Inevitable

by PhilosophyNerd

Summary:

Two past lovers, friends, allies... Some might say they're hiding from each other. But that is only part of the truth - both feel betrayed by the other, and lonely without him. Both are keeping more secrets than they care to admit.

After the Paris ralley, the Ministry of Magic allies with its French counterpart to force Albus Dumbledore into working for them. Using the suspicious deaths in his family, they create a false case against Aberforth that will be dropped under only one condition: Albus has to solve their Grindelwald problem.

A desperate Albus reaches out to Grindelwald. Once a naive, manipulated boy, he has learned to play the game. But was he as innocent, as he would like you to believe? Gellert Grindelwald has a few words to say about the matter...

Chapter 1: Introduction

 

....

.

 

So here:s what this story is...

This is maybe a crazy idea, but I have so many flashbacks/Material that don't fit into "The Greater Good, " So... Here we go. 

The basic premise is this: A man, beloved, but hypocritical, lives a modest life. He can't escape the thoughts of his first love. 

A dark wizard, driven by nothing but power and the desire to destroy his past lovers quaint, simple life. (If he can't have him, noone can.) 

Albus remembers the summer of 1899, every detail of it. But memories can be misleading. They're subject to manipulation. We remember things the way we want to... And his version of that summer does not line up with Aberforths, or Gellert's. 

The big red herring is the blood oath. Why was it taken, and can it be broken? And once the ministry forces Albus back into Gellert's orbit, will he still want to break it? Because they both know wgat will happen if it breaks - the inevitable. 

Perspectives: Dumbledore and Grindelwald (will not always Match up) 

Canon compliant-ish before Paris; Major canon-divergences: My Niffler failed; I'm letting Grindelwald keep the Blood Oath for now; I'm sending the ministry in to talk to Dumbledore AFTER Paris; and I have Travers threatening to prosecute the Dumbledore brothers to force Albus into cooperation. (Just because I always thought his demand was so dumb and empty - let's explore the fallout of sending Dumbledore after Grindelwald. What is the worst that could happen...?)

Chapter 2: Chapter 1 – Person of Interest

Notes:

This is a bit dark, I admit it - but yeah... Grindledore is definitely Dark Romance. Gellert's POV will be darker, I can promise you that!

Chapter 1 – Person of Interest

We will find you acting on your best behaviour
Turn your back on Mother Nature
Nothing ever lasts forever

They came in the middle of one of my classes. Expensive suits, magical shackles, abusive power. In their position, I might be the same. Who knows… There’s a reason I’ve never sought political power. The corrupting effect isn’t escaped by many, and I would be the least likely candidate to remain innocent. I’ve never been.

“This lesson is over,” Torquil Travers announced, expecting to clear the room with such a statement. He’d never been around children.

The students looked at me, rather than him. He was an intruder, a foreign object in the body of this school. And they’d learned that one shouldn’t trust strangers, regardless of their station.

“It’s alright,” I assured them, smiling to myself. I didn’t mind talking to Travers or any of his colleagues, but interrupting lessons seemed petulant, even for him. What could possibly be so important?

Travers built himself up to his full height. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was standing on tip-toes. He’d always been pathetically insecure around me, even at school. “I have some questions for you, Professor.” Professor. We’d been in Charms class together. He’d borrowed my watering can in Herbology. Professor.

“This is a surprise,” I lied. It seemed like the polite thing to say. And I had been expecting one or more of them, eventually.

“There's a rumor that Newt Scamander spent time in Paris, despite his travel restrictions. I know he's working under your orders. What do you have to say for yourself, Dumbledore?” Insecure, despite his office, despite his money and influence.

“If you'd ever had the pleasure to teach him... you'd know Newt is not a great follower of orders,” I said. Behind Travers, Newt’s brother Theseus was fighting a smile. The younger Aurors exchanged glances. They didn’t respect Travers, and it showed. The nepotism that had gotten him this position had its limits.

He took of his gloves, looking over his shoulder. The door remained closed. He’d stationed an Auror in front of it, so no little ears could be pressed to the wood. His need to control the situation was quite amusing, really. “There’s rumours of another Grindelwald rally in Paris. They’re saying he’s on his way as we speak. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“Isn’t that your job?” I lifted both hands, playing clueless. “I’m just a teacher, Torquil. I grade homework, assign detention – I don’t trace dark wizards intercontinental travel.”

“So you know he’s been to other continents?” he mused, pointing one particularly well manicured finger at me.

“Yes. I have newspaper subscriptions. They come free with the sweater wests and reading glasses.”

“You don’t have reading glasses,” he protested. As if that mattered.

“Don’t I, though?”

He sighed. “We wanted to make this easy for you, Dumbledore. We really did. so I will be direct – and this is my last friendly request…” Both hands in his pockets, he stood before me. “The ministry requires your help. Now, it pains me to say it, because-well, I don't like you-“ (Quelle surprise!) “but, you are the only wizard who is his equal. I need you to fight him.”

“Grindelwald?” I had to fight not to laugh. It was bizarre – here I was, in a classroom, an underpaid, simple teacher. Who was he to request that I’d go and fight an international criminal, a warlord, for lack of a better word? “I can't. I have afternoon classes.”

“I didn’t want to do this…” He reached into his pocket, unrolling several pieces of parchment. “But we’ll have to call bullshit on the meek professor act. We have a paper trail that leads back decades, connecting you to Gellert Grindelwald. According to some sources, you and him were as close as brothers.”

“Oh, we were closer than brothers.” Let him trip over his words. Let him feel the discomfort. He was the one pushing for it.

“Right. Our records show that you have kept an eye on his activities for quite some time – you never felt the need to intervene, though. And here is where the opinions of our legal experts differ.” He put the parchment down, unrolled another. “Some state that you might have an aversion, a fear of him. They suspect that he has harmed your family in the past. There are signs. Not a lot of survivors named Dumbledore. The parents, the sister… it all seems unfortunate. Maybe a touch suspicious.”

This is when he had me, though I would’ve swallowed poison before I let him see that. My heart was beating hard and fast, blood rushing in my ears. Suspicious. They wouldn’t…

“Others see a more concerning possibility. Our interviews with residents of your hometown reveal quite the connection. One might think maybe you’re biding your time. Maybe you’re waiting how things turn out, before you declare your loyalties.” He paused, unrolling more parchment. “You’ve supported him before, haven’t you?”

He couldn’t prove anything. One glance at Theseus, one warning headshake on his part, and I didn’t respond. They had something on me.

“Blood magic leaves its traces, did you know that, Professor? A pact like that…” He scribbled something onto one of the rolls and handed it to an underling, who left the room quickly. “It is a blood pact you have with him, is it not? Nothing an innocent man would do, I think.”

“I never said I was innocent,” was all I could respond. The message was what worried me. Was he calling the press, back-up, my superior? Dippet would never fire me. And even if he did, I’d easily find something else. But I liked it here. It was safe, easy. Comfortable. I had a job I liked, friends who almost knew me. I was doing something important, something good, even if he couldn’t see that.

“No, I don’t think you are. You’re just a suspect for the moment. Or person of interest, we should say,” he quickly corrected himself. “We’re not organizing a trial at the present. Neither against you, nor your brother.”

“Aberforth?” This really was a bizarre Tuesday. “What – he hasn’t done anything…”

“That is yet to be determined, though your choice of words is interesting,” he remarked. “We’ve decided to take another look into the so-called accidental deaths of Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore. Now you have an alibi for one of these potential homicides-“

There was a dark pressure around my ribs, constricting me, keeping me from breathing freely. A noose around my neck, invisible. I didn’t, couldn’t, react. Reacting is a bad thing when it comes to nooses.

“- but your brother doesn’t. he was either on his way home, or in the house when your mother died, is that correct?”

Theseus had taken to admiring the floor. He couldn’t face me. Understandable.

“Aberforth would’ve never hurt either of them!”

“Would you?” 

Maybe. Yes. “No.”

“There are more troubling allegations when it comes to your sister. Our sources list her as a possible Obscurial. Now, after Paragraph 17a of dangerous household affliction, no wizarding household may harbour or hide an Obscurial. The penalties double, when Muggles live in the vicinity. And while we can hardly charge your mother with public endangerment… You became the head of the family legally when she passed, did you not? That can’t have been easy. Enough to trigger a lot of conflict in such a young and wounded family… And your bother is no stranger to violating the law. All those duels he had at school… A reputation for unnatural afflictions – both of you…”

He sighed, and put down the parchment. “And then there’s a very different story we could tell the world: One in which you were children, doing as your parents told you. Kendra hid an Obscurial, imprisoned her, despite reason, despite the danger to her other children and it backfired. You were unsure what to do in your grief and one day, you opened the door to the wrong person. A serial killer, who took advantage of the kindness of strangers. He left many bodies behind, didn’t he? He fled the scene of the crime, and despite the fact that none of you reported him – very incriminating, by the way – he seems the most likely culprit. Wouldn’t you like that to be your family’s story?”

I didn’t dare to nod. I had to tread very carefully here. “What exactly is it you’re asking of me?”

“Your assistance, of course. A full confession on all things you know about Grindelwald, for starters. And then you will help us. The blood oath we’ll find a common solution for. You’d have the Auror offices of three countries and counting at your back and call.”

“And after I answer your questions? What happens then?”

“We’ll take it from there,” he evaded the question. “First, we need more information. You’ll have to take a sabbatical, if our work load becomes greater. I’m assuming it will. Theseus will assist you. He’ll be your contact person, should you…”

I interrupted him. There were more pressing matters than him playing with my life. “I want immunity. For myself and Aberforth. Past and future accusations. Anything related to Grindelwald.”

He smiled. “Done. So… are you ready to talk?”

“I want it in writing first.”

I wouldn’t trust those bastards for a second. I’d learned a long time ago, not to trust. And I’d had decades of reminders of why I shouldn’t. trust is a very dangerous commodity. It shouldn’t be handed to the power-hungry.

*

 They brought the papers to Aberforth’s pub. He didn’t want to sign, at first. Wanted to curse them out of his house. I forced him to, threatened him. Broke his wand. Theseus had left me a secret warning that they might use Priori Incantatem, should they find any reason to incriminate us further. It wasn’t myself I worried for. I could take them. He’d be taken. And I couldn’t have another member of my family dying in the godforsaken prison.

“So, tell us…” They’d brought more officials. Magical law enforcement. Sat around a dirty old table in a back room of Hogsmeade’s more notorious pub. “What can you tell us of Gellert Grindelwald?”

The questions were directed at myself only. They’d barred Aberforth from the room. Maybe it was better that way.

“He attacked my brother in late August of 1899 with an Unforgivable Curse. We tried to defend ourselves. He then killed my sister and fled.” It was a brazen lie, but they’d have to prove it first. “He’d befriended me that same summer, claiming to have been expelled from Durmstrang for magical experimentation. I was unaware that he had attacked people before. He painted himself as a victim and I believed him.”

“And your relationship…” One of the ministry officials bent forward. The bald spot on his little round head shone in the candle light. “Was it intellectual? Amicable? Transactional?”

“Yes.” I have immunity. I have immunity. I have immunity…

“Would you describe it as… pardon me, romantic? Sexual, perhaps?”

“Yes.” I didn’t care anymore. if they wanted to paint me as some depraved creature, they might as well do it right.

“You’re not being very decisive here, Professor,” he said, patting his bald spot with a handkerchief. “You sound confused… Would you characterize it as voluntary?”

“That’s hard to say. I didn’t know him very well, you see.” It was a lie and the honest truth in one. The Gellert I’d known was vivacious, brilliant, joyful, even gentle. He was dark, and I looked away – no, I looked closer. I recoiled. I participated.

“About eight weeks, according to our documents. That’s not a long time.” I nodded. “Certainly not a long enough time to make any magical commitments. What on earth possessed you to do that?”

“Love, naivety, arrogance. Pick your poison.” I was tired. Tired of all of them. But I had to feed their agenda, or Aberforth might face the consequences. One interview, they’d told me, and he was off the hook. I was another story…

“When you say not voluntary –“ another wizard started. His bulging moustache shook as he spoke.

“I said I’m not sure. It depends what we’re talking about.” Not voluntary. It sounded so sinister, when you put it like that.

“Right. Now, you stated that he used an Unforgivable Curse on your brother. The Cruciatus Curse, I take it?” I nodded, and my mouth was dry. Somehow, drinking something felt wrong now. I might say, do the wrong thing. Show my cards. “Did he ever use on against you?”

“Once.” I almost had to smile at the memory. Which was strange. I was strange these days. But I remembered my excitement, the thrill of the forbidden, remembered wanting him to like me so desperately… “He used the Imperius Curse on me. I consented.”

“Legally, that does not matter,” the legal scribe commented in the corner. I knew.

“Did he ever do anything without your consent?”

“Yes.” He didn’t need it. I said yes to everything, then, too.

My questioner leant in closer. “And how did you react, when that happened?”

“I let him.” It felt like a strange admission. All the times I hadn’t spoken up, had smiled, and then smiled some more, so he’d stay. Look at me. Love me. Desperate. He’d liked me smile. Most people did.

“So when he did things against your consent –“

“Not against. Without.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to play semantics. Was I defending him? Was I incriminating myself further, for the boy who had destroyed my life? “It wasn’t like that.”

“And are we talking magical experimentation here or – private activities?” He seemed more careful now, as if he might offend me, tread on something gentle. Maybe he remembered how young I’d been.

“A little of both.” I remembered a locked door. He wouldn’t let me open it. Remembered asking him to stop, but I hadn’t meant it, so it didn’t count, did it? If you want things to stop one day, but not the next, what does it matter, years later?

“I understand.” He didn’t. I wasn’t explaining myself well. “But the oath was voluntary?” I nodded. “You’ve cited your reasons for taking part in it as emotional. What do you think he wanted to achieve? It was his idea, was it nod.” He took my hand, when I hesitated. It was unexpected, and gentle, in this whole ordeal. “Look, Albus – may I call you Albus? We were all young once. And this is a very dangerous individual you were dealing with. We’re just trying to understand as much as possible. In the end, don’t we all want the same thing? To free you from your predicament.”

I yearned for it, and I didn’t. I’d learnt not to. When I thought about a way out for too long, I could see the veins in my arm bulging, could see them run red, feel my heart race. My head swim. It usually ended with a scar here and there, a nosebleed, maybe. My body wouldn’t let me think of vengeance. Maybe it was the magic, maybe it remembered his too well. Maybe both.

“He spoke of a vision,” I said, slowly. Divination had never been my forte. It was hard to put into words as beautifully as he had. “Of our future together, after the revolution. He also mentioned – he was certain I’d be there when he would die. It was a recurring dream of his. He talked about my eyes with such fervour… And he described looking at them and then – He wasn’t precise about that matter.” I averted my eyes. The room had become small and hot, all of a sudden, as I remembered. How romantic it had all sounded, how obsessed I’d been, hearing those words, craving them, craving him…

“He thought you might kill him. He wanted you pacified, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” If only it were that simple.

“So – Albus – let him rest for a minute.” Theseus hand was on my shoulder. “Do you need a glass of water?”

I shook my head. It was better to get this over with.

“Our main objective will be to lift the blood oath in some way, so you’ll be free to act. We need a full written statement of every detail you remember about that day.” Not every detail, surely. “But the sure-fire way to end this would be to get Grindelwald to agree to it. If you both were on the same page, just in this matter, it might make things easier. He’s the one wearing the physical manifestation of it, so he will be more vulnerable.” Not likely. “If you could find a way to remind him that he… well, he might want to hurt you – if it hurts him, he will want to get rid of it. Maybe we can manipulate him into doing our work for us.”

He was playing with fire. He would burn, and he didn’t even know it.

I nodded, pondering about the ever-present question: Did it affect him? Did he have moments of murderous rage, when he thought about me? Did we share this pain, or was it just me? And if he wasn’t afflicted – was it because he was cold towards me? Did he see me as a tool, still?

“We have some ideas where to start,” Travers started. He’d stayed in the background of this discussion – no doubt at the advice of his co-workers. our animosity wasn’t productive. In truth, I didn’t dislike Travers. I just thought him mediocre and irrelevant. He was a noisy bug flying around my head, while my thoughts tormented me.

“Aberforth. I want to see the papers. I want proof of immunity.”

They waved towards an assistant, and brought in the documents for me to inspect. It all seemed in order. Signed, sealed. I could breathe again, at least a bit.

“Now, as I was saying – step one is to figure out how to establish contact-“ Travers started again.

“That won’t be necessary,” I told them, placing a neat stack of letters on the table. “He’s already done that. He likes to play with temptation. These are… well, for lack of a better word, he wanted to keep the door a crack open throughout the years.”

“To recruit you?” Theseus picked up one of the letters. One of seven.

“I’m not certain. But there’s one way to find out.”

Chapter 3: Chapter 2 - Remember Me

Notes:

References:

Poem:
Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare (Because I'm a nerd, big surprise!)

Literary reference:
Thus spoke Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche (Highly recommended read. I love Nietzsche's works. Now, I don't know if they translate well. He is one of the most masterful users of the German language. It could be tricky to mediate that, I guess. But it's a beautiful text, as are most of his books.)

The letter:
If you're a fan of the Harry Potter books, it might remind you of the Deathly Hallows letter in style. That is on purpose, of course.

Don't ask me why that song is there, I don't have a good answer for you. It's just unhinged enough to fit this story. (I always add the song that inspired the chapter the most.)

Chapter 2 – Remember Me

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never wrote, nor no man ever loved.

The first letter had arrived five years after he disappeared in the night. It was unassuming, talked of the winter solstice in Russia, the mountains he wandered. It described the beauty of nature in a way only he could. He despised poetry, yet was a poet at heart.

I see eternal ice. I see the darkness beneath. You should see the darkness – it’s magnificent.

I’d like to say that I burnt any of them, or even came close to it. I didn’t. my heart racing, my eyes glued to every last line, I drank in his words like a liquid drug, like poison. And I hid them, told no one about them. We’d always been a secret, why should this be any different? Whenever a new one arrived I thought it would be different, this time. It wasn’t. Albus Dumbledore, the blushing school boy, and Albus Dumbledore, the alchemist, were one and the same. When the third letter arrived, I was a teacher. Caring for children, shaping young minds. And I reverted back to my boyish fever with the first word, the first line.

This isn’t who you are supposed to be. Carry that knowledge with you, as you walk those fabled halls. You’re retreating, regressing. You’re making yourself small. You will be surrounded by people of limited minds, people that can never grasp the power you could have.

He seemed to resent my choices. Why, I wasn’t sure. One of the implications was that he considered it a waste of my gifts. An affront to nature, as he repeatedly wrote.

A big fish in a small pond. Does it make you feel safe? The oceans are waiting for you. The world is waiting for you, to drown in who you truly are. Who we truly are. Can’t you hear it?

The letters became more political in nature after that, and he started berating me for my abandonment of our plans. It seemed, Ariana was a non-factor to him. Whether he believed she should be nothing to me as well remained unclear. But the message remained the same. You should see this – it is magnificent, Albus… The water hot springs are smoking all year, you would love them… I met a wonderful stranger today and I thought of you… You’re not here… not here… not here… He was taunting me with my abandoned travel plans.

“Did you never travel, after that?” Theseus wondered, as he scanned the letters for signs of evil. There were none. Just… him.

“I tried, over the summers. It didn’t work out the way I imagined.” I didn’t explain. How could I? The paranoia. The memory of the first time, a fleeting lover bent over me and whispered a line he’d been fed. There was the man in Alexandria, who left the Hallows symbol on my steamed up bathroom mirror. The stranger in Paris, who spent weeks by my side, only to show me a necklace he wore, once he took off his shirt. The library he had, that wasn’t truly his, filled with books that reminded me of who I’d been, once. The stranger in Athens, who shaved at the end of a wonderful summer, only to reveal a scar someone had carved into his skin.

I stopped seeking out romantic attention, eventually. I accepted that travelling in the summer made me predictable. That I, apparently, had a type. I’d become so transparent to a shadow of my past, that it was child’s play to send me into a stranger’s arms.

“That’s beyond obsessive,” Theseus commented, though he seemed more fascinated than appalled. “How much time do you think he invested in that?”

“I don’t know.” Gellert had always been good with the Imperius Curse. Feeding a stranger information about me, controlling him from afar wasn’t a challenge for him. The real mystery, the horror behind it all, was how he anticipated my travel plans.

“Maybe he didn’t,” Theseus said. “I know you have this Machiavellian image of him – and he is that – but did you ever think he just had someone follow you at the beginning of your trips, then sent in his next victim? It can’t be that hard to make a receptionist forget who really booked a hotel room and who didn’t. You stayed around a lot of secluded places, didn’t you? With lots of Muggles?”

I did. It felt safe at the time. Escapism. How foolish I’d been.

“See, I assumed he waited for my first letters to my friends and intercepted one of them. I didn’t always get responses. But if felt strange to ask.”

“Also possible.” He played around with one of my quills, tracing the engraving on it. “Did he ever sent you any gifts? Other than during your holidays, I mean.”

“Very funny.” Not to my knowledge, no. Though I would now start looking at everything I ever received with different eyes. It didn’t matter who handed me something, who spoke to me. It always might be part of him. When I wasn’t given signs, I made them up in my mind. When I didn’t see the Hallows, I kept looking for them. Kept searching, inspecting, controlling my lovers, until they recoiled. Retreated. Even if he didn’t interfere in my life as much as I thought – he’d gotten into my head, thus ensuring that I couldn’t be without him. Couldn’t move on. Be happy.

“You have to start that letter sometime,” Theseus said. “I’ll give you some privacy. Contact me, when you have a first draft.”

I couldn’t sleep that night. To tire myself out, I started patrolling the hallways. The castle was so peaceful at night – I felt reminded of the many nights I’d snuck into the library as a boy. I’d taught myself an invisibility charm, just for this purpose. I remembered Gellert laughing, when I confessed my youthful sins. Or what I thought were sins, then.

“You’re adorable. You think that’s bad?”

“Oh, be quiet!” I was blushing – I didn’t know why I’d thought it would impress him.

“Who sneaks out at night for books?” He couldn’t stop laughing, and my face had gone bright red.

“Well, I wanted to get into the Restricted Section!” I insisted. After a while, I had to join in. he was right. It was ridiculous.

“Well… what did you read?” he asked, when he’d finally calmed down. The smile on his face was wide, and magnificent. I didn’t know whether he was this beautiful, or whether it was all in my head. It almost hurt to look at him, sometimes. “What was so titillating, a good boy would violate curfew for it?”

I started writing after midnight. I don’t know, why, but I chose my simplest quill. The cheapest ink. It felt wrong, to invest in him. I’d already invested enough.

 

    Gellert –

I’m certain you must be surprised, hearing from me after all these years. In truth, I thought about picking up a quill and writing to you many times. I never did.

Maybe we’re both better off for it. I know you’re following your path, whether I might agree with it or not. There are certain liberties in being apart from each other, as you probably would agree.

I read a book the other day, and I had to think of you. A wanderer, from a faraway land, arriving in the dead of night...

The story goes as follows – a man descends from a mountain. He finds believers in the valley, and laughs at their faith, for he is cleverer than them. He tells them that mankind's goal must be to create something superior to itself – all men, he says, must be prepared to will their own destruction in order to further their own evolution. His audience is of torn on the wisdom, and offense, of his words. While he speaks, another man walks a tight rope. He falls to his death. The stranger takes the corpse of the rope-dancer on his shoulders, carries it into the forest, and lays it in a hollow tree. He decides that from this point on, he will no longer attempt to speak to the masses, but only to a few chosen disciples.

Sometimes I wonder, if we’ve all become like that. We stay in safe quarters, only speaking to those who agree with us. Avoid the difficult conversations. We evade uncomfortable truths, to soothe our egos, our perceived morality. Evade ourselves, or who we might be, if we stopped hiding in our comfort.

You once spoke about the Great War. The implications it brings for us. The dangers of a repetition, of progress for the sake of progress. I know you don’t think of me as someone who goes to your rallies, and you would be correct in that assumption. But I do read about you, from time to time. You’re hard to miss these days. I suppose you were right in your assumptions about the fame that was in your future.

Many years ago, you held a knife to my palm. You said we had to be united, for the consequences would be to grave, if we weren’t. From a philosophical point of view, does that not imply that we are the danger – not you, or me, individually, but us? To each other, to the world at large.

They say you carry me with you wherever you go. You could hide the phial, bury it in the deepest mountains, but you don’t. To taunt, provoke me? To play fate? Is it a tight-rope you’ve created for yourself – and is it one you enjoy walking on? They say the greatest men tempt death the most, because part of them yearns to meet him – the next great adventure, so to speak.

We should talk about it, sometime. Maybe the time has come to leave safe quarters behind.

Albus

 

I didn’t know how to sign the letter. Best wishes? Too impersonal. A touch sarcastic. Sincerely yours? That one hit too close to home. Faithfully. He’d always used that one. There were no good options, so simple stopped writing, signed my name.

I could’ve presented the letter to Theseus, but I was tired, and strangely agitated. Gellert did that to me. Everything he said, everything he was – it was unsettling. Maybe because of who he was. Or who I was, when I was near him. The eternal question – was it because of him, or did he just reveal me, at my core – was about to be answered. And I couldn’t discuss it with Theseus. He wouldn’t understand. Good people never do.

The strange truth was, I did want to talk to him, sometimes. For all the patience in the world couldn’t save me from the need to be understood, without slowing down. Without simplifying things, explaining, explaining, explaining. Without rhyme or reason, without self-censorship, to avoid confusion, shock, alienation. I did miss our conversations for that.

*

The Editor of Transfiguration Daily sent me flowers that week. He had his assistant Iris Finnegan deliver them in person.

“You shouldn’t have,” I said.

Behind us, some students spied on myself and the pretty young woman handing me flowers. I could tell what must be going on in their minds. They couldn’t have been more wrong. But explaining felt wrong as well, inappropriate. Inviting questions.

“I know it’s not the most usual gift for a fella,” Iris said, shrugging. “He suggested a book, but I walked past this little flower shop next to the office and thought… It’s more personal, you know.” This was only part of the truth. She was blushing, as she lied to me. I’d known her for years. She’d always been a bad liar.

“What is his name?”

She blushed harder. “Oh, shut up.” She walked into the courtyard, then lowered her voice. “Alright, I’ll tell you, you nosey old git.” We sat on one of the benches. The flowers were glorious in the sunlight. “I saw him through the shop window. I thought I’d seen him somewhere before, ya know, so I walked in. say hello. But it was a complete stranger, and without a wedding band and everything! His mother just died. He said… well, it’s cheesy…”

I could hardly stop smiling. Her stories were always wildly chaotic and endearing. “Tell me.”

“William – that’s his name – said my beauty distracted him from his grief. And then William and I got to talking – I said I was picking out a gift for a friend – a work friend, I said, because he seemed a bit jealous for a minute there-“

“Naturally,” I said. It was sweet of her to assume I’d be offended she’d downgraded me to “work friend.”

“But then he helped me pick these out. Aren’t they just so perfect?” She beamed.

They truly were. I couldn’t remember when I’d ever seen an assortment of flowers so beautiful. Every rose was a deeper, darker shade than the next. The Dahlias, lush and full, reminded me of those I’d had in my childhood garden. And it was bound in ivy – an elegant touch. I hadn’t been aware Iris knew me that well.

When I walked back to my office after she was gone, a voice called out for me.

“Excuse me, Sir?” It was a little girl. Bright green eyes, Ravenclaw robes, a butterfly pin in her hair. I’d taught her for two years, and she’d never taken that pin out, not once.

“Yes, Eva?”

“You dropped this. It was in your flowers.” She handed me a small card. It was white, with crisp, golden edges. And it was empty.

“Thank you. Would you like to pick a flower as a reward?”

She nodded, and bent over the bouquet. Her finger bled, when they closed around the stem of a particularly dark red rose. Her blood and the petals were of the exact same shade.

“I’m so sorry, Eva. Here, give me your hand.” I healed the cut, and took of the thorns, before I sent her on her way. She left happily. There was still a trace of blood on her brisk white sleeve.

I took the flowers to my office, arranged them on the window sill. They really were beautiful. It wasn’t until the later evening, that I noticed the little card. I’d put it on my desk, and forgotten about it. When I picked it up to throw it away, it wasn’t empty anymore.

My heart started racing. I would’ve recognized that handwriting anywhere.

It was good to hear from you.

 

Notes:

The next chapter will have a meeting of sorts in it. I'm working towards Grindelwald's POV, too.

Chapter 4: Chapter 3 – A Murder in Godric’s Hollow

Notes:

Did you ever have that fight - that moment when someone says "That's not how it happened?" Let's have a look at that. Let's revisit the night Ariana died.

 

 

 

Chapter 3 – A Murder in Godric’s Hollow

I broke down in horror at you standing there
I looked in the mirror but something was wrong
I saw you behind but my reflection was gone
You've got blood on your hands and I know it's mine  

“You may not know this…” Travers started.

“It’s a Pensieve,” I said. Hogwarts had one, for the headmasters. They weren’t the most unknown magical artefact out there; it seemed silly to assume I had never seen any.

He sighed, annoyed with me, as always. “Well, don’t you know everything?”

“Not everything.”

He put his hands on his hips. For a moment there, he reminded me of my old house-teacher, scolding me for setting half the dormitory on fire (It was just one curtain, really). “You were supposed to show Theseus the letter. He said you already got a response.” I nodded. “Can I read it?”

I handed him the small card, and he looked at it, puzzled. “That’s all?”

“It seems so.”

“Those are pretty flowers,” Theseus commented, to ease the tension. He was always trying to play peace maker these days.

“They are. Unwilting,” I said off-handedly. It seemed strange, presenting the flowers. Vulnerable. “I threw them away twice. They returned to my within an hour. I’ve set them on fire, frozen them, transfigured them into a variety of objects… Nothing. They get more beautiful, too. And they grow more thorns. Even the Dahlias.” That part was just petty. Typical, though. Even the single flower I’d given Eva had returned to the bouquet, although I hadn’t noticed, until I had to break up a fight between her and a friend, whom she accused of stealing it.

“He sent these?” Travers looked impressed. The head of Magical Law Enforcement was impressed by a serial killer.

“Damn, you have to write me a letter sometime,” Theseus said, grinning a little too broadly.

“Careful now.”

He looked shifty, while Travers took to inspecting the flowers. I had no idea what he was looking for. But he was often looking for useless things in the wrong places, so I let him be.

“What did you write about?” Theseus asked eagerly, an open notebook in his lap.

“A little of this, a little of that.”

“Answer the question,” Travers demanded.

I procured copies of the letter with a simple charm, and handed them out. It was easier than to explain. They read, and their expressions were blank, their eyes dull. They didn’t understand. It was hard to explain. I remembered the times I didn’t have to explain myself. It was just so – easy. Natural. If I could just be like that, without enticing serial killers – just for a few hours, just once…

“This is beyond cryptic,” Travers complained.

“It’s… well worded,” Theseus commented, but he was frowning, too. “Is there some kind of code in there? I feel like I’m missing something.”

I sighed. The letter was self-explanatory, really. “It’s philosophy. It’s literature. Word play. I had to write a letter that would provoke a response, not one that is understandable for the layman.”

“Hey!” Theseus said. He was the only one who even noticed.

“You knew this… would speak to him,” Travers said slowly. “Twenty-eight years later, and you knew how to get his attention within a week? You’re claiming you haven’t been in contact since.”

“I said I haven’t made contact,” I corrected him. “I showed you his letters, remember?”

“And it’s been less than a week,” Theseus observed. “I left here eight days ago, before your letter. The flowers arrived a few days ago, right?”

“And you didn’t think to inform us,” Travers complained.

“Three days ago. He had them delivered by someone working for Transfiguration Weekly, claiming it was a gift for a series I’d written for them. Iris Finnegan.”

“And this person – how do we know she’s not working for him?” Travers inquired.

“She isn’t. She was compelled into a flower shop in Dublin three days ago, met a man who called himself William, let him hand her the flowers and came here. I met her last evening. She still thinks he’s going to pick her up for dinner on the weekend.”

“Wait, he did this in person?” Theseus turned from the flowers, a couple of loose petals in his hands. “Are you trying to tell me, Gellert Grindelwald was in Dublin this week, hanging out in a…. flower shop. In person. In broad daylight.”

“Wearing another face, but yes,” I confirmed. “You seem surprised. There’s no reason for him to hide. He’s been officially absolved of all crimes, hasn’t he?”

“Officially, yes. France still wants retribution, and so do we.”

One glance at Theseus revealed that this was a sensitive topic.

“So, let’s get to it. We need as many memories of his as possible. We’ve added those of other victims and law enforcement to the Pensieve already. It’s a gift from the French Minister for Magic, a gesture of good will for your contribution, so it will of course remain here. But we do need those memories.”

“A gift with stipulations, then.”

“That it is.” He pulled a roll of parchment out of his pocket. “And will you talk to your brother? We wanted to collect his memories with an official warrant, and he slammed the door in our face.”

“Of course he did.” I was surprised, he hadn’t cursed them.

“We’ll need the night of the second murder, of course,” he said, business-like, and I could feel my stomach turning to ice. “As many details as possible. Whenever you’re ready.”

“You have immunity, Albus,” said Theseus, when I didn’t move. “I know this is difficult, I just had to give my memories of the night Leta died. But this is important. We need to build a complete criminal profile of Grindelwald. He needs to be studied in any way possible, so he can be taken down.”

I extracted the memory for them. What choice did I have? If Aberforth had already started defying them, it was the least I could do to get them off of his back. If they got the memory from me, they wouldn’t bother him. Hopefully.

“Let’s have a look, shall we,” Travers said. “After you, gentlemen.”

A starry sky, a cramped little attic bedroom. The books in here were piled on the floor, the little desk, the window sill. Some lay open on the bed, and nightstand. Every surface of wall was covered with medals, colourful tournament bows, certificates bearing my name. The shelves were filled with a garish amount of golden and silver trophies. Only one space had been cleared for a self-made poster of parchment and charcoal. It showed a symbol – a triangle, circle and line, laid over each other.

Travers passed by the teenager sitting at his desk, writing furiously into one of the many leather-bound notebooks in front of him. “I take it you liked fairy tales as a boy?”

“I believed in way too many of them.” I felt the dread. Dread, for what was to come. For who I had been, who I would be, in front of his very eyes. “But this is not my drawing, this was never here… Memories can be tricky that way.”

“That’s the Deathly Hallows, isn’t it?” Theseus said. “From the Tale of Three Brothers. He’s using it as his symbol now. Are you sure this wasn’t here?”

“No.” I wasn’t sure of much. I’d remembered, and mis-remembered so much about that summer. How could I be sure about details I’d oppressed, so I could sleep at night?

“The attention to detail is incredible,” Travers said absentmindedly, walking through the room. “Every trophy has a readable inscription, every book title is readable. Not one letter blurred - incredible. If all your memories are like this, we can actually get some work done.”

“Don’t count on it.” They usually were. But not this. Not this summer.

I ripped the parchment out of the notebook, folded it twice, trembling fingers, flushed cheeks. Ran to the window, ripped it open. My feverish, young eyes searched the sky. “Merlin! Merlin, get down here!”

But no bird flew into the room. Instead, the door flew open, and an erratic, seventeen-year-old Gellert Grindelwald stormed in. He matched the fever in my eyes, as he rushed across the room, and all the air was knocked out of me. Pressed our lips together, violently, and my hands clung to his shoulder, his arm, clawed into his shirt. For seconds that seemed like an eternity, it seemed like bliss, violent, disturbing bliss and then –

“I’ve found one!” He pressed his forehead to mine, and my lip was bleeding, and we stared into each other’s eyes like addicts, like the maniacs we were.

“Which one?”

“The wand. It’s in Croatia. Dubrovnik.” There was an insane smile on his face, distorting his youthful beauty, but that went unnoticed in the moment.

“How do you know?”

“Vision. Let’s go. Tonight!” He started ripping clothes out of the cupboard, and throwing them in the open suitcase in the corner. Next, he grabbed books, then reconsidered, dropping some of them on the bed.

“I can’t leave now,” I said, shocked, and still a bit breathless from the kiss. His hands had messed up my hair, and my bleeding lip was pulsing, but I was in bliss. Conflicted, no, happy. Eager. Scared. “Gellert – we have to talk about this – Aberforth is still here…”

“And? He can’t get that dumb train by himself?” He looked up. the silver necklace containing the blood oath dangled around his neck. “He’ll be back at school in two days, who cares?”

“So we wait two days and…” My eyes travelled to the door, then back to his beautiful face. “And Ariana… I can’t just…”

“Albus, we talked about this!” He walked up to me, grabbing both my hands with his, and all reason went out of the window. Every bit of sanity in me was gone, and our fingers intertwined. Forehead against forehead. “We’re doing this!”

“Yes, but…” Resistance was futile. We locked eyes. Insanity. It was insanity.

“Say you’re with me. Say it!”

“I’m with you,” I said, barely able to breathe.

“One mind. One heart. One future.”

One last hesitation. One last kiss, and then everything fell apart.

“Say it! One mind…” - “One mind,” I copied him.

“One heart.” - “One heart.”

“One future.” – “One future.”

“For the Greater Good.” – “For the Greater Good.”

He broke away from me, but our hands remained intertwined. And then they slid apart, slowly, as though it was nearly impossible, as though we both couldn’t bear to be apart, until our finger tips touched, one last time, and then he disappeared around the corner, yelled “Keep packing!” and ran down the stairs noisily.

Heart beating out of my chest, smiling the widest, wildest smile, I started cramming books and shoes into my suitcase, rammed it shut, forced the buckles shut. The Deathly Hallows symbol had been scratched into the leather. Or maybe it wasn’t. in my memory, it was there, it was everywhere.

Loud voices. Voices downstairs. Laughter. But it wasn’t happy laughter.

When I’d run down the stairs, Aberforth had his wand drawn, and Gellert was laughing at him.

“Can you believe this fool?” he said. “Can you believe it, Albus?”

“Hold on,” Travers said, freezing the scene. “What’s happening here?”

“My sister is about to die, what do you think it happening?” Why? Why did he have to drag this out? It was all there – Aberforth, me, angry, impatient, Gellert, about to do the unforgivable. Ariana, behind her closed door.

“I see what you mean,” Theseus said. “He looks like he’s about to cry!”

Aberforth? He’d never been much of a crier. Angry tears, yes, but only on occasion. If they wanted to see that, all they had to do was unfreeze the scene. Moments before disaster, that’s what it was.

But they weren’t circling Aberforth. It was Gellert, they’d taken an interest in. His handsome features, slightly harsher than usual in the dim kitchen light. The demanding look he gave me. Clenched jaw, high cheekbones, golden hair. There was a protruding vein above his brow I hadn’t noticed before.

“Definitely emotional,” Travers commented, nodding to himself. “Doesn’t look much like a cold-blooded killer, does he?”

“He’s about to torture my brother,” I protested. Of course he was cold-blooded – how was that up for debate? All of this was because of him – Ariana, my broken family, hundreds of broken families, this entire investigation… And yet, when I looked at him, they were right. His eyes, mismatched, pleading (no, demanding, they’d been demanding), were watery. The strange shine to them, the slightly furrowed brow, the tremble in his lower lip – I didn’t remember all that. Why not?

“Let’s see how this unfolds,” Travers said, waving one hand to unfreeze the scene.

I took a deep breath and braced myself. This was it. What I didn’t want to remember. What I remembered all too well.

“Aberforth, put that down!” I yelled, trying to grab the wand from his hand, pushing him to the wall.

He slapped my hand away. “You’re not taking her anywhere!”

“And you will stop us? You?” Gellert said, and his voice vibrated in the room and filled every corner. “You are nothing – we are going to change the world! Do you honestly think you can stop a revolution? You?”

“Oh shut up – I’ve seen your dumb little drawings! You’re not doing anything, and you’re not taking my sister anywhere! She’s too fragile for a daytrip and you think –“

“I think,” Gellert said, and his hand was on his own wand right now, “you’re in my way.”

“That’d be about right. Now piss off!” Aberforth spat in his face. And then it was too late. Then everything was too late.

“You… you dare –“ There was a slap. I didn’t remember that part. It was unclear who had hit whom. Things were blurry. They weren’t supposed to be blurry.

“Stupefy!” Aberforth’s voice.

“Aberforth, don’t be an idiot and get out of the way!” I yelled, and I wasn’t looking at Gellert’s face anymore. it was me and him against the world, against my brother, even.

Voices. More voices. Everything was unclear, loud, and messy, and unclear.

“Crucio!”

Aberforth collapsed on the floor and I couldn’t hear him scream. Everything slowed down, everything went dull and blurry, every voice was somewhere, far away. My little brother, twitching, writhing on the floor, right where he’d learned to crawl. Gellert, above him, with a distorted smile on his face. And when he started laughing, the realisation – he liked it. He derived pleasure from this.

“Stop it! Expelli-“ But the words were stuck in my throat. It wasn’t working. I couldn’t say it. “Stupefy! Impedimenta!” Every spell failed me. My own wand failed me. And then my eyes found the necklace and my eyes widened in understanding – I couldn’t hurt him. I was powerless.

“Stop hurting him!” Ariana yelled. She’d burst out of her room, and ran in the middle of it all. She was pushed to the floor by another jinx, and then she was on the floor, next to Aberforth. And I could hear the screams, and do nothing about it.

“Make it stop, please stop…” I was crying, and I was on the floor (or was I?), sobbing, grabbing for Gellert’s sleeves. “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, please stop it, please stop - I’ll come with you – I’ll do anything … Look at me, Gellert” I had grabbed his face with both hands, and we were alone in the room, except we weren’t. “We can leave, right now, just you and me. Please, if you just stop…”

I didn’t remember that part, except I did. Had I really offered to leave with him, in the middle of it all? Was it a mixture of memories? It seemed false, jarringly so.

“Don’t be pathetic,” he hissed, but for a moment, his eyes were on me, and only me. “Stop grovelling! You’re not on their side, are you? You’re with me!”

And my fingers were cupping his face, as I was begging, desperately, senselessly: “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, please, please, I’ll do anything!”

“You can’t be with them – you’re MINE,” he yelled, and my hands dropped, and I nodded in tears.

“Yes… yes, it’s my fault – look at me, please –“

But he was laughing, and Ariana screamed louder, and I was crying, and begging, useless as I was.

“Let’s meet that Obscurus, shall we? Don’t you want to help me, Albus?” And there was that look in his eyes again, that look he had before he kissed me, but it was all wrong now. Everything was wrong now.

“Please, please, please, don’t … not that, not that, I’ll do anything…”

And then it was Aberforth screaming, again, then Ariana, and the room was dark, and blood was running down the walls – shadows everywhere, shadows of the Deathly Hallows all around us.

I was on my knees in front of him, the only one unharmed. “No more, please, no more… Hurt me instead, please…”

He was still laughing, and in all the madness, he looked at me, tenderly and insane at the same time. “Why would I hurt you? Now, don’t be stupid–“

My spells were failing, no matter how hard I tried. Every protection failed against the Cruciatus Curse.

“STOP it,” he yelled, and, to add to all the insanity, he sounded betrayed now. Hurt. He was torturing two people, but I’d managed to hurt his feelings. “Albus –  STOP IT, you’ll kill yourself! Is that what you want?” He blocked curses from Aberforth, like they were wisps of air. He didn’t even have to block mine, because they wouldn’t hit him, no matter how hard I tried. Every jinx knocked the air out of my lungs, every curse was like a noose around my neck, and he hit Aberforth, over and over again, and then –

Two screams, one echoing the other. Then silence. Ariana, on the floor, Aberforth cowering by her side, grabbing her limp little hand –

My wand was at his throat before I could think. I had him pinned against the wall, my hand grabbing onto his shirt. My ears were ringing.

“You can’t,” he whispered, “you can’t, you took an oath – it will kill you!”

And while every fiber of my being wanted to test that theory, wanted to kill him or die trying, while I looked into his eyes, I realized the most terrible thing – I still loved him. My dead sister on the floor, I looked at him and realized that losing him hurt more. And he stepped away, and then the front door slammed opened, and he was gone and I’d have to live with it, forever.

Aberforth, who ran after him. Aberforth, who reached the front door, when I slammed it shut, and locked it, placed myself between the door and him.

“Let me through,” he yelled. Tears were streaming down his face, and his fists were pounding me, and the wood, but mostly me. “LET ME THROUGH, I’LL KILL HIM, I WANT TO KILL HIM!”

“I can’t,” I just said. “I can’t. He’ll kill you!”

“I DON’T CARE!”

“But I do – please, Ab… please, just listen –“

“I see!” There was a rage in his eyes, a rage that would never quite subside over the decades. “I see you now. You pick him – You pick him and she’s DEAD –“

“I can’t change that, Ab, please…” We were both crying, but only one of us deserved to.

“YOU DID THAT!”

And then we were back in my office, sitting. I was glad I wasn’t the only one who had to sit down.

“Do you want to take a break?” Theseus offered.

I shook my head, buried my face in my hands. How many times would I have to watch this? Be questioned about it? How many people would see, would know that I was guilty by association? It took both me and Theseus a while to realize that Travers wasn’t sitting, that he’d strolled back to the flowers, picked up the card, twisting it in his hands.

“He seemed quite taken with you,” he commented. He was calm. How, I had no idea. “The begging eyes, the refusal to hurt you – you know, for a moment there it looked like he’d grab you and leave.” He turned to me. “Would you have left with him?”

“No.” Yes. “I was protecting my family. You saw what he was like!”

“I saw a lot of things.” He frowned. “I still would like the other perspective. See what that fight was about, before you were in the room, shed some light on things.”

“This isn’t Aberforth’s fault,” I protested, but it was all for naught. They had made up their minds. They saw things that weren’t there, fishing for some kind of clue they might never find. Theseus, I understood. He was grieving Leta, understandably so. Travers was simply out for the glory of catching Grindelwald. My family was collateral, as it had always been.

Aberforth marched into my office the next day. Slammed a collection of mason jars on the table. Memories, swirling, liquid and smoke at once.

“They closed down my pub,” he said, his voice trembling. “They shut down everything, kicked out my guest. Now they’re coming for my licence and threatening me with Dementors and hearings and whatnot. And they said they’d go to the papers, tell the Prophet I killed Ariana and…”

“They what?” This was alarming. He needn’t be so concerned, I had paperwork to ease his fears, after all. But I could see Travers using unsavoury methods. “Aberforth, whatever you do, don’t talk to them. I’ve got this. And don’t take it out on Theseus, this is not his fault, he’s just doing his job.”

“I don’t blame him,” he said, his eyes resting on me.

“I know.” I know. “I’m so sorry – if there’s anything I can do…”

“Find him. Kill him. And keep them away from me. You think you can manage that?” He pointed at the jars. “That’s everything. That’s all I remember. Your precious summer. Enjoy.”

And then he was gone. I took them, and emptied them into the stone basin, one by one. Some of the memories resisted me, smoking, changing colour ever so slightly. Some seemed more liquid than solid. But it had to be enough.

I had to know. Before Theseus, or Travers, would be back. I tipped my wand to the side of the basin. Searched for Ariana, her image, in that light blue dress, the last dress she ever wore. The plait, the plait I’d braided (had I?). Searched for the memory that would be last.

And then I dived.

He came running down the stairs, a smug smile on his lips. He seemed taller than I remembered. Blonder.

“Going already?” Aberforth said, a bitter tone to his voice. “You know, you don’t have to take the front door. He has a perfectly fine window. Great morning light.”

Gellert turned on him, and there was silence in the room. He crossed the kitchen, took an apple from the fruit basket in front of Aberforth. It seemed strange. Menacing. His face was sharper than I remembered.

“You talk a lot for someone who has nothing to say, did you know that?” His gaze was on the apple. He didn’t even look at Aberforth, didn’t deem him worthy of it.

“And you’re not good enough for my brother.”

This was new. It was new, and wrong, and touching, and bizarre at the same time. It couldn’t have happened. Or could it?

“You don’t get to decide that,” Gellert said, his voice dangerously dark now. It was a different voice, one he never used around me.

“Don’t need to. He’ll see soon enough. They’re looking into that O’Hara girl’s case, the Muggles are-“

“Muggles!” Gellert spat, and there was a trace of disgust on his face.

“And I bet you haven’t told him why you really got kicked out of that school of yours. He doesn’t ask many questions about that, does he? But he will. He gets curious, see. Once those rose-colored glasses wear off…”

There it was again. That vein on Gellert’s forehead, right above his brow. The trembling hands. “Missgeburt. I won’t have to deal with you much longer.”

“Yeah, I guessed,” Aberforth said. He’d taken to peeling potatoes in the middle of their fight. “He’ll get bored with you eventually. You’re not made out of medal, so he can’t put you on his damn shelf. That’s why he’s spending time with you, you know that, right? He’s bored here.”

“You know nothing!” Gellert ripped the knife out of his hands. “You have no idea –“ He shrugged, retreating. “Egal – we’re leaving tonight, doesn’t matter…”

“Leaving where?” Aberforth was laughing now. “Why would he leave? Where… No! That’s not happening! I don’t know what he’s told you…”

“Everything. He tells me everything,” Gellert said, and it was jarring, how intense his voice was. How important this seemed to him. “And you don’t matter to him, so you don’t matter to me!”

“Doubt it.” Aberforth picked another knife. Just like that. “We fight. Brothers fight. You don’t have any, do you? Wouldn’t get it.” He started peeling another potatoe, then stopped. “How much do you think he’ll still look at you, when I’m back at school and he can’t annoy me with your dumb face anymore? I bet that dumb swooning will fade real fast!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gellert hissed. His hand was twitching, and it was near his pocket, hovering – Aberforth was playing a dangerous game, and he didn’t even know it. He’d always been one to provoke first, and deal with the consequences later. “You are so insignificant, it’s laughable! What we have – what we’ll do – you don’t get it, do you?” There was an insane shine to his eyes. “Don’t worry, you’ll read about it. You’ll see.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Aberforth said, quartering the potatoes calmly. “Bit delusional, if you ask me. You should get that checked out.” He cut more potatoes, and the tension in the room grew, as Gellert just stood above him, staring, hating, planning… “Like I said, he’s too good for you. Bit of a prat, but you – he’s nothing like you.”

“He’s EVERYTHING like me!” There it was again. Hand. Wand. Almost. He wanted to hurt him. Something about Aberforth’s words…

“Nah. It’s just a phase. He has them sometimes. How about you come back next summer? See, if he still remembers you. I bet you’re in for a rude awakening!”

“You are!” Aberforth hissed. “We’re leaving. Tonight. And we’re taking the Obscurus.”

A knife was slammed into a table, and they started screaming at each other. Both had their hands on their wands, when I stormed down the stairs, pushing Aberforth away from Gellert, grabbing for his wand, yelling at him. Not the stranger, the foreigner. Him.

“Can you believe this fool?” Gellert said, his voice trembling. I didn’t remember that. “Can you believe it, Albus?”

 “You’re not taking her anywhere!” Aberforth yelled. “What’s wrong with you? Both of you – this nonsense has gone on long enough…”

“And you will stop us? You? You are nothing – we are going to change the world! Do you honestly think you can stop a revolution? You?” I stood behind him, my eyes glued to him, swooning. In Aberforth’s memory, I was focused on Gellert, and only him.

“Oh shut up – I’ve seen your dumb little drawings! You’re not doing anything, and you’re not taking Ariana anywhere!” Aberforth had gotten his wand out again, pointing it at Gellert.

“I think,” Gellert said, and his hand was on his own wand right now, while I still stood there, unfazed, but mildly annoyed, “you’re in my way.” This wasn’t right, this was all wrong… was it?

“That’d be about right. Now piss off!” Aberforth spat in his face.  

“You… you dare –“

“Stupefy!” Aberforth yelled.

“Aberforth, don’t be an idiot and get out of the way!” I yelled, and tried to take his wand, again. That hadn’t happened, I was sure of it.

Gellert got closer, looking at me, as I fought Aberforth, smiling serenely. He took comfort from the fact that I took his side; at least he did in this version of things. But his hands were trembling, and his eyes were tear-filled, they had been when I’d run in.

“Crucio!”

The room went black and bright at the same time. Lights, flashing. A laugh – mine or Gellert’s, it was unclear in this version of things. There were voices, muffled. And then Ariana, her blue dress flowing around her, right in the middle of it. Aberforth couldn’t hear her. His whole world was pain. All he could do was scream, and scream, and the lights kept flickering…

Then my voice cut through the chaos, breathless. My hands on Gellert, blurry, everything was blurry.  “I’ll come with you – I’ll do anything … Look at me, Gellert- we can leave, right now, just you and me, like we planned…”

There were more voices, blurred, yelling, and all he could see was me, holding on to Gellert, and Ariana, bending over him, her cool hand on his forehead, her lips at his temple.

“Feel better, brother… feel better soon…” And then she collapsed next to him, screaming louder than he had, and he tried to shield her, but couldn’t. his legs and arms were heavy, and weightless, and useless all at once, he could barely move.

 “Let’s meet that Obscurus, shall we? Don’t you want to help me, Albus?”

“Please, please, please, don’t … I’ll do anything – you know I’ll do anything for you…” More screaming. “Let’s just leave – leave them. Please?”

And then the light were flickering again, and waves of pain, and then it was over, and Aberforth grabbed for his wand once more – he saw nothing but his enemy above him, while I became a shadow in the corner, while nobody else was there to help him.

Ariana, screaming. Her lifeless body on the kitchen floor.

When he turned around, he saw me, pushing Gellert out the door. We were arguing, and I kept pushing, pushing… Gellert looked broken, angry, depraved, but broken. He reached for my hand, when I slammed the door. Started to fumble with the locks, locks that weren’t even there. sealed the door shut. Placed myself infront of it, when Aberforth stormed towards him.

“You can’t. Please, you can’t – he’ll kill you!” But there was no fear in my eyes. My face was pale, and blank. Impenetrable.

“Let me through,” he yelled. Crying, raging, trying to attack me, as I remained unmoved. “LET ME THROUGH, I’LL KILL HIM, I WANT TO KILL HIM!”

“I can’t. Please, Ab… please, just listen –“

“I see!” I was not who he thought I was. Gellert was right about me, he could see that now. “You pick him – You pick him and she’s DEAD –“ Things were blurry from then on. The house went up in black smoke.

I was back in my office. In the dark, looking at the cursed flowers. That was not what happened. Or was it? What else did I remember wrong from that summer?

Notes:

Coming up: Grindelwald's POV. A meeting.

Honestly, I might have to change the rating based on their conversations alone. When do you have to pick "Explicit"? Can anyone educate me? I don't want to violate any guidelines.

Grindelwald Trivia: As he has a German name and roots in Austria, I've decided to make his family Austrian immigrants to Serbia. That way, I can create the most realistic speech patterns for him. It would be realistic for an immigrant family, to speak mostly German at home in those days, even if they've been there for several generations (Just basing this off of my own family history):
As to why the Grindelwald family would be there, you can have a look at the history of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, as well as the Holy Roman Empire. I think that clears up a lot of things when it comes to HP backstory.
Serbia also makes a lot of sense, as he's obsessed with Muggle wars being a danger to wizards. The country has faced lots of military interventions, sujugations in the 19th/20 Century which could radicalize people living there. It also had very high casualties in the world wars, and one of them has already happened in this story. This makes it easier for Grindelwald to recruit and makes him more convinced about his ideology & bigotry against all Muggles.

Durmstrang is in Russia, I believe. Since noone can say for sure, it could be true, and it would make sense why this Eastern Block of Europe seems to exist for magical education.

Chapter 5: Chapter 4 – Dante Alighieri (Gellert's POV)

Notes:

This chapter is GRINDELWALD'S PERSPECTIVE.

From here-on out, things will get blurry and dark. Nothing is as it seems. But everything is, at the same time. Don't forget that these two are playing each other, and that their perspectives are clouded by their grudge against each other, and their mutual obsession, as well as their very ideologies and pride.

Maybe Albus Dumbledore is far more twisted than you thought. Or maybe this is a dark mind trying to make sense of things, seeing things that aren't there... Wait and find out.

Enjoy.

 

 

  Chapter 4 – Dante Alighieri

What primal night  does man touch  with his senses?
Through suffocating air, sharp  tempests of grain:
Your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
Slips through narrow  channels of blood
To precipitate a nocturnal carnation

We were guests in another old family’s home every week these days, it seemed. News of my legal absolution had reached all sorts of ears. I was socially acceptable again. Even after everything. After Paris. They craved my attention, my movement. And even if they didn’t – they wanted to gain favour, just in case I was successful. Old families are always like that. Flocking to power, feeding it, feeding off of it.

The sole son and heir, Dante Alighieri, was young. Twenty, twenty-five at most. Handsome, but of a reckless nature. He wore shirts of silk, flamboyant, and colourful clothes, jewellery, unashamed, inviting rumours, craving scandal. Of course, he was Italian, so part of his nature was just that.

“I can’t wait for you to meet my guest of honour,” Dante exclaimed, his eyes shining with excitement. He left the dining room, his steps echoing through the old villa, as his shoes hammered against the many ancient stone steps. We were surrounded by illustrious guests from all around Europe. All the Italian families had sent at least one of their own, eager to find out more about me. Zabini had led us here. He was one of my newer friends, and one of the more interesting ones I’d made in a while. Quiet, rich, sophisticated, well-connected. The best kind of friend to have in Palermo.

“I thought you were the guest of honour,” Vinda whispered next to me. That thought had crossed my mind. Most of them were here for me. Maybe they didn’t want it to be official.

“Hush now. Play nice.” She obliged. Ever elegant, ever the lady.

Chatter emanated. People drifted back into their small talk. They ignored the sound of foot steps, the laughter. Dante’s excited voice. He really must be enamoured with this guest. I was going to be nice, I decided. Charm them. That would make things easiest. We needed his money, after all, if we were to accelerate our plans.

“Everyone…” Dante exclaimed from the salon door. “This is my favourite Professor in the whole world. He – Oh, you need no introduction, do you?!”

My heart stopped in my chest, then started to race. I could feel the silver chain at my neck, the pin connecting the little phial to my shirt. Could he feel it, too?

 Dante’s hand was on his Professor’s arm, the man next to him smiling pleasantly. A studied smile; genuine, warm, but studied. Simple suit. The beard was the same as in his pictures. The traces of silver in it were new.

“Dumbly-dorr!” the elderly woman next to me exclaimed, fanning herself with her napkin. “What a surpri-se!”

They swarmed him, like insects. The men, women, children – he paid the most attention to the children, praising their idiotic artwork they held up in front of him, admiring the first wand of one of the taller boys, and using it to draw a piece of candy from behind the boy’s ears. Muggle parlour tricks. But they weren’t disgusted, like I was. Their faces were alight with the wonders of Albus Dumbledore, saintly teacher of children, benevolent friend to all. Idiotic creatures.

He didn’t look at me, or acknowledge me in any way, as he sat down at the other end of the table, next to Dante, who couldn’t wait to tell his insipid, meaningless school stories. All eyes on him, as he spoke, vivaciously, with his words and his hands, slipping into Italian ever so often. He know of his beauty, and he was throwing it in their faces. He planned on using it.

“Tell us about Hogwarts – it’s so beautiful, this time of year! Are the Gryffindors and Slytherins still fighting?”

“Much less, since you left.” He smiled at the boy. A fond, but exhausted smile. His job was taxing. Or maybe, Dante was? “We haven’t had stolen Quidditch brooms before a game in quite some time!”

“Oh, that was one time!” Dante protested, a mischievous smile on his lips, in his eyes. He turned to his mother. “He took thirty house points from me, can you believe that? Put me in detention for a week. Oh, I can still remember that office, so fascinating…”

“I remember you stealing one of my books,” Albus commented, but he was still smiling. Ever kind, ever understanding. The most tolerant man you could find, apparently. Had he truly changed that much?

“Oh, silenzio,” Dante said, laughing, his hand brushing the professor’s arm, as he started talking with his entire body again. It wasn’t by accident. He was asking for attention. Maybe he had, even then. But with his mother in the room… bold. “I gave it back, didn’t I?”

“After three years!”

“It was a very difficult book. I needed time to understand it.”

“Of course you did. Oh, you will love this, Mrs Alighieri-“ - Another look at the boy, who was drinking, and laughing, now – “One day, I come into my office. The door is locked. And on my desk is a book I thought I lost years ago and a chocolate frog on top of it. And there’s a note – not a confession, mind you, a review of the book. Abysmal. I’ve never read someone take a history book apart quite as effectively as that!”

“I thought I was going to get more punizione for that, honestly,” Dante said, grinning at him. “A month’s detention, at least.”

“Then why did you sign your name?”

He shrugged. “Worth it.”

Time to interrupt their fun. “You must have been quite the teachers pet, Dante,” I addressed him directly. They both looked at me now, Dante first. Then Albus. He seemed alarmed – not to see me. He’d seen me the moment he stepped into the room. It was me talking to one of his proteges. That was the problem.

“Only for my favourite professor,” Dante exclaimed.

Albus was smiling, reserved now, that he had my attention. “You’re too kind.”

“Oh, he would not stai zitto about you, professor,” the mother revealed, across the table. “All we could hear about school – when he wasn’t in trouble – Dumbledore this, Dumbledore that – I started thinking he would focus on his studies at some point, but it was just one class he loved!”

“The best class!” Dante exclaimed.

“Stop it.” But he loved it. Loved the praise, the adoration. And I could start to see why he stayed. He’d always loved it. Being adored. He needed it.

“Oh, it’s been so many years…” Dante said, emphasizing the word many. He wanted to be seen as more mature than he was. Wanted to emphasize the he was no longer the student, and he was brazen, and transparent about it. “But who could forget you? You had us all charmed – we used to skip other classes to sneak into yours!”

“You didn’t!”

“Last row – I wasn’t the only one – it was the best room to be in! We all loved you, you know.” He was so obvious, it bordered on pathetic.

“That’s a lot of influence, to have over so many young minds,” I interrupted the love-fest, once again. “Does that inspire you, professor? Does it satisfy you?”

“I like my job,” he said, simply. His fork missed the veil, when I smiled at him.

“It’s powerful, isn’t it? Meaningless on the surface. But moulding young minds is so much easier… One could raise armies with just words, as they hang on your lips, too enamoured to know better. Tell me, Dante – what would you do for your professor? What is it you really want to do?”

That did it. Even he was blushing now. “I haven’t been a student in seven years,” he protested. He could tell that the title, the thrill of his inappropriate crush was only appealing to him, that he might offend, no, repell his beloved professor, should it become to blatant.

“That’s a long time to remember a teacher.”

I left them alone, for a while. I hadn’t come here for either of them. People drew me into conversations, as they did everywhere. Craving my message. Like children flocking to their beloved professor, they were flocking to my cause. Whispers of the Greater Good had travelled around the world and back. It was time, but not yet. Not quite. I had to take things slow, be careful.

“Oh, tell us a story, Mr Grindelwald,” one of the older women inquired. “I’m sure, you must have so many!”

“Something from your home country, perhaps,” another guest suggested.

Home. Heimat. What was it? Austria, Serbia, Russia? It had always been hard to tell.

“I have stories. But they’re dark. You know what us German’s are like…” I warned them. It was an easy ploy, to gather more attention. A simple stereotype that intrigued people. Grimm’s Fairytales were beloved for a reason, even if the Muggles had stolen them, watered them down for children.

“Oh, we’re not squeamish,” the host mother promised. Her teeth and her diamonds blinked at me, equally sharp, equally wealthy. “Tell it, go on…”

“Alright.” I put down my fork. Laid it by the side of the plate gently. No reason to forget manners. In the corner of my eyes, I could still see the boy smiling way to wide and open at Albus, for even his own comfort, could see them bending closer together, trading secrets. Maybe it was time to open up a bit. We could all stand to lose some of our secrets. Some of our mystique.

“But be warned. This is an old family’s story. Their blood is traced through the centuries, and their magic is connected to fire, and re-incarnation. My story begins in a quiet English town. A traveller’s daughter is hurt before sunset. He locks his family in his house and begins to tell them the truth, about the natures of animals. You know who I speak of… Those who don’t possess magic.” One glance was enough. They don’t have objections, at least not enough to speak up. I’d found my audience.

“The traveller leaves his house in the early morning. He finds the animals and slaughters them, one by one. When he’s done, his blue hat has fallen to the ground. His oldest son, just ten years old, picks it up for him. He’s seen everything, and he's stayed silent, as he understands the nature of the animals. He knows they deserved to be punished. And so they walk back to the house, father and son.” A glance across the table reveals that a certain flirtation has stopped. They’re both listening to me now, as they should.

“The traveller is taken to a fortress, to answer for his crimes. He leaves the hat for his son. The mother locks all of them into the house, and makes it smaller, and darker. When the eldest son starts to become a traveller himself, he hears of a mystery. His mother has died behind closed doors, at the hand of the very children she locked up. He returns, and with him he brings a darkness greater and more terrible than any they’ve seen so far.” I lowered my voice for effect. They fell for it, leaned in, listening, all of them.

“It was his heart, you see. He had fallen for the Dark Arts. He loved a stranger, and he loved the night, and most of all, he loved the wide world that was yet to meet him and see him for how great he was, and he couldn’t meet them in a locked house. They took him back, and tried to lock the doors once more. And that was their downfall.”

“So… what happened?” It was the boy, Dante. He yearned to find out how the story ended.

“He retreated into his books of darkness. Unpacked his knifes – oh, they were beautiful… He retreated further into the woods, played with fire and blood. And then, one night… He killed them. All of them.”

“How?” one of the foreigners asked. Karma, they’ve told me his name was. Yusuf Karma. How poetic.

“He broke their hearts. They tried to contain him. He was great, and they were not.”

“And what happened to him, the son?” Vinda asked, next to me, playing along. “Was he arrested as well?”

“Oh no, much too intelligent. He fades into obscurity. He takes the blue hat, leaves the country, finds another, and then another. He searched for his passion, his fate. To fool the world about who he was, he started a simple life, and they believed him. But he’s still out there, searching…”

“Searching for what?” The man wore a tie stitched in gold, a diamond pin. I couldn’t wait to bleed him dry.

“His fate.”

“And what is his fate?” The boy, again.

“Me.” I gave them a smile. Some tittered, nervously.

“Shouldn’t you be scared, then?” the host mother asked, holding on to her diamonds. She wasn’t shocked. She’d loved the story.

“Oh, I’ve never been scared of the dark, even as a boy. In fact, I welcome it.”

They offered me a tour of the villa, later in the evening. The boy should do it, his mother suggested. All the visitors should be taken around the large halls, to admire their wealth. He’d only just inherited it all from his late father, but he didn’t seem to upset. I knew the feeling. I’d been in his shoes. Maybe his father had been as insufferable as my own.

“Are you coming, too, professor?” He didn’t long for safety, a protector, amongst my acolytes. He should. It was something different he sought. Something impossible. Children can often be foolish that way.

We walked through the rooms, inspecting and admiring their amounted riches, treasures of centuries. Paintings, intricate furniture, chandeliers, dusty, but hung with diamonds. He had eyes for no one but his professor. Shared little jokes with him, while we walked behind them. He spoke to him, more than all of us. On the second floor, I started to think he might not be as foolish as I thought.

They were having a quiet conversation in the stairwell, away from our prying ears. Close proximity, hushed voices. The boy wiped his long, dark curls out of his face. His hands were on the bannister, his arms exposed, showing off the many artful drawings and letters, seared into his very skin. He really was beautiful.

“… be careful…” Albus’ voice travelled, and he was close there, too close for a professor.

“I don’t understand – what are you…”

His voice was pleading, soft. Warm. He liked the boy. “You can’t do this, Dante. You’re playing with fire.”

“And what if I am?” Insolent. Stupid, stupid boy…

The paintings were even grander in the last room. One in particular caught my attention. In true, opulent Italian fashion, its colours vibrated, light and dark. A young woman, pale, dressed in white, was stretched along a chaiselongue of deepest blue, blood dripping down her lifeless curves, seeping into the pillows, the white dress, the blonde hair, pooling on the floor. Dark shadows moved around her, picking it up with their long fingers, drinking golden cups of it. One of the shadows was bent over her with a golden knife, cutting ever deeper.

“Magnifique,” Vinda commented.

“Yes, it is breathtaking. My great-grandfather had it commissioned. He was…” the boy smiled apologetically, “a sauvoir of the most obscure. He liked rituals. It’s a symbolism. What they are doing, I do not know, of course.”

They handed us more wine, to enjoy, as we viewed the art. Blood red. Rich. Dark.

“They’re eating her heart, of course,” I said. I took a sip. The wine was wonderful.

“But why?”

I took a step. He was standing right in next to me now. Shoulder to shoulder. I could see the tension in his jaw, the blue and white of his eyes. The stitching in his tie, red and golden. I could reach out and slit his throat, if I hadn’t taken vows.

“It’s a delicacy.”

He turned his head, and our eyes met, just for a moment. Oh, how I had cursed those eyes! They knew too much. They had the false effect on people – blue, associated with purity by most. Foolish people. He was anything but pure. “And you would know that from experience?”

“Of course not.” We almost shared a smile. The colour of blood was reflected in my glass, in my wine.

“I can see how it would speak to you.”

“You would, wouldn’t you.” I tasted more of the wine. It got richer, as time passed on. “What do you think of the girl?”

“She’s beautiful.” He looked at the painting again. “Very delicate. Fragile. She’s being preyed upon by darkness. There’s an innocence to her…” The girl was barely dressed. Her skin was visible through the sheer white dress, ripped apart, her breasts and thighs quelling out, her lips pink and flushed.

“You don’t look at girls much, do you, professor?”

He refused to answer.

When we returned, they spoiled us with desserts. Rich, full of cream and chocolate, decorated with fruit and flowers, almost too much to take in. across the table, Albus asked for seconds. He’d always had a sweet tooth. The boy picked a fallen cherry of his table with his golden fork, laughing as he did so. They were drifting into their conversation again, even closer now.

“Would you like something else?” The host’s mother asked Albus. Smiling, clearly trying to win his favour for her nephews, who still attended his classes. So transparent. She smiled too much. It was unnerving. She just wouldn’t leave him alone. And I needed him alone. Away from all the admirers, who had no idea what or who they were admiring, away from some pathetic teacher’s pet, trying to humiliate himself. Alone.

It was as though he could read my thoughts. Maybe he could. I’d heard stories… I could see him outside, a while later. Sitting on the large terrace, amongst luscious flower pots and burning torches. The pet by his side. Playing chess at a little table. How darling. I decided to end it.

The pet looked up, when I got close. His face was flushed with wine. Young. I’d gone younger. But then he wasn’t me. The sanctimonious professor, laughing, having private conversations with former students, pretending he wasn’t flirting. He liked to pretend. He always had.

“Can I get you anything else, Signore?” He was polite, at least. And he was showing off.

“No, I’m good, thank you.” I took his wine glass and emptied it. Children shouldn’t have alcohol. “You can leave.”

“Scusi?” He was laughing. Looking at Albus, rather than myself. Needy little thing.

“Dante…” He could sense the danger, even if the pet couldn’t.

“You’re welcome to join us,” the pet tried to be casual. Jovial.

“Dante!” He had his hand on the pet’s hand now. Sent him a warning look. And that finally seemed to get the message across. “Go inside, please. Can you do that for me?”

He left, throwing back nervous little glances like the child he was, and I took his seat.

“That was unnecessary,” Albus commented.

“Was it?”

He looked over my shoulder. Still checking, if his pet was safe. “He’s just a kid!”

“I know that.” I paused. I had to say it. Someone had to. “Do you know that?”

His mouth opened slightly. He looked like he was going to be sick. It was kind of funny, once you got the full picture. “You’ve got some nerve!”

“That I’ve been told.” I gave the chess board a shake. The players didn’t jump back to their start. Another.

“It doesn’t work like that.” His hand hovered over the board for a moment, and then everything was orderly. Neat and orderly, black and white, all on the appropriate sides. “They’re normal chess figures. Not magical ones.”

“Muggle nonsense.” But I had to stay. We had to play. How else could I find out why. Why here, why now. Why the letter.

He picked up the first chess piece. White. Of course it was white. “What you're doing is madness.”

“I’ve heard that before.” I made a move. It didn’t really matter. Little game pieces on a plate of wood. Whoever said there was something deeper to chess just wanted to sell a rather unimaginative game. It was Wizard’s Chess I’d liked as a boy. At least you could order your playing pieces around, like a little army.

“That’s not what I meant.” He put thought into his next move. His fingers danced over the pieces for almost a minute, before he picked one up. It was a mistake. He knew it would be. He wanted to appease me, for whatever reason. I didn’t like it.

“It's what we said we'd do.”

That’s when he finally looked at me. There was something annoyingly small and broken in his eyes. “I was young. I was...” A liar. He was a liar then, and now. Twisting the truth how it fit him, however it made him seem wholesome and sweet. He had a special gift for turning half-truths into something resembling the moral high ground. Omitting. Manipulating, always.

“Committed,” I finished his sentence. “To me. To us.”

“No. I went along because...” There it was again. Omissions.

“Because?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He paused. “It was grey, the hat. Not blue.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re making me out to be someone I’m not.”

“It was you who said we could reshape the world,” I reminded him. “That is was our birthright.”

“People say a lot of things when they’re young.” He started moving his pieces about again. Apparently, we were still playing. Why, I had no idea. “Your move.”

I went along, kept playing. Why not. “You must speak from experience. All those children, chattering all day, with their simple little minds… Doesn’t in drive you mad?”

“I forgot.” There was a faint smile on his face, half-hidden in the beard. I hadn’t yet decided whether or not I liked the beard. “You don’t like my job.”

“No, I don’t think you should have it. It’s a waste.” He was still throwing the game, and it was driving me up the wall. “That’s your next move? Grundgütiger, Albus…”

“That’s a Muggle expression, did you know that?” The corners of his mouth twitched, still half-hidden, and I decided. I hated the beard. It had to go. “It refers to a deity. The one Christian god. It’s a plea for his benevolence.”

“Why would gods be benevolent? That’s just stupid!”

He smiled, still. “We’ll have to agree to disagree. I happen to think what I’m doing is important.”

“And so rewarding,” I goaded him.

“That, too.” He smiled. He meant it. Psychotic.

“They grow up so fast…” He nodded, watching the board. “So pretty… What was it, Dante?”

He just wouldn’t bite. “Your move.”

“So obedient.”

He kept moving the pieces, slower now. He was losing at a glacial pace. Losing, and picking horrible, useless jobs that were beneath him. It was enough to make the blood boil.

“You say jump, they say…”

“Clearly, you haven’t spent a lot of time amongst children,” he said lightly. Infuriatingly.

“Clearly. It does seem like the sort of profession that leaves you enough time to pick up a quill, answer a letter from time to time, doesn’t it?”

“As I recall, I did recently write you.”

“Once.”

“What did you want? A sonnet for your flowers?” Bastard.

“Checkmate.”

He just smiled. “Must not be my day.”

Unbelievable. Fucking… He was impossible. Useless. When had he become so useless? “What is wrong with you? You weren’t even trying!”

“Of course I was.” Liar.

“Don’t lie to me!” I was on my feet before I knew it. The desire to wrap my hands around his neck and start pressing had never been stronger. I could feel a distant pounding in my head, and he smiled some more, and then, without warning, the chain was around my neck, suffocating me, and I realized what he’d been doing.

It took several minutes of controlled breathing, to calm down. Relax. Relax my chains. I had to look away from him and his unnerving smile; and I had to sit. Then, it was over. I could still hear my heart thundering in my head. But it was over.

His smile had changed, when I looked back at him. It was twisted, dark. Not him. A small trickle of blood ran over his fingers, another out of his ear. And then he looked directly at me, with murder in his eyes.

He’d never been more beautiful.

 

Notes:

Poem:
‘Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,’ by Pablo Neruda

I've changed Theseus' and Newt's ages for this. The website says they're barely younger than Dumbledore and only like 8 years younger than Grindelwald. that does not check out, or else Dumbledore couldn't have been their teacher. He started in 1910 at the earliest. This fic is set in 1927. Theseus is about 25+

Play the guessing game:
What Hogwarts house is Dante from?

Chapter 6: Chapter 5 – Blue Hat Theory

Notes:

I think I have to explain the Dante storyline a bit. He is a mirror of Dumbledore, or who he was years ago in this chapter. He also represents the boy he could have met instead of Grindelwald. But if he met both - well, you can't fight fate. It was always Grindelwald.
I will leave it up to your interpretation if Dante should be trusted.

So this is where the story goes deeper. This decade-long, mutual obsession and where it originates. Why it still exists.

At the same time, I want to unravel Albus slowly. Or maybe, someone else wants that? Several people, maybe? We'll see.

Book quote: Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

 

 

Chapter 5 – Blue Hat Theory

The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I
loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always,
that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness,
against all discouragement that could be.

They came the following week to inspect my memories of the dinner party, berating me, again, for not sharing strategy. It was getting tiring. Would I really have to resort to their speed, their boring, bureaucratic methods? They couldn’t make me. What were they going to do, find someone else to take on Gellert? Impossible. We were stuck with each other, for the time being.

 “That boy – how old was he?” Travers inquired. “And he was – a student of yours? Has he… what was happening there, Dumbledore?”

“He was in one year below me, we were friends – I mean, he was friends with everybody,” Theseus offered. “I wrote to him, to get Albus the invitation. I don’t remember him being quite this… Quite like this in school. What’s going on there?”

I pointed to the door that had opened. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

His smile was wide, wider and more innocent than it had been that night, now that he was himself again. It was slightly more comfortable to talk to him this way. “How did I do?”

“Gold star. Wonderful work.”

“Twenty points to Slytherin?” he teased me.

“Fifty, if I could.” I turned to the confused Aurors. “Everyone, this is Dante, a former student of mine. I had Theseus contact him to put on a little charade. You see, when dealing with a seer, the best plan is often no plan. Dante here is great at improvisation. So I asked him before the dinner party to draw attention to himself-“

“Yeah, I thought wearing my mother’s blouse would be a bit much,” Dante admitted. “But that cold bastard didn’t even flinch. So we pretended to have secret conversations. Why did we?”

“To play into his paranoia. To arouse his anger.” Travers was speechless, so I poured him some tea. Poor man, couldn’t keep up. The world really needed more bright young people like Dante. “It did work. I think I know some of his trigger points by now. On the downside, he did get the impression that I’m a bit of a predator with my students, so that is – not ideal.”

“My bad,” Dante chuckled, stealing from the candy-jar on my desk. He’d always done that. “You said to improvise. I got nervous. I’m a flirt. It’s what I do.”

“I was not aware of that.” I started rubbing my temples. “But it was not the best idea. You might want to stop calling me “Professor” in that tone.”

“So people don’t get the wrong idea,” Theseus said, nodding.

“So I don’t get murdered in my sleep,” Dante corrected him. Clever boy. “He’s very intense. But I get the appeal. He is kind of…”

“Dante, we talked about this,” I sighed. “Stop playing with fire.”

“But I like fire,” he said, stealing yet another book from my shelf. I let him. He’d earned it. It was kind of ironic, that the richest student in school had taken to stealing the most objects from his teachers. And he didn’t stop, even now.

“He’s a serial killer.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Listen to your mother, then,” I told him. It would take a lot of patience with that one.

“Did you?” I had to hand to him – he was great at provoking people. And reading them.

“My mother was dead.”

“I knew it!” He clapped his hands. The book had wandered into his pocket, along with one of my quills. No doubt, he was preparing to write another searing critique. Or he would get bored and forget he had it. Who knew. “I thought I picked up on something there. you know, I never thought I’d say this to one of my professors, but you could do better than a serial killer.” He pressed one hand to his heart. A dramatic gesture, played for the effect. “I mean it!”

“That’s not what we’re doing here,” Theseus said. “And can you stop calling him “Professor” like that? It’s unsettling.” He looked at me. “Can you make him stop, Albus? Please?”

“Ooh, do we get to call you by your first name now?” Dante asked, beaming. “Do we get to pick one? I have always wanted to use the word Wulfric in a sentence. It reminds me of this old pianist I met when I was seventeen. I think I was in Dublin that summer and…”

“No, that’s worse,” Theseus cut him off. “Infinitely worse. Go back to... whatever you were doing first.”

Dante looked at me, one eyebrow cocked.

“I really don’t care. Whatever you prefer. Now, you wanted to take your cousins to Hogsmeade for the afternoon. I have talked to Professor Slughorn about that. He has agreed, but he would like you to stay for dinner as his guest. I told him you would be open to that.”

“Of course.” He grabbed more candy, stuffed it into his pockets. “For the children,” he said, with a wink. “Write to me, when we’ll embark on our next adventure. Theseus. Random suit guy. Professor.” He let the word melt on his tongue one last time, trying his hardest to sound as inappropriate as possible. Then he was gone.

I would have never dared to say it out loud, or even think of it, but once Gellert had put the thought in my head, I had to admit that there was a tiny bit of truth to it. I had looked at him. Last week. Now. It felt dirty, and wrong, and I was a bit disgusted with myself, but that was nothing new. Because if I admitted that he was attractive, now, years later, meaningless as it might be, it drew everything into question. It was easy to spin perverted tales from that. About who I was. About Geller’s version of me. About the blue hat.

I was ten years old, almost eleven, when I saw the first person die. I remember the morning. For weeks, father had been swaying slightly, before he’d put down his coffee cup. I couldn’t tell, why. Couldn’t place the smell on his breath.  That morning, he was upright, clear. Tea only. He made me a cup as well.

“You’re better,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ve made a decision,” he told me, and he took his coat and hat of the rack, and handed me a cookie. He always gave me cookies, when mother didn’t see. She didn’t like such indulgences, but he did it anyways. He’d let me try the occasional sip of firewhiskey, or a puff of his pipe, let me wear his hats around town. That was before. Now all he did was sway, and tell me hushed stories, stories of hate, slurs I’d heard him use in passing, before. Now they filled every sentence.

