The calm before the storm: this was the only way to describe the magic in the air. The towers of Hogwarts were basking in the morning sun. One would have claimed they were breathing: every time the waters of the loch rippled against the shore, the rhythm called deep breaths to mind. Even the Whomping Willow's silhouette stood dark and still in the distance. Awake or asleep, though, the castle did not lose its sentience; magic thrummed in its grounds like a pulse under skin, more turbulent than ever. The signs of unrest had been present since June: the prophecy of a Seer come true, the symbolic resurrection of a man believed dead, the marked solemnity of the centaurs, the Dark aura imparted by the Dementors… Magic left traces, and Hogwarts retained everything.
Albus pressed a palm against the metal gate. It was vibrating with protective wards, which had formed a solid if transparent barrier around the school. In spite of his preoccupation, he smiled—coming to Hogwarts at the end of summer was a wondrous experience the passing years could not dim. It could be compared to rousing a dear friend from sleep and watching him enjoy the new day.
The moment the gate slid open, Fawkes released his shoulder to take flight. Having made Hogwarts his home, the phoenix found it difficult these days to linger in their spartan London flat, which had witnessed some of their loneliest years. Albus followed in his wake, his cloak gliding over the gravel path. The wind never quite abated here; chilly and penetrating, it attacked every inch of exposed skin. While the headmaster had come to consider it a part of the beautiful landscape—a pleasant part, indeed—he found himself wondering whether his guests would feel at ease in this wilderness. The remarkable events ahead were the reason he was returning to his office much earlier than usual.
For a few seconds, the Entrance Hall offered a forlorn sight, unlit and deserted as it was. Then, in unison, the torches sprang to life, and the cheerful spirits of the Fat Friar and Sir Nicholas came floating to welcome him back. The truth was, the castle had not been uninhabited since its construction: apart from a number of house-elves and the countless small creatures it housed, it served as a refuge as much as a trap to its ghosts. Perhaps was this the school's Darkest aspect. Intent on greeting the more withdrawn ghosts at their convenience, Albus proceeded towards the stone gargoyle that guarded his office. The walls were pulsating with life at this point, the portraits' chatter rising over the creak of the moving staircases. Peeves's cackle echoed from a nearby nook, where an enchanted suit of armour had stationed itself.
"It's good to see you, headmaster," the gargoyle said upon Albus's touch.
"I'm happy to see you too, old friend. Let this year's password be… Cockroach Clusters." The corners of his mouth twitched; he loved alliteration.
His office looked as though he had never departed: by virtue of the elves' thorough care, it was aired and spotless. A rather sleepy chorus of salutations poured from his predecessors' paintings. Behind the window, Fawkes's fiery shape was streaking gracefully across the sky; as if in response, a tentacle broke the shimmering surface of the lake, waving, it seemed, at the new arrivals.
Albus turned back towards his desk. He could tell, even without the outer signs, something was brewing, though this presentiment could not be rationally explained. What troubled him in particular were the ominous rumours from Albania: word had it sinister magic had recently been perpetrated there. According to a more solid report still, this was where a witch had disappeared without a trace.
"Five minutes until the scheduled meeting with Bartemius Crouch," a voice rang out behind him.
"Thank you, Everard."
With a sigh, Albus emptied his briefcase of parchment. Letters, and more letters: from the Ministry, from the heads of the two competing schools, from Arthur Weasley (Harry, it announced, had safely arrived to the Burrow and would be attending this evening's Quidditch World Cup—Albus hoped the boy would enjoy every minute of it), and from Sirius Black. That one, delivered by an exotic bird, confirmed the young man was safe, and as such, it had to be concealed with special care. Fortunately, Barty Crouch did not possess a magical eye; as far as Albus knew, this unique artefact still belonged to Moody, who would sooner die than share its secrets.
The embers hissed in the grate, and the fire glowed green. A figure materialised in the hearth, revolving rapidly. Barty Crouch had barely changed since tragic circumstances had robbed him of his family: he remained just as brisk and terse, determined to prove himself the master of any situation. Albus, who had personally seen the consequences of Crouch's ruthlessness, despised the man. Negotiating with those he detested, however, had become an inevitable part of his routine, and his experience was vast enough to allow him to maintain a pleasant façade when he would have liked nothing more than to hex the Ministry official.
"Good morning, Barty," he said, coming forth.
