On a hot, dry July evening a lanky boy of seventeen sighed and stretched out on his bed, his jet-black hair falling haphazardly aside to reveal a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. It was this scar that made Harry Potter unique, and its cause that made him famous. He was the Boy Who Lived, surviving a killing curse from Lord Voldemort, the most feared dark wizard in a century, and escaped unharmed except for the curiously shaped scar on his forehead. In fact, one could say that the cause of Harry's scar was also indirectly the cause of his current actions, which at this point were to lay aside a thick, leather-bound book that he had been immersed in for the better part of two hours. Across the front, gold calligraphic letters spelled out Albus Dumbledore: A Legend Remembered.

For nearly three weeks, Harry had been living at Number Four, Privet Drive to spend the summer with his aunt, uncle, and cousin. He dreaded these summer visits almost as badly as his relatives d id, who were Muggles and despised magic in every form, which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as raw sewage. So, bored though he was, Harry was perfectly content to spend hour after hour in his room, unseen by the Dursleys and the Muggle world, in general. At this point, however, he was so disgusted that he actually wanted to leave, to go somewhere. Albus Dumbledore, former headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had been an exceptional man, and the greatest wizard Harry had ever known. He had, sadly, been murdered at the end of last school year, by none other than Severus Snape, Harry's least favorite teacher at Hogwarts. Harry's current anger, however, was from a passage he had read in Dumbledore's biography, where the author took it upon himself to criticize the way Dumbledore ran Hogwarts. In Harry's eyes, Dumbledore was the best headmaster Hogwarts had ever had, and nobody was worthy of criticizing him.

Rolling off his bed with a sigh, Harry stood up and looked around his room. A bright orange glow from the setting summer sun illuminated the walls, briefly reminding him of his best friend Ron Weasley's garishly orange room at the Burrow, Harry's second-favorite place in the world after Hogwarts. Intending to take a stroll around the neighborhood to clear his thoughts, Harry silently plodded out of his room and down the Dursley's narrow staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, however, he paused and listened, as he could hear the evening news on the television.

"…Yet another hot day across much of the country, with high temperatures soaring into the mid-thirties across our entire area, and still not a drop of rain in sight."

"Great," Harry thought, muttering to himself, "they're talking about the weather. Of all things, the weather." He didn't care one bit about the weather, and although he wanted to slip out the front door unnoticed and avoid a barrage of annoying questions from his aunt and uncle, his curiosity got the better of him.

He turned the corner and crept into the Dursley's immaculately clean living room. Portraits of his Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and cousin Dudley stood watch like sentinels throughout the room, but there was no indication that Harry had been living with them or was even a distant relative. That was how the Dursleys preferred to live, pretending that they were not harboring an underage wizard in their quiet suburban home. Pieces of fine china and embroidery were the focus of the living room, with the small television crammed into the corner near the front window. Aunt Petunia sat in her chintz armchair, fanning herself with a piece of paper and wearing an exasperated look on her face. She looked up and frowned as she noticed Harry entering the room.

"What do you want?" she demanded gruffly.

"I wanted to see what was going on on the news, if that's ok with you," Harry snapped bitterly.

"Hmph," snorted Aunt Petunia, leaning forward in her chair. "Well, you aren't missing much. Still hot as hell and no rain. We haven't had a drop of rain since May and Vernon says it's the worst drought he's ever seen. This better not have something to do with your lot," she added harshly, eyeing him up and down suspiciously.

Harry laughed drily. "No you-know-what could cause a drought across the whole country." He knew better than to say the word "wizard" in the Dursley's house, despite the fact that Petunia's sister had been Harry's mother and a witch herself before she and Harry's father had been murdered by Lord Voldemort when Harry was a baby. It was because of this that Harry was forced to live with his aunt and uncle during the summers, between school years.

Aunt Petunia snorted again, and this time Harry took on a serious tone. "Er…Aunt Petunia…have there been any er…accidents in the news today?" he asked gravely.

Aunt Petunia sighed. "For the hundredth time, Harry, no," she snapped. "Every day you ask me, and every day the answer is the same. If you're so curious, why don't you watch the news yourself? Besides, why are you so interested in accidents in the news, all of a sudden?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, no reason," Harry lied, fidgeting nervously. "Well, I'm going for a walk."

Aunt Petunia grunted in reply, and Harry left and walked quickly out the front door before she could say anything else to him.

Outside, the sun had slipped below the horizon, tinging the sky with hues of crimson and lavender. The yellowed grass looked brown in the fading light, clearly suffering from the effects of the long drought. Already, many of the trees lining the street had started to drop their leaves like a soldier does his weapons in defeat, surrendering to the merciless drought and heat. For once, the cars in the driveways along Privet Drive were dirty, a result of the water restrictions preventing the residents from washing their cars. Harry, however, noticed none of this, absorbed in his own thoughts. Of course, he had his reasons for asking about accidents in the news. Whenever Voldemort and his followers, the Death Eaters, murdered someone, the Muggle news always reported it as a freak accident-a bridge collapse, a chemical explosion, unable to realize the true cause of the deaths. The lack of accidents in the news could only mean that Voldemort and his followers were laying low, and this deeply troubled Harry. Not that he wanted Voldemort and his followers to kill and torture, but he had certainly thought that the frequency of attacks would increase, now with Dumbledore dead. After all, Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort ever feared, or so people said. And Harry had the unfortunate destiny of being the one who had to destroy Voldemort in the end, and it was for this reason that Voldemort had murdered Harry's parents and then tried to kill him as a baby. And now it was up to Harry to kill Voldemort, or die trying….

