Disclaimer: How many jobs does Dumbledore have? Three? Then I don't own Harry Potter.
The air crackled with energy and yet felt close, almost unbreathable. He spun and swept his wand in a high arc, pulling fire up from the earth and shooting into the sky. With a wave of his other hand the fire turned to water and coiled around him, releasing clouds of steam. The ground rippled and cracked as he continued this dance of death, moving gracefully through imagined foes. Intellectually he knew that it was his own anger he fought against; his own impotence!
So much power! Enough to easily consume most men; even to consume him should he lose control. So much raw strength! Years of planning, mountains of research, so much sacrificed, and still he had failed. Some thought it a victory, and he could understand their joy at the reprieve. But he saw only failure. A reprieve they might have won; at what a cost! But it was a reprieve only, and now they were blind. Blind!
Chunks of earth as large as bulls rose around him and he dodged amongst them, shooting spell after spell to blast and transform. All the while walls of flame and deceptively delicate spouts of water fought with each other across his battlefield, whipping the wind into a frenzy. The rocks changed to spinning metal stars and shot towards him at once only to ricochet harmlessly off his shield.
A note pinged in his ear, a warning that another person approached his wards. The wand swung down to the earth. The fire vanished in a final puff of steam and the dancing river crashed around him into a puddle. Rocks returned to their original form and fell from the sky to lie scattered across the moor.
"Ye'r tampering with ma dour Scotts weather."
He looked up to see that the heat, steam, and strong winds from his battle had bored a rapidly expanding hole through the thick layer of clouds.
"My apologies, Minerva," he replied.
She sniffed. "An' what would the Chief Warlock be doing battling his demons on my moor when there's a war te finish?"
Dumbledore dropped his gaze to his hands, particularly the long, knobby stick held tightly in his right. "I failed them. So much effort! And in the end it meant nothing. He mowed them down like grass."
He felt the Scotswoman approach, though he had yet to look at her.
"Aye. As he has done many a time." She sighed, looking around at the damage. "Ye forged many strong chains, Albus, enough to bind him fast. But Pettigrew was a weak link indeed."
Finally Dumbledore looked over at her. "We don't know for sure—"
"Pssst!" she waved away his objection. "Aye. Perhaps. But ye know, and I know, who it was held their Secret. The simplest explanation tis oftenest correct." She could see he didn't accept that logic, not today, though he had used it frequently himself. "T'were not ye that betrayed them, Albus. And can ye not rest knowing the boy survived? And that vile terrorist is—"
"He is not dead, Minerva." Dumbledore said tiredly. "I fear this is as much a setback for us as for the other side. We have a respite only and we must not waste it!" he finished angrily. "I must find him, Minerva! We must know what he has become and how before he returns just as strong. But we know nothing! No clues! No leads! I fear, I dread, that this fall will not be short. The longer he is seemingly gone, the more complacent all will become. The more defenses we will drop! The more allies will slip away, back to their lives of peace."
"Ye say the word as if t'were a curse," she sniffed.
He met her piercing gaze. "You know how I long for peace."
She scoffed. "Albus, ye know yerself te well fer that. I am much afeared ye will find peace harder te live with than war. What does a mighty warlock such as ye have to do with a quiet life? But tis no' the matter. Ye fear the Order will disband, the Ministry grow lax, our people less vigilant."
"Aye," he replied, unconsciously mimicking her thick Scotts accent. "If this goes on… we are in the eye of the storm, but the other side approaches. We must stay ready."
She nodded. He turned to stare across the barren moor, his fears continuing to spin through his mind. His colleagues on the continent were beginning to hear rumors, despite how closely they had guarded the news. The Unspeakables were even now preparing to reopen the lab focused on immortality, particularly Dark methods of reaching it. He had visited briefly with Black, only long enough to verify that he had not, in fact, been the Secret Keeper. He must convene the Order today, perhaps tonight. And … he must see the boy. Somehow facing a child, now orphaned because he had failed to protect the boy's parents, seemed an insurmountable challenge.
