Disclaimer: I don't own either Harry Potter or the Dresden Files.

A/N: Wrote this over the course of the last three nights. Expect the next chapter to be up in 3-4 days. I plan to keep this pace for as long as I can, so don't expect updates to my other stories until this is done. Enjoy!

The manacles clinked around his wrists as he stepped out of the hole in space, and he sagged for a moment against the wall. The trip had been long and arduous, pushing him beyond any boundaries he thought he'd had in endurance.

The Warden stepped out right behind him, and gestured him forward, into the rune-lined hallway. "Nearly there, lad. I know it's been a long trip."

Albus nodded as he stepped forward. The maze seemed endless, he hadn't imagined its scale from the stories his father had carried home. Some time later, rough-hewn stone gave way to a dimly-lit antechamber.

A dozen or so wizards stood in a half-circle near the entrance. Albus could feel their magic pressing against him already, and he tensed. Some of them were no doubt Senior Council members. His life was in their hands, and he struggled not to give in to panic.

One of them came forward, a short, lean woman of middle age. Her eyes met his for a brief flicker of a second, passing no judgment, and turned to the Warden behind him. "Name?"

"Albus Dumbledore," the Warden replied. "Accused of violating the first law."

A cold weight settled on Albus, and he shook his head. It didn't even sound like they were going to allow him to present a defense.

The woman nodded and turned, motioning to one of the other wizards. He brought forth a frayed wizard's hat, peaked tip and all.

Without a word, he placed the hat on Albus's motionless head, and a note of confusion presented itself. This didn't seem like the prelude to a beheading, but he couldn't imagine why they'd be putting a hat on his head for any other reason, either.

Then it spoke, and the wind breathed through his mind.

So young.

Albus flinched with shock. The hat – for what else could it be – had spoken in his mind. His mind, the one place he knew he was safe in the world. Not even the White Council would dare violate him that way. Or so he had thought.

Violate? The wind seemed amused, now. You do not know what a violation is, boy. You have not seen the things I have seen wizards do. Though, perhaps...

The wind floated through him, gentle as a summer's breeze, and Albus considered resisting before discarding the notion. His mortality had reasserted itself, and anything that kept him alive a while longer was to be embraced.

Your sister, dead. The wind was serious as it continued. By your hand? Perhaps, but certainly not in malice. Defending your family. It's fairly clear, then...

"Innocent!" the hat shouted, out loud. "Exceedingly so! If Godric knew this was the work I was being put to, he'd have your head, Merlin!"

The hat was lifted off his head, and the manacles around his wrists were removed. Meanwhile, one of wizards in the half-circle was frowning. "I still say we should get rid of it."

Another, older wizard sighed. "You know we can't do that, no matter how convenient it would be. It's just bored. Though I doubt very much Godric would have cared nearly as much as it claims." His voice turned wry. "Even if he did, he'd have a difficult time getting my head."

Albus felt his curiosity peak. So this was the Merlin of the White Council.

The woman standing next to him spoke up. "Who's he going to?"

Going to? Were they going to foist him off as someone's apprentice? The only thing that kept him from speaking up was the knowledge of who he was standing before.

The Merlin turned to look at him, and Albus restrained a shiver. "With his power? I daresay Nicolas could use some excitement in his life, don't you?"

The woman blinked, but before she could say something, one of the wizards in the back of the group stepped forward. He was thin, and much younger looking than the rest of the assembly – perhaps fifty, but one never knew with wizards.

"I daresay I couldn't, actually," the wizard said. "I have quite enough to be getting along with. Why don't you give him to Rienson? Or Jordan? They've been politicking a bit too much for my tastes."

The Merlin shook his head. "We all know your opinions on Council politics, Nicolas. I'm sure I can make it worth your while."

Albus gave Nicolas, a second, considering glance. He looked awfully young to be on first-name terms with the Merlin... and to have to be bribed with favors? There was more to him than his appearance indicated, that much was clear.

