A/N: I struggled with who's pov I wanted for this chapter. I had written half a chapter from Sev's when I reread it and didn't like so, I scrapped it and went a different way. I am not completely happy with the chapter but that may be because it was a slog to get through.
o–o–o–o
October 1st 1972
The Great Hall was quite full this morning Albus noted, unusually full as he ate his breakfast. Students packed the house tables shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising in overlapping conversations that filled the enchanted ceiling with noise. The Hufflepuff table buzzed with nervous energy. Ravenclaws hunched over their plates in tight clusters. Even the Slytherin table seemed emptier than usual, though the students there sat stiff-backed and quiet. It broke the sadness he had been feeling the last few days.
Since the attack on the first years.
He couldn't prove who did it, even if he knew at least some of the perpetrators. His fork scraped against his plate, cutting through a piece of sausage he had no appetite for. There had been no witnesses. No portraits hung in that particular dead-end hallway—nothing to report to him. No ghosts. Nothing.
And because of this he failed seven of his students. Seven children who had come to Hogwarts expecting safety, who should have been protected within these ancient walls. The weight of it pressed against his ribs with every bite of toast, turned his tea bitter on his tongue.
After investigating and finding next to nothing, he called for David. The boy had arrived within the hour of being summoned, his dueling robes immaculate despite the morning hour, his grey eyes already assessing what Albus wanted before a single word was exchanged. Always thinking several moves ahead. Always prepared. He knew what an attack on Muggleborns would mean. He knew David would not allow it to pass without repercussions.
He had expected to have to argue with him, plead with him. Expected to spend an hour parsing through David's justifications, his careful logic about necessity and proportional response, about what violence could be deemed acceptable when answering violence. The boy was brilliant at that—framing brutality as mathematics, suffering as strategy. Instead, the boy had simply nodded—calm, almost eerily so—and promised that there would be no attacks from him or his people.
Which just made Albus more nervous.
After they had left Nurmengard and Gellert, Albus had formally taken David on as an Apprentice. The decision had sat heavy in his chest for days before he'd made it, but Gellert had convinced him. One might think that taking the word of his former enemy was folly but he knew him well. Knew the cadence of his lies, the particular gleam in his eye when he twisted truth. He wasn't lying about this. He saw what he saw in David. A young man that could reshape the world. A man who had ironclad conviction and thick moral fibre.
Which was why he was struggling to understand why David promised no revenge. His fingers tightened around his teacup, the porcelain warm against his palm. It was unlike him. Unlike the boy who'd created a spell of blood magic to punish three sixth-years who'd dared threaten his people. Unlike the young man who spoke of necessity with the certainty of gospel.
He looked over to the man in question. David sat at the Ravenclaw table—which was not unusual, he did not care about house lines—surrounded by Circle members, one of which was Frank Longbottom. Now, that was a coup for David. A prominent pure-blood heir from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight throwing his lot in with the organization added a new layer to the Circle, legitimacy that couldn't be dismissed as mere Muggleborn grievance. The rest of its members were spread across the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, silver pendants catching the morning light at their throats. All were at the end of the tables closest to the door of the Great Hall. All were watching the door, their conversations continuing but their attention fixed on that single point of entry.
As if waiting for something.
Albus set down his teacup with deliberate care. The clink of porcelain against saucer seemed too loud in his own ears.
He looked at David again and gave a nudge on his Occlumency shields. There was a way for two Legilimens to communicate with each other, a technique that required a degree of trust due to needing to drop a layer of the Occlumens shields. A risk, but one they'd taken before when words would draw too much attention.
David looked up from his conversation, his grey eyes finding Albus across the Great Hall. A moment's pause, then Albus felt the answering nudge against his own shields. The mental touch was light, controlled—David had learned well in their sessions.
David, what is your Circle waiting for?
David gave a smile, subtle enough that anyone not watching closely would miss it. His eyes gleamed with something that made Albus's chest tighten. You have been waiting at the edge of your seat for my retaliation against Rosier and his lot. I promised that I would bring no violence against them but I never promised to not ensure something like this will not happen again.
