Tempus Fugit

The End…

Albus Dumbledore paced his office, looking tired, concerned, and sorrowful all at once. The light streaming in through the windows glinted off his white hair and played along the walls, highlighting the sleeping portraits that hung around the room. Pausing, Dumbledore came to a decision, thinking very well, I must tell him all. Walking to the fireplace, he threw in a pinch of powder from a small pot on the mantelpiece.

"Minerva? Could you please send Harry Potter up to see me? I wish to speak with him."

Professor McGonagall's head briefly appeared among the flames, sporting a concerned expression, but she merely said, "Certainly, Albus," before she disappeared. After she had gone, Dumbledore sighed and walked over to a half-open cabinet. Opening the doors, he removed a silver basin filled with a swirling, semi-liquid mist.

Placing the Pensieve on his desk, Dumbledore paused. Is this really the right path? He sighed, sat behind the Pensieve, and placed his wand up to his temple. Drawing out a single, threadlike thought from the tumble of silvery hair, he placed it in the bowl. He swirled the substance inside, watching a picture appear on the surface of the basin.

The seventeen-year-old boy wandered along the unfamiliar street. The glazed look in his eyes and his unsteady steps testified that this boy was severely disoriented, possibly Confunded. The surroundings looked odd to him. He recognized various things here and there: that was the famous sign for the Leaky Cauldron, Ollivander's wand shop stood to his left, and off in the distance the gigantic marble façade of Gringotts bank glowered down at the rest of the street. None of the other shops looked familiar to him, though. What he knew as Eeylops Owl Emporium was labeled "Drimble's Fine Beasts," the Apothecary at the corner sold unicorn horns for only seventeen Knuts apiece, and Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was now an unsavory-looking restaurant.

The youth himself seemed out of place. He wore odd, bluish slacks and a woolen knit shirt beneath the traditional black Hogwarts robes. His bright ginger hair was hidden beneath a pointed hat that was also part of the traditional Hogwarts uniform. The youth was obviously either a schoolboy or a recent graduate of Hogwarts; odd to see him here in September, when school had already begun. The wizards walking past him were dressed in cloaks and hats with long jackets and cravats. This startled the youth, who had never seen a cravat outside of his schoolbooks. Cravats certainly weren't in fashion these days, unless...

He ran to a nearby building as though possessed, looking to search through the dustbins. If the charm had malfunctioned... Sorting through the various parchments, rotting foodstuffs, and other refuse, he found a battered copy of the Daily Prophet in a style he hadn't seen outside of the Hogwarts Library. The date at the top of the paper drew his eye as if by a Summoning Charm, and he nearly dropped the newspaper as he read it:

September 6, 1867

Dumbledore looked back up from the Pensieve and sighed again. He had made the decision, yes, and he was going to see it through, but it was truly difficult - one of the most difficult things he had ever had to do. His brow, already creased by age and experience, furrowed even more as he considered the shock he was going to give young Harry, and the possible repercussions the information might have for the lad. He deeply cared for Harry, more than the boy could ever know; this was one reason he had finally decided to tell the truth. Lies and half-truths were not the way to help others. He had learned at least this much during the last hundred-thirty-odd years. Besides, the boy - no, he is becoming a young man, now - will be better prepared to face the trials to come if he knows the whole story. Drawing another thought out of his temple, Dumbledore placed it in the Pensieve, and watched as another scene appeared.

The red-haired young man, now respectably (if inexpensively) dressed for his current surroundings, walked along the streets of a small town in Devon. He had spent the last few weeks working various odd jobs for money, and he could now support himself for several days, at least. One of these jobs had been as a copy boy at the offices of the Daily Prophet news, a position that had proven immensely useful. He knew now what had happened, and what he needed to do. He was not, however, certain where to find the house he sought, so he peered carefully at the numbers on the surrounding houses in between glances at the parchment in his hand.

Finding the residence he was looking for, the boy swiftly ran up the steps and pulled the bell. The door was opened by an elderly lady - obviously a housekeeper or maid. She was tall, with a hooked nose and sharp black eyes, and the hair poking out from beneath her bonnet was black, with silver framing the edges. Her sour face looked as if she had just swallowed the juice of several lemons, and was analyzing the flavor for posterity.

"Well? What can I do for you?" she snapped, apparently too busy to care much about the strange youth on the doorstep. The boy quailed for a moment, and then regained his courage.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Nicholas Flamel. I've heard that he lives here, and I need his help. I'm in trouble - deep trouble - and he's the only one I can ask."

"Why should he want to see you?" the housekeeper snarled. Her disdainful gaze made it clear that she doubted her master would want to see an odd boy just out of school.

"Mrs. Snape?" called a voice out of a drawing room off the front hall, "Who is it?" The youth looked shocked, staring oddly at Mrs. Snape for a moment before realizing what he was doing and turning his eyes downward.

"Well, boy? Speak up!" Mrs. Snape glowered at the boy, challenging him to answer.

