Part 1: Tension

Albus looked down at the letter in his hand and sighed. His hand knocked against the mug of Best Matured Oak Mead as he fumbled for the drink, unwilling to look away from the looped handwriting. Things were getting bad.

While it had remained in Europe, Albus had been able to justify to himself not getting involved. It didn't affect his country. He had children to teach. Someone else would stop it before it got out of hand.

Then British witches and wizards were called out to help in the fight.

At first it was just a special band of overseas Aurors. The European branch, to be precise. They were just doing their jobs, it was nothing special. They knew the risks. Albus wasn't any sort of Auror. He had no obligation to go.

Then other Aurors started to leave. And powerful witches and wizards who couldn't bring themselves to sit back as others were hurt, even when it was in another country and they had children to care for. And young men and women looking for glory and a fight of good against evil, Light against Dark.

Albus's students.

And they wrote to him. Not to the Minister, not to their parents or the Aurors, not even to Headmaster Dippet. They wrote to Albus Dumbledore, begging him to help. They spoke of friends, students Albus had taught since they were eleven years old and looking around with wide, awed eyes, who had died in the fight and who had, in their last moments, as they asked to remembered to their parents and their loved ones, said 'tell Dumbledore I was brave'.

And Albus was sitting in office in a castle far away from the action, in a country that he knew would be safe, reading their letters and not helping them because he was too afraid to face his sister's death, his brother's hatred, his lover's betrayal.

He was sitting in Hogwarts reading the letter of his students, his children, who were dying in a fight that wasn't really theirs, and worrying about who was going to be Head Boy this year.

Dear Albus,

How are you? Is Charlus behaving himself? What about Lucy?

The views here are lovely. It's so nice to travel and see the country; it's such a pity about the circumstances.

The fight isn't going terribly well. Grindelwald is powerful and he's gaining more and more support — starting to branch out into America, even. I can't think why he's leaving Britain alone. A lot of people are fed up with the Muggles and their war, plus they've started hunting witches and wizards again. For fully trained adults it's not so bad, but three Muggle-borns (that we know of, there may be more) have been killed by neglect or abuse and there are a few who have seriously traumatised, but are at least now with wizarding families who will care for them.

The Prewetts lost a child. Why they decided to go on holiday to wizarding France during a war I don't know, but the littlest Prewett (my nephew, as it happens) wandered off and they found his body in the river a few hours later. It isn't clear whether Muggles or wizards killed him, but I don't think knowing would be much consolation to his parents.

Mia left us briefly to attend her brother's wedding. I thought that, perhaps, she would realise that it was safer there and she and Monty might return to England, but I realise that was foolish of me. A father's hopeful wishes, I suppose. It's unfair on them, really, when they're both old enough to make their own decisions, but I do wish they had had a chance to remain safe in England and not to get involved in a war with only very basic Auror training.

They're married now, a quick, quiet ceremony simply because neither wanted to die without being married (I remember Gertrude and me, when we first married…). Don't worry, you haven't missed it entirely, there will be a ceremony when we get back! If there wasn't, Gertrude would save Grindelwald the trouble of killing us.

I'm not going to beg you to join me. Although I'm not sure if we can win this fight without your help, I understand that you have your own reasons for not facing Grindelwald. I'm not going to try to pressure you or force you into a fight to the death you don't want. We're going to keep fighting until the end, win or lose. Just… if we don't make it back, take of Gertrude, please. Charlie and Lucy, too.

Give my love, and Monty and Mia's, to Charlus and Lucinda.

Yours sincerely,

Edmund Potter

Albus watched Tom Riddle wandlessly Transfigure his desk into a pig and sighed internally. The orphan boy was dangerously powerful. He had raw talent and a quick way of learning the skills he needed to utilise that talent. Albus had only ever known that twice before, and that story had no happy ending.

"Well done, Tom, ten points to Slytherin," Albus said. His smile reached his eyes. "Anyone else want to try?"

