DISCLAIMER : The characters and some events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.
7: Laying foundations
(December 1991)
'Mum, Dad,' Charlie greeted his parents as they landed on the frozen ground between the dragon keepers' huts. He gave his mother a hug, thereby also greeting his little sister who had taken her first portkey travel in her arms. They beamed at each other.
After a short wrestling, Molly Weasley allowed her second eldest son to take her suitcase, and he led them to a house dedicated to visitors. It had taken Charlie several attempts to convince his boss of letting his parents see his new workplace. Eventually, Reg had grudgingly named Christmas as the only period in which he would allow such a visit. Charlie could not see the logic behind that – at Christmas, schedules were especially tight, and on top, Regulus himself was in Asia for several weeks to study dragon lore there. Why he would choose this point in time to allow visitors on the premises was beyond Charlie. But he was not going to complain. It was, admittedly, a little strange to have one's parents come to one's workplace. However, Molly Weasley worried constantly about her sons – with Bill a curse-breaker in Egypt and Charlie constantly surrounded by the second-most dangerous creatures in existence. This was his attempt at reassuring her that he was fine.
'How's your arm?' Mrs. Weasley asked in concern as she charmed the suitcases open and made the clothing fly into the wardrobe. Early in his probation, her second son had discovered the unpleasant side of being a dragon keeper – his arm had been severely burnt. He'd been given a five days sick leave because of it in August, that he had spent in his mother's care, but the injury had not healed properly during that time. Now, four months later, his arm was fine again, but the marks remained.
His parents and Ginny stayed for four days. Ginny loved watching the dragon keepers spar in their free time (until her mother caught her at it), and Mr. Weasley spent hours perusing the Muggle journals laid out in Reg's office eagerly when Charlie was off to work.
For Christmas, Mrs. Weasley prepared a festive meal (despite Charlie's protestations that it wasn't necessary) that everyone from Charlie's shift took in the office. It was a merry gathering, and when eventually the Weasleys departed, the dragon keepers bid them come back any time they liked.
.~*~.
Christmas was a stark contrast to the feast two days previous. Luckily, they were once more invited to her aunts' house. Aunt Camilla was over twenty years older than Viola's mother and had lost her husband in the Grindelwald war in 1943 at the age of eighteen, three years before Viola's mother had even been born. She had never remarried, but instead had gone into the field of Herbology in which her father had worked already and had eventually taken over his business five years ago. The business did not bloom, but it fed her and Viola's aged grandparents, and every once in a while she slipped a galleon or two into Viola's robe pocket. Yet there was certainly not the enormous pile of food to be found on her table that Viola had seen in the moated castle. She did not even have a house elf, and the elf Viola's father owned had disappeared with him. Thus, the small duck was roasted a little too well, and Viola guessed that this had happened in a vain attempt to make the old animal turn into a soft piece of joint in the end. There was no tiramisu either, but the traditional ris à la mande certainly tasted delicious. Unfortunately, though, Viola did not catch the almond, so that the price was handed over to her grandmother, who certainly looked delighted at the prospect of visiting the theatre, no matter that the set of two tickets was for the cheapest seats available.
It was a Danish tradition to eat a refined version of rice pudding with almond pieces in it for dessert at Christmas and hide a single whole almond in it. The one who found it, had to keep it in their mouth and wait with their announcement of being the winner until everyone had eaten up. In the end, they received a gift.
Her grandparents also had a son who was even older than Aunt Camilla. He had married the only daughter of a British pureblood family merely months before the breakout of the Grindelwald war and had taken on her family name. Back then, her grandparents had still been quite wealthy, but they had lost most of their possessions during the war, and with them they had lost much of their family's prestige. Viola's uncle certainly had the monetary means to solve that problem, but he depended on the good will of his wife, and that lady was a rather cool, if not to say icy person that seemed intent on keeping her association with the impoverished parts of her relations to a minimum.
