The heat enveloped him like a waft from an open furnace. With a flick of his wand, Albus cast an enchantment to maintain his robes, as well as the serpent's water tank, cool and fresh. He could barely catch a breath: most of his journey had passed smoothly, including the use of the boat-sized Portkey he had rented on Santo Antão to transport himself to Barbados. He had, however, underestimated the distance between the Canary Islands and Cape Verde—a mistake he would never commit again, for his good fortune might not save him from an injury a second time. After a few moments of disoriented daze, he straightened up to glance around him.

Where eye could reach, hills undulated under a clear sky, rocky and covered in vegetation. Wild palm trees towered over sparser, shorter Spanish cedars; yellow blooms had opened in the sunlit grass. From the spot where he had landed, a narrow path led to a modest dwelling that resembled Hagrid's Hut; only, its door displayed an elaborate symbol—one, he was certain, that granted protection.

His right hand on the aquarium, he followed the path, his senses alert. Each step amplified the vibration in the air until, without a warning, the gentlest breeze caressed his face. Everything changed. He had crossed the barrier that separated the serene countryside from the garden of magic.

Before he could even attempt to gather his bearings, he was surrounded by a group of curious children in neat uniforms of pale blue with yellow belts, all of them chattering in rapid Kreyol. Behind them lay what could best be described as a tiny village—the truest of havens with its garden of cultivated plants, bushes, and papaya trees. Rather than a single large building, the park held a complex of bungalows of various shades and sizes—some of them were quite small, others two storeys tall. Crimson flowers blossomed over the pale walls; the earth drummed with energy. A little further away, the faint bubbling sound testified to the presence of a spring of water.

"Kimoun ou ye?" a little girl asked, her short, thick braids bouncing around her head with a flutter of yellow ribbons.

"Ki bab!" a boy exclaimed.

The headmaster's Kreyol was hopeless; all he could offer them was a smile and an amiable bonjou. An adult was coming to greet him, though: a young woman in a snow white dress and a matching headwrap, a necklace of semi-precious stones her only adornment. Albus found himself unable to grasp her aura: if she was a witch, she possessed a rather mild one, and if she was indeed a Muggle, she had grown attuned to her surroundings as few non-magical people could. With a bright smile in his direction, she shooed the children away, the words mesye Anglè perceptible in her speech. When she addressed him, it was in melodious French.

"Bonjour! I am Marie, confidante of mambo Lucille. We have been expecting you."

His French was not as fluent as his German, and he was all the more grateful for the many hours he had dedicated to its study. He greeted her cordially and was invited into a large bungalow the colour of canary feathers. It had a porch shaded with branches and scarlet doors open wide to let out the scent of candles. This variety and juxtaposition of uplifting colours was a trait the wizard thought to be characteristic of Haiti.

He had wondered what entering mambo Lucille's home would feel like. It had never occurred to him the sensation would be identical to stepping inside his own office. At first glance, their studies were not at all alike, although hers was also equipped with bookshelves full to bursting while peculiar contraptions—tools of her own invention, he surmised—had been arranged across the room. In addition to the multiple kinds of magical powder in jars, he glimpsed statuettes nestled in the nooks between both potted and freshly cut flowers. The walls of his office bore the portraits of the previous headmasters; hers contained protective symbols. It was an inviting, cosy workplace with a Light atmosphere. When at last his gaze settled on the witch, he could have sworn he was meeting a long-lost sibling.

Mambo Lucille was magnetic; her countenance exuded power. Only one person in Albus's circle could be called equally charismatic: his beloved. The witch's features were smooth and handsome, the tinge of coffee with a drop of milk. It was an ageless face devoid of lines, and yet, her eyes betrayed the sort of suffering no young person could have experienced. A scarf concealed her hair from view; her dress was as green as a leaf but with a layer of yellow embroidery.

"Bonjour, bonjour," she spoke. "Sois le bienvenu, cher ami. J'espère que tu as fait un bon voyage."

It was difficult to cease looking at her, to prevent himself from probing her aura, so similar to his own. In meeting Gellert, he had encountered his Dark counterpart and his love. In this witch, he had met his twin in magic.

"Thank you, mambo Lucille," he replied in French. "My journey has been safe—Aurora was kind enough to point out the best Apparition points to me. Thank you for receiving and welcoming me."

She considered him. "You are like chère Aurora, isn't it so? Is English better for you?"

"I'm afraid my French could do with some improvement," he admitted with a blush.

"We have a saying here: to speak French does not mean that you have wisdom. N'est-ce pas, Marie?"

The young woman laughed, her sing-song voice carefree.

"En effet, we do say that."

"It has to do with the history of our nation," mambo Lucille explained. "Either way, I am certain we will find a common language. Now, you tell me how my dear Aurora is doing. Marie will bring us some refreshments. What would you like?"

"Thank you very much; I will be happy with any cool drink."

Once Marie walked out, he turned back towards his host.

"Aurora is very well. She is the youngest teacher at Hogwarts, yet one of the brightest ones: her merry disposition contributes greatly to our team's harmony. She has helped me on more than one occasion, and I hope to make her workplace as enjoyable as I possibly can."

"And has she found a fella?" came a good-natured question.

