Newt Scamander arrived at Hogwarts late on Sunday evening—later than Albus had anticipated. In his suit and classic brown coat, he looked the very definition of an affluent scholar. The tension in his hands, his darting gaze, his stiffness: everything testified to his unease. He was no longer accustomed to leaving his creatures for longer than a day at a time. Rarely would his interviews, consultations, or lectures require more than an afternoon, and such a schedule allowed him to fully dedicate himself to his charges. Changing one's routine at an advanced age was a challenge. As an old man, Albus understood.
"Have you eaten, Newt?"
The guest nodded, his hazel eyes coming to rest on Fawkes, who was dining on his favourite herbs.
"If you aren't too tired, may I offer you something to drink?"
A platter of refreshments was awaiting them on a small table by the fire.
There was another nod. Newt smiled politely.
"It's good to be back. Thank you for inviting me."
"You still have a chance to bolt." Albus waved his wand to pour mead into glasses. "You have encountered all kinds of creatures and beings. But students… they are something else."
This jest did not dissolve the tension either. Realising small talk would be of no assistance, the headmaster straightened up and addressed the point which, as he suspected, worried Newt the most.
"Someone has asked me to transmit their greetings to you. Petal sends his love from Haiti."
He had not been mistaken: only at the mention of the Horned Serpent did the younger wizard exhale, his countenance radiating attention.
"How is he doing? Have you seen him recently?"
To assuage him, Albus Summoned the Pensieve from its stone stand. He was cautious while selecting his memory: it was necessary that he show enough, yet not so much as to reveal the location of Lucille's school or any details MACUSA might use against the witch.
It was his latest visit he settled for. He was in the garden, shaded from the sun by a line of papaya trees. Soft humming could be heard over the distant clamour of children—Lucille was singing to herself as she selected books for Albus on the foundations of Sakrémaji. For his part, the old wizard had lowered himself to the stream, the surface of which rippled before parting over a pearlescent head covered in lilac scales. Slowly, Petal revealed himself, his turquoise eyes piercing, the jewel glinting on his forehead.
Newt watched the memory until its end. The more he saw, the livelier he appeared. Now that he knew the creature was safe and sound, the reserved expression on his features had given way to relief.
"This memory comes from less than two weeks ago." Albus's voice was gentle. "Petal is happy to be mambo Lucille's familiar, and she loves him dearly. Had it been otherwise, I would have brought him back."
A blush coloured the zoologist's cheeks.
"I… Thank you for showing me." He swallowed. "I didn't doubt you, Dumbledore."
"It's all right to doubt." Another wave of the Elder Wand, and an empty Pensieve floated back to its cabinet. "It's what clever people do."
An objection came spontaneously, if a little reluctantly.
"I may be wrong, but I've always thought you trust easily."
"Ah, and did I ever say I was clever?"
At last, there it was: a full, genuine smile on the visitor's face. A few moments later, they sat by the fire, glasses in hand.
"I've meant to ask," Newt started, "how did it go? Did you learn the defensive spell you had set out to master?"
"I did." The headmaster did not elaborate; the idea of expanding on the ritual he would be performing to cleanse Gellert's cell seemed imprudent to him. "Sakrémaji requires practice, and I'm a mere novice. I have so much yet to learn. But this trip has brought me more than I could have hoped for, and I'm very grateful to have forged this friendship." He leaned back, his gestures earnest. "I'm very sorry, Newt. I've caused you trouble."
Whether it was due to the fire, the sweet drink, the frank conversation, or all of those combined, the guest was now relaxed. He shook his head, absently tracing the rim of his glass with a finger.
"It's not your fault. It's just, this topic is painful for Tina and always has been."
"Which topic—myself? Haiti? Lucille?"
"Haiti."
Launching into an explanation, the timid voice gradually gained vigour.
"I'm not sure how much I've told you about Tina's sister. When Tina and I first met—some of my creatures had escaped all over New York"— a shiver ran through Newt's body at this recollection that would never cease to distress him—"we befriended a Muggle. He and Queenie took to each other at once. As careful as they tried to be, the government found out; they almost always do. The law stated very clearly Jacob should be Obliviated. And Tina, she found herself in a difficult spot. She had always done her best at work—it's important for her to do the right thing. And how could she do right both by Madam Picquery and her sister?" He paused. "In the end, it didn't stop Queenie from seeing Jacob—in fact, she soon lifted his Memory Charm altogether. They weighed their options and decided the only way for them to be together was to move out of the States."
