Chapter Thirty-Six

10 June 1979

Albus hesitated for just a second before stepping into the open arms of a beaming Malcolm. As they embraced, he glanced at Minerva over Malcolm's shoulder. Her face would have been inscrutable had he not known her so well. The way her lips pressed tightly together, combined with the hint of pink in her cheeks, told him that she was trying to keep her emotions in check.

And why shouldn't she be emotional? This was her son's wedding, after all.

Their son's wedding.

He still didn't allow himself to think of it too often. Since Minerva's confession, he'd spent considerable time examining his feelings, looking for the requisite emotions. Not finding them, he had been both disappointed and relieved. The concept of having a child remained as abstract as the idea of having a tail, even after Malcolm had confronted him with his newfound knowledge.

"Why?" Malcolm had asked.

Albus's answers...something about caring for Minerva, wanting to give her control over one thing in the obscenity that was her betrothal and marriage, as well as an admission that her request had appealed to his unforgiveable vanity...had been carefully prepared against just this eventuality, and they utterly failed to satisfy Malcolm, who had shaken his head in irritation.

"No. I mean, why did you never tell me?"

"By the time I found out, you were a teenager . . . nearly grown. I didn't think you...or your mother...would appreciate my trying to insinuate myself into your lives in that way at that point."

"You might have asked."

"Perhaps. But by then, you had Alastor. My interference might have soured that for you all. At the very least, it would have complicated things between your mother and him."

"Those are facile answers, Albus," Malcolm said, his steady gaze penetrating, searching for a deeper truth in Albus's face.

And there it was. Yet another moment at which Albus had to decide if the truth about his . . . peculiarity . . . was a better or worser angel. His persona had been meticulously constructed over the years, his frequent musings on the importance of love adding to his legend. How could he say aloud that he, the great and mighty Albus Dumbledore, lacked the ability to wield this most human and powerful of all magics?

It seemed an intolerable admission, more because of Minerva than Malcolm. She'd always held him in such regard, and he couldn't bear to shatter her illusions about him.

It struck him suddenly that he'd been closer to her than to anyone since Gellert, and he nearly laughed aloud at the irony.

He told Malcolm, "You're right. My answers are too easy. But they are all I have. I'm not sure what else you want of me."

"Just the truth."

Malcolm's eyes sought and held Albus's. Albus looked away first.

"I would never ask what you can't give." The steel that had lined Malcolm's earlier words was absent. "You've been good to me and to Mum. I suppose I just wish things had been different. For all of us."

"If wishes were Thestrals, Muggles would fly," Minerva said.

Both men turned to her. She'd been silent after Malcolm had begun what was obviously a rehearsed speech about how he had made the discovery that Albus was his natural father.

Albus chuckled in spite of himself, and she grimaced.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Malcolm gave his mother a tight smile that looked like it had come straight off her own face.

Some of the tension in the room had dissipated, however, and Minerva said, "So everyone knows the truth now."

That his mother had lied about the fate of the man Malcolm had known as his father appeared to trouble Malcolm less than the discovery of his actual paternity, and Albus wondered if perhaps he had had drawn his own conclusions about Macnair's disappearance before Minerva had told him everything.

Well, not quite everything.

Malcolm's story had not included his mother's relations with Petrus Berquier. Albus supposed there were some things she was still not prepared to share with her son, for which he could hardly blame her.

Her son.

Malcolm had gone back to France after their confrontation, and his occasional letters continued as they always had: warm, affectionate even, but Albus was at sixes and sevens when he sat down to try to answer them. His previous easy, avuncular, tone seemed wrong now, somehow, and he had nothing with which to replace it except greater formality.

Yet now, here Albus was, playing a father's role at Malcolm's wedding.

The corner of Minerva's mouth quirked upward when she saw him, still clasped in Malcolm's embrace, looking at her. He returned the smile and stepped back, keeping his hands on Malcolm's forearms.

"I wish you every happiness," he said.

"Thank you. And thank you for standing up with me." Malcolm said.

"It was an honour."

Eliane stood on her tiptoes to kiss Albus on both cheeks in the Gallic fashion.

"I am so happy to have met you at last, Professor," she said. "Thank you for coming to our wedding. It means a great deal to us."

Albus wondered if Malcolm had told her.

