German. German. French. Something that looked like German . . .
Sighing, Abernathy dropped the bundles of newsprint back down onto the parlor's end table. He wasn't a difficult fella to please, but Mercy Lewis, what he wouldn't do for the latest edition of The New York Ghost . . . or any newspaper printed in English, for that matter! That, and an afternoon cup of joe. Unlike him, no one else in this place went through a kettle per day—apparently, around these parts, coffee was reserved for early mornings and evenings. He was so sick of tea. It was like drinking watered-down perfume. Come to think of it, perfume might have tasted better. . . .
Abernathy paced the length of the room. Anymore, inactivity made him restless. He and the boys had spent most of the day sparring, and now that they had gone their separate ways, he needed a couple headlines, or a cryptic crossword to hold his interest until dinnertime. . . . Maybe he could talk to the boss about gaining access to the Brits' newspaper . . . something about a Prophet? Discretion was paramount, he knew, but if there was a paper here in French, then there sure as hell ought be one everybody else could comprehend . . .
"Good gravy, Goldstein!" Abernathy clutched his racing heart. "Don't do that!"
Queenie bit down on her lower lip, clearly holding back a giggle. "I wasn't tryin' to sneak up on you, Mr. Abernathy. What's got ya so distracted that all your patrolling instincts ain't doin' ya any favors?"
"Nothin' in particular." Color bloomed in his cheeks when he realized she'd elected to listen to the truth within his thoughts. She pursed her lips a second time. Boy, did she know how to make a fella feel like a schmuck. . . .
"I ain't too good with languages, either," she confessed. "I actually think Mr. Grindelwald would prefer it if I picked up one or two, so I could understand other people's thoughts, from different countries. Since we're in a bit of a standstill, I was thinkin' of givin' it a shot. Vinda's already offered to teach me some French. You could always join me, if you wanted to."
"Oh . . . golly, I . . ." Abernathy cleared his throat. "What's the catch, Goldstein?"
Queenie blinked. "What do ya mean?"
Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "What are you bein' so nice to me for?"
"I'm just bein' myself, Joseph. Can't a girl act decent without wantin' somethin' in return?"
Abernathy smirked. "Not in my experience."
Queenie's brow furrowed. She had a pretty little pout, he noticed, and then, remembering, squandered the comment the moment it entered his mind. She lifted an eyebrow, but had the grace to otherwise ignore it. "Well, that ain't usually the case with me. . . . But this time around, I do got a question for ya. It's . . . really more of a favor . . . actually . . ."
"A favor?" A bark of laughter burst out of him. Abernathy held up his left hand. "You got a favor to ask of me?"
Queenie squirmed, pressing an item she'd had in her hands to her chest. "I know. I know, I wouldn't ask if I could help it, but you're the only person who can do this for me, Joseph."
"The only person, huh?" Well, that ruled out most things. He had a talent for magic, true enough, but he wasn't the most powerful wizard in Nurmengard, by any means. He was superior in only one way. One very specific way . . .
"Okay . . ." He drew the word out. "Suppose I help ya. Who am I Metamorphin' into, and why?"
The loveliest smile spread across Queenie's face. Without wasting a moment, she scurried over and presented him with the item, which, as it turned out, was a framed photograph. Behind the glass, Queenie was beaming beside a portly gentleman with a mustache, dark hair, and jovial brown eyes. Abernathy had never seen the man before, but there was no questioning who the fella could be.
"No." He thrust the frame back into her hands. "Absolutely not."
Devastation crossed her face like a lengthening shadow. "Why not?"
"Because." He fixed her with a glare. "Contrary to what you might think, I ain't a sadist, Goldstein. I ain't doin' it."
Queenie frowned, lashing out with venom of her own. "You mean to tell me that you've never done the same thing, just so you could see her face?"
The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and the words from his lips. With immense difficulty, he quelled the denial that leapt to the tip of his tongue. He knew better than to lie to her.
"That's different," he growled.
"How?" Fury and grief sharpened the question, cracking her voice to splinters. "How is that any different than doin' what I'm askin' for?"
