Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Morning arrived at Hogwarts with a hushed sense of anticipation. Albus Dumbledore had slept only a few short hours after his clandestine venture into the Restricted Section the previous night. The colorless dawn light filtering through the narrow windows of the castle corridors felt too bright against his tired eyes. He walked with measured steps, aware that knowledge—especially the type he had gleaned—could be a burden as much as a boon. Yet he also felt an undercurrent of excitement: the "Rune of Unbinding" had begun to stir long-repressed insights, weaving them together with the cryptic references to a hidden fortress made by Credence.

Although he had resisted opening that black-bound tome, its memory still haunted him. Something about the cover, with its swirling, alien script, had sent a chilled ripple down his back. He wondered, as he headed toward the Great Hall, whether he had made the right choice. Even so, there was little time for second-guessing. A restless energy thrummed in the corridors; staff members and older students were already gathering for breakfast, while owls circled overhead in droves, each bearing urgent-looking messages.

As Dumbledore entered the Great Hall, he noticed that discussion—normally lively at this hour—had subdued into anxious chatter. Several staff members clutched steaming cups of coffee, their bleary eyes scanning every passing owl as if expecting dire news. He could see a few prefects hurry from table to table, whispering instructions to calm the younger students. In the midst of this subdued buzz, an owl with glossy tan feathers swooped down, brushing dangerously close to a platter of sausages. The bird extended its leg toward Dumbledore, bearing a sealed scroll marked with the insignia of the French Ministry of Magic.

He crinkled his eyes in mild curiosity. No sooner had Dumbledore untied the scroll than two more owls descended, jostling each other for space on the edge of the table. One tried to steal a muffin from under Dumbledore's nose. Smiling, he gently shooed away the mischievous bird, which succeeded only in tangling the second owl's feathers. A couple of letters dropped onto the table, scattering toast crumbs and drawing a chuckle from a student nearby.

As Dumbledore bent to retrieve the fallen letters, he caught a glimpse of the official-looking parchment in his hand. Rising again, he quietly broke the seal and scanned the contents. Immediately, the name "Carrow" leapt out at him. His eyes sharpened in recognition. Carrow was one of Grindelwald's more fanatical followers—a known lieutenant rumored to be especially skilled in sabotage and infiltration.

"Carrow is in France?!" The exclamation came from Eulalie Hicks, who had crept up from behind and peered curiously over his shoulder. Her Hufflepuff scarf was folded neatly over one arm, and the expression on her face hovered between alarm and intrigue.

Dumbledore nodded. "From what the French authorities say, he's been moving around Paris. There've been incidents—magical sabotage, property damage in the wizarding quarter."

At the mention of sabotage, another professor leaned in. The Headmistress, gliding by in her official robes with a frown etched into her features, cautioned them, "We must tread carefully, Dumbledore. The Ministry is already breathing down our necks. If they suspect you of unsanctioned involvement in foreign affairs..."

Her warning was pointed, but Dumbledore only nodded in acknowledgment. She did not need to reiterate how precariously he stood in the Ministry's eyes after his unorthodox methods in prior skirmishes with Grindelwald. Dumbledore glanced at the letter one last time. If Carrow was truly operating under Grindelwald's directives, then waiting around here could be disastrous.

The Great Hall teemed with subdued tension. Dumbledore, mindful of the stares from staff and students alike, slipped away with a quiet sense of purpose. He needed more details. As soon as he stepped into the corridor, away from prying eyes, he spotted Aberforth, who lingered at a quiet intersection near a row of ancient portraits. The two brothers rarely had calm moments to speak, but Aberforth's posture—arms folded, brow furrowed—suggested he'd been waiting.

"Albus," he said in a low voice. He cast a glance at a portrait of a stately old wizard in a lavender hat who was doing his best to look uninterested. Aberforth took a step closer, forcing Dumbledore to meet his eyes. "I hear you've had word about Carrow."

The corridor, though out of the main flow of students, was still laced with the typical hum of Hogwarts life. Tapestries rustled faintly, and a ghost drifted at the far end before disappearing through a wall. Dumbledore lowered his voice. "Yes. Some sabotage in France. Grindelwald's circle is active again."

