Chapter 17
Albus stalked through St. Mungo's, his mind whirring with plans, his heart jerking between giddiness and fury. Fawkes, perched on his shoulder, sang along with the torrent in his heart, a falsetto to the Wand's bass.
The lime-robed Healers he passed noticed him not, continuing merrily with their prattle as he walked amongst them.
Gellert had gone off to meet with and continue to train Nymphadora, mindful of the time and place of their planned meeting for that evening. Reluctant as Albus was to think of it, Gellert's method would work. She would be back to her abilities in no short time—the sooner the better—and would doubtless be far more dangerous.
He'd sent off a few messages too, before coming here. Sirius was well, on his way to Hogwarts to meet with Harry and his stalwart friends, to help them learn how to fight.
Having recovered from his own treatment at the Death Eaters' hands, Sturgis had joined Hestia in her fury over Emmeline and Dedalus. The two were now willing to follow Albus to the ends of the Earth.
Mundungus supposedly had promising news about Greyback's whereabouts, and Severus was to meet with the Dark Lord that evening.
He'd met with the Weasleys upon his arrival in St Mungo's, and made all the appropriate noises and gestures of joy at the news that Bill would be released the very next day, all the while his mind aflame.
The Ministry needed to fall. He'd given them a chance, and they had wasted it.
It was time to destroy it and rebuild from the ashes.
There could be no redemption for it, no restructuring. He would purge it from its illness, and though some would curse his name, he would bear a thousand curses for the inevitable purification.
No longer would he allow himself the sweet delusion of co-operation, the lovely lies that he could sway them with pretty words and heartfelt speeches.
His eyes were finally open. The entire system was iniquitous at the very core, and the only way to fix it would be to shatter it utterly first.
The Ministry themselves had proven it to him.
He'd vented his fury at Voldemort's minions in Hogsmeade and displayed his power, but it was not enough. He'd shown his ability and willingness to protect the citizens, and still they fought him.
They would never stop fighting him, not unless they had the choice stripped from them.
For too long he'd shied away from power, couching his cowardice in terms of his morals, allowing decay and corruption and rot to spread its tendrils throughout the country while he prattled to himself about his untrustworthiness.
No longer. No more mercy.
He'd said as much to the Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, but it seemed that it was time to show the Ministry just how much he meant those simple words.
Since he'd been so unceremoniously cast away from Hogwarts, since, in fact, he'd released Gellert, he'd been inching closer and closer to the edge of some unknowable precipice.
Now he was ready to leap over it, to baptize himself in the ocean of blood that awaited.
He could blame the injustices that he'd faced and tried, to no gain, to fight for decades; he could blame the Wand's urgings; he could blame Gellert's influence and the Ministry's newest assault.
In the end, such excuses were as meaningless as the promises Voldemort assured his followers. Albus had the power, the vision, and the will needed to run the country properly, and that was all that mattered.
It was all that had ever mattered.
He'd feared himself for years, and for what? That he would be subject to corruption? If anything, that fear made him better suited for rulership than anything else.
Even corrupt, he would be better suited for rulership than any of the other options.
He walked through the sterile white hallways of the fourth floor, the gently glowing crystals casting light over the portraits he passed.
The Ministry lay just within his grasp, though he would have to do unthinkable things to attain it. Then…
The Cup, in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault.
Nagini, with Voldemort or on his errands.
The Diadem—surely it was in Hogwarts. There were many places of import in Voldemort's life, places in the far north and Asia where he had delved into the Dark Arts, but had there been anywhere that held the same honour in his mind as Hogwarts? He'd even had the opportunity to hide it, when he had come to ask for a job.
Though the search had proven fruitless so far, Albus felt certain it was in Hogwarts. Hogwarts was, in Voldemort's mind, his birthright. To store a segment of his soul there? It would have been against all reason for him not to.
But where, that was the question. Another visit was due to Hogwarts, perhaps the very next day, and it would behove Albus to have Harry open the Chamber of Secrets once more, even though the elves and ghosts could now access the place and he himself had examined it three summers prior.
The Cup, the Snake, the Diadem, and…the Boy.
He would have to start moving soon, to arrange for the confrontation between Voldemort and Harry. It would require as much luck as strategic genius, but what more could Albus do?
And if it came down to it, what was the death of one boy, even one Albus loved, against the world?
Albus turned the corner, passing a gaggle of Healers, and found a straggler just exiting the Baffled Baruffio Observational Ward.
"Ah, Healer Lawrence! Just the man I've come to see."
The Elder Wand flashed, vanishing back into Albus' sleeve before the Confundus Charm could even take root.
"I understand that you were planning on releasing Professor Tofty tomorrow morning, correct?"
Utterly blank-faced, Lawrence nodded.
"It would be far better to keep him for, say, an additional week, don't you think? A heart attack at his age, even so easily cured, is never a good sign. He should stay longer."
"He should stay longer," Lawrence echoed. "A week more than planned."
"It's his life we're talking about, after all. Nothing is more important than that. You swore as a Healer to protect life at all costs. What is a matter of days in the grand scheme of things? You will not let him be released earlier."
Swaying gently on his heels, Lawrence repeated the message.
"I think that will be all. A pleasure seeing you, Lawrence."
With that, Albus ghosted into the ward, leaving Lawrence to stand puzzled for a few minutes before hurrying off to update the charts.
Laying in his hospital bed, Tofty looked older than Albus had ever seen him. The lines on his face were more prominent, those damned liver spots dotting his flaps of skin like cancers.
He was chuckling to himself, his eyes dancing with vitality.
"That," he said, "was a very powerful Confundus Charm."
"Moderately powerful," Albus replied, dropping into a freshly conjured chair and reaching out to clasp Tofty's hand. "I'm sure it will do no lasting damage."
*You don't know your own strength. Pass me the water, will you, please."
Albus did so. Tofty pushed himself up into a sitting position and took the glass with a hand trembling with age. He sipped and licked his weathered lips.
"Need time to prepare, eh? Can't blame you. This vote Scrimgeour wants to push is a disgrace. No miscarriage of justice, this is an abortion of justice. I assume you're here to ask if I'll support you?"
"Will you?" Albus asked quietly.
"I remember when you first contacted me. Of course I do!" he exclaimed, mistaking Albus' expression for surprise. "It's not often an accomplished, published expert receives a letter from a twelve year old saying that his recently published thesis on the origins of the water conjuration was wrong. Such a politely, comfortingly written letter too, as if the author was apologizing for pointing out my mistake. And a mistake it was."
"I remember that first correspondence as well," Albus said with a smile, "I still wish you hadn't named me in your retraction."
"And then all your other accomplishments. And your duel with Grindelwald, of course. And then there were those queer tales old Bathilda sometimes told about you and her great-nephew—oh yes, she didn't tell many of us, just the rest of the History Club. I'm the last one still living, besides her, of course. Is that the real reason you've come? To make sure your history doesn't spread?"
"I didn't even know she'd ever said a word," Albus said. "And I would never do you harm. Especially not simply for knowing something."
"We were calling her Batty even back then," Tofty continued, as if Albus hadn't spoken, lost in the mists of memory. "An absolute authority in history, but ask her about anything in her own life and like as not she'd make up what she didn't know. It seems that's one story that wasn't a lie."
Albus stayed silent. Tofty fixed him with a piercing look, and how could anyone ever have doubted the man's mind? He did not have the raw magical talent that people like Albus and Gellert and Voldemort had, but he had a mind to rival them.
