The Transfiguration office had once been Albus's, and he had kept it spartan, lifeless almost. Under Minerva's touch, it had gained a sense of cosiness and warmth. Tartan blankets and flannel-covered cushions adorned the sofa; golden Quidditch trophies gleamed in the neat wooden cupboard. Albus knocked at the door, a tray in hand; it bore tea and a bowl of porridge topped with strawberries—Minerva's favourite.
"Come in," she called.
One glance at the witch revealed she truly was unwell. Her skin was pale, her eyes even larger than usual with shadows underneath them. Despite the fire crackling in the hearth, she was wrapped in a quilt, chilly from her lack of sleep.
"Well, good morning, headmaster," she said. "You've decided to bribe me with breakfast, I see. Better tell me you've been working hard to find a way of saving my fourth year from being eaten alive in front of a crowd of spectators because, frankly, that would help me better than any breakfast could."
He smiled, closing the door before carrying the tray towards her coffee table. "I have good news on that account: Harry is going to receive help. Not directly from me, but from someone who knows what the first task entails and who will go to any lengths to help him prepare."
Minerva gazed at him. "Is it… is it certain? Because, like I said to Rolanda, I won't stay silent. I didn't sign any papers and am not contract-bound; if they want to cart me off to Azkaban, as they've taken to doing lately, so be it, but Harry… we took over the responsibility, Albus—we owe it to James and Lily to keep him safe. The odds are not fair anyway; Harry hasn't had the training the other champions have got. And when I saw the parchment in Rolanda's hands—when I understood the children would be facing dragons—we can't let Harry go in unprepared, we just can't—he could be burned alive, or eaten—we have to do something."
Putting an arm around her, Albus led her to the sofa. Even with the heavy blanket over her shoulders, she was shivering.
"No one is going to burn Harry or eat him—I won't allow it," he vowed. "I would sooner jump between him and the dragon. But it won't come to that: not only will the dragon handlers be on hand to intervene, should one of the champions fail, but Harry will be well-informed and advised on the best strategy. I arranged for it last night." He put his other arm around the witch as well. "No matter what my favourite cat decides to do, I won't let anyone take her to Azkaban."
Although not an emotional person, Minerva could not contain herself in time: her chin trembled, and a single tear ran down her cheek.
"Oh, Albus, I've been so worried! Is this where you were gone to—to get help for Harry? I noticed you were often away last week. Is it Remus—is he about to return to assist Harry? He, of all people, can do it—he was James's best friend, and he is no longer on the staff."
"It's not Remus, but it is someone from the Order." Now that she mentioned it, Lupin had not written to them recently, which felt peculiar under the circumstances. "I've been to all places imaginable during these last weeks. Precious time has been wasted trying to keep reporters and irate wizards at bay." He straightened up, his eyes affectionate. "But it is you I'm worried about. I'm sorry I didn't come earlier, my dear."
"You should be sorry," the witch sniffed. "You could at least have given me a hint. Otherwise, I would have warned Mr Potter myself—I swear I would."
But she was not angry. In truth, she eyed the porridge longingly for the first time.
"At least you have a redeeming quality—you still remember my favourite."
He passed her the bowl and watched her tuck in with no small amount of relief.
"How could I forget? Ever since Mr Goodwin from Ravenclaw tried to send you breakfast and flowers for Valentine's Day…" His smile waned at the thought of students. "I've heard Mr Ronald Weasley has been unsupportive after Harry's name was drawn. Have you noticed anything of the kind?"
Minerva heaved a sigh. "Yes, it would appear Mr Weasley doesn't believe Harry. As of late, he's been sharing his desk with Mr Finnegan and Mr Thomas. Miss Granger, on the other hand, is a good friend; she's been there for Harry throughout. The poor girl is worried. Harry is fortunate to have her." She shook her head. "Such nonsense! I'd have shaken some sense into Weasley myself if it were appropriate."
It was Albus's turn to sigh. "I'm sad to hear it. All misfortunes tend to come in quick succession. But I'm convinced their friendship will survive—this is but a childish tantrum."
"A childish tantrum indeed," she huffed. "You'd think they are too old for something like this, but alas."
"At least they're still youngsters. It's the grown children I have no patience for."
