Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Dumbledore moved softly down the dim corridor, every footstep a careful calculation. The castle's stone faces and echoing arches felt different at this hour, as though even the walls were holding their breath. He paused at a bend, glancing over his shoulder. Several stories above, faint wandlight passed by a high window. Probably a patrolling teacher—or perhaps a restless student casting midnight spells. His grip tightened on his own wand. Tonight, more than ever, he needed to slip unseen into the library's depths.

All was still as he returned his focus to the path ahead. Credence lay in the hospital wing, visited once again by Dumbledore just earlier in the evening. The boy had been restless, recovering from an outburst of raw magic that had rattled the wards of the entire wing. In that moment, as Dumbledore had stood by his bed, he'd caught fleeting phrases: a fortress, ancient wards, a place hidden deep within the castle's own foundations. He'd recognized the intangible thread that tied Credence's visions to glimpses of Hogwarts lore half-forgotten. Yet he was haunted by Aberforth's repeated warnings: "There are lines you shouldn't cross, Albus." But how could he heed caution when the stakes were so high?

He rounded a final corner and nearly startled a dozing portrait—an old witch with a ruffled collar who snored lightly. At the sound of his footstep, the portrait stirred and blinked, about to call out, but Dumbledore quickly raised his wand, conjuring a small swirl of gentle music. The witch's eyelids drooped again, lulled into silence by the lilting tune. He nodded with gratitude, carefully stepping away. Behind him, the corridor's single lamp sputtered against the stone, casting elongated shadows upon the floor.

He reached the tall, iron gate that led into the Restricted Section. Ornate metalwork twisted up to an old latch carved with runes. In daylight, with the librarian's watchful eyes, any attempt to cross this threshold unnoticed would be doomed. Tonight, though, the library's caretaker was presumably snoring at the main desk, and the wards were designed mostly for inexperienced students: illusions and conventional locking charms. Still, Hogwarts had its secrets, and Dumbledore had learned to be thorough. He drew his wand and silently recited an unlocking spell layered with a quiet runic shift—something he had gleaned while helping Nicolas Flamel organize ancient manuscripts. The latch clicked softly, the wards yielding. A subtle swirl of energy stirred the air, reluctantly granting him entry.

The gate opened with the barest creak. Dumbledore stepped inside, every sense heightened. Row upon row of tall bookcases formed a maze of shadows. On these shelves slept volumes locked shut with chains, or exuding a soft hum of protective or possibly menacing magic. A few covers glowed faintly, runic patterns rippling like illusions in candlelight. Pulling his wand close, Dumbledore lit the tip with a muted, focused beam—not quite standard Lumos, but a narrower glow designed to avoid detection at a distance.

A single reading table stood at the center of the Restricted Section, an old brass lantern flickering with a low flame. The place felt eerily abandoned, but the magical residue was palpable. Dust motes floated in the tight orbits of invisible wards. A squeak underfoot made Dumbledore freeze, the board's protest echoing a little too loudly for comfort. He cast a fleeting glance toward the library's main desk. Barely audible, the librarian mumbled in her sleep—a huff about "miscreant students" perhaps. Dumbledore let out a careful breath, stepped off the loose floorboard, and steadied the lantern that threatened to rattle in his grip.

He settled at one corner of the reading table, mind racing with the questions that had led him here. If Credence's cryptic mention of "the fortress" corresponded to any Hogwarts lore, perhaps the old records of Salazar Slytherin or Rowena Ravenclaw would hold a clue. According to some references, the Founders had woven wards far beneath the castle's surface, rumored to protect or hide powerful relics. Now, with Grindelwald circling on the horizon, seizing any advantage had become critical. He thought again of Aberforth's misgivings. Sometimes, though, necessity demanded bending the rules—particularly if it meant protecting Credence's fragile connection to the school.

