Been floored by a nasty flu bug that apparently turned my brain to cotton wool. Hope my sentences are coherent.
Spring 1929, Newt's hunt for the Qilin. Letters unsent. Exchanges between Albus and Silverfoot. Aberforth is approached by an old friend. Gellert and Anton reminisce on a mountaintop on Walpurgis Night.
Walpurgisnacht
16 March 1929
Dear Tina
The mountains of Nepal are majestic but merciless to both Muggle and wizard alike. I am snowbound, unable to continue through the pass into Tibet. I fear that I may need to return home to London should the weather persist. My Bowtruckles are not coping well with the chill even in my suitcase. Perhaps we might need to seek another route into the Chinese interior. My hopes had been for Chinese ministry to grant us permission to enter for academic purposes, but this had been withheld. A friend has suggested the hills further east in Burma where there is a British outpost. The terrain would be rough, even with magic.
Yours always
Newt
P.S. Douglas is threatening to run away if I do not get back to civilization before the next avalanche. Demiguise hunters or not. I might be seeing you again sooner than I thought.
Dear Queenie
I know this letter will likely never reach you, like all the other fifty or so I have written but not sent out. I hope you are well. What were you thinking going off with Grindelwald? Director Graves might be a stick-in-the-mud rulebook thumper at times, but I suppose even he did not deserve to be killed like he was. Have I mentioned that his brothers have been kidnapped by Grindelwald as well? The man is dangerous. Be careful.
Newt's been travelling the world while I am stuck in New York with my nose to the grindstone, so to speak. Things have changed in the Auror Office since 1927. Let's just say I am thankful I am not back in Wand Permits. Jacob's still running his bakery, but he had stopped offering the fancy buns Newt's creatures inspired. Now it is just plain cinnamon rolls and strudel. He's a good bloke, even if he is a Muggle. The law sucks. I do wonder about the laws in Europe or Mexico. The new MACUSA president is a traditionalist and has been pushing for all witches to leave the 'heavy' work like Aurors to the wizards. Not to worry, I intend to hang on as long as possible.
Dammit, baby sis. We all miss you. Even Mrs Esposito, whom I have convinced you have moved to Europe for work. I just stick a few French postcards about the place because I know she pries. Better than her starting up some rumour like she did about poor Annie White. You do remember how everyone thought she was off having a baby when she visited her sister in Wyoming to help her with her niece.
Tina
"Little Red Riding Hood, why are you here?" Aberforth looked up to see a familiar red hood. Severine smiled sweetly as placed her coin on the scarred countertop.
"Why should I not?"
"Do your master know?"
"I serve no master," Severine replied. She tapped the coin on the counter. "Has your brother spoken to you?" Aberforth paused in his cleaning of the mirror behind the bar. His brother had always kept his cards close.
"Really, blood calls to blood. And blood will always seek to protect its own. Have you not felt it?" she demanded as he served her a tankard of porter.
"Felt what?" Aberforth tried to keep his voice level, not to raise the taunts.
"You European wizards – hopeless!" He did not sense her move until it was too late. She Apparated behind the bar beside him. A shiny black flash as the obsidian blade cut into his palm. Chanting in her ancient tongue, the mestiza witch pressed his bloodied palm against the mirror. The surface shimmered with magic.
Aberforth gasped. The shadowy image of another room, another place flashed before him. A young man sitting forlornly on a cot in a modest but tastefully furnished room. In his heart, the barkeep knew he was looking upon his son. The image faded all too soon.
"I have set up the channel between you and your son. Write in the mirror to him. Boy needs you," Severine quaffed her drink thirstily.
"Will it be safe? He is with Grindelwald, is he not?" Severine shrugged.
"Does the caged bird not seek out the sky despite the watching cat? Grindelwald is still in Berlin. The boy is alone for few tolerate his company as an Obscurial. Write or write not? The choice is yours…"
The tinkling of the bell above the door announced her departure. Write. What should he write? Aberforth stared at his reflection in the mirror. There were a dozen things he wanted to ask, to say, but he had no idea how to translate them into letters, words… He groaned. His son needed him.
Son, I am sorry…
30th April 1929
Dear Dumbledore
I have received your latest missive with regards to your blood pact and your last encounter with your other half. Have you truly fallen out with each other? I do not know who has seen fit to accuse me of being a Monseigneur – their power has long been broken. As for the arcane knowledge they care alleged to possess, I deny all knowledge. If the source of your information comes from the late Silent Thunder, I would remind you that he was a drink-addled shadow in his later years. If you got it from a certain French alchemist, I would be obliged to have a few words with him.
