The single bell of the chapel near Hogsmeade was tolling eight o'clock when Albus landed in the High Street. As if it had awaited his arrival, a powerful gust of wind bore down upon him, seeping under his cloak and leaving gooseflesh to race down his arms. He propped a hand against the nearest wall and breathed. Two transcontinental Apparition journeys within twenty-four hours were claiming their due: now, more than ever, he could feel the full weight of his age. He fixed his gaze on a string of Christmas lights tossed by the wind while his chest rose and fell, as rapid as a ticking clock.
When lunch had ended and he had said his goodbyes, Marie had escorted him out of the school premises. Thoughtful as ever, she had pressed his hand, many words of kind wishes on her lips. She had also revealed a piece of news mambo Lucille had never mentioned: they were hoping to find another teacher, one who knew all about animals and beasts. As he shivered in the snow-covered street, Albus permitted himself a brief, impossible fantasy. What would it feel like if he could bring Gellert to Haiti? Together, they would teach in the garden of magic, where summer never came to a close. They would defend the school from threats and leave only to visit their loved ones. A sweet fancy, as tangible as ether.
He pulled his cloak tightly around him, looking at the invitingly lit windows. A perpendicular street led from the Apparition point to a small pub, half as old as the village itself. It would, no doubt, be busy on a Saturday evening, especially when the New Year celebrations were barely over. And yet… when else would a convenient moment present itself? Circumstances had been leading towards this instant, and no excuse could be made for ignoring them.
With a nervous hand, he retrieved Alvo's book from an inner pocket and cast a Doubling Charm. His legs carried him forth into the tiny medieval building.
Almost every table had been occupied—should a drama ensue, there would be witnesses. It mattered little. Aberforth stood at the bar, dropping coins into the wooden till. Uncannily, every year rendered them more similar in appearance and ever more estranged in spirit.
"Nice tan." A frosty glance accompanied the comment. "If you haven't come for a pint, better get out."
Albus resisted the urge to touch his face. With the Cooling Charm in place and no mirrors on hand, he had not noticed how red his skin had become. His response was even.
"A few days ago, I received a gift that has taught me a great deal on our mother's origin, upbringing, and youth. I've made a copy for you."
He placed the book on the counter. For a few seconds, Aberforth appeared too stunned for words. Slowly, he picked it to leaf through the pages.
"Order yourself a pint and pay for it," he uttered at last. "You are a customer like any other."
The invitation held no sympathy, but it was one nonetheless.
"Very well; I'll have a cider, please."
Grateful to discover a few coins of spare change in his pocket, Albus collected his bottle and glass and went to claim the only available table—a small one by the wall. Despite the warmth of the pub, he kept shivering at the abrupt drop in the temperature; he could not help himself. Aberforth joined him after temporarily closing the counter.
"Who gave it to you?"
"Alvo, the son of my adopted children. He is a researcher."
A bitter sneer met those words.
"Adopted children. I see. You got yourself a new family, eh? Ours was never good enough for you, was it now? Too lowly, too shameful for great Albus Dumbledore."
After witnessing the harmony in Lucille's community, Albus had no intention of arguing. What he felt was compassion: because of a life-long wound, his brother remained bitter and lonely to this day. He suddenly wondered whether they shared the same mèt tèt.
"You are the only person our mother loved." His tone was quiet, conciliatory. "At least in our family. You know it's true."
"I don't care, you know," Aberforth rejoined, as though he had not heard. "You made your choice when you brought that scum to our doorstep. What do you want with this book now?"
"Nothing. I merely believe you should have it." In spite of the lingering chill, the headmaster took a sip of cider. He wavered before venturing his first question. "Did mother come from the Cheyenne tribe?"
"What do you care?"
"I have always cared. She was my mother too."
"Always cared?" The other wizard snorted, his eyes blazing. "Please. That gossiper from across the street was more of a family to you than we ever were. Why the hypocrisy, all of a sudden? You need a favour? Want me to keep an eye on that Potter boy? No need to ask; I'd have done it anyway."
"I know." Albus tried anew. "I don't need a favour. All I want is to know the answer to a few questions about our mother. Where was she from? What was her true name? Did she ever attend a school for wizards? Did she decide to go by Kendra of her own accord? If anyone knows, it's you."
