Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy,

and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven,

where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. -- Matthew 6:19-21

A Pair of Kingdoms

September, 1913.

The first year students were not sure what to make of their Transfiguration professor. He was a young wizard, with auburn hair done up in a long, loose plait, the look completed by a matching goatee. Robed in emerald green and, rather mysteriously, fitted in the black boots that rebellious teenagers seemed to favor. Quite tall, he struck an imposing figure over the quivering students, although it was apparent that he was as new to teaching as they were to learning.

"Shall we take role?" He asked politely, unfurling a scroll between two elegant but gaudily adorned hands. The students shifted, nervously awaiting for their names to be called out. Instead they received a phrase of four dumbfounding words:

"Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak."

Confusion gelled the class together as the first years glanced at one another, and then fixed their searching gaze back onto the strange, young man. They were completely at a loss.

The professor blandly looked up at the children, eyebrows lifting well above his spectacles. "Am I to conclude that there is no nitwit, blubber, oddment, nor tweak in my classroom? Well," he tutted regretfully, "I will just have to find a way to remedy this situation."

The professor smiled, warm and apprehensive, at the students, and together they relaxed greatly. Looking pleased by this result, the wizard readjusted the scroll and cleared his throat. "Role, shall we then?"

"Excuse me, sir," a bolder student ventured after a hesitant hand raise, "but you haven't told us your name yet."

"Oh, forgive me. I'm afraid I am still green at this profession." The young man said, nearly blushing. "My name is," he took out his wand and autographed the air in front of him in large, looping motions. "Al-bus Per-ci-val Wolf-ric Bri-an Dum-ble-dore," the stated name lazed tangibly in the air, written in silver, twinkling letters, "but you, my students, may call me Professor Dumbledore."

June, 1899

Seventeen-year-old Albus Dumbledore did not know what to make of the new boy. He was a German, younger, or at least more youthful than the elderly teenage Albus. Wild blond hair, hazel eyes, and a wicked grin.

"Hello." He said, the accent unmistakable, offering his hand without hesitation. "You are Mr. Dumbledore, aren't you? I am Gellert, Gellert Grindelwald."

Albus shook his hand, more vigorously than he usually did when he greeted someone. Something about this Gellert Grindelwald inspired him to be adventuresome, or at least as adventuresome as Albus Dumbledore would allow himself to be.

"Pleasure to meet you, but please call me Albus."

Between them, Bathilda Bagshot smiled in approval.

A/N If you haven't noticed, I took some liberties with the dates. Dumbledore did not become a Hogwarts teacher until the 1940s, but that would make him fifty-nine-years-old, which is old (although considering how long wizards live, I guess anyone below the triple digits would be called young.) So, tah-dah! He is thirty-two here.

This is a short chapter-thing, so I'll be uploading another one in a few seconds, just because I don't like short chapter-things.

The quote is from the Bible, and I own nothing, the characters and the wizarding world both belong to J. K. Rowling, and I love her for it.

Reviews are appreciated, for they keep me warm at night (Criticisms too, for I love learning from my mistakes.) -- Remmy