"Because I'm lookin' in a fuckin' mirror, Queenie!" His hostility and volume rose to match her temperament. "I'm good at what I do, but it's still an illusion."
Queenie stared at him, aghast. "Are you sayin' that I'll forget that it's you?" Her outrage escaped in a dangerous whisper. "That I'm insane enough to think you're actually Jacob?"
Abernathy groaned in frustration, scrubbing the back of his head with more intensity than was required. He sighed. "Don't take it like that. I ain't sayin' you're stupid, or crazy. Gimme a little credit where it's due. . . ."
Queenie glowered at him from across the room. "What are you sayin', then?"
"I'm sayin' that love makes us all stupid and crazy." When Queenie remained unmoved, he clapped his hands together. "Alright, let's say I do turn into your Mister. You know it's me. But all of a sudden, he's real. Someone you can touch, standin' right in front of you. . . . It's gonna fuckin' hurt, Queenie. It's gonna hurt in places ya didn't even know could feel. He'll be with you again, for a little while. But what's gonna happen when I turn back into me, huh? How do ya think you're gonna feel then?"
Queenie exhaled a breath, her eyelids fluttering closed as she made a poor attempt to compose herself. "I've already thought this through."
"Have you?" Abernathy snapped, determined to break her.
Her eyes opened and locked onto his gaze. "Yes," she fired back. "Now, will you please help me, Joseph?"
"Not unless you gimme a good reason why I should."
"Because it's what I want!"
"And why the hell is that? What are ya, some kinda glutton for punishment?"
She opened her mouth, searching, reaching. . . . Abernathy's patience dissolved.
"Tell me!" he roared.
"Because I might never see him again!"
The admission lingered in the air between them. Abernathy froze. Queenie stood rooted to the spot, quivering, her eyes impossibly wide.
"I been thinkin' about what you said. . . ." she whispered. "I don't know how all of this is gonna end. . . ." She drew a shallow breath. "And if I'm wrong . . ." Abernathy's heart gave a painful thump as a few tears slid down her face. "I need this. Just this once." She swallowed. "Please, Joseph . . ."
Something crumbled deep inside of him.
Damn it all to fuckin' hell.
"Once." He stabbed the air for emphasis.
Her entire countenance brightened. Abernathy scowled.
"Just remember, I'm doin' this as a favor, because you asked me to." He wrung his hands, rubbing the scars in an anxious sort of frenzy. The panic lacing his words disgusted him, but there was potential for him to drop dead on the spot because of this asinine request of hers. He could only hope his reiteration, and her nod of concession, would be enough to keep his heart beating for another day.
Abernathy exhaled loudly, and held out his hand. "Lemme see."
Queenie offered up the picture frame, her face glowing with optimism. Abernathy gave her a pointed look before lowering his gaze to her photographic counterpart, and the object of his eminent transformation.
His eyes traced over the man's features, committing the finer details to memory. Satisfied, he gave the picture back, and set to work.
All around, it would be fairly straightforward. Before loosening his belt, Abernathy unfastened the buttons of his tailored suit and waist coats—though the two of them shared a similar height, Queenie's fella had a different build. Clothing adjusted, and with the No-Maj's likeness in the foreground of his mind, Abernathy closed his eyes, shaping his body into the mold she had provided and, clearly, preferred.
Nowadays, nothing felt all that real.
Nurmengard itself was something out of a storybook. Oh, sure, it paled in comparison to Ilvermorny. Still, a fortress hidden away within a range of snow-covered mountains was not without a romance all its own. There was nothing like it in New York, that was for sure. And inside its walls, there was nothing like New York.
She found evidence of this everywhere. Any snippet of conversation in a colleague's native tongue, or a sample of Mr. Krafft's cuisine, or the castle's alpine-inspired décor, had developed, over time, into an unpleasant reminder that she was so far from home.
Her daydreams were often filled with thoughts of her and Tina's cozy apartment, of her tiny, but functional and beloved kitchen space. Her tools for mending and crafting beautiful clothes, all her creams and powders, the bed sheets and quilts that put the silk and linen here to shame.