Sometimes Viola doubted herself, thought she was imagining things, but nevertheless, she could not shake off the feeling of being left behind. She had never gotten to know her uncle. Her father had chosen to leave her and her mother and sister and disappear without giving any notice of his whereabouts. Her schoolmates always told about their amazing holidays and their plans for the future, whereas Viola felt trapped in her little world. Perhaps that was why she had been so impressed with the moated castle, so impressed by the attention Régis had paid her… But to lose herself in false hopes was folly. Viola had enjoyed the foray into a different reality, but it was unlikely to find a repeat.
And now, her sister was going to marry. She turned seventeen on the thirtieth of December, and her wedding was scheduled for the Easter Holidays, so her last school year was not disrupted by it. Agnetha spent the whole Christmas holidays running around with the silken scarf her fiancé had given her around her neck, and she celebrated New Year's Eve at his house. Yes, it almost seemed to Viola as if a good marriage was her only chance to get away as well. But was it? Régis' words rang in the back of her mind: ' Nice to hear you don't plan to just be some man's trophy wife.' How depreciative that had sounded. As if 'just being someone's wife' was something to frown upon. All the women in her vicinity, the women she had been influenced by, regarded it as a privilege to stay home and care for their husbands. Those who worked only did so because of bad circumstances. Still, it had felt special to be able to earn her own money by doing something she loved to do – making music.
.~*~.
Reg whistled a merry tune as he stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom and shaved and trimmed his beard. This day promised to be a pleasant one. It was the first time in a fortnight that he was scheduled to work at the nursery. That was usually an easy job, to be done in a warm house instead of the cold February air and including a light chat with the co-worker. Subsequently, he planned to spend his evening and night at Åge's, talking about business, but mostly relaxing.
He wiped the remainders of foam off with a towel and regarded the result in the mirror. Deeming it acceptable, he forced his hair into his characteristic pony tail and put on his shirt.
After consuming a savoury breakfast (and still holding a cup of strong coffee in his hand), Reg walked over to the 'baby ward'. Charlie, who had finished his probation time a few weeks ago, was already in and fed a small Hungarian Horntail. 'He's doing fine,' he informed Reg, 'has already put on another quarter of a pound since yesterday.'
'Good,' his boss commented, gulped down the last drops of his coffee, and set the mug aside. 'I think we'll take him to Sweden in two weeks. They need a good stud dragon over there.' He walked over to the boxes in which the eggs slowly matured under some carefully placed warming charms. They needed to be moved every once in a while, and this presented the opportunity to examine them more closely. However, before he even started with the deed, Reg already noticed something. The egg of the Norwegian Ridgeback – the first in ten years to actually contain a living foetus – had definitely had a different mottle when he had last seen it. He took the egg out and – with a Revelo Anima – looked inside it. It was empty. Not dead, no. There had never been a foetus in it. It had never been inseminated. It was only a replacement for the real thing. In other words: someone had stolen the original egg.
Reg pursed his lips and considered his options. He could not keep this secret to investigate the matter. Others would notice it as well. Unless…
He put the egg aside and continued his work, marking the foetus as 'dead', even though in truth it was 'absent'. His young colleague did not even notice.
They sat in the library in front of a blazing fire that kept the winter chill out of the room. Reg had opted for a firewhiskey; Åge drank dwarven ale. They had not talked in a while when Reg finally spoke into the silence. 'I'll have to fire someone.' He savoured the whiskey and felt it burn down his gullet.
'Who?'
'I'm not sure yet. Bo, Ilija, Vasil or Frank.' He seized the poker and pushed an only half burned log closer to the centre of the fire.
'Care to elaborate?' asked Åge slightly impatient.
Reg sighed. 'We were hatching an egg of a Norwegian Ridgeback,' he informed the other wizard.
His conversation partner raised an eyebrow in amazement.
Reg merely nodded morosely. 'I haven't had duty in two weeks, but the files document that it developed well. However, when I did the early dayshift this morning, the egg had been replaced by an unfertilised egg.'
