Old Friends

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Being very, very intelligent might create some problems and it has done for Dumbledore, because his wisdom has isolated him… where is his equal, where is his confidant, where is his partner?

JKR in an interview

Part V

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7 February 1899

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I sat in the pew, my back ramrod-straight. My father stood in the pulpit, delivering yet another fire-and-brimstone sermon to his congregants. All round me, they also sat – old people, young people, and even mothers and babies. Every one of them was impeccably dressed, even the little children in their satin bonnets. All were somber in demeanor.

Martin Luther one said that if he wasn’t allowed to laugh in heaven, he didn’t want to go there. Is this world so terrible? Is the next?

“Hell is populated with many souls! Ye who have let your daughters wear those newfangled American contraptions, the Bloomers, are letting them cross-dress! Are women men, that they might wear pants? But what of men!”

My father paused. “Men in dresses! Men in makeup! Men dancing with men! Men kissing men! ABOMINATION!” The congregation collectively shuddered. “Leviticus is clear. A man might not lie with a man as with a woman. IT IS AN ABOMINATION!”

My lips twitched.

The Greeks loved one another – Alexander the Great had a male lover, and so did Achilles. What’s the real difference? Physiological variation? How is that important?

“These will burn!” he shouted. The noise echoed horribly in the church. “Burn! Hellfire is stoked by their bodies, yet they are never consumed! God loathes them! Sodom was destroyed for their sin – not even when Abraham asked God to spare it, should ten righteous men be found – not even one righteous man was there! All were burned! All shall be burned!

Sodom was destroyed for a lack of hospitality, not their… shall we say… attempts at male rape. So say the rabbis. Is this what the seminary taught Father? Not to look for the truth, and to shatter hearts on his merry way to falsehood? He combines the worst of the School of Shammai with the School of Hillel; where Shammai trusted truth, Hillel brought joy to people. Father does neither!

“God demands it, of us, his faithful, to bring these people to repentance! If they do not come, so much the worse for them, for then they heard the words of Christ, our Lord, and did not heed them!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my mother’s face. I hoped that it might at least flicker with some unease about this sermon. But she sat there, sill as a stone.

Is she naught but a troll, turned to stone in the sun?

I sat bolt upright, sweating profusely.

Albus moaned sleepily. “What’s going on?”

“Another nightmare, Albus. Go back to bed.”

He shook himself, and sat up slowly. “No, no,” fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table, “You won’t be rid of me that easily, John.”

I gulped. “My father again.” I ran my hand through my hair.

“Oh?”

“One of his more memorable sermons. The one on Leviticus 18:22.” I shuddered, hearing his long-dead voice echoing in my ears again. “’Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination.’”

Albus blinked. “Religion confuses me,” he said. “I thought the Christ asked people to love their neighbor?”

“He said more than that – love their enemies.”

“So,” he chewed at his lip. “How can it be that religion believes so strongly in Hell? Doesn’t fire eternal go against the Christ’s teaching? Why would the Christ ask something of humanity that he refused to do himself?”

“If I knew the answer, I would tell you, old friend. All I know is that, even dead, the man – my father, that is – still haunts me. He would have killed me, I think, on the night I received my Hogwarts letter. God forbids sorcery, you know. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, also in Leviticus. He would have killed both of us for – “

“Being in love,” Albus interrupted, putting an arm over my shoulder. “Being who we are – One.”

I sighed, and leaned into the embrace. I could feel Albus’ wiry muscles under my head, and the fine fingers on my back. His arm, lightly muscular but deceptively strong, offered me some sort of comfort. His beard tickled my ear, and I could hear his breathing – deep, rhythmic, and soothing.

My torso shuddered.

I’m still not very good with human touch. Not to mention that most of my scars are on my back…

“You’re not alone, John, never alone, whatever scars you bear. Don’t push me away. Don’t lock yourself behind a wall and swallow the key.”

“The pain is not a wall.”

“No? Then what have you been climbing over all these years?”

I shuddered. “I tried to go under it first.”

“You mean your father tried to force you under it.”

“Nevertheless, I tried to make myself as he wished.”

“Don’t most children?”

“I don’t think I was ever really a child, Albus.”

“In this, you were.” One of Albus’ tears trickled onto my cheek from his. “In this, you were as he thought you were.”

“And what would that be?”

“Someone he could intimidate.”

“Perhaps.”

I can’t make myself believe that. My belief, though, has no effect on its truth, and I know that Albus is probably right – probably even more right than he knows, or than I will ever know.

“But the grave can heal such a fear.”

“The pain lives in my bones, my friend. That which he tried not to destroy.”

Silence.

“He wanted my mind, Albus. He wanted my soul shattered, my spirit broken, my breath his personal servant and the servant of the God,” I spat the word, more in hate for my father than anything else, “he made in his image.”

“Reversing Genesis?”

“Yes. Bereshit bara Elo-him et ha-shamayim ve’et ha-aretz. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”

“That’s not Greek.”

“Hebrew. Father wanted me to learn the Bible in its original language. Trouble was, I learned too well.”

Albus leaned back onto his pillows, pulling me down with him in a gentle but firm embrace. My head rested on his chest, my head rising in time with his inhalation and his chest hair rustling with my breathing.

“Too well?”

“I didn’t just read the text. I read the commentaries, and I read until I understood the grammar, not just the gist of a word or phrase. And they focused on God’s love, not God’s hate. God’s names were yod-hey-vav-hey, Mercy, and Elo-him, Justice, Chesed, Loving-kindness, and Gevurah, Strictness, among others. But hate? No. Love is called Ahavah. Prayer is avodah she-ba-lev, the service of the heart, and how can one have avodah she-ba-lev without ahavah?”

Albus’ chest rumbled with laughter. “You soaked up information like a sponge, John.”

I couldn’t help but laugh too. “And I never forget, remember that.”

“No jest there. You have a memory like an elephant’s.”

“Or elephants have memories like mine.”

“Or that.” He sighed. “John, I don’t know much of your father’s Bible, or your father’s God. But I can’t help but think that he was wrong. If there is a God out there, I can’t help but think that He would not have made us how we are if there was no place for us.”

I smiled.

I’m just happy that I have you. I’m not much without you – just another lonely person out there. But – together – we’re so much more. Hearts merge, memories, beings. At-one-ment, indeed.

