"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so
that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous that we have rarely
heard the like of it within this court."
~Bartemius Crouch, Sr.
Most Muggles went their entire lives without even suspecting
their underground magical world, but Maggie always knew there was something
fishy about the man who came in her bowling alley every Monday morning during
the summers. His fashion sense, for one thing, set him apart. He wore khaki
shorts and a different patterned Hawaiian shirt every week. But the oddest
article of clothing was his hat. It looked like something a sorcerer in a movie
would wear, pointy with stars and moons on it. He had a knowing twinkle in his
blue eyes, and a long white beard.
He wasn't a bad bowler, as seniors went. Maggie watched him pick
up a spare with eight pins in the second frame with interest. Although not a bad
bowler, Maggie realized, with a satisfied smile, that she was much better than
he was.
She frowned. How strange. He was one of Maggie's best customers,
and yet he somehow creeped her out. Maggie shook the feeling out of her head.
Odd as this man was, she tried not to let herself worry about him. He paid his
fair share, therefore he deserved fair service.
He reached over to pick up the ball, breathed on it and rubbed
his hands over the marble surface, making it gleam. He went into his throw, and
watched it speed towards the pins; a fox in pursuit of the chickens.
Not his best, but nothing to be ashamed of. He marked it with
the amusing half-pencils the Muggles used.
The bell over the door jangled merrily, "Another customer!" it
seemed to shout to Maggie, "Profit!" it yelled as the door hit it again while
closing.
Albus Dumbledore looked up to see who the new arrival was.
"Ah! Merriweather Longbottom!" he said as the tough old bird
moved to the counter. She was pulling a boy behind her.
The lady smiled as she gave the man a look of recognition. She
wandered from Maggie's register and went straight over to Dumbledore.
"Albus, it's been far too long," she said cordially.
Dumbledore smiled and took her hand. "My dear, you get lovelier
every time I see you," he told her. Well, she does look better than
Severus looked in her clothes, I imagine, he thought, giving himself a
chuckle.
Dumbledore then noticed Neville, who was standing beside his
grandmother. He was definitely getting taller with each passing day, but he was
lean, too. Dumbledore frowned. He looked just like his father, Frank
Longbottom...but Dumbledore shook the sensation out of his mind.
"So, Mr. Longbottom, you will be starting your fifth year at
Hogwarts soon?" Dumbledore said in a conversational tone.
The boy nodded nervously under the twinkling blue gaze of the
headmaster, but stopped his nod at the look from his grandmother. He knew what
she would say: "Answer him properly, Neville. He is your elder and deserves more
than a nod!"
"Y-yes, sir." Neville said, backing up slightly and bumping into
a soda machine.
Dumbledore nodded and smiled, but he was disturbed. That poor
boy is a nervous wreck, he thought. And it's all... but he stopped
that thought. One should never dwell on such things, he reminded himself
firmly. And yet…
*
Every witch and wizard slept in the morning after young Harry
Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, for they had been up late celebrating the night
before. But, old as Dumbledore was, even then he was up just as early as ever,
scanning the headlines of The Daily Prophet and The London Times.
A day in the life of Albus Dumbledore could not be interrupted by something as
trivial as sleep.
He sat on his large green plush armchair in front of the fire, a
cup of tea in one hand and the paper in the other. Dumbledore sighed at the
redundant headlines in both papers.
HARRY POTTER DEFEATS HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED, the front page of
The Daily Prophet said. There was an entire section devoted to Harry that
morning; Dumbledore even read some of his own quotes on the boy. Of course,
there was only a brief obituary on Lily and James Potter, which annoyed
Dumbledore.
OWL SIGHTINGS UNUSUALLY HIGH, the Muggle paper read. Dumbledore
chuckled. Even when magical activities were at their highest, the Muggles only
noticed the most trivial things that came with it.
He went back to The Daily Prophet and flipped to the
International section. ABERFORTH DUMBLEDORE CHARGED WITH INAPPROPRIATE GOAT
CHARMS, said the next headline, and Dumbledore gave a start.
He shook his head angrily. As he read the article, he couldn't
help but wonder how his younger brother got himself into these
things.
Dumbledore wanted to write to his brother, but then he realized
that Aberforth probably couldn't read anyway. Which was probably a good thing,
considering all the hate mail that Aberforth (and me, too, Dumbledore
thought with a groan) would be receiving.
Dumbledore decided that if the matter got out of hand, he'd have
to go in and say a good word or two for Aberforth, but just then, Dumbledore
heard shouting from his fireplace in his office.
Dumbledore smiled as he walked out of his living quarters and
into his office. He knew Alastor Moody's voice from anywhere, and he saw his
face poking out of the fireplace in his office. But, Dumbledore could also read
trouble on his best friend's face.
"What is it, Alastor?" he asked, wasting no time on pleasantries
with his old friend.
"We've got an emergency over at the Ministry," Alastor said. "Mr
Crouch's son is being accused of being a Death Eater...it's madness here, and if
the press gets the gist of it, it'll all be over. We need you over here right
away, if you don't mind..."
Dumbledore sighed. His brother would have to wait, but he
promised himself he'd get to it soon – even if it meant leaving in the middle of
a crisis. Aberforth was family, after all. He told Alastor he'd be right there,
and when his old friend's head had disappeared from the fire, he threw in some
Floo powder, and stepped in saying, "The Ministry for
Magic!"