A Few Moments

A Few Moments

            But time will be set aside for Mr. Potter later. Instead, regard Albus Dumbledore.

            He is, at present, taking a nap. In a comfortable, venerable chair, in his office at Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

            Albus Dumbledore, it should be mentioned, is considered the most powerful wizard in Europe, with one other possible contender.

            He also snores very loudly.

            It is, to be fair, six o'clock in the morning in Scotland. A desk, scattered with all pieces of reference, information, and correspondence, gives witness to a long, active night of activity beforehand.

            One wonders what business could make a powerful wizard of one-hundred-and-two, and more to point a dedicated advocate of the value of a good night's sleep, pursue an activity into such late hours of the night.

            It should be perhaps be noted at this point that Albus Dumbledore is not alone in this room.

            For example: there is his pet phoenix, Fawkes, looking quite sickly, but nonetheless asleep. There are the portraits of the past Heads of Hogwarts – all, at present, empty (their occupants, lacking Fawkes' tolerance for their esteemed colleague's nighttime sounds, having left grumbling for quieter areas of Hogwarts hours before). There is a lukewarm teapot set on the desk, delivered quietly by a houseelf servant at five o'clock.

            And then, there is a whisper.

            ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

            It is a quiet sound. It nonetheless carries the dust of ages in every syllable; the words sound like the slamming of coffins, the slow grinding of tombstones.

            ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

            It is infinitely less intense a noise than Dumbledore's continuing snoring. Nonetheless, it cuts through the air, through the walls, out into the empty castle, like a particularly sharp pendulum.

            ALBUS… ?

            It is also beginning to sound slightly – just very slightly – impatient.

            There is an unfortunate, unpleasant moment when one is woken unexpectedly early in the morning. Even for the greatest wizard in all of Europe.

             "Argkkkh." Albus opens his eyes, blinks, tries to keep them shut, fails. There is a bright light in his face – the sunrise through the window. Thought I told those bloody curtains to stay shut, he thinks in uncharacteristic annoyance.

            Then he catches a glimpse of the figure by the window, whose infinitely cold hand happens to be grasping the curtain cord. And then Albus Dumbledore is fully awake.

            "Ah," he says.

            For he regards a seven-foot-tall skeleton, wrapped in a black cloak. Its eye sockets glow an eternal, unnatural blue in the morning sunlight.

            The key item is the scythe.

           

             "Ah," says Albus again. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you."

            NO ONE REALLY DOES.

            Death walked – no, casually stalked -- to the side of the desk. It seemed very interested in a small, whirring silver device next to the inkwell. It held the scythe in its right hand.

            It says a great deal about Albus Dumbledore that, at that moment, he began to think.

            Let see, he thought. I'll need to check the shielding charm on the castle. The apparatation countercharms too, if there's time. He glanced around and found his wand underneath a recent, quite resentful letter from Cornelius Fudge. "It's a pleasant morning," he said, for no other reason than polite conversation, as he began to twirl his wand. "I couldn't have asked for better."

            I AM PLEASED TO HEAR THAT.

            "I take it," Albus said, his wand moving in small circles, triangles, and hexagons, "that I have some moments remaining?"

            A FEW MOMENTS, I'M AFRAID. NOT MANY.

            "Ah. I thank you for waking me."

            OF COURSE.

            Albus paused; the test spells had reached the point that required his concentration. Death seemed to be looking around the room. Its eye sockets eventually came to rest on the forgotten teapot, with the three cups resting nearby.

            AH. MAY I ?

            "Feel free. I'm afraid it's grown a tad cold."

            IT IS OF NO MATTER.

            The test spells returned positive. Everything seems to be in order, thought Albus. Flitwick should easy be able to maintain the defenses from there. And if not, I've left instructions for Minerva and Severus, in the locked drawer in the staff room. "I could have Dobby bring up a new pot."

            NO, NO. THANK YOU. THIS WILL BE FINE.

            "Are you sure ?"

            I AM POSITIVE. I MUST BE LEAVING SHORTLY, IN ANY CASE.

            Ah.

            Was there anything he had forgotten about ? His theories regarding Voldemort were safe in Alastor's hands. His response to Fudge's letter was in the process of being delivered. A list of recommended replacements for Headmaster was in the staff room. A number of personal letters marked "TO BE DELIVERED IN CASE OF MY DEATH" rested sealed in his desk drawer. The letter to Harry…

            Oh, dear. The letter to Harry. That was it.