Curling up near the fireplace with Teenie, sipping cocoa and giggling over the latest gossip.
The smell of fresh stationery in the dingy, little warren known as the Wand Permit Office.
The tinkling bell above the door at Kowalski's Bakery . . .
She missed every little bit of it. With each passing day, Queenie wondered when she might see it all again.
If . . . she might see it all again . . .
For so long, the possibility had been too dark, too horrifying to entertain. Everything would work out in the end. She would serve her purpose, do her best to make a difference. And one day, when witches and wizards assumed their rightful place in the world, she'd be free to go home, to find Tina and Jacob, and live an improved version of her life.
But lately, her perfect conclusion seemed to be drifting out of reach. She'd been at Nurmengard for little over two months, and had nothing to show for it. With no plan, no progress, who could say when their future would ever arrive?
The heart grew fonder with absence, she'd always heard.
Easy enough to believe when there was nothing at stake.
The part of her that dwelled outside the circle at Père Lachaise could not remain there forever, nor could it return to her here in Austria. More than anything, she longed to end its torment. To stand before Tina and ask for her forgiveness. To stare into Jacob's eyes and ask him if he loved her.
It was a vicious desire . . . haunting and desperate.
An apology directed at anyone other than her sister would have done her no good, whatsoever. But Jacob was different. Just seeing him again, in person, after so many hours, and days, and weeks of missing him. . . . Ephemeral as it was, she knew that it was the only thing that could ease her suffering. And by some miracle, Abernathy had decided to oblige her.
Queenie had witnessed one of his transformations before, but it had been far less extensive. The hair atop his head shortened and curled, and a portion grew directly above a fuller pair of lips. His stomach softened, like the severe angles of his face. Every feature shifted, reconfigured. . . . When he finally opened his eyes, the familiar color of tempered chocolate swallowed the remaining silver.
Queenie stopped breathing.
The illusion was so thorough, so convincing, that anyone not privy to their agreement would never have realized that it was Abernathy standing there, in place of her fiancé.
A corner of his mouth quirked up into the nervous semblance of a grin, his discomfort palpable. Shrugging, Abernathy overturned his wrists, presenting himself. Ta da.
Queenie's hand strayed to her mouth. Pinpricks of joy spilled from her eyes as they roamed over him, head to toe. He was truly brilliant with his ability—if only he never had to change back. . . .
A million things that she'd been waiting to say bubbled up inside of her, but she shoved them all back down. They were for Jacob, and no one else. Even so . . . looking into his adorable, handsome face, watching him stand, and blink, and breathe . . .
She stepped forward, until she felt the warm press of his belly against her torso, and reached up to cradle his cheek.
Her darling baker. Her No-Maj.
Her Jacob . . .
"Don't."
Abernathy's voice startled her. She opened her eyes to discover that she had leaned in, perilously close, her lips nearly upon his mouth.
You're crazy. . . .
Queenie shivered. The frame slipped from her grasp, littering the floor with glass as it shattered.
He'd been right . . .
A sob escaped her throat. Abernathy gasped as she collapsed against him, burying her tearstained face into his chest. She felt his arms wrap cautiously around her, and when no harm befell him, his fingers splayed across her back.
"I know, doll," he mumbled over her harsh, staccato breaths.
While he held her, Queenie felt his body morph back to its original state. The unnerving sensation of transfiguring flesh helped ground her in the reality she would soon have to face. She welcomed it, clutching Abernathy's lapel as his heart-wrenching illusion, and her former life, permanently melted away.
"I love you," she murmured, so softly that her own ears barely registered the words. "Goodbye, Jacob."
Queenie was crying.
Aurelius's blood ran cold at the sight of her in Mr. Abernathy's arms, sobbing as if her heart had broken. His oldest companion—fear—rose within him, stirring his limbs.
"Queenie?"
Aurelius dashed over the threshold.
Abernathy spied him through her curls, and immediately placed a finger over his lips. Aurelius hesitated, watching his friend proceed with a nod of his head, and a reassuring wink. Still, Aurelius ached simply knowing she was distressed. He told himself that Mr. Abernathy would handle it, but his instincts urged him to go to her, to do whatever he could to fix the problem . . . to bring her smile back . . .
