Endless Catching Up

August 5, 1993, 10:00 AM, Unknown Location

Lord Voldemort

The cellar of the safehouse was a vault of damp stone; its walls wept with condensation, the air thick with the stench of mold and sour earth. Voldemort stood before a cracked granite pedestal, his frame cloaked in pure black.

Atop the pedestal rested the artifact: a jagged obsidian shard veined with silver, its surface pulsing with a sickly green light that bathed the cellar in an unearthly sheen. The shard hummed, a low, grating throb that clawed at the silence; its magic was honed to weave a lie, a smokescreen to hide his covert ritual’s energy manipulations.

Voldemort’s eyes locked on the shard; its power would keep the Ministry blind, ensuring his ritual, buried in the safehouse’s depths, grew unseen, a secret to outmaneuver Grindelwald’s endgame.

A shuffle broke the stillness: Jugson, a loyal minion, descended the cellar’s warped stairs, his sallow face ghostly in the shard’s glow, eyes wide with dread. Voldemort’s lips curled, a silent sneer. Jugson was a pawn, his fear a leash for the task ahead.

“Approach.” Voldemort hissed, his voice sharp. The minion obeyed, boots scraping the slick stone, his breath ragged in the mold-heavy air.

“The Ministry must swallow a lie.” Voldemort said, his wand grazing the shard’s edge.

“My Lord?”

“As you may have noticed in the past weeks, there has been significant unrest in the wizarding world.” Voldemort said, not waiting for Jugson to confirm. “Seemingly random events, weather disturbances, disappearances and the like. Much of it has been laid at the hands of Grindelwald and his ilk, but of course, some would suspect otherwise. Specifically, the disappearances. The werewolf attacks, their savagery, will be that particular unrest’s cause.”

Jugson nodded, his hands shaking. The shard’s hum deepened, a tremor that rattled the pedestal, a faint crack splitting the granite further.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed; the artifact, forged in magical flames, held a single spell to plant false intel in Ministry ledgers, while copying the magic which guaranteed their supposed authenticity.

It was a work of genius.

“You will write these new truths onto a parchment.” He ordered, his voice low as he held out the shard. “Charmed by this shard, it will ensure that it is the only truth.”

Voldemort stepped closer, the artifact’s light glinting on his cheeks.

“The parchment must reach a Ministry mole.” He said, his wand steady. “Its words will cement the lie, the attacks’ ferocity its proof, ensuring none see my work.”

Jugson’s gaze flicked to the shard, fear etching his face from Voldemort’s closeness. The Ministry would hunt rabid beasts, blind to the ley line ripples his ritual spun to seize the southern nexus for a time. It was a temporary measure, but that was all it needed to be.

He was buying himself just enough time to be prepared for what was to come.

A faint groan sounded above, the safehouse creaking in the moor’s wind. Voldemort’s fingers tightened on his wand; the shard was his creation, its runes a web of deceit, each pulse twisting truth to his design.

“Fail me, Jugson.” He said, his voice a venomous whisper. “And this shard will sear your soul to dust.”

The minion flinched, nodding swiftly as he left with the shard in tow.

Shaking his head, Voldemort slowly moved out of the room, taking his time as he passed by many of his followers, who moved away from his path, their heads bowed.

“My Lord.”

He nodded to them as he went to the war room. When he’d first come across this place, the ‘war room’ had been nothing more than a small, claustrophobic ruin of a living room: its slanted ceiling had been sagged under beams choked with cobwebs, the air thick with dust and the acrid bite of decaying wood.

But now it was a thing of beauty. Voldemort sat at the desk for a moment, imagining what it would be like when he finally seized control of the world and made it his own. He’d always wanted to teach his values to the next generation, even though he never truly understood why. With him at the helm of society, he would do just that, in perpetuity.

There were few documents on the board; the way he’d set his people to task required little in the way of paper or coordination, as their jobs were fairly simple. However, what few parchments he had laid here were invaluable, such as the one in his hands. It was a charmed parchment, its edges curling, silver ink shimmering with Lucius Malfoy’s coded messages.

A new message. Voldemort read it quickly and set it back down.

I see. Grindelwald suspects, and is probing, but not so much that he thinks I will not notice. Voldemort mused. Or perhaps he knows I have noticed, and he is telling me that he does not care?

He felt two ways about that; one, somewhat glad that there was no real interference in his plans; two, that he wasn’t important enough to address directly.

