"Interesting."
Gellert ran his fingers over the parchment. Albus knew he was testing it for signs of magic, only to find none. It seemed to be exactly what it appeared: an ink-spattered page torn out of a calendar and dispatched before the sender had had the time to scribble a message. The date, 8 August, corresponded to an unremarkable day the headmaster had spent in Wizengamot.
"Those ink stains…" The German wizard held the parchment to the light for one last scrutiny. "Those ink stains were made by accident. Someone wanted to tell you something but couldn't." He handed it back. "Who could it be?"
"I ought to check on all of my acquaintances," Albus mused, frowning at the blank page before pocketing it. "The first person who comes to mind is Bertha Jorkins. Supposing she has been captured and disarmed, sending a plea for help could be her only recourse. This would suggest she has returned from Albania—the calendar is undeniably English. Where would she be detained, though?"
He shook his head, uncertain of the implications such a wild theory entailed.
"Whoever sent this note was incapacitated, I agree: either bound or magically restrained." Gellert paused in thought. "Did you see the bird that delivered you this cry for help?"
"I wish I had," Albus admitted heavily. "I found the note on a pile of unopened letters—it had arrived during the evening. The owl had flown away, leaving an agitated Fawkes behind. He had never seen this bird before."
Instinctively, they glanced towards the window. It was a chilly, gloomy, windy day, rendered more desolate by the absence of rain, if such a thing had ever been heard of.
"Hmm." Gellert leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. There was such an exhausted air about him that for a moment, Albus could not breathe for anguish. "An unfamiliar bird, a blank calendar page, ink spilled in a hurry… The sender was in a room that contained a desk with an inkpot. They were pressed for time—possibly watched, likely restricted. If they have access to a desk, it means… the captor needs them to write, to keep corresponding… to appear working." He exhaled with a whisper of a sigh. "No, it is not the Quidditch witch. She is still missing, Albus. Your mystery sender is not. They are forced to appear in public. I cannot tell you more, but I do know this is the last time they have sent you anything by resorting to a bird."
An icy shiver ran down the Englishman's spine. He wondered how he could have failed to reach such a logical conclusion on the previous night. He had been focused on the wrong details, and that was the truth. If Gellert's assessment was correct—which it was, Albus could feel it in his heart—this resembled one of Tom Riddle's diabolical schemes. Horrifying though it was to admit, Bertha Jorkins would probably never be found—not that Ludo Bagman should neglect to launch a thorough search for her. The sender of this note, on the other hand…
"I will investigate my contacts at the Ministry." Gently, he started massaging Gellert's shoulders. He was the only person his lover was allowed to speak to, to touch, and touch was more important than one realised. Shared warmth, gestures of tenderness—nothing could replace those. "I'll be careful not to betray my suspicion."
"It might not be a Ministry worker. Perhaps a journalist—anyone who makes a living from writing. Try to see if someone's letters or articles might indicate they are not themselves… I'm sorry I cannot help you better than this, Albus. Tom Riddle clearly likes games."
"You have helped plenty."
Running a soothing caress down Gellert's neck, Albus could only concur: Tom was a master of mind games. He thought of the Daily Prophet, where he had held his first job as an editor before being offered a vacant teaching post at Hogwarts. Decades had elapsed since his contacts among journalists had withered away. Nevertheless, he would pay the Prophet a visit to ascertain its employees were safe—even Miss Skeeter, whose articles remained cheerfully malicious.
"Tom doesn't take prisoners unless absolutely necessary," he surmised. "It has to be a witch or wizard of influence or with useful connections. This makes our task a little easier."
"I'm sorry I cannot be of more help," Gellert said again, his voice breaking with melancholy. "If I could leave the cell…"
This time, he did not close his eyes, and the tortured emotion in their depths was heartbreaking to witness. Albus knew his lover had passed through every stage of horror, including the fervent desire to die rather than endure such a life. This thought was now present in Gellert's unveiled mind, even if it faded as promptly as it had come.
"Have you shown the note to anyone else?"
The headmaster swallowed; he had to compose himself.
"No one."
"If there is somebody you trust, it might help to share it. But be careful. The sender's captors must be aware of this communication attempt, and they will do their best to mislead you."
"I will stay on my guard," Albus promised, enfolding the other wizard in his arms. "I don't want this person to have suffered in vain. You alone know everything, Gellert; I trust no one else completely."
"Good. It's better to be safe than sorry."
This last remark was a hint at the trust Gellert had once placed in Vinda Rosier, a former follower of his, only to repent it endlessly. Albus nodded, drawing closer. As they rested their heads against each other, he wished yet again for a deity he could sell his soul to in exchange for switching places with the German wizard.
