Work Text:
IN THE EARLY DAYS of my association with Albus Dumbledore, we had shared many an adventure, but they had become increasingly sparse after the tragedies that had befallen him. You can imagine my delight when, in the spring of 1926, I received an owl from my dearest friend suggesting that we take an excursion to a place of an intriguing name Equinox Spring. It was of alchemical interest to him; he was adamant that we must visit it on the date which could be conjectured from the name.
The equinox fell on a Sunday; we agreed to arrive in advance and spend the night at the local inn. So it was on the 20th of March, in the late afternoon, that Albus Dumbledore and I approached the village.
It was a fine day, and the lowering sun cast its rays upon the vastness of the moor. The landscape still held a memory of the winter, bramble and bilberry mottled, bracken rusted, but there was a promise of the spring in the smell of the moist earth, in the bright yellow of the gorse and vibrant purple of the violets, in the song of a skylark high above. All that I could barely register, dazzled by the sensation of the vestigia, a faint trace of my friend’s magic on my skin. Naturally, we couldn’t appear in a muggle settlement in our robes; it was rather inevitable that both of our suits were Dumbledore’s doing, for I had never been proficient in Transfiguration myself.
At the Equinox Inn, we had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and a sitting-room, although the inn-keeper gave us a curious look – our gaudy suits and my feather-adorned top hat must have looked quite out of place in the countryside. The man darkened when Dumbledore requested that a light breakfast be served an hour before sunrise.
‘I did not take you for the likes of the . . . adventurers who take it in their heads that the spring’s there for their entertainment.’
‘Rather education than entertainment,’ said Dumbledore.
‘You’d better educate yourself on another day, sir.’ The inn-keeper cast a look around and lowered his voice. ‘Some say it’s the good people, some – the Devil himself. Either way, no one’s returned from Equinox Spring unchanged.’
‘Oh, but what journey doesn’t change the traveller?’
‘I’m no great thinker. Supper’s in an hour, if it suits the gentlemen.’
It gave us plenty of time for a stroll. The sun was grazing the jagged edges of the hills now, its slanted rays gifting a quaint magical quality to the otherwise ordinary appearance of the village. My companion’s features softened in this light, and his long, wavy hair seemed aglow. For a moment I fancied that we were in Hogsmeade, young and carefree again, troubled only by the upcoming examination; that I didn’t see the hardness of Dumbledore’s stare, the thin lines around his eyes, the lengthening beard.
Out in the heath, I devoted myself to looking for heartleaf twayblades, hart’s tongue ferns, bog asphodels – and not letting a bog-hole suck me down. The aching of my heart was not lessened by a bout of childishness that overtook Dumbledore; he leapt from one boulder to another and entertained me with witty remarks. Our conversation was rather disconnected, but when the dusk fell and forced us to be more circumspect in our promenade, I dragged Dumbledore back onto the road, and he filled me in on his latest theoretical work – a comparative study of The Triangular Manuscript and The Heptameron.
We had almost reached the inn again by then; suddenly, our discussion was interrupted by a booming voice.
‘What-ho! If it isn’t old Bumbles! And Doggo, too!’
We turned to see two men approaching us: one tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, with an air of boldness about him; the other some years younger, smaller, eyes shy behind a pair of round-rimmed glassed. The latter was a stranger to me, but the former I had already recognised by the choice of nicknames as Stanley Nightingale, a Casterbrook graduate, who had spent several months at Hogwarts and developed a somewhat one-sided familiarity with a number of classmates.
Dumbledore did not lose time to return the greeting. ‘Nightingale, old bird!’ he cried, seizing the man’s hand. ‘What a coincidence!’ His tone, however, conveyed not a hint of surprise. Turning his gaze to the younger man, he said, ‘It’s a delight to see you again, Monsieur Chastain. I don’t believe you have met my friend?’
Thus I was introduced to Aloïs Chastain, a specialist in everything that concerned fairies of all kinds, as well as elementals and genii locorum, who held a teaching position at Casterbrook; and who surprised me with a firm handshake – I observed that his hands were slender, long-fingered, with almost translucent skin, and overall rather striking.
‘We must sup together,’ Nightingale said with conviction. I was not too keen on conversing with him, but it was impossible to decline without appearing rude; besides, I was intrigued by Chastain.
‘I’ve heard your nephew has built quite a career at the Ministry, Nightingale,’ said Dumbledore when we settled at the table.
‘Oh, yes, young Thomas is a most brilliant lad. Watch him become the head of the Improper Use! Between ourselves, he’s dealing with some unpleasantness on the other side of the pond now.’
‘Indeed! May he succeed in his endeavour!’ Dumbledore turned to Chastain. ‘I understand that you have a nephew, too?’
I will admit that I was paying more attention to the quick, precise movements of knife and fork in Chastain’s hands than to his response and subsequent development of the subject. Absent-mindedly, I pondered upon the fact that gentlemen who had neither children nor wives seemed to flock together. More than just that; some sort of symmetry could be intuited between my friendship with Dumbledore and that of Chastain and Nightingale.
I recall Dumbledore bringing up Miss Harmonia Fawley, a ward of a figure too prominent to need introduction. Thence, through her being not only an outstanding student but also an aspiring composer, the conversation moved on to music; both Dumbledore and Nightingale had great appreciation for it, but their tastes clashed badly, and neither wanted to acquiesce. Chastain and I, not willing to get caught in the crossfire, communicated our commentary in glances and smiles.
