Harry Potter 1. Prologue

**A/N:** _This is the story you have ALL been waiting for... Posted in my profile long ago, you may recall the notice that I was writing a very complicated/complex story about MMAD. This is that story. :D There are frequent OCs, which I apologize devoutly for, but this story would be impossible without them..._

_**Full Summary:** _"_Richly decorated, Albus Dumbledore is now the richest wizard in all of Britain, having killed Grindelwald, and having inherited a great bit of his father's money. The people, for some reason, nearly worship him, though he is not the Minister of Magic. The Minister, however, has different plans for the Wizarding World's "shining gem". The minister decides to input the "Marriage Law" which states that all Purebloods have to marry Muggleborns. Albus does not approve of this idea, and declines every woman he is presented. He finally settles, however, with a witch bearing the last name of 'McGonagall', though not Minerva… He has her sister, but when his world, and Minerva's meet, who's to say love cannot blossom amidst the broken remnants of the Wizarding World?_"

_ The following chapter consists of an interaction between the minister and the minister's spouse before Dumbledore is to receive word of a newly established "Marriage Law" uniting each Pureblood to a Muggleborn. This takes place about six months following his defeat of Grindelwald {to which he does in December of 1945, or so I decided. :D} This is now late June of 1946. Any questions, go ahead and ask. This is simply a filler chapter and quite unnecessary. :D_

**~Prologue~**

Wind whistled throughout the silent grounds, punctured only by a wolf howling in the distance. As would a mirror, the small pond reflected the full moon, spoiled only by the slow, soft, ripples in the water caused by the gentle wind, which caressed the molecules to dance atop the surface. A low, slopping tree enhanced the peaceful backyard, but inside the fortress, was an entirely different story.

"Come closer." Her voice echoed along the great, cavernous walls of the intricate home. The walls leaned slightly inwards to catch every word as the man moved toward her, hesitation overclouding his green eyes, which were already dimmed by dark shadows and black circles clinging to the crease of each eye.

The firelight burned her topaz eyes orange and red. She withdrew her index finger from a loose fold in her robes, and traced her tongue on it before stroking the man's face, bristled with unseen facial hair. Her husband closed his eyes in slow motion as her nails dug suddenly into his face.

His eyes shot open, and his mouth opened to form a disgruntled protest, but she thrust her other index finger smoothly to his lips to quiet him.

"I do this only to please you. I do this for you to only agree-" she trailed off, and her voice settled his demeanor instantly. He nodded, ire lingering in his otherwise stony eyes, but it was dismissed. "If all goes according to plan, the Wizarding World will be ours to claim. All for the better, if I admit the obvious."

He nodded, stepped back, and collapsed into the chair beside her warily in their grand dining room. The table was ornamented with a thin tablecloth, accented only by pure-gold trim.

"He won't agree to it." The man's voice exuded as dryly as a quill scratching against old parchment. His eyes quickly curved to meet hers, but as his glowed with realization and grim satisfaction, hers burned with fury.

"He will," she declared resolutely, "or Azkaban for him along with the rest of _them_." Her last word was spat, and the man grinned wickedly.

"And the debt you hold? What of that?"

Brushing her fingers across her face resignedly, she spluttered, "Debt? The only debt is their negligence! This is only done for their own good." Her last words were transfigured to a whisper as her intent strengthened. "You do realize the importance of this legality, do you not? In order to convince the Wizarding World that this is the best way, the _only_ way to follow the end of the war is to pull the invisibility cloaks over the dragons."

He nodded, and rubbed his nose as she stood and began to pace elegantly across the marble floor. "Uniting the Wizarding World will be difficult. They all hate each other. My reasoning is to only bridge the gap between them!" She ended in a horrendous cackle that would shatter the normal soul. Heaving her last sigh of hilarity, she concluded, saying, "They might find love, but the latter additions to the law will result in the otherwise unattainable goal."

The man's head snapped up from his slouched position as a notion sliced through him.

"Victoria!"

She turned from her stance at the window, her eyebrows drawn together almost as if she were discouraging glee. She opened her mouth to speak in threatening, but the man silenced her with his inquiry.

"What if…_he_ finds love?"

The frown vanished, and Victoria cackled again in an insane manner. "All the better!" she screeched her approval at his words, continuing to giggle as she stepped closer to him.

Her eyes grew large with excitement, "It will kill him. The thought alone would kill him. What is more pathetic than that? The only man rumored to become our ruler will break at the notion as so idiosyncratic as _love_! Even lust will kill him, the poor boy." Her fingernails dug into the man's throat, and he smiled against the pain, leaning back to stare up at her chin, for she refused to grant him the privilege of eye contact. Her billowing crimson robes flattered her figure, and did not draw attention away from her curves despite the incessant frills that fell around her in a repetitive pattern. The desire for eye contact waned, and the man's eyes precariously began a descent all their own. Victoria noticed at once, and pulled his chin up, finally kneeling before him to completely eradicate his desire. His hands gripped her arms urgently at the lost moment.

"_You_ must go to him. . . ."

The man groaned in opposition; the last thing he wanted to do was run a fool's errand. "Victoria, this is beyond all orders you have given me. Why must it be _me_?" His anger ignited the once dormant fire in his eyes as he glared at his wife.

