Professor Dumbledore sat at his desk, stroking his beard in an apparently deep contemplation. His weary, but brilliant eyes flickered brightly in the dim candlelight of his office as he gazed at nothing in particular. Those who believe to know Albus would think that he was pondering the complexities of life, analyzing modern events in the wizarding world by observing causes and effects, or connecting trace hints of the latest mystery. Those who actually do know him, however, understand that this was merely an expression and demeanor he takes on when he is incredibly bored and feeling destructive.
His wrinkled hand rose to massage his aged brow. It was a terrible, terrible burden being so god damned amazing all of the time. Ever since his conception, his life has been nothing but a constant stream of badassery; though, lately, it seems that the stream was beginning to stagnate into a trickle. Most of the dark wizards were either defeated or forced into hiding. The ones that remained were absolutely no match for him. His life felt meaningless with nothing to fill his seemingly infinite amount of time other than babysitting a bunch of infantile brats with a penchant for mysticism. He longed for the days where all of wizard-kind revered him as the most powerful of his time. They saw him as an anomaly. They saw him as revolutionary. They saw him as a genius and someone to be respected out of both fear for his power and idolatry of his abilities. Now he was just a simple headmaster; he was nothing more than a shell of his former power.
With an angry growl, he brandished his wand and focused all of his bitterness into a magical orb at the tip of his wand. He pointed his wand at one of the many obscure sophisticated contraptions lining the shelves along the cold, stone walls as the concentration of his frustration and anger pulsated and shone ferociously. The room was brightened significantly by the raging light emanating from his elder wand. The magical energy flowing from him was so powerful and dark that the air in his office felt tense and heavy.
"DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM?" he bellowed before swishing his wand and sending the intense orb tearing across the room.
The spell was so dense with pure magical energies and was traveling so fast that reality rippled around it, almost ripping the fabric of time and space. It sped across the room and crashed into a shelf housing many rare artifacts, causing a loud explosion and a bright flash of light to fill the room. The dust carried from the shockwaves clouded the air. Dumbledore stood, his wand raised and his robe still fluttering behind him, and admired his display of power.
"I AM ALBUS MOTHERFUCKING-"
"Dumbledore!" the disgruntled voice of the elderly Professor McGonagall called out with urgency, "Dumbledore, it's an emergency!"
"What is it, Minerva?" Dumbledore inquired gruffly, "Are your woman-hands too tired to craft any more sandwiches? Can you not see that I am very busy?"
Any other time, Professor McGonagall may have made a witty retort to combat this brazen display of sexism. This, however, was not the night. She merely stared at Dumbledore with the most exasperated of facial expressions. Her eyes were bloodshot from the tears trickling down her cheeks. Her face was sullen and pale. Her hair, which was normally kept very neat and tidy, looked as if it had not been tended to in days and the hat typically worn over it was grasped tightly in her hands. Everything about her disheveled appearance echoed 'Please don't be a dick. Not this time.'
Dumbledore's face softened slightly.
"Alright, what is it?" he asked with a sigh.
"Voldemort is dead…" she responded gravely.
This was an emergency, indeed. Voldemort was the only remaining dark wizard capable of putting up even the slightest of fights against Dumbledore. Dumbledore wanted to be the one to kill him. Someone had stolen this right from him and doomed him to continue living in this existence of mediocrity. If only he had killed him when he had the chance; that would have shortened the glory, but at least Dumbledore would have gotten the credit for doing it. Instead, he let Voldemort slip away in hopes of building up suspense and the slimy bastard had gone into hiding. The feeling of hopeless angst and anger once again started building in Dumbledore.
"You're right, this is an emergency. Who was it that killed him?"
McGonagall looked slightly confused and taken aback.
"Albus, it was the Potters."
"Oh, I am going to give them a piece of my mind," Dumbledore started, "Someone from my own order? They KNEW that I was going to be the one to kill him. We have gone over this a thousand times."
"The Potters are dead, too, Albus. Only their son survived."
"So, what? James and Voldemort had a dramatic stand-off and ended up killing one another? He would steal my glory like that, the showboating son of a-"
"James was the first to go down, according to the investigators."
