"Shall I take your robe?" Dippet offers – his benevolence knows no limits.
I force a weary smile and hand him the black fabric without further ado.
"Oh, he's upset," I hear Rouvenia whisper to Harper.
Meanwhile, Marchbanks makes sure everyone in this patio is aware of what's going on – and what's about to happen.
"Silence! Make way like before, come on!"
"Tom, this is –"
"Madness?" I snap at Elliott. He's still anxiously watching me as I roll up the sleeves of my white shirt. "You already said that."
He nods, gulping. "He's holding the Elder Wand."
"And you think I'm not aware?" I sigh and square my shoulders as Rouvenia, just as amused as tense, bites her lips for lack of words.
Harper also gives me a far too eager smile. "Better than not competing at all, isn't it? No shame in losing to Dumbledore, I mean –" She pauses at once when I shoot her an irritated glance. "Yeah, I know … You'll be fine, handsome," she lightly claims, stepping aside already, right next to Orion, who's clearly bursting with joy.
"Happy now, you traitor?" she growls at him.
"I actually am!"
His smug expression is testing every bit of patience in me, but Elliott clearing his throat draws my attention back to him.
"Good luck," he all but whispers.
"Tom, my boy!" we hear Slughorn, he's already trotting towards me. Lately, he's seemed a bit concerned, ever since he's heard me speak Parsel, actually … But today, to my honest surprise, he pats me on the back just like he always used to. "Time to shine with your talent!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Ready if you are?" I hear Dumbledore in some distance, unusually lively.
I draw my wand and finally follow him to the fountain in the inner courtyard, around which more and more whispering students, even much younger ones, have suddenly begun to gather.
In my mind, I'm already going through various possible defenses, while youths and professors alike are increasingly stunned at the fact that this duel is now actually about to take place.
It's madness indeed.
Downright bizarre.
"I didn't expect to find myself in such a situation so soon again," Dumbledore jests as though he was solely speaking for our stiff audience holding its breath. But some whistle now, some clap. Many laugh.
Unlike me. I focus …
As I did throughout the entire last summer in Brimington. Hours on end with Edwin in the woods, parrying his thundering curses to be able to do it in my sleep. I insisted on attacks of a man that kept practicing for and against Grindelwald for decades.
Incantations in London, with Nagini heavy around my shoulders, while Queenie and Vivian kept me in check and told me about all the duels they had to fight.
No man will ever match the finesse and rhythm of a skilled witch fueled by disappointment and anger in her heart, still I was inspired to try.
Week after week with theory in my head, black writing on yellowed paper visualised in my thoughts – and 13 inches of wood in my hand whenever those with ambition wished to practice in the Room of Requirement, expecting more of their magic than seven years in Scotland could teach us.
No duel on Hogwarts' gray stone floors was ever a challenge for me.
That's about to change …
"Never say never, right, Tom?" Dumbledore startles me out of my reveries with a blatant smile.
And I ask the only relevant counter-question. "What's allowed?"
He promptly glances back at Madam Marchbanks.
"I leave that to you, Albus," she decides, just as he expected her to. With her clipboard ready in her hand, her and Merrythought keep watching us.
"Well then." Dumbledore casually shrugs at me. "Everything, Tom. I allow everything."
"Everything?" I repeat incredulously. "When you claim everything, is that really to say you mean –"
"Everything! Yes." With vague satisfaction plastered across his lips, he comes closer to me until he's also right next to the fountain, as etiquette demands. "Do whatever you please," he says in my immediate vicinity.
"You can't deny you enjoy this situation to the fullest, can you?"
"Are you afraid of humiliation?"
He doesn't take his eyes off me as he literally lets his wand – the bloody Elder Wand – slice through the air to hold it in front of the middle of his face, in accordance to custom. Oddly enough, it resembles the military display of honor with weapons according to Prussian regulations, even if the magical world merely holds on to wood …
Dumbledore is clearly trying to make a lesson out of all this, but the deliberate lack of willingness to hide his mischievous tendencies is, after all this time, so unapologetically honest that I can even appreciate it.
So I, too, raise my wand to my face.
"I can't tell – I've never been humbled before," I eventually reply – holding his gaze.
We lower our arms again as Dumbledore asks, "And what now, Tom?"
I glance at him, somewhat perplexed.
"Well, the bow," he solves that riddle and –
"Protego!"
