11. Questions
"Another fantastic dinner, Perenelle. Thank you again for having me."
"Oh, will you stop with that? You know you're always welcome here, Albus." Perenelle Flamel gave him a warm smile before she rose from the table and made the empty dishes fly back into the kitchen, directing them with her wand.
"She's serious, you know, old friend. If you hadn't asked to visit us this summer, she would have made me swim across the Channel to come and get you," Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair.
Albus quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if I should feel touched or offended that you consider me an old friend."
Nicholas laughed. "I don't look a day over five hundred. You on the other hand…"
"Ah, you see, we don't all drink the Elixir of Life for breakfast," Albus replied.
"No, we certainly don't, but you could," Nicholas said pointedly.
"No." Albus left the dining room and stepped out into the garden of the Flamel's house. He generally preferred the moderate Scottish summers, but the light and warmth of the French sun did make for a nice change at the moment.
Nicholas followed him outside and offered him a crystal goblet filled with a swirling dark red liquid. "It's just wine. I promise," he said. "And a very special vintage at that. For special guests."
Albus thanked him and took a sip. The French certainly knew their wines.
"So, how have you been doing?" Nicholas asked, sipping his own wine and surveying his garden.
"Honestly, Nicholas, would you like Madam Hailstone to send you a note to confirm that I'm in excellent health?" Albus asked, amused.
"I was referring to the fact that they've been writing a lot about you in the papers again. Even in ours," Nicholas explained.
"Yes, I saw my picture next to an article about regurgitating toilets. A rather unfortunate combination. Then again, it looked like a fascinating article. The one about the toilets, I mean."
"I hear you. You don't care what they write about you. But since you don't mind and they will do it one way or another, perhaps you should have just taken the job?"
Albus suppressed a sigh. "Et tu, Brute?"
"Don't go all Julius Caesar on me, Albus," Nicholas defended himself. "As your oldest friend – by a wide margin, I might add – I have a right to inquire about your reasoning."
"As my oldest friend, I hoped that I wouldn't have to explain it to you," Albus countered.
"I know you don't particularly like your ministry and the way it operates. I understand you don't want to be forced into a role where you can only either be their saviour or their worst failure," Nicholas said thoughtfully. "But I also know that head of yours is filled with lots of brilliant ideas. Things you would like to change, and now they've asked you to do just that."
Albus snorted. "They don't want me in that office to have me change things but to have me tamed."
"I would like to see them try," Nicholas said grimly. "Granted, some of your previous ministers were idiots. That Hector Fawley especially, who thought Grindelwald's great revolution was nothing but a joke." He shook his head and thus did not notice Albus' involuntary shudder at being reminded of Grindelwald's revolutionary ideas. His ideas.
"That Spencer-Moon was all right, I suppose. But dealt a difficult hand, obviously," Nicholas continued, oblivious to Albus' inner demons. "Now, though, now seems to be the time to do some actual governing, does it not?"
"There are other ways to advocate for change. In the meantime I'm sure Wilhelmina will do just fine," Albus said. He really thought that Wilhelmina Tuft was one of the better candidates for the job. He remembered her from her time at school and she had sent him an owl, asking if he was quite certain that he didn't want the job, otherwise refusing to take it, which had been a nice, if unnecessary, gesture.
"Be that as it may, she's not you." Nicholas set down his goblet to face him fully. "I just have a hard time believing that it's really the pettiness of politics that's holding you back. I know you're not a political animal, but we both know you'd find a way to overcome that, to make it your own, and you'd be a great leader."
Albus looked from the scrutinizing eyes of his friend to the peacefully blossoming garden. "Sometimes, my dear Nicholas, even great leaders do terrible things for what they believe to be the right reasons." Or, a nasty voice echoed in his head, For the Greater Good. "There's a fine line between being great and being terrifyingly so."
Nicholas gaped at him, clearly not having expected that answer. "You don't think you would…?"
"Haven't you been reading the papers, Nicholas? I'm the most powerful wizard alive. Who would stop me?" He asked it plainly, with no emotion in his voice, and yet he thought the air had turned a little colder.
And Nicholas, too, had fallen silent. Albus wondered if he had grasped the terrible truth of his words and was afraid…
But then he said, quite insistently, "You would! You would stop yourself. With that in there." He pointed at Albus' chest.
"My heart?" Albus said, sighing softly. "Ah, my poor, battered heart."
"Battered or not, it holds more kindness and love, even for complete strangers, than I've ever known anyone to have. Perhaps all you need is to get some in return." Nicholas snapped his fingers. "You know, there's a pub in town that draws a respectable crowd. Some very nice French lads and ladies…"
"Oh dear," Albus laughed. "I think I liked it better when you tried to talk me into becoming Minister for Magic."