Victoria scoffed. "If _I_ were to attend to this matter myself, I am sure to receive his displeasure, and then who shall run the country? _Him_?"

The man shook his head violently. "He would not dare to harm the Minister-"

"Nor her assistant-"

"His power-"

"Means nothing-"

The man glared at his wife, and silently cursed whatever heavens above bestowed upon her the wit that she possessed. "I won't do it."

Victoria smiled manically. "Then you will never receive your _gifts_. . . .Do not tell me that you no longer desire them, Hector. We both know that is false."

He growled, wrenching his hands from hers, which had been clasped and stroked seductively. "The gifts are no longer vital, therefore I suggest better, ah, _pickings_. . . ."

Victoria pressed herself into him, forcing him to gaze at her slender neck and beyond. "Better pickings, eh?" she whispered into his ear. "I suggest you get a move on, otherwise, all chance at power will be lost to you. If I fire you, your honor, your fame is lost forever. And, we don't want _that _now do we?"

Hector cleared his throat, and Victoria removed herself from his lap with an evil smile. "No, we do not."

"I expect you back in no less than three hours."

He jerked his head downward in approval before rising, turning away, and disguising himself as he pelted down the stairs towards the Apparation point; his only thriving comfort being that he would receive his reward later on that night.


	2. Chapter 0ne

**~Chapter One~**

The fortress was darkened, lit only by the occasional outlet of light foisted into the wall; the burning of fire emancipating itself from a torch. Yet, it was always like this: darkness choked the once beautiful castle-like quality of the expansive home. It reflected the heart of the man whom owned it; cold, callous, overbearing, with a hint of threatening menace. He was once a beautiful man. The epitome of all that was good, of all the reasons to live and to continue living, for that was how he himself lived. But not anymore. His life was now shadowed, darkened by his deeds by which he amounted great respect and love from the people he did save from destruction. The fame corrupted him, and he now sat upon a throne of their respect, of their admiration… For this was for 'The Greater Good' after all. One man's life altered to save a nation.

In the throne-room sat a majestic chair carved of the finest gold, guarded by goblins for generations before his victory claimed it. A roaring lion ornamented the head thereof, and showed the ferocity he would surely rule by, should he accept his rightful throne one day. What they now had was a second-rater of what all perceived him to be, though for some outlandish reason, whether by guilty conscience or by other means, he turned the offer down several times to be labeled as the Minister of Magic. He would not accept the position, and therefore kept his chair as a reminder of what he could never have: power.

The man sat upon the chair, crimson robes swirling about him in a royal fashion. The clasp at his throat was of gold, entailed with a phoenix, his familiar, etched into the button that would rest upon his collarbone. His robes were sweeping, enchanted to sparkle at his every move with the golden stars that were projected throughout the design. His auburn hair was aging gently; not quite white, it was singed in gray near his chin, and the top of his head, but, no matter. His eyes remained the sparkling blue they had always been.

He stared straight ahead; often doing naught else for an entire day but sit upon his throne that was never truly his. Tonight, however, would mark an end to this tradition.

A knock on his door broke his concentration of memorizing the way the golden, swirling patterns on the walls were crafted, and this irritated him. "Come in!" he barked, settling back into his chair to appear more regal.

The great throne-room door, which was tall as a red tree, crawled open. The door was quite heavy due to its size, and Albus Dumbledore irritably flicked his hand to open it quickly, thereby smashing it against the ornate wall he had been attempting to memorize. In stepped one of his best house-elves, Fistcle.

Fistcle was scrawny with great yellow eyes, and though he had a reputation of being fearful of a great many things, he stared down his master as if he were something dirty in which he had soiled himself. Fistcle walked upon the great red-wine rug, symbolizing Albus's worth, at a steady and even pace, never once removing his taut gaze from the great old wizard's eyes.

"Fistcle announces the entry of beauty-ful guests," he said, bowing with a flourish before his master's bare feet.

Albus shook his head. "I asked for no guests to come this night," he remarked coldly, fixing Fistcle with a glare. "Tell them their companionship is not needed; I shall remain quite myself on my own."

Fistcle shook his head in reply. "Master, they is quite insistent to be meeting with you. They refuse to leave until they's have spoken to you."

Albus sighed bitingly, gritting his teeth and grumbling as he stood up, following Fistcle at a safe distance to greet his 'guests'. Fistcle led him to one of the side chamber doors and after opening it for his master, he hid in the shadows to catch why the guests wanted to see his Master Albus so desperately.

Albus was nonetheless surprised when he met the group near the entrance hall. A raised dais that was once flat ground obscured the normal pathway towards the front doors. Ten witches dressed in white frocks stood before him, each wearing a broad but hesitant smile as his eyes passed quickly over each one. Snapping his eyes shut in anger, he opened them again to journey past the dais, and upon a man whom was standing directly next to the pulpit.

"What business do you have for interrupting me?" he inquired acidly, frowning at the sandy-haired man, whom was slowly making his way towards Albus.

The man frowned in response, and declared, "I am Hector, and was sent by _her_. Precisely one night ago, the Marriage Law was set forth upon the people whom you have spared- You must marry a witch or perish."

Albus was livid. "_Who_ has sent you?" he snarled.

"_Her_. Whom are you expecting? The Minister for hippogriff's sake!"

