After a gloomy autumn in the midst of the raging world war, Scotland's highlands in particular are soon haunted by an icy, white winter.

Christmas 1944 is similar to the previous year – and that stable, reliable continuity is almost irritating for me. My life has been defined by constant change, but it seems I should get used to the suffocatingly warm atmosphere of a family circle in which I am welcome. Better late than never, I suppose.

"You ought to make up with your father, Tom," Harper keeps trying to talk sense into me. "I'm sure he's waiting for a Christmas miracle. And if Dumbledore was able to find him, that maniac with his dogs can do it as well."

She's probably right, likely every word is true. But I can't and won't go back to the place where my identity crisis began and culminated. At least not until I finally clarified what the hell resulted from it …

The weight of the pact I have yet to break is gradually becoming a burden, even if I hate to admit it. If only I could, I'd fast-forward time.

Until I'd rather stop it, at least, because in the midst of our exam preparations, Elliott's Quidditch victories and secretly feeding various predators in the castle, everything's happening far too fast again.

Time is nothing.
It passes by like thundering weather, with all the rain, sunshine and turbulent winds, and all too soon it's forgotten as the calendar counts another year.

1945 …
Something about that number seems so much better than 1944 – and the world is changing indeed.

The Allies discuss a post-war order in Yalta at the beginning of February, and by early April it seems tangible that the world war is coming to an end.

Everything is changing and moving, and these Easter vacations will be entirely different from those of the previous year.

Dumbledore and I break the blood pact on the day after Easter Monday, and by that, he hopes to summon Grindelwald during the holidays – when hardly anyone is present at Hogwarts.

But the Dark Lord really wouldn't be worthy of said name if he could be recalled as predictably as a well-trained Rottweiler. I can only marvel at how little Dumbledore seems to know the man he supposedly once loved, while I've been predicting for weeks that the duel will take place on the last day of April, just in time for Walpurgis Night …

In front of everyone who wishes to see it, where youth is thriving. Where young folks can still be shaped – I myself wouldn't have chosen any other date, or any other place.

And as the sky begins to darken at Walpurgis Night's dusk, plenty of Hogwarts students watch from the windows of the castle how more and more acolytes are gathering on the small island in the middle of the Black Lake. Their mere presence is clearly announcing the arrival of their master.

While Leonora and me instruct our Prefects to make all students report to their houses, Hogwarts' walls are being reinforced with various protective spells.

"I'm sure you don't need me," I speculate as I finally decide to part ways with Leonora in the corridor at the courtyard.

"What? Tom! Wait! Where are you going? You can't leave me alone in such a situation!"

"I need to find Dumbledore," is my curt reply as I glance over my shoulder again.

"But Dippet said we should all –"

"I'm ignoring that!" I shout. "Just let the Prefects help you!"

With that, I swiftly make my way to the boathouse – the closest point to the island and where I believe Dumbledore to wait for the duel to begin.

Slughorn and Merrythought as well as plenty of other professors keep bustling around outside the boathouse, ironically not only because of the upcoming events, but also because the Headmaster had to welcome an important visitor. Minister Spencer-Moon basically ought to be crisis-proof, yet just like Dippet, he's running in frantic circles on the old stone ground, discussing possibilities – including failure and revolution.

"But here? On this day? In front of all the students? They can't be serious!"

"Well, Minister …" Dippet keeps on smoothing down his embroidered coat in no attempt to even hide how nervous he is, and I can already hear his anxiety from a distance. "I'm sure Albus is completely on top of the situation!"

"But you are the Headmaster of Hogwarts!" Spencer-Moon remarks. Indecisively, he shrugs his shoulders. "Aren't you supposed to be in control?"

Blooming chaos. While the discussion keeps going back and forth, I notice a very calm Albus Dumbledore standing at the far end of the boathouse. With his back to us, he's glancing out over the lake. As so often, he keeps his eyes on the water …

I basically just have to sneak past the professors and the minister and –

"Tom, my boy, what are you doing here?"

By no means whispering, Slughorn boycotts my plan in genuine shock as he quickly jumps into my way. Trying to chase me away in vain, he promptly attracts the full attention of his colleagues.

"You'll have to go back to the castle, my boy, shoo, shoo!"

"No, sir, I –"

"Tom?" Dippet also stares at me now, until he nods at the highest-ranking man of the Ministry. "Oh look, that's my Head Boy – if you'd excuse me for a moment …" He hurries towards Slughorn and me, hunched as though he had to hide us from the world. "Tom, what are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore," I say, but Merrythought has finally joined in resolutely holding me back.

"You obviously can't talk to him right now, Mr Riddle! Surely you understand."

"Professor Merrythought, it's of utmost urgency, I –"

"Tom, as Head Boy, you have to set a good example!" she asserts. "What if you inspire other students to make pilgrimages here, too? If you don't leave immediately, this will be your very last day as Head –"

"That's not relevant right now," I interrupt her. "I have to speak to him. Now!"

"Can't you see that he needs to take a moment?" she huffs.

"Ma'am, with all due respect – he's Albus Dumbledore." I tilt my head in wary disbelief. "He doesn't need to take a moment."

"May I perhaps join your conversation?" Spencer-Moon asks and already does just that, his features flashing with curiosity as he deliberately eyes me. "So you are Hogwarts' model student. Tom Riddle?"

