December 13th 1971
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards—felt tired.
At ninety years old, he was no stranger to weariness. His body had long since learned to manage the various aches and protests that came with advanced age. A bit of stiffness in the mornings, the occasional twinge in his knee when the weather turned cold, the way his eyes grew heavy earlier in the evening than they once had. These were the natural companions of a long life, and Albus bore them with good grace and the occasional restorative potion.
But today—tonight—the exhaustion went deeper than aching joints or tired eyes.
Today, he felt his age in his bones. In his heart.
One of his oldest friends, Alastor Moody, had come to see him the previous evening. Alastor had arrived through the Floo Network unannounced, his magical eye whirring frantically, his scarred face set in grim lines. They'd sat in this very office, Fawkes dozing on his perch, the portraits feigning sleep while listening to every word, and Alastor had confirmed what many of Albus's associates had been hearing whispers of for the last few years.
There was a fully-fledged pure-blood supremacist movement rising in Britain.
Not the usual grumbling of old families at the Wizengamot, complaining about Muggleborn "encroachment" or the "degradation" of traditional values. Not the casual prejudice that had poisoned wizarding society for centuries, that unthinking cruelty dressed up as custom.
No. This was organized. Deliberate. Deadly.
A letter had been delivered to the Minister of Magic—Eugenia Jenkins, who Albus knew to be a competent witch but perhaps not quite prepared for what was coming. The letter had arrived three days ago at the Ministry, left on her desk by means no one could determine. The wards hadn't registered an intrusion. The protective enchantments hadn't so much as flickered. One moment the desk had been empty; the next, the letter sat there, sealed with black wax and marked with a symbol Albus didn't recognize—a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth.
The letter made no demands. That was what made it so chilling.
It wasn't a ransom note or a political manifesto calling for negotiation. It was a simple notification. An announcement, delivered with the confidence of someone who felt no need to justify themselves or plead their case. They were informing the Ministry—not requesting, not threatening, simply informing—that a storm was coming. That a new face of the Magical World was emerging, one that would reshape everything.
The letter was signed by someone calling himself "Lord Voldemort."
A theatrical name. Almost absurdly so. And yet Alastor, who'd spent over twenty years as an Auror and had developed instincts about these things that bordered on precognition, said the name made him feel cold. That there was something about the way it was written—the confident strokes, the deliberate grandeur—that suggested this was no mere agitator or rabble-rouser.
This was someone who believed, utterly and completely, in their own supremacy.
Along with the letter had been a manifesto.
Albus had read it twice now, sitting alone in his office after Alastor had left. Fawkes had been awake then, watching him with those ancient eyes that saw too much, understood too much. The phoenix had sung softly, a mournful sound that seemed to acknowledge the darkness of what Albus held in his hands.
The manifesto was extensive—nearly twenty pages of dense text, written with the precision of someone well-educated and the passion of someone utterly convinced. It laid out, in meticulous detail, a vision for a "purified" wizarding world.
It called for the culling of Squibs. Not their exclusion or their gentle removal from magical society, but their culling. The word was used deliberately, clinically, as one might discuss the necessary removal of damaged livestock. Squibs were described as "magical failures," "genetic dead-ends," "evidence of bloodline corruption." They had no place in the pure world to come.
It called for the separation of wizarding society into official, legal classes. A hierarchy enshrined in law, not merely maintained by custom and prejudice. At the top: pure-bloods, the "true magical inheritors," those whose bloodlines had remained "uncontaminated" for generations. In the middle: half-bloods, acceptable if they proved their loyalty and understood their place. At the bottom: Muggleborns and Muggles themselves, to be controlled, restricted, possibly enslaved.
The manifesto described Muggleborns as "magical thieves," their power "stolen" from proper wizarding bloodlines through some mysterious metaphysical mechanism. They were parasites, according to the text. Their very existence weakened magical society, diluted its strength, corrupted its purity.
The document didn't call for their immediate extermination—not yet, anyway. But the language suggested that might come later, once the "purification" had begun in earnest. For now, they would be tolerated as a laboring class, permitted to use their "stolen" magic only in service to their betters.
It was one of the most disturbing things Albus had read in his ninety years of life.
