The new guards took no half measures. After examining the authorisation document signed by Minister Ebensee, they inspected every item in Albus's food basket and proceeded to search his clothes. So thorough was their method that had he attempted to smuggle as much as a pin, they would have found it. When at last he was permitted to mount the stairs, he could have cursed aloud. Granted, it was common knowledge that new recruits tended to display greater zeal during the first weeks of their employment, only to eventually settle into a comfortable routine. The knowledge did not render the experience any less unwelcome.
But then his eyes met his lover's smiling if tired gaze, and the tension drained from his limbs. He rushed forward, arms outstretched.
"Careful, Schatz, I need to breathe."
Their embrace loosened a little, just enough for them to contemplate each other.
"How are you feeling?"
"Marginally better. Better tell me how you are doing." Gellert considered the tan on Albus's features. "How did it go?"
"We have plenty to discuss. The news I bring is good."
With joined hands, they sat down by the narrow window. It had been a week since their thwarted New Year's Eve celebration. It felt like a month.
"Did they let you take a potion against headache?" The Englishman ran caressing fingers over the other man's cheek. "I have brought some food; you've eaten nothing good since Christmas."
"I received a number of visits. In fact, had it not been for my ailments, I would have been grateful." Gellert smirked. "Such interest in me: daily interrogations, scanning of the premises, more interrogations. It was positively refreshing—made me feel younger. I used the opportunity to ask for a new pillow; sadly, they dismissed it as a joke. This, perhaps, is my only complaint: such a low opinion of my sense of humour is positively wounding."
Albus cast a dark glance at the pillow and the blanket folded in the corner, worn down by constant use. He clenched his jaw.
"In that case, Herr Ebensee will be hearing from me. If he can spare the time to order unnecessary investigations, he can spare the time to approve a new pillow."
But his companion did not seem to hear him: all mirth had fled from the sapphire eyes. What came instead was an urgent squeeze on his hand.
"Albus, there is something grave I need to tell you. We have lost the battle, I'm afraid. His servant has outwitted us. Harry Potter will be kidnapped."
For a few seconds, nothing moved or made a sound: one could have sworn the world was holding its breath. The headmaster's heart, however, did not join in the silence; louder and louder it beat until it was hammering in his chest.
"You Saw this?"
"There is silver lining, I'm sure." The clasp of their hands tightened. "I have been visualising what I Saw over and over again, and… it's not Necromancy he has in mind. He intends to perform a Blood ritual. I'm certain of it."
The English wizard swallowed; his throat felt dry. "What did your vision reveal, Schatz?"
Choosing his words prudently, Gellert drew a breath.
"Do you remember the first time I told you what it was like to See, Albus?"
"I do."
"I always See fragments, not the whole context. It's impossible to predict how those events will come to pass. You need to understand this."
It was more than obvious the premonition had been tragic. Albus could only nod.
"I Saw your boy tied to a stone. It was dark. The flash of a dagger. A lot of blood."
This could not be true. It was too horrific, too unthinkable to become reality.
And yet, Gellert's Sight never lied. Not once had his premonitions failed to be fulfilled, exactly as foretold.
The cell was spinning around them, and all that prevented Albus from losing his focus was his lover's hold. He leaned against the wall, feeling himself blanch.
"There might be hope," Gellert hastened to add, "silver lining, like I said. Tom Riddle used to be your student, and you know him better, but the more I ponder it—and it might be wishful thinking on my part—the more I'm convinced the boy isn't going to be sacrificed. It makes sense. His former servant at Hogwarts has shown you his Dark Mark, which implies the wizard himself already inhabits some form of body. I believe Bertha Jorkins was used as a sacrificial victim for that purpose. We've discussed it, Schatz. Everything you discovered in Albania points that way: the remnants of a ritual, the fact that she ran into a fugitive and most certainly was led to her demise. And then there is the fact that the vision showed a lot of blood. In Necromancy, a life pays for a life, and it's usually done quickly, unceremoniously. What I Saw was indicative of torture, not murder." He let this sink in. "Not murder, Albus."
It was the truth: the images glimpsed during his trances were always disjointed and fleeting and shockingly explicit. He had Seen Ariana die and his mother as well. But the same could not be said of Harry. There was hope, and they would cling to it.
"What can we do to help him?" Albus whispered. "I believed the Tracking Charm to be the answer. Now that we know it won't foil the abduction, we have to devise another means of protecting Harry. If Voldemort has him captured… he will kill him. Slowly or not, but he will."
