Chapter Ten: London
Nervous energy flowed through Albus as he sat at the small wooden table with a pint of stout in his hand. He wasn't anxious about where he was (London, not New York) or who he was meeting (Ursus MacLaven, not Neil Sparks, the Director of the International Transfigurative Arts Conference), but rather, the grander implications of the meeting: the wheels were set in motion and he felt the thrust of change upon him.
His heavy eyes leaked out water from the smoke and sleepless night.
The man bit his lip and then took a small sip of his drink: what an unforgiving week it had been. Armando had the petition. Rudy was on probation for having the 'seditious' paper on his person. Cora was on a vengeful verbal rampage. And the article in the papers, "Teaching Conspiracies"…well, it did not serve the school to have three of the four heads of houses out for the headmaster's blood.
And then there was Minerva.
Armando seemed most interested in her these days, having hired-for-praise many of the portraits and suits of armor. They took special interest in where she went and in what manner. Of course, Albus only knew this because he, too, had some portraits on his side. The nobler of them informed on the headmaster without much prompting at all: they knew what Hogwarts was up against.
But Minerva knew when eyes were upon her and the constant weight of them only sparked her sense of martyrdom. Her wand was raised and ready for whenever the duel—may it be literal or figurative—began. She hated no one in the world more than Armando. Her youthful rage would certainly be something with which to reckon.
His lips twitched upwards.
She was nothing but passion these days: yes, she felt loathing, but she also felt rebellion. Rebellion against the headmaster, against the war, against willful blindness to the truth. And of course, there was no greater rebellion for a woman her age than sex. The simple act threatened her status as Head Girl and they both were finding out that the title meant very little to her. What did she care if the headmaster trusted her? They were enemies.
And now, the woman was doing what she wanted, getting away with whatever she could: she chose him, Albus, her co-conspirator.
They had conspired many times that week and Albus had no intention of stopping it, not now, not that they had started and knew where they stood.
Her beautiful green eyes said it all: touch me, feel me, fill me.
Albus groaned softly with closed eyes.
Six times in the last week, six times! The woman came to him at strategically placed moments (because of course she couldn't get caught) and hardly had to say anything. Merlin, she just had to smile and he knew precisely what was to follow. His new office was the perfect place for these trysts: the desk was just the right height for her…and him…and her and him.
He forced his eyes open to stare at the pub.
He needed to focus. There was a greater evil than Armando, though it felt much closer to home. It was his current mission to prove himself useful against Grindelwald. They needed to know what he knew and he needed to inform them face-to-face. The "them" in question was Ursus MacLaven, a mate of Berthold Rhytherton.
Ursus was a man he had only met once before, but the memory was striking: tall, militant in every way, he had the deep voice of a man of power. Albus would know him anywhere.
But he was not there.
The man looked down at his watch, noting that Ursus was nearly forty-five minutes late.
The door to the pub opened. A man who was not Ursus entered, but Albus would know him anywhere by his dark hair and gait: his daughter did take after him, after all.
He walked straight to Albus's table, for Albus realized that he was himself a very noticeable character. Albus stood up from the table as a greeting, but did not make any other move, except perhaps to slide his hand along his wand as a precaution. After all, this was not the man with whom he had corresponded.
"Sorry MacLaven could not be here and sorry I cannot make up any excuse other than it is a classified matter," the civilian-clothed soldier stated with an almost mechanical fluidity. "Particle," he stated with some finality and sat down across from Albus. He reached into his robe pocket as he spoke, "My name is McGonagall. I believe these are the correspondences you've had with MacLaven over the last six months and in addition to prove character, this is a picture of my daughter, whom I believe you teach," his hand gracefully retrieved the paperwork.
The man handed Albus three or four pages with his own swirly writing as well as an original photograph of Minerva from perhaps the previous summer. Albus swallowed. Yes. He most certainly was talking to Minerva's father. Anxiety, confusion and awe struck him: was he dreaming?
Truly. Was this a dream?
