Albus's expectations had come true. When Rolanda Hooch knocked on his door to share the news, he saw in her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks what the school year had been leading towards. There was more than tragedy and Voldemort's return in store for Hogwarts: there was love too.
"I hope I haven't come at the wrong time." The witch cleared her throat. "The truth is, I'm not sure how to—or even when—and the moment never seems right for this… It's about Alastor."
She held up her hand, displaying her engagement ring. Albus neither blinked nor gasped, nor did he pause to collect himself. With a smile he could not have concealed even if he had attempted to, he pulled Rolanda into a breathless embrace.
"Congratulations, my dear! This is wonderful. Of course, this is a good time. I couldn't be happier for you."
Her own smile was dazzling, and one could tell she barely dared believe in the turn her life had taken.
"Thank you, headmaster. To be frank, I never thought I would find someone. Oh, I'm so happy!" Then, as if to compose herself, she inhaled. "This is why I've come—I believe we'll be taking an extended holiday, Alastor and I. With your permission, of course."
"By all means." He offered her a seat before reaching for his wand. "It's early in the morning yet for extravagance but let us celebrate all the same. What would you like to drink?"
"Apple cider, I think. I've always liked it."
Two glasses full of hot beverage appeared on the table between them, topped with cinnamon sticks and slices of apple. Albus hastened to settle down, more curious perhaps than an employer had any right to be. While Hogwarts did not resemble most workplaces—the school staff could indeed be compared to something of an eccentric family—everyone had the right to privacy.
"How did it happen, dear?" He wavered. "Forgive me if I'm asking out of turn—tell me only what you are comfortable with."
But she was already waving his embarrassment away.
"I don't even know how it happened. Ever since Alastor came here, something's been different. I feel… whole with him."
She met his gaze, her features now growing sober.
"You know, I've never pursued anyone. What's more, I'm used to seeing most wizards as… Quidditch players—team members, if you will. And I've always been all right this way. Yet Alastor—well, he has so many principles: always doing his best to make the world a better place. It's difficult to be with wizards of principles. I would know. In a game of Quidditch, you always prioritise your team: first comes the match and only then the rest. Maybe that's why I didn't get close to anyone before: I've seen too much of it. It's… off-putting. So I never thought I would be dating someone who was all about principles. I thought I'd sacrificed enough on the pitch. And look at me now. You'd think I'm sixteen, not in my sixties. Seems silly, doesn't it?"
Albus gently squeezed her hand. The ring Alastor had placed on her finger was lovely: a gold band with a modest stone. After a lifetime of dismissing fashion as yet another facet of irresponsible consumerism, the Auror had made an effort for the witch. To show her how special she was, he had broken one of his principles.
"Not in the slightest. The best gifts we are granted in life are given to us without warning. Very often, they are not what we would have chosen ourselves. Only later do we realise why it was meant to be."
A brief hesitation, and then her amber eyes looked straight into his in a manner that was characteristic of sportswizards. Her words were just as direct.
"Was it, though? Forgive me, Albus—I'll understand if you don't want to disclose anything—but we all have heard the rumours. And knowing you… you must have felt foolish, hoodwinked, deceived. You are a wizard of principles yourself, and I dare say your principles do not include the massacre committed by someone you… you trusted. Because you did, didn't you?"
No one from the castle had ever questioned him so plainly, not even Minerva. As he responded, he did not withhold the truth; there was no need to hide any of it.
"My husband may be a Dark wizard, but he has principles of his own. The massacre was not his doing. It was committed by someone who had a personal interest in ruining his life and reputation."
Albus sat up straighter. A sigh escaped him.
"Gellert has always been honest with me. The reason our lives turned out the way they did is because I was young, immature, and inconsiderate. I was seventeen when my siblings and I lost our remaining parent. My brother, despite being fourteen, had made it his duty to hold our household together and be the father to our afflicted sister. As for me, I had made my choice, and I was determined to take care of my siblings in the best way I could think of. Everything was just perfect in my mind. Only, I had forgotten to take my brother's feelings and wishes into account. I should have talked to him, explained myself. I should have given him my time and attention and understood his state of mind. So everything that followed rests on my conscience."