"I hate to say it, but his desire to drag it out… it might just work in our favour."
Gellert closed his eyes; weariness was patent in his motions.
"I'm sorry. The torture of an underage wizard is a rather terrible thing to wish for."
It was this fatigue that broke through the Englishman's dread. He pulled the other man into a comforting hug, desperate to protect him from the sinister visions, as he wished to protect Harry from all danger.
"We will find a solution," he vowed. "We will. Do you reckon I should confide in Sirius?"
"Maybe, but cautiously." He heard a muffled sigh. "I don't know, Albus. It's as if something constantly evaded our attention. That servant of his, the one pulling the strings, is a rather good strategist. He must be loyal like Wei—and with a strong personal reason for such devotion—but unlike Wei, he is patient and… someone who…"
His voice trailed off in uncertainty.
"I… don't know, Albus. Sirius Black might potentially be a valuable ally; he might even know a person who fits this profile. Only, he is blinded by his own prejudice, his own past. To answer your question: if I were you, I wouldn't confide in him. I would enquire instead whether he has seen anything suspicious in his Animagus form. After all, the servant and the master have to keep in touch, and this is where we might catch them—at their attempt to connect." He sighed again. "I… I feel we have missed something trivial."
One could tell the memory of this premonition had tormented him every day and night of the past week; even now, it would not cease haunting him. He had developed a strikingly accurate psychological profile of their foe, though no Death Eater alive fit the description: none of them, as far as the public knew, were exceedingly faithful and patient while also boasting strategic expertise.
Tenderly, Albus cupped Gellert's face and placed a kiss on his forehead. They would bear this burden together, as they ought to do; first, only a little respite.
"We will solve this, love. It is time I shared my news with you too. Let me tell you all about Haiti."
It took him nearly twenty minutes to relay his entire trip.
"Mambo Lucille has met our request with understanding," he concluded. "She is not opposed to teaching me how to purify this cell. There is one condition: we are to give her a vial of your blood. She will use it for a binding spell."
"A vial of my blood." The German wizard looked into the distance. "There is much she could do with it. In that part of the world, Dark wizards are known to create boogities. A boogity is a dummy, an effigy containing the essence of the witch or wizard it represents. Any spell cast on the boogity will reflect on the recipient, no matter how far away they may be. It's a very effective way of exerting control. That's why, in the cultures where this practice exists, witches go to great lengths to guard their hair and nails, let alone their blood. The mere thought of someone creating a boogity with your essence can be a nightmare. Naturally, there are countermeasures, but I still must ask you this. Would you entrust your blood to that witch, Schatz?"
Albus replied sincerely and without hesitation. "I would. I trust she will use it only for the purpose of the binding spell. When we spoke, I had the impression of having encountered a sibling—a sister who was younger in age and spirit but older in wisdom. I can show you my memories."
A faint smile lit Gellert's countenance.
"Well, I would be lying if I pretended I wasn't the least bit curious. Do show."
The recollections that followed were flashes of the most notable moments, as well as his final conversation with Lucille. Loath to add to his lover's distress, Albus skipped the most critical parts of her speech; it could not diminish their appreciation of her charismatic personality. His companion watched in silence.
"Well, she doesn't seem immediately charmed by me," he remarked upon pulling away. "That's a pity. It would have stroked my ego."
"One day, you might have a chance to visit her in your astral form." The idea led the headmaster to recall another detail. "She possesses a curious skill: the ability to see the deities attached to every wizard's aura. Their mèt tèts. I didn't know it was possible."
He was not alone in feeling wonder at this.
"She can see one's aura—much like you indeed—but in more detail. It's a useful skill. What did she say about you? In case my wicked ways have rubbed off on you over the years, I do apologise. Darkness is addictive."
"You have nothing to apologise for." They were embracing again. "She saw a Native wizard. It could be an ancestor: he looked like mother, and yet… not at all. That night, I met him in a dream. He was tall with very long hair."
Gellert gazed at him fondly. "I am pleased to hear it, Albus. I'll be honest: after all this time, I still cannot think of you as anyone other than an Englishman. Yet it is only fair that you should rekindle that part of your identity."
Maintaining composure throughout the rest of the day was no easy affair. Plans were churning in Albus's head, each more desperate than the last. No matter how many house-elves and ghosts he tasked with surveying Harry, one could always find a way, for the castle, once infiltrated, was no longer the sanctuary it used to be. On the other hand, pulling the boy from school and barring him from the competition would result in an irreversible damage to his magical core; the contract concluded by the Goblet of Fire ensured no less. Lord Voldemort's minion had bought himself an entire school year's worth of time to plot and observe. To drive them insane with worry.
