Dumbledore nodded. Taking a shaky step forward, he led them through the final wards. Normally, the gates of Hogwarts were grand and steadfast. Now, they stood as a quiet testament to safety—an invitation to respite from the troubles of the outside world. Torches flickered along the walkway. A lone caretaker shuffled with a lantern cradled in his arms, evidently doing some early—even earlier than usual—circuit of the perimeter. At the sight of the trio, he startled so violently that he nearly dropped his lantern, the flame dancing precariously before he caught it. The caretaker gaped, recognized Dumbledore, and frowned in concern.

"Headmaster—well, you look… burned," the caretaker started, but Dumbledore only offered a brief, polite smile and pointed the caretaker down a side path.

"It's under control," he said softly, though his voice verged on trembling with urgency. "We're taking him to the hospital wing. I suggest you carry on your rounds, please."

Baffled, the caretaker nodded and staggered away, hugging the lantern to his chest. Even from a distance, his uneasy glance lingered on them. A swirl of rumors would soon fly; staff and students alike would realize that the Bhutan fiasco had followed Dumbledore back to Hogwarts in the form of a barely conscious young man. No help for it, Dumbledore thought grimly. Let them ask questions. First, we save him.

They pressed on across the grounds, their footsteps echoing along silent corridors once they slipped inside. The hush of early morning settled over the castle halls, broken only by the scare of a few wide-eyed students who were out of bed. They shrank back, uncertain whether to marvel at the legendary professor or worry about the limp figure clutched in Aberforth's arms. A faint hiss of whispered speculation rose behind them, but no one dared speak directly to Dumbledore. Riders might well have returned from Bhutan with dreadful news—some might have reported that Grindelwald had once again escaped. The fiasco was surely the talk of the wizarding world, and Hogwarts was hardly immune to rumors.

"Don't slow," Aberforth urged. Credence's breathing was irregular, and pulses of dark magic fluttered around his hands like trapped moths. Another lurch wrenched his body, making him groan softly.

Finally reaching the doors of the hospital wing, they nearly collided with a swirl of cloaks. Several staff members, among them the Transfiguration professor, a Charms teacher, and certainly a few Ministry officials who had apparently rushed here in the wake of the Bhutan catastrophe, stood guard. One stern-faced wizard from the Ministry—Dumbledore recognized the stiff posture as belonging to an official known for championing bureaucratic procedures—threw a hand out to demand an explanation.

"Professor Dumbledore, we must speak with you at once," the official said, a blend of anger and worry etched into his voice. "The incident in Bhutan… there are pressing questions. The Ministry is outraged. You vanished, leaving them with hardly any—"

"Out of my way." Aberforth scowled fiercely, pushing past the man. Credence's safety was clearly more important to him than polite niceties. "He's dying," Aberforth huffed, forging ahead. "That's all you need to know right now."

A flurry of motion followed. Madame Pomfrey, the resident nurse, stepped out, eyes wide at the sight of the battered group. She glared at the officials. "Stop blocking the blasted door," she snapped. "I have a patient here who needs immediate care. You can wave your parchment about once he's stable—or you can do it from outside my infirmary, which'll be locked if you don't clear off."

Dumbledore managed a calm, yet urgent nod to the staff. "Credence's condition is dire. We'll address your questions afterward, I promise."

The Ministry official started to protest. "We cannot let the details slip—"

"Then wait," Dumbledore interrupted quietly. His eyes flickered with a rare steel behind the usual warmth. "If you stand in the way of saving a life, I promise you'll find no cooperation at all."

At that, the official faltered. Aberforth and Dumbledore slipped through the door, Madame Pomfrey on their heels, and Credence was immediately laid upon a bed near the middle of the ward. Torches glowed with a subdued light, and the swirl of hurried footsteps accompanied the arrival of additional healers. Some apparated from behind curtained partitions, while others rushed in through side doors leading to supply cupboards.

A wave of magical scanning devices, potions, and spells poured over Credence. The flickering darkness at his fingertips flared dangerously, prompting one of the healers to mutter incantations in quick succession to contain the Obscurial energies. Aberforth clenched his jaw, stepping back only enough to let them work. His eyes never left Credence's as the young man murmured something unintelligible, brows drawn as though in pain.

Dumbledore hovered near the foot of the bed, resisting the urge to move closer. He knew a confluence of magic around Credence was risky. If too many powerful wizards had direct contact, it could destabilize the flow swirling beneath Credence's frail surface. Dumbledore's chest tightened each time he saw that swirl of darkness flicker across the boy's fingertips.

"Bite of serpent's fang… that's how it feels," one of the Healers muttered under her breath. "We have to stabilize his magical core first. This is no ordinary illness." She brandished a glass vial brimming with a pearlescent liquid. Another set of potions was brought in, but no single remedy looked sufficient to quell the roiling energy.

Madame Pomfrey, face resolute, nodded to Dumbledore. "He'll pull through," she said in a firm whisper. "But it's complicated. This kind of curse-like phenomenon—" She paused, rethinking her words. "We need to proceed very carefully. The Obscurial entity is deeply entwined with his core."