Aurelius jumped when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He turned to find Mr. Grindelwald's mismatched eyes level with his own, full of tenderness. He smiled at his protégé.
"Come, Aurelius."
The whisper slithered in and around his skull, compelling him back toward the corridor.
"What happened?" he muttered, with one final glance at the room they'd vacated.
"It is my understanding that Miss Goldstein is experiencing a dose of homesickness. Are you familiar with the term?"
Aurelius nodded. "With the term, yes."
It baffled him that there were people in the world capable of growing so attached to a place that it was painful for them to leave it behind. For his own part, he never wanted to set foot in his so-called "home" again.
The city of New York held no sway over him. Its streets conjured up memories of frozen fingers and aching feet, planted on bustling corners. Discarded pamphlets, trampled and skittering in the wind. Countless eyes that fancied him invisible. Unbearable drafts, vermin flapping in the rafters and scuttling across the floor. Hungry, sleepless nights. . . . The telltale crack of leather . . .
Aurelius forced himself back through time, guided by the sound of Grindelwald's even footsteps as they strolled down the hallway, side by side. His mentor glanced at him, but Aurelius refused to meet his gaze.
"There are some who would suggest that one's home is not defined by a location, but dwells wherever acceptance and love are present. Among trusted friends, family . . ."
Aurelius snorted. "What would I know of family?" The question was bitter—more so than he had intended—yet he found a wicked gratification in his disregard for it. A mother who had abandoned him, a guardian who loathed him . . . and now, a brother who, supposedly, sought to destroy him. Beyond this, he knew nothing of his past—so much of Grindelwald's time had been devoted to Aurelius's overall wellbeing, that there had been little left for storytelling.
His head still reeled whenever he counted the consecutive days in which he'd slept in a soft, warm bed, eating three filling meals a day in the company of people who never laid a hand on him, save in kindness. Surrounded by such comfort, his every need sated, Aurelius had found himself craving things that he'd long ago thought had been lost to him—books, knowledge, an education in magic. For a man his age, he was sorely behind in his studies, but Grindelwald had been patient with him, tutoring him at length, molding him into the wizard he was destined to become.
Aurelius blinked.
What had gotten into him?
"I-I didn't mean . . ." Shame burned his face and neck. "I'm very grateful, Mr. Grindelwald." Aurelius cast his mentor a fleeting glance, and found his gentle smile still in place. "You all have given me everything I've ever wanted."
A hand came around to rest on his shoulder. "And yet?"
Aurelius swallowed, his heart pounding. "When were you going to tell me who I am?" His feet slowed to a stop, and he turned to look Grindelwald squarely in the eye. "Where I come from? My whole history?"
Silence swelled between them, and it took every ounce of bravery Aurelius possessed to remain steadfast and calm. He would not grovel. He would not apologize. An emotion still quite foreign to him brightened his mentor's expression. A grin lifted his pale mustache.
"The moment you asked," Grindelwald replied.
The window had been repaired, he noticed. Otherwise, the room was unchanged.
Aurelius reached into his suit coat and withdrew his wand, fingers cradling the polished wood. It was here, in this very spot, where the two had been united. Here, where he had heard the first truth of his life.
His identity. His purpose.
The tinkling clatter of porcelain caught and held his attention. A tea service had appeared on a nearby table, and the pot was pouring two servings of steaming liquid. With a bow of his head, Grindelwald insisted Aurelius settle in and help himself, as the tale before them would likely take time to unfold. Wedged within the corner of a damask chaise, Aurelius pocketed his wand and took a sip of the sweet, aromatic tea. The accompanying jam-filled biscuits were equally enjoyable, but Queenie had spoiled him with her baking—the entire tray could never compare with a single bite of one of her pastries.
His thoughts strayed to her as he watched Grindelwald cross the room, down to the lower landing, his reflection ghostly on the wall of paned glass. Was she still upset? Had Mr. Abernathy found a way to comfort her?
