Palette

The bar was old and dirty, and it seemed that the daylight never entered these walls as if the rays of the sun loathed everything and everyone inside. For once, Theseus didn’t want to argue. He was more than content with a glass that, in the beginning of his wonderful adventures in the Land of the Drunk, smelled of a dirty rug but the alcohol did wonders magic could not — not only it helped get rid of the smell but it also changed the aftertaste of the glass which was neither half empty, nor half full, but entirely and wholly fucked. Well, what do you know, he thought looking at his glass, I have more in common with a glass than with anybody else around. This thought tasted bitter because it reeked of self-pity even more than the dirty cloth the bartender used to wipe all the glasses, all the surfaces and, hopefully, not his ass with. He was offered a lot of condolences. At some point Theseus got terrified by the amount of the letters that were waiting for him, it seemed, everywhere he went: in his office, at his home, everywhere. The number of people who decided to reach out to him to offer their sincerest condolences was stunning, and the idea that eventually he would have to politely reply to each and every one of them, thanking people for their support in the darkest of the hours, was horrifying. Head Auror Scamander got his fiancée killed, and everybody was so quick to forget the thing that kept torturing him — how stupid her death was to begin with. Numbed by grief, Theseus couldn’t help but think how, on some level, Leta had never truly loved him if she chose a stupid death in vain instead of getting married to him. It was a selfish thought, a disgusting thought, but the bar he was drinking at was matching his thoughts. “Theseus… I believe that is enough.” It took Theseus several moments to identify the owner of this voice, and when he finally managed to put his finger on it, it felt like a small victory. His transfiguration teacher. “What are you doing here, professor?” Theseus made an effort to focus his eyesight, and there he was, Albus Dumbledore, the man with an unpronounceable surname if you’re drunk. “That is a shithole bar.” “I agree,” the man nodded and gently touched his shoulder. “Why don’t we leave?” “No deal. ‘m not ready yet.” “Alright,” said Dumbledore after a moment of hesitation and took a place next to Theseus at the bar. “I will have what the gentleman is having.” “Don’t. It’s shit,” sincerely advised Theseus and that was about all the willpower he could find in himself to talk. Dumbledore didn’t reply. He waited for his glass and took a sip. Theseus noted that Dumbledore’s glass looked just a little bit cleaner that the one the bartender had given to him. Maybe the professor had something about him that made people want to be liked in his presence. Theseus thought briefly about the time he studied at Hogwarts but to no avail. There was no time in this bar, and every memory that surfaced, hurt like hell. “She said “I love you” before… you know,” Theseus was cradling his glass and he didn’t want to but for some reason spoke. Dumbledore didn’t respond, and he continued, eager to say something repulsive that would hurt to hear as much as it would hurt to say. “The thing is… I still don’t know who she was talking to.” “Don’t.” “Newt was standing right behind me. And she was looking… kind of in between.” This time Dumbledore said nothing. Theseus shrugged his shoulders. “And you know what else? I wish Newt felt… something. About that.” “If you are referring to Miss Lestrange’s death, I assure you, Theseus… your brother is devastated.” “Oh, boo-hoo. He surely has a funny way of showing that.” “Everyone copes with grief in their own way.” Theseus smirked. The ever diplomatic Dumbledore. “You know what Grindelwald said?” he didn’t give a moment for the other man to make a… what did he use to call that in the classroom? An educated guess? “He asked Newt… he said… Do you think Dumbledore will mourn for you?” Dumbledore took another sip of his drink and quietly said: Oh. Oh. Oh! For some reason that “oh”, sad and surprised, infuriated Theseus, and he demanded aggressively: “What the fuck did that mean?” not sure what he was referring to, the “oh” or Grindelwald’s question in general. There was another question on the tip of his tongue. The one that had already been asked but Theseus didn’t care. “And you still… after all of that… you still won’t fight him?” “I can’t.” “Well fuck you then, professor Dumbledore.” The man nodded thoughtfully, put his hand on Scamander’s shoulder and said: “It’s Albus.”