Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, and walked toward his desk, robes swishing against the floorboards. He stepped over a stack of parchments Quirrell had scattered, picked up a quill, and twirled it between his fingers, glancing at the younger man. "I must say, Quirinius, I didn't expect you to try breaking into my office quite so soon. Have I been paying the staff enough? Or is the lure of my lemon drops simply too much to resist?" He chuckled, setting the quill down, and leaned against the desk, folding his arms into his sleeves.
Quirrell stood frozen near the bookshelves, his turban slightly askew, hands clutching a crumpled parchment. He swallowed hard, his face twitching as he tried to steady himself, and forced a smile, his voice stuttering. "P-Professor Dumbledore, I-I didn't mean to intrude. I was j-just looking for some notes I lent you, from my l-last lecture on D-Defence Against the Dark Arts. I thought they might be here, and I d-didn't want to bother you." He gestured vaguely at the desk, his eyes darting to the door, then back to Dumbledore, his fingers tightening on the parchment.
Dumbledore nodded, humming softly, and stroked his long silver beard, his gaze never leaving Quirrell. "Notes from your lecture? A reasonable excuse, I suppose." He tilted his head, picking up a stray ink bottle and rolling it in his hand. "But there's a small problem, Quirinius. You haven't lent me any notes this term. In fact, you've been rather reluctant to share your work lately, haven't you?" He set the bottle down, his smile fading slightly, and leaned forward. "And there's no need to keep up the stutter. It's served its purpose, I'm sure."
Quirrell's smile froze, his eyes widening, and he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He stood there, hands trembling, the parchment slipping from his fingers to the floor. Dumbledore watched him, silent, letting the moment stretch, his expression calm. Quirrell's shoulders slumped, his stutter gone, and he licked his lips, glancing at his wand holster, but he didn't reach for it.
Dumbledore smiled again, a touch of amusement in his eyes, and pushed off the desk, pacing slowly across the room. "I must give you credit where it's due, Quirinius. I saw that something significant would happen on Halloween, but the possibilities were endless, shifting like shadows in a storm. Even when I peered along the strings of fate, using every trick of my technique, I couldn't pin it down. All I could do was prepare, strengthen the wards, rally the staff, and yet I wasn't prepared for betrayal." His voice darkened, and he stopped pacing, turning to face Quirrell, his hands clasped behind his back. "It was quite ingenious, really. You turned the castle's own wards against me, allowed Grindelwald's men to breach the grounds, and managed to confine me to this very office while they attacked."
Quirrell shook his head, stepping back, his voice rising, no stutter now. "No, Headmaster, you've got it wrong. This is all just a mistake." He spread his hands, forcing a laugh, but it came out strained, and his eyes flicked to the door again, his breath quickening.
Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head, and walked to a shelf, picking up a small silver instrument that whirred faintly. "A mistake? Come now, Quirinius, I believed you to be an average wizard at best, competent but unremarkable. Yet you found the ward stone, altered its enchantments, something only a handful of wizards in a century could manage. That's no accident." He set the instrument down, turned, and fixed Quirrell with a piercing stare, his voice steady. "You opened the gates for them, and my students died because of it."
Quirrell's face twisted, a mix of anger and pain, and he backed into the shelf, knocking a book to the floor. "You don't understand anything," he said, his voice shaking but louder now. "You're powerful, Dumbledore, but you're a fool. My Lord is the true power, the one who'll rule this world someday, and I had no choice but to serve him." His eyes burned, his hands clenching into fists, and he straightened, defiance overtaking his fear. "You think you're untouchable, but he'll surpass you, and I'll be there when he does."
Dumbledore chuckled again, softer this time, and walked back to his desk, sitting on its edge, his hands folded in his lap. "Grindelwald is a powerful wizard, I'll grant you that, Quirinius, but he will never be a true match for me. You've placed your hopes in the wrong man, and I fear it will cost you dearly." His voice was calm, almost pitying, and he tilted his head, watching Quirrell's reaction, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles.
Quirrell said nothing, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the floor, hands twitching at his sides. He stood there, breathing hard, refusing to meet Dumbledore's eyes, his silence a wall between them.
Dumbledore sighed, standing up, and Quirrell flinched, his hand darting to his wand holster, fingers closing around the handle. Dumbledore smiled, unmoving, his hands still folded, and spoke softly. "I suppose there's little left to say now, Quirinius. All I need to know is where you've hidden the ward stone."
