Prologue
1944
Germany
Rain. The heavens themselves woed in their sorrow, casting down its tears on the unforgiving ground below.
Massive archways of light raged across the air. However, this electic maelstorm did not rage down from above. Instead, the lightning was blasted upwards, striking at the mysteriously cloudless skies themselves as two combatents faced off. Raw magical energy, redirected into the heavens as Dumbledore deflected a blast from his opponent.
His opposition did not like that.
His opposition did not like that at all.
Out of the pair, Dumbledore was stronger. He was more powerful. His magical blows had more brute force. The waving interlocking weaves of his attacks were more intricate, complex. His magic was undeniably stronger, yes.
The assassin, however, was crafty. The rain served as a cover of sorts. Dumbledore silently pondered as to what kind of spell could be used to cause a cloudless sky to burst like a shattered flood gate. After all, the water had to be coming from somewhere.
This was no conjuration. Conjurations were fake, illusions, husks of reality. While they held substance, a conjuration, in all reality, was a pale imitation of the real thing. This was no illusion. The rain was real. The thunder was real. The shroud it cast was real, and a simple wave of his wand would not make it go away.
Dumbledore was power.
The assassin, however, was finess.
On the other side of the continent, a letter reaches a man as he sits in his office. Gingerly, he lifts it in his aged fingers, thumbs it open, and reads.
And promptly drops the glass he has just served himself, letting it shatter on the ground along with its contents.
"Fight me, you coward! Fight, damn it!" Dumbledore shouts, finally getting frustrated. Dumbledore was not a patient man. Perhaps in another couple of decades, patience would befit him. But, here and now?
No, Dumbledore was not a patient man.
The assassin crouched behind a broken wall, waiting. He knew he could not overpower Dumbledore. That much was obvious. Dumbledore was too strong for the assassin to possibly hope to defeat him with a direct attack.
But, Dumbledore was human. And humans could be tricked. Humans could be killed.
Dumbledore walked down the path, weariness in his step. There was too much rain. He could see nothing. Everything was covered in the storm. His robes were soaked and his skin was chilled.
"Face me!" Dumbledore called. "Face me, murderer! You murdered my sister, you killed her!" Dumbledore hollered.
The assassin frowned momentarily before his cunning mind caused him to let out a smirk, and he bit back a laugh. Dumbledore had mistaken him for another. Who, the assassin wasn't sure, but this could work to his advantage, he though smugly. Suddenly, the impatience made sense coming from a man legend for his calm-headedness. Dumbledore was in mourning. His sister was dead, the grief was beating through his veins, and now- now was the opportune moment to make his strike.
Yes, the assassin smiled. This would be easier than he thought.
"Grindelwald! Face me, damn it! Come out and fight!"
Grindelwald. Dumbledore had mistaken the assassin for his master. This time, when he frowned, it did not leave his face. Even filled with grief, Dumbledore mistaking him for Grindelwald was far-fetched.
No matter. His mission did not involve slaying unless he was presented the utmost opportunity. No, to attempt such would be suicide and Grindelwald knew this.
The assassin was a distraction.
But, in Dumbledore's current state... Perhaps his defeat could be assured. The assassin smiled. Yes, Dumbledore's death would be assured here, tonight, and he would be rewarded.
The assassin in particular did not follow Grindelwald out of fear. He followed out of respect of the man that raised and trained him in the Dark Arts. Yes, he was young. Just a boy, really. But, it was time to prove himself. Prove himself worthy.
Thousands of miles away, a man raced as far as a broomstick would carry him. Yes, a broomstick. Apparation would be more or less impossible until he passed the barrier. Europe was at war on two fronts- Muggle and Magical. So, a broomstick was his best bet.
Cursing, the man tried to get the thing to speed up and move faster. It did not obey his commands.
Dumbledore turned his back.
Mistake.
The assassin rolled on the ground, before lifting both- yes, both- of his wands and shooting out twin Killing Curses.
Instinct took over as Dumbledore flung himself away. When he rose, the assassin was nowhere in sight. Dumbledore conjured a shield and held it close. He doubted it would last long, but he needed some type of defense.
Then, with a flick of his wrist brilliant flames erupted into the skies, illuminating the area. Light fell around the broken remains of what had once been a thriving village. A village that had been utterly annihilated only hours earlier.
The bodies were all around. The rain washed away the blood, but the stench, it seemed, was too great to be carried away by the waves.
Movement.
Dumbledore swung around and fired a blasting curse. Crude, he realized, but this was no time to be fancy. Fancy spellwork was for demonstration. For show, or when you had your opponent right in front of you and you knew exactly where to direct the attack. This opponent was not right in front of him. This opponent was not in his line of sight. No, this enemy was sly, quick, and deadly.
A killer.
Suddenly, the assassin did the unexpected. He leaped out from behind the ruins of an old shop and let loose a volley of curses.
Dumbledore, of course, deflected them all with ease before sending a single blast back. Piercing his opponents defenses, the assassin was blasted backwards, slamming against the wall.
Satisfied, Dumbledore walked forward to see if his enemy had been correctly incapacitated. Despite his anger, Dumbledore was not a murderer. He wouldn't stoop to that level. But, he wouldn't lose any sleep if his opponent was dead, either. After all, this had been meant to be a duel to the death.
The man rushing across the continent prayed he would not be too late. He would never forgive himself if he was. He could not let this happen. He could not let his brother die. Damn it, why did his last living sibling have to be so stubborn?
The man supposed this was his fault. He refused to fight. So, his brother had taken his place. His brother had answered the pleas that he himself had ignored. And now, he was going to pay the ultimate price.
Dumbledore walked towards the assassin, approaching slowly. Cautiously.
His eyes, however, we're fixed on the wrong target.
The flicker to his left? It escaped his notice. Beneath the rain, it just wasn't tangible, even with the eternal flames burning above. He did not see, but he felt.
Slash.
The back of his knees exploded with red hot pain. Dumbledore tried to turn but ended up stumbling. His wand was kicked out of his hand. Yes, kicked, before a blast knocked him off his feet, causing him to collapse on the cold hard floor.
The body he'd supposedly struck faded. Illusion. Fake. He should have known! The attacks he's so easily deflected had been too easy to defect to be real.
"The Great Dumbledore. I must say, I expected more."
That voice. It was not the voice of his sister's killer! He'd come all this way- for nothing! He'd followed a decoy instead of the real thing. Dumbledore swore loudly as he realized this.
The assassins' eyebrows rose in the air at this. That was odd. Using one wand, he lifted Dumbledore's paralyzed body off the ground and looked into the eyes of the man he'd been fighting.
"Well, I'll be damned."
He'd caught a Dumbledore, alright. Just not the one he'd been sent to distract. Because, staring right back at him, was not Albus Dumbledore. No, he was racing his way as fast as magically possibly to their destination.
Abeforth growled at him.
Vantias Verus smiled. This might not be the target he had anticipated. But, Grindelwarld would be pleased all the same.