Dreamwalk Blue: The Solitude Sessions

Session 2: Stormy Weather

If you don't come tonight
Think you'll give me a fright
Tell you what I will do
I'll put on my best gown
And go painting this town
Baby, I don't cry over you


England was rainy, grey and slightly disappointing upon their return.

It was the second week of September and they'd arrived two days earlier at Southampton. No one met them at the dock - not that June had really expected anyone to - and Hayden had hired a car to take them back to London.

"Might as well end this adventure in style," he'd said, heaving her steamer trunk into the boot himself. "Unless you'd rather just disappear with a wink and a pop...?"

"Not at all. Let's make a proper end of it."

The truth was, now that they were back, she wasn't really in any sort of hurry to be home.

But eventually they had arrived home, with rain falling outside and the lights somewhat suspiciously low inside Hayden's townhouse.

"More brandy?" he asked, waving the decanter in her general direction.

"No, Hayden, thank you."

"Marry me?"

"No, Hayden, but thank you," she said placidly, taking a sip from her glass.

"Next Tuesday, then?"

"Next Tuesday," she agreed. "Assuming, of course, that you still want to ask."

"Anything could happen, of course, but I'm rather sure I will want to ask."

They were already at four Tuesdays and counting. She kept expecting him to get bored and find another way to needle her, but it hadn't happened yet.

"I think I might go to Hogwarts tomorrow," she said suddenly, unsure what made her voice the thought aloud.

"Really?" Hayden raised an eyebrow. "Well, I thought you might want to at some point, but this seems awfully soon. Don't you think?"

"I think- I think I ought to just get it over with. Face him and see what happens."

"Now see here," he said, vacating his chair and coming to kneel in front of her. "Go see him if you must," he took her hands in his, "but don't you dare apologize for doing what you thought was the right thing for you."

"Hayden-"

"Promise me, darling."

She managed a smile. "I think you want him to toss me out on my ear."

He didn't smile back. "Never," he said seriously. "I don't understand why you want him, but you do. All I want, my darling, is for you to finally be happy. If that means old Dumbledore, then so be it."

*

For the first time in his life, Albus had begun to question his fitness to teach. The world had lost some of its blurred edges, some of the distance it had held for him since Albania, and that was good. He felt more like himself than he had since Jack's death, though that wasn't really saying much. His students, though, remained at a far remove from him. He couldn't reach them; didn't understand them. Their young lives, full of possibility and hope for the future, were completely alien to him.

He hid it well -- at least, he hoped he did -- but he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on.

It was a Thursday, late in the afternoon, with rare fall sunlight slanting in through the windows of his office. A shadow crossed the open doorway, blocking out some of the light, but he chose to ignore it, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and go away.

"Hello, Albus," June said, and brought the world crashing down around him.

It was a moment before he could regain his composure. When he did, all he could find to say was, "Why are you here?"

She sat down across the desk from him. "I thought we might have a talk."

"What on earth could we possibly have to talk about?"

She looked undeniably lovely, much as he'd imagined. He tried not to think about all the dreams he'd had about her while she'd been gone. He thought instead about all the letters he'd written to her, filled with bitter words, burned instead of sent.

"I understand that you're angry, but I'm not going to apologize for leaving. What I did was the best thing for both of us."

"Something you decided all by yourself," he said bitterly. "How convenient."

"You weren't in any shape to-"

"What is it you want, exactly?" he interrupted.

"I just-" She watched him intently. "I wanted to know how things stand between us."

"You want to know how things stand?" He laughed sharply. "Then know this: I'm through, June. I'm done with you."

"All right."

That stopped him for a moment. She noticed.

"Did you think I was going to cry? Beg? Make a scene? Did you really think it never occurred to me that you might not want me back? I'd have to be a fool." Her voice didn't even waver.

"You're so damned cold," he said suddenly, surprising even himself. But it was true, and it was the thing he hated most about her. Even now, with her heart's blood all over his office floor, she wouldn't show it. Couldn't.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and balled her hands into fists to stop them shaking. "I'm sorry, Albus. I shouldn't have come here. It was selfish, and a mistake."

She stood.

"I wanted- I wanted to see whether we could fix things between us. I want you to forgive me, but I can see that's going to take some time."