Worst of all was the knowledge that, their efforts notwithstanding, the vision would come true. Yet how could they resign themselves to fate? There had to be something they could do, if only to prepare Harry for the ordeal ahead. A weapon, thorough training, anything that might increase his chances of survival without alerting him to the terrifying future.
It was late evening when an owl tapped on the headmaster's window, causing him to jump in his seat. He tore himself from a serious reflection on the possibility of having the boy stay with Sirius in a fortified house, leaving only when the tasks took place, and perused the letter. Charlie Weasley had sent it; it was, in essence, a heart-warming show of support for Hagrid. Albus was pleased to have received it; the gamekeeper, he knew, would be touched by such solicitude.
Four more missives arrived the next day, one of them from Elphias Doge. It was not quite as fervent; rather, it served as a declaration of affection.
Had he truly been dangerous, you would never have entrusted him with a job so responsible, it declared. It's been more than a century—goodness, could it be?—since the Sorting Hat saw fit to send us both to Gryffindor. In those decades, I have rarely known you to bestow your friendship upon undeserving individuals. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise; I have every confidence in your judgment.
Uncomfortable—guilty even for often neglecting Elphias, who still considered him his closest friend—Albus opened the next message: a confusing ramble from a wizard named Trevor Relish, whom he could not remember having met.
Hagrid wouldn't hurt a fly—he and I used to breed spiders in Herbology when Professor Culm wasn't looking. He even found a female Acromantula to give his pet, Aragog, a chance for a happy family and reproduction. It would be a loss to creatures and students alike if such a man were to leave his post.
He blinked at the lengthy text, certain no Trevor Relish had entered Hogwarts in the last century, and transferred his attention to the sealed envelopes. The board of governors was politely asking him to reconsider Hagrid's employment as a teacher while Cornelius Fudge—or rather Dolores Umbridge, for the wording was hers—was summoning him to the Ministry.
In view of the recent events at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Minister of Magic would like to schedule a meeting with you to discuss staff appointments. Kindly state your availability at your earliest convenience.
With a sigh, he replied to both. At times like these, choices had to be made, and he had made his: no amount of blackmail would make him waver. For Hagrid's sake, he hoped those letters were the last. He was wildly mistaken.
Delivered the following Wednesday was a two feet long petition.
SAVE OUR CHILDREN'S EDUCATION AND PROTECT THEIR FUTURE
We, the undersigned, demand that the subject Care of Magical Creatures be assigned to a teacher who meets the qualifications required for the post. We call on Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts, to fire Rubeus Hagrid from his teaching position and have him replaced by a witch or wizard with an adequate level of education, competency, and adherence to safety rules. The above-mentioned action should be implemented by the 31st of January 1995 to ensure the students are allowed sufficient time for preparation for exams.
Judging by the number of parents' signatures, nearly half the school was in favour of Hagrid's sacking. Some among the petitioners had included personal messages to justify their action.
A completed education and at least two years of work experience are required to apply to a teacher's position at Hogwarts, wrote William Nott. It is widely known Rubeus Hagrid has never graduated and is not authorised to carry a wand. It has also come to my attention he cannot spell without errors. It is unacceptable that my son, a bright and ambitious student, should be schooled by an individual with non-existent magical skill and equally lacking knowledge.
Patrick Parkinson had chosen a different angle.
I am fearful for my daughter's safety. After the injuries her closest friends have sustained, the idea of attending Mr Hagrid's lessons provokes panic attacks in Pansy. If he continues to teach, it will leave devastating long-term effects on her health, marks, and knowledge. We, parents, have every right to expect better for our children.
The Ravenclaws were no shyer in expressing their views.
The standards at Hogwarts are currently lower than at any point in history, professed Mrs Edgecombe. The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang consider our children a laughing stock, so stark is the contrast between their degrees of learning. Do we not want Hogwarts to be a shining example of solid education in Europe? Should we deny our future generations the opportunity of becoming valued professionals in the international wizarding environment?
The mother of Roger Davies had contributed to the outcry: Rubeus Hagrid is a fine groundskeeper; surely, he will agree to keep that position. I was horrified to find out Roger had covered only three creatures in the last two years: hippogriffs, flobberworms, and the so-called blast-ended skrewts, which are illegal. Is there no official curriculum in place?