I'm barely able to fend off his Imperius in time, indignant by the very idea of him already using an Unforgivable …
"You look surprised, still well parried," he chuckles as though he was just getting started. "But maybe I don't have to force you to bow?"
I snort. "Since it scores …"
"Ah." He winks at me. "Well, saying protection spells out loud like you just did won't …"
"I know that," I impatiently retort, "but we hadn't started yet."
He raises a mocking brow at me. "Well, everything's allowed, isn't it?"
I finally get to see what Grindelwald recognised in him. Carefully concealed craving for prestige and superiority in its purest form, simply because he's undeniably gifted. Powerful magic surrounds him – as does that typical level-headed aura, rooted in believing in his own apotheosis. Who would dare rise, or raise a wand, against him?
Only an old friend, or a madman.
An impertinent heretic.
Someone like me …
There's no turning back, and in a way I'm almost looking forward to it. I'll prefer destruction over stagnation any day.
Taking in a deep breath, I eventually smile just as ready as he does.
"Let's get this over with," he says, his tone of voice ever so cheerful …
We turn our backs to each other and quickly put some distance between us until we readily take our positions.
For a heartbeat there, maybe two, the slashing of the fountain and the birds seem very loud, with everyone around falling silent.
Until Albus Dumbledore raises the Elder Wand, causing astonished mumbling of the bystanders while I can only guess what he intends to do.
All the practice, all the books … None of it helps me now, I need to rely solely on my intuition.
And the first sparks of magic does not take long to come my way.
I dodge two, four, soon seven curses, some of which evaporate into black smoke, others I avoid with lunges or an invisible shield. Until I finally return a few in half-hearted attempts, like I actually had a chance.
As expected, they don't surprise him at all, bouncing off him like nothing, while I struggle not to get hit myself.
"I'd be done by now," I hear Nott mumble somewhere in the back.
Oh really …
"Warmed up?" Dumbledore soon calls out.
I hesitantly shrug my shoulders, trying not to expose my heavy breathing too much. "And you?"
He chuckles, that much time we seem to have. "Tom, I'm never quite sure whether it's your kind of humor or simply tragic presumption…"
"Both, obviously."
Dumbledore nods, amusement written all over his face, until he clearly shifts into another mode. I can literally feel it in the air and notice it in his eyes as well.
In no time, he sends nothing less than a Cruciatus curse my way, to my blunt astonishment. It meets my own in glowing red – I couldn't get more creative than that in the split second I had.
It doesn't seem to be his style at all, and between two blinks of an eye, I can't help but speculate that it might be him who wants to do whatever he pleases, letting off steam after tasting blood with Grindelwald recently …
The connection of our wands through the curses colliding and working against each other shakes my hand, my whole body, like never before, and keeping the unexpectedly violent tremor of this concurrent power under control literally drains strength from my bones.
Seemingly liquefied, ruby crystals drop to the ground, splintering on all sides to the main ray of red, while my curse gets pushed back more and more.
I briefly think I'd better just let go. Not face the crushing force of the Elder Wand with all my energy and struggle – but then I focus.
No way.
He's only human.
It's just wood in his hand.
He may be Albus Dumbledore with the Elder Wand, but I was practically born in hubris and infernal ambition.
The magic in my hands has always been the only key to keeping me alive – and I have nothing to lose.
The glows our torturing curses cause wrestle with each other for each and every inch. Until I realise I have to adjust my strategy, and quickly so, if I don't wish to be brought to my knees for good.
As much as I hate to admit it, the Elder Wand – and he who holds it – throws a powerful punch.
So I have to do what neither of them expect. I can't win a head-on test of strength. I have to trust myself to do what he would never expect to see.
Hence, not a breath later and despite it being madness, my hand does the most foolish movement that comes to mind.
I break the connection between our spells – my counterattack – to divert his magic away from me.
It's risky. It brings his curse utterly close to my body, only giving me a second to absorb and redirect the red beam with painful effort. But I succeed. Because Dumbledore didn't expect this hopelessly careless move.
Red sparks explode like fireworks above me, and while Dumbledore is still almost entertained by this, I start cursing.
In vain, though. In every little movement, he's dripping with highly effective magic, catalyzed by the wand of Death itself, and his ability to react in terms of defense simply leaves me no gap.
The fact that my cover also works remarkably well in reverse doesn't come as a complete surprise to him – but he probably didn't expect it to this extent.
Nevertheless, this is all so very easy for him. He doesn't even have to catch his breath while I'm actually not mad anymore that Dippet's holding my robe.