Voldemort shook his head; he’d been part of Grindelwald’s Order for a fair amount of time, enough that he understood their modus operandi. Likely that Grindelwald has grown obsessed with his ritual.

He leaned over the desk, the candle’s flame flickering; a spider skittered across the parchment, and he seized it with his magic, lifting up and dangling it above the flame as he watched it slowly sizzle in the heat. Bored with its suffering, he traced the air with his wand, summoning a fresh sheet of parchment.

The yew wand moved, its tip grazing the fresh parchment; silver ink bloomed under his will, runes forming in a cipher only Lucius could unravel.

“My ally.” Voldemort murmured, his voice a venomous whisper; the words were a lie, the parchment’s magic binding them to Lucius’ and therefore, Grindelwald’s eyes eventually. “The surges are mine: a ritual, private, its purpose my own, no threat to our bond.”

The runes pulsed, their silver sharp; the reply was vague, a deflection to quell suspicion, attributing the ripples in the world’s energy to his spellwork without revealing its aim.

The alliance between them was ultimately a tool, and tools would eventually need to be discarded.

Footsteps thudded on the creaking stairs, taking his attention away from his own musings: Lestrange entered, his heavy frame stooped, face slick with sweat, a charmed parchment clutched in his trembling hand.

Voldemort’s lips curled, a silent sneer; Lestrange was loyal, his cruelty a blunt instrument, perfect for wringing truths from a cursed mind.

“Speak.” Voldemort hissed, his voice a blade; Lestrange shuffled forward, boots scuffing the floorboards. The parchment, its edges singed, bore scrawled notes in Lestrange’s crude hand; its weight seemed to drag his arm, as if the agent’s secrets burned within.

“The agent, a rising officer, broke under the Cruciatus.” Lestrange said, his voice rough. “He spilled patrol routes, northern posts, Ministry blind spots.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “Details. Every post, every hour.”

Lestrange swallowed, unfolding the parchment; its ink gleamed faintly, charmed to hold the agent’s words, ripped from a body savaged by the Cruciatus.

“Three patrols, dawn, noon and dusk, circle northern hubs.” He said. “Two posts, lightly manned; they unknowingly guard the ley line nodes, and are blind to the southern shifts, as far as we have been able to tell.”

Voldemort nodded and paced, the yew wand steady. The agent’s secrets were a gift: patrols, predictable and thin, could be fed to Grindelwald’s spies. It was a false trail to draw his Order north, away from Voldemort’s actions.

“Grindelwald’s Order will chase these routes.” Voldemort murmured, as if calculating the trajectories on a map only he could see. “Grindelwald’s eyes will turn north for a time, though for how long… Perhaps a week or two.”

Lestrange nodded, his sweat beading; the parchment trembled in his grip, its ink stark against the yellowed page, each word a step toward misdirection.

Voldemort paused for a moment, considering his options, before speaking again.

“We’ll leak these routes.” He said, his voice a venomous whisper. “A whisper to his spies, let him fortify the wrong front.”

“The Ministry’s blind spots.” He said. “We’ll stage a feint, draw their enforcers there, perhaps even an Auror or two. It will let Grindelwald see strength where none exists. Yes. Deliver this to our contact.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Alone, once again, Voldemort could only smile.

oooo

August 6, 1993, 6:00 PM, Hogwarts

Albus Dumbledore

The Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts was a sanctuary of weathered wisdom: its circular walls, lined with shelves of ancient tomes and whirring silver instruments, glowed softly in the flicker of a dozen candles, their wax pooling on worn oak.

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, his half-moon spectacles glinting; his long fingers traced the edges of a parchment, showcasing suggestions for the next school year.

A crystal orb, etched with delicate runes, hovered above a cluttered pile of scrolls; its surface shimmered, mapping global energy flow in threads of faint silver. The air carried the must of old parchment and the faint sweetness of sherbet lemons: a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black dozed in its frame, its snores a soft hum against the office’s quiet.

The intelligence reports he’d received from the Americans was as meticulous as he remembered: magical power surges, violent and rhythmic, had spiked across Europe, their epicenter elusive to their senses. One thing was for sure; Grindelwald’s bid for dominion was awakening. Its pulse, faint but growing, was a threat he’d unravel, alliance or no alliance. He just needed confirmation

Albus leaned forward, the desk’s oak creaking. Dumbledore’s wand, elder and knotted, tapped the surface of the crystal ball, coaxing the silver threads to sharpen, revealing a map of energy flow. Porpentina’s reports detailed surges in northern hubs, but their inconsistency suggested a diversion to his eyes. The true nexus lay elsewhere.

