Night. A street. The Forbidden Forest and Hogwarts. The senseless patrols of Aurors...
No, genuinely — they're catching absolutely nothing. Right now, on a Saturday — or more precisely, already Sunday — I had slipped through the entirety of Hogwarts at gone midnight without the slightest difficulty, left the grounds, made my way into the Forbidden Forest, and Apparated from there to the rooftop of a building somewhere in London.
And not a single one of my movements had been noticed by the Aurors. I'd used magic to conceal myself, naturally — but surely they have some kind of detection spells for hidden "elements" of that sort? I mean, one thing is slipping past students or professors, but these are professionals. People who deal with criminals — and not petty thieves, but considerably more serious fare. Petty thieves are the MLE's problem. And yet here we are...
But to hell with the Aurors and their training and all the rest of it. Right now I was in my suit — that marvel of a suit, to which I'd given the simplest, almost form-fitting design, intended purely as a protective layer against magical manipulation of a light to moderate degree — and over it a black, tightly wrapped cloak with its hood drawn up, invisible to all, making my way deep into the Forbidden Forest before Apparating away.
An instant, and I was standing on the rooftop of a moderately tall building somewhere near the centre of London. Night, the lights of the city, the noise — all of it hit my senses at once, sharply, but I was no stranger to that. A few seconds of focus, and I stood in the Transfigured costume of the Plague Doctor. The Transfiguration was locked in place, of course — it wouldn't unravel on its own. Or through anything less than considerable effort.
With a few minutes still to spare before the meeting, my phoenix-self had slipped away from my parents' house and climbed high into the sky above London, almost to cloud level. From there, my phoenix-self had taken a thorough look at the meeting point, so that I would have a clear enough image to Apparate to — I hadn't had occasion before to visit the stairs, galleries, and loggia of Big Ben. Up there, above the clock face... I'd never been inside the bell tower of the Elizabeth Tower either, for that matter. Though that was perfectly accessible to British citizens — I'd have to visit properly sometime. Officially.
Having surveyed everything in detail, my phoenix-self had also spotted two wizards standing in the loggia above the clock face, tucked into the very corner. Having prepared thought-images of various spells in advance, in case of unforeseen complications, I Apparated to the opposite corner of the same loggia and stood facing the Thames. The view of the city at night was magnificent from here — though one thing still refused to sit comfortably in my mind, slightly disrupting my sense of the world: there was no London Eye. Not even the faintest hint that construction might begin at any point.
The wizards in question were none other than Albus Dumbledore himself — still favouring his lilac robes, as ever — and Alastor Moody, in his invariable travelling coat and cloak. They noticed my arrival. Moody stayed where he was. Dumbledore began to approach, deliberately holding his hands where I could see them. To say I was surprised would be a significant understatement. What on earth could have prompted the Great Wizard himself to seek out a figure as ambiguous as the Plague Doctor? And more to the point — what had happened that required the Doctor's particular assistance?
Dumbledore came and stood beside me, as I was, facing the night city. In silence. Moody positioned himself for an unobstructed view of the proceedings. Even in the darkness, from the corner of my eye, I could make out the old Auror's artificial eye with perfect clarity — it was watching me with maximum intensity. Had I protected myself against that when constructing the Doctor's image? Of course — if Moody had the ability to see through certain concealment charms, or to search for "contraband" beneath clothing, then others might as well, which meant no one must be able to see through the Doctor's costume to what lay beneath. Hm... I'd never actually used that particular property of such charms for deliberate voyeuristic purposes — a couple of accidents, to which I'd barely paid any attention, didn't count.
"It has been quite some time since I last arranged meetings on the tops of structures this tall, in the middle of Muggle cities," Dumbledore said calmly, clearly by way of an opening. "Remarkable, how different these cities can be from one another, and yet each beautiful in its own way."
"Quite so," I said — my voice altered, as were my mannerisms and everything else. "Though I would hope you didn't arrange this meeting merely to discuss the aesthetics of Muggle cities."
"Of course not," Dumbledore nodded, running a hand along his silver beard. "Of course not. But first, if you would permit an old man's curiosity to be satisfied. What persuaded you — an unambiguously Dark wizard — to come to a meeting with me? Reputation is not nothing, after all."