Only Marigolda Lestrange and Augusta Spinnet managed to Transfigure their desks wandlessly, after several tries, earning both Slytherin and Gryffindor a further five points each. Albus expected great, if potentially disturbing, things from Marigolda, and Augusta… Augusta had potential that he suspected she would waste on becoming a proper lady for whatever man was lucky enough to snag her (Albus was looking forwards to his invitation to the wedding of Augusta Spinnet and Harfang Longbottom). That wasn't entirely fair, Albus knew. Augusta would marry someone she loved and put her effort into raising any children she had, likely becoming a very efficient matriarch in the process.

It was a lot better than what Albus had wanted to do with his power.

Albus let his students out, still smiling. Fleamont Potter — a very observant little boy — had once asked if it hurt to keep smiling all the time. Albus had been quite honest when he'd said no, it didn't hurt. He had managed to train his facial features to smile slightly as a default expression, and he was so used to it now that it just didn't affect him.

Sometimes, though, it hurt emotionally, to smile when all he wanted to do was to not smile. To know that he could never let anyone in, never let anyone see that most of his smiles were fake.

Aberforth had once accused him of being a serial liar, of not knowing how to do anything but lie. He didn't know how right he was, Albus thought ruefully as he chatted merrily to Headmaster Dippet and occasionally glanced into the sea of students eating dinner to wink at one of them.

Dear Albus,

All alive and well here, thankfully. We've got a little girl staying with us now — I'm sure you remember Mia's habit of adopting first-years? Her name's Olive Garden, Mia and Monty found her after an attack on a Muggle neighbourhood they were visiting. Everyone else was dead.

Grindelwald's using Ezraca Carrow's old spell. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I don't know how else to say it. I knew we were in trouble, knew he was powerful, knew we might not win, but this…

This is something else.

Monty's still confident, but I think he's the only one of us who is. Mia (I'm sure you remember her rather dodgy uncle) and I gave him an abbreviated version of the story, but he doesn't seem scared. Still believes that we will win because we have something to fight for.

Grindelwald's fighting for something as well. It's just not something we want to see him achieve.

Well, that's enough of the gloomy stuff. I'm glad to hear that Charlie's made a new friend, even if he is terrorising you. At least all you have to deal with is mischievous students. Also, do tell Lucy that she is not allowed a boyfriend until seventh year — Mia was kind enough to remind me that this might now be a concern (although I don't think that this was what she expected to happen), so I thought I'd have you warn her pre-emptively that both Monty and I are already planning what we'll do to any boy who messes with her!

I'm delighted to hear that Augusta and Harfang are planning to get properly engaged pretty soon. I know it's been a dear wish of her mother for a very long time and I'm looking forwards to the wedding. Give them my congratulations and tell them to make sure it doesn't clash with Mia and Monty's, because we'd hate to have to miss it!

Look at me, desperately making plans that I might not be able to follow through. I think I'm in denial about this whole thing.

I don't want to think about what will happen if we lose, Albus. Meeting Olive has reminded me of what's at stake here, of what we'll lose if Grindelwald wins. Seeing her with Monty and Mia — I don't want to think that they might never get to have children of their own.

Love from your old friend,

Edmund Potter

There was a storm brewing. Dark clouds swirled in the sky, centring on a fortress made of dark stone blocks, stood on a sharp, shagged cliff above a boiling ocean. The words For The Greater Good were just visible via their shadows in the dim light of the dark sky. Two figures, dressed in dark, billowing robes, stood on the battlements above the gate, listening to the sounds of screaming prisoners and crashing waves and roaring wind.

"It's so melodramatic," one of the figures moaned.

"No one asked you," Gellert Grindelwald, Dark Lord of Europe, retorted.

"Well, they should have," Carlos Iskalas, his second in command, huffed. "Really, Gellert, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking back to basics," Gellert explained. "Something that we know scares people. Really, we don't need something new and original that might not even have the desired effect. Clichés are clichés for a reason."

"You spent two days researching a spell that would sound like people screaming in pain. And when you couldn't find one — because, really, who needs a spell to make it sound like people are screaming — you made one up yourself."

"I'm not seeing the problem here," Gellert admitted. "It's not like I spent all that time just looking for one spell. I found some very nice other spells as well."