And if that’s not godliness, I’m not sure what is.

10 February 1899

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I glared at the typewriter.

It seemed to glare back.

It’s mocking me. All that paper I’ve got, and not a whit of a sentence.

Books were stacked in piles three feet high all around me – all of them mine.

I had thought that they would be something of an inspiration. Not so much, it seems. Even if they are all books from a trilogy.

I got up and walked into the kitchen.

If I can’t be writing, at least I can have some luncheon. It’s almost noon…

I ate, reading the morning newspaper. There had been another murder in Whitechapel – nothing new there – and a duke had snubbed some member of the nobility or other.

I looked up to rest my eyes from the paper’s tiny print, and my eyes fell upon Murdoch MacArthur’s portrait. As before, he still looked like an old walrus. But in this light – noonday sun and a seated viewpoint – his eyes seemed to glow.

A bit creepy, that.

So many things in this world are grey, all in different shades, but at that moment, I believed that I could see the whole world in grey in Murdoch MacArthur’s painted eyes.

Is that what I look like when I play with electricity? Power and warmth beyond anything I had ever thought to be possible?

The doorbell distracted me from my train of thought. I opened the door to see Henry Raterman, bundled in a wool jacket. Even the ends of his moustache – bushier and messier than when I saw him last – were shivering.

“Henry!” I pulled him inside, away from the piling snow and frosty wind. “I wasn’t expecting you! Come, have some lunch with me…”

Henry smiled. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve got something for you. And Albus, of course.”

I laughed. “As if we ever keep anything to ourselves.”

“You’ll like it, I hope,” he said, pulling a small square out of his pocket. He enlarged it with a wave of a wand.

It was a painting.

As depicted, Albus and I were walking in a garden full of roses. Loose-petal Gallic roses, tightly bound Damasks, buds of just-barely-blooming China roses – there they were, in all sorts of colors. Had we stepped through a rainbow and into a moment of heaven?

Albus’ face was joyous, the like of which I hadn’t seen since before his mother’s funeral. His hair was long, around his shoulders, and a fur hat covered a good deal of it. His mouth was turned up in a smile, a small one, but size isn’t everything in joy. I couldn’t tell how old the portrayed Albus was; his hair was grey at the temples, and his beard was about six inches longer than it was presently, but his skin showed few wrinkles, and his eyes and vigor were certainly undimmed.

I was surprised, though, at my face. To me, my face was just an image in the mirror when I combed out my beard in the mornings. In the painting, my face was a light for the whole scene. My hair was cropped short – or, at least, I couldn’t see any of it under my hat, which was fur like the other. I was clearly older; my beard, which like Albus’ had grown about six inches, and eyebrows were heavily streaked with a silvery grey, and one of my hands was holding a straight wooden cane. The other hand, of course, was in Albus’.

Not even the fact that the painting did not move could have made it any less beautiful to me.

“Wow,” I said, reaching out to touch the frame. “It’s beautiful, Henry. Is this what you were painting, that day?”

“When I made my Accidental Oath? No, this isn’t the painting I was working on then. It’s done, but I’ll unveil it only when it’s the proper time.”

“Drat. I really want to see that painting…”

He grinned mischievously. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Mayhap, mayhap not.” I shrugged. “Do you suppose you could help me lift it up to where that other painting is now?”

Henry looked to Murdoch MacArthur’s portrait. He squinted at it, and moved a bit, as if trying to see it from every angle.

I didn’t think it was that unusual a painting…

“What is it, Henry?”

He pursed his lips, and lifted it down from above the fireplace. “I thought I saw something odd in his face. I don’t believe these eyes are supposed to be glowing like that.”

I blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” He poked and prodded the back of the painting with his wand. “Hmmm.”

I don’t like the sound of that much.

“There’s a spell here,” he said finally. “I think it’s a degraded or failed animation spell.”

“Well, maybe I can fix it.” I pulled my wand out of my pocket and waved it at the portrait. “Animatus.”

The painting glowed faintly.

It was supposed to make the portrait move, not make color or light. That’s not right at all.

“Well, that’s not right,” Henry muttered, scratching his head. “This is quite confusing.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“When did it start glowing?”

“I’m not sure. It wasn’t like that when I took it out of the attic, that’s for certain.”

Wait… I’ve seen the glow before… But not on Murdoch MacArthur. I saw it in Albus’ eyes during our duel at the Flamel’s.

“You’ve got that look on your face that means you’re thinking, John. What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve seen the glow before – in Albus’ eyes.”

Henry frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. When Albus performs a number of spells in a short time – difficult spells, mind you – his eyes glow like that.”

“I thought I saw it in your eyes, John. That day in Defense against the Dark Arts – when you made the Patronus.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Joking? I?”

I laughed. “Henry, I’ve rarely known you to be serious.”

“I am now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

His lips twitched. “Cast your Patronus, then.”

I sighed. “All right, Henry, I’ll humor you.”

Albus and I, more together than we could ever be alone. I love him.

“Expecto Patronum!”

My wolf jumped out, huge as ever, and glowing with the same distinct magical power as in Murdoch MacArthur’s eyes. The wolf seemed to bark, and pranced around Henry and I.

It disappeared just as Albus came in the door.

“Playing with magic, old friend?”

I laughed. “Only with your help.”

He kissed me on the cheek and turned to Henry. “What brings you here, Henry?”

“I have a painting for you,” he pointed to his work, “but I noticed your current painting’s troubles and just had to mess with it.”

Albus lifted an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

Henry pointed at it. “The eyes are glowing,” he said baldly.

Albus bent down and stared at it. “Hmmm.” He cast a few diagnostic spells – a few of which I didn’t know, probably from Nicolas – and stood up. “There’s no magical reason for it to be doing that. It does have an anti-animation spell on it, though, and I’m not skilled enough to remove it.”

“Albus Dumbledore, the great Albus Dumbledore, not skilled enough to do something?” Henry tut-tutted. “I thought this was an impossibility. You’ve disappointed me, Albus.”

Albus chuckled. “You always did have a talent for hyperbole.”

My cat nuzzled up against Henry’s legs. “Why, hello, Elaine. I haven’t seen you in a good long while. How are things?”