He needed to locate text on advanced wards, especially runic scripts rumored to "unseal powerful barriers." One term in particular had surfaced in earlier reading—a phrase he and Nicolas Flamel had encountered in an old notebook: the "Rune of Unbinding." Dumbledore scanned the spines of numerous volumes, hunting for that elusive reference. He passed a thick compendium in black leather, trembling behind iron clasps. Another tome, titled "Obscure Wards Through the Ages," glowed with a pale hue. He paused, touching its spine. In a breath, the book snapped open, pages fluttering as if eager to devour an unwitting reader. Dumbledore raised his wand, releasing a harmless jolt of frostfire that sealed the fluttering pages before they could reveal any cursed hex. The book sulked beneath a thin film of frost, waiting to be properly controlled. He exhaled. Not the text he needed—its table of contents suggested little more than a rehash of wards he'd already studied.

On and on he searched, occasionally stifling a groan of frustration. Many of these works were banned or restricted for good reason. He had to quell a biting curse from one volume—a malicious enchantment that leapt from the parchment in wispy green coils—and had to pacify a squealing cover on another. Still, he pressed forward, mindful of the time. Each page turn had him glancing over his shoulder, straining to hear if the librarian stirred again.

By the time he found a promising lead, the lantern's flame was flickering dangerously low. It was a battered tome bound in fading burgundy, bearing no visible title on its cover. Curious, Dumbledore cracked it open. The table of contents listed references to advanced wards, some attributed to the Founders. He flipped through, scanning headings that mentioned Salazar Slytherin's knowledge of binding spells and Ravenclaw's puzzle-based enchantments. In the margin, an ancient scribe's scribble read, "Merlinic artifacts rumored below—foundation sealed by riddle or runic puzzle." That mention resonated with Nicolas Flamel's earlier talk of relics linked to Merlin's era. He noted the page numbers, carefully bookmarking them.

Suddenly, upon turning a page, his eyes fell on a small block of text—the page corners browned, the ink fading. "Below the spires, the tower calls… an Obscurial's presence stirs the wards." He read it twice, heart quickening. For weeks, he'd puzzled over Credence's quiet mutterings about a fortress, a place that felt alive to him. This mention of a "Dark Tower" hearkened to those lines. Perhaps it was a metaphorical fortress, hidden deep beneath Hogwarts, or a literal stronghold connected to Grindelwald's rumored sanctuary. Dumbledore's breath caught with a surge of hope and dread. If this tower or fortress harnessed Obscurial magic, it could shift the balance of power should Grindelwald unlock it.

Before he could read further, a sound behind him made him tense. Footsteps—light and hesitant—had crept into the library corridor. Dumbledore quietly shut the burgundy tome. He ducked low behind the nearest shelf, nearly toppling a precarious stack of referencing volumes. They wobbled. He caught them just in time, pressing them to his chest, heart pounding. Light flickered across the far bookshelf as someone approached.

A moment later, a voice muttered from near the gate. It sounded like the caretaker—an edgy sort who took pride in patrolling the halls at night. Dumbledore glimpsed the faint glow of a lantern swinging across the library's threshold. In another second, he might be exposed. He drew a breath, considering spells that could divert the caretaker's attention. Legilimency was too invasive, and a Confundus Charm might spark suspicion. Instead, he conjured a softer solution: with a silent wand movement, Dumbledore produced the illusion of a small cat mewing quietly in another aisle. The caretaker's startled shuffle was immediate, boots scraping the floor as he pursued the phantom feline. The caretaker mumbled something about "stray cats in the library," and the footsteps receded toward the far side of the Restricted Section.

Relieved, Dumbledore straightened and slid back into the seat by the reading table. He took up the burgundy tome once more, scanning the final lines of that crucial paragraph. The text referenced wards older than the Founders, perhaps part of the fortress's architecture—capable of resonating with "dark-energy magic," precisely the phenomenon that fueled an Obscurial. That line sealed it: Credence's outbursts, his mention of a fortress so intimately reaching out to him, might be more literal than they'd realized. Dumbledore felt a swell of excitement, mingled with the sober realization that if Grindelwald discovered such a place, Credence could be in even deeper peril.

He turned next to the matter of decoding certain archaic runic sequences. The tome listed the "Rune of Unbinding," rumored to unravel wards constructed before Hogwarts's official founding. A cautionary footnote glowed faintly at the bottom of the page: "To tamper with primal wards is to court uncertain fates." Dumbledore's gaze lingered, the words evoking all the warnings from Aberforth. But danger or not, he had to pursue this knowledge. If it shielded Credence or countered Grindelwald's designs, the risk might be worth it.