Albus then smiled; a manic smile that enhanced his regality, but withdrew from it, his once supposed kind nature. "Where is your proof?"

Hector pulled at his simple brown robes, curiously tied around his middle by a golden rope, until he extracted an official notice of the decree of The Marriage Law. Handing it to Albus, he smirked as he watched Albus's eyes plunge deeper into fury as he read the words.

"_It is hereby proclaimed that today, June thirtieth of nineteen forty-five, the Marriage Law is set forth upon all Magical beings. This law demands that all Purebloods marry a Muggleborn in no more than three months from this date. If a spouse is unattainable during the stated time, one Muggleborn may be granted upon request to become wedlock to a seeking Pureblood. However, an appendage in this law must be now known: No Muggleborn may seek out a spouse for marriage. It is specified that only a Pureblood must seek, and only a Muggleborn is retrieved…."_

The notice went on; explaining the exempt circumstances for the law, but Albus's fury was not one with which to be reckoned. "What foolishness is this?" he snapped, shoving the notice back into Hector's face. "Muggleborns and Purebloods never thrive together."

"That is exactly the point," Hector retorted. "Placing the two groups together is a goal of the Minister; to bring balance to the unstable levels of this population. By giving Muggleborns and Purebloods reason to bear one another is to unite the Wizarding World more strongly than ever, to bond what never was bonded before, against the threat of evil which will once again fall upon our ungrateful backs."

"And the consequences of not treating this law as authentic?"

"Are by not my authority to discuss," Hector answered, fire dancing in his bottle-green eyes at this point, as he looked Albus over for the umpteenth time. "The Minister already has some plans of Azkaban for those lacking the dignity to adhere to the law, other plans include death…"

Albus swallowed in an effort to stomach his anger building like bile against the back of his throat. He glared at Hector as realization dawned on him. "I will not choose a wife."

Hector smiled wickedly at him, which was quite a sight to behold; he was at least a head shorter than Albus. "Then Azkaban will take the Wizarding World's _king_ into custody. Your visit will undoubtedly be the talk of the world, as will your execution, should the need arise…"

Albus grabbed Hector's shoulder roughly, pulled him to eye-level, and leaned downwards towards his ear to whisper. "The Minister has no control over what I can and cannot do. I will not marry a witch as in obedience to a law I do not agree with… Our beloved Minister can deal with your negligence as the valiant servant you profess yourself to be. We both know what is a lie and what is not. Your valiance, your bravery, your great sense of self-worth is for naught. The Wizarding World does not bow for you, nor do they bow for the Minister. They bow for me, and I will not allow anyone to rob me of that right!" The last word was a shout as he pushed Hector back into his original position. All the witches on the dais raised their heads in excitement; a battle was to commence.

Hector extracted his short, pointed, wand from the sleeves of his robes, but not before Albus wandlessly threw him a round of body-binds that Hector narrowly avoided by diving beneath the dais. _"Legatura!" _Hector screamed as a golden, rope-like enchantment soared airily through his wand and over to Albus, wrapping itself around his whole body as would a constrictor with large prey. Hector crawled out from beneath the dais, vanishing it and the holographic witches with two more flicks of his wand before shrieking his final parting words. "You will marry within the three months, Albus Dumbledore, or you will be placed in Azkaban with the rest of the invalid recluses of the Wizarding community!"

Albus said nothing as the spell coiled more tightly around him, squeezing the very breath from his lungs as he fell to his knees. Hector fled the premises, and though the spell extinguished its grip upon him, Albus still remained kneeling upon the cold, tiled marble floor until Fistcle at last assisted in coaxing his master to his rooms, where he would never find sleep.

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**A/N:** _I am only updating because it makes me feel better about my writing... Updating "A Love Story" is just killing me so I thought I should compensate by giving you readers this as well at the same time because I love *this* dearly... :D Please enjoy. I think for this story, I'll update every two weeks or so but for "Love Story" it's all downhill from here. As soon as I have another chunk of time, I'm updating the whole freaking thing so I won't have to anymore. :D Also, the concern has been raised that Albus killing Grindelwald is out of line for his normal behaviour. I know, I know, but since this is fan-fiction, I've taken the liberty to use what freedom I can exercise in making it as though he killed him. Since this is not entirely finished, I could stick in that he never truly died, but that would take more time and kind of divert from the central plot/theme. If it happens, it happens, but for now, it's not part of my plan. :D AND! Don't let Albus's temper scare you- I have every intention in the world to have him exactly as all MMAD fans see him in due time. :D Oh whoops, forgot one thing- "Legatura" is a Latin term meaning "to bind" if I remember correctly. :D If I'm wrong about that, I'm wrong, but I really liked the authoritative sound of it so I'm leaving it even if it means "pink fluffy bunnies" or something else obscure. :D  
_


	3. Chapter Two

**~Chapter Two~**

Awakening before the sun kissed the horizon, she emerged from her rooms that were eclipsed in thick, choking darkness. The blackness lifted immediately, with a whispered counter spell of light, and was replaced by a pink glow, rising atop the distant eastward rolling hills that were Scotland. Drowsiness no longer glazed in her eyes, she cast her gaze to a grandfather clock residing near the window- Five o'clock. The irritability vanished for a split second as she realized the fruits of her labors- she beat the sun again.