And he had read some very disturbing things indeed.
What made it worse—what made it truly chilling—was how coherent it was. This wasn't the raving of a madman or the crude hatred of an ignorant bigot. The manifesto was well-structured, logically argued (within its own twisted premises), supported by citations of magical theory and selective readings of history. It referenced ancient magical texts, quoted historical figures, drew parallels to other societies and other eras.
It was the work of someone intelligent. Educated. Charismatic enough to gather followers, organized enough to build a movement, bold enough to announce themselves to the Ministry with utter confidence.
Someone who reminded Albus, more than he wanted to admit, of another young man he'd once known. Another brilliant wizard who'd believed that might made right, that magical people were superior to non-magical ones, that a "greater good" justified any cost.
Gellert.
Albus closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside his window, snow was beginning to fall over the Hogwarts grounds, dusting the towers and turrets in white. It should have been peaceful. Beautiful, even.
Instead, he felt the weight of history pressing down on him. The terrible sense that patterns were repeating. That he was being given another chance to stop something terrible before it truly began—and that once again, he might fail.
Twenty-six years since he'd faced Gellert in that final duel. Twenty-six years since he'd looked into the eyes of the man he'd once loved and seen nothing there but cold certainty and the willingness to destroy anything that stood in his way.
Twenty-six years, and the nightmares still came sometimes. Dreams where he was seventeen again, standing in Godric's Hollow, listening to Gellert's passionate arguments about magical supremacy and feeling his own heart respond with excitement instead of horror. Dreams where Ariana was still alive, still smiling, before everything went so terribly wrong.
He'd thought, perhaps foolishly, that defeating Gellert would be enough. That stopping one dark wizard would prevent others from rising. That the lesson would be learned, the danger understood.
But evil, it seemed, was not so easily defeated. It wore different faces, spoke with different voices, but the underlying philosophy remained the same: We are superior. We have the right to rule. Those without power exist to serve those with it.
And now, this "Lord Voldemort."
And, Albus thought with a heaviness that settled in his chest like lead, possibly David Price as well.
He opened his eyes, looking across his office to where the chessboard sat waiting. David would arrive soon for their weekly game. The boy—no, young man now, fourteen years old and more formidable with each passing month—never missed an appointment unless he was genuinely ill.
Two threats. Perhaps three, if one counted the general rising tide of pure-blood resentment that had been building since the war with Grindelwald ended. The old families felt threatened by the growing Muggleborn population, by the changes in wizarding society, by their slowly diminishing influence.
But Voldemort and David were different. More dangerous.
Voldemort seemed to be working from the traditional pure-blood supremacist angle—the same poison Gellert had rejected in favor of broader magical supremacy. In some ways, that made him more predictable. Easier to oppose, perhaps, because the sides were clear. Pure-bloods who wanted power versus everyone else.
But David...
David was more complicated. More troubling.
Because David was arguing from the opposite direction. Not pure-blood supremacy, but Muggleborn liberation. Not oppression of the powerless, but obligation to help them. He spoke of moral imperatives and humanitarian concerns. He gathered followers not through fear and promises of power, but through genuine idealism and the seductive logic of righteous anger.
And yet.
And yet, the passion with which he spoke. The absolute certainty. The unwillingness to compromise or consider that he might be wrong. The way he gathered followers, built his organization, prepared for something larger than academic discourse.
The way he looked at Albus sometimes, during their debates, with pity and frustration—as if Albus were a well-meaning but ultimately foolish obstacle to necessary progress.
It was so terribly, achingly familiar.
Albus had tried to warn the boy. Had tried, gently, to suggest that certainty was dangerous. That good intentions could lead to terrible places. That the road to hell was paved with exactly the kind of noble purpose David expressed.
David always listened politely. Considered the arguments. And then proceeded exactly as he'd planned, utterly unmoved.
Just as Gellert had done.
A soft knock at the door pulled Albus from his dark thoughts.
"Come in," he called, straightening in his chair and arranging his features into something approaching his usual gentle warmth.
The door opened, and David Price entered.