"I don't believe so, not yet. There is a Dark wizard, the headmaster of Durmstrang, who is staying at our school and has developed an interest in her. But I dare say he is no match for the defences of Hogwarts."

The witch made an impatient gesture, as if to swat away a mosquito.

"They are just everywhere, pas vrai? The maji of his kind. They give the rest of us a bad name. I'm not worried for Aurora: she knows how to mask her aura when need be. But she should start thinking of finding her other half. Young people live today and don't think about tomorrow, going as far as to ignore the signs deities send their way. By then, it can be too late for some. As for me, I want my children to be happy. They are all my children here. You understand; you are an educator too."

She motioned for Albus to take a seat, and he was about to comply when the thought of his companion crossed his mind.

"Before I make myself comfortable, please allow me to introduce you to someone I have brought with me."

The fabric slid off the aquarium, unveiling the snake coiled in the water, fast asleep. At the disturbance, he raised his shimmering head to peer at the wizard and the mambo, his turquoise eyes alert.

"This is Petal, a Horned Serpent." With a wave of his hand, Albus set the water tank floating closer towards the witch. "I hope your acquaintance may lead to a long and happy friendship."

Lucille smiled at the creature in wonder.

"Ahh, but you are a very special fellow. There aren't many of you left in the world, even though, up on the continent, every child grows up hearing legends about you."

Marie entered, a tray laden with drinks in her hands. The sight of the snake brought her to a halting stop.

"Ou pa bezwen pè, chérie," the mambo said kindly to her. "Viens."

Cautiously, her step trembling, the young woman approached.

"Pétale is intelligent; he will not bite you, chérie."

It was plain the creature enjoyed being praised and admired. He whirled in the water, determined to display his lilac scales and his long, round horns. Albus chuckled.

"Newt Scamander found and rescued him; he also gave me his notes detailing everything there is to know about Horned Serpents, which I will leave with you. When I first saw Petal, I had the impression he wanted to come with me, as if he knew I was headed here."

"Pétale will be loved—this, I promise," the witch vowed. "And Marie will like him too, n'est-ce pas?"

Too startled still to pass near the water tank, the girl asked a question in Kreyol.

"Ah, as to where Pétale shall live: well, we have a rather nice garden. A few adjustments here and there, and it will be just like before the time of the settlers." Lucille glanced at Albus. "It will give me something to do; I've been rather idle, you see."

Once again, she invited him to sit with her while Marie retired with one last, timid look at the snake.

"It is a very thoughtful gift," the witch resumed. "That monsieur you speak of, Scamander, is he one of yours?"

"A former student of mine," he acquiesced. "He graduated when I was still a young Transfiguration teacher. Since then, he has travelled the world on his mission to protect and nurture magical beasts. He is retired these days but keeps writing."

"This was not my question. Is he one of your vanmaji?"

Wind mages, a colloquial term used for Native American wizards. Albus shook his head, stunned.

"Newt is an Englishman. If I may… how did you divine my mother's origin?"

"I never knew about your maman until you told me," Lucille asserted. "It is your aura. I can feel the presence of your mèt tèt: a powerful man with long hair and proud features. Your maman must have passed him on to you at your birth. Your shine probably comes from her." She smiled. "Besides, we've had quite a few of your people here—not always a blessing, I must admit."

It was not at once that the headmaster mustered a response; his astonishment was too great. To him, analysing other wizards' auras was but a useful and entertaining exercise; he had never yet met a person capable of visualising one's entire magical background. A mèt tèt, if he was not mistaken, was what Westerners would have called a guardian spirit. Did this imply the entity watching over him was an ancestor?

"Skin-walkers?" he whispered.

She nodded gravely.

"Oh, yes, perhaps the most evil—though not officially acknowledged—collaboration of Dark wizards that has ever existed. You may want to be careful where you go in Haiti, monsieur Dumbledore. Of course, you are not as young and naïve as chère Aurora was when she first arrived here, and the deities that protect you are impressive in their own right. Still, I'm afraid you would need to spend more time with us to truly understand the scope of the problem. Our bokors—the Dark wizards who use their magic to cause harm, if you will—are notorious for a reason, and no matter how brilliant, you have no idea how dangerous Sakrémaji can be in the hands of the wicked."

This was likely to be the reason behind the symbol drawn on the hut's door. Its purpose was to bar the entrance to those with ill intentions.

"I understand." There was a brief moment of silence, disturbed only by the sound of children's voices. "Forgive my boldness, mambo Lucille. I would like to express my admiration for what you have created: a sanctuary where wizards and Muggles can live safely and happily, where they can learn. It was my dream to see this unity reinstated in Europe. Sadly, our continent has much yet to learn—the age of secrecy is far from over."

"It warms my heart to hear these words." The mambo smiled again. "Speaking of learning, I must warn you: my students have never seen a man with such a magnificent beard before, and they are a curious bunch. I have prepared, though, and you have already met Marie. She is an angel—if there is anything you need, she will appear. I would like you to meet the rest of my teachers as well. You see, we have a tradition: at dinner, we all sit together under the stars, sharing a good meal and telling each other stories. Many hands make the load lighter. You are cordially invited. But now, you must excuse me; I have to tend to Pétale."

She addressed the serpent, her tone laced with affection.