Fawkes flew over, perching himself on the armrest of the visitor's chair and folding his wings. Newt gave his flaming chest a caress.
"Don't tell me they went to Haiti," Albus breathed.
"For a short a while. The country has no official Statute of Secrecy, so it's a place where they could get married without attracting trouble."
It took the older wizard a few seconds to recover from his astonishment. "Does Queenie know mambo Lucille?"
"I don't think so." With a shrug, Newt took a sip of mead. "Nothing I've heard, at least, suggests so."
The brief silence was punctuated by Fawkes' melodious squeaks of contentment. Albus broke it first.
"Jacob must be—or have been—a remarkable person."
"He was." The zoologist's demeanour thawed whenever his friend's name was mentioned. "He passed away a while ago; it will soon be twenty years. Even then, he was full of life, grateful for every little thing. He could talk to anyone—anyone at all—and get on well with them." The glass rose in an enthusiastic gesture. "Baking was his dream, you see. At one point, they got a camper van, Queenie enchanted it to hold full living quarters, and they started travelling. He would sell his baked goods wherever they happened to stay. Costa Rica, Vietnam, New Zealand—I don't think there is a place you can name that they didn't visit."
Beneath his serene intonation, Albus detected a wistful note. Not envy, not exactly, yet something that betrayed where Newt's dreams had always lain. Not in renown and fame but in an innocent pursuit of freedom.
His response was lighter than his musing. "I can see why you and Jacob were close friends. He could get along with any person, the way you can get along with any creature."
The idea was rewarded with a smile. As if to comfort the guest as well, Fawkes draped his tail around the wizard's arm.
"Are Tina and Queenie still in touch?"
Newt gave a nod. "It was Jacob's wish that they never sever their ties. Since the Memory Charm, however, it hasn't been the same. They are so different—like a bee and a hummingbird, if you will: one tireless and purposeful, the other airy and curious. All of this aside, Tina has never spared any effort in supporting Jacob's children, whether to make sure they kept up at Ilvermorny or to recommend them for employment." He hesitated. "One of their children was born without magic. She lives in the States, so it's important to keep her heritage a secret. We'll be seeing the entire family on the Fourth of July."
He did not need to complete his train of thought or express how painful it was for Tina to witness her extended family's disregard of the law. Still, she guarded their secrets and helped them as thoroughly as she could.
Albus raised his drink. "To Jacob. To Tina."
The glasses clinked. For a heartbeat, Newt's eyes glinted, and it would appear as though he intended to ask a question of his own. But then he exhaled, and the impulse vanished. He never enquired after other people's private matters, and Albus did not offer to share. The evening was perfect as it was.
Naturally, the following week brought one debacle after another. Not by Newt's fault, for his meticulously planned lectures proved to be a resounding success among students, and the teachers were delighted to welcome him as one of their own. It was the tournament's fault.
On Wednesday morning, a general meeting on the Third Task was to take place on the second floor. Instead of one Ministry official, Albus received three. The fact that Ludo Bagman came flanked by two auditors was far from a coincidence—anyone could have divined Dolores Umbridge had gone a step further in exerting control over him. A perplexed headmaster could only hide his alarm beneath a mask of delight.
The auditors were very young: having graduated but a few years ago, they had not yet lost their pride and wonder at having started successful careers. The young man was attired in a fashionable dark green suit with a silk tie; as for the girl, she wore a strict navy dress. It took time to shed the traditional colours of one's Hogwarts House.
"Miss Wenham, Mr Berkeley, what a pleasure!"
"Headmaster Dumbledore." The young wizard drew himself up. "We are happy to be back at Hogwarts. And to be greeted by you in person—back in the day, I could have only dreamed of such an honour!"
By his side, his colleague coughed to conceal her mirth.
"Now, now, children," Ludo intervened, "Professor Dumbledore is not some ancient relic from a museum."
Humphrey Berkeley hastened to defend himself.
"Who could blame me, Mr Bagman? Everybody knows Professor Dumbledore is a living legend. It's easy to get flustered."
"It's true that we never spoke when I was at school," the young witch chimed in.