That he couldn’t find it was maddening. It had been eating away at him, ever since he’d learned that the Mirror of Erised had gone missing, thanks to Adam.

That boy had seen something, but there had been no mention of him in recent weeks. He assumed Adam had made use of the regrettable destruction of the Office of Improper Magic Use. The boy’s vision had been something truly frightening, and he intended on stopping its occurrence at any cost.

“Any cost.” He muttered to himself. Gellert could not be allowed to do this, and if Albus had to defy destiny itself, he would.

He rose, his robes rustling; the office’s floor, polished by centuries, gleamed in the candlelight, its knots like eyes watching his steps. Grindelwald’s ritual, its blood and ambition, was a storm gathering strength.

He heard the sound of his office’s gargoyle moving, and turned his eyes to the door. Alastor Moody’s heavy tread echoed from the spiral stair and before long, the door creaked open, admitting the man: his scarred face, a map of battles, was taut, his magical eye whirring as it scanned the room, the other fixed on Dumbledore.

His wooden leg thumped on the polished floor, his cloak shedding dust from a night’s reconnaissance; a leather satchel, bulging with notes, hung from his shoulder, its straps frayed.

“Albus.” Moody growled, his voice rough as gravel; he dropped into a chair, its wood groaning, and slammed the satchel onto the desk, parchment spilling like leaves. The candles flared, their flames; a silver instrument hiccuped, puffing smoke, and Dumbledore leaned forward, his hands clasped.

“Your report, Alastor.” He said, his tone calm. “The werewolves, their patterns, what have you found?”

Moody’s eye swiveled, locking on him; the office’s warmth, its candlelight and parchment, braced against the grim truths he carried. He pulled a crumpled scroll from the satchel; its ink was smudged, scrawled in haste.

“They’re no random pack.” He said, his voice low. “Coordinated, striking at northern outposts.”

The scroll unrolled, revealing a map dotted with red marks: each strike precise, timed to sow chaos, a pattern Dumbledore recognized from Voldemort’s old playbook. The werewolf attacks, a smokescreen, were meant to confuse the Ministry; their ferocity masked subtler moves, a deception tied to Grindelwald’s ritual and a suspected alliance. The office’s air grew heavier; a portrait stirred, its frame creaking, and Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, tracing the scroll’s red marks, their northern focus a lie hiding southern intent.

He rose, his robes whispering; the astrolabe’s gears clicked, its arms slowing, the office’s shadows shifting in the candlelight.

“This is not Gellert’s doing. I can see Voldemort’s hand, clear as can be.” Dumbledore said, his voice steady. “This chaos, these attacks, are his distraction, a veil for something deeper.”

Moody grunted, his magical eye whirring; he jabbed the scroll, a red mark flaring under his finger, a hub hit at dawn.

“Ministry’s scrambling, chasing rabid dogs.” He said. “But the surges, the ley line spikes, they’re more to the south, Albus, and Grindelwald’s in it.”

Moody leaned back, his chair creaking; the satchel’s parchments rustled, a faint ink scent rising, the office’s must mingling with his cloak’s damp wool.

“They’re playing together.” He said, his voice a displeased growl. “Between the deception and the overt actions. They’ve made a pact of sorts. Maybe Grindelwald’s willing to split the spoils?”

Dumbledore paused in his pacing, his hand brushing a tome’s spine.

“An alliance; I had hoped their aims were too far apart, but it was not to be. An alliance indeed; fragile, to be sure, but real all the same.” Dumbledore said, his eyes distant. “What their prize is, however, will not be found to the north, no. It is a ruse.”

The astrolabe spun, its whir soft; Moody’s eye fixed on him, a spark of grim agreement in its whirl.

Dumbledore returned to the desk, his fingers grazing the scroll and thought quickly before nodding to himself.

“The Hebrides.” He said, his voice firm as he tapped the crystal ball with his wand, the map of the world zooming in on England, specifically the Hebrides. “That’s where the answer may be.”

Moody’s scarred lips twitched, a half-smile; he stuffed the scroll into the satchel, its leather creaking, ready for the task.

“I’ll go.” He said, his voice hard. “Scout the islands, trace the energy, find whatever new game they may be playing.”

“I would suggest you bring reinforcements with you on this journey.”

“We’ve talked about this.” Displeasure entered Moody’s voice once again.