Quirrell shook his head, his voice low but firm. "I'm not telling you anything, fool."
Dumbledore nodded, stepping closer, his robes brushing the floor. "The ward stone can't be taken off Hogwarts grounds, as you well know. It's tied to the castle's magic, so you've hidden it somewhere here. Where is it, Quirinius?" His voice sharpened, and he stopped a few feet away, watching Quirrell's hand on his wand, his own hands empty.
Quirrell's face contorted, and he yanked his wand free, shouting as he fired a spell, a jet of red light streaking toward Dumbledore. "Crucio!" Dumbledore raised his hand, palm open, and caught the spell, the light vanishing into his fingers. He closed his hand, then opened it with a flourish, like a Muggle magician, showing it empty, and grinned. "A bit predictable, wouldn't you say?"
Quirrell's eyes widened, fury overtaking him, and he yelled, firing spell after spell—green arcs, fiery blasts, shards of ice—each one ripping into the office. Bookshelves splintered, instruments shattered, and smoke filled the air as a Confringo blasted a hole in the wall. Dumbledore tilted his head, his smile mocking, and sidestepped each attack, his robes barely stirring. Quirrell screamed, charging forward, his wand glowing as he enhanced his body with magic. He threw a punch at Dumbledore's chest, then a kick at his legs, moving fast, his face red with rage.
Dumbledore dodged with minimal effort, stepping left to avoid the punch, ducking the kick, his hands still in his sleeves. "Where's the ward stone, Quirinius?" he asked, weaving around another fist. "I need it back. I told the Ministry I'd fixed it, and I'll be in quite a spot if they find out I haven't." He sidestepped a wild elbow, his voice light, almost teasing.
"Stop talking!" Quirrell shouted, his wand flaring as he fired a Bombarda Maxima, the spell a roaring ball of light aimed at Dumbledore's chest. Dumbledore whipped out his wand, catching the spell at its tip, the energy crackling but held steady. He leaned forward, his voice low. "Last chance, Quirinius. Tell me where it is."
Quirrell bared his teeth, shouting, "I won't betray my Lord!" He raised his wand again, ready to fire, his hands shaking with defiance.
Dumbledore sighed, his expression hardening, and flicked his wand, sending the Bombarda Maxima back at Quirrell. Quirrell raised a shield, chanting Protego, but the spell shattered it, the force throwing him across the office. He crashed through a table, papers flying, and Dumbledore swiped his wand again. The office walls shimmered, then parted, revealing the stone corridor outside, and Quirrell's body slammed into the hallway floor, skidding to a stop near a suit of armor.
Dumbledore stepped through the opening, his wand still raised, and stood over Quirrell, who groaned, clutching his side, blood trickling from his forehead. "You've made your choice, Quirinius," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but heavy. "But I will find the ward stone, with or without your help." He said while Quirrell was sprawled in the corridor, panting, his wand lying just out of reach.
Quirrell scrambled across the corridor floor, his left hand clawing at the stone as his right lunged for his wand, fingers wrapping tightly around the handle. He rolled onto his knees, staggered to his feet, and pointed the wand at Dumbledore, who stood framed in the office doorway, his silhouette steady. Quirrell's chest heaved, and he screamed, "Avada Kedavra!" A green jet of light erupted from his wand, streaking toward Dumbledore, but Dumbledore stepped sideways with a fluid motion, vanishing in a soft pop, and reappeared five feet down the hall, leaning against the stone wall, his hands clasped behind his back.
Dumbledore sighed, tilted his head, and watched Quirrell's shoulders shake with exertion. "It all gets so boring, Quirinius, once you reach a certain level of power. When you stand unchallenged, fights start to feel rather dull." He straightened, took three slow steps forward, his boots clicking on the floor, and kept his wand tucked in his sleeve. "I do wish you'd surprise me."
Quirrell's lips curled back, his wand arm trembling, and he slashed it downward, shouting, "Mortem Murmur!" A wave of grey mist poured from his wand, its edges whispering with faint, tortured voices, and surged toward Dumbledore, eroding the floor tiles to blackened ash as it moved. Dumbledore pivoted on his left heel, stepping right, and raised his open hand, fingers spread. "Lumos," he said, and a brilliant white light flared from his palm, piercing the mist, which hissed and dissolved, leaving scorch marks on the walls. Quirrell stumbled, his right foot slipping, and thrust his wand forward, casting "Ossum Frangere!" A black pulse shot out, designed to shatter bones into dust, but Dumbledore flicked his fingers, chanting "Aegis Vitae!" A shimmering golden barrier materialized before him, absorbing the pulse, which crackled and fizzled against it, sending faint sparks scattering across the floor.
