Chapter 2: A Half Truth Is But Half A Lie

"The liar is a person who uses the valid designations, the words, in order to make something which is unreal appear to be real. He misuses fixed conventions by means of arbitrary substitutions or even reversals of names." From 'On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense' by Frederick Nietzsche (1873).

He sighed and put his wand forward: "Whether you believe it or not: I bear you no ill will, Albus, but I cannot let you leave. Not unless you give me the books that you purchased from Dimas Latron."

I laughed in disbelief: "You surely jest! All this convoluted masquerade was just for a bunch of musty secondhand books? What can there possible be in those books that persuades you to do this? Most of them are useless, but Latron wouldn't sell me the ones I wanted, unless I purchased the whole lot."

He didn't answer my question, the charming conversationalist had exited left of stage, leaving behind a warlock with steely resolve: "I'm not joking, leave the pouch on that rock by the side of the road and you can be done with me."

"And how exactly do you intend to prevent me from leaving right now, pouch and all?"

He yelled: "To me Kormos!" The Augurey that had been hiding in a nearby gray willow shrub took fly and landed on his outstretched arm. Extending its wings in a threatening display, the bird cackled. Gellert rose his wand to the sky and conjured a thunderstorm of biblical proportions.

Conjuring lighting is a spell that only very few, gifted weather wizards or witches manage to master. Gellert had done it at sixteen. I was impressed. All the "impressed" I could be while casting Protego wildly about to try to protect myself from said lighting. I was also thinking it was very lucky indeed that I wasn't superstitious; the Augurey cry just forecasts bad weather; but for a very long time it was thought to be an augury of death. Death. The word made me stop on my mental tracks. I sometimes get these bursts of intuition: Something clicks like the pieces of the puzzle fitting neatly into place.

I yelled, tearing the leather cord from my neck and showing him the bag on my raised fist: "Stop! Stop! I'll give you the pouch."

The lighting stopped falling around me. You see? Around me, the lighting was falling around me, none had hit me, none would have hit me as long as I had the pouch on my person. He couldn't risk it.

He said: "Throw it to me and I'll let you go."

I threw the pouch towards him and his features turned into a hungry wolf's visage. He extended his right hand palm up to catch it.

His brow contracted in the telling way it did before he cast a spell, not waiting for him to be able to throw a curse at me; I pointed my wand at the pouch and shouted loud and clear so he could hear every word: "AccioTales of Beedle The Bard!" The book flew out of the bag into my hand. I opened it brusquely with one hand and placed my wand's fiery tip half an inch away from its pages.

He hadn't seen it coming. His look of utter disbelief was followed by an inhuman cry: "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"

I smirked triumphantly: "Oh yes! You shouldn't have shown me your medal, Gellert. I have a rather good memory. It was only a matter of time for me to remember where I had seen the symbol on it. That is the mark of the three brothers who were owners of the Deathly Hallows that together master Death. And this particular book is what you were looking for all along. You must be mad as a hatter to go to such lengths to get your hands on a children's book. Especially one as popular as this one. I don't think there is a single wizarding household in all England without a copy of it."

"Oh Albus, you don't know what you are doing, take your wand away from that book. It is one of a kind. That's the very last first edition. It would be a tragedy, if it were to catch fire by accident..." He took a tentative step in my direction.

I laughed humorlessly: "Accident my foot! Take another step towards me and I swear I'll burn this book to a cinder. Then I'll pour water over the ashes until they turn stone, which I'll break in pieces and scatter to the four corners of the Earth so no power or spell can put it back together ever again."

With his hands still outstretched towards me he said: "You wouldn't dare. That book is..."

"Destroyed, if you don't fall back. Don't try me. I've told you I'm as good as my word, sir."

His arms fell limply to the sides of his body, he took one step away and he pleaded: "Please Albus, I beg you. I wasn't lying. That book is instrumental to secure the future of wizardkind, of all humankind."

I sneered: "You read that in your tea leaves? What are you mixing them with, laudanum?"

"I'm not insane nor am I intoxicated. Let me prove it to you."

"Don't come closer, Gellert. I won't warn you twice."

"I'm just going to take something out of my bag." He laid down his wand on the ground. "See? No magic."

"How stupid do you think I am? Don't make any sudden movement. I've seen you cast wandless."

He put his hands behind his head: "Then you take it out, it's a monogrammed calfskin notebook from Smythson of Bond Street in burgundy leather. My monogram is the Deathly Hallows symbol."

I pictured the notebook in my mind and called out: "Accio, notebook."

"The pages are numbered in the top right corner. Open it on page 26."

I skimmed through it and was thunderstruck: "What is this?"

He snarled: "A bargaining chip. It is also what you want, isn't it, Albus?"

