⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟎𝟗 - 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐎𝐧

⋆

𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟭, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

Magic made for a gruesome death, if nothing else.

Her morning perusal of some sod's forgotten and tossed aside Daily Prophet – because Merlin knows she couldn't afford a subscription – meant that she was always caught up on the latest news from the front lines of the war, and if one morning in particular none of her house mates had deigned to leave their copies unattended – well, the incessant whispers bouncing around for the rest of that day would surely catch her up all right, though she might need to swallow up her defensive veneer and ask.

If she was lucky – which she usually wasn't – some muggleborn would get sent the morning edition of some muggle newspaper from their parents, and her morning reading would become twice as edifying – and harrowing, of course, because war. It did make for a nice show of grim solidarity, however; blood statuses and social conventions blurring away as students read over each other's shoulder to glean knowledge of the other war happening alongside their own.

The similarities only began once bodies dropped, though, as the art of war differed greatly between the worlds. The muggle newspapers would postulate about sunk submarines and downed airplanes, the fighting itself being too bloody and drawn out to be written about daily, they would speak of damage to property and machinery because that is more easily and swiftly quantifiable – and far more digestible – than human casualties.

Specific assaults were only mentioned when they started, and when they ended with barely any land gained and unfathomable loss. When things slowed down enough on the front lines, the daily blitz on southern Britain and its gut-wrenching results would grace the front pages once again. On those days, she'd become overrun with anxiety, left unaware about the fate of Jacques and wondering if she still had a place to stay in the summers.

And then another blasted thing would happen in the trenches and the newspapers would forget all about London being under constant fire. Destruction and ruin doubled and tripled quicker than the muggles could rebuild, people agonized in field infirmaries as they dropped faster than they could be resuscitated. Because in this world it was only one goddamned thing after the other.

Magic made for a gruesome death, and often nothing else.

Entire battles waged on brooms, miles above open oceans and with only the clouds to obscure you from your foes. Flashes of light in the skies that muggles would uneasily disregard as their own warfare; bodies dropping into the seas followed by scraps of debris was not an unfamiliar sight to either world.

On rarer occasions, they would write about tiny squadrons of the nearly extinct battle mages, bulldozing Europe's secret magical towns and villages to the ground in a matter of hours. Campaigns being waged entirely within ancient, massive manors and mansions and castles, so labyrinthine as they were. The continent's wizarding schools razed to the ground while trying to contain mass combat.

Magic meant your wounds didn't absolve you from fighting for too long and often not at all. It meant thatdestruction was all encompassing and yet easily mendable, it meant thatcasualties were swiftly counted and published daily. In the Magical world, the goddamned things overlapped.

Wix didn't fight over territory, after all, they fought over people and governments – land came later. And they didn't fight often, which meant that they had centuries to stew in their hatred for each other, passed down from one generation to the next right alongside their coffers.

And she would watch her classmates being called out of lessons, already crying because they knew why – everyone knew why. And she would watch them come back days later, sullen and oftentimes bearing a new signet ring – only the heirship if they were still at least somewhat fortunate, and the lordship if not – thrust into the position of family head at 17 and 14 and 11.

And if they were muggleborn, they often bore nothing but their sorrow – some would ask around on how to sign up for the Hogwarts Fund for The Less Fortunate, and even the richest and coldest of purists would try their best to answer them honestly, even opting to open their manors to them.

Because despite the various differences, neither war had winners.

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"-It is the mark of a great wizard or witch," he took a breath for dramatic effect – secure in the knowledge that the entire first row was hanging on to his every word, "to have walked into battle with your head held high and your wand aloft, certain-" another breath –

She hated his manner of speaking, fucking hell.

– "that it is a grander goal for which you are marching onwards into the unknown. Certain; in your trust that good eventually overcomes all." He smiled, a flaccid upturn of his lips that made his beard twitch, his eyes twinkled with something easily dismissed as conviction. –"for that is the way of the great design."

They were supposed to be learning about the theory behind transfiguring organic matter, a joint project with Herbology Professor Beery. Though, only poor Herbert seemed to be putting any actual effort into his lesson plans for the project, teaching them about the basic cells that made up most magical botanicals and notable oddities they should watch out for when attempting to rearrange a plant's atomical structure to their whims.

Dumbledore deemed it appropriate, however, to waste at least half of his weekly allotted lesson hours on playing war General with a bunch of teens, yapping away as though he genuinely expected them to become child soldiers.

It meant that they were falling behind in both Transfiguration and Herbology. And listen, it isn't as though Elizabeth enjoyed scrubbing the dirt out from under her fingernails following every lesson in the greenhouse, but she liked plants – plants helped her look less embalmed.

The entire school had gotten used to the drop in OWL and NEWT Transfiguration results once 1939 hit, there was even talk of Dippet fighting tooth and nail yearly to keep Dumbledore on staff as the Educational Board kept trying to oust him – but she doubted they remain standing idly by once other subjects began to be affected by his incompetence.

"-In truth, there is no glory in bloodshed or mindless, wretched violence such as that of which our kind is capable," – as though muggles are any less cruel – he still has the audacity to wink at his adoring crowd, -"but there is something to be said about fighting for your beliefs; alongside your friends and classmates. Fighting; with valor," a breath, "with courage; with the knowledge that if you do lay your body to rest on the battlefield-" a longer stop this time – aw, how emotional – "it would be for the greater good of all."

She rolls her eyes discreetly and finds herself sharing a commiserating look with Riddle, who appears just as irritated as she feels. His circle's seating choice forms a sphere around him like a fortress of green and are all in various stages of falling asleep – what a dereliction of duty. He sends her a smirk and she raises a brow at him before turning back towards their charlatan of a teacher who seems to perk up slightly.

"As we had covered in our last lesson" – we didn't cover shite – "Gump's Law insists on the impossibility of food conjuration due to..." the door to the class opens but he pays the Hufflepuff who enters no mind as his twinkling eyes scan the classroom, "yes! Longbottom!" the girl – Spray? Sprig? Sap? Sprout! – titters slightly, cheeks ruddy from likely running all the way here.

"Uh, Professor Dumbledore? Excuse me, sir?", she's Welsh, and nervous. He looks over at her though he wasn't just in the midst of lecturing and enquires to her presence with a "yes? My dear girl?", she deflates a bit, uneasy with everyone's attention on her so suddenly -"you need to come to the Headmaster's office, Minerva... She's... Her brothers."

And it's enough, because they're used to it.

He leaves the classroom with a grim expression after dismissing them, and no one dares to make a ruckus about a free hour.

Because war has no winners, and that day the headgirl becomes Lady McGonagall.

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A/n. is Dumbledore the 40s' Lockhart? perhaps.