The sun streaming through his hole in the clouds told him he had precious little time to dawdle.
With a sigh he turned to the woman. "And how are my students faring?"
She arched a stern eye brow. "My students are faring perfectly well, as ye are well aware."
"The wards—"
"The wards on Hogwarts are a mile thick, Albus." Now that they were talking business, her accent faded almost entirely away. "And are updated every month by the Ministry, and the Goblins, and the Staff, and the Board. Not to mention myself."
He nodded. Of course, he knew all this. He had designed the system himself as soon as he had been made Headmaster, back in another lifetime.
"Of course, no amount of wards can contain the mischief the students bring with them," she continued with a hint of laughter. "Did you know that with a slight adjustment a Cheering Concoction produces vast amounts of cotton candy?"
Dumbledore looked at her questioningly. "That I did not."
"No. Neither did Professor Verstadt. A fourth year managed to alter the directions without her notice and the entire potions classroom was full of cherry flavored clouds before she could correct the mistake."
"Oh dear," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle.
"Frank, enough!" roared Scrimgeour. "You will accept the security detail and you will obey each and every protocol for protected targets, and you will be grateful that I am allowing you to stay in your home and not sending you to Geneva to hide under a rock for the rest of the year!"
Frank bristled. "Sir! The war is NOT over, and we—"
"Are no longer in the fight, Frank! I said enough! Both of you," his eyes snapped to the fierce woman standing behind Frank, "are on administrative leave effective two hours ago. If you keep arguing with me I will have you detained for insubordination."
Scrimgeour paused in his diatribe, letting his pulse calm down. Just a tad. "I just lost two of our best. We know you are targets. I will not sit back and let the same thing happen to Neville that just happened to Harry!"
He ran a hand over his face. He sympathized with Frank, he really did. But part of the job was knowing when to step back.
"Now. You two will portkey home, with guards. And you will remain there. Only official portkeys authorized by me personally will be able to access the wards on your house. You will firecall or send a patronus and let us know what you need. You will have four Aurors on duty 24/7. You will not, under any circumstances, none whatsoever, leave the safety of the wards. The Aurors will bring you your mail and anything else you may need. If you are attacked, you will take Neville and portkey straight to this office. You will not engage!"
Both of them drew deep breaths and he could see them fighting the very idea of running from a fight. After all, Aurors were the ones who ran towards disaster. It was in their bones.
Before they could argue he continued, "Your priority is your son. I beg you not to leave him like Harry."
He could see that comment hit home.
"Any questions?" Even if his tone allowed the possibility of questions—which it didn't— he knew they wouldn't have any. They knew the protocols.
"No, sir," Frank said resignedly. Beside him Alice nodded.
"Good. I will be in touch every few days personally."
Frank spun away but Alice paused a moment. "How is Harry?"
Scrimgeour thought over the thick purple file locked in his drawer. If that kid were any older there would be no getting over this mess. Fortunately the young ones tended to bounce back quickly. "Safe. For now," was all he said. He made a mental note to double the security at Saint Mungo's.
Remus Lupin glanced around the cafeteria and quickly found the telltale long black hair. Black never would cut it decently. At least he wasn't a ponce about it like Lucius.
"Sirius?" he said as he approached the table.
Tired silver eyes looked up at him and widened in shock. Sirius bolted up from the table. "Remus," he said heavily.
The tension coalesced around them as they just looked at each other.
"Where were you?" Sirius finally asked, dangerously, hands balled into fists.
Remus knew he didn't mean just last weekend and he could see that this was likely his one chance to explain and he had better explain well.
"I had a job," he began.
"'A job?'" Sirius repeated derisively.
Remus took a calming breath and nodded. "Crouch offered me a contract. Just for this one job."
Sirius stared at him, obviously forcing himself not to interrupt.
"Greyback," Remus said quietly, glancing around the cafeteria. Hopefully no one had heard, or if they did, they would keep shut about it. "I've been tailing him, and his pack. Trying to get something solid to get them locked up, mitigate the damage…"
Silver eyes narrowed. "For eight months?"