She meowed.

“Oh, dear, dear, dear. John, she says she wants salmon to eat, not leftovers. In a crystal dish.”

I laughed, and picked Elaine up. “Silly kitty.”

She meowed again.

Albus was still staring at Murdoch MacArthur’s portrait. “Your eyes glowed like that when you directed the electricity, John.”

What?

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Henry said. “Electricity?”

“Our last duel,” I said, “I wandlessly cast lightning.”

Henry gulped. “You ought to be dead.”

“Obviously, I’m not.”

“All the same, John, your eyes shined like that,” Albus pointed to the portrait’s eyes.

“I thought it looked like a Patronus’ glow,” Henry said.

Albus sank into one of our plush, overstuffed purple chairs, his hand over his eyes. “A Patronus takes a phenomenal amount of skill and power,” he said, “Something John and I have in abundance.”

“John more than you, it seems,” Henry muttered wryly.

I glared at him.

“What? It’s a fact – not something you can walk away from, John.”

Elaine jumped out of my arms.

Going off to finish some cat business, no doubt.

“My question is, why would the portrait be glowing?”

“He is my great-great grandfather; maybe my magic is fueling it.”

Albus blinked. “That’s it – that’s it!” ha laughed, jumping out of his chair and nearly tackling me in an attempt to hug me. “He just embodies your family. You are connecting with them, with their deep well of magic, so his eyes glow, just as yours do in magic.”

I pried Albus off me and sat down.

I never wanted this. I am not the hero that this world requires.

“I’m really curious now,” Henry said, “to see what all of this looks like.”

“What?”

“The eye-glowing and electricity.”

“Well, I can’t do it here – I’d destroy the place. I spent too much time decorating to wreck it for a bit of a show, Henry.”

Henry pouted.

Damn it. He knows I can’t resist him when he does that…

How on earth did I get talked into this?

I stood in the Flamel’s huge dueling room again. I had taken off my heavy outer robe, and was shivering in the cold space.

Meh, I’ll be warm soon enough.

Henry, Albus, and the Flamels stood at the sidelines. They were waiting for me , I knew.

Am I ready for this? The last time this happened, I nearly destroyed the floor, not to mention the pillars. I don’t think I would enjoy a repeat of Samson’s last moments much.

But, I have to admit, wielding that much power is an intensely pleasurable experience.

“Are you ready, John?”

I nodded, and took a deep breath. Sparks fizzled in my hair and beard.

Snap-snap-snap.

I moved my right hand in a large clockwise circle, and then my left in a counterclockwise motion. Back and forth, to and fro, a line of bluish-grey light energy streaked from one side to the other. Heat warmed me in places left cold since the last time. I laughed; I could feel my magic bubbling over, sheer joy filling me.

The only times I’ve ever been happier than this are the times I’ve spent with Albus.

I directed the lightning to circle, wreathlike, around my head. Its charge and the static in my hair made sparks fly all the more vigorously. I punched forward, training the energy away from myself and my watchers.

The light flashed with the power of a million Patroni. Thunder knocked me backward with a force I had never felt before. My heart stopped for an instant, and I felt my breath jumping in my throat. The wall that had taken the force of the lightening was burned – scorched.

I sighed, feeling cold again. Albus put an arm over me, and handed me some hot chocolate. “That was amazing, old friend.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Amazing, nothing,” Henry said, looking as shocked as the day he had made his oath, or perhaps even more so. “I’m flabbergasted. You’ve done the impossible again.”

“Again?”

“Your first Patronus on your third try. History-making, that was. But this… This makes that look like child’s play.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He grinned. “I think I’ve found a new idea for a painting.”

Albus chuckled. “You are incorrigible, Henry.”

I groaned. “Incorrigible, nothing. How about inveterate?”

“As scintillating as this conversation is,” Nicolas Flamel interrupted, “it still doesn’t answer the question: how is this possible?”

“Now, now, Nicolas,” Perenelle elbowed him, “You just want to know how to do it yourself.”

Even I had to laugh at that.

“At least I didn’t injure myself this time.”

Other than feeling like I could sleep for a week.

“True, that.” Nicolas rubbed his beard.

My knees wobbled, and I sat down. Albus looked at me worriedly. I smiled at him, and patted him on the back. “I’ll be fine.”

“You aren’t nearly so tired as the first time,” Nicolas said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Does it hurt?” Henry asked.

What?

“What?”

“You know, pain, sting, ache…”

I scowled. “Henry…”

“It’s a good question,” Perenelle said. “Is casting the lightning painful?”

“No, quite the opposite. It’s… exhilarating. Thrilling. It hurts a little, I suppose, but it doesn’t matter – not with that flowing through your body.” I felt the stiffness in my joints plain as anything, but I ignored the complaint. “All those old stories, in the myths, where a god decides to take an avatar from among his people, and ride the chosen one until such-and-such a task is done… It almost a possession. My deepest self possessing myself, if that makes any sense.”

Silence. Nicolas still rubbed at his beard, Perenelle chewed at her lip, and Henry’s bright brown eyes were lost in thought.

“It was more intense this time,” Albus said. “A more powerful bolt, and an even brighter glow in your eyes, John.”

“I think I’m getting better at it – and more captivated by it. It worries me.”

Henry shrugged. “You’re powerful, John. Most everyone who knows you, knows that. But to be able to do this…” He shook his head. “People would kill to be able to do what you do every day just once in their lifetimes.”

I groaned, and put my head in my hands. “Henry, you’re not making me feel any better.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You fear power?”

“Rather, its misuse.”

Nicolas laughed. “That is not for you to decide. Now,” he clapped his hands together, “Can you try to show me how to cast lightning?”

I gulped. “Er…”

He thumped me on the back. “You can’t kill me, lad. Show me.”

I looked to Albus. His eyes encouraged me. Go, they seemed to say. Teach the teacher something.

“Breathe deeply, Master Flamel. That is how I begin every spell, but it’s crucial for this particular spell, I think…”

14 February 1899

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I awoke in the dark. I sat up carefully.

Waking Albus up would defeat my purpose.

He looked rather adorable, curled up on his side. Without his glasses, his face seemed oddly vulnerable.

Albus? Vulnerable? Hah!