Aberforth's hands formed fists at his sides. "Don't just stand around diagnosing. Do what you have to do."

The nurse shot him a look, half pity, half exasperation. "We are doing what we have to," she replied. "Another minute or two. We'll know more. This is advanced, I assure you."

A hush lingered as the Healers and Madame Pomfrey cast incantations to create a supportive field. Sparks of golden light flickered around Credence. He coughed again, stirring, a faint delirium contorting his features. The surge of that dark force receded, replaced by a more even pulse beneath the golden web of protective magic.

Catching a glimpse of relief on Aberforth's face, Dumbledore allowed a breath to slip out of his chest in a quiet sigh. He turned away from the bed, knowing if he watched too intently, his own tension might feed into the swirl of magic. Instead, he made for the door, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation with the staff and Ministry officials still waiting. His footsteps fell heavily on the polished floor. Behind him, he could feel the quiet determination of the Healers, the anxious flutter of students sneaking looks through the door, and Aberforth's grim focus on Credence's well-being.

Beyond the infirmary threshold, fragments of a small crowd remained. Some looked relieved that at least Credence was being helped. Others—particularly the Ministry official—looked anything but satisfied. Their eyes flicked to Dumbledore's tattered robes and sooty collar. He was still very much a figure from the battlefield: singed, exhausted, carrying the harrowing memory of Bhutan in every line of his expression.

"Professor, the situation demands immediate clarity," said the official. "We have partial reports of a confrontation in Bhutan. Are you aware—?"

"I am." Dumbledore's voice was quiet enough that any incessant chatter ceased. "Grindelwald is still at large. The fiasco was not resolved. I left abruptly because Credence's life hung in the balance." His eyelids flickered from weariness. "That's all I can tell you for the moment."

Another voice, this time from a staff member, approached more hesitantly. "Forgive me, Professor, but the Ministry is on edge. The entire wizarding community is talking about what happened. They need an official statement."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "They'll have one, just not now. We are within Hogwarts, and the welfare of my student—" he paused, for though Credence was no typical student, that was how Dumbledore preferred to regard him "—takes precedence. I won't apologize for that."

The official opened his mouth, but it was the stern-faced nurse from the infirmary who cut him off. "We need quiet out here," she hissed. "All this yammering bleeds into the ward. You can sleep in the hallway if you like, but keep your voices down while I'm healing patients inside."

Silence fell. Dumbledore resisted a weary smile, grateful for her interruption. A sense of momentary triumph glimmered inside him; perhaps they would give him enough breathing room to ensure Credence's survival. More than that, he needed time to think. Grindelwald's next move was uncertain. The events in Bhutan had proven how high the stakes had become. Now, the Ministry wanted debriefings, statements, and official condemnation. Dumbledore just wanted a chance to gather his thoughts and focus on the threat that had not vanished along with the Himalayan dawn.

He slid a hand along the stone wall of the corridor. Its cool surface steadied him. In the hush, he closed his eyes, recalling how Grindelwald had stared back at him in Bhutan with that timeless mixture of arrogance, cunning, and a remnant of something that might once have been respect. A chill ran through him. No one else seemed prepared to understand the depths of that man's cunning. Endless red tape wouldn't solve the problem.

The staff parted slightly, giving him room. He could hear the faint shuffling behind the infirmary doors—perhaps potions being assembled, or the scratch of a quill as a Healer recorded Credence's vitals. Aberforth had not emerged, which told Dumbledore he remained at Credence's side, unwilling to be parted even for a moment. The paternal or brotherly streak that Aberforth had always guarded ironically found an outlet in this boy. Perhaps it was a reflection of guilt and love and heartbreak, all tangled together.

With a pull at his singed collar, Dumbledore exhaled and tried to summon gratitude that they had made it this far un-splinched and alive. But the feeling of relief was overshadowed by a gnawing dread. The war was not only continuing—it was escalating. The Great Wizarding War that some had been too fearful to name was at hand. And he carried knowledge of Grindelwald's power deep within him, knowledge only he truly understood. However, that was a burden for him alone to bear, and for now, storing enough energy to face the Ministry's demands—without allowing them to hamper his moves—would be crucial.

A few staff members murmured to one another, eyes flicking guiltily at Dumbledore's drained appearance. They seemed to sense that exhaustion more thoroughly than the Ministry official cared to. Someone offered him a seat, but he declined. He had no intention of sitting down to a formal interview right outside the hospital ward. Instead, he turned to the official. "If you truly wish details, collect them from the Aurors in Bhutan. They can confirm the damage inflicted by Grindelwald's forces. Once Credence is out of critical danger, I'll meet you in the Headmaster's office. Until then, I ask your patience."

To his surprise, the official merely folded his arms and nodded stiffly. The man's expression remained severe, but he seemed to grasp that refusing would stir up a wave of very public condemnation if it harmed Credence in any way. After a tense moment, the official turned on his heel and strode away, presumably to scribble a note back to the Ministry. That left only the Hogwarts staff, who lingered with concern on their faces.

