Chapter Text
The phone rang once. It rang again.
“Ah yes, hello, Aunt Jenna,” he began, voice mellow but carrying that unmistakable undercurrent of I suppose I should have seen this coming. “I must confess something rather… awkward. It appears I have, quite by accident, founded a cult.”
“…Elena… what?”
Seventeen sets of eyes lay still upon Albus.
“…If you could get here as soon as possible with the lollipops, that would be lovely.”
—
“I didn’t sign up for this!”
There was no answer. There wasn’t even an acknowledgment.
“Listen here, you pompous, no beard-having, lemon-sucking meddler,” she started, her tone lethal, the kind of tone that would make even Damon Salvatore rethink his next quip.
He waved his hand in the universal gesture of “I’m busy, don’t bother me.”
In front of him sat a very, very dead bird.
Albus was busy delving into the deepest pits of his mind, starting from when he was only four years old.
He remembered staring at wilted flowers all those years ago, willing them to revive with every scrap of small-boy determination, and then, quite without warning, the petals unfurled in a single, extravagant sweep.
They were scarlet and pink and the deepest crimson, all opening together as though someone had whispered ‘now’ to the entire bush.
The scent hit him like a warm wave, and for a long moment, the garden seemed to hold its breath. He laughed (how he laughed!) and clapped his hands, and the roses bobbed as if bowing in agreement.
His mother found him there, still giggling among the blooms, petals caught in his hair like confetti scraps. She knelt beside him, her face a mixture of delight and a bit of caution. ‘Albus,’ she said softly, ‘that was magic, my love. Your magic.’
He thought she meant he had done something clever, like tying his own shoes or charming the cat to fetch his toy broom. But she took his hands, small and grubby and dusted with pollen, and explained, in that patient way of hers, that the world held secrets, and he was one of the few who could unlock them.
That was long before his dad was sent away.
“Are you seriously not even listening to me?!”
He was terribly proud, of course. For days afterward he tried to make everything bloom at once: the apple tree (in which it refused, dropping one green fruit on his head as rebuke), the hollyhocks by the gate, even that rather grumpy patch of nettles that stung him for his impertinence.
“Albus-!”
It was a simple thing, that first awakening. There was no grand explosion, no Ministry owls swooping in panic.
“Spirits talk, team switcher. They talk loud. And right now they’re screaming that you’re the biggest self-righteous, manipulative, chess-playing old goat this side of any hell dimension-“
Just a boy, a rosebush, and the sudden, dazzling certainty that the ordinary could be persuaded to be extraordinary. He did not yet know the weight that magic could carry, the choices it would demand, nor the losses it could not prevent. He only knew joy, pure, unshadowed joy, and the quiet thrill of its possibility.
Looking back now, across so many years, he sees it as the gentlest of beginnings.
A reminder that even the greatest wizards start small, with wonder rather than power.
“You’re on probation, ‘Elena.’ The ancestors are watching very closely- WOULD YOU STOP POKING THE DEAD BIRD!”
Ah, yes. Shelia.
Shelia’s little magical act seemed to have some unexpected side-effects. While dying, she sent her last whisp of magic to Albus, using her own magic as a replacement anchor, reigniting Elena’s very latent magic core.
With that, Elena would have some of Sheila’s magic already inside her, and she could actively draw more through her connection to Sheila’s spirit.
And according to Sheila, the other-side truly did not know what to make of Albus. Elena is viewed as a spiritual successor, someone carrying forward Sheila’s magical legacy. Not a thief now.
“Let it go.”
Albus kept summoning Shelia for his… experiments and she ended up cussing him out as he tried to place her in a bird for the fourth time.
“Stop.”
“No, no. I assure you, I read about this once-“
“THIS ISNT HOGGYWARTS!”
Bonnie sat off to the side, watching perched on the edge of a chair. She bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood. Her eyes darted between the invisible spirit of a furious Grams and the once very famous (and now very sheepish) Headmaster.
A tiny snort escaped.
Sheila rounded on her granddaughter. “Don’t you start, Bonnie Bennett. And Elena, tell her not to go out with that boy she’s been chasing!”
