The chamber is cold, the air heavy with ancient magic, vibrating with power as the golden runes twist and curl, forming a half-oval around the boy lying on the stone table. Albus Dumbledore stands still, his robes motionless despite the crackling energy that ripples through the room, sending sparks of light dancing across the walls. He feels the hum of power through his bones, the weight of centuries of old magic pressing down on him, and yet his shoulders do not sag.

He cannot allow himself to show weakness. Not here. Not now.

The ancient table is carved from stone so old it has turned black with age, its surface etched with complex runes filled with molten gold, silver, and platinum. They gleam with shifting light, flowing like liquid, connecting in delicate patterns of power. Above the boy, golden symbols hover and spin, weaving together in a delicate dance, connected by strands of shimmering light.

The boy is a blur at the edges, his form flickering, as if he's fading in and out of existence. Shadows streak from his skin, curling like smoke, twisting violently before they slam against the golden barrier surrounding him. Each impact sends ripples of light through the room, the shadows screaming as they collide with the barrier, only to be repelled, absorbed back into the boy's body.

Dumbledore feels his heart clench, his fingers tightening around the Elder Wand. The air is cold, biting, filled with the scent of ozone and ancient stone. He can taste the magic, sharp and metallic on his tongue. It feels wrong. Twisted.

Dumbledore feels the magic within him surge, not from his own power alone, but from the bond he shares with Fawkes, a Fae of the Summer Court, as old as humanity itself. Her song is a living extension of his will, a song of light, of hope, of endurance. It strengthens him, the weight of the centuries on his shoulders no longer as oppressive as before. Her melody dances through the air, rippling through the runes like a burst of sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

His eyes fall on the lightning bolt scar, now jagged and raw, tearing down through the boy's eye and cheek. It pulses with dark magic, glowing faintly, the skin around it angry and red. Shadows twist around the scar, curling like serpents, hissing before they're sucked back into the wound.

Guilt twists inside him, cold and heavy, settling like a stone in his gut. He did this. His decisions led to this. He had left the boy on a doorstep, had placed him in a house filled with fear and hatred, believing it was the safest option. Believing it was the only choice. And now… now Harry is breaking apart, his magic twisting inward, turning against itself, devouring him from the inside out.

Lily and James died for this. They died to protect their son, and he had failed them. He had failed all of them.

His chest tightens, his vision blurring for a moment before he locks the guilt away, sealing it behind mental walls, burying it deep. There is no room for weakness. He cannot afford to falter, not now. Not when Harry's life hangs by a thread.

He straightens his back, his shoulders squared, his chin lifting as his eyes harden. He breathes in slowly, the cold air filling his lungs, sharpening his focus. Ten thought streams open, his mind expanding, splintering into ten distinct threads of concentration. One thought stream keeps his guilt contained, locked away behind unbreakable walls of Occlumency. Another calculates the angles and trajectories of the golden runes, ensuring their stability and flow. A third monitors the integrity of the barrier, watching for cracks or distortions.

The other streams maintain his breathing, his posture, the rhythm of his chanting. Each thought is clear, precise, controlled. This is his genius. This is what makes him the greatest wizard of his age. His mind is a fortress, his will unyielding, his resolve unbreakable.

He looks down at Harry, at the boy who blurs at the edges, whose body flickers like a candle flame in the wind. He sees the lightning bolt scar again, jagged and cruel, tearing down through his eye and cheek, and he feels his heart clench again, pain sharp and bright. But he locks it away, forcing his face to remain calm, his eyes cold and steady.

His fingers tighten around the Elder Wand, the ancient wood warm against his skin, vibrating with power. He feels the pulse of magic within the wand, the force of centuries of wizards flowing through him, ancient and potent. He brings the full weight of his magic to bear, his aura flaring with light, his robes rippling with energy.

Harry will not die.

He had prepared for this moment. He had readied himself for the day he would meet another like Credence Barebone, a child twisted by pain and fear, an Obscurial whose magic was turning against them. He had designed this seal for this moment, a masterpiece of magic and willpower, crafted to protect the boy from the monster inside him.