After the supper, Nightingale attempted to suggest that we share a nightcap, but Dumbledore argued that the purpose would be defeated by the inevitable agitation of the unfinished debate. Thus we procured the drinks and retired to our sitting-room, where Dumbledore occupied a settee and I made myself comfortable in one of the armchairs. The burnt sienna of the upholstery and wallpapers created a sorry imitation of the Gryffindor common room, which brought back my melancholy of dwelling upon that which had passed. We exchanged few words that night and did not stay up late.
I woke to find Dumbledore standing, fully dressed, beside me. He had always kept irregular hours; it was no wonder he hadn’t a difficulty to rise before light and look more than presentable. But I, in my discombobulated state, had a great trouble putting on the layers of the muggle attire, and was rather late to join Dumbledore (and, as it happened, Chastain) at the breakfast table.
‘The party is complete, save for the old bird,’ said Dumbledore; ‘I recall that he would rather stay up until sunrise than wake at this hour.’
As far as I was concerned, Nightingale could very well sleep in, but alas, his participation seemed essential to the expedition in the eyes of Chastain, who appeared troubled and barely touched his breakfast. At last Nightingale descended.
‘I say,’ he exclaimed, ‘It is a crime that any business should be done before noon.’
‘Stanley,’ said Chastain nervously, ‘I have explained to you that the start of the first lunar quarter—’
‘I know, Lolo,’ Nightingale cut him short. He sank into a chair, reached for a coffee-pot, poured himself a cup and halved it in one gulp. ‘Halloa, gentlemen!’
Both Nightingale’s rudeness towards his friend and Dumbledore’s cheerful indifference annoyed me greatly. When we were finished with the food and coffee and stepped outside, I made sure to walk beside Chastain, even if it meant that Nightingale had an opportunity to pick up his yesterday’s argument with Dumbledore.
But none of us spoke. Dense, white fog crept in between the houses from the moor, creating an eerie impression of not quite this side of the veil. We didn’t dare to make a noise long after the danger of being overheard by the muggles had passed.
Chastain was the first to break the solemn silence. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed in a hushed voice. ‘See the ferns over there?’
I glanced in the direction he was pointing. The fog had thinned by then; I could make out some vegetation on the side of a hill, but failed to see what was so exciting about it and told him as much.
‘Why! They form a perfect circle, which is a clear sign that it is a work of fae.’
‘I have only heard of mushroom rings before,’ I admitted.
‘The most widely known type, and the most straightforward in its effect. Fern circles are more subtle, but I would strongly advise you not to step inside.’
‘I wouldn’t want to abandon the path in such conditions anyway.’
‘You say that until you chance upon a will-o’-wisp and follow it into the bog.’
‘Good heaven, Lolo!’ cried Nightingale. ‘Must you be this macabre?’
‘I was merely entertaining Mr Doge with some trivia.’
Nightingale harrumphed and said no more.
‘We have almost arrived,’ said Chastain after a brief silence; ‘I can sense it in the air.’ He glanced at Dumbledore. ‘Undo the transfiguration now; the muggles won’t come anywhere near the spring. But hide the wands.’
Chastain’s commanding tone surprised me greatly; gone was the nervous air. Something shifted in Nightingale’s demeanour, too; he was looking at Chastain intently, as if not to miss a subtle gesture. It went unnoticed that I flushed up in embarrassment at Dumbledore’s counter-spell hitting my clothes.
The main path was now abandoned; we followed a narrow trail between the high banks of the moor, granite sparkling between patches of dripping moss. Chastain led the way, keenly listening to some inaudible sound. Soon, I heard it too: the jubilant song of water.
We skirted a cliff and stopped short. The most beautiful spring emerged from a crevice, the first rays of sun splashing a rainbow across. There, amidst the dazzling droplets,
.
.
.
The sun was high and bright; it was now unequivocally, irrevocably springtime.
I felt light-headed; the tangerine of my own robes and the plum of Dumbledore’s, the mint of Nightingale’s tie and the lavender of Chastain’s were suddenly unbearable. I sat down on a boulder and put my bare head into my hands, shutting my eyes with a deep breath.
‘What a case!’ Nightingale barked out a laugh. ‘Dumbledore, Doge . . . care for elevenses?’
‘Forget elevenses.’ Chastain’s voice was full of urgency. ‘We must write down our experience while it is fresh.’
‘But I’m starving, Aloïs!’
‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse us. Professor Dumbledore, do let me know your philosophical interpretation of the event. Mr Doge – it is a miracle you haven’t lost more than your top hat. Good day!’
Their footsteps picked up, then faded. I listened to the splashing of water intertwined with Dumbledore’s melodical humming.
‘My dear fellow,’ said Dumbledore after a while, ‘It is, perhaps, premature to speak of, but would you be willing to accompany me to Equinox Fall?’
Naturally, a visit to a place named thus would have to occur half a year later. A lot could happen during this time; not in my life, but in Dumbledore’s – he could find himself on another continent, or simply not inclined to have me for a company. But, no less naturally, these considerations would not affect my answer.
‘I should be glad to come,’ said I earnestly.