“Bonnie, Madam Bennet told me to tell you to get the boy.”
Shelia did not. Albus misheard because Albus was too busy doing stupid things. Shelia did not. From the other side, Sheila was dying inside.
“I swear to the ether and back-“
Bonnie was not even allowed a normal grieving process. Within the blink of an eye, her Grams was dead. And then within the blink of another eye, Elena was apparently being haunted and only she could see her Grams.
She trusted her… she did… she really did… but…
“This is the same as one plus one equals fish!” Elena spoke confidently to the empty room. The very, isolated and empty room.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Bonnie continued staring.
“I find that one’s own foot is rarely cooperative in such matters, and besides, I’m rather attached to my dignity.”
Bonnie didn’t blink.
“Might I suggest, instead, that you take a moment to breathe- ah, yes, I hear you, you can’t-“
Elena kept gesturing to thin air, while sitting next to a dead bird, surrounded by five candles in a circle.
She raised a hand experimentally, focusing on the faint hum she could still feel in her core. Nothing happened.
Elena had magic flowing through her now, yes, but seemed incapable of dragging it to the surface alone.
“Shelia, if you would just work with me-“
“Okay, Elena,” Bonnie said, finally gaining a voice. “You’re sure this is safe? Grams seems to have been… vocal since you started this.”
“It’s not safe!” Shelia belted out to her grandchild that couldn’t hear her.
“Yes, all is well,” Albus replied, smiling.
“Safe?” Sheila’s voice boomed, far louder than her slight frame suggested. She planted her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing at the girl who used to be Albus Dumbledore.
“You are playing with forces you do not understand! You think you can just stuff an old witch’s soul into a snow globe or dead animal like it’s some kind of party trick? I raised a powerful line of witches, and this is what my granddaughter brings home? A girl trying to play God with dead animals!”
He only held a hand out towards the poor, long-passed bird. Focus, as he did with the Elder Wand in another life, intent, precision, and a touch of theatrical flair never hurt.
“A soul transference experiment, nothing more. If I can anchor a spirit, even temporarily, into an inanimate object, it opens fascinating possibilities for communication beyond the veil.”
Think of it as… a more reliable form of a Pensieve. Nothing as dirty as a horcrux.
“You do not experiment on the dead. Especially not on ME! I have half a mind to spell you into next week if I still had a body!”
In Albus’s hardcore defense, this bird was previously very much alive.
And he would hold a funeral for it later, that much it deserved.
Albus closed his eyes for a moment, breathing steadily. A faint hum filled his body. It wasn’t the familiar outline of his worlds magic, but a new and unexplored energy of this natures witchcraft.
Magic, Albus Dumbledore had long believed, possessed a certain…courtesy.
Magic responded to one’s intent, it flowed along channels. It obeyed predictably with structure, a new form of language that could be learned, bent, and occasionally broken.
This was something else entirely.
This version was deeply impolite.
He extended his fingers. “Come now, Sheila. Just a brief visit.”
Sheila’s spirit form wavered, pulled toward the soon-to-be rotting carcass.
“Oh no you don’t!” Sheila yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “You stop that right now, young lady thing! I am not some ghost to be bottled up like a genie! Bonnie, tell her!”
But Bonnie could not hear.
Bonnie could not see her.
Albus’s brows furrowed in concentration. For a split second, Sheila’s translucent form stretched thin, her face comically distorted as if being sucked toward the bird.
Sheila rounded on her granddaughter, though her glare quickly softened with affection. “This is not funny, Bonnie Mae. That girl over there has the soul of an old wizard who clearly never learned when to stop meddling. Next she’ll try putting me in that ugly ceramic mug her aunt Jenna gave her for Christmas.”
Elena glanced at the mug with genuine interest. “Actually, that’s an excellent suggestion. More room to move about. Perhaps a nice view of the room from the handle-“
“Don’t you dare!” Sheila snapped, pointing a translucent finger.
Bonnie remained clueless.
Elena lowered her hand gracefully, offering a small bow that looked strangely formal in jeans and a baggy neon green cardigan.
