In the year 1945, Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk contemplating the silver instrument he had just put down. He decided that it was, in theory, as complete as it could be. He had spent close to three weeks working on it, aided by the wand he now held loosely in his hand. His eyes wandered over it momentarily, reflecting upon the new heights his already superlative magical abilities had ascended to with its aid. Gellert's boasts had not been unfounded after all. In the month since his victory over Grindelwald, Dumbledore had reached the conclusion that this truly was the fabled Elder Wand, the Deathstick that had been written about so frequently in wizarding lore. He hadn't needed Ollivander's opinion, nor had he relied upon history to trace its trail: the wand felt different. No ordinary wand would amplify his powers so.
How Gellert had come across it, he did not know. His tenacity at pursuing a teenage quest to fruition over decades would have been admirable, had it not been allied to the diffidence with which he had held most of Europe under a reign of terror, committing horrific atrocities with his followers, spreading murder, rape and devastation everywhere. His sobriquet as the most dangerous Dark wizard of his age was well deserved, and Dumbledore knew it would be long before the scars he had inflicted on a generation faded away. With a pang of regret, he wondered if he should have acted sooner, years, maybe decades ago. He could have prevented much, saved many, had the fear of- but he would not think of that. He had resolutely thrust aside every emotionally spawned thought since the defeat of Grindelwald, and immersed himself in this latest marriage of magical theory and alchemical technology, working tirelessly to create his latest invention.
For years Dumbledore had dreamed of it, until a carefully selected set of rare and mystical elements, purified seven times over intermittent two night periods by Nicholas Flamel's Elixir, had been bonded by the immensely complicated Honorificabilitudihnitatibus charm, augmented by the newfound power of the Elder wand. Years of trial and failure had led to this moment, and Dumbledore was glad to have a distraction that did not let him dwell on his estranged friend's incarceration.
After much deliberation, he had decided to name it the Put-Outer. The name was harmless enough to disguise the real nature of the device, and anyone who wondered why Albus Dumbledore would need a device to extinguish the lights around him when a powerful Nox charm would suffice, would likely put it down to his eccentricity.
He flicked the switch almost unconsciously, and the light in the room swooped into the device, briefly immersing him in semi darkness. A ghost of a smile made its way onto his face as he flicked the switch again, returning light to the room. The Put Outer would maintain appearances, at the very least. It felt almost alien, for he had not expected to feel light hearted this soon after his bereavement, but it was soon quelled by another stab of sorrow. The only wizard alive capable of appreciating and understanding the genius of the device was imprisoned in Nurmengard, awaiting a trial that would most likely result in his execution. Reaching a sudden decision, he stood up, almost absently twirling the Elder wand over himself to transfigure his robes into Muggle clothing and a long, deep maroon travel cloak. It would not do to thus dwell on sorrow and neglect all else.
As he stepped outside his cottage, he flicked the switch again, this time muttering in an almost extinct precursor of a Rune language. A bluish orb of light escaped slowly from the device, hovering in mid-air in front of him. Satisfied, Dumbledore watched as it entered him at the level of his heart, filling him with warmth. He spun in the same spot, and vanished in a rustle of his cloak.
There was salt in the air as he appeared, and for a moment, Dumbledore was nonplussed. He looked around, gauging his unfamiliar surroundings. He had arrived at a slope midway between a lonely villa situated at the lower end and a chalk cliff rising to a considerable height. The imminent sunset lit the sky in hues of crimson and orange, lending a picturesque finish to what was undoubtedly an English countryside. A path had been made by paving stones reaching to the very top of the cliff, in such a way that the climb was made infinitely easier. Dumbledore marvelled at the ingenuity with which the natural angles and undulations of the earth had been utilized to ease what had undoubtedly been a treacherous climb. The house was half hidden by a bunch of trees, and on straining his ears, he could make out the faint buzzing of honeybees. Curious as to why the Put Outer had brought him here, Dumbledore set out for the house, but was stopped almost instantly when he realized he was being scrutinized. An old lady, possibly a housekeeper, had emerged from the villa, and was watching him from beyond the boundary of shrubbery in front of the house. Upon catching his glance, she turned a deep shade of puce, and hurried forward.