Nicholas rested a hand on his shoulder. "Perenelle and I just don't want you to sit up in that castle all alone with only a bird for company."
"No one will ever be truly alone at Hogwarts, unless they choose to be," Albus told him.
"Then what do you choose?" Nicholas asked.
Albus watched a bumblebee land on a particularly colourful flower to gather nectar, busy performing such a simple task in its simple life. "I think… I will ask Perenelle if she'll save me a slice of that lemon pie for a late-night supper," he said and headed back inside the house.
"That pie won't love you back, Albus!" Nicholas hollered after him, making the bumblebee hastily take flight again.
"A few short weeks after taking office, Wilhelmina Tuft announced yesterday evening that Albus Dumbledore has been named Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. To some this will come as a surprise after Dumbledore's steadfast refusal to accept the position as Minister for Magic, but the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot have responded to Dumbledore's appointment with overwhelming approval and collective cheers.
"Albus Dumbledore has done nothing but serve the British wizarding community with outstanding bravery and distinction. I couldn't be happier that a man of such great integrity will now help to uphold our laws," said Tuft during her announcement.
Tuft was only named Minister for Magic after Dumbledore refused the nomination and pledged his support to her campaign, which immediately gave rise to certain speculations that Dumbledore's appointment to Chief Warlock might have been some kind of quid pro quo. Tuft refused to comment…"
"Of course she refused to comment on a bloody stupid rumour like that," Minerva muttered, pushing the paper away from her in disgust.
"Darling, who are you talking to?"
Minerva, who was lying on her stomach in the field behind the manse, looked up at her mother, who was carrying a pitcher with fresh lemonade. "The Daily Prophet," she replied and added a "Thanks" when her mother handed her a glass.
"Aye? Which one?" Isobel asked, taking in the old newspapers that were piled up around her daughter. "What do you want with all of these?"
"I borrowed them from the library for the holidays to do some research on… uh… Grindelwald," Minerva told her.
Her mother gave her a sharp knowing look. "Grindelwald or Professor Dumbledore?"
Minerva blushed. "They've been writing so much rubbish about him. I was just hoping to find some useful information."
"And you didn't think to ask him?"
"He doesn't like questions about Grindelwald," Minerva said.
"Then maybe he doesn't want you to know," her mother pointed out.
Minerva shrugged. "It just feels like no one really knows him. Like it's all a big secret he has to keep. It must be hard."
Her mother looked at her curiously. "You and your father are like two peas in a pod. Sometimes people keep things to themselves not because they have to but because they choose to. And sometimes it's nothing that concerns nosy little soon-to-be fourth-year students."
Pretending to have her mouth full with lemonade, Minerva didn't respond.
"Even if you were to find something in these old papers, would it change anything about you wanting him to teach you?"
Now Minerva did swallow a huge gulp of lemonade so she could say quickly, "Of course not!"
"Then why don't you stick to your school's motto and let sleeping dragons lie?" her mother suggested with a smile.
When she was alone again, Minerva pulled out a piece of parchment from underneath the pile of newspapers. It was a letter to Professor Dumbledore she had started to write, congratulating him on his appointment to Chief Warlock, but it wasn't finished. She had remembered something Dumbledore had told her once about teachers being on holiday, too, and realised that he probably didn't want to get letters from students.
She knew her mother had a point. Nothing she would find in these papers about Grindelwald would change anything. Just as learning that Professor Dumbledore's father had been in Azkaban hadn't changed anything, even though it had shocked her greatly.
Minerva had been taught by Dumbledore for the past three years. But she was only now beginning to understand what a uniquely powerful wizard he truly was. At the same time she had never been more curious what else there was to know about him.
Had he ever dreamed of doing something else besides teaching? Clearly not becoming Minister for Magic. But what had he done after graduating from Hogwarts? Or had he been asked to stay right away since he had probably been more talented than most of the teachers put together. Minerva wondered what that must have been like for him. She was very happy that she had passed her end-of-term exams with flying colours once more, especially after she had struggled for a while, trying to find the right balance between studying and Quidditch. But being the best in your year could be lonely, too.
Where had Professor Dumbledore got it all from, if not from his father? Though having been a criminal didn't mean that he couldn't have also been a powerful wizard. Minerva hoped that Dumbledore had some other family left. Had he ever married? Did he have children? The latter seemed unlikely, though for a minute or two Minerva entertained herself by picturing Dumbledore to have seven children who went to seven different wizarding schools and would eventually make the world a better place.
Clearly, she had been out in the sun for too long.
And she also began to suspect that she wouldn't find any answers out here.