'Thievery? In your reservation?'
'Must have happened during one of the night shifts. Gerd had the second day shift yesterday. He would have noticed something. And he knows that such things do not slip my notice either, so he would not dare commit such folly. Not to mention that he's an honest soul. That leaves the four people mentioned.'
Åge unbuttoned his robe to make himself more comfortable. 'And how do you intend to solve the riddle?'
His companion refilled his tumbler. 'I'll take a closer look at people's private lives. Who has money problems? Who would stand in for the other? After all, a dragon egg is nothing you carry around in your trouser pocket, and because of its magic resistance, you can't shrink it either…'
'So you suspect there are two culprits. Sounds indeed very likely.' Åge fed a new chunk of wood to the flames. 'Why only one sack, then?'
His companion smirked cynically. 'Because I can't afford losing men. Unless they planned everything together, of course. If one just turned a blind eye on the matter, I'll have to let him get off with just a warning. You know the working conditions are too hard to attract many suited candidates.'
'Sweden has more recruits,' Åge annotated.
'Sweden has a larger wizarding population and therefore better living conditions. We've been there already, Åge. People like to floo home to their families in the evening, and they like to raise their children in nice neighbourhoods with white fences and some shops. If we founded a town in Romania, a nice Hogsmeade or Mytèrle-like wizarding community…' Reg's voice drifted off.
Åge leaned forward. 'What's hit you, now?' he asked with a knowing smile on his face. 'We've been through this – people don't like living near dragons.'
His companion leaned back, a smug expression on his face. 'Not near dragons, no. Not in the existent settlement. But what about, say, fifty miles away? There are no exclusive wizarding settlements in Romania because people dreaded the dragons. Few dared live in the country, and they preferred scattering to avoid creating areas with a strong magical aura since they would attract dragons. These days, however, people only stay away because of Romania's reputation. The dragons have long since been almost wiped out by the Muggles – note the irony of that.
'If we founded a wizarding village, complete with inn, shopping district, and so forth, it might make working in Romania more attractive in the long run.'
Åge nodded reluctantly. 'You mean, your men could floo to work from there.' Flooing could not be done over long distances, long distance Apparation was a feat mastered by few, and portkeying was too strenuous to do it several times a day. 'The work would still be hard, of course, but they'd have a more comfortable life when they came home.'
Reg nodded. 'Presently, you've got to be quite the ascetic up there. It's no big surprise that a third of my men swing the other way – which girl wants to live under these circumstances? –Apart from Conny and Adriana, and those two are a little…' He cleared his throat. 'Ten of my men have women and children living abroad. Giving them the opportunity to build a real home for their families would definitely improve their work ethics.'
'…and be a good model for future applicants,' Åge supplemented.
The wizard seated opposite him inclined his head.
Åge gazed into the fire and made his decision. 'Fine. Draw up a concept, and we'll see if it's doable.'
.~*~.
About fifty people of European wizard society paid their respect to the young couple at Agnetha and Søren's wedding. Although it was April already, the air was still chilly, but the sky was painted in a clear blue, and so the ceremony was held in the big, almost park-like garden of Søren's parents.
Of course, Viola was one of the bridesmaids. It was a joyful day, a promising day, a door to a potentially brighter future. The association with the Blåblods restored their social reputation, and since it made the Blåblods appear in a bad light to have the mother of their daughter-in-law work a job below her social standing, they had found Viola's mother a more acceptable (and therefore better paid) employment as well. That, in turn, meant that Viola could take up her violin lessons again. In short, life was on the upswing, and Viola could only hope it remained that way.
.~*~.
They had charmed a huge stone lid onto the pond in the middle of the moated castle's courtyard, and on that flagstone, a big bonfire sizzled, now. It was close to ten in the evening, and still the sun fought with the moon for the reign over the sky. It was Midsummer's Eve, and the spicy scent of a roasted wild boar over the fire wafted through the air and made the mouths of the people that were present water.