An instant passed before Rolanda spoke again.
"I'm sorry," she uttered quietly. "It was inconsiderate of me. It's just, we've heard something else, even though Minerva did her best to stop people from gossiping." She shifted in her chair, her gestures becoming livelier. "I addressed it because I'm not sure… I know it's an awful thing to say, but you were seventeen. Whatever happened, happened when you were young. I'm not young, and I'm afraid of making a mistake."
This statement was what released her innermost confession.
"Alastor is holding something back, you see. I can feel it. I'm just not sure how to address it, or if I even should. Or if it's simply the fact that I'm old. What do you think? Could it be just that? That I'm an old witch who has been alone for too long? Maybe I'm unable to rely on anyone at this point… I truly don't know, yet I feel guilty for having this doubt."
It was startling, this suspicion of withheld secrets, especially after Moody's proposal had been accepted. As far as Albus was concerned, marriage should not be heralded by unease. Also, one ignored intuition at one's own peril.
"You are not old, my dear," he objected. "Nor are you unable to trust. You've had to rely on teammates throughout your entire life. By now, you can sense who is worthy of confidence and who is not. I therefore don't believe it would be wise to brush off your concern." He smiled then. "If you are uncertain how to breach this subject, I can speak to Alastor. It could have something to do with his past: he has lived through difficult times, made decisions he might have regretted since. He might even be convinced he doesn't deserve you. But whatever his reasons are, I will tell him honesty is essential and that it's important to share."
Rolanda's expression cleared. "Thank you! The two of you are old friends—I'm sure he will talk to you."
With this fear laid to rest, she beamed at him.
"But other than that, I'm happy. I've already started planning our honeymoon—we'll go to Iceland, I think. Alastor agrees; in fact, he says it's never about the place as such. That with me, even Azkaban wouldn't be terrible." She let out a tiny cough. "This kind of dark humour is something we need to work on, Auror or not. I don't like morbidity any better than I like violence in Quidditch."
"Goodness me." Blinking at Moody's too-fervent declaration, the headmaster took a few seconds to picture Iceland's spectacular landscapes. What a beautiful place to visit with someone you loved. "I'm immensely pleased for you both. Tell me only this: should I warn Minerva we will be hiring not one but two teachers over summer?"
She lowered her glass. "Well… maybe you should indeed start looking for my replacement. For now, I just wanted to let you know. We aren't going anywhere, but I feel it's time Alastor and I… lived for ourselves."
"Of course." He would miss Rolanda dearly; they all would. People like her drew little attention to themselves, yet once they left, one could vividly feel just how instrumental they had been in keeping the group together, in maintaining the bond of friendship. "If you know a suitable candidate, you can refer them to me—your recommendation will be most appreciated. But if it's not the case, worry not; you have more than enough to arrange." He gave her fingers one last squeeze. "Are you ready for the others to know? We could have a celebration in the staffroom unless you'd rather keep it private."
"Minerva already knows," she assured him. "We thought we could make the official announcement after the Third Task. For now, there is so much to do…"
While there certainly was enough to do, she was right to claim she and Alastor deserved a life of their own. He had suspected since as early as October it might happen; Moody had effectively stolen one of his best teachers and friends away.
"A surprise celebration after the Third Task, do you reckon?" Albus whispered to Minerva the following evening.
Easter had come. As an old-standing tradition dictated, this was the time of the year when the Hogwarts choir performed a selection of songs mastered under Filius Flitwick's tutelage. This concert—a forty-five-minute-long medley of exquisite medieval ballads interspersed with more modern tunes—was invariably succeeded by a feast.
"On the Quidditch pitch," she whispered back, appearing confident and excited in equal measure. "As soon as the hedges are removed."
"And let us agree no grooms will be admitted to the party."
