Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore broke through the tangled edge of the Austrian wizarding hamlet, lungs heaving as he tried to steady his breath. The night sky flashed with jagged slashes of lightning, throwing the narrow, twisting footpath into harsh relief. Rain battered his cloak, drumming against it with relentless force. Normally, he would have savored a moment to correct his appearance—especially after such a daring infiltration—but there was no time. Torchlight still flickered in windows behind him, and he could almost taste the tension in the air. Voices called out in the distance, echoing off the mountains. At any moment, a scout might crest the same slippery ridge he'd just descended. Clutching the soaked parchments and coded documents he had wrenched from the watchtower, he pressed forward, half stumbling down the muddy slope.

He cast a brief Lumos charm to confirm the parchments weren't reduced to pulp in this downpour. Relief washed over him upon seeing most of the ink and diagrams intact—his illusions had taken their toll, but at least the crucial evidence remained usable. The infiltration had nearly pushed his magical reserves to the breaking point, and he could still feel the hollow ache behind his eyes. Despite the exhaustion, a flicker of pride warmed him. He'd secured vital intelligence on Grindelwald's sinister web of alliances.

A crack of thunder rolled across the valley, making him jolt. He wrestled with the thought that his subterfuge might have endangered local villagers—though he'd tried to minimize any trace of his presence, he couldn't ignore the pang of guilt. Still, the chance to weaken Grindelwald's operations was paramount. He reassured himself that confronting this looming threat was worth the risk. The hamlet's lanterns bobbed higher up the slope, faint sparkles of light in a sea of darkness, and he picked up his pace.

His foot slapped onto a slick patch of mud, and for an instant, his world tilted. Flailing, he reflexively shot out a levitation charm, awkwardly hovering a foot above the ground for a split second. He landed gently, relief mingling with embarrassment at how ridiculous he must have looked—soaked to the bone, swirling wandlight around like some clumsy apprentice. "Quite the noble figure I cut tonight," he muttered. Then, adjusting his grip on the dripping sheaf of documents, he trudged onward, determined to find some patch of shelter beyond the watchful gaze of Grindelwald's loyalists.

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A small, rocky outcrop loomed just around the bend. It jutted from the slope like an old guardian, partially protected by a ledge of stone overhead. Upon approaching, Dumbledore discovered the remains of what seemed to be a rickety shepherd's hut—little more than a few boarded walls and a half-collapsed roof. Still, it was a relief to have any coverage from the storm. He ducked inside, pressing his back against the wall to catch his breath.

The wind howled through the crevices of the sagging structure, and his head spun with the lingering effects of his advanced illusions. He felt dangerously lightheaded. His illusions had been necessary to bypass the hamlet's wards unnoticed, but they required delicate manipulation of magical energies well above typical skill levels. Even for him, it was draining. He closed his eyes and took slow, measured inhalations, fighting the rising tide of dizziness. A voice inside him warned to rest now and recover, but the clock was ticking. If Grindelwald's men found any hint of his presence, this entire infiltration would be for nothing.

He crouched, drawing his wand over the hut's perimeter in a precise pattern. With a decisive flick, he set a Tier-3 protective ward in place, a modest but effective measure to hide him from immediate detection. His brow furrowed—under normal circumstances, he might have tried a more elaborate shield, perhaps a Tier-4 or Tier-5 variant, but his reserves were too low, and he had no guarantee they wouldn't sense a powerful ward flaring up. Best to remain subtle.

A rustling sound behind him made him whirl around, wand raised. From a dark corner, a small, weasel-like creature peered at him with curious eyes. Its bristly fur glistened from the damp, and it seemed wholly unimpressed by his predicament. Dumbledore managed a thin smile. "Off with you, friend," he whispered, gently shooing it away before it decided to set up camp in his hood. The creature paused to sniff, then scuttled out into the storm, leaving him alone with his spinning thoughts.