“Very well. Lesson noted. Your spirit is remarkably anchored to the living world through your bloodline. Fascinating. We shall try the succulent next time, plants have a certain… resilience.”
Shelia let out a strangled sound.
He supposed he should go back to the start. To modesty.
A simple illumination charm, just another flicker of light to test the waters of this new magic.
He took another slow breath, trying to feel the unfamiliar hum of this new body’s magic. It was there, but fainter and more slippery, nothing like the crisp, wand-guided power he had known as Albus Dumbledore. It was more alike to trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. And that, was simply impossible.
“Sheila… if you’re willing, lend me just a touch of your magic. Just enough to light the candle, please.”
Sheila holds a well of power far deeper than his current grasp. If Albus wanted to keep his reserve flowage, he must keep the nozzle turned on.
“No dead bird?”
“No dead bird. I ask as a humble student before a master of ancestral craft.”
Bonnie continued watching with cautious curiosity.
Sheila’s spirit flickered into clearer view for him alone, rolling her eyes dramatically. She huffed, but she closed her eyes and imagined pushing a small thread of her ancestral power toward him.
He felt it, a small flicker inside of him.
But nothing happened. The wick stayed stubbornly dark.
“Too little,” Albus sighed, opening his eyes. “Sheila, dear, that was barely a spark. Imagine giving a bit more.”
Sheila threw up her hands, visible only to Elena. “Fine! You want more? I’ll give you more. But don’t blame me if-“
She concentrated harder, imagining a stronger flow this time, like opening a faucet instead of a drip.
Albus felt the surge hit him all at once, Bennett magic flooding in far too powerfully for his still-unfamiliar control. Elena’s eyes narrowed in an uncharacteristic show of irritation that was usually well hidden, an unwelcome weed in a carefully tended garden.
He rarely allowed himself to feel such prickling annoyance, as patience and calm had always been his armor. Yet today it chafed at the repeated unpredictability of this magic.
His magic has obeyed him without question for over a century. Why, in this world, does it choose to behave like a recalcitrant first-year’s charm?
He pointed at the candle and spoke with more force than intended. “Ignite!”
The candle didn’t just light, it exploded upward in a burst of flame and force.
The entire thing shot up like a rocket, wax and fire streaking toward the ceiling. It slammed into the plaster with a loud crack, sticking there upside down, still burning brightly and dripping hot wax onto the floor.
Bonnie yelped and ducked instinctively, covering her head with her arms as a few drops of wax splattered near her feet.
“What the- Elena! What just happened?!”
Albus stood frozen for a second, staring at the candle now embedded in the ceiling. Hot wax continued to rain down in slow, sticky droplets.
Yes, that is precisely the sort of overcorrection he was hoping to avoid.
He considered the candle from the ceiling where it was embedded.
He cleared his throat, trying to maintain appearance despite the chaos. “Well… that was certainly more than anticipated. My apologies, Sheila.”
This new magic of his pulsed in time with Elena’s heartbeat, coiled around her emotions, sharpened or dulled depending on the state of her mind.
That, he suspected, was the key.
And also the problem.
He had spent decades mastering his own emotions, shaping them into something controlled, something useful.
This magic seemed to prefer the opposite.
This is no longer amusing. His magic is throwing a tantrum worthy of a toddler who’d been denied sweets.
“The first offering was too faint for this unfamiliar channel, and the second… rather flooded the circuit, as it were. Like pouring an ocean into a teacup. We shall need to find the middle path somewhere between ‘trickle’ and ‘flood.’”
Shelia only eyed Albus with her expression a mixture of reluctant resignation and lingering disapproval. She looked back up at the damage with a deep, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of every Bennett ancestor.
“…If we may begin again, I promise to aim better.”
Sheila rubbed her temples, even though she had no physical head to ache. Another heavy sigh escaped her.
“Lord help us all. One more try, but if that candle ends lighting neighbor’s yard, I’m done.”
The scent of singed wax lingering like a reminder that even the greatest of minds still had much to relearn.
—
It was not a deliberate recruitment.
It was accidental.
He did not intend to… convene an assembly.