Dumbledore straightens his back, his eyes blazing with determination as he raises the Elder Wand, feeling the magic hum beneath his fingers. The air crackles with electricity, the golden runes spinning faster, weaving together in intricate patterns of light. The shadows scream, hammering against the barrier, but the golden light holds firm, repelling the darkness.

He brings the full force of his magic to bear, his mind fractured into ten streams of perfect concentration, his will unyielding, his power unmatched. He is Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of his age. And he will not allow Harry to die.

Not today.

The air vibrates, humming with magic, the walls shimmering with golden light as the runes twist and weave, forming a net of power around Harry's body. Dumbledore's grip tightens on the Elder Wand, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched as he focuses his will, magic flowing through him, ancient and potent, crackling with electricity.

The shadows scream, a sound of pure anguish and rage, echoing through the chamber. They hammer against the golden barrier, twisting like serpents, their edges flickering with sickly green light. The darkness is cold, heavy, pressing against his skin, making the air hard to breathe. It feels wrong, twisted, unnatural. A force of raw magic turned inward, devouring itself.

An Obscurus.

Dumbledore feels his heart twist, his chest tightening as he watches the shadows writhe, the darkness curling around Harry's body, fighting against the light. It rages, a storm of magic and fury, battering against the golden net, trying to break free. He can feel the force of it, the power and pain, the fear and anger. It feels ancient, primal, a hurricane of raw emotion and magic.

His thought streams fracture, expanding to track the currents of power, the flows of magic, the twists and turns of shadow and light. One thought calculates the angles of the runes, ensuring the barrier holds firm. Another monitors Harry's vital signs, his heartbeat faint but steady, his breathing shallow and uneven. A third focuses on the shadows, mapping their movements, predicting their strikes, finding their weaknesses.

His aura flares with light, blazing around him, his robes rippling with energy, his silver hair lifting with static electricity. He feels the power crackling through him, the Elder Wand vibrating in his grip, warm and alive. He moves his arm in slow, deliberate motions, carving symbols of power through the air, each movement precise, controlled.

Golden light follows the tip of the wand, trailing behind in shimmering arcs, forming intricate patterns above Harry's body. The runes respond, flickering brighter, swirling faster, weaving together in delicate patterns of light. The golden net tightens, the strands shimmering with power, vibrating with magic.

The shadows scream, hammering against the net, twisting and writhing, their edges flickering with green light. They recoil, hissing as they collide with the barrier, repelled by the golden light. But they do not break. They lash out, twisting violently, slamming into the net with renewed force, cracking the air with electricity.

The golden barrier ripples, the light flickering, dimming for a heartbeat before flaring bright again. Dumbledore's thought streams shudder, recalculating the trajectories, reinforcing the barrier, tightening the weave. He feels his magic drain, his vision dimming at the edges, his chest tightening. The Obscurus is strong. Stronger than he anticipated. But he can also feel Fawkes song reaching its peak, reinforcing his resolve.

His jaw clenches, his eyes hardening as he brings the full force of his magic to bear. He straightens his spine, his shoulders squared, his back rigid, his aura blazing with light. He opens his thought streams wider, expanding his consciousness, tracking every movement of the shadows, every flicker of light, every twist of magic.

Harry will not die.

He moves the Elder Wand in a series of painters arcs, carving symbols of power that hang in the air, blazing with golden light. The runes respond, weaving tighter, the net shimmering, solidifying, holding firm. The shadows hiss, lashing out, but they cannot break free. They twist, recoiling, their edges flickering with panic.

Dumbledore chants, his voice low and resonant, vibrating through the chamber. The words carry his will, his intent, his power. He speaks of protection and strength, of life and hope, weaving his magic into the net, sealing the shadows within. The golden light burns brighter, white-hot and brilliant, blinding in its intensity.

The shadows scream, twisting violently, slamming against the net, their edges splintering, breaking apart. The darkness crumbles, fragments of shadow spiraling through the air before they're dragged back, absorbed into the scar.

The lightning bolt scar pulses, glowing with dark magic, throbbing angrily as the shadows twist, fighting against the seal. They claw at the light, desperate, panicked, twisting like smoke. But the golden net holds firm, unyielding, solid as goblin steel.

