Chapter Nine

As my dear Transfiguration teacher returned from the library, a heavy book tucked safely under his arm, I immediately made way for it on his desk. I have to say Albus was very Gryffindor about it, though- did not even wince when I briskly jammed his surprisingly big variety of muggle sweets into one of his- nearly empty!- drawers. His slightly pouting glance did not escape my eye, though, and impatiently I took the book from his hands.

"Oh please, Albus. If you're good, you get a lemon drop later on. Now let us see…"

I did not really know where to look in this book. It was quite the volume- obviously written for people specializing in the history of the wizarding world in the 16th century- and honestly, as I turned the pages and almost literally drowned in details, pictures and figures, I could not keep from feeling rather ridiculous.

I wouldn't find him. Perhaps I was practical, and perhaps I was stubborn, but I was trying to fight literally thousands of pages here, without even knowing for sure that I could find the answer I wanted.

It was very frustrating, and in a sudden fit of despair, I felt tears spring into my eyes- to my utter shame. It was typically me, of course. Neither sadness nor depression could make me cry- but a feeling of failure could.

"It's not going to work, Albus. We're being utterly, totally and unforgivably preposterous."

And I could have cried on that moment. I really could have. I have never experienced a stronger sense of confusion and total loss than on that particular moment.

Yet then, all of sudden, he was there, a cool hand against my cheek and a peck atop of my head- and with soothing fingers he turned the book towards him, glancing at the parchment pages over my shoulder.

"Now calm down, my little Rós na h-Albann. What about- ah here, look at this. I suggest we start here."

I could not but smile at his clumsy pronunciation of the Gaelic words which formed his new nickname for me. Rose of Scotland, they meant- and he insisted on using them, even though, well, as I put it rather frankly-

"You'll never make a proper Scot, Albus Dumbledore. But you're right- of course we should start here."

I could literally slap myself as I lowered my eyes again to the page in front of me. The entry about Anne Boleyn- well of course, where else could we possibly begin the quest which had started out as mine but had now turned into "ours"?

"He must have known her, Minerva- and quite well as well, if the scene we had the privilege to witness is anything to go at. In fact, I do believe that that scene is- well, proof enough to assume that something of closeness existed between them."

I involuntarily blushed at these words of his- prude that I was, or still am- but then briskly nodded. It was true, after all. To put it more frankly; Anne Boleyn had almost certainly been having an affair with the man- for he was not her lawfully wedded husband.

I almost laughed out loud at that mere idea. Henry VIII- wiry? Now I must admit I had never been a true History of Magic expert, and that even I could not but yawn as soon as Professor Binns so much as opened his mouth- but I had seen paintings of the King who reigned over England for almost thirteen years before, and one thing was sure; whatever he had been, he had not been wiry.

"Right. Now this part of her biography-"

I pointed at the first, say, twenty lines of the text.

"-speaks about her childhood and youth, which she partly spent in France. I don't think we will find our man here, do you?"

His quizzical look immediately answered my question.

"Why not, my dear? Could have been an early love, perhaps- one she had to leave behind when returning for England, and-"

But I surprised myself and shook my head. I knew it could not have been a Frenchman, after all. I did not know why I knew that- but I did, and my next answer surprised both me and Albus even more.

"His first name is Mark, after all, and Mark is an English name."