Resolving a Misunderstanding

Even after viewing the memory in a Pensieve, Dumbledore never had a clear recollection of what had happened. Ministry Healers told him that the shock of the blast had been such that anything he might have perceived under ordinary conditions, even those things of which one was usually unaware but which became accessible when viewed in a Pensieve, had never even made it to his brain to be stored.

Between disembarking from the jeep and his return to consciousness a few moments later, Albus had only scattered, banal memories – the British soldiers saying good-bye, Carson joking with Private Merrick, and reminding him of their promise to meet after the war at some pub they were both acquainted with – no matter how long it took, Carson said, he’d meet him on the fifth of January in the Sheep’s Head after the war ended. Merrick had laughingly agreed and said that, with luck, they’d be seeing each other next year. Alastor had walked a few feet ahead of the jeep to look down the road that the two soldiers would be turning on to, and Albus himself had begun to turn from the jeep, scanning the trees and fields for a likely Disapparition point.

It seemed as though the two young men were still laughing as Private Merrick ground the jeep into gear and started forward. Almost simultaneously, there was a short, immense roar, followed closely, the Pensieve memory revealed, by a second equally loud explosion. Albus instinctively raised his wand hand and attempted to cast a wandless shielding charm; as he was doing that, Carson had, just as instinctively, turned toward his old teacher and pushed him to the ground, covering him with his body as he did so. The next minutes were garbled, even when viewed in the Pensieve, a peculiar riot of heat, colour, and sound, intermixed with moments of complete silence and utter dark, which the Healers said indicated he’d likely either been unconscious or close to it.

One of the few memories that Albus had no conscious recollection of, but which emerged clearly when viewed in the Pensieve, was that of Carson, drenched in blood, struggling to his knees, hooking his own arms around Albus and under his arms, desperately dragging him away from the fire; coughing and crawling, heat and smoke following, the boy rising and falling and rising again as he struggled, gasping through his blood, to pull them both away from the blazing vehicle.

The Pensieve memory then went black and silent, and when the memory resumed, Albus was lying at the side of the road. He needed no Pensieve to remember the next minutes and hours. They were as clearly etched in his soul as ever a memory could be.

Albus came to, smelling the acrid smoke from the burning jeep, knowing in that instant that both of the soldiers, Rogers and Merrick, were dead. He was aware that Carson was lying to his right, almost face down in the dirt and snow, his own right arm still thrown protectively across his former teacher. Albus’s head was throbbing with pain, and sticky blood had made long rivulets down the left side of his face. His left shoulder felt peculiar, although at that moment, he detected no injury in it, but when he attempted to move his left arm, sharp pain shot through his shoulder and into his neck and chest. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Albus forced his left hand to reach out and take the boy’s right one.

“Carson . . .” Albus’s voice was rough as he choked out the young man’s name. “Carson, my boy, we need to turn you over.” Albus could hear Carson’s breath bubbling in his chest and throat. Alarmed, Albus set his mind against his own pain and raised himself up, using the leverage of his body to ease Carson’s right arm up, turning him slightly as he did so, and wrapping his right arm around the boy’s back, supporting him.

Albus had seen many a ghastly sight in his life, and many of them in just the last few years, but the sight of a sharp piece of metal protruding from the boy’s chest was worse than some of the most grisly scenes he’d encountered recently. Albus gently explored Carson’s back with his right hand, relying on his tactile senses, as his own injuries appeared to have temporarily lamed his magic. There he found the other end of a metal fragment that had apparently entered the boy’s back and then partially emerged on the other side. Albus couldn’t be sure yet, but he believed that Carson had also suffered a head injury: the back of his neck and head were wet with warm blood.

Albus cast a thought toward the other young Auror, Alastor Moody. He had been almost as close as they had been, he thought, but on the other side of the car.

“Alastor!” Albus croaked. He cleared his throat and called more loudly, “Alastor!”

