Common robes bore simple colors, solid backgrounds blending from one hue to another, altered by whim. Some placed entire galaxies of stars on their apparel, metaphorically making themselves the center of the universe. More chose the subdued colors denoting maturity or their Family lines; coat-of-arms retained certain specific colors heralding what ancestries stretched into the past. Others, like himself, mocked such ostentation by combining as many different colors as existed on the rainbow's palette.
Today was not one of those days.
Albus Dumbledore reached deep within his wardrobe, past the hidden doorways and frequent-use racks. In a separate portion of his livery container resided a section reserved for events such as today.
He pulled the garments out, silk whispering against the vibrant colors nearer his wardrobe's opening. The furniture's pest-control features had kept them safe for another year, free of moths, doxie infestations and the myriad of pests inherent to the average magical household. Ever since his little adventure in Okinawa, there had been a sudden urgency in clothing preservation – at least until the curse wore off.
Dumbledore lay them out on his bed, and just stood there. Inanimate clothing rarely provoked such a response from any wizard, let alone one such as he. But then, these were unlike the normal robes. Where the clothing found on the typical wizard was made from spun acromantula threads or graphorn hairs, these were made of processed dragonhide. Basilisk scales reinforced key vital points over the abdomen, chest and neck region, making the collar either lie flat or flip up in a protective ring. Its tanned upper region bore streaks and neat patches, where damage had penetrated the indestructible fabric.
One finger traced the long rent running the breadth of the garment's left side, its edges painstaking stitches still seared a glossy black.
Abruptly stopping himself, Dumbledore disrobed. The new robes resumed their place, long pants settled beneath an undertunic, all overshadowed by a massive covering robe. One aged hand dipped into an inner pocket, reappearing with a small ebony-wood box. It clicked open, revealing metal studs, gleaming gold and silver despite decades of storage.
Normally, he would've made some quip about the wonders of magic even of no one else was present; especially if no one else were present. Not today.
He rose up, once more fully clothed. A full length mirror popped into existence beside his wardrobe, revealing aged glory in faded clothing. Blue eyes met blue eyes in the mirror, cold and steady. 'Not cold,' he corrected himself. 'Tired. Old. The young die, and the old must carry on.'
Loud knocking boomed against his door.
In an instant Dumbledore pivoted, wand outstretched. Then the wand vanished, a rueful expression crossing his face. Two long strides saw him to the door, opening it just as a second barrage began its assault.
An old, wild-looking man met him there. One peg-leg smacked against the ground. "Albus. Going to throw something or just playin' around?"
"Alastor," Dumbledore felt a smile cross his face for the first time since he'd realized what day it was. "Early again?"
"Never," the man with one original eye corrected. "Nor late."
They both paused as if waiting for a third member to finish. As no such answer came, a barely perceptible change came over both men.
"Good man, Jenkins." Moody grunted. "Let's go. Don't want to keep the Boys waiting."
Silent, Dumbledore nodded. "Will Aberfo—"
"He'll meet us." Moody cut him off.
Sober, Dumbledore once again nodded. "Then let us go."
{break}
Sunshine poured from an open sky, directing every erg of its power towards the green lawn. Polished white marble reflected its fury back, resisting to the last. Clumps of people dotted the landscape, milling in uncertain patterns. Now and then a lone figure would separate, making its own path among the regular stonework before sometimes calling out, or hearing another figure's summons. In either case, the group re-coalesced around a new point, where it remained once more.
Dumbledore's faded khaki robes would have stood out of place, but the regalia of a hundred nations seemed present that day. He could spot the kilts of Scots, the long dress blues of a division unfamiliar to his time, and the faint pattern of ghosts standing watch.
Responding to the immortal guardians with polite nods, he made his way to the small knot of people already gathered. One tall wizard, dressed in identical tan clothing spotted him, but made no move.
"Aberforth," he still tried.
For once, the wizard responded. "Albus."
Moody stumped past, his wooden leg somehow quiet in the vast silence. "Right. You hate his guts, he wants your guts to be spilled. Enough o' the emotional crap ladies. The Boys are watching."
As if by magic the odd group formed a single line, two columns deep, both Dumbledore brothers in front. They made their way past the white plinths, cursory glances showing only mild interest in the names carved, or the dates underneath. For all their aged appearance, the group moved in lock-step formation, parade ground efficiency the envy of any retired guard.
Dumbledore took a moment to absorb the gravitas present. Theirs wasn't a particularly large company, nor as coherent as others. But it was old. He personally could recall a handful of wars dating back to the colonial revolutions two centuries back. There were others present who could recall battles before then, from the internecine brushfire campaigns throughout the 18th century to one wizard that bore leather protections that had not been seen since the Inquisition.
Drawing near to a small copse, a faint outline moved to intercept. "Stand and be recognized."
