ONE: Remorse

He hates the Daily Prophet. He hates reading page after page about death, destruction, and disappointment. He hates the feeling that lurks around every corner: you could be next. Fabian could be next. Molly could be next. Gideon Prewett hates everything at this moment.

“Thirty-six dead in worst attack since February.� Worst attack since February? It is only March now. They might as well say “worst attack since yesterday.� Day after day, it’s the same thing. Is anybody else tired of it?

He sits alone at the scrubbed wooden table in Molly and Arthur’s quaint and crowded house. The Burrow. It is one of his only refuges in this crazy world, but not even his older sister can help him today.

She is pregnant. Three months pregnant. She told him today. Bill and Charlie are still so young, and now there will be another mouth to feed, another child to clothe and school and protect. Normally, he would be overjoyed. Normally, he loves the idea of more nieces and nephews. But “normally� does not exist anymore. Is it wrong for him to think that this child should not be brought into this world? This world full of violence and horror and hate?

He reads the article again, and he cannot help but clench his fists in rage. “An unidentified number of Death Eaters attacked a meeting of the Society for the Defense and Protection of Muggle Rights, leaving no survivors. Sources say the meeting was being held at a strategic, top secret location, prompting authorities to believe that He Who Must Not Be Named has infiltrated yet another sector of Wizard Society.�

Molly is coming back into the kitchen now. She is as robust and cheerful as always, despite the horrific headline of the day’s paper. “Gid, put that paper away. You’ve been reading it for half an hour now! Be a sport and boil some water for the potatoes, would you?� She is trying to be optimistic as she starts to chop her carrots, but she can sense her little brother’s anguish. It permeates the entire room.

He lethargically pushes himself up from the table and turns to the stove, pointing his wand at the pot and muttering the spell, the same spell he’s done a thousand times before. But this time... it’s different. Nothing happens. He tries again, louder this time. Still nothing. Molly has stopped chopping to sneak a peek at her brother. “Gid? Is your wand broken?�

“Don’t know, Molly,� he says halfheartedly. “I just don’t know.�

“Well, try it one more time. Come on, then!� She nods in encouragement.

This time, he practically yells at the pot, but the water remains still. No heat. No movement. Gideon collapses back into his chair and runs his hands through his bright red hair, his wand lying discarded at his side. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Molly,� he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We all have our off days, Gideon,� she says calmly, aiming her own wand at the stove. The water immediately erupts in bubbles and steam rises in a long trail. “We’ve all had spells fail on us.� She nods matter-of-factly. “Why, just the other day, I was in the garden and—�

“Molly, I’m not trying to conjure a Patronus here.� He interrupts her. “I couldn’t boil water. That’s kid stuff! There’s something wrong with me.� He is ashamed at how morose he is, how angry he is. Molly and Arthur have enough to worry about without him bringing them down.

“Tosh!� she says, beginning to peel potatoes. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just tired. Do you feel ill?�

He does not know how to answer this question. Ill? Yes, he feels ill every day of his life. How can you not feel sick to your very core with what is going on in the world? With this unchecked menace skulking in the shadows, corrupting everything and everyone around you?

Before he can answer Molly, their big brother walks into the kitchen. Fabian looks tired. He has a new Ministry job, and the long hours are getting to him. But Fabian has always been the most cheerful of the bunch—more cheerful than Molly, if that is even possible. He has the kind of stout and steadfast cheerfulness that can be annoyingly perseverant at times. Gideon feels like today might be one of those days.

“Hey, little bro,� Fabian says, clapping Gideon on the back. Gideon buckles under the force of his big brother’s slap, and he feels his shoulders tense as Fabian gives them a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, little sis,� Fabian says to Molly, letting go of Gideon to give his sister a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the tummy. “How’s my new favorite nephew doing?� Fabian is addressing the question directly to Molly’s stomach. Normally, Gideon would have found this cute. Normally, he would have smiled. Today, it is just... too much for him. Just too much.

“Oh, now, we don’t know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl, Fabian,� Molly says, rubbing her stomach as she smiles.

“Well, my bet’s on a new nephew, Mol. Wanna take me up on that, Gid?� he asks, turning toward his brother. His eyebrows are raised and he has a big grin on his face, despite the tiredness in his eyes.

But Gideon just shakes his head. “Keep your money,� he mutters. He keeps his head angled downward. He knows that if he looks up, he’ll see his siblings exchanging a look, and he hates these looks. He hates feeling like he’s disappointed them. Normally, he’s not a recipient of these looks. Normally, he would have laughed and joined in the fun. Normally....

***

“Dinner was great, Molly,� Fabian says, engulfing his sister in a bear hug. “Can we help clean up?�

“Of course not! You’ve got to get home now; you’ve got a big day tomorrow!�

“Are you sure?� Fabian asks, levitating a plate to the sink, which is already teeming with soap suds.