Before he could continue, the large doors opened. The sound echoed through the Great Hall, cutting through the morning chatter. Conversations died in ripples spreading outward from the entrance.
In walked almost a dozen Slytherins and at its head was Evan Rosier.
Ah. It seemed whatever David had planned was coming to fruition.
Evan walked ahead of the group, his robes perfectly pressed, his shoulders rigid. He looked over to the Slytherin table and if Albus was to guess, he looked to Edmund Mulciber with a glare that morphed into a fearful look as he moved to look away quickly.
Curious.
Mr. Rosier took a breath, his chest rising and falling visibly even from the Head Table. He gave a deep bow, his upper body folding at the waist with the formal precision of pure-blood etiquette. His compatriots followed his actions, a synchronized movement that drew every eye in the Great Hall. They rose, and he cleared his voice.
"C-can I have everyone's attention please?"
"Headmaster, perhaps you could cast a Sonorus charm? I'm sure Mr. Rosier would be most thankful." David's voice rang out across the Hall, cutting through the uncertain silence. Albus could hear the confidence oozing from the tone, smooth as honey and twice as deliberate.
He gave a nod. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen regardless of his aid. No point in pretending he could stop this now.
He lifted his wand and gave a wave. "Sonorus."
Rosier gave a reluctantly grateful nod, his jaw tight.
"For those that don't know me, I am Evan Rosier and I speak for the pure-bloods of Slytherin." His amplified voice carried to every corner of the Great Hall, bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. "I am here today to apologize for anyone myself or those of the Slytherin house have hurt. I swear on the good name of my family that there will be no one else hurt on the account of us." He took a breath, as if sludge was going down his throat, his chest hitching visibly. "I would also take this moment to decry any violent action against Muggleborns in particular as most foul. As a scourge on the wizarding world. To attack Muggleborns should be considered a poison to the very walls of Hogwarts."
Now, this was a different sort of vengeance. A very David-like retribution. He didn't waste resources. He didn't allow emotions to take hold and lash out. Why take a pound of flesh when you could erode what the pure-bloods held most dear? Legitimacy. Their moral authority. Their ability to claim the high ground while treating Muggleborns as lesser.
Albus's fingers had gone still on his teacup.
As he went to stand to wrap Mr. Rosier's words up, to perhaps salvage some dignity for the boy who'd clearly been coerced into this, David gave a shake of the head and mouthed a single word: Wait.
He settled back into his seat. Watched.
He turned his attention back to Evan and the Slytherins behind him. There—a look of pure disgust flashed across Rosier's face before he schooled it, his features shifting back to neutral like a mask sliding into place. "I have one final thing to say. I must give praise to the Circle. They have done Merlin's work in integrating the Muggleborn into our society. We should all aspire to be as worthy as them."
He gave another bow, deeper this time, and then turned and practically ran from the Great Hall. His compatriots followed in his wake, their footsteps echoing against stone.
The hall was in muted shock. Conversations started in whispers, spreading like wildfire across the tables. What in the world had happened for pure-bloods of the darker families to say any of that? To publicly apologize? To praise Muggleborns?
Albus himself would like to know. His eyes found David again—the boy was accepting quiet congratulations from Frank Longbottom, his expression satisfied but not gloating. David had something to do with it, he had no doubt of that. What sort of leverage could he possibly have to do this? This was the power-hungry pure-bloods capitulating. Publicly. Irrevocably. After Mr. Rosier and those like him left at the end of this year, the Circle would have free rein to walk the halls without worry.
He felt a small amount of shame to admit that he was pleased.
He didn't like to blame children for the sins of their parents. He suspected that the sons of the members of the Knights of Walpurgis would join with Tom after they finished their schooling but he couldn't condemn them for it. They were children, raised in households that taught hatred as gospel. But then again, so were the first years who were attacked. Almost killed. Children who'd done nothing wrong except be born to the wrong parents.
He didn't protect them. These were his walls, ancient and powerful, warded against dark magic and malicious intent. And yet he couldn't protect the youngest and most innocent within them.