The witch rolled her eyes. "Tactful of you not to name anyone. One of these days, I might not be so tactful where certain colleagues of ours are concerned."
"I wouldn't blame you," he chuckled. "For my part, I still have Amos Diggory's shouting match to look forward to."
"Oh, that. Let me offer you my sympathy, Albus. It's ridiculous—how can they all miss the real issue here? My fourth year has been illegally forced to compete in a dangerous, potentially life-threatening competition, and all they can go on about is some… some prestige, and how it's supposedly unfair. I swear even Pomona has been acting more coldly towards me these days! And her Hufflepuffs have got into fights with my lions—can you believe it, Albus? Our students are fighting among themselves! Oh, pity Mr Snape is no longer one of my students—I know quite a few ways to wipe that smirk off his face."
The headmaster raised his eyebrows, genuinely shocked.
"Pomona? Over some tournament?" It was not his intention to sound like a middle-aged gossip, but he had never yet known Professor Sprout to be unjust. "What has got into everyone?"
"Madness, that's what it is. Then again, I might have been rather volatile too, I'll admit. You see, it all started with assigning detentions to certain students from both of our Houses: Hufflepuffs were being unfair towards Harry, and my lions tend to protect one their own—most of the time, at least. Well, insults were exchanged, wands were drawn, and… naturally, Poppy patched everyone up, but Pomona insisted that her Puffs receive no disciplinary action, and I may have lost patience at that. But yes, to answer your question: this madness has got to everyone, and Mr Snape won't stop smirking about it. He and Karkaroff make quite a pair."
Albus wanted to close his eyes in indignation. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had always got along very well; now that their interests were at odds, however, the former's pride and the latter's loyalty resulted in some of the most stubborn and absurd conflicts known to Hogwarts. Conflicts supervised by equally biased teachers.
"Madness is the right word." He turned his attention back to the witch. "I will keep an eye on our teenage ladies—Severus and Karkaroff alike. Or Alastor will. I promise Harry won't face the first task unprepared. Promise me in return you'll eat and sleep well, dear. After all, cats require at least fourteen hours of sleep a day."
This coaxed a small laugh from Minerva.
"You know your cats, Albus; it's very true, and I promise to do just that. Merlin knows Mr Potter might need me. I must be in good shape at all times."
Reassured, the wizard returned to his office.
The Wand weighing ceremony had been scheduled for late afternoon, and when the hour came, he waited for Garrick Ollivander to appear at the fireplace with the aid of Floo powder. While minutes ticked by, he stroked Fawkes, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions, Minerva's assessment blending with Sirius's accusations. Insanity had gripped the wizarding community, and to make matters worse, there was no hope of improvement once the Triwizard Tournament was over. This was not going to end. One way or another, Voldemort was awaiting them at the close of the school year.
At last, not without delay, the fire glowed green, and Albus tore out of his agitated reverie.
"Garrick, it's good to see you. Welcome back."
There was something ethereal about the newcomer's tall figure, his chiselled features and his pensive eyes, which were as silver as his hair.
"Albus! Too long it has been." Ollivander smiled, glancing around the circular office. "Ah, but I am happy to be here—dear old Hogwarts! How are you, my friend, how are you? Now tell me, is Gregorovitch going to be present?"
"I'm good, thank you." They shook hands. "And no, there is no need for another expert—your opinion will settle the matter."
"Thank you, thank you, old friend." Garrick gave a nod. "Not that I wouldn't be happy to see dear old Gregorovitch, mind you—it has been too long—but between the two of us, it might be for the best. Our Russian friend tends to be a little full of himself at times. Now, I'm well aware of the scope of the wizarding woods over the Eurasian continent he has access to, but even so, it were we, the Ollivanders, who first started harvesting the highly magical objects and made it possible for wizards to channel their magic in the most practical way. Russians, on the other hand… well, they are rather rustic in their methods, aren't they? They have good raw materials, no argument there, but… no finery, no polishing. It's a part of the wand-making process too, you know. But of course, whenever I bring up this topic, Gregorovitch gets all offended." He smiled knowingly. "You must forgive me—we wandmakers are few and far in between, but all the more competitive for it. But how are you doing, my friend? Recently, I only seem to see you in newspapers."
