Dumbledore and The Great Wizarding War

Early evening found Albus Dumbledore materializing in a tucked-away courtyard in the wizarding heart of Paris. The sky was awash in watercolor shades of dusky orange and faint rose, and the final threads of sunlight danced across high stone walls. In the stillness of that small cobblestone square, a single wrought-iron lamp threw a soft glow that felt both welcoming and quietly fraught with possibility.

He glanced around, taking in the age-old facades and the sense of history swirling through the air. The swirl included more than just time—it carried tension. Even from this modest vantage, Dumbledore sensed that the recent wave of intrigues had found Paris unsettled. Shop windows in the surrounding arcades dimmed early, their owners presumably wanting no part of the sabotage rumors flying about. But Dumbledore had little choice. Carrow had fled somewhere into these streets, possibly working to destabilize France's wizarding community on Grindelwald's behalf. If Dumbledore wanted to stay a step ahead, he needed to act swiftly.

A startled cat suddenly bolted from beneath a stack of crates, its fur the color of midnight. Dumbledore whipped out his wand by reflex, heart momentarily hammering, only to exhale in mild embarrassment when the cat hissed and vanished. "Really," he murmured to himself, "feline infiltration is the last thing I need." His wand arm relaxed, though he kept his senses sharp. It was precisely in these unguarded moments that Carrow's people might strike.

He retrieved a small slip of parchment from a hidden pocket of his coat—Eulalie Hicks had handed it to him shortly before he left. It bore a coded note: an address scribbled in swirling text, describing a small apothecary in the wizarding quarter. According to Eulalie's sources, a local contact named Henrietta Fischer might know how best to navigate the underbelly of magical Paris. Dumbledore pressed the parchment into his palm, letting the wards on it fade now that he'd read the final lines.

As he moved deeper into the alley, he saw signs of subdued life. A handful of robed figures hurried from building to building, some peering over their shoulders as though pursued. Shadows loomed under archways; a faint hush seemed to coat the stones, and he couldn't help but wonder if Carrow had watchers in every corner. Rumors of sabotage already haunted the city. The thought made him clutch his wand with renewed caution.

He turned a corner onto a lane that led toward the wizarding quarter. Half the shops he passed had closed shutters and curtained doors. The few that remained open displayed posters warning of rogue saboteurs and advising vigilance. A bold piece of magical graffiti scrawled across a wall read: "Grindelwald brings change—stand aside or join!" It shifted in color every time Dumbledore blinked, as though taunting him. He frowned at the words but pressed on.

Night fell swiftly in wizarding Paris. Twilight gave the narrow streets a labyrinthine feel as illusions shimmered at the edges to keep prying Muggle eyes away. Here, the architecture was pressed close: tall, centuries-old buildings leaning precariously as if eavesdropping on the street below. Faint colorful glows emanated from hidden shops—brewers and charm makers, no doubt. Nevertheless, the tension was tangible.

Dumbledore stopped beside a shuttered stand advertising potions. Its sign flickered, the rune for "cure-all tonics" sputtering as though someone had tampered with the enchantment. He tapped a knuckle on the window frame, and a shopkeeper's anxious face emerged.

"Pardon, but I'm seeking someone who might know about Carrow," Dumbledore said softly. "I was told you may have heard rumor of…connections?"

At the mention of Carrow's name, the shopkeeper recoiled as though stung. His eyes darted side to side, scanning the alley. "I've heard the name," he mumbled, voice quavering. "Don't know much, mind you, just that trouble follows them everywhere."

"Any idea where that trouble's led? Rumor says it might be underground." Dumbledore offered a small, encouraging smile, though he felt the weight of urgency.

"Perhaps…maybe near the catacombs. People say there's sabotage in the old wards. Please—I've said enough," the shopkeeper pleaded, shutting the shutters without waiting for a thank-you.

Nearby, a visiting wizard in bright purple robes appeared, evidently oblivious to the local tension. He rattled the locked booth window, gesturing at potions inside. "Halloo? I need Skele-Gro for my kneazle," the tourist called. Beside him, Dumbledore couldn't resist a faint chuckle at the man's timing—Skele-Gro would be the least of his worries if sabotage was afoot. Then, a small explosion of spark-lights erupted from a lamppost at the end of the alley, sending a shower of blue sparks into the sky. At once, the few passersby scattered, hearts pounding. Was it Carrow's doing? Or just one more tampered enchantment?

