Chapter Two – Falling
The crisp night air blew briskly through the streets of London, sending Muggle and Wizard alike scurrying quickly to warm shelter. Albus Potter walked with shoulders hunched, hands tucked into his pockets; yet the lined fleece that had seemed fine in the morning did little to warm them now.
“Here, let me,” said Marcum, grinning as he took Albus’s hand in his own and rubbed it warm. Albus glanced around the street, but it was dark and empty aside from a group of patrons outside the pub across the way.
“How is it that you are perfectly comfortable in that—“Albus gestured at Marcum’s thin pullover “—and I’m freezing in this?”
Marcum laughed and leaned in close, blond hair falling in front of his brown eyes. “Are you a wizard or not?” he asked conspiratorially with a wink. “Don’t you know any warming spells?”
Albus groaned – he hadn’t even thought of a spell for the walk back to their flat. And he was the Ravenclaw!
“Nice of you to share, Hufflepuff,” he groused, and they both laughed and moved closer together for warmth. Across the street a small group of men left the crowd outside the pub, heading in the same direction. For some reason, it made Albus uneasy, and he took his hand from Marcum’s warm embrace.
Marcum raised his eyebrow but did not say anything. “I think we might get some snow soon,” he remarked nonchalantly, following Albus’s gaze.
“Yes,” replied Albus absently, still feeling uncomfortable. “Let’s hurry,” he added in a lower voice. The men from the pub had crossed the street and were approaching them deliberately, whistling and jeering loudly. Albus put his hand on his wand, hidden inside his coat pocket.
“Easy,” whispered Marcum. “They’ll think you’re armed.”
“I am,” Albus hissed back.
“You can’t use your wand against Muggles,” Marcum reminded him.
Albus did not reply: the men had stopped directly in front of them and were blocking the way. There were only three of them, but they were obviously drunk and looking for a fight.
“Hey, faggots,” jeered a brutish-looking man with black hair. “Care to have some fun tonight?”
“Not with you,” Albus snapped. His hair-trigger temper set off by both the crude insult and vulgar invitation, he tried hard to keep his wand concealed and not shove it in the man’s threatening face.
“Oh, but we do,” sneered one of the man’s companions; he pulled a small knife from his pocket. “Our kind of fun, not yours, of course.”
“We prefer ours,” murmured Marcum, eyeing the knife both doubtfully and warily.
“I’m sure you do, flyboy,” the first man said, pulling out a Muggle weapon Albus recognized as a gun. “But we’re in charge now.” Albus felt Marcum stiffen next to him, and out of the corner of his eye saw Marcum’s hand reach toward his back pocket.
The black-haired man motioned with the gun. “Hands were we can see them, twink—for now,” he added, and his companions laughed. Albus wondered how fast he could draw his wand before the man fired his own weapon.
“What do you want?” asked Marcum, his voice far more casual than his body language.
“Just for you lot of queers to disappear,” snapped the man with the knife. “But we’ll settle for a little sport instead.”
Albus lunged forward with a snarl, but Marcum stopped him, steadying him with a calm whisper. Their attackers laughed.
“Look, he’s protecting his boyfriend,” jeered the first man. “Going to play kissy-face now, boys?”
“You have a problem with that?” asked Marcum, his voice colder now, while Albus seethed inwardly. “Because it’s really none of your business.”
“Yes, we do,” spoke the third man, who had stood behind the other two, silent until now. He stepped into a pool of light to reveal a cruel face and glittering eyes. “And yes, it is.”
“Piss off,” snapped Albus, pulling out his wand; next to him Marcum remained motionless, frowning.
The cruel-looking man merely raised a thin eyebrow. “Going to poke me with your stick, are you?” The other two men laughed again, and Albus grew tired of the confrontation, in spite of Marcum’s caution.
“Not exactly,” he replied, and fired a Body-Binding Curse at the man, dropping him to the ground instantly.
The next moments seemed to pass in slow motion: the cruel man’s companions turned to look at their fallen comrade; Marcum pulled out his wand; the black-haired man whirled around and fired his gun at Albus; Marcum threw up a Shield Charm. There was a loud noise like a spell backfiring, and Marcum sank to the ground, clutching his chest. With a snarl Albus Stunned both men and they too fell to the pavement, unconscious.
Less than a minute had passed and he was the only one standing.
