King and Country [Harry Potter AU | Albus Dumbledore | Historical/Military]

[Darth-Vulturnus]

There were few things that could have made his situation worse, Albus Dumbledore thought as he turned down another narrow, soot-lined street in the heart of muggle London. Horse-drawn cabs jostled with omnibuses, and the stink of coal clung to everything: windowsills, jackets, skin. The city was loud like a wounded animal, lurching forward on noise and motion. Too large to die, too ugly to admire.

Albus hadn't expected to hate it so quickly. He had imagined, once, that he would be walking down streets in Cairo or Vienna by now. Not this.

His shoes were already scuffed. He'd wandered without direction for hours. The crowds pressed in from all sides, every window stuffed with promises—cigars, canned milk, bottled lightning, miracle soap. Somewhere in the distance, a brass band played something too cheerful. Somewhere closer, someone swore.

He turned again, ducking into a quieter lane where the buildings leaned together and the sky narrowed. The sounds receded enough to let his thoughts return.

"It wasn't enough," he muttered. "Of course it wasn't. First Father. Now Mother."

The words felt flat in the open air, like something rehearsed too many times.

Percival Dumbledore had been sentenced to Azkaban for attacking three muggle boys. The newspapers had never printed why. His mother, Kendra, had died just three weeks ago. An accident, the Healers had said. Ariana had been left behind with her grief and her strange, dangerous fits. Aberforth was fifteen and sullen and suspicious of everyone, most of all Albus. And he, fresh out of Hogwarts and covered in academic accolades, was expected to go home and act like a parent.

He was seventeen.

He stopped in front of a pawn shop and stared through the glass. A cracked violin sat alone among old watches and brass trinkets. The jagged seam down its body reminded him of something broken that had once been beautiful. His wand, tucked in the inner lining of his coat, felt unusually heavy.

Across the street, a bakery let out the scent of warm bread, and something in his stomach twisted. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. He had meant to leave the city today, perhaps catch a train north, maybe stop in Oxford for a few days to feel clever again. But the crowds, the sun and the noise had caught him like a net. Now the idea of traveling back to Godric's Hollow, to its silence and its ghosts, felt like a punishment.

He imagined, only half-seriously, that if he walked far enough he might find a way out of everything. That he might slip through some overlooked alley and simply vanish.

A rough shoulder shoved into him without warning. Albus stumbled sideways and hit a brick wall, jarring his arm from elbow to shoulder.

"Watch where you're going," the man snapped, already moving on.

Albus straightened slowly, pressing his fingers to the wall to steady himself. The anger flared in him sharp and sudden. His hand drifted to his wand.

One word. Just one, and the man would trip over his own shoes and land flat on his face. Or worse.

He didn't.

He let it go.

"Be more considerate, mate," someone said nearby. "You could've hurt the lad."

Albus turned. A tall man approached, offering a hand.

The man looked to be in his thirties. He had close-cropped hair, a sun-creased face, and a confident stance that didn't feel rehearsed. His coat was cut smartly, his boots scuffed from real use. His tone was more amused than angry.

"You alright?" the man asked.

Albus hesitated, then took the hand. The grip was strong.

"Yes. Thank you," he said.

"You looked a bit lost."

Albus blinked. That wasn't something people said to him. He didn't look lost. He didn't get lost.

"Do I?" he asked.

The man shrugged lightly. "I've spent enough time around new recruits and younger brothers to know the look. You've got purpose somewhere. Just not today."

Albus didn't reply.

"William Stanley," the man said easily. "How about I buy you dinner?"

"I'm alright," Albus said. "Truly."

"Didn't say you weren't. Said you looked like someone who needed a sit-down and something hot."

Albus studied him. The man had a calmness about him, a steady presence like an anchored ship. There was something appealing about it, about someone who didn't look at him like a disappointment or a problem to solve.

"Albus Dumbledore," he offered, a beat late. "And I suppose dinner wouldn't be the worst thing."

