Round 2
February 1944
Outside Topeka, Kansas

"Let me see them."

"Agent Goldstein, I don't think—"

"—Step aside, I want to see them!"

"There's only one left, we have to take her to a Healer—"

"—There isn't time, and they can't help. I can. Now, out of my way!"

The other Aurors stepped aside, and Porpentina Goldstein entered the ruins of the Nomaj barn. Inside was the bits and pieces of a dead wizard—all that was left of one of Grindelwald's followers. She paid him no attention. There was a large trapdoor in the center, and she gracefully Levitated down to the bottom. Far off in the corner, she heard a small whimpering cry; a young girl, no more than six years of age.

"It's okay," Goldstein said soothingly. "No one's going to hurt you. We're here to help." Pocketing her wand, very slowly she walked towards her, hands up.

The girl did not back off, but merely crouched, shivering. "What's your name? We'll find your parents, I'm sure they miss you very much—"

The little girl shrieked, closing her eyes and clutching at her temples. Shaking uncontrollably, the floor of the basement began vibrating ominously.

From above, someone called out: "Get out of there, she can't contain it—"

"No!" Taking out her wand, Goldstein beseeched: "It's okay, what they did to you was bad, but just focus on my voice and it'll be all—"

—the girl dissolved into a boiling red-black mass. Damnit! Goldstein Disapparated. Landing on her feet half a mile away, she could only watch helplessly as the barn exploded in the cold early evening.

Goldstein dropped to her knees, weeping uncontrollably; tears of grief, tears of rage. She barely was able to compose herself as her fellow Aurors approached on foot.

"I'm sorry Tina, there was nothing you could have done," one of them said quietly.

Wiping the tears from her face, Goldstein got to her feet. "We'll never know, will we?" She fell silent for a while. "Hopefully this is the last of his… creches. Let's get back to New York and make our report."

Nodding, the other Aurors began to Apparate away. Goldstein, however, remained, casting one last glance at the ruins. A furious anger swelled up in her; only with the greatest difficulty could she manage to keep it down.

"When I kill you, this will be reason #100 why," Goldstein said softly to the silent night.

She Apparated away.

June 1944
Ukrainian S.S.R.

Albus Dumbledore was invisible, yet it hardly seemed necessary; not a soul was in sight for miles around. Without magic—or the Muggles' technology—the world really is a big place.

He was walking through the endless Asian steppes, a warm summer sun shining down and making Dumbledore wish he had brought his hat. Blue skies above, yellow flowered grasslands around him; far above, he heard the rumble of what could only be a Muggle flying machine. But besides that, he was alone. Far to the west, at the edge of the horizon, he could see the distant peeks of ruined Muggle buildings; silent testament to the battles of the past fall. Yet during his long sojourn, the earth showed little sign of war, save for the occasional wreck of machinery left behind.

Frowning, he looked around; he was alone but for the grass. This will be a trap, but not a physical one—a moral one. He's going to try to turn me once again.

To be fair, that was Dumbledore's purpose as well.

Where is he? It was a test, which annoyed him—they were both far beyond the point of these silly games. Sighing, Dumbledore cast off the Disillusionment charm and pulled out his wand. Pointing at the horizon, he turned slowly in pace, making a complete circle. He felt a twitch; pausing, he gazed upon an indistinct dark lump on the ground, several miles in the distance. With a wave of his wand he Apparated right next to it. It was the ruins of a Muggle war machine, its original form a puzzle piece of flat metal shapes, now scorched and mangled. Inside were not bodies, not even pieces of bodies, but the tattered fragments of flesh and bone that remained after explosions, fire and the work of decay and scavengers had took their toll.

Walking around, he then saw it: hanging from the long bent metal tube that projected out from the top of the metal hulk hung a sign—his sign. Dumbledore was too experienced, too self-controlled to reach out and grab it; instead he pointed his wand. Not a Portkey, but enchanted somehow…

A signal. "Reenervate." The Hallows symbol spun faster and faster; there was a flash of light.

"Welcome Albus." Despite himself, Dumbledore pointedly declined to exchange pleasantries. Finally he turned around; fifty feet away there was now another wrecked Muggle machine, upon which Grindelwald was sitting. He was resplendent in a golden robe which Albus knew had the symbol of the Hallows on his back. Golden hair, golden clothes—his followers call him the Golden Wizard, a symbol of the prosperous future for all wizards he would bring. It dismayed him that so many of his followers did not care of how he used Muggle blood to make gold; it worried him that some of his opponents (including a few dear friends) might not care that much either.

