Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore's robes were still singed at the edges when he, Aberforth, and a very frail Credence stepped away from the hospital wing's chaotic bustle of Ministry officials. After the harrowing events in Bhutan, they had Apparated straight into Hogwarts—a place that had always promised safety, yet now felt charged with unanswered questions. The mountain wind and swirl of onlookers were left behind the moment they crossed the castle threshold, trading the sharp light of day for the softer glow of Hogwarts' early morning corridors. Dumbledore was relieved to see the familiar arches and hear the distant hum of enchantments that protected these ancient walls, but he knew there would be no chance for true rest.

In that predawn hour, the corridors felt almost suspended in time. Tall windows cast narrow beams of golden-pink light onto the flagstone floors, and columns of cool air drifted in through the high, unlatched windows. The hush reminded Dumbledore of the silence before breakfast, when most students slept soundly, believing the world outside was as peaceful as their dreams. Yet he felt the tension of Bhutan still clinging to him, as though each footstep echoed with the weight of too many unresolved crises. He was resigned to the knowledge that Hogwarts staff, and soon the entire wizarding community, would want answers. But for now, he had only one priority: ensuring Credence's safety.

They turned a corner and spotted two older students—Prefects by their badges—who had risen early to patrol. The pair gasped at the sight of Dumbledore's scorched robes and bruised cheek. One of them stared wide-eyed, clearly holding back a barrage of questions. Dumbledore managed a small, courteous nod, hoping that simple acknowledgment might dampen the rumor mill. The students stood rooted in place, exchanging stunned whispers as the trio continued on. He could almost hear their hushed words: "Is that really him? Who was he carrying? Something big must have happened." He knew speculation would run wild before the morning meal even began.

When they reached the hospital wing at last, Madame Pomfrey and her assistant Healer were already waiting. The discreet Floo call that had preceded their arrival had prepared the staff to receive Credence in the most secure manner possible. A row of neat beds stretched out before them, each piled with crisp white linens, illuminated by floating orbs that emitted a gentle warmth. The assistant Healer immediately began weaving diagnostic spells around Credence, who trembled in a partial stupor, eyes half-lidded. Aberforth stood by, fingers digging into his coat pockets, gaze unwavering. The evidence of the Obscurial's damage was clear in every shallow breath Credence took. For Dumbledore, relief and guilt rubbed shoulders in his mind: they had saved the young man, brought him away from yet another catastrophe, but Grindelwald was still free, more dangerous than ever.

Madame Pomfrey darted around Credence's bed, guiding shimmering lines of magic that stabilized his raging pulse. She glanced at Dumbledore, relief evident in her eyes. "Any longer and these surges might have overwhelmed him entirely," she said. "The wards will keep things steady for now, but he'll need thorough monitoring in the coming days."

Aberforth gave a tight nod, forcibly calm. "He'll stay here as long as he needs," he stated rather than asked. His voice had lost its usual brusque edge. Beneath his words, Dumbledore heard unmistakable paternal concern—an affection Aberforth rarely displayed so openly. Despite the dire circumstances, it warmed Dumbledore, a reminder that the brother he often stood apart from was capable of deep caring.

When Dumbledore caught Madame Pomfrey's eye, he offered a quiet word of thanks. But his mind was only half in the hospital wing. The question of Grindelwald's location chewed at him. He recognized that it would be only a matter of time before the Ministry demanded a statement, an official hearing—especially now that the fiasco in Bhutan was so public. For the moment, he wanted to keep the focus on Credence's recovery. With Credence unconscious and Aberforth's brow creased by worry, Dumbledore steeled himself for the next wave of inquiries.

He had barely exhaled from this first ordeal when Professor Eulalie Hicks, carrying a heavy bundle of advanced healing tomes, hurried into the ward. Her gaze flickered from Credence's trembling form to Dumbledore's own battered appearance. "You certainly made an entrance," she murmured, eyebrows knit with concern. "They said you'd turned up with a critical case. I brought these references—perhaps Madame Pomfrey can find additional spells or potions to help regulate an Obscurial's energy."