The headmaster's expression was one of apology. "These are turbulent times, no question. I wish you could have come to Hogwarts under happier circumstances; as it is… you will find our party resembling a courtyard full of clucking hens—all we do is snap at each other. And the poor kids have to witness it." He cleared his throat. "I was hoping for a few minutes of your time before we go downstairs. There is something important we ought to discuss."
"Don't tell me—is Gregorovitch coming after all?" Ollivander inquired with a chuckle.
"No, it's about someone much worse than Gregorovitch."
"The last time we were together, we had so many shots of vodka that I may have allowed myself some fairly honest opinions—the Italian part of me can be temperamental, I'm afraid, though I fully consider myself English by now. At any rate, I dare say few things are scarier than an angry wandmaker, so tell me."
Frowning slightly, Albus let the carefree remark slip. He could already divine what Olivia had been referring to when she had spoken of her cousin's unwillingness to listen. Still, he had to try, and he would do his utmost.
"The Ministry doesn't know this, but I have every reason to believe Lord Voldemort"— the name gave Garrick a start—"is back in the country, planning on returning to power. If, Merlin forbid, he succeeds… I've talked to Olivia, and we have agreed it might be safer for you to lie low, or temporarily relocate altogether. You are our best and only wandmaker, and you might present too great a temptation for a wizard with no conscience and an insatiable appetite for power. He could force you to work for his side or prevent you from helping the innocents."
Ollivander blinked. "B-back in the country? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are… are you quite certain?"
"I am." Relief flooded Albus's limbs. He had been afraid of not being taken seriously. "All the signs are there, and unless I'm mistaken, it might even happen sooner rather than later."
"Oh, that can't be good, can it?" Little by little, the wandmaker subdued his tremor. "But surely… I mean, yes, yes, it is You-Know-Who we're talking about, but still… I made his wand—surely he has respect for the maestro. You said it very well: I am the only one around here. In fact, there are only Gregorovitch and I in Europe—and again, between the two of us: I think Gregorovitch occasionally enjoys far too many vodka shots. As good as this particular beverage may be, let's just say… He once confessed to me he had encountered a wand—an evil object, one that gave him chills upon touching it—and when it was stolen from him, it felt almost like a release. He appeared spooked just talking about it. And that's just barmy if you ask me. So you see, my friend, I can't just leave. When Gregorovitch is out of it, dreaming about predatory wands, I am the only one—and I mean the only one—who provides wands to wizards from entire Europe, not Britain alone. Even You-Know-Who has to understand that!"
Albus looked away. The Elder Wand reposed in his pocket, old and rustic and innocuous, and as far as he remembered, it had never filled him with a sense of dread—not the first time he had held it, and not later either. Of course, he did not possess the skill or the training required for detecting those subtle notes of magic; wandmakers were extremely rare for a reason.
"Garrick, Voldemort is far from rational," he objected. "He doesn't care that you've made his wand. He won't care whether your name is Ollivander or Black or Georgie Porgie. If you stand in his way, he will attack mercilessly. But you have the means to make yourself invisible."
"Oh, I'm hearing Cousin Olivia's words right there." Ollivander sighed. "I'm happy that you've remained friends, but Albus—with me, even You-Know-Who will make an exception. Like I said, I am the only one. We can even discount Gregorovitch: he has retired, or so I've heard. Well, we can still count him in, I suppose: that 'retirement' of his only lasts until he spots a nice tree or a magical creature—then he's back in business, only to mutter the next day that now he really is about to retire. The truth is, he enjoys being my only competition. Ever since he managed to weasel his way into Durmstrang, he's been rather full of himself. Then again, I have Hogwarts, so I'm not complaining. And Cousin Olivia is… well, Albus, don't listen to her; politics has got to her. She is forgetting that we, Ollivanders, are the maestros. Nobody dares to touch us. Dark Lords come and go; we stay." He smiled. "This being said, give her a piece of my mind: that silly power struggle with the d'Angelli child is below the Ollivanders' dignity."
It was every bit as frustrating as Olivia had warned. The fact that the wandmaker lived in an imaginary world of his own was to be expected; still, Albus felt sad at the man's belief in his untouchable status and his fixation on Gregorovitch. He drew a breath, ready to offer more arguments, when a shuffling sound floated from behind him. The phoenix was grooming himself, running his beak through his feathers.