A plum-faced Minerva stared at the towering heap of letters on Albus's desk.
"After everything Hagrid has done for this school…" Her voice sounded disillusioned, and it shook. "The students have started this, not the parents. I could even name the culprits." She eyed the signatures of the Nott, Malfoy, Greengrass, and Parkinson patriarchs. "They've been waiting for their chance, and the Skeeter woman's article provided it."
"I agree. To Rita, it's profitable entertainment; to Hagrid, it can be a life-changing trauma. Let us count the signatures."
Together, they reviewed the names and performed a calculation. Every single student in Slytherin had asked their parents to sign. Three quarters of the Ravenclaw House had imitated their example. Not one Gryffindor had taken part, and no Hufflepuffs either besides the Diggorys and the Smiths. All in all, forty-six percent of the parents wished to see Hagrid fired—close but insufficient.
Relieved beyond words, Albus leaned back, his eyes on the offending list. The Chang family had signed, but not the Patils. He wondered whether this was due to a clash between the twin sisters, who had been Sorted into different Houses.
"This is it then. I will compose a response, and the matter will be closed. With the second task only a month away, the public interest will shift. Hagrid never needs to find out."
The witch nodded; the realisation that none of her Gryffindors had backstabbed a teacher, as she perceived it, had calmed her.
"Mina feels awful," she confessed. "She believes it's partly her fault—since she is filling in, everyone knows there is a suitable replacement. Truly, the sooner Hagrid resumes teaching, the better for everyone."
"Quite."
Hagrid needed time, this much was a fact, except they could not give him more than a week. His recovery had to start at once.
"Lompy!"
The house-elf materialised with a pop and a bow.
"I have two requests to make of you. In the upcoming weeks, Professor Hagrid might receive more correspondence than usual; some of it, we suspect, will be hate mail. It is important that we uplift his spirits. Could you please have his letters intercepted? I will remove all hostile messages and deliver the rest to him."
Lompy nodded.
"My second request is about keeping him company. If you can spare one or two house-elves at all times, I would be grateful if they could come in shifts and stay at his home. They have my permission to exert magic if he attempts to relapse or do anything hurtful, but they must not harm him."
Another nod, and the creature was dismissed with words of thanks.
The initiative coaxed a smile from Minerva: it was a glint in her green eyes, rather than a full curving of her lips, but it exuded warmth.
"What news of the second task?" she asked softly.
"There will be a meeting on Friday. We will discuss the organisation and the details."
"Then perhaps I should be the one to draw up a response to Mr Nott's petition. I'll bring it for you to sign."
"Thank you, dear."
He caught her hand and kissed the slender fingers.
"One day, you will be the finest headmistress Hogwarts has ever seen."
"That day will never come." The witch swiftly reverted to her brisk self. Before exiting his office, she shot him a feline look. "I'm serious—I will not hear about it."
Friday's meeting was held in the staffroom. One by one, the attendants filed to their seats. Ever since Rita Skeeter's article had been published, Madame Maxime had remained politely aloof. Even Karkaroff was quieter than usual—had Albus not known better, he would have thought him unconcerned. Behind his foot high stack of notes, Percy Weasley was prepping himself for a speech, but Ludo Bagman had no intention of ceding the spotlight.
"Gentlemen, lady, thank you all for coming at such short notice. Old Barty really couldn't have picked a worse time for falling ill."
"Bartemius Crotch is ill?" Karkaroff echoed, stroking his goatee with a shrewd, faraway look.
It was fortunate perhaps that his mispronunciation of Crouch's name had stunned Percy into silence, even as his face flushed the ungainly shade of a ripe tomato.
"That's right." Ludo shrugged energetically. "Been ill since the New Year, the poor bugger—ah, pardon me, Madame Maxime. Anyways, we have a lot to cover and very little time. Weatherby, give me Barty's notes, will you?"
At this, Percy recovered not only his voice, but also a large measure of indignation.
"Mas-Mister Crouch left me in charge—"
"Yes, yes, but I shall preside over this meeting."
"You won't be able to read Mr Crouch's handwriting!"
Ludo pinched the bridge of his nose and drew a deep, frustrated breath.
"Right. Weatherby. We are on a tight schedule here. Fine, you will read when I tell you to."
With the grace of a professional showman, he reverted back to his cheerful persona and carried on as though nothing was amiss.
