Disclaimer: Chances are if you missed the disclaimer in the first chapter, you’re skimming this fic and probably missing more of the story than you think.

A/N: Cheers if you can catch the Supernatural quote. Also, if you complain about the lack of canon compliance in this chapter, I ain’t takin’ you seriously when you’ve made it this far into the fic and you haven’t noticed that it’s a bit AU…

Chapter Thirteen

White Rabbit

/ When men on the chessboard/ Get up and tell you where to go/ and you've just had some kind of mushroom/ and your mind is moving low/ Go ask Alice/ I think she'll know /

       -Jefferson Airplane

A few weeks earlier…

The wedge-shaped store that sat on the corner of Vertic Alley and Rosemary’s Way had been many things over the years. For the last twenty, it was a teashop and bookstore with a steadily expanding patronage. One of Diagon Alley’s best kept secrets, the shop specialized in rare books, a surprisingly large selection of wizarding fiction novels, magazines, art and other odds and ends in addition to its array of exotic treats and teas. Smaller than Flourish and Blotts, the leading book distributor of the wizarding world, the four-storey affair of brown brick overlooked a small garden crowned with towering oaks and copper sculptures. On a sunny day, it was a beautiful place to sit and eat.

Today, it was raining hard enough to drive away the hardiest patrons. The teashop sat nearly empty save for a few members of the Book Brigade, a popular literary society for witches, left clustered in the teashop downstairs.

‘I usually enjoy Otis’ sense of humour, but the African masks are a bit much,’ Albus mused from his comfortable seat by the rain-slick picture window.

Otis, the owner of the teashop, had a distinct affection for the unusual. The masks themselves were carved of wood and heavily lacquered with a thick, dark gloss. Bits of yellowing bone, dried grass, fur and beaten copper plating adorned their distorted faces; they leered down their bone-pierced noses at the teashop’s patrons, eyes bugging out absurdly and seemingly following people as they moved. In a flight of fancy, Otis had stuffed the hollows of the masks with fairy-lights, hard, flat reds and hard, flat yellows gleaming from yawning mouths, nostril holes, and occasionally the ears.

The effect, Albus decided as he sipped his tea, was exceptionally unnerving.

Martin Lewis, an old student of Albus’ and Senior liaison for Counter Intelligence, had just cleared the third floor landing and was immediately greeted by the sight of the glowing, gaping, grotesquely misshapen features of the devil incarnate. To his credit, he didn’t flinch.

“That’s horrific,” he said flatly, a flicker of revulsion twisting across his face.

Albus hummed a nonsensical ditty to himself. “I think they’re actually quite charming, Marty. I wonder if I should get a pair for my office.” Over the years Martin had acquired the stiff demeanour that working in a military division of the Department of Mysteries inevitably imparted on its’ employees. Albus very much enjoyed shaking the man up when he could. Life was too short to be merely endured. That was one lesson he’d never had much luck imparting on others and sadly enough, it was one often learned in hindsight.

Martin settled with a sigh in the green striped chair. For a man who prided himself on a tidy appearance, he seemed unusually haggard, salt ‘n pepper stubble over gaunt cheeks, robes in a shade of muted blue were creased along the left side like he’d spent one too many nights sleeping at his desk, hands stained with ink and white-knuckled from stress.

“My friend, you look far too overworked for your pay grade,” he told the man as gently as he could without sounding condescending.

Martin scowled, true anger sparking in his expression, alarming the Headmaster more than his friend’s rumpled appearance. “Don’t play coy, Albus,” he ground out. “You know damn well how much bending over I’ve had to do for you lately.”

“I take it our enquiry didn’t go over very well,” Albus replied, bushy brows climbing his forehead. “I do hope you didn’t get reprimanded on my account.”

The Ministry worker exhaled heavily, running a hand through his short grey hair. “No. My apologies Albus, you didn’t deserve that. The last few days have been… tumultuous. I did pursue your inquiry into the actions at Privet Drive as discretely as I could. I have to say, I don’t blame you for being worried.”

Albus felt a frisson of unease make its way down his spine. “You sound upset, Marty.” He set the teacup on the table with an abrupt clank and peered over the rims of his glasses at the faint sheen of sweat on Martin’s neck. “Are you alright?”

The man’s thin fingers bent together and fluttered like the wings of a caged bird. He swallowed rapidly then straightened in his chair, resolve firming his features. “Privet Drive was but a small incident in a chaotic chain of events we pieced together by breadcrumbs of information,” he paused and directed his gaze from the rain spattered windows to the Headmaster, warming to his subject. “The last thing we expected was that they were perpetrated by one of our own.”

The cup shivered and rose from the table. “An agent of Voldemort?” Albus inquired as he carefully spun the willow patterned teacup in mid-air.