             "I don't suppose you can tell me the cause," he said.

            NOT OF THIS MOMENT, I AM AFRAID.

             "Ah."

            Who should he have keep the letter ? Sirius ? No; Sirius was still in too much danger. Hagrid, then ? Still away with the giants. Arthur Weasley ? No; poor Arthur had enough on his hands. The same went for Lupin.

            Hagrid it was, then.

            Albus reached for his quill, and scanned his desk for a clear piece of parchment. Across the desk, Death sipped from its cup (an impressive feat, for an entity with no lips).

            He finally managed to extract a somewhat bent but useable piece of official Hogwarts stationary from underneath a week-old copy of the New York Times (headline: NASA: Space Station To Be Complete By Next Year). He scribbled, Dear Hagrid, my old friend.

             "You know," he said, "it's very strange. I do believe that I feel fine." I must ask you for one more favor. "Then again, you most likely hear that quite frequently."
            INDEED.

            There is a letter for Harry in my desk drawer. To be given to him upon his graduation from Hogwarts.

             "Cardiac arrest, perhaps ? Though I have been trying to get more exercise for the last few years."

            IT IS POSSIBLE.

             "Hmmm."

            Or upon his nineteenth birthday. Whichever occurs first.

             "I don't suppose that tea is poisoned."

            Death appeared to sniff at its cup. I DO NOT BELIEVE SO.

             "And besides, I don't believe I was planning to consume it."

            EVEN IF IT IS EARL GRAY ?

            I ask that it remained sealed until that day. It is for his eyes only, when it is time.

             "Even so."

            YOUR LOSS, I AM AFRAID. IT IS EXCELLENT.

            Hagrid, you are a good man, a good teacher, and the best of friends. It has been an honor to be in your company.

            Death finished the cup, and placed it down on the saucer.

            I have always trusted you, and always will trust you.

            It raised the scythe, and appeared to be checking the blade.

            Take care of yourself, and Harry, Albus wrote very quickly. Your friend…

            I AM AFRAID IT IS TIME.

            … Albus Dumbledore

            "Ah." Dumbledore put down his quill, and rose from his seat. Then quickly sat down again – it wouldn't do to fall onto the desk. "Thank you for warning me."

            OF COURSE.

            Death swung.

            Upon contact with the blade, Fawkes immediately exploded. It was, after all, that time of the month.

            Albus sat, blinking. His internal organs, unless he was mistaken, were still in operation. He also seemed to be breathing quite normally. Across the desk, Death flicked off a few ashes that had clung to the scythe blade. A few seconds later, a new baby phoenix – ugly, of course; the transformations were always the low point of Fawkes' month – poked its head out of the ash lining the cage.

            "Ah," said Albus. He had not, needless to say, forseen this possibility. "Was that –"

            MY PURPOSE HERE ? YES.

            "I do not believe I recall your presence here on such occasions in the past."

            I WAS HERE. I AM EVERYWHERE. I AM EVERYTIME.

            "Ah. Perhaps I should better phrase it as you have not revealed yourself for such an occasion in the past ?"

            CORRECT.

            Death began to polish its scythe.

            "Then… you said I had but a few moments left…"

            SO YOU DO.

            A thought occurred to Albus. "Perhaps you could name the exact number of moments you would consider 'a few' ?"

            DO YOU WISH ME TO ?

            "Ah. Not particularly."

            A WISE DECISION.

            Death put down his scythe, and reached for his teacup. Albus thought for another moment.

            "I apologize for prying into your affairs –"

            FEEL FREE.

            "—but why have you revealed yourself now ?"

            AH.

            Death paused as it poured from the teapot, and picked up its cup.

            YOU OWE SOME VERY STRANGE PEOPLE A FAVOR, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

            "Who ?"

            I BELIEVE YOU KNOW WHO.

            And Albus, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, remembered.

            Oh, dear, he thought. Them.

            This is unfortunate. This is quite unfortunate.

             "I believe you are right," Albus said, as calmly as he could manage.

            THEY REQUESTED THAT I GIVE A MESSAGE TO YOU.

            "I must admit that I have not heard of you acting as a messenger before."

            ONLY IN CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES.

            "Ah."

            I HAVE MY REASONS, IN THIS CASE.

            "I see."

            Death lifted the cup.