"I hope you have a good reason bringing us here halfway across Europe," he said coldly. A curious choice for a meeting place, Dumbledore mused. I thought for certain… he would insist we meet right in the midst of the slaughterpen. What better way to make his point, than for the Muggles to do it for him?

"Like I said many times before, there is good reason for everything I do."

"Good reason, but not such good sense." Grindelwald smirked and said nothing. Sighing, Dumbledore asked: "Let's see, what unspoken message does this grim locale carry on your behalf?"

Grindelwald shook his head. "You are far too clever for me to believe you don't know the answer to your own question." Dumbledore merely stared back in silent but evident exasperation. Sighing, Grindelwald pointed: "Look closely at our two friends here. How did they die?"

Dumbledore looked around; the 'tank' he was next to (such an odd Muggle turn of phrase!) had its gun barrel pointed directly at the tank Grindelwald was sitting on. And likewise with his. They were similar but of different manufacture. It was obvious then: "In the midst of battle, these two tanks fired upon each other at the same time, simultaneously destroying each other." Now it was Dumbledore's turn to grimace. "A fitting metaphor for the self-defeating nature of war."

Grindelwald smiled; Dumbledore remembered the times when that smile warmed his young heart. Now it chilled him to the bone. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

"Your concern for Muggle well-being is touching, Gellert," Dumbledore said with not-so-well-disguised sarcasm. "But I would be more impressed if you showed the same such compassion for your fellow wizards with whom you are waging war on."

Frowning, Grindelwald Disapparated. He reappeared nearby, standing in the steppes, his back to him. Dumbledore got down and walked towards him.

"One hardly needs Legilimency or a wand to know your true thoughts," Grindelwald said as Dumbledore approached from behind. "As the Magicless suffer and die in their countless millions, it anguishes you to no end. Yet you and all other wizards who have the power to stop it, refuse to act. Tell me, who is the more despicable? The misbehaving child, or the parent who allows misbehavior to continue?"

Distraction. Dumbledore came up to his side. "How many witches and wizards have died at your hands? At your followers' hands? What greater good is worth the cost you have inflicted upon us?"

Grindelwald did not answer. Dumbledore moved to face him; his expression was unreadable. "Wizards are superior to Muggles, despite their tinkering advances—that was never the issue!"

An infinitesimal twitch flickered in Grindelwald's eyes. Dumbledore continued: "The reason we parted ways is that I realized we never needed to control the Muggles directly—"

"—you didn't always believe that."

"—but it's true," Dumbledore said beseechingly. "Even after all these centuries, Muggles are still no threat to wizards as a whole. Yes, by ill luck they can harm us individually—like they did… Ariana." He paused to gather himself. "But not to wizardry as such. So the goal you pursue is superfluous. And even if it weren't, the cost, Gellert, the cost!"

A shadow came across Grindelwald's face. "I do not harm my wizard enemies out of spite, Albus. I… do not regret my actions, but they do weigh on my consciousness."

Dumbledore muttered: "Even the wizard children you turned into Obscurials?"

Grindelwald's expression was unreadable. "Especially them."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the horrific images contained in the reports from America. "Please, Gellert, be honest, at least to me. You didn't kidnap and torture those poor younglings to become Obscurials out of any consideration of the Greater Good. It was all about revenge—revenge on their parents for opposing you, for thwarting your plans. Your so-called New Order is being built not only on the bones of countless wizards and Muggles, but also your unseemly pride and ego."

Dumbledore's words struck home; an ugly twitch flashed across Grindelwald's face. His hand remained inside his pocket, undoubtedly clutching his wand; Dumbledore subtly shifted, to show no advantage would come if Grindelwald sought to duel.

He did not—not yet. "What's done is done. Just as the Muggles fight to the death to settle once and for all what kind of people they shall be, so too must we wizards. The mistake of a quarter-millenia ago, when we chose to hide instead of become what our abilities demand we become, must be reversed. And it will be. When this is all over, one side shall prevail. The other side will no longer exist."

Dumbledore grimaced. "You have no idea how much it pains me to hear you say things like that. You make me wish I'd never known you so. Then it would be easier to do what I must."

A most unfamiliar look came across Grindelwald's face: sadness. "My dear old friend, Albus, we will not survive this struggle apart. What we are, what we can do, dictates but one possible outcome."

Deadpan, Dumbledore said: "You need not worry, Gellert, I shall not kill you, whatever may come."

A split second later, Grindelwald began to laugh. "Good to know these dark times have not fully robbed you of your wondrous sense of humor."

"I wasn't joking."

"Of course not," Grindelwald replied. "Both of us believe we are in the right, both of us have inarguable reasons for believing so. But principles do not win arguments, only the wizards who wield them as additional weapons." He paused, giving Dumbledore a searching look. "Do you believe yourself strong enough to prevail?"