He set the book aside, rummaging briefly through the shelf behind. Earlier references pointed him to a specialized artifact known as the Runeweave Quill, which was rumored to help scholars decode obscure scripts left behind by ancient scribes. After some searching, he found a slender box tucked among dusty scrolls. The box's latch opened with a gentle twist of his wand, revealing a long, gleaming quill. Its shaft shimmered with interwoven threads of gold and silver. Dumbledore brought it to the table, where the atmosphere felt charged with anticipation.

Under the dim lantern, he carefully turned to a page about the "Rune of Unbinding," letting the Runeweave Quill hover over the old runes. Small sparks glimmered from the quill's tip, twining into archaic letters that reformed themselves in more contemporary script on a blank sheet next to him. He watched, entranced, as lines connected and rearranged into words he could recognize. "Beware the unraveling… wards older than you… to break them is to risk unleashing the darkness behind them." The table seemed to hum under his elbows, as though the ancient knowledge were protesting its own revelation. Dumbledore swallowed, forging ahead despite the ominous warnings. Fate, he thought wryly, had often revealed an ability to bend when compelled.

He gently blew on the new translation ink before it could smudge, then folded the parchment into his pocket for safekeeping. The caretaker's footsteps sounded again from somewhere beyond the gate, but still distant enough to allow him a final scan of the shelves. He ran his finger across the titles, pausing when a subtle pulse of dark energy brushed his senses. There, on the highest shelf, a slim, black-bound volume emitted a faint aura that prickled across his skin. Against his better judgment, Dumbledore levitated the black volume down, letting it hover at eye level.

Its studded cover bore no title, but the sense of foreboding was clear as soon as he set eyes on it. Opening the cover slightly, he glimpsed a table of contents referencing "Blood-Fused Runes." A wave of unease swept through him. He recalled Aberforth's stern caution: do not sink to the level of those who would use whatever means necessary. This might be the very knowledge Grindelwald was rumored to have embraced—the kind that left moral lines in tatters. His hand hovered, trembling slightly, as curiosity warred with principle. Was he willing to do absolutely anything? That question echoed in his mind, a taunt. His desire to know was acute, but a tighter sense of purpose reminded him that he had not yet been pushed to such extremes.

He snapped the book shut. It hummed with a hungry pulse. He slid it back onto the shelf, steeling himself against the temptation to linger. Some secrets, he decided, were meant to be left unopened until there was no alternative. With one last regretful look, Dumbledore turned away, focusing on the safer knowledge he had gleaned: the leads on the "Rune of Unbinding" and the mention of the Dark Tower that might resonate with Credence's Obscurial magic.

He carefully stowed the burgundy tome and gathered his notes. The caretaker was still out there, patrolling, so he needed to leave quickly. Reaching the wrought-iron gate, he performed the same layered unlocking incantation but in reverse, ensuring he restored the wards to their proper shape. Even a small change in the wards might alert the librarian come morning. The gate clicked shut. Dumbledore placed a palm against the cold metal, feeling a moment of relief that he'd escaped the notice of any watchful staff. But as he turned away, the librarian's portrait, dozing in its frame behind the desk, stirred. Its occupant—an austere, bespectacled librarian with a stiff bun—scanned the corridor suspiciously. Dumbledore, sensing the portrait's sharp eyes swivel toward him, offered a polite, inaudible greeting and touched his wand tip to his lips. A silent hush-charm fluttered through the air, pacifying the portrait's inclination to call out. It wrinkled its brow, but the hush-charm took hold, and the librarian's image nodded off, untroubled.

He slipped down the corridor, cloak brushing the flagstones. The hush was absolute but for the soft sound of his breathing. Only once he'd ascended a small flight of winding stairs did he allow himself a moment to reflect. He would need to revisit the sealed door beneath the castle once again, where he had previously sensed wards older than Hogwarts itself. If the "Rune of Unbinding" offered a means to breach that door, maybe there would be answers inside for Credence's predicament—or at least a better understanding of how to confound Grindelwald's fortress-making ambitions.

