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For the Greater Good
by Violet Gryffindor 
(Hufflepuff)

I.
...The last Quidditch team to disband was the Holyhead Harpies, and since that time, there has been no Quidditch in all of Britain and Europe. It was a long string of ill-luck for the team that had begun with Keeper Riannon Quirke’s sudden infection by dragon pox, quickly followed by the near-fatal accident of promising reserve Keeper Minerva McGonagall. To this day, McGonagall has not been seen astride a broom...

The Prophet was becoming desperate if they were digging up old news like that. They were trying too hard to discuss anything but the war, a rather difficult thing to ignore.

She tossed the paper on the tiny table. It hit the remnants of her evening tea, spilling the now-tepid liquid across the pages, but she didn’t care anymore. Without the team to train, without anything to do at all, her own desperation had led her to this Muggle hospital, a place where there was always more work, always another mangled body to save, always another dead body going out the back door.

If this was war, real brutal war, not the stuff of wizards and magic, then she wanted it to end.

The means to end it was, at that moment, entering the hospital door in a demure (for him) lavender suit, his auburn beard cropped unusually short. In his hand was the hospital’s address – a stranger, then – but his demeanor was neither abashed nor nervous. He requested information about a certain young nurse – an old student of his, he claimed – gave a warm smile to the passing matron, then headed for the stairs.

“Wish I could have attended that school,” an orderly whispered, earning a disapproving glare from the matron.

The stranger entered the darkened upper ward, following the sound of a sink running at the far end. The patients stirred at the sound of his boots echoing upon the spotless floor. He could not see the blood that stained each patient’s bandages. That stained his hands.

There was a flickering of light at the end of the ward, obscured by a pale curtain. At a particularly plaintive groan, the stranger halted to look down at the patient. Even in the dim light, the absence of one leg was visible. The stranger turned away, guilt making the blood rush to his face.

For the greater good. This is what had resulted from all that goodness.

“Who’s there?” She had pushed aside the curtain, eyes squinting into the shadows. The candle behind her flickered impatiently.

He stepped forward. “Hello, Minerva.”

“Oh!” The single syllable hung in the air. Eyes adjusting to the light beyond her curtain, she gazed up and down the ward, then looked back at the stranger. “Come in here. They can’t be disturbed.”

She pulled the curtain back once he stepped into her tiny space consisting of a sink, stool, and tea table. A portion of the latest Daily Prophet, rumpled and stained, covered this last piece of furniture. She offered him the stool, but he, like herself, remained standing.

“How have you been, Professor?” There were lines around her eyes now, so different from the face he remembered.

He felt uncertain before her now, his mission crumbling to ash in his mouth.

“I am leaving for the Continent in the morning.”

She nodded, biting her lip, then picked up the newspaper, folding it to show him an article hidden on the fifth page. The tea stain obscured the first few lines.

...been reports that a British contingent of wizards will be soon joining those on the Continent to meet the forces of Grindelwald. While a possible treaty could be the result of this meeting, it is more likely, the Prophet’s special informant states, that this contingent includes some of the most powerful wizards and duellists Britain still has to offer. Heading this special force is said to be Hogwarts Professor Albus Dumbledore...

“It is surprising how quickly they become aware of current events.” He maintained an even tone while his mind whirled through who the identity of this so-called special informant. If this news had already reached the Continent–

“So you’ve finally decided to go, Professor.” She did not state it as a question.

Dumbledore passed the paper back to her, frowning. “Indeed. I have waited too long already. These men–”

She placed a hand on his arm. He saw the blood stain on her otherwise pristine cuff. Blood. Blood everywhere. On his hands for so long. All his fault. Ariana.

“You should not blame yourself, Professor.” She paused, brow furrowing as she tired to decipher his apparent distress. “Albus. You will stop this. All of it.”

He looked back into the silent ward. “I came to see if you would accompany me, Minerva. Join me in battle.”

She stepped away, still looking perplexed, failing to read his countenance. Just out of the candle light, she kept her own face, and all the emotions upon it, hidden from his view. She said nothing, only waited.

His explanation soon came. “The Prophet is not incorrect in their information. A number of others, those I trust most dearly, will accompany me to Nurmengard. You possess all the necessary skills and the courage–”

But she was shaking her head. “And what about them?” She gestured in the direction of her patients. “I must save them, Albus.” It was comforting to say his name, somehow. “Most of them will die if I leave.”

It was impossible to mistake the brightness in his eyes for anything but tears. “I knew that would be your answer as soon as I entered this ward.” His voice was quiet, more quiet than she’d ever heard from him. “Perhaps I knew even before. A witch at a Muggle hospital cannot stand by idly at the deaths of heroes.”