"What do you know about what I want, Gellert?"

"Isn't it obvious? That damned Latron was supposed to sell the lot of books to me. I arrived one day later than expected and the little weasel had already sold it to you. I know the contents of that lot and, since you don't share my interest in the unabridged first edition of The Tales of Beedle The Bard, then you must be interested in the only two other books of any worth in it. Hence, what you want, Albus Dumbledore, is to change the past. I need that book you are so carelessly holding in your hand to change the future. So I'm offering you a fair trade: My notebook for your book."

"How can I trust you? And how can I know this time-looper you write about will actually work?"

He smiled his mirthful, slightly impish grin: "Because I've already built it, it is in the car. It works alright, but don't take my word on it, take it for a spin and see for yourself. And because I will make an unbreakable vow to you right now. Two hours, that's all I am asking for. Two hours to let me convince you of the fairness of my claim on the book you think is a mere fairytale. In exchange, I'll give you a practical demonstration of a working time-looper and the unbreakable vow of getting you back to this exact moment and letting you walk away unharmed, with the notebook containing precise instructions to build your own machine afterwards. I'll also promise not to try to recuperate the notebook from you. What do you say, Monsieur Dumbledore, do we have a deal?"

I should have walked away without turning my back on him. I should have walked away and prayed never to cross paths with him again. I really should have. I didn't. I made the book and my wand float over my head to leave my hands free: "Make the unbreakable vow, Monsieur Grindelwald, and stick to the letter of the promise. Know that I can still destroy the book at a moment's notice, if you try to slip a fast one past me. Vow or no vow, I'm keeping my hostage until we come back here and now."

"I won't break the vow, you have my word on it, under penalty of death. The spell will see to it. I have too much to live for. Give me your hands, my friend."

I gave him my hands muttering: "You are no friend of mine." He made the unbreakable vow.

And then he laughed unbridled: "I hope I can change that too in these next two hours. I've never met anyone quite like you."

I laughed right back at him, a jaded laugh: "I've never met anyone quite like you either. Though I'm not sure that's a compliment, nor necessarily a good thing."

He opened the car's door: "After you, Monsieur Dumbledore."

I climbed to the copilot's seat. He started the engine. As soon as we were airborne he use his wand to change the cylinder and start the wire recorder again. It played Paderewski's Piano Concerto in A minor: "Time travel can make me dizzy, the music helps me relax. It makes the vertigo better."

As Godric's Hollow became a small point behind us, or, perhaps, I should said in front of us. It is hard to describe when as where. I asked: "Where and when are we going?"

"Just a couple of hours back, seven on the dot, so we have time. First we are going to Mayfair, Savile Row, my tailor Blair Woolahan will receive us without an appointment. He and his elves will have us set up in a jiffy. I'm feeling rambunctious. Why don't we try one of these new tailless lounge dinner jackets… What are they called? Tuxedos, I think. Some herald them as the end of the dinner frock. I hear you can wear them in different colors and not necessarily with a black waistcoat, but, hear this: with satin sashes in intricate designs over a white pique shirt like some exotic Maharaja. I envision you in a silk navy blue dinner coat with a royal blue and silver satin sash. For me, I'll pick a deep aubergine silk for the coat with a garnet and gold satin sash. We'll use oxford gray narrow stripped trousers. Doesn't that sound delightfully decadent? What a pair of handsome dandies we'll make!"

It sounded loud, which I tended to avoid in dressing back then. I thought my hair was scandalous enough to go for anything else. And it sounded expensive, which I couldn't afford at all. "I can summon my dinning frock. If I'm having to build a time-looper, I'd rather save my galleons."

"It will be my treat. It's the least I can do after having tried to trick you into giving me the book. My clothes are ruined and if your dinning frock is anything like your day wear, it just won't do. You'll need bespoken clothes for the place we are going next. We are having dinner at Pagani on Langham Place. I have a standing reservation at eight. You are the one keen on the Statute of Secrecy, so you won't want us to stand-out."

"Won't we stand-out with these Tuxedos of yours, Monsieur Grindelwald?"

"Yes Monsieur Dumbledore, but we'll stand-out in a good way, like I said, we'll be dandies. Wear an old crummy frock and we'll stand-out in a whole lot of wrong ways."

I shrugged dismissively.

"I'd love to show you Pagani's Artist Room, it has more than 5,000 signatures of artist like Puccini, Melba, Bernhardt and Paderewski, who we are listening to, but that one is usually engaged for private parties. Supposedly Bertie -the Prince of Wales- is said to have dinned there with Wilde before his fall from grace. The downstairs public room is not bad either, with soft blue curtains to match the blue wallpaper. I bet you like the shaded electric lights. Have you ever seen those working?"

