Night. London. A light burned in the office of the Minister for Magic. The desk was buried under documents and folders. Much the same state of affairs prevailed on the low table in the corner, beside the armchair. The office's owner, Bartemius Crouch Senior, was pacing back and forth beneath the magical chandeliers, wearing the fine carpet down still further. The lapels of his black pinstriped jacket were open, his hands were planted on his hips, and a silver watch-chain trailed from the pocket of his waistcoat of matching colour.
The Minister — for what felt like the hundredth time — reached the far wall of the office, wheeled sharply around, and paced back, thinking. What does the Minister for Magic of England think about? Voldemort, and the entire cartload of problems that deranged Dark wizard hauled into the country every time he resurfaced.
"A restless night?" said a voice from a corner of the office lost in shadow.
Crouch drew his wand instantly — the reflexes drilled into him by years of training had not gone to waste — though, as the saying went, that had been long ago and far away. Nevertheless, despite the swift movement and the immediate reaction, Crouch's wand, with which he had intended to attack the uninvited guest, flew from his hand and sailed in a neat arc straight into that very corner.
Crouch was on the point of acting decisively and availing himself of a couple of vials of potion that evaporated rapidly on contact with air, when the speaker stepped out of the corner and into the light.
"Dumbledore?" Crouch couldn't keep the surprise from his voice — though a moment later his eyes narrowed. "And is it really you? The dead, you know, don't generally walk into Ministers' offices like this."
"But I have your wand," Dumbledore said, smiling slightly into his beard, dressed as ever in his habitual violet robes, his half-moon spectacles catching the light.
Dumbledore held up Crouch's wand, and slid his own back into his sleeve.
"So you will simply have to believe me, Minister, that I am who I am. Though perhaps it is I who ought to be asking you the same question? The Bartemius Crouch I know would never have allowed himself to be caught off-guard so foolishly."
"Just as insufferable as ever," Crouch, by whatever signs known only to himself, accepted that this was indeed Dumbledore, and relaxed. "So you're alive."
"Alive — and I should like to say well, but alas, age is no great friend. The reports of my death were, shall we say, hastily staged for very specific purposes."
Dumbledore drew a hand through his beard, in no hurry to return Crouch's wand, and Crouch himself made no move to reach for it.
. . . . .
"Purposes? And what purposes might those be, if I may ask?"
"I'm afraid," Dumbledore shook his head, "that due to inadequate preparation on the part of the actors and the staging, the production's principal audience member failed to be persuaded by its realism."
"The Dark Lord?"
"Yes, Minister," Dumbledore nodded, and gestured with a glance toward the Minister's chair at the desk, and then toward the guest chairs. "Shall we sit?"
"Let us sit."
Crouch remained wary, his hand in his pocket preparing something as a precaution, but he lowered himself into his chair. Dumbledore, moving with surprising briskness, crossed to the chair opposite and sat down across the desk from Crouch, setting his wand down in the middle of the table. The Minister's eyes rested on his wand for a fraction of a moment, but he restrained the temptation to take it back — one never quite knew what was going through the mind of this old but no-less-powerful wizard. He might turn him into a toad, forge a handwritten transfer of office in his favour, and that would be the end of Minister Crouch. Powerful wizards always inspired wariness, even when there was absolutely no cause for it. Just in case. Ideally — one would do away with all of them. To save oneself the bother.
"Where was I?" Dumbledore made a show of thinking, but continued a moment later. "Ah, yes. The Dark Lord, it seems, was not entirely convinced of my passing. Otherwise he would have been moving far more openly."
"Perhaps he has a considerably more complex plan?"
"Possibly, Minister..."
Dumbledore's politeness irritated Crouch. This ostentatiously respectful observance of titles and positions, this deference to etiquette, looked like a form of mockery coming from a wizard of Dumbledore's stature. He could, for all his power, simply smile serenely, say whatever he pleased, and pat everyone around him on the head as though they were dogs, and nobody would truly snap back at him. Within reason, of course. Fudge had snapped back, had threatened Dumbledore — and where was Fudge now?
"...though there may be a number of other factors at play. The Dark Lord is clever and adaptable — it would be unwise to underestimate him."
"I have already encountered both his cleverness and his adaptability, Dumbledore. Here are the reports on them," Crouch brought his fist down on the desk, gesturing with his other hand at the stacks of papers. "Riots, houses torn apart, casualties. The Obliviator Department is already run ragged modifying Muggle memories. The Ministry is running out of the means and resources to conceal the activities of his followers."
"But the MLE and the Auror Office are catching criminals successfully enough, are they not?"
"Are you laughing at me, Dumbledore?" Crouch smoothed his already neatly pressed hair — gone half-grey by now — and his short moustache seemed to quiver with fury in every individual hair. "Not a single significant arrest. Nor a single significant kill. Every last one of them is small fry — useless rabble, cannon fodder, werewolves and other assorted riffraff."