Carlos sighed. "Remind why I'm here."

"Because you love me," Gellert said, grinning his most swoon-worthy grin. "And also I can offer you power the likes of which no other wizard can."

"Yes to the second," Carlos said. "No to the first."

Gellert staggered dramatically, clutching at his chest. "You wound me!"

Carlos sighed again. How someone so childish and overdramatic could raze entire towns without even lifting his wand (and the wand… the only reason Carlos hadn't slit Gellert's throat and made away with it was because he knew it would be his neck under the knife) was beyond him. Still, Gellert was right about the power. Carlos would put up with a lot for that sort of power. Clichéd evil villain scenes were only the tip of the iceberg.

"Can we go inside?" Carlos asked. "I know they've seen us and it's freezing out here. We have actual work to do."

"We have to wait until they leave," Gellert said. At Carlos's long-suffering sigh he continued, "That's actually good advice, Iskalas. We don't want them to know the entrance to the inside from the battlement."

"It's always hard to tell what's good advice and what's showboating, with you," Carlos said.

"It's all good advice," Gellert said, sounding offended. Carlos rolled his eyes and looked out into the dark night.

The scouting group Gellert was putting on a show for didn't seem to be going anywhere. They were attempting to hide behind a ledge of rock half a mile away, but Carlos had rigged a few spells in that perfect hiding spot and he and Gellert could see the group and hear their conversation perfectly. They appeared to be franticly discussing whether it would be a good idea to just go for it or to report back and make up a plan.

Lightening flashed. The perfectly timed and positioned bolt of electricity lit the two figures from behind, sending their larger-than-life shadows skimming across the ground to land over the scouting group. The rolling thunder carried an echo of Gellert's laughter across the intervening space.

"Do you think he'll come?" Carlos asked, not looking at his commander.

"I thought he would have come before," Gellert admitted. "I don't think I can judge what he will or will not do anymore."

"Will you go to him, if he doesn't?"

"Perhaps. When the time is right to move into Britain."

Aberforth slammed the pint glass on the counter. Frothy Butterbeer splashed down the sides of the already rather dirty cup. Albus winced.

Aberforth bustled away, busying himself with cleaning mugs and glasses with a cloth that seemed to simply be smearing the dirt around. Although he was obviously trying to control himself, temperance had never really been his forte.

Maybe he shouldn't have come here. Maybe he should have continued pretending that he didn't know his brother had bought a pub in the village right beside the school Albus worked in. Maybe he should just have gone to the Three Broomsticks like the rest of the staff.

But… Aberforth was still his brother. Albus had not always been the best older sibling and he knew that he would never be able to make amends for that. He would never even be able to prove to Aberforth how sorry he was. But he could still try.

"How's business?" Albus asked, slightly awkwardly.

Aberforth grunted. He had moved further away, doing something in a dim corner of the bar.

Albus looked around. He was the only person in the pub.

"Quiet night?"

"It's always quiet," Aberforth muttered.

Albus nodded. He fell silent again. For lack of anything else to do, he raised his Butterbeer to his lips and sipped. It tasted sour and old, like Aberforth had flavouring it with the urine of the goats he'd always been so fond of. He drank it all anyway.

"Still hiding in your castle?" Aberforth asked abruptly.

Albus panicked. He didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to acknowledge it, didn't want to think about it. Even telling the story to a stranger wasn't as bad as this. With a stranger, he could limit the tale, could leave out the little details that he hated to linger on, the details that Aberforth knew so well and cared about so much.

"I'm still working at Hogwarts," he said, hoped Aberforth left it at that.

Aberforth snorted. "Teaching children that there's a right and wrong… teaching children to get involved in fights that don't concern them."

"I teach Transfiguration," Albus said. His heart was pounding and he felt sick. Maybe he shouldn't have drunk the Butterbeer.

He knew it was not the Butterbeer that was making him feel ill.

Aberforth snorted again.

The two Dumbledores fell silent, let the secrets swell around them and swallow them up. Did you know? Albus asked silently. I suspected, Aberforth replied.