"My intermediary displayed a certain... economy with information."
"Ah, I see," said Dumbledore, the ghost of a smile barely perceptible. "Monsieur Delacour was never celebrated for strength of character or unshakeable courage. Not that it is any of my business, but I would advise you to consider finding a new intermediary. That kind of economy with words, as you put it, can lead to rather unfortunate misunderstandings."
"I am already giving it thought."
"Equally interesting to me are the reasons for your concealment. Any wizard with your skills and abilities would consider it a practical necessity to display them publicly — along with their identity. If only to elevate the standing of their family or name, to increase their status."
There was no particular obligation on me to answer, but I saw nothing remarkable or risky in doing so — no secret information was at stake.
"Events of the past century," I began, "have instilled in wizarding society across all countries, if not an outright and settled hostility toward Dark Magic, then at least a degree of paranoid anxiety about its practitioners. And the available literature on the subject sometimes presents genuinely horrifying things in quite explicit terms. One need not look far for examples..."
Turning my head toward Dumbledore — whom some part of my mind still instinctively wanted to address as "Headmaster" — I nodded in Moody's direction.
"Alastor Moody, renowned hunter of Dark wizards," I stated the already well-known fact, and Moody, who hadn't taken his eyes off me for a moment, gave a low grunt that clearly conveyed his opinion of the observation. "But there's a paradox in that — he's a renowned hunter of criminals. It is not his fault that the majority of offences worth the Aurors' attention happen to be committed by Dark wizards. They don't, however, account for even ten percent of the total number of less significant crimes carried out by perfectly ordinary wizards — that's the MLE's domain. Only the public has decided that all criminals are Dark wizards, and all Dark wizards are criminals. And thieves are just people who took a wrong turn."
"I understand your position. Unfortunately, the tendencies of this century have indeed produced exactly that. Respectable, in the general understanding, books on the Dark Arts are kept within families of hereditary wizards. Whilst various unsavoury, distorted experiments, described in books by authors no less unhinged than their subjects, have long since served as a scarecrow for the uninitiated."
"You are, as I understand it, the Headmaster of Hogwarts."
"Was," Dumbledore said, with a slight shake of his head. "And you, for your part, did not seem particularly surprised to find me among the living."
"The probability of that was reasonably high. Besides — surprise is an emotion. A Dark wizard who cannot govern his emotions, who lives by them, is a threat requiring elimination."
"An interesting position," Dumbledore assumed an expression of thoughtfulness.
"Negative emotions give rise to the dark side of magic, conferring power and new capabilities. But a person is a fragile thing. The achievement of a goal, the completion of a task, produces pleasure and satisfaction. A person — a wizard — who cannot control himself, his emotions and impulses, whose will is weak, exists in an endless pursuit of that pleasure and satisfaction, even if he is not conscious of it. The organism, like the mind, works along the path of least resistance, and tends toward it."
Turning back to face the city, but maintaining full awareness of everything around me, I continued:
"The line beyond which the Dark Arts cease to be one tool among many for achieving a goal and become instead an easy means of obtaining that pleasure — that line is extraordinarily thin. The effect of Dark Magic itself, the force employed in the Dark Arts, on a wizard's mind goes without saying. One wrong step, and the wizard becomes volatile and cruel, because the mind has learned that such emotions will be followed by satisfaction. All it requires is pointing a wand. Yield to the temptation once, and it becomes a habit. A dependency. A narcotic. And from that particular abyss, return becomes virtually impossible."
"Why is that?" Dumbledore asked, both out of genuine interest and to keep the conversation moving — he enjoys a good talk when the opportunity presents itself.
Looking at the Headmaster again — he hadn't moved a muscle at the unusual mask covering my face — I decided to share a simple story.
"I once heard a man speak. A man consumed by addiction to the bone. But he found within himself the strength to refuse it. I will spare you the account of his moral and physical torment — but it pursued him every single day, never once becoming easier. He wanted, at every moment without exception, to use. One day he found himself in Tibet, met a monk, and asked whether there might be some prayer, some mantra or fast that could help him — ease his suffering."
