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It was morning in Austria.
A delicate, near-painterly scene unfurled in the cool breath of dawn.
As the first fingers of sunlight crept over the snow-dusted crests of the Alps, the mountains glimmered as though cloaked in golden silk. Mists curled through the valleys, twisting lazily in the glow, shrouding the world in a kind of ethereal splendour.
Swish~
Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald appeared at the edge of a secluded manor, standing before a grave— one that had clearly been disturbed. The tomb lay open, its contents removed, as if someone or something had ransacked it.
"Sir."
A faint voice drifted from the direction of the house nearby. It was Ronnie Ehrlich, his voice frail as he wheeled himself slowly toward them.
"You see?" Grindelwald said with a grin. "Nothing went wrong."
He turned slightly, catching the way Dumbledore's hand trembled at his side, as if battling some powerful emotion.
"Very good," The headmaster murmured, steadying himself before crouching beside Ronnie. He examined the young man carefully; though clearly weakened, there was nothing unnatural about his condition.
"I feel… well, to be honest, I feel better than I have in years," Ronnie whispered, blinking up at them with wide eyes. "Everything before— everything I remember feels like a dream."
"Then let it remain one," Grindelwald said gently. "As of today, that identity— the one that 'died' must be left behind. You'll take up a new name, a new life."
He guided Ronnie's hands back to the armrests as the young man tried to stand.
"Am I part of your plan?" Ronnie asked, voice shaking with the weight of it. There was both awe and uncertainty in his gaze.
Grindelwald gave Dumbledore a sidelong look before speaking softly.
"Rest now. You've a greater task ahead of you." With that, the two old wizards walked toward the open grave.
"I don't think we'll be able to keep this hidden from him," Dumbledore said quietly, a note of caution in his voice.
"It won't be a problem," Grindelwald replied breezily. He peered into the disturbed earth, eyes glazing over as though seeing beyond what lay before them— into realms still obscured by time or fate.
"After all, the real trial hasn't even begun, has it?" His tone was tinged with something ancient— part nostalgia, part thrill. "I never imagined that boy would prove to be such a key. But I knew… I knew placing my trust in him would pay off."
Clearly—
Not everything had failed to leave a mark on the world.
"You ought to thank more than just Ian," Albus Dumbledore said softly, a quiet sigh escaping him. Grindelwald nodded, responding in a rare, solemn tone.
"Naturally. We must also thank... ourselves." The former Dark Arts professor's voice was low, and it was clear that, in this moment, his situation was far removed from what Ian might have imagined.
"You speak with Ronnie. Make sure he understands only what he needs to. I have other matters to see to." Dumbledore's expression was layered— complicated, even.
He turned swiftly and strode toward the manor's exit, not waiting for a reply.
Grindelwald didn't stop him.
He simply shook his head as Ronnie Ehrlich wheeled himself over with a puzzled look on his face.
"I thought you said there were preparations to be made. Why has he gone?" Ronnie glanced in the direction Dumbledore had taken, the older wizard's figure retreating with uncommon urgency.
"Because, compared to our affairs, he's got something else he holds far dearer," Grindelwald murmured, watching Dumbledore vanish from sight. There was a faint trace of sentimentality in his voice as he glanced at the young man beside him.
"I knew he couldn't be trusted," Ronnie muttered, bitterness in his tone.
"On the contrary," Grindelwald said, his voice suddenly firm, "After today, he'll be more trustworthy than ever before."
He looked Ronnie straight in the eyes, his words weighty with meaning. "You must understand, everything we've achieved so far is only possible because of my old friend's daring… and his dangerous sense of conviction. He'll stop at nothing when he believes the cause is right."
The blunt honesty in Grindelwald's words left Ronnie momentarily stunned.
"Is that really the same Dumbledore we once knew?" The young Acolyte sounded genuinely confused.
"Of course not." Grindelwald chuckled with a soft and nostalgic look on his face.
"But this— this is the Albus Dumbledore I've always known."
Indeed, of all the living wizards, Grindelwald may well be the one who knew Dumbledore best. And while they spoke, the headmaster had already Apparated away once again.
…
In Hogsmeade Village.
Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the Hog's Head Inn, holding a fractured, ancient device he had just retrieved from his brother's wrist— after rendering Aberforth unconscious.
"An old time-turner…" He murmured.
Once, Aberforth had searched high and low for this device, believing it might serve a higher purpose. Now, it was taken— forcefully, without explanation.
What did it mean to stop at nothing in pursuit of one's goal?
Albus Dumbledore had just demonstrated it.
Even his own brother had not been spared— not out of cruelty, but because Aberforth had refused to listen.
"To live in the future by tampering with the past…"
He vanished again in a whipcrack of Apparition, reappearing at the edge of a distant estate cloaked in obscurity and warded with layers of enchantments.
At once, he was surrounded.
A legion of alchemical guardians had sprung to life: soldiers with bodies of interlocking enchanted brick and automaton girls with clockwork eyes glowing faintly. Some bore spellforged halberds; others bristled with what were unmistakably modified Muggle weapons— runes carved into the barrels, magically reinforced for devastating effect.
These were not mere trinkets of curiosity.
They were lethal.
"Stand down."
The command came with the sound of deliberate steps.
A thin, silver-haired old man emerged from the shadows. At his words, the mechanical guards froze mid-movement, returning to their hidden alcoves.
"Your security seems to have multiplied since I last visited," Dumbledore remarked, facing the elderly wizard who now stood before him— none other than Nicolas Flamel.
The legendary alchemist, though clearly aged, smiled faintly and sighed. "Even without the Philosopher's Stone, there are still those who think me worth robbing. Peaceful retirement, it seems, is a luxury few of us can afford."
Despite the slight tremble in his gait, Flamel moved with surprising vigour, a flicker of fire still alive in his sunken eyes.
"I hope my arrival hasn't caused any disruption," Dumbledore said, a touch apologetic, nodding toward the large, ivy-clad manor.
Inside, a woman nearly as aged as Flamel could be seen orchestrating a kitchen full of animated utensils and alchemical constructs— preparing what appeared to be a rather elaborate meal.
"The arrival of an old friend is never a disruption," Flamel said with genuine warmth, though he was not one to miss subtle signs. "Though, if I'm not mistaken, you're not here just for a visit. Something's troubling you. You've come seeking help."
His gaze dropped to the bulge in Dumbledore's robes.
"You used to be the one who kept my wilder impulses in check. Now I see the same glint in your eye." Flamel's voice turned pensive. "It's stronger now."
Without another word, Dumbledore withdrew the broken device from his pocket.
The ancient time-turner.
"You and your brother have both shown me this before," Flamel said, handling the object with care. "I'll say again: repairing it is... exceptionally difficult. So many materials, so many runes lost to time."
He turned it slowly in his hands.
"But what worries me more… is why it's come back to you now."
Dumbledore's eyes shimmered faintly, emotion brimming just beneath their calm surface.
"I believe," He said, voice thick with conviction, "That what's guiding me now… is a hope I've already proven true."
There, in the dim light of the workshop—
His eyes shone with unmistakable purpose.
And something else.
Belief.
(End Of This Chapter)