Over the years, Albus had conducted a variety of job interviews, and what he had once perceived as a pleasure had soon acquired a disagreeable flavour. Nearly every vacancy at Hogwarts was related to Defence Against the Dark Arts, for which he usually had little choice but to hire the only candidate willing to apply. On this day, however, the sense of novelty had returned. He had a house-elf to interview.
It was manifest the applicant enjoyed his freedom: there was flamboyance to his immaculate shorts, his mismatched socks, his colourful tie, and his tea cosy, which he wore in the guise of a hat. He was accompanied by a female elf, whose very disposition could not have been more different. True, her blue set of clothes was neat and tailored, but it looked neglected nevertheless, and her brown eyes held the numb expression of a being that had spent months in the throes of melancholy. One could tell that, unlike her enthusiastic companion, she was fighting the urge to flee, to hide her shame.
This desolate elf was a stranger to Albus, though he remembered the one who called himself Dobby. A year and a half had passed since the little creature had entered the headmaster's office on Lucius Malfoy's heels. Without a doubt, freedom had come as a blessing to Dobby.
"Oh, but I know you," Albus said amiably. "You are Harry Potter's friend."
Dobby beamed, ears standing to attention. "Yes, sir! Dobby knows Harry Potter well—Harry Potter freed Dobby. He is a great and noble wizard, sir."
"That is very true. Welcome to Hogwarts, Dobby." The headmaster glanced at the house-elf clad in blue. "I don't believe we have met, but I'm honoured you have come. My name is Albus Dumbledore."
His words elicited a mistrustful reaction; she still would not speak to him.
"This is Winky, sir," Dobby said with a wave towards her. "She was given clothes last summer, and Dobby offered that we look for work together."
Winky's chin trembled. A few feet away, Lompy, the head of the Hogwarts house-elves, contemplated the newcomers, his small hands clasped behind his back. Albus had deemed it just to invite him to the hiring of their new charges.
"Dobby thinks Hogwarts is a very good place for two house-elves to find work," Dobby went on before a line of worry crossed his face. "But Dobby isn't sure if they can ask. You see, sir, Dobby hears that you need seaweed to come to work at Hogwarts."
"Seaweed?" After an instant, it dawned on the wizard that Dobby had to be referring to CV. "Oh, no, no, that's not necessary. Could you please tell me a little about yourself, Dobby? That's all I will need."
Reassured, his candidate resumed eagerly, "Dobby was bound to the Malfoys, sir. Dobby worked for his masters for many years. It was… difficult, sir. Dobby would give anything to be free, and then he hears his masters speak about a terrible Dark plot at Hogwarts, and he goes to warn Harry Potter about the danger. Dobby is sure this day changed everything." He paused; wonder tinged his voice. "Harry Potter is kind and modest, and he offers Dobby a seat like an equal. It breaks Dobby's heart to put Harry Potter in trouble, sir, but Dobby does it anyway to save Harry Potter's life. It gets more and more difficult to serve his masters, sir, but there is no chance they would ever free Dobby. Only, Harry Potter finds a way! And Dobby becomes a free elf." He drew himself to his full height. "Dobby likes clothes, sir, and he likes freedom, but he still likes work very much and can do everything he's told. Dobby just doesn't want to serve wizards—he wants to work well, and be paid like a wizard."
At this, Lompy averted his head, much like a delicate butler confronted with an indiscretion. Winky did not conceal her disapproval: she could not help but whimper.
"Very well," Albus declared with a smile that masked his astonishment. This was the first time he had encountered a house-elf who not only welcomed freedom but also asked for equal rights to wizards. It was bold and refreshing. "Thank you for sharing your story with us, Dobby. I will give out orders, and you will be regularly paid for your work. Let me see…"
He retrieved a worn folder from the top drawer of his desk; it contained that year's official pay grades.
"We could create a new position for you—one that is roughly equivalent to the Hogwarts caretaker's job. Wages depend on various factors, but I will do my best to accommodate any expectations you may have. Have you thought how much you would like to be paid?"
Dobby opened his mouth and then closed it again, uncertain perhaps, or surprised at being taken seriously. By his side, Winky was wringing her hands with indignity; as for Lompy, his wide-eyed expression suggested he was listening to profanities.
"Uh… Dobby doesn't want much, sir," came a nervous answer. "Dobby just… uh…"
It stood to reason he knew very little of the value of money, if anything at all. Albus hurried to his rescue.