It was a bustling school he returned to that evening. Having no intention of touching food, he did not stop to see whether dinner was over; instead, he headed upstairs, impatient to bury himself in work. The urge filled him with guilt and shame, for what would Gellert not give for the luxury of intellectual distraction? But work was healthier than Albus's other manner of dealing with pain, and he had to rein himself in. Someone's life depended on his resourcefulness.
He spotted the Potions Master's dark silhouette on his way and, with an absent-minded "Hello, Severus", proceeded down the corridor. A resentful hiss caused him to halt.
"Headmaster, we need to talk now."
Albus turned around. Snape looked angrier than usual—livid, in fact. Something had transpired in his absence.
"Would you like to come with me to the staffroom?"
"I'd rather speak to you in your office, if you don't mind." The young man's eyes were blazing; his magical aura, however, betrayed more than fury—there was fear too.
"Very well."
Neither wizard said another word until the door to the circular office closed on them. Albus hung his cloak and motioned towards the empty chair in front of his desk.
"What happened, Severus?"
"Moody," snarled Snape, as if the name were poison. "I will not be humiliated by him, Dumbledore! You have to control him!"
"What has Alastor done?"
"He tortured one of my students. And he dares to insult me. I will not have it!"
Albus blinked. "What do you mean by tortured? Whom?"
"He turned Draco into a ferret and made him bounce in the air for everyone to see."
"Alastor did what?" Sitting back, Albus addressed the portraits of the previous headmasters—a calmer account was in order. "Did any of you witness this scene?"
Most of them shuffled in their frames. Dilys Derwent answered, sounding slightly amused.
"I did, Dumbledore. There was a commotion in the entrance hall before dinner. Mr Malfoy decided to needle Messrs Potter and Weasley by reading aloud a derisive article, you see. The youngsters exchanged a few juvenile barbs, and Mr Potter turned to leave. Mr Malfoy took this opportunity to attempt to hex him. This is what triggered Professor Moody's outburst."
"I see. What happened then?"
"As Severus here described, Professor Moody transfigured the boy into a white ferret and subjected him to a… um, vigorous Levitation Charm. Professor McGonagall then approached, reversed the spell and advised Moody to settle the matter with the offender's Head of the House."
If Albus resisted an exasperated sigh, it was barely so.
"Is Mr Malfoy all right?"
"All right?" Snape exploded. "All right? He was assaulted! How am I supposed to explain this to Lucius?"
"Why not tell him the truth?" another portrait cut in: Mordicus Egg, a proud Gryffindor. "Back in my day, hexing a fellow student when their back was turned would warrant this much and more. If his father has any sense of morals, he will approve of such punishment."
"Mordicus," Albus admonished.
With a glare at the portrait, Snape pressed his point.
"That madman transfigured a student into a ferret. What will he do next? How can you allow this, Dumbledore? If students from my House break school rules, it is my responsibility to hand out punishment. What Moody did was an assault, and he must be disciplined. I demand that he publicly apologise to Draco Malfoy."
"I will speak to Alastor." This was as good an assurance as Albus could give; he knew Moody would never do what Severus was asking of him. "Now, you say he humiliated and insulted you. Can you explain?"
The Potions Master spoke reluctantly. "When they came to my office, I tried to reason with Moody, but he wouldn't listen. He views me as a criminal—he even confessed as much. And I am not obliged to tolerate it."
"No," the headmaster agreed, running a weary hand through his hair, "treating a member of staff as a criminal is not acceptable. I can't change Alastor's values, but I will make sure he adheres to the guidelines." He straightened up. "Mordicus, will you kindly ask Professor Moody to join me here in an hour?"
The painted wizard sidled out of his frame.
"Meanwhile, Severus, would you please check on Mr Malfoy? He has gone through a distressing ordeal." Albus considered the young man over the top of his spectacles. "Once he has fully recovered, it would be best to explain to him—in a calm fashion—why he should never attempt such an action again."
As if ready to object, Snape drew a breath, only to decide against it. A single curt nod, and he walked out in a swirl of dark robes. This was the irony about him, Albus reflected: while Severus required unwavering courtesy towards himself and his students, he rarely had a kind word to spare.
Someone else abounded in what he lacked, though. In the staffroom, Albus was perusing the class registers when he felt her enter—her aura was distinctive in its vibrancy.
"Good evening, Aurora."
"Good evening, headmaster," she chirped. "Why so gloomy?"
He looked up from the stack of booklets. Something about Professor Sinistra made the act of lying, even for politeness' sake, feel contemptible.
"Someone I love is in pain, and I cannot help," he said quietly.
Surprised, the witch came closer and claimed the seat next to him.
"I'm sorry to hear it." She took in his posture and expression. "Can something be done? There is an aura of sadness around you. It's not good, headmaster."
