All the things we did

Three days had passed since the healer's visit, and Grindelwald had yet to appear in the room. Dumbledore vaguely wondered if the elf had never delivered his message, but now he considered the possibility that Grindelwald wasn’t the master after all. Perhaps he was too busy organizing attacks to gain more power than he already had. However, Dumbledore doubted Grindelwald would have entrusted someone else to oversee such matters—he was far too imperious to allow it. In the end, Grindelwald always took charge of the riskiest affairs tied to his cause.

And Dumbledore himself, even in his frail state, was undoubtedly a risk to that cause.

The elf continued visiting to deliver meals accompanied by the daily dose of nutritional potion. Yet Dumbledore refused to consume anything. The mere sight of food made him nauseous, and even attempting to eat would have caused him to vomit up all the liquids he had managed to keep down over the past days. Drinking water was far easier by comparison.

During that time, the dragon wrapped around the clock never ceased its watchful gaze. Even at night, Dumbledore could feel its piercing stare. It seemed so possessive that Dumbledore half-expected it to unwind itself from the clock and coil around him instead. Still, he wasn’t overly alarmed—most magical objects possessed a semblance of life without truly being alive.

That evening, the elf visited to serve dinner but lingered this time, watching him closely. Dumbledore felt uneasy. No matter how he tried to distract himself, those constant stares always pursued him.

It was suffocating.

“Where is my wand?” Dumbledore asked, ignoring the meal in front of him, though it appeared more appetizing than usual.

“Eru does not know,” the elf replied, lowering his gaze. “Even if Eru did, he could not say.”

Dumbledore nodded, remaining still and hoping the elf would take the hint and remove the food. Instead, the elf stepped closer and said, “The master has ordered Eru to make Mr. Dumbledore eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Dumbledore responded, averting his gaze out of discomfort. He detested being treated like an invalid, let alone a prisoner, though he undoubtedly fit both descriptions.

“The master said he will not fulfill your request until next month,” the elf interjected abruptly.

Dumbledore’s attention snapped to him, intrigued and eager for clarification. His message had been received. The elf’s master was permitting communication, albeit with limitations. This confirmed Dumbledore’s suspicion: Grindelwald was the one orchestrating the care. While he longed to understand Grindelwald’s motives immediately, he decided to wait for a direct meeting to confront him. But first, he needed to know the current date and mark each passing day.

“What day is it?” he asked, hoping it was information the elf was allowed to share.

“September 5th.”

Dumbledore was pleased to get an answer, but there was one more he needed for clarity.

“And the year?” he asked almost instinctively, his urgency akin to a Seeker spotting the Snitch.

“1946,” the elf replied nonchalantly.

The world beneath Dumbledore seemed to collapse. His face turned pale, his body stiffened, and his mind raced.

Fragments of memory surfaced, but they were faint and disjointed. He strained to recall events, but his thoughts remained blank, like a canvas wiped clean. Then, a singular memory pierced through the haze:

A Hungarian assassination. The Minister of Magic and his family had been killed. Dumbledore had traveled to Hungary in August 1945, accompanied by Flamel. At the time, his army was in a dire state, branded as terrorists across much of Europe, which hampered their resistance against Grindelwald’s regime. Grindelwald had been serving as head of the International Confederation of Wizards before being ousted for abuse of power.

Dumbledore remembered the failure of their mission and an improvised battle to escape the country. Yusuf Kama had died during that confrontation, his body decaying within minutes from a curse. The guilt and helplessness still weighed on him.

He and Flamel had managed to flee to Slovenia, one of the few European countries opposing Grindelwald. Yet even Slovenia fell in line a month later, succumbing to Grindelwald’s fascist ideology.

The memory dissipated as the elf shook him gently, snapping him back to reality. Once the elf backed away, Dumbledore remained silent, too overwhelmed to explain what had just transpired. His thoughts churned ceaselessly.

So much was missing. An entire year erased from his memory. Could it have been an Obliviate charm? Erasing an entire year would likely cause significant cognitive damage, rendering him useless—a strategy Grindelwald would never employ. Altering memories seemed more plausible, but even that carried risks if not done precisely.

He tried to question the elf further, but before he could speak, the creature vanished.

That night, Dumbledore couldn’t sleep. The flood of unanswered questions and fragmented memories kept him restless. He remembered so little of himself, and each new thought only added to his confusion.

In the days that followed, Dumbledore began consuming small portions of food to rebuild his strength. At first, the effort was grueling, and nausea plagued him. The elf had to use magic to empty his stomach at times to prevent vomiting. His inability to walk meant the elf also managed other bodily functions for him, a deeply humiliating revelation. Surprisingly, the elf admitted he had been doing this all along without Dumbledore noticing.

Gradually, Dumbledore regained the ability to eat without issue. The elf, noticing his progress, introduced more diverse dishes. The nutritional potions were eventually reduced, but the migraines persisted.

These were no ordinary migraines. His mind seemed to be waging a war against itself.

His health deteriorated to the point where the healer began visiting more frequently. At times, she stayed for days to monitor his condition. During those periods, Dumbledore’s awareness faltered, slipping in and out of consciousness.

One day, he surrendered to the familiar darkness, no longer fighting to stay awake. He welcomed the oblivion, finding solace in the absence of questions and memories.

For once, he rested.

Forgetting all those years of war.