"All righty, the second task. It's very simple: the champions have now retrieved their golden eggs, and they've had plenty of time to crack the clue inside those. They will need to follow the instructions and take a dip in the Black Lake, where they will retrieve something else within an hour. Thank Merlin—or Barty in this case—the notes are very clear thus far. As you know, it's a part of the tradition: the three most significant wizarding schools in Europe take part in three tasks, and each corresponds to one of the four elements—in our instance, water. All straightforward up to this point. But here is where it gets tricky: it doesn't really say what it is the champions should retrieve. It was Barty's assignment to finalise the task before Christmas, but like I said, the poor chap is ill and couldn't give us any pointers. So I was thinking… how about we break the tradition of repeating patterns? Make it a notch fancier? I mean, searching for yet another egg at the bottom of the lake would be excessive, wouldn't it?"
Albus found he was dreading any suggestion Mr Bagman was about to propose. As a commentator, the younger wizard was more concerned about entertainment than students' safety, and his chaotic manner of organising events was notorious.
"What do you have in mind?"
A split second later, he had to suppress a headshake at his own directness—he sounded like the Austrian Minister for Magic, whom he now cordially disliked.
"What if," Ludo started, as excited as a child walking into a sweetshop, "the stolen object from the egg's song wasn't something but someone—how about that?"
"Using the champions' closest friends as bait?"
His fears justified, the headmaster leaned in, lending himself all the gravity and insistence he could muster.
"Think about the teenagers. The purpose of this Tournament is to form partnerships, master magic, and push one's limits; entertainment is secondary—if that. The children are under enough strain as it is, and putting their loved ones in danger is more than excessive—it could be called unethical. Besides, what of those you would see used as hostages? The prospect would frighten them no doubt, and I will not have them submerged in the lake without their knowledge."
He turned towards Madame Maxime, whom he suspected of sharing his point of view. Although she caught his eye, she chose to maintain an inscrutable façade.
"'Ow do you even imagine zis?"
"Mr Bagman," Percy objected, shuffling through his papers, "there is nothing in Mr Crouch's notes—"
Ludo cut him off with an impatient hand gesture, never sparing him a glance.
"It's not as dramatic as all that. You'll have them briefed in a quarter of an hour, and they will love it—such an exciting experience! You know how it is: what happens on the Quidditch pitch is one thing; where the team will celebrate afterwards is another. There are ways, surely, such as putting them to sleep. Better tell me whom we should take. What about their Yule Ball dates? We could present it as new friendships formed during the Tournament—don't you have a school paper, eh, Dumbledore? I think we had one back in my day, ran by a few Ravenclaws. So how about it—the Yule Ball dates?"
"Definitely not," Olympe declared.
The wizard's face fell.
"Eh… Professor Karkaroff?"
"Viktor does not care about zis nonsense. He is focused on his career."
"Well, what about his Yule Ball date?"
The Ukrainian gave an indifferent shrug; his tone was bored.
"You can take her; I don't mind."
The concession positively exhilarated Ludo, who clapped with mirth.
"That's more like it! Which leaves Harry and Cedric. Dumbledore, what do you think?"
It was infuriating. With Barty Crouch absent, Ludo Bagman had placed himself in charge, and no one in the room held the power to overturn his decision—as the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, he was within his right to shape the task to his liking. Percy Weasley, no matter how ambitious, had no hope of quashing his older, more experienced colleague's verdict. This did not mean they ought to surrender.
"I cannot endorse a course of action that might bring more distress to children." Albus addressed the youngest wizard. "Mr Weasley, Harry has spent a number of holidays at your house; you know how close he is to your family. Would you be comfortable at the idea of one of your siblings being used as a hostage?"
"No!" For once, Percy displayed passion for a cause any Gryffindor would have identified with. "Ron hates the giant squid, I'm sure—he hates all spider-like—"
"Ronald Weasley!" Ludo clapped again. "That's an excellent suggestion! Thank you, Weatherby. That leaves Mr Diggory. He spent the evening dancing with that girl—what's her name?"
No one answered, except to glower at him.
"Well, I'll write down 'Mr Diggory's Yule Ball date' for now; we can always find out her name later." Unperturbed, he made a note on his sheet of parchment. "This does leave only you, Madame Maxime. Is there anyone Miss Delacour likes? It doesn't have to be a romantic interest."
"Bon, ze Delacour girls are close, but—"
"A sibling—excellent! That's even better; the audience will go wild. I believe that's decided then."