Then the other participants in the marriage rite...Minerva, and Eliane's parents, Apolline and Lothaire...exchanged embraces, and the officiant shook the wizards' hands and kissed the witches' cheeks.

The newlyweds then went out to receive the congratulations of the thirty-odd friends and family who had gathered in Eliane's aunt's small garden in the countryside outside Paris to see them married. Albus made pleasant conversation with the officiant as Minerva, Lothaire, and Apolline greeted guests.

When her duties as mother of the groom were completed for the moment, Minerva returned to talk with Albus. A few minutes later, Malcolm and Eliane made their way back to them.

"Have either of you seen Alastor?" Malcolm asked. "I saw him during the ceremony, but he seems to have disappeared."

"I believe he went into the house," Albus told him.

"Probably checking your aunt's wards," Malcolm said to Eliane. She laughed, but Malcolm wasn't smiling.

"Don't make fun, Malcolm," Minerva said.

"I'm not. He always checks the wards wherever he goes. I know some people think he's daft, but I'm not one of them."

"Of course not," Eliane said, and Malcolm kissed her quickly on the corner of the mouth.

A burst of raucous laughter made them turn their heads to where a witch wearing an elaborate hat decorated with bright yellow Fwooper feathers was making expansive gestures with her arms at Glenna McGonagall, who wore a pinched smile.

"Looks like we'd better go rescue Gran from your Tante Clothilde," Malcolm said to Eliane.

Albus watched them clasp hands to cross the garden, as if they were a unit now, two inseparable parts of a whole. It had been a lovely wedding...small, with a short version of the traditional rite, the parents doing the handfasting, followed by this informal reception. Malcolm's happiness was nearly palpable, and Albus was happy for him. Yet, as he watched them, a brief pang of the sort that hadn't troubled him in years gripped him.

But there it was, the old familiar envy.

He automatically brought the iron gate of his will down on the memories that would threaten his sanity.

"Are you all right, Albus?"

He turned to see Minerva's concerned face.

"Fine, my dear, fine," he said patting the hand she had laid on his arm.

/***/

Four hours later, Albus slipped through the door to a shop in Paris's Quartier des Mages after the last customer had left. It must have been charmed to alert the proprietor to visitors, because a voice called from the back room:

"Veuillez vous asseoir sur le canapé. Je reviendrai tout à l'heure. Voulez-vous du café?"

"Merci, non."

Rather than sitting as he'd been bidden, Albus wandered around the small shop, looking at the mannequins, which spun and posed to show off robes in a variety of exquisite colours and fine fabrics. He stopped to admire the delicate embroidery on a set of dress robes and couldn't resist picking up a sleeve to rub a bit of the rich velvet between his thumb and forefinger.

A trim man of middle years, his short hair slicked back and gleaming brown and grey, appeared from the atelier, carrying a cup and Levitating in front of him a bolt of cloth that subtly changed colour as the light hit it from different angles, first appearing cobalt blue, then teal, then azure. It was extraordinarily beautiful, no doubt intended to ensnare a customer at first glance.

"Nous venons de recevoir ce crêpe morocain. C'est..."

The man stopped.

"Dumbledore."

"Hello, Malquin," Albus said, dropping the sleeve he'd been examining. "I was just admiring your work."

"I would not think that one quite to your taste," Malquin said, putting the cup on the counter. The fabric set itself down a safe distance away from potential spills.

"What brings you to Paris?"

"This and that."

Malquin's eyes crinkled, whether in amusement or annoyance, Albus didn't know.

"And to my shop? Is my sister's work no longer up to your standard?"

"Madam Malkin's skills remain unmatched in Britain."

"But not in France."

Albus inclined his head.

"Your skills are unmatched anywhere. Regrettably, I am in need of no new robes at the moment. I merely thought to drop in...a personal call rather than a business one."

"It has been a long time since you have paid me a personal call."

"It has. Too long."

An unspoken question filled the silence.

Albus got his answer when Malquin pulled his wand from its pocket and flipped the window sign over to "fermé". He turned and went into the atelier without another word.

A moment later, Albus followed.

