A lot of Muggle-born wizards fall into a trap of thinking that being a wizard automatically means being powerful.
But that's not true.
In fairy tales, the "powerful" role usually goes to the hunter.
Wizards, on the other hand, used to fear villagers' pitchforks. Later, they dreaded Muggle firearms. By the time Grindelwald came around, even he was gripped by a desperate urgency, believing that if wizards didn't act during the Muggle world wars, they'd lose their chance forever—especially with the invention of the atomic bomb. And don't even get me started on the lightning-fast advancements of modern Muggle technology.
In fairy tales, wizards have one defining trait: mystery.
It's the shapeshifting of an Animagus, the seamless travel of Apparition, the undetectable safety of a Fidelius Charm, the Memory Charm, Horcruxes, Divination, Blood Pacts, curses…
People call Dumbledore "the greatest wizard of our time," but they also whisper that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was "the most powerful and dangerous dark wizard in history." Everyone loves to debate who'd come out on top.
It depends on how you look at it.
From a standpoint of raw power, Dumbledore's got the edge.
But when it comes to mystery, Voldemort's in a league of his own.
Whether it was the First Wizarding War, or the fact that no one could find him when he hid in the forests of Albania, or how he lurked, schemed, and orchestrated his comeback through the Triwizard Tournament—Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix were often stuck reacting, always a step behind.
In the end, Dumbledore had to rely on Harry Potter, the "Chosen One" tied to magical artifacts, to take down Voldemort, rather than crushing him with his own strength.
Of course, part of that's because Dumbledore's not exactly in his prime anymore. The man's 111 years old, after all.
But that doesn't mean a small fry like Alecto Carrow could slip through his fingers.
In the books, outside Harry Potter's perspective, Dumbledore conducted countless searches for Voldemort. One of those led him to the coastal cave where Voldemort hid Slytherin's Locket.
No one knows how he found it.
Now, Lockhart was getting a front-row seat to some of Dumbledore's tricks.
After patiently watching over the fairy-tale book, hoping Lockhart could save himself, Dumbledore triple-checked that he was okay. Then, without wasting a second, he dove back into the hunt.
Horcruxes—so strange and wondrously dark. As long as they existed, Voldemort couldn't be killed. But that didn't mean Dumbledore was out of options.
If he could capture Tom's wandering spirit and lock it up, whether through slow interrogation or finding a way to track down the hidden Horcruxes, things would get a whole lot easier.
With a gentle flick of the Elder Wand, a cluster of silver sparks gathered, forming the image of a witch—Alecto Carrow.
The silvery figure screamed silently in terror within the Carrow family's ancestral home, blasting through a wall and rushing into the garden. She stopped under a large tree and vanished in an instant.
Dumbledore walked to the tree, waved his wand lightly, grabbed Lockhart, and Apparated.
The world spun in a dizzying whirl.
When Lockhart's vision cleared, they were standing in the depths of a shadowy alley.
Another flick of the Elder Wand.
The silver figure reappeared, flickering as it glanced around nervously. It hurried toward an old, boarded-up house with wooden-sealed windows.
Dumbledore didn't rush in. Instead, he raised his wand, muttering softly, and paced around the house. Soon, swirling currents of air enveloped the building, sealing it off completely.
He turned to Lockhart with a smile. "We don't know what dangers lie inside. Are you still willing to come with me?"
"Absolutely!"
Lockhart didn't hesitate, flashing a grin. "We've got to face death head-on to find a shot at survival, right?"
To live, you must face death.
A timeless theme in fairy tales.
Sometimes, it becomes all too real.
Dumbledore opened his mouth to say something but froze, eyes widening in disbelief as he stared at Lockhart.
In his hundred-plus years, he'd seen all sorts of wonders.
But this? This was new.
Lockhart's body suddenly turned deathly pale, as if life itself was being erased. The color drained from him, leaving only shades of black and white, his form turning translucent.
A ghost!
The kind of ghost a wizard becomes when they cling to the world, refusing to move on after death.
Lockhart winked playfully at Dumbledore. "Pretty cool, huh?"
"Unbelievable!" Dumbledore couldn't help but marvel. "Magic's boundaries are endless. There's always some new, unknown realm waiting for us to explore."
Exactly.
So why stop?
There's always more wonder, more mystery, waiting just ahead.
Lockhart, eager to show off, volunteered to scout ahead. His bizarre new "ghostly form" was too tempting not to flaunt.
Plus, if Voldemort—lurking who-knows-where—thought he was already "dead," it might just throw him off.
But Dumbledore shut that down. He didn't explain why, just strode forward and pushed open the house's door.
Deep down, Dumbledore was a proud, powerful wizard. The helplessness he'd felt when Lockhart faced a killing curse was something he never wanted to experience again. No way was he letting this young man take risks for him.
This time, Dumbledore was all business.
In an instant, he unleashed a barrage of spells—detection charms, trap-triggering curses, and others Lockhart couldn't even name, swirling around them in a protective cocoon.
Lockhart even noticed a pool of water spreading across the floor, reflecting a world that was the mirror opposite of reality.
War magic!
An ancient, loosely defined branch of wizarding magic, never formally named. For various reasons, most of its spells were left out of modern Hogwarts curricula.
Technically, these spells fall under the "dueling" branch of Defense Against the Dark Arts. They were created specifically for wizard-on-wizard combat.
The Disarming Charm is the most well-known example.
Lockhart knew little about this field. The memories he'd stolen from a dozen powerful wizards barely touched on it—pure-blood families and the Ministry tightly controlled its secrets.
Not one to be outdone, Lockhart called on his "friends" for backup.
A Boggart morphed into a "hanging corpse god," wielding a massive cross-shaped axe to guard his side. A Bowtruckle and a Pygmy Puff perched on his shoulders, while a Banshee's spirit hovered behind, coaxing the house's wooden beams to sprout into a miniature forest.
But soon, both Lockhart and Dumbledore realized they might've overdone it.
As they cautiously searched up to the third-floor attic, they found Alecto Carrow's body hanging in a bell tower.
A rope was knotted tightly around her neck, its end writhing like a venomous snake, occasionally snapping at her scalp.
Alecto's face was frozen in terror, her hands clawing at the rope even in death, locked in a desperate struggle.
Blood soaked her robes, dripping to the floor and pooling into a crimson puddle. It spread outward, jagged streaks forming words:
"Dumbledore, my sincerest greetings—Voldemort."
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