"Dumbledore." Crouch shook the proffered hand. "I trust you've had a good holiday. As you know, we need to finalise a few details concerning the Triwizard Tournament."
"Please have a seat." Aware his visitor could not be any less interested in courtesies, Albus sat down at his desk. "I have everything ready. Would you care for a cup of tea?"
"I'm not here to drink tea, Dumbledore," the other wizard declared irritably. "We need to discuss the means by which the foreign delegations will access the grounds. You have been in correspondence with Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, correct? I presume they wish to resort to their customary modes of transportation."
"Quite so." Crouch's impatience with their meeting was amusing; did he find it physically intolerable to breathe the same air as a suspected sympathiser of Dark wizards? Albus kept his expression straight. "Madame Maxime has informed me her Abraxan horse-drawn carriage will land at Hogwarts during the evening hours of October 30th. It is equipped with a variety of Extension Charms and will host the Beauxbatons party for the duration of the Tournament. Igor Karkaroff is bringing his candidates on the same evening on board of the Durmstrang Ship, which will be anchored in the Black Lake. I've assigned two divisions of house-elves to tending to their needs."
Crouch gave a curt nod. "We'll need to temporarily lift major enchantments from the Hogwarts grounds. I will, of course, have Aurors positioned here for as long as it takes for the delegations to settle in. Which brings me to another point." He leaned back. "Security has been rather slack at Hogwarts, wouldn't you agree, Dumbledore? Or do you happen to have an idea how a dangerous yet wandless Dark wizard such as Sirius Black could repeatedly invade the area and escape?"
They had reached the true motive behind this meeting more swiftly than Albus had anticipated. This explained why, instead of summoning him to the Ministry, Barty Crouch had arranged for this conversation to be held inside the castle, where Sirius's flight had occurred. Not only was it a show of power, a reminder that Albus's territory was his to hold only for as long as the Ministry tolerated it; it was also an attempt at clarifying the mystery. Fudge may have easily believed Sirius had escaped by means of unprecedented Dark magic; Crouch, on the other hand, was not deceived. And he regarded it as a slight. Sirius had been his prisoner to condemn, his Dark wizard to destroy.
"None at all, Barty," Albus replied. "The Minister and I resorted to all the measures of security we had at our disposal. Yet far from yielding results, the Dementors tried to attack two innocent students."
"The very same students who had found themselves alone with the said criminal without your knowledge? The Minister told me as much. It only emphasises my concern, Dumbledore." Crouch narrowed his eyes. "How come three students were able to leave the castle after curfew, unsupervised and vulnerable? Is it not your duty as this school's headmaster to ensure students' safety?"
"My understanding is that they were distressed about the hippogriff's impending execution and desperate to offer Hagrid their support," Albus said calmly. "In so doing, they disregarded his express orders, as well as mine. I have always considered my responsibility towards students' safety to be my greatest priority, Barty. But I cannot control wizards' emotions."
For an instant, Crouch simply gazed at him. There was no avoiding it: a painfully vivid memory formed in Albus's mind. He pictured a younger, more powerful, more belligerent Bartemius Crouch towering before him in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—Crouch from nearly thirteen years ago, at the peak of his career, and bent on sending Sirius to Azkaban.
"You, of all wizards, would know how to twist the Minister's perception," Crouch objected. "I've no doubt this is what you said to appease him. But you and I both know you have always expressed sympathy towards Dark wizards. It doesn't matter to you that Sirius Black betrayed his best friends, excluding the werewolf, before murdering a dozen innocent Muggles and who knows how many others." He smiled mirthlessly. "But for the sake of the argument, let us assume those students were out of your control. Why wasn't anyone left on duty to guard Sirius Black while one of your professors was detaining the Minister? "
"It was nearing midnight," Albus stated. "It felt excessive to wake a member of staff when the office holding Black had been carefully sealed and had its window locked. Besides, he was only alone for a few minutes. As for Severus Snape 'detaining' the Minister—no one in the world wishes to see Sirius Black captured more vehemently than Severus."
The grim smile widened. It contained a hint of something feral, something insane almost—a familiar smile.
"Ah, yes, Severus Snape. Another Dark wizard you have personally vouched for. Curious, your habit of providing excuses for former Death Eaters. And how does it so happen that Black's escape produced no commotion? Someone must have heard something. Even if the hour was too late for the staff to patrol, I'd have surmised ghosts were on duty. And why, of all places, did you choose to detain Black in such a remote office while waiting for the Dementors?"