The young man who stepped into his office was not what one would expect of someone who had entered the magical world less than a handful of years ago. David moved with an elegance that would have done credit to any pure-blood heir—the kind of practiced grace that usually came from generations of etiquette lessons and careful breeding. His robes fit him perfectly, tailored rather than hastily hemmed. His posture was upright without being stiff, confident without arrogance. Even his hair, dark and neatly kept, suggested careful attention to presentation.
Nothing like he'd been in his first year.
Albus remembered that boy clearly. A thin, half-starved child from Sheffield with ill-fitting secondhand robes and eyes that had seen far too much suffering for eleven years of life. He'd held himself small then, hunched and wary, like something that had learned to make itself a difficult target. His accent had been thick with the flat vowels of industrial Yorkshire, his hands chapped and raw from poverty's touch.
But David Price was smart. Remarkably so. And he learned quickly.
By his second year, the transformation had already begun. The accent had softened, not erased but refined. The posture had straightened. The secondhand robes had been replaced with properly fitted ones—bought with money earned how, Albus had never quite determined, though he had his suspicions. The boy had watched his pure-blood classmates with the focused intensity of someone taking notes, learning not just magic but how to move through this world as if he belonged in it.
By his third year, you wouldn't know he'd been born to Muggles unless someone told you.
It was what had first brought David to Albus's particular notice, beyond the usual attention he paid to all exceptional students.
When several students from different houses began to flock around a single student, when that student became a kind of gravity well that pulled others into orbit around them, Albus took notice. He had learned, over his many years at Hogwarts, to watch for such patterns.
Always watchful. Always remembering.
He had seen it only a few times before in his decades as a teacher and headmaster—this particular phenomenon of a powerful student acting as a center of gravity to their peers. The ability to inspire loyalty across house boundaries, to make others believe in something larger than themselves, to transform casual acquaintances into devoted followers.
The biggest example in his memory, the one that still haunted him, was Tom Riddle.
That boy had been brilliant. Devastatingly so. He'd understood magic in a way so few ever did—not merely as a tool to be wielded but as something deeper, more fundamental. Tom had grasped magical theory with an intuition that suggested he perceived realities others couldn't see. He'd been handsome, charming, capable of making anyone feel as though they were the most important person in the room when he turned his attention to them.
He had also been bathed in darkness.
Even as a student, there had been something wrong beneath Tom's polished surface. A coldness in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. A casual cruelty in how he treated those he considered beneath him. An obsession with power, with immortality, with domination that had turned Albus's blood cold when he'd finally recognized it for what it was.
It was why, when Tom had applied to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor some years ago, Albus had denied him. The request itself had been a formality—Tom had known Albus would refuse, had probably applied simply to make a point. To show that he could walk into Hogwarts as an adult, stand in this very office, and make demands of the man who'd once been his headmaster.
Tom Riddle had been a man who appreciated power above all else. Who saw other people as tools or obstacles, nothing more. Who believed that might made right and that those with strength had no obligations to those without it beyond what served their own interests.
In this way, he was so very unlike the young man who stood in front of Albus now.
David Price believed in obligations. In responsibilities. In the moral imperative of those with power to use it for those without. He gathered followers not through fear or manipulation but through genuine conviction and the seductive logic of righteous purpose.
Which was, Albus thought with a heaviness in his chest, what made him potentially more dangerous than Tom had ever been.
Tom had repelled as many as he'd attracted. His darkness had been visible to those willing to see it, his cruelty evident to anyone he deemed unworthy of his charm. He'd built his following among those who wanted power for themselves, who saw in him a path to dominance.
David built his following among the idealistic. The compassionate. The ones who genuinely wanted to make the world better.
And that made all the difference.
David gave a nod of respect as he approached the desk—genuine respect, too, which was one of the things that made their relationship so complicated. They disagreed on a great many things, fundamental things, but David had never stopped treating Albus with courtesy. Never descended into the sneering dismissiveness that Tom had shown toward anyone who opposed him.
"Headmaster," David said, his voice warm and pleasant. "Good afternoon this fine Saturday."
"Good afternoon, David," Albus replied, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Please, sit. I trust your week has been productive?"
It was their standard opening. A small ritual of civility before they began the real conversation, the one that happened between chess moves and philosophical arguments.
