Gutten Tag[umm, yeah... no idea how to spell that—sorry to all the Germans and German-speaking people—help would be appreciated

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand here is "Take Two". Not much to it, really. I just wanted to keep Dumbledore in character during my story, Forging Reality (I recommend reading it :P ), so I rewrote it in his POV. And I decided to post.

If you still don't get it, you will once you start reading.

Disclaimer[blinks. Blinks again You sure there's a point to this? If you honestly think—let alone say out loud and accuse me with lawyers—that I'm JKRowling, then man oh man have you got to get to St. Mungo's (also not mine) really, really fast.

Albus Dumbledore sat comfortably at his desk, his eyes scanning a small piece of parchment. The writing was looping, flourishing, but it was its content that occupied his attention.

Dear Esteemed Headmaster,

I'm distressed to inform you that my Inner Eye has foreseen

rather disturbing complications rising and affecting the war effort.

Unfortunately, the normally clear visions I've received

were quite muddled, and I'm afraid I couldn't tell how it all ends up.

All I can say is to stay alert for traitors and allies, because we well

may end up with both.

I'll keep you posted with any updates.

Sincerely,

Teyndis

He frowned lightly. He didn't like to put much store by divination, as too often it proved false, but Cicilia Teyndis hit the mark too often for him to merely dismiss this. He drummed his fingers on his desk. After a moment, he decided it best file the information away and keep an eye out, but the information was too vague to need further work. If something more came up, he'd deal with it then.

He slowly stood up and strode to his penseive.

Once he'd deposited the information, he decided it really was time for some food. Perhaps some kidney pie and pudding would do the trick. If it didn't, he'd have his store of lemon drops on returning.

On his way down from his office, he distinctly heard frustrated voices from the other side—and they were guessing sweets.

Who one earth would be sent to his office this early in the term? And why wouldn't a teacher have given them the password? Unless it was someone trying to sneak in to prank his office? Would the Marauders really be foolish enough?

The doors slid open and he asked lightly, "Acid Pops, did you say? Personally I prefer treacle tarts."

The sight that met him made him want to laugh. He saw four young adults with utterly shocked expressions. Surely it wasn't that bizarre to see the headmaster coming down from the headmaster's office, was it? There was a pretty red headed girl, presumably the youngest, with soft eyes and a pale face; a red headed boy, rough and thin and tall; a bushy haired girl with sharp, clever eyes that showed the wheels already turning in her head; and a thin blackhaired boy with piercing but haunted green eyes. All four had at least one visible scar, the last boy more so than the others.

Albus pondered what they could want. They looked too old to be school-aged. The redheaded girl seemed likely to be fresh out of school, while the redheaded boy and the bushy-haired girl a little older, and the black-haired boy older still. If he'd been pressed to offer an explanation, he'd venture the guess that the oldest boy wanted a teaching job, and the others came along to wish him luck. Else, it was possible that they came seeking advice.

Albus was most intrigued, though, by the emotions that played across their features. Beyond the shock, there was disbelief and joy and sadness and relief. The blackhaired boy, though, held much more. Within a matter of seconds, his eyes spoke of recognition, shock, affection, excited expectation, disappointment, and finally steely determination.

He said, "Professor Dumbledore? We—er—would like to transfer to Hogwarts."

Of all the things Albus expected, that wasn't it. They looked too old. He quickly reasoned with himself, however, remembering that they might only look older than their age, or perhaps for one reason or another they hadn't been able to complete their schooling and wished to do so now.

So he ignored the nagging thought that their eyes were too sad, too old to still be in school and said, "Then please do step into my office. I was on my way down to supper, but I daresay that can wait."

When the black-haired boy (he really did have to get names—this was getting repetitive) smiled his appreciation rather than verbalize it, Albus felt his old heart quicken, even as he turned to lead the way up the steps.

The gesture was too familiar, too relaxed. It was as if he and the boy were old friends, meeting once more for a friendly chat. Could anyone be that at ease with a perfect stranger? Had the smile been relieved, or at least held less confidence and independence, Albus would have assumed that he had only been expressing a (perhaps unconscious) gratitude for being able to pass along the burden to a capable adult. As it were, the boy was too in-control for it to mean anything of the sort.

Could it mean that Albus had succeeded in his trying to put them at ease? Or might it have been that the boy had seen he was no threat, and genuinely appreciated his help?