"It's all right; let's go through it together. There is such a thing as the minimum wage—it's prescribed by the law and amounts to about three Galleons a month. You, Dobby, deserve more than that: as a house-elf with years of experience, I believe you could be earning from ten to fifteen Galleons per quarter. Keep in mind that everyone who receives wages has to pay taxes, which is a sizable amount deducted from your earnings by the Ministry of Magic. Naturally, you will have time off on weekends, and the annual holiday is—"
A fearful shiver interrupted his explanation.
"Dobby can't take weekends off, sir; that is too much. Dobby isn't lazy, Dobby likes to work and will show it! One day off a month and one Galleon, please, sir—it will pay for Dobby's clothes and everything else he needs."
Albus bit his lip. On one hand, he did not wish to cause offence—for all his eccentricity, Dobby reasoned like a house-elf, and his logic would never match a human's. On the other hand, justifying such a draconian employment contract would present a legal challenge. He doubted whether there was a precedent for it.
"One Galleon a week it is," he compromised. "Like I said, taxes will be deducted from your every wage; this applies to the entire staff. If you insist on having but one day off a month, I will agree to it as long as our golden rule is maintained: no house-elf at Hogwarts works more than eight hours a day. There are enough of you to take shifts and complete a day's work." He smiled. "Lompy arranges the shifts. He will settle you in and specify your tasks, depending on where your help is needed most. Do not hesitate to consult him on anything you wish. He is an excellent leader, well-loved by all the house-elves."
Lompy perked up, beaming at the praise.
"I will have a contract made for you," the headmaster added. "It will become valid as soon as we sign it together."
A shadow of discomfort fleeted across Dobby's features. Like most house-elves, he had not been taught to read or write.
"Worry not, I will guide you every step of the way and will read the document to you. To ensure complete transparency, I can also call in witnesses or take a Truth Potion beforehand." Albus leaned in, apologetic. "I wish we could skip these formalities, but sadly, we cannot. This procedure serves to protect your rights and to lay down our duties towards each other."
"If Lompy may," the senior elf intervened for the first time, "all the new house-elves has to swear loyalty to Hogwarts and bind themself to the new master."
This piece of news appeared to alarm Dobby even more deeply than the promise of riches and paperwork had done.
"That is correct," the wizard pointed out. "However, since you, Dobby, are a free elf, we won't be performing the tethering ritual. That's why I have opted for a regular contract. You can keep wearing clothes of your choice."
The little creature let out an audible sigh of relief. "Professor Dumbledore is most kind, sir! Dobby is happy to be at Hogwarts! Dobby will do everything he is asked, and keep his master's secrets."
"Thank you, Dobby; Hogwarts is fortunate to have you." Albus chuckled. "You don't have to call me master either—Professor Dumbledore will do. Why, you will find out soon enough that most employees refer to me as a barmy old codger when they think I can't hear them."
Lompy looked at the ceiling, politely indignant. It was high time to grant some attention to Winky as well, for the exchange had only served to upset her.
"I would like to help you feel content and fulfilled at Hogwarts, Winky. Is there anything special I can do for you?"
She threw him a mutinous glare, and, as if unable to restrain herself any longer, burst into loud sobs.
"Winky is still sad about being sacked, sir," Dobby confided over her wailing. "She was close to her family. But she is a very good worker too, sir, Dobby can promise."
This assurance prompted Lompy to raise his tiny eyebrows in disbelief. The house-elf society was not devoid of its own prejudice, and those who found themselves presented with clothes often bore the stigma of incompetence or disloyalty. Sure enough, Winky's cries increased in volume.
"Bad Winky!" she chided herself again and again. "Poor Mr Crouch, what is he doing without his Winky?"
Albus sat up straighter. So Winky used to serve the Crouch family. He would have liked nothing more than to ask her several questions, except pressuring her would have been both fruitless and dishonourable when she was in such a state. If she had never renounced her bond with Barty Crouch, she would certainly refuse to disclose any information on him. For the same reason, she was far from ready to work for another wizard.
"I'm very sorry to hear about your plight," he said gently. "Please rest assured you will always have a place to stay at Hogwarts. You don't have to work; take all the time you need."
Dobby alone acknowledged the gesture.
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, sir! You is not going to regret taking us on."