Dumbledore's voice rises, his chanting growing louder, echoing through the chamber. He pours his magic into the seal, his will bending reality, his power blazing with light. The runes burn white-hot, their light brilliant and blinding, sealing the shadows inside the scar, locking the Obscurus away.

The scar pulses once, twice, glowing with dark magic, then stills. The shadows twist, their edges flickering, their forms splintering, breaking apart. They scream, a sound of anguish and despair, echoing through the chamber before they're dragged back into the scar, absorbed into the seal.

The runes weave tighter, the golden net solidifying, locking into place. The light blazes, white-hot and brilliant, filling the room, blinding and beautiful. Dumbledore's breath catches, his vision dimming as his magic drains, his body trembling. He feels his strength fading, his knees buckling, his shoulders sagging.

The light flares, then fades, the runes settling, the golden net locking into place. The shadows are gone, absorbed into the scar, sealed within the boy's body. Harry lies still, his form solid, no longer flickering at the edges. His breathing is shallow, his heartbeat faint but steady.

Dumbledore sags, his grip loosening on the Elder Wand, his vision swimming. The room is cold, the air heavy and still, the scent of ozone sharp and metallic. He feels his magic drain, his body trembling, his knees buckling. He leans heavily on the stone table, his shoulders bowed, his hair falling into his eyes.

The cost of such magic is always high.

His chest tightens, his heart thudding painfully as he looks down at Harry, at the boy who lies silent and still, his body solid, his scar calm. He feels his guilt twist, his throat tightening, his vision blurring. But he locks it away, sealing it behind walls of Occlumency, burying it deep.

Harry will not die. Not today. Not ever. Not as long as Dumbledore draws breath.

He straightens his back, his eyes blazing with determination, his grip tightening on the Elder Wand. The golden net shimmers under his mage sight, solid and strong, the seal locking the shadows away. It will gradually weaken over seven years, allowing Harry's body to adapt, to grow strong enough to control the power within him. He will not fail again, not like he did with Ariana or Credence.

Never again.

-HP-

-HP-

-HP-

I wake up to pain.

It's not the dull ache of a bad headache or the annoying throb of a hangover, it's not the pain of being burned or stabbed. It's true agony, sharp and searing, like every nerve is on fire, electric shocks racing through my body. I gasp, my back arching off the bed as pain rips through me, my muscles seizing, locking tight.

My limbs feel wrong—too light, too small, too fragile. My skin prickles, cold and raw, like I've been dipped in ice water and thrown into a lightning storm. My head throbs, a deep, pounding pain that echoes behind my eyes, vibrating through my skull. I try to open my eyes, but the world is a blur, the light painfully bright, stabbing into my brain like knives.

Everything is blurry.

Panic flares in my chest, sharp and cold, my heart skipping a beat. Why can't I see? I blink rapidly, my vision swimming, shapes and colors bleeding into each other. It feels like I'm underwater, everything distorted, warped, out of focus.

I try to lift my hand to my face, but pain flares through my body, hot and electric, and I collapse back, gasping. My limbs are heavy, my muscles weak and trembling, my skin prickling with electricity. My fingers curl, the joints popping, the bones aching, and I feel a flicker of panic, sharp and bright.

Why can't I see?

My chest tightens, fear curling through me, cold and sharp. My vision has always been perfect. Twenty-twenty. I'd only needed glasses when I was younger but I wore them religiously and my eyes got better. Did… did I damage my eyes? Did the electricity from my Staff of Zeus fry my retinas? Am I blind?

My stomach twists, nausea curling in my gut as my heart races, thudding painfully in my chest. Calm down. I force myself to take a slow, shuddering breath, my head spinning, my muscles trembling. I need to calm down. I need to figure out what's happening.

I blink again, my eyes burning, my vision blurring as the world tilts, colors swirling together. The light is painfully bright, too sharp, too vivid. I can make out shapes—blobs of color, fuzzy and indistinct. Pale blue. White. Gold. The edges are soft, out of focus, smudged like a watercolor painting.