"So that's how this is going to be?" He stood as well, leaning over the desk, emphasizing his height advantage. She took a tentative step back. "You get to be the martyr? You left me, while I was injured and grieving, to go on holiday, to circle the globe with another man... and you expect... what? Pity? You are incredible."

"That is not how it happened at all. Hayden hardly qualifies as 'another man'..."

"I'm not blind, June."

"If I wanted to be with him, I'd be with him. I wanted you. I loved you, I couldn't stop loving you." Her voice finally broke. "I tried to run away. I tried to put this all behind me because I thought it was better, but I can't-"

He couldn't listen to this anymore. If he let her keep speaking, he'd say something or do something he'd regret.

"Go," he said, coming out from behind the desk and taking her by the arm. "This isn't- Just go."

June tried to twist out of his grasp and he had the perverse pleasure of seeing her wince in pain.

"Please-"

"Stop," he said. "Leave. Now."

He released her and she stumbled toward the door without looking back at him again.

He fled as well, shaken by his own anger, shaken by the lack of control he had over his emotions since Albania. He walked; he didn't run, but he had to get out, away, heading blindly toward the trees at the edge of the grounds as he'd done just once before. He'd been very young then, cut to the bone by his father's disapproval over some trivial school matter. At the time, it had seemed like the end of the world. At the time, June had followed after him, cleaned his puffy, red face with her crisp white handkerchief and told him exactly where she thought his father ought to go.

That miserable old bastard. You're going to become twice the man he is, and he hates you for it. That's all it is.

"Hello, Albus," a voice said, just as he reached the tree-line. "You look ghastly... not that that's anything new."

Professor Ivey was sitting behind her greenhouses, smoking a cigarette. She scooted over, inviting him to sit. He hesitated and she gave him an appraising look, one that said she had his number and wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"Hello, Brionne." He sat beside her, a bit reluctantly. "Ghastly?"

"Ghastly," she confirmed, fumbling in the crisp, white jacket she wore over her dress. After a moment, she held her cigarette case out to him.

"I don't usually..."

"Take it."

He did, and managed to cough only a little when she lit the cigarette for him.

"One would think you put nothing but bubbles in that pipe of yours," She paused, cocking her head. "You don't...?"

"I don't. I've just never much liked cigarettes. Pipe smoke is entirely different."

"I suppose," she said, not sounding particularly convinced.

They sat in silence for a moment. Brionne's shoulders slumped forward slightly as she smoked. Albus inhaled and thought longingly of the bottle of whiskey he had hidden in a drawer back in his rooms. Perhaps it would dull the edges a little.

"It will get better, you know," she said, exhaling and turning to look at him.

"What will?"

"Everything," she said and gestured expansively with her cigarette.

"You don't even know what's wrong with me."

"You're right. I don't, but it doesn't matter. Not much, anyway." She paused. "I've three brothers, you know, in London. One was too young for the fighting, but the other two..." She inhaled again. "At first, I was just so relieved that they came back alive. Now, of course, I realize that things are significantly more complicated than that."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. The only reason I mention it is because it means I do have some idea what you're going through."

"I didn't go to war."

"Not in the usual way, perhaps, but I know the signs."

"The signs?"

"Of shellshock. It's far more common than most people are likely to admit, so there's no use going all manly and stoic."

Albus smiled slightly, in spite of himself. "I assure you, I had no such plan."

"There's talk, of course, about you and Jack Seward and that dark wizard in Albania. But no one knows what actually happened." She stubbed out her cigarette.

"What talk?"

"Well, I hear they're going to give you a medal for it."

That was news to Albus, but it didn't seem all that farfetched.

"And I've heard Seward is dead, though with fellows in his line one can never be sure..."

"He's dead," Albus said bluntly. "Make no mistake."

Brionne was watching him intently. "Well, I thought it might be something like that. I'm sorry you had to see it." She paused. "There's no potion or pill or magic herb that will cure this, Albus, but it will get better. You just need to talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me. Just somebody."

He sighed. "That's the trouble, though, isn't it? There isn't anyone left that I can talk to. Not about this."

Brionne leaned over and took him firmly by the wrist. "Then find someone... before it eats you up anymore than it already has."