"Why now, after so many years?"
"I… I can't run from the past any longer." How could he explain this abundance of signs and omens that kept multiplying in his daily life? He felt like a traveller struggling to identify the correct path while invisible guides whispered directions in his ear in a language he did not speak. "I was afraid for a long time—aggrieved too. It has to end: whatever their disagreements, our parents have left a legacy that deserves to be embraced."
"It's too late for that. Mother is dead. Father is dead. Ari is dead. What of it?"
"You and I are not dead yet. We are all that's left of both families."
"Are you daft?" For once, there was no cutting quality to Aberforth's voice, only iciness. "It's over, Albus. Go back to whatever beach you got your tan from; it will be for the best."
They could be strangers, yet they understood each other accurately. Those few snippets of information Kendra had shared with Aberforth were his treasure, and he would continue guarding them; the gift of the book changed nothing. All Albus could do was finish his cider and stand up.
"All right. Happy New Year."
He walked out without a backward look.
Tired though he was, it was necessary that he make a detour through the staffroom and ascertain nothing of importance had transpired while he had been away. Inside, he found two teachers: an unruffled Severus, who was writing a report, and an agitated Minerva.
"Albus, you are back!" She hurried forward, only to stop dead in her tracks. "Your face… it's sunburned."
Snape raised his head, his attention aroused, but the witch was already waving her remark away.
"Anyway, it's not too soon: we have an emergency. Look!"
She thrust that morning's newspaper edition into his hands. The front page title—Dumbledore's Giant Mistake—was deliberately striking, and a moving photograph of Hagrid preceded it to ensure that anyone who may have overlooked it did not miss the rest. His heart sinking, Albus read the article.
An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, it claimed, Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to terrify the students in his care with a succession of horrific creatures. Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons.
"We all hate Hagrid, but we're just too scared to say anything," it added through Draco Malfoy's voice.
In conclusion, it asserted, Fridwulfa's son appears to have inherited her brutal nature. Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow students, is warned about the dangers of associating with part-giants.
The Daily Prophet was having a field day. Once again, Rita Skeeter had done what she did best: she had squeezed sensation out of a controversial fact that benefitted no one and could only result in conflict. With her inability—or, indeed, unwillingness—to write about a single useful topic, she remained the newspaper's most lucrative correspondent, and the Prophet was as good as a monopoly. The entire country would have read of Hagrid's private affairs by now, discussing it at dinner like a piece of sordid gossip. Instead, they could have been reading about the warning signs of Voldemort's return, especially Bertha Jorkins's disappearance. Albus handed back the print, repulsed.
"How is he?"
"He…" Minerva hesitated, shook her head. "Well, he hasn't come out since breakfast. He won't see anyone. I thought he might agree to see you."
All plans of an early bedtime forgotten, the headmaster headed for the door.
"What are you going to do?" she called after him. "We need to think of the classes. If he… can't teach on Monday, how will we reorganise the schedule? A replacement would be best, of course, but with only one day left…"
After years of friendship, they knew Hagrid well. He would not be up to teaching.
"I'm going to talk to him," he assured her, one hand on the door handle. "If he needs a sick leave, I'll visit Mina Grubbly-Plank first thing tomorrow. Hopefully, she is home."
Minerva nodded. She was nervous: her fingers would not cease worrying her tartan scarf.
"I would recommend confiscating his whiskey stash," Snape suggested, his quill dancing across the parchment. "The substance is highly flammable."
"Right."
Albus frowned. When the First Task had come to pass, he had issued an order that deprived Rita Skeeter of her right to interview any inhabitant of Hogwarts without an official authorisation. One torturous photoshoot had been quite enough, and there certainly was no need for another false, predatory article on Harry. For once, he had received Cornelius Fudge's approval, for the latter's efforts to hush up the Tournament had not wavered. Manifestly, not even this had deterred the journalist. To foil them, she had secured an interview not only with the gamekeeper, but with at least one Slytherin student as well. Could Draco Malfoy have told her of Hagrid's heritage? It was a piece of information he could easily have overheard from an adult.
