Dumbledore's Last Dance
by Myr Halcyon
Note: This is my own take on the final paragraphs of the seventh book. The innuendos and hints were inspired by a wonderful theory I read on the metaphoric meaning of the chess game in Philosopher's Stone. If this notion interests you, please let me know and I will pass the essay along. Thank you to AgiVega for providing me with it in the first place.
Disclaimer: None of the following is mine, not the characters, not the idea, not the final word. The characters and last word belong to J.K. Rowling and her respective publishers, and the idea belongs to an author as yet unnamed.
===
The office was a shambles. Broken instruments cluttered the floor, half burned texts and unravelled scrolls lay a metre thick around the old oak desk, now covered with scorch marks and missing most of its intricate carvings. The bodies of several students lay, dead, on the main floor, surrounding a huge, still smoking crater. The enchanted globe from the upper library lay, split asunder, next to the prone figure of Albus Dumbledore.
It was quiet.
A chess piece, a red knight, made a feeble attempt to gallop from under the wreckage to Dumbledore's hand. After five minutes of diligent tripping and nearly falling down the short stairwell, it managed to nudge his hand, ever so gently.
Dumbledore's eyes opened, slowly taking in the wreckage of his office: his beloved books, several mementos of his long-lost childhood, a photograph. He did have too many possessions, he decided, though if he'd been the one cleaning house, he wouldn't have been so indiscriminate. His eyes finally came to rest on the little red knight, and he smiled, memories of one old game filling his sparkling blue eyes.
He hefted himself to his feet and scooped up the little piece. Amazing, really, what magic could do, once one thought about it. He'd grown up taking it for granted that Reparo could fix a broken window. He hadn't thought twice about flying cars, or flying brooms, or pots that washed themselves. That was just how life was.
Dumbledore stopped and put his hand on a small, Muggle photograph from inside his robes, where he'd kept it for as long as he cared to remember. It had always been there, next to his wand, as a support in times of hardship. It was something for him to live for, a reminder of friends long lost, of something to live for.
But his wand was broken now, and the picture scratched. The final battle with Voldemort had taken much more out of Dumbledore than he'd expected, and he'd had to make a sacrifice that he'd dreaded for the last century. He sighed, glancing into the shards of a broken mirror that protruded ever so slightly from the bottom of the chaotic mess that his office had become. He barely recognized himself anymore; he'd stopped looking in mirrors when they'd started counting his wrinkles for him.
But his reflection now elicited a smile. His hair so white, the nose that had become his crooked trademark. Not a freckle left from his youth, though his hair still held the slightest tinge of auburn. It was nice, he reflected, when mirrors kept their thoughts to themselves. Perhaps the Muggles were on to something with that.
He'd started taking an interest in Muggles years ago -- he supposed it was the Arthur Weasley in him. The constant talk of plugs and electricity had made him wonder about the amazing things Muggles could do without magic, and it had interested him even more to watch as the Muggles had gone from covered wagon to walking on the moon within his own lifetime. He'd always liked Arthur, even before they'd met. It was one of those times where you just felt you'd known someone forever.
The knight wriggled in his clenched fingers. Dumbledore looked down at the chess piece again. Such a pungent reminder of his past. The conqueror of evil, the illustrator of victory, and the champion of the Light. Harry had never suspected that, had never suspected how instrumental and yet how insignificant he would end up being. At least Harry would see his parents again, now. And Sirius.
That brought Dumbledore pause. A tear threatened to spill from behind the cracked half-moon spectacles. Harry, skinny and seventeen, alone in the world. Ron, gone, and Hermione, missing. The other members of his ersatz Dumbledore's Army lay dead around him. Dumbledore himself, able only to watch from his desk, held in place by the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse. Able only to watch as Harry, in desperation, tapped into the immense power that his friends and allies were offering him. Able only to watch as Harry and Voldemort were both consumed in the explosion that had physically shaken the entire countryside and would effectively shake the entire world, magic and Muggle.
