"What are the chances of us brewing some more?" Albus asked as he rested his chin on Gellert's shoulder.
"Unlikely. Most of my potions take anything from two weeks to a month to brew right. Anything that brews quicker won't last more than five minutes with the way your brother fights it."
Albus coughed and tried to swallow back his rising guilt he could feel the heat in his cheeks as he snuggled closer to Gellert.
"I've never met anyone that can knock back extra strength Cappult's sleeping draught and not end up passed out for two days straight." Gellert laughed and shook his head. " I can't think of any potion that will do the job, so I guess we are stuck with spells. Although it might be better if you do them, I'm a little...heavy-handed. You do want him to wake up right? "
Albus hesitated long enough for Gellert to raise a questioning eyebrow, which made him cough and look away. "He's my brother, I'm obligated.." He sighed in defeat and flopped down on Gellert's bed.
"He's not making it easy is he?" Gellert tucked a lock of Albus's auburn hair behind his ear, nudging his glasses. His affections for Albus calming the rage that was slowly burning in his gut.
As if on cue a wailing shriek filled the air of the cramped bedroom as Albus pulled out his pocket watch as if he had been scalded. "Got to go?" Gellert said before Albus could open his mouth, he hadn't intended for it to come out in such a cold tone but there wasn't much of an opportunity to apologise. Albus was out of the door before his heat muddled brain had registered his insult.
Like the many episodes that had preceded this one, Albus was forced to stay away for a couple of days, their only communications delivered via owl. It gave him too much time to think, to question what he was doing and what was the right answer. His desire to find the hallows burned ever strong, but there was a new fire that burned for Albus that was competing for oxygen. His focus shifted between them like a tennis ball in a championship final, making him feel a little sick. He couldn't decide, and that sensation wasn't one he was familiar with.
Questions like this would have been fielded on his confidant, his Grandfather, a wizened man who had always listened and offered up his sound advice. The man hadn't been phased by Gellert's feelings for another boy, he had threatened to disown his son, should Gellert's father not react appropriately to the news. It was the sound of strength and support that Gellert had needed to counter his doleful mother.
The thought stung him, in the way only thoughts of her could. He pushed her cold words from his ears, shaking them off and walking out of the room to put as much distance from her ghostly presence as he could. He needed to focus on the plan, find something that might push Albus into giving up on his troublesome brother and join him on the journey of a lifetime.
Before he knew it he was back in the library, wandering among the newly organised shelves, his eyes working without conscious thought. With his eyes firmly on the shelves, his foot collided with something heavy and metallic, causing him to pinwheel dramatically as he tried to save his head from the pointed corner of a neighbouring bookcase. Cursing in the three languages he was fluent in and two he only had a limited vocabulary of he clamped a hand over his bleeding scalp and hopped wildly on the foot that didn't have re-broken toes.
Once able to stand he picked up the offending item, an innocuous-looking brass box, and was about to throw it when the catch unlocked. The lid dropping and bashing him in the back of the head as papers fell like snowflakes.
As the stars slowly faded from his eyes he could make out that there was more than paper at his feet. A couple of photographs stood out amongst the torn notebook pages and letters. He recognised the small boy beaming up at him from atop a small thestral as himself, the memory of the day gone. The other photograph was much older, the corners dog-eared and stained by time. He could just make out the stones of an ancient henge in the background before the two figures came into view, his grandfather and Bathilda no older than their mid-twenties.
He snorted with laughter at their hairstyles and clothes, so much so that his aunt stormed out of the photograph. One of the papers beside him shifted, enough for him to see it was a folded letter, curious he put down the photo and picked it up. He wasn't sure if he should read it, but couldn't stop himself either.
Dear Bathilda,
I am placing my trust in you to keep this safe. It is a gift for Gellert to have when he is ready. I fear that my own son might be persuaded to keep it from him for too long, or worse destroy it and I know that you are an advocate of preserving history for the next generation (even if you debate its authenticity).