"So, are you saying Lily got in a lucky shot? Merlin knows what a complete waste of space she can be when her emotions get the best of her. There is no way she took on the self proclaimed 'Dark Lord' after James went down."
"She didn't…"
"I knew it. So who does that leave?"
"The boy…"
Dumbledore's face turned a dark shade of red and he began to shake violently. So, he is to believe that an infant took down the infamous 'He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named", now. Oh, yes, what a fine joke that will be; it would be hilarious to send old Dumbledore into an existential crisis and then try to convince him that a worthless accumulation of fecal matter and drool was able to successfully kill his only remaining adversary.
"Do you HONESTLY expect me to BELIEVE that that pile of insignificant vaginal droppings Lily Potter called a son was able to KILL Lord Voldemort?" he demanded, his voice rising to a shout.
"Believe it or not, that is what appears to have happened. I think you are missing the bigger picture, Albus. Two of the Order have been killed and their child is alone and helpless. The Dark Lord being gone is a good thing; why is that what you are angry about?" she said, growing frustrated at Dumbledore's reactions.
Dumbledore halted for a moment to collect his thoughts. If what she is saying is, indeed, true, then his reaction would look very uncharismatic in the eyes of the wizarding world. He would lose even more respect than he rightfully deserved. His mind raced to formulate a way to redeem himself and he quickly came up with a façade matching that of McGonagall's. The features of his face darkened and his angry scowl turned into a melancholy frown.
"I'm sorry, Minerva," he said as sincerely as he could muster, "You know how bad news brings the worst out of me. The Potters and I were very close. I'm just trying to process what you are telling me."
The anger in McGonagall's face slowly vanished and she felt terribly for snapping at one of her greatest friends and colleagues. Dumbledore may be full of pride and arrogance, but he would never let that interfere with the gravity of these kinds of situations. She reached out and touched his shoulder as comfortingly as possible.
"It's alright. They were close to all of us," she said as he looked falsely down with shame in his actions, "I know you care, and I know that coping will be hard. We should really put those feelings aside and decide on what to do. We can sort out our feelings on the matter afterwards."
She was such a sucker. Dumbledore smiled to himself with his head facing downwards in complete satisfaction of his deception. Now he had her right where he wanted her. The only problem that now remained was what to do with the boy. Surely the news would be raving about the death of Lord Voldemort; especially given the circumstances of the one who defeated him. A child besting an enemy that he apparently could not would irreversibly damage his reputation. He had to think quickly or his name would be soiled.
"The boy is in danger." Dumbledore said, feigning concern and looking as if he came to a sudden conclusion.
"No, the boy is safe. I've sent Hagrid to intercept him. They will arrive safely at Hogwarts, I estimate, in about an hour." McGonagall said in an assured manner.
"There has been a change in plans. The boy is not safe in the wizarding world."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it. The Dark Lord had many followers. Quite a few of them, I suspect, will not be too happy that their boss was killed some rascally tot decided to take on him on with a pacifier and a diaper full of moxie."
"I don't quite follow. Are you not powerful enough to keep the boy safe?"
"I may be omnipotent, but I am not omnipresent. I do not wish to risk the lives of other students for one child."
"That's very commendable of you, Albus; but, if we aren't allowing him into the world of magic, where is it that you propose we take him?"
Dumbledore stopped and pretended to think deeply for a few moments. Several sounds of concentration bellowed in his throat as he put his hand to his beard and paced around the room in apparent, but false, thought and urgency. He stopped and opened his mouth as if to speak, but then furrowed his brow, put his hand back to his mouth, and began pacing again. McGonagall ate the display up. He knew that she would. The image he had painted of himself for her over the years would far outweigh the image he had shown for only a few brief moments.
"We should send him to live with his aunt and uncle." Dumbledore said, raising his finger as if coming to a wise, well thought out decision.
"You cannot possibly mean the Dursleys. I can follow your logic when you say that we should keep him out of the wizarding world," she said, placing her fingers on her temples as she tried earnestly to understand, but growing frustrated with the senselessness with which Dumbledore seemed to be displaying, "but how can you possibly think that leaving this child with the most incompetent muggles on the planet would be anything close to resembling a good idea?"