It was patent Crouch had reverted to his ingrained interrogation practice. Had he been authorised to, he would have dragged Albus to the Ministry without batting an eyelash. The headmaster maintained a smoothly courteous tone. Never lose your temper was one of his most precious learnings.
"Professor Flitwick was out that evening, and his office was perfect in my view: it's situated on the seventh floor and has a single narrow window, which makes it inaccessible from outside. In addition, it was disconnected from the Floo Network after several cases of magical malfunction. To answer your former questions, the ghosts were patrolling as usual, and no commotion was heard until we discovered he was gone."
More inquiries descended in a rapid succession, all designed to catch him off guard.
"You are considered by many the greatest wizard of our time, are you not? How do you reckon he escaped? Surely you have an idea."
"That title is both exaggerated and uncalled for." Having never fully recovered from the event that had earned him this accursed reputation, Albus made a conscious effort to keep his memories at bay. "My ideas are many, each as unlikely as the next. In retrospect, I wouldn't exclude a powerful Disillusionment Charm."
Crouch tilted his head to a side. "So you are suggesting he might have just walked out. How could he possibly have managed such a powerful spell without a wand? Don't you think it far more likely he got help? Tell me, Dumbledore: who could have helped him? Remus Lupin?"
"Barty, you know Remus Lupin suffers from lycanthropy," Albus pointed out softly. "It was full moon. I'm positive no one at Hogwarts helped Sirius Black."
"Not even Harry Potter?" Crouch paused, his expression shrewd. "Did you leave him alone at any given time? The Minister told me he was under a powerful Confundus Charm. This, combined with—from what I've heard—his tendency to disobey authority makes him a very strong suspect."
"Confundus Charm or not, Harry Potter was placed under Madam Pomfrey's supervision as soon as we left the hospital wing." The headmaster leaned in. "If Sirius Black is capable of a wandless Confundus Charm, what is to suggest he couldn't cast other spells wandlessly too?"
"He could have stolen Potter's wand." There was veiled venom in Crouch's voice. "Or any other student's, for that matter. I don't suppose you thought of checking wands, though it would have been an obvious thing to do."
"Had this been the case, Barty, a wand would have been found on Sirius Black. But the children's wands were accounted for, all of them unmarked by illegal spellwork." Albus went on, his intonation deliberately light. "I hope you are not about to propose that we start treating all the students as potential suspects and collecting their wands."
It was fortunate indeed looks could not kill. Behind his glower, Crouch was weighing his options, searching for more loopholes. Still, the message in the headmaster's words had not gone unnoticed: Hogwarts was not a part of the Ministry's playground.
By another stroke of luck, Barty Crouch had remained unaware of the hippogriff's failed execution. The Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had thoroughly hushed this embarrassing snippet of information, ashamed of having caved in to Lucius Malfoy's pressure to execute the innocent creature. He was even ignorant about Miss Granger's Time-Turner. This secrecy between the Ministry departments could not have been more welcome, or it would have taken Crouch seconds to put two and two together. In the end, he was forced to change the topic, which he did brusquely.
"There is one more thing we have to discuss. Dragons will be imported to Hogwarts for one of the tasks."
Albus registered the irony of the fact that this was equally related to magical beasts.
"Hagrid will be delighted to hear it," he commented merrily. "The Forbidden Forest has an enclosure that can be cleared for this purpose."
"The Ministry will ensure that no member of the student body or staff comes to harm," Crouch promised, cutting him off. "And I dare say we'll see more of each other this year. As one of the judges, I will see to it that every rule is followed and that no wandless wizards can come and disappear as they please. I count on your cooperation, Dumbledore—we are clear on this, I hope?"
For the first time that morning, a steely glint lit the sky-blue eyes. "We want the same thing, Barty: justice, safety, and order. This is why I sought out Alastor Moody, who very kindly agreed to come out of his retirement and teach the students to protect themselves. I'm not thrilled at the prospect of receiving Igor Karkaroff at Hogwarts—a man who, as you know, has never fully desisted from his old ways except for selfish benefit, and who is single-handedly responsible for the spectacular decline in Durmstrang's attendance, resources and success rate. I am hopeful your presence on the panel of judges will contain him."