The wandmaker noticed, his silver eyes lighting up.
"Why, hello there, beautiful bird! Albus, any idea whether Fawkes would be willing to share another feather or two with me?"
The answer came swiftly. With a squeak of alarm, the phoenix unfolded his wings and took off to perch himself on the tallest bookshelf, from which he cautiously peeked at them.
Ollivander did not hide his disappointment.
"No? Well, peccato. Another time then."
It was a lost cause. Resigned if not quite dissuaded, Albus invited him downstairs into the spare classroom designated for the Wand weighing ceremony. Almost everyone was in attendance: Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour were engaged in a lively conversation, Viktor Krum stood on his own a distance away, and Barty Crouch was poring over his notes at the judges' table. Ludo Bagman, it seemed, was entertaining the other headmasters with an anecdote while the photographer was snapping test shots of the room. Every now and then, his eyes would dart towards the part-Veela.
"There you are, Albus!" Ludo waved them over. "And Mr Ollivander is here—excellent! Shall we get to it? Rita has already started on the interviews—they should be back any minute."
This explained Harry's absence. Annoyed, Albus strode out and cast about the corridor, taking in the closed doors. He pulled the nearest one open on impulse and found it to be a broom cupboard. Sure enough, two faces turned towards him: a flushed, harassed-looking Harry and an alert Rita Skeeter. Before a single sound could be exchanged, her notes and quill vanished from sight, and she was standing up.
"Dumbledore! How are you? I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"
She shook his hand, her nails leaving dents in his skin. Albus had to stomp down on his childish impulse to let his magical aura scald her in retaliation for treating Harry in such an exploitative fashion.
"Enchantingly nasty." He smiled. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat."
Her lips twitched—she was flattered that he had memorised her article.
"I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street —"
Behind her, Harry rose to his feet, his whole countenance pleading for help.
"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita, but I'm afraid we will have to discuss the matter later," Albus cut in with a courteous bow. "The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."
He followed them back into the classroom just as everyone regained their seats. All the gazes came to rest on Ollivander, stationed at the window with a meditative expression. Now that he knew Gregorovitch would not be joining them, his interest in the event had visibly faded. Indeed, he spun around the instant they dispensed with the introductions and called forth the first champion, as if impatient to be finished.
Miss Delacour approached, her wand in hand, her hair flowing down her back like ripples of pale sunshine. If she had detected the photographer's indecent stare—and Albus did not doubt it—she let nothing show. Most likely was she used to wizards' attention and no longer allowed it to affect her daily life. This was a mature, endearing side to her personality.
Ollivander twirled the ornate wand between his fingers.
"Yes, nine and a half inches, inflexible, rosewood, and containing… dear me…"
"An 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela—one of my grandmuzzer's."
"Yes." He ran his fingers along the carved wood, unimpressed. "Yes, I've never used Veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands."
"Agreed," Karkaroff grumbled.
Albus glanced to his left. The Durmstrang headmaster was attempting to pull thick velvet gloves over his bandaged hands.
"Are you all right, professor?"
"An accident on ze ship."
An accident it certainly had been—only, the Englishman was willing to bet it had transpired in the Great Hall. For a while, the school's golden plates and spoons would hopefully remain safe from Karkaroff's greedy hands.
It was Cedric's turn to have his wand examined. Rita contemplated the boy from the corner of the room, the tilt of her head suggesting she was sorely tempted to capitalise on his photogenic potential. Unfortunately, Cedric's name was too obscure to be of public interest when Harry and Viktor were participating as well, and she realised it. This could be the reason she positively perked up once Krum's name was called. So did Ollivander.
"Hmm, this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wandmaker, though the styling is never quite what I… however…"
Curious whether Karkaroff intended to assert Gregorovitch's superiority over his English colleague, Albus peered aside again. He waited in vain: the Ukrainian's sole concern was to make his hands look presentable for the upcoming photos. So far, he had achieved little success.
"Yes… hornbeam and dragon heartstring? Rather thicker than one usually sees, quite rigid, ten and a quarter inches…"
Beneath the needling remarks, there was undeniable affection in Garrick's voice. Seeing how rare wandmakers were and how vast and unique their set of skills was, it made sense they alone could fully appreciate each other's company. Competition could not stop two wizards from becoming soulmates.