His tea had gone cold in his cup.
Perhaps David could succeed where he failed. Where Gellert failed.
He shook his head, the motion small enough that none of the other professors would notice. Dangerous thinking. The kind of hope that had led him astray before.
He had grown introspective after seeing Gellert again. The visit replayed itself in his mind at odd moments—during staff meetings, while grading essays, in the quiet hours before dawn. He hadn't visited him for a decade before taking David there. Ten years of avoiding Nurmengard's cold stones and colder truths. He had forgotten the magnetism of his presence. It had been lessened somewhat due to his being alone with his Sight for so long, isolation adding a more prophetic quality to his words, but he still drew you to him. Still made you want to believe, to follow, to surrender your doubts to his certainty.
He had been impressed with how David had held himself in Gellert's presence. The boy hadn't backed down, hadn't flinched from that mismatched gaze. He didn't simply accept that Gellert knew better, didn't treat prophecy as gospel. Still, David was not as experienced as Gellert with rhetorics. Albus had noticed that by the end of their back and forth, David had stopped denying that him and Gellert were alike in some way. The boy's arguments had shifted from "we're nothing alike" to "but I won't make his mistakes."
A distinction that worried Albus more than outright denial would have.
He would do everything he could to help David stay the path he chose and help him not lose himself. Guide without controlling. Advise without dictating. It was a delicate balance—one he'd failed to strike with Tom, who'd needed boundaries he never received, and with Gellert, who'd needed someone to tell him no.
He brought himself back to the present. Everyone in the Hall was still in quiet whispers, heads bent together, confusion and shock rippling through the tables. Minerva gave him that look from her seat beside him—the one that said say something, Albus.
He gave a smile and rose from his seat, his robes shifting around him. He cast a wandless, silent Sonorus on himself, the magic settling over his vocal cords like warm honey.
"A fine message Mr. Rosier has given this hall today." His voice carried across the space, drawing eyes toward the Head Table. "I would like to further add that we, the inhabitants of Hogwarts, should look to our fellows for support in trying times. It is in moments of darkness that we must choose between what is easy and what is right, and remember that our differences—of birth, of house, of background—pale in comparison to what unites us: our shared humanity and our capacity for kindness."
A clap echoed out. David, of course. The boy smiled at him from the Ravenclaw table, his applause steady and deliberate. The room followed his lead—first the Circle members, then the rest of the students, until the Great Hall filled with the sound of hands striking together.
He gave a chuckle, letting the applause wash over the Hall for a moment before raising his hands in a gentle gesture for quiet. "Now, breakfast is the most important meal of the day so, eat up and be sure to do your best in classes today."
The sound of cutlery against plates resumed. Conversations picked up again, though the whispers continued—speculation about what had really happened, what had forced Evan Rosier to make such a public declaration.
Albus sat back down, canceling the Sonorus with a thought. Minerva leaned toward him, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
"What did you do, Albus?"
He picked up his teacup, found it cold, and set it down again. "Nothing at all, Minerva. This was entirely David Price's doing."
"Mr. Price? What in Merlin's name could he have done to facilitate that cock and bull show we just witnessed?"
Albus found himself chuckling despite himself. Minerva's Scottish accent built stronger when she was frustrated—even with her voice so low, it still rang true. The rolled 'r' in Merlin, the sharp clip of her consonants.
"I'm afraid I don't know the particulars," he admitted, reaching for the teapot to refresh his cup. The warmth seeped through the porcelain into his fingers. "But I suspect it involves leverage of some kind. Something significant enough to make young Mr. Rosier choose public humiliation over the alternative."
"Leverage." Minerva's lips pressed into a thin line. "Albus, the boy is fifteen years old. What sort of leverage could a fifth-year possibly have over seventh-years from prominent pure-blood families?"
That was the question, wasn't it? He took a sip of his tea, buying himself a moment. "David is... remarkably resourceful. And he has been building his organization for years now."
"His organization," Minerva repeated, her tone flat. "You mean that Circle of his. The one you gave permission to operate within these walls."