Chewing quietly, Aurelius receded into himself, waiting.
"You should know, my boy, that you are not the first to be dealt a heinous betrayal at the hands of Albus Dumbledore."
The sorrowful words woke Aurelius from his reverie. "Albus Dumbledore," he whispered. "My brother."
With a forlorn smile, Grindelwald turned from the window. "Your brother," he confirmed. "And the man who once shared my very soul."
Aurelius flushed. The cup and saucer rattled in his hand as he again felt the caress of Mr. Graves' cool skin; the heat of his breath; the strength of his embrace. Sins of the flesh. The path to damnation. With each encounter, Aurelius had willingly solidified his fate. . . . But now, hearing Grindelwald say such a thing . . . had he been wrong in this, just as he had been mistaken before?
"I had known love previously, of course." Grindelwald smirked. "But that man, with his brilliant mind and unparalleled greatness. . . . He continued to teach me when I thought I knew all that could possibly be learned. He was . . . extraordinary."
His gaze returned to the mountainous landscape. "I hope you will not think less of me once you hear the truth in its entirety, Aurelius. I assure you, the shame I now carry is unfathomable. But when one is fortunate enough to stumble upon an intellectual twin, it is so simple to ignore the shadows. I drank in Albus's light, never caring if I was blinded or burned. He embodied my ideologies, my most secret desires. It was inevitable that I adored him. And to think—we should never have met.
"After leaving Durmstrang Institute, I was invited by my great-aunt to spend some time at her home, and, having no sense of direction or purpose, I accepted. It was a peaceful place, a community comprised entirely of witches and wizards. Quiet. Safe. Unexceptional. I came downstairs one afternoon to find Great-aunt Bathilda in a most excitable state. 'Tuck your shirt in, Gellert, and be sure to look smart!'"
Grindelwald chuckled, lost in the remembrance. Aurelius swallowed a large gulp of tea and shifted to the edge of the sofa.
"We were going to a dinner party, she said, a going-away celebration. The Dumbledores' eldest son, a recent graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had just returned to bid his family farewell before setting off on a grand tour with a fellow classmate. The name was vaguely familiar—I'd heard rumors of a renowned student at Hogwarts, known for his collection of prestigious awards and numerous academic achievements. Nothing, however, prepared me for the reality of him.
"It was rude, perhaps, but that night, we hardly acknowledged anyone else. Neither one of us had ever met another person with ideas as radical as our own. We were impassioned and precocious, as desperate for each other's breadth of insight as we were to make a difference in our world. Oh, yes . . . at one time, we were united. We believed in the same cause, so much so that after a number of days, and much to everyone's surprise, Albus decided to postpone his trip abroad.
"The two of us were inseparable. We talked for hours on end, theorizing, scheming. In the slivers of time in between, I became better acquainted with his family. His parents, Percival and Kendra, were a most gallant couple; his younger brother, Aberforth, charming—in his gruff, unpolished way. And then there was the third child, Ariana."
A tangible silence followed, quickening Aurelius's pulse. Grindelwald sighed.
"Such a sweet girl, really. I can't help but think that you . . ."
Aurelius leaned forward. "Yes, Mr. Grindelwald?"
"Forgive me, my boy." His reflection closed its eyes, head bowed in defeat. "I would spare you this part of the story . . ."
"No." Aurelius's voice rang out. "Please. I want to know everything that happened."
A reluctant nod; a drawn breath.
"When she was a child, no older than six, Ariana was harassed by a trio of Muggle boys after they'd glimpsed a bout of her underaged magic. The experience terrified her so severely that she suppressed her natural abilities, living in constant fear that she would be punished. Percival was furious, and vowed to avenge his daughter, but Kendra warned her husband of the ramifications. They soon concluded that the safest course of action was to move to a more nurturing environment, far from the prying eyes of Muggles. Even so, Ariana refused to unleash her magic. It began to fester inside her, all the while developing into what is now identified as . . ."
"An Obscurus."
Each of Aurelius's internal organs turned to stone.
An older sister . . . kind and fair . . . consumed by fear . . .
