Author's Notes

BOOK 7 COMPLIANCY QUESTION. MINOR SPOILER AHEAD!

I was far from expecting that some of book 7 contents could possibly make my fic AU. After all, Dumbledore vs. Grindelwald was such a periphery of HP-fandom! Well, book 7 is out... and it appears now that I was wrong. Nothing critical happened, though: luckily, none of my main ideas have become irrelevant because of it. My opinion on the DH-book is somewhat ambiguous, but it is a canon, no matter what I think. I still need time to come to terms with new Dumbledore portrayal – but, in general, I believe that I could continue to write this story and keep it compatible with book 7; at least, when it considers mere facts. I'll have to make but one small change to what has already been written – precisely, to change Grindelwald first name; that is all.

END OF SPOILER

As this has been resolved, I proceed to my traditional thanks and answers:

Star Mirage & ShadowDweller: thank you for your constant support! And about the question you've asked:

1. Books. Those books that Tom read were all dealing with a certain theme: each described some very powerfull destructive spells. Dumbledore's book was no exception. The author himself might have seen his work as purely theoretical exercise (which he did), but for Tom Riddle it was in the first place a very much practical guide on complex irreversible curses.

2. Story length. I have planned 26 chapters+epilogue at the moment. That's why the story is slow; I need to define initial setting. BTW, epilogue is already written ;)

Please enjoy the next chapter; it's about Grindelwald's fellows. All remaining introductions except the very last one (Grindelwald himself) are made here.

November 1944, Bernese Alps, Jungfrau region.

Lorraine Delacour

What feelings had Lorraine Delacour evoked in those around her? Was it admiration? Adoration? Envy? Or love, perhaps? Yes, it was all of the above; she got used to it long ago and didn't pay attention anymore.

She was a beauty. Not because of some peculiar virtues or special tricks – but simply because that was her nature. It just could not be otherwise.

A strange thought once came into her mind – what if somewhere in the farthest part of the Universe a planet existed, whose inhabitants would consider any human being as a creation of incomparable, impossible beauty? Just because it is a human being, a species called Homo sapiens. She was in the same situation. She was beautiful because and only because she was a veela. If so, what she had to be proud of? What person should be proud of just being a Homo sapiens?

She had been often told that she was beautiful; but her admirers didn't know that their compliments had a completely different meaning for her. The words "she is a beauty" and "she is a veela" was equivalent. Those numerous worshippers just took the feature of her kin for individual merit, and that is all.

There's different sorts of beauty. A beauty of youth, a beauty of deed, a beauty of soul. Her beauty was like a mask; only, unlike the typical carnival masks, it was impossible to take off. Behind this mask, forever stuck to her face, no one could see the real her. She had long ago resigned herself to it: people would never be able to see the true herself. They were blinded by her looks; they were stopped short; their thoughts moving in a only one rather predictable direction. Those thoughts were not obviously scabrous, but always dull and shallow, or childishly naïve at best.

So she was musing, sitting at the piano in one of the pompous drawing-rooms of Finsteraar Castle, the ancestral domain of Wald family, and touching the piano keys incoherently in a rhythm of her melancholy thoughts. The numerous servants, both human and elves, that had been anticipating her magnificent performance, soon became disappointed and stopped paying attention. Only one listener remained in the room, and Lorraine sighed: oh, how predictable it was.

Tristan Wald, a naïve spoilt child, was one of those unfortunate who had seen her as incarnation of their dreams. She thought about telling him that she could have been his mother – and even grandmother; and that he was fooling himself if we was trying to find some sort of 'immortal ideal love' in the place where it simply could not have existed. But on the second thought she decided against it. It would have been too harsh; and she was a guest here… A paid guest, however. She was renowned as a pianist and singer; a woman of fashion; a star of the society. For many years she had been invited to numerous houses, mansions and castles, playing her role as a sort of civilized entertainment for wizarding high-society. She obviously knew how to behave. She could play her life no worse than she played a piano piece. Anyway, her visit here would not last longer than a few days; and her politeness would not make things worse. So be it. The boy's admiration had not bothered her yet; besides, he was not dissolute or impudent, and conducted himself rather decently.

'Madam… Mademoiselle Delacour,' he began confusingly, 'could you please play something for me?'

Poor boy. He must have repeated this simple request for several times before he dared to say it aloud. Lorraine gave him an encouraging smile – but to no purpose, because Tristan became completely embarrassed.

'And what would you like to hear, monsieur Wald?'

'Monsieur Wald…' he smiled awkwardly. 'It sounds so stupid. Please, call me Tristan.'

She laughed: it was a touching sight, indeed. Better stop, however; he may be offended by it.

'As you wish, Tristan. It's a beautiful name from a beautiful legend. So, what shall I perform?

'Something to your taste, mademoiselle Delacour.'

'Lorraine.'

'Lorraine,' he nodded like a lamb.

She thought for a moment, and then confidently put her hands on the piano keys. Lorraine Delacour was playing Solveig's Song, a sad and solemn melody, one of her favourites.