Dumbledore strode over to McGonagall and touched her arm reassuringly, bending slightly to allow his eyes to search for hers. She always believed him when he looked at her in the eyes. For her, that was the mark of certain honesty. She prided herself in her ability to discern truth when people looked into her eyes. Dumbledore, however, was just a talented actor.
"Minerva, I know that this must be hard to swallow," he said, his voice softening in an attempt to sooth her worries, "I am not looking forward to sending him there, either. But his potential assassins would not expect us to be so careless. They will plan for heavy protection. This is perfect."
"I suppose… that makes sense," She said with a sigh, "But what makes you think that they will even assume that it is us who is taking the boy?"
"Are you serious? You have Hagrid going to pick him up. Anyone watching, and you know that they will be, will see the Hogwarts mascot taking the boy on, what? I'm assuming that loud-ass, piece of shit motorcycle?"
"Yes," Minerva nodded slightly, finding reassurance in Dumbledore's words, "I sent him on Sirius' flying motorcycle."
"So, the son of two members of the Order of the Phoenix was picked up by the groundskeeper of Hogwarts on a motorcycle that a third member of the Order is notorious for riding pretty much everywhere?"
"Yes…"
"I think a more difficult question to answer would be how they could not think that it is we who are in possession of the child."
"You're right. I am sorry that I ever doubted you, Albus."
"I know you are," Albus said with a sly smile, "Hopefully, you can remember this mistake for next time."
"So, what will you have me do now, then?"
"Send a patronus to Hagrid with instructions to meet us in Little Whinging. I'll secure the area while I wait for the two of you to arrive."
"Very well. I shall go make preparations, then."
"Bring sandwiches, Minerva."
"What?"
"I'm hungry… it's been a trying evening and I do not want to be hungry on top of everything. And, you're a woman, so you are an expert-"
McGonagall shot him an irate glare, threatening him to continue along that line of thought. She may have been convinced that he was being sincere and she may have been calmed down significantly from when she first entered the room, but she was still in no mood to tolerate Dumbledore's usual shenanigans.
"I mean, I'm really hungry and it would mean a lot to me if you would please make me a sandwich before you meet Hagrid and I where we have agreed."
"What kind of sandwich?"
"Grilled cheese."
"Alright. Anything else?"
"No. And thank you." He added as McGonagall turned and left the room.
Dumbledore looked over to his pet phoenix, who had been seated quietly in the corner of the room on its bright, brass perch, unperturbed by the events that were unfolding before him. Its feathers were a glorious shade of scarlet with an underlying plumage of glittering gold. Apparently, he was in one of the youthful stages of his current life cycle as all of the wispy feathers on his proud head were in place and held high. He looked almost as arrogant as his master, looking disdainfully about the room. Its elegant neck lazily held its head high and its wings were tucked closely to its body. It truly was magnificent, and Dumbledore had given him the most fitting name he could possibly fathom.
"Kick-Ass-Phoenix!" he called to his feathered companion as he flung his hands over his head with action-filled fair, "We fly!"
He clapped his hands over his head, at which point he had pictured the phoenix screeching, spreading its wings, flying over him, and teleporting them both to his destination in a maelstrom of flame and whimsy. Instead, it just looked at him with utter disapproval.
"Alright, you asshole." Dumbledore said, begrudgingly walking over to his perch.
He removed his hat, picked the phoenix up, and set it on his head. He had pictured a maelstrom of fire and whimsy, and by God, he was not going to have this lazy good for nothing bird ruin his fun. The bird wrapped its talons around the white hair beneath its feet, understanding what was to come next. It let out a defiant sigh, causing a small poof of fire to erupt from its beak.
"Now let's try this again, Kick-Ass-Phoenix," Dumbledore said, poising his hands for another clap, "KICK-ASS-PHOENIX! WE FLY!"
He clapped his hands over his head once more, eliciting a disgruntled squawk over head, but no flames.
"GOD DAMN IT, KICK-ASS-PHOENIX! WHAT DI-" he started.
Before Dumbledore could finish his sentence, a grand display of flames engulfed the two of them and filled the room with a powerful roar. Once the flames died down, the room was empty. Only the scorch marks where he and the phoenix once stood indicated that anyone had ever been there.