“Completely sure, but thank you, Fabian.� Arthur Weasley steps in and gives his brother-in-law a hearty handshake. Fabian squeezes back and reaches his other hand up to clap Arthur on the back. He seems fond of this gesture these days.

“All right. We’ll head home, then. Come here, little guys,� Fabian says to Bill and Charlie, releasing Arthur from his grip to bend down and give his two small nephews goodbye hugs and kisses.

Molly uses this distraction to pull Gideon aside. She presses a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief into his hands. “Gid, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you know I hate seeing you like this. Fabian does, too. We’re worried about you.� Her face is already so careworn, though she is not yet thirty. Her eyes are so kind and Gideon cannot help but be moved by his sister’s concern.

He opens the handkerchief. It’s a package of oatmeal cookies. His favorite. He feels the tears welling in his eyes, and his throat constricts. He hates crying. He tries to look away, tries to walk away, but Molly will not let him. She pulls him close, holding him tight. She is a good foot shorter than him, but as she whispers to him, it’s like she is right in his ear: “We’re all feeling it, little brother. It’s a terrible situation, and You Know Who is a monster. But you have to remember that there is still good in this world; you have to believe in the good! There is still love. Don’t give up, because if you do, it means he’s won. Don’t give up, Gideon.�

He nods, though her words are hollow to him. Does she really think he’ll listen? Does she really think he’ll believe? He pulls away and sticks the bundle in his coat pocket as he and Fabian step outside to Apparate. They walk a respectful distance away from the house, then Gideon closes his eyes and thinks of “the Three Ds� that he was taught at Hogwarts. Though he has Apparated thousands of times, he cannot help but recite the steps in his mind before he goes. Every time: Destination, determination, deliberation. Today, destination and deliberation are easy: He wants to go home. He thinks long and hard about going home. But as he concentrates on his flat in London and closes his eyes, he does not feel the familiar squeezing feeling. He does not feel a rush of wind. He does not feel anything.

Gideon opens his eyes and feels his heart thump hard against his chest. This hasn’t happened since he was newly seventeen, trying to Apparate into a wooden hoop in the Great Hall. This shouldn’t happen. Not now. He is afraid to open his eyes, afraid to see that he has failed at yet another spell. He stands for a long moment, not moving. He finally forces his eyes open, only to confirm his fear: he is still standing in the garden at The Burrow. Molly, Arthur, and the boys are staring at him from the doorway. Fabian is nowhere in sight; clearly he has made it back to London. Gideon looks around. He sees the confused look on Molly’s face. He sees Arthur’s furrowed brows.

“What happened?� Molly calls from the doorway. “Did you forget something in the house?� He nods. “You forgot something?� Molly calls, turning back to go look for whatever he’s left.

“No, Molly, it’s not in the house,� he says, walking toward her.

“Well, what did you forget?� she asks, befuddled.

“Determination,� he says simply. He stands in front of Molly and grasps her arm. “Thank you for dinner,� he says, then without another word, turns around and heads for the road.

“Wait, what do you mean? Where are you going?� She is jogging after him in her house slippers and apron, her disheveled red hair flying behind her like an errant kite.

He whips around and raises his hands to the sky. He doesn’t mean to shout, but still, he does. “I can’t do it, Molly!� he exclaims. “No boiling water, no Apparition, no anything! I give up.�

For the briefest instant, Molly seems to understand exactly what Gideon is talking about. A look, just the hint of a look, flashes across her face. But she snaps out of it. She won’t let herself fall into his trap. “No!� she yells. “NO! You can’t think that, Gideon. You can’t give up! You have to keep the faith. Keep believing!�

He doesn’t acknowledge her outburst, just turns around again and continues in his path toward the street. And now Arthur is sprinting after him, catching up to him, holding strange bits of paper in his hands. “At least take a taxicab!� he says, brandishing the paper in front of Gideon’s nose.

“A what?� Gideon asks, not in the mood for Arthur’s foolish Muggle games.

“A taxicab! An automatic... an automobile—you’ve seen them on the streets! It’s a Muggle device for carrying people across long distances. You can pay with these notes; I got them the other day at the bank.� He looks so pleased with himself.

Molly is huffing and puffing as she reaches her husband and her brother. She rolls her eyes at Arthur’s notes and grabs Gideon’s arm. “Gid, just stay here. Don’t worry about getting back to the city tonight; you’ll be better tomorrow. You’re just... Today’s just a bad day.�

She looks so concerned, and a part of Gideon wants to stay, just to appease her. Arthur is still waving the Muggle money is his face, as if he expects one of these “taxicabs� to pop up in the garden of the Burrow at any minute. Gideon lets a small, pained laugh escape his lips, but then slowly turns and starts walking again. “No,� he says. “I’ve got to get back tonight. But thank you.� And he continues down the path, one foot in front of the other.

