A.N. Dumbledore reflects on his various schemes, but finds himself assailed by doubt. Featuring a well-meaning, but weak-willed and manipulative Dumbledore.
Dumbledore was seated in behind his desk, dispassionately surveying the room before. The sky outside the windows was dark, and the candles had burned low. He yawned, and picked up a letter that had lain unopened on his desk all day.
It was the usual tripe from Fudge, concerning Black's will. He was protesting against Dumbledore's having arbitrarily appointed himself executor. Dumbledore smiled dismissively. All it had taken was a forged letter from Sirius to himself. This way, the Black fortune could be used to support the Order's endeavours, as the Potter fortune had all these years.
Harry would begin to kick up a stir if he found out how his money was being used without his consent. That was only to be expected. Hence, it was in the boy's own interest not to be burdened with the management of a fortune. He threw the letter into the fireplace, and went and poured himself a glass of wine. Ahhh...that felt good, he thought, draining the glass. He set it down, his hands shaking slightly. He ought to get his alcohol problem under control, he thought, pouring out a second glass.
It was a pity that he had had to let Sirius die, but it was all in for the greater good. After all, how would the Order survived without Black gold? It pained him when people were unable to look beyond their own, petty, selfish interests to what was better for the community and for mankind as a whole.
Which was why Sirius had been allowed to die.
He had begun making inquiries into the money Dumbledore used for...less urgent...matters. Who was Black to decide whether or not thrift was good for the Order? They deserved some creature comforts, considering all they did to keep the wizarding world "free" and "safe." Then there had been that unpleasant business about the wine...He shook his head free of such unpleasant thoughts. What was done was done.
By this time, he was on his fourth glass. He was also feeling more confident. It went without saying that his personal tyranny would be the best possible thing for the wizarding world. Which was why he'd declined the post of minister so many times (although he was now having second thoughts); better to mould and indoctrinate the young rather than try to hammer sense into the old.
Unbidden, his thoughts flew back to his time with Gellert. His hand began to shake more violently than ever, and behind their half-moon glasses, his eyes filled with tears. They had been so idealistic; they had seen themselves as young revolutionaries, the heralds of a new order. Whether he had intended it or not, he seemed to be heading along the same path. Once Voldemort was gone, he would set up a new system of government and free the wizarding world from Fudge and his ministry's incompetence. It was towards such a new order that he directed his efforts. It was why Harry had had to suffer the oppression of his relatives: in order to become a martyr and the perfect hero to herald the coming of Dumbledore's new world.
Dumbledore truly felt himself to have immolated his own interests on the altar of the greater good. He had never sought power purely for personal gain, even when offered the ministry. He felt it to be his duty to shape the youth of the wizarding world, and resist Voldemort morally as well as physically. He didn't feel the least guilt at having allowed Sirius to die, or letting Harry remain with his abusive relations for, what? Ten years? He had suffered in the struggle against Dark magic for a hundred and fifty years. Still...he hesitated. Could he really send Harry to his death after all he had gone through?
A sudden rapping startled him. Without waiting for a reply, Minerva entered. Her hair was bound into a tight bun, and she was clad in black, her eyes aflame with fervour. She looked proud and imperious, and strode in, her gait regal.
"Well, Albus? Have you decided upon your course of action?"
Slowly, Dumbledore nodded.
"I have succeeded in locating another Horcrux, Minerva. Yet I wonder, nonetheless...is what we are doing truly justified?"
If Albus had hoped for some confirmation of his doubts, those hopes were soon dashed.
"Albus, how can you even ask? After all we've sacrificed for the Order! For you! You cannot allow yourself to fall victim to uncertainty at so critical a juncture. Albus, we look to you for guidance, we look up to you as the leader of our struggle. Was it in vain that the Prewetts, Emmeline Vance, Madam Bones and Sirius Black died? Was Lily's sacrifice in vain? Did Frank and Alice lose their minds for nothing? Will you hesitate to destroy the soul of him who is responsible for all this? To do so would be to fail us all, Albus." She ended this impassioned declamation slowly, letting her voice soften, with her eyes bright and full of zeal.
Dumbledore replied slowly, in a deep voice. "You are right, Minerva. That was not the true Albus Dumbledore who spoke. Albus Dumbledore is on the side of Light, and will not balk at his duty."
Minerva lowered her eyes, her hands clasped to her bosom. "Then go, and do not return without having fulfilled your duty to us." With that, she walked out.
He steeled himself for the task at hand. How his thoughts had rambled on! He shook his head again to clear his mind of the effect of four glasses of strong wine. He walked over to a closet, and swathed himself in a stained, green travelling cloak that had been buried in its depths. He then pulled out a pouch filled with some emerald green powder, and threw it into the fireplace.
"Gaunt Manor, Little Hangleton," he intoned.