The forest was ancient, thick and vibrant with magic. In the imminence of dawn, it slumbered peacefully in the shadow of a mountain, veiled by a blanket of mist. Nothing disturbed the chilly air, not even the wind. Shivering beneath their cloaks, Albus and Giacomo stepped down the path that led from their Portkey to the scene of crime. No matter which way they pointed their wands, their Lumos would only illuminate the trunks of tall fir trees, the pearly light dazzling to the eye.
They were almost at the clearing: the closer they came, the denser and more charged the air felt. When the long branches parted before them, they had to halt—there was no resisting the instinct of self-preservation. This was a foul place. Not outwardly, perhaps, for the sloped meadow framed by pines was beautiful still, and the snowy mountains looming in the distance could steal one's breath with their majesty. But every particle of air was imbued with Dark magic. It enveloped them like a shroud of dread, and Albus fought a sudden wave of nausea. He clenched his jaw before glancing at Giacomo, who nodded, his pale features unruffled. They were ready to emerge from the tree line and proceed across the crunchy grass.
Two men were expecting them: an Auror and an Obliviator, unless Albus was mistaken in assessing their robes. The Auror was freshly out of training; he was a lanky youth, unaccustomed yet to dealing with such sinister magic, and visibly too intimidated to protest against their presence. From the mutinous glint in his eyes and his clamped lips, one could tell he was wishing for the courage to intervene—which he would have every right to do. They were, all things considered, nothing more than intruders at a top secret location claimed by the Albanian Ministry of Magic. The Obliviator looked older and more sycophantic for it. With an unctuous greeting, which was acknowledged by Giacomo's imperious hand gesture, he invited them to carry on. Albus was aware they were breaking the law and meddling in a foreign country's affairs, yet for once, he could not find it in himself to care; in truth, he was proud of his adoptive son, and more than touched. It was for his sake that Giacomo had bribed the Albanian Obliviator, who had granted them access to the scene of crime when it was least guarded; it was for Albus that the young wizard had foregone a good night's sleep to conduct this clandestine investigation. And they had not a minute to waste.
With a wave of his wand, the headmaster produced floating globes of fire, which flooded the clearing with light. It was a simple spell; only, those makeshift flames were strangely dim, as though smothered by invisible fog. Such was the concentration of Dark magic across the small pasture that the urge to run away never dissipated. A resurrection had transpired here without the slightest doubt; what they had to ascertain was whether Lord Voldemort had been involved. For all its many risks, this type of magic was practiced more often than one would have believed… incorrectly so, and usually with horrifying consequences.
The evidence had already been confiscated by the authorities, but several noteworthy details remained. By ignorance or sloppiness, the perpetrators had done a haphazard job of removing their traces, the most conspicuous of which were the remnants of white paint on the grass. Thinking fast, Albus conjured a pair of Hogwarts brooms and handed one to Giacomo. When they rose above the ground, they saw it clearly: a wide, semi-faded heptagonal shape had been traced across the meadow, bearing a different symbol in each of its angles. In a ritual of Necromancy, a protective formation was of the utmost importance, especially if enhanced by an assortment of drawn signs.
One of them was almost perfectly preserved: curvy lines enclosed between two triple circles—a possible symbol for the water element. Landing to examine it, Albus was vaguely reminded of the ancient art practiced in French Polynesia. Another rough sketch displayed an ellipsis with two dots in the middle and could have served a defensive purpose, standing for a stone or even a shield. Dried drops of wax weighed the grass blades along the lines of the heptagon, attesting to the use of numerous candles at the ritual.
As the old wizard straightened up, the night chill morphing his sigh into vapour, he spotted a brisk movement by the nearest shrub. At once, he and Giacomo raised their wands. There was another rustle, followed by a soft hoot. A second later, a young owl took flight, something dark clutched in its beak. The wizards could only exchange a chuckle while tension drained from their limbs; it made sense that the longer they dwelled here, the more paranoid they became. Still, they were not nearly finished, and any clue they found could prove valuable. With the Auror's disapproving stare on the back of his head, Albus approached the shrub, having noticed it was still moving, as if shaken by tiny creatures. He parted the branches to shine a beam of light between the leaves and received a prompt answer. A swarm of rodents had been feasting on dead spiders, and they were now scurrying away, frightened by his presence. There was nothing particularly disturbing about the sight, and yet… if Albus peered closely at the shrivelled bodies and curled up legs, he could have sworn the spiders had dropped dead in unison. He felt a shiver run down his spine. Instinctively, his gaze travelled upwards.