Dressing quickly and descending the stairs of the modest home, she glided to the kitchen in order to prepare her endlessly lonely breakfast. The pursuit was interrupted, however, by short, incessant taps from the northern window of the quaint kitchen. Grinding her teeth against the sound, she wandlessly and wordlessly beckoned the window open and a rather large tawny owl placed himself (or herself; she couldn't be certain of which), upon the small mahogany table. The owl squawked at her slow, even pace toward the table to extract the precious bundle from its leg. Sighing as she recognized the Minister's portrait upon the title page, she paid the overzealous bird three Knuts before it departed from her table, through the still open window and beyond.

Fixing tea with a hint of peppermint, she clutched the cup in a drastic dearth of tranquility as the words reverberated through her mind and soul. The words were written in a taunting fashion, inasmuch of the "wrongful deeds which have been committed among us". Minerva McGonagall snorted into her tea. Being born was now wrongful? Having to live in such happy times as these was undesirable to those who were not of noble "purity"? Rolling her eyes at the views the Minister now lived by, she vanished the paper with a subtle wave of her wand, determined to inform her father of the tactics the Minister had infused so insensitively upon them. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Having to marry without true desire, without true emotion, was despicable in itself. Yet, marrying only two groups of people, two sworn enemies at birth, was diabolical. What havoc would the Minister wreak next?

Wrapping her ebony shawl around herself for warmth, Minerva left her home and walked to the hickory tree residing in her front lawn where the wards ended. After concentrating on the home dripping with her childhood memories, she Disapparated with a small crack. Another crack announced her arrival in the outskirts of Scotland, directly opposite the small pond where she had nearly drowned at the age of three. Her animagus form was uncommon knowledge, and she always wondered whether this brush with death had affected what animagi form claimed her. But there was no time to speculate upon that. Minerva shook her head quickly, relieved to find that this simple act cleared it, before resuming her flight to tell her father of the Minister's dealings.

That infernal Minister! The public loved her, and Minerva could only see the ugliness she hid beneath all of her revealing robes that she used to gain the favor of the people who mattered in the political sense: the men. While it was rather unusual for the Ministry to have a woman superior guiding them through the past few months, it seemed to be best at the time to select her as the most 'cordially suited' for the occupation. A band of witches had cried out in protest, but their husbands had quieted them quickly. Victoria Macbeth was in office a short time later, and Minerva had only allowed her insurmountable feelings of contempt to grow for Victoria. The name itself was a bitter one. It burned her tongue whenever she spoke of her, suggesting that speaking against her was taboo.

Shaking her head a second time, Minerva entered without knocking, knowing full well that the wards had already sensed her presence, and most likely informed her father of her abrupt arrival. Snapping the door shut behind her, Minerva wandered into the sitting room, but instead found her mother seated in one of the hyacinth blue armchairs near the fireplace. Her mother was dressed in one of her ivory frilly frocks, which besmeared Minerva's simple emerald robes. Her platinum-blond hair was piled high in an elegant twist, curling in the most precise way before a single tendril clung to each side of her face. If Minerva didn't know better, she would wonder if Ingrid was going out to a ball for the day, but this was not so. Ingrid always dressed to exemplify her beauty. Her face was turned towards the empty fireplace grate, which had been swept clean of all ashy debris. Reflected in her sapphire eyes was the glaze of fatigue, coupled with circles beneath her eyes, surely caused by a greater degree of what looked to be chronic insomnia.

Minerva sat opposite her without a word, unwilling to speak unless the need arose. Her mother's eyes abruptly turned towards hers, and burned into them an uneasiness that Minerva was unsettled to see for the umpteenth time. She loathed telling her mother anything, for it always seemed as though she attempted to extract the truth before one could give it without assistance.

"Yes, what is it Minerva?" she inquired gently, her tone of voice soothing despite the piercing look in which she regarded her daughter.

Minerva sighed and refrained from rolling her eyes before answering. "Is Father still abed?"

"I'm afraid so." Her mother's smile was a mischievous one. "He was up _quite_ late last night…"

"I suppose I'll have to tell you then," she muttered in reply, _"against my better judgment, however.."_ she added in her mind.

"Yes, please do…" her mother trailed off, straightening her back without a crinkle made in the state of her frock.

Minerva sighed a second time, groping for the best beginning. "I received word from the paper that I received earlier this morning which spun of a tale of a Marriage Law, which was passed a few days prior to this morning. It, in effect, states that all Purebloods must marry Muggleborn spouses within three months or receive _punishment_." Her last word was infused with venom as she told the news to her mother through clenched teeth.

Ingrid shook her head forcefully. "But, dear daughter, this cannot be true! In all of my years, I have never heard of such nonsense! Marriage of both of those groups will only result in the demise of the entire Wizarding nation!"

"It is not as bad as you perceive, Mother," Minerva continued in a bitter tone. "It's worse. Muggleborns cannot seek out their spouses. Only Purebloods are allowed this _privilege_. The law is turned in favor towards Purebloods. It is biased, flawed, and absolutely disgraceful towards the name of magic."

Ingrid nodded. "Who's to say a defiance group won't rise against this law?"

Minerva shook her head. "Mother, the law discusses a fate worse than death should such a group form- Victoria has all of the dementors at her command. I would say a few people would walk around soulless for the rest of their forsaken lives."