            I should have seen this coming, thought Albus. Nothing is free in their world. It was foolish of me to hope otherwise.

            "May I ask," Albus said, through suddenly dry lips, "what the message is ?"

            IT IS AS FOLLOWS, said Death. YOU WILL SEND YOUR GAMEKEEPER HAGRID TO KINGS' CROSS ON THE DAY THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS DEPARTS LONDON. A YOUNG BOY WILL BE WAITING OUTSIDE THE PORTAL TO STATION NINE-AND-THREE-QUARTERS. HE WILL BE BROUGHT TO HOGWARTS, AND INDUCTED AS A FIRST YEAR STUDENT.

            YOU WILL NOT QUESTION THE BOY ABOUT HIS ORIGINS. YOU WILL NOT INFORM YOUR FACULTY OF THIS AFFAIR, INCLUDING THIS CONVERSATION AND THE EVENTS THAT . NOR WILL YOU GIVE A SINGLE HINT TO ANY OTHER SOUL THAT HE IS OF ANY PARTICULAR INTEREST. HIS NAME IS TO BE PLACED ON THE LIST OF NEW STUDENTS THIS SUMMER; YOU WILL INDICATE TO ANYONE WHO ASKS HIS ADDITION THAT HE IS BORN OF A NON-MAGICAL FAMILY WHO CAME TO YOUR PERSONAL ATTENTION THIS SUMMER, HAVING SOMEHOW ESCAPED DETECTION BY THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC.

            HIS NAME IS ANDREW WIGGUM. HE HAS BEEN PROVIDED WITH THE NECESSARY EQUIPMENT FOR A FIRST YEAR STUDENT. HE IS FOUR FOOT NINE; HE HAS BLACK HAIR THAT HAS BEEN DYED GREEN; HE HAS BLUE EYES. HE WILL BE CARRYING A LARGE DUFFEL BAG. HE WILL BE WEARING A SHORT SLEEVE SHIRT, UPON WHICH IS PRINTED A MAP OF THE LONDON UNDERGROUND.

            THEY WILL BE WATCHING. ANY ATTEMPT TO BREACH THE STATED CONDITIONS WILL BE CONSIDERED A VIOLATION OF THE AGREEMENT, AND THEY WILL REACT ACCORDINGLY.

            DO YOU UNDERSTAND ?

            "Yes," said Albus Dumbledore.

            Now you've got yourself into a fine muddle, and the school with you, he thought to himself. Why would they send me a student ? What could they learn here ? And why now ?

            He didn't care to contemplate the answers. Nor, for that matter, did he care to ponder what his debtors considered an according reaction.

            Across the desk, Death had finished its second cup.

            DO YOU WISH ME TO REPEAT THE MESSAGE ?

            "No," said Albus. "No thank you. I believe I caught it the first time."

            THEN I AM AFRAID I MUST BE GOING.

            Death stood up, and placed the cup back next to the teapot.

            "By any chance," said Albus carefully, "did they say why they ask this… this particular form of repayment ?"

            I AM AFRAID NOT.

            "I suspected as such."

            THAT MAY BE FOR THE BEST. CERTAIN KNOWLEDGE IS DANGEROUS.

            Albus rubbed his head. "I believe that I become more aware of that particular truth with every passing moment."

            Death grinned. Not like it had a choice.

            IF IT IS OF ANY COMFORT, I DO NOT BELIEVE THEY WOULD PLACE YOURSELF OR YOUR SCHOOL IN ANY DANGER. THEY CERTAINLY WOULD NOT REQUEST SUCH A LENGTH OF SECRECY UNLESS THEY INTENDED ITS MAINTAINENCE.

            "But for how long ?"

            TRUE.

            Death took up its scythe.

            I THANK YOU FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY. MY COMPLIMENTS TO YOUR SERVANT – THE TEA WAS EXCELLENT.

            "I will tell him you said so," said Albus. Or perhaps not, he thought. This might be the one compliment Dobby could live without.

            I WISH YOU GOOD MORNING.

            Death turned his back. He began to fade, turn slowly transparent, like a bad dream upon waking.

            Perhaps, Albus thought later, the visit had inspired a strange morbid humor in him. Or perhaps there was some strange ending that the meeting had lacked.

            But Albus found himself saying, "I believe that I will see you again, at some point."

            And Death had turned its cowled skull and grinned at him.

            IN A FEW MOMENTS, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. IN A FEW MOMENTS.