1945
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Tom made sure that everyone Transfigured their school uniforms to plain black robes like his own, with hooded cloaks and Sticking Charmed scarves over the face. For anyone who couldn't do it, he Transfigured their robes for them, ignoring the squeals of discomfort as fabric pulled and twitched and unwove itself between sensitive parts of the body. What was the point of Tom's devising a signature costume for his heroic activities, when no one wore it? He expected his actions would earn his place as tomorrow's newspaper feature story, so he could not overlook the advantages of leaving a good impression. Heroes, after all, did not save Britain every day. And here he was, doing it single-handedly.
He could already taste the adulation.
Their Apparition did not take Tom and his companions directly into King's Cross Station. Tom cast the spell, visualised the destination, flung himself into the churning maelstrom of the great in-between, but found himself bounced out the other end like a rubber ball. He stumbled; his dramatic swirling robe tangled about his feet. He stepped back as loud cracks of his fellow travellers came into being as one disorganised black jumble, and together they turned to face their enemy's chosen battlefield.
The busy thoroughfare in front of the grand arches and stained brick façade of King's Cross Station should have been busy at this time of the late afternoon, the end of the day shift and the beginning of the evening. There should have been trams trundling along the streets, harried conductors punching tickets as fast as they could, and crowds migrating through the thick, stinking industrial fug that symbolised the scientific advancements of the British nation. But there was no rattling of passing trains, no grind of metal wheels on steel rails, no universal air of purpose in those on their way to performing vital duties for King and Country.
Instead, the street in front of the station entrance was occupied by a series of white tents, and down the cloth panels of each wall were the thick slashing lines marking out the M insignia of the Ministry of Magic. Wizards in robes of Ministerial black and Auror scarlet ducked in and out of the tents, buzzing around with the industriousness of a beehive. Occasionally, a wizard in colourful "civilian" robes and jaunty pointed hat emerged from the magically expanded tents with an armful of junk. This junk soon revealed itself to be a disassembled bollard, one of a long line of rune-carved wooden bollards, which were connected from one to the next by ropes. The contraptions formed a combined perimeter around the station, with the exception of a single unfinished gap that Tom and his companions had Apparated themselves through.
Tom peered around. That was the strangest thing: the lack of Muggle presence. Beyond the barrier of ropes and bollard posts, trolleybuses trundled back and forth on their regular commuter routes, but none of them lingered at the King's Cross Station trolley stop, passing by the empty benches as if the drivers had forgotten their existence.
It was the least strange thing he had seen today, which only made him assume a sinister magic was at work.
With an impatient huff, a wizard with another set of bollards waved them out of the way. He set them down, untangled a length of rope, and with a tap of his wand to knot the lines, closed off the gap behind them. He brushed off his hands off with a satisfied nod, and turned on his heel to leave, but when he noticed Tom's group milling not far away, his mouth dropped open and he stuttered, "Y-you! Oh!"
"Good afternoon," said Tom, offering his gloved hand for a shake. "Pleasure to meet another admirer."
The wizard backed away from them, and raising his wand to shoot off his Patronus, a tiny Eurasian martin, scurried off back to the tents without a word.
"Admirer," snorted Nott. "Getting ahead of yourself there, weren't you."
Tom made to stride to the station entrance, but a brief brush of Hermione's hand against his slowed him down, and her nervous intake of breath stopped him entirely.
"The Ministry knows you've arrived," murmured Travers, eyeing an approaching group of black-robed wizards, following behind the fluttering form of the silver martin. "If you don't want to be taken as trespassers intruding upon official business, you need to think fast. I don't want to be arrested!"
"You there, state your business!" ordered the Auror at the head of the Ministry patrol, a cautious hand to his wand pocket. He was tall and lean, and a thread of combed-over hair on his balding scalp swayed with each step. With the flat tone of too many repetitions, he continued: "Until further notice, non-essential enquiries must be directed to the Ministry. You will receive a queue number and proceed from there."
"Stand down, Auror Poffley. If I am not mistaken, this is no ordinary traveller. It's the Prince of Charming, in the flesh," spoke a voice of cool authority from the back of the patrol. Ministry officials hurriedly got out of his way, to reveal a wizard with iron-grey hair and a dispassionate gaze, one that lingered for far too long on Tom's scarf-covered face, his black hood pulled low, and the sliver of dragonhide vest peeking out between the draping folds of his cloak. "You have decided to come to the defence of Britain, at last. And with reinforcements, no less."
"Mr. Travers." Tom gave a polite nod to the man. "We never meet in the best of circumstances, do we? Defending Britain was no difficult decision to make, for any man of good moral character. But there were, to my deepest regret, some inconvenient delays in presenting myself to the task."
"Delays? By what, may I inquire?"
"Investigating the disappearance of the Hogwarts Express, of course," Tom replied smoothly. "I would not abandon the fair isles of my homeland by my own will. Britain has called for me, and here I am."
"And what exactly," asked Mr. Torquil Travers, "have you discovered during your investigation? The nation's greatest families seek to know what has befallen their lost children."
"My Knight has gathered some pertinent information." Tom snapped his fingers. With a weary sigh, Nott elbowed his way to the front of the group, treading on toes and cloak-hems as he went. Collecting the parchments from Nott, Tom offered them to Mr. Travers. "This should contain the coordinates of where the students have been taken, along with transcribed passages from the runic enchantments used on the Portkey mechanism."
"My notes reference several chapters from the syllabary text Norsk Runealfabet og Runeinnskriftene," said Nott. "Particularly of interest, the usage of anchored sun runes for amplified power, laid down on the date on the high solstice. Don't we have that book conveniently in our possession, my Prince?"
"I suppose we do," grumbled Tom. "You have my permission to hand it over, as a temporary loan. But I do expect it to be returned, in perfect condition!"
Mr. Travers took the book from Nott, passing it off to a subordinate. However, he kept the parchments, flipping through the pages of Nott's tidy handwriting. "Where's Cutcheon? The veracity of this information must be confirmed before we can act. Geminio." He cast the Duplication Charm to copy the parchments, which made their way into the hands of the Ministry officials.
"Sir," said Poffley, "He's still organising the Muggle repelling wards. We found a way to muddle the train schedules, but the Muggles won't stop sending over their police inspectors to look for missing trains. It's bad enough that the we have to find another station for all those passengers that would have stopped at King's Cross for transfers—"
"'Veracity'," Tom interrupted. "Have I given you any reason not to trust me?"