"I'm afraid… no help will come in this instance." Albus hoped she would never experience deep suffering; she was so young and good-hearted. "Forgive me. How have you been, my dear?"
"I've been good." Aurora bit her lip. "Not everyone can say the same. I can See certain things… You know, I mentioned leaving the Quidditch World Cup early, but what I didn't say is that I'd had a nap beforehand. My ti bon ange was granted a vision of the tents burning shortly before it happened. That's why I told my uncle we had to go at once."
"I'm very happy you both had a chance to leave in time and stay safe." He contemplated her. "Sybill's vision came into question yesterday. I had a feeling it made you uneasy. Was it related to that evening's events, or was there more to it?"
She smiled. "I'm by no means an expert. At Uagadou, the craft is taught only superficially. I wanted to know more, so I travelled to Haiti. But trying to master the Sight is never quite the same as being born a Seer. If you've ever met a person with this gift in its raw form, you will probably know it's one of the most terrible curses to bear—those wizards hate living with it."
"That's absolutely true." He forced a little levity into his tone. "The person I've referred to is a Seer. It… has brought him nothing good."
"Mmm." Her eyes shut, Aurora started rocking gently back and forth. For a moment, her British side was utterly discarded. "You must know sa ki mal is getting stronger. I have Seen it—Sybill must have done too. So have centaurs; they are worried."
And she did not consider herself an expert, Albus thought affectionately. Without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and produced the ink-spattered calendar page—the sender's cry for help. He trusted the young witch; besides, as an astronomer, she was in the habit of keeping a star chart.
"I received this last night. No message, no trace of magic, not even an envelope." He handed her the note for a better look. "It says 8 August, though this ink stain obscures half the number, almost transforming it into a 3. While the date isn't of primary concern, I can't help but wonder if the stars might offer a clue."
She studied it intently. "In Sakrémaji, when resurrection takes place—when a deity is called back into this world from the Great Beyond—one needs three potent ingredients. It stands for the Great Trinity, both holy and unholy. Most wizards will shy away from such magic, but if number three is sent to you anonymously, it might be a warning. These ink patterns are clear: intentionally or not, they serve as a hint. Magic works in interesting ways, and nothing happens by coincidence. This is a very concerning message, headmaster."
She was speaking of Necromancy. Was this what the omen was meant to alert them to? Had a stroke of providence lent the numbers a voice of their own to express what the sender could not? Albus felt another shiver creep down his spine.
"Thank you, Aurora. I agree this is quite alarming. I have to find out who sent it and why."
The witch flashed him a bright smile. She delved into the pocket of her robe and revealed a candle.
"Don't worry, headmaster. Take this candle. Light it, or give it to your friend, who is sad. As long as Light is on, Darkness will be contained. I learned this from you." She squeezed his hand. "I'll have to go now; my lessons will start shortly."
He brought her delicate fingers to his lips and kissed them gratefully. With one last smile, she hurried away, and he was left to examine the candle, which was indigo in colour and smelled of tropical fruit. He lost no time in carrying it to his office and wrapping it in a sachet, which he tied to Fawkes's leg.
"Would you please bring it to Gellert, my dear? Can you light it for him? If anything can help him, this might be it."
He petted the phoenix's beautiful head, and the bird Disapparated in a shower of sparks.
Aurora's encouragement had acted like balm on his spirits. Settling at his desk, he applied himself to the task of making as complete a list as possible of all the witches and wizards who could have sent him the note. To the numerous Ministry and Wizengamot members he knew in person, he added his acquaintances from various publishing houses and the Prophet itself, but also the names of the scholars who attended the same conferences as he did, and, no less notably, his old friends.
Between the ritual of resurrection Aurora had predicted and Voldemort's new prisoner, who was forced to appear in public to avoid suspicion, the question was not what the signs meant. Rather, it was whether the course of events could be altered. Was it too late to banish the threat? Albus did not feel so; he believed the omens allowed him the time to act. Yet where to start?
Years ago, he had witnessed Voldemort's rise to power and had done nothing. The choice had not been easy, though if confronted with the same dilemma, he would have made it again. Still, his decision to prioritise Gellert's wellbeing over other people's safety had not been without consequences, and he alone was to blame.
Tom Riddle, his modest name notwithstanding, was the champion of the pure-blood elite. His vision of the wizarding society entailed strict hierarchy and tight control: he wished for independence and separation from the Muggle world. In this, his views were not so different from the American political model, except it was absolute power he pursued above all. He was, as it were, the exact opposite of Gellert. How Albus had dreamed of helping his lover abolish their flawed, archaic Statute of Secrecy and establish a just system, based on the equality between wizards and Muggles. Even now, he never passed the opportunity to needle Ministry officials, as well as pure-bloods of Lucius Malfoy's rank, in order to kindle the animosity between them. But in the end, all he had achieved was aggravating the situation.
