Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my laptop and a few ideas that tend to swirl in my head. I know that we all do this but I have of course been influenced by the stories I have read on fanfiction and if I use something that you have read about in other stories or your own, I apologize but I cant recall every source so I will just put a general one. Everything else belongs to the wonderful woman known as JKR.
Author's Note: This is my first story ever so I hope I don't fail miserably, I offer my apology if I do. I have also rewritten it from the last time.
Prologue.
It stood there stoic, standing off to the side of the large bay window; still as the webbed patterns of stained glass left eerie shadows across its dusty surface. The keys that were once so in contrast to each other were now covered with a substantial helping of dust. What was once alabaster and onyx looked various shades of concrete. A shadowed figure leaned against a nearby wall with dark eyes that glowed a muted red. When time was presented to him he would often find himself standing in this room, staring at the object that had been neglected for so long. He often wondered as to why he still kept it—no longer played, body and keys worn down with age and disuse. Its purpose seemed only to collect dust, consume space, and to remind him of delicate hands and melancholy sounds.
The entire room of course was off limits, his weakness tightly concealed form unforgiving eyes. Sometimes he would feel daring enough to hover his hands over the keys, never close enough to touch them but enough to slightly disturb the layers of filth. Most times he would prefer to lean against the bookcase, his back finding comfort among Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Chopin; sometimes his slender hands would run along the pieces of Horowitz, Liszt, and Gieseking and recreate their melodies within his mind. Each would leave an echo of far away notes that burned in his perfect memory.
By the time he was finished gazing and remembering his eyes would return to the bright, menacing scarlet they were accustomed to be and his thoughts were filled with the urge to burn the room and all its contents. He could feel triumph in the thought of the heat of the harsh flames and the sound of paper crinkling into ask. He felt powerful with the images of broken glass and charred wood in his mind. But always for some reason unease and a slight hint of panic would find its way through his defenses and his eyes would open with a suddenness that he could not explain. It was then relief would come when he would see that the room had not burned and that the piano stood as it had been for years—undisturbed and somewhat sad.
He would then turn and swiftly walk from that place, leaving the dust to swirl behind him.
Albus Dumbledore did not think himself infallible; in fact many instances had proved otherwise. He was a man filled with guilt and regret for the past actions he had committed. Even now he felt a great loss as time and time again he send his underappreciated Potions Master back to the Dark Lord only to find him battered and bleeding upon his return. He felt great shame that he needed to send three children in his place to fight the most powerful dark wizard of the time when war was the responsibility of the old. He felt cowardly for trying to prevent a dark future by using means that he would normally have dismissed. The great Albus Dumbledore was probably most regretful for the secret he had been keeping for fifty-two years. It had been done out of fear for the future but as years passed he knew that it could have all turned out quite differently had he not interfered. Yes, he was quite a meddlesome old man and he often took pride in being such, but there were times where he wished to curb his want to do so. Unfortunately, he did not always succeed.
Standing form his desk the old Headmaster of Hogwarts momentarily removed his glasses and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. He looked out his window, admiring the way the light of the moon illuminated the forest and the quidditch pitch, the high goal posts casting shadows that crept along the deserted school grounds. The starts seemed brighter tonight, the Centaurs would likely have rejoiced in the way Mars was shining. His eyes however did not reflect their usual twinkle, merely a slight heaviness that had more to it than just age. He looked towards the direction of the far wall; tomorrow seemed too long of a wait.
