Chapter 12–Magick Moste Evile
Gellert Grindelwald was not supposed to just spread diagonally across his bed and fall asleep in his day clothes, he was a civilized wizard with a proper upbringing and a reputation to uphold. Dark wizards did not sprawl, nor did they sleep in day clothes... then again, one didn't imagine dark wizards wearing nightclothes either. Dark wizards weren't really meant to sleep, the caffeine-like effect of dark magic supposedly enough to keep them awake.
But that was Gellert Grindelwald. Abernathy Wohl, a professor without a past or a future, could sleep in whatever garment he had at his disposal, in whatever angle he had collapsed on the bed, with the Patil twins' parchment under his pillow. 'The game will be played with only one bludger today', the girls had written, and passed to him before the match. Albus was the headmaster of a goldmine here! The muggleborn witch who was worth an army in herself, the boy who had survived the Killing Curse, the Weasley twins, the metamorphmagus, and now, proving his suspicion right, two seers who only needed some training. Anyone would have been jealous of Albus having this much potential under his control. All this, in addition to a pet phoenix and, (too many memories here,) the Elder Wand.
Most unbidden, a realization crept into his mind. Maybe among the witches and wizards under Dumbledore's command, he should list the greatest dark wizard of the century as well.
The greatest dark wizard, who was currently sprawled across a four-poster bed diagonally, in the angle he fell when he entered the room, with complete disregard of a proper upbringing or some common sense. It was nice to be able to sleep like this, however. For the last 48 years he had slept curled up miserably under a thin blanket in a cold cell.
He willed his body and mind to wake, but his head felt like an aching whirlpool of thoughts and missing memories. He recalled a seventh-year Ravenclaw student inviting him over to a defeat-forgetter drinking fest in the Charms classroom with other boys of his year. Flitwick had also attended, and somehow they ended up in a Durmstrang-typical duel where the opponents were both holding beers, and had to hold their ground for the whole length of twenty seconds before both would drink what remained in their jars.
Judging by the horrible spinning of his head, he must have been successful at keeping his beer safe, and he certainly hadn't been thirsty at the end of the improvised 'defeat-forgetter' championship. But he wasn't exactly certain if he had challenged Charity Burbage when the good-willing witch had found them, there were flashes of memory of him duelling her with two beers in his wand hand. Perhaps it would be smart never to ask her, he decided, head still spinning.
He pulled himself together and focused on his to-do list for the day. Plan out the material for tomorrow's (official) duel club. Breakfast. Defence lesson with sixth-year Oliver Wood who had to miss out the normal class on Tuesday due to quidditch business. (How could he blame the winning team's captain for is priorities?) There would be something related to the elf and the bludger afterwards, and he would spend a few hours in the library because of that – maybe a staff meeting. It was a nice aspect of being a seer: he knew in advance not to expect free time on a lovely Sunday. Babbling and McGonagall had already told him he was overdoing his responsibilities, but neither witches would understand what it was like to have less than one school year after (and before) long imprisonment in that filthy, tiny, abandoned cell that not even an insect would grace.
He couldn't undo the past and he was too thoroughly defeated to change the future. All he had was the present, a gift of mercy from a curse on the Defence teacher's position, a combination of a pureblood parent's influence and the crazy dares of Dumbledore. It wasn't a relaxing thought at all, how his one and only chance for a last gulp of life was in the hand of his worst enemy. No, second worst: the first one was himself.
As usual, he was one of the first to breakfast. As usual, he ate through the variety, savouring every bite. Also as usual, he found the Weasley twins had done something to the school corridors (they were the beaters of the Gryffindor team, they should have been too tired after the match, but to them, it was hardly more than a weak alibi) and consequently, which was not so usual, he had to take a detour on his way to his classroom.
A pattern of dark magic caught his attention in a deserted corridor. The lingering trace was decades old, perhaps even predated his downfall, but the magic that had been performed had been of the darkest kind, and its effect had not changed ever since. He reached into it, but only saw a flash of yellow. Curiously he moved in that direction, only to be distracted by a scent of something much more harmless, but also, a lot more recent. Somebody was brewing lacewing stew in a closed-down... Bathroom?
It was a girls' bathroom indeed, and now he remembered Charity telling about it: this was where a muggleborn was killed the last time the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. And, apparently, somebody had recently made use of the out-of-use, but easily accessible place for some brewing.
He tried to determine how long the lacewings had been stewed, but it could be anything between four days and two entire weeks. Besides, he couldn't take away anything from a student. It was an interesting find anyway.
He just finished transfiguring some of his pebbles into Wood's next training opponents (really, they were just smaller pebbles with stone-like wings – the quidditch match gave him the idea) when the metamorphmagus knocked on his classroom's door.
"Miss Tonks, what a lovely surprise! Come in!"
She came, fell, marched on. It was hard to believe the same woman would grow into a rather effective auror so soon.
"Professor Wohl, I talked to Harry! About the elf, and bingo!"
Grindelwald mused if the girl would sport the same enthusiastic smile when she tracked him down. The owl vision seemed to come much more often, and with a shocking clarity, whenever she was close. After preaching to the Patils about never to jump to conclusions too quickly, he knew better than to commit the same mistake, but there was a connection, that much was certain.
