Chapter Text
The newspapers arrived all at once in a rustling whirlwind before settling across the desk at a flick of his hand. Albus Dumbledore scanned the headlines in half a dozen languages: the same face glared from every front page. Someone somewhere had spotted someone who resembled Grindelwald. In a sense, Gellert had achieved his omnipotence: the mere rumour of him was enough to set off a panic.
The last time Gellert Grindelwald had dropped out of sight for more than three months, he had abducted and replaced the head of the American Auror Office, torn New York City apart, and very nearly exposed the wizarding world to Muggles. You could hardly blame the press.
But just now, turn it whichever way you liked, there was no news. The wizarding world lay quiet; he had his holiday after a turbulent year. One interview left for today, then Gringotts to draw some money, and after that – freedom till the fall: a room at his favourite hotel, a morning paper, an evening tea, long walks along the shore.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
He turned his head, expecting the Prophet reporter, and found a recent student instead.
"Good afternoon, Miss Astor."
"Mr Nichols has gone down with dragon pox. Lucky me – they've handed the interview to me." Margaret Astor, this year's graduate, shrugged with a smile, shaking her golden curls.
"Good to see you, Miss Astor. How are you finding the internship?"
"The newsroom's smaller than I imagined. But I've got two stories today."
Margaret drew out a notebook, set a self-writing quill in position, sat up very straight – her eyes bright with something very earnest.
"Shall I?.. Right, then… Professor Dumbledore, your discoveries in the applications of dragon's blood are widely regarded as the foremost scientific advance of the year. Which potions do you see as holding the greatest potential – what does this mean for the ordinary witch or wizard?"
He answered her at length, warmly enough, noting to himself where and how she stumbled. And she did stumble. She had prepared – read the relevant papers, asked the right questions – but it was plain enough that the applications of dragon's blood were not what she was really after.
"You've spoken many times in favour of strengthening international cooperation. Whose work – among your European colleagues, I mean – would you mention?"
"I was greatly helped by the chance to use Nicolas Flamel's laboratory. The decryption of Rudolf the Great's manuscript was carried out by Daniel Junkov at Prague University. In general, I've long followed the work of my French, German and Czech colleagues with particular interest."
Followed how they fall behind me. Not all of them, not by any means – but Flamel is too old, Zöllner is mired in political games, and Daniel has not answered my letters in six months.
"What do you think lies ahead for international research in these troubled times? That is… I suppose what I wanted to ask was – how should the global wizarding community, the scientific community included, respond to –"
Yes. To Grindelwald.
She was fishing for a revelation, for a big story – a story she would not get. A pity: she had wasted her chance for a perfectly good scientific interview.
Margaret Astor. Head Girl, top of her year. Ambitious, of course – wanting, of course, to change the world. At eighteen he had been neither handsome nor rich, had already known grief – but he had been every bit as certain of himself, every bit as bent on the greater good. And where had it led?
"Well then, Miss Astor, I mustn't keep you any longer. Best of luck at the Prophet – send me an owl if you need anything clarified. Yes, I'll walk out with you. I'm off on a short holiday."
She put away her notebook and quill; they stepped toward the door together. Her robes danced behind her with every light stride – Margaret Astor walking off into her golden youth, still unacquainted with defeat. How many days of it did she have left? He thought of himself at eighteen: after graduation he had been given two months of youth, two months of wild love, wild plans, that feeling of omnipotence. Then his youth had ended. When, he wondered, had Gellert's youth broken off? The same day – under Bertie's scream, Ariana's dead silence? Or had death simply run off him like water?
Albus was about to Disapparate from the Three Broomsticks when he caught a flash of pale cream at the edge of his vision. Margaret's robes. She was sitting on the ground by the front steps, hunched over, pressing a bleeding wound on her forearm.
He examined it – through robe, dress and chemise, the skin had been sheared as though by a blade. He staunched the blood with a healing essence, grateful he had packed so thoroughly for holiday.
"What happened – did you splinch yourself?"
She nodded, fighting back tears, and could not answer straight away.
"I have… trouble with Apparition. I read some physics and it made it worse, actually – now I can't stop thinking what's really happening on an atomic level when all of me disintegrates… Well. It's happened again."
Yes. Best not to think about that.
"Let me walk you to your second interview. Where do you need to be?"
"The Phoenix's Rest. A guesthouse in Hertfordshire. Their fireplace is out of order. Thank you – I'll be all right in a moment." She tried to rise and swayed, catching his arm.
"Give it a minute. You'll steady yourself, and we'll go. Tell me about your interview in the meantime, Miss Astor."
Her breathing evened out, her voice grew firm – the essence was doing its work; the wound had sealed over with new pink skin.
