Epilogue

Albus—1997—age 151

As you see, I did not die.

I was in St. Mungo's for over a week, taking blood replenishing potions and having my many deep cuts tended to. Filius and Aberforth took charge of Elizabeth's and Asher's bodies, and the hospital staff kept reporters away from me.

Headlines blared throughout the world, Dumbledore Defeats Grindelwald, but until the whole story came out, everybody assumed it was the other Dumbledore. Until they realized that Elizabeth had died, the world assumed that it was she who had finally defeated Grindelwald. As far as I'm concerned, it was. It was Elizabeth and Asher.

The war drew to a close without the magical impetus behind it.

The Healer checked my wounds every day. She shook her head over the state of my left leg, which was criss-crossed by so many cuts that she despaired of my ever regaining its use. However, by the week's end, I was walking again, though with many more scars than I had previously.

It was many months before I noticed that there were so many intersecting lines in the skin above my knee that it looked uncannily like a map of the London Underground.

Filius came to see me in hospital. He was unfocused and kept his arms wrapped tightly around his middle as though to hold in his pain. But he did gather himself together enough to give me something.

"Here, Albus," he said, thrusting a piece of paper at me. "This was in her pocket."

I slowly unfolded the paper. It was the headline from the French paper the day after Elizabeth and Filius won their last World Cup, the day we were married. Princeton et Flitwick Gagnent le Coup! We were kissing and smiling, her bouquet of roses providing a perfect background for that perfect moment.

Aberforth came to visit me, as well, but he did not attempt to talk with me. He simply sat near me in quiet, as was his way, the last person left who had known me since I was a young child. The only family I had now.

While he was there, I had yet another visitor. The Minister for Magic walked into my hospital room.

"Are you feeling better, Albus?" he asked jovially, as though I were simply recovering from a cold. I did not bother to answer.

"Yes, well, you see, Albus," he said, fidgeting in his pocket, "the Wizengamot would like you to accept the Order of Merlin, First Class." He pulled one out of his pocket and held it up in the light.

I spoke for the first time. "It does not belong to me. It belongs to my son."

The Minister frowned. "Did you not cast the curse that killed Grindelwald?"

I looked away. "Yes."

"Then it belongs to you, my good man," the Minister said.

I now understood how Elizabeth had felt when she was offered hers. I tried to remember what I had said to her that day. Take it for all those who lived, whose names you'll never know.

"As you wish," I said. "But my son must be awarded one, too. And Elizabeth. She must receive another one."

"Very well," the Minister said, waving his hand as though to brush that concern aside. "But, Albus, there is another important matter we must discuss. As you know, I am retiring next month. I think it would be an excellent thing if you succeeded me as Minister for Magic. You're very popular right now."

I turned my head to look at him, but could summon no feelings for him. No anger, disgust, or even interest. I flicked a numb glance at Aberforth, who immediately stood and offered to escort the Minister out of my room. Since Aberforth looks rather wild and imposing, the Minister acquiesced, though with a good deal of blustering.

When I was released from St. Mungo's, we held the funeral in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. It was still so cold outside; everyone had to try to fit indoors. We dressed Asher in the blue Ravenclaw robes that Filius had given him, and Elizabeth in the red and gold dress robes she had worn when she received her first Order of Merlin.

Now both her medals hung around her neck, and Asher's around his.

I leaned on a cane, surrounded by my dear friends. Filius and Aberforth stood at either side, and nearby were Chuck Weasley and his grandsons, as well as John and Henry Potter, Thomas Thomas, and Minerva McGonagall. The hall was filled with students—classmates of Asher's—and former students, who had been in Elizabeth's classes.

Ministry officials from all over the world crowded into Hogwarts, intent on letting it be known that Mrs. Dumbledore had taught them everything they knew.

A delegation from the International Dueling Commission took up an entire row.

Elizabeth and Asher lay on a plinth where the Head Table usually stood, and when all the talking and praying was done—I confess I do not remember a word of it—a vivid, poignant sound filled the air. It was like sunlight made into music, and it was several moments before I realized that it was Fawkes, flying graceful circles around the ceiling and singing a song of both sorrow and gratitude.

I had never heard him sing before. I breathed in that song and felt its warmth fill me, and thought, perhaps, I could continue to live one more day.

I have lived many more days without them. I have lived alone for fifty years. I moved out of our house and into the teachers' quarters at the school, because I could not bear to be in that home without them. It has stood empty, a monument to the happiness that once abided there.

I gave one person permission to enter it, in all this time, when he came under my care and needed a safe place to confront his own pain.

I can only be proud of my son's choice. He was a hero, like his mother. He was willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the world. But I feel the weight of my own errors, the serious lack of judgment that led to Asher's death, and Elizabeth's.

I simply told him too much.

Elizabeth and I thought of Asher as a small adult, and indeed, he was wise beyond his years. But he was, in fact, a child, and should have been protected from knowledge that was too burdensome for him. He never should have felt that we would give the Stone to Grindelwald in order to protect him. He was correct, we might have done just that, but he never should have known it.

He never should have thought he had to protect us from our own weakness.

I am afraid that in my attempts to protect another boy, Harry Potter, from the dangers of too much information, I have erred grievously in the other direction. I put his life at risk because I did not tell him enough. I did not give him information that was his by rights.

Yet I could not bring myself to make the same mistake with Harry that I made with Asher.

But Harry is sixteen, not eleven, and just as brave as my Asher was. Asher was right, Harry does remind me daily of both him and Elizabeth. I have little doubt that a golden Order of Merlin will gleam on Harry's chest one day soon, just as it did on theirs.

But I fear I shall not be present to see it.

My time is growing short. My struggle against Darkness, a force even Darker than Grindelwald, has crippled my body and begun the process that will lead to my death. I can no longer protect Harry; rather, I expect he will protect me before our time together is over.

I am not afraid of death. To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. I know this because Elizabeth has gone there before me, and with her, everything was an adventure.

I have done what I can to be the champion of the undefended and mistreated. I have done what I can to make my wife and son proud, to uphold their ideals of honor and kindness. I have fought too many wars and too much evil.

I have a home and a family waiting.

Harry has called himself Dumbledore's man, and his loyalty touches me deeply. But he is becoming his own man, strong and compassionate. Therefore it is with confidence, pride, and paternal love, that I leave the care of this magical world in the hands of the boy who is the son of my heart, if not my body. I leave it to the Boy Who Lived. I leave it to Harry Potter…our champion.

Albus Dumbledore