Ingrid quietly closed her eyes at the mention of dementors. For several moments, neither of the two women spoke. Ingrid suddenly broke the fast of conversation with a harrowing inquiry.

"Does she know of this?"

Minerva's eyes darkened at the mention, her hackles raised at once. "No, and it does not please me to mantle this along with the rest of my responsibilities. She was rather unyielding during my last visit."

"But you're family," her mother said softly, with a tinge of pleading. "She listens to you the most."

"Listening is not the same as acting," Minerva snapped back. "Her sensibility is almost to the point of insanity. She refuses to act upon anything out of her league of comfort. What a surprise it was to hear that she is engaged!"

"Minerva," her mother began quietly, groping for her daughter's unornamented hand, which was without the many jewels Ingrid had upon her own fingers. "That is the very thing. She is engaged. This news will surely shatter her."

Minerva's eyes snapped angrily back. "Shatter her or not, this is not my realm in which to trifle. To inform her that her love for Hans should be destroyed, left, forgotten of, is beyond my conduct. I cannot tell her of this…"

"But Minerva, she needs you. She no longer speaks to neither your father nor I because of her love for Hans. I'm afraid that your father is not as forgiving as he once proclaimed himself to be. I was shocked myself at the news that she had accepted Hans's proposal. She will not listen to me. Minerva, she listens only to _you._" Ingrid finished in a composed, yet fatigued manner, and Minerva could only surface pity upon the woman before her. It certainly was not painless to have your own flesh and blood refuse you.

Minerva withdrew her hands from her mother's thoughtful grasp, and inhaled in an ineffective eradicating manner. "But, Mother, there is more. Do you think that they could or would, theoretically, know of what Blood Status a random witch or wizard was when meeting upon nowhere in particular?" Minerva's tone was no longer defensive, but indifferent, unfeeling, haunting. Her mother's eyes found hers again in apparent fear and dismissal of the thought.

"But such things were banned in my time. I cannot say that Victoria will not initiate these means to her purposes, but one can always hope…" she trailed off again, picking up her forgotten sage tea from the small side table flanking her armchair.

Minerva snorted. "Hope. That is what will bring about the end to all of this mania, is it?" She snorted again, clutching the arms of her armchair as her lips drew thin. She objectively stood, bidden to the call of war, ignited whenever dear Victoria's name was mentioned. "I'm going to her myself," she murmured softly, carrying within it, an essence of danger; as if she was daring her mother to stop her. Minerva hastily picked up her shawl, that she had unknowingly draped behind her at some point throughout the length of the conversation, and draped it once more over her shoulders before leaving her mother without another word.

As the door slammed shut behind her, a groan was emitted from the second doorway of the sitting room.

"Who was that?" the voice questioned yawningly. Ingrid did not remove her gaze from where Minerva's vacated seat.

"Minerva, my dear Marius. It is apparent that the Marriage Law has been thrust down our throats a second time. The poor girl. I doubt she will be able to bear the bonds and burdens of marriage without the concept of love…"

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**A/N:** _Reviews are really nice. That's all I have to say! :D_


	4. Chapter Three

**~Chapter Three~**

Appearing through a tangled thicket, Minerva clutched her shawl closer to herself, wishing that a cloak replaced the entity. The path was twisted and marred with the occasional falling of pinecones, scattered almost to the point of artistry towards the dark and shutter-blinded house that belonged to her carbon copy. Minerva shook her head brusquely at the untended garden, adorning the front thereof of the home. The brown roses withered at her touch, crinkling as dry parchment before fluttering helplessly to the leaf-invested ground. It was a shame. The garden had no need of ignorance. Gingerly, Minerva kneeled and extracted her wand, bringing the plant back to vitality, to life before its tragedy with a few swishes. Minerva smiled bitterly. _"One down, one to go,"_ she thought acerbically to herself.

Minerva climbed the crumbling stairs, wrinkling her nose in disgust at how the steps felt underfoot. Termites had certainly claimed the flight as their own. Brushing the imaginary dirt from her robes, Minerva felt inclined to knock upon the worn, oak door. Squeezing her eyes shut in preparation, she raised a hand and knocked thrice, just as she had lastly done four years earlier.

At the sight of her raised eyebrows, the outcome of no one prowling forth at once to answer was somewhat unexpected. It did not make sense. The door was always answered within two waves of a wand. Peering through the window on her right, all that was seen was the filthiness, invisible from afar off. Raising her hands to peer through the darkened sitting room, the door gently blew open with the wind. Creaking and snaring upon the wooden planks of the entryway, it continued until striking the wall sharply within the home. Wincing at the noise and at her insufferable curiosity, Minerva padded cautiously within the inner realm of the gothic home.

It was darkened to an almost inhuman degree. Uneasiness settling in her stomach, Minerva withdrew her wand a second time, lighting it wordlessly as she did so. The house was in utter shambles. Paper was strewn everywhere, and-was that blood on the wall? Minerva hastened to inspect the questionable ruby substance, but before she could do so, a very loud sniff interrupted her pursuit. Turning silently towards the left door, Minerva extended her left hand to open it.