As the sparks fizzled, Dumbledore felt a rush of concern. The sabotage might be a ploy: cause confusion, instill fear, and slip away in the chaos. Carrow was cunning enough to prey on that. Dumbledore remembered Credence's warnings back at Hogwarts—how swirling darkness and ancient runes might indicate infiltration. It all began to line up with accounts of catacombs, hidden archives, and sabotage. Dumbledore gave one final glance at the remnants of the lamppost sparks before moving on with added determination.

Following Eulalie's directions, he made for a discreet café. The door's creaking hinge announced his entry into a candlelit back room even before his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The heavy curtains were drawn, sealing in a smoky hush. Three or four patrons nursed cups of coffee or tea, each glancing suspiciously at the newcomer. At the far corner waited a sandy-haired witch, her expression guarded. She was clearly looking for him, if the anxious flick of her gaze meant anything.

Henrietta Fischer, or so the note had said. Dumbledore approached, nodding politely. She produced a forced smile and motioned for him to sit.

"I have little time," she murmured, and the tension in her voice was plain. "Paris is not safe these days."

"I quite understand," he replied, settling onto the bench across from her. "I'm sorry to intrude. Eulalie Hicks said you could help."

Henrietta's eyes flashed at the mention of Eulalie's name. She nodded. "Yes, Eulalie and I have shared a few coded letters. Word is you're after Carrow and—by extension—Grindelwald's infiltration. You're not the first to show concern. But Carrow's sabotage is more widespread than you realize. People vanish. Archives are broken into. The city is frightened."

Dumbledore listened quietly. "I suspect Carrow is searching for runes or relics tied to infiltration. Possibly advanced wards. Does that match what you've heard?"

She leaned in, sliding an old scroll toward him with trembling fingers. "Indeed. There's talk of a hidden 'dark enclave' in the catacombs. Some say it's a labyrinth of old wards. People have glimpsed Carrow creeping into tunnels at night, carrying contraband or rummaging for ancient scrolls."

He unrolled the scroll, eyebrows rising at the intricate lines. The catacombs sprawled across the underside of Paris like a secret city. "This can't be mapped easily. Are those runic markers?"

"Yes. They signal wards placed centuries ago to guard specific vaults," Henrietta said grimly. "Carrow's people want to break them, remove protective seals, and quietly infiltrate secure archives. This café was once lively, but sabotage rumors keep it empty."

A waiter passed by, balancing a tray of floating teacups with evident nerves. At the sight of two quiet figures speaking in hushed tones, he nearly dropped the entire load. Dumbledore wordlessly flicked his wand, halting a teacup mid-fall before it shattered. He set it gently back on the tray, offering a reassuring nod to the waiter. "I'm all for floating teacups," Dumbledore murmured with a faint smile, "but perhaps tonight…just let them stand?"

The waiter managed a tight laugh, bustling away. Henrietta hid a slight smile. "If sabotage continues, we'll be forced back to quill-and-ink orders anyway."

Dumbledore refocused. "Where exactly does Carrow go in these catacombs?"

"There's a rumor of an abandoned canal entrance off Rue du Cloître. It used to lead deeper into old sub-levels. Dark enclaves, rumored troves of magical texts… I believe Carrow is there or at least heading that way soon."

That was all Dumbledore needed. "Thank you. Time is short, so I'll investigate immediately."

Long minutes later, Dumbledore slipped into a crumbling stone passage, guided by the scribbled map. Night's grip on the city had tightened, and only ragged beams of moonlight illuminated the corners of old bridges arching overhead. The entrance to the catacombs was unguarded, but the hairs on the back of Dumbledore's neck prickled. If Carrow had set wards, any misstep could alert them.

Inside, the first corridor smelled of stale air and damp stone. Tiny flickers from lichen on the walls cast ghostly, phosphorescent shadows. Drips of water echoed. Dumbledore raised his wand, conjuring a faint sphere of blue light. Time felt suspended in this underworld. He paused before an archway carved with archaic runes. Spaces in the inscriptions hinted at tampering—some runes had been pried off, replaced, or chiseled away. "So this is Carrow's idea of sabotage," Dumbledore muttered, stepping carefully.