Something had mutilated the trees: shard-like stubs protruded where branches used to be before they had been broken with brutal force. He set off around the perimeter of the clearing, only to encounter more devastation: heaps of dead insects, wrecked shrubs and trees, entire patches of grass shaven clean. He closed his eyes. Much had been written on Necromancy, and with literature's help, he could form an approximate mental image of the resurrection that had occurred on that night of horrors.
First, a figure had to be drawn on the ground: a circle or any other geometric shape, depending on the ritual and its culture of origin. This formation was essential for protecting the participants from the destructive magic they sought to invoke. To the figure, the Necromancer would add hand-drawn symbols and candles to better channel the magic and appeal to the spirits. After all, a resurrection was nothing if not a violation of nature, a reversal of the established order, and it went far beyond a human wizard's power, requiring interference from the other realms. But the spirits demanded an offering—'a life for a life' was the basis the art of Necromancy rested upon. Between the chants and incantations, a victim would be immolated—the more willing the victim, the more pleasing their sacrifice would be to the deities. Those would manifest themselves at last in a storm-like display of magic, annihilating everything in their path as they converged on the protective formation, in the middle of which, the resurrected wizard would rise in his new body…
Albus spun around. With a sharp intake of breath, he headed for the centre of the heptagon. It was not a mark of gore he expected to find—the spilled blood had long been scrubbed off, and nature would have seen to the rest. Rather, he had to ensure nothing had been left unchecked where the Necromancer's identity was concerned. Not without a shudder, he knelt down and ran his hands over the frozen ground. After a moment, his fingers located a slight indentation, and he struggled to keep them steady.
"Giaco, can you see a shape here?"
The younger man approached, his lit wand outstretched.
"There are contours of a body," he replied, his eyes narrowed in his attempt to determine the imprint's exact size. "A tall one. But…"
He lowered himself to a crouching position, and Albus understood why he was puzzled. If their senses were not deceiving them, there appeared to be… a shape within a shape. Something—someone—miniature had lain where a much larger body had reposed. Granted, certain Necromancers resorted to human-sized dolls to represent a living body; those were meant to vanish in the course of the ritual. But why this child-like figure?
It was too much; Albus had to cover his mouth to prevent himself from gagging. His lack of sleep was not helping. After pulling Harry's name out of the Goblet of Fire, he had spent the night hours questioning the ghosts and the portraits for any hints on the culprit's identity. A futile interrogation if ever he had conducted one: the Death Eater had plainly had the sense to render himself invisible before tackling the goblet. All Albus had achieved was to exhaust himself too much to sleep. As if on cue, Giacomo's message had arrived at half past five in the morning, and both wizards had swiftly Apparated in front of the Italian Ministry of Magic. After passing through a trustworthy contact and a special portal, they had been transferred to Albania. A few instants were all they could hope for.
"Are you all right, Albus?"
Giacomo's hand touched the older man's arm. Nodding, the Englishman pressed the comforting fingers and got to his feet. This was when he glimpsed a white speck in the grass a little further away. It was a torn paper napkin with the words Valbona Han printed in the corner, as was the custom for restaurants and inns.
"They must have dropped this." He showed it to the Italian wizard. "I wonder if it comes from an eating place around here."
If the Auror had tolerated their intrusion before now, his patience ran out at the sight of Albus slipping the napkin in his pocket. He pointed an indignant finger at them, even if his voice betrayed fear.
"Hey! Zis clue belongs to Albanian Ministry. You can't take it!"
Giacomo turned around, his handsome features haughty. All of a sudden, his aura blazed, and Dark magic poured out of his limbs, perceivable in spite of the poisonous air around them.
"We will take whatever we want."