They walked a short distance in companionable silence. The streets became quieter, more residential. William seemed to know where he was going. A bicycle clattered by, its rider ringing the bell twice as if to punctuate the stillness. The sound faded quickly.

Albus glanced sideways. "Your uniform. Where's it from? I feel like I should know it."

William let out a warm, full laugh. "You must be from deep in the country if you don't recognize it. British Army."

Albus paused. "I've read about it, of course. But I've never seen one up close."

"It's not much to look at in the field," William said. "But it keeps the world in order."

That made Albus smile, faintly. "And is that your job? Keeping the world in order?"

William looked at him for a moment. "You'd be surprised how much of life is just that."

They entered a small corner pub with a meat pie smell thick enough to chew. The wood floors were warped and the paint peeling, but it felt lived in. William ordered without asking. They sat near the window, and within minutes two steaming plates arrived, each with thick slices of pie, peas, and mashed potatoes.

"You strike me," William said, "as someone on the edge of deciding something."

"That obvious?"

William didn't press. "Only familiar."

Albus didn't answer. He picked up his fork and pushed peas across the plate.

"I was going to travel," he said finally. "This summer. Across the continent. I had it all mapped out. Then my mother died."

William said nothing.

"My brother and sister…they're still young. Aberforth is still in school. There's no one else."

"You're seventeen?"

"Yes."

William nodded slowly. "And no trade. No income."

"No."

"And you don't want to go home."

"No."

William cut into his pie, chewed, and swallowed before speaking again.

"The army's not a bad life. You'd travel. You'd learn discipline. Earn a pension. And if you've got the right kind of mind, you'd rise fast. We take care of our own."

Albus looked up, wary.

"I'm not trying to sell you anything," William said. "I'm just offering a way forward. You've got the kind of face that's been told too many times how clever it is. That won't help you when it's just you and your siblings and no plan."

"I can't leave them."

"You already have," William said. "You're here."

That stung. But it wasn't wrong.

"There are systems," William went on, more gently now. "Support. Schooling. You'd be doing more good there than hiding at home, pretending to be someone you're not."

They ate the rest of the meal quietly.

Albus didn't decide then. Not fully. But the city felt different when they stepped back outside. Smaller, less threatening.

And for the first time all summer, the weight in his chest eased.

The decision had not yet been made, but something had shifted. And deep down, Albus knew it.

---

The light had shifted by the time they left the pub. The sun lower. The shadows softer. The clouds hung low and gold-edged above the rooftops, and a breeze curled through the side streets, kicking up scraps of paper and the day's dust. London was gentler in the fading light. The sharp edges dulled. The buildings leaned back slightly, less hunched, less hostile.

Albus walked with his hands in his coat pockets, shoulder to shoulder with William. He was still turning over what had been said. Not in the way of someone deciding, but someone already resigned to the direction the tide was pulling.

Because William was right. With no income lined up, all the Dumbledore's had left were the savings left from before their father was sentenced to Azkaban. They'd last longer now. Enough to see Aberforth through the rest of his Hogwarts years, probably. But not forever.

They rounded a corner and stepped into a livelier street, the lamps flickering to life one by one. A woman stood on a ladder, lighting them by hand, her motions practiced and almost rhythmic. It was a scene Albus had never seen before in person. There was something pleasing about the order of it.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

William looked amused. "Not far. You'll want to see it, I think."

They passed a row of brick buildings with blue-painted doors. A bobby tipped his helmet at them as they passed, and William returned the gesture casually. Albus noticed that people seemed to move out of William's way without realizing it. He occupied space differently—like someone used to authority, not forcing it but expecting it.

At the end of the street stood a long, low building with dark windows and a single wrought iron sign hanging above the door. Recruitment Office.

Albus stopped walking.

William slowed a step ahead of him. "Something wrong?"

"I didn't say I was joining," Albus said.

"No," William agreed. "You didn't."

They stood in silence for a moment.