He smiled again, this time more wry. The expression felt tight on his face. "I did. A simple school study club. And before my eyes it transformed into the makings of its own political faction."
"And you let it." Not a question. An accusation, delivered in the careful measured tone Minerva used when she was deeply unimpressed with his choices. "Albus, that boy has pure-blood heirs wearing his symbol. He has Muggleborns training in advanced magic. And now he's somehow forced a public apology from the sons of families we both know are involved with the Knights of Walpurgis."
She kept her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry, but her eyes were sharp with concern.
"Yes." He set his teacup down with careful precision. "He has."
"And you think this is wise?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not. David is a remarkable young man who has a drive to change things that I have only seen in one other."
She squinted at him, her sharp eyes searching his face. "You are speaking about Grindelwald."
He nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. "Yes. I am."
"And yet, you are allowing this boy that reminds you of the greatest dark wizard in history to build in this school. To recruit its children into becoming soldiers. Our students." Her voice had dropped even lower, each word carefully enunciated. Her fingers had gone still on her teacup, white-knuckled around the handle.
"I am."
She stared at him in silent confusion, her lips parting slightly as if to speak but no words coming. "Why Albus? You fought him, defeated him, locked him in a cage for the rest of his days and now you are allowing another to grow in this school. Why?"
He was silent for a moment, his eyes drifting across the Great Hall. Students eating breakfast. Laughing. Complaining about homework. Being children. Thinking on how much he should reveal. He had yet to tell her that he knew it was Tom behind the pure-blood movement—the Death Eaters, Gellert had called them. She had helped him investigate the Knights of Walpurgis, had provided him with names and family connections through her knowledge of pure-blood society. She didn't know why, but she trusted him. He should give her trust in turn.
""Because the Knights have reformed themselves into something much more dire." He kept his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes still on the students below. "They are not playing school games anymore. They have declared they will kill and enslave those that don't agree with them. I would much rather allow children to be children. To enjoy their time at school with friends, be happy without a care." His chest tightened. "But, I know that quiet does not mean peace. I know that waiting for the spells to fly and the streets to be filled with bodies is foolish. In the past, I was not able to stop Gellert even though I knew what he was going to do. The Blood Pact trapped me." His fingers curled into a fist on the table. "I will not allow that to happen again."
Her eyes softened at that, some of the steel leaving her posture. "I understand that Albus. I do. But is this truly the best way?"
He looked at her, softened his features deliberately. Let her see the weariness, the hope, the fear he usually kept carefully hidden. This was one of his oldest friends. She deserved honesty. "Yes Minerva. I do. David is not just like Gellert, he's like me as well. Gellert lacked compassion, kindness. David does not. I have seen him be kind. I have seen him protect his Circle not because they were his but because it was the right thing to do. Even this—" he gestured vaguely toward where Evan Rosier had stood, "—instead of cornering those pure-blood boys and doing extreme damage to their persons, he instead opted to damage their reputation and in doing so made Hogwarts a safer place for the foreseeable future." He paused, then added quietly, "I have taken him on as an Apprentice, Minnie."
Her eyes widened at that. The nickname—one he rarely used anymore—seemed to shake her more than the revelation itself. Her teacup rattled slightly as she set it down. "An Apprentice. Albus, you haven't taken an Apprentice in over fifty years."
He nodded, his beard shifting with the movement. "Then you understand how serious I am about this. I can't be the light that all are drawn towards in this coming war. I'm tired. I am full of doubt and regrets. But when I look at David, I feel hope. Hope not only for the Muggleborn and those that have been trodden on for countless generations but for the Muggles as well."
She raised an eyebrow in question, her expression skeptical.
"David's sister was a small girl and she died of a disease magic can cure. Hundreds of thousands of Muggles die every year of causes we can fix with a swish of our wands. David recognizes this. He believes if he can unite the Magical World, he can then move to unite the Muggle World. To end starvation. To end sickness."
"That's insane." She whispered the words, disbelief coloring every syllable. Her Scottish brogue thickened again—'insane' came out almost as two words.
