Albus Dumbledore had travelled hundreds of miles in his life so far. He had seen the Great Pyramids emerge through a cloud of gold-red dust; he had inhaled the scent of a hundred thousand vibrant tulips in the fields of the Netherlands; he had searched for rare potion ingredients amidst the excited shouts and calls of a street market in Morocco, admired the marble palaces of Moscow, witnessed ancient magic in Calcutta, and observed a brilliant red dragon guard a nest in the crevice of a craggy rock on the side of a Chinese mountain. But never before had he travelled to a place such as Krakow.
Despite his extravagant and garish attire, not one dull eye glanced at him. The shadows of bankers, accountants, businessmen, dancers, musicians, artists, historians, architects, doctors, dentists and a hundred other professionals scurried past him as mere animals, reduced to thinking only of food and survival. Thin limbs and gaunt faces packed the narrow streets, broken up by occasional groups of ruddy-faced Germans who laughed and smoked. He felt a brief tug at his side and looked down in time to see a young boy dart way with his silver compass. Little thief. Albus immediately placed his hand in his other pocket to wrap around his treasured Deluminator.
How on earth had intelligent Muggles been reduced to this? It was further evidence, he reasoned, that they needed magical help and guidance. They clearly could not be left to their own devices if they allowed the darkness of human nature to create such suffering. With every wail from every child, every sob from every woman, every cackle from every soldier, Albus’ sympathy and disgust grew, and he yearned to fix it. Just a few spells and charms would transform the poverty and misery here into something better, something purer. . . But no. Gellert was right, the Muggles had to make their own mistakes and learn before wizards could guide them. Gellert had some. . . vibrant ideas, yet they were mostly right in principle. The situation in Europe could be resolved through discussion and patient diplomacy, magic was not necessary.
He arrived at a small, narrow house and knocked on the door. It opened slowly and a pale woman with uncombed black hair appeared. She stared up at him with sunken eyes.
‘Mrs Goldhirsch?’ he asked.
‘Lo,’ she said dully with a slight shake of her head. She turned around and looked up at stained stairs. “Marat Goldhirsch!” She gave one last uncaring glance at Albus and walked into an adjacent room, where the grief-stricken wails of a man awaited her.
Albus stepped over the threshold. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Damp, overcrowded, diseased. A silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Oh! Hogwarts Professor?’ the figure said in a surprised, heavily accented tone.
‘Hello, Mrs Goldhirsch, I am Professor Dumbledore. I’m here to talk to you about your daughter.’ There was a brief moment of silence before the figure bolted down the stairs and embraced Albus in a hug. Quite taken aback and unused to such physical contact, he stumbled backwards and raised his arms in bewilderment. The woman, thin and sickly looking with pale ginger hair, babbled in a mixture of Polish, Hebrew and fragmented English.
‘Please calm yourself . . . hush, hush. . .’
She sniffed and let him go. ‘Sorry. Please, upstairs come. I have much grateful.’
He followed her upstairs, glancing around. There had to be at least four families in the house, each assigned to one or two rooms each. They stared out at him with a kind of bored interest, and a feeling similar to guilt prodded somewhere in his chest. There had to be an easier way than this . . . maybe Gellert was wrong. But no, Gellert was right. The Muggles were doing this. It was all their idea, and it was not a good thing to meddle any more than necessary, at least until they needed magical guidance. He had to let nature take its course.
She led him into a room where a man sat on the floor, hunched over papers, and a young boy peeled a tiny pile of potatoes at the foot of a rusted bed. Blankets and pillows also covered the majority of the floor, evidently for more people to sleep on, though where they all were Albus didn’t know. The man and boy looked up, the boy with an expression of pure bewilderment and fascination, and the man with a strange hopeful nervousness. He said something in Polish and the woman nodded, a small watery smile playing about her lips.
‘Sofia is gone to get potatoes. She go to school? And my boy also?’
Dumbledore hesitated. ‘After I translated your letter . . . it was evident that the situation here is very difficult. There is still some concern amongst the staff but for the most part I have been able to convince them that we can offer help to your daughter. We cannot, however, do the same for your son.’ The woman stared blankly. He had obviously spoken too fast. ‘We can take Sofia. Not Oskar.’
The woman bit her lip. ‘When he eleven?’
‘Possibly.’ There was a long silence as conflict raged in the woman’s tired face. Dumbledore spoke again, consciously simplifying his words as much as possible. ‘I am trying very hard to help wizarding families here. I also plan to make contact with four other magical children in danger who may wish to join Sofia in Hogwarts, but we cannot have adults or children under eleven. I’m very sorry. Once Sofia is in England she may be able to find Muggle jobs for you and your husband and gain permission for you to go, but it is highly unlikely.’
She nodded slowly, great unease written across her face. The boy and the man evidently did not understand any English, and could only watch with confusion. ‘But Sofia . . .,’ the woman said slowly. ‘Sofia can leave to England?’
‘Yes. But she would have to leave soon. We will place her with an English family so that she can learn some English before she reaches Hogwarts.’
The woman turned and spoke rapidly in Polish to the man, who nodded in the same hesitant way. Dumbledore could hardly blame them. Although he was offering their daughter the chance of freedom and safety, his insides twisted in guilt at the thought of the boy left behind, of the thought of splitting up a family, the thought that perhaps Sofia may find that she was the only survivor . . .
‘We need time to think, and ask Sofia,’ said the woman slowly.
Dumbledore nodded. ‘Of course.’ He handed her a ticket, Polish on one side, German on the other. ‘There is a train next Saturday which will take Sofia and the other children to England via the Hook of Holland, at midday.’ He pointed to the times on the ticket. ‘This is her ticket, if she wishes to use it. Do not give it to anybody else. Do not speak of it. It is secret. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded, and gave her more German documents in a parchment envelope. ‘All the best with your decision.’
He left them in troubled silence and Disapperated before he had reached the street.
Bicie Serca by BlueJoker
Chapter Endnotes: Thank you to my beta and mod, Karaley Dragon. I'd love some feedback on how I'm doing with the story, so please leave a helpful review or two. xxx