***

Gideon does not know how he makes it home, but he does. As he climbs the stairs to the flat he shares with Gideon, he feels every ounce of strength in him being sapped out. It takes every bit of energy he has just to get up the stairs. He somehow manages to take out his wand, and he mutters Alohomora at the door, expecting to hear the familiar click, and to see the door swing open. But nothing happens. He laughs ruefully. How did he not expect this? How did he not know? If he can’t Apparate, he certainly cannot open a door!

As he is about to raise his hand to knock, Fabian opens the door. He looks even more tired than he did at the Burrow. Gideon is not used to the dark circles that are so apparent under his brother’s eyes. “Where have you been?� Fabian demands, like an angry parent.

Gideon doesn’t want to be patronized. Not today. Not now. He pushes past Fabian and heads for his bedroom.

But he doesn’t make it. In an instant, Fabian is in front of him, pressing his hand against Gideon’s chest. “What is wrong with you?� he demands. “Gid, this isn’t like you! What has gotten into you?�

For a split second, Gideon considers just not answering. He can see his bed from here; he would love to just get in it and perhaps never get out.

But something... something inside him knows it’s time to answer. Time to shake these blues, time to snap out of what has made him like this.

He looks Fabian directly in his green eyes, the same eyes that Gideon himself has. The same eyes that have been through so much, that have seen so much. “It’s Elizabeth,� he says softly. “Elizabeth.�

Fabian understands. He releases Gideon and moves aside. There’s nothing more he can do.

TWO: Regret

Elizabeth. Elizabeth Irene Montgomery. What is she to him? A girlfriend? No, school-time visits to Hogsmeade and assorted dates in London do not a relationship make. And yet, she is more than just a friend and classmate. Gideon knows there is a connection. He knows that their relationship transcends the usual bond of friendship. Just a friend? That can’t be all she is. No. Was. That can’t be all she was. Elizabeth Montgomery is dead.

He pulls out the newspaper article again. It has become severely crinkled, and bits have torn off—he has been carrying it around in his pocket for three days. “Thirty-six dead in worst attack since February.� And she was one of them. Gideon supposes he doesn’t have to worry about defining their relationship anymore. She is only a statistic now. A mere memory.

He pulls out the obituary section of today’s Daily Prophet. The obits come twice a week now, sometimes three times, and in their own separate section. Gone are the days when the listings of the dead could fit on one page of the paper. Long gone. He scans the paper, knowing that today is the day her obituary will show up. An obituary that he contributed to at the behest of her brother, Jack. An obituary that was written entirely too early. An obituary that shouldn’t have been written at all, if he had done something sooner...

Elizabeth Irene Montgomery, born April 15, 1954, was killed Tuesday in the attack against the Society for the Defense and Protection of Muggle Rights. She was twenty-one years old. Newly elected Spokeswitch for the Society, she is survived by her father, George, her mother, Catherine, and her brother, Jack. Another brother, Stephen, was killed by Death Eaters nearly a year ago.

Gideon can’t continue reading. The memory of Stephen’s murder was still fresh in everyone’s minds, and now his little sister joins him in death. What kind of a world is this?

He knows what kind of a world it is. It is a world growing accustomed to—no, relying on death. It is a society that is on the verge of becoming completely numb to the news of more attacks, more casualties. They’ve all felt it, Gideon included; the feeling you get when you read the newspaper and are not moved by the description of the war. Does that make you a bad person? He wonders this. He wonders about a society that increasingly cannot even muster emotion for those they have lost.

Of course, it was not always like this. In the first year after He Who Must Not Be Named declared himself openly, Gideon wept for everyone he recognized when he saw their names in the Prophet. A few unlucky schoolmates were first. One of his prefects from Gryffindor died at the end of 1974, when things started to get really bad. His favorite professor from Hogwarts was killed, possibly by the Dark Lord himself. Hell, Gideon even felt a tinge of remorse if he knew a Death Eater that died. The whole thing was a shame. A damn shame.

But it is even worse now. Now, he feels only flashes of sadness, and if a classmate’s name comes up, sometimes he doesn’t even realize it.

He can feel the war sucking the very life out of him. For the past two years it has been draining him slowly. But it has never been this bad. Never been so bad he can’t even do magic. And it’s her fault. No, it’s his fault.

For his downward spiral continues. The day after dinner at Molly’s, Gideon couldn’t tidy up his room. He couldn’t Apparate—again—and he couldn’t even light the tip of his wand. Today it is lying discarded on the floor of his bedroom. Ten and a half inches. Willow. The dragon heartstring cannot help him now.