Aberforth's lips flattened into a grim line. "And that's not enough trouble for you, I'm sure. You've also got your nose in that Restricted Section again. Thought we agreed you'd be careful not to repeat old mistakes."

"Aberforth, please," Dumbledore said softly. "This is more than curiosity. I found references to wards, fortress wards possibly linked with what Credence keeps talking about. If Carrow is inciting fear in France—"

Aberforth cut him off, voice edged with concern. "Credence is fragile enough as it is. You chase after Carrow, you leave him behind here, unsteady. Which do you reckon needs you more—some sabotage across the Channel or the boy right in front of you? You know he's not out of the woods."

A muffled cough from the portrait made them both snap their heads in that direction. The occupant, a regal wizard wrapped in velvet, pretended to doze. Dumbledore cleared his throat and spoke more quietly. "I understand your worry. But if Grindelwald's people stir trouble abroad, that trouble draws closer to Hogwarts' gates each day. And Credence is tied into all of this. What if the fortress in his visions is real? He dreams of a swirling darkness and intricate runes. Does that not resonate with what I found last night?"

A flicker of old hurt crossed Aberforth's face. "You've always been sure you can save the world with ancient runes," he said. Then he offered a half-hearted shrug. "Just be careful, Albus. If you push too far, you're going to put yourself—and the rest of us—at risk. Credence needs you to stay alive as much as he needs you to be his confidant."

An awkward silence hung in the corridor. A portrait behind them squeaked, "A private corridor is no place to argue!" and then pretended to sniff. With a forced chuckle, Aberforth tried to lighten the moment. "Well, best we don't air our business to these old busybodies. You mind yourself, yeah?" He patted his brother's arm in farewell and strode off, leaving Dumbledore in reflective silence.

Retreating to his office, Dumbledore focused on the letter from the French authorities. The details were sparse and cryptic but clear enough: Carrow sightings in Paris's wizarding quarter, rumored alliances with sympathetic underground groups. There had been attempted sabotage in two enclaves, with property damage that seemed designed more to create fear than to cause real destruction. The hint was obvious—Grindelwald's network extended beyond the borders of Britain, quietly fanning tensions. The Headmistress made a brief appearance. She stepped in, glancing around at the quill-coded communicator on Dumbledore's desk, which crackled with faint messages from abroad.

"These are troubling times, Albus," she said, her voice clipped. "I understand your concern, but I must insist this be handled with discretion. If you consider leaving, you'll do so on your own liability. The Ministry has eyes everywhere."

He dipped his head. "If Carrow is sowing panic to lure out certain figures or to undermine the local Aurors, ignoring it only emboldens him."

She studied him for a moment, her eyes weighted with official caution. "Do what you must, but keep Hogwarts out of it—officially." With that, she swept from the room, leaving him to gather the few pieces of gear he might need.

He moved to the communicator. As soon as he tapped the engraved runes at its base, it squealed with static. Half a dozen voices in overlapping French spilled forth: "Nouveau rapport—Carrow… sabotage… archives magiques…" Dumbledore frowned, slipping his wand from his robe and muttering a light anti-feedback incantation. The device gave one final screech, then settled on a single, calm female voice delivering a short update. He managed to catch the tail end of a location reference—some type of catacombs beneath the city.

He gave the communicator a gentle rap with his wand to silence it. If Carrow was retreating underground, that might connect with Credence's references to a fortress and swirling darkness. A swirl of crows, Credence had said. Twisted archways.

Before he could delve further into the swirling possibilities, he remembered that he needed to check on Credence before leaving. He might glean more from Credence's visions—perhaps even find a clue that would help him interpret the city's hidden architecture. So he slipped out of his office, heading for the hospital wing with purposeful strides.

Credence was propped up on a bed near the windows, pale. His eyes flickered open as Dumbledore approached. Perhaps he sensed Dumbledore's presence before he saw him. The wards around him glowed faintly, a testament to the healing spells that tried to contain his violent surges of power. At the sight of Dumbledore, some tension left Credence's shoulders, and he exhaled shakily.

