Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves.
Chapter Seven: The Fall of Lord Grindelwald
"Lumos," said Riddle, and the tip of his wand flared into light. The pink umbrella lay on the floor in a puddle at Mireille's feet, which dangled surreally above it. The map, which had fallen from Riddle's pocket when he leapt forward, had fluttered unnoticed to the ground and lay in another puddle about three feet away, illuminating the water with its phosphorescent glow, turning the tiny ripples into shimmering kaleidoscopes.
Grindelwald's lips with thin and white with fury. "Enough of this!" he snarled. He raised his wand. "Avad--"
"NO!" screamed Mireille. Her face stretched wide with terror. Lightning-fast, she whipped her head forward onto her chest, then threw it back into Grindelwald's chin as hard as she could. He gasped, then lifted his hand to his chin and wiped away the blood that was streaming from his bitten tongue. "Why, you little bitch," he said, slowly and reflectively. "I'm going to enjoy making you pay for that." Then he regarded Albus, who was slowly getting to his knees, holding his broken nose between bloody fingers.
"Brilliant idea, Albus. How clever of you to conceal that all this time, your second did have a wand after all. And how very unfortunate for you that it didn't work." He prodded Mireille in the ribs with his wand. "Say goodbye to your husband, darling."
"Goodbye, Albus," she said slowly. He did look at her now, trying to apologize for failing her. He saw her eyes move upward, then downward, slowly and deliberately, then back to him. "I'll always remember our chess games." Her glance went downward again, this time to the little silver queen she wore around her neck.
"Chess games?" Grindelwald laughed. "That's what she's going to remember? What kind of man are you, Albus?" He guffawed loudly. Riddle chuckled as well, leaning back against a crate, his arms crossed.
Albus, frowning, didn't hear them. What was she trying to tell him? He looked up and down, following her glance. And then, in the space of an instant, understood the awful, unthinkable message she was sending him.
Several years ago, he'd been at Mireille's parents' house, discussing with her father the books he'd read on electricity. Her father was an electrician, and he was the one who'd loaned the books to Albus in the first place. Mireille and her mother were out shopping, and the two men had had several glasses of stout by then. Albus drunkenly wondered aloud what would happen if magic and electricity came into contact. "Les' find out!" cried his father-in-law, with the enthusiasm induced by alcohol.
The two of them stumbled out to the garage, where her dad hooked up a large battery to an instrument that measured voltage. "There you go, m'boy," he'd said to Albus. "Now hit her wiff your magic wand."
Albus held his wand over the battery and gave it a small wave; the needle on the voltmeter swung wildly to the right, then the glass in the dial had blown out explosively. Sparks from the end of his wand exploded in the air and shot out in all directions. Where they landed on the two men, tiny red embers flared like cigarette ash, burning small holes in their clothing. They looked at each other, stunned. Clearly, when they came into deliberate contact, the forces of magic and electricity magnified each other exponentially--and dangerously. Albus had decided that it was a good thing that wizards didn't use electricity, and that Muggles with electricity didn't use magic. He never mentioned the experiment to anyone except Mireille, who found his clothes stuffed in the bottom of their suitcase, and demanded to know why there were holes all over the nice new Muggle pants she had bought him.
Now Albus saw with a terrifying clarity that one end of the severed wire lay in the puddle that covered Grindelwald's feet; the other end dangled just a few inches above his shoulder. He remembered his dream of that morning and realized that it had not been a dream, but a premonition. He looked at Mireille again, his eyes wide with dread and refusal. If he did what she wanted, it would kill her too. But her jaw was set in determination. She looked down at silver chesspiece again, then back at him, and he could her voice as clearly as if she were speaking aloud: Sacrifice the queen and win the game, Albus--remember?
A small whimper escaped his lips. She cocked her head, threw him a tiny smile, then squared her shoulders in the posture of a soldier at attention. "I'll give your regards to Ted," she told him.
For a fraction of an instant, Albus hesitated. In the first half of that tiny span of time, he saw again the horrifying images Grindelwald had shown them, and knew that Mireille was right. In the second half of that half-instant, he made his decision, and felt it shatter his heart into an infinite number of pieces.
Grindelwald, suddenly sensing that something was going on, abruptly stopped laughing and raised his wand. Albus dove headfirst and grabbed the umbrella. Bracing the handle against the ground and pointing the end straight upward, he directed it to pull the dangling wire down to Grindelwald's shoulder. It crossed his mind to wonder whether he would die too, since his shoulders were now in the puddle; he found, without much surprise, that he rather hoped he would. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Riddle spring forward in alarm--but he was too late.