He chuckled despite himself, the sound low and almost rueful. He remembered saying those exact words over seventy years ago to Gellert, standing in the summer heat of Godric's Hollow. How it was impossible to bring the Wizarding World under one banner. They wouldn't make it past the borders of a single country. He had been proven wrong unfortunately.
"Ah but, Minnie, we are old. We have long since abandoned our dreams. We think too much with our heads and have forgotten what it means to think with our heart."
She snorted, a very un-Minerva-like sound. "Speak for yourself Albus. I'm still a spring chicken compared to you." Her brief smile faded, expression growing more serious. Lines deepened around her mouth. "This is a gamble."
"It is."
"And you will go through with it despite that?"
"I will."
She let out a huff of defeat, her shoulders dropping slightly. "Fine. I'll trust that you know what you are doing."
He reached over and patted her hand gently, his fingers wrinkled and spotted with age against her own. "Thank you, Minnie. That means more to me than you know."
She gave him a look—part exasperation, part affection. The same look she'd given him countless times over the decades when he'd made decisions she disagreed with but would support anyway. "Just promise me one thing, Albus."
"What's that?"
"If this boy starts down a path you cannot follow, you'll stop him." Her voice was steel underneath the quiet tone. "No matter what it costs. No matter how much hope you've placed in him. Promise me you won't make the same mistake twice."
The words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. She knew. Of course she knew. Minerva had always been too perceptive for her own good.
"I promise," he said quietly, and meant it. "If David becomes what Gellert became, I will stop him. Even if it breaks my heart to do so."
o–o–o–o
It was later that evening when David had come to his office for one of their training sessions now that he was his official Apprentice.
He arrived in the same burgundy and black dueling robes he had helped him commission and enchant. The fabric moved with a fluid grace that spoke of quality tailoring and careful spellwork—protective enchantments woven into every stitch, warming charms, self-cleaning, self-repairing. The kind of robes that would serve a duelist well for years to come.
Albus motioned for him to sit at the desk, gesturing to the chair across from him. Fawkes trilled softly from his perch, a greeting for the boy who'd visited often enough to become familiar. Before their lesson, he had questions.
"Good evening, David," he said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Before we begin tonight's work, I find myself curious about this morning's events."
David settled into the chair with that practiced ease, his grey eyes meeting Albus's without hesitation. "I would be surprised if you weren't."
He stared at him for a moment, deciding how to approach it. The portraits on the walls had gone still, listening—they always did when David visited. Even Phineas Nigellus Black, who usually made snide comments about Muggleborns, had learned to keep quiet during these sessions.
"How long do you believe this peace you have bought will last?"
David seemed to consider for a moment, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before going still. "It will outlive my time at Hogwarts. That I'm sure of. Lily and Severus will step into the leadership role of the Circle at Hogwarts if I graduate at my seventh year."
"I had thought we were leaving that matter for further in the year, David." A gentle reminder—they'd discussed this before. Whether David would stay for sixth and seventh year or leave after his OWLs.
He chuckled, the sound warm and unapologetic. "And I am, sir. I am merely answering your question. I believe it should hold until Lily and Severus graduate themselves. After that?" He spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "It's too early to predict."
He nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. That was his own estimation. It would take an extremely charismatic pure-blood to shift the balance back in their favor. It was not an impossibility but it was unlikely.
"Then I will cut to the heart of it, David. How?"
David leaned back in his chair and turned his head to look at Fawkes, who noticed the attention and gave a melodic trill. The phoenix's tail feathers rustled, catching the candlelight.
"I learnt a great deal about pure-bloods last year. After the attack on Lily and Severus and my actions in disrupting that attack, I learnt that pure-bloods at their core, are cowards. They have not had to fight for anything in living memory. They proved it last year.After the attack? Silence. I'm sure there were still some slurs thrown around, but no injuries. But in truth, this hadn't been my initial plan. I had yet to set the board, so to speak, when an opportunity fell into my lap."
He raised an eyebrow at that, his interest sharpening.