He rolled over in his sleep, and his hand flopped over his eyes. “John…” he muttered. “ Je t’aime.” Albus smiled, and repeated, “Je t’aime.”

I translated his words from the lyrical French. I love you.

I grinned, and brushed at his hair. He sighed, apparently in contentment.

And I you, love. I would kiss you, but that would probably wake you up.

I stood, hearing my knees pop, and padded reluctantly out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, tugging a sweater over my head. Adjusting the glasses on my nose, I muttered, “Lumos.”

Albus is a master in Transfiguration and Potions, but he still can’t cook worth a brass Galleon. So it falls to me to make breakfast for St Valentine’s Day.

I could not help but chuckle.

Father always hated this day. It bore the name of a martyr, but it was a holy day of love. He could not stand love, for some bizarre reason.

I stuck the bacon rashers under the broiler absentmindedly.

I am never as whole as when I am with Albus. I am never so alone when he is not around. How could I refuse myself that happiness, that at-one-ment?

I hummed quietly, frying eggs and toasting bread before the hot coals.

This – cooking – is really the most romantic I ever get. Albus gave to me flowers on my birthday, the last two years, and took me on a picnic up in Hogsmeade. I wonder… what will we do today? I know the Flamels are expecting us to tea – thank God, it’s not Madam Puddifoot’s – but what of luncheon and an activity?

Dawn broke. Birds twittered in the trees, and the morning light glinted off the snow and ice all around the house. I took a deep breath, inhaling the quiet and joy of this morning.

Only Albus would make this better.

I heard Albus stir, the sheets rustling and the usual morning yawning breaking the hour’s silence.

Speak of the devil – or rather, I think, of the angel…

Light sparkled on Albus’ glasses as he ambled into the kitchen. It gleamed all the more in his beautiful auburn hair and beard, long and wavy.

I love Albus. How did I ever think – was it only a year and a half ago? – that I could stop myself from falling for him?

He grinned at me. “Breakfast smells delicious, John!”

“Thanks, Albus. Happy St Valentine’s Day.”

He blinked. “It that what today is? I wondered why I smelled bacon rather than oatmeal…”

I laughed. “Albus, one would have thought you mad, had you not been so intelligent.”

“I can still be mad, can’t I? A mad genius?”

“Who happens to forget dates?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Oy, you do it too!”

“Remind me. I know I remembered your birthday…”

He ran his fingers over my face. “I’m just teasing you, old friend.” He kissed me.

I shook my head, laughing. “Albus, you’ve spent too much time around Henry.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’ve become as incorrigible as he is.”

“Well, that’s a compliment.”

I chuckled, and kissed him. “I love you.”

“And I you.”

We spent a bit longer entangled in our embrace.

Albus and I sat in the Flamel’s sitting room – with the Flamels themselves, of course.

All the lace and gilt must be Perenelle’s touch. I sincerely doubt Nicolas would have chosen anything of its like.

I sipped my hot, sweet tea, savoring its spiced bitterness. Orange, cinnamon, and clove – in the tea, and in the potpourri on the end tables – blended a splendid scented harmony. The fire crackled, its heat warming the cozy space. Snow fell outside, the sun shining through it and making the window shine with a redoubled wintry light.

“How did you and Nicolas come to meet, Perenelle?” I asked Madame Flamel.

She chuckled. “Do you mean the time he bowled me over in my own father’s shop or when he sought my hand in marriage from my father?”

Albus blinked. “Master Flamel knocked you over?”

Nicolas seemed torn between laughing and scowling. “I’m sorry, dear, it was by accident, after all!”

“You’ve been saying that for six hundred years, Nicolas. I think I’ve heard enough apologies for that particular incident.”

“What was your father’s trade?” I asked, blowing on my tea.

“He was a bookbinder, buying hides from tanners, turning them into parchment, and then – magically, of course – copying books. And selling them, though that was my job by the time I was able to read the Latin letters and tall enough to reach the tops of the bookshelves. I had to stand on a stool, but I managed.”

Nicolas grinned. “You managed, but your father didn’t even begin to be wealthy until I came along, dear.”

“Now, now, I’m allowed a bit of pride.”

“You are? Am I?”

“No.”

Nicolas blinked. “Why?”

“If I didn’t tease you, you dear, silly man, you head would get so big that it would float away and take you with it, scaring all the lovebirds. Not least of which are the two that are in front of us today, so let’s at least try for some propriety.”

I blushed. Albus had seemingly dropped his spoon, and had crawled half off his seat, half under the table to find it.

“I tripped over her stool one day,” Nicolas said, determinedly not looking at me, or Albus. “and fell over a little –“

“I wasn’t that young, or little, dear, and you know it! I must have been ten, at least!”

“And I about fourteen. I didn’t think of you again until our parents proposed a match. My family’s wealth – they were merchants in the silk business – and Perenelle’s family history.”

“Family?” Albus asked.

“My family tree traces back to Charlemagne’s court.” She waved a negligent hand. “All Muggles, up until my father – and he was barely trained. What skill he had in copying things, he had to learn with himself as his only teacher. Nicolas took over my father’s shop and trade when he died,” Perenelle said softly, her eyes seemingly far away. “The plague had ravaged Paris for some time, and he was one of its many victims.”

“My family had,” Nicolas picked up the tale, “by then, been mixed up in some shipments of fine damask from the Muslim nations that never arrived at destination. Bankrupt, they ran from Paris with all they had left. I stayed.”

Bravery?

Perenelle put a hand on Nicolas’ arm.

Love?

“You stayed.” Perenelle smiled. “We hid ourselves for a while, living out in the country to stay away from plague, but that does get tiresome.”

Both?

“Well, we went back to Paris after a while – a few summers, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but only a few. Time flies when you’re young and in love, after all.”

My insides had that warm and fuzzy feeling that meant I’d descended into sentimental lovesick foolishness.

Oh well. It is true – I can’t believe that I’ve been with Albus for a year and then some. Sometimes it feels shorter, sometimes longer, but every moment is precious.

“In 1370,” Nicolas said, “I bought a book, in a language I didn’t understand.”

Albus sat up straighter. “The recipe for the Stone?”

“Yes. I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but I couldn’t even read the text. I had despaired of making any use of it, until I took it to Spain in 1378, where I had it translated from the Judeo-Arabic into scholarly Latin. Even then, when I could read the words, I had to work on understanding it.”