Able only to lie on the ground as he felt Harry's and Voldemort's lives flicker and expire.
He hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected Harry's winning move to take his own life. But that had been the end of Dumbledore's fabled foresight. He sighed. He hadn't expected the death toll to be anything near what it had been. Why his own life had been once again spared, he knew not at all. Perhaps it was his Destiny to escape his own demise, even when it seemed certain.
"Reparo," he whispered, moving his hand across the failing chess piece in his hand. As he'd expected, his mastery of wandless magic was waning, but with effort he managed to bring the little knight back to life. "There you are, my little friend," he smiled, tipping the rejuvenated horse and rider onto the remains of his desk. It pranced around a bit, reacclamating itself to wholeness, and then turned to stare inquisitively at Dumbledore.
For Dumbledore had suddenly grasped the edge of the desk. His breath came in shorter gasps and his eyes clouded over. He fell to his knees and tried to take steadying breaths, but darkness rushed in around him. He fell onto the floor, his withered legs sticking at odd angles out from under his robes.
Funny, really, that it should end like this. He thought back over his life, as he supposed the dying were expected to. The friends he'd made, the friends he'd lost. The family he'd gained, and the family he'd lost. Twice, he'd lost them now. But that would soon be rectified. He would never lose them again. He shuddered one last time, remembering how it had hurt him to look into Ron Weasley's terrified eyes as he took the Time Turner around his neck. How it had pained him to press the parchment he'd carried for so many years into Ron's awkward hands and spin the Time Turner for him, throwing him back into a time he didn't know, into a time where he would be all alone.
But, Dumbledore thought, he would survive. He would learn what to do; he would find his new family, adopt a new way of life. He would become exactly what he was supposed to become. That, Dumbledore knew for certain.
With his last living breath, Dumbledore looked down at his knees. He truly smiled, for the first time in ages, remembering a night that was both a century and a half and only five years earlier, when a large black animagus had broken his leg and graced him with a most admirable scar.
Note: This is my own take on the final paragraphs of the seventh book. The innuendos and hints were inspired by a wonderful theory I read on the metaphoric meaning of the chess game in Philosopher's Stone. If this notion interests you, please let me know and I will pass the essay along. Thank you to AgiVega for providing me with it in the first place.
Disclaimer: None of the following is mine, not the characters, not the idea, not the final word. The characters and last word belong to J.K. Rowling and her respective publishers, and the idea belongs to an author as yet unnamed.
===
The office was a shambles. Broken instruments cluttered the floor, half burned texts and unravelled scrolls lay a metre thick around the old oak desk, now covered with scorch marks and missing most of its intricate carvings. The bodies of several students lay, dead, on the main floor, surrounding a huge, still smoking crater. The enchanted globe from the upper library lay, split asunder, next to the prone figure of Albus Dumbledore.
It was quiet.
A chess piece, a red knight, made a feeble attempt to gallop from under the wreckage to Dumbledore's hand. After five minutes of diligent tripping and nearly falling down the short stairwell, it managed to nudge his hand, ever so gently.
Dumbledore's eyes opened, slowly taking in the wreckage of his office: his beloved books, several mementos of his long-lost childhood, a photograph. He did have too many possessions, he decided, though if he'd been the one cleaning house, he wouldn't have been so indiscriminate. His eyes finally came to rest on the little red knight, and he smiled, memories of one old game filling his sparkling blue eyes.
He hefted himself to his feet and scooped up the little piece. Amazing, really, what magic could do, once one thought about it. He'd grown up taking it for granted that Reparo could fix a broken window. He hadn't thought twice about flying cars, or flying brooms, or pots that washed themselves. That was just how life was.
Dumbledore stopped and put his hand on a small, Muggle photograph from inside his robes, where he'd kept it for as long as he cared to remember. It had always been there, next to his wand, as a support in times of hardship. It was something for him to live for, a reminder of friends long lost, of something to live for.