"I see an opening for you when the vote is placed on the table. Or, rather, just before, once the Wizengamot in totality has been sworn in according to tradition and all Ministerial procedure. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Albus nodded. Should he worry that others would figure it out?
No. They would need a mind like Tofty's, and an understanding of the powers that had been put in place with the formation of the Wizengamot, with the creation of the Ministry and its various offices, as well as a vast knowledge of Ministry procedure.
"I was greatly touched by the letter you published in the Prophet. I'm sure Barnabus was quite angry with you about it."
*He was mildly annoyed."
"Good, the man's had it easy for too long. But you are right. We need a cleansing, a national emetic. I would shed nary a tear to see our great structures aflame. You have my support, Albus. And whoever I can convince, though that list will be short. Griselda's daughter and Gamp are certainties, but who else…I will think on it, Albus. Leave me with some parchment and a quill, will you?"
"Of course."
"As for You Know Who—you will take care of him, won't you?"
"There is little that will give me greater pleasure."
Tofty nodded sharply, his eyes wet now.
"His animals killed my grandson-in-law. Thomas was a good husband and a good father, and a wonderful young man. I will give you every bit of support I can muster, and more, because it is right and needed. But I want to see that dirty bastard dead along with his followers."
"I will grant you that wish, my old friend. Thank you."
"God go with you, Albus."
Albus met Gellert in the park, just beyond sight of the little café. The reddish haze of the mid-spring sun setting caught the leaves in all their glory, its light making Albus' beard look almost as it had in his youth.
"Nymphadora's progress?"
"Excellent," Gellert said. "So full of fury, that one. Hatred and love and terrible, fiery rage. And such a quick learner! She will be a terror on the battlefield, I promise you."
Albus could imagine it, dear Nymphadora's innocence shattered and replaced with Gellert's training, dark magic adding to her auror training and setting her like a lion among sheep.
It was a hauntingly, horrifically beautiful image.
"And her other abilities?"
"Proceeding very well," Gellert preened. "Her conscious control is still limited, but she is gaining it at a speed I would not even have imagined. She is a marvel, Albus."
*Yes. But will she be ready in time?"
The perfect gentleman, Gellert doffed his hat, a small fedora, at a lovely Muggle woman walking with her husband through the park. Albus merely smiled at her as they passed. She seemed to find the pair of them amusing.
"At this rate," Gellert said, "she will be ready far earlier than necessary. If her progress tomorrow is slower than it was today, as I expect it shall be, she will still be ready early. She is gifted, Albus, a queen of Metamorphs. She will be ready."
Albus nodded as they crested the hill, coming into view of the unassuming café, and of perhaps the most politically powerful wizard in the world, though few were aware of it or even knew his name.
His skin was as beautiful as that of his bird's, as dark as coal but somehow seeming to shine. He wore a perfectly tailored dark pinstriped suit atop a finely woven bright white button down shirt, cufflinks glittering by his wrists.
He was as bald as the day he'd been born, but his neatly kept beard showed white amongst its black.
It was the only sign of his prodigious age. Though he had few of the wrinkles and folds that usually accompanied it, though he looked decades younger than even Albus and Gellert, Sobhuze Mbetwe had been alive for over three centuries.
He waved a greeting to them when they crossed the road, smiling widely as he gestured at the two empty seats at his table.
The few people inside the café who noticed him at all didn't give him more than a glance, and if they did, their thoughts were likely nothing more than how impeccably dressed he was.
The name Sobhuze Mbetwe meant nothing to them, just as it did to the majority of the Wizarding world, which was exactly as Sobhuze wanted it.
Albus and Gellert drew a few stares as they entered, but no calls or mockery as they had endured at the last Muggle watery they'd patronised.
Perhaps this was due to their dressing less—outlandishly, as the Muggles would see it. They both simply wore dark suits, nothing of note.
Just as likely, it was due to the nature of this café compared to the bar wherein they'd met Jeremy.
This was a slightly upmarket café, not catering to louts who spent their days engaged in drinking and the rejoicing of their successful petty crimes.
Sobhuze had ordered drinks for them. There was a delightful smelling hot chocolate awaiting Albus, and a mug of mead for Gellert that certainly was not on the menu.
"Albus, Gellert, it is so wonderful to see you both again, and in much better partnership than the last time I saw you." Sobhuze said as they took their seats.
His accent was rich and colourful, impossible to pin down directly. A base of Zulu and Swahili, a touch of a Berber tongue, melded with European emphases and topped with some Creole. He'd lived an interesting life, Sobhuze, although always in the shadows.
"That duel of yours," he continued, "why, it deserves the tones of awe they still use when they speak of it. I have seen very few displays of power, before and since, that even slightly compare."
"Thank you," Albus said, and took a sip of the hot chocolate. It was perfect. "It is an honour to meet with you, Sobhuze."
"Well," Sobhuze waved a hand, a single golden ring flashing on his index finger, "officially, we are not meeting."
"Do you ever officially meet with anyone?"
"Dear Gellert," Sobhuze chuckled, "you know that's not how one gets things done. But no, I will be arriving tomorrow, exhausted from all the international portkeys through the various officiating Confederation offices, and will require a good rest from that. The Aurors your Ministry will provide and my bodyguards will be able to account for my every movement from then on. I thought it best if we could have a little chat first."
Albus felt a tiny drop of pressure release itself from his shoulders. He and Gellert had checked for anyone watching, of course, and had satisfied themselves this was no trap—not that one was likely with Sobhuze—but it was good to have confirmation regardless.
"A little chat," Albus mused, "and what, Sobhuze, will we discuss?"
"I'd thought it would be obvious to you, you who have heard me ramble on my hobby-horse before. The future, Albus. The world's salvation. That is what we should discuss. And soon, for I need to be back in Alexandria in—" he pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it for a moment. "Two hours."
"I know how this conversation goes," Gellert said sourly, for all that he had drained his mead with signs of great enjoyment. "You'll promise us vital aid, and when it's needed, you'll vanish, and your promises will be nothing but wisps in the wind."
Sobhuze's lips curled into a disapproving frown.
"That was entirely your fault, my friend."
"My fault?! You had promised—"
"I had given you contacts throughout Asia," Sobhuze hissed, leaning forward and baring his teeth in something that did not in the slightest resemble a smile. "I had assured you everything south of Ethiopia, and had laid the groundwork for the rest, and for Arabia. Europe was to be your work, as were the Americas."
"And your contacts refused me assistance," Gellert spat, "on your orders."
"Because you were meant to have taken Europe before reaching out to them! You were not meant to engage in the Muggle war, and certainly not in the way that you did! It was the perfect opportunity for us to step in as the saviours who could no longer bear to watch them kill one another, but you had to keep their fight going for your pride!"
A few heads turned, around the café. Sobhuze's calm had failed him and his voice had carried.
As Gellert and Sobhuze were too engrossed to do anything about it, Albus cast a few necessary charms and watched as the curious muggles went back to their plates.
That done, he settled back and continued enjoying the show, absent-mindedly refilling his hot chocolate.
It really was very good.
"It wasn't for my pride, you contemptible twirp, it was exactly what was needed!"
"Lies and more lies, your mouth drips with them. You lie so much you can't even tell the truth to yourself anymore, if ever you could. You wanted an excuse to prolong your hiding away from Britain and you were so enthralled by the way their Führer all but worshiped you—"
"Fine one to talk about enjoying being worshiped," Gellert said, fists curling, "I've seen your likeliness among the muggles from that place—Haiti, was it? Where's your top hat? And where did the Voodooists come up with their zombies, if not the Imperius?"