He had uttered this last, teasing remark more loudly before casting Alastor a sly glance, and he could have sworn the latter's features had flushed a shade pinker. Proper banter had to be postponed, for the choir's performance was starting.
That evening, a chance to honour his word to Rolanda never came. What the headmaster received instead was the opportunity to fulfil an entirely different promise. He recalled it at the sight of young Rolf Scamander petting his owl as pudding was served. Even though the boy did not physically resemble his grandfather, who had left the castle after successfully completing his round of seminars, one could not doubt their family ties. Evidence lay in their distinctive magical auras: a blend of curiosity, gentleness, and tenacity.
"Mr Scamander?"
Taken aback, the teenager lingered in the wake of his departing classmates.
"How are you doing? Did you enjoy the concert?"
"Yes, sir."
Tina's velvet brown eyes stared up in puzzlement at the old wizard, who smiled.
"I apologise for detaining you without a warning. This won't take more than two minutes of your time. I merely wanted to speak to you about the black stray from Hogsmeade. You see, a good friend who works in the area has told me you seem to be interested in adopting the animal. The truth is, someone has already taken the dog in. I'm sorry to be the bearer of this news."
But the teenager's eyes had lit up with relief. It was manifest he did not begrudge this imaginary dog lover his or her luck—he was no more possessive than Newt.
"I'm so glad, professor!" he exclaimed. "That dog is so thin, I was really worried when I saw him. It must have been ages since anyone has looked after him. I hope they'll give him the love he deserves. Do you know who adopted him, sir?"
"I must have forgotten," Albus asserted softly, moved by the grateful glint in Rolf's gaze. "I will find out as promptly as I can. Thank you for having stayed behind, Mr Scamander."
All in all, the headmaster could not remember having lived through Easter holidays this harmonious. All his dealings appeared to succeed. Gellert remained in good spirits, and Albus's study of Sakrémaji was steadily advancing. With Harry safe and Rolanda engaged to Moody, the castle had rarely felt more peaceful. As for the Third Task, the preparations were in full swing.
Five teachers had expressed their willingness to patrol the maze: Minerva, Filius, Alastor, Aurora, and Bathsheda. Severus's name was added to the list after Albus had pointed out he would have loved for the young man to be a part of the Task. It was obvious, from Snape's half-smile, that he had delayed in applying for the express purpose of being begged into joining. Playing hard to get in order to cut a better deal: the tactic was known to more than Slytherins.
Albus was aware periods of good fortune did not last long. He was fully prepared to pay the price for this succession of lucky events. All he could do was pray that it held out until one last, crucial meeting took place: one that would decide the fate of Durmstrang and perhaps the course of Italian politics.
The day after Easter Sunday, he found his adopted children composed and serene in their Tuscan villa. There was a glint to Justice's eye that called to mind a cat stalking prey. Even her motions, as she hurried about in the kitchen, were feline in their smooth briskness.
"Nervous?"
Giacomo had emerged behind Albus to pat him on the shoulder.
Before more than a smile could be offered in response, the witch turned around, sending a cloud of flour into the air.
"What do you two have in mind?"
"Nothing that will get us arrested," Giacomo said bracingly. "In all honesty, it's far less dangerous than what you are planning, amore."
Justice rolled her eyes. "Better tell me: would a teenage boy rather go for sweet or semi-sweet? What do you think, Albus?"
Her husband cleared his throat before turning to leave.
"I'll be right back. While you're here, I would highly appreciate if you could talk some sense into my wife."
The witch pursed her lips as she watched him walk out. "I'm doing everything right!"
Glancing down at the ingredients scattered over the table, the Englishman noted the presence of sugar, milk, eggs, cocoa, cream, and fresh fruit. Nothing suspicious unless one paid attention to the additional ingredient that did not belong in a cake. Clear liquid, enclosed in an ornate bottle, glittered innocently between the baking powder and a bowl of strawberries. It explained a great deal.
"You mean to serve some truth cake to a teenage boy," he divined. "It's about Santi's injury, is it not?"