Shutting her eyes tightly as it creaked, Minerva found her sister sitting at the still-standing table. Clutching a faded handkerchief to her eyes, she dabbed furiously at the wetness that streaked down her cheeks. Though scandalized to find the house in such a state, an overwhelming rush of pity held Minerva rigid, staring at the opposite form of her sister, who glanced occasionally out the westward window of the kitchen.

Shivering at the draft that was not there, Minerva quietly made her way towards the lamenting figure, careful to avoid the sight of broken glass and portraits trailing upon the floor. She waved her wand a second time, dousing the light before finally reaching the woman and tapping her on the shoulder.

Marcail acted at once, standing and wielding her wand to face her oppressor. Her face lost the sudden determination however, when she realized that Minerva was in her presence. A heavy silence blanketed the atmosphere, and for the longest time, not a sound was heard apart from the clattering fall of Marcail's chair. Drawing up a second chair with her wand after several moments, Marcail gestured for Minerva to sit down at the table.

Minerva obliged without a word, and sat while Marcail paced towards the magnificent window, which was easily the grandest one in the house. Minerva was abruptly envious of the view of the sunset Marcail must witness every night, but there was a contrasting figure here; she watched the sun rise through her bedroom window. Marcail watched the sun disappear as she drank the last dregs of her nightly tea. The contrast was so great it was almost to the point of irony; Minerva had managed to maintain her stead in society, no matter how encumbered it was with wandering eyes at the Ministry. Marcail, on the other hand, had withdrawn from everything that had made her herself, once alive and destined to become as great as a flaming phoenix, she had become death-like in her dismissal of life and the wondrous attributes it did conceive.

Marcail stood beside the window, bringing her shaking hands to stroke it as one would a lover. Minerva observed in the courtesy of silence, her throat constricted by words that she could not utter. A sheen of light which trailed from the open dining room door, waltzed upon her sister's back, and further indications deepened her grim emotions. Marcail's hair was tousled and tangled as a spider's web. The ebony tresses had vanished beneath a film of what was presumably dirt and dust, accumulated only by destroying the interior of her home. As the room steadily grew brighter, Minerva's eyes roamed about the room, carefully scanning for anything that may be of use to her in dialogue. Shattered glass and mere remnants of what looked to be a family portrait still lingered upon stark wooden floor near the doorway, but also, tucked behind the door itself was a scrap of flashing newspaper. "LAW!" it flashed threateningly as Minerva silently picked her way towards it. So that was it. Marcail already knew.

"Why are you here?"

The raspy voice made Minerva nearly jump out of her skin, as she was kneeling and examining whom the portrait once contained. It was not a normal family portrait after all, but a peculiar still one of Marcail and Hans…

Minerva turned slowly back, grazing her palms upon the broken glass as she did so. Inhaling sharply at the pain, she stiffly withdrew her wand and healed both hands before approaching the darkened figure near the window.

"What do you mean by that, Mersey?" Minerva questioned softly. The odious nickname of Marcail's was used only in an effort to lighten the mood. Though scorned a name it was, Minerva hoped that Marcail would relax at the pretense that she meant no harm by her visit.

Marcail turned sluggishly towards her sister, as if in pain before meeting her eyes. Marcail's eyes of freshest greenery had dimmed to sage in their separation. The glow that once met her eyes with laughter had receded entirely. Compassion met Minerva at eye contact; never had she seen eyes full of such fear, such brokenness. Without a second thought, Minerva gestured to Mersey, and Mersey hugged her as if they were children again. And for a moment, they were. Just Mersey and Minerva. Marcail materialized again as soon as the embrace ended, and she looked back towards the western window, her ebony robes glittering softly in the wayward sunlight which streamed graciously from a single sheen evidently from a small, circular northern window hailing above them.

Marcail inhaled suddenly, preparing herself to speak in a numb tone. "I died today Minerva," she remarked limply, eyeing the dead brush trees outside her home without their foliage. Minerva opened her mouth to reply, but Marcail brushed her hand beside her face, as if waving away an irksome fly. "I do not care. It was inevitable in the end, regardless of what I did to prevent it."

Minerva shook her head, aghast. "Mersey, surely you don't mean that you will _adhere_ to the law?"

Marcail eyed Minerva in bitterness. "Of course I mean that. How else am I to live? Hans and I will both bend to death, should we complete our vows of marriage as intended."

"Marcail," Minerva began, her voice raising in utter disbelief, "you were never one to follow any despicable rule such as this as a child. Why begin straightaway with the most insufferable law there is to bear?"

Marcail clenched her teeth in fury. "Have you not listened to what I just said? Hans will die because of _me_. I will not allow him to breathe his last for the extent of my idealistic desires!"

Minerva shook her head irritably, lacking the desire of audacity to point out that Marcail was never one to pursue impracticality. "Marcail," she began in a deadly tone, "has Hans heard word of this?"

Adverting her eyes at once, Marcail mumbled something along the lines of 'doesn't need to know'.

"'Doesn't need to know'? Marcail, Hans is the one that needs to know the most! What do you propose you will do when he wonders why you have become so distant, so inhumane to his further advances upon the brink of marriage? What then? Have the poor man suffer primarily in mourning because his own fiancée cannot _just_ inform him of _why_ she is hurting him so?" Her shout was now leaping the brink of intolerant aggravation now, and Marcail could not stand it a moment longer.

"_Expelliarmus!"_ she cried.