"Yes, sir," I confirm as he comes to a halt next to Slughorn.

"Your name," he proceeds, nodding as if to stress his words, "has been mentioned quite a few times at the Ministry, young man."

I listen up, well alarmed. "Sir?"

"You are said to be the most brilliant student to have ever attended Hogwarts, as you are achieving record-breaking grades. A magical prodigy, so to speak. That's causing a stir. The authorities always like to offer young talents career opportunities as soon as they can, you know?"

Not only the authorities do, but at least the Minister seems to be just as naive as Dippet – liking me already …

"Well, congratulations," he kindly proceeds as though we actually had the time for it, "on becoming Head Boy!"

"Yes, and as such, you should actually be looking after the students in the castle right now," Dippet points out in slight confusion. "So Tom – what are you doing here?"

"Professor Dippet, if you've ever trusted me," I urge, "then let me talk to Dumbledore now. Just for a moment."

"That's entirely out of the question," Dippet says, more perplexed by the second. "Tom, please make sure that you –"

"Armando?" Dumbledore's voice echoes through the boathouse to our forecourt, much more stern than ever before. "It's fine. Let him through."

There has never been a better illustration of who has the necessary authority and qualifications to be a Headmaster as Dippet finally steps aside with a puzzled expression, smiling coyly at the Minister.

"All right then … Galatea, it's quite alright, let him go," he instructs Merrythought as well. Slughorn swallows hard, but unlike her, not out of anger, but out of concern for me.

I don't have time for sentimentality, though. I nod to Dippet and the Minister, then I haste past the other professors as well, all the way through the boathouse and straight to Dumbledore.

"I suppose you enjoy such attention," he sighs before I even reach him.

"Professor?"

"What could you possibly have to tell me now, Tom?" he asks, pretty close to rolling his eyes in annoyance, I believe.

Fine by me … Suits him to take off that pensive mask of a kind old man for a change. All of a sudden, I recognise a person that can absolutely duel Gellert Grindelwald. "We've discussed what to do when we broke the pact," he adds, watching me intently. "Why aren't you sticking to it?"

"A year ago in Albania, Edwin Sullivan told me about the peculiarities of Grindelwald's duelling behaviour –"

"Oh, and you mention that already?" Dumbledore retorts in glorious sarcasm.

Heavens. How much better we could get along if he didn't usually put a stop to that snappish nature of his …

"Sure." Shrugging, I add, "I'm well aware it's late – but I've thought long and hard about whom I wish to see win today, and –"

"I know you hold a certain fascination for him, Tom. I don't blame you."

"I won't even deny that, sir – just as I won't deny the fact that I like him more than I ever liked you …" His reproving sigh makes simply makes me continue, "But for the first time in my life, I have something to lose – and in the context of society as a whole, I do understand why his ideology would be devastating. And I know you can win."

"I know that too, Tom," he casually says, and a bit of arrogance can hardly hurt today …

"Nevertheless, I wanted to tell you that I know the following: He always loops backwards with his wand –"

"Whenever he attacks," he finishes my sentence before I can. "I know. For defences, he usually takes a slight step forward with his right leg. Tom, I appreciate it – I really do – but I'm ready. Is there something else you wish to tell me?" It's the question he's asked me hundreds of times. He knows that, too. And he can't help but smirk as well. "Anything?"

"No, sir …" For the first time ever, it's even true. "Nothing."

I'm about to leave him when he regards me again.

"I regret that Hogwarts will be the scene of this event, you know that. Armando and Horace seem overwhelmed, one because of the Minister, the other because of sorrow – so I'm counting on your level head, Tom. The students on the viaduct, diagonally up there – see?"

I step closer again, then I nod. Countless spectators cavort at windy heights.

"They can't stay there. I bet they've ignored Leonora's gentle order to seek shelter behind the old walls of our school. The view of the lake is more than adequate even from the Great Hall. Take the students to the castle on their way back to the others. Keep everyone away from Gellert and me. And do stay away as well."

"It's your duel."

"Indeed it is," he mutters. "And Tom, please take Horace with you. Our master of potions is not built for such conflict."

Once again I'm about to leave, but something inside me isn't ready. I simply have to ask a shining idealist like Albus Dumbledore this one last question. "Sir, you realise that he won't follow duelling etiquette or motives of supposed honour, don't you?"

"Because you wouldn't?" Dumbledore gives me quite a scrutinising look.

"Probably," I admit. "What's a lack of honour to some is others' legitimate level of Machiavellianism."

"You really had far too much time for philosophy as a child, Tom, but yes – I'm also aware that an honourable defeat is of no use to the world," he replies, gently even, apparently reaching the zenith of emotionality. "Make no mistake – I can hardly wait to finally put my restraint aside … Aren't power and talent intoxicating when we can give them free rein occasionally, Tom?"

I nod, a little hesitantly though. He's never looked that savage before …

"Thank you," he gravely says nevertheless, "for knocking on my door months ago. Thank you for trusting me. Keep on trusting me for a moment longer. And now … On you go …"

He lets his gaze wander away already, almost wistfully, as the sky seems to darken even more. We both look at the black surface of the water for a moment, at the high clouds in front of us – then I leave him to the lake and all its secrets.