"Fair enough." Ludo grinned. "That being said, fame has its downside. Look at me—can't get home without fans trying to break down my door."
Miss Wenham laughed.
"You're funny, Mr Bagman. But I'm still glad—just like Humphrey—that we could come today."
"As am I." Albus cast a probing glance down the long hallway they stood in. "I'm afraid Professors Flitwick and Snape are teaching as we speak, but I hope you are not too pressed for time. Why not linger a little and revisit your favourite spots around the castle?"
"Can we, Mr Bagman?" The proposition excited the witch. "I would like to say hello to Madam Pince and visit the library, if nothing else."
The objection came not from Ludo but from a guarded Mr Berkeley.
"Is it wise, though, Camilla? We are supposed to assist and follow Mr Bagman. I don't think any deviation would be advisable."
More than anything else, this question was for show, and the commentator waved it off, not fooled for a second.
"Ah, come now, it's Three Broomsticks—I mean, library—we are talking about. Of course, you can go! I wouldn't dream of starting the meeting without you. Besides, I was going to do the same and take this opportunity to visit my favourite nooks and corners of the castle. I'm sure the headmaster won't mind."
Sure enough, Albus did not mind; he could tell Ludo wished to speak to him in private.
"Please, make yourselves at home, and let us reconvene at ten."
As soon as the youngsters walked away, the two wizards mounted the stairs to the office. Without wasting a moment, Ludo produced a sheet of parchment.
"Good news—a few drinks can do wonders!"
His trip had been fruitful. Signed and Charmed by a Swedish official, the document served to cancel Albus's vow of secrecy on the details of the upcoming task. It did not matter how many clauses he might be asked to sign again: as long as this stipulation remained in force, he was bound by none of them.
He felt heat rise up his neck. It was not a pleasant feeling.
"Thank you very much, Ludo. I will keep it safe. There is a second copy, I take it?"
At this, the commentator could not help but fidget.
"Err… Well, there had to be. I mean, with all the spellwork… but no worries, I don't think anyone will ever look into it…"
Without a doubt, he was attempting to convince himself as much as he did Albus.
"We want Harry—I mean Hogwarts—to win, don't we?"
Neither his wink nor his nervous chuckle could conceal how uncomfortable the entire affair truly rendered him. To spare him, Albus resolved against dwelling on the matter.
"Fear not; if it comes to the worst, I'll draw upon my contacts to solve this."
He slipped the parchment into an enchanted folder he alone could open and close, sceptical of his own promise. At the end of the day, Ludo meant well, and he trusted Albus.
"Would you like to drink some tea before we join the others?"
"Put the kettle on, mate."
Pleased to see his reassurance had not been without effect, the older wizard did so. After a brief yet comfortable silence, they sat down to sip from their mugs.
One fact could not be denied: everything was becoming unpredictable, unsafe. The next time they met, they might have Umbridge herself to deal with, not simply a pair of youthful auditors. If they were to breach the saddest and gravest topic of all, they ought to do so now. Albus knew he had delayed too long.
"Ludo, there is something you must know. I cannot reveal yet how I found out, though I will tell you eventually. I have a reason to suspect Bertha Jorkins is no longer alive. As soon as I can secure proof... we will be able to let her family know. They deserve no less."
Ludo nearly choked on his tea. His eyes were wide.
"W-what on earth makes you say that? Bertha has been… a little off her rocker, but…" He gulped. "Mate, surely, you can't just say that. We shouldn't lose hope. Bertha has been away for extended periods of time before. I've been checking her house as often as I could. She will come back, she will."
The vehement declaration caused Albus's throat to constrict. He forced himself to speak up before his voice could fail him.
"A person close to me was able to secure a memory from an Albanian who had glimpsed Bertha towards the end of summer. The clues point towards an abduction and…" The final word refused to be articulated. "I'm trying to track down her resting place."
The commentator sat frozen.
"Albus," he uttered, "you c-can't. What if it was someone else? Not Bertha? Look… who would want to hurt Bertha? She wasn't right in the head. People wanted her fired, but to harm her? No, mate, it can't be..."
The news had come too suddenly and was too much. The headmaster now regretted his impulsive words.
He lent his voice some firmness. "You are right, perhaps; I could be mistaken. I… should have made sure before making such statements."