The worst part is it’s spreading. Fabian felt queasy this morning and looked so lifeless. He tried Apparition twice before he gave up and used Floo powder, giving Gideon a fleeting glare as he whipped up the fireplace. Gideon knows he deserved that look. It is his fault, after all.

He just can’t shake this feeling of guilt. He is the reason Elizabeth is dead. Indirectly, of course, but still. If he had just told her, made her realize how dangerous He Who Must Not Be Named really was... How many times had he tried? And failed?

He thinks about her as he continues reading her obituary.

Marked by a distinguished academic career at Hogwarts (Prefect of Gryffindor House, Head Girl), Elizabeth soon found a passion she truly believed in: Muggle Rights. Rising quickly through the ranks of the Society, she became its youngest Spokeswitch ever just this past January.

And how she had made her voice heard! Gideon remembers those first weeks after she was elected. How she wrote him letters nearly every day detailing her goals and ambitions for the Society. She knew she wanted to lead it one day, and certainly would have had the Death Eaters not gotten to her first.

From day one, though, the job had been marked with difficulty. It was dangerous, even. Sure, she had paid no mind to the Howlers—they were mere nuisances, sent by prejudiced old ladies. But her letters sometimes mentioned more serious threats: death threats, threats against her family and friends, things of that nature. And no matter how hard he tried to make her realize the gravity of these things, Gideon could never convince her to tell the authorities. Elizabeth was nothing if not hardheaded. It was probably why they got along so well.

He recalls one of their recent conversations as he looks at her picture in the paper. It couldn’t have been more than a month ago, when they were sitting at Fortescue’s in Diagon Alley.

“Elizabeth,� he says. “Please let me tell Fabian about this. You know he works for the Ministry now; he can help you. You can have an extra security detail, or something. Just please tell someone.�

She laughs and squeezes his hand. “You’re too sweet, Gid. But don’t fret about little ol’ me. I’ve got nothing to worry about.�

He hates her carefree attitude. It makes him nervous. “No, Elizabeth, you do. I’m sure He Who Must Not Be Named has some part in this. He’s behind these threats in some way, and I don’t think you’re safe.�

“Please, Gideon, be realistic. Voldemort has no interest in the Society, and if he does, we have ways to protect ourselves. I’m not threatened by him. I’ll be fine�

Gideon can’t stand the way she says his name so freely. Voldemort. It’s as if she doesn’t even recognize how terrible he really is. Sometimes, Gideon really wants to smack some sense into her. But he knows she would hit back. So he lashes out with his words. “Elizabeth, stop being so daft. He is a serious threat, and you’ve got entirely the wrong attitude about this. Your means of protection, whatever they are, are not enough! Why won’t you listen to me?�

“Why won’t you listen to me?� she demands. She means business now; the gleam in her eyes has hardened and she is sitting forward in her chair. She withdraws her hand from his and she is terrifying. “Gideon, I’m not going to sulk behind some bodyguards or Hit Wizards while the Muggle population goes undefended. I’m not going to take advantage of my Ministry connections when Voldemort is out there every day killing innocent people. They elected me Spokeswitch for a reason: to speak for the Muggles and for all the people that don’t care what kind of blood runs in your veins. And that’s what I’m going to do. If he wants to attack us, let him attack us. It will only further our mission.�

He can’t take it anymore. He stands up, knocking his chair over in the process. “You’re acting like a bloody fool and you’re going to pay for it one day, Elizabeth.�

His words are perhaps too harsh, he thinks as he storms out of the parlor. But she needs to hear them, even if she won’t take them to heart. She needs to know that someone out there is worried for her. And she’ll forgive him. She always does. Come tomorrow, she will act like the whole exchange never happened.

And that’s what scares him.

“Gid?� Fabian calls, jolting Gideon back to the present. He quickly stashes the paper in his pocket as his older brother walks in the room. “Gid, what are you doing in here with the lights off?� Fabian asks, tapping his wand against the wall sconces.

“I couldn’t turn them on this morning,� he says, noticing that the lights are burning a little dimmer than usual.

“Well, you should have asked for help, then,� Fabian says tersely, grabbing a loaf of bread from the countertop. “And the dishes are filthy. I suppose you couldn’t manage to clean those either?�

Gideon feels the ire creeping up inside him. It is about to bubble over. He clenches his fists under the table and growls, “No, I couldn’t. Sorry.� He doesn’t mean it.