Sparing a withering glance for the Merlin, Nicolas turned to Albus. "How old are you, boy?"

"Eighteen, sir," Albus replied, conscious of all the eyes on him.

"Off to a good start already, are we?" Nicolas muttered. "We'll be done in five years, Arthur. And you owe me another five, of silence. Come along, boy."

Albus hurried to catch up to the man.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus looked around in wonder, exhaustion shunted aside. That hadn't been his first time in the Nevernever, but he'd never traveled through it before.

"What's the matter, boy?" Nicolas asked, shucking off his robes. "Never been inside a house before?"

"Not like this," Albus answered, honesty surprised out of him.

Nicolas grunted, and motioned for him to take off his shoes. "You know the rules of lab safety, boy?"

Albus nodded. "Don't touch anything. Don't eat anything. Don't smell anything." Then, pausing a second, he added, "Don't listen to anything."

"That's right," Nicolas affirmed. "The same goes for the rest of the house. I live alone, so I tend to leave things lying around. Not to mention all the things that have gone missing over time. None of it ought to kill you, but, well... can't hurt to be too careful. I'll try to clean up some, but if you see something that looks like it oughtn't be there, come tell me."

Not waiting for a response, he opened a door to a long hallway. "Your room's down the hall, last on the left. Go get settled in. There's a few books to keep you until your collection gets delivered tomorrow. Meet me back here for dinner at eight."

Without another word, Nicolas walked through a door on his left and closed it behind him.

Dazed from the events of the day, Albus complied.

=(.o0O0o.)=

Albus stared at the neat handwriting in shock. He'd known the book was old, but this had to be an original copy of the Alchemist's Guide! He hadn't even known there were any left.

His eyes strayed to the author's name, and then it clicked.

Nicolas Flamel.

His mentor's name was Nicolas.

Albus swore. They'd placed him with Nicolas Flamel, famed alchemist, creator of the Philosopher's Stone? No wonder he was on first-name terms with the Merlin – he must have predated him by a good few centuries!

The lavish furnishings made much more sense, now. One could accumulate a great amount of wealth over the course of five hundred years. Flamel's disdain for politics seemed more rational as well.

Then Albus wondered what Flamel was doing, taking him on as an apprentice. He must have had better things to do – he'd even said as much to the Merlin.

The grandfather clock near his window indicated it was near time for dinner, so he put the book away with a quiet reverence and made his way out of his room.

Nicolas was already there when he stepped into the waiting room. Albus felt his attention catch on what he had thought to be insignificant details, earlier – the cut of the Alchemist's clothes, his facial features, the way he held himself. Just knowing who he was seemed to lend an air of heightened importance to his presence.

"So, finally figured it out, have you?" Nicolas asked, as they made their way to what Albus assumed was the dining room.

Albus opened his mouth, then closed it. Had it been that obvious? Nicolas seemed to find his predicament amusing, however, as he only laughed and motioned for Albus to sit down across from him the table.

"Don't worry, boy. That reaction's pretty common with the other young ones," Nicolas said, then began serving himself food from the table.

Albus frowned. He didn't want Nicolas thinking of him as common. His attention was displaced by the food on the table, however. He hadn't eaten all day and hunger was a demanding mistress.

The food was common country fare, though well-prepared. Albus supposed that if he lived alone, he'd learn to cook well in a timely manner as well.

Having eaten his fill, Albus cast about for a topic of conversation. What did one talk about with the oldest wizard alive, a living legend?

Nicolas took the decision out of his hands. "So, boy. Tell me a bit about yourself."

Albus blinked. "Like what, sir?"

Nicolas made a vague motion with his free hand. "Your magic, of course. Everything else I can figure out myself."

Or isn't important, Albus thought, filling in the subtext. There was little resentment at the thought. Nicolas did need to know about his magic to teach him, after all.

