"Impeccable timing—just in time for the witching hour. Frohe Weihnachten."
They embraced, and Albus hastened to unpack their dinner. The rules were strict where Gellert's sentence was concerned: he was not allowed sharp cutlery or goblets made of glass. For convenience, the Englishman would therefore cut up their meals in advance, stowing copious napkins in his basket. It was with a mischievous smile that he also revealed the chalk and the sponge.
"Perfect," Gellert commended. "I hope all the dancing hasn't worn you out. It will be a busy night."
"What do you have in store for me?" the other wizard asked teasingly. "And does it require an empty stomach?"
"Well, personally, I would hate for the meal to go cold. As for what I have in store for you… you will see. I hope you'll enjoy it."
They tucked in. This dinner was even more delicious than the dishes served at the Yule Ball—not because the house-elves' cooking was lacking in any respect, but because cherished company could not fail to make a difference. Settled comfortably, the wizards polished off every bite. The narrow window permitted a glimpse of a luminous moon surrounded by the stars, and the headmaster thought of Aurora's seminar, which was taking place at that very moment.
"I have talked to my Astronomy teacher," he confided. "She is not opposed to sending an owl to her mentor, mambo Lucille. As soon as the New Year begins, I will arrange a meeting in Haiti."
"This is good news." Gellert tilted his head in contemplation. "You need to be careful. It's not that I underestimate you, but we are talking about a witch who has mastered a brand of magic practiced only rarely in this corner of the world. As such, caution is essential, and we ought to think of a strategy and find out more about her—as much as possible, in fact. Has your Astronomy teacher told you anything of use?"
Aurora's words were vivid in Albus's memory, and he frowned, striving to recall everything she had mentioned.
"Mambo Lucille is the head of a school of her own and an exceptionally powerful witch, her candles being a creation few could have achieved. For her strong disapproval of the Statute of Secrecy, MACUSA has labelled her a dangerous Dark witch; in truth, she is Seraphina Picquery's worst nightmare. This being said, she is as fair as she is strict and imposing. I will admit all these facts have already endeared her to me." His eyes softened; he knew his lover would hear the compliment in those words, which indirectly applied to him. Sure enough, it earned him a smile. "Aurora has asked me to be truthful in her presence. Many people have come to mambo Lucille for help, some with dishonest intentions."
"Ah, yes, the downside of fame—or infamy, should I say. Speaking of the latter, she is bound to have heard of me, and I'm sure my guilt is obvious to her. How will you speak of me?"
"I'll tell her the truth: your goals have always been similar to hers. You were defamed for having innovative, revolutionary views and the courage to turn them into reality, and you paid the price—largely by my fault. A Dark wizard or not, you only meant to establish justice in our society: a newer and more efficient system. So I will vouch for your character and will do my utmost to meet her conditions. If anyone can understand, it will be her."
Even in the night's gloom, he could discern sadness in Gellert's smile.
"I wish I could share your sentiment, but alas, I made many mistakes. The idea of the Greater Good is a fundamentally flawed one, I see it now—only, it's too late. Everything is relative. Imperfect though it is, the Statute of Secrecy might have saved us wizards. Look at those who turned it down. Your ancestors, Schatz. We don't quite know what happened to them. Maybe their magic has gone dormant, or maybe their legends are all we'll ever have left of them."
Only those who were closest to Albus were conscious of his heritage: Kendra, his mother, had been born to a Native American tribe. The fate of many among those wizards, just like the fate of their Muggle counterparts, represented one of the most heartbreaking pages in humanity's history.
"What we do know would suggest they lived together in harmony, wizards and Muggles," Albus objected gently. "Until the settlers interfered with their ways. Either way, I will spare nothing to learn that spell."
Gellert responded with a smile. "Then let's get started. It's no good if you face mambo Lucille without having practiced any Sakrémaji beforehand."
They stored the napkins back in the basket, and Albus watched the German wizard retrieve the candles from under a loose stone. This reminded him of another point.
"Before I forget, Severus Snape asked to see me earlier today. He showed me his Dark Mark. It's becoming black again, has been growing darker for months, as has Karkaroff's. We knew this much already, yet I can't help but feel surprised at how far Voldemort has progressed."
"True," Gellert mused, using his new piece of chalk to draw a pentagon in the middle of the cell. "It's to impress you, no doubt. We wizards do have rather large egos. Well, most of us do anyway, particularly us Dark wizards. Zhivka was right after all."