"Indeed. He says he didn't give Pancito any blood, and I believe him. So who did?" Justice smiled. "If you ask me, there is only one suspect: the person who dragged Santi into that parkour fashion in the first place—you know, that activity their Muggles do. If I'm right, Santi is in trouble because a good friend wouldn't have exposed him to a fall like this. Think about it: the little pest even visited Santi in hospital! He had many opportunities to confess. As it is… I will give him a push."
Having never heard of parkour, Albus had no idea what manner of Muggle activity to imagine. This was not what mattered. He would have disagreed with his daughter's approach even if Cucullu's son had been guilty: one ought to feed Veritaserum to criminals, not children.
"Don't do this, darling," he said. "This isn't Dominique's doing. I promise he didn't give Pancito a taste of blood. The culprit is standing right in front of you."
"No, no, no, don't even try to talk me out of—que?" Shocked, Justice covered her mouth with her hand. Her voice came out feeble. "It this a joke? Why… why would you?"
He closed his eyes. This was what he should have done from the start; only, the proper occasion had never presented itself.
"The last time you sent Pancito to me, I was about to go to Nurmengard. It was before my second journey to Haiti, and I still had not secured a vial of Gellert's blood for mambo Lucille. With the guards being new and thorough, I couldn't smuggle anything sharp into the cell, so I wondered how to fulfil her requirement. Pancito's arrival gave me an idea. It was as though I'd lost hold of my common sense. The only solution I could think of was asking Pancito for a favour. He bit Gellert at my request. I begged him not to do it again, and I believed he would not. What happened to Santi, I could not have imagined in my worst nightmares, and I am, truly, so sorry for the suffering I have caused to your family."
Justice's eyes, round with consternation, never left Albus's; she could not even blink.
Seconds later, Giacomo strode in.
"Had to make a few Floo calls—my apologies for the delay… Amore?"
Disconcerted by the expression on his wife's face, he turned towards Albus.
"Did you, by any chance, manage to explain to her the consequences of feeding an illegal potion to a teenage wizard without his consent?"
This was what prompted Justice to recover. She composed herself, not without shooting Albus a fleeting glance that asked him to keep his silence. With her lips pursed, she picked the vial of Veritaserum and handed it to Giacomo.
"Even so, I wouldn't have been caught," she insisted.
The Italian's appreciative smile, while he pocketed it, was directed at his adoptive father.
"Grazie. You must be the only wizard alive my lovely—but crazy—wife listens to."
Miserable with guilt yet reluctant to disregard Justice's wish, Albus said goodbye to the witch. It was imperative that he piece himself together before he and Giacomo Apparated to Liguria, where a negotiation awaited them.
The weather was bright and clear with a fresh breeze tempering the heat. Olivia Ollivander's estate had been magically sealed to intruders. Her husband—a good-natured gentleman Albus had met on only a few occasions—was doubtless staying elsewhere. Just like her foe, Olivia guarded her household's safety. Without the house-elves, who materialised in the valley to guide the two wizards into the garden, entering would have been impossible.
How exactly the peace-making of the two powerful pure-blood clans, the members of which had been engaged in hateful rivalry for at least a century, could be achieved remained to be seen. Despite the slim odds, only the favourable outcome was acceptable in Albus's mind. He smiled at the head house-elf, who admitted them into the elegant mansion, and allowed himself to be led into a parlour, Giacomo by his side. Where they passed, they could see flowers arranged in pastel compositions: the remnants of Easter.
The family's matriarch was expecting them by a large fireplace made of marble. The room, imposing in itself, overlooked something even more impressive: the Ollivanders' plantation of wand trees. This show of power was reflected in Olivia's gaze, as it was in the leaf-shaped gold accessories that complemented her creamy dress, and Albus was pleased to see no trace of her dejection from months earlier. She had been reborn through politics.
"Gentlemen." While she had addressed them both, it was Giacomo alone she contemplated. "I trust you don't mind surrendering your wands, do you now?"
As was his custom on each of his visits to Nurmengard, the Englishman pulled out the Elder Wand and placed it on the low table by the door, surveyed by the head house-elf. Silently, Giacomo did the same.