Albus thought he heard a slight answering moan from somewhere beyond the still-crackling flames. He couldn’t have been unconscious long. Probably less than a minute. Heaving himself up, Albus ignored the growing pain in his shoulder and arm. Unconsciously mirroring Carson’s earlier actions, but this time kneeling behind the boy to hook his arms around him, Albus half dragged, half carried the semi-conscious boy still further away from the jeep, toward one of the trees that lined the road. As he dug his knees into the hard, frozen mud, and pulled the boy along, Albus felt a moment of gratitude that there had been little snow in that area recently.

Breathing was becoming more difficult for him, as well, and when he finally reached the tree he had been aiming for, Albus propped Carson against it, then lay back flat on the cold ground and gasped for breath. His mind returned to Alastor, and Albus cursed himself for his age and his weakness. He sat up and pulled himself closer to Carson.

“Carson, my brave boy, can you hear me?” Albus was relieved to see Carson’s eyes flutter for a moment. “Carson, you have a shard of metal sticking through your back into your chest. That’s why you are having a hard time breathing. I have set you up against a tree, but you mustn’t move very much, or the piece of metal might shift and injure you further. Do you understand, my boy?”

Carson’s eyes opened at that, and he tried to lick his lips, where blood had frothed and was beginning to dry. “Yes,” he said weakly. He tried to smile. “I think I’ll just sit here for a while, if you don’t mind, Pr’fessor,” he whispered.

“That’s just fine, my boy. Now, I haven’t seen Alastor yet, and I am going to try to find him. I am going to have to leave you alone for a few minutes, but I promise I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“’Kay, Pr’fessor,” he whispered back. “I’m a little cold, though.”

“Here, then, take my coat.” Albus removed the heavy woolen coat he wore over his Muggle Army uniform and draped it over his former student, trying to avoid having its weight fall on the metal protruding from his chest. After smoothing the boy’s hair back from his face with a bloodied hand and cringing inwardly at the sight of his pale features and dilated pupils, Albus felt for his wand by his right side. At that moment, Albus truly wished he had learned how to swear properly. Somehow “Doxiedoodle” just didn’t express his current sentiments adequately. His wand was broken in two places.

“Carson, one last thing, it seems your old professor has gone and sat on his wand and broken it. Where do you keep yours, my boy?”

“H’it’s in m’boot, Pr’fess’r,” he gasped.

Albus felt about and found Carson’s wand, thankfully in one piece, tucked into a boot holster.

“That’ll teach me to take my wand for granted,” Albus grumbled to himself. Carson choked a bit, and Albus looked up, alarmed, to find Carson smiling wanly at him.

“Don’t make me laugh, Pr’fess’r. Hurts when I laugh,” he said, still trying to manage a smile. “O’ course, it hurts anyway . . .”

Albus took the wand in his right hand and waved it experimentally. A few golden sparks fell weakly from its tip. Well, either the wand was poorly suited to his magic or his magic had been concussed worse than he’d thought, or both. Still, it was a wand. He waved it over Carson, daring to utter only a light Warming Charm on the air around him, with a strange wand and his own magic injured.

Albus smiled at the boy, hoping he was being reassuring. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Carson.”

Albus forced himself to his feet, then steadied himself against the tree trunk until he was certain that he wasn’t going to pass out again. He made his way toward the blackened jeep, surprised to see that it was still burning, and looked away from the disturbing sight, casting his eyes along the road.

“Alastor! Alastor! It’s Albus – Professor Dumbledore; where’d you get to, my boy?” He called, trying to keep his voice light, despite his growing anxiety over their predicament.

“Mmmmp.” Albus heard a vague, low moan and, walking around the jeep, discovered its source. If Albus had been horrified at the sight of the shrapnel emerging from Carson’s chest, the sight that met him at that moment was no better.

The young Auror lay in a twisted, crumpled, bloodied heap. He had caught some shrapnel, but that wasn’t what alarmed Albus. Alastor’s left leg was a mangled mess. Albus walked to him as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the pain in his head and his left shoulder. Squatting next to Alastor, he saw that the boy had managed to tie a tourniquet around his leg at the knee before he lost consciousness. He shook his head in amazement at the young wizard’s fortitude.