Another courtesy or two, and they were led out by Lompy, whose opinion on his new charges—whom he saw as a couple of beggars leeching off a soft-hearted master—was patent.
As far as Albus was concerned, the house-elves' arrival was an auspicious sign. Among other points, it revealed Barty Crouch had lost both his house-elf and his faithful owl in a truly short span of time. It was not a coincidence.
He peered into his planner, realised no meetings had been scheduled for the following hour, and made up his mind. If he resorted to Floo powder and transported himself straight to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Crouch would have no means of evading him. He intended to try to persuade the man to take Winky back; if this failed, he would at least attempt to uncover the secret plaguing that household.
Once again, he had hoped in vain. It was Percy Weasley he caught at Crouch's desk; the older wizard was nowhere in sight.
"Oh, professor, Master—I mean, Mr Crouch is currently unavailable. A terrible fiasco with that Chinese dragon—Mr Crouch has to sort it out. He left me in charge."
There was unmistakable pride in the young man's voice. What was more, it had gained a challenging undertone, which had been absent only two months earlier. Albus frowned, ignoring Percy's attitude for the time being. Considering how endangered the Fireball was known to be, the Chinese Ministry of Magic alone had a say in this species' reproduction and export. Lending one of their finest nesting mothers for the Tournament had been an act of goodwill. Albus could vividly imagine their reaction at discovering their beautiful animal in a maimed condition, half her eggs destroyed.
"Is he in Romania? Then I will have to come back another day. My apologies for disturbing you, Mr Weasley."
"Professor—sir—wait," Percy called commandingly. "Mr Crouch has something for you: a contract you need to sign."
He cleared his throat, his airs important and positively sanctimonious.
"That incident has been a blow not only to our Ministry, but to the international magical cooperation as a whole; I hope you understand that. Something like this must not happen again. Mr Crouch cannot treat the Hogwarts staff as children; it is not his job. Mr Crouch is stressed out as it is, and it's not fair that he's had to travel to Romania to personally apologise to the Chinese delegation when it's the fault of certain wizards at Hogwarts for letting the situation get this far. You should thank Mr Crouch profoundly as soon as he returns, and apologise too because he's the one solving this mess. You are all adult witches and wizards at Hogwarts, and your incompetence cannot be excused. How you let it get out of control is beyond me! It's just outrageous. As such, we—ah, Mr Crouch—Ministry—we think you ought to ensure no similar disasters happen again, and you should be held responsible. Mr Crouch has taken the time to prepare a contract. Read it carefully and sign."
Albus gazed at him. The last time a boy Percy's age had dared to address him in this fashion, England had still been called Edwardian. How exactly Barty Crouch chose to guide his young assistant, he neither knew nor cared. Only, anyone could tell this young assistant had tasted power, drunk deeply of it, become addicted, and forgotten all manners and respect.
He did not spare the contract a glance.
"I won't be signing this, Mr Weasley," he announced. "As much as I disapprove of the Conjunctivitis Curse, Mr Krum was within his right to cast it. Nothing in the rules forbids the champions from attacking the magical creatures they face. If the Ministry wishes to abide by ethical principles, the guidelines should be changed: make it clear any champion who harms an animal will be disqualified or penalised with a significant deduction of points. It's the only way to solve this problem, I'm afraid. Hogwarts will not be held accountable for any inconvenience caused by poor organisation."
"But Mas—Mr Crouch said it was your responsibility because… ah…"
Apparently, the young man was uncertain how to argue his point. His rant died down at once.
"I'll be happy to discuss it with Master Crouch upon his arrival—I'll be in my office at his earliest convenience." Albus hitched on an icy smile. "Do you mind if I use your fireplace to get back to school?"
"Eh, um… all right, yes, yes. But I've already cleaned the desk, so be careful, um, sir?"
This was closer to old Percy, one he had always known. Suppressing a disappointed headshake, Albus tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire and stepped amid the emerald flames.
"Good day to you, Mr Weasley."
Two weeks elapsed. Christmas was approaching, and Albus dedicated an entire afternoon to composing a list of gifts for his family, friends, and colleagues while an enchanted quill signed its way through five hundred cards addressed to his various acquaintances. He had no idea how Muggles managed these tasks without magic or helpers when they had so many daily chores to perform. He, at least, was fortunate enough to have house-elves at his disposal; as long as he presented them with detailed instructions, they carried out his shopping impeccably.