If Voldemort should recover his body and gather his followers—a plan that seemed to be well in motion—he could become more powerful than ever before, for he had had ample time to learn from his shortcomings and knew better than to underestimate his adversary again. The result would be war. Ironically, Albus's goals might even come true: devastated by the conflict, the magical government and the old Dark Houses could fall at last, giving way to a better, fairer society. The idea was tempting. Only, Albus was now aware of the price such a change would exact. It meant sacrificing Harry for the greater good, along with the Order of the Phoenix, and the majority of wizarding Britain, and the many, many Muggles unfortunate enough to cross paths with the Death Eaters.
In addition, foreign wizards and witches would once more be compelled to flee the country. The reason Aurora Sinistra had attended Uagadou and not Hogwarts—though as a half-Nigerian, half-English witch, she could have done the latter—lay in the danger Voldemort's regime had posed in the time of her childhood. Without the political chaos, she could have become one of the brilliant Ravenclaws of her generation. Time was ticking away. A year from now, it might not at all be impossible to see Hogwarts lose precious talent. Aurora, the Patils, the Changs, the Johnsons—all of them might be gone by then, and who could hold it against them?
A tap on the glass disrupted Albus's joyless musing. With a wave of his hand, the window slid open, and a long-eared owl flew in. He watched it eagerly—could the mystery sender have succeeded in dispatching another note after all? But when the bird dropped a piece of parchment in front of him and departed on the spot, he saw this was not the case. Scribbled in Sirius's handwriting, the message bore three sentences:
I'm on my way to England. By the time you receive this, I'll be in London. Harry's scar hurt this summer.
He stared at the words. If anything could have complicated the matters, it was Sirius's proximity to the Ministry of Magic and its adjacent institutions, all of which would jostle for the privilege of capturing him. What a rash endeavour. Most importantly, Harry's scar had hurt during the past weeks. This was cause for alarm. If Voldemort's failed curse truly bound the boy to him, was it already too late?
There was a knock at the door. Opening the top drawer of his desk, Albus quickly stowed the note out of sight. Alastor Moody had come to join him for a meeting, as requested.
"Good evening, Albus. Still in the habit of working late, I see."
"Ah, I can no longer free myself from this routine: it's work, more work, and then I fall asleep. Good evening, Alastor." The headmaster offered him the spare seat. "How do you feel after your first day of teaching?"
Moody smirked. "Good thing that you ask. I'm rather worried at what I've seen."
This elicited a chuckle. "You know, two weeks ago, Barty Crouch told me almost exactly the same thing."
"Did he now? If it has come this far, we really have a problem on our hands." The Auror grinned. "As far as I can remember, you aren't fond of old Barty, eh?"
"No." Albus flicked his wand, and a teapot materialised out of thin air to pour tea into two mugs. He took the first sip and felt touched when his friend followed his example. For years, Moody had only drunk from his hip flask. "What we share is true, mutual and harmonious hatred. He cannot approve of a notorious sympathiser of Dark wizards, whereas I'm not impressed with his belief in his own sacrosanct judgment. He has ruined so many lives and won't admit it."
Alastor gave a solemn nod.
"Barty Crouch is wrong. But forgive me for saying you are not entirely in the right either, old friend. Have you already received a complaint about the lesson I taught today?"
It was Albus's turn to nod. "I've been told of the incident with Mr Malfoy from before dinner."
"Ah, so you have." Moody's grin returned. "Potter turned his back on young Malfoy, and Malfoy attacked him from behind. I can already tell this is his usual method, Albus. Not surprising, seeing who his father is. Besides, if your dear Severus Snape has been encouraging these tactics—which he has been, trust me on this—it has become learned behaviour. Today, this boy used a simple enough hex. Tomorrow, it will be the Cruciatus Curse. It always starts this way."
"You may be right, Alastor," Albus objected earnestly, "but humiliating the boy won't fix his mindset or convince him what he did was wrong. If anything, it will increase his bitterness."
"No," Moody declared, unflinching. "You approach this as an educator. It's a little late for education, Albus. And that is the problem." He paused. "You see, where Barty Crouch and myself differ from you is that he and I both have to clean other wizards' mess. I'm not defending Crouch, no, but consider this: the Death Eaters were united by the ideas of a very dangerous Dark wizard. He might be gone, but do you think his vision of supremacy vanished with him? No, it didn't. The boy's father is a believer, and I'm positive Severus Snape is too."
His smile was a twisted one, and it lent his face an impression of sorrow. Albus was reminded of their debates of old, which would sometimes resemble his and Gellert's discussions. This ability to reason profoundly, to form swift and clever arguments, had endeared Moody to him from the start. They had been friends ever since.
The Auror was not finished; he had raised his hands in a pacifying gesture.
