Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.
Reminder: This story has slash of the Harry/Draco variety. This means homosexual relationships, so homophobes may leave now.
Author's Note: Hello there! In my previous two chapters, I didn't really have anything to say, but (yay!) now I do. I'd like to give a big "thank you!" to Villain, my first reviewer, whose spectacular review made my day and caused this chapter to be posted so quickly. Er…I'd also like to mention that, despite these rather morose quotes in each chapter, I'm really not all that gloomy or introverted (though I can be, at times…#looks around# What? It's a teenager's prerogative to be moody. =o). I'd also like to assure you that, yes, the really interesting things are still to come.
"A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own."
--Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain (1924).
Albus Dumbledore was a powerful wizard, but this is certainly not to say that he was all-knowing or omnipotent in his brilliant eccentricity. He certainly hadn't expected a visit from a newly-escaped patient of a Mental Institute.
Perhaps his unusual, less observant behavior could be attested to the fact that he was greatly disturbed by that morning's tragic episode in the Great Hall. Despite his numerous spies and contacts in the Wizarding World, he hadn't yet been informed of the deaths of one of his schoolchildren's (a man of his age could only think of the students as being just that--children, almost ready to step out of the protection of Hogwarts, but not quite yet) parents. Draco Malfoy, Dumbledore knew, had at least some goodness inside of him, buried deep inside him under layer after cultivated layer of breeding, class, and snobbishly superior disposition established after years of careful training and refinement; if this was not the case, Harry potter would have been long-dead, struck down by his rival with the Killing Curse. Perhaps this was merely Draco's sense of self-preservation at work… but Dumbledore preferred to think otherwise. He was deeply saddened, for he sympathized with the child's loss, and was furious at the Ministry for not informing him of the impending death notifications beforehand, so that he could arrange a more private setting for the young Malfoy that would let him grieve without the astonished, pitying eyes of the entire population of Hogwarts focused intently on him.
Even though these emotions raged strongly within the esteemed Headmaster, he still had enough rational thought to analyze the situation critically, and take the time to consider all of his observations on the matter thoroughly.
Why had there been so many notices? The Malfoys were not a large family, having only Lucius, his wife and son, and a few other estranged, distant members in that haughty Blueblood line. Could this morning's scene have all been a scam, a sinister machination of the much-feared Voldemort? But, if so, to what end? None of it made any sense.
With these concerning matters piled so heavily on his mind, in addition to all the many other pressing matters requiring his attention, it was completely understandable that Dumbledore didn't immediately realize that there was another presence in his office.
It took him a full thirty seconds for him to find this out, actually.
She was standing quietly in a corner, hidden in the gloom-ridden shadows, which remained dark and dreary despite the golden sunlight drifting lazily through the arched windows in the room.
He'd reached his desk and was already seated in his chair, ready to tackle the day, when he felt the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that screamed that he was not alone. His normally twinkling eyes darted to the aforementioned corner, and the woman who stood there, waiting for recognition in undemanding silence.
Who are you? What are you doing here? he wanted to ask. Instead he calmly addressed her from his desk, gently ordering the vague blob of dark hair and pale skin in the ragged white dress to go on and show herself, for she was obviously there for a reason, however odd it may be (and Dumbledore had heard many odd reasons before then).
She did so, gracefully gliding towards the middle of the room to address the old wizened man before her.
Dumbledore gasped as he recognized the dirty, untidy girl.
"Doncenella?" he questioned in disbelief.
What was she doing here?
And was that just his imagination, or did that dress have dried bloodstains on it?
"Yes," she said. "It's me."
As she came nearer, he realized that those were definitely dried drops of crimson on the frayed white dress, ripped, as it was, in places, and darkened by mud and dirt in others. Her face had recent scratches as well, no doubt attained while fleeing through the woods that bordered her home of the last ten years.
The girl's sudden appearance was certainly unexpected, and something Dumbledore didn't want to deal with right now. Probably not ever.