But the damage was done, and Ludo shook his head, clutching at the unwashed strands of his hair. All trace of his cheerful façade had dissolved; his true self was crumbling under strain.
"Albus, mate… I've been looking for Bertha too. I, well… she's not right in the head, so I-I give her the Galleons in person."
It was with an effort that he met the older wizard's gaze.
"That is to say, I have access to her deposit box at Gringotts and all. The thing is, she hasn't tried to access it even once in the recent months. It's never happened before. With her head injury, she struggled to remember anything at all, you see, so she would forget what she'd done and would do it again, sometimes even more than twice. So… well, I made sure she didn't starve. It was like habit-memory." He closed his eyes. "Habit-memory—you get it, mate? That's something you don't lose no matter what. A wizard will always remember how to hold his wand or mount a broom. You can't unlearn it. I would know—I played Quidditch. So what I'm saying is… her habit-memory would have compelled her to check her deposit box."
His meaning was crystal-clear to Albus, who nodded, not surprised in the least. Something else had caught his attention: the mention of the witch's head injury.
"What happened to Bertha?"
"I… I don't know." The round blue eyes rose. "I'm afraid you'll think very badly of me if I tell you more. But to answer your question, I really don't know, Albus. What happened, that is. I just know she wasn't always like that."
"I will not think badly of you no matter what you tell me, Ludo," the headmaster declared softly. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't wish to share. Only... do you remember when exactly it happened? When she became different?"
Ludo bit his lip. The confession spilled out suddenly.
"The Ministry is a harsh place to work at—curtain-twitchers everywhere. You can never be sure who among them might send a silent Curse your way. Poor Bertha didn't fit in. She was more like that Skeeter woman—only nicer, I expect—always looking for a scoop. So… I don't know what happened; it's difficult to even remember what she was like before. But one thing, I can tell you. She was going to see Barty. I told her not to. It was a petty subject, like asking for a raise or something. Then, for a while, she was sick, and I didn't even notice. Then she started repeating what she had already said, what she had done. I put it down to stress and the mean witches next door. It didn't even occur to me to make a connection to old Barty. I just… well, I persuaded Bertha to give me access to her deposit box, and I did some of her work and kept the hags away. But… well, you know… I… took some of it for myself."
By the time he finished, he was unable to look up. All his efforts went towards formulating one final admission.
"I tried asking Barty about it once. It was after I'd recalled what Bertha had said before her sick leave: that she had gone to see him. He acted like he couldn't remember. So… I, well, I kept my silence. Bertha had her job at least, and I took something here and there… I tried compensating when I could… I'm not proud of it."
Albus felt too numb to dwell on the revelation. Everything came back to Barty Crouch, and to a time long before any whisper of Voldemort's return had arisen. It could be analysed later. What mattered now was Ludo, whom Albus had just brutally confronted with the fact that he had been stealing from a deceased—likely murdered—woman. The headmaster wished he could take his words back, every single one.
"How much do you owe?" he asked quietly.
The answer was a mortified one, and barely louder than a whisper. "Nearly fifteen hundred Galleons."
It was a staggering sum. Albus did not blink. He had money: for many dark years—decades, indeed—he had lived off bread and water and worn two changes of clothes. His flat in London had constituted his only expense. The exact amount remained to be established, but he was confident he could relieve Ludo of his predicament.
"I'll give you as much as you need," he announced. "I have saved up—"
"What? No!" The younger wizard had stood up, and it could not be more manifest the tête-à-tête was at an end. "I mean, thank you, but I could never accept it, mate. I took money from poor Bertha. If she is no longer with us, as you say, I… I'll find a way. There is always a way. Now, shall we?"
Without letting the headmaster protest, he led the way downstairs.
Everyone had already gathered in the classroom: a composed Madame Maxime, a brooding Karkaroff, and the two auditors, both poised for taking notes. The newcomers had no choice but to gain their seats, neither of them emotionally ready for a briefing this significant.
For the first time, the commentator's tone rang hollow and absent.
"Gentlemen, ladies, we are here to discuss the Third Task. As you know, it will be a maze, and… um, Albus here is aware of… of the organisational details regarding the creatures. We thought to make it fair for everyone by filling the maze with magical animals and enchantments, thus staying compliant with the theme of the four elements. Each champion will, ah, find his or her way around them. That will test their various skills acquired along their educational path. No hostages this time, just getting through the maze unscathed and reaching the prize… That's it. This much is known to the students as well. What else? From your side, no organisation in required; it has been taken care of. Did I miss something?"