Dumbledore was visibly drawn in by the story, and even Moody had drifted into thoughts of his own.
"To which the monk replied: 'This is necessary for spiritual growth. You need not give up anything, nor restrict yourself in anything. You have already given up the most important thing in your life — that is the meaning of the fast.' It is the same here. In any case, conversation is interesting in itself, but I would rather hear the reason for this meeting."
"Yes, quite. Forgive an old man his small indulgence. The matter is this: I find myself confronted with an extraordinarily unusual task, one that neither I nor any wizard of my acquaintance is able to carry out cleanly."
"Now that is interesting," I turned to face Dumbledore fully, as he did the same to me.
"It is necessary to infiltrate Gringotts — one of its most heavily secured levels — reach a particular vault, determine whether a certain artefact is present, and if so — retrieve it."
"And that is where it stops being interesting."
"Surely a task of this kind is not beyond a wizard of your capabilities?"
"It is simply not my area," I answered, without any evasion or hedging. "I remove curses of varying complexity — from objects, buildings, land. I may be a Dark wizard, but that does not mean I go about sowing chaos, destruction, and harm upon anyone who crosses my path."
Dumbledore fell into thought, turning back to the city. Somewhere far off among the buildings, someone had started setting off fireworks. Curious — what for?
"Strangely enough, you could still help me with something along those lines. But perhaps, even so — the bank?"
"No."
"A pity. Nevertheless, since we have now established your actual area of work, rather than some abstract notion conveyed by your highly esteemed intermediary..."
Moody produced another grunt, this one conveying his precise opinion of said intermediary. No — Monsieur Delacour clearly and decisively needed a pig placed firmly beneath him. Or at the very least, a modest little piglet.
"...we can speak more constructively, since, as I have already observed, assistance is required in your area as well," Dumbledore finished the thought, glancing at me. "Does that interest you?"
"If it falls within my area, I'm prepared to discuss the details."
"Very well..." Dumbledore adopted the manner of someone about to reveal a terrible secret — though without overplaying it. Or perhaps it genuinely was one. "The matter is that there exist several artefacts — an unknown number. They almost certainly share some kind of connection with one another, though that has not yet been confirmed precisely."
"And one of them is held in that vault?" I made use of Dumbledore's overly lengthy dramatic pause.
"There is a high probability of that," he nodded. "What interests me is whether you would be willing to carry out a precise analysis of these artefacts, if I were to provide one of them."
"Can you tell me what the nature of these artefacts is? Given who you are, and given recent events in England, is this connected to the Dark Lord in some way?"
Dumbledore studied me attentively, as though trying to see through the mask and the costume. I could allow that he might be capable of it — there was a reason he was considered one of the most powerful wizards in the vicinity.
"Horcruxes."
"Horcruxes? I believe that's connected to immortality somehow. It simply doesn't interest me as a subject, in principle."
"Indeed?" Dumbledore was genuinely taken aback. "I would have thought many people wish to achieve immortality for themselves — wizards especially, given our particular capabilities."
"A waste of time. Everything ends sooner or later. That includes everything around us — planets, stars, galaxies. And the human mind is not equipped for immortality in principle. Five or six hundred years might still be endurable, but after that you'd start looking for ways to get rid of the immortality."
"An old friend of mine did exactly that. You may have heard of Flamel."
"Of course. A wizard about whom legends were composed while he still lived. Has he truly died?"
"Several years ago he chose to relinquish immortality, and just last year he stopped replying to letters," Dumbledore nodded. "I allow myself a small probability that Nicolás simply severed all ties with his past and began again with a clean slate. That, however, is entirely unlike him."
"That is a great loss for the whole magical community," I said — it was impossible not to say something of the kind. "As for immortality, it's a foolish pursuit. There is some sense in extending one's life when it is done in service of some other purpose, or for someone else's sake. But for its own sake... Death is the beginning of a new and remarkable adventure, and the fact of reincarnation was proven long ago."
"I agree with you entirely..."
Moody stamped his staff impatiently against the stone floor of the loggia, and a light breeze rather unflatteringly ruffled what remained of his former blond hair.