I denied. I wasn't feeling very talkative. The subject of my tight budget tied up my tongue.

"There you go, just that makes it worth the trip. My table is right by a little bow-window at the back, which makes a snug nook. We can chat privately while we dine."

"You cannot possible be suggesting we dine in camaraderie, pretending that nothing has happened between us."

"Why not? We need a private place to speak, and no place can be more private than a dining room full of Muggles, who'll be none the wiser as to who we are or what we are really doing there. Plus, I don't know about you, but I haven't had time to dine. I'm famished. And the food is really good. Supper at the Old…" He caught himself: "Bagshot manor is subpar. So I try to skip it whenever I can."

It was in poor taste to talk about money, but I was flat out broke: "I'm sure the food is fine, but..."

He took out a paper from his waist pouch and smiled: "Nah-ah, no buts, it'll be my treat too. The food is superb. Here, I'm usually in a hurry when I visit London, M. Giuseppe Pagani sends me the Menu in advance: so I can choose what I want beforehand. I hope you don't mind what I've chosen for tonight. We will be having Hors-d'oeuvre variés, Potage Bortsch. Filets de sole Pagani. Tournedos aux truffés. Haricots verts sautés. Pommes croquettes. Perdreau Voisin. Salade. For accompanying the Hors-d'oeuvre and the Bortsch we'll start with Sherry, which I much prefer to the Port you Brits seem to favor. For the sole fish, I'm torn between cracking open a bottle of a white Meursault Charmes '46 that I have been saving for a special occasion and a far younger Riesling. You don't strike me as much of a drinker, so we'll probably settle with the hock. For the beef tenderloin with truffles and green beans we'll have a fine Bourdeaux. A Beaune Grèves Vigne de L'Enfant Jésus will do. I'm thinking about a Romanée-Conti or a Nuits-Saint-Georges for the partridge, the potatoes and the salad, but we don't have to make up our minds just yet on the Bourgogne. We'll finish the meal with a generous portion of their delicious Soufflé au curaçoa that we'll accompany with a Vve Clicquot. I find champagne goes well with desserts. Especially one like this. Pagani makes it just right, it feels like clouds of goodness floating in your mouth. Add the bubbles of the champagne popping and it tastes like heaven. I'm sure you are going to love it. Something tells me you have a sweet tooth. Do you, Albus? A young man your age surely has a healthy appetite…"

"I have a healthy appetite, for food. And I wouldn't have pegged you for someone acquainted with heavenly regions, perhaps you are acquainted with a somewhat more austral province of the afterlife?"

His smile widened: "You might be surprised. I've been around quite a bit."

The Piano concerto had reached the melancholic and soulful piano solo. I was famished too. I'd had a very long day. And at Dumbledore manor we hadn't had any food other than the one I managed to cook myself with mixed results for what seemed like the longest time. Actually, being honest, I hadn't had a decent meal since I had left Hogwarts… It's a poor excuse, but it all sounded so tempting and I was too tired to argue… I gave in: "I haven't eaten anything since breakfast. I do have a sweet tooth. It all sounds delicious. I'll drink whatever you are having."

"Bravo, Albus, that's the spirit, live a little. We'll have us two portions each of the dessert then."

I smiled halfheartedly: "We'll see."

A few minutes later in our time -and a few hours earlier by the time we had left- we were at his tailor's; immersed in profound sartorial disquisition of what colour and fabric suited whom the best; while the elves -covered in pins and needles like some preternatural hedgehogs- sewn like there was no tomorrow. Mr. Woolahan was kind enough to send word that we would be two for dinner at Pagani using a footman, not to spook the non-magical owners of the place. And a mere half an hour later Gellert paid the bill in full and we left the shop riding his car. He drove to the apartments he kept in Belgrave Square so he could lent me a pair of leather patent button booths, in far better shape than the ones I had. We changed into our new outfits with the aid of a gloomy pale valet, who didn't cast a reflection in the mirror and who, I'm fairly certain, had been engaged back in Transylvania.

I kept my eye on the gloomy valet and he kept his eye on my neck. I decided that next time I'd dress myself without any aid, then I wondered what made me think that there would be a next time. I also wondered why Monsieur Grindelwald favored our rather shoddy corner of the English countryside. Why visit at all, if he could afford to keep apartments in highly fashionable Belgrave Square. I couldn't ask him, we were running late. We left Belgrave Square driving the Lohner-Porsche on ground like a pair of daredevils, attracting looks of admiration, envy or both from passersby.