He took from his pocket an envelope, neither slim nor fat, of creamy paper, sealed in scarlet wax. She stared at it, then at him before taking it.

“What is it?”

A little laugh emerged from his lips. “A confession.”

She was going to ask something more, but he raised a hand. “I must go.”

Curiosity still ruled her face, as though all her faculties sought to discover whatever he was not telling hers. The letter. Confession. Secrets, long repressed, only to be exposed on the brink of... the verge of...

“What am I to do with this, Albus?” The accusation was in her voice. How could he think himself a failure? Him, perhaps the greatest wizard alive.

He smiled, the last reaction she expected.

“What you wish, Minerva. Read it. Burn it. My secrets are now yours. Farewell.”

She stared after him as he strode down the ward, then one of her patients began coughing again, and she had to look away. She had her own battle to fight.


II.
They could see Nurmengard beyond the line of trees, its imposing stone walls sprouting from the land itself. Like Hogwarts, no one could Apparate either into or out of its walls. Indeed, any magic performed within a certain radius would be detected by the guards and swiftly dealt with. They could not take such a risk. There were already too few of them to spare.

What was taking place within the prison was unknown to all, even Dumbledore. He watched the place through the trees, waiting for any sign of movement, even of life. He did not relate his plans, if there were any to begin with. Grindelwald would know they were somewhere in the vicinity, that a party – an army of sorts – had arrived from Britain.

“And here we sit all the bloody time, more like Boy Scouts than wizards,” Moody grumbled. He was among the youngest of those assembled, but no one could deny his abilities, however marked by the early stages of paranoia.

“Have patience, son.” Doge was stoking the fire.

The others around the fire, a Prewett and a Bones, nodded in agreement, their mouths too full to speak. Moody impatiently threw aside the remains of his meal.

“What are we waiting for, anyway? Is Grindelwald going to waltz out and hand himself over or something?” He stalked off to do a round of the encampment.

Prewett rolled his eyes. “Shouldn’t have brought such a young’un along,” he muttered under his breath, but Doge heard him.

“That so-called young’un is one of the best warlocks Hogwarts has seen in decades.”

“Since Dumbledore, you mean?” Bones looked up from his meal.

Doge shrugged. “Possibly.”

All their eyes drifted to the place where Albus Dumbledore sat, keeping watch on the prison. He had been on edge the whole time they’d been in Germany, though Doge could testify that his friend’s unease had begun much sooner. He had never met Grindelwald himself, having been away that fateful summer, away on the very same trip that Albus had been unable to take. How different things would be now if Albus had accompanied him, if things had gone as they’d planned. Would things have come to this?

Ignoring the continued quips of the others, Doge wondered just what ‘this’ was. Albus had never been the same, but who could expect him to be? His sister dead. His family ripped apart at the seams. All his ambitions put to rest.

A rustle in the surrounding woods. Someone was coming.

The company rose. Moody ran into view, whipping out his wand in glee.

“Who’s there?”

But the reply did not come from the woods.

“Someone I’ve been expecting.” Dumbledore stepped past the others. “They will not attack, Lycoris, I can assure you.”

A nervous laugh emerged from a shrub. “That seems unlikely, but all the same.”

Dumbledore signalled for Moody and the others to stand down. When the shrub finally transformed into a tall, emaciated wizard, only Septimus Weasley stepped forward to greet the new arrival.

“Lycoris Black!”

The two wizards shook hands, Weasley staring into the other’s face with curiosity. Moody scowled from the sidelines, shoving his wand back in his robes – not in the back pocket, mind you.

“Never thought I’d see a Black in this war.”

Another nervous laugh answered him, a high-pitched rattle in the darkness.

“Officially, I’m not here. I mean to keep my place on the tapestry.”

Weasley managed a sneer. It looked ridiculous between his rather large ears.

“That blasted tapestry.”

Muted snickers resounded through the campsite, but Weasley was not smiling.

Doge had moved closer to Dumbledore, plucking at his robes and trying to avoid the penetrating eyes of his friend.

“How many more of them will come, Albus? Or should I ask how many you invited?”

Dumbledore’s laugh was deep, but Doge could see the slight tremor in his hands. Had Albus been of the same stock as Lycoris Black, then his own laugh would have held the same high-pitched note of fear. To have put off his journey to his place for so long, then to arrive and experience all the... the what?

Just what was Albus Dumbledore afraid of in that prison?

Or was it who?

