There was no time to get accustomed to a life on tenterhooks. As early as the next morning, Albus was compelled to fend off a battalion of journalists, who showered him with invites, demanding a permission to interview one of the champions, if not Harry in person. Letters from all over Europe piled up on his desk; among the very few compassionate ones, he found a note from Jean-Yves, the previous headmaster of Beauxbatons, which elicited a genuine smile. Worst of all were the politicians' missives.
Ever since Giacomo had warned him of the gravity of the situation, Albus had accepted his advice and did not delay in visiting Gia d'Angelli in Rome. Together, they composed a thorough speech he later delivered in Wizengamot, and only in retrospect could he appreciate just how instrumental this initiative had been in saving his position. As he returned from Gia's office, his pocket filled with sheets of draft, he was informed of having narrowly missed an irate Amos Diggory, who had spent two hours waiting for him before returning to the Ministry in a state of great frustration. It was but a postponement of the conflict, but Albus felt relieved nonetheless.
A comprehensive speech was not all he brought back from Italy: three indigo candles had been procured by a thoughtful and resourceful Justice. He was delighted to give them to Gellert. Whenever his schedule allowed, he and the German wizard would discuss the events at hand and plan together. Albus knew he was fortunate to have his lover's emotional support and receive his children's help: their presence was more precious to him than words could describe.
Within a week, his joy was amplified by another piece of news. Alerted by the Ministry's threat, Aurora's father had risen to the occasion and secured the alliance of an ambassador stationed in Uagadou. This wizard personally wrote to Cornelius Fudge to vouch for his "fiancée's" innocence and express his trust in the Ministry's equity—as clear a message as diplomacy permitted. By choice or force, Umbridge desisted from blaming Aurora for the international scandal.
Harry's safety, however, was a different matter. It was a fear that did not let the headmaster relax even at night, for no one could predict when Lord Voldemort's spy might attempt to kidnap the boy. As effective as the Tracking Charm was, it could only alert Albus to the abduction; the intervention itself would then have to be instantaneous. All would be lost, should the Death Eater succeed in leading Harry outside of the castle's anti-Apparition wards. With Fawkes's help, Albus felt confident he would save Harry in time; still, this permanent state of vigilance was taking a toll, and seeing the poor boy suffer was a torment in itself. Aside from facing unknown dangers, Harry was constantly being accused of cheating and attention-seeking, and his closest friend had distanced himself. It was enough cause for madness.
Only, the first task was approaching as well. Everything was almost ready for the dragons' arrival—a fourth animal had quickly been added to the count—and lodgings had been arranged for their handlers. While the extent of Harry's courage was well-known, Albus could not help it: his vision would blur every time he pictured the fourteen-year-old child face to a dragon. Yet there was nothing he could do as long as the Ministry's contract remained in force.
A fleeting reprieve came unexpectedly, granting him a few hours away from the tension. It was the day before the Wand weighing ceremony, and a free morning loomed ahead with no meetings to attend until nearly three in the afternoon. After some hesitation, Albus decided against his paperwork routine. He had made a promise to Gia, and it was time to fulfil it and visit an old friend. He took his cloak, said goodbye to Fawkes, and made his way out of Hogwarts. His path led to sunny Liguria.
Few British wizards were aware the Ollivanders were, in fact, Italian, even though a branch of the family had moved to London centuries ago to be quickly claimed by an enthusiastic English community. Their pure-blood line still remained among the oldest ones in the world, dating from the times of ancient Rome, and one only had to behold their opulent estate in Liguria to realise they had never forgotten their roots. In this sense, Garrick Ollivander from Diagon Alley was something of an exception: his lifestyle was modest, for the art of wandmaking had become his entire life; he could not care less about political games. His one resemblance to his Italian cousin, the matriarch Olivia Ollivander, lay in their fine features.