Albus dropped down next to Marcum, shaking his head in disbelief. A bright pool of blood was gathering underneath Marcum, and his eyes were half closed with pain. Albus tried a basic healing spell, but Marcum cried out in agony. Albus gently picked up his partner and heard him whisper, “I’m sorry,” before Marcum lost consciousness. With a heart-wrenching sob, Albus turned and Apparated to St. Mungo’s with Marcum limp in his arms.
* * *
Albus shook off the terrible memories of that time: of arriving at St. Mungo’s too late to save Marcum; of the long night he spent laying by Marcum’s side until his parents had gently taken him home; of Marcum’s funeral, beautiful yet so final. As he plunged deeper into the forest, he remembered instead the terrible sorrow that had enveloped him every day, and how desperate he had been to forget that horrible night. Thoughts of revenge had pushed him toward dark places. . .
* * *
Albus tossed a stone into the small fountain, blankly watching as the rippling circles spread across the sparkling water. He felt like that rock: surrounded by light but sinking, falling father and farther into a darkness he couldn’t escape.
Shaking his hands free of dirt, Albus stood as he sensed his cousin approach. He arranged his face into the stoic mask he had adopted since Marcum’s death and turned to greet her.
“Hi, Albus,” said Rose Weasley, her strawberry hair blowing in the spring breeze. “How are you?” She hugged him, and he felt her concern even as he saw it in her face.
He shrugged his answer as they began walking. They were both in Muggle London for the day and had decided to meet for lunch; or rather, Rose’s owl had insisted on his affirmative reply by refusing to leave his shoulder for several hours. Rose was doing research for her Advanced Muggle Studies degree, and Albus had come for the trial of Marcum’s murderers.
The Muggle trial. Because the men were not wizards, the Wizengamot had no authority over their punishment. Albus’s mother had pushed them to pressure the Muggle authorities for an arrest and trial. The proceedings had just begun, and soon Albus would be called to testify, forced to relive those short but horrible moments that had changed everything. He knew she would bring it up next.
“So how did it go today?”
Albus sighed; he wanted to tell her how difficult it had been to see Marcum’s killers in Muggle court every day for the past week. They were close, and she had really been there for him in the weeks after Marcum’s murder. She had checked on him everyday, and even stayed with him when he couldn’t take care of the flat and wouldn’t eat. But he held back, not wanting to inflict his anger on her; and in some ways, keeping it inside and to himself was all he had left.
“It must be so hard,” she said softly, her eyes searching his face. She hooked her arm in his. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He wanted to tell her, he really did. Marcum’s killers had leered at him as if he had never sent them flying with a cast of his wand; but the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad had made sure to wipe their memories after Albus had arrived at St. Mungo’s that night, and so they had no idea he was a powerful wizard who could immobilize them with a single word. And he wanted to, he wanted to hurt them for what they had done, and that single thought escaped before he could stop it.
“All I could think while I sat there was how badly I wanted to curse—“
“Oh Albus,” Rose interrupted, before he could finish his crude sentence. “I know you want to hurt them, but what good would that do now? And just because we have magical powers, doesn’t mean we should use them against Muggles just because we can—or want to.”
“You sound just like your mum!” Albus replied ruefully, shaking his head.
Rose nodded sagely. “Might is not right. And the Muggle world has its own justice system. Although, I have to admit I’d much rather see them in the Wizengamot than some Muggle court!”
“Exactly!” agreed Albus as they continued toward Diagon Alley for lunch. “But why isn’t might right sometimes? If we have the power to punish them, why shouldn’t we? I hate waiting for the Muggles to just throw them in one their ridiculous jails. They should rot in Azkaban—or worse!”
Rose stopped and turned to face him, her eyes alarmed. “Al! Are you still going to Knockturn Alley with Scorpius Malfoy and his gang? That sounds just like something they’d say.”
“Maybe they’re right,” Albus grumbled, not admitting to his continued nocturnal wanderings. He had indeed been frequenting Knockturn Alley more and more. As distasteful as he found it, he also found it oddly comforting to hear those secret thoughts he was having spoken out loud. He sometimes burned with the need to go after the men who had killed Marcum, though deep down he knew it was wrong. He might not agree with everything the crowd in the Hag’s Rest said, but he agreed with enough to quench his thirst for revenge.
“Albus Severus Potter!” Rose exclaimed. “How could you say such things? Muggles need to be protected from magic, not subjected to it.”
Albus frowned. “I don’t want to rule them, Rose – I just want justice. It would be easy. They’re weak – I took out three of them that night and could easily do it again.”