“No,” Martin pursed his lips as he watched the cup respond to the minuscule amount of magical stimuli emitting from Albus’ skin. “You remember Lord Grindelwald, yes?”

Albus glanced up at his old student, teacup lazily twirling inches from the circle of his hands. “I’m old, but I’m not that old, Marty. Yes, I remember Artimis very well in fact.” Age, unfortunately, had not dulled the memory for him.

“Were you aware that he had children?”

If it were possible to verbally bludgeon someone in the face with a brick – that would have done it for Albus Dumbledore. His hands closed about the delicate china before it could hit the age-worn wood of the table.

The first thought that came to mind was it was a lie. The second reminded him that Martin was not one to pass along mere gossip without wringing every shred of truth from it that he could. And yet… there were a long number of years that he’d had no contact with Artimis. It was an unsettling idea, but not impossible. Especially after the defeat of his incarnation as Lord Grindelwald, well, Artimis was little inclined to see Albus let alone speak to him. To say nothing of sharing family matters with him.

Old hopes, old fears, old regrets. The ‘what ifs’ and ‘could haves’ of the world never served anyone well at all.

Albus shook himself from the memories and responded. “How many?”

Martin raised three fingers from the table. “Artimis Sharr had three children. All born to the same mother, Bree Verall.”

“I remember her. Beautiful, but equally twisted,” Albus replied as he turned the cup over on the table. Bree was a full blooded dark veela and it had showed. Critics still used Bree as an icon of beauty in the wizarding world, a bit like how the Muggles regarded Marilyn Monroe or Bettie Page. Exquisite was the word the Daily Prophet had used. Artimis had called her intoxicating.  Cruel, dangerous and indubitably warped was a little closer to Albus’ own opinion. Memory played inside his mind on a feedback loop and Bree looked over at him again from her seat at one of the Ministry sanctioned lunches, porcelain face revealed by the oversized black sunhat, glossy blue-black hair pulled back in a dark halo around her head, mouth quirked into a sly smile, violet eyes wide, lustrous and very, very insane. “Madness begets madness,” he reflected. “More so, when it is augmented by love. I’m sure she helped drive Artimis fully over the edge.”

“Oh no doubt of that,” said Martin. “The first child was Alissé Sharr, born in 1951. When she was five, she contracted the same cholera that devastated the European communities. She survived, but not intact and after that, she had no more magic than a Muggle.”

“The disease affected the children the worst.” The slow simmering rage of loss and pain stirred in Albus once more. Hogwarts was nearly emptied that year; everyone had lost someone in their family. “It was almost always fatal in the young.”

Marin nodded. “And on top of the previous losses during the second great war…”

“It’s astounding how well the wizarding world managed to bounce back after such devastation,” Albus said in agreement.

“The second child was born in 1960 and also a girl,” said Martin, falling into the rhythmic cadence of one used to giving long reports to a varied audience. “She was named Lily Aideen Sharr. At the ‘death’ of Artimis in ’62, the children were lost in the system and perhaps because of the secrecy, they were shuffled off into the Muggle Child Services.”

“Then the third child couldn’t have been Artimis's!” Albus said abruptly, mind racing over the horrifying possibilities of copulating with the dead. Bree was just deranged enough to do it.

Martin continued on as if Albus hadn’t said anything. “The first two children were adopted by Morgan and Elizabeth Evans.”

Oh no.

“And subsequently became Petunia and Lily Evans,” said Martin, unrelenting in his narrative. “The first married a Muggle and hasn’t been heard from since the death of the Evans and Lily married James Potter – the rest, as they say, is old news.”

Albus felt frozen to the chair, back ramrod straight. “That would make…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

Martin seemed to sense this. “Harry Potter the heir to a very dark legacy?” he said quietly.

Darkness had always been present in Harry’s magical aura, but now it held a different connotation than simply being the lingering remnants of Voldemort’s folly. It was not that Albus doubted Harry’s loyalty. No, not ever – Harry gave his loyalty because he wanted to, not because it was required. It was an honour to have his loyalty and Albus understood that where Harry was concerned. No, the problem was one of influence. Which was worse – the leftover bits of magic Voldemort imparted upon Harry or the raw, natural darkness inherent in him?

There were precious few options left for a child with an inclination towards the darker aspects of magic. ‘He will be fighting an uphill battle for the rest of his life.’

“What of the third child?” Albus inquired.

“The third child was born on November 16, 1965. A boy named Hadrian Sharr who according to Blackwood is not only the real deal,” said Martin as he leaned back in his chair, content in drawing out the suspense of the moment. “But has also been in the employ of the DoM since 1982. He is one of the highest ranking black operatives of Special Forces, a combat group used mainly for assassination and extraction missions.”