"Here, Poffley, the warding team must have a look at this at once. Have you sent a runner for Cutcheon, or must I summon him myself?" said Mr. Travers distractedly, drawing his wand. At Tom's question, the man stopped and gave him an inscrutable look. "It took hours for the Auror train guard to inform us of their unexpected diversion. You claim to have found where they've gone, and made yourself privy to information—" he brandished the parchment scrolls for emphasis—"that you would only have if you had seen the train yourself, or taken it directly from the enchanters themselves.
"We sent a team to Scotland, and found the place where the train had been taken. The rails were gone, stripped out of the ground as clean as you like. Do you mean to tell me you took a round trip, here, let me see... North of the sixtieth parallel and into some wilderness near the Arctic Circle, within the span of a few hours? And you brought nothing back but a bundle of paper to prove it?" With a weary sigh, he flicked his wand, and with a low whistle, summoned his Patronus. The Alsatian hound flowed out of his wand-tip and to the paving stones at Mr. Travers' feet, ears perked and tail swishing back and forth like a silver pennant in the wind. "Fetch the wardmasters. If Cutcheon is occupied, round up the contractors. It's time for them to earn their keep."
The dog Patronus bounded away, with the silvery figures of three other Patronus creatures keeping pace.
"The Minister has full faith in my abilities," Tom said, sniffing. "I'm the Prince of Charming. I don't see why it's impossible to believe that I have the skill and talent to perform improbable feats."
"The Minister cannot vouch for you at this moment, unfortunately," said Mr. Travers. "He sent owl after owl for you when we first learned of the train's disappearance, claiming that you, as a steadfast ally of his, would respond at once. With no replies received after several hours, the Wizengamot took a vote of confidence and dismissed him. Spencer-Moon's barricaded himself in his office and refuses to leave until the date of the next election is set. For the crime of trusting you, he has lost his position."
"Did the Wizengamot put you in charge, then?" asked Nott. "What happened to Ogier Rawlins?"
"Director Rawlins is a Spencer-Moon appointee and has been re-assigned to an advisory role at the DMLE," said Mr. Travers. "I am the acting department head now, invested with emergency powers. I have been informed that mine is meant to be an objective hand on the reins, an expectation that the official procedures will be attended to and upheld. Thus you see why I must be cautious toward your rather extraordinary claims, Prince. It isn't personal. It's simply politics."
"The Prince's claims aren't extraordinary," said a voice behind Tom. "I vouch for him."
Quentin Travers stepped out from the cloaked mass behind Tom, and all the while he could hear a steady stream of Hermione's low muttering: "Psst! What are you doing? He's going to know who you are; there is no way he's not going to recognise you in a shot, even with a hood and a scarf and your clothes Transfigured..."
Mr. Travers stiffened; his hand raised his wand ever-so-slightly, but then he caught himself and lowered it, although Tom could see his feet were nevertheless positioned in a duellist's stance.
"I've seen with my own eyes where the Hogwarts Express went," continued Travers. "I was there. I helped dismantle the ward around the train that kept the students penned inside like livestock. There exists no other explanation for the Prince's testimony other than that he speaks the truth. To deny it is to impugn my name and honour. It may be that my honour matters little to you, sir, but my name ought not to be so quickly discarded."
A crease furrowed Mr. Travers' brow. Ignoring the whispers of his subordinates, he strode forward and shortened the distance between himself and his son. And he was in clear cognisance that the cloaked young man in front of him was his own son, Quentin, for the old Auror's fingers twitched as if he was in a mood to grasp the boy by his shoulders and shake him for his insolence. They stared at each other, two wizards of similar height and demeanour, with a shared disposition Tom had privately considered that of someone who saw taking lamed horses behind the woodshed and puppies to the river as an unpleasant—yet unavoidable—duty. No reverence to be found for the deep mysteries of life and death, only an uninspiring sense of practicality.
"If you are no imposter, then show me your Patronus," ordered Mr. Travers.
Travers glanced over his shoulder, drew his wand, and took a deep breath. "Expecto Patronum."
A large fluffy sheepdog hovered in the air by Travers' shoulder, strands of drool from its lolling tongue like glistening dew. Mr. Torquil Travers stared at it, his mouth in a stern line, fingers gripping tightly at his wand.
"Auror McClure called the Prince a 'beardless boy' after their first meeting," spoke Mr. Travers in a clipped voice, so softly that Tom could barely hear it, and his gaze flicked from his son to Nott, then to Avery and Rosier in the rank behind. "Are you to tell me that McClure was right? That the army the Prince has assembled on the field today consists of barely more than a handful of puling schoolboys?"
"We've finished school, actually," said Nott.
"And I'm not a boy," said Hermione, peeking around Nott's shoulder.
"Even if McClure's suspicions were correct," said Travers quietly, "it was irrelevant against the face of necessity. He needed the Prince's co-operation."
"And you need it, too," Tom said. "Unless you've got another warlock tucked up your sleeve. No? Didn't think so. They happen to be thin on the ground even on a good day. Don't forget that as your authority has only been granted on the basis of an emergency, it can be rescinded at any moment. My authority as the Prince of Charming, however, comes from no one but myself. Take care in how you speak to me... Or my royal retinue."
Further criticism was interrupted by the return of Mr. Travers' hound Patronus, along with a flock of other Patronus animals, sent ahead of the professional warders and enchanters who had come at the summons. The martin—a tiny bird of a size to fit in a teacup—an orang-utan with a flat round face that glowed like the moon, a thrashing silver swordfish, and a dragonfly that flittered back and forth in some erratic yet indiscernible searching pattern.
"Mr. Travers," said a nervous-looking wizard who was now, thankfully, relieved of his bollards, "you sent for us, sir?"
"Ah, Mr. Martin," replied Mr. Travers. "And the wands-for-hire that your Department sought fit to engage with the proceeds of my emergency discretionary fund. I need translations for these documents. See to it that you prepare a poetic translation, a literary translation, and a version in triplicate summarising the salient points in plain English."
"Where did you come by these papers?" asked one of the enchanters, a man who wore a wizard's robe over a suit. His waistcoat bore a distinctive design of red embroidered flowers.
"They were delivered to me by the Prince of Charming." Mr. Travers gestured at Tom and his minions.
And then, beneath the veil of a coal-hazed afternoon, Tom was made to share an exquisitely awkward moment of eye contact with Mr. Sigismund Pacek. Mr. Pacek's expression was strangely blank, but his dragonfly Patronus with its shining crystal wings juddered in mid-air, then toppled to the ground like a stone. At the last second, it caught itself and swooped back aloft, and all Tom could glean of the man's emotional state was a dull sense of disapproval.