Minerva's wand fumbled its way weakly through her hand, but she maintained her firm grip upon it, moving opposite to her furious sister's face. "You're too sapped of magic for a duel. If we were to commence at this moment, however, you would fail."

Marcail turned her back on her and Minerva resisted the powerful urge to throw a few hexes at her sister. One rule of conduct learned as an auror was to never curse anyone with their back turned- even if you wanted to. One had to see the whites of the eyes of the enemy before committing such an act of brutality.

Minerva hastened to approach her sister a second time; attempting to draw her away from the window was going to be a challenge.

"Minerva, you don't understand. I love Hans…" Marcail trailed off in a small, unsure voice, a shadow of herself returning in the outlines of her face as she said this. "You have never loved anyone. I have to disregard the concept of his love bound to mine because of a law. I have to marry another notwithstanding my undying love for him."

"Marcail!" Minerva cried, bemused at Marcail's blindness. "Hans will yet love you, regardless of what you must do. If he does not, then he was never worth your love in the beginning. It will be far better to have this law obeyed now rather than later, however. The pain will be minimal if this is done with quickly and properly."

Marcail snorted indignantly. "'Done with quickly'? Is that all that matters? I am now required by law to marry a man I do not love, and not a respectable man, either. A _pureblood_ who won't give a rat's ass about me. Is _that_ what matters?"

"I do not have the time to discuss the cons and pros of such a marriage," Minerva said angrily, gritting her teeth as she did so. Before she took her leave, however, Marcail's voice interrupted her meticulous pursuit.

"Minerva?"

Minerva halted, rotated, and glanced towards Marcail, whose back was still turned.

"Who are you going to marry?"

The words hung as palpable burdens in the atmosphere, each word worth more than any expression could compute, as a ruffled witch austerely set forth from the premises, dreading an unexpected release of the tormenting upsurge of emotion asserting its presence within her.

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**A/N:** _I meant to post this last week for Sylvadragon's birthday, but I totally didn't because life... got in the way. :D I started school again so I can't guarantee me sticking to that "every two week" posting thing that I intended with this story, but hopefully, this late chapter will make up for that. Happy late birthday to Sylvadragon also! :D_


	5. Chapter Four

**~Chapter Four~**

Words ceased to convey meaning as the list swam hazily into view before him. The sun was now swallowed up by the distant hills near the edges of his property, his sanctuary, save for that night. An ache beyond description throbbed dully near his chest cavity; the emotions of his heart pained him. His head rested atop an oak desk, decorated to perfection, depicting the very scene he wished to forget. Upon the face of the desk, elegantly carved, was his defeat of the great wizard, whose darkness once blanketed the entire country in fear. His graying blonde hair shone brightly against the flickering candlelight of the candelabrum. His forest green eyes were turned, facing the now weary old wizard's electric blue. The glorified wizard's eminent wand rose as a parting, and a thin, spidery rope of velvet emerald spiraled downwards, near hitting the man before him, but the scene stopped here. No one carved the ending of the battle as the one who played a part in its fateful demise remembered.

Albus Dumbledore lifted his weary head from the desk with a sigh, listlessly tracing the emerald spell that marked a new beginning and an ending to his own life- the glorified life he lived at present and the modest life he left as the dark wizard fell before his feet. It was selfish of him to wish that Grindelwald still caused the terror that he had once so expertly foisted upon the Wizarding World. It was selfish of him to wish that he had never left that night to defeat him, but instead wish that he had listened to the pleas of the people in pain with nonchalance as all respected individuals did. But he was not so. He could not bear watching another suffering pain when he knew a proper way to end it once and for all. It was by fate's hand he carried out the final deed of the wanton and weary, for he simply cared about others too much. This was his imperfection, yet he was adored by thousands; thousands who simply had not a clue…

_The air quality was poor- smoke as thick as fog permeated the senses, leaving one disoriented no matter how direction-conscious one was. The aroma told of bloodshed, though the origin was a mystery. Silence was louder than noise, and within this deafening silence, stood one man, attired in starlit sapphire._

_His nose held fast by mere threads, though this was the least of his toils. He tensed at the soft crackling of a forsaken tree branch in this now clear field. His wand instinctively rose to above his head, ready for the final stroke of battle: the ending._

_A stumbling, before a murmured spell improved the air quality. Albus breathed in through his mouth as his vision cleared. A quaking, huddled, mass of a man kneeled abruptly before his feet._

_Eyebrows raised, Albus prodded the wizard with his now lit wand tip, struggling to understand._

"_P-Please, spare me…" the man whispered, fear alive in his green eyes._

_Albus frowned in concentration. "To what cause? You have murdered many, and do not deserve to live…" _

"_But I do!"_

"_How so?"_

_The man faltered a moment, casting his gaze roundabout, yet he saw nothing to aid his plight. "I can… p-promise peace for the rest of my years…"_

_Albus frowned again, now tentatively circling the wizard, lightly tapping him with his glowing wand tip. "Your promises mean little…"_

"_I can make them mean the dawning of the sun."_

"_There is no authenticity in this. Thousands perhaps millions lay dead to your cause. Your second cause cannot be to erase all that was done. What is done is done. It cannot be righted. You have lost, abandoned your chance to live as a human being almost from birth. You do not deserve life, for having removed so many others from it."_