David settled into the chair with that same easy grace, his grey eyes scanning the office as they always did—taking in the instruments, the portraits, Fawkes on his perch. Not nervous, just observant. Always gathering information, always thinking several moves ahead.
"Very productive, thank you," David said. "Professor Flitwick has given me permission to study some fascinating charms theory from the restricted section. The applications of proto-Indo-European magical syntax are remarkable once you understand the underlying principles."
Of course he was reading restricted texts on advanced magical theory. Of course Filius had given him permission—the boy's talent in Charms was exceptional, and Filius had always had a soft spot for brilliant students.
"I'm pleased to hear it," Albus said, reaching for the chess set between them. The pieces were already arranged from their last game, frozen mid-match in a position that had been growing increasingly complex. "Shall we continue where we left off? I believe it was your move."
David leaned forward, studying the board with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. His fingers hovered over his knight, then moved to his bishop, then back to the knight.
"Before we begin," David said, not looking up from the board, "I wanted to thank you again for permitting The Circle to continue operating. I know you have... reservations."
Ah. So they were beginning there today.
Albus settled back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "I have reservations about many things, David. It is the privilege and curse of age to see patterns where the young see only possibilities."
"Patterns," David repeated, finally looking up. His grey eyes met Albus's blue ones directly, unflinching. "You mean Grindelwald."
The name hung in the air between them like a ghost.
Albus had not expected him to be quite so direct. Usually David approached the subject more carefully, dancing around it with philosophical arguments and historical parallels.
"Among others," Albus said quietly. "But yes. Gellert is very much on my mind these days."
"Because you think I'm like him."
It wasn't a question.
"Because I think you share certain... characteristics," Albus said carefully. "Brilliant mind. Powerful magic. Absolute conviction in the rightness of your cause. Charisma that draws others to you like moths to flame." He paused. "The belief that you know better than others what is good for them."
David was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful rather than defensive. When he spoke, his voice was measured, calm.
"The difference, Headmaster, is that I actually do want to help people. Muggleborns. Half-bloods. Magical creatures. Even Muggles themselves, though you may not believe that." He leaned forward slightly. "Grindelwald wanted power. I want justice."
"Gellert thought he wanted justice too," Albus said softly. "He believed, quite sincerely, that magical people ruling Muggles would create a better world. That wizards had an obligation to take control, for everyone's benefit. For the greater good."
He watched David's reaction carefully. The boy didn't flinch at the phrase, didn't show any sign of recognizing its significance.
"And perhaps he was partially right about the obligation," David said, and Albus felt his heart sink slightly. "Where he went wrong was in the methods. In the cruelty. In forgetting that power should serve purpose, not ego."
"And you believe you can avoid those mistakes?"
David was quiet for a moment, his grey eyes distant, thoughtful. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of conviction.
"The hard part isn't knowing what's right, Headmaster. The hard part is being willing to do it anyway."
Albus sat back in his chair, the words settling over him like cold water.
That was indeed true. Painfully, achingly true.
He remembered being young, remembered the intoxicating certainty of youth. Back when the world had seemed so clear, the answers so obvious, the path forward so brilliantly illuminated. He'd known what was right then—or thought he had. He and Gellert, sitting in Bathilda's garden, planning their glorious revolution. For the greater good. For the elevation of all magical kind. For a world where power and wisdom would guide the helpless masses toward better lives.
He'd known exactly what needed to be done.
The hard part had indeed been walking the path. The part where theory met reality, where beautiful philosophy encountered actual human lives, where the costs became real rather than abstract.
The part where Ariana died and everything shattered.
Albus reached for the chessboard, his fingers trembling slightly—though whether from age or emotion, he couldn't say. He moved his bishop three spaces diagonally, a defensive repositioning that opened up possibilities for later plays while protecting his king.
"An interesting thought," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Your own, I take it?"
David nodded, reaching for his own piece without hesitation. "Of course."
His knight moved forward in a mirror of Albus's defensive strategy, but with an offensive edge—positioned to threaten while simultaneously protecting. A small victory, paralleling the verbal exchange they'd just had. David had made his point, defended his position, and advanced his argument all at once.
The boy was getting better at this game. Both the chess and the larger contest it represented.