Sobhuze blinked, a reaction as telling as his own outburst. Then he smiled, all calm once more.
"I'm not sure what you could possibly be talking about. That was before my time, as you know."
Gellert leaned closer, his eyes barely more than slits.
"Three hundred years my ass. We all know in your community it was taboo for a son to be named for his living father. It was seen as terrible luck, wasn't it? Shall we talk about how you have kept your youth for so long, Sobhuze? I can reliably place you as far back as six hundred years, along with plenty of slaves of your own. Let's dispose of the secrecy in this conversation, old friend."
"My history is my own," Sobhuze said, his face entirely clear of any emotion. "And no matter what you think, there is absolutely nothing that can be proven. I dispose of that which would tarnish my reputation excellently, as you would do well to remember."
Gellert growled softly, his wand rising beneath the table.
Sobhuze's eyes widened and, with impossible speed, he slammed an open palm onto the table.
Lightning struck, brightening, for a moment, the newly birthed night as if it were noon.
A few of the cafés patrons shrieked, and an excited chatter broke out as some went to the plate glass windows to see what had happened.
How many, Albus wondered, noticed the bird that was now roosting on the largest tree in the park?
"Either of you could kill me, I have no doubt about that." Sobhuze said, calm once more. "But I would not be an easy victim. And once he joins the fray, it will all become so messy. Word will get back to the Confederation, and they will declare war on you. As will every signatory nation. Your attempt will end before it has truly begun."
The tension stretched out to a breaking point. Ever so gently, Albus dropped his wand into his hand and mentally prepared for the worst case scenario.
Then Gellert leaned back, smirking, and took a sip from his refilled mead, and the moment was over.
The ruckus in the café was dying down now, muggles returning to their seats, blinking frantically and complaining about strange weather patterns.
"Funny," Gellert said, "I was always under the impression the Confederation's main purpose was to preserve the Statute."
"That display?" Sobhuze waved a hand carelessly. "Come now, a stroke of lighting on a cloudless night? They've already convinced themselves it's just a freak occurrence. And if any ornithologists happen to notice my friend, they will doubtless think he's some rare species of eagle or vulture and wonder why his migratory pattern is so confused. Their blessed little minds will never once turn to matters beyond their ability to comprehend."
"Very astute," Albus said. "But now, I think, we should turn to the purpose of this meeting."
"Aha! He can speak. I was beginning to wonder how long you would remain content to simply watch, dearest Albus. For a moment, I thought your Ministry's propaganda about your senility had some truth to it."
"No you didn't," Albus said, "and I would appreciate you not attempting to rile me up so you can save face for your own show of fear. You have indicated your time is precious. Ours is as well. Why did you summon us?"
"Right to business, then. You know, Albus, your loss of Supreme Mugwumpship was avoidable—"
"Though I am sure you are very pleased with your acolyte's appointment."
Sobhuze stirred his coffee and shrugged.
"Babajide will do very well, but he is not you. You could have avoided it, simply by denying your Ministry's accusations. If you had just fought against them—with words, mind you—you would have retained it. But what could we do, when the representative of a country is being derided by his own Ministry as a senile, power-hungry fool seeking to disrupt the peace? When that wizard won't even defend himself? We had no choice but to remove you."
"I quite understand. I made my choices with full knowledge of what the repercussions would be."
Sobhuze nodded, those all-seeing eyes locked with Albus'.
"Of course you did. Could you confirm something for me, please? I believe that you did not fight back then because you feared that doing so would split your nation even more than Voldemort's return. Is that accurate?"
"Mostly."
There had also been the fear, then, his omnipresent fear of taking power, of seizing control.
"And what changed your mind was the knowledge that the current state of the nation was intolerable in its entirety? Don't look surprised, I saw that essay you snuck into the newspaper. There are few who matter who didn't see it."
"That," Gellert said, smacking his lips, "and it became personal for dear Albus. Kicked out of his own school, what a pity."
Albus nodded.
"Excellent. Excellent. Can you understand how happy that letter made me, Albus? Can you understand what a solution you handed me, to a problem I have been grappling with for centuries?"
"You wish me," Albus said slowly, "to complete Gellert's work. To unify the magical world under one government and then crush the Statute of Secrecy."
"I would prefer less genocide than his attempt, but essentially, yes. The corruption you so bemoan is not isolated to your shores, Albus. It has spread to every corner of the globe, infested every country."
Gellert was sipping his refilled mead, his eyes as bright as the day Albus had met him.
"The supremacy and hate can be found everywhere. Oh, the specifics vary, but it is always there. And the Muggle world is worse, even, than ours. Children starve to death in the dirt by the millions, while they war over oil and land and poison the very earth. We could fix all of that."
"Or, more likely, destroy ourselves and them in a foolish attempt. The Statute—"
"The Statute was a mistake from the beginning!" Here Sobhuze became agitated, his hand striking the table once more. "I remember the chaos left in its wake, the madness as we withdrew from their world. They relied on us for so much, diseases flourished unchecked, without our charms their crops did not yield as they had, famine and plague spread with war in their wake—you do not know the horrors. Perhaps in Europe it was a necessity, but your foolish ancestors forced the rest of us to go along with their lunacy, and now we must pay the price!"
"Be that as it may—"
But Sobhuze would not be stopped.
"That damned Non-Interference clause—we watched as war and slavery consumed our continent, we watched what happened in the Americas, but we were unable to affect the Muggle world because of the sanctity of the fucking Statute. Now it still stands, bloated beyond all reason by the crimes that watching it has forced upon us all, and even if we do nothing, it will fall."
"I've heard your theories on its inevitable fall before, Sobhuze. They are convincing, but—"
"The populations have only grown larger since then," Sobhuze interruption, "far larger, they've all but exploded. Both us and the muggles, and that means more muggleborns, which means more muggles who know about us. While we've been cloistered away, we've drifted from their fashions and culture—so many of us couldn't blend in if their lives depended on it."
"Very good point," Gellert said. "I was shocked when I saw how crowded the streets are these days. Of course, I'd been alone for so long that even a room with this many people would have shocked me."
"Sobhuze, with all due respect—"
"It will fall, Albus. There are more Obliviators in India than any other profession, by a very large margin, and they are constantly short handed. The improvements in muggle technology—they can carry a camera with ease now, they don't need the large operations they used to, they can send information quicker than they used to…We've managed to destroy any footage or pass it off as fake, but will we always? While their technology improves and the cultural gap widens, and the numbers grow larger? How long until another elected official reveals our existence on television? And next time, will we be able to salvage it like the last?"
Frowning, Albus shook his head.
"I do not necessarily disagree with your conclusions, my friend," he said. "You know this. We have had similar conversations in the past. But as for how to act based on them, that, I think, is where our paths diverge. I am not interested in conquering the Muggle world."
"Conquering?" Sobhuze asked, a look of genuine befuddlement ruffling his features. "Who said anything about conquering?"
"However you phrase it, that is what it will be, in essence. They are still people, Sobhuze, capable and deserving of governing themselves. Who am I to seize control of their world?"
"Is that your fear of crossing lines speaking," Gellert said quietly, "or is that what you really think?"
Sobhuze seemed not to have heard. He wore a sly grin now, and leaned closer to Albus.
"Could not the same be said about your Ministry? Wizarding Britain has chosen its representatives. Who are you to meddle with that?"
Idiot, Albus cursed himself. He'd walked right into it. And Gellert was clearly on Sobhuze's side in this.