You probably aren't aware, Elphias, as it wouldn't have been polite to discuss my family situation with you, but back then we Dumbledore's were barely making ends meet. When I began earning money with my papers and a couple of consulting gigs at the Ministry; the truth is that what could have been a fairly decent income for a single young guy, was never all that good for a family of four. I was the breadwinner at fourteen. But even when we became three, after mum died, we were barely making it.

Back then, stores where you could buy readymade clothes were just beginning to permeate the Muggle's society. Wizarding society, which has always tended to be a bit more set in its ways and traditions, didn't know them at all. Clothes, new clothes I mean, were either made home or at a tailor or seamstress, if you could afford them. Of course there were tailors who made cheap gowns with low quality materials for those who just simply couldn't afford anything else. But, those in so called polite society, who needed to maintain certain appearance of wealth, had to make do with secondhand clothes.

That was a punch in the ego for me. But when it came to feeding my siblings and keeping a roof over our heads or wearing the latest… There really was no choice. Still, I must admit that trying to look the best I could at this or that social function, waiting to be awarded this prize or looking to secure a job; always in the same ill-fitting frayed frock, two seasons out of fashion, getting through it all mostly sustained on a stiff-upper-lip attitude and an unrelenting certainty of my self-worth, was never easy.

Is it really that hard to understand why, while I ran my fingers over the double-breasted silk lapels of my first brand new set of clothes ever, I couldn't help sporting a little conceited smile?

Ron snorted: "Nope, it's not hard to understand at all…" Then he said, talking mostly to himself: "Who would have known he knew?… Always thought of him as posing for a portrait as the greatest wizard of the twentieth century, but he understood what it felt like, going through life in hand-me-downs."

Ginny, who understood it too, said: "Still keen on burning the lot o' the notebooks, Ron?"

Ron didn't reply. Hermione gave her husband's hand a brief, encouraging squeeze and kept reading.

We walked into Pagani to deferential nods and bows, mostly directed at Earl Grindelwald; but some of that deference was directed at me too. And, for the first time in my life, I didn't feel the nagging sensation of being slightly out of place. Or better said, I didn't care about standing out, because instead of standing out the wrong way, as Gellert had called it, I was notorious in a good way. That day I learnt not to underestimate the power of wearing the right outfit, mind you, the right outfit for you: one that compliments and suits you, giving you a confidence boost. It is sad but we are often judged upon our looks, so we have to learn to look our best. That's why I agreed to keep the uniforms at Hogwarts.

After the maître d'hôtel showed us to his table and the waiters had set us with the first course of varied entrances and Sherry in the snuggled semi-lit nook at the back of the dining room that Gellert claimed as his, we were left alone and I could ask: "Is Earl Grindelwald another moniker like Professor Moriarty or is it a real title?"

"The closest translation for Ispán would be Earl, though I'm not exactly sure of the current situation of the Grand Principality of Transylvania or the Kingdom of Hungary. It seems one or both have always been in abject vassalage to one crown or the other for the past couple of centuries. I cannot really tell what claim the House of Grindelwald may have in the eyes of Muggles to any title based on the blood of the Báthory and the Corvinus that runs through our veins. Ours is a nobility older than the Statute of Secrecy. But I can tell you this, Albus: I, Gellert Grindelwald, am the rightful Ispán and Gyula warlock of Nurmengard Vár. The claim to that fortress comes directly to me from my father. So, regardless of Muggle or wizarding law, I can swear on Nagymama's name that one day the Grindelwald banner will hang from its lofty steeples once more, if I have to die trying to make it so."

I leaned towards him and whispered confidentially: "I feel the sudden urge to hooray and clap, but I fear it would not be proper. That was quite the speech. Your wand may not be Aspen but you do have a silver-tongue, sir. One that is as dangerous as any silver spear that ever graced the annals of 18th century wizarding duelling."

He laughed, as unbridled and loud as he had laughed on the empty rural road: "Oh Albus, I think I've already told you, but I mean every word of it: I've never met someone quite like you before. You indeed are a rare find. So much more than I had expected, or could have hoped to find in a place like Godric's Hollow. Whatever are you doing there, my friend?"

I wondered that myself. And I could have asked him the very same question. Instead I said: "You are starting to repeat yourself, Gellert. Maybe it would be wise if we moved forward to whatever pressing matter you wanted to discuss with me, which couldn't wait till the morrow and demanded that we traveled back in time to address it."

He raised his Sherry glass to his lips, wet his tongue lightly in the liquor, like a cat lapping a bowl of cream. Then he grabbed a foie gras medallion between his index and his thumb, swallowed it whole in one greedy bite, licked his fingers and said: "No, no, one does not talk shop while dining. It's rude."

I inhaled sharply: "But you've just ordered a nine courses meal, including four bottles of wine and one of champagne!"