Albus tapped his glass on the counter. The dim lighting of the Hog's Head reminded him of the house in Godric's Hollow, of the silence that would come billowing in, echoing, smothering, after Arianna had screamed herself to sleep. Of the nights when Albus would slip out of the house and…

Now he embraced the silence, the awkwardness, every feeling of this is my fault. He had brought this on himself. He had only himself to blame.

"Too much of a coward to face him?" Aberforth asked.

Albus did not reply. They both knew that the answer was yes.

Aberforth spat on the floor. "I never understood how you made it into Gryffindor."

"Those idiots," Gellert seethed. "Those noble, righteous, irritating British idiots. This war doesn't even concern them! Damn them."

Carlos carefully smoothed the front of his robes. He'd had to change; there had been an unexpected dispatchment of British Aurors waiting to prevent their latest attack and Carlos was fairly sure he would be sneezing for at least a week. He had to admit that he'd been lucky. The Brits were highly trained and had spent so long fighting in the cities and mountains of Europe that they knew the terrain quite as well as any local wizards and witches Grindelwald could send against them.

This time the fighting had been in Rome. An hour of frantic duelling, of carnage, of destruction, of never knowing from which way an attack would come, of death. They wanted Carlos gone above all others, except perhaps Gellert himself, and there had been a few moments when the attack had become little more than a manhunt, with Iskalas the prey. It was not a position he was used to finding himself in.

"And you're sure about Gisori?" Gellert asked. "He couldn't have been merely injured, or faking it?"

"He was quite definitely dead," Carlos said. "He hit the ground quite hard. The Potter boy tried to catch him, I think, but he failed. I suppose they wanted him for questioning. Had that seemed likely to occur I would have killed him myself."

"Misplaced sense of right and wrong," Gellert said. "It's a British thing. I remember Albus…"

He faltered. Carlos repressed a sigh. Lately Gellert's thoughts had been drifting to old lover more and more often. It was the Aurors, Carlos was sure: most of them had been educated by Albus Dumbledore or were his friends. Some had been at school with him. Gellert seemed determined to believe that Dumbledore was responsible for their presence in Europe. He would alternate between gleeful delight that Albus had remembered him and thunderous rage that the wizard would not come and face him personally. Carlos, well acquainted with his master's tumultuous mood swings, avoided the topic of Albus Dumbledore. It irritated him that Gellert could not seem to see past his history with the man; it endangered their whole vision.

But Gellert had found Carlos wasting his talent in a small clerk's office in the Belgian Ministry of Magic, so bored he was considering murdering everyone he worked with and himself just to end the misery, and given him a purpose. He had taught him to use his magic. He had guided him onto this path. Everything Carlos now had he owed to Gellert. He would not betray Grindelwald simply because he could not forget the wizard who had nurtured his plans and filled his heart.

Later, the crimes and depravity of Carlos Iskalas would be debated and revealed and exaggerated at length across the world. Somehow, in the heated debates of which act had been heinous and uncomfortable, it was forgotten that Iskalas had been fiercely loyal until the very end.

Dear Albus,

Happy Halloween! What kind of a show are the ghosts putting on this year? Is it as good as that one time when — Monty is reading over my shoulder, so I'll just have to hope you remember! He says that he's hopeful he's finally figured out how to get you tell him (I don't have the heart to say it's not going to happen).

Little Olive has become somewhat of a fixture in this house. She's the favourite of us all, always making our days just that bit more fun. It's worrying, having a child in a war zone, but it does keep everything from simply becoming a combination of morbid despair and desperate love.

We've had a few spots of good luck recently. The American deputation has arrived. They can be annoying — can't use the right names for things for the life of them and can't make a decent cup of tea ever — but they are at least helping us push back against Grindelwald. At this rate we stand a chance!

Grindelwald's lost his left-hand man. We couldn't get at Iskalas, unfortunately, but Gisori's dead. Fell off a building and couldn't cast a spell in time. Monty tried to catch him, but it was a full-on fight, so he was a little distracted.

