Title: Dumbledore's Man
Summary: A lonely professor contemplates the ways and means of the connection between Harry and Voldemort. What is he to do to mark the only equal to the Dark Lord as one of his own?
Rating: PG once again.
a/n: Hopefully this is as good as my other things... Again, no MMAD, which is quite alarming coming from me. This was just another thing that my muse screamed to write... I hope all who read like it! Also, you may notice that 'He' and 'His' is capitalized. This is only done for emphasis, nothing more, nothing less.
Dumbledore's Man
He writes the words in invisible ink; trusting that the boy will go so far as to believe that hope truly lies deeper than sight alone. His fingers absentmindedly close around the fluttering snitch, and the glare emanating from the candle causes the words to shine like silver. "I open at the close".
He sighs, speculating whether the boy will pause to think that the close does not always mean a closing of an object, but rather, the closing of one's life. His gaze travels around every curve, every design carved into the snitch he now held clasped between the touch that cannot open it, and the hand that penned the words that would only deem confusion and strife. The very thing he had tried so hard to avoid all of the poor boy's life. Must another obstacle be placed in his path to prevent him from continuing onwards, just as everyone had pressed him to? Why had people pressed him and him only to journey into the realms of which everyone else was frightened in venturing?
His gaze wanders to a magnificent bird perched on his armrest. If only the bird were to remain, perhaps this task which He had unwillingly set upon the boy, the boy He had nurtured all of these years, even grown attached to, would have a better chance in unraveling these trying riddles that would even stump one of his dearest friends? No, He contradicted himself thoughtfully; Ms. Granger has proven her knowledge far greater than she has been credited with. Even as He thinks this, He knows He is only hurting Himself by the lie, and perhaps the entire Wizarding nation. Perhaps an escape from this world will not only be amusing, but also relieving. The thought of no one ever having to place the blame on Him ever again was quite a joyful thought, but He remembered something.
There, tucked away in his copy of Transfiguration Today, was a newspaper clipping from The Daily Prophet. Intrigued by His short-term memory loss, He opens the book to the page, and carefully peels out the worn and frayed bit of newspaper that bore the headline: "You-Know-Who Vanquished AT LAST!" A small picture laid a little ways below the title. People were celebrating everywhere. You would think they would have something else to do. Hundreds of jugs of what he supposed to be Butterbeer or perhaps Firewhiskey were raised in unison, and then would fall back to toast once more. In a flash, another one replaced that picture, but this one was of Harry Potter before the lightning-scar shaped not only his forehead, but also his destiny.
A knowing smile brushed slightly across His face, as He looked at the young boy, a baby at the time the picture was taken. It is only when his picture disappears for the forth time that He realizes that He has done nothing for the past five minutes except stare at the ever-changing picture. Perhaps He thought that if He stared at the boy's picture long enough, the knowledge that he needed would instill fixedly into his mind. One more year of instruction remained for him before he would be a boy-no-more, but a man who required and depended on the wisdom of how to defeat Voldemort. The time was yet near; the pains in His withered hand had been mounting for the past week. The only one who knew this was Severus himself. He knew the entire plan, even if he did articulate his repugnance in agreeing to the life in which he had chosen. This was far from His fault; it was Severus' decision to come and remain for all of these years. He had led the way, but Severus chose to follow. No blame could nor would fall upon the old man, quietly dying day-by-day for 'the greater good'.
Another smile overlaps the other, and no words can convey His happiness now. He has done well; He knows this, and knows that all who know Him well know this. Not a drop of intelligence was wasted on a poor boy that, at one time, knew nothing of the world around him, but was rather, cultivated into something grander than He could have ever imagined. The boy knew of his world, and of all the things that lived within it. He also knew of where hate began, but also where hate ended, so love could replace the emptiness. Selflessness, bravery, compassion, mercy… all of the traits of a true Gryffindor, the boy owned without realization. Uncertainty of his own powers held the boy back, and as much as Dumbledore knew this was the only way things could be, this was the right way, and the right way needed a name, He reasoned. A name to describe every battle, every hardship, every loss that the boy who was no longer a boy had faced without the slightest inclination of turning back to where Voldemort stood. Something grand that would better explain the glory he never wanted, the pains that he never desired but had somehow mantled upon himself anyways. A name so simple, it would be impossible to forget how far better things this boy had done instead of this old and dying man slumped in his chair, yet not forget Him in the process.
Dumbledore's smile returned to his face; greater embodying his joy at finding a name appropriate for such a man. It by far, would complete the gap of description. The name, 'Dumbledore's Man', would do. Just as it did for Severus, it would do well for Harry. Maybe, just maybe.