"Mr. P—Mr. Enchanter," Hermione's voice suddenly broke the silence. "May I speak with you?"
"The current state of affairs," said Mr. Travers to Tom, "of which you clearly have not been informed." He leaned close, and continued, "A team of Aurors was sent in when we first began our investigation of the station. They've not returned. Neither have we seen what has become of the Muggles. King's Cross is packed with Muggles as a matter of course, but we have seen neither hide nor hair of them either. The routes have been diverted away from the St. Pancras-King's Cross rail interchange, but nonetheless, the several hundred Muggles who were present on the station when it was taken have not been accounted for."
"You haven't gone in to retrieve the Aurors?"
"It was judged too high a risk. They would have returned by their own initiative... unless they couldn't," said Mr. Travers ominously. "There are few who can resist the deceptions wrought by the vilest of Dark Magic."
"Is it true that Dumbledore has gone in to negotiate?"
"Yes," said Mr. Travers. "He sends an occasional Patronus to remind us he is still alive, but we've heard no word of his progress in the negotiations, if there has been any at all."
Tom frowned. "What is the goal of his negotiation? The students, well, obviously they should be rescued, but does the Ministry truly want to forge any sort of agreement with as treacherous a creature as a Dark Lord?"
"The Ministry, as an institution of laws, resents being impelled through levers of transparent extortion. Instead, as the closest and most powerful independent party whom we could expect would not be detained on sight, Dumbledore volunteered himself to buy time in which we could find the missing train and bring the students home—"
"More of a distraction than a real negotiation, then," Tom interrupted. "I see. By your personal estimation, would it suit you to bargain for peace with a Dark Lord, or remove the problem entirely? If you could choose the best solution, what would it be?"
"When it comes to such affairs, one rarely has the convenience of choice."
"Let me put it this way, sir: if you had to pick between the lives of hundreds of Muggles, an Auror team, Albus Dumbledore, and your own son," said Tom, watching Mr. Travers intently for any trace of a lie. "Or a dead Grindelwald... Which one would you pick?"
Mr. Travers gave him a searching look in return. His gaze darted to the parchment sheaves handed around to the enchanters, Hermione jabbering away at them in her Lecturing Voice. "What about the students on the train?"
"Say that you've found and secured them. They're removed from the equation."
"A dead Dark Lord."
Huh, thought Tom. No lie there. The man had been truthful throughout their conversation, but his latest admission rang with a particularly painful dose of blunt honesty.
"Suppose it came out that the rules of a diplomatic truce were not observed with, ah, appropriate decorum. Would the Ministry, as an institution of laws, rebuke the actions in spite of reasonable practical justifications?"
"I suppose," said Mr. Travers slowly, "that some clemency might be afforded, given the situation in question."
"You suppose," said Tom. "I want the ruling authorities—Ministry and Wizengamot—to promise it."
"Authority only offers a guarantee to those who offer results."
"I see," said Tom, with a thoughtful nod. "I think you and I can come to a reasonable understanding. Patronuses can travel freely despite the warding of the station. If you send your Patronus to signal when you are ready for me to, hmm, conclude the negotiations, I will do my best to ensure that your faith in me is rewarded."
When Tom turned back around to gather his troops, ready to prove himself of capable of delivering a spontaneous morale speech, he saw that Hermione was in ardent conversation with Mr. Pacek, with whom it seemed like she had given up pretending she was unfamiliar.
"Here," said Hermione, taking at a parchment scroll and a handful of carved wooden stakes from an interior pocket of her robe, "I made this for my final project. Placing the stakes should show you where I am on the map—I calibrated it against my own magic when devising the rune scheme. If... If my magical signature disappears, please let my parents know that I'm sorry, but I couldn't excuse myself as a conscientious objector, not this time. I regret that we had so short a time together. Tell Mum and Dad..." she took a slow breath, scrubbed at her eyes, and continued in a quiet voice, "Tell them... it was by how they raised me that I knew at once the only right choice to make, when the decision presented itself to me."
Mr. Pacek patted her consolingly on the shoulder. "You can still turn back. The Grand Minister desires to speak with the Prince of Charming. It is the Prince he has requested by name and reputation."
"I can't let To—um, you-know-who, go in alone!" said Hermione.
"He is an accomplished wizard, not a helpless child."
"Thank you," said Tom, "I'm glad someone here has confidence in my abilities. Are you ready to go?"
They set off with a mutual sense of grim determination, Travers muttering some Latin incantation to himself as they walked. Tom, translating it in his head, realised with annoyance that the boy was not casting a protective spell, but reciting some biographical blather about tossing oneself into the precipice of the Rubicon River. Which was nonsense, as the Rubicon was no precipice: it was so shallow a man could cross without getting his tunic damp. And he knew the Romans wore their tunics short. Even the Scots surpassed them in modesty.
The brick archways at the station entrance, bustling with dozens of travellers every time he'd passed this way, were deserted. It was an eerie feeling, hearing his feet echo off the paved tile floors, with no other accompaniment but the heavy tread of footsteps from the other group members. Hermione ducked around an archway to pick up a newspaper from an abandoned wheeled cart. With her true Good Girl conscience, she took a coin from her pocket and placed it in the collecting tin, before she came over to show them the front page.
"They're still selling The Daily Telegraph, and the cart was half-full," said Hermione. "It should be near empty at this hour of the day, switching to The Evening Standard within the hour or so."
"Seems like the station was taken over not long after the Express was misplaced," said Tom. "That happened about an hour after noon. The only way it could have happened, in such co-ordination, was through a secret conspiracy."
"What does a Metallurgist do, other than enchant mental?" Travers muttered to himself. "How often do wizards require huge amounts of metal in this day and age?"
"They don't, not usually. There was a reason the Tinworth foundry let a German take over the business," said Nott. "British metal mages, for the most part, work noble metals in negligible amounts. Trinkets and jewellery and such, not tools for war, else they risk stepping on the toes of the local goblins. And whilst they have tiny toes, goblins have large tempers."
"But Muggles use metal all the time," said Hermione. "The Hogwarts Express is the rare exception, and there is no equal to its size and capacity. The Ministry's elevators don't come close. This whole situation... It was preventable, had we recognised the clues before today!"
"Speak for yourself," said Nott. "I predicted it would happen."
"You guessed it'd be Dementors, and a year off," Travers pointed out.
"I dare you to tell me I was wrong about the Dementors!"