Later, as they sat up in bed in a room that smelled of clean sweat and sex, which neither bothered to charm away, Malquin smoked and spoke of fashion and art, none of which interested Albus much, but he enjoyed watching Malquin's mouth as he spoke. Malquin paused occasionally to draw on his gold-tipped cigarette, allowing the smoke to billow out in a gentle cloud that enveloped the top part of his face like widow's veil. He'd always had the most wonderful lips, the bottom one full and enticing, the top one delicately bowed and very expressive, and as they moved against one another, or pursed around the tip of the cigarette, the effect was hypnotic.

The soft amber light in the room was more flattering to Malquin than was the bright light of the atelier, where Albus had had noticed the signs of age on his copain. But in the bedroom, the inevitable toll of several decades was muted by orange voile curtains and the flickering shadows animated by large tallow candles that sat at each side of the bed. The softer light was no doubt calculated to flatter, Albus thought as he watched Malquin rise from the bed to pull on a dressing gown of copper brocade.

In this setting, it was almost easy to imagine that they were both still the youngish men they'd been when they met, each a peacock in the exotic zoo of beautiful boys that filled the boîtes of 1920s Paris. There had been girls, too, back then, like none Albus had ever met. They were voracious, carnivorous things, Muggle and witch alike, snatching pleasure as if aware that the youth and beauty that bought it were fleeting. They expected sex as part of an evening out the way the witches he'd known at home expected flowers, and Albus, in his long-suppressed need, had been eager enough to oblige, although he'd come to understand that his infatuation with Gellert had not been a one-off.

Malquin had been his first male lover, experienced and somehow less intimidating than the younger boys who might have laughed at Albus's naïveté in matters carnal. They were products of a different time and place, he and Malquin, each with a respect for caution and discretion that the younger men lacked. In Malquin's bed, Albus had been pleased to find that the things he'd learned from the witches he'd been with were, if not perfectly applicable to his newer pursuits, useful nonetheless.

They'd seen one another on a number of occasions in the years since their parting, but the interval since their last assignation had been long enough that the changes wrought by age were impossible to ignore. Arcs had been whittled to angles, and there was softness where once there had been only wide expanses of smooth flesh riding over hard muscle. The shock of seeing Malquin's cock extending from a bush of mostly grey pubic hair had nearly made Albus change his mind about the tryst. Tonight, he didn't wish to be reminded of the grooves time had worn into his life. But when he'd closed his eyes, he could almost imagine them in Malquin's two-room flat in the Rue Cambon, both still relatively unblemished, and he'd carried on.

Their coupling had been less heated than in years past, and Albus felt vaguely unsatisfied. He was only sporadically interested in sex these days, but when he wanted it, he wanted to be overwhelmed, consumed by desire and physical sensation. His lovers had been few since the heady days of Paris and the Continent, but carefully selected for their talent for providing what he needed without asking for more than pleasure and pleasant company in return. Malquin had set the standard.

"I would show you out, but you know the way," Malquin said as he tied the sash to his gown. "I didn't expect the pleasure of your company this evening, and I have another engagement."

"I won't keep you, then," Albus said, rising to gather his clothes from where they'd been carelessly tossed on the floor. Malquin sniffed his disapproval of Albus's treatment of his sister's handiwork.

Watching Albus button his robes, Malquin said, "Salomon is still in the Rue du Bac. You should go to see him. He still talks about you. When he's been drinking."

The little dig made Albus smile.

"I'm not certain I'll have time," he said.

Malquin shrugged.

"Such a busy man! Well, adieu, mon grand. I must prepare for my evening. Let it not be so long until you come to see me next time, eh?"

"No. I'll look in when I'm next in Paris," Albus said, and they both knew it to be a lie.

/***/

"Champagne, Master Alastor?"

A tray with five glasses nudged Alastor's arm gently, and he looked down at Elgar, who was Levitating it. Alastor had never got used to Minerva's elf calling him "master". Truth be told, he'd never got used to her having an elf at all, and he suspected the little fellow knew it, because Alastor had rarely seen him after the first few visits he'd made to the castle to visit her.

"No champagne, thanks," he said. But his natural eye followed the tray as it made its way around the garden even as the magical one whirred around, searching the area for potential threats. He forced himself to look away.