Albus studied the board, seeing several moves ahead. He could see that this particular avenue of argument would not work. David had already considered the Grindelwald comparison, had already developed his responses, had already decided that he was fundamentally different enough that the pattern wouldn't repeat.
Perhaps a different approach, then.
"I have noticed," Albus said, shifting his tone to something gentler, more concerned, "that young Lily Evans and Severus Snape have entered your orbit. Two first-years now attending The Circle's gatherings." He looked up from the board, meeting David's eyes. "I'm surprised that you were willing to bring ones so young into your organization. Eleven years old is rather tender for the weight of the topics you discuss."
He watched David's reaction carefully. This was important. The boy's relationship with his younger followers revealed much about his true nature. Tom Riddle had collected admirers of all ages, but he'd treated them all as tools, regardless of whether they were eleven or seventeen. He'd felt no particular responsibility for their welfare, no hesitation in using them for his purposes.
How would David respond?
The young man's expression softened slightly, a flicker of what looked like genuine warmth crossing his features.
"Lily and Severus are exceptional," David said simply. "Both brilliant, both driven, both already asking the questions that matter." He paused, his fingers resting on his knight. "And both already experiencing the prejudice that makes those questions necessary. Lily's been called Mudblood by Slytherins since her second week at Hogwarts. Severus is treated as lesser in his own house because his father was a Muggle."
"They are children," Albus said quietly. "Whatever injustices they face, they are still children who should be allowed to simply be students. To learn magic and make friends and discover who they are without the weight of revolutionary ideology pressing down on them."
"With respect, Headmaster, they don't have that luxury." David's voice remained calm, but there was steel underneath it now. "The prejudice doesn't wait until they're older. The discrimination doesn't pause to let them enjoy their childhood. Lily is facing it now. Severus is isolated and hurting now." He leaned forward slightly. "Would you have me tell them to wait? To endure in silence until they're old enough for you to deem them ready to question the system that oppresses them?"
"I would have you let them be children for a few more years," Albus said, and he couldn't quite keep the sadness from his voice. "I would have you not burden them with the certainty that the world must be torn down and rebuilt. Not yet. Not when they're barely eleven years old."
"The world burdened them first," David countered. "I'm simply giving them the tools to understand why, and the hope that it doesn't have to be this way forever."
"Hope," Albus repeated. "Is that what you're giving them? Or are you giving them anger? Certainty? The conviction that anyone who disagrees with your vision is complicit in oppression?"
David was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer, but no less certain.
"I'm giving them what no one gave me when my sister died. Understanding. Purpose. The knowledge that her death—and all the deaths like hers—weren't inevitable accidents of nature but preventable tragedies caused by a system that chooses to look away." He met Albus's gaze steadily. "I'm giving them what I wish I'd had at eleven years old: the truth, and the belief that we can change it."
Albus felt the weight of those words settle over him. This was the heart of it, wasn't it? David's wound, the one that drove everything. Ruth Price, dead at eight years old while magic existed mere miles away, hidden behind the Statute of Secrecy.
How did you argue against that grief? Against that rage? Against the very real, very valid point that the magical world had failed that little girl, and continued to fail thousands like her?
Albus knew personally how the death of a sister could eat at one's soul. Could twist and warp everything good inside you until all that remained was the need to make meaning from meaningless loss. To ensure it meant something. That she hadn't died for nothing.
Ariana's death had shaped him in ways he was still discovering, even seventy years later. Had made him cautious where he'd once been bold. Had taught him that the best intentions could lead to the worst outcomes. Had shown him that certainty was the most dangerous thing a powerful wizard could possess.
But David's certainty felt different. Felt pure in a way that frightened Albus more than Tom Riddle's darkness ever had.
"I understand your pain, David," Albus said quietly. "Truly, I do. Loss shapes us in profound ways. But we must be careful not to let our wounds become weapons that hurt others in turn."
David's expression shifted slightly—not quite disappointment, but something close to it. As if Albus had missed the point entirely.
"Not weapons, sir. Never to damage, never to inflict pain." He leaned forward, his grey eyes intense. "But proof. For if my pain is real, then so are others'. If Ruth's death mattered, then so do all the deaths like hers. My wound doesn't make me special—it makes me aware. It opened my eyes to a truth that comfortable people prefer to ignore."