He knew her with every fiber of his being.
With unnecessary force, he returned his cup to the tray, the taste of tea now bitter in his mouth.
"It was devastating to witness. One moment, she would be carefree and laughing—the next, a casualty of the war raging within her own body. Albus and I often discussed her plight. It was one of the many bases for our progressing philosophy. If only witches and wizards were free to be themselves, as firm and benevolent leaders of society! With no International Statute of Secrecy, Ariana would never again have to hide herself away—nor would any of our magical brethren. Muggles are so easily misguided, we agreed—rarely do they ever behave in their best interests. Certainly never in ours. If only Albus and I could persuade our brothers and sisters to unite and arise for the Greater Good of all. . . .
"And why couldn't we? Surely, it was our responsibility! Even at seventeen, Albus's influence stretched across continents—while away at school, he had been in regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day. With the talents between us, we could do it, I insisted. We could go off on our own, educating and rallying others to join us. Together, we could undo centuries of damage, and create a better world for wizard-kind and non-magical communities, alike.
"And we would, Albus assured, stroking the flesh of my inner wrist, a twinkle in his eye. We would. And soon. We swore to it. . . . Do you know what a Blood Pact is, Aurelius?"
With a start, Aurelius tore himself from the narrative.
Witches and wizards use it when they wanna make a promise to one another.
"I . . . I think I know of something comparable?"
The response sufficed. Grindelwald nodded.
"Albus and I vowed to remain as one in all things, never to abandon one another. Our conversations escalated from fancies and hypotheticals, into logistics and plans. I can say, without exaggeration, that those mild summer months were the happiest of my young life. Wherever I ate, slept, or breathed, Albus was there, supporting me, and I, him. And then, one day, everything went dreadfully wrong."
There was a crash as Aurelius involuntarily kicked the tea service table, startled by a knock at the door.
"I beg your pardon, messieurs, but Alexander wishes to know if he should set a place for you both this evening?"
Abashed, Grindelwald glanced over his shoulder. "So callous of me. Are you hungry?" he asked.
Aurelius shook his head.
"Thank you, Rosier. Please enjoy your repast in our absence."
Vinda stooped into a modified curtsy, closing the door on her way out.
"My apologies, Aurelius. If you change your mind, Mr. Krafft will provide you with something to eat whenever you desire."
"Oh, no . . . thank you, but . . . I'm fine." His appetite was of a different variety—he lifted his eyebrows, prompting his mentor to continue. Grindelwald's smile broadened.
"The change was gradual, now that I think it over. But at the time, it came about quite suddenly. Albus had taken a keen interest in Ariana, and the nature of her 'rages.' He'd noticed that they were not necessarily as erratic as they were thought to be, and opened his mind to a darker series of possibilities. What if that power could be harnessed, and used in our favor? What if she was the key to our success, a weapon that could secure our victory? Imagine, if he were to stay and more closely study the nature of his sister's mysterious condition. . . .
"One obsession had bled into another, and it troubled me. It seemed morally unsound to treat Ariana as anything less than human. The only part she played in our original plan was to lead a blissful life, free of persecution and suffering, after Albus and I had returned. That was our mission—that was our future, or had he forgotten?
"We were both wounded. We'd promised to support one another in our every endeavor. Neither of us was to turn our back on the other. Nothing was supposed to change. Tempers flared. We argued, fueled by our emotions. His siblings eventually heard us, and came to investigate. Aberforth stepped in, tried to wrench the two of us apart. Through the snippets of our screams, he gathered a rough idea as to what had begun this feud of ours. What he heard horrified him. Furious, he fought alongside me, until the three of us could contain ourselves no longer.
"A duel commenced. In that moment, the bond forged between myself and Albus was compromised. We paid no heed. Distressed by the conflict between her two brothers, Ariana ran forward, intending to stop them. We did not notice.
"Our series of offense spells rebounded, and Ariana was killed in the crossfire."
. . . No.
No.
Aurelius leapt to his feet.
"I came back!" he blurted. "When all those wizards attacked me, enough of my essence survived to manifest back into myself." On impulse, he reached for his wand, clutching the hilt to keep himself grounded. "What if she did the same thing? Maybe Ariana is still alive!"