“They should all be here.” Dumbledore kept his voice low, attempting a lightness that was impossible.

“For what? To see you win?” Doge held his breath, desperately wishing that the lightness would hold, that Dumbledore would remain the strong, charismatic presence he had always been.

No. Not always. Only one event marred the life of this wizard, and Grindelwald was involved somehow. He had to be.

“In case I do not.”

~ * * * ~

More arrived throughout the night and following morning. It seemed as though Dumbledore had contacted every single person he knew for this task. The small party that had originally come from Britain had more than tripled within twenty-four hours, brightening the mood of some, and causing others to sit on the edge of camp, ever distrustful.

It was not the presence of these individuals that gave rise to such a negative reaction, but rather their identities were cause for suspicion and uncertainty. These witches and wizards were from all cultures, all parts of magical society, high or low, radical or conservative. Moody’s eye was drawn by a trio of very lovely (but very dangerous) Spanish witches, well known for their duelling skills, but nothing came of it. He obstinately remained in position on the edge of the camp, waiting. Watching. Just in case.

Doge did not want to approach Dumbledore again.

He feared for his friend and was afraid of him. So changed, so strange now. All those years, couped up in Hogwarts, hiding from this moment, the moment that was to come. Doge wished he had met Grindelwald, that he had seen for himself what it was about this wizard that had utterly changed Dumbledore.

Was it the wizard, or something else?

He observed Dumbledore’s movements, how he greeted each newcomer individually with reverence and kindness alike. The red hair, still untouched by grey, caught the light from the fires, making him the brightest, the central figure on this wooded stage.

But was it comedy or tragedy?

Moody was hissing a warning. Quiet voices drifted in from the woods. Foreign accents, deep throated, filled to the brim with consonants. The first stumbled into the camp, followed by three more, all dressed in drab fur coats, too warm for the season.

“Dumbledore,” the first said, his voice carrying easily through the crowd.

It took a moment for the reply to surface.

“Volkov.” Dumbledore appeared, reaching out his hand to the other wizard.

Of all the people to arrive, it was the presence of the Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute that surprised the group into action. Spells and curses were muttered under many breaths. Some practised hand-to-hand combat, sharing their skills with those less knowledgeable in that area. Others remained silent, watchful, always waiting for the signal to commence battle.

It was to come soon. The complete party – army, if you will – was finally assembled. Dumbledore watched them, more confident of their abilities than his own. He knew his weakness too well.

The prison was there, beckoning.

Soon.

So much blood between them. Blood brothers. The blood of Ariana. The blood of thousands, Muggles and wizards alike.

The world is too much with us, Gellert. If one of us dies, the other will soon follow.

The past can never be erased. Dumbledore only wanted to change the future.

~ * * * ~

They met in mid-field, their separate armies conflating around them, spells flashing past. Red lights. Green. Blue. Green again. Bodies falling. Voices screaming in pain or fury, often both. There was no room for the individual here. Only the two of them could stand apart, each too brilliant to blend into the growing night.

Dumbledore could not speak at first. Silenced like the awe-struck boy right out of Hogwarts, yearning for adventure. Here was the one who had offered that, and so much more.

But then he had taken it away. Taken it all away.

This was not about revenge. Each was equally guilty, but only one knew that guilt and held it close.

He would never forget.

One curse, then another. Then block, parry, deflect. Pretend not to care.

A scream split through the air nearby. Moody collapsed, clutching his face, blood trickling down his cheek. One of the Spanish witches raced forward, her wand flicking a fatal curse at his opponent. Doge was battling three at once, quickly beginning to tire. Weasley and Black stood back to back, temporary allies. So many of them. All willing to die.

For what?

“They will die for you, Albus.” Grindelwald’s voice still held that note, that perfect shining note, but now it mocked him. No enticement. No desire for admiration.

They were enemies now.

Perhaps they always had been.

Dumbledore parried another curse. None so far had been dangerous. Grindelwald was playing with him, the cat with a mouse between his paws.

“We could have had the world, you and I.”

He always had loved the sound of his own voice. All those faults, once endearing, even captivating, could now only disgust.

For the first time, Dumbledore spoke.

“It would have become just you too quickly, Gellert.”

His spell missed, exploding the ground beside Grindelwald. Dirt splattered onto Grindelwald’s face and he fell back, struggling to regain his balance, but the smile could not be wiped from his face.

This was Dumbledore’s chance. A quick spell, a jinx, even a curse, and he’d be gone, stopped. This battle would end, and Dumbledore would have won.

Yet he hesitated.