Albus walked down the garden lane, drinking in the scent of the sea. The villa presiding over the enclosure of wand trees was as elegant as he remembered: an airy Renaissance building ornamented with statues. Yet despite the charm of this hilly landscape and the magic brimming within the plantation, a sense of abandon and melancholy had settled in. A lonely wizard in a straw hat was bent over a flowerbed, almost blending in with his surroundings. Bowtruckles were clinging to his gardening gloves, as if to climb up his hands. At Albus's approach, he glanced up with an amiable smile, and they exchanged a Buongiorno before he resumed his task. A little uneasy, the Englishman strode on. He knew that wizard was no gardener: he was Olivia's husband.
The door opened on the witch herself. She was the same age as Albus, although she looked younger—not even the lines on her face nor the grey in her hair could lessen her dignified beauty. Once his romantic rival, she was now a dear friend of his.
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." She held out a hand, which he kissed. "About time you came to visit me. Where would you like to have tea, in the parlour or in the garden?"
"I have no preference—I am fond of both," he smiled.
"Inside it is then. Come in."
Without being summoned, a house-elf appeared by their side, and Olivia gave him her orders, leading Albus into the tea parlour. She was wearing a long creamy dress with a floral pattern, her hair woven into a knot.
"How is Gellert?"
"He is feeling better." He was pleased to have this piece of good news to offer her. "One of my teachers has given me candles with a powerful spell that purifies the magic in his cell. They have been beneficial—I only wish I'd known of them earlier."
"That's good."
They reached the parlour—a light room with a terrace door that opened on the garden—and took seats around the small table, where tea and pastries had materialised.
"And how have you been?" Her hazel eyes took in his careworn expression. "I've heard rather troubling news: that famous boy you look after was elected to compete."
"It's a disaster," he confessed heavily. "Ever since the school year started, I've received warning after warning, and it's a mere beginning. I'm afraid Britain is heading into a new wave of clashes and violence." His gaze followed the motions of the teapot, enchanted to pour tea into the delicate cups. "If the situation escalates, it might become dangerous for Garrick to linger in London. It would be safest if he kept a low profile or even went abroad."
"Yes, indeed," Olivia mused. "Cousin Garrick might be of no use to our family, but to a Dark wizard… a wandmaker could be valuable." She smiled then, a bitter smile. "But don't get your hopes up, Albus. The Ollivander men have always been idiots. Garrick is a bloody idiot too."
Startled by her tone, Albus set down his cup and covered her hand with his.
"Sadly, it's often the case: women end up having to do all the rational thinking."
His jest did little good, for she was not listening. Behind the terrace door, her husband could be glimpsed in the garden, his gloved hands worrying soil.
"Look at him." There was now pain in her voice, as well as bitterness. "He thinks he's a house-elf. He calls me signora. But he, at least, is obedient. When I ask him to serve me tea, he does. When I ask him to wash the linen, he does. When I tell him to plant new trees, he does it as well. He is not opposed to fetching my house slippers. If I told him to go and hang himself, he'd do that too."
She laughed, turning away from the meek wizard, who was attempting to shake off a stubborn Bowtruckle. And at last, as he looked into her pained eyes, Albus understood. Dementia. This was what had happened to her husband, what gnawed on his mind day after day. He was so young yet. And the witch was alone. Even her grown son was of no consolation.
Olivia's tragedy stemmed from her life-long love for Gellert, born in the days of their studies at Durmstrang. Ironically, it was her noble birth and inheritance that had stood in the way of any future they might have shared: sole heiress of the Ollivander Estate, she had been obliged to marry the wizard of her parents' choice. For a while, she had found solace in her only son, named after the man she loved, but she had been disappointed once more. Her Gilbert was a young man with a sensitive nature and artistic inclinations, a musician. A perfect son for any mother who had not hoped to raise a bold, dynamic, charismatic politician.
After a short pause, the witch continued, "Gilbert is not as obedient, and that is a problem. Here is my advice: keep an eye on Garrick. He has grown roots in that dusty little shop of his. If he disappears, it will most likely mean the poor idiot has been kidnapped."
"I will." Albus exhaled, contemplating her with growing concern. "You've been alone for too long, Olivia. You are unhappy. Let me take you out of here so that you can, once again, breathe fresh air and enjoy action."