"Pas du tout! Eet eez outrageous—"
He waved her protests away as he had done Percy's.
"You don't have to worry; no harm will come to any of the children—Dumbledore will make sure of that. Trust me, my dear Madame Maxime: if there is one person you can rely on for your children's safety, it's Albus Dumbledore."
He beamed at the headmaster, visibly satisfied with his progress, though letting no one intervene in his discourse.
"Now, we've much yet to discuss. An interpreter for communicating with the merpeople is a must; we're tackling this a little late, truth be told. It would have been ideal if someone had started working on it a while ago, seeing how the merpeople know the lake better than anyone else and their cooperation is going to be vital. Albus, you speak Mermish, don't you? It says so in the notes. Weatherby?"
Percy gulped, his notes in disarray.
"Y-yes, right here… Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore… invented the twelve uses of dragon's blood… let me see… Yes, speaks Mermish."
Albus would have liked nothing better than to fling his notebook in Ludo Bagman's face and leave; they could hardly proceed without him. He did not. Someone had to look after the children. His fury was patent nonetheless.
"Albus Dumbledore will speak to the merpeople on two conditions," he said through gritted teeth. "First, no creatures are to be hurt during the task. Any champion who causes harm to a merperson, an animal, or an extensive patch of vegetation will be disqualified from the competition. Second, since you insist on tormenting the champions for the general amusement, I will protect them to the best of my ability; however, the Ministry will handle the press and take responsibility of these proceedings."
Ludo sensed the change; he raised pacifying hands.
"Dear chap, it's all in good fun! There is no danger. And of course, we'll speak to the press—Weatherby will take care of that, won't you, Weatherby?
Vexed, Percy opened his mouth to argue; this time, it was Karkaroff who interrupted him.
"Vot do you need from us?"
"How do you mean?"
"From me and Olympe Maxime, vot do you need? It sounds like you haff only administrative matters to discuss wiz Dumbledore."
"Oh, right." Ludo grimaced apologetically. "I suppose that's true. Let me see… We've agreed on the champions' quarries; Albus here will speak to the merpeople—you might need to take a quick dip in there yourself, old chap—and we should think of putting some obstacles in place so that it wouldn't be as easy as just swimming towards the goal. What else… Weatherby, have I missed something?"
The boy cleared his throat. "Mr Crouch has written about visibility—"
Ludo smacked himself on the forehead.
"Silly me! All that smashing show for us to plan, and I forget the most important part! That's with you again, Albus: we need to enchant the lake so that the audience would see what's going on in the water. Does old Barty have anything else in his notes?"
Percy traced his finger across the scribbled lines of text.
"There are ideas, such as making the water surface transparent… Also having a few Disillusioned Ministry employees follow the champions and provide more information if there is thick vegetation that obscures the view."
"Right. Albus, dear friend, do you reckon it's feasible?"
If this switch to dear friend was meant to placate the headmaster, it achieved the opposite result.
"The surface can be rendered transparent," he replied coolly. "But it will be for naught: the lake is so vast that observing the champions' movements will be impossible from the stands. Our best hope is to turn a section of the lake into a Pensieve, onto which the divers from the Ministry would project their memories at regular intervals."
"Write it down, Weatherby." Bagman sat up, his gestures animated. "We will make it similar to a Quidditch stadium—an arena where the audience surrounds a designated area and watches from above. We'll find competent swimmers and train them on sending their memories towards the surface. It would be stonking if the bottom of the lake could be illuminated with, say, glowing orbs: see if the merpeople will agree. Speaking of the merpeople, they'll be stationed strategically, so we need to book several interpreters. Check who's available at Prickle's department; they're bound to have someone with such skills. I mean, our dear Albus can double as an interpreter, but one person can't cover everything, am I right?"
He laughed good-naturedly until Karkaroff's cough brought him back to earth.
"Well, then." Ludo stretched. "I'd say we've been very productive; even old Barty would be impressed. Now, if you don't have anything else to share, there is a secrecy clause we all must sign. This time, I will ask for your full attention—there have been changes."
For the first time, his expression sobered. He appeared uneasy, embarrassed.
"The Norwegian Department of Magical Games and Sports has received an anonymous complaint from an eyewitness, who testified to having spotted a Triwizard judge at the dragon enclosure shortly before the First Task. According to the statement, the judge was providing—ahem, how do I put it?—explicitly romantic services in exchange for information. This information included the dragons' number and breeds, their specifics and weaknesses, and numerous suggestions on strategies. As you can see, gentlemen, lady, this is a very serious accusation."