"Let me think… additional protective Charms, wi…" Her black eyes met the Englishman's. "Everyone knows everyone on this island, and the bokors have eyes and ears at every door. Should they catch a whiff of Pétale, they will stop at nothing to lay their hands on him, and I can't have this sweetheart stolen and chopped up for Potion ingredients—can't have that, non, monsieur. I will see you in the evening."

Marie was waiting for him by the pond. The sun would soon be setting, and the sky above the palm trees had gained a soft aquamarine tint. The sweet scent of rice pudding drifted from an open window.

"How did it go?" she inquired. "Will you be staying for dinner?"

He nodded. "Mambo Lucille has very kindly invited me."

"I'm happy to hear it." The young woman bit her lip. "I have to ask, does the snake really not bite? We had snakes near my home, and they were frightening."

In truth, Horned Serpents were predators; they could be dangerous and required utmost respect at all times.

"They know how to defend themselves if threatened, but if treated with love, they will grow loyal," he assured her. "There is no need to fear Petal; he will not hurt you, I promise. Thank you for introducing me, Marie. Are you one of the teachers?"

"Wi, I teach French and help take care of the small children. Mostly, I assist manman Lucille with administration and supervision. It's like a big family—so much to do! I'm glad you are staying for dinner; I want to show you around and introduce you to the others. Paul teaches English."

As they walked down the gravel path, Marie explained the layout of the gardens. Most classes were held in separate bungalows, some even under the open sky. The majority of students arrived in the morning, and the older ones among them—those whose help at home could not be spared—would leave straight after the lessons while the younger ones waited to be picked by their parents. There were also those who lived on the premises, having no family to return to. Albus saw a boisterous group of children play on a patch of grass; they seemed content and without a care, as the youngest ones ought to be.

"Did you grow up here as well?" he asked his companion.

"Wi, manman Lucille became… my only manman, and I am happy she did. My birth parents are alive and well, but… that's how life sometimes is."

This subject had haunted him ever since he had become a teacher: he would often glimpse less than ideal family situations in his students' eyes and minds, only to lack any manner of jurisdiction when he wished to bring them into a healthier environment. Wizarding Britain's laws were no less flawed for being highly detailed; a great many children still received no help. In Haiti, this difference in legislation allowed mambo Lucille to take in any youngster in need of protection—unless a Dark wizard beat her to it. She was, after all, only one witch.

A teenager's voice cut across his musings; it belonged to a boy with a notebook and a pencil case in hand, stationed near the garden's edge. With an apology towards Albus, Marie hurried to hand the boy a small object. The latter swiftly noticed the visitor's gaze; at once, he straightened up so as to leave a favourable impression.

"This is a map, monsieur." His French was deliberate, pristine. "It helps me find the way. I live an hour's walk from here and know the way home like the back of my hand. But this is a special map: I forgot it once and walked for hours and couldn't find the school." He beamed at the memory of his adventure. "The paths are overgrown where I live. When I'm finished with school, I will draw maps too. Do you draw, monsieur?"

"Very poorly," Albus confessed. "I have great respect for those who have mastered the skill."

"Pran swen, Marcel," Marie said warmly. "Jiska demen."

With copious goodbyes and a wave at his friends, the boy trod off and out of the wards.

"Of course, it's not really a map," came a quiet clarification. "It's yon kle—a key—to find the way here easily."

"Do you mean a Portkey?"

"Non, non, not like a Pòt-kle: it's meant to guide, not to transport."

So it was a variety of the Plotting Charm, accompanied no doubt by a form of protection in case the boy should face danger. It was admirable magic, performed entirely without wands.

"If I may, what are the subjects your students take?" the headmaster pressed on, curious.

"We teach both maji and non-maji here." The young woman had stressed the last words. "I myself am a non-maji. When the children first come here, they are taught everything they may need regardless of their powers: general education, numbers, English, French, and—it goes without saying—Kreyol. The main difference is introduced when the maji begin to learn what you teach your students at a slightly older age. It's all the practical maji, such as appearing out of thin air or making the objects move without touching them, but also the art of Sakrémaji. The non-maji learn to recognise these practices too; this way, they will stay on their guard without falling prey to the wicked ways. The maji merely go further until they reach the same level as you do. When they travel out, they too know how to appear out of thin air."

Yet unlike the graduates of Hogwarts, they could do it without wands, Albus reflected soberly. With the invention of wands, the Western world had gained both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, this method of channelling magic amplified one's innate powers, rendering a whole range of spells more achievable; on the other hand, it entailed utter dependence on a slim, external, extremely breakable object. Students such as Cedric Diggory would have solid chances of defeating Lucille's older pupils in a duel… as long as they took care to never lose their wands.

"When it comes to Levitation and the other physical spells, do you resort to Latin incantations?" he wondered, anticipating her answer.

His conjecture was proven accurate.

"There are some Latin spells, but we have many of our own Kreyol incantations."

