Professor McGonagall's lips trembled as if she wanted to say more, but Dumbledore had already strode toward the door.
Before closing it, he glanced back at her and nodded.
"Albus…" McGonagall's voice caught in her throat, turning into a sigh. "This isn't your burden alone…"
In that moment, she suddenly realized that the man she had admired for half her life was now a weary old soul. His shoulders slumped slightly, as if an invisible weight pressed down upon them.
His footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving McGonagall alone in the hushed stillness of the Headmaster's office. The portraits of former headmasters, unusually silent, offered no commentary. Only the ticking of a silver instrument marked the passage of time.
As Dumbledore stepped out of Hogwarts' gates, the storm raged fiercer.
Cold rain lashed his face, streaming down the folds of his traveling cloak.
The castle's lights blurred behind him, reduced to flickering yellow pinpricks.
"Fawkes," he called softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the storm.
The phoenix landed on his shoulder, its warm feathers brushing his cheek, vaporizing the rain around them and forming a hazy halo of light that shielded Dumbledore from the downpour.
A flash of fire, and they vanished, leaving only a few golden embers drifting slowly in the rain.
London's night was drenched in rain. In Westminster, the dim streetlights looked like inkblots smeared by water. Dumbledore stood under an eave, watching rain form tiny whirlpools at a drain, swallowing leaves and dust.
"Time for a rest, Fawkes," he murmured, gently tucking the phoenix into his inner pocket. Fawkes obediently shrank to the size of a common redstart, nuzzling his fingers lightly.
Dumbledore adjusted his cloak and stepped into the drizzle. He seemed to melt into the rain, becoming part of the city's night.
He walked unhurriedly, his boots making soft sounds in puddles, yet miraculously not splashing a single drop.
Muggle passersby with umbrellas hurried past, instinctively veering around him, as if sensing an presence not to be disturbed.
A woman with shopping bags abruptly changed course, nearly colliding with a lamppost. Two boys heading home parted to either side of him, unaware of why they did so.
Dumbledore kept his wand hidden in his sleeve, ready for any sudden threat, but outwardly, he appeared merely an old man strolling in the rain—perhaps an eccentric scholar, a harmless recluse.
He searched for traces of magic, his eyes scanning every corner, sensing any unusual ripples in the air.
Soon, he turned into a residential area.
At a street corner, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from a bakery.
Through the fogged window, Dumbledore saw a family gathered around a small table inside. The father was sharing a funny story, the two children laughing uncontrollably, while the mother ladled steaming stew into sunflower-patterned bowls.
Such ordinary scenes felt so distant to him, like glimpses of another world.
His fingers unconsciously traced the healed scar on his crooked nose. How many years had it been? He had spent his life protecting others' families, yet could never mend his own broken one.
He walked on, passing street after street. There was no place for him here. In truth, aside from Hogwarts' feasts, he had no opportunities to share meals with family.
Aberforth, his brother, had joined the Order of the Phoenix. But Dumbledore knew he had never been forgiven.
"We're just fighting the same enemy," Aberforth had once said to him, under the dim lights of the Hog's Head, his blue eyes—so like Dumbledore's—holding no warmth. "I hope you understand that."
Dumbledore did understand. Aberforth fought Voldemort not because of their brotherhood, but because he was a man of justice. He couldn't bear the tragedies of families torn apart by Voldemort, just as he couldn't bear to recall his own separation from his child.
He shook his head, dispelling these untimely memories.
The rain eased as Dumbledore left Westminster, arriving at another English village where Muggle disappearances had recently been reported.
The disorientation of Apparition had barely faded when he caught the scent of damp earth and grass.
The village of Badley Babberton was peaceful at night, save for the rain-soaked missing person posters plastered on lampposts or scattered on the ground.
The edges of the posters curled, sodden, the faces in the photos blurred by rain, barely recognizable.
Dumbledore paused, smoothing a wind-tossed poster. It showed a smiling couple and their three children.
The eldest daughter, nearly of Hogwarts age, was as tall as her mother. The younger girl, about eight, wore pigtails. The boy, younger still, grinned at the camera with a missing front tooth. The entire family had vanished three days ago.
"The Carter family," Dumbledore read softly. "Last seen in their garden…" His voice trailed off. The rain had bled the colors of the children's smiling faces, like memories washed away.
Unconsciously, he arrived at a modest brick house. From the mailbox, he knew it was the Carters'.
In the front garden, a plastic pinwheel spun feebly in the rain, creaking faintly. The windows were dark, frosted with condensation. Police tape, yellow and black, fluttered in the wind, snapping softly.
"Aparecium… Hominem Revelio… Veritas Revelare…" A string of spells flowed from his lips.
A faint blue glow sparked at his wand's tip, then faded. No traces of dark magic, no signs of struggle. The house seemed enchanted with an Obliviation, as if the air itself forgot life had once thrived here.
Dumbledore wandered from city to city, street to street, peering into window after window.
In Wildcreek Crescent, he spotted a parked police car.
Mist clouded its windows, faintly revealing two figures inside. Dumbledore slowed, listening to their conversation.
"…I'm telling you, this is organized kidnapping," the younger officer said indignantly, biting into a burger, ketchup staining his uniform. "Eight people, gone overnight!"
