Two boys began Hogwarts like so many other children. They went to Diagon Alley, and bought their books and tried out wand after wand until they found the one that was right for them (or the wand found the boy, there are some that say). Ordinary beginings indeed.
The first boy's name was Tom. The second, fifty years later, was Harry. Like so many other children, they were amazed when their new wand shot off sparks for the first time. But neither Tom nor Harry was ordinary.
My name is Albus Dumbledore. I watched both these boys as they first arrived at the school I am currently Headmaster of. I watched experience and time shape them. Sadly, it is widely known what Tom became, so much so that few of the people that refuse to speak his name are aware that he was once simply Tom and not Lord Voldemort.
Events occured, as events do. They have been recorded elsewhere, and I will spare a retelling for the sake of brevity. But it comes down to this: young Harry, little more then the child he was on his first day, and the Dark Lord are now locked in a mortal duel. They have been since Harry was eleven and began his life in the magical world, but it only began in earnest a few days ago when Voldemort succeded in resurrecting himself. Now we all stand on the brink of a crucial time. We prepare for war, as Sirius and Hagrid and Severus journey out to gather an army.
And I stand here, looking out my window, my firey avian companion Fawkes on the sill beside me. We look out at the world together. A world holding its breath to see what happens next.
Voldemort is evil, unquestionably so. Harry's choices are planting his feet firmly on the path of goodness and nobility. They are sides of a coin, dark and light. Right and wrong.
I take a coin out of my pocket, blowing a little lint that is stuck to it. My pockets are often sticky. I keep too many lemon drops in them. I examine the little disc and begin flipping it on the back of my hand.
Harry and Voldemort are both in possession of powerful wands. Both of these wands contain a phoenix feather, arguably the most powerful base on which to build a wand.
Good and evil, equally equipped for the final battle. Feather against feather. But, in the end, the phoenix is mine. He sits beside me on the window sill at this very moment.
Dusk is falling. Fawkes nips at my fingers and I reach into my pocket again to give him a treat. I find some sunflower seeds, and remember that Poppy gave them to me with a plea to lay off the sweets for the sake of my teeth. I'd forgotten completely about the whole conversation. More important things on my mind. I feed the seeds to Fawkes.
I cannot control Voldemort, even though he fears me, and I cannot control Harry, even though he is a student at my school. Fawkes cannot control what his feathers do. He can only watch from the window as dusk covers the countryside, half day and half night.
I look down at my hands, brushing sunflower seed crumbs off my robes. Fawkes sings one note in the quiet.
I flip the coin.
The first boy's name was Tom. The second, fifty years later, was Harry. Like so many other children, they were amazed when their new wand shot off sparks for the first time. But neither Tom nor Harry was ordinary.
My name is Albus Dumbledore. I watched both these boys as they first arrived at the school I am currently Headmaster of. I watched experience and time shape them. Sadly, it is widely known what Tom became, so much so that few of the people that refuse to speak his name are aware that he was once simply Tom and not Lord Voldemort.
Events occured, as events do. They have been recorded elsewhere, and I will spare a retelling for the sake of brevity. But it comes down to this: young Harry, little more then the child he was on his first day, and the Dark Lord are now locked in a mortal duel. They have been since Harry was eleven and began his life in the magical world, but it only began in earnest a few days ago when Voldemort succeded in resurrecting himself. Now we all stand on the brink of a crucial time. We prepare for war, as Sirius and Hagrid and Severus journey out to gather an army.
And I stand here, looking out my window, my firey avian companion Fawkes on the sill beside me. We look out at the world together. A world holding its breath to see what happens next.
Voldemort is evil, unquestionably so. Harry's choices are planting his feet firmly on the path of goodness and nobility. They are sides of a coin, dark and light. Right and wrong.
I take a coin out of my pocket, blowing a little lint that is stuck to it. My pockets are often sticky. I keep too many lemon drops in them. I examine the little disc and begin flipping it on the back of my hand.
Harry and Voldemort are both in possession of powerful wands. Both of these wands contain a phoenix feather, arguably the most powerful base on which to build a wand.
Good and evil, equally equipped for the final battle. Feather against feather. But, in the end, the phoenix is mine. He sits beside me on the window sill at this very moment.
Dusk is falling. Fawkes nips at my fingers and I reach into my pocket again to give him a treat. I find some sunflower seeds, and remember that Poppy gave them to me with a plea to lay off the sweets for the sake of my teeth. I'd forgotten completely about the whole conversation. More important things on my mind. I feed the seeds to Fawkes.
I cannot control Voldemort, even though he fears me, and I cannot control Harry, even though he is a student at my school. Fawkes cannot control what his feathers do. He can only watch from the window as dusk covers the countryside, half day and half night.
I look down at my hands, brushing sunflower seed crumbs off my robes. Fawkes sings one note in the quiet.
I flip the coin.