"I know, I know, you've always claimed you have your reasons for trusting him, and I'm not disputing it. All I'm saying is that the ideas that once drove him to join the said Dark wizard haven't gone anywhere—he has simply hidden them behind his flawless shield of Occlumency. And as for young Malfoy, he is already used to attacking from behind; nothing to do about it. I at least protected Potter—truth be told, he is a little too reckless for his own good—and have given Malfoy a scare that will, hopefully, make him abandon his old ways for now. If you think you can still enlighten him your way, by all means, do try, old friend. For my part, I've made it clear bullying won't be tolerated."
Albus had listened in silence. In all honesty, he agreed; as a headmaster, however, he had his duties. Among other points, those duties forbade him from discussing Severus's issues with a colleague no matter how long-lasting their friendship was.
"I understand. You are right, of course: Voldemort's ideas didn't die with his disappearance. They weren't his invention in the first place, and his sympathisers—the Malfoys included—are merely biding their time. This being said, we are responsible for the students' safety. Granted, at his age, Draco Malfoy is a young man with a fully-formed identity; yet for all intents and purposes, he is a child. If we resort to discipline, we must be careful not to put the kids' bodily integrity or magical core at risk. Furthermore, all the members of staff are entitled to polite treatment. These are the rules we ought to abide by if we expect others to do the same, Alastor. If something of this nature happens again, I may have no choice but to issue a formal warning."
Moody rolled his eyes.
"No need to worry. Young Malfoy will keep this incident in mind, I dare say. I would suggest telling Potter not to turn his back prematurely, though. That's another topic: from what I can see, this boy is a source of interest for many, and not everyone's intentions are benign. He isn't nearly cautious enough."
This observation deflated the somewhat tense atmosphere in the room. Albus could not resist a snicker.
"If you instil a sense of vigilance in him, I'll have a statue erected in your honour. In all seriousness... I've never met a more perfect embodiment of the Gryffindor spirit. Selfless, brave, noble, loyal—he is a wonder of a child, and I'm not exaggerating. True, I worry about him a great deal, but this is who he is. He will always do the right thing, whatever the personal cost."
"Good… as long as he does it of his own will." For an instant, the Auror was lost in thought. "What would you say if I placed him under the Imperius Curse? Does he have it in him to fight it off, do you reckon?"
Before then, it had not occurred to Albus there might be a grain of truth in the rumours of his friend's excessive paranoia. Had he been blissfully naïve?
Alastor burst into laughter.
"If only you could see your face right now! If I didn't know better, I'd think you are questioning my sanity." A few more chortles, and he subdued his mirth. "I'm not joking, Albus. Nor am I being paranoid. First, the Dark Mark was cast into the sky, and then someone tried to attack me. This is hardly a coincidence. The fourth years are supposed to cover the Unforgivable Curses, correct? Let them safely learn everything there is. For all we know, they might have the bad luck of witnessing them outside of these walls."
Not assuaged, Albus toyed with his quill. His voice was even.
"Submitting the students to the Imperius Curse goes very much against the preservation of their bodily integrity and magical core I just mentioned."
"And will the caster of the Dark Mark care? Will those who tortured Muggles at the World Cup care? You cannot protect each and every one of them, Albus. At the very least, they have to be informed."
The older wizard hesitated. All his instincts protested against the proposition, and yet… wasn't thorough education the reason Durmstrang used to outshine all the other European schools of magic? He thought of Gellert, of Sirius's message, of the mystery sender, and of the danger Harry faced without even knowing it.
"So be it," he conceded. "You can teach them. I hope they will never need it, but that, admittedly, is wishful thinking."
The shift in his tone left Moody puzzled.
"Is everything all right, Albus?"
"All good. I might just need to go out tonight. Trouble keeps multiplying."
"Any chance you are about to visit the barman of the Hog's Head?"
He was prudent in alluding to Aberforth Dumbledore. Everyone was conscious of the rift between the two brothers, though all the details had remained shrouded in family secrecy.
Albus shook his head. "London. Are you planning on greeting Aberforth one of these days?"
"Naturally. It's good to keep your friends close." The Auror heaved himself up. "Well, I'll keep you no longer. Don't worry; I will not harm the students. But they have to know."
He was almost at the door when an impulsive request tore out of Albus.
"Alastor, if you have a chance... please keep an eye on Harry. I don't want to limit his freedom, but he is in danger."
Glancing back, Moody smiled. "You like that boy, don't you? I will watch over him, never fear. Good night, Albus."
"Thank you. I promise you will like him too. Good night."
Slightly reassured by this conversation, the headmaster reread Sirius's note. There was nothing for it. The young man's cutting style of writing was a show of anger, of rebellion; unspoken emotion bubbled beneath his reticence. Since the day of Sirius's imprisonment, they had had but one exchange, sufficient only to establish his innocence; now the time had come for a proper talk.