Pearls group were leaning toward this girl who quoted no ancient vampire laws, made no threats, and offered only quiet wisdom wrapped in a pretty human package.
Leadership is a heavy cloak, best worn only when necessary.
But it was too late.
Pearl had been searching for a symbol, a new figure to unify her fractured people after so much loss. This strange, eloquent girl had walked in and accidentally become exactly that.
“Nevertheless,” Pearl said smoothly, her voice gaining strength, “you have given us something we lacked. Hope. We will follow where you guide, Elena Gilbert.”
This is… unexpected. Though he supposes one must never refuse an opportunity to steer wayward souls toward the light.
“Indeed. The world is full of wonders and horrors in equal measure. Why add to the latter when we might cultivate the former?”
A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth from the situation he found himself now involved in.
He licked his lips. “However, well, may I address the room momentarily?”
Pearl gave a crisp nod and gestured with an open palm.
Albus stepped further into the middle of the room where too many vampires resided.
“My friends… I am honored by your presence, truly. Yet I must caution against placing any one person upon a pedestal. We are all flawed vessels. Even the greatest stumble-“
“-She’s so humble.”
…
Elena Gilbert, once Albus Dumbledore, had acquired her first followers in this strange new world.
And she had absolutely no idea how to disband them.
—
“When a Bowtruckle takes up residence in one’s beard and refuses to leave without a formal tea invitation, one must adapt.”
Jeremy was slumped forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp between them like they’d forgotten what they were for.
“Elena… please… English…”
His black t-shirt was wrinkled, one sleeve pushed up unevenly. He looked like a guy who’d been awake for three days straight, but it wasn’t the lack of sleep. It was the weight of every single time he’d been pulled back into this nightmare of a sister he’d never asked for.
Albus had caught the tail end of something he had never meant to see.
Behind his back, Jeremy and Anna had been sneaking.
Albus found himself sitting next to Jeremy on the outdoor steps, letting the white noise of the wind fill the gap in the conversation.
“Love is rarely simple, Jeremy,” he said at last. “It does not discriminate between the living and the… otherwise. Nor should we, if our hearts are true.”
Jeremy groaned, holding his hands to his face and leaning away from Elena. “Stop, shut up.”
“I’m just saying-“
“I don’t want to talk about this-“
“-Did our parents manage to have the talk with you before-“
“-STOP!”
Albus was unsure if Jeremy had the knowledge needed to safely pursue any relationship. He himself did not want to commit the dirty work, so if Jeremy needed guidance, he would politely guide Aunt Jenna-
“She’s a vampire, she’s dead.”
“Yes, but if you were to approach a normal, human girl-“
“-Can we not?!”
Albus closed his mouth, and went forth to watch Jeremy without interrupting anything further, his expression one of quiet understanding rather than judgment.
But Jeremy didn’t speak. Jeremy was the only one who seemed to feel awkward in this scenario.
Jeremy desperately dug at any straw his mind could conjure to change the conversation.
“She’s a vampire. I know what that means.”
Immortality, but already dead.
Anna had it. She would never grow old. She would never wrinkle, never ache in her joints, never watch her hair turn gray while the world moved on without her.
And Jeremy, he was just… temporary. He was a mayfly.
He imagined Anna in fifty years. She’d still look exactly like she did now. He’d be in his late sixties, maybe bald, maybe with a bad back, maybe already gone if one of the thousand dangers around Elena finally caught up with him.
“We cannot choose who our hearts call to. Only whether we answer.”
Jeremy fiddled with his necklace before he answered. “I think I like her too much.” He sighed. “I keep wondering if I should just… stay quiet. Keep things as they are.”
Albus hummed, giving himself time to consider.
Ah, young love. How many times has he watched brilliant minds paralyze themselves over a simple truth?
He had lived long enough to see what happens when love is left unspoken. He had watched brilliant, brave souls carry silent regrets to their graves. He had seen friendships wither not from rejection, but from the slow poison of ‘what if.’ And he had known the exquisite terror and joy of laying one’s heart bare.