"I've never seen a case like this," the older officer said, his face weary, squinting out the window. He rubbed his temple. "No signs of forced entry, no fingerprints. The CCTV only shows them going home normally… then they just vanish."
"Those bastards," the younger officer clenched his fist. "If I ever catch them—"
"Maybe we should pray we don't," the older officer said with a bitter smile, tinged with a fear the younger man didn't yet grasp. "We don't even know if they're human." He lowered his voice. "The chief got a call from above this morning, ordering us to drop the case… you know what I mean?"
Lingering by the car, Dumbledore finally sensed a faint ripple of magic.
Nearby, he saw two figures dressed like him, in black cloaks, their silver masks glinting coldly.
They stood in the shadows of a street corner, brazenly surveying the houses. Spotting the police car, they even circled it provocatively, mocking the Muggle authorities' incompetence.
Their laughter grated like metal.
"Look at these Muggle protectors," the male Death Eater sneered, tapping the police car window with his wand. The officers inside glanced out, puzzled. "They call themselves 'coppers,' yet they can't even see us standing here."
"Stop playing," the female voice warned, hoarse as if her vocal cords had been scorched. "The Master wants fresh material, not your amusement."
Hidden under an Invisibility Charm, Dumbledore followed them silently.
They stopped outside a lit house—25 Wildcreek Crescent, the Wells family.
Through the curtains, Dumbledore saw a young woman bustling in the kitchen, her husband reading a newspaper on the sofa, and two boys building with blocks on the carpet.
An ordinary, warm family scene—yet it drew predatory smiles from the Death Eaters.
"This is the one," the lead female Death Eater said, her voice thick with cruel excitement. "Two adults, two kids. Saves us some effort."
A red flash, splintered wood—but the explosion's glow was swallowed by magic, leaving the street silent. The police car at the corner remained still.
The Death Eaters crossed the threshold.
From the front door, Dumbledore could see the family screaming, but no sound reached his ears.
Sidestepping the Death Eaters, he finally heard their voices.
"Who are you—" Mrs. Wells' voice twisted with fear, her fingers gripping the counter's edge, knuckles white.
Mr. Wells stood protectively in front of the children, clutching a vase as a makeshift weapon, though his legs trembled.
A scoff came from beneath the male Death Eater's mask. The vase in Mr. Wells' hand turned into a squealing rat.
"Ah!" Mr. Wells screamed, flinging it away, but he didn't move, still shielding the children. His voice shook. "What do you want? Please, at least spare the kids—"
"Muggle children will always be Muggle," the male Death Eater sneered, aiming his wand at Mr. Wells. "You should feel honored, filthy pig."
The Death Eaters swiftly stunned the family, binding them like livestock.
"Another batch," the male Death Eater let out a harsh laugh, his voice raspy. "The Master will be pleased. Think we'll get to learn a few tricks this time?"
"Stop wasting time," the witch snapped, waving her wand impatiently. "The Muggle authorities are useless, but it's still trouble if we're noticed."
Dumbledore's fingers brushed the Elder Wand, but he didn't move. Fawkes stirred faintly in his pocket, as if sensing his inner turmoil.
He stood in the shadows, calmly observing the Death Eaters' every move. He didn't want to do this, but once again, he had no choice.
It wasn't time yet. He could easily dispatch these two and save the family, but that would mean losing the trail to the other missing Muggles—and to what Voldemort was planning.
Sometimes, for the greater good, one had to endure the evil before them.
As the Death Eaters' magic took effect, the Wells' home was restored, all traces of disruption silently erased.
"I don't get why the Master makes us clean up," the male Death Eater grumbled, kicking a block aside. "These are such beautiful trophies."
"Shut up," the lead female Death Eater said, pulling out a small black vial. "Portkey. Take it. Activates in thirty seconds," she ordered. "You go first. I'll find a few more Muggles."
Dumbledore acted swiftly. Before the Portkey activated, he slipped a phoenix feather into Mr. Wells' coat pocket.
The male Death Eater and the bound Wells family vanished.
The empty house held only Dumbledore and the female Death Eater in the living room.
On the floor, the boys' blocks remained, a half-finished tower collapsing with a light tap of the witch's wand.
"A few hundred more, and we'll meet the Master's needs," she said, removing her mask and breathing deeply, revealing a young, cold face.
Dumbledore recognized her as the Selwyn daughter—a Slytherin who, during her O.W.L.s, had transfigured a Fwooper into a music box. Back then, despite her arrogance, her eyes had held a pure love for magic.
Now, her face bore a twisted devotion as she murmured to the empty room, "Soon, we won't have to hide…"
After erasing the last traces and leaving the Wells' home, Selwyn carefully selected another target.
Another Muggle family fell powerless under her wand, and Dumbledore placed another phoenix feather on the victims.
He knew he could wait no longer. Across the country, countless Death Eaters were likely at work. Soon, they might gather enough Muggles.
After Selwyn left with her prey, Dumbledore sensed the direction of Fawkes' feathers.
He closed his eyes, letting the phoenix's magic guide him.
————
Supporting me on Patreon to gain early access to advanced chapters and enjoy expedited updates. Your support is greatly appreciated.
pat-reon .com/Dragonhair
(Just remove the hyphen - and space, to access Patreon normally.)