The sky-blue eyes sought out the dark ones. "Severus, have you addressed your House?"
"Headmaster?"
The question had taken the Potions Master aback. Albus gestured towards the discarded newspapers.
"If I have read correctly, Mr Malfoy is directly referenced in this piece. Have you spoken to him about it?"
The answer was as cautious as expected.
"No. I wasn't aware of these events, you see."
"It is a rather important matter, Severus." Most of the time, the old wizard avoided the sententious tone. This time, he felt it was justified. "Imagine a student from Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff speaking to the press with the sole intention of tainting your reputation. Would you consider it acceptable? There is no excuse for students to drag their teachers' names through the mud, none at all. Can I trust you to explain as much to Mr Malfoy and his peers? It must never happen again."
As aggravated as Snape appeared to be by this reprimand, he gave a curt nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. Albus did not entirely believe his promise—nor did Minerva, he could tell, even as she hid her scepticism behind professional composure—but he knew better than to pressure the young man. With a wish of a good night, he made his way downstairs and back into the night.
The curtains of the hut were drawn; the door was bolted. He knocked on the massive wooden door.
"Hagrid, may I come in? It is I, Dumbledore."
The reply came not from the gamekeeper but from Fang the boarhound, who yapped excitedly.
"Hagrid?"
Unless it was his imagination, the faintest of grunts carried over the noise. He cast a wandless spell and let himself in. A second later, the dog leapt towards him, tail waggling, eager to lick his nose.
"There, now, my boy."
The house reflected its owner's state. The single candle burning inside a lantern was powerless against the shadows creeping along the walls, but it concealed none of the disarray. There were scraps of food, unwashed dishes, empty bottles fit to fill up a cupboard, and a tangled, stained blanket tied in a knot. Even worse was the smell. Near the extinguished fireplace, Hagrid sat slumped on the floor, a bottle the size of a watering canister in hand. He blinked at the headmaster.
"P'fess'r Dum'ldore, s'r. 'Tis a li'le messy…"
"Fear not, my dear fellow." Albus put a soothing hand on one large arm. "I'll stay with you."
With a flick of his wand, he levitated the scattered objects to their original spots, siphoning the puddles of mess and Charming the dishes to scrub themselves clean while the blanket folded itself. Soft golden light filled the room once he conjured several glass-covered lamps. Hagrid, he was afraid, was in no shape to stand up, not even to walk a few paces towards the sofa.
After producing some food and water for the dog, Albus set two floating mugs of tea to cool and joined Hagrid on the floor. The distressed gamekeeper had barely taken note of the proceedings; he merely squinted at the light.
"Broke me hear', she di'." Two fat tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes. "Big bones, she say."
As disconnected as those words sounded, they were unlikely to apply to Rita Skeeter, however vicious her article was.
"Th'y'll think I'm a monst'r."
"You are one of my closest friends, Hagrid," the wizard said gently. "One of the finest lads I know."
"… thin' I'm a monst'r…"
The beetle black eyes were glazed and glistening, and, gingerly, Albus focused. The sort of Legilimency he meant to resort to was not thorough; it was but a brief, passive glimpse into Hagrid's mind. At once, a flash of colour flooded his conscience: the gleam of a silk lavender gown against the green and red of the rosebushes. Her voice high-pitched, her features flushed with furious indignation, Madame Maxime was turning on her heel to storm away while a dumbfounded Hagrid gaped at her from the bench by the fountain. It had happened during the Yule Ball.
The headmaster pulled away before the mental intrusion could amplify the other man's nausea. If time had been of no consequence, he could have explored this memory, identifying all the witnesses to the scene. A handful of people must have overheard Olympe's outburst: the grotto had after all been a success among the teenage couples, so much so that Snape and Karkaroff had spent most of the evening patrolling it. As it was, a full investigation was out of the question tonight, and all he felt was disappointment. How Olympe Maxime viewed her heritage was her business and hers alone, but why the ear-splitting theatrics? Why could she not have kept that conversation private? Whether she realised it or not, her attitude revealed more about her than it did about her companion. Not that Rita Skeeter or her informant cared.
"She 'ates me," Hagrid croaked. More tears dribbled into his beard.
