"A Christmas present?"
Never mind Dumbledore, who was already turning the matter over with interest—even Bryan looked faintly baffled at the phrase.
"I got hold of it a little while ago—"
Horace was pouring the third glass now. He nodded, working the memory over.
"Around the time you two were off in Paris for the International Confederation of Wizards conference, I believe. Give or take a few days either side."
"I'm quite touched, Horace—"
Dumbledore understood instantly, why Bryan's mood had turned. He smiled all the same, eyeing the bottle still in Horace's hand with warm interest.
"Christmas is still two months off yet, and here you've already got my present ready and waiting. Where did you come by it—the Three Broomsticks, I'd wager, knowing your habits?"
Horace straightened up at that, pleased to be asked, swinging the bottle about in one hand with a touch of showmanship, enjoying the telling of it.
"Quite right, Albus, spot on as ever. It was a Saturday evening, and I'd nothing much on my plate, so I popped into the Three Broomsticks for a drink or two, just to pass the hours.
I got to talking with Rosmerta about the old days, as one does—more or less about my time as Head of Slytherin, and how well you and I got on even back then, and how much I knew about you over the years. The villagers are always keen to buy me a round in that place, you know. They do love hearing the old stories—"
At this, Horace gave a slightly bashful little laugh, ducking his head, clearly rather fond of the memory despite the self-deprecation.
"I'd had rather a lot to drink by that point, if I'm honest, so I don't remember it all that clearly now—it's rather a blur, truth be told—but I believe some young man at the bar asked me what I meant to give you for Christmas this year. I told him I might send you a bottle of aged mead, seeing as it's your favourite, after all—"
"Ah, you remembered correctly there, Horace. It is indeed my favourite—"
"And that's how you came by this particular bottle, then?" Bryan cut in gently, unable to hold the question back any longer.
He was eyeing the bottle with great interest now himself, leaning forward slightly on the sofa.
"When I got back to my office that same night, I found it sitting in my coat pocket, wrapped up neat as you please—"
Horace was visibly pleased to see that Dumbledore showed no displeasure at all at the fact that he hadn't actually bought the bottle himself.
"I imagine some admirer of yours used me as a convenient go-between to send it your way, Albus. Well—who's to say how these things happen, really!"
Horace handed a glass each to Bryan and Dumbledore in order, careful not to spill, then lifted the last one himself, beaming warmly at Bryan over the rim of it.
"The papers are full of nothing but rumours these days, Bryan, absolute nonsense most of it. Some of my old students know I hear things, being who I am, and they keep writing to ask me what this joint task force of yours is all about, hoping I'll let something slip. Perhaps you might tell me, and I can set a few of them straight for once—"
"That wouldn't quite do—"
Bryan's face abruptly turned serious.
Horace looked genuinely puzzled at the sudden shift, and Bryan hastened to explain.
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, Horace, please. I don't mean the task force itself. I mean—"
Under Horace's still-bewildered gaze, Bryan reached out and took back the glass from his hand without further explanation, and then Dumbledore's as well.
Snap—
At the crisp click of his fingers, the golden liquid still sitting in all three glasses on the tea table flowed backward all at once, pouring itself back into the bottle without leaving a single drop behind on the crystal, and the discarded cork lifted from the table and wedged itself firmly back into the bottle's neck, sealing it clean.
"Seeing as this is a Christmas gift from an old colleague to Headmaster Dumbledore, in honour of a friendship that spans the better part of a century now—then—"
Bryan handed the resealed bottle of aged mead over to Headmaster Dumbledore with both hands.
"You ought to savour it alone, Headmaster."
"Ha, quite right, Bryan—"
Dumbledore chuckled at that.
"I think I'll choose some night when the snow is falling thick outside the windows, drink it alone before bed, and go straight to sleep afterward—just to avoid any trouble—"
Judging by Horace's expression, watching the exchange, he was still rather pleased with the whole thing.
After all, Dumbledore did seem to be taking his gift quite seriously.
"Oh, Albus, honestly, what trouble could a glass or two of mead possibly cause a man your age—"
Horace said, unconvinced by the whole performance, waving a dismissive hand.
"Well, we'll simply open another bottle for now, then."
So saying, he heaved himself up off the sofa and trotted off toward his liquor cabinet again with enthusiasm.
Beneath the crystal chandelier, Bryan and Dumbledore exchanged a single, brief glance. Then Dumbledore drew his wand from his sleeve, gave it a small flick, and sent the aged mead vanishing off toward his own office.
"Ah, here we are—"
A moment later, Horace came trotting back into the room with a fresh bottle of sherry held up in one hand, entirely unaware that the mead had already vanished from the room behind his back.
"Do tell me about this joint task force you've proposed, Bryan—"
Sinking his whole weight back into the soft sofa with a contented sigh, Horace returned to the subject with fresh determination.