“We have.” Dumbledore said, a beacon of calm in the face of the storm roiling within Moody.

“And I’ve already said— they named me a malcontent within the Ministry.” Moody said. “I work alone.”

“And that witch you’ve been teaching?” Albus said, his face expressionless though Moody could tell that he was smiling on the inside. “Nymphadora Tonks, I believe.”

“What of her?”

“She is ready, is she not?” Albus let go of his control and smiled now. “You’ve said as much to me near the end of the school year.”

“Ready for basic field work, aye.” Moody allowed, though he was already shaking his head. “Not for something like this. This is different from a battle. In a battle, you know your enemy, and you fight your enemy. In reconnaissance, you have to play another game, entirely.”

“She has scored exceedingly well in her ability to camouflage herself—”

“On the magical side, she has scored well, yes.” Moody countered. “And that’s mostly due to her abilities as a Metamorphmagus. I’ve drilled her a bit on how to behave, but that’s years of work—”

Moody stopped talking for a moment, shaking his head. “You’re not budging on this, are you?”

“No, my friend.” Dumbledore said, and his eyes were deathly serious. “I cannot afford to lose you.”

“And if she slows me down?” Moody challenged.

“You’ve taught her well. She will not.” Dumbledore’s answer was swift, his faith in his friend’s teaching absolute.

“…” Moody said nothing for a moment, though he dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Fine.”

Some time passed before either spoke again.

“I suppose I’ll be going, now.” Moody said, getting up.

“Be safe, my friend.”

“Don’t know how not to be.” Were Moody’s final words. “Not anymore.”

He watched his friend leave, but didn’t realize the amount of time that had gone by until there was a familiar, sharp knock on the door.

So soon?

“Minerva?”

The door opened, admitting Minerva McGonagall: her tartan robes, a crisp green and blue, swished as she entered, her stern face softened by a glimmer of pride, a leather-bound ledger clutched under her arm. Her hair, pulled into a tight bun, gleamed in the candlelight; her piercing eyes met Dumbledore’s, a brisk nod passing between them as she crossed the polished floor.

“Albus.” She said, her voice steady yet warm; she settled into a high-backed chair, its wood creaking faintly, and placed the ledger on the desk, its pages bristling with notes on schedules and wards. “Were you not expecting me? You seem confused.”

Albus didn’t react immediately to it, his eyes flitting to the clock for a moment. Half an hour had passed, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“Think nothing of it, my friend.” He said. “A short rest. Now… the school year, Minerva. How do we stand, and what of our students?”

McGonagall’s lips curved; the office’s warmth, its candlelight and parchment, framed a moment of light against the looming threat.

McGonagall opened the ledger, its pages rustling; her quill, tucked in its spine, glinted as she tapped a list of tasks inked in her precise hand.

“The castle’s ready.” She said, her voice clear. “Classrooms charmed, supplies delivered, wards triple-checked after the attack. We will not suffer a breach under my watch.”

The office’s air was heavy, the lavender’s scent faint. Dumbledore nodded.

“And the students?” He asked, his eyes sharp. McGonagall’s expression brightened, her fingers pausing on the ledger, a quiet awe in her gaze.

“Adam, Albus.” She said, her voice low. “His work in advanced Transfiguration, his spell is extraordinary. At first, I had not thought much of it. A spell made to attack and defend— a curiosity, but not unheard of.”

“He would certainly not be the first to have tried.” Dumbledore confirmed. “But I sense you have more to say.”

“He is able to incorporate other spells into its use.” Minerva revealed, and Dumbledore’s eyes widened.

“Truly?”

She nodded. “Yes, a stroke of brilliance I’ve not seen since your own.”

He leaned back, the desk’s oak creaking; the office’s shadows danced, the tapestry’s unicorn seeming to shimmer in the candlelight.

Adam’s chains, he knew, was a spell the boy had devised by studying the Shield Charm’s properties. He used this knowledge to summon chains of shimmering energy, akin to the Shield Charm’s essence, for both attack and defense.

“Incorporating other spells into his chains— Transfiguration?” Dumbledore asked, his voice soft.

McGonagall’s eyes gleamed as she leaned forward.

“Indeed.” She said. “He’s woven some of its principles into the spell, shaping the chains’ energy, bending their form and nature to suit his needs. Some facets he’d discovered entirely on his own. Others, I’ve given him the requisite instructions in.”

Dumbledore had to smile in amusement at that. “I seem to remember a child afraid he would cause what the Muggles would call a ‘nuclear explosion’ when attempting Transfiguration.”