"If the subject of identity is clear," the soldier stated without any awareness at all of the internal bewilderment settling on his opposite, "we ought to proceed. These matters do need to be quite to the point. What it is that you wish to report?"
Albus blinked. What extraordinary set of circumstances could have possibly brought this man before him, now? And there was no mistaking who it was. The mannerisms, the voice, the posh Scottish accent…Albus was stunned.
But he gathered his senses as the silence ticked on.
Albus cleared his throat, "Gellert Grindelwald is using the fidelius charm as a means of hiding his legions. His men have taken over my family home in Godric's Hollow and its surrounding land. I went searching for the old house but could not find it and there were soldiers with Grindelwald's colors where it should have been. They tried to attack me, but were unsuccessful."
McGonagall did not write this down, nor did he make much of any response. Rather, he clicked his tongue and sat back in his chair with dark eyes staring intently in an uncannily familiar manner. "Where in Godric's Hollow was this home?"
"The southern end of the main street, just after the curve."
The soldier nodded gently, taking in the words, "What would war criminals gain by attacking a civilian like yourself? Did they say anything?"
"Nothing I could understand," Albus admitted.
McGonagall blinked dismissively, "What sort of spell did they try to use?"
"Stunning spell."
"Hm," he raised an eyebrow in surprise, but said nothing more as he scratched his chin thoughtfully. He rerouted his questioning, "This home of yours, it's otherwise been uninhabited?"
Albus nodded.
"For how long?"
Albus blinked, "Ten years, I would say."
This clearly seemed plausible to the man who knew more about the war at hand for obvious reasons. But maybe he was trying to figure out if he ought to trust Albus at all. One could never be too careful, really. "And why do you suppose it is the fidelius charm? There are disillusionment charms, protective enchantments and concealment charms to take into account."
Easy answer: "Because I know that place and so does Gellert Grindelwald. He is using it as some sort of base, I am sure of it."
He cocked his head to the side, showing true interest for the first real time after arriving. "What makes you an expert on what the enemy leader would or would not do?" he raised an eyebrow, his oozing intelligence daring Albus to craft some outlandish story.
Albus took in a very large inhalation, feeling that now was the moment if ever there was one. It somehow came so quickly and yet he felt no nerves at all about unveiling the truth. He knew Gellert. "Because I understand him. I was friends with him," he nodded sadly, "best friends. Brothers, almost. When I was in my late teenage years."
Braxton McGonagall stared at Albus intently with eyes that truly seemed to read a soul. And he read deep, so deep that for a moment, Albus thought he had given away any secret he had ever possessed, though he was himself gifted with occlumency.
The soldier nodded with resolution, "I will relay your information back to MacLaven. You can expect an owl from him within the next three days, depending on owl travel. May I have those documents and photograph back?"
The professor passed the paperwork back with a suddenly shaky hand.
McGonagall placed the paperwork back in his robes, nodded and stood up curtly.
Albus, too, stood up and gave a nod.
Without any ado at all, the soldier left the pub.
He stared in silence at the door.
Though the pub bustled with any number of people and goings-on, tinnitus claimed his hearing and that tall, used door clouded his vision. He breathed in the scent of cigarette smoke and tasted its ashes in his mouth.
Wait!
Wait.
He felt nothing but loss.
His greatest secret, gone.
The chance to speak candidly with his lover's father, gone.
All his wartime immunity, that somehow felt gone too.
The world would know what he had been.
The man swallowed, feeling a sense of strength and resilience overcome his shame. This was only the start of change and he could craft it for the better, if he tried. And he believed that he could, now. He could be the change. He could make Minerva proud of him.
He blinked.
He would make her so proud.
Albus looked up at the clock and was reminded of the cigarette case in his robe: the portkey would be going off in another two minutes.
He made his way outside the door and turned the corner into the alley. Somehow, he didn't look forward to the lights of New York or a weekend of transfiguration talk. All he really wanted was to tell Minerva everything and hold her.
It may be a bit of touch-and-go, but it WILL get done. R&R.