*

The Welsh Green was a dive, the sort of wizard pub that had been around as long as anyone could remember -- and looked it. It was the sort of place plainly designed to appeal to those serious about their drinking, and tonight June was quite serious about getting seriously drunk.

"Scotch rocks," she said to the kid behind the bar, who looked too young to drink in the place let alone serve the drinks.

She lit a cigarette and leaned back on the barstool, knowing that this was exactly the wrong way to deal with her problems and not caring for once.

"You okay, lady?" the bartender asked, sliding her drink across the bar.

"Why do you ask?"

"You don't exactly look like our usual sort of clientele," the kid said, giving her a once over.

June downed her scotch and turned to look at the pub's other patrons. There were a half-dozen working-class wizards in one corner, a group of kids barely out of Hogwarts toasting pints of bitter in another and several lonely-looking souls who'd clearly been at the bar since morning.

"I suppose I am a bit out of my element," she said and signaled for another drink.

"You aren't the first, though usually we only get your type in here when something really horrible has happened to them."

"I don't about horrible exactly, but I do feel pretty rotten."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not especially," she said, draining her glass in one go. "Just keep pouring drinks, and you and I will get along just fine."

By sunset, she was completely blotto.

"Listen, miss," the bartender said kindly. "I don't think you ought to have anymore." He paused, as though expecting her to protest. When no objection was forthcoming, he added, "Can I call someone for you? Someone who can come to take you home?"

She laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it all, and then gave him a name. It seemed only mere moments before he was there.

"Now, then, what's this?" Hayden said softly, appearing out of nowhere and taking the seat beside her.

"Am I ever glad to see you," the bartender said.

"June," Hayden chucked a fist under her chin and turned her face toward his, "What happened? As though I couldn't guess..." He turned to the bartender. "What on earth has she been drinking? Turpentine?"

"Take your pick, mister," he replied, sweeping a hand over the neatly-lined bottles. "I think she's had a bit of each.

"I should never have gone to see him..." she began, and found she couldn't make the rest of the words come.

"Now, now, darling. You've still got me," he said gamely, attempting to smile. He picked her up, and she buried her face against his neck and began to cry softly. "Yes, I know. Not really a consolation prize, is it?"

In no time at all, they were stumbling up the steps to Hayden's townhouse. He half-carried, half-dragged, her into the bedroom without even bothering to turn up the lights.

"June? Come on, off with this." He chuckled softly. "I think this is the first time I've ever undressed a woman with purely honorable intentions." A pause. "Well, mostly honorable."

In spite of herself, June began to laugh.

"Now that's better. Here, you'd best put this on."

He let go of her briefly to get something from the dressing table and the floor tilted dangerously away from her again. She grabbed wildly at him and he helped her gently back to sit on the bed.

"There now. I won't let you fall." He pulled something soft over her shoulders and began doing up the buttons. "These will probably be too large for you, but I'm not in the habit of keeping ladies clothing on hand." Another pause. "At least, not anything that would be appropriate to the occasion."

Finally she was able to lie back on the soft pillows. Hayden pulled the covers up over her, tucking them beneath her chin, and took up position in an overstuffed chair in the corner.

"Good night, darling," he said, and didn't leave.

*

Albus was by nature an early riser. He liked the silence in the castle before the students were awake. He liked to sit and read by the lake, or grade papers in the quiet morning hours in his office. That morning, however, his solitude was broken by a sharp and insistent knocking on his office door.

"I say, old boy... I know you're in there," a familiar voice called from the corridor.

He got up from his desk, wondering what exactly he'd done to deserve this, and let Hayden Fairborne in.

"Here at Hogwarts, a closed office door is generally considered a polite cue that the occupant is not receiving visitors..."

Hayden waved the words away, looking around the office with undisguised curiosity.

"Nonsense. I came all this way to talk to you."

"Whatever for? I always imagined you were the sort who never got up before eleven."

"Learn something new every day, don't you?" Hayden said coolly and flung himself into the chair across from Albus' desk.

"I asked you what you want..."

"Oh, thanks. I'm just fine. No coffee for me."

Albus sighed heavily. "Would you like something?"

Hayden brightened. "Well, now that you mention it, I could use some refreshment. Maybe a spot of tea? A scone or two?"

Albus rang a bell, calling for one of the house elves to bring tea.

"All right. Now, what do you want?"