With a wave of his wand, Albus conjured a luminous phoenix that soared out of the window to deliver a most direct message imaginable: Where can we speak?
Don't even think of ignoring it, he inwardly warned his recipient, pacing across the office.
For once, he need not have fretted, for a Grim Patronus brought an answer within minutes: The Cock & Bottle pub.
No more delay. Albus fastened his cloak around his shoulders and Disapparated.
It was summer in London still. The evening breeze was gentle, pervaded with the scent of flowers and cooked fish. Car lights reflected on the leather shoes of Muggles, in the metallic accessories on their clothes. Notting Hill was humming with the energy that emerged at dusk and did not quite dissipate even in the small hours. Having never visited this particular pub, Albus saw it was a brightly lit, renovated Victorian building with a façade the shade of Hogwarts Express. Its wood-panelled premises were busy with customers, who lingered at the bar, around wrought-iron tables and near the television. Sirius's choice made sense in a heart-rending way. After everything he had gone through, he longed to be among other people.
The wizard himself stood at the wooden bar. No one who had ever met a Black could mistake their posture or their aura, which was Dark and dense, with the restrained yet volatile quality appropriate for a feline. His hair was shorter; his clothes were neat. Even with his back turned, he looked healthier and more youthful than he had done two months earlier.
Although unlikely to attract much attention in such a crowded environment, Albus cast a mild Glamour Charm to render his appearance innocuous to Muggles. Sirius alone would recognise him. Not that he was in any haste to acknowledge his old headmaster—not even when the latter settled next to him, uttered a quiet greeting and ordered a glass of cider.
The young man's features could have been carved from granite as he gazed straight ahead, restless fingers pushing his drink around.
"How is Harry?" he asked at last. "Who is keeping an eye on him?"
A hostile start this was, but a constructive one nonetheless. Sirius had his priorities sorted out.
"The portraits, the ghosts, and every member of staff, especially Alastor Moody. We are determined to protect him. He is doing well—he is glad to be back among his friends." Albus frowned. "You wrote to me about his scar. When did it hurt?"
"In August, a few days before he went to stay with the Weasleys."
And Albus had never foreseen this much. Would he ever learn? Voldemort was lying low, but he was back in the country, no doubt about it. Harry's scar would burn again soon, and again, and again.
"So you have decided to return and stay near him."
"Yes. I want to talk to him face to face." Having said this, Sirius finally turned to look at the older wizard. His expression was daring, poised for an argument.
With a word of thanks towards the waiter, who had set a full glass in front of him, Albus replied, "I'm sure Harry will be happy to see you. How do you wish to tackle this?"
"I need access to the Hogwarts grounds."
Such an undertaking had to be well-planned. The castle was perilous even for an Animagus, and the Forbidden Forest was even more so. Hogsmeade, on the other hand, was surrounded by wilderness.
"There is a cave in the mountain that overlooks Hogsmeade," he offered slowly. "It's empty—I'm only aware of it because it was included in last year's official search of the village. If Buckbeak is staying with you, it ought to accommodate him as well."
"Buckbeak is staying with me."
The crisp comment was followed by a large sip of the young man's drink. Since the moment they had engaged in this tête-à-tête, his magical aura had grown fitful, unsettled. The headmaster could not help picturing Ariana and the Dark parasitical force that had once taken possession of her frail body.
"You are furious with me," he stated.
Sirius let out a humourless laugh. "Furious… That's one way of putting it. Oh, please, don't pretend you don't understand why."
"I won't." Albus inhaled, his throat unusually dry. "You loathe me for not having prevented them from sentencing you without a trial. For not having secured as much as a conversation with you."
"If only this were all." The young wizard leaned back, his gestures more emotional now. "My father warned me, you know. How right he was! And I didn't listen. I've had a lot of time to think about it since. You, Albus Dumbledore, are no better than Voldemort. Worse, actually. Your politics of delay are just that: they've been specifically designed to allow him free reign. I didn't want to believe it. I joined your Order, oblivious to the fact it was a mere formality. The Order never mattered, did it now? You organised it to be seen doing something. And if wizards died in your dirty game, what of it? It was all for the Greater Good. But you know what? Harry. Was. Innocent."
The bulbs in the lamps around the bar exploded. So did an entire tray of shot glasses a waitress had been about to carry off. The television showed static.
Amid yells and commotion, Albus applied a non-verbal spell, which restored the lamps and the light; the rest could be fixed by the pub's staff. Muggles always found rational explanations for the events out of the ordinary—not unlike wizards themselves. Through it all, Sirius had never broken their eye contact.
