Altair was careless. The Shared Core ability allows him to draw on the magical reserves of his coven members. The FiendFyre he summoned was so powerful that it caused a devastating fire. His own hands burned just from being exposed for a few milliseconds. And that was saying a lot, considering he was quite resistant to fire.
"VALI!" he heard a cry torn between sadness and concern. Somehow, Vali had not been completely disintegrated in there. Another figure with raven wings flew out toward Lucifer's descendant.
Altair had appeared far from the fire, his hands covered in blisters and tremendous pain coursing through him.
Still, he looked at the flames. A massive pillar of fire had sprung from the ground. Swallowing the pain, he took his staff and ignored the body that flew out of the flames.
Controlling the FiendFyre for a mage was like trying to control a river for a human. You didn't prevent the flames themselves, but rather where they moved. The magic in his body was so great that it seemed about to explode. He needed every ounce of his willpower to control the flames.
That spell could devastate all of Kuoh. He managed to prevent it from spreading. But with every passing second, the flames became more uncontrollable. He felt he had reached a stalemate, where if he gave an inch, he would be wholly defeated. The staff in his hand changed from red to purple, and Altair felt it heat up in his grip.
The pillar of fire was about 150 meters in diameter. The amount of magic that would be needed for that...
"Fight fire with fire, Altair," he heard an old voice say beside him.
Dumbledore appeared, both arms outstretched, the Elder Wand in one hand, looking like the conductor of an orchestra. A frenzied orchestra. Altair noticed that sometimes small, fire-based creatures shot out of the column of fire. Dumbledore was dealing with them.
'Fire with fire?' Altair wondered.
He didn't even wonder what the hell Dumbledore was doing there. It didn't matter. All he cared about was stopping the fire.
"Holy fire?" he asked the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who nodded as he clenched his teeth.
Altair began. With one hand, he tried to maintain control of the Fiendfyre, while in the other, a blue fireball sprouted. His mind felt heavy as he tried to maintain both at the same time. He felt a liquid fall on his mouth, and when he licked his lips instinctively, he tasted iron.
The blue ball glowed more intensely. Altair feared that if he moved from his position, even for a single second, he would lose control completely. So he made the ball of holy fire as concentrated as possible to throw it from a distance.
His palm extended in front of the column of flames. The blue fire shot out with such force that Altair stumbled. Shared Core only gave him magical ability, not physical abilities. He was still affected by Vali's Divide.
Altair fainted for a second, but as soon as he regained consciousness, he manipulated the blue fire. There was a beautiful battle between red and blue. The demonic flames fed on magic, but somehow the sacred magic was their antithesis. Altair had to use his damaged hands to control everything.
At a certain point, the FiendFyre, as if it had a will of its own, tried to escape. Altair prevented it, manipulating both flames to destroy each other.
Soon, after what seemed like hours, the Fiendfyre disappeared. Only blue flames remained on the battlefield. Altair banished them with ease; they obeyed him like a well-trained puppy.
"You put on quite a show," he heard Dumbledore's voice say.
He didn't sound happy at all. And Altair could understand why; he had almost wiped a city off the map. Not to mention how he had exposed the magical world to Muggles. He had been so distracted by the fight that he forgot that the world he lives in thinks of magic and the supernatural as mere fantasy.
Altair opened his mouth to reply. What was he going to do? Justify himself? It didn't matter. [Shared core: automatic deactivation], he heard from the system. Then he passed out.
------------------------
Dumbledore watched the boy fall to the ground. He moved nimbly to catch him while pulling a potion and a whitish powder from an extendable pocket inside his robe. He poured the powder into the potion and stirred it. His eyes never left the young man as he worked. He looked at his hands, covered in burns. In a fire that intense, he should have lost them.
He poured the potion onto the boy's body; he couldn't pour it directly into his mouth. His face was covered in blood, red lines streaming from his eyes, nose, and ears. Dumbledore poured the entire potion and then began to prepare another. The boy was breathing well as his body absorbed the potion.
The amount of magic emanating from Altair was completely different from what it had been minutes earlier. It was so intense that Dumbledore began to sweat just from being nearby. He had only felt something slightly similar when talking to Serafall Leviathan, although her magic was much more controlled.
"Poppy can take care of the rest," he said after checking that Altair was breathing properly.
'Did he borrow that magic? Was it a ritual? Did he sacrifice something for a momentary increase in power?' Dumbledore began to theorize. Altair had taken more magic than his body could handle. That was why he lost control. Although Dumbledore had to admit that Altair's willpower to stop that monstrous curse was admirable.
Dumbledore hoped he would have the same willpower for the political disaster that would come from this. Although if one good thing came out of all this, it was Altair's importance to the devils. They would not let go of such a powerful individual, and Altair was a bridge between the magical world and the underworld.
Although he could not say the same about the Fallen Angels or heaven. Dumbledore looked into the distance at the young man Altair had been fighting seconds before. He took Altair's body, cut the ground beneath the boy, and transfigured it into a stretcher. Then he approached the other men.
"This will help him," he said, without introducing himself or wasting time on unnecessary pleasantries.
The young man's body was completely charred, but surprisingly, he was still breathing. The wounds Altair had had on his hand were of the same degree as those the other boy had all over his body.
The other young man, although probably several times Dumbledore's age, took the potion and poured it over the body of what Dumbledore assumed was his pupil. The wounds began to heal at a visible rate, the charred skin disappeared, and new skin appeared.
"Do you have more?" Albus was surprised at how this stranger seemed to trust the potion as if it were nothing. As if he already knew the effects of said potion. Dumbledore gave him the potion and more Phoenix Powder. He pretended not to see as the man took some of the powder and hid it in his clothes. Dumbledore made it disappear with a wave of his wand. He felt him tense up, and honestly hoped he wouldn't attack him. He hadn't come prepared to face someone that strong.
"My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," said the old Headmaster. "A surprising number of names, I have an equally boring number of titles. May I ask your name?" he introduced himself with a touch of humor.
If the man was well enough to steal a sample of the magic powder, then he was well enough for a friendly introduction. Or so Albus hoped.
"Azazel, leader of Grigori," he said. "I swear the powder fell out," he said, as if to justify his previous attempt.
"My wand slipped, too, and I ended up cleaning up by accident. My bad," Albus played along. "He's a surprisingly strong boy. Few would have survived that," he flattered the young man on the floor, who couldn't hear him because he was unconscious.
"I know. And it's a shame he knows it too," Azazel said as he got up. "You're a wizard, right? Do you speak for them?" he asked directly.
"You could say that," he didn't speak for the entire wizarding world. "Although a little limited to Great Britain," he added at the end.
"I want an alliance, like the one you have with the devils," Azazel said.
"Abandoning one ally for another..." Dumbledore couldn't suddenly accept it. But he could try to create a triple alliance.
"You don't have to abandon one. We can all be allies," said Azazel.
Dumbledore found a fantastic leader that day. Despite looking at his almost dead pupil, he did not seek war or revenge. He sought peace.