Albus Dumbledore, now over a century old and hopefully the wiser for it, sat slumped at his desk. The normal whistle and tinkle of the bric-a-brac that littered his office had been silenced by a wave of his knobby wand, held by equally knobby fingers. The war was taking its toll on the supposed Leader of the Light, and one could see it in the curve of his back and the heaviness that seemed to weigh on the headmaster's shoulders. His eyes were closed, as if he couldn't bear to look at the world anymore.
He leaned his forehead on his hand and let out a long sigh at the book in front of him. The pages were yellowed and dusty, like all properly magical tomes were, and the words were written in a musical sort of English. They offered him no comfort, but they did offer him something else. A solution. A prayer. A glimmer of hope in an ever-darkening situation.
Dumbledore's Chosen One was dead, the prophecy fulfilled in the worst possible way, and he was out of time. Out of options.
With another long sigh, he opened his eyes—devoid of their usual twinkle—pushed back his half-moon glasses, and flipped the book closed. Fawkes chirped sadly from his perch and the Sorting Hat let out a gusty laugh. "You're gonna do it, then, Albus?" the hat wheezed.
"Do I have a choice?" the man asked tiredly.
The portrait of Phineas Nigellus on the wall snorted. "You always have a choice," he pointed out dryly.
"Between what is right—" continued Dilys Derwent, a strange smile on her wrinkled face.
"And what is easy," finished Brian Gagwilde, who almost never spoke.
Albus stood from his chair with an air of terrible foreboding and made his way to the stairs. He swished his wand. "Expecto Patronum," he intoned, and a silvery phoenix that could have been Fawkes' twin flashed into existence. "Kingsley Shacklebolt," he told it, and the creature nodded. "Summon the Order," Albus said then, "I have made a breakthrough."
The phoenix dove through the open window of Albus' office and into the darkening sky. Albus gripped the stair banister as he watched it leave, before slowly making his way down the stairs. He would inform Minerva at the meeting, he decided.
The aging headmaster walked into the Great Hall slowly and laboriously, and looked over the assembled crowd. There were students there at the tables, a sea of red and yellow. Blue was scattered sporadically through the room—many Ravenclaws had seen the writing on the wall and had withdrawn from Hogwarts. There were almost no students in green at all but for a few first-years whose families couldn't protect them, the two or three half-blood Slytherins, and four upper-year students. Daphne Greengrass sat primly at the table, her sister Astoria's spine ramrod straight next to her. Why the Greengrasses had thrown their lot in with the Light, he would never know. He had only received a curt note, asking if he would please look after Daphne and Astoria and keep them out of trouble? It was signed with Hyperion Greengrass' signature and stamped with his signet ring.
Pansy Parkinson sat with a terrifyingly cool visage, surrounded by space on all sides. No one would sit next to her. Dumbledore did not know why that one chose to stay, either. She certainly would have been safer with her traditionally Dark family. And Damon Gosforth, who was pure enough for Voldemort but remained at Hogwarts because, as Dumbledore had heard him say in the halls once, "I won't fight for someone who would have my cousin killed."
His cousin, as it turned out, was a Squib.
There were a few Slytherin alumni in the crowd as well. He spotted Marcus Flint sitting shoulder to shoulder with Oliver Wood—he had not seen that coming, but apparently Minerva had. She had giggled like a schoolgirl when Flint had barged into Hogwarts, the first day of the school year, with a snarl on his face demanding to see Oliver. "I know he's here," he had shouted. "You bloody well let me see him because I'm not letting that fool die without me."
Oliver had stumbled out of the Great Hall with a hopeful smile. "Flint?" he had asked, almost disbelieving. "You told me you wouldn't come."
"I went spare without you around," Flint said gruffly, and Oliver has taken his hand and dragged him back into the hall.
Dumbledore remembered lifting an eyebrow at his Transfiguration professor. Her lips had twitched into a strange sort of smirk before she giggled. Just once was all she could manage in the bleak mess their lives had become, but a laugh nonetheless. "Caught them in the broom closet on the fifth floor, you know the one," she confided, and left the entryway with her step a little lighter.
Dumbledore surveyed the Great Hall once more, burning each face into his mind so that if they died—when they died, he thought miserably—someone would remember them.
There were too many gaps in the crowd, like a mouth of missing teeth. He could feel himself slipping every time he saw James Potter and Lily Evans in the hallways, every time he spotted the Longbottoms or Marlene Mckinnon or Edgar Bones. He would catch a glimpse of the Weasley red hair and mistake them for a different set of twins.
Not now, he told himself. When it's all over.
He left the Great Hall quickly and climbed the tower steps to the Room of Requirement, each step feeling heavier than the last. He paced before the wall, wishing for a place to do what needed to be done.
The Room looked like a combination or a war council and a summoning circle, with a heavy wooden table on the right and a large open space on the left, a crate of candles and chalk lying to the side. Albus slumped into the chair at the head of the table and waited.
Sirius Black was the first to arrive, his barely concealed fury wrapped around him like a cloak. The man's rage and grief had not abated since his godson's death—if anything, it grew. The man's expression was thunderous.
Severus Snape walked in next and sat as far away from Sirius as possible. He blamed the former Death Eater, Albus knew, and Severus was rational enough to realize that now was not the time to come to blows.
Molly and Arthur came in then, their sons and daughter behind them. Percy was missing, having seemingly caved to the regime. Only they knew that Percy was a spy, sending them information about Voldemort's Knights of the Walpurgis—his new army. Charlie was missing too, off in Romania trying to drum up foreign aid. They all pretended the cavalry would come soon when they knew it was a lost cause, since Molly prefered her son out of Voldemort's reach anyway.