My confusion must have been visible, for Albus explained, “Alchemical books are almost always written in code. None of the people in power, then or now, would be pleased to deal with someone who can live forever and has access to unlimited gold.”

“And this book was trickier than most.” Nicolas made a face. “It took me seven years to fully understand the 21-page manuscript, and five more to assemble the ingredients and laboratory needed to create the Stone. Obtaining glass was a most difficult part of that ordeal, that and powdered bicorn horn. The creature tried to eat me.”

Perenelle’s lips twitched. “At least I have some skill with healing, Nicolas.”

He coughed. “Finally, I was ready to make the Stone. It took a week without sleep, but – I had the Stone! I had all the life I could ever want! I could buy the world!”

Perenelle laughed. “See, Nicolas? If you have an inch for pride, it grows to be a mile high and wide.”

“But when I reached out to touch it,” Nicolas said, overlooking his wife’s statements, “it burned me.”

“It hadn’t cooled yet?” Albus asked.

“No, it was cool. I threw water on it, and the water didn’t steam up and turn to vapor. The liquid just splashed off the stone.”

“It wasn’t for you, then, to touch first.” I said, chewing at my lip.

“No.” Nicolas’ eyes were staring through me, seemingly at something far away and long ago.

Do I have to be the focal point, though? Having him sort-of stare at me is like having Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington glide through me…

“I had made it – I, I, I! But then, my eyes fell upon the beautiful woman in the corner, who had helped me every step of the way, and who had as much a right to the Stone as I. I had forgotten her in my ecstasy over the Stone, to my shame. I ran to her, and –“

“Kissed me within an inch of my life,” Perenelle interrupted, eyes glistening.

Nicolas grinned. “I did, at that.”

“Then he picked up the Stone,” she said, “and put it in my hand. My tears of joy at his joy turned to gold on my hand.”

“It didn’t matter to me, anymore, that I could make gold. The idea of living forever without her turned to ash in my mouth. How could I have been so blind that, after forty years together, something so tiny as a Stone could divide us?”

“You weren’t blind,” Albus said. “You caught yourself halfway.”

19 February 1899

-------------------------------

I sat in the kitchen, perusing the morning’s Prophet. “Hmmm.”

“What’s hmmm, John?” Albus asked, sliding into a chair, two cups of tea in his hands. One he handed to me. The other he took a long swallow from.

“The French president died on the 16th.”

“Félix Faure?”

“Yes, him – wait, how did you know of him?”

“My maternal grandparents are Muggles. They send me post every now and again.”

“I kept up with the Muggle news for Mother’s sake, and out of habit after she died.” I shrugged, and stirred sugar into my tea.

“Ah. You know I already put sugar in that, right?”

“You did?” I tasted it. The sweetness was almost overpowering. “Oh well, I’ll drink it anyway. What are you and Nicolas doing today?”

“The same old project on dragon’s blood. You?”

“I’m doing something today?”

“I take that to be a ‘nothing, Albus.’”

“And you would be correct. Well, nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Try to write, read up to make sure I haven’t contradicted any history – the usual.”

Albus tugged at his beard.

“What are you thinking, Albus?”

“Did we ever really figure out what was going on with the rings that were in Lord Macarthur’s box?”

“I put them on without any ill effects,” I raised my right hand, showing the plain gold ring and the plainer wooden knot.

“True, but usually the family rings have some sort of power. The Dumbledore ring keeps the wearer calm in times of intense stress, for example.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Albus sighed. “I don’t have it. It belongs to my father, even if he is in Azkaban. I don’t have the right to wear it, yet.”

Because he still lives, floated unsaid between us. He must die for me to have it. If that is the price, I can wait.

“What about the personal rings?”

“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t think so; the magic that is in the family rings wasn’t actually cast on them, it’s just what they pick up from being on a person’s hand for so long. A personal ring isn’t passed from generation to generation, and so doesn’t have the chance to accumulate magic.”

But Lord Macarthur’s ring was in the box. Why? Shouldn’t it have been buried with him?

Albus must have read my face, because he said, “Lord MacArthur wrote the letter to you in 1818, right?”

“December 1818. And he wrote it to his heir, not to me.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really. He didn’t know who I would be.”

“He might have. A family of such influence as his – yours – could have used it to procure the services of a Seer to see who you would be.”

“If so, why didn’t he use my name?”

“Your name often means something, but that’s the name you choose for yourself, not so much your given name.”

“All right, you’ve made your point. Now what about your other point?”

“Oh, yes. Lord MacArthur died not long after that, if I remember right. He might have known his end was near, and put the ring there for you to find, as a measure of authenticity.”

My eyes went to the ring on the middle finger of my right hand. The odd white stone glowed, as it always did, with a soft light akin to the moon’s. The runes surrounding it read Uruz, Thurisaz, Ansuz, and Wunjo – the runes for the formulation of the self and unbridled energy, defense by means of offense, insight combined with true wisdom and right speech, and fellowship combined with glory and personal reward on a tilt that suggested a crazed enthusiasm.

“Does one choose one’s own ring?” I asked softly.

Albus shrugged. “I’ve never asked.”

“Well, if Lord MacArthur did, he certainly intended for great things.” I pulled the ring from my hand and offered it to Albus. “Read that.”

He blinked. “You would let me touch it?”

I rolled my eyes. “Albus, we sleep in the same bed. You’ve seen me at my most naked moments, literally and figuratively, and you expect me to care about some dead ancestor’s ring? Please. Think better of me than that, dear.”

He took the ring. “I do,” he said with a smirk, “think better of you than that, dear. But you were raised Muggle, and you tend to have different standards of personal and private than other people.”

“Other people like Henry? Again, please. He frequents the soiled doves in Whitechapel, shares the stories with me, and in the same beat he won’t let me see his paintings until he’s done with them.”

“Touché.”

A few moments passed in silence. “Great things, nothing,” Albus muttered.

“What’s that, Albus?”