He patted my back with a lopsided smile: "Firstly: Champagne is wine too, sparkling wine, but wine nonetheless, my friend. Secondly, don't worry about the bottles, what we don't finish in this sitting will be sent to the flat at Belgrave Square. Thirdly, such meal in a place like this is an event that compels you to sit back and enjoy it fully, engaging all the senses in the Epicurean experience fine dining should be. It is not to be made a perfunctory fulfilling of a basic animal need that you may remorselessly sully by daring to talk shop at my table. I've just banked my life in an unbreakable vow for two hours of your time, Albus. If I can wait through nine courses to address the pressing matter that has prompted me to make such a serious vow... then, most certainly, so can you. Now, do me a favor, Monsieur Dumbledore: sit back, relax and enjoy your damned meal."

Oh the insufferable...continental… with his French wine, his fancy table at Pagani, his bachelor pad in fashionable Belgrave Square, his bloody Transylvanian noble castle and his even bloodier Transylvanian valet… At first I felt so outraged that I could have climbed wandlessly up the steeples of his alleged ancestral home. That or I could have climbed out the window. Then I decided, what the hell. I'd always been a good boy and where had that taken me? Nowhere that is where. I was stuck right in the middle of nowhere both geographically and metaphorically. But, against all odds, I'd just managed to claim back two hours of my life. Two glorious hours that I owed to no one but myself. And, for once, I was going to live them to the fullest and deal with the consequences later.

I was off to a magnificent start. I'd rode in a flying time-traveling car. I was sitting in the best clothes I had ever owned at the best London restaurant I had ever been to, sharing a wondrous meal and conversation -under the modern marvel of electrical lamps- with the most fascinating person I had ever met; who, granted, may have been a manipulative, secretive bastard that even right then was trying to pull my strings to further some cockamamie hidden agenda involving a children's book; which he was in no rush whatsoever to reveal to me… But, was I really in such a hurry to go back to rotting in Godric's Hollow, writing insipid commentaries, doing mind-boring translations, washing clothes, darning socks and fixing meals for a girl that was so out of it that she barely noticed I was there and a boy that was so lost in his grievances against his older brother that he couldn't acknowledge I was trying to be the best guardian I could? I might as well... So I sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the best nine courses meal of my whole life. That statement, coming from a man who has lived up to 116 and who is compelled to attend none less than eighteen magical banquets a year, means something.

In fact, the Epicurean experience was so good that it is entirely within the realm of possible that I might have eaten and drank a bit too much. In vulgar terms, I was slightly pickled when Gellert decided we would move to a private smoking room. To help us sober up, my gracious host had asked for a coffee service for himself and tea service for me, then he had lit a Hooka pipe.

With a cocked eyebrow I asked: "Does one talk shop in the smoking room or are you going to sit there puffing smoke like a Hungarian Horntail while I sip tea and watch you, Monsieur Grindelwald?" I'd drawled a little saying his name, realizing I was still worse from the wine, I sipped some more tea.

"Monsieur Dumbledore, in normal circumstances, I would invite you to light a Hooka yourself and join me in puffing like a dragon. Dracul is a family name and smoking tobacco can be very liberating. However, the pressing matter that brought us here cannot be postponed any longer. But, I think it might be better that I showed you, rather than tell you. Firsts things first, I'll give us some real privacy..." He took out his wand and with a circling motion around the room he cast: "Muffliato."

"Has been ages since last time it happened, but I don't think I know that spell. What does it do?"

He smiled: "I didn't expect you to, being as forward as you are. It's a rather obscure Venetian spell useful for keeping others from hearing private conversations. Legend has it that it was invented by some secret society or the other in the Cinquecento when La Serenìsíma Repùblica was the hotbed of international intrigue. It's a spell for spies, backstabbers and conspirators. Which I guess suits our purpose just right."

I huffed: "And what would that purpose be: spying, treason or a conspiracy?"

He didn't answer. He kept puffing on the Hooka's pipe until the room was covered in smoke, a thick, fog-like smoke that formed a wall in front of us. And in that wall images began to form, a Dantesque parade of soldiers in strange uniforms bearing odd weapons, gargantuan caterpillar like vehicles that raised hell on earth and flying machines, which dropped bombs that devastated whole cities, leaving husk-like ruins where once proud stone buildings had stood. He presented me with a parade of images come from the depths of Gehenna, which showed London razed to the ground and that culminated in the mother of all howitzer being detonated to create what is now the infamous image of a huge mushroom cloud.

If there is a worse way of sobering up than watching that horror parade, I hope I never get to experience it. I watched pale, muted and horrified the Grand-Guignol Theater presented to me by Gellert Grindelwald, not quite believing and not fully understanding what I was seeing. After the show I sat shell-shocked. When I managed to get my bearings I muttered: "What is this? Is this your idea of a joke? Because if it is, I don't find it amusing in the least, sir."

