uploading this story on a whim...

it was a one-shot i wrote before the theatrical release of fantastic beasts.

i figured i'd turn it into a proper story and see where it goes.

this story take place in Harry's sixth year (half blood prince)

hope you guys and girls enjoy.

HARRY POTTER AND THE LIES OF DUMBLEDORE

CHAPTER ONE:

"GRINDELWALD"

A pensive stare is all it takes.

A Pensieve is the path to introspection and the truest enlightenment.

Cloudbursts of smoke and recollection toll high.

Cloaks a-swirl in the moonlit, rain-pattered wind and Earth.

Harry dug through His secrets; one by one.

Surprise hit him. He heard something.

What was that? Say it again…

…he listened close…

…and then he heard it—

"Won't we all die, just a little?"

GELLERT GRINDELWALD'S DIARY

(compiled by the British National Magical Historian;

chronologically inserted by the British Ministry of Magic

& stored within the memories of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore)

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1945

Death was complete; a totality; an eventuality. But just a little—not too much—would we die? Could we? Just enough to brush against our souls; enough to remind us of how much we want to live.

To know that life could be so delicate, and to feel death's grip tight around our throats, wringing out all the hope—this much death would do—don't forget to take it in moderation.

Let grief of survival overwhelm you, and feel how much you don't matter. Specks of dust to the Gods in the Heavens above. This kind of death went against their every law. But why let them dictate the rules? Why let them rule above our kind? So reject it. Defy the rules, break the laws, rewrite their fates, and mark their epitaphs.

'The Gods Above.' This was an assumption of great length, considering the supportive logic implemented thankfulness as its source inspiration. "Thank you for the gift of magic!" And who could know that we were granted what we are? No one.

I've spent my life overcoming the limitations of existence. I've aged to overthrow transcendence and simply become.

This is the guide—my guide—to the creation of what I will refer to hereafter as a Horcrux.

My name is Gellert Grindelwald. I am a man. That was the one label I could not escape. I do not wish to be known as a wizard, nor as the man who sparked a great war; I wish to be recognized as a man. I have faults, I am not perfect. But—this is my story, and I will tell it the way it was lived. It is time for us to acknowledge that we owe our partners—Life—the courtesy of being told.

Let us be remembered for who we died as, and nothing more. Lest we be Bastards, we shall remain quiet and allow life's will to translate those moments so dear to our hearts our minds dare not tear apart its' strings.

This is the tale of life and its part in the death of I, Gellert Grindelwald…

More cloudbursts. Further recollections. Harry felt like he was pushing against heavy wind.

"The greater good, you see?"

"Albus! We've done it! The greater good!"

Two men worked voraciously, hungry for knowledge, devouring the tales and history of their ancestors with vigour. Slow down or you'll choke.

They worked in what appeared to be an ill-maintained bedroom. It was the only option for an office, Albus had a family—responsibilities and such. Gellert didn't protest. It was rare to find such an opportune connection. The greater good, what a beautiful conception—what an immaculate kind.

"And of course, Minister for Magic: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! A great and wise young man. Who would've thought? Taken the ministry by storm! Magic beyond his years, and many years beyond his seniors."

Albus chuckled. "Gellert—we would be wise to slow down, my friend. Such excitement is the seed of arrogance preparing to bloom."

"Bahh! Albus, think nothing of it. I'm allowed a few hysterics for a man as important as your are to me."

"You make me blush, friend. I'm flattered, truly. And to think, I'd planned an adventurous escapade around the world. Would've been borne without fruit, and I would have been effortlessly relenting labours unknown to me."

The young men practically danced around the room. Ah, the bright and fruitful vigour of young love.

Harry pushed further…

"Gellert, please, listen to reason, I beg of you." Dumbledore pleaded with his oldest friend and his dearest lover.

"The time for reason has long passed, Albus." Grindelwald held a painful look upon his face. He dreaded this eventuality—a duel of fates.

"Then it must come down to this after all. Is that all we have left? You are still my friend, Gellert."

"I'm afraid this is all that is left. It must indeed, come down to this." Grindelwald feared for his friend—he held the Elder Wand after all—and his quest would lead him down a path drenched with the violence of destiny.

"Gellert…please…"

Grindelwald responded deftly—a simple flick of his wrist, out slipped his wand; bumpy and rough-hewn, there lay the Elder Wand within the grips of a man driven by misery…and quite sincerely by desperation.

A sharp spark of jet-blue light struck the corner of earth where Albus Dumbledore stood. He did not flinch.

"Wand at the ready, Albus."

Dumbledore unsheathed his wand—hidden behind the cuff of his right sleeve—and gripped it loosely within his fingertips. It was a smooth, almost discoloured wand-make. It bore no markings of clarity, yet it felt deeply imbued by an ethereal flame; the invisible forges of the magical ability.

"Gellert—"

No more words, no more talk. Grindelwald shot a barrage of spells, quick as lightning.