Quirrell growled, lurched forward, and swung his wand in a wide arc, shouting, "Vitae Erosio!" A sickly green tendril lashed out, coiling like a whip, its touch decaying the air and leaving trails of rot on the stone walls, which crumbled into powder. Dumbledore stepped back, his right hand sweeping upward, and muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa." A suit of armor to his left rose, its metal creaking, and floated into the tendril's path, intercepting it, the steel rusting instantly and collapsing into a heap. Dumbledore grinned, twirled his left hand, and cast "Rictusempra." Invisible forces tickled Quirrell's ribs, making him stagger mid-step, his wand dipping as he gasped. Quirrell slashed his wand horizontally, breaking the spell with a snarl, and reached into his robes with his left hand, pulling a brass key—a Portkey. He clutched it tightly, muttering, "Sanctum," but his eyes widened when nothing happened, his hand empty.
Dumbledore stood three feet away, holding the key between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly. "Looking for this, Quirinius? Portkeys are such finicky things." He slipped it into his robe pocket, took a step closer, and tilted his head, his smile sharp but playful.
Quirrell's breath caught, his chest rising fast, and he spun, bolting down the corridor, his boots skidding on the stone. Dumbledore raised his wand, slashing it downward, and activated Through the Looking Glass. The hallway shimmered, its walls bending inward, overlaying a reality where the corridor was half its length, the far end now mere feet away. Quirrell tripped, caught himself on the wall, and turned, finding Dumbledore standing close, leaning against a torch bracket. "Quirinius, you can still be forgiven. You can atone for your crimes if you give up now. Grindelwald won't save you." His voice was calm, but his eyes locked onto Quirrell's, probing for weakness.
Quirrell panted, sweat soaking his turban, which sagged loose. He shook his head, spit flying, and snarled, "Grindelwald isn't my Lord." His voice was low, venomous, and he straightened, his wand hand steadying.
Dumbledore frowned, took a step back, and drew his wand fully, holding it loosely. "Not your Lord? Then who—"
Quirrell's body convulsed, his head snapping back, and his skin paled to a sickly white, his fingernails lengthening into sharp claws. His eyes turned yellow, slitted like a snake's, glowing in the dim light. The air thickened, a cold magical signature flooding the corridor, chilling Dumbledore's skin. Quirrell's posture shifted, becoming fluid and predatory, and he smiled, his lips twisting cruelly.
Dumbledore froze, his wand lowering slightly, and whispered, "Tom." He stepped back, his right foot sliding behind him, and gripped his wand tighter, recognizing Voldemort's presence. "I always suspected you survived that night in Godric's Hollow, but to see you here now, possessing another—what have you done to yourself, Tom?" His mind churned, calculating the threat, the audacity of Voldemort hiding under his nose, and the danger now facing Hogwarts.
Voldemort laughed, a mocking hiss, and spread his hands, Quirrell's body moving with unnatural grace. "It's an honour to surprise the great Albus Dumbledore, truly. But you're a fool, old man. All your power, all your clever tricks, and you were blind to my return." He stepped forward, his left foot dragging slightly, and pointed Quirrell's wand, his yellow eyes gleaming. "You thought yourself untouchable, didn't you?"
Dumbledore tilted his head, steadied his stance, and slipped his wand into a ready grip, his voice calm. "I suspected someone would try to steal the Philosopher's Stone. I had thought it would be Gellert, but to find it was you, Tom, makes sense. You wish to build yourself a new body, don't you?"
Voldemort smirked, his right hand brushing a necklace at his throat, a silver chain pulsing faintly with magic. "I have a body, this snivelling wretch of a man allowed me entrance into his, but as you can see he doesn't even come close to being able to withstand my power, but soon I shall have a new body and I will be stronger than ever. And yes, I work with Grindelwald now. He saw the wisdom in joining me."
Dumbledore shook his head, sidestepping left, his robes swishing. "Gellert wouldn't do that. He wouldn't ally himself with someone like you. "
Voldemort laughed, his voice echoing off the walls, and took two quick steps forward, his wand raised. "You're truly blind, Albus. When someone is the strongest, it forces others to bend, to do things they'd never consider. Grindelwald and I weren't given a choice—we saw victory together." His hand tightened on the necklace, and he lunged, closing the gap.
Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling, and stepped back, raising his wand. "I suppose you're right, Tom. Being the strongest does have its drawbacks—everyone expects you to solve their problems." His voice was light, but his stance shifted, ready for combat.
Voldemort hissed, his face contorting, and thrust his wand forward, shouting, "Necroflame!" Black fire erupted, infused with Whispering Death, its edges whispering as it surged, decaying the walls to ash, stone crumbling like paper. Dumbledore spun right, his wand slashing upward, and cast "Lumen Sanctus!" A radiant beam of white light shot from his wand, piercing the black flames, which shrieked the flames tried to eat and decay Dumbledores spell but they were quickly overpowered, the clash sending a shockwave that cracked the ceiling, dust raining down. Sparks flew, illuminating the corridor in bursts of gold and shadow, and the air hummed with raw magic, portraits rattling in their frames.
Voldemort charged, his left arm swinging, and cast "Sanguis Mortis!" A blood-red mist poured out, seeking to rot flesh, its tendrils curling toward Dumbledore, eroding the floor to blackened sludge. Dumbledore pivoted, his left foot sliding back, and used Through the Looking Glass. The corridor ceiling became embedded with large fans, pulling the mist upward, dispersing it harmlessly.
He thrust his wand forward and their wands met, a silver arc crackling between them, the clash shaking the walls, sending a chandelier crashing down, its crystals scattering across the steel. Voldemort's right arm split, blood seeping through Quirrell's skin, but he touched the necklace, Grindelwald's healing flames stitching the wound closed, and fired "Umbra Vorax!" Shadow tendrils lashed out, eating light and clawing at Dumbledore, who ducked, his robes billowing, and cast "Pax Arcanum!" A wave of blue energy radiated from his wand, smothering the shadows, which withered and faded, the clash sparking blue and black, cracking the floor. Voldemort staggered, his left leg buckling, and he roared, casting "Vitae Erosio!" Green tendrils whipped forward, rotting the air, but Dumbledore Apparated to a staircase landing.
They fought up the stair case launching various spells at each other each one more powerful than the last, eventually they reached the Clock Tower, and Voldemort slashed his wand, shouting, "Ossum Frangere!" A black pulse surged in the shape of a snake, shattering the tower's wooden beams, sending splinters flying. Dumbledore leapt onto a gear, balancing, and cast "Expecto Patronum!" A silver phoenix burst forth, its light burning away the pulse, the clash exploding in a shower of silver and black sparks, shaking the tower, gears screeching as they jammed. Voldemort's shoulder tore open, flesh peeling, but he drew on the necklace, flames sealing it, and fired "Necroflame!" Again, Black fire roared, decaying the gears, which rusted and snapped. Dumbledore countered with "Glacius Maxima!" A torrent of ice shot from his wand, freezing the flames solid, the clash sending a shockwave that cracked the clock face, glass raining down, the tower trembling.
Voldemort lunged, his wand slashing, and cast "Sanguis Mortis!" The red mist coiled, seeking Dumbledore, who thrust his wand upward, chanting "Ventus Sanctus!" A holy wind blasted outward, scattering the mist and pushing Voldemort back, their magic clashing in a whirlwind of white and red, shattering the pillars, dust choking the air. The clash ended, but Voldemort charged again, firing "Umbra Vorax!" Shadows clawed forward, and Dumbledore Apparated above the Entrance Hall with Voldemort following him.
Voldemort followed, his leg cracking, blood pooling, and healed it with the necklace, casting "Vitae Erosio!" Tendrils lashed out, rotting the marble, but Dumbledore countered with "Protego Maxima!" A shimmering dome rose, deflecting the curse, the clash sparking gold and green, cracking the chandeliers, which swayed wildly. Their wands met again, a blue arc roaring, shaking the hall, portraits burning as stone split. Voldemort's arm snapped, bone jutting out, and he healed it, panting, his body shaking. Dumbledore leapt through a shattered window, glass exploding outward, and cast "Arresto Momentum," slowing his fall.
Voldemort followed, his Death Barrier decaying the window frame, and fired "Necroflame!" Black flames surged, but Dumbledore landed on a tower roof, casting "Lumen Sanctus!" The white beam burned the flames away, the clash sparking across the night sky. Voldemort's leg buckled, blood seeping, healed by fading flames. They tumbled off, spells flashing—Voldemort's "Sanguis Mortis" met Dumbledore's "Aegis Vitae," gold and red clashing, shaking the air—and hit the courtyard grass, the impact cracking the earth.