"I'm all ears, young lady. Take a seat."
"Sometime this summer Harry was visited by a house elf. His description matches the one we saw. Sorry, I should start at the beginning. I approached Harry because the bludger was enchanted to single him out. He was the target."
"Brilliant, Miss Tonks."
"So, Harry was staying with his muggles when this elf popped up, warned him that there's some sort of danger awaiting him at Hogwarts, and disappeared. From what he told me, Dobby must have found a way around a prohibition not to tell. Ever since, the elf seems to be determined to get him out of here, whether by getting him expelled, blocking his way to the train... or now, trying to injure his wand arm."
"And he didn't raise a complaint about a house elf attacking him? What family does that thing belong to?"
"Our conclusion was that it's one of the death eaters still at large. There were a number of them who claimed to have been under Imperius."
"Good work, future Auror Tonks," Grindelwald tried to smile. This witch was dangerous. But not his problem, he would be sitting in his cell for most of her active life... Maybe, if she decided to work for the ICW, she would at least visit him sometime? Hufflepuffs were said to be loyal enough. She wouldn't be able to break him out, her magic didn't lie in charms or wardbreaking, but for the aged wizard he was, a visit or two really should suffice. He wasn't the popular revolutionist he once had been.
"Thank you, Professor Wohl."
He jumped up from the table he'd sat on. "Come, I want to show you something. Someone started brewing a very interesting potion in a closed-down toilet."
"Myrtle's haunting place?"
It wasn't far from his classroom, luckily, and no crowd hindered them as it would have done on a weekday.
"What's that smell?" she soon queried, turning her nose into that of a bloodhound.
"Stewing lacewings."
"I read about that in Moste Potente Potions just the other day!" she rejoiced. "Mrs Sprout signed my slip so I could take a copy out for the entire week! Lacewings need to be stewed for lots of potions."
"The most important of those being Polyjuice," the teacher nodded. "Once the personal component is added to it, the brew takes on new attributes, dependent on the donor. But finished Polyjuice, and all of its production stages, can be recognized by the lacewing scent, if you know what you're looking for. And people don't always remove the scent from their robes before taking the brew."
"Why wasn't that in the book?"
He swallowed back a reply, just shrugged.
"Okay. So what do we do about it?" Miss Tonks queried, finally changing her snout back to a human nose.
"Nothing. I cannot take away anything from a student, that was one of the rules Albus insisted on when I was brought here."
"Why?"
"Personal, unrelevant question." He couldn't tell her how he'd stolen the Elder Wand from Gregorovitch.
.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, appeared like a rather average student, easily overshadowed by the brilliant witch of the same year. His only prominent feature was his ability to land himself in trouble, and as Albus had informed his former friend and former nemesis, that trait had been prominent since before his birth.
"Mr Potter, thank you for coming. Miss Granger, it's forever a pleasure."
They were in the library, with Irma Pince watching them like a hawk as they were led across the Restricted Section.
"Miss Tonks told me that you, archnemesis of that wizard without a name, received repeated warning from the house elf owned, presumably, by one of his remaining followers. It reminded me suspiciously of the requirements of a ritual said nameless wizard must be in a dire need to perform."
"His name is Voldemort," Mr Potter said.
The muggleborn flinched, hearing the name.
"He named himself so, after being born under some other name, and before the wizarding populace decided not to refer to him by that." He lifted Magick Moste Evile from the bookshelf, and took it to one of the windows. "This book deserves to be handled with respect, and I admittedly have a soft spot for the author," he explained. "There, Mr Potter. Ritual of Rebirth. Read it and afterwards I swear to answer any questions of yours to the best of my abilities."
"Can I read it too, Professor?" Miss Granger, of course, asked.
"As long as you don't do it instead of Mr Potter, I don't see a reason why you shouldn't."
He turned back to the aisle he'd been searching when the students arrived. He couldn't believe Secrets of the Darkest Art was missing from this vast library, its absence didn't make sense.
"Professor..." When he looked up, the brilliant Miss Granger's face was red with anger, while Harry was pale like a morning cloud. He caringly took back the old tome, and put it aside, expecting a torrent of questions.
Which never came.
"Yes?" he tried.
"Why did you make Harry read that awful ritual?" the witch suddenly burst out. "How could you? It's virtually cannibalism on two instances."
Yes, there was a reason this qualified as dark magic. But at the moment, her sensitive feelings weren't what mattered. "Mr Potter? Do you understand why?"
The boy nodded, and that's what was important. "How do I prevent it?" he asked, face still white, but steeling himself as he straightened up.
"First of all, if something looks like a trap, never walk into it alone. Always keep your wand at the ready. And in the worst case, there's still a crucial condition: 'blood unwillingly given'. The more you can bring yourself to agree to its use, the weaker the reborn enemy will be. Or else, friendly blood would be in use."
At the mention of 'friendly blood' Miss Granger almost threw up.
'Wohl' deemed it better to caringly close the book and put it back to its rightful place. To talk about something more cheerful, he asked if they'd be interested in a German language extracurricular, which would either be held on Friday afternoons, or Wednesdays after dinner. Miss Granger nodded, but didn't appear to soften up so easily.