He said little else; when he spoke, it was to voice those fears over and over again. Albus listened, his fingers absently stroking Fang's head. In the end, he persuaded the gamekeeper to drink a few sips of tea and watched him cry himself to sleep. There were a number of tasks to attend to: secure the unconscious man in a safe position with a pillow and a blanket, empty the pantry of all liquor, air the cabin, take the boarhound for a walk, and summon a trustworthy house-elf. He knew just the one. The truth was that both Hagrid and Fang needed care, and with the new semester upon them, the teachers' workload was about to increase.
Villy came at once; not long ago, she had been the one in charge of Harry's safety. She accepted the headmaster's instructions in silence, yet something about the way her yellow eyes lingered on the sleeping half-giant seemed peculiar.
"What is it, Villy?"
She swallowed. "It's Winky, sir. She is exactly the same."
The following morning, he skipped breakfast to go to hilly Somerset, judging this course of action to be more helpful than a hostile silence contest with Madame Maxime. To his relief, Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank was at home; she opened promptly, as zestful as he had always known her to be.
"Albus Dumbledore! What a surprise! Come on in!"
The wizard entered, beaming, his arms rising in an embrace. Recently, his role had often been that of a dreaded, unwelcome guest.
"Happy New Year, Mina. I hope I find you well. Please pardon this intrusion."
Her hug was solid and warm.
"And to you, most certainly—let it be the best one yet! Fancy a cuppa? I do have something stronger too unless you're on duty."
"Tea would be lovely. Thank you."
A fire was lit in her sitting room; wafting from the radio was a jazz tune.
"How are you, dear?" he asked, his hands outstretched towards the hearth.
"Honestly? Dying of boredom." The witch gestured around her. "Look at my house: it hasn't been this clean in years. A bad sign, let me tell you. When I'm happy, I bring in twigs from the garden and sleep between them. This cleanliness, it's purely to keep the boredom at bay… and a losing battle it is too. A quiet retirement is simply not for me. I thought of going hiking in the Pyrenees next week, so you've reached me just in time."
Her energy was so contagious that he found himself grinning. Unless he was much mistaken, this was not a coincidence; no, it was yet another event that had been meant to be.
"The trip sounds wonderful. In truth, I have come to you with a proposition—two of them—but don't feel pressured to agree. Say… would you be interested in a job that involves teaching, travelling, magical creatures, and heat?"
Wilhelmina's grey eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Heat, teaching, and creatures, you say. I would love to, but I'm afraid my French is nowhere good enough for applying to Beauxbatons. Or did you somehow manage to charm that new headmistress of theirs?"
"Oh, no, I don't believe so." Turning his back on the fire, Albus considered the witch, his merry smile never fading. "The place I have in mind is Haiti. Last evening, I returned from the small yet excellent school run by mambo Lucille Le Fleur, and I've been told they are looking for an expert in creatures. The student body and staff consist of both wizards and Muggles. Had I been younger, I would have been tempted to apply—that's the highest recommendation I can give."
"Muggles?" She exhaled. "Merlin's beard, how did that Lucille woman achieve that? Oh, do let's sit down. Let me fetch the kettle—we'll need plenty of tea."
They settled down in the armchairs, and for a long while, Albus shared his findings and observations with the witch. He described the teachers, the students and their parents, the dinner under the stars, and the locals' attitude towards magic.
"Their life without the Statute of Secrecy has resulted in a peculiar balance," he concluded. "Muggles are aware magic exists, even if they don't fully understand its power and nature. Seeing how many challenges they have been going through, mambo Lucille is open to welcoming anyone who needs help. She understands the children aren't likely to find it elsewhere."
"Hmm." Wilhelmina was staring into the flames. A few feet away, the kettle added some boiled water into their mugs. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Go ahead, dear."
Still deep in thought, she lit her pipe.
"Well, it is baffling to me," she confessed. "I have to see it. I mean, even when we travel, we are taught not to use magic in front of Muggles and to stay discreet, going as far as to modify their memories when it comes to the worst. Frankly, I struggle to imagine a scenario where a Muggle wouldn't go running at the sight of spellwork. And you're telling me they all live under the same roof, so to say?"