He cast about, as if waiting for a response, before his eyes reached the host. For one wild instant, Albus felt certain his heart would stop. The sight of Miss Wenham and Mr Berkeley scribbling diligently into their notepads was not helping. As discreetly as he could, he cleared his throat.
"Mr Hagrid has been kind enough to offer a wide selection of creatures he, as the magizoologist of Hogwarts, has access to," he explained. "In this, we are closely following the notes left by Mr Crouch. But the champions haven't yet been informed."
Madame Maxime's cold voice took over.
"Zat would be correct, of course: my champion 'as not been informed of anyzing. In fact, Monsieur Dumbly-dorr eez ze only one, I believe, to 'ave received any information."
"Ah, yes." Ludo attempted to pull himself together. "I meant to say, I will be gathering the champions to inform them about the nature of the Third Task—"
There was no finishing his sentence. Karkaroff had boomed—no other word could describe the sound.
"Corruption! Here, in ze heart of tolerance and honest values! And from whom—from ze man who constantly preaches of values! What is next? Actively attacking my champion? Sabotaging him? I'm asking you—all of you, employees of your Ministry—what vill you do? How vill you react? For how long can zese double standards impede ze honesty and fair sportsmanship? Do you not see it? Informed before everyone else! How is it possible?! Are you really as naive as to zink it's a coincidence zat ze host of ze tournament has been allowed to have two champions from ze start? I mentioned corruption back zen—to you in particular, Olympe Maxime—and what did you do? Now I'm asking ALL OF YOU to stop ze organisation of this so-called task right now and replace both Mr Bagman as ze commentator and Albus Dumbledore as ze organiser. Only zis vay can it vork. As it is right now, it's not only corruption but also blatant disrespect for Durmstrang!"
The tirade had one effect: tearing Albus out of his numb misery. He considered Karkaroff without a word, having no intention of honouring the accusation with an answer. Even though it was not unfounded, the criminal before them had no right to lecture anyone on tolerance or honest values. He was not alone in his sentiment: Ludo could not care less, and as for the auditors, they were too busy rendering the speech in its entirety to permit themselves any effusion. Madame Maxime alone reacted.
"Monsieur Karkaroff"—her voice was as chilly as her features—"zere eez no need for 'ysterics. While I'm alzo surprised zat Monsieur Dumbly-dorr is informed razer well, eet eez 'is school after all. If ze tournament 'ad taken place at Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, I'm certaine we would 'ave been given more information respectively. Eet does not qualify as corruption. Unless, of course, ze 'Ogwarts champions 'ave been informed of ze proceedings in detail before anyone else. Monsieur Bagman?
"Of course not!" Ludo drew a breath. "Look, I will be informing all the champions at a later date to tell them there will be a maze and magical creatures to get past—Merlin's beard, sit down, will you, mate?!"
A scowling Karkaroff obeyed. Madame Maxime allowed herself a frosty smile. Her wording had not been chosen carelessly: she remembered the way Karkaroff had insulted her champion during the Second Task.
Albus wished he could share her vindictive satisfaction. The truth was, the meeting had spiralled out of control, and Umbridge would be informed on its every detail from the auditors' reports. It would take her seconds to realise Ludo and Albus were working together on organising the Third Task. And if she used this pretext to sack Ludo… It was a much more alarming outlook than any part of Karkaroff's hysterics, as the headmistress had put it.
"Will the points gathered during the first two tasks be taken into account for the final score?" Albus enquired in a desperate effort to set boundaries to their discussion.
"Oh, yes. In fact, just before the start, the current scores will be summarised, and the champions with the most points will have the advantage of entering the maze first. In our case, that would mean Harry and Cedric in the lead, then Mr Krum and lovely Miss Delacour… eh, like that."
Ludo leafed through his notes, intent, it seemed, on avoiding the youngsters' eyes.
"Ah, yes, about visibility. Albus, will you schedule a meeting with your teachers?"
For a second time, Karkaroff cut in, humphing loudly.
"Ze teachers vill be in collaboration, not independent Ministry officials. Vot a surprise!"