David continued, his voice taking on that analytical quality it got when he was explaining strategy. "After the attack, Rosier and his people were in the common room celebrating. Toasting to the success of putting those Muggleborns back in their place." His voice went cold, the temperature in the room seeming to drop with it. "Mulciber and his lot stayed out of it. Even after all this time, they remembered. Rosier tried to get them involved, and when they refused and said that doing what they had done was foolish. A confrontation ensued. Mulciber won on account of him feeling he had more to lose. Afterwards, he approached Severus to arrange a meeting. We met the next day and in exchange for me not taking action against Rosier or any other pure-blood, he would make sure they carry out the performance you saw this morning."
Albus gazed at him, his blue eyes searching David's grey ones. He heard no lies but he was experienced enough in political double-speak to recognize omission. "You are not telling me everything."
"No. I'm not." David's voice was steady, meeting his gaze without flinching. No shame, no guilt—just firm resolve. "One day I may tell you the full story but for now sir, I will play this one close to my chest. If I was to tell you, it could hurt many people. Many people who had the misfortune of witnessing an event that could land them in trouble. So for their sake sir, let it go."
Albus was quiet for a long moment. The clock on his desk ticked steadily, filling the silence. Fawkes shifted on his perch, feathers rustling. The portraits remained still, barely breathing.
Witnesses to something that could land them in trouble. An event serious enough that David wouldn't speak of it even now, in the privacy of this office with all its protections and wards. Something that had given him enough leverage to force Evan Rosier—proud, arrogant, pure-blood Evan Rosier—to publicly abase himself.
"Very well," Albus said finally, though the words tasted like ash. "I will let it go. For now."
He stood from the desk and waved David to follow him to the room adjoining his office. His practice room. The door opened with a soft creak, revealing a space he'd barely touched in years. It had been a long time since he used it before taking David on—in fact, it had been his last Apprentice, Fleamont Potter. Fleamont had been much older than David, already in his twenties when he'd sought Albus out. He had been a dear friend who had been trying to invent a new potion, asking Albus for his mentorship in assisting him. It wasn't like what David's mentorship was. He hadn't been trying to pass down his entire knowledge to Fleamont, only guidance in a specific area.
He was trying to pass down everything he could to David.
Gellert had only been partly right when he said David wasn't a natural genius. He was, but only in certain subjects. When it came to the Mind Arts and anything that touched the mind, Albus had never seen anyone like it. The boy was a savant. Albus had considered himself quite skilled—he had battered down Gellert's thought-to-be impenetrable mental shields. Shields that were so comprehensive that they could mimic an entire false mind, complete with fabricated memories and artificial thought patterns that felt genuine under even sustained assault.
He had navigated his way through it all and yet he was beginning to struggle to enter David's mind even with a sustained assault. The resistance was subtle but absolute—not walls to be broken down, but something more fundamental. Even when he threw his full mental weight behind his attempts, applying pressure that would have shattered most Occlumency shields like glass, he couldn't enter as easily as he should. By his estimate, it would be the end of the year and David's mind would be like smoke. Untouchable.
The other area that David was quite skilled at was Albus's own favored subject: Transfiguration. Which is what they would be focusing on today.
He had rearranged the room to be mostly open, with many different items along each wall. Stone blocks, wooden chairs, metal candlesticks, glass bottles, fabric curtains, ceramic vases. The items were so varied they looked completely random—but each had been chosen deliberately for its specific material properties and magical resonance.
He moved to stand in the middle of the room and David mirrored him, his burgundy robes settling around him as he found his position.
"Today, my boy. We will be focusing on your Transfiguration skills. Your Mind Arts and illusions would be served well for you to hone your talent in the subject. Your illusions will make them question what is real and what is false. Transfiguration could bring many of those illusions to life."
Albus pulled the Elder Wand from his sleeve and waved it at the metal candlesticks against the far wall. They shifted with a low grinding sound until they changed into two large suits of armor, complete with helmets and gauntlets that gleamed in the candlelight.