So Orion Black had fathomed out the truth. It stood to reason that the family's keen political intuition had alerted them to Albus's efforts to bring down the country's ruling class. Only, they had not known why he would attempt such an act—not that they would have cared one way or another.
"I don't deny having an agenda," he confessed. "And I won't waste your time justifying myself—my reasons make no difference. However, I am and always have been human. James and Lily's lives mattered to me; your life matters to me too. I believed they would be safe with you as their Secret-Keeper. When I found them dead, I knew you couldn't possibly be to blame; you would rather have died than betrayed them. I spent hours searching for you. I must have sent you over twenty Patronus messages. Why were you silent? Why couldn't you spare half a minute to answer a single one?"
"Do you really want to know?"
It was a rhetorical question. The headmaster waited, ready for another outburst of fury.
"I might not have become what my father wanted me to, but I know how political games are played. Wasn't it a little too convenient for you to have James and Lily killed? Voldemort beat you at every turn, and then, all of a sudden, you were the hero. Those who had accused you of sympathising with Dark wizards had to fall quiet. And then my godson was propelled into a life of fame he didn't want, and you got the opportunity to be the strategist. Oh, and it gets even better, doesn't it? My family was out of the picture—I was the only one left. The Rosiers hardly fared any better: Evan's death brought such shame upon them that his old man is still reluctant to show his face outside of his manor. What were the odds? All your political opponents from the traditional Dark families were falling faster than you could blink: murdered, discredited, forced into hiding, otherwise humiliated. Whichever way I look at it, the night my best friends were killed, you won. So did you expect me to trust you afterwards? I trusted Wormtail. I know exactly where trust will lead you if you don't question people's motives."
By the time Sirius finished, his magic resembled the waters of a stormy sea. Muggles were instinctively avoiding the pair of them; most were still distracted by the malfunctioning television while a cleaning lady was sponging the liquor from the floor. A mirthless smile had set on Albus's lips.
"You were mistaken, Sirius. I won nothing that night. Because of my foolishness, a young couple died, and their baby became an orphan. I had run the Order for ten years before you joined, and not a single death had occurred in that span of time—I protected its members scrupulously. Then the Order was infiltrated, and I lost control. The last thing I wanted was to see young people die. No, I will not claim feeling sorry for the Rosiers—I detest the lot of them, except for Druella. But your family's losses don't please me. I taught everyone from your parents to your cousins, and I care about my students. When Crouch had you arrested, I pleaded with him, begging for a rightful trial or at least a chance to talk to you. He ended up threatening the person I love most and who has no one but me to protect him. It hurt all the more because you reminded me of that person. No, I won nothing."
A variety of emotions raged in the young man's gaze. Faith was not among them. He had never born a more striking resemblance to his ancestors.
"Had you ever bothered to pay me a visit in Azkaban to tell me all this, I wouldn't have believed a word," he asserted coldly. "Last June, I was certain you would cover for Snivellus once he murdered me. What could have been more convenient? You hate pure-bloods, all of them—all of us, I should say. Do you know what my mother said before I ran away from home? She said I could deny my blood all I wanted, others wouldn't let me forget about it. In the end, they didn't, did they? Who could have suspected poor Wormtail…
"You want to know why I ignored your messages. This is why. For once, I clearly saw what my mother and father had tried to tell me: I was but a pawn in the elaborate game you were playing with Voldemort. Your prize? Destroying the old pure-blood Houses and those who consider themselves elitist. For all I knew, you and Wormtail had set up a trap for me—it would have fit right into your repertoire. Let the pawns kill each other while you and your pal Voldemort plotted in the shadows to trump each other with stratagems. Never mind the innocent deaths—such a loss weighed nothing in the grand game. And for once, you won! All that was left to do was wipe out the last witnesses such as myself. Well, I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction. Falling into your trap meant being apprehended a few hours earlier than I did, and I was determined to kill Wormtail while there was a chance, even if it proved to be the last thing I ever did. You had already snatched Harry, giving him to Hagrid so that I couldn't take my godson and flee from you all."
He leaned back; his laughter was unnervingly light. In the stunned silence that ensued, he emptied a shot in a single gulp. With a brusque wave of his hand, he beckoned to the nearest waitress to ask for another.
"I hated you so much, you know," he drawled. "You and Wormtail, granted. In a way, hatred must have prevented me from going insane. The only detail that didn't add up was the fact that you let me go last June." He narrowed his eyes. "Why such generosity? Why not let Snivellus kill me or unleash the Dementors? I've been wondering about it since my escape and couldn't find a satisfying answer. Don't you want us pure-bloods to go extinct? I'm sure you do. Don't you want Voldemort to have fewer supporters? I'm sure you do. Or did your game plan change during the twelve years I spent being entertained by the Dementors? Did I miss something? Do tell, Dumbledore—frankly, you owe me a little honesty. After all, I trusted and defended you once upon a time. Come, a little decency now."