It was enough to cow the Auror; to his credit, though, the boy did not give up. He switched to Albanian instead, rounding up on the Obliviator to express his displeasure. No sooner was his back turned than Giacomo flicked his wand, binding the youth from head to foot with invisible ropes. Albus knew what came next, knew that once the Auror's memory was modified, they would have to leave without delay. He therefore hastily approached the Obliviator, the torn napkin in hand.
"Have you heard of this place?"
The man held it closer to his eyes. "Valbona… yes, it's an inn, not far. Three kilometres to the east."
"Thank you."
With a nod in his direction, a servile smile towards Giacomo, and an emphatic It's good to do business with you to them both, the Albanian watched them go. They did not need to hear the incantation to comprehend the Auror had been Obliviated. When they Apparated at the indicated location, it was with great relief that they breathed in the fresh air of the valley, which overlooked a Muggle village on the slope of a mountain. On their right, a large if modest building bore the words Valbona Han above its entrance door. Smoke was drifting out of the tall chimney.
"This is for another day," Giacomo mused. "We stick out too much. It's better not to be seen."
Should they be discovered investigating a Muggle establishment tied to a necromantic site, the young man's reputation would suffer greatly, and Albus would gain additional trouble he hardly needed. The older wizard nodded.
"I wonder what happened to the poor soul they sacrificed. Do you reckon they buried the body in the forest?"
Giacomo shook his head, motioning for Albus to retreat from the path into the tree line, where they could Apparate.
"I don't think the victim is here, or I would have been informed. Jetmir—the Obliviator—would have sold me such a vital piece of information without any prompting. He is one of those who would sell their own mother if need be—which, naturally, serves our purpose just right. As to what happened to the body, now there's a question. Personally, I'd tend to think it wasn't in one piece any more when they disposed of it. Whoever performed the ritual was sloppy and tried to get rid of the evidence in haste. In fact, I'm a little surprised at this British Dark wizard, who calls himself a lord—I would have expected something more… thorough."
He took in the Englishman's face, which was tinged with green in the light of the rising sun, and caught himself.
"I'm sorry, Albus," he said, concerned. "Necromancy is rather awful. Very few wizards would opt for it, and those who do are not right in the head."
"That's what Gellert said many years ago. And I agree, this carelessness is somewhat out of character for Voldemort—though the fault might lie with his follower." Albus gently squeezed the other wizard's shoulder, never slowing their pace. "Thank you for arranging this, Giaco. You have helped me immensely, and I appreciate the time, money and effort it cost you. Thank you. Hopefully, the information we have gleaned here will allow for a thorough plan. Everything will only get more precarious from now on. Last night, Harry Potter's name came out of the Goblet of Fire, making him a second Hogwarts champion."
Giacomo stopped dead in his tracks.
"Cavolo!" he muttered under his breath. "Such a blow to your name. Are you sure they're not after you, Albus? You realise, of course, that the tournament is an international event. This is an attack on both the British Ministry of Magic and on you personally. A perfect pretext to—well, remove you from your office, should they so desire. I'm sorry."
"If only this had been the case." They had started walking again, and Albus entertained a brief fantasy in which he alone had been targeted by the previous evening's events. "I'll soothe the matters as well as I can, but I'm just afraid for the boy. He is only fourteen, and they have thrust him into a near-lethal competition."
Giacomo sighed, impatient for the first time.
"Do you know what your biggest weakness is, Albus?" There was angry sternness to his tone, as if he had instinctively assumed the role of a parent. "You care too much about others and too little about yourself. If you fall, the boy will have no protection left. Don't be fooled: even if his name was placed in the goblet on that incompetent lord's orders, your ill-wishers from the Ministry won't miss their opportunity. You need to address Wizengamot. Ask Gia to help you compose a speech if you are pressed for time, but don't give them a pretext for removing you from your position as the headmaster of Hogwarts. If you are not careful, that's exactly what will happen next, and then, the boy will truly have no one to look out for him."
A little bashfully, the English wizard turned aside to hide his smile. He found it endearing when younger people educated or protected him. Besides, this conversation confirmed just how unfit he had always been for the political arena.