The Englishman chuckled, not in the least upset to hear the name of one of Gellert's former lovers. Too many years had passed since.
"This would imply Tom knows I'm aware of his progress."
"He wants you to be. He's jealous. In fact, this is the textbook behaviour of a jealous boyfriend. Did he ever drop any hints?"
This time, Albus blinked, wondering whether he had misheard. "Merlin, no! I knew him as a ten-year-old. Besides, he would kill me if given a chance."
"That's true, but… he wants to impress you too. Think about it: you are known as the greatest wizard of all times. My defeat brought you the status of a hero and a saviour—and I know, I know, you never wanted it, but he does. He always wished to be special, wished it to such an extent that he changed his name and disfigured himself, and it still wasn't enough. Not only you possess everything he craves; your name is also brought up every time he yells he is the greatest wizard in the world. To add insult to injury, you've never bothered to acknowledge him. It has to sting. Over the years, I believe, he developed an obsession with you. That's why getting the Potter boy—your protégé, your champion—and sacrificing him in front of all his Death Eaters is his new milestone of sorts, and he wants you to know it, to fear him. In his mind, this might finally make you—and the entire world, for that matter—realise your fame is undeserved and that he should be worshipped instead."
Having drawn five symbols around the pentagon, Gellert straightened up and grinned.
"As for the attraction part, that, of course, is pure speculation… though I wouldn't exclude it by any means. You are still very good-looking."
No man had ever blushed as Albus did at that instant; of this, he was certain.
"Why, thank you, love. If anyone is the greatest wizard of all times, I'm happy to say it's my husband. No matter what extremes Tom goes to, he is nothing but a shadow."
Determined to put Voldemort out of his mind, he approached to study the symbols on the ground. Some of them were geometric shapes whereas others resembled elaborate hieroglyphics.
"This one seals the formation." Gellert pointed at a quartered ellipsis. "It creates a protective barrier around your body, preventing any magical forces from reaching it while your spirit travels. This one," he indicated a more complex sign, "invokes a benevolent deity's protection as you delve deeper into the realm. The one next to it serves as a beacon, guiding you back towards your body when it's time to return. Then there is a warding symbol against the astral entities that might try to take advantage of your absence in order to invade your body. As for this last one, it's used by novice practitioners, and it restricts your movement. Tonight, you will be able to move only within the pentagon. Once you gain more experience, this precaution won't be necessary."
At his instructions, the English wizard lay down in the middle of the shape. The candles were flaring to life, lifting the Dark magic in the air, and soon, Gellert was kneeling behind his head, their hands joined. Their proximity did not leave Albus unaffected; he drew in a sharp breath, his body alive in a manner he had not experienced for a long time.
"Now, now, you need to stay focused," came a soft admonishment. "This type of magic is not to be taken lightly."
He was quite right. Closing his eyes, Albus attempted to loosen his frame and let all tension drain from his limbs. His companion's voice washed over him, cautioning and captivating at once.
"Even these symbols of protection cannot eradicate the danger for good. You see, while you live, your physical body and your spirit—also called your ti bon ange—are not meant to be separated, not for extended periods of time. If they are, a disaster will ensue, for our realm abounds with Dark entities, which may easily snatch your spirit or take possession of your body. Witch-hunters exist too: those are skilled yet corrupted wizards, who resort to astral-projection with the goal of capturing as many inexperienced souls as they can. That's why vigilance is fundamental once you venture out there."
There was a pause: like any natural teacher, Gellert knew when to let his words trail away so that every syllable would gain the greatest impact.
"Sakrémaji has no use for wands; candles are what you will require for most rituals. Flames attract magic, and any sentient being, corporeal or not, is drawn to fire. Think of plants and flowers: they need light to survive and will gravitate towards it. Humans are no different. But you already know this: you invented the Deluminator on the very same principle."
The clasp of their hands tightened.
"Always draw the symbols correctly. Always light the right amount of candles. Then slacken your muscles and picture the midnight sky. Imagine your body is feather-light, as if you were Apparating, but only in spirit. And when you have done this, you will be ready to utter the words. The incantation goes thus: Tanpri louvri pòt mwen zèl."
Obediently, Albus conjured up an image of the Enchanted Ceiling before visualising the universe with its infinite expanse of planets and galaxies and nebulae. In his mind, he immersed himself in this vastness, becoming one with it while his body grew as weightless and translucent as the air.
"Tanpri louvri pòt mwen zèl," he whispered.
Nothing happened. He concentrated with all his might, to no avail. There was nothing for it but to open his eyes.