It was nearly four o'clock when he finished, and he walked downstairs, marvelling at the new decorations. One could never have decided what was more striking: the frosted bannisters covered in mistletoe and complemented with flickering lights, the colourful toys peeking from the artfully arranged mounds of enchanted snow, the long crystal icicles rimming the staircases, or the twelve superb trees in the Great Hall. They had been ornamented in the same colour palette, yet each of them was unique, and they all glowed with magic. Filius Flitwick lingered near the last tree, an open box at his feet.
"You've outdone yourself," Albus said, coming closer. "I've never seen the castle so magnificent. I could spend hours admiring this Hall alone."
"Oh, thank you." Filius smiled, untangling two glittering strings. "Took me a while, but I'm almost done. The tags arrived today."
He nodded at the box, which contained small cards. Every year, one of the Christmas trees was devoted to a charity. The previous year, they had partnered with St Oswald's Home for Old Witches and Wizards; the year before that, with an orphanage. This time, they were reaching out to St Mungo's Hospital. Anyone at Hogwarts could pick a tag belonging to a person in need and purchase a gift.
To help Filius, Albus retrieved a bunch of cards and levitated them onto the branches. Names and numbers flitted before his eyes.
Walter, 48
Wish list: Book on the cultures of wizarding Asia
Artemisia, 63
Wish list: Body cosmetics, sweets
Paul, 22
Wish list: Hat, gloves, scarf
Rose, 97
Wish list: Invigoration Draught
He felt his eyes prickle. It was impossible not to recall Ariana: there had once been a solid possibility she would become one of St Mungo's permanent residents. His memories notwithstanding, something heartbreaking suffused every one of those wishes.
Filius shared his sentiment; their eyes met, grave and quiet. Then a question tore out of the younger wizard.
"Do you think next year will be… any better?"
Albus slid Walter's card into his pocket. Getting an interesting book for a wizard was the least he could do.
"I hope so. But I fear our trouble isn't over."
A shuffling sound prompted them to turn around. Sybill Trelawney had emerged, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl, a mug of tea in her hands. It was rare for her to come down to socialise with the others.
"How are you doing today, Sybill?" Albus asked.
She shrugged, advancing to inspect the tags.
"All right, I suppose, headmaster. I was crystal-gazing, and my Orb showed me the Great Hall, only it was full of dancing couples. I wanted to take a look at the decorations."
"So did I. If I could paint, I wouldn't resist right now," he agreed.
Filius accepted the compliment with a tactful nod and a blush. "Any plans for Christmas, Sybill?"
"The usual." She shrugged again. "I'll stay at Hogwarts, knitting and listening to old songs. Still more interesting than my empty cottage—at least something is happening here. My cousins aren't too keen on having me around, and I'm not the sort of person who will force their company on those who don't value it."
The wizards exchanged a furtive glance; both anticipated an outpour of emotion.
"Well, you are welcome to spend the festivities with us," the headmaster assured her. "The ball should be good fun, and opportunities for divination are endless this time of the year."
"I mean," she went on, oblivious to his words, "it used to be my favourite holiday, but ever since Mr Higglebottom walked out on me, the whole season feels tainted, you know? Who leaves their spouse on Boxing Day? All because I wouldn't adopt his surname, which is ridiculous. The Trelawney name carries weight: everyone knows we are an illustrious family of Seers. And whether we like it or not, names are important: you can owe your social standing to them, and your job, and your reputation. Why would someone who claims to love you expect you to give up a family heirloom? A name is as good as an heirloom. So that's what my Christmas is about, year after year: solitude, and the knowledge that no one has ever truly loved me—not even the man who swore to hold me till death do us part."
The Hall rang with silence at the end of her speech. Had it not been for Charity Burbage's arrival, the heavy ambience would have been difficult to lift. The young witch swept towards them, her eyes glinting with excitement.
"Headmaster, I've been looking for you. May I talk to you for a minute?"
With an apology towards Filius and Sybill, Albus joined her on a student bench.
"It's about the Yule Ball," Charity admitted, her fingers worrying the fabric of her skirt. "You mentioned we might be allowed to bring a guest from outside of Hogwarts."
"We are; it's just necessary to fill out a form for the Ministry—they insist on being informed if strangers attend the event. A few forms are still available. Are you planning on inviting your significant other?"
"I'd like to, and Andrew would absolutely love to come. But you see, he's a Muggle, and I know it's… a little problematic to arrange. That's why I came to you."