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Kneeling on the hut's warped floorboards, Dumbledore dried his hands against his cloak and withdrew the scrolls he had taken from the watchtower. He lit the tip of his wand with a pale glow, carefully unraveling the first page. The script was spidery and old-fashioned, scrawled in columns, with columns referencing clandestine gatherings across the Austrian region. He squinted at the cramped notes indicating a "High Gathering" soon to happen—likely in the heart of the Alps. Another passage spoke of multiple cells of loyalists, scattered throughout Eastern Europe, each hiding dark artifacts or forging their own infiltration routes into established wizarding communities.

His pulse quickened as he read about potential sabotage in major wizarding cities. The document listed cryptic codenames of targets, but the mention of them happening soon chilled his blood. Grindelwald's network wasn't just an idle threat—it was poised to strike across borders, sowing chaos in ways far more widespread than Dumbledore had imagined.

He drew in a quiet breath, letting his eyes flick between the newly acquired intelligence and the memories of his findings in France. All the rumors of discreet alliances, of artifacts forged to channel destructive spells—this parchment didn't just confirm them; it joined the dots into a terrifying portrait. Closing his eyes, he fingered the hidden relic he carried, a centuries-old tool that once belonged to one of Hogwarts' founders. He'd used it to bolster some illusions during infiltration, but to pursue higher levels of magic—Tier-5 or Tier-6 illusions—he'd be pushing into uncharted territory. A boundary that teetered near darkness, or at least a morally fuzzy area of forbidden enchantments.

A small laugh escaped him as he scanned an especially odd line in the coded text. It referenced something akin to an "Ezpón Archaic Summations," or so his best guess told him. "Ancient Spoon of Summoning?" he whispered under his breath. "Ridiculous. Or maybe brilliant, if that's what Grindelwald's after." The idea of grand armies conjured by a fabled ladle was enough to make him grin, though the prospect of it being real was unsettling. He tucked the parchment away and vowed to keep investigating. If it turned out to be half as dangerous as it was absurd, the wizarding world stood in even greater peril.

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Thunder rumbled again, shaking the fragile remnants of the hut. The protective ward Dumbledore had cast flickered faintly in the swirling darkness, and he glanced up at the bowed rafters, feeling unease crawl down his spine. His illusions had nearly collapsed once tonight. He couldn't afford another miscalculation. And yet, the next phase of his plan would demand more precision, possibly an even deeper dip into advanced magic. Everything in his environment seemed to warn him: the storm hammered outside, the wood groaned under the wind's assault, and an occasional flash lit up the small interior like a reveal in a stage play.

He recalled the words of Aberforth, who had warned him time and again not to push his boundaries. Then there was Credence, whose caution might have sounded more like desperation—pleas not to risk all for the sake of bringing down Grindelwald. And here he was, perched in a half-rotten hut near a fortress of hostility, preparing to do exactly that. The moral weight settled heavier on him than any soggy cloak. He felt torn: if he didn't move boldly, Grindelwald's cruelty would surge unchecked. But if he dove too deep, letting illusions augment spells beyond safe limits, he might slip into a realm of magic that changed him.

He pushed away the disquieting thought and forced himself to stand. Far in the distance, a shout cut through the storm. Bewitched or not, Grindelwald's patrols were getting close. Firelight glowed across the dark hillside, but the slope and the wind toyed with directions so it was impossible to tell exactly where they were. Either way, they'd corner him if he lingered. He quickly gathered his parchments, snuffed out his wandlight, and prepared to leave.

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Stepping outside was like stepping into a waterfall. Torrent after torrent of cold summer rain battered him. Recalling his illusions from earlier, he realized he had little magical fuel left to cloak himself fully. He'd need to rely on stealth and cunning to slip away undetected. The darkness, at least, offered some cover. Before leaving, he carefully dismantled the protective ward. Better not to leave a glowing signpost that would draw scouts straight to this hiding spot.