“The trouble with inscribing runes on a non-flat surface is that some runes will come out more – be more obvious, hog the magic more. And with something that’s three-dimensional, you’re just asking for pain. Up and down are suspended, so that both the good and bad elements are displayed.” He rubbed at his forehead with the hand that wasn’t holding the ring. “Highly unstable, this magic. There are better ways to do the same thing – a tattoo, for example, or a pendant. But a ring like this one can be worn two ways, two directions – and so….”

“Both come to light.” I gulped. This was trouble personified.

Uruz could be a boost for good character traits, but can do the same for bad ones with an inversion. Thurisaz might be defensive one way, but was insane the other, unable to distinguish friend from foe in a frenzy. Wunjo could create good fortune or destroy it. And ansuz – it called upon speech and wisdom and truth, but how much, whose, and at what time? The same words could build or destroy at different times, and wisdom unused or used badly could cut to the quick and destroy any friendship or adventure.

“Good Lord. The creator of this ring was playing with fire!”

“Oh yes – and he knew what he was doing, too. These,” Albus shook the ring, “are not for aesthetics.”

“Maybe they meant something to him.”

Albus harrumphed. “Too bad he hasn’t chosen to share the meanings with us.”

A thought glimmered just out of reach.

I saw Albus’ eyes flick to the clock and widen. “I’m late. I’ll see you later, John.”

“Have a good day, old friend.”

He grinned. “As if it could be anything else.”

With you in it, went unsaid. It didn’t need to be.

26 February 1899

-------------------------------

The morning dawned cold. Albus lay fast asleep under the crocheted blankets I had found in the attic back in August.

We certainly got a lot of use of them this winter. I can’t remember any season being this cold, dark, snowy, and long. I need to get outside and do something before I go insane.

I sat up carefully. Albus was a light sleeper – or, at least, light when compared to me. I slept like the dead most nights. But, this morning, I wanted to feel useful, at the very least. Writing brought in a little money – I hated the idea of living off my ancestors’ accumulated wealth – but it wasn’t as though I was discovering more of the uses for dragon’s blood.

I rose slowly, pulling on a sweater as I went. The neck caught on my glasses – gah, I hate it when I fall asleep with them on. What was I doing, late at night with my glasses on? Oh, yeah. I was rereading my runes textbooks. Gah, and again gah – but I wrangled it off with a soft curse.

Albus mumbled, and rolled over, but did not wake.

Inveterate bed-hog, among other things.

I chuckled, and smiled, trying to resist the urge to ruffle his hair or his beard.

That certainly would wake him up. And he seems like he needs his sleep. What is he thinking, pulling 18-hour days with Nicolas for the last week?

I shook my head.

I san understand the urge to do, to be anything other than a lazybones, but still… this is ridiculous.

The floor was cold, even through my socks.

Both pairs.

I started a fire in the stove, and another one in the fireplace in the sitting room. The light played tricks on my glasses, and on the two paintings – the Rose Garden, as I called it in my mind, and Murdoch MacArthur’s portrait. I rubbed at my hands, trying to warm them by the fire. I had fallen asleep wearing both rings – the family’s and Lord MacArthur’s.

From what I can tell, I haven’t owned the rings long enough for them to affect me, or for me to put a mark on them magically. Still, those runes are truly unnerving. But, what else can I do? There is no place safer for them than on my hand, and when I want to study them, they are close at hand – literally.

It might have been crazy, an effect of the cold and the early hour, but I couldn’t help but smirk at my own really bad pun.

Albus would either laugh or gape at me, and probably the latter. I surprise even me, and if I can surprise myself, I can certainly surprise Albus.

I put the kettle on, and pulled out flour, salt, sugar, butter, milk, an egg, cinnamon, and chemical leaven. I greased a sheet pan, and mixed flour with sugar with salt – only a pinch! – with the leaven. The butter was next, cut into the dry ingredients to make a crumbly dough. Egg and milk and cinnamon completed it. I formed the dough into small rounds, and put them on the pan. The stove was hot, very hot – good. These scones would be perfect, then.

Cream or jam – or both? I’ll leave it to Albus to decide.

The scones went in. I put up an Imperturbable Charm on the bedroom door.

I want everything perfect. Albus waking up over the smell of my scones, good or bad, would not be as I intended.

Bacon went on the stove next.

I’ve forgotten what it tastes like. After that night Albus came home covered in blood and I nearly killed him for scaring me over something as unimportant as not cleaning up an experiment gone wrong, I find that the idea of eating meat – the flesh of another creature – is just plain nauseating.

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.

My thoughts ramble. Hey, that reminds me of a song…

“I am a rambling Irishman, in Ulster I was born. And many’s the happy hour I’ve spent on the banks of sweet Loch Erin…” I kept it quiet, and that put a damper on the quality of my sound.

I suppose doing a lot of work for no particular reason is just another symptom of my mild craziness. This winter is really getting to me.

I smelled the scones and took them out of the oven before they turned to charcoal. The bacon cooked in its own fat without too much intervention from me – good for my stomach – and I took the morning’s Prophet from the post owl. I scanned the front page to the last for any sign of my name, Albus’, Henry’s, or the Flamel’s.

The more we stay out of the public eye, the better. Less scrutiny and maybe more freedom without the press breathing down our necks.

I didn’t see Grindelwald’s name, either. Good for him, and good for me.

At the moment, I am willing to play a defensive game. I will make myself as powerful as possible, and if and when he attacks, I’ll cut his legs out from under him. Maybe even literally.

Surprisingly, that image didn’t turn my stomach as much as the bacon did.

I removed the Imperturbable Charm on the doorway. Sure enough, within a minute Albus was on his feet, in the kitchen, and mumbling something about grabbing some toast before running to work.

“No, Albus. You’re taking the day off.”

He groaned and sank into a chair.

“That’s why.”

He groaned again.

“Would a scone and some bacon make you feel better?”

Albus perked up. “Do you have clotted cream?”

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t have clotted cream, Albus. What’s teatime without it?”

“Or breakfast, apparently.”

“Touché.”

He looked around. “You did all this for me?”

“And for me. I like being frozen and hungry even less than you do.”

“Which is usually why I light the fires.”

“Not today. Today is a day for you to sleep, rest, and enjoy my company. I’ve already arranged it with Nicolas.”

“If today is a me-day, is it also a you-day?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you going to take the day off work, too?”

“My work can easily be accomplished when you’re asleep.”

Albus looked confused. “But I’m already awake.”