I took my hat and coat off of the rack as well and followed him. He didn’t notice me. Walked faster. I recognized the boys, when he walked up to them. I’d seen them walk around town before. One of them had auburn hair, like mine. One held a round, dirty leather ball in his hands, the third was wiping his nose on his shirt. Animals, I heard a voice say in the back of my mind, and it was his voice. I had a hard time feeling the same vitriol towards them, but his words kept echoing in my head. And I’d parrot them, when we were alone together.

The boys turned, as they saw him. A stranger in a black coat and grey hat. They laughed, as the stranger pulled a wooden stick out of his pocket, and politely reminded them that they had recently met his daughter. The one with the auburn hair died first. All I remember next was that father’s hat had fallen down, so I picked it up for him. He didn’t thank me. Put a hand on my shoulder and marched me home, without talking.

 “There might be consequences for my actions, son,” he said finally, when we had passed the front door, and I nodded, though I didn’t understand that part. “I might have to go away for a while. You’ll have to be the man of the family. Can you do that for me?”

The following days, the town was in mourning and I found out what death was. I’d heard about it, but never quite understood. Animals, I knew, died. Father butchered our meat himself. He’d let me do it more than once. But I hadn’t been aware of people dying like that. Death happened behind closed doors, and then there was a wooden casket, and tears. It wasn’t spoken about.

Three boys, they said. Before the Catholic school. Next to their football. I didn’t ask questions. He didn’t tolerate curiosity, unless it was intellectual. He was opposed to all things childlike, and foreigners that were too foreign, men who wore long hair or silk shirts, house pets, Muggles, and people who walked barefoot. He was taken from us that same week. I never saw him again. Mother took my letters and told me she’d sent them to him, and I could see through her smile.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand, you see. I understood perfectly. I just didn’t see anything wrong with it. They’d hurt Ariana. He hurt them. It was the manly thing to do, Aberforth said, and I nodded. Mother said we shouldn’t say such things. She wrote me a list of things I was not to repeat at school, things he’d said over and over. And I didn’t. I unlearned saying them. For seven years, I didn’t dare to speak of them. I never asked, why. It wasn’t acceptable, to ask why.

I declined Horace’s dinner invitation. I could see it already – him, surrounded by all his favourite students, Dante as the crown jewel among them. And me. Trying to force appropriate tone onto a young man both Horace and I had known as a child. Was I scared he’d attempt to flirt in front of Horace? Or the students? The truth was, I was in unsafe waters. I had no idea how to end this without hurting him or myself in the process. Teacher’s pet, I could hear Gellert say from across a dinner table. Things he said had a habit of becoming true, and I dreaded that most of all. That he might be right about me, even just a little bit.

I forced my presence on Aberforth instead. He wasn’t happy, but he served me dinner nonetheless. It was perfectly cooked, but looked unappealing, as always. The only thing he said all evening was "You shaved. I don't like it." We ate in silence, though I’d tried to establish conversation, as always.

“We’re closed,” Aberforth barked at the door. When the knocking persisted, he stormed off to yell at the person up front. It was Dante.

He walked past Aberforth with the unmistakable air of a young man with too much confidence, too much money. “Horace said, I could find you here.” I had no doubt that he’d marched through school seeing how many of his former Professors would agree to be on a first-name basis with him. I should have let Horace go first. I’m sure it meant a lot to him.

“I thought you were having dinner with Professor Slughorn.” I had to choose my words carefully here. There was no reason to offend Dante, but I would have hacked off my wand hand before I’d confess to Aberforth why I’d rejected a dinner party invitation.

“Yeah, he has that kids party. I told him, another time.” He took off his scarf, ruffled his fingers through his frosted hair. “I think I might be in trouble. You would tell me, if I was, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I took my cousins for a trip to town, and I think there was someone there. Someone was following us.”

“Are you sure?” It was possible. Definitely not unheard of. But strategically unwise, so it couldn’t be what Gellert was doing.

“Absolutely. I think – is there somewhere we can talk?” He didn’t know Aberforth. It took me until then to realize that they’d never met. This pub wasn’t Dante’s scene. Not opulent enough.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Aberforth said grumpily.

Dante sat down. He buried his face in his hands, all curls and confusion. If it was anybody else, I would have reached out to comfort him. Now it felt wrong. I could practically feel Gellert watching me, taunting me. It seemed he was always with me, these days. Haunting me.

“I don’t think you’re in imminent danger,” I started carefully.

“How do you know? I just upset a murderer – how do I know I’m not next?” I offered him a glass of water. He drank it, though he looked disappointed that it was only water.

“I think it is time I explained a few things to you. You shouldn’t be in this position, you’re terribly young… There is a reason you were visited by Grindelwald and his acolytes. It is the same reason this dinner party happened. Your mother didn’t plan it. It was suggested to her, by people working for Grindelwald. And it is the reason I wanted to be your guest that evening. You see, Grindelwald is preparing for his political rise. He has aspirations that go beyond one country, maybe beyond one continent. And for that he needs money. That’s why he wanted to meet you, and all of your rich acquantances. His followers have a habit of giving him money for his agenda. He had planned to charm you into supporting him.”

“With my money?” Dante asked. “Or… more?”

“That we don’t know yet. But it is very likely he would have liked the option of recruiting you. You’re young and gifted. You lack, forgive me, direction in life or career aspirations of your own. And you’re a grieving son in need of guidance, of support. So I decided to step in, before he had the opportunity to approach you himself. He can be very persuasive. I couldn’t let it happen. I’m sorry he scared you. But I honestly believe that you are not in any real danger at the moment – he still wants your money.”

“And what, if he doesn’t get it?” It wasn’t a comfortable question. As far as I knew, people just didn’t resist Gellert. Or they stayed quiet, after they gave in anyway. Who knew.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

He paused, before he spoke again. “Do you think my father rejected him? Is that why he’s dead?”

“I don’t know. Do you have reason to believe it?”

“Maybe… We were always fighting, I was never home. One day, he’s dead. Then I have a killer in my house who wants to use me – how did he find me so fast, if he didn’t plan this?”

“That I don’t know either. He has a way of finding people who…” It was difficult to say out loud. I would have to talk about myself eventually. “… who might be perceptive to him.”

“Never.” He shook his head decidedly. “He had my baby cousins followed – I – never!” There was a silence for a while. Something he didn’t say out loud. I presumed it was about Grindelwald, and let him ponder on it. He’d speak eventually, when he had made up his mind about his next question.

“But it’s not why he’ll pay attention to me now, is it? It’s not money.” He was clever. Dangerously so. Most people would never add things up this quickly, never had. “It’s you he’s interested in. Has he tried to recruit you?”

“A long time ago. You could say, I’m the one that got away. Maybe you will, too.”

“How did he do it? When he tried with you.”

This was it. The moment I always dreaded. Questions, any kind of questions about us. “We met before he thought of it as recruitment. We were both barely adults. He had no acolytes, no clarity on his goals, just a vision of his own grand future. I was in a similar situation as you are now – my mother had just passed away. I think I met him shortly after her funeral. He would comfort me. I pretended I didn’t need it, but…” I stopped when Dante reached for my hand. He retreated.

“I’m sorry. Continue.”

“There isn’t much else to say. I was young, angry, misguided. I listened to him, until he hurt my family. One summer, and then he was gone.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, I don’t believe you. This was twenty years ago?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Twenty-eight years, and he seeks your attention at every turn?” He tilted his head to the side. “Three decades, and he has murder in his eyes, because I have secrets with you? They told me he would start a rally in my salon, but when you stepped in, he lost all thoughts of politics. You come in and he… forgets his Greater Good?”

“He never forgot. He is a bit scared of me. Within reason.” His eyes were doubtful, but not accusatory. Disappointed, perhaps.

“I do not judge. I want to know. Make me understand why he hates me now.” He smiled. “You know, I like it when people are jealous of me. I don’t like being in the dark.”

“I don’t believe he does. You were just there in the moment. It will pass.”

“And if he sees us together again – will it pass, then?”

“No.”

“And who does that make you – the one who got away – what was he to you?”

Everything. “It’s hard to put into words.”

“And did you love him because of who he was, or in spite of it?”

Both. Neither. “I’ve asked myself that question so many times. It’s hard to figure out, if all you have is regrets. But that summer, before everything fell apart – I think I would have laughed at the question. It wasn’t something I categorized as good or bad, that required logic, morality. It was an obsession. There was no reason to it – I was ready and willing to destroy myself the moment he started talking to me. The truth is, if I hadn’t been in the room when he attacked my family, I would have found a way to explain it away.”

“You would be with him still?” Still, no judgement. Why?

“I don’t want to imagine I would be. The things he’s been doing – I never thought…”

“But you’re not that person.” He took my hand again.

I let him, just for a second, then withdrew it. “You can’t do this, Dante. You know that.”

“I can’t or you can’t?” He had a hand on my face, cupping it gently. It was beyond terrifying.

“It’s the same.” I took his hand, placed it on the table. “Please don’t. You don’t want this.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. I’m a very broken person, but I could never forgive myself, if I ever became the person who… It’s not right, Dante. I’m twenty years older than you and I knew you when you were a child. I gave you detention, and homework, and that can never lead to this. And I know you were trying to get my attention then as you are now. To encourage that in any way would be unforgivable. I hope I haven’t, I really do.” I shuddered to think what Gellert could do to him, if he ever found out. How he would use and twist things. Tell me, Dante – what would you do for your professor?

“Do I not get a say in this?”

“You stole a book from my office, Dante, like you did today. You were fourteen years old. If I had had any idea, I would have talked to you then. But I didn’t. Please don’t see this as a rejection who you are as a person. You will make someone else incredibly happy. Someone who is right for you. I’m not – for so many reasons.”

He nodded. When he looked back up, there were more questions in his face. “The story he told… It was of you?”

“Yes. His version of me.”

“Did you really see your father murder children?”

I grimaced. A painful memory. “I did. I wasn’t supposed to.”

“So he is still recruiting. He did what he came to do after all. It is almost like a twisted courtship.” He took in my face for a while. “The beard. Did he tell you to shave it off?”

The memory was faint. There had never been an instruction, or a demand. But he had mentioned it. Gellert. There had been glances, and insinuations, and I had ignored them in Italy. Ignored them and pretended to forget them. “Not in words, he –“ What had happened exactly? All I remembered were paintings of blood and gore, illustrious wedding guests, chess…

“He must have suggested it at some point.” It seemed laughable. Such a meaningless thing, so small – but it was us, Gellert an me. Nothing was meaningless. He’d played me like a well-tuned instrument before, and it seemed to work, still.

Twenty-eight years and I still bent to his whims. Deep down, had I changed at all?

*

Back in the castle, I evaded Horace, but just barely. There was a storage cupboard in the corner of my room, one I could walk into and find mountains of my old possessions. Books, coats and robes that were too flashy to wear around a school. Entire collections I’d created while travelling. Furniture from an apartment I once had. My alchemist’s bags and materials. And there, in the very back, were memories of my family. On the very top of a neat, organized pile was a hat box.

He fades into obscurity. He takes the blue hat, leaves the country, finds another, and then another. He searched for his passion, his fate. To fool the world about who he was, he started a simple life, and they believed him. But he’s still out there, searching…

I opened the box, and pulled the crinkly paper apart. The old hat, father’s hat. The last thing I had of him.

And what is his fate?

It was blue.

Me.

Notes:

If you think there is a boundary Gellert Grindelwald wouldn't cross, guess in the comments. I can guarantee you that he will break most or all of them in the following chapter. And you'll still finish it with them impression that maybe Albus is crazier than him.

The most dangerous development here is not the harm these two can do each other. It's not if, or how, they can kill each other. The greatest danger would be a true reunion. I think the next chapter, while focussing on their attempts of destruction, will illustrate that.

Chapter 7: Chapter 6 – Mutually Assured Destruction

Notes:

Let's have another Grindelwald / Dumbledore meeting. I want to slowly peel back the layers of what Grindelwald's relationship with both brothers is - why he hates Aberforth so much, and what his version of 1899 really was like. You will see Albus' narrative (which is true, in a way, and his own story) crack a bit towards the end.

You might also be disappointed that Grindelwald would go THERE. It's really, really low what they do to each other here. It sets up the following chapter "Achilles Heel."

Quote: "The talented Mr. Ripley," movie version

 

Chapter 6 – Mutually Assured Destruction

Don't you just take the past and put it in a room in a basement 
and lock the door and never go in there? That's what I do. 
There's demons, and if anybody saw how ugly it is... 
But I keep wanting to do it: fling the door open, 
just let light in and clean everything out.

 Theseus had started to take all our meetings in the Hog’s Head. Less prying eyes. He was trying to make amends with Aberforth as well, which proved difficult. We had barely gotten through half a memo, when someone knocked at the door.

“For fuck’s sake, we’re closed, can’t you read the sodding sign?” Aberforth yelled, as he opened the door. He stopped yelling the moment he saw who stood in front of the door. There was a twitch in his hand, a tensing of his shoulder muscles. He seemed frozen in place.

“Rude,” Gellert said, his voice cutting and cold. “I see you still haven’t developed any manners. No – no need for wands. Wait outside. This won’t last long.” He lifted one hand, twisted Aberforths hands above his head with a jinx, magically lifted him out of the way, as he walked in.

I gave Theseus’ shoulder a quick tap with my wand. When Gellert turned around, I was the only one visible.

“Good grief, Albus, this is even worse than your last house!” He was triumphant. He’d found me, surprised me, even. He was angry about something. I didn’t have to guess much, what it could be.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, I’m just here to talk.” He smiled, as he came closer. As the smile didn’t reach is eyes, it was really more of a grimace. “Let’s abandon those safe waters, shall we?” He turned to Aberforth, forced him to sit with a sleigh of his hand. I had the dark suspicion that he wanted to do more than that. Caution was of the utmost importance. I might have to intervene, sooner or later. “Your brother here might be aware that I recently lost out on a lot of money.” He turned back to me. “Care to elaborate why you thought your involvement was a good idea?”

“You’ve been to Italy.”

“It seems we both have,” he said, his eyes scanning the dusty room. “You are really cold, you know that?”

“Me? I’m cold?” It was a bit much, coming from someone who had tortured the person sitting next to him.

“All I wanted was money, maybe start a conversation with the family about what they can do for me in the future, but you… I didn’t think you were capable of stooping that low.”

“What is he talking about?” Aberforth demanded.

“You’ll ruin that poor young man, just to spite me?” The word ruin bore a sinister tone out of his mouth.

“What did you do to Dante?”

“Me? Haven’t you done enough for the both of us?” He took off his coat, and handed it to one of his supporters. A bland-faced stranger. I would have to look into him. “You know, young people these days are so fragile, so emotional. Well, you must, you’re his teacher – were his teacher,” he corrected himself. “We must distinguish, for legal reasons.” His fingers traced the dust on the bar.  “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to get in my way?”

“What did you do to Dante?” I repeated. My mind was racing. Images of fire, blood, splattered across paintings and chandeliers flickered in front of my eyes. We all knew what he was capable of, and how brutal he could get, if people stood in his way.

“Let’s talk in private. There has got to be a second room in this shithole.”

“There’s tons of room, it’s an Inn, you prat,” Aberforth spat at him. Hands and feet magically tied, bound to his chair, still, he wasn’t backing down. I shook my head warningly, but he ignored me.

“Away from that?” Gellert said, pointing at Aberforth. “I will have to kill it, if it keeps annoying me.” There might be more than one bloodbath, if it came to that.

“Upstairs.”

We walked up the stairs and into the first room at the top.

“Ah,” he whispered, as he saw the painting above the fireplace. The soft smile, the blue dress. The same blue dress. “She was a beauty, wasn’t she?”

He took the apple, and cut it into slices for her.

“I can do it myself,” Ariana said, frowning.

“But I wish to do it for you,” he said, smiling, and my heart leapt when I could see the joy in her eyes. The first friend she’d been allowed to make in eight long years. He could be so good, sometimes. He was good with her.

“Ariana, I think I know a way to help you. Would you be interested in that?”

Pondering on the past wasn’t good. It had never been good for me. I had to think of Aberforth downstairs. I had to be smart about this. “You wanted to talk.”

“I wanted a lot of things. But it seems someone keeps getting in my way.”

“That is unfortunate,” I said. “I can see how that would be frustrating to you.”

“You can, can you?”

“This is terribly uncivilized of me. Would you like something to eat? A drink, perhaps?”

“Sit down.” He was clearly used to giving orders. “You are your father’s son, aren’t you? Polite, to the point of deception. They don’t even see what you’re capable of.” It was empty words. Meant to infuriate, provoke me. He’d done better when he focussed on my siblings.

“You never met my father.”

“My mistake.” He smiled once more. “You talked about him so much, I feel like I do.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Yes. I forgot. I’m here to ruin your life. Or threaten to ruin it, I think.”

“That’s unfortunate. Continue.”

“You don’t think me capable of it?”

“I think you’re capable of ruining a lot of people’s life. But you’ve already done everything you can to me. What else is there?”

Gellerts eyes wandered to the door. “Aberforth would be so touched to hear that.”

“I see. You came here to threaten my brother.”

“I would, but I don’t think that’s quite enough,” he said carelessly. “I know how little you care for him.”

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as we both thought. It happens. People drift apart, circumstances being what they are.”

“You changed.” There was an accusation in his tone. He was hurt, still. He had the audacity to be hurt.

“I should hope so.”

“This is what you wear around that school of yours? Layers of grey.” It was petty. Petty, and shallow. He was slipping. Trying and failing to find something to harm me.

“It appears so.” The strange thing was that most people underestimated, how thick-skinned a Professor has to be about everything, but especially about one’s appearance. Children can be bold, direct. He could learn a lesson or two from them, I thought.

“You’re fading in the background. You’re the best that place has to offer, and yet you’re using it to hide.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“And that leads to the question what you’re hiding from. Why do you not want to be seen?” We had discussed it at length, when I’d been young. My need to be seen, to be admired. What I had considered a fault, he’d praised and nourished to the point of opulence. “Is it the other teachers, perhaps? You don’t want them to talk.”

I flinched, every time I saw his name, his face in the papers during the first few years. Every hallway seemed to be filled with talk about him. His name echoed in my classrooms and I felt transparent.

I evaded questions, rather than answering them. Ironically, everyone wanted to hear the Defence Against the Dark Art’s Professor’s opinion on the infamous Gellert Grindelwald. What should they do, if they met him? Did I think him as dangerous as the papers said? Did I think he would attack in Britain, as well?

I grew a beard covering half my face, hid my eyes behind reading glasses in class, pretended I needed them more than I did. I started wearing grey, all shades of grey, fading into the walls of the castle. So they could see me less, as I walked the hallways, trying not to hear his name.

If I’d been a religious man, I would have prayed for his death then, just so I wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. 

“I like my colleagues.” This might be an unwise statement. I would have to be careful, not to name names.

“It’s not the students, it can’t be,“ he said. “You need them to love you. You need everyone to love you, but children have to be so easy to impress… It begs the question why you didn’t choose a different profession. Unless there are other perks.” He drew in one last angry breath, and then his face shifted. A new smile appeared, or a hint of it, at least. The warmth did not reach his eyes. “They’re so malleable at that age. An eleven-year-old must be impressed by a floating feather. And then to meet you – it must be like staring into the sun. It was for me, and I’m not easy to impress. That feeling doesn’t leave you, once you grow up, does it?”

“It left you.”

“I grew disillusioned,” he said. “But I’m cold – I lack that Italian fiery disposition you seem to enjoy so very much.” He took the chain of his neck, traced the lines of the phial. Provocation. I couldn’t fall for it. What could he do to me, really?

“Tell me,” he said softly, almost gently, his eyes still on the phial, “what would they say at your school, if they knew who you are? Would they be afraid for their little children?” He paused, let the barely veiled threat sink in. “You have such access to them. Such influence. And they love you so very much. You said it yourself – everybody loves me. That is powerful. And power tends to frighten people. You know who is most easily frightened? A close-minded person. The type of parent who wouldn’t want anyone… unnatural around their children.” He smiled once more at my silence. “You see, I can hurt you after all.” His voice was but a whisper at this point. “Don’t look at me like I put this fear in your head. It’s always been there, at the back of your mind. It’s why you don’t stand out. Why you’re so very cautious. A man’s reputation is so easily tarnished these days…”

He stood up, abruptly. “I’ve made myself clear, then.”

“You have.”

“Wonderful. You’ll talk to Dante. I’ll expect that money by the end of the week.” He paused at the door. “I don’t care how you do it, just do it behind closed doors.”

I almost had to throw up at his words. Bile, mixing with the ice that was my stomach. For some reason it had never occurred to me that he’d go there. It had always seemed taboo. A line we wouldn’t cross. I should have known better.

I hurried to follow him down the stairs. Aberforth was still sat at the table, the stranger by his side. The one they called Zabini waited by the door.

 “I was just leaving,” Gellert said, picking up one of the bottles. “I think I’ll take that.” It was a strangely childish move, and I could tell that it was directed at Aberforth rather than myself. They looked at each other in the dim pub light, and I could tell that Aberforth wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face. And we all knew how that ended last time.

“That’ll be twelve Sickles,” Aberforth said. I had to admire his guts. I felt spent, tired. Dirty. But he was always ready for a fight.

Gellert laughed softly, and I could feel every single hair on my neck stand up. Him. Aberforth. A rustic wooden table. Dim light. Laughter. “I think I’ll kill you before I go. I should have done that from the start. Zabini, tell the others to wait. I’ll be there in a moment.”

I had to distract him somehow. Get in front of Aberforth. He couldn’t do it, if he was to hurt me in the process. The oath wouldn’t let him.

“Albus… I’m doing you a favour here. You never wanted him-“ he pointed at Aberforth. “Didn’t you say, if you could have picked one family member to survive, it wouldn’t have been him?” And there I was again, standing in a doorway, helpless, useless. “I think I’ll put a pretty blue dress on you,” he whispered to Aberforth, and my blood felt like ice, as he said it. “Maybe then your brother will finally like you.”

Even Aberforth was too stunned to react to that. For a long moment, no one spoke.

“You feel too safe,” I heard my own voice. Not trembling. Not weak. Cold, like I’d been once. One deep breath, then another. He was being careless, still. Jumping from attack to attack. He couldn’t decide what my Achilles heel was – Aberforth, Dante, the parents, the accusations. My desperate privacy seemed an obvious choice, one that he had made painfully clear he was ready to twist and turn me into a monster in the eyes of others. Yet, he wavered. Not for moral reasons. There was a hint of insecurity there. hesitation. Both could be exploited. “Do you honestly think I can’t touch you, just because you took some jewellery out of a grave and made me cut my hand one time?” He flinched. He was sensitive about the oath. I’d hit a nerve. “You put a hand on my family ever again, and you will be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. But then you already do that…”

He just gave me bored smile, pointing to the blood phial. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You’re right, of course. How thoughtless of me. If only there was a way to harm you without magic or bloodshed.” I let it sink in for moment. He wouldn’t get there himself. I had to help him understand – that was a first. “I could start talking, of course…”

“You’re talking right now,” Zabini interrupted me.

“Hush,” Gellert said, smiling even wider now. I’d never noticed that his eyes got colder when he smiled. “Be nice. Tell me then, Albus. What’s the big plan?”

“You should know that already. You created it for me. Minutes ago.” He blinked, connecting the dots. He understood me in an instant. No waiting around for comprehension, for questions. But he didn’t have the full picture, all the details his disgusting plan could be turned on him. I almost wanted to thank him for it, but I knew that might risk Aberforth’s safety. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she. Lovely Vinda Rosier, always close by. You like to put her in pictures next to you, because it creates a distraction. People don’t ask questions, as long as she’s there. Do you think that will hold up, once I start talking?”

“You wouldn’t.” But there was a flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Fear. Part of him had always feared me. “You’d destroy yourself in the process. Your reputation-“

“… is worth far less than yours,” I ended his sentence. “What do you think those rallies will look like once I’m done? What is a leader without followers?”

“My followers don’t listen to you!”

“You see, that’s strange. You once said you’d put in charge of writing all your speeches, so I must have a way with words.”

“You would ruin yourself in the process,” he protested.

“I might,” I agreed. “I’m willing to take that risk. This is all I have left. Think very carefully of how you want to proceed. You’re scared of me already, and I have both hands tied behind my back. How will you feel, once I’ve got nothing to lose?”

He didn’t speak. Watched me walk behind the bar and pour myself a drink. The first in years. I didn’t drink, never. The reason for it was standing mere feet apart from the only family member I had left, glowering at me.

“You put a hand on my brother, I go public. Mutually assured destruction.” I took a sip of the Wine. It was good. Velvety, notes of liquorish and cherry. Merlin, I’d missed drinking!

“You won’t.” He stepped away from Aberforth, and behind the bar. Put the bottle right next to me. Somehow, this was that worst thing he’d done so far. I couldn’t explain, why.

“And let’s include the Scamander brothers in that, while we’re at it. You hurt any of them, I’ll apparate into the Daily Prophet’s head quarters and start talking.”

“Just the Scamanders? Not any of your students?” He smiled, seemingly satisfied with something he was planning. “No Dante?”

“You think I’m bluffing.”

“I know you are. I know you.” He lifted one hand, the tips of his fingers tracing my hairline, resting over my temple. I could feel the warmth of his hand, and then he took back his hand, and it was almost painful. “It was good to see you, Albus. We should talk more often.”

He left.

I took a bottle of Firewhiskey, poured myself a glass, and emptied it in one. “Theseus, do you still have your contact at the Daily Prophet?”

“Yes.”

Another glass. “Go see her. I need someone to ask him a question when he’s in front of photographers at the next event. Tell her to wait for the others to ask questions first. Then I want her to ask about his plans to run for office.”

“Why?” He was taking notes, as he asked. Always the multitasker.

“It’s a safe question,” I explained. “Safe question first. There need to be a lot of pictures. Rosier needs to be in them. The first question will ease him up. He’ll like it. He’ll allow another.”

“What…” Theseus looked up from his notepad.

“Tell her to ask him when he’s getting married.”

“Merlin…” Aberforth rolled his eyes. He clearly had more to say, but he was still fighting off the lingering effects of the jinx.

“You are cold,” Theseus remarked.

“I know.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” He was doubtful. I needed him to act more and question less. It would make things easier.

“He needs to know that I’m not bluffing. I can’t hurt him physically, but this – this is something he doesn’t think me capable of, so it will come as a shock. It’s his own plan working against him. He’ll hesitate, before he comes for his next attack on me. He’ll wonder, if it might backfire as well. I need him to second-guess his every move.”

“You really think that’ll work?” Aberforth asked. “He might just do it.”

“He wouldn’t,” Theseus said.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” I told him, smiling. The alcohol had gone to my head, making it feel light and wonderful, and even the tightness of my chest couldn’t fight that. “I think I’ve hit a sore spot there. He likes her, you see. They’re friends. They respect each other. But he won’t put her above his aspirations, and he doesn’t want this to get out. I don’t think Ms Rosier will enjoy getting used. Very few people do.” I refilled my glass, toasting them. “He wants to play – let’s play.”

“You’re willing to gamble on that?” Theseus asked.

“I am. I feel good about it.”

“Should you be drinking?” Aberforth commented, taking the bottle from me.

“I’ll pay.”

 “That’s not… forget it.” He moved all the bottles into a cabinet, locked it. A bit of an overreaction, really.

 “Are you sure he won’t call your bluff?” Theseus asked, after a while.

“Who says I’m bluffing?” He looked slightly discomforted. A simple man. Clever, but good. It’s often hard for good people to understand the need for mind games. I tended to struggle with it myself. “You look worried.”

“I’m not much of a poker player.” Of course he wasn’t.

“This is not Poker. This is Russian Roulette.”

He laughed, taking up his Butterbeer bottle. He’d declared me mad. He was not wrong. “Have you ever played Russian Roulette?”

“Not in a while.” But I remembered. The rush, handing over the gun, only surpassed by the thrill of feeling it against your own temple. Of pulling the trigger. That tenth of a second, before you hear the hollow sound. “He flinched last time,” I said. “He will again. Trust me.”

*

“Where did you get this?” I took the gun out of his hand. His eyes were glued to me, glittering. It was clear that he had tried impressing me once more.

“I stole it from a Muggle.” He pointed at the various parts. “It has little metal things in there. if you pull that,” his fingers glid over the metal, then over my hand. It was exhilarating. “Right here - that’s the trigger. You press it, and it releases a bullet. That’s how Muggles kill. They have bigger ones than that, of course. Cannons, too. They take entire houses apart for their dumb wars.”

“And what had you planned to do with this?” I asked him.

For a moment, I worried that he might say, “Kill a Muggle,” but he didn’t. He just shrugged. “Target practice, I guess. We don’t really need primitive machines like this, do we? But I do wonder, if they could be re-engineered. So Muggles shoot themselves, if they try to kill.”

Philosophically, I was intrigued. The idea that one couldn’t harm another, that there was a magic preventing it, was fascinating. It seemed right. Shouldn’t taking a life be prevented at all costs? Shouldn’t people know that they couldn’t do it, that it would kill them, if they tried?

Maybe all crime should be handled like that. Maybe the world would be a better place, if it was. Maybe I’d still have an intact family. The thought of father, of Askaban, was unpleasant, so I quickly changed topics. Gellert didn’t like me melancholic.

“We could play with it,” I suggested.

“Play how? Like kids play Gendarmerie?” He sounded disgusted. There was something about children playing with toys that annoyed him. Or maybe he just looked down at it, because he never had – no siblings, or close relatives his own age. And Durmstrang was a more severe, restricted place than Hogwarts had been.

“Of course not. We play Roulette.” It was an excellent idea. I had no idea how I hadn’t said it sooner.

“Roulette?”

“Russian Roulette. Come on, you’re from Russia, how do you not know this game?” He still looked clueless, so I opened up the gun, showed him the remaining bullets. There were two of them. “These are four empty chambers, two full ones. If you pull the trigger, that leaves a third of a chance to shoot an actual bullet.”

“But how is it a game?” he asked. He still seemed mildly disgusted with the Muggle weapon, though, with him being a boy and it being a weapon, it fascinated him, of course. He knew far too much about Muggle weapons for someone who was just opposed to them.

“You put it to your temple,” I showed him the movement on myself. “And when it’s your turn, you pull the trigger.”

“That sounds dangerous.” He looked away, as I started playing around with the gun.

“It is, that’s the fun.” I gave him a challenging smile, then brought the gun back to my temple. “Here, I’ll go first.” His eyes went wide, were glued to me, admiring and fearing my insanity, and I pulled the trigger in happiness. Nothing happened.

“Your turn.”

He hesitated. “What if I don’t.”

“You forfeit the game. You lose all honour in my eyes. I will be merciful, but I will mock you.”

After yet another moment’s hesitation, he brought the gun to his temple. His hand shook, and his eyes sought mine, as if for safety, and then he pulled the trigger. Nothing but a small clicking sound happened.

His hand shook even harder, as he put it down. “That was – that was something.” For a moment, he looked at me strangely. “I thought the last thing I’d see would be your eyes.”

I couldn’t quite place my emotions, or give a clever response, so I showed him my hand. He screamed, in surprise and delight at my deceit, when he saw the two bullets. “You took them out!”

“Of course I did. Did you think I would honestly kill you?”

“You were scared, too!” he insisted. This seemed very important to him. That I wasn’t braver, or more daring. As a Gryffindor, I was offended.

“I don’t mind,” I told him. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll really do it?”

“Here.” My stomach felt slightly queasy, when I inserted one of the bullets back into a chamber, and lifted the gun to my head. I pressed it against my chin this time. cool, hard metal. It didn’t feel bad. I should have been terrified, but I strangely wasn’t. All I could see was his terrified, awed face. All I could feel was the thrill of danger, the feeling of being painfully, ecstatically alive.

“What, if you get the bullet?”

“Then at least I’ll be rid of the boredom that is Godric’s Hollow!”

I lifted the gun to my head once more. When he looked into my eyes, I pulled the trigger.

 

 

Notes:

Coming up: Chapter 7 - Achilles Heel
If you ever wanted to read about what Grindelwald is truly capable of - and if you desire a bit of a shift in the narrative - keep reading.
It will become less and less hostile. That's when you should get worried.

Chapter 8: Chapter 7 – Kill Your Darlings

Notes:

For all those who have been waiting for the turning point - this chapter introduces it. Depending on what kind of reader you are, you'll find the ending shocking, needlessly brutal of very romantic. I am using a bit of a Dark Romance trope here - but I do believe it fits in this instance.

Plus, more flashbacks. Cheesy, romantic ones. For contrast. Enjoy :)

Credits:
1) Song - The Lightning Strike, Snow Patrol
2) Book quotes: Great Expectations, Charles Dickens

 

 

Chapter 7 – Kill Your Darlings

What if this storm ends?
And I don't see you
As you are now
Ever again

The perfect halo
Of gold hair and lightning
Sets you off against
The planet's last dance

Just for a minute
The silver forked sky
Lit you up like a star
That I will follow

I want pinned down
I want unsettled
Rattle cage after cage
Until my blood boils

I want to see you
As you are now
Every single day
That I am living

Painted in flames
All peeling thunder
Be the lightning in me
That strikes relentless

Over night, a young girl in Venice, Arabella Zabini, had lost her life. And over night, Gellert Grindelwald had become famous in Hogwarts, more famous, than he had been before. She was killed by a Muggle soldier, the newspapers said. He’d been drunk. She’d procured a magical umbrella, shielding herself and a friend from the rain, and it had scared him into action. As he had a gun on him, said action was fatal.

The Zabini family had invited an infamous guest speaker to their daughter’s funeral, and the newspapers had had a field day with it. Salacious news trickled through to the student body, printed and unprinted, rumoured, false, true. “What a world we could make for all humanity, if we abandoned the old ways and showed the Nomagique who we are, if we were allowed to let them abandon their ignorance, to learn from their cruelty.” he was quoted as saying. “We who live for truth, for freedom... and for love - we implore the Italian ministry to consider our plea. For Arabella. For all those who loved her."

And that was the reason, he’d become the centre of every conversation in the castle. People who knew Arabella also knew another girl, one who had just graduated from our school. Tabitha. Tabitha, who still had friends at Hogwarts. Who was remembered fondly by her professors, for her sweetness and her smile. Who had had troubles with her ministry-employed parents throughout her youth, but never talked about them. Tabitha, who was in every newspaper, on the front page, crying in the arms of the most infamous man in all of Europe.

“I heard she’s heartbroken,” one of the students said, as I walked past him in the Great Hall at breakfast.

“I heard the parents didn’t want her at the funeral,” another offered her piece of gossip.

“That makes no sense!”

“Then why was she there?”

“Grindelwald’s people brought her in! Because they care about us –“

“No they don’t! They’re killers!”

“He’s just being honest – what they did to Arabella could happen to any of us!”

Horace was the first one to break up a brawl during the lunch break. Students screaming about Tabitha’s parents, about our governments, British, Italian, students both praising and condemning Grindelwald were at each other’s throat.

“You can’t fight like this, ladies,” he told two Ravenclaw girls. “It’s very unbecoming! I will have to talk to your head of house!”

“I don’t care,” Eva Morales said, raising her small nose high, and glowering at him, as though he’d insulted her terribly. “I’m allowed to have an opinion – and if those old people can’t even accept love, I don’t have to accept any of you!” She directed the last words at both Horace and myself.

“Thanks, Eva,” I said, before Horace could respond, as he was at a loss for words. “We appreciate your passion, but it is misplaced, when you’re rude to your Potions Professor. Would you please go to lunch now? And no fighting, or it will be detention!”

“I don’t think we will have peace any time soon,” said Horace, walking me to my office. I’d offered him a glass of Sherry for his nerves. I didn’t drink myself, but it never hurt to have refreshments for guests handy. “Those kids really think Grindelwald speaks for them.”

“People do that when they feel helpless,” I offered. “They’re not being listened to, they’re scared – looking for a loud voice that matches ones fears is a natural reaction.”

“Did you know?” he said, after his second Brandy. “About them? Pen pals, for years. Tabitha used to bring letters to my class to show her friends. Such a romantic story, so sad… And to lose Arabella so young – oh, I’m sure you knew all about it!”

“I didn’t.” In truth, I barely remembered Tabitha. She’d been quiet, unassuming. Sat in the last row, year after year. “She didn’t take my NEWT classes.”

“Oh, I just assumed, because you…” He put down his glass, possibly regretting drinking altogether. “Forgive me – it’s just – it’s awkward – we never talked about… You’re a very private person,” he finished his rambling. I could tell that he was about to say something uncomfortable, or at least something that might make him uncomfortable. He liked his comfort zone, Horace. It would be rude to drag him out of it.

“That would be true.”

“But I never understood, why. Surely, it wouldn’t be the end of the world… People would understand…” This was interesting. So he did know. It made feel strangely affectionate towards him, for being so respectful, so reserved.

“Like you said, I’m a private person.”

“That sounds lonely, Albus,” he protested. “Do you intend to grow old alone?”

I hadn’t even given that any thought. “There are worse fates.”

He looked exasperated. “What could be worse than loneliness?”

I couldn’t tell him. But he, surprisingly, could deduce a lot from the expression on my face. People really didn’t give him enough credit for his social skills.

“I see. Anyone I would know?”

“Not in person.”

“Someone I have heard of, then?”

“I would say you have.”

This piqued his interest. Of course it did. Horace loved celebrities. “Will you tell me a name?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

He was annoyed. My mystery annoyed him. “Can you at least give me a hint?”

“If I told you, you would never ask me for any of my secrets again,” I said. “You might get tired of gossip altogether, Horace.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” He paused. “I still want to know.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Is it that bad?” He frowned, clearly thinking of all the known people he had seen me with, famous and infamous.

“I daresay it is.”

*

He would tease me with my poetry, but he would beg to hear more at every turn. Novels, dramas, philosophy, sonnets – he consumed the English language, and he learned it fast. Used it, treasured it. He would quote my favourite books back to me in letters, late at night, first thing in the morning. Our entire lives were made up of words we would speak and write to each other, every waking moment of them.

“Read this one to me,” he demanded, one day. It was Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.

“Why?”

“It will fit me, I think.” He’d read the title only. He thought of his own future when he looked at it, his own glory. He longed for more books that would inspire speeches he wanted to give, inspire others of his vision.

“I don’t think you’ll like this one,” I said. In truth, I was uncomfortable. I hadn’t picked it back up since my last train journey, but I was reminded of the intensity of a love story I didn’t want others to hear about. The book, like my thoughts when I looked at him, was supposed to remain my secret.

“Then find me a part I will like.” He gave me that same undefinable smile that flickered on his face, every now and then, when I sat closer than I needed to. When I pretended I just had to read the same book page as him. When he stole food from my plate, my fork, my hand. Every time we stood a little closer, every touch that might have been construed as improper by some – he always backed away with that same smile on his face. I had no clue whether it was mocking or luring me, and it drove me mad that I did not know.

I don’t know what possessed me that day. Lack of sleep after the last time he’d touched my hand, anger at Aberforth’s comment about our friendship being “too intense,” common Gryffindor recklessness, or madness itself. But I opened the book, and started reading. Let him see me. Let him know.

 “The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I love her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection.”

He didn’t speak for a while, so I only had my heart to listen to, galloping merrily along in my chest, like a wild horse. If he touched me now, the horse would start kicking. Was it capable of breaking my ribs? It felt like it.

“Have you ever procured Fiendfyre?” he said, finally.

“No, of course not.” I knew of Fiendfyre only from books in the Restricted Section of my old school library, so of course I was fascinated, but he was not supposed to know that. If he knew what excited me, I would be made of glass. And if he could look right through me, he could reject me. As long as he didn’t, as long as all of it was in my head, I could at least by happy in my delusions.

“I can show you, how. I think you’ll like it.”

“Why?”

“You like playing with fire.” He leant forward, a hint of mischief in his eyes. If he knew, if he had any idea of what this was doing to me… It was almost cruel of him. “I had a dream of it.”

“You had a dream about me?” There he went again, feeding my delusions!

“I did. It was glorious – henceforth it has to become reality.” He had a habit of using random connectives and adjectives to illustrate his thoughts, whether they matched or not. The imperative seemed that they had to sound very dramatic.

“Not all dreams become reality!” I didn’t know why, but his seer abilities were what I liked least about him. Maybe because it could lead him to uncover the truth about me, maybe because I suspected he already had, and wouldn’t speak to me about it.

“Mine do,” he said, with a smug look on his face. “You should be more like me in that regard, Albus. At least I get what I want.”

*

The Aurors told me about Gellert’s involvement in Muggle liasons abroad, beyond Europe, even. They had eyes on him and his people in the Arabian Peninsula, where he presented a looming threat to British Muggle soldiers stationed near Sabilla. Why the soldiers were there, Travers couldn’t explain. Our Prime Minister dreaded to speak to that of the Muggles’, should things escalate abroad, as they had before. And as Travers went deeper into his explanation of the conflict, mixing up Ikhwan tribesmen and the Abdulaziz loyalists twice.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he said, impatiently. “It doesn’t really matter. We have to have the Muggle’s back here. We should show some patriotism, I think.”

“Patriotism for what?” I asked. Why would I be expected to support a military, a war, any war? What was it for? Land, gold, religion – none of them seemed sufficient reasons to invade foreign countries. I doubted very much that the British soldiers in place could tell the difference between Abdulaziz and Ikhwan fighters. Did they even know who to shoot at?

“Oh, don’t give me one of your philosophical lessons,” he interrupted my musings. “I don’t care, really. Maybe some Englishmen would do those brutes some good – those tribes, taking each other apart like savages – it was the same before we got to America, with all of those Natives and their…”

“My mother was one of those Natives,” I said. I didn’t need to say more than that. He was unsettled, flustered. Behind him, Theseus tried his hardest not to smile.

“That is not – well, I – you don’t look it – are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“You will accompany us,” he said, changing topics. “We need to keep Grindelwald’s people away from the soldiers. We have reinforcements from the Arab Aurors, but judging from the Paris incident, that might not be enough. If all else fails, you will let Grindelwald know that attacking us means to attack you. And he can’t do that, can he?”

“You want me to stand in front of your men?” I didn’t mind protecting them. I didn’t even mind standing in the line of fire. But his assumption that I would do it, because he told me – him, making plans for me, him, placing me in front of his people was presumptuous, to say the least.

“We would really appreciate the help,” Theseus said, instead of Travers. “I don’t like the military scene either. But we can’t have him involved in Muggle affairs. He wants to expose us and paint them as monsters in the process. And what better way, than to instigate conflicts with the most weaponized Muggles, and lure us in. This needs to be resolved quickly, and without any explosions or bloodshed, if possible.”

“And what comes after?” I asked. “When he finds the next military base, and then the one after that? There are Muggles wars all over the world, there have been more and more since they invented air travel. You know this is why he has such success, why people listen to him. If my home could be blown up tomorrow, I would be scared, too.”

“That is exactly why he needs to be defeated,” Travers said, missing the point, as usual. He thought only of the kill, the success, not the people who were crushed on the way there. “Do you know how many deaths he can cause, if he focuses only on British forces abroad? They’re everywhere!”

“I see we’re deciding not to focus on the root of the problem, then.”

He had no response. I doubt he even understood what I was trying to say.

“You know I appreciate your input,” Theseus said, while we waited for the Arabic Auror’s contact. “But it might be best, if you didn’t voice it once we’re there. It’s alright with us, the way you behave, because we know you – you have certain liberties there. People don’t know you everywhere, they might… Well, they’d be offended at the very least. I don’t want too much paperwork. Travers will have me writing apology notes until my retirement party, if there is an incident.”

He was wrong, of course. I was greeted by name, by old friends, the moment we stepped onto the scene. Voices were raised, excited ideas exchanged in many languages, and I was pulled into more than one hug. Next to me stood a young Englishman who was not used to their customs, or their warmth. He’d been fed a few too many stories of the ‘uncivilized’ to stay objective, even if he was an upstanding, moral person. As upstanding as one could be while upholding the law.

“Theseus – this is Sayid – Sayid, Theseus. We met in Bagdad, what was it, three years ago?”

“Four,” Sayid corrected me. “Have you finally decided to stop teaching and join the Aurors, then? You know, you don’t have to stay with the English. We pay better.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, while Travers shot me a dirty look. He’d stuck to handshakes, refused the hugs. Behind him, his men did the same, though some of them at least looked apologetic about it.

“So, Mr Travers, Europe sends us their forces along with their villains, then?” Sayid said to him, finally. “That military of yours sure gets around. I’m sorry to say you won’t be greeted as warmly as you expect. Grindelwald has a lot of friends here. The constant civil unrest from the Muggles, the constant wars and shifting borders over the years… it makes people a bit rebellious.”

“That man is a monster,” Travers said, simply. “And we will bring him to justice, believe me.” He failed to see the bigger picture, again.

“A monster with an affinity for poetic language,” one of Sayid’s female Auror colleagues, Hawa Merballah, said. She was an old class mate of mine. “He speaks some of our language. The people respond to that. And even when he doesn’t, they keep listening. You would be surprised how many houses have hosted him. He kept getting invited to weddings, a few years back.” She smiled, when Travers didn’t see the implication. “Weddings are big affairs here. A few hundred guests. A thousand, if one has the money. And they like to celebrate long into the night. there is music, food, and entertainment. Some of us find foreign speakers very entertaining. When my cousin Ibrahim got married, he spoke for an hour.”

“What does he talk about?” Theseus asked.

“Love. Fate.” Of course he did. “The tragedy that we’re hidden from the world. His constant line about magic blooming only in rare souls. Whoever introduced that man to poetry did you no favours, I tell you that. I could have sworn, he quoted both Charles Dickens and Emily Bronte at one point.”

Theseus threw me a glance.  

“No, that was Farrah’s wedding,” one of the others corrected Hawa. “He did a shorter speech at Amir’s wedding. Your cousin exaggerates.”

“I thought his name was Ibrahim,” Theseus said, trying desperately to keep up with all the heavy accents around him. “You changed the name of the person getting married there.”

“No, no – it was Ibrahim’s wedding – Amir is – how you say – groom?”

“We don’t have that in England,” Travers said curtly.

Sayid rolled his eyes. “Europeans. So rigid.” He rattled a bag of Galleons in my direction. “Seriously, my friend, the door is always open.”

“Thank you, that’s very considerate.”

“My brother is getting married in a few weeks. You are invited, of course.”

“That’s kind, but I don’t go to weddings.”

“Any weddings?”

“Yes.”

“But that is rude. You do not say no to an Arab invitation!”

“I apologize.”

“He is lying,” Hawa interrupted us. “You were at my wedding!  April 1899, remember?”

 I did. she had been beautiful, youthful, radiating love and happiness. I had danced, enjoyed myself, enjoyed all of the attention of people who had just met me, yet loved me in an instant. I had desired to meet everyone in the world so bad that spring – before everything fell apart.

“I don’t go to weddings anymore,” I said. It was all I could say at this point, without exposing myself.

Sayid frowned. “Who hurt you?” An excellent question. I wouldn’t answer it, of course, but teachers love good questions. You can’t turn that off on the weekends.

“It seems Grindelwald is more interested in funerals these days,” Travers steered the conversation back to topics he was comfortable with. “Merlin knows, he causes enough of them.”

“So do your soldiers,” Sayid said, and I could see it in his eyes. He understood the supporters. He might not be one of them, but he understood. Maybe that was a good thing, in the long run.

And me? I was mostly surprised Gellert had travelled this much.

*

He sat by the fire, the book in his lap. Great Expectations. My mouth was dry, and my knees weak, as I remembered the previous night. we hadn’t spoken about it since, and I’d hoped we wouldn’t. He didn’t say anything now. Just watched me, as I sat down across from him. The fire was warm and oddly calming, though strange in the middle of summer.

“You lit a fire.” I couldn’t think of what else to say. “In July.”

“My aunt did it,” he said. “She made soup,” It was a lie, but I chose to believe it. He had other books next to him. Whatever he had experimented on, in the middle of his aunt’s living room, unashamed, unhidden, he wasn’t ready to tell me about it.

“I like your book,” he said.

I didn’t answer. It was hard to find words that might not incriminate me.

After watching me for a while, he picked the book up, opened it and began to read to me. “Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since – on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to displace with your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil.”

My heart was beating out of my chest, when he looked back at me. I longed for control over my face, over the dumb, helpless smile on it.

“Did you get to that part yet?” he asked.

“Yes.” I’d read the entire book on the train ride to London, before I got to Godric’s Hollow. There hadn’t even been a need for the train, apparition was possible. I’d just wanted to spend one last day away from my family, away from the small town I dreaded so much.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

“I liked what you read to me the other day,” he said, without a trace of shame in his voice. “You have a way of finding words people need to hear.”

“I didn’t write the book.”

“No. You just found the right page. It’s a gift.”

“Thank you.” The right page. In my wildest dreams, I hadn’t dared hoping…

“No, I mean the book. It’s my gift by you; I’m keeping it.” He said it so dramatically, we both had to laugh. The moment I’d dreaded so much became one of happiness. He had a gift as well. For taking my fears, and turning them into bliss. I didn’t dare to tell him, then. I lacked courage. But I knew I would at some point, and that was, for the moment, enough.

*

“Will you ever tell me, what happened to you?” Hawa said, as we walked towards the soldier’s encampment. “You used to be so happy, so full of life – you wanted to do everything, change the world…”

“Maybe I wanted to change the world too much,” I admitted. “It’s a bit of an arrogant claim for one person, don’t you think?”

“But it’s you,” she protested. “We used to make bets, back in school, what you would do. I had money on politics, Malik said inventions, Bartemius picked something boring like books…”

“I have written books,” I said, though I wasn’t offended. They were niche literature, scientific in nature, and a touch obscure. Not everyone’s cup of tea.

“You know what I mean. What happened?”

“It’s a long story.” Aurors were walking behind us, and ahead of us. Out of earshot, but I couldn’t be sure. This was not the moment to confess my youthful sins to an old friend. “And a rather dark one.”

“I must hear it, then. Promise you will come to the wedding!” She held on to my arm. “Come on – I will not take no for an answer! Everyone is coming! Elphias, and Sayid, and Elsbeth…”

“I’ll think about it.”

The soldier’s camp was quiet. They had rigid bed times, and early mornings. The goal was for them to rise in the morning, without any knowledge of being visited by wizards, or the existence of magic itself. Modified memories, if necessary. Repairing spells, possibly. Ideally, no casualties.

“Everyone – get on your posts!” Travers took command. The Arabic Aurors looked displeased, but complied. “Red sparks, if you’re in danger. Green sparks, if you spot Grindelwald, or any of his supporters. Blue, if a Muggle is hurt. Do not communicate with anyone, until you have to. I want a clean operation, and I don’t want a mountain of paperwork on Monday, are we clear?”

We spread out. It was pleasant, to walk the night alone. The freezing air, the quiet, the privacy of trees, as the camp was next to a forest – I’d always liked the solitude of forests. If one can’t find stimulating conversation partners, a forest will do just as well. It awakens ideas, fosters thoughts and keeps your secrets. Waldeinsamkeit, I remembered. It was a painful memory.

“Stop right where you are!” It was a soldier. He had one of those long guns raised, pointed at my chest. “DON’T MOVE!”

There were more of them, coming closer. All with their little guns, and their uniforms. I wasn’t too worried. A simple freezing spell, should they shoot at me, maybe a few memory modifications. I might not even need a wand for half of it.

“Who are you?” They yelled. “Who sent you?”

“Gentlemen, this is a simple misunderstanding…”

“He’s one of them,” one of the soldiers said.

“You think they’re coming tonight?”

“Yes, they sent warnings.”

“Look for the symbol – does he have the symbol?” the one in command yelled. “If you see a triangle, he’s one of them!”

“I assure you, I am not a threat to you.” I had orders not to disapparate. Not that I cared for Traver’s orders, but I felt for Theseus and the amount of work it would create for him, and Hawa, and Sayid, and the others, if I made any mistakes.

“Gentlemen,” the commander bellowed. “Raise your weapons!” There was a hollow sound to his voice. I could see his eyes shine, blank and almost empty – he’d been jinxed to give his orders. Whether it was the Imperius Curse, or another enchantment, I couldn’t say, but it would be tough to lift in front of an unwitting audience. “On my command – FIRE!”

I froze them in mid-air, took their guns apart in the air, part by part. For a while, I observed the floating pieces of metal and wood, the elements of weaponry, hovering in mid-air. If they had no guns, they couldn’t hurt anyone – not me, or any of the others – so why go farther than that? When I saw sparks in the distance, I disapparated. The immobile soldiers could be dealt with later.

The space around me seemed untouched, when I arrived. There was a wand on the floor, but no Auror in sight. I picked it up. when  I looked back up, I saw a child’s face – a boy, my students’ age, and his eyes were full of fear. It seemed strange to look at children, in a place of war. For a moment, I thought of Tabitha, and how scared she must have been.

“Are you alone?” I asked him.

He was trembling, but didn’t respond.

“Don’t be scared.” Who on earth had decided to place him here? Surely, there were other ways. “I can help you. What is your name?”

He stumbled back, and then a sharp pain hit my shoulder out of nowhere. There was silence, nothing but ringing silence and the fire in my chest, my shoulder. Everything seemed slower now, darker. Voices. Sounds, hazy sounds. Boots on the ground, many boots. I could feel the vibration of footsteps, and more shots, muffled. A taste of iron, of salt. The cold wetness pressed against my skin, my shoulder, my hip, and it was spreading, the cold…

And then, out of nowhere, a voice, sharp and clear. A voice I would have recognized anytime, anywhere. The voice that haunted me in my dreams: “Whom do I have to thank for this?” He sounded calm. A polite inquiry, nothing more.

The ringing silence got louder, and my eyes lost focus. After a small eternity, his voice stuck out, once more. “Answer me! Imperio!”

Moments later, a body dropped to the ground next to me. For a split second, I could see. See the empty eyes before me, the blood splattered across his face, his uniform. His neck, sliced wide open. It hit me, then, how young he was, how innocent his dead face looked on the ground.

Gellert spoke only one more word: “Run!”

More footsteps, and then a weight on my shoulders, my chest. Hands, turning me. There was a trace of light in the dark. Silver and white, it dangled over me, then the darkness returned. Ragged breathing, perhaps my own. A hand pressed to my chest, feeling my unsteady heartbeat. When I was able to see again, I was presented with a pair of mismatched eyes. I couldn’t read him, couldn’t grasp what they were trying to tell me. His face was rage, and anguish, and covered in tiny drops of blood. 

“You’ve come to say goodbye then,” I was able to say, as his face slid in and out of focus. “How kind of you.” Speaking wasn’t easy, but I was able to say a few words, still.

 It was the oath. I could see it clearly now. The blood troth around his neck, dangling over me, keeping him from acting. But he didn’t have to act; he just had to wait, and we both knew it. Wait, with one hand on my beating heart, until it would stop.

“Will you wait with me, until it is over?”

And then there was a rage in his face, a rage I had never seen before, and his hand was gone, and there were more screams in the background. Loud, panicked screams. The smell of fire, and burnt flesh. Sounds and lights blended together, dimmed, as if from far away.

A second voice – small, indistinguishable. “Albus – Albus, can you hear me?” It was Sayid. “He’s coming back – I have to-“ Everything twisted, contracted, every cell in my body was one pain, and then darkness. Quiet. New smells, new dim sounds and footsteps and I lost sight of it all. Sound and sight subsided, until only the burning in my shoulder remained.

Notes:

The next chapter will be dedicated to the one, the only, wonderful Vinda Rosier. I hope you will like it!

Chapter 9: Chapter 8 – A Beautiful Mind (Gellert's POV)

Notes:

Trigger warning: This chapter contains some internalized and externalized homophobia & it's not pretty!

This is a glimpse into the Gellert/Vinda friendship, as well as a first look into Geller's summer of 1899. The book will re-appear.

I don't think this counts as EXPLICIT, but don't read it at work. Just to be safe.

 

Chapter 8 – A Beautiful Mind

Consider the subtleness of the sea; 
how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, 
and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. 
Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, 
as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. 
Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; 
all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.

 Vinda put the sealed letter on my desk in the morning. She placed one gentle hand on my shoulder, giving me hold, when I almost lost composure.

“We will talk later,” she said softly. No questions, accusations, worries. Just this. “I will give you some time. You will not be disturbed. Call for me, when you’re ready.”

His handwriting was the same as always. Narrow, slanted, elegant. As if nothing had changed. He’d used green ink. He was back at school. I didn’t know why I’d expected a hospital, or worse. Muggle wounds were laughable. They were no match for him. But I hadn’t slept. All I’d remembered was the image of Albus that summer, pressing the gun to his head, the wild smile on his face and the turmoil in my heart. Pulling the trigger. Over and over again. That fantasy had developed a life of its own, and all the blood had done the rest.

It was inconvenient, wasn’t it? This was what I had wanted – him, dying, without having to do something about it. What I told myself I wanted. And yet – when I all I had to do was wait for his last breath, I’d been unable to do so. Not even for a minute. Just sit, and look at him, while the light would fade. I had imagined that moment many times. I had imagined enjoying it. It was unbearable.

The letter wasn’t very long.  

Dear Gellert,

I’ve heard the most peculiar rumour today. Someone told me the wand I lost in the night was in my pocket all along. You can imagine my surprise. I was so sure of what I remembered. Everything that was said, every jarring memory made sense until then. If you happen to have an explanation for this coincidence, I would be happy to listen.

There is a wonderful little place in Lugano, Ticino called Ristorante Trani, built just shortly after the city’s founding days in the early 16^th century; a historical place that was here before us and surely will host many guests long after.  

You know I am an admirer of peaceful traditions, such as the French parley. A time of thought, of conversation on neutral ground (And what could be more neutral than Switzerland?) until we return to our lives as they are now. A ceasefire, if you want.

While I understand it might be unwise for us to meet, I hope you will find a way to make this possible. It might not be the best idea to be surrounded by distractions and the tensions of the world around us. Let’s talk – just you and me.

Awaiting your response -

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

 

I’d have to tell my people he survived. They’d been speculating, searching for signs of his demise, each yearning to bring me a message, believing, like I had believed, that I would be glad to read an obituary. I’d dreaded to hear about it, retreated into my office. Three days, three nights – and nothing. And then, a letter. He was unharmed. My wish had not come true.

He was alive. Haunting me with his self-righteous existence, his morals, his beloved persona of sweetness and tolerance, that people believed in. He always would be.

I’d always remember the first sentence Albus Dumbledore said to me. We were standing in my aunt’s library, specks of dust dancing around us, light flooding in from the windows, heating up the room to unbearable conditions. If one of us would have stepped aside, into the fleck of light on the floor, our feet would have burned, or felt like it at least.

“My aunt speaks highly of you, almost like you’re some kind of celebrity,” I said. “She loves you more than me, I think.” I’d meant to mock him, the strange, quiet boy in the full black three-piece suit on the first of July. At noon, in the heat. Giving me nothing but mono-syllabic answers, barely looking at me.

He looked up, and our eyes met for the first time. People must love him for his eyes, I thought. Most people were simple, predictable; they’d love him for his blue eyes, the way they adored me for my blonde hair.

“Well, everybody loves me,” he said, and his voice was bored. Apathetic.

“Why? What is so special about you?” I asked him.

He’d turned his attention back to the books, away from me. “I just am.” It was annoying. His lack of interest in me was annoying – people didn’t look away from me much these days.

“Why? Are you gifted? Are you intelligent?” He didn’t speak much. Anyone of sound mind with a brain would have the capacity to express himself. He might just be rude. Still – unnerving.

“Yes.” That was all he said.

“Yet you lack the foresight to dress for weather conditions.” He would have lost my German relatives’ eternal respect for that, and that alone. “Did you visit a cemetery on your way here?”

“Yes.” He’d picked out a book and started reading it, in the middle of our conversation. His attitude was not helping me with my rage problems.

“Who died?”

“My mother.”

I felt embarrassed for a moment. Not ashamed – I never really felt ashamed. What for? But this was… unfortunate. I’d gotten so used to knowing everything about people, reading them, predicting their reactions, that this rarely happened. “Give my father your condolences then.”

He looked up from the book again, and I could tell his answer, before he opened his mouth.

“Is there anybody else I should know about? Is your sister dead? Your brother? How about your pets?”

“No, they’re all alive.” He didn’t look mournful. Just – sort of empty. Cold. A bit frustrated, in his last answer. It was this bit that caught my attention.

“And do you not wish them to be?” I gave him a conspiratorial look, intending to provoke, more than anything. “If you want to get rid of your brother, just say the word. I might be able to help you.”

To my surprise, he just smiled. He had a good smile. I could see why people liked him. “Is that why they expelled you?” And apparently, he hadn’t lied about his intelligence.

“Of course not. I could never kill my brother.” He just looked at me, instead of responding. “I don’t have brothers,” I explained. It had sounded funnier in my head.

“Lucky you.” He picked up more books, started arranging them in some sort of way that must have made sense to him. To an unobservant witness, it just seemed like he was messing up the library. “Interesting, that you would have to specify with pronouns.”

“I like to be specific.” It was a lie. I didn’t care about being specific or mysterious; all I cared about was the magic I was able to do, experiment with, lose myself in. It was the only thing that was worth paying attention to, with people being, generally, very dull.

“I don’t. Mysteries aren’t boring, at least.” He had finished building his book pile, and looked up at me, his face suspicious now. For a moment, I thought he’d ask me why I was expelled. Instead… “Did you voluntarily come to Godric’s Hollow, or is this your punishment?”

“I picked it,” I said, which was only partly true. I couldn’t have this arrogant stranger think lesser of me, for knowing my parents still had a say in my life. Not when I was about to turn seventeen.

“Be warned, then. This place is so boring, you might want to blow your brains out. I know I do.”

“I might be able to help you there,” I offered, and he laughed, for the second time. He didn’t reject my offer, not even in jest.

His arrogance should have repelled me. It had the opposite effect. I wanted to break it, destroy it, charm it out of him. I wanted to be the arrogant one, wanted him to fight for my attention. He was right, that was the difficult thing. Everybody did love him, which was why I had to have him. In what way… I truly did not care. I felt like a conqueror, and I got side-tracked in my quest.

*

Vinda joined me for dinner. She didn’t force the conversation. She knew how to pick her moments, how to lead people to what they’d wanted, anyway. That didn’t always require words of persuasion. Some things can be achieved by patience alone.

“Do we have a plan?” she asked, after a while.

“A plan?”

“For Dumbledore. I assume your intentions have changed.” She put down her fork, placed it neatly on the table. “You could have waited. You could have made sure he died. You did not. Whether that was on purpose or not – it is your decision, and I respect it. But he is a potential risk factor, if we just… let him be. We need a plan.”

For a long time, neither of us said a word.

“Do you want him dead?”

“It appears not.”

“The blood oath. Do we want it to exist or not?”

“Yes.” For a million reasons. I could never take that risk.

“So you’ve decided to re-recruit your first follower, non?”

If only. I didn’t even dare to think about it. Too complicated. “It can’t be done.”

“That is not acceptable.” She let me pour her more wine. “If what you desire is not possible in this world, burn it to the ground and create one in which it is. You know how I loathe the idea of impossible things.”

“He could be a very powerful ally,” I admitted. “If he understood what it is we’re trying to do. But he will not understand. Too many things have happened.”

“What will he not understand? The goal, or the means by which we get there?”

 “The means.” Maybe both.

“He will understand the Greater Good,” she said thoughtfully. “He created it, he believed in it. You made him believe in it. You can do that again. That could be enough.”

“Maybe.”

“How did you do it? You’re always so hazy on the details.”

How indeed.

*

It took me mere days to figure him out. It was his eyes. It’s always the eyes. They were glued to me, when he thought I wasn’t looking. And then, even when he knew I was. He blushed easily. His smile was too wide, too happy, at times. Part of it might have been the graves he didn’t talk about, but his universe quickly started to revolve around me. And from then on, things got interesting.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t as brilliant or gifted as he claimed – he was better. Talking to him was easy, effortless, stimulating, even. He contributed to my experiments, showed me, what he could do – but all of that paled in the joy that was toying with his transparent, desperate desire.

I made a bet with myself, what I could get him to do or say. Pushed the limit, to see whether I could shock him. How I could turn him even more against his dumb brother, who hated me for some reason. It was my favourite game. The Hallows, the revolution – it all became background noise. We talked about them, of course. He soon was more obsessed than I was. But for those first two weeks in Godric’s Hollow, I had a very different goal in mind. A follower. He would be my first, I decided.

“You made a mistake, last time,” Vinda said. “Do you know what it was?”

“Yes.” The family. Don’t go for the family. I should have isolated him further, waited longer. waited for him to drag me out of that village. It would have been October, maybe November. Frustrating, but, in hindsight…

“Can it be undone?”

“No.” A little girl. A blue dress. He was pushing me out of the door, out of his life, back then.

“Can he forget?”

“No.” Another person could, given the right spells. Albus was a different story.

“Can it be repeated?”

I thought of Aberforth. Smug, annoying, mediocre Aberforth. “Yes.” How they were related, was a mystery and an annoyance at once. Albus having a mediocre brother didn’t lower him in my eyes, but it made me think less of myself, for being so utterly obsessed with him. I couldn’t exactly pin-point, why that was.”

“Don’t repeat it.” She took a sip of her wine. Savoured her dessert. Eating and plotting went hand in hand, at least for her. “Does we need a resolution, or would a distraction serve you?”

I thought of the boy, Aurelius. Of the use I had initially intended for him. Of all the children Albus had devoted his life to, while wasting away in some school. His nephew, his poor broken nephew, who resembled his dead sister so very much might be a powerful tool to draw him in. it might backfire. If there hadn’t been an Ariana, if it had just been Aberforth… This could go both ways.

“I can help you,” she said. “You know how I love to manipulate men. But I need to know him. I need to see what it was that captured his heart last time.”

“It will be difficult. Near…”

 “Don’t say impossible.” She’d finished her dessert, started stealing from mine. I had no intention of stopping her. She was at her best, when she consumed indulgent amounts of chocolate.

“He has hang-ups about his family. He doesn’t like his brother, but feels like he failed him. He blames me for the death of his sister. And he’s hiding in that school, like he should be ashamed of his gifts. It’s an affront.”

“Family.” She swallowed, took another piece of cake. “Aurelius…”

“Maybe. It’s a delicate situation.”

“Have you ever caught a unicorn? I have.” It was one of her favourite stories. She’d told it many times, often to illustrate some wonderful Machiavellian plan of hers. “He wants to see you, that is a good sign. You can’t talk about the Greater Good. Nor any of the things we do, anything that might unsettle him. He needs to be reminded of what he lost, when he walked away from you. Once he craves that, he will start to open up. Do not make him listen. Do not talk about anything that might dissuade him. Keep every conversation light. Then go personal. We want nostalgia. This is a man who would be in his midlife crisis if he’d gotten married by now. Sadly, he hasn’t. It would be easier. But an unfulfilling career and empty social life can do the same. You need to draw him in, until he wants to listen to you. He will.”

“He might not.”

“He will. You need patience. Wait, until he’s ready. There are ways to keep him close, until that time comes.” She put down her empty wine glass. “You go to Switzerland. Let him believe everything is happening on his terms. Steer the conversation to personal topics. Give him the opportunity to let down his guard. He used to have a drinking problem after you left, non?” I nodded. It could be helpful. “Here is the most important part: Chose a time, after dinner, but before he picks up his coat. Wait for a smile. And then you allow yourself one moment of weakness. Don’t plan it, just let it happen. Whatever feels right in the moment. It will linger on his mind. And he will be back.” Her mind was truly terrifying. I was terribly glad, she was on my side, I would never have to kill her. It would be such a waste.

“You are magnificent, do you know that?”

“Every woman dates like this,” she said simply.

“That can’t be true.”

“And how would you know?”

“People would know.”

“Men never know.” She smiled, and looked like a perfect angel. “The more powerful they are, the more they give into their desires. They feel entitled to them. They get greedy – no offense.”

“Partial offense.”

“One more thing: Forget about Alighieri. Forget about the brother. They only matter to him, as long as you threaten them. Once you forget about them, he will, too. Don’t fight them, eclipse them.” She stared into the distance, no doubt coming up with more tales and tactics. “Could you pin-point the moment, when you had him last time? Was it the blood oath?”

“No, it was earlier than that.”

“And – what did it? The Hallows? Your speeches? Your magic?” When I didn’t respond, she smiled knowingly. “There you have your answer. You have done this before. You know his weakness.”

“I do.”

*

We fought, the day we’d known each other for exactly two weeks. There was a girl, a Muggle girl, at a dance, and he’d spent all this time being such a gentleman to her, smiling at her… It made my blood boil. Her name did not matter. Her stupid dress, that he complimented, her ability to dance, to draw attention from all the boys did not matter. She was a nuisance. Her voice, her laugh like nails on a chalkboard.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked. He was angry that I didn’t want any part of his dumb little fest. He’d followed me to the edge of the forest, away from the music, the dancing, the village idiots.

“Don’t you get disgusted by it?”

He played dumb. I’d heard him talk about Muggles, the way his father had. The way we weren’t supposed to, not in company. He detested them like I did, yet he had the gall to use this one. Pretend he liked her. Pay attention to her, and not to me. It was that part. The part I didn’t preferred not to speak about, because it sounded needy. Desperate. He was the one who was supposed to be desperate, beg for my attention, not the other way around!

“It’s just a dance, lighten up!”

“Lighten up – you had your hands all over that Muggle trash! Tell me - what did you want to do with her?” I hated myself. Hated the toxic bile in my stomach, the tightness in my chest. Hated my heart, for pumping rage, rather than blood.

“What does it matter to you?”

“You’re just like your brother,” I heard myself say, and he gasped – it was a great offense, maybe a step too far, but I hardly cared. “What, are you going to get yourself a village girl, settle down, live merrily happy after in this hole?”

“It’s happily ever after,” he said, just to say something. He always corrected my English, when he was out of proper responses.

“Oh, stop lying!”

“No, it really is.”

“You don’t even want her!”

“And how would you know that?”

“Do you think I don’t see you? Staring at me all day – parroting everything I say, laughing at my jokes when they’re not even funny – I see you, and it’s pathetic!”

He’d frozen in place, but my rage demanded further damage. He couldn’t get away with this, he just couldn’t!

“Honestly, sometimes I think you’ll start drooling. But you never say anything, why is that? Are you a coward and a sodomite in one? Answer me!”

But he didn’t. he just stood and stared, stared, like he was about to cry. And that was impossible to look at. If anything, his lack of action, of rage, made me angrier.

“You’re disgusting, you know that, right?” He looked like he’d whipped across the face. “I never want to see you again. I never want to speak to you again. Do not write to me. And don’t you dare throw that little whore in my face, ever again!”

I marched back to my aunt’s house, victorious, and feeling worse than I ever had in my life. It would pass, I told myself. I could find a way to punish him, watch him suffer from afar; that would help. My hands shook too hard to unlock the door. I couldn’t focus on the spell, needed three tries to get in. Almost fell on the stairs. I told myself it was the alcohol, threw his dumb “Great Expectations” across the room and tried to get some sleep. But all lying down did was make me hate Albus Dumbledore in a different position. I stared at the ceiling and briefly considered setting something on fire. His house, mine, it didn’t truly matter.

The way he’d smiled at her – the way he looked at me – it was simply all wrong, and he had to be punished, to suffer for it. Now and then, below the covers, the muscles of my stomach tightened involuntarily as I recalled details. His sleeves rolled back. A drop of water on his lower arm. Wet. The embroidery on his shirt, where a button had fallen off. The small bit of skin it revealed, every time he moved, which I shouldn’t recall, because I hadn’t been looking. On his neck, a mole, half covered by a hair… I felt sick. Helpless, and desperate, and sick. 

Getting up on his roof was easy. The window was trickier – it just would not unlock. He opened it for me, and I almost fell on him, held on to his dry hands with my sweaty ones, my heart beating out of my chest, feeling desperately, desperately aware of the fact that I couldn’t leave, not now, not ever.

“You said you never wanted to see me again,” he commented, but he sounded relieved to see I hadn’t meant it. Of course he did. He was the desperate one. Him. Not me.

“So?”

“Two hours ago!”

“We can’t fight,” I told him.

“You started it,” he protested.

 “And now I finish it, what is your problem?” He didn’t respond, and his face was hard to read in the dark. “I say we’re not in a fight, so we’re not!”

“You should apologize,” he said quietly. Needy. I had the upper hand back.

“I don’t do that.”

There was a pause, then an awkward, sweaty hug – I’m not sure who initiated it. It was too tight. Too tight for us, for this, for July. Before I could think to protest, he’d kissed me. Needy. He did it briefly, clumsily, and with baited breath, and I could feel the kiss in every nerve of my body. Every bit of contact, of pressure from his lips was warm, and disturbing, and strange, because I wanted him to keep doing it. And he did, two more times.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally.

I couldn’t open my eyes. If I did, I’d have to face him. My parents’ memory flashed before me – and it only increased the horror. Durmstrang, the expulsion, had enraged them, but they’d forgive me eventually. This – this they would disinherit me for.

“You don’t apologize, either.”

“Why not?” He sat down on his bed, looking small and confused. Indecisive. It should have told me something, held me back, repulsed me. It didn’t.

“Because I say so.”

He said nothing, when I climbed down to meet him, kiss him back. He’d expected it. Even in my turmoil, I could easily tell that we both had no clue what we were doing. We were equally greedy, equally clumsy, for the first time in our lives not good at something, and it didn’t matter in the dark. He used tongue first, which felt like a victory. He was more needy, more eager. Except when we collapsed onto each other, I was hard and he was not, and that was humiliating. I couldn’t kiss him anymore, couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe. Everything was on fire, wrong fire, good fire, perfect fire – All I could do was press myself against him, my face into his neck, until the sensation became too overwhelming, and bite into his pillow to keep from screaming, when it did.

Our friendship recovered quickly after that. We’d found a new hobby we could share, another secret that was just between us. All fighting had stopped. And I quickly found a way to silence him, when he disagreed too much with what I had to say. It is possible that he did it on purpose, sometimes.

*

“He loved you,” Vinda said.

“That’s possible. A long time ago. Who can say…”

“It’s what we would need, you see,” she said, in a hurried passionate whisper, "Men in love are very stupid. Very easy to lead down a dark path. Love in its true form… it’s blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world. This can be achieved. It took you eight weeks last time. Eight weeks and he wanted to leave everything behind for you. You will bring him to us, when the time is right. When he has given his whole heart and soul to you, as he did last time. Only this time, you have me as well, my guidance.”

I offered her a last glass of wine. She did not reject it.

“I need to know him,” she said, sipping on her glass. “Not in bits and pieces, not the bitterness that came after him. Him, the boy you met when you were young.”

 “What do you need to know?”

“As much as you’re willing to show me. You can skip past the intimate parts, or not. I don’t care.”

I did.

“This is for the Greater Good. Can you imagine, if we had him on our side? Who could possibly stop us then? Who would oppose us?”

There was no harm in a peek. “Get the skull.”

Notes:

Guys, I think I have a problem. I wrote Vinda, now I'm scared of her.

Anyways, disturbing/romantic candle light dinner in Switzerland and more twisted background to the relationship coming up soon!

Quotes by:
Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Chapter 10: Chapter 9 - The Bells of St Laurent

Notes:

Quote by: Sun Tzu - The Art of War

Let's go to a nice Italian restaurant, they said. What could go wrong, they said. It'll be romantic, they said. OR The time the world assembled and told Albus Dumbledore to stop pretendng to be a nice person, but also asked him to please get rid of the Boogeyman for them.

More references:
- Lugano is in the Italian Swiss. It was built shortly after 1500 and has a lovely town core with super old houses.
- The bells are from Lugano Cathedral, which is the church of St. Laurent or St. Lawrence or San Lorenzo, based on your language. It is close to this old restaurant, which actually exists.
- St. Laurent was a martyr who died for his faith. He was imprisoned and tortured for his belief, although his martyrdom was disputed at times. In his namesake, there are many churches around the world.
- St Laurent is

 

Chapter 9 - The Bells of St Laurent

Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. 
It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds 
while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate.

Travers wasn’t pleased with my decision to write another letter. He’d sent people to check in on me during my recovery, avoiding to meet in person. When he heard I had received a response, he insisted on accompanying Theseus to my office on a Wednesday evening, fuming that I had defied him once more. In his hands, he carried some paperwork. I really couldn’t care less what it was about. Maybe the way I hadn’t died in the Arabian Peninsula had caused some sort of uproar.

He was ill-tempered. “He wants to meet you?”

“That is what the letter says.”

“It could be a trap,” Theseus said.

“It could be an opportunity,” I responded.

“We took a trip to Godric’s Hollow while you were out of it,” Travers informed me. He’d found something; something that made him angry at me.

“While I was recovering from a gunshot wound, you mean?”

“How are you?” Theseus asked.

“Better.”

“You remember Bathilda Bagshot, don’t you?” Travers asked. “She let us search her old guestroom, and we’ve discovered some… let’s call them interesting documents. Letters.” He placed them in two stacks on my desk, his jaw controlled, and his expression, as usual, stewing with anger. “Do you want to know what’s in them?”

I could feel my heart sinking. “I know what’s in them.” The shame and disgust I’d felt when remembering them wasn’t as strong as the shame I felt towards Aberforth, but it was something that had caused me a few sleepless nights, nevertheless.

“Of course you do.” He took a seat in front of me uninvited. “I’ve taken the liberty to sort these letters into two piles. One is a collection of ideological thought, philosophical musements about the so-called Greater Good, a call to revolution – basically a manifesto, spread out over several letters. The others are mostly the sappy love letters of a teenager. Want to guess which of these are yours?”

Gellert hadn’t put much of his ideological thought to paper. He would talk about it for hours, his eyes glowing, strutting around the woods, the fields, his aunt’s library, and I would listen more than talk. I’d made it my project to script our ideas, to think about his speeches before responding. But I wouldn’t expect Travers to understand.

“Is there something you need to get off your chest?”

“You misrepresented this… this relationship to us!” His voice was clear. This was an accusation. Of what, I was in the dark. But I could be sure he would enlighten me shortly. “Whose idea was it, the Greater Good? Based on the letters…”

“They’re just letters.”

“They paint a rather different picture, don’t they.” He paused. Pondering, if he should dare to voice more accusations. “He was younger than you.”

“I suppose. A few months, yes.”

“And you have quite the talent for influencing young people.”

I turned to the only rational visitor in the room. “Theseus, what is this?”

“We’re just – building the profile,” Theseus assured me. He seemed more than nervous, but also more reserved than he usually was against me. “Mr Travers, can I talk to him, please?”

He scoffed. “This is insubordination.”

“It’s unproductive, Sir,” Theseus said warningly. Their mission was at risk. They’d discussed confronting me, clearly decided against it, and Travers was in violation of their own strategy.

“Fine,” he yelled. “You talk to him. Go on! Talk!”

“We have some more questions,” Theseus said in his most diplomatic voice.

“That much was obvious. Please – feel free to talk!”
“We were under the impression,” Theseus said, very politely, his face almost scared, “that the revolution was Grindelwald’s idea. That he struck up some sort of relationship with you to drag you into it. That is your version of events.” He paused and took a deep breath. “These letters make it sound like it was the other way around. So… can you explain that?”

“I suppose, we both had a few ideas to share.”

“So – he quotes Shakespeare, you talk about Muggle subjugation, and you consider that an equal exchange?”

“I see. You haven’t found all of them, then.” There were a few letters undermining his point, that I could be sure of. Whether they still existed, I couldn’t be sure. There were also more incriminating, more scandalous letters. As neither of them seemed wildly uncomfortable, they hadn’t found them yet.

Travers slapped a photograph on the table. It was one I hadn’t seen before.  Gellert, sitting behind me in the library, his eyes on me, while I read a book that was invisible to the viewer, a serene look on my face, as I did. I didn’t turn to him, in the photograph, and his face, his eyes, practically screamed for it. The longing, the admiration, the soft smile – it wasn’t him, at least not how I remembered him.

“This is what we’re talking about.” Travers’ eyes attempted to stare holes into me. His mouth had become a dangerously thin line. He was about to voice more regrettable thoughts, possibly close to abandon polite behaviour. It would really be a shame. “He seems beyond infatuated with you. That’s hardly the face of a cold manipulator.”

“These are very interesting thoughts. Thank you for sharing them with me.”

He was fuming. His jaw muscles were clenched, possibly to keep from screaming. A vein near his temple pulsed uncomfortably. “I want to know whether this is his revolution or yours?”

“How could it be mine? I am not involved in any revolution.”

“This boy,” Travers said, pointing to the picture. “Is listening to you. He reads your letters, your ideas of a revolution. He’s enamored, obsessed with you. He does anything you want – anything you might want, even. And when he fails you –“

“When he killed my sister?”

“He leaves your house, runs to his aunt. She described him as heartbroken, did you know that?”

“I was unaware.”  

“He runs from you –“ Travers went on, his eyes wide and mad, “almost like he’s scared. He flees the country, never even dares to return to the British Isles and starts the revolution you wanted –“

“We both wanted it!”

“How do you prove that? It seems to me, he just continued to do what you wanted him to do – maybe he’s still trying to impress you – all the letters he sent, that you never responded to – the meeting in Italy, that you wanted, by the way, was nothing short of a recruitment event centered around you! He becomes obsessed with anyone else you might even look at - Theseus says, he threatened his brother Newt several times.”

“Well, that’s just absurd!”

“But it paints a very different picture, doesn’t it, Dumbledore?” Travers said. “The letters, the flowers, the eagerness to meet you again – it all seems quite a bit more – submissive than you make him out to be. And then there’s Sabilla. Theseus filled you in on what happened?”

“He mentioned the deaths, yes. I was – I don’t remember much.” It was a lie. I had a few puzzle pieces, but I wanted them all to myself. Sharing with Travers was a waste of time, and a waste of my precious puzzle. He wouldn’t like me better, if he knew.

“Grindelwald committed several murders. How much he was involved in their knowledge that we were coming, I don’t know. Someone planted information. Someone frightened them, to provoke a conflict between us and the Muggles. To hurt us, or at least to cause a scandal. Now, according to what our witnesses saw, he used fire to kill all but one of them. You stated that was the soldier who shot you.”

“Yes.” Soldier. He was so young – maybe even younger than I’d been when I met Gellert.