"You are right, Giaco. I will ask for Gia's help. I hardly know where to start untangling this, and Voldemort counts on as much. But I will address Wizengamot."
Appeased, his son offered him more words of encouragement and a promise to pass Albus's love to his wife and children. It was time for them to part ways: the new day had descended, and a busy one it was bound to be. They exchanged one last embrace.
Turning on the spot, Albus visualised in his mind the village that lay closest to Nurmengard. It was also situated on the slope of a mountain and was surrounded by wild and fragrant woods. A bakery lay at its centre. For reasons that had nothing to do with personal affections, or so he was convinced, he considered the scent inside a traditional Bäckerei to be among his favourite smells. He greeted the smiling lady at the counter and ordered two coffees before settling for a bag of fresh pastries: savoury ones for Gellert, sweet ones for himself. Thus armed, he Disapparated straight to the prison tower.
The guards' gazes lingered wistfully on the baked goods, but they raised no objection when he carried them upstairs. Gellert was awake; he appeared to have got up a while ago. One look at him filled Albus with comfort.
"Morgen, Schatz," he called, resorting to his favourite pet name.
"Good morning indeed." The German wizard cast a curious glance at the pastries. "I knew you'd come today—had a dream about it. Yet something tells me you have quite some news to share with me, the early hour notwithstanding."
"I wonder where to begin." Setting their breakfast down, Albus could not hold back a rather vulnerable gesture. He enfolded his lover in his arms, pressing his nose against the latter's neck. "I'll start by telling you the good news. We should be able to get more candles very soon—Justice is looking into it. I'm so happy they help."
"I am very pleased to hear it." Gellert smiled. "Thank you."
Then he noticed the manner in which the Englishman's hands were trembling on his shoulders.
"No matter how bad it is, you can tell me, Albus. I'd like to hear it from you first."
The last word did not escape the other wizard's attention. If Gellert had found a way of listening in on the guards' chatter, one had to conclude Aurora's candle possessed unparalleled properties, permitting the use of wandless magic inside the cell. The thought was beyond uplifting. Albus drew a breath.
"I believe I know who sent me the blank note. But it will be best if I start from the beginning. The foreign delegations arrived the day before yesterday. The Beauxbatons party is fairly pleasant, even if a little lofty—at least towards us, the British savages. As for the headmaster of Durmstrang, he is essentially the Ukrainian version of Ignat… though he loves his school even less than Ignat must have done back in the day." He sighed. "Last night, the school champions' names were drawn. Everything went well until a fourth name emerged from the Goblet of Fire—Harry Potter's name with Uagadou scribbled beneath it. This means Tom Riddle has been able to infiltrate Hogwarts and plant a Death Eater in plain view, most likely among my staff. Moments later, Barty Crouch as good as confessed he needed my help. And then, before the night was over, Giacomo contacted me. He had found out about the site of a recent necromantic ritual in Albania and arranged a viewing, which I've just returned from. It wasn't legal by any means, but I believe… there is little doubt this is Tom's work."
Gellert had listened in silence, his brows furrowed. "Do you think you can show me what you saw in Albania?"
Albus swallowed but nodded, placing the tips of his fingers on Gellert's cheeks as they locked eyes. Legilimency, he had learned in the times of his youth, was performed most smoothly when accompanied by physical touch. He felt the German wizard's presence pervade his mind and brought his memories to the surface, displaying the sights of devastation, the sense of Dark magic in the air, as well as the indentations in the ground.
A long instant later, Gellert withdrew, absorbed in thought.
"I'm sorry I made you relive it, but it's better to do so early on."
Suddenly, his expression morphed from one of intense focus to one of sheer amusement. At Albus's confusion, he positively burst into laughter. It took the Englishman a few seconds to catch on; they knew each other intimately after all.
"You agree with our son, do you not?" he divined. "About Lord Voldemort's incompetence."
At this, Gellert succeeded in subduing his mirth.
"He looks strong. Giacomo D'Angelli. You have done a good job of raising him—or nurturing him into what he is now."