Albus moved his queen one space to the left, a defensive gesture. "Yet your pain may inflict pain in turn upon young Lily and Severus. By showing them that truth, by opening their eyes as yours were opened, you burden them with knowledge they're not yet ready to bear. With anger they may not know how to channel constructively."
David shook his head, and there was something almost sad in the gesture. Almost disappointed, as if Albus had fundamentally misunderstood something important.
"No, Headmaster. It is not my pain that will hurt them." He moved his own piece—a pawn, advancing steadily. "My pain shaped me into who I am today, and though I'm content with who I've become, that doesn't mean I believe pain is the way to enlightenment. Enlightenment comes in many forms, sir."
He paused, his fingers still resting on the pawn he'd just moved. When he spoke again, his voice took on the quality of someone reciting something he'd committed to memory, something he'd thought about deeply.
"Someone once said: 'Enlightenment is man's release from his self-incurred tutelage. Tutelage is man's inability to make use of his understanding without direction from another. Self-incurred is this tutelage when its cause lies not in lack of reason but in lack of resolution and courage to use it without direction from another.'" David's grey eyes met Albus's directly. "'Sapere aude!' 'Have courage to use your own reason!'—that is the motto of enlightenment."
Albus sat back, momentarily taken aback. Those were quite profound words, and they carried uncomfortable implications in the current context. The idea that people remained in tutelage—remained controlled, remained subordinate—not because they lacked the capacity for independence but because they lacked the courage to claim it.
It was a philosophy that could be used to justify... many things. Liberation. Revolution. The overthrow of established orders.
"I admit I am not familiar with that quote," Albus said carefully. "Though it has the ring of Enlightenment philosophy to it. The phrasing suggests someone well-versed in both reason and rhetoric."
David nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth—the expression of a student pleased that his teacher had engaged with the material. "Immanuel Kant. A Muggle philosopher from the eighteenth century. He wrote extensively about reason, morality, and human autonomy." The smile widened slightly. "I've been reading Muggle philosophy alongside magical theory. It's remarkable how often they arrive at similar conclusions through different paths."
Of course he had. Of course David Price, brilliant and driven and absolutely certain of his purpose, was reading Enlightenment philosophy and applying it to the structure of magical society.
Kant's call to courage, to independent reasoning, to throwing off self-imposed limitations—it was the perfect intellectual framework for what David was building. A philosophical foundation that sounded noble and emancipatory while potentially justifying the dismantling of any authority one deemed illegitimate.
"Kant also wrote about the categorical imperative," Albus said quietly, reaching for his own philosophical arsenal. "The idea that we should act only according to maxims we could will to become universal law. That we should treat humanity, whether in ourselves or others, always as an end and never merely as a means."
"I'm familiar with it," David said, not missing a beat. "And I agree with him. People—Muggle or magical—should be treated as ends in themselves, not as tools or obstacles or acceptable losses." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "That's exactly why the current system is unacceptable, Headmaster. It treats Muggleborns as perpetual children who need pure-blood guidance. It treats Muggles as beings to be hidden from and protected from knowledge of magic, as if they're incapable of handling the truth. The entire Statute of Secrecy is built on treating billions of people as means to our comfort and safety, rather than as ends in themselves."
Albus felt the argument slipping through his fingers like water. Every point he raised, David had already considered. Every philosophical framework Albus invoked, David had already read and incorporated into his worldview.
"And what of the categorical imperative applied to your own actions?" Albus asked, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. "If everyone acted as you propose to act—gathering followers, building movements, deciding that established systems must be torn down and rebuilt according to their vision—what world would that create? Could you will that maxim to become universal law?"
David was quiet for a moment, actually considering the question rather than deflecting it. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of his chair.
"The difference," he said finally, "is that I'm not proposing everyone should build their own movement according to their personal vision. I'm proposing that people should have the courage to question unjust systems and the will to change them. That's a maxim I absolutely could will to become universal law." He leaned forward. "Imagine a world where everyone refused to accept injustice simply because 'that's how things have always been.' Where everyone used their own reason to evaluate whether the systems governing them were just or unjust. Wouldn't that be better than a world where people simply obey, regardless of whether that obedience perpetuates suffering?"