Albus frowned, not liking where this information was leading. “There was never a Hogwarts letter for him.”

“Which is part of the reason we haven’t heard of him until now. No paper trails, school records or anything of the like,” said Martin, gaze direct and revealing nothing. It lent an impersonal feel to the conversation and that in itself let Albus know how classified this information truly was.

“That should be impossible,” Albus said with dry amusement, appreciating the irony in the statement. “1965 – I was sure that Artimis passed away in ’62… Or were we all fooled about that as well?”

“He was a slippery son-of-a-bitch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to hang in there for another ten years. Although with the wound that you dealt him…”

Albus shook his head. “It was fatal, Marty. He’s dead now. I’m sure of that,” he murmured softly. He pushed the cup and saucer to the side and folded his hands on the table. “What of the mother?”

Martin was gracious enough to take the hint. “She disappeared,” he announced, flicking his wand at his own teacup and the smell of lemon and Earl Grey wafted through the air. “From the information provided, we can assume the boy lived with her for the first ten years of his life.”

Albus raised a brow at that. “Oh dear. I don’t remember Bree to be a shining example of impending motherhood.”

“Certainly not if Sharr is what became of her parenting skills,” Martin replied acerbically. “We know that at some point he started making regular contact with his sister Lily – which leads me to believe that the children weren’t as lost as we’d like to think.”

“But no attempt at communication was made between Bree and the other children?” The thought of Bree infecting her other children with the selfsame psychosis left Albus feeling cold.

“As far as we know, no,” said Martin blithely as he carefully blew steam off his tea.

He exhaled slowly. “I suppose I should be grateful for that,” Albus said as he met Martin’s knowing gaze.

The other man tapped a finger on the table, gesturing as if he had a report under his fingertip. Habits of a lifetime were hard to break. “Blackwood also says that Sharr claims the night the Dark Lord fell to have been a joint effort between him and his sister.”

Albus inhaled sharply, blindsided yet again by Martin’s words. He brought his folded fingers close to his mouth as if he could stop the press of questions that tugged insistently on his tongue.

Together? Maybe, and maybe not. The options were endless. Lily had been an incredibly gifted, incredibly clever witch, far-seeing and deep-thinking and had she lived on, she would have become a true artist of magic. That she had a brother, just as talented as herself, opened up a range of possibilities that Albus had never considered.

“Did Blackwood say anything more of how this was accomplished?” he inquired thoughtfully.

Martin gave a soft huff of laughter, tilting his head down and away from Albus. “As per usual, no, he did not.” He glanced back up at Albus, face wry and regretful. “The details of that night are fairly vague.”

And Albus had taken great caution to ensure that; Hagrid himself had volunteered to be put under a geas not to talk about the night Voldemort fell. A fine idea given his propensity for drink and talk. “Why didn’t Hadrian take young Harry with him? If he was in regular contact with Lily then surely he would have encountered her son.” Unless she had deemed her brother too dangerous to meet the child.

“Albus, at fifteen would you have voluntarily taken on the responsibility of caring for a baby?” Martin intoned sardonically.

“Different times, Marty.” Fifteen was a very long time ago.

The difference between Muggles and Wizards had not been so stark a divide. The Muggles were far enough behind, technologically speaking, as to not be a threat to their wizarding counterparts. But there were those that liked to say that the fields were greener then, as if the spaces between mankind and the issues of race were larger. As if it was all just an era born of loose nostalgia and a wilfully blind stupidity; they passed that logic down to their children as if the ridiculous notion of people hating each other out of habit was something golden and good. The truth of the matter was that the fields were not greener, just people’s memories and those, like pictures, would eventually fade. But anger, though, anger lasted forever. As did death. ‘In the end, we all bleed red and the differences between magical and non-magical are reduced to simply who dies first.’

Martin nodded as if he could hear the unspoken words. “True. But in all actuality I can’t tell you why he didn’t take his nephew with him,” he said, his manner direct and unflinching. “Blackwood was surprisingly reticent about telling me what became of Harry Potter. I honestly don’t know what Sharr’s motives were. Or are, for that matter. But it’s no secret that he hates Death Eaters.”

Faint amusement tickled Albus’ mind. “I can imagine that he would. His father had little respect for people like that either.” Sycophantic agents of chaos, Artimis had called them, truly appalled at anyone who would voluntarily submit themselves to another man’s will. He had often referred to their kind as the ‘yes-men of dark magic’. That one had to surround themselves with slavish regard reflected poorly upon their control over their own mind and magic. It was one thing to be a soldier for a cause; it was another to become a slave. The fact that Voldemort had chosen Grindelwald as his icon of the embodiment of a dark lord showed his total ignorance in the man. On his darker days, it gave Albus unending delight and laughter. “Where did Blackwood hear this information?”