"Well," Albus began, "I prefer air-based evocations. I know how to construct a standard binding circle. I can brew a few standard potions, and follow recipes for most others perfectly well."

"Ever improvised in your brewing?" Nicolas interrupted.

"No, sir," Albus answered. "At least, I've never tried to make my own potion. Sometimes I've had to make do with alternate ingredients, but..."

"Yes," Nicolas said with an approving nod. "That can be unavoidable. As for new potions, it's good that you haven't tried any yet. You'd have blown yourself up, like as not." At this, Nicolas gave Albus an intense look. "If you do want to try, come to me first. If I think it's workable, you'll do it under my supervision."

Albus nodded, startled. "Thank you, sir." Being allowed to experiment was a generosity that he had not expected.

Nicolas waved the thanks away. "Best way to learn is by experience. Not that I won't have you doing any reading, of course." Stabbing a potato with his fork, Nicolas looked at Albus. "You do like to read, don't you?"

"Of course, sir," Albus replied. Who didn't like to read? "If I may ask, sir..."

"You may," Nicolas responded, motioning for Albus to continue.

Albus hesitated for a short second. "You don't seem very interested in the affairs of the Council, sir."

Nicolas gave him a grim smile. "That wasn't a question." Sitting back in his chair, he sighed. "But you're right, I'm not. It's a bit of a story, boy. Are you willing to hear it?"

Albus nodded, anticipation overriding his surprise at the wizard's openness.

"Well," Nicolas said, mulling over the word like a fine wine. "I suppose the story begins when I was born. More importantly, what happened just a few decades before that. The death of Ignotus Peverell."

Albus jerked, and Nicolas gave him an appraising glance. "Heard of him, have you?"

Albus nodded, lips pressed together in silent pain.

"Good," Nicolas said. "That makes this a bit shorter. At any rate... by the time of my birth, the Elder Wand had already traveled from one master to another, to another, and to another, leaving behind a trail of dead bodies. All talented wizards, all of the Council. One was even a Senior Council member. The Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility were passed down quietly along their bloodlines, but the Wand kept everyone's attention firmly on the Hallows, and the power they represented. Immortality, they said, for one who possessed all three." Nicolas scoffed. "Fools. Even if it was true, what kind of life would it be, running forever from those who would take it from you?"

Albus commiserated with a silent sigh.

"So," Nicolas continued, taking a drink from his glass. "Death, necromancy, and immortality were on everybody's mind. Every wizard who grew up in the era was raised on stories of the Hallows – some showing their horrors, others glorifying them. I was no exception, though my parents had the sense to force me to think about it myself. By the time I was nearing my first century, the stories had quieted down some, though a gang of necromancers had rumors stirring. So I had a lot on my mind when I was in my lab one day, trying to make an experimental potion." His gaze pinned Albus. "You know that the most important part of a potion is the intent behind the ingredients. Of course, it was still an accident that I made the Philosopher's Stone, as they call it." He closed his eyes, as if remembering some far-away thing. "Once I figured out what it was, I made the mistake of telling a friend of mine on the Council. It got out pretty quickly after that, and nobody would leave me alone. The Senior Council demanded the secret, never mind that I wouldn't tell them even if I knew how I'd done it. They left it alone after a few years, but all the subtle hints and suggestions got to me over the next century."

Albus slumped back in his chair, stunned. One of the greatest minds the world of magic had ever seen had been driven away for not knowing how he'd made his great creation. The irony was staggering.

"And this is why I won't have you experimenting without me, boy," Nicolas said to the silence around them. "Won't have you with that sort of weight around your neck."

=(.o0O0o.)=

"Patience!" Nicolas barked.

Albus huffed in frustration, closing his eyes again. He was being patient! The bloody magic just wasn't cooperating.

He heard a sigh, and opened his eyes.

"Look, lad," Nicolas said, "you can't force this magic to work. It's not like your regular spellcasting. If you force yourself into it, you'll just be channeling magic through yourself – and end up with one hell of a headache. Honestly, I wouldn't even be trying to teach you this if I hadn't seen some of what you were capable of doing with the air already."