"This raises a fascinating question no one can solve to this day." His features softened in a smile; the fact that he was discussing magical theory with a Muggle stretched belief. He would never live to do the same at home—of this, he was positive. "A number of scholars believe incantations to be of negligible importance—as such, the same enchantment can be renamed in infinity of languages without having its effect altered. Others maintain the incantations are crucial. They claim every culture has produced its own unique spells, which are similar across the world but not entirely identical. To think that magic is at the forefront of most wizards' lives, and still, we know so little of its origin and workings. At least one consensus has emerged among the Western intellectuals: magic, it would appear, is a cosmic force, quantifiable in theory, even if we lack the knowledge to assess its full potential. If we go further, many a study suggests magic should be considered the fifth element: the quintessence. I believe each approach contains a grain of truth, except they omit the spiritual aspect."

Marie nodded.

"Wi, manman Lucille told me how things work overseas. Up North and on the other side of the ocean, you believe maji comes from blood, and this is never questioned. At Uagadou, however, they know maji is a gift sent to people—only, like you say, no one knows who sent it." Her white teeth flashed in a smile. "We tell stories at dinner. Usually, men sit with men and women with women, but you will sit with us."

"It will be my honour."

By the time darkness descended upon the ground, the gardens were buzzing with activity with the eldest students arranging seats on the large patio behind mambo Lucille's headquarters. The teachers hurried back and forth from the nearby bungalow to the lawn, their arms laden with trays and dishes. More adults had joined them: the children's parents. Muggles, Albus could tell, formed a vital part of this community, and anyone who wished to attend was at liberty to do so.

He had already made the acquaintance of Paul, the teacher of English. The young Muggle had not been able to refrain himself from casting a puzzled glance at Albus's blue robes; manifestly, he had expected the British visitor to be clad in traditional attire, the likes of which the headmaster had worn in his youth. Despite the heat, Paul had opted for a silk waistcoat over his ivory shirt. In addition to his promise of translating for Albus in case Marie was called away, he also introduced him to the Mexican member of their staff. The witch stopped to exchange a cheerful if quick greeting with the guest; she could not linger, for that evening, it was her turn to cook.

"Sois le bienvenu! You are the English maji then? I have, of course, heard of you… and your beard. Mostly the beard, now that I think of it. I'm Doria Tayanna, at your service. If you have any special requests for dinner, better tell me now."

"Doria is in the habit of abusing her maji powers," Paul said conspiratorially to Albus. "That's what she really is asking for—a pretext to do some more."

The witch raised an eyebrow. "Abuse them? Paul, please. I use my maji gift. A teacher of English should know the difference between the two."

Marie intervened. "What Paul means to say is that Doria wants everything très vite—no patience at all. Some parents would be shocked if they saw."

"If they saw." The Mexican teacher winked. "I'm not completely daft. Besides, being too cautious is what has led to all this secrecy; people are more receptive of maji than you give them credit for, chérie. I have been a santera all my life, no problem—and before me, my mamá was a santera, and my grand-mamá before her. So you tell me if you need anything chilled with the aid of maji, Mister Englishman. I can help with that."

"Thank you, Doria Tayanna. I'm sure everything you cook will be delicious—there is no need to prepare anything special for me. It's a pleasure to meet you. May I ask what you teach?"

"You would know it as Potions, I imagine. We call it Herbs and Brews."

The subject seemed to combine both Potions and Herbology, perhaps even with a touch of Healing, often practiced within Santería. It was an impressive set of skills.

The patio was filling up; the diners were engaging their friends in conversations. An unspoken barrier divided the groups of men and women while the children formed a crowd of their own. This was not the case for the members of staff. Settled between Marie and Paul, Albus accepted a bowl of rice and black beans from Doria Tayanna with words of thanks. Mambo Lucille sat near; she had spent the last hours of the afternoon securing a suitable habitat for the Horned Serpent in the garden's spring of water. No sooner did she inquire about Albus than the general clamour alerted them to another teacher's appearance. It was a young man with pleasant features, dressed in simple Muggle clothes. He could not be older than thirty.

"Chers amis, il est temps. Krik?"

"Krak," the students chorused.

"This is Joshua from New Orleans," Marie whispered to Albus. "He teaches numbers. He is about to tell a story."

There was a distinct American accent to the young man's French. Before launching into his tale, he gestured towards the newcomer to welcome him, briefly lending him the spotlight. While he did so, several students moved their seats so as to translate for their parents, many of whom spoke only Kreyol.

"There was once a monkey who lived in the forest," Joshua started. "He heard it said a valley lay beyond the confines of the forest, full of the most wondrous stones. To find it, you had to swim across a large river and brave many dangers, but once you did, you wouldn't regret it. Nothing could compare to the beauty of those stones, which gleamed in the sun like jewels. And even this was not what made them so precious. The stones were known to grant unlimited knowledge: those who succeeded in taking one would find out the answers to all the questions humans and creatures had ever asked.

"Finding this valley became the monkey's sole desire and obsession. He jumped from tree to tree, eager to leave his home behind. Just when he reached the edge of the forest and caught a view of the river, a parrot flew up to him to perch on his shoulder. The bird said, 'Turn back while you can; there is nothing in that valley worth having. Any knowledge that is bestowed without being earned will make you miserable.' The monkey didn't listen. He left the forest, swam across the river, and spent days and nights travelling through a dangerous land inhabited by predators, never wavering in his determination.