Hayden looked up, surprised. "I'm here to talk about June, of course. All the evidence at hand indicates that you've chucked her."

"Why do you care? I'd always gotten the impression that you didn't particularly like me."

"I don't. But I like June, and she's unhappy. When she's unhappy, so am I -- and that really puts me all out of sorts... Oh, hello there, little fellow."

A tiny house elf ran between them, carrying a tray laden with scones with jam and a giant silver tea service.

"I'm a bit in love with her," he said off-handedly, picking up a cup of tea. "I have been for rather awhile, as a matter of fact."

This admission was not entirely unexpected, and Albus said so.

"I suppose I haven't been exactly subtle about it, have I?" Hayden said, looking a bit chagrined. "Nevertheless, it's you she loves."

"You don't understand..."

"Oh, I understand perfectly." He crossed his arms over the lapels of his well-cut jacket. "She hurt you badly, and now you want to punish her. Well, good job of it, old boy. She's miserable."

"Is she? Well, I'm sure you can think of a way to take her mind off it. Perhaps another tour of West Indies would do the trick..."

"We never actually made it that far," Hayden murmured, the slightest of smiles playing around his lips.

The fragile hold Albus had on his patience failed him abruptly. "Oh, just get out."

"Wait a minute-"

He grabbed Hayden by one sleeve, and propelled him toward the door. "Out. Go home. Tell her I've already forgotten all about her. Tell her to get on with her life already."

"You may regret it," Hayden said mildly, tugging his sleeve from Albus' grasp.

"I don't. I won't."

"Come on now... Can't we all be adults about this?"

He slammed the door in Hayden's face.

"Well, I guess not," came the reply from the other side.

*

The bed was enormous, the sheets robin's egg blue and expensive. June sat up, the too-long sleeves of Hayden's tailored pajamas slopping untidily over her hands.

"Back in the land of the living, are we?"

She turned and found herself looking directly into a pair of hazel eyes: the man himself.

Hayden was sitting beside her, fully dressed and atop the coverlet, holding a tray. "Breakfast," he said, "and a hair or two of the dog that bit you."

"Oh, Hayden. No. That sounds dreadful."

He ignored her and poured champagne into her orange juice. "It will help. Now be a good girl and take your medicine."

"About last night-" she began.

"I'm one step ahead of you." He wasn't looking at her. "The less said, the better."

"I was dreadful. I'm so sorry."

"No apologies. These things do happen, though rarely to you. Now if you were to make a habit of trying to drown your unhappiness in expensive Finnish vodka..."

"Don't say 'vodka,'" she said, feeling suddenly very ill.

"It was, at least, a rather nice bottle." He smiled, though it didn't quite reach all the way to his eyes.

"What is it? There's something else."

"Nothing that can't wait until you've finished your eggs. I've had the kitchen make a stout country breakfast for you. It ought to help." He stood. "Breakfast, and then I'll have Michael draw you a nice hot bath and see about some fresh clothes for you."

June ate as much as she could stand, though she had to admit that the champagne eased the ache in her head a bit - not that it was a remedy she was going to make a habit of. Not that her behavior from the night before was something she was going to make a habit of.

When she emerged from her bath, Hayden's valet Michael was waiting for her. His posture was poker-straight and his expression entirely neutral, though she thought she could sense a bit of empathy for her plight.

"Feeling better, miss?" he asked.

"Much," she said. "Thank you."

He indicated a tiny, glass bottle with an ornate quartz stopper. He'd brought the bottle in on a tray along with a pitcher of water.

"If I might be so bold as to suggest..." He pulled out the stopper and tipped a few drops of a thick pink liquid into her water glass. "I think this might improve your situation considerably."

She drank it, and felt better almost immediately.

"Michael, you really are a treasure. Does Hayden pay you enough?"

"I am more than adequately compensated for my services," he said, though with the faintest hint of an amused smile. "Now, Mr. Fairborne is waiting for you downstairs."

She found Hayden in the morning room, drinking black coffee and frowning darkly at the morning edition of The Daily Prophet. He brightened when he saw her, though.

"Hello, my darling. Back to normal, I take it? You look as fresh and lovely as ever."

"I'm better, thank you." She sat, accepting a cup of coffee. "I suppose I ought to tell you what happened yesterday. After all, you-"

"He's very angry with you..." Hayden said, glancing back down at the paper," and with himself, I think."