It was a seductive argument. Dangerously so.
Because on its face, it sounded right. It sounded noble. Who could argue against using reason? Against questioning injustice? Against having the courage to change broken systems?
But Albus had lived long enough to know that everyone believed their cause was just. That every revolutionary thought they were the one true voice of reason in a world of blind obedience. That certainty—absolute, unwavering certainty—had destroyed more lives than doubt ever had.
"The problem, David," Albus said softly, "is that Gellert Grindelwald believed exactly what you just said. That he was using reason to question an unjust system. That he had the courage to change what others were too cowardly to challenge. That his vision would create a better world." He paused, letting the weight of that settle. "He was wrong. And thousands died because of his certainty."
David's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Not doubt—Albus wasn't sure the boy was capable of that anymore—but acknowledgment.
"Then the question becomes," David said quietly, "how do we distinguish between Grindelwald's certainty and justified conviction? Between dangerous fanaticism and necessary resolve?" He moved another piece on the board, a rook sliding into an aggressive position. "Because if the answer is that we should never be certain, never be resolved, never act decisively for fear of being wrong... then injustice becomes permanent. The Statute remains forever. Muggleborns remain second-class citizens forever. Children like Ruth die forever."
He looked up, and his grey eyes were sad but unwavering.
"I'd rather risk being wrong while trying to save them than be paralyzed by caution while they suffer."
And there it was. The fundamental difference between them.
Albus, shaped by his failures, choosing caution.
David, shaped by his loss, choosing action.
Both positions born of grief. Both claiming the moral high ground. Both absolutely convinced they were right.
Albus moved his king one space to the right, a defensive retreat that bought him time but solved nothing. The position was deteriorating, just as their conversation seemed to be slipping beyond his ability to influence.
"Check," David said softly, moving his queen with the same quiet confidence he brought to everything.
The piece slid across the board with a soft scrape of wood on wood, settling into position with an air of finality. Not checkmate—not yet—but the threat was clear. The endgame was approaching, and Albus was running out of moves.
He looked up from the board, meeting David's grey eyes across the space between them. This next question was important. Perhaps the most important one he'd asked in all their three years of chess games and philosophical sparring.
"And if you are wrong?" Albus asked, his voice quiet but weighted with all the experience of his ninety years. "If you find, at the end of this road you're walking, only the bodies of those you love? Failure and pain and the terrible knowledge that your certainty led to their destruction?" He leaned forward slightly. "What will you do then, David? When the cost becomes real and the price is paid in lives you cherish?"
He was thinking of Ariana. Of that terrible moment when theory had collided with reality, when philosophical debate had given way to flying curses and his sister's broken body on the floor. The moment when he'd learned that good intentions meant nothing when weighed against actual consequences.
He was thinking of Gellert, locked in Nurmengard Prison, alone with the ruins of his grand vision and the weight of all those deaths.
He was thinking of everyone he'd failed to save because he'd been too cautious, too afraid of becoming what Gellert had been. The paralysis that David had identified so accurately, the fear that made him hesitate when action might have prevented suffering.
Both paths led to bodies. Both certainty and caution had their costs.
But which cost could David live with?
David was quiet for a long moment. His hand rested on the chess piece he'd just moved, his fingers still touching the carved wood of his queen. The firelight played across his young face, casting shadows that made him look older than his fourteen years. Made him look almost ancient, as if he carried the weight of choices not yet made.
When he spoke, his voice was soft but utterly steady. Resolved in a way that sent a chill down Albus's spine.
"I will do what I have always done, Headmaster. What I will always do, no matter what comes." He looked up, and his grey eyes held a depth of feeling that was startling in its intensity. "I will endure."
The word hung in the air between them like a vow.
"I will endure for those gone," David continued, his voice gaining strength. "For Ruth, who never got to paint her beautiful world. For my mother, who worked herself to death cleaning other people's floors. For every Muggleborn child who died because magic was kept hidden from those who needed it most. Their deaths will mean something. I'll make certain of that."
He stood, moving to the window where snow continued to fall over the darkening grounds. His silhouette against the glass made him look taller, more imposing. A shadow of what he might become.