"Makes me wish I'd been a little more generous with the wolf traps," Tom said to himself, then clearing his throat, announced, "There are twelve platforms inside this station. Thirteen if you count Nine and Three-Quarters. Grindelwald could be on any one of them. As the leader of this expedition, I say we keep to a group, instead of splitting into pairs. We don't know what else is in there—it could be Grindelwald's own minions, vampires, Dementors. Or worse, hysterical Muggles. Do try to keep the killing to a minimum; the goal here is to make Grindelwald look like the villain."
Inside the station, the light dwindled and dimmed, despite the extravagant arched windows above the doors; it was replaced by a deepening gloam that carried an almost-tangible weight. Tom had never found himself perfectly restful in the Muggle world after having discovered his magical birthright, but even he knew something was... off. The minutes listed on the departures board had not been touched from the hour past noon, and the arrivals board listed trains that had never materialised.
A train station was supposed to be a hubbub of activity. Edifices of steel and concrete were the physical demonstration of Muggle might, for without the whimsical utilities of magic, man's nature was to conquer his world through other means. Coal and steam were the superior language of the British race, who connected isles and continents into an empire on which the sun never set. But here and now, the rails were cold, the platforms lay bare, and a murky dark liquid dripped down the mortared crevices of the high brick walls.
And the next step Tom took plunged him into darkness.
He felt a chill wind ruffle his robe and raise the hair at the nape of his neck; he heard the gasp and squeak of his companions behind him. His wand slipped into his hand, and raising it in front of him, felt the tip smack against a solid barrier that hadn't been there a moment ago.
A disembodied chuckle echoed in his ear. He strained to find its source, turning his blinded face this way and that, but it came from all directions at once, like an echo uttered in a circular room.
The laughing stopped. Then a voice spoke, quiet and controlled, enunciation clearer than the typical drawl of upper-class Received Pronunciation, but with a most unusual lilting rhythm.
"Ah, has Britain's young Prince accepted my invitation at last? Finally, a worthy incentive to seek the fount of all his labours. Albus did warn me of your obstinacy... I suppose I should have taken him at his word. He has always had such a striking affinity for recognising a kindred spirit."
The voice laughed again, ringing in Tom's ears with an aching force of will that could only have come from mental magic.
Tom cleared his throat. "Yes, I am the Prince of Charming, with my retinue. My Green Knight. My lovely Maiden Fair. And some others of lesser notability. That's the trouble with minions—the good are few and far between."
"Hmmm," came the disembodied voice. And as if the speaker had placed his hand over a telephone receiver, Tom heard it whisper, "If you wanted me to favour him, Albus, why did you not tell me he and his lover were aligned in cause and conviction? You know that young love brings out my sentimentality.I cannot bear the empty Sehnsucht of der junge Werther when I could have der Liebste Roland who finds that no obstacle can withstand such constancy in love. Ah, who can resist it? Not me; no, never me..."
The voice faded into the darkness that surrounded him. It was an all-consuming and indiscriminate dark which absorbed not only sight and sound, but sensation too. Hermione's fingers tickled against his palm, then her hand slipped into his, her touch faint and weak and somehow lacking in solidity. Tom squeezed Hermione's hand anyway, holding onto the one reassuring anchor of reality, trying to repress the quiet alarm that rose in him as he realised he couldn't feel the usual hum of warmth from his wand.
"You wanted to speak to me," said Tom. "Now here I am, ready to treat with you. If you have no need for me, there are bureaucrats aplenty ready to speak on the Ministry's behalf."
"Any wizard worthy of the rank of protégé is not wrought from common stock. The courtesies must be observed," mused the voice. "And a lord is as a lord does. Very well. Follow the path, and soon we shall greet each other in the flesh."
The darkness receded, and Tom found himself blinking in the buttery sunlight of high summer, with a fresh breeze lightening the clamminess he felt dampen the many black layers of his Prince's costume. The path below his feet was of packed dirt, dry and rutted, so conspicuously rural that even the villagers of Little Hangleton would have turned their noses up at it. The roads in Tom's village were no city boulevards, but they were bound in bitumen, for the landlord owned a Rolls Royce with white tyres he didn't like muddied up. Hermione gazed at her surroundings with wide eyes, while Avery frowned and kicked the earth with a heavy boot.
The boy jerked his head at the tree-lined path, which led into a small country village of neat thatched cottages and whitewashed walls. At the village line, the path was paved with smooth, rounded cobbles. In the distance, the tip of a tall steeple rose above the treeline.
Avery said, "I've walked this road before. It's Godric's Hollow, the mixed village in Somerset. Good sporting in the local moors if you keep a crup pack, though most people come here as pilgrims, not as huntsmen. They say the village church has a sepulchre laid over Godric's own bones, marked with the sign of the lion. That's the name of the village's pub, by the by. If it's open, I wouldn't mind standing a round."
"In A History of Magic, Bagshot posited that Gryffindor's lion heraldry was derived from his ancestral origins," said Hermione. "He was a proud Englishman, descended from the Danish tribe of Angles who settled England after the fall of Rome. The lion shield is a symbol of Denmark."
"Has that anything to do with Grindelwald? As far as I'm aware, the man is German," murmured Travers.
"He's not exactly German, not really," Hermione corrected.
"His German is well fluent for a non-German. I heard him speaking in my ears!"
"Yes, of course, but that doesn't make him a German-German."
"A German-German?" Travers asked. "Does that make us English-English?"
"He's more like a Swabian-Hungarian," Hermione continued in her lecturing voice. "Politics are rather more fragmented in the Continent than they are in our united British Isles. I read in a newspaper that Grindelwald is fluent in six languages. Impressive!"
"Six languages is respectable only if one is Latin," Nott interjected. "One can't be considered fully literate unless he has his Latin declensions."
"Well, I don't know my declensions and I'll have you know that I'm literate!"
"You did hear me say fully literate, didn't you?"
"There's no one around," said Tom suddenly, stopping short. Hermione, still quarrelling with Nott, bumped into his back. "It's a Sunday afternoon in the summer. I'm far from an expert in village life, but surely there ought to be some sort of goings-on... going on. Don't people in these rural backwaters go to church? Or hit balls around in the village green? I know I'd be inside reading my spellbooks any time of day or season, but these are ordinary wizards and witches. Why aren't they doing ordinary things?"
The dirt road was bare of people and vehicles. Sunday was, for ordinary workers, the one day in the week for which they could reserve their labour for themselves. The Riddle family gave their servants a half-day off on Sunday, ostensibly for Christian reflection, but in reality it meant spending their wages in the nearby town, Great Hangleton. But this town was dead silent, with not even an occasional caw or chirp to break the quiet shush of the breeze through the hedgerows, no flutter of wings as owls came and went, as would be expected for the typical wizarding homestead which, without exception, kept one or two birds per household.