The sight startled him so much that his first instinct would have him recoil. He was standing near his own unconscious body, and Gellert, whose hands rested on Albus's limp ones, was watching him. The candles glowed bright—the only barrier separating them from the swirling black mist outside of the pentagon. If there was ground beneath them, the Englishman could not feel it: all sensation seemed to have fled him, though he appeared perfectly solid.
"Remain calm, Schatz," the other wizard said firmly. "I'll give you a minute to look around, and then I'll put out the candles. When I do, you might experience a jolt, not unlike falling in your dream before waking up. It might feel a little frightening, but I am here."
Nodding, Albus lowered himself to his level. His knees grazed the stone ground, yet no pain manifested. When he reached for his lover, his fingers slid right through the latter's flesh. He truly had become one with the air.
"What would happen if we both were in our astral form?" he wondered.
Gellert smiled knowingly and did not reply.
"Now."
He blew out the candle near the symbol representing the external protection, and Albus pitched down into space. What he heard next was his own intake of breath, and an array of physical sensations flooded his conscience: the stone underneath, the comforting hands on his own, the tropical scent of the candles, and slight vertigo.
"For a first time, not bad at all," the German wizard remarked. "This is where we stop for tonight."
Sitting up closer, Albus pulled him into a tight embrace.
"You are a wonderful teacher. Not that I've ever discovered anything you can't do, and much better so than anyone else."
"No need to be modest. I'm glad you liked your Christmas present."
They slept soundly that night and woke up in unison when the first rays of sun peeked into the cell. After a peaceful morning spent in conversation, the headmaster was obliged to return to Hogwarts. It was important that he ascertain the aftermath of the Yule Ball had passed smoothly and that nothing would trouble students or teachers on Boxing Day. He also meant to thank the house-elves for their hard work and retrieve the gifts he had prepared for his adoptive family.
For Justice, who loved music as much as he did, he had purchased an elegant ukulele; for Giacomo, a fashionable hat. A heap of new books had been set aside for their children, and English specialities awaited the d'Angellis' extended family. Thus equipped, the old wizard Apparated to Tuscany.
He could have sworn he had dived into spring. Even in wintertime, the landscape remained green and fresh and most pleasant in temperature, though the family had not neglected to decorate their garden for the season. Golden bells swung from the lemon and cypress trees, chiming at every breath of the wind, while glittering dust covered the grass—a promise of a charming sight at dusk.
One ornament was particularly striking: a large, animated model of the nearby village, carved from wood and placed on a stand by the villa's entrance. It represented the local piazza and the surrounding houses in exquisite detail, not omitting the church, the coffee shops or the florist's. Like fireflies, magical lights glinted in the tiny lamp posts and windows, and a rivulet of water was trickling into the basin of a miniature fountain at the centre of the square. As if this display was not admirable enough, an enchanted figurine of a witch on a broomstick was flying over the orange roofs: la Befana, an Italian witch so famous that she had been incorporated into Muggle folklore.
"Feliz buon Christmas!" she squeaked, waving at the newcomer.
Albus laughed, prepared to wager his mischievous daughter had tried to teach the doll to express seasonal greetings in Spanish and English instead of Italian, only to end up confusing the poor figurine. Without further delay, he knocked at the door.
Justice opened in person. Despite the distinct air of frustration in her countenance, her smile was wide and genuine.
"I'm so happy to see you! Come in, everything is ready—a Christmas miracle in itself."
"I'm happy to see you too." He passed over the threshold and hugged her. "Merry Christmas, darling. Has it been a stressful day? Do you need help?"
"Not me—Luis is here, but he should be finished any minute now."
They proceeded into the sitting room, where the rest of the family had gathered. Gia sat by the fire, stroking the small black cat in her lap, while her brother Alvo was reading on the sofa. Giacomo was speaking to Justice's younger sister, Luz—a pretty Potioneer, who had already gained renown in the academic world. Luz's teenage son was also present. For several years, he had now been on a Spanish Quidditch team, and his energy was such that he could barely sit still. Judging by the sizzling sounds in the kitchen, the only missing guest, Luz's husband, was putting last touches on their dinner.
"A merry Christmas to you all," the Englishman called.
"Uncle Albus!" Gia hurried forth to embrace him, just as Giacomo and a few others uttered, "Buon Natale."
Luz approached. "It's been too long. Feliz Navidad."
She hugged him as well, not without exchanging three kisses on the cheeks.