Albus's curious smile faltered. He hated causing distress, especially over requests as innocent as these. He laid a soothing hand over her nervous fingers.
"Charity, dear, we aren't free to bring Muggles to Hogwarts. I'm very sorry."
"I know." She heaved a sigh and seemed to poise herself for argumentation without much hope for success. "But Andrew won't tell anyone or draw attention to himself. He is very open-minded about magic; he only wants to see the castle I grew up in and where I spend so much time. We would eat dinner, dance, and then go home."
"I understand." It was the headmaster's turn to sigh. "Truly, I do. It's going to be a special evening, and you wish to spend it together, to share the experience. If it were up to me alone, I would personally welcome Andrew here."
Her almond-shaped blue-grey eyes were sad like a child's.
"What if I magically disguised him?" she offered tentatively. "It's just… I came to you because I know you don't agree with the law. You said it yourself: it's unfair that we have to hide from Muggles—even those who would gladly accept us."
"And I stand by that belief." He gave her hand a small squeeze. "I would do anything to have the Statute of Secrecy replaced with a reasonable and humane system. Sadly, we don't live in that world, not for a long time to come, and breaking the law has serious consequences. There will be Ministry officials at the ball. If they spot a Muggle in their midst, they will likely escort him out and Obliviate him, and then they will be on your case. I promise to find a way of making it up to you and Andrew; I just can't let you get in trouble."
Crestfallen, she pulled her fingers from his grasp and stood up.
"All right. I'll… see you later, headmaster."
Her long hair wafted behind her as she left. Albus got to his feet. While they had spoken, Filius had retired to his quarters, but Sybill was present still, and judging by her bitter expression and her strong grip on the mug, she had been listening in.
"Some problems people have," she grumbled. "I wish I had someone to come home to after work. My fondest Christmas memory involves one Mr Higglebottom slamming the door in my face."
Albus could think of no response that would not sound pitying. With a smile and an even If you'll excuse me, I need to go to my office, he headed for the doors.
It was silence that stopped him—an impression of unnatural stillness, which descended as abruptly as if a muffling blanket had dropped down around them. He spun on his heels. The witch had gone rigid; she had straightened up, her posture frozen, her eyes wide behind her spectacles.
"Sybill." He strode to her side. "Sybill, are you all right?"
But he already knew what was happening, knew his questions would do no good. At this instant, Professor Trelawney was not in possession of her body; she had become a vessel to something otherworldly, something far from human. Her mouth opened, and, sure enough, the voice pouring out of her chest was deep and harsh and imperious, most unlike her own.
"Fire of blue. Fire of red. Fire of white. A handless murderer, undone by mercy, will invoke us. The Dark Lord will arise, sewing discord and slander, walls of silence, pits of rage, until nothing remains but darkness, darkness, and rampage."
Her head fell to her chest; her thin frame sagged. It was not until half a minute later that she inhaled and her eyelids fluttered open.
"Yes, very few fond memories indeed, so I try to avoid my deserted cottage when possible. And—is everything all right, headmaster?"
Albus composed his startled features.
"Quite all right, Sybill. I'm glad you'll be staying at Hogwarts. I hope to see you soon; for now, I have to excuse myself."
He patted her arm, carefully assessing whether she had recovered her strength, and mounted the stairs to his office. Once there, he placed Walter's tag on top of his Christmas shopping list, summoned the Pensieve and, thus assisted, wrote down the words of Sybill's prophecy.
It was a grim one. The news of Voldemort's return brought little surprise: he had lately come to believe it was a mere matter of time. As long as he protected Harry from the fate reserved for him by his foe…
The mention of a murderer undone by mercy suggested Wormtail's participation. If so, under which circumstances would the Animagus lose one or both hands? An inkling told Albus an important clue could be extracted from this detail. And then there was the ritual that would yet be taking place: a handless murderer will invoke us. The eerie us sent a shiver down his spine. This entity, whatever it was, had chosen to bestow its warning on Albus, to help him. It was essential that he interpret the prediction correctly. This brought his attention to the very beginning: fire of blue, fire of red, fire of white. Were those the lights of spells? Identifying them could point him towards the ritual Voldemort would attempt to perform.