"At last, the valley stretched before him. And what a sight it was! Sunlight reflected in the purple and pink and blue stones scattered across the grass. Delighted, the monkey strolled between them until a particularly beautiful ruby-red stone captured his attention. It was heavy, so very heavy, but he had just enough strength to lift it and carry it away. And once he walked out of the valley, knowledge flooded his mind and flooded his heart. He knew the answer to every question in the universe; nothing was a mystery to him any longer.

"It brought him euphoria at first. When, however, he returned to his native forest, the other monkeys kept their distance from him. They felt there was nothing left in common between them and their fellow, and they weren't at all curious about the knowledge he had acquired. On the contrary, they disapproved: it seemed to them he thought himself superior for the simple feat of having stolen the answers to everything. Eventually, the monkey learned to stay quiet. He watched the young ones learn and envied the pleasure they found in discovering one fact at a time. He had no use for the treasure he had taken and understood the parrot's words held true: all knowledge had to be earned. Some things, we are not meant to know as they would only cause us suffering. So if one day you come across an old monkey with wise eyes, know that he is guarding the entry to the valley to prevent the others from suffering as he does."

The audience took an instant to digest the tale. Almost at once, a teenage girl raised her hand.

"But why didn't the monkey drop the stone or hide it?"

"A good question." Joshua turned around, encompassing all the listeners in his response. "You can discard a stone, but you can't discard knowledge. True, our memory isn't perfect, but ideas—earned or stolen—are more persistent than anything else: they can stay with you for years and influence your life. That's why it's important to learn the right things."

It was another student's turn to question the story.

"What if every monkey in the forest went to the valley and took a stone? Then they all would be wise."

"The stones were heavy," a boy objected. "And the other monkeys weren't interested in knowing everything."

Albus realised his hands, closed around his empty bowl, were moist with sweat. He swallowed, the memory of Gellert's limp form floating before his eyes. How was his lover different from the hapless monkey? He too possessed forbidden knowledge and had suffered for it his entire life. The Sight was nothing if not a curse.

"Are you all right?" a gentle voice whispered.

Marie had noticed his distress. Judging by the outburst of laughter around them, someone had shared a witty remark.

"Would you like some dessert, wi?" she proposed.

He nodded, uncertain how best to address her concern. A few steps away, Doria Tayanna was handing out lemon pudding while another teacher poured ginger tea into the diners' cups.

"Are you tired?" the young woman persisted.

"Not at all." He smiled at her, willing his shoulders to relax. "I'm very well, and this meal is wonderful. It's only… the story, it touched me. I know someone in the same position. He receives visions of the future."

"Oh… so he is Cursed. I am sorry. Maybe… maybe manman Lucille can help."

As soon as the words left her lips, Albus could not help but picture Harry's expectant expression when, not a year ago, Sirius had been captured and condemned to a fate more sinister than death. Young people tended to idealise their teachers, and Marie's devotion and faith in mambo Lucille were more eloquent than any vows.

He thanked her for her kind care. A second later, Joshua himself dropped into the seat next to him. He was only about to start on his rice and beans.

"You speak English, right?" His voice was energetic. "You liked the story? Poor monkey, huh?"

"The tale is a sad one," Albus agreed, following his example and slipping back into English. "I cannot tell whether the monkey will succeed in protecting the valley for long, though perhaps I am mistaken. You are an outstanding storyteller. Marie has mentioned you teach numbers."

"That's right, maths, calculus—you know, everything you need to count your money properly. I've always liked numbers. I imagined I'd end up somewhere on the East Coast in some big ol' corporation, but this here is way better. What about yourself? I've got word you teach at some fancy English boarding school. You thinking of relocating here?"

The old wizard shook his head. "I have come to meet mambo Lucille and ask for her guidance on protective magic. As a young man, I used to teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts in Scotland; now I'm the school's headmaster. How did you find your way to Haiti, Joshua?"

The other man frowned. "Magic? Ah, so you are a believer?"

He was a Muggle after all—what was more, a Muggle who remained sceptical even while surrounded by magic.

"No judgement," he went on quickly, "lots of folks here are too. My own grandparents believed as well—I'm still doubtful, but that's just me. I like it here for other reasons, though. Crazy story, man—in fact, if I tell you, you won't believe it. So I'm from New Orleans, and like, we ain't got many believers left or anything, but there are some: my grandparents are among them, like I said. So I grew up with all of that in the background, but only at home; at school, we never touched on the subject. So I graduated, wanted to go to the East Coast, applied for a fancy college, and then I got sick, like real sick—grandpa's savings went to the doctors, and I mean all of them. Not sure how much you know about our healthcare; it's kind of a mess. Anyway, the doctors couldn't help, so I thought, what gives, right? I went ahead and booked this boat trip, but then—now that's the crazy part—in the middle of it… I received like a dream or something. I came here—well, not here, to the island—and one thing led to another. I find this place, and I meet Lucille, and she says she runs a charity school with no help from the government, and I'm like, what do you teach? And figure this: they don't have maths in the curriculum. So I thought, look, if I'm going to die anyway, what do I have to lose? So I stayed, and Lucille allowed me to teach, and then I felt better. I'm not sure how, don't ask, but it's like I was born again. So I go home, and I feel like something is missing: people here are real nice, and I don't mean superficially. So what do you know? I came back. Told you it was a crazy story."