As you know I have been researching a legend for many years and Gellert has enjoyed helping me with it, as you know he is nearing the age when he can start taking on the quest if he desires. Feel free to use my notes to garnish any book you may have in the works, but all originals should pass to his hand when you are sure he has taken up the quest. By this point, I hope that he has finished school and is equipt to deal with all the challenges he will be sure to face along the way.
I wish I could explain this to him all myself, to be there to answer all the questions he will undoubtedly have, but alas it seems that my time on this earth is to be cut short. I have included as much detail as my failing body will allow, and I hope that you may help him should he ask for it.
All my love,
James
Gellert stared at the paper for a long time, his eyes strained on the shaky handwriting until they started to water. The scrawling nature, along with the tone of the words told him that it must have been written in his grandfather's final weeks, it may have even been the last correspondence he wrote. A lump caught in his throat.
Setting the letter down he started to scan the mess of paper and parchment for any hope. The next two sheets he picked held out more promise, even if the dark red ink immediately made him think of congealed blood.
It was a statement taken from a Native American tribal Elder who had witnessed the influence of the 'white man's' magic upon his land. It told of a white man who despite being offered the chance to learn 'wandless' magic, treasured his magic stick more than anything else. The elder had noted that he slept with it in an 'unnatural' manner, stoking it and grasping it tightly in his sleep, unable to accept the native teaching that the gift of magic comes from within.
"It went to America? The new world... Is it still there?" Gellert was feverish with panic, travelling in Europe was one thing, but the Americas would bring trouble. He was on his hands and knees searching through the oddments of paper looking for hope.
The answer was again written in dark red ink, this one more scrawled than any of the others, showing the haste with which it had been written.
Thibault Shroder - Nephew of Dr Shroder, Medical Advisor to her Majesty Queen of England.
After being employed for many years and successfully bringing multiple healthy royal babies into the world, despite the odds of the time and the health issues affecting both parents, left employment after failing to prevent the death of Prince Albert.
Treasonous statements- not to be written as they might bring bad luck to those that hold them in possession, but obvious signs that magical or occult practices might have been used. A wand mentioned, along with a cloak 'to stave of death', as yet unsubstantiated, meeting to be confirmed...
His head hurt from struggling to read it and trying to work out what was too risky to be written. His heart howled for one last moment with his grandfather, to ask him what was said and if he truly believed there was any truth in the matter. He decided that if he should find the stone first that might be what he asked him, even though he held little interest in it otherwise.
Forcing himself up from the floor was hard work, especially considering he had forgotten to fix his broken toes that screamed in protest as he wrenched himself upwards. Tears filled his eyes, he blinked them away, unsure if it was due to his toes or down to the fact his grandfather had left a gaping wound to his heart.
"Episky," he mumbled, watching his toes pop back into the correct position. He snatched up his box and it's contents from the floor and tucked it under his arm. The room felt alien to him again, like he was no longer welcome between its shelves, it had given up its secrets and there was nothing left to give.
He shuffled slowly back to his room and flopped face-first onto the bed, not seeing the owl on the window sill. Instead, he let all the emotion pour out onto the pillow. Saturating every fibre with its rawness until he was left feeling tired and empty.
Sleep was filling the void when he heard a low hoot that pulled him back. It repeated a few times as he fought off the waves that made it almost impossible to open his eyes. "Okay...Okay, I'm awake," he put out a hand to grab the paper from the owl's leg but it jumped sideways. "Come on now, you wanted me awake, so give me the blasted letter."
The owl shot him an incredulous look but held out the leg for him to untie it.
Dear Gellert,
The time has come for the truth, I can continue the charade no longer. Come to the house and know my secrets, then decide if I am still the great man you thought I was.
Follow Lagunas if you get stuck.
Albus
Any trace of sleep evaporated at that moment. "Is this real?" he whispered looking towards the proud tawny owl who hooted in reply nodding enthusiastically. Shooting a glance at the brass box he decided to tuck it under the bed rather than risk taking it with him, Albus would be sure to trust his word, and could easily come over if he needed to see them.