Albus looked at the building. The windows reflected the sky, orange and silver. A boy younger than him came out just then, hat askew, clutching a paper and grinning like he'd just passed an exam.

"His parents won't be smiling like that," William muttered. "But he'll grow up fast."

Albus looked away.

"Come on," William said. "No one's drafting you. Just come see the inside. Hear what's said."

Albus followed him, slowly. His feet felt leaden, not with dread, but with the weight of something inevitable.

Inside, the office was warmer than he expected. Two men sat at a table near the back, one writing with an ink pen and the other folding papers into neat stacks. A poster on the wall behind them declared JOIN THE LINE. SERVE YOUR KING. DEFEND THE REALM. Below it, an illustration of a cheerful young man shaking hands with a general while distant figures drilled in neat formations.

The man with the pen looked up and smiled.

"Evening. Here to enlist?"

Albus hesitated.

"He's just here to learn," William said. "I'm vouching for him."

The man nodded. "Of course."

They were offered seats. The second man brought tea, and Albus sat politely, though he didn't touch the cup. William stood beside him, hands behind his back like a parade-ground officer.

"What do you want to know?" the recruiter asked.

Albus glanced at William, who gave him a slight nod.

"What's the process?" Albus asked. His voice sounded too formal in his own ears.

"Medical exam. Aptitude testing. You'd be placed based on your strengths. We don't waste clever lads peeling potatoes, not anymore. Do you read Latin?"

"Yes."

"German?"

"Yes."

"Figures. You look the sort."

Albus wasn't sure whether to be insulted.

"There are training camps across the country," the man continued. "Six months of basic, then you're placed with a regiment. Overseas posting most likely, unless you request home service."

"And if I have... other obligations?" Albus asked, deliberately vague.

"Dependents?" the man clarified.

"Two younger siblings."

"You'd qualify for a support stipend. Not lavish, but regular. And if you advanced… . Well, officer ranks bring better housing and better pay. Assuming you're officer material."

William, behind him, snorted softly.

"Tell me," the recruiter said, "what did you do before this?"

"I was in school."

"University?"

"No. Private boarding."

"Good marks?"

Albus smiled faintly. "The best."

The man seemed to recognize the weight behind the words. He folded his hands together.

"We don't always get men like you. But when we do, they tend to go far."

Albus didn't answer. His eyes were on the posters again.

Be the man your country needs.

He had thought his country needed his mind. Or his magic. Or his silence.

Instead, perhaps it needed something simpler.

"You don't have to decide tonight," William said softly.

Albus stood. His chair made a small scraping sound on the floor.

"Thank you," he said. "I think I understand enough."

Outside, the light had dipped into the last blue shadows of evening. The woman with the lamp had finished her rounds. Albus and William stood together beneath one of the streetlamps, its glow faintly golden on their faces.

"You wouldn't be the first to join because you didn't know what else to do," William said. "But you'd be one of the first I've seen who could rise straight to the top. You don't see the ladder yet, but it's there."

Albus tilted his head back, looking at the dim stars just barely visible beyond the fog.

"I don't want power," he said quietly.

"Power's not always a choice," William replied.

Albus turned to him. "Why are you helping me?"

William shrugged. "Because someone once did the same for me. Because you're bright. And because, quite frankly, I'd rather see men like you commanding battalions than staying buried in small towns, pretending your gifts don't exist."

Albus said nothing.

William smiled. "You don't have to commit now. But if you come back tomorrow morning, I'll be here."

They shook hands, and Albus stepped away. He didn't walk quickly. The city was quieting. The windows above flickered with lamp lights, and the air smelled of bread again, tinged now with coal smoke and chimney soot.

At the corner, he paused. There was a bench beneath a gaslight, and he sat for a moment, resting his arms on his knees.

A cat padded past. Somewhere nearby, someone whistled tunelessly.

And Albus Dumbledore—brilliant, angry, uncertain—closed his eyes and breathed in the fading night, thinking not of home or obligation but of the ladder he'd never meant to climb.