Harry's wand broke the spell. Ollivander inspected it with a fascination akin to that of an explorer discovering ancient treasure. It was odd to imagine this stick contained one of Fawkes's feathers; odder still was its twin relation to Voldemort's wand. Phoenixes were Light, benevolent creatures, and Fawkes was no exception—he would never have chosen to serve a heartless man. Albus could tell why his familiar had refused to lend more feathers to wandmaking.
Those points had also occurred to Harry, who was watching Ollivander with anxious eyes and was relieved to withdraw from the spotlight. Two seats away, Barty Crouch put a check next to the last name on his list and closed his notebook.
These two details—the boy's unease and Crouch's haste to depart—prompted the headmaster to intervene.
"Thank you all. You may go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end—"
It was an honest try, and a perfectly futile one: the photographer as good as jumped in front of the door to block it, nodding at Ludo's insistence that pictures ought to be taken. Amid the scraping chairs, an irritable Crouch took his leave, as did Ollivander.
"Albus, please try to prevail on Fawkes to let me take a feather or two," was the latter's parting request. "He will listen to you."
With this, the door snapped shut; now there truly was no saving them from the photoshoot. Rita and the photographer were arguing which background offered the softest lighting; as soon as they reached a consensus, they clashed on the topic of group formation.
"The champions should stand at the front and the teachers at the back, all smiling and relaxed, like a team," the photographer pointed out repeatedly. "That's most pleasing to the eye—smiles, camaraderie, that sort of thing."
"Sure, sure." Rita's sharp eyes sought out Harry, her demeanour downright hungry. "The youngest champion should be placed in the middle."
"But I think Miss de la Court should—"
"Let's get started, Bozo; we need to get back to the office in an hour."
Under their combined instructions, everyone converged in front of the wall opposite the window. Despite his obstructive gloves, Karkaroff would not cease twirling his goatee; Madame Maxime, on the other hand, displayed a graceful smile—like Cedric and Fleur, she was a natural in front of the camera. Harry and Viktor were the ones who struggled most: there was no dispelling their timid stiffness.
"Yes, very nice," Rita commended over the clicks of the camera.
Grimacing slightly, Bozo stepped back, snapped another test shot, and kept receding until he reached the window. He squashed himself against the glass in search of a good angle and then shook his head.
"Sorry, miss—ma'am—it would be best if you sat down. I can't fit you in the frame, see—and there's a shadow over Mr Bagman and Mr Kroom. Or else, you could lie down in front of them."
Madame Maxime gaped at him, staggered at the advice.
"Bozo, don't be ridiculous!" Rita snapped. "Give her a chair."
"Err—right. Here you go, ma'am."
Olympe sat down, her lips pursed. Guided by the journalist, the others surrounded her in an order according to their heights. More disagreements ensued due to Bozo's determination to have Fleur standing at a spot of prominence while Rita practically dragged Harry to the front with a vice-like grip. Albus could only dream how much more productively this hour would be spent reasoning with either Crouch or Ollivander.
At last, several pictures were taken and deemed satisfactory. Posing for individual shots turned out more taxing by far. Miss Delacour went first, and for a solid ten minutes, the photographer circled around her, coming much too close at times. Albus found himself hoping the Daily Prophet would make a selection of the pictures they needed and dispose of the rest before Bozo could drape his bedroom in the girl's portraits.
Harry and Cedric had to subject themselves to the same routine: a series of seated close-ups and a succession of full-length images in standing position. The procedure was punctuated by Rita's directions, which ranged from Turn aside, it will make you look slimmer to Give me a good, strong expression—you're a champion!
Viktor Krum required most counselling. Whether he did not comprehend what was being asked of him or felt too uncomfortable to pose, he would not alter his stance in spite of incessant Try to vary your expression, lower your shoulders a bit, straighten up, chin down, eyes on the camera. Fifteen minutes later, Karkaroff had had enough.
"Show me ze back of ze camera!"
He snatched the device from Bozo's grasp but could not accurately press the buttons—his gloves were too thick.
"All right, you show me his shots one by one."