He laughed humorlessly: "I wish it were. At times I've hoped that these images were only the product of a sick mind, even if that mind happens to be mine. However, my friend, it is not. That is my first prophecy. I delivered it right in the middle of my first concert when I was ten, lost in the music of Sibelius. Nagymama witnessed it. With my mother, Bathilda Bagshot's niece, being English, she knew what future awaited me if I were to remain in your country. Your Seers, my friend, have to be well-behaved trained monkeys at the service of your Ministry's Department of Secrets. Milked like cows for their visions in exchange of some notoriety. Nagymama didn't want that destiny for me." A smile flickered in his face: "Must have been her gypsy blood. We kept moving until it was time to get my wand and begin school. We seriously considered home-schooling, but ended up choosing Durmstrang precisely for the little regard for divination they have. In the holidays we returned to the nomadic life. As I've told you, I've been around quite a bit. I'm a citizen of the world. And, believe what you want Monsieur Dumbledore, but I am a Seer and the horror theater you just saw is one possible future."

"One possible future, aren't prophecies supposed to be set on stone or locked in small crystal balls?"

He laughed: "My friend, if you believe in something as fanciful as the possibility of changing the past, why can't you believe in the much more plausible endeavor of changing the future?"

"Aren't you risking losing your bargaining chip by telling me that it is not possible to change the past?"

"I don't want to lie to you, not anymore. I've taken a liking to you and wouldn't want you to risk trying to change the past. No good can come from it, Monsieur Dumbledore."

"I've told you I don't intend to play your Knights and Knaves game with you. I don't think there is ever a fair solution in real life to facing a liar who says he is not lying. We are right here, in the past, how do you know effectively changing it is not possible? Have you tried?"

"Az istenit! Never! If I were that stupid Nagymama would be the first one to cross the veil in the other direction to slap some sense into me." He sighed: "But my father did, and died when I was barely one month old in his attempt to. Are you familiar with the eruption of Krakatoa on August 26th 1883?"

"I don't think there is a living person who isn't. What was your father trying to change?"

"I come from a long line of warlocks, Albus, my father was a veteran of the Siege of Sevastopol. It took our armies one year to traverse the 35 miles from where they landed in Eupatoria to the capital, and each mile was a bloody carnage. More than 200,000 men lost their lives in that bloodbath."

"Merlin's beard! Your father was at Crimea?! Why would a wizard fight in a Muggle war?"

"Don't ask me, I can't understand why that war was fought at all. How can such horror be fought in the name of a religion that is supposedly founded on the tenets of love and compassion?"

"Please! That war was never about the Christian rights over the Holy Land. Politics do make strange bedfellows. The British and the French allied with the Ottoman Empire against Russia for geopolitical reasons, love and compassion had no play in it. Who'd be foolish enough to believe otherwise?"

"You'd be surprised, some pious Austrian ladies still call it the last crusade. I broke a serious engagement to the daughter of one such lady over her commentary on the war. She said the men who had died were martyrs and their families should be proud, not mourning their death. I wonder if the lady had lost a husband, a son or a father, if she would have hold onto that opinion." He chuckled: "I merely got up from the table and left, Nagymama jinxed her with a permanent mustache. Not that hard, really, as she would have probably sported one, if it weren't for her trimming spells. It's just as well the engagement was called off. One doesn't have to be a Seer to figure out one can look at the mother to figure how the daughter will turn out." Then he was serious again: "My father's participation in the Crimean War had to do with an old allegiance to the Ottoman prince. Back in the 15th century a member of our family was held hostage in the court of Mehmed II, he befriended the Sultan's son and they swore a blood oath in which he could call upon the Grindelwald warlocks in his time of need."

"A blood oath cannot be inherited, it lapses with the dead of one of the incumbents."

"The spell may fade, my friend, the word given by one of our own is not subject to the avatars of time."

"That's rubbish! Are you telling me that if Abdul Hamid II were to call upon you to aid him in massacring Armenians you would jolly pick up your wand and go? What happened to the proud Ispán who bows to no man, Gellert?"

"Calm down, Albus, as far as I'm concerned, Abdul Hamid II can take one of his golden Al-Qur'an rolls and shove it where the sun don't shine… That's not the point. My father felt obliged by the promise and, when the time came, he went to war. He was very young -no even of age- and very foolish, he went there looking for glory and came back damaged. He only survived because he was a wizard. But you know there is no magic that can cure the ailments of the mind, don't you, Albus?"

My mind went immediately to my sister Ariana. I couldn't answer, I merely nodded.

