A/N: For ix3youlots' Poem Prompt Competition. My character was Albus, and the poem is too amazing to not be told in full, so it's below :)


Emily Bronte, The Old Stoic

Riches I hold in light esteem,

And love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream

That vanish'd with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me

Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,

And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,

'Tis all that I implore:

In life and death a chainless soul,

With courage to endure.


Albus Dumbledore had extreme faith in the integrity of his soul, in the purity of his heart, and in the clarity of his mind, and so he was not afraid of death. "The next great adventure" he'd once called it, and so he firmly believed. He had regrets, of course. What honourable man doesn't? He'd once said himself that people such as him are liable to make the gravest mistakes of all. And beyond just mistakes, there's not the opportunity in life to do everything precisely as one might want. Thoughts of Ariana and of Gellert, of Severus and of Harry flickered in and then out of his mind. Yes, regrets he had many.

The aging man sighed and leaned back in his seat. "Soon," he said softly to the bird on the nearby perch.

Fawkes trilled in something akin to disapproval but Albus just smiled and shook his head. It was almost time; he could feel it. Perhaps it was his magic letting him know to get on with it, he mused. His hand had been an old man's fumbling mistake, and the wound leeched him of his strength and his will. The ring now rested innocuously on the shelf, whispering to him, he sometimes thought. Reminding him the time was close now, and asking him if he wouldn't like to just try.

There was a note in the drawer of his desk. A letter in Gellert Grindlewald's beautiful scrolling script, written with a fervent passion of both spirit and heart. The letter whispered to him, too. Soft words and harsh words. Some in love and some in accusation. For the young man that had once stolen his heart had never given it back, not even at their final parting those many years ago. And beyond that love there lay a resounding sense of shame for his once-staunch dedication to the man and to their idea of "the Greater Good."

"Such idle thoughts," he chuckled to Fawkes. "Silly notions so apt for a silly old man. Yes, my friend, it's just about time." He paused, contemplatively. He was ready to go. One last task, and then he'd be free. Free from a series of endeavours that had consumed his lengthy life. He was content with the way it had all played out, certainly, but a rest, "Yes, a rest will be quite nice."

It seemed to him that Fawkes sniffed disdainfully and he laughed once more, rising to stroke the bird's soft feathers. "There's nothing for it, I'm afraid. You've heard it all yourself. I fear Severus will soon have to kill me, much before my own mistakes would have," he sighed quietly. "I think it's time to send for Harry."

He was waiting placidly at his desk when the boy arrived in a cloud of fury. Another pity, he thought, that the truth of Severus' treachery should come out now, of all times. Perhaps he would have to warn the Order of his plan after all, in spite of their inevitable protest. For they would not trust Severus themselves once they learned what Harry now knew. There was a growing feeling in his mind, though, that perhaps it was too late. And that feeling drove him to ignore it for now. If these were to be his last moments with Harry, he wouldn't like to spend them arguing or scheming. And if this was to be his own last adventure in life, he was glad, above all else, that Harry would be there with him.