24 December 1962
For the first time in many years, Albus had trouble concentrating. He'd sat down at his desk directly after lunch, intending to complete the paper he was to give at the Magical Educators' conference in Berlin over the Easter holidays, but he gave it up as a bad job when he realised he had botched the tables on the correlation between teacher experience and N.E.W.T. scores for the third time. The parchment would only take so much Erasing.
He rose from his desk and cast a Tempus Charm.
One forty-five.
Crossing to a cabinet on the other side of the room, he withdrew a small music box. It was made of ebony with an inlaid lacquer design depicting a brilliant red-and-gold plumed phoenix against a deep blue background ringed with an orange sunburst pattern. The beautiful box had been a gift from Nicolas Flamel when he and Albus had completed their analysis of the chemical properties of alkahest.
Albus opened the box's top, thought for a moment, then pointed his wand at the box, saying, "Sonorus."
A moment later, the pensive, elegiac sound of Bach's eighty-second cantatafilled the air. Filius had charmed the box to play it for Albus, waxing rhapsodical about the singer, Hans Hotter, pronouncing the decade-old recording the greatest performance he'd ever heard of "Ich habe genug". After listening for about five minutes, Albus was inclined to agree with him, although he suspected Nicolas might have a different opinion. Of course, the old alchemist had heard the piece sung by the Kantor of Leipzig's Thomaskirche himself.
Albus was nearly through his second listen when Malcolm's knock came.
"Come in, Malcolm," he said, showing the young man into his office and gesturing for him to take a seat in a large, upholstered chair near the fire. He noticed how gingerly the boy sat down.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Better, sir, thank you."
"Any pain?"
Malcolm said, "Just . . . you know . . . where I was kicked. The potion you gave me helped, though."
"Good," said Albus. "Are you swollen?"
Malcolm coloured slightly and answered, "No, I don't think so. I've got a little . . . um . . . a little bruising."
"May I take it you didn't have your mother attend to it?"
"No . . . I didn't really think . . . well, I wasn't exactly comfortable with that idea."
"No, I can appreciate your feelings," said Albus. "Would you like to see Madam Warburg? I'm sure she could help you relieve the bruising."
"No, thank you, sir," Malcolm said quickly. "I'm sure it will resolve itself soon."
Albus understood why the boy was reluctant to see the matron about such a sensitive issue. Madam Warburg was rounding on one hundred years of age, and her hands shook terribly. Moreover, Albus was not entirely certain the lady was not blind, too. She was scheduled to retire in the coming year, and Albus had already found what he believed to be an excellent replacement, but Madam Warburg's contract didn't run out until the end of the spring term. Albus had met privately with the other staff to recommend that any seriously ill or injured students be taken quietly to St Mungo's rather than the Hogwarts infirmary. He was quite certain that he would not want Eugenia Warburg anywhere near his privates, either.
"Would you like me to have a look?" Albus asked. "I'm no Healer, and I'm probably not as skilled as your mother at such things, but I can do simple spells to reduce swelling and heal any superficial bruising."
He could see Malcolm hesitate, and he was almost sorry he'd offered—he didn't want to make the boy uncomfortable—but having been the recipient of his brother's angry boot to his crotch on more than one occasion in his childhood, Albus knew how painful such injuries could be.
He said, "If you'd rather not, I will take no offense."
"No," said Malcolm. "If you want to . . . it would be good if you could heal the bruise. It hurts to sit, actually."
"All right," said Albus, drawing his wand and gesturing for Malcolm to take down his trousers.
Malcolm stood and unfastened them, hesitating only a moment before pushing his briefs down.
Albus winced when he saw the contusion discolouring Malcolm's right testicle. The dark purple bruise spread down from the outside half of his scrotum to his upper thigh. Cold fury filled the Headmaster as he examined the boy's injury; if he ever discovered who the culprit was, several months' worth of detention would be the least of the little bastard's problems.
"Not too terrible," he said to Malcolm as he looked. "I'm just going to cast two spells, with your permission. The one to reduce swelling—and you don't have too much—may be a little uncomfortable. The one to heal the bruising should just feel a bit tingly, all right?"
"Yes, sir. I'm ready whenever you are."
"All right," said Albus. "The uncomfortable one first, hmm?" He pointed his wand at the testicle and said, "Reducere tumescens!" He heard the boy's sharp intake of breath and asked, "All right, Malcolm?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good lad. Now the easy one: "Curo contusionem!" The purple discolouration quickly faded. It didn't disappear completely, but it was noticeably reduced. "Done," Albus said. "I couldn't get rid of the bruising completely, but you should feel a bit better now. Do you?"
"Yes, I think," said Malcolm. "Should I . . . um . . . pull my trousers up?"
"By all means." Albus turned and went to his desk, shuffling some papers to give the boy a bit of privacy while he buttoned up.