"What action, Albus?" Somewhere behind her resignation, he detected a note of plea. "It's over for me. And it's partly your fault."
"Nothing is over," he insisted gently. "Your world is not confined to this estate. Do you know for whom it really is over? The Rosiers—serves them right—as well as the Lestranges, the Averys, and quite a few English pure-blood families. The Blacks still have a chance. But you, Olivia, are at the heart of a flourishing business, and your son is already a father. You have the right to live for yourself now. And I know just the cause that might interest you. Durmstrang needs help."
"Don't tell me. The Slavic fraction has elected a known criminal to represent them?" Olivia seemed unperturbed. "I've heard the rumours, of course; everybody has. How bad is it? Or rather, don't tell me; curiously enough, my only entertainment comes from a d'Angelli these days."
It was devastating to see how deeply depression had affected her. Albus would never forget the vivacious, strong-willed girl who had rendered him jealous for one life-changing evening. Now, misery had eclipsed her love of Durmstrang.
"Gia is a good girl," he objected. "She works tirelessly to make Gellert's vision come true."
"A good girl." The witch rolled her eyes. "So I've noticed. She's being tutored well—maybe without even realising how much. She has managed to stay out of my immediate wand reach too, quite adeptly so: she comes either too late, or too early, or with a crowd of admirers. Not that I'd curse her in public—no, my best hope is for a deranged killer to slay her with an axe in a dark alley one day." She smiled. "It's frustrating, really: I have just enough strength to strangle her without resorting to my wand."
"And what good would it do?" the Englishman countered with a mild reproach. "Then there would be no one left in the government to introduce Gellert's ideas. You would cause a great deal of grief to her parents and me. Not to mention, it wouldn't make you feel good, not for long. Helping us, on the other hand, would feel satisfying."
"Oh, don't ruin my fantasy, Albus," she cut in impatiently. "The monster you've created has become powerful; he guards that little bitch more ferociously than a dragon guards her eggs. I can't harm a single hair on Gia d'Angelli's head now. Had you listened to me, Giacomo would have been taken care of the same way as his father would have seen Gellert hurt. Then Giacomo would have been forced to marry whomever his father chose—and let's be honest, not many witches would have accepted such a cripple for a husband. He would have faded away. But no, you spared him, and then you went to Spain, found him a wife, and made sure the d'Angelli line lived on and prospered."
During Gellert's trial in 1945, Giacomo's father, the Italian Minister for Magic, had notoriously proposed cursing off the German wizard's tongue in symbolic retribution for his "crimes", and also to prevent anyone else from falling under Gellert's spell. By pure luck, as it had appeared back then, he had been unsuccessful.
"I think it's wrong to punish children for their parents' misdeeds," Albus stated quietly. "I loathe the man, but Giacomo had nothing to do with the trial. I've adopted the boy, and children deserve the best we can give them."
"You wouldn't understand. They are still the d'Angellis; nothing will change that. And what I cannot accept is that you've uplifted the d'Angellis—they are the monsters of your own creation, Albus. You could have uplifted the Ollivanders instead. You didn't. We are the fading family of wandmakers now, nothing more."
And there it was: pure-bloods, especially those from old families, constantly competed for power. Gellert was also a pure-blood, except his mindset was centuries ahead of his time, and his vision was one of a world with equal opportunities, devoid of predatory struggles—a world where the Ollivanders and the d'Angellis could have co-existed without seeking to supplant each other.
Albus glanced once more towards the garden. He had come to offer Olivia the position of Durmstrang's headmistress, or at least a spot on the board of governors, for once Karkaroff escaped—as he was bound to do at a definite sign of Voldemort's return—there would be an opportunity for overruling the Slavic fraction. He had been mistaken, though. Supervision and administration were not what Olivia wished for; it was political action she craved. And unlike him, she was fit for a politician: highborn, pragmatic, capable and influential.
"Then let me do what I should have done ages ago," he said earnestly. "Let me help you. We can find a kind, loyal caretaker for your husband, which will allow you to go to Rome. You have been made for politics."