“He almost took that guy’s head off with a knife,” said Travers, and his words made my stomach turn. It was quite enough to remember the blurry things I’d seen. I didn’t need a vivid description of a child’s death. “No magic, just brute force. It’s a very primal act, to murder someone like that, very passionate.”

That was certainly one perspective.

“We call this murder in the affect. A killer loses control – not like Grindelwald at all,” he said. “And the others – you said he offered them the chance to run.”

“Yes.”

“But he went after them, still. Revenge killings.”

“Perhaps. He has killed a lot of people. I have no insight into his motivation for it.”

“Not like this.” Traver’s eyes shone, as he said it. As if he’d found some powerful piece of incriminating evidence. “Not like the first man. See, I went into this thinking he wanted to kill you. But here he is, killing for you – torturing people who might suggest you don’t like him – crying in his aunt’s arms, writing poetry, using your letters, your words in his speeches – it all leads back to you, this unnatural obsession he has with you. Maybe he doesn’t consider you his enemy, after all. Maybe this has all paved the way for you.”

I sighed. “Dear Merlin, you’re stupid! You’re trying to paint me as some kind of Machiavellian mastermind, when all I’ve been doing is helping you. And you’re makng the greatest mistake you will ever make in your life.”

“And what would that be?” His eyes were wide, accusatory. “Challenge you?”

“You underestimate your opponent.” It was as simple as that. He took a manipulator for a school boy, and he would, doubtlessly, keep repeating his mistake, underestimating who Gellert had become by now. The signs were all there. He’d made the same mistake in Paris, and it had cost several people their lives. “He is smarter than you. He is better than you. And he will show you no mercy. You need me. You need a brain, and a proper education, too, but I’m afraid we’re past the point where that remains a possibility for you.”

“I’m done here,” Travers said, his face white with fury. “Theseus, prep him.” He took his coat and left, slamming the door.

“We need you to distract him when he leaves the restaurant,” Theseus said, with both eyes on the closed door. “Just briefly. There will be a signal. One minute, that’s all. Wait for the bells.”

This was an interesting turn of events. I was usually the one telling people half of my plans. It was an intriguing concept, but knowing Travers was involved, it might be an idiotic plan, and I would have to deal with the fallout from that.

 “It’s better if you don’t know,” Theseus said. “If you don’t plan it, he might not see it coming. He might not have a vision of it, I mean,” he added. “It’s a good plan, believe me. One minute, that’s all we need. You will know our signal when you hear it.”

Our good-byes were frosty. He’d pocketed the letters. It had affected him, what he’d read, that much was plain.

“Theseus?”

“Yes?”

“They’re just letters. This is not who I am. You have to believe me!”

“I know,” he said, but his voice was slightly higher than usual, his smile a bit harder, when he left.

*

I’d always loved Lugano. The small cobble stone alleys, the old buildings, the people, speaking German and Italian at once, though I only understood parts of it. Centuries of history, living, breathing history in one picturesque town. The lines of laundry, hanging high up, between the narrowly build houses. The smells, of the incredible Italian kitchens. The children, playing in the alleys, away from modern dangers like cars. The openness, of anyone you could meet. The lake. Shimmering in the sun, with little boats gliding along on it. The laughter, pouring out of the many homes, housing mult-generational families. The happiness. Lugano was happiness.

The restaurant looked like it had before. Vaulted ceilings, dim torch lighting in the corners, candles on the window sills, the tables, the fireplace in the corner. A single framed painting on one wall, of an old man and his pipe, standing in front of the house he’d built.

I ordered a cup of tea to wait. Let the spoon sink into the golden-brown liquid, and swirled. There was no reason for fear. This was not a wrong thing to do, or want. I was being sent here, I kept telling myself. This was involuntary. This was not my choice. I had to let it happen.

Traver’s words hadn’t affected me much, we’d never liked each other. It was Theseus, that concerned me. The hesitation in his eyes, whenever I said anything. The doubt. The suspicion. Every reason I’d ever kept my past, myself, a secret, united in one friend’s face. And the doubt was starting to affect me, the way I saw myself.

I’d fought with myself for weeks over Aberforth’s memories, and then I’d started to inhale them. Immerse myself in every single one of them, looking for myself, looking to recognize myself, as I wanted to see things. But it wasn’t me – it couldn’t be. A funhouse mirror of my former self. Cold, unloving, most days. Closing him out of my room without explanation. Eyes that didn’t cry, at either funeral. He’d only seen my cry twice. Two weeks into the summer, without an explanation, and then at the very end. I was a stranger. I disappeared from a funeral, stoic, reserved, and returned with a wild glow in my eyes and a new friend by my side, late in the evening. And that glow remained, intensified. The weakness on my face, whenever I was with Gellert, the smile, wide, open, bizarre – a happiness I’d never shown, not once. The door of my room, locking. The whispered voices. The time we’d kissed on the top of the stairs, thinking no one saw. The way I didn’t see them, either. Not Aberforth, not Ariana. Looked right through them. I didn’t remember that.

Gellert was a different breed in Aberforth’s eyes. He spoke German and Russian, not to be understood, when I was not around, and he looked down on Aberforth, in a way that was both jarring and expected. The tension between them, the quick conversations that were not for my ears. Derision. Disgust. Envy. Loathing, pure loathing. Aberforth remembered the way Gellert looked at others, looked at him; I’d only wondered how he had looked at me. He remembered me, when I broke down. Remembered trying to comfort me, and I locked my doors, again. Remembered how I’d pretended it never happened, the next morning, how I seemed different. All the looks between us, he saw them, hated them. It was an eight week arc of mutual loathing and hissed confrontations behind my back – and it intensified, the more Gellert wanted us to leave, the more Aberforth saw me change and revolve around one person, and one person only.

And I remembered. How good it had felt. To sink into the feeling, like flying, weightless, effortless. The wild happiness, the sensation of being so close to someone else, to be seen, understood, loved – or so I’d thought. It was like coming up for air, taking a deep breath, and feeling it fill my lungs. Like waking up with dawn, opening my eyes, for the first time. hearing him, really hearing him, with my ears, my mind, my heart. My obsession. Every look, every touch, every word was nutrition, addiction, needed, desperately, and I didn’t view it as desperation. I remembered the moments I just wanted to breathe again, and I closed my eyes, just for a moment, to gain clarity, find composure.

 “Would this be one of your regular haunts?” I hadn’t seen him come in. it was ironic, really. I’d never seen him coming, back then, either. He’d been there, consuming me, destroying me, and I hadn’t seen either of it, hadn’t had the faintest clue, while my own brother was warning me, every day. And I didn’t listen.

“I don't have any regular haunts.”

It occurred to me, briefly, that he put a lot of effort into his appearance these days, a lot of money, too. He didn’t need to do either, but he did. I thought of hundreds of hands, reaching for his sleeves, gaining a touch of the material, just with their fingertips, thought of their ecstatic faces, the hope and rage he inspired in them, when he spoke, when he looked at them. It was sickening to imagine myself as one of them, but really, what was the difference?

He sat down, observing my face, looking for something I couldn’t see. My intentions, perhaps. “You haven’t ordered.”

“Just tea.”

“I see.”

The unspoken words of three decades hung in the air, bringing a heaviness, a tension into a room that was not fit for them. Too much history. Too much pain.

“You’re better, I see.”

“I am.”

“Good.” His eyes lingered on my shoulder, blood free, unblemished under the clothes; a minor scar, nothing essence of dittany wasn’t able to fix. “Good,” he repeated. He looked up, clearly irritated with something. “They’ve decorated.”

“It’s close to Christmas.”

His face said it all. Muggle traditions, religions. Memories of his family, and the fir trees in the halls, the cold family dinners, the coldness and the unpleasant days he had to spend away from his freedoms, away from school. But the Muggle factor outweighed that. It disgusted him.

“It’s just fir sprigs,” I reminded him softly. “It won’t hurt you.”

There was a hint of the old smile, but he quickly got his face under control. “I will keep that in mind.”

“I can’t imagine that,” I admitted, “a life without Christmas trees.”

“What, you celebrate it at your school?” He seemed surprised. “You don’t stay there during the holidays, do you?”

“Sometimes.” It was a strange topic of conversation. Strange any day, stranger for chatting up a serial killer. “It’s a tradition started for Muggleborn students, I believe. It was there before I came to the school my first year. And I’d only seen the small trees in my neighbours windows, some red candles, nothing special. Then, when I was eleven, they carried in half the forest, or at least that’s what it felt like. The trees were so tall that they almost touched the enchanted ceilings. One for each house, decorated in the colours. And the bottom sprigs were decorated in candy.”

“You stole the candy, didn’t you?”

“Naturally. We had a competition, who could nick the most from our house tree, without the Professors noticing anything. The trick was a distraction. It needed to last long enough, so you could take the candy and transfigure pine cones in their stead, but not long enough to draw suspicion.”

“And you won that competition.” It wasn’t a question. I’d bragged to him for an entire summer about the fact that I never lost any competitions, like it meant something.

“Oh, I had to. It was for Gryffindor honour. For my friends.”

“You were a very noble eleven-year-old, then.” He was smiling in earnest now. Not cold, not calculated, just him and me, like I remembered.

“I was the best.” My chest felt strangely tight, the ribs constricting me. It was close to painful.

“Be honest – you cleaned out all the trees, didn’t you?”

“I might have.” I had to laugh at the memory. “It was just too easy, I got bored.” I looked down at my shimmering tea, getting cold in front of me. “I might or might not have redecorated the entire hall in Gryffindor colours, when nobody was looking. I had terrible stomach aches for weeks, but it was still worth it.”

The mood changed, when we were approached by the waitress. He looked at her, and I could see the revulsion in his eyes that softened, ever so slightly, when she addressed him: “Möchten Sie die Weinkarte haben?” They could guess accents and languages of the guests in here, as if they had their own magic.

“Thank you so much,” I said, when he wouldn’t address her. I had some tea, while he studied the card. It was cold, and it wasn’t good.

“You’re not drinking?” His eyes were vigilant again, sharp.

“I really shouldn’t.” Not ever, and especially not in present company. But I couldn’t say that part out loud.

“Why not?”

“Old habits… I know when I’ve had enough of my vices, I guess.”

“Unless it’s Christmas candy.”

“Candy doesn’t make you wake up in a different country in the morning.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I had a very interesting time in Paris.” It was meant to sound light, like there was no connection to us, when of course there was. “To be honest, I don’t remember much of 1905.”

“You published three papers that year,” he answered. “Wasn’t this when you started working with dragon blood?”

“You read my work?”

“I read a lot.” Other people would just say yes. “But that was 1905, was it not?”

“I do some of my best work drunk.” It was a sober man’s admission, and an uncomfortable one. But I’d made it, over and over again. “Give me a bottle of wine, wait until the clock strikes midnight, and I’ll find inspiration beyond other people’s imagination – if I don’t get distracted, that is. That’s the dangerous part of it. I don’t make mistakes, not even in spelling. I don’t drop the ink or the candle over my work, and I deliver. I inspire. That’s the danger of it all - would you tell a man like that to stop?” He wouldn’t.

“No. I’d want to see what you can do. I might give you more.” At least he was honest. “I would not participate, I think. I make horrible spelling errors, when I’m drunk.” He tilted his head, then reconsidered. “On the other hand, if you’re drunk, you wouldn’t notice. I might still win.”

“Oh no, I also find spelling errors when I’m drunk,” I said “After the first ten years of teaching, I could do it in my sleep.”

We ordered some food, then some more. I could sense his surprise when I ordered a glass of wine, after all. I transfigured it to juice, when he wasn’t looking. Conversation flowed along effortlessly, though we could both tell that it was a farce. We were pretending for each other, both too guarded to ask the questions we’d come to ask. Time dragged on, and I could see the end coming. We had agreed on a ceasefire on all accounts, until the eleventh hour. Outside, the church bells rang, and I remembered Theseus’ words, and I understood. Ten O’clock. There would be a late mass at eleven, and the bells would ring, then. Four times to mark the full hour, then once for each hour of the day. One minute.

“Are you going to tell me about it?” I said, after my second glass of wine. “What really happened in Sabilla?”

He avoided my eyes. “You were there. you know what happened.”

“I got shot. I dropped my wand to the floor. When I was found, it was not on the floor.”

“Lucky you.”

“It seems I don’t need luck, if I’m with you,” I said, and his eyes were glued to the painting on the wall. “But I still don’t understand, why.”

“You assume I understand it.”

“You know what happened. I only know what others have told me, and it’s terrifying.”

He drank his wine, still avoiding my eyes. “It’s good. You should really have some.”

“I do hope you didn’t do this for me. I would hate to bear the responsibility.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said, trying to gain back control in the conversation. I had no idea who he was trying to take it from – I certainly did not have it.

I spotted the silver chain, leading into his pocket. “Did you bring it?” He nodded. “Why?”

“I carried it for so many years,” he said simply. “I feel it around my neck at all times. It’s just the way things are.”

“And you like the feeling?”, I tested the waters. It couldn’t be pleasant. “Don’t people ever ask you what it is?”

“Constantly.”

“What do you tell them?” Did he talk of me? The enemy, the one who could come and destroy his empire.

“Safety.”

“Is that why we did it?” It was difficult to talk about. I hadn’t planned on it. But the more I saw of it, the more the question had been on my mind. And it’s difficult to swallow a question that’s burning on your tongue for over a decade. “I never understood…”

“You understood fine.” There was a trace of hurt in his eyes, and voice, now. After all this time… He was the one who claimed the victim role, or did he? “You knew perfectly well what you were doing. You were committed. To me. To us.”

Traver’s words hung heavy in the air. The way he’d described things, described me…

“You know why I went along with it…”

“You didn’t go along, you were there!” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Your eyes were wide open, and don’t you pretend otherwise, just because you have trouble looking into the mirror!”

The Mirror of Erised. Did he know?

“It was necessary,” he continued, without noticing his faux pas. He’d never said that before. He’d claimed it was for the Greater Good, for the revolution. Fate. Meant to be. All the things a romantic teenager wanted to hear. But never this. Necessary.

“You knew, didn’t you?” It was the only logical solution to this mystery. He’d seen what would happen, maybe what was still to happen, then. “You knew you’d leave Godric’s Hollow without me. You did this to protect yourself from me.” I leaned in. I had to know. I didn’t want to. “What did you see?”

He didn’t speak for a while.

“It’s a duality of visions. We are in both of them. The first is the middle of a crowd. We are at the centre, and the Hallows are with us. People are screaming our names. They are yearning for their revolution. In the second vision-“ he paused, closed his eyes and continued. “The second vision is fire. I call for you, and you step to me, and draw the fire closer. And as I look into your eyes, I burn.”

I didn’t know quite what to say. I had presumed that he’d been scared of me stopping him at some level, maybe even thought me capable of murder. But this – this wasn’t me, and, again, it was jarring to be presented such a strange outside perspective. Travers, Aberforth, now Gellert. They all saw a person I didn’t recognize.

“When did you know?”

“The third week, the day after the lake.” Another beautiful memory tarnished.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I had many questions, but this seemed the safest one. “You saw this, and you continued to share your thoughts with me. You wanted me to come with you. Why?”

“I was safe with this.” The blood troth glittered in his hand. Underneath it, the silver scar looked bigger than I remembered it. Triangle, line, perfect circle. I wanted to trace it with my fingers, and I didn’t. “It’s very symmetrical. You were always good with a knife.”

“I guess I was.” The strange thing was, I barely remembered that part. I remembered looking into his eyes. Feeling elated, jubilant. Being in love. Our hands, intertwined, that was my most vivid memory from that summer, feeling the palms of our hands touch, bleeding, pulsing, hurting, every nerve of mine feeling every one of his. “I can’t believe you let me do that.”

He shrugged. “I like blood, you like knives. It felt right in the moment.”

“We shouldn’t have done it,” I said. “This is madness. If you were scared, and I just went along, because you told me to – then what is it for?”

“Went along…” There was a hint of the old spark in his eyes. “You can’t be that deep in denial. The oath was your idea, Albus!”

The strange and horrible truth was, he wasn’t completely wrong.

A library book. Stolen, after midnight. A trophy of someone who was about to leave, go out into the world and conquer it. I’d wanted a scandalous book, I remembered. The bound leather was tainted, the parchment ripped in places. The book had been stolen before. There was blood on the pages, even. I felt beyond victorious, when I presented it to Elias, back then.

Gellert had been impressed, too. “You should have said right away,” he exclaimed. “I thought you stole some boring book – this is incredible! We have to do something with it!”

I laughed, and he did, too. “What, do you want to do an animal sacrifice?”

“That is not a bad idea,” he said, to my horror and delight. “My visions are incredible with blood. We should do it – maybe hunt a rabbit… How many of those goats do you have?”

“A rabbit could work,” I agreed, panicking at the thought of what Ariana would think, if we brought page 12 to life with one of her beloved goats. “Have you hunted before?”

I retreated from the ideas, after. They seemed to horrid, even for my insane curiosity. But he drew me back in. It was a rabbit, then a deer. I handed him father’s hunting knife, the one he’d used to slaughter our Sunday dinners. The one he’d let me use on occasion. I remember recoiling, but only at the beginning. I wanted to see, know, feel everything. Wanted to hold his hands, as the warm blood pooled over them, and his eyes rolled back, when he saw. If I could have, I would have jumped into his head, and seen the visions alongside him.

The book was our obsession – one of many. We would take turns taking it home at night, each reading it in our beds, marking the most intriguing parts. Separately, first. Then together. I remembered his lips on my shoulder, his breath in my neck, remembered pointing to page 37.

“Look at that,” I said. “We could do that.” I didn’t mean it. It was supposed to be a joke, but I delighted at his shock. I’d beaten him, in our ever-increasing, thrilling game of outbidding each other in wonderful, insane ideas.

“You’re insane,” he said, taking the book out of my hands, reading, frowning.

“You’re scared,” I kept teasing him.

He looked at me again, and repeated: “You’re insane, Albus.”

“Scared,” I whispered against his neck, and he threw the book across the room and kissed me.

*

“I must have taken half your hand off.” I let my fingers trace the circle now, and he let me. “How did you ever stop bleeding?” The pure image I saw, when I looked in the Mirror of Erised, the intertwined young hands, took on a new image with that.

“I don’t recall.”

But there was something else I remembered, now. A feverish image of myself, his blood on my hands, putting the chain around his neck. Blood on my hands, my face, his shirt, the chain itself. My heart, racing, beating out of my chest. “You wear it,” I said, and it seemed like the most wonderful, romantic idea in the world. “Promise you’ll always wear it!”  

One of us had a last glass of wine, the other pretended to, and then we left. Back to our lives, back into the cold December night. the air was mild for mid-winter, but a bit painful, nonetheless. I folded up my coat collar for more warmth, watched the scar disappear under his leather gloves.

We walked in silence, but it was pleasant silence. Too pleasant. Things that remained unsaid filled the space between us. Part of me wanted to reach out, another wanted to run. And the rest of me just wanted to keep walking. Walk into the night. it had no deeper meaning, I told myself. It was just a walk. And then I heard a faint sound in the distance. Church bells.

“What is it?” He’d stopped when I had. We just stood there, in a narrow, dark little alley paved with uneven cobble stones that had been there for millennia and listened to the bells ring out. One, two, three, four – it was the full hour. The eleventh hour.

I turned to him, when the sound of the bells changed.

One.

I had to do something; after all, I’d promised the Aurors a distraction. More importantly, Theseus relied on me. This meant, he was somewhere close by, and might need my protection at any moment.

Two.

“Do you have to leave already?” He almost smiled at me, and it hurt more than I cared to admit. It felt like a betrayal at this point. Everything I had come to do, been sent to do, felt right and wrong at the same time.

I had to do it. This – us – it wasn’t important, in the bigger picture. It couldn’t be.

Three.

“Not quite.”

One minute. All I needed was one minute.

Four.

“Did you achieve what you came here to do?” he asked. It was light, gentle. The accusation in his tone was almost unrecognizable. Maybe it was all in my head. If I was lucky, he had no foresight of my betrayal.

Five.

He stood close to me, his eyes tracing my face for clues. His face was almost hidden in the dark, with only specs of light from nearby houses hitting it.

Six.

I looked up. it was dark. I hadn’t anticipated it being so dark. It was supposed to be a full moon, wasn’t it? The dinner had dimmed my senses, and my memory. I must be mistaken.

“A starless night,” he said quietly.

“That it is.”

Seven.

“Is this good bye?” he asked quietly. “You can tell me, if it is. If you don’t intend to see me again.”

Eight.

“The ceasefire ends at the eleventh hour, doesn’t it?”

Nine.

“We could extend it.” He chose his words with caution. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Yes,” he said, and there was a trace of the old cheek in his eyes. “I could have fooled you.”

I had promised Theseus. One minute.

Ten.

He stood so close to me that I could almost see his face in the dark. If I tried anything, if I used magic now, he would know. And he would disappear. When I looked down, I couldn’t see the blood troth. Just a faint glimmer of silver, disappearing into his black pocket. If I just reached out, I could touch it.

One minute.

“Do you want to see it again?”

“No.” But my hand was on his coat, on the collar. Tracing it, then holding on. He didn’t show a reaction. Sixty seconds. All I had to do was to keep his attention for sixty more seconds. His face was so close, I could feel his breath on my skin, could smell the alcohol in it.

Eleven.

“Our time is up,” he said, and his voice was barely more than a whisper, one I could feel alongside my jawline. One minute. Just one minute. I could come up for air for one minute.

He didn’t retreat when I leant in. Had he expected it. And I took a deep breath and kissed him. It felt like falling back into the person I’d been once. My heart was racing, the blood was cursing through my veins, warmer, faster than usual. His hand was on my face, the other holding on to my elbow, touch a nerve there, and the sensation travelled all the way up to my shoulders, my heart, down to my stomach. This was fine, I told myself, while my brain started to fog up, I could do this – give into my old addiction – just this once. And as the kiss dragged on and grew more heated, I forgot why.

There was a faint sound in the distance. Opened church doors. People were filling in the church, for the mass to start, their conversation humming, echoing through the old town.  

He looked at me, in the dim light, and his eyes were full of suspicion, while my elbow was still resting in the palm of his hand, and I could feel the warmth through my coat, my shirt, my skin, to my core. “You haven’t been drinking.”

“I don’t mix my vices.” The little light went off in the air, glittering like a Christmas ornament behind his head. My minute was up. “Good night, Gellert.” I picked it out of the air, when I walked by him.

I kept walking, faster and faster. Walked blindly, without thinking, or planning where to go. There were footsteps behind me. A voice calling my name. Theseus. I stopped, I had to. There was no choice but to face him. I would have to explain myself, and I would have to lie.

Theseus ran up to me, catching his breath, when he stopped. “Where – what did you do?”

“You said you needed a distraction.” This wouldn’t be an easy conversation.

“I don’t understand…” He looked unnerved but, oddly, relieved to see me. “You disappeared when the bells started. I was right behind you, I could see you and then – I didn’t know – I was worried he did something to you there.” He had held onto something, and handed it to me. For a crazy moment I thought it would be the blood troth, but it was just my hat. “You dropped this, when you disappeared.”

It took me a minute to understand. Gellert’s eyes. The caution in them. The carelessness after – he hadn’t worried about being seen. He hadn’t needed to. “He knew.”

“How?” Theseus seemed more stressed about the trickery, then about Grindelwald himself.

“Mirror universe. It’s what I would have done, if…” If I didn’t want to be seen. He’d known, ahead of time. How much, I couldn’t be sure.

“Are you sure? Did you – notice anything?” Theseus seemed completely focussed on the disappearance. This helped confirm the timing of it. He really had no clue what I’d been doing. “So, he distracted you instead?”

“I suppose, we distracted each other. But not with enough effort on my part.”

This had one upside. I would not have to go back. He knew. They couldn’t possibly send me back now.

 

Chapter 11: Chapter 10 – Now You See Me

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by something that was always a mystery to me: Dumbledore's insistence that he was power hungry, that he might be worse than Fudge and the others, even though he never gave into those temptations in the books. Why could convince him, after almost a decade, that power was his weakness? And then I remembered, it's not a plot hole I have to fix, per se. Not if I pretend it's not. Not when the answer is obvious: magic!

Enjoy the chapter :) I've brought back Sayid from a previous chapter, and I will soon bring back Tabitha, as well. Vinda, Gellert, and Theseus also appear.

Chapter 10 – Now You See Me

I had proven, as a very young man, that power was my weakness and my temptation. 
It is a curious thing, but perhaps those who are best suited to power 
are those who have never sought it. Those who have leadership thrust upon them, 
and take up the mantle because they must, 
and find to their own surprise that they wear it well.

I was meant to visit a dinner to celebrate the anniversary of something I didn’t care about, but it meant a lot to Horace, so I accompanied him. We travelled to London by Portkey, and I almost expected an uneventful evening. Theseus stopped me, when we entered the house. I asked Horace to go ahead, and he took me to a small room. He explained, on the way, what the Auror office had found out about the possibilities of breaking Blood Oaths, when conversing with other offices around the world. They were limited, and, too phrase it bluntly, suicidal.

“The safe option would be for him to agree to let go of it,” he said. “If you can get him to agree to that… Our only other options are inaction, which is unconscionable, or destruction of the physical container of it. Could be just theories, though. The thing is they’re not meant to be broken, so nothing is final.”

“Of course,” I said. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you considering the last option?”

“No.” He stopped at a door. “They say that would kill you! Not that their word is final…”

“Ah, yes. I was just wondering… In here, then?”

It was an office, small, unoccupied. The lights were flickering, the empty shelves covered in dust. Three chairs stood around a small, unassuming table, and at this table sat my old friend, Sayid Albahith. He smiled, as he saw me.

“He didn’t tell you, why you’re here,” said Sayid.

“Not yet.” Theseus offered me one of the chairs. “The ministry of the Arabic Alliance feels that your efforts should be supported. They have sent Sayid to assist you,” he explained. “He will work with you, when I can’t.”

“They’re still paying me back home, of course,” Sayid said. “I wouldn’t do it for English conditions. How much are they paying you?”

“I’m not being paid.”

“Interesting. Why not?”

There was a pause, in which neither Theseus nor I wanted to use the term “coercion.”

“You do not like being told what to do. So you must have a strong motivation to do this. I’m just wondering what that might be.”

“Grindelwald killed his sister,” Theseus offered. It was a sliver of the truth, and maybe not even that. But he believed it to be the truth, and therefore, it was sufficient for him. “Albus has been working against him, before we contacted him. The department thought it would be best, if we united our efforts.” He was a good liar. Didn’t even flinch.

Sayid saw it, too. He chose to ignore it. “Shall we talk, then?”

We sat with him, and he paused for a while. He looked at Theseus, then at myself. Back at Theseus. “This used to be a student of yours?”

“Yes.”

“I see. That complicates things.” He gave me an understanding smile; he’d always been understanding, empathetic to others. It was one of his best qualities. “I have been given insight into the case – the scripted memories, the letters, the timeline. Interesting case. In my division, we do not usually send in former lovers. Former allies, friends, sometimes an uncle, but we do not – whose idea was that?” he addressed Theseus directly.

“Travers. We didn’t have the full picture… There aren’t a lot of options, given how powerful Grindelwald is.”

“It complicates things. But it is not impossible.” He paused. “I have quite a bit of experience in this matter. Let me explain my process to you.”

“We have a process,” Theseus tried to process.

“And I don’t work for you,” Sayid said calmly. “Neither does Albus. That should be respected.”

I waited. When in doubt, it can always be beneficial, to let people speak first. Let them air their anger, frustration, let them fill the silence with words that need to come out. What you do from there, can be a challenge. But things unsaid linger on people’s minds, and that is simply not healthy.

“You have not talked yet,” he said, turning to me. “People around you are deciding on your future, and you choose silence.”

“Silence can be illuminating. I find, I learn a lot by listening.”

He smiled once more. “Always the philosopher. I’m assuming you do not feel free to speak at all times?”

“And why would that be?” Theseus said. It was clear he was feeling attacked.

Sayid cleared his throat. He chose his words carefully. The decade of experience he had on Theseus showed. “Let me explain it this way, Mr Scamander – I have children. I want them to see me a certain way. The things I have done in my youth, the mistakes I don’t want them to repeat, I do not talk about. But it is more than that. I like the way they look at me. I would hate for their faces to show disappointment, and I could not bear judgement in a face so pure. We are imperfect creatures, but it is not human nature to want to be perceived as we truly are. Deception, or omission of certain details, comes natural to the best of us.”

“That’s an accusation,” Theseus jumped in, defending me. I felt guilty the moment he started, and Sayid saw it.

“It is an observation.” Sayid folded his hands on the table, placing a visual obstacle between himself and Theseus. He looked like an interviewer, one who might work against his object of observation. I had told him of this before. He’d laughed, and called it a force of habit. “The objective is to win Grindelwald’s trust, is it not? He wants to recruit you, you want the oath dissolved. That will take trust. You can’t simply destroy it, that might kill both of you. But if you could get him to agree to let go of the promises together… You have thought about this,” he said to me.

“I have.”

“We just need the troth,” Theseus insisted. “We can handle it from there.”

“No, you can’t. It has been tried before. That is why I’m here.” He turned to me, ignoring Theseus. He didn’t value the opinions of junior operatives, he’d been this way, when he was younger, himself. “How do you intend to earn his trust?”

“There is no set plan.” There were ideas… Dangerous ideas. Most options repulsed me.

“So there are many plans.”

“Possibilities.”

“I see. Distract the seer.”

“Ideally, yes.”

“You have already tried.”

“Yes.”

“You have failed.”

“Maybe.” I remembered my last conversation with Gellert, in Lugano. He’d offered me more contact, but I couldn’t be certain it had been a honest offer. Not after I know he’d known from the start. Every word was tainted after that. He would view things the same.

“See, what I miss in this conversation is Grindelwald’s motivation. Why does he want your attention so badly? Why now? Is it an idea he has always played around with? A change of heart, after what happened to you in Sebilla?”

“He wouldn’t say.” He’d changed topics, when I wanted answers. But he had been like this when we were young. Deflect, when the boy in front of you demands emotional intimacy. Deflect, deflect, deflect. I’d taken it as a sign of missing affection. Maybe I’d been wrong.

“Do you think you will have to do things for him, or to him, to gain his trust?” He gave Theseus, who looked onto the floor, another look. “I am sorry, your delicate ears have to take part in this conversation. You may wait outside, if you want for it.”

“I’m not a – Albus, is he always like this?”

I had difficulty responding. Sayid was right, of course, even though he could have worded things better. Being around Theseus for a conversation like this felt inappropriate. He was younger, in my eyes. I could still see the child that had looked up to me. And having conversations like this in front of children…  

“I’m sorry, this must be difficult for you,” I said to Theseus. “You have to understand, I’m not used to explaining myself. Most times, I just make the decisions and people go along with it.  I find it much more effective.”

“And you don’t have to deal with criticism. Or be honest about who you are.” He sounded hurt. I had not intended for that. “Do you really think so little of me, that I would stop being your friend, if you just confided in me? I’m not Travers – I’m just sick of being blindsided all the time!” He turned to Sayid. “I’m staying!”

“As you wish,” Sayid said. “Now, it is my experience in these situations that criminal leaders often require sacrifices and proof of loyalty of their new followers. Quit your job, leave your wife, kill for me, torture that person – does that sound like him?”

“Not, if he wants to recruit me. If that is the case, we have some time, before he will want to see…” I paused, once again sensing Theseus’ presence, once again being uncomfortable to speak. “If he wants me, a version of me, to join his Acolytes, it will be based on who I was when we were young. I can’t ask him too many questions. I will challenge him on some ideas, but echo others, where he talks about his goals. There can never be a rejection, not even a perceived one. He doesn’t handle them well.”

Sayid nodded. “How does he handle sexual rejection?”

“He ignores it.” And I ignored Theseus’ face turning greenish, next to me. “He sees it as a challenge. All obstacles are challenges for persuasion.” Then again, I might be wrong. I hadn’t said no, much. Not when I’d needed another day, another week to want what he wanted. In my needy, youthful obsession, I’d simply let him proceed and dealt with my confusion, with feeling violated in private. And then I’d caught up with his desires and it had seemed silly to keep feeling that way.

“But that might not be what is required of you,” Sayid said. “It might be sex, might be violence – there might not be a distinction between the two for him. He might combine them.”

“He might.” It seemed far-fetched, when the words came out of his mouth. It did not, if I thought about it, if I remembered. There had been an affinity for blood that I had ignored.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Theseus interjected. “I mean, if it’s that or murder – but I don’t want to…”

“You don’t want to feel like a brothel owner, sending a gentle lady upstairs,” Sayid said, obviously amused at how flustered that made Theseus. “You want the honeypot, but not the implications of it.”

“I didn’t know it had to go this far,” Theseus said, blushing, and I felt for him. Poor child. He was as caught up in this process as I was. “I guess I hoped we could grab the troth, find a way to destroy it and prepare for a duel. I thought you’d win that, of course.”

“Thank you, that is very flattering.”

“We can theorize all evening,” Sayid said. “The only way to find out what he wants, is for the two of you to be in contact. As much as possible.”

“I don’t know. I would guess. But my guesses are, usually, quite good.” It was a lingering fear, more than a theory. Another reason I’d chosen my profession over others, especially over politics. One of my vices, perhaps the worst, that he would call upon. “He will likely ask me to use the Imperius Curse.” Even as I said the word, I remembered. Just a trace of that old feeling.

Sayid nodded. He seemed unconcerned with my confession. “On someone in specific? Travers? Mr Scamander here?”

“In the end, he will want that,” I said. “He’ll want me to want it, to be precise. But that is not why.”

“We can fake that,” Theseus said. “We can’t pretend. Or you’ll just use it on me, to show him… I don’t mind, if it helps. This is much better than any of the other options!”

“You don’t understand…” The memories were bitter-sweet. Seductive, still. Even after all these years. You never forget that feeling. “He won’t want me to use it once. The idea is, I think, that I get used and desensitized to the implications of using it on those around me that I’ll do it, without him having to say so.”

“He knows your vices,” Sayid said, nodding. “That’s poetic. Almost beautiful.”

“You’ve used it before?” Theseus had the old suspicion in his eyes.

“No judgment,” Sayid reminded him.

“Yes.”

“And you’re good at it,” Sayid presumed. “Good enough for him to remember.”

“Yes.”

“Better than him?”

“I used to be.”

This surprised only Theseus. “Is he not concerned you might use it on him?”

“He might have been, back then. We used to practice on each other,” I explained. One can’t start a revolution without running through trials and errors first. This was why I could be certain that Travers had not found all of my letters. I distinctly remembered how I’d seen the curse as our salvation, our way to beat opponents, without hurting them, not really…

“And were you able to fight him?” Theseus asked.

“When I tried. I didn’t particularly want to.”

“Why not?”

“I liked it.” It sounded strange, saying it out loud. And the shift on Theseus’ face was noticeable, not just to me. To Sayid. To himself, even.

“I’m sorry, but who likes that?” Giving up control. Handing your safety, your fate, your soul, to another person completely, willingly. Blind trust.

“Many people,” Sayid said. “You have no worries, your mind is at ease. With the right spell caster, it will be pure bliss. People take many substances to ease their sorrows, why not spells? Just out of curiosity – don’t look at Scamander, look at me – how did you like casting it? Better,” he said, interpreting the guilt on my face correctly. “You were good at it for a reason.”

“I was.” It was difficult to describe. The rush, the ease, seeing the light in Gellert’s eyes flicker, feeling his will to cease, his every move in my hands. A feeling that could not be measured in anything I’d experienced since. Power. Pure, unlimited power.

“You have immunity,” Theseus said, misplacing the worry he could see in my face.

“That’s not the problem.”

*

Gellert pointed the wand at my chest, his eyes shining excitedly. “Are you ready?”

I nodded, my heart beating out of my chest. I needed the distraction. With Ariana waking me up every night with her nightmares, Aberforth making snide remarks about what he called my “blonde summertime occupation,” people in the village giving us one too many looks… A distraction was needed. I welcomes his experiments more with every passing day.

Our eyes met, in between the old trees, in the summer heat, and I nodded.

“Imperio!”

It was the most wonderful feeling. I felt a floating sensation, as every thought and worry in my head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. I stood in the sveltering summer heat, feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of the world around me.

“Give me your wand,” Gellert said, and of course I did. why would I not give it to him? What could possibly be wrong about that? I watched him, twirling it between his fingers, and was at peace with the world. This was good. This was right.

“Now your knife.”

I complied, and the sunlight, filtered through the trees, hit our hands, as they met, reflected in the metal of the blade. He played around with it, triumphant, smiling, and I loved his triumph, his smile, everything about him. This was right, so right…

“Come here.” He pressed the knife to my throat, but I didn’t feel fear. It was good pain, because everything was good, everything was bliss. “Kiss me.” I complied, and the knife sliced my skin at the exact moment our lips met. It wasn’t important. The only important thing in the world was him, the bliss he gave me and that I, of course, would give to him in turn.

And then it all stopped. I was ripped out of my happy state, and disoriented, because everything was cold, in the middle of the summer heat, the lights dimmed. There was an uneasy in my stomach that I couldn’t even describe. All the bad thoughts had flitted back into my head at once, vying for my attention.

Gellert’s hand was pressed to my neck. “I didn’t mean to…” He’d dropped the knife. “Wow, that’s a lot of blood – we’ll have to – I think I can fix it.” He helped me to sit down and I noticed, finally, that I was in quite a bit of pain. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get back to my bliss.

He was worried about me, that day. I distinctly remember the true concern in his face, and it touched me, the way words, or actions could not. He insisted on bringing me to his aunt for healing, talked her into letting me spend the night. I was glad not to have to deal with Aberforth for the evening. Glad, I wouldn’t feel guilty for once, watching Ariana’s fragile little smile.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he whispered, as we lay in the dark, face to face.

“I know,” I lied. I didn’t care what he’d wanted. As long as he was remorseful, I could feel happy about it.

I’d given in to pretty much everything he’d asked for, in words or touches, before that night. starting with the blood oath, he’d asked for a deeper connection, and who was I to deny him that? He seemed to love it so much – he was always so happy, so gentle right after, so I’d never felt able to say anything. I’d felt guilty to bring it up. That night was the first time I didn’t mind, and I was surprised by it myself. I felt bliss, strange, different, intense bliss. With bandages around my neck, and his breath on them, I clung to the sheets, to him, to dear life at one point. He later told me, I bit him. I didn’t believe it, until he showed me the teeth marks on his arm, laughing, as though it was the most amusing anecdote.

When I started, and succeeded in, fighting the Imperius Curse during our next experiment in the woods, he suggested I’d try it myself. I hesitated. Watching him do things, participating, was one thing. But casting it?

“I want to know whether I can fight it off,” he explained. “It will be a helpful survival skill, if we’re apprehended. You know, many in law enforcement use this. They just don’t write about it in the papers.”

When I lifted my wand, I had doubts. When I spoke the words, I did, too. It was the first attempt at a spell that I’d ever struggled with. Most magic came as easy as breathing. This was different. This was hard.

“You have to want it,” he said. “Ask for control – come on, it’s not that hard!”

“I am trying,” I said, and I was severely ill-tempered. I’d never had to work for it, so this felt unfair, and testing, and I hated the idea that there was something I would be unable to do. It didn’t seem right. This was magic. This was what I was good at. And in that anger, I succeeded for the first time.

Any bliss I’d ever felt in my life, and sense of accomplishment was nothing, compared to the rush that took hold of me. It was a powerful grip, one I could use, manipulate, play with, while I felt like I was floating above the trees, weightlessly. There were no worries in this world, because he had no worries, because I said so. I could just decide things, and they were. Every bit of weight on my shoulders, every constriction, was lifted, because I had the power to do that. The thrill of letting him pick up sticks, making him twirl around himself, getting him to hand over all his worldly belongings, made my brain buzz, and my heart dance with excitement. I needed it, needed more of it, more control, more willing puppets bending to my every desire –

And then there was a noise in the background. I almost jumped, and so did Gellert, when the curse was lifted.

“It was just a deer,” I said. “Stop acting scared!” It was strange, but strangely good, how demanding my voice sounded. I wanted to go back to our experiments, more than he did, even. I wanted to do it again. I never wanted to stop.

That desire never left me. I’d suspected it would fade, but it increased. The more I used the curse, the better I got at it. Rabbits, flies, Gellert, Ariana’s goats – my puppets danced for me and I finally didn’t feel trapped in Godric’s Hollow. You can’t trap a puppet master.

*

“Let’s do a group exercise,” Sayid suggested. “I like to do it, when I embark on a mission of this nature. It is called ‘Worst case scenario.’ It sounds better in Arabic,” he added. “The English language is not very poetic.”

“What do we do?” Theseus inquired. He liked it, the team building spirit, the sense of normalcy Auror rituals could bring, even to an adventure as non-normal as this.

“We speak our worst fears out loud. They might come true, they might not. It is good to address fear.” Sayid gave me a pointed look. “This is a safe space. We must trust each other, and trust each other completely. No fear.”

Theseus took the first turn. “He could kill Albus,” he said.

“He could kill people as I watch,” I said. “I might not be able to stop him.” I hadn’t been able to stop him last time.  

Sayid’s eyes fixed me, looked right through me. “Oh no, there’s two of them,” he whispered dramatically, and my stomach clenched. I didn’t dare to look at Theseus.

“That is not … how would that be your worst fear?” Theseus protested. “That’s– nobody thinks that – what… ”

“He does,” Sayid answered, looking at me in a satisfied way. “I never said it was my worst fear. Ah, we don’t say these things out loud, do we? That is it, your fear. The perception of it, the idea that it could be true. And if it terrifies you, it should scare all of us.”

“But you’re not scared,” Theseus said to Sayid. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the idea.

“I am optimistic, that is true.” Sayid picked up his coat. “So, shall we go in? Mr Scamander, maybe you should not accompany us. Albus should not be seen in the company of known Aurors.”

“You’re an Auror,” Theseus protested. He didn’t like being passed over.

“I’m not known.” He gave me a smile. “Another adventure?”

“Another adventure.”

We talked about light things, as we walked down the stairs. I promised to introduce him to Horace, who, no doubt, would be fascinated, though we would have to make up a different job for Sayid. Maybe it was luck, maybe fate, or sheer coincidence – I was so caught up in having my friend back, our old jokes, our playful dynamic – I didn’t even notice the people who were making their way up the stairs as we walked down.

“Zut alors!”

“My apologies!”

“Bordel de merde!” The woman clung on to my arm, struggling to find her footing on heels again. It was Vinda Rosier. I helped her to the bannister.

“Are you hurt?”

“My heel!” It was broken. I fixed it, and she sighed in relief.

“Again, I am terribly sorry. This must be such an inconvenience to you.”

“You’re very polite.” This seemed to surprise her.

“I just threw you down the stairs,” I said. “Politeness seems appropriate, does it not, Ms Rosier?”

“Does it?” It amused her. My manners amused her.

“It’s his thing,” Sayid said. “You get used to it. I am so sorry, Sir - can I help you somehow?” He turned to the person next to him, responding to a perceived impatience. It was Gellert Grindelwald, who seemed a bit perplexed at this treatment, but amused at the same time.

“We have not met,” he said to Sayid. “I take it you don’t know who I am.”

“Of course – the nightmare of Europe.” Sayid gave Gellert a gentle smile, while Ms Rosier barely suppressed a giggle. He was impressively calm in the face of danger. “I’m not European. You do not scare me.”

“Do you think that wise?” Gellert asked. He seemed mostly curious about being approached this way, but there was a quiet danger to him, always. He looked at me next, trying to assemble a picture in his mind – what I was doing here, how Sayid fit into my life, perhaps. It seemed the elment of surprise was on my side, but I could never be sure.

“I don’t have many fears,” Sayid said. “My sister-in-law’s cooking, acromantulas, people getting to know my singing voice – I don’t know you, so you haven’t made the list.”

“Ah,” said Gellert, “how very brave of you. So many people fear I might kill them.” He said in a blasé way, as though he was almost offended. As though people were making up stories about him, unconnected to who he was as a person.

“I see.” Sayid nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I shall greet death as an old friend.”

 

Notes:

The next chapter will include an angry confrontation between our boys!

Chapter 12: Chapter 11 – The Heart of the Matter

Notes:

This chapter has everything, and I mean EVERYTHING! Illicit affairs, romance in all its stages, Aurors, Acolytes, family tragedy, a party with random 1920s characters bumping into each other, Bob fucking Odgen, Harry Potter (the other one), allusions to all 3 Deathly Hallows and where they are now (just to get the ball rolling), Dante, Tabitha/Tabea, Dumbledore trying to lock another person in a house that's not good for them bc Albus does this shit, romantic tension, murdery tension, Vinda being awesome as usual, and a dramatic revelation at the very end...

Translations of German parts are below the chapter.

References:
- The fruits - A song by Paris Paloma was an inpiration for this chapter (Spotify Link below.)
- The quote is from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. It's Albus, explaining the Department of Mysteries to Harry.
- Henry Potter is Harry Potter's great-grandfather. He lived in Godric's Hollow around the same time, but was a child in 1899, and was the owner of the invisibility cloak at one point, as was his son Fleamont and grandson James.
- Bob Ogden works for law enforcement. He arrested Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt, about two years before this story.
- Martin Opitz is also the name of a German poet. He wrote during the Baroque era, which was inspired mostly by dogmatic Christianity, strict moral codes and thoughts of devout behavior, human mortality, and work ethic. The mantras were Carpe Diem - Vanitas - Memento Mori. You will see why I chose this name in this and the following chapters.

 

 

 

Chapter 11 – The Heart of the Matter

There is a room in the Department of Mysteries, that is kept locked at all times. 
It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, 
than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, 
the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there…

The New Year's dinner party was a grand affair. Lavish, full of personalities, people with careers, people with money. Some wore their wealth on their sleeves, presented it proudly to the world, others were more reserved. Dante Alighieri was not one of the latter. He sat with me, once Horace had found someone else to talk to. It seemed he had something on his mind.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Dante said, after a while. “About why I stole the first book. It’s not the same, not like the last book.”

I was faintly aware of Sayid sitting next to me, and I would have been embarrassed, but it was Sayid. It was safe to talk around him. “Why did you?”

“It was on a dare. I was mad at you for detention. I wanted to annoy you.” He said that like it made a difference. “You weren’t that popular with some of my house. we thought you showed favour to the Gryffindors.”

“And when you returned it?” Three years. Three innocent, wrong years…

“I forgot I had it. Then, one evening, seventh year, I get very drunk… I know we’re not supposed to-“ he started defending himself, when I had to laugh.

“Naturally,” I said. Why scold him? He shouldn’t even expect it.

“I felt bad. And when I’m drunk, I have the most wonderful ideas, see…” he elaborated, speaking with his hands again.

“Are you drunk now?”

“A little. Not important. You see, I thought I make it better, si? So I read it again that night, and I write the note…”

“You read it before, then? When you were fourteen?” This was nothing like the original story.

“Yes, of course. I had to celebrate my theft.”

I had to laugh at his words. It was what I would have done. “Of course you did.”

“Yes,” he said. “So, that last year, I put it in your office during dinner. You have very bad security, by the way.”

“I happen to trust my students.” It wasn’t the whole truth. I’d been naïve, then. My office door had very different protections these days.

“So – it was different, you see. It wasn’t the same I felt, then.” He shrugged. “I just said those things to annoy Grindelwald. And to get you to notice me. I say a lot of things. It doesn’t mean much. It’s different.”

“That still doesn’t make it right,” I reminded him. It was tiring. I couldn’t have that conversation again, especially not here, in front of so many people. It had been taxing enough the first time. And my words had less weight, if I took his perspective into account. I hadn’t let him speak much, I remembered. It had been all about me, and my conflict. Legitimate, sure, but the respectful thing was to listen. He was owed some respect.

“You don’t need to be scared,” he said conspiratorially, “I fall in love, then I fall for the next person. It’s what I do. My family thinks it’s a fool’s way.”

That was certainly one perspective. “As long as you’re happy!”

“Yes, I am.” He beamed. “You should meet my new love – she is here tonight, though I don’t know where, at the moment… She is the most beautiful…” And he went into an ecstatic description of what must be the most amazing young lady anyone had ever met. An idealized creature with an angelic singing voice, a preference for hazelnut gelato, an artist, who painted him, and drew him into her world, her stories of faraway countries she’d lived in and travelled to. I could relax, loose my caution, enjoy his company, at last. I almost envied him for his passion.

“Don’t look sad now,” he said, taking my hand. It wasn’t wrong. To my utter relief, it wasn’t wrong anymore. “I still have love for you in my heart.”

I had to fight back a laugh. “That’s nice to hear.” His enthusiasm, his youthful passion for another person was sweet. Love was always sweet from afar. Uncomplicated, something I could like, cherish, support, while feeling safe. Other people’s love was always nice. “Don’t listen too much to your parents. You have something most men never achieve.”

“Si?”

“A heart that is open.”

“Yes!” He beamed. His face was wide, and blissful, to a degree I couldn’t even grasp. “I think I will marry this one!”

“That’s wonderful!” It was fast. But then, who was I to talk?

“What’s wonderful?” Horace cut in. he’d returned from a chat with one of his many successful former students, whom he kept in contact with. A cynic would’ve said he only liked them for their success, but that would simplify Horace. He had a preference for those who were fated for great things, but he also had a way of finding them, when they were shy, unassuming children, and fostering their talents, of making connections for those who had none. Things were never just simple.

“Dante is thinking of getting married.”

“Marvellous,” Horace exclaimed. He was drunk, he always was drunk at parties. “You have to introduce me to the young… lady?”

“Yes!” Dante answered, enthusiastically.

“You have to forgive, m’boy, I never know with you…”

“I don’t either,” Dante answered, beaming. “Such useless limitations! Life is joy, isn’t it? I will find her for you!” And he rushed into the crowd, happy and with an innocent enthusiasm I wished I’d had at some point in my life.

“You will never believe who I just ran into,” Horace said, sitting down next to myself and Sayid.

“Tell me.”

“Bog Ogden! You know, he always has the most amusing stories – we were in the same class, same dorms, it’s wonderful, to keep such old friendships alive…”

“That it is!”

“He tells me the story of one of his arrests – you will not believe this!” He leant in. “A family in the English countryside, Hangleton or something. They had the gall to attack him, call him muggle-born and everything! Anyways, this man – Gaunt was his name, Marvolo Gaunt – very old family, of course, but that’s no excuse – he drags his own daughter around by her neck to show Bob a necklace, claiming it was Salazar Slytherin’s! Can you believe it?”

I could not. But there was no need to participate in the conversation. I could see Bob from across the room, talking about what might or might not be the same story. An elegant, smiling young woman by his side listened attentively. A woman whose heel I’d fixed earlier tonight.

“And then he shows him his finger – and Bob thinks,” Horace laughed at the idea, “Bob thinks it’s a rude gesture, but it’s a ring – Slytherin’s ring, he says – complete nonsense, I told Bob, why would a rundown old poor man like that have these treasures. He lived in a hut! Barely a house! but Bob said, the ring had that Peverell coat of arms on it, so it might be – the Gaunt lineage is an old one, there’s no use denying it!”

That caught my attention. “On the ring? Or the necklace?” It was silly. An old, ill-advised obsession, one of many. But I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know.

“On a stone, set in the ring.” My heart was racing.

“What is the Peverell coat of arms?” Sayid interrupted. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help…” It wasn’t an honest question. He knew. We’d spent a lot of time talking about it in Bagdad. As a fellow enthusiast of old tales, he just wanted to be part of the conversation.

“Nothing to be sorry for, dear man, nothing at all,” Horace exclaimed. “It is a fascinating story! Now, the Peverell’s are descendants of one of our school founders, Salazar Slytherin. And there are many such families, even – oh, even Henry over there! Come sit with us, old friend!”

“You’re not really calling me old, are you, Horace?” A smiling man joined us at the table. “Dear Merlin, it has been ages… Albus, almost didn’t see you there!”

“You know each other?” Horace asked, momentarily confused.

“Oh, yes, we grew up in the same village,” the other man said. “That is, if you still remember me?”

“Of course,” I said, though I’d barely met him once or twice. But I had a good memory. “How could I forget little Harry Potter!”

“It’s Henry now,” he said. “Oh, my parents called me Harry when I was a boy – easy mistake… What are we drinking to?”

And while they got into a vivid discussion of old family histories, and Dante dragged a beautiful, dark-skinned young woman to our table, while I lost myself in the thoughts of the Hallows, I could distinctly hear a girl’s voice from two tables over.

“Du bist gekommen!” Her voice sounded so emotional, so fragile, it almost broke my heart. It was a voice I knew all too well, even after the years, after I’d almost forgotten her face. Tabitha Opitz had, most likely, come to the event with her parents, as her father worked for the Minister of Magic himself and attended many evenings like this one.

“Versprochen ist versprochen.” A voice I would recognize anywhere in the world. When I turned, Gellert Grindelwald sat by Tabitha’s side, holding her shaking hand in both of his, while she stared at him like a drowning person seeing their salvation. Her parents must have gone to socialize with other people, and the table was empty, except for the grieving girl, and her infamous new friend. A man she might believe to be a friend, at least.

He stroked her arm, as she spoke. In whispers. Nodded understandingly. A faint smile, here and there. Not a cold smile. He could be warm, and sweet, I remembered all too well, how sweet he could be, if he wanted to. How understanding. He could give comfort like no one I’d ever met. He’d comforted me when my mother had died, when I wasn’t able to even express grief in front of anyone else. It almost hurt more to see him like this, then on his Wanted posters, or in the papers connected to his crimes. Because it meant that another lost soul was as delusional about him as I had once been.

“Jamila!” Horace exclaimed, and I turned to look at the young woman at Dante’s side, and I felt ripped out of my memories, transported back to the festivities. “What a beautiful name – and what a lovely young lady you are! It is so nice to meet you! And that is an intriguing bracelet, I might say! That symbol, right there… We were just talking about…”

I smiled, and made conversation with the young couple, while they couldn’t take their eyes off of each other, while down on the floor, Tabitha had the world’s most ill-advised dance partner. While her parents watched from afar, their reserved, stiff faces barely concealing their horror.

“Observing the world, instead of living in it?” Sayid whispered at my side. “You know, maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt you. You’re not at work.”

“But I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” He tasted some of his champagne. “Wonderful! You should really ask for money, you know. I wouldn’t want you taken advantage off.”

Later in the evening, Horace brought the conversation back to Tabitha. Her story, hers and Arabella’s, had shaken him quite a bit, and being reminded of young love by Jamila and Dante, by Tabitha’s frail figure and the sorrow on her face, he wanted to make sure she knew it.

“Let’s say good-bye, before the Opitzes leave,” he told me. “I – you will come, too, Albus? I wouldn’t want to corner the family myself – so tactless…”

We made our way over to the front of the room, where Tabitha stood dutifully, silently, next to her parents who were saying their extended good-byes to the evening’s most notable guests, getting drawn into one conversation after another, as you do in these situations.

“Mr and Mrs Opitz,” Horace exclaimed, “such a pleasure, I haven’t seen you in so long! And my dear girl…” he reached out to her, shaking her hand dramatically. “So sorry to hear about your loss, my dear! You must be so heart-broken, oh, you’re holding up so well, so brave…”

Her eyes teared up in gratitude, when a sharp voice interrupted Horace’s kind voice: “This is not necessary. My daughter suffered no losses!”

“Oh – but –“ Horace stared at the angry, tight-lipped Martin Opitz, unsure of how to proceed. “Surely you must acknowledge… Arabella…”

“My daughter was witnessed another family’s tragedy, that is all,” Martin Opitz said coldly, and the girl behind him stared at the floor, her hands shaking, her lips pressed tightly together, and her face white, as if all blood had escaped it.

“Mach nicht dieses Gesicht, was sollen die Leute denken!”, her mother hissed at her, and both parents made an effort to smile broadly at people passing by.

Tabitha nodded, a broken, little nod, a submission to her parents’ request. She was visibly struggling to bear the situation, while Horace tried his very best to persuade the parents that he had nothing but the best of intentions, and before I could say something to her, console her in any way, as she was on the brink of a public break down, a hand was on her shoulder.

“Hör ihnen nicht zu,” Gellert said quietly, too quiet for most to hear. He stood closely behind Tabitha, so close to me, that I could smell his aftershave, could see the veins and lines on his hand, his wrist, and before her parents could even turn and notice him, he whispered something else in her ear and she nodded. “Lauf.” And he gave a blonde woman at his side a nod, who slipped her hand into Tabitha’s while his remained firmly on her shoulder on the other side, and they marched her out of the room, right in front of her parents. He gave me a look in passing, one that felt like I’d been exposed to the entire hall, like all my secrets were out there, hovering around me, as I stood there, frozen in place and watched him leave. 

I retreated to the bathroom, to sort out my racing thoughts. I couldn’t be back among people. The idea that they’d seen too much in that one look was burnt into my mind. As I let the cold water run over my hands, clinging to the refreshing feeling, I had to remind myself that it was all in my head. We hadn’t even exchanged words. My secrets were quite safe.

The room was in disarray, when I returned. Tabitha’s parents stood in front of Travers, Bob Ogden, and other ministry officials, screaming and complaining in a way that was not quite typical for their usually reserved personalities.

“He has taken her!” Mr Opitz exclaimed, red-faced, and with bulging veins on his temples. “He has taken my daughter, and you people are doing nothing! What do you pay those Aurors for – this is an abduction, plain and simple…”

While Travers tried his very best to talk the Opitz family down, and Bob reminded them carefully, that their daughter was an adult who had willingly left a public place with another adult, Theseus sprinted towards me.

“Have you heard?”

“Yes. I was there – they’re gone, then?”

“Yes, yes – we all thought he was taking her to the other side of the room, and then – he just took off, and, well…” He leaned in closer. “Travers is about to lose it – he can’t send us in, it’s too dangerous, but the Opitz family is very influential, they’re about to have people fired, if we don’t act!”

“Don’t,” I said, and the wild, uncomfortable mix of emotions inside me found a common denominator: rage. Rage against Gellert using a young girl’s pain, against Tabitha’s parents causing this opportunity for him in the first place, against Travers, against this entire room of people who hadn’t stepped in, so the worst possible man could – against myself, even, for letting it come this far.

“But we have to…”

“No Accio coat. SAYID!”

He rushed over. “We’re leaving?”

“We’re leaving. Were did he take her, Theseus?”

“To Richmond. The Parkinsons are hosting him at River Grounds Manor, but –“

“Good. Let’s pay River Grounds a little visit, shall we? No, you stay – enjoy your evening!” I felt an urgency to intervene, before it was too late, to yell at a certain someone, and, even more importantly, an urgency to get away from all these people speaking his name, and seeing my face, as they did. from the things they could know, if they only looked close enough.

We apparated in front of the house. All windows were lit, and the gates were barely locked. It took me less than a minute to get in. Laughable.

“Are you sure about this?” Sayid said. “Maybe we should send the girl a message first. See, if she will talk to us. This is a dangerous path you are on. I will stay by your side regardless, but I need to know, if this is what you want.”

“It’s what needs to be done.” He couldn’t keep getting away with this!

There were more locks, more enchantments, and they were all child’s play. People stepped in my way, so I collected their wands, froze them in their steps, threw them into chairs and couch cushions like puppets, marched through the house on the search for the one person I’d come for. I wasn’t even sure whether that was Tabitha, in the end.

He was in the library, sitting by Tabitha’s side, talking to her intently. She jumped, when she saw us. Gellert didn’t. if anything, he looked mildly surprised. A bit angry, perhaps.

“So sorry to interrupt. We’ll just take your hostage and be out of your hair in no time. Tabitha, did you bring your coat?” She nodded. “Wonderful. Would you be so nice to go and get it? I wouldn’t want you to be cold. Sayid, make sure no one touches her.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Gellert said, placing a hand on Tabitha’s arm. He was keeping her in place.

 “You misunderstand me. I’m sorry, I should have been more clear.” I set a few book shelves on fire. Clear communication could be so very helpful in tense situations.

He was on his feet in seconds, aiming a bright green spell for Sayid, as he couldn’t aim for me. I jinxed an ornate plate on the wall to block the spell, then two more, as he tried again.

“Don’t be scared, Tabitha. All you have to do is get behind me. We might have to take you without the coat.”

“That is ENOUGH!” The metal plates had shattered onto the floor, rolled away, and next to Sayid, wearing an elegant silk morning coat and hair curlers, stood an enraged Vinda Rosier. “Merde! Can you two have your weird 19^th century break-up somewhere other than between the Ming Dynasty vase and the 15^th century chandelier? This is my aunt’s place and I promised her, we wouldn’t break anything!”

There was some vivid Russian cursing on the other side, which I chose to ignore. “Of course, I’m very sorry.”

“I have no issue with violence, “ she said, “but I’m very attached to that vase and I plan on inheriting it one day!”

“Completely understandable. I’m just here to get Tabitha, I might have gotten a bit carried away with the interior.”

She shrugged. Apparently she wasn’t too attached to the furniture.  “Of course – I’m a the-end-justify-the-means-type-of-girl, myself.”

“You know, I could tell that about you!”

She smiled brightly. “Oui?”

“Vinda…” Gellert shot her a warning look from across the room.

She viewed the carnage, shaking her beautiful head disapprovingly. “This is why people get divorce lawyers!”

She held out a hand for Tabitha, who rushed to her side, and looked at both of us like school boys in need of a scolding. “Be good.”

“Absolutely, of course,” I promised. I had no intention of keeping my promise, but there was no reason to be rude.

“Let’s let the boys have their custody battle without you, Cherie,” Vinda said, taking Tabitha by the arm. “We’ll be downstairs, drinking Champagne and talking about the mystery of men running the world when they’re so very emotional!”

“It was good to meet you,” I said, when she passed me by. It seemed to annoy Gellert, so why not.

“Likewise.” She paused, giving me a conspiratorial look. “I like you. If you win the divorce, can you take me with you, too? I’ll talk to the judge, we’ll get you the summer house and the good china.”

“What kind of tea set are we talking?”

“Spode Blue Italian.”

“I love Spode Blue Italian.”

“GET OUT!” Gellert yelled from across the room. She left, possibly to protect her precious vase from his rage.

“That is a bit rude,” I said, placing myself in front of Sayid. It was best to be safe here.

“Rude? You march in here, attacking everyone…”

“Oh, they’re perfectly fine. I assure you, I didn’t hurt any of your friends – if you even consider them friends.”

“I do.”

“That’s nice. All I did was relieve them of their wands, and they should have them back once they unfreeze, maybe in an hour or so. You understand, I’m sure, that I couldn’t risk any distractions. There was a teenage girl in the room and I would prefer not to hurt her.” He didn’t respond, so I continued, feeling the anger rising again. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand that motivation, of course.”

“Not a person in this house wants to hurt Tabitha,” he said, which I hadn’t expected. “She is safer here than in her parents house. she is where she belongs.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot. You love to pick up people at funerals. And you’re sticking to an age group, too. Very consistent, quite impressive. A bit predictable, if you ask me – Sayid,” I said, when Gellert was moving closer, an ominous look on his face, “take this.”

He took the portkey without questioning, and vanished.

“What are you going to use for Tabea, then?” Gellert said, quickly putting two and two together, and understanding my preparations.

“I don’t know, the vase is still there.”

“Don’t do that.” He glanced at the door. “She means it, she will kill me.”

“That’s not the best deterrent,” I reminded him.

“Obviously.” He sighed. “You think the girl wants to leave. Fine. You can go talk to her about that. Down the stairs, last door to the left.”

They sat in the kitchen, Vinda smoking a cigarette, Tabitha at the end of a polished wooden table, holding the hand of a blonde woman I’d never met. I only knew her from pictures. One of Grindelwald’s acolytes, an American, who had disappeared after the Paris ralley, following Gellert in his journey. One of many.

Tabitha looked fragile, but more stabile than I’d imagined. There was a bit of red on her sleeve. Wine, not blood. For now. It occurred to me, then, that I’d never seen her cry before. Or laugh. She’d always been by herself, in the back of the classroom, obedient, but disinterested, and I’d let her. I felt like it was all too little, too late. Had we given up on her?

“Tabitha, I want you to come with me. I’ve talked to him, he’s willing to let you go.” She didn’t move. “Your parents are very worried about you. We are all worried about you.”

She didn’t look up. her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass, that she looked too young for, in this very moment. “They say that. They’re not worried.”

“I’m sure your relationship is difficult…” I started. It was hard. I’d been in her shoes, in so many ways. Maybe that would be the only was to getting her out of here, if I admitted it.

“They’re not worried!” She looked at me now, and her eyes weren’t red. They were clear, and cold. “And I’m not going anywhere. I am where I’m supposed to be.”

“I’m sure he told you that, but this is not the place – I know you’re going through a hard time, believe me, I know, but this is not the answer!”

“Did you know that they don’t want me to cry? My parents. They don’t think I should feel grief. It’s inappropriate. Makes them uncomfortable.”

“I did not know that.” I considered giving her money, letting her take a hotel room somewhere, until she could get on her own two feet. But it wasn’t safe. He’d find her there. she had to return to her family’s protection, as terrible as that was.

“They never understood me,” she said. “This is simply the last straw. We have reached irreparable differences.” Her fingers played with a piece of cheese on her plate. “You can tell them. Tell them I’m not coming back.”

“You can’t stay here,” I pleaded with her.

“Of course I can.” She was calm. Small, lost, but calm.

“I understand that you are grieving. You have suffered a tremendous loss. But this is not the answer – this can’t be the answer.”

“But it is. It is the only answer, not just for me!”

“You’re not safe her, Tabitha.”

“You don’t even remember me, do you, Professor?” She pushed away the plate and got to her feet. “My name’s not Tabitha, it’s Tabea. They spelled it wrong. In the papers, in my school letters. I corrected you in my first year and you were the first teacher to remember. You remembered my name for five years, but you never got to know me, so you forgot. You never saw me. He does, so I’m staying.”

“I’m sorry, Tabea. I really am. But you understand that I’m just trying to help you, don’t you? These are dangerous people you’re dealing with. They might seem friendly now, but…”

“We are not the problem,” the blonde woman by her side interrupted me.

Tabea took her hand. “No, you’re not. My parents are. You are.” She looked at me. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. Like they are. Did you know they’re not even gonna punish that beast for what he did to Arabella? They never do. So we have to do it ourselves. This is about survival. You will see that, one day. My parents won’t, but you will.”

“You can’t just be here, because of your parents.“

“Of course not. We were always going to come here,” she disagreed. “We planned on it, for years. We were going to run away together…” It was painfully familiar. He whole story, the entire tragedy, happening all over again. “Why do you think I wasn’t alone at the funeral? We were going to come here and be part of something great, and now she can’t, so I have to be great for her. And you won’t keep me from my destiny.”

The letters. The quotes Horace had repeated, swooned and mourned over… all the messages about fate, about a future together. I should have known. I’d had this relationship – I’d been the teenager writing ill-informed, tragic letters, about the same twisted cause she had.

“I know you feel that this is the only way, Tabea. I was young once. Your parents were too – I’m sure, if you just talked to each other…”

“You still don’t understand.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t!”

“Let’s just talk about this – anyplace else – You’re not safe here!”

“I don’t want to be safe!” She yelled. “I want them to feel my pain, all of them! I am not some damsel in distress, some lost lamb you carry back to the herd! I chose this – we chose this. I know exactly where I am and why, which is more than you can say for yourself!”

This took me out for a moment. I wondered, what she knew, how much contact she’d had with Gellert, with all of them.

“I will destroy them, all of them!” she continued passionately. “I will tear down their archaic laws, their systems, their bigotry and I don’t care what happens to me, or you, or anyone else on the way there! I will burn down their houses and if you drag me out of here I will burn down my parents house with them in it!” She took a deep breath, and looked at me, a sense of calm washing over her. “Do you see me now, Professor? I’m not going anywhere. And if you had as much honour as you pretend you do, you’d stay, too. Because this, this is the right place.”

“It’s not.”
“This is the only place. This is the Greater Good.”

She walked out of the kitchen. Steady, without trembling. Yelled at a boy lurking in the hallway. And I could barely stand anymore. At this point, I was just tired. Her, Dante and his girlfriend with the Hallows bracelet, all of them… I could see them walking down the same path, the path I’d paved for them, unwittingly.

I didn’t notice I’d been sitting down, didn’t notice the other woman leaving. All I was able to feel was the pressure from everywhere, and everything, the desire to close my eyes, to this, to the world… A pair of fingers traced along my should blades lightly, as he walked by. And in this moment, that was everything I wanted to feel. Everything warm, every comfort. I just wanted to fall, give in, let everything happen from there.

It was when his hand was on my shoulder, as it had been on Tabea’s, that reality set back in.

“I have to go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do.”

“Patience,” Vinda Rosier’s voice said in the distance. To whom, I did not know.

When I stepped out of the house, and the painfully cold air hit my face, my breath, as fireworks were starting in the distance, I could think again. It had never occurred to me that he talked about me, when he talked to his followers. Used my example, not just me words, to draw them in. But I knew now. And I would have to figure out a way to stop it, before they knew too much.

Notes:

Translations of the German bits:
“Du bist gekommen!” (You came.)
“Versprochen ist versprochen.” (A promise is a promise. (This means as much as I keep my promises, or promises have to be kept.)
“Mach nicht dieses Gesicht, was sollen die Leute denken!” (Don't make a face, what will people think?)
“Hör ihnen nicht zu” (Do not listen to them.)
“Lauf.” (Walk.)

I hope noone got too confused with the Tabea/Tabitha nonsense. Her name is Tabea Opitz. Albus just didn't know her well, that's why he fell for the damsel in distress nonsense. And because he infantilizes her and has a way of idealising families / family homes.

Chapter 13: Chapter 12 – The Runaways (POV Gellert)

Notes:

POV Gellert - so be prepared for a DARK time. This includes his memory of Ariana's death, the final piece of the puzzle. You'll need a strong stomach for the last sentence. It will explain a few things.

Quote by:
Interview with the Vampire, AMC, Lestat de Lioncourt (I highly recommend the first season!)

Song:
You want it darker - Leonard Cohen.

 

 

 

Chapter 12 – The Runaways

If you listen to me, if you finally submit to your nature, 
you will be filled with all the life you can hold. You will see death in all its beauty, 
life as it is only known at the very point of death. You alone, of all creatures, 
can see death with that impunity. You alone, under the rising moon, can strike like the hand of God.

I found Tabea Opitz at the top of the stairs. She sat there, leaned against the railing, trembling. Red eyes. Traces of tears on her face. Blood on her hands, her clothes, thick, half-dried. I sat with her and waited, until she had recovered emotionally, until she was able to speak again.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

She shook her head, let it collapse onto her raised knees. Her shoulders shook, as she cried, and I placed a hand on her neck and let her. “It will be alright.”

This was when she looked up. her eyes were pain- and tear-filled. Traces of mascara were smudged underneath them, and her hair fell into her face, messy, electrified. “It will never… I can’t – I can’t come back from this!” Her swollen, cracked lips trembled, as she tried to form more words.

I let my eyes wander, while I comforted her silently, while she cried into my chest. The staircase was decorated with family photos. Framed in silver and gold, classic, the frames tailored to each other. The walls had received a new coat of paint recently. The house was clean, orderly. The kind of house people presented to their guests, even without warning. I was such a guest. But I was not welcome.

“You shouldn’t have come back.” But it was pointless now. Part of me had known this would happen. And I understood why she’d done it.

“He said – he said my parents, they missed me… I thought… But…” She started crying again. Of course. My mistake. I shouldn’t have let Albus talk to her. He could be too convincing in these matters. He’d almost convinced me to introduce him to my family, once. And they would have considered the Opitzes folksy little hippies.

“Show me,” I said, when she’d recovered, and she nodded.

She took my hand, let me help her up the stairs. Her fingers were as fragile as the rest of her. She walked ahead of me, along the hallway. Small, like the child she’d been not too long ago. At the door, she stopped.

“Don’t be afraid.” My hand was still on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, we will find a solution together.”

She shook her head, as if to say there was no solution, and let me open the door in her stead. It was a study – rigidly organized. With books, colourless, dull, lining the walls. Dark wooden cabinets. A painfully clean and orderly mahogany desk stood in the middle of the room. The man lying in front of it was just as orderly, or at least he had been, before his death. The ironing folds on his grey pants and white shirt were still crisp, the impossibly short hair cut accurately, evenly, just as his well-groomed beard. The round glasses had slip of his nose. He was really in a very good state for someone with a letter opener in his chest. The blood, still gushing, was the only chaotic, organic part of this room. The only thing making him human.

“I’m sorry,” Tabea whispered. “I know I shouldn’t have gone back. You told me not to, but… He said my parents missed me. He said they would understand. I just wanted it to be true.”

I drew her into a hug, as she cried once more. “It seems he made a mistake.” Stupid Albus, really… His naïve view of the world, against better judgement, against his own life experience, was disappointing. It was how he wanted to see the world, how it wasn’t. Father, mother, child, in harmony, talking to each other, understanding each other. What a farce.

“I just don’t understand,” Tabea whispered, clinging onto me, her eyes on her dead father. “He used to love me. He loved me so much! I thought I could do no wrong in his eyes – but when I told him, who I was – when I trusted him, he looked at me, like… Like I failed him, like there was something wrong with me – how can he do that?”

“Well, he can’t anymore.” She flinched, when I said it. Too soon. Good to know. I took her by both shoulders and turned her to me, away from the body. “Listen to me: What you have done is understandable. Not in the eyes of the law, but in your heart. He destroyed you. He abandoned his duties, when you were in pain. He did not accept you. That is unforgivable. You don’t have to forgive him. You have to forgive yourself, and move on.”

“But… how?” She looked at me through tears. “He’s dead! They’ll arrest me, won’t they?”

“They have to get though me first.”

She stared, for a moment, then comprehension dawned, and she wrapped her arms around me tightly, desperately, buried her face in my shirt. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“It is yourself you should thank,” I told her, stroking her shoulders. “You have liberated yourself. I’m just here to help.” I gave her a smile, when she looked at me, questioningly. “I will protect you. You are owed protection. Your father failed you in that regard, just like your so-called justice system failed Arabella. I will not.” She returned my smile. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” She nodded, wildly. “Yes! Will you hide me?”

“If that is your wish. Of course, we could always find another culprit. One who has failed you as much as him.” I paused, let it sink it. “Your mother is downstairs. You talked to him, because she wouldn’t see you, did you not?”

“She stopped looking at me years ago,” Tabea said bitterly. “She found my letters. That bitch spent the last three years criticising every inch of me, without ever looking at me.”

“Well, I see you,” I said, bringing a hand to her face. “You are not alone.”

“I know,” she whispered. “How will you do it? Do I have to go to her?”

“Not, if you don’t want to. I can have one of my friends modify her memory, while you and I go back home.”

“Home,” she whispered. “I can stay with you.”

“Of course you can. I promised it, to both of you. Versprochen ist versprochen. I’m sorry Arabella will not be with you. Come,” I said, leading her back out of the office, pocketing the blade, as we went. She didn’t see. “You have to pack. We will stop by the house we’ve been staying at for a few days, to get ready. Then I’ll take you to my home.”

“In Austria?” She looked comforted, calmed, for the moment. “We’re leaving, we’re really doing it?”

“Of course we are, I said. “You’re not used to people keeping their words around you?”

“Well, you met them.”

“I’m sorry to say, I have. But they will soon no longer be a concern of yours.”

That seemed to cheer her up a bit. “Is it true, that you live in a real castle?”

“It is.”

I waited, as she packed, observed the mother. Her thin-lipped, judgemental face. The dull, dark eyes, hard and empty of warmth for her child. I couldn’t help it – her parents reminded me of my own. And while I hadn’t killed them, I could understand the motivation. I’d thought about it, from time to time. It was unwise, and I ultimately couldn’t do it. Despite their cold, disapproving faces, despite their withholding spirits, I had loved my parents very much. It had been a rather one-sided, childish love, needy for an approval that had never come true, but love nonetheless.

I stopped Tabea at the door, before we left. “Are you sure, this is what you want? You can still kill her,” I offered.

She hesitated.

“I can do it for you.”

“No. let her rot,” Tabea decided. “She has the spirit of a Dementor anyways, she might feel right at home.”

I led her away, and the Aurors swarmed the house later that same day, drawing the exact conclusions I had wanted them to draw. Johanna Opitz had had an altercation with her husband, over the recent loss of their run-away daughter. Neighbours had heard many fights over the last months. Friends of the family had witnessed an estranged couple, fighting to keep up appearances. The scene at the high society event they’d recently been seen at had been in public. They’d approached her old teachers, politicians, law enforcement. The woman had been unstable.

People knew her to be cold, and this was how they would remember her. The woman who had driven her own daughter away, then killed her husband for it, as she must have blamed him for the tragedy that was her life. She deserved this.

I took Tabea back to the house, suggested that she could help me pack my books, so she’d have something to do. Keep her mind occupied, while the pain was fresh.

Tabea picked up the picture frame off of the fireplace. “This one is new.”

“On the contrary – it’s very old. I recently re-discovered it.”

She viewed the boy in the picture, sitting next to me in the green grass, with curious eyes. We were both reading books – I was smiling to myself, folding over a page, while he looked up at the photographer, a bashful happiness on his young face. He was almost blushing. Almost.

“That’s you, isn’t it?”

“When I was much younger.”

“You were so handsome! Oh, I mean…” She bit her tongue out of reflex. There was a trace of fear in her eyes. Unnecessary.

“Thank you.”

“Who’s the other boy?”

That was a long story. One I had already begun to tell her, though she didn’t notice. “Someone I lost.”

She placed the picture back on the mantle, but couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “I’m sorry he died. That must have been hard for you.”

“He didn’t die. He just decided I was dead to him.”

“That’s horrible!”

“He has recently begun to see reason, I believe. Things aren’t always as hopeless as they seem.”

“He seems so familiar… I can’t place it. It’s his eyes – I feel like I met him before. The way he’s holding the book.” It took her a moment. “Is this Professor Dumbledore?”

“You have a good eye.” I kept packing books, while she sat down, staring at the picture.

“It’s weird when teachers are young. You just think they spring into existence in suits and ties, and stop existing once the holidays start, you know. But he’s always been weird. Not in a creepy way. Just… there’s something off about him.”

“How come?”

She chose her next words carefully. “My mother always said, those who can’t, teach.” She paused. “I’ve just always wondered what he was doing at a school. We all were.”

“He’s hiding,” I told her. It was the easiest way to summarize Albus.

“From you?”

“From the world. From himself.” I sat with her. She needed to know. She would meet him again, eventually. And she had to be prepared for that day. She wouldn’t be much use to me in that regards, otherwise. “Your Professor is a very powerful man. One who enjoys power, among other things, though he doesn’t care to admit it. He should have it. It’s in his nature.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type at all.” She laughed softly. “He always used to wear these silly bow ties and sweater wests. I wanted to make fun of him, but it’s really hard to gossip about the school’s most popular Professor. People look at you like you’re a monster for making a joke. He’s not even that uptight, but they are – about him, I mean. It’s like they want to protect him, because they’ve all bought into the loving, tolerant, empathetic bullshit. No adult is like that. No person is like that.”

“He was popular, then?” This matched Dante Alighieri’s unhinged, inappropriate summary of Albus. The centre of attention, the pool that drew them all in. Everybody loves me. The thing with Albus was that it was real. His smile, his attention, it was powerful, because you had the attention of someone powerful, someone beloved, and it was glorious. For a time. And then he’d forget you and take all that warmth, all that attention away, and you realized, how much you’d needed it in the first place, how you’d come to depend on it. When I’d had his attention, if had felt like I was the only person in the world to him. Only it hadn’t been that special, not truly. But he could give that to people, with a smile, with his words and that damned eyes that saw too much, that's why everybody loved him so much.

“What else do you remember about your Professor?”

“Not too much, honestly.” She shrugged. “I never cared for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Why would you defend yourself against something this beautiful?”

“Why indeed.” There was one strange detail. Something that didn’t match the description of others.  “But you have spent years close to him. You’ve observed him, without being one of his admirers. That seems rare.”

"I just thought he was strange. All smiles in class, spreading happiness like he was drugging people. And then you spot him in the hallways and he looks like he wants to kill himself." She changed topics: “Do you want him back?”

“I want to recruit him,” I answered. Nosy girl. “He could be very valuable to our cause.”

“But he’s the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor!”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

“What happened?” She looked up from the picture. “He looks so happy – what happened to you?”

^*

It was the same dream I’d had before. The cramped, dusty office. My fingers closing around a wand. The rush of power, power, unlike anything I’d ever felt, trickles of pleasure from my ears to my toes. I held onto it, grabbed it with both hands, tears of happiness running over my face – The Elder Wand. Mine. Finally, finally mine. A piece of my destiny. One of three. And, for the first time, a sign by the door. A shop sign. Gregorovitch Carobni Stapić.

When I woke up, my neck hurt. I’d fallen asleep in clothes, in shoes, even. A piece of parchment stuck to my chin in the summer sweat, and I picked it off. My heart was racing, as I drew the pieces of my dream together. The wand. The Hallows. My wand. Mine. And the name – for the first time I’d seen something that wasn’t new. This place… it wasn’t a mystery at all. I’d been there before, six summers earlier, to buy my first wand. Gregorovitch. Dubrovnic. I would write my parents – make them tell me the street and house number – and if they refused… I would find a way – I would…

Then I noticed what I’d crumpled up. A letter. The last one of today – it all had seemed so unimportant for a second there. This bedroom, this house, this dumb village . Albus, spelling his name with the sign of the Deathly Hallows in it. I had to tell him. We would do this – we’d get it, we’d get all of them! What did I need my stupid parents for? Or my aunt? I had him. I’d always have him.

Mouthwash. Cold water to my face, as cold as I could get it. I started packing in a fury, throwing things around the room without rhyme or reason. I stopped. I had to tell him first. He had to know. He’d love this!

I never bothered to knock with Albus, not at his front door, not at his bedroom. What for? He was always waiting for me. And the others – they were just noise in the background. Faces. I barely saw them. Except – one of them demanded to be seen.