Albus chided himself. He was psychoanalyzing things. He'd have to sit back and watch how things played out.

He sat at his desk and conjured comfortable, plushy chairs for the four teens. "Now then," he said when they were settled, "I think it would be best if I know your names."

He addressed all four, but as their eyes slid to the blackhaired boy, his did as well. The boy paused a moment, but Albus couldn't be sure what ran through his mind. Why would he want to hide their names? And why hadn't they already prepared their aliases?

The boy's debate appeared to be over. "This is Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and his sister Ginny Weasley, and I'm Harry Potter."

Mr. Harry Potter had gestured towards each of them in turn, but Dumbledore was distracted when he said he was a Potter. Leaning forward ever so slightly, he commented, "I wasn't aware that the Potters had any other living relatives."

The boy frowned, his eyes widening slightly. "Potters..." His voice was low, barely above a whisper. He seemed to be both testing out the name and describing a dear old friend at the same time. "I wasn't aware that any of my relatives were still living, but I've never seen a family tree so I wouldn't know."

A small amount of pain sparked in his eyes, and Albus felt a wave of sorrow. There was so much pain, so much suffering in the world; it really was no wonder that the child seemed so old. Especially if he was implying what he thought he was. "Still living? You mean..." He tried to sound comforting, but Mr. Harry Potter explained while studying his hands.

"They died when I was a baby. The Weasley's as good as adopted me."

How could he comfort this child when the world had taken so much from him? Death and pain and loss... he forced down images of his siblings and their parents. He tried his best, "My dear boy, it is never easy to lose one you love, even harder to carry on without them, but still we live out our lives and find fullness in our friends."

He soon found, however, that his efforts were unneeded. Mr. Harry Potter raised his gaze and pierced him with a long, steady look that was much too mature and wise for his age, as was the statement that followed. "I learned eventually just how powerful the love we shared and the memories we formed are. I've mourned, or course, but I'm proud that they're my parents and I wouldn't trade their memory for anything."

All thought, all rationality left Albus's mind abruptly. All he could see was his sister's face, his brother's, his mother's, his father's. He was immersed in a world of pain and loneliness, and he was abondoned amongst the memory of his failings and weaknesses. He drew himself back slowly, firmly, and said, "That is quite remarkably, but alas, we must get on to business." He needed to move to safer grounds; he would mourn when he was alone again, but not before. "You say you'd like to transfer to Hogwarts, even though term started two weeks ago. Might I ask why?"

Mr. Potter started and seemed rather flustered as he stuttered, "Well, er... you see, we come from this, erm, small town and, er..."

Miss Hermione Granger interrupted him, clearly annoyed. "What Harry means to say is that we used to live and learn magic in a small town that was recently attacked by Death Eaters. Naturally, we couldn't bear to simply abandon our magical education, so when we–or I, rather–found out about Hogwarts, we decided it would be the best place for us. After all, it's very well protected and examination results are the highest of any school."

Apparently recovered, Mr. Potter added, "And besides, it'll be great to go somewhere with lots of other kids. It was kind of lonely, it being just the four of us learning together."

"What town?" Albus asked.

"Worchester," Miss Hermione Granger replied promptly. "It's mostly muggle– I think Ron and Ginny's parents were the only magical ones there."

Certain their tale would either prove or disprove (or at least hint at) where their loyalties lay, Albus asked, "And you say it was attacked. What happened? How did you escape?"

It was Mr. Potter who answered, looking out the window with unfocused eyes, "We were in the middle of a Charms lesson when there was this loud bang, like an explosion or something. We didn't think much of it at first, because Ron and Ginny's older brothers had stopped in for a visit and they really like making things explode. Then we heard screams, though, and saw fire out the window. We ran outside to find out what was going on. It was awful..."

Mr. Ron Weasley picked up the narrative, staring at his hands as though it was written on them, "There were men in hooded black cloaks and they were crazy–horrifyingly, disgustingly crazy. They were dangling a lot of muggles in the air and casting varying curses on them just to see how they'd react, you know, for sport. There were harmless things like jelly-legs and tarantallegra, but nine times out of ten they used darker curses, particularly the unforgiveables. My mum and dad were calling for us to go back in, but I just couldn't move. And then one of them, he... he..." He took a deep breath, "He heard them screaming for us and sent a curse. The whole house just..."

"Exploded," whispered Miss Ginny Weasley.