"But sir, we need to get back to the office—"
"You vill make time for me. Viktor has to haff decent pictures. And show zem slowly."
Albus addressed the two remaining boys, who were observing the scene open-mouthed.
"Harry, Cedric, you are free to go down to dinner if you wish. Thank you for your participation."
They could not stride out fast enough, as if terrified of being called back. The French party followed suit; Ludo Bagman alone was left behind. In the meantime, the cowed photographer was deleting Viktor's pictures with Karkaroff towering over him.
"Good. Now give me a moment."
The Ukrainian bent down to whisper in Viktor's ear. He ended up clapping the boy on the shoulder. "Come on, you can do zis."
With a sigh and a Herculean effort, Krum straightened up to strike a confident pose. The camera clicked away.
"Marvellous!" Rita exclaimed. "I think we got it this time. You happy, Bozo?"
"Y-yes," the man uttered faintly.
"Give me ze camera," Karkaroff demanded yet again.
This time, the journalist was too quick for him—she seized the device herself.
"Oh, but he looks just perfect: a brave, strong young man—a true wizard, a good man! Witches in the street will be cutting out this photo to hang it over their beds, I promise—see?"
She showed him the back of the camera, which he scrutinised with scepticism.
"Are you sure?"
Rita smiled, tipping her head coquettishly. "Oh, absolutely, Headmaster Karkaroff! It shows at once what an excellent teacher you are: all the Durmstrang boys you have brought with you make the local ones look like a bunch of buffoons. And Mr Krum here, now he is the star! That's an excellent picture, I assure you."
After a brief hesitation, he relented.
"If you say so. Off you go, Viktor; vell done. Is zere time for my headshots? People haff to know vho taught such a brilliant young man."
Careful to stay out of his sight, Bozo waved his hands in despair, mouthing, We're running late!
The witch ignored him; there was a sly, flirtatious grin on her face.
"But of course! Bozo, you heard Headmaster Karkaroff. Now, sir, if you'll kindly strike a pose in front of that wall."
Clever Rita, Albus thought, amused. She had deduced what genre of man she was dealing with and was merely appeasing his vanity. He was a fool to believe a single one of those photographs would see the light of day—unless, that was, Rita and Bozo wished to have a laugh.
With courteous thanks, the headmaster excused himself and walked out, accompanied by Ludo. Both felt the show could continue without them.
At last, the day came to an end. Once at Nurmengard, a tired Albus could not help himself: despite his determination to stay level-headed, he ended up ranting to Gellert about his encounter with Sirius. Even as he did so, he felt ashamed—not the least because of the hurt he could hear in his own voice.
The German wizard listened without interrupting him. When he answered, his tone was both comforting and light.
"Well, I must say I'm impressed you didn't wish that little boy happy reading—I wouldn't have resisted."
After a few seconds, Albus understood: this referred to Sirius's promise to find out exactly what he had not been told about Harry. The joke helped.
"Sadly, I didn't think of it," he admitted more calmly.
"I'm also curious to find out how he will make sense of all that Kreyol. It's not quite the same as French—trust me, I would know."
"Which spells did you research?"
Gellert smiled; in a wink, his face appeared younger, as if his old self were shining through the lines and lines of misery embedded in the features Albus knew so well.
"Remember our first longer conversation after auntie introduced us? I told you back then Conjuring was my favourite subject. And what is Conjuring if not a blend of Sakrémaji? The truth is, I never really gave up my love for that subject. I learned more on my own later on. In fact, I believe I might just be one of the best Conjurers on the European continent—well, I would be if still allowed to practice magic."
"You are one of the best."
Settling his head on his lover's knees, the Englishman was content to watch him for a moment. He could tell Gellert was in a good mood, reminiscing of the happier times, and this overshadowed any tension and hurt he had experienced lately.
"Tell me, Schatz," he murmured spontaneously, "the first time you held the Elder Wand… did you feel anything out of the ordinary? Any… evil vibe?"
The German wizard's blue eyes narrowed in a frown. "Why do you ask, Albus?"
"I spoke to Garrick Ollivander today. He unknowingly alluded to it." Albus relayed the wandmaker's account of Gregorovitch's experience. Thoughtfully, he concluded, "When you gave it to me, I felt nothing of the sort. Of course, my emotions after our duel… you could have handed me a fire crab, and I wouldn't have noticed. For a time, I struggled with the wand, that much is true—I felt terrible for using it. I told myself I was only safekeeping it for you. But in practice, it never felt different from my old wand."