"How did we get here?" asked Rosier, bending down to flick a blade of grass that bordered the road. "I didn't feel a thing. Instantaneous magical transportation is never seamless, not Floo or Portkey or Elf-Apparition." He flipped his wand into his hand, and began to turn in a circle... and another circle, then another. "It looks like Grindelwald is the only one who decides who goes in or out. I can't Apparate out of here, the same as the wards back on the train."
"We have more important concerns at the moment than getting out. For instance, why are we here in the first place? What is the purpose of this... this theatrical scenery?" said Tom, as they came across a weather-beaten fence on the outskirts of the village. Within the fence was a graveyard, containing a haphazard scatter of stone markers, grimy with age; some of them, he noticed, were carved with the alchemic symbols to denote time and date by the rise of the planets. Others were inscribed with the slanting runes of the Ogham tree alphabet. He ran his fingers over the faded letters, trying to sense the magic of ancient grave wards imbued into the stones, but he felt nothing, only rough surfaces coated with damp black lichen.
It looked real. It felt real. But something about it rang false to him, with that peculiar itch of untruth that clung to the back of his throat like a burgeoning sneeze.
The centre of his unease lay within the far corner of the graveyard, under the shadowy branches of a venerable yew. Yew trees were a traditional feature of English graveyards, Tom knew, for their symbolism of death and rebirth. These hardy trees had poisonous leaves, and sprouted themselves anew from broken branches. When he had first read of wandlore after discovering the myriad delights of the Hogwarts library, he'd been pleased to read of the meaning of his own wand. His was a wand which would never allow itself to be wielded by an heir. It might be reborn one day, but that was a far off day indeed, as Tom did not intend to see himself familiarly acquainted with his own grave any time soon.
Beneath the spreading yew was a pair of wooden benches with a wooden table in between them, for the convenience of visitors in need of space for their quiet contemplation. The graveyard visitors, sitting on the benches as if it was a casual Sunday afternoon like any other, were the only people Tom had seen thus far, and their presence did nothing to set him more at ease with his surroundings.
One was Professor Albus Dumbledore, looking a little worse for wear, his trumpeted sleeves powdered with white ash and black burns over violet embroidery. The other man, sitting opposite the professor, was unknown to Tom. He had pale blond hair the colour of lemon ice, draping past his shoulders with the careless elegance of rich gentleman wizards. His eyes were blue and sparkling like Professor Dumbledore's, but the light that glinted within them was cold and harsh and bright, like snow glare on a frosty winter morning. The man dealt out a handful of cards to Dumbledore and when he picked up his own, the ringing peal laughter he let out upon seeing the cards was unsettling to Tom's ears.
"Double deuces! Ah, fortune is generous to me today." The grin he gave was lively and vivacious. When he breathed and moved and spoke, it seemed like Nature herself had shed some fragment of her grandeur on him. His voice resonated in the still air such that Tom heard each word as clearly as if the man had been only an arm's length away, and the light dappling through the yew branches set a halo of golden motes over his head. With his pale hair, sharp roguish features, and long silvery coat whose hem draped across the grass, he looked like a forest spirit in graceful repose; Dumbledore could scarcely bring himself to turn away from the sight.
Grindelwald wore a mantle of gravitas so captivating it had an almost palpable energy, drawing everyone closer and closer.
Tom swallowed, shuttering his emotions behind an empty black sky, keeping himself fixed on the physical senses entwined with his physical self. His carved wooden wand handle, the too-tight knotted lacing of the dragonhide vest, the heavy black layers of robes, stifling hot without any of the moving air currents one should expect of venturing out of doors. Glancing to the side, he saw Hermione's eyes transfixed on the two men playing a card game, her teeth biting into her lower lip, while the other boys stared with the blank, placid expressions of grazing cows.
"Hermione," he hissed, snapping his fingers. "This is all a game, a distraction. None of this is real. Stay focused."
"What? O-oh," stuttered Hermione. "How do you know that?"
"I can always recognise a liar when I see one," said Tom. "Besides, you know that I have a good grasp on what's real... and what isn't." His finger brushed the inside of her wrist, tracing the line of flesh where it met her sleeve, the hot pulse of blood that thrummed at his touch.
He approached the wooden picnic table and took a seat beside Dumbledore, the boys and Hermione following nervously, eyes widening when they realised whose company they had trespassed upon. Hermione murmured something to Nott in a voice of quiet trepidation, and Nott replied, "He's right about the fakery. Half of the old-growth forest around Godric's Hollow was burned down in a big fire at the turn of the century. It was an irreplaceable loss; prime wandwood doesn't just grow on trees, hah..."
"Since you so greatly desire my attention, it obliges me to grant it." Tom let out a theatrical sigh, somewhat muffled by the scarf across his face. It was difficult to look intimidating when one was dressed up like a common house-burglar. "Grand Minister, Professor, what may I do for you?"
Grindelwald studied him, the sparkles in his eyes glittering with sharp edges of pain, like the bursting crackle of hot sap in a wood stove. Tom hardened the walls of his resolve, concentrating on keeping his thoughts blank and impenetrable, while Dumbledore frowned and chided, "Gellert, this is very unnecessary."
"It is necessary," retorted Grindelwald, and suddenly the pain was gone and the sparkles were just harmless reflections of clouds in the summer sky. "I wanted to see what he was made of, this Prince you have fashioned for me and led to my doorstep. He passes the minimum standard, as expected. For many years, Albus, I have questioned the soundness of your judgement—"
"My morals, you mean. My judgement has vacillated at times, but my morals have never bent in the way that suited you best."
"Bah, your morals, so be it," said Grindelwald. "But your discernment, which I have always trusted, has remained impeccable. You have always had an innate sense for those who dance upon the fulcrum of the epochs." Grindelwald smiled and waved his hand over the face-down cards he had left lying on the table. "Then again, so do I."
He flipped the cards to reveal their faces, and they were no longer a playing card set of familiar suits. They were painted figures of the magical tarot: Six of Wands, The Magician, King of Swords, and for the last card, the Wheel of Fortune.
Rosier hissed when the final card was revealed. "Triumph, talent, authority... and destiny. The first three are solid personal readings. But that last one is the most dangerous. One wrong step will have you trip over the cusp of your own success and be crushed under the wheel. Not good, not good. The wheel of fortune can only move forward by grinding one edge into the dirt."
"Well, I don't believe in silly prophecies anyway, so as flattering as it sounds, it doesn't matter," said Tom. "There is only one truth to speak of: power. As I see it, you have lost your throne in Europe, so all that you bring to the table today, other than your personal influence, is a handful of hostages."
