McGonagall's lips trembled as if she still had something to say, but Dumbledore was already striding toward the door.
Before closing it, he turned to look at her and gave a small nod.
"Albus..." McGonagall's voice caught in her throat, turning into a sigh. "This isn't your burden alone..."
In that moment, she suddenly realized that the man she had admired for half her life was now an old man, tired and worn. His shoulders stooped slightly, as though something invisible and unbearably heavy pressed upon them.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving McGonagall standing alone in the stillness of the Headmaster's office. The portraits of the former headmasters were unusually silent. Only the ticking of silver instruments spoke of the passage of time.
When Dumbledore stepped out of Hogwarts' main gate, the storm had grown fiercer.
Cold rain struck his face, tracing down the folds of his traveling cloak.
Behind him, the castle lights blurred into wavering golden dots.
"Fawkes," he called softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the rain and wind.
The phoenix descended onto his shoulder, warm feathers brushing his cheek. The steam rising from its body formed a faint halo that sheltered Dumbledore in a small circle of dry calm amid the storm.
A flash of fire lit the air, and they vanished, leaving behind drifting trails of gold that slowly faded into the rain.
London's night was drenched. In Westminster, the streetlamps glowed dimly, their light bleeding like ink into water. Dumbledore stood beneath an eave, watching raindrops swirl into small vortices around the drain, swallowing fallen leaves and dust.
"Rest a little, Fawkes," he said gently, tucking the phoenix into his inner pocket. Fawkes obediently shrank to the size of a robin and nestled inside, rubbing its head softly against his fingers.
Dumbledore adjusted his cloak and stepped back into the drizzle. His figure seemed to merge with the fine rain, becoming part of the city's night itself.
He walked on, his pace unhurried. His boots touched the puddles lightly, yet no splash arose.
Umbrella-bearing Muggles hurried past, unconsciously veering around him, as if instinct warned them not to disturb whatever presence walked there.
A woman carrying grocery bags abruptly changed direction and nearly collided with a lamppost. Two boys on their way home split apart to pass him on either side, though neither knew why they did so.
Dumbledore kept his wand concealed within his sleeve, ready for anything, though outwardly he appeared no more than an old man strolling through the rain, a peculiar scholar, perhaps, or a hermit untroubled by the world.
Searching for traces of magic, his eyes swept every corner, sensing for even the faintest ripple in the air.
Before long, he turned into a residential district.
As he rounded a corner, the scent of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery.
Through the fogged windowpane, he saw the baker's family seated around a small table in the back room. The father was telling some amusing story; the two children were laughing uncontrollably; the mother was serving steaming stew into bowls painted with sunflowers.
Scenes of ordinary happiness, so simple, yet so distant from him.
His fingers brushed the crooked bridge of his nose where an old wound had long since healed. How many years had it been? He had spent his life protecting other people's families, yet could never repair his own shattered one.
He walked alone through the streets, past one crossroads after another. There was nothing in this world that truly belonged to him. Truthfully, aside from the feasts at Hogwarts, there was nowhere he could share a meal with those he called family.
Aberforth, his brother, had joined the Order of the Phoenix, yes. But Dumbledore knew full well that Aberforth had never forgiven him.
"We're only fighting the same enemy," Aberforth had once told him under the dim lights of The Hog's Head. His blue eyes, so like Albus's, held not a flicker of warmth. "I sincerely hope you understand that."
And Dumbledore did understand. Aberforth fought Voldemort not because he was his brother, but because Aberforth was a man of conscience. He couldn't bear the tragedies Voldemort caused, parents torn from children, just as he couldn't bear to recall his own long-ago separation from a child he could never save.
He shook his head, banishing these ill-timed memories.
The rain was easing when Dumbledore left Westminster and Apparated to another English village where Muggles had recently gone missing.
The twisting sensation of Apparition had not yet faded when he smelled the damp scent of earth and grass.
Budleigh Babberton lay peaceful beneath the night sky. Apart from the missing-person posters stuck to lampposts and soaked by rain, nothing suggested tragedy had touched this place.
The paper edges were warped and curling; the photos blurred, the faces barely recognizable.
Dumbledore halted, reaching out to smooth a wind-tossed poster. The photo showed a couple and their three smiling children.
The eldest daughter looked old enough for secondary school, already her mother's height; the younger girl was about eight, hair tied into two braids; the smallest, a boy, was missing a front tooth and grinning goofily at the camera. The whole family had vanished, three days ago.
"The Carters," Dumbledore murmured. "Last seen in their own garden..." His voice trailed off. Rain had blurred the children's smiles until they looked like memories being washed away.
Without realizing it, he found himself before a modest brick house. The name on the letterbox confirmed it, the Carter home.
A plastic pinwheel spun weakly in the rain, creaking. The windows were dark, coated with mist; yellow-black police tape fluttered in the wind with a faint slapping sound.
"Revelio... Hominem Revelio... Veritas Ostendo..." Spell after spell slipped from his lips.
The tip of his wand glowed faint blue, then dimmed again. No trace of Dark magic. No sign of struggle. The house felt like it had been Obliviated, like even the air had forgotten that life once existed there.
Dumbledore wandered through city after city, street after street, peering into window after window.