"I hear there is a young Viennese Muggle neurologist called Freud who studied under Charcot and Breuer that has been recently having some success treating hysteria and aphasia in women and children with something they call the curing talk. Perhaps one of these days his technique will be developed up to a point in which it can help those like my father. As it is, if a mind is damaged past a point, there is no way of putting it back together. According to Nagymama father was broken by what he had seen in the war. He had terrible night terrors. And at times his eyes would glaze over and he would believe he was still in the battlefield. He could be a danger to himself and others during those times. But Nagymama couldn't bring herself to have him committed. Not even in your St Mungo's, which is not the worst that is out there for treating those who have lost their sanity. Still, all that they could have offered him was to lock him up until he died."

I felt a lump in my throat, if he was trying to play me, he was doing one hell of a good job. But, then again, he had told me himself he was a good fiddler and Mrs. Bagshot was a sweet woman but a bit of a gossip, she might have blabbered to him. I tried steeling my resolve: "But he got better, didn't he? The Crimean war was over in '56 and Mrs. Bagshot showed me a painting of her niece's wedding in '82."

He sighed: "The night terrors and the attacks became infrequent, but he wasn't really cured. I suspect he only married my mother in an effort to convince himself that he could lead a normal life. And I fear my mother, who was a simple girl with just the barest magical ability not to be called a squib, couldn't help falling for the handsome Hungarian noble with means who had seen fit to fix his attention on a homely twenty one old maid like her. He was too good a prospect for her to dare reject him, so she married him. But the truth is there was little love between them. My father never left Crimea and when I, his first born, came into the world; he tried time-traveling in order to change the ordeal that had left him less than the man he used to be. He died in the attempt and mom died a few weeks after delivering me from childbed fever. Nagymama took me in. I'm not telling you this in order to garnish sympathy from you, Albus, but as a cautionary tale so you desist from attempting to change the past."

"But your time-looper has taken care of the problem of energy release, hasn't it?"

He shrugged: "Up to a point, for a few hours and theoretically even for a few years the time-looper can use the energy release from the hour reversing charms to feed the electrical battery of the Lohner-Porsche from which, in turn, the energy necessary to sustain the charm is taken from; creating a stable system. But anything far beyond that point is unsafe. Not to mention we are not going about changing anything in this outing. We are miles away from our own selves walking in parallel. If we were to try to change anything upon the knowledge that we have, for example, if I would try to beat you to Dimas Latron's shack in order to secure the book; the results would be unpredictable. I may very well end causing the destruction of the book which is something I simply cannot risk. That book is instrumental in my plan to try to stop the future I just showed you from happening."

I sniggered despondently: "That's a candid reply. So you wouldn't be losing your time with me if you could just safely go back and take the book, wouldn't you?" I regretted making the question as soon as it left my mouth. Don't ask if you really don't want to know. I braced myself for the answer.

"I don't consider our dinner lost time, Albus. As for the book, you've been watching my wand all evening, but I could have easily had Vladislav stolen the pouch and replace it with a perfect copy while he was changing your clothes or I could have slipped something in the wine, put you to sleep and taken the pouch. As long as I left you back home with the notebook, the vow wouldn't be broken. I might not have needed to slip you anything, pouring you a couple more glasses of wine might have done the trick. For some reason, wizards tend not to think about the non-magical possibilities to solve a problem. I think of that as a grave strategic fault, something which I profit from, but try not to be guilty of."

"So why haven't you taken the pouch, dropped me off and left?"

"I've told you, I honestly like you. Plus I think that there is so much more to be gained from our association than getting the book. I have a strong feeling that you can make me or break me, Albus Dumbledore. I felt it in my bones from the moment I laid eyes on you and a smart Seer always listens to his hunches."

I laughed: "Low-fah!"

"Make the 'O' a bit more closed and the 'AH' a lot more..."

"Don't bother. I'll say it in plain English: Bollocks!"

"Suit yourself, Monsieur Dumbledore, for the time being, ally or foe, I want to keep you close to me."

"What if I don't want to be close to you, Gellert Grindelwald?"

He laughed big and wild: "Never play poker, my friend, you'd lose all you have on the green mat."

"In case you powerful Seer haven't figured it out, I have nothing to lose. And not all of us can be as good at bluffing as you, sir." I sighed: "So, where does this leave us, unbreakable vow-wise?"

"You cannot break an unbreakable vow. This doesn't change a thing. So, I take you back, give you the notebook, which I hope you won't use after our little chat, and you can give me the book or not. It's your choice, really. And so it is if you want to see me later on or not. As I've said, I would want to, I think there is much we have left to discuss, but I won't force myself on you."