Ludo's patience overflowed. After hearing the news of Bertha's passing, his self-control could no longer be regained, not at once.
"Put a sock in it, mate! If you got nothing to say, then don't!"
The other man did not skip a beat. "How dare you talk to me like zat?! I vill see you fired for corruption, worthless crook!"
For the first time, Mr Berkeley and Miss Wenham paused in their reports to gape. They could sense the older official was seconds away from throwing a punch.
In the end, he did not. Yet Albus knew, deep in his bones, Ludo's career was over. It was his fault too. If he had saved the tragic news for another time—found a different occasion for a private conversation—everything could have been salvaged.
What have I done? was all he could think over and over.
But he had to reply, even if no words could fix what he had undone.
"I will hold a meeting with my staff. Like for the Second Task, we need to make sure the audience will be able to see what's happening in the maze. The reason I have been granted information in advance is because I will be responsible for Charming the walls of the maze to offer the spectators a good view. It's a large amount of spellwork, which I must design in my spare time. I beg for your understanding." After a meaningful pause, he carried on, "I will ask several of my staff members for help. They will sign the binding contracts issued by the Ministry and receive the appropriate training. Their duty will include patrolling the maze and projecting their memories for the audience to watch. Everything will be conducted in accordance with the rules."
Karkaroff's venomous stare and the insult he muttered in his mother tongue made it plain what he thought of the arrangement. Yet there was nothing he could do.
Meanwhile, Ludo seemed to have come to his senses. He took in the auditors' notepads and heaved a deep sigh. Madame Maxime alone had kept her presence of spirit.
"Bon, anyzing else?"
"Uh… no, no. Maybe just to double-check the date. You will soon be informed. So the next steps are to inform the champions, confirm the date, and notify you about any new details. The organisational duties rest with Albus then—and the Ministry, of course."
Ludo had to clamp his mouth shut, lest he speak out of turn again.
Madame Maxime had the grace to leave his pronouncement without comment. Whether she privately agreed with Karkaroff, they would never know.
"Bon, c'est compris alors. Do we 'ave anyzing to sign?"
The four judges proceeded to write down their names under a succession of secrecy clauses. No sooner was the procedure concluded than Karkaroff stormed out, gushing more profanities as he did so. The French headmistress walked out in his wake.
It was time to say goodbye to the young officials, both of whom put commendable effort into pretending they had assisted to a perfectly regular meeting, and who thanked Albus for his welcome. Ludo did the same. He knew what the cost of his outburst would be—his face revealed as much—yet he held no grudge. On his way out, one could hear him inviting the auditors for a beer at Three Broomsticks.
"We're going to the lodge on the first floor, aren't we?" Mr Berkeley's words trailed away as he turned the corner. "I've never sat downstairs."
Thoroughly repulsed by himself and more than downcast, the headmaster headed for the Great Hall, where he settled down between Minerva and Aurora.
Ten minutes might have elapsed when another calamity descended upon them without the slightest warning. An echoing scream reverberated over their heads, causing the entire staff to jump at their table.
"YOU FILTHY MUGGLE!"
Disguised with a spell to conceal the author's identity, a magically amplified voice had been released from a scarlet envelope at the Gryffindor table.
"GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM, TRAMP!"
The plates and goblets rattled; the roar was so resonant, it seemed to vibrate at one's core. Down at the students' benches, the children were backing away from the smoking Howler.
"YOU LOOK LIKE AN UGLY MOLE-RAT!"
Too stunned to react, poor Miss Granger had turned crimson. Opposite her, Harry and Ronald Weasley sat speechless.
"YOU DESERVE AZKABAN FOR BEWITCHING THOSE BOYS, TART!"
The students from Beauxbatons were watching the spectacle open-mouthed, and it was patent they were unfamiliar with Howlers. Madame Maxime stared too, her raised eyebrows suggesting she had never encountered such barbarity. All that prompted Newt to recover from his shock was his concern for the school owls, which were flying by the ceiling, frightened by the noise.
While Karkaroff kept eating, his mouth twisted in annoyance—he appeared thoroughly irritated at the trouble other people dared to have—his prized student was fighting the urge to get involved. The other boys from Durmstrang were speaking to Krum, advising him against taking action, lest he anger their headmaster.