"Perhaps by permitting such followers to be caught or killed he accomplishes two aims at once? Sowing the precise panic he requires, while simultaneously ridding himself of elements with... questionable loyalty? It should not be forgotten that Tom — that is his name — is a fervent adherent of blood purity. I fear that such a worldview leaves little room for the continued existence of werewolves and their like."
"These are all just words, Dumbledore. If you have some plan or a substantive proposal, then say so. If not — I would ask you not to waste my time. I need to find an urgent solution to the Dark Lord's depredations, or his attacks on Muggles will become too significant to ignore. The Crown will not continue to overlook them. If they turn to the ICW for assistance, or indeed anyone beyond our own Auror Office, that will be the end — the country's reputation ruined, and my own along with it."
"Yours? Your reputation concerns you more than the welfare of our fellow witches and wizards?"
"Don't try to talk me in circles, Dumbledore. I know very well you're skilled at it."
"Very well..." Dumbledore grew fractionally more serious. "I do indeed have certain thoughts and ideas as to how Tom might be defeated. My feigned death allowed me to make full use of the time that became available, to investigate a great many questions and secrets concerning Voldemort. And I have determined how he can be beaten."
Crouch leaned forward slightly, awaiting the great revelation from the lips of a wizard who had become, without any embellishment, a legend in his own lifetime.
"However — I need time."
"Time? Time, Dumbledore, is precisely the luxury we cannot afford at this moment."
"Perhaps we might buy that time in an unexpected, yet entirely obvious way?"
"Such as?"
"Why should you not, Minister Crouch, agree to Voldemort's demands?"
"Have you lost your mind?!" Crouch flared, leaping to his feet — though Dumbledore didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. "Hand power over to the Dark Lord?!"
"Power in general — or specifically your own?"
The remark left Crouch visibly twisted with fury.
"I know better than most how long you worked toward this office, Mr Crouch, and what you sacrificed to reach it. But consider the matter yourself. We cannot locate Tom's headquarters or the whereabouts of his associates. We cannot even locate the giants' encampment — and they are, as you know, rather conspicuous creatures, both in themselves and in the kind of existence they inevitably lead, even on campaign. The only thing we are in a position to do is attempt to intercept them during their own raids. Need I remind you how little success that has produced?"
"Even if I were to suppose, for a single moment, the impossible — that I agreed — surely you, Dumbledore," Crouch leaned on the desk, pressing forward in an attempt to loom over his interlocutor. A futile effort, it must be said — the desired impression was entirely refusing to materialise. "Surely you are not completely unconcerned by what this madman might do once he comes to power."
"I am concerned, Minister. Deeply concerned. However — I know him well. As I know that, upon coming to power, he would not rush immediately into any sweeping reforms."
"I will consider your proposal," Crouch said — though his eyes made it perfectly plain that he had no intention of thinking about it for even a moment.
"In that case, I hope you will reach the right decision."
. . . . .
Dumbledore rose, stepped a little to the side of the desk, and turned back in farewell.
"Good night, Minister."
A burst of flame briefly revealed a fiery phoenix, which Dumbledore touched — and vanished in a matching blaze. Crouch stood in silence for a moment or two. Then, with a sharp sweep of his arm, he sent a couple of folders flying from the desk.
"Mordred-blasted lunatics!"
. . . . . .
An overcast sky hung like a rust-coloured canopy over nocturnal Rome. Thousands of lights illuminated the city, transforming its ordinary daytime face into something genuinely beautiful — even the ruins of the Colosseum, which everyone was so fond of admiring, looked different now in the light of the lanterns. Lanterns placed with artistry by some designer who had calculated every glint and tone of their light.
Daphne and I were simply standing not far from the Colosseum, on the hill, practically within the bounds of the Roman Forum but not crossing the ticketed-entry boundary, concealed from ordinary people by magic. Standing and looking around.
It should be noted that we had not gone to Rome immediately. Or rather, not immediately to the night walk itself — Daphne had asked, if it was within my capabilities, to take her home to England for a couple of minutes. To change. My phoenix-self managed the task, though it could not be said it came easily or without effort. As for the result of all this changing — any difference — I never noticed it. She had been in a dark blue dress, low heels, and a short robe before, and she remained in precisely that after.
Only after these sartorial manoeuvres did we head to Rome. Though before the restaurant, I had remarked: "There are so many ancient buildings here." And received what answer? "Why don't we look at a few?" So here we were, looking.
"Good vantage point," Daphne, as befitted a lady, had taken my arm — though in a degree of closeness I would describe as considerably beyond mere politeness.
"That's why I Apparated here."
"I wonder what the Colosseum would look like in the modern world, but in its original form."
"Better than now, whichever way you look at it. If I'm remembering correctly, a very significant portion of its structure is gone at this point."
"That's apparent."
We Apparated to a few more ancient landmarks — the Trevi Fountain, a couple of temples — but what impressed us most was one of the most celebrated, on the Piazza Venezia: Santa Maria in Aracoeli. Despite the late hour, every significant site in Rome was lit by professionally designed illumination that gave each place an entirely different character. No, truly — any city, by night and by day, is two entirely different things.