“No, come in, please – don’t knock, that would be crazy!”

“Nobody cares!” I couldn’t be mad, not even at him, not tonight, when he usually drove me crazy. His judgement, reminding me of my father, my uncles. The way he was able to stay quiet, calm, and be so useless, so ordinary. “Go wear an apron or something!” (He was indeed cooking, that’s why it was so fun!) I rushed up the stairs, mad with happiness, mad with the rush, to tell him, get him, go, go, go… It was a matter of days, until I would hold it in my hands. Hours, if I could help it.

He didn’t stop me, when I rushed in. Like he’d been expecting me, like he knew. This was fate. We crossed the room at the same time. Pressed our lips together, violently, and his hands clung to me, and I forgot. For a moment, I forgot what I’d come to tell him. It was just him, and me, and breath-taking passion in the darkness.

“I was just about to write you,” he said, when we broke apart. “Did you know that the Hallows-“

There it was again. I was back to reality, back to fate. “I’ve found one!” My lip was bleeding, pulsing, but I barely sensed it.

His eyes lit up. “Which one?”

“The wand. It’s in Croatia. Dubrovnik.”

“How do you know?” He was at his suitcase, before I could even think to tell him to do it, and we started throwing things into it. We would get my luggage later.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Tonight!”

There was a fever in his eyes that almost made me consider postponing the mission, just for an hour or two. Lock the door. Soundproof the room. Or not. With any luck, I could piss off dumb Aberforth in the process. It had been a lot of fun, last time.

“I can’t leave now,” he said, as if he just remembered that the rest of the world existed. It happened a lot to us, these days. “Gellert – we have to talk about this – Aberforth is still here…”

Fucking Aberforth – did he really think I cared about that troll? “He can’t get that dumb train by himself? He’ll be back at school in two days, who cares?” But it was back. The hesitation, the doubt he’d shown more than once. Running away together had always been more appealing to me than to him, no matter what I told myself. Things couldn’t fall apart – not now!

“And Ariana… I can’t just…” The girl was not the problem. It was Aberforth. My problem has always been Aberforth Dumbledore. That troll needed an accident to befall him, like, yesterday!

“We’re doing this!” I grabbed his hands. We stood there, for a moment. Forehead against forehead. Fingers intertwined. I wouldn’t let go, I decided. I’d burn this house, this entire village to the ground, if it meant I got to keep him.

“But…”

“Say you’re with me.”

“Listen to me, we can’t just…”

“Say you’re with me - Say it!”

“I’m with you,” he whispered, and I was able to breathe again. He wouldn’t abandon me for them. He couldn’t. never. He was mine.

“One mind,” I reminded him. “One heart. One future.” His words.

We kissed. He was gentler now, but I could feel him retreating from me, again. “Say it! One mind…”

“One mind.”

“One heart.”

“One heart.”

“One future.”

“One future.” His voice had gotten more quiet.

“For the Greater Good.”

“For the Greater Good.”

I didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to let go of his hands, not even for a minute. But the faster we’d both finish packing, the faster I could get him to leave. Forget about them. Stop wondering, worrying, bothering – he’d leave his sorrows behind. And he would finally be mine, all mine.

 “Going already?” Aberforth said, when I passed by him. “You know, you don’t have to take the front door. He has a perfectly fine window. Great morning light.”

I decided to steal an apple from his table. Steal an apple, steal his brother. He could stay in his little rugged kitchen, live in this dump, never return to that school – I couldn’t care less. He was unimportant. “You talk a lot for someone who has nothing to say, did you know that?”

“You keep telling yourself that. I don’t care what you say. He’ll get there, too. Give him another month…” His words were like nails on a chalk board. His face, so dumb, so repulsive, so… common – how they were related was beyond me!

“They’re looking into that O’Hara girl’s case, the  Muggles are-“ he said, and my heart beat faster. I had no reason to be afraid, no reason at all… Except – except… “He’ll start wondering about that, don’t you think? I think he liked her quite a bit.” He put down his kitchen knife. “And I bet you haven’t told him why you really got kicked out of that school of yours. Your aunt’s much chattier than you. He doesn’t ask many questions about that, does he? But he will. He gets curious, see. Has to get to the bottom of things…”

It didn’t matter, didn’t matter, didn’t matter…

“He’ll get bored with you eventually,” Aberforth said. He’d taken to peeling potatoes in the middle of antagonizing me. He was truly the worst. “He’s bored here. That’s the only reason he’s spending time with you, you know that, right?”

“You know nothing!” I ripped the knife out of his hands, slicing a finger. Blood, wonderful, red blood – and he flinched. I was winning. “You have no idea –“ I was winning, and I was out of words at the same time, out of breath, heart racing. If Albus wasn’t upstairs – if he couldn’t see, I could…

“He can’t add you to his trophy collection, you know that, right?” He smiled, and I wanted to use the knife, wanted to use a hundred knifes against him. “Can’t show you around. You think he’ll even bother with you, once the next bit of shiny medal lures him? I doubt it!”

His arms, I decided. I’d start with his arms.

“How much do you think he’ll still look at you, when I’m back at school and he can’t annoy me with your dumb face anymore? I bet that dumb swoon will fade real fast!” Like he knew anything! Like any of this, anything about us was about him! He had no right...

“This is just a phase, you know that? He’s not like you.” He paused, before picking up another knife. “You know…” Bastard!

“He’s EVERYTHING like me!”

“He’ll forget you by next summer. You really think he’d hand out with a school drop-out, even if you were normal?”

 “Egal – we’re leaving tonight, doesn’t matter…”

“Leaving where?” Aberforth was laughing now. “Why would he leave? Look, I don’t know what he’s told you…”

“Everything. He tells me everything.” My hand clenched around the knife. Too risky. Too messy. Maybe a quick spell… “And you don’t matter to him, so you don’t matter to me!”

“Doubt it.” Aberforth picked up another knife. “We fight. Brothers fight. You don’t have any, do you? Wouldn’t get it.” He started peeling another potato.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told him, despite knowing better. My words were wasted on him. Everything was wasted on him. “What we have – what we’ll do – you don’t get it, do you? Don’t worry, you’ll hear about it. You’ll see.”

Aberforth cut more potatoes, laughing to himself, and I hated him more than I’d ever hated anyone. “You and your delusions…”

“We’re leaving. Tonight. And we’re taking the Obscurus.” That got his attention.

He slammed the knife into the table. “You listen to me, and you listen to me good – he is not going anywhere with you! Because I know it, and you know it too – you’re not good enough to leave us for – not even this house, or this village he hates so much – you’re not good enough for him! I know it and he knows it, too – he’s way too arrogant to be that interested in you!”

“You will regret that!”

“I’ll do you one better,” Aberforth said, and he was just begging for pain now “You will never be good enough – you don’t-“

“SHUT UP!”

“You could live a hundred years, and you would never deserve that boy!”

I lost it at that point, ran at him. No wand, just my fists, and the dirty blunt knife – it would do. He’d drawn his wand, apprehended me, before I could get to the other side of the table – and that’s when Albus walked in, grabbing the wand from him, pushing him away, standing between us, on my side, of course, and I could breathe again.

“Can you believe this fool?” I wouldn’t talk to the brute. He wasn’t worth it. “Can you believe it, Albus?” I wanted to scream, to shred this damned house into pieces, with Aberforth in it, before he could talk to Albus again, fill his head with poison – he wouldn’t get to --- he had no right…

 “You’re not taking Ariana anywhere!” Aberforth yelled at his brother. His tone had shifted, when Albus entered the room – he knew we meant it, now. He knew it was real. “What’s wrong with you? Both of you – this nonsense has gone on long enough… What does he mean, you’re leaving? You can’t! Have you forgotten…”

“You will not stop us, so don’t even try,” I warned him. “You are nothing – WE are going to change the world! Do you honestly think you can stop a revolution? You?”   

“Oh shut up with your dumb revolution poppycock! You’re not doing anything, and you’re not taking Ariana anywhere!” Aberforth had gotten his wand out again, pointing it at me.

I knew the hate was going to burn a hole into my stomach, if it didn’t find some form of release soon, “Try and stop me, imbecile!”  

He spat in my face. And something clicked, like a metal key sliding into place. It was a comfortable space. I’d been in it before. The place where I could relish in my power. Where I could retaliate.

He lifted his wand.

He would beg for mercy. He would be in pain as he’d never known. He would regret ever raising his voice to me, because he was not worthy – he would suffer…

 “Stupefy!” Aberforth yelled. I blocked him.

“Crucio!”

His screams were like an embrace. The rush, as I sent the pain coursing through his veins was incredible, sweet, elating – I could feel the power trickling through me, could feel my heart thundering, as he screamed louder, as he cowered on the floor, could hear laughter, as if from a distance. Joy. This was joy.

 I didn’t notice anything, until the girl ran into the room, throwing herself over her brother, shielding him, ripping me out of my wild happiness. I hated her for it, briefly. Sent her a warning shot, so she would retreat and I could continue my fun, but she was unrelenting. She simply screamed, and clung onto him.

Albus grabbed my sleeve, and I could see it, when our eyes met. Something had changed – something was broken – and I understood. It was the brats – those damned brats…

 “Please please stop…,” he begged, with tears in his eyes. “Please – don’t hurt them - I’ll come with you – I’ll do anything … Look at me, Gellert” he had grabbed my face with both hands, and we were alone in the room, except we weren’t. “We can leave, right now, just you and me. Please, if you just stop…”

“You’re on their side!” It hit me, then. He’d always pick them – now – in a month, in a year…  “You can’t be with them – you’re MINE!”

He nodded in tears. “Yes… yes, it’s my fault – look at me, please –“ He didn’t mean it. He would leave me. He’d chosen them. And if he chose them, what did it matter? If he’d abandon me anyways, why not take what I’d spent all that time with the dumb little girl preparing for?

 “Let’s meet that Obscurus, shall we?”

All colour left Albus’ face. He was a blur of shock white. Shock white, and blue eyes, and nothing else. “Please, please, please, don’t… not that, please, I’ll do anything…”

I raised my wand, and I could see it immediately. The darkness, around her, beneath her, devouring her, devouring all of us – part of me longed for it to happen –

“No more, please, no more,” Albus begged. “Hurt me instead, please…”

I stared at him in shock, while the darkness spread around us, and laughter, helpless, wild laughter, bubbled out of me in the middle of it all. “Why would I ever hurt you?” Did he not know me? Did we not know each other at all?

 I drew on the Obscurus and the girl screamed loud, louder than her brother had before. She wouldn’t let go of it – her magic, her darkness – held on to it, and it dove in and out of her, like poison, visible poison, liquid and smoke at the same time. it was dark now – too dark to see – there were spells flying in every direction –

And that’s when I realized Albus had given up his begging. He was aiming for me. And it backfired. The oath prevented him from firing spells, but he was too powerful – he was able to fight it, and he fought himself – his face had taken a blueish tint, his fingers purple, and there was blood dripping out of his nose, his ears…

“STOP IT!” I grabbed onto him, as he kept trying. “ALBUS, STOP IT - you’ll kill yourself! Is that what you want?”

But he kept trying, the girl kept wailing, and Aberforth kept throwing his pathetic little jinxes at me, jinxes that were so easy to block, and then there was another scream – I could see a scarlet jet of light hit her, and the darkness rushed back into her, all at once – and then she didn’t move anymore -

I was slammed into a wall, before I could react. Albus’ wand was at my throat, his hand at my collar. He grabbed me, pushed me, and we were in front of the house, and I could see he wanted to kill me in that moment.

“You can’t,” I reminded him, “you can’t, you took an oath – it will kill you!”

“I don’t care!”

But he didn’t move, or attempt to attack me. He just stood there, in tears, his pain as real as mine, and that’s when I remembered. When a detail that hadn’t seemed important in the middle of it all suddenly became the most important thing in the world. Scarlet light.

 I grabbed his hand. “We have to go!”

“What?” He stumbled back. “No – why… No!”

“Yes! We have to go NOW, before it’s too late – you have to trust me – I’m doing this for you! I’m doing this for us!” His attack, his betrayal, it didn’t matter anymore – I had to get him away from…

“What is WRONG with you?” he bellowed. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Listen to me…” He didn’t understand. I had to make him understand. Had to…

He stepped up to me, and there was a blazing look on his face. Cold, hard fury, as I’d never seen before. “I never want to see you again. I never want to speak to you again. Do not write to me. If you ever come near me or my family again, I promise you that I WILL find a way to kill you!”

I didn’t remember much from there. Lights in houses nearby. I remember running, remember being in my aunt’s house, remember locking all the doors. They didn’t frighten me. The Aurors, the neighbours… but he did. The look on his face was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.

I left before the morning.

*

Tabea took the photograph into her hands. “I just don’t understand… If he used to be with you – If he was… what happened to him?”

“He is hiding from who he is, what he planned,” I told her. “What we planned. This has to stay our little secret, do you understand?”

She nodded dutifully, as she was raised to do. “Is he hiding like I am?”

“Not quite.”

“He did something, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t know. I could never tell him. Had to let him live with his denial. I couldn’t. It would kill him.

“A long, long time ago…”

“What was it?” she whispered.

“He killed someone.”

 

Chapter 14: Fancast

So - I debated myself a while whether I want to do this or not. But it was just too fun to prepare.

Here are the actors I'd cast, if this was a movie. I try to go country-specific with this. One thing I loved about the HP movies is the accurate accents, which is why Tabea HAD to be a German actress. With Sayid I was able to take some liberties, as he's a world traveller. I just needed an inspiring actor in his 30s. For Bathilda I needed someone brilliant who was able to pass for significantly older than Gellert, but who also looks similiar to Jamie Campbell Bower, but British, which is not easy, but I think I did well. 

All names and casting choices have meaning, so feel free to speculate. Just don't expect my to confirm any theories.

 

Perenelle Flamel

Claudette Walker

 

Tabea Opitz 

Lea von Acken 

 

Sayid Albahith

Assad Zaman

 

Dante Alighieri

Damiano David

 

Bathilda Bagshot

Diana Riggs

 

Horace Slughorn

Conleth Hill

.

 

Chapter 15: Chapter 13 - Romanticism

Notes:

Woah - this wedding was supposed to be ONE chapter - but I think there's a limit to how long they can be? Anyways, stay posted. I will keep expanding the Albus/Aurelius and Albus/Queenie dynamics started in this chapter.

References:
Music: Vorspiel (=Prelude) by Richard Wagner

Quotes:
- Interview with a vampire, Lestat de Lioncourt (quote)
- Dangerously Yours (movie quote)

Romanticism:
A literary movement in the 18th/19th century revolving around themes like a yearning for the so-called Golden Age ( a rose-coloured version of the Middle Ages), a movement back towards nature or the natural state of things, as a reaction towards modernity and industrialization, which the Romantics rejected. Common themes/motifs are: the blue flower, the unachievable love of woman of higher stature (inspired by Hohe Minne), the two wanderers/adventurers (one who returns home, one who is lost to adventures), finding solace in nature, hopeless devotion, e.g.

 

 

 

Chapter 13 - Romanticism

  There is one thing about being a vampire that I most fear above all else... 
and that is loneliness. You can't imagine the emptiness. 
A void stretching out for decades at a time. You take this feeling away from me, Louis. 
We must stay together and take precaution... and never part.

 The year had barely started, and already, Torquin Travers was in the headmaster’s office, asking for my hours to be cut, for a sabbatical, as soon as possible. He was met with resistance – by Dippet, by myself, by anyone he came across, really. But he was unrelenting. There was no talk of compensation. It bothered Sayid more than me, but it did start to sink in, that he wanted me to do this, risk my life and countless others, endanger what was left of my family, free of charge. I had to do what he said, or there’d be consequences. I hadn’t thought about where I was going to live, or how, hadn’t looked into my savings, of which I had some, of course. It seemed inevitable that we would come to a conflict of minds, and practicalities, and soon.

Sayid and I talked about it, behind closed doors. He insisted I’d ask for compensation, but was not sure of the consequences this might have for my legal situation. And it wasn’t the money that bothered me – it was the power they had over me. The restrictions, the supervision, the constant check-ins and veiled threats, every now and then. Deep down, I just wanted to turn back the clock, evade all of this somehow, consequences be damned.

Theseus was clueless, and maybe that was better. He was enthralled by our mission. It was sweet, seeing him this engaged. He’d always been a devoted worker. But he had truly found his calling at the Auror’s Office.

“What do you think he wants?” he asked me about Gellert. “I mean, in the end… this revolution is one thing, but where does it all end?”

“In triumph. In power. In ashes. I don’t know.”

“But you must have talked about, back when… I mean…” He chose his words carefully these days. He lacked Sayid’s blunt, but elegant approach to hidden things. And he was a bit scared to offend me, or say the wrong things, which was far from helpful. He acted fast, when it came to other things, familiar things. Hiding Bob Odgen. Disappearing the Gaunt files within the justice system. Making sure to stay updated about Morfin Gaunt’s pending release from Askaban, making inquiries to confirm Marvolo’s death. He was very good at what he did.

“You have to understand that I don’t know the man Grindelwald very well,” I tried to explain. “I knew Gellert, as a teenager. His plans weren’t that well-established. It was all about the Statute of Secrecy, and the revolution that would lead up to it.”

“But he had plans before he even met you,” Theseus argued. “He had an idea of his future.”

“That he did.”

“And he had desires.” There it was again, that cautious tone. “What, would you say, they were? Right when you met him – what was he looking for?”

It wasn’t a simple answer. Things were never simple, never just one thing. Looking back, it seemed like Godric’s Hollow had been a step on the way to power, to the Deathly Hallows. But it had been easy, then, to get swept up in the rest of it. The things I wanted to be true, what I wanted to see and hear. And those were two very different versions of Gellert and his – for lack of a better word – desires.

*

“Tell me about your vision, then.”

He sat next to me, on the little garden bench, leant back, his eyes closed. “You believe it?”

“I’m curious,” I avoided the question. It was difficult to form full sentences while staring at the golden light that was his hair in the sunshine, and I couldn’t quite tell, why that was. “You say you’re following your fate, so what brought you to Godric’s Hollow? I know I wouldn’t come here, if I had a choice.oll”

“Maybe you could do with some vision,” he said, mocking me.

“Enlighten me.”

“I saw my future. I saw crowds, screaming my name, banners bearing a symbol.” There was a dreamy expression on his face, when he spoke. All traces of mockery, or arrogance had faded. “And then I saw nothing but that symbol… I forgot about the second part for a while. It was a dream, you see. Visions are always hardest to remember that way. But the second part – it was guide, I think.”

“Guidance? Someone lead you somewhere?” I guessed. We had trouble communicating, every now and then. Sometimes, he got the words wrong. Sometimes I just told myself that he had. It was easier to stomach than the truth.

“No, I was alone. It was a tall field of golden straw. The fields around it were green, but some – some were burnt by the heat. The ground was cracked along my feet.”

Beneath. He’d meant ‘beneath.’ I didn’t bother to correct him, as it was a minor mistake.

“And the sky, it had the most wonderful colours. It was sunset… And I walk in my vision. I walk through the field and there is a blue flower in front of me. It is the most magnificent blue, so bright, so vivid… I pick it up and lose myself in the colour and when I look up, I see fate.”

“See it how?” It was difficult not to laugh. He didn’t even know what he was describing – maybe he had read poetry, before he’d fallen asleep, even though he claimed to disdain it. “How can you see fate?”

“That I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the symbol was there, and that blue… I will remember it, when I see it. I know it will be with me – I could see it will be with me, when I discover secrets, when I become a man, when I face my greatest challenge… It will be with me the day I die, I know it!”

“When you become a man?” It was hard not to laugh at him, sometimes. As much as we were aligned intellectually, his insistence on Divination as a true art form was ridiculous. “Do you want something blue for your birthday, or are we looking for a girl in a blue dress?”

“What would a girl have to do with it?” He sounded hurt by my laughter. He wanted to impress me with his visions, and yet, I remained nothing but amused.

“A blue flower? Fate? Come on, you must know what this means!” As he looked clueless, I decided to educate him in a branch of literature he apparently hadn’t come across, despite his German heritage. It seemed strange that I, an Englishman, should educate someone named Grindelwald on this specific issue. “It’s Romanticist symbolism, introduced in the book ‘Heinrich von Ofterdingen.’ The poet Novalis wrote about a young man, a dreamer, who wandered the world to search for his blue flower. The wanderer escapes his grounded, traditional family, and travels in his quest. He finds the flower in the wild fields. He looks at it, just like you, and he sees his fate.”

“And? What is it?” he inquired greedily, forgetting how much he disliked poetry for the very moment. “Does the flower have healing powers of some kind? Maybe it is a rare plant – Muggles often get the details wrong when they discover our world!”

Poor boy, he really didn’t understand poetry. “As I said, it’s symbolic. The flower represents love. Blue is said to be the colour of purity in western European culture. The Romantics thought of it as a quest for a pure girl’s heart.”

“That is insane!” He got up, started pacing. “This must be a coincidence! And who are these Romantics? Do people listen to them? They sound quite simple-minded!”

“Only in art,” I said. “They’re artists, from the beginning of this century. Why are you so upset?” When he didn’t stop pacing, I decided to drop the subject. “Tell me about the symbol again.”

It was early July 1899, when I first heard of the Deathly Hallows. An obsession that would follow me throughout my years. Always alluring. Never fading. Like him.

*

Sometimes, I chose not to disclose details. They felt to private. I thought I owed him, us, a last bit of privacy. Some secrets were meant to stay hidden. And in any case, I couldn’t see how it would help.

Then came the days when Dippet started to cave, when he considered my sabbatical, and I started to panic. It wasn’t the money, or the idea of housing. I’d grown comfortable here. Gellert was right; I was hiding. I was hiding who I was, who I’d been, what I wanted… And I had a full-time occupation to distract me from just that. On any given day, I could inspire, guide, serve and protect wonderful young people. I could make them laugh and dry their tears, listen to their stories, mediate their fights, shape their minds. I could get caught up in their lives and stop thinking about the fact that I wasn’t living mine.

You’re lonely without me, one of Gellert’s letters called me out. You will always be lonely, when I am not in your life. You'll live a long time, a meaningless, desperate, long eternity without me. You will look into the faces of others, hoping for something that will, for an instant, bring me back to you. You will yearn to be understood, as I’ve understood you, to be known as only I know you, and your desires will remain that. Unsatisfied. Quiet – do you hear how quiet it can be? You will find moonlit nights strangely empty, because, when you call my name – and you will – you shall receive no answer.

I was in Paris, when I got that letter. I lived in a vibrant city, surrounded by new friends, enthralled in Alchemy, cherished, admired, even. I’d found a new home, a new family. Perenelle and Nicolas Flamel, my guardians, my mentors, my friends. I’d jumped, foolishly, into more flimsy romantic entanglements than they could keep count of, and shrugged it off, as Perenelle shifted from gossip over a cup of tea, then a glass of wine, then a lecture about self-value and deeper commitments. And he was right. I sat over his letter, stared at it for weeks and weeks, and knew he was right.

“It’s a bad idea,” I told Sayid, when he revealed why he’d dragged me into Madam Malkin’s on a random Wednesday evening. The magical tape measures zooming happily around me, while she draped fabrics over my arms and shoulders, without asking for any input – the entire store seemed to have a singular mission. “You know I don’t go to weddings!”

“You will go to this one,” he said. “I told my brother that you will be at his wedding. I promised my mother. You are expected.” He paused, and we both knew what he was going to say next: “He will be there.”

“Yet another reason to stay away.”

“Listen to me…” He plucked the little tapes of my shoulders, and spoke in a low voice. “This is a wedding to an Indian woman. It will last three days. You can take this as an excuse not to come to the next three weddings you will be invited to, if you want. But you will go to this one. The opportunities it will provide…”

“What opportunities?”

“Romance.” He slapped my shoulder, when I smiled at him, at his naivety. “Stop resisting! You will be far away from home, as will he. There will be a festive, happy atmosphere, undisturbed by the dark side of politics. You can pretend it does not exist. You can escape, approach things from a lighter perspective. Let him drink, let him dance – let him be swept up in all the happy faces who meet him. Allow yourself to be swept up in it as well.” He picked the darkest navy blue from a pile of fabric, and waved towards the store owner with it. “What is the worst that could happen?”

“Are we playing that game again?”

“We are not. These are no games. What are you scared of?”

I couldn’t answer. His words sounded too alluring, too nice. A hardened criminal like Gellert surely wouldn’t be weak in a situation like it, which is why I was worried about the plan. I, however…

“I can only help you, if you talk to me, Albus.” He frowned. “It’s not in your nature to open up to people. You let others do that, while you hold on to your secrets and regrets. As you friend Theseus would say, it’s not productive.” He grinned, mimicking Theseus’ accent and over-correctness, and I had to fight a smile as well.

“It’s risky. It’s uncharted territory, and therefore hard to plan for. We’re not seers – he is. He will see us coming, and we’re walking in there blindfolded.” It went against every instinct I had to go with the flimsy, flawed plans of others. Most plans were like that. They were simple, lacked foresight. Like the people who made them. There was a reason, I liked making decisions by myself. “You don’t know how many Acolytes he’ll bring, how political things will get once we’re there. I can’t pretend to show genuine interest in him as a person, if he starts talking about his hatred, or war, or…”

“He will not,” Sayid said confidently. “He knows his audience.”

“And he’ll remember that I threatened him, and his people the last time we saw each other,” I reminded him. “Things could escalate. People could get hurt. Innocent people.”

“Not at a wedding, no,” he said with an air of utter conviction and serenity. “That is the beauty of it all. Circumstances will pacify you. Distance from common structures will liberate you. All you need to do is find him, talk to him. Close enough so you can be seen, and supervised by me, private enough so you will be comfortable.”

It occurred to me, then, that we might run into a different set of troubles: “Aren’t you worried, he might find out you’re not married? That could be an issue, if I’m your date to a wedding.”

“And you will be a very handsome one, once you stop resisting the process,” he said, handing his chosen fabrics to a store worker. “I would not worry about it too much. I also told him, I was afraid of spiders. You know how I cherish their beauty.”

“Yes, but I doubt that will come up in conversation.”

“It might.”

“Sayid –“

“I am divorced, we are in a morally grey area,” he said.

“Aren’t we always?” I knew I was.

He shrugged. “I think it will be fine. Jealousy might work in your favour. It did in Palermo.”

“That was different,” I protested. “He wanted Dante’s money. I got in the way of his plans, that’s why he was angry.”

“Yet his anger was directed at Dante, and not yourself.” He smiled. “You worry too much. I will dance with many women, the minute his anger should arise. I will choose them in the most shallow ways and give them loud and vulgar compliments. How does that sound?”

“Do they need to be vulgar?”

He sighed. “Your complaints are odd. Fine, they will be respectful, but tantalizing. I will charm the ladies with utmost politeness and hope they will not get bored by it.” He had to laugh at his own words. “Seriously, Albus, how do you ever meet anyone with standards like that?”

“I’m nice,” I said. “People seem to respond to it well. So far, I’ve never received a complaint about being too well-mannered.”

“And you don’t even brag!”

“Oh, I do. I have lots of material to draw from.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” he said, comforted by my flaws. “Here I was beginning to worry you’re too good a man for all of this.”

“I said I’m nice,” I corrected him. “I never said I was a good man. And you will never hear me say it, either.”

“Go back to bragging,” he said. “This whole self-flagellation will not be very appealing, I think.”

Before I left for Chennai, I was told that my old Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Galatea Merrythought, had been approached about taking over some of my responsibilities. She was still busy writing her most recent book, but, according to Armando, happy to come back part-time. for now. I couldn’t help but wonder, if he knew what Travers wanted me to do. If he was preparing for the very likely eventuality that I would not come back.

The place was breath-taking in its beauty. Sayid made a point of showing me the town, the beaches, the Kapaleeshwarar temple,  Mylapore, the peaceful and extensive grounds of Sri Ramakrishna, Valluvar Kottam, and the many unknown places, hidden in small alleys and behind the poorer quarters, away from pruning eyes, where wizarding history was alive in the shadows of society. That part always made me a little sad, although there was more of an intrigue, a mystery to it.  

“I always wanted to come here,” I confessed. “When I was younger.”

“What kept you? And don’t say work. You haven’t always worked.”

“Family commitments.”

“You do not talk about that much,” he said. “Sick parents?”

“Sick sister. Dead parents.”

“But you do not have a sister,” he observed.

“Not anymore.”

He didn’t press the point. Maybe that’s why he knew me so well. He had a good feeling for when to ask questions and when to retreat. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he wanted to coax my secrets out of me, one by one. He just wasn’t in a rush about it.

The wedding was being held at Semmozhi Poonga, a beautiful botanical garden, decorated with floating lights and magically warmed up. It was January, after all. Once you’d stepped into the garden, it might as well have been May. The air was pleasant, the sky bright (if you looked up, you could still get a sense of the cold) and the flowers and trees evergreen.

“Won’t the Muggles get suspicious?” I asked, observing the unnatural spring time.

“They never do with the gardens,” Sayid said. “We are quite out in the open here. We always are. They just put it up to their miracles and their gods. Faith is a wonderful thing.” He handed me a drink and I pretended to consume it. Let people see me. There was no point in dulling my senses for the next three days, not for a minute.

Day one, Sayid explained, was the Ganesh Puja, a ritual of blessings, with a ceremony behind closed doors. “You won’t see the bride,” he said. “She will be with her bridesmaids at the house – this is the day you meet everyone.”

“Is it not a day for family only?” I inquired.

“Not when you have money,” he said, waving to a person in the distance. “People have to know, just how much, you know. There is mother. Make sure to praise her dress at least once a day. And change topics if she wants to set me up with that woman,” he pointed to the blonde at his mother’s side. “She does this, every time.”

“I’m sure she means well,” I said, and he just shook his head laughing.

He greeted her in Arabic, and I only understood bits and pieces of the conversations. Around me, people talked in Tamil, Hindi, Urdu, and I wished to speak every single language. For a wild moment I pictured a future where I quit my job by owl, stayed, attached myself to a random traveller, and left this country, then the next, then the next, immersing myself in a new language and culture, and learning every bit of it.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” the woman by my side said with an American accent. She had a nervous smile on her face, and had tried her best to fit in with a traditional dress. It fit her well, but she didn’t wear it with the most confidence. The blonde Sayid’s mother had chosen for him. The woman I’d last seen at Tabea Opitz’ side in a kitchen in London, Queenie Goldstein.

I decided to ignore the obvious implications of her presence the best I could. “It is breath-takingly beautiful. Have you even been to India?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t travelled much,” she said, chosing her words carefully. “I’ve been to Paris once…”

“And did you enjoy your stay?”

She looked away, blinking nervously. “No, I can’t say I did.”

“A fateful place.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, you are getting along so good already,” Nadia Albahith beamed. “I knew it! Albus, dear, how are you? How have you been?” She continued quickly, without letting me speak: “Sayid told me you weren’t bringing anyone, so I took the liberty of getting to know Queenie here. She is such a beautiful girl, isn’t she?”

I just smiled and nodded along. Behind his mother’s back, Sayid grinned into his drink. He’d known this was coming, I realized. This was part of his unhinged plan for the next three days.

“And you are both so interested in the same things! Queenie, did you know that Albus here has written the most wonderful essays on Legilimency? Queenie is so gifted at it, we’ve just been talking, you know - Dearest, did you know this man is a Professor? Very well respected, so wonderful with all the children – You like children, don’t you? You’re still so young…”

Sayid was in heaven. This was what he’d had to endure at every family gathering, and watching it from the side-lines was great fun for him. Next to me, Queenie’s reaction to the set up was a rather helpless, but polite smile that showed a row of pearly white teeth.

“Keep smiling,” Sayid whispered to both of us, as he paced around the ambush in circles. “Keep nodding. Agree with everything. This is the only tactical retreat you can get.”

“I love children!” Queenie exclaimed nervously, and a her voice sounded shrill and overexcited.

Nadia swooned. “Of course you do, dear. All women do. Oh, I can see it already… Oh, there’s my cousin Kamala, I MUST tell her about our new house – she will be so… delighted!”

Queenie looked around, but didn’t dare to move. “Do you think she’ll come back?”

“New plan,” Sayid whispered, quiet enough so she couldn’t hear him. “Stay close to that one. Wait, until Grindelwald approaches her. I will find him and send word.”

I obliged. There were worse conversation partners, and my friend Newt had mentioned his worry for this woman more than once. She was as pleasant and warm as he’d described, once the self-proclaimed match-maker had left the scene. I offered her to dance, and she happily agreed. We had to stop, when her feet hurt, which happened quite soon.

“New shoes,” she said. “I thought I did the spell right. It’s very tricky, you know. They prevent that sorta stuff at the store. They want you to come in for adjustments, but I always do it myself. My mother would never let me hear the end of it, if I didn’t.”

“She sounds like quite a woman.”

“Oh, stop.” She laughed. “She is worse than your friend Sayid’s mom! Probably worse than yours – ouch! Oh, Aurelius, honey, will you come sit with us for a while? I’m afraid I’m not the best company right now!”

The young man who sat down with us was timid, quiet, barely dared to look at me. I could have sworn this was Credence Barebone, but he seemed to go by a new name these days. Cautiously, I decided to go with it, engaged him in conversation. He seemed to have been waiting for that. After a while, I wondered whether Queenie was the only one that had been sent to me. I deflected, when he inquired about my family, and he seemed disappointed about that – thinking of what Aberforth might say about this whole ordeal was a call back to reality. Here in the south of India, it all felt so far away, so surreal.

I could tell that he had arrived by the swelling noise in the background. People were running to greet him, yelling his name. Sayid had not oversold his appeal in the colonialized countries. They ran to him, like moths to a flame. Like I had, once. And a small part of me, small enough to seem insignificant, but noticeable enough to scare me, wanted to join them.

This wouldn’t be easy. But this wasn’t a time to choose easy, is was time I did what was right, instead.

Notes:

There's a Theseus POV chapter coming up soon!

Chapter 16: Chapter 14 – The Golden Age

Notes:

Settle in, get a snack, MAKE SURE YOU'RE ALONE - this one is long. 14 pages long. I couldn'T cut anything - it was all too essential to the plot.

Anyways... don't ask me why there's a lion. I just felt like it, ok? And I'm sure Gellert would always do whatever the fuck he feels like, especially if it gets him attention & shocked gasps & mildly aroused stares. Have you seen the candidate dinner in 'Secrets of Dumbledore?' Dude lives for drama.

Enjoy :)

 

Chapter 14 – The Golden Age

This tendency to seek an ideal, this longing for something better 
is as old as the human race; it has always haunted the mind of man and 
will continue to fire his imagination. An escape from the present time and place.
Wherever society was conceived to have deviated from the path of nature… 
They urged a return to natural conditions, to the conditions of the Golden Age.

There’s a mirror at my school, hidden in a room that comes and goes, a room of many mysteries. If one needs to hide a personal object, it provides that space. If one seeks shelter, solace, there will be a comfortable chair, in front of a crackling fire place. One can look into it, lose themselves in the flames. Time will drag on, outside. Inside, you will be safe. It is the place experiments are born. The place love blooms. Whatever you require, it will be there.

In my case, it used to be a cold, hard look in the mirror. And I saw the same, every time. As the years went on, I thought it would change. But the picture just got clearer, and more vivid. The blade sharper. The silver brighter. Golden light, an old barn, and two boys with a knife and a manic idea. If I looked at it too long, I could see him as he was now, and that was the most frightening part. I didn’t desire a romanticised past, a delusion about a love story with only one lover in it. It was him. It had always been him.

“You have a widower’s eyes,” Queenie Goldstein said to me, on the first day of the wedding, and I’d never felt so exposed in my life. “Like you’re consumed by loss. I’ve never seen eyes so sad in my entire life.”

I decided to change topics. “What is it you are trying to see?”

“What?” But she looked flustered. She knew she’d been caught.

“In my head. You’ve been trying to get into it, ever since we sat down.”

“You can feel that?” She looked intrigued, rather than apologetic.

“Yes. I also can do that. I just don’t. It’s not very polite, is it? I think we should give people the common courtesy to lie to us at times. Keep their secrets.”

“Why should lying be good?”

“I never said it was good. I said it should be permitted.” She looked nervous, started sipping on her drink. “Don’t worry, I’m not doing it to you.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Would I know, if you did it?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

The voices in the background fell silent, except for one. A speech had started, in a voice that things to me I couldn’t describe with mere words. “I bet you would love to read my mind right now!”

“Yes.” She frowned. She wasn’t supposed to tell me she had orders, but it had been rather clear from the start. “You’re not even closing your mind. It’s like walking into a foggy night.”

“Be careful not to get lost, then.”

She stopped speaking, listened to Gellert’s voice reverberating across the garden. He didn’t speak loudly; he didn’t need to. All he’d done was to start, and people moved closer to listen. He drew them in. I could see the appeal. I shouldn’t, but I could see his hair shining in the sun, his smile… I could see why people were drawn to him.

“It’s just always so beautiful,” Queenie said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. I lent her my handkerchief. “Thank you! You know, people don’t see this side of him enough. He’s really a romantic at heart.” She sniffed, when she noticed my expression. “He really is!”

“I’m sure he’s – very convincing.”

“You don’t understand – he sees people! He really sees us, that’s why we’re so drawn to him!” She shook her head. It hurt her, that I didn’t see the same thing she did. “You think he’s pretending. That he’s going from crowd to crowd, putting on an act. You really think he’d go that far?”

“I don’t know.” It was a bold lie, but I had to test whether she could tell. Of course it was a pretence. I’d seen him do it – the charade, drawn out over days and weeks. The act of the romantic. And I’d fallen for it. It had been a masterpiece.

*

It was August, 1899, and Gellert was ecstatic.

“This is it!” He whirled around, his eyes on the field, then the horizon. “This is it! Don’t you see it, Albus?”

“See what?” It was late. We’d lost ourselves in conversation, in vivid debates and literary references once again, while walking through the fields around town. We’d decided to walk across a cornfield, to get to the lake, where it would hopefully be cooler. Everything was in heat, that August – dry, sweltering, unbearable heat, drying out the hay on the fields, and browning, slowly destroying the green grass around town.

“The light! The golden field! This is my vision!” He started running around, laughing excitedly. His smile was beautiful, infectious, exhilarating. “Come, look – the flower – my blue flower – it has to be here, oder?”

I faintly remembered the stories of his vision. He had never been able to describe the exact shade of blue, or the colour itself, to me. He’d spent years looking through botanical literature, before we met. Mixing colours, trying to get the exact shade, to paint with it. But it didn’t seem possible.

Secretly, I’d always thought it must be impossible, because it wasn’t real. He was mixing up dreams, or trying to drag their unrealistic, untouchable, unspeakable nature into the daytime. This was not in the nature of dreams. They were just that – dreams.

But he kept looking, walking, then crawling, around an ordinary cornfield like any other, until, finally, he screamed in triumph. “Albus! Come look! Look at this,” he whispered, when I finally had reached him. He held a flower in his hands, crushing the petals in his excitement. “Look!” But he didn’t seem happy, not entirely. The nervous laughter on his face, the fading smile. “Is this not it? This has to be it!” It was almost like he needed me to confirm it for him, like he wasn’t sure himself.

“I don’t know.” I let my fingers trace the flower petals. They were clean, while his were covered in dry earth, clean, but for the little ink drawing he had created on my palm the previous night – line, circle, triangle. The Deathly Hallows, his other obsession. Our obsession.

He was frowning now. “No, it’s not right!”

“What isn’t?”

“The blue – it’s not the right shade!” He looked around. “it’s not right, is it?”

“There are other ones,” I pointed to the ground. Like weeds, they grew across the field, sprawling around our feet. “Maybe it’s one of them?”

“No – no – it’s not right – there was a tree, in the background – a slanted tree –“ His erratic movements were unnerving, but still, he held on to the flower, crushing it in his fist.

 I had one hand placed on it, trying to calm him down. “There was a tree back there.” I looked back. It was in the distance, barely visible, but the only tree in the area. “Do you want to go look for more flowers there? What? What’s wrong?”

Both of his hands had grabbed mine. The flower lay on the ground, crumpled up, forgotten. His fingers traced the lines he’d drawn, the lines of the Hallows. The heat of early August was unbearable, pressing my sweaty clothes, my hair, onto my skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat building in my stomach. Did he know what he was doing to me? Was he doing it on purpose?

And then he looked up. “It gives no sense…” Our eyes met, and his were, for the first time ever, frightened. He didn’t say anything, he just kept staring into my eyes, unblinking, unnerved, like he was seeing me for the first time. “Yes.” That’s all he said.

“What?” I flinched, almost jumped back, when his hand cupped my face. This wasn’t behind closed doors. It wasn’t the woods. It wasn’t dark enough yet. It felt open, exposed, and dangerously so. “Gellert – someone could see!”

“It’s you,” was all he whispered, like he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. “How can it be you?” He stepped closer, leant in, and we stood there, forehead against forehead, looking at my hand he wouldn’t let go, the drawing he kept tracing.

He held a knife to my hand before the week was over.

*

It’s strange, the things we fall for, when we want to believe. A person in love would believe anything, even a tale so sickeningly sweet it might give you a tooth ache. A lie about fate, and dreams, and magic that you can’t prove is there. I saw that in Queenie Goldstein’s memories. The round little New Yorker with dark curls, decorating a cake for her, his smile as wide and blissful as hers. The Muggle Newt had mentioned. She really was delusional, if she thought Gellert understood, or even approved, of her brand of romance.

She truly was too pure for this environment. I could see it in the way she kept mothering the young man at our table – Credence, Aurelius, whatever his name was.

“You should eat something,” she said.

And as she stopped paying attention, I invaded. It was easy, like stepping through an open door. Legilimens. One had to make sure the footsteps were quiet, that was all. She wasn’t used to people reading her mind, didn’t expect it, so she didn’t shield herself. The boy, Aurelius, didn’t eat, when he got nervous, she thought. And he was so skinny already… He wasn’t used to being around this many people, wasn’t used to the kindness he experienced by Grindelwald’s people. Like an anxious, touch-starved puppy, he turned to her, and to me, for some reason. He didn’t have orders to keep me occupied. She did.

“Don’t you like the cake, Aurelius?”

He reacted to my voice, to an alarming degree. His face lit up, and his mind was humming. Legilimens. A door, wide open, lights on. A soft carpet, rolled out, to swallow any footsteps. He didn’t desire to keep secrets. Whether he was aware of it or not, he practically begged to spill them.

“No, I love it, I really…” He’s talking to me!

“Would you like mine?” I hadn’t touched the cake; too busy violating my own ethical boundaries for a group of Aurors sitting in there offices, thousands of miles away.

That looks disgusting. “Yes, please.”

It was a shame for the beautiful cake, but he put on a rather convincing show of enjoyment. It would have been cruel to call him out on his little act, seeing as he was an emotional mess. Fragile, confused, longing – for what, I couldn’t tell. I’d have to wait and see.

“You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t like,” I said quietly – quiet enough for no one else to hear.

“But I started,” he said, like a child that’s about to be punished. “I have to –“ I could see images flashing before his eyes. A woman, strict, cold. Punishments. Painful, crude, unnecessary. He’d always been an obedient boy.

“Where did you go to school, Aurelius?” A blackboard, a sparse room filled with children of all ages. The same woman. A bible, open on his lap. His fingers traced the lines, shaking.

“New York.”

“Isn’t Ilvermony in Massachusetts?” I asked Queenie. She’d gone there, she would know. And I would find out more, if I pretended not to.

“Yes, why?”

“Why do you want to know?” the boy asked. His heart was racing. Shame. He wasn’t a real wizard, not like the others here – he wasn’t as good, though he knew of his explosive power – dark, often uncontrollable. He felt lesser than others. And he worried I would see him like that.

“Curiosity. I teach at a wizarding school myself, in Britain. I’m always interested to find out more about the others. Many are so well hidden, it’s a shame…”

“I know,” he said so quickly, he almost lost his breath. “Hogwarts.” I know who you are, I know who you are, I know who you are… There were words, and half-formed questions on his mind, and he wanted to scream them from the rooftops, but he was scared to. Every desire he’d ever had to escape his old life was linked to me.

“Yes. Have you heard much about it?”

He shook his head violently, and the questions formed in his eyes, his mind, and he longed to speak… I know you. I will know you.

“It’s in the Scottish Highlands,” I explained, piercing the cake with my own fork. I could feel his relief when he saw it disappearing, piece by piece. People wouldn’t know he hadn’t eaten. They wouldn’t consider him impolite, ungrateful. “We teach children from the ages of eleven to seventeen. The subjects are mostly the same as any place else – Charms, Transfiguration, Potions – though our Quidditch matches are known for their drama and their extensive and creative fouls.”

“And you – you play that?” Have to tell him… Have to ask…

“My students do.”

“And your children? Do, er, do they play it, too?” The eagerness on his face was almost painful.

“I don’t have any children.”

“Oh.” Why is he lying? He must be ashamed – it must have been an accident – this was a mistake – he doesn’t want me, never wanted me – stupid, stupid, useless…

“Credence?”

“Aurelius,” he whispered, and didn’t look up.

“Why did you want to talk to me?”

He didn’t answer, but the question, the painful, ridiculous, obvious question was swimming on his mind. Are you my father?

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked Gellert, when I reached him. I had half a mind to take someone’s drink and throw it in his face, but decided against it. There was no need to involve innocent bystanders.

He turned to me, the smile frozen on his face. He tried to fake a triumphant glare, but failed. I wasn’t supposed to meet him like this. It wasn’t on his terms. The underlings had failed to keep me occupied, had failed to keep me in place.

“Don’t bother answering that. We would be here until tomorrow.”

“We will be here tomorrow, Dumbledore” he said, the glint returning to his eyes. “It’s a three-day event. Didn’t they tell you?”

“You are unbelievable!”

“I think you mean improbable, Professor,” he said, smiling. “If I were impossible, I would not be standing here. I shouldn’t have to explain your own language back to you. This must be embarrassing for you.”

“Did you tell anybody else I’m their father, or is it just Credence?” I asked, and several women gasped dramatically around us. They weren’t shocked, they just loved the drama, I realized. I hadn’t stopped. I was still doing it. Once the violation started, it was hard to stop. There was a reason, people ought to be careful with Legilimency.

He barely reacted, exchanged a careful glance with Rosier. “Are you?”

This I hadn’t expected. “What – no – how?” Was it part of the ruse? A distraction tactic.

“Does he not know?” a woman whispered to her friend in the background.

“These men – it’s a wonder they are able to function,” he friend responded.

“Should we tell him?”

“I don’t need an explanation from you, thank you very much,” I told them. “Please go away, so I can yell at this gentleman in peace.”

“Rude,” one of them commented, while walking into the crowd.

“These foreigners,” he friend agreed with her. “They’re all the same. The Brits are the worst!”

“You will explain yourself,” I told Gellert, ignoring Rosier, ignoring the crowd, all the people who could hear. I barely noticed them at this point. “Not to me, but to Credence-“

“Aurelius.”

“This is beyond cruel, even for you! Do you have any idea, how desperate he is to find his parents? Why would you drag me into this?”

“I know Aurelius,” he said slowly. “And I had no intention of lying to him, so I never mentioned his parents by name. I only identified his bloodline. You really don’t see your mother’s face, when you look at him?”

The strange thing was, I did. he looked so much like her, it was eerie. I almost wondered, how I hadn’t seen it before. The jawline, the dark eyes, the cheekbones, the silky black hair, even though it was short…

“It’s impossible,” I told Gellert, but I wasn’t sure about it; I wasn’t sure about anything anymore. “He knows his date of birth. It’s in May of 1900. That only leaves me and…” And I remembered. The Muggle girl, from the village, the one with the muggle-born brother who’d gone to Hogwarts. Fleamont’s friend. The rumours. The hushed voices. Her disappearance. I hadn’t paid close enough attention. Had been caught up in my own misery, my escape route to Paris. Alchemy, the promise of meeting the fabled Nicolas Flamel had been more important than reconnecting with… Aberforth.

“He never told me.” It was my own fault, really. Had I been a better brother, had I not spent my time with insane obsessions and plans… “There were rumours, but I – it can’t be –“

“We should talk.” Gellert gestured towards an acolyte named Zabini. “Find Queenie. Have her talk to the boy. I will find him later.”

We sat down at a remote table, surrounded by trees and bushes, barely connected to the festivities. For less-wanted guests, Sayid had called those tables. I was grateful for them at the moment. My head was swimming, and the music, the rich tapestry of smells – perfumes, spices, incense – did the rest.

“I had no idea. We had no idea.”

“Are you so sure about that?”

I wasn’t. the rumours, that insane summer, followed by years of chaos and miscommunication…

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not your responsibility,” he said, and I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to comfort me, or just make me stop thinking about Credence, or Aurelius, or whatever his name was.

“It was,” I insisted. “It’s my family. I was the adult. I should have… I didn’t take the reins of anything.”

“You were seventeen. Why should you have.” He grabbed onto my wrist, as he’d done so many times, and I let him. “We’ve talked about this before, Albus. They asked too much of you. You were in an impossible situation and you know this –”

“Why do you do that?” I interrupted him. “You call me by my last name in public, when people can hear you. You don’t now. Do you even notice?”

He was silenced for a moment. This was the man, who, as a teenager had wildly predicted, no, promised, that he’d destroy anyone and anything who would stop him from kissing me in public. “I will strike them,” he’d said. “Kill them, if I have to. They can try and stop me.” Back then, I’d honestly thought he meant it. And, even worse, I’d liked it. The brutality of it. The force, the deciveness. It had been who he was as much as the blue flower, as the poems he quoted back to me. A farce, designed to make me fall into his web. As much as he was possessive, even protective of me at times, it would be foolish not to admit how much of this “relationship” had happened in my head, and only there.

“Do you want to know him?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what to answer. I should say yes. I should use this, make him believe he’d drawn me in successfully. The Aurors would just love that. But I thought of Ariana, thought of what Credence was, and it hurt. It felt wrong to use him in that way. The poor kid was just searching for his parents, abused, traumatized, angsty, and he’d gotten lost along the way.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“He will need comfort,” Gellert said, and I thought him kind for a second. “Think of having Aberforth for a father. I’d be devastated, wouldn’t you?”  

I left the table. I didn’t want to laugh, and I knew I almost had. It was cruel, and bizarre, and wrong. Reminded me of the rumour we’d started in Godric’s Hollow, of Aberforth not being able to read. Of him being too interested in our goats – a strange retaliation for the time he’d told me, he’d be worried about an accidental pregnancy if I was a girl. Back then, I’d thrown a pot at his head. I hadn’t missed. Never did. How ironic that fight was, now.

He followed me through the trees. I stopped when I had to – a small, artificial lake was in the way. Small, stone-encased islands had been created in the middle of it, with runes Muggles surely would look past, and ducks, native and non-native, swam in the water. On any other day, in any other company, I would have enjoyed the view.

“I didn’t know,” he said, after a while.

“Then you shouldn’t have told him anything at all.” I paused. It had to be mentioned. It was simply to ridiculous to stay unsaid: “You didn’t really insinuate it might be me, did you? Surely, you must be aware of how insane that sounds!”

“I don’t know what you do when you’re bored.” He avoided my eyes, as he said it. So many questions, so many unsaid things. Sometimes I suspected we didn’t know each other at all.

“Merlin, you are insane!”

He grabbed my hand, when I tried to leave, and I froze. Still didn’t look at me. I thought he’d let go, but he didn’t. for a moment, we just stood there, barely touching, looking in opposite directions. How strange it must look to a random observer, I thought. His hands were different then they’d been once. Different, the same – I couldn’t put it into words. When I let a finger graze his skin, it felt rougher. Stronger. He misunderstood, interlocked his fingers with mine, and I followed suit, like I had before. Maybe he hadn’t misunderstood; it was hard to say. I sensed that familiar scar, before I felt it. I did know him, I decided. This – this was part of him. The sensation in my chest, my stomach, in every nerve of my body – sickening, comforting, with a side of helplessness. This I understood.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

We almost jumped. It was the boy. Credence, no, Aurelius. Any my hand was empty and cold again.

“Can we talk tomorrow?” I said, quietly, so Aurelius wouldn’t hear. “I need time. I need to sort out my thoughts.”

He gave me the tiniest nod, and I left.

“Aurelius – stay!” I heard Gellert commanding the boy, as I fled the scene, trying to keep the last bit of dignity I had. That might have been an illusion. As I sat with the laughing, eagerly talking crowd, as I allowed myself to drink a glass of wine, I remembered why I didn’t go to weddings. The second glass tasted like grape juice, so I stopped.

Queenie found me again, on the second day. She’d made an effort to get a lovely new dress for each day, and beamed, as people complimented her on it.

“I love your west,” she said, as she sat down with me. “Look – we match!”

“Sayid’s mother will be very pleased,” I said, and she laughed.

“I looked for you yesterday,” she admitted quietly, when people got up from our table to dance. “I wanted to apologize. Aurelius – he wasn’t supposed to talk to you – he just got so excited…”

“But you were supposed to?”

“Well, I –“ He needs this. He waited so long!

“To do what?” She didn’t answer. “It’s honourable that you care so deeply for Aurelius, but this isn’t doing him any favours, you must be aware of that!”

“How do you…” Her mouth fell open. “You said you wouldn’t!”

“I did.”

“You said it was immoral.”

“And you thought me moral?”

“Well, after that lecture…” She looked shocked, flustered. Tried to recreate her thought pattern from the previous day. He doesn’t know… No, he can’t – If Grindelwald finds out…

“I wouldn’t tell him, if I were you,” I said, and she almost dropped her glass. There was something satisfying, calming about her growing unease. Gellert, Aurelius, random matchmakers and waiters with wine bottles I couldn’t fight – but this… this I had control over. “Doesn’t feel too good when it’s you, does it?”

“I believed you,” she whispered, peeking over to a table where Vinda Rosier talked to the family of the groom. Her heart fluttered in panic, and her mind was racing. Wide open, exposed…

I won’t tell, if you don’t.  

“Yes – yes, of course…” She fanned herself with a napkin. I offered her my glass of white wine. “Thanks. Oh, good, that’s water – you have the right idea, honestly, everyone’s getting drunk in the mornings…”

That confused me for a moment. When I caught Sayid’s eye, I understood, and I was grateful. He must have told the waiters not to serve me alcohol. I remembered the missing buzz; the drinks had tasted too sweet the other night – he’d done it sometime after the Aurelius incident. It felt good to know I had friends – someone who looked out, when I didn’t. someone who had my back. Relying on other people didn’t come naturally to me. Not, unless I’d first put those people’s plans into action, supplied them with information, guidance, direction.

None of my subtle efforts stopped her. She kept trying to catch a peek, as time went on. And at her level, no attempt of Occlumency, in which I was less (but I’d thought, enough) practiced would keep her out of my head forever. She’d have to decide to stop looking. I couldn’t make said decision for her. I could only help her along the way.

A burning sensation along the palm of my hand, sharp, biting. I had to hold my breath, while another hand was pressed into mine. Kept my eyes closed, focussed on my racing heart, on the certainty that this, finally, was forever. He meant it – him and me. this was confirmation.

He caught the blood troth with his hand, looked at me, and I wrapped the chain around his neck. “You wear it,” I whispered, with a manic, hungry glow in my eyes. “Promise you’ll always wear it!”

“You’re still bleeding,” he said, grabbing onto my hand. My sleeve was slowly turning red, and the colour was migrating from my wrist to my elbow. “Why did you roll your shirt back down?” And then, with a wild look in his eyes, he brought my hand to his lips and pressed them to the cut, started sucking at it with a fervour that should have shocked me, but didn’t. the sensation was sudden, and harsh. A rush of blood, an intensity, a pull, a heat building behind my stomach muscles, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy. All I could do was stare at him, beautiful, golden-haired, blood smeared all over his perfect face.

The blood transferred onto my face, when he kissed me, then his hair, his shirt, as my hand grasped onto him. He pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes shining with an intensity, a hunger I’d never seen before. “It’s not enough.”

All I could do in this moment, was nod, stare at him, and get lost in the heat.

Her face blushed violently, and she avoided my eyes. “That is…”

“I told you to stay out.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding her beautiful head. Her face had gone very pink. Not pleasant, but necessary, if I wanted to continue my plan. She was better than I’d thought, and I had to keep her out of my head by all means. Was it embarrassing? Crude? Impolite? Yes, to all of the above. Was it necessary? Yes. She would stop looking where she shouldn’t. And she’d break and tell Gellert, eventually, which would paint me in a vulnerable light. The pining Professor, unable to control his desires. After all, who was more trustworthy than a person who truly, desperately desired you, despite their better judgement?

“I’m not mad,” I said, “just disappointed.”

She burst out laughing, the embarrassment fading from her mind quickly. Too quickly. “You are such a teacher!”

“Would you like to dance?”

She seemed surprised, but not suspicious. She was naïve. Gifted, but open to manipulation. That would be the only way I could play her. Occlumency and Legilimency could remain Plan A – they would, however, fail me at times. I guessed the other part of my success would have to rely on her emotions. There was a reason she was here, with Grindelwald, in the first place, that much I knew from Nicolas. Newt had offered some additional insight in the past. It was risky, but it might be effective.

“You didn’t like the cake much, did you?”

“I’ve had better,” she said, trying to sound light. She failed.

You must give me the address of your baker, then.

She stumbled, and I caught her. Stay calm. She nodded, hiding her blushing face in my shoulder.

Do you have an address you want to share with me?

She danced slower, placing each foot carefully. Her thoughts were a mess of emotional turmoil, guilt, and bittersweet memories. Finally, she relented. I saw a street sign. A house number. A little bakery, and lonely, round-faced stranger stocking the shelves with fresh baguettes. Jacob Kowalski.

Do you have a message for Mr Kowalski?

I want to write him a letter, but you can’t read it.

I wouldn’t dream of it.

Vinda Rosier cut in at some point. Queenie’s performance as “friendly wedding guest who keeps recruit entertained” wasn’t convincing to her. She didn’t have orders to do it; she simply felt underwhelmed with the ongoing process. She was an excellent dancer. And she was used to taking the lead, without her male partners noticing what was happening. I let her. Disturbing her process, be it of manipulation or distractive purposes, would only put her on her guard. And she would close her mind. It was already difficult to catch glimpses, as she stayed on guard around Queenie.

“You must excuse Queenie,” she said quietly. “She’s been dreaming of a wedding of her own. That doesn’t seem too likely in the near future, so she’s… a touch emotional. She has been for a while.”

“You’re a very attentive friend.”

She smiled, and her mind formed so many plans at once, it was hard to keep track. “I try to be.”

“She’s not the only one who’s distraught.”

“Aurelius needs to get a grip.” She smiled, when noticing my face at her harsh voice. “He was promised contact with you, once you agreed to it. Not like this. We never intended to ambush you.”

“He’s been waiting for a long time,” I said, and I wasn’t sure whether I was still talking about Aurelius.

“Decades,” she said. “Though I don’t know whether he was aware of it. That it was you he was looking for,” she clarified.

“Was it?” It seemed a strange conversation. If we were still talking about Aurelius… He would have been looking for his parents, not me. Unless Gellert’s people had really believed…

“It’s you he should be looking towards,” she said pointedly. “Isn’t it? You’re willing to help him on his journey. You might be a greater help than you realize yet.”

“I might be.”

“You have experience with his torment.” Always with the double meanings… She intended for them to be there, barely noticeable, under the surface. Most times, she communicated with a glint in her eyes, a shift in her tone of voice. And she delighted when I picked up on her little hints and traps. The game was not to trick me, it was to test me.

“Not the most successful experience.” Maybe that was why I hesitated talking to Aurelius. I looked at him, knew what he was, and saw a piece of Ariana. Her face, her gentleness, her nightmares. I saw her becoming more and more frail, every time I returned home. And I retreated to my room, my books, listening to her screams when she had another episode, another nightmare. More than once I’d hoped she’d find her peace, either way, and felt so guilty I couldn’t look her in the eyes for days. I would go overboard in my care for her to compensate, and Aberforth would notice, and we’d fight about other things, pretending we both didn’t know that’s what it was.

He wasn’t in his room, when I looked for him that evening. It was the right house, the host had assured me, but the room door was open, and he wasn’t there. He’d left his room more orderly than any guest I’d ever seen, down to a bed that looked like it hadn’t been slept in. I wondered how much he’d been punished for tardiness in the past.

As he wasn’t there, I placed quill, parchment and a photograph of Aberforth on the small side table in the corner. I would have to find another way to talk to him, without people around. People, who could reach Aberforth before me. Who’d take bits and pieces of our conversation, and spread the word. But most importantly, people who might catch onto the fact that I wanted him out of here – away from these people, out of harm’s way, hidden away. Somewhere he could heal. If anyone could do that, it was Aberforth.

“He’s with a friend,” Gellert’s voice said in the background. No warning that he’d come. Every alarm system I’d set in place had failed at once. I couldn’t tell, if he was here on accident, or if his people were better at following me than the Aurors. He’d gotten past Sayid, as I had received no warning; that alone was impressive.

“No, I should go. Now is not the time.”

“It is for Aurelius. He’s been waiting for quite a while.”

I had to ask – I felt almost offended on Aberforth’s behalf: “What is that name? Did you pick it out of a hat? Who gave you permission…”

“It was on a blanket. He had it, before the ship sank.” A likely story. One that couldn’t be proven. Poetic, dark, very possible, very persuasive. He’d always been good at inventing stories people wanted to believe in. 

“I’ve been told, he’s with you because he wants answers.”

“By whom?”

“A friend.”

“Ah, yes.”

“What will happen, when he has his answers? Will you let him go?”

“Who says that he’ll want to leave?” He paused. “My people choose to be with me, and stay with me. It would be unwise to intervene.”

I had no answer for that. Trying to read his mind was pointless. I only needed to look at him, and my own thoughts were a mess. He was in full control. No cracks, no open doors. And he could see what I would do, most of the time. So it was best not to think. Not to have plans. As long as every action was spontaneous, he would only see some of them coming.

He didn’t step back, when I tried to leave. Just stood in the doorway, watching, anticipating. He’d done that in the past, but it had been playful. The man in front of me didn’t play around. He was sharp, attentive, almost predatory in his manners. It made me wonder whether he’d always been like that.

*

“You are doing too many things at once,” Sayid said on the third day, while we had breakfast in a quiet restaurant near the beach. “Do not loose track of our goal.”

“They need help,” I retorted. It felt wrong to leave Aurelius, Queenie, and others like them in Gellert’s grip, just because it didn’t serve some Aurors. Why should their future be secondary?“

“Trust,” he said. “Your goal is to win his trust. The others cannot matter.”

“But they do. Every person matters.” It seemed strange to take such a clinical approach to things. Strange, and limiting. Who said I couldn’t do it all?

“Yes.” He buttered a pastry and pushed the plate to me. “Try this – you will love it, it’s quite similar to the one in Kabul – remember breaking fast with the Zahiris?” It seemed a lifetime ago. “The bigger picture is this – if you focus on saving one boy – who may or may not be beyond saving, you create a greater divide between yourself and Grindelwald. We need for him to trust you, or this mission will fail. And if it does… The wars to come will be devastating.”

“I’m well aware of the bigger picture.” After all, I’d been the one to plan parts of it. It was one of the things I didn’t like to remember – the details. The plans. How precise some of them had been, how closely he’d followed my suggestions, how he’d praised them, praised me…

“Then allow yourself to be guided. Allow me to lead you to your goal. You cannot keep searching victims for yourself to save. You have to come to peace with… well, the greater good.”

“Interesting choice of words. Utilitarian.” Upon his confused face, I expanded: “It’s the idea that the needs of the many must outweigh the needs of the few. For the protection of the masses, the few have to be sacrificed. Is that what we’re doing?”

“It is.”

“And we’re comfortable with it?”

“We are.” He toasted me with his cup of tea. “You should stay for a few more days, let me show you the area. Send an owl, tell that school of yours you got sick. They will hear India, draw their own limited conclusions, and believe you.”

I laughed. I wanted to correct him, but he was right. About quite a few things.

*

Sayid made sure to seat us with Gellert, Vinda and Queenie during lunch. I played innocent, as Queenie slipped me her letter. Nodded and smiled along, as Sayid was questioned about his families’ many estates. The objective was clear – he was among the people to be recruited. And we’d long planned for him to take that offer, and for me to accompany him to events, when the time was right.

It was when a waiter lifted a wine bottle to my glass, that I noticed something. He stopped, apologized, retreated. When I assured him that it was a simple mistake, the fear in his eyes told a different story. And I realized. Sayid had never told the servers to keep me sober. But someone had. I just didn’t understand, why.

At some point during the day, Gellert Grindelwald returned to our table, affectionately holding a lion cub. At this point, I wasn’t surprised by much, but some others screamed in shock, and some in delight. Vinda Rosier seemed positively delighted by the furry creature and its enormous claws.

“That,” Queenie said, “is a dangerous predator!”

“I know,” I told her. “But shouldn’t our focus be that he has a lion?”

Sayid, I could tell, wanted to kick me under the table. Gellert just seemed endlessly amused by everyone’s reactions. There was a wild glint in his eyes, and it was a familiar one. He’d always loved to do the insane – and to be seen doing it. We’d gone back and forth on what his Hogwarts house would’ve been, back in the day. There were arguments for Gryffindor. Not many, but they existed. This was one of them.

“I could keep it as a pet,” he said, petting the fur. The lion had its eyes closed, purring.

“That is a terrible idea. Why don’t you ever want normal pets?” We’d had this discussion many times, that summer. Ravens over owls, snakes over cats, dragons over dogs. And he’d teased me endlessly about the goats. As if they’d ever been mine.

“I don’t see the problem.” He smiled affectionately at his lion. For all the fear people around him showed, I wasn’t fooled. If anyone was in danger, it was the cub.

“This is the Chinese Firebolt all over again!”

“They’re quite docile,” he elaborated, as if the rest of the table knew what we were talking about. “Did you know, in Mesopotamia…” He’d told me this story more than once. The families, keeping dragons for safety. The children that would ride around on them, and pet them, without danger. It was a fantastical, unbelievable story, but all his stories had been like that. About the past, the future. Everything was a bit darker, every fairy-tale filled with concealed and unconcealed dangers.

“That is a myth.”

“Myths can be true,” he said, and I thought his eyes travelled to his wand for a moment. I couldn’t tell, why, but he wanted me to. He wanted to give me a riddle to solve, engage me, entice me.

“Dragons aren’t pets.”

“Small dragons could be pets,” he insisted, and I could just see it in front of me – little Gellert, stomping his feet, insisting his parents let him have a dragon. Throwing a tantrum when they wouldn’t. Sent to his room, while stiff, elegant dinner guests downstairs whispered about how the Grindelwald’s had kept only their most difficult son.

“That’s not your wedding present, is it?”

He seemed intensely amused by this idea. “Of course not. I got them a letter opener.”

I had no response to that, so I started drinking water. As long as I had my mouth full, I wouldn’t say inadvisable things.

“So they can correspond with the most notable magical names of the day.” His eyes glittered with joy, when he saw my reaction. He’d always loved to tease me for my youthful arrogance. Not in a derogatory way, mind you – he’d cherished that part of me. The part that thought Albus Dumbledore was better than others, the part I’d fought decades to forget, to overcome. He’d believed in it, as much as I had, and I’d loved him for that. Understanding my arrogance. Accepting me at my worst, but maybe only then.

He gave the lion away, when its owner approached the table. Yet another stranger, charmed by the ever popular Gellert Grindelwald, happily giving away his possessions.

I lost track of our conversation, when, one by one, the others left the table, and I barely noticed. Got lost in it. I hadn’t intended to, but it was always the same. We dived into one topic after another, exchanged ideas, debated hotly in one minute, and couldn’t get enough of each other’s words in the next. It was oddly freeing. Despite the thousands of people I’d talked to over the decades, it had never been like this – never this invigorating, nurturing, stimulating. Effortlessly so.

We’d go for walks around the park, when the table filled up again. I didn’t remember whose idea it was – if it even was something that had to be said, or if it happened organically. Talking to each other became even easier, if I didn’t have to look at him. The last hesitation in our faces, the careful eyes – it wasn’t there, if we didn’t look at it. There was something freeing about that. It became easier to breathe. The constrictions around my chest felt lifted. Conversation flowed. That’s all this was. Conversation. Sunlight. Fresh air. With a massive wedding in the background. I’d almost forgotten that that was happening. More suggestions were made – innocuous sounding suggestions that were anything but. They weren’t mine, but I might have been the one to say them out loud. Without witnesses, it was hard to tell. Everything blurred at some point. It became part of the happiness, the vibrant, joyous atmosphere – the garden, the dancers, the music, fragrances, and the laughter. Laughter and music, from everywhere. People were happy here.  

I put my wand on the dresser first. That was the difficult part, the vulnerable part. Everything else would be less than that, I assumed. I was wrong. Looking at him, the sunlight in his hair, reflected in the lightness of his left eye, reminding me of summer. It was dead quiet, and I’d never experienced being consumed by silence like this.

When he moved closer, I put up my hand, reflexively, placed it on his chest. A defensive gesture. A foolish gesture. All it did – it created contact. Warmth. I could feel the warmth of his skin, his body, under my fingers, feel his heartbeat. Listen to my own. Close my eyes, just to listen.

He took my hand, kissed it softly, and the memories flooded back. How he’d surprised me, every time I’d thought him cold, uncaring. He ran his fingers over my sleeve, opening each button, and I remembered the spell of my own invention, remembered how proud I’d been – wandless and nonverbal magic in one. I remembered how old him had reacted in delight, then lost all patience, and simple started ripping buttons off. It was different now, I supposed. The anticipation of every line of buttons was stomach-turning. Every touch, every kiss familiar, yet so strange. I’d been here before. In my head, I’d been in this room so many times, while hoping, no, pretending that I didn’t want to be.

I still remembered the confusing, disturbing heat, the very first time. The fear, the intensity of doing the forbidden that went along with it. A whirlwind of thought and emotions. Everything heightened in the humid midsummer night – anger, longing, greed. Nothing had ever matched up to that heat, no matter where and how I’d searched for it. I hadn’t believed I’d ever find that sensation again, nor had I known there could be more.  

I felt his scar on the back of my hand. And then I felt all of him, and lost all of me.

 

Notes:

Does anyone think this will be helpful for some Auror plan? No? Me neither. Anyways...

The Queenie/Albus friendship will be developed later, as will his relationship with his nephew. Tbh I don't care too much about the Aberforth/Aurelius aspect at the moment. I just think it would be interesting to have a sort of mentorship, of which Albus has so many, within Grindelwald's circle.
And with Queenie/Albus I love the idea that they're both so powerful at Legilimency they could have entire conversations in silence, while noone else has a clue. Plus, she'd be a sucker for the desperate dark romance like nobody else!

I'll also explore dark Queenie more here. The movies gloss over her violations of others, especially Jacob. I think it's what makes her interesting. there will be a call-back to Merope Gaunt, but not the way you'd expect!

References:

Quote:
Henry Alfred Burd, The Golden Age: A Study in Romanticism

Explanation:
The conception of the golden age is found in the literature of all ages and among all peoples. The mythology of Greece and Rome, the folk lore of antiquity, all aglow with the golden glory of the past. The life of the early years of the race was heroic in the eyes of the poet, the historian, and the seer, 'oecause of their point of view… it was natural that they should draw a picture of a time which they considered to be ideally good in contrast to the wickedness of their own time
…
This tendency to seek an ideal, this longing for something better than is actually experienced, is as old as the human race; it has always haunted the mind of man and it will continue to fire his imagination so long as there shall exist an imperfect society…

Romanticism has been defined as the literature of escape from the present time and place to some other time and place. In this respect the literature dealing with the golden age may be considered as distinctly romantic.
…
The eighteenth century poets went in imagination and in person to a rural scene of quiet seclusion,
patterned after the ancients' golden age, since there found an antidote for a mind and soul poisoned by too much contact with a diseased society… Wherever society was evil the Romantics conceived it to have deviated from the path of nature, for in the state of nature all was good. In pointing out the reforms for the existing evil, they urged a return to natural conditions, to the conditions of the golden age.

Chapter 17: Chapter 15 –The Disappearances of Professor Dumbledore

 (POV Theseus)

 

Chapter 15 –The Disappearances of Professor Dumbledore

Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness.

Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness.

Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate.

The wedding pictures invigorated and revulsed Travers. Albus and Sayid, Albus and the newlyweds, Albus in the middle of a crowd, drawing attention to himself. Albus and Vinda Rosier, dancing. Him and a young man the MACUSA knew as Credence Barebone, in deep conversation. Dante Alighieri, hugging Albus, presenting him with the glittering ring on his girlfriend’s hand, as if to ask for approval. Tabea Opitz, standing close to Albus, looking at him, as though she was scared either of them might say something they’d regret. Zabini, Rutherford, Marshalls, Medici – all around Albus, as if they’d never heard of each other, as if this was their first, thoroughly pleasant encounter. Queenie Goldstein was in many of the pictures. She seemed to have taken a shine to Albus. They could be seen laughing, joking, dancing. An unwitting stranger might have mistaken her for his date. One who hadn’t seen the rest of the pictures.

There was nothing that could have prepared me for seeing the pictures of Grindelwald, of how Albus changed around him. How they changed around each other. It wasn’t obvious from a distance. Not in what they did. But you held a lens to it all, zoomed in on their faces, their eyes, and you could see it. My brother used to say, we were too intense, Albus had told me in confidence, and I couldn’t have phrased it any other way. Intense. Every picture seemed an invasion into a connection, a relationship that shouldn’t be. Albus looked different in those pictures. He was dressed in colours, bright, vivid colours and prints, to assimilate into the Indian wedding. I’d always associated him with shades of grey. His face – there was something in his face. A vulnerability that almost scared me. And then there was Grindelwald. The most dangerous man in the world. The nightmare of Eastern Europe, of every Auror department in the world. I hadn’t known he could smile like that. Not in triumph, not mocking anyone, without rage or agenda – he simply looked happy looking at the man who’d destroy him.

“This is good,” Sayid said, when we discussed the pictures, and the others, most of them, at least, nodded along approvingly. “It’s working already.”

“It’s fast,” Travers said. He was possibly the only one who liked the pictures less than me, albeit for very different reasons. At least I liked to imagine that we had different reasons.

“He wants to recruit Dumbledore,” Claudius Clearwater, a colleague of mine, argued. “He’s been waiting for this opportunity for a while – what possible reason could he have to slow down?”

“Caution,” I offered. “He’s a seer – shouldn’t he see that he’s being spied upon?”

“Maybe he’s missing the connection,” Millers said. “Maybe he doesn’t think Dumbledore is in on it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care,” Clearwater said. “He could be arrogant enough to think it doesn’t matter. Arent’t we all just nuisances to him? I’ve heard he thinks of Aurors as buzzing insects swirling around him – mildly annoying, easy to kill…”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” Laksha Patil said. She’d been the one to take the pictures, seeing as she blended into the wedding easily. “Something about Dumbledore. Maybe we’re the ones who should be worried.”

“Poppycock!” Travers exclaimed. “I don’t like the man either, but he’s the best ally we could hope for. He’ll deliver results – I know it!”

Travers lost part of his enthusiasm, when we’d interviewed Bathilda Bagshot again. She seemed more cheerful these days, more open. Once we let one of the female Aurors, Diana Tanners, lead the word, she almost tripped over herself to give that ‘sweet young woman’ more information.

“I must have more photographs around,” she said, angling for her turquoise reading glasses. “I never keep them organized, I’m the same with my books… Thank you, dear,” she said, when I picked up the glasses from a side table. “You know, I wouldn’t find my head, if it wasn’t attached. I just collect and collect, and then I work with the most beautiful chaos. It’s fine for me, but others get very frustrated. I remember one summer…” she laughed at the memory. “Albus, he always used to come here, to get away from – well, he liked to read, mind you – and he took one look at my library and started organizing it. I made him a cup of tea, and he started moving the shelves by the time I got back. Got back here during the holidays, kept doing it. Him and Gellert did something to the back, created their own collection, I never really touched it – I always thought he’d come back…”

 “Can I see it?” I asked, and Tanners shot me an annoyed look. We hadn’t agreed on spontaneous questions on my part; every part of the interview, like the last one, had been carefully scripted.

Ms Baghshot willingly lead us into a sunlit room that had clear magical extensions. The rows and rows of books got longer, as we walked through the room. After several minutes, and a number of random turns, we’d arrived at the back of the room. A small, dusty window let in sunshine, and an armchair, slightly too big for one person, stood in the corner. Next to it stood a half-emptied book-shelf, covered in more dust that the others.

“I always hoped he’d come back and ask to take them,” she said. “I wanted to talk to him, find out how he’d been doing… All I have it what the papers write, that’s not good source material, you know. I prefer something more substantial.” She sounded excited, almost like she was referencing one of her history books.

“Let me talk to her,” I whispered to Tanners.

“It’s my assignment,” she hissed back.

“And I have intel from Albus we can use,” I lied. I just wanted to take charge. Tanners was by-the-book. She got results in negotiations, witness statements. This was different. I could do better, and I knew it. “Ms Bagshot, can you tell us a little bit about the books your nephew liked to read? Any information could help!”

“Oh, Gellert read everything!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “Such a studious young man! It’s why I thought to introduce him to Albus right away – they both loved their books. Here…” She grabbed two from a pile. Secrets of the Darkest Art. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Moby Dick. Truly, a strange combination.

“This book – it’s quite dark – You let kids read that?”

“Your judgement in unwarranted,” she said matter-of-factly. “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.”

“Did they ever discuss their favourite books with you?” Tanners tried to be part of the conversation. She almost grimaced; it was small talk, and she hated small talk.

“Not so much, they were always in their corner, whispering…” She smiled conspiratorially. “You know how teenagers are. They close a door, you better not open it. I’ve raised four children, I learned that lesson long before Gellert got here. Silly boys, they thought I had no idea…”

“I’m sorry, no idea about what?” Tanners inquired. This part irritated me. it was in the casefile!

“But you knew?” I said, ignoring Tanners. “We were given to understand, that it was a secret from anyone but Aberforth Dumbledore.”

“Of course I knew!” She giggled to herself, readjusted her glasses. “I knew before they knew! Now, I’d known little Albus for years, so I knew that boy didn’t blush, or daydream. But that summer he was different, from the start. And Gellert – well, he’s always craved attention, but nothing like that. He couldn’t even show me a passage in a book he’d read, or share a proper thought. He’d always rush over to the Dumbledore house or send an owl, at all hours of the night, mind you. It was Albus this, Albus that. And the way he kept catching glimpses in the mirror, and fixing his appearance, whenever there was a knock at the door…” The smile on her face was nostalgic, but happy. “Kids always think we don’t know these things. And those boys certainly thought they were the cleverest. But… well, it helped Albus get over the loss of his mother, and it kept Gellert in place – I worried he’d run off, in the beginning – so I let them pretend. You have to pick your battle with teenagers.”

“And you never thought to intervene?” Tanners inquired.

“No, why?” Ms Bagshot seemed honestly surprised at the question.

“Well, some people might not…”

“Oh, you mean the parents, yes… Well, with Kendra it was hard to tell. She certainly had an iron-clad grip on those boys, Albus more-so than Aberforth, he was more rebellious. Gellert’s parents would have dragged him out of here in a heartbeat, but what good did their parenting ever do? The boy was out of control, and he finally found someone to talk to.”

“You never informed them?” Tanners asked.

“Does he have his inheritance?” She waited for us to nod. “There you have your answer. I don’t interfere with history, I just write it, Ms Tanners.”

“History?” Tanners said, her voice doubtful. “We’re talking about boyhood friendship here!”

“Did you know?” I asked her. It had suddenly dawned on me, when she’d been talking – if she was interested in writing about her grand-nephew, she must remember more than just the personal part of that relationship. “What they were planning – did you have any idea?”

“I heard words in passing,” she said off-handedly. “Bits and pieces. You don’t take these things very seriously. Young people – they always want to change the world, don’t they?”

“Ms Bagshot, we’ll have to confiscate these books,” Tanners said. “Mr Scamander will pack them up for us. He’ll take great care of your property – you will receive it back undamaged.”

I gave her a polite nod. It was a bit humiliating, the way she treated me, but I’d never start an argument on assignment. As the two women left for the dining room, to take a written statement, I started packing. One of the books fell to the floor. A piece of parchment – I recognized the thin, slanted writing immediately.

Gellert –

I believe you are right in that the Imperius Curse will be key. The possibilities of non-violent persuasion (and we’ll need those!) are simply endless! Though we have to careful in such matters – those curses are illegal for a reason. I must say, I disagree with you that they should be decriminalized.

Though interesting from an academic perspective, and surely necessary on occasion, I think most people should not use them. There is the Greater Good, and then there are people with their own, lower motivations. Why should we let them harm others? Isn’t harm, in the end, what we want to avoid for all?

There has to be a limit on how much we use them, as well. I can only speak for myself (and you know I haven’t tried out all of them, though you MUST teach me) but I believe they can take hold of people. The thrill of controlling someone, of taking over their mind, free of doubt, of distrust, of resistance will surely be too great for most to handle.

This will, of course, in no way infringe upon our little experiment. Tomorrow night is your turn –

“Scamander, do you have everything?” Tanners called, and I almost dropped the letter. I’d put it into my coat pocket, before I knew, why.

“Yes, all done.” I swiped my wand and let the books fly into a conjured-up box, where they landed neatly on each other. I’d have to stay late at the office and catalogue them later, as she must assume that I’d already done that, instead of reading more scandalous letters from the past.

“You know, I haven’t heard from Albus in a while,” Ms Bagshot said, as we left. “Is he in a lot of trouble?”

“No, of course not.” It was confusing. She seemed so clear at times, then confused about why we were even here. “It’s Mr Grindelwald we’re investigating, Madam.”

“Yes, Gellert. That’s what I said.” She smiled serenely. “Such a good boy. He’s been through so much with his family…”

“No, you said Albus.”