"Transfiguration is an art that is best applied when there is resonance between the natural state and the transfiguration. Like these candlesticks for example. It will freely become a suit of metal armor. They both are made of steel. They both contain something within. They both protect what they contain. Resonance."
David had pulled his own wand, the wood catching the light as he held it loosely at his side. He gave a nod. "I know this."
Albus nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "I would hope so. Professor McGonagall is a wonderful teacher whom I would be hard-pressed to replace."
He waved his wand again to change the armor into a large umbrella that thudded to the ground, its metal spokes spreading across the floor. "What you wouldn't know is that you can change this resonance by transfiguring an item in a certain way. As I have done with the candlesticks. A metal umbrella has nothing to do with a candlestick. But a metal umbrella does have a resonance to armor, as both are used for protection. This facet of Transfiguration could be considered the beginning step of alchemy. Understanding the many pieces of an item. This was a surface-level similarity. But it can be taken further."
He waved his wand again, this time at one of the glass goblets on the shelf. It floated over to hover in the space between himself and David before he let it drop. The bottle shattered against the stone floor with a sharp crash, glass fragments scattering.
He gave a flick of his wand, and the shards changed into dirt and small shards of rock, the transformation rippling through the broken pieces. They began to attract together, pulled by an invisible force, forming into a small boulder that solidified with a grinding sound.
"The shattered glass resonated with the shattered remains of the boulder. One could argue glass is made of sand, and dirt is similar enough to sand to allow resonance, but one would need to know that fact." He paused, letting the lesson sink in. "The truth of Transfiguration is that it is not simply an act of will, like most magic. It can be used like that. To turn a rock into a cannonball but it would be empty. You need to know. To understand both the origin point and destination." He let the boulder drop with a heavy thud that made David shift his weight slightly. "Of course, there are exceptions. Spells that have been formulated to do the heavy lifting for the caster. Where knowledge is not needed."
He pointed his wand at another of the glass goblets on the shelf. "Vera Verto." The glass shifted with a soft rushing sound, feathers sprouting from its surface as it transformed into a small bird. It chirped once, then twice, hopping along the shelf with movements that looked almost natural—but not quite. There was something hollow about it, something that marked it as transfigured rather than truly alive.
He looked to David and waved a hand around the room. "Please, try your hand at transfiguring one of the items here into something not obvious. Something that requires you to think deeply about resonance."
David's grey eyes scanned the room, his gaze moving methodically from object to object. Not quick, not rushed. Considering. His fingers drummed once against his wand, then went still.
He walked over to one of the fabric curtains hanging against the wall. Deep red velvet, heavy and rich. His hand reached out, touching the material, feeling its weight and texture between his fingers.
"A curtain," David said quietly, more to himself than to Albus. "What is a curtain? It hangs. It divides. It conceals what's behind it while revealing what's in front." His fingers traced along the edge of the fabric. "It filters light. Controls what passes through. What enters and what stays out."
He stepped back, his wand rising in a deliberate arc. His voice was steady, thoughtful. "A curtain is a boundary that isn't solid. A threshold that exists without being crossed. It suggests something beyond without showing it."
His wand moved in a simple flick. No flourish.
The curtain rippled. The fabric began to thin, to stretch, becoming translucent. Then transparent. The deep red faded to pale grey, then to something that looked like mist given form. It hung there still, but now it looked less like cloth and more like smoke held in place by invisible threads.
It wasn't smoke though. Albus could see the magic at work—the curtain had become fog. Dense fog that hung vertically, defying gravity, maintaining the shape of the original curtain, but made of water vapor held together by David's will.
"Fog," David said, lowering his wand slightly but keeping the transfiguration stable. "Like a curtain, it divides space. Conceals what's beyond. Filters light. Controls visibility. Creates a boundary without substance." He glanced at Albus. "The curtain was already doing what fog does—just with different material. Both veil. Both obscure. Both suggest mystery."
The fog-curtain hung there, shifting slowly, tendrils curling at its edges but never dispersing. Still performing its function as a barrier, just in a fundamentally different form.
Albus felt a smile touch his lips. The boy understood.