There was an explosive booming sound and a pyrotechnical blast of sparks. The lightbulb flared into life, then went out again with a pop. The severed wire danced like a live thing on Grindelwald's shoulder, and the wire at his feet jitterbugged in response. Albus was pleased to hear him scream in agony. As the red and golden sparks from the wand fell through the air, showering outward in the tunnel, they fell on the coils around Mireille and Grindelwald; where they touched, the green ropes hissed and turned electric blue. Some sparks landed on nearby crates, setting the corners ablaze. Albus felt a convulsive shudder run the length of his body; it lifted him several inches into the air, then dropped him onto the earth again. He was vaguely conscious of a searing pain in his leg and an aching disappointment to find himself still alive. He felt a muffled thump and turned his head.
Grindelwald and Mireille had fallen beside him. The coils around them had dissolved into lines of black ash on their charred-looking robes. Both lay facedown, his body covering hers. There was a sickening odor in the air, as though someone had burned a pan full of something caustic.
Albus got to his feet; the pain in his leg made his knees buckle. Keeping his weight on one leg, he used the other to shove Grindelwald's body off Mireille's. It rolled over, face-up. Grindelwald's eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Black blood ran from his nose and the corner of his mouth. Albus heard a stifled gasp escape Riddle and glanced up at him; his blue eyes were alight with fury.
"You," he said to Riddle in a deadly monotone. "I'm going to kill you." He started toward him, hands outstretched. He saw fear in Riddle's eyes; then (he could have sworn he saw this, though he thought later he might have imagined it) Riddle's eyes flashed a hideous red. He Disapparated in a flash of green light, and Albus's fingers closed on empty space. He heard something wooden clatter to the floor. It was his wand. He bent, picked it up and looked at it oddly, as though he had never seen such a thing before. He stuck it in his pocket.
Numb with shock, Albus turned around and looked for a long moment at his motionless wife. Then he turned away again. He couldn't bear to turn her over and see her dead face. He didn't want to see her open, staring eyes, all the laughter in them stilled forever.
He stepped over her and knelt beside Grindelwald. Thrusting a hand into his robe, he found the Stone and pocketed it. He pried the wand from Grindelwald's clenched fingers, stood up and broke it over his right knee. Then, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he walked over and shook Hagrid awake.
"Mmm...wha' happened? Professor?" mumbled Hagrid dazedly. He shook his shaggy head. "Wha' happened?" His eyes were at the level of Albus's knees. "Professor, wha' happened t' yer leg?"
He looked down and saw without interest that the map Riddle had dropped was now a charred fragment. It was stuck to what remained of the skin above his left knee. It had burned through his robes and seared its glowing imprint of circles and lines onto his leg. He supposed he must have landed on it when he dove for the umbrella, and either the sparks or electrical fire had set it alight. He didn't much care one way or another. He shrugged in answer.
"Where are th' others? Wha' happened after I got knocked out?"
Albus could only point at the bodies on the floor. Then he leaned against the wall and put his face in his hands while Hagrid stumbled toward Mireille, bellowing, "Mrs. Dumbledore! Mrs. Dumbledore!" There was no pain like this in the world, he thought. It filled the universe and yet left it hollow and empty at the same time.
Then, as though from a great distance, he heard Hagrid shout, "Professor! She's alive! She's still alive!"
Albus whirled around, not feeling the pain in his leg and his broken nose. "What?" he gasped. Hagrid had turned Mireille over and was holding her tenderly. Albus crossed the tunnel in two wide paces and knelt next to them. He saw Mireille's eyelids flutter, then close again.
"Oh my god," breathed Albus. "Oh my god--she is alive! We've got to get her to St. Mungo's right away." He rose. "You hold her, Rubeus; my leg can't take the extra weight. I'll hold your hands and we'll Disapparate." He took a deep breath, then caught it halfway down his throat. He grabbed Hagrid's umbrella from the puddle, then waved it over the crates, whispering, "Reparo!" The fires extinguished themselves, and the wood looked as untouched as when they'd first entered the tunnel. "She'd never forgive me if I let that art be destroyed," he said in answer to Hagrid's puzzled look. "The British Museum's her favorite place in London. Ready, then? Let's go."