"Exactly. Lucille and Doria Tayanna are witches, unlike Marie and Paul—two Muggle teachers, who comprehend magic and are comfortable with it. For personal reasons, the remaining Muggle member of the staff, Joshua, needs more time to admit its existence. Even in that environment, one cannot forget caution as the parents of certain children don't approve of wizardry. It is my impression, however, that Lucille has established a harmonious system."
"Well, I most certainly am intrigued." Wilhelmina met his gaze, her posture one of determination. "So they have decided to include Care of Magical Creatures in their curriculum?"
Pleased by her interest, Albus nodded. "I wouldn't worry too much about the language barrier: while most classes are taught in French or Kreyol, students actively learn English. I'm supposed to return to Haiti in a couple of weeks. If the proposition is tempting, I'll be delighted to introduce you."
Such a prospect was much too invigorating for a calm conversation. The witch stood up to pace across the room, the wisps of smoke from her pipe trailing behind her.
"The proposition is tempting for sure. Now that Hagrid teaches the subject at Hogwarts, it should be safe for me to travel such a distance." She laughed a hearty, spontaneous chuckle. "How lucky that you've reached me! Only imagine: had you come a few days later, I would have departed for the Pyrenees. Speaking of which, any chance Spanish might be used for teaching? I would love to speak the language more frequently; it's a part of the reason I keep returning to the Pyrenees—well, that and the good food. Their cuisine is exquisite. I actually meant to drop by at Hogwarts and give Minerva some ham; I've been promising it for ages."
"There will definitely be room for Spanish, and I dare say you will love Doria. As far as lessons go, it would be best to discuss the options with Lucille."
He watched her stride towards a heavy bookshelf in search of old notes and maps, and despite the jolly mood brought by the news, gravity stole into his expression. He set his mug down.
"There is something else. I'm not sure if you've had a chance to read the latest edition of the Daily Prophet… you see, Miss Skeeter has ruthlessly attacked Hagrid. He won't be up to teaching this week. That's why Minerva and I have been wondering whether you might consent to take over his classes while he is on sick leave."
Wilhelmina turned around, an exasperated sigh on her lips. "Oh, dear. Not that again." She shook her head. "I cancelled my subscription to that rag years ago. Hagrid should do too—by the sound of it, it doesn't do much for his self-esteem. How is he?"
"He is distressed; he'll need his friends' support and a little time to himself. It just happened to come straight after an emotional blow." The headmaster shrugged regretfully. "I understand it's extremely short notice. Under different circumstances, I would never have asked you to come to teach within twenty-four hours."
A smile lifted her features, crinkling her eyes. "Well, how could I say no? I take it Hagrid hasn't left a working plan, has he? That's all right; I never throw anything away. Give me this afternoon so I can come up with a list of creatures. Oh, and if Minerva has a moment, maybe she could owl me a copy of the timetables? She always has those on hand."
"It will be attended to." Albus rose, not retreating until he pulled her into one last hug. "Thank you for accepting, Mina, dear. I won't take more of your time—come whenever you are ready. The house-elves will have your usual room prepared for you. It will be a pleasure to work with you again. And soon, we will talk of our journey."
The rest of his day was much less successful. All attempts at engaging Barty Crouch in a dialogue died in their crib, for no matter for how long he rang the bell to the official's carefully groomed house in London, no one would open the door. The building was imbued with protective magic, and there was little point in questioning the Muggle neighbourhood.
Had the house been deserted, he would have left without a feeling of unease. Disturbingly, though, a silhouette could be discerned through one of the windows on the first floor. Albus knocked on the pristine door, convinced he was inches away from elucidating the entire tangled affair. This time, he did receive a response: the brown doormat beneath his feet vibrated before changing its appearance. It no longer read WELCOME; instead, the embellished word had morphed into an emphatic DO NOT DISTURB. By the time he glanced back at the window, the shadow had vanished. Nothing else broke the tomb-like silence.
Another heavy surprise awaited him at Hogwarts. After finding no liquor in his pantry, Hagrid had somehow succeeded in laying his hands on a new delivery of whiskey bottles. While a house-elf tended to his inert form, Rolanda Hooch took a barking Fang for a walk; she had volunteered to care for him for as long the circumstances required. In the midst of this commotion, Albus spoke to Lompy.