"I believe it." Albus smiled, slightly amused by the young man's resolution to ignore the numerous instances of magic he had encountered. "I'm sorry to hear about the struggles you have experienced. If I may ask, what was your ailment like?"

Joshua made an exasperated gesture.

"Hard to explain. I kept losing weight, looked like a skeleton—it's like something was eating away at me, yet no parasites were detected. I sure am happy to have gotten rid of it. You've come to ask for help too then? Or just looking around? I mean, if you ain't going to teach."

"Mister Englishman has come here to make new friends, a que no?" Doria Tayanna had sought them out. She flashed Albus a bright grin. "Joshua is a little chatty, though a great storyteller."

The American shrugged in mock-defeat. "Well, it's not like I can chatter this much during classes. Mister Englishman doesn't mind, right?"

"Not in the slightest."

His ginger tea finished, Albus lowered his cup. A little girl caught his eye; she was speaking to her parents while pointing at him excitedly.

"Mesye Lalin," they heard her utter.

At this, the members of staff burst into good-natured laughter.

"Mean," the Mexican witch declared. "Remember the day I came here? You did the same to me. You at least, Joshua, should know better."

"Sorry." The young man shrugged again. "It's true that the Creole they speak here is all weird. I mean, I had to learn French."

While Paul and Marie exchanged a visible eye-roll, Doria turned towards Albus to explain.

"It means 'moon man'. Your beard shines as brightly as the moon—I did tell you earlier that I'd heard about your beard even before we met in person. Now the children have given you a name. You are Mesye Lalin, the Moon Man."

"It has a ring to it." Joshua chuckled. "I like it."

Mambo Lucille chose that moment to approach, her aura imposing and reassuring all at once.

"Bonsoir, bonsoir. Are you bunch all fed now?"

As Doria Tayanna drew a breath, Albus divined the friendship between the two witches could be compared to his closeness towards Minerva.

"Oh, Lucille, I was the one cooking tonight; of course they are all well-fed. Will you be having a chat with the parents?"

"A part of my duties as the headmistress." The mambo's gaze met Albus's. "The parents who join us for dinner also want to stay informed on their children's progress. But you come to my office tomorrow, and we will talk. I will show you Pétale's new home. For tonight, I trust Marie to take good care of you."

"Wi, manman Lucille."

The small bungalow Marie led Albus to after he had wished the others a good night was situated in a peaceful corner of the garden.

"The night insects won't bother you; there are nets on the windows," she promised. "But this place… it has been blessed by the deities. You may be sent dreams while you sleep. If you'd rather not, I can ask Doria for one of her brews—she can prepare a drink that will allow you an uninterrupted sleep."

He shook his head. "It's all right, Marie; I don't mind receiving a dream. You have been very kind. Thank you. I wish you a good and calm night."

His bedroom contained a four-poster bed, as well as a carved wardrobe and a matching table with a chair. His tiredness notwithstanding, the wizard was much too agitated to sleep. He suspected mambo Lucille was testing him: this was why she had not yet addressed the motive behind his visit. Unless his instincts lied, she was not disappointed in him. He would do his utmost to win her over; now that the first impressions had settled in, he hoped to gain not only her help but also her friendship.

No less than two hours had passed since the heat in the air had dissipated into the night. Even so, there was no need for a blanket. Settled on the bed, Albus contemplated the low, dark ceiling. It was the middle of the night in Britain; soon, it would in fact be the wee hours of the morning. But Britain felt far-removed from this scorching, colourful land where magic was permeated with the deities' intent. In his exhaustion, this land was all he could focus on. How could it be then that his senses had never felt more vigilant? He could hear faint, rhythmic rustling behind the window: it was the tall grass swinging in the breeze, home to hundreds of tiny creatures. In his mind, he could see a nocturnal bird flying over the garden in search of prey. If he so wished, he could imagine himself flowing with the current in the spring and watching it pour its crystal-clear waters into the pond. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada let out a long chirp.

There was no telling when sleep claimed him, for one mental picture succeeded another, fluctuating seamlessly. From the sunlit hills of Haiti, he was transported to a wild, windswept landscape with a river that was also a mirror. The sky was blushing in the setting sun. On the shore, a single canoe lay waiting with a ram prepped against it. The delightfully fresh air carried the scent of campfire.

Suddenly, he became aware he was being observed, and he spun around. A man was standing behind him, tall and majestic, dressed in the clothes of the Cheyenne tribe. His waist-long hair, as black as a raven's wing, was adorned with three feathers. He did nothing at first but gaze; then a smile of affection lit his proud features. It caused Albus's heart to swell with warmth.

When his eyes opened on a brilliant morning, it took him a few seconds to comprehend where he was. Not without haste, he attended to his routine, embarrassed to have slept in.

Patently, the classes took place on Saturday mornings as well, for Joshua's voice floated from one of the windows in what was unmistakably a lecture. Another adult was busy ushering a group of children out for a walk in nature. The old wizard made his way towards the headmistress's house, all but blushing.

He found mambo Lucille poring over sheets of parchment. That day, she was clad in a beige dress, similar to the one she had worn the evening before. Albus knocked on the open door.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you. My dreams were untroubled. I believe…" He hesitated. "I believe my mèt tèt revealed himself to me."