But his wand was broken now, and the picture scratched. The final battle with Voldemort had taken much more out of Dumbledore than he'd expected, and he'd had to make a sacrifice that he'd dreaded for the last century. He sighed, glancing into the shards of a broken mirror that protruded ever so slightly from the bottom of the chaotic mess that his office had become. He barely recognized himself anymore; he'd stopped looking in mirrors when they'd started counting his wrinkles for him.
But his reflection now elicited a smile. His hair so white, the nose that had become his crooked trademark. Not a freckle left from his youth, though his hair still held the slightest tinge of auburn. It was nice, he reflected, when mirrors kept their thoughts to themselves. Perhaps the Muggles were on to something with that.
He'd started taking an interest in Muggles years ago -- he supposed it was the Arthur Weasley in him. The constant talk of plugs and electricity had made him wonder about the amazing things Muggles could do without magic, and it had interested him even more to watch as the Muggles had gone from covered wagon to walking on the moon within his own lifetime. He'd always liked Arthur, even before they'd met. It was one of those times where you just felt you'd known someone forever.
The knight wriggled in his clenched fingers. Dumbledore looked down at the chess piece again. Such a pungent reminder of his past. The conqueror of evil, the illustrator of victory, and the champion of the Light. Harry had never suspected that, had never suspected how instrumental and yet how insignificant he would end up being. At least Harry would see his parents again, now. And Sirius.
That brought Dumbledore pause. A tear threatened to spill from behind the cracked half-moon spectacles. Harry, skinny and seventeen, alone in the world. Ron, gone, and Hermione, missing. The other members of his ersatz Dumbledore's Army lay dead around him. Dumbledore himself, able only to watch from his desk, held in place by the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse. Able only to watch as Harry, in desperation, tapped into the immense power that his friends and allies were offering him. Able only to watch as Harry and Voldemort were both consumed in the explosion that had physically shaken the entire countryside and would effectively shake the entire world, magic and Muggle.
Able only to lie on the ground as he felt Harry's and Voldemort's lives flicker and expire.
He hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected Harry's winning move to take his own life. But that had been the end of Dumbledore's fabled foresight. He sighed. He hadn't expected the death toll to be anything near what it had been. Why his own life had been once again spared, he knew not at all. Perhaps it was his Destiny to escape his own demise, even when it seemed certain.
"Reparo," he whispered, moving his hand across the failing chess piece in his hand. As he'd expected, his mastery of wandless magic was waning, but with effort he managed to bring the little knight back to life. "There you are, my little friend," he smiled, tipping the rejuvenated horse and rider onto the remains of his desk. It pranced around a bit, reacclamating itself to wholeness, and then turned to stare inquisitively at Dumbledore.
For Dumbledore had suddenly grasped the edge of the desk. His breath came in shorter gasps and his eyes clouded over. He fell to his knees and tried to take steadying breaths, but darkness rushed in around him. He fell onto the floor, his withered legs sticking at odd angles out from under his robes.
Funny, really, that it should end like this. He thought back over his life, as he supposed the dying were expected to. The friends he'd made, the friends he'd lost. The family he'd gained, and the family he'd lost. Twice, he'd lost them now. But that would soon be rectified. He would never lose them again. He shuddered one last time, remembering how it had hurt him to look into Ron Weasley's terrified eyes as he took the Time Turner around his neck. How it had pained him to press the parchment he'd carried for so many years into Ron's awkward hands and spin the Time Turner for him, throwing him back into a time he didn't know, into a time where he would be all alone.
But, Dumbledore thought, he would survive. He would learn what to do; he would find his new family, adopt a new way of life. He would become exactly what he was supposed to become. That, Dumbledore knew for certain.
With his last living breath, Dumbledore looked down at his knees. He truly smiled, for the first time in ages, remembering a night that was both a century and a half and only five years earlier, when a large black animagus had broken his leg and graced him with a most admirable scar.