“I recall similar moments.”

The two shared a laugh, then.

“That’s not to say that Potter has been slacking.” She said, her voice proud. “I’ve seen them duel. Despite their age, they’re both formidable duelists, disciplined far beyond their peers.”

“He holds his own?” He asked, and McGonagall nodded.

“Adam’s understanding of his surroundings allow him to behave in a more tactical manner, while Harry is more of a direct fighter, faster and able to react more quickly. But, it’s more than that.” She said. “Harry, he’s a leader, Albus, and he draws strength from Adam’s intensity. The boy is a good influence on him.”

Albus felt something ease in his chest, a tension he hadn’t fully realized he’d been carrying. In a world where Grindelwald’s shadow stretched across continents and Voldemort’s terror gripped Britain, where dark rituals threatened the very fabric of existence, here was something good. Something hopeful.

“Continue fostering their growth, Minerva.” He said quietly, his voice carrying both gratitude and a weight she might not fully understand. “Both of them. They will need every advantage we can give them.”

McGonagall’s eyes sharpened slightly at his tone, but she nodded. “Of course, Albus. Though I must say, managing such advanced students presents its own challenges. Adam’s experimentation, while brilliant, requires constant supervision. His attempts can be somewhat catastrophic.”

Despite everything, Albus found himself chuckling.

“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth. I recall my own experiments at that age— poor Elphias still flinches when I mention flame-freezing charms.”

The humor faded from his eyes as quickly as it had come. “Though I worry we cannot afford them the luxury of such innocent mistakes for much longer.”

“They’re still children, Albus.” McGonagall said, her voice carrying a note of warning. “Barely thirteen. Whatever storms are gathering—”

“The storms care little for their age, I’m afraid.” The words came out heavier than he’d intended, weighted with the knowledge of Grindelwald’s growing power, of old magics being twisted toward destruction, of prophecies and burdens that should never fall upon shoulders so young. He rose from his chair, moving to the window where the grounds of Hogwarts spread before him in the moonlight.

“Do you remember Tom Riddle at that age?” He asked suddenly. “Brilliant, ambitious, already showing signs of the darkness that would consume him. Or Gellert, when we were young— so certain we could reshape the world for the greater good.”

He turned back to her, his blue eyes dim with heavy knowledge. “I have watched exceptional children before, Minerva. I have seen what the weight of their gifts can do to them.”

McGonagall’s expression softened. “Harry and Adam are different. They have each other, for one thing. And they’ve chosen to use their abilities to protect others, not dominate them.”

“Yes.” Albus said, returning to his seat. “Yes, they have. And that gives me hope.”

He paused, his fingers drumming against the desk. “But tell me, how do we prepare them for what may come without robbing them of their childhood entirely? How do we sharpen their skills without hardening their hearts?”

The question hung in the air between them. Outside, an owl called softly in the darkness, and somewhere in the castle, a clock chimed the late hour. The weight of the world’s troubles pressed against the windows of the headmaster’s office, but within these walls, two educators grappled with an impossible balance— nurturing the very students who might one day stand between darkness and light.

“We give them what we can.” McGonagall said finally. “Knowledge, guidance, and the wisdom to know when to fight and when to simply be children. We cannot shield them from their destinies, but we can ensure they’re not alone when they face them.”

Albus nodded slowly. “Then we continue as we are. But Minerva— watch them closely. Both of them. The world has a way of demanding heroes before they’re ready to answer the call.”

McGonagall closed her ledger with a soft thud, the sound final in the quiet office.

“I’ll see to their continued training.” She said, rising from her chair with characteristic briskness, though her movements held a gentleness that spoke to the weight of their conversation. “And Albus— try to get some proper rest. The students aren’t the only ones who need their strength.”

She paused at the door, her hand on the brass handle, and looked back at him with something that might have been fondness mixed with concern. “Good night, old friend.”

The door closed behind her with a quiet click, leaving Albus alone with the dancing shadows and the heavy knowledge of all that lay ahead. He sank into his chair behind the great desk, suddenly feeling every one of his hundred and fifteen years.

“The days are growing darker.” A gentle voice came from above.

Dumbledore looked up to see Armando Dippet leaning forward in his frame, his eyes creased with concern. Several other portraits had been watching the conversation unfold as well, their painted faces turning toward the current headmaster with varying degrees of interest and sympathy.