"Aha! That means you are doing something right. Most people spend their lives out of tune with their mèt tèt. How are you feeling? Should I send a word to Tayanna for a brew against headache? She has done her fair share of travelling and is bound to have something on hand. Alternatively, help yourself to some of this freshly pressed orange juice. Marie is such a sweetheart; she always makes sure I have something refreshing to start my day with."

"Thank you; I truly am feeling well." He had a fair idea what his face had to look like: nothing but tired lines and circles beneath his eyes. "You have all been very kind. Yesterday evening will always hold a special place in my heart."

"Thank you for coming," she echoed, smiling earnestly. "But now that you have heard our stories, you must be itching to tell yours, n'est-ce pas? Aurora mentioned in her letter you had an important request I alone could fulfil."

She offered him a chair, and he sat down, a little nervous.

"It's true… and I wonder where to start." He inhaled; the words came to him spontaneously. "It all began almost a century ago. I was very young when my circumstances changed dramatically: I met the love of my life and made lifelong decisions. Before, I used to wish for simple things and didn't dare dream of happiness—it's my other half who inspired me to always take into account the bigger picture. He had an ambition: to end the Statute of Secrecy in Europe. This law was the reason our families had been torn apart, and we wished to spare the others from the same fate. We conceived a plan to bring about reforms that would permit wizards and Muggles to live together in unity and harmony, just like at your school. But our bliss was short-lived: by my own foolishness, I was unable to come to an agreement with my brother, and a terrible conflict ensued. All three of us contributed to my sister's accidental death. Stricken with grief and guilt, my beloved was forced to leave alone. With time, he attempted to achieve our dream on his own. His name is Gellert Grindelwald.

"He erroneously believed that I loathed him for my sister's death—as if he were to blame for my faults—so he evaded me for years, for decades. He surrounded himself by ill-intentioned individuals, who ruined his life's work. When I finally found him, all we had was a brief instant together. He was tried and sentenced to imprisonment for life. This prison, he had built himself, designing it for the criminals—wizards and Muggles alike—who preyed on the helpless and walked away unpunished. The enchantments he had put in place to render their sentence more oppressive were meant to mimic the sense of powerlessness they themselves had inflicted on their victims. Only, he is now the one who suffers for it. It's been almost fifty years of torture, my visits being the sole distraction he has. One thing alone is powerful enough to lift the Dark magic in his cell: your candles."

He paused, his throat dry.

"It is thanks to Aurora that I discovered them, and they have been more helpful than I can express. But I feel it's a matter of time before his guards catch him in the act of using them. So I have come to implore your help. If there is the slightest chance I could learn to cast the spell that suffuses your candles in order to purify his cell of Dark magic, I will spare no time or effort in doing so. I wish his remaining years to be at least a little more tolerable. Please forgive me if my request sounds insolent—offending you is not my intention. Everything I've ever done, I've done out of love."

Lucille had listened to the end. Her voice was tranquil when she spoke.

"I have, of course, heard of this blanc bokor—everybody has. On my life journey, I have encountered a great many bokors too. They can appear very charming and convincing."

Hearing Gellert called by this term felt odd. Bokors were inherently self-serving and ruthless; the German wizard, on the other hand, had never acted out of selfish interest. All he had done, good or bad, had been carried out with a noble goal in mind, and he had personally gained nothing by it. Naturally, the international propaganda disagreed.

"Gellert is both," Albus admitted. "This being said, he has never hidden his nature from me. In truth, he has shown me his memories, including his moments of weakness and his darkest thoughts, and I have done the same. He is not what the European Ministries or MACUSA would have us believe."

"This tactic is clever, no doubt," she returned calmly. "Bokors will give you just enough care and information to gain your sympathy and understanding. In some cases, this method works so efficiently that their victims follow them willingly. They lose their lives, their souls, willingly. Why, you are aware, of course, of the mess our non-maji created by enslaving the less fortunate among them. We live with the consequences to this day."

"I know."

Albus was not surprised; he had witnessed this sceptical attitude far too often where his lover was concerned. It did not prevent unease from settling in the pit of his stomach.

"You know. Yet here you are, convinced your bokor is somehow different, better, misunderstood. Pas vrai?"

It seemed as though she could see to the bottom of his heart. It was a vulnerable sensation, yet not altogether an unwelcome one. He did not even consider magically concealing his thoughts and feelings.

"You are right, I believe him different. I have known him for almost as long as I've known myself. We have no secrets from each other."

"All right, let me ask you this: has he killed, your bokor? Has he taken a life?"

"He has."

If only one could go back in time… Albus would have advised Gellert against those decisions, guiding him towards more enlightened methods.

"Many lives?"

"I don't know how many. I can only tell with certainty the bloodshed linked to his name was the work of his vicious followers, perpetrated without his knowledge or consent. Yet I will not deny he has killed as well."

"And yet, you just told me seconds ago you had no secrets from each other, that you had shared everything. See what mistakes you make?"

The mambo smiled, a smile without malice.

"It is clear to me you are blinded by your love. It is no sin to love, but it is a sin not to listen. We have a saying here: you can bring a mule to water, but you cannot force it to drink. You, Mesye Lalin, must not be that mule. You listen to what I say. You have heard from chère Aurora and the blancs of your country that I condemn the Secrecy Law—same as your bokor. You have been here long enough now to see what I do differently. So in your own words, what do I do differently?"