Midsummer's Eve was the most important date of the year for the brotherhood. It was the only event for which the usual working schedules were interrupted. Only a handful of people took care of the dragon breed and flew occasional rounds in Romania tonight. Forty-five of the fifty dragon keepers of Reg's reservation were in Denmark, and it was similar with the other reservations.
The celebration of the summer solstice was, however, not such a semi-refined event as the Jul fest. Paying credit to the more ancient roots of celebrating the longest day of the year, Åge gladly skipped the cultural programme and immediately started the feast.
At two hours before midnight, everyone had had their fill of meat, smørrebrød, and potato salad and was nuzzling a strong drink. Åge and Reg locked eyes and the elder one nodded at his fugleman.
Reg climbed onto a rock, blew off a sharp whistle and called out for his men to gather. Naturally, a few more curious people joined them. Just as they had intended.
When everyone seemed present and the murmur had abated, Reg started speaking aloud. 'There are two matters we have to discuss with you tonight. One will be to your liking, or so we hope' – joined in a mysterious smile with Åge – 'the other one, in turn, is not so… edifying.'
'Notice how he uses all these elaborate words all of a sudden when he's around the boss?' Charlie murmured into Gerd's ear with a wink. Gerd grinned and nodded.
'Shall we start with the uncomfortable news?' The question was obviously rhetorical, so that apart from a few people's nervous shifting, Reg received no response. The man leaned leisurely, his arms folded, against a nearby tree. 'Some of you have undoubtedly noticed that they haven't been scheduled for shifts at the nursery. Ilija even came to me to complain about it.' Reg made an apologising gesture with his arms. 'Sorry guys, but I had my reasons.
'Of course, everybody noticed the arrival of an infant Norwegian Ridgeback in May, that was imported right out of the heart of Scotland, courtesy of Mr. Weasley's contacts.'
Some clapping and cheering disrupted the speech.
'That indeed was a happy event. The only trouble is, that little creature presumably stemmed from an egg that had been stolen out of our very own nursery in February.'
A loud murmur rose amongst the dragon keepers. A stolen egg? 'Have you heard of this before?' people asked each other.
'Back then, I kept the matter quiet, in agreement with Åge. I knew during which night the egg had disappeared, but I did not know in which shift. Neither could I be sure whether it was the act of a single person or a combined effort.'
'And now you know?' someone shouted impatiently.
Reg frowned. 'I know. I also know why. Therefore I will offer the opportunity to come to me to out a solution together. You have until the day after tomorrow.'
Åge stepped up to him. 'Now that we've dealt with this, we would like to discuss some plans with you…' He elaborated on the idea that Reg had had four months previous, describing in detail what they intended to establish. The head of the reservation had found a nice spot of land that was fell suited. He had drawn up plans detailing how many community houses would be needed at the beginning for the dragon keepers that shared housings with their colleagues, how many families had to be reckoned with, and what other facilities would be needed. Those were numerous. To ensure certain comfort of living, paved streets were needed, as well as a public meeting place (a pub or café), shops, an owl office, and a park or playground. One also had to consider special services – a mediwizard, public security. Following that thought, a village or town was not a private venture. It needed public administration.
After some initial scepticism, people warmed up to the idea. Most males merely listened attentively, considering what was proposed to them with interest; the few females that accompanied their husbands, on the other hand, grasped the opportunities this project offered them more quickly, and some of them started whispering amongst each other or to their husbands.
'All of that will have to be discussed, of course,' Reg argued when Åge finished. 'This project is at a very early stage and will require your commitment. You are welcome to join a team that will have to work out the details. Only if you truly want this will we proceed. What do you say?'
A low murmur went through the crowd, but no one spoke up. Until one of the women shouted for an election. 'Hands up who thinks this is a great idea!' Some hands rose slowly, others shot up. In the end, hardly anyone had not raised their hand.