If it had not been for a second scarlet envelope whooshing straight at the Gryffindor fourth years, the string of insults would have gone on. As it happened, the words had been rendered indiscernible in the simultaneous bellows. Their intensity, however, was impossible to bear.
Albus reached for Minerva's hand—even in this chaos, he could feel her aura expanding with fury. She was on her feet before he could touch her. Unless he was mistaken, it was towards the Owlery that she as good as ran: if more hate mail was coming, she meant to intercept it. On his other side, Aurora resembled a statue. When the roars finally subsided, she remained immobile.
"Are you all right, dear?"
Slowly, she shook her head, her dark eyes open wide. "This… this is…"
At the Slytherin table, Miss Parkinson and her friends were complaining to each other, as though Miss Granger had personally spoiled their lunch.
The headmaster pushed himself up.
"A quick meeting before the next class, please."
With a nod, Filius turned to transmit the message to the others.
When everyone but Minerva had gathered in the staffroom, Albus was quick to pass to the point. He would speak to the witch later. Her need to cool down, to stay on her own, was natural.
"As of today, the Howlers are banned at Hogwarts—both in the castle and on the grounds." He contemplated his colleagues. "Would someone like to take it upon themselves to modify the wards?"
"I'll do it," Moody offered gruffly.
"Thank you, Alastor." The headmaster let out a sigh. "My second point is about the tournament. The Ministry and I are looking for five to six volunteers to assist at the Third Task. We will ask the volunteers to patrol the area selected for the task, to protect the champions from any lethal danger, and to project their memories for the audience. I will provide training to cover every aspect of this additional responsibility, which will be duly rewarded. If you are interested, I will ask you to please let me know before Easter. That is all from my side. Do you have any questions for me?"
No one did: after what they had witnessed, the Triwizard Tournament was the furthest topic from the teachers' minds. Moody stayed behind after everyone else filed out. Friends, Albus reflected, were the only ones, aside from his lover, who could brighten an awful day.
"Thank you for volunteering, Alastor."
"No need to thank me. The Granger girl has already asked if I saw anyone out of place." The Auror pointed at his magical eye. "I did not. A smart girl, she is—looking into the possible ways of getting into the castle, that's what she is doing."
"Very true." There was, in reality, a whole array of disguises one could resort to to sneak into Hogwarts. During the previous year, Sirius had done so repeatedly. "Sadly, there is only so much we can do. Had Rita acted sloppily, you would have noticed."
Alastor chuckled. "You give me too much credit, old friend. I'm getting old. In fact, being an Auror… it feels secondary lately."
The revelation was met with a sincere if slightly weary smile.
"Is this truly the way you feel? I meant to compliment you—to me, you have grown younger, happier." Albus leaned in, his eyes twinkling. "Do you already know what you will do? There is plenty of time yet, and at no point would I like you or Rolanda to feel pressured. I'm merely curious."
He had not expected to see a blush spread over Moody's face.
"You're right, it's not the old age. Or maybe it is. I've lost my leg and my eye fighting the evil that were the radical elitists—those who sought to destroy our freedom in the name of maintaining their pure-blood privilege. I don't regret any of it. My eye and my leg went to a good cause. In fact, back in the day, I would have gladly given my life to protect every single Miss Granger—and yes, I see them all. Muggle-borns face injustice even now. But you know… now I'm happy I've never lost my life—never mind my eye and leg. I want my life. Does it make me selfish?"
It was the most moving admission Albus had heard the old Auror share. He felt more touched than he could express.
"Absolutely not. Your life is worth as much as the lives of the people you protect. It's never selfish to live. I couldn't be happier that you have agreed to spend this year with us. I hope it has been—and will be—your best one yet."
Moody's smile was equally genuine.
"I knew you wouldn't judge, old friend. Anyone else but you." Soon he frowned, though. "I see you are worried. Dare I guess? It's not only because of that tastelessly cowardly verbal attack on Miss Granger, is it now? Come to think of it, Ludovic didn't look his usual chirpy self either."
Leaning back against the backrest of his chair, Albus rubbed at his eyes. "It's true, there is much on my mind. How is Harry doing, do you know?"