There was a dull thud as a stack of papers fell out of Percy's grasp. His mouth had fallen open in astonishment. Not everyone was quite as surprised: Karkaroff's gleeful smile made it more than plain who had so helpfully sent the complaint. As for Madame Maxime, she sat very still, having understood the implications about Hagrid and herself.
"It certainly wasn't Mr Crouch," Percy stammered. "He would never break the rules, especially in a manner so… so…"
"Vot is meant by explicitly romantic?" Karkaroff pressed on.
Ludo scowled at him in irritation.
"That is hardly the point, professor. The point is that due to this complaint, we have been forced to re-evaluate the guidelines. The secrecy clause you are about to sign forbids you from disclosing the details of the task to anyone at all in any shape or form—that is until the task takes place. You cannot write about it, talk about it, or use mind magic to communicate about it, whether the person in question is romantically involved with you or not."
"Incroyable," Olympe uttered under her breath.
This piece of news promptly wiped the smirk from the Durmstrang headmaster's face. He had not expected such an outcome when lodging his complaint; that much was obvious. Albus read the contract with a sinking heart. How was he to inform Sirius on what lay ahead? All hope now rested on Harry's correspondence with his godfather.
Nothing could be done; he signed the form and handed it to Percy. Bagman's copy, he noticed, remained blank.
"Will you be signing too, Ludo?" he asked lightly. "And while we are on the subject, will Mr Weasley replace Barty Crouch as one of the judges?"
"An excellent question." The commentator grinned. "We haven't quite decided yet. Are you of age, Weatherby?"
Percy turned around, his eyes flashing with outrage.
"A joke, a joke, don't get your dander up." Ludo addressed Albus. "Either way, neither of us will be providing explicit romantic services to anyone, I'm afraid. Weatherby here is far too loyal to dear old Barty, and I have more luck at gambling than at charming witches."
Nobody joined in his laughter: Karkaroff looked far from amused, Percy seemed to have lost his power of speech, and Madame Maxime appeared positively murderous. The chuckles subsided at once.
"Of course I will sign; if I didn't, I'd be disqualified as a judge, and who would want to stay away when all the fun has merely begun?"
The second the meeting was concluded, Olympe stormed out.
"Bande de cochons," were her last, fading words, unless Albus had misheard.
A glum Karkaroff followed not far behind her, leaving the three Englishmen on their own.
"Righty." Ludo rubbed his hands together. "Let's schedule our next meeting, shall we? Professor Karkaroff was right about one thing: we've got a bunch of administrative chores on our hands. When are you available, old chap?"
He walked out twenty minutes later, pleased with the outcome and wishing them a nice day. Percy Weasley lingered behind, Crouch's notes cradled against his chest like a treasured pet.
"You are free to go as well, Mr Weasley," Albus called.
When offended, Percy's features grew softer, younger. He could not stop himself.
"It was supposed to be my meeting," he grumbled. "Mr Crouch left me in charge. And he—he knows my name perfectly well; he made fun of me on purpose! He is just jealous that Mr Crouch likes me better."
The headmaster rubbed at his eyes with tired hands. He had not enjoyed witnessing Ludo's merciless teasing, yet he comprehended its purpose: everyone felt Percy's hubris deserved to be punctured.
"You have done a good job, Mr Weasley. Mr Crouch will appreciate it, I'm sure."
The rest of the day brought one cause for cheer: Hagrid, the house-elves reported, was slowly if strenuously getting better. Albus completed his paperwork with hope, only to wake up the following morning to a clumsily-worded resignation letter. He lost no time in walking down to the hut, his list of duties be damned.
The gamekeeper happened to be in low spirits—judging by the open letters scattered on the table, a part of the hate mail had reached him despite their efforts. After sending the house-elves away and brewing tea, Albus invited the other man to make himself comfortable while Fang frolicked around the room. He had brought with him the letters from Charlie, Elphias, and Trevor Relish and read them aloud, not omitting Xenophilius Lovegood's tardy note.
Hagrid is one of our rare visionaries, it stated dreamily. His mission to elevate predatory animals represents the next stage in our cultural awareness. First came Newt Scamander and his bestselling guide to fantastic creatures, which revealed the beasts that slumbered within each of us like animal totems—a concept utilised by numerous indigenous tribes. Hagrid has taken it a step further. So what if the creatures of his choosing have fangs? As long as we continue to shy away from representations of force and the belligerent side of our ego, we can never unlock the full potential of our subconscious.