"Do you remember my Santi? He was still a baby when you last saw him."
"Mum, I was at least eight!" the teenager protested, though he grinned at Albus, uncertain how formally he ought to behave.
Unlike Justice, whom the headmaster fully considered his daughter, Luz had never bonded so tightly with him: timid and introverted, she usually kept to herself. There was such a difference in fact between the older, Dark sister and the younger Light one, that had Albus closed his eyes to assess their magical auras alone, he would never have thought them related.
For years, Luz had remained independent, admitting she would likely never form a family, until, one day, she had crossed paths with Luis, a simple Muggle chef. Their son had enrolled in Beauxbatons—an untraditional choice for their family—and had already participated in a notorious match against Bulgaria, which Spain had won. Yet even with this accomplishment under his belt, he could not help but view Albus as a celebrity first and extended family second.
To put him at ease, the Englishman smiled and shook his hand.
"I'm very pleased to meet you again, Santiago. I've heard so much about you. To think that if only they had postponed the Triwizard Tournament by two years, you'd have had a chance to come to Hogwarts! All the young ladies would forget Viktor Krum in a wink."
It worked like a charm: the teenager burst into laughter.
"Oh, don't encourage him," Luz intervened. "Santi is too young for girlfriends. It's all fun until there are consequences."
"Mum!"
Justice came to her nephew's rescue. "Ai, Luz, por favor!"
"I'm being perfectly reasonable," the younger witch insisted. "Besides, don't you remember yourself at that age?"
"Yes, I do; I had fun, and I turned out very well too. One doesn't exclude the other."
"You only turned out… more or less sane because Albus here was with you every step of the way. Frankly, I'm still not entirely sure you can be trusted." Luz turned towards the old wizard. "She threatened to jinx my husband."
"Only for a few hours," Justice shrugged.
Santiago seized this opportunity to join the conversation.
"And they say I'm immature," he complained with a wink. "Better tell me, is Beauxbatons winning?"
"To be perfectly honest, Harry Potter performed best at the first task," Albus said. "His strategy was simple and effective: he used flight. While Miss Delacour's magic was powerful and impressive in its own right, she sadly didn't receive as many points as she deserved. Of course, there are two more tasks ahead. Have you met her at school?"
"Delacour…" The boy frowned. "Oh, I know, the Parisian girl—I've seen her. I don't think we've ever spoken, but still, I can't help rooting for my school. But wait, your champion chose flying? Génial!"
"One of the champions," Gia corrected him. "Come, Uncle Albus, let me steer you to safety—I sense imminent boasting."
"Hey! I wasn't planning on boasting, Gia. Traitor!"
"Yes, you were; you gave yourself away with that génial. First, it's génial, then it's drôle, and then, before you know it, it's all about how Beauxbatons is best. Uncle Albus has someone to meet."
Leaving a pouting Santiago behind, Gia took the headmaster's arm to lead him away.
"It's better this way," she whispered in his ear. "Mum and tia Luz can banter endlessly. Santi will understand soon; it was just a ruse—he wasn't really going to beat the drum for Beauxbatons."
Their way was barred by Alvo, Gia's older brother. Before his grand trip, his features had been as smooth and ingenuous as a young lad's. The months spent in the United States had transformed him into a man. There was both knowledge and confidence in his gait as he embraced his namesake.
"Welcome back, Alvo." Albus smiled. "I missed you. Your mother told me of your new research; I've been looking forward to hearing all about it. Will you be staying for a while, or do you mean to go back?"
As the heir to the d'Angelli line, Alvo was destined one day to lead his father's business in parchment; his disposition, however, was that of a scholar, and he had dedicated all his leisure hours to wizarding anthropology. His research had led him to the heart of south-eastern Montana.
"I'm going back," he confessed. "I can't stop now—it looks promising. I've forged a bond with one of the Northern Cheyenne leaders, and there is hope of gaining the trust of more tribe members."
Intrigued, Albus drew a breath to ask him more questions but was compelled to postpone their conversation, for Luis had emerged from the kitchen. He was a cheerful, energetic man, used enough to the presence of magic to no longer feel intimidated by it.
"La cena está lista," he announced.
When he caught a glimpse of Albus, his eyes widened in good-natured surprise. Compared to everyone else's attires—not exceedingly conspicuous from the Muggle perspective—the old wizard could have stepped out of a children's book.
"It's a great pleasure to meet you," the Englishman said, shaking a strong, callused hand.