"With all due respect, gentlemen," the old Auror's voice grated, "perhaps you might see fit to reduce the quantity of expansive conversation? Purely in the interests of conserving all of our time, naturally."
To be honest, I was mildly surprised by the not-entirely-obvious ability of Moody to speak politely — even if with a mild disdain for the very act of doing so.
"So then," Dumbledore masterfully concealed a flicker of mild displeasure at the old Auror's behaviour — though it didn't escape me, thanks to the accumulated experience of the elf-shards in reading the most subtle nuances of expression. "You are unfamiliar with the finer details of Horcruxes?"
"Precisely so."
"Briefly, then: it is a complex dark-magical manipulation that allows a wizard to split off a fragment of their soul and place it within an object. This achieves, in effect, the impossibility for the wizard's soul of departing this world upon death. Or so it states in Magick Moste Evile by Godelot. It contains only a general description of the concept — no instructions, nothing further."
I had seen that book in Hogwarts' Restricted Section, but it wasn't on the list of texts I was permitted to access. My curiosity was something I was quite capable of keeping in check — particularly since reading books outside that list risked my access to the Restricted Section being revoked, which was something I had absolutely no interest in allowing.
"I will be frank with you, Dumbledore — I am not strong in the area of magic concerned with manipulation of the soul," and in some measure that was true — the residual knowledge of the shards permitted only a grasp of the general concept, without specifics. "So I cannot speak with certainty about the effectiveness of such a method. However, the understanding I do have of such magic allows me to say that what you describe is, in practice, close to impossible."
"And yet the Dark Lord's return to life suggests otherwise."
"I would venture to disagree..."
Dumbledore sighed, with a note of melancholy.
"In moments such as these," he began, with a smile, "one sorely misses a comfortable armchair, a cup of hot tea, and a dish of lemon drops to sustain the conversation."
Moody voiced his displeasure once more, though only in a very quiet muttering beneath his breath. Nevertheless, he hadn't taken his eyes off me for a moment. The artificial eye. Entirely useless in the current situation.
"Shall I continue, if you're interested?"
"Please do," Dumbledore nodded.
"It is implied that a Horcrux would forcibly retain a soul in this world?"
"As far as I have been able to understand, and as practice would suggest — yes," Dumbledore simply nodded.
"I don't consider that theoretically possible, for a number of reasons."
Both Dumbledore and Moody began to listen with careful attention. That is what reputation means. Had they known I was merely a schoolboy — and even had I produced the same astonishing results — they wouldn't have given my opinion the time of day.
"Such a division of the soul may prove to be a small, secondary factor in allowing a soul to remain in this world. But it cannot be the cause. A sufficiently powerful and strong-willed wizard, were he to wish it, might remain here after death regardless. There are many examples of that, and no Horcruxes are required for it. What this kind of magic might do, however, is serve as the one decisive missing factor — the last piece needed to make it possible."
"That doesn't sound entirely convincing," Dumbledore said, not agreeing with me.
"For an ordinary person, it may indeed be beyond the bounds of the possible — but wizards possess magic. The properties of the body allow a soul to be a wizard. Though all of this belongs to unproven theory. What I can say with some certainty is that a link between the Horcruxes and their creator may exist — simply because of the mental component between what was once a single whole. That same mental component may function as a kind of navigational beacon, preventing the soul from losing its bearings in the first moments of death and departing this world."
Dumbledore fell into thought, and I decided to add a few more remarks concerning general conceptions of the soul. It was moments like this that reminded me how much was lost in the fact that the elf and dwarf shards carried so little in the way of concrete, detailed knowledge about any given area of magic.
"As I understand it, the Dark Lord created several Horcruxes — the precise number of which remains unknown."
"That is the theory I hold, and there is evidence of the existence of at least several of them. Those in my possession at the moment have been destroyed, but where there are several, there may well be more," the Headmaster nodded, once again running a hand along his beard.
"I take it the goal is the permanent death of the Dark Lord?" My question was rhetorical. "In that case, the simpler course would be to stop looking for Horcruxes — there is always a chance of missing one. The simpler method is to destroy the connection. The straightforward approach: destroy the Dark Lord's soul."