Before Dumbledore could respond, the Headmistress glided in, her presence stately and calm, but her eyes sharp. She lowered her voice to a near-whisper when she addressed him. "I've already fielded questions from three Ministry owls in the last half-hour." Her gaze settled on Credence momentarily. "Albus, when you have a moment, I must hear exactly what happened in Bhutan. The staff… we're all anxious. Rumors are spreading, and I won't let Hogwarts be swallowed by fear without clarity."

Dumbledore lowered his head in acknowledgment, carefully picking his words. "I understand. But right now, Credence's condition requires close attention. Once I'm certain he's stable, I'll join a faculty meeting." Even as he spoke, he saw the doubt in her face, as though she wanted to ask a thousand questions about Grindelwald, their past alliance, and the future of both. Instead, she simply pressed her lips into a tight line and replied, "We'll convene later today. I won't accept a half-explanation, Albus."

Once they had arranged a curtain partition around the bed for extra privacy, Madame Pomfrey and the assistant Healer cast gentle wards along the perimeter to minimize magical interference. Credence now rested in the quietest corner of the hospital wing, faint flickers of dark energy skittering around his fingertips. Each time the energy sparked, Aberforth's attention spiked, eyes locking on his son as though daring the darkness to do further harm. Dumbledore swallowed, recalling how close Credence had come to losing himself entirely to the Obscurial. The thought that Grindelwald might attempt to reclaim him, or harness him anew, loomed like a thundercloud on the horizon.

In a low voice, Aberforth spoke: "He's stable now… physically, at least." His arms were firmly crossed, though it was clear tension coiled in every muscle.

Dumbledore nodded. "I'd argue Hogwarts is the best refuge. But we must be prepared for Ministry interference. They'll see Credence as both an asset and a threat." He paused, weighing how to phrase his next thought. "I'll do everything in my power to protect him. We can't let outside forces use him again."

Aberforth accepted these words with a curt nod, though Dumbledore noted the unspoken uncertainty. They both sensed that the Ministry, ever cautious, might decide Credence's status required official oversight. If rumors persisted about Grindelwald's renewed aggression, some officials might see Credence's potential for destruction as too much to leave in private hands, even if those hands were part of Hogwarts staff.

As Dumbledore left the hospital wing, quietly urging Aberforth to get some rest, the morning light in the corridors had grown more distinct. Students began trickling out of their dormitories, eager for breakfast or early classes, and they gave Dumbledore uncertain, wide-eyed stares. More than one nearly dropped a stack of books upon seeing the Head of Transfiguration limping past, his robes torn, hair slightly singed. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though inside, his thoughts whirled. He reminded himself that he still had classes to teach, lessons that couldn't simply vanish because a world-threatening crisis was brewing. Balancing the everyday schedule of guiding young wizards and witches with the knowledge that Grindelwald might be plotting his next move felt like standing on a bridge with no supports.

He had just passed a classroom door, glimpsing a few Third-Year students setting up for an early Charms practice, when a stern voice behind him called out, "Professor Dumbledore?" He turned to see a narrow-faced Ministry official stepping forward, parchment in hand. The official wore a pinstriped waistcoat beneath a formal traveling cloak, the bright emblem of the Ministry clearly visible on his lapel. "I'm sorry to accost you like this," the man said, though his voice lacked genuine apology. "But I've been sent to obtain a rapid statement regarding the events in Bhutan. The Minister expects full cooperation."

Dumbledore inclined his head politely, though his eyes remained guarded. "I appreciate your diligence, but I'm afraid circumstances are delicate right now. We have a wounded individual in need of urgent care. My immediate focus must be his recovery."

The official's expression soured. "The Minister is concerned about your inclinations, Professor, given your well-known familiarity with Grindelwald's methods." He fiddled with the sealed letter, as though reminding Dumbledore of its official weight. "If there's any hesitance to divulge complete information, it could reflect poorly—even on Hogwarts itself."