"It is true what Villy says, master," the head house-elf declared. "Winky is refusing to work, sir. Winky is spending the day in front of the fire, she is, crying for Mr Crouch and drinking three or four bottles of Butterbeer a day—from Hogwarts supplies, Lompy might add. It is distracting, sir—the rest of us are wanting to do a good job and make the school proud. Sometimes students is coming to ask for food, and what a shame it is that they are seeing one of us like this! They will think we are all like Winky."
The headmaster heaved a sigh. "No one could come into our school and think our house-elves lacking in any respect. You are the best workers I could have wished for, Lompy. I understand your concern. The truth is, Winky has nowhere else to go. Hogwarts ought to be hospitable and offer her a place to stay, even if she isn't ready to work. All I ask of you is to please be gentle with her."
The little creature was much too courteous to voice his discontent.
"Yes, master; Lompy understands," he said at last, and Albus wondered whether those words held true.
He left Hagrid's Hut and was walking towards the castle when a soft rustling sound alerted him to an animal's presence. Something small and fluffy stepped out of the bushes: a ginger Kneazle with bright yellow eyes and a flat muzzle.
"Why, hello there."
Squatting down, Albus reached out to stroke it. The Kneazle did not shy away from his touch; on the contrary, it meowed and angled its head. This drew the wizard's attention to the tiny piece of parchment tied to its neck. As soon as he undid it, the animal turned to run back into the bushes. The note contained a single sentence: We need to talk, same time, same place.
It did little to improve the wizard's spirits. So far, he had no news worth sharing on the Second Task; besides, when all was said and done, he was finished allowing Sirius to dictate their encounters. They would meet once he deemed the time appropriate.
That day's only highlight was a lengthy conversation with Aurora, who had giggled at the sight of his tan before asking him numerous questions on her old school. The following morning, an inconsolable Hagrid barricaded himself in his house. Wilhelmina had arrived prepared; so smooth was her teaching that no stranger could have suspected her of having retired five years earlier. Albus rejoiced at seeing her and Minerva whispering together, thick as thieves. Shortly afterwards, an owl brought him another cause for joy: he was expected in Vienna on the following day.
The Austrian Ministry of Magic had always puzzled him with its opulent, ornamental façade and its unassuming interior. What resembled a palace from afar held offices that could best be described as cosy and reserved. True, each painting was a masterpiece and each item of furniture was costly and built to last; only, it lacked the ostentatiousness shared by a number of governments.
The secretary to the Minister for Magic was a bustling middle-aged witch in a brown skirt suit, her blonde hair twisted into a sleek knot. She frowned at Albus's credentials, visibly unhappy about this distraction to her routine.
"These titles will take ages to read out. Is there a shorter way I can introduce you?"
"Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts."
"All right, please take a seat. I'll call you as soon as the Minister is available."
Not until the door bearing the words Hagen Ebensee, Zaubereiminister swung open to admit him did she enquire whether he cared for a drink. By then, he was already experiencing a heavy déjà vu. Every single trip to this office—and he had gone there a good dozen times since the forties—had brought him unwelcome news. Would Herr Ebensee prove to be any different from his predecessors?
The athletic wizard in a sober suit certainly fit his surroundings. As an echo to medieval architecture, the structured ceiling was made of wood; a framed picture of a landscape provided a pop of green to the otherwise stern working space, as did the potted plants on the window sill. There was a family photograph on the desk.
"Mr Dumbledore, welcome. Please have a seat."
Albus did so. Briefly, the secretary reappeared to set down two coffees.
"Danke, Frau Knef." Once she was gone, the official addressed the newcomer. "Now, Mr Dumbledore, I imagine you are here for your unlimited visiting rights."
"That's correct. Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Minister."
"You are welcome. There are a few things I need to ask you, and I believe it will save us time if you answer honestly. We have, of course, searched the premises, and no signs of an escape attempt were detected. We didn't find any illegal magical artefacts either. The Healers dispatched to check on Mr Grindelwald have confirmed magical exhaustion, which would indicate he was up to something, except, as I mentioned, no evidence points that way. What am I to make of this?"
