"Unicorn milk," Albus murmured, pulling at his beard as the gamekeeper headed home, having shared with him the secret of Sirius Black's recovery. "What a confounded business."
And he set to work without delay.
On the properties of this substance—miraculous even by wizarding standards—he had read everything he could find, and the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot could find a great deal. The International Confederation's library saw no reason to conceal information about the purest of magics from him. And now a neutralising potion had to be prepared urgently. By himself. Without the young genius Potions master, without any assistance—because no one else would touch such a thing. A Dark potion. The darkest.
It was well within Dumbledore's abilities, of course—he simply could not bear the thought of spending time on it. And there were no recipes to work from, only a rough idea of the direction. But to do it himself, with his hands in up to the elbows, and generally— Still, sooner would be better than later: Sirius would remember his godson before long, retrieve him from the Muggles, and goodbye to everything so carefully planned. No, Albus could not allow that to happen.
He eventually worked out that there was currently a second-year student at the school—the only child with the blood and heritage of the Darkest family in Britain—which meant he only needed to direct the work, record it as research, and make use of the "by-products." Let everyone be surprised that Albus had never taken personal students before—well, he'd say the time had finally come. He certainly knew how to frame things when necessary. And the girl was the daughter of the right parents, very much "his camp."
But really—how could Rubeus have thought that he, the Headmaster, would go to the unicorns himself? And to the pointed enquiry of whether the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot might like to try milking while he was at it, he had received the answer that, well, his hands were so small and nimble, it would probably go very nicely. Delivered with the gamekeeper's most admiring gaze. The sheer simplicity of the man.
It was fortunate that little Nymphadora Tonks had greeted his proposal with such radiant delight that it would have been cruelty to deprive a child of such an adventure. And she'd gone straight to Aberforth to learn—just from the hint. A remarkable girl, growing up; Albus had been right about the heritage after all, and Tonks had managed to awaken a long-dormant gift. Yes, he would restore the Blacks—not as a Dark family, but as a Light one. The Lightest.
The news from Aberforth was less encouraging, however. The girl's first attempt had been to milk… the billy goat. Well, they'd explained things to her, but not one of the nanny goats would let her near. The billies, interestingly, had behaved perfectly. Nymphadora only managed once, and even then only because the owner was holding the calmest goat himself.
Rubeus can hold a unicorn mare, the Headmaster decided. He has the strength for it.
But the worry continued to gnaw. And then the foolish gamekeeper had let slip that odd remark—if you want something done properly, do it yourself. Albus disagreed, but resolved to oversee the matter in person. Particularly since Andromeda was inexplicably opposed to her daughter's premature involvement in research work—and quarrelling with Madam Tonks, given her maiden name… No potion would be adequate. And the Blacks had not merely immunity to mental attacks, they had artefacts against them, and no one had ever managed to reach those. Sirius had removed his once, on a bet with James—and hadn't given them to anyone. Not even to the Headmaster. He would have liked to study them properly.
And somehow it never occurred to his silver head—the experienced politician's head—to ask who had actually been obtaining the milk for Rubeus himself.
The gamekeeper certainly couldn't have brewed such a cunningly concealing infusion himself, entirely tasteless and odourless—one that had taken effect even on the Headmaster? And so what if he'd had to take a sip, because the gamekeeper had nearly wept when Albus refused his tea?
He'd had to try it. And he hadn't regretted it in the slightest—the gamekeeper's new herbal blend was extraordinary. Albus had even taken a little basket of ready-to-brew herbs home, and now inhaled their delicate summer fragrance with pleasure whenever he felt the need to unwind.
* * *
At last the auspicious day arrived—eagerly awaited by both the Headmaster and the entire band of conspirators alike. What very few people knew was that wild large ungulates do not lactate in winter—yes, even magical ones. Because giving birth to foals in a snow-covered forest was not something even the most devoted of creatures would contemplate, be they Light unicorns or Dark thestrals. Only domesticated species manage such feats, and not all of those.
And then Andromeda had sent what was practically a Howler—if anything happened to her darling child, the Headmaster of the school would answer for it personally. Complete with magical phrasing—wherever had she found that? She'd cut ties with her family so long ago that appealing to the Blacks for help should never have crossed her mind. And who among them would concern themselves with a little halfblood who'd been Sorted into Gryffindor? Albus had had to concern himself, and had gone in person to keep an eye on the child.
He hadn't planned to let anyone see him—under an Invisibility spell, Dumbledore felt perfectly comfortable—especially since the charm only enhanced the effect of the modified potion originally developed by Snape to avoid the Marauders. Of course, the Headmaster had found a way to obtain not just the recipe but a sample from the boy. Now was the moment to put that useful development to use. Ah, he really must find a way to get to Snape eventually.