The instant they complied, Olivia beckoned for them to follow her, not sparing them a word of small talk. Albus caught his son's eye and noticed how rigid the latter's posture was. This had only ever happened several times, one of them in Albania.
When the double door to a patio swung open, the witch spun around.
"I take it you won't mind being searched either, will you, Mr d'Angelli?" Her hazel eyes came to rest on Albus. "Naturally, being an old friend of mine, Mr Dumbledore is exempt."
Giacomo raised an eyebrow.
"An old friend of yours," he said slowly. "And yet, this is how little you trust him. I see the Ollivander matriarch lives up to her reputation. You don't really have friends, do you now?"
Olivia blinked at this, yet he carried on.
"Ma certo, it's all business for you. In business, there is no room for friendship. I understand."
Something stirred in the headmaster's thoughts: a memory Gellert had shared with him not long ago. A young Greek wizard by the name of Apollodoros had once complained to Gregorovitch of the Ollivanders' predatory ambition, their influence. This appetite for power was, no doubt, what Giacomo was referring to. But the meeting had only started, and it could not begin with mutual hostility.
"I can vouch for Mr d'Angelli," he intervened. "I would never have brought an ill-intentioned wizard to your house. If I can be trusted to be carrying nothing dangerous on my persona, so can be my adopted son."
Olivia shot him a glare.
"I consent to a search," Giacomo hastened to say, "if that's what you want."
Their words, though, had not been without effect.
"No, I trust Albus, Mr d'Angelli. Like I said, he is an old friend." Olivia smiled. "Have a seat, gentlemen."
They settled down around a delicately carved garden table, which lay in the wand trees' shade. The very earth they lingered upon was imbued with magic of the ancient kind, consciously cultivated for centuries. Aware that no small talk would be tolerated, Albus broke the silence, passing straight to the point, his Italian fluent if cautious.
"The situation in Britain can be called calm before the storm—I've said it once, and it's still true. Karkaroff knows how to read the signs. In a few months at the latest, he will run off to save his life, and the position of the Durmstrang headmaster will become available for a new candidate. If the majority within the board of governors were to have their way, there would be no Italian influence left at Durmstrang. The school would be just as unlikely to return to its former glory. It's an outcome we would like to avoid at all costs. I have asked to arrange this meeting so that we could hold a discussion on this matter."
"I see," Olivia returned musingly. "Your concern is valid. However, as Mr d'Angelli has pointed out, I'm a businesswitch. Wandlore is our family's business, not politics. I'm not sure how I can help."
This was not quite true, not any longer. No matter how recently she had joined Rome's political arena, her standing set her apart from the younger politicians, most of whom had had to dedicate their lives to working their way up.
"Your influence transcends business," Albus replied. "Now more than ever, you are a formidable political force. What we ask for is your friendship and your wisdom."
"Hmm." The witch's gaze flew shrewdly towards Giacomo. "And here I thought it was d'Angelli Junior who was all that… formidable and whatnot. Am I wrong? Surely, Mr d'Angelli here will be more than happy to claim the reins."
Giacomo spoke calmly. "There is also profit to be made—as a businesswitch, I'm sure you'll agree. That, and the influence."
The hazel eyes narrowed.
"Just as I suspected then. Supporting that little offspring of yours is proving costly, isn't it? Why else would you share the profit? The lesser of the two evils, is it?"
"Not at all," the younger wizard affirmed. "That being said, I'll concede there is a reason. We, d'Angellis, are powerful in politics, granted. And if I become influential in the north while my talented daughter grows as powerful in the south—and yes, she is well on her way, Madam Ollivander, so you can wipe that smirk off your face—it will appear much like a monopoly. Surely, you of all people know how dire it is when wizards start whispering about monopolies and corruption. In fact, certain Greek friends come to mind when I think of the topic."
Even as she drew a breath, he continued, cutting off her response.
"And as far as profit is concerned… well, I'm afraid you will need it far more than my family does."
