A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen. ~Edward de Bono
Memories
Harry walked into the office, back straight, eyes bright under his new square glasses. He smiled, hand running over the familiar walls of his late headmaster's office. The stones always felt warmer here, as if heated by the sheer good-will of the whole place. He walked around slowly, and marveled at how, even after seven years, the place hadn't really changed. The desk was in the same spot, though Fawk's perch was gone. Even the silly instruments, delicate and silver, where as they had been. It seems Minerva hadn't had the heart to change anything, not really. Harry walked quietly around the room, fingers brushing books and drawers and cabinets. His finger caught on the handle of a cabinet. He pulled it back.
There was a snick, and the door creaked open quietly. Out spilled a familiar glow from within the storage space, and Harry's breath caught.
It was Dumbledore's Pensieve. The small, deceptively heavy stone bowl sat innocently in the back corner, as if they had not searched everywhere for it. Harry's hand stretched precariously close to the lip of the bowl, so close his fingers brushed the silvery liquid beneath.
It was warm.
Harry was torn. These memories... they were important. So important Dumbledore must have hidden them. But... he couldn't help wanting to know more. To know something no one else had known about the man behind the curtain, the human behind the mythical figure that had become Albus Dumbledore.
He took a deep breath, and dove in.
The light was the odd, guttering sepia of candlelight. At the table in front of him, there were two young men, younger than himself, talking animatedly with one another. Harry moved around to face them, and gasped. One of the young men, the one with the copper hair tied back from his skinny man-child neck, was none other than his former head master, Albus Dumbledore. His name, all five of them, seemed too long and grand for such a gangly young man.
"Al, it's brilliant! We'll be famous! We can finally change the world." Said the other, lighter colored youth. He had wicked blue eyes, darker and richer in tone than his companion's, and thick, blond hair the color of wheat. He was dressed smartly, handsome in a conventional, classic way.
There was not mistaking it, this was Gellert Grindelwald.
And there was also no mistaking that look that Albus was giving him. There was pure adoration in his gaze, an emotion much too light for the heavy burden it would later cost him.
"I know Gell. We'll be saviors! Warriors of wizard kind, defenders of tradition." There was a twinkle in his eyes, an echo of the figure he would become. There was a silence, a comfortable companionable, thing, that stretched out between the two boys. It was the same type of silence that stretched between lovers, Harry realized slowly. He suddenly saw things with clarity. The hands, brushing as they turned pages, the bumping of knees. It was typical teenage love, awkward glances and all.
It was also deeply disturbing.
"Hey, Gell?" Asked Dumbledore, quietly.
"What is it. I'm getting to a good part."
"We... won't hurt any wizards, will we? I mean, we have big goals, and..." He was silenced with a peck to the lips. Harry's eye twitched. That was his headmaster, his 100 and some odd headmaster getting kissed!
"You honestly think too much. For the greater good, Alby."
"Don't call me that! Aberforth always calls me that, because he knows it annoys me, and I know you d-" There was another kiss, this time firmer. This was even worse than the first time. Honestly, he wanted to think of his headmaster as celibate. He did not want to see him being snogged, and, from what he could see, he was not complying with either wish. He turned around, refusing to believe that he was being voyeuristic in the least. The sounds were bad enough.
And on they went.
And on.
And got louder.
Harry tried singing to himself. He tried counting the dust bunnies. He tried ripping off his ears and letting himself bleed out.
Nothing worked.
Suddenly, everything was quiet. Harry turned around carefully, face stained slightly red. All he could see was an indistinguishable lump underneath the covers.
"Hey Gell?"
"Yes, Albus?"
"You know I love you, right?"
"Yes. I do."
And that was that.
Harry pulled away from the shimmery liquid. That must have been the last good memory Dumbledore had had of Grindelwald. Harry stumbled back, going to sit in the chair he had frequented in. It was solid, warm and comfortable and real.
With a deep breath, Harry realized that the most disturbing thing about the whole evening was seeing Dumbledore without a beard.