"I apologize for my manners, sir," she said, "But the master left for his evening walk to the top of the cliff some time ago, and I just wandered outside to see if he was on his way back down."
Dumbledore was quite certain that the old lady had not seen him Apparate, and decided obliviating her was unnecessary.
"My good lady," he said courteously, "The apology is mine to make. I fear I have lost my way, and stumbled upon private property. Would you do me the kindness of telling me precisely where I am?"
"Certainly sir," she said, though confusion was writ large on her face, "You are at present in the downs, off the channel. The Gables, Mr. Stackhurst's coaching establishment is about a half mile away from here."
"Ah. The downs," said Dumbledore, noncommittally.
"Yes sir," she said, nodding, "In Sussex."
Sussex? The mystery deepened. The housekeeper was a Muggle, and as far as Dumbledore's highly tuned senses told him, this place had never known magic before his arrival.
"Are you here to see the master, sir?" the housekeeper ventured.
Pondering about his answer for a moment, Dumbledore nodded.
"Bless you sir," she said, bustling towards the house, "You might as well wait inside till he comes down."
"That won't be necessary," said Dumbledore, deciding there wasn't anything in the house he wanted to see, "For he has asked me to meet him atop the cliff. I will find my way."
With a little bow, he stepped away smartly and turned back onto the path, heading to the top of the cliff. He had no idea who he would find there, but the Put-Outer had been modelled to act upon the innermost thought of the user, and Dumbledore followed, partly trusting his invention, and partly in the spirit of experiment. He had expected to appear in more familiar surroundings, perhaps a place from his childhood, something that would assuage the turmoil inside him. Evidently though, the Put-Outer had other plans.
As he reached the top of the cliff, an isolated clump of trees around which the path swung momentarily blocked his view of the plateau. Making his way around them, he saw that a bench had been set up towards the edge of the cliff, which commanded an excellent view of the channel and the surrounding landscape. Seated upon the bench, with his back towards him, was an old man wearing a thick dressing gown with a bundled cravat to protect against the cold wind. He was looking out contemplatively over the vast expanse of the water and hundred yards or so of pebbles below him. As Dumbledore approached, the sound of his footsteps seemingly awoke the old man from his trance, and he half turned to look at him.
For a moment it seemed as if the sharp grey eyes with a faraway look in them travelled quickly over Dumbledore, taking in every detail of his appearance. In turn Dumbledore took in the austere and lean appearance of the old man, and knew that they were within a few years of each other in age. Then the old man turned back to his steady viewing of the gently lapping water. Dumbledore strolled forward with an easy grace, walking slightly ahead of the bench. As he turned towards the old man, he saw him observing Dumbledore very intently. His frown was very deep as his eyes passed over Dumbledore's shoes. Then, he gave a dry chuckle, and nodded once benevolently to express his greeting.
"I must apologize for the intrusion," said Dumbledore, "I am a traveller who has lost his way."
"I was aware of the travel," said the old man, with a hint of mischief in his eyes, "Won't you sit down?"
Dumbledore readjusted his travelling cloak and sat down on the bench next to the old man. In companionable silence, the old man beckoned to an unopened bottle he carried, that was set down on a rock next to the bench. Dumbledore smiled and acquiesced, and the old man poured a quantity of wine into two glasses. Handing one to Dumbledore, the old man raised his glass in a half salute.
"To the end of the war," he murmured.
Dumbledore knew of the World War that had enveloped the Muggle world at the same time Grindelwald was waging his against the magical world, and he raised his glass too.
"The lives lost, and to brave sacrifices," he said.
They spent another few minutes apparently lost in their reminiscences. Then the old man spoke.
"You've come a long way from home, Professor."
A moment passed, and Dumbledore couldn't fathom how the old man could possibly know his vocation. He was most certainly a Muggle, and could not have read of his triumph over Grindelwald in the newspapers.