“What, you’re not going to take advantage of the opportunity to nap?”

He laughed and crunched on a bit of bacon as the kettle whistled and I jumped up to get it. I passed him the scones and the cream, and the boiling-hot tea. I dumped sugar into mine, and cream into Albus’.

“After all this food, we’re going to be either fully sated or ready to face a day that won’t put up a fight,” Albus said.

“My bet’s on the second.”

“Mine too. You made the food, and you would know best.”

“Well, technically the pig made the bacon…”

Albus groaned again. “Not this again about the blood. I got it out of my robes.”

“Still. No more bacon for me, I think.”

“Blood doesn’t even smell like bacon.”

“No, but apparently it’s meat to my stomach, and meat isn’t welcome.”

“Lots of potatoes for us, then?”

“There’s this new invention called canning that preserves foods in tin packages…”

“Yes, Mr Flamel showed me some. It didn’t taste great.” He scowled. “Fruit cocktail.”

“You hate fresh fruit cocktail.”

“So?”

“How do know that your rule works for everything canned?”

“I don’t.”

I sat back in my chair and took a bite of scone. I’d won that argument, and both Albus and I knew it.

We sat in silence for a while. The pale winter sun rose a little further, my scones disappeared, and the clotted cream slowly coated Albus’ upper lip and moustache.

The sole exception to Albus being a neat eater, clotted cream. Hmmm… I wonder… how good is it secondhand?

Albus asked, “Have you learned anything new about the runes?”

I shook my head. “No. We knew they were a double-edged sword, and they remain a double-edged sword.”

“The question is, who got cut in half?”

“I’m more worried that they might affect me.”

Albus shrugged. “You don’t have to wear it, John.”

“No, but I don’t have one of my own, and it would be difficult for me to make one or have one made.”

“Difficult? Didn’t we learn a spell for jewelry-making in 6th year?”

“We did, but I wanted something more… well… finished than that, I think. And if I had it made by a public vendor, Magical or Muggle, I run the risk of being exposed.”

“You could just wear the family ring.”

“I could… but it would be breaking tradition, and it seems like something that is easier perpetuated than not.”

Albus shook his head. “Good Lord, you can be stubborn sometimes, John.”

I gave him a halfhearted glare.

“Why give me that look? You know I speak the truth.”

I sighed. “Point.”

He gulped his tea and poured himself another cup, with cream and a hint of sugar.

A thought came to me. “In Morocco, they say that the first cup of tea is bitter as life, the second is as strong as love, and the third as gentle as death.”

Albus gave me an odd look. “Cheery.”

I smiled. He didn’t get it. “You’re on your second cup,” I finished mine and poured another with my typical massive amounts of sugar, “And so am I.”

His grin and his kiss told me he got it that time.

Albus and I worked the kinks out of our muscles together, mine from lack of use and his from overuse. Clotted cream did not lose any appreciable goodness from being on someone’s lip. Granted, it wasn’t there very long.

My beef and vegetable soup, now adapted to be meatless, was cooking in the oven with a loaf of bread beside it.

“Did you remember the bay leaf?”

“Of course, Albus.”

“Did you add barley again? I liked that last time.”

“Yes, I did. I put in a turnip and some extra garlic, too.”

“Hmmm.” Albus breathed in the smell luxuriously. “I think I’ll like that.”

I smiled. “Good.”

He and I sat down at the table again, the rune books open before us.

“How is this not work, Albus?”

“Does it bring us any money?”

“No, but neither does your working for Nicolas.”

He stopped to breathe and think before speaking again. His forehead crinkled, his lips pressed into a thin line, and the wrinkles around his eyes threatened to swallow them.

Uh oh. I know that look, and it’s far from pleasant for me. Albus the logician, merciless and cutting with few cares, has come out. I thought I had banished him?

“Does it save us energy in the long run? A stitch in time saves nine, and all that?”

“Under that definition,” the look on Albus’ face worried me, more than his words, “Most probably this is work.”

“The question is, then,” his eyes looked up from the pages, “would it be more effort to drag me away or for you to give up and sit by me and at least pretend to study?”

His eyes were soft and gentle, and in that instant I knew. He was faking.

He knew that ploy would work. I would almost always choose being with him, doing something unpleasant, than being apart in a heavenly place.

I sat down. “Don’t throw me for a heart attack, old friend.”

He laughed. “I’m not the one to be afraid of.”

“Oh? Then who do I have to blame the next time someone – cough – scares me like that?”

“Your own heart, and everything else that’s put strain on it over the years. Remember that prank war between Edward and –“ Albus gulped. “ – Aberforth that once got everyone’s homework in Gryffindor tower covered in ink that wouldn’t come off?”

I grinned. “That hurt you worse than me, old friend. I hadn’t done my homework yet, for once, while you’d done the whole week’s in advance.”

“Point. You win again.” He scowled.

I laughed. “What would I do without you?”

“When you first asked me that, I said, and I quote, ‘A lot more work.’ But now…” He leaned toward me with twinkling eyes, “I might answer a little differently.”

“Oh? How would you answer now?”

“Now I might say ‘go insane.’ Or maybe even ‘die.’ But, most of all, you would probably ‘miss me.’”

Despite myself, I had to laugh.

The study didn’t seem quite so bad now.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

They danced in my head, like the proverbial sugarplums, only far more nasty.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Well, not nasty, really, but they did speak of power. Power can be used well or badly; it can heal or destroy; it can build or it can knock down. Like the verse in Ecclesiastes: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”

And everything turns, turns, turns – the world turns, and we don’t even notice.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

“What are you thinking, John?”

I looked up from my page. “Hmm?”

“You’ve been reading the same page for about ten minutes or so, and you’re humming to yourself.”

“I am? Sorry, I didn’t even notice.”

“No worries. Your singing voice is always a treat.”

I laughed. “With one exception.”

“When you’re drunk.”

“You’ve got it.”

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

“A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…”

“What’s that from, John?”

“The book of Ecclesiastes, chapter three.” I sighed. “Perhaps…”

A thought glimmered, just out of reach.

Maybe…

“Perhaps?”

“It’s silly.”

“So?”