"A generation of magical youths is more than a handful," said Grindelwald.
"More or less, I suppose," Tom replied. "You've gone to such lengths to tread on my doorstep, so let us speak plainly, the two of us—from power to power. What is it you want that I may grant?"
Grindelwald smiled. "You."
Dumbledore flinched. "Gellert, you cannot mean—"
"Seven years and seven days sworn in service to me, my prince," said Grindelwald, cutting off Dumbledore's protests mid-word, "and you will leave me as a king. My star wanes, my wheel turns away, but yours has yet to rise. If you wish to learn the secrets of magic that lie beyond the realms of law and custom, if you have questions to which any professor you ask would choose his squeamishness over his tenure... Then who better to teach you than a wizard who has already walked the path that you have just begun?"
"And what path is that?" asked Tom.
Grindelwald tapped a tarot card on the table. "The King of Swords."
Tom surmised Grindelwald's Laconic statement of the obvious was intended to convey heavy implications of some greater meaning. But he had read the Divination textbooks, and been put off from it years ago after discovering that Hogwarts' "modern education" of the subject meant star signs and crystals. For anyone born without Seer's blood, it was thus of little more interest than the Muggle palm-readers found in every other tuppence tinker circus.
Grindelwald and I are hardly walking the same path, he scoffed to himself. He's on the path of humiliation: from ruler of the Continent to confronted by a schoolmaster and a gaggle of former pupils. Why should I let him lead me?
When Tom listened to Dumbledore's life advice, it was with the knowledge that the old professor chose a teaching profession for his own perverse amusements, and could retire at any moment. Tom considered wage employment to be a humiliation in itself, independently wealthy as he was, but Dumbledore enjoyed it for whatever inexplicable reason. That was the difference.
"It would not do Britain's own hero, the Prince of Charming, any favours to be seen capitulating to a foreign warlord," Tom remarked, looking around to see that his minions watched the exchange with shrewd calculation. "You must understand that I have a reputation to uphold. A true hero wouldn't be swayed by villainous temptation."
"That is true," agreed Grindelwald. "But a true hero could sway a villainous heart, no? With the strength of his integrity, der gerechten Prinz redeems a wayward soul and helps him atone for his offences. Is that not a beautiful story to capture the heart of a nation?"
"It's very much a story," Hermione interjected. "You're more than a little wayward, and you've done more than a few offences! After all that you've done, what makes you think you can be forgiven, just like that?"
For the first time, Grindelwald turned the full weight of his gaze on Hermione, who quailed at the unexpected attention, but squared her shoulders and glared at him in defiance, unfaltering under the pressure of a foreign mind. With an abrupt burst of laughter, Grindelwald turned away, to the four tarot cards of Tom's reading still on the table. The man flipped them over to the decorative scrollwork on the backs, then flipped them over again to reveal the faces.
Four cards: Seven and King of a regular card deck, then Judgement and Ace of Pentacles from the tarot.
"Fate will judge me," said Grindelwald. "And from there grows the branches of my next path." To Tom, he said, "It is your presence here and now which steers the fall of Fortune's Wheel at the crossroads. The people of Britain would not gainsay your will, were their fearless hero to vouch for my forgiveness. I confess my wrongdoings; I endure the harsh sting of remorse. All I have taken, I will gladly return."
"The children—" Dumbledore began.
"Were never to be harmed," said Grindelwald. "I could have done worse, and easily so, but I did not. Take it as a demonstration of conscience; I am not beyond that horizon of irredeemability. But it is not only one man who must accept my change of heart as genuine, I think. The leaders of the British people must be convinced, and to them I must prove my penitence—not merely in word, but in substance.
"I possess the contents of a dozen state treasuries," continued Grindelwald, turning his glittering eyes to Tom and Dumbledore, and the boys behind them, ready to draw their wands at a quiet word from their leader. "Gold, ancient artefacts, goblin-wrought treasures that the barrow kings have tried and failed a dozen times to wrest from wizarding hands over the centuries. With such an endowment, Albus, you could hire the summer staff to keep Hogwarts in session year-round and from a younger age, for children of magic who wish to flourish in a world that has disadvantaged them since birth."
Hermione's breath caught. Grindelwald chuckled.
"A repository of the arcane arts can be yours as well," Grindelwald said. "I had my own Department of Mysteries, and its secrets will be laid bare for your eyes. Everything I have learned of the arts of prophecy and fate, the alchemic essence of time and life, the creatures of this plane and beyond. Including that creature on the other side who beckons one and all, except for those who gain mastery of his domain. Yes, Death himself." He flourished his wand at Dumbledore with a wink and a grin. "I have found it, and as I promised you years ago, when I have no need for it anymore, it shall be yours to do with as you wish."
Tom stiffened at the drawn wand, making to raise his own, but Grindelwald returned it to his pocket and said, "Still not convinced yet, my Prince? All you have to do is inform your government that I have been defeated, and as the one person powerful enough to command me, you must take control of my confinement. Then we will build a prison appropriate for a wizard of my standing, and thus I will take my retirement from infamy in quiet solitude. No Dementors, no guards, only runework enchanting and a peaceful sinecure for a tired old man. It is not much to ask for, is it?"
"It'd hardly be a prison without Dementors," said Tom.
"It is the pragmatism of securing a national resource," Grindelwald replied. "Dementors would negate my utility as a font of magical knowledge. Your government would agree with it, if they had assurances that I was held securely in your power. Were they not willing to consider sending the compatriots they arrested to 'rehabilitory custody' instead of executing them in one stroke? There would not have been a trial if the British Ministry wanted such rare expertise relegated into oblivion. A collared warlock gives Britain the upper hand in any international negotiation."
"Utter madness!" sputtered Nott. "A collared warlock is a simmering cauldron. The moment you look away, it explodes in your face."
"I will make an Unbreakable Vow to the Prince, if you doubt me," said Grindelwald. "To him alone, I will offer my surrender."
"And not to Dumbledore?" asked Tom.
"I am afraid that the Ministry of Magic deems Albus too biased to be trusted," said Grindelwald. "I was a Grand Minister, after all. If possible, I should like the government's co-operation."
For a moment, Tom hesitated. Wasn't this everything he wanted for his career? Success, acclaim, conquest, a key to magical resources that he could not otherwise access due to his lack of connection and reputation. Spellbooks locked up in private libraries, entire fields of magic gated away by esoteric craftmasters who decreed that a prospective student could be taught only if he swore to run the shop for the rest of his life. Rare magics like what he learned during his Legilimency lessons, but delivered straightforwardly, and without the five years of obscure personality tests that Dumbledore had forced him to endure before Tom had been deemed "worthy" of private tutelage.