"It's my pleasure also." Luis had an easy smile that lit up his face. "You have to pardon me, my English isn't good, not at all. It's my wife who speaks perfect, she knows many languages. But if food is a language, I enjoy speaking it."
"No te preocupes," Giacomo told him consolingly, "your cooking is so delicious that there will barely be room for speeches."
"And your English is very good, tio Luis," Gia added.
Coming closer to Albus, Giacomo lowered his voice, casting a swift glance at his daughter.
"Well, her political tutoring is paying off. How have you been, Albus?"
"Since the first task ended, all has been calm. It may of course be an illusion, a temporary truce before Voldemort's return, but Harry has been safe, and the rest can be handled. I've had ample opportunity to recognise just how fortunate I am—thanks to each one of you."
Clamour was rising around them as the rest of the family started levitating sets of plates and goblets and cutlery towards the large dining table, which had been covered with a golden tablecloth and topped with flowers, as well as a candelabrum.
Solemnly, Giacomo reached into his pocket and produced a finely carved key.
"This isn't a present—there will be time to exchange those later—but it's something I want you to keep."
The second Albus held it, he felt the magic within it vibrate. It was a Portkey—the sort that would transport him to the d'Angellis' residence anytime he chose. His son was offering him a refuge if ever the situation in England became unendurable.
There were no words that could aptly describe his grateful emotion; he attempted instead to express it through his embrace. Giacomo understood.
"Let us eat," he proposed. "Judging by the commotion, it's going to be good."
It was a rich, colourful meal they sat down to. A small plant had been placed on every guest's plate; it was meant to be slid into a glass and serve as a decoration.
For the first course, they partook of garlic prawns and soup with pasta shells; to honour the Italian side of the family, a ravioli dish was served as well. They drank cava from delicate flutes and loudly voiced their admiration when a tray of roast lamb was ushered in. One dish stood out to Albus more than any other: it contained chicken and shrimp cooked in almond-garlic sauce.
"This is delicious," he exclaimed.
Luis beamed. "Gracias—it's one of the foods called mar i muntanya—you will see it often if you go in Cataluña. I know superb places where the food is like nowhere you tasted. A lot of the dishes come from a time when people were poor, but they were smart and made it the best kitchen in the world."
"It's good," Justice acquiesced.
Gia looked up from her plate. "Uh oh… Mamma."
"Let us simply agree that both Andalusia and Cataluña have brought us some of the most exquisite dishes known to the world," Giacomo declared, conscious of the silent but in his wife's apparent agreement. Unlike Luis, she had been born in Seville. "This being said, no one, I believe, has yet surpassed Italy in cooking. Am I correct, Albus?"
Santiago was quickest to answer. "Clever uncle! But I think they served some nice bouillabaisse at Hogwarts, not pasta."
"It's delicious, Uncle Luis," Gia chipped in. "You have outdone yourself."
"Gracias, Gia; you are sweet. Your mother made a joke that she turn me into a toad."
"Oh, that wasn't a joke," Justice deadpanned without the slightest trace of laughter.
At first, the Englishman found it peculiar that anyone could be afraid of his daughter: she was playful and never wicked. Focusing on her aura, though, he sensed a whiff of annoyance. She did not appreciate seeing her kitchen run by another cook, especially when she was used to performing the chores without a house-elf's help. She was also undoubtedly the Darkest witch at the table—a trait Muggles were more than capable of detecting. As such, the slight note of panic in Luis's eyes was justified: at the end of the day, he remained the only person without magical skill in a family of powerful wizards.
"Dad, I'd have turned you back," the teenager offered.
It earned him a frown from his mother. "Santi, why don't you tell Albus what your latest mark in Transfiguration was? Or are you ashamed?"
"It's just a number…"
To steer the general attention away from Luis, Albus turned curiously towards their youngest guest. "How do you know about the bouillabaisse?"
"A good question," Luz nodded, her eyebrows knit together. "I thought you hardly knew that girl."
"Oh, erm, well, I thought it was bound to be on the menu with some other French dishes like onion soup or coq au vin."
The witch did not seem convinced by such an excuse. Once again, Gia smoothed over the tension.
"Mamma wouldn't have turned you into a toad, tio Luis. Besides, we're not French—we don't eat frogs."
"Or fellow witches," Santiago chuckled.
"Well, there are Dark rituals," Giacomo pointed out matter-of-factly.
"Which we won't be mentioning here," Alvo finished for him. "Come now, stop scaring tio Luis."
This time, Luz smiled.