To stay with Anna meant a choice no fifteen-year-old should ever have to face: bind his life to hers and become immortal, or confess his love and one day leave her behind as an ordinary human who would age and die.
He could tell him the safe path, he reflected inwardly. Warn him that immortality is no gift when it is chosen only to avoid loss. He has watched friends chase eternal life and lose their souls in the bargain. The Hallows themselves taught him that much. Yet love… ah, love has always been the one force he could never fully measure or master.
Fear is a most persuasive counselor, but it is rarely a wise one, even in this situation Jeremy has found himself tangled in. It whispers that safety lies in silence, that the status quo is a comfortable fortress. But love is not meant to be hoarded like a dragon’s gold, gathering dust in the dark. It is meant to be spoken, offered freely.
He is asking whether it is worth the price. And his answer has always been the same, even when his own heart paid it in full: Yes. Every time.
“If the bond is true,” he began, “One will not ask you to become immortal for their sake alone. They will ask you to choose for yours. And if you decide to walk that longer road… well, immortality is not a curse when it is chosen from abundance rather than fear. It is simply another way of saying ‘I will not let this end while I still have breath to give it.’”
He smiled then, small and genuine, though the sparkle in his eyes was tempered. “Or,” he added softly, “you may choose your mortal span and love with the fierce urgency that only the finite can know.”
He reached over and gave Jeremy a gentle pat on the knee.
“But one rarely regrets the words one leaves unspoken. It is the ones hurled in haste that return to haunt us like poorly cast Boggarts.”
“…What the hell are you on about?” Jeremy swears Elena does this on purpose.
Albus hid his smile behind his hand, face lined with mischief.
“I would be delighted if you were to invite her to dinner tonight. I could cook-“
“You can’t cook-“
“-And I could use her help for funeral preparations.”
“…Whose…” Jeremy stopped speaking. He shook his head and went back to looking off into the distance.
“Never mind.”
—
“This is weird. This is really really weird.”
The backyard of the Gilbert house was quiet in the late golden hour, the grass still warm from the day’s sun. A small patch of earth had been cleared beneath the old tree, and in the center lay a shallow grave no larger than a banana.
Wrapped in a cloth and in a small, small box, lied a one very dead bird, now still forever after it sacrificed itself in the pursuit of Elena’s knowledge.
Elena stood at the head of the tiny grave, dressed in a black dress that somehow looked both mourning-appropriate and not at all appropriate because of its touch of Albus’s flair.
She held a small wooden wand-like stick she had fashioned from a fallen branch, though no one else would recognize its significance. Her expression was solemn, eyes soft with genuine sorrow.
A few feet away, Bonnie stood respectfully silent, though her face betrayed mild confusion. Sheila’s spirit hovered faintly near the tree, visible only to Albus, arms crossed and muttering something about “dramatic old men.”
Albus had accidentally summoned Shelia for the funeral. He had no idea how to send her back.
Stefan and Damon Salvatore had shown up, mostly because Elena had asked them to, her voice gentle and insistent over the phone. “All lives should be honored,” she had said. “Even the smallest ones.”
Stefan stood a little behind Damon, hands in his pockets, his face soft with quiet empathy. He watched Elena with that familiar, protective gaze, unaware of the ancient soul residing in the girl he loved.
The priest in front cleared his throat, and gestured for Elena to speak.
“Dear friends,” she started softly, “we gather here today to bid farewell to this gentle creature of the air. Though its life was brief, a mere twinkle against the vastness of existence, it brought beauty and wonder to our world. Every life, no matter how fragile or fleeting, deserves to be remembered. Let us honor its passage with dignity and gratitude.”
She raised the stick like a conductor’s baton. “May your wings find eternal winds, little one. You were loved, even if only for a moment.”
A short, respectful silence followed.
Damon’s mouth twitched. He glanced sideways at Stefan, then back at Elena. “A priest,” he muttered under his breath. “She got a whole damn priest for a bird. This is really fucking weird.”
Stefan shot him a warning look, too far gone for Elena to acknowledge the oddity of this situation. “Damon. She’s grieving. Just… be respectful.”
