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.