When he turned back, he asked, "Are you able to sit more comfortably now, Malcolm?"
The young man sat carefully back down on the chair, and Albus was pleased to see his face brighten.
"Oh, that's much better. Thank you, Professor Dumbledore!"
"You're most welcome, my boy." He could see Malcolm struggling with something and decided to let the boy come to it in his own way.
After a moment, Malcolm did just that. "Professor?"
"Yes?"
"You don't think . . . well, this is a little embarrassing . . . but you don't think the injury will affect . . . how things work? Down there?" Malcolm's face was now bright pink.
"No, not at all," Albus said. "I don't think any permanent damage was done, and even if it had been, most men are quite able to father children with only one working testicle." Albus was suddenly acutely uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
"That's good to know," said Malcolm. "But what about . . . um . . . the . . . other aspects of . . . um . . . you know . . ."
"Ah. I see. No, I don't think you should have any lasting problems there, Malcolm. At the moment, things in that region are a bit traumatised, and you might be noticing that . . . certain events that might be expected to arise in the morning, for example, aren't. But in a few days' time, I'm sure things will be back to normal. If not, well . . . when the bruising is gone, you might try . . . a test flight . . . if you take my meaning. Then if things still aren't as they were, we can see about consulting a Healer. But I very much doubt that will be necessary. These things do happen, and our equipment is far more resilient than one might think. Believe me." He looked at Malcolm meaningfully.
"Yes, sir. Thanks. Sorry to trouble you about it," said Malcolm.
"It's no trouble. And your concerns are quite understandable. I'm happy to be able to allay some of them," Albus said. "Now, we need to talk about how you're going to learn to control this gift of yours and turn it into a skill," he said, happy to change the subject to another line.
They spent the next few minutes discussing the benefits of being able to become invisible at will, and Albus spoke to Malcolm very seriously about the pitfalls of abusing the ability.
"You may find, Malcolm, that you become complacent," Albus said. "A number of witches and wizards have gotten themselves into quite a bit of trouble while invisible, whether that invisibility was conferred by a charmed cloak or by innate ability. You must not rely on it to get you out of trouble, and it is not a substitute for good defensive skills. And above all, you mustn't go looking for trouble simply because you think you can get away with it without being seen."
"No, sir," said Malcolm.
"Very good."
Albus spent the next ninety minutes taking Malcolm through a series of exercises designed to help the young man develop control over his newly discovered talent. By the end of it, Malcolm was able to make himself invisible with great difficulty—he managed it fully only once, partially twice—but was able to Reappear fairly easily.
When they had finished, Malcolm was perspiring lightly with the effort. Albus said, "You did very well, Malcolm. I think it advisable for you to refrain from practicing, though, unless you are with me, at least for the time being. I can work with you on Sunday evenings, if you agree."
"Yes, sir! Thank you, Professor!"
When the door closed behind the boy, Albus stood looking at it for a few moments.
Taking care of Malcolm's injury had helped the older wizard settle his nerves a bit; it had given him something to focus on other than what was foremost in his mind, but as he had watched over the young man during the exercises he had taught him, he could not help examining him closely, and he had realised with considerable shock that the young man looked very much as he himself had at the same age. It was not obvious, exactly, but noticeable if one was looking for it.
By the time he had dismissed Malcolm Macnair, Albus was convinced that his suspicions were correct He didn't really need the spell he was about to perform to confirm them, but as a man of science, Albus Dumbledore had to test his hypothesis with the best tool he had.
He went to his desk and took from the bottom right drawer a copy of Melvyn Derwent's Advanced Techniques in Magico-molecular Genetics and thumbed through it to the section on matching magico-types. The spell Albus had found was complex and tricky. He read through it several times, then withdrew from his right robe pocket several long, brown hairs he had surreptitiously snipped from Malcolm's ponytail when the boy's eyes were closed. He took a single strand and laid it on the smooth surface of his desk, putting the remaining hairs back in his pocket.
From the top drawer of his desk, he withdrew a letter-sized envelope and took up the flap. From it, he withdrew a single black hair and resealed the envelope, putting it back in the drawer. He had retrieved the hair from Minerva's brush while she was overseeing breakfast in the Great Hall with the small group of students who had remained at Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday. He was not proud of having used his privilege as Headmaster to enter her rooms without her knowledge, but he had been unable to think of another way to get the specimens he needed without raising her suspicions. He placed the black hair next to the brown one on his desk.
After removing his hat, Albus plucked several hairs from his own head and separated out one silver strand, laying it next to the two darker hairs on the desk and putting the remainder in his left robe pocket.
He looked over the spell once more, closed his eyes, and cast, using the ancient Greek Derwent recommended for the incantation. He faltered once, and when he opened his eyes to regard the hairs, nothing had happened. Sighing, he swept them from the desk and took out three new specimens, placing them next to one another on the desk again.