Dumbledore raised one hand in a closed fist, stopping the entire procession. "Albus Wulfric Percival Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class," a hard swallow brought him into pause, "And Legion of Mage Killers, Squad One."
The barest outline of a man looked him over. Steel covered his form, the shadow of a helmet, no faceplate, and chain mail bound at the waist making a nigh-inaudible clinking as he moved. "Recognized. Advance, Brother."
The duel column resumed its march, entering the passage.
Their presence came into a new area of the cemetery, one gifted with mist and less direct sunlight, the better for certain sights to be seen.
"Albus." A deep voice, booming as though from a long distance down a distant well. "Abe, Twitchy. Welcome."
Dumbledore did not slow, continuing the steady pace as the ancient individual kept up. Neither commented on the ghost's adherence to the area of slightly raised mounds off the path. "Schmidt. You look well."
The ghost chuckled, coming into view. Its transparent appearance grew more solid, chain mail giving off the discordant jangle common to the undead, long hair blowing in a non-existent breeze. "As are you. It is good to see the honor given by the young. Proceed, old friend. We will watch."
Dumbledore gave a small walking salute, continuing.
Behind, he did not need to look to see those following repeat his example. Dull thudding, of combat boots meeting grass-covered earth, muffled by the intermittent fog met his ears. Metal on metal, the result of carabiners clacking against rivets and buttons added to the acoustical depth, bringing back memories.
The column paused as he stopped before a black marble plinth. His eyes scanned the name, noting a series of symbols gathered around the lower edge. "Old Matthews. Remember? Trained war-wizards before the Napoleonic Wars, tutored that Clausewitz fellow."
Moody grunted at his back. "Tough bastard. Reports said the Maori punched his ticket in the 40's, over in the Island Campaigns. Found him in the center of a Final Strike crater, half a Feathered Lizard company around."
"He liked making shoes," Dumbledore added softly. "He made good boots."
The procession continued before stopping once more. This time Aberforth rested a hand on a squat-looking pillar. "Little Jimmy. Yimmy, he always said. Damn Norwegian, never could get rid of that accent."
Dumbledore couldn't speak past the hard swelling in his throat. One of the grizzled veterans behind stepped in, his own hoarse voice just barely staying even. "Crackerjack Runemaster. Always had an extra blanket if you needed it. Always had a joke ready; what was it? 'A yoke for e'ry fight, e'ry fight a yoke'?"
"Yeah," Aberforth continued. "His son married into the Prewett family I think. Firstborn twins. Had their father's sense of humor."
"And his noble spirit," Dumbledore managed. He had to keep going. They couldn't stop here.
He did not stop again until reaching the far end of the graveyard. The group turned in place, still marching in professional-grade precision. Only Moody stepped out of line, his old role coming to the fore even as the Dumbledore brothers stayed in rank. His false eye ran across the small group, automatically driving a few members to straighten, despite injuries that would never heal.
"Legionnaires, Attention."
Wands from seven different wizards appeared from various sleeve holsters, wrist clamps, a couple even manifesting in the presence of faint smoking wisps, a fashion preferred by the few older than Dumbledore.
"Present."
The wands rose towards the dim sky.
"Salute."
Spellfire streaked across the sky, erupting in blood-red detonations.
"Salute."
A second series of magical blasts erupted.
"Salute."
The final explosions flashed in the sky, a bright splash against the gray sky but dissipating all too quickly. Silence, a shock after the booming retorts, settled once more over the quiet location. A faint smell of ozone, common aftermath to recent exercises in flashy magics, made its presence known.
Finally, Moody growled a last command. "At. Ease."
Dumbledore put his wand away. His wand, not the wand. A cemetery was no place for such an emblem of mortality.
"Dismissed."
Released from duty, for the moment, Dumbledore ambled back into the rows of tombstones. He could see entire swaths in the result of the Grindelwald War, separated by a low picket fence from the casualties of the Great War. But the place his feet trod was, by comparison, much smaller. Smaller, but no less important.
This segment of the cemetery had no unique designation. There were no fences separating them from their brethren – just how those buried would have liked it, Dumbledore thought. But small as it was, he knew every name, could recall each face once attached to those names. It was why he could see his brother once a year without their normal acrimonious trade of barbed phrases. It was why he could not sleep many nights, memories forgotten only with the help of a Pensieve.
"Boys," he cast a long look across the field that would never bear fruit. "I will not be seeing you for some time, I hope. When it is my time too, then I pray my time will have been spent as well as yours."
Another dark thought penetrated his mind, chased away by the memory of laughing men, images of good cheer and old friends, meeting one last time for a final song. His resolve strengthened, already at levels goblins would fail to break, forging once more into something greater than himself.
"Never again," he murmured. The last Dark Lord to rise had caused fewer deaths than the Grindelwald War, but no less painful for the families involved. Too, the monster had taken pleasure in violence, unlike Grindelwald. All under his watch, despite everything he'd done. "Never again. Until next year, Boys."