And yet … I'd rather drown myself in the fountain than let him –
"Need to cool off?" Dumbledore shouts, as though the Occlumency I've kept up over all these years was completely ineffective for the first time ever.
I'm too caught off guard by this, and he won't let that opportunity slip.
Ice-cold spring water from the fountain hits me before I can even react. With an energetic wave of his wand, he not only multiplies the masses of liquid using a brilliant variation ofAguamenti, he also sends them my way in such surprising speed with a silentOppugnothat I'm immediately surrounded by his skillfully shaped ball of water.
It lifts me up from the ground with suffocating determination and, locked in that prison, Dumbledore spins me in the air quite a few times until even I can hear the muffled cheering of our enthusiastic spectators.
He is vain, too – so if that can't make his concentration drop for a second, nothing will.
But my furious Finite takes effect, after all, it makes me land on solid ground surrounded by showers of water as I let out a gruff sigh.
My frowning gaze must be just so reproachful as my clothes drip and drip, that Dumbledore has no other option but to stop and laugh.
"Oh, excuse me – did you get wet, Tom?" he mocks. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it's probably resentment on your –"
He's absolutely right, but that's as far as he gets.
I shoot a silent vocative,Tempestates Obscurae, in the form of a vertical lightning bolt right into the graying sky. So far I've never had a suitable opportunity to try my hand at this incantation, but this form of questionable magic now triggers a dark storm I can immediately send out. Like black, dense ash, it would cover the entire patio and Dumbledore, if only he would let the weather break over us…
But there is no way around his magical shield. Yet to my great satisfaction, it clearly takes a considerable amount of effort on his part to keep the storm as harmless high above us.
Until he decides to create wind himself, sending the dark clouds away.
But I'm only just getting warmed up and magic is like energy – it shifts. It can be charged. So I'm not giving anything away, I want it back.
Faster than he expects, I command the darkness to return to me, like the core of my soul pulled back its light. Within the next breath, I can feel it concentrated in my hands close to my body – and with that, I catalyze within my wand what flows through every fiber of my being, my whole soul.
The black magic equivalent of a Bombarda works itself up inside me for a heartbeat long, then right before it can spill over, I let it all out – in the form of a resounding shockwave as I spread out my arms.
It comes suddenly, and it shakes up the entire patio like an implosion, followed by an outcry in our audience. Ancient bricks above us come loose, wall stones crack at their core and various gargoyles around us break free from their spots, bursting – immediately subjected to gravity.
It's about to rain gray stone, but before anyone can be struck, I force my magic to go with the will of my wand. After a sweep over my head, a mixture of targeted levitation and control spells cause all those loose pieces and ash to thunder towards Dumbledore.
He, however, refuses to be affected.
With impressive skill, he immediately pulverises each and every crumb, down to the last stone – even if he's obviously delighted with this manoeuvre of mine.
"Nice one, Tom," he shouts – and it's highly psychological.
His hypocrisy is so unexpected and my magic has to return to me for a brief moment in time that he simply catches me, seizing the opportunity like only a rude Gryffindor would.
"Expelliarmus!"
I can't help it. Never before has someone let my wand fly out of my hand and land in theirs – but it was probably not for nothing that Gellert Grindelwald lost to him …
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asks with teasing interest, while I'm still trying to realize that he's just taken my bloody wand from me. When I don't answer for a few heavy breaths, he immediately adds, "That dark form of Bombarda I mean?"
Rather irritated, I retort, "Not here …"
"Had features of an Obscurus, but in a controlled way." He shrugs, ever so calm, and eventually nods as he holds up my wand. "And yet … I'm sorry, Tom. You did well, but you just lost –"
"No." I firmly shake my head. "Why would I have lost?"
He gives me an incredulous glance as though I was out of my mind. "Because I'm holding your wand."
"I don't need it."
Some of the people around us burst into laughter at these words, but not all of them. Not the ones who know it's true …
Dumbledore in particular gives me such a warm smile it infuriates me to no end. "Tom, wandless magic is extremely complex. You've done really well, but –"
"I don't need a wand!"
He eyes me skeptically, then I see it. He's determined to teach me to sing small for good. And so he nods.
"All right, have it your way …" His inherent smugness has never been more evident. "Let's get on with it then. What do you intend to do now?"
"That depends on your next move."
"Foolish once again. I know exactly what you're afraid of, Tom."
I raise a brow as I glare at him, but he doesn't even want to spare me for another second, opening his lesson.
