Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

The first time that Albus failed – truly, irrevocably failed – his little sister died.

He had never failed before, not really. He was the golden boy, talented, brilliant, popular, perfect. He had never been in serious trouble, never done poorly in class, never caused disappointment outside the eyes of his brother. His brother, who barely earned enough marks to stay in school, who had few friends, who regularly got caught out of bounds. His brother, who failed at all the little, unimportant things and who was, in the end, the one who was right about all the important ones, about Ariana, about Gellert, about Albus himself.

Looking down at his sister's grave, Albus swore that he would learn from his great failure, that he would never let himself fail again.

And for many years, as he went from success to success, he managed to convince himself he had succeeded. He earned his mastery in Transfiguration. He studied alchemy with the legendary Nicholas Flamel. He discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood.

All seemed well until Archduke Franz Ferdinand died. The world – muggle and wizard alike – went mad, and Albus realized that he had failed a second time. He had had nothing, nothing to do with Gellert since Ariana's death, and all the while, his former lover had plotted and planned, schemed and striven, had brought the world to war. And Albus learned that he could fail not only through his actions, but through his inactions. As millions died in what would later be called the First Grindelwald War, Albus felt the sting of each fatality on his conscience. He could have done something, should have done something, should have convinced Gellert to abandon his course, should have dueled him, should have warned someone, should have at least tried to prevent this catastrophe instead of assuming that Gellert would be broken by the event that had broken Albus, would be disgusted enough to see that those youthful dreams were nothing but nightmares. But no, Gellert had not been broken, not like Albus had, had not felt the same disgust. Well, Albus could feel it for both of them, could feel it for those terrible dreams, for the fools they had been, for the men they were now.

From then on, Albus made a point of acknowledging his greatest failures. As midnight came each January 1st, he named the year just ended. Some years, the better years, bore names like 1926's "The Year of the Bowling League Loss." The bad years, though… he hated himself for those. He hated himself for 1933 (The Year of the Astronomy Tower Jump), for 1952 (The Year of the ICW Abstention), for 1976 (The Year of the Shrieking Shack), for 1981 (The Year of the Lightning Bolt), for 1982 (The Year of the Exsanguinated Professor). He hated how, in retrospect, of course the boy was depressed, of course his vote would have forced long-overdue change, of course that rivalry would fester into disaster, of course he should have insisted on being secret keeper, of course the curse would claim her life. But he had been new to his deputy duties, he had feared the siren song of power, he had taken too soft a hand on discipline, he had yielded to his followers' free will, he had hoped the curse had broken with its caster. He always had excuses for his failures, and he always, always forced himself to ignore them. There was never an excuse.

He found himself renaming some years in retrospect, as certain failures only became clear in hindsight. He had been a blind, optimistic fool when he named 1938 "The Year of the Poorly Received Jumper." A good year, he had thought as the bells rang in 1939. But no, looking back, it was The Year of the Burning Wardrobe, The Year of Wool's Orphanage, The Year of First Impressions, The Year of Might Makes Right.

He would wonder time and time again, in the years and decades that followed, if Tom Riddle could have been saved if only he, Albus, had done something different. If he had shown the boy compassion rather than condescension, if he had tried persuasion rather than intimidation, if he had done anything, anything else, could he have prevented Tom from becoming Voldemort? For what had he done, when setting that wardrobe aflame and demanding that the boy return his stolen treasures, what had he done but show that the strong could bully the weak? Or would things have been even worse? Would Tom have learned to manipulate him as well as he did the rest, would there have been nothing and no one to stop him as he rose to power?

Sometimes, Albus imagined how the world would have been if 1938 had been The Year of the Murdered Orphan, but he knew that, however else he had failed throughout his long life, the deliberate killing of another was beyond him. And, sometimes, Albus thought, that particular failure might be his greatest failure of all.

He certainly thought so in 1945, when he stood over the crumpled body of Gellert, when he could have killed the scourge of Europe where he lay, could have ensured that he never threatened anyone ever again. Hand trembling, Albus aimed his wand at his former lover, at the twisted monster he had become, at the man he had learned to hate. He tried to say the words, but no sound emerged from a throat gone dry with fear at what he meant to do. As he lowered his wand, he caught a flicker of emotion in Gellert's cold blue eyes. For just an instant, it looked like surprise, like gratitude, like hope, like relief. And then Gellert's head fell back down, and the instant passed, and Albus wondered at what he had done, at what he had failed to do.

In the end, he sent Gellert to the prison of his own making not because he meant to, but because he, despite all his power, despite all his hatred, was too weak to do anything else. And while some praised him for his goodness, most shook their heads in dismay, for surely the twice-beaten Grindelwald would escape the cell he himself had built and return to plague the world once more. Albus privately agreed, and he waited for the fallout of his inexcusable weakness.

And yet, to the surprise of no one more than Albus, no harm came from that failure. Gellert made no attempt to escape from Nurmengard, and, as far as Albus could discern, he seemed to learn true remorse behind its walls. Perhaps he, like Albus, had looked over his failures and chosen to learn from them. Regardless, against all odds, one thing became clear: the dark wizard repented of his sins.

Although Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets that same year, although he killed Myrtle Warren, although he framed the innocent Hagrid, although he forged his first horcrux, Albus never renamed that year in his thoughts, not even when later decades showed how deeply Tom had fallen, showed how much Albus's failure to stop him had cost. For Albus, 1945 would always be defined by his failure to kill Gellert.

Fifty years later, Albus would look into gray eyes. He would again see that long-ago battlefield, his great enemy helpless at his feet, and remember that, sometimes, there is no shame in failing. Sometimes, a failure could become the greatest success of all.

And Draco Malfoy lowered his wand.

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