Rose stared hard at him. “And Marcum died anyway, so fat lot of good magic did,” she said coldly. She knew it would hurt; she said it to snap him back. When she saw the stunned look on his face, she nodded and continued walking. “Don’t forget, we both have Muggle heritage– your grandmother and my mother were both Muggleborns!”
Albus didn’t say anything; he was well aware of the fact, which only compounded how guilty he felt every time he stepped back into Knockturn Alley. And yet they had some strong points about Muggles and power and revenge. . .
“Have you been to the cemetery recently?” Rose interrupted his thoughts, deliberately changing the subject. They had argued over his visits to Knockturn Alley before, and she had even gone to James to express her concern. He knew she was worried, but was glad she had decided to drop it; the trial was enough to deal with without getting into his personal life as well.
“No,” he replied softly. In fact, he hadn’t ever gone to the cemetery, because he couldn’t bring himself to visit Marcum’s grave, and she knew that. He still struggled to get up every morning and move forward with his life, and he felt like going to the cemetery would trap him in the past forever. At the same time, he clung to his memories and did not want to give them up to the finality of death.
Death. At times the grief was still too strong to bear; at other times—like at the trial—it was anger; but always underneath, like an incurable disease that slowly sapped him of his strength, simmered the terrible guilt Albus felt every day. It was his fault: he had drawn his wand, he had Stunned the first man, he had failed to protect Marcum even as his partner had saved him. And now he was visiting Knockturn Alley, with thoughts of revenge that he knew were wrong and didn’t have the courage to act on anyway in order to get justice for Marcum.
That was what kept him from the cemetery more than anything: guilt, for all that he had done and failed to do.
Rose sighed. “You should go, I think it would help,” she said. Albus shook his head; he couldn’t face Marcum, not after failing him in so many ways. “He doesn’t blame you, you know.” Albus’s head shot up; sometimes it was like Rose could read his mind.
“Wherever he is, Albus,” she said softly, “Marcum’s not angry with you, and he wouldn’t want you to do anything to compromise yourself. He wasn’t like that and you know it.”
Albus didn’t know what to say: she was probably right, and he felt his guilt swell as he realized how he continued to let people down, even Rose. “Would you like to go after the trial?” she finally asked.
Albus swallowed hard: he could say no, back away and continue to isolate himself with his grief, guilt, and the desire for revenge; or he could say yes, and begin the slow process of healing and moving on.
He just didn’t know if he could—or if it was worth even trying.
* * *
As he continued through the shadowy trees, Albus remembered the trial, and how difficult it had been to finally testify in front of Marcum’s killers. Their conviction of a lesser charge and sentence of time served had donenothing to lift his spirits: in fact it had confirmed his lack of faith in the Muggle justice system and only augmented his deep anger and desire for revenge. So he had taken care of it, though it brought little respite to his troubled soul to use an Unforgivable Curse on the whimpering men. He felt like something was wrong with him, that he could do such things, and that he could still not move on; and though he recognized the vicious cycle he had fallen into, he was unable to break out of it, even when he had finally gone to the cemetery and confessed. . .
* * *
The summer breeze should have warmed him, but he still he felt cold; the sun was shining down upon a beautiful day and yet it was if he were walking through shadows. He regretted coming almost as soon as he had finished Apparating, and would have turned again to leave if Rose hadn’t appeared next to him and staggered.
“Bollocks,” she said as she caught her balance. “I take after my dad, it took him a while to get a hang of it as well.”
Albus didn’t say anything; he just glanced around the quiet park where they had materialized, his heart pounding.
“Come on,” Rose said softly, taking his hand. “He’s over here.” They walked slowly across the field toward a small oak tree, where a stone marker underneath read:
2006 – 2025
Loyal and True
Crushing sadness did not immediately send him to his knees, as he thought it would when he finally came to see the grave. Instead, the bitter sorrow inside grew stronger and his chest became tight with it as if his heart would break. And again he felt that something was wrong with him, something that he didn’t understand and couldn’t share with anyone because they wouldn’t understand either.
More than anything, he felt terribly alone as he stood there looking down at his partner’s grave, and longed to be with Marcum again.
“I’ll leave you by yourself for a few minutes,” Rose said softly, and walked across the field to a bench near a small copse of trees. Albus stood there on his own, not knowing what to say or do or feel. Finally he said the only thing he could:
“I’m sorry.”