He gave a small clap, the sound echoing softly in the practice room. "Well done my boy. Well done. I didn't begin to gain understanding into the true nature of Transfiguration until I was in my late twenties."
David gave a grateful nod, though his attention was still partially on maintaining the fog. "I'm sure if you had a teacher as knowledgeable as you sir, I'm sure you would be far ahead of me."
He chuckled, the sound warm. "Ah, I thank you for the flattery. In truth, my teacher in most aspects of magic, my mother, was not as gifted as I in Transfiguration. My own Transfiguration professor, Matilda Weasley, was a knowledgeable woman but she was also a product of her time. She did not venture outside the bounds of contemporary Transfiguration. It was something I had to learn myself." He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "My own affinity of magic is Alchemy. Which I did not discover until much later. I had assumed it was towards Transfiguration."
David's eyes sharpened with interest, though he kept the fog stable. "What's the difference? Between an affinity for Transfiguration versus Alchemy?"
"An excellent question." Albus gestured for David to release the transfiguration—the boy did so with another flick, and the fog dissolved back into a velvet curtain. "Transfiguration is about changing the form of things. Understanding what something is and what it could become. Alchemy goes deeper—it's about understanding what something truly is. The fundamental nature beneath the form."
He walked over to one of the wooden blocks against the wall, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Take this block of wood. A Transfiguration master looks at it and sees a chair, a table, a wand, a bird—anything it could become through change of form." He set it down on the practice table between them. "An Alchemist looks at it and sees cellulose fibers, water, the essence of the tree it came from, the sun and soil that fed that tree, the cycle of growth and decay it represents. They see not what it could be transformed into, but what it fundamentally is—and through that understanding, they can change its very nature rather than just its shape."
He tapped the block with the Elder Wand. The wood didn't change form—it remained a block—but its color shifted from brown to grey, and when Albus lifted it, it had the weight and density of stone. "I haven't transfigured it into stone. I've changed what it is at a fundamental level. The wood is now stone, but it remembers being wood. That memory, that essence, creates resonance that makes further transformations easier."
He set the stone-wood block back down. "Transfiguration is art. Alchemy is philosophy made manifest."
David chuckled, the sound genuine and warm. "I see I have much to learn sir. I look forward to everything you are willing to teach."
Albus felt something tighten in his chest at those words. Trust. Hope. The weight of responsibility. This boy—this brilliant, dangerous, compassionate boy—was looking to him for guidance. Looking to him to help shape what he would become.
He thought of Gellert, locked in his tower with his mismatched eyes and his prophecies. He is like us, Gellert had said. He will reshape the world.
He thought of Tom, whom he'd failed to reach, failed to guide, failed to save from his own darkness.
He thought of the chess games, the arguments, the careful dance he and David performed around each other. Testing. Pushing. Trying to understand where the other's boundaries lay.
"Then let us continue," Albus said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of commitment. "We have much ground to cover, and not as much time as I would like."
David nodded, pulling his wand again, his grey eyes bright with eagerness. Ready to learn. Ready to grow.
Ready to become whatever he was meant to be.
Albus could only hope he would guide him well. That this time, he would not fail. That the hope he felt when he looked at David Price would not turn to ash and regret like so many hopes before.
He raised the Elder Wand, gesturing to the items around the room. "Again," he said. "Show me what you understand. Show me how you see the world."
And David, smiling that slight smile that reminded Albus so much of both himself and Gellert, began to work.
The lesson continued late into the night, wand-light illuminating the practice room as teacher and student explored the boundaries of transformation, of change, of what was possible when you truly understood the nature of things.
Outside the window, the stars wheeled overhead, indifferent to the hope and fear and determination contained within those ancient walls. Indifferent to the choices being made, the paths being chosen, the future being shaped one lesson at a time.
The game continued. The pieces moved.
And Albus Dumbledore watched his newest Apprentice with pride and terror in equal measure, and prayed he was making the right choice.
o–o–o–o
A/N: Like I said at the start, I'm not completely happy with the chapter but I figured I should let it ride and you good people will give me your opinions.