There was a long, lengthy pause, during which Albus pondered the truth in their story. It made sense, and was told well enough, that it could be true. Considering that they hadn't taken the time to come up with fake names ahead of time, it seemed to make the most sense. It was likely that their tale was true, in which case they might be scared into localizing the situation, reading too much into it and assuming it was a personal matter. Perhaps they feared that the Death Eaters wanted them dead and that giving out their real names would make it easier. It made sense.

The glitch was Mr. Potter.

He was young but mature and wise. He'd apparently seen a lot but was in complete control of his emotions. Why then did he allow so much raw pain and sorrow into his voice? He didn't want pity, that much was clear, so why did he try to act like a young, frightened teenager who had been caught unawares by the horrors of the world? If he had been, he would have developed an understanding of it, much like he had with is parents' death. So why act?

"So what do you say, professor? Can we transfer?" Mr. Potter asked.

Albus thought. Their loyalty had yet to be determined, but if they were hiding something, it was more likely to come out if they thought they'd succeeded. Besides, if he was truly honest with himself, which he prided himself on being, they had caught his interest and he wanted to know more.

He nodded and smiled. "I don't see why not; we'd be delighted to have you with us. Unfortunately, though, we do have to go over some rather dull topics-one of the main downfalls of switching schools." He thought he saw Mr. Potter's mouth quirk at the corners. "The first topic being OWL results, your grades from previous years, your strengths and weaknesses, and so on."

"Erm," said young Miss Ginny Weasley, "we never took our OWLs, sir. Our parents had trouble clearing it with the ministry and eventually just gave up. And I don't think they used the same grading criteria as in the proper schools."

Albus froze. That casual reference of their recently deceased parents... The girl's voice didn't crack, she didn't get teary-eyed. Neither she nor any of the teenagers around her seemed to notice at all. Could this be the slip-up he was looking for?

He filed it away and moved on. "That is unfortunate indeed." He paused. "Nevertheless, am I correct in presuming that you can tell me your best subjects."

"Of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Especially Harry, he's the best." Miss Ginny Weasley said, to which Mr. Potter half glared, half smiled, "Hermione, though, she's a right genius at just about everything." Miss Hermione Granger blushed a magnificent shade of red.

"Excellent," he said, thinking. He surveyed them over his half-moon spectacles. "As dull and dreary as test taking may be, however, I think I'll have to give you a small test, just to make sure you won't be too far behind the others."

Their responses caught him rather off guard. Instead of groaning, grimacing, etc., Mr. Potter had given a relieved sigh, Miss Ginny Weasley looked happily expectant, Miss Hermione Granger looked pleased but nervous as she started muttering facts under her breath, and Mr. Ron Weasley nudged her and asked, "Think I'll need to know that food's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?" Without knowing their complete story, Albus didn't know what to make of it. Was their story true? Had everything that had happened to them pushed them to the point of being happy to take a test? Had they lost all sense of normalcy, and that was what triggered such a reaction?

Or was it ultimately darker? Were they under orders of Voldemort and pleased to find that they were thus far succeeding in their mission?

He fished around in his desk until he found a few copies of old tests. As they began to work, he considered what he knew of them.

Something to call them, most likely not their real names.

They were good actors and/or in good control of their emotions.

They were unprepared for this meeting, but hesitated before giving any real, concrete answers; hence, they were likely lying.

They knew his password would be a sweet, but not which one.

All of them, but Mr. Potter in particular, were old and mature for their age.

Could they be Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwars? Times were dark, the world war-torn. Frowning, he considered briefly that, a decade ago, he would have welcomed them in with open arms. Now he was afraid to do so, for the safety of his students. What had the world come to? Why couldn't Hogwarts remain a safe haven without ever having to push people—kids—away?

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"All finished Miss Granger?" He asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then please step over here and we'll proceed with the practical portion."

She did superbly. Beyond superbly. Absolutely amazingly. Granted, she sometimes took a moment to recall the specific incantations, but considering the wide variety and utter uselessness of the spells themselves (turning a mouse into a snuff-box, for example) it was incredible that she remembered them at all, let alone with just a few seconds prep-time.

In no time, Miss Granger had finished and Mr. Potter stood up to take his turn. Anticipation drummed in Albus's veins. It was Mr. Potter who had most caught his interest. He was their leader; it was clear from subtle, probably unconscious body language—his confidence, the way the others' eyes shifted towards him when faced with a question, the way they walked (Mr. Potter in front, leading into "battle," and the others in back, protecting from any "attack" from behind.) But what sort of leader was he? Was he nominated leader of a group of teenage Death Eaters? Or was he just taking responsibility for them and getting them out of harm's way by leading them to a safe haven?