"I will endure for those who have the potential to live, laugh, and love," he said, his reflection ghostly in the window. "For Lily, who should never have to hear the word 'Mudblood' again. For Severus, who deserves better than to be called 'tainted' for circumstances beyond his control. For every child who will be born into a better world than the one we have now." His hands clenched at his sides. "They deserve that chance. And if I have to shoulder the burden of failure, of pain, of bodies and blood and terrible choices to give them that chance—then I will."
He turned back to face Albus, and the determination in his expression was almost frightening in its purity.
"I will endure on a mountain alone if I must," David said, and there was no bravado in it, no dramatic posturing. Just simple statement of fact, as if he'd already looked into that future and accepted it. "I will stand against the tide of it all, against opposition from all sides, against the hatred of those who benefit from injustice and the condemnation of those too comfortable to change." His voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate. "If it would grant a single smile, a single laugh, a single child the life my sister never got to have—then I will endure whatever I must."
The silence that followed was profound.
Albus looked at this fourteen-year-old boy who spoke of enduring alone on mountains, of standing against tides, of paying prices not yet demanded. Who'd already decided that his own suffering was acceptable collateral in pursuit of a better world.
It was the kind of statement that could be noble or monstrous, depending on what that endurance required. On what standing against the tide actually meant in practice. On whether the better world David envisioned was worth the mountain of bodies it might take to build it.
The terrible thing was that Albus couldn't tell him he was wrong.
Because the magical world was unjust. The Statute did cause suffering. Muggleborns were treated as lesser. Children did die when magic could have saved them.
David's diagnosis of the problem was accurate.
It was the cure that Albus feared.
"Your endurance is admirable," Albus said finally, his voice heavy with sadness. "But endurance alone does not make a cause just, David. Gellert endured as well. He sits in his prison cell even now, enduring the consequences of his certainty, still convinced he was right." He paused. "The question is not whether you can endure suffering. The question is whether you should ask others to endure it with you."
David returned to his seat, settling back into the chair with that same controlled grace. His expression was thoughtful but not defensive.
"I don't ask anyone to endure anything I wouldn't endure myself," he said quietly. "Lily joined The Circle because she wanted to. Severus chose to stand with us. Every member has made their own decision, with full understanding of what we're building." He met Albus's eyes. "I offer them truth and purpose and the chance to fight for something that matters. What they do with that offer is their choice."
"They are children," Albus said, and he couldn't keep the urgency from his voice now. "Lily is eleven years old. Severus is eleven years old. They cannot possibly understand the full implications of what you're offering them. They see a brilliant older student who makes them feel valued, who gives them belonging, who tells them their anger is justified. They trust you, David. And you're using that trust to shape them into soldiers for a war that hasn't even begun yet."
"No," David said, and there was steel underneath the soft tone. "I'm using that trust to teach them that they don't have to accept the world as it is. That they have power—not just magic, but the power to question, to resist, to build something better." He leaned forward. "You call them children, and you're right. But children grow up. And when they do, they'll remember who told them they were worth fighting for. Who believed in their capacity to change things. Who gave them the tools to make the world fairer."
He paused, his grey eyes holding Albus's blue ones with unwavering intensity.
"Or they'll remember who told them to wait. To be patient. To trust that the adults would fix things eventually, even as those adults failed them year after year." His voice dropped. "Which teacher do you think they'll thank, Headmaster? The one who told them they could make a difference, or the one who told them they were too young to try?"
Albus had no answer to that.
Because David was right, in the most painful way possible.
The magical world would fail Lily and Severus, just as it had failed countless others. The system wouldn't change on its own. And waiting for them to be older, to be "ready," might mean waiting until they were too beaten down by prejudice to believe change was possible at all.
But rushing them into revolution, into David's certainty and passion and unwavering conviction—that carried its own terrible risks.
There was no good answer. No safe path.
Just choices, all of them costly.
"Your move, Headmaster," David said quietly, gesturing to the chess board.
Albus looked down at the pieces, at his king cornered and his options limited.
He moved his bishop, blocking the check but knowing it was only a temporary reprieve.
The game would continue. The argument would continue.
And Albus feared, with a certainty that made his heart ache, that he was going to lose both.
o–o–o–o