Trees towered above him, their branches creaking under the weight of the unrelenting downpour. Fog clung to the mountainside, swirling in ghostly shapes that teased his peripheral vision. He trod carefully to avoid splashing through puddles or snapping twigs. Each step seemed an invitation for disaster. The muddy path threatened to send him skidding into a nasty tumble at any second, and more than once he pondered the merits of a good "mud-vanishing" charm. "I'd pay good Galleons for a wizard specializing in clearing muddy roads," he murmured, half-laughing at how every plan of his revolved around illusions, infiltration, and advanced wards—yet a simple housekeeping hex to banish muck might be the greatest boon of all.

Through the rain-blurred canopy, he caught glimpses of the swirling storm overhead. He couldn't help but see it as a metaphor for what was coming. Grindelwald's influence grew stronger every day, and the thunder seemed to drum out a warning that the conflict was about to crack wide open. Dumbledore couldn't shake his sense of urgency. He had to get this intelligence to people who could help, whether that meant the Hogwarts staff, trusted Aurors, or secret allies he had been keeping in reserve. One infiltration complete, yet he had only touched the surface of Grindelwald's far-reaching network of zealots.

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Suddenly, a bright orange flare of magical light streaked across the distant sky, illuminating the mountain ridges for a heartbeat. A search signal? Or maybe a distress call from the watchtower? Whatever it was, it almost certainly had to do with him. Time to vanish. He tapped his wand against his palm, debating the risks of a short-range Apparition. With wards and thick storm clouds swirling overhead, Apparition might be precarious. Still, trying to trudge down the mountainside in this weather with patrols on his tail posed an even greater risk.

He inhaled, clasped his wand firmly, and twisted hard on the spot. The sensation of Apparition was always unpleasant, but tonight it tore at him doubly so—his illusions had left him drained, and the wards hung like iron buckets in the atmosphere. He felt a suffocating compression, then was spat out onto a mossy ridge. Rain-laden pine branches dotted the slope, and he stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the drenched undergrowth. Gasping, he righted himself. The passing jolt of nausea left him dizzy, but he steadied a hand against a nearby trunk. At least he was farther from the hamlet.

Blinking away sparks of disorientation, he scanned the horizon. Another flicker of orange glowed in the distance, as though methodically searching up and down the valley. He needed a truly safe spot to make a final Apparition out of this region. Just a short trip more, he told himself. If he could find the right clearing, he'd be able to slip away with minimal magical disruption.

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As he turned to plan his route, a dark figure staggered into view from behind a spur of rock-embedded ground, a wand raised tentatively. For a split second, they locked eyes. The man wore a waterlogged cloak emblazoned with a faint insignia—a sign of Grindelwald's following. Dumbledore froze, mind racing. A low-level loyalist, perhaps. He looked young, uncertain, but dangerous enough with his wand gripped in a shaking hand. The loyalist's shout cut the air, barely audible over the roar of thunder, and a crackling hex streaked toward Dumbledore.

Acting on instinct, Dumbledore flicked his wand in a practiced curve. A shimmer of illusion broke from his form, splitting his silhouette into two identical shapes. The dark energy sliced through an afterimage and harmlessly singed a nearby rock. Before the loyalist could correct his aim, Dumbledore's second shape lunged forward, merging again into one. He whispered a nearly silent Stupefy, and the loyalist was thrown back, limp as he hit the muddy ground. Dumbledore exhaled sharply, lowering his wand. The victory felt hollow, yet there was no time for regret. Rain hammered the unconscious man, and Dumbledore, with a fleeting pang of guilt, stepped around him. If the loyalist recovered swiftly, he might raise an alarm. But Dumbledore couldn't risk a prolonged confrontation. He had to press on.

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He trudged through the drenched, rugged forest for what felt like ages, guided only by the sporadic crackle of lightning and his own heightened senses. Eventually, the terrain began leveling out, and he entered a modest clearing that stretched out with damp grass and a scattering of wildflowers battered by the storm. It was unremarkable enough that scouts might overlook it, and that made it perfect for safely leaving the area. With any luck, it also lay outside the hamlet's layered wards.