“Ah.” She nodded, massaging her temples. “You must excuse me - this happens from time to time. They were just so alike… it was eerie. One could say, they were made for each other. I’ve never seen anything like it. At the end of the summer, it was hard to tell them apart…”

“Just at the end?” Tanners said, choosing her words very carefully. She didn’t have to look at me to reveal her realisation – Bathilda Bagshot was not a credible witness. She’d kept slipping up, venturing between wise words, deep insights and contradictions throughout every single interaction we’d had with her. Whether she intended to protect her family, or just lost her mental clarity with age was unclear. But she was withholding information. We’d have to keep a close eye on her, see, if she was in contact with Grindelwald.

The village was quiet, as we left. It was cold, despite the bright afternoon sun. As we didn’t know, which houses were Muggle-owned and which belonged to wizards, we’d decided to apparate once we got out of Godric’s Hollow.

“Hold on,” Tanners said, as we turned a corner. “Speak of the devil – what’s he doing here?”

And I saw it, too. Albus Dumbledore, blue hat, blue coat, heading straight for a big house at the end of the road. He didn’t look left or right, which was unusual. He was too attentive to miss Aurors, most days.

“Do you want me to follow him?”

She shook her head. “That’s the Potter residence. We have Henry and Fleamont on his list of contacts. They’re acquaintances, let it be.”

Acquaintances. On a weekday. Albus must have rushed out right after his last class, to get here this fast. Something wasn’t right… The Potters were not involved in any of this. They were simply old neighbours, and in Fleamont’s case, an old student. Maybe the Potters had more kids that I didn’t know about. A student-teacher-meeting. It was possible. Unlikely, knowing Albus, and his mischievous ways, but possible.

“Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,” Albus said, days later, when I called him out on his day-trip. If I had a Galleon for every time I’d heard him say that line…

We were standing in the middle of the hotel room I’d permanently booked him, so he’d be spared the constant meetings with Aurors near his office. The young inn keeper, Tom, had already complained about alterations to the room. It had taken a while to figure out what he meant, as extra safety measures were standard with Auror bookings.

“You don’t hear anything,” he’d said. “Not a peep.”

“So he’s a quiet guest?” I’d asked. It seemed an odd complaint.

“Nothing. No footsteps, voices – he never drops a book or moves a chair. When the door is closed, you can’t even hear the key turning. It’s not right – and I know for a fact that he has visitors…”

There were so many questions. With Albus, that was nothing new. How many direct answers I’d get was another question. But there were definite signs that something wasn’t right. “Did someone break in here?” That was an easy one. Yes or no. simple.

 “I can see how you might think that,” he said in a casual, almost cheerful voice. He observed the chaos around him – a broken vase and lamp, an unhinged closet door, chairs and paintings on the floor. The only untouched piece of furniture in the room was the bed – and he hadn’t used that, as he never stayed in the room. Then again, he hadn’t used the closet either.

“It’s been destroyed – half the furniture – and what happened to that lamp?”

“Ah, there’s an easy fix for that.” He waived his wand, and the paintings floated back onto the wall, the door clicked neatly into place, and the porcelain and glass shards re-assembled. It took him barely a minute, and looked effortless. Like he was using his wand to paint invisible order into the room. The question was obvious – why hadn’t he done it before I got here?

“What happened here?”

He dabbed his hair dry. The most logical explanation, strangely, was that he was unconcerned about people robbing his room while he was taking showers. But that seemed crazy, even for him.

“You said you talked to Bathilda? How is she?”

“Why are you changing the subject?”

“Curiosity?”

“Albus…”

But he just went through the paper work I’d brought, placing his signature in marked places, while humming to himself. A thoroughly unconcerned man in a red-and-golden bathrobe which he’d clearly brought here from his personal closet. There was a faint bruise at his collarbone. Another, more prominent, at his wrist.

“Who were you talking to, when I got here?” I inquired. “I heard voices in the hallway.”

“I often talk aloud to myself,” he said. “I find it extraordinarily useful.” He really was an incredible liar. There was no tell – no heightened voice, no aversion of the eyes or intense blinking – he could tell the truth just as he’d tell you a fairy tale. It was helpful, for the mission. It wasn’t helpful to establish trust.

“Can you at least tell me, why you were in Godric’s Hollow?”

“I shook off my tail,” he said, more to himself. “Of course – there were more…”

“I was in town to talk to Ms Bagshot,” I reminded him. “You walked to the Potter’s house around the time we were leaving.”

“I see,” he said, observing me quietly. “And you have questions.”

“Yes,” I said. I wanted to scream at him sometimes. He could be so forthcoming, then so withholding. There really was no in-between.

“Naturally. Curiosity is not a sin.”

“Please? Just…”

“Am I to have no privacy?” he asked. It didn’t sound like a complaint, more like an open, philosophical question.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I said. In a stroke of madness, I produced the letter from my pocket. “I found this on a bookshelf. I could just…” I placed it on the desk. “… forget it here.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “People tend to be forgetful. Did you read it?”

“Parts of it.” 

“Naturally.” He opened the letter, scanned it briefly, then placed it back on the table. “Thank you for returning this to me.” He paused. “I had a family matter to discuss with the Potter family. They were nice enough to support my brother, back in the day. He got into some trouble, him and a friend – nothing legal – and he confessed some of the more pressing details to me a few days ago.”

“It’s nothing legal,” I repeated slowly, “yet you won’t tell me?” It was disappointing. I thought the letter was worth more to him.

“This is sensitive,” he revealed slowly. “I don’t think it should reach certain ears yet.”

“How about no ears?” I offered. It was insanity. But I had to get information out of him somehow. Talking to Albus was, at times, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

 “My brother was friends with a girl in Godric’s Hollow. When he was very young – when I destroyed what was left of my family – I sent him back to Hogwarts, where he couldn’t sent letters to a muggle friend of his. He tried to communicate with her brother, who was a wizard, but was rejected. It seems she comforted him over Ariana’s death… one thing lead to another… He didn’t talk to me about it, of course. I was in Paris, trying to forget… well, everything, really. From what he later found out, the girl was sent away when her pregnancy was discovered, her sister disappeared as well – she died in a ship wreck in 1901 – and the family wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. They’ve since moved. But I did find out who organized the American contact.”

“The Potters.”

“I see you’re paying attention. Yes, they had extended family in New Orleans, an elderly couple who couldn’t have a baby – quite a common problem in their family – so they sent the child to them along with his aunt. They figured, since the mother had died in childbirth, and with Aberforth being a wizard and the girl – Mary – having a wizard brother, that the child would be magical as well.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes. Sadly, it seems my nephew never reached his destination. He was brought up in an unfortunate situation and might require a lot of help recovering – if that is even possible in his condition.”

“Hold on…” The ship. 1901. Leta. I felt overwhelmed by the memories, by grief, for a moment there. “Are we talking about Credence Barebone?”

“You know, I keep thinking Newt is the clever one, but you keep surprising me,” he said, smiling approvingly. “Yes, Credence. Of course someone thought it would be a sensible choice to christen him Aurelius and take him on a trip to India, with the promise he’d meet his family – in this case me – but that is another issue altogether.”

“Hold on…” It wasn’t hard to piece together. India. Credence. Grindelwald. “You knew this the entire time, and you didn’t tell us?”

“I had to find out whether it was true or not,” he said calmly. When I looked back at the table, the letter had disappeared. “I always intended to pass on relevant information, but this could have easily been one of Gellert’s mind games. I didn’t want Aberforth to experience the same devastation Leta went through when she thought she’d finally found her brother – I’m sure you can understand…”

“But it’s true?”

“It’s true.” There was a wistful smile on his face. “You should see him, he’s really something – I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to survive an Obscurial – impressively stabile. And he looks so much like my mother…” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m not used to having family anymore. Where were we?”

I decided to steer the conversation back to more relevant topics. He would evade questions about Credence’s danger level, at this point. Then again, he evaded most questions. “I don’t mean to be nosey – and this is just because I have direct orders to ask you…”

“Ask away!” He had absolutely no intention of being forthcoming.

“Have you – and I’m not making an accusation here – recently violated intercontinental travelling laws.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” He’d started to eat chocolate covered raisins, instead of paying attention to me, so I got louder. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t productive. But his increasingly calm, almost amused attitude drove me nuts sometimes. Travers had a point – Albus did treat laws and regulations like mild suggestions at best.

“Let me be more precise: Did you spend yesterday in New York City?”

“Friday is my NEWT day,” he said, and this thought seemed to cheer him up somehow.

“You dragged Newt into what now? Oh, your NEWT students. Very funny, Albus.”

“I thought it was. Raisins?”

“No, I don’t want candy. Stop distracting me! What did you do in New York?”

“Have we established that I was there?” He looked at me with the air of a polite, mildly confused man. Just asking questions. Unbelievable! “I must have missed that part. Please, fill me in.”

“So you’re not gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?” He rattled the bag under my nose, and I took some. They were delicious. He was seriously annoying sometimes, it was just too hard to be mad at him.

“How are things going with the target?”

“Well, I think.” I thought I saw his eyes flicker to a toppled-over umbrella stand by the door for a moment. “It’s hard to tell. I can’t use Legilimency on him, so I have to go through other people.”

I wish I could use Legilimency on you.

“Ah, but you can’t.” He smiled, when he saw my facial reaction. “You’re quite angry with me, Theseus. I understand why. You’re used to doing things a certain way. Don’t you think, if it was possible to do this by Auror procedure, it would have been done already?”

“I don’t think you would stick with any sort of procedure – Sir.”

“You might be right there. I find procedure terribly boring. And quite ineffective.”

“You realize, that most of us don’t fully trust you, do you?”

“I am aware. But it’s not your trust I intend to win.” He leaned forwards conspiratorially. “You’ll just have to believe in me here. I can’t give you more information at the moment.”

“That’s quite the leap of faith.”

“That it is.”

“He was here, wasn’t he?”

He smiled once more, and his face was more relaxed than I’d ever seen it. “See you tomorrow.”

“Is that a yes or no?”

“I’d say ten o’clock sharp. I like to sleep in on the weekends.”

I considered myself dismissed. It was strange – the more time I spent with Albus Dumbledore, the less I understood what he was doing. My brother would always insist that there was a method to his madness, but I had yet to see results. I thought about asking other guests whether they’d seen a man entering the room, but reconsidered. Grindelwald – if it had been him – would hardly walk around with his real face, chatting up strangers in hallways. Going back and asking Albus more direct questions wasn’t an option either. That seemed to be more in Sayid’s wheelhouse.

*

“He’s not happy,” was all Sayid said.

“He seemed pretty happy this afternoon,” I interjected.

“No – you misunderstand me.” Sayid took off his coat, and sat next to my office desk. “I’ve known him for a few years now – not as a Professor, as a traveller. He is deeply, deeply unhappy. And lonely, by design. He has been for a long time. And then you came along. You, Travers, and his threats. And you are forcing him to relive a time when he was the happiest he has ever been. You see the trouble with that, do you not?”

“Not really, no.”

“You’re not the only one courting him,” Sayid offered.

“Albus isn’t tempted by some psychopathic serial killer!” It seemed a strange emotion, but I was somewhat offended on his behalf.

“If that is the only thing holding him in your command, I would worry. He is not used to being instrumentalized. You do not use a chess player as a pawn. He either decides to sacrifice himself, or he starts playing against you at some point.”

“Your point being?”

“Offer him something to keep him here.”

“Like what?”

“Anything you can. He will not stay content serving a lesser evil, not in the long run.”

“We’re not any evil!” I protested. “This is an Auror’s Department – what are you on about?”

“I am only trying to help.” Sometimes I doubted that’s what he was doing.

*

I met Albus on Sunday morning, on a rooftop. His choice. He didn’t inform me beforehand, just lured me up there with candy that turned out to be a portkey. I had half a mind to scream at him, but most of what I felt was confusion. So I just watched him stand in the sunlight, admiring the view. It was quite beautiful, he was right about that – bathed in cold, golden light, the rooftops glistened with ice and snow. Why we were up here in the first place was anyone’s guess.

“Why are you always on rooftops?” I asked him. Putting my frustration and confusion into words was difficult these days, and I kept saying stupid things. “Is this a gay thing?” I wanted to bite my tongue the second I’d said it, but he just seemed mildly amused.

“It’s not. But I like the way your mind works.” He took a step forward, standing on the very edge of the roof. “Do you see that building over there? We’re very close to it. One could jump from here.”

“That would be reckless and unnecessary, and we can disapparate instead.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “It would be dangerous. It would be unorthodox. People wouldn’t expect you to do it. Do you understand where this is going?”

I shook my head, and before I could say anything, he jumped – light-footed, careless, like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. “You don’t trust me,” he said from the next rooftop. “I need you to do that. Even if it seems mad, or unorthodox, I need you to take a leap of faith with me.”

I briefly considered putting in paperwork, so we could have his mental facilities checked. “You want me to jump?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s insane!”

“And yet – necessary. You ask so many questions. You want to be in control of my every move, but it’s not going to work that way. If we want to win this – and I intend to – I need your complete trust.”

“Albus…”

“No questions asked, eyes closed. That is what is needed. Can you be that for me? Because if you can’t, that’s alright. We’ll find someone else to do what needs to be done.” Sayid. He’d exchange me for Sayid. It was already happening. A small, petty part of my brain kept replaying all the times I’d been by-passed for other Aurors. All the promotions I hadn’t gotten yet – all the opportunities I wanted, that would be mine, if we defeated Grindelwald. I’d be lying, if I said this was purely to do the right thing. It was for Leta, and for myself. Who I wanted to become.

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to say it.”

“I trust you.”

“Good,” he said. “Good.” He looked down,  then took a step back and gave me that smile that I could never quite place – warm, mysterious, evasive. “Then jump.”

And for no sensible rationale, despite every reason not to, I did.

 

Chapter 18: Chapter 16 – The Chess Master

Notes:

Sorry it took so long - we're back in 1928, and back in the action! Look forward to Albus making decisions so insane they're brilliant, or so outlandish that he's just insane - I'll let you be the judge of that!

At least the hotel room gets some good use... (I'll see myself out:)

Albus Dumbledore

Chapter 16 – The Chess Master

You cannot say 'no' to the people you love, not often. That's the secret. 
And then when you do, it has to sound like a 'yes'. Or you have to make them say 'no.' 
You have to take time and trouble.

Being alone with Gellert became easier over time, while being apart from him became difficult. I hadn’t anticipated this – thinking of certain moments, in the middle of a particularly boring staff meeting, or while walking past rows of students, taking a test, their little heads bowed over the parchment rolls.

I tried to focus on the scratching of quills, tipping feet, the rain outside the window, at times like these. It felt inappropriate, to have indecent thoughts, while children were in the room. Wrong. I’d never had this problem before. Every secret liaison, or old connection I’d revisited over the years had been part of my weekends, my holidays, and I’d been able to draw the line there. Now I had trouble focussing on a homework assignments, while I felt his breath in my neck, lips and teeth against my skin. While I remembered things he’d whispered, words so scandalous I wouldn’t even be able to repeat them.

It wasn’t really a problem I could share with anyone. After all, it wasn’t one I was supposed to have. With the Aurors, talking about it, even to Sayid, would have felt incriminating. Everyone else – friends, colleagues – they weren’t supposed to know what I was doing. That left me with the only person who wouldn’t only judge me, but possibly slap me for revealing the truth: Aberforth. Sometimes, I thought about telling him. Maybe I ought to be slapped. Maybe that would help.

*

“Come back to me,” he whispered. I could feel his breath against my neck, my ear.

“I’m right here.”

“You’re elsewhere in your thoughts.” He was nothing, if not observant.

“That’s hardly something that can be avoided,” I said. Maybe I could be mysterious about it; distract him, confuse him, so he’d stop asking questions. “The mind is a curious thing. It tends to wander.”

“Let’s put a stop to that, then,” he said, as though that was the most normal thing in the world to say. As though he was in charge of the world inside of me. I suppose, in a way, he was.

His hands travelled, fingertips lightly sliding over my skin – anticipation, he’d always been good at anticipation. At slowing things down, making my head spin. Driving up the heat in a room, commanding it, without speaking.

“I have to leave.” I didn’t want to. Maybe that was just the reason to get out of the hotel, back to Scotland. I was getting too attached already. “I have to be at work in five hours.” Thirty-seven children. Thirty-seven little pairs of eyes staring at me, listening to my hollow warnings about staying away from dark magic. I truly felt hypocritical, these days.

“Four hours, fifty-seven minutes,” he whispered, biting my shoulder. It was light, playful. But the memory was enough to make my knees weak. “That’s a lot of time to be productive. Or unproductive.”

“I have to leave.”

“But you don’t want to.” So cocky. So sure of himself. I’d once been attracted to his arrogance, seen my own reflected in it. It got less appealing, as one aged.

“No, I don’t. It’s called having a job.” I slipped out of bed and started to get dressed, ignoring the impatience, the simmering rage about being ignored. He wasn’t used to it. It had to be done in small doses only, and as rarely as possible. I really did have to get back to Hogwarts, though. There was no getting around reality.

“You could quit. Do something else.” He was getting bold. Too bold. It was almost a little disappointing – I’d expected him to go about things in a more strategic manner, yet he seemed to rely on nothing but his skills of seduction, and my nostalgia. No comments about his mission, his daily life, no pulling me into his world whatsoever.

“And I’d still get up and go to my new job in the morning. You’ll have to find someone unemployed, if you’re that insatiable, I’m afraid.”

He seemed taken aback that I’d even make the suggestion, but quickly caught himself: “What, right now?”

“Well, you don’t seem to have plans in the morning. That leaves a lot of time to, ah, be productive, as you put it so nicely.” I had my coat, and my gloves, but no hat. “Did I wear a hat, when I got here?”

“It’s possible.” He refused to be helpful, whenever I was about to leave. Typical!

I took off one glove and let it search the room – under the desk, the bed, in the corners. Nothing.

“Well, I’ll be off. Tell me, if you find it. Oh, and good luck with your search for a spare lover.”

“Who says, I don’t have one already?” He seemed angry, though he went along with my joke.

“Good for you. Very proactive. I would never find the time.”

“Are you sure?” There it was – the root of his anger. I could’ve calmed him down, but, from experience, it was a lost battle. Back when we were boys, he’d used to rip letters from my hands, laughing, quizzed me about the names of my friends, and why they might be writing to me. He’d flattered me, appeased me, until I’d read the letters to him. Once, he’d spent an hour wondering why the famous Nicolas Flamel still wanted me as his apprentice, why he was content with waiting. The concept of patience had always been lost on Gellert.

“Quite.”

The hallways were dark, and my steps too loud. I could see my own breath, white and misty, when I stepped out the back door, towards the wall that hid Diagon Alley. It had stopped snowing, and the melted, watery goo was running down the sidewalks and into the gutter. Around me, the windows were dark. The stars above glittered faintly, and the pale half-moon. I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes past four. Four in the morning. And I’d have to teach three double-lessons today. I felt tired already.

When I stepped towards the wall to disapparate, a hand gently tapped my shoulder. It was Vinda Rosier. Dressed in a brilliant blue coat, and more youthful and awake than I’d felt in weeks. “You’ve dropped your hat.”

“I must have.” Interesting… She’d had it for a while. Was this a solo-effort or had she been sent to search it? Her mind was a closed book tonight. “Thank you so much!”

“Not at all. Passe une bonne journée.” And with those final words, she disappeared inside. Either to praise or scold Gellert for his efforts, or to receive further orders.

I could have investigated further, but I had barely enough time for my journey back and a quick cat-nap, so I disapparated instead.

*

Sayid’s eyes were alert, but he liked to stay quiet during Auror meetings. Travers mostly took notes, while Theseus took charge in asking the questions, and passing on the Auror’s general advice. He was really coming into his own, I could see it in the way he held himself, the way he dressed and communicated with others.

Truth be told, I was a little proud of him. And worried. Mostly worried. His new confidence made him more attractive, and I didn’t even want to imagine what Gellert would make of that. I’d let his insane comments with Newt slide; he wasn’t himself, I’d told myself. He’d just been fishing for information on me. And then he’d tried to have my friend executed. I had to be careful here, very careful.

“How are things progressing?” Theseus asked. He liked to start with vague, open question, as it didn’t reveal that he let me do whatever I wanted, until the next meeting. And then repeated said process. As far as Travers was concerned, Theseus always knew what I was up to.

“Sluggishly. His trust has been broken decades ago, it’s a delicate thing to regain. At this point, with all his visions and the constant government surveillance… It’ll have to be a masterwork. I believe I can do it, but there will have to be several steps.”

“Fine, humour me,” Theseus said. “What is step one? And explain it to me like I’m a child.” Don’t be cryptic.

I smiled at him. His innate desire to understand things had always made him an excellent learner. “It’s simple, really. I need to prove loyalty.”

“By killing someone? Or by using the Imperius Curse?”

I thought about his words for a while. There was an uncomfortable truth to them. No matter how good my intentions were – if I didn’t proceed with intense caution, every effort would have been for naught.  “Not necessarily. Though it would help, if I used it.”

“On Aurors?”

“Any government official would do,” I explained, and Travers, understandably, grimaced. “The trick is to make it look like I either incriminated myself beyond reproach, or delivered to him something he truly wants. Ideally, both.”

“And then he’ll trust you?”

“Oh no! As I said, proving loyalty is only step one. The next steps must include publicly siding with him, giving him something he truly desires but can’t have without my help, and, finally, advice.”

“How is advice the final step?” Travers inquired. He’d listened quietly so far, taking notes.

“Because I can see that he trusts me, if he starts taking my advice,” I explained. They looked at me in surprise; even Sayid seemed somewhat taken aback. “It will have to be something I pretend I don’t want to do, initially. And it will have to be good. Helpful to his cause. I can test it every now and then, to see how we’re progressing. The more he thinks of my ideas, the closer we are to our goal.” I felt a tightening of my chest, an elevated pulse, as I said it. Whether it was my body’s response to the Blood Oath or simple adrenaline was hard to tell at this point. Destroy the Blood Oath, I thought, as hard as I could. Destroy the troth. That is my only goal.

“What kind of ideas?” Theseus asked nervously. Neither him nor Travers liked this idea much.

“Strategy. You will advise him on strategies of warfare, to test whether he sees you as a partner.” Sayid’s words were quiet, but he sounded less enthusiastic of the plan as he had been at previous instances. “Do you think that’s wise? You could cause a lot of destruction. The goal was to gain his trust, not to mislead him with some asinine plans developed by Aurors!”

“They won’t be,” I promised. “They have to be coming from me, and me alone. He will be able to detect false flags. But truthful advice, good advice, is something he won’t be able to resist.”

“And where do we draw the line?” Travers asked, his voice sharp. He was on the brink of trying to reign me in, to control the mission. Only a warning glance from Theseus stopped him. “What I mean,” he said, “is that we have a responsibility to civilians, the people of this country. We can’t be complicit in something that would lead to a mass killing, or…”

“I’m sure, Albus will find another way,” Sayid interrupted him, placing a calming hand on his arm. “None of us want to cause any harm, I’m sure.”

“Right,” Theseus said, though he, too, didn’t look very convinced. “And sleeping with him is step what? Why is it necessary?” A touchy subject. One I liked to avoid, whenever necessary.

“Because it would be suspicious not to,” Sayid attempted to explain.

“It’s not part of my plan at all,” I corrected him. “It’s step one of Gellert’s plan. A bit crude, but I suppose it could be effective at distracting me from certain things in the long run. There have been some attempts to trick me, I believe – I’ve run into Rosier twice in the last week. That is exactly why I need the plan, why we need to stick to it. Oh, you didn’t think, I was the only player in this game, did you? There’s a reason I’m not acting alone.”

“Because more minds come up with more ideas,” Theseus offered.

“You might be right here, though that is not the reason. He knows the way I think, at least he partly does. But he doesn’t know any of you. If I have more input, I can become unpredictable. The only way out of this oath is with the element of surprise.”

“Have you ever been predictable?” Sayid asked, smiling affectionately. He seemed to be the only person present who thought it was amusing. The mood had gotten grimmer with every strategy meeting, every passing week. They expected more progress, faster results.

*

It was a windy Friday afternoon, when I was greeted not by Theseus, but by his American colleague, Tina Goldstein. It was quite the surprise, but, then again, she’d risen through the ranks quickly. Her obsessive work ethic and pragmatic nature had long been overlooked; now, she was the career woman of the MACUSA Auror Department, and, apparently, travelling for work.

“They’ve taken a prisoner,” she explained, pulling her coat tighter, even though we were inside. The hallways were windy, I supposed.

“An American?” Why else would she be here.

“Yes. One of Grindelwald’s people. They’re questioning her right now.” Her. That could only mean…

“Oh, Miss Goldstein, I’m so sorry!“

She shrugged, biting her lip, and stoically stared at the wall. „It’s not like you can do anything about it, is it?”

“Maybe there is something I can do. Does she have a record?”

“They won’t tell me. I’m just here, because they wanted one of us for paperwork – and to transport her to New York, once they’ve questioned her. She’s being extradited. My employers can’t wait to sentence an Acolyte!” She definitely sounded bitter now. Her eyes were shimmering wet in the half-dark.

“At least you won’t have a family member in Askaban,” I tried to comfort her.

“What would you know about that?” She was blinking aggressively now. I handed her a handkerchief.

“More than you know. Listen, I’m aware you might not want to hear this at the present moment, but you will get through this. I’ll see what I can do for her. If you have any way of getting her to cooperate, tell them. Talk to Theseus or Sayid, nobody else. Understood?”

She nodded, but didn’t look very reassured. Tina Goldstein was a lot less trusting than her sister.

*

“You watch; we can’t have you talking to her,” Travers decided. “She knows too many people around here already – we have Scamander talking to her right now; she seems to like him.” He didn’t seem convinced by his own words.

“She’ll be able to read his thoughts sooner or later,” Sayid interjected. “Albus should do it.”

“We can’t have that,” Travers protested. “If word gets out – if she talks to other prisoners – we can’t risk Grindelwald knowing you were here. Scamander is doing fine.”

“I’m sure, his Occlumency skills are good,” I assured Sayid, who frowned.

“We’re risking that our only source of information into the Acolyte movement reads her interrogators mind. She is too gifted for the usual process. Albus could outmanoeuvre her – we can alter her memory, before she goes to prison.”

“There are legal issues here, we can’t just do that,” another Auror commented, looking up from her paperwork. “If we alter anything before her trip, she might go free on that alone. Her confessions will be tainted. If we do it in the US, something might slip on the way there. while she’s still under investigation, everything has to be done by the book. The last thing we need is another martyr for Grindelwald’s cause!”

The word “martyr” seemed to have enraged Travers enough to brush his objections aside. “Nonsense – let’s get Dumbledore in there. Miller, go inform Scamander. I’ll handle the Americans. Shouldn’t be that hard, at the speed that they’re executing people, they’ll be cooperative about a little memory spell. No, no, I know what you’re thinking, Calliope, but they’re just as desperate for a good headline as we are. They’re not gaining ground with the Acolytes either.” He turned to me. “You can shut her out. Can you read her?”

“Occasionally, yes. But she knows that. She will be on guard.”

“I doubt that that will be a major problem,” he said gruffly. “She’s hardly a criminal mastermind. So far, she’s spent most of the time crying, or not talking at all. And when she talks, she babbles. Nonsense. Small talk. I have no clue why he recruited her in the first place; that woman is a mess.”

“That might have been part of the appeal,” I explained. “She is gifted, and she was in an emotionally difficult phase of her life. He likes to reach out to broken people, and help them find stability in his vision, especially, if their grievances were in part caused by the government.”

“Charming.”

“It’s effective.”

“Oh, I believe you,” he said, and there was a tone of accusation in his words. “You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you?”

“I am.” I remembered the silent grief after mother’s death. The bottled-up rage of almost a decade, the way the word ‘Askaban’ drove me up the walls, back in the day. Every episode of Ariana’s, that had reminded me of those Muggle boys, and the helpless situation my parents had been in, the situation that had been thrust upon me with their passing… I would have been open to anyone who gave my anger a voice, back in 1899.

“She’s ready for you,” Miller informed us. “We’ve given her some tea with Veritaserum, but she won’t drink it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Queenie looked soft, and broken, in the cold, fluorescent light of the interrogation room. Like a broken bird. I hoped they hadn’t treated her too rough – she was not exactly a hardened criminal. A few months of collusion with terrorists – rebels, in her mind – wasn’t exactly a good life choice, but she’d come from a place of desperation.

I changed the light, turned it warmer, softer, heightened the temperature, before she noticed me. the magical window showed a cloudy night; I changed it to sparkling stars. She needed to feel comfortable, before anything else.

Her face was in shock, when she saw me: “What are you doing here?”

I ignored her question. “Have you been treated well? Have you had anything to eat?”

“I won’t fall for that.” She peeked at the tea. “I know what they’re up to. I didn’t know you… would be here.”

“Naturally.” I gave her some time to think, to get adjusted to the new reality. “Your sister is here. Did you know that?”

“Tina?” Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, I can’t face her. She must be so mad at me…”

“She’s worried. She asked me to see how you were. Do not underestimate your family’s capacity for forgiveness.”

“Do you have experience with that?”

“More than I deserve.”

“And you’re with them? The Aurors?”

“I’m here for you. I want you to be treated fairly. You must be quite suspicious about law enforcement, after what happened to Newt and your sister in New York.”

“I am. She worked for them, and they tried to have her killed. And now they’re saying, I could go to jail for what I’ve done to Jacob – my Jacob – you know I would never hurt him!”

“Of course not.” I took her hand. “He speaks very fondly of you. He misses you. But he won’t be able to visit you in a magical prison, even though he might be willing.”

“It’s not like I’ll be in prison for long,” she said stubbornly. “We never are.” We. The Acolytes. She identified with them, took comfort in Gellert’s abilities to break people out. I hadn’t been aware how strong her faith towards him was at this point.

“That’s quite a bargain. Are you really willing to go to prison for this? You could just talk to Theseus. You could strike a bargain.”

Her face went blank for a moment. Did he sent you?

“He doesn’t command me.”

Her eyes wandered to the locked door. “Then who does?”  

“No one.”

“No one? So you’re a free agent, you just wander in and out of government buildings?”

“Only on the weekends. I do have classes Tuesdays to Fridays.”

There was a small smile. Broken, not trusting. “I really thought you were coming around. He… we were so hopeful. You should see the way his face lights up when he talks about you –“ She stopped herself again, staring at the door. They can hear us.

Yes. “I understand that you’re trying to show loyalty, Queenie. But don’t you think it’s time to think of your own safety, your future? Do you remember why you walked into the fire in Paris?”

“For love,” she whispered. “For freedom.”

“And you’re willing to give all of that up? You could have a future with the man waiting for you in New York – you could have everything you’ve dreamed of, if you helped the Aurors now. Don’t you want that any longer?”

“They’re lying!” She gripped onto my hands. “I don’t know how they’ve gotten you to go along with their mission, Albus, but they’re never going to let us be happy! There will be no new laws, no happy ending for me – all they want is to oppress us, when we could be free!”

You and Jacob?

You and me.

“Listen, I know you think they don’t understand you, but I do! I’ve been where you are, Queenie. I’ve been the one devoted to him, taking all of his words as gospel, listening to no one else who tried to warn me – I know the delusion one can live in, I’ve been you. The Greater Good – those were my words – I made them up to explain my conscience away, that’s all this is! I understand what you’re going through and I will be here for you when you’re ready to accept that. ”

“I don’t think you’re delusional,” she said softly, and there were tears in her eyes.

“But I was.” It hurt to say it out loud, but she needed to hear it. Needed a wake-up call, before it was too late for her. My pain wasn’t relevant, not really. “Listen to me, I made so many wrong choices because of the lies he told me – you don’t have to do this. There’s still time for you…”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, taking my hand. “I’ve seen what’s in your head, I know what’s in your heart…”

“You saw what I wanted you to see,” I confessed. It wouldn’t help her trust me more, but it was necessary. “You have to understand –“

No, I think you’re the one who lacks clarity, she thought, squeezing my hands. There was a smile on her face now, a serene, peaceful smile. Your mind is not the only one that is open to me. He thinks I don’t know this, but I do. Listen to me, honey: You’re not delusional. You were never delusional. Her smile got wider, and softer, as the tears rolled down her face. It’s not too late for you. Come back to us, Albus! It’s what you want, what both of you want…

The utter horror I felt at her delusions was nothing compared to the need for her words to be true. I could feel it in my stomach, in my racing heart, in every fibre of my body. The wrong thing. Wrong hopes, wrong impulses and desires. I withdrew my hands, got up from the table.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Travers hissed, as I walked past him.

“Fresh air.” I wasn’t able to say more. My chest felt oddly constricted, my face flushed at their knowing looks. I rushed, hearing footsteps behind me where there were none. The night air was fresh, pleasantly cold, and did not help at all. As I looked up, I saw nothing. No stars, a new moon. A memory of Switzerland, the evening that had started all of this. I wanted to forget her words. And I wanted them to be true. To forget logic, caution, morality – to live, without controlling myself. Always the impossible dreams…

“Albus, are you alright?” It was Theseus. Of course it was Theseus.

“You didn’t catch her.”

“Yes, we did. We got her trying to...”

“You didn’t. She was sent here.” It was really very simple. I had no idea how he couldn’t see it. “He placed her in front of you, he wanted her arrested, that’s why she’s so certain he will free her. Everything she said in there – he made her say that.”

“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“How can you know?”

“How can you not?” His naiveite was tiring, sometimes. This belief in right and wrong, law and order, simple solutions – I forgot sometimes, what it was like, to be young and simple-minded like that. but then, I’d never been simple. Stupid, yes. But never simple. “He sent her to me. At a wedding. Made people introduce her to me, forced a connection. He’s been sending her to me over and over again. I showed her memories of mine, and now she’s catering to them to manipulate me. That’s not Queenie, that’s Gellert’s work.”

“That’s cruel, even for him.”

“I told you he was always three steps ahead.”

“You also said we should be four steps ahead.”

“Yes, and you’re not.” He wasn’t insulted. That was the good thing about Theseus. He knew his limitations. “But I am.”

Theseus didn’t ask questions. Travers did, when we got back inside. I ignored him.

“Grindelwald fed her this story,” Theseus explained. “it’s a set-up, to get to Albus. It just didn’t work.”

“Are you sure about that?” Travers said, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Excellent idea.” They looked at me as though I’d gone mad. “Well done, Torquin. Let’s say it did.”

“And do what?”

“Oh, I thought that part was obvious.” They didn’t get it. I would have to help them along, as usual. “Seeing as I am very emotionally afflicted, I might just do something foolish.”

Theseus stared at me. “Like…?”

“Free a prisoner.”

The Aurors stared at each other, then everyone started talking, yelling, protesting, all at once.

“You have to be kidding me,” Tina Goldstein exclaimed. “I just got her back! I’m not letting that monster sink his claws into her again!”

They were utterly, painfully naïve. “She’ll be freed either way.” Shaking heads. “She will. And there will be bloodshed. If I do it, I can guarantee the survival of every guard. I’ll let them escape unharmed. They’ll file official statements that they have no idea who did it. They’ll voice the suspicion that they were put under the Imperius Curse to let her go. Where is her wand?” They exchanged looks. “Get it to me, before the transport. She’ll need it when she goes back. She doesn’t trust me right now. She will, once I free her. And she won’t be the only one.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Theseus asked.

“Do you want Grindelwald to trust me, or not?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll just love you after all of this,” Travers hissed.

“Better,” I said. “He’ll consider me weak. I’ll be his useful idiot, just as he’s always wanted. Trust me,” I said, and Sayid nodded grimly, “this will work!”

*

The sky was pitch black, the night freezing. Beneath our feet, fresh white snow crunched. It wasn’t melting any longer; the nights had gotten colder.

Queenie followed the Auror’s instructions like an inanimate puppet. Her eyes were swollen from crying, when she climbed into the MACUSA carriage, trying very hard not to look at her sister. She met my eyes, before the door closed.

Don’t move. Look at the floor. She complied. Your wand is in your pocket. Your handcuffs will unlock at midnight. Wait for my sign.

She tried her best, but was barely able to hide the smile under her hair. Midnight.

“That’s a beautiful pocket watch,” I complemented McKinna, the youngest Auror present, picking it up with the same hand that held my wand. “You don’t mind, do you? Oh, it’s magnificent – I believe I’ve seen this one before?”

“It was my fathers, he got it for his seventeenth birthday,” McKinna said, blushing. He had a habit of getting nervous when people talked to him directly. At only twenty-three years of age, he felt the contempt and disrespect of most of his colleagues, felt his lack of experience and worked overtime weekly to compensate for it. The shadows under his eyes spoke volumes.

“Yes, I believe I remember that. I wouldn’t be surprised, if Archie had shown every single person in school. Such a beautiful piece!” I smiled at him. Warm. Direct. He looked back at me with wide, trusting eyes. I felt guilty, I truly did.  

Imperio. The intense ease that drifted through me was like liquid happiness. It became only stronger, when I could feel it enter his mind, feel him falter, and submit. The rush, the power, was so intense, I could barely breathe for a moment. It was stronger that I remembered. Better.

 His eyes had glazed over. His smile was soft, trusting. For a moment he looked so young… “You knew my father, Professor?”

 “Of course I did. You know, this magnificent watch should not go unnoticed. You should show it off more. In fact, I would like for you to check the time, hourly. Announce it to the others.”

“Announce it to the others,” he repeated blandly. His voice was flat, expressionless.

“Yes. It should be midnight soon.”

He gave me a last, blank smile, when he climbed into the carriage, looking every bit as innocent as he had on his first day of school.

 

Notes:

Quote by: The Godfather

Chapter 19: Chapter 17 – The Orphan and the Cloak (POV Gellert)

Notes:

This chapter has something so crazy, I don't think anyone has done it in a ff ever... Grindelwald will walk into a house in London... one you already know... and he'll do sth / pretend to do sth so unhinged, it will change the histroy of EVERYTHING!

Also, Albus is still running around, playing three-dimensional chess with partly-invisible figures. Dude is in full mystery mode. I think he'll surprise you.

Gellert Grindelwald

Chapter 17 – The Orphan and the Cloak

Perhaps I fear him because I could love him again,
And in loving him, I would come to need him, and in needing him,
I would again be his faithful pupil in all things,
only to discover that his patience for me is no substitute for the passion
which long ago blazed in his eyes.

The Potter’s house was cosy, and spacious. Framed pictures of a large family hung everywhere. Half-read newspapers on the sofa table, lit candles next to the massive, mahogany book shelves. Pillows and blankets on many leather sofas and arm chairs. They were used to hosting guests.

“What did you say your name was, again?” Mrs Potter asked.

 She didn’t recognize my face. Of course she didn’t. I had invented it that very day. The dark, soft eyes, the beard, the very distinctive pointy nose with a little scar on it. I had chosen silvery grey, for my hair and beard. People were less suspicious of old men. They were less virile, less of a threat. And Godric’s Hollow had never been very hostile to outsiders. This should have been child’s play.

“Robard, Madam. Augustus Robard. I work for the Auror’s office down in London. We’re interested in having a look at your family’s invisibility cloak. It’s a safety issue.”

“I know that,” she said slowly. “That’s what the last Auror said. The one in the pin-striped suit, from last week. He was here with his friend… what’s his name… ? Oh, I don’t remember, you’d have to ask my husband. The thing is – your department must have assigned this case twice, you see,” Mrs Potter said. “We sold it to you, just last week.”

“Sold it?” I could barely comprehend. A priceless family heirloom, an artefact of this significance, and they’d sold it? Surely, they didn’t need the money! Their house looked well-furnished, there was a polishing set on the side table, next to a fairly new racing broom. Their garden in front of the house looked as professionally maintained as it had in 1899, and I knew both of them worked full-time jobs, knew of their many vacations, their shopping habits… Having devoted friends truly paid off sometimes.

“Yes, my husband’s friend was here with the Auror – they went to school together, him and my Henry – the famous one, the Professor –“

She didn’t need to say it. A sense of doom had taken hold of me. I’d always assumed, Albus was after some form of glory, societal acceptance, or his bother’s forgiveness. I thought that’s why he was working with Aurors. Luring him away from them didn’t seem too hard, in theory – a little, gentle reminder of his family’s early trauma, a lot of reminiscing about Percival, about the bond they’d had. But the Hallows… I’d forgotten how obsessed he’d been with them. Maybe more-so than me. he was a collector at heart, I’d seen pictures of his office.

Maybe this – his reawakened quest – was the best thing that could have happened to us. Maybe it was the worst.

*

A long time ago, I made a mistake. I’m aware of that. I did something Albus didn’t like, and he abandoned me, gave up on me, in that very moment. I remember how the altercation started, remember the exact words, the wand pointed at me, the jinxes Aberforth tried to put on me. And I remember the rage – grey rage, I like to call it. There weren’t very many colours in the world, no nuances to my emotions. Black, white. Right, wrong. Albus was the one who brought the colours, and when he abandoned me, it all went away.

What stayed was a certainty. The certainty that he’d wronged me, that he needed to be punished. I remember that he screamed when I did it – they always screamed, on top of their lungs. I remember laughing, when the effects of casting the curse rushed through my head, my chest, elating me, almost drowning me in power – how could they not see that I was doing what needed to be done? He’d wronged me – I was simply reacting, solving the problem in our way, mine and Albus’ problem.

And then things shifted, and I had to defend myself from two attackers, as Albus turned on me, and my world broke. Things were hazy, grey, so very grey, and the chain around my neck pulled closer, constricted my airways, and there was only me, the darkness, and my attackers, unified against me.

When the girl fell to the floor, I could breathe again. I saw some colours – the blue of her dress, the red of the blood trickling down from Albus’ ears and nose, as he bent over her. The silver of the pendant I clung onto. My knees felt like they were about to collapse, and my stomach turned, as he looked at me, his eyes and words cold, for the first time ever. Physical sensations gave way to emotions, too many emotions, that I couldn’t comprehend or place within my frame of reference, and I ran. Felt my lungs burn, my legs hurt – one of their curses had hit me – felt the hot, clammy summer air hit my face in the dark, and kept running. My stomach flipped, when I stopped, breathing hard, and I almost toppled over, had to hold onto the rose bushes. Their thorns pierced my skin, while I vomited up my dinner, followed by gall, while the poisonous, vile taste of it filled my mouth and throat, and it felt like it would never stop.

When it finally did, my hand was covered in blood and I noticed I was crying. I felt it, in my burning eyes, tasted the salty liquid on my lips. It was the strangest sensation – the emotions, the dread, the void inside of me – while the liquid trickled over my face.

I didn’t explain what had happened to my aunt. I realized how it would make me look bad, how it might make her turn on me. If it had made Albus turn against me, it would do the same to her. And there were so many things I couldn’t yet explain; to her, or to myself. Talking about it wouldn’t be beneficial to me. It would harm me.

Talking about it now would either help or destroy everything. The silence wasn’t helping.

Albus walked in and out of my life, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was all some game to him. Whether I’d become one of his little chess figures; a pawn, helpless to his schemes, his lies. That thought was always in the back of my mind, always, as I remembered my grandmother’s voice, the prediction she’d once made: “Love will be the death of you.”

I was a child, when I heard her; her voice changed, her eyes were glossed over, and I finally understood – my dreams, every time I knew things in advance, every bit of knowledge I had that I shouldn’t have. I started keeping my knowledge to myself, as my parents wished. It made them uncomfortable. Made mother admit to who she’d been, before she pretended she wasn’t.

They didn’t want to know, and so I stopped telling them. About my nightmares, about the vase that was going to crash in the living room, about the thunderstorm that would hit them in the middle of their walk. And so we became strangers. I was a stranger in my own home, but they liked me better for it.

At school, I bragged about my gift. Made them admire, avoid, fear and respect me at once. It was easy to win certain friends after that. people wanted the edge – they wanted to know the next test’s question. They wanted the secrets. They even desired to hear about the blood and gore of my dreams. And so I started telling them about the darkness that was coming, before I understood it myself. It would take years, until I’d made out the finer details, until I’d learned enough of the world to know what was coming for us, with goosesteps and gun powder.

In January of 1898, when I had the vision of who I’d become – the greatness, the power I knew I deserved – it took another few months, another person, to put it into words: I would bring about the Greater Good, as Albus later christened it. I’d rise to the top of the food chain, desired, admired, and feared by the masses, by bringing them the truth, and leading the way. To avoid the darkness I dreamed of, to stop the Muggles who’d bring it upon all of us, by any means necessary.

“You’ll have to be more careful, in how you proceed,” Albus warned me, when I finally told him the whole truth. I’d expected him to be impressed or frightened, but he was neither. All he cared for, he said, was my well-being.

“I don’t understand.” The feelings – I always had too many feelings, in quick succession, when he was around. It lead to a confusion that would occasionally drown me, to fights, to words I didn’t mean. And he’d forgive me, over and over, even though I couldn’t explain why it had happened. Even though I didn’t feel like apologizing. He was the one causing all of this turmoil; it wasn’t like I’d ever had any of these problems before!

“I see that you’re well-intentioned. I believe in you. But if you keep doing what you did –“

“That was one time!” The sun blinded me. It was noon, and even in the shadows, the heat was unbearable.

“People tend to remember that,” he warned me. “There will eventually be questions. Why you didn’t graduate, why the school took such drastic measures. I don’t hold it against you,” he assured me, when he sensed the anger flaring up. He was good at that – reading my emotions, anticipating them. He’d started out confused, as I didn’t emote or act like his lemming friends, but he’d learned quickly – almost too quickly. “If it hadn’t happened, we never would have met. I’m glad we did.”

He pressed his lips to my temple, and I felt the warmth trickling through me, felt all doubt and anger dissolve. He was good at that, too – calming me, making me happy, making me feel, and then: “We should agree to only use force when necessary. I don’t believe we can avoid it entirely – though that would be my wish – but it can’t be how we are perceived. People will be more likely to join us, if they don’t think of violence when they hear our names. You have to be seen a certain way.” Sometimes, when he spoke, his thoughts were so calculated, his mind so sharp, that I lost all track of time. I just wanted to listen to him forever, agree with him, please his every whim.  

The dream of a bloodless revolution. He was ever the optimist, and, at times, he dragged me into his blissful, naïve little world. Where a demented dying girl made a good travel companion, where everyone was good at heart, but occasionally misguided, where I was someone I’d never been – soft, merciful, happy. Above all, his manipulation made me happy. He did love me, after all, and I cherished that. He only wanted what was best for me.

*

“What do you think he wants?” I asked Queenie, when she joined me at the table.

She looked at me with big, questioning doe eyes, as though there were several people we could be talking about. As though she didn’t have one precise assignment: Get close to Albus Dumbledore. Become his friend, his confidante, by any means necessary.

“I thought we were having breakfast,” she said, glancing around the Café. “In London. How silly of me.”

“We are,” I assured her. “You’ve been doing good work lately. I’m very impressed.”

“You are?” Breathless – she was, so often, breathless. Haughty. I knew most men found it alluring. I didn’t understand, why. It must be her looks.

“That’s only part of it,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile. “I’m the nurturing type. Most men are utterly helpless and can barely function as adults. They like to project their fantasies onto someone who’s gentle and kind.” I knew there was a reason I liked her.

“So, in other words, you’re replacing their mother. The Freudian way.”

“That’s repulsive,” she said, spooning whipped cream onto her waffles. An American habit, one of many strange ones. “Sometimes, yes. but not all men are like that.” She sounded wistful, as she said it. Longing, still. For that Muggle. What she saw in him, how she could even stand to be around him, was beyond me. but it would have been unwise to tell her that, or even to let her catch a glimpse of it. So I kept my thoughts to myself.

“Why are we in London?”

“To save a boy.”

“Is he in danger?” I nodded. Better not to give too much away. “What kind of danger?”

I couldn’t tell her of the vision. The one that had woken me up, in the middle of the night – heart racing, bathed in cold sweat. A pounding headache numbed me for a while, disoriented me. The boy. The man. Walking into the night. whispering, being answered in hissing, foreign tongues. A boy and a snake.

The ring on his finger was what had interested me the most. In the dream, he’d taken it off of an unconscious man, lying on the dirty floor in a shack of a home. He’d looked at it with reverence. His family heirloom. The ring of his famous forefather. He’d do terrible and fascinating things to it, without understanding much of the implications. Without seeing the stone on it for who it was.

The boy was gifted. A diamond in the rough. One that needed to be polished, and controlled, as early as possible. And I knew where he was.

“It’s hard to say. You know, visions can be a tricky devil. There is darkness surrounding this child. And he’s in a place he doesn’t belong. Somehow, he got lost. And we are going to remedy that.”

*

“Why him?” Queenie said, looking at the dark-haired infant.

Next to her, the nuns were quietly wondering the same. They stood there, in their simple Muggle clothes, smelling of cheap soap and anti-lice shampoo. The entire house was draped into the smell. Something else lingered. Potato soup. Burnt bread. A hint of mold, from some of the walls.

Wool’s Orphage wasn’t a pleasant place. And a Muggle house on top. No place for a wizard to grow up. 

The baby didn’t seem to mind. He was awake, but quiet, something I appreciated. The screaming, crying children in other rooms didn’t interest him. Instead, his dark eyes looked at my coat, my tie, Queenie’s hair. He took in everything, in a way a child that age shouldn’t. Alert.

“He reminds me of my little sister,” I lied. I’d never had a sister. “He has her eyes. She’ll just adore him, don’t you think, darling?” I turned away from Queenie, who smiled dutifully. “My wife and I can’t have children, you know. We’ve seen so many doctors, even a priest. But maybe it is time to admit that there is another path for us.”

“You poor dear!” the nun told Queenie. "Well, the Lord provides in mysterious ways!"

In a stroke of brilliance, Queenie nodded, and dabbed her eyes in a silk handkerchief. Emotional. Maternal. Wealthy. All the things an adoptive mother should be.

“You’re sure you want to adopt little Tom?” the woman asked. “He’s definitely got a home with you, you say? You’ll be taking him away, whatever?”

“Of course.”

“He’s a funny baby. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, sometimes he’s … odd.” Of course! Ignorant Muggles...

“Odd, in what way?” asked Queenie. Her eyes were glued to the little baby hands, and there was an utmost tenderness on her face. I couldn’t relate to it, but it was very practical, I had to admit that.

“He… things happen around him. It’s hard to explain.” The nun stared at her shabby shoes, and I realized I hated her. Her small, insignificant mind that needed a deity to comprehend life, needed control and religious dogma. “I shouldn’t say… he’s only a baby…”

“Already?” Queenie whispered to me. “That’s early!”

“What can you tell us about his family?” I asked the woman. “Gaunt, wasn’t that their name?”

“No, no – it’s Riddle. Well, we named him just as the mother wanted, poor girl, died giving birth to him on New Year’s Day. She came here, pregnant and alone, in the middle of winter. I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in and she had the baby within the hour. Requested the baby to be named to Tom, after his father, and Marvolo, after hes. But no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.”

“Did she say anything else, in regards to his family?”

The woman nodded. “I remember she said to me, “I hope he looks like his papa,” and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty – but he’s such a handsome little boy, isn’t he?”

“He’s darling,” Queenie agreed. “We’d love to give him a home, won’t we, honey?” ‘

She really was good at this.

*

“What is this?” Albus said, pointing towards the crib.

“A baby,” I informed him, even though that part should be obvious. “He’s not mine – I’m watching him for a friend.” That seemed innocent enough.

He seemed shocked by that claim – more, than I had anticipated. “Who in their right mind would let you babysit?”

“Queenie.”

“I see.” He didn’t elaborate. He just looked deeply concerned.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He’d never been to Nurmengard before, and today he’d asked for it, for the first time. It was dicey, letting him in. Vinda had advised against it, had suggested a neutral meeting spot. I’d spent so many years, longing for this moment, longing for him to come to me, to step over the threshold… And soon, it might come true.

He looked good. A scarf in many shades of blue that he’d bought in India, a travelling cloak stitched with navy runes, decorated with wooden buttons. More runes. I couldn’t resist reading them, as he came closer, reading into them. Did he want to send me a message?

“I have a gift for you,” he said. It sounded ominous, but then, most things did these days.

I’d started listening for little signs of betrayal the moment he’d agreed to see me again. And I’d seen them – most of them. I was sure he was getting away with some of it. I hadn’t expected it to hurt. Annoy, yes. I’d known why he was here with me from the start. But the more time we spent together, the more I looked into his eyes and felt that old desire to stop, listen, change the way I was talking, dressing, presenting myself, so he’d look at me more, give me more attention. It shouldn’t be like this. I had thousands of people’s attention. Albus Dumbledore shouldn’t matter this much.

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

Everything was warm and fuzzy, in some random hotel room, booked by Aurors. He thought I didn’t know. Thought I couldn’t tell who else he met in here, when the room wasn’t carefully structured and decorated to remind me of Godric’s Hollow.

It was masterfully done. The colour scheme of bedsheets and curtains, the exact candles Aunt Bathilda used to buy. The little picture in the colour, identical to one he’d had in his bedroom. The furniture – he’d been subtle and changed just the grain of wood, the lighter polish, compared to the other rooms. The crowning jewel was not the floor, that creaked in the exact same way. It was the window. The starlight streaming in, even though there was a building in the way. The air from outside, fresh, like in the countryside. Masterful.

“Not even a hint?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil it.”

His excitement was real; I could tell. He was a great liar – maybe the best – but a mediocre actor. He couldn’t contain himself when it came to certain books, or even just very good candy. Couldn’t hide the judgement in his face when he looked at me, sometimes. It always depended on the day’s headlines.

The paper crinkled, as I unwrapped it. It reminded me of the very first gift he’d given me – enchanted cufflinks, decorated with our favourite symbol. He’d never said where they were from. His family certainly couldn’t afford the silver. But he’d looked to happy to see me with them, so I couldn’t reject his gift. All I could do was to wear them, every single day, and retain that happiness. Watch him smile.

He was smiling now. Almost wistfully. Like he was yearning for something. Yet, when I unpacked the gift, it was nothing but a piece of shimmering fabric. It was very light, fluid and silvery grey its folds gleaming in my hands. It was strange, yet familiar to the touch, like water woven into material.

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” he said, politely.

“I can see that.” It was a strange gift to make. Expensive. Not something I needed. Unless… I looked at him. Impossible!

“My friend Henry Potter used to own it, until a short while ago,” Albus said, his hand tracing the light material tenderly. “It’s been in his family for generations, you see.”

When I looked back at the cloak, then at him, nodding at me with a smile on his face, I could barely breathe. The cloak! The cloak – I’d dreamed of possessing it for so long. I’d sent people out into the world, let them search for it. I’d gone through book after book, read through entire libraries, and it turned out, all I’d needed was Albus. He’d made the impossible possible.

“How did you get your hands on this – how – where… how?”

“Let’s just say the Potters parted with it willingly and leave it at that,” he said mysteriously, and leaned in to whisper: “Can you believe it? It was in Godric’s Hollow all along!”

I felt chills. His breath, the cloak, the revelation –

“I told you we should have broken into the houses of the old families and looked for it!”

“You did,” he admitted. “I should have listened to you more.”

“You listened quite a bit.”

“And I still am.” His chin rested on my shoulder. I couldn’t tell whether he was doing it to avoid my eyes, manipulate me, or because he simply felt like it. And I didn’t want to care. But that nagging feeling, that little voice in the back of my head always kicked in when he was this close. When he made me feel things I’d thought dead and buried.

Alive. Warm. Loved. I knew it was a farce, and yet…

“What did I do to deserve this?”

“I might need you to be there for someone I’ve grown to like. I don’t think I can do it myself, given the proximity.” Aurelius. “I’m sure you’re aware I’ve been to New York.”

“Something happened to Queenie’s sister?” Was he involved with other Auror departments?

“It’s not her.” He looked crestfallen. Genuinely sad, as if something terrible had happened. “I’m sure you remember why Queenie joined your movement. The laws she desired to be overturned. She wanted to get married.” He paused. “I’m afraid that can’t happen anymore.”

“The Muggle.” I tried to sound neutral, not disgusted, about it, but it was hard. “The one she was seeing. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“The flu,” Albus said, and I was genuinely confused about the word for a moment. “It’s a Muggle disease. You know how useless they are with their colds. This one is stronger. It infects the lungs, and can cause fevers. A lot of children and elderly people die from it. Sadly, the same fate befell Mr. Kowalski. I just don’t have the heart… Don’t be cross with her, she simply wanted to reach out. She was afraid you wouldn’t approve.”

“I never understood that relationship,” I admitted. Beyond the obvious, disgusting nature of a relationship like that… he puzzled me. “She’s gifted, charming, objectively beautiful. What is it about that round little man that interested her? Is he very clever? Is he secretly rich?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” Albus said quietly. “They were in love. That’s all.” He was grieving the Muggle, I realized. For queenie. Or other, mysterious reasons. I’d never fully understand him, no matter, how hard I tried. He always remained part Enigma.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“It never does,” he said, a sad smile on his face. “Love always looks insane to an outsider.” He wasn’t talking about Queenie and the Muggle this time. and I wondered, whether he viewed himself as a man in love, or the outsider, looking back at an ill-advised infatuation, something he’d like to forget. “Do you like it?”

The cloak. Of course.

“I’ve never gotten a better gift in my life. Thank you. It means a lot.” I hesitated. “A part of me thought, if you ever found one of the Hallows you’d keep them for yourself.”

“I was tempted.” He sighed. “But I don’t need it.”

“What is it that you need?”

“That,” he said, “is an excellent question. At the moment, I’d like a meeting with Queenie Goldstein. And moral support, going in. can you do that for me?”

It was a pretence. All smoke and mirrors. Albus was there, yet he wasn’t. He laid my dreams at my feet, without demanding anything for himself. And he presented himself the same way – available. Without demands, or conditions. Whenever I wanted, whatever I wanted. The conversations, the time, the sex – it all happened like he wanted it to. Like he wasn’t doing it every bit of it to appease me, lure me into a false sense of security.

Part of me wanted it to be true. The other part wanted to find his backers, the Aurors who had sent him to me, and kill every single one of them.

*

Queenie looked pale, but composed, when I saw her again. She’d applied fresh powder to her face. Her eyes were puffy and red, her nose a touch rounder than usual. With trembling hands, she stood over the crib, staring at the sleeping baby.

“Do you think he misses his parents?”

“He doesn’t remember them,” I told her. “It’s you he’ll remember, if you spend the time with him. Your voice, your kindness. His father likely abandoned him, and his mother passed away, before he could open his eyes. He never looked at her, or listened to her. She doesn’t mean anything.”

“She must,” Queenie insisted. “Why did you have a vision of him, if she’s not important? You don’t see other wizard orphans, do you?”

“Not yet. Maybe I will.”

Her eyes became watery again, her face soft, as she bent over the crib, adjusting the mobile. “He is a darling, isn’t he? So beautiful!”

“He could use your love, Queenie,” I told her, resting one hand on her shoulder. People are always easier to guide, when you combine your message with their name, when you establish a physical connection that is just the right amount of wanted, even needed. “A child shouldn’t be all alone in the world, don’t you think?”

“N-no,” she whispered, tears hanging in her lashes like morning dew. “No one should. Being alone is horrible!”

“Look at me!” She followed suit; blinked up at me through the tears. “You’re not alone. You have suffered a terrible loss, but you’ll always have friends. You are loved, Queenie!” I offered her open arms, and she almost crashed into them. Lovestarved, touchstarved – she’d always longed to belong. She hadn’t with the Muggle, not really, nor with her career-driven, rigid sister. She belonged with us. A dreamer, a fighter – even if she currently was ruining a silk west with her mascara. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter.

“I guess you’re right,” she whispered, dabbing her face with me handkerchief. “He really does need a mom. I just don’t know if I’ll be any good at it!”

“You’ll be fantastic,” I assured her, and a smile broke through the sorrow, a smile that could have lit up a hundred rooms.

“I’ll give it a try, then.” She picked up the infant, cradled him in his arms. The expression on her face was so soft, it almost hurt to look at her. So strange – there were worlds between us, with the devotion she could feel for this tiny stranger, and yet I could always reach out and touch her. “How about it – you and me, Tommy-Boy?”

“It’s Marvolo,” I corrected her.

“That’s not a name for a little boy,” she scolded me, and I could see it. A future, in which she’d get over her Muggle-obsession, just as I’d planned. Where the words Jacob and Kowalski were lost in her memory, and all that remained were thoughts of the future. For Marvolo. For all of us.

After all, I had great plans for the boy.

Notes:

Quote: Ann Rice - The Vampire Armand

Chapter 20: Chapter 18 – Albus All Along (POV Gellert)

Notes:

I've had this song in my head for a long time... It was always meant for Albus and Gellert walking to and from this very house. The scene has changed - there's more to come, of course - but the song had to be there!

I like sticking with Gellert's perspective for a while... Albus is always at his best, viewed from the outside. Keeps the mystery alive.

Gellert Grindelwald

Chapter 18 – Albus All Along

One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, 
One ring to bring them all, and, in the darkness, bind them

It was dawn. Brisk, cold, but windless dawn. The sunrise had started on the horizon, and the pale grey sky was slowly mixing with shades of pink. The ground was covered in patches of half-melted snow, bits of ice and partly-frozen morning dew. And beyond us was nothing but the wide-open, beautiful English countryside.

“Where are we?”

“This,” Albus explained, “is the road to a charming village called Little Hangleton.”

“What are we doing here?” I looked over the frosted grass with some curiosity. “Not that I don’t enjoy the scenery, or getting up before dawn…”

“You asked me something the other day,” he reminded me softly. His expression was most mysterious. It was like this most of the time, now. He, who’d been the person I knew inside and out, my other half, had turned into an enigma. “You wondered who was protecting a government worker named Bob Ogden.”

“I’ve never heard that name in my life,” I stated, pretending to admire the scarce scenery.

“Don’t do that.”

“Hm?”

“Let’s not pretend Vinda keeps any secrets from you. I know what she overheard, I was there.”

“I assumed the Aurors were in charge of hiding Ogden?”

“They were. I convinced them to add a little alteration to their plans.”

“So, where is he hiding?”

“In plain sight.” He nodded into thin air. To his left, there was something I couldn’t see.

“Who are you looking at?”

 “This,” he introduced me, “is Bob Ogden. Bob, I assume, you’re familiar with my friend?”

Bob nodded. He was transfixed in fear, the moment the charm broke and I could see him. If this was  some sort of plan, he wasn’t aware of any details that made him feel safe. He was simply part of the puzzle, the strange game Albus was playing.

“Like a pawn,” he’d whispered, and neither of us had no good answer for that. He was right.

“Fidelius Charm,” Albus revealed. “As you already stated, you have no intention of hurting Mr Ogden or anyone involved in this cover-up, I see no reason to keep the secret any longer. No one will be harmed by this little adventure. You see, Bob here has been made the secret keeper of the Gaunt family, and up until a minute ago, I was his.”

“Does he speak?” I asked, taking it all in. The sparse, half-frozen landscape. The little round man who’d appeared out of nowhere upon being introduced by name, shaking like a leaf. Albus’ continued layers of secrecy, of lying by omission. It was a fascinating process, of course. I’d never seen a Fidelius Charm come undone; I’d only heard of them in theory.

““He leads the way,” Albus said. “It seems you’re driving up his blood pressure. Can you stop that?”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“I’m afraid you are.” He took off his hat and pulled a little compass out of it, like a Muggle magician. In anyone else, it would have been an annoying move.

“Fine.” I decided to curse in Russian; he wouldn’t scold me for death threats, if he couldn’t understand. Then I turned to Bob, smiling my most polite smile. “I apologize for that fact that my reputation and presence appeal to your cowardly nature. You will not be harmed. Happy, Albus?”

“I could be happier.”

“Where are we going, anyways?”

“Yes, of course, I forgot to tell you.” Of course. If I had a Galleon for every time he uttered those words… “I don’t actually know – it’s not my secret to keep, you see. What is our destination, Bob?”

“The Gaunt house. It's no the outskirts of Little Hangleton, but it doesn't have an address,” Bob said, peeking at me from behind Albus with suspicion. He’d gone from scared to rebellious, which was not a good development. “We have a about a mile to go.”

“Why?”   

“Oh, don’t be so negative,” Albus said cheerfully. As if he did this sort of thing every day. Maybe he did. Who the hell knows what Professors get up to? “What’s a brisk walk at dawn? You know, we’re not getting any younger. One has to put effort into ones physical health at some point.” He started humming, partly to annoy me. (It also was a signal to Bob, but he thought I wouldn’t pick up on that.)

“Why bother? You’re going on my nerves. That should be exercise enough!”

“I don’t think that’s a saying.”

“Not in your stupid language!”

Albus simply smiled, and walked down the little path with Bob in front of him, like a tour guide. It took me a while to pick up on Bob’s change in demeanour. He was calm, eerily quiet, to be precise, and his steps had quickened. Every movement of his little round feet was the same. Every step the same width. Chin up, eyes forward, hands hanging limp on his sides. Like a puppet, walking on strings.

I chose to focus on Albus instead, but he wouldn’t reveal anything either. He just looked around with an air of mild curiosity. Fearless. Of me, of them – which led back to the question why he was doing all of this. Why hide government workers, why spend time with me, with the Aurors, why subjugate to their regime? He was too powerful for any of this, any of us. Too smart. I’d sensed it before. Feared it, even. Now, I couldn’t be sure about anything anymore.

We passed a wooden sign with two arms. One, reading Great Hangleton, 5 miles was pointing back the way we had come. The other said: Little Hangleton, 1 mile. In the near distance, I could see nothing but hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure of Odgen ahead, then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that we had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of us. Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, with a church and graveyard on one side of the valley and a majestic manor on the other.

“Is this where we’re going? That’s the house of the Gaunts?” It was the most likely option, though I was confused as to why I hadn’t been able to find a house so old and rich, along with an infamous wizarding name.

“One would think so, wouldn’t we?” Albus said quietly. “No, I’m afraid this is a Muggle residence. We’re going another way.”

Ogden had chosen a steep downward slope for our path. The lane curved to the right, and ended in a maze of tight, untamed hedges. The path was rocky, the landscape wild and seemingly untouched by man or culture. The trees around us were tall, and looked as old as time. some of them I recognized as magical, some were simply Apple and Pine Trees.

“This is the house,” Ogden said, when he stopped between a pair of trees, and pointed into nothingness. “This is where Marvolo Gaunt lives.”

Marvolo. I felt my heart race, could almost taste the excitement, the shape of things to come in the icy morning air. The boy – the orphan – I’d been right in my assumptions… I’d been right all along… Was this where we’d find it? The last of the Hallows?

The shabby little stone house didn’t look inhabited. Its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Someone had nailed the rotting, half-frozen corpse of a snake to the door, months ago. Thick, grey smoke issued from the chimney. Someone had lit a fire inside.

“I think we should knock, don’t you?” Albus said, as though politeness was the most essential issue at hand. “Would you do the honours, Bob?”

And again, Bob moved like a puppet. His hand, balled to a fist, lifted towards the wooden front door and knocked, three times. He then took a step back. All fear had left his face. His eyes looked empty, glassy. He couldn’t be…?

An elderly man opened the cottage door, shorter, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong. His short, scrubby grey hair was patchy and his wrinkled face fallen in. he was dressed in what must be robes, though they were so dirty, it was hard to tell. He had the look of a very ugly person who has lost a lot of weight in a short time.

“You again!” he bellowed at Ogden. “Isn’t it enough you lock us up? Whatchu want, Mugglelover? I’ve got nuthin left to steal!” His small, beady eyes squinted when he looked at Albus, then myself. “You… I’ve seen you before – aren’t you…”

“May we come in?” Albus said, peeking inside the dark little hut. “It’s quite cold outside. I’m sure you won’t mind too much.”

“I mind plenty!” Gaunt bellowed. His voice sounded worn. He had a cold. A Muggle cold. And he was too pathetic to cure it.

I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. There was nothing here. No Hallows. No magic, not really. A sad excuse of a wizard, living in a dump that made Aberforth’s house look like a palace. This was all that was left of the famous Gaunt family, of the Peverell line. This and an orphaned baby.

“Mr Gaunt – may I call you Mr Gaunt?” Albus gave him a polite little bow. I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes at his incessant manners. “It would really make things easier, if you invited us in for a cup of tea.”

“And if I don’t?” Gaunt barked. “Gonna lock me up again, won’t you? Back to Askaban for refusing to host the bloody government in my own house?”

“Oh, quite the contrary,” Albus ensured him. “If you refuse, Mr Ogden and I will, of course, respect your wishes and leave your premises at once.”

“Right…” Gaunt squinted even harder, as though he needed to do so in order to think. It took him a minute to get there. when he finally reached the right conclusion, his droopy, blood-shot eyes rested on me. “But he won’t.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, you can’t have it,” Gaunt decided. “She took it, see. My useless daughter. Took all the family heirlooms when she ran off with that Muggle. And I’ve seen him, I know he left her – I know he’d talking ‘bout her – little blood traitor… dishonoured herself for this scum…”

“Of course,” Albus said, nodding politely, as though he knew exactly what Marvolo was referring to, when even I was playing guessing games. “Let’s just assume you invited us in, shall we, Mr Gaunt? I’d be pleased to hear all about your daughter, but it’s mighty frosty.” And to Gaunt’s displeasure he walked into the place like a friendly neighbour coming over for a visit. I followed him. So did the puppet.

“I don’t know what he told you,” Gaunt started, then stepped up to Odgen. He sniffed him, waved a hand in front of his face, then poked him in the chest. No reaction. “What’s wrong with that one?”

“A minor enchantment,” Albus said conversationally. “Nothing that must concern you. You were talking about your daughter?”

“Merope,” Gaunt said. It was like a shadow had moved over his face. Like it took some of his life force to speak of her. “Dumb girl, Merope. Always knew she was useless. But to leave her old man… To abandon the family home for Muggle” – he spat on the ground – “The little whore! I hope she’s miserable! Is she miserable?”

Albus threw me a little look. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The accusation was obvious:  This is what you sound like, sometimes. I’d have to decide what to do about that impertinence later.

“Merope passed away, I’m afraid. She had a son,” Albus informed him. “I’m sure you’re glad to hear that he’s alright. I doubt very much that you have any desire to rip him out of his new home, given your… feelings about your late daughter.”

“So she had a Mudblood, so what?” Gaunt stared at Albus, as though he was the bringer of doom. Anything I could do to him, I realized, was nothing compared to this conversation. What Albus failed to notice, in his desire to remain pleasant in all matters, in his rosy worldview, was that this conversation was torture for Gaunt. He had very little life left in him. He wouldn’t make it through the next year, I could see it in his face. Prison did that to some men.

“I would prefer it, if you didn’t use this kind of language,” Albus requested, and I couldn’t hold back a scoff – an involuntary noise. He turned to me. “Yes?”

“You won’t change him. He’s always been this way. He’s broken, old, and lonely. And he’ll die soon. What do you win by policing his language?”

“You threatening me?” Gaunt stared at me defiantly. He wasn’t brave. Just stupid.

“Don’t worry. When you are being threatened, I assure you, you will know it.”

“Merope didn’t take everything,” Albus said calmly, looking at Gaunt. “He’s missing an old gold necklace, but he was able to bury a ring, before his arrest. She never found it. It’s still in the house.”

“Over my dead body you’re getting that ring!” Gaunt looked around, and in his panic, his eyes found Ogdens. “Do something! You’re from the ministry – arrest them! They’re trying to steal from me! you know who that man is – he’ll kill me – I know he’s a killer – why aren’t you DOING anything?”

But Ogden remained where he was. In the doorway, stoically silent. A shadow of a person.

“He can’t hear you,” Albus said softly. “He’s been instructed to hear no voice but mine, and only if I’m addressing him personally. It’s easier on him, you see. This is a very stressful day for Mr Ogden.”

Gaunts eyes were opened wide now, and they were severely bloodshot. “For him? FOR HIM? You come here – and you … and him – you – you…”

“Noone has any intention of harming you, Mr Gaunt,” Albus assured him. “We will leave you to your bottle of Brandy. All we ask is that you empty your pocket. The one with the missing button. Once you’ve done us this little favour, we’ll be on our way.”

He’d gone pale. His face was so white, it looked greyish, with red stress patches. He had one hand pressed to his breast pocket, the dirty finger nails clawing into the stained fabric. “No! Never!”

“We can take it by force,” I reminded him. “You have the option to part with it willingly, and without any harm. My dear friend has gone through a lot of trouble to protect you. He has a great dislike for unnecessary force, you see. So… why don’t you make this easier for all of us? Do the right thing and empty your pockets. Now.”

“Over my dead body,” he snarled. “This is all I have left of my family and –“

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Albus interrupted. I was very aware that his eyes hadn’t left me since we’d entered the house. in his eyes, this was another test. Of restraint. He’d somehow deemed me worthy to find the Hallow, and now he had doubts about it. It was exhausting, to cater to his incessant pacifism, especially about something I’d wanted for decades. But then again, the Hallows weren’t the only thing I’d desired for that long.

“You have a grandson. And a son, who will be released from prison in less than three years. Surely, they hold more value than a piece of metal?”

“I don’t care about that little Mudblood, you fools! And my son is dumber than a bag of rocks!”

“That might be genetics.”

I could hear Albus sighing behind me. “Not now!”

“What? Look at this inbred creature! What is he, really?”

“The end of the ideological road. His family believed in the purity of blood so strongly that they married nobody else. No Muggles for generations. This is what that leads to. Health problems, mental and physical. Loss of magic, perhaps. He’s described Merope as a Squib, according to Mr. Ogden here. But you’ve seen the baby – his daughter strayed from the path, and had a beautiful, healthy baby. One that shows signs of magic already as an infant. Don’t you see?”

“So you’ve brought me here for a lecture?”

“I’ve allowed you into this house because I trust you. Against all odds, I believe you will do the right thing.” His voice left a hollow sound in my ears, and I started to suspect the unthinkable: He expected me turn from the Hallows. Now that I was so close to getting them all, after he’d gifted me the second one, he honestly thought… “And yes, I would very much like it, if you listened to me.”

“He can’t keep it.”

“Of course not.” Albus nodded, as though that was a foregone conclusion. He was about to break a dozen laws for me. He’d double-crossed his own government for me. and yet, there was this little voice in the back of my head… The one I’d always heard, ever since I met him. The one that my feelings had drowned out, long ago. It had quieted, when he actually went through with the blood pact. It had grown louder, ever since the end of that fateful summer. What if…

“What would you have me do?” I asked him.

“Only what is absolutely necessary. Look at him. He poses no threat, not to us, at least. He hasn’t harmed us. And his son, at least, might depend on him. Askaban is not a place that people leave unscathed.” He still had that inflection in his voice when he spoke of the prison. A hint of pain. I doubt even he noticed it anymore, but it was there.

I turned towards the old man. Albus was right; he was a broken person. Maybe he always had been. Sometimes, I wished I knew what pity felt like. Or empathy towards strangers. I imagine it’s quite the burden.

Petrificus Totalus.

Marvolo Gaunt hit the floor with a hard ‘thud.’ One large, leathery hand on his wand, one outstretched in front of him. I could see the fear in his face, the rage. When I bent closer, I could smell the stench of him. This was possibly the most pureblood man in Great Britain, and here he was – impoverished, weak, helpless. Unable to look after himself. Albus’ sermon echoed in my mind. Until I saw it, and all else was forgotten.

My heart raced when I felt a piece of metal, then a stone in his pocket. I forgot all about Marvolo’s fate in an instant. The little object wasn’t what I imagined. I’d known it was part of a powerful ring for quite some time, though that was about all I knew. The ring’s design had faded over time – some of the intricate details were a blur of matted gold. The stone itself was small, shiny, black. It was colder than the metal. Somehow, I thought it would be bigger. But it was definitely the real thing; I could feel it.

When the first sunlight broke through one of the grimy, filthy windows, the light hit the metal, made it shine. And I could see the symbol on the ring. The Peverell insignia – wand, cloak, stone. The sign of the Deathly Hallows.

“It’s real.” I hadn’t expected to feel this emotional. With the wand, all I had felt was triumph. The cloak had made me feel grateful, above all. Maybe confused, given the circumstances. But this… this was the final missing piece. I had everything I’d ever wanted to possess, and it fit into my hand. It was strange, how something so tiny could be this powerful. “Do you see that, Albus? It’s real! Come – we must get a better look!”

The cold air embraced me, when I ran outside. Brisk, unforgivable. No sign of springtime. But I could finally admire my new possession in all its glorious details – the cut of the stone, the little edges – I wondered, if it had any meaning.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Lancelot,” Ogden’s voice came out of nowhere. He was a little cross-eyed, but otherwise seemed to come to his senses, as he climbed up the hill and disappeared into the bushes.

“Where does he think he’s going?”

“Home,” Albus said calmly. “He doesn’t really remember what happened here and I doubt the ministry employs anyone who can break my memory spells, so why bother? You’ll be pleased to know that Mr Gaunt believes he lost the ring in a lake, though he’s not sure which one. He won’t come looking for you, and even if he did… well, you’ve soon how little of a threat he poses.” He pushed some frost of his collar and put on gloves. “So – shall we?” He started walking so fast that I had trouble catching up.

“What is going on with you?”

He stopped. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“You want it! The ring - Don’t pretend you don’t want the Hallows for yourself – I know you! So, why are you giving them to me?”

He blinked into the morning sun. “I must have moved past my desire for them. Some things are simply youthful interests. We grow out of them.” I couldn’t help but wonder, if he was still talking about the Hallows.

“You don’t want it for yourself?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you don’t care why I do? Why I’ve been looking for it, for all these years?”

“I suspect it’s experimental in nature.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m curious what can be done with it. I certainly am not the person to figure out that mystery.”

“You do know I’m aware of the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Most people are. It’s very famous.” He kept walking. Away from Gaunt, and from me. I could feel the anxiety forming again, could feel that old desperation tugging and twisting me into form. “Wait!”

“We should get breakfast,” Albus decided, as though nothing major had happened. “I’m fairly hungry, aren’t you? I’m sure there’s a little bakery in the village.”

“You’re not giving me straight answers, and now you want me to suffer through English breakfast? It doesn’t even have bread!”

“It has…” he started, though he knew what was coming. We’d had this fight before.

“Toast is not bread!”

“You will find that, technically, it is.” He had the nerve to start humming to himself, and I felt myself getting nervous again. I’d heard the song before, and I knew I liked it for some reason. It had both comforting and sad notes to it. But I couldn’t help the feeling that this was some sort of signal, and it wasn’t for me. “What are you doing?” I feared him, I realized. Still. What he could do to me, what power he had over me. And it seemed all so easy for him – play God, toy with criminals and governments alike, and live by your own rules. Discover ancient artefacts and hand them away, like a bouquet of flowers. What on earth was he up to?

“What song is this?”

“You really don’t remember? You used to play it for me, on your aunt’s piano. You said it was the Romani lullaby your mother would sing to you at night. Alas, I’ve always suspected it was some sort of enchantment. It’s a shame I can’t remember any of the words.”

I felt relieved, embarrassed, and stuck in my conviction that he was up to something, all at the same time. “I don’t recall.”

“That’s sad. It was a treasured part of your childhood.”

“So were you.”

“I wouldn’t call that a childhood memory,” he argued thoughtfully, strolling along, as though we were simply having a Sunday stroll. The fourth of March. A weekend like any other, a couple like any other. Except none of that was true.

“Then what would you call it?”

“An interesting question. Not one that can be answered easily. Look, I was serious about breakfast – unless you have other plans?” I shook my head. “Wonderful. There’s a lovely little French bistro, close to my Hotel in London. It’s approximately one apparition and a ten-minute-walk away.”

“A Muggle place?” I had a hard time, hiding the disdain in my voice. He didn’t like it when I sounded like this; I’d seen the disappointment in his eyes. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure whether he softened me, or whether I pretended to be someone I wasn’t around him.

“You were the one opposed to English breakfast. I assumed you’d be equally opposed to meeting government workers all over Diagon Alley.”

I could see it already – his Auror friends – strolling into a wizarding Café before a late shift at the office. Department Heads of government, pretending to have business meetings over a cup of tea and some of those ghastly bacon-egg-bean combinations.

“What are you thinking of right now?”

“Beans.”

“You know what? I could go for some…”

“No. Muggle place. NOW!”

It wasn’t until he started humming again that I realized I’d been played. Beethoven’s Symphony V. Victory.

Notes:

You know what? This is the first time Albus has been creepier than Gellert!

Side note: I'll be adding lore to Slytherin's ring in the next chapters. Due to it's Horcrux defilement in HP, we never explored the powers it had by design in the books. And I have some very interesting headcanons about what they are. It's good - trust me!

Plus, you'll find out how Vinda and Gellert met & why they're so close soon.

Chapter 21: Chapter 19 – Seven of Swords

Notes:

Seven of Swords - Tarot Meaning:
The Seven of Swords in general, is said to be about betrayal and deception. When you get this card, it may imply that you or someone else in your life is having difficulty getting away with something. There are instances when we are forced to be sneaky, hoping that we will not be discovered. When we are found out, we have to face the consequences - whether it's embarrassment, punishment, or worse. Sometimes this happens when there are instances when you had to think on your feet, and did something that was somewhat shrewd and out of character. Now there is a danger of the secret coming out.
In short:
Upright: lies, trickery, scheming, strategy, resourcefulness,sneakiness, cunning
Reversed: confession, conscience, regret, maliciousness, truth revealed

Lyrics:
The Ballad of the Witches Road - Agatha All Along

Albus Dumbledore

Chapter 19 – Seven of Swords 

The road is wild and wicked, winding through the wood
Where all that's wrong is right, and all that's bad is good
Through many miles of tricks and trials, we'll wander high and low
Tame your fears – a door appears, the time has come to go…

We get used to the little things that bring us joy. Comfortable armchairs by a fireplace. Soft blankets. The way steam rises from a cup of tea, fresh snow, fallen leaves crackling under our footsteps. Rays of sunlight on our faces, signalling the end of winter. Laughter of people we like. A smile, a touch. Joy.