Grindelwald could give him that, without the games of moral scrutiny. No requisite pretense that Tom was a Good Boy who would never conceive of using his new skills for dastardly ends.
Hermione glanced at him. Tom took a deep breath and re-considered his calculations.
He looked at the cards on the table. Grindelwald had drawn the King of Leaves, a suit of the German playing deck. In Britain, this would be the King of Spades. Like most face cards, the King had two heads, mirrored from the centre. One faced up, one faced down.
Grindelwald proposed to crown him a king, because he saw that Tom's wheel of fortune was destined to rise. Tom concurred with most of it, but recognised the wheel was not a static entity; it always moved forward. Grindelwald willingly accepted his humiliation today because he recognised the chance that his own wheel could rise again some future day. Anyone with the capability to earn a crown carried the firm assurance he could earn another. Any wizard of Grindelwald's calibre would not put on a collar unless he knew he could take it off.
Was this not what Tom had been warned about a few days ago? That he would be given a recruitment offer, and ultimately, it was meant to serve Grindelwald's ends, no matter how advantageous the benefits appeared on the surface. If he accepted Grindelwald's proposition, then it would appear that all sides won. The Ministry captured their Number One Undesirable. Tom was proclaimed the hero of the hour. Grindelwald scraped himself out of the consequences of his Continental warmongering. Dumbledore's star-crossed friendship was returned to him afresh.
The more Tom thought about it, the more it rankled him. It sounded so tempting because Grindelwald was a guileful manipulator, and Tom didn't even trust the man now, so what would it be like later, if they had the chance to foster a closer association? He might become as weak-willed and enfeebled as Dumbledore, who looked as if he was truly considering the offer as a feasible undertaking. As much as Tom regretted deferring to a minion, Nott was right: a collared warlock couldn't be trusted.
And what was it that Hermione had once said? "You wouldn't be able to stand the existence of another boy swaggering about the halls, calling himself a prince of magic."
She was right, too. Another wizard, casually mentioning he could raise kings? Dumbledore, a powerful wizard in his own right, was tolerable because he didn't go around saying such things. If the professor was to be believed, everyone was happier with a cosy fireplace and a good, thick pair of woollen socks. No ambitions, and therefore his motives were not in competition against Tom's own.
No, thought Tom, and clarity—with a bit of own contrarian nature—cleared his tangled ruminations, as the ghostly outline of an Alsatian hound shimmered in the speckled light that speared through the yew boughs above. It was barely visible but for the pale gleam of its eyes and teeth; no one else but Tom had noticed it. Tom understood its message: Torquil Travers, the Ministry's representative, was present and observing.
If there is to be a winner in this situation, then there may only be one: me.
"The Ministry wouldn't be so credulous as to believe that an accomplished wizard would go all this way just to call a forfeit," said Tom. "They'd ask us to submit our memories for reviewing. Even I have to admit it looks suspicious that this supposedly fraught negotiation has not one spark of confrontation... Unless it's your intention to provide fodder for the conspiracy-minded out there."
"Yes, I see," said Grindelwald. "We must stage a good duel and all doubts will be eliminated. With the odds of two against one, Albus would disarm me, and I, with great reluctance, will be forced to acknowledge the precarity of my position. Then you will Conjure some ropes and bring me in for a citizen's arrest. A good narrative is an essential foundation for your hero's journey. You would never have to pay for a drink again!"
"Agreed," said Tom, standing up from his seat and brushing off his robes. "Dumbledore, are you participating?"
Dumbledore sighed wearily, and to Grindelwald said, "You could have turned yourself in at any moment. Why wait until today?"
"The right circumstances had to be arranged, Albus," said Grindelwald. He twirled his wand between elegant fingers. "I did not intend for my wand to be won by any other wizard but you. In any other time and place, it would have been difficult to contrive such an amicable transfer of ownership."
"I... see," said Dumbledore, bowing his head and readying his wand for the first cast. "Very well. Is everyone ready?"
"Certainly," said Grindelwald.
"I am," said Tom. He gestured to Hermione and the Slytherin boys. "You can stay out of this if you want."
"Are you sure about this?" asked Hermione hesitantly. "It doesn't seem right to go along with him, given all he's done..."
"Don't worry, I'll personally ensure that justice is dispensed. For now, we'll just toss a few rounds of Stunners, maybe a Jelly-Legs or two to make it look real," said Tom. He winked. "Then Dumbledore will finish things off with an Expelliarmus and we can all go to the pub."
"I can do a few Stunners. No problem," said Lestrange. He winked back. "As real as you please."
Nott coughed. "'Stunners', of course. I, too, know a few non-lethal curses. Everything will go as planned, I'm sure."
"Fate wouldn't have given him the King of Swords for no reason," said Rosier.
Tom glanced up at the floating Patronus dog hidden high among the leaves. "All you have to do is trust me and follow my lead."
The Patronus lowered its head at him, then faded into the shadows and out of sight.
"Alright, T—um, Prince," said Hermione. "If you say so."
"When have I ever been wrong?" said Tom. With a faint smile on his face, he slipped his wand out of his sleeve, and took three measured steps. Then he turned and gave the traditional duellist's bow and salute to Grindelwald.
The first spell he cast was Stupefy, angled deliberately over Grindelwald's shoulder. Waiting for his cue, the Slytherins tossed their own spells in Grindelwald's direction. All were lazily deflected off the flickering hemisphere of a Shield Charm cast by Grindelwald. Dumbledore pointed his own wand, releasing a burst of fiery pellets like a barrage from a Muggle artillery piece. Zip-zip-zip went the spells, silently cast and with such perfect speed that the spellbursts resembled a corkscrewing orange spiral that drilled into the magical shield. The Shield Charm juddered again and again until, methodically weakened, a pinpoint hole expanded from the tip of the corkscrew, consuming what remained of the shield as it grew.
Tom watched the action closely, surreptitiously casting a set of Bubble-Head Charms on himself and his followers.
Dumbledore swished his wand; a beam of emerald green shot through the hole and flicked Grindelwald's gnarled black wand right out of his hand.
The instant the wand left the man's fingers, Tom set the graveyard on fire.