Raising Carson’s wand, Albus hesitated, then decided that he didn’t dare cast any healing charms on the young Auror with that wand – particularly since, now that he was moving about, Albus could tell that his own injuries were affecting his magic.

He knelt stiffly next to the boy’s head. “Alastor! It’s Albus Dumbledore. Can you open your eyes for me, lad?” he called softly. Albus wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a vehicle in the distance.

“Alastor, I’m going to need to move you, all right, son? Here we go. I’m afraid I can’t use a nice Mobilicorpus today,” Albus said, keeping his tone light. “Your old professor sat on his wand, would you believe it? Broken in three pieces.” As he was speaking, Albus lifted Alastor just under the arms, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. He couldn’t lose consciousness now.

He began the painful process of dragging Alastor back toward the tree where he’d left Carson. The movement caused Alastor to open his eyes and groan. “I know it hurts, my boy. I’m terribly sorry. If I could, I would take it away for you. Just bear it a bit longer, that’s it.” Albus continued talking to the sweating, pale Auror, trying to distract them both from their inevitable pain. Alastor was clearly attempting to swallow his moans, but each time his mangled leg hit a bump or a stone, he’d intake his breath sharply, and let it out in a slight, almost inaudible groan.

“You’re doing very well, Alastor. Very well. We’ll need to see what we can do about some of those cuts, lad. They don’t look too bad, but, well, we don’t want to scar you up, now, do we? Although the girls do love a man with a few interesting scars. Adds character to the face.” Albus was sweating despite the chill temperature, and he felt nauseous. He sincerely hope he wasn’t going to pass out.

After what felt like an hour, but was surely only minutes, Albus and Alastor had made it to where Carson lay propped against the tree. Alastor had begun to help for the last several feet, pushing with his right leg as Albus dragged him backwards.

“Carson, I’m back, my boy. I brought Alastor with me.” Albus was feeling at a loss. What to do now that he had both young Aurors there by the roadside? His own wand was broken, and his magic was at the lowest ebb he could remember in decades. He doubted he could Apparate without dangerously Splinching himself; he certainly could not Side-Along with either of the two others, let alone with both, even if he had his own wand. No, it would have to be the Portkey. He sighed. They couldn’t all use it. It was keyed to his magical signature, but he could alter that, he thought, although the operation would surely deplete him further.

Carson was breathing shallowly. He had opened glazed eyes when Albus had called his name, but then closed them again.

“Come now, Carson, don’t fall asleep.” Albus was frightened by the sight of the youthful Auror’s pale brow and by his rasping, uneven breath.

Alastor tried to sit up and managed to lean on his right arm. “Oh, God, Professor,” he said in a low voice. “This does not look good.” He said “this,” but nodded toward Carson. “And I’m a mess, I know. I won’t be able to Disapparate. Or walk out,” he said, trying to look at what was left of his leg. “Funny how I didn’t feel a thing at first; now it hurts like hell. An Episkey didn’t do much; I had to use a tourniquet, but I know I lost a lot of blood before I stopped the bleeding. You’re supposed to loosen a tourniquet every ten minutes or so, I think, and I haven’t done that. Rather difficult if you’re not fully conscious. They don’t mention that little fact in any of the pamphlets they give us. And Carson,” Alastor added in a louder voice, forcing himself to sound cheerful, “Hoy, there, Carson, old chap! Still the old Gryffy-Ravenclaw, aren’t you?!” He lay back down on the frozen mud and, in a whisper, said, “Carson doesn’t look like he’ll be going . . . anywhere on his own, either. You look like hell, too, Professor . . . and your Glamour is fading. You’ve got to take your Portkey. Send someone for us.” Moody’s chest was heaving from the strain of this speech, and Dumbledore saw that he was going into shock, as well.

Not willing to debate anything with his former student, Dumbledore asked, “You tried an Episkey? Do you still have your wand then?”

Alastor gestured toward his leg. “Couldn’t cast another one. Couldn’t manage a Lumos at the moment.”

Albus looked down at Alastor’s leg and saw that he had used the wand to tighten the tourniquet. In the effort it had taken him to drag the young man out of the road, he hadn’t noticed this novel use for a wand.