She smiled, her large eyes sad. "Do you really think it's not too late for me? I feel I've wasted so much time, trying to make something out of Gilbert, that my time has been lost. And Gilbert… well, suffice to say, his greatest ambition is to play at school concerts." She paused. "But I won't lie: I'd like to get out of here. To change the view. Unlike Cousin Garrick, I'm not ready to bury myself alive just yet."
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'm happy to hear it, Olivia. It is far from late: you are young yet, you are beautiful, and you possess more fire and wit than half the Ministry officials put together. Go out and show them. I will help arrange anything you need."
At this, the witch could not contain her tears.
"Who would have thought? We were rivals once—not directly opposed, perhaps, but still, competing for the love of the same man. Yet now, it is you who have come to me in the hour of need. Thank you, Albus. You know, next to you, I might never have stood a chance."
"Olivia…" Gently pressing her fingers, he felt his memories stir, and for a moment, he could vividly recall his uncertain, emotional seventeen-year-old self. "Do you know, the first time we met—when I saw how kind and beautiful you were, the way Gellert looked at you… I Disapparated all the way back to England and sat down to cry. I don't believe I've ever apologised for leaving your ball without a word. I would like to apologise now. For my rudeness, and the turmoil I left behind."
"It's… it's in the past, Albus." She swallowed. "I remember that night rather well. I was very anxious for Gellert to arrive after… you know, the event that had led to his and Dieter's expulsion. I was hoping, that night, he would come and choose me. But he came with you. It was difficult for me—difficult not to hate you. But loving someone means respecting their choices. And I love Gellert, as do you. This does not make us enemies."
They fell quiet, holding hands. After a while, Olivia cleared her throat.
"I imagine your most pressing reason for coming to see me is that, in the light of the recent events, you are worried for Cousin Garrick. Like I said, I don't have good news for you: he is an idiot. He knows how to make wands, and that's all. By all means, you can tell him that I, too, strongly recommend that he lie low or go into hiding, but will he listen? I'm sceptical."
Albus nodded. "I ought to have a chance to speak to Garrick tomorrow: he will be there to check the champions' wands. Even if he doesn't listen to either of us, I will try my best. But this visit is for you alone, and I truly wish to help you."
They spent a peaceful hour discussing Olivia's political vision and forming plans on her move to Rome, once a caretaker was hired to look after her husband. Their parting was a cordial one, and Albus returned to Hogwarts in high spirits.
The first person he chanced across was Ludo Bagman, and he was injured. A blood-stained handkerchief was pressed to his leg.
"Albus!" the younger wizard panted in response to the headmaster's stunned expression. "Sweet Merlin, there are animals on the loose in Hogsmeade! From the Forbidden Forest, no doubt—a large black dog, I swear, the size of a hippogriff—it just bit me! Scared poor Rosmerta half to death; I was just telling her Harry should win. Well, I'm going to the hospital wing; Poppy will patch me up in no time. Please, do take care of those animals—Merlin's hat, even centaurs were better-behaved in my times, and they're horrible old buggers…"
Cutting his courtesies short, he limped off to have his wound healed.
"Take care, Ludo."
So this was Sirius's answer to the news of his godson becoming a Triwizard champion. After nearly two weeks of ominous silence, he had attacked one of the judges. It was clear to Albus this was merely a taste of what the young man would gladly have done to him. Even plainer was the fact that they had to meet as soon as possible—tonight, if they could. It was not going to be a pleasant meeting.
His heart heavy with apprehension, the headmaster went to fetch his broom. For Harry's sake, he would do what it took to see eye to eye with Sirius. Before this dreaded encounter, however, there was a duty to attend to.
He flew out into the chilly sky, the wind piercing him to the bones. It was the fastest manner of reaching the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, and one that afforded a breathtaking view of the sea of trees. Landing in a vast meadow, he found himself in the middle of a wooden enclosure. Wizards were securing iron pegs to the ground; others were adding fireproofing enchantments to the fence. Rolanda Hooch was present, a quill and parchment in hand; she was in charge of overseeing the preparations for the three tasks.
"Good afternoon, Rolanda." Albus left his broom on the grass and went to join her.