I try to sit up, moving slowly, my muscles trembling, my limbs heavy and awkward. Pain flares through me, sharp and hot, but I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright. My head spins, the world tilting, and I reach out instinctively, my fingers curling around something cold and hard.

A metal rail. I'm lying in a bed, the sheets crisp and white, the mattress firm under my back. My head throbs, a dull, pounding pain that echoes behind my eyes. I squint, my vision swimming, the shapes blurring, swirling together.

I can barely make out the outlines of tall windows, the light streaming through in golden beams. Curtains flutter in the breeze, pale blue and embroidered with silver moons and stars. There's a faint, sweet smell in the air, like candy, mixed with the scent of parchment and something herbal, almost medicinal.

Nothing looks familiar. Nothing makes sense. My chest tightens, my heart racing. Where am I?

I blink again, my vision refusing to clear, the edges soft and fuzzy. My stomach churns with panic, my breathing rapid, shallow, my fingers tightening around the metal rail. Why is everything so blurry?

I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart pounding, my mind racing. I remember the Staff of Zeus, the feeling of triumph as the spike hit the target, the crackle of electricity dancing along the wire. I smile as I remember the sparks, bright and brilliant, the air humming with power. It worked. It actually worked.

And then it didn't.

My smile drops as I remember the pain, sharp and blinding, electricity seizing my muscles, locking my jaw, my body jerking as the current tore through me. I remember the smell of burning flesh, the white-hot agony, the feeling of falling as my vision went dark, the ground rushing up to meet me.

Did I die?

My chest tightens, my heart skipping a beat, cold fear curling through me. Did I actually die? Is this… the afterlife? Is that why everything hurts so much? Were my friends right, am I in hell? Damn it I should be in Valhalla or at least Sessrumnir and why can't I see?

I force my eyes open again, squinting against the light, my vision swimming. Shapes blur together, indistinct and warped, the colors bleeding into each other. I look down, blinking rapidly, trying to focus. I can just make out my hands, pale and blurry, the fingers thin and bony.

My heart stops, my stomach dropping as I stare at my hands. They're tiny, the knuckles bony, the fingers delicate, too thin, too pale. Not my hands.

I lift them closer to my face, my vision still swimming, the edges of my fingers soft, out of focus. I turn them over, examining the palms, the wrists, the delicate bones. They're so small, so fragile, like a child's hands.

My breathing quickens, my chest tight, panic curling through me, sharp and cold. I remember what my hands looked like before—bigger, broader, stronger. I've never had hands like this. I've never been this small.

My vision blurs, the world tilting, my stomach lurching. This isn't my body.

I blink rapidly, my vision refusing to clear, everything soft and fuzzy. I feel like I'm underwater, like I'm trapped in someone else's skin. My heart races, my breathing rapid, shallow, my head spinning. I've never needed glasses. I've never had vision problems. Why can't I see?

My fingers curl, the nails short and bitten, the knuckles thin and bony. I feel my pulse pounding in my throat, my chest tight, my head throbbing. This isn't my body.

I open my mouth, my voice hoarse, shaking. "What… what happened to me?" My voice is high-pitched, soft, trembling. Not my voice. Not my body. Not me.

The door creaks, the sound loud and clear, cutting through my panic. I turn, my vision swimming, the world tilting. I can make out a figure, tall and indistinct, the edges blurry, out of focus. A flicker of gold. A flash of purple.

The figure moves closer, the outline fuzzy, the face indistinct. My heart races, my breathing rapid, panic tightening my chest. The figure leans forward, a soft voice echoing through the room, warm and gentle. "Ah, you're awake. That's good. You gave us quite a scare, my boy."

I blink, my vision swimming, my mind spinning. The voice is warm, soft, grandfatherly. I can't see the face, can't make out the details. Everything is too blurry. I'm also not a boy, I'm a man.

I can't see. I can't see.

My heart races, my hands trembling, my throat tight. I need answers. I need to see. I need to know what the hell is happening to me.

