#(but if you ever wanted to see someone tell Grindelwald he was the human equivalent of one of those sticky hand toys)

[calleo-bricriu]

"Why are you like this?"

(( I’d apologise for him, @absintheabsence but we both know that’d be an entire lie. A continuation of 1986. ))

Grindelwald had asked him that question more than once in the past few weeks, and it hadn't escaped Calleo that he'd asked the same thing a good forty-ish years ago as it was difficult not to. Half the time, the things Grindelwald had said or done, even with explanation, were things Calleo hadn't been able to ever fully wrap his head around.

Then again, wrapping one's head around someone else's madness is often difficult.

This time, he decided to answer what held a good chance of being a rhetorical question.

"Do you have any idea," Calleo briefly glanced up from a stack of papers he'd been going through, if only to gauge the general mood of the room, "when the last time I had any time at all away from work was?"

"1945. Early May," back to the papers, "and even now, I'm still working. It's impossible to get away from it entirely; I'm not sure what I'd do if I could at this point. Director Yandle retired, you know." The topmost piece of paper was signed and disappeared.

"Not dead retired, retired retired. 1976, about the time Voldemort was finally starting to be taken seriously as some sort of threat. Said he didn't want to deal with that sort of thing again and I ended up with his job." The way he was talking sounded more like a narration than a conversation in which another person was involved, likely on account of Calleo's main focus being clearly on the stack of papers he was still looking at. "Out of the three he hired to replace the three of yours he sacked, two of them fucked right off when told it would be their only opportunity to do so if they were leaning that way. Pity, really; if they'd stuck around a bit longer they might have realised--"

Dry laughter stopped him momentarily, even if it was more than a little inappropriate. "I told them if I found out they were, they'd find out how much worse I could be, which they took to mean they were free to leave unharmed; I forwarded their information up to Crouch who, I might add, ended up being demoted to a useless paper pushing job after that war for how over the top vicious he was in his belated response to Voldemort. A lot of executions and life terms in Azkaban without trials or with trials but without any evidence."

"So, that takes up a lot of time, all the overhead of running even a small department and doing the job I was doing prior because I'm not inclined to get the three I have now killed by handing it off entirely." Three more papers disappeared. "After that was over--it wasn't."

"I don't know how much you've heard over the past few decades, but there were a handful of things about Voldemort's death that didn't seem to alarm anyone, really; well," for the moment, Calleo did stop working on whatever he was working on and looked up, "not anyone who should have been alarmed--no, no, that's not accurate either. Nobody in a position that should have been alarmed was alarmed."

"I was alarmed; they never found a body, and that kid had the cast pattern of a killing curse burned onto his face. That's not supposed to happen. There are very, very few ways that could happen, even if it had backfired, it should have burned HIM, not his target. Anyway, it was less of a backfire and more of a 'Despite the high probability that I've done some extremely detailed and high level blood magic to make sure it's incredibly difficult to actually kill me, I never learned the basics and didn't even consider the possibility of protective blood magic stopping me from killing a child in front of his mother' sort of thing most likely."

He smiled brightly, "But, really, who would listen to the Librarian of Obscure and Terrible Things? Why would you even bother to ask someone like that if they might have some sort of idea there when it's so much easier to go with 'well, he's clearly dead because there were four people in the house and only three bodies, living or otherwise, nothing strange here.'" Whether he was being sarcastic or not wasn't immediately clear.

"Albus Dumbledore (( @everyheartbesure is 100% not allowed to lecture Calleo on his choice of vacation spots. :) )) noticed though, and I know he noticed because he wrote me in the immediate aftermath all but asking me to tell him he was being irrational and a bit insane for thinking that Voldemort wasn't merely or most sincerely dead,” Any seriousness or weight what he’d said to that point might have carried was dampened by the fact that he sung that last bit of phrasing, ���which I couldn't do on account of what I said just prior to--" Calleo stopped and blinked at nothing a few times before laughing, "You know, I don't think I ever mentioned that we've been friends since about 1930! First and only person in my entire career to write me telling me he'd read some of my papers and followed that up with Transfiguration and not Dark Arts! You have no idea how tired I was and still am of people only ever having read THOSE papers and never the much less horrible, much more interesting ones I've done on Transfiguration!"

"At any rate, it was an invitation to collaborate on research if I wanted to. Which I did, obviously, and it turned out we got along exceptionally well! Well enough that Fawkes was trying and succeeding to preen my hair within thirty seconds of meeting him as well. Still does, which is odd, most animals avoid me," Calleo shrugged and part of his attention drifted back to the dwindling stack of papers in his lap, "Anyway, he wrote me about it primarily because he's always known where I work and what my work's primary focus has been, it'd just never really been a topic of discussion because it wasn't of interest to him and I don't care to push that sort of thing on people; he's still managed to never even look into the things I'm more well known for writing and by that point I'd asked him not to, at least, not while I wasn't around for a whole hell of a lot of reasons, chief of which being that it's all rather horrible and I would absolutely feel the need to explain myself through every terrible thing I've had published."

"But, the point is, he knew it was my area of expertise and the likely reality was--because of that expertise--likely a lot worse than he'd imagined, and he's not really wrong, I'm just so desensitised to it that it hardly registers as anything other than textbook knowledge half the time which meant it wasn't all that difficult to convince him to let me handle that side of the whole mess."

Another couple papers disappeared, "And it is a mess, make no mistake about that; the Ministry is adamant Voldemort is dead and any mention of the contrary all but gets a coordinated campaign of discreditation started against whoever won't toe the line. Unfortunately for them, the general view is that anyone working in the Archives is already a little bit to moderately mad, so it has no effect on me and I know a lot of people who either owe me a whole hell of a lot of favours or who have a vested interest in not letting another slightly genocidal Dark Lord get a foothold in continental Europe again. Goblins, mostly," Calleo grinned at his papers, "you didn't get them all, you know, I had three left by the end and only rebuilt from there. I still work just as closely with Lagraff, Koggot, and Aldig and they'd already started before Albus asked when I could GET started!"

"But, the most interesting thing I'd caught was while Voldemort was still counted among the living: The scraps of your little empire, the ones who hadn't been locked away for life or executed, they initially watched Voldemort with mild interest that quickly turned to open, hostile disdain as he kept flailing against an already ineffective, disorganised, panicked government and made no substantial public or political progress while trying to sell himself as something--better--to them. An odd number of them also hold positions in various governments and have either worked with me for years now which is, in some cases, exactly as awkward for them as you might imagine, or owe me a substantial number of favours or debt."

"And this?" Calleo twirled a finger at the ceiling of the dreary, depressing, and rather dim tower cell, "This is the closest thing to a holiday I've had in over forty years, and even then, even you have to have noticed that I routinely have to hop outside that window and away from the magic smothering nonsense of this building because if I'm muted or 'fuzzy' for too long, too many people notice and get a tiny bit alarmed."

"That's why I'm 'like this'! I haven't had a day off in forty six years and the last time I had any time away from work it was STILL up a tower locked in a room with you! Now that I think about it, every single time I've been away from the Ministry for any extended period of time, it's always ended with me somehow being stuck somewhere with you! You're the human equivalent of one of these things!" Calleo dug around in his pockets while he wrapped up that minor rant and pulled out--something--that was whipped across the room, aimed directly for Grindelwald's forehead.

It was--sticky and soft and a thin thread of it led back to Calleo's hand. The end that wound up on the side of the cell Grindelwald was on looked a bit gummy and a lot hand shaped.