A chill traced Dumbledore's spine. He recognized the keen sense of political maneuvering behind the official's polite veneer. "I will gladly provide all necessary details," he responded coolly, "once Credence can speak for himself and the immediate crisis is contained. I won't jeopardize his safety by indulging in hours of interrogation right now."

With a frustrated twitch of his lips, the official opened his mouth to insist on more compliance, but just then the caretaker—a portly fellow carrying a rattling pail of potions supplies—blundered into the corridor. He nearly knocked the official's parchment to the floor. The Ministry man stumbled back, muttering a pointed complaint, which gave Dumbledore just enough time to slip away. Holding the letter firmly against his chest, the official cast a baleful glare at the caretaker's retreating form. Whatever confrontation awaited, Dumbledore had postponed it briefly.

Continuing on, Dumbledore received a brief summons: the Headmistress had already assembled the staff in a private faculty chamber. He wasted no time in climbing the spiral stairs toward the upper levels of Hogwarts, eventually arriving at a stout oak door carved with swirling runes. Inside, a ring of floating candles illuminated the chamber. The walls were lined with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom seemed uncommonly attentive, leaning forward in their gilded frames with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. A few even whispered to each other, ignoring half-pretense of dozing.

Professor Eulalie Hicks was there, arms still laden with the heavy tomes she had brought for Credence's benefit. Several other faculty members huddled around a circular table, eyes flicking to Dumbledore the moment he stepped inside. The Headmistress, standing at the far end, wasted no time. "Albus, we've been waiting," she said gently but firmly. "Everyone here is aware of the broad strokes—Bhutan, Grindelwald, Credence's injury. We need specifics, or at least as much as you can divulge."

Dumbledore regretted the necessity of secrecy, but he kept his shoulders straight as he spoke. He described Grindelwald's infiltration of the Bhutan summit in measured terms, how the confrontation had escalated, how Credence had been injured. He spared them some of the darker details of the fight's intensity, and certainly any personal revelations about his own history with Grindelwald. The staff listened intently, glances exchanged as the magnitude of the threat took shape. Several of the seated professors shared a collective shudder when Dumbledore confirmed that Grindelwald remained at large, with new followers emboldened by the chaos in Bhutan.

Eulalie Hicks pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "So Hogwarts itself might be a target," she said quietly. "If Grindelwald sees Credence as valuable, or if he thinks hurting him would hurt you, we're right in his sights."

A hush fell, broken only by the raspy cough of an elderly professor. One of the portraits, an old wizard with flowing muttonchops, cleared his throat loudly. "In my day, we'd never stand idly by while a threat like—" He was promptly shushed by a fellow portrait, but not before a spark of annoyance flashed in several living professors' eyes. The Headmistress returned focus to the real matters at hand, eyebrows knitting. "We need a plan" was all she said.

Some staff advocated for locking down the castle further, reinforcing wards, and perhaps even telling the students nothing, to keep them calm. Others insisted that the students already sensed something was amiss, and half-truths might only breed rumors and panic. Tension escalated when a more skeptical professor questioned Dumbledore about his longstanding connection to Grindelwald. "Is there a chance," the man asked warily, "that the Ministry is correct—that you're too close to him, and that your objectivity might be—compromised?"

Dumbledore forced himself to meet the question without bristling. "My only desire is to protect these halls and every student within them," he said quietly. "I've taken steps to ensure I can act freely against him, steps that cost me greatly." He did not mention the blood pact's destruction, nor the personal cost it had exacted. But he let his conviction show in his eyes. The professor who had questioned him nodded, looking somewhat abashed.

The Headmistress closed the meeting by insisting on vigilance. "If Grindelwald has become bolder, we must do the same. Classes continue, but keep an eye out for anything unusual—from visitors to strange behaviors in the corridors. And Albus…" Her voice softened, "I trust you to do what is necessary, but remember your responsibilities here. Don't vanish without informing us." Dumbledore inclined his head, relieved that despite the lingering suspicion, most of the staff believed in him enough to let him try to balance teaching and a potential war.

