Chapter Text
1st August, 1945. It was the day Dumbledore visited the United States for the first time. The Headmaster of Hogwarts had postponed his journey to the New World for a little over forty-five years. When he was young, he had planned to travel to the United States alongside his best friend, Grindelwald, and his beloved sister, Ariana. Curiously, that very same journey had already been postponed once before.
The two journeys had entirely different purposes. The first was a tradition in the wizarding world: the Grand Tour, which every wizard is expected to undertake upon coming of age at seventeen, immediately after graduating from Hogwarts. Dumbledore and his best friend, Elphias Doge, had planned every detail of the trip: the Grand Canyon of the United States, the Amazon rainforest, the pyramids of Mexico, Chichén Itzá, Egypt, Japan, and finally a return to England.
The Portkeys had been paid for and the destinations chosen. Yet just as he was about to depart on that journey, he was summoned back home.
His parents had died.
Elphias Doge had been willing to wait a few weeks until Dumbledore had finished mourning, but when his friend informed him that he would have to postpone the trip for three entire years—until his younger brother came of age and completed his magical education—then, and only then, would the four of them—Albus, Aberforth, Ariana, and Elphias—be able to travel around the world.
Elphias was hardly enthusiastic about postponing his adventure for three long years, much less about sharing it with a strange boy and a half-mad girl. So he decided to embark upon the journey without waiting for Albus.
Elphias tried to convince him that it was for the best. After all, "in three years' time I'd already be working for the Daily Prophet", "you're only young and reckless once", "tradition says the journey should be made alone"—and among many increasingly unconvincing arguments, he attempted to justify his decision.
Dumbledore received each one with a kindly smile and gave him his blessing to continue his adventure.
Elphias soon regretted his choice. The bond he had shared with his best friend had been severed, for whenever he visited Albus thereafter, he was greeted with polite but chilly courtesy. He had become little more than an acquaintance to the man who had once been his closest friend.
His second journey had been undertaken in search of the Deathly Hallows, though this time his first destination would not be the United States, but Bulgaria.
Together with his new best friend, Gellert, they had traced the location of two of the three Deathly Hallows. The Elder Wand was somewhere in Bulgaria or a neighbouring country; of that, the pair had no doubt. The Invisibility Cloak was both easier and harder to locate. The cloak ought to have been passed down to the firstborn sons of each generation of the Peverell family; however, that family had been among the first pure-blood lines to die out through the male line. In other words, there had been a generation without a male heir.
Even so, the two wizards had managed to narrow down the possibilities. If tradition had been maintained, the Potter family had inherited the Invisibility Cloak; therefore, Isaiah Potter ought to be its current owner. Of course, there were periods during which the cloak might have been lost amongst countless cousins and younger brothers.
Nevertheless, that relic was of little importance to the young wizards, a trifle compared to their own magical abilities; merely one piece of the power that would make them Masters of Death.
Dumbledore gazed towards the horizon where the sun was sinking. He wiped away a tear before it could slide down his face.
"I was so young and so naïve," he reflected before stepping into the city of New York.
"Everything all right, sir?" asked Newt Scamander.
"Yes. Forgive me for remaining silent for so long. It's simply that when one reaches my age, one becomes more contemplative."
Newt said nothing. Even after a decade as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, he had never quite grown accustomed to Dumbledore's jokes, or at least he could never tell when the Headmaster was joking and when he was not.
Fifty-four years was not even half the lifespan of a wizard. The professor was still young by magical standards. True, he had allowed his beard and hair to grow long; he had also refused to disguise his grey hairs or wear the elegant Muggle suits that had earned him so much ridicule within the wizarding community, and had instead begun wearing the traditional robes woven from acromantula silk.
"I ought not meddle in other people's affairs," Newt reminded himself.
From his pockets he produced a pair of raw fish and tossed one to each of the Thestrals they had used to travel from Hogwarts to New York.
"Home," he ordered the pair of winged horses with skeletal frames, glossy black hides, and faces bearing reptilian—almost draconic—features.
And they obeyed.
"Will they make it back to Hogwarts safely?" Dumbledore asked.
"Don't worry, sir. They're very clever."
Within seconds, the pair of Thestrals had vanished from sight.
Both Dumbledore and Newt had travelled by Thestral in order to leave England, as the Floo Network connecting Britain to the United States was being monitored by MACUSA and, by extension, Grindelwald, along with every other form of magical transportation: Portkeys, Apparition, broom traffic, and other less conventional means.
Thus, the former teacher and student had reached the heart of enemy territory without anyone noticing.
As it was Dumbledore's first visit to the United States, it was Newt who led him to their destination.
Newt did not mind the silence as they walked amongst the Muggles; in fact, he preferred it. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was left alone with the thoughts he wished to avoid at all costs: the friend he had lost, the family that had died, the brother who still hated him, and the man he loved—the very man he was travelling to kill.
To drive away those dreadful thoughts, Dumbledore was eager to talk about almost anything.
"Do you think Hagrid can manage the Thestrals?"
"Hm? Oh, Hagrid. Yes. Certainly. I taught the lad everything I know," he said, a trace of pride creeping into his voice.
Deep down, however, he knew that his own teaching ability had little to do with it. Hagrid had learned the duties of a gamekeeper in less than a year, and Newt had needed less than two years to teach him everything he knew. If Hagrid were allowed to sit his O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s, he would likely earn Outstanding marks. It was a real shame that the Ministry of Magic would not allow him to keep his wand.
"You're right, Newt."
The air of New York smelled of coal, petrol, and cigarette smoke. The bustling streets trembled beneath the constant rattling of trams and the cacophony of buses, while an endless stream of pedestrians flowed along the pavements as though the entire city were perpetually running late for something.
"Is it always this busy?" Dumbledore asked after bumping into someone for the third time.
Brick and stone buildings rose like urban castles on either side of the avenue, casting long shadows across the pavement. Shop windows displayed suits, hats, and wireless sets, though many also bore patriotic posters reminding passers-by that the war still raged on the far side of the ocean.
"No, sir. Twenty years ago the city was more vibrant, noisier..." Newt was referring to the shortage of fighting-age men. The streets were filled with children, women, and the elderly. And vagrants. Many vagrants. "...more alive."
Dumbledore would have liked to see the Muggle city he had heard so much about. During his visits to Hogwarts, Newt often spoke of the Statue of Liberty, the theatres of Broadway, and the wonders of Central Park. Now it was little more than a memory, a walking reminder of what Grindelwald had taken from this country.
*Perhaps, when all of this is over, I can visit again. Perhaps...*
No.
*I did not come here as a tourist,* Dumbledore reminded himself. *Besides, this is hardly the time to be making plans for the future.*
Before he realised it, they had arrived at their destination. The rest of the Order of the Phoenix had reached the meeting point over the previous weeks so as not to attract attention.
"We're here," Newt announced.
From that moment onwards, there would be no turning back. Albus would be sending his friends, comrades, and allies to their deaths; perhaps even his younger brother, and possibly himself as well.
All in order to correct the mistake he had made more than four decades ago.