The Potent but Terrible Solution

The next day was Saturday, happily, and after dealing with a few Gryffindor House problems--in which the main difficulty had been keeping a suitably stern expression through Jason Broome's explanation of just how he'd ended up hanging from the ceiling of the fifth-year girls' dormitory with a banana in one hand and a fish in the other--Albus was able to turn his full attention to the matter of his replacement.

Or substitute, rather; he was trying to stay optimistic, but twelve wizards and witches were weighing heavily on his mind, and a night's sleep had done nothing for the problem of blunting the edge of Grindelwald's Sight. Albus reminded himself sternly that there was no shorter road to defeat than to believe one's self defeated, and set about considering candidates.

One came to mind almost immediately. Very young, true--only a few years out of Hogwarts, in fact, which would undoubtedly raise more than a few eyebrows. But in forty years as Transfiguration master at Hogwarts he had had no student more gifted--and although he himself had been both prefect and Head Boy in his turn, years ago, it had taken him years as a professor to learn when and how to effectively discipline his students. Discipline seemed to come as naturally to this candidate as breathing,

Besides, he thought mischievously, it would raise more than a few eyebrows. He checked the time, then took a pinch of powder from the little jar on his mantel and tossed it into his fire, which roared up.

"Minerva McGonagall," he said clearly. Proper enunciation was as important for this as it was for Floo powder, a near relative. After a moment, his prize student's head appeared in the fire.

"Yes? Oh, Professor Dumbledore!" The young woman favored him with one of her all-too-rare smiles. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You have not been my student for four years, Minerva; call me Albus, won't you?"

"Sorry, Pr--that is, Albus." She colored faintly. "It still seems strange. Is there something I can do for you?"

Albus smiled. "First, accept my congratulations; I understand you recently completed your Animagus training. Well done. You're--what, only the fourth this century?"

"Yes, thank you. It's just wonderful--I swear, I was more often a cat than a human that first day."

"No doubt. It's a remarkable achievement, especially so young. I always knew you'd do well."

"Thank you, sir. Er--you said 'first'; was there something else?"

"Indeed. I'm taking a leave of absence for the rest of term, possibly until the end of the year, for personal reasons, and need to find a substitute Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor. Naturally I thought of you first."

During her seven-year tenure at Hogwarts, Albus had very rarely seen Minerva McGonagall at a loss for words, and had treasured the few times he was able to completely confound her. This proved to be one of those times.

"But--but, Professor, I couldn't possibly--I'm too young, and that's your place, and--oh, no, you're not ill, are you?"

Albus chuckled. "No, no, nothing like that. I have a . . . personal project that demands more of my attention than I can comfortably spare and still keep up with my professional duties."

She blinked. "It must be important."

"It is."

"Well--there's got to be someone better for the job than me, Professor, I mean, the older students still remember when I was a prefect!"

"An excellent point; they're already used to seeing you in a position of authority. I hadn't thought of that, Minerva, thank you."

"Someone with more experience, then! I couldn't possibly teach your classes, I'm--"

"The youngest Animagus in fifty years?"

"Well . . ."

"The young woman who told me once that she could think of no better thing in the world to do than teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts?"

"Now, that's not fair, Professor . . ."

Albus merely raised his eyebrows quizzically.

". . . If you really think I can do it . . ."

"I do indeed. How soon do you think you can start?"

"Oh, well . . . I was talking to the Browns about primary tutoring for their children, but we hadn't settled anything and I'm sure they'll understand . . . I could pack this afternoon and be up to Hogwarts tonight? If that's all right with you, I mean."

Albus laughed. "Tomorrow will be fine, thank you, and not too early. Late morning, perhaps; we can go over lesson plans over lunch, and Gryffindor plays Hufflepuff in the afternoon. I'm sure you've been keeping track of your team, but there's nothing like being in the stands, is there?"

"Nothing except playing. Thank you so much . . . I'll see you tomorrow, then, Professor Dumbledore, I need to pack, and tell Mum, and, oh, everything."

"Then I will see you tomorrow, Professor McGonagall."

Minerva giggled. "Oh, my, that does sound nice. I should go--I have so much to do! You won't regret this, Professor!" She ducked out of the fire, and it died down.

Albus chuckled. Minerva had never needed much encouragement to take on any challenge, and he was rather looking forward to watching her rise to this one. And knowing her, she'd be at Hogwarts in good time for Sunday breakfast; he pulled out his notes for the next week's classes to put them in order.

A squawk from the windowsill drew his attention. He turned to see a large raven, black against the blue sky, a pale envelope pinned under one claw. Albus didn't know anyone who used ravens. It eyed him beadily as he crossed the room, and took off in a confusion of black feathers when he picked up the envelope, which he took back over to his desk and sat down to study.

The parchment was expensive, creamy and smooth, and read simply Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in black ink. Albus let it sit there on his desk for a moment, wondering. Finally, carefully, he picked it up and slit it open with his penknife. The letter within was of an even finer grade of parchment, silky to the touch.

Dear Albus, the letter began, in the same black ink as the envelope. The hand was strong and elegant, patient and confident, and the words made his blood run cold.

Dear Albus,

I hope I may call you Albus; we have never met in person, but you have figured so prominently in my dreams of late that I almost feel I know you. I was, I confess, rather gratified to feel your presence, as I'd almost thought your quaint little island cowed beyond resistance. Dreadfully boring.

As you are a lucky number, however, I hope you won't mind if I set you . . . oh, call it an audition. Your last few countrymen were barely worth the energy to destroy, and I do hope you'll prove better sport.

Please find enclosed a little glimpse of my future.

Cordially,

Grindelwald

Albus had just enough time to notice the odd, whorled sigil beneath the signature, in a different ink, reddish-black with flecks of poisonous green, before it flared to life and the screams of children chased him down into the darkness.