Albus reasoned mildly that he'd likely have a lot of new material to fill his penseive with as soon as these kids left his office.

He nodded at the boy and said, "Well then Mr. Potter, if you would just step over here and, let me think, procure a lemon drop for me."

This task was his favorite to assign when wishing to figure someone out. They are always taken by surprise at first, then some roll their eyes while others shrug. Many have to ask what a lemon drop is. Some ponder the task for a while but end up saying they don't know any such spell. Some take the time to floo to Hogsmeade and try to find one. Eventually, they either wind up in Muggle London or come back empty handed. A few think to summon a house-elf, who quickly finds one. One even went so far as to create a potion that, after a few hours, settles into a small candy that tastes somewhat like lemons, but wasn't actually a lemon drop.

Mr. Potter, however, didn't fit any of these scenarios. Instead of looking bewildered, a reminiscent grin lit his eyes for a moment, only to be replaced with a mischievous spark. He turned towards Albus's desk and said, "Accio Lemon Drop!"

Albus's eyebrows shot up as the boy waited expectantly. This information already started to describe him. The teen was observant and quick-thinking, not easily taken by surprise by random orders, and familiar with Muggle sweets. Alright, he thought, let's see how he handles this.

Mr. Potter glanced at Albus. "Anti-Accio Charm, I suppose?" he asked, smiling slightly, although he didn't seem to expect and answer. He walked across the room and stopped at the desk. Reaching out to grab a sweet from the bowl, he didn't seem shocked at all to find he couldn't touch the candies. He instead waved his wand and immediately the bowl flipped over. Candies scattered everywhere, but he picked one up and returned all the others by hand.

That was an interesting fact to file away—it would have been easier to return them to the bowl with a wave of his wand like most any qualified witch or wizard would have done. But what did it mean? Albus didn't know but he resolved to find out.

"Here you are, sir."

"Fascinating thought process. I can't say anyone else has managed to do so quite as splendidly. Although I have had several call for a house elf.

"Now then, would you please make the candy tap dance across my desk?"

Mr. Potter's testing was quite different from Miss Granger's. He couldn't seem to remember the useless enchantments, so Albus began testing him with proper spells—ones used more commonly. The results peaked. He soon found, too, that his Expelliarmus and shield charm were extremely powerful, and Albus was struck with a sudden thought. Calling to mind Miss Ginny Weasley's claim of his brilliance at Defense Against the Dark Arts, he began testing Mr. Potter in specifically that subject.

The results were phenomenal. Hexes and curses and countercurses... the teen was unbelievable. The headmaster was careful to test him in both lighter and darker (i.e., protection and pain-causing, what-it-takes-to-escape type) spells, but found the kid was quite good at both. He found this a bit disconcerting.

The two Weasleys went as well. Miss Weasley appeared to be quite familiar with showy, but still useful (especially in battle situations) enchantments, like making things explode; dramatic hexes, like the bat-bogey hex; and useful household spells, such as ones for cooking and cleaning.

Mr. Weasley, while not immediately appearing to specialize in any particular type, had a certain quality that, in any real life situation, would have made up for it: detachment. It was difficult to see, but once one picked up the clues, it was glaringly obvious. He was involved as much as was necessary—his level of concentration was efficient, he paid attention to the tasks coming his way—but that was it. His mind was on a bigger problem, somewhere else, maybe weighing what he was saying and doing in order to prevent from slipping up. It was... It was... Albus couldn't put a name on just what the boy was doing, or how he was managing it. It struck him that the teen would make a superb military leader: he was efficient and a strategist, involved but detached...

Peripheral vision. The thought came to mind, and Albus found that it fit. Mr. Weasley was working, but, as if in mental peripheral vision, was also somewhere else, working on something else, seeing something else that still pertained to what he was doing.

When they had all finished, Albus sat behind his desk and read over the tests. Miss Weasley's answers were textbook, flat, reciting information heard once or twice or covered in an assignment. Miss Granger's recitations were longer, fuller, and held more empty information that the authors all to often seem to think are necessary. By the sounds of them, most were word for word from a textbook. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter's were the sort of a student who does just enough to get by and never any more. The answers were incomplete and ill-thought out, as if they was struggling to remember anything at all.