And then he fell to his knees. He choked back sobs as he reached toward the tombstone to touch the letters carved in cold stone. Marcum was dead, he had to move on; but first he would say all those things he had to say, because Marcum was the only one Albus could say them to.
He told Marcum how sorry he was for casting the first curse, for not blocking the bullet that had taken Marcum’s life, for not getting to St. Mungo’s fast enough. He told him about the trial and how angry it made him to see the three men from the pub go free. He told him how he had started going to Knockturn Alley and began seeing a group of Scorpius Malfoy’s friends. He told him how he had finally heeded their advice and taken justice into his own hands, punishing Marcum’s killers with the Cruciatus Curse. He told Marcum how sick it had made him, and how sorry he was, for what he had done and what he had become.
He confessed his guilt, his grief, his anger, and his loss. It poured from him to fall upon the green grass; and though he felt lighter for it, he also felt empty. A desperate desire to fill that emptiness took hold of his heart.
Albus finally wiped his eyes dry, though he hadn’t even been aware that he was crying. He stood and conjured a single crimson rose and placed it upon the grass. He heard Rose come up behind him and coughed to clear his throat of emotions he had no wish to share with anyone else.
Rose gently took his hand, looking into his eyes with liquid empathy. “I’m so sorry, Albus. I wish you could see him one more time—truly say goodbye.”
It was a throwaway comment but it made his breath catch in his throat. He could say goodbye. There was a way he could see Marcum again. His father had done it, why couldn’t he?
“I can,” he breathed, not realizing he said it out loud.
“What?” asked Rose, turning to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“I can bring him back,” Albus whispered, the tiniest flicker of hope beginning to beat in his heart. It was what he needed to replace the emptiness in his chest.
“How?” asked Rose, confused. “It’s not possible, not even in the Department of Mysteries. There are no spells, no potions—“
“The Resurrection Stone,” said Albus. “There’s the Resurrection Stone.”
Albus saw her shoulders fall and her face crumple up in concern. He knew it was a long shot but he also knew it was his only chance to save himself. He steeled to her coming protests.
“Al, that’s a myth, a legend, something—“ she began.
“Something our parents found and used to destroy Lord Voldemort.”
She looked skeptical. “The Hallows didn’t destroy Voldemort, your father killed him with a simple spell. The Hallows are just three magical objects that people like to think are infallible, when really they are just like any other wand, or stone, or invisibility cloak.”
“How can you say that?” Albus exclaimed. “You heard the same stories I did growing up, you’ve seen my dad’s cloak—how can you doubt them?”
“My mum says—“
“Hang Aunt Hermione!” Albus retorted. “She was there, she just doesn’t want to admit it’s true, after all these years. My dad had the Resurrection Stone, Rose. He turned it three times and his parents came back. His parents! If he can use it, why can’t I?”
“For one, because he dropped it in the middle of the Forbidden Forest over twenty-five years ago!”
“I can find it.” He had to. He felt like he could finally do something with his life; rather than dwelling on all that he had lost, he could now look forward to something more. He would do anything he had to in order the find the Stone.
“But don’t you need all three for it to work?” Rose looked sick with herself for even asking it.
“No, but I’ll get them all,” Albus replied; he felt the fire within and knew Rose saw it in his eyes. “Don’t you see? I'd be Master of Death! I have to try! If I could see Marcum again, just for a moment, I might –“ he cut himself off, not wanting to share his deepest feelings. He would see Marcum again, he would tell him how sorry he was in person, and maybe the guilt would go away. Maybe he could truly say goodbye.
Or maybe he wouldn’t have to: maybe he could truly bring him back.
* * *
Albus entered yet another clearing, still searching for the ring, but losing hope. He had spent months tracking down the Hallows, researching everything he could find about them. He had subtly questioned his family about the magical talismans, telling them it was for research at the Ministry. He had avoided Rose, but she had gone to James, and his brother had finally confronted him. It was James who had sent their father after him that night two weeks ago.
Albus regretted that last meeting with his father; he hadn’t meant to lose control like that, to hurt him. He hadn’t realized just how far he had fallen that he could do such things. And yet it was done, and he had two Hallows now. All he needed was the stone, and he could see Marcum again.
As the sun began to rise, Albus gave up and Apparated out of the Forest to the place he always returned since beginning his search. As he materialized in the field where Marcum lay, he was startled by a voice behind him. He turned to see a tall, dark-haired man standing against a small oak tree, holding a cracked stone ring in his hand.
“Hello, Albus,” said James Potter.
* * *