Remus ran a hand through his scruffy hair. "Actually, ten. I had to go to ground after two after my cover was nearly blown."
Sirius waited for Remus to continue but got impatient when he didn't. "So that's it. All those times you were gone, all of them were you playing Auror?"
"Not quite." Remus held up a pacifying hand. "Hold on! I was also… researching. He led me all over the bloody continent, Sirius. And, well, you know there's actually a lot of downtime, especially when hiding out, so… I picked up a few things and there may be good news. Not for me. For me it's way too late. But there may be something to help others, to keep them from becoming like me. I did miss a few meetings to follow up with contacts."
A black eyebrow arched skeptically. "You found a cure for—?" He just barely stopped himself from saying it out loud.
Remus shook his head. "Just leads. Nothing solid, yet. But… I know how I must have looked, to you and to James. I never joined them, Sirius. You know I would never do that. After everything that bastard did to me. After a lifetime of—all of it." He gestured vaguely, knowing Sirius at least would follow.
Slowly, muscle by muscle, Sirius relaxed. It had always been hard for Sirius to let go of grudges. His good opinion, once lost, was often lost for good.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Sirius demanded softly.
"Crouch. The man is bloody paranoid. Dumbledore figured it out, I think."
"Well, he didn't say anything to us!" Sirius huffed.
Remus shrugged apologetically. "I swore not to tell anyone who didn't give me a passcode first. It was a binding magical contract, signed in blood and everything. One way ticket to Azkaban for three years for jeopardizing a case."
"So why tell me now?" Sirius glanced significantly around the cafeteria. Though not overly crowded, they were certainly not having a private conversation.
"I quit. This morning. Ripped up my contract in Crouch's face."
A grin spread over Sirius's face. "You did not!" Prefect Lupin, sticking it to the man! How Sirius wished he could have seen that.
"Did so." Remus said proudly. "I'm done. It was hell, Sirius. Absolute, effing, hell. And," his voice dropped low, "we still lost them."
Perhaps it was his use of 'we,' or maybe just the reminder of the loss itself. The last of Sirius' suspicions melted away. This was Moony for heaven's sake! He stepped forward and embraced the man he's once loved as a brother.
"Well," he said, finally releasing Remus. "Welcome back to civilization." He held up the paper cup of tepid coffee as evidence.
"I can not believe you are about to put that in your mouth."
Sirius grinned. "It was hot."
"So," Remus said seriously. "How's Harry?"
"Where do we stand, people?" Carmichael asked the assembled team. They were starting off with six Unspeakbles, each with vastly different backgrounds. Tiberius was the only one with extensive Dark Arts experience, having served in Grindewald's inner circle—purely for the academic experience, of course. Celestia specialized in history, using memories—rarely her own—and logic rarely found among wizards to flesh out historical events. She was also the most gifted Legilimens in Department history. Jayden had been spearheading soul research for a decade. Many of his publications (published under a nomme de plume) detailed the interactions between the soul and music. River was the current leading expert on runes and power enhancing magics, a branch of magic with historically few successes and many trails of blood through the world. Maeghana was a Seer and a healer, her approach was too unorthodox for Saint Mungos, but she knew more about how the body worked and why than anyone Carmichael knew. Her research methods were likewise viewed with skepticism by the academic world, yet no one could argue with her results.
Celestia stepped forward and placed a wooden box on the table. Lifting the lid she revealed a potions box containing eight memory vials. "These contain memories that Warlock Dumbledore has collected relating to the life of one Tom Riddle. He claims they may tell us much about his methods and motives. I will begin reviewing them and will have a detailed report, I hope, by the end of the day tomorrow with any leads. I will, of course, conduct my own interviews following."
Carmichael made some notes on the table. The surface was covered with parchment, or what looked like parchment, and he had an elaborate diagram of boxes and circles expanding in front of him. "Any of those memories of his followers?"
Celestia frowned. "No knowing at the moment. If not… how hard would it be to interview some Death Eaters?" she asked mildly.