Grass dissolved into black clouds of choking soot. The yew trees roared like thunder as leaf, branch, and trunk together dissolved into pillars of red flame that clawed at the serene summer sky, whose sun had not moved an inch since the time Tom and his companions had made their arrival. Gravestones creaked and toppled. A hot wind rose around his ankles, gathering the heat of the burning trees as Tom cast his silent incantation. Using natural heat gave the wind its power, and the wind gave the heat further fuel. It was a dangerous balance. With the mental agility that Tom had honed from living in two bodies at once, he danced on the fulcrum of two potent spell constructs.
"What are you doing?" Grindelwald snarled at him, tearing amulets from around his throat. He pressed his thumb to one of them, shaped like a pewter crow with red glass eyes, and its sharp beak cut into his flesh. Blood dripped down Grindelwald's palm.
"Making it look real," replied Tom.
With a sweep of his arms and a grimace on his face, Grindelwald dragged back the burning grass as if he were throwing open a pair of heavy curtains. The thick sheet of green and brown sod beneath his feet split in two, rolling and buckling, and from beneath the rubble of fallen gravestones churned a great writhing mass of human figures. Muggle figures, by the look of them. They wore their hair roller-curled and pomaded under hats that were neither pointy nor spangled—a sure sign of a wizard's taste in fashion. Their suits were darkened with dirty streaks, and the close cutting along the sleeves and skirts spoke of the concessions made to fabric rationing. No velvet, no cloaks, no dragonhide shoes; with their plain suitcases and sensible handbags, they were nothing more than mundane commuters.
They were mundane in every way, except for their faces. Each and every one of them bore an expression of such ardent bliss, grins of elation rigid on their stiffened faces. They had died in ecstasy, as if in their last moments of life, they had surrendered themselves body and soul to the divine arms of some greater power.
Even Tom found it unsettling; he suspected it required a wizard to stretch out the intermediate "dying" phase between lethal suffering and death, then cast a powerful compulsion right at the brink. Of course, that was only conjecture; he had never had an opportunity to prove it. Maintaining mental commands at the throes of death? He had speculated, as a natural Legilimens, he would likely feel the crossing as it occurred. The closest he had ever gotten with his experimentation was the minion, Vajkard Kozel, who had been knocked unconscious with a Draught of the Living Death before the man's actual death. Tom was disappointed to learn the Ministry had later revived Kozel after the Atrium business and, within a few days, sentenced him to execution by Dementor. What a waste.
"Reducto—Reducto—Reducto!" From behind Tom came blasts of light; in front of him fell shreds of burning cloth, singed hair, and the splatter of broken flesh. It would have smelled terribly if not for his Bubble-Head Charm.
"What are you doing?!" Hermione shouted at Lestrange, turning her wand away from Grindelwald and at the minions. "You just killed a dozen people!"
Travers threw up a Shield Charm before Hermione could stun Lestrange. "He didn't kill them. They're already dead."
"Inferi," said Lestrange, nodding at the seething tide of Muggles tearing themselves out of the crumbling chasm of earth and fallen stones. "I know Dark Magic when I see it. Watch how they move—they never blink."
"And their heads can twist all the way around without falling off," Avery added. "Reducto!"
"Grindelwald..." said Hermione. "No wonder the station was empty; it shouldn't have been, not at this time of day. St. Pancras is the central hub of Metropolitan London. I can't believe it! He just... he killed them all, and he thinks he can be forgiven for it because he asks nicely?!"
Lestrange muttered, "They were only Muggles..."
"Had everyone gone with his original plan," Travers pointed out, "I doubt we'd ever have found out about it."
"Besides," said Avery, "Muggles are fragile and there are so many of them. No one would have noticed if he'd knocked off a few."
"They're people!" said Hermione angrily. "People who have no part of this war! No one deserves to be treated like they're... like they're disposable!"
"If it's any consolation, Grindelwald didn't kill everyone," said Nott. "It looks like the Auror team he caught were just Imperiused. Inferi can't cast magic. Ahhh!" He jabbed his wand once, twice, thrice, and cast a layered Shield Charm over himself, in time to deflect a powerful curse from an Auror in torn robes and a vacant expression. "Oof. The professionals hit hard. Prince, you need to end the caster to stop the minions. Inferi won't go down unless you destroy the entire body, but keeping the Aurors down for good may be slightly... awkward."
"I'd try to avoid fratricide if possible, but do the best you can," said Tom, jaw clenched in concentration. "Now lend me your flying carpet. I know you have it in your bag."
"But I was saving it for—"
"There's no use in arguing with me. You won't win," snapped Tom. "I'm taking the carpet. The rest of you, go deal with the Aurors."
"Where exactly are you going?" Hermione asked. She ducked under a flying spell, and began rapidly casting a sequence of Transfigurations to shape the dirt into a physical barricade strong enough to resist the high-level combat magic of Imperiused Aurors. Travers Conjured sandbags and piled them over the sides. Pulsing red hexes that hit the bags landed with a loud WHUMP and a spray of sand over the crouching forms of Lestrange and Avery, still intent on blasting any Inferi that approached.
"I'm going to earn my Order of Merlin," said Tom, taking the rolled carpet that Nott had tossed to him. "Grindelwald's been disarmed, so this should be quick. I'll be back after I've saved Britain."
Nott warned him, "Be careful about flying the carpet near smoke..."
Tom jumped onto the carpet and flew through a cyclone of roaring flames.
Nott sighed. "...The smell never comes out."
.
NOTE:
— Sehnsucht - German for ardent yearning or longing, usually for something that is out of one's reach, such as unrequited love.
— Der Junge Werther - From The Sorrows of Young Werther, 1774 novel by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Werther loved Charlotte, but Charlotte married Albert and that made Werther a very sad boy. :(
— Der Liebste Roland - Grimm's Fairy Tale Sweetheart Roland. Due to a magical curse, Roland and his lady love are separated, and Roland forgets his memories of her. But as soon as he hears her voice, he comes running back:
But when she began her song, and it reached Roland's ears, he jumped up and shouted, "I know that voice. That is the true bride. I do not want anyone else." Everything he had forgotten, and which had vanished from his mind, had suddenly come home again to his heart.
— Der gerechten Prinz - "The Righteous Prince".
— Grindelwald has some Seer talent and a superstitious personality. He's open to supernatural ideas, like the Deathly Hallows, where the average wizard thinks of it as a children's story.
Tarot card meanings and reverse interpretations:
- Six of Wands — Triumph and glory / failure and punishment
- The Magician — Mastery of manifestation / Mastery of illusion
- King of Swords — Leadership and authority / manipulation and tyranny
- Wheel of Fortune — Change, fate, and destiny / Bad luck and lack of control
- Judgement — Purpose / Doubt
- Ace of Pentacles — Good opportunities / bad investments