"Worried as well. As he should be." The Auror's usual expression of grim alertness returned. "I haven't brought up Ludovic for nothing. As you know, I shadow Potter. And just before lunch, I saw Ludovic steer the Potter boy aside when the pair of Ministry kids wasn't looking. He found it necessary to inform Potter that he was looking for missing Bertha Jorkins. Also, the man seems rather eager to offer Potter help—some inside information if you will—so that Potter would gain an advantage against the other champions."
Albus froze, then lowered his face into his hands. Sometimes, too much was too much. He was feeling utterly drained.
"Oh, Ludo."
If the man's situation was so dire that he had placed a bet on Harry, why had he refused monetary help? It was not a true question, for Albus knew why. The sensation of all-consuming guilt was one he was acquainted with. Only, Harry was not a solution to Ludo's trouble or to his crushing debt.
"You don't seem surprised," Alastor pointed out.
"No." With some effort, Albus straightened up. "Ludo is a good person. He has a problem and won't ask for help until it's too late. But he is not someone I fear. On that note…"
He seized a piece of parchment, wrote down an incantation, and applied a spell before handing it over. The paper would turn blank before evening.
"Banning Howlers requires a simple enough adjustment, though you will need to set a few hours aside for it. The parchment they use for Howlers is imbued with magical flames, which come to life at the presence of destructive emotion: anger, malice, frustration. Here is the symbol for one of the wards protecting the grounds. You will need to teach it to recognise the Howler's magic."
Moody nodded solemnly.
"Fear not, it won't happen again." He tilted his head to one side. "Is that all, Albus? You still seem worried."
"There is no helping it, I'm afraid. I'll breathe freely when the tournament is over."
It was a lie: their lives would become a hundred times more arduous after the tournament. And Harry...
But Alastor deserved to live in peace. If he so decided, he might even have a honeymoon to look forward to. There was no reason to burden him.
"Well, old friend, you will tell me when you see fit," came good-natured surrender. "I may be an Auror, but I know as well when not to interrogate. Instead, let me reassure you: I won't let the Potter boy out of my sight. I haven't forgotten my duty, and I'll find out how that Skeeter woman keeps getting in too. Someone has to do it. Clearly, our slippery friend Snape is not that person."
Albus thanked him. What he would have done without his friends' help, he had no idea.
A letter had been delivered to his office in the meantime. Brought all the way from Vienna, it bore the Minister's official stamp and signature.
Dear Mr Dumbledore,
We take this opportunity to inform you it is not necessary to report every detail of your visits to Nurmengard to our attention. Succinct summaries will suffice.
Thank you for your understanding.
Yours sincerely.
Hagen Ebensee, Zaubereiminister für Österreich
The old wizard's eyes narrowed at the missive. It was true, he had been hoping to visit Gellert in the evening and bring him dinner.
Summoning a special quill he had purchased at Flourish and Blotts, he placed it on a pile of parchment. It had a special feature: composing a text centred around several key words. The better the quill, the higher the quality of the composition. This one had been cheap.
"Roast salmon with rice and pureed broccoli. Challenges of Muggle aquaculture with a specific emphasis on salmon industry. Apple tart purchased in Salzburg. History of Salzburg. Average weather in the surrounding area. Five pages."
The quill jumped into motion. Even a cursory glance at the text left no doubt a second year could have done a better job. Yet Ebensee—or his secretary—would have to wade through those five pages of nonsense if they wished to find the details they needed.
"Happy reading, Minister."
Unable to suppress a slight smirk, Albus walked off in search of Minerva.
AN: At the occasion of the release of the third entry in the Fantastic Beasts franchise, we couldn't resist this chance to offer an alternative version of Newt's life. It draws inspiration from the first movie without taking into account the involvement of either Albus or Gellert.
The central conflict in the series is presented in a rather black and white manner. Conflicts almost never are, though: they are clashes not between goodies and baddies, but between individuals believing in their respective ideas. And when it comes to complex conflicts, one does, in our opinion, have the right to remain neutral. We feel it's especially true for the individuals who have dedicated their lives to callings such as arts, music, sports, medicine, or even care of animals—people who are needed no matter what happens, and who live in worlds of their own. This is why, in this version, Newt never has and never will pick a side. His mission is to protect the animals in his care; this, he will do no matter what becomes of the world around him. Other people—better qualified than him—will take up the arms. He has a different battle to fight.
Whether you agree or disagree, please don't hesitate to share your opinion. Thank you for reading!