Elena continued, voice oddly grandfatherly for a teenage girl, “We commit this small soul to the earth from which all life springs. Ashes to ashes… well, wings to soil, in this case. Rest well, dear bird.”
She knelt gracefully, using her hands to gently scoop dirt over the tiny boxed body. A single tear traced down her cheek, real and heartfelt, mourning for a life ended too soon.
(He did it.)
Damon exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to laugh or walk away. This was beyond weird. Elena had always been emotional, but this level of ceremony for a bird was next-level strange.
Still… she looked vulnerable standing there.
The black dress hugged her figure in all the right places, and the way the fading light caught her hair made something stir in him.
He thought so too when he first arrived, but then she opened her mouth and started eulogizing a goddamn bird, and the whole thing short-circuited his brain.
Hot as hell, but weird.
Damon seized the moment. When Elena stepped back to allow the priest his own blessing, he subtly wandered his way through the crowd.
He slid an arm around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his chest in a sly, sensual motion. His fingers splayed over her hip, thumb brushing the curve there with a clear intent. His breath ghosted against her ear.
“Hey,” he murmured quietly. “You okay, princess?”
Albus straightened slightly, interpreting the touch as nothing more than shared grief and comfort. He leaned back into him with a soft, grateful sigh, placing his hand gently over his on his waist, completely missing the sexual undertone.
“Oh, Damon,” she said warmly, her voice thick with gentle wisdom.
“How kind of you to offer solace in this moment of loss. It warms the heart to know I am not alone in mourning even the smallest of creatures. Your presence here… it means more than you know.”
She tilted her head just enough to offer Damon a serene, twinkling smile, ancient eyes in a young face. “Truly, in times of sorrow, the simple act of standing together is its own kind of magic. Thank you.”
Damon’s arm remained around her waist, but the sensual grip had loosened into something awkward and confused. He cleared his throat, voice drier than usual. “Yeah… sure.”
Fucking weird.
He tried again.
He tightened his grip slightly, letting his fingers drift a fraction lower in more suggestive implication. “Gone too soon. But you know what they say about death, right? Makes you want to feel alive.” His hand tightened, pulling her back against him just enough for her to feel exactly how “alive” he was.
Before he could press further, Stefan moved in from the other side, drawn by the sight of his brother’s arm around Elena and the unmistakable vulnerability in her posture. Stefan’s jaw tightened with silent jealousy, but his voice came out soft, concerned, and equally hungry for her attention.
“Elena,” Stefan said, stepping close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. “If this is too much… you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here too.”
He reached out, his hand gently covering hers where it rested on Damon’s arm, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles in what he clearly intended as tender support… though the undercurrent of want was impossible to miss.
Elena looked between the two brothers, her expression one of pure benevolence mixed with mild surprise at their sudden closeness.
Oh dear indeed.
“How kind of you both,” she said warmly, completely steering the charged tension to a beautiful display of brotherly solidarity in the face of loss. “To set aside your differences and come together for this moment. It warms the heart to see such unity in the presence of death, no matter how small. Truly, you two are a testament to the power of compassion.”
Damon’s hand froze on her waist. Stefan’s fingers stilled on hers. Both vampires stared at her, then at each other, the moment growing painfully awkward as the weight of her innocent interpretation settled over them like a wet blanket.
Damon slowly withdrew his arm, muttering under his breath, “This is so fucking weird.”
She’s standing here in a rare show of fitted clothing, giving funerals to animals, and now she has a cult. He just wants to sleep with her and he’s getting a sermon on compassion.
Stefan cleared his throat, stepping back half a pace, cheeks faintly flushed with frustration and embarrassment. “Yeah… we should probably give you some space.”
Elena beamed up at them with a smile that all of a sudden felt wildly out of place.
“Nonsense, stay as long as you like. The little one would have appreciated the company.”
She turned back to the tiny grave, murmuring a final quiet blessing under her breath, while Damon and Stefan remained awkwardly behind, both painfully aware that their attempts at seduction had been thoroughly, hideously derailed.
Albus Dumbledore allowed himself a quiet, internal chuckle.
The world was a wonderfully, terribly strange place indeed.