At last, he slipped out of the chamber, the swirl of staff voices trailing behind him. Weary to the bone, he crept through one of Hogwarts' lesser-used stairwells until he found a small alcove near a window. Setting down the stack of urgent notes that had been pressed into his hand by multiple teachers, he leaned against the cool stone. His bruises ached, his body demanding more energy than he had to give. He let out a shaky exhale, allowing the day's events to catch up all at once.

Memories of Bhutan flooded back: the color and noise of the wizarding summit, Grindelwald's smug confidence, Credence's agonized cry. Dumbledore had broken free of one shackle—the blood pact that once prevented him from confronting Grindelwald—but sometimes he wondered if duty had replaced that collar with another. The faculty's sideways glances, the Ministry's threats, and the looming sense that Hogwarts itself might soon be targeted weighed heavily on him. In the midst of it, he remembered the fierce expression Aberforth had worn when he leaned protectively over Credence. He recalled the wounded darkness swirling in that young man's eyes. The drive to protect them both fueled an already growing fire in Dumbledore's heart. Grindelwald could no longer be allowed to operate in the shadows, unopposed.

He heard distant footsteps and the rustle of robes. Gathering himself, he lifted the stack of notes and stepped away from his hiding place. A sense of new determination flickered inside him: The old restrictions might be gone, but time was short. Grindelwald had gained enough momentum to turn entire gatherings of wizards in Bhutan. If he found the means to unite more forces, or to reclaim control of Credence, the consequences would be unimaginably dire. Dumbledore resolved to strengthen his defensive magic, to consult ancient texts in the Restricted Section. He would do everything within his power—even as teacher, colleague, and wizard—to stall Grindelwald's ambitions.

On his way back toward the hospital wing, he almost collided with Aberforth, who was pacing restlessly near the entrance. At Dumbledore's approach, Aberforth's shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his stare was grim. "Staff's whispering behind closed doors," he muttered. "They're uncertain if they can trust you. One or two of them, I overheard, think the Ministry has a point."

Dumbledore lowered his eyes, uncertain of how to address suspicion that ran deeper than official statements. Before he could properly respond, Aberforth carried on, voice hushed: "Credence was half-coherent a while ago. Mumbled something about 'dark shapes in corridors… a fortress…' Then he slipped unconscious again. Could be delirium, or maybe his visions, if that's what they are." Aberforth's knuckles pressed white against his wand, revealing the anxiety he tried to keep under a gruff front.

Dumbledore felt a surge of worry. Credence's glimpses of the future had led them to Bhutan before, albeit under dire circumstances. A fortress? The word conjured images of Grindelwald's older strongholds, half-ruined castles where unspeakable deeds might be carried out. "If he's seeing something real," Dumbledore said softly, "it could help us anticipate Grindelwald's next move. But I can't force him to remember more than he can handle. The priority now is healing him."

Aberforth nodded sharply. "He's not going anywhere until he's back on his feet," he growled. Then, after a faltering moment, his tone softened. "We'll figure out the rest soon enough."

They fell silent as a pair of students walked past, greeting them with uncertain smiles. Once the footsteps receded, Dumbledore placed a hand briefly on Aberforth's shoulder in quiet solidarity, then continued down the corridor. Darkness remained in the corners of the castle, the future uncertain. But with every step, determination built in him, like a gathering storm cloud. He would not rest until Credence was safe and Grindelwald's threat was answered. There was too much at stake—for this school, for his students, and for the wizarding world at large. For now, the next steps would be forged here, in the heart of Hogwarts, under watchful eyes that questioned and judged. Still, Dumbledore could feel the hum of the castle's wards as if they resonated in his own pulse. He knew there was no turning back. There was only forward—into whatever battles lay ahead.