"Good afternoon, headmaster. Looks cosy, doesn't it? The dragons should be comfortable here. Maybe a subtle Heating Charm, what do you think? They are nesting mothers; they'll need some warmth."
"Definitely." They set out around the perimeter of the enclosure to check whether all the required protection spells had been cast. "This will be a stressful experience for them."
"I don't know who to feel sorrier for," she confessed. "It's very cruel, what they're doing. The mothers will protect their eggs, and they'll be vicious—it's in their nature. And what exactly are our students supposed to do? Poor kids—and poor dragons. It's times like these that make me agree with Mr Scamander. How is he, by the way? Are you still in touch?"
"We are, though not as often as I would have liked. I glimpsed him and Tina in Diagon Alley over summer; they are doing well. I still haven't had the nerve to mention the tournament to him—or the blast-ended skrewts." He grinned sheepishly. "Foolish of me, of course. Rolf will have told him everything by now."
Rolanda shook her head. "Wizards never learn, do they? But I don't blame you; I wouldn't have dared to tell him either. Not all of us have Minerva's courage. I'm happy to hear all is well with the Scamanders."
They said nothing for a minute, observing the men's spellwork.
"The organisers should have changed the rules when Harry was forced to compete," Albus could not help but remark. "They may not be able to exclude him, but they ought to consider his age. Even the other three champions aren't ready to go blindly into a task of such a nature. Improvising under pressure isn't a matter of pure daring; it takes experience."
"I couldn't agree more." The witch bit her lip, her amber eyes fixed on Albus's sky-blue ones. "Minerva is too proud to tell you, but… you need to talk to her. She is more worried about Mr Potter than she lets on. I know her well, know how fond of him she is—Potter could have been her grandchild. She can't help him, and it's taking a toll on her. All this worrying, it isn't healthy. We all are worried, but Minerva needs to… to sleep and eat properly. It's not good for anyone, such anxiety." She sighed. "I suppose it's also the fact that everything seems to happen to Mr Potter. Minerva feels she is failing James and Lily's memory—she used to be close to both."
Alarm prickled the headmaster's skin, closely followed by guilt. Given his overflowing schedule, he had spoken little to Minerva in the past weeks; and due to his frequent absence at meals, he had failed to notice her loss of appetite as well. Yet who else did she have to confide in? Who was best placed to offer her comfort and information?
"Thank you for telling me, Rolanda. I should have thought of it myself, should have checked how she was doing. I will amend it."
The witch nodded. "Naturally, all of us are worried, Alastor included. We've been wondering how best to help Mr Potter without making it worse… And when I say all of us, it's without counting Professor Snape. I have to say, Alastor doesn't seem to like him either. But you must know all about it."
Frowning slightly, Albus cast about for the right words. "Alastor thinks outside of the box. Most of the time, we are in agreement, but some of his ideas—sound ideas, in theory—I cannot endorse. It's my duty to hold the school together and accommodate everyone including Severus. He wouldn't be with us if I weren't positive he is on our side."
As much as he would have liked to further discuss the topic, there was no question of sharing more. Rolanda must have divined as much; her smile was conciliatory.
"Yes, he really thinks outside of the box, Alastor does."
A blush accompanied her pronouncement, and the wizard seized this occasion to offer her a little levity.
"That being said, there is one matter he agrees on with the rest of us: he believes you are an extraordinary witch. In fact, he is rather fervent on that account."
This earned him a chuckle.
"Now, now, headmaster, don't you flatter me. I've seen enough to know Alastor is all about work; I doubt he ever mentions me at all. But I appreciate your gallantry all the same. And when I brought up Mr Snape, I didn't mean to pry. Why would I? It's common knowledge that he was associated with You-Know-Who and that you personally pardoned him. All I'm saying is that Alastor doesn't trust him."
"I understand."
In this, Albus reflected, Moody's stance was identical to the advice both Gellert and Giacomo had given him when he had told them of Snape's character and past: keep him close but don't trust him.