"Will you be leading it yourself, then?"
"The one leading this force is the Confederation's supervisory committee, Horace, not any single person. It doesn't belong to me, or to anyone else individually—it isn't a private army. Though of course, the force will need a commander when it's actually out on assignment—"
Bryan said, settling back into his own explanation now that the earlier tension had passed.
"I've recommended Alastor to Minister Bones for that role. He's a highly experienced Auror, one of the best this country's produced in a generation. I believe he'll be more than equal to it."
"Mad-Eye—"
Horace gave a small start of genuine surprise at the name, the sherry sat forgotten for a moment in his hand.
"Just so. In the Auror line of work, Mad-Eye Moody's reputation certainly precedes him wherever he goes—there's not a Dark wizard in Europe who doesn't know that name."
"Bryan—"
Dumbledore joined the conversation now, leaning forward slightly. Back at the meeting in Paris, he'd shown nothing more than tacit approval on this particular subject.
He hadn't offered much of his own view then, but now that it had come up again here, he observed Bryan calmly.
"Do you truly believe this joint task force can go on being useful indefinitely?"
"That depends—"
Bryan leaned back into the sofa at his ease, turning the empty glass slowly in his hand, his gaze had gone deep and distant, as if piercing straight through the fog of the present moment to look at some more distant future.
"In the long run, maintaining a force like this will cost a tremendous amount—galleons, certainly, but people too, and political will, which runs out faster than either. The various Ministries willing to fund it now, may not remain willing forever, once the memory of those fears have faded a little.
We've signed a mutual defence treaty between the member nations, but there's no magical means in existence of actually preventing any signatory from quietly going back on it eventually, when the cost starts to outweigh the fear that drove them to sign in the first place.
What's more, this force will always be fighting on the front line against the very worst dark wizards this world has to offer, by definition—that's its whole purpose. Casualties are bound to be heavy over time, and that kind of loss will breed resentment eventually, even in countries that were never directly involved in the fighting themselves, watching their people die for someone else's war—"
"Then why propose forming it at all, if you already see the cracks in it so clearly—"
Horace asked, curious and leaning in.
"To deal with Voldemort, of course—"
Bryan smiled at Horace, who gave a visible shudder at the name.
"Voldemort has confined his troublemaking largely to Britain so far, but the harm he's done to wizarding society reaches far beyond these borders, and it takes more forms than one.
For the past nearly thirty years, Britain's champions of justice have thrown themselves into the fight against him, one after another, generation after generation, undaunted by loss even when the losses mounted terribly—and only just, by the narrowest of margins, managed to hold the darkness back from spilling over."
Dumbledore said nothing at that. Horace, too, fell silent, staring down into the glass in his own hand without really seeing it, something was glistening faintly now at the corner of his eyes.
"But that heavy a burden shouldn't fall on British wizards alone, carrying it generation after generation while the rest of the world watches from a safe distance. Peace needs more people willing to stand guard over it, not just the ones unlucky enough to live closest to the fire."
Bryan said, quietly now.
"That's why I've used the International Confederation of Wizards to bring this force together in the first place."
Dumbledore studied Bryan's composed, unreadable face out of the corner of his eye for a long moment, and sighed privately to himself.
What Bryan had just said hinted obliquely, at something else, something he hadn't said outright.
Namely, that the fall of Erkstag Prison itself had been his doing behind the scenes all along.
After all, that very breach had been the spark that led directly to the task force's formation in the first place—Erkstag's fall had shown every Ministry of Magic on the Continent, in the starkest possible terms, just how necessary it was to unite against Voldemort and his Death Eaters before it was too late for them as well.
But how, exactly, had Bryan managed something on that scale? He'd made warring Death Eaters, sworn enemies of order, act exactly as he'd wished them to, dancing to a tune they never knew he was playing.
Such command of scheme and wit, laid so many moves deep—Voldemort himself fell far short of it!
"Is that all it takes, then?"
Horace looked a touch dazed by the whole conversation, his eyes fixed hazily now on the glass in his hand rather than on any man across from him.
"Gather enough strength together in one place, unite enough nations behind a single banner, and that alone will be enough to destroy the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters for good?"
"Oh, the Death Eaters, certainly—numbers alone will manage that part well enough, given time and coordination—"
Bryan said calmly, setting his empty glass down on the table.
"But numbers alone won't do for Voldemort. You know that yourself, Horace. He has his secret for cheating death—"
Under Horace's astonished gaze, Bryan reached into his robes and rummaged about for a moment. A little while later, he drew his hand back out and dropped a black stone wrapped in a thin ring of green light onto the table between them all.
"Here—a Horcrux. Voldemort's made himself no small number of these over the years, splitting his soul apart piece by piece to buy himself immortality. This particular one, Headmaster Dumbledore and I only just finished destroying together—"
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