"Excuse me?" The bold declaration had caught the witch off guard. "I'm an Ollivander—I own Italy. All Southern Europe, as a matter of fact. People will never stop needing wands, and no matter what the Greeks will have you believe, only we possess the secrets of the wandlore. Surely, you are aware of this much."
"The extent of your wealth is extravagant," Giacomo conceded, and Albus instinctively knew Olivia's only son's name was about to be mentioned. "But Gilbert's habits are just as extravagant. And yes, yes, wizards will never stop needing wands, but here is the thing. Gilbert's needs exceed by far the needs of the witches and wizards who only require one wand for life. While we are on the topic, I'll be happy to attend his next concert. The piano alone should be worth it."
"The piano?" The words tore out of the witch's chest despite her.
"Yes, the one with the dancing cherubs on the lid. I believe Gilbert might have completed the purchase by now. Should we ask him?"
For a few seconds, Olivia seemed too stunned for words. Then she briskly stood up to head inside.
"Excuse me."
Left alone with Giacomo, Albus briefly touched the other wizard's shoulder in a show of affectionate respect. He felt both proud and impressed if slightly uncomfortable. The way Olivia's son's irresponsible behaviour had been used against her… it had pained him to witness her dismay.
"This is what your Floo calls were about while I spoke to Justice," he recalled. "Is Gilbert aware?"
"No," Giacomo assured him. "Not at all. Everything is done discreetly."
Were the spies in question people Gilbert knew and trusted? Naively perhaps, Albus decided it could not be the case.
"I knew one Greek wizard who strongly disliked the Ollivanders," he admitted. "He was in his twenties around 1900. Some grudges never die, I see."
This statement elicited a smile.
"What was his name?
"Apollodoros." Albus smiled back. "I haven't actually met him—Gellert did back in the day. Apollodoros made an impassioned plea for Gregorovitch to start using dragon heartstring in his wandmaking, all to no avail."
"Was it, by any chance, Apollodoros Xiphias, who used to work for the Russian wandmaker before they parted ways?"
"They parted ways?"
Frowning, the Englishman pondered the facts. Something was nagging at his mind—something to do with the Triwizard Tournament. Soon, he understood.
"Tell me the Xiphias family doesn't cater to the Bulgarian market," he breathed. "And under Gregorovitch's name at that. You see, during the Wand Weighing ceremony, Viktor Krum's wand was identified as a Gregorovitch creation… except its core was dragon heartstring."
Giacomo heaved a sigh, unsurprised.
"It's sad, but the reality is that wizards aren't interested in ethically produced wands. What they want is wand core from a formidable animal. Nobody pauses to think that a dragon had to die for the wand to be created. This Apollodoros and his son Zenos—he became an associate of the Greek branch—tried in vain to make Gregorovitch hear them. In the end, they crossed the line. Gregorovitch found out about the dead dragon, and they parted ways. They still use his brand, of course, not having one of their own. Marketing purposes."
For the second time that day, Albus closed his eyes, distraught. Even though he had not met Gregorovitch in person, he had grown fond of the wandmaker through Gellert's memories. It was always upsetting to see kind people taken advantage of.
"Shameless," he muttered under his breath.
There was no time to discuss it further: Olivia had returned, striding right past them, her wrath undeniable in spite of her collected expression.
"Like father, like son." This was a hint to the dubious political methods of Matteo d'Angelli, Giacomo's father and her nemesis of old. "Or rather, is it the influence of your Neapolitan mother?"
The younger wizard sighed again.
"Thank you, though I must correct you on quite a few points. By now, I have surpassed my father—also, I now have another father, Albus. And a good thing it is too. If it's the bad blood and manners you are talking about, you must rather be referring to my stepmother: she was the one who snooped around and gathered dirt on people. My Neapolitan mother was a perfectly noble lady. Please, let us not descend into the prejudice our Muggles hold against each other."
He went on as Olivia rolled her eyes.