"I'm... My..." For a moment, it seemed as if the boy would bolt. Then he seemed to gather up every ounce of determination he possessed, and he looked Mrs. Snape directly in the eye. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I wish to speak with Mr. Flamel about Alchemy."

The vision in the Pensieve rippled, finally refocusing on the same house several years later.

Dumbledore sat in Nicholas Flamel's laboratory, stirring a cauldron containing a noxious, smoking substance. He looked up at Flamel, who sat nearby with several vials, counting out a measure of Armadillo Bile.

"You know, Nicholas, that if this works, it will make twelve. Who knew that the blood of a dragon could be so useful?"

Flamel chuckled, setting the vials on the table and turning to look at his young apprentice. "Apparently, you did. I never could have preformed these experiments without your assistance; your knowledge of potion-making is quite impressive."

Dumbledore stroked his new-grown beard, smiling knowingly. "Well, my Potions Master at school was a rather... interesting person. I pretty much had to learn my potions well; if I hadn't, I might not have survived the class! Besides, you know I have some... prior experience."

"That's not all, Albus. You seem to have such an advanced understanding of so many subjects: Potions-making, Charms, Transfiguration... You have made incredible strides since you first arrived here. Greater strides, I must say, than can be ascribed to your origins." The older man gave Dumbledore a sly look at this. "How have you managed to do it all?" Flamel looked inquisitively at Dumbledore, his brown eyes boring into the younger man.

Grinning mysteriously at Flamel, his eyes twinkling merrily, Dumbledore added the armadillo bile to the potion in the cauldron. The mixture turned green, and then white, and a glossy film quickly formed over the top of the liquid. Pulling this film from the cauldron with his ladle, he set it down on a nearby platter to cool.

"Well, Mr. Flamel." Dumbledore said, "I think we've found that preservative coating we were looking for. That makes twelve uses for dragon's blood." Flamel, after a strange glance at Dumbledore, turned to the cauldron as well, looking pleased. Taking up the film, he raised it to the light.

"Indeed we have. Good job, Albus." He set the film down and clapped Dumbledore on the shoulder. "Now, let's go down to dinner. Mrs. Snape has made a lovely roast for us; I think she's pleased that her son Septimius will be attending Hogwarts this autumn." He started walking down the corridor to the dining room, followed by Dumbledore. "I'm sure he'll have a grand time there; we all have such happy memories of Hogwarts."

Dumbledore looked fondly at his friend and mentor, recalling a close friend from another time. As he looked, Flamel's face seemed to change, growing younger, smoother... his hair grew darker, nearly black, and it started sticking out in all directions. The square glasses Flamel wore became round and black, and the eyes behind the m changed from brown to green.

"Albus?" Suddenly, Dumbledore returned to the present. Flamel was staring into his face, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you well? Do you need anything?"

Dumbledore pulled himself up, squaring his shoulders. He knew what he had to do, now.

"You're right, Nicholas. I do have fond memories of Hogwarts - fond, and terrible.

"That's why I must go back."

The scene in the Pensieve swiftly changed, becoming darker, more ominous. Dumbledore saw himself, his hair and beard grown to their familiar sweeping length, aiming his wand at an unseen foe.

"Give up, Grindelwald. I can assure you that if you put down your wand, you will be taken into custody unharmed. Please, don't make me fight you!" The shadowy face of Dumbledore's opponent shook as he laughed, raising his wand to point it at the professor. He spoke, his raspy voice carrying the hint of a German accent.

"I am afraid not, mein herr. If I were to so betray him, my Master would never allow me to survive. Once his kingdom has overrun the globe, he will destroy all who have opposed him. I would rather die now, at your hand, than face the wrath of the future ruler of the world." Dumbledore tried once more to reason with the Dark wizard.

"You know that you cannot trust your Dark Master; once he has finished this horrific campaign of bloodshed, whom shall he turn against next? The Gypsies, the Jews, the Catholics, soon he will be after all of Wizardkind as well. You must know this! If Hitler wins, if the Reich overruns the globe, the world will be drowned in the blood of millions."

Grindelwald leered at his foe. "Nice poetry, mein freund… for all the good it will do you. Manus Peracrimortis!!" A cadaverous, spectral hand, with clawlike fingers and talons three inches long, shot out of the Dark wizard's wand toward Dumbledore. Dumbledore sprang to the side, barely escaping the Dark Hand, which swooped around like a ghastly bird and seized Dumbledore by the face. Dumbledore grabbed the otherworldly wrist, its claws digging into the sides of his head; as he pulled futilely, he could feel his nose break beneath the Hand's unrelenting onslaught...

Once again, the Pensieve's contents swirled. Faces appeared and disappeared faster and faster in the luminous mist. Various pictures could briefly be made out before blurring with others and returning to the eddying ether.

Dumbledore standing in front of a classroom full of students, transforming a desk into a horse ... morphed into Flamel, holding a scarlet egg out to Dumbledore, saying, "It's quite rare and valuable. Take care of it; Phoenixes can be hard to handle at times,"...