"It takes more than that to scare your uncle Luis, Alvito dear. He's a brave one, and an excellent cook."
Over the mutter of assent, Alvo grinned at the headmaster, who was sitting next to him.
"Now I think Santi has a girlfriend; that's how he would have heard of the bouillabaisse. And from the way my little sister changed the topic, I would even assume she knows who it is. Perhaps it's someone from the French delegation."
"Or one of their younger sisters with whom they are in touch."
Albus would have asked Alvo whether any lady had yet won his heart but knew better: when one was invested in one's research, no time was left for anything else, not even romance. In addition, the young man's stay at the Indian reservation had unveiled the privations and struggles of an entire people, fortifying his resolve.
"What was it like to get to know the Cheyenne tribe?"
"It's very difficult to earn their trust." Alvo sighed. "I help them in every way I can, and in exchange, they tell me stories. It's a slow process, though: they are reluctant to accept help, it feels humiliating to them. You have to be inventive and highly respectful at all times. If you come off as yet another settler trying to make amends, it's over." He glanced across the table. "Leaving again will be hard—mum misses me terribly, and truth be told, I miss home too. But I can't abandon what I've started, not the least because Dark wizards are out there, researching for much more nefarious purposes. They want to uncover the magical practices lost with time. Take the Sorting Hat, for example: Godric Gryffindor enchanted it in a way that enabled it to accurately assess students' personalities, and his spell has lasted this far. Who in our generation could have performed such a feat? That's what worries me: we've lost so many practitioners of certain magical arts, and we've lost the magic by extension. I want to find out if any of them remain out there, and if so… well, I'm not sure what to do then. First, I have to study."
He inhaled and then smiled. "I've brought you something from America."
"Thank you very much, Alvo. If there is time later on, I would be thrilled to hear some of those stories. Tell me if there is any way I can assist you in your research."
An enthusiastic request interrupted their tête-à-tête.
"I want to hear about the flying champion," Santiago said.
His father nodded. "Yo también—me too, yes."
While Albus described to them the manner in which Harry had obtained his golden egg, the table was cleared for dessert. Bars of turròn had been tastefully arranged next to slices of panettone and fruit, all of it accompanied by coffee. Soon, the company moved to the sitting area of the living room, where they exchanged Christmas gifts under the cat's lazy stare.
Few pleasures, in Albus's opinion, could compare to that of watching youngsters open their presents, and Gia's excitement matched Santiago's. The two of them ended up running outside to test the boy's new Quidditch equipment while Luz and her husband volunteered to clear the dining table. The others rested by the fire, listening to Justice improvise a tune on her ukulele; she had an exquisite ear for melody. It was impossible to express how fond the English wizard was of every person in the house, including Luz's family, who had given him a beautiful cauldron with a plant growing inside it. Yet he was far from prepared for the surprise Alvo handed to him: a book he had made himself.
"Written down as meticulously as I could manage."
On the first pages, a diary entry detailed the young man's arrival to Montana and the Northern Cheyenne reservation. There were photographs of the country and its villages, pictures from a powwow event, transcriptions of interviews with various members of the tribe, and entire sections dedicated to their language: grammar, phonetics, commonly used expressions. Numerous diary entries were interspersed with stories, which had been recorded word for word as related by the elders. The more Albus read, the more dazed he felt. He had never before held anything this valuable in his hands, and it was but a fraction of a whole culture's remaining legacy. A culture where Muggles and wizards had once lived in harmony.
How an entire population of Native American wizards—who had often embraced the positions of chiefs, hunters, and Healers within their clans—had dwindled to mere dozens was the subject of heated debates among historians. The general consensus claimed they had been decimated by the same methods as Muggle Natives—deprivation of land, violence, deceit, and corruption with addictive substances—unless one counted the additional factor of indifference from the part of the European wizards, who had come to the continent to start a new life and would insist on secrecy. There was only so much magic could achieve, and warding off unexpected cruelty and malice was beyond a human wizard's skill. So wherever Native mages lingered these days, they kept to themselves and refused to join MACUSA with its Statute of Secrecy, of which they had never approved. Some scholars speculated the magic trait had gone dormant in certain tribes, existing without manifesting itself. At the end of the day, everyone strived to survive.
"This is so special," Albus breathed, passing a hand over a hand-drawn map of the 17th century Great Plains and their tribes. "I have no words… It's incredible, Alvo."
He turned another page, and his heart stood still. There was a picture of a young girl with two waist-long braids. A beautiful girl with regal features.