"The Ministry only represents the most wealthy and influential members of the country," he said, knowing as he did that it was a terrible argument. "I have the power and will to change that."
"Exactly," Sobhuze said, his smile widening. "Do you think it is different anywhere in our world, in the Muggle world? It is exactly the same, Albus, and you know it. The only difference is the scale."
"Yes, but—"
"It could be glorious," Gellert said, his voice reverent, his eyes shining. "We'd come as their saviours, like you said. We can heal nearly all of their diseases with ease. What's the one that keeps taking them?"
"Cancer," Sobhuze said.
"Yes, that, nothing more than a round of potions and it's gone. We can transfigure and multiply food—it may lose its taste after several multiplications, but it will satiate—we can refill their oil, manipulate the weather…we can solve all their problems."
"No," Albus said. "We can't. Greed and malice and all the problems of the human condition would still exist. There is no changing human nature."
"Albus," said Sobhuze, "think of it. What will happen when the Statute falls and they discover all that we are capable of? Do you not think they will be furious, and justly so? We could have eased their lives so much, and we did not. They will demand answers, and we will be empty handed. There will be war, which we will undoubtedly win. But how many unprepared wizards and witches will die in the opening volleys? How many muggles will we have to kill before they see that they cannot win? And in the end, we will have to truly take control, have them under our fists so that they do not think of revolt. No, Albus. This way is better. We can create a veritable Eden. Imagine the possibilities, Muggles and Wizards living side by side like in the ancient days. Imagine their technology melded with magic. Imagine what their scientists could come up with, with magical researchers working alongside them."
"Weapons of mass destruction beyond any we have seen already," Albus said. "and regardless of when, or even how, we step in, we will still be viewed with suspicion. They will still want answers for our absence these past centuries."
"The longer we put it off, the more pointed those questions will become," Sobhuze replied. "They will be asked whether it is in fifty years or five hundred, and how our answers are taken depends solely on us."
Gellert started saying something, but Albus, suddenly furious with him, silenced him with a wave of his hand.
"Do you even see them as people, Sobhuze? Do you respect their hopes and dreams? Or have they just become mere playthings to you, after all your centuries? You and your political pawns, how much of this is about your dreams for the safety of the world and how much for your own glorification?"
"I could very easily ask you the same question," Sobhuze hissed. "For all your prattling, I see a man fighting to seize control of a tattered nation. How pure are your own motives, Albus Dumbledore?"
The Elder Wand was thrumming away in his pocket, merrily urging him to listen to them. It was said that Lucifer's voice was honeyed. Albus could testify to that.
"I ask myself that very question daily," Albus said softly. "And that is the difference between us. I do not think we can come to an agreement, Sobhuze. We are too unalike in terms of morality. Good evening."
"Think it through, Albus," Sobhuze said quickly, before Albus could even stand. "If you take Britain and mould it in your perfect image, what then? What happens after you die? The rest of the world will not have changed. The changes you make will not last. You know this."
"I am not looking to change the world. Not in the way you wish."
"Fucking—stop being so goddamned hardheaded! I'm willing to work with you here, but you need to face the facts! If you consign your changes to these shores, they will be gone within a decade of your death, if they even last that long."
"He's right," Gellert said quietly. "Hate us for it as you will, but he is right, Albus. And you know it."
For a moment, Albus entertained the idea of loosing his fury right then and there, simply to escape the cold logic of it all.
He'd known it to be true, ever since he had first met Gellert, all those years ago. It was, after all, why their plans to conquer the muggle world had started with them first taking the entire wizarding world.
This was it, the undeniable natural conclusion to his taking over Britain. This, at the heart of it, was what he had always feared.
Albus held his breath for a moment, trying to readjust himself.
"And how many innocents would need to be placed under the Imperius and have their will stolen? How many innocents would need to die to create this paradise?"
"As few as possible, I assure you of that. I have been laying the groundwork well." Sobhuze looked at Gellert and smiled slyly again. "And, after all, any sacrifices made would be for the—"
"If you finish that sentence the way you intend to," Albus said calmly, his eyes closed. "I will kill you."
There was a sharp intake of breath, the terrible tension from earlier returning.
"And your pet," Albus continued. "I do not fear you, Sobhuze. None from the Confederation know that you are here, as this is one of your clandestine trips. You left no trace that can be proven. There will be no grand response from the signatories, as they won't know what I have done, though some may guess. I will kill you and your beast and will obliviate the Muggle witnesses so thoroughly they won't remember what they ate. There will be no actionable evidence, and you will die with only your schemes for company. Do I make myself clear?"
Opening his eyes, he found Sobhuze had leaned back, terribly pale, while Gellert looked like Christmas had come early.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"You do. It is good to see you have bite in you, my friend."
"Did you doubt that?" Gellert demanded. "After everything we have been doing, did you doubt that?"
"It is always good to have confirmation in person. Listen to me, Albus. I have been waiting for an opportune moment for so long—Africa could be yours in a week, Persia and Arabia in a matter of months. Asia, all of it, we are less than ten years away. India and Japan are already with us, but the rest….With South America, we have a similar timeline. The United States is an entirely different beast, their famed individual spirit and the fallout of Rappaport's Law and all that. But Europe—Europe will have to come from you."
"And why is that?"
Sobhuze shook his head and clicked his tongue.
"Where Britain goes, Europe follows. You know this. It has been like this since Merlin. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang may bellow and beat their chests, but in their hearts they know Hogwarts is their better. Most importantly, Britain has you. Yes," he nodded at Albus' expression, "Britain has you. The European sentiment toward your Ministry has soured greatly since their assault on you. From your academic achievements, to the day you saved them all from the terrible scourge of our friend here—" he jerked his head at Gellert, who bowed his own, "They adored you. Goddamnit, Albus, it took you a single letter to stop the German Ministry from lending aid to the British. Does that tell you nothing? If you transform Britain into the utopia you promise, they will follow you in all ways. I assure you of this."
"You exaggerate my importance, but I will think on it," Albus said, though his mind was more concerned with his immediate plans.
"Think quickly." Sobhuze pulled out his pocket watch again and glared furiously at it. "I arrive tomorrow to conduct an evaluation for the Confederation, one requested by your idiot Ministry. The Statute is under great threat in Britain, with your war. Too much publicity, all of you. The dementors, leaving too many Kissed muggles. That hospital fire. Your Ministry says it does not believe itself capable of maintaining the Statute as it should under these circumstances."
"Well—"
"They are correct. Any other evaluator would demand sanctions and a Confederation force brought here immediately. The evaluation should take twenty four hours, but I can extend it to seventy two. I will report all clear, that there is no issue beyond the Ministry's power. And that will hold, for a week, perhaps two at the very most, if I pull all my influence. After that, if there are still reports on issues within Britain, a force will be sent. And you will not be able to handle them, Voldemort, and your Ministry at the same time. Even for you two, that will be too much."
"In essence, you are saying—"
"Make haste while I cover for you. But I want a promise from you, Albus. With you leading the charge, my dream can finally become a reality. Promise me that if you are successful with Britain, you will turn your vision to the world."
Gellert was beaming, prouder than Albus had ever seen him; the Wand's song reached a fever-pitch—
"I will make no promises. The future is a murky land and I am not convinced of your plan. If," Albus raised a finger, "you are good to your word, and you keep the Confederation out of this, then once I have destroyed Voldemort and remade Britain…then I will think on it. I will dwell on it and turn my mind toward the state of the rest of the world. That is the only promise I can give you. I cannot think of other problems when I am dealing with my own."