"And you know this because...?"

"I went to see him."

She set her cup down. "Hayden-"

"It's done." He folded the paper. "So no use protesting. He kicked me out unceremoniously, incidentally. But not before he made it very clear that he's not in any condition to be making important decisions about his own life." He reached out and took her hand. "Don't fret, darling. All's not lost."

Somehow, though, June didn't feel comforted.

She thought about sending Albus a note, to see if Hayden's visit had persuaded him to speak to her - even if only to express his displeasure at Hayden's stunt. Somehow, though, when she went to put ink to paper no words would come.

Instead, late that afternoon, she sat by her fireplace and hoped he'd answer when he heard her voice.

Much to her surprise, Albus wasn't in his office. Someone was, though.

"Oh, hello," she said.

Brionne Ivey looked up from a stack of papers she was filing away. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry. I was looking for Albus. Maybe I have the wrong-"

"No, you're in the right spot. I'm afraid Albus isn't here. He's taken a few days to visit an old family friend." She looked sympathetic. "He asked me to put a few of his things in order."

"Oh, I see. Do you have any idea when...?"

"I'm sorry. I don't." She came over and sat beside the hearth. "You and I don't know each other well, so maybe it's not my place, but... He'll be back, and when he does come back, I think it will be better for both of you."

She smiled, and June managed to smile back.

*

Albus hadn't been to France since the end of the war. Mundane travel was still somewhat dangerous: razor wire, collapsing embankments and unexploded bombs posed threats to travelers on foot. Still, once he reached the Luberon valley he decided to walk. The long valley road wound through vineyards and fields of lavender, dotted occasionally with tiny village markets and stone chapels.

He wasn't alone on the road. His fellow travelers were displaced or searching, some shellshocked, some hoping to find missing friends or relatives safe in the countryside.

On his third morning on the road, Albus stopped in a small village market to buy fresh bread and cheese. As he was paying with the unfamiliar money, he stopped a moment to take note. There was something new on the air, something familiar. Old magic had been done here, and just the shadow of it was left.

He walked the rest of the day, until, just before sunset, he came upon a house. It was fully visible from the road, though set back away from it, at the foot of a southern-facing slope. There was something about the house, though, that caused one's gaze to slide right off it, to wander to the hills to the west, to drift back to the road.

This had to be it. Forcing his attention back to the house with an effort, he left the main road and headed toward it.

The house stood at the end of a dirt lane lined with washed white stones, just beyond an old but well-tended cherry orchard. On the slope behind the farmhouse, old vine Cabernet Sauvignon grew between newer plantings of Grenache and Syrah grapes. An old man sat on the veranda facing the vineyard grounds. He appeared to be dozing lightly over a thick book.

"Hello, Nicholas," Albus said, coming up the path to the veranda steps.

"Albus?" Nicholas Flamel said, looking up from his book and blinking. "It's certainly been a long time."

"It has." Albus wasn't quite sure how warm his welcome would be. Nicholas had taken some pains to hide himself and his wife. "You've fashioned yourself a rather nice retirement here," he paused, "though perhaps a bit beneath your skills..."

"The making of wine is alchemy at its most complex," Nicholas said, smiling out at the neat rows of vines, "and it's not as though I have need of any more silver or gold."

"I wasn't sure whether to come, whether I'd be welcome."

"You're always welcome, Albus," Nicholas stood, "though it's true that we've decided to hide ourselves away from the world. We have our wine, our books, each other. We're happier this way. The world was becoming too much for us, things as they are."

"Things are better now."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Are they? Well, perhaps you'd best come inside and we'll choose a nice bottle to go with a discussion of current events."

He led Albus inside the house, through a large library, one that rivaled the library at Hogwarts. The room was lined, floor to ceiling, with books, many of them so old they were hand-scribed.

"We've cellared a few nice bottles, just in case anyone that we care to see comes calling."

At this, Albus relaxed a little. Nicholas swung open a section of bookcase to reveal stairs leading down into the darkness of a wine cellar.

"Your father always wanted to make wine," he said conversationally, leading the way with surprising agility for a man of his apparent age. "Did you know that?"

"I didn't."