"Was it you, rummaging in the library last night?" Credence asked, voice hoarse.

Dumbledore gave an encouraging nod. "Yes. Doing what I must to keep us all safe."

Credence pressed his lips together, as if trying to decide whether to share something. Then, in a voice that quivered, he said, "I saw a swirl of crows again. The same dream… or vision, or whatever it is. Twisted archways… like stone teeth… under a city." His dark eyes flicked up. "I felt something cold, ancient. I heard whispers."

A hush stretched between them, broken only by the distant clinking of potions bottles. Dumbledore sensed the intangible brush of Credence's magic, fragile and potent all at once. It was indeed possible that Credence's fortress dream and Carrow's rumored infiltration of Paris's underbelly were connected.

"Don't leave me out of this," Credence pleaded, nearly a whisper. "Don't just go off—" He struggled for words, and his brow tightened with fear. "I can't stand not knowing what's happening to me, or why. If Grindelwald tries to use me again…"

Dumbledore took his hand gently, mindful of the young man's frailty. "Trust that every step I take is with your welfare in mind. If Carrow is stirring trouble, it could eventually reach you—and I won't let that happen."

A stern nurse bustled in, her expression firm as she glanced at Dumbledore. "This is the hospital wing, sir. I can't have you exciting my patient with war talk." She shot Dumbledore a slightly apologetic glance, though her voice remained commanding. "He needs rest."

Dumbledore raised his hands in mock surrender. "Of course, Madam," he said, allowing himself a rueful smile. He turned back to Credence. "I won't be gone long."

Leaving the hospital wing, he turned over Credence's words in his mind: crows, twisted archways, a swirl of darkness. The shapes in Credence's dreams might match hidden catacombs or labyrinths beneath Paris. It was a faint lead, but it was all he had. And that would have to be enough.

Before departing Hogwarts entirely, he arranged a private meeting in a small, disused classroom, draped in dust and half-forgotten old charts. Eulalie Hicks had beat him there. She was pacing by a high window, occasionally glancing outside to ensure no one was eavesdropping.

"So you're really going," she said softly, folding her arms. "Dumbledore… the Ministry can't protect you if this goes wrong."

He took a deep breath. "I know. But if Carrow's sabotage escalates, Hogwarts is only a step away from danger. We both know Grindelwald's ambitions aren't limited by borders."

She studied him, her gaze reflecting both admiration and concern. "I can give you a contact in Paris. Someone who's discreet and firmly against Grindelwald's ideology. He can help you blend in and gather intel." She reached into her robes and handed over a small slip of parchment with a name and address. "But if you're caught acting without Ministry sanction, you could be labeled a rogue."

"That's a risk I'm prepared to take," he said. "They can call me what they like, as long as I stop Carrow and keep Credence safe."

A faint crackle of magical energy flitted through the dusty chalkboard behind her. Dumbledore waved his wand to quiet whatever enchantment lurked in the old classroom. A stray quill hovered near a half-erased formula, scribbling nonsense about "Runes for Disaster" in wiggly script. He flicked it away with mild annoyance, and it clattered to the floor. Eulalie hid a slight smile, as if amused at the trivial chaos always swirling around him.

She touched his arm, her voice gentle. "Take care, Dumbledore."

He nodded his thanks and stepped from the room, feeling the weight of his resolve settle within him. Whatever illusions or complexities Carrow was weaving, Dumbledore would not be deterred.

By late afternoon, the waning sun poured a warm, golden hue over the castle. Dumbledore descended the main staircase, his cloak draped loosely around him, a small satchel over his shoulder. The corridors were quieter than usual as most staff prepared for the evening meal. But a figure stepped from the shadows near the main doors—Professor Mathers, a man reputedly friendly with certain Ministry officials.

"Heading out, Dumbledore?" Mathers said easily, though his eyes had the glint of suspicion. "Hope you aren't forgetting that the Headmistress requested all urgent business be cleared with her first… particularly if it involves leaving school grounds."