“When Hadrian Sharr’s name came to his attention he promptly requested a debriefing with Sharr and his handler.” Martin leaned closer, an eager gleam flaring to life in his eyes. “And this you might find interesting. His handler is a man named Archimedes Shorner.”

An incredulous expression crept across Albus’ face. Not exactly Kosher but who was he to point fingers? “The Head of Research and Experimental magic?” A genius in every sense of the word, Archimedes Shorner had attended Hogwarts as a Ravenclaw for two years before family troubles pulled him away. Shorner had finished his schooling at Salem Academy of Magic in the States; upon completing his education, he was immediately offered a job with the American division of Analysis and Tactical Specialists. Four years as an agent profiler and then he transferred over to British Experimental Magics where he had climbed to his current position. “Sounds like he has friends in fairly high places.”

“Quite literally,” said Martin, a smug note entering his voice. “From what Blackwood tells me, Hadrian Sharr and Shorner are old friends of sorts. Shorner mentored the Sharr progeny when he first went into Special Forces.”

“Prime material for a lengthy working relationship. Was he the one who recruited Hadrian?” Albus inquired. The idea of Sharr and Shorner working together fascinated him almost as much as it appalled him. Genius, creativity and madness was a more potent potion than he liked to tangle with. Artimis had taught him that much.

Martin’s lips thinned. “No, that was actually Pryce’s doing.” He said the name as if invoking it would cause him to be tarred with the same ash and blood as The Butcher had been in his heyday.

Albus was impressed despite himself. “Handpicked by the Devil himself.”

“Indeed,” said Martin, tone flat and dry.

Albus cagily tiptoed over his own discomfort with the topic. “He passed a few months back, didn’t he?”

Martin chuckled, lip curling into a sneer. “God rest his soul in the deepest depths of Hell.”

Pryce may have been a murderer and psychopath, but he had ruled as king over his athelings in Special Forces despite Blackwood’s bid for power. Blackwood was woefully unprepared for when his more dubious operatives started bucking at the reins. “If Pryce is dead, then that raises a sticky question. Where is Hadrian receiving his orders?”

The Ministry worker didn’t answer for a few moments as he bent over his teacup. “Truthfully I don’t know,” Martin said quietly. “Sharr doesn’t appear to be part of any chain of command which is worrisome in and of itself.”

Albus tilted his head in question. “And Blackwood is aware of this?” he inquired, knowing in his gut just how little control Blackwood held over his operatives.

“Very much so. But there’s not much he can do about it,” said Martin, the lines deepening in his face as continued. “Paperwork is all nice, neat and legal. Sharr is currently finishing up the last of Pryce’s orders.”

Albus picked up his teacup once again and studied the way the light shone through the fine porcelain. He gently placed it back on the table in front of him, turning it until the delicately formed handle lay in the same position as the Sharr name lay on the twelve-pointed star of the Families. The Seventh House of the Lords of Magic. Good God. “Do we know what they are?”

Martin snorted. “Not a damn clue. I can tell you though that he did have an altercation with another Special Forces team a few weeks back.”

Albus glanced up from his contemplation of the imaginary star his mind had placed on the table. “A training exercise?”

This time Martin laughed out loud, an uncharacteristically harsh, strident sound that bounced off the walls of the otherwise empty tearoom. “Not unless training manoeuvres consist of Blackwood’s second-in-command in the assisted living ward of St. Mungo’s and everyone else in body-bags.”

“Was there any reason for this?” Albus asked, bewildered and struggling to understand the reasoning behind such senseless violence. “A rivalry perhaps?”

“Most likely not. Blackwood may have given the go ahead for the mission to proceed forth, but I doubt he knew what he was getting himself into,” Martin replied candidly.

Albus frowned, feeling uncomfortably like he had more than thirty years ago when the war with Voldemort was first beginning to stir. “That doesn’t sound like him; Blackwood,” May be an arrogant braggart – “is not the sort of man who blithely makes a move without first knowing where he’s going to step.”

“I agree,” Martin nodded his head as he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “But Sharr’s got him running scared and people do strange things when they panic. To Blackwood, Sharr is this loose cannon with no cause for loyalty to the current administration. And trying to control a Sharr Lord is like putting a dog leash on a Great White.”

“Why would Hadrian have him scared? Beyond the usual chaos, of course?” As if a Sharr Lord could be considered ‘usual chaos’. ‘You know you’re getting old when…’

Martin licked his lips and tapped the table once more. “Counter Intelligence helped put together a report placing Sharr in the same vicinity as La Muerte when he was taken out. The Brazilian magical government identified a magical signature that didn’t fit with the necromancer or his known associates and were quite happy to send us a copy when we asked. After a little legwork, Analysis and Tactical Specialists were able to pin the signature to Hadrian Sharr. Blackwood was very… impressed by the level of violence used to execute the necromancer.”