Reg nodded in acceptance of the approving vote. 'As it always does in all matters, my office is open for you and your suggestions. Again, I hope some of you are willing to spend time and energy on planning the project. That includes the ladies.' He saw enthusiastic gleams in some eyes. 'Please consider it and come to me when you've made up your mind.'
The following morning, Reg sat at the table in his office in one of the comfy armchairs and ate breakfast when the door was opened and one of his men stepped in. 'Morning,' Reg greeted him and sipped his pitch black coffee. 'You're early.' He leaned back comfortably and stretched out his legs. It was quite usual for people to use his office at will to look up their scheduled shifts. The dragon keeper seemed mildly irritated by Reg's relaxed state. 'Coffee?' His boss offered.
The dragon keeper stood irresolutely near the door and murmured his consent.
Reg rose and walked over to the kitchen corner where he seized a mug and poured the hot drink. 'D'you want to discuss the settlement project?' he asked when he handed over the coffee and motioned for the dragon keeper to take a seat.
Completely perplexed, the man sidled to the chair. He eyed his boss uncertainly while said man continued consuming his scrambled eggs. 'I come because of the other thing you mentioned last night,' he mumbled.
Reg put down his fork and leaned back, placing his arm on the backrest of the armchair. 'Do you, Vasil?'
Realisation hit the dragon keeper: the boss was playing him. He refused to reach out for him but expected him to come clean without further prompt. He cleared his throat. 'I was the one who took the egg.'
'You mean you were the one who stole the egg and risked the survival of a rare species for your own personal interests,' Reg corrected calmly.
Vasil sighed. 'Yes. But I did it for my sister. She was sick and would've died without the services of a special mediwizard, and her husband couldn't afford him…'
'And what other ways of acquiring money did you strike before you decided on thievery?' Reg asked strictly.
Vasil looked desperate. 'I asked around in all the family and sought help with friends, but…' his voice broke off and he paused for some time. As the silence dragged, he spoke again. 'Listen, I know I've abused your trust. I didn't want to, but I saw no alternative.'
Reg's sharp gaze lingered a little longer on him; then he nodded. 'I appreciate that you don't try to weasel your way out, even though the confession comes rather late.'
An anxious look was directed his way. 'What will be the consequences?'
'I am sure you know them already,' Reg answered calmly. 'No matter your motives, I cannot ignore such behaviour.'
Vasil's shoulders sagged and he put his head in his hands.
Reg put his dishes away. When he sat down once more and crossed his legs, he enquired, 'You are engaged to that barmaid of the Hinkypunk in Budapest, aren't you?' Vasil's head moved minutely in what supposedly was a nod. 'Remember that I said I was willing to find a solution with you if you came to me on your own?'
Vasil looked up.
Reg leaned forward. 'I can't let you work with dragons any longer. Not because I think you're a notorious thief but because I need to make sure everybody knows the consequences of such behaviour. But you could be involved in the new project. And eventually, you and your future wife could run the pub or café or whatever establishment will be decided upon, if you're interested.'
'I don't have the money to afford a pub,' Vasil objected.
'I know. And I also know that it will take some time before the establishment will make profits. But our business is profitable enough. I have discussed the matter with Åge, and he agrees that a good working atmosphere and thus a better motivation of our workers is worth the investment. We'll give you two years before you'll have to start to pay back the money for the house. Work as hard and with as much dedication as you have so far, and you should have no problems.'
Vasil exhaled loudly and seemed lost in contemplation. 'Think about it,' his boss said patiently. 'Talk it through with your fiancé. Ask yourself if you'll be able to see your former colleagues day in and day out, hear them talk about the dragons, without being allowed to work with them yourself anymore. I think it's a fair offer, and I'm sure people would love to have someone that knows their business run the pub they visit each night. But I'll respect it if you say you'd rather make a completely new start.'
Vasil nodded absent-mindedly. 'Thank you.'