The afternoon had been agony, despite Alastor's gladness at Malcolm's joy. The Frogs had been polite enough, but were obvious about keeping their distance, as if his ugliness were a contagious disease. The elder McGonagalls had sat with him at the ceremony and made a polite attempt at small talk afterwards, but Madam McGonagall let her eyes alight anywhere but on Alastor's face as she asked him about Ireland and pretended to be interested in his answers. Eventually he'd taken pity on her and excused himself to find the bog.

He'd congratulated Minerva after the ritual, an awkward moment in which she'd taken his hand, and his magical eye had run riot over her body, giving him a glimpse of her scanties underneath her robe before he'd been able to stop it, making him flush like a ruddy schoolboy.

His gaze was drawn back to her now, as she took a glass from the proffered tray. She was talking with Eliane's parents, and the smile she gave at something the father said was her genuine one, not the tight little curve of her lips that said she was merely being polite.

She's happy.

Telling Malcolm about his parentage and what had happened to Macnair had done her good. And Merlin knew it had done Malcolm good; it had given him the push to get his girl back. It was madness to hold this wedding in the middle of a war, though. There'd been little DE activity outside Britain, but Alastor wouldn't have come if Malcolm hadn't practically begged him to. Alastor's refusal to hold the fede ring had puzzled Malcolm, and he'd tried to insist, until Alastor had said, "And who's going to be standing guard, making sure your bride and your guests stay safe from what's out there?"

Malcolm had looked as if he were going to say something more, then nodded, and he'd not brought it up again.

Alastor looked over to where Dumbledore sat at a wrought-iron table, deep in conversation with one of the Frogs. It was only right that Dumbledore had presented the ring during Malcolm's marriage rites. He was the boy's true father; it was a fact, even if both of them seemed determined to ignore it.

He heard a step behind him, and his eye whirled around as his hand went to his wand. But it was only Amelia.

"What're you doing standing here all by yourself, Moody?"

"Watching."

"Well, stop it. Go talk to people. I'll maintain constant vigilance for now. I think I can still manage to cast a Protego."

"Not if last week's session was any indicator. I had you laid out on the mat twice, remember?"

"Lucky hits," Amelia said.

"I'm serious. This is no time to let your skills slip, even if you're behind a desk."

"I'm not one of your trainees, Moody."

"No, because if you were, you'd be in the ring more than once a week."

Amelia gave her throaty laugh. "And I'd be on the verge of nervous collapse, like half of them."

"Gotta weed out the ones that are too soft for it. I wouldn't be doing them any favours to let them out there without knowing what they're facing."

"Yes, but ambushing them during their off hours isn't exactly fair tactics."

"And the DEs play fair now, do they? Wait 'till office hours to do their killing?"

The amusement slipped from her face. "No," she said softly.

He was about to go on, but then he remembered.

"Ah, Christ, Amelia. I'm sorry. I forgot for a minute."

"It's all right. I forget for hours at a time now, some days. And then it comes back."

"Especially when some gobdaw puts his boot right in it."

"No worries. And you're right about the trainees. You're doing well by them."

"Tell it to Crouch."

"I will."

One of Eliane's relatives...that mad auntie...started yelling something in French, and all the Froggies applauded as Elgar brought out an old music box. It took the witch two goes with her wand, but it finally struck up a slow tune featuring too many violins.

A smile crept over Alastor's face as Malcolm lead Eliane to the centre of the garden and took her in his arms. The boy was happy, despite everything. Whatever mistakes Minerva had made, she'd done right by him in the long run.

Several of Eliane's family paired off to dance. Alastor watched Eliane's father go up to Minerva with a small bow. She took his elbow, and they joined the other dancers swirling around the garden. She was at least two inches taller than he was and had to lean down to hear whatever he was saying to her. When the tune segued into a faster piece with a French vocal, Dumbledore cut in. He took her by the waist, pulled her close, and they moved together as if made for it. Alastor's magical eye stopped scanning the skies above the garden and joined his normal one to fix on the pair. He allowed it to penetrate Dumbledore's fancy robe. The old wizard's body was fit for a wizard of nearly 100, but the years showed in the bones of his chest and the curve of his belly. Nevertheless, he was still straight and strong, and he could still squire a pretty lady around a dance floor with his two good legs, unlike some people Alastor could name.