Flamel's face turned into that of a bushy-haired young lady saying, "Come on! We need to study for our O.W.L.s, they're only three weeks away!" ...

The face changed again, becoming a small man with beetle-black eyes, who said, "I know that Rubeus can be a han'ful at times, but yeh shouldn' have too much trouble with 'im. He's a softy, really, no matter what he looks like. Jus' keep 'im away from yer beasts fer now, 'cos he's a mite scared of 'em. Wonders if they'll hurt 'im." ...

The man's face turned into that of an ancient-looking wizard with whispy, nearly transparent white hair. "I cannot go on, Albus. The deaths have been too much for me. I have resigned the post of Headmaster, and I ask you to replace me."

The barrage of images was interrupted by a knock on the door. Glancing upward suddenly, Dumbledore said, "Come." As the door opened, he removed the Pensieve from the table, taking it to the closet in which it was kept.

Dumbledore watched as Harry walked into his office, seeming ill-at-ease and slightly nervous. He pitied the student somewhat. Despite any assurances to the contrary, a call to the Headmaster's office had always called up worries about punishment (and would probably always do so). Dumbledore smiled at Harry, attempting to assuage the boy's fears.

"Ah, Harry. How are things? Have you been studying for your N.E.W.T.s?"

"Umm... yes, sir," said Harry, now looking slightly confused. Dumbledore supposed that, given the darkness of the times, this made sense. I should probably dispense with the small talk and get to the crux of the matter. Time, after all, was short.

"Good, good," he said, waving Harry toward the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down, please. I would like to speak with you."

Harry sat. Dumbledore slowly approached the desk as well, feeling every one of his hundred-odd years. At some times, he felt so much older than his age, and looking at the strapping young seventh-year across his desk, he acknowledged that this was one such time. Has it really been this long...? He sat in his chair, and started speaking slowly and clearly.

"I'm certain, Harry, that you've noticed that I often have knowledge of your actions with your friends - often before you know them yourself." Visions of Sirius Black and a hippogriff named Buckbeak flashed before Dumbledore's eyes.

Harry looked startled for a moment, but nodded. "Yes, sir, I have. I've been wondering about it since first year - you remember, with the Mirror of Erised. I've always wondered how you knew I'd been there. I was so sure I hadn't seen you around."

Dumbledore smiled, remembering the shy young first-year sitting entranced at the Mirror's feet. Harry had grown much since then. "You had not. At the time, I believe I told you that I did not need a cloak to become invisible, did I not? This is true, but it is not the entire truth. The entire truth is that I knew you were going to be there before I even placed the mirror in the room. I knew where you and Ron were hiding in Hagrid's home, when he was being arrested during your second year, as well." This information seemed to startle Harry to no end. Dumbledore could imagine what Harry was thinking, and decided to allay the student's fears.

"No, Harry, I'm not a Seer. Nor have I ever had the power to read others' minds. I knew these things, quite simply, because I had already lived through them."

Awe and mystification flooded Harry's earnest young face, drawing his eyebrows toward the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"Harry, when I was in my seventh year at Hogwarts, my friends and I came upon an ancient, complicated, and quite dangerous spell. It was the "Tempus Replicationis," the time-bending charm. Using this spell, a wizard can create a portal to another time - any time in the past - and instantly step into that era. Wizarding historians used this charm in times past to make accurate notes on the great events of history. They would stand in the background of the wars and festivals of past eras, taking extensive notes, and when the incident in question had ended they could, hypothetically, cast the counterspell and return immediately to their time of origin.

"Unfortunately, no reliable counterspell has ever been devised. The historians used a spell which was often inaccurate, and they were sometimes left completely marooned in time. Eventually, the Ministry banned the use of this spell as too damaging to the fabric of time, and its existence is now only noted in several ancient, obscure books of history. After finding one of these, my dearest friend, in a moment of deep need, cast this spell so I could return and save your life."

Harry now looked beyond astonishment. Dumbledore knew that these revelations must be shocking to the youth, who was having his mentor's life rewritten before his eyes. Pulling himself together, Harry managed to stammer out a question.

"But - but if you were around when I did that stuff, that means you could be here now, this year!"

Dumbledore nodded. "I am indeed. In fact, I am in your year in school." Harry's face was screwed up in concentration. He was obviously trying to imagine who Dumbledore might be.

"Wait a second... Ron, Hermione, and I never told anybody about the Mirror, or about how we visited Hagrid's. How did - do - how'd you know?" Dumbledore smiled. Yes, Harry was growing perceptive indeed.

"I know what you were doing because I was there with you. I was with you, Harry, on the second night you visited the Mirror. I was with you as you searched the Forbidden Forest on Hagrid's suggestion. I have been your constant companion, and your greatest friend, ever since we first met, that day on the Hogwarts Express.

"Harry, I am Ron Weasley."