"Ah. We have met before then. Forgive me, your name eludes me at present."
"Not at all, not at all. A man with your bearing and intellectual acumen would be few other things. Out for a breath of fresh air after a trying academic dalliance I see?"
"Indeed," said Dumbledore, half turning towards the old man and smiling, "You yourself are a retired police commissioner then?"
"Something like that," the old man replied, "I was a code breaker for Her Majesty's Army in the recently concluded war and the previous one. You are also correct in suggesting I worked with the police."
"But, forgive me, you have suffered a bereavement of late," Dumbledore ventured, "Your wife? A casualty of the war?"
It was the old man's turn to lapse into momentary silence.
"A friend, perhaps the only one I have ever had," he said, "A fine gentleman. It was at his bidding that I came out of retirement. A casualty of the war."
That explained the two glasses. Evidently this was a ritual that death had interrupted.
"My condolences," said Dumbledore gravely, "I underwent a similar ordeal scarcely a month ago. A friend who was a casualty of the war."
"Against war it may be said that it makes the victor stupid and the vanquished malicious, as Nietzsche so well puts it," said the old man, "I have immersed myself in my chemistry experiments and written a treatise on their culmination since the fighting has ceased. Truly, work is the best salve for sorrow."
They lapsed into silence again, and Dumbledore found that he was increasingly liking the company of this old man. The blend of scientist and philosopher was evidence of a high intellect. This was a man who, despite his advanced age for a Muggle, had retained all his intellectual faculties. Evidently then, the Put-Outer had responded to his need for an intellectual companion. Was the experiment a success then? Or a failure because there was no way the Muggle could appreciate a Put-Outer?
"This wine," said Dumbledore, half raising his glass, "Is amongst the best I have ever tasted."
"Imperial Tokay," said the old man, sipping on his own glass, "From the cellar of the King of Hungary. I had an acquaintance who most graciously, er, consented to provide me with a few bottles."
"Marvellous," said Dumbledore.
"If I may," said the old man, suddenly straightening in his seat and putting his glass down on the rock, "Would you like to tell me where you are from, and precisely what you do? It has been a while since I have encountered a puzzle I could not solve."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and he looked over at the old man.
"I am a professor, as you pointed out some time ago."
"Yes. The elbows of your cloak are a testament to long hours spent at a desk. The scholarly disposition of your face, and the groove marked by your frequent wearing of spectacles also suggest much reading and study. But it is undoubtedly your shoes that are most curious."
"My shoes?"
"The mud crusting the soles of your shoes is a peculiar reddish variety that is only found in Scotland. The curious bit is that the mud was fresh when you ascended that slope. Since a mode of transportation that gets one from Scotland to Sussex fast enough to still have wet mud on one's shoes is hitherto unknown to mankind, I can only presume that you do not belong to this time or this world."
Dumbledore chuckled, partly amazed at the observations of the old man, and partly at the sudden realization that there was nothing to be gained by lying to him.
"This will be a little hard for you to accept," he said, taking out his wand, "For it is of the ilk of stories never before told in fact or fiction. I am of this time, and of this world, good sir. The only difference between you and me is that I can do magic."
And so Dumbledore explained the existence of the magical world to the awestruck old man. He was incredulous at first, but grew steadily more accepting. Dumbledore punctuated his explanation with short flourishes of magic, thereby dispelling any lingering doubts he might harbour. When he finished, the old man looked fascinated.
"Incredible," he said, "I would never have imagined..."
For the next hour, Dumbledore patiently answered the old man's incisive questions. They rose together from the bench after the sun had set and made their way down the slope towards the old man's house. Midway down the slope, Dumbledore paused.
"Perhaps it is best if I Disapparate from here," he said, "So your housekeeper does not notice."
"Very well," the old man replied, "Perhaps you will come again soon."
"It would be my privilege," answered Dumbledore graciously, holding out his hand, "Albus Dumbledore. Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
The old man grasped his hand firmly, smiling to himself as if still partially in disbelief.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, "Consulting detective."