A sensation of unreality had enveloped Albus during this speech. As if in a dream, he heard the waitress place a new glass on the counter; in a similar vein, he took a sip of cider to moisten his parched lips. It was obvious to him that nothing he said would have the slightest effect: Sirius would never stop hating him or alter his views, or perhaps even believe him. His heart was bleeding, though a sense of numbness kept the pain at bay. Soon enough, this pain would bloom and consume him. Yet for now… Unsure why he was doing it, he began explaining.
"Many years ago, in 1945, the love of my life was destroyed by a witch named Vinda Rosier and her pure-blood goons. His work and vision were ruined, his reputation tarnished, and his life shattered. I was deceived into fighting him. Shortly thereafter, he was imprisoned and spent twenty-five years existing in a world of nightmares. No light, no movement, no human contact, no proper nourishment, nothing. Once a month, I would come and talk to his lifeless, withering body. Not one politician I approached would do more than laugh in my face or show me the door. Not until Eugenia Jenkins realised Voldemort was a greater menace than two tormented old men. Yes, I have come to hate the old pure-blood Houses. No less do I hate the Ministry. Most of all, I hate the system that rules our society: the archaic, corrupt and unjust laws that cause so much misfortune. I would like nothing more than to straighten the order of the wizarding community, as my love intended to do from the start. You will notice, Sirius, that I loathe the institutions, not the individuals. I have nothing against you or your cousins or your parents—I wish no harm to any of you. What I want is to see justice and equality in our lives."
He looked into the distance and did not speak for an instant. "You are surprised I permitted Harry to save you. There was no alternative in my mind. I'm fond of you. And that's why I lie to Crouch and Snape and the others, pretending I have no idea of your whereabouts. They know it's a lie, but what can they do? Despise me all you wish—I won't stop protecting you."
The ambiance grew louder: a party of smartly dressed people entered, talking and laughing before being ushered upstairs. A waiter darted past the two wizards, who kept drinking.
"You need me," Sirius deduced, his voice heavy with comprehension. "To control Harry. He is loyal to you. He is the new pawn in your sick and twisted game, isn't he?"
He drew himself up and stared at Albus, his demeanour demanding.
"He was." Lying would have been fruitless, not to mention insulting towards Sirius. "Now… I don't know any more. I'm worried about the future, about the omens I've received. I love Harry, and I don't want him to face Voldemort or encounter more danger."
The young man clenched his jaw. A matter-of-fact quality entered his voice.
"Here are my terms. Once I get Pettigrew and clear my name, you will let Harry come to live with me. I'm his godfather, the only family he has left. I can protect him. You say you care about the individuals who get caught up in your wars. If it's true, you must understand I do not uphold my family's values the way they did. Harry is safe with me—I won't poison his mind, if that's what you are worried about."
"I'm not worried," Albus assured him. "You are the best parent he will ever have. All I'm concerned about is his safety. We have to stop Voldemort—this time, for good. Then he can go and live with you."
At this pronouncement, Sirius's self-control evaporated in a wink.
"Stop when?" he hissed. "Stop how? You don't have a plan. You don't know where Voldemort is. All you offer are vague riddles. Don't you understand?! I'm Harry's only family, and he has grown up without me. For how long must I wait while you play your warped games?"
For once, the headmaster would not budge. "You said it yourself: it's necessary to clear your name and track down Pettigrew. The man is staying with Voldemort—finding one means finding the other."
"During the Christmas holidays, then."
"Very well." There was no excuse for denying a reasonable request. "Unless Harry chooses to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, I have no objection. Do you have somewhere to live?"
"I'm looking into it." Sirius elaborated no further. "There is one more thing. Why does my godson's scar hurt? Tell me."
Albus contemplated his drink, pondering how best to formulate a vastly unexplored and untested magical phenomenon.
"When Lily sacrificed herself to save Harry's life… the magic she performed could be described as a Light form of Necromancy. It caused Voldemort's Killing Curse to rebound, annihilating his mortal body. Harry's scar is a cursed scar: it's tethered to Voldemort's magic and essence. I cannot be sure, but it is my belief Harry feels it burn when Voldemort is near or when he feels powerful emotion. This leads me to assume Voldemort is back in some form of physical body."
For a few seconds, the only reaction he saw was shock on Sirius's face. Then the young man set down his glass and got to his feet.
"I need to go. Keep an eye on Harry. There have been too many coincidences lately."
"Where—how…" Albus gaped at his retreating figure. "How will I reach you?"
"I'll be in touch."
With this, Sirius Black swept out of the pub. Imperceptibly almost, the atmosphere became warmer, more inviting in the absence of his Dark aura. But there was no dispelling Albus's sorrow.