The figure moves again, a flash of gold, a flicker of silver. I squint, my eyes burning, my vision blurring, swimming with spots of light. My head throbs, the pain sharp and deep, pulsing behind my eyes. I can't see. I can't focus. Everything is out of reach, warped, twisted, wrong.

I hear a soft clinking sound, glass tapping against metal. Then a warm, gentle voice, soft and grandfatherly, echoing through the room. "Ah, my boy. Here you go."

A shape moves in front of me, a pale blob extending toward me. I squint, my vision swimming, the edges fuzzy, out of focus. I feel something cool and smooth touch my hand, the shape pressing against my fingers. Instinctively, I reach out, my fingers curling around the object. It's thin and delicate, the edges rounded, the surface smooth.

I bring it closer to my face, blinking rapidly, my eyes burning, my vision blurring. It's… a pair of glasses. Round frames, small and fragile, the metal thin and delicate. I can barely make out the shape, my fingers brushing over the cool glass, the slender arms.

I slip the glasses on, the round frames resting on my nose, the arms settling behind my ears. The world shifts, my vision sharpening, the blurs and blobs snapping into focus, the colors solidifying, the shapes becoming clear.

The first thing I notice is the room.

High, arched ceilings, made of stone, the edges lined with intricate carvings. Tall windows let in golden beams of light, the glass stained with swirling patterns of red and gold. Curtains flutter in the breeze, pale blue and embroidered with silver moons and stars. The walls are lined with shelves, stacked with jars and bottles of different shapes and sizes, their contents swirling with colorful liquids. The air is warm, filled with the scent of parchment and herbs, mixed with a faint, sweet smell, like candy.

The second thing I notice is the man standing beside my bed.

He's tall and ancient, his body wrapped in flowing robes of deep purple, embroidered with golden stars and moons. His long silver hair falls past his shoulders, his beard reaching his waist, both shimmering faintly, sparkling with light. On his nose sit half-moon glasses, the lenses glinting in the sunlight. His face is lined with wrinkles, his expression warm and gentle, his eyes twinkling behind the glasses, a bright, vivid blue.

My chest tightens, my throat closing, my breathing freezing as my brain short-circuits. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't think.

The man's eyes soften, his expression warm, his head tilting as he looks down at me with a grandfatherly smile. "Ah, much better, I see. You must be terribly confused. My name is Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

My heart stops.

-HP-
-HP-
-HP-

Albus Dumbledore watches as the boy's eyes widen, bright green and impossibly large behind the round glasses. His mouth hangs open, his face pale, his small body trembling as his fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles white.

Dumbledore's heart tightens, his chest aching with guilt. Of course the boy is in shock. After what he's been through… how could he not be?

He keeps his expression calm, his voice gentle, his smile warm. He keeps his hands folded before him, his posture relaxed, his aura soft and nonthreatening. The boy's face is pale, his breathing rapid and shallow, his shoulders hunched, his eyes wide and unblinking. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen and terrified, staring at Dumbledore as if he's seen a ghost.

His heart clenches again, a sharp twist of pain and guilt. Of course the boy is frightened. He's just lost everything he's ever known. He's just lost his family.

Dumbledore swallows, his throat tight, his chest heavy as he looks down at the boy who shouldn't have had to suffer like this. Who shouldn't have been in danger in the first place. This is my fault.

The boy is shaking, his eyes impossibly wide, his mouth working soundlessly, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Dumbledore's heart aches, his shoulders sagging as he sees the terror in those green eyes—Lily's eyes, so bright and vivid, staring up at him from a face so small and pale.

He takes a slow step back, giving the boy space, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to frighten him further. He keeps his hands in front of him, his robes rippling softly, his posture open and nonthreatening. "I understand you must be terribly confused, my boy," he says gently, his voice soft, soothing. "You've been through a terrible ordeal. But you are safe now. I promise you, you are safe."

The boy's mouth snaps shut, his lips pressing together, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe. His eyes flicker, darting around the room, taking in the high stone ceilings, the tall windows, the fluttering blue curtains. He looks… lost. Small and scared, his thin shoulders hunched, his body trembling under the crisp white sheets.

Dumbledore feels his heart twist, his throat tightening. He's just a child. A child who's just lost his entire world. Who's just witnessed a nightmare.