"Six days ago Mrs Dely, the owner of the Phoenix's Rest, found one of her guests unconscious – very nearly dead. Mateusz Komenský, over from Prague on holiday. Mrs Dely summoned the Healers; they declared the foreigner dead and said there was nothing to be done. Yes, he was breathing, his heart was beating – Mrs Dely is a former nurse, she'd managed to restart it – but his brain was dead, the diagnostician could find no activity at all. Mrs Dely kept her sustaining charms in place, hoping to track down the family – and three days ago Komenský woke up. Simply woke – alive and well!"
"That isn't so very unusual, Miss Astor. A good many complex curses will produce unconsciousness lasting several days."
"They pronounced him dead." Her eyes blazed. "He's a foreigner, they didn't even try to help – and this is our medicine? Perkins, the incidents editor, agrees the story's worth a piece. I've already been to St Mungo's; I thought I'd try it from the other end."
Albus followed Margaret into the Phoenix's Rest (a small guesthouse tucked between hills, a mile from the nearest village), looked around the snug parlour and could not tell which of the guests was the hero of this story until a man in the corner rose to meet them of his own accord. Tall, lean, slightly ungainly; his grizzled hair had the look of being sun-bleached.
"Good afternoon – you're from the Daily Prophet?" he began, and then spotted Albus a step behind.
"Albus… Dumbledore?! From Transfiguration Today?" Komenský tried at once to bow to Margaret, doff his hat, and shake Albus's hand; he dropped the hat, retrieved it, seized the offered hand in a brisk, firm grip: "Mateusz Komenský, at your service."
"A pleasure. You wouldn't be from Prague University, by any chance?"
"From the archive. But we cross paths with the professors constantly. If you have a letter, a message – anything – I'd be happy to play postal owl."
Albus meant to bow out politely, wait for Margaret at another table and see her back to London, but it struck him that listening in might prove worthwhile. He could do with some news from Prague.
They agreed to talk afterwards; Albus settled in with his half-read newspaper, one ear on Margaret as she questioned Komenský and Mrs Dely about what exactly had happened. After a while he found himself leaning in: the voices were rising. One was pressing a point, the other giving ground.
"So," Margaret summed up, "you'd simply cast protective charms on yourself that interfered with the diagnosis?" – her voice cracked with an almost childlike disappointment. "So there's no story."
"What story do you want to tell, Miss Astor? To expose the failures of British medicine? But that isn't news. Your piece would be printed, people would be outraged and people would forget; you wouldn't change a thing." Komenský had the sharp, clipped accent of a foreigner – barely audible at first greeting, thickening the moment he grew absorbed in conversation. "You could even cast me as the villain: foolish foreigner dabbles in unfamiliar magic and gets what he deserves. Or you could write about a miracle. About the kindness my hostess showed – kindness to a stranger, stronger than the rules of the healers and state."
Albus looked up from his paper and saw that Mateusz Komenský was smiling, his face and voice softened by that smile.
"She held me in life for three days. Heartbeat, breathing, blood circulation – seven charms at least, usually the work of two. You could write about that. We've all been given a great gift – magic. Most of the time we spend it on trifles – but Mrs Dely used that gift to save a life."
"That's not how news works," said Margaret, dejected.
"I'm not talking about news. Let's be honest – you don't really mean to spend the rest of your life writing up reports? Your story might not run at once; they may hold it a few days, but it will be remembered. The story – not the news. Forgive me all the rhetoric; I know the British don't go in for rhetoric" – he was growing restless, kneading his hands beneath the table– "but I went on holiday, nearly died, and lived. Now and then you can't help asking yourself: what is it all for? To live, to work, to raise children, to die? What stays?"
"I know," Margaret answered quietly, biting her lip in a way that was not pretty; her face now seemed thrown wide open."Wizards so rarely ask that. Why am I at this internship at the Prophet? What comes after? Writing up cauldron sales? A Ministry desk? Marrying some suitable young man?"
"Is that world dear to you, Miss Astor?" Komenský asked, just as quietly. "You haven't once used the word 'Muggles.'"
"Yes. Yes, it is. And no, I haven't. I… can't. Sally Hayes has been calling her own parents Muggles since first year. But before the Hogwarts Express, Sally had only ever seen her own street; I'd seen half of Europe. My father took me on holidays. My father, Lord Astor – whom I'm meant to call a Muggle in wizarding society and be ashamed of his blood."
"And what will you do?" The balance had tipped – now Komenský was asking the questions and she was answering; the words seemed to have been pent up a long time, waiting to be said aloud.
"I don't know what I'll do. I don't know if I should go back to… my parents. The non-magical world is… bigger. So much bigger. Nellie Bly achieved more at the New York World than anyone could ever manage at the Prophet."
He looked at her – sympathetic, insistent.