"It's a shame the sky is overcast," Daphne looked up when we were standing on the Piazza Venezia. "I get quite enough of this sort of sky at home."
"That can be fixed."
I had to bring the phoenix into it. As a precaution. That sort of manipulation — not a spell but raw magic — cannot pass without leaving some trace, unlike the Apparitions or concealments I controlled fully... or other spells. In any case, my phoenix-self transferred up into the sky above Rome, finding itself immediately in thick cloud cover, with only one way to tell up from down — the clouds glowed faintly rust-red from below, and above was nothing but darkness.
A beat of the wings, a draw on the storm's energy through the spiritual bond, and the clouds were simply flung apart — dissolved into the air, and the starry sky came into view. There was only one minor difficulty: because of the city's light pollution, there weren't nearly as many stars visible as one might hope. And compared to the night sky above Hogwarts, where there was no city glow whatsoever, high up in the mountains... best not to compare. It was depressing.
"Are there any limits to what you can do?" Daphne, standing pressed close against me and not letting go of my hand, gave me an accusatory poke in the ribs.
"Of course there are. Somewhere out there... I don't know where exactly. Haven't investigated yet."
"Showing off?"
"Is that a habit of mine?"
"Well, you never know."
Only after visiting — with the assistance of magical transportation — the beautiful spots the phoenix had identified from above or that I already knew, did we transfer to the entrance of a small, cosy restaurant not far from the observatory, high up on the hill. It was hardly surprising that an excellent restaurant occupied such a spot, complete with a fine indoor dining room — a fully glazed wall looking out over the city — as well as an outdoor summer terrace under an awning. Even less surprising was that it operated at night. Was there even a theoretical possibility of any other approach, with a view like that over nocturnal Rome and its lights?
There weren't many guests, and the reason, I suspected, lay in the overcast weather that had prevailed before my magical intervention. With the clouds gone, the smog above the city had cleared as well, so that the air was crystalline almost to the horizon, and the myriad city lights pulsed slowly and softly.
"Inside or out?" I asked Daphne as we approached the reception.
"Out. The weather is wonderful."
Fortunately for us, the staff spoke reasonable English, though the Italian accent gave many sounds a very precise, almost Latin quality... though why that should have surprised me, I couldn't say.
A table, soft light, a fine view, an excellent dinner, and a beautiful girl opposite, who kept catching my eye and then periodically reining in those glances. The conversation, the expressions, the gestures — in all these small things and moments there was something one wanted to keep in the most secure corners of memory. Even the simple fact that a girl enjoyed spending time with you was enough to warm the soul and gratify the ego.
When we settled the bill — parting without regret from nearly all the lire I'd had, which were modest enough against my other savings — we left with pleasant impressions and memories. I certainly did.
"I wonder," Daphne said, as I transferred us to one of the bright night-time streets — lively enough despite the hour. "What kind of place does a family of such an unusual wizard stay in?"
"Oh, a place magnificent in its ordinariness," I smirked. "An entire room with a bed, furniture, and a balcony. For me alone, at that. For once they've decided I'm perfectly capable of surviving the night unattended."
. . . . .
Given everything, one simple question suggested itself:
"Shall I show you?"
"I did say I was curious."
"Hold on, then."
Daphne tightened her grip on my hand slightly, and I Apparated directly into the room.
Darkness, silence, cleanliness — only the city light through the window kept the room from drowning in total blackness. The faint ambient noise that belonged to any large residential building in a city reached my ears, but even with my hearing it was simply quiet sound, enough to keep the silence from ringing.
"Well. Something like this."
I headed to the window to open it a little and the door onto the small balcony — a matter of two seconds.
"You can even see a bit of the city from here."
I had barely turned back toward Daphne — and hadn't even thought to switch on a lamp — when she touched my back, turning me around. The moment I turned, I found myself in her arms, and put mine around her in return. The familiar nonsense was sharper than usual — eyes half-closed, looking into each other's, breath burning — and in such circumstances all of that triggers a mass evacuation of every sensible thought from one's head. Evacuation... it seemed the rational crew was abandoning ship, while someone in the engine room kept shovelling more coal, and the captain... the captain was me, and I was going down with the ship...
"Don't even think about it," Daphne whispered almost against my lips, breaking the kiss for just a moment. "About what—"
"I'm already not thinking."
The nonsense continued, heading on a direct course for madness. Daphne's short robe had, it turned out, been on the floor for some time — right where we had appeared. And a shoulder was suspiciously bare, freed from the dress. The pale blue half-darkness presented no obstacle...
Daphne drew back, smiling with shameless confidence, rolled that same shoulder, and pulled me toward her by my turtleneck, taking one small step back — going scarlet, but looking straight into my eyes.
"You mentioned folk remedies..."
"And quiet," I moved my hand, setting privacy charms on the room with magic.
Those charms were reason's last gift — its final tribute. After that... the goal was in sight, and there were no obstacles left to see.
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