There were, however, a few that they all answered correctly and fully, in ways that seemed to speak of personal experience—the Patronus Charm, dueling strategies, and (most alarming) the Unforgivables.

Albus thought. And thought. And thought. Nearly everything pointed to discredit their story but lend credence to their supporting Voldemort.

The names they'd given didn't seem to be their real names.

The story of their parent's death didn't seem to be true.

They seemed to fit together like a battle unit: a strategist, a genius, a leader, and a previously (if not still) over-confident novice who was getting her first taste of a mission.

They had seen too much pain, and it had aged them.

Their knowledge didn't reflect what they would learn in a classroom, especially a homeschool classroom.

"Alas, I daresay that all four of you are most definitely capable," he said at last, his decision made. "Regardless, there is the more pressing matter of your loyalty."

The effect was instantaneous. Miss Weasley huffed, looking quite affronted. Miss Granger drew in a sharp breath and stole half a glance at Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley opened his mouth angrily, as if to start telling him off. Mr. Potter, however, stayed quite still, his face like a stone and just as unreadable. He eyed Albus long and hard. "What are you saying, professor?"

This reaction bewildered Albus. They were indignant. Indignant! Of all the emotions they could have felt, they were indignant, as if they thought he knew them, thought he knew he could trust them... As if it was insult beyond all insults for him to doubt their loyalty.

"Nothing overly alarming," He backtracked hastily, trying to appease them and maintain that I'm-just-an-old-man-watching-out-for-my-students'-welfare appearance, "And I'm certainly not accusing you. Nevertheless, it would be trusting to the point of foolishness to allow four perfect strangers into the school without at least questioning their story beforehand." He waited, but neither confession nor proclamation of innocence was forthcoming, and he continued. "For instance, you say that your parents," he nodded at Miss and Mr. Weasley, "and your adopted parents," he directed at Mr. Potter, "and your friends' parents and your teachers," this was aimed at Miss Granger, "were killed. And yet, you don't seem at all bothered when mentioning them. You don't get teary-eyed, or preoccupied, or even choke on a word. I'd expect some sort of reaction, however small it is or how emotionally strong you are. I do hope you'll forgive me for saying it, but it doesn't seem as though you're saddened by their death at all."

He had to stop there, as images of his parents started to suffocate him. He was lost in his dark past for a moment before racking sobs jolted him back to the task at hand.

Caught of guard, he stared at Miss Weasley as she cried, "Sir, they wouldn't have wanted to be remembered that way! They w-were always so–so full of life and love and–and happiness! Th-they wanted to be held in our hearts, but not–not mourned! When we're happy, we are fulfilling whatever happiness they may have missed, by living our life to the fullest we are declaring that as much as we miss them, we're still living for them!"

Mr. Potter moved to comfort her, and Albus was shocked to see understanding, and not pain or frustration, in his eyes. "She's right, sir," he said quietly. "They were incredible people, and the world is blessed to have had them. They lived their life, and are now continuing to live through us. It's been hard, obviously, but we can't mourn forever. They'd have been happy and proud that we are here now."

There seemed to be a chord of personal pain and experience that had been struck, as if he wasn't just talking about his adoptive parents and their was a deep chasm of pain and subsequent healing on his mind, but by the time this piece of information hit Albus, he was far beyond it. He was thinking instead of his own family, and the truth in Mr. Potter's—Harry's—words. Two emotions dominated: acceptance and hope.

And then, quite suddenly, he found himself once more in his office, both couples hugging; Harry was the only one whose face wasn't streaked with tears. How could he have misjudged them so? Why hadn't he seen their sincerity? What had they done for him to do this to them?

"I apologize," he said ruefully, "That was way out of line. And I apologize for awakening difficult memories as well. I know how difficult such losses can be," he added kindly. "You should also know that your attitude is beyond admirable, and I would be proud to accept you into Hogwarts."

Harry relaxed significantly, exhaling deeply. Still hugging Miss Weasley, he said, "Thank you, sir."

"You are very welcome, Mr. Potter. I believe that the only business we have left to clear up is what classes you would like to take, and then we can all head to what I'm sure is a delicious supper and get you sorted."

"Excellent, sir."

As their interview continued, Albus was struck with one thought that nearly made him drop the papers he held—When had he started to think of the boy by his first name?