“Do you mind if I remove it and give it a try? Carson’s wand doesn’t seem to agree with me. I can use the larger piece that’s left of mine to retighten the tourniquet when I’m done.”

“Help yourself,” said Alastor. His eyes were almost closed, and his breathing was irregular.

As quickly as he was able, Albus loosened the tourniquet and was somewhat alarmed when very little bleeding resumed. He didn’t know why this would be, but it didn’t seem normal to him. Although it felt as though it had been hours since the explosion, in reality, it had only been about twenty-five minutes, Albus thought. Perhaps it was the Episkey that Alastor cast, combined with the Muggle tourniquet, that had affected the leg.

Leaving the tourniquet loose for the moment, Albus tried out Alastor’s wand. This time, the sparks seemed a little more lively, although Albus would never want to rely on this wand in an emergency. Unfortunately, he thought with a sigh, shoving the wand into his belt, he would have to.

He was just preparing to retie the tourniquet, when he heard the alarming sound of voices in the distance, and from the cadence, he could tell they were speaking German. Without worrying about the consequences, Albus cast a Silencio on both Alastor and Carson, then, with a rush of adrenaline, dragged Alastor none too gently further from the road, behind some scrubby bushes. His left arm had given out entirely by the time he returned to Carson, but he put his right one around the young man’s chest and heaved him up, trying to hold onto the coat he’d flung over him whilst simultaneously avoiding the metal shard. Dizzy from the exertion, Dumbledore stumbled backward, pulling Carson with him. He controlled his stumble enough to reach the line of bushes where he had deposited Alastor. Rolling Carson onto his side with a quietly whispered, “Sorry, my boy,” he collapsed beside him.

After taking a few breaths, Albus realised that they might still be seen from the road. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulled Alastor’s wand out, and quickly cast three Disillusionment Charms. Then, raising himself up a bit more, he looked out toward the road.

A Disillusionment Charm wouldn’t be very useful if anyone saw the tracks and trails of blood that clearly led in this direction, thought Dumbledore. If anyone shot blindly from the road, they could still hit them; the Charm wouldn’t protect them from flying bullets, no matter how aimlessly fired.

Dumbledore swished Moody’s wand and felt it respond sluggishly. Beginning with those closest to them, the tracks of blood and drag marks gradually began to whisk away. Albus was unable to finish, however, before several German soldiers appeared from around a bend in the road.

He lay back down on the icy ground and shivered, and a sense of hopelessness stole upon him. His head was pounding, his left arm was useless, his magic was weak . . . but then he looked toward the two boys beside him, blinking to try to see them through the Disillusionment Charm.

Carson was breathing shallowly. Alastor, who had rolled over toward Carson and put an arm around the other boy’s waist, was almost completely still. Even knowing they were there and having cast the Charm himself, Dumbledore could barely make out their forms. He wished he dared move a little closer to them, both to add his warmth to Alastor’s and to take a bit of warmth himself. Whatever happened, he would do all he could for these boys, for as long as he was able. Albus had not been unaware of the dangers posed by travelling in a Muggle war zone, but he had always believed that if he were going to be badly injured, it would be in a wizarding battle. He chuckled inwardly at the irony. This hadn’t even been a battle.

Albus turned his head slightly, hoping to be able to see something of the road, but was unable to. He could just make out voices and footsteps as the Germans examined the charred remains. He couldn’t hear enough to understand much of what they were saying. He thought he heard something like, “schau mal hier,” and “es muss noch . . . ,” followed by, “doch, doch.” It sounded as though they were having a debate of some sort, probably about whether there had been any soldiers other than the two whose partially charred remains lay with the wreckage of the jeep. Dumbledore wished he’d been able to banish all of the blood and drag marks around the vehicle.

He heard one of the men say, “Ja, wir werden doch seh’n . . . wenn jemand da ist . . .” and a laugh. Then shooting, shooting, and more shooting. A machine gun. Albus closed his eyes. One of them had apparently decided to shoot into the trees on either side of the wreck. Now he could hear bullets as they whished through the bushes next to him, just inches above where the three wizards lay, then skipped in the hard dirt behind them. Neither Alastor nor Carson twitched. Albus swallowed. The shooting stopped, and there was shouting, seemingly from several of the soldiers all at once.