I sighed. “Maybe this describes a story more than anything else.” I pulled the ring off my finger and handed it to Albus. “Reading it left to right…”

“All right, I’ll play along.” Albus grasped the ring and held it up to the pale winter sunlight. “This man’s youth was Uruz – vital, powerful, sure of himself and his place in the world. His adulthood was Thurisaz – a shaking of everything he knew, causing him to fight back in the only way he knew how.”

I took up the narrative. “Ansuz was his middle age – wise, calm, insightful, like Odin in the Norse myths after he gave Mimir his eye. In his old age, he truly felt he had achieved something, glory, wealth, joy, but it wasn’t enough, it was never enough, so he was always driven for more. Thus the tilted, crazed Wunjo.”

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Four letters, so much meaning packed into a tiny package.

I closed my rune textbook. “I can’t think of a better explanation. It is a personal ring, after all.” I sank lower into my chair. “How more personal do you get than your life story, written on a bit of jewelry for all the world to see?”

“Wizards live so much longer than Muggles.” Albus got up and poured himself another cup of tea. “He may well have been a hundred years old when his father or grandfather died and the family leadership passed to him.”

“And with his son, his only son, his beloved son, Murdoch, a squib…”

“Lord MacArthur was stuck. He might have felt old before his time, that he had failed in his most precious mission, to continue the Wizarding line.”

I closed my eyes.

There are few feelings like seeing a puzzle crack open. Alexander untied the Gordian knot, Theseus got out of the Minotaur’s den, Oedipus survived the Sphinx, Scheherazade escaped a crazed Caliph… And now Albus and I have puzzled this out.

“John?”

“Yes?” I opened my eyes.

“You need one of these.”

“I would only need one letter, but it doesn’t exist.”

“Oh?”

“The one that shows just how much I love you.”

He grinned. “Maybe there’s a sign for how much I love you…”

“Yes?”

“Infinity.”

I groaned. “You’ve been working calculations with Nicolas for too long, my friend.”

“But I’m right, though.”

“You’re almost always right.”

“And when I’m wrong, you’re right.”

“Interesting, how that always works out.”

“I’m just glad it does.”

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

Uruz, thurisaz, ansuz, wunjo.

3 March 1899

“I’m home!” Albus called.

I almost didn’t hear him; the washroom’s acoustics were terrible.

“In here, Albus.”

I heard him as he stepped into the washroom and, with a scuff of the feet, stopped dead. “Why are you soaking wet, John?”

“Freak storm.” I jerked my head, still dripping, in an attempt to rid my ears of water. “I went out for a walk and got pelted with sleet. I came in here to warm up and dry off. The first part just took a charm, but it managed to interfere with the second.”

“Ah.”

I rubbed at my hair to try to dry it. It didn’t work; the water just ran down the sides of my face into my beard. Turning to face Albus, I said, “Aren’t you home early?”

“Er, yes. About that…”

Something’s off, and I can’t tell what it is because my glasses are in the other room and everything is fuzzy.

“What happened, Albus?”

“You mean you can’t see – right, no glasses. Er.” He waved his wand, or a wand-shaped blob in my direction. The water evaporated instantly. “At least now you’re not dripping.”

“Alright, old friend, now I’m worried.”

“You’ll start laughing at me as soon as you see, I promise.”

“I’m not sure whether to be reassured or frightened by that…”

I could see well enough to get through the door and to my glasses. I put them on and turned to see Albus, and, sure enough, I cracked up laughing.

His beautiful straight auburn hair had turned blond and curly. So had his beard and moustache, and even his eyebrows. His eyes were wide, as if watching a flame in order to avoid being singed.

“Did something blow up in your face in the laboratory again?”

“Yes,” he muttered grumpily. “Dragon’s blood boiling with ashwinder eggs and lacewing larvae does not make a good shampoo, even as an unintentional one. We were trying to make a longer-lasting Polyjuice, and Nicolas accidentally knocked a vial of sulfur into my cauldron.”

“That explains the yellow,” I sniffed, “and the unidentifiable smell. And not even Nicolas could fix it?”

Albus rolled his eyes. “Nicolas wants to see how long it will last.”

“He would.” I smiled and touched one of the curls on Albus’ cheek. “I think I just might get used to waking up next to this rather than the auburn I’m used to.”

“Auburn.” He laughed. “Sounds like I set my hair on fire, which, if you remember right, I have not done.”

I scowled. “If you’re talking about that cauldron explosion in fifth year…”

“What else?”

“… you know that wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh? Did someone else put magnesium dangerously close to your flame? Which caught on fire and blew sky-high?”

I sighed. “I’m not going to be able to win this one, am I?”

“No.” Albus seemed inordinately happy for someone who had managed to turn his hair blond.

“I should resign myself to that.”

“Most certainly.”

I walked over to my favorite of the plush purple chairs in the sitting room and sank into it. The cold had aggravated the ache in my knees and fingers. Albus seemed to know what I was thinking, and followed me, taking one of my hands in his and manipulating the joints.

Ow. You don’t realize how much wear and tear your joints get until they start to hurt. I think my use of the electricity didn’t help, but I’ve been stiff for a while. At least there is some kind of relief here.

I sighed, and looked into his captivating blue eyes, his handsome face. “These curls make for an interesting change.”

“Yes.”

“No one in your family has ever been blond?”

“No, not that I can remember. Ari’s hair is more of a strawberry,” here he grimaced, “closer to my former color than to my current color.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

The hand that wasn’t easing the stress on my knuckles reached to brush some of my hair out of my eyes. “You need a haircut,” he said, smiling. “Your hair has always been this color?”

“Mud brown?” I snorted. “Yes.”

“Mud? No. Somewhere between bistre and raw umber on Henry’s palette.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Oh course. Our painting is divine, and I wanted to know what made it that way.”

“Henry did, of course.” I rubbed at my beard. “Even if I have more grey hairs than you.”

“A lot of things can cause grey hair.”

“I was thinking that if I wasn’t careful I would turn into a monochromatic painting. Grey eyes, grey hair, greying skin, grey clothes…”

Albus frowned. “That’s odd to think of.”

“My first impression was ‘funny’, not odd.”

“I’ve always said your sense of humor itself was odd.”

“But you love me anyway.”

Cures for joint pain: hot baths, massages, aspirin, and kissing. That last part may just be me, though.