We lost two Boots and Clarence Abbott. I think Clarence had two children at Hogwarts — I enclosed the last letters he tried to write and never managed to send. Will you give them to his children?

Send my love to Lucy and Charlie,

Your friend,

Edmund Potter

Aberforth scanned the bar. It was quite full tonight. Three separate drinkers sat at the bar. Two people, heavily muffled, sat in a corner. Another person sat by the door, scanning anyone who entered. There was no sign of Albus.

Aberforth didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved.

Gellert looked at the photo he was holding and sighed. Albus looked young in the photo, far younger than any of the pictures that Gellert had seen in newspapers since. He was smiling as well, jokingly shrugging off the arm that the photo-Gellert was trying to sling over him. Gellert had not seen him looking that relaxed for years. He had not seen him at all for years.

"Gellert?"

He looked up. Carlos was peering into the room, his black hair slightly untidy, as though he'd just gotten out of bed. His green eyes were bleary and he was frowning.

"You should be in bed," he said. "It's nearly two and there's a lot to do tomorrow."

"I'll go to bed soon, Iskalas," Gellert said, turning away. "Get some beauty sleep, Merlin knows you need it."

His right-hand man rolled his eyes and drew his head back, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Gellert looked at the photo and sighed. He stood up and left the room.

It was only when he was in bed that he realised he had forgotten to put the picture back in its box.

Albus Transfigured a spare chair in his classroom into a fully decorated Christmas tree, complete with flashing lights, swathes of coloured tinsel, and huge, garish baubles. The third-years he was currently teaching gasped and cheered in delight. Albus smiled.

He liked to see his students happy. Perhaps it was because he had always struggled with children that he had found himself trying so hard at Hogwarts just to win a laugh in class, to help a pupil asking for aid with homework, to catch an overheard comment in the corridors about how Dumbledore was their favourite teacher.

As the students scrambled past his desk into the hall, eager to be free of their last lesson before the holidays, Albus presented each of them with a sack full of sweets. There were Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Liquorice Wands, Pumpkin Pasties, Fizzing Whizzbees, Droobles' Best Blowing Gum, and all the other little sweets that children loved so much.

Their cries of "Merry Christmas!" and "Happy New Year!" faded as the last boy left the room. Albus sighed softly to himself and started gathering up the papers that had been handed in.

As he left the room he glanced back at the Christmas tree in the corner. His fingers twitched to his wand, the incantation on his lips, but he paused. The Dumbledores had never really celebrated Christmas. The bright lights and loud singing of the neighbourhood had been bad enough for Ariana, who liked to avoid noise and light wherever possible. Kendra had tried, at first. She'd saved up and bought Albus his favourite Transfiguration books, Aberforth something to help him with the goats, Ariana pretty little trinkets she found at the market. In return, Albus would spend the day in hiding in his room and Ariana would be crotchety because of the cold and the constant celebrations of their Muggle neighbours. Only Aberforth would trail through Muggle shops, avoiding awkward questions, to find a loose scarf or pair of gloves.

Aberforth had always been the good brother, Albus knew that now. He'd thought himself so superior because he was so much cleverer than little Aberforth, who was perfectly content to run around after their tired mother and crazy sister and spend any free time he got with his dirty, smelly goats.

Albus sighed again and closed the classroom door behind him. He would have to get Aberforth something for Christmas. He wasn't sure his brother would even look at it, but he had to try. As though a Christmas present could make up for all that he done.

Dear Albus,

This is it, I guess. We have six months, maybe seven, to prepare. Grindelwald wants to attack in the summer. This is our final stand. One last desperate try.

The Alliance is… as strong as it's going to get. We're all here now, delegations from around the globe. We're all prepared to fight.

We have time before then. I can't put in a letter what we're planning, but I think he's already guessed that we're going to try to take him out before he's ready. I would be shocked if he hadn't. Whatever else he is, Grindelwald isn't stupid.

And it's because I have such a high opinion of his intelligence that I say I think we won't manage to stop him before the summer. We've had years, after all. Why should now be any different? In the last attempt, when it's make or break, we will either win or lose. For now… I think we'll probably maintain the equilibrium, not shift the power either way.