He felt it suddenly. One moment, he was leaning over his notes, completely alone unless he counted the sleeping portraits—Fawkes was out flying over the school grounds. The next moment, a pair of eyes stared at his back. He sat up. Someone was approaching: a magical aura, as dense and vivid as if a person were standing beside him. He knew that aura intimately: it was Dark, energetic, enticing, and it pulsated with power. It was the best aura in the world.
"Gellert," he breathed, turning on the spot.
No one was there, only the incorporeal, invisible aura. Stunned, Albus stepped towards the cabinet that held his memory vials. His office contained no mirrors, but the glass panes of the cabinet provided a clear reflection, and on their surface, he glimpsed a face next to his own. Two familiar sapphire blue eyes.
It lasted a heartbeat. The image dissipated before he could focus on it properly, and he was alone again, undeniably so. Yet he could have sworn Gellert had touched his shoulder.
How had his beloved succeeded in transporting himself? No one could escape from Nurmengard, not physically and not spiritually either—decades ago, Albus himself had considered every way of infiltrating the tower, desperate to rescue its prisoner. As far as he could tell, breaching the defences around Hogwarts was quite impossible as well. The only explanation his imagination could conjure was too ghastly to think of, let alone formulate out loud. But if he, Albus, were to pass away before Gellert, he would come to Nurmengard in his spirit form for one last embrace.
He was barely aware of dashing through the corridors and cared not whether anyone paused to gape. He knew not how he Apparated to Austria without splinching himself from sheer panic. Suppressing the urge to throw his wand at the guard, he waited to be admitted upstairs and positively ran to the topmost cell. Sweat was trickling down his forehead; fear alone prevented him from collapsing.
It cannot have happened. Anything but this.
The door swung open on the German wizard, who was seated by the wall. He was smiling, but the smile vanished instantly at the wild expression on Albus's face. Without skipping a beat, the latter hurried forth to take Gellert's head between his palms.
"Are you all right?"
"Albus—yes, I am very well. I'm sorry. What happened now was supposed to be a surprise. Happy winter solstice."
The Englishman sat back, struggling to quieten his hammering heart—his vision was becoming a dark blur. It was as though his body had slipped out of his control. At last, he could trust himself to utter, "And… to you. I'm… sorry. I…"
He wiped at his eyes. Gellert drew closer, embraced him.
"I will explain. There is no need to worry. Just breathe, Schatz."
Albus did so. Little by little, his vision cleared, and the sense of panic ebbed away. He touched the other wizard's cheek.
"How—what happened?"
"I made a good use of the candles. Want to see?"
At his nod, Gellert proceeded towards the other end of the cell, where he bent down, revealing a loose stone. Beneath it were concealed the Haitian candles, as well as a box of ordinary matches, the sort Muggles resorted to. The last item was a sachet full of what resembled gravel: brick dust and tiny pebbles.
"Making this took most work, in fact. Since I'm not allowed any objects, it's the only way I can create intelligible signs without having to draw them, you see: all I need to do is arrange the pebbles and brick dust in the required patterns. Tonight, I needed to get out of the cell and pay you a brief visit. It was supposed to be a surprise. I'm sorry I startled you."
"You astral-projected to my office." The revelation was mind-blowing. It meant there was a way for Gellert to be free, to practice magic, even if his physical body could not leave the prison. With a gasp of delight, Albus captured him in his arms. "This is wonderful news. So the enchantment in those candles neutralises mago-suppressive spells. You are careful, aren't you? I'm only surprised the protection around Hogwarts isn't as thorough as I thought—not that I complain."
"Oh, it is thorough, but you're forgetting it's winter solstice. On the longest night of the year, spirits and deities are the ones in charge; Seers can be sent unexpected visions, and wizards who deal with higher magicks have a better chance at succeeding at otherwise challenging endeavours. Even magical households would be well-advised to increase their protection if they wish to ward off unwanted visitors. Besides, I used to be decent at Conjuring. So I gave it a shot."
"Thank you." Having calmed down, Albus understood his lover's gesture had been intended as a Christmas present. As they clasped hands, he considered the candles—all of them were showing signs of use. "It's true—my Divination teacher made a prophecy just an hour ago. I'm thinking, though… It would be best if I learned to cast the spell that permeates these candles. They won't last forever—not to mention the guards might find them. I can bring you chalk and anything else you need."
But his first statement had seized Gellert's curiosity.
"One of your teachers made a prophecy?"
Taking a few seconds to recall the exact formulation, the Englishman recited the warning.