There was still that pang of concern. The text he read had given no assurance the wards would yield peacefully. They could just as easily turn destructive, especially in proximity to an Obscurial's unstable magic. Yet Dumbledore's mind, ever practical, weighed risk against reward. Credence could be key to unraveling Grindelwald's intended alliances with darker powers. If that meant exploring the labyrinth of ancient wards, so be it. But no matter how urgent, he vowed to stay on guard against the seductive draw of darker knowledge. He might have flirted with potential corruption just now, in that black tome's presence. If there came a time he needed that knowledge, at least he knew where it lay. For now, he would try to find another way.

He passed the sleeping suits of armor, each with a spectral glimmer from the corridor's wall sconces. His footsteps echoed subdued, as though even the suits recognized his hush-charm. With care, he tamped down on any stray hint of magic that might alert a teacher or a watchful ghost. At last, the corridor softened into a wide, moonlit hall. A few steps more, and the door to the next level beckoned. He paused there, adjusting his robes, taking stock of the folded parchment in his pocket—the translation from the Runeweave Quill. Every line on that page might prove vital in deciphering the wards or the fortress references, which were so tethered to Credence's unnerving visions.

He moved onward, feeling the hush of the castle swirl around him as though offering safe passage. Behind him, an oil portrait of an elderly wizard turned its head and scratched its chin, considering the silent figure who vanished into the gloom. The library would rest behind locked gates once more, and come daybreak, the staff would never suspect Dumbledore had spent part of the night delving into the taboo corners of Hogwarts' archive. There were, of course, still so many uncertainties—chief among them whether unsealing wards older than the Founders was a reckless gamble. But if it helped him protect Credence—or if it unlocked a crucial next step in standing against Grindelwald—some lines might have to be tested.

He arrived at a final landing, the corridor quiet save for the distant hoot of an owl outside. He paused only to cast a glance back into the darkness. The weight of what he had read in the Restricted Section pulsed within his memory. The fortress, or tower—whatever it was—would soon demand deeper investigation. There was no telling what the wards might unleash. Aberdeen's warnings echoed again, and Dumbledore's fingers pressed reflexively over the folded parchment. Dark energy. Mysterious wards. The potential for unlocking something beyond even Hogwarts' usual secrets.

He resumed his walk, wand in hand, heart still beating a little faster than usual. Obstacles awaited him. He would speak with Aberforth again, compare notes, decide how best to approach Credence's unsettled talk of the fortress. Yet for tonight, he had no intention of becoming lost in moral debate. He would rest, gather strength for the quest that lay before him. With knowledge came responsibility—and danger.

His mind raced, spinning webs of possibilities for how these runes might astound or betray him. Still, the night air pressing through a nearby window felt crisp and quietly reassuring—as if the castle itself, in some ancient capacity, understood the threat and entrusted Dumbledore to do what must be done. He tightened his grip around the translations, drawing one last steadying breath.

He slipped along the hall, clearing the final obstacle—a small, squeaky door leading to the main staircase. He spelled it silently, letting it glide open without a sound. Down below lay the path back to his office or maybe one more discreet check on Credence. The hush enveloped him anew. As he descended, he barely caught the stern voice of the librarian's portrait grumbling about "late-night prowlers." He responded with a gentle wave of his wand, and the portrait's voice dimmed into a soft snore.

His foot finally found the last stair, and he paused beneath the half-light of a flickering torch. Pressing the folded notes securely within his robes, he let the hush settle over him. Tension still hung in his heartbeat: bridging old wards and ancient magics was rarely straightforward. Yet the prospect of unlocking the secrets behind Credence's visions and unearthing the route to safe-guarding Hogwarts kept him resolute. He stepped forward, heading down the quiet corridor, each torchblaze guiding him farther from the Restricted Section's forbidden knowledge but closer to a new page in his unfolding plan.

He walked on with resolve, forging ahead toward tomorrow's mysteries—armed with the quill's translation, advanced wards swirling in his mind, and Aberforth's caution echoing in his heart. If these newly uncovered runes truly pointed to a hidden stronghold beneath Hogwarts, then he would find a way to use that knowledge for good. He would see whether this fortress could be tamed, or at least neutralized, before Grindelwald discovered its power. The hush of the corridor offered no answers, only the quiet promise of secrets yet to be illuminated. Still, Dumbledore pressed forward, no trace of doubt in his step, ready for the next turn of fate.