With every passing day, every week, I noticed it. The little touches. A hand, caressing me in passing. A kiss on the neck, and then, nothing. Nothing but the fleeting sensation of happiness. His hand, on my knee, my back, my arm. In private. Sometimes in public. He was getting careless about who could see us. Gellert had always been very physical in his affection, and I’d always craved it. Over the years, I’d convinced myself I wasn’t a physical or sensual person. It had been easier that way. Cutting ties. Keeping my distance. Not slipping into familiar patterns.

But I was slipping now. The earth beneath me always felt liquid.

“This is a good thing,” Sayid assured me upon my confession. “It means he’s doing it unconsciously. He can’t stay away.”

“It’s just physical.”

“Nothing is just physical,” he insisted. (Clearly, he’d never dated in Paris.)

No matter how loud I rung the alarm bells, I was told it didn’t matter. That I was being dramatic. Imagining problems, where the Aurors saw opportunities. I told them part of me wanted to go live with him. Sayid thought that would give my acting authenticity. I confessed to omitting details. Theseus thanked me for my honesty. I admitted that my life, my job, my entire profession felt meaningless compared to what I was doing now. Travers offered to talk to Professor Dippet about a sabbatical that same day. He didn’t even notice that there was no protest on my part. He should have.

Living at Hogwarts fit me. I enjoyed it. It felt more like home than Paris or Godric’s Hollow ever had. The long, half-dark stone hallways, the big Baroque windows, and the endless beauty of the grounds, of the Scottish highlands – this was home.

I hadn’t taken to teaching naturally, but I told people I had, and they believed it. Still. No one ever said anything to the contrary. Maybe I’d convinced them. I did have fun. I liked my students fine, and I felt comfortable enough in the role. As fulfilled as one lonely man could be. Whereas Paris could be overwhelming at times, Hogwarts was filled with laughter. Screaming children. Hundreds of feet in the hallways, dozens of owls every morning, pleasant colleagues, familiar accents. Home.

Sometimes, I missed the city. Paris. The strangers, entering and exiting my life from all across the world. The travellers and their stories. But as more and more of those stories had included a familiar name, rumours, political notes, I had grown less fond of them. Hogwarts was safe. Nobody hear knew him, so they would never figure out that I did.

I was admired, and I must admit, I liked it. I liked people guessing why I, the child prodigy, the published writer, the Alchemist, who had every opportunity in the world, chose this profession. I told them it was for the children. The many, innocent children who I didn’t want to know about the man I saw on the weekends. The man who slowly wormed himself back into my heart, and into my every thought. The one who’d lived in my head, rent-free, for decades. I didn’t want them to know who I really was, how twisted, how dark. We all had our private obsessions, our little secrets. Wasn’t I owed that? After everything I’d endured… The image they had of me now was fine, pleasant to everyone – why risk it?

I shouldn’t have an answer to that. I really shouldn’t.

*

The first time I set foot into Nurmengard was in early March. I’d delivered two of the Hallows to Gellert, one bought, one stolen. I’d concocted a grand scheme, involving Bob Ogden, the entire Auror department (I’d mainly told them what they needed to know, and they had accepted that) and Marvolo Gaunt.

It had taken some time to prepare Bob. We’d gone over the plan, again and again.

“Are you sure he won’t kill me?” Bob had asked, and I had reminded him that he could always hide behind me, that I was untouchable for Gellert.

“I’m sure.”

“He could find me. Later.”

“I will tell him that your memory has been modified.”

“Will you actually do that?” He’d sounded more curious than anything else.

“Yes. I believe it’s the safest way to handle things, going forward.”

“Good.” He looked relieved. “You know, for a while there I was excited, being part of all of this. But I don’t think I’ll be calm in front of Grindelwald. Any chance you guys could sedate me?”

“If that is your wish?”

“It is.” He nodded vigorously. “Sedate and obliviate. I just want this over with. Get back to my normal life. Can you do that for me?”

Nobody asked me how I was going to do it. Which spells I planned on using. As if they didn’t care. Then ends justified the means. Nobody checked in afterwards. They just let me handle things these days. A few months earlier, I would have been glad.

I used the Imperius Curse to calm and control Bob. Gellert noticed, of course. He was supposed to. The Hallows alone wouldn’t earn his trust – there had to be obvious legal implications for me. We’d told each other we’d go to prison for our cause decades ago. Die for each other, if necessary. Risk everything for each other – freedom, life, innocence. He needed a reminder of that. He needed to believe I still meant it.

Bob was happy, I told myself. Gellert was happy – he finally had his little collection. And the Auror department was jubilant at my progress. Sayid, who’d been posing as an Acolyte for weeks, reported back how both Gellert and some of his followers spoke about me behind closed doors. The awe, the fascination. The guesswork about the true nature of our friendship. How more and more hoped I would join them, longed to see public signs of my loyalty. How they laughed about the ministry, believing themselves to be the true victors. The truth was somewhere in the middle.

*

Gellert and Vinda were bickering about strategy, when I walked into the library that weekend. Some sort of meeting had just ended. A long row of cups, plates, and what must have been an impressive spread of food decorated the long reading table close to the window. Several plates still had grapes, cheese cubes, and olives on them. The bread baskets were almost empty.

Sayid would tell me what they had talked about, come Monday. But there was one thing I’d caught onto – one intriguing plan. A bad one. Doomed to fail. But it made sense that he’d trust Vinda with it, given who she was.

“Are you hungry?” Gellert said jovially, pretending there was nothing unusual of having several half-eaten bowls of fruit and seven types of bread in ones’ library.

“No, thank you. I can browse the shelves, if you need some more time to talk.”

“Or you could stay here with us,” Vinda said, a mocking smile on her lips. “You’ll listen in either way, non?”

I ignored her, and started the process to pick a book for the weekend. The possibilities were endless, fascinating. Books I’d dreamed of buying, but hadn’t been able to afford or find. Illegal books – with and without reason. The most obscure historical scripts, and the darkest of the Dark Arts. Some days, they were equally tempting. And he liked it, when I read books that would scandalize polite society, so I knew to pick just those. And I could tell myself that I was doing it for him, and him only.

After a while, I decided to non-chalantly interrupt their whispers: “You know, if you really cared about your plans, you wouldn’t put Vinda in charge of convincing women.”

“I wouldn’t?” He seemed amused at my interjection. Vinda was annoyed. She’d worked hard for her position, despite her obvious advantage, her birth right, if you will.

“You don’t think me capable?”

“Oh, I believe you’re capable of a great many things. But recruitment might not be your strong suit, especially not in this demographic.”

“And why is that?” She didn’t seem hurt, but it was hard to tell. There was something impenetrable to her. Maybe that’s why none of them knew why she was here.

“Yes, do tell us.”

“I’m not doing this.” I shook my head, pretended to be shocked at my own involvement with the strategy. “I’m not… involved.”

“You could be,” Gellert suggested jokingly.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Give us a name, then,” Vinda demanded.

“No.”

Gellert looked thoughtful. “I should do it myself – is that what you’re saying?”

“You signal strength above all. A select few women will choose to follow that calling. Many won’t. They’re mothers, caregivers, because our world raises them to be. They want someone to relate to, someone warm and sensitive, someone who empathizes with their struggle. Someone who they believe knows what it’s like to be in their shoes.”

They looked thunderstruck. Vinda seemed lost in thought, possibly pondering on the concept of warmth and sensitivity, or wondering whether she could pretend to be empathetic.

Gellert caught on faster. He always did. “Queenie?”

“Mothers understand mothers. She’s beautiful, so people will pay attention to her. She doesn’t alert or frighten anyone, and she has abilities that would make her the best recruiter in the world.”

“If we’re talking about Legilimency,” Vinda interrupted, sounding amused for some reason, “wouldn’t that make you our best recruiter? You do have a way with people, specifically the young ones…”

“Ah. But I don’t work for you.”

“Then who do you work for?”

“A school. I’m a Professor, remember?”

She smiled. Her mind was a closed book. “Of course. How silly of me.”

*

He showed me the Hallows again, shared his many notes and theories, as though we were on a harmless, joyous adventure together. Explorers, studying ancient artefacts.

I inspected the ring from all sides. The snakelike texture, pressed into gold. The little signature on the inside. The dark, shimmering stone – so much like a snake’s eye, so eerie and suspenseful. I couldn’t even imagine, how many secrets it held, or what it was capable of. Part of me didn’t want to know. “It’s beautiful.”

“That’s not all it has to offer. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

“It can’t be…” I knew. Of course I knew. Letting him believe he’d discovered the mystery first, letting him feel like an explorer finding unknown mysteries… It was a kindness. It was a ruse. It kept him focussed on something other than myself. If I slipped and said the wrong thing, he’d be none the wiser. He had what he’d always wanted. I could become background noise, and act more freely.

“Looks like it.” He pointed to the little golden snake, curling around the stone. “The symbols are there. the insignia. Didn’t you speak of Slytherin’s wealth?”

“All the founders were wealthy. That’s how they afforded a castle. They offered free education, board and lodging to hundreds of children and filled massive hour glasses with diamonds, just for the sake of dramatic discipline. Doesn’t that tell you all you need to know?”

“It tells me they were wasteful,” Gellert said, making me laugh. “No, this ring – it’s remarkable, really. I’ve barely come around to studying the stone.”

“And have you found out what it can do?” That part I was curious about. Slytherin’s educational focus had always been on Runes, Arithmancy, History. Rigid subjects that required hours of study, discipline, rigorous fact-learning. But I wouldn’t put it past him to add protective spells, even curses or poisons to his possessions. There were fables of his madness. The man, the legend, the brightest of them all. He got sick, they said. For years, all he had were his history books, letter correspondences, and the occasional food delivery by a house elf. After he emerged from his private chambers, he returned to find his students changed. Gentler, more vivacious. They’d taken to Herbology, Charms, Transfiguration. Slytherin, the stories say, withdrew even more into his political views. The differences between himself and the other founders grew. This is where the myth of the Chamber of Secrets started. Finally, with one final duel against his closests friend, Godric Gryffindor, Slytherin left, and the school was never the same. Some say, it was for the better. But the cracks between families, between ideologies has prevailed ever since. I can’t help but to wonder, if there would have been a better solution.

“It offers the owner power, of course.”

I could feel myself growing nervous. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“If I wear it, and I shake your hand, you will be more likely to listen to my voice. If I place a hand on you – your arm, your shoulder –“ He demonstrated his approach, and I felt the familiar warmth. “You will agree to things more easily. You get people to kiss the ring, and their obedience will be like a mental stronghold.” He paused. “Do you think he used it on his students?”

“I wasn’t worried about that… not until you said it.” I inspected the metal more closely. “How, exactly, have you discovered this?”

“Oh, a little experimentation.” He shrugged, but his eyes glittered with mischief. The ring had captivated him, played into his desire for control, his joy in manipulation. “I wonder if it will work once the stone is removed. It would be a tragedy to damage something so valuable.”

“It can’t be the original stone. Salazar Slytherin lived a thousand years ago. He added Emeralds to most of his jewellery. The Peverell brothers – those we believe to be the source of all legend – lived decades after him. The Hallows were most likely created after Slytherin’s death.”

“They were gifts from death,” Gellert insisted, looking a touch taken aback.

“Come on, you can’t truly believe that. Antioch Peverell was a wand maker. Cadmus published texts about Alchemy. The brothers must be the inventors of the objects we refer to as the Hallows.”

“Objects we refer to – can you even hear yourself?” He’d snatched the ring back up, as if to protect it from my ignorance. “When have you stopped believing in magic?” After all the years, the disappointment, the bitterness, my involvement with law enforcement – this was what hurt his feelings. That I’d stopped believing in children’s stories.

“There’s no need to take this personally. I’ve become more practical. Are you really going to tell me you’ve assembled thousands of followers with your head in the clouds?”

He shook his head, almost looking proud that I’d misunderstood him. “If I don’t believe in what I say, why should I expect anyone else to believe in me?”

I could remember his rally speeches, verbatim. I believe that the Muggles are not lesser, but other. Not worthless, but of other value. Not disposable, but of different disposition. Did he truly believe that? Was it better or worse, if he did? Oh, and what a world we could make for all humanity, we who live for truth, for freedom... and for love. Was he delusional, or did he simply excel at deluding others? The truth couldn’t be that he was misunderstood. I’d seen plenty of evidence. I knew just how brutal he could be – to me, to others. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I hoped, deep down, that he was a misguided idealist. One who could be reached, and changed.

“What do you believe in?” I shouldn’t ask. It was too early. Too dicey.

“Let’s not have this conversation.” He looked down at the ring, resigned. Disappointed. Almost exhausted. When I observed him closer, the lines around his eyes had gotten deeper. His face had fallen in, just a little bit. He was getting less sleep. He wasn’t eating. Did I do this to him? Was I comfortable with it, knowing the alternatives?

I caught myself staring, from time to time. At the ring, the stone, the cloak. His wand. He would show me all, and share his theories, more than once. And I could feel the old, inexplicable longing. To have them for myself. Have him for myself. Part of me wanted to rob him, another wanted to forsake the outside world. Stay.

Was it the Hallows? Was it my own weakness? Maybe there wasn’t a real difference.

It didn’t matter. Sacrifices needed to be made.

*

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” Sayid asked, one Friday afternoon.

 People asked the question at job interviews. I had liked working at Hogwarts. I always had an answer, as long as I was part of the teaching staff. One that I could believe in. most of the time. I’d had certainty. Commitment.

“I don’t know. Where do you see yourself?”

“Working towards peace and justice in the world. Maybe re-married.” He tapped his quill on the parchment. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“That’s true.”

“You’re being evasive.” He didn’t sound judgemental. Not even concerned. Mildly curious, perhaps. Alert.

“I get that a lot.”

“Maybe that should lead you to some self-reflection.”

If only it was that easy… “Perhaps.”

“I’m your friend, Albus.” His voice had become buttery soft.

Sayid had his hand on my arm, and I had to think of the ring for a moment. Which was a lie – neither the ring, nor the cloak had left my mind, ever since I had handed them over. I’d made it look easy – I made everything look easy, so pretending wasn’t too hard – but I missed them. Physically missed them. In every spare minute, I wondered about their powers, fantasized about inspecting them and their magical properties, instead of letting Gellert do it. I wondered whether I could create something similar. And, of course, with the ring and the cloak, I’d started thinking about the wand. I knew where it was. How powerful. I knew part of me wanted it. Just for a minute, I told myself, over and over. Just to find out whether it would react to me.

Masters of Death. That’s what we’d called ourselves. That had been the fantasy. A juvenile, cruel dream of subjugation. One summer. I was over it, I really was. Mostly. I’d come face to face with how brutal the reality of it was that very summer. What the cost of power, of freedom looked like. In truth, there was never power without the powerless, there was no gain without loss for other, no victory without destruction.

“Five years from now…”

“Yes?” Sayid leant forward.

“I see war. I believe that’s what we’re heading towards. I know I’ll feel compelled to join, to do the right thing, even though it pains me to think of the carnage. I see myself in a leadership position.”

“Maybe you’re meant to be a leader,” he commented, patting my hand in an almost paternal way. “Have you ever considered that? I know the Aurors look up to you, as did your students. They do not view Travers this way. Or anyone at the top. People need role models. Why not provide them with one? It is what you have been doing for a while now, is it not?”

“Their admiration, while touching, is misplaced. I know you think I’m doing well…”

“And you are!”

“Have you ever considered that your resources are misplaced in my support? That I might fail, or die trying?”

“Your image will lead us on,” Sayid said solemnly, “but it would be a great loss. From what I have learned about Grindelwald, he is impossibly powerful, has prophetic foresight and his followers are more loyal than we thought. But he has a clear weakness.”

“I know what you’re going to…” Another lie. I knew exactly what he was going to say.

“You.”

I couldn’t help but shake my head at his naivety. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means.” I knew some of the Aurors believed the same. I had seen the asinine fantasies in their thoughts. Threatening my life, my existence. Bringing the most powerful dark wizard in centuries to heel by appealing to his tender heart. It was sweet, in a way. They had hope, and faith in the good in everyone. But then again… It was disheartening. I’d expected more logical thinking, more calculated reasoning from a group so carefully selected and expertly trained.

“You might be surprised.” I couldn’t read him. He was better than the others, better than Travers even, who was, among many annoying qualities, a brilliant Occlumens. I didn’t think much of his politics, but his skill level was impressive, even for an Auror.

“If you have a plan involving me, I’d very much prefer it, if you told me about it. I wouldn’t want us to work against each other inadvertedly.”

“I will,” Sayid said softly. “In time. Some choices are a last resort. Let us hope we never have to cross that bridge.”

“I mean it. Even if it involves my death, I want you to tell me your plan.”

“I am your friend, Albus,” he assured me, again placing a hand on mine, and I was yearning for the ring at this point. To make him tell me. I was aware of the hypocrisy in my desire – I, after all, was granted countless omissions, among other things. But it wasn’t my nature to remain in the dark, and I couldn’t force the secret out of him via Legilimency without his knowledge, possibly even without his consent. “First and foremost, I am on your side. I only want you to succeed. Whatever your choice will be, I will support.”

“Even if it doesn’t correlate with your plans?”

“Even if it does not correlate with my beliefs.”

His words rung in my ears, hours later. I tried to focus on grading essays, tried to enjoy a piece of chocolate. But all I could see were the flowers on the windowsill, still blooming, evergreen. And all I could think of was the nature of friendship, and how destructive it could be in its most extreme form. I remembered Elphias getting detention, repeatedly, helping me cover for Aberforth’s reckless nature. Remembered hiding my infatuation for darkness, my cruel summer from him – he’d accepted it. Always. Asked no questions. I remembered the Flamels, insisting I wasn’t a bad person, just a lovesick one. And most of all, I remembered the years of secrecy, the web of lies I’d spun around my memories of Gellert. Lies I told others. Lies I told myself. There was only one person in the world I’d ever been completely honest, completely myself with, and I wasn’t even sure he knew or cared what that meant.

“Mind if I disturb you?” Horace knocked against the doorframe, as he entered. “I bring a tribute!” He pointed towards the tablet filled with roasted potatoes, beef, and tiny plates with chocolate covered fruit, cups of pumpkin juice, a pot of tea floating in thin air. (The house elf carrying it was near-invisible.) There was even a bottle of very expensive wine. He must be about to ask for a favour. And not a small one. “I noticed you weren’t at dinner, so I thought I’d bring it to you.”

“Please, come in. have a seat.”

“Thank you, thank you, my friend.” He picked the most comfortable armchair in front of me, and floated it towards my desk. The plate was placed next to my essays with soft elegance, and I was handed the tea first, as if she knew. somehow, they always knew. it was a skill that most hosts and hostesses never learned, an almost magical intuition.

“Thank you, Bessie.”

“Who?” Horace looked up from his potatoes in surprise.

“The elf. The one who accompanied you here.” I couldn’t point her out. Like a true master of invisible household chores, she’d disapparated already.

“Ah, yes. Marvellous, how you know everyone’s names. I’m lucky if I recall who half my students are, some days.” He pointed towards the food. “Eat, eat! I barely see you around anymore – what have you been up to? I hear rumours of a sabbatical. Are you writing a book?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Well, if you are, you simply must come to one of my parties and give a reading! If would mean so much to… well, the students, and…”

“I’d be honoured.”

He was surprised. I don’t know why he’d expected a rejection. I’d joined him at quite a few of his dinner parties in the past. They were delightful, and he put his entire heart and soul into planning them. “I – yes. So it’s not true then. The sabbatical.”

“I’m considering it.” I had packed bags in my closet. I taught fewer classes. I’d stopped assigning written homework a month earlier.

“It must be more than that. You’ve cut back on classes!”

“Horace, where is this coming from?”

He seemed a touch embarrassed. “I – well, the headmaster is inquiring. He’s anxious that he’ll have to search a replacement over the summer. But I want to know as well!” he added. “I’m surprised. I thought we were friends, yet I feel like I barely know you. I had no idea you’re growing disillusioned with teaching, I thought you loved it!”

I certainly had been putting on a good show.

“The truth is, I am doing something else at the moment. Between my job and my personal ventures, I’m stretched rather thin.”

“It must be quite the project,” he commented.

“What would make you think that?”

“You haven’t published anything in a while – you know I’ve always enjoyed your articles – and you keep getting these wonderful flowers!” He pointed to the windowsill. “Or – am I to take it these are a personal gift? There is something about them… I can’t put my finger on it…”

“They were a gift from an old friend,” I stopped him, before he inspected the flowers too closely. In the half-dark, pressed against the rainy window, he couldn’t see them, or else he’d detect that they were the exact flowers I’d gotten in the fall. So far, no one seemed to have picked up on it, which was curious.

“A close friend?” I’d definitely said too much.

“It’s difficult to describe.”

“Would I know her?” Our eyes met at the last word, and I saw it. A trace of recognition in his eyes. “Oh.”

“No. I daresay you wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…” His face was flushed, but the curiosity in his eyes had only increased.

“That’s alright.”

He turned to leave, stacking a few muffins on top of each other. (“For the road, you know. I’ve done some essay correcting myself, I need the sugar.”) In the doorway, he turned. “You’re sure you don’t want to give me a name? I know a lot of people who… let’s just say, I might surprise you.”

I chose my words very carefully. There was no reason to rebuff or offend him, but he couldn’t be placed in harm’s way. “Curiosity is not a sin, Horace. But you don’t want to follow any leads on this, believe me. You don’t want to go down that road.”

“Are you… warning me or telling me off?” He chuckled nervously. “You’re being mighty cryptic there, Albus.”

“Whatever you do, I need you to forget that we had this conversation, Horace. Please.”

“I won’t tell anyone!” He looked flustered. Offended. “I told you, I know other – well, I can keep a secret!”

That night, I weighed my options. Trust. Risk. Friendship. I placed a memory charm on Horace the following morning, when he was distracted by his porridge. He never even noticed.

*

Gellert insisted on a walk, even though it was cold, now that the sun was gone. Dusk. A light breeze, unpleasantly harsh. The towering mass of Nurmengard threw a large shadow over the small mountain pathways, many of which were unwalkable by design. All roads ended somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. You were meant to apparate here. You were meant to possess your own magic to set foot into his house.

“Do you like it?” he asked, after observing me for a while.

“The mountains?”

“The house.”

It was a loaded question. This was more than a house. it was a ground base, a meeting point for his most loyal believers. It had served as a prison to some, and a shelter to lost souls clinging onto Gellert and his message for dear life. “It’s very impressive.”

“But you don’t like it.” He paused, his breath visible against the dark blue sky. “I always imagined you would. Even before I knew what all the rooms looked like. You know, I only visited it…”

“… Twice as a boy. Yes, you mentioned that.” It had been a very different conversation. One of breathless whispers, in the summer heat. Mixed with theories of magic, and predictions of what our future would look like. Fantastical. Void of distance, of doubt. I remembered how we’d walked back to the village, glancing at each other. The fanatical, ever growing energy between us. Nothing after had ever felt as intense as that summer.

“You’re welcome to visit, anytime you wish.” He paused. There was more. the things unsaid between us could have filled up more than one castle. “The door is always open.” His hands remained in his pockets, which was unusual. But it was cold, so I didn’t think much of it.

“Thank you. That’s very generous.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want to spend time with you.” It hurt, to come this close to vulnerability. If he knew, how much I was fighting my better instincts, my sanity…

“And what is keeping you from doing just that?” He looked away, when the tension got too intense. “Of course. Your job.”

“That’s not it.” There it was again. Tension. Nervous, tugging and tearing at me to the point where I’d bleed. “The truth is – I feel guilty for what I want. I worry I’ll give up too much of my life, or do the wrong thing…” One deep breath. Admitting it wouldn’t kill me. vulnerability would play in my favour, I’d always known that. it didn’t make things easier.

“You worry you’ll lose yourself.”

“I worry I’ll find myself. Here.”

He’d wrapped me into his arms, before I could keep speaking, whispering consoling words. I could tell that he was happy, could feel his heart racing, feel the desire to just melt into the hug, without consulting my conscience. The warmth of his neck against my chin, his hands rubbing my back. It felt both right and wrong, natural and a farce. I lost solid ground, clung onto him. Smelled his aftershave, the wool of his coat, the leather of the one glove he wore. And just for a minute, everything else didn’t matter. I belonged.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.” He cleared his throat. “For a while… Ever since I knew what I was looking for, I had this fantasy of it being a gift to you. I knew we hadn’t spoken in decades, but still… It was always meant to be yours. You are the one to be trusted with it.”

For one insane, unsettlingly excited moment I thought he’d hand me the Elder Wand. He didn’t, of course. When he slipped his hand back into the coat pocket, I could see why it had been gloveless. He’d been touching something inside, maybe fighting his own urges, holding onto something, rather than giving it away.

It was the ring.

“Are you certain?” Part of me wanted to grab it from him. Part of me wanted to run. Then I saw his face, the uncertainty, the desperate hope in his eyes, and the gift took on another meaning. Against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be, I felt it. The old pull. The reckless happiness I’d once felt.

“Yes.”

The metal felt warm against my skin. He wordlessly insisted on slipping the ring on my finger, and I cursed my own sanity. Was this part of the act? When his forehead rested against mine, it almost felt like old times. Almost.

“Do you remember?”

“I do.” Everything hurt. Everything was confusing, and beautiful.

“You might regret your decision,” I teased him, later that evening, in front of the fireplace. “You literally handed off power.” The plans he’d had with it. The armies of Inferi. The Necromantic rituals.

“So did you.” He paused. One arm was wrapped around me, the other reached for his wine glass on the little side table. “Do you think we did it for the same reasons?” Deceit. Spywork. Betrayal.

“I can’t say. I’m still surprised you would part ways with it, to be honest.”

“This is where you’re wrong.” He drew me in closer, his lips pressed to my neck. “I don’t intend to part ways.”

I couldn’t take off the ring. Partly, because it would have displeased him, partly because I’d become too fascinated with it. And yet, there was a small, critical voice in the back of my mind, wondering. Did he just agree with me, because I held his hand? Does he want this? Does he enjoy it, or is he jinxed to go along?

There was a grey line, a tightrope, and I wanted to hate dancing on it. But in truth, I didn’t. He listened to me, as he never had, his eyes shining in the light of the fire. He nodded along to my thoughts, my worries, and I caught myself talking more openly than I had in ages. There was an eagerness to his answers, his attitude, and he kept looking at the ring with a sort of dazed happiness.

“I’m happy you chose to be here, you know. You could stay… There’s always a place for you here.” It was wrong, on so many levels, and yet I’d wanted him to say those words. maybe that’s why he’d said them.

“Come on… Aren’t you glad I’m not always around? My judgement, my overbearing morals and philosophies? You don’t want that, just to fall asleep in my arms.”

He didn’t answer.

After a while, he slipped. Be it the ring, the wine, or the evening itself – I could get glimpses into what was on his mind. It was my fears and hopes combined, twisted, in flashes. Pictures, memories, words. Shadows of what another person might have shown me at this point. What I saw didn’t alleviate my guilt or bring me back to my senses: He’d told the truth about having known about the ring for years, before he’d found the wand, even. And he’d been honest about the desire to give it to me. I could see my younger self in some of his fantasies – skinny, wide-eyed, a touch of red in my hair.

Sleeping together with the ring felt twisted, but that wasn’t new for us. It reminded me of the summer nights, of two arrogant, misguided teenage boys taking turns to use the Imperius Curse on one another. No boundaries, no morals. Complete trust.

He was erratic. More tender than usual, then more aggressive. It took me a while, in the heat, the confusion, to figure out that I was the one causing it. I wanted it, and so it happened. In a way, I had won another puppet. And instead of stopping, or being appalled, I sunk into the feeling, into the fire.

I could hear a desperate, almost otherworldly scream through the haziness of it all, and there was silence. Warmth, and connection, and silence. There was almost an echo of every noise, every sinful action of the last minutes in the room.

It took me a while to notice that he’d shifted. He’d scooted down on the bed and placed his ear against my heart, listening to the unsteady beat, as he had so many times before. I almost expected him to make outlandish and true claims about who it belonged to – another favourite pastime of his. But when he whispered, his voice was soft, vulnerable. And in a way, that was worse.

“You’re wrong, you know?” I could feel his breath against my chest, and his hair, soft and messy, tickling me. “This is exactly what I want.”

This position had its advantages. For one, he couldn’t see me crying.

Notes:

You might have recognized some sentences from "The Road Not Taken" - they are there on purpose. This is meant to be a very different journey, starting with the same conflict.

Chapter 22: Chapter 20 – The Silence (POV Vinda Rosier)

Notes:

I'm back from the dead... Why did the updates take so long?
1. lack of inspiration
2. work, lots of work
3. This little b keeps using me and the laptop as a djungle gym whenever she feels like it.

Here's a pic so you can decide whether or not to forgive her.
Spoiler warning: She's not sorry. She WILL do it again. 

 

 

POV Vinda Rosier

Chapter 20 – The Silence

The spider's web: She finds an innocuous corner in which to spin her web.
She has no need to chase. She sits quietly, her patience a consummate force;
she waits for her prey to come to her on their own, and then she ensnares them,
injects them with venom, rendering them unable to escape.

When I was a little girl, the world seemed dull and grand, at the same time. I was put into pretty dresses, and told to smile. I’d be such a heartbreaker, one day, they said. Such a pretty doll! I was taught how to sit, walk and talk the right way, interact with the right people, show the right amount of modesty, decency. Ladylike. Demure. A true Montreuil-sous-Bois girl.

In short, I was bored out of my mind.

My family was what bored me most of all – their expectations, their gendered, conservative view of the world. The only exception was mother’s cousin. The one I wasn’t supposed to talk to too much. The one that got invited to less and less family functions, as time went on. Cloaked in scandal and exotic scarves, fifteen years my senior, he would swoop into the room and demand everyone’s attention, for better or worse.

“He’s destructive,” mother would say, while her friends would sit, nod and listen, like the boring ladies they were. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t let him near my children at all. But you know what the family’s like…”

“It might be better to keep an eye on him,” one of her friends said wisely. “Just in case.”

“Is it true that he was expelled from Durmstrang?” one of the newest additions to the group, a Madame Delilah Lestrange, asked, and they bent their heads together to once again listen to the most scandalous story mother had ever had the pleasure to tell. Over the years, she’d added the most gory details and it was like she’d been in the room, when the school board made their decision.

In truth, she barely knew the expulsion date. It wasn’t the kind of thing Mr. and Mrs. Grindelwald bragged about.

I knew the true story, and it was better and darker than anything they could come up with. Gellert had told me at a distant cousin’s wedding, when I was thirteen years old. He hadn’t cared to swear me to secrecy or to tell me that I was just a child and mustn’t ask such questions. He’d seemed amused that I would ask, and delighted in my attention. And best of all, he wasn’t boring. Not even a little bit.

I didn’t tell my parents, or my fiancé, that we were still in contact, years later. I didn’t tell Gellert that I had a fiancé, until I needed to get rid of him. He’d been my parent’s choice, more so than mine, and I hated that he went to brothels to “preserve my innocence.” But what I hated most of all, was that they were Muggle brothels. For “discretion” purposes. A lot of wizards did that, mother said, when I confided in her. Men have needs. We mustn’t judge. But I did judge. It repulsed me, the thought of him and those unwashed, dirty Non-magique. The sicknesses they must have! The cheap perfumes I could smell on him. Accept all that, to keep a certain societal position? Never!

“What do you want to happen to him?”, Gellert had asked, once we’d managed to arrange a secret meeting, downtown in Lyon. I’d wanted to meet in Paris, but he hated the city. He wouldn’t elaborate, why that was.

“I don’t care. I want to be free of him, and I want no repercussions for myself.”

“No vengeance?”

Of course I wanted vengeance. I’d thought about poison, curses, odd illnesses to befall Gerard. Thought about watching him wither, become ugly, decrepit in front of everyone. Once or twice, I’d fantasized about killing him with my bare hands, watching the life drain from his eyes. Usually on days when we had to spend time together. When I smelled the Non-magiques on him.

“I want to be free.”

“Of him?”

“If it’s not him, it will be another version of him. I want to be free of them all.”

He’d started to tell me, then. Why they truly whispered about him. Why his name appeared in the papers, from time to time. he told me about the future, the grim threats on the horizon, and the grand plan he had, to save us all, and bring witches and wizards out of hiding, and into the light. The Greater Good, he called it. sometimes, he’d slip up, when talking at length about his beginning. He’d use words like ‘we,’ instead of ‘I.’ It took me a while to put the pieces together. It took him even longer to trust me, and let me know the rest. I don’t think anybody but myself knows the full story, from the beginning.

But I knew then what I wanted for my future. I’d detested being someone’s daughter, sister, fiancé, and I’d hate being someone’s wife. I wanted to be someone, instead. My own person. And by his side, I would be.

*

“He’s changed,” Zabini said. He seldomly spoke, so people tended to perk up and listen when he did.

“How so?”

“He listens more.”

“Listening,” I told him, “is a gift. You should know. You’re the silent witness at most meetings.”

“It depends on who one is listening to,” Zabini pointed out.

We looked down from the upper shelving area, into the library. Gellert was taken by the scripts for his next speech in Kampala, close to the famous Uagadou School of Magic, and several magical villages. He’d wanted to branch out to more countries, more continents, for a while. I’d suggested our Indian and Persian contacts, and, for a while that had been the plan. Then, out of nowhere…

“Who suggested Uganda?”

“Who has contacts to Uagadou?” Zabini asked, instead of answering. He frowned, when I hesitated. “Not me – why would it be me?”

“Your mother went there, didn’t she?”

“No. My grandparents did. But I’ve never stepped foot into Uganda. The country’s changed since the British invasion. A protectorate, they’re calling it these days. Wizards have gone further underground, the school has become more protected, and more selective in whom they accept. And you know I don’t care for children, or education. Which is why I was not in favour of Uganda. I don’t know what he’s planning,” Zabini whispered, as Gellert got up and started writing a letter. The quill moved so fast, it looked like it was vibrating. “But I’d take a wild guess as to who he’s writing –“

“That is enough!”

He looked like was going to protest for a moment, then bowed his head ever so slightly.

“Of course.”

“I wouldn’t want to report that you’re forgetting your position.”

“That,” he said curtly, “will not be necessary.”

And he left, while Gellert wrote yet another feverish, long letter to Scotland. I had no idea how he had the time to write so many of them. He hadn’t given up reading, or eating, and he looked more well-rested than ever. The only possible – and frankly, concerning – explanation was this had become his only correspondence. That he’d stopped planning, strategizing, and plotting by himself, and was starting to become dependent on the resource that was Dumbledore. His thoughts, abilities, knowledge of the world. A professor, one who’d barely left Britain, and seen next to nothing of the world. I considered him a theorist. Gellert thought of him as a genius who was wasting his potential. Be that as it may – giving Dumbledore this much access and influence had never been part of our plan. He was slipping.

*

Dumbledore had started to come to strategy meetings. He usually chosen to stay in the corner next to Sayid and observe, rather than contribute, which I insisted – and Gellert disagreed with me there – couldn’t be good in the long run. A silent Dumbledore couldn’t convince too many people – that number should be zero, but, realistically, it wasn’t. He reminded me of a hawk, circling his prey. Silent, slow in appearance, but ultimately deadly.

That all changed on April 1^st, a slow day, filled with indecision and rainshowers.

A lively discussion, which government to target with messengers next, had flared up. Japan was close to electing a head of state who’d roll back regulations we didn’t like, and be open to more revolutionary ideas, but the country was very well organised. Their Aurors were amongst the best in the world, their security measures impressive, and they disliked foreign influence, given their history. For that reason, many of the Acolytes suggested engaging with Russia. Others, appalled by the prospect of wading through all the corruption to get to anyone in charge, suggested renewing efforts in India. I disagreed. Corruption is a useful tool to revolutionaries. Exposed, it shows the common people what the alternative is. Nobody likes being used, lied to. Whatever the status quo, voters tend to dislike it, when one scandal piles upon another.

It wasn’t until the possibility of wars, started by Muggles due to an end of the Statute of Secrecy, was mentioned, that Dumbledore grew restless. I didn’t take my eyes off of him. I knew it had been too soon to invite him to so many meetings. He’d stayed silent for a while, but it seemed his patience, conscience, or sense of old-fashioned morality, built upon years of working within the system, was eating at him. War meant casualties. Carnage. Breaking laws. I knew, Gellert was wrong about him, saw him through rose-coloured glasses. He didn’t have the stomach for it.

“Is there something you would like to share?” Zośka Carrow addressed Dumbledore directly. I thought of three curses to use on him, couldn’t decide, and postponed my decision. Actively engaging Dumbledore hadn’t been the plan – not yet! He was to get seduced for distraction, educate Aurelius, form attachments to him and Queenie’s baby, get roped in slowly over his new friendships and start to feel a sense of loyalty to the people around him, so he’d want to protect them, when the time came. Confrontation was not the way to do that.

“You speak of war as an inevitability,” he said quietly. All heads turned to him, all private conversations stopped. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people forgot to breathe, at least for the moment. It was unnerving, how much power he carried, simply by breaking his silence.

“Where have you been?” Carrow said, defiantly, ignoring both mine and Gellert’s warning glances. “War has been the way of life for many of us, especially those who’ve grown up in the border regions set up by Muggles. Every time they fight over shifting those arbitrary lines on their maps, we have to conceal our houses, set up protection spells – and those have to get more elaborate every year, as they only seem interested in building greater, more destructive weapons – not to speak of hiding entire families –“

“I understand your frustration,” Dumbledore said quietly. “I’m quite familiar with protecting children myself.”

“In a castle, hidden in the Scottish Highlands!” Carrow cried. “You’re a stranger to the world out there – to individual witches and wizards, who don’t have your powers, or your level of education…”

“Or none at all,” Dumbledore replied, and an unease came over the crowd. Some were clueless as to why it seemed he started to agree with Zośka, but the majority was well-versed in the kind of politics Dumbledore hadn’t stayed out of over the years. Dumbledore spoke on with a warm smile that belied the seriousness of his purpose, or at least what he believed it to be. “I speak out of concern for the future of our world – a concern I believe we share.”

She looked taken aback. “Do you? Now –“

“I’m here, am I not?” While Carrow had gotten to her feet, hands to her hips, he settled into his chair, unshaken by the sudden attention. “I know, grave times lie ahead. Shadows gather on the horizon, and our world will soon face darkness unlike any we have seen before. I don’t deny it. But it is times such as these, when we cannot afford to be divided. Or to neglect those without defences based on old prejudices.”

“Can ya be a touch less cryptic?” Abernathy called out from his seat in the back. “If ya don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Dumbledore said gently. He spoke as if he was unaware of the hostility his suggestions might lead to, or was too arrogant, too short-sighted to care. “The admissions policy of certain schools – Durmstrang in particular, though they are by no means the only culprit – remains troubling. Mahoutokoro has only admitted children from wizarding families until 1897. Castelobruxo had a similar phase in living history, and the way the Americans keep restricting their oppressive laws, Ilvermorny might be forced, at some point in the near future to do the same. Not to speak of the smaller schools all over the world, who are often highly selective due to their limited capacities and lack of government funding.”

“And why should be care?” Carrow stated boldly. Gellert looked like he was about to strangle her. And even Dumbledore lost his calm demeanour. It seemed she’d hit a sore point.  

“By excluding Muggle-born students, you leave entire generations defenceless in wars you are certain will be their future, as well as ours,” he stated, his voice and temper rising by the minute. “You believe in exposing our existence to Muggles worldwide, you admit that this might cause hostility and considerable harm to all of us, harm you say you’re willing to prevent, but you want to exclude hundreds, if not thousands, of magical children from that protection, now and in the future. Not to speak of the countless muggleborn witches and wizards of all ages, who are out there – uneducated, unprotected and possibly clueless to the dangers they might be in, or the danger they themselves might present to others. If they break the Statute of Secrecy, they will be punished like we all would, yet they don’t even know it exists!”

“But we want to make those laws go away,” Queenie argued, cradling the baby closer to her chest. If nobody else would agree with Dumbledore, she would, given her history and family situation.

“That cannot be the only solution,” Dumbledore said, his voice becoming more urgent, more angry. “People have to understand what’s being revealed to them – who they are, who we are! That was always the point of it all! We can’t foster ignorance in the world while preaching for more transparency – nothing good will come of it!”

The room fell silent, torches crackling softly in the background. Zabini’s gaze was cautious, as he spoke up. “Our traditions are old, dating back centuries...”

“And yet, the world evolves, Lorenzo,” Dumbledore interjected, his tone earnest. “The impending war will not discriminate. It will strike Muggleborns and pure-bloods alike. Magic is our shared gift, regardless of parentage. Educating all witches and wizards equally is not just ideal, it is essential.”

“This is just the way things are,” Zabini argued. And, his face betraying the fact that he was surprised himself, he added: “for now.” Several people started whispering to each other.

Dumbledore nodded, acknowledging the hesitation. “Indeed, change takes courage. But consider the legacy you could leave, the way you could be seen in the world as a movement. To stand united offers far more strength than outdated traditions. We have the chance to foster a new era, a true age of enlightenment, one where every child with magical ability finds support, guidance, and education. Consider the alternatives!”

“This is a distraction,” Carrow decided, looking down at Dumbledore, as if she was scolding a petulant child. “There is no time for –“

“You can’t be that blind!” Dumbledore flared up. His rage was sudden, and colder than I’d anticipated. I could see people staring at him in awe, or shuffling backwards several inches.

At that moment, I finally understood why Gellert had feared a confrontation with Dumbledore for so many years. The look upon his face, as he towered over Carrow, and stared her down was exquisitely terrible – gone was the benign smile upon his face, the twinkle in the eyes, the mask of calmness. There was cold fury in every line of his face; and a sense of power radiated from him as though he was giving off burning heat.

“Do you think, Muggles will care to differentiate between bloodlines? Do you truly think they will care about your made-up bigotry, something that has no foundation and never had? People who will hate or fear magic will see us as one – they will not see who’s grandmother was or wasn’t one of them, as it is our abilities that will set us apart! Yet you have no qualms of allowing children to become targets, of referring to them as casualties, no remorse over a division that is unjust and dangerous for us all!”

“If Muggles fight us, they won’t hand over their children to boarding schools,” Abernathy argued. “Now I’m not opposed to it myself, but –“ That was the first he'd mentioned that. WEre people really swayed so easily?

“If the Muggle militaries of this world, collectively, decided to fight the magical world, there would be no us,” Dumbledore interrupted him, and a silence followed his words. a silence so intense one could have heard a needle fall. “War limits the numbers of any participating party, that has always been and will always be the case. You’re insane, if you believe this would be a war that’d be won in one generation. Perhaps it’d last a century. It could flare up, over and over, like the Goblin rebellions of the past. Like the giant wars, or the tensions between the Muggles of France and Germany – and never-ending war seeps through generations, thinning the herd. Civilisations have vanished before, it is not unheard of! My own mother grew up speaking a language that is close to extinction in this day and age… You celebrate growing numbers to the movement now, but eliminate muggleborns, fawn the flames of war, and wait… At some point, you will have to face the fact that you’re fighting a lost battle, because there will be no one left to fight for. This is what should concern you, if your disgust at the parentage or marriage choices of other witches and wizards in this world disgusts you so very much – the possibility that there will be no us anymore – that we will cease to exist!”

Gellert hadn’t spoken a word throughout the altercation. Now, though, he got to his feet, his face grim and determined, as Dumbledore, breathing heavily, fell silent. Nobody else dared to move, as he closed the distance. I wondered whether he’d yell, attack, wondered, what the triumphant look in his eyes meant –

And then he smiled. Gripped onto Dumbledore’s face with both hands, and smiled at him, happier than I’d ever seen him. “Welcome back,” he whispered, and his voice carried to every last corner of the silent library. "Welcome back," he mouthed once more, just for Dumbledore, who nodded, faintly.

“The world is watching,” Dumbledore said softly, his eyes gleaming with conviction. He looked at Gellert with the desperate hope, the delusion only men in love feel. “You could lead by example.”

Gellert stepped past him, and bathed in the glowing look, when he spoke his next words: “Perhaps it is time... to reconsider our path.”

Shocked whispers broke the silence. Some nodded, others seemed simply scandalized. I made a bet with myself how many days it would take him to use the phrase 'age of enlightment' in public. 

“Generations of minds, unsheltered, uneducated, untainted by government brainwashing – none of them would be tied to the old ways, or understand them…” Gellert mused, while Dumbledore couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He had the vacant, glazed over expression of a man who isn’t entirely sure whether or not all his dreams are about to come true. “Generations of power, untapped – of soldiers, willing to fight for their rights to exist, freely, to find a connection to our world… The governments haven’t helped them. But if we will… if the public sees us do what decades of useless bureaucracy has failed to do…”

The room exploded. The mood of the crowd had shifted, and they were excited.

“How many?”

“Where are they?”

“Do you think we should find them?”

“There could be more children in orphanages,” Queenie called out, and people applauded her, and looked at her baby as though it was some sort of salvation. “More kids like Tommy! We could find them, bring them to magical families!”

“Let’s just find Durmstrang’s school board and topple them,” one person yelled in the back. “What are they gonna do? Fight all of us?”

When Gellert finally could take his eyes off of Dumbledore, who was emotional and confused beyond words at his perceived success, he gave me a wink. His lips formed the word. “Schachmatt.” Checkmate. I’d never quite felt the desire to bow to someone as strongly as in this moment.

*

I was the one to greet Anton Vogel, when he arrived. Not Gellert. He had better things to do than charm the most important politician in the world, or at least he claimed he did. Treating him like he was a petitioner of sorts, someone who had to beg for attention, was certainly a choice. Whether it was the right one remained to be seen. The only person more irritated than me about this development was Vogel. He wasn’t used to being ignored. People vied for his attention, catered to him, these days. After years of dreaming and scheming, to get to power, he didn’t take well to being ignored.

“He is, ah, indisposed,” I told him, overplaying my accent, so I could fake communication trouble, if need be. “He will be with you shortly.”

“I don’t have much time,” Vogel said, frowning. “I travelled quite for quite some time.”

His travelling companion and colleague, Henrietta Fischer, smiled apologetically. “It has been a very long week. I do hope you understand. Mr Vogel is a busy man.”

“Aren’t we all.”

Henrietta laughed. Vogel didn’t.

“Come in. have a drink.  You haven’t seen the library yet! We’ve renovated it – the mountain view alone is to die for!” I lead them into the tall, beautiful library, making up things as I went. The renovations were a lie. Believable, simple, easy to expand upon to buy time.

“On this side,” I told them, “we’ve expanded shelving to the ceiling. You can see the additional levels to reach everything. We’ve had our entire collection transferred here just last month. The new chandeliers…” I pointed up. Pointing always works, when people are struggling with your accent. Even a fake one. It makes them feel relieved that they understand anything at all, and more malleable. More likely to go along with whatever it is you want them to do. I proceeded to talk French for a few minutes, just to drive the point home, then switched back to English, as if nothing had happened, and they practically sighed in relief.

Vogel took another peek at his pocket watch. “How much longer did you say…?”

“I didn’t.” I wasted some more time, pointing to random furniture pieces and paintings, walked them through the entire library, while Vogel’s impatience grew with every passing minute.

“That is enough,” he decided, finally, fighting his own accent by over-pronouncing every syllable, as German speakers do. “I will simply have a brief word with Gellert – no need for directions, I do know my way around, thank you!”

He left Henrietta, who had more respect, behind, attempted to do the same to me, and marched up the main stairs towards Gellert’s private rooms. His heavy steps, in stiff new leather shoes, echoed in the hallways, and his robes billowed, as he walked faster. I could have stopped him if I really wanted to, but I couldn’t be bothered. This was promising to be more fun (for me), and it had been an awfully slow week. We all fight boredom in our own way. Me, I like to toy with people.

Vogel stopped at the heavy oak door, when he heard noises. He turned to me, trying to make his indignation heard, but all he could do was stutter, and go very pale. “I didn’t… this is…”

“Oui?”

“This is why he’s keeping us waiting?”

“It appears that way, doesn’t it?”

He turned to the door, then back to me. “Is – is he torturing someone?” We both knew that wasn’t the case. Though it was interesting that this option made Vogel feel more comfortable than the alternative.

“Non.”

“Are you sure?” He grabbed a handkerchief, and patted his sweaty forehead. Apparently, he didn’t run through too many castles, these days. He’d gained weight since I’d last seen him. I thought of many creative ways of pointing this out, but they were all in French, which was annoying. He wouldn’t even be insulted. “It sounds like he’s slaughtering… someone…”

“Does it?” I made big, innocent round eyes. If he thought this was a normal evening for me, it was even funnier. The Germans like to imagine us French women as wildly promiscuous, so why not play with it? He wasn’t uncomfortable enough for my taste. Not yet.

“I have never heard sounds like this – never in my entire life…”

“I don’t doubt that.”

He looked pained. He must be one of those politicians who can only be perverts in secret. With the curtains drawn, lights off, and clothes folded by the bedside. How utterly boring. “When will it stop?”

“I could not say… It might go a while.” I shrugged, and didn’t break eye contact, which made him sweat even more. Weakling. “Can I get you anything? Some tea? A glass of water?”

“I – no – what is he doing?” A regrettable question. For him. How this man had managed to find the front door, let alone get elected into office, was beyond me.

“Who knows.” I thought of fun ways to make him even more anxious. Then, brilliance struck. “Sounds to me like he’s – how do you say… comment dit-on…” I waited for him to lean in closer, as if hearing me speak louder made him understand French. Idiot. International politicians really should know more languages. “Comment dit-on… fucking somebody’s brains out,” I ended triumphantly, enjoying the shock in his eyes. “Oui, that is the right expression, I think.”

Vogel stared at the door.

“It takes longer with some people, you see,” I added, as though this was a concept that warranted a detailed explanation.

“I will be in the library,” Vogel said. He had a defeated look about him, as he trotted down the stairs. Shoulders slumped, head down. My favourite expression in a man.

We took so long to get back down that we weren’t alone in the library, when we arrived. In one of the cosy corner reading chairs sat a man in pyjamas, midnight blue suede slippers, and a baroque red and golden morning coat, hidden behind a massive newspaper he was engrossed in. I knew there were several entrances and staircases leading to the library, but this was still impressively fast. I’d have thought, if anything, he’d be asleep by now.

“Gellert should be with you any minute,” I said to Vogel, who ignored me.

He’d started talking to his travelling companion in hushed German, likely under the impression that I didn’t understand him. Silly man. He’d witnessed me as a bilingual person and thought that was it. I could only hear snippets of their conversation.

“… nicht so wichtig… können wir später besprechen…“

„Meine Güte, es wird doch nicht so…“

„Trotzdem… notwendig… In der Zwischenzeit… herausfinden…“

I was the only one who seemed to notice that the newspaper had stopped moving. No more rustling paper. And I started to wonder how these people had gotten to where they were in their careers, with their lack of comprehension skills and attention to their surroundings. I’d spent a significant amount of time telling them about a renovation in the middle of ancient bookcases and antique wallpaper. They’d been watched by more people than they even knew lived in this place, and still…

“What are you doing here?”

Vogel almost jumped. He stared, transfixed, upon the face that had appeared over the lowered newspaper announcing an astounding victory for the Wimbourn Wasps and the production of a new Clean Sweep series.

“I – what?”

Dumbledore leant in. The hair at his neck was still damp, and he smelled of lavender soap, suggesting that he’d somehow managed to shower, walk down to the library, and start reading, all while we’d been in the staircase, which was impressive.

“I asked you what you were doing here, Anton.”

“I…” Vogel blinked, then snapped back into focus. “What are you doing here? Don’t you teach Defence Against the Dark Arts? Isn’t that sort of… the wrong place for you?”

“Maybe he’s doing a field study,” Henrietta mused. Weird bitch. I liked her.

“I’m on sabbatical,” Dumbledore said calmly. The accusation, the irony, hadn’t flown past him. He simply chose to ignore it.

“Erm…”

“I’m not,” Dumbledore said, and his voice was so calm it sounded downright dangerous, “representing millions of people politically. That would make my presence here more conspicuous, don’t you think?”

“Right,” Vogel repeated faintly.

“I believe Geller’s expecting you in his office,” I interrupted, as I received a signal from the hallway. I pointed to a second set of stairs, while Vogel, sweating profusely, got up from his chair. “After you.”

“It was good seeing you again, Anton,” Dumbledore called out politely, though his sharp eyes followed us, as we walked up the stairs, and it made Vogel more nervous than anything he’d witnessed. For now.

“Is that a good idea?” he asked quietly. His breath became harsher with every set of steps. “Him – here?”

“Pardon?”

“He…” Vogel peaked back at the reading man downstairs. “You know his reputation – you must – he can’t be a recruit, he simply can’t –“

“He’s our guest.”

“That is what I mean,” Vogel argued, his voice growing more panicked. He definitely didn’t want Dumbledore out there, talking about his presence at Nurmengard. The man was too well connected, too popular, too…

“Er könnte… there could be rumours,” Vogel whispered, out of breath. “Dumbledore could make it look – I mean, he’s not actively in politics, but he is dangerously clever.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It seems he’s still got his brains. Better luck next time?”

Vogel missed a step. Henrietta didn’t even notice something had happened. All in all, it was a very entertaining evening.

*

We ended up in Uganda. Of course we did. It had been Dumbledore’s choice, and what was his choice, became what Gellert wanted. He could tell himself – and me – that this was a crucial part of his strategy all he wanted. We both knew better.

Close to the legendary Mountains of the Moon, and Uagadou School of Magic, surrounded by ancient magic and the lush, vibrant greenery Europeans often pretend Africa doesn’t have, Gellert had invited local witches and wizards to hear his message. We had anticipated large crowds, but none of us foresaw encountering over a thousand interested, mostly young, people, on the side of the hills. They stood and waited, chatting merrily amongst themselves in the many local languages. I worried they wouldn’t understand us, or know why we had come to see them. This, too, couldn’t be further from the truth.

As soon as they saw Gellert, people started pointing at him, some happily, others with suspicion. Despite our lack of activity on their continent, he must have appeared in the local papers on numerous occasions. In which ways, I could not tell, but I assumed Dumbledore did. he was the one who’d really chosen Uganda, after all. And, as always, Gellert’s message had preceded him. Whereas I would have been cautious, Gellert soaked up the attention of the crowd, as he addressed them. It was something he often did. Attention of any form was like nourishment for him. Be it excited, hostile, divided, or doubtful – he could turn it, twist it in his favour. Every time.

“Looks like rain,” Aurelius commented quietly. He wasn’t wrong. Behind the mountains, which were currently bathed in the brightest, most vibrant evening sun I’d ever seen, loomed grey clouds. Bright red, soft pink, and pure white flowers blossomed all around, while the trees adorned themselves with cheerful canary yellow blooms. The smell of flowers in the heat was overwhelming. Birds nested in trees and bushes, singing their songs, as they did everywhere in the world. If it were not for the school, it would have been a rather unremarkable place. I’d still contended that it sort of was. The town downhill looked rough, and impoverished.

“It’s so pretty,” one of the younger Acolytes, Alighieri, commented, looking at the landscape. “I thought it’d be desert everywhere.”

“You thought an entire continent was made up of desert land?” Zabini said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, no…” Alighieri looked away sheepishly, not sure to which degree he’d just offended someone older, more important, and more powerful than himself.

Queenie, surprisingly, was in her element, greeting rambunctious children, and exchanging words with local mothers. She held the orphan clutched in her arms, and was blissfully unaware of how much her ‘exotic’ beauty affected the men in the crowd. Or at least she pretended to be.

An ever-growing crowd had assembled around the flat-topped Mubende Hill, as Gellert started his speech. The lush greenery was soon hidden behind colourful Ugandan, Rwandan and Bugundi robes. Word had travelled, around Lake Victoria and beyond, that something big was about to happen.

“Every person on this hill,” Gellert started in English, leaning more into his Hungarian accent than he usually did, “will be able to understand part of what I came to say. This is rather unusual, is it not? And the origins of this ability are grim. I chose to learn this language – you were forced to. Now,” he scanned the crowd. His eyes settled on a group down the hill, huddled together, looking at him most sceptically, their white hair shining in the sun. “I could switch languages und manche von euch würden mich immer noch verstehen. Wie durch Zauberei.“ A few older wizards in the back laughed. “Convenient, isn’t it? Decades of oppression, by more than one European invader, more than one colonising power, and all that is left,” he smiled. Paused. “All that is left is that we understand each other. Your government – and some of their representatives are here tonight –“ he bowed, sarcastically, to a group of Aurors in bright yellow robes. “They don’t wish me to tell you your history. They’ve arranged themselves with the situation, keeping you hidden from the colonizers, rather than taking on the enemy and defending you!”

There were some affirming screams in the crowd. Murmuring. People turned, looked at the Aurors. I felt chills at Gellert’s ability to turn people against them, everywhere he went. …

“In 1884 – their time, not yours, according to their religion – the greatest Muggle powers of Europe came together in a city named Berlin, and decided who this piece of land belongs to. They renamed all of Alkebulan, as you have learned about it history of magic, into Africa. Every kindgdom, every city, every hill and beach – they decided it was theirs. And they decided the people were theirs as well. Oh yes,” he whispered, as the murmurs grew stronger. His voice carried, by magic and meaning, far and wide across the hill. “Muggles in suits and hats met in a room, drew up a map, and gave away what wasn’t theirs. To do with as they pleased. Dig up the grounds for gold, use the land to grow their own food, and use the people – some of you have Muggle parents, who must have suffered this fate – as unpaid labour.”

Next to me, Queenie had tears in her eyes. It was somewhat ironic, given where she was from. Hadn’t she heard the history of her own country?

“We stand,” Gellert reminded the audience, “close to one of the oldest and most powerful institutions in the world. Carved into the mountainside behind you, invisible to the Muggle’s unworthy eyes, Uagadou is an institution, older than any in the world, and more important than all of them put together. It does what other insitutions don’t – it preserves ancient magic, forgotten arts, and the most natural form of our abilities that is wandless magic. Behind me,” he continued, “you see the famous Nakayima witch tree, a tree so well known for its magical purposes that Muggles have declared it a place of pilgrimage. They believe they can sense the spirit of a dead king.” More people laughed. “What they are sensing, truly – is you. Your children’s magic, though they are forced to conceal it from them, is so powerful, that it cannot be hidden entirely. And why should it? Why should they hide from the world, when they’re using their magic? If we can learn anything from this place, it is how natural magic in young witches and wizards can be. How beautiful.” Next to me, Queenie dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Why should something so ancient and outdated as the Statute of Secrecy have to dictate their lives – our lives? To conceal our powers is not merely an affront to ourselves. It's sinful.”

People started clapping. The Aurors, downhill, were getting restless. They could hardly arrest a man for speaking – though, if they had their way…

“My brothers, my sisters, the great gift of your applause is not for me. It is for yourselves. You are what the world should come to see, so they can marvel at your gifts, so they would have the privilege to understand you! The old ways serve us no longer – any of us – we are bowing down to laws for the sake of laws!” Screams of approval. When Gellert turned from the tree once more, his face was grim, but proud. In the distance, I could hear thunder rumbling. “Laws that protect them, instead of us! I ask you – where was this protection, when your land was colonized, your sons were abducted, when women and girls were violated, wherever boots stepped on your soil? Did they speak of it, your representatives? Or did they stay silent in times of grave injustice?” More yelling. “Do you want to know what’s coming for us next? Because I have seen the future, and it is grim!”

As the clouds balled up, grew darker, came closer, people realized that they weren’t clouds at all. Gellert called on the sky to show his visions, formed the jagged white and grey clouds to his liking, with wand movements more complicated than I’d ever seen. (Though it was, of course, possible that he did this for dramatic effect.) Images formed in the sky, of airplanes, tanks, rolling down the hill, boots, the size of giants, marching towards the crowd, and yet more tanks driving in on them. screams of fear, of rage were heard, even before the first sound of a bomb. The smoke of gunfire. A battalion of explosions, reigning down from the sky, only to disappear into thin air, and making way for the grand finale: the atomic bomb. The mushroom cloud trailed up, imaginary smoke filled the air, and became condensation once more, and the silence that followed was deafening.

“This is the future that awaits if we do not rise up and take our rightful place in the world. And they,” he pointed to the Aurors, “will not protect a single one of you when it is here. Always, at every moment, Muggle armies will chase the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless, because we allow ourselves to be helpless. If you want a picture of your future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face— forever.”

The clouds had reformed to their original state, but darkened. There was a rumbling sound, before the first rain drops fell. I wanted to curse poor planning for the conditions, for the abrupt end to what could have been a glorious ralley, but Gellert, up on the hill, simply laughed, lifted his face to the sky, and spread his arms.

“Do you feel that? This is the power of nature! Stand with me, my brothers and sisters, stand with me against the oppressors, and let them see that we are a force to be reckoned with!”

 All around me, people lifted their hands to the sky in wonder. As Gellert got soaked on his self-made pedestole, we remained dry. Not a single raindrop hit a person in the audience, not even the Aurors. The trees and flowers around us dripped with water, the earth smelled musky and bitter, and the sky had gone dark and steely. But below, the people started dancing, celebrating the magical performance. A protective shield like they’d never seen before. Elemental magic was amongst the most advanced, and therefore most respected fields at Uagadou. I had no idea why Gellert knew this, or why he’d been so excited to tell me. He just was.

“It’s incredible,” Queenie whispered. “I’ve read of Native Americans doing this sort of thing down south, but I never… never in my life…”

“But see… your oppressor’s allies have arrived!” Gellert pointed, and people turned to the Aurors, who’d retreated further downhill. They were surrounded by their European counterparts, wearing long navy coats for Britain, elegant, sleek black ones for France, and strictly tailored black, silver-collared ones with shiny metal buttons for the German delegation.

I spotted Theseus Scamander, tall, self-important, and over-eager, from a mile away. It was only a matter of time until he’d recognize Dumbledore, who looked thoughtful, calculating, rather than worried.

“Do not be frightened,” Gellert cried out, as people started huddling closer together. “They do not have instructions to attack first. And we,” he spread his arms once more, and the shirt clung to him, soaked in rain water, “we’re not going to attack first. For we do not fight out of hatred. We live, and fight, for higher things – for truth, for freedom, for a Greater Good... and for love. We must never match their hatred, or they will get their wish – to paint us as the villains that suit their Muggle friends!"

There was a turbulence, when the Aurors had decided that they’d seen enough. The crowd might be beyond being arrested, but we, Gellert’s followers, were not. They started forming a path through the crowd, which proved harder than they’d thought. This wasn’t Paris. The people were feistier. A group of elderly witches stopped Theseus Scamander half-way, encircled him. A few steps downhill, young wizards started to talk to the Aurors, who responded by drawing wands, and yelling at them to go away, as the rain fell harder than ever, and not one of them even noticed. It was chaotic. It was magnificent.

“People are going to get hurt,” Aurelius muttered. “We have to stop it!” He’d started shaking, wrapping his arms around himself. Never a good sign. But as Dumbledore’s hand, seemingly coming out of nowhere, gripped his shoulder, he was able to follow non-verbal instructions and apparated closer to Gellert, yelling a warning.

“Do not fight them,” Gellert yelled at the crowd. “Let them pass, let them come to me. Disapparate, so you can be safe. Go forth from this place and spread the word: Tell the world our message, so together, we might start this new Age of Enlightenment!"  

And one by one, starting with young families and seniors, the crowd vanished, disappeared into thin air. Soon, it was simply us, a few young locals who’d refused to leave, and the Aurors, walking, once more, towards a ring of bright blue flames, wands drawn, like lemmings walk over a cliff. Would they ever learn? I wondered, at this moment, if Aurors were simply very stupid, or whether they, deep down, wanted to die.

“Join me,“ Gellert invited the newcomers, while the first Acolytes walked into the fire to demonstrate that one could remain unburnt. “Pledge your eternal allegiance to the revolution, to the Greater Good that we all fight for! Join me in creating the world you deserve!”

As I stepped into the fire, I felt a tickle. The flames, cold to the touch for a true believer, licked at my skin, clothes, hair, but did not harm me. they never could. I was, and had always been, protected by my convictions.

I joined the ranks of followers, old and new, watched, as the first foolish Aurors started fighting the flames, and reigning useless spells down on us. Their ire found no goal; they only made the flames rise higher.

That’s when I saw them. the only two civilians remaining outside of the ring of fire: Dumbledore, and a young witch, dressed in Banyankole colours. The fear on her face was obvious, and she looked frozen in place, mesmerized by the ring of fire.

“You cannot cross the flames, if you have doubt – any doubt at all,” Dumbledore told her. “Nobody judges you for second thoughts, Nkole – we just want you to be safe!” She mouthed something, and he shook his head vigorously. “This does not have to mean good bye. You can come back at any time. But you have to hurry! Leave!”

The girl turned to apparate, as the Aurors closed in, but looked at Dumbledore once more. “Do you have doubts?”

“No,” he said, smiling at her. “Now, leave! Be safe, Nkole!”

And under the gaze of law enforcement, to the utter shock of Theseus Scamander, who screamed for him to stop, Albus Dumbledore turned, and stepped into the flames. Unburnt.

Notes:

You will NEVER guess who's POV is next 😄 It was supposed to be Travers, but I got bored just thinking like him.

Chapter 23: Chapter 21 – Second Sons (POV Newt)

Notes:

Warning: This chapter might destroy you! It's a HEAVY plot point I've been working towards from the beginning, it had to happen, but I felt shaken writing it myself. The original was Theseus POV and you'll find out why I couldn't do that... Not even I can go that dark.

As always, comments are welcome. Enjoy!

POV Newt Scamander

Chapter 21 – Second Sons

The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.
You will go, we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

When I was fourteen years old, I kept a secret for a friend that almost destroyed my life. I have no regrets. I didn’t, then. All I felt was fear, and pride. I remembered Leta keeping her head down, and Theseus marching in and out of the school, making sure to look as much of an Auror as possible, bossing anyone around who’d let him, talking to all the professors, yelling at them in the hallways, as if it’d make things any better. I remember never-ending rain, and the castle drowning in fog, remember the moisture seeping through the ancient walls, and huddling up with all the friends I suddenly had in the dorms and common room. I’d never been more popular, or seen House Hufflepuff so united.

It was then that Theseus made a new friend. One lone professor promised him help, and started petitioning the school board for mercy. He’d meet my brother for tea, and have the long, comforting talks with him he wished dad would have. They weren’t that far apart in age, and Theseus clung to Professor Dumbledore like a lifeboat, promising all sorts of things. He needn’t have, that’s what he didn’t understand. Dumbledore would have helped, if he’d spit into his face. It was the first time I realized that I understood some people better than my impressive brother.

He was the older one. Taller. Handsome. He never got his school uniform ruined with Doxy dung, or hid sick baby birds in his bedroom. Theseus had normal hobbies. Properly ironed shirts. Friends, girlfriends, a reputation to uphold. People invited him to parties, and predicted great things for his career. And they’d all turn out to be right.

They didn’t know what to do with me. “You’ll find your way,” Dumbledore had promised, back then. “We don’t all have the same path. You’re a unique spirit, Newt. That’s a good thing.” I’d looked down at the homework he’d graded A – Acceptable – and wondered what he meant. It took me many years, and many more comforting words and cups of tea, to understand he’d meant it.

*

April was unusually warm that year. The humidity angered my neighbour, Persephone Figg, who swore it messed with her Arthritis. She would tell me long stories about the last time it had been this hot this early in the year, and predict another unbearably hot summer. 1899, she’d say, that’s when her tomatoes dried up in the garden. Thunderstorms, the kind you’ve never seen, she would remember, over and over. Burnt down old Finnegan’s farm, they did. I didn’t argue with her. She let me rent an apartment in her house, didn’t complain that I was gone for most of the year, and that I brought many curious creatures in my suitcase when I returned, or that I was late with the rent, most of the time, as I forgot all about home when I travelled. All she cared about was that I listened to her, when I returned, and told her all about my travels, over a cup of tea.

She’d kept me late, that day, insisting to go through all of my pictures about the Thestrals of the Trindade Islands. For hours, she quizzed me on the dangers, animals, plants and magic I’d encountered, taking notes so ardent that it seemed like she was writing a book of her own. In truth, she only wanted to brief her group of girlfriends about it, and impress them, at Sunday brunch. They’d formed a book club to read my first publication, she told me, but they couldn’t agree on what to read next. “So you’ll have to hurry up and write another bestseller!”

I dropped on the empty chair opposite Albus. “So sorry I’m late!”

“A wizard is never late,” he answered, smiling. “He always arrives precisely when he is meant to.”

“I don’t recall you saying that when I would be late for class!”

He grinned, and the absence of a beard made him look strangely young and un-professorial. It was then that I noticed the other man at the table. Dark-haired, rough around the edges, in worn-down linen clothes, and a rather unkempt, curly beard. He looked like the last person I’d have suspected to meet Albus Dumbledore for drinks, but then, most of his friends were surprising in some way.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met…?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore hurried to say. “This is Newt Scamander, author of the magnificent Fantastic Beasts and where to find them. Newt, this is my brother Aberforth.”

I almost spit out my butterbeer in surprise. “I didn’t know you had a brother!”

“Funny, that,” Aberforth said. He looked grumpier than anyone I’d ever met, and I’d met a lot of people.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “It’s almost like you ought to have visited me sometime at Hogwarts, so people would know you exist.”

Aberforth mumbled something into his beard.

“How is that forcing you to read?” Albus cried out, exasperated. “I’m only saying…” He sighed, and shook his head, then turned to me. “How was Brasil?”

“Good, good.” I took another sip of butterbeer. Compared to the many drinks I’d tasted over the past weeks, it was sugary sweet. I almost wasn’t sure I’d be able to finish my drink. “Thank you, again, for setting up that contact in Manaus!”

His face lit up. “How is Beatriz? Is she still breeding messenger birds.”

“No, apparently, she never had the permits for that. She works at a pet shop now.” I reserved my rants about which creatures shouldn’t be sold to anyone who walked into a store with some gold in their pocket. It wasn’t exactly dinner conversation.

“Ah, yes, she never thought much of paperwork.” He sipped his wine. “Great with owl training, though. Very instinctive work, you don’t often see that.”

“She’s… a free spirit.” It was one way to say that the entire house had smelt like incense, and an absurd amount of butterflies had been inside, day and night.

“That she is. Another butterbeer?”

“I’ll have to get going,” Aberforth interrupted us. “Work in the morning.”

“You work at a bar,” Albus protested.

“And we could’ve met there!”

“Merlin forbid I want to treat my little brother to dinner in the city,” Albus exclaimed. “Can’t you stay a little longer? When do ever get to do this?”

“Don’t know whatchur complainin’,” Aberforth said. “You work a few miles uphill. Just come over sometime!”

“That’s not…” Albus seemed to be searching for words. He reminded me of Theseus, on the many occasions he’d dragged me to events, insisting I’d wear proper ties, and be there longer than an hour. Talk to people. Maybe it was a big brother thing. “I might not be around for a while. I’m taking a sabbatical.”

“Starting when?”

“Starting next week.”

“I see.” Aberforth grunted. He didn’t ask any follow-ups. “Good luck with that!”

“Is there anything you’d like to know?” Dumbledore asked, looking almost desperate now. “Any… messages you’d like me to pass along?”

“Better not,” Aberforth said. “Don’t need his lot back at the pub. They’ll scare away the normal criminals.” He put on a hat, in the same smooth move that his brother always used, and for a moment, they almost looked alike, and left, without saying goodbye.

“This wouldn’t be the thing you and Theseus have been working on, would it?” I asked carefully. It was strange, seeing a professor this crestfallen. He looked like something had been taken from him, something important. “He’s very secretive about it.”

“As he should be,” Albus said, sipping on his wine. “I suppose you can guess what it’s about, anyway?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“That is as much as I can tell you, I’m afraid.” He closed his eyes, as though they needed rest, which gave me the opportunity to stare at his strange new face without feeling weird about it. (I wasn’t supposed to stare so much, Theseus said. Or compare people to magical creatures. Most of them didn’t like that.) His face was more lined than it had been, last time. His hair had a few more strands of grey, especially around the temples. And there was a jagged little scar, where his earlobe and jawline met. I wondered whether that was where he’d gotten shot. I wasn’t too familiar with Muggle weapons and their wounds.

“And… May I ask whether that’s going well?”

He smiled, and it was that same mysterious smile he’d had when I was thirteen, and asking him about his own Boggart. “That depends on who you’d ask.” He hadn’t given me a straight answer, then, either. “Tell me more about this new book of yours.”

“It’s not set in stone.”

“Does it have to be?”

I smiled. He’d never let me be humble, he was too curious for that. it was flattering, I suppose. Having someone as bright, as educated as him interested in my work. Though there was a stress factor to it. I’d been trying to impress him since I was a child, and that made me highly selective, in what I shared. It could never be too mundane. He’d give me his undivided attention if I told him about Flobberworm breeding patterns, in the way only he could, listen to every word, as though it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. But I wasn’t a child anymore. I could tell it was an act. And still, that juvenile desire to impress lingered, making it harder to have a conversation, still.

“I want to expand. Write an anthology of misunderstood creatures. Those who seem dangerous on the surface, or have a rather dark reputation, like Thestrals, for example. And, erm, I want to present the people who work with them. Print interview sections. But I’ve run into some problems. My editor is fine with Ashwinders and Chameleon Ghouls, but he’d like me to leave werewolves out of the book.”

“Misunderstood creatures,” Dumbledore mused. “Yes, we do tend to fear what we don’t know. You’re doing important work, Newt. Maybe the werewolf is meant to have its own book someday, who knows.”

“I hope so.” I took some bread out of the little basket in Aberforth’s empty place. “It’s just… Those I’ve talked to have been some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. Each had a story more haunting than the next. Their scars alone could make a medical chapter that…” I fell silent, feeling, as I often did, that I’d talked too much. “I suppose you’re right. They don’t fit in with the rest, they’re more, er, people than creatures. Maybe someday…”

“It could be an anthology of humanoid beings,” Dumbledore suggested. “Such as Merpeople, and Centaurs. Or a book about cursed creatures. Maledicti, Vampires.”

“I suppose you’re right.” I started to say something else, and to be honest, I don’t remember what that was.

A man had walked into the bar, and the moment he stepped into vision, all the air went out of my lungs, and my thoughts twisted around themselves, possibly due to the sudden rush of fear, of confusion. Gellert Grindelwald was as impressive, as he was terrifying in person. Tall, handsome, in a twisted, dark way, and dressed in a suit slightly too expensive for this place. Undeterred by the looks and whispers he inspired, he came up to our table in long, decisive strides, as though that were the most natural decision in this world. He placed both hands on Dumbledore’s shoulders, softly, one long finger caressing his neck as he did. and Dumbledore, without showing signs of surprise or confusion, let him.

“Mr Scamander.” He sat down, smiling, and it was the single most bizarre thing that had happened to me in a while. And I’d just spent time in a country that is known for its magical animals so bizarre, people fear them. though I do happen to think, the most dangerous animal is the human being, especially this one. “I didn’t know you’d be here. What an unexpected surprise.”

“I could say the same.” I could barely get out the words - I felt like I might choke on them. Breathless. 

“But would you?” He was enjoying this way too much, pretending this was normal. In our last two conversations – if you could call them that – he’d made some not so subtle death threats, always referencing Dumbledore – his strange obsession. I was slowly beginning to understand why. And regretting not telling Dumbledore about it.

“Sorry – aren’t the two of you enemies?” I didn't know why I kept talking - why I dared. It was just all so very strange.

This seemed to amused Grindelwald even more. “Are we? Who says that?”

“Everyone.”

“Newt spent some time abroad,” Albus said, as though that was enough to explain all of this strangeness.

“Ah.”

“Did you just wait outside until Aberforth left?”

“I thought we’d better leave the restaurant in one piece.”

“Good instinct.”

Grindelwald looked sheepish. I hadn’t even noticed that was possible, but he seemed like he was about to blush, and desperate to save topics. “So – where did you travel to?”

“Australia. So – Aberforth is not on board with whatever this is? Any particular reason? Ethical, legal, …?”

“You’ve grown feisty!” He might try as he want, but some of the old, unwarranted hostility leaked through anyway. “I like it. It’s like a baby deer who found antlers in the woods and tried them on for size.”

“Coming from you that does sound like a threat.”

That seemed to delight him even further. “Does it?” 

“No threats at Greek restaurants,” Dumbledore said, without looking up from the menu.

“What about Italian restaurants?”

“No.”

“German?”

“I’m not eating that. Do you want to order anything, Newt? The moussaka is divine!”

“No, thanks.” I looked back and forth in confusion. Was this the sort of conversation they had nowadays? Was it some sort of cease-fire?

“What’s wrong with a German restaurant?” Grindelwald complained. “We’d have better dessert options and do not get me started on the bread…”

“The bread is fine,” Dumbledore said, though all of this just seemed to amuse him mildly. Bickering. They were bickering, like an old married couple. I wasn’t sure whether to run or throw up. “I was going to order loukoumades, if anyone wants to share.”

“Yes, would you like some loukoumades, Mr Scamander?” Grindelwald said, toasting me with Dumbledore’s wine glass in the most menacing way I’d ever seen. Most of his words sounded like he really wanted me to leave.

“Again – it does sound like a threat.”

“I don’t think I’m threatening.” He turned to Albus. “Am I?”

“You do give off a certain German Shepherd vibe,” Dumbledore said. He’d taken back his wine glass without comment and refilled it. “Or a Doberman. It’s hard to tell.”

Grindelwald, for some reason, looked flattered. “Well, in that case… I promise not to bite you. Or tear you limb from limb. Because of the Greek restaurant, of course,” he said to Dumbledore, who gave him a stern look.

“A shepherd dog does not kill the sheep.”

“But it wants to,” Grindelwald argued.

Dumbledore sipped on his wine, his voice eerily calm, yet there was something menacing about the way he spoke, as well: “And still, it is able to resist. Funny how we think we are above animals in matters of control.”

“Okay, this is gonna bug me if I don’t say it,” I burst out. “Both of you are idiots and that is not how Shepherd Dogs work. They’re bred to protect sheep. They’re guardians.”

“That doesn’t seem natural,” Grindelwald interjected, stealing from Dumbledore’s desert plate the moment it arrived. Apparently, he was the sort of person who said he didn’t want anything at a restaurant, only to eat from another plate, because, of course he was. Murder, deception, and desert thievery. Gellert Grindelwald.

“Of course it’s not natural,” I explained, slowly and patiently. You have to be slow with most people when it comes to other living creatures. Their ignorance demands it. “Dogs aren’t natural! They’re created by humans, for humans. You’re thinking of wolves.”

Grindelwald nodded, his eyes glittering. “I must be.”

This was the moment it looked like Dumbledore had had enough. “You are not getting wolves!”

“I could get wolves…”

“We are not getting wolves!” Dumbledore repeated himself, his voice not rising in volume, but in urgency.

“Did you know,” Grindelwald started, leaning over to Dumbledore, “that when werewolves mate under the full moon, the result are even-tempered, controllable wolf pups with no human side whatsoever?”

I took this opportunity to slowly slide my chair back, ready to jump and run at any moment. I had to leave this madhouse – whatever this was, I wanted no part of it.

“Of course I knew that,” Dumbledore’s voice trailed after me, “everyone knows that.”

“I’m just saying, they sound perfectly trainable and…”

I left them at the table, feeling anxious, confused. When I looked back, they were deep in conversation, and Grindelwald was smiling. Not in a menacing way – though everything he did seemed evil in some way – but softly, fondly. I felt the dread rise in my throat, and cloud my thoughts, when he leaned over, pressed his lips to Dumbledore’s temple. A gesture so intimate, yet so brief, it was almost as if it hadn’t happened. But the most jarring part was that Dumbledore leaned into it.

*

I had no abonnement to the Prophet any longer, having been out of the country for so long. If I had, I might have anticipated what was coming. Maybe I could have intervened, changed things. I’m not sure anybody else could. It always seems so much simpler, looking back.

Alas, I was clueless. When Theseus invited me to go for dinner after work, I was inclined to deny him. He preferred posh restaurants, quiet ones, with five different forks next to every table. And he took ages to study the wine cards, and knew what and why to order, and it just made me feel like I could travel the world for all my life, and he’d still be more worldly than me. but then I thought of Albus and Aberforth. The distance between them, and I wondered, whether my brother and I seemed the same to outsiders. So I said yes.

The Auror Office was buzzing with excitement, when I came in. I hadn’t even been patted down or disarmed at the front office, as the security guard and secretary seemed to be having a champagne breakfast along with the rest of them. Despite their different work stations and assignments, they all seemed to be engulfed in one thing, and one thing only, that filled the room with a rumbling sense of triumph: The front page of the Daily Prophet was filled with a giant picture of Albus, walking into flickering, eerily familiar flames. Since no one paid me any attention, I grabbed a copy from an empty desk.

Grindelwald’s African Triumph, the headline read.

This week, the wizarding world was once more shocked by notorious dark wizard, Gellert Grindelwald. After a lack of public sightings in recent months, most likely due to his many outstanding arrest warrants, Grindelwald and his followers visited the African nation of Uganda. Between his usual ramblings of impending doom and plea to follow his cause, Grindelwald took special attention to what he called ‘decades of oppression,’ villanizing all European Muggles for perceived slights against Uganda, and Africa at large.

Grindelwald used this narrative to, once again, urge his listeners to fight the time-honoured Statute of Secrecy: ‘Your children’s magic, though they are forced to conceal it from them, is so powerful, that it cannot be hidden entirely. And why […] should they hide from the world, when they’re using their magic?’

What seemed like any other recruitment event turned hostile, when Grindelwald interrupted his own rally to antagonise and, eventually, attack Aurors who’d been sent to the region to protect local civilians.

“We know from experience that his events lure in a dangerous crowd,” said Torquis Travers, in response to our request of information. “People end up hurt, or worse. While we acknowledge that it is no crime to listen to extremists – lethal as they might be – we urge the public to abstain from taking place in meetings such as these, for their own safety.” Upon further events, Travers did not want to comment.

Law enforcement was shocked, when Grindelwald’s followers were joined by Hogwarts professor Albus Dumbledore, who has not been linked to Muggle-hate groups in the past. This has always been in contrast to Dumbledore’s family history. (For more on Percival Dumbledore, see page 8.) This Daily Prophet reporter can, however, confirm that Dumbledore proved his allegiance to Grindelwald by following his call to pass the infamous Protego Diabolica test, which the dark wizard uses to test his follower’s loyalty.