On Crescent Street near Wild Brook, he noticed a police car parked by the roadside.
Condensation fogged the windows; inside were two indistinct silhouettes. He slowed his pace, listening.
"...I'm telling you, this was organized kidnapping," the younger officer said heatedly, biting into his hamburger so hard that ketchup stained his uniform. "Eight people, gone in one night!"
"I've never seen anything like it," muttered the older officer, eyes narrowed as he stared out the window. He rubbed his temples wearily. "No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints. CCTV shows them going home like normal... and then, poof. Gone."
"Bastards," the younger one growled, clenching his fists. "Let me catch them-"
"Better pray we don't," said the senior officer with a bitter smile, one filled with a fear the younger man couldn't yet grasp. "We don't even know if they're people or ghosts." He lowered his voice. "Chief got a call this morning, orders from higher up. Stop the investigation... You get me?"
Standing beside the car for a moment, Dumbledore suddenly sensed it, a faint ripple of magic in the darkness.
Not far away, two figures in black cloaks stood in the shadows of the street corner. Their silver masks gleamed coldly under the streetlight.
They surveyed the neighborhood like predators. One of them rapped his wand against the police car's window, snickering. Inside, the officers glanced up, puzzled, seeing nothing.
"Look at these Muggle protectors," the male Death Eater sneered. "What do they call themselves, 'police'? Can't even see us standing right here."
"Stop playing around," rasped the female voice beside him, her tone hoarse as if her throat had been burned. "The Master wants fresh stock, not your entertainment."
Cloaked in Disillusionment, Dumbledore followed them silently.
At last, they stopped before a small, brightly lit house, 25 Crescent Street, Wild Brook: The Wells Family.
Through the curtains, Dumbledore saw a young woman cooking in the kitchen. Her husband sat on the sofa reading the newspaper, while two little boys built a tower of blocks on the carpet.
A scene of simple domestic warmth, one that made the Death Eaters smile like wolves scenting prey.
"This is the one," the female said, her voice trembling with cruel excitement. "Two adults, two kids. Saves us some work."
Red light flashed, wood splintered, but the explosion's glow was swallowed by magic. The street outside remained utterly still; even the police car at the corner showed no sign of movement.
The Death Eaters stepped over the threshold and entered.
From the doorway, Dumbledore could see the family screaming, but no sound reached his ears.
He circled to another angle. Only then could he hear.
"Who are you-" Mrs. Wells's voice cracked with terror. Her hands clutched the counter, knuckles white.
Mr. Wells stood in front of his children, gripping a flower vase like a weapon though his legs were trembling.
The male Death Eater laughed behind his mask. The vase turned into a squeaking rat.
"Ah-!" Mr. Wells screamed, throwing it aside, but still held his ground before the boys. His voice shook. "What do you want? Please, at least spare the children-"
"Muggle children are still Muggles," sneered the man, wand raised. "You should feel honored, filthy swine."
The Death Eaters stunned the family swiftly, binding them like livestock.
"Another batch of goods," the man said with a grating chuckle. "The Master'll be pleased. Think we might finally get to learn a few new tricks?"
"Enough talk. Move," snapped the woman. "The Muggle police here may be useless, but discovery's still trouble."
Dumbledore's fingers brushed the Elder Wand within his sleeve. He didn't move. Fawkes stirred faintly in his pocket, sensing his turmoil.
He stood in shadow, calm, watching every move. He hated this, but again, it was all he could do.
It was not yet time. He could easily defeat them, save the family, but then he'd never learn where the others had been taken, or what Voldemort was truly planning.
Sometimes, to serve the greater good, one had to endure the evil before one's eyes.
When their spells completed, every trace of damage vanished; the Wells home looked untouched.
"Never understand why the Master makes us clean up," muttered the male, kicking aside a toy block. "Such a waste of a beautiful mark."
"Shut it," said the woman curtly, drawing a small black vial. "Portkey. Take it. Activates in thirty seconds. You go first, I'll find us another batch."
Dumbledore made his decision. Moving silently, he slipped a phoenix feather into Mr. Wells's coat pocket just before the Portkey activated.
The Death Eater and the captured family vanished.
The room fell silent, only Dumbledore and the female Death Eater remained.
Children's blocks lay scattered across the floor; the half-built tower collapsed at a touch of her wand.
"A few hundred more, and the Master's demand will be met," she muttered, removing her mask and inhaling deeply. Her face was young, and cold.
Dumbledore recognized her then. A daughter of the Selwyn family, the Slytherin who'd once turned a Boggart into a music box during her O.W.L.s.
Back then, she had been arrogant, but her eyes still held genuine love for magic. Now, they glowed only with fanatical devotion. "It won't be long," she whispered reverently to the empty room, "before we no longer have to hide."
When she finished erasing the last traces and left the Wells home, she sought another target.
Muggle families fell helplessly before her wand, and once again, Dumbledore left behind a single phoenix feather upon the victims.
He knew he could wait no longer. Across the country, countless Death Eaters must already be at work. It wouldn't take them long to gather the "materials" their Master required.
As Selwyn departed with her captives, Dumbledore focused on the faint pull of phoenix magic.
He closed his eyes and let Fawkes's feathers guide his path.