The nature of a blood pact is to stand until death. Neither party can raise a wand against the other. Such bindings have their origins in the marriage alliances between the ancient wix to protect both parties against betrayal, as well as their clans.
You also write to recruit me as you did my colleague into other matters. I like to state that I seek to remain in academia and leave the pettiness of magical supremacy aside. Aren't there enough wars already involving the No-Majs alone? Do we wix seriously need to start turning on each other? Moreover, I am bound by a geas to serve the interests of Ilvermorny, in which Grindelwald's destruction features not. Perhaps Grindelwald is nothing but a passing annoyance in the greater scheme of things. If Silent Thunder still lived, perhaps he could provide a divination.
Silverfoot
Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Ilvermorny
Walpurgis Night 1929, Brockenberg
"A wild night, is it not, cousin?" the German wizard smiled as the windstorm raged about them at the summit. "Superstitious peasants claim witches gather here atop this very mountain on his very night…"
"Anton, you try my patience…" Gellert hissed as he wrapped his cloak around him against the winds and cast a Warming Charm.
"Did you not study at Durmstrang? This weather should be nothing to you…"
"When I can expect your help, cousin? What do you want from me?"
"So impatient! I want nothing more than for you to guarantee a safer world for all Germanic wix. Come, have a glass of schnapps with me, out of the wind…" the pair strolled back down towards the chalet owned by Vogel's family for generations.
"They burned witches then, in the villages below… up to the 18th century. Even now, it is not safe for wix in the backward places," Anton paused to point out a small cluster of houses in the valley.
"I will, cousin. Trust me… so long as you assist me…" Gellert rubbed his hands as they stepped into the warmth of the chalet. A house elf offered them schnapps off a tray. The wizards sat down on the chairs before the fireplace. They had been not been back to the Brocken together in many years.
"You ask a lot too soon, Gellert. My Ministry must be reorganized. There are many who do not see the wisdom in your vision for us. A slice of torte?" The elf was back with a selection of delicate cakes and pastries this time.
"Then clean your house, Anton. Don't you have that prison in Berlin?"
"You never change, Gellert. Too impatient for your own good. Give me time and I promise I will see that you run for the office I now hold…" Anton smiled benignly. Their eyes met. Gellert snarled at the probing he sensed. He threw up his mental shields. Vogel was skilled in legilimency.
"Still cannot forget him, Gellert?" A too familiar hand on his arm.
"Shut up, Anton…" Gellert did not feel like arguing. As if realizing his misstep, Anton Vogel relinquished his hold on his cousin's arm and sat back in his own chair.
They went back a long way, before he rose to his current position. Cousin Gellert was the family's black sheep, from the so-called bad branch. The one who got expelled from Durmstrang. The wild one who ran off from Great Aunt Bathilda's after some duel with an English wizard. He recalled the aloof youngster at the rare family gatherings. The Grindelwalds kept to themselves as a rule. His father had a reputation. Anton liked to think they had something in common as only sons born to strict fathers and sickly mothers. Anton had his sisters of course. Gellert had no one else.
He had not been there for Gellert when the worse of the bullying started. He had been two years ahead of his cousin. An illness had seen him withdrawn from Durmstrang to recover for more than a year. When he was able to return, Gellert had changed. His younger cousin was colder, harder.
Anton sighed and lit his cigarette, offering one to Gellert, who accepted. Conversation had petered out. Both sat in companionable silence.
A year after running away from Great Aunt Bathilda's, Gellert had ended up in Budapest looking for work on the streets where Cousin Anon found him. He had taken his cousin back to his rooms for a proper meal, bath, and bed – possibly the first decent ones he had in a few months. When he awoke the next morning, his little cousin was gone, along with fifty Galleons, the entire contents of his purse. Somehow, he never had the heart to blame Gellert for the theft.
"Anton… danke…" Gellert whispered as he stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Go to bed, cousin. You look tired…"
"If I can get any rest…" Gellert smiled wanly. The visions of destruction had been coming with more intensity.
Author's Notes:
I was inspired by a cartoon on AO3 with Grindelwald sitting on Vogel's desk and having a conversation with him. Given how inbred some of the pureblood wixen were said to be, it is possible that they might be related.