Albus looked over the rims of his glasses at the Ministry worker. “Level of violence? I’m sensing a pattern here.”

Martin coughed on his next swallow of tea. “Brazil had a hard time identifying La Muerte mostly because there wasn’t much there to identify.”

Albus inhaled sharply. “Good heavens. Even Artimis was leery of angering La Muerte.”

“With good reason,” Martin replied grimly. “Brazil dragged the river by the compound and found the messy remains of some of La Muerte’s more unusual projects. Sharr did one hell of a clean-up job.”

“And Blackwood was worried about this?” said Albus disbelievingly. “I would think that he would be pleased to have Hadrian in his employ with such effective results.”

“Blackwood didn’t know at the time that Sharr was one of us. All he had to go on was the smouldering remnants of La Muerte’s compound, Sharr’s name and evidence that everyone in the compound had been efficiently terminated by someone with a keen sense of military procedure.” Martin spread his hands helplessly. “Blackwood probably wouldn’t have panicked the way he did if all signs hadn’t pointed to a rogue dark wizard coming after England next.”

“I don’t think the secrecy worked well in Hadrian’s favour this time,” Albus intoned with dry humour.

Martin’s answering smile was thin and flat. “Especially not when we managed to tie him to the same area as Harry Potter’s neighbourhood when the conflict with the other special ops team went down.”

The alarm, which had been growing in Albus’ mind, soared to a crescendo. “What was he doing there?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he just wanted to check up on the lad,” said Martin.

The blood wards on Number Four never registered an intruder in the house. Albus hadn’t considered the possibilities of another relation entering the home. Blood wards were an ancient and powerful means of protection and as dubious a magic as they were, they had been necessary. The first four years after Voldemort’s fall were marred by a very subtle, bloody undercover round-up of the remaining Death Eaters. More than once, retribution was sought upon young Harry and it was only by the bulwark of the blood wards that he was still alive. “Blackwood didn’t know why he was at Harry’s home?”

Martin frowned, features growing pensive. “If he did, he wasn’t sharing it.”

Harry had been missing from Privet Drive for quite awhile by now and the wards had fallen almost as soon as he’d disappeared. The idea of Harry in the company of his mother’s brother was like a poisonous thorn in Albus’ thoughts. Hadrian was a man whose sanity seemed a questionable thing making his intentions towards his nephew all the more undecipherable; Harry would be vulnerable to his uncle’s dark influence simply because of how much he craved family. It was an unsettling notion that a Sharr Lord was able to walk right into what Albus considered a secure location. “Should I be worried if Hadrian has made contact with Harry?”

“If I felt as responsible for the child as you do – yes, unconditionally yes. But consider this Albus,” Martin replied.

“Not only do you have no children,” said Albus, mildly amused by the direction the conversation was headed. “With three marriages and counting, the alimony would be crippling.”

“And thank God for that,” the man replied, unfazed by Albus’ joke. “Remember that Harry Potter has a large part of the Sharr legacy running through his veins.” Martin paused as if contemplating something that just recently occurred to him. “In fact, he is the Heir of the Sharr Family, being Hadrian Sharr’s last link to his sister. He might even be trying to groom the boy into someone befitting his birthright if Sharr has no plans to beget children himself.”

Albus sighed and sat back in his chair, rubbing at his forehead. It was of little use; worry had already inundated itself upon him and was making its distress known. “To the best of your knowledge, how widely known is this information?”

“Sharr has no reason to spread this about and he has proven himself tight-lipped about his personal information – as evidenced by our total lack of knowledge about him. Shorner is no more likely to say anything than Sharr is because of how close he is to him. It would not be in his best interests.”

Albus raised a brow over Martin’s choice of words. “You think Hadrian is working a few jobs on the side for Shorner?” It didn’t fit with what he’d heard of the man, but power did funny things to people. Shorner was the one person who would be in a position to wield a measure of control over Hadrian’s actions.

“I don’t see why he would. Shorner comes from old money on both Muggle and magical sides of his family,” said Martin, hedging around the subject.

“But…” replied Albus.

Martin drummed his fingers on the table. “But… I think at this point… anything is possible. I am  unsure about everything that involves Sharr Lords right now.”

“And of Blackwood?” Albus inquired.

The Ministry worker gave him a sideways look. “You and I both know how close the ties between Lucius Malfoy and Blackwood are – you can be sure that all of the high-ranking Death Eaters know this by now. Blackwood only told me because he believes me to be fully pinned under his thumb.”