How's life at Hogwarts? How are my two younger children? Do they know they might be getting a little sister soon? We aren't sending Olive over yet — Mia can't bear to part with her — but before the summer, we will. It's not safe for her here. I don't want her falling into Grindelwald's hands.

I hope you've had a good Christmas. Ours was… surprisingly good. We weren't at home, so it wasn't everything I could have wished it to be, but at least Monty and Mia and I were together, and we had Olive and the Weasley lot and the Moody twins and everyone else. Mia made her famous Christmas pudding — honestly, you should have been here just for that. It was glorious.

You wrote that you were concerned about one of your students. I've heard nothing but good reports about Riddle, but I trust your judgement. If you say he'd a bit of a dodgy character, he's a bit of a dodgy character. Still, it doesn't seem reasonable to think that we might get another Dark Lord right after this one — during this one. If Riddle tries anything while Grindelwald's around, it'll either be by his say-so or he'll get stepped on pretty fast.

Good luck with teaching Charlie N.E.W.T. Transfiguration! You'll need it.

I think Gertie's planning a surprise for you, something in the way of a late Christmas present. I don't know what it is, and even if I did, I wouldn't dare tell you. Still, I hope you enjoy it, and the enclosed socks. Monty bought me some of these for Christmas and they're brilliant.

I'm sorry you're still struggling with Aberforth. I would hate for my two boys to have such a thorny relationship. Still, Christmas is a time for setting aside old quarrels and valuing the people you have, so I hope you managed to forget your differences for long enough to enjoy the holiday.

Hoping peace and happiness remain with you in Britain,

Your friend,

Edmund Potter

Albus was half-way through packing when a knock sounded at the door to his office. Sighing, he left his room and hurried through the small room where he did his marking and could be found if a student needed him.

It was Lucinda Potter, her blue eyes red as though she had been crying. In one hand she held a piece of paper. A quick glance told him that it was Edmund's handwriting.

He opened the door fully. "What's wrong, Miss Potter?"

She took a deep breath and let it out. Closed her eyes to try and hold back the tears.

"M-Monty's be-een h-hurt," she said.

Albus took the letter from her. Amidst reassurances and words of love, he did indeed find the news that Monty had taken a nasty spell during a fight.

Albus ushered her inside and pointed her to a seat.

"Sherbet lemon?" He asked.

She took one gingerly.

Albus sat down opposite her. "Your brother is fighting in a war, Lucy. Sometimes he's going to get hurt. Same for your father and Mia.

"But he's strong, they're all strong. And they have each other. So Monty got hurt now, but he's going to recover. Your father and Mia are going to help him recover — and, you know, if she's involved he won't dare not do so. Next time, if Mia gets hurt, or Edmund, then Monty'll help them recover. They'll all be coming home. And maybe they'll seem a little bit older, have jokes that you don't know, scars that tell stories you weren't there to see. But they'll all be coming home, safe and sound."

He spoke in an attempt to soothe his fifth-year student, but the words had an effect on him as well. He could feel himself calming down as he spoke them. Edmund and Fleamont and Euphemia were all strong and talented and brave. So were the others fighting with them. They might get a few knocks, but they would all be fine. They could win this war, if they worked together.

Albus had always been very good at lying, even — especially — to himself.

When Lucy had thanked him and hurried out of the office to get to Herbology, Albus returned to his room. The half-packed suitcase lay open on his bed.

He Banished the contents.

Albus gulped back the Firewhiskey. It burnt his throat.

He was going to have to face him. He couldn't keep putting it off and off. It was nearing summer, and the time Gel— Grindelwald had appointed for his takeover of Europe.

Albus wondered if he had set a time so Albus could seek him out, could find him and confront him. It sounded like something Gellert, the young Gellert he'd thought he'd known, would do.

He poured himself another glass of Firewhiskey. As a rule, he tended to stay away from this particular drink, keeping himself to Madam Rosmerta's Mead or fine wines. Sometimes, though… sometimes the burn was what he wanted.