Voldemort knelt, panting, his body fraying—Quirrell's skin peeling, bones grinding, the necklace dim, its magic spent. Dumbledore stood, brushing dirt from his robes, and pointed his wand. "It's over, Tom. You can't keep this up."
Voldemort looked up, yellow eyes blazing, and spat, "I will kill you one day, Dumbledore. That's a promise." He clutched his wand, trembling, as voices sounded—students stepping out of the castle, gasps echoing.
Voldemort roared, raising his wand, and shouted, "Mors Absoluta!" A black orb formed, pulsing with entropy, compressing the air. He hurled it, the ground decaying as it passed. Dumbledore Apparated in front of the students, casting "Protego Maxima Fianto Duri," a shimmering dome enveloping them. The orb hit, imploding silently, erasing a chunk of the courtyard, stones gone. The shield held, but Dumbledore staggered, breathing hard, as Voldemort laughed, waved his wand, and vanished in black smoke, escaping before the orb's collapse could take him.
Dumbledore lowered his wand, turning to the students—first-years and seventh-years, pale and shaking. "Back inside, now," he said, his voice steady but tired. They obeyed, hurrying toward the doors, whispering about the attack. Dumbledore stood alone, staring at the crater, his mind racing—Voldemort alive, allied with Grindelwald, and stronger than he'd feared. He walked back to the castle, robes trailing, knowing the war had just grown darker.
...
Dumbledore climbed the spiral staircase to his office, his boots scuffing the worn stone, his robes trailing behind him. He pushed open the heavy oak door, expecting silence, but stopped short when he saw three figures inside. Minerva stood by his desk, her arms crossed, her lips pressed tight. Flitwick perched on a chair, his hands clasped, his eyes darting toward the door. Snape leaned against a bookshelf, his wand twirling lazily in his fingers, his face blank. Dumbledore closed the door behind him, walked to his desk, and sank into his chair, setting his wand down with a soft clink. He rubbed his temple, glancing at the scattered parchments and broken instruments, remnants of his earlier fight.
Minerva stepped forward, her hands dropping to her sides, and fixed him with a glare. "Albus, what in Merlin's name happened out there? There's a bloody great hole in the courtyard, the students are terrified, and half the Entrance Hall looks like it's been blasted apart." She gestured toward the window, where moonlight spilled through cracked panes, and took another step, her voice rising. "You can't just stroll back in here like nothing's gone wrong and expect us to sit quiet."
Flitwick leaned forward, his chair creaking, and nodded quickly, his hands unclasping. "I want to know too, Headmaster. The portraits are in an uproar, claiming they saw spells flying through the castle, and the house-elves are refusing to clean the Clock Tower, they're terrified." He glanced at Minerva, then back at Dumbledore.
Snape stayed still, his wand pausing mid-twirl, and looked at Dumbledore, his eyes narrowing slightly. He said nothing, but his posture shifted, his shoulders straightening, waiting for an answer.
Dumbledore leaned back, folded his hands on the desk, and met their gazes one by one. "I discovered who was behind the events of Halloween. It was Quirinius Quirrell who stole the ward stone and allowed Grindelwald's forces to breach the grounds." He paused, picking up a cracked quill, turning it in his fingers, and set it down.
Snape snorted, stepping away from the bookshelf, and crossed his arms, his voice dripping with scorn. "Quirrell isn't talented enough to alter a ward stone, Albus. He could barely manage a decent Shield Charm without stuttering through the incantation." He tilted his head, his lip curling slightly, and took a step toward the desk.
Dumbledore nodded, leaning forward, and rested his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled. "I agree, Severus, which is why it wasn't Quirrell acting alone. He is being possessed by Voldemort." His voice dropped, and he watched their faces, knowing the truth would hit hard.
Minerva froze, her hands clenching, and took a step back, her eyes widening. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then stepped forward again, her voice shaking but sharp. "Are you absolutely certain, Albus? Voldemort? Here, in Hogwarts?" She gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles whitening, and leaned closer, searching his face for any hint of doubt. Her mind raced—Voldemort's return meant the war wasn't just France's problem anymore, and the students, her students, were in graver danger than she'd feared.
Flitwick gasped, his hands flying to his mouth, and slid off the chair, landing on his feet with a soft thud. He paced two steps, turned, and looked up at Dumbledore, his voice high and trembling. "Voldemort? Possessing Quirrell? That's—that's unthinkable, Headmaster!" He wrung his hands, glanced at the door, and paced again, his small frame shaking. He thought of the Halloween massacre, the faces he'd never see again, and the idea of Voldemort orchestrating it from within chilled him deeper than any spell.