When Hogwarts representatives were asked whether our children should be taught Defence Against the Dark Arts by a man who walked through literal fire for an extremist such as Grindelwald, they declined to comment. ‘Professor Dumbledore has taken a sabbatical,’ was all headmaster Black had to say. One is left to wonder what this says about the school’s stance on the Dark Arts and those who practice it…

“You’re early,” Theseus greeted, drawing me into a hug, which was strange. For him. For us. His breath smelled like alcohol, and he had that same euphoric smile they all seemed to share. “Wait, how did you get in? What’s security doing?”

“Drinking. Everyone is.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Are you alright?”

“I’m great!” And to my shock and amazement, he started giggling. “Never better!”

“Have you not read the news?” I held up the newspaper, and people around me started toasting each other, once more.

“Can you believe he pulled that off?” a young female Auror said to me, conversationally. She seemed to be one of the only sober people in the room.

“Not him – he can’t know –“ Travers, Theseus’ boss, stormed over. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the front door. Did anyone – and I’m just checking here – get you all drunk, or is this voluntary?”

“Ah, ah bit of a celebration never hurt anyone,” an older, very badly scarred Auror said, sitting down in the chair next to me. whether this was because he was too drunk to stand, or just because he was old and it was late in the day, was anybody’s guess.

“Shouldn’t you be panicking? The Daily Prophet…” And that’s when I realized what it was. Or at least what they thought it was. “Dumbledore didn’t really join them, did he? You guys planned this?”

“No information to anyone outside the department,” Travers cried, running around, and collecting the newspapers. “None! And I don’t want to see alcohol in the office – you want to celebrate, meet in groups of three to seven people in a bar after your shifts are over, as the memo discussed…” He seemed frenzied, though not overly worried about the Dumbledore situation itself. Was I the only one who didn’t buy this?

“He’s really fun at parties,” Theseus whispered, giggling. “Well, come on, I’m supposed to leave in a few minutes anyway – let’s go get dinner.” He turned to the crowd. “Happy Tuesday, everyone!”

“Tuesday!” the crowd roared, while in the background, Travers had started to collect bottles in a bin.

“Where are we going?” I asked. “And why is everyone celebrating? You don’t honestly think this is a good…”

“Not here,” Theseus whispered, putting one hand on my shoulder and steering me out of the office. “Listen,” he whispered, “we’re not supposed to discuss any details with outsiders. Just know that you don’t need to be worried.”

“Are you sure about that? because…” I wanted to tell him about the restaurant, about what I’d witnessed. About Dumbledore’s change, and my worries, but maybe he was right. This was hardly the place. The last thing I wanted was to make my friend look bad in front of every Auror in the country, not when he was doing them favours.

“Yes, yes – so, where do you wanna go?”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t booked a table at Bacchanalia!”

“Ah, you hate that place,” Theseus said, summoning his coat, as we passed the door. “Let’s go somewhere else! Let’s get pizza!”

“Can we pick a place without five sets of different forks?” I dared to ask, and he laughed, and dodged a grim-faced, bearded man who was storming in the opposite direction.

“How about no forks? Let’s get – why did you stop?”

I stared after the man in the woollen coat. “Was that Aberforth?”

“Who?”

“Aberforth, Dumbledore’s brother!”

Theseus just stared at me, blinking very slowly. It became more and more noticeable, how drunk he really was. “You know about Aberforth?”

“Yes. Wait… You know about Aberforth?” He nodded. “He’s weird, isn’t he? Like, really different than Albus!”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Theseus whispered. “Between you and me – we have a conspiracy theory at the office. Some of us don’t believe they’re really rela-“

He couldn’t get any further. Behind us, people started screaming. There were noises indicating crashes, explosions. More screaming. Before we could react, the secretaries came running out the door in a huddle, all holding onto their wands, panting, their faces filled with fear.

“What’s happening?” Theseus demanded to know, but noone paid him any attention. “Wait – Dolores – why are you running?”

More screams. Flashing lights. And then there was silence. When we stepped back into the office, a crowd had gathered next to the magical window, which showed a beautiful, cloudless sunset, even though it was raining outside. Some were chatting excitedly, others had grabbed clipboards and started filling out paperwork. But the mood in the room had changed. Gone was the tipsy joy – it had made way for a grim, determined atmosphere. Half the desks in the room had been toppled over, shattered against damaged walls. Dust and specks of wallpaper, combined with Auror paperwork, files, quills and ripped up, smoking ‘Wanted’ posters (ironically, one of them showed Grindelwald) lay as little mountains of destruction in the corners, and some people in the room were nursing wounds, or taking care of others, who were bleeding all over their uniforms.

“What happened?”

“Apparently the other Dumbledore,” one of the Aurors growled, “wasn’t briefed on what we’re doin’ here!” He pointed to a lump of clothes and limbs on the floor. Aberforth, I noted upon closer inspection, looked like he’d gotten off far worse than any of the Aurors.

“Well, he wasn’t supposed to be briefed,” Theseus hissed. They spoke quietly enough, but I could still hear them. “But we have to tell him now. Listen, just wake him up, get some medical help, I’ll explain everything and –“

“We did,” the Auror insisted. “We told him it’s a ruse, told him to calm down, even when he started attacking anyone in sight. He received countless warnings, he just doesn’t care. Doesn’t think it matters, or something. Between you and me,” he leaned in closer, and I barely heard the next part, “he’s lucky if he gets anything under five years! Destroyed months of work and –“

“You can’t arrest Dumbledore’s brother,” I interrupted them. “How do you think he’ll react to that?”

“That man,” one of the older Aurors stated pompously, “has attacked the Head of Magical Law Enforcement and five more people, in front of forty-two witnesses. He’s caused property damage, destroyed our research, wounded five Aurors, two who’ll have to go to the hospital, and tried to use an Unforgivable Curse on the boss. What do you think will happen to him?”

“Do something,” I begged Theseus, while he did his best to drag me out of the room.

“Listen,” he whispered, “let me take care of this, alright? I’ll use all my contacts, try to get Aberforth some help, and I’ll use our little notebooks to keep you updated. Do you still have yours?”

I nodded, trying, feverishly, to remember where I’d put it. “Dumbledore,” I whispered, so nobody but us could hear. “He has to know. Better he finds this out from us, than anybody else!”

Theseus hesitated, then nodded. “You contact him. Meet him alone, if you can. Tell him, I’ve got things under control. I’ll update you every hour. Now go – I have to take care of Aberforth!”

It took me a while to search my pockets for Floo Powder, and even longer, to find the little yellow book in the back of my bedroom closet, once I’d arrived at home. It was small, smaller than most books, and the cover was a little smiling badger, rolling around, and holding on to a single daisy. A gift from Theseus. He’d made if for me – charmed it, too, with Dumbledore’s help – back when the school board had wanted to expel me. They were a set, his and mine. Whenever we wanted to communicate, we would write each other little notes, notes that nobody but us could understand. Gaelic phrase grandmother had taught us, little inside jokes and quips, shorthand comments – the usual. Over the years, we’d used it less and less, partly due to Theseus’ new obsession with secrecy and safety of information as an Auror, and partly because we’d drifted apart. I noticed by the specs of dust on the cover, how long it had been.

I ripped it open, hoping for news, any news, and my heart sank. He will be charged, the first page stated in Theseus orderly, round handwriting. They’re transferring him to Askaban, pending trial date – usual procedure – I’ll talk to anyone in the Ministry, if I have to, to get him out of there.

What should I tell Albus? I wrote, my heart thumping so loud I could practically hear it. and I waited. One minute. Another. At five minutes, I rolled up a piece of parchment, and started writing a letter, but stopped midway through the first sentence. Was there any way not to make this worse?

My heart jumped, raced, when Theseus finally wrote back: Tell him to trust me. I will get this sorted out – I just have to talk to the right people. Minister for Magic has meeting near my office tomorrow – will corner him, if necessary.  

It seemed hopeless, and very ill-advised, to put anything into a letter, so I simply wrote a brief note to Dumbledore, telling him there was an emergency concerning his brother, and asking him to meet me on the Westminster Bridge at midnight.

And then, I waited. Time dragged on. I checked the notebook every few minutes, hoping, desperately, that Theseus would write about Aberforth’s release, tell me that it had all been cleared up, but I knew that was beyond unrealistic. Attacking one Auror during working hours had landed people in Askaban for years at a time, but the entire department? Not to speak of using Avada Kedavra, in front of witnesses. On a head of department, no less. The only possible way out of a life sentence was for people to rely on the fact that he’d missed, and I knew that there was little hope for this. They need Dumbledore, I kept telling myself, though my stomach was a pit of bile and needles, and I felt like I was sinking further with every minute. They rely on whatever it is that he is doing. They can’t afford to lock up his brother!

I left for the Westminster Bridge at eleven forty-five, dreading, for the first time in my life, a meeting with Albus Dumbledore. I knew I wasn’t responsible for what had happened, and still – I felt somewhat guilty. If I’d read the Prophet, if I’d talked to Aberforth, gotten him to stay at the restaurant with us, if I’d stopped him on his way in… None of it mattered now. As I stood and waited on the bridge, holding on to my trusted old purple umbrella, and being spayed with the drizzle that whirled around in the wind nevertheless, I felt doomed. I almost hoped he wouldn’t come. When the clock struck midnight, and I heard the bells, far in the distance, I felt relived about being alone.

Four long sounds, twelve short ones. Midnight. He hadn’t come.

I breathed a sigh of relief, turned – and looked right into his concerned face.

“You’re here!” I hadn’t meant to sound scared. My voice, higher than usual, sounded bizarre. Shrill. I laughed. A nervous reflex. “I – I didn’t know whether the owl wound find you in time –“

“I have my ways. What happened?” he asked quietly. He seemed calm enough. I knew he wouldn’t yell at me, that wasn’t what I feared. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I was afraid of, only that I felt chills down to my bones, when I looked at him.

“I – I don’t know how to explain –“

“You mentioned Aberforth being in peril. Is he in the hospital?”

“Not – no, I don’t think so. He – he got medical help after he was…” I took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m probably not the right person to tell you this, but I wanted you to hear it from me, before it’s in the papers, considering…”

“Calm yourself,” he said, gripping on to both of my shoulders. I could feel the hand pressure through my coat, and as I looked into his eyes, the gesture reminded me eerily of Grindelwald. “Breathe, Newt. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Only if… can you promise to listen to me? No interruptions until the end, and you won’t leave, and – not react. I mean, of course you’ll react, but you can’t go there – Theseus is taking care of it, and he’s said that any further interference will only make things worse and…”

“I will listen, Newt, because I need to understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding is the first step to comprehension, and only with comprehension can there be a solution. I needs to know who has done this to my brother, so that I can decide on any further action.”

I felt my hands shake, as I spoke, felt my throat go dry. At the end, my voice almost gave up.

“You have shown great loyalty in coming here tonight, Newt,” Dumbledore said. “I know what you witnessed when we last met frightened you. Let me assure you that I have stronger nerves than you might think. This is not the first time my brother has gotten into trouble, in fact, he’s made quite a habit of it. I am aware that these conversations take courage, but I believe you have that. I am asking you, as a friend, to tell me what happened. From the start.”

It was Albus, I told myself. My friend Albus. Calming blue eyes, even temper, good person. He’d always been there for me, encouraging me, fostering my career. He needed the truth. I owed him that. it was what I’d come here for, after all. And so I started telling my story, from the moment I’d stepped into the Auror’s office, up until Theseus last message. (He’s been transported. No trial date set. Applying for Askaban visit in the morning.)

“I see,” Dumbledore said. He seemed deep in thought, which was strange. Other than Aberforth, there was no breakdown, no wild temper or screaming. But I still waited for it, and that was almost worse. “What is he being charged with.”

“Destruction of evidence,” I listed. “Fifty-second counts. Destruction of government property. Attacking an Auror on duty, five counts. Attacking a government official, one count. Using an Unforgivable Curse against a government employee, one count.”

“Travers,” Dumbledore repeated, staring into the darkness. It was impossible to figure out what he was thinking, what he’d do next. “Did he succeed?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said. He seemed neither relieved about this, nor very concerned. “I see. When will you hear from Theseus?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s prepared the paper work and went to sleep.” I felt ashamed saying it, though what else was there to say? “He – he can’t do anything at the moment, you see…”

“Understandable,” Dumbledore said. “He’s waiting until the morning, I presume.”

“Yes.” I felt like crying, collapsing, screaming. And still, he remained calm.

“Would you be so kind as to give Theseus a message from me?”

“Yes,” I yelled, glad, to finally have some sort of reaction. Whatever it might be – anything was better than this uncertainty.

“Please let him know that my brother cannot stay in Askaban, under any circumstances.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding vigorously.

“It is,” Dumbledore took a golden pocket watch out of his robes, “forty-two minutes after midnight. Let’s start here. Let him know that he has forty-eight hours to release Aberforth. After that, I’ll go get him myself and they can solve the issue themselves.”

“The… what?” My ears were ringing. I had expected everything, but not that.

“The Auror office and myself have reached an agreement, a few months ago. The occasion they were celebrating was neither in the Prophet, nor has it come to pass. Yet. It was something that was supposed to happen tomorrow night. Let him know, I will follow through on my promises, as long as Aberforth is returned to his home, safe and sound.”

“And if he’s not?” The image of him next to Grindelwald wouldn’t leave my mind.

“Good night, Newt.”

As I stood there, alone on a rainy bridge past midnight, I couldn’t think of a time when I’d felt more hopeless.

*

I woke up late, because of a faint tapping noise. Sunshine flooded the room, bright, summery. Birds chirped outside. I could make out a Robin, several Blackbirds, and even a Colankan Chiffchaff. As they usually nested in wand trees only, it was quite unusual. The most unexpected bird, however, was a stern-looking barn owl. She was the one who’d been tapping against my window. As I noticed the letter in her beak, I felt the familiar dread rising within me, and I remembered. Everything.

When I opened the window, the barn owl fluttered in with such determination that some of the other birds got confused and followed her, which irritated both myself and the owl.

“Well, I know,” I told her, “but I just have to… no, get out – out!”

The little birds, however, had no intention to fly back into the garden. Chirping and twittering they started zooming from wall to wall, landing every now and then, to inspect books on the shelves, a tie, flung over a chair, and to test whether or not the flowers printed on my bedsheets were, in fact, real. They were not. The owl looked at the birds in indignation.

“I know you knew that,” I told her, taking the letter. “Thank you. See, they don’t get to visit people much. How are they supposed to know?”

She hooted loftily, and sat on the windowsill, tapping her foot. Apparently, she had instructions to not only wait for an answer, but demand it, and quickly.

“Yes, yes – let me read it first!”

 Dear Newt,

I want to thank you for taking the time to inform me in person, the other night.

If I frightened you at all, I do apologize. As you might imagine, the news came as quite a shock to me. You might not know this, but when Aberforth and myself were children, my father was arrested and given an Askaban sentence, so, naturally, I always worried the same might happen to my rather temperamental little brother. He was younger than myself, when it happened, and has always been more of a family person, so I imagine the situation was hardest on him.

If you are agreeable, please send me any updates your have received so far. Do be careful not to touch the little token that must have rolled onto your floor by now –

I checked. There was, indeed, a small, unfamiliar object resembling a quill laying by my feet. The silver blinked merrily in the morning sun. I looked at the letter and read on.

Simply let Cinnamon (that is the bird’s given name) pick it up, after you’ve attached your letter to her claw. She’s familiar with the process.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl, as fast as possible. (I told her to wait – do not give her too many owl treats to gain obedience. It’s a technique she uses on people sometimes, and it only makes her peck you more.) Hoping to see you soon,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

“Don’t you dare,” I told the owl, who’d been eyeing me with all the impatience an owl could possibly feel.

I didn’t know what I’d expected. For him to see sense in just a few short hours? To understand Theseus’ position, the impossibility of the situation? I wouldn’t, if it was my brother.

Ignoring the other birds, I picked up the little yellow book, desperately hoping for any useful information. Or any information at all. I was relieved beyond words, when I saw Theseus’ handwriting. His brief message (Have received visitation rights on Thursday – talking to Travers to drop charges as you read this. Minister for Magic somewhat cooperative, was granted brief meeting tomorrow morning.) wasn’t what I’d hoped for – and it certainly didn’t fit in with Dumbledore’s demands from last night – but it was something. A flicker of hope, to cling onto.

With shaking hands, I dipped the quill into ink and started writing. When I was done, I wasn’t satisfied – least of all with my messy handwriting, as my old professor was reading this – but hopeful that Theseus would find a way to help, at least to calm things down. Dumbledore must have special privileges at the ministry, if he was doing all of this for them, and he must know that he had them.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I told Cinnamon, as I tied the finished letter to her leg. She eyed the biscuit jar. “Fine, but just one!” I took one biscuit out of the jar, and quickly closed the lid, so she wouldn’t get any ideas. “Well, you know what to do.”

She spread her wings, and soared to the floor, landing on the mysterious silver instrument, and while I blinked, she’d vanished.

“Port keys for owls?” I stared at the empty spot in amazement. “Is that legal?” I frankly doubted he’d cared. If I’d learned one thing about Albus Dumbledore, it was that he treated most laws like mild suggestions. If he in any way thought he knew better, he found ways around them, or simply pretended they didn’t exist. Maybe that’s why Grindelwald had befriended him in the first place.

*

Things calmed down considerably, after that. a second meeting was set, between Dumbledore and myself, after Theseus’ Askaban trip. As I breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to my travel notes, the weather outside returned to pleasant spring conditions, with only occasional rain showers and mild temperatures. For English April, that was pretty good.

The evening I was supposed to meet Albus – on the hills overlooking Nurmengard, which was not ideal – was a mild one. I arrived first, and waited for Theseus by a tall, white-blooming sloe tree. The sunset arrived in shades of warm pink and orange, putting a soft, pleasant colour filter over everything, including the picturesque castle and tower below. If it hadn’t been the home base for a dangerous criminal, it could’ve been the stuff fairy tales are made of.

When Theseus arrived, he was accompanied by a slender, curly-haired middle eastern man I’d never met before. They talked quietly amongst each other, in hushed, urgent voices, both of their faces pained. Like someone or something had robbed them of all their energy. I suppose, Askaban does that to people. Theseus never had been quite right, the days after he did prisoner transports. Dementors… creatures even I detested, which was a rarity.

“Do you have news?” I burst out, instead of greeting them. The anticipation was getting to me. I simply had to know!

“This – this is my brother Newt,” Theseus said, instead of an answer.  Newt, this is Sayid, he… well, I can’t actually say. But we’ll need him for…”

“Deescalation,” Sayid said smoothly. He looked a lot calmer then Theseus, up close. Maybe he hadn’t been along for the trip to Askaban. “Are you sure you want your brother to stay? We can’t risk casualties.”

“It won’t come to that,” Theseus said, but his voice betrayed him. He sounded as though he was about to cry. “There’s no easy way out of this. Just… go and tell Albus we’ve arrived. I’ll do the talking, once he’s here. Newt,” he stepped up to me, once Sayid had walked downhill, and towards the iron gates. His eyes looked panicked, and red. He hadn’t slept. “When he gets here – you can’t talk. I don’t believe you’re in danger, otherwise I’d sent you away, but be – be careful. Do not talk, I beg of you –“

I stared at him. He looked older, and pale, pallid as a ghost. Something had happened to him – something worse than a dementor encounter. “What happened?” It seemed a strange concept – being in danger in Dumbledore’s presence. Though the evening I’d spent meeting him and Grindelwald together had been alarming. Still…

Theseus didn’t respond right away. He stared after Sayid, as he was, desperately, trying to control what was about to happen with his eyes. Together, we watched him walk towards Albus, who stood by the front door, chatting to a severe, dark-haired woman. She seemed angry; angrier than him.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s better you don’t know,” Theseus said. He had his hands folded into each other, as though in prayer. “Come on, Sayid – get him here – don’t – no – no no no no no…”

Someone had passed Dumbledore in the doorway and walked towards Sayid in quick strides, blocking his way. In the bright evening sun, Grindelwald’s silvery-grey and blonde hair shone, giving him that famous halo he’d been famous for, in his younger years. Now, he looked too menacing for it, though I’d heard people talk of the opposite. Heard them fawn over his message, blush, as they talked of his smile… But he wasn’t smiling. He looked grim, so grim, in fact, that I was shocked Sayid – whoever he was – dared to speak to him, without protection, and so close to what could be hundreds of his supporters.

“Theseus – what happened? Are they going to release Aberforth? Did you see him?”

“I saw him,” Theseus said. His jaw was clenched so tightly, it looked painful.

“And? Will they…?”

“They can’t.” He turned to me, ashen. “You – you don’t know this, but their father – Percival Dumbledore – got a life sentence in Askaban, in 1892. His name was still on the old prison files, which were supposed to be resorted, and put down in the new archives. When Aberforth came into the office – well, you’ve seen what he did… It all got destroyed. In the recovery process, and the rushed transport to Askaban, it seems… well, someone filled out the paper work wrong and put Aberforth in Percival’s old cell, where he was never supposed to go. A clerical error.” He spoke very fast now. It seemed, as though he somehow wanted to practice his speech before Albus arrived. “The thing is – these long-time residents, they leave traces. Messages, carved into the wall. Signs of their growing madness. And when Aberforth was addressed as Percival, put into the no-parole cell section, and he saw those carvings, he – put two and two together. You wouldn’t guess it from talking to him, but he’s dangerously clever!”

I wasn’t surprised. Horrified, but not surprised. Albus Dumbledore having a smart brother seemed the most normal thing in the world. “He can’t have been happy about that. So – did he not want to see you?”

“I don’t think he knew his brother was coming,” Theseus whispered, and out of nowhere, tears were streaming down his face. It was jarring. I don’t think I’d seen him cry since we were kids. “He – someone messed up, someone really – they let him keep his belt, that’s not allowed…”

I started freezing. The spring air had turned, when the sun had sunk lower, the horizon growing grey and purple. There was a slight breeze, and blossoms rained down on us. Little white flower petals, swirling in the wind.

Theseus wiped his face. “I found him – in his cell, when I had them unlock it. If I’d been there a few hours earlier – but there’s nothing I could do, it was too late…”

“How can we tell Albus that?”

“We can’t.” He wiped the tears away, “But – we have to. He has to hear it from – a friend – Merlin, I don’t even know whether he’ll ever consider me as that again… I tried, Newt, you have to believe me – I did everything I could, but –”

“I think it’s too late for that.”

We watched, too stunned to act, as Grindelwald gestured for Albus to join him and Sayid, and started talking to him in what must be a whisper. Sayid just stood there, looking back to us, every now and then, overwhelmed.  

“What is he doing?” Theseus stuttered. “What – no – don’t talk to him – get him here – Sayid, damnit – he can’t…“

We stood there, silent. Too stunned for words, for what seemed like an eternity.

“He knows.”

When Albus broke down, wrapped into Grindelwald’s embrace, as a sallow-faced Sayid watched on, both of us fell silent once more. There was nothing left to say, or do. And just for a split second – Theseus and I later argued about what we’d seen in that moment – I thought I saw Grindelwald smile.

Notes:

What do you think? Will Albus and the aurors still be able to work together?

Chapter 24: Chapter 22 – The Long Goodbye

POV Albus Dumbledore

Chapter 22 – The Long Goodbye

 Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, 
'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

The first time I ever packed my trunk for Hogwarts, Aberforth unpacked it again. When I packed it the second time, he decide to sit in it, so I couldn’t finish the job.

“Move!”

“No, you can’t leave!”

“I have to! I’m going to school, what don’t you understand about that?”

“You’re leaving us,” he said, stuobbornly. “And you can’t, it’s not fair!”

“You’ll be at Hogwarts three years from now,” I explained, thinking he was jealous of me getting something he couldn’t share. For most of our lives – even if they’d recently become quite dark and complicated – we’d shared everything. Clothes, food, toys, adventures. Everything.

“I won’t go,” he said. “Ari needs us.”

I rolled my eyes. “She has mother.”

“That’s not enough! She needs…”

“I won’t not go to school because she’s sick. She’ll get better. Maybe mother will find a healer. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

I left him, sitting on my pyjama collection, and went downstairs to ask mother if she was done repairing the hemline on the second hand robes she’d gotten me. when I returned, both Ariana and Aberforth were sitting in my trunk.

“We’re playing kanu,” Aberforth said, and Ariana let out a rare giggle. She’d been sick for a week, and I worried she’d throw up on my new books.

“Get out of there!”

They refused. We ended up in a red-faced huddle on the floor, punching and kicking each other, until I thought to draw my wand.

“Not fair!” Aberforth yelled, tears of fury in his eyes, while Ariana hid under the bed. Magic had started to scare her. “You can’t leave, YOU CAN’T!”

I was glad to be sitting in a train compartment the next day, away from it all. The boy in front of me had a green face and even more books than I’d brought. Aberforth had been right. I was leaving them behind, and I was, in fact, relieved about it.

*

If you could change one thing about your life, about how it all happened, what would that be? I’d gone over and over everything in my head. I imagined stopping father in the doorway, using magic to block him somehow. But he just left, the next day, while I was still sleeping. The story ended the same – he was dragged away, and I was left with a blue hat. I convinced mother to give Ariana to qualified healers. Robbed of mother’s gentle care, of Aberforth’s love, she died within the year. We weren’t saved, or united – we simply drowned in grief together. Mother died of a broken heart, and too much alcohol. I held back Aberforth, when he attacked others. Tried being a better brother to him. He resented me, still. Hated how others talked about me, how he was compared to me, couldn’t live up to the expectations, always. I took Ariana around the world, and she died tragically, over and over. Egypt, Tahrir Square. Rome, on the Spanish Bridge. China, on the steps to the famous wall. And each time, she ripped more people into the abyss with her.

“Maybe we should take her night swimming,” I said, that summer, trying to bond with Aberforth over jokes.

“She’s sick,” he said, staring at me as though I was mad.

“It might… help. Some fresh air, movement…”

“Do you want to drown her?”

“Of course not.”

I took the funeral arrangements up to my room. Prepared my suit for the morning. Ignored Ariana, as she started wailing downstairs. Aberforth could get her, if he was so much better at understanding her needs, I argued. I sat down by the window with a book, resented my siblings for who they were. And felt guilty about it, all at the same time.

I didn’t go home with Aberforth, after the funeral. Instead, I visited a neighbour’s house. made a new friend and slowly, over the course of a summer, started abandoning my family. If one had asked Aberforth, he’d have said it started when I was eleven.

*

The one thing I couldn’t imagine, the thing I should have wanted to change, was meeting Gellert. Inviting danger into my home, giving in to his mad fantasies, spinning plans, dreaming of conquering the world together. I couldn’t. bizarre as it was, the memories of us were the only thing that soothed me. The only source of happiness strong enough to drown out the pain. It didn’t make me happy, really, but it helped me to feel numb, and that was, for the time being, enough.

*

It was the night of my eighteenth birthday. August 26^th, 1899. I’d spent it with Gellert, away from everything. Away from my family. Out in the woods, by the lake. We’d talked for hours, fantasized about the future, while the water glittered in the sun, and the wind stood still. Time stood still. When it would get too hot, we’d jump into the lake, compete over who could hold their breath the longest, and kiss under water.

I tried to think of a secret to tell him, to make the day special, and discovered I had none left to tell. He knew everything about me, and I felt I knew him, knew him inside out. I could tell when his mood was about to change, when he’d smile, laugh, yell. I could’ve duelled him blindly – anticipate his every move. But of course, we no longer did that. I missed it, and so did he.

The world seemed perfect. Like it was meant to be; we were meant to be.

Within three days, everything would fall apart.  

*

Aurelius was pleasant company, most days. He was eager to learn anything I could teach him, and desperate for a connection. And so I gave him books, and showed him how to transfigure tea cups into mice. And wondered, watching him, how much time he had left. When this, too, would end.

He was a natural duellist, fast and brash, like Aberforth. Had an affinity for charms, like Ariana, and a way with potions, like mother and I. he was a slow reader, but he put the work in. His only weakness was his confidence, which remained low.

*

“Do you ever wonder whether mother made the right choice? Keeping her here?”

Aberforth looked up, immediately offended. We were both wearing our funeral clothes, sweaty in the humid summer heat. It was morning, July 1^st, and Ariana was sitting at the breakfast table, her hand shaking too hard to reach the spoon, her face caught between object horror and weeks of sleep deprivation. Had she not slept before the incident? Was that what had caused it?

“Hogwash,” he said, and walked over, to feed her porridge. Every spoon half-filled, every spoon with a smile and a nod. He was wonderful with her. They didn’t even need to speak (not that she spoke much, the last few years), and she would open her mouth, and eat. When she didn’t, he’d take her hand, and sit with her, stroke her hair, until she was ready again.

I always felt distant, as I watched them. I knew that could never be me, and I’d started to realize I didn’t want it to be. Mother had sacrificed her entire life for Ariana’s care, but why should I? What a waste, I thought, me, shackled here, instead of him. He seemed in his element. Maybe, an ugly voice whispered to me, maybe that’s the best he’ll ever do. Maybe I should let him stay, so I could be out there, away from it all…

*

“What was he like? Your brother?” Queenie said, when we sat in the courtyard late at night, her cradling the baby, Sayid playing the oud (an instrument invented in old Mesopotamia that resembles both a harp and a guitar), an open bottle of wine on the table between us. Zabini was the only one who sat in silence. Queenie had wondered why he’d wanted to join us in the first place, but I could see the way he’d started looking at her. Smiling when she smiled. Holding doors open, bringing presents for the baby. I didn’t think it was my place to say something. Didn’t know whether she was open to it, whether she had had sufficient time, mourning Jacob Kowalski. Time would tell.

“He was – difficult to put into words.”

“How would he have described himself?” Sayid offered.

“He wouldn’t. He’d have told you to stop yapping, and drink your wine.”

They laughed. Maybe they thought I was joking.

*

“How much longer will they need you?” Aberforth asked.

It was Sunday morning, and we sat at a little round table in his bar, two cups of tea between us. I’d spent the Saturday working for Theseus, or at least I called it that. a hotel room, an old flame – if that was work, I didn’t want to know what it made me.

“It’s unclear.”

“You’re not getting anywhere.”

“I’m…” I sighed. There was no point in defending my process to him. “It’s not easy.”

“Never said it’d be.” He drank his tee. It smelled of firewhiskey. “What would happen, hypothetically, if you stopped? If it got too much for you?”

“That’s hard to say. They might arrest you, still. I can’t risk that.”

Neither of us spoke, for a while.

“Maybe it’d be worth it,” Aberforth said, but it was so quiet, I might have misheard him. “It’d get you away from him.”

I wished that was true. I didn’t dare to look at him – he’d know, in a heartbeat.

*

“You weren’t very close, were you?” Sayid observed. “I remember asking you about him in Bagdad. You said he would not dream of travelling with you, then. That must have been hard, growing up.”

“You assumed he was the problem.”

“He wasn’t?” Queenie said, laughing. “He sounds grumpy.”

“A valid description.” I nipped on my wine. It was good. Rich, with notes of blackberries and black currant. “We were just… very different. I had a lot of admirers, growing up. One might say, it went to my head. Aberforth might have said it, many, many times. He was right, of course.”

“So you were what? Bragging with your little kid trophies?” Sayid mused, and Queenie giggled against little Tom’s head. “Did you decorate your bedroom in medals and offer him a tour?”

“No, but that’s good. I definitely would have done that,” I said, and they all burst out laughing.

“You’re lucky you weren’t my brother,” Sayid said. “I would have jinxed you at any opportunity.”

“Oh, he tried. He just wasn’t fast enough.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t have more siblings,” Zabini observed, breaking his silence. “My brothers would tackle me as a team, if I ever got too big for my bridges.”

“That’s horrible,” Queenie gasped, and he bathed in her sympathy.

“It’s nothing. Just… boys being boys.”

“Are you close at all?”

“No.” He was slowly reverting back to his status quo – silence. “They were a bit older than me, they died in the war. Tried to help the magical families around Tarvisio to hide. I was too young to help.”

“You poor thing,” Queenie said, her eyes swimming with tears.

“But you had a sister,” Sayid interrupted the moment. “Didn’t you say? One who died when you were young?”

“Yes. Ariana.”

“And she died before she could go to school, right?”

If only. “No. She – was afflicted, the way Aurelius is.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. how long did she make it?”

“Fourteen.” She would have grown older, I told myself. It needn’t have been the end…

“A girl in my village was like that,” Sayid said. “She didn’t make it to her ninth birthday. Nine or ten is the average, I hear. Your sister was lucky.”

“She was,” I agreed. “She had Aberforth.”

*

We used to sneak out, at night, Aberforth and I. Nine and ten years old, towels under our arms, wearing our pyjamas. We usually just took them off, hung them on the bushes, and put them back on, once we were dry. Mould on the Would was surrounded by wild lakes and moors. In the daytime, they glittered in dark blue and green, the nearby wetlands and water plants affecting their colour. The children would come from school and jump into the late, and farmers would do the same after a long day’s work, but at night – the lakes belonged to us, and only us.

There were noises, when we walked through the woods. Wind, rustling in the trees. Frogs squaking, owls hooting, and all sorts of animals scurrying through the thicket. Where other children would have been afraid, we were excited. It seemed better to do this in the moonlight. Braver. And we’d always wanted to be brave. To seek adventures.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, when the noises behind us grew louder.

“Scared?” he teased me, feeling mighty proud of himself that he wasn’t.

“No, I think someone else had the same idea as us.”

“Maybe it’s one of those secret couples, doing man and woman stuff,” he said, making a face.

I laughed. “Maybe it’s a murderer, drowning his latest victim in the lake.”

“Oh, you win, yours is better!”

We stood, and listened, for a while. It was hard to say who or what was coming closer, as the forest seemed to swallow some noises, and amplify others. But we could see someone – a person – after a while. He or she was alone, and looked like the most excellent representation of an old ghost, in their long white nightgown.

“Ariana? What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t wait for me,” she cried out, stomping her naked feet on the ground as she walked. She always walked with purpose. “I want to do nightswimming, too! It’s not fair that I have to stay home while you have all the fun!”

“You should be asleep,” I scolded her, while Aberforth laughed.

“Sleep is stupid!” She shook her braids, rather dramatically. “Is this because I’m a girl?”

“No, it’s because you’re five.”

“And you can’t swim,” Aberforth added. “You’d drown. We’re good divers, but we’re not that good.”

“Well, then,” she said, sounding eerily like mother, “you’ll have to teach me.”

“At midnight?” I felt, for the first time, a hint of fear about night swimming.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Aberforth said, shrugging.

Ariana nodded importantly. “Yes! Swimming!”

“You could drown. What will you do then?”

“Magic,” she said, twirling away, towards the lake.

“You made one daisy float, ONE time,” I called after her. “That doesn’t mean… get back here! Ari – at least take that gown off, it’ll get soaked!”

We didn’t teach Ariana to swim, that night. She mostly just splashed around, laughing like a maniac, and scaring the animals away. But after a couple of nights, she got the hang of it. By the time summer rolled around, she was faster than both of us, and a better diver, too. She wouldn’t shut up about all the oceans she wanted to explore, when she was a grown up, and made us promise to take her travelling around the world.

That was the spring of 1891. It didn’t seem like much at the time. a normal, rather average life. It was the last year we were happy as a family. Months later, chatterbox Ariana would become quiet, and frail. Father would be taken away, mother started drinking, and Aberforth and I went our separate way, once I went to school. He didn’t understand why I had to leave, felt betrayed, abandoned by it. and as the years went on, I felt relieved, whenever I was away from my family. Maybe he’d sensed that.

*

Muggles, I knew, went to churches to find solace. They went to those old houses with the crosses on them, when a loved one had died, to say goodbye. I’d never understood or experienced it myself, but it seemed like a pleasant enough experience. Solitude. Peace. What was needed.

It was a quiet place. The bright afternoon sun shone in, filtered through the stained-glass windows. Rays of sunlight in many colours, bathing the empty wooden rows in a soft glow. And so I sat on one of the front benches, waiting for solace to come.

A man in long black robes sat behind me. For a moment, I wondered whether Gellert or the Aurors had sent him, but the cross necklace gave him away. A priest, elderly, bespectacled, his hair thinning.

“Was betrübt sie, der Herr?“ He smiled kindly, not with the pity I had expected, but with a sort of gentle understanding that seemed to look right through my pretensions. "Wir kennen uns nicht. Mein Name ist Pater Johannes. Ich bin der Priester in der Gemeinde Hallstatt. Sie suchen Seelsorge, nicht wahr?”

I shifted on the bench, the wood creaking beneath me. The smell of incense lingered in the air, and overpowered the fresh scent of alpine spring – flowers, weeds, cut down grass – in the air. It had been some time since I’d interacted with a Muggle. Given the way most people around me spoke of them, I felt the need to be more than polite to the old man, though I wasn’t sure how to do that in a language I barely spoke.

“I’m sorry, I am not from around here. It is alright for me to be in your church, is it not? It’s my first time.” I wondered, for a moment, whether he’d understood as much of my words as I had of his, but he just smiled once more.

“You are English, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Protestant?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what that means.”

He seemed a little lost, but recovered quickly. “You are welcome here,” he said, placing a knotted, veiny hand on my shoulder. His hand seemed so light, so fragile, I thought it might break if he carried more than a bible. “All of god’s children are welcome in my church.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say. It seemed a religious expression. A way to signal community, perhaps, though, in my opinion, a condescending one. I imagined a society of infants, looking up to an imaginary parent for guidance and absolution, which robbed them of their responsibilities. Why do the right thing, if you can be forgiven for anything? I’d tried to understand their myths, but kept wondering, while I’d read short sections of the bible in my younger years, whether they hadn’t simply encountered wizards and formed their own stories around it all, to bridge the gap in understanding. The book had never enticed me to keep reading.

“You are grieving,” the priest observed, to my surprise. “You’re not the first to come here, my child. Loss is never easy, especially when it is unexpected. But he guides us all, in his infinite wisdom." He pointed, to the large, ornately carved cross on the wall before us. I wondered, for a moment, if he could see something I could not. Like Muggles couldn’t see Hogwarts, but the other way around.

“I don’t think I lack wisdom. Foresight, perhaps. I keep wondering if I could have prevented it all. Spared him the pain. It’s my brother, who passed,” I explained, when he looked at me, his expression quizzical. “We weren’t really close, but I… was trying to help. I thought I was doing the right thing for everyone involved.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself. God calls us to him, when it’s our time. I’m sure your brother is at peace now.”

“That would be a first.”

Pater Johannes shifted, folding his hands on his lap as though cradling a fragile truth. "The path to forgiveness is personal and rarely straightforward. It’s not about absolving the errors but learning to carry them with grace. It’s recognizing our own humanity amid the chaos."

I looked away, focusing on the kaleidoscope of light scattered across the floor. Wondered, whether the stranger was very intuitive, or whether he’d been taught wise-sounding phrases for mourners, and simply translated them for me. It was kind of him, I supposed. He was trying to help. Maybe more than most people around me.

"And you, son? Will you be able to forgive yourself for the things left unsaid?"

“No,” I said, after a drawn-out silence. “I can’t. It’s not possible.”

“All of us feel guilt,” the priest said. “It does not make us sinners in the eyes of god. Repent, and you will be forgiven. What is your name, child?”

“Albus.”

“How unusual,” he said, nodding to no one in particular. “Why is it you believe you’re exempt from absolution, Albus? Your brother – was he very sick? Or did he die in the war, perhaps? A soldier?”

“No.” I closed my eyes for a moment. Took in the silence, the gentleness of the place. “He lost faith in me, because I’d disappointed him too many times. He – believed himself to be in a helpless situation and so he… took his own life.”

“Oh.” For the first time, the priest looked alarmed. “That is not good! Was he christened, your brother?”

I’d heard that word before, too, though I had a very vague concept of it. “No. Is that important?”

“You see,” he started to explain, his eyes wide, “the Holy Father accepts all repentant sinners into his kingdom, but he is who giveth life, and taketh it away. To take a life – even one’s own – is sinful, and makes it impossible to get into heaven.” He looked at me, with pity in his eyes, while I wondered whether he was completely sane, or a lonely old man who’d gone quite mad. None of what he said made sense. “I will pray for your bother’s soul, Albus,” he promised, smiling, as though he was giving me a generous gift.

“Pray?”

“Yes.”

I knew that word. Or at least I thought I did. “What – excuse me – what does that mean? My brother wasn’t a bad person – what…?”

“To pray,” Gellert’s voice said quietly behind us, “means to talk to an imaginary deity. A ritualistic soliloquy, if you will. Your new friend is trying to explain his belief system to you – are you not?” He looked at the Muggle in derision. He, I realized, had been to a church before, trying to understand the Muggles he resented so much.

“You found me.”

“I was worried you’d lost your way.” He sat down, on the other side of the priest, and looked up at the cross. “That’s a medieval torturing device, you know. You bring children to this place?”

“All of god’s children can get lost,” the priest insisted, ignoring Gellert, and turning to me. “But he welcomes us – he welcomes back all his lost sheep. It is not too late for you! We often christen adults, you know – well, not in Hallstatt, but it’s not unheard of!”

“You’re talking in metaphors, I suppose?”

“In a way, yes.” The priest nodded. “Yes, much of the bible is depicted in matters of… how do you say… allegory. Have you read it?” His concern for me was growing by the minute. Somehow, the absence of religion in my family’s life bothered him more than my dead brother.

“I haven’t, I’m afraid.”

“We sell them, in the village,” he offered hopefully.

“I can spare you the time,” Gellert said, his voice growing bored. “I have one, back at the library. One bible, one Koran, a bound Torah, some Buddhist scriptures…”

“You do?” That part, at least, was surprising.

“It’s important to know the enemy,” Gellert said casually, ignoring the old man’s indignation. “But it’s not the most pleasant read. Very dry.” That part we agreed on. “Lots of family relations that must mean something, some magic, masquerading as miracle work, some philosophy… There isn’t much sense to it. the logical gaps alone, if you take it as a theory –“

“Logical gaps,” the priest gasped. “God’s wisdom is –“

“Take the first half of the book,” Gellert said, paying him no attention. “Wars. Atrocities, like the ones committed to spread this old man’s belief around the world. You’ve been to Uganda, you’ve met their victims. There is vengeance – an eye for an eye – parading as morality, which I don’t fully disagree with. A partial embrace of enslavement, for some people, but not for others. This – god – asks his believers to sacrifice their only children to him on an altar, destroys entire cities for debaucherous behaviour that doesn’t align with his rule book, floods the entire planet, drowning all living creatures with the exception of one family and a few animals, because humanity doesn’t worship him enough. And then the second half starts, and it all changes. I’ve never really been sure how or why, because the book offers four versions of the same story, which is just bad editing. At least agree on one version of your fantasy,” he told the old man, as if he could change things, somehow. As if he’d written the book.

“The four apostles are important,” Pater Johannes tried to explain. “They have collected stories of the Messiah.”

“The – what?”

“Jesus Christ,” the priest said, pointing to the baby being held by the statue, and I wondered whether he was presenting a name or losing patience with us (I’d heard Muggles curse this way). “He is god’s own son, sent to earth to teach humans about the right path. He died for our sins.” He fondly looked at the cross, as though that meant something.

“I’m terribly sorry, but are you seeing something I’m not? This symbol – what does it mean?”

“The cross,” the priest explained, while Gellert rolled his eyes and shook his head, “is our symbol of hope. Jesus died on the cross for our sins –“

“How?”

“Well, he was nailed to it, you see,” he explained, as though that was something normal to say. “And then he died, in front of his faithful friends who’d come to give him solace. So, we look to the cross for…”

“That’s horrible!” I stared at the symbol, wondering how many people thought this was normal, wondering why people used crosses on their gravestones. Did they approve of killing someone this way? And if so, why? Was it related to christenings in some way? What was the meaning of the statue in the corner, the smiling woman, holding an infant? “Who did that to him?”

“The Romans,” the priest said, apparently glad that I was buying into this narrative. “And the Jews, of course.” Another religious group – that much I knew. The priest didn’t seem to like them much. A rivalry, perhaps. Two groups, fighting for who owned the universal truth.

“Jesus died for our sins,” the priest repeated, sounding more and more agitated. “So that we can be forgiven and…”

“And he rose from the grave three days later,” Gellert said mockingly. “So, really, he sacrificed a weekend. Tell me, how are the bunnies and eggs related to all of this nonsense? You know,” he said to me, pretending the priest wasn’t there at all, “these are all fictional characters. Jesus, god – it’s just stories, to guilt people into following their traditions, and giving churches meaning. Churches, by the way, are not mentioned once in the bible. Neither are priests. Or hell. But they like to refer to it quite frequently, to keep the Muggles in line.”

The priest had gotten to his feet, trying to keep some dignity in this conversation. “I can’t help those who don’t seek to be helped. Let me just say this,” he said, and he spoke only to me now, seeing as Gellert was simply toying with him for his own amusement. “God welcomes back all his lost sheep, and so does the church! If at any point you seek to confess, to atone –“

“Anyone?” Gellert said, watching the man very closely. There was something sinister, almost triumphant to his expression, as the priest hesitated. “There are no exceptions?”

“Well, as I said, those who don’t wish to repent, and…”

“And?”

“Jews, of course. They killed our Messiah, you have to understand. And Satanists, pedophiles, sodomites…” He’d whispered the last word. It seemed forbidden to speak of.

“Aw,” Gellert said, feigning disappointment, but his eyes glittered, as he looked at me. “So close!”

“Stop it.”

“I think you better leave now,” the priest said. “I must sweep the floors, prepare my next sermon…” He was clearly looking for excuses to get rid of us. His recruitment hadn’t been successful, and he was intuitive enough to sense that having Gellert around probably wasn’t the safest option for him.

“In diesem Fall möchten wir nicht stören,“ Gellert said to the priest. „Sie müssen schließlich an Ihrer Massenverblendung arbeiten. Sonst merken die Leute noch…“

“Yes, I think that would be best,” I interrupted him, dragging him out by his sleeve.

“Wait –“

“No.”

“I just want to transfigure the holy water into wine real quick.”

“Absolutely not.” I closed the heavy oak doors behind us, while above, church bells started ringing, echoing far and wide throughout the valley. The mountains around us towered, some covered in wild flowers, others providing habitat to grazing sheep and cows. In the distance, a Muggle family carried milk jugs up the road to their house. It was a quiet morning, in a quiet village that had no idea the mountains were filled with witches and wizards who hated them, nor did they know of the castle’s inhabitation. Like Hogwarts, it seemed an old ruin to them, a building that would have been dangerous to enter. In a way, it was.

“You could have been more polite. The man meant no harm.”

“He was trying to use your pain,” Gellert said, sounding enraged. “He wanted to brainwash you –“

“Thank Merlin he’s the only one.” That silenced him. For a while, we simply walked up the jagged, narrow paths constructed for farmers and travellers.

“I offered you help,” Gellert said, after a while. “I offered –“

I thought of his vow to break into Askaban. He’d thought of freeing more than one prisoner, which was why I’d hesitated to accept his plan. It didn’t matter anymore, as it was too late. In hindsight, though… “I know. I should have accepted.”

“I’m glad you understand that.” He paused, looked down at the picturesque, sprawling valley. At the church, whose bells were still ringing in the distance. “He’s not so holy, your Pater Johannes, did you know that? His future is far from innocent.”

“I don’t really consider future crimes sinful.”

“Maybe they are. Perhaps we should consult a priest about that.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” We continued walking. After a while, I couldn’t stand my own curiosity. “He’s a very old man. What could he possibly do to deserve your ire?”

“Ten years from now,” Gellert said mysteriously, “he’ll join his Diözese in telling people to welcome soldiers, to remain quiet in times of great injustice. He’ll join parades in their honour, and die peacefully at an old age, believing he’d never hurt a soul. I wish his god was real, at least then there would be consequences.”

“He’ll be alive ten years from now?”

“That is not…” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. I’ll let it be. At least you’re smiling again.”

As we kept walking, the nature around us grew wilder. The mountain tops on the horizon still had snow on them, and the valley disappeared below low-hanging clouds, looking like cotton candy. The sky got bluer, and the sun shone brighter. Some of the funghi and flowers, I noticed, had magical properties. There even was a wand tree along the path, and some birds that Muggles didn’t know about. The only trace of them that remained was a little bench on the hillside, and a statue of a cross, with a dying man on it, wearing a crown made up of what looked like thorns.

“I didn’t see this before.”

“It’s an eyesore,” Gellert said, frowning. “They keep leaving them everywhere. I’ve ripped out three, but –“ He moved towards the statue.

“Let’s not.” I lifted my wand, and pointed it at the white marble. Focussed on the intended form. The man grew thinner, then melted into the cross, with his rags and thorns. The cross grew thinner, turned into a straight line, then adorned itself with runes and woodcarvings. It spread, and grew a circle, then a triangle, attached to it. finally, the new monument, a representation of the Deathly Hallows, decorated the side of the little bench, surrounded by bright blue flowers, still. Only if one looked very closely upon the little pedestal, they would still be able to read the inscription. I.N.R.I. capital letters said. And below it, Unsere Liebe Frau Mariä Heimsuchung - Dekanat Breitenwang -  Diözese Innsbruck.

(I later confessed to Gellert that Muggles would still see the cross when they looked on it. to my surprise, he liked that even better. It made witches and wizards more special, he said. That they could see the truth behind the illusions created by our kind. For children, he argued, it could be a litmus test – he’d become quite obsessed with those – to see whether they had magical abilities or not.)

“We could apparate uphill,” Gellert suggested, after another half hour of walking.

“I like walking. It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?” We were high up enough to see glimpses of all the valleys and ponds now, including the lake “Drachensee,” which Gellert swore he hadn’t secretly renamed. I wasn’t convinced.

“Are you alright? We haven’t talked much about –“

I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. He couldn’t share my pain over the loss of someone he’d hated, and it hurt too much, to talk to people who didn’t care. “I’d much rather remember, in silence.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my pain. It won’t go away by talking. It didn’t last time, that was all just an illusion.”

“For what it’s worth,” Gellert said, “Aberforth would have hated that priest!”

“I suppose –“

“Talking in metaphors? Clinging to his weird holy book? And the hypocrisy? Come on!”

“To be honest,” I said, sighing, “I think the accent would have been enough.”

The corners around Gellert’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t want to say, but – obviously…” He glanced at me sideways. “But why a priest? What made you seek him out?”

I couldn’t look at him. Confession was never easy, especially the confession of one’s own delusions. “When I was a child, we were fed these half-baked theories and stories about churches. The thing that stuck – what I clung to, when my father died, was the idea of an afterlife. An eternity of bliss for being good on earth. I did, as you know, have an affinity for fairy tales and myths. I suppose I wanted to talk to someone who’d tell me Aberforth was with Ariana, and my parents. Someone who would believe it.”

He sighed. I was right. He pitied me.

“It’s not just the way he died – the hopelessness he must have felt, drowning in his bad memories. It’s… he was the last family member I had left. My aunt suffered from dementia for years before she passed, and that was a while ago. before that – Ariana, mother, father, my grandparents – I never thought I’d be the last Dumbledore.”

“But you’re not,” he said, sounding surprised.

“What?”

He pointed down, to the little patch of grass connecting the lake to a path uphill. A young man stood there, scrawny, pale, and lonely, with his feet in the water. Aurelius.

“He’s never had real parents, so no one taught him how to swim.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Do you still want to walk back home?”

Home. It was a loaded word. I didn’t know whether that’s what it was, no matter how much the idyllic mountains reminded me of the English countryside.

“No, you go ahead. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

He looked small, when I walked up to Aurelius. The weight he’d lost over the last months made him look even more like my mother. There was a shy smile on his face. He wasn’t home either, I realised. Maybe he never had been.

“Do you mind some company?”

“No.” He looked out onto the lake – deep turquoise, so vibrant, it looked like someone had jinxed it. “It’s so beautiful. I’ve never had anything like this, in New York.”

“Do you want to swim?”

“I…” He didn’t dare speak the truth. Yet another thing he, an adult man, hadn’t been taught. The neglect in his youth was shocking. So many things I’d never considered…

“I can teach you, if you’d like that. I taught my sister, when she was a little girl.”

“Is it that obvious?” He hesitated. “What, if I’m bad at it? If I can’t learn it? Will I drown?”

“You’re a wizard, Aurelius. And besides, it wouldn’t be your first time in the water,” I reminded him. “You didn’t drown as an infant. Perhaps it was your magic that saved you, perhaps fate intervened. Either way, it does not do well to dwell on the past, and forget to live. Not when you finally have all these opportunities. You’re still very young. I know you feel bad about the learning opportunities you were deprived of as a child, but years from now, when you look back at your life, it won’t matter.” I felt a dread rising in me, as I said the words. I knew what he was. What would happen to him, eventually. But that made it all the more important that he had people looking out for him, now. “All that will matter is the life you built for yourself.”

“I – won’t be alone again?”

“No.”

“And when you’re ready,” he said eagerly, “you’ll tell me about him?”

“I promise I will. Thank you for giving me time.” Not many people would be as naturally considerate, towards people who were so unlike them. Another thing that reminded me of mother.

“And you – you’ll stay?” You’re the only family I have left, his eyes screamed. He was too insecure to say it out loud.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes:

The next narrator will be Gellert. He's taking a delegation of follower to Lagos, Nigeria. And Albus will pull some TRULY sinister moves like you haven't seen before...

Chapter 25: Chapter 23 – Brave New World (POV Gellert)

Notes:

Sometimes the darkest things that happen in stories aren't death and destruction, they're possibilities. Subtle hints of what the future will look like - any dystopia was, after all, meant to be a utopia at one point. I chose Lagos exactly for it's dark history, and so did Grindelwald.
One thing I like to do in my narratives - and this needs a lot of close narratives, and subjective POVs - is to make the reader complicit in the darkness and potential horrors of the story, Dark Mirror style. There is no other way to sell a revolution that might or might not end in war&fascism. The way there, the support and enthusiasm needs to be believable.
This is Grindelwald. At his most idealistic, vulnerable, manipulative, cunning best. Decide for yourself whether you trust him.

Quotes by: Game of Thrones & Catching Fire

POV Gellert Grindelwald

Chapter 23 – Brave New World   

Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell: they're all just spokes on a wheel. 
This one's on top, then that one's on top, and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground. 
(…) I'm not going to stop the wheel, I'm going to break the wheel.

The waters around us were silent. Ominous. It was wind still, and between the times of ebb and flow, making the boat glide quietly towards wooden houses built along the shore. The small, wooden structures looked like they were floating above water. They had their shutters closed, though one could still spot candle light between the cracks, here and there. A Eurasian Nightjar soared over the roofs, and landed on a small deck in the distance, watching us, as though he were collecting information.

“How peaceful,” Queenie observed, her blonde light glowing white in the starlight.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” I told her. “This city hasn’t known true peace for centuries.”

“How come?”

“It’s been occupied by foreign forces, over and over, with the cooperation of local rulers trying to get a cut of the winnings, solidifying their position. First, it was Portugal. They named this city Lagos.”

“Like the lake?”

“Precisely. Then came the British forces. They’ve ruled Lagos, and all of Nigeria, ever since. This land has oil, and they just can’t get enough of that. It powers their industries, their war machines. But when they first came here, to that harbour,” I pointed to the lantern-lit destination in front of us, “the resources they were robbing this land of were of a more organic nature.”

“You mean animals and such?” She lifted her hood over her hair, as some of the shutters moved. Maybe there was a slight wind. Maybe we had witnesses. “For furs?”

“You are too pure for this world, dear Queenie. Here,” I offered her a hand, when the boat hit solid rock, and stopped. “Welcome to Lagos Harbour, the main point of the Transatlantic Slave Trade. Oh, they don’t do it anymore,” I calmed her. “Not to other continents. Too many laws have been changed. Most humans now live in the illusion that they no longer enslave each other. The rest are enslaved, still.”

“Like house-elves,” she breathed. “Wizards, too?”

“On occasion, but we’ve managed to evade worse than this. Most magical families have relocated to Uganda, and Egypt. Some to Europe. This does bring challenges – the only magical school in the country no longer has a national government to rely on. They’re considering closing their doors for good.”

“Why is there still a school, if the magical families have left?” Carrow demanded, stretching her legs, and walking ahead of us. She’d hated the feeling of the boat – hated water in all its forms. She didn’t even like the lakes and rivers surrounding Nurmengard.

“Magic blooms in rare souls, Zośka. Not all of those are born to magical families, which can reach out to Uagadou. We stand to lose many of our own, if they are no longer sought out by the school’s dream oracle, to call them to their true education. They might fade into obscurity, or be victimized, possibly killed by fearful Muggles. A place like this desperately needs powerful connections, before we reveal ourselves to the world. I offer to be that connection.”

We were surrounded by the rest of the delegation, when the carriage arrived. Hooded, spacious, it glided over the plastered ground, its wooden wheels creaking. The creatures pulling it looked, to the untrained eyes, like overgrown birds. Ardeotis – creatures with enormous wings, legs like zebras, and claws so long and strong, they looked like fingers. Claws that could grip on to their prey, and fly them for hundreds of miles. Their song reminded one of wild cats, rather than birds.

The carriage stopped in front of us, and a silent Nigerian wizard in yellow and orange Yoruba robes beckoned us to enter. When we did, the ardeotis spread their wings, lifted the carriage, soared above the harbour, the wooden houses, and the Atlantic Ocean itself, and took flight, towards our destination. On the horizon, the first rays of sunlight loomed.

*

“I like it,” Vinda said, nodding at the big house, surrounded by lush, manicured gardens. “Say what you will about the colonizers, but they know how to do dramatic architecture the right way.”

“That is, if they built this house. For all we know, they just took it.” I turned to my travelling companions, and our Nigerian friends. There weren’t too many – these days, it was difficult to find a witch or wizard in most regions of the country, Lagos being the exception. “We will be staying in this beautiful building. The current owners are not expecting us, but that should be remedied quickly.”

“Take no prisoners?” Vinda whispered, fingering her wand lovingly. She did love taking over houses, which was ironic for one who’s family already owns so many of them. it was like collecting beautiful trinkets, she’d once explained to me, or like playing dollhouse as a little girl. Variety was needed.

“Oh, we will not enter yet. We shall wait.” I nodded at Albus, who’d been watching the darkened windows closely. “The floor is yours. Would you like assistance?”

“I’ll take Queenie,” Albus decided, and several of the others made long faces. No Muggle killing and they didn’t get to see what he had planned? I could relate to their disappointment.

“I’ll hold Marvolo,” I offered. Albus looked pleased and surprised, which was mostly why I’d offered. He had a tendency to grow bored, so I’d hate to become too predictable around him. I’d always put great efforts into that goal – some would say, too much. Albus would. He didn’t know what he needed, so I kept doing it.

“It’s Tommy,” Queenie protested, while handing over the baby. “And would you mind… no, not like that – you gotta protect his head, see –“

We could see her and Albus walk up to the front door and ringing the little bell, as though they wanted to visit a friend. While not everyone was on board with whatever he was doing, I just procured lawn chairs, so that we might enjoy the show. The usual process had become painfully slow and boring anyways. I knew what curse he would use, but couldn’t wait to see the execution of it all. Oh, to be a fly on that wall… But he’d insisted on doing his work in private, and I’d given in. A back massage had been involved, so I’m fuzzy on the details.

“See, Marvolo,” I told the baby, “this is how we take over houses. Pay close attention, you’ll do this for me, one day.”

Next to me, Vinda rolled her eyes. “I hope she’s back soon. I’m not changing any diapers!”

“It’s one simple spell,” Lorenzo said, sounding somewhat ill-tempered. Maybe he liked children, who knew. “Any child could do it!”

“Then Tomtom can do it himself. I’m not ruining my manicure.”

When the servant called the woman of the house opened the door in a morning coat and curlers, she looked far from happy. Not being presentable was more embarrassing to her than living in a country that would throw a party, if they got rid of her, apparently. They left, marched out of the house and passed us in a single line, their freshly pressed uniforms giving them the look of mindless domestic soldiers, while happily chatting about their day off.

“Oh, we don’t mind at all,” we could hear Albus say pleasantly. “Not while you are inviting us into your lovely home – thank you, by the way, I would simply love to hear all about your vacation plans! Wouldn’t you, Queenie?”

The woman stood in the doorway for a moment, letting them pass. Her confused face formed the words ‘vacation plans?’ Then, as he stood behind her, her face settled, became serene, as her eyes glazed over, and a vacant smile spread across it. She nodded happily, and closed the door. “… would offer you tea, but we already gave the servants the week off…” she could be heard saying.

It took a while for the man of the house to appear. Tall, lanky, and blading, he was wearing a hat and the same vacant, happy smile as his wife, and carrying out a pair of suitcases. Behind him, his three children followed, their eyes empty, and their hands full of hat boxes, and light luggage. The little girl still wore her nightdress, with pink polka dots on it. The boy had mismatched socks on, and unkempt, curly blonde hair. This all was remedied, when Queenie called the children back into the house. Picture perfect and obedient, they climbed into a waiting car (proof of the merchant’s incredible wealth) and ate lovingly prepared sandwiches on the backseat, as they waited. Their father, meanwhile, kept walking in and out of the house like an errand boy, sweating more, each time he’d taken the stairs, and filled the car with suitcases. When some of them would not fit inside, he climbed the roof, and started strapping hat boxes and picnic baskets to it.

“What is Dumbledore doing?” Carrow muttered. “Is he making them empty the entire house?”

“Do you think he reinforces the Imperius every time the husband enters the house?” Vinda whispered. She, too, had become enthralled by the show. She stared at the sweaty Muggle climbing off of his shiny black car. “Look at him, not a thought behind those eyes.”

I, too, had been wondering the same thing. “No, he lets them keep their thoughts,” I told her. Albus’ process had always been fascinating to me. “He insists it convinces them that it was all their own idea, when the memory charms fade over time. They remember the thoughts and emotions they had at the time, making the memories feel natural and unaltered. That’s why he keeps them busy; it’s why the children aren’t in the house anymore. Developing minds are harder to control. Much more room for error. They remember more, especially as they’re dreaming. This is how Muggles develop nightmares. People don’t pay enough attention to details like that… plans tend to fall apart, when you involve children too much.”

“Is he – helping them now?” Medici whispered, giggling in disbelief, as Albus and the husband walked out of the house, side by side, chatting pleasantly and carrying matching pieces of luggage. Fine, Italian leather. Filled with the Muggle’s worldly belongings. Queenie followed them, carrying another baby, while the woman of the house – now dressed in her Sunday best, and wearing perfectly applied lipstick, as well as a pearl necklace, came up to us with a steaming cup of tea.

“I made it myself,” she said, as she handed me the cup. Her vacant smile got even wider, and her eyes looked glassy. Grey. Like empty windows. “I hope you don’t mind the wait – we’re almost done. Packing just takes so long, when you have children… Oh, I must be off.”

“You must,” I agreed, and toasted Albus with the cup, as he helped the woman to climb into the car, and handed her the child. The tea was weak. Not hot enough. Too much sugar. They waved at us, as they left their driveway, swerving slightly.

“Is he… affected?”

“He can’t drive,” Vinda said, taking one look at the situation. “Dumbledore robbed him of his driver. I don’t think he noticed that, in his eagerness to get everyone out, so we wouldn’t get alternate ideas. With any luck, they’ll drive of a bridge,” she added, smiling serenely.

“That is not going to happen. Those bridges are new,” I disagreed. “They’re more likely to drive into a wall.”

“Here’s to hoping.”

“You are both terrible people,” Queenie said resolutely, when she came back out to collect the babbling infant. He didn’t seem to share her outrage. I’d never seen that brat happier. Maybe it was the Muggle abuse, maybe the change of scenery. Babies are weird little creatures. Fun to look at, but ultimately, better kept at a distance, until they’ve learned to voice a thought or two. “Come on, Tommy, let’s get you inside, so you can take a nap. These people are no good company for you!”

“Yes, let’s.” I poured the teacup’s content onto the ground. “Maybe we can get some drinkable tea inside.”

The house was acceptable. Dramatic carpets and chandeliers, new furniture, and enough rooms to house us for a few days. The children’s toys everywhere (somehow they hadn’t thought to pack those – or they had even more of them) were unfortunate, but no place was perfect. We could always give the useless things to wizarding families in the area.

“Who were they?” Carrow asked. “The family that lived here?”

“Theodore and Margery Aberfoyle, of Strathendrick and Aberfoyle Railway,” Vinda said, opening drawers and closets, to satiate her curiosity. “Millionaire investor in the Nigerian colonies, responsible for every railway and train station built in this country. He’s used his contacts to be stationed here on the taxpayer’s dime as some sort of ambassador to the king of England. The house was built for their first ambassador, when Nigeria was handed to the British back at that… that conference, but we don’t know who that was.”

“Why do they need so many train tracks?” Medici said, while the others closed the blinds. “Where do they all have to go? Don’t most Muggles work where they live?”

“It’s for transporting out goods, la bécasse!”

I found Albus in the kitchen. He made tea like he was celebrating a ritual. Added little biscuits to every saucer. Measured the temperature, poured it over the leaves slowly, unbearably slowly, while watching the steam rise. The room smelled of hisbiskus, oranges and peppermint. There was an oddly serene quality to him. Most of all, it was just odd that he was here. Evading company.

“Don’t you want to join the party? The others are dying to find out how you did it.”

“You know how I did it.” He looked tired. I knew he was sleeping better than he had been a few weeks prior, but there was still the odd sleepless night. We talked. Played chess, while than candles burnt down. He read, while I slept. Sometimes he took to wandering the library. Occasionally, I couldn’t sleep, because he was gone, and the bed felt strangely cold and empty. And my mind raced – to where he was, who he might be writing letters to… I’d found a torn piece of parchment, a while ago. Remember who the real enemy is, it read. Scamander’s handwriting. Was it old? New? Why had he not disposed of it?

“The basic principle, yes. But I would love to hear details. I was… inspired. It was quite the show.”

“It was designed to be the opposite of that,” he said quietly. “The big garden isn’t shield enough. I wanted as little neighbourly attention as possible. If you want me to be able to reproduce this in a densely populated city with pedestrians…”

I could hardly breathe. The possibilities… “You would?”

“Of course.” He added tea to his own cup, started loading entire trays of them. “But it will need more planning, next time. This could have gone horribly wrong – it was improvised start to finish.”

“It was breath taking!” He smiled, but looked neither happy nor flattered. I floated the trays out of the room, heard them land softly on the dinner table in the next room. “Why did you send the mother to bring tea, if not for show?” That, I had to admit, had been my favourite part. Something about it was just so extraordinarily, charmingly British.

“She was growing anxious.” He dipped a biscuit into his tea, and nipped at it. “She witnessed me putting the Imperius Curse on her children and started fighting it herself. A mother’s instincts… quite impressive. It’s a very rare ability for anyone…” He stared into the middle distance for a while. “I grew worried they would start speaking to each other, and feed on each other’s worries and emotions. A child might start crying… Anything to soothe the nerves. When I sent her to make tea, she outright refused me. Told me she had to powder her nose, so she would look good for the trip. So I convinced her serving you tea was her own idea, as a respectable hostess. The main imperative was always to get everyone to leave quietly, to cause them the least amount of stress. They should come to their senses right about now…” He floated the tea can over the cups, and poured the steaming liquid into them. All tea spoons added a cube of sugar, then started to stir the tea in perfect synchrony. “With some memory alterations, of course.”

I stared at him for a full minute, until silence was stranger than anything I could have said. “You put the curse on the baby!” It was spectacular. He was. Greater than anything I could have imagined.

He put the cup down, didn’t look at me. “Yes.”

“You have regrets.”

“Of course I have regrets. These curses are unforgivable for a reason.”

“The Muggles are unharmed,” I reminded him, stroking his face. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two, but now was not the moment to point out how much I liked it. Or tell him things I wanted to do to it. He needed solace, moral support. I kept forgetting how new he was to this life, as he had adapted so effortlessly to it. “They are healthy, rich people going on a vacation. Where did you send them, by the way?”

“Home,” he said, smiling sardonically. “I didn’t know how long we’d need the house. I figured, they would be safest in England, with their extended family, so I had them pack all the money in the house, for plane tickets. They might come back, they might not. It’s up to them.”

“If they don’t come back…” I said. “The house belongs to no one.”

“Of course it doesn’t. That is not how ownership works. If it’s not them, it will be the next ambassador. The state will not leave Lagos unattended.”

“It’s not Lagos. It’s just one house. They might forget about it.” The longer I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. “We could make them forget a lot of houses…”

“That,” he pointed out, “is not how colonialism works. You can’t solve this problem house by house!”

“Why not?”

“It’s stealing, for one thing.”

“It’s stolen land, it belongs to the locals – we’re… repurposing.” It was a bit annoying. I’d thought the Robin Hood narrative would appeal to him, motivate him, even. But he was too thoughtful, too strategic to romanticise the process. The old him would have. 

“You’d be busy forever.” He rubbed his temples. “Trust me, you wouldn’t get anything else done.”

I felt a little bit insulted. Not much, but still. “You’d be surprised how productive I can be.”

“Who would give all the poetic speeches, while you collect and gift away houses?” he teased me.

“You like my speeches?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You could write one for me.”

“I…” That got his attention. He was tempted, I could sense it. “It wouldn’t be your message. It’d be…”

“Ours. As was always the intention.”

He put down the cup resolutely. “I have no interest in making you my mouthpiece.”

“We can do that later. Let’s start with the speech.”

*

He grew more relaxed, when we were alone in the parent’s bedroom. He was always the most approachable behind closed doors. No considerations of others, no worries about his surroundings… Anything that could easily stay a secret forever was my friend, in this process.

“You worry too much,” I told him, while he fixed a broken lamp, and closed the open closets and drawers with a flick of his wand. When he started to gaze out of the windows, to spot possible witnesses, I decided he had to be stopped. For his own good.

“The curtains aren’t drawn,” he protested faintly, when I kissed his neck.

“So?”

“So… people could see.” But his eyes were closed, his face relaxed. His head tilted. It was all just words, problems he told himself he had.

“Let them see. Let them be envious.” I shouldn’t have talked at all. It distracted him, and he turned around.

“I don’t think that’s the emotion you’ll receive. This is a very religious country.”

“What’s one more thing to change…” I played with his tie, then the buttons. “Do you remember the first tie you ever gave me?”

“I hate to ruin your nostalgia, but I sought to get rid of that tie.” The funeral. The old library. Dust clouds dancing in the sunlight, falling through dirty windows. Rising heat, unbearable heat. This place reminded me of our beginnings.

“It was the best birthday gift I received that year.”

“That’s because your only other gift was a book you’d already read.”

“Don’t remind me. I like to remember it that way.”  I didn’t. But he should.

*

Think of me as the boy who was sent to a strange land, the day before his seventeenth birthday. No birthday gifts from his enraged, distant parents, who were glad to be rid of him. Remember the sympathy he felt, as he took off his funeral tie, and placed it in a gift box, one that he would decorate with forget-me-nots and cornflowers, only to blush, when I teased him about it. the proud smile, when I inspected and admired the tie once more – the singular, picture perfect lavender blossoms, each different than the next, neither printed nor stitched onto the silk.

I’d complemented him on his artwork, the day we met. Pretended to be more interested in the tie than I was, because I wanted to see what he could do. “Maybe you can create one for me,” I’d said. “It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ll be seventeen before sunrise.”

“I’m sure you’ll receive better gifts,” he’d said, looking at my expensive new shoes. I’d taken to lavish shopping sprees, to annoy my parents, after I had to leave Durmstrang. With nothing to do, no friends I was allowed to contact, and only a limited selection of books I’d already read, there wasn’t much to do but annoy my mother, in ever-improving fits of creativity.

“I’m not sure I’ll receive any. My family is quite disappointed with me these days.”

“What about your friends?” he asked, immediately distraught. “Perhaps they’ll come to visit?”

“They don’t know where I am. Their parents keep them in the dark, as do mine.” I leaned in closer, and noticed him holding his breath. It was the first sign, but I wouldn’t identify it, not until later. “I’m bad news, you see. I corrupt innocent children, with my many scandalous ideas.”

“If they were so innocent, an idea alone wound not suffice.”

“Are you sure?” I played with the tie, and his eyes traced my fingers. He didn’t know what to make of me. He would tell me how very rude I was about his personal space, over and over. He had a habit of lying to himself. “I can be very convincing.”

“While that might be true, it still doesn’t suffice as an excuse. I doubt you were surrounded by innocent bystanders, when they expelled you. People tend to do as they like, and seek excuses, culprits, to avoid responsibility.”

“And you?” It would take another two days, until I could interpret the hesitation in his smile. “Are you innocent, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian -“

“Are you going to use my full name every time?”

“Yes. I like it.”

“Let’s strike a bargain,” he suggested. “I will give you a birthday present, if you call me Albus. Just Albus. No,” he interrupted me, the second I opened my mouth, “without adding the word ‘just’ every time.”

“It’s not easy, tricking you, is it?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, but he smiled wider. Gone was the fog of misery that had surrounded him, when I’d walked into the library, gone was the indifference.

“I will have to try harder, then.”

His lips twitched. A laugh. Almost. “Why do you seek to trick me?”

“It’s what I do. Deceit, corruption, and scandalous experiments.”

That got his attention: “What kind of experiments?”

“Dark ones. Dark magic. A sweet Hogwarts boy like you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Don’t assume you know me.” He looked fascinated, though I would later discover he was just staring at my hair in the sunlight. “Tell me about your experiments.”

*

“I recall,” he said, his forehead resting against mine. “I went back to the house that night, a house full of old and broken things. I had no money, and no idea what you might like. You spoke of boredom, of disliking almost anything and anybody, in your frustration. So I gave you the only thing you liked.”

“It wasn’t the only thing,” I reminded him, and he smiled.

“It was an old tie. I inherited it when my father went to prison.”

“It was beautiful. It still is.” I felt his breath on my face, the texture of his skin, as his fingertips traced my arm. “Some things are timeless.”

“They will hold your attention?”

“Always.” I kissed him, got lost in the sensation. My head spinning, the familiar warmth spreading, all the dimmed noises and smells of the world around us. It didn’t exist, not really. “You were the first truly kind person I’ve ever met, did you know that?”

“That can’t be true.”

“The first kind and interesting person, then.”

“That sounds more accurate.” His breath in my neck. Lips pressed under my ear, against a pulsing vein.

“You would have given me the shirt off of your back. A perfect stranger.”

He seemed puzzled by that. “You wanted my shirt?”

I opened a button, then another. “I want a lot of things.”

He paused, looked at the closed door. “I believe someone called your name.”

“Let them.”

The minutes passed. He grew more breathless, more passionate, though he insisted on reminding me, now and then, that we weren’t alone in the house. “The walls aren’t as thick as they are in a medieval fortress.”

“Those walls aren’t as thick as you’d like to imagine,” I told him, which didn’t help much, but his embarrassment was fun, so I didn’t stop there: “People listen on doors, every now and then, you know.”

“I can’t tell whether you want me to take off my clothes or put more of them on, because right now…”

“I want what you want.” I took his hand, pressed my lips to the stone. “I’m all yours. What will you have me do?”

“If things were always this easy…” And there it was. Beneath his desire, his arousal – who he truly was. Who he could be.

“The world is what you make it. as am I.”

“Don’t –“ He took in a sharp breath, as I bit the ring.

“Are you displeased with me?”

“A little.” A lie.

“Should I beg forgiveness?” He couldn’t answer, when I pressed my lips to his collarbone. He tried. His words, his senses failed him. “Do you want me on my knees?”

“Yes.”

 His words were breathless, his movements soft, malleable. As it was often the case with Albus, appearances can be deceiving. I felt his hand trace the side of my face. The metal, warmed from his skin. The stone, scratching my neck. Felt it in my hair, as he grabbed it, drew blood, held my head down. It wasn’t the hand he’d usually use to do that. A conscious choice. A craving, for total control. And for the time being, I let him have it.

*

“Look at it,” Vinda said fondly, shielding her eyes from the sun, her neck tilted back.

Up in the air, all clouds had become one, forming a giant symbol. The deathly hallows, made up of condensation, against a backdrop of palest blue.

“They’ll know we’re here now…”

“That isn’t all.”

Across the horizon, in all directions, dynamic patterns of radiant lights appeared as curtains, rays, spirals, or dynamic flickers, broke the shadow of clouds. Brilliant green over the city, bright pink over the sea. The light flickered, dimmed over time, but kept shining, growing paler. More intense, until it almost hurt to look at its beauty.

“Those aren’t your banners,” Vinda said, frowning. She was used to the shawls of black silk, cloaking cities in darkness.

“We’re not sending a dark calling,” I explained, as she didn’t seem to understand. In time, she would. “We’re announcing a change, one that people will welcome. The age of true enlightenment.”

She sighed, and put on her sunglasses. “I take it, this was not your idea?”

“Nigeria doesn’t have their own Aurors anymore. They barely have government representation. The people non-believers will send for are the very same we faced in Uganda, maybe more. There is no need to speed up the journey of unwanted visitors, as long as we haven’t convinced the visitors we do want of our message.”

“In other words, it’s not a permanent change?” But she sounded doubtful. We both knew it was.

“Change can be good. It’s what we offer the world.”

She hesitated, then lowered her voice. “Is this his calling, or yours? There’s a difference,” she added sharply, when I didn’t respond.

“There doesn’t have to be.”

“But it is.”

“For now.”

She chose not to comment on that.

*

The guests came one by one, bearing gifts. First, it was food. Cooked dishes, seasoned generously, looking much more appealing than the Aberfoyle’s cucumber and tomato sandwiches. Rich deserts. Candies. Then, wine. Flowers. So-called Ankara bow ties – boldly printed little things in wild, screaming patterns and flowers. Albus was the first to exchange his tie for one of them. he was practically giddy with happiness.

It wasn’t until the old woman came, that I was left breathless. She’d wrapped her gift into linen clothes. We expected mangoes, because of the shape. Yet, when she lifted the cloth, there wasn’t an uninterested pair of eyes in the house. The oval-shaped objects were pearly white. A heard shell. Dragon eggs. They almost looked like stone.

“Are these genuine?” Vinda inquired, poking her head around me.

“Of course they are,” the old woman said in indignation. “Egyptian Horntails, all three of them. In Nigeria, we only give honest gifts!”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling breathless, almost moved to tears. “I shall take the greatest care of them. what is your name?”

“Abishola,” she said, and several people around here nodded. She was known, in her circles. “I am the head teacher of Nasarawa. It is the last remaining school in Nigeria. Though in the latest years, we have become more of an orphanage. Many Muggles abandon their magical children, as they fear them. We do all we can for the children, but we’re running out of funds. We need a new patron. Someone who will protect us – the world is becoming a strange place.”

“On that we agree,” I told her. “You shall have all the help and protection you need.” I felt warm, like I was floating. Started making grand promises, grander than ever. This place, with its location, it’s resources, and infrastructure was, after all, more than special.

At some point I gave the house away as a gift to Abishola’s sister, while, to my surprise, Vinda and Albus exchanged concerned looks, so that she may house the orphans that were too young for school, and planned to make it unplottable, and invisible to non-magic eyes before we’d leave. I ended up offering more houses, and the guests rejoiced. Many of them had been robbed of their family properties generations ago, so in the grand picture, was it really stealing?

*

I found Albus by the beach, in deep conversation with two of our guests. Mostly, he seemed to be listening to them – their stories, their concerns. I’d always imagined that to be his part. He was wonderfully intuitive about people’s needs, in a way I could try and fail to be for the rest of my days. Obvious desires – money, power, love – were easy. It was the quiet, simple things, that often proved challenging in the long run.

It was past sunset. Only a sliver of golden light on the horizon remained. The sky was painted in dark shades of pink and purple, which were reflected by the ocean. And the locals stood out, in their white robes. All three of them seemed to be barefoot in the white sand, the water flooding their feet and ankles, as they walked. An intimate picture, made for a postcard. And for a fleeting moment, I wondered… Were they, too, Aurors? Was it all a ruse, a long game, in which he built international coalitions against me? Where they not my guests, but his messengers?

He remained at the beach, when they disapparated. Our eyes met. I could see his surprise, that I had been watching him, could sense that he was as suspicious of my actions as I was of his.

“Will we ever move past this?” I asked him. Two sets of footsteps remained in the wet sand.

“I can’t be sure what you are talking about.”

“The reason. Why you’re here.”

“In Nigeria?”

“With me.”

“I see.” He smiled. He wasn’t frightened. I was, though I’d never tell him that. “I was under the impression that we had a silent agreement not to talk about it.”

“We did.”

“It was peaceful, you have to admit that.”

“I’m not a big supporter of peace.”

He chuckled softly. “I noticed that.”

“What did they offer you? Money? Another trophy for your collection?” I hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but there you go.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it? Enlighten me.”

He looked into the sunset, his jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. “A few months ago, I received a visit at work. Torquis Travers – you must know of him – had given certain orders. He’d found proof of our oath. His people then obtained letters, from that summer. They had a lot of questions. And accusation. You seemed to frighten them so much that they stooped to blackmail. Insinuations were made about the tragic deaths in my family, about my possible involvement… They must have known that would not be enough, so they insinuated Aberforth might be just as responsible.” He said the last part very quick, and without looking at me. He was hurt, still. “I was able to negotiate a full pardon, for both of us, on the condition that I word for them.”

“They wanted my head on a silver platter, I’m guessing.”

“Not quite.” His eyes trailed down.

“The blood oath.”

“Precisely. My mission was to convince you to break it. I assume they then would have re-negotiated, as they were quite keen on the idea of us duelling.” He was the one sounding bitter, now.

I felt a lump in my throat, felt the blood troth twitch, felt the familiar, growing constriction in my chest, before I could feel anger. And still, I tasted bile. Was I supposed to pity my assassin? It’s what he had set out to do, after all, even though part of me didn’t want to accept it. “Why do your job, when you can simply send in Goliath?”

