Outtake – A muggle poem of a far-away wizard

(During chapter 19) (The poem quoted is Lord of the Fish by Bertolt Brecht)

"Hey, 'Dora."

The witch, now an adult in both the wizarding and the muggle sense, looked up from her notes. She was only beginning her auror education the following week, but she had already been given a veritable mountain of newspaper cut-outs and all their associated reports to read 'while she still had time'.

"Hi, granddad."

"I found this old poem in with my old police uniform, I thought you'd like to see it." The old muggle said, sitting down on his witch granddaughter's bed with a book in his hands. "It's not long, I heard you have plenty of reading material anyway." His gaze wandered to a yellowed cut-out, on which a middle-aged man was staring into the camera haughtily. This piece of paper was set separated from the pile, perhaps ready to be glued to the upper corner of Nymphadora's mirror. That was where the very important pictures went. "Is this him?"

"Professor Wohl? Yes. I mean, Grindelwald."

"To you, he's Wohl," her grandfather smiled. "The Lord of the Fish."

"What?"

"Read the poem. He's the one who can give advice on your everyday issues, but hastily leaves when his own life and drive are brought up. Here, read it."

"Granddad..." She sighed, and sat down next to her closest muggle relative. "Oh, Brecht?"

"He's known for more than just his plays, but this particular poem never gets its deserved recognition."

Tonks morphed her arms a little larger and more muscular (muggle poets all seemed to share the bad habit of getting their writing published in bulky, heavy books regardless of the possibility to just split them up) and started to read.

Her granddad watched as she dove into the poem for the third time, her appearance shifting to that of a frail old man with odd eyes and hair as thick as his own. "So?"

"Here. 'When he spoke so of their affairs / They in their turn would ask: what of your own? / And he would look round smiling on all sides / And hesitantly say: got none.' That's him. How did you know?"

"You told us how he never honestly answered that one question. But as I said, I was looking for something else. Don't tell your grandmom, but I think she'll like a little surprise in the form of theatre tickets."

"I swear I won't," the witch solemnly replied. "Gemino!"

A sheet of paper appeared, far from a perfect copy of the page she had pointed her wand at, but most of the text was legible. Her second attempt yielded a much better result, so she vanished the first one and placed the fresher copy next to the haughty wizard's newspaper-photograph. The man in the picture craned his neck to read what was written on the sheet below.

Then Nymphadora continued sitting on her bed, the heavy book still open in her enlarged hands. "Exactly how he left. 'Politely, having nothing to offer them / A servant dismissed, he will go out. / No smallest shadow of him will remain / No hollow in the wicker seat.' Granddad? Which side of him do you think I will remember?"

He gave her a reassuring and calm look, somehow similar to the former teacher's, only, this one filled with true emotions. "No idea, dear. I can only tell you what Brecht would say. Poetry is an eye-opener to reality, and if you want to see true action, you have to act on that desire yourself."

"Granddad?"

"If you want an answer, don't turn to me or some outdated text, 'Dora. Grab a pen and ask him."

"Granddad, do you understand it's a mass murderer we're talking about, who'd been feigning his interest in my education all the time? He doesn't even consider you a person, just because of your lack of magic!"

"That attitude is no news to me, remember, you have a Black for a mother."

"Grindelwald's off the scale," Nymphadora sighed, her gaze wandering between the copied page and the judging look of the middle-aged wizard in the photo. "He must have wanted to crush my silly head for becoming an auror, of all things."

"And still, he taught you better than the other six had. Seven, if I count Lockhart."

"That's why I don't know what to think about him," the young witch admitted, her eyes shifting to Ravenclaw colours.

"That's why I suggested you ask him. If Dumbledore could, so can you."

Nymphadora's face now turned into that of her grandfather, except her eyes went clear blue. "Yeah, but he's Dumbledore."

"'Dora, you always do that when you agree with someone," the oldest Tonks noted.