The door that Charlie had initially assumed to lead to Reg's private quarters at his first visit in the boss' office was in fact the entrance to the gym, where the dragon keepers could exercise both their physical strength and their magical skills. He almost always found a sparring partner there, no matter what time of day it was. This afternoon, he won the lottery, so to speak: Reg was in the mood to cross wands with him. Unfortunately, duelling the guy was a hopelessly lost cause. Charlie was pretty quick with the wooden stick and could do a bit of wordless magic as well, but he felt powerless when Reg chose to show him up. Usually, the about ten years older man gave Charlie a fair chance in the beginning, but each time the second of the Weasley boys thought he had his boss cornered, he was slithering out of the tight spot like a snake. And Charlie was quite certain that Reg held back even then. The wizard was not to be underestimated. Every once in a while, he came up with a spell Charlie had never seen or heard of before.
It had grown late when Charlie threw a Stinging Hex at Reg and was mindful enough to jump quickly aside because the other man easily deflected it. Before Reg could hex back, an owl flew in through an open window and interrupted them by settling down on Charlie's shoulder and stretching out a leg. It was Errol, the Weasley family owl.
'Shall we call it quits for today?' Reg suggested.
Charlie agreed while he untied the scroll of parchment.
'Care for a beer? The Muggle alcoholic version, I mean, not butterbeer?' Reg pronounced butterbeer as if talking about bubotuber pus.
'Sounds good,' replied Charlie. He followed the other man into the office to take a seat. He caught the towel that Reg threw at him and wiped off the sweat film that the hours of duelling had left on his skin. He took a gulp of the spicy drink that his boss handed him, savouring the foreign flavour. German Muggle beer was in fashion amongst the dragon keepers, perhaps due to the large percentage of halfbloods and muggleborns amongst them. In the rest of the wizarding world – as far as Charlie knew it – the drink was unknown.
For a while, they sat in silence. Charlie read the letter, and Reg had grabbed the latest newspaper. There always rested a heap of those on the table in the sitting area, coming from all over Europe. Quite handy, because that way each dragon keeper could keep up with the news of his home country.
'Fuck,' it escaped Charlie. Not that he felt the need to hold back with his language amongst his colleagues.
Reg looked up at his exclamation. 'Anything wrong?'
Charlie quickly finished skimming the letter. 'It's a letter from my father,' he explained. His parents had visited the reservation with Reg's leave over Christmas the previous year, but he himself had been absent at the time. 'My youngest brother has started going to Hogwarts last year and has befriended Harry Potter there. You know, the one who-'
Reg wiped the rest of Charlie's sentence away with a swish of his hand. 'Yes yes. So what?'
'Well, it seems the boy has seen You-Know-Who. Even fought him! I thought he was dead…'
Reg folded his newspaper and put it down, his face darkening. 'It seems?'
Charlie shrugged. 'Only Potter has seen him. My father writes that You-Know-Who has somehow lived in the body of a teacher and tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone with his help. Potter, my brother, and a friend of theirs have tried to stop him.'
Reg furrowed his brows. 'Tried?'
'And succeeded. My brother was injured when they attempted to pass the security measures that were supposed to protect the Stone, but Potter went on, faced down You-Know-Who, and defeated him somehow.'
'Defeated?' the other man asked sceptically. His sharp interest in the matter made Charlie wonder about him once more. But in the end it was only natural to be interested in the whereabouts and makings of the darkest wizard alive, was it not?
'Not exactly defeated, or so Dumbledore thinks. According to my father, Dumbledore thinks Potter has just weakened him, taken away the body that he resided in, but that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will come back at some time. Though I don't know how he's doing it. Father writes that Dumbledore appears just as clueless.'
Reg's heart beat faster and his mind worked frantically. The Dark Lord alive! It choked him. He had thought that after he had had Kreacher destroy the Horcrux, the Dark Lord must have been killed during that famed Halloween night in 1981. The only reason why he had kept his new identity, why he had not returned to England, were the remaining league of Death Eaters that most certainly would not welcome him back with open arms.