"Thank you." Affectionately, Albus linked their fingers together. "Just wait until I show you his daughter, Gioella. She has now formally entered politics, and her program is dedicated to advancing the Italian Squibs' rights; that is the first step. Their family is determined to help your vision come true, and I couldn't be prouder."
"Poor girl," Gellert smirked. "I hope her father has at least advised her to stay careful. Ideas of this sort sound good on paper while in reality… well, suffice to say, I've learned the hard way that the second you oppose the prevailing opinion, you will be branded Undesirable Number One."
"They are careful, taking it one step at a time. I'll be going to one of her speeches in Rome and will show you everything afterwards." The banter had helped the Englishman calm himself. "But tell me, what amused you so?"
For once, the German wizard's features reflected a feeling of shame.
"I'm sorry, Albus; it's the sense of humour we, Dark wizards, share, I suppose. Remember Dieter's strong dislike of Necromancy as a practice? Did he ever get a chance to elaborate why he detested it?"
"Because it always goes wrong: no one comes back to the world of living in exactly the same shape as before their death. And this case is likely no exception."
"Well, to put it more simply, Dieter hated it for being both unreliable and unethical. Knowing Dieter, it was mostly for its unethical side. But as practices go, it's among the most unreliable ones too. This might be a part of our German mentality—even though we have quite a few disagreements across the regions, there are traits that will always unite us, and here is one of them: we want everything to work well. And the only way to ensure something works properly is to take personal responsibility for it. In Necromancy, however, it's impossible because no witch or wizard is powerful enough to achieve such a feat on their own. So you have no choice but to rely on the higher forces: deities, spirits, whichever you want to call them."
Gellert paused before carrying on.
"You asked what amused me so. Let me explain: if a Dark wizard decides to go through with a necromantic ritual, he has to be well aware of the higher forces he will be dealing with. You already know what the most important, the most fundamental rule of Necromancy is: a life for a life, so that the balance would be maintained. Except there's more to it. The deities you summon and appeal to need to be… pleased with your sacrifice, for the lack of a better term. If your offering doesn't satisfy them, the whole thing will usually go terribly wrong—if you are not careful, you can easily wind up dead yourself. Now should you be successful—rarely the case, but it happens—the ritual will unleash destructive energies that will wipe out everything alive around you. Muggle history is riddled with unexplained catastrophes: entire patches of woods erased from existence, flocks of birds dropping dead from the sky, huge marine mammals washing out dead on the shore; I could go on. There are even places Muggles believe to be cursed or haunted to this day because very Dark magic transpired there. Here, on the other hand… Well, all our former star pupil seems to have achieved are a few dead spiders and some broken trees. I hope you see now why it amused me."
By the end of Gellert's clarification, Albus could not help chuckling. Granted, there was nothing comical about Necromancy or Lord Voldemort's ambition, but framing the matter in this fashion called for humour.
"They say Wormtail, his follower, is with him," he reflected. "I believe he might be the one to blame for the sloppiness we just witnessed. And imagine him reading complicated Tahitian incantations with a heavy English accent."
Gellert nodded, more amused than ever.
"I believe it is safe to assume the ritual didn't go entirely as Lord Voldemort had planned."
For a moment, they snickered, picturing a rather pitiful display of magic by a pitiful Death Eater. Then without a warning, an idea shot through Albus's mind, and his smile vanished, his eyes open wide.
"Gellert… If the ritual failed and Voldemort didn't recover the body he coveted… Is this why Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire? Did Tom learn his lesson, so to say? Could he believe that sacrificing Harry, his greatest enemy, would please the deities and guarantee a full body and a return to power?"
The other wizard froze, his posture alert.
"Albus, you've said it!" he exclaimed. "How did I not see it before? Harry Potter is going to be kidnapped—it has to be his plan. Think about it: he likes games, doesn't he? Everything you've told me about him suggests he does nothing in vain. Putting Harry Potter's name in the Goblet of Fire makes it look as if someone were attempting to kill the boy and disguise it as an accident; but don't you see, it's a mere smokescreen to keep you busy! The international scandal, all the Ministry officials you will have to answer to, fussing over school protection, anticipating which new accident you could possibly prevent during the competition—all of it has been designed to keep you out of the way. They will wait for you to rush off and leave the boy alone so that they can snatch him. Go now, Albus. Find a way to put the Tracking Charm on him. Use any object he carries on him at all times, anything. The kidnapper is already at Hogwarts, studying his habits… and yours."