Dumbledore paused, clasping his hands in front of him. "Urgent business indeed," he replied. "But strictly personal. I trust you won't delay me?"

Mathers's mouth thinned. "I can't stop you, of course. Just know that certain people at the Ministry have let it be known they want to keep track of your movements."

"Duly noted," Dumbledore said, inclining his head with carefully measured politeness. Then he brushed past, pushing open the grand oak doors.

The crisp air outside tasted faintly of the coming dusk. His breath felt steadier once he was free of the castle's watchful eyes. In that moment, he remembered Aberforth's warning. A pang of guilt needled him, but he clenched his jaw. He could not let fear of the Ministry overshadow his duty. If there was any chance to curtail Grindelwald's growing influence—or to glean further information about that fortress Credence had glimpsed—he had to move decisively.

He passed a suit of armor stationed near a final archway in the courtyard. It gave a startled clank as it snapped to some semblance of attention, nearly dropping its halberd. The accidental comedic turn made Dumbledore smile faintly, a slice of normal Hogwarts absurdity in the midst of weighty matters. He paused just long enough to tip an imaginary hat to the flustered armor, then continued on.

Once beyond the castle boundary, he walked down a winding path where the wards ended, scanning for a safe Apparition point. A hush seemed to envelop him, as if the very stones of the path bore witness to the uncertain future he faced. He tucked his wand in an inner pocket of his cloak, closed his eyes briefly, and focused on the coordinates etched into his mind. With a practiced twist, he felt the rush of air and the dizzying pull of magic as he Apparated to France.

In an instant, Hogwarts vanished behind him. He reappeared in a cobblestone alley illuminated by golden lamplight. On either side, tall buildings—both wizarding façades and Muggle fronts—rose up, leaning inward as if in silent conversation. The air here was cool and carried scents of fresh bread and river water. There was a hush, punctuated by distant rumbles of evening life.

Dumbledore glanced around, conscious that he might already be watched. In the far distance, a cloaked figure turned a corner in haste. For a moment, he considered following, but decided against it; rash moves would jeopardize any advantage he held. Instead, he loosened his grip on his wand, letting it fall naturally at his side, ever ready. Above him, the sky was that deep navy color between day and night, and lamps flickered into existence along the narrow street.

He stepped deeper into the alley, noticing a small magical sign that flickered the word "Apothic" for an apothecary hidden behind an illusory wall. He knew the name of the contact Eulalie had given him, but for now, he needed to get his bearings. A cat darted from behind a stack of crates, spitting in surprise at the sight of him. Dumbledore instinctively whirled, wand half-raised, heart thumping with sudden tension. Realizing it was just a stray, he let out a measured breath and quietly slipped his wand away. The cat mewed indignantly before scurrying into the darkness.

Brushing the corner of his cloak aside, he paused to listen for any sign of Carrow's presence. The city's muffled clamor enveloped him: the faint hum of Muggle traffic beyond a hidden magical barrier, the clicking of wizarding boots on cobblestones, and somewhere above, a broom whooshing past. He sensed an undercurrent of unease, as if fear bristled around corners where Carrow's sabotage had already taken root.

Tightening his grip on the small satchel that carried a few references on runic wards—his best lead on the fortress lore—he reminded himself why he was here. He had to intercept Carrow's plan, uncover the sabotage, and, if fortune permitted, discover how Credence's eerie visions of dark archways might connect to this underground network. 

He stepped forward, guiding himself by the faint glow of the streetlamps, determined to follow every lead. Though the city was unfamiliar, the tension in the air was not. Danger lurked in the shadows, and he knew that behind any corner, Carrow—or worse, one of Grindelwald's other allies—could be waiting. He inhaled the cool night breeze and continued on, steps quiet on the ancient stones.

"I can't let them gain the upper hand," he muttered to himself, his voice lost in the hush of the Parisian alley. With wand in hand and mind set on unraveling the threat that menaced both France and his own domain at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore pressed forward.