Fabian’s hands are shaking and he can’t hold his wand steady. He sighs in disgust and pushes the bread away. “Gideon, I can’t live like this.�

Gideon doesn’t respond, so Fabian continues. “Look, whatever is wrong with you is spreading to me. It’s like a disease. And it’s infecting the Ministry, too, and everyone around us. Three of my colleagues couldn’t conjure their Patronuses today, and I almost got sacked for not being able to do my job. And Molly sent an owl saying that Arthur burned himself using Muggle matchsticks because he couldn’t light the stove. It’s dangerous. What is wrong with you?�

“Why does it have to be me that’s sick?� Gideon demands. “Why isn’t it your fault?�

“Because I can still do magic!� Fabian responds with a desperate laugh. “I can still function as a wizard, whereas you can’t even turn on the lights!�

A terrible silence hangs in the room at these words. Fabian knows he has gone too far, but the Prewetts are notoriously stubborn and not quick to back down from their words. And Gideon knows Fabian has a point. And a good one at that. But he will wait it out. Fabian will cave. He always does. So Gideon just stares.

Sure enough, after one long minute Fabian cracks. “I’m sorry, Gid,� he mutters, sitting down as he hangs his head and runs his hands through his bright red hair. “I’m sorry. I know you’re going through a lot right now. It’s just... I can’t stand to see you like this, and I’m worried about you.�

“No, you’re worried about your job,� Gideon says, his eyes blazing. He knows he is being difficult, and he hates it, but he’s not ready to be normal again. Not yet. Not so soon after Elizabeth has died.

He can tell that Fabian is straining to be patient after these harsh words. He is balling his fists and biting his lip. Gideon hates his accusation and knows that his brother is genuinely worried. But still.

“Okay,� Fabian says, rising slowly from the table. “Okay, Gid. That’s fine.� His voice is unusually quiet and eerily calm. “I think I’m just going to go stay with Molly and Arthur for a few days and let you sort this all out. I’ll make sure you have food and light and everything, but I think...� Fabian is pacing around the kitchen, rubbing his temples in frustration. He is distracted. “I think you need some time to think about things, or talk to Elizabeth’s family, or something. I don’t know.�

Gideon inhales deeply. It’s not that he wants to sit alone in his flat all day long thinking about a dead ex-whatever, but he knows that Fabian is right. He knows that he will eventually emerge from this tunnel of darkness. Won’t he?

Fabian now seems unsure, though. He momentarily stops his wandering and stares at Gideon. “Am I a terrible brother for leaving you alone? Do you want me to stay? I can ask for time off from the Ministry, you know. It’s not a problem.�

Gideon considers this for a moment, but he can’t say yes. Time off would kill Fabian; his job is the only thing keeping him sane in this mad world.

Fabian seems to read his thoughts. “Or maybe we should get you a job to take your mind off things? You could work at Flourish and Blotts, or the post office, or something that doesn’t require magic!�

Gideon shakes his head. “No, Fabian, just go. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be all right.� Fabian seems to accept his decision after a minute, for he nods and hugs Gideon briefly before heading out the door. He has done all he can for today.

It is quiet again in the kitchen. Gideon takes out the article once more and thinks of his words. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll be all right.� Gideon ponders this as he sits in the darkening kitchen. He sounds just like her. He sounds just like her right before she died.

And that’s when it hits him. How hopeless were his endeavors with her! If his siblings have taught him anything, it’s that when people believe in something, it’s damn near impossible to change their minds. How silly he must have seemed to Elizabeth, berating her for not taking her threats seriously. She must have thought him so disrespectful, so mundane. She was passionate. She stood up for what she believed in and it led to her death, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make. Shame on him for trying to get her to back down. Shame on him for trying to derail her life’s work.

Gideon is overcome by a feeling of regret. Here he is, grappling with his own questions of belief, of guilt, of life, actually, but with nothing to show for it. Nothing to believe in. What has his life come to? He can’t even do magic anymore. No cause, no belief, no Elizabeth, no self, even.

No wonder he feels so terrible.

THREE: Redemption

Eight days have passed. Gideon is still alone. More alone than he realizes, in fact. The Brothers Prewett live in a building populated entirely by wizards and it has been atypically empty the past few days. They can all feel it. Some older wizards are reminded of the Grindelwald days; the feeling of despair that drifts through the corridors hearkens back to those dark times. They know that he has lost his way, and if they stay, well, it might be too late for them, too.

But Gideon does not know this. He does not know the extent of his “disease.�

He does know the couple next door. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. They are generally nice and friendly, and oddly obsessed with potion making. Nearly every day he hears a bang or smells some sort of concoction wafting from underneath their door. The couple often comes over to have Gideon and Fabian test their brews. Nothing harmful, of course. Just hair-lengthening and teeth-whitening and other things of a cosmetic nature. But Mr. and Mrs. Murphy have not visited for a week now. Gideon has heard no bangs, has smelled no odors, but he still does not know that the Murphys have left.

He does know the family upstairs. The Cones. One frazzled husband, one ditzy wife, and five lively daughters. The Cones ask Gideon to watch the girls at least once a week usually. Gideon loves them. He loves watching them interact, loves it when they accidentally do magic. They are so fascinated by it. But the Cones have not knocked on his door for nine days now. Gideon has seen no pink ribbons, has heard no clamor of so many footsteps, but he still does not know that the Cones have left.

