I own only my words.
I saw him.
I saw him get off that train. I saw him that day. He was there, because I saw him. But perhaps, perhaps, he wasn't there. But I saw him.
I saw him like James incarnate. I saw him with these two eyes. These two very eyes, which I assure you, are good. Oh yes, I saw him. I saw him get off that train. I saw him that day. How do I know? Because he was there and I saw him.
But he wasn't there, who am I fooling? Who does he think he's fooling? Fooling all of us, he thinks. Oh, no. Not me, though. I know him better than that. Far better than that.
But all my useless rambling amounts to nothing. Only nothingness, like him. No one sees it. Perhaps no one chooses to see it. Why should we break him from his pretense? His pretense, which is our salvation.
The question is not if, but when. When will we send up our sacrifice? To the ministry, he's just a scapegoat. One cannot live while the other is alive. Why must this be a young man's sealed fate? Not safe, even in himself. Constant fear. A chronic unknowing. And yet, we do nothing but loose ourselves in the lie.
It is truly an illusion. An illusion in which we live. An illusion in which we have detached ourselves from this ghastly reality. An illusion in which we refuse to see the certainty in it all. An illusion that has left him to fend for himself. An illusion that has left him in solitude. If only we could all see.
However, I see it in his eyes. A grave haunting of his exceptionally fragile soul. I am the one who knows. I know. He struggles beneath our notion of his paramount strength. Our need for assurance in this precarious world that has been ripped apart. Ripping him from us, facing the enemy.
But Dumbledore is idling. The woes and doubts of age are sifting through his mind. I sense it. The Order is growing restless. "Constant vigilance" has now consumed us. We are all at a standstill with time. And like the prophecy, our only hope has shattered.