He probed the corridor with illusions—Tier-3 illusions that masked his presence and tested for magical tripwires. These illusions were not simple. They drained his focus, he felt it around the edges of his senses. But he pressed on. If Carrow had set even one perimeter ward, it might detect him in a heartbeat. He guided the illusions outward, letting them fade in slow waves, mapping the catacombs for hidden triggers.

A whispery presence startled him—a poltergeist drifting along, humming an off-key tune. The ghostly figure had what looked like a faded Napoleonic coat, far too tattered to be anything but a leftover specter from a different era. Dumbledore froze as the spirit drew near, its humming echoing off the narrow walls. With a soft hush, he brandished a gentle ward to keep the poltergeist quiet. Its attempts to continue the tune only produced muffled, comical squeaks.

"Truly puzzling how a centuries-old spirit knows show tunes from the 1920s," Dumbledore mused under his breath, shaking his head. "I'll never quite understand ghosts."

He pressed on until he found footprints in the dust, footprints that led to a small alcove. He spotted conjuration residue—a faint shimmer, like the ghost of a long-gone ward. Next to it lay a scrap of black cloth snagged on a protruding rune. His pulse quickened. Carrow's associates must be near. He crouched, letting his wand glow just enough to examine the cloth. It was thick, almost cloak-like. All signs pointed to someone moving through these corridors recently.

Then voices: a hushed conversation echoed from deeper within. Dumbledore extinguished his wand's glow and eased forward, hiding behind a crumbling column. Two hooded figures knelt by a weathered chest and rummaged through scrolls that reeked of ancient ink. Their whispers, laced with French, carried the name "Carrow." Dumbledore strained to catch every word. They spoke of an artifact—some hidden relic that might amplify wards or break them down with the right incantation.

He shifted closer, heart pounding. If he could learn the relic's specifics, that knowledge might prove crucial. But just as he leaned in, one of the henchmen paused. Something—a detection spell, perhaps—had caught Dumbledore's presence. In that fleeting second, Dumbledore aimed to slip back behind the pillar, but the quicker of the two shouted a warning incantation. Blue sparks arced overhead, outlining his silhouette.

With no time to spare, Dumbledore lunged to the side in a swirl of illusions, throwing a disarming jinx at the nearest figure. The second henchman retaliated, launching a Stunner that sizzled off the stone floor. Sparks flew. The catacombs glowed with flickering torchlight, lending the confrontation an eerie atmosphere. Dumbledore's illusions danced across the chamber, twisting through shadow to confuse them. He flicked his wand again, conjuring a swirl of swirling motes that dazzled the henchmen enough to throw off their aim.

One henchman tried to cast a more potent curse, but in the chaos, he stepped onto a loose slab. The movement triggered a rickety old hex trap—an ancient defensive measure from centuries past. The hex misfired and knocked the wand right from his hand. He let out a startled yowl, which echoed comically in the confined space. Dumbledore seized the advantage, disarming them both in rapid succession. Ropes of shimmering, conjured energy coiled around the pair, leaving them bound and cursing under their breath.

"Where's Carrow?" Dumbledore demanded, letting his voice remain calm but edged with resolve. The captives only sneered.

"Every second you waste here," one spat, "Grindelwald's vision spreads. You can't chase every saboteur, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore tightened the conjured ropes. "Where?"

The second captive looked away stubbornly. "Carrow's left for the Maison d'Archives Magiques. You're too late to stop anything he's set in motion."

Dumbledore suppressed a flare of frustration, though his heart sank. "We'll see," he said quietly. He flicked his wand, casting a ward that would keep them pinned until local authorities arrived. Their muffled protests echoed behind him as he disappeared into another corridor.

Finally, he leaned against a cracked pillar, breathing hard. The catacombs pressed in around him like a stone labyrinth of secrets. Grimly, he examined a small relic the henchmen had dropped: some sort of runic ornament with partial inscriptions. Could it be a key or a piece of the greater puzzle? He pocketed it, mind racing. On one hand, he ached to interrogate them further or pry details with a more severe spell. On the other, he recalled Aberforth's admonitions about crossing certain lines. He took a steadying breath. He refused to stray toward darker magic, not unless it was the absolute last resort.

A memory of Eulalie Hicks's pointed advice drifted through his mind. She had teased him about playing detective in foreign catacombs, and here he was. The corners of his mouth tugged into a weary smile. This was no official Ministry operation; he was flying on personal conviction and a swirl of guesswork. Still, Credence's warnings had proved correct so far—Carrow was up to something big. If Carrow broke wards in the Archives, it could unleash real havoc across France.