"I imagine there's a fair amount about him that you didn't know. He didn't make it easy, for you in particular. He was a good man, though, and a good friend."

Before Albus could reply to this, Nicholas was skimming his fingers along the racks of wine bottles, brushing away dust here and there and muttering softly to himself. Looking, apparently, for a particular bottle.

"Ah, here it is. I've a nice Grenache rosé." He pulled a bottle out of the rack. "It should be right up your alley." He started back up the steps. "Come sit and have a glass. We'll talk about whatever it is that's brought you so far."

The sun was beginning to dip below the vineyard slopes when they emerged from the house. Nicholas poured a splash of wine in Albus's glass and settled himself back in his chair.

"I would have thought," he began, waving a hand at the wine glass, "that you would've come to see me sooner."

Albus dutifully swirled the wine around his glass and took a taste.

"It's lovely. Thank you."

Nicholas nodded approvingly and poured them each a fairly sturdy glass of the rosé.

"I heard about that unfortunate business in Albania. As much as anyone's heard, I suppose. We may be a bit remote from things here, but some news still gets through." He paused. "Is that what you're here to talk about?"

"I don't know, really." Albus raised his glass absently, still looking out over the hills. "I got some advice recently from someone whose opinion I value. She told me to seek out someone I trust, someone I can talk to."

"She, is it?"

"It's not anything like that. She's an old and very dear friend."

"But there is a woman," Nicholas said, looking at him shrewdly. "But that's only part of the problem."

"There is a woman," Albus admitted, "and I can't tell where she ends and the rest of it begins."

"A very old and very common problem."

"I'd loved her since we were children, and now... Now I can't even look at her face for fear of what I might do."

"Another man?"

"Not exactly. Not- Well, I hope not."

"It sounds as though you've known her long enough to judge whether she would do such a thing-"

"All this war and fighting has changed everyone. I don't even know myself anymore."

Nicholas said nothing, looking thoughtful, and simply refilled their glasses.

"I've known her almost as long as I can remember," Albus continued. "Our parents had been friendly since their school days. We played together as children, went on holiday together, went to school together." He shook his head. "My father actually never liked her much," he added wryly.

"A bit of rebellion on your part then, perhaps?" Nicholas seemed to consider a moment. "You never would have talked like this with your father, would you?"

"No, I don't suppose I would have."

"And yet you've come to me, one of his oldest friends."

"I couldn't think of anywhere else to go," Albus admitted.

"Because of the other matter, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. There aren't many people I'd feel comfortable sharing that story with. The real story, anyway. Not the one they want to pin a medal on me for."

"What is the real story?"

"I thought I was rather clever; thought I was onto one of the great secrets of our age."

"Were you?"

"Not in the way I thought. I had it all backwards. I cocked it up and got a brave man, a good friend, killed because of it."

Nicholas nodded, as though he already knew all this. "And what of the boy? Is he what you thought he was?"

"Worse. I underestimated him."

"And Grindelwald?"

"He got exactly what was coming to him. He was as bad as we'd feared..."

"But?"

"But by removing him, I think I've opened the door for something much worse."

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, pressing his hands together thoughtfully. "That's often the way of it."

"You say that as though this has happened before..."

"It has, and will again... and over again. I've seen it in all my long years and expect to continue seeing it in each generation."

"Then there's nothing to stop it?"

"I didn't say that," he said kindly, "just that I don't think you're the one to stop it. The responsibility isn't yours, Albus. You did what you thought best, as many others have over the generations. Continue to do what you think is best, and you may have the opportunity to help put things to rights."

And that seemed to be that, as far as Nicholas was concerned.

"For now, my young friend, I would suggest that you put your own house in order."

"How can I? I don't even know myself anymore," he said again. "I don't know what I want; I don't see any hope in the future."

Nicholas looked at him with sympathy. "There's always hope, Albus," he said quietly.

"I can't see it," he replied, quickly, dismissively. "I don't seem to even want anything anymore." He paused. "There are just two things I can remember truly wanting since I was a boy: her affection and my father's approval."

"But you're not a boy anymore. You need to let go of those things, you need to allow yourself to grow up. Your father is gone, and this girl may be as well."

Feeling a bit shamed, Albus said nothing.

"You have to find a way forward," Nicholas said, "no matter what's past."