The laugh echoed through his head, drowning out all the noise of battle, the beating of his heart, the sound of thunder on the horizon.

“You can’t even kill me. Weak. You were always weak.”

The curse singed Dumbledore’s robes, nothing more.

“And you, my friend, always had the worst aim.”

Something in Dumbledore’s voice made Grindelwald go pale. He glanced to each side, backing away from Dumbledore, fearful, terrified of what this wizard, always the more powerful, always the wiser, would do. Death, perhaps not, but there were worse things than death.

His own army was failing. Yes, the other side had casualties, heavy ones, but his army lacked the strength, the ferocity of the other.

Dumbledore watched him, knowing what he would be thinking, knowing that soon the trapped rat would attack, more desperate, seeking escape.

There were beads of perspiration on Grindelwald’s forehead, a slight tremor in his hands. Dumbledore saw these things and knew. It was easier to raise his wand now, to ready himself for that final spell... no, curse. Only a curse would stop him.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Not his voice. He ducked aside. The green light flickered past, perhaps hitting another. He didn’t dare look.

Grindelwald held his position, his smile now bitter.

“Pity. Missed.”

The first curse that came to mind emerged from Dumbledore’s wand. Not the killing curse, but enough to make Grindelwald feel the pain. His pain. Ariana’s pain. Never before had he hated so much, desired to induce suffering on another creature.

There was nothing to control him now.

Death would be too kind a punishment for Gellert Grindelwald.


III.

The headline was sprawled across all the newspapers, Muggle and wizard alike.

VICTORY.

She stared at the word. At last, it had come, brining an end to the most horrible war of all, so bloody and vicious. Yet... and yet all of it seemed so purposeless. No nation had moved ahead, rather all of them had fallen back again to lick their wounds and rebuild. All that destruction, all those lives lost. And for what?

Regret had haunted her since that day Dumbledore had come. She should have gone with him, should have been there when all of this had happened. There might have someone she could have helped, even saved.

Her eyes followed the lines of newsprint.

...Grindelwald has been captured and is currently incarcerated within Numengard awaiting trial for crimes against humanity. Many of his top generals were also captured and will face the same fate. Further details of the trials will come as soon as they are reported to the Prophet.

Albus Dumbledore was unavailable for comment, as were any eye-witnesses to his glorious victory over Grindelwald. Even the Ministry remains silent on the story that everyone in the wizarding world clamours to hear. We do, however, have knowledge of various casualties among our side. Frederick Prewett, an Unspeakable, and Eliot Wimple of the Department of International Magical Cooperation are reported to have been killed in battle...

Unsurprisingly vague. Dumbledore was fairly skilled at evading attention of this kind, though an Order of Merlin was probably in store for him.

Another short paragraph near the end caught her attention.

...One of the casualties, Auror trainee Alastor Moody, underwent experimental surgery to replace the eye he lost in battle. It has been replaced with a magical eye that should, according to inventor Irene Ivanskova, allow for improved vision and the ability to detect the use of Dark magic...

Poor Moody, but this eye, if it worked, would suit him. All his strange habits....

She thought of the letter again. Again, because she had thought of it too much, its presence unwanted, a reminder of his weakness. Dumbledore, he was supposed to be strong and wise and good, yet that letter – a confession, he had called it – could rip away his perfect mask. Did she want to see what lay beneath?

Curiosity is a fatal thing, and it ate away at her for days. The newspaper was long ago tossed in the rubbish bin, news was now more steadily arriving from the Continent, and it was said that Dumbledore himself would soon be returning to London. She could just give him back the letter then, without knowing, without tainting the vision of him she had created since her first day of Hogwarts.

In all the war, all the loss of innocence, she wanted to hold on to one last thing.

She held the letter, still sealed, over the fire.

But her fingers would not relinquish it to the flames.

They ripped at the seal and tore open the letter, shaking all the while. She had to know, had to see what he would have placed in her hands, what he must have wanted her to know.

“My secrets are now yours.”

The words on the page were plain, in his elegant script, but these were not the usual words of the twinkling-eyed professor she had known. She followed the lines of script, one by one, taking in the story of a talented young wizard who could have had the world at his fingertips, impossibly selfish, ambitious, all the things he was not supposed to be.

That poor, poor girl. An accident had ruined too many lives.

And she cried. For him. For Ariana. For all that had been lost.

...I know that when I see him this final time, I will at last be fighting for the one thing he could never understand. Those words he carved over the doors of Numengard carry different meaning now. They are the words that haunt my days, reminding me of my greatest mistake.

For the greater good.