Gellert sighed; his cheerful spirits had dissipated.
"I've never really told you how I came to own this wand. The thing is, we were looking for the Hallows together—it was my obsession. One you wholeheartedly supported, even though it caused you to drift away from Aberforth. But then, Ariana… she died. Killed by… one of us. And I—well, I had Seen it happen, hadn't I? When it occurred, I already knew it would. And I know what you are going to say—what you've repeated ever since you were granted your first visit to my prison cell—that it wasn't my fault. But it doesn't change the fact that I had Seen it happen yet wasn't honest with you."
None of this was truly new, and after a sigh, Gellert went on.
"Either way, when I disappeared, I first went to our hiding place—one that, ironically, never became ours—and there was Dieter waiting for us. I needed to get away from him. I just… informed him of what I had done—that after killing Ignat, I'd committed yet another murder—and I left. Naturally, I made sure he couldn't leave. It seemed to be the right decision at the time: this way, I reasoned, he would be safe and under my protection, unable to seek you out in my absence. He had many annoying questions, you see: questions I wasn't willing—or ready—to answer. Later, I found out—to my delight, mind you—that he hadn't even tried to run from me this time. I'm glad he didn't, or he would have found out about the magical barriers I'd put in place.
"But I digress. You want to know where I went. First I went to the Balkans, and then further east. I needed to keep myself occupied to at least somewhat diminish my feeling of guilt. Looking for the remaining Hallow—the very wand you use now—struck me as the most practical course of action. Long story short, I tracked it down, just as Gregorovitch got it in his possession. And all at once, I had yet another quandary to face. Should I kill the wandmaker, making it quick, or should I try to pretend I wasn't yet a cold-blooded murderer and take it from him by less violent means? I chose the latter. I closely followed Gregorovitch to learn all I could about his daily habits and routine. I wanted to know his weakness: when he would be alone and vulnerable. In the end, I discovered much more than that: indirectly, I started learning about wandlore itself."
Albus had risen to sitting position. Even the passing years could not take away the pain of those confessions, genuine and emotional as they were. He drew in and embraced Gellert until their foreheads and noses touched. There was no need for words to convey his thought: I will always love and support you. It is my fault you went through so much. You are a much better person than you give yourself credit for.
A brief pause, and Gellert spoke again.
"There is a lot of Druidic magic involved in wandlore—a disappearing discipline, given the dwindling number of wandmakers in the world. Being able to assess which trees would make for good wands is crucial: not just any branch will do. Simply put, trees form families of sorts, the way other sentient beings do. You cannot touch a young tree, for it will miss its siblings so much, the resulting wand will be feeble at best and miserable and resentful at worst. The same warning applies to old trees. The gravest mistake a wandmaker can commit is to resort to an ancient tree that harbours Dark, evil energies from a time long before our existence. It goes without saying that the choice of the core is just as essential—not only its compatibility with the tree in question, but also the manner in which the wandmaker has acquired it. You see, there is a deeply ethical dilemma around it. A unicorn or a phoenix might willingly don some of their hair and feathers, but dragon heartstring—how can you get that without killing the dragon? In rare cases, it might be possible to take it from a dying dragon without having recourse to violence; most of the time, however, violence is exactly what it will require. And when you think about it, aren't violent wizards usually chosen as owners of such wands? I dare say looking at it under this angle will reveal quite a bit about the witch or wizard you are dealing with."
His smile was a scholarly one.
"The bottom line… Even though it largely consists of the nearly extinct art of the Druids, there is so much more to it. Rare are the wizards who can feel the trees, as well as the magical beings attracted to those. It's a colossal skill we are talking about, and an immeasurable capacity for empathy: the ability to communicate with beings of all kinds. It takes all of this and more to create just one wand: a tool that will seamlessly enhance a single witch or wizard's natural magic, one that will feel like an extension of their limb. Think about it, Albus. Can we really blame wandmakers for being a little… out of their mind? It's one of the most difficult skillsets to possess. The price to pay is terrible. Being able to understand magical creatures and trees means you hear and understand their pain."