Something akin to pity contorted Grindelwald's expression. It was kinder, perhaps, but nonetheless told Aurelius his theory was incorrect.
"Life was the price of our violated contract, and—out of love—Ariana intervened. There is permanence in both forms of magic."
"Oh . . ." Aurelius slumped, defeat weighing heavily in his stomach. Mentally, he retraced the angry scars lacing the back of Queenie's hand.
It's a bond between two people that can't be broken. Not without a high, personal cost.
What exactly had she and Mr. Abernathy sworn? All these magical vows sounded dangerously similar. If Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore—the two most powerful wizards of the century—could not maintain a blood oath without disastrous repercussions, what did that mean for his friends? He grimaced, suddenly ill.
Grindelwald, too, had paled considerably, as though his blood and the story he told were one in the same, draining slowly from his veins.
"Albus fled. He took nary a glance at her before Disapparating. I'm loathe to say that I also took my leave, shortly after I'd helped Aberforth carry her back to their family. I explained as best I could, that it had been an accident. Why we had fought. That Albus was gone."
His voice did not waver, nor was a single tear shed, yet Aurelius found himself watching and listening as Gellert Grindelwald wept.
Dusk had darkened the windows to the color of ink by the time both men felt ready to resume.
"Five years after the abandonment of their eldest son, and the loss of their only daughter, Percival and Kendra were blessed with a golden ray of happiness. Their third son, Aurelius." Grindelwald smiled. "You."
Aurelius remained silent, swiping a hand over his damp face.
"The absence of her children had left your mother poorly and bereft," his mentor continued. "That you had been conceived, and that she had carried you, was nothing short of miraculous. You were her light in the darkness. However, a few months after your birth, her health gravely declined. Healers were called for, but none could offer a solution. Tragically, nothing—not even her love for you—was enough to keep death at bay."
Grindelwald swallowed, eyes lowered.
"It was a loss too many for your father. In a drunken rage, he attacked a number of innocent bystanders, wizard and Muggle, alike. Driven mad by heartbreak, he refused to cooperate, and was sentenced to the wizarding prison of Azkaban. Fearful of what Albus might do once he discovered the addition to the Dumbledore linage, Aberforth entrusted you to your maiden aunt, Honoria, to foster you in America. But, as you know, your life with her was disrupted when, aboard the ship, a young Leta Lestrange switched you with her brother. As was the plan for Corvus Lestrange all along, to escape the wrath of Yusuf Kama, Irma Dugard continued with you in tow to New York City, where you were adopted by Mary Lou Barebone in his stead."
Nodding, Aurelius stared into the empty air before him. This part of the story, he knew.
I am not your Ma. Your mother was a wicked, unnatural woman!
But how could she have known? Mrs. Barebone knew nothing of Kendra Dumbledore, and perhaps little more of the woman who had given birth to Corvus. In either case, however, the baby she had adopted belonged to a set of magical parents. That alone, in the eyes of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, was a vile, unforgivable crime. Aurelius blinked. Credence Barebone, he realized, had been condemned from the very beginning.
"You see," Grindelwald added. "Albus foresaw your potential. He knew, under the proper tutelage, your power would grow to rival his own. Unable to shape you into an ally, he—understandably—did not want you falling into rival hands. But when the news of the ship's sinking returned to Europe, his fears were assuaged. Aberforth posed no threat—his abilities were laughable compared to those of his older brother. No longer faced with any form of opposition, Albus returned to his work.
"Over time, he began building a network of international contacts—having lost Ariana, he tasked these followers to locate another Obscurial for potential use." Grindelwald turned from the window, to face Aurelius. "My boy, it was no coincidence that you were pursued by the man known as Percival Graves."
Aurelius inhaled, gutted by the name that had nearly destroyed him, yet still, occasionally, formed on his lips in the depths of sleep. . . .
I want you to have this, Credence. I would trust very few with it—very few . . .
A flash of silver. Large, warm hands cradling his neck.
But you—you're different.