"She looks a great deal like my mother," he whispered. "Her face is more youthful, more rounded, but something about the expression…"
Justice shifted closer, linking her arm with his. She too contemplated the photograph.
The following page was dedicated to a short tale, and Albus read it on the spot, grazing the parchment with his fingers.
There was once a girl who encountered an old man near her people's camp. He said to her, "My daughter, a great favour will befall your tribe if you offer your hair to the Great Spirit. Your hair is your treasure. Cut it off and bury it in the ground; the Great One will reward you for your gift."
Eager to bring luck to her tribe, the girl un-braided her hair and cut it as short as she could. She then dug a hole, in which she buried the hair. She didn't know the old man was Veeho the spider, whose every word was a trick. When she returned to the camp, people recoiled from her, recognising her misfortune. In cutting her hair, she had become invisible to the Great Spirit and had lost his protection.
The next day, she set traps, but no animals were caught, as if they knew to evade her. Although people gave her a piece of meat, they did not look at her and paid her little notice, frightened by her ill luck. When night descended, a severed head with matted hair and shining eyes came rolling into the camp. It was the head of a woman killed by her husband in a jealous rage, and it had risen from her grave to seek vengeance. People stayed safe in their closed lodges, and, unable to enter, the head took to chasing the girl. All night did the girl run, fainting with tiredness, until she stumbled into bull berry bushes. The head became entangled in thorns, and the girl could rest until the sun rose.
Many more misfortunes befell the girl wherever she went. Once, having walked far away from the camp, she sat down by a spring to eat a piece of buffalo meat a kindly woman had given her. Mehne, a water spirit, slithered out of the spring and attacked her. She fought back with a large stone, driving the monster back into the waters. Just as she prepared to throw rocks into the spring to kill Mehne, she saw the creature's young ones swimming near the bottom. Her heart was moved by the sight, and instead, she threw in a large piece of her meat. In the following days, she often came to the spring and shared her scarce food with the serpents, who never tried to hurt her again.
A few weeks passed, and the camp grew restless because winter was near and they were afraid of more misfortunes. They pitied the girl but could not risk ill luck in times so harsh. There was no choice: taking her moccasins and her only elk hide, the girl left her birth camp. She walked for a day and another. On the third day, she was too tired and hungry to go. A dog found her and led her to his master, who lived in a lonely lodge near another camp. The old man took pity on the girl. He let her make herself a bed of wolf skin and shared his food with her. He told her stories of stars and spirits, and she tended to him, for he was old and sickly. When his dog gave birth to pups, she cared for them as well.
Two-Face entered the camp one evening, disguised as a young man. Those who looked at his second face dropped dead, and he cut them up and ate them. He came to the old man's tent. Weak with age and sickness, the man was asleep. But the girl, grown wise by the old man's tales, suspected Two-Face's malice and didn't look at him. She gave him meat until, weary of eating, the ogre fell asleep. The girl then seized rabbit skin and tied it around the monster's head, covering his deadly face. Two-Face awoke; he roared and clawed around him, filling the tribe with terror. He backed the girl into a corner and meant to slice her in two. At that moment, Mehne emerged from the spring, slithered towards the lodge and wrapped their bodies around the monster's limbs. He struggled, but they were strong and dragged him towards the waters until he sank to the bottom. Those were the water spirits the girl had spared and nurtured.
Tales of the girl's courage and compassion spread far and wide. The tribe honoured her and went to her for council. When her hair grew back, it was longer and thicker than before and had a purple tint to it, like the scaly skin of the water serpent.
Upon reading the story, Albus frowned, fascinated by its implications.
"I find it curious that a deliberate sacrifice of hair could have rendered a person invisible to the deities. My mother had beautiful hair, as black and glossy as jet. She never wore it loose, nor did she ever cut it. I used to wear mine short until one day… it no longer seemed to matter. And once I let it grow, I never felt the need to cut it again. The same could be said of my brother. Is this what it's about? From the Natives' point of view, is hair particularly significant in magic?"
"Well, I find your hair gorgeous," Justice declared. "And Luis, bless him, is very impressed by your looks."
Alvo's answer was more earnest.
"It's plausible. Veela hair is highly magical, and so is unicorn hair. We wizards possess inner magic too; it has to count for something."