"Don't leave magic behind, Miss Astor. You've been given a great gift and great knowledge, and with them you can make the world better – yes, your parents' world too. You wouldn't dream of giving up your mind, your beauty, your youth?.. Don't give up your magic, either. Do your work at the Prophet well, and remember the world doesn't end at the Prophet."
Margaret gazed at the awkward foreigner with his rough accent as though he were promising her a new world; Albus felt a sudden wish to break the spell.
"You speak with some conviction… Have you written for a newspaper, Mr Komenský?"
"I have – I was a journalist once. I've been a great many things. I'd tell you about it; I'd be glad to stand you a beer, or an ale, or whatever you prefer… How about this evening?"
He smiled – and in that soft, very kind smile there was rather more than academic curiosity. Good-looking enough, if odd, and quite unknown in wizarding Britain. By rights Albus ought to have refused. He should have refused. He was about to refuse – and found himself accepting.
"Ordinarily I've far too much to do – but today I'm on holiday. I need to see Miss Astor home…"
It was foolish, of course. After Gellert he had never been with a wizard. Nothing good would come of it.
Enough, said the voice of youth inside his head. Enough. You wanted from this holiday: peace, quiet, a change of scene. What does it matter that he's a wizard? You'll lose a single evening; he may not even be there when you get back.
With that thought Albus took his leave and went to walk Margaret back to London, astonished by the flare of excitement in his chest – as though he had tossed a coin and was waiting to see which way it fell.
"Thank you for your help," said Margaret, offering her hand; her palm lingered in his a beat longer than a handshake required. They stood at a garden gate beneath an arch of climbing white roses; the Georgian house gleamed through the garden, and someone had already lit the lamps.
"Do come and see us. Mama keeps a salon – wizards on Thursdays, non-magical people on Tuesdays. Thursdays from seven; drop in whenever you like. I… We'd always be glad to see you."
Her curls were slightly tousled, her cheeks warm with the last of the sun – and for the second time that evening Albus caught the promise of something more in a parting smile.
She went inside; he watched her go the way one admires a rose, a sunset, a young doe in the hills, an crystal clear formula of magic.
He could walk through that door. Look in at Lady Astor's evening – née Selwyn, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight – meet the powers that be, go into the Ministry, change the world. Of course, by peaceful means only: through goodness, through diplomacy, nothing at all like what had been dreamt at eighteen, in the arms of a brilliant, merciless, accursed love.
Could, could, could – so many doors standing open, and every one he closed again – and here and now he did not regret it in the least. He was thinking of Mateusz Komenský, who might or might not be waiting for him at Mrs Dely's little guesthouse; of a smile that seemed to have seen all the evil in the world and still found reason to be glad. The smile of a man risen from the dead.
He did not Disapparate straight away. He walked through the quiet sunset street past gardens and coats of arms on gates, past white and cream villas, walked faster and faster, surrendering to a reckless, heedless, swelling hope inside his chest.
Albus pushed open the door of the Phoenix's Rest and did not recognise the parlour inside the enchanted forest. The floor had become a green clearing ringed by witch-fire; stars and roses tangled in the branches; the northern lights blazed through the leaves. A waltz played from an old gramophone; Mateusz Komenský was leading Mrs Dely in a dance, her feet not touching the ground.
"Now, now, let go of the old woman," Mrs Dely stepped down onto the floor, slightly out of breath; she looked twenty years younger. "You see, Professor – you know perfectly well it's an illusion, it'll be gone by morning, and still – what a beauty!"
The evening turned into night. Mrs Dely wished them goodnight and went upstairs, and still they stayed. In the half-dark, among candles and stars, everything doubled: around them were tables, chairs, curtains, doilies, the oak ceiling and the sideboard – and those same things were a thunderstruck sky, a dark forest, a shoal of fish, a pattern of clouds. And their conversation doubled in the same way – work, weather, recent papers, the few acquaintances they had in common – but behind it all something else glimmered, something beyond the reach of words.
"By the way – Albus remembered at last what he had meant to ask from the start. "Do you know Daniel Junkov at your university? A specialist in ancient languages – he was a great help to me with my last publication, but he hasn't answered my letters in six months."
Komenský drew himself up as though on parade, tugged his cuffs straight; the lean face lengthened further, every trace of softness gone.
"Daniel Junkov… General theory of magic, yes? He's probably alive and well, but he won't be writing letters. Daniel Junkov has gone into the Forest."
"I'm sorry?"
"The Forest. Underground."
Albus understood before the man had finished.
"Yes. Grindelwald – the Forbidden Forest. Don't be surprised. Grindelwald lived in Prague for several years after his expulsion from Durmstrang. Most of our elders still remember him as 'such a talented young man!'"
"And what do they say now?"
"They don't follow the news. As for us… They say it's his favourite city. They say Prague is unlikely to be destroyed, should there be a war."