“And yet he unknowingly tipped his hand in our favour,” said Albus, appreciative of the irony inherent in Blackwood's actions. “Are you the only source of this information? I don’t want to endanger you.”

Martin spread his hands in question. “That would depend on how much control Lucius has over the remaining Death Eaters. Whatever you decide to do, Albus, be discreet. It’s not just my job at stake here.”

Albus nodded in agreement. “One more thing, Marty. I hate to push you on this but I desperately need to know.”

“Ask away,” Martin replied, looking much more at ease now that he’d relieved himself from the burden of his discoveries.

“Bertha Jorkins disappeared last week on a mission for me in Eastern Europe. She was searching for an artefact of the Old World, something rumoured to have belonged to the Sharr Family before it was lost over two-hundred years ago. I’m afraid she hasn’t been seen or heard from since,” said Albus, the image of a jagged shard of violet crystal as thin as a needle churning in his head. “Do you think it could possibly be the work of Hadrian Sharr?”

Martin raised an eyebrow at Albus’ vague question. “That would depend entirely on what she was looking for.”

Albus hummed thoughtfully. “The more answers we get, the more questions that are raised.”

“I wish I could tell you more, Albus. But with the way Blackwood has me boxed in, I don’t have the security clearance to push any further. All I have to go on are rumours and vague assumptions.” The Ministry worker tilted his head to the side, the lines about his eyes drawn tight and serious. “You know how people like Sharr are – like smoke on a foggy day.”

“Yes, very much so.” A smile worked its way across Albus’ face. “His father had the same talent, shall we say, for sowing absolute chaos and promptly vanishing afterwards,” he replied.

Martin went still. Not a shocked sort of stillness, but a rather a quiet, thoughtful stillness. He pursed his lips and scowled as he worked through whatever was troubling him.

Albus waited, patience being an old friend and constant companion.

“Forgive me,” Martin said finally. “If I’m dredging up things better left alone, but, how did you know Artimis Sharr?”

“The man who would become Lord Grindelwald?” Albus replied without rancour. It was a question that few dared to ask; in his greatest intentions, Albus had never meant to cast those events under a veil of secrecy, but few had approved of his close association with such an iniquitous figure like Grindelwald.

The ministry worker nodded. “I never understood why he would… give up a life of such privilege for the face of an anonymous villain.”

“Power, perhaps? Not physical or magical but more of the metaphorical, I believe. You must understand, Marty, that Artimis never expected to become the Lord of House Sharr,” said Albus.

“Never? Why not?” Martin asked frowning.

“Competition. His older sister was slotted for the role long before he was born.” It was time, Albus decided, too stop flinching away from the past. Hadrian wouldn’t be such a surprise if everyone wasn’t so eager to pretend that nothing had happened all those years ago with the Sharr Family. Voldemort wouldn’t have been such a surprise if his predecessor hadn’t been buried in history and blithely ignored. “Amongst the Families, should more than one child be born into a generation… well, cut-throat politics are no strangers even at a young age,” said Albus. Despite his Muggle origins, Darwin had aptly summed up the Families – and subsequently, pureblooded culture at the time – with a single decisive statement: natural selection. “It is the survival of the fittest at its best and worst.”

Martin looked horror-struck. “That’s appalling!” he breathed.

Albus spread his hands, palms turned upwards in a gesture of helplessness. “That is what shaped most of Artimis's childhood.”

“Not exactly the lap of luxury we all believed it to be,” Martin murmured low and sardonic.

“Oh it was understatedly luxurious,” said Albus. “But it was less of a gilded cage and more of an opulent coliseum for the proper metaphor. Artimis was canny enough to avoid his sister Victoria’s early machinations.”

Martin folded his hands together in his lap and relaxed against the chair. “I cannot begin to imagine what it was like to grow up thinking that such kin-stife was commonplace.”

“You shouldn’t pity him, Marty. By the time Artimis was 4, the First World War had already ended and another was in the making. War is what shaped his childhood and war is what he inherited.” ‘And by proxy, war is what Harry has inherited as well.’

The Ministry worker straightened in his chair. “I see. Tell me of Victoria; she doesn’t seem to be a known factor here despite her, ah…” Martin trailed off.

“Despite her being Lady Sharr? A veritable princess of magic?” Albus chuckled to himself. “Victoria Sharr is an untold chapter in the Sharr Family mostly because Artimis survived where she didn’t – despite her better efforts.”

Martin’s brows rose. “They knowingly practice this … culling of their own family?”

Culling was an apt name for it. “Within the last one-hundred years, the wizarding world’s population has become severely depleted from war, famine, and sickness. We used to have over 200 students in each house. Now, we are lucky to have 50. Hogwarts has adjusted herself according to our needs, but there are wide expanses of the castle that go largely unused.