At the oblique glance Nicolas gave him, Albus flushed. He'd only been practicing, and the crater in the ground had been an accident. He wasn't even sure how it had happened, he'd meant to create a sculpture of leaves held in the air, but then he'd gotten distracted. His sculpture of leaves had ended up being a sculpture of dirt, which he thought was almost as good.

Until he had to shovel it back in, of course.

Forcing himself to relax, he closed his eyes again and tried to feel out the currents of magic flowing through the air around him. It was unlike any magic he'd done before. He wasn't supposed to use his own magic to have the air do his bidding, as Nicolas had said earlier. He was trying to suborn the magic already there, meld his will onto it, and grant him much finer control of the wind than he would have otherwise.

Letting his magic rise to his skin, he tried to ignore Nicolas' magic pressing against him like the heat from a hearth-fire. He tried to focus not on the wind on his skin, but what was beneath it, the current that swept along with it, the magic that sung like tinkling bells-

Feeling a surge of excitement, he commanded it to rise in a glorious tower, only to be knocked flat on his back. His magic had taken his command and lept with it, pushing him over and scattering the fragile connection he'd felt with the wind.

His groan of frustration was cut short by Nicolas' soft laughter. "Chin up, boy. I could see that you nearly had it there. And as I said before, patience. Get too excited and you'll blow it all to pieces."

Sitting up, Albus brushed off the leaves and bits of grass that had landed on him. "But how am I supposed to do it? It just doesn't want to listen!" He knew his voice had risen to a whine by the end, but this was getting ridiculous. The wind was far too stubborn for something that had so little substance.

He looked up, only to see Nicolas focused on some point in the distance. A second later, a gust of wind knocked him flat on his back. Again.

"What was that for?" he asked, not getting up from the ground. It was more comfortable than falling over every few minutes, anyways.

"You aren't listening, boy," Nicolas said, a hint of irritation creeping through his tone. "I've been telling you for an hour that you can't force it. That doesn't just mean that you can't use your own magic. You have to convince the wind to do what you want – seduce it to your will, not bend it or break it. The second you push, it flies apart. I know you can do it, but you need to stop focusing so much on your own power and more on the wind's. Any two-bit hedge wizard could do this, if they had the wit and the patience for it. You've got the wit." A snort escaped Nicolas, then. "The patience, I'm not so sure about."

Albus smothered the heat that crept up his cheeks, and submerged himself again. Maybe if he focused on something else, he'd be able to feel the song of the wind dancing on his skin again. The magic running through the ground, for example. A smooth current, relentless and unflagging, the power of which was staggering. He didn't dare try to tap the leyline running under the house – not without extensive preparation beforehand, at least, but it was fine for holding his attention.

It held his attention so well, in fact, that he almost didn't recognize the song skittering around him. When he noticed it, he just sat there for a minute, listening to the way it moved around him and everything else. It was complex, but not beyond his understanding. More interesting, though, were the patterns he began to find in it the longer he listened. They weren't patterns that were doing anything, exactly, but more a sense that yes, this belonged here, and this didn't, but it would just move around and above, and Albus thought that perhaps the leaves littering the ground would look better like this-

Albus opened his eyes, and for a second, his father stood in perfect glory above him, brown and brittle and made of leaves, but the second his attention left the wind, it left him as well, and the sculpture collapsed with it.

"Well," came Nicolas' impressed voice from beside him. "That was something, let me tell you. Didn't expect you to pick up for another week, at least.

Albus turned to look at him, still stunned from the magic, not comprehending the compliment. Nicolas continued on, oblivious. "Maybe we'll move a bit faster with your schedule, eh? Go straight to playing with earth – oh, will you need your patience there."

Albus blinked, and nodded. He could be patient, if it brought him results like this. He would be patient.

For knowledge.