Sobhuze twitched, seeming to war with himself. After an eternity, he nodded.
"Very well. I will keep my word, Albus. And I will continue to lay the groundwork for your ascension."
They rose and shook hands, then walked out of the cafe.
"Just one more question, Sobhuze," Albus said. "Would you make Voldemort this offer, if you thought he would be amenable?"
Sobhuze gave a full-bellied laugh.
"Him, amenable? All my research indicates not, Albus."
Which was an answer that was no answer, as all present knew.
Albus and Gellert walked away. There was another flash of lightning, and neither needed to look to know that Sobhuze was gone.
"It will be glorious," Gellert whispered. "A true fulfillment of our original plans. Finally, Albus, we can do it."
"Look at what our plans led to," Albus said. "Is a reminder of that destruction truly your attempt to sway me?"
They were back in the cottage, Albus bent over the table, his nose inches away from a roll of parchment. He'd already written several, but he could foresee many, many more to be sent in the near future.
Gellert, meanwhile, was perched as usual on the couch, though he was not alone. Quite unlike him,
he was stroking Fawkes, his eyes misty and lost in a haze of ancient memories.
Fawkes was crooning, once again in harmony with the Wand. Its song was beginning to worm its way into Albus' mind; he'd caught himself humming to it earlier, found himself writing his letters in tune with it.
He would not allow himself to be concerned by such a thing. He was still entirely in control of himself, of that he was certain. He'd examined his actions and decisions repeatedly, and was as sure as he could be that they were his and his alone.
His choices were his own, and he would not allow himself the excuse of the influence of an artifact, even one as powerful as the Elder Wand.
"It will be different this time. You heard the man as well as I did. And we shall be together, we will be able to pull each other away from the brink."
"Or, more likely, nudge each other over it."
"Do you always have to be so pessimistic?"
"I generally consider myself an optimist," Albus said, adding a final stroke and his signature to the letter before drying the ink and rolling the parchment. "Yet it always pays to play the realist. Regardless of what Sobhuze says, he would have the muggles enslaved beneath us in all but name."
Gellert shrugged, looking not the least bit worried.
"I do not think that will be our concern. You frightened him, Albus. While I don't know what has happened in my absence, I believe it has been many a year since he has been threatened so boldly, especially by one who could actually act on it."
"I know. That was the purpose, after all."
"Regardless, at the end of the day, it will be you who will have led us all. He may have planted the seeds, but his habit of working from the shadows will work against him this time. You will be the face, and thy will be done." Gellert winked, dropping his voice into a completely unnecessary conspiratorial whisper.
"Perhaps by then," he continued, "you will have reunited the Hallows. You already have two, all that awaits is the Cloak, and you know who has it—"
"Harry will keep hold of it for many a year if I have anything to say about it," Albus said sharply. "The more I dwell on it, the more convinced I am that if Voldemort casts the curse, he can survive. Perhaps even if another casts it, but with Voldemort there is greater certainty. They are in uncharted territories, but I believe I can see a dim line mapping the path."
Gellert's mouth opened, no doubt with a suggestion that Albus 'borrow' Harry's cloak, but Albus raised a hand, cutting him off in his tracks.
"Enough pontification about the future, Gellert. We must first win the battle before us before we can think of future wars."
"Obviously," Gellert grumbled, pouting, "but dreaming can never hurt."
"But it can." Albus pulled another piece of parchment toward himself and rubbed the feathery tip of his quill across his cheek as he pondered how to begin this letter. "It can hurt, if we allow it to distract us from current events."
"I remember a time when you weren't quite so serious. You used to dream with me, Albus."
"Tomorrow," Albus said, ignoring Gellert's comment completely, "I must pay a visit to Hogwarts. I will have to have some meetings too, I suspect. You will continue with Nymphadora."
"And that will be a pleasure. What surprises do you think Voldemort will have for us?"
Albus stood and began to pace, leaving the letter aside, suddenly full of restlessness. God, but he needed some sleep. A night of true rest, that would do the trick.
"I suspect none, although the nature of a surprise is inherently predisposed to suspicion. I think he will wait and watch. He has set the fear again, and let known the price of standing by me. The Wizengamot vote—"
"Which you will not allow to happen."
"Which I will not allow to happen," Albus echoed, "he is involved with that. He has far more involvement in the Ministry than I, though that will cease to matter soon. I would not be surprised if he had fingers in the supplication to the Confederation as well."
"It affects him as much as you," Gellert said, "though you do tend to be less of a guerilla than he."
"Precisely!" Albus stopped in his tracks. "I have always been more of the visible sort, not striking from the shadows like Voldemort. Even if he was not involved in bringing in the Confederation, he will know that they are coming."
He thought for a moment, scanning through his memories and dissecting them, wandering deeply through the caverns of the long past.
"I do not think he knows of Sobhuze's leanings," Albus said, "but even if he does, Voldemort is not the sort to share power. He will not act in a public fashion, not while they are watching. No, a quiet coup from the darkness without the majority knowing for certain what has happened, that is his style."
"Are you talking about Voldemort or Sobhuze now?"
Albus favoured Gellert with his penetrating glare, the one that made all his students squirm, admit their guilt, and promise to do better.
"You used to be able to take a joke," Gellert muttered, looking away.
Which was when Fawkes leaped into the air aflame, trilling a warning and spinning around to face the window.
Gellert was on his feet immediately, prior levity forgotten. Like Albus, his wand was in his hand already, and he was prepared for anything to come.
"Voldemort?"
"He could have this location," Albus replied, watching the darkness outside warily, "but he would not choose to fight us on my ground, even with all the support he could muster. The same applies for the Ministry."
"Sobhuze wants revenge for your threat, then. No," Gellert immediately corrected himself, "he would not. So who—"
He cut off as they both felt the magic of Apparition cutting the air.
A loud crack sounded, and Severus Snape appeared, standing several feet behind the hedge.
He was holding what looked to be an intricately carved wooden box, and made no move to approach the cottage.
Summoning several large orbs of light, Albus lowered his wand and made to leave the cottage.
Gellert grabbed his arm. He had not lowered his wand, and his eyes were wide as saucers.
"Can you not feel it?" He asked urgently, "Albus, can you not sense it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The box. This is a trap, Albus. Necromancy, I think, but twisted, different—it's hard to say, all your protective enchantments dim the senses, and you don't have enough experience with it to tell, but this is magic of the blackest, most beautiful sort. Do not let your guard down."
Albus nodded, his wand still lowered but within his hand.
"I won't. And I trust you will watch to ensure I don't, and inform me if you feel anything further?"
"Of course."
With Gellert behind him, Albus strode toward Severus.
The moon and stars were out in force tonight, though eclipsed by Albus' lights. As they drew closer, he could see how pale and wan Severus looked, he could easily make out the pleading in his eyes. Severus mouthed words at him, begging him not to speak too much.
"Well, Severus," he said, as he passed through the fence, and stopped dead in his tracks as it hit him.
A foul miasma surrounded the box, suffusing the air with its cursed presence. It was like being slapped in the face with a slab of rotting meat that had been left in the sun for days. For all that he'd lit up the night, Albus felt the darkness envelop him like a straitjacket.
Yes, Gellert had been right, not that Albus had doubted him. This was the noxious fumes of Voldemort's take on necromancy. No wonder poor Severus' hands were shaking.
Albus recovered quickly, shoving the sensations away as quickly as they had come. Fawkes appeared on his shoulder in a burst of cold golden flames, and Albus strode forward.