Albus reviewed the spell carefully before re-casting. And again, nothing happened. Perhaps his understanding of magical genetics was too incomplete for him to form a specific enough intention. He resolved to try just once more. If it didn't work this time, he told himself, he would forget about the spell for the time being, until he had a chance to consult an expert—perhaps old Derwent himself—and concoct a believable cover story about the reason for his sudden interest in a branch of magic that was so far afield from his normal pursuits.
He lined the three hairs up, then did a short mind-clearing exercise to help hone his focus. He took up his wand again and cast, certain this time that he had the incantation correct. When he opened his eyes, there was a shimmering pale yellow glow surrounding the specimens. Albus felt his pulse quicken, but admonished himself not to become too excited. The book had said the aura would turn green for a non-match, orange for a match. Yellow could become either—or nothing at all, meaning the spell had failed once again.
For two minutes, he simply listened to his heart thudding its rhythm dully in his ears, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he had his answer.
It was a near certainty.
Albus groped for the edge of his desk to steady himself. He'd known even before he saw the bright orange glow, of course, but there was a difference between knowing a thing and knowing it.
After a moment, he went around to the back of the desk and pulled open a drawer, withdrawing a bottle of the good Firewhisky he kept there for impromptu toasts and celebrations. He conjured a glass and poured himself two fingers, thought a moment, then added another finger.
A few minutes later, the potent liquor hit his bloodstream and calmed the storm that had been raging within him. But only slightly.
How had this happened? An accident?
Minerva had told him she had taken a contraceptive potion, he was certain of it.
Wasn't he?
He went to the large stone Pensieve that sat in the corner of the room and closed his eyes, concentrating on the night he had taken Minerva to his bed, and withdrew a silvery strand of memory, depositing it in the basin.
Albus smiled a little at her fit of giggles at seeing his erect penis, remembering his surprise and relief at the sudden appearance of a normal teenager under the mask of the serious young woman he had known. Not to mention his relief at having achieved the erection in the first place.
"Do you need me to cast a contraceptive charm?" he heard himself ask.
"No. I took a potion."
Had she lied?
He withdrew from the memory and siphoned it up with his wand, replacing it in his head.
"I took a potion."
She didn't say she had taken a contraceptive potion specifically. Clever little cat.
I should have asked her which one. Or better, I should have cast the charm anyway.
Except he would never have cast a charm of any kind on her body without her permission. She would have known that, certainly.
And if he had insisted? Would things have been different? Might she have simply backed out? Perhaps confided in him? Even asked him outright to father her child?
Questions, questions . . . he was a-fever with questions. But there was one he didn't have to ask himself. He knew why she had done it. Hadn't it been one of his own chief concerns when he had heard about the betrothal?
The Macnairs were mad. Not Gerald, perhaps, but his father, grandfather, and his uncle . . . probably others as well. Minerva was not stupid and never had been. She had been a budding scientist, after all, and knew the maxim: You don't breed a mad dog.
And Minerva hadn't.
She had concocted and carried out a plan, carefully and methodically, as she did almost everything, no doubt calculating each possible step and its potential outcomes, charting the risks and benefits of each, and what it would mean to her plans. He had been merely a variable. Something to be managed. She had used him.
And now he had a son he hadn't even met until the boy was fifteen.
(I cannot be a father. I am not a father.)
She had tricked him, then she had stood up and married Gerald Macnair, knowing she was carrying another man's child. Then she had taken that child and gone to France, probably thinking never to see Albus Dumbledore again.
And then she'd brought her child here.
All this time, and she'd known . . . kept it carefully hidden from Albus and, presumably, from everyone else.
(My son . . . our son . . . no, not mine . . . hers . . . only hers.)
Or had she? Had she told Malcolm?
A wave of nausea gripped him at the thought. Did Malcolm know? Did they sit together in her quarters at night discussing him? Malcolm's father?
No. The boy couldn't know. No child was that sly, that deceptive . . .
She was.
Anger began to boil up from deep within him, so hot and enveloping that he was blind with it for a few moments. He dared not move; he was afraid his magic might explode from within him and destroy the castle. Along with the anger, though, was another feeling . . . one he couldn't, wouldn't give name to. He forced it back, and found that it would yield. His fury was stronger, for the moment. And his fear . . . irrational, yet undeniably present. What would he do? What could he do? What could he do that would not destroy his relationship with Minerva—fractured and damaged though it indubitably was now—and with Malcolm? His son.
He had a child. He and Minerva. Together, they had made this boy . . . this young man. And now that he knew, he couldn't un-know. The knowledge was in him like a growth that couldn't be removed.
And there was nothing to be done.
He simply stood where he was as the shadows in the room slowly stretched out, then disappeared completely, shrouding him in darkness. He didn't move again until he heard the knock at his office door.