"Fire of blue, fire of red, fire of white. A handless murderer, undone by mercy, will invoke us. The Dark Lord will arise, sewing discord and slander, walls of silence, pits of rage, until nothing remains but darkness, darkness, and rampage."
It was met with a sigh.
"They never speak clearly, do they?" Gellert shook his head. "Between the deities' messages and the official wording of all the wizarding laws that currently exist, I'm not sure which one is worse. One thing leaves no doubt—our young friend is coming back—but of course, we knew this much already. Step closer, Albus; I want to show you something."
Under his guidance, Albus stationed himself in the middle of the cell. The German wizard's first action was to light four out of his five candles before carefully spilling the contents of the sachet in a wide, incomplete circle. What remained of the pebbles and dust was arranged in the shape of hieroglyphic symbols around the circle's perimeter and complemented with the candles. This done, Gellert joined the other man inside the formation before lighting the last candle and adjusting the gravel to close the circle. A flick of his match, and the fifth little flame sprang to life. So did the entire cell.
The two wizards now stood in the faint glow of a pentagon formed by the candles. The atmosphere inside the circle had, all of a sudden, grown lighter, as though they had found themselves in sunlight, in nature. Outside of it, however… Albus had to blink repeatedly, for the sight was too chilling for words. Swirling black mist was floating in the air, seeping through the walls and floor and ceiling, curling around the protective formation, probing it. The Dark energies of Nurmengard, rendered visible by virtue of the candles' magic.
"Did the Ministry do this?" he whispered. "Or was it here from the start?"
"I think… I did it." Gellert drew a deep breath. "Do you still happen to remember Wei, Albus?"
Li Wei had been one of Gellert's followers and his designated bodyguard. A duellist of immense power, he had attempted to protect his master from Albus, unaware of the latter's true loyalties. Luck was the only reason the Englishman had survived their duel.
"I remember him well. I went to see him once after he was incarcerated. I'd like to believe our conversation explained some matters and helped him ever so little, but I will never know for sure."
"Wei was… an interesting wizard," Gellert mused. "Very devoted to me, very loyal in his own way. He told me about himself. He was born to a noble pure-blood family. You know all too well how tradition-bound pure-bloods tend to be, and it's no different in wizarding China—in many aspects, it's even worse there. Long story short, he was expected to marry a noble witch of his standing. He would have done, no doubt: I've hardly ever met a wizard so bent on following tradition. But it didn't come to be because he fell for a girl by the name of Gao Xin, who was a Squib. In China, most Squibs are no better off than house-elves in English households. The country has numerous laws to determine in what manner Squibs are to be owned and handled, and in some cases, even sold. They are never set free, for this could lead Muggles to learn of their existence and breach the Statute of Secrecy. There are also enchantments designed to marginalise them, so that everybody would recognise them for what they are; for instance, a Squib girl will never be able to grow long hair, the way witches and Muggles can do—magic won't allow it. Yet Wei fell in love with a Squib and thus brought shame on his family. You should have heard him talk about her—as if she had been the sole reason for his existence, as if his life had been empty before they had met. And then, one day, Xin was kidnapped and killed in a Dark ritual that demanded human sacrifice. It was a very gruesome death. Since she had been a Squib, the wizards around Wei never cared, never truly saw it as a crime; I believe the Chinese government is very little concerned about Squibs' protection. To make it worse, Wei was congratulated on this turn of events: everyone claimed this was a good opportunity for him to start over and clear his name once he apologised to the families he had insulted. Except Wei… he, for once, was done with tradition."
Albus's gaze had softened at the story. He had never known. For the first time, he understood exactly what had driven the man who had so resembled a statue.
"So he found you instead," he concluded. "He embraced your cause and decided to follow you, to make the world a better place, so that no one else would have to live through such tragedies."
Gellert nodded.
"The idea of punishing the criminals who hide behind the Statute of Secrecy appealed to him a great deal. I just happened to be offering the best solution he could find at the time: a society where all lives, those of Muggles and wizards alike, would be valued and protected. You know all about it: both our fathers were forced to use magic against Muggles, and both were arrested and died in prison. If Wei had managed to find the monsters who had murdered his Xin, he would have ended up in the same situation as our fathers, no doubt. But he couldn't find them. He was broken, unable to gain peace, and all his pleas fell on deaf ears. So eventually, he found me. He accepted he would likely never track down the murderers, and he agreed the problem went deeper than that: that the entire wizarding society, be it in the West or in the East, needed a reform. He proved very useful to me. And his story is what inspired this."