Tristan Wald

As Tristan Wald listened to Lorraine Delacour's singing, his eyes became full with tears. He shook his head angrily: he would not have stood if she had taken him for a foolish sentimental boy. They all thought that he was. They all believed him to be useless, literary a nobody.

The only person who loved him was his mother, but she died very early; Tristan was only five then – as much as little Aby was at the moment. He didn't cry then, though. The fuss and ordinariness of the funeral had made all his feelings worthless. He hid in the attic in the old castle wing and spent all day there, till he was found by Fraulein Smiph who forced him to change for the ceremony… The ceremony. Just a performance. A funeral or a wedding – they all were the same; they all were full of lies and pretending. And don't you even dare to pretend worse than any other or, Merlin forbid, to reveal your true feelings instead of following the assigned role. Don't even think of it.

A couple of years ago he liked to walk down to the valley and watch muggle people in the town there. They all seemed to him so true, so open, so frank… Simple muggles they were, despised by all up there, by all those pompous dwellers of high society soirées and receptions. Aurora Wald, Baron Wald's second wife and Tristan's first stepmother, had been, undoubtedly, one of the brightest stars of that brilliant society. Wherever she appeared, everybody's attention was pointed exceptionally to her; they all were watching only her, listened only to her, no matter how stupid and vulgar her sayings were. She was considered a beauty. She truly was a beauty, Tristan corrected himself, no doubt in that. He simply detested her; all her loathsome tricks and smiles, and especially her disgusting silver voice. Her mind was full with treasures, titles and new frocks; she paid no more attention to her daughter than to her lap-dog – oh, she might pet her from time to time, and that's it. Her appetites were worthy of crocodile, and even such a soft person as his father could not hold it in the end, and started to object… Ha, as if she had reckoned with him. He thought of him only as of an excuse letting her to name herself "Baroness Wald".

Such a beautiful voice Lorraine has; deep, passionate, calling, carrying him away…

He wished he had been carried away from this place. Tristan smiled to himself – what a peculiar thing, indeed, – he had everything one could only wish, and yet was complaining. Such a brat, as they said. Ivonne, she was thinking precisely that. Cunning, acrimonious pretty with hungry eyes – one glance only – and all them were counted, all persons, all things, to the least knut, how much they were. She belonged to that sort of people who thought that they had forged their destiny themselves and thus considered themselves right to drag through the mud all others who were less fortunate. Well, she was not that evil, but nevertheless – she stank of that greed which only beggars could possess. Her feeble attempts to befriend him he rejected completely and even rather rudely, but at least she left him alone. With little Aby she had no luck either: the girl may be only five, but she probably was well aware what that "new mommy" was worth.

Had he known his own mother better, he might have seen that she was no different from all of them; who knows? She might be an empty-headed beauty in pretentious dress; or grasping intriguer with a calculating machine instead of her heart; or prudish cold-blooded bore – just like this Catherine, Felsen's wife… Silent all the time, her thin lips stiffened with half-smile – the very first indication of a proper lady. Only that proper ladies weren't watching the hosts with such deadly calculating look when they believed that nobody's paying attention. Somehow she reminded Tristan of this Englishman, Potter, who was never smiling openly and always wore black. What an obnoxious fellow: a cold, frozen glance; ashen like a dead man. Probably, they were all the same there, in England – bleak and pallid from constant rains and fogs. This Potter was almost a boy, maybe even younger than Tristan himself, but he acted as if the whole Universe lay at his feet. Just another one of those brilliant scoundrels that formed so called 'inner circle' of any society; a circle consisted entirely of liars and hypocrites: oh, Tristan was sure that Potter would certainly feel at home among them.

He had never heard a single word of reproach from his father, but Tristan knew that in his heart he believed his son to be a loser. Not for nothing he constantly praised that Potter, as if trying to emphasize his son's uselessness. "Just think of it! He is so young, and yet has managed -" Oh yea. He had brilliant prospects ahead of him, that nice and charming boy; oh, such a brilliant prospects… So young, and so talented. He'd achieved everything with his own strength, with his own brains, quite unlike that complete nonentity, Baron Wald's son. Here it is, a perfection of their universe. Let everybody look: Traitors with cold hearts. Strange, don't you think: somehow with all the ahs! and ohs! all those people had absolutely forgot that this "talented and brilliant" Potter was nothing but a common traitor. He betrayed once; he'll betray again. Mendacity and meanness are not qualities of just a solitary action, but of an entire human soul.

Most of all, Tristan Wald detested traitors.

Honourable Ladies

While Tristan Wald and Lorraine Delacour occupied the north-wing drawing room, a society no less spectacular gathered in the south-wing one. It consisted merely of ladies and for that reason might be considered as not so interesting, but nevertheless, it provided a sufficient material for a supposed observer.

Octavia Eisgrotte was playing solitaire; Catherine Felsen was reading a book which she had taken off the shelf here, in the drawing-room; and Ivonne Wald was just sitting on the couch, ready to keep the ball of conversation rolling when necessary.