Moody favoured us with another of his expressions, though this time accompanied it with words:
"Spoken like a Dark wizard. I don't trust Dark wizards."
"You don't trust anyone, Alastor," Dumbledore replied, without turning around. "Not even your own shadow."
"Constant vigilance." The response was predictable.
"To destroy a soul..." Dumbledore mused aloud. "That is not so simple a matter."
"Capture the target, apply a Dementor — the matter is closed," I answered the observation briefly. "There is no need to overcomplicate things. Alternatively, the same capture, chemical incapacitation, and immersion in Fiendfyre. Both Dementors and that particular spell consume a soul down to its last indivisible fragment — Dementors as sustenance, the spell as fuel. The link between a soul and a Horcrux exists, as I understand it, because of the division of a whole into parts — like is connected to like. But if one of those 'likes' is stripped of its identity in relation to the rest, it can no longer perceive the others."
"You mean to say..." Dumbledore appeared not to finish the thought but conveyed with a look that he was waiting for the conclusion.
"A destroyed soul belonging to the Dark Lord will cease to 'see' the Horcruxes. It will fall out of the system. I would suppose that if several Horcruxes are created, a similar logic applies across all of them — each subsequent Horcrux weakens its own creation the connection to the previous one. The connection should also weaken over time, since the soul develops as time passes, whilst the fragment locked inside an object does not."
"That does make sense in the context of what I already know," Dumbledore considered my words carefully. "Nevertheless, you may be wrong."
"Of course I may. I'm reasoning on the basis of available knowledge and understanding — nothing more. And regarding the original subject of our meeting — I have no objection to working with a Horcrux, should you decide to make one available to me."
"Of course. As soon as one comes into my possession. And then we will be able to confirm or refute our theories definitively. I hope that, despite your intermediary's certain deficiencies, you will leave him in his current position for the time being."
"As long as he causes no actual harm and only minor inconvenience."
"In that case — I am glad to have spoken with a sensible Dark wizard. Figures of that kind are not, as a rule, eager to engage with someone of my reputation. Good night."
The Headmaster turned his back to me — which produced a nervous tic in both of Moody's eyes — and headed toward his companion. A moment, and they Apparated away. My phoenix-self had seen nothing suspicious from the sky above, and I myself detected nothing worthy of attention. Or unworthy of it either — there was no magic in this part of the city.
Apparating up into the sky before my phoenix-self, I extended a hand. My phoenix-self immediately gripped it with both talons and carried us away — to a deserted copse on the outskirts of London. From there, my phoenix-self departed for home, whilst I, after a series of Apparitions to random locations with attendant erasure of magical traces, finally dissolved the Doctor's costume, found myself once again in the plain cloak, and Apparated into the Forbidden Forest.
Drawing a layering of concealment charms around myself, I set off at a quick but unhurried pace through the night-time forest toward Hogwarts, sinking deep into thought.
It seemed increasingly clear that the task assigned to Potter and me through McGonagall — the search for Ravenclaw's Diadem — was not some idle whim. It was a relic, and finding it would be worthwhile in its own right, but I did not believe in coincidences of this sort. Not for a moment. My best reading of the situation was that Dumbledore had grounds to believe the Dark Lord had found the Diadem and turned it into a Horcrux.
A Horcrux... What absurd magic this world contains. Quite extraordinary. I understood perfectly well the drive of rational beings in every age to find some way of cheating death — but to hit upon the idea of dividing one's soul into pieces as the solution was elaborate masochism of the highest order.
Still, I now had a considerably sharper incentive to find that Diadem, and it had less to do with Horcruxes in themselves than with the fact that finding it would bring a resolution to the problem of the Dark Lord measurably closer. It didn't concern me directly — but I was perfectly content with the current state of affairs, with politics as they stood, and the chaos and general inconvenience brought about by various powerful revolutionary wizards charging forward on their magical armoured vehicles had absolutely no place in my vision of a quiet life. Who knew what sort of nonsense they'd come up with once they'd got hold of power? Not to mention that the question of casualties — the number of them, and who precisely they'd be, since no path to power of that kind is ever free of them — remained entirely open. As did casualties in the aftermath of any such change. No, the issue needed resolving — but not directly.
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