He does know his brother. Fabian. Fabian is his rock, his fortress. Fabian is his world, his whole entire life. Fabian has been staying with Molly and Arthur, but he still checks in on his little brother once or twice a day. Three times if he can manage it. He turns on the lights, fixes a meal, makes sure Gideon doesn’t need anything. But then he’s out again. The Ministry needs him to be strong, healthy, and able to do magic. They need him. And though Fabian knows Gideon needs him, too, he knows there is not much he can do for his brother.

But he knows somebody who can help.

***

Gideon hears a knock at the door. He rolls over in bed. Fabian doesn’t normally knock. It must be someone else. One of the neighbors. Yes, that’s it. Come to think of it, he thinks to himself, where are the neighbors? He hasn’t seen Mr. and Mrs. Murphy in a day or two, at least. No, maybe more. He hasn’t seen any of the Cone girls for a time, either. How long has he been here in this darkness?

The knock comes again, louder this time. Gideon sits up and swings his feet out of bed. He shivers. How has he not noticed the cold yet? He rummages around on the floor of his room looking for something to throw over his shoulders. His room is filthy and he cannot find anything. Frustrated, he grabs the blanket from off his bed. It will do for now.

The knock comes for a third time. Gideon grumbles as he trudges to the door. It feels odd to walk. What a strange thought. He supposes he’s been sleeping for a few days. Lethargy is not pretty, though, he remarks to himself as he feels his limbs stretch in ways they have become unaccustomed to.

It’s so dark in the kitchen, he remarks to himself. Why is it so dark? He wants to light the lamps, but remembers that he cannot. Sighing, he finally reaches the door. Sticking a hand out from under his blanket-shawl, he turns the handle. And standing in his doorway is none other than Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School.

Gideon is, predictably, surprised. He is glad to see the Headmaster, but wonders if he knows about the disease. Wonders if Dumbledore knows it is unsafe for him to be in Gideon’s presence.

But Dumbledore does not seem to notice anything strange about the situation. He just stands in the threshold of the flat, eyes twinkling as usual. Gideon is suddenly overcome by shame. How can he let the Headmaster see what has become of his life? The dirty dishes, the cold rooms, the dark corners. He wants to say something. Wants to tell Professor Dumbledore to kindly come back in the morning. But he knows it will be no different in the morning. So Gideon stands dumbstruck, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Well, may I come in, Mister Prewett?� Dumbledore is smiling. He raises his bushy eyebrows as he puts a hand on Gideon’s arm and pulls him inside. They are now both in the kitchen and the door shuts behind them.

Gideon feels Dumbledore guiding him to the table, sitting him down. Dumbledore waves his wand and in an instant the room is glowing, absolutely glowing. Gideon squints. He can’t remember the last time the lights were this bright. He actually feels tears well up in his eyes as they struggle to adjust to the light. In another flash, there is steam rising from the kettle and Dumbledore is preparing two mugs of tea. Another wave of the wand and a plate of biscuits appears on the table before them and the dirty dishes have vanished. Gideon still has not said a word.

Dumbledore sits down and hands Gideon a mug. Gideon takes it, cradles it in his hands, breathes in the steam. He feels the coldness leaving his body. Soon, he shrugs the blanket off his shoulders. “Take a sip, Mister Prewett,� Dumbledore says, drinking from his own mug. “Go on.�

Gideon obeys. The liquid slides down his throat. It tastes incredible. He is suddenly gripped by the urge to talk, to ramble on and on, to spill his guts to the Headmaster. But first, first he must warn him: “Professor,� he says, a little surprised to hear his own voice after so many days of disuse, “Professor, you shouldn’t be here. I’m... sick. There’s something wrong with me, and it might get to you, too.�

Dumbledore smiles at these words; Gideon can see his mustache quivering. “My dear boy,� Dumbledore says, “please do not take offense to what I’m about to say, but I do not believe your ‘disease’ will hurt me.�

Gideon is not sure how to react. He feels... affronted? No, that’s not it. Albus Dumbledore is the world’s most powerful wizard. Well, maybe second-most powerful wizard these days...

The wizened wizard continues: “In fact, it is this so-called ‘disease’ that I am here in reference to, by the authority of your brother.�

Gideon rolls his eyes, but then regrets the action. Why should he be mad at Fabian? Fabian, who has sacrificed so much for him? “He sent you? Fabian sent you?�

“Yes, Gideon. He wrote me an owl five days ago. He is so upset by your plight, and I apologize for not arriving sooner, but I’ve been taking care of some business. We’ll come to that in a bit.� Dumbledore points his finger at the spoon in his tea and it begins to swirl around. It’s a nifty trick that Gideon could do once. Not anymore. Gideon is not even going to try. He hasn’t done magic in days; does Dumbledore know this? Surely he knows this.