“They grow darker by the day, Armando.” Dumbledore replied, removing his half-moon spectacles to rub his tired eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re making any progress at all.”

“Nonsense.” Declared Dexter Fortescue from his portrait near the window. “Why, in my day, we faced the goblin rebellions, and there were times when all seemed lost. But persistence, my dear boy, persistence is key.”

“The goblins didn’t have the power to manipulate the forces binding reality together.” Dumbledore muttered, though not unkindly.

“No, they did not.” Agreed Dilys Derwent, adjusting her healer’s cap. “But they had cunning and numbers. You have something far more valuable— you have the trust of good people. That Shacklebolt fellow, for instance. Utterly devoted to the cause. And those boys of yours…”

She smiled warmly. “They remind me of you at that age, actually.”

Dumbledore felt a flicker of warmth at her words, but it was quickly extinguished by a sharp bark of laughter from the corner.

“Oh yes, let’s all sit around and tell dear Albus how wonderful he is.” Came the sardonic voice of Phineas Nigellus Black. The former headmaster had materialized in his frame, his dark robes impeccable despite being centuries old. “That’s certainly helping win this war, isn’t it?”

“Phineas—” Armando began warningly.

“No, no, let me speak.” Phineas continued, his silver eyes glittering with malicious amusement. “Here sits the great Albus Dumbledore, supposedly the only wizard Voldemort and Grindelwald ever feared, and what does he do? He sits behind a desk like some Ministry bureaucrat, shuffling papers and sending other people to do the dangerous work.”

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Coordination is essential—”

“Coordination!” Phineas scoffed. “What a lovely word for hiding behind castle walls. Tell me, Albus, when was the last time you actually went into the field? When did you last look into the eyes of the families you’re supposed to be protecting?”

“That’s quite enough.” Everard Fielding interjected sharply. “Albus has responsibilities here—”

“Responsibilities.” Phineas repeated with disdain. “Yes, the responsibility to win a war, not to play puppet master from the safety of Hogwarts. In my day, leaders led from the front.”

The office fell silent except for the soft ticking of the various silver instruments on Dumbledore’s desk. Several portraits looked uncomfortable, while others glared openly at Phineas. But Dumbledore himself sat very still, his blue eyes fixed on some point beyond the windows.

“You think I’m hiding.” He said quietly.

“I think.” Phineas replied, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. “That the Albus Dumbledore of the past wouldn’t have spent this war sitting behind a desk, no matter how impressive that desk might be.”

The barb hit its mark. Dumbledore’s hands clenched slightly on the arms of his chair, and for a moment, something dangerous flickered in his usually twinkling eyes. But then he sighed, the anger draining away as quickly as it had come.

“Perhaps.” He said softly. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

Phineas blinked, clearly having expected more of a fight.

“Albus.” Dilys said gently. “You do more good here than you realize. The intelligence you gather, the plans you make—”

“The plans others execute.” Dumbledore finished. He stood slowly, walking to the window that looked out over the grounds. “The families others rescue. The battles others fight.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “When did I become so… distant from it all?”

“When you became wise enough to see the bigger picture.” Armando offered.

“Or when I became old enough to prefer the safety of strategy to the uncertainty of action.” Dumbledore countered, his voice heavy with self-doubt.

From his corner, Phineas watched with something that might have been approval.

“There’s the Dumbledore we need.” He said quietly. “The one who questions himself. The one who remembers that wars aren’t won by committees.”

Dumbledore turned back to face the portraits, and several of them stirred uneasily at the expression on his face. It was the look of a man remembering who he used to be— and perhaps deciding who he needed to become again.

“If you need counsel, Albus.” Dilys said carefully. “Or if you need someone to watch over things here while you’re… away… we’re here.”

“Always.” Armando agreed. “Whatever you need.”

Even Phineas nodded, though his expression remained skeptical.

“Just remember.” He added. “That the world doesn’t need another administrator; plenty of those to spare. It needs Albus Dumbledore— the real one, not the one who’s been hiding behind that desk.”

Dumbledore looked around at the collection of faces— some supportive, some concerned, one openly challenging. They were right, all of them in their own way. He had been coordinating, organizing, strategizing.

Somewhere along the way, though, he had stopped truly leading.

“Thank you.” He said simply, though his words carried the weight of a decision being made. “All of you.”

As he moved toward his desk to gather a few essential items, Phineas Black allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Sometimes, he reflected, the most important thing a headmaster could do was remind his successor that walls— even castle walls— were meant to be left behind.