I looked at my pocket watch, the only thing of worth I'd inherited from my father: "It's late, we should get back."

As with the tailor he covered the check, he didn't like to keep a tab, in case he had to leave town on short notice. That should have been a fair warning. We boarded the car. Once airborne he played some more music in the Poulsen wire recorder. Something I couldn't identify: "What is that?"

He smiled: "A Czech composer: Smetana. We are listening to his String Quartet No. 1. From My Life. He composed it after going deaf. I love chamber music and I particularly like this piece: Allegro vivo appasionato. That's how life should be, or else it is not worth living."

I wholeheartedly agreed. We didn't talk on the way back. He left me at quarter to nine in my front door, just as another Albus Dumbledore boarded a Lohner-Porsche in what was, up to that point, the greatest adventure of his whole young life.

He was putting his googles back on when I called out to him: "HEY YOU, THE BLOND BOY!" I threw him The Tales of Beedle the Bard. He caught the book without taking his eyes off me. "If that book can really help you prevent the horrors you've shown me, then you should have it. And if there is anything else you would want to discuss with me, or any way I can help you to prevent that from happening: I'm at your service any day after seven o'clock in the afternoon. I'm always home."

He smiled: "Of course, after you tend to your family obligations. Then seven o'clock tomorrow in the afternoon it is. Meet me by the lake, your home is too close to the Old Bag… shot manor."

A few years later, when I read J.M. Barrie, I knew exactly how Wendy Darling must have felt coming back from Neverland into the world where she would need to grow up. Peter Pan was off fluttering in the night and my grown-up obligations were waiting for me behind the redwood door of my parent's house. The kitchen was in disarray, Aberforth had burnt his hand trying to fix Ariana's dinner.

I tried not to sound exasperated, of late it was a miracle getting through the day without fighting: "I left you a note telling you cold dinner was on the counter, you only needed to serve it, Aberforth."

While I cured his hand, he looked balefully at me from behind a long redhead mop that could have used washing: "You know Ariana doesn't like cold meals. I was trying to fix her a proper dinner while you were running your errands. I wouldn't want us to get in the way of all the important letters and essays you need to write."

I had to bite my tongue not to snap back and say that my essays kept the roof over our heads and that those letters were the only way to keep the contacts I'd made at school and that allowed me to get the odd jobs we needed to put food on our plates. He was the same age as Grindelwald and two years older than me when I started supporting my whole family, but he was a child. Snapping at him wouldn't solve a thing. I breathed in deep: "Go to Ariana, try to calm her and I'll fix dinner. Have you eaten?"

"She blew up the platter, she hates cold porridge, you know this... You should know this."

I should have known it. Though I had been away from home since I was eleven. And working my hand to a claw since fourteen writing, at least until I taught myself how to charm a magic pen. Always busy, busy, if he had told me before, I had probably forgotten it. But he didn't know that, mum was not quite right, locked up with my sister, she had surrounded herself with a wall of delusion to protect her sensibilities as effective as any spell. My brother was under the impression my father had left enough to keep us. By the time I realized our reality; my mother was still keeping up appearances, driving herself into debtor's jail by buying clothes and toys that supposedly came from Azkaban. And Aberforth believed it! What was the point in revealing our dreary reality to someone who obviously wasn't prepared to look at it? Reminding myself once more that there was no point in fighting with my younger brother, I replied: "I'll fix something for you too. Tell me what you want. I'll try to make it."

After taking master Aberforth's order, I went about cleaning and repairing the mess in the kitchen and fixing dinner. Then I worked a couple of hours on a translation of a Middle Goblin Charm's Book I needed to turn in next Thursday. I oiled and brushed Ariana's hair, put on her nightshirt and made sure her day clothes were clean enough so she could wear them the next day. I reminded Aberforth to check his own clothes and to polish his boots. And I bite down another sour reply when he asked, mockingly bowing to me, if he should polish mine too. Once my siblings were safely in bed, I checked the house was properly locked and that the protective spells were working fine. I toiled around my parent's house cleaning this, fixing that, like every night, but my mind and soul where already at seven o'clock next afternoon, when I would see the Earl of Nurmengard again.

Hermione looked at the clock, it was quarter past twelve and she had to be up at five o'clock next morning, if she wanted to have a chance to study a little before going to work.

Harry followed her eyes, then looked at Ginny who was nodding off, her belly was starting to show and she too was dealing with a full-time job and the housework. He sighed: "Why don't we leave it here? It is obvious we aren't going to do this in one sitting. So tomorrow I'll use lunch time to talk to the executor and ask him to let us keep the books so we can read them at our own pace."

Ron, who appeared to be sleeping, muttered in between snores: "Should just burn them, I tell you..."