And again Albus heard what was left unsaid. Whether anyone else will be allowed to go on living in his favourite city is another matter.
Komenský laced his fingers together, glanced aside, and changed the subject with visible effort.
"Miss Astor is a very charming young woman. Were you… escorting her today?"
"No," Albus laughed, "no. She's a former student of mine – she interviewed me this morning. It turned out she has some difficulty with Apparition, so I helped her get here."
"Can't Apparate? That's odd. She's clearly clever."
"Top of her year. But really, you know, you oughtn't to have spoken to her so… loftily."
"I know, I know," said Komenský with a smile, raising his hands in mock surrender. "The sensible thing would have been to tell her to temper her ambitions, stop chasing grand dreams, tend her own garden first… But – and you know this too – she wouldn't have believed it. No one believes it at seventeen."
"Sometimes I think we grant adulthood far too early". He was surprised to hear himself saying this aloud. "A seventeen-year-old Muggle, even a king, could hardly start a war single-handed. But in our world any seventeen-year-old fool with talent and a wand can wreak havoc, fancy himself master of the world… Yes, the world catches up with them sooner or later, but too often it's already too late."
Albus thought again of his own eighteen, those games with power and death – and realised he had been silent too long, and that his companion was also silent, unwilling to intrude on his thoughts. Now it was his turn to change the subject.
"Forgive me… I've been meaning to ask – what actually happened to you?"
"Ah," Komenský snorted. "I went out for souvenirs, is what happened. You turn up for your aunt's funeral and don't expect you might follow her into the grave. Quite an interesting curse, actually – ninth century, I'd guess; could be fae work. You have some remarkable old magic traditions here, from what I've read."
"I take it old tales interest you too?" Albus could not help himself; something like a phantom toothache flared through him at once. The last thing he needed was another foreigner with a fondness for old tales.
"No, magical folklore isn't really my line," his companion seemed surprised by the question. Albus could not resist – he looked, very lightly, into the other man's mind; caught no image, but sensed sincerity: Komenský was not lying. And something else, since they were on the subject of emotions – he was profoundly happy at Albus's presence, so happy he had barely registered the question.
"…but for a scholar it's extraordinarily rich material; the English rite of fire-calling was quite distinct from the Spanish –until Latin and wands spread everywhere. Nowadays even the young Sioux at Ilvermorny learn Latin."
"I wouldn't mourn that," said Albus. "Without a wand, to call fire you'd have to cultivate one of the fae or find and tame a phoenix. Now a simple Lumos will do."
At his word a blue flame kindled in the air.
"Or a Muggle tinderbox. Or matches. Or the switch on a Muggle electric lamp," said Komenský, with a half-smile looked almost pasted on in the blue light. "If convenience becomes the measure of magic, the Muggles will have overtaken us in a generation or two."
Albus raised his wand in answer. Wisps of mist coiled from its tip, swelling into clouds, thickening into thunderheads, fusing into a black-blue and terrifying tornado. The storm he had summoned hung perfectly still, obedient to his thought – until his companion conjured a counter-gale of his own, trying to wrench the spell from his control.
…He was a powerful wizard.
"Do you actually mean to bring that hurricane down on the house?" Albus enquired.
"I wouldn't manage it anyway," Komenský winked, pouring still more force into his headwind. "I know who you are."
And with a flick of his wand he cut his spell short. Robbed of resistance, Albus loosened his grip on his own charm, and the tornado nearly escaped – both wizards felt the old house shudder, the ceiling beams groan, the whirlwind bowling over tables and chairs… Half a second later they caught the runaway spell; the storm dissolved before it could do any damage, falling over them in a wave of fresh air. They looked at each other with a different kind of interest. It had been a foolish bit of showing off, but Albus had not matched himself against anyone in a long time, had not felt eyes on him that held not deference but this – keen and frank curiosity. The giddiness of it went to his head like drink.
"That is magic," said Mateusz cheerfully. "That is what magic is. But we don't summon hurricanes any more… Then again, we can't be counted on for rain in a dry year either. Forgive me for goading you – that was precisely what I wanted to say to Miss Astor. Magic is not merely shuffling papers at the Prophet; magic worthy of wonder – " An elusive expression crossed his face and vanished, replaced by a fixed, burning gaze. "I did not think I would find magic worthy of wonder."
The conversation was decidedly heading somewhere it shouldn't.
"You… that is, you'd been meaning to see wizarding Britain, is that right?" Albus changed the subject once more.
"Yes – I was planning to go up to London tomorrow, in fact. I'd invite you along, if you have the time."
"Let's settle it over breakfast," Albus said in a rush, and retreated before it occurred to him to settle something else entirely, right then and there. He very much needed to cool down. The evening was doing strange things to him.