“You have not done any magic in how long, Gideon?�

Sometimes it’s scary how Dumbledore can read you like a book. Gideon clears his throat. “Uh, I’m not exactly sure.� He has lost complete track of time. “Maybe two weeks?�

Dumbledore nods gravely. “And if I asked you to light the tip of your wand right now, could you?�

Gideon shakes his head, his cheeks flushing bright red. He is so ashamed to let his idol see how far he has fallen.

“Do not be ashamed,� Dumbledore says sternly. “Shame will only deepen the ‘disease,’ as you are calling it. Loss of magic. It’s incredibly perilous and often tragic. Brought on by emotions of self-doubt. By shame. By guilt. By disbelief. Would I be incorrect in assuming that you have felt some of these emotions in recent weeks?� He peers over the tip of his half-moon glasses as he says this, his eyes boring directly into Gideon’s own.

Gideon nods. “All of them,� he mutters, then pauses. “But mainly...� Should he say it? Should he confess?

“Mainly what?�

“Mainly guilt.� Gideon concedes.

Guilt. Because of her. She haunts his every moment. Her smile, her laugh, her face. What was she doing when she was killed? Probably standing in front of the room, talking about some new strategy. Did she have her wand with her? Did she try to defend herself when the Death Eaters appeared? Did she take any of them down with her?

Did she think of him at all?

“What are you guilty of?� Dumbledore asks simply, shattering Gideon’s reverie.

He cannot answer for a moment. The wounds are so fresh. He has not stopped berating himself, though he is beginning to detest being alone with his thoughts. But still. Is he ready?

“I think... I think I could have prevented Elizabeth from dying,� he says, though it sounds so silly coming from his mouth. Who is he to think that he could have saved her?

“Ah, Miss Montgomery,� Dumbledore says, hanging his head. “A terrible tragedy. She was a brilliant witch. One of the finest of her age.� Gideon nods as Dumbledore continues: “Pardon me, though, but I am confused. You say you could have prevented her from dying. Did you have advance knowledge of the Death Eater’s attack and neglected to warn her?�

His tone is in no way accusative, but Gideon jumps on the defensive: “Of course not!�

Dumbledore continues, cocking his head to one side. “You told her not to go to the meeting of the Society, perhaps?�

“No, Professor. No one could keep her away from those meetings.�

“Then you must have tipped the Death Eaters off as to the location of the meeting, or you are a Death Eater yourself. No?� Dumbledore’s eyes are twinkling and Gideon is confused.

“No! That’s not it at all!�

“Well, my dear boy, perhaps you see now how I am confused! If you neither were responsible for the attack nor for Elizabeth’s being there, how in the world are you responsible for her death?�

Gideon, again, does not know what to say. “I....� He falters; he is unable to make his point. He searches in vain for his excuse, fading fast under Dumbledore’s pensive stare. Finally, success: “She didn’t take him seriously enough. She didn’t realize how much of a threat he was! I could have convinced her. Should have convinced her that he was after her.�

“You speak of Voldemort,� Dumbledore states, his brows furrowed. Gideon automatically recoils at the name. “Yes, Voldemort, Mister Prewett. I won’t tolerate this ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’ nonsense.�

Gideon nods. “Right, well, I could have convinced her of how serious a threat Voldemort was. Is. How serious a threat he is.�

“You think she did not know? You think it is possible she was unaware of his presence or of the terror that he wields?�

Gideon again feels foolish. “No, it’s not that she didn’t know, but sir, you should have heard some of the things she said.� He takes Dumbledore’s silence as a cue to continue. “She thought The Dark Lord—Voldemort—wasn’t interested in the Society. She thought she didn’t need, no, didn’t deserve extra protection.� Gideon can feel his temper rising as he says these words. Why hadn’t he convinced her to take a bodyguard?

“I see,� said Dumbledore, stroking the end of his beard. “And you tried to convince her otherwise?� Gideon nods. “I see,� repeats Dumbledore. “And it is your belief that had she listened to you, had she requested extra protection from the Ministry, that she would be alive today?�

Gideon knew this question was coming, but he is still blindsided by it. He hangs his head, thinking. All these days he has just taken its answer for granted. Yes, of course if she had listened to him, had believed him, then she would still be alive. Of course!

And yet, now staring him in the face is not this answer, this answer that has comforted him, has shielded him, has pacified him. Rather, Gideon now faces the truth. The cold, hard, ultimate truth: Elizabeth would have died no matter what.