The barking of a large dog snapped Harry back to reality. Startled, Harry looked around to see a mastiff chained in a nearby yard, growling menacingly as it struggled against its chain, threatening to rip the stake it was tied to out of the ground. Harry turned around and quickened his pace, heading back towards the Dursleys, sweat trickling down his forehead in the stifling heat. He couldn't ever remember it being this hot outside, as long as he could remember. Everything outside was still. There was no wind to provide even modest relief from the heat, yet that did not stop everyone from having their windows thrown open in the vain hope of catching a slight breeze.

After a short walk, Harry arrived back at Number Four. He had barely gotten through the front door when he met his uncle face-to-face.

"You-!" Uncle Vernon began, his face quickly turning a deep purple color. "Me," Harry said calmly, trying to control his temper.

Uncle Vernon looked quickly around Harry to make sure the door was closed before putting his face very close to Harry's ear and whispering with a voice full of hatred and disgust, "Owls."

"Owls?" Harry replied loudly, just to incense his uncle.

"Yes, ruddy owls!" Uncle Vernon cried, turning around and lumbering towards the kitchen. "In here! On my countertop! Flew right in through the bloody window!"

Harry followed his uncle into the kitchen where, sure enough, a large brown owl sat on the countertop next to the toaster, ruffling its feathers and looking quite agitated at all the noise. Attached to its leg was a letter addressed to Harry.

Harry couldn't help but to chuckle. He remembered the time back when he was eleven, when owls starting flying into the Dursley's house daily with letters for Harry telling him that he had been accepted to Hogwarts.

"Take it, and get it out of here!" Uncle Vernon grunted, gesturing towards the owl. "And it better not come back in here! Imagine what the neighbors would think if any of them saw this rubbish!"

"Well, if any of them were wizards, they would find it completely normal," Harry replied coolly, untying the letter from the owl's leg. It quickly soared back out the open kitchen window.

Uncle Vernon looked as though he had been punched in the stomach, his face slowly growing more purple with flecks of white near his temples. "Don't say the word!" he roared, pushing Harry forcefully out of the kitchen. "It's madness! Eight more days, and then you're OUT!" he bellowed.

Harry allowed himself to be bullied out of the kitchen and then took off quickly up the stairs, eager to get out of Uncle Vernon's reach. Closing the door and flopping down on his bed, Harry opened the letter, recognizing Professor McGonagall's gently looping handwriting:

Moony will be arriving in a few days. He has a message from me.

Do not write back, and do not say anything in a letter that would

put anyone in danger in case of interception.

-MM

Harry read through the letter quickly twice before setting it down, a feeling of elation bubbling up in his chest. Lupin would be coming to see him in a few days' time, which meant Harry would be able to hear of any news firsthand affecting the wizarding world. Even better, Harry thought he could be leaving Privet Drive a few days early. The thought cheered Harry significantly. Picking up the biography of Albus Dumbledore, he began to read again.

Albus Dumbledore took up a teaching post at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1934, coming on as the Transfigurations master. It is believed that he only returned to his hometown of Godric's Hollow once after this point, and that this visit was merely to visit the parents of the now-famous Harry Potter, although this point is debated. Clearly, his family tree dies out after 1927, so he would have had no other reason to visit Godric's Hollow, perhaps save for personal reminiscence. Those who knew Dumbledore knew he was quite a pensive man, and preferred to spend his free time musing over philosophical matters and even humoring his acquaintances with riddles.

With Dumbledore's defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, some began to question whether or not Dumbledore was a direct descendent of Godric Gryffindor, one of the founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Although it is known that Godric's son was named Reginaldus, and his grandson's name was shortened to Aldus, which could have become corrupted to Albus, there is no known connection between the two. Dumbledore's family tree itself only has been verified back to the 12th century, where a Reginaldus Dumbledore was found living in Godric's Hollow, but all attempts to bridge the gap between Aldus Gryffindor and Reginaldus Dumbledore have resulted in failure. Perhaps one day the gap will be broken, but for now, all we have is mere speculation.

Harry closed the book, frustrated. Why had Dumbledore never told him that both he and Harry were from Godric's Hollow? Surely that had to mean something, Harry thought. Harry realized suddenly that he had barely known Dumbledore. Sure, he had known him has a headmaster, as a mentor, and as someone who could be trusted. But, he had known very little about Dumbledore as a person. He gazed out the window at the increasing darkness, tears building at the corners of his eyes and blurring his vision. The greatest wizard in the world, and Harry had never bothered to know him as a man, whereas Dumbledore knew nearly everything about Harry.

Flipping to the back of the book, Harry found a short eulogy dedicated to the greatest wizard he had ever known:

Albus Dumbledore represents all that we love in a person-a shining light in a sea of darkness, a source of wisdom in an era of uncertainty, and someone full of love when the world seems full of so much hate. More importantly, Albus exuded all the qualities that we as humans hope to experience-love, hope, freedom, forgiveness, tolerance, patience, cooperation, and compassion. It is important for us to remember, though, that Albus did not just have these abilities-he let them show through his everyday actions, to those of us fortunate enough to have known him personally. After all, to quote our beloved friend, "It is our choices…that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

Harry lay the book aside, tears falling freely from his eyes. Without Dumbledore, Harry realized, he was completely vulnerable. He leaned forward and rested his head against the warm windowpane, his tears blurring his vision as night fell outside