Albus paused, gathering the courage to speak of events that never should have become secret in the first place. “Artimis was my godson.” Martin went as still as stone and paled around wide, shocked eyes. Albus continued, knowing that if he stopped now, it would never be told. “As well as my responsibility. I will forever regret the loss of communication between us that led to his immurement in chaos and madness.”

“How…” saidMartin, his voice faint and strained.

“Not as lily-white as you thought I was, aye, Marty?” Albus smiled. “No, I knew his mother. A plain vanilla Muggleborn named Madeline Barton. That’s not to say she wasn’t beautiful or exceptional – it’s in the Sharr blood to be attracted to such qualities – but she wasn’t extraordinary by means outside of her own making.”

Martin recovered some of his colour. “Was she a student of yours?”

“Quite the opposite,” Albus replied, settling into his story. “She was an esteemed and honoured colleague of mine in the Arts of Alchemy as well as a close friend and confidant. Many improvements in modern Alchemy can be contributed to her and inadvertently to the influences of Muggle sciences.”

This startled Martin into laughter. “Alchemy being a practice touted as the purest of magical sciences.”

“An entertaining bit of irony, indeed. Artimis's father, Devon, was mostly preoccupied with Victoria and the raising of Artimis fell to his mother and I. Devon didn’t disapprove of my influence in the boy because of my then reputation as a scholar and fair mediator.” Albus was more than aware of the incongruity of his current status as a powerful wizard of Light magic. The humour was not lost on him.

“He was grooming the boy to become a politician,” said Martin. Surprise showed on the Ministry worker’s features and Albus knew the other man was contemplating the numerous possibilities of what could have been; had Artimis become what his father meant him to be.

Albus nodded. “Yes and his sister into someone befitting the Head of House Sharr. But psychosis runs strong in the Family and with the passing of Madeline when Artimis was nine; Devon lost all control over Victoria.”

The lines of Martin’s face drew downwards. “Victoria went insane?”

Albus ruminated over the question in his mind before answering. “I believe she was always that way. Her mother’s death was simply the turning point.”

“Why her mother’s death? From what you’ve told me, it sounds like they weren’t very close,” Martin inquired.

“They weren’t. In fact, Madeline saw very little of her oldest.” Hazy memories and half-forgotten details were rapidly being drawn back into stark recollection. “Some theories hold that the prodigious talents in mind magics, which run heavily in the Sharr Family, have caused them to be more susceptible to mental stress and thus insanity.”

Martin looked sceptical. “Mind magics?”

“Occlumency, Legilimency, Hypnosis, Telekinesis, Precognition – And those are just a few of the documented cases of mental abilities in the Sharr Family.”

The Ministry worker raised an eyebrow. “Potent abilities in and of themselves. You believe them to blame for Victoria’s insanity?”

Albus shook his head. “Imagine those talents combined with a propensity for violence and a gift for Dark magic that supersedes everything you could possibly imagine and you might have a clearer idea of what Victoria was becoming. By that time, other factors had pulled me away from the Family; things… that at the time had seemed so important, yet in retrospect, didn’t come to much at all.

“Could I have made a difference in Victoria?” said Albus, contemplating all possible outcomes once more and arriving at the same conclusion he had many years ago. “My instincts tell me no. Victoria was so… trapped by the very gifts bestowed upon her at birth that her grasp on reality was tenuous at best. She saw herself as this dark goddess of magic and Devon, that poor man, he was woefully ineffective as a father – let alone someone capable of saving Victoria from herself.”

Martin dipped his head in agreement. “How did Artimis react to his sister’s insanity?”

“Artimis understood at a very early age that Devon Sharr was an ordinary wizard in a family filled with extraordinary people. Devon, due to his father’s well-publicized eccentricities,” said Albus.

“Timonzel’s trip through the Veil,” Martin filled in.

Albus felt a ghost of a smile flicker across his face at how easily Martin had slipped back into the role of a student. “Yes, and because of that, Devon became obsessed with being normal. Average, in other words, with no cause for abnormality or odd behaviours. His father was an embarrassment to him, you see. And Victoria who was so much like her grandfather, bewildered Devon. Artimis understood this. So he left at the age of ten.”

The Ministry worker frowned. “He ran away? Or did Devon send him away?”

Things at the time had been so strange; between the tumultuous changes in the Ministry and Victoria’s rapid loss of control, Artimis had been lost in the chaos. One day he was there, and the next, he wasn’t. “I don’t know,” Albus admitted. “That was not a period of his life he liked talking about. He simply disappeared after he left home, and didn’t turn up again until two years later on the doorstep of his great-uncle in the Carpathian Mountains.”

“Good God,” said Martin. “Another long lost sibling?”