Dumbledore masterfully retaliated. He raised his wand-tip, capturing and casting out every spell. He moved not an inch, nor swayed for even a moment.

Attack.

Grindelwald had no other choice but to oppose this mode of strategy from Dumbledore. The tables had indeed turned. Perhaps it would've been a wise decision to have heeded the words of his old friend. Grindelwald blocked spell after spell. Dodging and repelling at the very behest of his magical instinct.

The two swapped between the defence versus offence respectively. It was a battle of wits and stamina. Not a single utterance was muttered between the two of them—not a single spell spoken, nor a single breath taken. Their very wills executed their magic. Their intent morphing and strengthening their spells, moulding their evolutionary transformative effects as they shot through the air. Simple sparks and bolts held the weight of immense darkness and light; total power and complete destruction.

Neither duelist felt the knock of irritation, nor did they feel the urge to hasten this battle. Patience was their elected excuse, their intents spoke the truth; this was to clear away the debt—to settle and move on. Neither could live while the other survived.

But what if neither wanted to survive?

Seconds became minutes, minutes became seconds; every moment—every spell—all of the intent, their wills, it all contained them within the hourglass. Every grain of sand lost dictated their sentence…this was the end.

Both men looked unchanged on the outside, but felt hollowed within. All magic expired, every spell tried and tested. In the end, as funny as it is—and just as unfair—his luck struck at the right time.

Death's keeper prevailed, truly and justly.

"Avada Kedavra!—"

"—Avada Kedavra!"

Both men uttered the same spell. Their very first words since the start of battle, and their words bore death by their very definition.

Death be to the king. The king be that who wishes for prevalence. Because the true king was not among either. A true king bore courage in their bones, love in their hearts, trust in their beings, and forgiveness in their words.

Language will no longer be a barrier the day the boy lives. Nothing will save those false Gods. No tricks, no mind-reading, no potions, just truth and bravery and forgiveness would spark the beginning. The ultimate spell of creation.

Their spells connected. Blazing lights danced; the radiance blinded the earth surrounding them. Forestry eroded and crumbled, everything living decayed by the light of this frenzy. The darkest light, shone brightest and deepest.

From green to red to blue, it was a show of art—sparks and jitters and flickers of instability fizzled and burst out of the beam of magic.

And then it happened…Priori Incantatem.

A cloudburst of light showered around the pair. They were encased within its warmth and soul, levitated, lifted beyond this earth and carried to the further.

Something amazing was happening. What forged this bond—this deep connection—between these two wands? Or perhaps had the wizards chosen for the first time? The wand didn't always choose, sometimes it settled, sometimes it relegated for the sake of the greater good.

Grindelwald felt it happen before it even physically materialized into a formation that would become the key moment in a timeline unbroken by its laws, yet.

The Elder Wand escaped his grip. It simply no longer rested in those hands anymore. Dumbledore himself appeared surprised. It rested within his free hand. He raised it and flashed guilt and regret, then buried that regret—adorned his face with a mask of resolve.

He pointed the wand straight towards Grindelwald. This would end the connection too. He mouthed a few words…a spell shot out (what did he say?)

It was no spell. A jet of red light struck Grindelwald square in his chest. Simultaneously, his neck gave, his head slumped, his body slacked—the spell broke, Priori Incantatem—they fell downwards, earthbound.

"Arresto Momentum…"

They both stopped inches away from a brutal fall. Dumbledore's mind flashed through the scenario once more—time rewinded for him—he wished to fall again and experience the impact, and embrace death. Then cowardice overtook him once more.

As Grindelwald lie unconscious, Albus bound him in chains of fire—they licked his body, dissipating into nothing and reforming where they were first bound.

Dumbledore fell to his knees, tears escaped his eyes. He shuddered and wept for a moment. His cloak blanketed his body in a cask of darkness. He observed the Elder Wand resting within his fingers, he rolled it around for a moment. Raised it towards his head, felt a courage unknown to him…

…threatened to pull the trigger—

"—That's enough, Harry. Please—I would prefer my memories remain where I prefer them…in the basin of my pensieve."

Harry Potter jerked out of the ghostly waters filling the pensieve basin. Caught red-handed.

Albus Dumbledore held the faintest ghosts of what appeared to be a smile of the utmost morbid kind. He urged Harry away from the pensieve. He didn't budge.

"Please…" A weak plea from a worn old-man.

Harry felt sweat run down the side of his temples, down his neck. He felt shocked. He felt a great many things, honestly speaking. He couldn't contain them all…so he ran. Dumbledore watched with a somber expression as Harry sprinted frantically out the door. It slammed with a mighty THUD and SNAP setting the lock in place and ensuring the old man a newly desired privacy.

Dumbledore approached the basin of his pensieve and saw a ghost of himself swimming around in clouds and dust deep inside, beneath its ink shores. He turned around and stared at the spot Harry had run out.

The boy had dropped a bowl of licorice snaps on the floor in his hurry. The tiny, black beads of candy hopped and skittered all across the room—eat me—they yelled at Dumbledore.