“Du! Horst! Bisst du ganz verrückt?!”

“Was ist mit dir?”

“Er ist total übergeschnappt!”

“Es gibt einfach niemand, verstehst du? Was meinst du dabei?”

“Blödsinn . . .”

Then, finally, one voice raised above all the others: “Hört auf! Alle!”

After more argument and shouting, and a few desultory prods into the dead weeds at the edges of the road, the group began to move away. It appeared they were not a particularly happy group of soldiers, thought Albus grimly. They had sounded young, and they certainly weren’t well-trained, nor well led. Their greatest concern had seemed, first, whether the shoes of either of the dead soldiers were still intact and, second, the waste of ammunition that Horst had committed when he went off his rocker and began shooting aimlessly into the trees at, as far as the others believed, no one.

The three wizards lay still a while longer. Albus wasn’t sure whether the other two remained still out of caution or because they were unconscious. Finally, he rolled over, cancelled the Silencio and Disillusionment Charms, and examined the two younger wizards. Carson was still breathing, air and blood bubbling around the wound in his chest, but he didn’t respond when Albus whispered his name. Alastor didn’t seem much better. His leg had begun to bleed again, though not as profusely as Albus would have expected. He put the young Auror’s make-shift tourniquet back on, for lack of any better treatment, this time using the remains of his own wand to tighten the knot. As he did so, Alastor blinked open his eyes.

“Still here,” he whispered. Albus wasn’t sure whether the boy had meant it as a question or a statement, so he just nodded slightly.

Ignoring the pain in his head and shoulder and the chill in his bones, Albus reached into his shirt and pulled out a St. Christopher medal. It was cheap and would attract no attention if found on him. Not bothering to try to unclasp it with his one good hand, Albus yanked hard at the flimsy chain. It cut into his neck some before it snapped, but he barely noticed the abrasion amongst all his other injuries. Laying the small medallion on the ground in front of him, he began to pass the wand over it. Yes, he could alter it to transport someone other than himself. But only one of them. Which? How could he choose?

“Carson, Carson, my boy, can you rejoin us for a moment? Hmm, good lad!” he said as Carson’s eyes fluttered open. “Carson, I have a Portkey here. It can bring one of us to Amiens.” Albus looked over at Alastor as he spoke quietly to the other Auror. “Would you like a free Portkey to Amiens, Carson?”

Carson’s eyes, which had been glazed over, seemed to sharpen at that, and he tried to say something, but Albus couldn’t make it out.

“What’s that, my boy?” Albus leaned nearer to him.

“Alastor,” he whispered. “Send Alastor.” Carson coughed weakly in his effort, and more blood bubbled from his chest. “Never make it there. You know it. Can’t Portkey. Can’t Apparate,” Carson gasped.

Albus turned toward Alastor, who had been unable to hear what Carson said. “Well, Alastor, it seems I will need your help here.” Albus reached over and pulled up the end of the tourniquet.

“Hold this just so, please.” Alastor, not knowing why, obeyed. Dumbledore raised the wand and, with a quick Diffindo, sliced off the end. He took it from Alastor, who was looking puzzled. Albus placed the bit of bloody cloth next to the Portkey and began to cast the spells necessary to change it to allow Alastor to transport with it.

Alastor raised himself up on one arm. “What? What are you doing, Professor? That’s your Portkey! What are you doing?”

This was as lively as Alastor had been since Albus had pulled him from the road. “You know the way this Portkey functions, Alastor. I am changing it so that it is not tuned to me.”

“Stop! Stop it! Send Carson! He’s worse off than I am. I’ll be fine, just, please, stop,” Alastor finished with a gasp.

“It’s too late, Alastor; it’s done. And this was Carson’s request. Let him do this for you, eh, lad?” Albus said gently.