Albus nodded, his mind brimming with reflections.
"I agree. And taking all of this into consideration, I would venture to assert Antioch Peverell didn't possess the mindset of a wandmaker, his extensive knowledge notwithstanding. One could say he created the perfect weapon on purpose: the hair of a Thestral enclosed in the wood of a powerful yet supremacist tree—a tree that suffers no weakness."
It was Gellert's turn to nod. "Gregorovitch hated that thing. I saw gooseflesh erupt on his neck every time he held it. I'm convinced he was actually relieved when I rid him of it. Maybe I'm wrong, but I reckon… unlike the other wands, the purpose of which is to attract and enhance a witch or wizard's inherent magic, this particular wand is not happy being the tool of one owner. You see, Albus, a wand—however interesting its origin may be—is meant to be satisfied once it has chosen its master. Only rarely will it change allegiance—not unheard of, of course, but it won't actively seek to change as many owners as possible. An ordinary wand resembles a familiar, and it might consent to serve someone who shares an emotional bond with you. Now the Elder Wand… it does not merely wish to be loyal to one master; something in it wants to claim your magical abilities for itself. It absorbs an echo of your magic. To achieve this, I suspect Antioch Peverell summoned a deity, perhaps from another realm. Could this be the reason behind the Deathstick's bloody history? I cannot know for sure. I will only tell you this: it's not to be toyed with. I am very sorry, Albus. At the time, I didn't know. When we were searching for the other Hallows, I mean. Now, after all this time, I do hope none of those three objects will fall into the wrong hands, for we are talking about more sinister magic than most wizards realise."
"Don't apologise," the Englishman whispered, squeezing his hand. "You didn't know; none of us did. So far, the Elder Wand is safe—downstairs with the guards, as it happens—and when the time comes, we'll decide what to do with it. Harry has inherited the Cloak, as was his birth right. And the Stone… I expect it's where we left it, though I've never checked. Merlin…" He exhaled. "To think Tom Riddle—who is descended from the Gaunts—believes himself the greatest Dark wizard of all times! And here we have Antioch Peverell, capable of trapping a Dark entity's essence in a wand. Any of those Peverell brothers could have eaten Tom for lunch and felt nothing."
Gellert burst into laughter.
"Careful, Schatz, your sense of humour is going Dark. That's how it starts, you know."
"I have never pretended to belong to either spectrum." Mock-exasperated, Albus let his head rest on the German wizard's shoulder. "People have declared me Light without consulting me, and now they act amazed when I express a Dark thought. Besides, if everything had gone differently back then, we would have studied this lore together. I would have helped you find the Elder Wand."
"Well, people tend to oversimplify, you know. Light equals good for many, whereas Dark… I'm not sure Dark wizards have many worthy representatives—even if they did, I must have ruined the general reputation for most of us for the years to come."
This gave the Englishman pause, and he grew more serious. "So the reason the Elder Wand didn't affect me… was it entirely due to my emotions?"
"It could be that your emotions eclipsed everything else," Gellert mused. "It could be our bond too. Also, don't forget I had studied Conjuring—a discipline you completely ignore at Hogwarts to this day, for better or worse—and that I had spied on Gregorovitch for long enough to know this particular wand was different. I was prepared to sense this difference, and preparation plays a part. Remember our second night together? I'd say you were quite prepared for all the debauchery that took place in my poor auntie's guest bedroom—in fact, I remember you quite enjoyed it. Of course, so did I."
Taken aback yet chuckling all the same, Albus buried his blushing face in his lover's shoulder. Calling their trysts debauchery was a stretch: what he recalled could best be described as lust and tenderness and care and happiness so complete, he could not believe even then it was happening.
"I remember everything." His gaze met the sapphire eyes. "I love you."
Gellert embraced him. They sat in harmonious silence, both conscious it would soon be time for Albus to go. At last, the German wizard spoke once more.
"About Sirius Black: I don't believe he is stupid enough to antagonise you in such a manner again. But he is the product of his upbringing, even if he believes himself better than his ancestors. So when it comes to it, I feel you are in your right to show him clearly he is not to take such a tone with you. After all… if he needs a reminder of the fact that you have the power to complicate his life in many ways, he might as well get it."