Albus felt the tremor return to his hands. The realisation that Harry alone stood between Voldemort and his new body had made his blood run cold.
"I will," he promised in a shaky voice. "But Gellert, if I'm not mistaken, Barty Crouch sent me the blank note—several clues testify to it. His owl—a big, aggressive fellow—disappeared some weeks ago. He is not entirely himself: he's been ill, overworked, and… oddly polite towards me. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have eaten me alive the minute Harry's name came out of the goblet. Instead, he watched absent-mindedly as everyone indulged in a shouting match. What if… shouldn't we check his place? If there is the slightest chance Voldemort has taken over his home…"
"Too many assumptions, Albus," Gellert objected soberly. "Barty Crouch might know something, yes, but he is not the one at Hogwarts, carefully planning a kidnapping operation as we speak. Make sure no one can lead Harry Potter out of the castle without your knowledge, and do it right now. He is an official champion, which means the place will soon be swarming with the Ministry employees, journalists, even other students' irate parents, for all I know. You won't be able to keep track of all the outsiders on the premises, not even with the amount of portraits, ghosts, and house-elves you have at your disposal. In the meantime, Harry Potter is but a teenager, who will trust a stranger easily enough."
Albus nodded; he knew his lover was right.
"All right." Leaning in for a brief hug, he kissed Gellert's forehead. "I will be back. Drink my coffee for me, love. I think I know what to do."
He entered his office not a second too soon. The portraits, particularly Everard's likeness, were agitated.
"The Minister for Magic has been asking to speak to you for the last half an hour."
This had to be a first—according to Albus's pocket watch, it was but twenty past eight.
"I cannot receive him just yet," he said apologetically. "Ten more minutes."
Everard had barely walked out of his frame before marching straight back in.
"I'm afraid Mr Fudge insists on an immediate consultation with you."
With a sigh, Albus eased himself into his throne-like chair. "Tell him I have Rita Skeeter in my office, and I'm doing my best to send her away."
This admittedly unimaginative ruse did the trick.
"He will wait," Everard announced half a minute later.
"Good." Albus cleared his throat. "Lompy!"
The head house-elf materialised with a pop, bowing with his distinctive professional smile the headmaster yet had to encounter in another member of his kind.
"Lompy, I have an unusual question to ask you. Among the house-elves who clean the Gryffindor Tower, is there one you trust above all others? One you would trust with your own life?"
His inquiry was met with inscrutable silence. After a brief deliberation, however, the elf nodded.
"There is Villy, sir. Lompy can promise Villy won't let master down."
"Excellent. I would like to speak to Villy at once. Thank you, Lompy."
This female elf possessed pensive yellow eyes that seemed to hold a painful memory, perhaps even melancholy emotion. Albus felt instant sympathy for her.
"Hello, Villy. There is a task I can confide to no one but you, and its details should stay between us. Do I have your word you will keep our secret?"
"Villy will tell no one," the elf vowed without hesitation.
He bit his lip, choosing his words cautiously. "One of the Gryffindor students, Harry Potter, is in danger, Villy. Here is what I need you to do. I will ask you to stay near him without his knowledge for the entire day. Follow him wherever he goes, observe who he talks to, check whether anyone appears to be uncommonly interested in him, and try to notice if there is an item he always carries on him—other than his wand, that is. If someone attempts to hurt him, step in at once to protect him. If someone tries to lead him out of the school grounds, stop them by all means available and come to inform me. If the day flows smoothly, you can report to me after he goes to sleep. I'm confident your findings will allow me to form a solid plan for his continuous protection."
Villy asked no questions, nor did she manifest astonishment. She merely bowed, spared him one of her piercing glances, and Disapparated to comply. Albus sat back, his heart hammering. Now that Gellert's strategy was in motion, he felt oddly nervous. Fortunately, there was work to do, and a lot of it, which would compose him soon enough.