To now hear that the Dark Lord was still alive meant that Regulus had made a huge mistake. He had underestimated his opponent. Pulling a one man act had been immature, foolish. Had he been caught in the act at the time, no one would have been the wiser.
'So the great wizard is going to sit quietly and wait for the mouse to leave its hole?' he asked with a cynical note in his voice.
Charlie shrugged.
'Well, it's comforting to know that everything's under control and no dark wizards walk about right under Dumbledore's nose unnoticed for months. Or years, as in Grindelwald's case.' With that, Reg disappeared behind his newspaper once more, pretending to peruse the pages while in reality he considered his options. He did not see himself as the brave, selfless hero who dedicated his life to defeating the bad wizard. He led a life that he valued amongst people that he respected and (in some cases) cared about. Secretly, his mind had even started making plans for his future. Regulus was disinclined to give all that up. Nevertheless, it was in his interest that someone took care of that fork-tongued wizard. Who knew how far the Dark Lord's influence would spread once he had regained power? Reg could not risk idleness. He had to act, had to push some buttons, pass on the necessary information.
Charlie looked at him intently for a few moments, probably puzzled by his reaction. At a quarter to ten, the young man took his leave.
A quarter to ten in Romania meant that it was a quarter to nine in Central Europe. The owl office in Belgium was open until ten. Regulus fetched his travelling cloak and portkeyed to Denmark (he had a permanent Portkey, activated by a password, for the many times he travelled forth and back between Denmark and Romania). There, he applied several glamour charms that hid his true identity before he Apparated to a small wizarding settlement in Belgium. He was lucky and found a young boy (aged twelve, perhaps) who followed him willingly to the owl office. The boy retrieved parchment and quill, and then he sat down to write what Reg dictated for a bit of pocket money. The message held only nine letters that made little sense to the boy. He scribbled down the address he was given and handed in the scroll to have it delivered by express owl.
.~*~.
Albus Dumbledore sat in a quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks, nursing a mug of Madam Rosmerta's oak-matured mead and contemplating the events of the last school year. So it was as he had feared – Lord Voldemort was still alive. Dumbledore had always deemed this possible, even likely. In consequence he had made sure that Severus Snape remained safe and ready at his side should the moment arise when the headmaster needed a spy in Riddle's ranks once more, but this once, Albus Dumbledore, who thought of himself as rather smart and experienced (and liked this thought), would have preferred to err. Yes, he would gladly have been mistaken. Not that it would have been the first time in his life, but it would have been pleasant for once.
The questions that posed themselves, now, were how this twisted character managed to cling to life and how he was to be defeated. There was an answer to the latter: the prophecy. Yet the prophecy was too vague to set the headmaster's mind at ease. It did not say 'Harry Potter will defeat the Dark Lord'. There was a lot to be prepared to pave the way for the boy's success.
The fire in the fireplace of the Three Broomsticks flared up and turned green. A moment later, Minerva McGonagall emerged from the flames. Perched on her arm was a big snowy owl. The two of them stepped up to his table. 'Albus,' Minerva greeted him, 'this bird strayed through the castle. Its delivery is addressed to you.'
Quite glad of a little distraction, the elderly man invited his deputy to join him at the table and called for Rosmerta to bring them another drink and some owl treats. Curious as to the provenance of the bird, he eyed the ring around its thin leg while he untied the scroll of parchment that was attached to it. The owl came from Belgium. Now Albus Dumbledore grew even more curious. He did not remember having any friends or acquaintances in Belgium. In France? Yes, of course. Also in Germany. Some renowned wizards lived in the Netherlands with which he corresponded regularly, one also in Luxemburg, but neither of them used birds from owl offices. They had very fine birds of their own. Belgium? He mentally shook his head. No one came to his mind. And whatever some people suspected because of his advanced age (now, actually one hundred and eleven years was no age for a wizard, was it?), Albus Dumbledore's mind was still as sharp as it had ever been.
'Now, Albus,' Minerva pulled him out of his contemplations, 'are you going to sit here dreaming all night, or are you going to read your mail?'