"Severus may not be sympathetic towards Harry, but he can't be blamed for the Confunded goblet. He is as innocent as poor Aurora, who immediately got accused by the Ministry. When the champions' names were drawn, Alastor said to me his job involved suspecting everyone. Except Rolanda, he added then. She is too nice, and she likes Potter."
"He said that?" A truly girlish smile lit Rolanda's entire countenance. But it was gone just as swiftly, overshadowed by disapproval. "What is it about the Ministry suspecting Aurora? She has nothing to do with this—I'm sure she would take Veritaserum to swear it if necessary. If you need me to testify, I will. What a preposterous accusation! Who came up with such nonsense?"
"The Minister for Magic," he sighed. "All because the culprit chose to submit Harry's name under Uagadou school. Fudge was tempted to improve his ratings by resorting to a quick arrest, you see. But the evidence we've sent him should ensure they leave her alone."
"You mean to say our minister almost dragged Aurora to Azkaban just to avoid a few embarrassing questions from the public? Nice officials we have. No wonder Alastor retired." There was indignation in the witch's every syllable. As if to share his burden, she shook her head again. "I'm glad you prevented it. Mr Hagrid's case from two years ago was quite enough."
"Absolutely."
They took a few seconds to digest the government's injustice before Albus went on.
"I won't deny I was grateful to have Alastor for an ally while he worked there. He never pursued promotions or played the game, yet they respected him—for his competence and principles, and for his name."
The topic captured her interest at once. "Tell me about him, Albus. You go back a long way, don't you?"
"All the way to the forties," he admitted thoughtfully. "He was the youngest Auror, the most tireless one: while the Ministry wallowed in lethargy, he understood the importance of locating the war criminals that had fled all over the world, and he tracked some of them down to quite unlikely locations. That's what sets him apart: his complete lack of laziness and indifference means he leaves nothing to chance. It also means he has enemies, though even they grudgingly respect him."
Rolanda glanced down, unconsciously clutching the parchment.
"It's… mad. One could have thought he should be tired after all those years. But with me, he seems young in spirit—vehement at times, depending on the topic. In some ways still, he's almost like a child. Then again, I myself must have behaved girlishly too." She met his gaze. "Do you approve, headmaster?"
He wavered before responding, mystified by her assessment of his friend. But it was a momentary hesitation.
"If you feel happy in his presence, if you always have something to talk about and if spending time together feels like a gift... then I wholeheartedly approve. It's not every day we find our other halves, but it's the most fortunate occurrence in the world."
"You sound as if you have already found yours."
"When I was seventeen. We are together still."
The witch gave him a long look. It was one Albus was familiar with. She had deduced his lover's identity without being told his name and was surprised. Like everyone else, she had heard the rumours, and one of the most popular narratives depicted Albus as a weak man, hoodwinked by a dangerous Dark wizard. To her merit, Rolanda refrained from addressing any of it.
"Something about Alastor worries me," she confided instead. "I don't know if we are compatible. He's a pure-blood. I am not."
Albus pondered her concern. Between Gellert and him, the difference in background and blood status had never come into question.
"Which aspect troubles you most? Is it his mindset, his family's expectations, or other wizards' reaction?"
"A bit of everything. Pure-bloods tend to live a certain way, to reason a certain way… And I'm not sure whether it might become difficult at some point. The very same family prestige, for instance: pure-bloods value it to such an extent that they sacrifice everything else to it. And Alastor is a pure-blood; he may be against radicalism, yes, but not against the values. Whereas I'm just a regular witch and those values are not my values. I collect brooms. I like sports and wildlife. The pure-blood ways are not for me."
By now, they had walked the length of the enclosure to find themselves where they had started. The headmaster's broom lay a few feet away.
"At his age, Alastor is unlikely to change—his habits are fixed for life," he asserted after a brief contemplation. "Yet for as much as I know, he has traditional, tolerant views. He doesn't delve in blood politics either—if I'm not mistaken, his cousin has taken over the responsibility of continuing their line. The Moodys used to socialise with such families as the Potters or the Prewetts. Alastor is, by and large, a loner; he never got married from fear of exposing his family to danger. The fact that he has now opened up is a first. And as long as there are no barriers between you, it doesn't matter what some powdered snobs in London whisper at receptions."