Dumbledore might be an old poof, but he'd given Minerva a son, and there was nothing Alastor could do to compete with that. He wasn't even sure he could give her a good shagging anymore, come right down to it, so he'd lost the one edge he'd ever had over the old man. Besides, if Dumbledore had been willing once, he could do it again, if that's what she needed from him. Or she could find someone else. That Dearborn bloke, God rest him, had been giving her the eye at the last Order meeting Alastor had been to, which had made Alastor want to hit him with a Cruciatus. When he'd read about Dearborn's death in the Prophet, a niggling sense of guilt had led to bad dreams that had led in turn to his blasting several holes in his bedroom walls when he was still half asleep. His flat would come down around his ears one day soon, with all the repairs he'd had to make.

Alastor jumped when he heard Amelia speak. He'd forgotten she was still standing there with him.

"You should talk to her."

"I have."

Amelia snorted.

"She misses you."

"She told you that?" he asked.

Amelia looked at him as if he were a particularly dim suspect caught in a lie.

"Come on. It's Minerva. But I can tell by the way she pretends she's only mildly interested whenever I mention your name. And the fact that she keeps your picture in her top desk drawer."

"And just how do you know that?"

"I was looking for a piece of parchment to leave her a note. She had to duck out of our tea to deal with a student problem and was late getting back. I had to go, so I looked in the drawer, and there you were, staring back at me."

"Doesn't mean anything. Probably forgot she had it."

"Right. Because it's only in the drawer she has to open every single time she wants to write something."

"Leave it, Bones."

Amelia gave an exasperated shrug. "Suit yourself, then."

His magical eye caught her smirk when the dance ended and Minerva came straight over to where they were standing.

"Why is that son of yours only dancing with the young girls?" Amelia asked Minerva. "I'm going to get a dance out of him if I have to Imperius him to do it." She strode away, leaving Alastor and Minerva alone.

"I've wanted to come talk with you," Minerva said, "but I've rather had my hands full with the Giroux family."

"They seem like a lively bunch."

"They are. It's been exhausting."

"Malcolm's happy."

She looked over her shoulder to where Malcolm was again dancing with Eliane. Amelia had apparently been waylaid by Lothaire Giroux, who was talking animatedly up at her as they danced.

Alastor thought he'd give his other leg to be the bloke who'd put the smile on Minerva's face when she looked back at him.

He said, "You did the right thing. Telling him."

Her brows rose a fraction before she said, "Yes. I know."

"It couldn't have been easy."

"No. But he's forgiven me."

"You were doing what you thought was best for him. He knows that."

"Was I? I thought I was, but now I'm not so sure."

Alastor said nothing and waited for her to continue, but what she said wasn't what he expected.

"Have you forgiven me, Alastor?"

He wanted to reach out and touch her face...gods, she was so beautiful today...but he kept his hands to himself and let his eye career as if scanning for threats again.

He said, "There's nothing to forgive. The past is past. It's forgotten."

When he was able to look at her again, he saw her swallow and blink several times.

"As you say," she said. "I just wanted to make certain there were no hard feelings. We haven't had the opportunity to speak privately in some time."

"Right. Well, there are none. Hard feelings, I mean. Not on my end."

"Good. I'm glad you came, Alastor."

"Wouldn't miss it. It's been a long time coming."

"Alastor!" Malcolm called, striding towards them. His smile faded when he got closer. "Are you doing all right, Alastor?" he asked. "Can I get you a chair?"

"No, I'm fine," Alastor said. "Can't stay much longer, anyway."

"Oh. I was hoping you'd stay the night and we'd have the chance to visit a bit once everyone else goes," Malcolm said, frowning.

"You'll want to be alone with your bride," Alastor said.

Malcolm's cheeks reddened. "Yes, but later. I thought maybe we could all have dinner together, you, Mum, Eliane, and me."

"Sorry, but I've got to get back."

"Oh. Well . . . another time, then."

"Right."

They embraced, Malcolm squeezing him harder than he'd expected.

When they broke, Malcolm turned to his mother. "I was wondering if you'd saved me a dance."

"Of course. The last one of the afternoon for me, I think," she said.

Looking at Alastor, she said, "Well . . ."

And for once, she seemed lost for words. She startled him by leaning over and kissing his cheek.

"It was good to see you," she said.

He nodded, not trusting his voice, and watched her take her son's arm and walk away.

The next time he spoke to her, she was a grandmother three times over and he was sitting helpless at the bottom of his trunk.