He sent her an apologising smile and unrolled the small piece of parchment. The content of the letter astonished him as much as did its origin. Or the lack thereof. It was unsigned. Neither was there a polite address. It held but nine letters, each placed on the parchment independently from the other as if they had nothing to do with each other whatsoever. Yet they had. They formed a word. A word that Albus Dumbledore did not care for. That on his instructions had been banned from the school library. Even though he treasured the freedom of knowledge, there were things of which the youthful mind needed protection, and by which some elder minds remained best left untouched as well. In short, there were things that caused nothing but harm. There might have been a time when his younger self had been tempted to disagree with things that life had taught Albus Dumbledore in the course of time, but even in his most foolish hour he would not have mistaken these things for anything but what they were. And that there was an eighth and a ninth letter completing the word scared the powerful wizard more than the basic idea the word held.
'H O R C R U X E S' was scribbled on the piece of parchment. Not singular, not just 'horcrux'. No, it spoke of more than one. And its timing, a mere week after Tom Riddle's reappearance, did not leave much room for speculation on what it was referring to. Even though for the second time in one evening the headmaster wished to be mistaken. However, it fit too well. It should have crossed his mind earlier. Now that it had been pointed out to the aged wizard, it was the only plausible explanation of why Lord Voldemort was able to exist without a body. He had done the unthinkable. Even more so, he had, if Dumbledore believed the scrawl on a piece of parchment whose origin remained in the dark – and he was inclined to do so -, done what no other man had dared. He had created more than one horcrux. Would a man capable of maiming his soul twice shrink from doing it a third time? The message gave no answer to that.
The headmaster noticed a shadow creep closer to the parchment and looked up to see Minerva shift to read over his shoulder. He snatched the letter away with a pointed glare.
Irritated by his uncommunicative behaviour, the deputy headmistress took her leave again, half of her drink staying behind. Dumbledore was too distracted to worry about his colleague's demeanour. He was already deciding that he needed to find the sender of the missive, needed to learn if the person knew more, and how he had come to this knowledge.
Dumbledore Apparated to the Belgian owl office the next morning (after eating breakfast in Brighton, since it lay on the way). The clerk could indeed remember the small, elderly man that had dictated a letter right in the office to a local boy. However, the trace led to a dead end. And Albus knew that already before he had located the boy. At no point had the addressor touched the parchment, worked his magic on it, or left any other trace of himself. He had been most careful. It was obvious that he did not want to be found. Dumbledore was certain that the man had altered his appearance as well. Perhaps he was even a she.
The interview of the boy only confirmed the headmasters' assumptions. The boy had never seen his sponsor before. He called him Monsieur Mitterrand and said he had talked with him in fluent French. All that told Dumbledore was that the other witch or wizard had some basic knowledge of Muggle politics – François Mitterrand was the present president of France, after all. He had to face the truth: as long as his secret informant intended to stay anonymous, he would be exactly that. Not even a knowledgeable and influential wizard as Albus Dumbledore was going to discover his identity or whereabouts.
Deeply troubled, the white-haired man started his return journey.
Notes concerning Chapter 7
I have never had a single lesson in Latin. My poor attempts at making up spells are aided by online dictionaries that, however, do not tell me how to correctly form the imperative. I beg your forgiveness (or help) in the matter. Revelo = form of revelare, which means 'reveal'. Anima = life.
On Dumbledore's age: in several fan fictions Dumbledore is reported to be 152 years old in 1996. In the HP Lexicon and on Wikipedia, however, his birth year is given as 1881. Seeing how old he appears in HBP, I think it's plausible that he's at the end of a wizard's lifespan (ca. 150); therefore 152 sounds more plausible. Due to the statement that Dumbledore was born in 1881, however, my Dumbledore is only 111 (in 1992).
Oh yes, and I've met some plot bunnies. I'm also awfully busy with RL, but I'm sure you'll find a way to motivate me to write...