His breath came in jagged bursts as he propped himself against a gnarled tree trunk. Water trickled down his neck, lodging uncomfortably between his collar and his skin. Even so, he felt a swell of relief at finding this rendezvous point. It was the spot he'd originally planned to reach after his infiltration, far from the watchtower's direct sphere of influence. He wiped his sodden hair out of his eyes and did his best to check the parchment stack for damage. Miraculously, they were still legible.

For a moment, he simply paused, letting himself truly register the scale of the intelligence he carried. The notes on dark relics, the scattered cells, the planned sabotages—everything pointed to a monstrous plot. If even half of those conspiracies advanced, wizarding society could tip into a war dwarfed only by ancient conflicts he'd read about in dusty tomes. The storm's downpour felt like an exclamation point from nature herself. A final pounding on the door of denial, reminding him how little time the world had.

A sardonic thought crossed his mind, something about the Austrian clouds taking offense at him meddling in this territory. Shaking his head at the weird humor that comforted him in dire moments, he let out a quiet chuckle. At least comedic absurdities kept him grounded enough to keep fighting.

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He straightened, wand gripped firmly, scanning the glaring bolts of lightning that gave fleeting glimpses of the path behind him. The shadowy shapes of the mountains rose arrogantly against the roiling sky. He raised his wand in silent salute to the power of nature—and as a personal oath that he would keep going. Hogwarts beckoned; colleagues and allies there needed to see these documents, needed to understand just how ferocious Grindelwald's forces had become. And he would not stop at Tier-4 illusions if that was all it took. He realized he might need to breach Tier-5, perhaps even beyond, to stand against Grindelwald's near Tier-7 abilities. But those were decisions for another day.

He twisted on the spot one more time, feeling his magic resonate with the swirling air, pushing through the dreadful inertia of the storm and the wards that clung like soot to the valley. With a sharp crack, he vanished. The gale whipped at the space he had occupied, as if in protest, but he was gone—snatched away by the flow of Apparition.

Lightning flared once more overhead, illuminating the empty clearing. In that blazing instant, a second flicker of illumination appeared high among the mountain crags. It was faint, but enough to confirm that Grindelwald's watchers were stirring, fanning out across the ridge in a frantic search. The orange glimmer arced across the skyline with renewed vigor. Whether they had tracked him too closely or were simply chasing shadows, Dumbledore couldn't say—but they moved in swift, purposeful patterns. The storm continued to churn, flashes of brilliance followed by swirling darkness, as if the very sky wrestled with the realization that the conflict was already in motion.

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No additional voices echoed through the night, and the sodden fields gave no answer to the redoubled search efforts. The watchtower that once housed the stolen parchments had grown quiet in the distance. Still, the entire region felt on a razor's edge. In the hush that followed the last crash of thunder, the land itself seemed to shudder and gather breath. Though Dumbledore was already gone from the forest, his departure left an imprint—someone had struck at Grindelwald's secrets. And now the storm would only grow.

Far away from that lonely clearing, Dumbledore rematerialized with the precious evidence clutched in his arms. His cloak was drenched and tattered around the edges, but he stood tall, chest heaving. One infiltration down, countless more to go. Squeezing water from his sleeve, he pressed the parchments closer, mindful of their fragility. The next steps promised more peril: alliances to forge, illusions to refine, and a magical war that loomed on every horizon. Yet for the first time in recent memory, he felt a piercing clarity of purpose.

He ventured onward, the night still raging with wind and rain. Arc 1 of his confrontation with Grindelwald was drawing to a close, but he could sense the world teetering on the brink of a much wider conflict. Despite fatigue gnawing at him, he kept his expression calm, humor at the edges, heart resolute in the face of the growing storm. He refused to let fear overshadow the light he carried. If Grindelwald was mustering Tier-6 or Tier-7 sorceries, Dumbledore would find a way to match him—without losing himself.

By the time the night swallowed him whole, silhouettes of distant watchers roamed empty hills, too late to silence him. And beyond the mountains, thunder rumbled again, heralding the battles yet to come.