---

The following morning, the city had not softened. If anything, the streets were louder, the air heavier, as though overnight some unseen furnace had been lit beneath the cobblestones. Albus had slept little, rising early and sitting in a chair for a full hour as light trickled through the curtains of his rented room. He watched it move across the floor and tried to tell himself he had not already decided.

He arrived at the recruitment office just before it opened.

William Stanley was already there, coat unbuttoned, cradling a tin cup of tea like it might whisper secrets to him. He looked up when Albus appeared and gave a short nod.

"No need for dramatics," he said. "You're not signing a blood pact."

"I didn't bring a wand," Albus said. He wasn't sure why.

William grinned. "Good. Means you're not planning to hex the medical officer if he's rude."

Inside, the office was as they'd left it: wooden walls, dust in the corners, posters that tried too hard to be stirring. The same clerk sat behind the table, this time with his sleeves rolled up. A smell of chalk and ink hung faintly in the air.

"You're back," the clerk said. "What name have we got?"

"Albus Dumbledore."

The man nodded, dipping a pen into the inkwell. "Age?"

Albus hesitated.

"Eighteen," he said.

It came easily, almost rehearsed.

William said nothing.

The man continued, asking the usual questions: place of residence, occupation, names of dependents. Albus gave answers quickly, the truth wrapped in calm tones. He listed Aberforth and Ariana as his responsibility and nodded when told he would be eligible for a stipend.

Next came the physical. Albus was directed into a smaller adjoining room where a medical officer stood in his shirtsleeves beside a scale. The man was older, indifferent, and clearly bored.

"Height," he said.

Albus stood straight. The man measured him with a wooden rod.

"Just over five foot ten. That'll do."

He was instructed to remove his coat and shirt. His heartbeat was measured, breathing checked, teeth inspected. The man grunted approvingly.

"Any prior injuries? Lung trouble? Madness in the family?"

Albus kept his face still. "No."

The man nodded and scribbled a note. "You'll do."

He dressed in silence, rejoining William near the clerk's table.

"Bright boy like you," the clerk said, looking up from the form, "might do well to take the Sandhurst exam when the time comes. Or we can start you in for direct commission. You've the look of a lieutenant about you."

"Do I?" Albus said.

"Bookish and stubborn," the man said. "That's the type they give swords to."

William snorted.

"There's a short written test we give lads like you. Just to make sure you're not bluffing. Mind sitting?"

Albus took the sheet. There were a few arithmetic problems, a translated sentence in Latin, and a short composition prompt: Describe your reasons for wishing to serve the Empire.

He wrote: To gain structure. To be useful. To leave nothing to waste.

It was enough.

The rest moved quickly. A handshake. A signature. A stamped approval and a few more instructions about his expected posting date. Training would begin within a fortnight. He would be given rail fare and a list of items to bring. A uniform fitting was scheduled for the following week.

When they stepped out onto the street, the light was sharp and clear. The morning fog had burned off. The sky was flat white, the clouds like chalk dust spread too thin.

William was quiet for a while.

Finally, he clapped Albus lightly on the shoulder.

"You did the right thing."

"I didn't do it for the Empire," Albus replied.

"No one does. Not at first."

They stood on the corner, the street vibrating quietly beneath them with the sound of hooves and early bells. A woman sold newspapers from a wooden cart, her voice low but insistent. Somewhere nearby, a child was singing something repetitive and slightly out of key.

"You'll make a fine officer," William said. "Just don't tell anyone you lied about your age."

Albus raised an eyebrow. "You knew?"

"I recruited boys younger than you in India. The clever ones always say they're eighteen."

Albus smiled. Tired, but real.

"I'll see you again," William said. "Sooner than you think."

He tipped his hat, then disappeared down the street, his footsteps measured, precise.