"You nurture," the wizard replied at once. "You protect. You do not resort to force to persuade anyone who resists."

Lucille nodded.

"It has its own challenges. Look at the very same Joshua: the two of you talked last night, and if he didn't say anything disrespectful to you without meaning to, I will indeed be amazed. That boy wasn't far from insinuating that I should go and get myself fixed in one of those non-maji cages, all the while begging for my help. His story is an interesting one—the most stubborn non-maji I have ever laid my eyes on, he is. He lives here and experiences maji every moment of every day. And what does he do? He assures us that he 'ain't got no judgement' for our ways, as he puts it. Very generous of him, for sure, but not amusing for my chère amie Tayanna, a proud witch, who would love to use her wand openly, even if it's unnecessary. Those are the challenges you face when you bring the maji and the non-maji together. Some will be receptive, some will come up with their own concepts to name what they see, and some, like Joshua, need time and patience.

"He was cursed by a bokor, you know. It came after years of dismissing maji as nothing more than his grandparents' silly beliefs; as a result, he will need even more time to accept maji as something good. He isn't the only one either. Bokors are out there, preying on ignorance and fear, and the non-maji not only avoid but actively deny the existence of maji. Fear, Mesye Lalin, is a powerful, powerful weapon. I told those fancy MACUSA ministers as much when I held the speech that got me on Madam Picquery's personal list of enemies. But why am I telling you all this? Ah, because your blanc bokor has done the same. He has discussed it with you: the fear, the radicalisation it leads to. Only, his instincts push him towards aggression, and one cannot fight fire with fire, Mesye Lalin, or it will produce even more fear, and the cycle will be endless. Fear does not preach twice. And before you jump to your bokor's defence, ask yourself this: since you approve of his ideas, where did he go wrong in his methods? Where did you go wrong? Why is it that the whole world has heard of him by now? Why is he feared? What crimes did he commit to end up locked up and bound? You think about it. Dust does not lift without wind."

Albus lowered his gaze at the carefully groomed flowers on her desk. He knew she was speaking the truth. He also knew Gellert had long since—before his imprisonment even—realised his mistakes and repented for all the damage he had caused.

"You are right, mambo Lucille," he acquiesced. "His instincts prompted him to resort to Dark magic and force on a number of occasions when it was uncalled for. He wouldn't always sense the line, and for this, he needed guidance. Call it arrogance on my part, but I'm positive the outcome would have been different, had we stayed together in the days of our youth. He is not an unreasonable wizard and would have listened to caring advice. Our suffering is my fault. Now… we are two old men. He understands where he has failed."

"And you are confident he will not revert to his old ways?" The witch raised her eyebrows. "As, I believe, they say in your country, bad habits are like a comfortable bed: easy to get into but hard to get out of."

"How could he?" The Englishman's smile was melancholy. "He can never leave his prison. I only wish to give him a chance to live out his remaining years without suffocating on Dark magic. I saw it manifest as black fog. If his cell is purified, he will become able to cast wandless spells and practice astral projection. That is all: harming the others is the furthest thing from his mind."

"Black fog, you say?" Lucille's eyes probed his features. "No precise form?"

"No, merely swirling black fog. We saw it when we lit the candles in a pentagonal shape: it was floating around us, seeping through the walls. The difference in atmosphere was perceptible."

She took a minute to ponder this revelation. A gentle draught from the open door caressed their skin.

"How much do you know of the workings of Sakrémaji?" she inquired at last.

"Very little. I have only had one lesson on astral projection."

"And your… wizard? How much does he know?"

"He has researched it in detail. Conjuring was his favourite subject at Durmstrang, and it was mostly composed of Sakrémaji."

"And he has Conjured this black fog himself?"

Albus nodded.

"I see." She straightened up, her tone turning resolute. "Here is what we'll do. You are welcome to stay as long as you like and as long as your duties permit. Then you go home and talk to him. If I am to help, there will be conditions. It is my understanding that you wish to undo what he has done—that is, you want to master this maji. That's why you brought Pétale: so that I would teach you. I have never made any promises; I've listened to you, and it is clear as day that you remain a mule who doesn't want to drink the water. You vouch for his good character out of love and belief, not out of knowledge. Unlike your wizard, you also lack the first-hand experience in Sakrémaji. You sit here and make pledges, but you don't know what he will do once his maji is released. In many ways, Sakrémaji is more powerful than the maji you practice at home. When he is free to practice it, what will he do? That is my question—one that you shall relay to him. If I am to help, I have to know he accepts my condition. And my condition is that he give me his blood. I shall bind him from doing harm. He will know what it means."

Her verdict and, more significantly, the way it was uttered left Albus with an impression he could not describe. For the first time since his childhood, he felt pacified, much like a schoolboy. And he knew beyond a doubt he had disappointed his host after all, which greatly saddened him. He nodded his agreement.

"I will. Thank you, mambo Lucille. Thank you for inviting me and listening to my story, for regarding us with compassion and for being sincere."

The witch smiled.

"You are not being denied. And as for your request, you shouldn't be taking responsibility for it. You are not the one who summoned the black fog; as such, you don't know what you are asking for. Now come. It is almost time for lunch, and you are cordially invited."