He looks up and tears are in his eyes. It hurts. Dumbledore is no longer smiling. There is such profound sorrow etched on his face. “I am sorry, Gideon,� he says, placing his hand on Gideon’s. “It is easy for us, in times of crisis, to blame ourselves. These days, the feeling of guilt is more potent than ever before. But grief and guilt need not go hand-in-hand. Should not go hand-in-hand. Guilt has an incredibly negative effect on magic.�

“So that’s what’s wrong with me?� Gideon says, his voice quavering. “The guilt I’ve felt at Elizabeth’s death is why I can’t do magic anymore?�

“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,� Dumbledore says with a small smile.

Gideon lets out a rueful laugh. “It always is.�

“You see, Gideon, what you are feeling is not true guilt. Deep down, you know that you were in no way responsible for Elizabeth’s death. Had she heeded your every word, she still would have gone to the meeting. Had she been with twenty of the Ministry’s finest Aurors, she still would not have survived a surprise Death Eater attack. There are things in this world we cannot control. And you know that. So think, then, if it is really guilt that you are feeling. Or is it something more?�

Gideon lets his words sink in. He still is uncomfortable talking about her, bandying about her name as if she is still among them. But the Headmaster is right, of course. Gideon leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. He can feel a powerful emotion welling up inside of him. He can feel it coming, and it scares him. He can’t crack now, can’t show any more weakness in front of Professor Dumbledore.

But he is powerless to stop it. In an instant he is bent double over the table, the sobs racking his body. He struggles to breathe through the pain, struggles to form a sentence. “I... I can’t believe... she’s gone,� he manages to choke out. He tastes the salt of his tears, feels his shoulders shake. Memories of her flash across the plane of his mind. Elizabeth.

A few minutes pass before Gideon reigns his emotions back in. He lifts his head from the table and looks at Dumbledore, who is still wearing the same pained expression on his careworn face. “It is hard, my friend,� Dumbledore says calmly. “But acceptance is the first step on the path to relief. And I know the next step.�

He pushes a small scrap of paper across the table. Gideon blinks his eyes to clear the tears. He draws his hand across his cheeks and picks up the paper, feeling the moisture dampen the paper. He reads: “The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at 45 Auburn Street.� Gideon looks up, confused. “I don’t understand.�

“Find this address tomorrow at five o’clock in the evening. All your questions will be answered,� Dumbledore says, rising from his chair. With one flick of his wand the table is cleared and he heads for the door. “Gideon, the time has come for those on the side of good to stand up and fight. It is time for us to believe that the hope of the world can be restored. This is a time for heroes.�

Gideon looks down at the newly clean table, then back up at Dumbledore. His former Headmaster is standing there with such a look on his face. He is stern, yet kind. Resolute, yet... anxious?

Gideon does not know what to say. How can he turn down this man? How can he say no to Dumbledore, who has given him so much?

“Professor,� he begins, looking down again. “I don’t think this is right for me. I can’t even light the tip of my wand. I’ve been wallowing here for days and days, and I just... I just can’t do it. I’m no hero.� He mutters the last sentence, fully convinced of its truth.

Dumbledore crosses the room and puts one hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “Gideon,� he says in a quiet voice. “Gideon Prewett, you must not give up. There is still so much potential left in you. You are going to play a significant role in this war, but that can only happen if you release whatever doubts are in your mind.� He inhales deeply. “Where is the Gideon Prewett I knew at Hogwarts? Where is the Gideon who would stand by his peers, his friends, his brother at any cost? He is hiding in this flat now, I believe. He is hiding, buried beneath fear and doubt and yes, maybe even guilt. But the time is nigh for him to return. And when he does, I hope he will come to the address written on that scrap of paper.�

Gideon feels a knot in his throat, but he will not let himself cry twice in front of Professor Dumbledore. So he keeps his head bowed low. “It’s so hard,� he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s so hard to keep going, so hard to keep the faith, Professor. How can I in a world this full of hate and destruction?�

Dumbledore is almost at the door now, but he turns around. His eyes have softened, still bereft of their usual twinkle, but with a melancholy sort of kindness. “Gideon, to believe in the heroic makes heroes.� He says no more, but sweeps out the door. As he crosses the threshold, he turns around one final time. “I will see you tomorrow, if you can find your way.�

In an instant, Dumbledore is gone and the lights in the kitchen have dimmed almost to nothing. But in the muted light, Gideon sees something on the table in front of him. His wand. Ten and a half inches. Willow. He picks it up. It feels good in his hands. It feels like the first time he ever held it, ten years ago in Ollivander’s dusty shop in Diagon Alley. It feels right. Just right.

“Lumos,� he whispers. The tip flickers and flares for an instant, then dies out. “Lumos,� he says, louder this time. With conviction. The tip is ablaze, casting great shadows on the walls of the kitchens. Light. Hope. Redemption.

Belief.