Aurelius flinched, shutting his eyes against the unbidden memories. Grindelwald mounted the small set of stairs leading to the ground floor, his hand lagging behind, elegantly draped atop the iron banister.
"Stationed in America, and taking note of all the damage and strange disturbances caused by what was undoubtedly one such entity, Graves set out to find the Obscurial. He assumed he was looking for a child—and with good reason. You see, for centuries, there was no documentation of an Obscurial surviving more than ten years. Your sister was the exception, of course. Had events not gone awry, there's no telling how many years she might have lived past the age of fourteen. . . ."
He paused, assessing Aurelius's reaction.
"Graves had no idea that the person he sought was none other than his employer's own brother—alive—tucked away in the back alleys of New York. Aurelius Dumbledore, returned from the dead. As you might imagine, this news did not sit well with Albus. Not well, at all."
Sparks exploded from Aurelius's wand, singeing the decorative carpet.
"They were working together. . . ."
He could not distinguish magic from rage as his blood came to a boil. His Dark Friend prowled beneath his skin, prodding the surface, seeking release.
"Concentrate . . ."
A shimmering wall rose to greet him. Aurelius roared, thrusting the hatred forward, through the core of his wand. With a blinding flash, each burst of magic was absorbed by Grindelwald's Protection spell. Aurelius slashed at the air until the Obscurus calmed and curled, exhausted, back into submission, deep within him. It would disappear fully, in time, his mentor had said—when he had trained enough to master his magic. He stood in the middle of the room, gasping for breath, as Grindelwald's shield began to crackle and fade. Aurelius filled his lungs.
"He said he'd had a vision—that the Obscurial was in close proximity to my . . ." He swallowed. "Mother. That I was the one who would gain the child's trust . . ."
"An elaborate ruse." Grindelwald sighed, his features suddenly weary. "Magic leaves traces, and Graves, no doubt, sensed residual power lingering outside your adoptive mother's church. He correctly assumed that the Obscurial was not far, and knew that you made habitual contact with all who entered there. He fabricated stories to beguile you, to endear himself to you. Nothing more, or less."
Come with me—think of what we could achieve together.
Aurelius trembled.
. . . what we could achieve together . . .
Albus.
Graves.
Albus.
"I'm such a fool."
"No." The earnest reply rent his soul. Grindelwald appeared before him, and enfolded Aurelius in his arms. "No. You were fooled. As was I. That is his very nature, Aurelius—to entice with glittering falsehoods." Aurelius sniffed, wanting so badly to melt into his mentor's embrace, to be soothed with a few comforting words. But that was a boy's solution. Nothing could efface the damage from his past, scour the truth of why and what he had come to be. His body ached with the strain of holding himself upright.
"Everything that's happened in my life," he croaked, savoring the caress of Grindelwald's woolen coat against his nose, his chin. "It's all because of Albus."
Death. Pain.
Insufferable loss . . .
Grindelwald stepped back, his noble face lined with sorrow. The tale's conclusion had aged and hollowed his formidable mentor into a physical echo of Aurelius's own heart and mind—a sight both disconcerting and beautiful to behold.
"I'm so sorry, my boy," he whispered, reaching up to stroke Aurelius's cheek. "That is my greatest regret. I could have ended your torment before it was begun—but I was too young, too cowardly . . . too very much in love to do what had to be done." He grasped Aurelius's shoulders, affectionate and firm. "Nor was I strong enough, in mind, in magic. Time has remedied that. And I have found you. I've found you, my darling boy."
Tightening his grip, Grindelwald pressed a prolonged kiss upon Aurelius's forehead.
"That which haunts him is now realized. You and I can move against him. Together, we can end his cruelty."
Your brother seeks to destroy you.
Those had been Grindelwald's words. And he would never lie.
Queenie had assured him of that.
Credence Barebone had been obliterated in New York; Corvus Lestrange, lost at sea.
Aurelius Dumbledore was no longer a victim. Not to circumstances or fate. Not to anyone.
His eyes bore into those of his mentor. "Tell me what to do."
Grindelwald smiled.