"Whatever could that be, Severus?" He asked.
Gellert, meanwhile, had not been taken by the same throe as Albus. The terrible aura emanating from the box seemed to invigorate him; he was all but dancing, his eyes wild with excitement. He muttered to himself as he ran his fingers through the air and inhaled deeply, then proceeded to cast several spells Albus did not recognize.
"The Dark Lord wishes to palaver," Severus said, his voice nearly shaking. "He swears that no harm will come to you, that he merely wishes to talk."
"I know the worth of his promises. Why should I trust him now?"
An unseasonably cold wind blew, tossing Albus' hair and beard back.
"Let it play out," Gellert whispered, "I know what this is. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. We are not in danger."
"This is no trick, Albus," Severus said. "The Dark Lord honours his word, particularly when given in public, as this was, but even if you feel unable to trust him, surely you can trust me, can you not?"
The wind blew again, bringing with it the scent of death and decay.
With Gellert frantically nodding his assent, there was little Albus could say to disagree. He took the box from Severus, barely suppressing the shudder as that foulness passed into his hands.
"Not like this," Gellert said, and conjured a table and chairs. "There, perfection."
"Good evening, gentlemen," Severus said, mouthing the word 'tomorrow' at Albus before vanishing with another crack of Apparition.
Albus placed the box on the table, unable to resist the urge to rub his hands on his robes.
He and Gellert sat, Gellert jittering with excitement.
Then he waved his wand, and with one motion opened the box and levitated its contents onto the table.
Albus hissed through his teeth, though in some dark corner of his mind, he had expected this.
Emmeline's severed head had been treated roughly, with terrible sigils carved cruelly and with great precision into her cheeks and forehead. Her lips and nose had been brutally sliced away, and her hair had been pulled back so tight that the skin was taught against her skull. He could tell at once that her injuries had been inflicted before her death.
And yet, the head still possessed some mockery of life.
The eyelids—which Albus could now see had been tattooed, and desperately wished he did not know what had been used as ink—fluttered, and then remained open, revealing a scarlet gleam.
"Hello, Tom," Albus said quietly.
"Dumbledore," Voldemort hissed, the mouth of the abomination he'd created not moving. "And Lord Grindelwald—"
"What is with you people and this lord nonsense?" Grindewald said, jabbing a finger at Emmeline's eyes. "I never claimed that title. No one even called me that! My name was good enough for me, boy."
Voldemort seemed dumbstruck. The eyelids flickered faster, the intensity of his gaze blazing.
"But this is ingenious," Gellert said, poking the tip of his wand into Emmeline's ear. "Wonderfully creative. You have a gift for the art."
"I am honoured to receive such praise from a fellow craftsman as yourself," Voldemort said.
"Your spellwork is very shoddy though," Gellert continued. "And these symbols," he chuckled, "you used a silver knife? What, stone is beneath you? I can hardly believe it, you actually still think a finer cut matters more than the material used. What are they teaching these days?"
The stench of rot grew thicker, droplets of blood dripping from Emmeline's eyes.
Albus breathed deeply, clearing himself of the rage that so boiled at the sight, washing away everything that could interfere with his mind. The Wand was singing, oh so loudly, but he quashed it.
He needed a clear head for this.
"Tom," Albus said, "why don't we dispense with the pleasantries? I see little we have to discuss."
"On the contrary, Dumbledore. I think we have a great deal to talk about. You must be tired of all the needless muggle deaths you keep causing."
Gellert had moved his chair slightly, so that he was just out of Voldemort's sight, and was now sitting with his eyes closed, muttering to himself and waving his hand vaguely in the head's direction.
"I'm sure you will enlighten me as to how I cause the deaths of the people you murder."
"Those poor beasts," Voldemort hissed with a stolen tongue. "I tell you this now, Dumbledore. For every one of mine you take, I will claim a hundred of their meaningless lives. With interest, at that. Their blood will lie on your hands, at the end of the day."
Fawke squawked in outrage, and Voldemort's eyes spun toward it.
"Your paragon of justice mocks you," he said. "For all your prattling about their equality, you force my hand."
"Do not claim to understand justice, Tom," Albus said, "or mercy, or any human characteristics. Aren't you above such things?"
"And how pleasing to hear you finally admit it."
"Your logic, as you well know, is faulty. I am not forcing you to do anything. Unless, of course, you are afraid of losing face in the eyes of those you've beguiled into following you?"
Emmeline's face began to bleed, from the eyes, the nose, the ears. The wind blew again, cold as ice.
"Lord Voldemort fears nothing!"
"That," Albus said calmly, "we both know to be a lie. Or perhaps you have convinced yourself otherwise. Regardless, I will not cease my attempts to stop you, and if that is all you have to say then—"
But Gellert was gesturing to him, clear motions to indicate that he was to keep the conversation going for as long as he could.
"Then I am left to wonder as to the purpose of this conversation," he continued. "You know your threats do not faze me. You know that I will not simply stop in my tracks. What else can this be, I wonder, but a distraction? What are your Death Eaters doing while we talk?"
A long silence followed his question, broken only by a normal breeze rustling the grass and leaves, and Gellert's near silent murmurs.
As far as he could tell through Emmeline's broken visage—and how that hurt to see, how infuriated it made him to sit there with that despicable obscenity before him—Voldemort seemed pensive.
"This was no trap, no distraction," he finally said. "I am prepared to negotiate a truce."
Voldemort spat the last word as if it was a curse. In his mind, it surely was. Any truce was an admittance that he would need an ally.
And it went without saying that any truce with him would be a shaky business, one which would shatter at Voldemort's earliest opportunity.
"A truce," Albus mused, "why, Tom, you quite show your hand. You've never sought a truce with me before, though I gave you ample opportunities. Is it the fear of losing that motivates you, Tom?"
"I told you," Voldemort snarled, "I fear nothing, and that includes you."
The blood began to pour from Emmeline's face, now erupting from the neck as well. It spilled along the table and started to drip to the earth.
Voldemort's fury was palpable, even amongst the terrible stench of the sickening magic he had performed to possess Emmaline's head.
"Then why this obvious facade?"
"Perhaps," Voldemort replied, his voice a whip, "I have been forced to reconsider my opinion of you as a hidebound fool too chained by his ethical nonsensities to do what he needed. Perhaps I have seen a modicum of pragmatism that I find encouraging. Perhaps I would prefer to keep our dispute internal and not allow the Confederation to interfere where they do not belong. Pick your answer, Dumbledore, but do not question my honesty."
What were the chances, Albus wondered, that this was a legitimate attempt at reaching a peace? As close to zero as to make no difference.
Which left the question as to what it was. An attempt to gain more time, likely. Or a hope to gain more insight into Albus and Gellert, and perhaps Harry, too.
"Your honesty has been in question in my mind since the day I met you," Albus said, "and, if you were to look at matters objectively, you would not blame me for that. Putting that aside…I feel it more likely that you are simply pressed for time and do not believe you will take me or the Ministry before the Confederation reaches a decision and sends their forces in. They would trouble you as much as they would me."
The wind blew again, now hot as the fires of Hades. Emmeline's hair began to smoulder, the stench adding to the horror of the scene.
"Believe as you will, you always do. The Confederation's forces will trouble you far more than me, grandstanding fool that you are. Insult me though you do, I am gracious, Dumbledore. I will still make you an offer."
"Oh? And what is that?"