“You should have gone,” complained Alastor weakly. “If they’d wanted everyone to have Portkeys, they would have given them to us. That one was for you.” Alastor lay back and closed his eyes.

Carson made an effort to sit and gasped in pain.

“There, now, my boy, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Need to sit up,” he whispered. “Need to sit; need to talk to Alastor.”

“All right, then, I’ll help you.” Albus assisted him into a sitting position, leaning the young wizard against his right shoulder.

“Hey, there, Alastor,” Carson said weakly. “Don’t fight us on this one. We need to get out of here in case more Germans come . . . or any of Grindelwald’s people. Arguing will just take time, and you’ll lose, anyway. So do what the professor asks and take the Portkey.” This lengthy speech, spoken in barely a stage whisper, exhausted the injured Auror, and he sank back against Albus, who tried not to wince.

“So, Alastor, that’s set. Given your current condition, I would not be surprised if you passed out as soon as you arrive in Amiens – or even as soon as the Portkey activates. I don’t know if you will be in any shape to tell them what has happened, so I am going to write a little note for you to take with you, all right?” Without waiting for his answer, Albus continued, “I obviously have no quill or parchment, but I do have a bit of paper in one of my pockets. Unfortunately, it is my left pocket, and I’m afraid my left hand isn’t working very well at the moment. Alastor, if I move around, can you just – that’s right, thank you. Now, something to write with. I usually have a bit of a pencil with me, but I don’t know where that’s gone.”

“I have a biro, sir, in my jacket pocket. Good Royal Air Force issue,” Carson said with a weak grin.

Albus composed a brief note, explaining that the jeep had blown up after they had got out at the crossroad, that Carson was gravely injured, and that they would try to find someplace nearby to shelter, as there were German soldiers in the area.

He sighed, knowing that, unless someone was at Headquarters who had been here before and could Apparate directly to them, they would have to wait for someone to make a Portkey, and that could take time, depending on whether there was anyone skilled with Portkey Charms at Headquarters at the moment, and whether they had the crossroads already plotted or not. As far as Dumbledore knew, they had relied on a Muggle map to choose this particular spot, and he doubted it had been magically plotted for any reason.

He folded the small note and put it in the top pocket of Alastor’s shirt, then he took the St. Christopher medal and placed it in the young wizard’s right hand, closing his fingers around it.

“There you go, my boy. Well done today. I am proud of you both. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to borrow your wand for a bit longer. Now, don’t delay. The Portkey will activate at the word ‘spero,’” Dumbledore said. “Go, now, and we’ll be fine. We’ll just look for someplace a little more comfortable.”

“What’s the word? ‘Sparrow,’ like the bird, Professor?”

“No, ‘spero,’ as in ‘hope,’” Albus replied, “‘I hope.’”

“’Bye, Carson, Professor. I’ll buy us all a firewhisky when you get back.” Alastor tightened his grip on the little medal and said, “Spero.” And he was gone.

Carson and Albus were now alone.

Author’s Notes:
Translations of the German:
“Schau mal hier” = “Look here”
“Es muss noch . . . ” = “It must still . . .” or “There must still . . .”
“Doch, doch” = interjection indicating the speaker thinks that something is to the contrary of what was just said.
“Ja, wir werden doch seh’n . . . wenn jemand da ist” = “Yeah, we’ll sure see – if someone’s there”
“Du! Horst! Bisst du ganz verrückt?!” = “You, Horst! Are you completely mad?!”
“Er ist total übergeschnappt!” = “He’s gone completely around the bend!/He’s gone off his rocker!/He’s snapped!”
“Es gibt einfach niemand, verstehst du? Was meinst du dabei?” = “There’s no one there, get it? What do you think you're doing?/What do you think you’re accomplishing by that?”
“Blödsinn . . .” = “Idiocy/Utter foolishness/Complete nonsense . . .”
“Hört auf! Alle!” = “Stop it! Everybody!”

Since the German is there only for added atmosphere, I didn't think it profitable to create any more complicated dialogue for the German soldiers; this should be comprehensible to most English speakers with a smattering of German and yet is not so lengthy as to interrupt the flow of the narrative.