Albus didn't drink much. He was a role model to all of his students and he couldn't let them think of him as a drunk old man. But it was a weekend, and he'd got more letters today, and he wanted so desperately to forget.

Instead, he remembered.

He remembered warm summer sunshine glinting off Gellert's gold curls. He remembered seeking his own cleverness, and his own knowledge of that cleverness, reflected back at him from bright eyes. He remembered Gellert's smile, his laughter. He'd been captivating, charming, and so interesting. Everything Albus had wanted at the time he'd wanted it most.

He'd wondered, sometimes, if It had ben purely coincidence that Gellert had appeared in that tiny, out of the way village precisely when Albus had been stuck there, resentful and lonely despite the presence of his siblings. Some cruel personification of fate seemed to have been laughing at him.

He'd thought that they would be forever, that he'd never lose the excitement that Gellert had provoked in him, that he'd never stop dreaming the dreams Gellert had encouraged.

Now Albus dreaded meeting him like he'd never dreaded anything else. It was as though he'd thought it would be a good idea to practise his Wronski Feint and now he just had to keep hurtling down to an inevitable meeting with the ground because he'd remembered he didn't know how to handle a broom. He just had to see it through and hope the broom knew better than he did.

Had Gellert found the wand? He wondered. It was possible. He hoped not. It would make things easier.

Albus went to pour himself another drink and stopped. It would do no good. He wasn't going to forget and he might as well avoid having to use up his Hangover Potions.

He just had to hope he had enough Gryffindor in him to do what needed to be done.

Dear Albus,

I don't know what to say. We thought that things had eased off a bit. Now...

Tell my children I love them. I don't plan to die, but just in case. If this is just Grindelwald's warm-up, I don't want to see his final play.

Monty keeps telling me I shouldn't be so gloomy. He says that, since he's the only one who has actually nearly died, I don't get to be the pessimistic one. I've told him that, as the old man, it's my job to leave optimism to the younger ones.

It's coming into spring now, and because things have been getting so bad, I've decided to send Olive over to England right away. If you pop in to see Gertrude sometime soon you'll meet her. She'd a delight.

She's known too much tragedy in her short life, but she's still such a bright light. I'm sure you'll love her.

I can't write much. I don't have anything good to say and I don't want to make you feel like you have to come over here. We'd appreciate the help, of course, but I'm sure we'll manage.

At least, I hope we will.

Sorry, trying to be optimistic is tiring and I'm having to do so all day for my children. You know how much danger we're in. I don't have to pretend to you.

I'm going to get my children back. Even if we fail, even if I die, I'm going to get Monty and Mia safely back to England. I will.

My love to Charlie and Lucy,

Your friend,

Edmund Potter

Grindelwald looked over the display of violence and brutality and curled his lip. Honestly, he wished such force wasn't necessary, that people would just accept that he was right and move on. But people had trouble with accepting what was right.

"Gellert, we should get moving," Carlos said.

Gellert glanced at his right-hand man. Carlos looked perfectly put together despite the carnage spread around them, wearing a smart Muggle suit with his dark hair combed back. He looked around them with a bored look.

"Don't I get a moment to appreciate my victory?" Gellert asked, a whine penetrating his voice.

Carlos sighed. Gellert smiled to himself. Carlos Iskalas had been a real find. An incredibly talented wizard stuck working as a clerk to a junior official in an out-of-the-way wizarding country? Not if Gellert had anything to say about it. Carlos was clever and skilled and not afraid of being vicious and perfectly able to deal with Gellert's moods without being afraid of him. He was no Albus Dumbledore, he was no equal, but he was a pretty good subordinate.

"Already," Gellert said dramatically. "If you absolutely insist, Iskalas."

Carlos raised an eyebrow and waited. Gellert grinned.

"I'm just going to clear up a bit here, I'll be with you in a minute."

Carlos nodded in acceptance and Apparated away.

Gellert cast one last look over the destruction. He performed a few quick spells to prevent anyone tracking them or identifying any of his unknown followers before Apparating to the meeting room where his most senior followers were waiting, headed by Carlos, with that same bored look on his face.