'Because of me.'

He looks at the boy's face, at the lightning bolt scar that now ttears jaggedly down through the boy's eye and cheek, crackling like shattered glass, the branches twisting and curling, stark against pale skin. It isn't just a scar. It's a web of lightning, the lines jagged and sharp, splitting apart in thin, branching forks. It runs from his forehead down through his eyebrow exploding in a starburst around his eye and slicing through his eyelid and curling over his cheekbone. So much worse than it was when Dumbledore saw him last. His stomach churns with guilt, his fingers trembling as he clasps them together, locking them tight. He did this. His choices led to this.

If he had never left Harry with the Dursleys, if he had never trusted Petunia, if he had been more vigilant, more careful… none of this would have happened. If he had never placed those damned blood wards, if he had never tried to shield Harry from the world, if he had merely given up one of his many titles and positions and raised the boy himself… perhaps Harry wouldn't be lying here, pale and trembling, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

He feels his heart tighten, his chest aching, but he locks the guilt away, sealing it behind walls of Occlumency, burying it deep. He cannot afford to falter. Not now. Not when Harry needs him.

The boy's eyes dart back to him, his fingers tightening on the sheets, his breathing sharp and shallow. Dumbledore watches the panic flicker across his face, the way his mouth trembles, his shoulders shaking. The boy's eyes are huge, his pupils wide, his chest heaving. He's terrified.

Dumbledore takes another slow step back, softening his aura, his hands relaxing at his sides. He keeps his voice gentle, his tone warm, soothing. "I understand this must be overwhelming. You've been through something… truly terrible. And I am so sorry for that." His chest tightens, his throat aching as he looks down at the child who should never have had to suffer like this. This is my fault.

"But you are safe now," he continues, his voice steady, his eyes warm, his shoulders relaxed. "You're at Hogwarts. No harm will come to you here. I promise you that."

The boy's eyes widen, his mouth opening, his breath catching in his throat. He looks stunned, his face pale, his lips trembling as he stares up at Dumbledore, his eyes impossibly bright behind the round glasses.

Dumbledore's heart tightens, his chest aching as he sees the disbelief, the fear, the confusion. Of course he's in shock. He's just lost his family.

He looks at the scar again, at the jagged line tearing down through the boy's cheek, raw and red, the Obscurus is still there, still trapped within the seal, still raging against its cage. But it is contained.

His chest tightens, his throat closing as he remembers the ritual, the way Harry's body blurred at the edges, the shadows twisting around him, screaming as they slammed into the golden barrier. He remembers the way the darkness screamed, raw and violent, battering against the light, fighting to break free. He remembers the fear, the pain, the guilt. But Harry will live. He will have a chance to grow, to learn, to love. He will not die.

He looks down at the boy lying pale and trembling on the bed, his eyes wide, his body shaking. He sees Lily's eyes staring up at him, bright and vivid behind the round glasses, filled with fear and pain and confusion. His chest tightens, his heart aching, his vision blurring.

'I am so sorry, Harry.'

But he cannot say that. He cannot burden the boy with his guilt. Not now. Not when he's lost everything.

Dumbledore straightens his back, his shoulders squaring, his posture calm and steady. He keeps his voice soft, his tone gentle, his aura warm and comforting. "I know this is difficult to understand," he says, his eyes kind, his smile soft. "But you are safe now. You're at Hogwarts, and you're not alone. I promise you, my boy. You are safe."

The boy's eyes flicker, his chest heaving, his hands trembling. He looks so small, so fragile, so lost.

And Dumbledore's heart breaks.

AN

No, Credence is not a Dumbledore in this, I like the FB movies mostly but that was a stupid change and took away from his tragedy in my opinion.

I do have a dirty P word under the name MandTeKad that is 1 free chapter and 5 paid chapters ahead

Also I was planning to release this later tonight - I was sitting on the couch with no motivation after I had to cancel HEMA today cause of no one really being available but this review for some reason made me laugh and get up.

oblique lats
Hanging the readers off of cliffs already. Brings a tear of happiness to me eyes. Next chappy when?