"It has happened before," Albus objected calmly. "The last occurrence took place several years ago. As seldom as this magical exhaustion appears, I don't suppose it can be prevented altogether. Mr Grindelwald is over a century old, and he spent the last fifty years incarcerated, his magic repressed. Those aren't healthy conditions for any wizard, not even for one year. As a teacher, I've witnessed this phenomenon in children, whose health was much stronger than Gellert's: when magic is suppressed, it will find its way out one way or another. It will burn you from within. The fact that he hasn't found himself in a state of permanent exhaustion is a blessing."
Ebensee reached for his cup to take an absent sip.
"It is true that my predecessors imposed a rather harsh punishment where his sentence was concerned. Those were the times, of course, and all things considered… well. What is done is done. Mr Grindelwald is now officially our responsibility. You say it's a recurring phenomenon, correct?"
"It is." The Englishman's eyes wandered thoughtfully towards the painting. He was not even lying while disguising his lover's Sight as a chronic ailment. "He sometimes suffers from migraines. To help him keep his strength, I bring him additional food as often as I can. But this exhaustion… as far as I can tell, his lifestyle makes it impossible to eradicate."
Nodding, the minister leafed through a folder thick with parchment.
"I can see little record of that. There is something about fourteen years ago… strong headaches, vomiting… hmm, rather unsightly descriptions. Right." He let the documents fall back into place. "I suggest we should make the Healer checks more frequent. Would you agree?"
Fourteen years earlier, Voldemort had killed James and Lily Potter. Gellert's vision had then revealed a cloaked figure pointing a wand at a black-haired baby. It had shown the green light of the Killing Curse.
"Definitely. It will reassure me to know his health is monitored."
"Well then, I'll keep you no longer; it is good that we agree. Your visiting rights will be restored as of tomorrow. You will present this to the guards."
As he spoke, the Austrian signed a sheet of parchment, which had lain ready on his desk.
"The previous rules still apply: you are not allowed to bring any magical objects into the prisoner's cell, nor any tools that could be used as a weapon. You are to hand over your wand to the guards. The visiting time does not extend to overnight stays, and you cannot enter during the change of guards—if you do arrive at such a time, you will be asked to wait. You are, I take it, familiar with these conditions?"
Albus frowned. This had to be an error or a misunderstanding, surely.
"None of them are new except for the clause on the overnight stays. Why am I forbidden from spending the night in the cell?"
Although the other wizard's expression did not change, a faint note of moralising entered his voice.
"The prisoner is currently the responsibility of the Austrian Ministry of Magic, Mr Dumbledore. Our responsibility. You are the war hero who helped capture Mr Grindelwald, and for this, we are grateful; however, the way the entire situation has been handled over the years is less than praiseworthy. First, the conditions of his imprisonment were much too harsh, and then they became too lenient. As I understand it, you have been spending a lot of time at Nurmengard, and until now, you have been rather secretive about Mr Grindelwald's ailment. Naturally, it is not your fault alone: the guards have also failed in their duty to file proper reports, not to mention we—the Austrian Ministry of Magic—hadn't had any clear guidelines on the matter until I looked into it. The time has come, I believe, to introduce a few changes. The guards have been replaced; that goes without saying. I have no reason to suspect you of foul play, which is why I have restored your visiting rights, but you have to remember Nurmengard is a prison, not an inn in the Alps."
His movements perfectly controlled, Albus took a sip of coffee. His eyes swept across the modest office—a cursed office, for all the good it had ever done him.
So that was that, and Hagen Ebensee was exactly the same as the rest of his colleagues. Self-serving, indifferent to people's plights and emotions, and eager to punish them for not reporting every tiny irregularity to him in person. Oh, but did he enjoy preaching.
"Very well." With a courteous smile, the headmaster pocketed the signed document. "I trust I can contact you in case an issue crops up?"
"Selbstverständlich, Mr Dumbledore. That's what we are here for. I wish you a pleasant day—Frau Knef will see you out."
Good, Albus thought as he rose to his feet. You will eat your words. I promise you that.