“Not as much as you might think,” Albus replied. “Cassius Sharr was Timonzel’s twin brother and he left the family not long after Timonzel’s death in 1901. Washed his hands clean of the Sharr name.”

Martin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Until Artimis came along.”

Albus nodded.

The other man drummed the fingers of his left hand against the crook of his arm before replying. “Did he ever tell you about the two years he went missing?”

Albus shook his head. “No, and like as not, I wasn’t one to push. By the time we knew he was missing, it was too late to track him down. Artimis had vanished.” Albus had followed every potential lead he could find, but it was too little, too late. By the middle of the second year of Artimis's disappearance, he no longer possesed the time or resources to continue tracking him. When his godson turned up in Frumoasa, Albus had pushed for Artimis to live with him, but Cassius held the claim of blood and family so the boy remained with him.

“Albus?”

He glanced up into Martin’s worried face. “Cassius was… strange. Even for a Sharr.” The rumours surrounding the man held strange tales of his conquests. Apparently his taste in sexual partners ran toward the extremely deviant and extremely young. “I sometimes wonder if he did more harm than good for Artimis.”

Albus waved off Martin’s questioning look and continued. “Artimis lived with Cassius until 1933 when he turned 19. He disappeared again after that, turning up once more in Berlin in 1935 and a small town in northern France in 1936. In late March of 1937, he came to see me at Hogwarts.”

“He must have been about 24,” Martin murmured. “That’s terribly young.”

“Artimis was young when he fashioned himself into Lord Grindelwald.” His youth hadn’t affected his charisma in the slightest; people flocked to him in the thousands just to hear him speak. “He visited me every weekend without fail over the next three months then vanished again on the 16th of August. That was the last time I saw him as Artimis Sharr. The next time he showed up it was April 9th of 1938 and his début appearance as Lord Grindelwald.”  

Martin frowned deeply. “Did he…?” he trailed off.

Albus understood immediately. “Ever show signs of madness before that?” He shook his head. “No. In the end, we were all blindsided. No one saw it coming. It’s hard to believe sometimes; how much someone could change in that short a period of time. I might be deluding myself, but I often wonder if perhaps he tangled with something stronger than himself and didn’t quite come out whole on the other side.”

“You believe the change in him came from external sources,” Martin stated.

Albus dipped his head in agreement. “A catalyst, yes.”

“Bree, perhaps?” the ministry worker inquired. “I know she married him in 1939. Or was it Victoria that set him off?”

Albus couldn’t contain his laughter. “A man will always try to blame his troubles on a woman.” He chuckled and smoothed his beard away from the table. “No Marty, I honestly do not know,” he murmured, turning serious. “By 1938, Devon was four years dead courtesy of Victoria and Victoria was dead courtesy of Aubrey Remington.”

His former student was silent.

The encroaching hush was broken by the chiming of Martin’s pocket watch. “My, what tangled webs we weave,” he said glancing at the silver-gilt instrument. “Thank you, Albus, for joining me for lunch. I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”

The two of them stood and the Headmaster began to dismantle the wards surrounding them under them pretence of waving away off the apology. “Despite the common misconception, ignorance is not actually bliss.”

Indeed it wasn't. If his suspicions were correct, then Harry needed to be found as soon as possible. It was in his failure as a godfather that Artimis had turned into a monster incapable of rational reasoning and emotion. And it was in his failure as a teacher that he had not sensed Tom Riddle's change from ambitious schoolboy into a budding Dark Lord. A different flavour of failure, but failure nonetheless. Albus could not afford to repeat those same mistakes with Harry.

Martin smiled. “Good day Albus. I wish you luck in your preparations for the school year.”

He reached the stairs before Albus finally voiced the question that had bothered him all throughout the conversation.

“Do you know of Hadrian’s whereabouts?”

The ministry worker paused and turned. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I think at this moment,” he said, amusement colouring his words. “Only Sharr himself could tell you that.”

Albus nodded and watched as his former student disappeared down the stairs. He vanished his teacup, breaking the anchor to the wards and prepared to Disapparate from the teashop.

None of this should have been a surprise. Not Artimis's children. Not Lily’s heritage. And definitely not her brother. Things were stirring, events coming together, and it seemed some subtle unseen wheel had started to turn. It gained momentum now, churning, charging along, picking up speed at a rate that made the last war seem like child's play. It had begun with the emergence from the Veil. It carried on into the total annihilation of La Muerte and like clockwork; it wound down into Harry's disappearance from Privet Drive. There was a faint, niggling thought at the back of Albus’ mind that time was running out and it fed off his fear with a sort of subsurface violence that reminded him of a shark lurking in deep blue waters.

One thing was for certain:

For all intents and purposes, Harry had a guardian angel of dubious quality.

And his name was Hadrian Sharr.