“I assumed you know most – in not all – of that already.” His face was soft, affectionate. Not a trace of hatred in those blue eyes. Could have fooled me.

“Would you have done it?”

“Maybe I should have.” He looked down at his hand, at the scar, the ring, and his voice grew hoarse. “But we both know the blood oath was simply an excuse, so I wouldn’t have to consider the option. When you offered to break it after Uganda I –“ He shook his head, unable to go on.

“You denied me, so you wouldn’t have to tell them we could fight each other?” It wasn’t a lot. It wasn’t even a promise that he wouldn’t harm me, if he could. If I was brutally honest with myself – and I didn’t want to be, as it made me hate both of us – I was grasping for straws. Clinging to, no, appeasing a person who might never truly be my ally.

“I wanted you to change your mind,” he confessed, and for all intents and purposes, the tears in his eyes looked real. “Because then I would not have to convince you. As long as I didn’t have options, we could just go on as we are now, and I could… feel less guilty.”

“You feel guilty – about not killing me?” Dread, rising in my chest, balling up inside my stomach, as I looked at him.

“About not stopping you,” he corrected me, and I told myself, foolishly, that it wasn’t because he was squeamish about murder, that it was about us, and nothing more. “I know some of the things you did were purely defensive, and I’m well aware that… you believe in what you’re doing – your cause –“

“Our cause!” I hadn’t wanted to snap at him, but that – him, rejecting what we’d planned – hurt more than any assassination plan could. “We both wanted this – we planned it together – stop pretending you were some lovestruck free-rider who didn’t know what this entailed! I came to you, a directionless, immature, misguided visionary with nothing but a dream – you showed me how to make it a reality – it was you who said it was our birth right –“

“And don’t you hear how entitled that sounds? How absurd?” His voice had become buttery soft, pleading, and, against my will, he’d taken both my hands, clung to them, and I was unable to move. Unable to reject him. Frozen in time. I was sixteen, and obsessed with getting a boy in a library to admire me. Seventeen, holding a gun to my head, and a knife to his hand, to impress him.

“You passed the Protego Diabolica test.” It was less of a statement. A question. A fear, spreading through me like poison. I didn’t have the nerve to ask. Me, the nightmare of Europe, admired by thousands, feared by millions, couldn’t ask Albus a simple question.

“I shouldn’t have.” He looked small, scared, and I felt painfully reminded of our first night together. Every word he said hurt more than the last. I wanted to know everything – no, I wanted him to be silent. Wanted none of it to be true.

“How did you do it?”

“That fire doesn’t work the way you think it does,” he said quietly. “Haven’t you noticed? It’s not simply a test of one’s convictions, of loyalty to your mission.” Our mission, I thought. It was like a knife to the heart, every time he denied it. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice but a whisper, “it can be enough to be devoted to a person – truly devoted –“ His voice broke, but his hand clung to mine. Still. I wanted him to drop dead. I never wanted for him to let go.

We sat there, for what felt like hours, while the sky grew darker. Massive, grey storm clouds balled up. After the dry heat of the day we were expecting a great thunderstorm. The neighbours had all their shutters closed. Some messengers walked by the house. Servants left their place of work. And the first owls hooted, landing loftily on a tree nearby.

“Are you still in contact with the Aurors? Any of them?”

“No,” he said. He hesitated. “But you are.”

“Would this be why you didn’t want Sayid to come along?”

He nodded.

“But you had no intention of telling me.”

“He’s not a bad person. It’s his job to oppose you. He has children,” he added, his eyes flickering up nervously.

“You were protecting him.”

“I was protecting a lot of people. I had to fail somewhere down the line.”

“What happened to your brother wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? you know, I keep imagining that he came back to the restaurant that night, wanting to talk. He would always come back, after a while. Maybe he saw… maybe he realized that it was never going to end as Travers had planned, that it couldn’t, and that pushed him over the edge.”

“Three days later?”

“The day I was in the Daily Prophet, walking through fire for you.” He looked into the darkness, and there was a yearning to his face. For me, for death, or absolution… it remained unclear. “I did this to him. My neglect, my actions are responsible for every death in the family. I didn’t tell on father, when he wanted to avenge Ariana. I could have, before… I didn’t visit mother once more, to bring home Aberforth, as I promised Ariana she would. My plans, our plans, are what drove Aberforth over the edge the first time, and it all ended with an innocent girl’s death. This is just the same story. I keep doing it, I can’t help myself. I should, but –”

“Do you want me to affirm your self-flagellation? You know I won’t.”

He sat there, his face buried in his hands. “What are you going to do to Sayid?” Doubt. Fear. I’d become a ruthless monster in his eyes. The boy who’d once worshipped me, the one I’d believed within arm’s reach… If I was completely honest with myself, he might have been more shocked. His version of the Greater Good, this pacifist uprising, fantastical, utopian as it was… it hadn’t been this. Or at least that’s what he thought. He just failed to see the full picture. If I could make him see, truly see what it was all about…

“I don’t believe Sayid is a lost cause.”

“What?”

“I will have him cut off from the movement, send him back into that viper’s nest he calls work and… That will be the end of it. You can be there, if you don’t believe me.”

“I do.” He swallowed, looked around for signs he was missing. He wasn’t used to surprises – he read people too well for that. “Are you certain that is the best idea? He has months of material on you…”

“He’ll already have shared that with his colleagues.”

“He knows…” He searched for words. “Sayid is incredible at what he does. The way he got me to go along with everything – every time I had doubts, or second thoughts, he was there, putting me back together. I truly believed he was my friend –“

“Maybe he was.”

“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “I’ve noticed things. Small things. He was, for a lack of a better term, slippery. He has done this before. and if he can get into your ranks, and push me in with him, he can send others.”

“Then we must be more careful. You wanted proof that I can refrain from violence, when it is not necessary. I gave you this mission – your way. Now I’m giving you a promise. I will not harm Sayid, not until I absolutely have to. Are you not happy?”

He wasn’t. He looked lost. I usually did well with lost people, they were my best audience. But Albus was trickier. “Where does that leave us? Is this – is this how it ends?”

“Of course not. This is the beginning.”

“How? After everything we’ve done to each other –“

“Radical honesty.” He sighed. “No, don’t do that. Let’s put all cards on the table. We had a mission, a true union that we swore an oath to and we have both strayed from the path. That doesn’t mean we can’t find our way back to it.”

“I know I left the cause – our cause – many year ago,” he began, and my heart beat faster. Our cause. Ours. “So you might feel that I have no right to say this, but I truly believed we’d set out to educate people. To start a revolution, to change the world for the better. And to read in the papers of all those horrible things you’ve done –“

“Some of those are lies.”

“A family. In Paris. An infant, Gellert. Was that a lie?“ I was about to lose him… I needed – a distraction – something great, impressive, tantalizing – and yet –

“No.”

“How could you do that?”

“I couldn’t. I gave the orders – I had to leave the room –“ A baby’s cry. Green light. Silence. “You were gone for a long time, Albus. I haven’t just changed, I’ve lost so much of myself – in the fight, the prisons – I saw who the Muggle family would come to be, what they would do in the next great war –“

“You saw them commit future atrocities.”

“Yes.”

“Let me ask you something.” He put one hand on my shoulder. It was disorienting. He was coming closer, while I sensed him slipping away. I panicked. Yet I was winning. All was lost. Except it wasn’t. “What do you see of your own future?”

“What?”

“Do you see yourself committing atrocities?”

My head was swimming. The sky was pitch-black, and I could barely see his face.

“Do you think someone ought to put you down, just in case?”

“Do you?” I’d never feared an answer as much as I had in that moment. Remember who the true enemy is.

“No.” He shook his head, and I gripped onto him like a drowning person. Pressed our foreheads together. “I believe you could be an incredible force for good, if you chose to be. We’ve both lost our way. Let’s find it again.”

I thought of Vinda’s warnings. Thought of a million things that would have to change.

“Say it with me,” he whispered, his forehead still pressed to mine. “One mind…”

I couldn’t help smiling. “One mind.”

“One heart.”

“One heart.” I felt tears welling up, and fought them. I won.

“One future.”

“One future.”

“For the Greater Good,” I said, and for the longest time he didn’t say anything at all. I waited, for seventeen painful heartbeats.

“For the Greater Good.”

Chapter 26: Chapter 24 – Genesis

Notes:

I would like to dedicate the chapter to JKR. She'd hate it. (And no, I don't condone this sort of violence, but the Dumbledore family does, so...)

TRIGGER WARNING FOR IMPLIED CHILD ABUSE!

Albus Dumbledore

Chapter 24 – Genesis  

The prince was overcome with grief, and in his despair he threw himself from the tower.
He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell poked out his eyes. 
Blind, he wandered about in the forest, doing nothing but weeping over the loss of his beloved. 
Thus he wandered for years, finally happening into the wilderness where Rapunzel lived miserably.
[…] And as he approached, Rapunzel recognized him, and crying, threw her arms around his neck. 
her tears fell into his eyes, and they became clear once again, and he could see as well as before.

In the beginning, it was just him and me. Two arrogant, clever boys, and their common dream of changing the world. Remaking it in our image. Truly, the highest form of vanity. Letters in the night, walks and experiments in the woods, swimming in the lake, until our legs and lungs caved. Books, we were to young to read. And some that should never be read. Especially not by teenagers, who feel that the world has wronged them. that they are owed better, based on their self-proclaimed specialness.

*

“I’m bored. Tell my why you really were expelled.”

He seemed surprised by that, and stopped plucking apart pine cones for a moment. Beneath us, the river rippled and splashed away in the evening breeze. Above, clouds formed runes and rude gestures (as I said, we were very bored). And around us was nothing but lush greenery and old, creaking pine trees.

“I told you, why.”

“The full story.”

“No.” He had taken to admiring himself in the back of a tea spoon. Started re-styling his hair, one shiny golden curl at a time. I felt a tug in my stomach, a twist, every time his fingers combed through his hair. Caught myself imagining how soft it must be. Every satisfied smirk, every wrinkle of his nose, every glance. I felt them, to my core. I didn’t know why, but the sensation both excited and worried me. A scandalous story would serve as a fine distraction.

“Why not?”

“Because you like me. And I like that you like me. If I told you my story, that might change.”

“I see.” For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then: “I haven’t heard you say that you liked me at all.”

He giggled, looking down at me, sprawled out on his aunt’s tartan picnic blanket. “Needy creature, aren’t you?” I didn’t know what to say to that. I’d never been described as ‘needy.’ People normally fought for my attention. They asked for my help, complained, when I was in another room, reading, for too long. At school, heads turned when I entered rooms. At home, a moody teenager and a fragile girl demanded my time. “I don’t know you yet.”

“I gave you a birthday present.”

“So you did.”

“You liked it.”

He looked at me. Too attentive, too sharp. I had the sudden feeling that he saw something I didn’t, and I wasn’t sure whether I was comfortable with it. “I don’t spread my affections easily. It might take some time. Perhaps, I’ll like you later.”

“Alright.” I took my sunglasses and my apple, and got up. “Then I’ll come back later.”

He laughed, and grabbed my arm, to pull me back down. “Stay! I’ll tell you my story. But be warned, it’s very dark.”

I bit into the apple. It tasted sweet and sour at the same time, and some of the juices ran down my lips. I licked it up. “I like dark.”

“And twisted.” My stomach felt twisted.

He stole my sunglasses, and looked at me, as though he were waiting for compliments.

“It had better not be dull,” I warned him. “I spent the morning sweeping and hacking up firewood. If I get any more bored, I’ll drown myself in the lake.”

“Fine, I shall be your saviour. Once upon a time,” he started dramatically, and we both broke into wild giggles, the second our eyes met. “What? You said you liked fairy tales. I’m adjusting the story to your preferences.”

“Very good. Continue.”

“Once upon a time, there was an ancient magic school. It was hidden between the glaciers of the north, and the tundra of the east. Long nights, brutal winters, and devious secrets, whispered from student to student. Its history and reputation were of darkness, and it valued strength and determination, above all. Enter, a young apprentice…”

“Are we getting to the dark and scary part soon?”

“Don’t – just…” He looked annoyed. “Let the story immerse you. Have patience.”

“I apologize. Continue.”

“The apprentice had a hunger for knowledge that the old library’s book couldn’t satiate, and a liking for mischief. While other children loved their pets, and possessions, and siblings, he loved magic, above all. He soon discovered that the lectures were slow paced. Learning magic, any magic was too easy. He liked the praise he got, but it wasn’t enough. He liked the books, the charms, potions, the dark arts, but that, too, could never be enough. Everything was given to him in small bites. Everything was terribly slow and easy. For him – not for the others…”

I remembered my first classes. Remembered, students starting to stare and whisper around me, and that time, it wasn’t to gossip about my family. The awe, the envy – oh, how I’d loved their glances!

 “Over time, he found ways to entertain himself. He got lost between the bookshelves, lost in his magical dreams. And he started to practice magic no one had taught him. Magic that wasn’t for children. He would charm the food they brought him, jinx every door and painting, curse the staircases leading to the dungeons, and transfigure even his own blood, drop by drop.”

“How do you curse a staircase?”

“Disorientation spell. Everyone who steps on it, forgets where they wanted to go. It gets stronger, the older you are – that way, professors arrive late to class, and you can be unsupervised longer.”

“Impressive.”

“I am. I’m very impressive.” He sighed, laying down on the blanket, his head resting in my lap, as if it was the most natural thing to do. “Time went on, and boredom grew. And in the dark, ideas bloomed. Fantastical ideas, spurred on by dreams, visions – dreams that the others wouldn’t understand. So he had to make them see. He would raise animals from the dead, make them dance, make them wander the halls. He’d concoct his own potions, and dare his friends to try them. create illusions, play with the wind, earth, fire – when it all wasn’t enough, when his appetites for danger and adventure grew, he would start to play with the protections of the school itself. Lift secrets, break down spells, walls, put cracks into the mysteries that had been protected over generations. He made the grounds plottable for a day, opened the front gates for an hour, drew in a Muggle, made him get lost in the woods. And still, it wasn’t enough.”

I was in awe, watching his lips move, feeling the warmth of him. His hands were now re-assembling the pine cone, and I couldn’t stop staring at them. the quick movements of his fingers, the veins along his wrists and knuckles, the light, almost invisible bit of blonde hair on his arms. He’d rolled up his sleeves. The was a scar on one arm, clean and deep, and a birthmark on the other, the shape of a broken star. At least that’s what I saw, when I looked at it. Gellert insisted it was a flame.

The story grew darker from there. Spirits were raised, and started possessing children, spoke and acted through them, like they were puppets. Other times, people sleepwalked. Up and down the stairs, on the roof, walking over shindles, on bare feet. A metamorphosis caused the devil’s snare in the greenhouses to years for the sun, making them attack everyone who’d open the door. A shadow followed the headmaster around for days, until he discovered that it wasn’t his own. People looked into a mirror, and found a stranger’s eyes looking back at them. A grimoire called on people, forcing them to read and read, for hours on end, unable to put it down. Unable to blink, or look away. A local graveyard drew attention, as a recently buried man was seen walking around his neighbour’s house. a coyote stalked the school owls (it turned out to be a transfigured owl who didn’t want to leave her friends).

“So what did it? Did they built a case against you, over the years?”

“They couldn’t prove most of it,” he said, and this seemed to bother him for some reason. “I knew I couldn’t let them in on all my work, but I did want them to see me. what I could do. So I would add a magical signature to some of my work. They’re still unjinxing that mirror, I think. No, it was a poison I created. You see, there was this nosy prefect, who kept reporting me, getting me into trouble. I couldn’t have that. He had to be taught a lesson. It was easy, really. all I needed to do was get him to drink a glass of sugared pumpkin juice. To mask the taste,” he explained, when I looked confused. Even I wouldn’t add sugar to juice.

“What did the poison do?” I wanted to know, more than anything. It should have concerned me, to dine with someone who jinxed and manipulated people for joy, but it had the opposite effect. Everything about Gellert was fascinating. Every bit of his story drew me in.

“One its own, nothing. Three drops of his drink were poison, and it would cause pain within an hour of ingesting it. It could attack his body from within, tear cells, vessels, and bones apart, but that was not the intention. I did it to prove that he hated me, to teach him a lesson. Every time he would feel hatred towards me, the drops would duplicate. So, as he would run to adults to report me, his stomach would tear itself apart. When he’d berate me, his legs would cave in. When he’d be jealous of me, his lungs would start burning. And if he’d ever figure it out, and attack me…” His lips curled to a smile. I was drawn to the indentation in his lower lip.

“He didn’t.”

“He did. after a month of missed classes, nights in the hospital wing… He was so full of rage, it was delicious. Cornered me in the dining hall, in front of everyone. There was blood trickling from his ear, when he started screaming. His eyes were bulging, and the veins across his skin ran dark and red, you could see it through the skin. He collapsed, when he attacked, but he kept going… It was beautiful. Karmic justice.” He closed his eyes, enjoying his memory.

“So it had to happen – for justice?”

“No. it had to be. For fate to correct my course. You see…” He handed me the pine cone. It looked curved, twisted, every piece of it had reformed, like a small rune. “If I hadn’t cursed him, I wouldn’t have been exposed. Then I wouldn’t have been punished, or expelled, and my parents wouldn’t have sent me to England, and I wouldn’t have met you. Fate.” When he opened his eyes to smile at me, their expression was serene. Alluring.

“So you do like me?”

“One could say that.”

*

There’s a house in the mountains of the Austrian Alps. Grand, ancient, infamous. From inside, one can look down at the clouds, at the world, really. It’s built up high, so high that few people have seen it, and even fewer have left to tell their tale. Some die, some stay, and most (due to their lack of magical abilities) can’t see it at all. To them, it is all jagged stones and hills, surrounded by a beautiful turquoise lake.

I drew that lake around it, at Gellert’s request. It was tricky to displace an entire ecosystem, with its underwater plants and animals, though that is not what people see when they look at it. they only notice the brilliant blue, the softness of the reflection. And if they signal their arrival to the inhabitants, and receive an invitation, they are able to walk the bridge, and cross the waters. Due to the height of the house, I did have to create a waterfall. It was the only way to keep river and lake connected. People kept asking me, how it kept flowing, how the water remained in the lake. As most witches and wizards don’t have the patience to listen to hours and hours of elemental magical theories and their application, I would simply smile and say nothing. Gellert was the exception. He’d inspected every step of the process, hanging onto my every word with the same shining eyes he had for fairy tales, books so dusty they were about to fall apart, and the darkest secrets a person could tell. He asked endless questions, quite like a waterfall himself, and took to sitting next to it, when it was wind still and sunny, being sprayed with a slight breeze.

“Isn’t it like being in England?” he would joke. “Like being back home.”

Was it home? I’d asked myself that very question, over and over. I’d grown closer to the people inside, yet, ideologically, we were diametrically opposed. Some of the time. And yet… They’d started to listen. To me. ‘The architect,’ they called me, a title I don’t claim. The curator of what had become their, and once been my, cruel dream: The Greater Good. A utopian idea of society, evolved. No more secrets, surrounding the magical world. An excuse for what had to be done to achieve this utopia.

*

“How long has Paris been your home?” Guillaume asked, when I first met him. It was an art exhibition, March of 1901, and we’d both taken a shine to the same Expressionist, blue painting. It emanated a light, a shine, though it shouldn’t. The intensity of colour alone was what drew people in.

“I’m not so sure it is.”

“Ah,” he said, “the English, always so reserved – you’re not a man for the city life?”

He was settled. Employed. Apolitical. Dark hair and skin. Quiet, not one to run into crowds or enjoy large parties. More fond of animals than people, though he cherished his family and friends. Warm, and empathetic towards strangers. In short, the complete opposite of Gellert in every way possible. It was as though I finally found what I’d been looking for.

One day, out of the blue, Guillaume wore a necklace. When I asked him where he’d gotten it, he changed topics. But I knew the symbol all too well. I tried to ignore it, tried to keep my life going as it had for as long as I could.

It all fell apart, when he said he wanted to share his passion for old books with me. I didn’t know what had kept him from doing so earlier. He knew I was an avid reader, a published writer, even. It wasn’t until I saw the collection, until I walked a library that clearly wasn’t his, because it couldn’t be, that I understood I hadn’t escaped my old life at all. He’d found me. he’d always find me. it was as he promised – I’d never be without him, no matter how much I longed to be.

*

“I need a favour,” Zoska Carrow said one day, out of the blue. She’d insisted on a walk, which was unusual enough by itself. We didn’t spend much time together. Abernathy had told me that it had been her, who’d killed the baby in Paris. He was as disturbed by that as I was, and he wasn’t the only one.

“You do?”

“I know it might surprise you that I’m coming to you with this… incident. I’m aware of what you must think about me.”

“I’d say it’s less about you, and more about certain things you’ve done. I hardly know you.”

“Yes.” She walked faster, and I sped up to match her pace. Zoska hated small talk, and I could tell that she was considering how much of it would be necessary for our conversation. “It’s not for me, it’s for my daughter.”

That, I hadn’t expected.

“You’re surpised,” she said.

“Forgive for pointing this out, but you don’t seem the maternal type.”

 “Paris?”

I nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

“Who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not. If you must know, I didn’t have children by choice – not really. I got married very young – it was expected by my family – and I – well, I tried to prevent it, but I’m a lousy potion maker. My then-husband controlled the finances, so I couldn’t buy them, either. I had two children. They’re being raised by him and his new wife. They’re well-off. I send money on occasion,” she said, as if she felt the need to defend herself.

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Yes.” She walked even faster, talked faster. “There are rumours, at Beauxbatons. My… daughter’s teacher has taken a liking to her. I need it to stop. My ex – Maurice – he’s threatened to sent Aurors, the moment I go near the children – he doesn’t approve of my politics – and I know the school will do the same.”

“Have you reported this to someone? The headmaster, or the school board? Other professors?”

“All of them.” She stood, panting. Her hands balled to fists. “I’ve sent anonymous letters, listing all the details I know, but nobody is doing anything! He’s still working – and – and she’s too young – he can’t – I can’t allow it –“ She glanced around, as if to look for listeners that weren’t there. looked at the empty windows above us. “I need someone with your abilities,” she said, very quietly, “to make it go away, before – I don’t even want to imagine!”

“Of course not.” For a while, neither of us spoke. “And you’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Yes! And even if I wasn’t – wouldn’t you want to find out? You’re not one of those professors who covers for the others, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” She took out a handkerchief, and made a fuss about blowing her nose, so I couldn’t tell her eyes were tear-filled. I had a sense that she hid her emotions a lot, that at least some of her toughness was façade. “Will you help me? Please?”

I hesitated. “Does Gellert know about this?”

“He can’t know,” she said, very quickly. “Whatever you do – do NOT tell him, do you hear me? The last thing I need to happen is a repetition of… well, it was Vinda’s fiancé. A messy affair. An ugly curse, he’s been in and out of the hospital for years – no, I need… You do things quietly. Without casualties. It will be better for Milena, if… She’s not like me. She’s young. Sensitive. There is no need to traumatize her. The less she knows about all this, the better.”

“Wouldn’t she know something? If there is an involvement – I take it, your daughter is seventeen?” It was a wild guess, based on how many people had ignored Zoska’s warnings.

“What? No, of course not, Milena’s twelve! How old do you think I am?” She looked more frantic now. Desperate. “Look – all I need is for him to forget that he’s taken a shine to her – or be exposed – I don’t care, either way…”

“If he forgot – wouldn’t someone like that go after another child?”

“I don’t know.” She stuck a hand inside her coat pocket and retrieved a letter. “But my daughter has never written to me before, and I have verified that this is from her. She’s scared. People don’t believe her, her… parents… they don’t listen to her. Nothing has happened yet, I think, so there’s nothing to prove. But if she was scared enough to find me, whom she’s been taught to fear –“

I read the letter. The French parts – I’d never learnt to speak Polish. It was a plea for help. The girl seemed insecure. Scared. I know I shouldn’t speak of Professor Humbert’s secrets… I was warned not to contact you… Doubting her own suspicions, her memories. Someone had tried to convince her not to tell people, it seemed. An adult, someone with influence. Over the way she lived, spoke, thought. I felt sick. Still…

“You want me to make this go away.”

“Quietly. I want her to know she is safe.”

“I would have thought you’d want to kill the man yourself.”

“Like your father did?” She rolled her eyes, when I looked surprised. “Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. A man without a criminal record murders teenage boys, right after his daughter disappears? A rumour about the girl being too delicate for school? It’s the oldest tale in the world. Every other village has one. I take it those boys got further than Humbert.”

“People make a lot of assumptions.” It was uncomfortable. I hated talking about many things involving Ariana, but this – this was the worst. I’d only ever told one person the full truth, and I’d had a breakdown in the process of doing so.

*

“You must think I’m pathetic,” I said, when I could speak again. My eyes burned, still. My throat felt dry, and my knees weak.

We were sitting on the floor of Gellert’s room, surrounded by the piles of books we’d been reading all morning. Me, holding on to a handkerchief with mother’s initials, Gellert wearing the tie I’d once gifted him, despite the heat. Wearing any clothes at all was torturous, but he always insisted on looking ‘presentable,’ as his aunt teased him. He always puts on his Sunday best when you’re coming over, she’d tell me. I can hardly keep up with the laundry!

“Why would I think that?” He’d been holding me for what must have been hours, while I’d cried my eyes out, until I felt like throwing up. my forehead burned, though there was no fever, and I couldn’t shake the pounding pain behind my temples.

“Because I am. Crying over things I can’t change, like a child, when I should be…”

“What? What should you do?”

“I don’t know – be the man of the house. Look after my family. The truth is I hate it – what happened to her, to all of us – but I’m still not cut out for this! Staying in a village, being a caregiver. Every day, I resent her more, and none of this is her fault…” My voice broke. I could feel the tears welling up again, and hated myself for it. “I just feel so – useless and overwhelmed and alone – the more I am at home, surrounded by them, the worse it gets – I can’t –“

“Stop.” He’d wrapped both arms around me again, before I could say another word. I smelled the vanilla of his soap, the freshly pressed shirt, the raspberry notes of his bubblegum. Felt my eyes, my throat, burning, felt all the dread in the world pressing in on me, holding me down –

“You’re not alone,” he promised. “You’ll never be alone again. You’ve got me.”

*

“I don’t need details, your face says it all.” She sighed. “Could you live with yourself, if it happened to another girl? She can’t avoid him, she has to see him twice a week in class. And at meal times. And supervised studies. He… accompanies field trips. Supervises Quidditch practice. Gives detentions. Where she’d be alone with him!”

The mere thought turned my stomach. If I felt like this – about a complete stranger – I could only imagine how her mother would feel.

*

“I did not know you were still interested in teaching,” Professor Louis Millefeuille, the headmaster of Beauxbatons, said. “Truth be told… And I won’t say we’re opposed to, ah, different viewpoints, but I’m not sure how the schoolboard will take your interest. They do not approve of, ah, scandal.” He whispered the last words. “I’m open-minded, myself, but you know how rigid those government people can be, non?”

“Oh, I know all too well. Forgive me, when I heard of the vacancy, I just couldn’t resist reaching out – you know of my passion for Transfiguration, I’ve been publishing academic articles about it since third grade.”

“Yes, and I’ve read them all. Very impressive, yes, yes. You are definitely not returning to Hogwarts, then?”

“I’m afraid so. It was a good experience, but I miss living in France. And a part-time job like this one would allow me to publish more, with credits to the school, of course.”

“I would like to steal one of Dippet’s professors, I can’t lie,” Millefeuille said. “And the most famous one, as well… The opportunity for the students to improve their English… Ah, it couldn’t hurt to give you a tour of the school, non? We can see where I’ll get with the board later, if you’re truly interested.” He pulled out a thick, leather-bound calendar, and started scanning it. “I’m afraid, most of our Professors are working at the moment. Should be difficult… I’m about to go to a meeting with a donor myself…” I knew. I’d invented the meeting. “But our school healer could show you around, would you like that? She’s from Paris, you might even know her!”

“I don’t think I know every witch in Paris,” I said, and he laughed, and hurried off.

When he returned, the beautiful witch by his side looked less thrilled than he’d been to meet me. she was tall, almost as tall as me, and had voluminous, curly black hair. The navy silk robes and golden bracelets gave her a regal look, and she was quiet, as we walked the marble-tiled, sunlit hallways. The breath-taking beauty of the chateau, surrounded by formal gardens and lawns created out of the mountainous landscape by magic, had not been oversold by every French witch or wizard who’d ever told me it was the most beautiful castle in the world. It was quiet, more quiet than Hogwarts had been.

“Aren’t classes being held right now?”

“Of course they are,” she said, surprised. “Why would you ask that, professor?”

“Please, call me Albus.”

“I wasn’t sure, if I should. We haven’t really –“

“I take it, I made an appearance in French papers, as well?”

“Yes.”

“I hope I don’t frighten you. I promise, I come in peace.”

“I hadn’t taken you for the teacher type,” she said, after a while. Her voice was warm, gentle. Familiar.

“Why? I’ve been a professor for years.”

“I didn’t know that. You never seemed…” She stopped herself. There was something she’d been wanting to get off her chest, but, apparently, not enough to speak about it.

“Have you been working here for a long time?”

“A few years.”

“You must know the students well, then. I’m sure you take great care of them.”

“Not really.” She frowned. “I only meet them, when they’re sick or have injuries. That doesn’t happen very often.”

“I’m sure they come to you, asking for all sorts of help. I know me and my friends got in our fair share of trouble that we wouldn’t necessarily tell the Professors about…”

“Oh, I know,” she said, smiling fondly, though she quickly averted her eyes, when I looked at her for too long.

“But we’d have to come clean in the Hospital Wing.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” She still wouldn’t look at me. something was definitely going on at this school.

“How well do you know Professor Humbert?” Maybe the direct approach would be best. If he went after one girl, he might have done it before. Maybe there’d been an injury, a tearful confession of his last victim, or even a pregnancy.

“Not well – we – we don’t speak much. He’s… I don’t mean to speak ill of a colleague, but…” She sighed. “He hasn’t exactly been pleasant to work with. There’s no need to discuss it any further. He’s conservative. I understand that.” She fell silent, then started speaking again, rapidly: “You’d hate him, trust me, he’d be the last person you’d want to work with, I can’t even imagine sharing a teacher’s longue with that… that…” She breathed heavily, the thin golden necklace rising and falling.

“You might be right about that. Can you tell me exactly what he’s done?”

“He never does anything – if he did, I could report him, but he’s perfectly cordial, he just… He refuses to call me Colette. He believes it’s,” she laughed, mirthlessly, “not morally right to do so.”

“I don’t understand… Does he insist on calling you by your last name? What is your last name, by the way?”

It was as though she hadn’t heard me at all. “And if that’s not all, I know he’s the one who’s been spreading rumours, implying that I shouldn’t be left alone with the female students, because I might give them ideas, or, or worse… He’s making me out to be some kind of predator,” she whispered. “And I can’t take it anymore – and I’m not – you know I would never hurt anybody! You believe me, don’t you?” The eyes – round, grey, the long lashes… I did trust her, I realised.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

She looked confused for a moment, then amused, but in a sheepish, shy way. “Don’t you recognise me at all?” She sighed, when I couldn’t place her. “I guess we’ve both changed. I thought you hated dark magic – you couldn’t get out of my library fast enough, remember?”

And then, it all clicked. The familiarity, the voice, the comments – it all made sense. “Gillaume?”

“Colette,” she corrected me.

“Of course, I’m terribly sorry – I have no idea how I didn’t see it. you must think I’m so rude!”

“No, but I’ve reconsidered how clever you are for half an hour now. We dated for two months - the headmaster even introduced me by my first and last name –“

“In my defence, Dubois is a very common last name and you mentioned almost a hundred cousins. Even I couldn’t keep track of their names. I did think there might be a relation, but I didn’t… see you, I suppose.”

“Did you ever see me?” She looked sad. Lonely. I’d have thought, living in a French castle would be thrilling, but given the colleagues she had, maybe it wasn’t perfect.

“It’s difficult to spot the signs for something, if you don’t know it exists. It did exist – back then – did it not?”

“It always did. I wanted to tell you, but you cut me off, when I showed you some books, so I thought – this might be too much for you. It was a shame,” she added. “I’d just inherited that house. I thought you’d be excited for me. I… well, I thought you’d like it. The library. Most people are judgmental about certain books, but you were always so open and accepting… And now I see you with Grindelwald’s people, so perhaps it wasn’t the books at all, which makes me wonder, whether it was me. but you didn’t know about me.”

“No.” My head was buzzing. The library… an inheritance… I’d always thought Gellert must have been involved somehow. Had I imagined it all? Pretended he was obsessed with me, in a way that had never been true? Paris, Athens, Dublin, Alexandria – what had really happened? Had it all been in my head? “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” She did sound nervous about the prospect.

“You started wearing a necklace, before you showed me your library…”

“That.” She smiled. For a moment I thought I saw her blush, though it might have just been the make up. “I didn’t cheat on you, I promise – I just – there was a stranger, in a café – he gave it to me, as a present. I was waiting for you, actually, so it was awkward, and I first asked him to leave, but he was so insistent, so charming – I have no idea, why I agreed to accept his gift. We talked for a few minutes, he gave me the necklace, and I never saw him again. I’m not even sure, why I kept wearing it for months…” She grasped at her neck, lost in thought.

I did. “Very charming. I understand, of course. Blonde? Eastern European?”

“Yes, how did you know that? Do you know him?”

“We… met. Listen, I’m happy for you – and might I add that hair is very flattering on you – but we really need to talk about Humbert. I could use an ally, and he needs to be dealt with, I’m afraid.”

“For Grindelwald?” she whispered. “Oh, you’ve gone dark dark – I like it. Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m afraid so. Is there anywhere we can talk?” She lead the way to an empty classroom, and I followed her. It was small. Every surface of the walls was covered in Aramaic runes, and a delicate, baroque frame holding a blackboard stood by the teacher’s desk. “You know I don’t date women, right?”

“You found a man willing to put up with all that purple? Good for you!” She paused. “Anyone I’d know?”

“You wouldn’t believe me, if I told you.”

*

Professor Humbert wasn’t what I’d expected. He was neither old nor young. Colette had estimated him to be ten years my junior, but it was hard to be certain. his hair was short, sandy-blonde. A rigid cut. He wore conservative robes, ironed, with a pressed cut. Black. His shoes were polished, new. He had a Marseille dialect, and a polite, friendly demeanour.

“You work at Hogwarts, non?” He smiled. “Ah, yes, I have read many books about it. My Grandmother went there. Gryffindor – her entire house was red and golden, for all her life. We thought it was tacky, but she insisted…”

“Are you familiar with any of my other work?”

“I don’t think so.” He looked at me, taxing, disapproving. My coat was too colourful for his taste, and the creative sock choice wasn’t to his liking, either. “Are you published?”

“I am. But that’s not what I’m referring to. I work with one of your student’s parents – Zoska Carrow. She is the mother of Milena Perrot.”

“I didn’t know that.” He frowned. “I’ve heard the name. Isn’t there an arrest warrant in her name?”

“There are several. She’s wanted in seven countries. She’d hate for me to be imprecise about that.”

“And you work with her?” He fanned himself with a newspaper. It was hard to say whether I’d rattled him. “You’re one of Grindelwald’s followers?”

“I’m not a follower.”

“Still…” He shook his head. “If you’re familiar with that woman, you must report her! She’s killed people! Children, even! I don’t know what I expected from a mother who leaves her husband and children, but a murderer? She, eh, won’t come near this school, will she? I’d have to alert someone – for the children’s safety.”

“We all want children to be safe, Professor Humbert. We – Zoska and I – especially want Milena to be safe. If that is guaranteed, her mother will not come near the school. If not, she might feel compelled to intervene.”

“Why wouldn’t she be safe here?” He looked down, as he said it. Packed books into his heavy leather bag. A brief smile. Polite. Confident. He was less guarded than he thought.

Legilimens.

It was easy, like stepping through an open door. One had to make sure the footsteps were quiet, that was all. A door, ajar, lights dimmed. He was a man of many secrets. Guarded – or so he thought. He knew the girl I talked of, as he’d been watching her closely. The soft, swinging dark curls, escaping her braid. He pushed the hair behind her ear, and she looked up at him, laughing. One crooked tooth. Her teeth were sharp, pearly, her lips so very small and pink. She wore bracelets, and he saw them, reflecting the sunlight. He’d moved her to a window seat, so he could see them more. she was happy, so very happy – called him her favourite professor – she giggled, when he offered her to use his first name, if no others were around. So happy, so very thrilled to be granted the kindness…

“Has Milena ever been disciplined by you? A detention, perhaps?”

“I don’t see any reason to discuss my students with strangers.”

She was bent over her notebook, her little pink tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, and she didn’t even notice. Her hair, almost perfect. Braided evenly. He imagined his hand gripping it, holding her close. Just then, she looked up, her eyes wide. Sparkly. Long, black lashes, rosy cheeks. Innocent. Unspoiled, by the rotten world out there.

“Your hemline is too short,” he scolded her.

She blushed. One hand rubbed her ear, rubbed it red. A nervous tick, one of many. He could see the uneven fingernails. She’d chewed them down, and he longed to punish her… But the hemline was really too short – he could see her calves, see a scratch on them, all the way up to her knee, as she sat.

“I’ve grown since the summer.” Too forward. Too loud. Not as a girl should be. The world was corrupting her already.

“You don’t have children, do you, professor?”

“No.” He looked puzzled. “Do you?”

“I don’t. I’m not sure I would like it very much. I had to take care of my sister when I was young, and it wasn’t an enjoyable experience. For either of us. Do you have siblings, sir?”

“I had a sister. She passed.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Were you close?”

He hated that I dared to ask. Resented me, the question, her. Who she’d become. Bitter, withdrawn. Not answering letters. Turning his nieces against him. Her husband, even. They’d been so close, when she was young. Pure. He’d played with her all day, patiently, generously. Watched her dress and undress her dolls. Bought her ice cream, and she loved it, licked it all up, traces of the purple liquid smearing on her chin. Drops on her perfect while blouse. Mother had had to punish her, that evening. She’d cried, tried to tell them some story, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

When she left for school, she started spending the holidays with friends. Liberals, half-bloods, even people without house elves. She changed. Cut off her perfect blonde hair, the braids he’d loved to pull, to tease her. Ruined her perfect earlobes with piercings. She’d dress boyish, and he hated it, but he couldn’t tell her, as she refused to spend time alone with him – spoiled, rotten, ruined…

I had to take a break. Left him to his own devices, and went for a walk. His mind – the glimpses I’d seen, and the ones I didn’t want to see, because I knew I couldn’t stomach them – was so galling, I felt like I needed to cleanse my own. Fresh air, pure, untainted. Though when I saw a group of school girls walk by in their uniforms, skirts swinging, and wondered whether Milena was one of them, I couldn’t shake the thought of him. The haunting memories of who he truly was.

Professor Millefeuille was sad to see me go. He would later remember walking me to the front gates, waving, as the carriage drove off. Colette spent the evening, and following night, with a group of Quidditch players who all felt terribly dizzy, though I couldn’t say, why. They would remember her loving care, the cups of tea she brought them.

And Professor Humbert… he went about his day. Graded homework. Read a book by the fireplace, while supervising the detention of a fourth-year student with long, curly hair. (Dresscode violation.) He stared at her, lost in thought. Thoughts about his sister, about what a pain she’d become at that age. How distant. Despite the love he felt for her. She must have done it to spite him, he thought. He returned to his office after dinner, treating himself to a glass of wine. (His late sister’s husband had gifted it to him. They’d become friends, since the funeral. He’d even promised Humbert to introduce him to his nieces, finally.) Then another. And another. When he felt tipsy, he decided on a night time stroll.

He couldn’t tell, exactly, what drew him to the Astronomy terrace, on the roof. In the quiet, in the dark, he strolled over to the orrery, and gazed at the stars. The golden telescopes were installed all over the terrace, a gift from the Flamel family. He wasn’t familiar with them, though he’d been assured by the other donors, who he counted as dear friends, that they were quite extraordinary.

“They are,” he heard a voice. “They’re wonderful people. They’ve always been very fond of this school.”

“Dumbledore!” He clutched a hand to his chest. “Tu m'as fait peur! I didn’t see you there.”

“Ah. That would have been because I was invisible.”

“Oui?” Humbert swayed slightly. Held on to a telescope. “Invisible. Do you do that often?”

“Only when circumstances call for it. I heard you had a detention scheduled, so I thought it’d be best, if you had some supervision. In fact, we spent all day together, you just forgot. It happens to the best of us.”

“You – you were watching me? Tu es quoi, une sorte de pervers? Un prédateur?“

“You shouldn’t accuse people of being predators. It never ends well. It didn’t for your sister, did it?”

“You – you know… her?” He hiccupped, pressed a hand in front of his mouth. “J’accuse.”

“That’s quite alright. To answer your question, I never met your sister, though my heart goes out to her and her family – excluding you, of course.”

His brother-in-law, leading the girls away, at her behest. The hateful looks she gave him, as their matching blue skirts swung back and forth. She’d dressed them without socks, and the straps of their sandals rubbed their ankles raw. Careless. Hastily assembled braids, loose, their curls flying in the wind – as if she didn’t care at all. He’d taken better care of her, when she was small. He’d always braided her hair, tight and perfect. Like a little doll.

“We’re more alike than you think,” I told him, and the recognition in his eyes, the disgusting thoughts that towered over him, almost made me lose my breath. “Not like that, professor. You see, my brother recently took his life. And just like you did with your sister, I had ruined him, broken his heart in many ways. I didn’t mean to do it – in my mind, I believed I was putting in effort to be a good brother. Just like you. And in a very, very different way, I suppose you could say we both are predators.”

His beady eye grew big and round, and I could see the moonlight reflected in them. “She sent you. The Carrow woman.” He finally understood. Acknowledged it, even if he’d never say the words out loud. He didn’t need to.

“Yes. I already said that.”

“She’s a wicked woman,” he said, his eyes narrowing. He took in a deep breath. “Oh, I’ve had too much to drink.” He hadn’t, but I could see why he would feel that way. “She… what a bitch!” He laughed, then cursed in rapid French. “The tears poor little Milena cried, because she left them behind! Can you imagine? What kind of parent would abandon their sweet little girl like that? I comforted her, I really tried. Oh, she’d hug me so close, that sweetheart – I don’t think she gets any hugs at all at home!”

“I know. I know you did.” I couldn’t help but feel like crying. He reminded me of the day Ariana had ran home. Her torn dress, the dirt on her arms and legs. Her hair, knotted, dirty, bloody, the braid loose, the flower crown Aberforth had made her still in there, in the dirt. “I wish I could tell you I know everything, but between you and me, it disgusts me too much. You understand, don’t you?”

“I… you watched me,” he repeated, dumb-struck. “You… you’re here – for me.”

“Yes. Professor, if you don’t mind, I don’t think you should teach anymore. It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?” He looked around, then back at me, dazed. “You’re closer now.” His voice sounded alarmed. He should be.

“Yes. For all parties involved, it’d be best, if you took a step back. Yes. And another. Very good. You’re almost there.”

“But I’ll fall of the roof,” he protested, trying to stop his legs from walking. “You – you’re doing this – make it stop!”

“Remember,” I told him, “you can’t apparate or disapparate on school grounds. It’s for the student’s safety. Two more steps, and it’s over.”

“I don’t want to fall,” he protested, tears running down his face. I felt for him. His pain, his confusion, felt for the child he’d been, once. The misguided, irredeemable individual. I’d be lying if I said this didn’t hurt me. His fear, it gripped onto me, as he walked faster, stumbled, reached for his wand –

“Expelliarmus.” I caught it, then placed it on the floor. I had no need for it. And neither would he, soon.

“You – you want to kill me – you’re here to – you want to make it look like a suicide,” he stuttered.

“Of course not, that would draw too many questions. You’re not suicidal, Professor. You’re having an accident. One more step, come on. I assure you, I’m really very sorry about this – if there were any other way – if your victims were believed – but I’d like to spare them the shame. You know what people are like.”

He tried to grip for the railing. His hand slid off, then got a better grip. A man, fighting for his life. An assassin. He truly was to be pitied, if you looked at it that way.

“Dumbledore – please –“

“Petrificus Totalus!”

His arms and legs snapped down. Rigidly, like an ironing board, the fear frozen on his face, he fell backwards, into the darkness. Some spells don’t break, when your victim dies. This one does.

Notes:

Don't worry, I didn't just glaze over Albus' exes and their history with Gellert (see chapter 2). We'll be revisiting that entire history very soon!

Chapter 27: Chapter 25 – The Dark Face of Love

Notes:

Let's bring back all the creepy memories of their past relationship. Let's go all in and Joe Goldberg this bitch - I wanna see how many readers I can pull in to root for Gellert after knowing about the past decades. (It's his perspective, so he'll think of it as super romantic, occasionally funny, of course.)

Also, the pool scene HAD to be there. I thought of Albus making fun of him for that outfit choice ever since "Secrets of Dumbledore." Someone had to do it!

POV Gellert Grindelwald

Chapter 25 – The Dark Face of Love

And then, right when you thought you might just disappear, he saw you.
And you knew, somewhere deep, it was too good to be true. 
But you let yourself be swept, because he was the first strong enough to lift you. 
Now, in his castle, you understand Prince Charming and Bluebeard are the same man. 
And you don’t get a happy end unless you love both of him.
Didn’t you want this? To be loved? 
Didn’t you ask for it?

Once upon a time, in an English village, so sleepy and quaint people forgot to tell stories about it when they travelled, two young minds met, inspired, adored, and devoured one another. Theories became plans, books became literary journeys, and the suffocating boredom of small town living evaporated, like it had never been there. As the heat was rising, impressions of the future became the first inspiration for a revolution – one like the world hadn’t seen before. Jahrhundertsommer, people would later call it. The summer of the century. And it was, in more ways than they’ll ever know.

I ran from that fairy tale, when the spell broke. Left behind all the letters I couldn’t burn, left behind a broken heart and took another with me, unintentionally, stuffed a suitcase, and waited for my portkey. I’d never thought of myself as someone who ran from danger, but then I hadn’t known true danger.

“A szerelem lesz a halálod,” my grandmother had told me when I was a child. Love will be the death of you. A prediction, or a lesson learned? Over the years, her words fed my dreams, fears, my very idea of the future. I kept seeing the visions – Albus, attacked by an Obscurial, swallowed whole. Me, surrounded by flames, as he stepped over me. He never helped me in those visions. He just stood and stared, while the heat felt like my skull was about to burst, and then I’d wake, and that feeling would persist.

Love will be the death of you. Had she been right?

*

“Does it have to be a specific knife?”

Bis father's old hunting knife lay in between us. I didn't know why he thought it was insufficient. It had, after all, been a wedding present from his mother. A connection to her indigenous roots - one of the last traces of it in this house. 

“I don’t think so, no. Maybe it’d help. It just says right here that we need to embalm the blade in the potion from full moon to new moon, then let it dry it for at least one full day.”

“It wouldn’t need an hour, up here!”

“According to the instructions, it would.”

We must have sat up in his little attic bedroom for hours, pondering over the stolen book and its mysterious instructions. The margins were scribbled with notes, and we’d written so many rolls of parchment full of ideas that we had to pin them to the inside of Albus’ shabby little closet for easy access and concealment. If it was up to me, the whole world should know about our revolutionary plans. This – this was different. Private.  

The concept, at first glance, seemed simple. Agree on your vows, make the potion, keep the blade in it, voluntarily and individually come to an agreed upon location, and perform the ritual at sunset. Yet there were traps. Little hurdles. Many had failed along the way. You see, with an Unbreakable Vow, the burden, initially, is on the sealant. The participants in the vow itself only have to say the right words. But a blood oath – you have to mean it. Mean it so much that you’re willing to attach your own magic to it, for protection. If one or both parties aren’t sure, if you’re not aligned perfectly, if the potion is anything but perfect one creates the illusion of a blood troth. Easily broken – and breaking the troth by force often results in the death of the people involved.

“I still think we ought to add a full moon cycle to it,” Albus argued, squinting at the text. It was his own fault he couldn’t read it – he was the one who’d kept scribbling between the lines. “Can I have my reading glasses back?”

“No. You said we’d share everything.”

“I meant clothes and food, obviously. You don’t need glasses.”

“But don’t they make me look smart?”

“Why would you need any help in that department? Cleverness isn’t a visible quality.”

Poor, silly Albus. “You see, right now, I look perfectly studious. Without them, I’m too handsome – you’ve said it yourself, if I may remind you. multiple times. So, I need them for inspiration, and you need them on my face, so it doesn’t distract you too much. Otherwise, how would we get any work done?”

“Accio glasses,” he said, rolling his eyes.”

I caught them mid-air. We both did. He seemed surprised I’d lunged for them, and fallen on top of him, but one shared look was enough, and we started wrestling for the possession of something I was half-convinced neither of us needed. (Were glasses ever really necessary? Surely, with the right charm…) After a short, sweaty match, in which hair was pulled, buttons were ripped from their fabric, and skin was scratched, Albus emerged the winner. He slammed the glasses onto his nose, and tried, to no avail, to straighten and tidy his hair.

“I want a re-match.”

“We’re not playing,” Albus scolded me, picking the book up again. I should be glad. I was glad. Despite the oath being his idea, he’d had doubts. Those seemed to be gone. He was more devoted to the process than ever. To us, our life-long commitment to each other, our vows to never fight each other. It meant grandmother’s prediction was wrong. He would not be the death of me. Loving him was safe, as long as he loved me.

“We should go to the forest, start collecting the herbs and fungi. If we go right now, we’d be back at the village by dinner, and I could start drying them tonight. They need to be void of all moisture. And with the Oleander petals…”

“We could do that.” I played with his half-open shirt. It was his own fault; he’d taken my other toy away. “Or…”

He only needed to look up to understand. “We’re not alone in the house.”

“So?” I had to laugh at his scandalized face. This desperate need for privacy… He didn’t need it half as much as he pretended. The British and their repressive Victorian mindset, honestly!

“My siblings – both of them – are downstairs and their ears work perfectly fine.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

He scoffed. “You would, if it was your family.”

“This would not be an issue, if you could keep quiet.” I unbuttoned his sleeves. He ignored me, which only made me want it more.

“Forest. Now.” He tapped his wand to the damaged shirt, and all buttons sprang back into position. The torn threads wove themselves back into the fabric. When he was done, everything was in its right place. It even looked cleaner. And as much as I enjoyed watching his magic, his constant insistence on getting his way bugged me.

“Fine. I suppose, we can do it in the forest.”

“By ‘it,’ you mean ‘collect potions ingredients,’ right?”

Instead of answering, I marched down the stairs, without fixing my hair or clothes. Holding eye contact with Aberforth, and making him squirm with the implications of what might have happened under his roof was well worth the messy appearance.

His small, dim eyes narrowed, when he spotted me. “Got any special plans?”

“No, all my wishes for the day have already come true. But thank you for asking…” … you illiterate bridge-troll. I liked thinking of insults to Aberforth, instead of saying them. He could always tell, and it would cause him to rage and stomp around, making Albus resent his presence even more.

“Wasn’t talking to you!”

“We’re going to the forest,” Albus said matter-of-factly, picking up a basket and knife. “We’ll be back before supper.”

“We’d take you, but we don’t want to scare the animals.” I gestured towards his face, when Albus turned away for a second.

“When was the last time, you spent an afternoon with Ariana?” Aberforth said, further ignoring me. His voice had become scolding. One could practically see the temper rise, see his face getting all red and blotchy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I had breakfast with her this morning.”

“I mean, actual quality time. you don’t even talk to her anymore! And you read all through breakfast, so how does that even count?”

“She hasn’t said a word all week,” Albus argued, though I could tell he felt a little guilty, and I hated Aberforth for that. He put in more effort than I ever would – than most men would. It was beneath him, this caregiver-charade! “What is there to do? Sit in silence? You can do it, if you think it’s so important!”

“And how would you know?” Aberforth thundered, rising to his feet. “You’re never here – you and your…” He gestured to me, thinking of a word rude enough to describe either his animosity towards me, or our relationship.

“I would choose your words were carefully,” Albus said coldly, and ripped the door open, before his brother could respond. “You might say something you’ll regret. Come on, Gellert – we’re leaving.”

*

“Where have you been?”

Albus closed his book. Propaganda, by Edward L. Bernays. In the quiet of the early morning, only the waterfall was audible. He looked at me, as though I’d interrupted something special. A sacred moment, just for him and his book by the waterfront. The old him would have loved my interruptions. Would have craved them.

“I’ve been here. Reading.”

“I meant the last two days.” I sat down with him.

He didn’t answer for a while. Stared at the closed book. He was good at that – silences, omissions, lies. “France,” he confessed, after a while. “There was something that needed to be done.”

 “I see. Visiting an old friend?”

“Not intentionally, but I did run into someone.” He didn’t elaborate. It was excruciating. Like he wanted me to force every word out of him.

“Somebody I would know?”

“You’ve met.”

“Are you going to provide me with any more details than that?”

“It’s a strange story. I think you might know more about it than me. It involves a necklace.”

*

One day, in Paris, just after the turn of the century, he walked past me. It was a busy, crowded street. A windless day, warm, with a blue sky and summer on the horizon. I’d wanted to visit my cousin – though ‘wanted’ is a strong term. I’d been strongly advised to visit her, as she was struggling in childbirth, again. As this was how mother had died, the whole family took turns to pay their last respects, which she hated and adored, all at once. Attention, gifts, flowers – all for the price of people picturing your gravestone, as they sip on their tea.

It happened on Rue De L’Abreuvoir. On a busy Monday, at noon, the crowd split, crossing the street, and there he was, smiling to himself, smelling a bouquet of tulips, as he walked. Flowers in one hand, a book under his arm. I recognized the cover, the golden letters on it. ‘Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Thief’ – I’d just bought and read it myself. It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be… My heart was racing. I pictured endless scenarios – in my fantasies, he’d organized the meeting, somehow manipulated me to be in the right place, at the right time, so we could meet again. Maybe, I thought, enough time had passed and he’d seen the error of his ways. Maybe he’d forgiven me. And then there was the other option – fate.

As he looked up, admiring the cloudless sky, his eyes so blue I forgot to put one foot in front of the other, I hated him for not coming to me, reading with me, telling me what he’d thought of every page. How dare he take this from me? I felt rage. And longing. A longing so strong it took my breath away. I wanted to run to him, hold him, never let him go. Possibly strangle him.

And then he walked towards me, looked right through me, and kept walking. I felt dizzy. Perplexed. Had he not seen me? Had he forgotten my face? He couldn’t – and the flowers – who were they from? Before I knew what I was doing, I’d started following him. It was easy. He didn’t look over his shoulder. It was so effortless… Maybe he wanted me to follow him? His steps were light, his mood sunny. He greeted people on the street. Held doors open. Made small talk with seniors. Stopped to buy a newspaper. And I knew where he was headed. La Maison Rose.

I made an old lady stumble and spill her shopping bags in front of him. He’d need some time to help her – after all, he couldn’t use magic in the middle of a crowded street. Because someone had abandoned our plans to make that possible!

“Do you have a reservation?” the waiter said, stopping me in the door.

“I do. Albus Dumbledore.” I could always jinx him, if I was wrong.

He frowned, checked the big, heavy book on the side table for notes. “Yes, of course. Your guest has already arrived. Table seven.”

He was pretty, I suppose, Albus ‘company.’ In a homely way. But I could tell right away that something was off about him. He didn’t feel comfortable in his clothes. And he was watching the ladies nearby with an expression between jealousy and longing that made me think the flowers weren’t even for him. It wasn’t like Albus – being so public with his affection. This man – the way he dressed, moved, stared at a book without reading it – he was all wrong for him. Too conservative. Too timid. Nothing, truly nothing about him was special.

And then, the stranger looked up. Stared at me, in the way people often do. I’d gotten used to it by the time I was fifteen.

“Can I help you?”

I smiled, and the staring intensified. “That is a magnificent bracelet.”

His eyes flickered downward. He tried to hide it – the only thing unique, interesting about him, and he tried to stuff it down. “Thank you. I don’t – I don’t normally wear it.”

I sat down, lifted the sleeve with two fingers, and traced the jewellery with my fingertips. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“I – don’t know?”

“You don’t know a lot of things. But you will. One day, you’ll understand.”

He was easy to manipulate. A simpleton, by any measure. He read, but he wasn’t a reader. Wanted to wear jewellery, but was too scared what people might think. I talked him into accepting a necklace and sat through some dull story of inheriting a house or two. The only thing I needed him for, truly, was to deliver my message to Albus. A sign that I’d understood. That we were supposed to meet again. Albus, I told myself, would understand, too. He always had.

*

“I knew about the café,” Albus said, ignoring my musings about fate. (Rude.) “But what about the library? It was like you stocked it – every shelf of it was literature about the Dark Arts – that wasn’t you?”

“Did it ever occur to you, that you simply have a type?”

He sighed, looking to the horizon. Sometimes, I knew everything going on in that brilliant head of his. Other times, he was a closed book. I hated it. Him – keeping secrets from me. It didn’t seem right.

“You could have just stopped me on the street, as normal people would. Hello, how are you, long time no see, don’t jinx me, we’re in public – did that never occur to you?”

“The last time I saw you, you’d threatened me,” I reminded him. “To be honest, I was scared of your reaction. I thought – sending a message would give you an opportunity to think about us, to reconsider – maybe you’d reply to a letter. Or two, or three – but you never did. Yet you kept all of them – yes, I know about that. The ink is cursed – well, sort of. You know how obsessive I can get, when I can’t figure something out.”

“Cursed ink…” He looked, at the very least, impressed. “I never noticed.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“Still – what about Athens? Who carves a scar into someone’s face?”

It was a bit rich, coming from the man who’d carved an identical one into my hand. And it was a funny story, really (depending on one’s sense of humour.) I thought it was.  

*

It was August, and all the world seemed within reach, all my dreams about to come true. My hand traced the old map, the bandages still soaked in blood. “Where should we go first?”

“Greece,” Albus decided, his eyes glowing. He’d had that manic energy about him ever since the ritual. Couldn’t wait to do more. To start our future together. It was him who’d pulled out all the maps and travelling books in my aunt’s library, and who’d started drawing on the map, which I later had to conceal. She hated when people scribbled in their books. Albus, of course, insisted that it was a great honour for every book to be decorated with the reader’s thoughts and associations, and it was hard to argue with him, when he was all blue-eyed and precious like that.  

“Let me guess – you want to see the islands. Sail on a ship – turquoise oceans, endless freedom, no one to hear you scream…” I winked at him, and he laughed.

“I was thinking of the old cities. Athens, Caphyae – we could wander the ruins, discover old magic…”

“What is there to like about ruins?” I wondered, though I had to admit, giving a speech to potential allies would be more impressive inside the Akropolis or Collosseum than on a field or in a pub somewhere. It’d be epic. Maybe he had considered that. He must have – he always considered everything.

“Don’t laugh.” His fingers traced the shore line of Greece. The shadow of his hand moved over the old parchment, and I could hear waves crashing against each other, hear the wind, and the cry of gulls in the air. “I just happen to think it’s romantic. It’s timeless. Something that has been there for centuries, and people still remember it, try to preserve it. I’ve always had a fondness for old palaces. You walk their halls, and let history whisper to you.”

“That’s because our old halls have magical portraits and ghosts. They’re actually whispering. Unless they’re screaming at you. Ghosts can be very annoying, let me tell you…”

“Like when it’s night and they want you to stop shining a wand light into their eyes?”

“Among other things.” I ignored his amused glances. He already knew the story I was referring to. He knew all of my stories – the good, the bad, the ugly truth. He knew me. It felt liberating, being with him now – to be known, understood. Loved. “Athens it shall be.”

I knew it wouldn’t be the kind of adventure I had in mind – not as long as we were dragging Ariana along. But she could stay in closed rooms while we explored the city, I told myself. It’d be safe enough. And besides – she wouldn’t live forever. We’d show her the beauty of the world, bury her in a place resembling paradise, and visit the grave on occasion. I could stand to babysit her for a while. For him. She might even come in useful, for recruitment, considering her story.

We spent all evening, writing a speech for Athens, and the following night, trading letters back and forth, revising it. People don’t understand this, especially aunts complaining about owls tapping against windows after midnight, but planning a revolution is a lot of work!

*

“You will never know who is coming to Athens.”

It was a chilly evening. Early summer, 1918. I was spending time with friends, old and new. Fellow truth seekers. And in the happy drunk mode, in the spirit of friendship and progress, I hadn’t inquired about Albus, or even thought of him in weeks.

“Who?”

One word, one confirmation that he didn’t stay confined in the Scottish castle of his, and I was back. Back to my old obsession, a distraction from what really mattered. Nineteen years had passed, and in an instant, I felt reminded of that afternoon in the library, of the Grecian map coming to life.

“Will he be travelling alone?”

“Why? Do you want us to do something about him?” My companion looked up at me with soft, devoted eyes. Submissive, but not brainless. Young. Eager to please. Anything I could ask for. And yet…

“Have you ever been to Athens, Parmenides?”

“No,” he said, and he looked breathless. Happy that I was paying him any attention at all.

“But you’re fluent in the language?”

“Yes. My parents are from Macedonia.” He leaned in. “Do you want me to go? Do you want me to kill him for you?” He whispered the last words, a feverish glow to his soft brown eyes. As if he stood a chance. His main talent was being pretty and making friends. He could throw a party, but would falter in a simple duel.

“Maybe that is not the wisest choice,” a young man on the other side of the bonfire said, looking at Parmenides. He didn’t want his friend to die.

“It’s not?”

“Perhaps… sending a message would prove to be more fruitful? He might reach out. I find it is always better to stabilize peace with one’s adversaries, even if the end goal is their elimination.”

“I prefer to eliminate them.”

“That cannot be how your story ends, can it? Not after everything you told me…”

As I looked into Parmenides doting face, the idea came to me. A message. A real one. Albus wouldn’t answer my letters, hadn’t reacted in Paris, and pretended to be apolitical to the world at large, which was infuriating enough. Something he couldn’t ignore… something that would burn himself into his mind, ensuring that he’d never forget me… I felt drowsy. The heat of firewhiskey and absinth in my face, the rush of it in my veins, and inspiration struck. This, the intoxication whispered to me, would get me a reaction. I could practically see his shocked, repulsed face, feel his anger, the outrage – this would make him come and find me. So what if it’d be for a fight? He’d still come.

“What would you do for me?”

“Anything,” Parmenides said breathlessly, and I felt repulsed by how needy, how desperate he was. It wasn’t pleasing, not for longer than a few nights. But it was useful.

“You will start by shaving. Don’t question it, it’s for a noble cause.”

“And this is for the Greater Good, yes?” So needy. So desperate.

No. “Yes.”

*

Albus had started massaging his temples. “You know that was insane, do you? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“I’m aware that it was unorthodox.” He had to understand that this had simply been a provocation. Sometimes, unusual times called for creative solutions.

“That… would not be the term I had in mind.” Of course not.

“You wouldn’t answer my letters.”

“Sometimes,” he said, putting down his book. “No answer is an answer.”

“I understood that, eventually,” I lied. “I stopped sending you letters, didn’t I?” I kept them. Burned, destroyed, mutilated one after another, only to pick up the quill again, when rage struck. When I saw pictures of him, happy. Babysitting stranger’s children, showing them how to wave their little wands around, and pretending he was living a fulfilling life.

“All I wanted,” he said, sighing, “was a little distraction on vacation. You couldn’t even let me have that? I thought revolutionaries were busy.”

“We have hobbies.”

“Sending me obscure messages on the faces of disposed lovers isn’t a hobby!” He sounded tired, like he was scolding a misbehaving child. So he couldn’t be that angry. “Couldn’t you let me have one vacation? Did you have to rob me of my peace each and every time? Athens, Venice, Alexandria…”

This, admittedly, was strange. “I’ve never been to Alexandria.” I wasn’t even sure what he meant by ‘Venice.’

“Well, I know you weren’t there in person…” He was struggling. Something – I couldn’t tell what it was – bothered him about my answers. He’d constructed a story about me for himself, like so many before him, and it was falling apart.

“When did you go to Alexandria?” My mind was in immediate overdrive. Who had he been with, and why? Were they still in contact? And what about his Parisian connection? Why… “Why were you really in France?”

“I thought… I must have imagined it…” He looked both disturbed and relieved. That man felt more emotions in one conversation than I did in a week. Was it exhausting? Fulfilling? Distracting? Somehow, nobody had ever been able to explain it to me in a way I could comprehend. He’d tried – but I’d been too young, then, too hormonal to even pay attention.

“Yes?”

“It appears I received more messages than you sent. I must have imagined some of them, or I simply wanted it to be true.” He sighed, blinked into the blinding morning sun. “There’s the answer you’ve been seeking. Are you happy?”

“I’m curious. You say you were in Alexandria. Who exactly…?”

“I won’t even consider granting you an answer here, not with your history. Now behave, or I won’t make you any more lakes.”

“Or waterfalls?”

“Definitely no waterfalls.”

*

In the evenings, I would tend to my dragon eggs, or as Vinda called it (and she rolled her eyes as she did), he has pets now. Hypocrite. She loved dragons more than me, she'd be all over them the moment they started spitting fire!

One of them was dead. Gone, before it could come to life. I kept it, still. Thought of bronzing it, using it for decoration. Reviving it, somehow. Then again, I might just break it open, and see what I could do with the components. Dragons were such powerful beings – their remains had to be useful for something!

I’d composed a list of names for the other two. One, as Abishola had rightfully pointed out, was a Horntail. The other – and this was more intriguing – was a breed ideally suited for this environment. Feuerschwanz, the old Germans had called it. Grown, these dragons were smaller than many others, but looked like the fire within them couldn’t be contained. It glowed through their leathery skin, their eyes, and, when enraged, it would set their tail on fire, making them dangerous like few other creatures. Slender and fast, a Feuerschwanz was difficult to contain. In many regions of this world, witches and wizards had put great efforts into eliminating them out of fear.

“Maybe they had a point,” Vinda said, poking the egg with one finger, then cursing silently, as she burnt herself.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

Albus feigned ignorance, pushing his reading glasses up further. “I am not getting involved in that.”

“What if they burn down the castle?”

“They’re for our protection,” I reminded her.

“How? You’ve never even trained a dragon!” Vinda rounded on Albus. “Have you?”

“No, I just stunned a few to get their blood.”

“You can’t stun a dragon,” she argued, annoyed with him, as she often was. “You’re one person.”

“No, you can’t stun a dragon,” I corrected her.

She wasn’t pleased. Not with me, or reality, or the concept of dragons and the carnage they might cause. She welcomed it. I told myself that it was irrelevant. We’d simply train those dragons. It wouldn’t be an issue.

“It’s curious,” Vinda whispered to me in the morning, as I watched Albus train his nephew in simple Charms, like one does with children. It was a strange sight – both were grown men, after all – but I didn’t want to correct a Professor’s teaching methods. He always went into long, boring monologues, if I did. On purpose, obviously.

“Be more specific.”

“I’ve heard news from my old school. A professor threw himself off the Astronomy terrace.” She led the way, down the stairs. I knew she intended for some kind of confrontation to happen, but there was no point in stopping her. It would only enrage her, and lead to a later outburst.

“They can’t all be winners.” She didn’t respond, just kept walking. “I’m sorry, was this someone you were sentimental about?”

“Of course not. I never met the man. He was older than me when he was a student, but not by much. Maybe we met once or twice, during my first year. Nothing memorable. There is another curiosity.”

“Yes.” I thought there might be.

Albus and Aurelius looked up, when we got closer. One of them looked clueless and annoyed that the lesson was being interrupted. The other, I felt, had been listening in before we even arrived. Legilimency? At this distance? Quite the accomplishment.

 “They found him drunk,” Vinda said, making a point to speak louder. “But he wasn’t a drunk. Professor Humbert, that is,” she said to Albus, who nodded at her politely. He had the unique talent of looking at people like there was nobody in the world he’d rather listen to, though he did tend to use it sarcastically. It wasn’t easy, spotting the signs.

“Most people aren’t, until someone exposes them.”

“There were rumours about him. He had a wandering eye with the young girls. Very young.” Vinda looked at Albus again, her eyes narrow. “I’m sure you must have come across one or two of the kind, at Hogwarts?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“So, it was a shock to you? When you met him?”

“When he…?” Slowly, the pieces of Albus’ trip to France were coming together. Though this only led to more questions than it provided answers.

“Our dear friend,” Vinda said, and Albus smiled at her pleasantly, “had a meeting with the headmaster of Beauxbatons the day Humbert tragically lost his life. He fooled him to believe that he missed teaching so very much, got a tour of the castle – did you enjoy your stay?”

“Why is it tragic, if the man molested children?” Aurelius interjected.

“Death is always a tragedy,” Albus said quietly.

“Surely, not in this case?”

He looked down. It wasn’t a confession. Or a defence.

“I don’t want you to be... I wouldn’t want anyone to get into trouble.” He was choosing his words very carefully. “I will tell you the full story, but you must promise not to punish…” There was a name. a name of a co-conspirator, someone he was shielding from me. It felt like fiery ants, crawling underneath my skin, whispering to each other. A slow burn. Why? Who was it? What were their plans?

“Is there something I should know?”

“That is very likely, yes.”

Aurelius had tip-toed behind his uncle, sensing the mood shift in the room. Growing up the way he had, he must be quite adept at seeking out the most likely sources of self-protection. And using one of the most powerful wizards in the world certainly qualified.

“Stop that. you’re not in trouble. Somebody else is?”

“Promise,” Albus repeated stoically.

“Fine.” It wasn’t honest. Or satisfactory. But I’d rather hear it all and decide whom to punish, after. He didn’t need to know that.

“He was trying to initiate a… well, in his eyes it would have been a friendship or courtship. The girl was twelve, and scared to speak out, so she did the only logical thing – contacting her parents. As no one wanted to believe the claims about Humbert, the mother asked me to intervene. I met him. She was right to be worried. If it wasn’t her little girl, it would have been another. And then another. He was neither ashamed nor shy about his advances. There was at least one suicide on his conscience, but he was, sadly, too lost to common decency to accept that.”

“The mother?”

He looked at me, thoughtful, for a moment. Another test. On in the long line of many. “Zoska.”

This, I hadn’t expected. “Why wouldn’t she come to me?”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Vinda said, her voice becoming one annoying sing-song. She loved when others were in trouble. It was what had made her the least favourite sister, even as a child.

“Can I be excused?” Aurelius whispered, scooting backwards.

“Yes. Go.”

“You know he’ll run straight to her,” Vinda scolded me.

“That’s not my concern. You went to France to murder a paedophile?” I didn’t want to smile, but there was no helping it. Zoska’s lack of faith was troubling, but at least he was making friends with my friends, finally.

“Yes.” For some reason, he looked guilty about it.

“Without me?”

“Why was this a secret from us?” Vinda demanded.

“Zoska was worried about a repeat event. She mentioned your fiancé.”

“Ah, yes.” Wonderful memories! Vinda and I shared a smile. “How is he?”

“On his fifth engagement. Somehow, he keeps confessing his ugly habit of unfaithfulness. Yet he doesn’t stop. Did you make him addicted to prostitutes?”

Albus looked mightily relieved that Aurelius was no longer in the room.

“No, that is just his personality. The confessions are my curse. I made the urge weak, so he can fight it, for a while, but every time he has a lapse of judgement…”

“… it doubles, doesn’t it?” Albus understood immediately. Bless him, he really had a wonderful memory! “Is it painful?”

“Not this time. I was aiming for poetic justice. He can stop at any time, but if he doesn’t, the confession will follow, sooner or later. He usually fights it, I hear. It’s not good for his health. Can we talk about your international murder trip now?”

“I would rather not. It’s not a pleasant memory. Frankly, I’ve seen enough of the man’s mind to consider erasing my own memories.”

“Why is this such a drama?” Vinda piped up, playing with her scarf. “This can’t have been the first time you killed someone?”

He didn’t look at me. Did he know? Did he not want to know?

Vinda’s eyes went big and round. “It is? Goodness, we must have a party! Let’s get champagne! And cake!” And with that, she bustled off, her heels clicking on the polished oak floors.

“I need to not talk to her for at least twenty-four hours,” Albus said. He looked grim. Drained.

“You should have told me.”

“Perhaps. I’m at peace with my choices.”

“All of them?”

“Some of them.”

*

I tried everything to revive the third dragon. It hadn’t even hatched, how could it be dead? The truth was, I’d grown to like the idea of trinity. Three Hallows, three dragons. I’d never heard of someone who had three. It sounded intimidating. Impressive. Sovereign.

“We will be invincible. Our house impenetrable.”

Vinda nodded and took my suit jacket, as I rolled up my sleeves. “Do you think it’s salvageable?”

“I haven’t lost hope yet.”

The water of the pool was warm and silky, as I walked in, and welcomed the egg into its darkness, as I lowered it. there were slight waves in the darkness. Waves from below. A response to traces of magic, of power, that was still there.

“Vulnera salentur.”

There was no movement inside the egg. Only water and silence. I closed my eyes.

“Vulnera salentur.”

I cradled the egg, large, fragile, felt the texture in my hands, felt my heart sink. Whatever had been inside, seemed, in fact, dead. Beyond recall.

“Vulnera salentur.”

“Why do you need so many candles?” Albus’ voice interrupted my ritual from above. He had appeared out of nowhere, walked through a locked, sealed and cursed door like it was nothing, and stood there, eating ice cream in a cone for some reason, while viewing me like a curiosity displayed at a circus. “Is this part of the ritual, or are you trying to burn down the house?”

“It adds ambiance,” Vinda informed him, though the corners of her mouth twitched. She’d had the same criticism, many times. She didn’t understand… In her eyes, it was just wasteful. Rituals - and people don't understand this - live off of ambiance. Connection, emotion, thought patterns. All ancient magic draws from that which seems nonsensical, or meaningless, to the layman. 

“I see.” He licked up dripping ice cream, viewing me more closely. “And this is your ritualistic outfit? I would have expected something flashier. Maybe a nice red cape.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Yes.”

I had an epiphany, watching him, the amusement in his face, the darkness in his eyes. (That shirt was clinging to me like a second skin by now. If the look in his eyes was any indication, it was mostly transparent by now.) “Give me your ring.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It might help.”

“That,” he said, redirecting his attention to the ice cream, “if not how it works. And I don’t approve if Inferi Dragons.”

“Why not?” Vinda looked deeply offended. At least their little conspiracy against me was over.

“It’s too great a risk. It might break free, wreak havoc. Haven’t you ever read Frankenstein?”

“Non.”

“You should, it’s a great novel.” He looked more closely at me, when I got out of the water, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and adoration. I briefly considered what I could get him to do in the pool, then discarded the thought. Some things were sacred.

Vinda rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you some privacy.” She was dangerously good at reading a room like no other person, I had to grant her that.

“Where did you get ice cream cones inside the house?”

Albus chose to ignore me, his eyes travelling up and down my soaked body. “When you planned this little ritual…”

“It’s not little. Some would call it historic.”

“Naturally.”

“Because it’s never been done before.”

“Absolutely. So – when you put your outfit for the ritual together, posing in front of the mirror as you do…” He looked down again, and I expected a joke about my shoes being dragon skin (I had to, come on!) or my buttons being extra shiny to reflect the water.

“Yes.” There was no point fighting him now. I might as well get it over with.

“Just to satisfy my own curiosity: Did you pose wet or dry?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would like to know,” he said, laughter bubbling up in his throat, “how you decided on a three-piece suit, then discarded off the suit jacket only, before going into the water.”

“Fine. Make your jokes.”

“And why did you roll up your sleeves? Does that do anything? Is it for aesthetics? Did you get a photograph taken before I arrived?”

“Why, do you want one?”

“I would love nothing more.” He finished his ice cream, and looked at the rest of the cone in a post-food-happiness only Albus could feel. I called it his sugar-bliss.

“Did you come here to interrupt my ritual?”

“I came,” he said softly, and his eyes were glittering, “to tell you the dragons are hatching. I thought you wouldn’t want to miss that moment.”

*

The fire burned on, as tiny cracks formed within the eggs. Glowing embers, flames licking at the shells. They almost looked transparent now, and I could see the dark red and black shadows moving within. Twitching, writhing. Tiny claws, scratching, yearning for life, for freedom. It was breathtaking.

I floated them to two separate stone basins. Albus had insisted on separating them from the moment they hatched, voicing worries that they might fight each other upon hatching. He reasoned that this was to secure their food resources, and happened instinctively, when immature dragons of different breeds met in the wild, which was, how most wand makers collected their resources. They didn’t corner or overpower a dragon – they simply relied on local sightings of dragon fights, and collected the remains of a dying creature. Depending on the ethics of each wandmaker, they would make sure the animal was beyond saving, before cutting up the heart strings. Gregorovitch was famous for healing dragons, if he could, whereas Ollivander was an unexpected dark horse. In his mind, the medicinal properties of a dragon’s body parts far outweighed the need for species preservation. I could see both sides.

The black dragon was the first to hatch. It stumbled around, testing out every little leg individually, still blind, disoriented. After a simple cleaning spell, it started sniffing the ground, lay down on it, stretched like a kitten. It wasn’t black at all, but grey, like the basin. And it’s tail was sleek, simple.

“That’s not an Egyptian Horntail! And they let this woman lead a school?”

“Form what I understand,” Albus said, measuring the dragon with one of his little silver devices, “Abishola is more of a wealthy benefactor who takes in children and pays others to teach them. the title was given to her as a sign of gratitude. Now this… this is incredible!”

“Why?”

“From what I can tell, it matches all the characteristics of a Fuzanglong – a Taiyuan Chamaleon Dragon. Which is extraordinary, as they were said to be extinct for at least a century, whereas a dragon egg takes mere weeks to hatch, making them an even more sensitive black-market commodity. They are black and scaly like a Horntail – though sleeker in appearance, due to their very glossy skin texture – but can learn to copy their environment, as they grow. This,” he pointed to the dragon pretending to be grey, “is only the beginning, if we trust scripture. A grown Fuzanglong will be invisible to the untrained eye, and hide, rather than attack, from people. Unless they come to close to his cave, of course, then it will attack.” He lowered one gloved hand into the basin, and the dragon reacted with its first, meek attempt at fire, while looking up at us with fearful eyes.

“Don’t, you’re scaring him!”

“I’m simply testing a theory.”

I turned out to be right about the second dragon. It was, in fact, a Bohemian Firetail. From the moment it hatched, it glowed from within. The eyes, tail, and breath looked like pure fire, and it rolled around in its basin, trying to destroy it with self-made flames, before giving up, breathing a little smoky sigh, and going to sleep.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Tabitha observed from her corner seat. She was peaking over Albus’ shoulder, as if using him as protection. Or a human shield. Vinda sat in front of them, her eyes glowing in adoration at the little dragon, the way other women looked at babies. There was a reason she’d always been my favourite cousin.

“I shall call you Inferno.”

Albus nodded, more amused than worried. He, too, was one of the few people looking at dragon – at most magical creatures, really (Dementors being the one exception I could think of) – with affection, as I’d known he would. “That seems about right. What about the other one?”

“Are you going to encourage this?” Tabitha whispered to Vinda, and she ignored her.

“I won’t take sides. Fight amongst yourselves.” That was only partly true. If there was a side with dragons on it, she would, of course, chose that one. The thought of dragons flying over cities, making the people run, before turning everything to rubble and ashes, was a long-time fantasy of hers. I knew she imagined herself a companion, possibly even a rider, of the dragons. To see them run from above. Small, unimportant, like ants, waiting to be extinguished.

“Of course you won’t.” Tabitha rolled her eyes, and left the room in a huff. Not to sulk, mind you. The dragons simply made her uncomfortable, even as they were sleeping.

“Vesuvius,” I christened the second dragon. It reacted by snoring a bit, breathing out more black smoke as it did.

“You should respect her fears more. They’re not unwarranted. She would respect yours,” Albus said softly, and I realised, then, that he’d plucked the thought out of my head. How long had he been doing it? How often? This instance, on it’ own, seemed benign enough, but it still left me feeling unguarded.

“That’s one earth dragon, one fire dragon,” I said quickly, trying to ignore the bitter feeling. Swallowing it all down. “Now all we need is a water dragon and…”

“People like to swim in that lake,” Vinda said reprimandingly, though she sounded amused. The idea of a castle, encircled by dragons, fascinated her as it did me. It sounded like a fantastical story, plucked from old fairy tales, one, people would tell each other millennia from now, wondering, if it was fact or fiction.  

“And it would be a lot on the poor Grindylows,” Albus argued, at which point Vinda scoffed. She’d always been disgusted by the whole variety of water demons and their slimy little hands.

“Why do there have to be Grindylows?”

“It’s part of the eco-system,” Albus said cheerfully, as though that was the most normal thing in the world to say. His lake simply had its own demons. I thought it was fun. Vinda didn’t.

“You created that lake – can’t you decide, it isn’t?”

“Ah, I apologize. I might have gone overboard with the magical elements of it. They just happened to be there, when I was done. They tend to migrate quickly. But they’re very docile, if one keeps one’s distance. We had them at Hogwarts, and people could still swim and row in the water. It’s the diving that bothers them. I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”

“It could be, for a water dragon,” I teased him. Vinda’s face lit up. Albus’ didn’t.

“No water dragon!”

“Maybe a small one?”

“You have two! Can’t you be happy with two?” He put on gloves, and started cleaning the Firetail with a muslin, which proved difficult, as he had to keep extinguishing little flames.

I called them Vesuvius and Inferno. The volcano, a creature of looming danger, and fire incarnate. And as I watched them stretch their little wings, stumble around half-blind, and finally, finally, rise into the air in a first, flawed attempt at flying, I was. I truly was.

Notes:

Quote: The Dark Face of Love, "You." (Netflix)

All books mentioned in the text are real and have been published in the year the story plays, including those in flashbacks. You can google/buy/possibly borrow them at your public library.

I haven't settled on a location for the final chapter. It needs to be a big place, historical, in or near a city. Curently considering Tahrir scuare, the piazza in front of the Colosseum and others.