Pressing onward, Dumbledore emerged from a hidden exit that deposited him into a side alley in wizarding Paris. The late-night hush was broken only by the distant rumble of traffic in the Muggle quarters, separated by wards. The wet cobblestones glimmered under flickering streetlamps, and the night air felt startlingly cool after the catacombs' stale depths. He spied a weathered poster flapping in the breeze: "Join Grindelwald's Alliance! Shape the New Era!" The brazenness of the message sent a chill through him. Grindelwald's network was clearly more entrenched here than in Britain.

He overheard two passing witches murmuring in anxious tones about the infiltration: missing neighbors, wards easily breached, and local authorities paralyzed by fear. Dumbledore realized then that Carrow's sabotage might only be part of a bigger campaign. Paris itself was faltering under a wave of subterfuge. The infiltration extended beyond a handful of saboteurs. Carrow had real backing.

"I can't let this spread," Dumbledore said under his breath. The horror of a city undone haunted him. He adjusted his grip on his wand and set off into the night, heading for the Archives. The path there would lack official assistance; he doubted the French Ministry would be any more trusting than the British Ministry had been. And the clock ticked mercilessly.

Close to midnight, the moon slipped between ragged clouds, painting tall Parisian rooftops in silver and shadow. Dumbledore paused at the entrance to the Maison d'Archives Magiques. The building loomed like a relic of centuries gone by—tall, austere walls lined with boarded windows, and wards that flickered faintly in disrepair. At one time, it must have served as a stronghold for precious magical documents or artifacts. Now, it seemed neglected, the wards half-broken by age or by sabotage.

A cold shiver of magic rippled across Dumbledore's senses as he approached the door. He lifted his wand, glimpsing runic patterns glimmering to life on the threshold. A ghost of Hogwarts's ancient wards flickered through his memory. If Carrow was inside, tampering with both the building's protections and the relics it contained, the danger could escalate swiftly.

He swallowed, thinking for a split second about alerting local authorities. But time was too short, and trust too fragile in an unknown city. He set his jaw. If Carrow was forging a path to something powerful within these old archives, Dumbledore had no choice but to intervene immediately.

As he reached for the door, a tiny gargoyle statue perched nearby stirred from its slumber, iron wings scraping stone. With a thin, squeaky voice, it croaked, "State your name and business!" The grating sound echoed across the courtyard, far louder than Dumbledore preferred.

He nearly jumped. Pressing a finger to his lips in a silent plea, he muttered a hush-charm at the gargoyle. It sputtered, offended, but its mechanical voice petered out to a meek whisper. Seconds later, all was quiet again.

Dumbledore gently tested the door. The faint runes leapt up in swirling filaments, matching the shape of his wand tip as if sampling his magical signature. He felt the wards adjusting to him, a final, halfhearted defense that recognized him only enough to open, but not quietly. Something, or someone, inside would sense the shift. His gut tightened. The moment he crossed that threshold, there would be no going back.

He lifted his chin, mind swirling with illusions he might need to mask his approach. The wards parted reluctantly, and the door creaked open to reveal darkness and dust as thick as a forgotten tomb. Just beyond, he caught the faint echo of footsteps on old parquet floors. Carrow was here, or perhaps he had arrived just in time to intercept.

Stepping inside, he raised his wand, the slender beam of light illuminating a corridor lined with shelves buckled under ancient tomes. Past them, deeper into the darkness, came a subtle shift—perhaps a cloak rustling or a door shutting. Dumbledore reached for a stronger form of night-vision charm, keen to see more than mere shadows. He prepared illusions to cloak his movements. Each step was measured and quiet, his heart ticking in time with the city's hidden pulse.

He advanced, determined that this chase end tonight, or at least that Carrow's sabotage be thwarted. Whispers of air seemed to brush past him, the building's wards watchful but too weak to offer full protection. Still, he pressed on, wand at the ready.

Dimly, faint silver moonlight filtered through a cracked window overhead. In that broken glow, Dumbledore caught a flicker of motion in the distance. He braced himself, illusions swirling around him like faint, protective layers. The confrontation might erupt at any moment, and if so, he intended to meet it head-on. He had come too far to let Carrow slip away again.

He took one final breath and pressed forward into the gloom, every nerve alive. Deeper in the hall, the elusive footsteps echoed once more, and the hunt continued.