"I will contain him," Crouch asserted. "For all we know, he might try to help Black for the old times' sake—we can't exclude it. You are advised to report any suspicious activity to the Ministry. I hope you understand that, Dumbledore."
He waited for a sign of assent before adding, just as Albus had known he would, "Sirius Black didn't escape without help. And how well I remember your passionate advocacy of Dark wizards. If it hadn't been for Severus Snape's outburst in front of the Minister, I wouldn't have excluded him either. Dark wizards don't change, and as far as Death Eaters go, they had a common goal. I sometimes ask myself whether your goal might be identical."
Albus arched an eyebrow. His feeling of amusement had resurfaced, but it was not without an undercurrent of hatred. His ears were ringing with the memory of a younger Crouch's voice:
"Stay out of this, Dumbledore. Black is a member of your organisation, and your partiality for the Dark Arts is notorious."
"Precisely, he is a member of the Order of the Phoenix," Albus had protested, ignoring the fascinated stare of Crouch's young assistant. "I've known Sirius Black since he was a first year, and I'm telling you, these crimes do not match his convictions. If you only granted him a regular trial, we would find out exactly what happened."
"His guilt is undeniable, and so is your bias. Stay away from my department."
"Barty, I know Sirius—he wouldn't have betrayed his friends if his life depended on it. You are mistaken in judging him by his ancestors' beliefs. Please, let me talk to him."
"Talk to him? Talk to him? What, do you have more instructions to pass?" Crouch had advanced then, his eyes bulging in icy rage, a condemnatory finger pointed at Albus. "What has that Order of yours achieved in its ten years of existence? Nothing! Every victory over the Death Eaters we have claimed to this day is due to our Aurors' courage. I don't know what games you are playing, Dumbledore, but I am not ignorant of your long-lasting defence of Grindelwald. Now another Dark wizard has gone on a killing rampage, and you demand to talk to him. Get out! This is your last warning. Or I will make sure your visiting rights to Nurmengard are revoked. Don't think I won't receive my colleagues' full support—they are not happy with you."
The threat had descended with the suddenness of a lightning bolt, and it had stolen the ground from under Albus's feet. He had observed the heinous wizard in front of him, conscious the menaces were earnest, and fury had flooded him, along with helpless loathing. He had left.
But Barty Crouch was no longer powerful. He would never harm innocent wizards again, let alone threaten the person Albus loved most, and he was far from oblivious to this fact. Not without willpower, the headmaster suppressed his glee.
"Lord Voldemort strived to seize control over our community and establish a pure-blood regime with himself as the ruler. I, Barty, am neither a pure-blood elitist nor an opportunist desperate for a whiff of power. By the Death Eaters' standards, I'm nothing more than a half-blood parvenu who has climbed to a position of importance thanks to a small measure of magical talent and a larger measure of cunning. My sympathies are not absolute either. It is our choices that define us, not our predispositions."
Crouch glared at him. It was difficult to tell what incensed him more: Albus's frame of mind, his popularity with the masses, or his influence over the Minister, who practically ate out of his hands. As if to avoid a direct conflict, the wizard abandoned his line of questioning, focusing instead on his schedule.
"In the past, the Triwizard Tournament was known to result in participants' deaths. All the Ministries involved in the competition agree it should be open to wizards and witches of age, not younger. It will be your responsibility to prevent any underage students from submitting their names. How will you tackle this?"
Albus contemplated the matter. "An Age Line will keep the younger students from accessing the Goblet. I will add enchantments to verify the candidates' true age and identities in case they should resort to the Ageing Potion or ask their older friends for a favour."
"Good." Crouch retrieved a folder from his briefcase. "My colleagues will be in touch with you to arrange the creation of a maze on the Quidditch pitch. The third task, which is still under discussion, will consist in overcoming magical obstacles to reach the final prize. Neither Olympe Maxime nor Igor Karkaroff know the details, and the school boards would like to keep it this way, or the temptation will be too great—we don't want any cheating at the Tournament. The only reason we have informed you about the dragons and the maze is because you are the host; as such, you are requested to maintain the secrecy. I've brought a contract to this effect."
The sheet of parchment floated onto the desk, followed by a black quill. Upon inspection, Albus found it to be a customary binding agreement that required his signature in blood. Without a word, he took the quill and signed; the cut on his hand healed instantly. Pocketing the contract, Crouch got to his feet.
