The Potent but Terrible Solution

There were screams.

They weren't real.

There was blood.

It wasn't there.

Small bodies in heaps. Shadows alive with purpose. Pain and death.

Not real. Not real. NOT REAL.

Worst of all, behind everything, behind the eyes he saw with, there was pride, and satisfaction, and a towering certainty that left no room for the sick joy of the merely insane.

But the pride wasn't his, the satisfaction alien, and he denied the certainty with every shred of his soul until, with a throat-wrenching scream, Albus Dumbledore tore himself awake.

He thrashed against unseen bonds, wondering at first if he was truly free, for the trap had held many such deceptions. Then his vision cleared, and showed him the arched ceilings of Hogwarts' hospital wing, moonlight streaming through the windows. His bonds were simply hospital restraints, secure but not constricting, and a worried face above his own proved to be the matron's apprentice.

"Could you . . . let me up, please, Poppy," he said hoarsely. "I believe the fit has passed."

She sighed, but moved to loosen the restraints. "I ought to get Matron, but she's finally gone for a bit of sleep after all day trying to find out what had you, and you thrashing about fit to do yourself an injury. How do you feel now?"

"Tired. Hungry. You said . . . all day? What day is it?"

"Monday--well, nearly Tuesday by now. Algernon Longbottom found you in your office Saturday night after you didn't come down to dinner. Matron brought Professor Caerlune in after deciding it was Dark magic, but nobody's been able to do anything except try to keep you comfortable. Everyone's been in a state."

Monday? "But--Gryffindor--the students--my classes--"

"Now, that was a stroke of luck. Gryffindor was in a right panic, of course, I've never seen such behavior. Three separate attempts on the Restricted Section that night by students looking for curse remedies, and the noise--but then Minerva McGonagall showed up early the next morning claiming you'd, let me see, 'engaged her services as substitute professor during your leave of absence.' I thought she'd be laid up in here herself when she saw the state you were in, but she just went all pale and quiet, thanked me, and headed straight for Gryffindor Tower. I don't know what she did there, but your lions have been quiet as churchmice ever since. And she found your class notes, so the students had Transfiguration today just like usual."

Albus chuckled, and struggled to sit up. "I told her she'd do. Now then: I'd like a hot meal, and I need to speak to Professor Caerlune immediately, if at all possible. Have her go to my office, I've a change of robes in there."

"I'll do no such thing!" Poppy looked scandalized at the very thought. "You're not setting foot outside this infirmary until Matron says you may, and I'm not waking her before time. You'll have Nourishing Potion and then it's straight to sleep, and I'm sure Professor Caerlune will be happy to see you at a reasonable hour."

Albus bristled at this, but fell heavily back onto his elbows when he tried to rise, breathing hard. "Perhaps . . . you're right." He grimaced. "But wake me at first light, please. And . . . may I have something for dreamless sleep?" Poppy nodded and bustled off to fetch the potions, and Albus lowered himself fully back into the soft pillows. He didn't have time for this. Already he'd lost two days, days he might have spent in the library finding a solution. Grindelwald's gift had made him only too aware of the passing hours, and he begrudged every one. Still, he wouldn't win any duels if he couldn't even sit up. Poppy soon returned with a steaming brown goblet and a purple vial, and shortly after that Albus drifted off into merciful oblivion.

* * *

The sun was high when Albus woke, and he muttered something about deceptive nurses, but there was a steaming bowl of chicken soup on his bedside table, and as he sat up to eat it the movement drew Professor Gwyneth Caerlune from her perusal of a book on alchemy.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was in several ways his opposite number--she was the youngest of the faculty, Albus was one of the oldest, she was Head of Slytherin as he was of Gryffindor--but she was principled and unflappable and they'd managed a healthy professional respect around the traditional House rivalry. She brushed her dark hair out of her eyes and regarded him bemusedly.

"I'm glad to see you're awake at last. Poppy told me you wanted to see me, but I didn't have a free period until now." She held up the book. "I was just familiarizing myself with what I think happened to you. Do you know it?"

Albus closed his eyes and sighed, trying not to remember the endless screams. "Nicolas told me about it once. The 'Heart of Darkness,' he called it: an alchemical process by which a beating human heart is rendered into pen and ink, which is then used to inscribe a sigil. Once read, the sigil entraps the reader in visions of horror, which cannot be broken by any outside agency."

She nodded. "That's what I thought. It was Grindelwald, wasn't it."

Albus grimaced. "Who else? I suppose Armando brought you up to speed on my plans?"

"Such as they are, yes. He said you'd planned to consult with me, but I'm not sure how much help I could be." She smiled bitterly. "I certainly wasn't to Matt."

Matthew Echidne, Albus remembered, had parlayed a Head Boy badge and excellent NEWTs into a brilliant career as an Auror, cut short ten years earlier when he became the second British wizard to face Grindelwald and fall. He hadn't realized Gwyneth still felt the loss so keenly. He shook his head gently. "Talented though he was, surely you realize Matthew was reckless with grief when he died. It wasn't your fault."

"It doesn't matter," she replied dully. "Between us, Matt and I knew the Defense section of the Hogwarts library inside out, and there's nothing there that will help you. Nor would I tell you if there were."

"Gwyneth, surely . . ."

"You'll be another day at least recovering from the Heart," she broke in, voice still lifeless. "There are some strengthening potions that will help, I'll give the recipes to Matron Felwether. That's all I can do."

Albus sighed. "Miss Caerlune, look at me, please." Old habit dragged her gaze up to meet his, and he offered a gentle smile. "The Muggles send their young men to die in war because they have no other choice; their battles are fought with keen eyes and strong bodies. We are luckier; our battles are fought with knowledge, which allows those of us who have lived our lives to risk them as we choose to win safety for our children. I'm a century old, Gwyneth, and my life has been good to me. If I fail, at least I've had time to build a legacy in these halls. But I taught you, and your mother before you, and before that I had forty years of magical practice. Every single day since my eleventh birthday I've learned something new. If I succeed, and I think I stand a better chance than most to do so, then no more boys like Matthew will die."

Gwyneth sniffed roughly, but a crooked smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "Twelve years we've been colleagues and you can still make me feel like a first-year who forgot her homework in her room. Not fair." Then she sighed. "But I told you, I don't know of anything that Grindelwald wouldn't know how to counter, and I doubt there's a countercurse in the world that could stand against the kind of power he can bring to bear. I can't help you."

Albus regarded her steadily for a long moment, and then she shifted in her seat. "Stop that. God. All right. I may know someone who can. Matt's sponsor into the Aurors is an old friend of my family--Matt and I used to joke that when he'd joined the order they had to fly everywhere on broomsticks because the earth was still too hot to walk on." She smiled wryly. "I don't think he's quite as old as you are."

Albus chuckled. "Thank you."

"Anyway, he's been fighting Dark wizards for ages, Matt was in absolute awe of him ever since we were kids." Her smile held, though it carried a brittle edge, and she stood abruptly. "I'll go see if he's got time to talk--once you're up and around, that is. You'll need to be on your toes. He doesn't suffer fools."

Albus blinked. "Gladly?"

Her answering smile held genuine humor. "At all. Get some rest."