'Here it goes, king of hearts, to the diamonds; and then there is that eight of spades… So you are telling, my dear Ivonne, that the signing of that treaty does not disturb you, not in the least?'

'Oh, Frau Octavia, you know better than me how many treaties there have been already. All of them had been broken even before the ink on them had time to dry. And, besides, I don't believe in the very possibility of any serious negotiations with Russians. They are just – '

'Why, my dear, you are too harsh there… And where shall I put that jack of clubs, I wonder?'

It was a rhetorical question. Octavia's hand with enormous bracelet, adorned with precious stones, hanged over the table at pause.

'Would you like another cup of coffee, Frau Felsen?'

'No, thank you.'

Quiet rustling of pages and silence; and Ivonne clearly perceived tension in that briefness. Had she said something inappropriate?

'I didn't mean to be hash, my dear Octavia. I'm just trying to say that…'

Catherine rose her light-blue eyes from the book and looked at Baroness Wald very coldly. Ivonne silenced on the instant, and suddenly recalled with useless vexation that Catherine Felsen was Russian. What an inconvenience.

'But you, Frau Felsen, certainly know what the situation with this treaty is,' Ivonne gave her a timid smile, trying to redress a wrong.

Catherine put her book aside and smiled in response.

'Klaas is a rather secretive person, my dear; so, I'm afraid that I know scarcely more than you do…'

No doubt, "scarcely more". Ivonne was sure that Felsen long ago prepared shelter for his precious diplomatic bacon in case if something serious began.

'But the direct consequence of that treaty – and not a pleasant one for us, milady Ivonne – is the sad fact that neither Frau Eisgrotte, nor I can return home at the moment.'

'Oh, I assure you that I had no intention of leaving so soon,' Octavia Eisgrotte answered immediately. 'To spend several weeks in mountains, in such a beautiful, peaceful place – what could have been better? If, of course, our charming hosts would let us to stay,' and she cast a very meaningful glance at Ivonne.

'But of course!' she roused herself at once, regretting of her omission. 'You are welcomed to stay as long as you wish. We will be very pleased.'

Probably, this invitation sounded not quite open-hearted, but – how unfortunately! – those honourable ladies were not in the position to choose. But still, Ivonne was rather surprised: how could some sheet of paper have made such a difference? Upon a short hesitation, she decided to ask Catherine Felsen about it:

'Forgive my ignorance, dear Catherine – but could you please explain me what this treaty is about? If I understand you right, it is more than mere formality… What's changed?'

But it was Octavia who answered instead of Frau Felsen:

'It is in the air, my dear. The air is the essence, you know. What that treaty, pact, memorandum or what-is-it is worthy by itself? Nothing. It is a mere fiction. No more than that,' she grabbed ace of diamond from the table and waved it before Ivonne's face. 'But when people are starting to believe in that fiction – then it becomes real. And precisely that's happening now,' Octavia put the card back absentmindedly, but, to Ivonne's delight, misplaced it. 'Now they really intend to come to an agreement, the Russians and the official England. That's made all the difference… What? I've mistaken again? But no way I'll try this solitaire the third time!'

'We have clear evidence, dear Ivonne, that they are taking this treaty very seriously,' smiled Catherine politely. 'Whether they believe in it, I don't know, but at least they have been fulfilling all precedent conditions, which haven't happened ever before.'

'So it means… That they will be acting together? Against us?'

'They have been already,' Catherine repeated patiently. 'Aren't you reading their newspapers?'

Ivonne swallowed nervously: she never read foreign newspapers. Nor did she often read native ones: what she had seen or heard was quite enough to have built her own opinion.

'And your belongings… your mansions… are they already – ?'

'No, of course they are not, my dear,' said Frau Octavia complacently, shuffling the cards.

'Not yet,' said Catherine almost inaudibly, as if speaking with herself. 'Not yet.'

There definitely was a considerable problem to think about. It seemed that their situation was not so stable as Ivonne had imagined from the words of her husband. Interesting, did they have so little chance of success?

'But you need not be afraid, dear Ivonne,' Octavia Eisgrotte condescended to her. 'Of course we are not going just to sit and wait till we have been slaughtered like pigs. I am certain that Doctor Glass has a couple of aces up his sleeve. And your husband, dear Catherine, is not such a simpleton either. Or is he?'

Catherine Felsen produced a strained smile, not putting much effort into concealing her enmity. Ivonne understood her well: Frau Eisgrotte's tactlessness was truly annoying. A couple of aces up his sleeve… Such a great fortune-teller, indeed.

'Oh, I completely forgot to mention, dear Octavia,' said Ivonne with innocent smile, 'there is no king of spades in this pack. Aby took it this morning.'

Secretly enjoying the look of Frau Eisgrotte's face, Ivonne quickly apologized and departed from the drawing room. It was inappropriate to leave her guests in that manner, but she did not care. After all, they were not guests anymore. They were fugitives.