Albus remained standing there for a while, hands in his coat pockets, watching the faces pass. He did not feel triumphant, nor resolved. Only weightless, like someone who had stepped off a ledge and realized too late that he wasn't sure whether there was a rope below.

---

The uniform fit surprisingly well.

Albus stood in front of the mirror in the corner of the small tailor's room, still half in disbelief. The coat was dark green, sharp-shouldered, the fabric stiff but not uncomfortable. The brass buttons gleamed in the late afternoon light. A pair of polished black boots stood to the side, waiting to be broken in. The tailor adjusted the collar with a practiced tug and stepped back to survey his work.

"You'll wear it fine, sir," he said. "Looks natural on you."

Albus said nothing.

He looked at his reflection and didn't quite recognize it. Not because it was strange, but because it wasn't. There was no sense of costume, no feeling of pretense. He looked like someone who belonged somewhere, to something larger than himself.

And that frightened him more than he expected.

They boxed the uniform carefully, along with the commission papers and travel voucher. Albus carried the package under one arm as he left the shop, walking alone now. William was already gone, called away to Portsmouth. He had left a note: Train leaves Sunday. Report on Monday. You'll do well.

Albus wandered again, but not like before. The city didn't press in on him today. It kept its distance, watching. He crossed a bridge over the Thames, stopping halfway to look out over the water. Barges drifted slowly beneath him. Smoke trailed from distant chimneys.

He thought of Aberforth. Of Ariana. Of the worn path between their house and the village. He imagined returning there, explaining himself, defending his choice. Or not explaining at all.

They would call it abandonment.

But he could also imagine the future: a steady income, letters home, perhaps even visits. A structure in which to contain his impossible grief. A plan.

He sat on the edge of the bridge's low wall, balancing the box on his knees. A boy stood nearby selling roasted chestnuts. A man played a violin for coins, the melody strange and fast, like something from the Balkans. Albus listened without really hearing.

In another world, he thought, he'd be in Paris by now.

He opened the box and looked down at the uniform again. There was something final about its folded lines. Not a costume. Not a disguise. A choice, made and pressed and stitched.

His eyes caught on the papers beneath it. The commission itself, signed and dated. A small notation in the corner: Second Lieutenant, Provisionally Assigned: Royal Fusiliers.

He touched the ink with the edge of one finger.

He had imagined glory once. Abstract brilliance, admiration earned through discovery, invention, dazzling speeches in great halls. But this was something smaller and more immediate. Rank. Orders. Purpose.

And it would do.

He stood and crossed the bridge.

The recruitment office had emptied by the time he returned. A single clerk remained behind the desk, reading a small novel with the cover folded back.

"I've already filed your papers, sir," the man said without looking up.

"I know. I just…" Albus hesitated. "I wanted to make sure it was done."

"It's done," the man replied. "Transport ticket's there in your folder. King's Cross, early train Sunday. Uniform's yours now. Congratulations."

Albus nodded. The man didn't look up again.

He left the office slowly, the boxed uniform under his arm. The street outside had begun to darken. Lamps flickered to life one by one, their warm glow collecting in the puddles left by an afternoon rain he hadn't noticed.

At the corner, he stopped.

He glanced over his shoulder once, at the door he had just exited, then looked ahead.

Two paths. Two versions of the man he might become.

In one universe, he would have gone home, found a boy with brilliant eyes and wild plans, and changed the world in a different way.

In this one, he turned right.

And didn't look back.

 

[icgmaesltrom]

This is a fascinating idea. Discipline and structure will define albus in a different way.

 

[Darth-Vulturnus]

Thanks to everyone who's read so far. Really appreciate the early reads and engagement. First chapters can be slow burns, so it means a lot when folks take the time.

This is a fascinating idea. Discipline and structure will define albus in a different way.

Click to shrink...

Exactly the core of it. The kind of control he develops, and how he views power, end up very different.

 

[Godfire]

Seems interesting. But why would a wizard entertain the struggles of being a Muggle? I've never watched or read HP. Just wondering .