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.
Remorse, Regret, Redemption by LuthAn
Chapter Notes: Welcome to the final chapter of the saga, wherein Gideon gets some help from an old friend... The "to believe in heroes..." quote at the end is one of my favorites, from Benjamin Disraeli. Happy reading!