"I appreciate your restraint," Dumbledore said quietly. "It's been a difficult night… or morning, I suppose."

One professor, adjusting her spectacles, gave a supportive nod. "We're here if you need us. Let us know how we can help."

Their presence reminded Dumbledore that although the wizarding world outside might swirl with chaos, inside these walls, he was surrounded by those who respected him—colleagues who trusted him to do what was right. Even so, the guilt he harbored for leaving behind wounded witches and wizards at the summit pressed heavily on him. If Credence hadn't required immediate rescue, perhaps he could have…

No. He silenced that second-guessing. If he had relinquished a moment's hesitation, the boy might have slipped into irreversible darkness. Dumbledore refused to regret saving a life. Another wave of exhaustion threatened to buckle his knees, and he steadied himself once more against the cool stone.

When at last he ducked back into the infirmary, the Healers had layered a gentle hum of protective wards around Credence. Varying intensities of light glowed in faint ribbons above the bed, diffusing the raw edges of the Obscurial's presence. Aberforth was seated at Credence's side, muttering half-formed pleas under his breath, though he'd never admit the heartbreak behind his harsh tone. Madame Pomfrey spotted Dumbledore and came over. She kept her voice low so as not to disturb the patient.

"He's stabilized but far from safe," she said. Her brisk confidence always offered a measure of comfort. "He needs rest, certain potions, and specialized monitoring. The Ministry is in an uproar out there, but we're handling it. You should check in with your staff, gather yourself. You look as though you could collapse as well."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Thank you, Poppy. Has he said anything coherent?"

She shook her head. "Drifting in and out. His mind is overtaxed. We think he's more aware than he looks, but that Obscurial energy is volatile. If you want my advice, let him remain quiet. Too much excitement could provoke a surge."

Quiet acceptance slipped into Dumbledore's eyes. "We'll take every precaution." He stepped forward and gently touched Aberforth's shoulder. His brother twitched, but didn't pull away.

"He's breathing better," Aberforth muttered, gaze fixed on Credence. "Hogwarts must be good for him. Or maybe it's flipping potions. I don't know." He paused, then swallowed. "We left so fast, Albus. I can't say it enough: that was close—too close."

Dumbledore's mouth quirked, a borderline smile. "Yes, well, you said it yourself: we didn't have a choice." He slid a glance at Credence's pale face. "And it brought us back here, in time. We'll manage the rest."

Aberforth nodded, tension fading marginally from his brow. Outside, the staff and Ministry officials might be rolling out fresh waves of questions, but in this moment, Dumbledore focused only on Credence's exhausted form. The boy had made it. The next steps would unfold soon enough—answers to the Ministry, Hogwarts gossip, and the war that raged beyond these walls. For now, it was enough that Credence had a fighting chance.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, wanting to remain there, but the nurse's admonition about not overcrowding rang in his memory. Already the silver threads of magic in the air shivered with his presence. He forced himself to step back.

A muffled clamor outside signaled someone was once again asking for him. The desire to avoid that conversation warred with his sense of responsibility. Too many people demanded answers. Yet, none of them truly grasped the enormous threat that Grindelwald still posed. This was only the beginning.

He found his hand braced against the infirmary doorframe. He pressed his palm against the old wood. Tired though he was, he knew that meeting the Ministry's demands halfway would keep them from boxing him in. If they pressed too hard, if they declared him uncooperative, it could hamper every effort to thwart Grindelwald. So he steeled himself.

"Stay with him," he murmured to Aberforth. "I'll be right outside."

The elder brother nodded wordlessly, shifting his seat to keep a closer watch over Credence. Dumbledore slipped out into the corridor. The Ministry official stood there again, holding a clipboard laden with parchment. Several staff members hovered anxiously in the background. Their eyes were wide with worry—and curiosity. A hush fell as soon as they saw him.

Dumbledore drew in a slow breath, ignoring the way the tension in his limbs pulled at sore muscles. The day was young, but the challenges felt unending.

"All right," he said, his voice quiet yet unyielding. "Let's speak. Keep it brief, and I'll answer what I can. But understand this: my priority remains with Credence's recovery and ensuring Hogwart's safety. Grindelwald is still out there," he added gravely, meeting the official's eyes. "He'll move quickly, and we must be prepared."

The official clutched his quill with a grudging acceptance, clearly flustered by Dumbledore's unwavering stance. Tension simmered beneath every polite surface gesture. Still, the words that needed to be said would be said. The ramifications of Bhutan reached far beyond a single boy's injuries; the Great Wizarding War was inching closer. Everyone felt its approach in the hush of these stone corridors, in the hushed speculation flickering through staff and students alike.

As Dumbledore pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself once more, his thoughts drifted to Grindelwald's mocking smile. The war wasn't done. He had to pull the Ministry's attention to the real threat, ensure Credence's care, and see Hogwarts remain a sanctuary. One crisis at a time, he thought, mustering the energy for this next conversation.

With that resolution, he turned back to the official, the staff, the swirl of questions. No final rest or grand summation awaited him here—only the unbroken path forward.