"One last question, Barty. I've been meaning to ask whether any news of Bertha Jorkins has been heard," Albus spoke, standing up as well.
He received a piercing, unsettled glance in response.
"No, no news of her yet. Good day to you, Dumbledore. We are done here for now."
"I hope you'll enjoy the World Cup. Good luck."
Frowning in thought, Albus watched the other man throw a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace before vanishing in the green flames. Then, as if shaking himself from a spell, he reached for his cloak. He would reprise his duties the following morning—no one would miss him while Quidditch was at the forefront of most wizards' minds. There was but one detour to be made: the kitchen.
The house-elves were excited to see him back early. He made enquiries of their health and, after exchanging a few anecdotes from summer, expanded on the main challenges the new school year would bring. Their leader, a literate elf by the name of Lompy, was to receive a detailed agenda from Mr Filch in early September, as was the custom. Albus left the spacious room with a hefty food basket in hand, ready to head out of the castle.
The first person he came across was Hagrid, absorbed, it appeared, in arranging creature eggs inside a wooden crate. Cheerful and curious as ever, his boarhound Fang leapt from behind the box to come and sniff at the headmaster, his tail wagging.
"Professor Dumbledore, sir!" Hagrid approached; he was beaming.
"My dear Hagrid, it's good to see you. How has your summer been?" Albus gave him a one-armed embrace, which was cautiously yet warmly returned.
"Very good, sir, i's bin good. How are you? This is goin' ter be an excitin' year."
"A busy but memorable one, I hope," he smiled. "I'm worried, though: you are the only teacher who hasn't taken a break from this place. It's not right. There is still time for you to go on a trip if you so decide."
"I's no trouble, professor," Hagrid assured him. "I like stayin' here bes'—Hogwarts is me home."
Breaking away from Albus's caresses, Fang ran to sniff at the crate again, as if intrigued by its fishy scent.
"If you are sure, my dear fellow. You are free to take leave any time you choose." Albus peered at the eggs. "Are these new?"
Small and grey, they emitted a dull iridescent glow. However he tried, he could not identify them.
"Ah, i's a bit of a su'prise." A note of pride crept into the gamekeeper's voice. "Got them meself, sir. A cross, they are."
He described the breeding process, which left Albus with the uneasy impression the new species would combine the traits of a manticore and a fire-crab. The headmaster tried not to imagine what Newt Scamander would have to say about this breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding.
"Can' wait ter raise 'em! Thought I'd present 'em as a project, yer know, so students can study their behaviour, care fer 'em. If i's all righ', professor?"
Should these creatures be incorporated in the syllabus, Newt would certainly hear of them from his grandson, Rolf, who was about to start his sixth year at Hogwarts. Albus eyed the crate doubtfully but realised the damage had already been perpetrated. He did not have it in him to order Hagrid to dispose of the eggs. After everything his friend had done for him, protecting him from angry Newt Scamander was the least Albus could do.
"As long as the students' safety is guaranteed and all the prescribed topics covered, I don't see why not," he smiled and was touched to glimpse tears of emotion in Hagrid's eyes.
"Thank you, professor Dumbledore. Can I offer yer a cuppa, or yer in a hurry?"
"I'm going out but will call on you tomorrow with great pleasure." He gave the gamekeeper's arm an affectionate pat. "Have a nice afternoon, Hagrid."
Once outside of the gate, he turned on the spot. Fawkes, he knew, would join him in the evening. The vibrant colour palette of the Highlands dissipated; a more savage, more mountainous landscape materialised. He was standing in front of a granite tower so tall it seemed to pierce the sky.
Nurmengard was a sad, sad place. Even years later, he was unable to fully discard this feeling, though there was no denying his perception had changed. Little by little, he had learned to concentrate on the details that could be treasured: the shimmering mountain peaks during winter months, the silver trail of waterfall in the distant greenery, the fresh scent of vegetation during spring storms. He had grown attached both to the way moonlight filtered through the narrow window of the cell, and to the pink and golden glow the setting sun would sometimes paint over the opposite wall. Most of all, he was fond of watching Gellert enjoy those small wonders.
Home was where one's heart was, and his heart belonged to Gellert completely. If this cell was all they had to share—at least while they lived—Albus knew to be grateful and to find advantage in what little they had been granted.