It's a form of magic I've never read about or heard of, yet it works – he lifts the veil.
Just enough for all those invisible spirits whose piercing eyes glow in the dark. Enough to give my demons free rein.
The darkness chokes me at once, and violently so, as it did on Halloween. I hear whispers, and screams, and I'm forced onto my knees for good, gasping for air. My skin burns, my tormented soul does, my skull is about to burst open at any moment – and Albus Dumbledore is enjoying it a tad too much.
"We can stop this as soon as you ask for it," he nobly vows, extending a kind hand to me while he's willingly throwing me to my personal hell.
But hell cannot swallow me up here … Not today … Not far away from the Austrian Alps or Echidna's catacombs.
It's not Halloween – up is not down. And so, with these last sane thoughts in my mind, I realise I must be able to get myself out of hell today.
It's all an illusion …
I concentrate, just for the blink of an eye.
The light in me … I just have to locate it despite the agony. It just has to shine through the darkness, only bright enough …
And then, as if it were soul light that I'm choking on yet again, the last breath I blow out becomes a blazing ball of fire in my hand, immediately eager to escape and destroy – but trained to follow my will.
No, I don't need a wand for that.
And suddenly, hell has no more rights here. Lifting the veil for the darkness is no longer possible with the blazing flames I create. The throbbing in my head stops, and my skin no longer burns. Only my Fiendfyre does, cutting the way off between Dumbledore and me like a golden barrier.
Ignim Draconis Invocatum – the Dark Art I have practiced to the point of exhaustion while risking my life now allows me to shake off my demons and raise my hands for precision control.
Blazing in bright yellow, a hissing basilisk attacks, its head and crown of feathers surpassing even Echidna in size.
Raw fascination flashes across Dumbledore's lit face, along with recognition and the purest disgust I've ever seen.
He hates flames, but I love to play with them – yet regardless of casualties, Dumbledore knows how to defend himself.
I hear a few startled screams around us as the fire flares up at lightning speed along the columns of the patio and finally gets threateningly close to Dumbledore himself, but of course he doesn't disappoint.
A powerful Finite prevents the giant snake from even touching him, but my Partis Temporus doubles the flames. Dumbledore now has to keep two heads in check, with twice the force, before he finally calls upon the blue element once more and smothers my Fiendfyre with a heap of conscious skill.
As he does that, however, my wand falls out from the inside pocket of his robe, and even in the midst of the vaporising water and endless steam of dying fire around us, I don't miss it.
I focus my gaze, I hold out my hand – and magic bridges the remaining distance.
Necessary, as it turns out, because otherwise I simply wouldn't be able to fend off Dumbledore's rapid succession of curses precisely enough.
He's not squeamish, not a gentleman or teacher anymore, not considerate or thoughtful – it's brute force that he indulges in, and yet we're both equally aware that in the end, we're just playing.
Ever since I was eleven years old, he must've suspected I could handle that side of him. Maybe he doesn't like it, maybe it reminds him of the dynamic between him and Grindelwald too much, but there's no denying it.
The fact that he obviously trusts me not to crack under this unbridled aggression of his, despite my young age, is probably the most honest compliment he will ever pay me.
I dodge, I turn into smoke at lightning speed, I circle him where necessary, I shoot curses out, too – but he could carry on like this forever. He can do so much more than he usually admits to, and I can't help but wonder why the hell he never taught us Defense instead of Merrythought …
"Out of breath?" he eventually asks, pausing abruptly.
"No?" I lie through gritted teeth, feeling like I've just run a marathon with an overly motivated Elliott …
Dumbledore knows that, I think, smoothing down his robe, then shrugging his shoulders cheerfully as though nothing had happened. "A bit like Wimbledon, isn't it?"
I blink. Twice. "Tennis?"
"That was your first serious match, Tom. A good premier."
He cackles, more lively than I've ever seen him, probably because I'm staring at him in utter disbelief.
"What's tennis?" I hear whispers here and there.
If there's one sport that screams 'muggle' and is a foreign word to every pureblood, it's probably tennis …
"Game, set and match!" Dumbledore winks. Then he turns to Professor Merrythought and Marchbanks. "Ladies?"
To my surprise, I notice said ladies stare at me with their jaws on the ground, not at him. Everyone does, now that I properly take a look around …
"That should be enough for a profound assessment of Mr Riddle's abilities," Dumbledore says, already putting his wand away. "Please note Tom's seventh Outstanding."
