For the Greater Good
The worst sort of Muggles, Minerva said.
The blood wards would keep the boy safe from vengeful Death Eaters and Voldemort himself, when he returned. Whether such a thing would come to pass in one year or twenty, he could not say...but it would happen. Of this, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was certain.
The worst sort of Muggles.
Harry's last living blood relatives.
The worst sort of Muggles.
"He will be far better off," Dumbledore said aloud.
Inside, he chanted the words that had propelled him through the years, through the deadly games of chess with living pieces; through Time and War, those great changers of men.
For the Greater Good. For the Greater Good.
For the Greater Good.
Even as he observed Harry with a kind smile and twinkling eyes, he cried out for forgiveness.
Oh, Harry, Harry...a better man than I could hope to be...please, I beg of you, forgive a cruel old man his ruthless games.
He lifted the goblet to his lips and drank the terrible poison gladly, happy to spare Harry this most terrible of all agonies, though even the witnessing was, itself, horrifying.
He lifted the goblet to his lips and drank, and saw Gellert and Aberforth before him, condemning him, and sweet Ariana beside him, smiling and innocent and trusting.
He drank again, and his wand seemed to move without direction towards his wonderful sister, and the dreadful, horrible green light shot out of the tip and hit her squarely in the chest.
As he drank more and more the faces of Aberforth and Gellert change, to Sirius and James and Lily and Remus, to Harry and Hermione and Ronald. All staring, all condemning him, as dear Ariana died beneath his wand.
This is what you do, they told him. This is what you are.
He screamed.