He concentrated, waved his wand, and set a secondary charm to neatly cover his tracks in the snow. Casting on the move was a touch inconvenient. The Headmaster was distracted, and—
At what precise moment an entire avalanche of snow fell on him from the nearest tree, he never did establish. And then he found himself chasing the gamekeeper, who was somehow moving far too quickly. One might have thought he was carrying the girl on his shoulders—the Headmaster himself couldn't keep pace. The path twisted like a drunk, branches lashed his face, needles scratched his skin and caught in his beard—the Forbidden Forest seemed distinctly opposed to his presence today.
Albus had worked up quite a sweat, and eventually had to undo his warm cloak—completely forgetting that any change of clothing immediately cancelled an Invisibility charm. Realising his error somewhat later, he waved it off—the potion was working splendidly and should last. But now there was a faint shimmer in the air where the Headmaster's figure was, and the billowing hems of his robes, as they swung away from his body, became semi-transparent.
Puffing and perspiring, the Headmaster at last reached the clearing—where he was surprised to discover a silvery mare unicorn and two young foals, still pale gold rather than silver, capering around her. But what was surprising was not this. Unicorns did not give birth to more than one foal at a time.
Had Dumbledore been a moment quicker, he would have understood everything—but he had missed the small, enthusiastic Metamorphmagus girl transforming into one of the creatures, and so could only open and close his mouth. A Homenum Revelio cast over the clearing gave a peculiar result, hovering stubbornly over him like a bright lantern, so he cancelled it hastily before the animals noticed him.
The Headmaster waited, but no one approached the unicorns. Hagrid must have taken Nymphadora to another part of the forest. Well, Albus was not going to go looking for them—he had walked quite enough in this forest today. The girl would bring what was needed in any case.
But the temptation to approach the beautiful creature himself, which had been growing quietly since he arrived, became harder and harder to resist.
* * *
Andrei had prepared for Operation Blood for Blood with thoroughness and broad participation—drawing in all interested and not-so-interested parties. The latter category included, of course, the dryad, who had no particular interest in anyone's blood, but after three hundred years of being unable to exchange a single human word with anyone—simply because no one had thought her capable of it—something in her consciousness had clearly shifted. A very useful shift, particularly for one half-giant and one young Potions master.
Now her opinions and thoughts were genuinely sought, she was consulted, she was respected, and—probably—loved. The last part had turned out to be rather funny, but the emotions she was picking up were fresh and new in a way she could never have hoped for. Osenina, in her own way, had set about studying wizards. Well—why not? Any knowledge was of use to her grove.
* * *
As a result, Snape was carefully treating the herbal blend for "tea" with Dryad Water Number Five—since dear Director had started indulging in psychotropic substances, well, what you give is what you get. The main thing was that it needed to taste right.
Aragog, not yet briefed on the Director's blood collection plan, asked on his own initiative what was being prepared, and offered his services, which proved remarkably useful. Because no matter how muddled you made him, Dumbledore was strong enough to remain coherent—and what does a coherent wizard do when he gets a bleeding scratch? He heals it instantly and vanishes every particle of his blood automatically, without thinking.
Which meant the blood had to be obtained by the most unobtrusive means possible. This took considerable thought, but when Aragog hauled in a couple of loose, shapeless grey clusters, Andrei was jubilant and nearly kissed the spider—he restrained himself only because he couldn't find a suitable spot.
Snape quickly cooled their enthusiasm by pointing out the "unobtrusive" nature of such bites, but Aragog responded by producing another cluster twice the size of the previous two, and with the words "won't kill everyone," handed it to Hagrid.
"Where do you even find so many hibernating mosquitoes?" Andrei wondered.
"Knowing where to look," Aragog clicked his chelicerae—smiling, in his way—but caved fairly quickly: "I have another couple of clusters in my cave, but those are smaller."
"Worth substituting," Snape observed. "If the Headmaster is descended upon by a cloud of mosquitoes in the middle of a snow-covered clearing, I imagine he'll simply incinerate the lot before they get close. Also—who's warming the air? And how quickly do these creatures revive enough to start biting?"
Field experiments occupied another couple of days, resulting in a considerable number of bites on Hagrid and Snape's exposed skin—turning those areas into something resembling "pink polka dots"—and producing a highly pungent balm that relieved the itching, though it was potent enough that mosquitoes tended to drop dead before reaching anyone wearing it. Ninochka giggled but diligently practised warming the air so that the sleeping mosquitoes would launch themselves as quickly as possible. Both Hagrid and Snape consistently managed only to incinerate everything.
In the end they decided the optimal approach was to rouse the entire swarm properly first, then put a Stasis on it. In that state, Levitate the whole thing to the target—ideally down the back of the collar. Then call Accio and hope that at least a few of those that had bitten flew where they needed to.
Field experiments continued. Eventually some degree of success was achieved: Snape managed to extract a few millilitres of Hagrid's blood, and vice versa, and both Ninochka and Aragog concluded that life had not been this interesting in quite some time.