Rolanda beamed at him.
"You are right, of course. I suppose it's just a little frightening for me. I'm a loner too, you see. Letting someone into your life is not that easy—it's a risk. If you get hurt, the damage might be… Well, let us not go there. I have your blessing, and that's what matters. Right… I only have a few notes to brush up, and then an owl can be sent to the Ministry so that they know we are ready to receive the dragons. Poor creatures—nesting mothers, of all things. Sometimes I wonder if anyone who works at the Ministry has a heart at all."
A quick hug, and they parted for the afternoon. Albus hoped that whichever decision the witch settled on would make her happy. She deserved nothing less.
With the preparations completed, he returned to his office. Darkness fell early these days; even so, it was unsafe to call on Sirius until late in the evening, once all of Hogsmeade had gone to sleep. He knew the cave was situated on the side of the mountain that overlooked the village, and despite its less than wide entrance, it could easily be located with magic.
He was not ready for what he found inside. The very first step into the cold, dimly lit cavern thrust him into a nightmarish déjà-vu, and he froze, gasping for air. Memories of Gellert's first cell flickered before his eyes: nothing but stone and chains in a damp, windowless, impossibly claustrophobic section of the Nurmengard dungeon. Struggling to recover his spirits, he took another step and heard the crunch of tiny bones beneath his foot. He drew one deep breath after another, determined to go on. Sirius was waiting to confront him. Sirius, who would rather stay in these Azkaban-like conditions, living off rats, than ask his old headmaster for help.
Another, louder crunch reached his ears; this time, it came from the back of the cave. Buckbeak. Albus was never afforded a closer look, for a tall figure was shielding the hippogriff from view. In the ghostly light of his Lumos, Sirius was but a black shape with glinting eyes, shrouded in Dark magic. Had Muggles ventured into this cavern, they would have mistaken him for a demonic entity.
"Is my godson to compete in the tournament?" came a rhetorical question.
"Yes."
Albus waited for the outpour of wrath. It had now become his daily routine. But when all was said and done, this quarrel was going to hurt more than the others.
"I see." There was a seething quality to Sirius's voice. "This must be how you protected him all those years while you let me rot in Azkaban."
He loosened his left hand, revealing a large stone, which he threw abruptly to the ground. It could not be more manifest that under any different circumstances, Albus would have had his nose broken all over again. Sirius's rage rivalled Aberforth's on the day of Ariana's funeral. As if to clear any doubts on his emotions, the young man allowed his mental shields to drop so that every ounce of his hatred towards Albus would become perceptible.
It would seem he had spent a while spying on the Dursleys and had realised they had treated Harry most unkindly. In his mind, he had also repeatedly gone over his first meeting with his godson, and this had led him to surmise the boy had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The surprisingly strong parental streak in him had reached an unassailable conclusion: Albus had failed to protect Harry. It was the headmaster's fault that the boy had been exposed to countless dangers.
"HOW COULD YOU LET IT HAPPEN?" he roared.
Albus forced himself to block out the sensation of déjà-vu, to focus on the present and the wizard in front of him. After their conversation in London, he no longer harboured illusions about Sirius's stance and knew better than to attempt to justify himself. What mattered was Harry's safety. He therefore spoke firmly.
"Lord Voldemort is back in the country. During last summer, he conducted a ritual of resurrection—presumably with Pettigrew's help—to recover his body, but something went wrong and his endeavour failed. I have a strong reason to suspect this is why he has arranged for Harry to be made a school champion. He will try to have him kidnapped at the earliest opportunity to sacrifice him at a new ritual. I have cast the Tracking Charm on Harry; no one will be able to lead him out of Hogwarts and remain undetected. If you wish to meet him, you are free to do it, but I need to be aware he will be with you. On those occasions, he and his friends will be under your protection."
This piece of news was followed by a few seconds of silence.