It was an odd encouragement, but it was one nonetheless.
"This is only a fraction of the messages I have received in your defence," Albus lied, placing them aside. "Come, my friend, it is time to leave this confinement and come back to us. We have all missed you."
Dishevelled, swollen-eyed, and shivering, Hagrid fixed him with an unusually lucid gaze.
"There's many who hate me. They thin' I'm useless, bad teacher, not deservin' to stay here. Soon the res' won't wanna know me." The beetle black eyes glistened. "Maybe it's fer the bes'. Grubbly-Plank can prepare 'em better. It'll be bes' fer everybody."
"Wilhelmina hasn't come to take over your position; on the contrary, she wants to go as soon as possible. She has plans overseas." The headmaster smiled. "I have chosen you to teach Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid, and I haven't regretted it for a minute. Besides—"
The door shook under a vigorous blow. Fang leapt at the noise; in the pauses between his barks, they could distinguish a young voice.
"Hagrid, that's enough! We know you're in there!"
As rarely as he heard it, Albus knew at once who it belonged to. He excused himself to answer the door. The cries were not halting, not even for an intake of breath.
"Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can't let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you're just being—"
It was indeed Miss Granger, her features aglow with emotion, her figure trembling, though not because of the wind.
"About t—!" She looked up and gasped.
"Good afternoon."
He could only make assumptions as to what had triggered such an outburst; even so, containing an endeared smile was beyond his powers. This was not the first time that the girl's boldness, loyalty, and intellect had reminded him of Minerva. Many Gryffindors flew into a temper when faced with injustice.
He caught sight of the two boys standing behind Hermione and, suddenly, had to struggle to keep his smile in check. Harry and Ron Weasley held themselves shyly, conscious of having intruded.
"We—er—we wanted to see Hagrid," the girl admitted.
"Yes, I surmised as much. Why don't you come in?"
He stepped aside and watched Fang jump towards Harry to lick his face. He watched as the boy shooed the dog away before exchanging a greeting with the gamekeeper, who brightened up on the spot. The cabin had never felt so airless.
"More tea, I think," he offered, regaining his composure.
When the trio settled at the table with steaming mugs and a plateful of cakes, he reprised the conversation; now was the instant to focus on the job at hand.
"Did you by any chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid? Hermione, Harry, and Ron still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to break down the door."
"Of course we still want to know you!" Harry burst out, and it was manifest that whatever—whoever—had upset Miss Granger had also affected him. "You don't think anything that Skeeter cow—sorry, professor." The green eyes darted away.
How could one not love those selfless children? Only, this time, the knowledge was painful to bear.
"I have gone temporarily deaf and haven't any idea what you said, Harry."
"Er, right. I just meant—Hagrid, how could you think we'd care what that—woman—wrote about you?"
On the other side of the table, the half-giant shed a tear, then another. The timing of this visit could not have been more opportune, for the trio's genuine words of affection weighed more heavily than any arguments or messages Albus could present. He seized the point and drove it home.
"Living proof of what I've been telling you, Hagrid. I have shown you the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have something to say about it."
His voice was close to breaking. He could not afford to lose control, to show that he knew what Harry would be forced to endure before the end of the school year. The boy sat by his side, innocent, his worries forgotten in his determination to help a friend in need.
"Yeh—yeh're not half-giant!" Hagrid argued feebly.
"Hagrid, look what I've got for relatives! Look at the Dursleys!" came an apt response.
"Come back and teach, Hagrid," Miss Granger chimed in, "please come back, we really miss you."
Albus could not tell what gibberish came out of his mouth in between the teenagers' far more effective pleas. The tea he had drunk was rising up his throat, and he had to make his exit without delay.
"I refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on Monday." He stood up. "You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon to you all."
With a caress on the dog's head, he strode out of the hut. The urge to retch overcame him; pushing the door closed, he propped himself against the wood and let the dry heaves rack his body. The hand that held his hair out of the way brushed against his face and came away moist with tears.
In the end, Harry would be kidnapped. That brave, sweet, kind, exceptional boy would be tortured by Voldemort, and nothing could be done to stop this course of events. If he escaped with his life—a big, crucial if—the remainder of his childhood would be stripped away from him. He would live his life with the memory of that horror etched in his mind.
Help us, Albus implored the ancestor from his dream, his mèt tèt, uncertain what else he could do. If you are watching over me, please send us a sign. Tell us what to do.