warningDoNotClimb (mountainrusing)
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Summary
Voldemort has traveled a long way to kill Dumbledore.
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Bookmarked by warningDoNotClimb (mountainrusing)
04 Jun 2026
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Tags
Summary
Strange thing, to stumble upon your most reviled foe, in this youthful form, at his worst moment.
Standalone.
Series
- Part 7 of love lost
Bookmarked by warningDoNotClimb (mountainrusing)
06 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
A young man kneeling distantly in the dirt: auburn-haired and sweet, he clutches at a motionless girl in his arms. A jagged gash tears across her chest. He trembles around her, wand clutched haphazardly in his palm, sleeves stained with spots of bright blood.
He looks up sharply as you approach. His eyes, blue like the free sky, flicker.
You think he’s beautiful like this, bloodied and in pain. You want to break him further; you want him at your feet. You want to elevate him; you want to lead him further astray.
He doesn’t move, as though frozen, transfixed at the sight of you, for you are a stranger to him.
Odd, to be so starkly unrecognised by the very man who was your initial contact, your very first introduction to the wizarding world.
You couldn’t ever forget him. And he shouldn’t forget you. But this version of him is so young; it will be decades before he sets eyes on little orphan boy Tom.
Kneeling, you reach for him thoughtlessly, just wanting to touch your fingers upon this curious being, as though doing so would confirm that he is in fact real and not some strange illusion. But then, at last, he finds the will to unfreeze. His mouth falls open:
“Help her…” he breathes, “Please.”
His hand shudders, uncontrolled. Fingers spasming along the length of his wand. If he held it any tighter, he might snap it outright.
Well, when he asks so sweetly, you think.
You extract your bone-white wand, elegant heartless thing, from the holster hidden within the folds of your robes. Though your hand is made to spill blood rather than mend a bleeding wound, it is a versatile tool, capable of reversing the very damage it wrought. Just as you seize life, you must be able to return it too, or you cannot claim any domain over Death.
Though, in this case, the harm is not your doing. For once.
She doesn’t move; she doesn’t breathe. But through your delvings into Soul Magic, you’ve gained a sort of seventh sense. You can see souls—not only your own fractured one, but that of others. And you can see hers, still lingering there, floating, lost. As though dazed, as though in disbelief at its own passing.
You reach out with your magic, wand pointed to the heavens, and gather her soul. Like spun yarn, and your wand the spindle. She doesn’t struggle. Not conscious enough to resist. Fresh enough to be pliable.
You press the point of your wand against that sturdy heart-bone. The red recedes. You don’t bother mending her clothes.
She still isn’t breathing. Naturally. All you’ve done is sew a corpse shut.
You unravel the yarn of her soul from your wand. With each inch, you lay a binding spell upon her, tying her soul back into her body. It’s not the same as the natural bindings that keep a person alive, that anchor the soul to life. But like surgery stitches, they need only hold long enough for the soul to heal itself and seal back together. And it will.
Resilient thing, the soul. Murder may split it apart, but with time, with reflection, it will mend again. It is the natural way.
You would know. To you, it is an obstacle; to her, it is salvation.
Dumbledore gasps. Warmth is returning to her body. Her heart stutters, waking with a jolt, then finds its footing.
Wonder in Dumbledore’s eyes. “Ari...” His wand has dropped to the ground, forgotten in the grass. His palm is pressed to her chest.
You hum, impassive. You aren’t sure why you bothered to help him.
But then he speaks again.
“Thank you,” he cries. “Thank you.”
You’ve never seen him so uncomposed.
Will he not question what you’ve done? She was clearly dead. He must have realised that, for all that he begged your aid. He must have known the futility of pleading a random stranger to conjure a miracle.
And yet, you did.
Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, you suppose. Not unless you want to see gleaming teeth, a gaping maw.
It’s an ugly thing you’ve done, bound a freed soul back to confinement. Yet that is the condition all humans live under. An affront. An abhorrence. But you’ve never cared for rights nor wrongs, not as dictated by the world. Only your own rules matter, only your values. This is your unique code of honour.
A foreign twinge of affection stirs. Something softens in your chest. You reach out your hand, and place it upon his, still resting upon the girl’s chest, newly unbroken.
“Take her home,” you say. Your voice is flat, baring nothing. “She needs her rest. So do you.”
You will follow, of course. You would see more of this, more of him, now that your original goal is out of reach.
Perhaps this isn’t such a bad trade after all.