Gellert was doing something. What exactly it was, Albus had barely more than an idea, but its effects were readily apparent. A pocket of ice-cold air surrounded him, with frost having formed on his hair and eyelashes. His eyes were closed, his breathing extremely slow, and his right palm was inches away from Emmeline's head, streamers of dark light trailing away from his fingers.
"Leave the Ministry to me," Voldemort said. "Allow me to separate our world from the muggles in totality. Let us remove the mudbloods from and obliviate their animal parents the instant they show signs of magic. I will ensure there are no needless deaths, I will prevent my Death Eaters from sporting with the muggles. In return, I will eliminate many of the laws you so rally against; I will prevent discrimination against the mudbloods who have been raised in our ways, I will allow the werewolves the rights they are denied and free access to Wolfsbane. I will grant you Hogwarts, and will punish, to the greatest extent of my abilities, those who stand against you or your Order. In time, once my followers have been rewarded, you will be reinstated as Chief Warlock, and can begin your crusade against corruption. I will even work with you on this—it is in all our interests for the nation to function at its best. We could build a paradise."
Everyone wants me to build a paradise with them. Albus thought, hiding his laughter.
He settled his face into an expression that should make it seem as if he were considering it and leaned back in his chair, wishing that he had a pipe. It really was the perfect moment to fiddle with some tobacco and enrage Voldemort further.
He had to settle with twiddling his thumbs.
A seemingly decent proposal, on the face, but one which became more ludicrous with every instant of thought devoted to it. Obviously, his next proposal would be the one he truly wished Albus to take. Or there would be a third.
Or it was all a ploy to gather information, or an attempt to waste Albus' time, though he felt that possibility least likely of all.
"No, Tom," he said. "You misunderstand the purpose of my crusade, as you put it. Your continued existence, as well as that of your Death Eaters, is a large part of my crusade. Surely you jest with this offer? You are more intelligent than this."
Voldemort hissed and spat, undoubtedly cursing Dumbledore in Parseltongue.
Gellert was still at it. His face had a waxy, corpselike sheen to it, yet he looked exceptionally pleased. When he exhaled, infrequently, sigils not unlike those on Emmeline's face appeared in the vapour of his breath.
It was becoming clear to Albus what he intended to attempt, and that he would still need more time.
"Do you have another offer to make me, Tom?"
Voldemort's eyes found his, their crimson gaze burning with loathing.
"Give me the boy," he said. "And you will never see or hear from me again. My followers will likewise vanish. Give me Potter, Dumbledore, and you can keep this land."
Albus' blood froze. This was it, the opportunity he'd been hoping for to set Voldemort further on Harry's trail. He could not acquiesce, to be sure, it would be too suspicious, but he could work with this.
It was too early! Three other Horcruxes were still at bay, waiting to be destroyed, the Ministry still remained intact, it was too early! What if he caused Voldemort to act that very night, what if Voldemort chose to kidnap Harry and not kill him outright?
"Again," Albus said, "you ask of me something that you know I will never do."
"Won't you?" Voldemort's voice shifted now, adopting that ever so brilliant tone he'd perfected in Hogwarts. Not pleasing or cajoling, simply asking for something in a manner that made it seem so obviously the best decision. "What is one boy's life against the myriads I will otherwise claim? I will guarantee him a quick death, a painless one…I will even return his body to you so you can memorialize it. Would you not offer a sacrificial lamb for peace, true peace? Do with the Ministry and this nation what you will, just deliver me the boy."
The worst part was that Albus would happily do so, if he was guaranteed that Voldemort would simply kill Harry. If his suspicion was correct, Harry still had a chance of survival. Yet therein lay the problem, for Voldemort would discover his survival and would be quick enough to connect the dots.
But even if Harry were to be truly killed, Albus could, as a last resort, allow it. Sacrifices had to be made. But never a sacrifice which cost more than it gained.
Any hope of success relied, in the first place, on Voldemort immediately killing Harry, and not attempting to discover what, in his mind, Albus and Gellert had done to weaponize their connection. For Voldemort to discover that Harry had been a Horcrux would be beyond disastrous.
No, Albus could not risk it. But he could push Voldemort toward a confrontation.
"I do not blame you for your fear of Harry," he said, "Prophecy is quite powerful, isn't it?"
"I fear nothing, least of all a boy who has survived due to luck and the gifts of others."
Gellert suddenly focused on Albus and held up his left hand. After a second, he dropped one finger.
"He will destroy you," Albus said happily, as Gellert lowered a second finger.
"The child could not destroy a flea, least of all—"
"No, he is fated to destroy you," Albus said, eyeing Gellert. One second remaining. "It is all right for you to fear him."
"I FEAR NOTHING!"
At Lord Voldemort's shriek, Emmeline's head erupted with blood from every orifice. The eyes popped out of their sockets and the top of the head exploded in flames.
A whirlwind of mingled cold and heat spun around the table, full of malice and fury. Gloom covered all sources of light, and the terrible odor of dark magic thickened until Albus felt he would almost choke on it.
And Gellert, smiling beatifically, exhaled in a cloud of unknowable symbols and placed a hand against the blood and gore drenched head.
Gellert opened his eyes again, relishing the strange, monstrous sensation of possessing a dead body, and a woman's one at that.
She had been stripped naked, of course, and her corpse had been ritualistically burned and cut in various places to make more of those wonderful, enticing symbols.
A fucking silver knife. When will people learn?
A wooden plank had been put in place of a head, daubed with blood and other substances to make out a façade of facial features. As Gellert took possession, the plank ballooned into a shape more akin to that of a head, and the features became his.
Ah, the return of senses. He could see and hear and talk once more.
He was in a beautifully upkept living room in what seemed to be a mansion. The room was dim, lit only by several candles placed around the corpse, which had been seated in a hard wooden chair.
The terrible lighting made it difficult to see his surroundings as he'd have liked. He could just make out some portraits on the walls and a plush carpet, along with several marble-looking pillars curling up to the ceiling.
There were others in the room, of course.
Voldemort was sitting directly across him with his mouth agape and wand drawn, the snake around his shoulders reared up in fright. He made an impressive sight, in person, with his skeletal frame and noseless, hairless face. He was the image of nightmares, and he was already recovering from the surprise of Gellert's 'appearance'.
The bitch had clearly leapt to her feet, her chair toppled over behind her. Others, their faces too murky to be seen, had done the same.
"What is this?" The bitch cried, "How—"
"Hush, Bellatrix," Voldemort hissed. And it was a hiss, a sound more befitting to his pet than the human tongue. Then, with a nod toward Gellert, he said: "Grindelwald, I presume?"
"In the flesh," Gellert said, then raised a stolen hand to tap his wooden head, "in a manner of speaking."
The Death Eaters were huddling together, muttering, their fear filling the air. At least one of them had wet himself with fright. Bellatrix, however, was crouched beside her master, her wand drawn.
Voldemort, at least, did not disappoint. He showed no fear, only interest, and calmly stroked his snake and whispered to it in its speech until it uncoiled from him and slithered to the ground, where it lay at his feet.
"This is an incredible working," he said. "I am impressed."
"An honour," Gellert said with a smile, wood splintering as he twisted the lips, "to hear such praise from a craftsman like yourself."
Voldemort seemed to appreciate that. He gave what appeared to be the closest he could to a smile and leaned slightly forward on his throne.
"Of course," Gellert continued, "this was only possible because, as I said, your spellwork was shoddy. Creative, a marvelous application of principles, but clearly unpractised. And the silver knife nonsense—I tell you, stone will see you through the day better every time."