He gestured vaguely towards the black fog that was creeping around them.
"I wanted to put them here: the criminals, the cowards who committed atrocities and got away with them because the Ministries operating under the Statute of Secrecy could not or didn't care to make a difference. I wanted them to feel helpless, alone, oppressed by their own agonising thoughts until they lost their minds. It's the worst punishment there is, and much more reliable than the Dementors. Except… in the end, I'm the one who has to bear it all. Not a cheerful winter solstice story, I'm afraid, Albus."
The other wizard swallowed. He turned away from the mist, his embrace comforting.
"Oh, Schatz, I wish you'd told me sooner. I would have started looking for a counter-curse ages ago. If I have to go to Haiti to learn it, I will. We have to purify your cell of Dark magic—the candles will only last for so long."
"I wasn't entirely convinced anything this potent really existed," Gellert confessed with a shrug. "Naturally, all magic is dual in nature and there is a counter-spell to everything, but finding a witch or a wizard who knows how to perform it is another matter. Every single stone here is imbued with Darkness; I made it so. These walls attract… bad energies, if you will. Just pay attention to the guards when you leave: the more time they spend here, the worse their spirits grow. They may put it down to tiredness and whatnot—Muggle excuses, really—but then again, very few people dabble in this type of magic. You may want to find out more about the creator of these candles before you go to meet them in person. Anyone who has mastered such arts is a force to be reckoned with. And if you don't succeed in finding them… Well, I will save the candles for as long as I can. It was a truly special gift, Albus. Being able to practice magic is one of the best presents a wizard can receive."
AN: According to Harry Potter Wiki, JKR determined the value of a Galleon to be roughly equal to £5. In this story, we decided to disregard this piece of canon information due to the inconsistencies it may bring. As we know, Galleons are made of gold—a noble and expensive metal. We reckon a large, heavy golden coin cannot be worth £5, even if we are dealing with the world of wizards. Here is how we came up with an alternative value.
The licensed replicas of Galleons have the diameter of 40 mm, and their thickness amounts to 5 mm. A great deal depends on the percentage of fine gold in the coin: it will affect its weight and ultimate value. For the sake of convenience, we opted for 333 gold, which is 33% pure gold and 67% other metals. The combination of these parameters results in a coin that would weigh 68 g (calculated by a website dedicated to such topics). We could argue goblins prided themselves on producing finer coins with a more significant amount of pure gold, but this would render a handful of Galleons very heavy indeed. Of course, wizards may have used a charm to render their gold weightless, but it wouldn't solve the fact that a large percentage of pure gold would drastically drive up the value of a single coin. Besides, it doesn't seem as though goblins felt human wizards deserved great finery.
In 1994, the price of gold oscillated around £8 per gram. So we have a coin of 68 g, only a third of which is pure gold (approx. 23 g). £8 x 23 g = £184. We rounded this up to £200 to take into account the cost of the 67% other metals.
In conclusion, 1 Galleon (ʛ1) would have been worth £200 at the time when this story takes place.
Now, minimum wages in 1994 were £3.4 per hour, that is ʛ0.017 per hour. Back then, a work week in the UK could have anywhere between 40 and 48 hours. We believe Albus was a caring and considerate headmaster, so he wouldn't expect his employees to work above 40 hours a week. This would mean someone with the minimum wage rate would earn ʛ0.68 a week at Hogwarts; that is ʛ35 a year, therefore ʛ3 a month on average (taxes would apply to these rounded brutto amounts).
All things considered, Dobby's salary of a Galleon a week wasn't bad, except for the lack of days off. It does invalidate his claim of "Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week" in this version, but it could have been a misunderstanding if Dobby wasn't fully aware of the value of gold.
As a side note, purchasing a wand (ʛ7) under this system is an expensive endeavour, especially if a family has more than one or two children. But considering how difficult wandmaking is and the rare know-how and magical ingredients it requires, it seems to be a fair price to pay, and an investment too. A wand is, after all, a wizard's most important possession, one he will keep for life and sometimes hand down the generations. The Ollivanders are billionaires without question.
Our apologies for this exceptionally long addendum. If we have made any rookie mistake in our reasoning, please feel free to let us know—we understand this substitute version is far from perfect.