_Albus's words ended frigidly; his normally alight azure eyes were blazing in frothiness, as cold weathered steel in winter. His eyes were removed from emotion, and Grindelwald stared into those eyes, those once forgiving eyes for the last time._

"_Avada Kedavra!" _

_A slither of emerald snaked its way out of Albus's wand, and Grindelwald fell before him, dead. Silence engulfed Albus, even as his supporters surrounded him, cheering in victory. He was their hero. He was their killer._

Shaking his head brusquely at the onslaught of terrible memories, he received no solace. His public adored him, yet, they knew him not. They never did see what killing did to a man. Albus was ashamed of himself. He had grown so bitter in his travailing strife of the loss of one soul, that he had single-handedly forgotten what it was to live as he once did. How he now yearned for war! Then, he would have an excuse to return to himself, to remember who he was…

"Master Albus?"

The voice was a quiet one, yet the only type that understood him for who he was, and not what his actions meant to the people who knew nothing.

"Yes, Hurly?"

The elf fidgeted for a moment, shuffling her feet back and forth before speaking a second time. "I brings your dinner." She daintily held up a pristine silver tray, adorned with the finest food one could ever eat. Albus took the tray with trembling hands, and set it objectively upon the ugly scene of his triumph. Albus buried his face in his hands again, embracing solitude in his great pain, yet he sensed that Hurly had not taken her leave.

Raising his head from the desk was agony; he knew tears were dripping from his cerulean eyes, nevertheless his voice was emotionless. "Hurly, I do not need anything else. Leave me in peace, I beg of you."

Hurly left quickly, yet not in sour affection for her master, whom had been very dear to her for all of her life. Deciding that her master needed more than isolation, Hurly swiftly made her way to the kitchens to find Fistcle.

Banging the doors open, she startled the few house-elves whom were lounging in undersized wicker chairs near the blazing fireplace, cups of tea in their hands.

"Hurly!" Shriti cried, her amber eyes extended in fright, her mug of tea spoiled upon the floor before her, "What happened?"

Hurly did not answer, instead pushing herself through the fastly swarming elves to Fistcle's chambers. She entered without preamble, her hat nearly falling from her head.

To her utmost surprise, Fistcle did not even look up from the book he was reading.

"Fistcle! Master Albus cries!"

Fistcle paused, his finger poised with calculated potential energy to turn the page.

"He asks for service from me?" he asked slowly, still slightly enraptured by his book.

Hurly furiously made her way to him, snapping his book shut, and glaring at him as his brown eyes met hers at last. "No! Master Albus cries for his lonely!"

"He does eat?" asked Fistcle in an exhausted manner.

Hurly opened her mouth, but froze for the briefest of moments before continuing. "I don't know. I give him his food, and he cries. He tells me, 'leave me alone, Hurly..' and I am sorry Fistcle, but I leave him alone when he is happy again!"

Fistcle sighed, rubbing his wiry fingers between his eyes before giving instruction. "See if he does eat. If not, then we think of something…"

"Thank you Fistcle," said Hurly, nodding to her superior before heading out the door again, but slowly this time in order to give her master time to eat.

But Albus was not eating; his tears continued to slip down his face, creating a small pool where his head rested. He wept in silence, knowing that if he sobbed, he would lose every ounce of his well-bridled control.

He lifted his head again as he sensed a house-elf approach him, but he dare not speak. He no longer trusted that his voice would remain flat. He regarded the list again before him, cursing the Ministry in his mind for the madness thrust down the country's throat. Cautiously, he raised a finger to stroke it, taking great care to not smudge the names of which he was to choose; because of his 'nobility' in the defeat of Grindelwald, the Ministry provided him with a list of all eligible Muggle-Born witches still living in Britain. Though the list was long, Albus could not bear the thought of forcing a woman to marry him. He knew darkness had corrupted his heart. He wondered if he could even love a woman with such great burdens he carried. There was only one thing to do to avoid binding himself to another, and he shivered as the thought passed through him like a knife through butter.

"Tell Fistcle that I will be taking a small excursion," he whispered to Hurly as she opened the door to bring his untouched tray back towards the kitchens.

"Okay," whispered Hurly back to him, matching his grave tone before hurrying off to the kitchens. Albus looked at his grand door for a moment as it shut quietly behind Hurly before adjourning to his bed chambers.

He caused a rucksack to materialize from thin air, and began stuffing nondescript items into it. He had no idea how long he would be absent, after all.

Pausing at the thought, Albus cast a weary glance around his room as if he were missing something. Oh, yes, the list…

Despite the pain it caused him to look at the list of names, he decided that having some sort of idea of who he could and could not marry was most definitely in order. All women who were not completely enthralled by him were hard to come by these days, but hope was the key element here. There had to be at least one woman listed that would not, could not, love him because he saved the world…

Well, there _was _one. Her name would never appear on the list.

Sighing as though he were about to attend a funeral, the great wizard left his study, knapsack slung over his shoulder, with both boots on.

Nobody heard the joyous roar of a lion in his wake as it disappeared into the woods near his castle of a home.

* * *

**A/N:** _Albus acts like Albus! That's the only thing you wanted, yes? :D Sorry for this LATE LATE LATE update but school really got in the way this time. *sighs* But! This is the chapter I've been wanting to post the most so tell me... how did it go?_


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