"Oh, and one last point: Gilbert's spending habits are so notorious that I don't even need spies. It's something of a game down in Rome: wizards always try guessing the next outrageous toy he will buy. I simply have many friends who like chatting."
"Someone should have cursed your tongue off," she cut in, her eyes flashing. "You talk too much."
"That's all right. If you'd rather not waste words, we can talk business."
The witch considered Albus.
"Is he always this insolent?"
In the Englishman's opinion, this was not insolence as much as rationality. When they had arrived, all the advantages had seemingly rested with the witch. By now, the balance had shifted, and Giacomo had gained the upper hand by coming well-informed and using his knowledge most effectively, piece by piece, while remaining impervious to provocation.
They were about to reach the turning point, and Albus knew to choose his words prudently.
"Neither Giacomo nor his family wish to quarrel with you. Your families are the crowning jewels of wizarding Italy. I may not be Italian, but I wish nonetheless you could unite to conquer back and share what is yours: influence in the North. Together, you can save Durmstrang and grow stronger."
Olivia did not miss a beat. "And when I'm all the way in Scandinavia, you will place your greedy paws on the north of Italy with that little bitch of yours in the forefront, isn't that right, Mr d'Angelli?"
Giacomo held her gaze.
"Just this once, I will ignore the insult against my daughter, Madam Ollivander, but I will ask you to kindly refrain from it in the future. To answer your question—who says you have to go to Scandinavia? From my point of view, it would be beneficial. Durmstrang has acquired a shady reputation under Mr Karkaroff. From what I've heard, he took the ideals of the late British Dark Lord and extended them to the young wizards who attend our beloved school. Numerous sources tell me he openly preaches that witchcraft is only for wizards—those who were born noble, that is. He expelled the Veela a long time ago, as you have undoubtedly heard. Once upon a time, the Swedes had fought tooth and nail to have the Veela accepted there—a long campaign it had been, one of establishing mutual trust. All of that had been destroyed in a heartbeat.
"Now, the Ollivanders' name is impeccable—trust me, even I admit it. You secretly slay dragons left and right, yet nobody knows about it. Ethically-speaking, your name is pure. So if Italy were to return to the North, your presence alone would guarantee our success. In all of Europe, people love the Ollivanders. Of course, the timing is crucial. The Swedes have resorted to their old campaign, promising to open Durmstrang to the Veela again, thus restoring the school's essence. They mean to show no ideology is powerful enough to beat the spirit of Durmstrang, not even that of the bloody purity. Quite frankly, Madam Ollivander, you could single-handedly thwart the Swedes' swipes at power if you chose to put yourself at the forefront. The choice is yours. You may as well name a suitable candidate for the headmaster's post."
He paused before one final, reassuring delivery.
"And as for us d'Angellis expanding to the north of Italy… Had you really looked into Gia's campaign, you would know it's not centred around our family. Its focus is on the universal prejudice against Squibs. She is fighting for more equality. How is it a bad thing if the north supports her? Albus has told me Gia's ideals had once been yours as well."
Throughout his speech, Olivia's expression had stayed inscrutable. At last, she turned towards Albus, who appealed to their past.
"They still are, aren't they?" His tone was soft. "Decades ago, Gellert strived to put those ideals into effect, but the world, sadly, wasn't ready. Now it is happening at last, step by small step. You and I are not enemies, Olivia, because you were too great a person to despise me—and you had every right to, seeing how many tragedies I had caused. Gia will never go against your family. She is the sort of person who will love and respect you forever if you allow her to. Let us share what is likely to bring a lasting change to Europe."
The witch did not look away from him, though her next words, perfectly even, were addressed towards Giacomo.
"You wanted to talk business, Mr d'Angelli, so let's talk business. How many board members are we talking about?"
A breath of relief, of joy escaped the older wizard. Giacomo's cause had won Olivia over. Maybe not enough for a genuine friendship to grow, but just enough to permit burying the hatchet.
Together, the two families would be unstoppable, and the Italian fraction in the North would be able to prosper. Renaissance was at last coming to Durmstrang.