The book had many more treasures to yield: interviews, descriptions, and a moving drawing of a large wolf with glowing eyes, crouching in the shrubs in a manner most unnatural for an animal. It was a chilling picture that positively breathed Dark magic. A skin-walker. Once upon a time, a movement had spread among the remaining wizards of the Navajo tribe; like any radical trend, it had been a response to the deplorable situation the tribe members had been condemned to suffer. A number of ruthless Dark wizards had emerged in that part of the continent—wizards capable of possessing animals in order to attack or spy on those they meant to rob, or worse. With time, the movement had dissipated, morphing into a secret no one would willingly discuss. Yet no type of Dark magic ever vanished for good.
Spontaneously, words tumbled out of Albus's lips. He had not released them since the previous century, when he had told Gellert of his childhood.
"I'm ashamed of how little I know of my mother. I had all the time in the world to get to know her—she passed away when I was almost eighteen. The truth is, I tended to avoid her… I was afraid of her, after a fashion: she possessed an iron streak, and she knew how to hurt through words. Many years went by before I could discard my resentment, reflect on her life, and ask myself why she had been so unhappy." He bit his lip; his eyes had grown distant. "She was born to a Muggle family, and she was brilliant— powerfully magical, uncommonly resourceful, anxious to learn, full of dreams. She never told me which tribe she came from or what her true name was—for I presume Kendra was not her birth name. Inevitably, she craved a life that would allow her to pursue her ambition, and this might have proven impossible if she had stayed with her people. So when my father came along, she trusted him."
Even now, Percival's memory had not relinquished its special corner in Albus's heart. Albus had preserved a sharp mental image of his father: smiling, strong, auburn-haired, protective.
"He was as Victorian as they came: he felt a woman's place was at home with her children, nowhere else. Still, he was taken with mother and promised her everything she asked. He may have thought those lies innocent: in his mind, she would taste 'proper' life and motherhood, and she would forget her silly dreams. If so, how mistaken he was… She wasn't ready to become a mother, nor was she content cooking and cleaning. Worst of all, she had to watch me succeed at her dreams. My father fully supported me because I had been born a boy—yet in a way, I was more feminine than mother ever was. The colder she grew, the more diligently I would seek refuge in my books… In the end, she withdrew in herself and adopted a stony façade, unable to love him, or me, or Ariana. She loved my brother, though. Aberforth was devoted to her, and a bond must have formed between them while I was at school and father was in prison. All in all, I'm not sure father ever admitted, to himself or otherwise, that he had destroyed her life; to us children, he had been nothing if not caring. It was Ariana's outburst of magic that killed our mother. I wish I'd had the courage to get to know her better."
Blinking the moisture from his eyes, he straightened up and cleared his throat.
"Thank you for this gift, Alvo. It means the world to me. I hope you will consider publishing a book based on your findings. The world needs to know more about the Cheyenne people and the other Native tribes, and you understand them as few do."
Justice's gentle arms wound around him. It was Giacomo who broke the silence heavy with emotion.
"The relationship between my father and me was rather strained—you know it better than anyone. Nevertheless, he was my father, my blood. It's not comparable by any means, but… your brother is still alive. Maybe you ought to share Alvo's writings with him."
"They aren't my writings," the young man objected. "I would never claim as mine something created by others and merely shared with me. But yes, babbo ha ragione. Maybe this ought to be shared."
"And whatever happens, we are here for you," Justice added. "Family is more than blood."
AN: The idea that Kendra Dumbledore may have been Native American was inspired by the following lines from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (chapter 11: The Bribe): "The mother, Kendra, had jet-black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native Americans he'd seen as he studied her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally composed above a high-necked silk gown."
Neither Albus nor his siblings seem to have physically taken after their mother. This seems to be a pattern in the HP universe: a child often takes completely after one parent and not at all after the other. One way of explaining it could be that wizards' genetics doesn't follow Mendelian principles the way Muggle genetics does; for them, inheritance would rather be determined by the magical strength of the two bloodlines in question. The "stronger" blood dominates the other, so to say. This would explain why Harry looked almost exactly like his father and only had his mother's eyes, or why Draco was a near-perfect copy of Lucius.
We have deviated slightly from JKR's official wizarding history of the United States. No disrespect is meant—on the contrary, certain topics (such as the Native tribes' fate) appear to have been glossed over on Pottermore, which doesn't feel right. About skin-walkers, who, canonically, are supposed to have been Animagi defamed by incompetent Muggle healers… we have opted for an interpretation more in line with Navajo legends, which depict skin-walkers as sinister figures with harmful powers. It would make sense for Dark magic to have existed in every culture.