"Great. So you have put Harry under the Tracking Charm—without his consent, I imagine—because you have some smart theories about what could possibly happen. I wish I could say I'm surprised, but coming from you, not really. Imprisoning people is something of your speciality, is it not?" The young man laughed bitterly. "What are we even talking about? You are the wizard who got his lover locked up for life. In addition, you were rewarded with countless titles for it, were you not? You must be so proud of yourself. Either way, you simply don't care that Harry might die, do you now? How do you intend to help him survive these tasks? Have you even made plans in that regard?"
Albus felt as though the ground were sinking under his feet. Black spots had erupted before his eyes. Before he could control himself, the air in the cave was dense with magic.
"Never bring my lover into this," he said slowly and distinctly. "Never take this tone with me. This is your first and only warning." He permitted himself an instant to calm down. "If I didn't care about Harry, I wouldn't have put him under that spell. Yes, without his knowledge or consent."
"Not as Light as you pretend to be. Dear old dad was right on that account—who would have thought?"
There was satisfaction in Sirius's words. He was, in fact, the spitting image of his ancestors at that very moment. The truth was, Albus had lived long enough to have experienced similar exchanges with the young man's father and grandfather. Striking where it hurt—if only verbally—was something they excelled at and enjoyed. Sirius was not remotely ashamed of his jibe, that much was visible. Was it any wonder that his cousin Bellatrix had become an extremely vicious and efficient soldier under Voldemort's tutelage? All the members of the Black family possessed the prerequisites, the degree of which varied only slightly between individuals.
"What, the greatest wizard of our time has nothing to say? The truth stings, doesn't it?" Sirius smirked. "Frankly, I couldn't care less about hurting your feelings. Tell me about the first task."
With some willpower, Albus kept his intonation even. It would be inexcusable if he started trading juvenile barbs.
"I cannot. I have signed a non-disclosure agreement at the Ministry's demand."
"Of course you have. How convenient." The young wizard balled his hands into fists. "And a genius war hero like you, I take it, can't think of any solution around it. Why then, let me offer you a suggestion. Give me a hint—or better yet, lower your Occlumency shield. Someone has to help Harry, you know, and since you care too much to bother, I will do it."
The proposition was a sound one and ought to maintain the integrity of the agreement. Steeling himself against the intrusion, which most certainly would be painful, Albus pictured in his mind the official document dedicated to the first task. It contained all the relevant points including the breeds of the dragons that would be brought in from Romania, as well as the golden eggs to be claimed by the champions.
"Come in then."
The Legilimency attack was as painful as expected. As Sirius took in the details, however, some of his belligerence ebbed away, overshadowed by parental instinct. He withdrew.
"Dragons… I have to warn him." He began pacing, fully concentrated on the challenge at hand. "I need to talk to Harry face to face."
"You can meet him in Hogsmeade this weekend," Albus proffered. "Alternatively, the Floo Network is an option, provided there is a connected fireplace on your end."
"Is Hogwarts safe? Last year, I considered my options and dismissed Floo powder immediately. I imagine the Ministry hates you enough to spy on you—not that I would blame them—and they have the power to tap the Floo Network."
"Fudge doesn't hate me yet." The image of Dolores Umbridge flitted through the headmaster's brain like a shadow. "The Floo Network is safe. If this changes, you will be the first one to know."
For a second, Sirius was about to nod his thanks; it was an impulse he contained, though.
"There is something else you are not telling me about Harry. But I will find out."
The older wizard blinked, genuinely puzzled. "What is it you want to know?"
"We're done here."
And with this, reaching his highest level of insolence yet, Sirius waved him off. He uncannily resembled his grandfather Pollux as he did so.
It was not at once that Albus broke through his stupor. Yet for the first time, he fully grasped Rolanda's fears, her reservations, and her reluctance to tie her future to a pure-blood. No matter what common wizards made of their lives, how arduously they worked or how selflessly they cared for others, most pure-bloods would never view them as equals. Even Sirius, who believed himself free of his forefathers' prejudiced convictions, held nothing but contempt for the half-blood upstart the rest of the Blacks had always despised.
Turning on his heel, Albus walked out of the cave. If, at some point, the young man desisted from acting childishly, they might come to a truce. Until then, Harry's well-being alone would unite them.