Snape stood rigid, his wand slipping into his sleeve, and stared at Dumbledore, his face paling slightly, though his voice stayed even. "Possessed by Voldemort? And you're only telling us now?" He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing, and leaned forward, his hands bracing on a chair. His thoughts flickered to Lily, to promises broken, and the realization that Voldemort's shadow had crept back into his life, threatening everything he'd worked to protect.
Dumbledore met Minerva's gaze, his voice steady but firm. "I'll never mistake that magic, Minerva. It was Voldemort's signature, as clear as it was twenty years ago, and I felt it the moment he revealed himself." He leaned back, picked up a broken silver instrument, and turned it over, his fingers tracing its cracked edges, his mind replaying the fight, the yellow eyes, the raw malice.
Flitwick stopped pacing, turned to Dumbledore, and raised his hands, his voice urgent. "What happened to him, Albus? Where is Quirrell now? Or Voldemort, rather?" He stepped closer, his eyes darting between Dumbledore and the window, as if expecting an attack, his heart pounding at the thought of a Dark Lord loose in the castle.
Dumbledore set the instrument down, stood, and walked to the window, looking out at the crater in the courtyard. "He escaped. I fought him to gauge his strength, and fortunately, he's nowhere near his full power. His magic technique, Whispering Death, is weak—it can't fully decay magic yet, though it's still dangerous." He turned, faced them, and clasped his hands behind his back, his voice calm but laced with concern.
Minerva straightened, her hands dropping, and took a step toward him, her voice rising with disbelief. "How did he survive that night, Albus? He should be dead, destroyed in Godric's Hollow. What kept him alive?" She crossed her arms, her eyes blazing, and leaned forward, her fear for the students mixing with frustration at unanswered questions, and wondered how many more would suffer now.
Dumbledore walked back to his desk, sat down, and folded his hands, his voice quiet but resolute. "I'm not certain how he survived, Minerva, but I intend to find out. To do that, I'll need answers from an old friend." He leaned forward, his eyes distant, his thoughts turning to Gellert.
Snape raised an eyebrow, stepped closer, and rested a hand on the desk, his voice low and skeptical. "You plan to join the war effort then, Albus? To chase after Voldemort and Grindelwald both?" He tilted his head, his eyes searching Dumbledore's face, and straightened, his wand hand twitching slightly.
Dumbledore sighed, set the quill down, and leaned back, his hands resting on the desk's edge. "It seems I have no choice now, Severus. Voldemort's return changes everything, and I cannot sit idle while he grows stronger." He looked out the window again, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon, and stood, walking to a shelf, where he picked up a cracked book, flipping it open without reading. His mind churned—Voldemort's alliance with Grindelwald, the Philosopher's Stone, the ward stone still missing—and he knew the answers lay beyond Hogwarts, in a fight he'd hoped to avoid.
Minerva stepped forward, her voice sharp, and gestured at the room, at the chaos outside. "And what about the castle, Albus? What about the students? You can't just leave us to deal with this mess while you go gallivanting off to war." She crossed her arms again, her eyes narrowing, and took another step, her fear for Hogwarts clashing with her trust in him, a trust now strained by his silence.
Flitwick nodded, stepping beside her, and raised his hands, his voice pleading. "She's right, Albus. The wards are still compromised, and if Voldemort's out there, he could come back. What do we do if he does?" He wrung his hands, glanced at Snape, then back at Dumbledore.
Snape stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore, but he leaned forward, his voice cutting through. "You're gambling with more than your own life, Albus. If you leave, Hogwarts becomes a target, and we're not equipped to hold it without you."
Dumbledore set the book down, turned, and faced them, his voice steady but heavy. "I haven't decided yet, but I'll ensure Hogwarts is protected before I go anywhere. For now, we strengthen the wards we have, double the patrols, and keep the students close." He walked to the door, paused, and looked back, his eyes meeting theirs. "Voldemort's here, and he's not alone."
(AN: So Dumbledore and Voldemort have had a little clash, obviously dumbledore wasn't taking it seriously he just wanted to gauge his strength he also knew killing bin wouldn't do anything as he was just a spirit. Anyway a little more insight into Dumbledores cursed technique. It is very powerful and will be shown a lot more in the final chapters. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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