I must say...this one is my favorite of all the fics I've written. I don't know why; I guess it just paints a really colorful picture in my mind.

Warning: Nothing more than our little, old granfatherly figure acting out. Oh, and really not much plot.

Disclaimer: Need I say it? Not mine...though the way DH went, I wouldn't put it past JKR to write something along these lines.

Loss of Temper

Albus Dumbledore was usually a very controlled man. He would sit in a solemn silence, reflecting upon whatever had upset him until either he had nearly thought it to death or he had access to a pensieve, though he sometimes lost his temper. When he did, it was something of which to be afraid. If anyone saw him lose his temper, it would be forever understood why Voldemort feared the pensive man.

But, as it was mentioned before, the great man barely ever let his feelings show. There was the day that his sister died, and the day he found out that Severus, one of his favorite students, had become a Death Eater. There was the day that Lily and James Potter had been killed, leaving young Harry an orphan with an unnecessary burden on his shoulders. Then, finally, there was this most recent time, when he had allowed a stupid lapse in judgment occur, resulting in a ruined hand, certain death, and a lowered perception of the type of wizard he was. Not that he really cared about his hand. He was a wizard; he could do with one hand what most muggles couldn't do with two. And he didn't mind death; he had lived long enough to accept it readily, if not happily. What mattered to him was the question in the back of his mind whenever he picked up his wand. Would he overuse it? It was having to admit to Severus that he wasn't any stronger than the lowliest of wizards, that he would succumb to the pull of power just as the other man did, should the opportunity present itself.

Albus clenched his good hand on the arm of his chair, attempting to keep his feelings under wraps; it would not bode well to allow himself to lose his temper, even if there was no one around to witness it. For the sake of his pride, he had to prove to himself that he could control at least a portion of his actions and emotions.

Counting backwards from ten, Albus slowly peeled his fingers from the chair, folding his hands in his lap. He finished and opened his eyes, at once spotting his blackened hand. He couldn't stop the flow of emotions this time, letting out a frustrated yell as he grabbed a paperweight off of his desk and hurled it at a collection of valuables nearby. The sound of them shattering and twinkling off of the floor pleased the old man, who reached for another object, hurling this one just against the wall. This one made a different sound, higher pitched and dying out more quickly. Seizing several objects around him, the large office was soon filled with a cacophony of noises, music to the ears of the man creating the racket. There was a fervor raging in his eyes as his loose hair blew out behind him and he paced the room, grabbing whatever objects suited his fancy and chucking them at an appealing wall or pile of trinkets. He realized he probably painted a frightful picture and knew that this was why no one could see him like this. The music slowed and left nothing but a short beat every few moments.

The Headmaster stood fuming for an uncertain amount of time, his breaths coming in quick, agitated gasps, one hand clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Finally, his breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, and he surveyed the disarray. Feeling ashamed with himself, his eyes roamed the shards of glass and silver scattered across the floor. He slowly made his way back to his desk.

Reaching the oversized piece of furniture, the Headmaster sat behind it, picking up his wand and twirling it in his fingers, again, with his good hand. A slight wave of anger surged up in him at that thought, but he calmed it with another quick glance around his once perfectly ordered office. Stilling his wand, he aimed it at one of the tables that had held the delicate objects. Even though he could do the magic just as well silently, he chose to mumble the incantations, not as a whole, either, instead choosing to fix each trinket separately, so he could realize the full extent of the damage, also serving to calm him.

After Albus finished fixing each single piece he broke, he sat back. His outburst had suited to calm him sufficiently, so he simply felt a hollow serenity settling him in the chair.

Leaning forward, the man pulled a quill and some parchment, scrawled out a note that cancelled any meetings he might have had that day. As he sent Fawkes out with the note, he again picked up his wand and called forward his pensieve, settling it on his desk. Bracing himself for more outrage, he pulled the memories from his temple, released them in the bowl-like structure, and swirled them together, then apart.

Taking a deep breath, he allowed his "bad" hand to breech the surface of the seemingly weightless liquid, ready to watch every mistake he had made in the past two days from another perspective.

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