"As I have done so many times over the years, I find myself tasked to correct your errors, Gellert. The might of any one wizard and his wand has never truly determined our destiny. You are but the latest in a long line of witches and wizards who were deluded to think to the contrary." With a polite sneer, Dumbledore said: "You will fail, the only question being what price you, me and all wizardkind and humanity will pay before it happens."

Grindelwald nodded slowly—a gesture which unnerved him for some reason. "No one is better at drawing the proper conclusion from a given set of facts. But do you have all the facts at your side this time?"

"When the facts change so does my view of things. A pity more wizards did not do the same."

"Then be prepared to change your mind as well. Behold." Grindelwald held out both hands palm first. Dumbledore pointed his wand at him. Nodding, Grindelwald slowly reached with his left hand into his right robe pocket. Very slowly—too slow for Grindelwald to draw a wand against him in anger—he pulled out…

…his wand. But no, not his normal wand.

"Do you recognize it?"

Dumbledore squinted; it was long and knobbed... With all his effort he tried to suppress his shock, but failed as his eyes bulged out in astonishment. Grindelwald was grinning; unable to maintain the façade, Dumbledore whispered: "No, it can't be."

"Yes. The Elder Wand. Lost for centuries, now returned to wizardkind. To me."

Dumbledore was beginning to feel a most unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation: panic. "But where…. where did you find it?"

Grindelwald shook his head. "An irrelevant question—I expected better, Albus. The facts, as you say, speaks for itself. You thought our quest to find the Hallows was futile. Here is your evidence of how wrong you were, as you are wrong in so many other things." Grindelwald suddenly pointed it at Dumbledore, who was half-a-step too slow; he could have Disarmed him, but for one of the few times in his life shock had overwhelmed his judgment. Now, if they were to duel it would be on an even field.

Pointing the Elder Wand at Dumbledore, Grindelwald slowly backed up and began to circle him; Dumbledore kept his guard up. "Once this minor struggle is over, I shall resume our quest to become Masters of Death. And I will succeed. But even now, I am unconquerable. All your hollow claims of morality and tolerance have been shown to be futile. I now wield the power of Magic itself."

"A wand is but a tool, Gellert. No matter what, nothing of significance has actually changed."

Grindelwald grinned maliciously. "Already the Wand of Destiny gives me the advantage – it knows you're lying, and so do I." He stopped circling. "My strongest argument for you to join with me now points at you. The time for debate is over. For the last time I ask you, my old friend: will you join me in my newfound strength? Or do you choose to be crushed by it?"

Dumbledore lowered his wand and shook his head sadly. "If you were so sure of yourself, of your 'newfound strength' as it were, you'd hardly need to go through all this theatricality; you'd have done what you thought necessary without hesitation. Your doubt is to your credit, Gellert; you can still turn away from all this, renounce what you've done. It's not too late."

Grindelwald's lips curled in anger; his wandhand trembled. "So be it, Albus." He raised the Elder Wand; all around them, the ground began to tremble. Turning, Albus began to see wrecked Muggle war machines rise out of the dirt.

"Most of wizardkind will be more sensible than you, and realize that further struggle against what I stand for is pointless. In victory, I will be merciful to my former enemies; after all, as you said, spilling magical blood is a waste." In the churned mud around them, bony fingers and hands pushed up, grasping. "You, on the other hand, are incorrigible. I have been far too magnanimous in tolerating your foolish viewpoint. So instead I will teach you a lesson, Albus Dumbledore. I will teach you to respect the power of wizardry, and punish you for your abandonment of using your gifts for the greater good. If you survive this first lesson, be assured other, more painful ones will be forthcoming."

More and more corpses and machines surrounded them. "I have nothing else to say," Dumbledore said.

"Neither do I. Accio!" The Deathly Hallows pendant flew towards Grindelwald; upon touching it he vanished, and as soon as he did so the pendant itself flashed into flaming dust.

Dumbledore waved his wand, but he was unable to Disapparate. Of course. The bewitched corpses, most little more than skeletons in tattered uniforms, moved towards him. Some of them opened fire with their weapons; he was able to deflect their bullets with Protego with hardly any effort.

The Elder Wand in Grindelwald's hands—this is an unfortunate turn of events, Dumbledore mused, dodging the clumsy efforts of the Inferi to stab him with bayonets and knives. However, there were so many that abruptly he found his leg in the grip of one of them. Divido! The bony hand was cleaved off, but more began tugging at his robes. Nearby the mangled remains of a Muggle tank turned its gun barrel towards him. Now this is becoming a problem! Twirling his wand, he was able to Leap into the sky, just before the tank fired, its round exploding where he was and disintegrating a score of corpses.