"What?" I shout in protest. "But I wouldn't have won against you!"
"But you made it a bit harder for me than I thought," he is quick to reply. "As always, basically …"
"But – but he clearly broke the rules!" Marchbanks anxiously states. "Black magic and a Fiendfyre – the Examinations Authority's testing regulations clearly state that –"
"Madam Marchbanks, please forgive me," Dumbledore interrupts her at once, nodding sympathetically. "But you left the rules to me. Everything was allowed, if you remember … I made a conscious decision to have the Dark Arts included, because if we're honest, the darkness sometimes ends up taking its space anyway. So it's better to allow it in a controlled manner, isn't it? Be that as it may, Mr Riddle undoubtedly deserves a Medal for Magical Merit and to be regarded as one of the most brilliant students ever to attend Hogwarts. As you have just witnessed with your own eyes."
The ministry witch sourly bites her lip, yet Merrythought is already nodding in silence.
And Dumbledore obviously thinks he's done here – he winks at me and proceeds to strolls away. Just like that.
And all at once I realise what the man has just done for me.
He was one step ahead of everyone, including myself – for my sake.
"Professor!" I swiftly follow him, carelessly pushing through the excited crowd. When I finally catch up to him in front of the clock tower, a tad removed from the hustle and bustle, I still have to keep my pace as he doesn't stop walking. I lower my voice, saying, "You allowed the exam to be brought forward because you –"
"The school is always in need of donations, Tom," he says under his breath, more mischievously than ever. "And I thought a duel that didn't exclude your favourite kind of magic would suit you. Especially as I'd prefer you using a big stage rather than secret rooms for that …"
"That was brilliant." It just slips out of my mouth – and I'm probably more surprised by it than he is.
"You came to the boathouse," he gravely says, his eyes never leaving my face. "To help me, right before the duel."
"But you didn't need any help."
"No." He smiles, a spark of odd fatherly pride across his features for once. "But that's not the point. You trusted me."
We notice Dippet approaching in the distance, so Dumbledore still adds only for me to hear, "Without a doubt, you are at the peak of your abilities. Disciplined and wide awake. Slytherin would be proud of your ambition. I ask only one thing of you – stay in the light. As tempting as the shadows may be." His expression changes abruptly to a smirk as Dippet reaches us. "Are we going to repeat this in two or three years time, Tom?"
"What?" I ask, perplexed for good. "Tennis, you mean?"
Dumbledore nods, at Dippet as well. "The recent Walpurgis Night let me remember how much fun a match can be …"
He excuses himself, leaving me to the Headmaster who immediately congratulates me.
"Fantastic, Tom, I had no idea you had such a keen interest in the Dark Arts!"
I refrain from being cynical – because sure, that's something I've been terribly aware of over the years.
"You're still all wet from Albus' water ball," he chuckles, thinking nothing of my dazed bewilderment as he unceremoniously whirls a spell of warm wind at me. "That's better." He nods, visibly pleased with the result of my abrupt drying. "Just your hair isn't as neat as usual now. But it actually suits you quite well."
He's never talked so much at once. He rambles on about how much attention this exam and my graduation will cause, he pushes me back into the crowd so we can get moving – but I look over my shoulder, back to Dumbledore one last time.
Maybe not in two or three years.
But maybe in six, seven? Maybe one day, the Elder Wand will change hands …
Albus Dumbledore – a prime example of a hypocrite. He has the capacity to be a villain in shining armor, and yet successfully acts like a friendly old man. Even if I never quite bought the role, the world does …
Maybe I do like him a bit, after all.
"I'm really proud of you, Tom." Dippet talks and talks while I'm still deep in thought. "You've always been my primus inter pares, so I'm sad to see you leave us. But with such a brillant examination …" I hardly listen to him – until he wants to know where Harper is. "Normally we only ever see you together," he jests, looking around the patio. Just as he can make her out in the many faces, he waves her over to us and continues talking as soon as she reaches me.
"Put on a nice smile, the both of you, will you?" he says before maneuvering us towards the wall of the clock tower.
"Smile?" I ask, well alarmed. "For what?"
"Well," Dippet chuckles, "for Ms Blishwick and her camera, of course!"
"Professor, not her! Not the author of most absurd Witch Weekly gossip columns and –"
"Yes, yes, Tom, she wants another picture of you two," he says, not a single concern on his happy face. "Just the other day she asked me what happened to the nice Yule Ball couple."