Over the next few minutes, the remaining Order members streamed in. Tonks and Remus came in, holding hands, and Mad-Eye followed behind them grumbling about how terrible this set-up was, didn't Albus know they could all get cursed in the back this way?
When they were all finally assembled around the table, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood arriving last, Dumbledore tapped his fingers on the table. "I have found a solution," he said quietly. Neville sat bolt upright and leaned toward him. "A solution?" the boy asked, his eyes shining for the first time in a long while.
"Not a pretty one, but a solution nonetheless," Albus confirmed, and Minerva visibly relaxed in her chair. "Brilliant," Ginny said, smiling slightly. Albus felt the weight of their expectations, of their hope, and felt infinitely more weary. Only Sirius and Severus sat unmoving, their faces unchanged.
"As we all know, the prophecy was fulfilled," he said. Molly pressed her lips together and Arthur tightened his hold on her hand. "And none of us can kill him because of it. Only—" he paused for a moment. "Only Harry can kill him."
"Harry's dead," Sirius snarled. Remus tried to place a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, but Sirius shrugged it off.
"Here, yes," Albus agreed. "But not elsewhere."
"Stop being cryptic, you old coot," Alastor said, tapping his peg leg impatiently.
Albus nodded. "I found a ritual," he told them, his Order. "That can summon people across timelines and dimensions."
"It sounds Dark," Tonks objected.
The headmaster seemed to slump further. "It is," he said. "We would be stripping a man from his home and bringing him here to fight our war. It is abhorrent, and will only work if his counterpart here is dead."
Sirius got up abruptly, the chair rocking back and forth, and left. Remus made as if to follow him, but Tonks reached for him, her hand trembling, so he stayed.
Albus looked at the broken man as he left and felt an abyss of guilt open up inside of him. "But it is the only solution we have left," he told them.
"We have no choice," Alastor agreed, and the words of the portraits echoed in Albus' mind. But this is war, he reminded himself. Hogwarts was the last bastion of freedom in Wizarding Britain, and Voldemort was growing bolder. Soon, he'd attack the muggles, and then they would all be doomed. He could not let that happen.
"The ritual requires seven people," Albus informed them. Ginny, Luna, and Neville immediately jumped to their feet. "We'll do it, Professor," Ginny said firmly, but he shook his head. "Wizards of age," he amended. Ginny and Luna remained standing for a moment longer, wavering with indecision, before slumping back down. Neville sat with a muscle ticking in his jaw. Too young, Albus thought regretfully.
Molly Weasley stood then, the skin around her mouth white. "I'll do it," she whispered. Remus and Tonks rose to their feet, followed quickly by Minerva McGonagall. To everyone's surprise but his, Severus Snape stood as well.
Alastor let a breath. "I'll get Black," he said quietly, and hobbled out of the room. He returned to a silent room a few minutes later, alone.
"He won't do it," he said to the Order. "Won't participate in dragging someone who isn't his Harry to a dimension as, I quote, 'Fucked up as this one.' He wants no part in this, Albus."
Albus seemed to slump further in on himself. He had suspected Sirius would disapprove, but had hoped that maybe the man would see sense for once in his life. But the man's loyalty—and pride—ran too strong for that. Damn that Black stubbornness. He had seen it in generations of Blacks, from Cygnus and Walburga to Narcissa and Regulus. And there was not a thing he could do about it.
"I'll do it, then," came a voice who had not yet spoken. George Weasley had gotten to his feet, his face unsmiling.
When Fred had died two months earlier, George has become an entirely different person. Sometimes he would pause during conversations, sometimes midway through a sentence, as if waiting for his twin to jump into the verbal tennis match. Sometimes he would stumble to the side, as if he had attempted to lean on somebody who wasn't there. And all too often he would cut himself off before speaking or make some strange aborted movement, as if he wasn't used to making the first move.
Albus could not remember the last time George Weasley had laughed. His volunteering wasn't entirely unexpected, however. The boy—man, now, really—had been champing at the bit to do something in their fight against Voldemort.
So he nodded to George, saying, "I will get the lines you need to say for ritual by tomorrow. We'll perform it on the new moon."
"Meeting adjourned," said Tonks, a wry smile twisting her tired face. The Order trickled out of the Room of Requirement, some pausing to look back at Dumbledore, at the ritual space, or at the table they had all sat at.
Dumbledore waited until they had all left before conjuring a piece of white chalk and beginning to sketch out a seven pointed star. "The mother," he muttered, then moving to the next. "The brother…"
And so it went, until he had sketched runes all around the star. He tucked the chalk into a pocket of his uncharacteristically somber robe and left the room, trusting Rowena Ravenclaw's invention to keep his ritual circle locked from prying eyes. He wondered if he were doing the right thing. Nowadays, Dumbledore was far more cautious when toying with the lives of his followers. It had taken the very worst situation to get the old man to change his ways, to think a little bit more before considering people as pawns. Because they were people first, he knew, and soldiers second, but for decades he thought he had forgotten that. But in this radically different world, where the Ministry was run by Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort was securing the borders of Magical Britain with his new army, there was no room for mistakes. He was Albus Dumbledore, leader of the last line of defense in Britain, and he would not let people down again.
A/N So, I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year...this is what happened. Yes, this fic is inspired by Kayly Silverstorm's Stages of Hope, but hopefully the only similarity will be the tone and dimension-travel AU aspect, because the plot I have the vague idea for is quite different. There's an itty-bitty reference to one of Shayalonnie's fics, can you find it?