Dumbledore landed awkwardly in a heap a hundred feet away. There were fewer corpses and machines in his immediate vicinity, but all the others began ponderously pursuing him. Running with more urgency, Dumbledore slashed at the air with his wand. To prevent Apparating in a particular area without active spellcasting, the charms must be placed on objects within the location of the effect. Find and destroy enough of them, and I can escape. Of course that was easier said than done, especially with what now must be at least a thousand corpses closing in on him.

There! An unassuming flower burst into flames. The effect was weaker, but Dumbledore still couldn't Apparate out. Bullets raked the ground near him; he kept running, pushing the hordes out of his way while constantly casting Shield Charms to his left, right and behind. The only way to permanently destroy Inferi is with fire, but it's too risky in this congested area.

In between fighting off the Inferi and protecting himself, Dumbledore continued to conjure up water and attempting to Vanish it as far as he could; based on how much effort it took to do so, he could find any nearby anti-Disapparating receptacles. He destroyed another, an unassuming lump of wood. With that he could now transport short distances, but he could not yet escape. Just as several dozen were about to surround him, he transported himself clear.

BANG! With a shock Dumbledore fell to the ground, a stinging pain in his back; a reanimated Muggle flying machine had dropped a large bomb nearby before he could Shield himself. All the other Inferi and enchanted tanks in the vicinity had been blasted apart, but Dumbledore was no longer able to run as his left leg had been badly lacerated by fragments. As the flying machine turned to attack him again, Dumbledore summoned a cloud of steam ahead of it. When it entered, he Froze the cloud. Suddenly encased in ice, the flying machine staggered and crashed into the ground not fifty feet away. More bits of sharp metal lacerated his face, but fortunately the injuries were only superficial. Thank Merlin they weren't Cursed. Once he got away a Healer would be able to heal him completely. But escape was suddenly looking doubtful.

Don't panic, focus on what needs to be done. Off in the distance was another receptacle. Hopping on one leg, Dumbledore made his way forward. The nearest Inferi were several hundred feet away, but closing steadily. Not ten feet away from another Muggle tank began bursting out of the ground. With all his concentration Dumbledore summoned a Crushing Hex; the tank shuddered and collapsed into a mangled metal ball.

Staggering, Dumbledore fell, unable to walk anymore. He pointed his wand at a distant tank and cast a Dragging Charm. Swiftly he was pulled through the grass towards it. Aware of being in its grasp, the tank slowly turned its mangled turret towards him. Its big gun was unable to fire, but its smaller guns blazed away, as bullets bounced off the ground very closeby. There! He was right by another receptacle. Another Crushing Hex destroyed the nearby tank. Dumbledore struggled to look above the grass to find it; all he saw were Inferi all around him. Some were clothed in grey, others in brown. Muggles formerly from both sides who killed each other, were now reanimated after death and marched side by side-to kill him. Not quite the unity I'd hope to see.

The nearest Inferi was but feet away. The receptacle was a battered metal drum; it burst into flames. But before Dumbledore could Disapparate, a stinging pain flared in his right leg; the Inferi had plunged his bayonet into him. Twisting on the ground, he looked up at his assailer, a foul rotted figure grinning with stained bony teeth as dirt fell out of its mouth. His strength weakening rapidly, he Levicorpus'd the Inferi clear. With the bayonet and rifle still penetrating his flesh, Dumbledore finally managed to escape Grindelwald's trap.

Some miles away, Dumbledore pulled the bayonet clear, crying out in pain as he did so. Fingers shaking, he pulled out of his traveling pouch a vial with Reviving Potion. Drinking it, he instantly felt a surge of life course through him. Slowly and carefully he held his wand over his many wounds, healing himself enough to be able to get to his feet and Apparate away.

Hours later, Dumbledore was in a bed in a Healerspot in London, resting comfortably. Congratulations, Gellert, that's the closest you've ever come to killing me!

Levity aside, Dumbledore struggled to take in the implications of the Deathly Hallows being proved to be real—and that the Elder Wand was in Grindelwald's possession. A wand is but a tool, but will this tool be enough for Grindelwald to prevail?

Considering all that had happened, Dumbledore chided himself. I've been entirely too lackadaisical in attempting to stop him. I let sentiment and a forlorn hope that he could change blind myself from doing all that was necessary. Now, the task will be far more difficult—even impossible? And how many more witches, wizards and Muggles will suffer because you let this play on too long?

He knew the answer: far too many. Dumbledore only hoped they could stop Grindelwald before it was too late.