She took in his shocked expression and, discerning the reasons behind it, took it upon herself to clarify the situation (which was only proper, as the conversation could not proceed if Dumbledore had no inkling of what in the name of Merlin was going on).
"I assure you I am not an angry ghost, come to haunt you from hither to Hell for your past misdeeds," she said wryly, a small half-smile on her face. "I've escaped, as you most likely can tell from my unlovely appearance," she continued. This gross understatement brought forth a bitter chuckle from the girl. "Not that I've had time for loveliness in my life," she commented, a trace of underlying anger and hurt evident in her voice.
Dumbledore looked ashamedly at his desktop, unable to meet the accusation in her eyes.
"But we've no time to discuss these things," she said shortly, her tone abruptly turning businesslike. "I must speak to you about a very important matter. I have vital information concerning Voldemort's uprising, and you're the only one I can turn to…"
The sentence drifted off and she looked at him nervously, waiting for a response.
"Why do you think I'll believe you? What makes you think I won't inform the Institute that you're here, or let them take you away?" he asked.
"You have to believe me," she said, an intense edge of desperation tingeing her voice.
Dumbledore was silent.
"Damn you, you spiteful old man!" she cursed, enraged. "You still blame me for her death, don't you? Goddamn you, she betrayed you, left you in the dust, and yet you still blame me for what I did unknowingly did to her when I was seven?!" she screeched.
"She was coming back to our side…she was going to leave him, take you, and raise you how you should have been raised," he whispered brokenly.
The fight drained from her and all that was left was anguish and anger as she whispered, just as softly, "I was seven. Seven! I didn't know any better. Don't blame me for my parentage. I didn't choose Voldemort to be my father. It wasn't me who made her marry him!" She took a moment to compose herself, and continued, this time more calmly. "It wasn't me who chose the other side," she said. Tears slowly began to obscure her vision and, horrified, she hastily wiped them away.
"I know. I know, Doncenella. Please, understand…I couldn't deal with you. I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready, if truth be told."
"Yes, I used to think that it was best to tell the truth," she said, turning away to look at the sun as it climbed up the blue sky.
"After that year, I reconsidered." she said softly.
There was silence for a time before she broke it.
"Ten years. Ten fucking years and not a word, not a visit, nary a sign to say that someone out there cared. Ten years, damn it!" she said, voice slowly gaining volume until she was screaming at him again.
"I suppose I deserve this," he said after a few moments.
"You damn well do, but that's not why I'm here," she said.
"I'd gathered that," he said, still speaking gently as so not to disturb her again.
"Of course you did, I'm the one who bloody told you," she snapped.
"I came here because I've seen a Prophecy. For some unfathomable reason, I actually give a shit about what happens to the World, both of them, and so I'm going to help." she continued.
At Dumbledore's skeptical look, she once again grew angry.
"I may be crazy, old man, but I'm always right," she hissed defensively.
"You don't have to tell me that. I've already seen the accuracy of your predictions, remember? I also recall the results that came about from sharing those insights," he said sharply, the conversation bringing back too many unwanted memories.
Stung, she retaliated. "Fine, then. Your precious Potter can rot in Hell, then, for all I care!" she spat angrily.
"What about him?" he asked, alarmed.
"I thought you didn't want to know," she said.
"Just tell me, girl," he said urgently.
"Why is it that you can care so much for this Potter boy?" she asked, hurt.
"Why are you so quick to jump in to help him, huh? Why? You never even came to visit me, your own Granddaughter, but you treat him as if he was your son!" she said heatedly, trying to push away the pain of being rejected.
She knew that she should be used to that pain, since that horrible day ten years ago, but she never was.
"Just tell me what you know," sighed Dumbledore wearily.
"Fine, then," she said, snarling before continuing.
"But first, I have some conditions."
Author's note: "Doncenella" is pronounced "Don-see-nay-ah"