Voldemort's simple vanished, tightly compressed rage replacing it. The snake hissed in anger, the bitch by his side raised her wand, and the Death Eaters huddled in the back grew even more fearful.
"You see," Gellert chuckled, "you opened the door, but you didn't close it properly behind you. You couldn't, as you'd made too many mistakes. And now I am here, and free to act as I wish."
Voldemort laughed softly, a sound far more disturbing than his shrieks of rage had been.
"Yes, you are here. Wandless, outnumbered, and not in your own body. You are also unable to leave the chair, or did I err in that too?"
"No," Gellert said, not even bothering to try, "you didn't. That part you did quite well."
He shrugged, and in a sudden movement tore at one of the cuts on the corpse's left hand. Blood trickled down, and before even Voldemort could react, Gellert spat out a harsh, guttural syllable, and flicked the blood toward the mass of Death Eaters.
As they flew, each droplet of blood gained a silver corona and speed, hurtling forward far faster than should have been possible.
Again, Voldemort did not disappoint. His wand flashed as he spat, sending the saliva to intercept each drop of blood.
All but one, that is, which hit an unlucky Death Eater in the head and lit his entire body aflame. There was nothing but ash in seconds.
An emerald curse struck Emmaline in the chest.
Bellatrix was standing, her face twisted with mixed terror and hatred, her wand still outstretched.
"Silly girl," Gellert laughed, "you cannot kill that which is already dead."
"No," Voldemort said, eyes narrowed, "and we cannot harm you in this state. But I can, as you put it, close the door."
"Then why haven't you already?"
"You are no longer a threat," Voldemort said. "That trick was…impressive, but you will not be able to replicate it."
It was true. Gellert could already feel the enchantments Voldemort had quickly raised, so similar to those in Nurmengard that his heart skipped a beat, that early terror of being locked away from his power coming upon him once more.
His arms were bound, pinned to his sides, and he knew there was no more blood to be found in the body he was possessing.
Oh well. There was still more to be gained from this excursion.
"You really are quite gifted," Gellert said. "It's a pity I never took you under my wing, when you were beginning to learn."
"A pity for you, perhaps," Voldemort said. "I am sure even then there was much I could have taught you."
"I doubt it. You are far too small-minded. When I was at your stage, I had countries under my sway and people trembling at my name a continent away."
Bellatrix snarled at this insult to her master, but a raise of his hand silenced her. The other Death Eaters seemed caught between a desire to flee and the knowledge of the repercussions they would face for doing so.
"Yet you hid from Dumbledore," Voldemort said, still calmly stroking his snake. "you never even approached Britain for fear of facing him."
"And you hide from him at every opportunity," Gellert replied. "You have only faced him directly when no other options were available."
"And yet," Voldemort raised a long-fingered hand, "I have walked away from my bouts, none the worse for them. Can the same be said for you?"
Gellert was silent. His immediate retort shriveled in his throat, the memory of that terrible day, as he'd seen it after drinking the potion to access the fake horcrux, was still playing on his mind, as it had been since then.
"I wonder how it came to be that you so happily co-operate with a man like him," Voldemort said. "When our interests are so much more aligned. Whatever hold he has on you, I can break it. Together, we can achieve your goals. I believe that you do have much to teach me, as I have to teach you. Together, we will be unstoppable. The muggles will not even know what has befallen them until it is too late. I admit, I admired you and your vision, once. I would very much like to admire you again. Tell me how to free you from Dumbledore's spell, and you can be greater than ever you were. People will not only tremble at your name, they will be too frightened to even think of uttering it. Join me, Grindelwald. Or be prepared to be relegated to the history books, with nothing but failed conquest to your name."
For one wild moment, he considered it.
Just for a moment, he imagined casting all the remorse he'd suffered over the decades in Nurmengard aside, freeing himself from his conscience, and setting himself, once more, to terror for the sake of terror.
Then sanity reasserted itself.
There was so much he wanted to say to this man, so much this self-styled dark lord needed to hear.
Fifty years worth of self-loathing, true remorse that had left him wishing the earth had never been cursed with his birth, fifty years of facing the realization, day in and day out, that he had achieved nothing but to worsen the world.
But everything he could say would be meaningless to this wizard, this contorted mockery of humanity who had twisted himself through dark rituals and horrific acts into a creature barely even resembling a man.
"Whatever makes you think," Gellert said with a wink, "that he has a hold over me?"
He let that sink in for a moment, then continued.
"As for your offer, tempting though it is, I'm afraid I will have to decline. I have many reasons; your already noted small-mindedness, your lack of style, your leadership skills, to name a few."
He paused, just for a beat, while selecting the words that he knew would drive this monstrosity into a rage.
"Most importantly, however, is the fact that you are fated to die at the hands of a child."
Voldemort's eyes widened. He rose, Bellatrix shrinking away, the other Death Eaters shuffling toward the exit.
"You cannot stand in fate's way. I was a seer, once, you know. The visions were infrequent, even with the rituals to induce them, and came less and less over the years."
Voldemort was approaching now, his wand swirling through the air. Gellert had little time left.
"I Saw Dumbledore defeating me," he invented madly, "and so I stayed away from Britain. Yet when he came, he won, though by all rights he should not have. The prophecy has decreed that the boy will vanquish you, and I'm sorry to tell you, but you cannot avoid it. You are going to die an ignoble death, the great Lord Voldemort, falling to a mediocre teenager. What an epitaph to a wasted life that will make. You should think about how future historians will describe you."
Voldemort was nearly done. He was snarling, incantations starting to spill from his lips.
"For all intents and purposes, you are already dead," Gellert said with a wide grin. "You just don't know it yet."
"I will never die." Voldemort said, and slashed his wand, thrusting Gellert unceremoniously from Emmeline's corpse.
Gellert opened his eyes again.
He was laying on the couch inside the cottage, while Albus, Fawkes perched beside him, wrote an exceedingly long letter.
It was as if the last several hours hadn't happened.
"I was wondering when you'd return," Albus said without looking up. "That was longer than I expected. Did you know the head dissolved into dust?"
"Of course it did. And the dust burned?"
"Oh yes, very nicely. That's when I brought you in."
"Obviously. What was that, an hour ago?"
"Something like that. You know how I get while I'm writing."
"Yes," Gellert sat up and stretched, relishing the feel of his own body again. Say what you will about possession, but there was nothing like coming home.
"Well?" Albus asked, putting his quill down and looking at Gellert. "How did it go?"
"I killed one of his followers and annoyed the shit out of him, I think."
"Ah, jolly good. How did you do so?"
So Gellert regaled him with a blow-by-blow recap of his encounter with Voldemort.
By the end of it, Albus was shaking with laughter, those brilliant eyes alive and joyous.
"Oh yes, that will certainly do it. Gellert, my friend, you are as enchanting and exciting as the day I first met you."
"I really hope he goes with a stone knife, if he tries that again."
"What will happen?" Albus asked, the ghost of hilarity still shaking his frame.
"I'm almost certain he'd be able to contain the magical backlash, which would just mean a small explosion and a few wasted hours and a wasted corpse. If he doesn't contain it though…" he shrugged. "No real way of knowing. He'll either end up trapped in the head or trapped between bodies. I doubt he'll try it again soon, though."
"No, but it would be lovely if he did, and took your advice, wouldn't it?"
Albus stood, shaking his head.
"It's been a very long day, and these old bones are weary and in desperate need of rest. What say you we head to bed?"
"That," Geller said sincerely, "is the best idea I've heard since you rescued me from Nurmengard."