Although still masked, the guards no longer took the trouble to magically disguise their voices. This had permitted Albus to memorise their singularities. There were four of them in total, and they worked in shifts: three retired Austrian Aurors, one trained security wizard with a Northern German accent. What counted for most was that all four of them were reasonable men, none of them afflicted with the cruel streak that rendered wizards of their profession so dangerous. If they had once considered him odd or pathetic, they had grown so accustomed to his daily visits that he was now barely offered a second look. As a matter of routine, they would merely confiscate his wand and check that the food, the blankets and the Healing Potions he brought in were devoid of forbidden spells. At times, they would comment on the weather. Albus did not tempt his luck; every change came gradually.
Once the basket passed the scrutiny, he was escorted to the topmost cell. The door swung open, and his gaze was instantly drawn to the tall man at the window, who turned around.
"Albus."
The name was uttered in almost a whisper. The years of forced silence—a part of Gellert's sentence—had claimed their toll: he could no longer speak loudly. But this was no obstacle to two wizards who knew each other so intimately they rarely needed to rely on words.
Setting down the food basket, Albus came forward, his worries forgotten in a wink. All he could feel was an overwhelming sense of tenderness. He put his arms around his lover, drawing closer until their foreheads touched.
"I couldn't wait," he breathed.
They had a full twenty-four hours before them, a day and a night all to themselves, while the world lingered at the Quidditch tournament.
"I'm always happy when you are here," Gellert responded.
His perceptive eyes studied Albus's features; they never missed an emotion, and this time was no different. Trailing a feather-light caress down the German wizard's cheek, Albus spotted a mute question in his gaze.
"I had a run-in with an old friend from the Ministry this morning," he explained. "It went as well as it could. But... I don't believe it's the actual reason."
"Then what is it? Can something be done about it?"
The noon sun was blazing behind the window, and Albus looked thoughtfully up at the bright sky.
"I feel as if something is about to happen," he confessed. "Something is… lurking about—a magical presence of sorts. And yet, I haven't come across anything tangible that would confirm such a premonition. I wonder if it might be an illusion induced by the last months' events, as well as the Ministry witch's disappearance. I might be paranoid, or simply mistaken."
"A witch has disappeared?" Gellert echoed.
"Bertha Jorkins. I used to teach her; she was a curious student, fairly sharp but foolish after a fashion. A few weeks ago, she travelled to Albania for a family visit, and no one has heard of her since. She hasn't yet been declared missing. It makes me uneasy because Albania is the closest thing Voldemort has to a sanctuary."
"Yes," came a pensive remark, "a Ministry witch vanishing straight after the recent events is too much of a coincidence. What is her role at the Ministry?"
"She works for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She ought to have returned for today's event. An international gathering of such proportions requires all hands on deck."
Confusion flickered across Gellert's face for the first time. That particular department was not one Lord Voldemort would deem relevant to his goals.
"I see. You are not paranoid, Albus. I think I had a headache not long ago."
Albus frowned, concerned; his fingers traced the contours of Gellert's forehead, his cheekbones, his jaw.
"Do you remember anything?" he murmured.
"No, just the headache. But something is coming."
Nodding, the Englishman slid an arm around him. Together, they settled on the blankets. "Then we'll be ready."
They touched on many subjects as they partook of lunch, and on more still in the afternoon hours. When darkness covered the mountains, they lay side by side, their fingers intertwined, starlight reflecting on their skin. Nothing seemed to matter, nothing but each other's warmth and heartbeats.
That night, the Dark Mark erupted in the sky.
AN: Welcome to this retelling of one of our favourite Harry Potter books from Albus's point of view! We have taken this opportunity to not only revisit the book's plot and offer a version of what may have happened "behind the scenes", but to also explore the wizarding society and the different types of magic practiced worldwide. At his age, Albus possesses rich knowledge and a wide circle of contacts, but for all his experience, there are personal flaws and challenges he needs to overcome. A few OCs will appear throughout the story as we felt it was realistic for a wizard of his standing to have international friends. Apart from aiding the plot, these characters will allow us to delve into some of the overlooked corners of the world of magic. As far as Albus's private life goes, Fumes and Ghosts is compliant with our Grindeldore stories, which can be found on our respective profiles. As a result, Gellert Grindelwald remains the love of Albus's life and stands by his side despite his imprisonment.
We hope you will enjoy and follow this story, which will be regularly updated, and we would be grateful for any form of feedback. Till the next chapter!