"Check with Scrimgeour. Jayden, you're our expert on the soul."
"Yes, but," Jayden shifted uncomfortably, "my expertise is mostly on how to strengthen the soul to be a better source for magical power. I don't know of anything, yet, that would stop death."
"Tiberius? River?"
River shrugged. "Even the Philosopher's Stone doesn't protect against the Killing Curse," his voice ground out like gravel, unexpected from someone otherwise delicately proportioned. "And it's the only known artifact to grant anything similar to immortality."
Carmichael tapped his lips. "Could Riddle use a Philosopher's Stone to come back?"
River rubbed his chin in contemplation for a minute. "I don't see how, though I don't know if he knows that. It's not commonly known that the Stone can only work for the one who makes it, otherwise Nicholas Flamel would be either selling its abilities, or dead from someone trying to steal it. But, again, there's no accounting for what Riddle may or may not know."
"I'll contact the Flamels. They should be prepared," Carmichael made a note. "Tiberius?"
Next to River, Tiberius loomed like a giant. "There are several rumors, ancient myths amongst the Dark Ones. I do not know of any having succeeded, for their fabled practitioners are all deceased. But I know of nothing that would cause one to die and yet to not die. But I think we all agree that knowing Riddle's character, his methods would indeed have been Dark. I suspect that even should he gain access to the Stone we need not worry about him returning to power through it."
"Why not?" asked Carmichael.
"Because he was a Dark wizard," Tiberius answered simply.
Seeing the looks of confusion around the table. Meaghana spoke up. "The Philospher's Stone is the very pinnacle of White Magic. It's magic would react violently against his own. Very likely it would destroy him completely. At the very least, if he was somehow able to contain the Stone's Magic to regain life, his magical core would certainly be destroyed."
Carmichael would see the relived breaths amongst the group.
"I have learned," Meaghana continued, "that the boy, Harry Potter, continues to be held at Saint Mungo's due to a strange curse scar which he received during the attack. It may be merely a side effect, but I believe it would behoove us for Tiberius and myself to arrange a visit with the boy in person. Perhaps this scar can give us some clues."
Carmichael drew his wand across the table, logging the session and locking it to any but those present. He straightened up. "Next briefing tomorrow night. Jayden, you're on beverage duty."
"Black coffee with cinnamon?" Jayden waited for nods around the table before heading out.
As he left the lab Carmichael couldn't help but feel they were missing something key.
It was far too early to tell what was missing. It could be a fact, or a thing, or a person, or something as big as the sun itself. But he had an unshakable hunch that there was a cog missing from his machine. And if there was one thing Carmichael specialized it, it was hunches.
A/N: On the Philosopher's Stone. I can't remember which fanfic I first saw this idea about the Stone in, but it's the only thing that makes sense. If anyone could use Flamel's stone, he'd spend every day of his immortal life defending it—or he'd have used it on everyone he loved and the Flamel Clan would by now be so huge and powerful they'd rule the world and we'd all be obsessed about a hero fighting the Alchemical Empire.
On Dumbledore. I've seen several authors take issue with Dumbledore's insane multi-tasking. I agree! But instead of making him just Headmaster I've gone the other direction. He's far, FAR to talented and useful to waste on a school. You don't put that kind of talent out to pasture. And you also don't use a school, especially your only school, to distract someone with that kind of potential. Bad news for everyone! He did spend some time as a teacher and as a headmaster, but retired somewhere around the time Riddle came back from Albania and began moving as Lord Voldemort. The Potters and Sirius never had him at Hogwarts.
From my reading of the Wizengamot, they function both as the high court and Parliament. For the sake of sanity I've decided that the Minister for Magic gets to run the legislative stuff and the Chief Warlock gets to run judiciary stuff. As such, Dumbledore works very closely with the DMLE and it actually makes sense for him to lead up an official program to coordinate volunteers alongside law enforcement for the war effort. He is still also the Supreme Mugwump for the ICW, which is also a big, awesome responsibility and a huge honor for Britain. Dumbledore takes both of these jobs seriously.
